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 Library 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027118268 
 
MR. & MRS. BANCROFT 
 
 ON AND OFF THE STAGE 
 
 WRITTEN 
 
 BY THEMSELVES 
 
 A NEW EDITION, BEING THE SIXTH 
 
 LONDON 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON 
 
 $«Uislurs in ®i-Iiinarg ia ^er ^»j*»tg the (l|J«Mn 
 
 [All rights reseniei] 
 
 (E> 
 
WE DEDICATE 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 TO 
 
 OUR FELLOW-WORKERS AND COMRADES 
 
 ON THE STAGE 
 
 FOR SOME OF WHOM WE HAVE 
 
 A DEEP AFFECTION 
 
 FOR MANY OTHERS 
 
 A TRUE FRIENDSHIP 
 
 AND WITH ALL 
 
 AN ENDURING SYMPATHY. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The generous criticism this book received, and the flattering 
 success of the earUer editions, which have been for some time 
 out of print, may perhaps excuse the hope that a cheaper 
 form of our work will not be without welcome from that world 
 of friends unknown, yet known so well — The PubUc. 
 
 ^^ ^^I^'^a^^^^*-^^ 
 
 April, 1889. 
 
MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. 
 
 Parentage — A child-actress — Early lessons — A church-building fund entertain- 
 ment — Fines — An adventure — 'Emperor of Lilliput'- — Embarrassing 
 observations — Macready in Macleth — Good advice and a wise choice — Miss 
 Glyn — Prince Arthur in King John — Charles Kemble's prophecy — 'The 
 Veteran and the child' — An accident — Tiny Tim — Mrs. O'Brien — The 
 Irishman who wouldn't retreat — Proposed adoption — Bristol Theatre — Mr. 
 J. H. Chute — No-Wun-No-Zoo— A youthful Widow— Charles Dillon in 
 Belphegor — Henri — My first London offer — Hesitation to accept it. 
 
 Place aux 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, 1 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 child-ren 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 caUing. ■ 
 
 My father came of an old Gloucestershire family, and was origin- 
 ally 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 twenty-four hours, he 
 regretted his hasty step and implored to be bought out. His father 
 declined, 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 
 
 1 
 
2 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 surviving brother had riot 
 spoken to each other for more than forty 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 accomplishments, 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 seventeen 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 ; ' Gentle- 
 man' 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 Chronicle, 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 worid had he not, unfortunately, been deluded 
 into joining a partnership, and putting his money into the manage- 
 ment of the York Circuit (to which my old friend, the celebrated 
 Mrs. Keeley, once belonged in my grandfather's time) ; but, know- 
 ing next to nothing of theatrical matters, and 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 giris— to the guardianship of a rich 
 
CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD 3 
 
 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 child- 
 hood, 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 in the air, living in dreamland, and hoping for 
 a position which never came to him. My poor 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. However, 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 achievement 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 
 children ! fortunate public ! I wish I could recall a happy child- 
 hood ; 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. 
 
 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 trudging by my father's side in all weathers to 
 the theatre, where I had to play somebody else's child, or to recite 
 one of the many character sketches which my father had written for 
 me. In one of them I remember 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 earn- 
 ing loud applause, and it often had to be repeated. I was, of 
 
 I — 2 
 
4 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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-wake- 
 fulness, 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 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 expression of coun- 
 tenance 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 fortunes, I saw our landlady in 
 the front row of the pit, her face beaming with delight at my per- 
 formance. 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 perform- 
 ances it was from a more elevated position — the gallery ! 
 
 At the age 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 anns and leo-s 
 were so red through the cold that I represented 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 Romeo 
 and Juliet^ the ' Sleep-walkmg scene from Macbeth^ and ' Satan's 
 Address to the Sun.' My dear mother toiled night and day to drill 
 the words mto my young head. Although, as I have said she 
 never held a position on the stage, her talent for teaching was vei-v 
 great ; the art of elocution in her school-days being a branch of 
 education, and lectures on the subject were delivered to the punils 
 by competent professors. She thus was able to give me wJhat I 
 
CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD S 
 
 never could have hoped to attain by other means, a knowledge of 
 elocution and voice-production, to which I owe the power of making 
 every woi'd heard, even in a whisper, in any 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 diffi- 
 cult 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 treat. How dreadful then 
 it would be to find that he cannot hear what the actors ai'e talking 
 about ! how he must envy those more fortunate than himself, 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, enthusiastic, 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 1 ad- 
 dressed myself to the ' poor man ' at the back of the gallery, as, of 
 course, if he heard me, the rest of the audience must. 
 
 To show in what estimation country folk held the stage in my 
 childhood days, I will tell what happened to me at an amateur en- 
 tertainment which was given to aid a church-building fund. The 
 programme was a varied one ; my contribution of one or two reci- 
 tations caused a flutter of admiration, especially amongst the ladies 
 present, many of whom were district visitors, and expressed their 
 approval loudly, in such remarks as, ' Wonderful !' ' Mosi interest- 
 ing !' ' Dear little thing !' ' 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 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 suggested 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 
 daughter of an actor, the smiles vanished, and the expressions 
 changed in a way to have turned even lemons sour. The bags 
 were closed with a cold relentless click, and the owners muttered 
 between their teeth (for fear, doubtless, of breathing the same air as 
 
6 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 responsi- 
 bility of being at my post when required. Fines were often dis- 
 cussed in my presence with dread ; and every day, as the hour 
 drew near for rehearsals, I would run 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 fortnight, 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 some- 
 thing else. I, as the child-actress of the company, had often played 
 Eveleen, so I was to be sent off at once. Preparations were imme- 
 diately 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 ; I 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 per- 
 sisted 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 perticlar.' 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 drivei-'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 smoking, soon got into conversation with my two 
 guardians. They looked very hard at me, and asked all sorts of 
 
CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD 7 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued, ' 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 they would all eat me. I 
 had to do another ' piece ' for them, and by this time everyone em- 
 ployed 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 landlord 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, 1 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. 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 appearance, 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, Man- 
 chester, where I was the child actress of the company, and appeared 
 in the pantomime of Gulliver's Travels as the little 'Emperor of 
 Lilliput' — -a very tiny monarch. A gentleman who played one of 
 the parts in this pantomime attracted my attention, and I can well 
 remember the incident. 
 
8 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 Children are all, more or less, prone to express their thoughts, 
 and give their opinions at the most awkward moments. I was par- 
 ticularly celebrated in this way ; my early training for the stage 
 naturally sharpened my powers of observation, and any eccentricity 
 of manner, or an unusual physical peculiarity, immediately attracted 
 my notice ; and, if I did not happen to express in words my interest 
 and astonishment, 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 uncon- 
 scious of the discomfiture 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, small-pox. 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 en- 
 treaties 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 re- 
 quested that I should be allowed to sit at table. This gentleman 
 was unfortunately afHicted 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 
 gentleman, 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 
 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 extraordinary feature almost 
 took my breath away ; it was the largest nose I had ever seen out 
 of a pantomime, and take my eyes off it I could not. My mother 
 whenever she could by kicks and looks attract 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 relieved 
 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 anything about the o-entle- 
 man's blue nose, did I, father ?' Tableau ! 
 
 I can just remember Macready playing his farewell engagement 
 
CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD 9 
 
 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 mother knocked at the door, and a 
 deep tragic ' Come in ' sent my little 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 ?' ' Lady Macbeth, sir,' upon 
 which he laughed loudly and said : ' Oh ! is that all ? Well, I like 
 your ambition ; 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 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 absolutely 
 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 im- 
 pression 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 
 
lo MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 some- 
 where in the theatre. I became nervous, and thought something 
 must have happened to my dress. I dared not move, for fear of 
 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 taie 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 complimented very 
 warmly by him, and by Miss Glyn. Oddly enough, the old gentle- 
 man repeated Macready's advice to me : 'Climb not the ladder too 
 quickly, or you may come suddenly to the ground 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 beauti- 
 fully,' 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 re- 
 mark, for my mother took great pride in my hair, carefully brush- 
 ing 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 Mademoiselle Cushnie, the 
 premiire danseuse, 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 dis- 
 covered 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 consider- 
 
CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD ii 
 
 able time, the only part I was able to play being poor Tiny Tim in 
 Charles Dickens's Christmas 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 re- 
 covered the use of my foot, though for a loiig while my health was 
 delicate, and caused my mother much anxiety. 
 
 When, through my lameness, I was not acting, I was taken now 
 and then as a treat to a travelling 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 having to reside 
 in an unpretentious house, situated in a still more unpretentious 
 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 description 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 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 permitted 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 — gazing 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 summoned up courage to join in a 
 game of leapfrog with some other boys in the street. Suddenly 
 his pleasure 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 
 
12 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 boy's back, ' Master O'Brien ! Master O'Brien ! it's handing your 
 mamma to her carriage ye ought to be, and not Pablo Fanqueing 
 it about the streets !' 
 
 Poor Mrs. O'Brien could boast of no better vehicle than awheel- 
 less barrow in the back-yard ; but she felt she ought to have her 
 carriage, and that 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 precarious 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 magnifi- 
 cence (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 ourselves. 
 
 My poor fathei-'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, 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 repre- 
 sented 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 given for the fio-ht 
 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 shout- 
 ing 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 scriihmage. Actors concerned in 
 the scene shouted to the men to retreat, as they had done quietly 
 
CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD 13 
 
 enough night after night ; the commanding officer calhng 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 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 indig- 
 nantly, 'Is it retrate you'd have us, with the Colonel in front? 
 Divil a bit P 
 
 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 d 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 opening of a pantomime as ' No-Wun-No-Zoo, Spright of 
 the Silver Star ;' the sky opened, and I was discovered high up in 
 the clouds, prettily dressed in pale blue silk and spangles, my long 
 hair hanging in large waves over my sho'ulders. 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 photograph 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 ddbut 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, 
 
14 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 stepping-stone to 
 London. Mr. Chute was an excellent manager ; a severe disciplin- 
 arian, but a tender-hearted and just man. His wife, who was related 
 to Macready, was a most kindly lady, and I remember her goodness 
 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 King 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 Edinburgh Theatre, so admir- 
 ably 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 young actors and actresses to serve, as it were, a proper 
 apprenticeship by playing every line of character in the theatrical 
 pharmacopoeia, 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, and so to that end 
 she and 1 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 valu- 
 able 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 
 instruction 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 everything. 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 theZa^/j/ 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 
 
CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD 15 
 
 effect must have been comical, because the moment I was discovered 
 the audience 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 disturbed the gray wig, for the laughter of 
 the audience told me that something was wrong. On came Claude. 
 He began with the well-known hne, '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 ex- 
 plained 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. 
 
 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 rehearsed 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 con- 
 science 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 imagine 
 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. AH 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, and it will be natural. I feel the scene so real 
 
i6 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 applause 
 was tremendous, and the success assured. 
 
 Mr. Dillon's Belphegor was a truly fine performance, and he 
 admitted that my rendering of Henri materially assisted his act- 
 ing ; 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 believing also that I should take a step up the ladder 
 of fame as Belphegoi-'s son, out of kindness refused. I thought it 
 mean of him at the time, but 1 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. 
 
 In London — J. L. Toole — An unkind stage-manager — Mr. Dillon to the rescue 
 — Perdita in Brough's extravaganza, A Winter's Tale — Trouble about the 
 dress — A pair of pink silk boots — Success of Belphegor — Called before the 
 curtain — Encouragement from the Press — Toole's birthday present — 
 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 the foe ; a crushing rejoinder — Brough and Talfourd — A little 
 romance — A mad admirer — Disappointment at the Adelphi — Nothing to do 
 ■ — Wright and Paul Bedford — Cupid atid Psyche — Illness — Mistaken identity 
 — Engaged for the Strand Theatre — Cupid once more — The story of a 
 pearl necklace. 
 
 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 
 htere seemed to be no room for me. A restless, crowded, get-one- 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 17 
 
 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 for me to stand too near them. I had never seen 
 so many people all at once upon a 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. 1 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 yourself.' 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 remember, 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 understood her 
 meaning. 
 
 We found lodgings just over Watei-loo Bridge ; our rooms were 
 humble, but my mother was a good manager, and, as usual, kept up 
 a comfortable little home on our slender means. I was at rehearsal 
 every morning, and gradually became more accustomed to the 
 large theatre and its surroundings. 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 did tell him who 1 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. 
 
f8 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 Belphegor. " 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 appearance.' 
 
 Greatly to my relief, during the rehearsals of Belphegor my un- 
 amiable stage-manager was taken ill, and for days was unable to 
 attend them. Oh, joy, he was ill, and we rehearsed without him ! 
 All then went smoothly ; Mr. Dillon was so kind and encouraging 
 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 PVinter's Tale, in which Toole played Autolycus, 
 which was to be produced with Belphegor, had been taken ill, so 
 Mrs. Dillon came hurriedly to with me 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 little difficulty 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 favourable effect I 
 might produce in Belphegor. My troubles were not lessened when 
 I was told that I must provide my own dress. Where, oh, where 
 was it to come from ? my poor three pounds a week not having 
 begun yet. I went home with the dreadful news to my mother, 
 who, after considering a while, said in her comforting way, ' 1 can 
 manage something out of the 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 for- 
 bearance, your fortitude, 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 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 19 
 
 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 search again 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 un- 
 likely place, and at the most unexpected moment, I may be success- 
 ful. 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 'er, and sold them agin to another 
 party — all but the boots, for they said they was too small for any- 
 one 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 
 
 2—2 
 
20 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 boots ! Pale pink silk ! Just what I wanted ! Fit me beauti- 
 fully ! 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 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 ieU 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 when- 
 ever I came upon the stage ! When I had to sing, he took up his 
 violin, following and supporting my voice, and helping me on by 
 hiding my shortcomings. His words of comfort and encourage- 
 ment made me feel safe. I record my champion's name, W. H. 
 Montgomery, with a strong feeling of gratitude. At the night re- 
 hearsal 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, ' 1 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 becoming 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 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 21 
 
 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 dressing-rooms ; Mr. Dillon came off. I listened. 
 
 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 1 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 alone — 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 arms 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 charm- 
 ing 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 reappeared, and the audience 
 was kind and encouraging. When 1 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 
 alterations. 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 over- 
 powering 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. 
 
22 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 Morning Post, it may 
 be guessed, were highly valued by me : ' Miss M. Wilton is a young 
 (apparently very 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 character, 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, anything more dangerous to 
 throw in the way of a juvenile prince it were difficult to imagine. 
 She is a charming ddbutante, 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 1 can't remember that date you gave me ; I left the memor- 
 andum 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. 1 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. 1 was beginning to feel weaiy 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 specu- 
 late on its contents ; the parcel was round — perhaps a bracelet ; 
 but it yielded to pressure. ' It's something alive !' I dropped it ; 
 it rolled. ' 1 dare not open it ; something will jump out.' I stood 
 on a chair, frightened out of my wits, and made my dresser undo 
 the parcel. A dead silence ; several more pieces of pink tissue- 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 23 
 
 paper. Oh, the suspense ! It is something wrapped up in wool ; 
 it must be a tiny bracelet. I'll please him by wearing it on the 
 stage ; only 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 disappointment 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 and Medoraj 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 after- 
 wards 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 hke to see you one day 
 play Juliet.' I told him I had played it when I was 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 Mr. 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 wits' 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 
 
24 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 allowed me to accept another offer for a little time which Mr. 
 Buckstone made me for the Haymarket. 
 
 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 Haymarket, and met with every consideration 
 and encouragement 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 New Classical Love Story, originally suggested 
 by Ovid, under the name, or rather apple-sXiO'a, 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 indig- 
 nities 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, 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 (if 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 interesting 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 perhaps it 'is better to bury them in the past, though the remem- 
 brance 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 '■ Perseverando' 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 1 had not the advantage of acting in the comedies that 
 were played there so perfectly. 
 
 Frank Talfourd was a man of very delicate constitution, 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 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 25 
 
 brother author, Robert Brough, who was so distressed to see that 
 Talfourd was not wrapped up, that he told him in strong terms how 
 wrong it was to himself, and how unkind to his friends. Brough 
 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 Tal- 
 fourd ; ' 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 gray vests, ' i/iose will want washing sometimes f then 
 
 pointing earnestly to the brown vests, he exclaimed, ' but these P 
 
 Frank Talfourd loved to tell this story. 
 
 A little romance occurred to me early in \!tii, xviX\ oi Atalanta, 
 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 ac- 
 companied 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 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 Pedagogue, in which he was inimit- 
 ably droll. In the last scene he placed the little note that was sent 
 with the flowers 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 confusion. 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 haitnless 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 him 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 alarming letter arrived, saying that 
 
26 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 having once worn the flowers he had sent me, I 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 thought such trouble would 
 come of my 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 began 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 con- 
 stantly been to the Haymarket Theatre.' I replied, 'Yes, I have 
 indeed ; but I was 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 intended to send you. The follow- 
 ing 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 consent.' 
 
 The poor lady seemed quite grateful, and after fixing a day and 
 hour for the interview she left. 
 
 The day arrived, and at the appointed time came a loud knock. 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 27 
 
 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 torching 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 again.' 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 that if he can hear from your own lips that you cannot 
 care for him, he will never trouble you more. He will keep his 
 word, I know. AH 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 hea.r ?' 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 portrait, 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 procession. Some 
 
 short time after we heard from 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 
 
28 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 my beaicty (!) was the cause of this sad episode. After 
 a httle 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 little or 
 nothing to do at the Adelphi. Parts were given to me utterly un- 
 suited to me, and those only of a few 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 ! 
 
 Wright and Paul Bedford were always closely associated in 
 pieces written especially to bring them together, in which Wright 
 never missed an opportunity 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 ! how-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 1 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 implored Mr. Webster to release 
 me from my engagement ; but, although he was always kind, he 
 insisted on keeping me to it, saying that my opportunity ^^ould 
 come if I would only be patient. 
 
 I remember an extravaganza in which 1 played there, called 
 Cupid 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 wait- 
 ing for my cue to rise through trap-doors. I felt that I had played 
 Cupid so often as to wonder whether I was doomed to pass my pro- 
 fessional life in appearing from unexpected and impossible places. 
 My illness was serious, and I was obliged to resign my part for 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND A DELPHI 29 
 
 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. 
 
 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 musi get well. I fought against the 
 doctor's verdict and against the moanings of the servant — a kind 
 of moaning 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, as a keepsake ?' I 
 was too weak to laugh or feel horrified ; but it helped to give me 
 more strength of will. At last, after a weary time, I grew strong 
 enou_gh 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 : ' Mai-y, 
 before it is too late, repent of your rash conduct and return to your 
 heart-broken father and mother.' Naturally astonished at this 
 strange request, only having left home an hour before, I handed 
 the note to Mr. Webster, who knew my 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. Webster, 
 please. I can't understand it ; I must be mistaken for someone 
 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 Wolver- 
 hampton, and has come up to London, where her friends are search- 
 ing for her everywhere. Last night, an uncle of the girl's happened 
 to be in the pit of this theatre, and when he saw you 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 
 
30 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 I've 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 touching words, at last cried out, ' For goodness' sake, miss, 
 go 'ome to your friends. What's all the applause you git every 
 night compared with the 'appiness you will feel when you know 
 you've done your doofy f There's nothing so 'orrible as a undutiful 
 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 long 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 some- 
 thing 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 forgive 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 
 in him.' How clever he was, that hall-porter ! No more of my 
 double was heard, and the incident, which seemed only trifling, 
 soon passed from my thoughts ; but later in my life 1 have some- 
 times wondered if this evidently strange resemblance had any con- 
 nection with an even stranger episode to be related further on in 
 this book. 
 
 The season was drawing to a close, and, alas 1 1 was only just 
 where 1 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, 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYM ARRET, AND A DELPHI 31 
 
 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 delighted 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 remem- 
 brance of it, 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 ex- 
 plained 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 remark- 
 ably 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. 
 
 The night arrived for the 'great dramatic event' (vide advertise- 
 ments). 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 responsibility. I 
 had on a pretty white dress, trimmed with narrow silver lace, my 
 hair hanging in large waves over my shoulders ; and best adorn- 
 ment of all was my beautiful pearl necklace. Oh ! how everyone 
 would envy me those beads ! 
 
 All went well until the fourth act, when, in throwing my head 
 
32 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 iDe dead, I got up 
 and rescued them, and then lay down again. Of course, the rest 
 of Friar Laurence's speech was not heard, and the curtain fell 
 amidst loud laughter. 1 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 perform- 
 ance 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 
 daughtei-'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 neck- 
 lace, which I had so carefully rescued from destruction. I trembled 
 at the thought of parting with it ; but my mother whispered to me, 
 ' 1 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 ; 
 1 seem to miss him somehow. Will his words ever come true I 
 wonder ?' 
 
 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 somethino- 
 more serious, and she therefore did not receix'e him with thai 
 warmth she otherwise might have done. He said, ' Well, little one 
 you see I was right ; you are going up the ladder step by step! 
 Mark my words, the next one will be London.' 
 
 My heart juniped at the sight of this man ; there was a kind of 
 mystery about him. He seemed to be mixed up with my life some- 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND A DELPHI 33 
 
 how_ ; 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 comer 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. 
 
 I was now in love for the very first time in my life. How every- 
 thing else in the whole world suddenly 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 we're poor, and I didn't care. But I 
 had never had an opportunity of telling him all this, for my 
 mother ;had declined to encourage his visits ; and so he kept 
 away, and never tried to see me, except for one moment to say, 
 ' Good-night.' 
 
 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 continued, ' you cannot wish to destroy all your 
 professional 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 any- 
 thing 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 
 
 3 
 
34 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 reflected, 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 
 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 
 myself, ' 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 
 eig'ht. Still no warning dream. I tried to think that perhaps my 
 going would be for the best, or I should have surely dreamt some- 
 thing ; and I felt a little happier 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 
 
THE LYCEUM, HAYMARKET, AND ADELPHI 35 
 
 under the door. I opened it. There were the final instructions — 
 how he would meet me on the journey, and the money for my ex- 
 penses. 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 words of my ' prophet ' were fulfilled ; I was acting in a 
 London theatre. Whenever I made a success, 1 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 
 monuments, 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, 1 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 see me any 
 more ; you will soon forget me.' He replied, ' Never, until I am 
 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 following week, so no 
 time was to be lost. He called on my mother, and asked her con- 
 sent to our corresponding 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 neck- 
 
 3—2 
 
36 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 lace, saying, ' You see how I have guarded it. I will never part 
 with it ; it seems to have linked our two lives together.' 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 falling off. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 day, very shortly after his third letter was due, I was again 
 in Regent Street, and thought 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 explained. 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 : 
 
 (SaCTxI) to the Jttftiwrs at 
 CAPTAIN , 
 
 WHO DIED SUDDENLY, AT KURRACHEE, 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 How 1 got home, I know not. I found my mother in tears, read- 
 ing a letter which she had received 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. 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 37 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT THE STRAND THEATRE. 
 
 Burlesque— Pippo in ihe Alaid and the Magpie — Remonstrances — 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 — Kenilworth — William Tell — James Rogers — His 
 tricks with Clarke — Ferdinand Wallerstein — 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 — Miss Eily 
 O Connor — Again cast for Karl in Mti& Miller and his Men — An engage- 
 ment 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 Burydice — Shake- 
 spearean Tercentenary — Juliet — A visit to Liverpool : first meeting with Mr. 
 Bancroft — A reminiscence, with results. 
 
 My acceptance of Miss Svi'anborough's offer was an important step 
 in my early London career, as from its commencement until I be- 
 came 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 circumstances, 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 recollections. When I received the 
 part of Pippo in 'Ca&Maidand the Magpie, I was disappointed at 
 its being another* boy, and wrote to ask if any change could be 
 made in the cast. Miss Swanborough kindly arranged for me to 
 meet her as well as Mr. 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 ancestor. He said he had 
 written the part of Pippo expressly for me, and that he was dis- 
 tressed I did not like it. I explained that I did not wish to play 
 burlesque 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. 
 
38 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 will say whose 
 memories will allow them to recall the Lasi of the Pigtails; Mr. 
 James Bland, or ' Papa Bland ' as he was called in the theatre, who 
 had been so long associated with Planch^'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. 
 
 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 se\'en, 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 strangest 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 unlike a woman, that it is perfectly free from offence. 
 I never have seen such a thing. She does an imitation 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 doing 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 associa- 
 tion 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 un- 
 challengeable. 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 
 Magpie — tragic at the beginning and comic at the end — which, al- 
 though it happened during its revival later on, had perhaps be 
 better told here. 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 
 
 39 
 
 '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 treacherous, 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 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 intro- 
 duced a couplet in the scene with his daughter, played by Miss 
 Oliver, whose name, it must be remembered, 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 whenever a 
 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 re- 
 collection : 
 
 ' Jujubes, oranges, and cakes, I too did give her, 
 Pdti defoie gras, which means Patty O'tiver t 
 
 I shall never forget the laughter and chorus of ' Oh's !' that fol- 
 lowed these lines. Neither Mr. Byron nor Miss Oliver could pro- 
 ceed 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 some time in their career, acted with 
 success in burlesque, and it may be that this sometimes abused 
 side of stage-life has its power and value in the'shape of training. 
 Since those days, however, although burlesque may not have fallen 
 off, certainly some of the dresses have ; many of which might be 
 described as beginning 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 Matthews, adding, if 1 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 bur- 
 lesque actress. Miss Farren, act so ably and perfectly in other 
 characters, as to cause regret that she does not give us more fre- 
 quent opportunities of seeing her genuine comedy power. These 
 
40 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 are names of my contemporaries ; were I to go further back, how 
 powerfully the Hst might be increased ! 
 
 I 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 be a great 
 favourite with the public, 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 laughed, 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 frequently 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 Kenilworth, in which, 
 I remember. Miss Swanborough played Leicester for a time, and 
 that wonderfully clever actress, Charlotte Saunders, was cast for 
 Tresillian. 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 
 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 \aw7i\ it t 
 
 One night, during the run of Kenilworth, an unfortunate contre- 
 temps occurred. When Mrs. Selby appeared, a large wreath of 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 41 
 
 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 severe shock to her system. She had passed a great part of 
 her life 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 ground- 
 less, for she lived some years after the occurrence, and became 
 manager of the Royalty Theatre, where she produced Mr. Burnand's 
 celebrated 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 
 aspirations. 
 
 Next came Albert in William Tell, for which, I think, that 
 inimitable comedian James Rogers (it seems so stsange 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) re- 
 joined 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 found 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 ; it often happens so, you 
 know ;' to which he replied, ' 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 convulsed. I can't understand it.' Poor little Clarke ! 
 He did not see that it was not the words, but the way Jimmy de- 
 livered 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 rival's 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 nez r^trouss^. 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 
 
42 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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 Httle. Rogers was perfectly still, listened attentively, looking 
 on the ground, and, when the reading was over, he said nothing, 
 but went home. 
 
 One night, during the full-dress rehearsal of William Tell, we 
 came to a scene in which Clarke and Jimmy had a duet. Clarke's 
 voice was harsh, and 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. 
 Wallerstein 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 not the same ; Rogers 
 kept perfectly silent, singing the duet over and over again, without 
 showing the smallest sign of impatience or irritation. At last 
 Clarke shouted in great anger, ' It's a conspiracy ! You've changed 
 the key amongst you to oblige Mr. Rogers.' Upon which Rogers 
 remarked in the most quiet, placid manner, ' It's all right — dear 
 boy — same key — only — you're not so well to-night.' Of course 
 Clarke was furious, while Jimmy remained provokingly quiet, with- 
 out 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 opportunity for me, and Jimmy 
 (who was playing the small part of Sarnem) will not in this 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, 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 that 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 prepared 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 acting was the cause ; but on turning round 
 he saw that Jimmy had on a most extraordinary 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 somebody'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 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 43 
 
 of us didha.ppen to stand on it unconsciously, he would remark, in 
 his quiet, sad way, ' You're on it, you're 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 unexpectedly, the bit that was still in sight would 
 suddenly disappear with a palpable jerk. By the time this had 
 happened twice or thrice, the audience looked for its recurrence, 
 and then laughed immoderately. 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 off 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 standing 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 he 
 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 tomfoolery; 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 
 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 mealy-Ar&raa.. 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 Belgravia.' 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 I 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 
 
44 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 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, 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 
 Corsican Brothers. 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 
 obliged 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 recall not only the charm she 
 possessed as an accomplished actress, but her good-nature to every- 
 body, high and low, in the theatre. It will be needless for me to 
 say how I looked forward to talking to her. She stayed a long time 
 the first day she called, and I soon found that the account my 
 father gave of her charm of manner had not been exaggerated. 
 
 My mother had never met Lady Harrington, 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 Harrington 
 would often speak of days gone by, and would assure me that she 
 was not a great actress ; adding, ' People were pleased to say I was 
 charming, so 1 suppose I was.' She must have been very beautiful 
 when young, being still extremely handsome as an old lady. She 
 was as good, too, as she was handsome ; and I can never 
 forget her kindness to me. When 1 was once seriously ill with an 
 attack of bronchitis. Lady Harrington was unwearying in her atten- 
 tion to me, and would, day after day, sit by my bedside reading to 
 me, and would bring with her all the delicacies she could think of 
 When I had sufficiently recovered my strength, she sent me to the 
 seaside to recruit my health. To record all the kindnesses she 
 bestowed on me and mine would fill up many pages, but my 
 gratitude is indelibly written on my heart. She gave me a portrait 
 of herself, as Maria Darlington in A Rowland for an Oliver, and 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 45 
 
 by it one can see how lovely she must have been. Among her other 
 gifts was a beautiful old-fashioned diamond and ruby ring, which 
 she told me was given to her by the Earl (who was then Lord 
 Petersham) when he was engaged to be married to her. She 
 always called me by my second name, ' Effie,' and all her letters to 
 me, of which I have a large number, are so addressed. If well 
 enough, she rarely failed to be present on the first night of a new 
 piece in which I acted ; and if by chance prevented, would send old 
 Payne, her butler, who had been her faithful servant for ever so 
 many years, into the pit, and in the morning he was expected to go 
 to her ladyship with a full account of my performance, and to say 
 what I wore, and how I looked. Payne, for the purpose, took paper 
 and pencil with him to write down all the particulars, as she loved 
 to hear every detail. Lady Harrington was much attached to 
 Payne, and also to her maid, who, I believe, had been in her service 
 since she was quite young, and often spoke of them as Roineo and 
 Juliet. She constantly expressed a wish to see me established as a 
 comedy actress, and begged me to try hard for that position. To 
 tell the truth, I must have been a great trouble at times to my 
 kindly manager, for the fact of having acted successfully in two or 
 three little comediettas seemed more and more to whet my appetite. 
 I recall many a happy visit to Richmond Terrace, and until her last 
 illness I had no better friend than Lady Harrington. 
 
 When Miss Swanborough on her marriage with Major Lyon 
 retired from the stage and her management of the Strand Theatre, 
 everyone engaged there, high and low, regretted her loss. She 
 was always considerate and kind, and I can remember the graceful 
 speech she made when we presented her with a handsome testi- 
 monial as a farewell token of our affection. Her forte in acting 
 was comedy, and she was very charming in the Loves of Arcadia, 
 a pretty pastoral from the pen of that distinguished authoress and 
 good friend Miss Braddon, who, it may be already forgotten, com- 
 menced her career as an actress : certainly she has never lost her 
 great love for the stage. Miss Swanborough was handsome, tall, 
 and graceful, and always dressed in perfect taste. I have had the 
 pleasure of meeting her now and then since she was ' My Mother^ 
 as she jokingly said the last time I saw her. When our own 
 management was drawing to a close, I received a letter from her 
 which I shall always treasure ; and I am glad to have this oppor- 
 tunity of thanking her for many acts of kindness to me during 
 the time I had the privilege of being in her service. 
 
 After Miss Swanborough's retirement, the theatre remained under 
 the management of other members of her family. 
 
 The next burlesque I have to speak about was Aladdin, or the 
 Wonderful Scamp, the personation of this promising young gentle- 
 man—who was both a ' lively youth ' and a ' sad boy ' — falling to 
 me. All the Strand favourites were engaged in it, with the addition 
 of a charming recruit to the company — the graceful and fascinating 
 
46 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 Fanny Josephs. Like all Byron's clever burlesques, at this time 
 Aladdin enjoyed great success. It was strongly cast and admir- 
 ably played. Many of the old .Strand audiences will recall Jimmy 
 Rogers as the Widow Twankay, Aladdin's mother, who, to quote 
 the Arabian Nights, 'Even in her youth had not possessed any 
 beauty.' 
 
 There was no attempt to exaggerate in either dress or acting. 
 When he entered with a woe-begone face and looked at the 
 audience, nothing else was seen or heard for some seconds. But, 
 however Jimmy might provoke his audience to laughter, he would 
 not be tempted to laugh himself. I only saw this happen to him 
 upon the stage once, and that was caused by a circumstance at 
 which the most rigid must have given way. 
 
 This is the story. Very often during the run of Aladdin — and 
 sometimes night after night — there sat in the middle of the pit a 
 stout, bald-headed man, who appeared to be not only a faithful 
 friend to the theatre, but a warm admirer of little Clarke, to whom 
 he was a great comfort, for \\-henever Jimmy got more applause 
 than Clarke thought was his share, his sheet-anchor was the bald- 
 headed friend in the pit, who, when Clarke said or did 'anything to 
 provoke applause, would laugh louder than anyone else, and, when 
 the applause had quite subsided and everything was still, would 
 shout at the top of his voice, ' Bravo, Clarke !' 
 
 This happened so often that people beg'an to tease Clarke about 
 it, and even the audience would sometimes turn into ridicule this 
 incessant cry of ' Bravo, Clarke !' Clarke dearly loved praise, but 
 when he found his bald-headed admirer a little injudicious in his 
 approval, he became uneasy. One night the owner of the hairless 
 head, who had been waiting at the stage-door to see Clarke leave 
 the theatre, stepped up to him and requested to be allowed to ' have 
 the honour of shaking hands with one for whom he had such sincere 
 admiration.' Clarke recognised his friend the moment he raised 
 his hat, for he saw the familiar bald head shining under a gas-light, 
 and shook hands with his admirer, who modestly said, ' I'm sure 
 you will remember me, sir, when I tell you that I am the person 
 who so often sits in the middle of the pit, and I am so anxious that 
 you should know how sincere is my admiration, that I call out, 
 whenever 1 see an opportunity, " Bravo, Clarke !" ' This was a 
 moment not to be lost. ' 1 appreciate more than 1 can say,' said 
 Clarke, ' your kind attention ; and it is, I assure you, a welcome 
 .sound to me to hear your friendly voice. But, unfortunately, there 
 are people who are ever ready to ridicule over-favouritism. Do 
 you think you could throw in " Bravo, Clarke " less frequently, and 
 not in so marked a manner ? Let it on no account cease altogether, 
 only give it with more judgment.' The man replied, ' Certainly, 
 sir ; of course I will,' and they parted. The next night the house 
 was full as usual, and the bald head was again the centre-piece of 
 beauty in the pit. All through the first scene the well-known voice 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 47 
 
 was silent ; one could see an anxious look gradually becoming more 
 and more fixed upon Clarke's face. He glared again and again in 
 the direction of the pit, but no ' Bravo, Clarke !' greeted his anxious 
 ears. At last, when Rogers, Clarke, and myself sang the trio which 
 ended the scene, the familiar voice shouted repeatedly, to Clarke's 
 horror, ' Bravo, Rogers !' Clarke's face caught Jimmy's eye, who 
 laughed to such a degree that the tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 Poor Clarke never forgot it ; the more disgusted he looked, the 
 more Rogers laughed. All this so amused us that it was with 
 difficulty we managed to get through our parts ; for throughout the 
 evening this man, at unexpected moments, would cry out, ' Bravo, 
 Rogers !' giving, of course, fresh impetus to our laughter. This 
 was the only time I ever saw Rogers laugh in the business of the 
 scene, and then it was an impossibility for anyone who understood 
 the circumstances, and was not made of storle, to help it. 
 
 Then came Esmeralda, in which I played Pierre Gringoire ; 
 Rogers, who was always of delicate health, and now often very ill, 
 played Claude FroIIo ; and Clarke, with a wonderful make-up, was 
 Quasimodo. Occasionally, and sometimes on ' benefit ' nights, I 
 now, to my delight, got other parts, notably Lucy Morton, originally 
 played by Madame Vestris in Planche's charming little comedy 
 Court Favour, a performance of which the AthencEum spoke in 
 these terms : ' The petite figure of Miss Wilton is well suited to the 
 half-infant character, and there is a subtlety in her style which gives 
 piquancy to the dialogue between Lucy and the Duke of Albemarle, 
 whom she so cunningly over-reaches.' 
 
 The next burlesque I acted in was, I think, Byron's parody on 
 the Colleen Bawn, called Miss Eily O'Connor. I was cast for 
 another boy — Myles-na-Coppaleen, in which I introduced a strong 
 Irish brogue. Rogers was Miss Eily, and Clarke Danny Mann ; 
 two admirable performances, although poor Jimmy now suffered so 
 much at times that it was painful to see him waiting for his cue to 
 go on the stage, but, somehow, the hearty welcome which always 
 greeted him would be such a stimulant that, after awhile, he would 
 act as if nothing were amiss. How little does an audience know 
 what actors fight against in the exercise of duty — how much pain 
 they have been known to suffer bodily and mentally in order to go 
 through their work ! A true artist will never break faith with the 
 public while still able to stand or speak. His sense of duty is para- 
 mount, and he must indeed be in extre7nis before he will desert his , 
 post. I am speaking of artists in the true sense, not of those who 
 out of conceit adopt the theatrical profession as a pastime, and into 
 whose consideration art seldom enters. One of the latter category 
 succeeded in obtaining an engagement at the Strand Theatre while 
 I was there, to play small parts. She had a pretty face, and, in 
 her opinion, nothing more seemed necessary. One night this 
 young recruit did not come near the theatre at all, and a substitute 
 was hurriedly sent on for her part, which, fortunately, was limited 
 
48 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 to a fev/ lines. The next evening the ;iady arrived at the usual 
 time, making, neither apology nor excuse, and offering no explana- 
 tion of her absence. The stage-manager angrily inquired, ' How is 
 it you were not here last night ?' ' I could not come,' she replied, 
 staring with astonishment at his question. ' Why ?' he asked. ' // 
 rained; she answered. She was politely informed that, as our 
 English weather was somewhat uncertain, and a foreign climate 
 might perhaps suit her better, her services would be required no 
 longer. She left the theatre saying, ' It was a cruel profession to 
 be expected to leave one's home on a night not fit to turn a dog out !' 
 
 Jimmy was often helped from his cab to his dressing-room, 
 looking so ill and weak that I have wondered his doctor did not 
 insist upon his not coming (which, I believe, was frequently the 
 case) ; but he was obstinate, and would not disappoint the public. 
 There is something in the atmosphere of a theatre which picks one 
 up, so to speak, and which seems to give one, for the time, almost 
 superhuman strength. I have myself been taken from a sick-bed 
 wrapped in blankets, accompanied by my doctor (protesting all the 
 time), who was afterwards stationed at the side-entrance to the 
 stage with drugs and restoratives to keep me up. I have known 
 the most acute pains to disappear for the time, and the mere fact 
 of one's thoughts running through another channel for some hours 
 has frequently helped a speedy recovery. I have seen Jimmy rally 
 to such a degree that it has made us wonder, and through it all he 
 would be so quaintly funny, so sadly comic, that we could not resist 
 smiling, forgetting for the moment how ill he was. There was a 
 complete unconsciousness of his own power to make one laugh, 
 which was more droll than I can describe. It was irresistible : a 
 sad face with a curious undercurrent of humour — an odd, quiet look 
 of surprise when the audience roared at him, and the more sadly 
 surprised he appeared the more they laughed. He was the 
 strangest mixture of combined fun and suffering I can remember. 
 Jimmy was really a fair and generous actor, but could not resist 
 the temptation to tease Clarke sometimes, who was, however, a 
 great favourite, and held his own with the public for many years. 
 He was very clever, and much liked by all of us as a kindly little 
 man. In spite of his jealousies, and always looking on Jimmy as a 
 formidable rival, he would feel deeply for him in his sufferings, and 
 would have done anything in his power to help him. This Jimmy 
 knew full well, and they were really fond of each other. When the 
 play was over (as often happens with barristers after a ' keen en- 
 counter of their tongues ') they might frequently have been seen 
 walking from the theatre together arm in arm. 
 
