%r^ ^>\.J\^ MR. AND MRS. BANCROFT ojV and off the stage. Mr. & Mrs. BANCROFT ON AND OFF THF STAGE. WRITTEN 15 Y THEMSELVES WITH PORTRAITS. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. L CfiiviJ €^ittun. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEYAND SON, ^ublishcvs in Q3rtimivi) to ^)cr crtlujcstn the CJuccn. 1888. [All Rights Resened.] 2X> OUR FELLOW-WORKERS AND COMRADES ON THE STAGE WE DEDLCATE THLS BOOK FOR SOME OF WHOM WE HAVE A DEEP AFFECT L ON FOR MANY OTHERS A TRUE F/UENDSHJP AND WLTH ALL A N END URLNG S YMPA THY. 2068408 CONTENTS OF VOL. I, MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. PAGE Parentage — -A child actress — Early lessons — A church- building fund entertainment — Fines — An adventure — 'Emperor of Lilliput ' — Embarrassing observations — Mac- ready in Macbeth — (lood advice, and a wise choice — Miss (llyn — Prince Arthur in King John — Charles Kemble's prophecy — 'The Veteran and the child' — An accident — Tiny Tim — Mrs. O'Brien — The Irishmen who wouldn't retreat — Proposed adoption — Bristol Theatre — Mr. J, H. Chute — No-A\'un-No-Zoo — A youthful widow — Charles Dillon in Belphegor — Henri — My first London offer — Hesitation to accept it — Mr. Chute's kindness - i — 34 CHAPTER n. YOUNG DAYS AT THE LYCEUM, THE HAYMARKET, AND THE ADELPHL In London — J. L. Toole — An unkind stage-manager — Mr. Dillon to the rescue — Perdita in Brough's extravaganza, A Wifiters Tale — Trouble about the dress — A pair of pink silk boots — Success of Belphegor — Called before the cur- tain — Encouragement from the Press — Toole's birthday ])resent — Conrad and Medora — Edmund Yates's praise — Virginia — A jerky right arm, and its cure — Offers from Webster and Buckstone — At the Haymarket — Meeting with CONTENTS. the luc : a crushing rejoinder — Brough and Taliburd — A httle ruuiance — A mad admirer — Disappointment at the Adelphi- Nothing to do — Wright and Paul Bedford — Cupid and Psyche — Illness — Mistaken identity -Engaged tor the Strand Theatre — Cupid once more — The story of a l)carl necklace . . - . . ^5 — 76 CHAPTER III. AT THE STRAND THEATRE. Burlesque — Pippo in the Maid and the Afagpie — Remon- strances — H. J. Byron — A success — Charles Dickens's opinion — Death of 'Papa Bland' — Actresses who have acted successfully in burlesque — Desire to play comedy, but always a burlesque boy — Keiiilworth — William Tell — James Rogers — His tricks with Clarke — Ferdinand ^\'aller- stein — The Miller and His Men — The Dowager Countess of Harrington (Miss Foote) — Miss Swanborough's marriage and retirement — Aladdin, or the Wonderful Scamp — A bald-headed friend : ' Bravo, Clarke !' — Esmeralda — Court Favour — Aliss Eily O'Connor — Again cast for Karl in the Miller and His Aden — An engagement forfeited — The St. James's Theatre — My salary : a subterfuge — The Heart of Midlothian — Death of Rogers — At the Adelphi : the Little Treasure — Bob Romer — Return to the Strand for Orpheus and Eu7-ydice — Shakespearean Tercentenary — Juliet — A visit to Liverpool : first meeting with Mr. Bancroft — A reminiscence, with results - - - - 77 — 116 MR, BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE. CHAPTER IV. EARLY MEMORIES. A gift of memory — liirth and parentage — Childhood's days — Early recollections — Discovery of short sight — Always stage-struck — First saw Marie Wilton — Visit to New York — Remembrances of the City — Theatrical recollections of the Old World and the New — The stage-door - 119 — 134 CONTENTS. CHAPTER V. A COUNTRY ACTOR. PAGE First engagement — Birmingham — Mr. Mercer Simpson — A varied re]jertoire — Madame Celeste — Walter Montgomery — A summer engagement — A trying journey — Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean — C. V. Brooke — Lord Dundreary — Robson— Devonport — Imitation of Sothern — An offer from Dublin — Charles Mathews — A bad toothache — Compli- ment from Charles Kean — An anecdote — Kemble's pro- nunciation of Coriolanus — A lesson from Dion Boucicault — More hard work — Meeting with Sothern — Engagement at Liverpool — Alfred Wigan in Shakespeare — First meeting with Marie Wilton — John Hare"s debut — Leigh Murray — ■ The Davenport Brothers — First act with Marie Wilton — Meeting with H. J. Byron — Agreement to appear in London — Review of experience gained in the provinces - 135 — 168 OUR JOINT NARKATIVE. CHAPTER VL THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66. How Mrs. Bancroft became manager of a London Theatre - — Luck — The Queen's Theatre — Terms arrived at — A visit to the house — The company — The new name : Prince of Wales's Theatre — Letter iVom Lady Harrington — A IVinniiig Hazard — ^A strange incident — La ! Son- nambula ! — Vandyke Brown — A Fair I'retender — Byron's Comedy : War to the Knife — An eccentric hall-keeper — A Provincial Tour — The Second Season : Naval Engage- ments — Hare's first appearance — ^A new burlesque, Lucia di Lammernwor ; and A Lover by Proxy — Tom Robert- son and his comedy Society — Little Lon Giovanni — A Hundred Thousand Pounds — A Vacation at Li\erpool and Manchester — Sunshine and sorrow - - i/i — CONTENTS. CHAPTER VII. 'IHE SEASON OF 1 866-6 7. I'AGE The lights and shades of Hfe — Remarkable success of Ours— Byron's entanglement with the Liverpool theatres — His burlesque oi Der Freischiitz — Death of Mrs. Wilton — Pandoi'ds Box — Expiration of the partnership with Byron — Some important letters on the subject — Production of Caste — Its dedication — A ludicrous situation — Law-suit with Miss Lydia I'hompson — The best of friends after- wards — Serjeant Ballantine and Mr. Huddleston, Q.C. — A special train — A young host — Captain Hawtree — The Derby, Hermit's year — Introduced to Edmund Yates 21 1 — 231 CHAPTER VIIL THE SEASON OF 1 86 7-68. Gilbert's farce, Allow Me to Explain — Boucicault's comedy, Ho%ii She Loves Him — A subterfuge at rehearsal — Burning of Her Majesty's Theatre — Criticism by Edmund Yates — Box a?id Cox — Caste in the provinces — Death of Lady Harrington and of Charles Kean — Anecdotes of Kean — Letter from Boucicault on the withdrawal of How Slie Loves Him — Robertson's new comedy, Play — A Silent Protector — Death of Charles Stanfield James, the scenic artist — Henry Irving — Paul Bedford — Byron's humorous descrip- tion — Vacation at Broadstairs and Paris — Yates's proffered comedy — A Ham Peggoty story from real life - 232 — 260 CHAPTER IX. THE SEASON OF 1S68-69. Reproduction of Society — A new comedietta, AtcJii — A stage-struck young gentleman is given an engagement — New Me?i and Old Acres — The prospect of its production too remote — Tame Cats — Mrs. Bancroft's macaw — Both under condemnation — Charles Collette's first appearance CONTENTS. — -A soldier's story — Society restored to the bills — An instance of plagiarism — Production of School, the greatest favourite of the Robertson comedies — Its remarkable suc- cess — Death of Robert Keeley— First morning performance at the Prince of Wales's — A letter from Shirley Brooks — The Garrick Club — A dream in the smoking-room — Arthur Cecil — Removal to the Grove-End Road — Charles Dickens's last visit to the Prince of Wales's — A brief holiday - 261 — 282 CHAPTER X. THE SEASON OF 1S69-70. School resumed — Address to the public on the improvements in the theatre — Letter from Mr. (now Sir) Frederic Leigh- ton — Robertson's health failing — Incident on a foggy night — Letter from Charles Mathews — His benefit at Covent (iarden — His programme of the Critic — His speech on proposing his own health — Death of Leigh Murray — Charles Dickens's readings : two special mornings for the actors — A strange version of I/atnlet by J. C. M. Bellew — A home sorrow- — Robertson very ill — Montague's secession from the companv ; engagement of Coghlan — A new comedy, M.F., produced — Criticism by Tom Taylor — Great success — Special morning performance of the School for Scafidal :\n6. Married Life at Drury Lane — Mr. Bancroft as Sir Benjamin Backbite — Death of Charles Dickens — His letter to Mrs. Bancroft — His influence on funerals — Hare's matitiee at the Princess's Theatre — At Scarborough — Henry Fothergill Chorley — The Franco-German War -....- 283—304 CHAPTER XL THE SEASON OF 187O-71. Discussion on charges of admission to London Theatres — Letter from Mr. Bancroft to the Daily Telegraph — With- drawal of M.P. — Robertson's last appearance at rehearsal — Revival of Ours — Robertson's opinion of the acting — CONTENTS. J'AGK Letter from Boucicault — Offer of increased fees to Robert- son — His reply — Mrs. Bancroft's dream about Robertson —His death — Some peculiarities of his stage life — His funeral — Personal notes by Mrs. Bancroft — (Ireat success of Onrs — Letter from Mr. Ruskin — Cui ojfwitli a Shiiling — Lord Chief Justice Cockburn — Chorley : his dinners and his salad — The Theatre Fraucais comjiany at the Opera Comique — Banquet at the Crystal Palace — Mario's farewell — \\'ilkie CoUins's drama, Man and Wife — Letter from the author — Vacation at Scarborough : pleasant days there — Walter Montgomery's miserable death - - 305 — 331 CHAPTER Xn. THE SEASON OF 1871-72. Reproduction of Caste — Its renewed success — Illness of the Prince of Wales — Thanksgiving Day — Mrs. Bancroft's verses on ' The Queen's Seclusion ' — Death of Chorley — Managerial and Personal Notes by Mr. Bancroft — Pro- posed visit to the United States — Lord Lytton's Money — Letter from the author — The Athencenm on the company — Lord Lytton's thanks — Increase of fame and friends — Last Provincial Tour — Manchester — Liverpool — Hare as a ' caged lion ' — Edmund Yates's departure for America — A bachelor holiday — First impressions in Germany and Switzerland — A letter from Lord Chief Justice Cockburn — A riverside episode - . . . ^32 — -361 CHAPTER XIII. THE SEASON OF 1872-73. Resumption of Money — Deaths of Miss O'Neil (Lady Becher), Edwin Forrest, and Lord Lytton — Letter from Charles Mathews — Reading of Mati and Wije by Wilkie Collins — — Its production — The author on the first night — Dutton Cook's criticism — A country tour started — The play a great favourite with the royal family — A difficulty over a visit of CONTENTS. the Prince of Wales — A domestic incident — Death and funeral of Macready — Anecdotes of the great actor — The ' Lambs ' — An adventure — Withdrawal of Man a fid Wife — Letter from Wilkie Collins — Caste at the Standard Theatre — A trip abroad together — Varied experiences en route ...... ^52 — 3^1 CHAPTER XIV. THE SEASON OF 1873-74. Improving the theatre — Revival of Sc/iool — Death of Mi. Wilton — An odd practical joke — Charles Mathews's seven- tieth birthday — Letter from Mrs. Procter — The renewed prosperity of School — Decision to produce the School for Scandal — Elaborate preparations for Sheridan's masterpiece — Ten shilling stalls — A Review of the Scenes and Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft's performances — ' Biafra,' the black page — Letters from Wilkie Collins, William Creswick, W. P. Frith and Walter Lacy — Illness and Death of J. M. Bellew — Considering a new programme — Holiday in Switzer- land and Italy — Venice — A mosquito story — Fellow- travellers ------ 2,92 — 432 ERRATA. Vol. I., page l6o, lo lines from bottom, /ir 'sketch,' read 'scratch. Vol. II., page 70. Through clerical inadvertence Dr. George Johnson. is mentioned near the foot of the page as 'surgeon' instead of ' physician.' VOL. I. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD AND GU^LHOOD. Place aitx dames. I make no pretence to literary skill, and can only tell my story in a very simple way, in the belief that, as nearly all my life has been passed in the service of the public, I may speak to the reader as to a patient and sympathetic friend. My father was Robert Pleydell Wilton. My mother's name before she married him was Georgiana Jane Faulkner. I am one of six surviving children born to them, all of whom were girls. How it came to pass that I had any ability as an actress, I could never understand ; neither my father nor my mother being born to the stage, so to speak, nor was either of them distinguished in their adopted calling. My father came of an old Gloucestershire family,, and was originally intended for the Church ; but that idea was soon abandoned, for he was infatuated with an early love for the stage. He first tried the sea, however, then the law, and in a fit of martial ardour, having quarrelled with his father, he enlisted as a soldier; but, after serving his King and country for I — 2 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. twenty-four hours, he regretted his hasty step and implored to be bought out. His father decHned, but his mother came to the rescue, as mothers always do, and so ended my father's brief military career. He then returned to his favourite books (Shakespeare's plays), and fancied himself in turn the hero of them all ; his love for the drama was a great anxiety to his parents and friends, but it grew upon him more and more, and eventually he left his home to become an actor, and so laid the foundation-stone of my stage-life. At that time, far more than now, the profession of the stage was looked upon by many with great horror. To be an actor meant exile from home, family, friends, and general respectability. This was my father's lot ; none of his belongings ever knew him again, and when he died, he and his only sur- viving brother, through my father's own folly, had not spoken to each other for very many years. My father, as I have often heard him say with a sigh of regret, was of an unsettled, restless nature, and a great anxiety at home, his mother, of course, clinging to him as only mothers do cling to those of their children who are, to say the least, tiresome. My father had no idea of money, no thought for the morrow ; he was generous to a fault, and if he had but a few shillings in his pocket, he would share his little fortune with anyone in trouble ; he had a beautiful tenor voice — a gift he was too careless ever to cultivate properly ; he possessed many ac- CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. complishments but practised none ; in fact, I fear I must describe him as a handsome, thoughtless, kind-hearted * Bohemian.' My father's mother was a Miss Wise, daughter of the Rev. William Wise, who was a Fellow of St. John's College, Oxford, and afterwards for seven- teen years Rector of St. James's, Liverpool, and sister to the Rev. William Wise, D.D., also a Fellow of St. John's, and for twenty-one years Rector of St. Laurence, Reading. Several members of my father's family were clergymen, soldiers, and doctors, well known in Gloucestershire and Wiltshire. Three of them have been Mayors of Gloucester during this century. John Pleydell Wilton was almost a local Whittington, as he filled the office twice. My maternal grandmother was a Miss Watts Browne, daughter of General Browne. She married Mr. Samuel Faulkner ; * Gentleman ' Faulkner he was called, on account of his courtly manner and irreproachable character. He was either one of the proprietors or the editor of the Morning CJironicley then a leading London newspaper ; and was a highly gifted man — a profound scholar, and master of many languages. He might have made a name in the literary or political world had he not, unfortunately, been deluded into joining a partnership, and putting his money into the management of the York Circuit (to which my old friend, the celebrated Mrs. Keeley, once belonged in my grandfather's time) ; but, knowing next to nothing of theatrical matters, and MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. owing partly to the treachery of others (which I will not further dwell on here), lost all he possessed. These reverses, added to the death of his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, pressed so heavily upon him as seriously to affect his mind. He sank into a state of hopeless melancholia, and ended by committing suicide, leaving his orphan children — two sons (one of whom was afterwards in the Army, the other in the Navy), and three girls — to the guardianship of a rich uncle, who paid all my grandfather's liabilities. The account of this sad event was edged with black in the columns of the Morning Chronicle, out of regard for his memory. My father, who was much older than my mother, when but a travelling actor, met and ran away with her. His rashness cost them dear ; their future lot for many years being little else than toil, anxiety, and care. Often in later life have I sat with them by the fireside on a winter's night, when they have recalled to me stories of my childhood, and events in our early days together, which have carried me painfully back to the past, and brought many a tear to my eyes. My father would at such times dwell upon his love for his mother, who, had she lived, would by her gentle influence have brought him back, even if he had wandered for a time ; but she was dead, and with her died the olive-branch which made peace between father and son. Dazzled by the surface- glitter of the stage, he went his way, building castles CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. in the air, living in dreamland, and hoping for a position which never came to him. My poor 'vaga- bond' father made his choice, and the moment he stepped on to the stage (only to sing in a chorus) he, in the estimation of his friends, struck the fatal key- note to his destruction. He had been defiled, and nothing could wash him clean again. He paid dearly for his folly all the rest of his life. Had he been wiser, he might have been somebody, and have held a position in society to which he was by birth entitled ; my mother spared a life of anxiety and care, and I should never have been born. How- ever, so it was, and so it is, and here I am ! Having shown, when very young, ability beyond my years, being taught when but four or five years old to recite poems and dramatic scenes, I was brought out as a child actress, although hardly able to speak plainly. It was thought a great achieve- ment then to stand alone on a big stage and recite. What a nuisance I must have been ! Luckily the fashion does not exist nowadays. Fortunate chil- dren ! fortunate public ! I wish I could recall a happy childhood ; but, alas ! I can remember only work and responsibility from a very tender age. No games, no romps, no toys — nothing which makes a child's life joyous. I can recollect a doll, but not the time to play with it, for we only met at night, when it shared my pillow ; and as I looked into its face, before I fell asleep after my work, I often wished that I could play with it sometimes. MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. When other children were cosily tucked up in bed, dreaming of their sunny lives, their limbs tired only by the romps and pleasures of the day, I was trudg- ing by my father's side in all weathers to the theatre, where I had to play somebody else's child, or to re- cite one of the many character sketches which my father had written for me. In one of them I re- member I used to be dressed as a little jockey ; in another, as a wee sailor, in little white trousers and blue jacket ; the miniature hornpipe I danced being always sure of earning loud applause, and it often had to be repeated. I was, of course, much petted by the public ; but oh, the work ! My poor little body was often sadly tired ; I was roused many a time from a sound sleep to go upon the stage, and sometimes, in my half-wakefulness, would begin the wrong recitation. Up again betimes in the morning ; a hasty kiss to my doll, who grew to be regarded as a confirmed invalid, and never left her bed, except for a short time on Sundays ; part of the early day being spent in learning some fresh part, or in being taught lessons by my mother — to me a joyful labour, as I always had a great desire to learn, and even when quite a little child, so anxious was I to be able to read, I have frequently stopped people to explain and spell with me the names of streets, and would cut out the big letters from play-bills and put them together to form words : perhaps early copies made of my father's and my mother's letters, although not able to read CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. them, may account for my eccentric half-masculine, half-feminine handwriting. Once I rebelled while reciting as a little gipsy : I was discovered at a wood- fire, with a hanging- kettle over it, my father being at one side of the stage, and my mother on the other, ready to prompt me. My father gave me the words I recited, and my mother followed them with the ex- pression of countenance I should assume at certain passages ; so I looked from one to the other for my cue. But on this particular night my small temper had been upset, and I somehow got mixed. When my father saw that I was nearly breaking down in the words, I assumed his angry expression of face, although I ought to have been smiling, and imitated the encouraging face of my mother when I should have been sad. To the great horror of my parents, when I went forward to tell the audience their for- tunes, I saw our landlady in the front row of the pit, her face beaming with delight at my performance. I dropped my little basket of songs and cards, and stretched out my arms to her, crying, ' No, no ; me no stage — me go pit.' The next time our landlady witnessed one of my performances it was from a more elevated position — the gallery ! At the ao^e of five I recited Collins's Ode to the Passions, being accompanied by the special music. I wore a white lace frock and a lovely blue sash, of which I was very proud ; it was winter-time, and my mother has told me since that my poor little arms and legs were so red through the cold that I repre- MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. sented a tricolour, and ought to have recited the Marseillaise instead ! Among the selections I had to learn as a child were the ' Trial scene from the Merchant of Venice^ the ' Balcony scene from Ro^iieo and Juliet,^ the ' Sleep-walking scene from Macbeth' and ' Satan's address to the Sun.' My dear mother toiled night and day to drill the words into my young head. Although, as I have said, she never held a position on the stage, her talent for teaching was very great ; the art of elocution in her school-days being a branch of education, and lectures on the subject were de- livered to the pupils by competent professors. She thus was able to give me what I never could have hoped to attain by other means, a knowledge of elo- cution and voice-production, to which I owe the power of making every word heard, even in a whisper, in an}^ building, however large. I have never forgotten a little lecture which my mother gave me in order to impress upon my young mind the necessity of making myself heard by the entire audience ; she thought of a plan by which she could touch my feelings, as I suppose she found it difficult to make me quite understand, at that early age, the meaning of making the voice travel round the house. She said : * There is a poor man who is the last to get into the gallery, and consequently only has a corner in the back row of all, therefore he sees and hears with great difficulty ; he has been working hard and has saved his sixpence to give himself a little CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. Yi treat. How dreadful then it would be to find that he cannot hear what the actors are talking about how he must envy those more fortunate than him- self, and how unhappy he must be ! Think of him when you are acting ; direct your voice to the poor man who is sitting at the very back of the gallery, and he will be grateful to you.' My mother has often reminded me that as a child I was difficult to manage : impetuous, wilful, enthu- siastic, ambitious ; easy to lead, difficult to command ; a long speech in anger would fail to affect me, but a few gentle words would quickly conquer me. This appeal to my better nature therefore succeeded, for ever afterwards I addressed myself to the ' poor man ' at the back of the gallery, as, of course, if the rest of the audience heard me he must. To show in what estimation country folk held the stage in my childhood days, I will tell what hap- pened to me at an amateur entertainment which was given to aid a church-building fund. The pro- gramme was a varied one; my contribution of one or two recitations caused a flutter of admiration, espe- cially amongst the ladies present, many of whom were district visitors, and expressed their approval Joudly, in such remarks as, ' Wonderful !' ' Mos^ interesting;!' 'Dear little thinof !' 'How clever!' When the entertainment was over, these ladies asked to be allowed to speak to me. I was taken to them, and passed from one to another, undergoing mean- while a kind of inspection : they kissed and petted MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. me. * What a sweet child !' said one. ' You must come some day to see mamma.' 'What lovely hair !' said another : the fuss they made about me was overpowering. The gentleman who led me to them sugg-ested to these ladies that they might subscribe a small sum to buy me a toy, as a souvenir of the occasion. They consented eagerly, and at once opened their clasped- bags. While hunting for their purses, they asked with sweet smiles ' whose dear child I was.' When told that I was the daug^hter of an actor, the smiles vanished, and the expressions changed in a way to have turned even lemons sour. The baofs were closed with a cold relentless click, and the owners muttered between their teeth (for fear, doubtless, of breathing the same air as myself), ' Oh, gracious !' ' Horrid !' * Oh dear !' ' Unfortunate child !' and drew back from me as if plague-stricken. This scene dwelt upon my young mind, and I never forgot it. The poor ladies doubtless returned home scandalized and defiled; but the church did not suffer; the few bricks to which I subscribed have kept their places and have not quarrelled with the others on my account. There seemed to me to be constant travelling in my childhood days ; I cannot remember a settled home, and recall only a very restless life. Even at that early age I was aware of the responsibility of being at my post when required. Fines were often discussed in my presence with dread ; and every day, as the hour drew near for rehearsals, I would run CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 13 upstairs to put on my hat and pelisse, and call out to my father that we must make haste or we should be late. My anxiety to be ' in time ' was always very great. Once when the company was about to start for one of the towns in the Norwich circuit, to which we were attached, my mother having been informed that I should not be wanted for a fortnio-ht. decided upon leaving me for part of it with the family in whose house we lodged, and who were fond of me. My parents had not been gone three days, when a letter arrived from them, saying that the Green Bushes was to be acted in a hurry the next night instead of something else. I, as the child - actress of the company, had often played Eveleen, so I was to be sent off at once. Prepara- tions were immediately made for my departure, but as we arrived at the station we saw the last train moving away. My distress was terrible. I at once thought of the rehearsal the next morning ; I was too young to argue that having played the part so frequently it would not much matter ; 1 only knew that fines were the punishment for absence from duty, and I must go somehow. The people with whom I was staying did all in their power to pacify me, but I persisted that I must go. It happened that a cart, or covered van, filled with sacks of meal or flour, was going that night to a village not far from my destination. The driver offered to take charge of me, and remarked when he saw my anxiety, that he had ' no idea play-acting people was so per- 14 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. ticlar.' The husband of our landlady decided to accompany me, and away we started. My bed was made at the bottom of the cart in some hay between the sacks, and really I was not uncomfortable. The driver's little dog made friends with me, and I slept with him in my arms. The cart shook a good bit, but so happy was I, knowing that every mile took me nearer to my duty, that I slept the sleep of a contented child. We stopped at a roadside inn to rest the horses, when I was lifted out of the cart and taken to sit by the fire. I can well remember some roughish-looking men sitting about. There was a large fire, with a curious-looking tin saucepan, shaped like a fool's cap turned upside down, and filled with hot ale, in which eggs were beaten up. The men, who were all smokino-, soon p-ot into conversation O O with my two guardians. They looked very hard at me, and asked all sorts of questions ; who I was, how I came to be there with them, and one of them jokingly remarked, ' You ain't been a-kidnapping, 'ave you ?' I felt indignant at this, knowing how good they had both been to me. An explanation of the case interested them, and when they were told who I was, they shouted, ' What ! a play-actor ?' and immediately requested the driver of the cart to ask me to ' do a piece.' ' Will ye, child ?' he said. I shook my head, and he continued, ' I won't ask the little lass ; she's tired.' This touched me, and I at once jumped up and recited something ; I forget what, but I caused such enthusiasm that I thought CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 15 they would all eat me. I had to do another ' piece ' for them, and by this time everyone employed about the inn, hearing that something unusual was going on, had assembled, I shall never forget the scene, which Dickens could have wonderfully described. The villagers, smoking and drinking ; my two guardians sitting together, and smiling as if they were responsible for the talent displayed ; the land- lord and his wife standing in the doorway, and several heads peering over theirs ; the windows thrown open, and stable-boys and farm-labourers sitting on the window-sills with their mouths wide open. I thought they were all idiots, for they laughed like them. When I had finished, murmurs of ' Eh, that's foin !' and ' Wonderful, ain't it ?' came from all of them. The moment arrived for starting. How thankful I was ! They all came to the door to see me off, and the rough but kindly men treated me like a little queen. Although I was glad to get away from this strange society, I did not regret having given them a little amusement. But when they asked me for a kiss at parting, I didn't know what to do, for they all smelt of beer. I had ' roughed it ' a good deal, but there were limits ! When I said I would not permit them to kiss me, one of them replied, ' We ain't gentlefolk, surely ; but you are a little angel, and we ain't used to the loiks of yer.' I thought to myself, it will make them happy, and it won't take a minute ; so I presented my cheek to them, at which they laughed, but kissed it. 1 6 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. I was lifted into the cart as carefully as if it had been a grand carriage, and we drove off. I settled into my bed of hay and sacks, and after well wiping my cheek, where they had left their beer-marks, I went to sleep again. When I arrived at the theatre early in the morning, escorted by one of my guardians, who told the whole story, I received a scolding for my pains. I must have presented a strange appear- ance, for my clothes and hair were covered with meal from the sacks, and some one remarked that I looked as if my clothes had suffered a bad illness. Soon after this we found ourselves at the Theatre Royal, Manchester, where I was the child actress of the company and appeared in the pantomime of Gulliver s T^^avels as the little ' Emperor of Lilli- put' — a very tiny monarch. A gentleman who played one of the parts in this pantomime attracted my at- tention, and I can well remember the incident. Children are all, more or less, prone to express their thoughts, and give their opinions at the most awkward moments. I was particularly celebrated in this way ; my early training for the stage naturally sharpened my powers of observation, and any eccen- tricity of manner, or an unusual physical peculiarity, immediately attracted my notice ; and, if I did not happen to express in words my interest and astonish- ment, I continued to look so long with a puzzled and inquiring face, that the poor creature, whoever it might be, became more and more uncomfortable. I, of course, was perfectly unconscious of the discomfi- CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 17 ture I was creating, and would, with a wrinkled brow and wondering stare, fix my eyes upon the, to me, unaccountable freak of nature. This particular gentleman happened to be severely pitted and disfigured by deep marks of that terrible disease, smallpox. I could not take my eyes from his face ; wherever he went I followed, and stood gazing at him, until at last he said abruptly, ' What on earth are you staring at, child ?' I replied in thoughtless innocence, 'I'm looking at your face; it's like a crumpet!' It will be readily understood that this inquiring and observant nature was an anxiety to my mother, who tried very hard by threats, scoldings, and entreaties to break me of it ; but in spite of promises of better behaviour, I could not resist the temptation whenever it occurred. One day a friend of my father's, whom he had not seen for years, had been invited to a Sunday dinner; and as a treat my father requested that I should be allowed to sit at table. This gentleman was unfortu- nately afflicted with an enormous bluish nose, which was absolutely remarkable. My mother urged the danger of my being in the room, for she was certain that it would attract my attention at once, and she would suffer tortures. But my father said that if I was prepared for the peculiarity before seeing the gendeman, and warned that if I said anything I should be turned out of the room (a fearful indignity to me), he was sure it would be all right. I was duly cautioned by my mother, who told me that to VOL. I. 2 l8 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. take any marked notice of the gentleman would not only make her angry, but would wound his feelings besides, as he was sensitive on that subject. I promised faithfully that I would not utter a word. When seated at table, the sight of this extra- ordinary feature almost took my breath away ; it was the largest nose I had ever seen out of a panto- mime, and take my eyes off it I could not. My mother, whenever she could by kicks and looks at- tract my attention (which was seldom, for it was fixed on the nose), looked daggers at me. She suffered agonies until dinner was over, and was much re- lieved when the moment came to kiss me and say good-night. She then whispered ' Good child.' With pride and delight I returned to my father's side, and asked him if I had been good ; when he kissed me I shouted with glee, ' I didn't say nny- thing about the gentleman's blue nose, did I, father?' Tableau ! I can just remember Macready playing his farewell engagement in the country, before retiring from the stage. In Macbeth I acted the part of the boy Fleance, and also appeared as the apparition of the crowned child who rises from the caldron when summoned by the witches, to warn the guilty Thane. At the end of the play the great tragedian sent for me, and I was taken by my mother to his room. I was terribly nervous, for I had heard so many people say how proud and distant Macready always was, and I feared I was summoned to be scolded. My CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 19 mother knocked at the door, and a deep tragic * Come in ' sent my httle heart into my boots. We still waited at the door ; his valet opened it, and there was the great actor seated in a large easy- chair, his head resting upon his hand, and looking, as I thought, very tired and cross ; the room was dimly lighted. We hesitated, not knowing quite what to do, when the voice from the chair said in measured tones, dwelling upon each syllable, * Who- is-it ?' I felt awe-stricken, as though still in the presence of a king. The dresser said, ' It's the little girl you sent for, sir.' Macready answered, * Oh, yes ! turn up the gas,' much in the same tone in which he had said, ' Duncan comes here to- night.' But he looked at me kindly, and said very gently, ^Come here, child,' holding out his hand. I went to him ; he patted me on the head and kissed me ; then, after looking at me for a moment, said : * Well, I suppose you hope to be a great actress some day ?' I replied quickly, ' Yes, sir.' He smiled. ' And what do you intend to play T ' Lady Macbeth, sir,' upon which he laughed loudly and said : ' Oh ! is that all ? Well, I like your ambi- tion ; you are a strange little thing, and have such curious eyes ; but you must change them before you play Lady Macbeth, or you will make your audience laugh instead of cry.' I did not quite like this ; but he soon won my heart by saying : ' Will you have a sovereign to buy a doll with, or a glass of wine ?' After a little hesitation, I answered, ' I should like MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. both, I think.' He seemed to enjoy my frank reply, and said laughingly, ' Good ! I am sure you will make a fine actress ; I can see genius through those little windows,' placing his hands over my eyes. ' But do not play Lady Macbeth too soon ; begin slowly, or you may end quickly !' I drank my wine, took my sovereign, and went home rejoicing, feeling as proud as any little peacock. The great man had condescended to pat me on the head, and had abso- lutely kissed me. I did not want to wash my face again ! It was at Manchester that Miss Glyn came to the theatre as a ' star,' accompanied by Charles Kemble, whose pupil she was. Although he was now very old and deaf, I remember well the impression he made upon me at a rehearsal when I crept into the wings and saw them go through the sleep-walking scene in Macbeth, Not a word or gesture escaped me ; I was much impressed, and I determined that I must some day play Lady Macbeth. That day has not yet arrived ! King John was also produced for Miss Glyn, and I played Prince Arthur : Charles Kemble was in a private box at night, watching the play. In the scene where the little prince is trying to escape from his prison, and falls from the battlements, I suddenly heard the sound of some one talking out loud, and then a laugh somewhere in the theatre. I became nervous, and thought something must have hap- pened to my dress. I dared not move, for fear of CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 2i: causing more laughter, and there I lay in terrible suspense until I was carried off by Hubert. I was then told that Mr. Kemble had suddenly become very excited, had stood up in the stage-box, and shouted out something quite loudly ; no one could tell me what he had said, but an account of it appeared afterwards in some of the papers, one of which I have by me now, headed, ' The Veteran and the Child.' ' Charles Kemble sat anxiously watching the progress of the play of King John. He seldom applauded, and, for the most part, seemed saddened, perhaps by the memories of those halcyon days when his great brother was the King, and he the gallant Falconbridge ; but the scene between Hubert and Prince Arthur awoke his approving smiles. More than once he clapped his hands, and when the little prince fell from the battlements, and the young actress exclaimed, with exquisite pathos — " ' Ah me, my uncle's spirit's in these stones ; Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones !' the old actor was so carried away by his enthusiasm as to rise in the box where he was sitting, and exclaim : " That girl will be a great actress." " That girl" was Marie Wilton.' I was sent for by Charles Kemble, and compli- mented very warmly by him, and by Miss Glyn. Oddly enough, the old gendeman repeated Mac- ready's advice to me : ' Climb not the ladder too quickly, or you may come suddenly to the ground MARIE IVILTON'S NARRATIVE. again.' He spoke very kindly, but every question he asked I was obliged to answer with a shout. When he said, ' You spoke your lines beautifully,' I replied : ' Oh ! but you are deaf, sir ; you could not hear me.' He laughed and answered : ' I could see your words, child ; your little face spoke them. But why wear a wig ? The hair was too long.' I answered quickly, * I wear no wig, sir ; it was my own hair,' upon which he seemed surprised, and said : ' Bless the child, I thought it was a wig.' I was a little indignant at this remark, for my mother took great pride in my hair, carefully brushing it night and morning for so long that my father remarked once, ' That child will soon have no brains — you will brush them all out !' While at Manchester I was a pupil of Mademoi- selle Cushnie, \ki^ premiere cianseuse, when, through some accident in practising, an injury was done to my foot, and I suffered acute pain. No one seemed to understand what was the matter. At length it was discovered that a tiny bone had been displaced, and I could not put my foot to the ground. I was a cripple on crutches for a considerable time, the only part I was able to play being poor Tiny Tim in Charles Dickens's Christinas Carol: and I still retain a most agreeable recollection of the plum-pudding which we had to eat upon the stage. At length, after careful nursing, I happily recovered the use of my foot, though for a long while my health was delicate, and caused my mother much anxiety. CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. When, through my lameness, I was not acting, I was taken now and then as a treat to a travelHng circus, well known as Pablo Fanque's, which was then in the town ; and this reminds me of our eccentric landlady, who rejoiced in the proud name of O'Brien. In appearance she was a tall, gaunt, lean woman, with high cheek-bones, pale blue eyes, a white and much freckled skin, and a mass of fiery red hair, which she seldom brushed, and fastened at the top of her head with a single hair-pin. This poor lady had a mania that her husband, had he lived, would have been a rightful claimant to the throne of Ireland; but as there was not one, nor a likelihood of one, he thought he would not wait : Mrs. O'Brien's presence was not sufficient temptation for him to 'lag superfluously' on this earth, so he died, leaving- her to bewail the fact of havino- to reside in an unpretentious house, situated in a still more un- pretentious street, instead of enjoying the O'Brien rights and passing her life in a palace. We never ascertained what particular palace she laid claim to, so concluded it to be somewhere in the clouds. Her only son, whom she always addressed as ' Master O'Brien,' answered to his mother's descrip- tion in appearance as far as hair, eyes, and freckles went. He was a puny, scared-looking creature, and might remind one of Squeers' boys : his thin legs were too long for his trousers, and his thinner arms were ditto as regards his jacket, while his head looked as if every red hair had quarrelled with its 24 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. neighbour; a sharp, cold-looking nose, of the chronic influenza type, getting pink towards the end, while his scraggy neck resembled that of a recently- plucked elderly chicken. This rare specimen of humanity, who was constantly forced into notice as 'the heir to the throne of Ireland,' was not per- mitted to enjoy life like other boys. Mrs. O'Brien strictly forbade him to mix with those who, of necessity, were beneath him, and the poor lad was made to sit on a very high stool during a great part of the day — as a kind of rehearsal, perhaps, of the regal position he might hold should his claims ever be recognised — eazinof at the crownless head of Mrs. O'Brien, except when the aforesaid hair-pin would drop out : then he would descend, and with a low bow restore it to the hands of his deluded mother. One morning Master O'Brien, under the impression that his mother was out, actually sum- moned up courage to join in a game of leapfrog with some other boys in the street. Suddenly his plea- sure was interrupted by the ghost-like appearance of his indignant parent on the doorstep. She glanced at her only son, and roared out, just as he was in the act of leaping over another boy's back, * Master O'Brien! Master O'Brien! it's handing your mamma to her carriage ye ought to be, and not Pablo Fan- queing it about the streets !' Poor Mrs. O'Brien could boast of no better vehicle than a wheelless barrow in the back-yard ; but she felt she ought to have her carriage, and that CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 25 was enough. With all her eccentricity she was kindly-natured, and her delusions hurt no one. Brighter days seemed in store for us when my father, I believe, heard some news of a brother ; his delight was intense, for, though they had not met for years, he was confident that a reconciliation would take place, and that all anxiety about our pre- carious position would cease. Oh, the castles that my father built in the 'airiest of situations'! assuring my mother that she and her children would now be placed in their proper positions, and that servants were at once to be engaged to wait upon us ; but his dreams of magnificence (which always led people to believe that we were better off than we really were) were soon dispelled. My mother, who never relied for one moment upon her husband's vague dreams, continued to train us up to wait upon our- selves. My poor father's character was very like that of Micawber, with a strong dash of dear old Triplet, always hoping for ' something to turn up,' and always looking on the sunny side, however bad things seemed to be. Dear old dad — his bright nature helped us through many a trouble. Often and often when our spirits were low he would tell us anecdotes and stories of his early stage-days, one of which comes now to my mind, and always struck me as being very amusing. It was, and is still, I think, a custom in country theatres when a military play is acted, and men are required on the stage as soldiers. 26 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. for the Colonel of the regiment then quartered in the town to lend a certain number of his men to the manager, who were glad, for good conduct, to add a little money to their pay. I forget the name of the play, and the town in which it took place, but the regiment was an Irish one. At the end of an act a decisive battle was fought between the two armies ; the soldiers were represented on the one side by men attached to the theatre, and on the other by regulars from the garrison. On this particular occasion the performance was a ' bespeak ' night, and ' under the patronage of the Colonel and officers of the regiment,' all of whom, of course, were present. Everything went well up to the battle-scene, when the signal was eiven for the fight to cease, and for the regulars, who personated the beaten foe, to retreat ; but on this eventful evening they took no notice. The actor who appeared as one of the commanding officers kept shouting to them, ' Retreat! why don't you retreat ?' They still fought on in terrible earnest, and punished their opponents so unmercifully that at last they threw down their arms and used their fists instead. The result was a real all-round scrimmage. Actors concerned in the scene shouted to the men to retreat, as they had done quietly enough night after night ; the com- manding officer calling at the top of his voice, ' Retreat ! I tell you, retreat !' Eventually the curtain had to be dropped on the conflict, when the manager, who made an angry appearance on CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 27 the stage, furiously asked the men, * What does all this mean ? why didn't you retreat ?' To which one of the soldiers, a sergeant with his face much damaged, replied indignantly, * Is it retrate you'd have us, wz'^/i the Colonel in front ? Divil a bit /' During my early life a wealthy Roman Catholic widow lady took a great fancy to me, and besought my father to allow her to adopt me, to place me in a convent for education, and, on leaving it, to return to my parents from time to time, her conditions being that I should assume her name, and never appear upon the stage again. In return for all this, her fortune would be left me. I used often to attend early mass, being taken to the church by the late Edmund Falconer, the author of Peep Day and other Irish dramas, who was then a member of the company we belonged to. I merely mention this incident to show that I had an early love for the Catholic faith, which only slept for so many years afterwards. I often reflect how changed things might have been had my father consented, and how different my position in the world ! After further wanderings — we seemed to be always ' moving on ' — we joined the company of the Bristol Theatre, of which Mr. James Henry Chute was manager. My first appearance there was in the open- ing of a pantomime as ' No-Wun-No-Zoo, Spright of the Silver Star ;' the sky opened, and I was dis- covered high up in the clouds, prettily dressed in pale blue silk and spangles, my long hair hanging ?,8 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. in large waves over my shoulders. As I was lowered by machinery, which every now and then gave an uncomfortable jerk, I was conscious of an anxious look upon my face, and feared the great tragedian's words, ' Climb not the ladder too quickly, or you may tumble when you least expect it,' were about to be realized. I was instructed to come down with a happy smile upon my face, but the expression must have resembled the fixed stare one sees on a photo- graph after the victim's long and tedious sitting. My voice was very thin, and not improved by my anxiety to get safely landed on the stage, so I fear I did not distinguish myself in these opening words of my song : ■' Ah ! No-Wun-No-Zoo will astonish a few, For he fancies it's rather a thing that will do ; And folks with surprise will open their eyes, When they turn to a page of this comical size.' The Bristol Mercury thus kindly spoke of my dSbtit there : ' The " dark vaulted ether " suddenly discloses a brilliant star, from whose effulgence emerges No-Wun-No-Zoo, which character was played by a clever, and we must add exceedingly pretty girl, who made a first appearance — Miss M. Wilton.' I gradually became a great favourite, and was happy in Bristol, where there was a most excellent company, many of whom have since been well known. It was an admirably conducted theatre, and will always be remembered by me as my step- CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 29 ping-Stone to London. Mr. Chute was an excellent manager ; a severe disciplinarian, but a tender- hearted and just man. His wife, who was related to Macready, was a most kindly lady, and I re- member her oroodness to me with much gratitude. Fines were strictly inflicted in those days ; but I have known Mr. Chute many a time return, privately, the forfeit-money to those who he knew could ill afford to spare it, saying, ' Do not say anything about it, and do not be late again ' — a good, kind- hearted, severe old manager. The work was hard, but some of our best artists have left the old Kinof Street Theatre to fill leading positions in London. Names that come at once to my mind are Kate and Ellen Terry, Madge Robertson (Mrs. Kendal), Henrietta Hodson, and Charles Coghlan. Oh for a few such theatres now as that, or the old Edin- burgh Theatre, so admirably governed for years by Mr. and Mrs. Robert Wyndham ! We should not then have to bewail the fact that there are no longer schools for vounof actors and actresses to serve, as it were, a proper apprenticeship by playing every line of character in the theatrical pharmacopceia, from farcical comedy to high tragedy, under the direction of an able stage-manager, before settling on the branch of art in which to seek and work for future excellence; just as a general practitioner, after studying the anatomy of the entire human frame, becomes a specialist. My mother wished me to be a comedy actress, 30 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. and so to that end she and I worked very hard every day in a little quiet room at the back of the house we lodged in, and where she taught me how valuable and how necessary was the knowledge of elocution. Some of the counsel of those years gone by I repeated, almost word for word, in Mr. Burnand's little play, A Lesson. With her help and instruc- tion ever before me, I toiled on with a determination to earn a high position. In country theatres young actors were frequently called upon, through illness or other causes, to play parts quite beyond their power and much beyond their years. I may say that during my provincial life, young as I was, I was made Jack-of-all-trades, acting anything and every- thing. Once at a minor country theatre during the Bristol vacation, a ' star ' actor, well known in those days, came down for a short period, and commenced the engagement as Claude Melnotte in the Lady of Lyons. The actress who was to have played his widowed mother was taken ill, and there being no one else in the theatre to do it, I was told to study the part in a few hours, and do the best I could with it. The prompter rehearsed the scenes with the company, and the Claude Melnotte, who was at least old enough to be my father, was not aware of his mother's age until he met her on the stage at night. I had on a gray wig which was too big for me, and would keep slipping on one side, crowned, as it was, by a tall mob-cap. The effect must have been comical, because the moment I was discovered the audience CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 31 began to titter. Some one from the wings called out, ' Put your cap straight ; it is all on one side.' In my effort to do so, I conclude I must have dis- turbed the gray wig, for the laughter of the audience told me that something was wrong. On came Claude. He began with the well-known line, ' Give me joy, dear mother ; I have won the prize !' His eyes met mine, and he muttered, ' Who's' this ?' My miserable attempt to look old, and my small voice calling him ' my son,' so upset him that he was almost speechless. After our first scene was over, he said angrily, ' What does this mean ? the whole piece is destroyed.' I was frightened, but explained as well as I could ; and seeing my distress, he said, ' Well, my dear, it is not your fault ; but surely they might have got some one to look more like my mother, I quite dread the next scene.' However, when we came to it, I got through pretty well, until Pauline had to say, ' Don't weep, mother !' which was greeted with ' Oh's !' When Claude was about to rush out, and I exclaimed, ' Claude, Claude, you will not desert your poor old mother ! no divorce can separate a mother from her son !' the audience could restrain themselves no longer, and burst into a loud roar. No more dialogue was heard. Claude, in his embrace, gave me an angry push, which sent my gray wig and mob-cap almost into the orchestra. The curtain fell amidst shouts of laughter, and calls for 'Claude's mother'; to which, let me add, I did not respond. 