 When the Miller and his Me?i was revived, I was, of course, 
 given my original part of Karl ; but I decided to take a bold step, 
 and declined to play it. According to the rules and regulations of 
 the theatre, ' by refusing to act a part which was in accordance with 
 my agreement ' (and especially one which I had played originally). 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 49 
 
 I forfeited my engagement. I determined to do this, at all risks, 
 in the hope of obtaining somewhere the position I coveted. But 
 alas ! I soon found that I had made a mistake, for there was not 
 that eagerness on the part of the managers to secure my services I 
 thought there would be, and the difficulty to get out of the beaten 
 track was greater than I anticipated. I applied everywhere, and 
 nowhere could I get an engagement for comedy. Matters were 
 becoming serious, when an offer came from Mr. Frank Matthews, 
 who was then manager of the St. James's Theatre ; but it was for 
 another burlesque boy in the Heart of Midlothian. It may be of 
 some interest to state, in contrast to what actors are paid nowadays 
 (a change for which our own management is chiefly responsible), 
 that the largest salary I had hitherto received in London was nine 
 pounds a week, and that Mr. Matthews then offered me ten 
 guineas ; but as the engagement was only to be for three months, 
 I was advised to ask fifteen pounds. After a long correspondence, 
 Mr. Matthews consented, on the condition that in my written 
 agreement ten guineas was entered as my salary, and that every 
 Saturday night he would, when he said ' Good-evening,' slip the 
 balance into my hand. He wished me to agree to this arrange- 
 ment, as mine, he said, would be a larger salary than that of 
 another lady in the theatre, who held a leading position ; and, if it 
 came to her knowledge, might cause jealousy, as he did not care to 
 trust to the discretion of his treasurer. This novel arrangement 
 was settled to our mutual satisfaction, although it was often re- 
 marked that Mr. Matthews was always pointedly cordial in his 
 greeting on Saturdays, as he, on those nights only, shook hands 
 with me. 
 
 Poor Jimmy Rogers had also seceded from the Strand Theatre — 
 it was evident that his health was becoming worse and worse. But, 
 to the' astonishment of all who knew him, he engaged himself to act 
 in the Heart of Midlothian. I was delighted at the fact of meeting 
 him again, but found him sadly changed, and looking like a faded 
 photograph. I was shocked and pained when I held his poor, thin 
 hand in mine, and gazed at his wan face and sunken eyes. I could 
 see that the cruel, relentless malady, consumption, had slowly yet 
 surely crept its way. My heart was too full of tears for me to utter 
 a word 'of welcome, and when he looked at me with his sad smile, 
 he could see that I dared not trust myself to speak. I forget how 
 long he acted his part of Effie Deans, but seeing him grow weaker 
 and weaker every night made my duties very painful. It was such 
 a ghastly mockery to act in burlesque with a man who was dying 
 before my eyes ! At last, one night I noticed him coming down 
 slowly from his dressing-room, supporting himself by the banisters, 
 and halting on every second or third step. I met him at the foot of 
 the stairs, when he placed his hand upon my shoulder and seemed 
 to breathe with great difficulty. I helped him towards the stage, 
 and begged him to sit down ; a chair was brought to him, but he 
 
 4 
 
so MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 declined, saying in broken sentences, ' I dare not — I shall never — 
 get up again.' He then whispered to me, ' Marie dear, help me 
 through it to-night— do what you can for me— I am not well— dear 
 — not at all well.' 
 
 Not well ! No, poor fellow, the end was not far off. He had 
 scarcely breath to speak. I said to him, ' Oh, Jimmy, why did you 
 come here to-night ? ' My fault, dear,' he replied ; ' I would come. 
 I shall be all right to-morrow.' His words had such an ominous 
 sound. He could only walk through the piece, leaning upon my 
 shoulder when we were on the stage together. As I found his 
 breath failing him, I either spoke his words or continued with my 
 own. Towards the end of the piece his hands became cold, and 
 his face so changed that my heart was sick with fear. The audience 
 little knew that they were laughing at a dying man. How I managed 
 to get through it all I don't know, but necessity makes us strong. I 
 thought the end of the play would never come. He would allow no 
 one but me to help or advise him ; indeed, at moments he became 
 fractious, and my task was truly painful. Just as the curtain fell 
 he muttered, 'Thank you, my dear ; God bless you and help me!' 
 He sank into a chair, and as I knelt by his side he looked strangely 
 at me, and whispered, ' I am dying.' He was taken home, where 
 his poor little wife, to whom he was devoted, had been anxiously 
 waiting for his return. He would not, I heard, allow her to think 
 that he was so ill as he felt, and insisted on going through his work 
 to the last, in defiance of all advice. The end soon came, and his 
 last words were, ' The farce is over — drop the curtain.' Poor 
 Jimmy ! You will ever be remembered by those who knew you 
 best as a kind and generous friend. No one in trouble or in need 
 ever sought your help in vain. ' Where be your gibes now ? your 
 gambols ? your songs ? your flashes of merriment, that were wont 
 to set the table on a roar ?' 
 
 When James Rogers died, no one regretted his death more than 
 his old friend and rival, John Clarke. 
 
 My engagement at the St. James's was soon over, when I was 
 sent for by Mr. Webster to act for three or four weeks at the 
 Adelphi in the Little Treasure, in which Mr. Sothern at first played 
 Captain Walter Maydenblush, the part being afterwards taken by 
 my friend Mr. Billington — ' Handsome Jack,' as he used to be 
 called. I hoped this might be a stepping-stone to the goal I was 
 trying for, but my Lady Fortune seemed to have turned her back 
 upon me for a time, and instead of offers pouring in, no notice was 
 taken of me, and I saw no anxiety to secure my services. 
 
 This performance reminds me that when I had lost the title of 
 Cupid, the epithet ' Little ' for a long time took its place ; for I was 
 in turn ' The Little Treasure,' ' The Little Savage,' ' The Little 
 Sentinel,' ' The Little Devil,' and ' Little Don Giovanni.' 
 
 There was an old member of the new Adelphi company who, 
 when I mention his name, will be. remembered by many who knew 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 51 
 
 him as an eccentric and amusing character of days gone by — 
 Robert, but always known as ' Bob,' Romer. He was not an im- 
 portant actor, but such an oddity that without him the company 
 would not have seemed complete, for everybody had an affection 
 for him. Bob was ambitious, but never reached the summit (or 
 anywhere near it) of his ambition. He was rarely, I believe, en- 
 trusted with more than a few lines, and constantly, when a new 
 play was about to be produced, some friend would delight in asking 
 him what his part would be in it. His reply would be always the 
 same : ' A — what have I got to do ? Oh — a^nothing — at all— in 
 the first and second acts — and — a — next to nothing — in the last.' 
 He spoke in quaint, rapid jerks, and, after a slight pause, his words 
 would seem to try to get one before the other. I remember meeting 
 him one morning when he had just left the theatre after rehearsing 
 in a new piece. As I saw his portly figure coming along, I could 
 not resist asking the well-worn question, ' What have you got to do 
 in the new play, Mr. Romer ?' ' A — a — what — have I — got to do ? 
 Oh — a — same old thing — nothing — a — nothing at all.', 'Nothing 
 at all?' I replied. 'A — a— well— a— the old story — a few — idiotic 
 lines, and "exit." In the last — piece but one, I — a — was — a magis- 
 trate — nothing to do but — wear a wig — and — a — take it off again. 
 In the next— I was — a — a — rustic — nothing to do — but — to drink 
 the health of the Squire — in an empty jug — shout out " Hurray " 
 ■ — laugh " Ha ! ha !" — and go off— with a noisy crowd. A — in this 
 piece — I play — an Alligator.' 'A what, Mr. Romer?' 'An Alli- 
 gator — curious — line of business. I'm discovered — a — at the be- 
 ginning of this piece in a tank. All I have to say is " Tan — ier — 
 ran — /an — ian !" I don't appear again till the last scene, when I 
 say " Whack^fal — la /" It won't — tax the brain much !' Poor 
 ' Bob ' was the subject of much amusement to his comrades. He 
 had one particular horror, that of coming up through trap-door§. 
 He vowed that he would leave the theatre if ever he was asked to 
 appear through a trap. As Mr. Toole was in the company, I need 
 not say that he took special delight in constantly measuring Bob 
 for an imaginary trap in the coming play — a proceeding which he 
 never got accustomed to, and always became excited over. Bob, 
 when asked by a friend what his line of business in the theatre was, 
 answered, ' Oh — a — etceteras! It was a fact that whenever a play 
 was read by the author to the company, after giving out the list of 
 characters and finishing with ' etc., etc.,' Bob would be heard 
 muttering sotto voce, ' Ah — that's — me.' 
 
 One more story of this quaint old gentleman will not, I hope, 
 bore the reader. I remember an amusing scene occurring one 
 morning as I arrived at the stage-door to attend a rehearsal, when 
 I heard Bob questioning the hall-porter with a mysterious and 
 puzzled expression in his face. First of all I must explain that on 
 the previous day a little dinner had been given to him by a few 
 friends in the company who desired to have a good joke at poor 
 
 4—2 
 
52 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 Bob's expense, and to have one or two speeches about his untried 
 talents, and to sympathize with his failure in ever getting a good 
 part. The poor fellow rose to reply, and, after a lengthy speech, 
 which I believe caused much suppressed but undetected laughter, 
 he ended by saying, ' A — I feel much touched by — your — a — sym- 
 pathy ; and with regard to my — a — hidden ability — a — light under 
 a bushel — I may say — if I am not important, I am at least — a — ■ 
 pleasing.' 
 
 This miniature banquet was kept up until ten o'clock, for Bob 
 had not to appear on the stage before eleven, just to act one of his 
 celebrated 'next to nothing' parts. He had partaken rather freely 
 of the wine, and was somewhat unsteady. When he awoke on the 
 following morning, he had a vague recollection of the dinner, but, 
 for the life of him, could not remember anything that happened 
 afterwards, and his anxiety to find out how things went off at the 
 theatre was very great. When I arrived at the stage-door, a con- 
 versation to this effect was going on between Bob and the hall- 
 porter : 
 
 Bob : ' A — good house — last night, Richardson ?' 
 
 Porter : ' Yes, sir ; vefy good house.' 
 
 Bob : ' A — nothing — went wrong at all ?' 
 
 Porter : ' Nothing, sir.' 
 
 Bob : ' A— how did the farce go ? 
 
 Porter : ' Not so well as usual, I was told, sir.' 
 
 Bob {quickly) : ' Not so well ? How's that ?' 
 
 Porter : ' I did hear, sir, that it were 'issed.' 
 
 Bob : ' Bless my soul ! Was Mr.— a — Webster in the theatre ?' 
 
 Porter : ' He had gone 'ome, sir.' 
 
 Bob {breathing more easily) : ' Is he here this morning ?' 
 
 Porter : ' Yes, sir, just arrived.' 
 
 Bob : ' A— did he— ask for me !' 
 
 Porter : ' No, sir.' 
 
 Bob {a/ler cautiously looking round) : ' About last night ? — a — 
 ■was I here ?' 
 
 Mrs. Swanborough offered me a re-engagement to play the hero 
 in a forthcoming burlesque by Byron called Orpheus and Eiirydice. 
 I was a beggar and could not choose, so I agreed, and returned to 
 my former home. I wish it to be understood that my relations with 
 the Strand management were then, and always had been, of a 
 cordial nature. I met with constant kindness from all the Swan- 
 borough family, of which Ada had now grown to be a prominent 
 member, and we were the best of friends. It was only my im- 
 patient desire to improve my position that parted us. 
 
 There were many changes in the company. George Honey was 
 now the principal comedian, supported by Arthur Wood, an ad- 
 mirable actor, who also graduated under old Mr. Chute, at the 
 Bristol Theatre, and David James, who then made his first appear- 
 ance at the Strand Theatre, where afterwards he became so pronii- 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 53 
 
 nent. Pretty Fanny Hughes— who married Edward Swanborough — 
 had also become a favourite, and I remember singing a clever duet 
 with her to the combined tunes of the ' Whistling Thief and the 
 ' Harp in the Air.' I was delighted with an opportunity I soon 
 afterwards had of acting in a charming little comedietta called I7n- 
 limited Confidence, written by A. C. Troughton, which was a great 
 success, only, through being placed first in the programme, often 
 the audience would not be all in to see it A message came one 
 day that the Prince of Wales would visit the theatre that evening, 
 and that his Royal Highness desired my piece to be placed second, 
 as he wished to see it How delighted I was ! The compliment, 
 of course, made me feel very proud. I also acted in one more 
 burlesque, called Mazourka. 
 
 I must not omit a brief reference to the Shakespearean Ter- 
 centenary. When that great event was celebrated the theatres 
 united in honouring the poet's memory, either complete plays, or 
 selections from them, being acted throughout the country. 
 
 The Strand contribution consisted of scenes from A Midsummer 
 Night's Dream, and the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, in 
 which I appeared as Juliet, and Miss Ada Swanborough as Romeo. 
 The balcony scene created quite a sensation, and was so successful 
 that it was repeated for eight nights. I received such praise, and 
 so many complimentary letters from good judges, that it will be 
 understood how still more anxious I became to slip out of burlesque 
 as quickly as possible. Some thought me wise, others mad ; and, 
 while they were deciding between the two, I determined to follow 
 my own instincts and the urgent appeal to Mrs. Dombey, ' to make 
 an effort.' Some time afterwards I heard that among those 
 warmest in their praise of my acting as Juliet was Mr. W. S. 
 Gilbert 
 
 In the summer Mrs. Swanborough took her company down to 
 the Theatre Royal, Liverpool, where, as will be mentioned further 
 on, I first met Mr. Bancroft. We were playing in the burlesque of 
 Orpheus, I remember, when some races were going on, and the 
 winner of the Cup was called ' Black Deer ;' in the evening Mr. 
 George Honey, who was playing black ' King Pluto,' introduced an 
 unexpected joke in my scene with him. 'Saucy boy! You've been 
 to the races, it is clear.' I was taken by surprise ; but soon re- 
 covered, and replied, ' Yes, and was a winner, too, you Black Dear.' 
 The audience at once recognised the introduction, and received it 
 with much laughter and applause. Mr. Honey, seeing that I had 
 the best of it, added, ' Oh, so I thought ; well, long may you reign, 
 dear! This, being done on the spur of the moment, was more suc- 
 cessful than if it had been pre-arranged. 
 
 I will end these reminiscences of early days with a story of my 
 childhood, of which I was reminded during this visit to Liverpool. 
 
 One] day I received a letter, which vividly recalled to my recol- 
 lection (shall I ever forget it ?) a remarkable journey I undertook 
 
54 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 years before, when I was but a mere child. The story, I fancy, 
 will go far to prove that courage and determination were, even at 
 that early age, strong points in my nature, although, in this instance, 
 my youthful impetuosity might have led to serious complications. 
 My father, with myself and three sisters, were in Scotland, while 
 my mother, with two other tiny sisters, were in Lancashire, fulfilling 
 an engagement. News came that she was seriously ill. I knew 
 that her great anxiety would be about her children, and how she 
 would wish them to be near her. What was to be done ? My 
 father had gone away some distance with the company he was 
 attached to, to act somewhere, leaving us children in charge of the 
 landlady. I made up my little mind to take two of my sisters (one 
 was mentally afflicted, and I dared not risk it) to my mother. But 
 how, and by what means ? I went to the pier, and found out that 
 a boat was going to Glasgow that night. I learnt, also, that on the 
 day of our arrival a steamer would leave Glasgow for Liverpool. I 
 inquired all about the cost of the journey, and decided without any 
 hesitation, knowing the chronic state of our finances, upon the 
 cheapest part of the vessel. I turned it all over in my limited brain, 
 which did not admit of room to consider risks, difficulties, and con- 
 sequences ; I only knew that our mother was ill, and if she should 
 die without seeing us it would be a reproach to us all. I am ashamed 
 to say that my father's anxiety and displeasure at the discovery of 
 our departure on his return home never entered my already over- 
 crowded mind. There was a small sum of money in the house, 
 realized by an entertainment which he and 1 had given. This I 
 took, and secured the tickets for myself and two sisters, who were 
 too young to understand the meaning of my wild scheme. The 
 boat was to start that night, and my next anxiety was how to leave 
 the house without the knowledge of our landlady. (I can hear my 
 readers say, ' Was there ever so mad a proceeding ?' and I agree 
 with them.) My father frequently alluded to it, and with a grave 
 shake of the head implied that he had not forgiven the terrible 
 scare my proceeding cost him. 
 
 But to return. I packed all the things I thought necessary in a 
 carpet-bag (our wardrobe was limited, so it did not take long), 
 dressed myself and sisters, and waited till the family prayers had 
 begun in the room below. When I heard the murmur of voices, 
 we went downstairs as noiselessly as possible, carefully dropping 
 the carpet-bag with a heavy thud, as is so often the case when one 
 is doubly cautious. The noise luckily was not heard, owing to the 
 wind that was howling outside, and away we went to the boat, 
 which was rocking about in troubled waters, and the sight of which 
 would now turn my steps in an opposite direction ; but youth knows 
 no fear. We went on board. What a night it was ! We were all 
 very frightened, and one of my young sisters entreated to be allowed 
 ' to get out and walk '! My task to cheer them, and bear the con- 
 sequences of a rough passage, must be understood, for I cannot 
 
AT THE STRAND THEATRE 55 
 
 describe it. On our arrival at Glasgow, I made the terrible dis- 
 covery that my pocket had been picked, and every penny of my 
 poor possessions gone. I was completely heartbroken, and did not 
 know which way to turn, for I had nothing left to pay for our journey 
 to Liverpool. 
 
 In the greatest despair I inquired my way to the ship we were to 
 go by, and then asked to see the captain, or some one who would 
 help us to get to our journey's end. When I told my little story, 
 the captain laughed, and said how naughty I had been, and that 
 he thought it was his duty to send me back to my father ; but when 
 I cried, and explained how ill my mother was, he seemed touched, 
 and said, ' Well, you are, at this stage of your journey, almost as 
 near your mother as to your father, so I'll take you to her. But 1 
 daren't bring you along as passengers : if you don't mind coming 
 aboard with those who go free, you know, to Liverpool (why didn't 
 he say paupers ? but I suppose he hesitated to wound my feelings), 
 why, it can be done, and I'll get a pass for you. What is your 
 narne ?' I did not answer at once, and he evidently understood, for 
 he immediately said, ' I'll put it down as Briton, for few little girls 
 could be so brave as you are ; so you deserve the name of Briton, 
 and I'll give it you.' He patted me on the head, and knowing that 
 my money had been stolen, and I could get no dinner, he gave us 
 sandwiches. When night came we three little waifs were placed 
 on shore amongst the paupers, and when the name ' Briton ' was 
 called, I went on board with a little sister by each hand. The cap- 
 tain, as we passed, patted ■ me on the head. I looked up at him, 
 and, I am not sure, but if it had been daylight, I think I should 
 have seen tears in his eyes. It was a rough night again, and as I 
 sat down in the cabin, which was full of tobacco-smoke, I felt that 
 if we remained there we should be very ill ; so I planted myself 
 with the two children on the steps, where we could get air. By- 
 and-by, the language amongst 'the free passengers' became so 
 dreadful that I covered the children's heads with their coats to pre- 
 vent their hearing, and they went to sleep. I felt very unhappy, 
 and began to cry as I realized what a rash thing I had done. Pre- 
 sently one of the ship's officers, quite young-looking, came along, 
 and, seeing me cry, stopped and spoke to me. He soon discovered 
 that we were different from our surroundings, and took us to his 
 own cabin, where he left us, only now and again peeping in during 
 the night to see if we were all right. In the morning he brought us 
 some breakfast, and, when we arrived at Liverpool, the captain in- 
 structed him to take us to an address which I gave hirn of a great 
 friend of my father's family, Mr. Warne, a lime merchant, who told 
 the young seaman my name, and who we were. He then took 
 charge of us, and sent us on comfortably enough to my mother, who 
 was at Wigan. The unexpected sight of her children frightened 
 my mother, but it certainly had the effect of causing a revulsion, 
 because she was much better the next day. My father was imme- 
 
S6 MARIE WILTON'S NARRATIVE 
 
 diately communicated with, and the whole proceedings related to 
 him. He also learnt that the confusion in the house when it was 
 discovered that we had gone was indescribable. The next day the 
 bellman, or crier, was shouting everywhere, ' Oh yes 1 Oh yes ! 
 Lost, stolen, or strayed,' etc. My father, hastily summoned home, 
 was almost deprived of reason by a fruitless search. He threatened 
 to punish the landlady for her neglect, and the whole affair caused 
 a terrible commotion. When my father received news of our safety, 
 the reaction made him very ill for some days. So I had much to 
 answer for. Now for the sequel to this story. 
 
 The writer of the note I received in Liverpool was the very man 
 who had rescued us from the society of our ' free passengers,' and 
 had watched us with such tender care on that memorable night. 
 My heart was full of that rare commodity which I often read of in 
 books, gratitude ; and when, by my wish, he came to see me, I 
 welcomed his kindly face with sincerity. Later on, having made a 
 position for himself, and being on the point of going to settle in one 
 of our colonies, he asked me to become his wife. I wished I could 
 have said yes, for a man with such a heart must have made a good 
 husband ; my feelings, however, were only those of gratitude, not 
 love, and I was obliged to tell him so. I was going to say ' poor 
 fellow,' but I am sure he is, if still living, happy and prosperous, as 
 he deserves to be. 
 
 I frequently reflect how largely life is made up of accidents. Had 
 I accepted the offer of my young sailor friend, how, I wonder, 
 would my doing so have affected both my own and my husband's 
 fate. 
 
MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EARLY MEMORIES. 
 
 A gift of memory — Birth 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. 
 
 The surmise which ends the preceding chapter can never be 
 solved, for I have to thank my good fortune that when, late'r on, I 
 ventured to repeat to Marie Wilton the question asked in vain by 
 the young sailor, I met with an assent. I must now beg forgive- 
 ness for interrupting this narrative, to tell of things that happened 
 before those days arrived ; and with a warning that this and the 
 following chapter will chiefly concern myself, and my early experi- 
 ences as a country actor, I ask for the reader's lenient thoughts 
 during their recital, before proceeding to matters of more conse- 
 quence : for, from the time we met and, afterwards, linked our lives 
 and fortunes, we will tell our tale together, helping each other's 
 work throughout it, although now and then one or the other of us 
 will relate certain parts of it alone, through more intimate and 
 detailed knowledge of its varied incidents. 
 
 I shall owe much to the gift of a retentive memory, which is 
 perhaps remarkable in regard to dates and things theatrical ; for it 
 would be no trouble to me to answer straight off, wagering on the 
 exactitude of my every answer, and arming my questioner with a 
 twenty years' file of the Times, where I was, and, if acting, what 
 part I was playing, in any month, of any year, between the summers 
 of 1865 and 1885. Or, if I was away from home for a holiday, I 
 could as easily give an itinerary of my travels. 
 
 Since relief from the many labours of management gave me 
 leisure, I have often thought that I could remember something of 
 events which might be worth recording, and, 1 confess, have been 
 vain enough to hope that my reflections upon them would be, if I 
 
58 MR. BANCROFTS NARRATIVE 
 
 tried to express them, read at least by lovers of the stage and the 
 players. In what I write I will follow the words of the brightest 
 mind that has illumined England, by means of those wondrous 
 works which have for ever dignified the calling I have followed : 
 
 ' Nothincr extenuate, 
 Nor set down aught in malice.' 
 
 If I disobey the injunction, it shall be rather in the first than in 
 the second behest. Merely adding that I will try not to give way 
 to egotism, for my self-esteem may be fairly expressed in the words 
 of Captain Hawtree, ' I don't pretend to be a particularly good sort 
 of fellow, nor a particularly bad sort of fellow.' 
 
 There is but little, it seems to me, that I could tell of my child- 
 hood or of my boyhood to interest the ordinary reader ; nearly all 
 to whom such matters might once have had even a small value 
 have either passed away or have been neither seen nor known by 
 me since those now far-off days. 
 
 I was born in Surrey, but very near to London, on Friday, May 
 14th, 1 84 1, in the same year as the Prince of Wales ; and the weeks 
 of my age I can count every Wednesday by the number recorded 
 on the title-page of Punch, which publication almost immediately 
 followed me into the world, where it will long survive me. 
 
 I was christened Squire Bancroft after my grandfather, who had 
 once been tutor to the then heir to the dukedom of Devonshire, 
 and was a great Latin scholar, airing his learning at the font, for 
 although, he allowed his eldest son — who, after serving his King as 
 a middy in the Royal Navy in the days of Nelson, was ordained as 
 a clergyman, and, indeed, many years later, officiated at my mar- 
 riage—to escape with the simple name of John, he called my father 
 Secundus, and his next son Gulielmus Tertius. I only thus briefly 
 mention my grandfather because I owed my name to him, but I 
 shall not trouble the reader with any further account of my 
 ancestors. 
 
 I was brought up in some luxury, and surrounded by all the 
 gentle influences one could wish. I have remembrances now of my 
 father on his horse, wearing a blue coat with gilt buttons, and a 
 bird's-eye cravat, looking, indeed, very like one of the coloured 
 drawings so well known to all Londoners a few years ago who ever 
 looked into the windows of ' Billy ' Sams's Library, at the corner of 
 St. James's Street and Pall Mall, where the big red house now 
 stands instead. 
 
 I can recall early morning visits to the green-houses, my little 
 hand held lovingly in my fathei-'s, and many a romp round a big 
 mulberry-tree ; but such pleasant days of childhood, chastened by 
 one dreadful recollection of a big clock in the hall, past which I 
 always hurried in the fear that some one was hidden inside its 
 roomy case, were not my fate for long. My father \\as stricken 
 with a painful malady which soon ended in his death, and with 
 him, or rather with his illness, died nearly all his income. 
 
EARLY MEMORIES 59 
 
 At the age of barely more than thirty my poor mother, who was 
 much younger than her husband, was left with her young children 
 in a very altered position. The dreams of public school and college 
 education for her sons were never to be realized ; but how nobly 
 she did all that her crippled means would reach is a memory hal- 
 lowed by me, and one which I care not to dwell on here. 
 
 Briefly I will add that I was educated at private schools in 
 England and in France. At one of the former, among my school- 
 mates, although my memory almost fails to more than just recall 
 him, was my afterwards friend and comrade, poor Harry Montague. 
 When I think of my foreign home, it is still with a shudder at the 
 recollection of an old woman who daily entered the dormitory at 
 six a.m., and shrieked ' Levez-vous, messieurs !' as she threw the 
 windows wide open, whatever the weather, and filled our basins 
 with water from a well. 
 
 I can remember, during my holidays, going to the Exhibition of 
 185 1, and being sent for home to see the funeral of the great Duke 
 of Wellington ; part of the wreck of my father's now rapidly dwind- 
 ling property being a house in Fleet Street, near Temple Bar, 
 which on that solemn day was draped in black and bore big 
 urns of burning incense. The house I speak of was long since 
 pulled down to give place to a palatial Insurance Office, but my 
 mother's tenant then offered her seats to see a procession which 
 stirred the English people in a way that comes but seldom. While 
 abroad I recollect the birth of the Prince Imperial, and, returning 
 to England soon afterwards, I saw the general illuminations in 
 celebration of peace after the Crimean War. This I mention 
 because, strange to say, I remember well being blocked for some 
 very long time just in front of the house I occupied years afterwards 
 in Cavendish Square. 
 
 When Edmund Yates published his delightful book of ' Recollec- 
 tions ' I was among its earliest readers. In one of the commencing 
 chapters I was greatly struck to find, in spite of a ten years' gap 
 between our ages, how many of the things which marked, as it 
 were, the author's youth, and now have passed away, I could myself 
 remember. 
 
 I make no effort, like that practised writer, to treat these matters 
 with a charm of style such as pervades his book, but briefly try to 
 call to mind what I really know I have seen. The ' twopenny ' and 
 ' general ' postmen, with their royal-blue or scarlet coats, looking, 
 indeed, very like the guards of the stage-coaches, I quite remember, 
 as I do the policemen in their blue tail-coats, their hats with shiny 
 tops and sides, their duck trousers, and white gloves. The foot- 
 guards, clad in swallow-tails, with epaulettes and cross-belts, white 
 trousers, and enormous bearskins (how often have their little effigies 
 been bought for me in the Lowther Arcade !), I picture readily in 
 Hyde Park, where then, at all the keepers' lodges. Cockney boys 
 and girls invested pennies in curds-and-whey or hardbake. The 
 
6o MR. BANCROFTS NARRATIVE 
 
 Quakers in their quaint clothing I also recollect. I remember, too, 
 the boys who swarmed the chimneys and wore brass badges on 
 their caps ; — the sweep's street-cry, the dustman's bell, the old- 
 clothes man's husky call (repeated every moment as he tramped 
 along under the burden of his bag and pyramid of hats), the song 
 of the buy-a-broom girls (' a large one for the lady and a small one 
 for the baby ') — all are treasured by me as part of the music of my 
 childhood. I can just recall the statue of the Iron Duke at Hyde 
 Park Corner when it first was placed there, and being shown the 
 Thames Tunnel soon after its completion. I remember, too, going 
 to Blackwall by the Rope Railway, the Colonnade in Regent Street, 
 the pens in Old Smithfield Market, the piling and strapping of 
 luggage on the roofs of the railway carriages when travelling by 
 train ; these recollections also embrace the Chartist Riots of 1848, 
 while the names of Rush and Manning told me first what murder 
 meant. 
 
 Before I end this reference to early memories, I would like to tell 
 how first I knew myself to be short-sighted. One day at home, 
 when I was a small boy, my sisters were at work with their gover- 
 ness ; the lady wore spectacles, which she had taken off and placed 
 upon the table — always a magnetic act to mischievous young boys. 
 How often had I adorned my nose with the spectacles of my grand- 
 father and other old people ! At once I clutched at these and put 
 them on — I almost screamed, and I really cried out loud ; for the 
 governess was short-sighted, and I, for the first time in my life, 
 could see ! Instead of clambering upon chairs and other furniture 
 to find out what the pictures had to tell, they were all made clear to 
 me, as if by magic. Remarks which had so often puzzled me about 
 minute and distant things became, with a sort of instinct, plain to 
 my understanding. And from that time I have worn an eyeglass. 
 
 There would be little to interest in the picture I could paint of a 
 decaying home, so in a few brief sentences, so far as private matters 
 go, I will pass over these succeeding years. 
 
 I had to be taken away from school when still quite young, for 
 the purse was emptying fast ; then came some early struggles to 
 cast about in what way to earn a living. I had been always ' stage- 
 struck ' — my toys were little theatres, in which the Red Rover and 
 the Miller and his Men enjoyed very long runs ; while, later on, I 
 would for years read a tragedy in preference to a novel, until I 
 learnt from my mother an adoration for the works of Dickens. All 
 my pocket-money was spent at the play, and dramatic books (of 
 which I was a great collector) became my hobby ; but the thought 
 of my ever being in truth an actor was looked upon with ridicule. 
 
 During my youth I went greatly to the play, and remember much 
 that I saw. The first glimmer of recollection I retain of amuse- 
 ments is the circus at Astley's, and of pantomimes both there and 
 at the Surrey Theatre. I recall, but only with a child's remem- 
 brance, being taken to the Lyceum to see the incomparable Madame 
 
EARLY MEMORIES 6i 
 
 Vestris, and living in the fairyland of William Beverly's gorgeous 
 scenery ; also to the Strand Theatre (then called Punch's Play- 
 house) to see that great actor, Farren, before he left the stage. The 
 pla.y was the Vzcar of Wakefieldj Mrs. Stirling was Olivia, and 
 Leigh Murray also acted in it. Macready I never saw ; but I do 
 not forget as a very small boy reading and devouring, with a long- 
 ing to be present, the bill of his farewell performance. At the same 
 age I can just remember seeing Old Madame Tussaud seated at 
 the inner-door of the famous Waxwork Exhibition in Baker Street, 
 and comparing the reality with the effigy. Later, for my mind re- 
 tains much more, I was often at Sadler^s Wells Theatre, and saw 
 many of the Phelps' productions, several of them over and over 
 again, and I witnessed most of Charles Kean's splendid revivals at 
 the Princess's. At the Adelphi I saw Benjamin Webster, Leigh 
 Murray, Paul Bedford, Miss Woolgar, and Madame Celeste, but — 
 I can't say how it happened — never Wright. 
 
 My memory grows brighter at thoughts of the Olympic, where I 
 was enthralled by an actor whom I shall never forget — Frederick 
 Robson. I saw him very often, and vividly recall his pathos in the 
 Porter's Knot, the intensity of his avarice as the old miser. Daddy 
 Hardacre, and his wonderful acting in Payable on Demand; to. 
 have once seen is never to forget him as the distracted financier 
 whose fortunes are saved by the news of Waterloo, brought to him 
 by a carrier pigeon, which he ran round the stage embracing and 
 covering with kisses in a way that provoked no smiles but only 
 loud applause. The power of Robson's acting was as contagious 
 as a fever. 
 
 At the Lyceum I recall Charles Dillon's fine performance in 
 Belphegor. I sat that evening by my mother's side, and in the 
 touching scene between the Mountebank and his son, we little 
 thought that the pretty girl who made us cry by her pathetic acting 
 as the boy Henri, in which she first appeared in London, would be 
 my future wife. At the beginning of the new year I saw her for 
 the second time as ' The little fairy at the bottom of the sea ' in 
 Conrad and Medora. Soon after at this theatre I also recollect 
 seeing Helen Faucit (Lady Martin) act Lady Macbeth, and Pauline 
 in the Lady of Lyons. These were the days when young theatre- 
 goers had little ambition beyond a front seat in the pit : the days 
 when one's toes were trodden on between the acts by horrible 
 women who sold 'apples, oranges, and ginger-beer' : the days when 
 the bill of the play was little better than a greasy mass of printer's 
 ink on paper nearly two feet long. 
 
 Soon afterwards I went for a short visit to New York, partly with 
 a dream of seeking a fortune there which I did not find. I sailed 
 from England in September, 1858, and was thirteen days at sea — 
 at that time an average passage, when the Persia was the ' grey- 
 hound of the Atlantic,' and the Cunard fleet composed of paddle- 
 steamers only. I narrowly escaped taking my passage in the 
 
62 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 Austria, which was burnt at sea : among those who perished, I re- 
 member, were several near relatives of Hermann Vezin. 
 
 Unfortunately I did not travel in the States, not even to Niagara. 
 The New York of those days was very different from the city of to- 
 day. Although, to my great regret (of that regret, and the reasons 
 why Mrs. Bancroft and myself have never visited America pro- 
 fessionally, more anon), I have only this .early recollection of New 
 York, I can tell of course from reading and conversation how 
 wondrously it has changed, or rather grown, for when I was there 
 the Central Park was quite a country outing. 
 
 My visit was during the fall, so I came in for the lovely Indian 
 summer, a far more beautiful and much longer autumnal visitation 
 than the French UEU de la St. Martin, or the short gleam we 
 sometimes get in England, that is called St. Luke's little summer. 
 
 The strange, palatial, gliding ferry-boats, the tall, rough telegraph- 
 posts which then crossed and recrossed the city, the many white 
 houses with their green Venetian shutters, the brown-stone mansions 
 of Fifth Avenue, are as vivid in my remembrance as the, then, 
 terribly paved and dirty streets (only to be rivalled in discomfort, 
 as far as my small travels go, by the filthy lanes of Constanti- 
 nople). 
 
 My theatrical recollections of New York include, at Laura 
 Keene's, the production of a play destined to attain celebrity as 
 Our American Cousin, in which I saw Sothern act Lord Dundreary 
 for the veiy first time in his life ; and some years afterwards, when 
 we first met at the Theatre Royal, Dublin, I gave him a copy of the 
 original play-bill which I chanced to have kept. Jefferson, since 
 world-famous as Rip Van Winkle, was the Asa Trenchard. The 
 whole performance was a very different one from that presented 
 later at the Haymarket ; hut, beyond all dispute, it was Dundreary 
 who made the play, always a very bad one, although through 
 Sothern it enjoyed the then greatest run on record. Sothern, at 
 the reading of the piece, refused his part, and only on being given 
 carte blanche to ' write it up ' and do with it what he pleased, con- 
 sented to appear in it. The odd stammer and eccentric walk which 
 he introduced he had previously tried with success in small 
 Canadian towns, where he began his Western career as Sir 
 Frederick Blount in Money j its inspiration being really due to 
 some funny antics of a nigger troupe known as Bryant's Minstrels. 
 The long claret-coloured Noah's Ark coat which he wore on the 
 first night he borrowed from Dion Boucicault, who was then acting 
 at Niblo's ; this dress was only once changed throughout the 
 comedy, and then for a costume which would not have disgraced 
 Wright in an old Adelphi farce — the coal-back whiskers were an 
 exaggeration of the peg-top fashion then the rage, which also 
 governed largely the cut of trousers and coat-sleeves. There was 
 not for a long time any Brother Sam's letter or any allusion to that 
 fraternal personage. The part grew slowly bit by bit, and instead 
 
EARLY MEMORIES 63 
 
 of being exaggerated into an impossibility, as it might have been 
 by an inferior actor, was, in fact, refined nightly in action and cos- 
 tume with the judgment and painstaking labour which always 
 characterized this admirable comedian, of whom I shall hope later 
 on to speak. 
 
 At Wallack's Theatre I had the rare treat of seeing James 
 Wallack — then a lame and crippled old man, but still very hand- 
 some — act as Don Caesar de Bazan, also in Douglas Jerrold's Reni 
 Day, and Shylock in a production of the Merchant of Venice, 
 which followed on a smaller scale Charles Kean's revival at the 
 Princess's. An amusing incident which occurred in the Trial 
 Scene I fancy must have resulted from a practical joke played by 
 some one behind the scenes. As Wallack came to the words, ' A 
 harmless, necessary cat,' a large tabby, at first unseen by Shylock, 
 marched upon the stage, to the dismay of the actors and the 
 amusement of the audience ; chevied from side to side by Gratiano 
 and Bassanio, still further frightened by the roars of the audience, 
 the poor brute at length jumped in terror over the heads of the 
 convulsed Council of Ten, and, with this splendid exit, ruined the 
 rest of the play. 
 
 This short visit to the States came to an end soon afterwards. I 
 can only hope it is still in store for me to go there again, and in 
 maturer life become acquainted with America. On my return I 
 saw too plainly that my mother's health was greatly broken ; she 
 lingered some little time, but it soon grew evident that she would 
 never recover. 
 
 I was present at the Princess's when Charles Kean retired from 
 management. Henry VIII. was played, with Kean as Wolsey, 
 and Mrs. Kean as Queen Katharine. The night was indeed one 
 to well remember, as was the vast distinguished audience. Kean 
 delivered a farewell managerial address, one point in which I can 
 recall when he said how he had been blamed for mounting this or 
 that play too sumptuously, while on the other hand he was recently 
 scolded for the rudeness and simplicity of the goblets he had used 
 in Macbeth's Banqueting Hall, adding in his own quaint manner, 
 ' it was the first time he ever heard that Macbeth had an eye to 
 King Duncan's plate.' The night was altogether memorable, and 
 even the after-piece is worth recording, a farce written by Edmund 
 Yates, called If the Cap Fits, acted by Walter Lacy, Frank Mat- 
 thews, and Miss Julia Murray (now the wife of the distinguished 
 reciter, Mr. Samuel Brandram), and last, and then least, for she 
 was only a child, Miss Ellen Terry, who appeared as a dapper 
 little tiger. Charles Kean's great services to the stage were 
 publicly acknowledged at a banquet given in St. James's Hall, Mr. 
 Gladstone, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, who was at Eton 
 with Kean, being among the speakers. 
 
 I mention my going at about this time to the Strand Theatre to 
 see the burlesque on the Lady of Lyons, in which Charlotte Saunders 
 
64 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 and John Clarke were so popular in their personations of the two 
 Napoleons, because there was a little farce called Captain Char- 
 lotte played on the same night, in which I saw Marie Wilton for 
 the third time (and never again until we met upon the stage) ; I 
 have no better remembrance of that performance, I am ashamed 
 to say, than the ungallant one of thinking -her the thinnest girl I 
 had ever seen. 
 
 The splendid performance of that fine actor, Benjamin Webster, 
 in the Dead Heart., is vividly imprinted on my mind, as is also the 
 premiere of the Overland Route, at the Haymarket ; this comedy 
 I witnessed several times — how amusing it was, and how well 
 played by Charles Mathews and Buckstone, Compton and Chippen- 
 dale, Mrs. Charles Mathews and Mrs. Wilkins. In the autumn of 
 i860, on one of the early nights of its brilliant career at the 
 Adelphi, I remember my rapture at the Colleen Bawn; how well I 
 recall the acting of Mr. and Mrs. Dion Boucicault as Myles-na- 
 Coppaleen and Eily, of Miss Woolgar as Anne Chute, and Edmund 
 Falconer as Danny Mann. 
 
 Without dwelling longer on these recollections, I will mention a 
 very important night when I was among those who greeted that 
 most famous of romantic actors, Charles Fechter, when he played 
 Ruy Bias for the first time in English. This was followed soon by 
 a revival of the Corsican Brothers., which I also saw produced. 
 The first and second acts, I recollect, were then transposed, as they 
 had been previously played by Fechter in France ; the scenes in 
 Paris, where Louis meets Chateau Renaud and is killed, preceding 
 those at Fabian's home in Corsica, where he sees a vision of his 
 brothers death. 
 
 These two delightful evenings shall close this hurried record ; 
 with them those early never-to-be forgotten visits to the play — 
 those nights that were the balm for many sad and weary days — 
 came for ever to an end. The charm, the mystery, which had 
 hung for years around the playhouse, and chiefly made my dreams, 
 were soon to be dispelled. ' The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous 
 palaces,' were now to be revealed to me in all the barrenness of 
 painted canvas ; for, although in a very few days I was again in a 
 theatre, I this time entered it by the stage-door. 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A COUNTRY ACTOR. ' 
 
 First engagement — Birmingham — Mr. Mercer Simpson — A varied repertoire — 
 Madame Celeste — Walter Montgomery — A summer engagement — A trying 
 journey— Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean — G, V. Brooke — Lord Dundreary — 
 Robson— Devonport — Imitation of Sothern — An offer from Dublin — Charles 
 Mathews — A bad toothache — Compliment from Charles Kean — An anec- 
 dote — Kemble's pronunciation of Coriolanus — A lesson from Dion Bouci- 
 cault — More hard work — Meeting with Sothern — Engagement at Liverpool 
 — Alfred Wigan in Sliakespeare — 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. 
 
 Often as I went to the play, dearly as I loved the theatre, until I 
 was one I never knew an actor, and very rarely had even seen one 
 off the stage. 
 
 I got my own engagement. After addressing a shoal of letters 
 to the lessees of leading country theatres, to most of which I re- 
 ceived no answers, Mr. Mercer Simpson, of Birmingham, found 
 something in my appeal, I suppose, a little removed from the ruck 
 of such effusions, for he sent me an encouraging reply, and ex- 
 pressed a wish to see me. I was then a rather good-looking boy 
 of nineteen, but seemed older, with an odd mixture, I fancy, of 
 modesty and courage in my nature. I left my home with a very 
 heavy heart, and a very light purse, on the first of January, 1861. 
 It was a wretched cold day when I walked up New Street to the 
 Theatre Royal, and sent in my name to Mr. Mercer Simpson — 
 whose friendship I still retain. I remember well my awe at finding 
 myself, for the first time, ' behind the scenes,' and my impressions 
 of the dimly-lighted theatre as I stood close to the footlights and 
 talked my stage-struck project over, when, after kind advice, it was 
 arranged that I might regard myself as a member of the company, 
 with a commencing salary of one guinea a week. Upon this modest 
 weekly stipend of twenty-one shillings I feel some pride in saying" 
 that I lived ; for the expected return to town of ' Roscius,' ragged 
 and repentant, was what was, naturally enough, looked for by those 
 who knew my bent. 
 
 A few nights later I made my first appearance on any stage 
 under a big mask, as a courtier in the pantomime ; and then played 
 my first part, that of Lieutenant Manley, in Bayle Bernard's drama 
 of St. Marfs Eve. A copy of the first play-bill in which my name 
 appeared is the only Birmingham announcement I possess ; but I 
 have a list of all the parts I played while in the provinces, and of 
 the theatres in which I acted them. I greatly regret now that all 
 efforts I have made to keep a diary were unavailing. During the 
 
 5 
 
66 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 pantomime my work was not heavy. The opening plays were varied 
 two or three times a week ; a special 'blood-and-thunder ' repertoire, 
 comprising such works as the Bottle, the Lonely Man of the Ocean, 
 Susan Hopley, and Thirty Years of a Gambler's Life, being drawn 
 upon for Saturdays, in which I appeared as the perpetrator, or 
 victim, of a wide range of the vilest crimes. 
 
 The first ' star ' in the theatrical firmament round whom I humbly 
 twinkled was Madame Celeste. I remember she was then spoken 
 of as ' quite an old woman ;' but, as she died twenty-two years 
 later at the age of sixty-eight, I thought it a good instance of the 
 rubbish so often circulated with regard to the ages of public 
 characters. With this accomplished actress and charming woman 
 I played in the old Adelphi dramas — the Green Bushes and the 
 Flowers'.of the Forest. I next met poor Walter Montgomery, to 
 my thinking an unappreciated actor, and perhaps a little too am- 
 bitious for his time. He was gifted with a remarkable memory, 
 and was a reciter of marked excellence. He showed me many 
 kindnesses, and took much interest in me then and afterwards. I 
 often went to see him at the Hen and Chickens, in those days a 
 celebrated old inn, but very likely now swept away, or eclipsed, by 
 some company's palatial ' Limited ' Hotel. 
 
 From the time 1 first appeared until the season ended in July, I 
 played some thirty-six different parts ; in many. of them I must 
 have been very bad, but I distinctly recall some small successes. 
 The last 'star' that year was T. C. King, who was an excellent 
 actor, but rarely seen in London ; he took the Cork Theatre during 
 the Birmingham vacation, and asked me to join him there at an ad- 
 vanced salary. A similar offer had been made to another member 
 of the Birmingham company, who became my conipagnon de 
 voyage, and we started for our destination via Bristol, travelling 
 there in a third-class carriage, for neither of us had money to spare 
 OT a more luxurious conveyance. 
 
 When the steamer sailed for Cork, I sat upon one of the paddle- 
 boxes as we steamed down the river and under the suspension- 
 bridge that I had known as a boy when it crossed the Thames by 
 old Hungerford Market. With 'youth at the prow,' though hardly 
 ' pleasure at the helm,' I still thought it all very jolly ; but hardly 
 had St. Vincent's Rock faded from view than rain fell, and things 
 began to wear a less cheerful aspect. The vessel was laden with 
 cattle, and, as we had only secured ' deck tickets,' I sought shelter 
 in the fore-cabin ; but got no further than the companion-ladder, 
 where I was checked by clouds of bad tobacco-smoke and other 
 fumes, the forbidding-looking hole being full of boisterous soldiers ; 
 so I retreated to the wet deck. I soon was sea-sick ; wrapped in 
 a travelling shawl, I crouched with my companion, very desolate 
 and sorry for myself, in the most protected corner we could find. 
 I don't know how long I remained in this miserable condition, but 
 I was roused from it by a friendly voice saying, ' I say, youngster, 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 67 
 
 you don't seem used to this sort of thing. I'm the ship's carpenter, 
 but have some duty to-night ; you'd better turn in to my bunk.' 
 Had the good fellow offered me the ship's value it would not have 
 been more welcome, and, in a few minutes, I was peacefully asleep 
 in the humble berth of my good Samaritan. 
 
 During my short engagement of thirty-six nights at Cork I played 
 forty fresh characters ; so had little time for anything but work, 
 long hours of the night being often devoted to copying out my part 
 from a well-thumbed book which had to be passed on to another 
 member of the little company, while the days were spent in study 
 and rehearsal ; for the performance was changed, or partly so, 
 nearly every evening. It was reward enough, however, to know 
 that the varied nature of the parts entrusted to me, and the inces- 
 sant practice, did me great good ; for I felt already that I might 
 some day be a fair actor, and so went back to Birmingham full of 
 hope and high spirits. 
 
 It was at this time I first had the pleasure to meet Mr. Kendal, 
 who was then a very fair and handsome young fellow of about nine- 
 teen. I dare say he will remember, as well as I do, a certain ' tea- 
 fight ' at my lodgings, when my guests far exceeded the number of 
 my chairs. My landlady was a remarkable person in a way, and 
 suffered from a kind of chronic influenza which pervaded the poor 
 woman's existence ; for she had an extraordinary habit, when the 
 attacks were at their worst, of entering articles of food in my little 
 weekly bills, and the more extravagant accounts of other lodgers, 
 in this fashion, possibly by way of provoking sympathy — 'Broiled 
 kidleys,' ' Mike pies,' ' Muttle chops,' ' Plack curralt jab,' ' Duck 
 and greed Beas,' ' Sprig Chickel,' ' Maccarools.' 
 
 At the beginning of this season a ballet was produced, called the 
 Brigands of the Abruzzi, in which I begged to be allowed to appear, 
 thinking it would be good practice ; to my amazement I was given 
 the part taken at Covent Garden by the celebrated pantomimist 
 W. H. Payne. I have not the smallest doubt I made a frightful 
 hash of it, but I am equally certain it was as fine a month's training 
 as I ever had, in more ways than one. 
 
 I then met Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean ; which led to distinct ad- 
 vancement in the company and an increase of salary. I also played 
 with two other then celebrated actors, Phelps and G. V. Brooke, 
 whom I met at Birmingham for the first time, although the latter 
 was but a wreck of former greatness. In Othello and in A New 
 Way to Pay Old Debts, as Sir Giles Overreach, Brooke's acting was 
 of the highest kind and quite remarkable. I distinctly remember 
 being much impressed by the fact that in this part he wore the 
 sword that once belonged to Edmund Kean. Before the season 
 ended, during which I played sixty-four new parts, I had arranged 
 to go for the summer weeks to Devonport ; and having a few spare 
 days, I spent them in London to see the Exhibition of that year, 
 1862, and so renewed my acquaintance with Dundreary, a per- 
 
68 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 formance which was then rapidly making Sothern's EngHsh reputa- 
 tion. I was also presented to the great-little Frederick Robson, 
 whose son had recently joined the Birmingham company, and to 
 whom I had been able to show some trifling kindness. When the 
 boy took me to see his father, I remember, while we were looking 
 at some framed theatrical engravings, Robson stopping before one 
 of them and saying, ' That man was one of the cleverest and most 
 natural comedians I ever saw.' It was the portrait of Pearce, the 
 Christy Minstrel and original singer of ' Hoop-de-dooden-do.' The 
 health of the great actor was already broken, for Robson died not 
 very long afterwards, when only little over forty years of age. No 
 words of mine could do justice to my remembrance of this actor 
 and genius, who is said to have resembled Edmund Kean in his 
 wondrous bursts of passion, while in his comic moments he recalled 
 memories of the great comedians of the past. Off the stage Rob- 
 son was one of the mildest and most unassuming of creatures in 
 the world. The very nervousness which made him so shy and re- 
 served in private life, perhaps, stood him in wonderful stead directly 
 he trod the stage : he then became at will the hero of domestic 
 drama, the mock tyrant of burlesque, or the most amusing carica- 
 ture in the world of farce. 
 
 Young Robson and I journeyed down to Devonshire together, and 
 during the pleasant six or seven weeks we passed there I acted all 
 sorts of parts in nearly every kind of play, and was entrusted for 
 the first time with a leading rS/e, Captain Murphy Maguire in the 
 Serious Family j among other important characters, I played 
 Captain Hawkesley in Still Waters Run Deep. 
 
 In the company was an amusing man, whose festive tempera- 
 ment made him, 1 fear, a little unreliable in the wonderful dramas, 
 often nautical, which were a feature on Saturday nights, although 
 very often, I dare say, his own words were as good as the author's. 
 Sometimes, however, he could remember none, and then, with 
 amazing effrontery, took refuge in a stock speech, which he de- 
 livered with great solemnity to whoever might be on the stage with 
 him at the time, no matter what the circumstances, the period, or 
 the costume of the play chanced to be. Whether prince or 
 peasant, virtuous or vicious, whether clad in sumptuous raiment or 
 shivering in rags, it was all the same to him, and at the end of his 
 harangue he stalked off the stage, leaving his unhappy comrade to 
 get out of the difficulty as best he could, and bear the bi-unt of the 
 position. These were the never-changing words, which I recall dis- 
 tinctly : ' Go to, thou weariest me. Take this well-filled purse, 
 furnish thyself with richer habiliments, and join me at my mansion 
 straight !' Exit. 
 
 The fame of Lord Dundreary was at this time at its height, 
 owing to Sothern's great success, increased, no doubt, by the crowds 
 who flocked to town to see the Exhibition. From my early remem- 
 brance of this ' creation ' in America, and haxing recently renewed 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 69 
 
 my appreciation of its humour, I was able to imitate Sothem so 
 closely in the character as to be thought quite remarkable. I was 
 showing off this trick one night in Plymouth, when my manager, 
 who was present, prevailed on me to give the imitation at the 
 theatre, which had been but poorly attended during part of the 
 summer season. I had the satisfaction, at least, of adding greatly 
 to the receipts, for the house was nightly crammed until it closed, 
 through my impertinence, of which the Plymouth Telegraph of 
 September 6th, 1 862, remarked : ' The principal attraction of the 
 week has been the appearance of Lord Dundreary, who made his 
 acquaintance with a Devonport audience under the most favourable 
 circumstances. The lessee could, indeed, hardly have done better 
 if he had engaged the original impersonator of his lordship, Mr. 
 Sothern, for, by general consent, Mr. Bancroft has contrived to re- 
 produce the character in facsimile ; and his Lord Dundreary is as 
 much like the original in dress, manner, action, and appearance as 
 it possibly could be, and has shown not only a wonderful amount 
 of imitative talent, but an appreciation of character without which 
 imitation would be mere mimicry, and which stamps him as an able 
 actor.' 
 
 While at Devonport, I received an offer from John Harris, of the 
 Dublin Theatre Royal, to join his company in a higher position to 
 that I was about to resume at Birmingham. This offer, Mercer 
 Simpson, always my friend, advised me to accept, even allowing me 
 .to fill up a brief interval between the two engagements in his theatre. 
 So I acted there in revivals of Macbeth and King John, for which 
 James Anderson, the tragedian, was engaged. Through watching 
 his acting one night at the wing in the former character, I went 
 straight upon the stage, dressed as Malcolm, for Macduffs great 
 scene, and almost ruined it through having forgotten to remove my 
 eye-glass. 
 
 The Dublin company was headed by dear old Granby, the stage- 
 manager, an admirable actor of the old school ; early in the season 
 we were made happy by a visit from Charles Mathews, who was 
 accompanied by his former comrades Mr. and Mrs. Frank 
 Matthews ; the trio played together in around of their favourite plays, 
 and the engagement was throughout delightful. 
 
 Acting for a month with this brilliant comedian could not fail to 
 have some influence for the good on the efforts of an ambitious 
 young actor, as I then was, and I felt deeply sorry when the 
 curtain finally fell upon his stay. The mere mention of Charles 
 Mathews's name fills the memory with a store of anecdotes about 
 him ; most of them, no doubt, have long since appeared. One 
 little one, however, I remember, which was told me at that time by 
 Granby, who had been a member of his company when Mathews 
 managed Covent Garden. I will venture to repeat it, having never 
 seen it in print. 
 
 At the height of his troubles, when things went very badly, the 
 
70 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 expenses of the vast theatre being ruinous, Mathews one morning 
 saw a ballet-girl in a dark corner of the stage crying bitterly, and 
 evidently in pain. The ever-gay comedian at once jauntily ap- 
 proached her (for nothing seemingly could dash his spirits), and 
 said cheerily, ' What's the matter, my dear ?' The girl sobbed in 
 reply, ' Oh, Mr. Mathews, I am in such pain ! I have got such a 
 dreadful toothache !' ' Toothache !' said he ; ' poor thing, I am so 
 sorry. I'll let you off rehearsal ; go and have the tooth out.' ' I 
 can't, Mr. Mathews.' ' Can't, why not ?' said he. ' I c-a-n't — aff-o-rd 
 it,' blubbered the girl. ' Can't afford it ! Nonsense !' answered 
 Mathews ; ' run round the corner to St. Martin's Lane, where you 
 will get rid of it for a shilling.' ' But I haven't g-o-t a shilling, Mr. 
 Mathews.' ' Not got a shilling ?' he replied at once ; ' neither have 
 I. But come into the green-room, and I will take your tooth out 
 myself !' 
 
 We then went from gay to grave, the Mathews month being 
 followed by four weeks with the Keans. 
 
 I hope my vanity will be pardoned for relating an incident I re- 
 member after acting with them in Much Ado about Nothing. On 
 the following evening I was seated in the green-room, when Charles 
 Kean entered dressed as Othello. He sat down, and after staring 
 at me some time in a way which rather frightened me, beckoned to 
 me to go near him. I advanced, fearing I had innocently distressed 
 him on the stage. To my great surprise he said, ' Sir, I was at the 
 wing last night waiting to go on, and heard you give Borachio's . 
 difficult speech in the last act. I can only say that if I were still 
 the lessee of a London theatre, it would be your own fault if you 
 were not a member of my company.' I stammered out some words 
 of thanks for this unexpected compliment, which was paid to me 
 before a full green-room ; fortunately I was ' called ' almost directly 
 for the stage, and so was able to beat a blushing retreat. 
 
 Kean, although at this time not quite fifty-two, had the appear- 
 ance and manner of a much older man, and he was watched and 
 guarded with what seemed unnecessary fuss by those around him. 
 At rehearsal the green baize was laid down on the stage, the gas 
 lighted, the stage enclosed — precautions which were taken for no 
 other person. His memory was growing treacherous, especially in 
 long soliloquies, as, for instance, the fall of Wolsey ; either Cathcart 
 or Everett would then be always at the wings to prompt him, while 
 Mrs. Kean, ever the most devoted woman in the world, would hover 
 round the scenes to stop the smallest noise. One night I witnessed 
 a^very comic incident, through her absolutely insisting on a member 
 of the company, who was crossing the back of the stage on tip-toe, 
 taking off his boots because they creaked., and continuing his journey 
 to the stage-door in his stockinged feet. 
 
 Mrs. Kean was a most amiable and charming lady, but evidently, 
 it seemed to me, now ill at ease in the parts she still played, such 
 as Portia or Beatrice, although her perfect elocution and sweet 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 71 
 
 voice almost made you forget she was no longer young ; while, in 
 spite of his failing health, there were moments of impetuous pas- 
 sion and wondrously effective rapid change of manner in Charles 
 Kean's acting always to be remembered — notably in his scene with 
 Tubal when he acted Shylock (said to be a reproduction of his 
 father's method) ; in the third act of Othello, the close of Richard the 
 Third, and throughout Louis the Eleventh. As a comedian he was 
 also admirable ; witness his acting as Benedick, as Mr. Oakley, or 
 as Mephistopheles. In venturing to give this opinion it may be 
 worth while to recall Garrick's advice to Jack Bannister, when he 
 said, ' You may humbug the town as a tragedian, but comedy is a 
 serious thing, my boy, so don't try that just yet.' 
 
 Many are the stories of Kean ; most of them doubtless have been 
 often told, but perhaps one or two have so far escaped record. He 
 was, as has previously been mentioned, easily upset, when acting, 
 by even a trifling noise. Years ago a habit prevailed in a seaport 
 town he visited, among the occupants of the gallery of the theatre, 
 of cracking nuts throughout the performance. This played havoc 
 with Kean when he acted there. On the following morning he 
 called those who travelled with him together, and, after loudly be- 
 wailing his sufferings and anathematizing the gallery boys, gave 
 instructions to his followers to go into the town and buy up every 
 nut within its walls, either in the shops or on the quays. This was 
 done. The result for the two following evenings was perfect 
 success, crowned by the chuckles of the tragedian ; but oh, the third 
 night ! 
 
 The fruiterers, perplexed by the sudden and unaccountable de- 
 mand for nuts, had sent to Covent Garden and other sources for a 
 plentiful supply to meet its hoped-for continuance ; the demand fell 
 off, there was a glut in the local market, the nuts so deluged the 
 town that they were sold more abundantly and cheaper than ever. 
 Crack ! — crack !— crack ! was the running fire throughout the suc- 
 ceeding performances, and the rest of Kean's engagement was 
 fulfilled in torment. 
 
 At this time my first offer to join a London company reached me ; 
 it came from Mr. Frank Matthews, who was about to undertake the 
 management of the St. James's Theatre. After carefully thinking 
 it over, I decided on having the advantage of more country practice, 
 and declined the flattering proposal ; had I accepted it, I should 
 have found my future wife a member of the company. Many good 
 parts fell to my lot, both in dramas and old comedies ; the latter 
 Granby greatly loved, his long acquaintance with them, and skill 
 in their stage-management, being of great value to a young actor 
 like myself. On a command night, given by the then Lord- 
 Lieutenant, Lord Carlisle, we played A Cure for the Heartache and 
 To Parents and Guardians. As the part of Monsieur Tourbillon, 
 the old French usher, fell, to my amazement, to my lot, I could not 
 complain of neglect in the way of variety. 
 
72 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 At about Easter there was an annual amateur performance, which 
 attracted great attention in Vice-Regal and garrison circles ; 
 through these I made the acquaintance, which has since ripened 
 into friendship, of Mr. Walter Creyke, then Lord Carlisle's pri- 
 vate secretary, and the Hon. Lewis Wingfield, both admirable 
 amateurs. 
 
 This engagement was followed by Italiari Opera, during which 
 the dramatic company was sent en masse to Cork, to support G. V. 
 Brooke, who acted sometimes during this engagement with much 
 of his old fire. No man made himself more beloved by the com- 
 panies he met. 1 and other youngsters at this time owed much to 
 his kindness and hospitality. 
 
 There was comparatively little study during our stay at Cork, 
 and we had many happy outings to Blarney Castle and the neigh- 
 bourhood. Brooke went back with us to Dublin, and there acted 
 for the first time the part of Coriolanus. He took enormous pains 
 in the production, and his own acting was superb ; but the play 
 failed to attract. The title reminds me of an anecdote of days gone 
 by, concerning its right pronunciation. Two theatre-goers were 
 arguing in one of the old coffee-houses whether the hero should be 
 called Coriolanus or Co-rz'-olanus. Each failed to convince the 
 other, when some one in the room informed them that he chanced 
 to know the tragedy would be acted at Covent Garden one evening 
 in the following week. The disputants laid a wager, and decided 
 to settle it by going to the theatre the night before, and accepting 
 as final the pronunciation adopted by the actor who would, as was 
 the custom in those days, 'give out' the performance for the follow- 
 ing evening. News of the bet somehow reached the ears of John 
 Kemble, and he himself came before the curtain and made the fol- 
 lowing speech : ' Ladies and gentlemen, to-morrow evening will be 
 acted by his Majesty's servants, Shakespeare's tragedy Co-r/-olanus, 
 in which your humble servant will have the honour to perform the 
 part of Coriolanus.' 
 
 At the close of the season (during which I had played sixty-four 
 new parts and repeated many old ones) I was cast for Captain 
 Thornton in Rob Roy, and when the information came to me I re- 
 member what I suffered, one great effect in the play being a broad- 
 sword combat between Thornton and the ' Dougal creature.' 
 Although 1 fenced fairly well, and through long and careful re- 
 hearsal, at first with eyeglasses, had never come to grief, a fierce 
 and much prolonged broads ,vord fight, with all sorts of strokes — 
 some being made while turning round and with a crowded gallery 
 on a Saturday night gloating over them all — was quite another 
 matter. However, I said nothing of my fears ; my brother actor 
 was patient with my need of frequent practice, and all went fortu- 
 nately and well. My dread, however, was so great that often later 
 I have lost effective parts like Richmond sooner than run the risk 
 of killing a tyrant king in earnest, through not seeing his majesty. 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 73 
 
 I then went for a month's special engagement to my old home in 
 Birmingham, Mercer Simpson having asked me to play the Counsel 
 for the Defence in Dion Boucicault's drama, The Trial of Effie 
 Deans. 
 
 I only reached Birmingham a day before the play's production, 
 so had but one rehearsal. The Counsel for the Defence, although 
 appearing only in the trial scene, was a very important part, being 
 played in London by the author himself. Of course I arrived quite 
 perfect in the words ; but when I was half-way through the scene, 
 Boucicault, who was on the stage, having travelled down from 
 London specially, and whom I then met for the first time, came 
 quietly to me and said, ' You are all wrong about this part, my dear 
 fellow ; let me rehearse the rest of the scene for you. I can see 
 your intelligence, and I fancy you will grasp my view of it directly.' 
 I thanked him for his kindness, and after rehearsal went away to 
 model my performance entirely upon his, for I saw at once how 
 right he was, and how wrong I had been. The result was a con- 
 siderable success on my part, the credit of which was chiefly due to 
 one half-hour with Boucicault. 
 
 From Birmingham I went straight to Devonport, having arranged 
 to again spend the summer weeks there. Among the company 
 were Mrs. Robertson and her daughter Madge, then a young girl 
 in her early teens, but already faintly foreshadowing the brilliant 
 career and position she has enjoyed as Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 How happy one was in those days — or how happy one now 
 thinks one was ! for the pleasures of life, I take it, are chiefly re- 
 trospective or anticipative, rarely actual. Anyway, I seem to re- 
 member that I had six weeks of very hard but pleasant work, 
 studying thirty new more or less leading parts, and recovering 
 many old ones ; leaping, perhaps on alternate nights, from John 
 Mildmay in Still Waters Run Deep, to Fernando Villabella in 
 Byron's burlesque of the Maid and the Magpie, or from Murphy 
 Maguire to Beppo in Fra Diavolo. I also repeated the Dundreary 
 imitation in a farce called Sam's Arrival, which had been acted at 
 the Strand Theatre by a favourite actor, William Belford. Before 
 reappearing in Dublin I paid a brief visit to London, when Walter 
 Montgomery had a season at the Princess's Theatre, for which he 
 made me an offer in the following way : 
 
 ' 9, Langham Street, Friday afternoon. 
 ' Dear Bancroft, — ' " I remember thee, and I remember thee 
 well worthy of my praise." Come and join me at the Princess's, if 
 only for a little time — open in Lorenzo (with such a pretty Jessica), 
 and Christian in Not a Bad Judge. I am here every morning up 
 to twelve. Come to-morrow and see me ; at least, I shall have the 
 pleasure of shaking you by the hand. Come to me. — Yours very 
 truly, Walter Montgomery.' 
 
74 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 Although I did not entertain the offer, I stayed in London to be 
 present at his performance of Shylock and Lavater. 
 
 The Dubhn season commenced with the production of Edmund 
 Falconer's drama Peep-d-Day, chiefly acted by an organized travel- 
 Hng company. An old friend, Miss Cleveland (Mrs. Arthur Stir- 
 ling), to whom I was indebted for much kindness in my early days 
 at Birmingham, played the heroine, and I was the Captam 
 . Howard ; my only remembrance of the part being the effort it cost 
 me to learn the incidental Irish jig, which 1 eventually succeeded 
 in accomplishing to the satisfaction of the ' Dublin boys.' A visit 
 from Madame Celeste followed, and I then played leading parts 
 with her and other celebrities. 
 
 Fortune was kind to me after this heavy strain of work, for it was 
 followed by the engagement of Sothern, who then visited Ireland 
 for the first time, and whose programme for a fortnight remained 
 unchanged. 
 
 It was at this time I had the pleasure of giving Sothern the bill 
 of his first appearance as Lord Dundreary, which I had treasured 
 since its performance in New York, and which had now naturally 
 grown to be very interesting to him. Sothern, who I suppose must 
 have been afflicted with the mania that his true vocation was that 
 of a serious actor, revived during this engagement a powerful but 
 gloomy play called Retribution, which was originally acted at the 
 Olympic by Alfred Wigan, George Vining, and the lovely Miss 
 Herbert. I, by this time, had grown to the position of a local 
 favourite, and achieved considerable success in the part of Oscar 
 de Beaupre, quite as fine a character to act, I think, as the Count 
 Priuli, which was played by Sothern. 
 
 One night when this drama was acted, Sothern's inability to 
 control his suffering under the least inattention to his performance 
 on the part of anyone among the audience met with a rebuff, which 
 I cannot refrain from relating, although it tells against the actor. 
 The play was dull, and going badly ; the scanty attendance did not 
 improve Sothern's temper, and he was greatly vexed by the chatter- 
 ing of two occupants of a large stage-box, who arrived late, and 
 seemed more amused by the remembrance of their dinner than by 
 his acting. 
 
 Towards the middle of the play one of the two men, who was a 
 tremendous dandy, perhaps unthinkingly, and from mere boredom, 
 quite turned his back upon the stage, and fixed his opera-glasses, 
 with as much of his attention as at the moment he gave to any- 
 thing, upon the audience. Sothern grew more and more angry. 
 Soon the man in the box palpably yawned, looked at his watch, got 
 up from his seat, reached down a large fur-lined overcoat, and in 
 full view of the audience put it on. Sothern groaned. The promi- 
 nent occupant of the box put away his glasses, loudly clicked the 
 case in doing so, put them in his pocket, and then, with a bang, 
 opened his opera-hat. Sothern could stand it no longer, and as his 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 75 
 
 innocent tormentor turned to leave the box he addressed him, ' Sir.' 
 The heavy swell paused and looked calmly at Sothern, who, with a 
 winning smile, said blandly, ' I beg your pardon, there is another 
 act.' He got this answer : ' Ya-as, that is why I am going! 
 
 Although the public did not care for Retribution, the play was 
 the means of Sothern interesting himself on my behalf, and being 
 always my good friend. Presuming that I wanted eventually to get 
 to London, he thought Dublin was too far off, across the ' streak of 
 silver sea,' and advised me to get to Alexander Henderson's theatre 
 in Liverpool, as the best stepping-stone. 
 
 More hard work, greatly to my advantage, followed, for G. V. 
 Brooke succeeded Sothern, and on this visit I had the privilege of 
 supporting him in all the second parts in the tragedies he played. 
 The memory of then being brought so closely in association with 
 poor Brooke is saddened by the thought that we never met again. 
 A few years later came the sad death he met so nobly when he went 
 down in the Bay of Biscay on board the London. 
 
 Gustavus Vaughan Brooke reminded me more than any actor 
 whom I ever saw of Salvini. The Irishman, like the Italian, was 
 gifted with a noble voice, and a natural dignity of bearing. His 
 death in Othello always seemed to me as poetic in conception as it 
 was pathetic in execution. Acting, although not speaking, the 
 closing words, ' Killing myself, to die upon a kiss,' he staggered 
 towards the bed, dying as he clutched the heavy curtains of it, 
 which, giving way, fell upon his prostrate body as a kind of pall, 
 disclosing, at the same time, the dead form of Desdemona. 
 
 My Dublin engagement was soon to come to an end, for I read 
 of an approaching change in Liverpool, and, remembering Sothern's 
 advice, I wrote at once to Mr. Henderson, who communicated with 
 Sothern on the matter, and then telegraphed an acceptance of my 
 proposal to join him at Easter-time. Until then I had a contimied 
 round of work, in plays which included an elaborate production of 
 the Ticket of Leave Man, the scenery being specially painted by 
 Hawes Craven, who was then the artist to the theatre, and whose 
 work the Lyceum stage has since made known to the playgoing 
 world. 
 
 I was given a part which was as great a surprise then, to me, as 
 it may be to some of my readers to be told now, that of Bob Brierly, 
 the Lancashire hero. Strange as it all seems now, I can truly say 
 that no performance added so much to my Dublin reputation. 
 
 Lord Carlisle selected this year the Heir at Law for his com- 
 mand night, and as Dick Dowlas, before an audience adorned with 
 all the show and glitter of uniforms and levee dress, the curtain fell 
 upon my career in John Harris's beautiful theatre. Whatever that 
 career may have been worth, however much or little I may yet know 
 of my art, to the two long seasons of hard work I passed there I 
 owe a large share of my success as an actor, and my stay in Dublin 
 has a foremost place in my happiest remembrances. 
 
76 MR. BANCROFT'S NARRATIVE 
 
 When I first went to Liverpool I severely felt the contrast 
 between the great Dublin theatre and the little house in Clayton 
 Square, which, however, proved a fine field for practice, and I soon 
 found myself at home', being heartily welcomed by Lionel Brough, 
 who a short time previously had become an actor. I made my first 
 appearance as the hero in Watts Phillips's play, Paul's Return, 
 which had been produced in London at the Princess's Theatre. 
 We were now on the eve of the Shakespearian Tercentenary, when 
 the poet's memory was honoured by performances of his plays in 
 nearly every English-speaking theatre. Alfred Wigan was speci- 
 ally engaged by Henderson to appear as Shylock and Hamlet. 
 These performances, I feel bound to say, added nothing to the 
 reputation of the accomplished comedian, which is best proved, 
 perhaps, by their never having been repeated ; my own share in 
 the production was a revival of Irish memories in the characters of 
 Gratiano and Laertes. 
 
 I made many friends at Liverpool, and passed a happy time 
 there. Among other frolics, which surviving companions will re- 
 member as well as myself, I recall frequent midnight drives, after 
 acting in Liverpool, in a dog-cart from Birkenhead to Chester, a 
 distance, if I remember rightly, of hard on twenty miles. How we 
 risked our young necks, and what a life we led the toll-keepers and 
 the slumbering villagers ! Well may one sigh and say with 
 Robertson, ' O youth, youth ! priceless, inestimable treasure !' 
 
 The Pyne and Harrison Company being engaged to give a series 
 of English Opera in Liverpool, Henderson arranged to go over to 
 Dublin with the whole of his troupe for a month's starring engage- 
 ment, and so 1 unexpectedly renewed for a brief time my acquaint- 
 ance with many old friends. The remembrance of my services was 
 shown by the warmth of the reception I received from the audience 
 directly I stepped upon the stage, which was so prolonged as to 
 bring the actors to the wings to see who could be the object of such 
 an ovation. I look back with keen pleasure to that month, when, few 
 rehearsals only being necessary, I saw for the first time the beauties 
 of the county Wicklow ; for during my long stay in Dublin I had 
 been far too busy to even think of getting further away from its 
 streets than Sandymount. Just as a dweller in Westminster, living 
 almost in the shadow of its towers, rarely enters the Abbey, until, 
 perhaps, some country cousin comes to town to be shown the 
 sights, I, during nearly two years' residence, saw scarcely anything, 
 while in a month — being, so to speak, a visitor — I went everywhere. 
 
 At the close of our stay I remember the Serious Family was 
 played for a benefit, when I had the impertinence to act Murphy 
 Maguire (always a favourite part of mine), with an attempt at a 
 brogue, before an Irish audience. We soon were back again in 
 Liverpool, and during" the summer the celebrated burlesque com- 
 pany from the Strand Theatre delighted Liverpool by acting for a 
 short time there ; it was then that Marie Wilton and I first met. 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 77 
 
 It was here also that I commenced a friendship with one who, I 
 think, can claim me now as his oldest professional comrade, John 
 Hare. He was then a young fellow of twenty, and had come to 
 Liverpool accompanied by that once brilliant actor, Leigh Murray, 
 whose pupil he had been, to make his first appearance on the stage. 
 The friendship between Hare and myself soon became close, and 
 there are few remembrances keener in my mind than frequent visits 
 to his rooms, where Leigh Murray stayed with him for a time, and 
 who, although suffering severely from asthma and terribly crippled 
 by rheumatism, was one of the most delightful companions I have 
 known. His fund of anecdote and the graphic relation of his own 
 experiences were almost les.sons in acting, not likely to be forgotten 
 by an enthusiast. Some three or four of us, whose names are now 
 well known to theatre-goers, were listening to his pleasant talk one 
 night, when I remember well his saying, ' And what may not you 
 boys yet do upon the stage ! You remind me of my own early 
 days, now more than twenty years ago, when four young fellows, 
 who were acting at Murray's old theatre in Edinburgh, used to 
 chat over their future prospects, as you have been doing now. 
 They were all youngsters then, much of an age and quite unknown ; 
 their names being Barry Sullivan, Lester Wallack, Leigh Murray, 
 and Sims Reeves.' When Murray returned to London he and I 
 kept up a regular correspondence. From a bundle of his interest- 
 ng letters I select the following answer to a request that he would 
 add his signature to an old photograph which I forwarded for the 
 purpose : 
 
 ' 29, New Bridge Street, Blackfriars, Dec. 22, 1864. 
 
 ' Dear Bancroft, — I have been, and am still, very ill indeed, 
 and confined to my bed ; but I hastily scratch a few lines to thank 
 you very much for the budget of news, which, I assure you, alle- 
 viated the horrors of a particularly bad day. I cannot now attempt 
 to reply beyond briefly reciprocating the good wishes usual at this 
 " festive season." I hope I may have a " happy new year," but a 
 " merry Christmas " I cannot expect, for I fear I shall pass ike day, 
 as I have for the last four years, in bed ! I sincerely hope you will 
 enjoy yourself, as all good fellows should. 
 
 ' I returrt the photograph of the faded comedian with the 
 rheumatic autograph attached. I have passed the blotting-paper 
 over the signature that the caligraphy may be as faint as the 
 " counterfeit presentment " itself ; too prophetic a significance of 
 the fame and memory of him who now subscribes himself — Very 
 faithfully yours, Leigh Murray.' 
 
 We gave a strange performance next of a play which had 
 attracted some attention at the Princess's Theatre — Shakespeare's 
 Comedy of Errors, with the Brothers Webb as the two Dromios. 
 I played Antipholus of Syracuse, and Hare presented a very quaint 
 figure as Dr. Pinch, a schoolmaster. The Webbs also acted in the 
 
78 MR. BANCROFTS NARRATIVE 
 
 Courier oj Lyons — Henry appearing as Dubosc, the villain, and 
 Charles as Lesurques, who is innocently accused of the other's 
 crime. I made some success in the part of Courriol, and Hare 
 gave the first sign of his power in the art of making up in a small 
 part of a very old man. 
 
 The notorious Davenport Brothers, fresh from their so-called 
 spiritual manifestations in London, were at this period starting on a 
 provincial taur, accompanied by a fellow-conjurer, called Fay, and 
 ' Dr.' Ferguson, who acted in the capacity of lecturer. Henderson 
 arranged to give a private stance in his rooms, and I was one of the 
 invited. The ' manifestations ' were certainly of the most bewilder- 
 ing kind, and the oily humbug of old Ferguson very calculated to 
 deceive. The troupe appeared in public at St. George's Hall, 
 where their mysterious cabinet, their ropes, their unseen music and 
 vanishing hands, created great discussion ; the trick of it all has 
 long since been exposed and laid bare, among others, notably by 
 Henry Irving, soon afterwards, at Manchester. But for their infer- 
 ence that they were indebted for their ends to spiritual means, all 
 would have gone well ; this the Lancashire boys would not stand, 
 and set themselves to work to arrange such knots as no spirits 
 could succeed in tying or untying. The end was rebellion and riot 
 — the mysterious cabinet was smashed to fragments by some among 
 the infuriated audience, who jumped upon the platform, while others 
 pursued the wretched Davenports and their confederates, who with 
 great difficulty escaped with their lives ; they arrived torn and 
 panting, all armed with revolvers, at the stage-door of the theatre 
 while we were acting, seeking a refuge, which Henderson gave 
 them, letting them out later by a private way to reach their lodgings 
 and to catch the first departing train. 
 