32 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. It was during my stay at Bristol that Mr. Charles Dillon came to play Belphegor, and I was chosen to act the part of the boy Henri, his son ; when I re- hearsed it, I did so as my mother had taught me, in a natural manner ; but Mr. Dillon disapproved, and said, ' This won't do, my dear ; you'll kill the piece, and destroy me ! When I find that my wife, your mother, whom we both adore, has deserted us in our poverty to go away with some one who can give her wealth and luxury, I call upon you to curse her ; then my conscience rebukes me, my love overpowers me, and I say to you, " No, no, pray for her — pray for your mother, Henri ; pray for her, my boy !" you are overwhelmed with grief, you fall on your knees, look up, and clasp your hands in prayer. Imagine you are saying, " God bless my dear mother, and bring her back to me." ' I replied, * Yes, Mr. Dillon, that is what I was doing ; only I can't iviagine my tears and prayer — I must mean it and cry in earnest.' He answered, ' Yes ; but you interrupt me. I have to look dazed, stagger to the door, look into the empty room, and faintly mutter, " Madeline ! my wife — my wife !" as the curtain falls. All this is very important, so you must be careful, and not say things audibly that take away the attention of the audience ; you can mean your grief, but keep it to yourself.' I said, ' Well, but you are going to say things audibly, and beautifully you do it, for you make me cry ; surely if my sobs and prayers are faintly heard through your speech it must help you, CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 23 and it will be natural. I feel the scene so real that it makes me cry. Let me try it again to-morrow at rehearsal ; we will ask Mr. Chute to be present, and if he says it is not effective, I will act it as you wish. ' He looked wonderingly at me, and then, with a smile, said, ' You are a strange little creature ; but it shall be so ; the manager shall decide.' So we had our rehearsal, and the scene affected Mr. Chute to tears. He said that if acted in that way it would cause a sensation. When the night came the ap- plause was tremendous, and the success assured, Mr. Dillon's Belphegorwasa trulyfineperformance, and he admitted that my rendering of Henri materi- ally assisted his acting ; but I nearly lost the part through his first want of confidence in me. After the performance Mr. Dillon said, 'Good girl! If ever I have a London theatre, I shall give you an engagement.' Very soon after this he kept his word, for he became manager of the Lyceum, and sent me an offer to play my old part. Mr. Chute strongly advised my mother to accept it, as he thought this a splendid opportunity for me, and that he should expect great things of me in the future. So frightened was I at the bare thought of appearing in London, that I told Mr. Chute, if he would only give me ever so little more salary, I would remain at Bristol, But he, knowing that it was important for me to make a successful debut in London, and be- lieving also that I should take a step up the ladder of fame as Belphegor's son, out of kindness refused. VOL. I. \ 34 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. I thought it mean of him at the time, but I have thanked him since. He knew that a chance like this might never, or for a long time at least, befall me again. When he bade me good-bye he said, ' Have courage. If you fail, and are not happy, come back to Bristol.' CHAPTER II. YOUNG DAYS AT THE LYCEUM, THE HAYMARKET, AND THE ADELPHI. How big London seemed to me ! I felt as if the houses were going to fall on us ; and in the vast city, with so much going on, there seemed to be no room for me, A restless, crowded, eet-one-before- the-other city, I felt it an impertinence to try for a place in its rushing stream of humanity. So full, and yet to us so empty, for my mother and I were without a soul to advise or a friend to help us, having left my father at Bristol. My salary was to be three pounds a week ; of course things were cheaper then than they are now, or I don't know what we should have done. When I went to the first rehearsal everything around me looked so grand that I felt quite ashamed of my poor country clothes. Some of the people looked me up and down with a kind of sneer, wondering, I dare say, where I and my clothes had been picked up, and as if it were presumption forme to stand too near them. I had never seen so many people all at once upon a 36 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. Stage before ; but I felt as solitary and chilled as a room in winter seems without a fire in it. My mother, in former years, had known two members of the company ; but as we were down in the world they did not care to recognise us. They all seemed to know one another, and I envied them as I watched them chatting together. I felt nervous and shy, and kept close to my mother's side, who every now and then whispered some tender words to give me courage. I will ask the reader to imagine for an instant our two lone figures standing apart from •everybody, when a friendly smile would have put a little sun into our hearts. At last my name was suddenly called out, and I felt as if I had been shot! My mother said, ' Go forward, dear, and show your- self.' I did go forward, and made about as much sensation as a pin would in falling on a haystack. I was glad to get away, and on the road home I remarked, ' They must all have larger salaries than mine, mother, they are dressed so well.' She laughed, and said, ' They are established favourites, you see. You will one day earn a large salary too ; and re- member, should you then ever see a stranger poorly dressed, waiting and wishing for a kind word, don't turn away, but hold out a helping hand if you can.' I looked at her, saw the tears in her eyes, and under- stood her meaning. We found lodgings just over Waterloo Bridge ; our rooms were humble, but my mother was a good manager, and, as usual, kept up a comfortable little THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND A DELPHI. ^7 home on our slender means. I was at rehearsal every morning, and gradually became more accus- tomed to the larQ;"e theatre and its surroundincrs. The stage-manager was one of those who had known my parents in the country some years before. When he was in needy circumstances they had often helped him, and my mother had nursed him through an illness. ' Go to him,' she said ; ' tell him whose daughter you are, and he will be kind to you, I'm sure.' I did go to him, and I dzd tell him who I was. He laughed and said, 'Well, what of that ?' I could not answer, as I knew no more, so I returned to my place, blushing and ashamed. He was always harsh to me, calling me to account for every small mistake in the roughest way. He knew that I was nobody, and I suppose presumed upon it. Let me revert to a happier memory. It was at the Lyceum that I first became acquainted with Mr. J. L. Toole, who, although he had acted before in London, had still his fame to make, and was engaged for the comic part of Fanfaronade in BelpJicgor. During the rehearsals he would often cheer me up with some kindly joke, and constantly after the second act (in which was my principal scene) he would whisper, with a merry smile, 'Twenty pounds a week insisted upon, I think, after the first appear- ance.' Greatly to my relief, during the rehearsals of Bel- pheg07' my' ?^7zamiable stage-manager was taken ill, and for days was unable to attend them. Oh, joy, 38 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. he was ill, and we rehearsed without him ! All then went smoothly ; Mr. Dillon was so kind and en- couraging that I went home rejoicing, hoping that the illness might last until the first night was over ; but my enemy came back in three days, and I am uncharitable enough to own that never was I so sorry to hear of a recovery. However, when he again raised his voice to object, Mr. Dillon came to the rescue, and saved me from further trouble on that head. It was entirely through an accident — how often do they govern the chief events in life! — that I first acted in London in burlesque. One morning during a rehearsal, news came that the young lady who was cast for Perdita, the little milkmaid in William Brough's extravaganza of A PVinUrs Tale, in which Toole played Autolycus, which was to be produced with Belpheg07% had been taken ill, so Mrs. Dillon came hurriedly to me with the part, saying, ' My dear child, we are in a fix ; I know the notice is short, but you must do it.' I had to learn both words and music in a few days. Knowing something of music, I found but litde diffi- culty so far ; but my voice was poor and thin, and remembering the largeness of the theatre, and how particular a London audience was, I was terribly nervous, and feared, if I failed, to destroy any favour- able effect I might produce in Belphegoi\ My troubles were not lessened when I was told that I must provide my own dress. Where, oh, where THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND A DELPHI. 39 was it to come from ? my poor three pounds a week not having begun yet. I went home with the dread- ful news to my mother, who, after considering a while, said in her comforting way, ' I can manage something out of material which I have by me ; study your part, think only of that, and I will make your dress myself.' Oh, my mother! when I look back upon those struggling days, I feel that I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for all your forbearance, your forti- tude, your patience; what could I have done, but for you ? I was informed next day that my boots must be pale pink silk, to match the stockings. I could see that very little would be left out of my first salary ; but it was useless to fret, so I went off to a shop where they were in the habit of making stage-boots, and boldly ordered mine, but was politely informed that as I was a stranger I must pay for them in advance. My mother and I went out together on a voyage of discovery, but at every likely shop we entered we were told that the time was too short, and that they would cost — oh ! well, ever so much more than we could afford. We were in despair, and going home with heavy hearts, when, with a sigh, I looked into the window of a little insignificant shop in the Waterloo Road, with great heavy ugly boots big enough for me to live in and receive friends. My mother smiled at my stopping even to look at these thick, clod-hopping things, and said, ' Come home, dear ; we must 40 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. search ag^ain to-morrow.' I made up my mind suddenly to go into the shop — something seemed to urge me. I told my mother so. She remarked that it was indeed a forlorn hope ; but having a strong dash of my father's bright nature in me, always hoping for the best, I said, ' Who knows ? In the most unlikely place, and at the most unexpected moment, I may be successful. I'll try, mother ; wish me luck !' In I went, and asked the man if he had such a thing as a pair of pale-pink silk boots. I had asked the same question so often, that I stumbled over the words. The man said, in a loud, common voice, ' No, no ; we don't make your fancy fal-lals here. You must go to the West End for those dandified goods ; we don't wear them in the Waterloo Road.' I was about to leave the shop, thinking how foolish I must look, when a woman's voice from the inner room called out, 'I say, stop, miss!' — here she appeared — * did I 'ear yer say yer wanted a pair of pale pink silk boots ? Well, I believe I 'ave the very thing.' The husband said, ' Why, what are you talking about ?' She went on as though he had not spoken. ' There was a little girl what was to 'ave acted a fairy at the Surrey more nor a year ago ; 'er mother and 'er lodged 'ere. The poor little thing took ill, and 'er mother put 'er into a horspital, and left these lodgings ; she asked me to buy the boots, and, in fact, all 'er things, as she couldn't now use them. So I bought them from THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI. 41 'er, and sold them agin to another party — all but the boots, for they said they was too small for anyone they knew. 'Ere, Billy ! bring them pink boots down from out of the back room : you'll find 'em wrapped up in soft paper on the top shelf in the cupboard. I'm afraid, though, they'll be too small for you, but you can see them.' How I prayed that those boots might fit ! The clouds seemed to be lifting. Down came Billy with the boots : they were tried on — they fitted me as if they had been made for me. Billy was very dirty, but I could have kissed him. Stay ! I had not yet asked the price. I tremblingly said, ' How much ?' The woman hesitated, reflected, scratched her head, and then rested her chin in her hand, gazing down at the boots, while I tremblingly waited for the verdict. 'Well, they're no use to me, 'anging about 'ere ; you may 'ave them for three-and-sixpence.' I went to the door, called my mother, who was startled by my excited manner, and came hurriedly to me. ' Give me three-and-sixpence, mother.' * What for?' 'The boots! Pale pink silk! Just what I wanted ! Fit me beautifully I Belonged to a little girl ! Three-and-sixpence !' I gasped all this out, for I was excited, and out of breath, and hardly knew what I was doing. I held my treasured parcel to my heart as I went gaily home, and dreamt of nothing that night but pink silk boots ! I felt so happy next morning, and trotted over Waterloo Bridge to rehearsal with a merry, light heart, feeling 42 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. even strong enough to brave the stage-manager ! I sang the music correctly, but my small voice could scarcely be heard with a large band. My stage-manager stopped me. 'Come, come! this won't do ! You don't call that singing, do you ? Louder ! louder !' I tried it louder, and my voice cracked. He stopped me again, and said, ' My dear young lady, if you don't sing better than this, you must be taken out of the part.' Upon which there was a flutter amongst the other young actresses who were standing about, each one hoping to be called upon to play it, when suddenly the musical director, who saw my troubled face, stopped the band, and said to my dc/e noire : ' Are you the musical director here, sir, as well as the stage- manager .^ Allow me to know whether Miss Wilton is right or wrong. Her voice is not strong, but it is true to time and tune ; and I wish I could say the same for everyone concerned in the piece ' (a movement of approval from the orchestra). ' Now, Miss Wilton, you are too much distressed to sing again this morning, so we will miss your duets, and try them again to-morrow ; when your part of the music comes, the band shall be more piano, and then you will be heard beautifully. We'll astonish them yet.' The tears rolled down my cheeks, and my heart was too full to speak. My kind friend ! how I looked for a smile from him whenever I came upon the stage ! When I had to sing, he took up his violin, following and supporting my THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 43 voice, and helping me on by hiding my shortcomings. His words of comfort and encourao^ement made me feel safe. I record my champion's name, W. H. Montgomery, with a strong feeling of gratitude. At the night rehearsal I was much applauded by the gentlemen in the orchestra, and kind-hearted little Toole, with a comic chuckle, said, in his own quaint way, ' I don't think poor Bristol will see you again in a hurry.' At last the opening night arrived ; the house was crammed, and when Mr. Dillon as Belphegor, Mrs. Dillon as Madeline his wife, with a little girl in the cart, Toole at the back of it, beating a drum, and I seated like a boy on the horse, came on to the stage, there was a tremendous reception — such cheering, of course for Mr. Dillon ; the rest of us being more or less unknown. I had little or nothing to say on my first appearance ; but the supper scene which followed went off wonderfully well, Toole making the people scream with laughter, and be- coming a great success before he had been many minutes on the stage. At the end of the act, where my best scene occurred with Mr. Dillon, the applause was tremendous, and there was a great call. I waited, hoping and expecting to be taken before the curtain by Mr. Dillon ; but my friend the stage- manager turned round to me sharply, saying, ' Now then. Miss Wilton, go to your room ; you are not wanted.' I walked slowly away towards the dress- ing-rooms ; Mr. Dillon came off. I listened. 44 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. Another loud call ; he went on again and again, each time alone. I reached my room, where my mother was anxiously waiting to know how I had succeeded, and determined not to let her see how distressed I was, I laughed and said, ' All right, mother ; it has gone beautifully.' ' Were you called before the curtain ?' she asked. I was on the point of replying, when the call-boy came running along the corridor, shouting, 'Miss Wilton! Miss Wilton — make haste! Mr. Dillon says you must go on before the curtain.' Away I went, almost on wings, in case I should be too late, and heard the welcome sound from the public : 'Miss Wilton ! Miss Wilton !' I went on a/o;ie — my little figure on that big stage, with no one by my side, and no one's hand to help me. The audience called me a second time, and as I was about to answer it, my dear stage-manager pulled me back, saying, ' That will do ; we shall never get the piece over if this is allowed to go on.' I ran to my room, threw my arm.s round my mother's neck, and said, 'A great success, mother; kiss me!' When the play was over, Mr. and Mrs. Dillon patted me on the head approvingly, and said how pleased they were. As Perdita, I looked very nice, I think, with my hair hanging loosely over my shoulders, a pretty wreath of blush roses, a charming little dress of white cashmere, which my mother made, a bunch of roses at my waist, pale pink silk stockings, and the boots ! I had a charming reception when I re- THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 45 appeared, and the audience was kind and encour- aging. When I sang with that delightful actress, Mrs. Mellon, who played Florizel, the duet, ' Oh, my heart goes pit-a-pat,' it did indeed go pit-a- pat, for I was acting and singing with one of the greatest favourites on the London stage. The tune, which was charming, soon became very popular on the street-organs. When the piece came to an end I was called again before the curtain, and had flowers enough thrown to me to fill my little green and silver milk-pail : I felt that I had made a success, although some of the ladies told me not to feel too certain about it, as the critics often condemned what an audience had praised. We were all told to be at the theatre on the following morning for some altera- tions. I was terribly anxious to see the newspapers, but I was afraid, and so went to the theatre without knowing positively what impression I had made. The moment I arrived there the people flocked to congratulate me, seizing my hands, and overpowering me with praise. I looked for the leader of the orchestra, my friend when I most needed one ; I wanted his congratulations. He came to me with an armful of newspapers, saying, ' Here, my dear ; take these and be happy.' As soon as I could I ran home. How my dear mother and myself then read over and over again those criticisms ! I could hardly eat anything all day. The following encouraging words from the Morn- ing Post, it may be guessed, were highly valued by 46 MARI1-: Wir/rON'S NARRArn'E. me : 'Miss M. Wilton is a young (apparently z'e7y young) lady quite new to us. but her natural and pathetic acting as Henri, the son of Belphegor, showed her to possess powers of no ordinary charac- ter, which fully entitled her to the recalls she obtained at the end of the second act. She appeared also as Perdita, the Royal Milkmaid, and made still further inroads in the favour of the audience ; indeed, any- thing more dangerous to throw in the way of a juvenile prince it were difficult to imagine. She is a charminof debutante, who hails from Bristol. She sings prettily, acts archly, dances gracefully, and is withal of a most bewitching presence.' Well, that was my first appearance in London. My dear friend Mr. Toole, who also then acted for the first time at the Lyceum, was exceedingly nervous ; but amidst all his anxiety about his own success, he never forgot to say a few cheery words to me. I must here tell a little story to show how he had already learnt the art of playing a joke. He asked me one evening if it were true that my birthday was very near, and when I told him the date he carefully wrote it down. Two or three nights later he said that he had lost the memorandum, but would I tell him again } I did so. The next night he sent word by my dresser that he wished to speak to me. By-and-by he followed me to the door of my room, and said, ' Dear little Marie, you will consider me very stupid, but for the life of me I can't remember that date you gave me ; I left the THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI. 47 memorandum in my pocket last night, and now I can't find it. Would you mind telling me again ?' I replied laughingly, * Why, it's to-morrow.' ' Good gracious !' he exclaimed, ' how lucky it is that I asked you ! good-night.' I remarked to my mother, ' I fancy Mr. Toole is going to give me something very nice for a birthday present ; he seems so anxious to be correct about the day.' The next night he knocked at my dressing-room door and asked for me. He said a few kind words, and handed me a parcel carefully sealed up. I at once began to open it ; paper wraps, one after another, were torn off, and still I did not get to the end of them. I felt sure that, in his love for a bit of fun, he had placed a small trinket in several folds of paper in order to work me up to the highest pitch of excitement, and then to astonish me with a pretty ornament of some sort. I was beginning to feel weary of unfolding wrap after wrap. At last the end seemed to be approaching. What could it be ? The final package was carefully sealed. I paused to speculate on its contents ; the parcel was round — perhaps a brace- let ; but it yielded to pressure. ' It's something- alive !' I dropped it ; it rolled. ' I dare not open it ; something will jump out.' I stood on a chair, frightened out of my wits, and made my dresser un- do the parcel. A dead silence ; several more pieces of pink tissue-paper. Oh, the suspense ! It is some- thing wrapped up in wool ; it must be a tiny brace- let. I'll please him by wearing it on the stage ; only 48 MARTI-: WILTON'S NARRATIVE. right, of course, that I should, after his kind remem- brance of my birthday. What is it ? A Tangerine orange ! I wanted to laugh, but my tears wouldn't let me ; when the terrible feeling of disappoint- ment had passed, I fully enjoyed the joke. Mr. Toole rarely omits to this day, whenever I visit his theatre, to send me round a package of sweetmeats in remembrance of his first birthday present. My next part at the Lyceum was * Serena, the little fairy at the bottom of the sea,' in Conrad aiid Mcdora ; then I had a small part called Lemon- drop in a capital farce written by Edmund Yates. He gave me kindly praise, and said it was a sweet performance, although a lemon-drop, and he was sure there was a bright career before me. I should have been miserable in that theatre but for Mr. Toole and my musical friend, who never failed to help me in my songs and duets. I only made a moderate success in the new burlesque, for I had but little to do, and felt out of it somehow. Soon afterwards Virginius was produced, and when it had been played a few nights, Mrs. Dillon, who played Virginia, was taken ill, and I was told that I must take the part. I sat up till a late hour working at it, and got through it tolerably well. Mr, Dillon was very pleased with me, and said, ' You must study parts like this ; you have a pretty natural style of acting, and I should like to see you one day play Juliet.' I told him I had played it when I was THE LYCEUM, HAYM ARRET, AND ADELPHI. 49 quite a child ; and he replied, * Oh ! those are exhibitions I would rather not witness ; I am glad I was not present.' I didn't like this remark at the time, but have often thought since how right he was. About this time one of the dramatic critics — my impression is that I owed the kindness to my old friend INIr, John Hollingshead, who then wrote in that capacity — remarked upon a trick I had of always using my right arm with a jerk, as if it were hung on hinges, and that I ignored the possession of a left arm at all. I was much teased also about this peculiarity by members of the company, who would give imitations of it, which, if correct, must have been very ungraceful ; and I was at my wit's end to know what to do to break myself of it, for I had tried and failed over and over again. One day I took a four-wheeled cab, and just as the man was about to shut the door, in desperation I put my right arm in the way, and so injured it that I was obliged to carry it in a sling for some days ; but I cured myself of my bad habit, for the left arm was brought into practice ; and by the time the injured limb was well, the ugly jerky action was an eccentricity of the past. Mr. Webster, who was then lessee of the old Adelphi Theatre, offered me an engagement at a salary of five pounds a week, which I accepted ; but, as this was not to commence for three months, it allowed me to accept another offer for a little time which Mr. Buckstone made me for the Haymarket. VOL. I. 4 so MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. I was not sorry to leave the Lyceum, as I saw little prospect of making progress there ; and my friends in the theatre were not numerous. Mr. and Mrs. Dillon were always kind, and I liked them both; but managers cannot be responsible for malice. I was more fortunate at the Haymarkct, and met with every consideration and encouragem.ent from the company, one and all. Dear old Mr. Chippendale was the stage-manager, who encouraged and helped me whenever he could. What a change for me ! I made my appearance as Cupid in an extravaganza written by the accomplished and delightful Frank Talfourd, and described by him as ' An Entirely TNJew Classical Love Story, originally suggested by Ovid, under the name, or rather app/e-at'ion, of Atalanta, or the three Golden Apples.' I made a decided hit in my part, and was very happy ; my share in the music, too, was successful ; my voice, I fancy, grew stronger as my heart grew lighter. Very soon after this, I met my recent foe, the Lyceum stage-manager, at a book-shop in the Strand ; he held out his hand to me, and, with a large smile (he was a big man), greeted me with, ' Well, my dear •child, you are getting on rapidly, and I congratulate you.' I could not take his hand, but glared at him, and could feel myself getting red with passion. The . remembrance of the indignities which he had made me suffer mounted to my face, and I said, ' Sir. you almost broke my heart at a time when I sorely needed help and support ; now that I am successful, THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 51 and beyond your reach, you can offer me your hand in friendship. I refuse to take it.' I put all the dignity into this speech at my command (it was not much). But he only laughed, and answered, 'Oh, my dear little God of Love, don't be severe.' We never met again. I have long ago forgiven, but have not forgotten him. After this I will leave a subject which is not inter- esting to the outside world ; but were I to relate at length many cruel landmarks in my early career, I should probably be accused of exaggeration ; so per- haps it is better to bury them in the past, though the remembrance of them makes me feel, at times, a little bitter, in spite of myself. Had it not been for a dogged determination to work on, and succeed in spite of them, I scarcely know where I should be now. But ' Per sever ando'' is the Wilton motto, and although it was almost extinguished in my father's case, it rose from its ashes again in mine. My engagement at the Haymarket was during some of the brightest days of the old company, and my short stay made me regret that I had not the advantage of acting in the comedies that were played there so perfectly. Frank Talfourd was a man of very delicate con- stitution, and was constantly upbraided by his friends for not taking more care of himself. One very bleak cold day he was met in the Strand by his brother author, Robert Brough, who was so dis- tressed to see that Talfourd was not wrapped up, 4—2 52 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. that he told him in strong terms how wrong it was to himself, and how unkind to his friends. Brouofh insisted that he must wear thick woollen undervests, and to make sure of his doing so, took him into a neighbouring shop, and asked for some to be shown to them. The man produced samples, some of which were of a light gray colour, others brown. Talfourd ordered some light ones, when the assistant shook his head, ' I should prefer the brown, sir^ if I were you.' ' Why ?' asked Talfourd ; ' are they better made, or of finer material ?' ' No, sir,' was the answer ; ' they are all equal in quality.' ' Then why do you so strongly recommend the brown ones ?' * Well, sir,' said the man, indicating the erav vests, "" tJiose will want washing: sonictiines ;'' then pointing earnestly to the brown vests, he exclaimed, 'but tJicsc .'' Frank Talfourd loved to tell this story. A litde romance occurred to me early In the run of Atalaiita, which resulted, I am sorry to say, in a tragic ending. I was pestered by some stupid letters full of nonsensical admiration. Their frequency at last became so annoying, the notes being accom- panied by flowers with silly requests that I would wear them, that I consulted Mr. Compton, who was always most kind to me, how best to put a stop to the nuisance. In his quaint way he said, 'Some love-sick boy ! but as the letters are addressed to the " Sweetest God of Love in the world," send them on to Buckstone ! As for the flowers, give THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 53 them to me; I'll wear them.' He attached the bouquet to his hat, and strutted about the stage, much to my amusement, dressed as the old Peda- gogue, in which he was inimitably droll. In the last scene he placed the little note that was sent with the llowers between the white feather wings which I wore as Cupid ; and when I had to draw an arrow from my quiver in the business of the scene, the billet-doux fell to the ground, much to my confu- sion. Compton laughed and said, when the piece was over, ' I don't think our love-sick friend will trouble us any further.' The next night, however, he received a letter, saying, that if he only knew the misery he was causing to a poor harmless fellow, he never would have been guilty of such an unkindness. Compton inquired what sort of man brought the letter. The hall-porter answered, ' Not a man at all, sir — it was a boy.' Upon which Compton said to me, ' This is only a poor little schoolboy, after all ; here are some more roses which he has sent, and begs of you to wear. Do so, my dear, to assure hini that you are not offended, and the poor little fellow will go back to school rejoicing, and you will be troubled by him no more.' I did wear them, and the moment I went on to the stage there was a sound like a squeak, which came from the front of the house. It startled me, but nothing further occurred for quite two weeks, and I hoped with Compton that my youthful admirer had disappeared. One night, however, after the performance, a most 54 MARIi: WILTON'S NARRATIVE. alarming letter arrived, saying that having once worn the flowers he had sent me, J. had proved that the writer could not be altogether indifferent to me ; adding, ' I shall be here again to-morrow night, and if you do not then wear the bouquets I shall send you, I shall wait outside the stage-door, and as you pass me in your cab, I shall shoot you dead.' My mother decided to go with me to the theatre the next night. We both consulted Mr. Compton, and he advised us to leave by the front entrance instead of the stage-door, saying that he would have the boy watched, and, if armed, give him in charge. He laughingly added, ' He is a bloodthirsty young ruffian, and his people must be communicated with at once. I little thouo^ht such trouble would come of iViy advice to you to wear the stupid fellow's flowers ; but I expect, after a sound thrashing and a threat to put him into prison, he will disappear.' We went out the front way, and arrived home safely. On the next day we were told that no such person had been seen in Suffolk Street, and we beo-an to think the whole affair was a hoax. Shortly afterwards, however, an elderly lady called at our lodgings and asked if she could see me; my mother and I received her. She looked at me very hard, and said, ' I wish I could spare you the sad story I have to tell. You have lately been much annoyed by receiving letters and flowers from a young man who has constantly been to the Haymarket Theatre.' I replied, ' Yes, I have indeed ; but I was THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI. 55 under the impression that he was merely a boy.' She continued, ' No, he is twenty-one years of age, and my son. I am a widow, and he is my only child. For some time I have noticed a strangeness in his manner. He would pace up and down his room at night talking to himself, and never seemed to sleep. I became very uneasy, and often asked him what was the matter, but he would never reply. A week ago, while he was out, I went to his room to see if I could find a clue to all this mystery. I saw a letter addressed to you, in which he threatened to do you harm if you did not wear the flowers he in- tended to send you. The following evening I had him detained at home, and the whole night he was raving. I am almost broken-hearted. I have consulted doctors, and my poor son is pronounced insane. He has promised that if he can hear from your own lips that you can never care for him, he will rest content and never trouble you again. Now, my dear young lady, will you grant him an interview, and in the presence of his doctor let him hear you say you cannot accept his addresses, and I shall be truly grateful.' Then turning to my mother, she said, ' I appeal to you as a mother. I am worn out with anxiety. I implore you to help me in this matter.' My mother replied, ' Of course, if we can be assured that this painful business will end here, I will con- sent.' The poor lady seemed quite grateful, and after fixing a day and hour for the interview she left. 56 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. The day arrived, and at the appointed time came a loud knock. Presently the room door was opened, and in walked the poor lady, then a gentleman who, I was informed, was a ' mad' doctor, followed by a pale, fair-haired young man, with a very freckled face, and odd, light-blue eyes, which he fixed on me the moment he entered the room, and never took them away until he left the house. After him came a strange-looking man, who I distinctly remember had lost a thumb, and who was told by the doctor to sit outside the room until he was wanted. It would be very difficult for me to describe my feelings and my mother's looks ; I only know that I was terribly frightened. After a short, painful interval, the doctor spoke. ' Miss Wilton, you have for some few weeks received letters and bouquets from Mr. ?' 'Yes.' 'You were requested in these notes to wear the flowers during the evening ?' ' Yes.' ' Well, one evening you did wear them ?' ' Yes ; because a very touch- ing letter was written to request me to do so to show- that I was not offended with the sender, and that then he would never trouble me aQ^aln.' The doctor went on : ' After that you received a threatening letter from him .'^' 'Yes; and it alarmed me very much.' I related the details, when the poor fellow muttered, ' I could not Injure that which I loved !' My mother urged that the interview must come to an end, and the doctor then said, ' Well, Miss Wilton, you are aware that Mr. has promised THE LYCEUM, HAYM ARRET, AND A DELPHI. 57 that if he can hear from your own Hps that you cannot care for him, he will never trouble you more. He will keep his word, I know. All you have to do is to answer that question, and then we will leave you, asking you to forgive us for this intrusion ; and pray believe that I am extremely sorry you should have suffered so much annoyance.' I paused for a second ; I looked at the young man's anxious but extremely plain face, and saw his eyes still fixed upon me with a look of intense sorrow and suffering. I then said, ' I can never care for this gentleman, and I ask him to trouble me no further.' The doctor turned to him and said, ' You hear ?' There was then a general movement. The poor fellow came up to me, looked at me with a wild stare, and said, ' Good-bye.' He turned round, walked to the door, over which hung my por- trait, gave a sort of stifled scream, exactly like the squeak I had heard in the theatre, rushed hurriedly from the room and past the man outside, who im- mediately ran after him as fast as his legs would take him. My mad admirer went so quickly that he pushed against the servant who was going to open the street-door for them, sent her sprawling on the floor, and ran towards Waterloo Bridge, with the man after him, the doctor after the man, and the poor old lady after the doctor. The scene I shall never forget. The carriage they came in followed, so they made altogether a very extraordinary pro- cession. Some short time after we heard from 58 MARli: WILTON'S NARRATIVE. Mrs. that her son had been placed in an asylum. After another lapse of time we heard again that, as he was pronounced much better, he had been sent for a voyage to Australia with an attendant ; and a few months later we were much startled and pained to hear that during the voyage he had, while his attendant was occupied for a moment in speaking to another passenger, jumped overboard and was drowned. We were all very sorry to hear such sad news of the poor fellow, for we could not help feeling interested in him. It appeared that there had been insanity in his family, and I often wondered whether his inherent madness or ;;()/ beauty i^^ was the cause of this sad episode. After a little consideration, and several references to my looking-glass, I concluded that it must have been the former. I regretfully left the Haymarket, where I had been so happy ; and I regretted it all the more when I found that I had litde or nothing to do at the Adelphi. Parts were given to me utterly unsuited to me, and those only of a {q.v^ lines. There were, of course, many established favourites of the public in the company. Webster — a host in himself — Wright and Paul Bedford, Madame Celeste (whom I had not met since I acted the child in the Green Bushes with her in a country theatre) and Mary Keeley, who inherited a share of her mother's genius, are the principal names I can recall. I had little else to do than stand at the wings and watch them, wishing that I were playing all the good parts ! THE L YCE I'M, HA YMA RKET, A XD A DELPHL 59 Wright and Paul Bedford were always closely- associated in pieces written especially to bring them together, in which Wright never missed an oppor- tunity of introducing some fresh joke at Paul's expense, or at anyone else's. Poor Paul ! He was a genial, good-tempered, kindly creature, and loved by everyone. I can see his round, red, merry face now, with his twinkling eyes, peering through the green-room doorway with his usual greeting, ' Good- morning, boys and girls ! How-de-doo ! ho\v-de- do-o-o !' I once was one of a party who paid a visit to Wright at his model farm near Surbiton, which was the most complete and interesting thing of the kind I ever saw, and I remember how he imposed on my over-credulous nature by telling me, with a serious face, that all his guinea-pigs had, during the previous night, eaten off their own tails ! I was in despair of ever getting anything to do which would advance me in my profession, and im- plored Mr. Webster to release me from my engage- ment ; but, although he was always kind, he insisted on keeping me to it, saying that my opportunity would come if I would only be patient. I remember an extravaganza in which I played there, called Ctipid and Psyche. I was again cast for Cupid, and, during the run of the piece, I fell seriously ill from severe congestion of the lungs, caused by standing in draughts under the stage while waiting for my cue to rise through trap-doors. I felt that I had played Cupid so often as to wonder whether I 6o MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. was doomed to pass my professional life in appearinLj- from unexpected and impossible places. My illness was serious, and I was obliged to resign my part for some time ; no trivial matter for me, for, in those days, salaries ceased to be paid from the hour the manager was deprived of an actor's services. So long as I was well, I never felt the reality of my responsibilities at home. I worked cheerfully and with thankfulness at being able to do so much ; but when I fell ill, my anxieties were terrible. It is no secret that, up to the time my sisters married, I was the main support of my family, after which they cheerfully bore their share. Doubtless had my mind been less burdened by the terror of earning nothing, I should have recovered more quickly. One day when I had been given up by our doctor, and was lying in bed wondering what my poor mother would do without me, I opened my eyes and saw her weary face. She looked so lonely that a feeling came over me that I ;;///.sY get well. I fouorht aofainst the doctor's verdict and aQ-ainst the moanin;^'s of the servant — a kind of moaninof which is peculiar to the race, combined with the most ghastly forebodings. The maid who helped to attend me was a good creature, but seemed to feed on the horrors of the situation. She whispered in my ear, when she thought that it would all soon be over, ' May I cut off a lock of your 'air, miss, when you are gone, as a keepsake ?' I was too weak to laugh or feel horrified ; but it helped to give me more THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND A DELPHI. 6i Strength of will. I knew how necessary I was, and, with God's help, felt I must recover. At last, after a weary time, I got strong enough to act again. I had been ordered first to the seaside to get back some health, but the chronic state of our finances would not permit the luxury. Soon after my return to the Adelphi, an incident occurred which, I think, will be worth relating. During a rehearsal of one of my very small parts, a note was handed to me. Without looking at the superscription, I opened it and read the following : ' Mary, before it is too late, repent of your rash con- duct and return to your heart-broken father and mother.' Naturally astonished at this strange re- quest, only having left home an hour before, I handed the note to Mr. Webster, who knew m.y parents, and asked him to read it. He laughed and said, ' There must be some mistake. Shall I go and see what it means ?' I replied, ' Do, Mr. Web- ster, please. I can't understand it ; I must be mis- taken for some one else.' I went on with my rehearsal, and, after being absent for some little time, Mr, Webster returned, and said laughingly, ' Well, my dear, I've had a most extraordinary interview. It appears that there is some girl who has left her home and parents in Wolverhampton, and has come up to London, where her friends are searching for her every- where. Last night, an uncle of the girl's happened to be in the p"t of this theatre, and when he saw you 62 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. come on the stage he said, "There she is! I've found her at last." The man waited, it appears, until the performance was over, and then came round to the stage-door, but, as you had finished early in the piece, you had gone home. He was told this by the hall-porter, upon which he asked where you lived, which, of course, he was not told. He seemed annoyed at this refusal, said he would call again in the morning, and here he is. You had better come down with me and satisfy the man of his blunder.' I went down, and there was a man whom I had never, to my knowledge, seen in my life. He came towards me and said abruptly, ' I have got you at last. You will please make your arrangements to come home to Wolverhampton at once; I have been a long time looking for you, and now Fve got you, I don't intend to let you slip again. How you will ever be able to look your parents in the face again, I don't know.' The mystery became thicker and thicker. The more I tried to convince the man of his error, the more determined he appeared to be to take me to my 'distressed parents.' All my efforts were useless, and the stranger was so earnest in his appeal to my proper sense of feeling to give my parents no more unhappiness, but to return to them, and try, by my future conduct, to soothe their old age and heal the wound which I had so cruelly made in their hearts, that the hall-porter, overcome by the touch- ing words, at last cried out, ' For goodness' sake, miss, go 'ome to your friends. What's all the ap- THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 63 plause you git every night compared with the 'appiness you will feel when you know you've done your dooty ? There's nothing so 'orrible asaunduti- ful and ungrateful choild.' I could hardly refrain from laughing, in spite of the unpleasant nature of the interview. Mr, Webster then told the man who I was, and how lonof I had been in London ; that I came from Bristol, and that he had known my family for years. The poor man looked mystified, and it was arranged that I should go through my work at the theatre that night, that he would telegraph to my ' distressed parents' to come up themselves from Wolverhampton. I could only hope that something in the interim might transpire to help us. The stranger trusted to Mr. Webster's promise that we would do nothing until he called again on the following day ; when, instead of appearing himself, came the joyful news that the man who so insisted on being ' my uncle ' had received a letter from the father of the girl, telling him she had returned home, and asking him to go down at once to Wolverhampton. The man was most humble in his apologies. He could never for- give himself, he said, for the annoyance he had caused, and begged the 'good gentleman' (Mr. Webster) to excuse him to the young lady to whom he had been so rude, vowing that such a likeness he had never seen. The hall-porter laughed when he heard the sequel to this little drama, and said, ' I knowed he was either mad or drunk ; /never believed 64 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. m liim.' How clever he was, that hall-porter! No more of my double was heard, and the incident, which seemed only trilling, soon passed from my thoughts; but later in my life I have sometimes wondered if this evidently strange resemblance had any connec- tion with an even stranger episode to be related further on in this book. The season was drawing to a close, and, alas! I was only just where I began. I was ambitious to make a position in which I could command a good salary and be somebody besides, for I was getting weary of being little more than nobody, when Fortune, who has ever been my good friend, came to my help. It was decided to pull the old Adelphi down, and build what was the foundation of the present handsome theatre in its place ; this set me free, and I signed an engagement with Miss Swanborough to appear shortly under her management at the Strand Theatre. An offer also came from my dear old Bristol manager, to go there for a fortnight to play Cupid. Cupid again ! My friends had begun to tease me about playing so many Cupids, declaring that I must, have been born with wings, and could do nothing else. I gladly accepted Mr. Chute's offer, and went down to Bristol ; and de- lighted I was to see all my old friends there again. The most important episode of a romance in my life (which I once told in the Christmas number of a magazine) occurred at Bristol ; and this visit to the old city strongly revived my remembrance of it, THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 65 although the sequel, which I will relate here, did not really happen until later on, when I was acting at the Strand Theatre. Attractions must have been at a very low ebb, when the manager of a small country theatre where I was acting soon after I left Manchester conceived the idea of my playing Juliet. I am thankful that such things never occur now. The manager explained to the public that the Italian Juliet was but little older than I, and that in southern climes girls were marriageable at a very early age. I was a pale, thin, delicate-looking child, and tall for my age. Everyone thought at that time that I should, if I lived, be a remarkably fine woman ; but since playing Juliet on that memorable first occasion, I have not grown an inch, and sometimes think that my tragic efforts gave as great a shock to my system as to my audience. Often on my way to and from our rehearsals, when I had time to loiter, I stopped at a window in the little High Street, and longingly looked at a necklace of pearl beads, marked five shillings — a fortune to me then. I saved until I had half a crown, and then tried to induce the shopman to let me have it for that price ; but I failed. My father promised to buy me the treasure if I would be very good, and study Juliet. How readily I said 'Yes;' for the labour of learning the words, and being taught by my mother how to speak them, seemed light indeed, compared with the joy of possessing those little pearl beads. VOL. I. 5 66 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. The night arrived for the * great dramatic event ' (m'de advertisements). My mother could scarcely dress me, her hands trembled so. I could not help wondering why she should be so anxious. I was not. I was of that happy age that knows no respon- sibility. I had on a pretty white dress, trimmed with narrow silver lace, my hair hanging in large waves over my shoulders ; and best adornment of all was my beautiful pearl necklace. Oh ! how every- one would envy me those beads ! All went well until the fourth act, when, in throw- ing my head back to drink the poison, my long train, which I wore for the first time in my life, and which had been a great anxiety to me all through the play, got entangled in my feet ; and, in the effort to save myself from falling, my necklace gave way, and the beads were scattered about in all directions. I looked scared for a moment ; but when I fully realized that it was broken, I fell to crying so bitterly that I thought my heart would break too. I sank on to the couch, sobbing piteously. The audience thought this a good piece of acting, and gave me great applause. In the greatest grief, and with stifled sobs, I went through the last act. When I fell on Romeo's body there was great applause ; but in the middle of Friar Laurence's last speech, I saw some of my beads lying close to his feet. His treading upon them seemed imminent ; so, forgetting that I was supposed to be dead, I got up and rescued them, and then lay THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 67 down again. Of course, the rest of Friar Laurence's speech was not heard, and the curtain fell amidst loud laughter. I had a good scolding from father, mother, and manager, who hoped that if I ever again played Juliet I should think more of the part than of the ornaments. As we were leaving the theatre, my eyes swollen from crying over the injured necklace, a gentleman who had witnessed the performance and the scene stepped up to us, and said, ' I hope you will pardon me for speaking to you ; my name is Captain . Let me tell you how much I have been impressed by your little daughter's acting as Juliet ; it really was, for one so young, very remarkable. Take care of her, sir ; there is a bright career before her. Good-night. Good-night, little one !' He shook my hand, and asked me if I would give him the remnant of my broken necklace, which I had so carefully rescued from destruction. I trembled at the thought of parting with it ; but my mother whispered to me, ' I am going to buy you another.' So I gave it. On our way home we talked of nothing else — my father dwelling on the criticism, and I on the final disappearance of my necklace. For many and many a night I quite looked for my ' prophet ;' but he had gone as mysteriously as he came. Often on our way home had I said, ' We have never seen that kind gentleman since ; I seem to miss him somehow. Will his words ever come true, I wonder ?' 5—2 68 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. Some time after, at Bristol, and as I was leaving the theatre with my mother, who should step up to us but my ' prophet.' We both recognised him at once. I was delighted ; but my mother feared that his admiration of me as a child might grow into something more serious, and she therefore did not receive him with that warmth she otherwise might have done. He said, * Well, little one, you see I was right ; you are going up the ladder step bv step. Mark my words, the next one will be London.' My heart jumped at the sight of this man ; there was a kind of mystery about him. He seemed to be mixed up with my life somehow ; and whatever part of importance I played, I always thought of him and of his kind words. He showed me the string of pearls, and said, ' You see how I have treasured these. I don't intend to part with them. I shall never give them back to you unless you ask me for them.' How different were my feelings for those pearls now! It seemed like taking away my heart when he first asked me for them ; and now> unknown to myself, he had taken it away. Every night during his short stay he sat in a corner of the dress-circle, and at the end of the play would show me the pearl beads. He would wait sometimes outside the stage-door, just to press my hand, and say, ' Good-night, little one.' He had not time to say more ; for my mother used to sit at the window of our lodgings, which were opposite, to see me come home. THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHT. 69 I was now in love for the very first time in my life. How everything else in the whole world sud- denly dwindled into nothing! Father, mother, sisters, theatres, acting — all seemed to be shut out by a curtain, and only one being was in view. There was nothing in this man to attract a girl of my age. He was not young, not what is called good-looking, and was poor ; but what was this to me ? All the nicest people were poor, and I didn't care. But I had never had an opportunity of telling him all this, for my mother had declined to encour- age his visits ; and so he kept away, and never tried to see me, except for one moment to say, ' Good- nig-ht.' One night I received a note from him, saying, * Good-bye. I wonder if we shall ever meet again. I shall never part with your pearls. I love you, little one. I wish you loved me ; but it is better for you that you should not.' This was the first opportunity he had ever given me of telling him how much I loved him, and I was resolved to take it. I gave the note to my mother, and implored her to let me see him. She refused, saying I was a silly girl. I fancy she said a fool ; but I was too agitated to remember. ' How can you think seriously of such a mysterious person?' Mysterious! she would not give him a chance of being anything else. ' Surely,' she con- tinued, ' you cannot wish to destroy all your pro- 70 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. fessional prospects ! Let me hear no more of this nonsense ! Thank goodness he is gone, and you will forget him in a few days.' * Forget him ! and in a few days ! Oh, mother !' I knew his address in Ireland ; and, after vainly trying to follow my mother's counsel, I wrote to him, saying that I loved him more than anything else in the world, and that if he really cared for me as much, I would run away, and go to him ; that if I did not marry him, I would marry no one else ; that I could not study ; that I could do nothing but think of him. He replied that it seemed hard to take me from a profession in which I was destined to shine ; that he should for ever reproach himself if I regretted, when too late, the step I had taken ; that his love and empty pockets would be but a miserable return for the sacrifice I should make. He begged me to reflect. I did ; and the more I re- flected, the more determined I became, and I told him so. He answered that he would not fight with his feelings any longer ; that he was sure, when once we were married, my mother would soon forgive us. And so it came about that I was to start on a certain day. All was settled. I was to receive the final letter with instructions, and the money for my journey. I thought the day would never come. Time seemed to creep, and not to fly. But as the day drew nearer and nearer, my heart, which had been so light and joyful, began to beat with a heavier thud. There was a kind of fear — a wish to run THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI. yi away from myself ; for I felt afraid of myself — my head and my heart began to argue. On the night before I was to leave my home, I returned from my work at the theatre. I found my mother waiting supper for me as usual. I could not eat ; I was nervous and thoughtful. My mother asked me if I was ill ; or had I been annoyed at the theatre } I shook my head. I could not trust myself to speak. When she kissed me, and said, 'Good-night; God bless you!' I whispered to my- self, * Will He bless me to-morrow ?' The words fell from her lips like a reproach ; for although she said them to me every night, they never seemed to mean so much before — they never set me thinking as they did that night. When I was alone in my little bedroom, I fell on my knees, and prayed to God to help me and to guide me, for my heart was full of doubt. I felt how I was deceiving my dear mother, to whom I owed everything — who had taught me, who had worked with me, and who was now dependent upon me. If I went away, what would become of her and my young sisters ? How I wept and prayed that night ! I implored God to help me in my trouble, and to give me some warning in my dreams. I cried myself to sleep, but awoke several times. I heard the church-bell toll four, six, and eight. Still no warning dream. I tried to think that perhaps my going would be for the best, or I should have surely dreamt something ; and I felt a little happier 72 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. as I lay thinking. Half-past eight was the post- time, and I had told the servant to bring any letters there might be for me to my room. The half-hour struck. I heard the postman's knock. My heart seemed to stop beating. I heard the girl on the stairs. I could scarcely breathe. A knock at the door. This was the final letter. I jumped out of bed, and as I crossed the room to open the door, a voice, as if in great haste, said quickly, ' Don't go.' God alone knows what my feelings were at that moment. Never, never, to my dying day, shall I forget it. A thrill, first of awe and terror, then of thankfulness, came over me. I fell on my knees, and said, ' I won't go.' The servant impatiently pushed the letter under the door. I opened it. There were the final instructions — how he would meet me on the journey, and the money for my expenses. I threw on my dressing-gown, sat down, and wrote these words : * Don't expect me, I cannot go. I have changed my mind.' I enclosed the money, and sent the letter to the post. I gave a sigh of relief, lay down on the bed, and cried bitterly. One morning, during breakfast, a few weeks later, my mother (who up to this time knew nothing of my little story) handed me the newspaper, and with a smile of satisfaction pointed to the marriage column. He had married ! I threw my arms around my mother's neck, had a good cry, and told her everything. THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 73 The words of my 'prophet' were fulfilled; I was actins: in a London theatre. Whenever I made a success, I thought of his kind words, and remembered how I had grown to love him at last. One day I was walking slowly up Regent Street, when I stopped, without knowing why, at the Carrara-marble works. Serious thoughts came over me as I contemplated the head-stones and monu- ments, and as I turned from them with a sigh, a voice by my side said, in a low tone, ' Well, my faithless little one.' I turned, and saw my ' prophet.' My first instinct was to run away, but my legs would not move. * You see,' he said, 'what came of your suddenly changing your mind. I revenged myself and got married. How cruel you were !' He told me that he had married a rich woman who had been a widow just a year, within a month from my refusal. After thinking to myself that widows lost no time in settling their affairs, I told him the story of my warning, and he seemed much impressed by it. He answered, ' It was, I am sure, a timely warning, for we should have been very poor. It would have been a dreary life for you, and much too big a sacrifice, with all your bright prospects. I am now a widower, with one little child. My wife died a year after our marriage. I am rich now, and can return to my old young love. I wonder if my little Juliet loves me still ?' Yes, I did ; but I was afraid to hope again, so I said, ' You had better not 74 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. see me any more ; you will soon forget me.' He replied, ' Never, until I ani under one of those,' pointing to the headstones in the window. A cold chill ran through me as he said those words. He was under orders to sail for India the follow- ing week, so no time was to be lost. He called on my mother, and asked her consent to our corre- sponding and to our marrying on his return to England, which would be in a year, providing she consented. My mother hesitated, but after tears and entreaties from me, and with the hope that he would marry a black woman, or that I should forget him, or that something would happen to keep him in India, she reluctantly consented. The fates seemed to will it this time, and so I was happy again. The day came to say good-bye. He showed me the pearl necklace, saying, ' You see how I have guarded it. I will never part with it ; it seems to have linked our two lives toofether.' I looked at the broken beads, and all the old times came back to me. There was my necklace just as I had left it, and the knot which I had made to prevent the other beads from fallinor off. O I somehow wished there had been no broken link, for I had begun to feel rather superstitious now about our courtship. Every mail brought me a letter. No one ever seemed to speak such words as he did, they were so good and honest. I always felt that I could trust him, and that is why I loved him. THE LYCEUM, HAY MARKET, AND A DELPHI. 75 Six months passed, and every mail had brought me my letter. How anxiously I looked for his handwriting. At last the day came again, but no letter ; the next mail arrived, and the next, but still no letter. What could it mean ? My mother, smiling, said, ' Ah, my child ! the old, old story ; and I am not sorry.' After a few days' reflection, I began to think that she was right, and that I had been a fool ; but I was very unhappy. He had seemed to be my guiding star ever since I was a little girl, and all my first and purest love was his. Oh, it was dreadful to bear ! One clay, very shortly after his third letter was due, I was ao^ain in Recfent Street, and thouofht of the day I had met him there. I was sad and miserable, but still could not help clinging to the hope of seeing him again, and that all would be ex- plained. Perhaps he was coming home to surprise me. As I approached the Carrara-marble works, I hurried to the place, with a kind of superstitious feeling — having met him there so strangely before, I should perhaps as strangely meet him there again. I stopped at the old spot, waited, looked about — no, not there! Ah! I remember I was looking in at the window when he came ; I will do so again. And there I saw a large white headstone, with these words : CAPTAIN , WHO DIED SUDDENLY, AT KURRACHEE, ETC., ETC. 76 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. How I got home, I know not. I found my mother in tears, reading a letter which she had re- ceived from his dearest friend, who had found my letters among his papers. He had died soon after writing to me for the last time, and my little pearl necklace was buried with him. CHAPTER III. AT THE STRAND THEATRE. My acceptance of Miss Swanborough's offer was an important step in my early London career, as from its commencement until I became a manager I was chiefly associated with the Strand Theatre, and, for a long time, with a line of characters — ' burlesque boys ' — which, in the words of the immortal Mr. Eccles, ' was none o' my choosing.' My circum- stances, however, would not permit me to pick and choose, and I was thankful for occupation which gave me the means towards supporting our home. Miss Swanborough, who had held a leading comedy position at the Haymarket, was a charming woman, and never failed in her endeavours to make the members of her company happy : to her reign of management I always look back with bright recollec- tions. When I received the part of Pippo in the Maid and the Magpie, I was disappointed at its being another boy, and wrote to ask if any change could be made in the cast. Miss Svvanboroueh kindly arranged for me to meet her as well as Mr. 78 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. Byron, whose acquaintance I thus made for the first time. He was then quite a young man, with a marked inheritance of the beauty of his great an- cestor. He said he had written the part of Pippo expressly for me, and that he was distressed I did not Hke it. I explained that I did not wish to play bur- lesque boys, and that I objected to the part on that account. Miss Swanborough seemed to be perplexed and anxious, and Mr. Byron remarked that he was a young author, and my not acting Pippo would mean a serious loss to him, that there was no one else in the theatre to whom he could entrust it, and that he could ' see me in every line of it.' He added, ' I am only a beginner, you know, and this burlesque may make or mar me.' This appeal decided me ; I could hold out no longer, so promised to play Pippo. The original cast of this burlesque included Miss Maria Ternan (a very refined actress, who, a few years later, married and left the stage); Miss Oliver, already one of London's favourites, having won her laurels under Madame Vestris at the Lyceum ; that splendid actress of ' old women ' Mrs. Selby, as those w^ill say whose memories will allow them to recall the Las^ of the Pigtails ; Mr. James Bland, or ' Papa Bland' as he was called in the theatre, who had been so long associated with Planche's extravaganzas at the Lyceum, and had played burlesque monarchs in so many of them, that he was named ' The king of burlesque;' and Mr. John Clarke, or, more familiarly, ' Little ' Clarke. AT THE STRAND THEATRE. 79 The piece proved an immense success, and as Pippo I established myself as a leading favourite in the theatre. Although not a classical boy, as Cupid was, he was still saucy and amusing, and the people loved to come to see him night after night. Mr. Byron wrote a duet for Mr. Clarke and myself, at the end of which came a dance. It was quaint and strange, nothing very extraordinary ; but it was a novel thing at that time to introduce a dance after a song or duet, and this one became the rage, as well as the piece de resistance of all the hurdy- gurdies and barrel-organs of the day. Encore followed encore every night, and from that time till now no singing has been complete in a burlesque without a dance to follow. It was not until some time later — indeed, when Forster's life of the great writer came out — that I knew the opinion Charles Dickens years before had written of this performance in a letter to John Forster, in these words : * I escaped at half-past seven, and went to the Strand Theatre, having taken a stall beforehand, for it is always crammed. I really wish you would go, between this and next Thursday, to see the Maid and the Magpie burlesque there There is the strano^est thing; in it that ever I have seen on the stage — the boy Pippo, by Miss Wilton. While it is astonishingly impudent (must be, or it couldn't be done at all), it is so stupendously like a boy, and So MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. unlike a woman, that it is perfectly free from offence. I never have seen such a thing. She does an imi- tation of the dancing of the Christy Minstrels — ■ wonderfully clever — which, in the audacity of its thorough-going, is surprising. A thing that you cannot imagine a woman's doin^ at all ; and yet the manner, the appearance, the levity, impulse and spirits of It, are so exactly like a boy, that you cannot think of anything like her sex in association with it. It begins at eight, and is over by a quarter past nine. I never have seen such a curious thing, and the girl's talent is unchallengeable. I call her the cleverest girl I have ever seen on the stage in my time, and the most singularly original.' A circumstance comes to my mind concerning the Maid and the Mao;pie — tragic at the beginning and comic at the end — which, although it happened during its revival later on, had perhaps be better told here. 'Papa' Bland had long been known as an able actor, but when he played Fernando Villabella he was old and ailing ; his memory also grew treacher- ous, and he became uncertain in the words he had to speak. One night, on arriving at the theatre at his usual time, he was observed to be very ill, and to stagger after getting out of his cab. He was led into the porter's hall, and within half an hour he was dead. His sad end cast a gloom over us all, for we were fond of the kindly old gentleman. There was AT THE STRAND THEATRE. Si no one prepared to take the part of Fernando, and what was done that evening I can't remember; but Mr. Byron generously came to the rescue and played the part himself the next night, when he in- troduced a couplet in the scene with his daughter, played by Miss Oliver, whose name, it must be re- membered, was Martha, although by her intimate friends she was always called Patty. The burlesque had been such a success, and was so popular, that it seemed to us as if the audience, night after night, had never moved from their seats, so many faces were familiar. It will be understood by this that many frequenters of the old Strand were acquainted with every word of the piece, and when- ever a new sentence was introduced or forgotten, detected it immediately. On this particular night, when Mr. Byron appeared as Fernando, he added the following lines in the scene with Miss Oliver, where, as her long-lost father, he is trying to bring himself back to her recollection : 'Jujubes, oranges and cakes, I too did give her, Pate dcfoie gras, which means Patty O' liver P I shall never forget the laughter and chorus of ' Oh's !' that followed these lines. Neither Mr. Byron nor Miss Oliver could proceed for some time ; the latter was so taken by surprise that she could hardly finish the scene. Before I tell what else I have to say about the old Strand days, let me recall some names of prominent actresses in comedy and drama, all of whom have, at VOL. I. 6 82 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. some time in their career, acted with success in burlesque, and it may be that this sometimes abused side of stao^e-Hfe has its power and value in the shape of training. Since those days, however, al- though burlesque may not have fallen off, certainly some of the dresses have ; many of which might be described as beginnino^ too late and ending too soon. Without searching deeply, I remember at once the names of Miss Herbert, Kate and Ellen Terry, Madge Robertson (Mrs. Kendal), Miss Cavendish, Miss Fanny Josephs, Miss Hodson, Mrs. John Wood, Mrs. Mellon, Mrs. Charles Mathews, adding, if I may, my own. While among our foreign friends I can at least mention Modjeska and Jane Hading. I have also seen our present most gifted burlesque actress. Miss Farren, act so ably and perfectly in other characters, as to cause regret that she does not give us more frequent opportunities of seeing her genuine comedy power. These are names of my contemporaries ; were I to go further back, how powerfully the list might be increased ! 1 shall not weary the reader with a long account of all the boy-parts I played ; but, as I run through the list of them, I will rather pause, when I can, to say something of somebody else. Season after season I found myself still a boy. When I was talking with my mother one day on the subject, and wishing that I might appear as myself now and then, I exclaimed, ' Oh, dear me ! Why can't I be allowed to be a girl ? It's all very well to AT THE STRAND THEATRE. 83 be a great favourite with the pubHc, and to be told that I am so natural and real in a boy's dress. Well, if so, why was I not born a boy ?' My mother laugfhed, and bade me make the best of it. Now and then I had a part in a comedietta given to me, and I was so successful in it that I pined more and more for that class of character. I fre- quently urged Mr. Byron to write a comedy and give me a part in it ; he promised that if I would wait awhile he would do so. I did not object to burlesque itself, especially when he wrote it — so witty, clever, and bright ; but my training and ambition had pointed to a different class of acting, and I was frightened that if I did not continue to struggle for it I should never get my chance. If I could have been sometimes cast for girls I should have grown more patient; but those Cupids had made authors think, and, perhaps, the public believe, I could not play anything but boys. I must not, however, weary my reader, as I fear I often did my manager, with my grumblings. The next ' boy ' was Sir Walter Raleigh in Kenil- worth, in which, I remember. Miss Swanborough played Leicester for a time, and that wonderfully clever actress, Charlotte Saunders, was cast for Tre- sillian. She was, indeed, brimful of talent. Had she been tall, and gifted with a stronger voice, she might have been a leading actress in comedy and drama ; but her figure was very short and stout, and the voice thin. There was in her acting a rich, sly 6—2 84 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. humour, and a deep appreciation of the good things she had to say, which was very infectious. I had a great admiration for her as an actress, and a sincere regard for her as a woman. Mrs. Selby was our ' Good Queen Bess,' who made her first entrance on board a ' penny steamer.' Being a very tall, stout woman, as she stood on the paddle-box, looking bigger than the steamer, she caused great laughter ; when she prepared to land, after the words ' Ease her,' ' Back her,' ' Stop her,' I, as Sir Walter Raleigh, took off my cloak and (repeating history) placed it on the ground for the Queen to stand upon. My part was by no means a long one, but I had some good things to say like the following : ' Because, your Majesty, should I e'er wish to pawn it, I'll tell my uncle I've had a sovereign on [ciwn'] it f One night, during the run of Kenilworth, an un- fortunate contretemps occurred. When Mrs. Selby appeared, a large wreath of immortelles was thrown to her by some giddy fellows from a private box. The poor lady was so upset and affected that she fainted, and it was with difficulty she managed to get through the performance. The circumstance caused a disturbance, and the offenders, who in a tipsy frolic had so forgotten themselves, were obliged to leave the theatre. The next day they had an interview with Mr. Charles Selby, when they made a humble apology, which, I believe, was published. Mrs. Selby never quite recovered from what was at the time a ATTHE STRAND THEATRE. severe shock to her system. She had passed a great part of her Hfe in France, and having become imbued with superstition, could never be persuaded that the immortelles did not come as a warning of her approaching death ; her fears, however, were groundless, for she lived some years after the oc- currence, and became manager of the Royalty Theatre, where she produced Mr. Burnand's cele- brated burlesque, Ixion. John Clarke's name comes at once to my memory, not only as an old friend but as an admirable actor, who, like myself, pined for other than burlesque parts, and lived to prove the justice of his aspira- tions. Next came Albert in William Tell, for which, I think, that inimitable comedian James Rogers (it seems so strange to call him so, for he was never known by his playmates but as 'Jimmy,' and I must beg the reader to forgive my using that familiar name) rejoined the company, for it is the first remembrance I have of the amusing scenes that happened between himself and John Clarke. Although they were good friends, poor little Clarke could not help feeling a pang of jealousy whenever he fcjimd that his part did not seem to go so well as Jimmy's. On one of these occasions, when Rogers had had the lion's share of laughter, Clarke was heard to groan and mutter in an undertone throughout the evening. Some one who knew the cause remarked, ' Never mind, the audience may to-morrow night be entirely with you ; 86 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. it often happens so, you know ;' to which he repHed, ' It isn't jealousy, there's room enough for both of us ; but it does seem hard that when I have got a good thing to say, I find it received only tolerably well, when if Jimmy exclaims " How are you ?" or " Good-bye for the present," the audience is con- vulsed. I can't understand it.' Poor little Clarke! He did not see that it was not the words, but the way Jimmy delivered them. Clarke was a great favourite ; but his heavy voice and manner were altogether different from Jimmy's, whose voice was light and thin. Clarke had a slow and ponderous way of speaking, with a kind of gruff drawl, while his rivals delivery was rapid and comically jerky. They differed, too, in features : Clarke's face was long, with a large nose, while Rogers had a small, round face, with a decided 7ie2 rctrotissi. Clarke had complained more than once that Rogers had always longer and better parts to act than he, so when the burlesque of William Tell was read to the company, it transpired that Clarke's part of Gesler was undoubtedly the better of the two. It was amusing to watch his face during the reading, and his delight at having much to say and do, and Rogers very little, Rogers was perfectly still, listened at- tentively, looking on the ground, and, when the reading was over, he said nothing, but went home. One night, during the full-dress rehearsal of Wil- liam Tell, we came to a scene in which Clarke and Jimmy had a duet. Clarke's voice was harsh, and AT THE STRAND THEATRE. 87 often got painfully flat, especially when he had to dwell on a particular note. Rogers, on the contrary, sang in tune, and true. Clarke insisted that the key was different. Mr. Ferdinand Wallerstein, the conductor of the orchestra, an old and dear friend of mine, assured him to the contrary, and they tried it over so often that everybody grew weary of waiting ; Mr. Waller- stein exclaimed that ' The key had not been changed (he ought to know), and he could not be kept there all night ; that the voice was always at higher pitch at night,' etc. Clarke, whose ear was very defective, still declared the key was 710^ the same ; Rogers kept perfectly silent, singing the duet over and over again, without showing the smallest sign of im- patience or irritation. At last Clarke shouted in great anger, 'It's a conspiracy ! You've changed the key amongst you to oblige Mr. Rogers.' Ujjon which Rogers remarked in the most quiet, placid manner, ' It's all right — dear boy — same key — e.nly — you're not so well to-night.' Of course Clarke was furious, while Jimmy remained provokingly quiet, without the sign of a smile upon his face. The night for production arrived. Clarke was full of excitement, and said to me, ' This is a great op- portunity for me, and Jimmy (who was playing the small part of Sarnem) will not in ^/lis piece have it all his own way.' When they met in the green-room Clarke was a little uneasy at the comic appearance of Jimmy, who was dressed in black from top to toe. 88 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. his wig and brows of the deadliest hue, but his face of an unearthly white. Clarke remarked, ' Oh, of course the audience will be in fits at his appearance, but ^/la^ won't last all night.' Everything began to Clarke's complete delight, for his part was going splendidly, and he never acted better. At last Jimmy's cue came to enter. He had a splendid reception, of course ; Clarke was pre- pared for that ; but after the applause which greeted Jimmy was over, there still was heard a titter all over the house, which continued through Clarke's speeches. He was at first under the impression that his own actino- was the cause ; but on turning round he saw that Jimmy had on a most extra- ordinary garment, which took the place of a shoulder- cape. It was only half a yard in width, of jet-black, and began at the back of his neck ; but the length of it no one ever knew, for it was never quite on the stage, and never quite off. It was always in some- body's way, and we were constantly obliged to step over this never-ending, long, narrow, garter-like train, which seemed to be everywhere; and when one or the other of us did happen to stand on it unconsciously, he would remark, in his quiet, sad way, ' Yotu'e on it, yoztre on it.' Anyone can imagine the effect this would have on an audience who knew the actor's ways so well. Whenever he had to go off, he left the end of this train behind him for some time, when all at once, in the middle of a scene and quite unex- pectedly, the bit that was still in sight would sud- AT THE STRAND THEATRE. 89 denly disappear with a palpable jerk. By the time this had happened twice or thrice, the audience looked for its recurrence, and then laughed immoder- ately. Clarke was furious, and declared that it was all planned to annoy him. When they sang the duet over which they had such a discussion, the end of Jimmy's train was of course ^^the stage, and he had arranged that some heavy weight should be on the end of it which was out of sight, so that all through the duet it appeared as though some one was stand- ing on the other end of it (a ripple of laughter going on amongst the audience all the while) ; Jimmy only now and then looked at the offending garment with a resigned and patient expression. When the duet was over the strain suddenly relaxed. The effect of this was that the whole house was convulsed with laughter. Clarke's indignation was indescribable. While the finale of the burlesque was sung by all the characters, Jimmy stood in the corner of the stage, with his long train arranged to reach the footlights. When the curtain fell, and all concerned were called before the curtain, Clarke insisted on going before Jimmy, and not with him. * He wasn't going to have his applause at such a moment interfered with by Jimmy's tom- foolery ; he might do what he liked with his absurd train, after he had gone off.' So on Clarke went. He was loudly cheered, and was smiling with supreme satisfaction as he crossed the stage, when, just as he was making his final bow, he tripped over the train which Jimmy had carefully left as it appeared, before go MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE. the curtain fell, close to the footlights. This created a roar- from the house, and was the last straw to Clarke. He was afterwards heard to say that ' There ought not to be two low comedians in one piece.' The public did not agree with him. Then came the Miller and his Men, described by- its joint authors, Talfourd and Byron, as a burlesque w^^/)'-drama. Another boy's part for me ! This time I was relegated to the stables, as I had to play a groom, Karl, or, in the words of the authors, ' An English tiger, from the wild jungles of Belgra- via.' Grindoff, the miller, ' and the leader of a very brass band of most unpopular performers, with a thorough base accompaniment of at least fifty vices,' was played by Miss Saunders ; the rival comedians — Clarke being Lothair, a virtuous peasant, and Rogers a forlorn old woman, Ravina — were still ' both in the same piece ;' in which other Strand favourites, whom 1 have not yet mentioned, clever Maria Simpson, handsome Eleanor Bufton, and that delightful dancer and amiable woman, Rosina Wright, also appeared. The rivals, of course, had all sorts of little troubles during the run, and especially on the last night of it. Rogers slipped off the stage towards the end, and as Clarke was speaking his final lines, just before the general chorus, a ripple of laughter ran through the house. Clarke mistook this for a tribute to himself, and was beaming with smiles, when suddenly a loud thunder-clap, and then a slow, tremulous, and rumbling noise was heard, AT THE STRAND THEATRE. 91 followed by a roar of laughter ; Clarke turned round, wondering what on earth was the matter, and saw Jimmy dressed as the ghost of Ravina, in a long white robe, a cap with an enormous frill, a pale, sad face, and carrying a lighted bedroom candle, rising through the clouds to the ' ghost melody ' from the Corsicau Brothej^s. I need not say that not another word of the play or a note of the finale was heard. When the curtain fell and Clarke had disappeared in positive anguish, Jimmy quietly remarked that he had arranged with the conductor of the orchestra and the carpenters a little surprise for the last night, feeling sure that it would greatly amuse the audience, and, above all, delight Clarke ! So far as I can tax a memory very imperfect as to dates, it was at this time that I had the good fortune to attract the notice of a once distinguished actress (as Miss Foote), but whom I, of course, only knew as the Dowager Countess of Harrington. She wrote to me to say that she had been several times to see me act, and that she felt obliijed to tell me of the impression I had made upon her, asking ' to be allowed to call on me,' I was, of course, delighted. My father had known her slightly when she was at her zenith, and would often speak of her as one of the loveliest and most amiable of women. He would often recall not only the charm she possessed as an accomplished actress, but her good-nature to everybody, high and low, in the theatre. It will be needless for me to say how I looked forward to 92 MARIE UlLTON'S NARRATIVE. talking to her. She stayed a long time the first day she called, and ! soon found that the account my father gave of her charm of manner had not been exaoforerated. My mother had never met Lady Harruigton, but she soon grew much attached to one who became a true friend to me, and as time went on seemed more and more endeared to me. Lady Harring- ton would often speak of days gone by, and would assure me that she was ;/ She Loves Him, which at last got very muddled. An idea struck one of us which was a distinct improve- ment on what had been rehearsed, but we hardly, in those days, liked to interfere with such an autocrat, kind as we had always found him. We are sure our old friend will forgive the disclosure of the stratagem by which we brought about the wished-for alteration, which for a long time we could not see our way to. At last it w^as done by attributing the notion to him- self, and one he had, as we ventured to think, at a previous rehearsal, discarded too hastily. Whether he saw through our trick or not, he never divulged ; but he rewarded the shrewdness by adopting the suggestion. While these rehearsals were in progress, it was my lot to see, on the night of December 6th, 1867, the burning of Her Majesty's Theatre. I was on my THE SEASON OF 1S67-68. 235 way to have supper in the coffee-room of the Cafe de r Europe, which was then partitioned off into the old-fashioned ' boxes,' and much frequented by old Mr. Keeley, Buckstone, Walter Montgomery, Sothern, Kendal (then a young Haymarket recruit), Walter Lacy, and other kindred souls. I stood among the enormous crowd in the Haymarket, rooted to the spot by the hideous fascination of the flames, which quickly enough worked their will. This was the fiercest fire I ever saw, and nothing could be done beyond saving the adjoining buildings. Thus the old home of Jenny Lind, of Malibran, of Grisi, and of Titiens, became, as they now are, a memory. Although CasU would surely have drawn good houses for a much longer time, we continued the principle we had already begun of making a reper- toire to fall back upon, and withdrew the play on Friday, December 20th, after a hundred and fifty- six performances — a number which seems of little moment now, but in those days bespoke exceptional success — and on the following evening the new pro- gramme met with a somewhat stormy reception. On Saturday, December 21, 1867, zvill be produced A MODERN COMEDY IN FIVE ACTS, ENTITLED HOW SHE LOVES HIM, Written by Dion Boucicault, The Author of ' London Assurance,' ' Old Heads and Young Hearts,' etc., etc. SIR ABEL HOTSPUR, H.E.I.C.S. {an Invalid) Mr. W. Blakeley. BEECHER SPRAWLEY - - - - Mr. Bancroft. MR. 'ii.Y.I'Yl.Y.TOV {divorced fro7n his Wife) - Mr. Hare. DICK HEARTLEY {in love with Atalanta) ■ Mk. H. J. Montague. 236 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. 'DOO'D'W {Aitendani Pn Sir Abel) - - - Mk. J. P. Reynolds. SIR JKRICHO MAXIMUM, M.D. - - Mr. E. Dyas. DR. M\'S\'^\\j\\ [a Homaropathic Doctor) - - Mr. H. W. MONTGOMERY. DR. ACJUARIU.S ZKWl'lRTZ [a Hydropathic Doctor) ..... Mk. Tind.m.e. ^VXRK'A (an Electropdthic Practiiiotier) - - Mk. Tkakkord. T\JCK\-:\< (a Servant) .... Mr. Hill. LADY SELINA RAFFLETICKET [a H'oman about Town) . . - . Mrs. Leigii Murray. MRS. NETTLETOP .... Miss Lydia F'oote. MISS A rALAN'T.\ CRUISER - - - Mlss Marie Wilton. V,0'QV,'S. (a Maid of all work) - - - Mlss George. The Scene passes during ihe first Four Acts at Snnggleton-Super-Mare, a Fashionable Seaside Watering Place ; during the Fifth, at Putney. Nothing could have been more cordial than the applause which greeted the first and second acts, and the good news was sent to the author to the Princess's Theatre, where he was acting at the time. An immensely amusing scene in the next act between a patient and doctors of every opposite belief — allo- pathic, homoeopathic, hydropathic, and galvanic— was received with hearty laughter. Unfortunately a situation at the end of it, about which Boucicault had been very obstinate during the rehearsals, went all wrong, and the rest of the play was not allowed to redeem the mistake. It was a great pity, for, as may well be thought, no comedy by Boucicault could fail to contain great characterization and charm of writing — much in this being equal to his best, being, in fact, described as ' worthy of Congreve and Douglas Jerrold.' Individually, the failure of the play was a great loss to me, as, personally, I was fortunate enough to make a hit in a part which otherwise might have THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 237 grown popular, Beecher Sprawley — a character in which I built up some eccentricities founded on the peculiarities of two friends, neither of whom detected me, and both of whom were among the warmest in their praise. Edmund Yates, with whom at that time I had but the barest acquaintance, thus wrote of my perform- ance : * It is, I am told, the fashion with some journals to find fault with Mr. Bancroft. I am bound to state that the parts I have seen him fill in Ours, Caste, and the comedy now under notice, could not possibly have been better played. All the characters are of \}i\^ genus "dandy," In former years, the actor personating them would have put on a palpably false moustache, would have worn spurs, carried a riding-whip everywhere, and would have simply substituted the letter "w" for the letter "r" throughout his part — the whole personation repre- senting a creature such as had never been seen by mortal man off the stage. But I maintain that in voice, costume, bearing, and manner, Mr. Bancroft is an exact type of the class he is intended to repre- sent, with a very slight exaggeration, which is as necessary for stage purposes as rouge itself. I am told that members of the class depicted object to Mr. Bancroft's delineation as a charge; but they forget that they are really the charges of society.' The afterpiece to Hoiv She Loves Him (for audiences were hardly yet contented with a single play as a night's entertainment in those days) was 3S OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. the old farce Box and Cox, cast as follows : Box, Mr. George Honey; Cox, Mr. Hare; Mrs. Bouncer, Mrs. Leigh Murray. At this time a special company was formed to act Caste in the provinces, under the management of Mr. F. Younge ; the actors engaged being few in number but strong in ' talent,' as the distribution of the parts will show : George D'Alroy, Mr. F. Younge ; Captain Hawtree, Mr. Coghlan ; Eccles, Mr. J. W. Ray ; Sam Gerridge, Mr. F. Glover ; Marquise de St. Maur, Mrs. Buckingham White ; Esther Eccles, Miss Ada Dyas ; Polly Eccles, Miss B. Harding. Perhaps no play was ever better suited to a travelling company ; the parts being few, the scenery and dresses quite simple, and consequently the expenses were very much reduced. From those far-away days until now Caste has been constantly acted throughout Great Britain, and always with success ; for many years under the direction of the late author's son. I must ask for a brief pause in our narrative to NOTE BY MRS. ^ell of what was to me a sad loss. Poor BANCRon'. La^(f[y Harrington was suffering from her old winter complaint, bronchitis, and had been for some time so ill as to be confined to her bed. I had received a dictated letter from her, full as usual of kind thoughts and affectionate messages, saying how ill she was, but still hoping to recover soon. I was thinking about her very much, and was THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 239 ■naturally anxious, for this malady at her age was serious, and repeated winter attacks left her less able each time to bear their recurrence. On the afternoon of Friday, December 27, my mind was unaccountably full of thoughts about her, I had been making some purchases in Regent Street, and on my way home in a cab was wonder- ing, as I was driven through the crowd of vehicles, if I should ever see her in her well-known carriage ao-ain, with its snuff-coloured ' Petersham brown ' body, the long brown coats, the silver hat-cords of the coachman and footman, the half-crescents of white leather which formed part of the harness across the foreheads of the horses. On the following day I received the sorrowful news that Lady Harrington was dead at the time I had thought so much of her, and that I had lost a friendship for which Time can never lessen my gratitude. The death of Lady Harrington reminds me that RESUMED very shortly afterwards Charles Kean also BY MR. BANCROFT, passed away, and of my last sight of him, almost within view of the scene of his many triumphs. Early in the year I was on my way to pay a profes- sional visit to Sir William Fergusson, when, close to Hanover Square, I had to stand aside while the figure of an evidently dying man was lifted from a carriage and almost carried into an adjoining house. Among the idlers and the passers-by who stopped 240 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. to Stare at him, I alone recognised all that was left of the once famous actor. I already knew him to be ill ; but this glance showed him to be stricken with mortal sickness. He looked, indeed, very like his own powerful realization of death in the last scene of Louis XL Very shortly afterwards he was laid at rest in the little churchyard at Catherington, in Hampshire, where he had made his mother's grave, having left instructions that he should be placed with her to whom, in her lifetime, he had been so devoted and true a son. For the following anecdote of Charles Kean we were years ago indebted to our old comrade Arthur Wood, and cannot resist the temptation to try and repeat it : The carpenters of country theatres always dreaded Charles Kean's advent amongst them, for, in his earlier days on the stage, when he rehearsed, he would steadily go through his own scenes, word for word (although he must have acted the parts hundreds of times), slowly and deliberately dwelling upon each sentence, just as he would at night. During the whole of this time silence was strictly ordered to be observed all over the theatre ; a creak- ing boot, a cough, a sneeze, the knocking of a hammer, would destroy the illusion, and distress the tragedian beyond measure. It was on pain of dis- missal if any carpenter or other servant caused the smallest interruption during Mr. Kean's scenes. This naturally made the working men angry, as the THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 241 scenic preparation for the tragedies was extremely heavy, and in those days there was always a change of programme every evening. These delays and cessations of work caused much ill-humour amongst the men, for when they really ought to have been having their dinners, they were compelled to work, or the scenes would never have been ready by night. Directly it became known by the carpenters that ' Kean was coming,' there would be shrugging of shoulders, groans, and various expres- sions of discontent. At the commencement of one particular engagement these men formed a conspiracy amongst themselves. The opening play was Hamlet, and chey conceived a plan by which the royal Dane might be induced to ' cut short ' his long soliloquies and so give them a chance of proceeding with their duties and dining at their usual hour, instead of being compelled to sit or stand looking at one another, not daring to move. The plot was this : One particular man was to place himself somewhere at the back of the gallery (reaching a loft under the roof, in fact, through a trap-door), being quite hidden from sight. It was settled that just as Kean began his great soliloquy this man should call out in a muffled voice to an imaginary fellow-workman. This was the result : Kean (after walking up and down the stage and then sitting down reflectively, in slow measured tones) : ' To be — or not — to be ' (long pause) — 'that is the question.' VOL. I. 16 242 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Voice (far-off in front of house, calling) : * Jo Attwood !' Kean (stopping and looking in the direction, then commencing again after same business) : ' To be — or 710/ — to — be — that is the question.' Voice (nearer) : ' Jo Attwood !' Kean (after waiting and looking about) : ' To be or not to — be — that is the question.' Voice (farther off ) : 'Jo Attwood !' Kean (bewildered and annoyed, and in measured tones) : ' Will somebody find Mr. Attwood ?' (A pause) — ' To be or, not to be — that is the ques- tion.' Voice (louder) : ' Jo Attwood !' Kean : ' Until Mr. Attwood is found I cannot go on !' ' Mr. Attwood ' could jw/ be found, and the voice, which no one recognised, so well disguised was it, did not cease interrupting Kean, who, at last, gave up his attempt to rehearse and went home ; upon which all the carpenters met in their work-room, shut the door, and, in shoeless feet, silently went through a sort of triumphant war-dance. Kean shared with England's greatest actor, David Garrick, an inordinate love of praise, even from his humblest worshippers. During his brilliant manage- ment of the Princess's Theatre, one of the ballet- girls, who sometimes was given a few lines to speak, and who knew her manager's failing, used to haunt the wings and go into audible raptures over the tra- THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 243 gedian's acting. He was playing with great success a pathetic part, and tears flowed down the cheeks of the cunning girl, who eventually attracted personal notice from the actor. Soon she found herself pro- moted to a superior position. Her advancement, of course, was noticed by her companions, and to her greatest friend among them she told her secret, advising the girl to follow her example. Nothing loth, number two appeared at the wings, and almost howled with grief through Kean's chief scenes. She was, in fact, ' Like Niobe, all tears,' when, to her amazement, he strode angrily by her, then, pointing her out, exclaimed, ' Who is that idiot ?' S/ie did not improve her position, for, since the advice of her knowing friend, the bill had been changed, and her manager was appearing in one of his most successful comic parts. Among Charles Kean's most popular productions was that unique specimen of the supernatural drama, the Corsican Brothers. In the first act, Fabian dei Franchi addresses a letter to his brother as the vision appears to him. In our collection of auto- graphs is one of these letters, written on the stage of the Princess's, which was given to us by Mr. Hastings, who was then the prompter of the theatre. It is a proof how deeply Kean was en- grossed in the mock business of the scene, for it runs as follows : 'My brother — my dearest Louis — if this finds you still alive, write instantly — though 1 6 — 2 244 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. but two words — to reassure me. I have received a terrible admonition. Write — write. — C. K. ist August, 1859.' Charles Kean was a wonderful instance of the effect of resolute courage ; for years he was laughed at and ridiculed by a large section of the press, and treated with absolute and unworthy cruelty by the withering pen of Douglas Jerrold. Through indomitable pluck he outlived it all, and heard himself publicly spoken of when he was the guest of the shining lights of the land as having ' made the theatre into a oriorantic instrument of education o o for the instruction of the young, and edification, as well as instruction, of those of maturer years.' We hope that the ground sown with good seed by great actors of the past has not been neglected by their successors. We were a little taken by surprise with regard to the failure of //ow She Loves Him to attract as we had hoped ; so was Robertson, he not being ready with the comedy which we had all agreed should follow it. His new work also required much more elaborate scenery than any we yet had undertaken, the scene being laid throughout in Germany, where, chiefly in Baden-Baden, he had passed a holiday in the previous summer. However, all haste was made, and Robertson soon read his piece to us ; the heroine being named after his bride. In spite of much charm in the dialogue and characters, the sub- ject also being laid on fresh ground, as a drama we THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 245 felt there was a great falling off from Caste and the other early plays. Fortunately, the parts seemed wonderfully adapted to the company — a quality in which Robertson was perhaps pre-eminent — and the rehearsals were attacked with vigour. Boucicault's kindness about Hozv She Loves Him continued till the end of its run, and was not inter- fered with by the disappointment resulting from its failure to draw large houses. He even carried his good-nature so far as to decline to accept any fees throughout its career of forty-seven nights. When it was withdrawn he wrote this letter : ' Mv DEAR Mrs. Bancroft, ' I regret that my comedy was caviare to the public. I doubted its agreement with their taste and stomach, and so told you before it was played. ' If it has profited you little in money, lay by its experience. ' The public pretend they want pure comedy ; this is not so. What they want is domestic drama, treated with broad comic character. A sentimental, pathetic play, comically rendered, such as Ours, Caste, the Colleen Baivn, Arrah-na-Pogue. ' Robertson differs from me, not fundamentall) , but scenically ; his action takes place in lodgings or drawing-rooms — mine has a more romantic scope. ' Be advised, then ; refuse dramas which are wholly serious or wholly comic — seek those which 246 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. blend the two. You have solved this very impor- tant question for yourself. Comedy, pure and simple, is rejected of 1868. ' Believe me always ' Very sincerely yours, ' Dion Boucicault.' We now append a copy of the first bill of Robert- son's new comedy : ON SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1S68, WILL BE ACTED A NEW AND ORIGINAL COMEDY, ENTITLED PLAY. Bj' JV. T. Robertso7i., ike Author of *■ Society^ ^ Ours,'' and ^ Caste.'' THE GRAF VON STAUFENBERG - Mr. H. W. Montgomery. THE HON. BRUCE FANQUEHERE - Mr. Hare. CAPITAN STOCKSTADT - - Mr. Sydney. THE CHEVALIER BROWNE - - Mr. Bancroft. MR. BODMIN TODDER - - Mr. W. Blakeley. FRANK PRICE .... Mr. H. J. Montague. A CROUPIER .... Monsieur Eugene Silveyra. ROSIE FANQUEHERE . - - Miss Marie Wilton. AMANDA . - - - '. Miss Lydia Foote. MRS. KINPECK .... Mrs. Leigh Murray. Time — The Present. Scene — Germany. Act I. — Der Brunnen ! Morning. Act II.— Das Alte Schloss ! Afternoon. Act III. — Der Vorplatz ! Evening. Der Spielsaal ! Night. Act IV. — Der Kursaal unci Kurgarten ! The next day. The success of the production passed our best hopes (demanding, in fact, an addition to the number of stalls), but certainly owed much to the acting and the care with which the tender plant was nursed. Hawes Craven painted some really beautiful scenery, the old ruined castle with an effect of the sun dancing THE SEASON OF 1S67-68. 247 on the flowing river far below, being an ambitious attempt upon so small a stage. Robertson was fresh from Baden-Baden, and supplied a great deal of local colour with regard to picturesque detail outside the springs and in the gaming-room, so all went merrily on both sides the curtain. On the night of the fourth performance of this new play, the Prince and Princess of Wales were at the theatre, which we note from the fact of its being the first time his Royal Highness came behind the scenes and honoured the green-room with a visit ; it being also the first time we had either of us ever been in conversation with the Prince, whose well- known love of exactitude in such matters enabled us to correct a slight error in the Graf von Staufenberg's uniform. Although in four acts the play was not a long one, and enabled us to do a new farce with it, which was more carefully cast than such trilies nowadays usually are, as Mr. Hare and Miss Lydia Foote played the chief characters. It was called A Silent Protector, and was written by T. J. Williams, the author of a funny piece, which has been occasionally acted (in plain fact, over a thousand times) by our old friend J. L. Toole, known as Ici on Parte Frangais. During a temporary illness Hare's part was for a short time played by me. From this unexpected close acquaintance I judged that it seemed an ex- cellent little piece, and I have sometimes been sur- prised that it has not been acted since. 248 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. We had for some little while lost the valued services, through a sad illness which ended in his early death, of Charles Stanfield James, our scenic artist (Mr. Hawes Craven having lately supplied his old friend's place). Mr. James was a charming artist. Two scenes among the many he painted for us live particularly in our memories — the Park in Ours and a seaside view in Nozu She Loves Htm. In fact, we gave orders that neither of them were to be painted out, or altered, so long as w^e were in the theatre. A set of beautiful water-colour drawings which he gave us of views round Hastings, where he went in search of health, apart from their value as works of art, are greatly prized by us. Walking arm-in-arm with Montague one day in the early spring of this year, we turned from Picca- dilly into the Burlington Arcade, and there met Henry Irving, to whom I had hardly spoken before. The first time I ever saw him was in the previous summer while we were at Manchester, when I was immensely struck by his rehearsal one morning of the part of Rawdon Scudamore in Dion Boucicault's play, Hunted Dozuu, in which shortly afterwards, at the St. James's Theatre, he laid the foundation of his fame. Montague he already knew well. We were all young fellows then, Irving some three years our senior. We two turned back with Irving, when he and I began acquaintance, which ripened into friendship, to be more than once spoken of in this book. THE SEASON OF 1867-6S. 249 P/ay went gaily on its career until some time in May, when its good fortune received a sudden check, like all things theatrical in that year, which was that of the great drought and most exceptional heat. The big receipts then began to fall off, the sun grew fiercer and fiercer, the theatres more and more deserted, and we felt our play would not last the season out. Its run, which reached a hundred and six nights, was the shortest of all the Robertson comedies. An addition at this time to the list of theatres I have acted in reminds me of the date, May 1 6th, that the old Adelphi favourite, Paul Bedford, so long the butt for Wright and afterwards for Toole, left the stage for good. On the occasion a farewell benefit was given to him at the Queen's Theatre, our contribution being the first act of P/ay. The new generation will know little of Paul Bedford, but older play-goers will recall his enor- mous body surmounted by a face very like that of a kitchen clock, and his perpetual ' I believe you, my boy !' In a little amateur manuscript magazine, the work of mutual friends for Mrs. Bancroft's amusement, and which we laugh at now sometimes, the contributors happily numbering H. J. Byron, are some remarks he wrote about Paul Bedford, among other comic ' Answers to (imaginary) Corres- pondents,' which we will quote : ' We beg to state that we never give any informa- tion about actors ; but as you say you have taken us in ever since we came out, we will, for once in a 250 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. way, gratify your curiosity by giving a concise history of Mr. Paul Bedford. His father was an undertaker in a large M-ay, and his mother was, of course, aj2^«//-bearer. In early life he mixed much with mutes, and later on he mixed a good deal with liquids. He was so very sheepish when young that his parents thought of bringing him up to the " daa," but he always preferred the stage to thQ/>en. He was very young as a child, but as he advanced in years he grew older. He grew so exceedingly fat, that his figure has been frequently known to fill the house. He had one severe illness, when he got up thin, but eventually came down plump. He has lost four double teeth, and is marked with a door-key in the small of his back — not that at first sight it is very easy to determine where the small is. He parts his hair from ear to ear, and takes his annual cold in the head every twelfth of October. He has several children, w^ho take after their parent ; but as the parent generally finishes his glass, it is needless to state that they take very little after him. He is partial to dumb animals, and keeps two hedgehogs and a highly-trained tortoise in his hind pocket. He is of a mechanical turn of mind, and once invented a machine for extractino^ the winkle frc*m its tortuous shell. He offered it for four thousand pounds to Government, who, however, preferred a pin, and rejected the invention. He may be seen between the hours of seven and eleven every evening, except Sunday, when he goes out of town to visit an THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 251 aged grandson. He eats heartily when in spirits, and is seldom empty when in full health. He is particularly partial to broiled fish, and generally eats a Paul Herring for breakfast. He takes snuff, and sneezes twice regularly every birthday. He will be fourteen next April, if not thrown back by illness. PlulIo post future, Verb. sap. Ja??i satis. Whack rozv de roiv ; stick is life. 'P.S. (by the Editor). — We have just heard that he has been grossly deceived in the boy, in whom he has believed ior so many years.' Soon afterwards came a letter, which was very welcome, for we were ever on the look-out for new plays : ' General Post Office, June 2, 1868. ' My dear Mrs. Bancroft, ' Is there any use in my finishing a comedy which I have on hand, and submitting it to you ? Of course it should stand on its merits, but I have so much work that I would not go on with it if you were engaged, say, two-deep. ' Sincerely yours, ' Edmund Yates.' We heard the first act read, and decided to pro- duce the comedy during our next season. On June 20th, to eke out the season, we revived Caste for a few weeks, Montague replacing Frederick 252 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Younge (who was then managing the country com- pany) as George D'Ah'oy, The heat became more and more tropical, and we closed the theatre on July 25th. On the evening of the 27th we played the first act of Cas^e at Covent Garden for the benefit of William Harrison, the celebrated tenor. We wrongly guessed the time our item in the long programme would be given, and I remember an eccentric-looking trio, formed by Hare, dressed as the gas-fitter ; Arthur Sketchley, in evening dress (ready for ' Mrs. Brown at the Play ' between the acts) ; and myself as Cap- tain Hawtree, walking over to the Opera Hotel in Bow Street in the dusk of an intensely hot evening, and asking for brandies and sodas, to the amazement of the occupants of the coffee-room, who could not understand Hare's familiarity with his companions, for he looked a veritable rasman. o Part of my time was taken up in the study of Tom Stylus, as we had arranged to re-open the theatre with Society, and I had resolved to resign my original part of Daryl to Montague. We took a little old-fashioned furnished house this year at Broadstairs, and passed nearly the whole of our holiday very quietly there. Our chief amuse- ment was driving in a mail phaeton, which, during our stay, fairly scoured the neighbourhood, and became well known on all the turnpike roads. The great heat continued, which was pleasant enough in idleness. An eccentric man who had been employed as a THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 253 dresser in the theatre we took with us to Broad- stairs as an indoor-servant, chiefly to give him the advantage of sea-air after a long illness, most of which he had recently passed in St. Mary's Hospital. We several times saw him there, and one day asked him if he knew what had really been the matter with him. He replied quite promptly, ' I'm afraid, sir, I don't ; but I think what I had in my throat, the gentleman in the next bed has had in his stomach !' For fear we might be accused of appropriating an old Pii7ich story, somewhat differently told, let us add that we supplied our friend George Du Maurier with the notion for one of his incomparable sketches, with which, years ago, he illustrated it. Edmund Yates came clown and stayed with us to read the second act of his comedy. We were disappointed, but hoped the third would put things straight, both with regard to plot and play. One short week snatched from the peace of Broad- stairs was passed in Paris in the full glare of an August sun, at the then most excellent Hotel du H elder. This was in the days of the Empire — in fact, the very time of the Emperor's y?