 The occasion was taken advantage of by Henderson to produce 
 an apropos sketch called the Knotting' eyn Brothers, Hare being 
 marvellously made up to resemble one of the conjurers, while 
 Blakeley was immensely amusing as a bewildered old gentleman. 
 
 Then came what was always pleasant to me, another meeting 
 with Sothern, who appeared first in David Garrick. Blakeley, I 
 recollect, played old Ingot ; Lionel Brough, Squire Chevy ; and 
 Hare, the stuttering Mr. Jones. Sothern also acted, for the first 
 time I think. Sir Charles Coldstream in Used Up, when Lydia 
 Thompson, if my memory does not betray me, was the Mary, and 
 I was cast for Ironbrace, the blacksmith. I also supported him in a 
 new farce called My own Victim, which was a stupid affair, although 
 written by Maddison Morton, and never afterwards revived. I 
 faintly remember Sothern, with a padded wig which gave him a 
 ' water-on-the-brain ' appearance, offering everybody in the piece 
 shrimps from a bag, and Hare darting in and out of doors as a little 
 comic waiter. 
 
 A new comedy called the Woman in Mauve, and written by 
 Watts Phillips, was got to work upon for a tentative performance. 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 79 
 
 It began well enough, and had amusing bits in it, but was not a 
 good play. (The Liverpool verdict was very much endorsed in 
 London, when Sothern tried it at the Haymarket.) Hare acted the 
 ex-policeman afterwards taken by Compton. I recall an amusing 
 incident. The leading characters in the second act were joining 
 in the chorus to a song sung by Sothern, Hare beating time with a 
 telescope, which he used throughout the play as a kind of memory 
 of his former truncheon. One night the audience roared with 
 laughter, louder and louder at each successive verse ; the actors 
 doubled their exertions. Hare especially, who attributed part of 
 their enjoyment to the vigorous use of his impromptu ddion — when 
 Sothern, who was next to him, suddenly discovered that various 
 articles of costume used by Hare as padding were, one by one, 
 emerging from beneath his coat, and forming an eccentric-looking 
 little heap upon the stage. The audience roared louder than ever, 
 Hare beating time with renewed fierceness, when Sothern whis- 
 pered, ' Never mind, old fellow ; don't take any notice ; don't look 
 down !' Of course Hare did look down at once ; he saw what had 
 happened, and bolted in confusion, leaving us to finish the scene as 
 best we could without him. 
 
 I now come to a visit which was destined to greatly influence my 
 future life, and renewed my acquaintance with Marie Wilton, who 
 arrived to play a short starring engagement prior to becoming the 
 manager of a London theatre, with Mr. Byron as her partner ; 
 rumours to this effect having recently been theatrical gossip. Miss 
 Wilton appeared in some of the famous Strand Theatre burlesques, 
 also in Planchd's charming comedy Court Favours in this piece 
 she and I acted together for the first time, she as Lucy Morton, I 
 as the Duke of Albemarle. My performance of this and of other 
 parts (which Miss Wilton had seen as a spectator) led to the offer 
 of an engagement from herself and Mr. Byron in their new enter- 
 prise, which I accepted. Having resisted several temptations to 
 appear in London, including a proposal to join Fechter at the 
 Lyceum, it may be thought unwise that I should have settled to go 
 to a little obscure theatre, which was to be opened in a speculative 
 way, with burlesque, at least until success in comedy should justify 
 its abandonment, as the staple attraction ; with no better immediate 
 prospect than a second-rate part in a comedietta, which must begin 
 at half-past seven. All this, I own, may seem strange ; but the 
 most prosaic of my readers will perhaps forgive some apparent 
 want of sense, if I acknowledge a secret that I then did not dare 
 confess even to myself. I was already a victim to an emotion which 
 will be sung of by poets for ever, but which, after all, is told in four 
 very simple English words — love at first sight. 
 
 The last stars with whom I acted as a member of Henderson's 
 company were the Wigans, who added to their repertoire Lord 
 Lytton's comedy Money, Captain Dudley Smooth being my farewell 
 part as a country actor. Part of the cast, I think, deserves record- 
 
8o MR. BANCROFTS NARRATIVE 
 
 ing. Alfred Evelyn was acted, for the first time by Alfred Wigan ; 
 Sir John Vesey was played by Blakeley ; Captain Dudley Smooth, 
 as I have said, by myself ; Edward Saker was the Graves ; Lionel 
 Brough the Stout ; and the irascible old member of the club, whose 
 time is passed in calling for the snuff-box, was given to Hare ; Lady 
 Franklin being played by Mrs. Alfred Wigan. For my share in 
 this performance, as for many other early efforts in Liverpool, I was 
 warmly praised and greatly encouraged in the local press by Mr. 
 E. R. Russell, since M.P. for Glasgow. 
 
 My engagement then ended, and on the following day I went to 
 London. 
 
 During this apprenticeship of four years and as many months I 
 had attempted, no one knows better than myself how often inade- 
 quately, three hundred and forty-six parts. Of course I repeated 
 many of those in standard plays, and some of them often, not only 
 in different theatres, but with different actors (alone of the greatest 
 service) ; an average, in fact, of between eighty and ninety parts 
 each year, not counting short vacations — practice which no young 
 actor in this or any other country can now obtain. The stock pro- 
 vincial companies, both here and abroad, are all dispersed, and the 
 country theatres occupied by a perpetual succession of travelling 
 troupes ; in which, it seems to me, the art of acting means but a 
 parrot copy of the original in town. No question, therefore, is 
 more difficult to answer than the one so often put — ' How am I to 
 become an actor ?' But it is no more my wish or purpose to 
 attempt an essay on the subject than it is to compare the advan- 
 tages of the old days with what may be said in favour of the new. 
 I have never yet made up my mind whether, fond as I was of my 
 work, I had any particular what may be called ' vocation ' for the 
 stage, and certainly have never been so absurd as to imagine my- 
 self a heaven-born genius. I don't know how much of such success 
 as an actor as I can lay claim to is due to qualities which would not 
 have been thrown away in other callings ; but perhaps I may be 
 forgiven if I choose myself to illustrate, as best I have the power, 
 the result of the kind of work which I did in my youth. No actor, 
 perhaps, has suffered in one way more than I have through having 
 made some early success in a certain marked line of character, 
 which, but for great efforts on my own part, I might have sub- 
 mitted to the doom of playing always. Long runs of successful 
 plays, lasting for several years, made it very hard for both audi- 
 ences and critics (especially as many people fostered the fable I 
 never could account for, that my early manhood was passed in the 
 mess-rooms of cavalry barracks instead of the drudgery of country 
 theatres) to accept my humble efforts in parts other than those 
 typical of military swelldom ; which gave me double work to secure 
 what praise I have earned in subsequent performances. 
 
 Years ago, when first I played, for instance, Joseph Surface and 
 Triplet, or, later on. Count Orloff in Diplomacy^ such power as I 
 
A COUNTRY ACTOR 8i 
 
 may have possessed to act those parts (my argument not being a 
 cjuestion of physical adaptability) was at least quite as great, and, 
 in proportion to the difficulty, much greater than the skill I may 
 have shown in originating, as it were, a new type of swell, which 
 has grown to the dignity of being described as a ' Bancroft part.' 
 It may seem strange for me to speak thus of myself, and again I 
 beg to be excused for doing so ; but my early training permitted 
 me to fill gaps, at least in a workmanlike way, in the casts of many 
 and various plays, for which I never should have been suggested 
 but by those who knew of and remembered it. I would cite, for 
 instance, Joseph Surface, Tom Stylus, the Prince of Morocco (which, 
 although a small part, dominates the scene for a sufficient time). 
 Triplet, Sir George Ormond, Faulkland, and Count Orloff, characters 
 all differing very widely from the modern swelldom of either Cap- 
 tain Hawtree or Jack Poyntz, and which may some day in the 
 future encourage me to the study of still a different mould. 
 
 With these brief references to parts of which I hope further on 
 to speak again, I leave my records of those early days, and pre- 
 sently shall come to matters more serious to my fate and future 
 which followed when I found myself a London actor. 
 
OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1 865-66. 
 
 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 from Lady Harrington — A 
 Winning Hazard — A strange Incident — La/ Sonnarnbula ! — Vandyke 
 Brown— A Fair Pretender — Byron's Comedy : War to the Knip — An 
 eccentric hall-lieeper — A Provincial Tour — The Second Season : Naval 
 Engagements — Hare's first appearance — A new burlesque, Lucia di 
 Lammer^noor ; and A Lover by Proxy — Tom Robertson and his comedy 
 Society — Little Don Giovanni — A Hundred Thousand Pounds — ^A Vaca- 
 tion at Liverpool and iVIanchester — Sunshine and sorrow. 
 
 I NOW come to the point where I have to tell how it came about 
 KEsuMED that I was ever the manager of a London theatre. 
 BY MKS. While greatly exercised in my mind with regard to the 
 BANCROFT, future, and very anxious to better my prospects, I one 
 morning called, in a casual way, on my sister, Mrs. Francis Drake, 
 and talked over my position, as I had often done before, for she 
 and her husband knew well my anxiety to act comedy. What to 
 do for the best, or how to do it, I could not imagine. My brother- 
 in-law advised me to write to the leading managers, who then, it 
 must be remembered, were few in number, and theatres where my 
 services might be useful could be almost counted on the fingers of 
 one hand, for an engagement to play comedy. I told him that I 
 had done so several times, only to meet with refusals. Mr. Buck- 
 stone replied that if I would continue burlesque he would give me 
 an engagement at once, as he could only associate me with ' the 
 merry sauciness of that wicked little boy Cupid.' I was in despair, 
 and did not know what to do. Mr. Drake, then, after a pause, 
 said, ' I see no chance for you but management. How would it be 
 if you had a theatre of your own ?' A .dead silence ensued. I 
 looked at my sister, and she looked at me. My heart seemed to 
 stop beating, and, like a lull after a storm, everything for the 
 moment appeared to stand still. The mere thought of such a thinf 
 was bewildering. I could not realize the position, and thought I 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 83 
 
 must be dreaming. My sister, who was always sanguine about 
 anything I undertook, said, 'Yes, that is what you must do.' I 
 thought they were mad, and, after looking hard at them both to 
 assure myself that they were not dangerous, I murmured, ' But the 
 money ! I can't take a theatre without money, and you know I 
 haven't a penny in the world.' Mr. Drake answered, ' Come again 
 to-morrow morning ; in the meantime Emma and I will talk the 
 matter over, and see what can be done.' What could they mean ? 
 All that night 1 dreamt of nothing but crowded houses, and money 
 rolling in so fast that I couldn't hold it. The next day I kept my 
 appointment to the moment, wondering what would be proposed. 
 Mr. Drake said, ' I will lend you a thousand pounds if you can find 
 a theatre to let for a time ; should you succeed, you will return the 
 money ; if you fail, I will lose it. Should it prove a big success, you 
 can pay a liberal interest, which I will give as a present to your 
 mother.' My sister added laughingly, ' Come, Marie, don't be 
 nervous ; you are sure to succeed. Remember the old witch, who 
 said that everything you undertake you are bound to prosper in. 
 You are very lucky for others, why not try for yourself?' 
 
 Apropos of this remark, perhaps a little story which prompted it 
 may be interesting. I give it for what it is worth. Years ago, one 
 evening when my mother and I were chatting over the past, 
 present, and future, she related to me an incident in which, although 
 it occurred when I was only a few weeks old, I played the principal 
 part. One night in a little out-of-the-way Yorkshire village, my 
 mother was aroused by my crying and moaning ; her efforts to 
 soothe me were unavailing, and in the morning she found that my 
 little body was completely covered with finger-and-thumb marks, 
 as if I had been pinched. A doctor was sent for, but his prescrip- 
 tions were useless. The next day an old peasant woman coming up 
 the garden to sell her wares was attracted by my mother's sad face 
 as she hushed me in her arms. ' What's t' matter wi' t' bairn ?' she 
 asked. My mother, who was little more than a girl herself, 
 answered, ' My baby, I fear, is going to die ;' upon which the old 
 woman replied, ' Nay, nay, p'r^aps not ; let's ha' a look at t' bairn.' 
 When she saw the strange marks, she exclaimed, ' Don't ee cry no 
 more, ma lass ; gi' thanks, for t' bairn's bewitched !' ' What !' 
 screamed my mother, nearly dropping me. ' T' bairn's bewitched, 
 I tell thee ; at sunset those marks will disappear, and 'twill be the 
 luckiest bairn you ever know'd of : she'll tell o' things afore they 
 come to pass, and bring good to them she wishes to, and woe to 
 them as wrongs her.' The old woman seemed quite tragic for the. 
 moment, and begged for a scrap of my hair, saying, ' Put it into t' 
 bairn's hand that sAe may gi' it to me hersen.' 
 
 The woman went away rejoicing, stopping to look back once or 
 twice as she passed up the road. The marks disappeared as she 
 had prophesied, for I need scarcely say my mother, being young 
 and credulous, watched the clock and the departing sun. The 
 
 6 — 2 
 
S4 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 report spread quickly, for the next morning, and frequently until we 
 went away, the village tradesfolk would call to kiss me, which they 
 said would bring them a good day ; and as they left the house 
 would look with envy at my mother, and exclaim, 'Wonderful, 
 missus !' (which expression has been for years a sort of joke in my 
 family, and to this day when anything surprising occurs, it is met 
 with the exclamation, ' Wonderful, missus !'). I can Nvell remernber 
 when but a child being often asked to post letters which contained 
 requests — the sender declaring they would then be surely granted. 
 I have had little gifts simply to speak to tradespeople in their 
 shops, and even now many with whom I deal avow that whenever 
 I have called they have had 'a busy day.' My poor mother grew 
 superstitious, she told me, from the moment the old woman's 
 prophecy came true. 
 
 But to resume. Of course a thousand pounds at that time went 
 further than that sum would now, and it seemed to me such a big 
 fortune that all the theatres in London might be taken with it. 
 Among other friends, I told my news to Mr. Byron, who I knew 
 was about to sever his connection with the Strand Theatre. He 
 thought it would be a very dangerous experiment, but I urged that 
 if I failed, I should at least have the opportunity of showing the 
 managers what I could do, and might afterwards have less difficulty 
 in getting an engagement. 
 
 Being now quite resolved upon my speculation, I proposed a 
 partnership, if a theatre could be found, Mr. Byron to give me his 
 exclusive services as an author. As he was not in a position to 
 provide money, he stipulated to be indemnified from sharing any 
 losses that might occur. I felt that some such arrangement would 
 greatly strengthen my position, knowing Mr. Byron's popularity, 
 and his expressed willingness to write comedies. Then arose the 
 difficulty where to find a suitable theatre ? I talked over my pro- 
 ject with Mr. A. C. Troughton, who had been so pleased with my 
 performance in his comedietta. Unlimited Confidence, and from him 
 I learnt that the Queen's Theatre, in Tottenham Street, was in the 
 market. We made inquiries, and were told that it was not to let, 
 but that an arrangement might be made with Mr. James, the 
 lessee. 
 
 This theatre had gone through strange and varied fortunes, and 
 had been known by many names since its title 'The King's Concert 
 Rooms,' when first built by Signor Pasquale, the father of the once 
 celebrated singer. Among its former lessees was Mr. Brunton, the 
 father of the celebrated Mrs. Yates, the mother of Edmund Yates. 
 The beautiful Mrs. Nisbett also once held the reins, while Madame 
 Vestris and Madame Celeste were frequent stars there ; it having, 
 besides, been the first English home of the French plays, and there 
 the great Frederic Lemaitre first acted in this country. But, in 
 spite of such attractions, it then knew little else than evil days, and 
 for many years had become again quite a minor theatre. 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 85 
 
 I was implored by everyone I consulted to reflect before entering 
 upon such an enterprise. 'The neighbourhood was awful,' 'The 
 distance too great from the fashionable world,' and ' Nothing would 
 ever make it a high-class theatre.' People shrugged their shoulders, 
 and I could see that failure was foretold in every feature. So I 
 stood alone, without one word of encouragement. Mr. Byron grew 
 less sanguine, and entreated me, before proceeding further, to go 
 with him and talk the matter over with an old and valued friend of 
 his (and since of mine), Mr. J. M. Levy, whose sound practical 
 judgment and kindly feeling we might rely on. I told my story, 
 Mr. Levy seemed pleased with my courage, and was altogether 
 favourably inclined towards the undertaking. He thought, at the 
 same time, it would be wise for me to appear in burlesque, for at 
 least the start, and not to risk losing that following of the public 
 which had been accustomed to see me in that class of play. He 
 suggested that Mr. Byron might then write a comedy, and give me 
 the opportunity 1 sought, and, if successful, I could gradually 
 abandon burlesque altogether. 
 
 I went home determined to follow this good advice, and invented 
 for my managerial motto, ' Du courage, et de la bonne humeur! An 
 arrangement was entered into with Mr. James for a period of two 
 years, to commence at Easter, by the terms of which he was to re- 
 ceive twenty pounds a week for rental, and his services as acting- 
 manager combined ; while Mr. Byron and myself were each to 
 draw a weekly salary of ten pounds, and I was to receive an ad- 
 ditional ten pounds a week towards the repayment of the sum to be 
 advanced. After these deductions we were jointly to share all 
 profits. Mr. Drake introduced me to the London and Westminster 
 Bank, St. James's Square, on January 21st, 1865, when an account 
 was opened in my name, with the sum he had agreed to advance. 
 The formal receipt for the thousand pounds (which was returned to 
 me when I had repaid the money) bears the same date. 
 
 The text of the document I signed indemnifying Mr. Byron from 
 all pecuniary risk (which will be further alluded to when our story 
 reaches the dissolution of partnership between Mr. Byron and 
 myself), was as follows : ' In consideration of one thousand pounds 
 advanced by me for preliminary and after expenses attending the 
 decorating, advertising, payment of salaries, etc., of the Prince of 
 Wales's Theatre, I am to receive ten pounds a week for two years, 
 in addition to a salary which will be equal to yours. By this ar- 
 rangement the thousand pounds will be paid me back by the end 
 of the second year ; this sum of ten pounds to come out of the 
 profits of the theatre ; should the weekly receipts fall below the 
 expenses, the ten pounds to be paid out of the previous profits, so 
 long as there are any to draw upon. At the end of our tenancy, 
 should the thousand pounds be lost, or any portion thereof, I am 
 not to have any claim on you for said sum, as the venturing of the 
 money is voluntary on my part. Your salary is to be the same as 
 
86 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 mine in consideration of your joint management, stage managerial 
 duties, and writing of pieces. All publishing and acting rights of 
 our pieces being jointly my property with you, during our manage- 
 ment. All money taken at the theatre is to be banked in our joint 
 names, and to be our joint property.' We then began our opera- 
 tions, and the days were taken up in preparing for our venture. 
 One night, while the old Queen's was still in existence, IVIr. and Mrs. 
 Byron and myself occupied a private box, and saw the performance. 
 It was a well-conducted, clean little house, but oh, the audience ! 
 My heart sank ! Some of the occupants of the stalls (the price of 
 admission was, I think, a shilling) were engaged between the acts 
 in devouring oranges (their faces being buried in them), and 
 drinking ginger-beer. Babies were being rocked to sleep, or 
 smacked to be quiet, which proceeding, in many cases, had an oppo- 
 site effect ! A woman looked up to our box, and seeing us staring 
 aghast, with, I suppose, an expression of horror upon my face, first 
 of all ' took a sight ' at us, and then shouted, ' Now, then, you three 
 stuck-up ones, come out o' that, or I'll send this 'ere orange at your 
 'eds.' Mr. Byron went to the back of the box and laughed until 
 we thought he would be ill. He said my face was a study. ' Oh, 
 Byron !' I exclaimed, ' do you think that people from the West End 
 will ever come into those seats ? ' No,' he replied, ' not those seats.' 
 Of course he made jokes the whole evening. One woman in the 
 stalls called out to another, ' I say, Mrs. Grove, ' ere's one for you,' 
 at the same moment throwing a big orange, upon which Mr. Byron 
 remarked, ' Nice woman, Mrs. Grove. Orange Grove P I think, 
 if 1 could, I would have at that moment retired from my bargain, 
 but the deed was done, and there was no going back from it. 
 
 We had possession of the theatre for a month, during which 
 brief time it had to be taken very much to pieces, cleaned, painted, 
 re-seated, re-decorated, furnished, and it was not pleasant to see 
 the money gradually getting less and less, for the bills were paid 
 every week. Mr. James was very kind, and helped me to go ^out 
 everything as cheaply as possible ; and when he came every 
 Saturday with bills to be paid, or sums advanced to the builder 
 and decorator, the upholsterer, or the gas-fitter, he would say, in 
 his peculiar falsetto voice, ' The poor thousand pounds is becoming 
 smaller by degrees, and beautifully less.' By the time the theatre 
 opened I had about £^^o left. 
 
 We had an excellent working company — all of whom, of course, 
 in those days had very modest salaries — the most prominent being 
 my old friend Mr. John Clarke, Mr. Dewar (who was the stage- 
 manager), Mr. Montgomery, and Mr. Bancroft (who then had never 
 acted in London, and who from these early days gave me the ad- 
 vantage of his help and counsel). Miss Fanny Josephs, Miss 
 Goodall, Miss Lavine, two of my sisters, and myself. 
 
 Agreeing with my wish to re-christen the theatre, which in its 
 long career had borne so many titles, Mr. Byron applied for per- 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 87 
 
 mission to call it by the name which I myself had chosen. His 
 Royal Highness graciously consented in the terms of the following 
 letter : 
 
 ' Lord Chamberlain's Office, St. James's Palace, Fell. 3, 1865. 
 
 ' Sir, — I am desired by the Lord Chamberlain to acknowledge 
 the receipt of your letter of the 26th ult., requesting jointly with 
 Miss Marie Wilton, as lessees of the Queen's Theatre, in Tottenham 
 Street, that the name of that building may in future be the Prince 
 of Wales's Theatre; and I am to inform you, in reply, that his 
 lordship accedes with pleasure to your request, his Royal Highness 
 the Prince of Wales having signified his consent to the proposed 
 change. — I am, sir, your obedient servant, Spencer Ponsonby. 
 
 ' Henry J. Byron, Esq.' 
 
 When the speculation was really resolved upon, among the first 
 friends I told of it was one who for years had been so kind to me, 
 and who had shown such interest in my welfare — Lady Harrington. 
 As one, at least, of many letters to me should have a place in this 
 book, I will choose her reference to my important undertaking : 
 
 ' Richmond Terrace, Whitehall, Feb. iS, 1865. 
 
 ' My dear Effie, — I was told of a little paragraph in the news- 
 papers about your having taken a theatre, but not having heard of 
 it from you, I did not believe the report. I need scarcely assure 
 you of my sincere good wishes for your success, and I am delighted 
 to hear that you are to have the kind and friendly support of your 
 sister's husband in your undertaking. 
 
 ' I remember the little Queen's Theatre years and years ago, 
 when I resided near Russell Square. 
 
 ' It is a great card -having secured Mr. Byron to yourself; I have 
 just read his clever and entertaining novel with great enjoyment. 
 Since the last week of November, when I saw you at the little 
 Strand, I have not been to a theatre, except to one morning per- 
 formance of the Covent Garden pantomime to take my dear grand- 
 children, as after my attack of bronchitis I am obliged to be very 
 careful about going out in the evening. I shall hope soon to be 
 able to take a peep at you, dear wee manageress, when you are on 
 your throne at your royal domain ; till when and ever, — I am, your 
 very affectionate friend, Maria Harrington.' 
 
 Mr. Wooler, a well-known writer of comediettas, sent me a one- 
 act play, entitled AlPs Fair in Love and War, to read, which I 
 thought just suited for a lever de rideau. Mr. Byron and I agreed 
 to accept it, but suggested changing the title, which we thought too 
 long, Byron remarking that ' it would require two play-bills to show 
 it !' Mr. Wooler re-christened his piece A Winning Hazard; the 
 strangeness of the coincidence did not at the time strike me, but 
 afterwards, when our success seemed assured, we laughingly re- 
 
88 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 marked that it was, to say the least, a curious incident that the 
 curtain should rise on my venture with those words. 
 
 Mr. Wooler was a most eccentric man, and formed strong likes 
 and dislikes, which he was at no pains to disguise. One morning, 
 as he entered the theatre to attend a rehearsal of his little play, he 
 encountered a member of the company towards whom his feelings 
 were the reverse of amiable ; as they passed they saluted one 
 another, and Mr. Wooler gruffly muttered, ' How do you do ?' The 
 other responded, ' Quite well, thank you ;' upon which Mr. Wooler 
 said, quickly, ' Oh, don't thank me I I don't care how you are ; I 
 only asked for form's sake.' 
 
 When my little company first met for rehearsals I noticed a 
 changed manner in several of my brother and sister artists. Because 
 I was a manager they appeared to expect that I should be different 
 towards them. I begged them not to think this, and asked for 
 their good wishes and kindly help, assuring them that although I 
 now held the reins, they would find I should never cease to 
 consider them my good friends, and that we should all drive 
 abreast, not one before the other. Throughout the whole of my 
 twenty years' management I hope I kept my word. Well, the 
 opening night was fast approaching, and my work was very hard. 
 Day after day I was in the theatre from ten in the morning until 
 late at night, eating when I could, for I had rehearsals to attend, 
 to direct the dresses for the new burlesque which had been written 
 for the opening, to look after the painters and decorators, and to 
 study my own part ; so it may be believed that I had enough to 
 do, and became more and more anxious as the eventful night ap- 
 proached. 
 
 When Mr. Byron read his burlesque, a member of the company, 
 who I then met for the first time, was present, and during the 
 reading 1 observed that about every three or four seconds he dis- 
 tinctly winked ; after this had been going on for some time I began 
 to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. At last 1 left the room, and 
 called Byron out ; he saw that I was very much annoyed, and I 
 
 immediately told him that I was sure Mr. 's conduct had been, 
 
 all through the reading, abominably rude. Byron asked me what 
 he had done. I explained that the actor had done nothing but 
 wink at other members of the company : that I bore it as long- as I 
 could, but when he deliberately looked at me and winked vigorously, 
 I could stand it no longer. I continued : ' He must not remain in 
 the theatre ! I won't allow him to act ! Give the part to some 
 one else. He is the most impertinent fellow I e\er met ! Wherever 
 did he come from ? Do send him away, Byron !' Byron went off 
 into a fit of laughter, and then explained to me that it was a nervous 
 affection of the eye, which had, he said, a very funny effect on the 
 stage, in cornic parts. I gradually became accustomed to this 
 curious affection, but I shall certainly never forget the first impres- 
 sion it made upon me. 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 89 
 
 I will here relate a strange incident which occurred on the after- 
 noon of the opening night ; it will interest the superstitious, and 
 amuse the sceptic. My mother, who was almost prostrate with 
 nervousness, would not go to the theatre on the first night ; but my 
 father, I am glad to say, was present. My sister, Mrs. Drake, pro- 
 posed to take my mother for a country drive to distract her 
 thoughts ; so they went into the neighbourhood of Willesden. My 
 sister talked about all sorts of things, but to no purpose ; she could 
 see that my mother's thoughts were with me in Tottenham Street. 
 At last, failing to secure her attention, Mrs. Drake turned the 
 subject of conversation to me, which seemed to please her. ' Mary 
 has always been fortunate,' my mother said (although I was 
 christened Marie Efifie, she loved the name of Mary, and always 
 called me by it) ; ' but her luck may desert her in this enterprise ; 
 she is so venturesome, poor girl ! What would I not give to know 
 the end of this undertaking !' 
 
 She raised her eyes, and there, on a direction-stone, as they 
 turned a corner in the road, she saw, 'Mary's Place, Fortune Gate! 
 It was to my mother like an answer to her wish, and impressed her 
 so much that she afterwards often spoke of it. Curiosity took me 
 to the neighbourhood later on, where I saw and read the kindly and 
 prophetic words, which, I believe, may still be found there.* This 
 was only a strange coincidence, but I fancy it is worth the telling. 
 
 The hour for launching the little ship arrived ; of course there 
 was a great crowd outside the theatre, and the inhabitants of 
 Tottenham Street had, doubtless, never seen such a display of 
 carriages before. The public, who were anxiously waiting for the 
 doors to open, little knew that, but five minutes before they entered, 
 I was standing on a high stool in a private box nailing up the last 
 lace curtain. The house looked very pretty, and, although every- 
 thing was done inexpensively, had a bright and bonnie appearance, 
 and I felt proud of it. Curtains, carpets, in fact all the appoint- 
 ments, were of the cheapest kind, but in good taste. The stalls 
 were also blue, with white lace antimacassars over them. This was 
 the first time such things had ever been seen in a theatre. 
 
 The first programme I offered the public in my new capacity was 
 dated Saturday, April 15, 1865, and comprised A Winning Hazard, 
 written by J. P. Wooler, which was acted by Mr. Dyas, Mr. F. 
 Dewar, and Mr. Bancroft : it being his first appearance in London. 
 The ladies engaged in the little piece were Miss L. Hastings and 
 Miss B. Goodall. 
 
 After this was played a new and original operatic burlesque 
 extravaganza, entitled La ! Sonnambula ! or, the Supper, the 
 Sleeper, and the Merry Swiss Boy. Being a passage in the life 
 of a famous ' Woman in White ;' a passage leading to a tip-top 
 story, told in this instance by Henry J. Byron. 
 
 * Since the early editions of this book appeared, the stone has been removed, 
 and given to Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
90 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 The farce of Vandyke Brown, in which John Clarke played the 
 principal part, wound up the evening. 
 
 I remarked to Mr. Byron, just before the doors were opened, ' I 
 am glad I chose pale blue for the prevailing colour ; it looks pretty, 
 don't you think so ?' He answered, ' Yes ; let us hope we shall not, 
 by-and-by, look pale blue too ; that wouldn't be pretty.' 
 
 When I began to dress I was almost too tired to stand, for I had 
 been all day looking after everything and everybody. However, as 
 the moment approached for my first appearance as a manager, the 
 excitement roused me ; and when my cue came, I went on to my 
 own little stage without exhibiting any sign of fatigue. It would be 
 affectation to pretend that I did not know I was already a great 
 favourite with the public, although the warm welcome I received 
 almost overpowered me, but soon added force to my acting. 
 
 Byron was full of congratulations after my first scene, and, even 
 in the midst of such excitement, could not resist making a joke. 
 When I hurriedly asked him what the audience thought of the 
 appearance of the theatre, he replied, ' Everybody is delighted. 
 Some charming people in the stalls ; a very nice Scotch family in 
 the front row. I don't know them, but I'm sure they are Scotch.' 
 ' How ?' I asked. ' Because I heard a lady say, " Oh ! there's 
 Awtti Mac-Assar .'" ' 
 
 After it was all over several well-wishers came round to congratu- 
 late me, and while this was going on, the first night's receipts were 
 handed to me. I never before had held so much money in my 
 hands all at once, and what to do with it I did not know. Mr. 
 Byron had just gone, and had forgotten to give me any directions 
 about it. I dared not take the money home ; I felt sure that 
 robbers would come in and steal it in the night ! At length a 
 mutual friend, Mr. Albert Levy, who will well remember the cir- 
 cumstance, volunteered to take charge of it. I gratefully accepted 
 the proposal, and handed him the money, wrapped in a silk hand- 
 kerchief, which was returned on Monday and banked — the money, 
 not the handkerchief — by Mr. Byron. When I was leaving the 
 theatre to go home, there was a woman with a basket of oranges 
 still standing outside, who, when she saw me, exclaimed, ' Well, if 
 these is your haristocrats, give me the roughs, for I've only took 
 fourpence !' 
 
 So commenced my management of the Prince of Wales's 
 Theatre. I have tried to tell why I became a manager, and how. 
 Let me add that not one shilling further was ever borrowed by me 
 from, or given to me by, anyone living or dead in connection with 
 this enterprise. I was successful in a modest way from the very 
 first, and gradually, but surely, my lucky star led me on to fortune. 
 An alarming bit of news was given to me some days after the 
 opening of the theatre, which had been kept from me at the time, 
 and which very few people knew of. Just before the first perform- 
 ance began, a large bundle of shavings which had not been removed 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 91 
 
 was discovered to be on fire underneath the pit. Happily it was 
 seen in time, and the fire extinguished, or the consequences might 
 have been terrible. The cause of the accident was never found out. 
 
 Mr. Wooler, the author of the httle opening play, came into the 
 green-room one night to express his delight at the successful start 
 of the theatre ; he had been dining out, I fancy, for he appeared to 
 be not quite himself (not an unusual occurrence with poor Mr. 
 Wooler !), and he remarked that he liked everything but the first 
 piece, which he condemned as ' rubbish.' The poor gentleman, 
 having changed the title in a hurry, had forgotten that he was its 
 author, and remarked, 'You should have accepted AlPs Fair in 
 Love and War, a much better play.' After he left I related the 
 little scene to Byron, who was immensely amused : I said, ' Ah, 
 well, he was full of congratulations !' to which Byron replied, ' Full 
 of congratulations ! I thought it was liquor !' 
 
 I had made a promise to my dear old friend Palgrave Simpson 
 to produce a comic drama of his, called A Fair Pretender, which 
 in May commenced the programme, A Winning Hazard being 
 acted last, the burlesque still keeping its place. 
 
 Mr. Simpson's play was in two acts, and was acted by Mr. 
 Clarke, Mr. Bancroft, Mr. Montgomery, Mrs. Saville, and myself. 
 It was only played until Mr. Byron, true to his word, finished a 
 comedy, which was produced on June 10 ; I had a good part to 
 play : at last the long-wished-for chance arrived, and I was happy. 
 The piece was clever and amusing, and a distinct success. It was 
 called War to the Knife, and was cast as follows : Mr. Harcourt, 
 Mr. H. W. Montgomery ; Captain Thistleton, Mr. Bancroft ; John 
 Blunt, Mr. F. Dewar ; Mr. Nubbly, Mr. J. Clarke ; Sharpus, Mr. 
 Tindale ; Mrs. Harcourt, Miss Fanny Josephs ; Mrs. Delacour, 
 Miss Marie Wilton ; Penson, Miss Lavine ; Jane Trimmer, Miss 
 Blanche Wilton. 
 
 During the evening I remember Byron coming to me and asking 
 if I would suggest to Mr. Montgomery, who was a very tall man 
 with a long neck, to wear a 'stick-up' instead of a ' turn-down ' 
 collar ; adding, in his quaint way, ' That neck of his, you know, is 
 such a nuisance; any neck after eight inches becomes monotonous.' 
 I must not omit to say that from the time I opened the theatre, I 
 placed (besides the ten pounds a week I have alluded to) such sums 
 of money as I could spare towards the payment of my debt to Mr. 
 Drake, for I was more than anxious to restore to him what then 
 seemed to me a gigantic sum. I allowed myself very little to live 
 upon, and, as I could afford no luxury in the way of dress, I went 
 into complimentary mourning for economy's sake — a coloured 
 dress was always recognisable, a black one never. 
 
 My dressing-room at the Prince of Wales's Theatre was origin- 
 ally close to the stage-door, and I could easily hear all that was 
 going on there. The hall-keeper, who was a most eccentric 
 character, named Kirby, and at the same time a very excellent 
 
92 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 servant, would always carry out his orders in a conscientious 
 manner. The carpenters were often sadly neglectful in wiping 
 their feet as they passed through the hall to the stage, and as there 
 was a huge mat placed for that purpose, Kirby was instructed to 
 insist upon their doing so. He had a habit of singing to himself a 
 great deal, and would often intersperse his dialogue with the words 
 of some favourite song. While dressing one night I overheard the 
 following scraps of conversation, Kirby speaking always in a sleepy, 
 drawling voice : 
 
 1ST Carpenter : ' Cold night, Kirby, ain't it ?' 
 
 Kirby : ' Hawful cold ' (' I'm sitting on the stile, Maree ')■ ' Wipe 
 your feet.' 
 
 2ND Carpenter : ' 'Ow are yer, Kirby ?' 
 
 Kirby : ' All right, George ' (' Where we sat side by side '). 
 ' Wipe your feet, George.' 
 
 3RD Carpenter : "Ave you got change for sixpence, Kirby ? 
 
 Kirby: 'No, I hain't' {'The night you -promised long ago'). 
 ' Wipe your feet' 
 
 4TH Carpenter : Wet night, Kirby ; kind o' weather wot will 
 bring up the vegetables and everythink.' 
 
 Kirby : ' I 'ope it won't bring up'my three wives' (' You said 
 vou'd be my bride '). ' Wipe your feet, 'Arry.' 
 
 I have little else to tell of this short opening season, which ended 
 on August 5th. We then all went for a provincial tour — which was 
 fairly successful — with our two principal pieces. War to the Knife 
 and La ! Sonnambula ! playing at Liverpool for three" weeks, at 
 Bath and Bristol for a fortnight, and at Exeter for six nights. I 
 look back pleasantly to the happy days passed during that last 
 week at Dawlish, which was all the holiday I could snatch, for 
 directly we returned to town it was to resume work. 
 
 The story of the opening of the Prince of Wales's Theatre, and 
 
 NOTE BY MK. how its new existence came about, belongs so much 
 
 BANCROFT. more to Mrs. Bancroft than to me, that I need only 
 
 briefly add my own and individual experiences of early days there. 
 
 On the day I went to my first rehearsal of the opening play, I 
 walked from one end of Tottenham Court Road to the other, but 
 could neither find nor hear of any such building' as the Prince of 
 Wales's Theatre. At last it struck me that in the neig'hbourhood 
 the little play-house would still, of course, be better known as the 
 Queen's, if not by its unsavoury nickname, the ' Dust-hole,' which, 
 later on, was more euphoniously called ' Gold-dust Hole.' I had 
 no more difficulty, and reached my destination then quite easily. 
 All was in confusion ; the front of the house being still in the hands 
 of its decorators and furnishers, the stage given up to carpenters 
 and the artist for his scenery. However, after I had been warmly 
 welcomed, a part of it was cleared and we got to work ; the little 
 play was very simple, and gave no trouble to its interpreters. 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 93 
 
 On the Friday night after the final rehearsal, I was taken by John 
 Clarke to a supper-party at Charles Millward's house, where I met 
 for the first time Tom Hood, Jeff Prowse, Arthur Sketchley, John 
 Brough, Henry Leigh, George Grossmith {pere), Andrew Halliday, 
 Artemus Ward, and one who very soon was to influence my career 
 — Thomas William Robertson. How bright and cheery he was that 
 evening — although his life, at the time, was a hard one. 
 
 I was not yet quite twenty-four, and my introduction to these, 
 and other such men, filled me with happiness, and opened, as it 
 were, the doors to a companionship with the lights which then 
 illumined that happy world — Bohemia ! It is sad to check the 
 bright thoughts recalled by the names I have mentioned, for as I 
 write there rises the remembrance that the host alone survives ; all 
 the others, many of them quite in early manhood, have long since 
 gone to the Shadowed Valley. But what memories of their wit, 
 their charm, their humour, the mere mention of their names, even 
 by so feeble a pen as mine, and even in this hurrying world where 
 to die is so soon to be forgotten, will.summon still to those of us who 
 knew them ! 
 
 During the season I was asked by Miss Lydia Thompson, who 
 was acting then at Drury Lane, if I would play there for her benefit 
 in My Aunt's Advice, with Sothern and herself. Of course I was 
 delighted, not only to be of such small service to her, but at the 
 opportunity of showing myself upon another stage, and in a part in 
 which I had before supported Sothern, and felt at home. 
 
 In June I had my first chance in Byron's comedy, War to the 
 Knife. I was cast for a sort of man about town — one Captain 
 Thistleton — and to that character I certainly am indebted for the 
 opportunity of gaining some notice from the critics and the public, 
 so adding to the chance of my later efforts being watched. 
 
 Our second season commenced on Monday, September 25th, 
 RESUMED 1865, when Mr. Hare, and that admirable actress, 
 BY MRS. Miss Larkin, both of whom I had seen and admired 
 BANCROFT, jn Liverpool, now joined the company and made 
 their first appearances in London. The opening programme com- 
 prised Naval Engagements, which was played by Mr. J. W. Ray, 
 an excellent actor of old men, and long a prominent member of 
 Mr. Phelps's company at Sadler's Wells ; Mr. Dewar, Mr. Mont- 
 gomery, and Mr. Hare ; Miss Larkin, and Miss Fanny Josephs. 
 This was followed by a new burlesque, by Mr. Byron, called Lucia 
 di Lammermoorj or, the Laird, the Lady, and the Lover, after 
 which Dion Boucicault's farce, A Lover by Proxy, was played, in 
 which Mr. Bancroft took the principal part. 
 
 Mr. Hare's subsequent career encourages me to refer further to 
 his dibut as the Landlord Short, in Naval Engagements. Mr. 
 Byron, as usual, would drag in a joke, and at rehearsal one day 
 remarked to him, ' So wise to appear first of all in a part suited to 
 
94 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 you. Short figure, short name, short part ; the critics will say, 
 " Mr. Hare, a clever young actor, made his first bow to a London 
 audience, and was most excellent ; in Short, perfect." ' ' Yes,' said 
 Mr. Hare : ' but what will happen if they don't like me ? ' We'll 
 rechristen the piece " SHORT Engagements!' ' Fortunately for him, 
 and for us, Mr. Hare's subsequent brilliant successes have more 
 than justified my choice of him as a young recruit. Two other 
 funny remarks apropos of this programme I recall. On the first 
 night of the new burlesque, 'little' Clarke, as usual playing the 
 heroine, Lucia, came exultingly into the green-room, and said to 
 the author, ' I had such a reception ! did you hear the cheer ?' 
 'Plainly,' said Byron, '' Lu-cheer P 
 
 I remember the shouts of laughter provoked by the following 
 nonsense rhymes, which were admirably sung by Mr. Montgomery, 
 as the old pedagogue : 
 
 'Tityre tu patulse requiescat in pace for five form a quorum, 
 As in prassenti et arma virumque cano, likewise pons asinorum, 
 EmoUet mores nee sinit esse feros, 
 
 Et tu Brute ut sunt Divorum ; 
 Oh, populi vox ; and also atra nox, 
 Keemo kimo, et Hi Cockolorum !' 
 
 At one of the rehearsals of the same piece, Mr. Dewar had to 
 say, ' I give up my claim and waive my title ' (retiring with the 
 words up the stage). After remaining there some time, he called 
 out to Byron, ' I'm a long while up here with nothing to say. What 
 am I supposed to be doing ?' He was immediately answered, ' My 
 dear fellow, you are Waiving your Title .'' 
 
 It may be a good opportunity to follow up these anecdotes by 
 saying that during my early management of the Prince of Wales's 
 Theatre, and when it had but recently been so christened, I got 
 into a hansom one evening, and hurriedly directed the cabman to 
 drive to ' The Prince of Wales's.' My thoughts at the time were 
 much occupied by the early production of our first comedy ; I was 
 in a nervous state, anxious and worried, hardly noticing the route 
 my cabman took, when suddenly he stopped. I then asked him in 
 an impatient manner why he did so. 'Didn't you want to be 
 drove to the Prince of Wales's ?' I answered ' Yes.' ' Well,' he 
 said, 'here you are.' The man had pulled up at Marlborough 
 House ! 
 
 While on the subject of cabmen I think I may tell another inci- 
 dent which happened on a terribly wet night, and when I had been 
 detained at the theatre somewhat late. 1 ordered a four-wheeled 
 cab, and directed the driver to my home. We had no sooner 
 started than I found that the poor horse could scarcely crawl. The 
 cab was a wretched broken-down thing, and I should not have 
 been surprised if the bottom had come away, leaving me to run 
 with the rest of it, for the man was deaf, and shouts would have 
 been unavailing. The horse Avas rickety, too, but showed a desire 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 95 
 
 to do his best, poor creature, for he worked his legs in an odd way 
 as if they were being pulled by strings, hoping he was making some 
 progress, but he was not. The man, who was much older than the 
 cab and horse combined, was not only deaf, but surely blind, for he 
 took me down strange, narrow, dirty-looking streets and the veriest 
 roundabout way, which made me fear that I should never get home. 
 He did nothing but tug, tug, tug at the veteran horse's toothless 
 mouth, which had no effect, except to send him off into jumping 
 action again. I began to feel very anxious, so 1 opened one of the 
 windows and called out, ' Man, man !' He took no notice. Then 
 I tried a push with my umbrella ; he mumbled something and went 
 on into another dark, dismal street, of which I had no remembrance. 
 I could not imagine where he was going to take me. Again I 
 opened the window. ' Man, man 1' No answer. I was obliged to 
 have recourse to my umbrella once more. He growled out, ' Yes, 
 yes ; all right.' I was becoming more and more alarmed. At last 
 I positively hung out of the window, and gave the antique cabman 
 a tremendous push with my umbrella, which nearly sent him sprawl- 
 ing over the horse, shouting at the same time, ' Man, man ! Where 
 are you driving to? You are going the wrong way, I tell you.' 
 He stopped his old breakdown rattling cab, threw down the reins, 
 turned round on the box-seat and said, ' Look 'ere, miss, I'll get 
 inside and you jump on the box, for you're a worritin' me to 
 death.' I said no more ; but when I did reach home I thanked 
 my stars ! 
 
 One day I hired a hansom to go to South Lambeth. The man 
 drove so quickly that I dared not move ; the speed almost took my 
 breath away. We tore along to the amazement and alarm of every- 
 one we passed. When we approached Vauxhall Bridge the 
 astonished toll-man came hurriedly to the gate for his money ; 
 but away flew the cab, soon leaving the bewildered man far behind, 
 and cheating the company of their due. I began to be resigned to 
 the fact that the horse, man, cab, and myself would very soon be 
 smashed. The driver was tipsy, and the whole situation was suffi- 
 ciently alarming. Presently we neared my destination, and the 
 cabman seemed likely to leave that behind as he did everything 
 else — a very John Gilpin of a Jehu ! I hastily pushed my hand 
 through the little trap-door at the top, and cried, ' Siop, stop /' upon 
 which he, to my horror, took hold of my hand, shook it, and said, 
 ' Thank you, miss, Pm better than I was P In spite of my terror I 
 could not resist laughing ; but my thankfulness when I found myself 
 not only safe, but sound, was indescribable ! 
 
 I now approach a most important event in my career as a 
 manager. Mr. Byron called upon me one day to tell me that an old 
 friend, Mr. Robertson, wished him to read a comedy of his to me, 
 which had been recently acted with success in Liverpool ; he added 
 that the play had been offered in turn to Sothern, Alfred Wigan, 
 and to nearly all the London managers, but they would have 
 
96 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 nothing to do with it. Mr. Buckstone wrote his opinion that it 
 ' must fail wherever it was produced.' They were chiefly afraid of 
 it, Byron told me, on account of a scene which the journalistic world 
 would take offence at, and the critics would, beyond all doubt, con- 
 demn, as it contained sketches of men well known to the author 
 and in ' Bohemia.' Mr. Byron also feared its chance of success 
 himself, but as he had known Tom Robertson, who was at the time 
 in very low water, for many years, he was anxious to do his old 
 friend a good turn ; he dwelt on the danger he saw in the play, and 
 thought that, as young managers, we could not afford to risk offend- 
 ing the critics. I said danger was better than dulness ; the next 
 day, Byron read the comedy to me ; and, when he had finished it, 
 he expressed himself more and more afraid of it. I at once offered 
 to risk its production ; the whole piece seemed to me so clever and 
 original, that I felt sure of its success. Mr. Byron was astonished 
 at my urging our acceptance of the play. At last he agreed that at 
 all events it was worth the trial. This was my first acquaintance 
 with Mr. Robertson, and I cannot describe the charm with which 
 he read his comedy, which further developed the beauties of Society, 
 as his new played was called. I remember how he impressed me 
 as being of a highly nervous temperament ; he had a great habit of 
 biting his moustache and caressing his beard — indeed, his hands 
 were rarely still ; he was at that time thirty-six : somewhat above 
 medium height : rather stoutly built : he had a pale skin and 
 reddish beard, with small piercing red-brown eyes, which were ever 
 restless. The rehearsals advanced, and I liked the play more and 
 more ; my views of acting so entirely agreed with Mr. Robertson's 
 that we encountered no difficulties whatever, and everything went 
 smoothly and merrily, although Byron, to the last, dreaded the 
 effect of the ' Owl's Roost ' scene. My faith remained unshaken 
 and acquaintance with the author soon ripened into friendship. 
 Here is an extract from the play-bill which had so marked an 
 influence on my future theatrical life : 
 
 On Saturday, November ii, 1865, 
 WILL BE ACTED AN ORIGINAL COMEDY CALLED 
 
 SOCIETY, 
 
 WRITTEN BY T. W. ROBERTSON. 
 
 LORD PTARMIGANT . . . .Mr. Hare. 
 LORD CLOUDWRAYS, M.P. . . Mr. Trafford. 
 SIDNEY DARYL Mr. Bancroft.* 
 
 * As the part I first played in Society was a very important one to entrust to 
 so young an actor as I then was, bearing, as it does, much of the burden of the 
 play, I would lilte to note how much the success I was fortunate enough to 
 achieve was due to the encouragement and support I received from the author, 
 who spared no pains with me, as with others, to have his somewhat novel type 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 97 
 
 MR. JOHN CHODD, Sen Mr. J. W. Ray. 
 
 MR. JOHN CHODD, JUN. . . .Mr. John Clarke. 
 
 TOM STYLUS Mr. F. Dewar. 
 
 OLINTHUS O'SULLIVAN, D.C.L. . . Mr. Montgomery. 
 
 DESMOND McUSQUEBAUGH . . .Mr. Hill. 
 
 SAM STUNNER, P.R. (atoj the ' Smiffel Lamb') Mr. Tindale. 
 MOSES AARON ..... Mr. Bennett. 
 LADY PTARMIGANT .... Miss Larkin. 
 MAUD HETHERINGTON . . . Miss Marie Wilton. 
 
 The success of the comedy soon became the talk of the town, 
 for the first time an additional row of stalls was added, and shortly 
 after its production the Prince of Wales honoured the theatre with 
 his first visit. Perhaps I should say here how the elaborate and 
 careful dressing of our plays astonished theatre-goers, and was ad- 
 mitted by the critics to be a revelation ; for the reader should be 
 reminded this was the era of much stage slovenliness — Mr. Bancroft 
 and Mr. Hare should be justly remembered as the first reformers 
 on their side. At Christmas, we produced Byron's Little Don 
 Giovanni, the hero being the last burlesque character he ever wrote 
 for me, as the success of our management made me firmly deter- 
 mined to insist on my original intention to give up acting that kind 
 of part. 
 
 A most amusing scene was introduced, suggested by a party of 
 practical jokers, who, one foggy November night, had scaled the 
 railings of Leicester Square, and painted all sorts of colours the 
 already much dilapidated equestrian figure which then stood in the 
 place of Baron Grant's statue of Shakespeare. The horse in the 
 burlesque was dotted all over with a variety of spots, and looked 
 like an exaggerated Lowther Arcade toy. The scene created great 
 laughter. 
 
 During the run of Don Giovanni, I received the following amus- 
 ing note from Mr. Buckstone, who came to see our performance : 
 
 ' You young scamp ! you young Don Giovanni ! Don't forget 
 your old Don Giovanni. Box for Saturday next, 3rd March. 
 Ever, — Balvidini Juan Buckstone.' 
 
 The burlesque was removed from the bill in the early spring, when 
 I said farewell to that branch of the drama for ever. Society was 
 played for a hundred and fifty nights — in those days an extra- 
 ordinary and seemingly, to us, never-ending run. 
 
 On Saturday, May 5th, i886, was acted, for the first time, A 
 Hundred Thousand Pounds, an original comedy, written by H. J. 
 
 of characters understood and acted as he wished. I am sorry to add that my 
 ear for music was deficient, to say the least, and recall, readily, painful struggles 
 to learn, and unwearying kindness on Mrs. Bancroft's part to teach me, my 
 share in the song — which I, at length, accomplished effectively — in the ' Owl's 
 Roost ;' really, a reproduction of scenes known to Robertson quite well. — 
 S. B. B. 
 
98 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Byron ; General Gerald Goodwin, Mr. Bancroft ; Major Blackshaw, 
 Mr. F. Dewar ; Sir Rumsey Waters, Mr. Tindale ; Mr. Charker, 
 Mr. Trafford ; Mr. Fluker, Mr. Hare ; Joe Barlow, Mr. J. W. Ray ; 
 Pennythorne, Mr. J. Clarke ; Pyefinch, Mr. H. W. Montgomery ; 
 Mrs. Barlow, Miss Larkin ; Alice Barlow, Miss Marie Wilton ; 
 Arabella Pell, Miss Blanche Wilton ; Jane Plover, Miss Goodall. 
 
 The first act was so clever and complete, being in fact a play in 
 itself, that the rest seemed weak in comparison. The strength of 
 the opening left little or no chance for the next two acts, but it was 
 a well-written play. After the first scene "Byron came into the 
 green-room and asked if he could have something to drink, as the 
 agitation had made his mouth ' horribly dry.' I pointed to the little 
 filter which was always kept on a table, and said, ' That is all there 
 is, Byron.' To which he answered, ' That will do quite well ; I will 
 be content with what both peer and peasant alike — dzslike.' 
 
 I must here record another of the author's jokes. During the 
 rehearsals, Mr. Dewar was anxious to know how he could make a 
 distinct change in his appearance. He had worn light wigs and 
 dark wigs, gray wigs and bald wigs ; so one morning, after having 
 been in the property-room where a great deal of dust was about, 
 through some alterations that were going on, his face having got 
 besmeared with some of it, he went up to Byron and asked him to 
 advise him about his make-up for the major. ' You see,' said Mr. 
 Dewar, ' I want to make a complete change. Some have advised 
 me to wear reddish hair mixed with gray ; but what shall I do 
 with my face ?' Byron looked at him seriously, and said, ' I should 
 wash it.' 
 
 It was during the run of this piece that a sad gloom came over 
 my home. My dear mother, who had been ailing for some time, 
 but whose health had not yet caused us real anxiety, as she had 
 never been strong, seemed to become weaker and weaker. She 
 was so afraid of giving me uneasiness in the midst of my work, that 
 she hid her sufferings from me as long as she was able ; but it 
 became evident to all of us that she was enduring much pain. We 
 were under engagements at the close of the season, which was 
 rapidly approaching, to take our company to Liverpool and Man- 
 chester ; but before going, our doctor assured me that my mother's 
 illness was not of an alarming nature, that it was a question of time, 
 and that I was not to be uneasy. This put my heart at rest, and 
 knowing that she was surrounded by my sisters, who nursed and 
 watched her night and day with loving care, I was able to go away 
 comparatively satisfied. 
 
 Before starting, we were told that there was a sort of epidemic at 
 Liverpool ; so several of us decided to live at Waterloo, a pretty 
 seaside place a few miles off, where the train could take us every 
 night after the performance was over. We occupied villas facing 
 the sea, and formed quite a little colony of our own, including Mr. 
 Robertson (who came down for the purpose of finishing and pro- 
 
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S THEATRE, 1865-66 99 
 
 ducing his new comedy, Ours, Mr. and Mrs. Byron, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hare, my sister Augusta, myself, and Mr. Bancroft. We spent a 
 delightful six weeks there. The Liverpool assizes were on at the 
 time, and several barristers whom we knew were there on circuit. 
 Mr. Aspinall, the then Recorder of Liverpool ; kindly Mr. (after- 
 wards Sir) John Holker, who had already, by his brilliant talents, 
 earned the position of leader of the Northern Circuit, the familiar 
 members of which body knew him best as ' Sleepy Jack ;' Mr. W. 
 R. McConnell, now Revising Barrister of Liverpool ; Mr. Leofric 
 Temple, Mr. Walter Bacon, and Mr. W. S. Gilbert, then a briefless 
 barrister. We often made up a party to go to St. George's Hall to 
 hear cases in which some of them were concerned, and I hope my 
 friend Mr. Gilbert will forgive my telling a little story against him 
 which occurred on the day he was going to make his maiden speech 
 in prosecuting an old Irishwoman for stealing a coat. 
 
 He was very anxious about his first essay, and we all assembled 
 to hear it. Mr. Gilbert tried for a long time to speak, but the old 
 woman interrupted him so persistently that he could not get a word 
 in edgeways, with such polite remarks as, ' Hold your tongue !' 
 ' Shut up, yer spalpeen !' 'Ah, if ye love me, sit down !' 'It's a 
 lie, yer honour !' ' Hooroo for ould Ireland !' etc. She jumped 
 about and made such a noise every time Mr. Gilbert attempted to 
 speak, that the Judge ordered her to be taken down until the next 
 day ; and as she left the dock, the prisoner made a grimace at Mr. 
 Gilbert, which I will not attempt to describe ! So, after all, the 
 maiden speech never came off, and I fear we were all immensely 
 amused at Mr. Gilbert's discomfiture. A little later on we were 
 told that Mr. Bacon had received his first brief; the case was to be 
 heard at once, and he had hardly a moment to read it. We rushed 
 off to the court in order not to miss it, and were waiting anxiously, 
 when, by-and-by, a mutual friend came to us to say that Mr. Bacon 
 on opening the brief found it to be a pig' case, and no one could 
 induce him to have anything to do with it, so he had handed it 
 over to someone else. 
 
 Poor Mr. Bacon (or ' Streaky,' as he was called by his companions) 
 was a victim to chaff for a long time afterwards. Our legal friends 
 came down to Waterloo once every week, and the evenings were 
 dedicated to entertainments improvised by ourselves. We had 
 several mock trials, in which Mr. Hare was always condemned to 
 the ignominious position of representing the criminal in the dock. 
 It was interesting to hear the clever speeches, all about nothing, 
 delivered by these rising young barristers. I was sometimes the 
 Judge, and gave imitations of the various gentlemen I had seen on 
 the Bench. My robe was a pink wrapper, and my wig made of 
 cotton-wool. On one occasion, for variety, we got up a mock opera, 
 in which I was the prima donna, Mr. Gilbert the lover, Mr. Hare 
 his rival, with large cloak, broad-brimmed hat, and knives and 
 daggers all over him ; Mr. McConnell was the prima donnds 
 
 7—2 
 
loo OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 father, whom he made a deaf old man, so that we were obliged to 
 shout all our recitatives at him through an improvised ear-trumpet. 
 The opera Avas sung throughout in Italian gibberish, and was a most 
 amusing bit of foolery. 
 
 Our audiences were small but appreciative, for they included 
 both Mr. Byron and Mr. Robertson ; I never saw them laugh so 
 much in my life. We were all young then, and the fun, perhaps, 
 appeared greater than it would now, but it was a very happy time. 
 Some of those pleasant friends are gone, alas ! never to return. 
 
 Robertson, having completed his new comedy, read, rehearsed, 
 and produced it in Liverpool. These early performances were very 
 valuable to the ultimate fate of the work, enabling the author to 
 considerably improve the end of the play, before we submitted it to 
 the verdict of a London audience, when I shall refer to its pro- 
 duction at greater length. 
 
 From time to time I received letters from my mother, written by 
 one of my sisters and only signed by herself; though still very 
 ailing she was cheerful, and counting the days for my return. 
 These letters made me feel contented and happy, but I longed to 
 be near her again. Towards the end of our tour, while we were 
 acting at Manchester, and when I was looking forward to soon 
 going home, one morning (shall I ever forget it ?) I received a 
 letter from an old and valued friend of my family, Mr. T. W. Erie, 
 who had undertaken the sad duty of revealing to me the true and 
 fatal nature of my mother's illness. It had been thought prudent 
 to disguise the facts from me as long as possible, but he felt that it 
 would be wrong to keep me in ignorance of the truth any longer, and 
 therefore, as gently and tenderly as he could, he broke the miser- 
 able news to me. 
 
 My darling, patient mother was fading gradually away from us, 
 and in a short time would leave a blank which could never be filled 
 up. There is not a grateful, loving daughter in the world who will 
 not realize what my feelings were as I read this wretched letter, for 
 her loss meant much to me. My sisters' task was a painful one, 
 for not only had they watched her day and night, but were told to 
 be cheerful in my mother's presence, and not to let her think her 
 malady a fatal one, as suspicion of the truth would hurry on the 
 end. When I reached home I saw the terrible change. Death 
 was coming nearer and nearer, and seemed to chill the house, 
 which already felt empty. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1866-67 loi 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 866-67. 
 
 The lights and shades of life — Remarkable success of Ours— Byron's entangle- 
 ment with the Liverpool theatres — His burlesque ci De7' Freischiitz — Death 
 of Mrs. Wilton — Pandora's Box — Expiration of the partnership with Byron 
 • — Some important letters on the subject — Production of Casie — Its dedica- 
 tion — A ludicrous situation — Law-suit with Miss Lydia Thompson — The 
 best of friends afterwards — Serjeant Ballantine and Mr. Huddleston, Q. C. 
 — A special train — A young host — Captain Hawtree — The Derby, Hermit's 
 year — Introduced to Edmund Yates. 
 
 The early part of this season was a true picture of life as we often 
 find it — gloom and gaiety being strangely intertwined. At the theatre 
 all was bright and successful ; away from it everything was wretched. 
 
 With rehearsals for the production of Ours, and of a new bur- 
 lesque to be played soon after in conjunction with it (for which I 
 had been so fortunate as to retain Miss Lydia Thompson's services 
 to fill the place I formerly occupied), and my mother's unhappy 
 illness, my mind and heart had much to do. How I got through 
 my nightly work at the theatre, together with my increasing respon- 
 sibilities of management, I know not. All that could be done to 
 soften the remaining days of my mother's life was done by devoted 
 children, whose unceasing attention helped to alleviate her suffer- 
 ings. My anxieties were also greatly increased by Mr. Byron 
 having unfortunately, as it turned out, during our recent engage- 
 ment at Liverpool, become entangled in the management of the 
 theatres there, which took him much from London and laid an 
 unfair strain of work and responsibility upon me : although, I am 
 glad to say, without destruction to our friendship. 
 
 The theatre was re- opened in September, when Robertson's new 
 comedy was acted for the first time in London. It was announced 
 as follows : 
 
 On Saturday, Seftetnber 15, 1866, will be acted 
 
 OURS: 
 
 An Original Comedy, by T. W. Robertson, Author of Society.' 
 
 Act I. — The Park : Autumn. Act II. — The Drawing-room : Spring. 
 Act III. — The Hut : Winter. Period — Before and during the Crimean War. 
 
 PRINCE PEROVSKY 
 
 COLONEL SIR ALEXANDER SHENDRYN 
 
 ANGUS MACALISTER 
 
 HUGH CHALCOT .... 
 
 CAPTAIN SAMPREY 
 
 SERGEANT JONES. 
 
 HOUGHTON 
 
 LADY SHENDRYN . 
 
 BLANCHE HAYE . ... Miss Louisa Moore. 
 
 MARY NETLEY ... . Miss Marie Wilton. 
 
 Me. 
 
 Hare. 
 
 Mr. 
 
 J. W. Ray. 
 
 Mr. 
 
 Bancroft. 
 
 Me. 
 
 J. Clarke. 
 
 Me. 
 
 Teaffoed. 
 
 Me. 
 
 F. YOUNGE. 
 
 Me. 
 
 TiNDALE. 
 
 Miss 
 
 i Laekin. 
 
I02 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 (The cast of the comedy was the same as in the previous August 
 at Liverpool, with the exception of the part of Sergeant Jones, 
 which had been acted there by Mr. Dewar.) 
 
 The success of the play was immediate and remarkable, and did 
 much to decide the ultimate fortunes of the theatre and the fame of 
 its author. The effect of the second act, where the troops leave for 
 the Crimea, on the first night's audience was extraordinary, the 
 same enthusiasm being kept up nightly for a very long time ; 
 and in the Crimean hut great surprise was caused by the realistic 
 effect of the driving snow each time the door was opened. 
 
 Lydia Thompson appeared in a new burlesque by Mr. Byron on 
 the subject of her Freischiitz, which was played, on October loth, 
 in conjunction with Ours ; but it showed a distinct falling off in the 
 writing, partly owing, perhaps, to his ' losing heart,' as he ex- 
 pressed it, through my refusal to act in it, but very much to divided 
 interests caused by his Liverpool speculations ; the burlesque was 
 only moderately successful, although well acted, and Miss Lydia 
 Thompson made a decided success. Fortunately the great popu- 
 larity of the comedy excused the weakness of the after-piece. 
 
 I must now ask the reader to bear with me while I return to the 
 sad subject of my mother's illness. It was evident that she was 
 gradually fading from us. In addition to the constant care of our 
 own family doctor, she was attended by Sir William Fergusson and 
 by Dr. Lee, of Savile Row ; but her malady had been taking root for 
 years, and no earthly help could rescue her. The time arrived 
 when it was considered imperative for her to be made aware of her 
 real state. It was a terrible day for us all. She bore her sentence 
 with quiet resignation, and, when we entered the room, she smiled 
 sadly, and said, ' I have received my death-warrant ; but I implore 
 you not to give way to grief : be brave, and help me to meet the 
 end.' 
 
 One day, soon after, she and I were alone ; I was seated on a 
 stool at her feet, and in her half-delirium her mind wandered back 
 to the past, and recalled the time when I was but a child. ' Work- 
 ing so hard,' she murmured with her eyes closed, and this recollec- 
 tion seemed to pain her. 
 
 During the last act of Ours^ Mr. Clarke, who then played Hugh 
 Chalcot, had to say, 'What a charming girl ! how interesting ! no 
 father, no mother.' The speech had always given me a pang, but 
 on one particular night, when he came to the words ' no mother,' a 
 cold shudder came over me, and I became faint. Directly the 
 comedy was over, I hurried to the sick-bed, with a horrible dread 
 upon me. My sister, Mrs. Fletcher, met me at the door to prepare 
 me for a great change, and to tell me that the end was near. My 
 father and my sisters were all with her, and my mother looked at 
 me as if to say, ' I have waited for you.' The hour came to bid an 
 eternal farewell : but those moments of supreme grief are too sacred 
 to record. How lonely and desolate I felt ! I had lost that best of 
 
THE SEASON OF 1866-67 103 
 
 friends, from whose love I often sought and surely found true sym- 
 pathy. How I wish that she had been spared to share the good 
 fortune she predicted for me. The modest comfort she enjoyed 
 might have increased to some luxury in her old age (for she was 
 still young when she died). It would have been such a happiness 
 to all her children. 
 
 My mother had always a great horror, which I inherit, of being 
 buried in the earth, and my next and last duty was (although I 
 could as yet but ill afford the cost) to build a tomb in Norwood 
 Cemetery, where her children could from time to time take flowers 
 to her. 
 
 On the evening following my mother's death, a strange incident 
 was related. The night fireman at the theatre, whose name was 
 Hotine, was a most excellent servant, who had been strongly re- 
 commended to us for his post by Captain Shaw. He knew that my 
 mother was ill, but was not aware of any grave cause for anxiety, 
 and did not know of her death until he was informed on his arrival 
 at his post on the following night, and heard that Miss Lydia 
 Thompson, to whose kindness I was indebted for replacing me in 
 Ours for a time, was going to appear in my place. Hotine went 
 straight upstairs to my wardrobe-mistress and anxiously asked if 
 she knew at what time my mother died. She could not say, as no 
 one had yet heard any particulars. She asked him why he wanted 
 to know, and he related the following curious circumstance : ' I 
 said " Good-night," as usual, to the young missus, who often says a 
 few kind words before she goes home, and I assured her that all 
 was right and safe ; I went round again when the performance was 
 over to make sure, as I always do, you know, after everybody is 
 gone. It was just one o'clock as I sat down to my work' (the man 
 filled up his time by making shoes and boots for his children) ' in 
 the little green-room, with the door leading on to the stage wide 
 open. The clock struck iwo, and then f/iree, when a loud crash, 
 just as if a portion of the roof had fallen in, made me jump to my 
 feet ; I thought that at least the sunlight chandelier in the ceiling 
 had fallen into the stalls, so I took up my lantern, and went quickly 
 on to the stage to see what had happened. I found everything was 
 just as I had left it. I went all round the theatre, but there was 
 not a thing disturbed.' Hotine seemed scared and frightened, and 
 begged to know the hour of my mother's death. When Mr. Ban- 
 croft arrived at the theatre he learnt from him the particulars. My 
 mother died at three o'clock on the morning of November 30th. 
 
 For Christmas, Byron wrote the last burlesque that was produced 
 at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. It was a very poor work, com- 
 pared with what he had done before, which was all the more regret- 
 table, as it was the means of introducing Miss Henrietta Hodson, 
 who made a most successful first appearance in London, and who, 
 like myself, hailed from Bristol. Its title was Pandords Box; or, 
 the Young Spark and the Old Flame ; but candour compels the 
 
104 OVR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 admission that it never burnt brightly, and, indeed, hurt the receipts 
 of the theatre instead of improving them. 
 
 Byron was now nearly always in Liverpool, where he had taken 
 a house, and we rarely met. From the correspondence between 
 him and myself, in which he first suggested that he should retire 
 altogether from the partnership, I will make a few extracts with a 
 view to place the reader en rapport with the position of affairs at 
 this time. These extracts will at least have interest for our many 
 mutual friends. 
 
 Mr. Byron's letters are dated from 21, Huskisson Street, Liver- 
 pool ; mine from London. • 
 
 From Mr. Byron to Me, Februaiy 6, 1867. 
 
 ' It will be better for us both to cease our joint management at 
 the end of our two years, and I shall willingly dissolve partnership, 
 if you wish it, on the 1 5th April. I consider that by refusing to 
 play in burlesque you have done me an irreparable wrong, and 
 yourself considerable harm ; however, I have met your views 
 always, and it is no doubt too late for me to repeat what I have so 
 often said, and what is the general opinion of the public. 
 
 s «s <5 o e- 
 
 ' I shall be in town to-morrow, or Friday, and will telegraph. 
 There will be no occasion to answer this letter, as I shall see you 
 in all probability before return post' 
 
 From Mr. Byron to Me (a telegram), February 7, 1867. 
 ' I am unfortunately prevented by business here from going to 
 London.' 
 
 From Me to Mr. Byron, February 7, 1867. 
 
 ' I am sorry you are not coming up. Your letter is too long and 
 important to answer easily, and the matters it involves could be so 
 much better settled if we had met at once to talk them over ; as, 
 however, you have postponed your visit, I shall answer your letter 
 candidly. 
 
 ' You tell me that " by refusing to play in burlesque " I have done 
 you an " irreparable wrong." I don't acknowledge anything of the 
 kind. All my acting in either Der Freischiit:: or Pandora would 
 have done very little good for them, beyond saving my substitute's 
 salary. I can't help it if my candour wounds you, my dear Byron, 
 but neither of the pieces has been worthy of you — I don't tell you 
 half what I hear said against them — and both burlesques were very 
 much neglected by you at rehearsal. I feel convinced that Pandora 
 only wanted your presence to find out its weak points, and want of 
 incident, in order to have made it at least a tolerable success. 
 
 ' You have often upbraided me with the sacrifices you have made 
 in writing only for one theatre ; I admit that your literary reputa- 
 tion would naturally suffer, but it has been a very great commercial 
 
THE SEASON OF 1866-67 105 
 
 gain. You have written five burlesques and two comedies, for 
 which you will have received, by April next, a thousand pounds in 
 salary and half of the entire profits. You must also remember that 
 when we started you risked nothing — I risked all. You even made 
 me sign a paper to indemnify you from any share in whatever loss 
 I might suffer ; and for the money I borrowed I have been paying 
 a high interest, not a penny of which have I claimed from the 
 treasury. 
 
 ' You must remember, too, Byron, that when you took the Liver- 
 pool theatres I never murmured, nor even opposed you, although I 
 felt it must prove a fatal blow to my interests ; now tell me, frankly, 
 if any other partner would have done this ? It is impossible for me 
 not to see that all your energies are now in Liverpool, and if we 
 dissolve partnership at Easter, and I carry on the theatre without 
 you, I don't think my conduct during our two years' business con- 
 nection will cause you to entertain a single unfriendly feeling to- 
 wards me. 
 
 ' You must know well enough that I have no personal wish to 
 separate from you : indeed, I should be only too glad if we could 
 go on together as we did the first two seasons ; but what a partner- 
 ship becomes under present circumstances, with you and all your 
 energies centred in Liverpool, I leave you to candidly think about.' 
 
 From Me. Byron to Me, Feiruary 8, 1867. 
 
 ' Much in your letter is very right and very true. Let me, how- 
 ever, correct one mistake about the risk. You certainly risked a 
 thousand pounds, and I stipulated that in case of its loss jk^??' would 
 have no claim on me ; but in all business transactions at the theatre 
 during our joint management, I have stood precisely the same risk 
 as you. I told you frankly about the original risk when you applied 
 to me to join you. 
 
 'Your conduct in the matter of my taking these theatres was 
 truly admirable, and was fully appreciated by me, so much so that 
 you will remember I said at the time I should not consent — on a 
 renewal of our management after two years — to take half\}a& profits 
 as my share, considering my frequent absence and divided duty. 
 This I strongly impressed on you at Waterloo, and if we had 
 remained in partnership, I should have insisted on your receiving 
 the lion's share of the reward. Had my name been associated on 
 the bills, etc., with the management, it would have been different ; 
 but as it has always been my aim to award the managerial position 
 to you, as I have never made any engagement or arrangement 
 except at your wish, as you have always superintended the dressing 
 of pieces, they have also been cast as you wished, and as the real 
 management of the theatre has devolved on you, I could not see 
 how my being a great deal away could materially affect you.' 
 
io6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 My letter in reply was, in substance, an urgent request to Mr. 
 Byron to ' come up to town at once, that some final result should be 
 immediately arrived at.' 
 
 The result was that our partnership — I rejoice to add, not our 
 friendship— ended on April 1 5th, two years after its commencement. 
 One further sentence of a letter in corroboration of a previous state- 
 ment of mine will perhaps suffice. 
 
 From Mk. Byron to Me, April 10, 1867. 
 
 ' Our letter of agreement is in my desk in London. It settled 
 you were to receive ten pounds weekly until the end of the second 
 year, thus making the thousand pounds you advanced. This you 
 have done with the exception of one week. If you will draw all the 
 money banked in our joint names out of the bank, after paying 
 yourself the extra ten pounds, you can send me my share of it. I 
 waive all right to half the value of the property in the theatre in 
 consideration of your taking any outstanding debts on your own 
 shoulders. 
 
 ' Mrs. Byron sends you her kind love. God bless you.' 
 
 Subsequently Mr. James, who was still the lessee of the theatre, 
 became a partner, without advancing money, in its fortunes for a 
 few years, which will be further referred to. With Mr. James our 
 relations were throughout of the pleasantest kind. 
 
 Ours was acted for a hundred and fifty nights on its first produc- 
 tion, its author meanwhile being engaged on a new comedy to 
 succeed it, and which he called Caste. I vividly recall the effect he 
 produced by his exquisite reading of his work to the little band of 
 players who had the delightful task of first acting it, for I don't 
 know of such cleverly drawn and powerfully contrasted parts in any 
 other modern play. The rehearsals were a labour of love. My 
 old Strand comrade, George Honey, was chosen for the boldly 
 painted character of Eccle§, and to that charming actress, Lydia 
 Foote, was entrusted the beautiful part of his daughter Esther. 
 Mr. Hare had the opportunity of wonderful contrast in descending 
 from the old Russian Prince to the splendid type of the real work- 
 ing man, Sam Gerridge. Miss Larkin brought all her art to bear 
 on the part of the proud old rriother, whose son poor Fred Younge, 
 we all believed, at last thought himself to really be, so earnestly 
 did he live in the joys and sorrows of George D'Alroy. Mr. Ban- 
 croft had a striking character after his own heart. As for myself, I 
 fairly revelled in the high spirits of Polly Eccles, and may mention 
 that the expedient in the last act of breaking the news to Esther 
 that her husband was not dead, by means of a mock ballet, grew 
 from our impromptu entertainments at Waterloo of the previous 
 summer, to which I alluded in the foregoing chapter. 
 
 I will now give an extract from the play-bill which records the 
 production : 
 
THE SEASON OF 1866-67 107 
 
 On Saturday, April 6, 1867, will he acted, for the first time, 
 
 CASTE: 
 
 AN ORIGINAL COMEDY, WRITTEN BY T. W. ROBERTSON, 
 The Author of ' Society ' and ' Ours.' 
 
 HON. GEORGE D'ALROY . . . Mr. Frederick Younge. 
 
 CAPTAIN HAWTREE . . . .Mr. Bancroft. 
 
 ECCLES ...... Mr. George Honey. 
 
 SAM GERRIDGE . . . .Mr. Hare. 
 
 MARQUISE DE SAINT-MAUR . . MiSS Larkin. 
 
 ESTHER ECCLES . . . Miss Lydia Foote. 
 
 POLLY ECCLES. . . . Miss Marie Wilton. 
 
 Act I.— The Little House at Stangate : Courtship. Act II.— The Lodgings 
 in Mayfair ; Matrimony. Act III. — The Little House in Stangate : 
 Widowhood. 
 
 The success of Caste passed my wildest dreams, and formed the 
 attraction of the evening, being simply preceded by a farce. 
 
 This comedy is specially endeared to me by the dedication : ' To 
 Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft) this Comedy is Dedicated by 
 her Grateful Friend and Fellow-Labourer, the Author.' 
 