/^-day. Le Due Job was being acted at the Francais, and Got then was young enough to play the hero. L Abiine, a French version of No TIi07^oiighfare, by Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins, which had recently been played with immense success at the Adelphi, was the attraction at the Vaudeville, then situated on the 254 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Place de la Bourse, with Pierre Berton the elder in the part Fcchter played in London. Our eccentric manservant expressed his views upon the investment of half a franc to see the moon from the big telescope in the Place Vendome in something like this fashion : ' What did I think of it, sir ? well, sir, it's very much like these furriners about other matters : they will have it that every- thing here is ever so much better than everything in our country. Now I don't see much difference be- tween Paris and London ; they burn a bit more gas, it's true, and perhaps it's a bit gayer. Oh, about the moon, sir ! Well, it's not a bad moon — it's a good moon enouQ^h ; but I don't think it's a bit better than ours : in fact, I think our moon has a trifle the best of it !' Back from the orlare and heat of Paris, at this mistaken season of the year, to calm and rest in our Thanet cottage ; there to linger on the cliffs and sands in the hot noontide, and to ride or drive in the welcome evenings till summoned by the prompter. When we who live and work in smoky London, A STORY with its thick slate-pencil skv, frowninof, BY MRS. . ^ ^ . ^ BANCROFT, as It Were, upon our busy, restless life, go into the peaceful country, what a contrast it is ! The noiseless, restful country, with its soothing still air as welcome as a down-pillow to a weary head. But even in the midst of its tranquillity, a history now and then of painful and romantic interest can be THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 255 found. Misfortune is ubiquitous, and knows no 'With your leave, or by your leave.' The following episode happened during this holiday : In my country wan- derings I often try to know something of the humbler folk, by going into their houses and talking with them. I soon win my way into their confidences, and they delight to tell me the little histories nearest to their hearts, glad, doubtless, to find a sympathetic listener. Some of their tales are so strangely sad in their simplicity as to make me feel that the tellers were made of finer material than one might suppose, and that the stufT had perhaps been spoiled in the cutting out. They would relate their stories in such unstudied simple language, that if an artist were by to give them colour, or a poet to embellish them with a cloak of eloquence, how it would spoil them, so touching are they in their honest truthfulness, while at other times they bear such a comic aspect (although the tellers of them are innocent of the fact) that for the life of me I cannot resist a smile, and would give worlds to be allowed to laugh outright ; but one must be cautious, for these poor people are often strangely sensitive. One morning early I was walking on the beach with one of my married sisters, who passed this holiday with us, when our attention was attracted to a young fellow whom we both knew by going to his mother's cottage now and again and chatting with them there. He was hard at work, seemingly, 256 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. taking a boat to pieces. As we approached he recognised us, and touched his cap. ' Morning, ladies,' he said. ' You seem very busy,' I remarked. ' What are you doing ?' ' Breaking up a boat, mum.' I looked closer, and was surprised to see that it was a new boat. ' What a pity !' I exclaimed. ' It ap- pears quite new.' ' Yes, mum, it's new.' ' Badly made — something wrong about it, I suppose ?' ' No, mum ; as good and smart a boat as ever you see.' ' To whom did it belong ?' ' To nobody, mum.' ' What do you mean ?' ' Well, mum, when I say nobody, I means myself.' ' \\^ell, you are some- body, surely ?' ' I don't think I should be reckoned anybody. Nobody thinks much of me, and I don't think much of myself, maybe.' ' Is that why you are taking the boat to pieces ?' ' Yes.' I could see a history behind this, for the poor fellow uttered the last sentence with a shade of bitterness in his voice, and his face, which was by nature merry, wore an expression of sadness. We examined some of the pieces, and asked him to ex- plain them to us. He was pleased at our curiosity, especially when my sister asked, ' Did you make the boat?' ' Yes.' 'How clever you must be, for is it not a responsible thing to build a boat which is to carry safely so many human beings ?' Then I added, with a smile, ' If boats could speak, what interesting stories they would tell, and how many lovers' vows might be repeated.' The young fellow- looked hard at me, and said, ' Yes ; but this one THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 257 shall tell no love-story, for I'm breaking of it up, you see.' I looked farther, and pointing to a fragment on which Alice was painted in bright blue letters, I remarked, ' Oh ! I see, you called the boat Alice — a pretty name. I am fond of the name of Alice.' He fixed his eyes on the name, and yet seemed to be looking far off After a pause he said dreamily, ' Yes ; it is pretty, and I — love it too — leastways, I did — and — yes, I love it still.' He bit his lips, and I could see a well of tears behind his words. There was a quiet dignity in his voice and manly suffering in his face that made me hesitate to intrude further on what I felt to be some grief, I broke the brief silence by saying gently, ' For- give me, I am so sorry.' I was about to go, when he said quickly, ' Don't go, mum. It's strange that you ladies should 'a happened to come to-day like this, just at the time when I was sadder than I've been since a year agone. You've been kind to my old mother, and "ave give me lots a good advice about my drinkin' 'abits, which ain't so much my fault, if you know'd all about it.' He looked round to see that there was no one near enough to interrupt us, and said, ' Would you mind listening to me a while, ladies? It's very relievin' to get some one to take a little interest in one now and agin. I've nobody but my old mother, and she knows nothing of my troubles, for I've told her nothin' of 'em.' We sat down on the beach, and could see that he VOL. I. 17 258 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. had a serious history to tell, for he reflected for a moment, as if to gulp down his emotion. 'If I smoke I can talk better. Will you let me smoke ? Thankee.' He filled his pipe, and, after a few whiffs, went on in his Kentish dialect : ' Little more nor a year ago I was the 'appiest chap in these parts, for I loved a girl and she loved me. I was twenty-five then, and she was eighteen. She was that pretty, with blue eyes, so bright and true, as if heaven was Inside 'em, and they couldn't tell a lie. We was engaged and goin' to be married. I 'ad bought and made from time to time bits of things for furnishin' a cottage a mile or two out yonder, for I'm a bit 'andy in carpenterin' and the like. I was that appy, I could 'ardly sleep, mum — - she filled my 'ead noight and day. All at once a dandyfied young chap come here with a kind of tutor they called a "coach," what teaches young fellars to be gentlemen, you know, mum. She didn't know she was so pretty till he told her ; he filled her mind with vain notions, and she begun a-lookin' at 'erself all day long in the lookin'-glass, and dressin' of 'erself more gay like. She was leavin' off being the simple lass I loved ; she looked to me like a boat a-driftin' away somewhere, and I was losin' sight of her. This fellar was alius a-runnin' after her and givin' her things, so I made up my mind to marry her outright, although I was poor, and it was 'ard to live. All at once, one mornin', quite sudden, they both ran away.' His THE SEASON OF 1867-68. 259 voice failed him here, and after pausing for a second or two he added, 'A lump comes into my throat now and aofin, mum. I 'eerd no more of 'er, for I never moved a step to foliar her. I was sick in my 'eart, and it seemed chilled loik ; but my old mother had to be seen to and took care of, so I up and set to work, without telling the mother anything except that my girl 'ad gone to a place in London. Well, things was prosperous with me, and every stroke of work I did brought in money, and in a few months' time I was on the road to puttin' by tidy sums, and soon I had as much as a hundred pounds in the bank, for I alius had a mind for savin'. Two months ago, I 'eerd that the fellar 'ad deserted my poor gal, and she and her baby-choild was starvin'. So I took the little cottage we was to 'ave if she 'ad been true to me ; I puts in the bits of furniture wot I'd got together, and a little more to make it comfort- able. I've never spoken to 'er, and I never will, I take my oath ; but so long as I live she shall never want. She has stopped me from being the good man I wanted to be, and we can't now never come together no more ; but I can't put on one side the remembrance of what she might 'ave been to me. That boat I built for 'er and me, and christened it after her, Alice. I painted the name in blue, because it was the colour of her eyes, and, in a drinkin' fit last night, I began a-breakin' of it up, as she 'as broken up my life.' He was quite overcome, and, with his arm raised 17—2 26o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. to his eyes, cried like a child. After a pause, he said, ' And this is why I drink a bit at times, ladies ; it's a bad habit, and I'll try to follow your good advice and give it up. I can but try ; but, after all, it 'ardly matters !' How near akin are truth and fiction ! We lived again in the sorrows of Ham Peggoty and Little Em'ly ; and almost under the shadow of ' Bleak House,' where Dickens stayed so long, we had listened to this pathetic story. CHAPTER IX. THE SEASON OF 1 868-69. It may be of interest to note here, in contrast to the BEGUN charges of the present day, that the price BY MR. ° ^ ^ ^ ^ '■ BANCROFT, of admission to the stalls was raised at the beginning of this season from six to seven shillings, to the dress-circle from four to five shillings, and to the pit from eighteen-pence to two shillings ; although there will be more to say on this subject presently. We resumed work on September 21st, with a revival of our first im- portant success ; but we had new material in view, as Edmund Yates and T. W. Robertson were both writing for us, the first-named being engaged on the last act of his accepted comedy, which we had arranged should be the next production, the author of Cas/e agreeing to be prepared with a work to follow it. Society was preceded by a new comedietta, written by J. Maddison Morton, called Atchi (the sound of a sneeze). Montague and Blakeley acted in this, the little piece being also the medium for Miss Carlotta Addison's first appearance at our 262 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. theatre. On this revival of Robertson's comedy the principal characters were cast as follows : LORD PTARMIGANT - - - Mr. Hare. LORD CLOUDWRAYS, M.P. - - Mr. Terkiss. SIDNEY DARYL .... Mr. H. J. Montague. MR. JOHN CHODD, SEN. - - Mr. W. Blakeley. MR. JOHN CHODD, JUN. - - Mr. J. Clarke. TOM STYLUS - . . . Mr. Bancroft. OLINTHUS O'SULLIVAN, D.C.L. - Mr. H. W. Montgomery. LADY PTARMIGANT - - - Mrs. Buckingham White. (Her first appearance at this Theatre. MAUD HETHERINGTON - - Miss Carlotta Addison. During the previous summer we were constantly told by a maidservant that ' a young gentleman had called,' who seemed very persistent about seeing us. One day, on returning from a walk, the girl informed me that ' the young gentleman ' had pushed past her and walked into our little drawing-room, where he then was. I j'oined our visitor rather angrily, but was soon disarmed by the frank manner of a very young man, who, within five minutes, in the course of conversation, pointed to the window of a house opposite and said, ' That's the room I was born in,' (We then lived in a little villa in St. John's Wood.) Of course ' the young gentleman ' was stage-struck, and ' wanted to go upon the stage,' adding that ' he was resolved that we should give him an engage- ment.' His courage and, if I may say it, his cool perseverance, amused and amazed me ; the very force of his determined manner conquered me, and the upshot of our interview was that I did engage him. His name was William Terriss, and Lord THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 263 Cloudwniys, in Society, was the part in which he made his first appearance on a London stage. It was this season that Mr. Edward Hastings first joined us as prompter and assistant stage-manager, a position he filled with us during the greater part of our management. Mr. Hastings, who, I believe, has been connected with the stage for half a century, and chiefly in leading London theatres, once told me, I remember, that I was the most literal actor he had ever met throughout his long experience as a prompter. I know myself to be so exact, that when I alter any words in a part intentionally, I always have those I intend to substitute entered in the prompt-book. The programme, especially with Mrs. Bancroft's name absent from it, was not a particularly attractive one, although it proved a satisfactory stop-gap, for the expenses of the little theatre were a very dif- ferent matter in those days, being in fact about half of what they reached at the end of our fifteen years there. Early in this second run of Society, we received from Mr. Tom Taylor a manuscript copy of that admirable comedy Neiu Men and Old Acres, written in partnership by himself and Mr. A. W. Dubourg. As we have seen it asserted in print, with Mr. Kendal's name as an authority for the statement, that we reftised that play, the real facts of the case may be worth relating as a fragment of stage history. A letter accompanied the book, stating that the comedy 264 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. had been written for Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Wigan ; but as they then were leaving, or had already left, the Queen's Theatre, it had gone back to the authors' hands. Tom Taylor went on to say that the charac- ter of Lady Matilda Vavasour had been written for Mrs. Alfred Wigan, and, as the manuscript came to us, it certainly was the better of the two principal female parts. Until we had read the play he pre- ferred not to make any alterations, as, if we liked it, the part of Lilian could be written up for Mrs. Bancroft, or that of Lady Matilda changed into an elder sister should she prefer that character. We read the play, and at once expressed our wish to accept it, but told Tom Taylor we were bound in fairness to put before him the engagements we had already contracted, viz., to act Edmund Yates's comedy next, and had setded with T. W. Robertson for a new play to follow it, Tom Taylor hesitated for some time, but at last said, greatly to our regret, that the prospect of our producing A/'ezu Men and Old Acres was so remote (for he regarded the success of the Robertsonian comedy as a foregone conclusion), that it was decided to withdraw the manuscript from our hands, and offer it to Mr. Buckstone at the Haymarket, where it was produced with pronounced success, giving Mrs. Kendal, then Miss Madge Robertson, the opportunity of creating the delightful part of Lilian Vavasour. Although the following letter refers to a domestic matter, it is so very characteristic of the writer, and THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 265 our old friend, that we do not hesitate to give it the short space it will take up : * 5, Conduit Street, Novetnbcr 2, 1868. ' Mv DEAR Bancroft, ' Accept our united congratulations. May the infant grow as clever as its mamma, and as tall as its papa, and as good as both. ' With all good wishes, ' Believe me, my dear Bancroft, ' Yours very sincerely, ' H. J. Byron. ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' Meanwhile Edmund Yates had finished his comedy. We were, of course, in constant com- munication, which was rendered easier by the fact of his livino- at the time not far off in Baker Street. The eccentric manservant, who has been before mentioned, could never master certain names. That of Yates was especially a stumbling-block owing to an impediment in his speech, and by this man our old friend was always spoken of as ' the gentleman from Baker Schtreet' (while * Ponsonby ' grew in his mouth to ' Punchemberry '). Tame Cats, as the new comedy was called, did not, we began to fear, come out well at rehearsal ; as is by no means unusual ; scenes which had read well, acted tamely (no pun intended). The cast was a good one, as an extract from the bill will show, and we all worked bravely to make it a success ; its performance being preceded by a 266 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. comedietta, by Charles Dance, called JJVio Speaks Fii^st ? acted by Mr. Montague, Mr. Terriss, Mr. Blakeley, and Miss Carlotta Addison. On Saturday, December 12, 1868, will be performed, for the first time, TAME CATS: An Original Comedy of Modern Life, written by Edmund Yates. MR. WAVERHAM - MORTIMER WEDGWOOD MR. TWEEDIE CHARLES HAMPTON EZRA STEAD BIDDLES MRS. WAVERHAM MRS. LANGLEY - MRS. JOPPET ANNIE TEMPLE - ELLIS Mr. H. J. Montague. Mr. Bancrof'i-. Mr. W. Blakeley. Mr. Charles Collette. (His first appearance. Mr. Hare. Mr. H. W. Montgomery. Miss Carlotta. Addison. Miss Marie Wilton. (Her first appearance this season. Mrs. Buckingham White. Miss Augusta Wilton. Miss Ada Coates. While considering how best to make the scene of notes the first act, the garden of a pretty villa on BY MRS. . , BANCROFT, the Thames, as effective and natural as pos- sible, it occurred to us that a macaw with his gay plum- age would be a beautiful bit of colour on the well-kept lawn. We purchased one of the handsomest birds I ever saw, and had a large stand made for him, which the bird seemed to appreciate immensely, especially when its bright tin dishes were well filled. A chain was attached to one of his legs ; a degradation to which he took kindly, as, probably, the arrangement was not new to him. When ' Mac ' was placed one morning on the stage and introduced to the company, he lost no time in making it understood that he pre- THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 267 ferred them at a distance. No ' Scratch a poll,' or * Pretty dear,' or ' Kiss me,' seemed to impress the bird. Mr. Bancroft addressed him as ' Well, old man,' a familiarity which he resented by shrieks and by performing a kind of war-dance on his perch. The fact of being spoken to by a manager did not impress Mr. Macaw with respect in the least. As time went on, the bird grew more accustomed to his new home, but would permit no one but me to go near him ; in fact, his preference became somewhat of a nuisance, for the moment I left the room where he was kept, he made hideous noises until I returned, and then became lano^uid with affection. I had com- plete power over him, and when the sound of my voice announced my arrival every morning, he grew quite unmanageable until I went to soothe him. I was not sorry that he took this fancy to me, and arranged in the business of the scene to play with him, which, had he acted his part properly, would have been effective enough. He rehearsed admir- ably, and appeared quite reconciled to his position. At last the eventful night came ; the scene was set, the overture was over, and the bell rang for the curtain to rise on a charming little scene, with Mac, in all his glory of colour, perched on his stand. But no sooner was the curtain up, than the crowded house, the glare of gas, and the applause, so alarmed the bird that, with his huge wings spread out, he sprang to the ground and waddled round and round the stage with deafening shrieks, dragging his stand 268 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. (which made as much noise as a hansom cab) after him. The more the audience laughed, the louder the bird screamed. When at last he found his way to the wings, no one dared touch him but me ; so in the midst of the confusion I took hold of ' Mac,' and got him out of the way as quickly as possible. This was Mr. Macaw's first and last appearance, and when he left the theatre the next day, the dressers, carpenters, and other servants, hailed his departure in not the politest language. He had, I believe, fastened his beak in their garments more than once. I presented ' Mac ' to the Zoological Gardens, where, I believe, he is still to be seen : reflecting, doubtless, on his brief engagement at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. Hare had to appear in Tavie Cats as a shabby and disreputable creature who was a returned con- vict ; he was, as usual, immensely excited about his ' get up,' which was mutually discussed over one of the many delightful dinners of those early days. I remember an amusing incident of his hunting in all sorts of back streets for some characteristic clothes, and after walking round and round a strange man who wore a very odd-looking hat, which Hare thought priceless, at last striking a bargain for its purchase with the bewildered owner, and carrying it off in triumph, with some horrible rags of gar- ments which had to be well baked in an oven before they could be worn. THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 269 The evening was not a cheerful one. The part of CONTINUED Mortimer Wedf^wood, a mock poet and BY MR. BANCROKT. One of the 'Tame Cats' of the house, was resented by the audience and critics, some of whom mistook it for a caricature of the genius of one far above such ridicule, Algernon Charles Swinburne, no such idea having entered the head of either author or actor. We always thought the play, although by no means of the first rank, was harshly received. Cat-calls, and feline sounds of many kinds followed the final fall of the curtain, and we felt the play was doomed. Some years afterwards, while on a visit to the Temple, Goring — a charming river-side residence he then occupied — Edmund Yates asked us if we still had the prompt copy of his comedy, adding that he should like to read it. The book was hunted up and sent to him. In a few days it came back with this verdict : ' My dear B., it's poor stuff, and well deserved its fate.' It was in this play that Charles Collette made his first appearance as a professional actor. He had for some time been the life and soul of his old regiment (3rd Dragoon Guards), C7i amatetir, and his brother officers rallied round him, naturally enough, on the occasion of this new departure. They did their old comrade little good, however, by the vehe- mence of their reception of all he said and did in the small part of a Government clerk. The first words spoken by him were accidentally apropos enough, ' There's nobody about ; I wonder what they're 270 OUR JOIST NARRATIVE. saying of me at the War Office ?' To the amaze- ment of the rest of the audience, the friendly- dragoons received this simple speech as the finest joke ever penned. A story of his old soldiering-days, which Collette told us years ago, may be allowed a place here. A young fellow had been raised from the ranks and given a commission in another regiment. Before joining, according to custom, he was invited to a farewell dinner by the officers of his old regi- ment, being placed, as the guest of the evening, on the colonel's right, and helped to all the dishes first. He was a fine young fellow, but little used as yet to the ways of the polite world and the manners of other dinner-tables than the humble sergeants' mess of those days. The colonel, one of the truest type of gentlemen, did his best to put his young friend as much as possible at ease. The soup was served, and then came a servant to the guest's side, holding a large bowl which contained simply lumps of ice. The weather was hot, for this happened in India, and cold drinks were greatly in request. The young fellow stared at the bowl. The servant asked, 'Ice, sir?' The colonel chatted merrily to him on his left ; others of the officers began to see the dilemma. 'Ice, sir?' again said the mess-waiter. The young new-made officer, in ignorant despera- tion, took some of the ice and put it in his soup. A smile began to play on the faces of one or two of the younger officers, when the bowl was offered to the THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 271 colonel, who went on talking to his guest, and now, without ceasing or moving a muscle, also dropped a piece of ice info /lis soup-plate. Those next either took their cue from him or let the bowl pass, and the young fellow breathed a sigh of relief in the thought that he had clone the right thing. If ever soldier deserved the Victoria Cross, the colonel of that regiment did. We had lost New Men and Old Acres, unfortu- nately ; but Robertson, we found, had very nearly completed his comedy, so we withdrew Tame Cats after eleven performances, and as a stop-gap until he should be quite ready, and the rehearsals com- pleted, we restored Society to the bills. During this brief revival Mrs. Buckingham White was suddenly taken ill, and could not act her part of old Lady Ptarmigant. Mrs. Bancroft, in the emergency, took her place, and I have rarely seen anything more ludicrous than she looked ; every impromptu effort to produce the semblance of age only added to her then girlish appearance. When School, as he christened the successor to Play,W2iS read to us by Robertson, we were delighted with it, and were also responsible, through certain suggestions offered to him, for the addition of one of its most effective scenes — that between Jack Poyntz and Naomi — which is so admirable in contrast to the 'milk-jug scene,' which it immediately followed, and of which the doyen of the critics, John Oxenford, wrote : ' The dialogue between the young lord and 272 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Bella, while they converse in the moonlight contem- plating their own strongly-cast shadows, and fanci- fully commenting upon them, is replete with the prettiest conceits, in which it is hard to say whether wit or sentiment has the mastery.' The comedy was read to the company by the author — as only he could read his plays — on Boxing Day, and the parts were then studied as quickly as possible. Unfortu- nately, we lost the services of Mr. Blakeley, an actor whose special comic talent we had long thought highly of and hoped to retain, who failed to see the fun of Dr. Sutcliffe and its suitability to his method. When Mr. Blakeley decided, to our regret, to resign the part, Mr. Addison, for years a distinguished actor of ' old men ' with Kean at the Princess's, and the Wigans at the Olympic, was engaged to take his place, and for a long time remained a prominent member of our company. Tremendous efforts were made by all concerned to stem the brief current of bad luck which was run- ning our way. The scenery was painted by that gifted artist Hawes Craven, who revels in such subjects as the 'glade in early autumn,' which was especially beautiful, and he worked long hours to be ready for us. The rehearsals only lasted three weeks, but being superintended by the masterly stage- management of the author, we found that time enough. An incident may be worth recording here as some proof how innocently a writer may plagiarize. THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 273 Robertson came to me one day when the rehearsals were well advanced, and wished to introduce a line or two in the soliloquy I had to speak while sit- ting in the swing in the third act. He said, 'I went to a theatre last night, and was there introduced to a lady, who told me that, although I had forgotten her, she well remembered me, reminding me where we had met before, adding that I then made use of these words, "When Nature makes a pretty woman, she puts all the goods into the shop-window ;" whether I ever did say them or not I haven't the least idea, but they seem to me quite good enough for Jack Poyntz, and w^ll fit in with the sentiment of your speech.' A long time after, when reading Gold- smith's Good- N attired Man, to see if we thought it worth revival, I found this sentence from the mouth of Miss Richland : ' Our sex are like poor trades- men, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows.' We felt, as the work progressed, very confident as to the result, and a few days before the produc- tion, in a letter to an old friend, I said, ' We are on the eve of the greatest success we have yet had.' We could not, of course, foresee that it would turn out to ' beat the record,' as they say, of all our productions ; heading, as we shall take a later opportunity to show, all the more powerful plays we have presented to the public in the course of our career. The first announcement of our new play ran thus : VOL. I. 18 274 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. ON SATURDAY, JANUARY i6, 1S69, WILL BE ACTED, FOR THE KIRST TIME, AN ORIGINAL COMEDY, CALLED SCHOOL, By T. W. Robertson, Author of- Society^ ' Ours,' ' Caste,' and ' Play.' LORD BEAUFOY ... - Mr. H. J. Montague. DR. SUTCLIFFE ... - Mr. Addison. (His first appearance at this Theatre.) BEAU FARINTOSII - - - Mr. Hare. JACK POYNTZ - - - - Mr. Bancroft. MR. KRUX ----- Mr. F. Glover. MRS. SUTCLIFFE ... - Mrs. Buckingham White. NAOMI TIGHE . . . - Miss Marie Wilton. BELLA ..... Miss Carlotta Addison. TILLY - . . . . Miss Augusta Wilton. Act I. — The Glade : Recreation. Act II. — The House : Examination. Act III. — The Grounds : Flirtation. Act IV.— The Grounds : Realization. For the outline of the plot of this comedy, the author has acknowledged his indebtedness to a German play by Roderich Benedix, called Aschen- brodel (Cinderella), which doubtless accounts for the anomaly of finding a resident usher in a girls' school, as well as for the parody on the pumpkin and the glass-slipper in the last act. The demand for seats was extraordinary, and such as we had never known before ; extra stalls were added to a considerable number, and the receipts of the theatre much increased ; opening, in fact, before us a vista of prosperity such as we had not dreamed of The critics were unanimous in a wealth of praise for theatre, author, and actors. The Times review of the production began with these flattering words : ' The fact is not to be denied, that the production THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 275 of a new comedy by Mr. T. W. Robertson at the theatre which, once obscure, has become, under the direction of Miss Marie Wihon, the most fashion- able in London, is now to be regarded as one of the most important events of the dramatic year.' It was plainly evident that a long career of success was assured to the new play. A great comedian of days gone by, Robert Keeley, passed away in the early part of this year, February 3rd, at his house in Brompton — a part of London in former times greatly favoured by actors, and in which the Keeleys had lived for many years. Mrs. Keeley still happily survives, although now- more than eighty years old, having been born, as she rejoices in saying, in November, 1805 — a fact made all the more interesting to me by a letter I received from her in November, 1875, in which she says, ' I shall be seventy to-morrow.' Without these admissions the fact would never be credited, for she still looks marvellously youthful and strong ; only last Christmas Day (1887), indeed, Mrs. Keeley stood for hours on the stage of the Victoria Theatre, distributing the new sixpences which a kind friend had sent for a thousand poor theatrical children. There is an old, and I dare say well-worn, theatrical anecdote, which was told to me years ago, of Keeley, by Leigh Murray (I once saw them act together in the Camp at Chobham), but, alas for the sake of veracity, I have since heard the story fathered on Sheridan ! However, I will in a few 18—2 276 UR JOINT NA ERA TI VE. words relate it as I for years put faith in it. The name of a firm which, as fruiterers, supplied the household was Berry and Son, On one occasion the junior Berry wrongly sent some account to the actor, who answered the application for the money in this doggerel : ' I say, here's a small mull-Berry. Why send in this wrong bill-Berry, Which is not from me due-Berry.'' Your father, the elder-Berry, Would not be such a goose-Berry ; But you must not look black-Berry, For I don't care a straw-Berry !' Edmund Yates also tells, in his inimitable way, a story of Keeley which, perhaps, he thought too old and threadbare for a place in his ' Recollections.' I will be less modest, for the sake of a younger generation. The actor once bought a fancy work- basket as a present for his wife, which turned out to have some flaw in it, or to be not so well made as he expected. Keeley took the purchase back, and complained very much at the shop where he got it — ■ which, we'll suppose, was that of the well-known firm of, say, Larkins and Potter — and insisted upon seeing one of the partners. Upon the approach of a mild gentleman-like person, who asked his cause of complaint, Keeley indignantly repeated his annoy- ance, and wound up by saying, ' If you are Larkins, damn Potter ! but if you are Potter, damn Larkins !' It may be curious to mention here the first morning performance we ever gave at the Prince of THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 277 Wales's Theatre, which was on March 6th, in the height of the run of School, when all the seats were booked every night long in advance. The experi- ment, however, was so novel, that it only attracted a moderate house in the daytime, and it was not for some years that matindes became popular. The following letter will explain itself. I also received the news from two other friends and old members of the club, who both have long been known as lovers of the drama — Sir George Army- tage, and Colonel (now General) Du Plat : ' Garrick Club, Saturday^ April 2i 1869. 3.55 p.m. Rain. Wind, S.W. ' My dear Mr. Bancroft, ' As your proposer here, I have the great pleasure of informing you that you have just been unanimously elected to the Garrick Club. Trusting that this will not render you tmdtdy undomestic, I add, with my congratulations to you, my best regards to Mrs. Bancroft, ' Ever yours faithfully, ' Shirley Brooks.' As my mind wanders back over the time that has passed — now fast approaching twenty years — since as a young actor I received the honour of election to the Garrick Club, I think gratefully of the many happy hours I have passed inside its walls, and of the many good friends I have made there. 278 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. My memory, alas ! recalls names and faces to be no more recalled in any other way. Let me light a cigar In the smoking-room, and. at peace in one of its big armchairs, invoke ' Kino^ Nod,' and visit his majesty's dominions in the land of dreams. Soon do I see the forms of Wyndham Smith and Andrew Arcedeckne seated together by the fire, and hear their interchange of stories ; presently they are joined by phantoms of two painters, Elmore and O'Neil, and afterwards by ' Johnny ' Deane. Over an early dinner I hear Phelps telling of ' a splendid day's fishing ;' whilst Charles Mathews whispers to me that ' the only time in his life he began to get fat was when he took to riding.' I picture in the card-room the ever-kindly presence of Lord Angle- sey (to whose hospitality I was for years indebted for a perfect view of the Derby from his private stand); the strongly-marked features and deep-toned voice of Sir Charles Taylor ; the merry eye and musical brogue of Charles Lever (home on leave from his consulate, and keenly interested in the Tichborne trial) ; the gruff" exterior which hid the soft and tender heart of Anthony Trollope ; the occasional visits of courtly James Clay (the former companion of Lord Beaconsfield in foreign travel, and a monarch at the whist-table) ; and the more frequent presence of Sir George Colthurst. I see kindly ' Joe ' Langford and dear old ' Bunsby ' (Merewether, Q.C.) arrive for their rubber ; ' cutting- in ' with gentle, pipe-loving Edward Breedon (who THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 279 bore so little of the aspect of having once been a dandy in the Guards), the great novelist who wrote ' Hard Cash ;' and Dr. Duplex, who once prescribed for Edmund Kean — who complete the table. Higher still the smoke of my now half-burnt cigar ascends, and in its fumes I picture again delightful visits to the billiard-room, where I was first wel- comed (although no player) by its constant habitiid, Captain Synge. Over a crowded contest at ' black pool,' I see the portly form and hear the jovial laugh of General Napier ; in turn comes the fine head of E. S. Dallas, suggesting portraits of Norwegian kings ; by his side is the handsome face of the ' Amiable Brigand,' as some of us for years knew Palgrave Simpson ; while next, fresh with some gossip from Pall Mall, is the cheery 'younger son,' as, until his sad and sudden end, Napier Sturt spoke always of himself Other forms I see, many of their names beino- well known to the world ; but most of them are, happily, still with us. As I go downstairs again I linger for a chat with my kind proposer, Shirley Brooks, fresh from a Wednesday Punch dinner (to talk with whom but for a minute meant to be sure of catching some pearl of wit), or to listen to a keen and caustic criticism from Tom Taylor, so soon to be his successor in the editorial chair. In the hall I interrupt two Serjeants ' learned in the law,' by names Ballantine and Parry, who are talking out the points of that day's conflict in the Common Pleas ; and, as 1 leave, am awakened by my surprise at meeting 28o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Henry Byron, whose rare visits to the club, he laughingly said, made his annual subscription mean ' five guineas a wash ' ! It will, I think, be interesting to note here, as it occurred at this time, a visit Hare and I received one evening, in the dressing-room we shared for years, from Arthur Cecil, asking our opinion as to whether he should, or should not, give up his private position (he was then secretary to some company), and accept an offer he had received from Mr. and Mrs. German Reed to join them in their well- known entertainment at the Gallery of Illustration. Our advice was that he should enter the players' ranks ; if that opinion had any influence upon our old friend's mind, although we may have robbed one company of a good servant, we certainly gave another company a valued recruit and a faithful servant to the public. The long career of a successful play somewhat ties the pen, and leaves little to relate of the theatre while it brightly but monotonously occupies its boards. School ran on through frost and snow, through fair weather and foul, to the same record of crowded houses, owing, doubtless, some share of its popularity to the success which had attended previous produc- tions by the same author ; for although, as we have said, it grew to be the greatest favourite of all Robertson's works, it cannot be compared in a dra- matic sense with Caste, nor does it contain a scene to equal the second act of Ours. The public, how- THE SEASON OF 1868-69. 281 ever, being masters of the situation, chose to raise it to the position we have indicated, and it was not for us to quarrel with so pleasant a verdict. Events outside our theatrical life are but little dwelt on in this book, unless they chance to deal with other public characters, and so lay claim to more general interest. Our continued good fortune both as actors and managers greatly enlarged our circle of friends in the world of literature and art, and, no doubt, was the key that opened the doors of many pleasant houses to us. Much of the happiness of our lives has come to us in this way, and later on our journey through these pages we may now and again refer to names made known throughout the world, whose owners, but for the calling we have followed and have tried to serve, we never might have met — • at least in intimacy. In the spring of the year, when the apple-blossoms made its big old-fashioned garden look beautiful, we saw a house in the Grove-End Road, near our little villa, which we felt justified in taking on a lease, and soon after occupied. We also resolved to redecorate, and in part re- furnish, the theatre in the summer on a more sumptuous scale than we yet had been able to afford ; and the work for this was put in hand, being for months, in fact, preparing, so that the change might be made in the briefest time we could snatch from the play's success. Alterations and decorations for our new home, and the work in progress for the 282 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. theatre, kept us busy. The summer soon arrived : still School ran on its unbroken course, and we re- solved to break the run for a few evenings only, elaborate arrangements being made for the com- pletion of the redecoration by relays of men working all through the twenty -four hours of each day and night. We did not end the season, therefore, until Saturday, August 28th, on which night Charles Dickens— proving to be, alas ! his farewell visit to the theatre — was among the audience, it being the hundred and ninety-second performance of School. Then we went away to Margate for ten days, which was the extent of the holiday we gave ourselves that year. Mr. and Mrs. Hare also did the same, and we all had lodgings in the Royal Crescent. Next door to the house we lived in, we remember, stopped ' Father Ignatius,' then, seemingly, quite a young man, and who was creating some sensation by his preaching in the town. CHAPTER X. THE SEASON OF 1869-7O. After this very brief holiday, one day even of which was spent in London looking after the progress of the new decorations, we were back in town again, the run of School being resumed on Saturday, September iith, when the following address was issued : ' Although I have closed my theatre for only eleven nights, I trust that the decorations with which I have embellished it durincr that short time — but which for months have been the subject of much anxious care — will be accepted as some proof of how sincerely I appreciate the great reputation of which the performances I have had the privilege to offer for public entertainment have been considered worthy. That reputation I shall jealously guard, and have the pleasure to announce that the brilliant pen to which I am indebted for Society, Ours, Caste, Play, and School, is already at work upon a new comedy — to be submitted to your judgment when 284 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. our School, which next week will reach its two- hundredth representation, finally breaks up. ' While altering and iniproving the theatre, I have added to the comfort of future audiences, and in the accomplishment of my pet project — abolishing the ordinary position of the orchestra — have been actuated by the same desire. ' In conclusion, may I venture to encourage the hope — always remembering the invaluable aid of the charming comedies which I have had the good fortune to produce, and the talents of those whom it is my pride to call the members of my company — that I have made some progress towards the advancement of the beautiful art to which my life has been devoted } ' Marie Wilton.' This was the first time the orchestra had been so placed as to be hidden from the sight of the audience. The space formerly occupied by the musicians was filled by rockwork, with running water, and a fernery. The new embellishments, which were mainly of light blue satin and of a sumptuous character then un- known in theatres (strong in contrast to the simple decorations they replaced), were very much liked, and we think had a share in maintaining the career of success which the performance of School still enjoyed. The high authority of the accom- plished President of the Royal Academy will excuse our printing the following kind note on this subject : THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 285 ' Holland Park Road. ' Dear Mrs. Bancroft, ' A line to say that I think your theatre quite the dandiest thing I ever saw, I should have gone round to tell you so after the play, but that I had a complete extinction of voice, and could therefore not have made myself audible. ' How well it went off last niQ-ht, and how dead tired of it yoit must be ! not so zue. ' Believe me, ' With kind remembrance to Bancroft, ' Yours very truly, ' Fred. Leighton.' It was about this time that we first detected siofns of failing health in Robertson, who showed great difficulty in beginning work upon the play he destined to be our next production ; although as yet we had no idea that he was already in the early grip of what was soon to prove a mortal and long-endur- ing illness. Fortunately the continued success of the existing programme allowed us to refrain from spurring him on to work, and to let him take things easily. The two hundred and fiftieth performance of School deserves recording. It fell on November 17th, and was honoured by a second visit from the Prince and Princess of Wales. The evening was terribly foggy, and during the performance it became so exception- ally dense and thick that at the close the streets were 286 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. dangerous to tni verse. At eleven o'clock the royal carriages, after great difficulty — the coachmen having once lost their way in Clifford Street, through mis- taking that turning for Conduit Street — arrived safely, surrounded by a large body of the E Division of police, all bearing torches, who so escorted the Prince and Princess to Marlborough House. Our own journey home was a long and dangerous one, and many among the audience must have met with difficulties. The following letter will best tell its tale : ' Edinburgh, November 2^^ 1S69. ' Mv DEAR Mrs. Bancroft, ' You will never guess what I am going to ask you, and still less why I ask it. ' Will you and the principal members of your company come and play me a scene from a short act at Covent Garden on Tuesday morning, January 4th ? " Good gracious !" you exclaim, " what on earth for ?" Because it is my farewell benefit, previous to my leaving for Australia ! I sail for Melbourne on the 31st of January. If after this you can resist, if you do not with tears in your eyes falter out, " I consent," you are made of sterner stuff than I give you credit for. Give my kind regards to Bancroft, and ask him to join in the good work. Say what you will play, and rely on it that the " approbation of our kind friends before us " will be certain. ' A line to 25, Pelham Crescent will reach me ; THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 287 and in the meantime I will meditate on the most gracious form in which I can express my thanks. ' Faithfully yours, 'C. J. Mathews.' The performance, which was in many ways memor- able, took place on Tuesday morning, January 4th, at Covent Garden Theatre, before a most brilliant audience — all the leading actors of the day appear- ing in various selections. The principal members of our own company played the examination scene from School, in which Naomi Tighe could not resist im- provising an extra question to be put to her by Dr. Sutcliffe as to ' what she considered the most valu- able possession of Australia ?' The answer, ' Charles Mathews,' was, of course, a good one for the occa- sion, and appealed at once to the sympathies of the audience. The final item was from Sheridan's Critic, and the cast will justify a reprint of part of the programme, which was drawn up by Mathews himself in the following amusing way : DANGLE SNEER - PUFF - UNDER PROMPTER PROMPTER Mr. Alfred Wigan. Mr. Barry Sullivan. Mr. Charles Mathews. Mr. Charles Mathews, Jun. Mr. Arthur Sketchley. CHARACTERS IN THE 'SPANISH ARMADA. LORD BURLEIGH - GOVERNOR OF TILBURY FORT THE EARL OF LEICESTER SIR WALTER RALEIGH - SIR CHRISTOPHER HATTON - MASTER OF THE HORSE BEEFEATER - - - - Mr. Buckstone. Mr. Frank Matthews. Mr. J. Clarke. Mr. Lionel Brough. Mr. W. H. Payne. Mr. J. D. Stoyle. Mr. T L. Toole. 288 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. WHISKERANDOZ ... - Mr. Compton. FIRST SENTINEL .... Mr. F. Payne. SECOND SENTINEL - - - Mr. H. Payne. FIRST NIECE .... Mrs. Keeley. (Who has kindly consented to appear.) SECOND NIECE .... Mrs. Frank Matthews. TIL15URINA ... - - Mrs. Charles Mathews, CONFIDANTE .... Mrs. Chippendale. The PUBLIC is respectfully informed that in consequence of the overflow to all parts of the House, the BAND has been actually washed out of the Orchestra. Under these distressing circumstances, a GRAND PIANO has in the handsomest manner volunteered to make its first appearance on any Stage, and the following Gentlemen have kindly consented to officiate on the occafion :— Mr. JULES BENEDICT, Mr. J. L. HATTON, Master IIATTON, Mr. T. GERMAN REED, Mr. ARTHUR SULLIVAN, Mr. FERDINAND WAl.LERSTEIN, Mr. BETJEMANN, etc., etc., etc., who have promised to keep the Instrument in such subjection that it is hoped the volume of sound will not prove too overwhelming for the size of the House. The New Scenery has not been painted for the occasion; and consequently will not be exhibited. The Costitmes, being by Mr. SAMUEL MAY, are too well known to need further encomium ; and being priceless in his eyes, he has declined to make any charge for them. The Wigs of Mr. CLARKSON will speak for themselves, and in the case of ' Lord Burleigh ' will speak for him also. The Programmes being in the handsomest manner supplied gratuitously by Mr. RIMMEL, may be purchased (if preferred) at any fancy price that may be agreeable. A few nights afterwards a complimentary and brilliantly attended banquet was given at Willis's Rooms to Charles Mathews, at which he presided himself, and, as chairman, proposed his own health. We extract a few sentences from a most amusing speech, delivered in his inimitable way : ' The most important task assigned to me has now to be fulfilled, and I rise to propose what is called the toast of the evening with a singular mixture of pleasure and trepidation. I was going to THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 289 say that I was placed in not only a novel but an un- precedented position, by being asked to occupy the chair to-day. But it is not so. There is nothing new in saying that there is nothing new ; and I find in the Times newspaper of October 3rd, 1798, an advertisement of a dinner given to Mr. Fox at the Shakespeare Tavern, Covent Garden, on the anni- versary of his first election for Westminster. " The Hon. Charles James Fox in the chair." Here is a great precedent; and what was done in 1798 by Charles James Fox is only Imitated in 1870 by Charles James Mathews. I venture to assert, and I think I may do so without vanity, that a fitter man than myself to propose the health of our guest could not be found ; for I venture also emphatically to affirm that there is no man so well acquainted with the merits and demerits of that Q-ifted individual as I am. I have been on the most intimate terms with him from his earliest youth. I have watched over and assisted his progress from childhood upwards, have shared in all his joys and griefs, and I assert boldly, and am proud to have this opportunity of publicly declaring, that there is not a man on earth for whom I entertain so sincere a regard and affection. Indeed, I don't think I go too far In stating that he has an equal affection for me. He has come to me for advice over and over araln, under the most em- barrassing circumstances, and what is still more remarkable, he has always taken my advice In prefer- ence to that of anyone else.' VOL. I. 19 290 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Needless to say that this speech was interrupted at every point by peals of laughter. Another instance of Charles Mathews's delightful phase of humour occurred in a speech he made as chairman of one of the Royal Theatrical Fund dinners, when, with inimitable composure, he re- marked : ' The late Douglas Jerrold once said to me that he did not despair of living to see the clay when I should be found walking up Ludgate Hill on a muddy morning, with a cotton umbrella under my arm, to invest my funds in the Bank of England. I am sorry to say that Douglas Jerrold did not live to see that vision realized. The only step that I have advanced towards it is, that I have bought the umbrella.' It was while Charles Mathews was being feted, as his great talents and universal popularity deserved, that another delightful actor, much his junior, died, unhappily after long suffering, and in comparative obscurity — poor Leigh Murray, who passed away at the early age of forty-nine. We both had known him, and to know him meant soon to grow fond of him. Like so many of us, he had but one enemy — him- self. The sensation caused by Charles Dickens's read- ings had, some little time before, led to an influential theatrical meeting, and a petition to the great novelist to grant the actors an opportunity of hearing him by giving a reading in the morning, for this was long before the days of matindes, which were only then THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 291 known to pantomimes. Dickens's love for every- thing dramatic prompted him in charming terms to acquiesce at once, but his serious illness prevented the fulfilment of the promise until this time, when two morning readings were announced at St. James's Hall. The first was the Christmas Carol, the second comprised Boots at the Holly Tree Inn, and the ter- rible ' Sykes and Nancy ' selection from Oliver Twist (the strain and exertion of which, doubtless, through frequent repetition when his health was bad, went far towards killing him). Two vast audiences thronged the large hall. We were seated in the front row of chairs, and plainly saw the tears provoked by the wonderful reception the actors gave Dickens directly he stepped upon the platform. Those who had heard him often said he read as if inspired — certainly he never had a finer audience. We all seemed spell- bound under his varying powers, and after this lapse of many years the emotions he so quickly in their turn aroused live in the memory, and will be there quite vividly while we have life. Feelings like these make one grateful to have, even for a few brief hours, fallen under the influence of his genius. Another reading, of a strange and curious nature, one went to see and hear soon afterwards at St. George's Hall, was Hamlet, read by Mr. Bellew, while living actors, appropriately dressed, followed the text in dumb show. The effect, to tell the truth, was somewhat ludicrous, and prevented appreciation of Bellew's great ability, it being an open secret that IQ — 2 292 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. he had greatly aided Fechter in many readings when the celebrated French actor played the part and drew the town to the Princess's. Matters simply of home life, merely joys or sorrows, NOTE have been thought by both of us to have BANCROFT, no ckilm to be recorded in this book ; and if, for a moment, I raise the veil that shrouds such things, and allude in this paragraph to a wretched- ness that befell us at the time, it is due to the still keen remembrance of a grief which— though briefly — interfered with my duties as an actor. A baby boy had recently been born to us. One night, while playing Jack Poyntz (her sister had taken my wife's place for some time), nearly at the end of the play, I was called from the stage and summoned home, a child-illness having quickly grown alarming. In a few hours the little being died, and, while we lived there, saddened the house in which he slept away his thirty days of life. The thoughts of those days that followed can be ever raised, and the ghosts of them can be never laid. The same form of sorrow — and much at the same time — befell those living in the house adjoining ours. To mutual sympathy we then owed the acquaintance, and afterwards the friendship, of Admiral and Mrs. (now Sir Edward and Lady) Inglefield. Robertson had now become very ill indeed, and, after several consultations with eminent physicians. THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 293 we learnt in how dangerous a condition, from serious heart mischief, he truly was. He had finished three acts, out of four, of a new play to succeed School, which, having been acted at the time about three hundred and fifty nights — in those days an unpre- cedented ' run '■ — we felt should be soon withdrawn, so that in its turn it might still have life to bear revival. The invalid's health for awhile prevented his leaving his house, so that he was quite unable to go to the theatre, or face the fatigue of rehearsals. One of us (Mr. Bancroft) therefore undertook to read the play to the company ; Mr. Coghlan, being at this time added to it, engaged to take the place of Mr. Montague, who had asked that he might be re- leased in order to enter into the management with his and our friends, Thomas Thorne and David James, of a little theatre, the Vaudeville, recently built in the Strand, and which, with an excellent company, including Henry Irving, George Honey, and Ada Cavendish, they soon made popular. Poor Montague gave us a charming souvenir of the happy years he had passed with us, all the more valued by us since his early death. The new comedy was received with enthusiasm by the company, and rehearsals were at once com- menced. After a time, we felt a sense of weakness in the work — in spite of its delicate charm, its many Robertsonian beauties — and were distressed to find a growing fear lest it should not act so well as it had read. The end of the play was dictated by the 294 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. author from his sick-bed, and bore the signs of his weakened condition. We felt strongly, in this sad state of things, that an adverse verdict might be fatal to the slender thread by which he held his life. No assurance from us will be needed to say that all concerned worked hard and with real affection to avert it. If ever a play was snatched from failure, this one was. It was the first we rehearsed for so long a time as six weeks, and, towards the end, we used to go up to Haverstock Hill and show poor Robert- son, act by act, what we hoped to do with his work — he being a little better in the finer weather, and able to reach his drawing-room. Almost until it had to be announced, the comedy remained unchristened, when a conversation between us, as we were driving to one of its rehearsals through the Regent's Park, led to an inspiration on the part of Mrs. Bancroft, who suggested that it should be called Af. P. This bright idea was immediately telegraphed to cheer the author, who answered, ' Send the happy letters to the printer, and tell Marie I owe her five hundred pounds for them !' School was withdrawn after three hundred and eighty-one performances, and might, we truly be- lieve, have been played for another year, but ' that way madness lies.' So, on Shakespeare's birthday, we produced the new comedy with many fears and anxious forebodings for its fate. THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 295 On Saturday, April 23, 1870, ^aill be acted M. P., A NEW AND ORIGINAL COMEDY, BY T. W. ROBERTSON, The Author of 'School,' 'Play,' 'Caste,' 'Ours,' and 'Society.' DUxNSCOMBE DUNSCOMBE - - Mr. Hare. CHUDLEIGH DUNSCOMBE - - Mr. Coghlan. TALBOT PIERS . . . . Mr. Bancroft. ISAAC SKOOME . . . - Mr. Addison. MR. BRAN - . - . . Mr. Charles Collf.tte. MR. BRAY - . . . . Mr. F. Glover. MR. MULHOWTHER - - - Mr. Montgomery. CECILIA DUNSCOMBE - - - Miss Marie Wilton. (Mrs. Bancroft.) RUTH DEYBROOKE - - - Miss Carlotta Addison. Act I. — The Lawn : The Candidates. Act II.