 I can well remember during the first run of Caste one of the rare 
 occasions on which I was tempted to laugh on the stage in a serious 
 situation. I think when I relate the story I shall be forgiven. Mr. 
 Hare, always a most earnest and conscientious actor, must also 
 plead guilty with me. It happened in the last act ; Mr. Younge, 
 who was playing George D'Alroy, had a long wait, and the weather 
 being very hot, he was in the habit of taking off his wig and going 
 into the green-room for a chat until he was called for the stage. 
 On this particular night a member of the company played the un- 
 pardonable practical joke of hiding the wig, and left the theatre, for- 
 getting having done so — a mistake deeply regretted afterwards, for 
 this joke was merely intended to cause a temporary confusion. It will 
 be remembered by those who know the play that George D'Alroy 
 is supposed to have been killed in the Indian Mutiny, for which 
 campaign he departs at the end of the second act, where an affect- 
 ing parting takes place between himself and his young wife. In 
 the last act we are all back at the poor little house in Stangate 
 in mourning, and in deep sorrow for his death. In the scene 
 where Polly Eccles is preparing tea for Captain Hawtree and Sam 
 Gerridge, they are all seated at the table, I'oUy complaining that 
 the milkman is very late. -George D'Alroy, who has marvellously 
 escaped death in the mutiny, and has hurried home, arriving in 
 fact before the news of his safety, has seen the milkman outside, 
 and takes the small can from him, brings it in, and comes to the 
 table unseen by any of them, expecting a warm welcome. Polly is 
 in the act of putting the cup to her lips, when she raises her eyes 
 slowly and sees George. She stares at him, thinking he is the 
 
lo8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ghost of her dead brother-in-law, slowly puts down the cup, keep- 
 ing her eyes still fixed with terror upon him, and gradually dis- 
 appears under the table. Sam Gerridge is eating his thick slice of 
 bread-and-butter, quite oblivious of what is going on until he sees 
 Polly go under the table. He looks up with surprise, and, seeking 
 the cause of this strange proceeding, fixes his eyes on George, who 
 is still standing with the milk-can in his hand, and, terrified, follows 
 Polly with a dive under the same table. Captain Hawtree notices 
 this strange conduct, and turns his chair round to ascertain what 
 they have both been staring at. He is equally astonished to see 
 his dead friend come to life, but does not express his amazement in 
 the same fashion, remaining in his chair transfixed. All this is 
 done in silence, not a word being uttered. That is the situation. 
 Well, on the night the wig was missing, every search was made by 
 the dressers, and nowhere could it be found. There was nothing 
 to be done by Mr. Younge but to go on without it. His hat was, 
 of course, made to fit over the wig, and his own hair being cut 
 short, the hat, when on, came so low down that it almost covered 
 his ears, and had somewhat the appearance of an extinguisher. 
 The effect this appearance had upon us can be imagined. On 
 looking up, I saw only a part of his face, hidden under the huge 
 pot-hat, and no ears ! It was so sudden and unexpected, that 
 instead of a look of terror on my face, there was nothing but a con- 
 vulsive effort to suppress laughter. Mr. Younge muttered under 
 his breath, ' For mercy's sake, don't laugh !' I had no sooner dis- 
 appeared under the table, than I heard Mr. Hare give a kind of 
 grunt, which told me how the strange appearance had affected him, 
 and he and I were under the table exhausted with- laughter. Mr. 
 Younge only added to the absurdity of the situation by looking ex- 
 ceedingly angry at such a trick being played upon him : his agita- 
 tion, serious expression, and, above all, his desperate earnestness in 
 begging us not to laugh, with his head buried in a hat which 
 almost came down to his neck, holding the milk-can out for me to 
 take — a situation which was always a most impressive and interest- 
 ing one — at this particular moment became to us painfully comic. 
 My efforts to suppress my laughter made me positively ill. When 
 Mr. Hare and I emerged from under the table to see if George 
 D'Alroy were really a ghost or absolute flesh and blood, the 
 moment we faced him we were again convulsed with laughter, for 
 he had removed the extinguisher, and showed his own close-cut 
 dark hair of convict type in place of the flaxen wig. ■ In the busi- 
 ness of the scene I had to go off into hysterics when I ascertained 
 for a fact that George was really alive. This was lucky for me, for 
 it helped me to give vent to my laughter. But poor Mr. Hare, 
 whose mouth was full of bread-and-butter, had no such safety-valve, 
 and almost choked. At last we got through the play, and I re- 
 turned to my dressing-room perfectly exhausted. I believe Mr. 
 Younge never forgave the trick that was played upon him. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1866-67 109 
 
 Miss Thompson's engagement ended, unhappily, in a dispute, 
 which had to be settled at Westminster, where the Law Courts then 
 were. Lord Chief Justice Bovill, I remember, presided. Mr, 
 (since Sir John, and now Baron) Huddleston fought for my oppo- 
 nent, while our old friend, the late Mr. Serjeant Ballantine, repre- 
 sented our views of the case. The question at issue was of con- 
 siderable moment to the theatrical world, and during the trial the 
 court was very crowded. While I was giving my evidence I recall 
 quite distinctly the fact of Mr. Bancroft, who occupied a prominent 
 position in the front of the little gallery, enlivening the proceedings 
 by dropping his walking-stick in dangerous proximity to the heads 
 of the junior bar. The case ended in a trivial verdict ; inferring, I 
 presume, that plaintiff and defendant were both in the right and 
 both in the wrong. I am afraid I regarded ' the law ' as a thing 
 ' fearfully and wonderfully made,' and inclined, very often, to the 
 opinion expressed on the subject by the immortal Mr. Bumble. 
 
 In the case of Lydia Thompson and myself the saying, ' It is 
 astonishing how much better I like a man after I have fought with 
 him,' was very true, for we have been the best of friends ever since. 
 
 On the evening after the trial it so chanced that we met Mr. 
 Huddleston, who was then known as the ' buck of the bar,' at a 
 party, when our opponent of the previous day had to take me in to 
 dinner, and I had the great pleasure to commence a friendship 
 which my husband and I have enjoyed ever since. 
 
 I have but a few paragraphs to add to Mrs. Bancroft's history of 
 NOTES BY MR. this seasou. I recall an incident which befell John 
 BANCROFT. Clarke during the run of Ours, owing to the removal 
 for a short while from the time-tables of the long-standing five 
 o'clock train from Brighton, where Clarke had gone from Sunday 
 morning to the Monday afternoon ; during which he learnt by 
 accident, while shopping with his host or hostess (who will well re- 
 member the incident), that the five o'clock train, to catch which he 
 was then on his way to the station, had been taken off. Horror- 
 stricken at the discovery — as it must be remembered that plays 
 began much earlier in those days, for we had not yet introduced 
 the luxurious eight and half-past eight commencement, and the 
 curtain rose to Ours shortly after seven, the comedy being acted in 
 conjunction with a burlesque — Clarke was driven to the station at 
 a furious pace, to find the news confirmed. There was then no 
 other train for hours, and no possibility of reaching town except by 
 a special. This was quickly ordered, and he was shot, with his 
 luggage, into the solitary compartment, and arrived at Victoria 
 shaken to a jelly. Then, thanks to a rapid hansom, he dashed up 
 the stairs of the theatre to his dressing-room, just in time to relieve 
 our anxiety and to do his work, for which all sorts of impromptu 
 arrangements were being considered ; for he counted on arriving, 
 as he did, just in time, and had not telegraphed news of his adven- 
 
no OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ture. While scrambling into his clothes, he gasped out a request 
 to me to send down some money to the cabman ; and I can recall 
 his indignation now, as he told me the story, at having, after pay- 
 ing for the special train, to take a ticket to London, as his own 
 return half was only valid by an ordinary train. 
 
 I remember also, at about the same time, feeling an addition to 
 my importance, when I gave my first 'man's dinner-party.' Among 
 the guests who then honoured their young host I know were 
 Sothern, Boucicault, and Tom Hood. Dining soon afterwards at 
 Sothern's charming old house in Wright's Lane, Kensington, I 
 sat next to a man whose appearance faintly suggested my make-up 
 as Hawtree ; this happened during the early rehearsals of Caste. 
 All that had been said on the subject by the author when he read 
 his comedy, by way of describing George D'Alroy and his friend 
 Captain Hawtree, was that he wished one of them to be fair, and 
 the other dark. 
 
 Fred Younge was amazed when I went to him and asked if he 
 would mind being the fair man. He said how on earth could he 
 do such a thing ! He was the sentimental hero, and of course was 
 intended to be dark ; while, as what he described as the comic 
 dandy or fop, I was equally compelled to be fair, and wear long 
 flaxen whiskers. I eventually succeeded in touching a very pardon- 
 able vanity — his only drawback to his ever-to-be-remembered per- 
 formance being that he had already partly lost \a& preDiiere jeunesse 
 — by suggesting that a chestnut-coloured wig would give him youth. 
 At any rate I got my way ; but I believe, at the time, I was by 
 more than one person thought to be mad for venturing to clothe 
 what was supposed to be, more or less, a comic part in the quietest 
 of fashionable clothes, and to appear as a pale-faced man with 
 short, straight black hair. The outline of the plot and portions of 
 the dialogue of Caste may be found in a contribution by Robertson 
 to a Christmas volume edited by Tom Hood, which was called 
 Rates atid Taxes., and published at Christmas, 1866; and apropos 
 of a play and part to which I owe so much, had I at the time read 
 the story on which he built up his chef d'ceiivre, I should certainly 
 have begged Robertson to have retained the incident of the loss of 
 an arm which is the case with the equivalent to Hawtree, as I think 
 I could have turned it to good accoilnt in the last act. It was in 
 Caste that we made a distinct stride towards realistic scenery. The 
 rooms, for the first time, had ceilings, \\'hile such details as locks to 
 doors, and similar matters, had never before been seen upon the 
 stage. 
 
 On 'the Hill' at Epsom this year, memorable in racing circles 
 through the snowstorm in which Hermit won the Derby, I was 
 first introduced to Edmund Yates, whose friendship for now full 
 twenty years I have enjoyed, with no remembrance of a rough word 
 having ever imperilled it. 
 
 I wonder if he remembers who presented me to him, or if he 
 
THE SEASON OF 1867-68 in 
 
 recollects my asking him later on what he expected the mutual 
 acquaintance in question, who might not have really known his face 
 and form until ' Ape ' immortalized them in one of his marvellous 
 drawings for Vanity Fair, would think of the caricature. Yates's 
 reply to my question was in these words : ' Well, my dear B,, if 
 you want my opinion, I should say he would tell everybody he 
 thought it delightful ; but when he got home would lock the door, 
 and rub his head in the hearthrug !' 
 
 Caste went bravely on, and its great success firmly established 
 the little theatre in public regard. The run was by no means ex- 
 hausted when the season ended in July, to allow the fulfilment of 
 engagements to play it for four weeks at the Alexandra Theatre, 
 Liverpool, which was then under Mr. Byron's management, and 
 also for a month at the Prince's Theatre, Manchester. The play 
 was received at both cities with extraordinary enthusiasm. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 867-68. 
 
 Gilbert's farce, Allow Me to Explain — Boucicault's comedy, How She Loves 
 Him — A subterfuge at rehearsal — Burning of Her Majesty's Tlieatre — 
 Criticism by Edmund Yates — Box and Cox — Caste in the provinces — Death 
 of Lady Harrington and of Charles Kean — Anecdotes of Kean — Letter 
 from Boucicault— Robertson's new comedy, Play — Henry Irving — Paul 
 Bedford — Byron's humorous . description — Vacation at Broadstairs and . 
 Paris — Yates's proffered comedy — A Ham Peggoty story from real life. 
 
 The successful career of Caste was resumed on Saturday, Sep- 
 coMMiiNCED tember 28th, and on November 4th a clever litde farce 
 BY MK. — one of the earliest works of its since distinguished 
 BANCROFT, author, to whom playgoers have been so greatly in- 
 debted, W. S. Gilbert — called Allow Me to Explain, was produced 
 and played as an after-piece to the comedy, George Honey and 
 myself taking the principal characters. A comedy named How 
 She Loves Him, written by D-ion Boucicault, and which had been 
 originally acted in America, was under consideration for some little 
 time, and finally fixed upon to succeed Caste, Robertson cordially 
 agreeing with our effort to avoid offering the public toujours perdrix, 
 and being anxious to be relieved from the responsibility of continu- 
 ally providing the programme. This arrangement was all the more 
 welcome to him at this time, as he was on the eve of going to 
 Frankfort to be married to Miss Feist, a handsome German girl, 
 who was his second wife. A letter from Boucicault, who had his 
 play in two forms — a three-act and a five-act version^is interesting 
 after this long lapse of time : 
 
112 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' 326, Regent Street, November 10, 1867. 
 
 'My dear Marie, -Shall I tell you what you said when you 
 read the piece ? " Oh dear ! this is not what I expected ; I don't 
 see this at all !" 
 
 ' Now show me how good you think me by saying outright what 
 you think, and don't offend me by " doing the nice," and by imagin- 
 ing that you can ever wound my vanity. 
 
 ' The piece you have is the old piece cut into three instead of 
 into five acts, with two scenes added to bind the first and second 
 acts into one, and the fourth and fifth into one ; the second being 
 the old third. There ! you see I will not allow you any escape ! 
 The comedy is one of " character and conversation," sketchy and 
 slight. It does not "smack" on your palate, and you are disap- 
 pointed sadly. There, there ! pout it out ! Push the glasses away, 
 and say, " Give me something else, " and don't dare to imagine 
 that I shall be the less sincerely yours, Dion Boucicault.' 
 
 ' It was eventually settled that the comedy should be produced in 
 its five-act form, and the rehearsals of it were soon commenced 
 under the direction of the author. H. J. Montague — a young actor 
 of great personal charm, who, we felt sure, had every chance of 
 growing into public favour — was engaged, and also Mr. Blakeley, 
 known well by both of us in Liverpool, and who in this play made 
 his first London appearance. Boucicault's accomplished power as 
 a stage-manager is too well known to need our praise, and it was 
 a lesson to young managers to sit under him. Sometimes, how- 
 ever, he would change a fragment of the stage business, previously 
 arranged, for the worse — not perhaps an altogether unknown weak- 
 ness with dramatic authors ; there was, we thought, a distinct 
 instance of this at the end of the first act of How She Loves Him, 
 which at last got very muddled. An idea struck one of us which 
 was a distinct improvement on what had been rehearsed, but we 
 hardly, in those days, liked to interfere with such an autocrat, kiiid 
 as we had always found him. We are sure our old friend will for- 
 give 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 was done by attributing the notion to himself, 
 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 way to have supper in the coffee-room of 
 the Cafd de I'Europe, which was then partitioned off into the old- 
 fashioned ' boxes,' and much frequented by old Mr. Keeley, Buck- 
 stone, Walter Montgomery, Sothern, Kendal (then a young Hay- 
 market recruit), Walter Lacy, and other kindred souls. I stood 
 
THE SEASON OF 1867-68 113 
 
 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 Casie would surely have drawn good houses for a much 
 longer time, we continued the principle we had already begun of 
 making a repertoire 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 programme met with a somewhat stormy reception. 
 
 On Saturday, December 21, 1867, will be produced 
 A MODERN COMEDY IN FIVE ACTF, ENTITLED 
 
 HOW SHE LOVES HIM, 
 
 WKITTEK BY DION COUCICAULT, 
 
 The Author of ' London Assurance,' ' Old Heads and Young Hearts,' etc., etc. 
 
 SIR ABEL HOTSPUR, H.E.LC.S. [an In- 
 valid) ..... Mr. W. Blakeley. 
 BEECHER SPRAWLEY . . .Mr. BANCROFT, 
 MR. '^KTXUiLTQV [divorced from his Wife). Mr. Hare. 
 DICK HEARTLEY (in love with Atalanta) . Mr, H. J. MONTAGUE. 
 DOODY [Attendant mi Sir Abel) . . Mr. J. P. Reynolds. 
 SIR JERICHO MAXIMUM, M.D. . . Mr. E. Dyas. 
 DR. MINIMUM [a Homceopathic Doctor) . Mr. H. W. Montgomery. 
 DR. AQUARIUS ZKWERTZ [a Hydropathic 
 
 Doctor) ...... Mr. Tindale. 
 
 SPARKS [an Eleciropathic Practitioner) . Mr. TRAFfORD. 
 
 TUCKER [a Servant) .... Mr. Hill. 
 
 LADY SELINA RAFFLETICKET (a Woman 
 
 about Town) . . . . Mrs. Leigh Murray. 
 
 MRS, NETTLETOP .... Miss Lydia Foote. 
 
 MISS ATALANTA CRUISER . . Miss Marie Wilton. 
 
 BOS^Y [a Maid of all work) . . . Miss GEORGE. 
 
 The Scene passes during the first Four Acts at Snuggleton-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 — allopathic, homoeo- 
 pathic, 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 
 
114 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 grown popular, Beecher Sprawley — a character 
 in which I built up some eccentricities founded on the pecuharities 
 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 performance : '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 the genus "' dandy." In 
 former years, the actor personating them would have put on a pal- 
 pably 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 represent, 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 How She Loves Hiiii (for audiences were 
 hardly yet contented with a single play as a nig'ht's entertainment 
 in those days) was the old farce Box and Cox, cast as follows : 
 Box, Mr. George Honey ; Cox, Mr. Hare ; Mrs. Bouncer, Mrs. 
 Leigh Murray. 
 
 I must ask for a brief pause in our narrative to tell of what was 
 NOTE BY MRS. to me a sad loss. Poor Lady Harrington was suffering 
 BANCROFT, from her old winter complaint, bronchitis, and had 
 been for some time so ill as to be confined to her bed. I had re- 
 ceived 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 
 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 un- 
 accountably full of thoughts about her. I had been making some 
 purchases in Regent Street, and on my way home in a cab was 
 wondering, as I was driven through the crowd of vehicles, if I 
 
THE SEASON OF 1867-68 115 
 
 should ever see her in her well-known carriage again, 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 Ladv 
 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 lessjen 
 my gratitude. 
 
 The death of Lady Harrington reminds me that very shortly 
 
 RESUMED afterwards Charles Kean also passed away, and of my 
 BY MR. last sight of him, almost within view of the scene of 
 
 BANCROFT, ^jg many triumphs. Early in the year I was on my 
 way to pay a professional visit to Sir William Fergusson, when, 
 close to Hanover Square, 1 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 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 XI. 
 
 Very shortly afterwards he was laid at rest in the little church- 
 yard 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 creaking 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 dismissal if any carpenter or 
 other servant caused the smallest interruption during Mr. Kean's 
 scenes. This naturally made the working men angry, as the 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 
 
ii6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 carpenters that ' Kean was coming,' there would be shrugging of 
 shoulders, groans, and various expressions of discontent. At the 
 commencement of one particular engagement these men formed a 
 conspiracy amongst themselves. The opening play was Hamlet, 
 and they 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.' 
 
 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 not — 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 question.' 
 
 Voice (louder) : ' Jo Attwood !' 
 
 Kean : ' Until Mr. Attwood is found 1 cannot go on !' 
 
 ' Mr. Attwood ' could not 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 management of the Princess's Theatre, one of 
 the ballet-girls, who sometimes was given a few lines to speak, and 
 who knew her managei-'s failing, used to haunt the wings and go 
 into audible raptures over the tragedian'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 promoted to a superior 
 position. Her advancement, of course, was noticed by her com- 
 panions, and to her greatest friend among them she told her secret, 
 advising the girl to follow her example. Nothing loth, number two 
 
THE SEASON OF 1867-68 117 
 
 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 ?' SAe 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 autographs 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 engrossed 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 
 but two words — to reassure me. I have received a terrible admo- 
 nition. 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 gigantic instrument of education for the instruc- 
 tion 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 
 How 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 subject also being laid on fresh ground, as a drama 
 we 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 How She Loves Him continued till 
 the end of its run, and was not interfered with by the disappoint- 
 ment resulting from its failure to draw large houses. He even 
 
ii8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 : 
 
 ' My 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 Bawn, Arrah-7ia-Pogue. 
 
 ' Robertson differs from me, not fundamentally, 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 blend the two. You have solved 
 this very important question for yourself. Comedy, pure and simple, 
 is rejected of i868. — Believe me always very sincerely yours, Dion 
 
 BOUCICAULT.' 
 
 We now append a copy of the first bill of Robertson's new 
 comedy : 
 
 On Satufday, February 15, 1868, will be acted 
 
 A NEW AND ORIGINAL COMEDY, ENTITLED 
 
 PLAY, 
 
 By T. IV: Robertson, the AutJior of ' Society,' ' Ours, and ' Caste.' 
 
 THE GRAF VON STAUFENBERG . Me. H. W. Montgomeky. 
 
 THE HON. BRUCE FANQUEHERE . Mr. Hake. 
 
 CAPITAN STOCKSTADT . . Mr. Sydney. 
 
 THE CHEVALIER BROWNE . Mr. Bancroft. 
 
 MR. BODMIN TODDER . . . Mr. W. Blakeley. 
 
 FRANK PRICE . . Mr. H. [. Montague. 
 
 A CROUPIER . . Monsieur Eugene Silveyra. 
 
 ROSIE FANQUEHERE . Miss Marie Wilton. 
 
 AMANDA . . .Miss Lydia Foote. 
 
 MRS. KIN PECK . . 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 1 Night. Act IV. — Der Kursaal und 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 on the flowing 
 
THE SEASON OF 1867-68 119 
 
 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 conversa- 
 tion with the Prince, whose well-known love of exactitude in such 
 matters enabled us to correct a slight error in the Graf von Stau- 
 fenberg's uniform. 
 
 Walking arm-in-arm with Montague one day in the early spring 
 of this year, we turned from Piccadilly 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 rehearsa 
 one morning of the part of Rawdon Scudamore in Dion Bouci- 
 cault's play. Hunted Down, 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. 
 
 Play 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 re- 
 minds me of the date. May i6th, 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 Play. The new generation will know little of Paul 
 Bedford, but older play-goers will recall his enormous body sur- 
 mounted by a face very like that of a kitchen clock, and his per- 
 petual ' I believe you, my boy !' In a little amateur manuscript 
 magazine, the work of mutual friends for Mrs. Bancroft's amuse- 
 ment, 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) Corre- 
 spondents,' which we will quote : 
 
 'We beg to state that we never give any information about 
 actors ; but as you say you have taken us in ever since we came 
 out, we will, for once in a way, gratify your curiosity by giving a 
 
120 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 concise history of Mr. Paul Bedford. His father was an under- 
 taker in a large way, and his mother was, of course, a /^//-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 " iaa," but he 
 always preferred the stage to the pen. He was very young as a 
 child, but as he advanced in years he grew older. He grew so ex- 
 ceedingly fat, that his figure had been frequently known to fill the 
 house. He had one severe illness, when he got up thin, but eventu- 
 ally 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, who 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 dunib 
 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 extracting the winkle from 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 
 Sundays, when he goes out of town to visit an 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 
 Pau^ Herring for breakfast. He takes snuff, and sneezes twice regu- 
 larly every birthday. He will be fourteen next April, if not thrown 
 back by illness. Paulo post future, Verb. sap. Jam satis. Whack 
 row de row j such 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 for 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, Jime 2, 1868. 
 ' My dear Mrs. Bancroft,— Is there any use in my finish- 
 ing 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 produce the comedy 
 during our next season. 
 
 On June 20th, to eke out the season, we revived Caste for a few 
 weeks, Montague replacing Frederick Younge (who was then 
 
THE SEASON OF 1867-68 121 
 
 managing the country company) as George D'Alroy. 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 
 Caste 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 Captain 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 gasman. 
 
 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 re- 
 solved to resign my original part of Daryl to Montague. 
 
 We took a little old-fashioned furnished house this year at Broad- 
 stairs, and passed nearly the whole of our holiday very quietly 
 there. Our chief amusement 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 dresser in the 
 theatre we took with us to Broadstairs 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 
 afrajd, 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 Punch 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 down 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 Broadstairs was 
 passed in Paris in the full glare of an August sun, at the then most 
 excellent Hotel du Helder. This was in the days of the Empire — 
 in fact, the very time of the Emperor's/#/«-day. Le Due Job was 
 being acted at the Frangais, and Got was then young enough to 
 play the hero. L'Abime, a French version oi No Thoroughfare, 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 Place de la Bourse, with Pierre 
 Burton the elder in the part Fechter played in London. 
 
 Our eccentric manservant expressed his views upon the invest- 
 
122 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ment 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 everything here is ever so much 
 better than everything in our countiy. Now, I don't see much 
 difference between Paris and London ; they bjirn 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 enough ; but I don't 
 think it's a bit better than our's : in fact, I think our moon has a 
 trifle the best of it !' 
 
 Back from the glare 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, with its thick 
 
 A STOKY slate-pencil sky, frowning, as it were, upon our busy, 
 BY MRS. restless life, go into the peaceful country, what a con- 
 
 BANCROFT. trast 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 found. Misfortune is ubi- 
 quitous, and knows no ' With your leave, or by your leave.' The 
 following episode happened during this holiday : in my country 
 wanderings 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 sympa- 
 thetic 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 stuff had perhaps 
 been spoiled in the cutting out. 
 
 They would relate their stories in such unstudied simple lan- 
 guage, 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, Avhile 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 laug'h 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 mothei-'s cottage now and again and chatting with them there. 
 He was hard at work, seemingly, 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 
 
THE SEASON OF 1867-68 123 
 
 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 appears 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.' ' Well, you are somebody, 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 explain 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 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 A/i'a — 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 rfiV— 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, ' Forgive 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 ag'in. 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 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 : 
 
124 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' 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 rnile 
 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 
 voice failed him here, and after pausing for a second or two he 
 added, 'A lump comes into my throat now and agin, 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 com- 
 fortable. 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 remem- 
 brance 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 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 tiy ; but, after all, it 'ardly 
 matters !' 
 
 How near akin are truth and fiction ! We lived again in the 
 
THE SEASON OF 1868-69 125 
 
 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. 
 
 Reproduction of Society — A new comedietta, Atchi — A stage-struck young 
 gentleman is given an engagement — Tame Cats — Mrs. Bancroft's macaw — 
 Cliarles CoUette's first appearance — A soldier's story — Society restored to 
 the bills — An instance of plagiarism — Production of School — Its remarkable 
 success — 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. 
 
 It may be of interest to note here, in contrast to the charges of the 
 BEGUN present day, that the price of admission to the stalls 
 BY MR. was raised at the beginning of this season from six to 
 BANCROFT. seveH shillings, to the dress-circle from four to five shil- 
 lings, 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 important 
 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 ar- 
 ranged should be the next production, the author of Caste 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 theatre. On this revival of Robertson's comedy 
 the principal characters were cast as follows : Lord Ptarmigant, 
 Mr. Hare ; Lord Cloudwrays, M.P., Mr. Terriss ; 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'SuUivan, 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 maid- 
 servant that ' a young gentleman had called,' who seemed very per- 
 sistent 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 
 joined our visitor rather angrily, but was soon disarmed by the 
 frank manner of a very young man, who, within five minutes, in the 
 
126 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 engagement.' 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 Cloudwrays, 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 different matter in those days, being, in fact, about half of what 
 they reached at the end of our fifteen years there. 
 
 Although the following letter refers to a domestic matter, it is so 
 very characteristic of the writer, and our old friend, that we do not 
 hesitate to give it the short space it will take up : 
 
 ' S, Conduit Street, November 2, i868. 
 
 ' My 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 Ban- 
 croft, yours very sincerely, H. J. Byron. 
 
 ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' 
 
 Meanwhile Edmund Yates had finished his comedy. We were, 
 of course, in constant communication, which was rendered easier 
 by the fact of his living 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 '). 
 Taine 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 play 
 was produced on Saturday, December 12th. The cast was a good 
 
THE SEASON OF 1868-69 127 
 
 one, as an extract from the bill will show, and we all worked 
 bravely to make it a success : Mr. Waverham, Mr. H. J. Montague ; 
 Mortimer Wedgwood, Mr. Bancroft ; Mr. Tweedie, Mr. W. 
 Blakeley ; Charles Hampton, Mr. Charles Collette (his first appear- 
 ance) ; Ezra Stead, Mr. Hare ; Biddies, Mr. H. W. Montgomery ; 
 Mrs. Waverham, Miss Carlotta Addison ; Mrs. Langley, Miss Marie 
 Wilton ; Mrs. Joppet, Mrs. Buckingham White ; Annie Temple, 
 Miss Augusta Wilton ; Ellis, Miss Ada Coates. 
 
 While considering how best to make the scene of the first act, the 
 NOTES garden of a pretty villa on the Thames, as effective and 
 BY MRS. natural as possible, it occurred to us that a macaw 
 BANCROFT, with his gay plumage 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 preferred 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 some- 
 what of a nuisance, for the moment I left the room where he was 
 kept, he made hideous noises until I returned, and then became 
 languid with affection. I had complete 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 admirably, 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 ap- 
 plause, 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 (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 
 
128 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 quickly as possible. This was Mr. Macaw's first and last appear- 
 ance, and when he left the theatre the next day, the dressersi 
 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 Tame Cats as a shabby and disreputable 
 creature who was a returned convict ; 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 price- 
 less, at last striking a bargain for its purchase with the bewildered 
 owner, and carrying it off in triumph, with some horrible rags of 
 garments which had to be well baked in an oven before they could 
 be worn. 
 
 The evening was not a cheerful one. The part of Mortimer 
 CONTINUED Wedgwood, a mock poet and one of the ' Tame Cats ' 
 BY MR. of the house, was resented by the audience and critics, 
 BANCROFT, somc 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 Collettemade his first appearance 
 as a professional actor. He had for some time been the life and 
 soul of his old regiment (3rd Dragoon Guards), en amateur, 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 vehemence 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 saying of me at the War Office ? 
 To the amazement of the rest of the audience, the friendly 
 dragoons received this simple speech as the finest joke ever 
 penned. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1868-69 129 
 
 A story of his old soldiering-days, which CoIIette 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 regiment, 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 desperation, 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 colonel, who went on talking to his guest, and now, without 
 ceasing or moving a muscle, also dropped a piece of ice into his 
 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 done the right thing. If ever soldier deserved 
 the Victoria Cross, the colonel of that regiment did. 
 
 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 completed, 
 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 improriiptu effort to produce the semblance of 
 age only added to her then girlish appearance. 
 
 When School, as he christened the successor to Play, was read 
 to us by Robertson, we were delighted with it, and were also re- 
 sponsible, 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 Oxehford, wrote : 'The dialogue between the 
 young lord and Bella, while they converse in the moonlight con- 
 templating their own strongly-cast shadows, and fancifully com- 
 menting 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 
 
 9 
 
I30 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 quickly as possible. Unfortunately, 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 running 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 beauti- 
 ful, and he worked long hours to be ready for us. 
 
 An incident may be worth recording here as some proof how 
 innocently a writer may plagiarize. Robertson came to me one 
 day when the rehearsals were well advanced, and wished to intro- 
 duce a line or two in the soliloquy I had to speak while sitting 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 will fit in with the sentiment of your speech.' A long 
 time after, when reading Goldsmith's Good-Natured Man, to see if 
 we thought it worth revival, I found this sentence from the mouth 
 of Miss Richland : ' Our sex are like poor tradesmen, 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 production, 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 : 
 
 On Sahirday, Januajy i6, 1869, 
 
 WILL BE ACTED, FOR THE FIRST 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 FARINTOSH . . . .Mr. Hare. 
 JACK POYNTZ . . . .Mr. Bancroft. 
 MR. KRUX Mr, F. Glover. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1868-69 131 
 
 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 : Reahzation. 
 
 For the outline of the plot of this comedy, the author has acknow- 
 ledged his indebtedness to a German play by Roderich Benedix, 
 called Aschenbriidel (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 of a new comedy by Mr. T. W. Robertson at the theatre 
 which, once obscure, has become, under the direction of Miss Marie 
 Wilton, the most fashionable 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 Dromp- 
 ton — 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, ' 1 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 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 accojmt to the actor, who answered the 
 application for the money in this doggerel r 
 
 9—2 
 
132 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' 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 annoyance, 
 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 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 experiment, however, 
 was so novel, that it only attracted a moderate house in the day- 
 time, and it was not for some years that matinees 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 Armytage, 
 and Colonel (now General) Du Plat : 
 
 ' Garrick Club, Saturday, April 3, 1869. 
 
 '3.5s 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 unani- 
 mously elected to the Garrick Club. Trusting that this will not 
 render you unduly 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. 
 
 My memory, alas ! recalls names and faces to be no more 
 recalled in any other way. Let me light a cigar in the smoking- 
 rooin, and, at peace in one of its big armchairs, invoke ' King Nod,' 
 and visit his majesty's dominions in the land of dreams. Soon do 
 
THE SEASON OF 1868-69 133 
 
 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 Anglesey (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 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 pi-cture again delightful visits to the billiard-room, 
 where I was first welcomed (although no player) by its constant 
 habitu^. 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 being 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 Pu7ich 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 Bal- 
 lantine and Parry, who are talking out the points of that day's con- 
 flict in the Common Pleas ; and, as I leave, am awakened by my 
 surprise at meeting 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 
 
134 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 monoto- 
 nously 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 suc- 
 cess which had attended previous productions 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 dramatic sense 
 with Caste, nor does it contain a scene to equal the second act of 
 Ours. The public, however, 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 refurnish, 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. Alter- 
 ations and decorations for our new home, and the work in progress 
 for the theatre, kept us busy. The summer soon arri\ed : still 
 School -ran on its unbroken course, and we resolved to break the 
 run for a few evenings only, elaborate arrangements being made 
 for the completion 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 
 
THE SEASON OF 1869-70 135 
 
 night Charles Dickens — proving to be, alas 1 his farewell visit to 
 the theatre — v?as among the audience, it being the hundred and 
 ninety-second performance oi School. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 869-70. 
 
 School resumed— Address to the public on the improvements in the theatre — 
 Letter from Mr. (now Sir) Frederic Leighton — Robertson's health failing — 
 Incident on a foggy night — Letter from Charles Mathews — His benefit at 
 Covent Garden — His speech on proposing his own health — Death of Leigh 
 Murray — Charles Dickens's readings ; two special mornings for the actors 
 — A home sorrow — Robertson very ill— Montague's secession from the 
 company ; engagement of Coghlan — ^A new comedy, M. P. , produced — 
 Criticism by Tom Taylor — Great success — Special morning performance 
 of the School for Scandal and Married Life at Drury Lane — Mr. Bancroft as 
 Sir Benjamin Backbite — Death of Charles Dickens— His letter to Mrs. Ban- 
 croft — His influence on funerals — Hare's matinie at the Pnncess's Theatre 
 — At Scarborough — Henry Fothergill Chorley — The Franco-German War. 
 
 After a 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 nth, 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 during 
 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 con- 
 sidered 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 
 our School, which next week will reach its two-hundredth repre- 
 sentation, finally breaks up. 
 
 ' While altering and improving 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 
 loeen 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.' 
 
136 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 This was the first time the orchestra had been so placed as to be 
 hidden from the sight of the audience. The space formerly occu- 
 pied 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 unknown 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 accomplished President of the Royal 
 Academy will excuse our printing the following kind note on this 
 subject : 
 
 ' 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 night, and how dead tired of it yoii 
 must be ! not so we. — Believe me, with kind remembrance to Ban- 
 croft, yours very truly, Fred. Leighton.' 
 
 It was about this time that we first detected signs 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-enduring 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 ex- 
 ceptionally dense and thick that at the close the streets were dan- 
 gerous to traverse. At eleven o'clock the royal carriages, after 
 great difficulty — the coachmen having once lost their way in Clifford 
 Street, through mistaking 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 Marl- 
 borough House. Our own journey home was a long and dan- 
 gerous one, and many among the audience must have met with 
 difficulties. 
 
 The following letter will best tell its tale : 
 
 ' Edinburgh, November 27, 1869. 
 
 ' My 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 
 
THE SEASON OF 1869-70 137 
 
 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 ; and in the mean- 
 time 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 memorable, took 
 place on Tuesday morning, January 4th, at Covent Garden Theatre, 
 iDefore a most brilliant audience — all the leading actors of the day 
 appearing in various selections. The principal members of our 
 own company played the examination scene from School, in which 
 Naomi Tighe could not resist improvising an extra question to be 
 put to her by Dr. Sutcliffe as to ' what she considered the most 
 valuable possession of Australia ?' The answer, ' Charles Mathews,' 
 was, of course, a g'ood one for the occasion, and appealed at once 
 to the sympathies of the audience. 
 
 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, de- 
 livered 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 say 
 that I was placed in not only a novel but an unprecedented 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 anniversary 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 gifted 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 child- 
 hood 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 
 
138 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 again, under the most embarrassing circum- 
 stances, and what is still more remarkable, he has always taken my 
 advice in preference to that of anyone else.' 
 
 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 
 remarked : ' The late Douglas Jerrold once said to me that he did 
 not despair of living to see the day 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 — himself 
 
 The sensation caused by Charles Dickens's readings 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 mati7iees, which were only then known to panto- 
 mimes. Dickens's love for everything dramatic prompted him in 
 charming terms to acquiesce at once, but his serious illness pre- 
 vented 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 terrible ' Sykes and Nancy ' selection from Oliver 
 Twist (the strain and exertion of which, doubtless, through fre- 
 quent 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 spellbound 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. 
 
 Matters simply of home life, merely joys or sorrows, have been 
 
THE SEASON OF 1869-70 139 
 
 thought by both of us to have no claim to be recorded in this book ; 
 and if, for a moment, I (s. B. B.) raise the veil that shrouds such 
 things, and allude in this paragraph to a wretchedness that befell 
 us at the time, it is due to the still keen remembrance of a grief 
 which — though brieily — 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 sum- 
 moned 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, 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 unprecedented ' 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 under- 
 took 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 released 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. 
 
 The new comedy was received with enthusiasm by the company, 
 and rehearsals were at once commenced. 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 grow- 
 ing fear lest it should not act so well as it had read. The end of 
 the play was dictated by the 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 affec- 
 tion 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 
 
I40 
 
 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Robertson, 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 un- 
 christened, when a conversation between us, as we were driving to 
 one of its rehearsals through the Regent's Park, led to an inspir- 
 ation on the part of Mrs. Bancroft, who suggested that it should be 
 called M. 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 per- 
 formances, and might, we truly believe, 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. 
 
 On Saturday, April 23, 1870, will be acted 
 
 M. P., 
 
 A NEW AND ORIGINAL COMEDY, BY T. W. KOBEETSON, 
 
 The Azithor of ' School, ' ' 
 
 Play,' ' Caste,' ' Ours,' and ' Society.' 
 
 DUNSCOMBE DUNSCOMBE 
 
 . Mr. H.'vee. 
 
 CHUDLEIGH DUNSCOMBE 
 
 Mr. Coghlan. 
 
 TALBOT PIERS 
 
 . Mk. Bancroft. 
 
 ISAAC SKOOME 
 
 . Mr. Addison. 
 
 MR, BRAN 
 
 Mr. Charles Collette. 
 
 MR. BRAY 
 
 . Mr. F. Glover. 
 
 MR. MULHOWTHER. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery. 
 
 CECILIA DUNSCOMBE 
 
 . Miss Marie Wilton. 
 
 
 (Mrs. Bancroft.) 
 
 RUTH DEYBROOKE 
 
 . Miss C-Arlotta 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 mes- 
 sengers in hot haste after every act with the good news of their 
 reception. This success, we have no doubt, prolong'ed his life at 
 least by months, and rekindled for awhile the little 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 
 on the space allotted to the pit, and could not have been otherwise 
 added to. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1869-70 141 
 
 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 plea- 
 santly 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 stage, has preserved most of the arch humour and shrewd 
 significance of Mrs. Keeley, while her line 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 perfoi'mance 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 mixture 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 Ben- 
 jamin Backbite, Mr. Bancroft ; Moses, Mr. J. Clarke ; Careless, 
 Mr. Montague ; Trip, Mr. H. J. Byron ; Snake, Mr. T. Stuart ; 
 Lady Teazle, Miss Amy Sedgwick ; Mrs. Candour, Mrs. Chip- 
 pendale ; Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Alfred Mellon ; Maria, Miss Edith 
 Stuart. — 
 
 Although I (s. B. B.) always detested scratch performances, I con- 
 sented to play Sir Benjamin Backbite, having, as I thought, some 
 ideas of the character as a ' macaroni ' of the period which might. 
 
142 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 * 
 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, para- 
 lyzed anything like progress ; 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 School for Scandal later 
 on, a view of the character which has been adopted on many sub- 
 sequent 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 gth — '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 : 
 
 ' Gad's Hill Piace, Higham by Rochester, Kent, 
 
 ' Thursday, May 31, 1870. 
 
 ' My 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 immediately. 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.' 
 
 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 
 
THE SEASON OF 1869-70 143 
 
 keen was the east wind, so sharp the frost, that the chief undertaker, 
 out of pity for the two unfortunates who were fulfilHng 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 P 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 parsimony: 'Mean, is 
 he ? Why, when his poor wife died he buried her from the Stores !' 
 
 Held down, as it were, by long runs, and 'obstructed,' so to 
 speak, by our antipathy to benefits, Mr. Hare asked our permission, 
 which was at once accorded, to give a special matinde at the 
 Princess's Theatre. The programme selected was the farce of the 
 Bengal Tiger, in 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 Harcourt Courtly, 
 Mr. Hare ; Charles Courtly, Mr. H. J. Montague ; Max Harkaway, 
 Mr. Addison ; Dazzle, Mr. Bancroft ; Dolly Spanker, Mr. Buckstone ; 
 Mark Meddle, Mr. J. L. Toole ; Cool, Mr. John Clayton ; Solomon 
 Isaacs, Mr. C. Collette ; Lady Gay Spanker, Mrs. Bancroft ; Grace 
 Harkaway, Miss Carlotta Addison ; Pert, 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 12th 
 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 after- 
 wards found out that he first felt an interest in us through having 
 accidentally overheard 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 ?' 
 
144 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Mr. Chorley was one of the strangest mixtures of hate and 
 
 NOTE affection I ever met. I told him so once, and he 
 
 BY MRS. replied, ' They don't mix ; they are separate always. 
 
 BANCROFT. 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 approach, he would take a long circuitous route to avoid meet- 
 ing her, and although she was very handsome, he would never 
 allow it, saying, ' With an ugly tongue no woman can be hand- 
 some.' 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 necktie 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 
 unusual 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 No. 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 Uke courage. You are not afraid of me, so I Vike. 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 (fcliked. He 
 railed violently at the German bands and organ-grinders, who per- 
 sistently 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.' 1 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 perpetrate 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 
 
THE SEASON OF 1870-71 145 
 
 disaster following disaster for the French was chronicled, culminating 
 in their humiliation at Sedan. Indeed, the sounds of a tottering 
 old newsvendor's piping voice still ring in one's ears, as he paraded 
 the streets, with his monotonous, reiterated cry, 'The Yorkshire 
 Post ! the Leeds Mercury ! containin' the last words of the poor 
 old Emperor afore he resigned hisself into the hands of the 
 Proosians !' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1870-71. 
 
 Withdrawal of M.P. — Robertson's last 'appearance at rehearsal — Revival of 
 0»-j— Robertson's opinion of the acting — Letter from Boucicault^Offer 
 of increased fees to Robertson — His reply — Mrs. Bancroft's dream about 
 Robertson — His death — Some peculiarities of his stage life — His funeral — 
 Notes by Mrs. Bancroft — Great success of Ours — Letter from Mr. Ruskin 
 — Cut off viith a Shilling — Lord Chief Justice Cockburn — Chorley : his 
 dinners and his guests — 'The Thi&tre Frangais company at the Opera 
 Comique — Banquet at the Crystal Palace — Wilkie Collins's drama, Man 
 and Wife — Letter from the author — Vacation at Scarborough : pleasant 
 days there — Walter Montgomery's death. 
 
 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 inore, 
 it attracted only moderate audiences. 
 
 We began to find ourselves somewhat in a fix to 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 hopefully looking 
 forward to his recovery, he was misled at this time by some ap- 
 parent return to health. He had made rtiany notes for a play we 
 had often talked about, the story of which bore some resemblance 
 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 Ours, 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 
 
146 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 play. Apropos of this cheery friend, we often talked together 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 douse the glims !' Lady 
 Inglefield often laughed at our salt-sea chatter. But to return to 
 Ours J one day, while a full-band rehearsal of the second act, where 
 the troops are supposed to be leaving for the Crimea, was in pro- 
 gress and the complete effect given to the scene, we were inter- 
 rupted by the grief of a poor old servant of the theatre, who was 
 engaged 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 sus- 
 tained 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 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 1' We shuddered at the words, and, when 
 he recovered, with difficulty persuaded him to return home ; for he 
 persisted 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, Oiirs was revived -v^-ith the following 
 cast of characters : Prince Perovsky, Mr. Hare ; Colonel Sir Alex- 
 ander Shendryn, Mr. Addison ; Captain Samprey, Mr. W. Herbert ; 
 Angus Macalister, Mr. Coghlan ; Hugh Chalcot, Mr. Bancroft ; 
 Sergeant Jones, Mr. Charles CoUette ; Lady Shendryn, Miss Le 
 Thiere ; Blanche Haye, Miss Fanny Josephs ; Mary Netley, Miss 
 Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft). 
 
 It may be interesting to note here that this play, like Masks and 
 
THE SEASON OF 1870-71 147 
 
 Faces, was suggested by a picture ; Robertson having evolved the 
 plot from thoughts inspired by Millais's magnificent painting, ' The 
 Black Brunswicker.' 
 
 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 fol- 
 lowing day he wrote this letter : 
 
 ' 6, Eton Road, N.W. , November 27, 1870. 
 
 ' My dear Marie, — Ours was acted so excellently last night 
 that, as I may not see you for the next few days, I 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 \q 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 1 felt grateful to the folks 
 on the 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. W. ROBERTSON.' 
 
 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. , Nmemier 27, 1870. 
 
 ' My dear BANCROFT,^Accept my warmest congratulations on 
 the very great improvement in the present performance of Ours 
 over the original cast, especially in the part of Chalcot. 
 
 ' The tone of the whole is elevated, and I entertain no doubt that 
 the play will have a second run. I agree with the remark of the 
 Observer oi\K\% 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 encourages inclines an actor to 
 slowdom of delivery. 
 
 10 — 3 
 
148 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' 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, every 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 play 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 7 *i870. 
 
 ' 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 brus- 
 querie, omission, and commission in this answer to your friendly 
 letter. 
 
 ' Useless to say I am glad to hear Ours 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 I return your cheque. I recognise your 
 kindness and intention to the full ; but having thought the matter 
 over, I cannot reconcile 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 certain sum, he must be content with it, and " seek 
 no new ;" if he g'oes 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 War, and which 
 was withdrawn from the St. James's programme after a very few 
 performances, seemed to hasten his end. For a little while he was 
 rarely able to see his closest friends, among whom at the time were 
 Dion Boucicault, Tom Hood, John Hare, and ourselves. 
 
 * 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. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1870-71 149 
 
 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, dwelling, among 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, when he left England to be married, I (M. E. B.) had a 
 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 children came up to 
 Mrs. Robertson with wreaths of im7nortelhs 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 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 some- 
 times 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 
 days 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. 
 
 Tom Robertson was fond of comparing our conduct with that of 
 other managers towards him in his early -days, and would often 
 linger long after the rehearsals were over, giving us painful accounts 
 of his many struggles in life, when, at times, he would express him- 
 self with much bitterness. We became the best of friends ; our 
 opinions on the art of acting perfectly coincided with his, and the 
 result was, to quote the words of others, ' A new era in dramatic 
 
ISO OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 history.' He would constantly speak of our little theatre with grati- 
 tude, and called it, as we have already 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 appreciation, 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. 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 v^'Ould often push his way into parts of the theatre where he 
 would not be recognised, and listen to all the opinions he could 
 overhear. He also made a point of having someone — 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 comparing the impression and the remarks he drew 
 from these different witnesses, generally, he said, with valuable 
 results. 
 
 On the night 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 remained 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 compliment to 
 a dramatic author ; but perhaps there never was an instance of a 
 dramatist, who was not likewise an actor, being so intimately asso- 
 ciated 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 dis- 
 tinguished dramatist, T. W. Robertson, was held, could have been 
 
THE SEASON OF 1B70-71 151 
 
 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 encouragement in a kindly voice spoken 
 — of some generous written acknowledgment of services rendered. 
 AH had enduring recollections of the warm heart and the active 
 brain ever ministering to the social happiness and the intel- 
 lectual 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. IBancroft 
 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 Longfellow came into the 
 minds of many, with the consolatory 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 inscription ; ' 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 adversity apparently light-heartedly, 
 and in his prosperity he lost no old friends, while gaining many 
 new ones. 
 
 Tom Robertson was one of the most sensitive of men, and at the 
 
 NOTES ON same time terribly sarcastic. I fancy his early troubles 
 
 EOBEETSON soured his nature, and often for the moment blunted 
 
 BY M. E. B. his best impulses. Many a time have I walked up 
 
 and down the stage with him, after a rehearsal was over, Estening 
 
152 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 might 
 kick it.' 
 
 He was very unforgiving and relentless in his condemnation when 
 he thought he had been slighted or wronged, although 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. He would take a strange 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 
 The 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 suffering. 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 sympathy, 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 muttered 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 forgive the 
 audience of that night. 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 Avas a Bohemian to the heart's core. I 
 
THE SEASON OF 1870-71 153 
 
 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 cer- 
 tainly 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 memory — for you will never 
 cease to hold your place 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 
 RESUMED to the theatre and its management from which neither 
 BY s. B. B. could possibly recover, and at the time many such ex- 
 pressions as 'that bubble has burst' reached our ears. We waited 
 very quietly, convinced of the importance 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 delight- 
 ful to receive : 
 
 'Denmark Hill, S.E., March 16, 1871. 
 
 ' My DEAR Mr. Bancroft, — I cannot refuse myself the indul- 
 gence 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 
 two are resting, on the twins. I was disappointed with Mr. Hare's 
 part ; not with his doing of it, but with his having so little to do. 
 However, that was partly my own mistake, for I had a fixed im- 
 pression 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 we produced Cut off with a Shilling, an admirably 
 written one-act play, by Theyre Smith, the author of those clever 
 pieces, A Happy Pair and Unclis 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. 
 
154 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 among the leading names 
 of frequent guests since passed away was that of the late Lord 
 Chief Justice Cockburn, with whom we enjoyed the privilege of 
 close friendship until his death in 1880. He was a delightful com- 
 panion, 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.' 
 
 Owing to the reign of the Commune and the siege of Paris, the 
 entire company of the Th'edtre 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 
 ?naiin^e:! which were given on Saturdays we were present. At one 
 of these morning performances, when we were accompanied by the 
 Hares, I especially recall the exquisite acting of Favart and 
 Delaunay in La nuit 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 on the stage. 
 I have a very happy recollection of a particular evening we spent 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Hare, who were living 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 
 dinsd 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 imita- 
 tion 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 spoilt them. The troupe 
 included then that charming actor, Bressant, who, pei-haps, has 
 never been replaced. He always seemed to have far more of that 
 
THE SEASON OF 1870-71 155 
 
 valuable stage quality, rf/rfzwrfzow, called by their critics aidorM, 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 ddjeuner was given in their honour, and attended by all 
 our leading literary and artistic people of the day. I am reminded 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 French- 
 men looked strange enough in the daylight, being all clad in even- 
 ing dress, it having been forgotten to tell them that our customs for 
 morning ceremonies so far differed from theirs. 
 
 As the summer advanced, we had, of course, it is heedless 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 
 Wife. 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 ; 
 
 ' August I, 1671. 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Bancroft, — Let me assure you that I feel the 
 sincerest gratification that Man and Wife 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 faith- 
 fully 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 Ours was acted for the 
 two hundred and ninth time of its revival, the success of 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 Yates's 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 
 
IS6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Hackness and Forge Valley ; the early morning swim in the deep 
 sea, 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 telegram of poor Walter Montgomery's 
 miserable death : he having shot himself in Stafford Street, off 
 Bond Street, two days 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 pleasant 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 187I-72. 
 
 Reproduction of Casie — Its renewed success — Illness of the Prince ot Wales- 
 Thanksgiving Day — Mrs. Bancroft's verses on ' The Queen's Seclusion ' 
 — Death of Chorley — Managerial and Personal Notes by Mr, Bancroft — 
 Proposed visit to the United States — Lord Lytton's Money — Letter from 
 the author — The Athenceum on the company — Lord Lytton's thanlcs— 
 Increase of fame and friends — Last Provincial Tour — Manchester — Liver- 
 pool — 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. 
 
 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 enthusiasm its reproduction met with when 
 we reopened our theatre in September. Five of the seven char- 
 acters 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 leave the theatre for the moment to briefly speak of 
 other things, thinking it a fragment of its little history to note, by 
 the way, that a fresh arrangement then commenced with Mr. James, 
 
THE SEASON OF 1871-72 157 
 
 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 grew so great, that the bulletins from Sand- 
 ringham 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 extraordinary 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 flte, 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 are not 
 likely to forget the imposing ceremony, nor the aspect of the build- 
 ing with its splendid coup d'ml, greatly aided by the uniforms 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 which 
 greeted her appearance by the side of her convalescent son, reminds 
 me of some lines written by Mrs. Bancroft, on ' The Queen's Seclu- 
 sion,' 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 the 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. 
 
158 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' 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 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 announcement 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. Throughout the 
 previous day, and until he went to bed at night, he had been appa- 
 rently quite well, expecting, indeed, a few of his many friends to 
 dinner on the fatal day. Our last look at him proved that Charley'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 Rath- 
 bone, his executor, remind us often of the pleasant evenings their 
 former owner gave us. 
 
 To return to the little house in Tottenham Street — 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 Caste 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 
 MANAGERIAL estimate of my judgment in management, I have always 
 AND thought the most valuable quality — courage. I mean 
 PERSONAL : chiefly with respect to the strength of will necessary 
 s. B. B. )-g withdraw a play while it was still very remunerative, 
 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 stand- 
 ing one in good stead by increasing- the repertoire of the theatre, 
 either for revival ^^'hen 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 venture which partakes 
 
THE SEASON OF 1871-72 159 
 
 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, and although I have seen 
 every Derby run since ' Gladiateur' won the Blue Riband in 1865, 
 I 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 performances given in America, I think it may be inferred, 
 remembering the reputation of our management 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, required to be dealt with a 
 long time in advance, and I think it was in the early spring that I 
 persuaded Mrs. Bancroft to try and overcome her terror of the sea, 
 and consent that we should entertain the extremely liberal propo- 
 sition 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, 1 commenced negotiations, 
 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 arranged and certain salaries fixed, I was in 
 his private office busily engaged in settling further questions, when 
 our conversation was interrupted by the whistle of the speaking- 
 tube which communicated with the room of his partner, Mr. Black- 
 more. 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 interrupt 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 bombshell into an enemy's camp, and 
 suspended bur proceedings. Mr. Craven Robertson was the brother 
 of the author, and then had the control of the comedies. 
 
 Our proposed visit to the States being interfered with in the way 
 I have told, we eventually determined, after long and well-weighed 
 
i6o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 consideration, that the first successor to the Robertson comedies 
 should be a production of Lord Lytton's Mofieyj being helped to 
 our decision by the remembrance that if we met with failure, we 
 should still \\a.YeManand J^z/^,with the advantage of its being anew 
 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 con- 
 tented 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 say that much of my profes- 
 sional 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, 1 hope I have been forgiven. 
 
 Let me add that Mrs. Bancroft from the beginning 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, unfortunately, 
 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 success, ever full of courage to meet a reverse, and ever 
 faithful in sorrow or in joy. She also shared the 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. Bancroft 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 Wife; Pert in London Assurance j Lady Henry 
 Fairfax in Diplomacy ; Lady Walker in Odette j Olga in Fedora j 
 and Miss Maplebeck in Lords and Commons — being content, for 
 
THE SEASON OF 1871-72 161 
 
 the good of the theatre and its management, to engage in her own 
 company, often cheerfully playing 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 
 successful plays. 
 
 In this book, to which she contributes so important 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 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 persistently 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 convenience 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 which I should 
 think it worth while to cavil with a management so accomplished 
 and so skilled as yours. — Yours truly, Lytton.' 
 
 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 re- 
 production 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. 
 
i62 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 So as to give the production the chance of being acted during 
 the height 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 spend, 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. CoUette ; Sir John Vesey, Bart., Mr. Hare ; Sir Frederick 
 Blount, Bart., Mr. Bancroft; Captain Dudley Smooth, Mr. Archer 
 (his first appearance in London) ; Mr. Graves, 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 ; Frantz, 
 Mr. Herbert ; 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 reputa- 
 tion : 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 rendering 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 English acting 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 unpreparedness that the 
 first dozen performances are no better than rehearsals ; no slovenli- 
 ness in the less important 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 Franjaise to 
 encourage, is witnessed. Actors are measured, so to speak, by their 
 parts, and are only to take such as fit them. Airs. Bancroft herself, 
 with an artistic feeling to be expected from her, accepts a subordi- 
 nate character. The example she sets is followed, and, as a result, 
 the performance takes the town with a sort of wonder.' — Athencewn, 
 May 18, 1872. 
 
 ' 12, Grosvenor Square, May 10, 1872. 
 'Dear Madam, — Our mutual friend, Mrs. Lehmann, I trust 
 conveyed to you my high appreciation of the remarkable skill and 
 
THE SEASON OF 1871-72 163 
 
 ability with which the comedy of Money has been placed on your 
 stage. But I feel that I 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, Lytton. 
 
 ' To Mrs. Bancroft.' 
 
 Mrs. Frederick Lehmann, who was one of the party in the 
 author's box, soon afterwards included us in a charming dinner- 
 party at the Woodlands, when the guests invited comprised Lord 
 Lytton, the Lord Chief Justice, and Wilkie Collins. 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 immortahze 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 Cas/e and School; otherwise Money might safely have been 
 played throughout the summer, had we been inclined to abandon 
 our holiday. This, however, we never did, and resolved again to 
 let things 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, indirectly, 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 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 fortnight 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 enthusiasm 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 com- 
 partment 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 inter- 
 change of their impressions of those and the other personages. It 
 
 II — 2 
 
1 64 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 welcomed us as warmly as before. 
 Hare and Coghlan also had lodgings there, in the same house as 
 ourselves ; 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 carriage. On our arrival we could not find 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 remarked 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, en- 
 couraged by our amusement. 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. 
 Suddenly 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 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 perfectiy ill. In fact, as we followed 
 Hare's retreating and indignant figure down the street, we laughed 
 till the people stood and gazed, and must ha\'e thought 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 Ci/da, remaining until the last sional to 
 leave for shore was given, and introduced him to a friend of ours 
 
THE SEASON OF 1871-72 165 
 
 who was going to be a fellow-passenger to New York. This 
 gentleman had 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 watching us. Edmund Yates looked so sad and thoughtful, 
 and there was such a solemn look upon his face, as he waved his 
 adieux, that, by 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 pecu- 
 liarity. 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 regi'et, 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-tables, and never 
 A BACHELOR having seen them, I resolved upon a hurried run 
 
 HOLIDAY, abroad. I had so short a time at my disposal that the 
 rapid travelling would have been too hard for Mrs. Bancroft, and I 
 invited my friend Coghlan to go with me, who was throughout the 
 trip a delightful companion 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 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 powerfully 
 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 dijemter at the 
 Belle Vue, where, I recollect, we met Sir Henry de Bathe — surely 
 one of the handsomest men who ever stepped. The day was 
 passed in 'doing' the city & rAmdricaine. 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 
 
i66 e OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 this account of our brief bachelor hohday, 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 Wednesday 
 morning, after an early swim in its rapid waters, we started up the 
 Rhine by steamer and greatly enjoyed this lazy day, the whole 
 experience being new to me. How delightful was this first experi- 
 ence of its casdes, its legends, and its villages dotted about arnong 
 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, arriving 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, looking, 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 morning 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, which then were on. We stopped at the Hotel de 
 Russie, 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 Play, 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 Btedecker 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 catchword in Moacv, ' 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 davs before at Folkestone. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1871-72 167 
 
 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. Everybody knew him in 
 those days, 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 Bile 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-ceasing 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 contains the Queen's signature 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, depress- 
 ing 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 remember, also, as we rested for a little while after 
 luncheon, trying to sleep on some logs of wood outside 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 
 
i68 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Mont Blanc range and its wonderful glaciers and Aiguilles as 
 approached by Argentifere. 
 
 In all my life I think I can safely say I have never 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 werit to bed was to leave 
 Coghlan the responsibility 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 Alabaina claims 
 had just been settled, the Conference having been held at Geneva. 
 I found that England's representative — 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. Ban- 
 croft 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 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 
 diplomatist, 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. W'e saw much tliat 
 could be seen in eightand-forty hours, including a performance of 
 V Avcntiirih-c at the Francjais by Madame Arnould-Plessy, not long 
 before that once line actress left the sta>je. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1871-72 169 
 
 We were at home again on Tuesday, September 17th, Baden- 
 Baden and Paris being the only places since we left in which 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 way he has 
 A RIVERSIDE described, over the Continent, I was at peace in my 
 
 EPISODE, sister's cottage by the beautiful Thames, and will tell 
 BY MRS. ^ a little story of a homely woman who lived not far from 
 
 BANCROi I . jj^ g^jjjj jg whom my sister had shown some kindnesses. 
 
 One day I looked in at a small sweet-stuflf 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. 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 fee 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 unamiable, 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 1 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 
 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 'usband is 
 
lyo OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 the most inconsiderestist 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 wants to see yer 'appy. Why, yer 
 looks as if yer 'ad lost 'arf-a-crown and found a button. Why don't 
 yer larf ?" " 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. Whats there to larf 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 sight o' 'em. Whafs there to larf at in that f 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 surface, 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 teachers a-crammin' 
 verses into it. The doctor says that the lad'U 'ave absence on the 
 brain, and wake some morning a stark hidiot. Whafs there to larf 
 at in that? I looks in the glass, and I can see myself a-getting 
 older and uglier every day. What's there to larf at in that?" ' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 872-73. 
 
 Resumption of J/oiuy— Deaths of Miss O'Neil (Lady Becher), Edwin Forrest, 
 and Lord Lytton — Letter from Cliarles Mathews — Reading of A/an and 
 Wife by Williie Collins — Its production — The author on the first night— A 
 country tour started — The play a great favourite with the royal family — .\ 
 difficulty over a visit of the Prince of Wales — A domestic incident — Death 
 and funeral of Macready — .Anecdotes of the great actor— The ' Lambs ' — 
 An adventure — Withdrawal of Ma)i and Wife — Letter from Wilkie 
 Collins — Caste at the Standard Theatre — A trip abroad together— Varied 
 experiences en route. 
 
 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 com- 
 pany, 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 throughout the 
 autumn and the early winter. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1872-73 171 
 
 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, fifty-two years after her retirement from the 
 stage. The announcement of her death, in fact, came as a surprise to 
 many, who little 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 electri- 
 fied 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 excelled 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 unapproachable 
 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 herself 
 which now adorns the staircase of the Garrick Club. As she stood 
 in front of this full-length representation 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 be, perhaps, best remembered in this country as the rival of 
 Macready : so fiercely did the tide of jealousy flow, 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 
 statement, the impetuous and strongly democratic temperament 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 1 8th, 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. 
 
172 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 age of 
 thirteen, who has conceived a strong predilection for the stage, and 
 seems, from what I hear, to give promise of qualifications likely to 
 achieve success in that profession. I have ventured to advise the 
 lady, before she either thwarts or encourages her daughter's incli- 
 nations, to give the child a few lessons in elocution and the rudi- 
 ments 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, Lytton.' 
 
 It may be of some interest to state that on looking 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 dehghtful 
 comedian, and now old friend, Charles Mathews, to whose hos- 
 pitality we owed many happy evenings : 
 
 ' Nice, January 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 myself 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 \\'ill have this ready 
 to fall back upon. The human mind naturally looks forward, and 
 managers cannot make their arrangements too soon. If by any 
 
THE SEASON OF 1872-73 173 
 
 unforeseen, though most improbable, chance you may not fancy 
 the piece (such things have happened), please drop me 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 7night 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." For " piece " (No. 2) read " production." For " piece " 
 (No. 3) read "work." For "piece" (No. 4) read "comedy."' 
 
 We may mention that in the early days of the Prince of Wales's 
 management we constantly received manuscripts, written by aspir- 
 ing 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 em- 
 boldened to send you my play, as Mr. Charles Mathews assures me 
 in a letter that, in his opmion, it is exactly suited in every way to 
 the Prince of Wales's Theatre.' We eventually found means to 
 retaliate upon the comedian for his amiable practical joke. 
 
 Meanwhile, we had asked Wilkie Collins to read his long-post- 
 poned Man 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, towards 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 im- 
 portant minor rdle confined to a dozen sentences. 
 
 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, 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 adjoin- 
 ing pantry of old Bishopriggs) in accordance with our suggestions, 
 and greatly, as he generously admitted, to the advantage 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. 
 
174 
 
 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 The run of Money reached more than two hundred performances, 
 far ecUpsing 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. Man 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.' 
 
 Oil Saturday, February 22nd, 1873, will be played 
 
 MAN AND WIFE, 
 
 A DRAMATIC STORY IN FOUR ACTS, WRITTEN BY WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 SIR PATRICK LUNDIE 
 GEOFFREY DELAMAYN 
 ARNOLD BRINKWORTH 
 MR. SPEEDWELL . 
 MR. MOY 
 BISHOPRIGGS 
 DUNCAN 
 LADY LUNDIE 
 BLANCHE LUNDIE 
 
 ANNE SILVESTER. 
 MISTRESS INCHBARE 
 
 Mr. Hare. 
 Mr. Coghlan. 
 Mr. Herbert. 
 Mr. Bancroft. 
 Mr. Collette. 
 Mr. Dewar. 
 Mr. Franks. 
 Mrs. Leigh Murray. 
 Miss Marie Wilton. 
 (Mrs. Bancroft.) 
 
 Miss Lydia Foote. 
 Miss Lee. 
 
 Wilkie Collins passed almost all the evening in my dressing-room 
 NOTE BY in a state of nervous terror painful to behold, and 
 s. E. B. 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, fortunately, 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 Man and Wife, 
 which gave me frequent opportunities at this time of seeing DesclSe, 
 who was then fulfilling an engagement at the Princess'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. 
 
 A countiy 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 ^clat in all 
 the leading provincial theatres. The other principal parts were 
 admirably played by H. B. Conway — his first engagement under 
 
THE SEASON OF 1872-73 175 
 
 our management — Charles CoUette, and Miss Blanche Wilton 
 (Mrs. CoUette). 
 
 Man 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 Cesare- 
 witch 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 ordinary private boxes 
 into one, and on a certain Friday night news reached the theatre 
 that it was required 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 represented the pur- 
 chaser 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 invincible 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 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 Pve 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 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. 
 
176 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 At night, not long before the play began, the gentleman, who had 
 in vain been sought so urgently, arrived in high spirits, accom- 
 panied by a very handsome 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 readi- 
 ness to explain the circumstances, 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. 
 
 There ended our share in the transaction, but hardly were the un- 
 fortunate 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 reserved 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 explana- 
 tion 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 there on 
 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 
 crowd, many old actors who had once been members of his com- 
 pany 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 
 beautiful 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 go with them to see Fechter 
 
THE SEASON OF 1872-73 177 
 
 play his own old part of Claude Melnotte in the Laify 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 deter- 
 mined at night to 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 actmg 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 else- 
 where, sir,' when, to the amazement of the audience, the King sat 
 bolt upright upon the stage, and said, ' Look here, Mr. Macready, 
 you had your way at rehearsal, but I'nt king now, and I shall die 
 ■where I please P 
 
 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 of the past to tell 
 AN ADVEN- a story concerning chiefly two actors of the day — 
 TURE BY MR. Hare and myself. 
 
 BANCROFT. A little club, known as the ' Lambs,' which had a 
 short life but a merry one, flourished at this time. Its members 
 were limited to twelve original ' Lambs,' and twelve subsequently 
 elected ' Lambkins.' Among the founders and first members were 
 John Hare, Douglas (now Mr. Justice) Straight, Charles Collette, 
 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. 
 
 12 
 
178 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Those who could spare the time went down to Skindle's on Satur-, 
 day 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. 
 
 ' Maidenhead, sir ? why, you're in the slip carriage for Windsor.' 
 ' Windsor !' said I. ' Windsor !' echoed Hare. ' Yes, gentlemen ; 
 Windsor. Will you go on there, or get out here ? Look sharp, 
 gentlemen, please.' 
 
 We had hardly a moment to decide between sleeping 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 barkings of dis- 
 turbed watch-dogs. The rain was far too heavy for our umbrellas 
 to be of their proper use, so we shouldered our well-laden Glad- 
 stone 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 un- 
 ceasing downpour made it impossible to light a cigar or pipe. We 
 started with spirits at a low ebb, and were often ankle-deep in 
 water as we walked along. After trudging about a mile perhaps, 
 we reached what looked in the darkness 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 hospitahty 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 be- 
 draggled and mud-bespattered 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 
 
THE SEASON OF 1872-73 179 
 
 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 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 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 
 desperation 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, fortified with brandies and sodas, 
 crawled upstairs to a double-bedded room ; a very happy termina- 
 tion to our dread, an hour or two before, of being benighted. 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, 1 remember, described his assailant as ' A 
 pantaloon without his maturity, and a clown without his colour !' 
 Montague's face at this unexpected retort was a «tudy. 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. 
 
 12 — 2 
 
i8o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Having now broken the spell, as it were, and proved that we 
 could be successful in plays widely different from those which first 
 made the reputation of our management, we thought we might 
 commence our next season with a revival of School, hoping for a 
 success from it that would at least last long enough for us to find 
 another new work. 
 
 >• 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, July 17, 1873. 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — Thank you heartily for your kind letter. 
 I should be the most ungrateful man living if the result of Man 
 and Wife A\d. not far more than merely "satisfy" me. My play 
 has been magnificently 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 sufficiently 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, WiLKlE COLLINS.' 
 
 The season closed on Friday, August ist, Ma7t atid Wife having 
 been acted one hundred and thirty-six times. 
 
 On the following Monday we commenced an engagement 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 
 longed-for holiday which we 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 Hstening 
 with rapt attention even to the chronicles 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 remain- 
 ing performances were thoroughly successful. 
 
 The following brief extract from a long article on this engage- 
 ment 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 Caste, and the players the Prince of Wales's company. From 
 basement to ceiling within its vast area gathered night after night 
 an interested, intelligent, enthusiastic audience ; the cold though 
 confirmed approval of the Prince of Wales's audience was replaced 
 by storms of nnpulsive applause. It made one think Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bancroft, wise as they are, err but in one respect — that of playing 
 
THE SEASON OF 1872-73 181 
 
 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, we saw a great deal, and re- 
 membered 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 magnificent 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 professionally the day before, were Madame Schumann 
 (whose acquaintance we were proud to make later on at Signor 
 Piatti's charming villa on the Lake of Como), and the distinguished 
 German singer, Marie Wilt. During the faile d'hdte dinner, which 
 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 romantic neighbourhood, and also 
 rested for awhile at Baden Baden. The gaming-tables had now 
 vanished, and our amusement took the milder form of drives to 
 Eberstein 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 railway, 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 
 morning, when we were roused at some unearthly hour by the 
 hideous uproar of an Alpine horn, to see the rising. However, the 
 whole experience was new and delightful then, and we descended 
 to the lake thoroughly pleased, and soon crossed the Brunig to the 
 Giesbach Falls, where we remember first meeting Mr. (now Sir) 
 
i82 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 John Gorst. There the custom then prevailed at the hotel— grow- 
 ing, one cannot help regretting, more and more uncommon-— of 
 being waited on by Swiss maidservants, dressed in the quaint 
 costumes of their different cantons. Of course we saw at night the 
 illuminations of the fine cascade by Bengal lights, which seemed, 
 we thought, a kind of Cremorne-like desecration. [Always fond of 
 swimming, I (s. B. B.) rarely in those days was near a lake or river 
 without indulging a wish to bathe ; and I remember distinctly 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 Lauter- 
 brunnen, for the first time, to the roar of avalanches, which were 
 falling rapidly that season, from the three great peaks— the splendid 
 Jun^rau and her two guardians, the Aiger and the Mbnch. 
 
 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 retirement from the stage in 1 817, 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 high road 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 directions, 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 perfect 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 Orsi feres— 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. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1872-73 183 
 
 which was drawn by two pretty Httle Arab ponies, and driven by a 
 man (?) who was accompanied by two young girls. The little 
 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 refresh- 
 ment 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 mounted 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 received 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 Enghshman. 
 
 Let us turn from this brutal experience and tell how, on our 
 arrival at the hospice, we were most 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 happened, 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 kind- 
 ness shown to him by the monks was beautiful to see. 
 
 We passed a pleasant evening, and found the old visitors' books 
 very interesting, as were some of the gifts to the monastery, 
 especially the little piano presented 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 fine 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 acknow- 
 ledgment accepted by the poor monks for the hospitality so 
 generously shown to all comers ; the owner of the little Arab 
 
1 84 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 horses, in spite of a pointed reference in his presence to what was 
 at least hoped for— if not expected— from tourists, took his depar- 
 ture without depositing a single coin ! 
 
 After a hearty breakfast and all sorts of kind wishes froni 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 1 873-74. 
 
 Improving the theatre — Revival of School — Death of Mr. Wilton — An odd 
 practical joke — Charles iVIathews's seventieth 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. Bancro/t's per- 
 formances — • Biafra,' the black page — Letters from Wilkie Collins, WiUiam 
 Creswick, W. P. Frith and Walter Lacy — Illness and Death of J. M. 
 Bellew — Considering a new programme — Holiday in Switzerland and Italy 
 — Venice. 
 
 At the commencement of this season, a house in Pitt Street, of 
 BEGUN which we had obtained a lease, was made to communi- 
 BY ME. cate with the theatre, and added greatly to its con- 
 
 BANCEOFT. venience, but not without a wrench to both of us in 
 obliterating old ineinories : 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 advantag'es included valualole additions to our 
 number of rooms, and a new royal box and approaches, with much- 
 increased comfort. 
 
 Although School Yiiidi only been originally produced in 1869, and 
 ran for full fifteen months, when we revived the comedy, in addition 
 to ourselves, Mr. Hare and Mr. Glover along remained to appear in 
 their original parts. This was the cast as we acted the play on 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 185 
 
 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. Sutcliffe, 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 per- 
 formance to succeed it. 
 
 Mr. Wilton's health had for soi^e 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 author of it I never obtained the 
 smallest clue, although it was very much in Sothern's line. 
 
 One night when 1 reached the theatre, the hall-porter, who was 
 for many years in our service, followed 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 contents.' 
 
 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 was 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 very short time, was 
 
iS6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 horrible to look at, and certainly, 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 someone else. He at once entered into that view of 
 the matter, and after a little thought we fixed on a young actor in 
 the theatre, who had not yet arrived, to be that someone 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 covering. 
 
 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 specimen,' to ' Monsieur , at 's Hotel, to 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 went to Bel- 
 grave Road, and found the chief object of the festi\'ity still seated 
 in a chair, decorated with garlands 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 
 day, young Mathews !' to be answered with ' Many thanks, old Ban- 
 croft, come and sit down,' it seemed incredible to believe him to be 
 nearly forty years my senior. We had a delightful evening, and 
 it was 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 
 drawings of himself in all his early characters. This valuable and 
 unique collection of portraits was subsequently, 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 who has 
 contributed more than one good play to its literature. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 187 
 
 As the old year ended so pleasantly, we will begin the record of 
 its successor by a letter from a dear friend since, alas, dead, whose 
 society, for very many years, was a charm to all privileged to 
 enjoy it : 
 
 ' 32, Weymouth Street, Portland Place, January 2, 1874. 
 
 ' My 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 piece we had accepted from W. S. 
 Gilbert, under the provisional title of the White Willow (which 
 afterwards developed, as will be told, into Sweethearts). This' we 
 felt would be a most valuable addition to a contemplated revival of 
 Society ; but we also felt that to again follow Robertson with 
 Robertson would be worse than bad management ; so we decided, 
 supported by the remembrance of the success achieved hy Money, 
 and the importance to the theatre of finding a new part for Mrs. 
 Bancroft of greater value than Georgina Vesey and Blanche 
 Lundie, to go still further to the classics, and venture upon a pro- 
 duction of Sheridan's masterpiece, the School for Scandal, with a view 
 to presenting 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 Reading Rooms in the British Museum, and 
 equally valuable pilgrimages 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, owing to early training in country 
 theatres, would be quite at ease in the courtly inanners of the patch- 
 and-powder period, while others only needed ample rehearsal to 
 feel perfectly at home. We were indebted to Mr. Coghlan for 
 valuable assistance in some rearrangement of the play, without 
 interfering with its text, and also in placing it upon the stage. 
 
i88 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 We announced our intended revival in these words : ' Sheridan's 
 comedy, the School for Scandal, has been for some weeks in pre- 
 paration, 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 considerably changed ; and the management, there- 
 fore, 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 grown, through 
 being followed in subsequent 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 Haymarket Theatre. It was also the 
 suggestion for a charming picture by Val Prinsep, A.R.A., ex- 
 hibited in the Royal Academy, and for which I remember giving 
 a sitting ; the sketch of ' The Minuet ' the artist kindly gave to 
 Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 The boldest step, perhaps, throughout our management was taken 
 at this stage of it, in my resolve to raise the charge 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 im- 
 perative 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 School for Scandal had only recently been 
 admirably 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 night only.' When informed that the alteration was 
 intended ' 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 question 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, April ist. After- 
 wards 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 : 
 
 At eight o'clock, on Saturday, April 4th, 1874 (the ninth anniver- 
 sary of Mrs. Bancroft's management, which commenced on Easter 
 Eve, 1S65), Sheridan's comedy, the School for Scandal, will be acted. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 189 
 
 for the first time, by the Prince of Wales's company : Sir Peter 
 Teazle, Mr. Hare ; Sir Oliver Surface, Mr. CoUette ; Sir Benjamin 
 Backbite, Mr. Lin Rayne ; Sir Harry Bumper, Mr. Craufurd ; Sir 
 Toby, Mr. Campbell ; Joseph Surface, Mr. Bancroft ; Charles 
 Surface, Mr. Coghlan ; Crabtree, Mr. Arthur Wood ; Careless, Mr. 
 Herbert ; Rowley, Mr. R. Cathcart ; Moses, Mr. F. Glover ; Snake, 
 Mr. Newton ; Trip, Mr. Markby ; Lady Teazle, Miss Marie Wilton 
 (Mrs. Bancroft) ; Lady Sneerwell, Miss Fanny Josephs ; Mrs. 
 Candour, Mrs. Leigh Murray ; Maria, Miss B. Wilton ; Guests, 
 Musicians, Servants, etc. The sequence of scenes will be as 
 follows : Act L — Lady Sneerwell's Drawing - room : Morning. 
 Act n. — Lady Sneerwell's Drawing-room : Evening (the minuet de 
 la cour 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 V. — 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 : 
 
 ' There are four complete and accurate pictures of high life 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 insight 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 down. 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 handkerchief, 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 was 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 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 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 
 
1 90 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 galop. . . . 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 darjcing, and when dancing was an art. With consummate 
 g'race and delightful courtesy they commence a minuet. What a 
 delicate affectation of refinement, what a meaning in every gesture 
 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 apart- 
 ment 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 manufactory of Sir Francis Crane, at Mortlake, 
 in Surrey, 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 mandolin 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 I 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 \'est 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 pictures are sold corajn populo, 
 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, 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 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 19.1 
 
 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 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 remembered ! In the scandal scenes 
 we were presented with an archness and sly sense of humour 
 always evident but never siy)erabundant, 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 com- 
 mences again, were admirably conveyed. But it was reserved for 
 Mrs. Banci'oft to make her most lasting impression in the screen 
 scene. With wonderful care and welcome art the impres- 
 sion conveyed to an innocent mind by the insinuating deceit 
 ol Joseph was accurately shown by expression ta 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 
 denouement 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 husbands 
 hand, the womanly weakness which makes Lady Teazle totter and 
 trip as she makes for the door of the hated room, the womanly 
 strength which steels Lady Teazle in her refusal of assistance from 
 Joseph, and the woman's inevitable abandonment to hysterical grief 
 just before the heroic goal is reached — were one and all instances of 
 the treasured possession of an artistic temperament. 
 