— The Lawn : The Addresses. Act III.— The Library: The Sale. Act IV.— The 'Rose' Room at the ' British Lion,' Bramlingdon : The Poll. Our terrors were soon set at rest by a brilliant success, doubtless partly owing to the reputation achieved by our previous productions of the author's works. Poor Robertson's state, unable as he was to leave his bedroom, may be imagined. The best step we could at the moment take to relieve his great anxiety, was to despatch messengers in hot haste after every act with the good news of their reception. This success, we have no doubt, pro- longed his life at least by months, and rekindled for awhile the litde flicker of hope that was left to him. So great was the demand for seats that the pretty rockwork and fernery were abolished, never to be reinstated, and a prosaic row of stalls reigned instead ; these seats had now encroached very much 296 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. on the space allotted to the pit, and could not have been otherwise added to. We have no wish or intention to weary the reader with long press extracts, but a few words, with a special reference to the author, from an exhaustive article written by the accomplished pen of Tom Taylor, who, through an illness of John Oxenford's, replaced him on the Times, need no apology : ' Mr. Robertson has added another leaf to the garland he has so honestly and honourably won at this theatre. None of his "first nights," we should say, can have been more genuinely and pleasantly successful than that of his new comedy, M. P., on Saturday. ... In the way of light comedy there is nothing in London approaching the pieces and the troupe of the Prince of Wales's taken together. Author, actors, and theatre seem perfectly fitted for each other. . . . Paris itself furnishes no exact pendant to this theatre and these plays. The Gymnase would be, on the whole, the nearest parallel ; but the staple of pieces at that house is heavier and more solid than Mr. Robertson has created for the Prince of Wales's. These comedies are, indeed, so unlike other men's work, that they amount to a creation. Light as they are, there is in them an under-current of close observation and half- mocking seriousness which lift them above triviality. Mr. Robertson is perfectly seconded by his actors. Miss Marie Wilton is the actress who, of all now on THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 297 the Stage, has preserved most of the arch humour and shrewd significance of Mrs. Keeley, while her Hne of parts combines with these a refinement which in Mrs. Keeley's usual business would have been misplaced.' The prosperous course pursued by M. P. — for success is ever a most potent drug — had even helped its suffering author to a gleam of apparent strength, which happily allowed him, after it had been played for a few weeks, to see and highly praise a perform- ance of the comedy ; soon after which he was strong enough to go with Mrs. Robertson to the seaside, where he again began to write a little, and think much of works, as he hoped, to come. A special performance of the School for Scandal and Married Life was given on May 14th, at Drury Lane, for the benefit of the moribund Dramatic College. The cast of the latter comedy included Webster, Buckstone, Toole, and the Kendals ; while Sheridan's masterpiece was acted by a strange mix- ture of the old and new schools, as follows : Sir Peter Teazle, Mr. Chippendale ; Sir Oliver Surface, Mr. Addison ; Joseph Surface, Mr. Alfred Wigan ; Charles Surface, Mr. James Anderson ; Crabtree, Mr. Compton ; Sir Benjamin Backbite, Mr. Ban- croft ; Moses, Mr. J. Clarke; Careless, Mr. Mon- tague ; Trip, Mr. H. J. Byron ; Snake, Mr. T. Stuart ; Lady Teazle, Miss Amy Sedgwick ; Mrs. Candour, Mrs. Chippendale ; Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Alfred Mellon ; Maria, Miss Edith Stuart. 298 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. [Although I (s. ];. i;.) always detested scratch performances, I consented to play Sir Benjamin Backbite, having, as I thought, some ideas of the character as a ' macaroni ' of the period which might, perhaps, attract attention, from their novelty, to the exponent of the part. Impressed with this notion, I went to the one rehearsal which the play received in its entirety ; but the first suggestion I ventured to make, which was opposed to the old conventional business, paralyzed anything like pro- gress ; there was nothing for it but to repent of having agreed to appear, and to reserve my notions for awhile (some of them were found to be of value by Mr. Lin Rayne when he played the part in our production of the ScJiool for Scandal later on, a view of the character which has been adopted on many subsequent revivals of the play). I may add that at this performance I shared a dressing-room with Compton, whose companionship, though brief, was delightful] Following hard upon the great delight he had so recently given to the London actors — the date being June 9th — ' the gaiety of nations was eclipsed ' by the death of Dickens. Even at this lapse of time we easily recall the shock of it, which shook the land almost as if a death had happened in each household. In reply to a recommendation for some remedy for neuralgia, from which it may be remembered he sadly suffered at the time, and but a few short days before his fatal seizure, this letter came to us : THE SEASON OF 1S69-70. 299 ' Gad's Hill Place, Higham by Rochester, Kent. Tliursday^ May 31, 1870. ' Mv DEAR Mrs. Bancroft, ' I am most heartily obliged to you for your kind note, which I received here only last night, having come here from town circuitously to get a little change of air on the road. My sense of your interest cannot be better proved than by my trying the remedy you recommend, and that I will do im- mediately. As I shall be in town on Thursday, my troubling you to order it would be quite unjustifiable. ' I will use your name in applying for it, and will report the result after a fair trial. Whether this remedy succeeds or fails as to the neuralgia, I shall always consider myself under an obligation to it, for having indirectly procured me the great pleasure of receiving a communication from you ; for I hope I may lay claim to being one of the most earnest and delighted of your many artistic admirers. ' Believe me, faithfully yours, ' Charles Dickens.' At the sale of the great novelist'seffects at Christie's, which followed shortly afterwards, and which realized, after two exciting days, betw^een nine and ten thou- sand pounds— Barnaby Rudge's stuffed raven alone fetching a gigantic sum, being knocked down eventually to the late Mr. Nottage (recently Lord Mayor), after a keen competition between himself and Andrew Halliday — we bought a little souvenir 300 O UR JOIN r NA RRA TI VE. which reminds us sadly of a loss which was all men's. Not the least of the many debts the nation owes Charles Dickens is the abolition of the dreadful paraphernalia formerly attached to our funerals. Those terrible cloaks, scarves, and enormous hat- bands, or 'weepers,' which once so commonly formed part of ' the trappings and the suits of woe,' have, owing mainly to the great master's pen, been swept away, together with the dreadful ' mutes ' who used to stand as sentinels outside the house of mourning. The mere mention of them recalls a story of a funeral which took place from the home of a notably mean man on a bitterly cold day. So keen was the east wind, so sharp the frost, that the chief under- taker, out of pity for the two unfortunates who were fulfilling under such hard conditions the position of mutes, asked the master of the house if he might send the men some brandy. ' Brandy for the mutes ! Nothing of the sort. Never heard of such a thing! If they're cold, let 'em jump about f This, surely, must have been the same person whose character was once thus described by an acquaint- ance who wished to convey a full idea of his parsi- mony : ' Mean, is he ? Why, when his poor wife died he buried her from the Stores !' Held down, as it were, by long runs, and ' ob- structed,' so to speak, by our antipathy to benefits, Mr. Hare asked our permission, which was at once accorded, to give a special matin(fe at the Princess's THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 301 Theatre. The programme selected was the farce of the Bengal Tiger, m which Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Wigan acted, and Boucicault's comedy, London Assurance. The esteem in which the young actor was held will, perhaps, best be proved by simply recording the cast of the favourite old play : SIR IIARCOURT COURTLY CHARLES COURTLY MAX HARKAWAY - DAZZLE DOLLY SPANKER - MARK MEDDLE COOL - - - - SOLOMON ISAACS - LADY GAY SPANKER GRACE HARKAWAY PERT - - - . Mr. Hare. Mr. H. J. Montague. Mr. Addison. Mr. Bancroft. Mr. Buckstone. Mr. J. L. Toole. Mr. John Clayton. Mr. C. Collet IE. Mrs. Bancroft. Miss Carlotta Addison. Miss E. Farren. Another attraction was that Arthur Sullivan and Frederic Clay played the piano between the Acts. Although M. P. still continued its successful career, we could not rob ourselves of our holiday, which had been so restricted in the previous year, and on August 1 2th we brought the season, the prosperity of which had known no check, to a close, and went away to Scarborough. There a happy month was spent at the Grand Hotel, where we added to our list of friends that strange and interesting creature, the late Henry Fothergill Chorley : a man who neither loved nor hated by halves, but of whose nature we fortunately only knew the tender side. We grew to know him well, which meant to like him very much. We afterwards found out that he first felt an interest in us through having accidentally overheard OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. the terms of affection in which we chanced to speak of Dickens ; Chorley's love for the great writer being well known, and his grief at his recent death profound. When that sad event occurred, he referred to it in these pathetic terms : * I have a letter from poor Mary. If universal sympathy of the warmest kind in every form could soften the agony of such a trial, they will have it in overflowing measure ; but it will not give back one of the noblest and most gifted men I have ever known, whose regard for me was one of those honours which make amends for much failure and disappointment. I cannot express to any human being the void this will make for me to my dying day.' As his friends thus fell from him Chorley would say, with a sigh, ' Ah me ! there goes another page from my book : shall I have courage to try and replace it by a new leaf .'^' Mr. Chorley was one of the strangest mixtures of NOTE hate and affection I ever met. I told him BY MRS. BANCROFT. SO once, and he replied, ' They don^ mix ; they are separate always. There is, with me, no half-way house. I could not bear to be indifferent ; it is too colourless and flat, too uninteresting. I must like very much or not at all.' There was a lady in the hotel who seemed to spend her time in the amiable occupation of picking everybody else's character to pieces ; she had a terrible effect on Mr. Chorley. When he saw her THE SEASON OF 1869-70. 303 approach, he would take a long circuitous route to avoid meeting her, and although she was very hand- some, he would never allow it, saying, ' With an ugly tongue no woman can be handsome.' He was a remarkable-looking man, a spare figure, a reddish face, with small blue, searching, twinkling eyes ; his voice was thin, and he spoke in a petulant, incisive tone, with a keep-away-from-me action of the hand. He latterly wore a black velvet skull-cap with a coloured tassel, and a neck-tie of a brilliant hue. I was fortunate in being admitted into his friendship, and, strange to say, could speak frankly to him at any time, no matter what his mood. I obtained his goodwill in an unusual way ; but then he was an un- usual man. He asked me one evening, soon after we first met, if I would recite a poem of his at some entertainment that was to be given, and I replied that I was there for a holiday ; and, as my work had been very heavy all the season, I felt that I must not deprive myself of one hour of my rest. Learning a recitation meant at least three or four days' drudgery, so I gave a decisive A/'o. On the following day he asked us to sit next to him at dinner, and he became every day more and more friendly. I said to him one evening, laughingly, ' How is it that you seem to like me when I so firmly declined to recite your poem ?' He replied in his thin, shrill voice, but with a pleasant, twinkling smile, 'I liked your impudence.' He then added more seriously, ' You had courage to speak as you felt ; I like courage. You are not 304 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. afraid of me, so I like you.' He would resent a joke at his expense from anyone he disliked in a sharp and bitter manner ; but, as he said, preferred a brick from one he liked to a handsome present from one he disY\k&d.. He railed violently at the German bands and organ-grinders, who persistently played near his window ' Champagne Charley is my Name,' a popular comic song at that time, saying he should like to burn all music-halls. One evening he invited me to share his pint-bottle of champagne, saying, ' I always drink champagne, as you see ; I prefer it to any other wine.' I instantly replied, ' Champagne Chorley.' He laughed a good deal, and said, ' I hate puns, but that is too good.' I am convinced that no one else would have dared to per- petrate such a joke at his expense. This was the period of the Franco-German War, when the telegram-board in the hall of the hotel was besieged, as day by day disaster following disaster for the French was chronicled, culminating in their humiliation at Sedan. Indeed, the sounds of a tot- tering old newsvendor's piping voice still ring in one's ears, as he paraded the streets, with his mono- tonous, reiterated cry, ' The YoT-kshire Post ! the Leeds Mercury ! containin' the last words of the poor old Emprer afore he resigned hisself into the hands of the Proosians !' CHAPTER XI. THE SEASON OF 187O-71. There was at this time some discussion in the columns of the Daily Telegraph, led by Dion Bouci- cault, as to the then charges for admission to the London theatres being too high. The following letter addressed to the editor may be worth append- ing, to mark how different they then were, and how greatly the prices have since still further been increased : 'Sir, ' I am so great an admirer of Mr. Boucicault as an author, as an actor, and as a manager, and so sincere a believer in most of his professional views, that I hope he will forgive me for once venturing to differ from him, as I do about his letter addressed to you last week on " English and American Theatres," which states that fifty cents was the highest charge for admission to Niblo's Theatre. In September, 1858, I paid a visit as a boy to New York. Among my most pleasurable recollections of the trip are VOL. I. 20 3o6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. many evenings passed fat Niblo's, where Mr. and Mrs. Bouclcault were acting ; and although the prices were prominently advertised as twenty-five and fifty cents, there were orchestra stalls at seventy- five cents, which in October (to the number of a hundred) were raised to a dollar. As I have almost a mania to be correct when I interfere with dates and figures, I beg to enclose two playbills in con- firmation of my statement, adding only that I never spent a dollar with greater satisfaction, or received better value for my money, than on the many nights I occupied a stall during the brilliant engagement Mr. and Mrs. Boucicault played there. ' So much for America. Now for Ensfland. For some years accounts of every shilling expended and received at the Prince of Wales's Theatre have passed through my hands ; so I may perhaps be able, with your permission, to add a few items, re- sulting from that experience, to the vexed question whether high or low prices of admission to theatres are most liked by the play-going public, and — an equally important consequence, I imagine — which tend most to afford the best entertainment. ' Until September, 1868, the prices were consider- ably lower to every part of the Prince of Wales's Theatre than at present. The pit and amphitheatre (although then decreased in size) have since not only yielded more money, but show a greatly increased numerical attendance ; and I may add that Mr. Robertson's two comedies, which, perhaps, would THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 307 appeal most to those portions of the house, Ottrs and Cash-, were both produced by Mrs. Bancroft at the cheap prices. The upper boxes, which formerly were chiefly valuable in the event of an overflow from other seats, were nearly doubled, both in numbers and in price, and are now constantly secured in advance. On several occasions in the old days, intending visitors to the dress-circle have actually left the theatre when told by the money- takers that the charge was only three shillings, but no one grumbles about paying five shillings ; while the stalls, which formerly seated fifty-four persons at six shillings, now hold one hundred and twenty-seven at seven shillings, and, to my certain knowledge, a very large percentage of them, throughout the first run of M. P., from last April to August, were sold in Bond Street at eight shillings, and in some cases at still higher prices. ' Your obedient servant, ' S. B. Bancroft. ' Garrick Club, October 24.' Breaking the run of a successful play is always dangerous, and, although in our case the risk had previously escaped bad results, on this occasion, when the theatre was reopened in the autumn, we found that the great attraction of M. P. had waned considerably, and from the hundredth night until its withdrawal, some sixty more, it attracted only moderate audiences. We began to find ourselves somewhat in a fix to 20 — 2 3o8 UR JOINT NA RRA TI VE. decide upon its successor, there being no chance, we felt and feared, of a new play by Robertson ; although, poor fellow, being, or appearing to be, ignorant of the gravity of his illness, and ever hope- fully looking forward to his recovery, he was misled at this time by some apparent return to health. He had made many notes for a play we had often talked about, the story of which bore some resem- blance to the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' and its title was to have been Faith. As it was, he even expended such little strength as had come back to him in dictating a comedy destined for the St. James's Theatre, then under the management of Mrs. John Wood. We solved the difficulty by deciding upon a revival of Ottrs, although it was but little more than four years since the play had been produced. Great pains were bestowed upon the rehearsals, and the play was placed on the stage and dressed, especially with regard to the exactitude of the uniforms, in a more elaborate way than when first acted. Our neighbour. Admiral Inglefield, gave us a valuable bit of realism in a Russian drum captured by himself in the Crimea, and which has figured in all our subsequent performances of the play. Apropos of this cheery friend, we often talked to- gether in mock nautical language * over the garden wall.' Brimful of good-humour, he would cry out, ' What cheer ?' ' Where bound ?' to be answered by, ' What time do you splice the main brace ?' or ' You were late home last night. We saw you THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 309 douse the glims!' Lady Inglefield often laughed at our salt-sea chatter. But to return to Ours ; one day, while a full-band rehearsal of the second act, where the troops are supposed to be leaving for the Crimea, was in progress and the complete effect given to the scene, we were interrupted by the grief of a poor old servant of the theatre, who was en- gaged as a ' cleaner,' and at the time was following her daily occupation of brushing and dusting the stall-seats, when she burst into a flood of tears at the remembrance of a sad loss she had sustained by the death of a son at the battle of the Alma. On one Saturday morning in November — a typical London day — when a cold white fog had penetrated into the theatre, while we were going through the first act, the hall-keeper came to us with a frightened look upon his face, and announced that Mr. Robertson was at the stage-door ; we were terror-stricken, knowing him to be in an unfit state to leave his house, even in fine weather. He further sent a message that he dreaded the stairs which led to the stage — there were only four up, and, I think, six down, poor fellow !— and that he would like to drive round to the door then used as the royal entrance, and, if it might be opened, get to us that way. Of course all this was done at once, and, in a piteous plight, Robertson came for the last time among us ; many of the company then spoke their last word to him, although it proved not to be his actual final visit to the little theatre he loved so OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. much and always called 'his home.' He stayed for half an hour in dreadful suffering, |^and tortured by a cough which told what he endured. In an agony of pain caused by a violent paroxysm, he stooped down and knocked with a hollow sound upon the stage, saying in a voice made terribly painful by • its tone of sad reproach, to imaginary phantoms, * Oh, don't be in such a hurry !''_ We shuddered at the words, and, when he recovered, with diffi- culty persuaded him to return home ; for he per- sisted in the thought that the mere sight of the familiar stage would of itself do him good, and hoped yet to come again. The little band that formed our company then grouped together (there was no more work that day), and the talk was only of the visit which none then present will have forgotten. On Saturday, November 26th, 0?rrs was revived with the following cast of characters : PRINCE PEROVSKY - - - - Mr. Hare. COL. SIR ALEXANDER SHENDRYN - Mr. Addison. CAPTAIN SAMPREY- - - - Mr. W. Herbert. ANGUS MACALISTER - - - Mr. Coghlan. HUGH CHALCOT - - . . Mr. Bancroft. SERGEANT JONES ... - Mr. Charles Collette. LADY SHENDRYN ... - Miss Le Thiere. BLANCHE HAYE - . . . Miss Fanny Josephs. MARY NETLEY .... Miss xMarie Wilton. (Mrs. i'.ancroft.) It may be interesting to note here that this play, like Masks and Faces, was suggested by a picture ; Robertson having evolved the plot from thoughts inspired by Millais's magnificent painting, ' The Black Brunswicken' THE Si: A SOX OF 18/0-71. 311 Poor Tom insisted upon being present against all advice, and occupied the box which had long been known to us as his. This proved to be the last time he ever entered a theatre. On the following day he wrote this letter : ' 6, Eton Road, N.W., Novemdt'r 27, 1870. ' My dear Marie, ' Ours was acted so excellently last night that, as I may not see you for the next few days, 1 write to express the great gratification it gave me to see that the ' light troupe ' had distinguished themselves more than ever. ' You know that I am not given to flattery, and that my standard of taste for comedy is somewhat high. I was really charmed, and I was very ill the whole night, in discomfort and annoyance. The remark of everyone I heard was, " What wonderfully good acting !" and I was pleased to find Boucicault descanting on it to a chosen few. He said that not only was the general acting of the piece equally admirable, but that he had never — including Paris — seen such refinement and effect combined, as in the performance of the second act. He said, too, that the actors who had played in the piece before acted better than ever. I mention this, because the same thing struck me. Bancroft was most excellent, and I have never seen him succeed in sinking his own identity so much as in the last act. For the first time in my life I felt grateful to the folks on the 312 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Stage-side of the footlights, and I am not given to that sort of gratitude. * It was terribly late last night. If the revival should draw, and it should be worth while, could not the first and third acts be relieved of some ten minutes' talk ? Cut wherever you like. / shan't wince, for I don't care about either the first or last acts. If they had been less perfectly acted they would have missed fire, and deservedly. ' Yours very sincerely, ' T. \V. RoiiERTSON.' No letter in our collection is more valued by us than this one, which was followed by corroboration from another critical pen. ' 326, Regent Street, W., Noveviber 27, 1870. ' Mv DEAR Bancroft, ' Accept my warmest congratulations on the very great improvement in the present performance of Oui's over the original cast, especially in the part of Chalcot. ' The tone of the whole is elevated, and I enter- tain no doubt that the play will have a second run. I agree with the remark of the Obsei^oe^'- of this morning that the dialogue and business of acts one and three might be accelerated. ' I do not think that they dragged, as it says, but the peculiar dislocation which Tom's dialogue en- courages inclines an actor to slowdom of delivery. THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 313 ' Excellent when the laughter intervenes, but not so when the dialogue is not so sparkling as to admit of it. I know you will excuse my criticism, and credit me with the sincere interest which induces me to give an opinion. ' Mrs. Bancroft was herself throughout admirable. Give her my love. She looked good enough to eat, ev^ery bit. ' Her dresses were exquisite. Why do they call the " Roly-poly " farce ? It is eminently natural. ' Yours very sincerely, ' Dion Boucicault." The revival proved an immense success, a success indeed far eclipsing that of its original production, Very shortly after, it being manifest that the pla)' would enjoy a long career, we decided to offer Robertson an increase on the fees we had paid during the original run. To a letter wishing him to agree to this, his reply is appended : ' Wednesday Morning, December'], 1870. ' Dear B., ' I need not tell you that the death of Fred Younge* has so knocked me over that you must excuse all errors of brusquerie, omission, and com- mission in this answer to your friendly letter. * On the previous day, Frederick Younge, the original George D'Alroy, and a very old friend, and once schoolfellow, of Robertson's, who had for some time been the manager of the company engaged to play the Robertson comedies in the provinces, was killed in a railway accident in the North of England. 314 OUR yoi\T NARRATIVE. ' Useless to say I am glad to hear Oiu^s goes so well and is so successful. May it continue ! ' All trouble with my piece at the St. James's is over, and I was " reading up " to write the new play for the Prince of Wales's, which I shall get on to at once. ' Don't be offended that 1 return your cheque. I recognise your kindness and intention to the full ; but having thought the matter over, I cannot recon- cile it to my sense of justice and probity to take more than I bargained for. An arrangement is an arrangement, and cannot be played fast and loose with. If a man — say an author — goes in for a cer- tain sum, he must be content with it, and " seek no new ;" if he goes in for a share, he must take good and bad luck too. So please let Ours be paid for at the sum originally agreed on. ' With kind love to Marie, and many thanks, ' I am, ' Yours always, ' T. W. Robertson.' The winter was one of unusual severity, and soon afterwards Robertson was sent to Torquay for a few weeks ; the weather was equally wretched there, and the journey, added to the mortification of the failure of the last play he ever wrote, called J-Va?', and which was withdrawn from the St. James's pro- gramme after a very few performances, seemed to hasten his end. For a little while he was rarely THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 315 able to see his closest friends, among whom at the time were Dion Boucicault, Tom Hood, John Hare, and ourselves. On Wednesday, the ist of February, we were fortunate enough to call upon him at a good moment, and he begged to see us. We found him propped up in a big chair, breathing with difficulty. He talked for some little time, dwellincr, amono: other subjects, on the new play he had conceived for us, adding that only earlier in the day he had jotted down some more notes about it. All this we knew could not be, and when we went away we both felt we should never touch his hand again. During Tom Robertson's absence at Frankfort, A DREAM when he left Fngland to be married, I BY M. E. K. j^^j ,^ strange dream about him which I related to a mutual friend, who imprudently repeated it to Tom some time afterwards. My dream was this : I saw them being married, and when he was placing the ring upon his bride's finger, I could see that it was lined with black ; then I thought, when he left the church, two chil- dren came up to Mrs. Robertson with wreaths of immortelles in their hands. I quite forgot all about this dream as time went on ; but poor Tom, it seemed, did not. On this day when we were leaving him, and we saw too plainly that the sad end was near, he drew me towards him, and said quietly, ' Do you remember your dream about me, Marie ? The ring 3i6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. is getting black, and the wreaths of immortelles are made.' On the night of the Friday following, when the play was over, Dion Boucicault was waiting privately at the theatre to gently break the news to us that quietly and suddenly the end had come that evening. Never were the oft-quoted words, ' What shadows we are ! what shadows we pursue !' more fully realized. After an early manhood, passed in struggling misery, and sometimes almost want, Robertson was snatched from life when he had only just begun to taste its sweets. His footprints, as it were, upon the shore of fame were quickly placed, but he trod deep enough for even the sands of Time not readily to efface them. Shortly after this, his two children (by his first marriage) spent the day with us ; and as we were walking round the garden, ' Tommy,' who was but a small boy then, seemed to love to dwell upon the sad subject of his father's death, and the little fellow was very pathetic in his boyish remarks. All at once he said, ' A few clays before father died, I knew he was going to leave us.' ' How could you know it ?' we asked. ' Because he looked so handsome. I have heard that people get such a beautiful look upon their faces when they are going to die.' It seemed as if the son had inherited his father's poetic mind. THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 317 Tom Robertson was fond of comparing our con- duct with that of other managers towards him in his early days, and would often linger long after the re- hearsals were over, giving us painful accounts of his many struggles in life, when, at times, he would ex- press himself with much bitterness. We became the best of friends ; our opinions on the art of acting per- fectly coincided with his, and the result was, to quote the words of others, ' A new era in dramatic history.' He would constantly speak of our little theatre with gratitude, and called it, as we have al- ready said, his home. There is no doubt that when he wrote for us, his whole heart was in his work, for his best plays were written for that theatre where he never knew failure. As we perfectly understood one another, there was not a single contretemps between us, during a friendship which was broken only by his death. Although his own style was utterly of another kind, Robertson was a great admirer of Sardou, and we recall distinctly his enthusiasm on a return from Paris after seeing Patrie, and a like ap- preciation, at another time, of Meilhac and Halevy's Frou Frou. In these plays we have always believed, and but for somewhat Quixotic feelings at the date of their production, as to acting, as long as possible, only English plays, should have ventured on versions of one or both of them. Some peculiarities, referring especially to his stage life, of so successful and distinguished a writer as Robertson proved to be, may be worth recording. 3i8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. He always sat in the same box on all first nights of his comedies at the Prince of Wales's Theatre, and ' during their progress rarely looked at the stage, but watched the audience, glancing continually and rapidly from one part of the theatre to another, to gather the different effects the same point or speech might produce on various people, being of course familiar from rehearsal with the actors' treatment ; while, between the acts, he would often push his way into parts of the theatre where he would not be re- cognised, and listen to all the opinions he could over- hear. He also made a point of having some one — entirely removed from theatrical life — in each part of the theatre, whom he would see on the following day and hold long conversations with, carefully com- paring the impression and the remarks he drew from these different witnesses, generally, he said, with valuable results. On the ni^ht of the funeral we determined to close the theatre ; we knew no better way to show our estimate of the loss we sustained. Upon this act the Times commented as follows : ' Last night the Prince of Wales's Theatre re- mained closed as a mark of respect to the memory of the late Mr. T. W. Robertson, whose funeral was appointed for yesterday. We cannot recall to mind any precedent in this capital for so singular a com- pliment to a dramatic author ; but perhaps there never was an instance of a dramatist, who was not THE SEASON OF 1870^71. 319 likewise an actor, being so intimately associated with the fortunes of a particular theatre, as Mr, Robertson was with the stage and company governed by Mrs. Bancroft.' The extract from an account of the ceremony we also feel to be better than any words of ours : * No better evidence of the high esteem in which the distinguished dramatist, T. W. Robertson, was held, could have been possibly afforded than by the great gathering of his friends assembled yesterday to pay the last sad tribute of personal respect ; never, probably, had the peaceful cemetery of Abney Park, Stoke Newington, included within its boundary such a crowd of living personages, whose names were all more or less familiar to the public. The majority of them recalled very different associations from those connected with the sad thoughts now aroused ; but it was impossible to mistake the sincerity of expression to be traced in every face. Here was no simulated woe. The heart was full, and the faltering voice and the trickling tear had nothing to do with the artifices of the stage. The many actors and actresses who gathered round the few feet of earth henceforth to be marked as the burial-place of one with whose creations they had been so conspicuously identified needed no prompter to give a cue to the utterance of emotion. Each had a vivid remembrance of some gentle pressure of the hand — some friendly encourage- ment in a kindly voice spoken — of some generous 320 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. written acknowledgment of services rendered. All had enduring recollections of the warm heart and the active brain ever ministering to the social happi- ness and the intellectual pleasure of those around him ; and the oppressive sense of the heavy loss sustained in the sudden stilling of the impulses of both was perhaps most acutely felt by the members of the Prince of Wales's Theatre, with whom the deceased dramatist had been so intimately associated. As a mark of respect — more worthy of note because it is entirely without precedent — Mrs. Bancroft had announced that the theatre would be closed on the evening of the funeral ; and throughout the company, all present, from the directress to the humblest official, there was a feeling of personal bereavement manifested in the strongest manner. Mrs. Bancroft was deeply affected, and it was evidently with the greatest difficulty that her emotions could be kept under control.' At this moment, perchance, the lines of Long- fellow came into the minds of many, with the conso- latory reflection : ' Our life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, Whose portal we call Death.' The plate on the coffin bore the following in- scription : ' Thomas William Robertson, born 9th January, 1829; died 3rd February, 1871.' No one, perhaps, had fewer enemies or more friends than Tom Robertson. He had borne much 'P>^^, ^ .'/C' L»^ th cr^"^^^ ^A.^^t//i t^-«^ c^T^"-«H ' K>s^tV<>/k-€ y^ irT^i4tA^ U if.* ^ trvtj tyf-i-U^i-fn^ THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 321 adversity apparently light-heartedly, and in his pros- perity he lost no old friends, while gaining many new ones. The facsimile of Robertson's handwriting to be found in this book is copied from a page of the original manuscript of Caste, by which it may be noted, with some interest, that Esther was first called Ellen Eccles — the name having been changed during the rehearsals. Tom Robertson was one of the most sensitive of PERSONAL men, and at the same time terribly sar- ROBERTsoN castlc. I fancy his early troubles soured Bv M. E. B. j^jy nature, and often for the moment blunted his best impulses. Many a time have I walked up and down the stage with him, after a rehearsal was over, listening to stories of his past life. He loved to dwell upon the recollection of them to a sympathetic listener, and would relate his wretched experiences with such bitterness that it often made me feel sorry that he would not take a less jaundiced view of the world, which he said he should like to have ' as a ball at his feet, that he micrht kick it.' o He was very unforgiving and relentless in his condemnation when he thought he had been slighted or wrona^ed, althoucrh he was tender-hearted and very charitable, especially in feeding the hungry, ever ready to sympathize with those who were sick or in trouble of any sort. Ele would take a strange VOL. I. 21 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. delight in saying the most biting, cutting things, to certain of his acquaintances, but would immediately resent any sarcasm if pointed to himself. I have known him writhe under adverse criticism, and fret over it until he became absolutely peevish. I shall never forget the terrible night of the production at the Adelphi of a drama written by him called T^e Nightingale. I was in delicate health at the time, and not acting : Mr. and Mrs. Robertson persuaded me to accompany them to the theatre, and we occupied a stage-box. During the performance Tom came in, and went out, in a restless and nervous state of excitement painful to witness. Not long after the play began, it was evident to me, and also to Mrs. Robertson, that its success was doubtful; but we dared not even hint our fears to Tom, who seemed to be in a sort of dream, expecting loud applause at certain moments, which, however, did not come, and the fact seemed to daze him ; he appeared unable to realize that the play was in jeopardy, but the awful pallor of his face told us of his intense and anxious sufferino-. Failure was imminent, and ominous sounds were heard all over the theatre. Suddenly he would rush in and hurriedly ask, ' How do you think it is going ?' with such a scared look that we feared to tell him. I dreaded the end of the play, for its fate was sealed, and wished from my heart that I had not yielded to their persuasions to accompany them. As the last act proceeded, and laughter came where he intended to produce sym- THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 323 pathy, and various other signs of ridicule so well known to ' first nighters ' were forced upon him, he grew ashy-pale and very silent. When the curtain finally fell, amidst a shower of groans and hisses, he quietly prepared to leave the theatre ; but as he left the box, he shook his fist at the audience and mut- tered between his clenched teeth an imprecation which he did not intend either of us to hear. Oddly enough, although the piece was a deserved failure, Tom never would (at least to his friends) admit that it was not a good play ; and he told me himself that he should never forsfive the audience of that nioht. I indeed ought to say so, for I was seriously ill afterwards, Robertson's personal appearance never seemed to enter much into his thoughts ; I don't think the idea of being tidy or untidy occurred to him, for he was a Bohemian to the heart's core. I never saw him act, but I think it is well known, and the admission was frankly made by himself, that he was not 'esteemed a good actor.' He and I never once during the whole of our acquaintance knew what it was to have an angry word. This will always be a happy reflection to me, and I mark the days when we first met with red letters ; we were of mutual value to each other, and certainly our good stars were in the ascendant when Tom and I were ' first acquaint.' Dear Tom ! there is no one who has a better right than I to place an evergreen upon your niemory — for you will never cease to hold your place 21 — 2 324 ■ O UR JOIN T NA RRA TI VE. RESUMED «Y S. ]i. li. in my esteem and gratitude until I myself ' shake off this mortal coil' It was thought by many that Robertson's death would be a blow to the theatre and its management from which neither could possibly recover, and at the time many such expres- sions as ' that bubble has burst ' reached our ears. We waited very quietly, convinced of the import- ance of our next step, and resolved, at least, that it should not be a timid one ; for the great success of this performance of Ours prevented immediate anxiety, and foreshadowed that we had the same friend to fall back upon in Caste. Apropos of the fortunate career which followed the revival, a letter from so eminent a man as Mr. Ruskin was naturally delightful to receive. 'Denmark Hill, S.E., March i6, 1871. ' My dear Mr. Bancroft, ' I cannot refuse myself the indulgence of thanking you for the great pleasure we had at the play on Wednesday last. As regards myself, it is a duty no less than an indulgence to do so, for I get more help in my own work from a good play than from any other kind of thoughtful rest. ' It would not indeed have been of much use to see this one while Mrs. Bancroft could not take part in it ; but much as I enjoy her acting and yours, I wish the piece, with its general popular interest, did not depend so entirely upon you two, and, when you THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 325 two are resting, on the twins. I was disappointed with Mr. Hare's part ; not with his doing of it, but with his havincr so Httle to do. However, that was partly my own mistake, for I had a fixed impression on my mind that he was to wear a lovely costume of blue and silver, with ostrich feathers, and, when he was refused, to order all the company to be knouted, and send the heroine to Siberia. ' In spite of his failure in not coming up to my expectations, will you please give him my kind regards } and believe me, ' Yours very gratefully, ' J. RUSKIN.' At Easter w^e produced CiU off ivith a S hilling y an admirably written one-act play, by Theyre Smith, the author of those clever pieces, A Happy Pair and Uncles Will. It was acted by Miss Carlotta Addison, Mr. Montgomery, and Mr. Collette, and played during this and the next season for more than three hundred times. We allude here to pleasant dinners given by Henry Chorley, and to which we often went, because at the little house in Eaton Place West we first met many of the celebrities in both the social and the artistic world whom we afterwards knew well. The company was always oddly, but cleverly, assorted, and amonof the leadinc^ names of fre- quent guests since passed away was that of the late Lord Chief Justice Cockburn, with whom we en- 326 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. joyed the privilege of close friendship until his death in 1880. Me was a delightful companion, and when he had left his wig and robes in the Queen's Bench, and walked down Whitehall, as was his custom in all weathers, he looked far more like the captain of his own yacht, or a north-country farmer, than a ' wise and upright judge,' Let us quote Chorley's own cheery words in bidding a guest to one of his dinners : ' I have a dinner here on Gunpowder-day, Sunday, November 5th, half-past seven. I have no choice save to take a Sunday, because I shall receive some of my theatrical friends — Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft and Mr. Hare — and they are free on no other day. If you are disposed to bid for a stall to meet the galaxy (is not that grand ?), I will keep one for your disposal, and a bed for yourself and carpet-bag after.' Chorley's cards of invitation were generally sur- mounted by a little portrait of himself ; and the ineniis were frequently initialed by the side of some quaint dish, after he had written ' Try this.' We have recollections of a wonderful ' fish-pie ' which he was very proud of, and of which he would give the receipt to no one. After praising a salad at his house one evening, we received the following ; but whether the verses were original we are not able to say : ' Of four good lettuces take the hearts, They still have got What man has not ; Break roughly into equal parts. THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 327 For hours in water they shotild lie, If fairly you'd this salad try. ' One teaspoonful, not chopped too fine, Tarragon, chervil, and shallot — Of the two first, proportions even ; But of the last, as one to seven. In a large cup the three combine, And mind you bruise them not : A pinch of powdered sugar, too, Black pepper ditto, or say two ; And in the words of Sydney Smith, lest you this salad spoil, Be niggard of your vinegar, and lavish of your oil. Six tablespoonfuls of the first Will barely quench thy salad's thirst. Three teaspoons, then, of vinegar must in the mixture vanish ; But mind, perfection to attain, this latter must be Spanish. Stir them together, pour them in the bottom of the bowl ; Then add a teaspoonful of salt, the essence of the whole. Throw in your lettuce, stir it round, and, if you have a soul. Stir not the lettuce in its midst, but round and round the bowl, Using two wooden kitchen spoons that have no other mission. Your salad's finished, so am I, and so is my commission.' Owing to the reign of the Commune and the siege of Paris, the entire company of the Thddtre Frangais first came over to England in this year, and acted from May ist until July 8th, at the Opera Comique Theatre, in the Strand, but only with indifferent success until the last few nights of their engagement. At nearly all the niatindes which were given on Saturdays we were present. At one of these morn- ing performances, when we were accompanied by the Hares, I especially recall the exquisite acting of Favart and Delaunay in La unit d Octobre, which greatly impressed us all. For some time we would revert to that performance as being one of the most delicate and artistic we had ever witnessed 328 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. on the stage. I have a very happy recollection of a particular evening we spent with Mr. and Mrs. Hare, who were livinc: at that time a short distance only from our house ; and it happened that when we or they were not engaged elsewhere on Sunday evenings, we often dined with them, or they with us. On those occasions, Mr. Hare and Mrs. Bancroft would often think of something in the shape of entertainment (as if they had not enough of it during the week) for the amusement of a tiny audience, which frequently consisted of Mrs. Hare and myself only. On one evening they gave an imitation of Favart and Delaunay, which was quite extraordinary ; and we regretted that it was not seen and enjoyed by others, for we thought it more than a pity that it should have been lost. In these improvised entertainments, many things were done that would have been a great success with a large audience ; but then, perhaps, as is often the case, preparation might have spoiled them. The troupe included then that charming actor, Bressant, who, perhaps, has never been replaced. He always seemed to have far more of that valuable stage quality, distinction, called by their critics autoritd, than is, as a rule, possessed by even the best French exponents of our art. At the end of their stay, they were feted at the Crystal Palace, where a big dc^jenner was given in their honour, and attended by all our leading lite- rary and artistic people of the day. I am reminded THE SEASON OE 1870-71. 329 by Sir Frederick Pollock's recollections that I was so fortunate as to have himself and George Du Maurier for neighbours ; the chair was taken by Lord Dufferin, who, with Lord Granville and Alfred Wigan, addressed our guests in their own language. The Frenchmen looked strange enough in the daylight, being all clad in evening dress, it having been forgotten to tell them that our customs for morninor ceremonies so far differed from o theirs. In the same season, that great singer and charming actor, Mario, left the Lyric stage for ever, and sang for the last time in La Favorita. It was impossible for us to be present during the ceremony. All one could do was to rush down to Covent Garden at the end of the play to try to get even one's nose into the vast house, and assist at what was perhaps the most grateful and affectionate demonstration ever bestowed upon a public favourite by his admirers. As the summer advanced, we had, of course, it is needless to tell, bestowed many anxious thoughts upon the decision as to what should be our next performance. After wading through reams of rubbish, we heard, through Mr. Hare, that Wilkie Collins had written a drama on the subject of his successful novel Man and IVifc. This we read, and at once agreed to produce it. A letter from the author, which we quote, ratifies the time we came to this decision. 330 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. ' Auj^i(st I, 1 87 1. ' Dear Mr. Bancroft, ' Let me a.ssLire you that I feel the sincerest gratification that Man and I Fife has been accepted at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. Every advantage that I could possibly wish for is, I know beforehand, already obtained for my work, now that it has secured the good fortune of addressing itself to the public with Mrs. Bancroft's introduction. ' Believe me, ' Very faithfully yours, ' WiLKiE Collins.' So commenced a friendship, which it has been our privilege to enjoy ever since, with one whose masterly romances had lightened many an hour and given us infinite delight ; for deep is our debt of gratitude to the creator of Margaret Vanstone, Rachel Verrinder, and Count Fosco. Wilkie Collins might, perhaps, as a novelist, be compared with Sardou as a dramatist : the smallest brick in the structure is intentionally placed, and carries many others ; if knocked out, or displaced, serious results would to a certainty ensue to the entire fabric. We resolved to commence our next campaign with a revival of Caste, and to announce the new play by Mr. Collins as its successor. The theatre closed on August 19th, when Onrs was acted for the two hundred and ninth time of its revival, the success of THE SEASON OF 1870-71. which had far exceeded in every way the original production. Our vacation was again passed at Scarborough, where, among other friends, we had many a pleasant day with the Yateses and the Boucicaults ; Sir George Armytage and J. M. Bellew ; George Lewis, Clement Scott, and young George Greville — all of whom were holiday-making at the same time. Delightful picnic-drives to Hackness and Forge Valley ; the early morning swim in the deep sea from the fishing-smack of a jolly fellow named Webster, when I taught ' Dot ' Boucicault, then a plucky little boy of about twelve and clothed in a gray kilt, to take a header, were among the pleasures I look back to. The only theatrical event to recall during this holiday was the wretched news that came by tele- gram of poor Walter Montgomery's miserable death : he having shot himself in Stafford Street, off Bond Street, two clays after his marriage. A sad end to a life once full of promise, and to a career which might have made more stir in the world. I last saw him, a few weeks before, in the smoking- room of the Garrick Club, when we had a joleasant talk over the days gone by. At the time, although I thought his spirits seemed to have burnt out and found him changed, there was nothing to foreshadow a disordered mind. CHAPTER XII. THE SEASON OF 1 87 I -72. Although the great success which had followed the revival of Ours made us hopeful that Caste would also prove a trump-card, we did not expect the en- thusiasm its reproduction met with when we re- opened our theatre in September. Five of the seven characters were still in the hands of their original representatives, as old Eccles's two daughters were played as before, Lydia Foote being re-engaged for Esther, and George Honey again joined the com- pany to resume his performance of the bibulous parent ; Sam Gerridge and Captain Hawtree also were there to misunderstand and afterwards admire each other's nature ; Mr. Coghlan was this time the young love-sick dragoon ; and Mrs. Leigh Murray his austere old mother. Night after night was the theatre crowded, and the comedy received with a delight even warmer than before. In this happy condition we will leave the theatre for the moment to briefly speak of other things, thinking it a fragment of its little history to THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 333 note, by the way, that a fresh arrangement then commenced with Mr. James, who from this date drew a fixed weekly sum for his services ' before the curtain,' without participating in the profits. It was in the early winter of this year that the serious illness of the Prince of Wales from typhoid fever occurred, when the national excitement reached so high a pitch, and the craving for the last news of his condition o-rew so o^reat, that the bulletins from Sandringham were even read out to the audiences between the acts, or posted up In the lobbies of the theatres for quite ten successive evenings. The National Anthem, and the air, ' God bless the Prince of Wales,' were nightly played by all the orchestras. From about December 7th until the 14th, it will be remembered, the Prince was hardly expected to survive from hour to hour, but from that date more reassuring bulletins were issued, and the relief they caused after the pent-up emotions of all communities Is fresh in every English memory. The extra- ordinary manifestations of loyalty to the throne and personal attachment to his Royal Highness which this illness seemed to set ablaze culminated on the day of General Thanksgiving, when all London was en fete, and the Queen went to the service held at St, Paul's. We were fortunate enough to receive tickets from the Lord Chamberlain (who on all great public occasions has for years remembered the theatrical profession, which comes so directly under his control) for the Cathedral, and arc; not 334 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. likely to forget the imposing ceremony, nor the as- pect of the building with its splendid ro2i/> cVoeil, greatly aided by the unifornis and decorations of every kind, whose wearers formed so large a part of the vast assemblage. This mention of Her Majesty's name, and the enthusiasm w^hich greeted her appearance by the side of her convalescent son, reminds me of some lines written by Mrs. Bancroft, on ' The Queen's Seclusion,' a few years after the Prince Consort's death, and I accept the responsibility of dragging the verses from their modest retirement in a little book devoted to such fragments. ' Reproach her not ! Let no harsh tongue With cruel counsel seek To dash the tear from anguish wrung That lingers on her cheek, Reproach her not ! Why lift the veil Of sorrow from her brow ? Why crush love's blossoms as they pale In grief's cold shadow now ? Reproach her not, that still she weeps In sad seclusion's gloom. Still droops for him who darkly sleeps Death's slumber in tlie tomb. Reproach her not ! Nor idly deem The glory of a crown Should wake her soul from that sweet dream Of joy for ever flown. Reproach her not ! But, in each breast, Be this a people's prayer : God's grace upon the mourner rest And hallow her despair.' We note for a moment a dance and supper we gave on a Wednesday in February (1872), because THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 335 Henry Chorley was among the guests ; we had sent our old friend a card without the faintest notion of the invitation being accepted, thinking him too ailing and infirm to care for late parties. However, when the night arrived he was announced, greatly to our surprise, in a very cheery mood, and appeared to be in more than his usual health, which for a long time had not been robust. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy his evening, for he stayed through a late supper, and did not leave until the early hours of the Thursday morning. On the following day (Friday), we were greatly shocked to see an announce- ment of his death placarded in the streets, as the early editions of the evening papers appeared. We drove at once to Eaton Place, and learnt that he had been found in the morning by his servant in a state of syncope from which he never rallied. Through- out the previous day, and until he went to bed at night, he had been apparently quite well, expecting, indeed, a few of his many friends to dinner on the fatal day. Our last look at him proved that Chorley's love for Dickens was manifested until the end of his life, for by his wish two branches from the fine cedar trees which grew on the lawn at Gad's Hill were placed on either side of his coffin and buried with him. The King of Terrors robbed us of a valued friend, and the souvenirs so kindly sent us by Mr. Benson Rathbone, his executor, remind us often of the pleasant evenings their former owner gave us. To return to the little house in Tottenham Street 336 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. MANAGERIAL AND PERSONAL : S. B. B. • — which, at the time, was chiefly transformed nightly into 'The Little House in Stangate' — we were on the eve of a crisis in its career, for, successful as the revival of Cas/e had proved, when we neared Easter we began to think it would be wise to withdraw the play while it still had life, and not attempt to force it through the season. I may here take occasion to remark upon what, in my own estimate of my judgment in management, I have always thought the most valuable quality — courage. I mean chiefly with respect to the strength of will necessary to withdraw a play while it was still very remunera- tive, not only from belief in the attractive powers of its successor, but also that some attraction might be spared to it to allow of its standing one in good stead by increasing the rc^pertoire of the theatre, either for revival when ripe enough to be played again, or for use as a stop-gap in the event of disaster, in the shape of a failure, and so to stem the tide of ill-fortune which must have its share in the most favoured theatrical enterprise — a ven- ture which partakes greatly of the character of gambling. For my own part, I found its powers so strong in this respect as to rob me of all desire for that form of excitement in any other way. Shilling ' holes ' at four-handed cribbage, or modest points at whist (when I summon courage to exhibit my ignor- ance of that grand game), always contented me, so far THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 337 as cards went ; and although I have seen every Derby run since ' Gladlateur' won the Blue Riband in 1865, 1 never cared to bet. While on this subject I may add that I have heard, and laughed at, rumours (as remote from the truth as many others that have reached me about me and mine) of the large sums I have realized by fortunate dealings on the Stock Exchange, the truth being that the only gambling speculation I ever made proved a conspicuous failure ; while I have but a feeble definition to offer of the meaning of 'bulling' or 'bearing,' and the word ' Contango ' is as foreign to me as the language of Arabia. Walls, they say, have ears ; were trees endowed with lips, those in our garden and its little orchard in the Grove End Road could reveal many an anxious walk and talk between us two, about the theatre's future, which was, at that time especially, a question full of anxious thought and care. A very flattering and tempting offer had reached us to take our entire company, and act the Robertson comedies through the United States, As this would have been the first series of complete English per- formances given in America, I think it may be inferred, remembering the reputation of our manage- nient at the time, that success was a foregone conclusion, while the chances in favour of the engagement being exceptionally brilliant were very great. A scheme of this magnitude, of course, re- quired to be dealt with a long time in advance, and VOL. I. 22 338 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. I think it was in the early spring that I persuaded Mrs, Hancroft to try and overcome her terror of the sea, and consent that we should entertain the ex- tremely liberal proposition that had been made to us. With the view of seeing if the arrangement could be entered into for the autumn of the following year, I commenced neo-otiations, and settled with Mr. English, the dramatic agent of Garrick Street, and formerly Sothern's business manager, to go with us to America in that capacity should the matter be decided. One day, after many details had been arranofed and certain salaries fixed, I was in his private office busily engaged in settling further ques- tions, when our conversation was interrupted by the whistle of the speaking-tube which communicated with the room of his partner, Mr. Blackmore. English applied the pipe to his ear, and received this information through it : ' Knowing all about the matter you are discussing with Mr. Bancroft, I in- terrupt you to say that Craven Robertson is now with me, anxious to arrange a visit to America with Caste, and the other plays, as soon as possible.' Needless to say that this message fell like a bomb- shell into an enemy's camp, and suspended our proceedings. Mr. Craven Robertson was the brother of the author, and then had the control of the comedies. Had he visited America a year before us, we might very likely have shared the fate of John Reeve, so long the great favourite at the Adelphi, who, when he went there many years ago, THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 339 was condemned as 'A barefaced imitation of Burton:' an inferior actor who had won his American reputa- tion by trading on a direct reproduction of Reeve's mannerisms and pecuHarities. Our friend Toole afterwards suffered in that country from much the same cause — many of his plays having been acted before his arrival, with his own ' gags ' and ' busi- ness ' slavishly imitated. Our proposed visit to the States being interfered with in the way I have told, we eventually deter- mined, after long and well-weighed consideration, that the first successor to the Robertson comedies should be a production of Lord Lytton's Money ; being helped to our decision by the remembrance that if we met with failure, we should still have Man and Wife, with- the advantage of its being a new play, to fall back upon. We explained our views to Wilkie Collins, who at once, and in the kindest way, acquiesced in them. A further step towards success was taken, Mrs. Bancroft being contented then to play the small part of Georgina Vesey, while I resigned Captain Dudley Smooth — but not without a pang, I confess, for it had been a favourite part of mine in the country — and undertook the not slight task of trying to invent still another type of * dandy,' and bestow whatever might result from the effort on the character of Sir Frederick Blount. While dilating on so unworthy a subject as myself, I may as well make a clean breast of matters, and 340 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. say that much of my professional conduct has been guided — however faintly I may at times have laid their text to heart, and however frequently I may have failed to profit by them — by some words I once read which were applied to a distinguished actor of the last century : ' By his impartial management of the stage and the affability of his temper he merited the respect and esteem of all within the theatre and the applause of those without.' No one knows my backslidings so well as I do — no one regrets them with the same keenness ; but if, since the days when, as a very young man, I first bore the weight and responsibility of ruling others, I have in the main obeyed my maxim, it is all that can be asked of poor humanity ; for the occasions when I have failed to follow it, I hope I have been forgiven. Let me add that Mrs. Bancroft from the begin- ning placed perfect confidence in my judgment, not only with regard to the business-side of our work, but in the choice of plays, and accepted my opinion in nearly all important matters, even when, un- fortunately, it chanced to be at variance with her own. Whenever I was at fault, the least I have to say is that she stood more firmly than ever by my side, and never allowed her faith in me to be shaken by an occasional mistake. Indeed, I can most truly add that throughout our managerial career she was in all matters my strongest help, ever modest in suc- cess, ever full of couracje to meet a reverse, and ever faithful in sorrow or in joy. She also shared the THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 341 belief with me that considerations as to what parts we should play ourselves were never to bias our judgment in the refusal or acceptance of plays. In this spirit Mrs. lUmcroft cheerfully sank her own importance as an actress on many occasions, and frequently to some detriment, through long runs, of her position before the public ; playing, for instance, Georgina Vesey in Money, and subsequently Blanche Lundie in Man and JVife ; Pert in London Assur- ance ; Lady Henry Fairfax in Diplomacy ; Lady Walker in Odette; Olga in Fedora; and Miss Maplebeck in Lords and Commons — being content, for the good of the theatre and its management, to engage in her own company, often cheerfully play- ing second parts to them, Madame Modjeska, Miss Ellen Terry, Mrs. John Wood, Mrs. Langtry, Mrs. Bernard-Beere, and Mrs. Kendal. It seems to me that this simple record best speaks the utter absence from her nature of such a feeling as professional jealousy. The value of such self- abnegation I cannot over-estimate, as without it we should never have produced some of our most suc- cessful plays. In this book, to which she contributes so impor- tant a share, Mrs. Bancroft would not, I think, like me to say more, but it is a subject on which it would be impossible for me to say less. Many head-shakings and ominous forebodings followed the bold announcement of our intended .34= OCA' JOIST KA RRA TI 1 7:. performance of Lord Lytton's comedy, Money; some of our best friends thought the step a mad one, and that certain failure awaited the temerity of our attack upon what had grown to be known as a 'standard work.' We may perhaps add that, apart from its original production by Macready (who described the part of Evelyn as a bad one), the comedy was called unlucky, and one that had per- sistently belied its name. We decided how we would cast the play, and went to work upon it for six or seven weeks, with the conviction always facing us that we were playing for the highest stake we had risked up to that time, but buoyed up with the feeling that success would break our trammels by allowing our choice of plays a much wider range in the future. In the course of our rehearsals we applied to the author to be allowed to make a few alterations in his play, chiefly with a view to avoiding a change of scene, and received the following response : - ' Dear Sir, ' I am obliged for your courteous letter, and have no wish to make frivolous objections to your performance of my comedy. If it suits your con- venience to play Act IV. without change of scene between one room and another in Evelyn's house, so be it ; only let me first see how you would modify lines. * It is not a few verbal cuts here and there on THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 343 which I should think it worth while to cavil with a management so accomplished and so skilled as yours. ' Yours truly, ' LVTTON.' Justified by the courteous sympathy received from Lord Lytton during interviews on the general treatment of his work, we rehearsed with renewed vigour, bestowing the greatest pains upon the most elaborate interiors of rooms we had as yet shown, and an exact reproduction of a card-room in a West- End club, the members of which were represented by young fellows who wished to go upon the stage : some of whom, we are delighted to add, have since made their mark as actors. So as to give the production the chance of being acted durincj the heioht of the London season, we withdrew Caste after adding two hundred to its number of representations ; and Lord Lytton, greatly to our satisfaction, expressed his wish to be present at our first performance of his work, which took place on Saturday, May 4, 1872. We printed the following old saying on the play-bill : * 'Tis a very good world we live in, To lend, or to s])end, or to give in ; But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own, 'Tis the very worst world that ever was known.' The characters in Money were cast as follows : LORD GLOSSMORE - - - - Mr. C. Collettk. SIRJOHN VESEY, BART. - - - Mr. Hare. SIR FREDERICK BLOUNT, BART. - - Mr. Bancroft. CAPTAIN DUDLEY SMOOTH - - - Mr. Archer. (His first appearance in London.) 344 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. MR. GRAN'ES ..... Mr. George Honey. MR. STOUT Mr. F. Dewar. ALFRED EVELYN - - - - Mr. Coghlan. MR. SHARP - - . . . Mr. E. Dyas. AN OLD MEMBER OF THE CLUB - - Mr. F. Glover. Pl^ANTZ - • - - - - Mr. Herisert. TABOURET Mr. Campbell. MAC FINCH Mr. Denison. CRIMSON ...... Mr. Elwood. PATENT .-.-.. Mr. Robinson. TOKE ...... Mr. Franks. LADY FRANKLIN .... Mrs. Leigh Murray. GEORGINA VESEY .... Miss Marie Wilton. (Mrs. Bancroft.) CLARA DOUGLAS .... Miss Fanny Brough. The actor who gained most by this production was certainly Mr. Coghlan, whose fine performance distinctly advanced his reputation : he was then, with his handsome presence, a perfect Alfred Evelyn. Mr. Archer also made a distinct hit, on his introduction to the London stage, by his render- ing of ' Deadly ' Smooth. The success of the comedy was very great, and the critics were unanimous in warm praise of the production. A few lines from a journal not given to excessive praise shall precede by way of preface a letter from the distinguished author of the play : ' From the current blemishes of EnafHsh actinof the Prince of Wales's company is to a great extent free. No attempt is made by any one of its members to eclipse his fellows, or to monopolize either the space on the boards, or the attention of the audience. No piece is presented in such a state of unprepared- ness that the first dozen performances are no better than rehearsals ; no slovenliness in the less impor- THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 345 tant accessories of the play is permitted. A nearer approach accordingly than elsewhere in England can be found to that ensemble it is the boast of the Comedie Francaise to encourage, is witnessed. Actors are measured, so to speak, by their parts, and are only to take such as fit them. Mrs. Ban- croft herself, with an artistic feeling to be expected from her, accepts a subordinate character. The example she sets is followed, and, as a result, the performance takes the town with a sort of wonder.' ■ — Athencruiu, May 18, 1S72. ' 12, Grosvenor Square, May 10, 1872. ' Dear Madam, ' Our mutual friend, Mrs. Lehmann, I trust conveyed to you my high appreciation of the remark- able skill and ability with which the comedy of Money has been placed on your stage. But I feel that 1 ought to thank you, in words not addressed through another, for the gratification afforded me on Saturday last. ' Had the play been written by a stranger to me, I should have enjoyed extremely such excellent acting ; an enjoyment necessarily heightened to an author whose conceptions the acting embodied and adorned. ' Truly and obliged, ' LVTTON. ' To Mrs. Bancroft.' Mrs. Frederick Lehmann, who was one of the party in the author's box, soon afterwards included 346 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. US in ci charming dinner-party at the Woodlands, when the guests invited comprised Lord Lytton, the Lord Chief Justice, and Wilkie ColHns. It was at that time we first saw the then freshly-painted portrait of Nina Lehmann (now Lady Campbell), a picture of lovely childhood which would alone immor- talize the brush of Sir John Millais. The enthusiasm the production provoked, and the great demand to see it, soon convinced us that we should have to stop the run of the play to fulfil engagements we had entered into some months before to go down to Manchester at the end of July for a fortnight, and then to Liverpool for three weeks, to give a few performances there of Caste and School ; otherwise Money rm^ht safely have been played throughout the summer, had we been inclined to abandon our holiday. This, however, we never did, and resolved acrain to let thinofs take their course, trusting to the attraction of Lord Lytton's comedy being firm enough to stand the break, and earn a fresh career when we reopened our theatre in the autumn. The increase of fame and managerial reputation which followed on the success of this production, the most ambitious we had yet attempted, added, indi- rectly, largely to our circle of friends in the artistic and literary worlds, and brought us many social pleasures. The early summer passed happily away, and the season, which was with one exception (that in which we produced School) the most successful THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 347 we yet had known, came to a close, perforce, on July 27th. The next day we journeyed down to Manchester, or rather to Alderley Edge, a few miles away, where, at an excellent hotel, we lived for the fort- night we were acting at the Prince's Theatre ; Mr. Hare and Mr. Coghlan also did the same. In their company the days were pleasantly passed, while the evenings were cheered by the en- thusiasm of Manchester play-goers, which is well known to all good actors who have been there. Staying in this way in the country necessitated our going to and fro by train, and the compartment on our return journey was often partly occupied by visitors to the theatre who had just seen the play, and who, in their ignorance of our identity with Hawtree and Polly Eccles, or Jack Poyntz and Naomi Tighe, amused us immensely by the frank interchange of their impressions of those and the other personages. It is easy to recall now Hare's comic change of countenance when the doings of Sam Gerridge were openly discussed in his presence. We then went on to visit our well-tried friends in Liverpool, who seemed as glad to see us, and wel- comed us as warmly as before. Hare and Coghlan also had lodgings there, in the same house as our- selves ; a proof that we had not quarrelled very much. One day during our stay we all arranged to have a country drive, and walked to some livery stables in the neighbourhood of Mount Pleasant to order a 348 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. carriaofc. On our arrival vvc could not fmd a creature ; the yard seemed quite deserted, and we concluded that all the vehicles must be out on hire for some special occasion, for there was not even a gig to be seen anywhere. We rang the ostler's bell, but no one answered the summons, so there we stood, among the empty coach-houses and loose boxes, with silence everywhere around, not knowing what to do. We were on the point of leaving, when Hare reniarked that the loose boxes, with their upright bars, half-way from the top, looked very like wild beasts' cages, and, as he said this, went into one of them. He closed the door after him, and immediately proceeded to give an imitation of a caged lion. He walked up and down, close to the bars, peering through them exactly like some wild animal in the Zoo, showing his teeth and making hideous noises. The imitation was very funny, and, encouraged by our aniusement. Hare continued his performance, prowling, peering, and snarling, quite innocent of the tardy arrival of a great, hulking ostler-fellow, who was standing gaping at him like a country chawbacon, with his eyes and mouth wide open. vSuddenly Hare caught sight of the man, and at once tried to make a rapid exit ; but the door of the impromptu cage would not open, and there stood the highly-amused yokel, enjoying the fun which had been accidentally provided for him, while poor Hare became more and more furious at being caught, as he afterwards said, ' making a fool THE SEASON OF 1S71-72. 349 of himself to a grinning idiot,' without being able to get away. At last the man extricated him, and Hare left the place as quickly as his legs would take him, the ostler looking after him still with an empty grin upon his face, evidently thinking him some harmless lunatic, or the clown from a neighbouring circus. The whole affair was so ludicrous, the situation so extremely comic, that we all laughed until we felt perfectly ill. In fact, as we followed Hare's re- treating and indignant figure down the street, we laughed till the people stood and gazed, and must have thouo;ht us mad as well. Our engagement ended on Saturday, August 31st, and at the close of it, it so chanced that our old friend Edmund Yates arrived in Liverpool, bound on his journey for fame and fortune in America. His last hours in England were spent with us, and, of course, we saw him off. We accompanied him on the tug, and went with him on board the Cunard ship Cuba, remaining until the last signal to leave for shore was given, and introduced him to a friend of ours, who was going to be a fellow-passenger to New York. This gentleman hacl a peculiar facial expression, which gave him the appearance of a swollen cheek after severe toothache, and which made one eye look as if it were always winking. After a last ' Good- bye,' we left them ; and, as we steamed away, they both stood watchiriQf us. Edmund Yates looked so sad and thouo:htful, and there was such a solemn look upon his face, as he waved his adieux, that, by 350 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. way of cheering him at the last moment, it was impossible for Mrs, Bancroft to resist the temptation (while our friend looked another way) of giving a facial imitation of his peculiarity. This had the desired effect on Yates ; for he went off into a fit of genuine, hearty laughter, and has often said since that he shall never forget the incident, as it put his thoughts into a happier groove, and did him good. So our oblivious friend, who was none the worse for it, contributed innocently to this change of feeling. This proved, from then till now, our last visit to other cities, for as our work grew harder, our holiday became more precious after the strain of a long London season ; so that, not wilfully, but always with regret, we have year by year refused the tempting offers that have come to us from the great provincial towns, and, maybe, it will only be to say good-bye professionally that we shall ever go to some of them again. This was the last year of the German gaming- ,jj[,LOR tables, and never having seen them, I re- solved upon a hurried run abroad. I had so short a time at my disposal that the rapid travelling would have been too hard for Mrs. Ban- croft, and I invited my friend Coghlan to go with me, who was throughout the trip a delightful com- panion and knew the Continent well. After acting in Liverpool on the Saturday, we caught the night mail and travelled up to London, leaving the docks A BAC HOLIDAY. THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 351 at noon on Sunday, September ist, by the old Baron Osy for Antwerp. After a good and well-earned night's rest, I woke in the waters of the Scheldt. As we neared Antwerp I stood at daybreak on the deck, gazing at the lace- like tower of its beautiful cathedral, when suddenly the biggest of its bells quite startled me by power- fully telling out the hour of six, which was followed by such a merry peal from its smaller brethren, that it almost sounded like laughter at the solemnity of their companion. We only stayed a few hours in the quaint old city, but of them made good use — although with terribly crazy speed ; I remember especially how strange the little milk-carts looked as they were drawn about the streets by dogs. We then took the train to Brussels, and arrived in time for dc^jcuiicr at the Belle Vue, where, I recollect, we met Sir Henry de Bathe — surely one of the hand- somest men who ever stepped. The day was passed in 'doing' the city a I' AiiK^rirainc. Hot weather and heavy travelling told upon us both, for we nearly fell asleep in our stalls at the Park Theatre in the evening. I really only run through this account of our brief bachelor holiday, of which I never kept a note, to tell where we went, and how many glimpses we had of things and places, in a fortnight, not with any ridiculous idea of having seen them properly. The next day we went by train to Cologne, arriving in time to see the great Dom and many of the city's sights, including part of a German play. On the 352 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Wednesday morning, after an early swim in its rapid waters, we started li[) the Rhine by steamer and greatly enjoyed this lazy day, the whole experience bein": new to me. How delicyhtful was this first experience of its castles, its legends, and its villages dotted about among the vineyards on the hills, each looking, in the distance, very like a box of eighteen- penny German toys, and sixpence extra for the church. We landed in the evening at Biebrich, and then drove on to Wiesbaden, arrivinof there in time to see the last half-hour's play at the tables, which struck me as rather a bourgeois five-franc sort of business. We looked in upon the play again in the morning, and, after a charming walk about the pretty neighbourhood, took train for Homburg, where we found the play much higher and apparently a far more serious matter. Several remarkable ' punters,' who had spent not only their money but their lives at the ' Board of Green Cloth,' were pointed out to us, some of whom had strange and awful faces, look- ing, indeed, akin to hungry birds of prey. On the Kursaal Terrace we were so lucky as to meet, among other friends, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews, and, later on, passed part of a merry evening at their rooms in Ferdinand Strasse. In the mornine we went on to Baden Baden, pausing for a brief stay at Frankfort, where we drove through the interesting old Judengasse, which was not then demolished. In the afternoon we reached our destination just in time, I recollect, to see the return from the races, THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 353 which then were on. We stopped at the Hotel de Russia, and resolved to remain two days there, the first time we had yet done so in any place since we started. This allowed us to see something of the gaiety, as it was the height of the Baden season ; to visit the Alte Schloss, endeared to me by P/ay, and often to watch the tables or to sit outside the rooms and listen to the music of Strauss's splendid band, which played his lovely valses, conducted by himself, and in a way that recalled the fact of my having seen Jullien in my youth, when he led concerted music at the Surrey Gardens. We then found that in six days we had seen so much, and, having still a full week before us, we decided, after a fearful combat with Bsedecker and Murray, upon a rapid peep at Switzerland. At the station, where we took train to Bale, I remember being much amused by a young English girl, who recognised me, quoting my catch- word in Money, ' I don't see what harm it can do me,' in answer to some remark made by one of her companions. In the evening, when we arrived at the old Trois Rois, I recollect reading of the death of ' Billy ' Sams, which had occurred a few days before at Folkestone. I pause for a moment to wonder if anyone will remember who ' Billy ' Sams was. Well, William Raymond Sams was a theatrical librarian. He lived at the corner of St. James's Street and Pall Mall, although really having the air of a man whose home was more likely to be at White's or Arthur's. Every- VOL. I. 2% 354 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. body knew him in those clays, and everybody liked him. He was quite a character, and more like a ' buck ' of former times, with his wonderful snuff- boxes, his ' clouded cane,' his long fur coat, and his old-world, courtly ways. He rejoiced in telling stories of Louis Napoleon, to whom, in his exile, he had shown services which were afterwards most graciously remembered at the Tuileries ; and, more than all this, he was a warm-hearted and charitable man. We left Bale by the very early morning train for Lucerne. Oh ! what a scramble it all was — but how enjoyable then — just catching the boat for Fluellen, and breakfasting on deck, not to lose the beauties of the lake. We then drove up the grand St. Gothard Pass — the first I ever crossed — as far as Andermatt, where we stayed the night — not a bad day's travelling. At Goschenen we passed the opening of the great tunnel, which had just been begun that year, and I had my first view of the weird and rugged grandeur of the Devil's Bridge, with its never-ceasinor roar of falling waters, as the shades of evening fell — a change indeed, in four- and-twenty hours, from the linden-trees of Baden. The magnet of the mountains proved very strong with me, for every year since I have felt myself drawn irresistibly towards them. In the morning, very early again, we started by diligence over the Furka Pass, where, at the little inn on its summit, is framed the page of the visitors' book which con- THE SEASON OF 1S71-72. 355 tains the Queen's sicrnature as ' Countess of Kent.' Then we surged down the zigzags to the Rhone Glacier Inn, driving on afterwards to Brieg, where we arrived at nightfall after a fourteen hours' varied journey. The next day was an easy one, spent in loitering away the morning, for we only went to Martigny ; and a desolate, depressing halting-place I thought it. The railway was not open then all the way, and we had to go there partly by road. After a good night's rest we walked, on a broiling hot day, over the Tete Noir to Chamounix; being followed by a truck which, drawn by a mule, carried our luggage. The little vehicle also served to carry a good deal more of our clothing, for the heat grew so intense that, on our way, we imitated the amusing performer in the circus, who strips off one article of clothing after another, until prudence compels him to stop. I re- member, also, as we rested for a little while after luncheon, trying to sleep on some logs of wood out- side the inn, when Coghlan, with brutal enjoyment, knowing my terror of reptiles, destroyed my hopes of slumber by suggesting that I had chosen a spot which looked like the home of snakes. The weather was absolutely perfect, but almost tropical. We were met at every turn by glorious views, culminating in the superb Mont Blanc range and its wonderful glaciers and Aiguilles as approached by Argentiere. In all my life I think I can safely say I have never 356 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. felt SO tired as on that night. I almost feel the pain when I think of what I suffered as we went up never- ending stairs at Chamounix to the double-bedded room which was all the accommodation a crowded hotel could give us. We both nearly fell asleep over dinner, and I recall, distinctly, my one anxiety when we went to bed was to leave Coghlan the responsi- bility of putting out the lights. Our stay was very brief, for we were obliged to hurry on to Geneva. There we put up at the Hotel de la Paix, and in the evening went to the play. On the next day we learnt by the firing of guns and a festive display of bunting that the Alabama claims had just been settled, the Conference having been held at Geneva. I found that England's representa- tive — -Lord Chief Justice Cockburn — was staying at the Hotel des Bergues ; so I lost no time in calling upon him. What a wonderful voice that man was gifted with ! The sound of it still lingers plainly in my memory. The circumstance reminds me of a characteristic letter Mrs. Bancroft had received from the Lord Chief just before he started on this mission, and which may fairly have its place here : '40, Hertford Street, Mayfair, Tuesday. ' Dear Mrs. Bancroft, ' I should be delighted to dine with you, as you so kindly wish ; but, alas ! I am just leaving for Geneva. Your note makes me wish the Alabama THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 357 had gone to the bottom of the sea the day she was launched ! ' In utmost haste, ' Very truly yours, ' A. E. COCKBURN.' I recall an evening also when the Lord Chief dined with us, the late Mr. Critchett being among our guests, who, before we went down to dinner, asked to be introduced to Sir Alexander. Mrs. Bancroft did so in these words : * Will you allow me, dear Chief, to present to you Mr. Critchett, the celebrated ocuHst ? As Justice is blind, you may find him a most useful man.' To which Sir Alexander replied, in his genial and courtly manner, ' If, when you first lift the film from my eyes, you will permit me to gaze on Mrs. Bancroft, I shall thank you, sir.' This rush through Switzerland had only occupied six days ; at the end of them we took the afternoon express to Paris, travelling in the same compartment as Mr. Evarts, the distinguished American diplo- matist, fresh from his Alabama victory, and early on Sunday morning — barely a fortnight after leaving London — we were at the Grand Hotel. This was the year following the Commune and the siege of Paris, so that many of the hideous marks left by them on the fair city's face were still plainly visible. We saw much that could be seen in eight-and-forty hours, including a performance of L Avenhiriere at 358 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. the Fran^ais by Madame Arnould-Plessy, not long before that once fine actress left the stage. We were home again on Tuesday, September 1 7th, Baden-Baden and Paris being the only places since we left in w^hich we had slept two nights. This was the first time I had ever been further abroad than Paris, and the trip was only marred by the regret that my wife had not been with me ; however, I resolved that I would retrace much of the ground in her companionship in the following year, for the early gaze, hurried though it was, at things and places then so strange, but which since have grown familiar, had left a deep and distinct impression on my mind, in spite of the different countries we visited, the various sights we saw, and the many miles we travelled in those sixteen days, which to me seemed more like sixty. While my husband was tearing, in the hurried A RIVERSIDE ^^7 ^^ ^^^ descHbed, over the Continent, ^BY^MRs' ^ ^^^^ ^^ peace in my sister's cottage by BANCROFT. ^]^g bcautlful Thames, and will tell a litde story of a homely woman who lived not far from it, and to whom my sister had shown some kindnesses. One day I looked in at a small sweet-stuff shop she kept, and where I had often been before, but not to eat the acid-drops or bull's-eyes which graced the tiny window in a single row of greenish glass-bottles, and which had lost their freshness of colour, and stuck together as if to keep one another warm. THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 359 They looked sickly, pale, and withered up, and very far from being in their first youth ; the sun of many summers had faded them, and the chills of many winters had shrivelled them. I made my way to the cramped sitting-room, which served as kitchen, dining-room, and nursery, where I was greeted by several little voices, some laughing, some crying. There was the mistress of the house holding a baby at her breast with one hand, and combing the hair of an older baby with the other, while the rest of the progeny were scattered about the room. One was playing with a doll all bruises and cracks, which looked weary of being tossed and dropped, clad in a scrap of faded red cotton, and its remnant of hair hanging by a thread. One eye had disappeared, and the other had a wild, mad stare, as much as to say, ' A little more of this, and I must shriek !' A boy, to whom a handkerchief would have been a comfort, was seated at the window with a slate which he would scrape with a pencil held in a perpendicular position, making my teeth feel as if I had been eating lemons all day. The poor woman appeared rather un- amiable, and I asked her how she was. She replied, ' Oh, mum, I'm as well as can be expected, but I'm worrited a good deal ! You can't drag up a family loik this 'ere without being worrited, you know, and I'm worrited more than most folks, leastways as I knows on.' ' I am sorry to hear this,' I replied ; ' a family is always an anxiety, but then there is not one of them that you would like to lose.' ' Lord }6o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. forbid, mum, say I ! I love 'em all ; but I can't 'elp being a bit anxious, and I shows it in my face, I dare say. But my 'usljand is the most inconsider- estist man I knows. Last night he comes 'ome at six o'clock for 'is tea. I'd done a hard day's washin', and I was that tired, mum, I could 'ardly 'old up my 'ead. Well, he comes in, sits him down, and begins his tea ; then, quite sudden, he looks at me and he says, " Why, missus, ye're a lively one, I doiit think ! I comes 'ome tired from work, and want to see yer 'appy. Why, yer looks as if yer 'ad lost 'arf-a-crown and found a button. Why don't yerlarf?" " Larf!" I says, "larf! It's all very well for you to talk; while ye're at work in the fields, you 'ave yer pals to talk to, and to eat yer bit o' dinner with, and yer 'ave the clear air to enjoy it all in. Here am I stuck at 'ome with six brats wot's a-fightin' and squallin' all day long. JV/iafs there to lai^f at in that ? I 'ave a babby to nuss, what's that weak as the doctor says I ought to drink porter, and where is it to come from ? as I can't sell a single acid-drop, 'cos the parents says they be bad for the teeth, and there the blessed things stick in them bottles a starin' at me till I'm sick o' the sicrht o' 'em. What's o there to larf at in that ? There's Liza in bed with measles, and she 'as to be watched noight and day, and fed on sulphur to draw it out on the surfice, so I don't get no sleep. Whafs there to larf at in that ? Then there's Johnny with his 'ead that bad, wot's brought on by the School THE SEASON OF 1871-72. 361 teachers a-crammin' verses into it. The doctor says that the lad'll 'ave absence on the brain, and wake some morning a stark hidiot. Wkafs there to larf at in that ? I looks in the glass, and I can see myself a-getting older and uglier every day, Whafs there to larf at in that 7' ' CHAPTER XIII. THE SEASON OF 1 872-/3. On Saturday, September 21st, the theatre was re- opened, when our performance of Money was resumed, the only change in the cast being the substitution of Miss Lydia Foote, who rejoined the company, for Miss Brough, as Clara Douglas. The old comedy, not- withstanding the considerable break that had occurred in its run, again stood our friend, and proved that its career was by no means over, for it continued to attract fine audiences throuo^hout the autumn and the early winter. Satisfactory as this state of things was to the treasury, it was not to the advantage of this then unthought-of book. There not being consequently many events of great moment concerning ourselves to write about, we may be allowed a short pause to refer briefly to other events of interest, at least in our theatrical world, which happened about this time. On October 29th, a great actress of years gone by — the once famous Miss O'Neil, afterwards Lady Becher — passed quietly away at the age of eighty, THE SEASON OF 1 87 J-73. 36% fifty-two years after her retirement from the stage. The announcement of her death, in fact, came as a surprise to many, who Httle thought a contemporary of John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons at the close of their careers, and one who had acted in her youth the companion parts with Edmund Kean when he first electrified the town by his genius, had lingered until then upon the scene. Miss O'Neil was the daughter of a country actor, and passed her early life upon the stage. She ex- celled in tragic parts, and, beyond question, was a highly gifted actress. Hazlitt denies her the power of beauty, to the influence of which, he asserts, she owed but little. Her fame and fortune were quickly earned, for she only acted in London some three or four seasons ; so great, however, was her popularity, that she is said to have made even the unapproach- able Siddons gently murmur at ' the inconstancy of the public' All that we can personally relate of this light of other days is, that when quite an old lady she asked to be taken to see the portrait of her- self which now adorns the staircase of the Garrick Club. As she stood in front of this full-length re- presentation of herself in years gone by, after quietly gazing upon it for some little time, she burst into a flood of tears. Another death occurred soon afterwards, which robbed America of her most powerful tragedian, Edwin Forrest, who must at one time have worthily been numbered among the mighty actors. He will 364 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. be, perhaps, best remembered in this country as the rival of Macready : so fiercely did the tide of jealousy tiow, indeed, as to be the cause of the serious riots at the Astor House, New York, when Macready last acted there ; for which, justice compels the state- ment, the impetuous and strongly democratic tem- perament of the eminent American actor was, in the main, responsible. Forrest destroyed his reputation very much by lingering too long upon the stage, a fault very common, it would seem, in our profession. Early in the new year, on January i8th, the eminent author of the play we were still acting died at Torquay after a short illness. Indeed, it was only a few days before that his son, Mr. Robert Lytton (now the Earl and Ambassador to France), who had been for some time abroad, did us the honour to seek our acquaintance, inclosing a letter of introduction from Lord Lytton. This led to a long talk about our production of Money, which ' Owen Meredith ' arranged to see on the evening following our conversation, and just before his summons to his father's death-bed. We had remained in frequent communication with Lord Lytton, and only a very short time before the unexpected close of his life received the following interesting letter from Knebworth : * Dear Mrs. Bancroft, ' Pray excuse the liberty I take in this note. A lady of my acquaintance has a daughter about the THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 365 age of thirteen, who has conceived a strong predi- lection for the stage, and seems, from what I hear, to give promise of qualifications likely to achieve suc- cess in that profession. I have ventured to advise the lady, before she either thwarts or encourages her daughter s inclinations, to give the child a few lessons in elocution and the rudiments of the actor's art, by some experienced teacher who will candidly say, after a short trial of the pupil's natural gifts whether they do justify the choice of a profession in which young persons are so apt to suppose that they must have a talent for that which they have only a fancy for. ' Will you kindly inform me if you know of any such teacher, whose frank opinion of the pupil's chance of success as an actress could be fairly relied upon ? ' Though a child of thirteen is very young to raise the question as to her future profession, yet I have a strong belief that one who has a real genius for the stage shows it very early ; and if this child has not such genius it would be more easy to divert her mind from the idea now than it might be later. ' With repeated apologies for the trouble I give you, for which my only excuse is that I know no one whose opinion and advice on such a subject I would so readily take, ' Believe me, ' Your obliged servant, ' LVTTGN.' 366 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. It may be of some interest to st^ite that on look- ing back at the receipts of the theatre, we find that for about a week immediately after Lord Lytton's death they increased. To turn to happier subjects, we give the reader the words of a characteristic letter received at this time from the delightful comedian, and now old friend, Charles Mathews, to whose hospitality we owed many happy evenings : ' Nice, JtiJiuary 19, 1873. ' My dear Bancroft, ' It is hard to be obliged to come indoors on such a heavenly day to write a letter on business, and you will no doubt think it harder to be obliged to read it. But friendship calls, and I sacrifice my- self upon its altar. Do thou likewise. ' A very nice fellow, Captain , now in the far west of America, has written a comedy. (" O Lord!" I hear you say.) It is peculiar and strictly military. Now, all I ask of you is to read it, have the parts copied out and produce it, playing, of course, the principal part yourself— nothing more. Your new piece, of course, will not run more than two or three years, and then you will have this ready to fall back upon. The human mind naturally looks forward, and managers cannot make their arrangements too soon. If by any unforeseen, though most improbable, chance you may not fancy the piece (such things have happened), please drop me THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 367 a sweet little note, so charmingly worded that the unhappy author may swallow the gilded pill without difficulty. There is something in the piece, or I would not inflict it upon you. If well dressed, and carefully put upon the stage, it viight be effective. ' This is what is called writing just one line. You will of course say it "wants cutting," like the piece. So I will cut it — short. ' With kind regards, * Faithfully yours, ' C. J. Mathews. * On reading this rigmarole, I find I have only used the word "piece" four times. When you give my letter to the copyist, you can make the following alterations : ' For " piece" (No. i) read "play." ,, ,, (No. 2) ,, "production." „ (No. 3) „ "work." ,, ,, (No, 4) ,, "comedy." ' . We may mention that in the early days of the Prince of Wales's management we constantly received manuscripts, written by aspiring dramatists, of every sort and kind of play — tragedies, comedies, farces, and burlesques — all accompanied by letters from the anxious authors, containing a sentence to this effect : ' I am emboldened to send you my play, as Mr. Charles Mathews assures me in a letter that, in his opinion, it is exactly suited in every way to the Prince of Wales's Theatre.' We eventually found 368 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. means to retaliate upon the comedian for his amiable practical joke. Meanwhile, we had asked Wilkie Collins to read his long-postponed A/ciJi and Wife to the company. This he did with great effect and nervous force, giving all concerned a clear insight into his view of the characters ; and, indeed, acting the old Scotch waiter with rare ability to roars of laughter. We felt the play required certain alteration which could best be made after some rehearsals, and also were impressed with the necessity to do all that was possible to deserve a success in our first new piece since the Robertson comedies ; so we decided, to- wards this end, to aid the cast to the utmost of our power by Mrs. Bancroft agreeing to play Blanche Lundie, a bright, pretty part, but quite of a secondary order, and by Mr. Bancroft offering to appear as the doctor, an important minor role confined to a dozen sentences. It may, perhaps, be as well to state here, that the first act of the play was written, and the entire drama planned, before the novel was commenced ; this, we think, has been the case with more than one of Wilkie Collins's works, and in this instance may account for the absence from his drama of Man and Wife of a character rendered so important in the story — that of Hester Dethridge, the dumb cook. We bestowed great pains upon the rehearsals, often having the benefit of the author's presence and assistance, which, when the play was well advanced. THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 369 proved of real service ; he also, in the kindest way, fell in with our views and altered the second act of his play (in which the stage was originally intended to be divided into two rooms — the parlour of the inn at Craig Fernie, and the adjoining pantry of old Bishopriggs) in accordance with our suggestions, and greatly, as he generously admitted, to the advan- tage of its representation. In this scene we went to unusual pains to realize a storm, and I think electric lightning was then first used, as was also an effect we introduced of moving clouds. The run of Money reached more than two hundred performances, far eclipsing all previous records of that comedy, and having served the exchequer to a greater extent than any of our productions up to that date, excepting only School. Alan and Wife was then acted, for the first time, in the presence of the most brilliant audience, so far as names then known throughout the world in every art and calling went, the theatre had as yet seen assembled within its limited walls. The list would now be but a sad record — so many of them have gone away to the * Silent Land.' ON SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22ND, 1873, WILL BE PLAYED MAN AND WIFE, A Dramatic Story in Four Acts, written by IVilkie Collins. SIR PATRICK LUNDIE .... Mr. Hare. GEOFFREY DELAMAYN - . - . Mr. Coghlan. ARNOLD BRINKWORTH - . . . Mr. Herbert. VOL. I. 24 370 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. NOTE BY S. B. B. MR. SPEEDWELL ... - Mr. Bancroft. MR. MOV ------ Mr. Coli.ettk. insiIUPRIGGS Mr. Dewar. DUNCAN ------ Mr. Franks. LADY LUNDIE ----- Mrs. Leigh Murray. BLANCHE LUNDIE - - - - Miss Marie Wilton. (Mrs. Bancroft.) ANNE SILVESTER . . - - Miss Lydia Foote. MISTRESS INCHBARE - - - - Miss Lee. Wilkle Collins passed almost all the evening in my dressing-room in a state of nervous terror painful to behold, and which I could not have endured but for the smallness of the part I had to play : the author's sufferings were assuaged occasionally by loud bursts of applause, which, for- tunately, were just within ear-shot. Only for one brief moment did he see the stage that night, until he was summoned by the brilliant audience to show himself, and to receive their plaudits at the end of the play. Ever modest, ever generous, he largely attributed his success to the acting, and was loud in his admiration, at the final rehearsals, especially of Hare and Coghlan, Miss Foote, and Mrs. Bancroft. I take the opportunity of this note to add that the character I acted did not appear until the middle of the third act of M'a7i and Wife, which gave me frequent opportunities at this time of seeing Desclee, who w'as then fulfilling an engagement at the Prin- cess's Theatre, in early portions of some of her great parts. The impression left on my memory is that she was one of the best and truest actresses who ever adorned the art I follow. THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 371 We give a few sentences written by that dis- tinguished critic, Dutton Cook, on the subject of this drama : ' In preparing a stage version of his novel, Afa7i and llife, Mr. Collins has successfully accomplished the end he had in view, and has proved himself to be a dramatist of unusual ability. His play is no confused transfer to the stage of selected scraps and scenes which the spectator has to connect and digest as best he may, with such help as he can derive from his memory of the book, but a complete and co- herent work, endowed with an independent vitality of its own, and perfectly intelligible to those among the audience unsupplied with previous information upon the subject. The story, though still retaining a certain repellent element, which could scarcely, indeed, be altogether suppressed, is set forth with lucid art, while the author does not relinquish his impeachment of amateur gladiators, and the eccen- tricities of the law of marriage. ' Man and Wife is not to be classed among the pleasant plays which have hitherto been the staple entertainments of the Prince of Wales's Theatre, in which wit and sentiment have been dexterously combined, and sketches of the quieter scenes of social life have been cleverly presented, Mr, Collins's play is a production of a more forcible if more gloomy character, with a tendency towards melodrama and a severely tragical catastrophe. Its 24 — 2 372 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. real interest, however, and the skill with which it is constructed and represented, will probably secure for it a popularity of some endurance. It is well and tersely written, the earlier dialogues being especially noteworthy for their point and vivacity. The play had been diligently rehearsed, and the performance exemplified the conscientious care and good taste which have invariably characterized this manage- ment.' A country tour of the play was soon started, Charles Wyndham being engaged for the part of Geoffrey Delamayn, and Miss Ada Dyas for that of Anne Silvester, who acted with great &/a^ in all the leading provincial theatres. The other principal parts were admirably played by H. B. Conway — his first enofaofement under our manasfement — Charles Collette, and Miss Blanche Wilton (Mrs. Collette). Afa7i and Wife was a favourite play with the royal family ; the Prince of Wales saw it twice, and the Princess three times, between the 25th of February and the 4th of March, and again before its withdrawal on July 12th, being then accompanied by the Cesarewitch and Cesarevna of Russia. The favour thus shown to this production on one occasion caused, indirectly, the plot of a little domestic drama. The royal box was made by throwing two ordi- nary private boxes into one, and on a certain Friday night news reached the theatre that it was required THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 3/^ for the following evening. The official in charge at the time found that both boxes had been taken — one at the theatre, the other at a librarian's in Bond Street — and that, in fact, nothing remained .unlet but a small box on the top tier. Anxious, however, not to disappoint the Prince of Wales, it was decided that every effort should be made in the morning to arrange matters. The box which had been sold at the theatre was kindly given up by the purchaser, and a visit to Bond Street fortunately disclosed the name of the possessor of the other, for it had been let to a regular customer of the librarian, who repre- sented the purchaser as a very agreeable man, who might be induced to either accept the little box on the upper tier, or to go to another theatre instead. The gentleman was a stock-broker, so a messenger was at once sent to his office in the City ; when he arrived the man was told by a clerk that his master had just left — Saturday not being a busy day. After a great deal of difficulty, and through representing his errand as of the greatest importance, our invin- cible messenger succeeded in learning the private address, which was some miles distant, of the possessor of this coveted private box ; so away he went, as fast as a hansom would take him, to the suburban residence of the hunted stock-broker, where, on his arrival, the door was opened by a maid-servant. 'Is Mr. at home?' ' No, sir.' 'When will he be?' 'Can't say, sir.' 'Won't he be home to lunch ?' ' No, sir ; master went to 374 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Liverpool on business this morning, and won't be back till Monday.' The door of a room leading from the hall was opened at this moment, and a portly lady appeared upon the scene. ' Went to Liverpool !' echoed the messenger. ' Nonsense ; he's going to the Prince of Wales's Theatre this evening, and I've been sent to see if it's possible to exchange the box the gentleman has taken, through some of the royal family coming and wanting it' The portly lady now approached, and asked if she could be of any service. The messenger repeated his story, and again explained his errand. The lady smiled blandly, and said that if the small box on the upper tier was reserved, matters would no doubt be amicably arranged in the evening, if her husband, Mr. , was going to the theatre, so the man went away rejoicing. At night, not long before the play began, the gentleman, who had in vain been sought so urgently, arrived in high spirits, accompanied by a very hand- some lady ; the attendants were eagerly on the watch for the presentation of his ticket, on which, of course, was the number of the wanted box, and our manager was in readiness to explain the circum- stances, and to beg acceptance of the box reserved instead of it. The gentleman fully bore out the character given him for good-nature, and very kindly agreed to put up with the alteration. THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 375 There ended our share in the transaction, but hardly were the unfortunate man and his handsome companion left alone than the portly lady from the suburban residence reached the theatre, and asked to be shown to ' the private box that had been re- served for Mr. , in place of the one he had given up that evening by request, as she wished to join the party.' The lady was at once conducted there ; the door was opened. Tableau ! What explanation was given as to the business-trip to Liverpool we never knew, or whether the third act of this domestic drama was rehearsed later before Sir James Hannen. Although the production did not achieve the same length of run as some of its predecessors, the receipts for the first sixty or eighty performances were on a par with previous successes. After a time a summer of unusual heat affected the theatres, and in June the fetes of many kinds given in honour of the Shah of Persia were also detrimental to them. It is impossible to allow the death of Macready to pass without notice in this book. The great actor of a former generation, who for years had been living very quietly at Cheltenham, died thereon April 27th, soon after the completion of his eightieth year. He had retired from the stage in 185 1 in the height of his great powers, and is one of the strongest instances of a celebrated actor having resisted every temptation which was offered to him to return to it. His funeral at Kensal Green, on May 4th, attracted an enormous 376 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. crowd, many oltl actors who had once been members of his company being present, some of them being thought long since dead. On reading the tablet belonging to his catacomb one could not fail to be struck by the frequent sorrows that had befallen him, and to reflect how much they might be responsible for the constant and reiterated regrets which so abound in Sir Frederick Pollock's interesting book of the tragedian's reminiscences. Much that was beau- tiful in the character of the great actor may be learnt from a little volume called ' Macready as I Knew Him,' written a few years ago by Lady Pollock. For a long time his health had been enfeebled, and his last visits to London were to place himself under the care of Sir Henry Thompson. He finally visited a theatre on one of these occasions, when he yielded, although then very infirm, to the persuasions of Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins to po with them to see Fechter play his own old part of Claude Melnotte in the La^y of Lyons. Macready sat in silence nearly all the evening, and when the curtain fell he merely muttered, 'Very pretty music!' It is dangerous to tell anecdotes of any known actors of the past, lest they should before have been in print, which doubtless is the case with a story told to us years ago by one of the past generation of tragedians. Macready was playing Hamlet in a country theatre, and during rehearsals had so severely found fault with the actor, a local favourite, who took the part of the King, that his Majesty determined at night to THE SEASON OF 1S72-73. 377 be revenged upon the great man by reeling, when stabbed by Hamlet, to the centre of the stage (instead of remaining at the back), and falling dead upon the very spot Macready had reserved for his own final acting before he expired in Horatio's arms. Macready groaned and grunted, * Die further up the stage, sir.' 'What are you doing down here, sir?' ' Get up and die elsewhere, sir,' when, to the amaze- ment of the audience, the King sat bolt upright upon the stage, and said, ' Look here, Mr. Macready, you had your way at rehearsal, but /';;/ /cm^ noiv, and I shall die where I please /' Another little anecdote told sometimes of other tragedians, but which really happened to Macready, may be worth repeating. He depended very much in Virginius — one of his finest parts — upon a very subordinate actor's emphasis and delivery of a certain line. At rehearsal on one occasion he was very patient, and repeated the words, as he wished them spoken, over and over again to the young actor, who, in vain, tried to catch the tone of his instructor. At last Macready said, ' Surely, man, it's easy enough — can't you speak the words as I do ?' ' No, sir, I can't,' was the actor's reply, 'or I might be in your position instead of earning only thirty shillings a week.' I will turn from these memories of a great actor AN ADVKN- of the past to tell a story concerning chiefly TURE BY MR. 15ANCRUFT. two actors of the day — Hare and myself. A little club, known as the ' Lambs,' which had a 378 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. short life but ;i merry one, flourished at this time. Its members were Hmitecl to twelve original ' Lambs,' and twelve subsequently elected ' Lambkins,' Among the founders and first members were John Hare, Douglas (now Mr. Justice) Straight, Charles Col- lette, Talbot Smith, Captain Heathorn, Lord Newry (now Earl of Kilmorey), H. J. Tufton (now Lord Hothfield), H. J. Montague, Frederick Jameson, and myself. Comyns Carr, Arthur Blunt, Seymour Trower, Montagu Williams, and, I think, Corney Grain, also joined ' The Fold,' in which I can recall many a delightful meeting ; our number at table, by the way, being constantly fated to be thirteen, an accident which I can vouch for not being followed by the frequently expected superstitious consequences. It was an annual custom to have a special Sunday dinner in June, which was called ' The Washing,' and was held at Maidenhead. Those who could spare the time went down to Skindle's on Saturday and remained till Monday ; the actor members generally joined the others on Sundays, in time for the pleasant boating party of the afternoon. This year Hare and myself resolved to take the midnight train from Paddington to Maidenhead, there to have supper and be ready for an entire happy day in the morning. We started with this intention, in spite of a downpour of rain. When we reached Slough we thought the train was detained a long while at the station, and asked a porter why we didn't go on to Maidenhead. THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 379 * Maidenhead, sir ? why, you're in the slip carriage for Windsor.' 'Windsor!' said I. 'Windsor!' echoed Hare, ' Yes, gendemen ; Windsor. Will you go on there, or get out here ? Look sharp, gentlemen, please.' We had hardly a moment to decide between sleep- ing at the White Hart, or finding a fly to take us on at once to Maidenhead ; but settled on the latter, and bundled out of the railway-carriage with our handbags and wraps on to the Slough platform. It was now one a.m., and the rain simply came down in sheets. Almost as if by magic the lamps were extinguished, leaving the whole place in darkness, and we got little comfort from a sleepy porter as to the chance of a fly — even he vanished directly the station was shut up, and we found ourselves in a sorry plight. Every effort to rouse anyone at the neighbouring houses proved fruitless, the only answer to the noises we made being their echoes and the barkincrs of disturbed w^atch-doG^s. The rain was far too heavy for our umbrellas to be of their proper use, so we shouldered our well-laden Gladstone bags upon the handles of them, and resolved to tramp to our destination, if we could but find the way, which, luckily. Hare hoped he could remember. Our trials were aggravated by the want of food, for we had relied upon a good supper at Maidenhead, and by the state of the weather ; there was no moon, and the unceasing downpour made it impossible to light a cigar or pipe. We started with 38o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. spirits at a lf)w chl), antl were often ankle-deep in water as we walked along. After trudging about a mile perhaps, we reached what looked in the dark- ness like a roadside ale-house. We hammered at the door and shouted to be let in. Presently from a bedroom window, instead of being offered the hos- pitality we hoped to purchase, we were threatened in violent language, made still more offensive by a strong Berkshire dialect, with the contents of a double-barrelled gun, if we didn't at once move on. Nothing would convince the wretch that we weren't tramps on our way to Ascot, it being but a day or two before the race meeting. At this juncture Hare groaned piteously, and I just caught an expression on his face, which so strangely mingled with his bedraggled and mud-be- spattered appearance, that, for the life of me, I couldn't resist regarding the whole adventure from the comic side, and burst out laughing. Hare's groans increased : the words may be little to repeat, but the tone in which he rebuked me lives plainly in my remembrance, as he said, ' Oh, Bancroft ! don't laugh ; don't exhaust yourself ; don't risk more than a few cheering words to help us bear this !' I really grew a little alarmed soon afterwards, for the awful weather culminated in a thunderstorm, and we were very uncertain of our way, upon which we met no other travellers. We reached, just as the dawn was breaking, a cross-road with, happily, a tall finger-post to direct THE SEASON OF 1873-73. 381 our choice, of which we stood in need, for Hare's remembrance of the way forsook him. Although the rain had now somewhat abated, I was helpless, through my short sight. Eventually Hare climbed on to my back, and, after many struggles with fusees and matches, read what the sign-post had to tell us, the remaining distance proving to be less than we had thought. Spurred by this intelligence, and finding ourselves on the right road, able also at last to light our pipes, we proceeded more cheerfully, being now certain of our route, and at last reached Skindle's Hotel, very like water-rats, ravenously hungry, horribly tired, and heartily glad to get rid of the weight of our luggage. The next difficulty was, how to obtain an entrance. In sheer despera- tion we fixed haphazard on a window at which to throw pebbles, and by great good luck had hit upon the bedroom of Mr. Skindle himself, who then personally managed the hotel. After speaking to us from the window, he soon came down and let us in, telling us how we had been given up after the last train arrived without us. We declined to move a yard beyond the entrance-hall by way of a dressing- room, but got out some flannels, and left our saturated boots and clothes on the bench that stood there. We then worried, like wolves, the food that our host kindly fetched from the larder, and afterwards, forti- fied with brandies and sodas, crawled upstairs to a double-bedded room ; a very^* happy termination to our dread, an hour or two before, of being benighted. 382 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. We laughed as heartily as our companions the next morning over our adventure, and soon forgot the damp side of it. For the sake of recording a clever retort, I may recall a custom at the weekly meeting of the club, to which its members were restricted, when the ' Shepherd ' of the evening, as the chairman was called, had to make one speech, and was at liberty to demand a reply from any ' lamb ' or 'lambkin' present. On one occasion, when Montague was President, his evil star led him in his speech to chaff, in rather a merciless fashion, a new recruit to the fold, Comyns Carr, whose power of ready response was not then so well known as now, but was never more clearly shown than in his reply, one sentence of which, I remember, described his assailant as ' A pantaloon without his maturity, and a clown without his colour !' Montague's face at this unex- pected retort was a study. Poor fellow, when shortly afterwards he went to America, he there founded a club under the old name, which existed until lately, and, I believe, still flourishes, in New York. Having now broken the spell, as it were, and proved that we could be successful in plays widely different from those w^hich first made the reputation of our management, we thought w^e might commence our next season with a revival of Sc/ioo/, hoping for a success from it that would at least last long enough for us to find another new work. THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 383 In July, we wrote to Wilkie Collins to say that his play would exhaust its attraction by the end of the season, and must then be withdrawn. This was his answer to the letter : ' 90, Gloucester Place, Portman Square, W., /u/_y 17, 1873- ' My dear Bancroft, ' Thank you heartily for your kind letter. I should be the most uno^rateful man livina; if the result of 71/an and Wife did not far more than merely "satisfy" me. My play has been magnifi- cently acted, everybody concerned in it has treated me with the greatest kindness, and you and Mrs. Bancroft have laid me under obligations to your sympathy and friendship for which I cannot suffi- ciently thank you. The least I can do, if all goes well, is to write for the Prince of Wales's Theatre again, and next time to give you and Mrs. Bancroft parts that will be a little more worthy of you. ' Ever yours, 'Wilkie Collins.' The season closed on Friday, August ist, Man and Wife having been acted one hundred and thirty- six times. On the following Monday we commenced an en- gagement we had entered into to produce Caste for four weeks at the Standard Theatre, in Shoreditch, having definitely arranged only to appear ourselves for the first twelve nights, as we would not shorten a 384 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. longed-for holiday which wc intended to spend abroad. It was a great experiment to act this delicate comedy in so vast a theatre and before an East-end audience, and we were a little in doubt as to the result ; any fears we entertained were soon dispelled, for densely- packed audiences nightly received the play with great enthusiasm, appreciating fully its most tender scenes, and listening with rapt attention even to the chroni- cles of Froissart which the old Marquise relates to her son. After a fortnight our parts were taken by Miss Augusta Wilton and Mr, Denison, and the remaining performances were thoroughly successful. The following brief extract from a long article on this engagement bears directly on the way the new audience received the comedy : ' Apart from the perfection of play and players, that East-end theatre was a sight worth going far to see when the play was Cash', and the players the Prince of Wales's company. From basement to ceiling within its vast area gathered night after night an inter- ested, intelligent, enthusiastic audience ; the cold though confirmed approval of the Prince of Wales's audience was replaced by storms of impulsive applause. It made one think Mr. and Mrs. Ban- croft, wise as they are, err but in one respect — that of playing ordinarily in too small a theatre for the attractions they offer and the amazing popularity they command.' Our first trip together abroad was a very happy one, and, in the time we were able to spare for it, THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 385 we saw a great deal, and remembered much ; although we committed the error, so common with young tourists, of trying to see more than time and strength will properly allow. Every church of interest, every gallery of pictures, every collection of art treasures, that our path crossed, was hurried through in turn ; while, of course, each waterfall must be looked at, each cave explored — all with a confusing speed that a little experience cures when one begins to learn the value in all ways of repose. A brief itinerary of where we went, and what we did, in the four weeks at our disposal, will give a bare idea of the first Continental scamper we enjoyed together. We first halted at Brussels, squeezing a rapid rush at its many beauties into six-and-thirty hours (not forgetting to see the horrible pictures in the Wiertz collection). At Cologne, on our first visit together to its maofnificent Cathedral, we were fortunate to arrive just in time to witness the impressive and picturesque sight of a military funeral. After a short day at Bonn, where we came in for a musical fete in honour of which the picturesque old town was prettily decorated, we went up the Rhine by boat to Mayence. Among our fellow-passengers on the steamer, who had been engaged profes- sionally the day before, were Madame Schumann (whose acquaintance we were proud to make later on at Sio^nor Piatti's charminof villa on the Lake of Como), and the distincjuished German sinQf-er, Marie Wilt. During the /ad/c if hate dinner, which VOL. I. 25 386 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. was served In the saloon, we learnt, through a little note which was sent across the table by an English friend, that ' Marie Wilt ' and ' Marie Wilton ' were seated side by side. We stayed some days at beautiful Heidelburg, to thoroughly see the grand old Schloss and its ro- mantic neio-hbourhood, and also rested for awhile at Baden Baden. The gaming-tables had now vanished, and our amusement took the milder form of drives to Ebersteln and in the magnificent Black Forest. This rapid journey through parts of Germany was followed by the same rate of speed in Switzerland. We certainly stayed for breathing time at the Schweizerhof (prince of hotels) at Lucerne, and of course, from there, made the inevitable excursion up the Rigi ; there was only one small inn upon the summit then, and the rail- way, which we ascended in a thunderstorm, was still a thing to marvel at. No need to tell that we 'did' the mountain in the usual way: we saw the sun set, and were lucky in a wondrous view ; less so in the morninof, when we were roused at some un- earthly hour by the hideous uproar of an Alpine horn, to see the rising. However, the whole ex- perience was new and delightful then, and we de- scended to the lake thoroughly pleased, and soon crossed the Brunio- to the Giesbach Falls, where we remember first meeting Mr. (now Sir) John Gorst. There the custom then prevailed at the hotel — grow- ing, one cannot help regretting, more and more un- THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 387 common — of being waited on by Swiss maid servants, dressed in the quaint costumes of their different cantons. Of course we saw at night the illumina- tions of the fine cascade by Bengal lights, which seemed, we thought, a kind of Cremorne-like de- secration. [Always fond of swimming, I (s. i;. b.) rarely in those days was near a lake or river without indulging a wish to bathe ; and I remember dis- tinctly the icy cold water of the Lake of Brienz, which is almost wholly fed by the glaciers, and the warning of the boatman to keep quite close to him.] At Interlaken we stopped for three days, making pretty excursions in its charming neighbourhood, and listening at Lauterbrunnen, for the first time, to the roar of avalanches, which were falling rapidly that season, from the three great peaks — the splendid Jungfrau and her two guardians, the A'l'gcr and the Mijuch. From Interlaken, where the heat was very great, we went by Thun to Berne, paying hurried visits to the bear-pit, and the funny old performing clock (a description of which, years afterwards, ' Lady Henry Fairfax ' turned to good account in Diplomacy), and heard the organ played ; well worth it, but far behind, we thought, the wonderful instruments at Lucerne and Freiberg. Thence we went to the Lake of Geneva, staying at the Beau Rivage on the shore of Ouchy ; there again we rested awhile, making a pilgrimage to the Villa Beausite on the outskirts of Lausanne, where John Kemble lived after his retire- 25—2 388 OUR JOINT NAKRATIl'E. ment from the stage in 1817, and was buried in 1823. With great difficulty we discovered the last resting-place of 'the noblest Roman of them all,' which is in the strangers' quarter of a now unused cemetery on the highroad to Berne, some two miles from the town. When at last we found a sexton to unlock the rusty gates, we searched for the vault. The stone was sadly neglected, and the enclosed grave choked with weeds. These, by our direction, were soon cleaned away, making the grave look trim and neat, and we left some flowers in their stead, a small tribute to the memory of a great man. A few years later we went there again, and then found the grave in per- fect order, some member of the Kemble family having, doubtless, come to know of its neglected state. From the shores of the beautiful lake, we went to Martigny, having a great wish to see the monastery of St. Bernard ; the journey through the squalid villages and passes on the way, especially Orsieres — • looking like places that had been sacked during times of warfare, and left so — was disappointing, and our first impression of the aspect of things at our journey's end rather a disillusion, neither monks nor hospice being, in a picturesque sense, ' all our fancy painted them.' An incident of this uphill journey we hesitate to record, because it was to us, and will be thought by those who read it, a disgrace to humanity. We were followed on our way by a small open carriage, which was drawn by two pretty little Arab ponies, THE SEASON OF 1872-73. 3S9 and driven by a man (?) who was accompanied by- two young girls. The litde vehicle and the almost exhausted but willing animals, we afterwards heard, had been bought outright, and were being cruelly driven day after day by this man, his halts being chiefly for his own refreshment only. All who have mounted to the top of the Great St. Bernard will remember the labour of getting there ; even the strong native horses are spared by their humane masters when they are mounting the steep slopes, but this creature knew not the word spare, and whipped the tiny Arabs all the way When we arrived at the canteen, just before the difficult path to the hospice begins, we left our carriage (?), and niounted mules or walked. It will hardly be believed that this merciless owner of a human shape made the worn-out and already half-dead ponies struggle over the rude, rough path, which was fit only for the sure-footed mules. It was a pitiful sight to watch the strained sinews and the look of despair of these poor beasts ; but remonstrances with the inferior animal who drove them were in vain : the reply re- ceived was, ' They are my horses ; I shall do as I please. I don't care if they do die. I've got here now, and I mean to get back to-morrow ; then they may die if they like.' We refrain from revealing the man's nationality, but are glad to say he was not an Englishman. Let us turn from this brutal experience and tell how, on our arrival at the hospice, we were most 390 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. kindly received by a young monk : the climate is too severe for old men to stay there any length of time. We arrived, it so ha])pened, on a fast-day ; so our fare was frugal, though ample. Soon after we were safely housed, at the end of a hard journey, two medical students whom we had passed, already looking fagged, on the road, and who had walked all the way from Chamounix, arrived so tired and foot-sore that one of the young fellows fainted as he reached the door, when the kindness shown to him by the monks was beautiful to see. We passed a pleasant evening, and found the old visitors' books very interesting, as w^ere some of the gifts to the monastery, especially the little piano pre- sented by the Prince of Wales in remembrance of his visit some years before, which, owing doubtless to the altitude, had sadly lost its tone. The sleeping accommodation was simple but clean, and we were roused early enough in the morning by the bell for matins. In the sharp, crisp air we had a lovely walk round the lake at the top of the pass, being accompanied by some of the famous dogs. We admired the fme brutes all the more after visiting the Morgue and hearing stories of their rescues of many a poor traveller from a shroud of snow. Before we left, we had a wretched example, much commoner than one could believe, we were told, of the parsimony of a visitor with regard to the alms-box — the only method of acknowledgment accepted by the poor monks for the hospitality so generously shown to all THE SEASON OF 1872 73. 391 comers ; the owner of the httle Arab horses, in spite of a pointed reference in his presence to what was at least hoped for — if not expected — from tourists, took his departure without depositing a single coin ! After a hearty breakfast and all sorts of kind wishes from our self-sacrificing hosts, we started on our journey back to Martigny, and on the following day went — oh, in such a vehicle ! the builder of which forgot the springs, and the little road was barely made — over the Tete Noir to Chamounix. There again we halted, in gorgeous weather, for some days, devoting them to the usual experiences of a first visit to the beautiful valley so loved by Albert Smith, and where in its pretty church we read the tablet to his memory. Who will not guess that we went, by the Montanvert, over the Mer de Glace, and crossed the Mauvais Pas ; then made excursions on the Glacier des Bossons ; in fact, did everything to impress ourselves with the belief that we were already distinguished mountaineers ? CHAPTER XIV. THE SEASON OF 1 873-/4. At the commencement of this season, a house in nEGUN Pitt Street, of which we had obtained a BY MR. BANCROFT, lease, was made to communicate with the theatre, and added greatly to its convenience, but not without a wrench to both of us in obliterating old memories : the former green-room, associated with so many recollections — including the readings of the Robertson comedies — was gone for ever, forming, for the future, part of a much -needed scene-dock ; while Mrs. Bancroft's dressing-room, which adjoined it, with its musical remembrance of the old stage-door keeper, was abolished, and had become a property-room. On the other hand, the advantages included valuable additions to our number of rooms, and a new royal box and approaches, with much-increased comfort. Although School had only been originally pro- duced in 1869, and ran for full fifteen months, when we revived the comedy, in addition to ourselves, Mr. Hare and Mr. Glover alone remained to appear THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 393 in their original parts. This was the cast as we acted the play on Saturday, September 20th, 1873 : Lord Beaufoy, Mr. Coghlan ; Dr. Sutcliffe. Mr. Collette ; Beau Farintosh, Mr. Hare ; Jack Poyntz, Mr. Bancroft ; Mr. Krux, Mr. Glover ; Mrs. Sut- cliffe, Mrs. Leigh Murray ; Naomi Tighe, Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft) ; Bella, Miss Fanny Josephs. The immediate and pronounced success of the revival left our minds at ease for a time, and until we should decide upon a performance to succeed it. Mr. Wilton's health had for some time been a subject of concern with all his family, and, as the winter approached, his condition grew alarming. On November 26th he died, and was laid at rest a few days afterwards in Norwood Cemetery. It may be mentioned here, that just outside the chapel at this very time, his daughters, by accident, came across a vault, under the shadow of a weeping willow, belonging to his only surviving brother, who now lies in it, and who had expressed his sorrow at not having been made aware of Mr. Wilton's condition, that he might have gone to him : so, although in life they had been parted for many years, in death only a few yards of earth divide them. The world indeed is small ! 'A sleep without dreams, After a rough day of toil, Is what we covet most.' An odd practical joke was played upon me during the early part of the season. As to who was the 394 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. author of it I never obtained the smallest clue, iilthoLigh it was very much in Sothern's line. One ni^rht when I reached the theatre, the hall- porter, who was for many years in our service, fol- lowed me to my dressing-room, and told me, in a nervous sort of way, that a package had arrived for me early that evening by Parcels Delivery, adding, ' I don't like the look of it, sir !' Then, continuing mysteriously, ' And more than that, sir, I don't like the feel of it !' ' Don't like the feel of it ? What do you mean ?' ' Well, sir, it's unpleasant — very unpleasant — to the touch, and I think there's been something alive inside the parcel. I only speak to warn you, sir, because, if you opened it unawares, it might give you a fright !' ' What on earth do you mean ?' I said, getting a little bewildered by the earnest manner of my informant. ' Run down and fetch the parcel, and we'll very soon see the con- tents.' The mysterious package was brought up. It was covered with thick brown paper, properly directed, bore the official label of the ' L. P. D. C.,' and w^as marked ' 8d. to pay.' Directly I touched the package I shared the hall- porter's belief, and my thoughts turned first towards the gift of a harmless sucking-pig ; his, I fancy, took a more serious direction. Carefully on our guard, we cut the string, and, after removing a quantity of brown paper, disclosed the body of a dead ape ! The beast, although it had evidently only been dead a THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 395 very short time, was horrible to look at, and cer- tainly, but for the friendly warning I had received, would have alarmed me. What to do with the wretched brute was my next thought. Charles Collette was a member of our company at the time, and I sent him a message asking if he would come to my room. When I explained the case, I told him that I did not mean to let the practical joke end with me, nor to waste the animal, but should pass it on to some one else. He at once entered into that view of the matter, and after a little thought w^e fixed on a young actor in the theatre, who had not vet arrived, to be that some one else. Of course the hall-keeper was in the secret, and we had the animal carefully packed up again, washed off the label, and attached it to the fresh coverinsf. When our victim arrived, he was asked for the eightpence, and then had the parcel sent to his room. Soon there was a wild shriek, and of course Collette and I rushed upstairs to see what was the matter. After all sorts of cogitations, the poor monkey was left that night in the cellar of the theatre ; and, as otherwise no further fun seemed likely to arise from it, we concocted a long letter in French, as though written by a distinguished foreign naturalist, who had by an unfortunate blunder sent the ape to a wrong address, and requested its recipient to be so kind as to re-address the ' rare and very valuable 396 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. specimen,' to ' Monsieur , at 's Hotel, /o be called for! All these wishes were carefully and promptly obeyed, and, unfortunately, I have no better end to my story. How long the mysterious parcel remained at the hotel before the ' rare and very valuable specimen ' it contained too powerfully asserted its presence, I never knew, and, it may be easily guessed, I never inquired. On the boxing-day of this year, a dinner-party was given by Charles Mathews, to celebrate his seventieth birthday. After my work, among other friends of ' Everybody's friend,' I w^ent to Belgrave Road, and found the chief object of the festivity still seated in a chair, decorated with Q^arlands of choice flowers, at the largest round table I ever saw in my life. He looked so radiant and well, that when I went up to him and said ' Many happy returns of the clay, young Mathews !' to be answered with ' Many thanks, old Bancroft, come and sit down,' it seemed incredible to believe him to be nearly forty years my senior. We had a delightful evening, and it w^as long before the staircase was deserted. This staircase, as was the case with his former house in Pelham Crescent, it will be well remembered, was rendered remarkable by being covered with draw- ings of himself in all his early characters. This valuable and unique collection of portraits was sub- sequently, after the death of Mathews, bought and presented to the Garrick Club by a popular member who has ever been a great lover of the stage, and THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 397 who has contributed more than one good play to its literature. As the old year ended so pleasantly, we will begin the record of its successor by a letter from a dear friend, whose society, for very many years, has been a charm to all privileged to enjoy it. ' 32, Weymouth Street, Portland Place, J 117111 ary 2, 1874. ' Mv DEAR Mrs. Bancroft, ' It was very like you sending me that pretty little New Year's note, ' I thought I should like to give myself a treat in 1874, and so went to see you. "Time has not touched your infinite variety ; " I laughed and cried as I have done before. ' Your note will be placed in my book of letters. I think you shall be put between Dr. Parr and Lord Brougham — no, Naomi Tighe shall be next Lord Byron and Shelley ; Jack next, mind. My regards to Mr. Bancroft. ' Yours, 'Anne B. Procter.' School pursued its prosperous course, and seemed to have almost an enchanted life. Of all its author's works it certainly was the most generally popular ; but as the winter approached we felt it would be wrong to try its strength by forcing the revival too far into the season. All we had to fall back upon in the shape of a new play was a charming little 398 OVR JOINT NARRATIVE. piece we had accepted from W. S. Gilbert, under the provisional title of the White IVilloiv (which afterwards developed, as will be told, into Swcct- hea7^ts). This we felt would be a most valuable addition to a contemplated revival of Society ; but we also felt that to aofain follow Robertson with Robertson would be worse than bad management ; so we decided, supported by the remembrance of the success achieved by Money, and the importance to the theatre of finding a new part for Mrs. Ban- croft of greater value than Georgina Vesey and Blanche Lundie, to go still further to the classics, and venture upon a production of Sheridan's master- piece, the School for Scandal, with a view to pre- senting the grand old comedy as an exact picture of its period. The first steps towards this ambition were long and careful visits to both the Print and ReadinQf Rooms in the British Museum, and equally valuable pilgrim- ages to Knole : this lovely seat I visited in the companionship of Mr. George Gordon, our scenic artist, there to choose such types of rooms as, from their wealth of pictures and old furniture, might serve the purpose best. Months before the date of its production we were at work upon the details of the play. It was impossible to hope for an ideal cast of such a comedy, or to expect that all the members of a company occupied for years almost entirely in modern plays should be perfect in more ambitious work ; but in the troupe were several who, THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 399 owing to early training in country theatres, would be quite at ease in the courtly manners of the patch-and- powder period, while others only needed ample re- hearsal to feel perfectly at home. We were indebted to Mr. Cosfhlan for valuable assistance in some re- arrangement of the play, without interfering with its text, and also in placing it upon the stage. We announced our intended revival in these words : ' Sheridan's comedy, the ScJiool for Scandal, has been for some weeks in preparation, and will shortly be acted for the first time by the Prince of Wales's company. During the hundred years which have nearly elapsed since its original production, the tastes and requirements of audiences have consider- ably changed ; and the management, therefore, feels assured of not being charged with disrespect to the author of this great play for attempting to heighten the effect of his work by an unexampled attention to the costumes, scenery, and general appointments ; nor by a few transpositions in the sequence of scenes, made with every regard for the integrity of the text.' We also conceived the happy idea of introducing, for the first time, a minuet in the second act, which since has ofrown, throuci'h beino; followed in subse- quent revivals, to be regarded as part of the play. The general effect of this introduced dance can best be gathered from a reproduction of it on the curtain painted for us, and which is still used at the Hay- market Theatre. It was also the suggestion for a 400 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. charmiiiL;' picture by \'al Prinscp, A.R.A., exhibited in the RoNal Academy, and for which I remember givdng a sitting ; the sketch of ' The Minuet ' the artist kindly gave to Mrs. Bancroft. The boklest step, perhaps, throughout our manage- ment was taken at this stage of it, in my resolve to raise the charo^e for admission to the stalls to ten shillings, and the prices to other parts of the theatre accordingly. Some action of the kind was rendered imperative in so small a theatre as the Prince of Wales's, to allow such productions as we were then engaged upon to be properly remunerative ; but as the Sc/iool for Scandal had only recently been ad- mirably acted for a long time at another theatre, the moment chosen certainly was dangerous for so courageous an innovation. When the decision arrived at was conveyed to Bond Street, one of the principal librarians remarked, 'Of course Mr. Bancroft means for the first niHit only.' When informed that the alteration was in- tended * for the future,' the answer was, ' Oh, let Mr. Bancroft have his way ; he will withdraw his intention In a week !' Such, however, was not the case. The bold example was soon followed by the Gaiety Theatre, then by the Lyceum, and afterwards by nearly every manager In London. As the ques- tion of ' ten shilling stalls ' has since been so often discussed, It may be as well to record how the new custom originated. The revival of School ceased on Wednesday, THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 401 April I St. Afterwards the theatre was closed for night rehearsals, and our bold venture was produced on the following Saturday, for which evening we give a copy of the bill of the play : Af ei^ht o'clock^ on Saiurday, April ^ih, 1874 {the ninth anfii- 7'ersary of Mrs. Bancroffs management., 7vhich commenced on Easter Eve, 1865), Sheridan's Comedy, the ' SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL,' IV ill he acted, for the first time, by the Prince of Wales's Company. SIR PETER TEAZLE - SIR OLIVER SURFACE SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE - SIR HARRY BUMPER - SIR TOBY JOSEPH SURFACE CHARLES SURFACE - CRABTREE .... CARELESS .... ROWLEY MOSES SNAKE ..... TRH' .... - LADY TEAZLE .... LADY SNEERWELL MRS. CANDOUR - MARIA ..... Guests, Musicians, Servants, etc. The sequence of scenes will be as follows : — Act I. — I,ady Sneerwell's Drawing-room : Morning. Act II. — Lady Sneerwell's Drawing-room: Evening (the minuet de la cow will be danced in this scene). Act III., Scene I. — A Room at Sir Peter Teazle's. Scene 2. — Charles Surface's House: the Lobby. Scene 3. —Charles Surface's House : the Dining Hall. Act IV. — Joseph Surface's Library. Act \'. — At Sir Peter Teazle's. The production of this comedy was so exceptional at the time, that we give an extract from a review which appeared in the Daily Telegraph, and very graphically describes the elaborate attempt we made to picture days gone by : VOL. I. 26 Mr. Hare. Mr. COLI.ETTE. Mr. Lin Rayne. Mr. Craufurd. Mr. Campbell. Mr. Bancroft. Mr. Coghlan. Mr. Arthur Wood, Mr. Herbert. Mr. R. Cathcart. Mr. F. Glover. Mr. Newton. Mr. Markby. Miss ; Marie Wiltox. (Mrs. Kancroft.) Miss ; Fanny Josephs. Mrs, , Leigh Murray. Miss B. ^VILTON. 402 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. ' There are four complete and accurate pictures of high Hfe at the close of the last century. We are shown society in Lady Sneerwell's drawing- room ; society in Sir Peter Teazle's house ; society at Charles Surface's ; and, finally, a complete in- sight into the life of Joseph Surface. Come, then, to Lady Sneerwell's. It is the morning of a great rout or assembly. The amber satin curtains are half pulled up the lofty windows. The sunshine falls upon the quilted panels of spotless gold satin. Lady Sneerwell, in powder and brocade, sits sipping her tea out of faultless china in a high marqueterie chair, her feet upon a cushion of luxurious clown. The appearance of the room is dazzling. The tone •of society is a lavish and lazy luxury. Here comes Mrs. Candour with her fan and her scandalous stories ; Crabtree with his richly-embroidered coat ; Sir Benjamin Backbite, in pink silk, and with his mincing, macaroni airs, with his point-lace handker- chief, and his scented snuff ; and here amongst all this gaudiness, frivolity, and affectation, sits poor Maria, detesting the shallowness and affectation of the age in which she w^as born. Change the scene quickly to Lady Sneerwell's drawing-room at night, and contrast it by means of your ready sense of humour with the racing, romping drawing-room of 1874. The amber satin curtains have fallen to the ground. The spinet and the powdered musicians are wheeled away to a corner. The room is bared of furniture and empty for a dance. Listen how the THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 4^3 guests chatter and flatter one another, seated on rout- seats against the wall. They do not discuss the weather, or think anything " awfully jolly," or consider anyone " dreadfully much too nice," or tear round to the strains of a maddening galop, or assume that painfully distressed look inseparable from the modern valse, or perspire, or pant, or exhaust themselves. They take snuff with an air and bow with courtly gravity. They turn a verse or recite an epigram. Sir Benjamin Backbite is pestered for his latest folly, and Mrs. Candour is teased for her latest bit of scandal. But see. Lady Teazle enters, her train held by a negro page-boy, and all eyes are attracted by her diamonds, while all tongues are wagging about the young wife who has married an old bachelor. The music gives out the first bars of a glorious minuet, and tells us of the days when musicians wrote for dancing, and when dancing was an art. With consummate grace and delightful courtesy they commence a minuet. What a delicate affec- tation of refinement, what a meaning in' every gfesture and movement ! - ' We know not which most to admire, the refined orchestration or the studied courtesy of the polished dance. This is the drawing-room society of 1777. Change the scene again to an inner apartment at Sir Peter Teazle's. The semicircular shape of the room is seized as an opportunity for exhibiting some tapestry, which may have come from the manu- factory of Sir Francis Crane, at Mortlake in Surrey, 26 — 2 404 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. may have been picked up in Flanders, or Bayeux, or Gobelins, dated in the reign of Louis Quatorze. A rare chandelier, suspended by a crimson silken cord, contrasts well with the carved-oak ceiling. A man- dolin lies neglected on the floor, and the whole apartment is rich, heavy, and luxurious — the favourite apartment of a wealthy man of taste. Here Sir Peter welcomes his old friend " Noll ;" here Lady Teazle, sitting on a low stool at his feet, pets and coaxes her testy and withal affectionate old husband. Once more we make a change. We are amongst bachelors, and dice-players, and winebibbers. We are in the extravagant home of Charles Surface, where his servant Trip borrows money by way of annuity, and the popular Charles himself sits at the head of a rollicking crew surrounded by the pictures of his ancestors. How they drink, and talk, and sing, and swear ! How they empty the punch-bowl, carefully and continually replenished by the drawling Trip ! Here, at the head of the table, sits Charles Surface in a costume whose colour can only be compared to that of a blue convolvulus ruined by the sun, his vest unbuttoned, his ruffles loosened, and his whole being abandoned to the gaiety of the moment. Moses and Premium are introduced, and mutually pleased and shocked. The family pic- tures are sold coram popitio, without any necessity of retiring to another room. Some are smoking, some are snuffing, all are drinking, laughing, and making merry. All round are colour, richness, THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 405 animation, and revelry. This, then, is the picture of bachelor life in 1777. Here are the wild oats sown. The scene is hushed and still when we come to the library of Joseph Surface. The picture is in wonderful contrast to the banquet at the home of his brother Charles. The furniture is massive, heavy, and important. The bookcases are of oak, as black as ebony. The windows are of painted glass. The fireplace is as carved and pillared as an old cathedral cope chest. The bindings of the books are of Russia leather, and there are ponderous tomes amongst them. The carpet is of thick pile, and from Turkey. The only contrast of colour in the room is found in the oriental blue vases on the mantel-shelf, in the blue delft dishes on the walls, in the polished brass of the coal-scuttle, in the gleam of the Venetian mirror, and the dull crimson of the all -important screen. These probably are the mere ideas sought to be conveyed to the audience by the beautiful pictures placed before them.' The parts we ourselves played were so different from those rendered familiar to London playgoers by frequent repetitions of the Robertson comedies, and were treated in such an unconventional way, that we venture to add one brief comment by the same writer upon the performance of them : ' At last we obtain — at least in modern days — a Lady Teazle who is the fresh, genuine, impulsive country maiden wedded to an old bachelor, and not 4o6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. the practised actress, with all her airs and graces. How often in Lady Teazle the character is forgotten, the actress and the old business invariably remem- bered ! In the scandal scenes we were presented with an archness and sly sense of humour always evident but never superabundant, in which Mrs. Bancroft has a special patent ; in the coaxing scene with Sir Peter Teazle, the childlike desire to kiss and make friends, the almost kitten-like content when the reconciliation is made, and the expressive change of the countenance from sunshine to storm when the wrangle commences again, were admirably conveyed. But it was reserved for Mrs. Bancroft to make her most lasting impression in the screen scene. With wonderful care and welcome art the impression con- veyed to an innocent mind by the insinuating deceit of Joseph was accurately shown by expression to the audience, though the excellence of the general idea culminated in what is known as Lady Teazle's defence, when the screen has fallen and the ddnoite- 7}icnt has taken place. This was entirely new and thoroughly effective. The tones, alternating between indignation and pathos, between hatred of Joseph and pity for her husband's condition, were expressed with excellent effect. It was the frank and candid avowal of a once foolish but now repentant woman. The womanly instinct which bids Lady Teazle touch and try to kiss her husband's hand, the womanly weakness which makes Lady Teazle totter and trip as she makes for the door of the hated room, the THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 407 womanly strength which steels Lady Teazle in her refusal of assistance from Joseph, and the woman's inevitable abandonment to hysterical griefyV/^-z' before the heroic goal is reached — were one and all instances of the treasured possession of an artistic tempera- ment.' ' The Joseph Surface of Mr. Bancroft, in that it is one of the most original and reflective performances, will attract most criticism — will probably court the most objection. When Mr. Fechter played lago, and discarded the hackneyed villain, there was a similar disturbance. According to stage tradition, lago and Joseph Surface are such outrageous and obvious rascals that they would not be tolerated in any society. Mr. Bancroft reforms this altogether, and, by a subtlety and an ease most commendable, valuably strengthens his position as an actor, and his discrimination as an artist. Joseph Surface can be played as a low, cunning villain, or as a hungry, excited, and abandoned libertine. Mr. Bancroft adopts the golden mean. His deception is never on the surface, his libertinism is never for an instant repulsive. It is one of those instances of good acting which strike the beholder when the curtain is down and the play put away.' All who witnessed our production of the School NOTE for Scandal will remember the black boy, HY MRS. BANCROFT, a feature, among others, which we intro- duced into the comedy for the first time. It niay 4o8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. be interesting to know the difficulty we had to find him, for we resolved that our Pompey should be a real one. The docks, workhouses, charitable institu- tions, and every likely place we could think of, were searched. It was not at all difficult to find a grown- up black, but our page was not to be more than ten years old. Their captains were under contract to take back to their native land those negroes who were on board ships in harbour, and, of course, dared not lend them. We were in despair, for it had been a pet notion of mine, and was to give the finishing-touch to this elaborate picture of the eighteenth century. Grievously disappointed, I was on the point of giving up all hopes of finding my black boy, when one afternoon a gentleman was announced, w^ho had been shown into the drawing-room accompanied by a true type of African beauty, dressed as a tiger. He was a perfect picture ; very neat, and well pulled together, with spotless breeches, gloves, and collar, a face with large protruding lips, bright eyes, receding forehead, woolly hair, and a skin of a dark copper hue, which shone as if it had been polished, and looked like a well-coloured meerschaum pipe. I thought to myself, ' Pompey is discovered !' The stranger introduced himself as an owner of sugar plantations in Africa, adding, that the boy, who was called ' Biafra,' after the ship he came over in, belonged to him, and having heard of my great desire to find a black page to appear in a play, if I THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 409 would guarantee to return him to his master when I no longer required his services, he would lend this one to me with pleasure ; only, I must undertake to keep him in the house, under my own''care ; the boy in return might make himself useful by helping to wait at table — but it was imperative that he must remain in our house. I was delighted with the pro- posal, and just at that moment my husband came in. The case was explained to him, and he readily agreed to the conditions. I noticed that from the moment it was settled the boy should />7^o tcm. belong to me, he came and stood close by my side, assuming at once that he was my personal property. When his master had gone, I took Biafra to the other servants, and explained his presence amongst them. They took kindly to him as a novelty, and I very soon heard ripples of laughter, which assured me that he was a success in the kitchen. It was arranged that a second bed should be placed in the manservant's room, who, as it happened, was out for a whole holiday ; but being a good-tempered fellow, we felt certain he would not object. My delight was beyond description, for the pro duction of our play promised to be, at least, an artistic success. I related my adventure in the green-room that evening, and the company there were all highly pleased that after our hitherto vain search and anxiety I had succeeded at last. On our return home we were informed that Biafra, being sleepy, had gone to bed early ; but soon after .■4IO OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. midnight we were aroused by shouts and screams from the top of the house. Mr. Bancroft rushed upstairs, while I waited on the huiding in a dressing- gown which I had hastily thrown on, wondering what could be the matter, for I heard a terrible scrimmage going on. By-and-by down came Mr. Bancroft, so convulsed with laup-hter that I could not get a word of explanation from him for some time : he sat on the stairs and positively became hysterical. At last he told me that our manservant, having had permission to visit a relative out of town, had come home rather late, and as he had a latch-key lent to him, the other servants had gone to bed. It appears there was an inference of the man being somewhat unsteady after his relative's hospitality, so that on entering his room and seeing two beds, he no doubt made up his mind that he was either in the wrong house, or that he saw double. It turned out that he stood in the middle of the room, hoping gradually to get the vision of the two beds into proper focus ; but finding the effort a failure, he approached one of them, and encountered, for the first time, Biafra. Paralyzed with terror, the poor fellow stood staring aghast at what he thought was the devil. Suddenly the boy opened his large black eyes, and rolled them wildly about, eventually fixing them on the new-comer, who gave a loud yell, which so terrified Biafra that he jumped out of bed. This intensified the situation, and the one screamed against the other until Mr. Bancroft discovered THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 411 them. It took a considerable time to calm either of them — the boy was strange in the house, and only half awake ; the other, being ignorant of the little nigger's arrival, thought the end of the world had come. The next morning I took my black boy in triumph to the theatre, where he produced a great effect ; he was instructed by me what to do in the business of the scenes he was to appear in. I found him intelli- gent and most obedient to everything /told him to do, but the instruction must all come from vie ; he would take no notice of anyone else, not even of Mr. Bancroft. He always seemed to recognise the fact of having been handed over to me, and that he was in consequence my slave. If others happened to tell him to do the smallest thing, he would stand still and look at me, waiting for 7ny orders. This became somewhat of a tax, because it was the same at home, and the servants found him difficult to manaofe down- stairs. He helped to wait at table very fairly, but always stood at my elbow, with his big eyes fixed on mine, not looking at anyone else. If a funny thing was said by anyone but me, he never smiled ; but if I laughed he would at once laugh with me. Whenever he got into disgrace with the other servants, which was very often, I was called upon to scold him ; and it was the only thing which had any effect. I could shake him, rebuke him, and threaten him, he would take it all from me; but if anyone else attempted to scold him, he would throw 412 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. things at them, spit at them, and shout at them. It may be conceded, therefore, that he was, to say the least, an anxiety in the house ; but so desirous was I for the completeness of our play, that I determined to endure the inconvenience at home for the sake of it. I consoled myself with the thought that when the piece was produced he would be more at the theatre, and the servants at home would be rid of him for the time. This fact seemed to reconcile them to his stopping in the house. The event- ful night arrived, and all the appointments in the comedy were so exquisitely perfect in their beauty and correctness that I could not help feeling very proud. One seemed to be living in the last century, and when the curtain rose on the opening scene, we could hear the welcome murmurs of surprise and admira- tion everywhere. As the time drew near for my entrance as Lady Teazle, I felt very nervous. I knew that my dress was beautiful, white brocaded satin, profusely trimmed with old lace and pale blush- roses ; powdered hair, dressed very high ; a chaplet of roses and diamond ornaments, and Biafra to carry my long train. He looked a perfect picture in his laced scarlet coat and knee-breeches, his white turban and gilt dog-collar. He was indeed a mag- nificent contrast to my white gown, and when we entered, I was told the effect was charming. Biafra behaved most admirably ; rarely stared at the mass of people in the theatre, but fixed his attention on me as usual. He followed me everywhere like a THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 413 little dog, and obeyed my every look. Mr. Lewis Wingfield was so delighted with the boy's appear- ance, that he painted an admirable life-size head of him, which he most kindly presented to me. While on the subject of our production of the School for Scandal, and before I end Biafra's adven- tures, I must tell of a little episode which so amused me at the time, that I venture to think it may be worth alluding to. In the tea scene, the stage was crowded with guests, and the musicians who accom- panied the minuet de la com\ There was an old woman who was employed in the theatre to assist in the cleaning department — the same old lady we have alluded to with reference to some early rehearsals of Ou7's. She was a poor, humble old thing, and, on account of her age, unable to work much ; but we kept her about the place, letting her think herself useful, for her wages helped to support her little home. She had, although in this humble position, a very striking face and aristocratic features, being tall and thin, with perfectly white hair. It occurred to me one day while watching her with a duster in her hand, thinking, poor old soul, that she was very busy, but really doing nothing, that she would, if well dressed, make an effective figure among Lady Sneerwell's guests, and she certainly looked every inch ■i}^ grandc dauic of the period in her deep red broche sac, trimmed with black Spanish point, her high powdered wig, her feathers and court patches^ which really seemed to assist her already finely cut 414 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. features ; with these and her long Suede gloves, some handsome paste ornaments which I lent her, and large black fan, she presented a conspicuously handsome picture. The dear old lady was delighted with her fine clothes, and walked through the scene exactly as she had been instructed ; of course she had nothing to say, that was impossible ! But, when I walked amongst the guests to speak to them {sotto voce), I came across my o\d protdgek\ and it struck me at the moment to address her with particular respect, so I made a low curtsey, to which she intelligently responded, and, suiting the word to the action, I said, ' I hope your ladyship is well to-night ?' To prove to me that she was equal to the occasion, the dear old thing replied, '/';// nicely, thank yei% nmni P This was heard by no one but me, fortitnately ! But to return to our black boy, who was becom- ing more and more unpopular at home, for com- plaints came pouring in every day. The cook could not keep him from the sweets, and he was in con- stant hot water with the other servants ; his appetite was enormous ; he would get the potatoes and throw them about the kitchen, hide the housemaid's boots in the hot oven, and the manservant complained that ' he snored so loud he could get no sleep for him, and the more he threw thiuQ^s at his head, the louder he snored.' One day he was sent into the stables with a message. He no sooner made his appearance there than the horses shied, the dogs barked, and the noise THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 415 was SO great that the coachman was obliged to turn him out. None of the animals ever took to him ; the cats arched their backs, and with swollen tails would spit at him as he passed near them. My parrot, who is a splendid talker and perfectly tame, became silent in his presence, and simply meditated. In fact, the cook remarked, ' The 'ouse ain't the same ouse r Mr. Bancroft and I at last consulted whether it would not be advisable to take him on the box of the carriage when we drove out, and so relieve the kitchen-folk for the afternoon, which, with his work at the theatre at night, would clear the house of him for the greater half of the day. A happy thought ! but I shall never forget the coachman's face when Biafra appeared for the first time by his side. It was a study. We soon had to give up our brilliant idea, for a crowd of boys would collect and jeer if we pulled up, and, while we were driving, would often shout after the boy and give imitations of the sweeps, or cry out, ' 'Ere's a Christy Minstrel.' One day we stopped to make a purchase, and on leaving the shop were horrified at finding Biafra fighting on the pave- ment with three or four young street ruffians. He had jumped down to punish them for their insolence, and the scene was awful. We got him home, and I need not say that, greatly to the coachman's glee, he occupied the box no more. I soon found that he was making himself obnoxious at the theatre also, amongst the servants. He would spite them 4i6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. by playing all sorts of tricks. He would lie down in the darkened passages, and being black he could not be seen, consequently the unwary would tumble over him. I could always influence him while pre- sent, but the moment I went away he would mis- conduct himself again. It all became such an anxiety at last — what with the fear of losing our servants, and complaints pouring in from all quarters day and night — that we resolved to return Biafra to his master ; so, after a seven weeks' run, our black friend was restored to his former and, perhaps, more con- genial position. Just before his final exit, he thrust all the cook's caps up the chimney ! The next time I required a black page was in Masks and Faces, but I contented myself with an imitation one. The genuine article had been too much for me. Our production of the School for Scandal, aided greatly, of course, by the increase to the 3. B. B. pj-Jcgs of admission, proved a success of the first rank, and brought us many interesting letters : a few of them, from the eminence of their writers, we venture to quote. First among them is one which came almost immediately from Wilkie Collins : ' 90, Gloucester Place, Portman Square, April b, i?74. ' My dear Bancroft, ' I tried to call at Pleydell House yesterday, but the London distances— I was obliged to go first to South Kensington — were too much for me. RESUMED BY S. THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 417 * The get-up of the piece is simply wonderful ; I never before saw anything, within the space, so beautiful and so complete : but the splendid costumes and scenery did not live in my memory as Mrs. Bancroft's acting does. I don't know when I have seen anything so fine as her playing of the great scene with Joseph ; the truth and beauty of it, the marvellous play of expression in her face, the quiet and beautiful dignity of her repentance, are beyond all praise. ' I cannot tell yon or tell /ler how it delighted and affected me. You, too, played admirably. The "key" was, perhaps, a little too low; but the con- ception of the man's character I thought most excel- lent. I left my seat in a red-hot fever of enthusiasm. I have all sorts of things to say about the acting — which cannot be said here — when we next meet. I heartily congratulate you in the meantime. ' Yours ever, 'WiLKiE Collins.' We next find in our collection the opinion of the veteran actor, William Creswick, whose training we fairly thought might rebel at our innovations : * 8, Bloomsbury Square, Ju/ie I, 1874. ' My dear Bancroft, ' Accept my best thanks for your very kind and courteous note, also for a most interestinof and pleasant evening's entertainment. VOL. I. 27 41 8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. ' Permit me likewise to congratulate Mrs. Ban- croft and yourself upon a success so justly and hon- ourably achieved. Your boldness, liberality, and taste in rearranging and mounting the play, instead of " offending my prejudices," most fully and thoroughly gratified them, more especially so, as I have ever thought that the revival of a great dramatic work should resemble the production of a grand book. The illustrations should be original, new, and more brilliant and appropriate than any upon the same subject that may have preceded it. The last edition should be the handsomest and the best, as it un- questionably is in this instance. ' It will be, I believe, a very long time before any- one will be so rash as to attempt another illustrated edition of the ScJiool for Scandal. ' Be so good as to present my best compliments and thanks to Mrs. Bancroft, and ' Believe me, ' Yours faithfully, 'Wm. C res wick. ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' A letter much appreciated by us from the distin- guished Academician, Mr. Frith, will be welcomed by the reader, if only on the score of his recent great success in another walk of life ; for many to whom we hope our book may appeal must have been among those whom his charmingly-told remin- iscences have recently delighted : THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 419 ' 7, Peinbridge Villas, Bayswater, W., /u/y 31, 1874. ' My dear Mr. Bancroft, ' You and all your people gave me and mine very great pleasure last night. I am afraid to say how many times I have seen the School for Scandal, and how many great actors and actresses I have seen in it. I won't say but that on some occasions one or two of the parts have been better filled ; but take your cast altogether, it is one that no other theatre could show, and the great play was rendered with high intelligence. ' Mrs. Bancroft was, as she always is, perfect. To me the minuet was one of the most delightful bits of grace and exquisite taste ever seen. It took me back to the days of my great-grandmother, a hundred years ago. ' May your shadows never grow less ! ' Always faithfully yours, ' W. P. Frith. ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' We will only add a characteristic and appre- ciative letter from another stao-e veteran, Walter Lacy, who defies Time and still, as cheerily as ever, wakes the echoes of the Garrick Club, by his remark- able choice of words : ' 38, Montpelier Square, Knightsbridge, Thursday Ah'gJif. ' Dear Bancroft, ' Some forty years since, Macready was an- nounced, to play "Richard the Third for the first 27—2 420 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. time in London these eight years," and, although I had banqueted right royally on the grand Edmund Kean, I was not to be weaned froni my old love. I thoroughly enjoyed the highly intellectual treat prepared for me by Mac's new reading ; and so was it to-night in the classic little temple where I made my dc^d^i/ in the French Spy with Celeste, shortly after seeing the new Richard at Drury Lane. As Macready carefully avoided every point made by Kean, much of the comedy to-night was made pathetic, and vice versa, but, both in conception and finish of execution, evincing the common-sense, good taste, delicacy and refinement of yourself and our most natural actress, whose Lady Teazle had touches of unapproachable excellence. The brothers were equally admirable, and would perhaps have been even more so had they changed parts. Mr, Hare's screen- scene was worthy of his reputation, and nothing could surpass the Lady Sneerwell. The " picture "-scene is distinctly an advance upon the old arrangement, but I doubt if the guests, except Careless, should return ; they confused the scene, I thought, and turned it into a public auction instead of a private sale. ' In haste, with kindest rerards and thanks for a great treat. ' Faithfully yours, ' Walter Lacv. S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' I am sure, on the score of our long acquaintance, my old friend will forgive me for endeavouring to THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 421 amuse the reader as his language amused me, by repeating his extraordinary account of the effort of an aspiring tragedian in the great scene between Shylock and Tubal, In the situation where the Jew learns how his daughter parted with the ring which he would not have sold for ' a wilderness of monkeys,' Walter Lacy described the actor In these words : ' At this point, sir, he leapt three feet into the air, and then gave a cry like the skreel of a banished eagle !' Speaking of some of his own performances, he thus related his different methods of dining : 'When I played "Bluff Hal," sir (Henry of Eng- land), I drank brown porter and dined off British beef; but if I had to act the Honourable Tom Shuffleton, I contented myself with a delicate cutlet and a glass of port which resembled a crushed garnet, and then sallied on to the stage with the manners of a gentleman and the devll-me-care air of a man about town !' Apropos of Walter Lacy's letter, I must venture to dispute his judgment In suggesting that I might with advantage have exchanged parts with Coghlan, whose splendid acting as Charles Surface was so greatly praised by all the critics, and by all judges of our art ; while sharing to the fullest extent this admiration for his performance, I would yet venture to wonder if. In its beautiful finish, the character was not in his hands somewhat more suggestive of a dissolute young French MaTijiiis, than of a reckless and boisterous young Englishman. 422 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. At this time Mr. Bellew, who had long been seriously ill, seeming, in fact, to slowly fade away after his return from a long tour in America, where he went to give his readings, was living quite close to our house in the Grove End Road, and very often one or both of us would sit with him and try to help some sad half-hours away. He was especially interested in our performance of the School for Scandal, hoping for an early visit to it, which was never destined to take place. We can only conclude that one of our visits must have been overdue, for not many days before his death he wrote this note of gentle reproach : ' Friday, May 29, 1874. ' My dear Bancroft, ' England is my nation, London is my dwell- ing place, 16, Circus Road is my location, and Bellew my nomination. ' As you won't come and see me. I write to Inquire how you are. ' Yours very truly, 'J. M. Bellew.' In June he passed quietly away, and we saw him laid to rest In the Catholic Cemetery at Kensal Green. When he was still a clergyman of the Protestant Church (before he became a public reader and reciter), I very frequently heard him preach ; for he was a man of great oratorical and highly cultivated gifts ; doubtless owing something of his pulpit popularity to his grand voice, his THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 423 beautiful hair, and soigiK^ appearance ; his reading of the ' death chapter ' from the Burial Service being especially impressive and powerful. On one occa- sion — the last day of the year 1865, I remember — I v^ent to his chapel in Bloomsbury, which was always crowded, to hear his midnight sermon, in which he made reference to some of the great men whom the world had lost during the expiring year, including, I recollect quite well, Lord Palmerston, President Lin- coln, and Cardinal Wiseman. When Bellew men- tioned the last name, it was received by some foolish bigot among the congregation with a distinct and pronounced hiss — a strange sound to hear in a sacred building. Bellew paused, evidently amazed at the interruption, and then proceeded, amidst perfect stillness, with his panegyric to the memory of a deservedly remarkable man, I will repeat a little story which Bellew told us of a neighbour of his, who for years wore one of the most palpable of wigs, being at the same time quite convinced in his own mind that no one shared the mysterious secret ; for he even went so far with the evident deception as to have several wigs which he wore in turn, the hair of each of them being of different lengths. Bellew one morning met his friend just as he was leaving his house, and asked if they could walk together. ' Delighted,' said the owner of the coffee-coloured 'jasey,' 'if you are going towards Bond Street, where I must stop to have my hair ctU! 424 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. Poor Bellew ! he was much regretted by all who really knew him, and by those whom he took the least pains to teach the way to like him. We are glad to believe that we were of them. To return to stage matters, I hope the reader has not followed us so far in our book without believing that successful management has to work very far ahead — one of its greatest strains. ' Sufficient for the day,' etc., is a proverb of no use to its followers ; * The early bird ' being much more suitable as a theatrical motto. Guided by this principle, we were still only in the early days which followed the per- formance of the School for Scandal, when we decided that a revival of Society, conjointly with the produc- tion of Mr. Gilbert's 'dramatic contrast,' should form our next programme, which we anticipated would be required in the autumn. We wished, however, at once to settle what should follow even that, for per- sistent attacks of hay-fever had so distressed and pained Mrs. Bancroft for the last few summers, that it became desirable to arrange a programme without her, for the time of year which proved so trying to her health. This was no easy task, and led me naturally to try and think of some attractive substi- tute. As I have before asserted that I was mainly responsible for the choice of plays during our manage- ment, let me at once admit that a variety of circum- stances led my wandering thoughts — amazing as the revelation seemed to be when subsequently made public — towards Shakespeare's Merchant of Veiiue. THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 425 This fact I allude to now, for^ it will be more fully dwelt on later, to show how far our work was always in advance, and that no success, however great, of the moment blinded us to this necessity. Our failures received the same amount of careful forethoufjht as did our triumphs. Faithful to our rule not to forego our holiday, we refused some splendid offers to take our version of the School for Scandal, with all its paraphernalia, to the leading provincial cities ; while the three thou- sand miles of sea remained, unhappily, an insur- mountable obstacle to the consideration of brilliant proposals from America with the same object, so that we broke the run of the old comedy on August 7th, after having played It to more than a hundred full houses, and went away to Switzerland via Ostend. We stayed some little time at the Kaltbad Hotel, above the Lake of Lucerne. Among our com- panions there this year were Arthur Cecil, and Palgrave Simpson, who dearly loved the place, and spent many summers there. Our ultimate object was to get on to Venice, where we had arranged to meet our scenic artist at the beginning of September, to see what nooks and spots we best could choose for our proposed bold attempt to place the Merchant of Venice upon our little stage. I remember there were enough friends of J. L. Toole in this mountain hotel (but where would there not be '^) to send him a round-robin telegram to wish him ' good luck ' on the day of his first appearance In America. We drove 426 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. in two days over the St. Gothard Pass to Bellin- zona, and thence, still by carriage, for there was no railway then, to Lugano, where the inn we stayed at had evidently once been a convent ; next, partly by steamer, then by road, to Menaggio, on the Lake of Como, rowing on to Cadenabbia, where we stayed some days. The first impression of the Italian lakes, in perfect weather, is one not easily effaced ; and even on the most prosaic mind of this most prosaic nineteenth century must have its effect. With many a sigh we left this earthly paradise, for a short rest of a day and a half at Milan : hurried glimpses at its marble cathedral, the old church of S. Ambrogio, the Scala, and the many beauties of the city, were all that we could spare time to snatch as we hastened to our destination. We arrived at Venice on a lovely evening, in the great heat of early September days, and our journey to Danieli's was the first experience of that strange city, perhaps of all places the least disappointing to the imagination. Our brief and busy visit would not allow us to attempt a description in any proper terms of the peerless beauty of this wondrous city. The powerful pen of Ruskin may have shattered the romance formerly attached to the ' Bridge of Sighs,' and reduced the stories of its duno^eons and their inmates to a sort of sentimental fraud, on a par, per- haps, with the tale of William Tell and the apple, or of King Alfred and the cakes. What if the existing Rialto could have nothing in common with old Shy- THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 427 lock and the merchant princes of those days ! What if the house shown to tourists as being once the abode of Othello, in which (poor fool !) he smothered dear Desdemona, is but another of the many self- same poetic swindles ! There remains more than enough reality to dwell upon and think about. A kind of spell seems to be wound about any but the most unromantic traveller who has the luck to arrive when the moon is full, and, having escaped from the facchini at the quay, is taken, instead of by a wretched ' growler ' or hotel omnibus, in a gondola to his hotel, listening in silence, while he glides along, to the splash of the oar and the musical warning- cry from the boatman as he approaches corners on the way. There, as arranged, we met George Gordon, our scene-painter, whom we found brimful of the delights his few days' stay had given him. Every hour seemed occupied in settling to what purpose we best could put it, and very carefully we chose the spots we felt would make good pictures for our narrow frame. In the Doges' Palace we saw plainly that the Sala della Bussola was the only one within our means to realize, and this room we decided should be accurately reproduced for the trial of Antonio and Portia's pleading on his behalf. We resolved to show different views of Venice in the form of curtains between the acts of the play, and, when all was settled (after delightful days and evenings spent in seeing what we could in the time at our disposal), we 428 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. went away, leaving George Gordon to complete his sketches, only too happy to linger in its congenial atmosphere. To tell the truth, we suffered greatly from mos- quitoes, and found the pastile remedy almost as trying, through going to Venice so early in September ; but those troubles soon passed, leaving us permanent and delightful memories of the Piazzo San Marco, where, of course, we fed the friendly pigeons ; of the grand cathedral church, with its w^ondrous mosaics and its bronze horses ; the Campanile, with its view that tells you of the possibility of getting from quarter to quarter of the city without once entering a gondola ; the Palace of the Doges, so grandly entered by its Giant Stairs, with its superb Titians and Paul Veroneses; the distant Lido (where a horse looked almost strange), and its lovely bathing in the Adriatic. We can only say, A bientot. My first visit to Venice was made memorable by CONCLUDING those tlresomc and spiteful mosquitoes. kyTirs. During dinner, we, and others at table, 7iANCROKr. ^rgj-g discussing the horrors of their bites, and several people seemed to possess a remedy if used immediately after the sting of these relentless creatures, when suddenly a gentleman, a doctor, who had but just arrived, interrupted the conversation by remarking that none of us knew anything about it. * The only way,' he added, 'was to prevent their biting^/ all' He was a loud-voiced, noisy man. THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 429 rather bumptious and self-opinionated. He did not advise, but said ' yoit must' in a way calculated to frighten a nervous patient into a premature grave. * What's the use of rubbing stuff into your skin after the mischief is done i* — -your ammonias, and strong spirit of this, that, or the other ! Do you all want erysipelas ? I prefer the mosquitoes. But they never touch vie. And why ? Because I prevent the beggars from coming near me : you won't see the vestige of a sting on me. When I leave Venice you will find with envy how I have escaped ; and if you ask me, I will present you all with my prescription. You won't catch me walking about my bedroom with a lighted pastile, as if I was carrying on an incantation, and choking myself with the fumes — oh no !' None of us wanted to catch him doing anything of the sort. He was extremely ugly when dressed : what must he have been in his robe de imit ? W^e were full of hope that his preventive would be a valuable addition to our pharmacopoeian treasures, so treated his remarks with respect, and allowed him to shout his opinions, which he did loud enough to be heard on the other side of the canal. ' Look out for me to-morrow morning, all of you. Not a spot — not a sign of one. My own invention — my own idea ! — splendid discovery ! Good-night. I shall leave my window open all night — I like air — I can defy the mosquitoes. Good-night.' Our friend Mr. Gordon, It so chanced, slept in 430 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. the next room to the doctor — or, at least, ought to have slept ; but his neighbour spent the night in throwincr thinofs about, and exclaiminof in warm language on the subject of mosquitoes. The window was soon shut with a bang, chairs were pitched from one end of the room to another, towels were dashed against the wall, groans and oaths were alternately uttered, until at last audible and earnest prayers were overheard for the torture to stop. The next morning, when we inquired for the doctor who was to be our benefactor, we were informed that he had gone off by the first train. He had been so fear- fully bitten in the night that his most familiar friends would not have recognised him ; and George Gordon, who had seen him, remarked, ' He was ugly yester- day, but this morning he resembled something at the Zoo!' Apropos of our own departure a few days later, travellers know how we all try to obtain the best seats in a railway carriage, and what a rush there is sometimes to get them. I have a very unpleasant recollection of a scene at the Turin station. We had secured two window-seats, and after placing some parcels and bags upon them, we walked up and down the platform, until we heard the well-known * Partenza /' As we approached our carriage, a gentleman, with two boys, preceded us, and, seeing our things on the seats, immediately removed them, and sat down ; upon which Mr. Bancroft informed him that the seats were taken, and were ours. The THE SEASON OF 1873-74. 431 new-comer would not listen to what was said, but insisted that we had no right to secure them ; then my husband and he had a hot dispute for some time in French, but discovering soon that they both were EngHsh, continued the argument in their native language. I became more and more alarmed, but said nothino- until I saw things were getting serious, when I besought them to quarrel no more, adding, that rather than there should be any unpleasantness we would move to another carriage at the next stopping- place. One of the sons at once leaned forward to whisper to his father, and the quarrel suddenly ceased. Not another word was spoken until we reached a station where we all had to get out for dinner. During the meal, the gentleman who was so irate about our securing the seats came up to us, and said : ' Mr. Bancroft, will you allow me to offer Mrs. Bancroft and yourself my apologies ? I am exceedingly sorry for my loss of temper. You were in the right, I in the wrong. Let me entreat you not to change your carriage, but allow me to do all in my power to make the rest of Mrs. Bancroft's journey as pleasant as I can.' It transpired that he had not known us in the train, for I was wearing a thick gauze veil to hide the attentions of the mosquitoes, and my husband was sunburnt beyond recognition ; but the moment I spoke the son knew my voice, and told his father who we were— a discover)^ I am happy to say, which 432 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE. threw oil upon the troubled waters, for no one could have been kinder or more considerate than our travelling companions during the remainder of our long journey to Paris, where we passed a short but pleasant time with friends, which brought our holiday to an end. INDEX. A Fair Pretetuier, comic drama, 190 A Hundred Thousand Pounds, a comedy by Byron, produced : the cast, 204 A Silent Protector, farce by T. J. Williams, 247 A Winning Hazard, by Mr. Wooler, our first lever derideau, 182; Mr. Wooler's strange lapse of memory, 190 A Winter s Tale (Brough's extrava- ganza). Miss Marie Wilton as I'er- dita in, 38 Adelphi, Miss Maiie Wilton offered an engagement at the, 49 ; dis- appointment, 58 Aladdin, or the Wonderful Scamp, Miss Marie Wilton as Aladdin in, 94 Allow Ale to Explain, farce by W. S. Gilbert, 232 Anderson, James, at Birmingham, 143 Atalanta, appearance of Miss Marie Wilton in, 50 Atchi, a comedietta by J. Maddison Morton, 261 Atheuicuin, the, on Miss Marie Wilton as Lucy Morton in Court Favour, 97 ; on the Prince of Wales's com- pany, 344 Bachelor Holiday, a, 350 Bancroft, Mr. : Birthand Parentage, 121 ;earlyvecol- lections, 122, ct scij.; first sight of Marie Wilton, 127 ; visit to New York, 128 ; theatrical recollections, 129 ; gets his own engagement, 135 ; Mr. Mercer Simpson, of the Theatre Royal, Birmingham, ibid. ; first appearance : Lieutenant Manley in St. Mary s Fve, 136 ; a varied lepcr- toire, ibid. ; Madame Celeste and | VOL. L the Green Bushes and Flowers of the Forest, 137 ; Walter Montgomery, ibid. ; off to Cork, ibid. ; Mr. Kendal, 139; the Brigaiuis of the Abruzzi, 140; Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean, Phelps, G. V. Brooke, and Frederick Roljson, ibid.; Devonport — the Serious Family and Still Waters Run Deep, 141 ; imitation of Sothern as Lord Dundreary, 142 ; the Ply- mouth Telegraph on, 143 ; back at Birmingham in Macbeth and King John, ibid. ; James Anderson, ibid. ; Dublin : Granby, Charles Mathews, and Mr. and Mrs. Frank Matthews 144; anecdote of Mailiews, 145; Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean, ibid. ; anecdote of, 148 ; offer of engage- ment at .St. James's Theatre declined, 148 ; to Cork again, and back to Dublin, 149; G. V. Brooke, ibid.; cast for Captain Thornton in Po'j A'oy, 150; back to Birmmgham as the Counsel for the Defence in The Trial of Effie Deans, 151 ; a lesson from Dion Boucicault. ibid. ; to Devonport and many new parts again, 152 ; offer of eiigageinent at the Princess's, from Walter Mont- gomery, declined, ibid. ; iiack to Dublin, 153 ; meeting with Sothern, ibid. ; anecdote of, 154 ; accepts en- gagement with Mr. Henderson at Liverpool, 156 ; experience in Liverpool, 157 ; back to Dublin on a starring tour, 1 58 ; return to Liver- pool and meeting with Marie Wilton, 159 ; John Hare and Leigh Murray, //'/(/. ; letter from Murray, 160 ; the Davenport brothers, 161 ; the Knot- ting em Brothers, 162; other ven- tures, 163 ; anecdote of Hare, ibid. ; Miss Wilton : love at first sight, 165 ; 28 434 INDEX. review of four years and four months' praitice, i66 : in search of ihe Prince of Wales's Theatre, 193 ; Captain Thistleton in IVar to the Knife, 195 ; Clarke stranded at Brij^hton on a Monday afternoon — • a special train, 228 ; first ' man's dinnerparty,' 229; the hint of the Captain Ilawtree make-up, ibid. ; a reversal of tradition — Younge's amazement, ibid. ; the outline of the plot of Caste in a Christmas volume, ibid. ; introduced to Edmund Yates, //'/(/. ; burninp; of Her Ma- jesty's Theatre, 234 ; F.dmund Yates on Mr. Bancroft's delineations, 237 ; last sight of Charles Kean, 239 ; anecdote concerning him, 240; plays in A Silent Protector during a tem- porary illness of Hare, 247 ; makes acquaintance with Henry Irving, 248 ; farewell benefit to Paul Bed- ford at the Adelphi, 249 ; Byron's humorous description of him, ibid. ;\ letter to Daily Telegraph on charges for admission to London theatres, 30^ ; banquet to The&tre Fratigais company at Crystal Palace, 328 ; managerial and personal notes, 336 ; a bachelor holiday, 350 ; letter from Charles Mathews, 366 ; going to Maidenhead — an adventure, 378; an odd practical joke, 393 ; Charles Mathew's seventieth birthday, 396 ; the Daily Telegraph on Mr. Ban- croft's Joseph Surface, 407 ; Wilkie Collins's opinion, 417 Mrs. Bancroft (Miss Marie Wilton) : Parentage, 3, 5 ; grandparents, 5 ; a child actress, 7 ; the ' poor man ' at the back of the gallery, 11 ; per- formance for a church building fund, ibid. ; a marked change, 12 ; lines — an adventure arising therefrom, 12- 16 ; appears at Theatre Royal, Man- chester, in pantomime of Gtillizer's Travels, 16 ; persistent observation, anecdotes of, 16-18 ; Macready, 18 ; Fleance in Macbeth, ibid. : Mac- ready's advice, 20 ; Prince Arthur in King Joh7i, 20; Charles Kemble's praise, 21 ; he sends for her, 21 ; his advice, ibid. ; pupil of Mademoiselle Cushnie, 22 ; an accident, ibid. ; Tiny Tim in the Christinas Carol, ibid. : proposed adoption by a weathy Catholic widowlady, 27; firstappear- ance at Bristol, ibid. ; Bristol Mer- cury thereon, 28 ; becomes a great favourite, ibid. ; Bristol a stepping- stone to London, ibid. ; toiling for comedy, 30 ; Claude Melnotte's mother too young, ibid. ; Henri, in Helphegor, 32 ; Mr. Dillon objects to the rendering, but gives way, 32 ; his promise, and its fulfilment, 33 ; in London, 35 ; J. L. Toole, 37 ; an unkind manager, ibid. ; Perdita in Brough's extravaganza, A IViiiter's Tale, 38 ; trouble about the dress, ibid. ; a persecuting stage-manager and a good friend, 42; success of Belphegor, 43 ; called before the curtain, 44; encouragement from the A/orning Post, 46 ; Toole's birthday present, ibid. : Serena in Conrad atid iMedora, 48 ; praise from Edmund Yates, ibid. ; appearance as Virginia, ibid. ; a jerky right arm cured, 49 ; engagements offered at the Adelphi and the Haymarket, ibid. ;encourage- ment from Mr. Chippendale, 50; Cupid in Atalanta, ibid. ; meeting the Ly- ceum foe — a crushing rejoinder, ibid. ; a mad lover, 52 ; disappoint- ment at the Adelphi, 58 ; Cupid again, 59 ; illness, ibid. ; mistaken identity, 61 ; engaged for the Strand Theatre, 64; first love: a pearl neck- lace and a real romance, 65 et seq. ; burlesque — Pippo in the Maid and the Magpie, 76 ; remonstrance, 78 ; H. J. Byron's appeal, ibid. ; a leading favourite, 79 ; Charles Dickens's opinion, ibid. ; hanker- ing for comedy, 82 ; Sir \Valter Raleigh in Kenilworth,ibid. ; Albert in William Tell, 85 ; Karl in the Miller and his Men, 90; acquaint- ance with the Dowager Countess of Harrington (Miss Eoote), 91 ; Miss Swanborough's marriage and retire- ment, 93 ; Aladdin in Aladdin, or ihe Wonderful Scamp, 94 ; Gringoire in Es?neralda, 97 ; Lucy Morton in Cottrt Favour : the Athenirum on, 97 ; Myles-na-Coppaleen in Miss Eily O'Connor, Byron's parody on the Colleen Eaiini, 98 ; again cast for Karl in the Miller and his Men, 100; will not play the part, and forfeits engagement, loi ; engaged by Mr. Frank Matthews for the Heart of Midlothian at the St. James's Theatre, ibid. ; death of Rogers, 104; engagement at the INDEX 43S Adelphi in the LiU/e Treasure, Md. ; back to the Strand in Orpheus and Eurydice, loS; Unlimited Confi- dence, a comedietta, 109; visit of the Prince of Wales, ibid. ; Mazourka, ibid. ; acts in Koineo and Juliet on the occasion of the Shakespearean Ter- centenary, 109 ; goes to Liveipuol, 1 10 ; youthful impetuosity — a re- miniscence, with results, III ct seq. ; becomes manager of a London theatre, 171 et seq. ; a 'lucky' clnld, 173; partnership with Byron, 175 ; the Queen's Theatre, ibid. ; Mr. J. M. Levy's advice, 176; ar- rangement with Mr. James and with Byron, 177 ; the agreement with Byron, ibid. ; a visit to the house, and misgivnigs, 178 ; the company, 180 ; the new name — Prince of Wales's Theatre, ibid. ; letter from Lady Harrington, l%l ; A l^Vinninif Hazard, 182 ; a curious affliction, 184. ; a strange incitlent, ihid. ; J.a ! Sonnainbula ! 186 ; the cast, ibid. : Vandyke Brown, 187 ; first speech, 188; the first night's receipts — what to do with them ? ibid. ; A Fair Pre- tender, 190 ; Byron's comedy, War to the Knife, ibid. ; the cast, 191 ; an eccentric hall-keeper, ibid. ; IVar to the Knife and La ! Sonnavibula ! in the provinces, 192 ; the Second Season: A'aval Engageniejils ; Lucia di Lamnierntoor, a new burlesque by Byron (with cast), and A L^over by Proxy, 195; Hare's London debut,' 196; anecdotes of Clarke and Dewar, ! 196, 197 ; a cabman's error, 197 ; a j ' worrited ' cabby, 198 ; and a \ drunken cabman, 199 ; an important I event : Robertson and his comedy I Society, 200 ; his appearance, 201 ; the cast : a great success, 202 ; visit from the Prince of Wales, ibid. ; Little Don Giovanni : the cast, 203; Farewell to burlesque, 204 ; Dewar's wigs, 205; illness of Mrs. Wilton, 206; Liverpool, ibid. ; a scene in court, 207 ; Robertson completes Uurs, and it is produced in Liver- pool, 209 ; Manchester, ibid. ; called home, 210 ; rehearsals of 0«r.f, 21 1 ; Byron's complications at Liverpool, ibid. : falling off in his new bur- lesque, Der L'reischiitz, 213; death of Mrs. Wilton, 214; Mi^s Lydia Thompson replaces Mrs. Bancroll in Ours, 215; expiration and dissolu- tion of the partnership between Mrs. Bancri and liijc, 372 Collins, Wilkie, his drama xMan and Wile, 329 ; letter from, 330 ; he reads the play, 368 ; his extreme nervousness on the first night, 370 ; letter expressing his satisfaction at the end of the season, 383 ; letter on the School for Scandal, 416 Compton, Mr., his advice about some flowers, 52 ; tragical results, 54 e/ sec/. Conrad and Medora at the Lyceum, 48 Conway, H. B., engaged for country tour of Alan and Wife, 372 Cook, Button, his criticism on Ma)i and Wife, 371 Cork, Mr. Bancroft accepts an en- gagement for, 137 ; again visited, 149 Court Favour, Miss Marie Wilton as Lucy Morton in Planchc's comedy, 97 Creswick, William, his opinion on the production of the School for Scandal, 417 Critchett, Mr., the oculist, 357 Critic, Mathews's programme of, for his benefit at Covent Garden, 287 Cupid and Psyche at the Adelphi, 59 Cushnie, Mademoiselle, the premiere danseiise, Miss Marie Wilton a pupil of, 22 Cut oj^ with a Shilling, by They re .Smith, produced, 325 Daily Telegraph, discussion in, on charges for admission to London theatres, 305 ; on the School for Scandal, its scenes, and its Lady Teazle and Joseph Surface, 401- 407 Davenport Brothers at Liverpool, 161 ; they beat a hasty retreat, 162 Delaunay and Favart, their exquisite acting, 327 Denison, Mr., takes Mr. Bancroft's place in the performance of Caste at the Standard Theatre, 3S4 Derby, Mr. Bancroft present at every one since 1865, 337 Der Freischiitz, burlesque by Byron, only moderately successful, 213 Desclee, Madlle., Mr. Bancroft's im- pression of her acting, 370 Devonport, Mr. Bancroft's visits to, 141-151 Dickens, Charles, his opinion of Miss Marie Wilton as Pippo in the Maid and the Magpie, 79 ; his last visit to the Prince of Wales's, 282 ; his readings for the actors, 291 ; his death, 298 ; letter from him to Mrs. Bancroft, 299 ; sale of his effects, ibid. ; a debt the nation owes him, 300 Dickens's Christmas Carol, Miss Marie Wilton as Tiny Tnn in, 22 Dillon, Mr. Charles, at Bri-tol, as Belphegor, 32 ; his objection to Miss Marie Wilton's rehearsal of Henri, 32 ; his promise, and its fulfilment, 12, Drake, Mrs., sister of Mrs. Bancroft, 171 Drake, Mr., proposes to Mrs. Bancroft to become her own manager — a generous offer, 172 Dublin, Mr. Bancroft acts in, 144, et seq. Dyas, Miss Ada, engaged for country tour of Man and Wife, yjT. English, Mr., the dramatic agent, ' English and American Theatres,' re- ply to letter of Mr. Boucicault on, by Mr. liancroft, 305 Esmeralda, Miss Marie Wilton as Grin- goire in, 97 INDEX. 439 Faulkner, Georgiana Jane^jri-c' Wilton, Mrs. Favart and Dclaunay, their exquisite acting, 327 Flozvers of the Forest, Mr. Bancroft acts in, witii Madame Celeste, 137 Foote, Miss Lydia, rejoins tlie com- jiany, 362 Forrest, Edwin, the American trage- dian, death of, 363 Frith, Mr. W. P., his opinion on the School for Scandal and the Lady Teazle, 417 Garrick Club, Mr. Bancroft elected a member of, 277 ; a dream in the smoking-room, 278-280 Gilbert, W. S., his fust essay as a barrister : a scene in court, 207 ; his farcf, Allow Me to Explain, 232 ; his White IVillo-i' (afterwards Sii'cef heart i) accepted, 39S Glyn, Miss, in Macbeth, 20 ; in King John, ibid. Granby, stage-manager at Dublin, 144 Green Bushes, Mr. Bancroft acts in, with Madame Celeste, 137 Gulliver s Travels, Miss Marie Wilton appears at Manchester in pantomime of, 16 Hare, John, Mr. Bancroft's first meet- ing with, 159 ; anecdote of, 163 ; as Short in Naval Enfiagements, 196 ; his get-up for 'fame Cats, 268 ; gives a special matinee at the Princess's Theatre, 300 ; disap- pointment of Mr. Ruskin at the smallness of his part in Ours, 325 ; imitates a caged lion in a stable at Liverpool, and is caught in the 'cage,' 348 ; an adventure with Mr. Ban- croft, 378 Hare, Mr. and Mrs., a Iiappy evening with, 328 Harrington, the Dowager Countess of (Miss Foote), 91 ; her interest in Mrs. Bancroft, 92 ; letter from on Prince of Wales's Theatre, 181 ; her death, 239 Haymarket, Miss Marie Wilton offered her first engagement at the, 49 I Heart of Midlothian, Miss Marie Wilton engaged for the St. James's Theatre, loi I Hodson, Henrietta, at Bristol, 29; first appearance in London at the Prince of Wales's in Pandora s Box, 216 How She Loves Him, a comedy by Dion Boucicault, first represented in America, 232 ; letter from the author, 233 ; the cast, 235 ; a failure, 236 ; letter from Boucicault on its with- drawal, 245 ; fleclines to accept any fees for it, ibid. Inglefield, Admiral Sir Edward and Lady, neighbcjurs and companicms in sorrow, 292 ; gift of a Russian drum for Ours, 308 Irving, Henry, Mr. Bancroft makes his acquainiance in the Burlington Arcade, 249 James, Mr., lessee of the Queen's Theatre, 175 ; arrangement with him, 177 James, Charles Stanfield, scenic artist, death of, 248 Josephs, Fanny, joins the .Strand com- pany, 94 Kean, Mr. and Mrs. Charles, Mr. Bancroft meets with, 140 ; death of Charles Kean, 239; an anecdote, 240 Keans, the, in Dublin, 145 ; Charles Kean's opinion of Mr. Bancroft, 146; Kean and the nuts, 148 Keeley, Robert, death of, 275 ; anec- dotes of him, 275, 276 Kemble, Charles, his opinion of Miss Marie Wilton's performance as Prince Arthur in King John, 21 Kendal, Mrs. (Madge Robertson), at Bristol, 29; Mr. Bancroft's first meeting with, 152 Kendal, Mr., Mr. Bancroft's first meet- ing with, 139 Kenihuorth, Miss Marie Wilton as Sir Walter Raleigh in, 83 A'ing John, ^Iiss Marie Wilton as Prince Arthur in, 20 ; Mr. Bancroft acts in, 143 La I Sonnanibiila 1 the first burlesque at the Prince of Wales's, 186 Lacy, Walter, on the production of the School for Scandal, 419 : anecdote of, 421 440 INDEX. Lady of Lyons, Miss Marie Wil- tun as Claude M^'lnotte's mother in, 30 ' Lambs' and ' 1 amhkins,' 37S Levy, Mr. J. M., liis advice to Mrs. Bancroft, 176 Little Don Giovanni produced : the cast, 203 Lucia di Lamvicnnoor, new Inirlesque by Byron, 195 ; the cast, ibid. Lyceum, the, Miss Marie Wilton's first appearance in London at, 43 Lylion, Lord, author o'i AToncy, letters from, 343, 345, 364 ; his death, 364; his son (' Owen Meredith,' the pre- sent Earl), 364 M. /*., production of, 295 Macbeth, Miss Marie \Vilton acts in, 18, 143 Macready, Miss Marie Wilton's first recollection of, 18; his advice to her, 20 ; his death and funeral, 375 Maid and the Magpie, The, Miss Marie Wilton cast for Pippo in, ^^ Man and Wife, Wilkie Collins's drama, 329 ; read by the author, 368 ; written before the novel, ibid. ; ils production and cast, 369 ; Button Cook on the play, 371 ; a favourite play with the royal family, 372 ; withdrawal at end of season, 383 ; satisfaction of the author, ibid. Manchester, Miss ALirie Wilton's first appearance at Theatre Roval, 16 Tilanchester, Prince's Theatre at, 347 Mario, his departure from the Lyric stage, 329 ]\Iathews, Charles, in Dubhn, 144 ; anecdote of, 145 ; letter from him announcing his departure for Austra- lia, 2S6 ; the examination scene from School played at his benefit at Covent Garden, 287 ; his programme of the Critic, ibid.; complimentary ban- quet to him at Willis's Rooms — he takes the chair and jiroposes hisown health, 2SS ; another instance of his humour, 290 ; letter from, 366 ; a practical joke, 367 ; his seventieth birthday, 396 Mathews, Mr. and Mrs. Ciiarles, at Homburg, 352 Matthews. Mr. Frank, engages Miss Marie Wilton for the St. James's Theatre, loi Matthews, Mr. and Mrs. Frank, 144. Mazoiirka, burlesque. Miss Marie Wil- ton acts in, 109 Mellon, Mrs., plays Florizel in /)'(?////^- .^or, 45 Merchant of Venice thought of, 424 ; part of the annual holiday spent in Venice with the scenic artist, 425 Miller and his Men, 7 he. Miss Marie Wilton as Karl in, 90 .yiss Eily O'Connor, Byron's parody on the Colleen Bawn, 98 Money decided upon as the first suc- cessor to the Robertson comedies, 339 ; the step thought a mad one, 342 ; letter from Lord Lytton, 342 ; the cast, 343 ; a success, 346 ; with- drawn after more than two hundred representations, 369 Montague, H. J., a schoolmate of Mr. Bancroft's, 122 Montgomery, W. H., champions Miss Marie Wilton against a persecuting stage-manager, 42 Montgomery, Walter, 137 ; his miser- able death, 331 Morning Chronicle, Mrs. Bancroft's grandfather and the, 5 Morton, J. Maddison, author ol Atchi, 261 Murray, Leigh, Mr. Bancroft's friend- ship wiih, 160; letter from, ibid.; his death, 290 New Men and Old Acres, manuscript copy of received from Mr. Tom Tay- lor, 263 ; prospect of production too remote, 264 New York, Mr. Bancroft's visit to, in early life, 12S ; theatrical recollec- tions of, 129 ; the visit referred to, 305 Niblo's Theatre, highest charge for ad- mission to, 305 Nightingale, The, by Robertson, at the Adelphi, 322 Observer on Ours, 312 Oliver, Miss, at the Strand Theatre, 78 O'Neil, Miss (Lady Becher), death of, 362 Orpheus and Eurydice, Miss Marie Wilton acts in, 108 INDEX. 441 Ours, in rehearsal, 21 1 ; produced — the cast, 212 ; immediate and re- markable success, ibid. ; revival of, 308; the cast, 310; letter from Robertson on the revival, 311 ; from Boucicault, 312; its success exceeds the original production, 330 Pandora's Box, Byron's last burlesque for the Prince of Wales's, 216 Phelps, Mr. Bancrofi plays with, 140 Flay, l)y T. \V. Robertson, 246 ; the cast, il'ii/. Ply)noiitJi Telegraph, the, on Mr. Ban- croft's imitation of Sothern, 143 Prince's Theatre, Manchester, the, 347 Prince of Wales, his illness — reading bulletins between the acts, 333 ; a difficulty over one of his visits to Alan and Wife, 372 Prince of Wales's Theatre, charges for admission at, 306 ; the Atliemvuni on the company, 344 ; charges for admission raised, 400 Prinsep, Val, paints picture of ' The Minuet ' from the School for Scandal, 400 Procter, Mrs. Anne B., letter from, 397 Robertson, Madge (Mrs. Kendal), at Bristol, 29; at Devonport, 152 Robertson, T. W., and his comedy Society, 200; his appearance, 201 ; completes Ours — produced in Liver- pool, 209 ; at the Prince of Wales's, 212 ; immediate and remarkable success, il'id. ; withdrawn, 222 ; Casle substituted, ilnd. ; a success beyond the wildest dreams, ibid. ; at Liverpool and Manchester, 231 ; a special company formed to act it in the provinces, 238 ; Play, another success, 246 ; checked by the drought, 249; Casle revived, 251 ; .Society reproduced, 261 ; .SV//(w/read first time by author, 271 ; an inno- cent plagiarism, 272 ; signs of fail- ing health, 285 ; becomes very ill, 292 ; a new comedy by him, 293 ; rehearsals at his home, 294 ; pro- duction of Af. P. — the cast, 295 ; a brilliant success, ibid. ; Tom Tay- lor's criticism in the Times, 296 ; Robertson goes to the seaside, 297 ; apparent return to health, 308 ; visits the theatre, 309 ; letter to Mrs. Bancroft, 31 1 ; his reply to an offer of increased fees on revival of Ours, 313 ; failure of his last play — War — at the .St. James's, 314 ; Mrs. Bancroft's dream, 315 ; his death, 316 ; some peculiarities of his stage life, 317 ; his funeral, 319 ; personal notes by Mrs. ]5ancroft, 321 Rob Roy, Mr. Bancroft cast for Captain Thornton in, 150 Robson, Frederick, Mr. Bancroft in- troduced to, 140 Rogers, James, at the Strand Theatre, 85 ; his jokes on Clarke, 86 et seq. : as Widow Twankay in Aladdin, or the Wonderful Scamp, 95 ; as Claude Frollo in Estneralda, 97 ; as Miss Eily O'Connor, 98 ; secedes from the Strand to the St. James's, and takes Effie Deans in the Heart of Midlothian, 102 ; his death, 104 Romer, ' Bob,' an old member of the Adelphi company — his eccentricities, 105 ct seq. Ruskin, Mr., letter from on the revival of Ours, 324 St. Mary's Eve, Mr. Bancroft first appears in, as Lieutenant Manley, 136 Sams, ' Billy,' theatrical librarian, 353 Saunders, Charlotte, as Tresillian in Kenilworth, 83 ; as Grindoff in the Miller and his Men, 90 Scarborough, a vacation at, 331 School, Robertson's successor to Play, John Oxenford's criticism on, 271 ; the cast, 274 ; the Times on the play, ibid. ; Mr. Bancroft's opinion of it, 280 ; thoughts of revival, 382 ; cast of the revival, 393 ; withdrawn, 400 School for Scandal, production of, re- solved upon, 398; efforts to 'set' the play to its period, 398 ; the cast, 401 ; the Daily Telegraph on the new departure, 402 ; a success of the first rank, 416 ; opinions of Wdkie Collins, William Creswick, Frilii, and Walter Lacy, 416-420 Selby, Mrs., at the Strand Theatre, 78 ; as ' Good Queen Bess ' in Kenil- worth, 84 Serious Family, The, Mr. Bancroft appears as Captain Murphy Maguire in, 141 442 INDEX. Simpson, Maria, in the Miller and his Alen, 90 Simpson, Mr. Mercer, of the Theatre Royal, Birmingham, his wish to see Mr. Bancroft, 135 .Smith, Theyre, his C:tt off ivith a Shilling produced, 325 Society, by T. W. Robertson, pro- duced — the cast, 202 ; playeil for a hundred and fifty nights, a then extraordinary run, 204 ; repro- duced, 261 ; withdrawn for Tame Cats, 265 ; but restored to the bills, 271 ; revival decided on, 424 Sothern, Mr. Bancroft meets, in Dub- lin, 153 ; anecdote of, 154 Standard Theatre, Shoreditch, Caste company at the, for four weeks, 383 .Still IVatcrs Run Deep, Mr. Ban- croft plays Captain Hawkesley in, 141 ; and John Mildmay, 152 Strand Theatre, first engagement of Miss Marie Wdton for the, 64 .Swanborough, Miss, engages Miss Marie Wiltun for the Strand Iheatre, b4 ; interview with, 78 ; as Leicester in Kenilworth, 83 ; her marriage and retirement, 93 Swanborough, Mrs., offers Miss Marie Wilton an engagement at the Strand, 108 ; takes her company to Liver- pool, no S'iveethearts, byW. S.Gilbert, accepted, 398 Talfourd, Frank, appearance of Miss IMarie Wilton as Cupid in his Atalanta, 50 ; anecdote of the author, ^ 51 Tame Cats, comedy by Edmund Yates, produced — the cast, 266 I'aylor, Tom, sends manuscript copy of Ne7v Men and Old Acres, 263 ; prospect of production too remote, 264 Ternan, Miss Maria, at the Strand Theatre, 78 Terriss, William, obtains an engage- ment by his persistency, 262 Terry, Ellen, at Bristol, 29 Terry, Kate, at Brijtol, 29 Theatre Francais Company, the, at the Opera Comique, 327 Theatre Royal, Manchester, Miss Marie Wilton's first appearance at, 16 Thompson, Miss Lydia, takes Mrs. Bancroft's place in Otirs, 215 ; the engagement terminates in the Law Courts, 226; the best of friends ever since, 227 Times comments on closing of Prince of Wales s Theatre on the night of Robertson's funeral, 318 Toole, J. L., Miss Marie Wilton's first acquaintance with, 37 ; Autoly- cus m Brough's extravaganza A IVinter's Tale, 38 ; his first appear- ance at the 1 .yceum, 46 ; his birth- day present, //'/(/. Toole m America, 339 ; round-iobin telegram from Switzerland wishing him luck, 425 Trial of Effie /Jeans, The, Mr. Ban- croft as the Counsel for the Defence — a lesson from Dion Boucicault, United -States, proposed visit to, 337 Unlimited Confidence, a comedietta, Miss Marie Wilton acts in, 109 Vandyke Bro-on, the first farce at the Prmce of Wales's, 187 Virginius at the Lyceum, 48 War, Robertson's last play, failure of at the St. James's Theatre, 314 War to the Knife, Byron's comedy, produced, 190 ; the cast, 191 Webster, Mr., offers Miss Marie Wil- ton an engagement at the Adelphi, 49 Williams, T. J., author of A Silent Protector and Ici on Parle Franc^ais, 247 William Tell, Miss Marie Wilton as Albert in, 85 Wilton, Mr. R. P. ,3; origin and early life, ibid. ; his love for the drama, 4 ; elopes with Miss Faulkner, 6 ; his character, 25 ; anecdote of his early stage-days, ilnd. ; death of, 393 Wilton, Mrs., her parentage, 5 ; her talent for teaching, 10 ; trains her children to wait upon themselves, 25 ; her aspiration, 29 ; illness of, 206 ; her death, 214 Wilton, Miss Augusta, takes Mrs. Bancroft's place in performance of Caste at the Standard Theatre, 384 Wilton, Miss Blanche — see Collette Wood, Mrs. John, manages the St. James's Theatre, 308 INDEX. 443 Wooler, Mr., author of A Winning Hazard, his eccentricity, 182 ; his singular lapse of memory, 190 Wright, Rosina, in the Miller and his Men, 90 Wyndham, Charles, engaged for country tour of Man and Wife, 372 Yates, Edmund, his kindly praise of Mrs. Bancroft's (Miss Marie Wil- ton's) appearance as Lemon-drop at the Lyceum, 48 ; introduction of Mr. Bancroft to, 230 ; comments on Mr. Bancroft's delineations, 237 ; offers a comedy, 251 ; reads second act — disappointment, 253 ; pro- duction of Tame Cats — the cast, 266 ; a failure, 269 ; Yates's admis- sion, ibid. ; at Liverpool, en route for America, 349 Younge, Frederick, and his wig, in Caste — a ludicrous situation, 223 ; manages special Caste company for the provinces, 238 ; killed in rail- way accident, 313 END OF VOL. L BILLING & bONS. PRIMTEOS, GUILOh'ORO. /. D. &- C9. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Return this material to the library ^E(3^9"liy'l'^RP '^ was borrowed. OCT 1 1988 Of OCT 1 8 199^