 ' The Joseph Surface of Mr. Bancroft, in that it is one of the 
 most original and reflective performances, will attract most criticism 
 
193 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 — will probably court the most objection, \yhen 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 al- 
 together, and, sby a subtlety and an ease most comrnendable, 
 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 for Scandal \i\\\ 
 NOTE remember the black boy, a feature, among others, which 
 
 BY MRS. we introduced into the comedy for the first time. It 
 
 BANCROFT, jjiay 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 institutions, 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, who 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 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 
 — iDut it was imperative that he must remain in our house. I was 
 delighted with the proposal, and just at that moment my husband 
 came in. The case was explained to him, and he readily agreed to 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 I93 
 
 the conditions. I noticed that from the moment it was settled the 
 boy should ^ro tern, belong to me, he came and stood close by my 
 side, assummg 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 man-servant'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 production of our 
 play promised to be, at least, an artistic success. I related my ad- 
 venture 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 midnight we were aroused 
 by shouts and screams from the top of the house. Mr. Bancroft 
 rushed upstairs, while I waited on the landing 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 laughter 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 man- 
 servant, 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 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 
 intelligent and most obedient to everything / told him to do, but 
 the instruction must all come from me; he would take no notice of 
 
 13 
 
194 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 
 }ny orders. This became sorjiewhat of a tax, because it was the 
 same at home, and the servants found him difficult to manage 
 downstairs. 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 7ne; but if anyone else attempted to scold 
 him, he would throw 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 complete- 
 ness 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 admiration 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 magnificent 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 little dog, and obeyed my eveiy 
 look. Mr. Lewis Wingfield was so delighted with the boy's 
 appearance, 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 adventures, 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 accompanied the mmuet de la cour. 
 There was an old woman who was employed in the theatre to assist 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 195 
 
 in the cleaning department — the same old lady we have alluded to 
 with reference to some early rehearsals of Ours. 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 a grande dame of the period in her deep red brochd sac, 
 trimmed with black Spanish point, her high powdered wig, her 
 feathers and court patches, which really seemed to assist her 
 already finely cut features ; with these and her long Sufede gloves, 
 some handsome paste ornaments which 1 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 old 
 proUg^e, and it struck me at the moment to address her with 
 particular respect, so I made a low curtsey, to which she intel- 
 ligently 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 deSr old thing replied, '/';« nicely, thank 
 ver, mum. P This was heard by no one but me, fortunately ! 
 
 But to return to our black boy, who was becoming more and 
 more unpopular at home, for complaints came pouring in every 
 day. The cook could not keep him from the sweets, and he was 
 in constant 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 man- 
 servant complained that ' he snored so loud he could get no sleep 
 for him, and the more he threw things 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 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 medi- 
 tated. In fact, the cook remarked, ' The 'ouse ain't the same 
 'ouse !' 
 
 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 
 
 13-2 
 
196 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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, ' 'Era'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 pavement with three 
 or four young street ruffians. He had jumped down to punish them 
 for their insolence, and the scene was awful. We got hini 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 ob- 
 noxious at the theatre also, amongst the servants. He would spite 
 them by playing all sorts of tricks. He would lie down in the 
 darkened passages, and being black he could not be seen, con- 
 sequently the unwary would tumble over him. I could always 
 influence him while present, but the moment I went away he would 
 misconduct 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 congenial 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, 
 RESUMED by the increase to the prices of admission, proved a 
 BY s. B. B. success of the first rank, and brought us many interest- 
 ing 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 ColUins ; 
 
 ' 90, Gloucester Place, Portman Square, April 6, 1874. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft,— I tried to call at Pleydell House yester- 
 day, but the London distances — I was obliged to go first to South 
 Kensington — were too much for me. 
 
 ' 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 any- 
 thing 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 _you or tell /u-r how it delighted and affected me. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 197 
 
 You, too, played admirably. The "key" was, perhaps, a little too 
 low ; but the conception of the man's character I thought most ex- 
 cellent. 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 mean- 
 time. — 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, /une i, 1874. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — Accept my best thanks for your very 
 kind and courteous note, also for a most interesting and pleasant 
 evening's entertainment. 
 
 ' Permit me likewise to congratulate Mrs. Bancroft and yourself 
 upon a success so justly and honourably 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 unquestionably is in this instance. 
 
 ' It will be, I believe, a very long time before anyone will be so 
 rash as to attempt another illustrated edition of the School for 
 Scandal. 
 
 ' Be so good as to present my best compliments and thanks to 
 Mrs. Bancroft, and believe me, yours faithfully, Wm. Creswick. 
 
 ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' 
 
 A letter much appreciated by us from the distinguished Acade- 
 mician, 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 reminiscences have recently 
 delighted : 
 
 ' 7, Pembridge Villas, Bayswater, /uly 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 
 
198 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 appreciative letter from 
 another stage veteran, Walter Lacy, who defies Time and still, as 
 cheerily as ever, wakes the echoes of the Garrick Club, by his re- 
 markable choice of words : 
 
 ' 38, Montpelier Square, Knightsbridge, Thursday Night, 
 ' Dear Bancroft, — Some forty years since, Macready was an- 
 nounced to play " Richard the Third for the first time in London 
 these eight years," and, although I had banqueted right royally on 
 the grand Edmund Kean, I was not to be weaned from 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 litde 
 temple where I made my debut 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 regards and thanks for a great treat. — 
 Faithfully yours, WALTER LACY. 
 
 ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' 
 
 I am sure, on the score of our long acquaintance, my old friend 
 will forgive me for endeavouring to amuse the reader as his lan- 
 guage 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 England), I 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 199 
 
 drank brown porter and dined off British beef ; but if I had to act 
 the Honourable Tom ShufBeton, 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 devil-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 Marquis, than of a reckless and boisterous young English- 
 man. 
 
 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 
 dwelling 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 Church of England (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 
 beautiful hair, and soigni appearance ; his reading of the ' death 
 chapter' from the Burial Service being especially impressive and 
 powerful. On one occasion — the last day of the year 1865, I re- 
 member — I went 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 ex- 
 piring year, including, I recollect quite well, Lord Palmerston, 
 President Lincoln, 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 
 
300 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 amazed at the interruption, and then proceeded, amidst perfect 
 stillness, with his panegyric to the memory of a deservedly remark- 
 able man. 
 
 I will repeat a little story which Eellew 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 cut.' 
 
 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 performance of the School for Scandal, when we decided that 
 a revival of Society, conjointly with the production of Mr. Gilbert's 
 ' dramatic contrast,' should fox'm 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 persistent 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 substitute. 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 circumstances led my 
 wandering thoughts — amazing as the revelation seemed to be when 
 subsequently made public — towards Shakespeare's Merchant of 
 Ve7iice. 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 neces- 
 sity. Our failures received the same amount of careful forethought 
 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 thousand miles of sea remained, unhappily, an insurmount- 
 able 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 yth, after having played it to more than a 
 
THE SEASON OF 1873-74 201 
 
 hundred full houses, and went away to Switzerland vid Ostend. 
 We stayed some little time at the Kaltbad Hotel, above the Lake 
 of Lucerne. Among our companions 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 in two days 
 over the St. Gothard Pass to Bellinzona, 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 dis- 
 appointing to the imagination. Our brief and busy visit would not 
 allow us to attempt a description in any proper terms of the peer- 
 less 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 dungeons and their inmates 
 to a sort of sentimental fraud, on a par, perhaps, 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- 
 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 selfsame 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 
 
202 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 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 pur means to realize, and this room we decided should be 
 accurately reproduced for the trial of Antonio and Portia's plead- 
 ing 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 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 mosquitoes, 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 wondrous mosaics and its bronze horses ; the Cam- 
 panile, 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1874-75. 
 
 An odd story of mistaken identity — House-hunting — .ScAoo/ /or Scandal 
 withdrawn — John Hare's secession from the company — Production of 
 Sweethearts— Mts. Charles Kean on Mrs. Bancroft's Jenny Northcott — 
 Revival of Society— 'Dtath of Tom Hood — Recollections — Royalty in the 
 green-room — Preparations for the Merchant of Venice — Engagement of 
 Miss Ellen Terry for Portia— Mrs. Bancroft and the nigger — Sweethearts 
 and Society withdrawn, and the Merchant of Venice produced — A failure to 
 be proud of— The part of Shylock— Letter from G. A. Sala— Tl/OT^y in 
 rehearsal again — The premiire of Our Boys — Signor Salvini— His perform- 
 ance of Othello before the actors of London — G. H. Lewes on his death- 
 scene in Hamlet — A letter from him — Reproduction of Money, and its 
 effect— A morning performance with a small programme — Holiday abroad : 
 the missing box— A persistent snorer— The Duke ol Connaught — A moun- 
 tain storm— A lucky meeting with Mr. Critchett. 
 
 It was at this time that a strange circumstance occurred which I 
 
 COMMENCED afterwards related at the request of an old friend, and 
 
 BY ME. which appeared in a Christmas annual in 1879, under 
 
 BANCROFT, the title of ' Our Doubles.' I will repeat so much of the 
 
 odd story as happened at this particular time. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 203 
 
 Soon after we had recommenced work at the little theatre, after 
 our holiday abroad, I received a letter from a debt-collector living 
 
 in Camden Town, stating that he was instructed by Mr. , 
 
 the proprietor of the Hotel, and also of some livery stables, 
 
 at Ventnor, to apply to me for immediate payment of an account for 
 the hire of carriages and horses in the previous September, while 
 staying at the said hotel and left unpaid when I went away. 
 Having passed the whole of my holiday in Switzerland and Venice, 
 and never having been in Ventnor in my life, I was a little puzzled 
 by this application. At first I thought it must be a practical joke, 
 but eventually, after a further request for payment, I answered the 
 letter — rather angrily, I think-^pointing out the mistake which had 
 been made, and stating my real whereabouts at the time I was 
 charged with driving about the Isle of Wight. 
 
 From the debt-collector I heard no more ; but one evening, a few 
 weeks later, when I had arrived at the theatre and was reading 
 some letters before dressing for the stage, the hall-porter knocked 
 at the door of my room, said that a gentleman wanted to see me, 
 and handed me a card. 
 
 My surprise may be imagined when I read that my visitor was 
 the proprietor of the Hotel, Ventnor. 1 at once told the hall- 
 keeper to show him into the green-room, which, so early in the 
 evening, was unoccupied, and in a few minutes 1 went downstairs. 
 
 ' Good-evening.' ' Good-evening, sir.' ' You have asked to see 
 me. I am Mr. Bancroft.' ' So I see, sir,' said ' mine host ' cheer- 
 fully, and with a decidedly provincial accent. 
 
 I looked at him well. His face was frank and honest, and his 
 manner self-possessed. 
 
 ' You have applied to me,' I next said, ' for money you say I owe 
 you ?' ' Yes, sir ; the amount remained unpaid when you left my 
 hotel in September.' ' When I left your hotel I Do you mean to 
 assert that my appearance has not at once convinced you there 
 must be some mistake ?' 'Not on my side, I think, sir.' ' Do you 
 mean to say,' I still asked, fairly amazed, ' that you believe you re- 
 cognise in me the person who owes you this money r" ' 1 see no 
 difference,' was the immediate reply, ' except that he had a mous- 
 tache.' 
 
 At this time, and throughout my holiday, my face was clean- 
 shaven, for I was acting the part of ' Joseph Surface.' 
 
 ' Tell me something more of this,' I said ; ' for your manner, at 
 any rate, convinces me of your honesty.' ' I thank you, sir,' replied 
 my visitor ; ' and but for your straightforward denial, I would have 
 sworn in any witness-box that you were the person who, with a lady, 
 passed at my house for nearly a month as Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, 
 of the Prince of Wales's Theatre.' 
 
 Here, I thought, was my chance of convincing the man he had 
 been imposed upon. I turned up the gas directly under a large 
 photograph of my wife, and said, ' That is a portrait of Mrs. Bancroft.' 
 
204 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 My visitor rose, looked at it well, then said, ' Yes, and a very 
 good likeness it is, sir !' 
 
 I was nearly paralyzed with amazement, and hardly remember 
 what passed next ; but I feel certain that the landlord, although his 
 eyesight was throughout the interview my enemy, became as im- 
 pressed by the honesty of my repudiation as I was by the frankness 
 of his assertions. 
 
 I learnt that our doubles had lived for a month on the best his 
 house afforded, that at the end of their stay there was a little 
 difficulty about the bill ; they said they could not pay then, but 
 would send the money from London, as the theatre was about to 
 reopen (a statement which agreed with the newspaper advertise- 
 ments), and that they must go. 
 
 To this proposal ' mine host ' naturally objected. Eventually the 
 man was allowed to depart alone, leaving the lady with her luggage 
 to be redeemed. The money for the hotel bill, it seems, was sent 
 in a few days, and the hostage released ; the claim sent into me being 
 for carriage and horse hire which had been overlooked at the time, 
 the livery-stable business being separate from that of the hotel. 
 
 When, at last, my visitor went away, he left, I feel assured, full of 
 conflicting emotions, hardly knowing which of his senses he best 
 could trust. 
 
 We neither of us to our knowledge have ever seen either of these 
 people, and can give no opinion of this apparently singular likeness — • 
 all the more remarkable as it applied to two people. Sometimes I 
 have wondered if the lady could have been the person of whom 
 Mrs. Bancroft writes in an earlier chapter. One day, shortly before 
 the interview 1 have related, and prior to the re-opening of the 
 theatre, I was asked by Meredith Ball, our musical conductor, how 
 I liked a new play which had just been produced at the Criterion 
 Theatre. To my answer that I had not seen it yet, he seemed 
 greatly surprised, and exclaimed, ' Not seen it ! why, weren't you 
 there last night ?' ' Last night,' I replied ; ' certainly not. I have 
 only just returned to England ; in fact, reached Charing Cross last 
 evening.' ' That's very extraordinary,' said Ball. ' One of the band, 
 who has been with me for years, and has been filling up the vacation 
 by playing in the orchestra at the Criterion, told me just now that 
 he saw you and Mrs. Bancroft there last evening in a private box.' 
 Afterwards this friendly musician, who of course knew us both 
 quite well, could hardly be convinced of his error. Later on two 
 young friends of ours wrote home from Italy — either from Rome or 
 Florence — to say, after expressing their surprise at our being 
 abroad at that time of year, ' that we had both cut them dead twice on 
 the same day, first in the street, then at a theatre ;' while reference 
 to an English newspaper would have told them that we were play- 
 ing in Caste every night. 
 
 At a large party given by Irving, I remember one of his guests, 
 who kindly offered to be of any service in the matter if he could, 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 205 
 
 telling me that he had read my little story in the Christmas number, 
 and that he could support the truth of it, so far as that he had 
 passed some weeks at the Isle of Wight hotel just after ' Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bancroft,' as they were called through this 'uncanny' resem- 
 blance, had left, and was quite under the impression that we had 
 been staying there. To conclude, only recently I was reproached 
 by the celebrated novelist, James Payn, with having ignored his 
 salutations in the King's Road, Brighton, where at the time I had 
 not been for at least a year, as he was amazed to hear — his con- 
 viction that he was bowing to me without receiving a response 
 being confirmed by Mrs. Payn, who was by his side at the time. 
 
 What further mischief has been done I cannot say, and it is im- 
 possible to foretell the sequel, should there ever be one. How 
 many forms this incident might take ! Some day, perhaps, we 
 may hear strange disclosures of other personations ; or we, perhaps, 
 may be the recipients of legacies or of gifts meant for (Aem — who 
 knows 1 
 
 Although the receipts continued excellent at the resumed run of 
 the School for Scandal until the comedy was withdrawn, they never 
 again approached the great average of the first hundred perform- 
 ances. Indeed, so far as my experience goes — excepting of course 
 very special plays which may have attained an extraordinary hold 
 upon the public — the main result of most successful theatrical pro- 
 ductions is achieved in about the first hundred nights, and certainly 
 the first fifty audiences are the most delightful to act before, being 
 formed as a rule of keen play-goers. 
 
 We were now hard at work, immediately upon the forthcoming 
 second revival of Society, and the production of W. S. Gilbert's 
 charming two-act play, which I was so fortunate, when we were all 
 at our wits' end for a title, as to christen Sweethearts j the White 
 Willow, Doctor Time, Thirty Years, Spring and Autumn, being 
 among the many suggested names which my inspiration was 
 thought to beat. But, of course, throughout all this while the 
 Merchant of Venice sat by no means lightly on our minds, especially 
 upon mine, which was responsible for the reckless idea. We also 
 were house-hunting, having resolved to go and live in town and be 
 nearer to our work. It was not without a pang that we abandoned 
 our garden with its beautiful trees ; or the close proximity to Lord's, 
 where for years I saw all the great M.C.C. matches j but during 
 our frequent rehearsals we found that four journeys to and fro 
 between home and theatre alone took up a great deal of our time. 
 In the autumn, after many a fruitless search, we saw a moderate- 
 sized house — which gave me, what I have always loved, the sight, 
 if not the possession, of trees — in Cavendish Square. We made a 
 bid for it, which was accepted, although, from the state in which we 
 found the place, we knew it would be at least three months before 
 we should be able to occupy it. 
 
 It was at this time that our company suffered a great loss in the 
 
2o6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 departure of its oldest and most valued member, John Hare. 
 Wisely enough, for there was ample room for two such theatres as 
 the then Prince of Wales's in friendly rivalry, he had for some time 
 entertained ideas of commencing management on his own account ; 
 how wisely has been proved by the splendid record of his work in 
 that direction. 
 
 When the School for Scandal was withdrawn, Hare left u«^ Sir 
 Peter Teazle being the last part he played under our management ; 
 but time has not weakened our remembrance of his valued services, 
 and the great aid he gave to the Robertson comedies — with which 
 his name must always be associated— or, I rejoice to add, altered 
 our friendship. He and I had dressed in the same room together 
 for years— those years being, at least on my part, the happiest of 
 life — for they began when I was twenty-four, and ended when I 
 was thirty-three. I know I can claim to be his oldest theatrical 
 friend, and I don't suppose that he was surprised that the little 
 dressing-room knew me no more, for the next night I found a lonely 
 corner somewhere else. 
 
 The new programme proved a great hit, and no play of its length, 
 perhaps, ever excited more attention than Sweethearts, which was 
 announced as follows : On Saturday, November 7th, 1874, will be 
 acted, for the first time, Sweethearts : an original dramatic contrast, 
 written by W. S. Gilbert. Act I.— Spring : 1844. Harry Spread- 
 brow, Mr. Coghlan ; Wilcox, Mr. F. Glover ; Jenny Northcott, 
 Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft). Act II.— Autumn : 1874. Sir 
 Henry Spreadbrow, Mr. Coghlan ; Miss Northcott, Miss Marie 
 Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft) ; Ruth, Miss Plowden. 
 
 Many curious and touching letters were addressed to Mrs. Ban- 
 croft, impelled by the emotions the play and her acting caused the 
 writers of them ; but the following kind note, addressed to her by 
 a former leader of our profession so distinguished as Mrs. Charles 
 Kean, gave her especial pleasure. 
 
 ' 47, Queensborough Terrace, Kensington Gardens, 
 March 28, 1875. 
 
 ' Dear Madam, — I have been so long ill that I have seen no- 
 thing of what has been going on in the theatrical world ; but I had 
 a great desire to see you in Sweethearts, and did so on Saturday. 
 Allow me now to thank you much for the enjoyment you afforded 
 me by your charming acting as Jenny Northcott. 
 
 ' Perhaps it may not be unpleasing to know that a very old 
 actress thought it perfection. Your style is all your own, and 
 touchingly true to nature. 
 
 ' Again thanking you, believe me, truly yours, Ellen Kean.' 
 
 I remember during the second act, early in the run of the little 
 play, a gentleman who occupied a stall close to the stage being so 
 palpably unable to control his emotion that he attracted the atten- 
 tion of his neighbour — a lady — so markedly, that at last he turned 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 2o7 
 
 to her and exclaimed quite audibly, ' Yes, ma'am, I am crying, and 
 I'm proud of it !' 
 
 The cast of Society had undergone many changes since we first 
 acted it ; the principal characters being played as follows : 
 
 Lord Ptarmigant, Mr. Archer ; Sidney Daryl, Mr. Coghlan ; 
 Mr. John Chodd, sen., Mr. Arthur Wood ; Mr. John Chodd, jun., 
 Mr. F. Glover ; Tom Stylus, Mr. Bancroft ; Olinthus O'Sullivan, 
 Mr. CoIIette ; Lady Ptarmigant, Mrs. Leigh Murray, and Maud 
 Hetherington, Miss Fanny Josephs. 
 
 We lost a friend of long standing at this time, in the death of 
 NOTE Tom Hood on November 20th, before he was quite 
 
 BY MKs. forty years of age. I first met him at the house of my 
 BANCROFT, brother-in-law, Mr. Fletcher, they having been college 
 chums at Oxford, and it was afterwards, at his own table, that we 
 made the acquaintance of Mr. Clement Scott, who was then a very 
 young man, known to his intimates and his friends in the War 
 Office as ' Kitten,' and who we little thought in future years would 
 sit in judgment on much of our managerial work, trying, we are 
 glad to say, never to allow his friendship to sway his opinion, for 
 his adverse views on some of our productions are as severe as any 
 that have been written of us. 
 
 Clever and kindly Tom Hood, not long before he died, gave me 
 a bound copy of that droll yet sympathetic nursery story, written 
 by his distinguished father the poet and wit, entitled ' The Head- 
 long Career and Woeful Ending of Precocious Piggy.' Tom Hood 
 often told me how, as a little boy, he had enjoyed the comical 
 history, when it was related to him by his father, who had written 
 it especially for the amusement of his children, and who were all, 
 more or less, deeply interested in Piggy's adventures. I have drawn 
 many a laugh and many a tear from the little ones to whom I have 
 read the story, and my copy, a gift from the son, who so cleverly 
 illustrated his father's quaint fancy, is much prized by me. Before 
 presenting me with the book, Tom Hood added a pen-and-ink 
 drawing which represents ' Piggy ' in evening dress, with crush 
 hat, gloves, and opera-glasses complete. Piggy looks remarkably 
 funny, and one cannot resist laughing heartily at the cleverness of 
 the sketch. Tom Hood also added the following verse to the 
 illustration : 
 
 ' " Where are you going to, you Hltle pig?" 
 " To the New Prince of Wales's, dressed out in full fig." 
 ' ' In full fig, young pig ? 
 A pig in full fig ! 
 You'll see Marie Wilton, you lucky young pig I" ' 
 
 On Monday, November 23rd, the performance was honoured by 
 
 RESUMED BY the PHnce of Wales, the Duke of Edinburgh, the 
 
 s. B. B. Cesarewwitch, now Emperor of Russia, to whom the 
 
 Prince of Wales presented me ; the Grand Duke Alexis, his brother ; 
 
2o8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 and Prince Louis of Battenberg. I only mention the circumstance, 
 as I doubt if any little green-room ever received so large a con- 
 tingent of royalty at the same time. 
 
 Now that these plays were so successfully launched, I turned all 
 my thoughts towards the Merchant of Ve7iice ; the first attempt we 
 made towards special engagements being a proposal to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Kendal, which broke down, when, happily, the thought of 
 Ellen Terry, who then had not acted for a considerable time, came 
 to me, and resulted in her engagement to be the Portia. The 
 following characteristic letter from that delightful actress, whose 
 method so completely conveys the power of ' charm,' will be the 
 best comment on the subject we can offer, and, I am sure, the most 
 acceptable to the reader : 
 
 'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, — I received the form of 
 engagement this morning, together with the kind little letters. 
 Accept my best thanks for your expressions of good-will towards 
 me. I cannot tell you how pleased I am that I seem to see in you 
 a reflection of my own feelings with regard to this engagement. 
 
 ' My work will, I feel certain, be joyful work, and joyful work 
 should turn out good work. You will be pleased, and / shall be 
 pleased at your pleasure, and it would be hard, then, if the good 
 folk " in front " are not pleased. — Believe me, I am all ways, sin- 
 cerely yours, Ellen Terry.' 
 
 I took upon myself the great responsibility of rearranging the 
 text of the play, so as to avoid change of scene in sight of the 
 audience, and adapt the work, as far as possible, to its miniature 
 frame ; being greatly fortified in my researches by the discovery of 
 the following passage, which I came across in an old edition of the 
 play that had been my father's, and which I had often read when 
 a boy, for the Merchant of Venice and Othello were always my 
 favourites of Shakespeare's plays : 
 
 ' The old quarto editions of 1600 have no distribution of acts, but 
 proceed from the beginning to the end in an unbroken ten our. This 
 play, therefore, having been probably divided without authority by 
 the publishers of the first folio, lies open to a new regulation, if any 
 more commodious division can be proposed. The story in itself is 
 so wildly incredible, and the changes of the scene so frequent and 
 capricious, that the probability of action does not deserve much 
 care. — JOHNSON.' 
 
 Here was a discovery, indeed, in so eminent an opinion, and I 
 resolved to include the first paragraphs of it in our play-bill. Per- 
 haps there will be no better opportunity to describe the sequence of 
 scenes I eventually decided on, for I often have regretted that I 
 did not print the play as we performed it. The first tableau, under 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 209 
 
 the arches of the Doge's palace, contained the text of the opening 
 and third scenes of Act I., the dialogue being welded together by 
 carefully arranged and appropriate pantomimic action from the 
 crowds, who were throughout passing and re-passing. The second 
 tableau was in Portia's house at Belmont, and opened with the 
 choice of the golden casket by the Prince of Morocco, after which 
 came the dialogues between Portia and Nerissa from Act I., scene 2, 
 and then closed with the announcement of the Prince of Arragon, 
 and his choice of the silver casket. In the third tableau we return 
 to Venice, a most quaint spot of the old city being chosen for the 
 outside of Shylock's house, which, without exception, was the most 
 extraordinary scenic achievement in so small a theatre, the close of 
 the scene being the elopement by moonlight of his daughter. This 
 tableau was then repeated by daylight for the scene of ' the Jew's 
 rage ' with Solanio and Salarino, and his subsequent interview with 
 Tubal. The fourth view was a repetition, with some changed effects ; 
 it being the hall of Portia's palace, where Bassanio chose wisely 
 from the three caskets, and heard afterwards of Antonio's arrest. 
 The next tableau was the ' Trial Scene,' and the last, ' Portia's 
 Garden.' 
 
 The words of two or three songs from some of his other comedies 
 were introduced, but no syllable of Shakespeare's text was altered ; 
 transpositions of the dialogue alone being necessary for an arrange- 
 ment of the play which it may not be too late, even yet, to publish. 
 This arrangement of the incidents of the play was subsequently 
 highly praised by Button Cook. 
 
 Sketches from Vicellio were made by Mr. Coghlan for some of 
 the dresses, and to him not only the responsibility of acting Shylock 
 but the stage management of the production were intrusted. Mr. 
 E. W. Godwin lent his valuable archaeological knowledge, and all 
 possible pains were bestowed upon every branch of the work by all 
 concerned ; some charming music was especially composed by Mr. 
 Meredith Ball, the voice portions being rendered by a choir of men 
 and boys specially trained, who, with the soldiers engaged to repre- 
 sent the Prince of Morocco's suite and the Doge's body-guard, to 
 say nothing of the increased company, tried our resources to the 
 utmost with regard to dressing-room accommodation. The views 
 of Venice — comprising the Campanile and column of St. Mark, the 
 Rialto, and a view of the Grand Canal, to be shown between the 
 acts — were beautiful pictures by George Gordon, who, with Mr. 
 Harford, devoted months of labour to the scenery, which was very 
 realistic ; elaborate capitals of enormous weight, absolute repro- 
 ductions of those which crown the pillars of the colonnade of the 
 Doge's Palace, were cast in plaster, causing part of a wall to be cut 
 away to find room for them to be moved, by means of trucks, on 
 and off the tiny stage. Special engagements, of course, were made 
 in order to complete the long cast of the play. For my own part, 
 I decided upon only adding a minor character to my other labours, 
 
 14 
 
210 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 as my brain was kept at such a tension that I wanted some rehef 
 from it ; whether the play was to succeed or fail began to seem as 
 nothing to the longing to be rid of it. 
 
 I must here interrupt Mr. Bancroft's narrative to tell a true, and, 
 NOTE I hope, amusing incident. While waiting one day in 
 
 BY MRS. Wellington Street in an open carriage for my husband, 
 EANCEOPT. who was giving some orders at Madame Auguste's 
 about the dresses, I was startled by a street-nigger coming towards 
 me with a broad grin upon his black face. Concluding that he 
 intended asking for money, I was preparing to give him some- 
 thing, when he stopped me by saying, ' No, no, lady ; I don't come 
 a-beggin' ! I saw your kind face from the other side of the road, 
 and when you smoiled, I said to myself, " Why, I know who that is ; 
 there ain't another smoile like that wowheres. It's Miss Ma-arie 
 Wilton, wot was at the Strand Theayter !" ' Seeing a wild stare of 
 amazement on my face, he continued, ' Oh, you don't remember 
 me, miss ? How in the world could I recognise the creature with 
 such a face — all niggers have such a strong family likeness ! I 
 wished the ground to open and let me through ; my sable friend, 
 however, did not observe my agitation, and proceeded, ' I was in 
 the chorus at the Strand Theayter, miss, when you was theer. Lor, 
 how I used to watch you ! I was up to my ears in love with you, 
 miss !' Such ears ! I wanted to scream ! There I was, fixed in 
 the carriage, and this man standing close to it, with one foot on 
 the step. He continued, ' Since then I've tried many things, but 
 failed in heverythink ! If I had been hedgicated, I might 'ave been 
 in a leadin' persition like 'Enery Irving at the Lyceum, there. But 
 'ere I am reduced to doin' nigger business in the streets like this 
 'ere !' I gazed at him with horror. A tall, white hat, with a deep 
 black band ; red and white striped trousers, very short ; a coat 
 with the tails dragging on the ground ; a large white collar, and a 
 tie like a windmill, which ev^ry time he moved threatened to knock 
 my bonnet off ; a handkerchief, the size of a moderate table-cover, 
 hanging from his pocket, and a large flower in his coat like an 
 'ornament for your fire-stove.' At last strains of 'Ada with the 
 Golden Hair' struck up close by, and with a sigh the nigger said, 
 ' Well, miss, dooty calls, and I must go.' How thankful I was to 
 dooty ! ' My pals is in the next street. If ever I see you agin, I 
 shall only take my 'at off to you, and you won't mind that, I know, 
 from a poor fellar wot is down in the world !' This touched me, 
 and I made him accept some money ; the poor fellow then said, ' I 
 'umbly ask yer pardon, but I couldn't 'elp speakin' jist a word to 
 you, for the sake of tirnes gone by ; good luck to you, miss, and 
 God bless you !' This last sentence was spoken with pathos, 
 and tears trickled down his cheeks, putting his face into half- 
 mourning. 
 A few minutes later, as I was relating this experience to Mr. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 211 
 
 Bancroft, we encountered a nigger troupe in a street off the Strand, 
 and there was my black dose vigorously playing the bones ; he 
 kept his word, but as he raised his hat he fixed his eyes plaintively 
 on me as he sang in chorus with ' his pals ' : 
 
 ' I fancy I can see her now, 
 Down at Farmer Fenu's, 
 A pickin' up the new-laid eggs from the cow, 
 And railkin' the cocks and hens.' 
 
 Meanwhile, the programme of Sweethearts and Society had suc- 
 
 HESUMED ceeded beyond our hopes ; indeed, both pieces might 
 BY MR. have been acted longer than they were, but on Tues- 
 BANCROFT. day, April 13th, we withdrew them, after one hundred 
 and thirty-one performances, and the three following evenings were 
 devoted to night rehearsals of the Merchant of Venice. On the last 
 of them we decided, after all the excitement of it, to walk home, for 
 our new house was but a short distance. As we passed the 
 Middlesex Hospital, I remember the clock told us it was past 
 three ; in fact, we had been nine hours in the theatre. 
 
 Exquisite as we could see the Portia would be — beautiful, beyond 
 our hopes, as were the scenery and dresses — we felt, alas ! that the 
 version of Shylock which Coghlan proposed to offer would fail, at 
 the time, at any rate, to be acceptable ; so it may be believed our 
 hearts were heavy when the curtain rose upon the venture. 
 
 On Saturday, April 17th, 1875, will be acted, Shakespeare's Play, 
 The Merchant of Venice. ' The old quarto editions of 1600 have 
 no distribution of acts, but proceed from the beginning to the end 
 in an unbroken tenour. This play, therefore, having been probably 
 divided without authority by the publishers of the first folio, lies 
 open to a new regulation, if any more commodious division can be 
 proposed.'^/o^wjo^. To avoid the changing of scenes in sight of 
 the audience, the text (for the arrangement of which Mr. Bancroft 
 is responsible) will be comprised in seven scenes, painted by Mr. 
 Gordon and Mr. Harford, from drawings expressly made in Venice 
 by Mr. Gordon, who desires to acknowledge his obligation to Mr. 
 E. W. Godwin, F.S.A., for valuable aid in archaeological research. 
 Scene i. — Under the Arches of the Doge's Palace. Scene 2. — 
 Belmont. Scene 3. — Lanes in Venice : Morning. Scene 4. — Lanes 
 in Venice : Evening. Scene 5. — Belmont. Scene 6. — The Sala 
 Delia Bussola. Scene 7. — A Garden. During the intervals between 
 the scenes, views of Venice, painted by Mr. Gordon, will be shown. 
 Duke of Venice, Mr. CoUette ; Prince of Morocco, Mr. Bancroft ; 
 Prince of Arragon, Mr. Vaughan ; Antonio, Mr. Archer ; Bassanio, 
 Mr. E. H. Brooke (his first appearance) ; Solanio, Mr. Denison ; 
 Salarino, Mr. Teesdale ; Gratiano, Mr. Lin Rayne ; Lorenzo, Mr. 
 Standing ; Shylock, Mr. Coghlan ; Tubal, Mr. Newton ; Old 
 Gobbo, Mr. F. Glover; Launcelot Gobbo, Mr. Arthur Wood; 
 Leonardo, Mr. Robinson ; Balthazar, Mr. Franks ; Grand Captain, 
 
 14 — 2 
 
212 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Mr. Stewart ; Crier, Mr. Noel ; Gaoler, Mr. Bella ; Portia, Miss 
 Ellen Terry (her first appearance) ; Nerissa, Miss Carlotta Addison ; 
 Jessica, Miss Augusta Wilton. The incidenal music composed by- 
 Mr. J. Meredith Ball. 
 
 Of course, there was a brilliant audience, and the play throughout 
 was well received, but never with enthusiasm. I think surprise had 
 much to do with this ; it all looked so unlike a theatre, and so much 
 more like old Italian pictures than anything that had been pre- 
 viously shown upon the stage. Some of the dresses seemed to puzzle 
 many among the audience, notably those worn by Bassanio and 
 the Venetian nobles, who accompanied him to Belmont in their 
 velvet robes of state ; the gorgeous attendants on the Prince of 
 Morocco ; and the Spaniards who accompanied the Prince of 
 Arragon. 
 
 It may be that it all came a little before the proper time, and that 
 we saw things too far in advance ; for the play, in our own opinions, 
 only just missed being a great success. For my part, I account it 
 a failure to be proud of; nor should it be forgotten that the 
 absence of Mrs. Bancroft was another serious drawback to its 
 attraction, for Miss Terry had still, in those days, to earn the bril- 
 liant position she now owns, and of which her acting in this pro- 
 duction was, without doubt, the foundation-stone. As I, and I 
 alone was, responsible for the mistake, if, in truth, it was a mistake, 
 in casting Mr. Coghlan for the part of Shylock (misled by his 
 splendid acting in Man and Wife, and a play by the late regretted 
 Sir Charles Young, called Shadows), I held it to be but right to 
 stand by him, and so turned a deaf ear to the suggestions that 
 poured in on every side as to what we ought to do, and was dumb 
 to the remarkable applications from decayed tragedians — the names 
 even of many of them being unknown to me before — who vowed 
 that if the part were but given over to them the fortune of the pro- 
 duction would still be assured. 
 
 Perhaps there is no character more trying than Shylock for an 
 actor to excel in, especially in the scene where he upbraids Solanio 
 and Salarino, and in the tremendous interview that follows between 
 Tubal and himself. The fact of rushing on the stage in a white- 
 heat frenzy, with nothing to lead up to its passion, I take it, is the 
 main difficulty. Of all the Shylocks I have seen, Charles Kean did 
 most with this particular scene, and his performance, I have been 
 told, was, as far as he could make it so, a reproduction of his father's. 
 Apropos of which, Mr. Wilton often spoke to me ; he having once, 
 when quite a young actor, played Tubal to the Shylock of Edmund 
 Kean. The great actor did not appear at rehearsal, but sent word 
 that 'he should like to see the gentleman who was to be the Tubal 
 at his hotel.' Mr. Wilton obeyed the summons, and spoke always 
 of the kindness with which Kean instructed him, after saying, 
 ' We'll run through the scene, Mr. Wilton, because I'm told that if 
 you don't know what I'm going to do I might frighten you !' Mr. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 213 
 
 Wilton described the performance as stupendous / and said that, 
 although prepared beforehand, at night Kean really frightened 
 him. 
 
 Macready writes of the difficulties of the part, and of his dis- 
 satisfaction with all his attempts to act it. It is said of him, and I 
 believe with greater truth than attaches itself to all theatrical anec- 
 dotes, that he never went on the stage for the scene in question 
 without hanging on to the rungs of a ladder, and trying to lash him- 
 self into the required condition by snarling and cursing at some 
 imaginary foe. 
 
 Mr. Coghlan was, in those days, but a young man, and his many 
 brilliant successes under our management far more than excused 
 this solitary instance, among the varied claims we made upon his 
 great ability, in which he failed to reach our expectations ; while 
 my error, after all, was not much greater than in asking a tenor to 
 sing a bass song. Had I been less ambitious, and had chosen 
 either As You Like It or Much Ado about Nothing, I think success 
 would have rewarded the attempt. With what charm Ellen Terry 
 plays Beatrice all the world now knows, and how beautiful she 
 would have been as Rosalind, all the world may guess ; while 
 Coghlan, either as Benedick or as Orlando, would have Iseen a 
 perfect companion picture. We missed, therefore, an opportunity 
 by my first choice of a Shakespearian play being unfortunate. 
 
 Apropos of the wonderful power of ' charm ' possessed in so 
 eminent a degree by Miss Terry, when, some few years later, she 
 was playing at the Lyceum the part of Camma in Lord Tennyson's 
 play, The Cup, I heard an able dramatic critic, who was going to 
 see it for the second time, asked by a friend if he ' really thought 
 the actress had all the power and physical strength to play the 
 second act as perfectly as she did the first.' ' Not for a moment,' 
 was the reply. ' But I would rather see Ellen Terry try to realize 
 it, than see any other actress who plays such parts succeed in 
 doing so.' 
 
 The signature of the accomplished writer of the following letter 
 would alone justify its insertion here, without the few appropriate 
 lines it contains : 
 
 ' 68, Thistle Grove, Brompton, Friday, April 23, 1875. 
 
 ' Please, Mrs. Bancroft, may we come to see the Merchant of 
 Venice ? I only returned from the " Rialto " last Tuesday, and I 
 am very anxious to behold the much-talked-of mise-en-scine at the 
 Prince of Wales's. It may comfort Mr. Coghlan to know that I 
 bought 2J yards of smaniglio, or Venice gold chain, from Shylock 
 himself, and that he was the quietest and most gentlemanly Jew I 
 ever met, but a desperate " do." 
 
 ' If you can spare seats for Monday next, you will delight Mrs. 
 Sala, and inspire gratitude in the heart of your most faithful 
 servant, GEORGE AUGUSTUS Sala.' 
 
214 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Meanwhile our poor Merchant was in a very bankrupt condition, 
 hardly paying his nightly expenses. After three weeks of this state 
 of things, we decided upon putting Lord Lytton's coniedy Money in 
 rehearsal, with a very powerful addition to the distribution of the 
 characters — Mrs. Bancroft deciding to play Lady Franklin for the 
 first time, while Ellen Terry was to be the Clara Douglas ; George 
 Honey was re-engaged for his old part, Mr. Graves, and Coghlan 
 would resume his admirable performance of the hero. Directly 
 this was settled, I advertised in the newspapers that ' the perform- 
 ance of the Merchant of Vetiice having failed to attract large 
 audiences, the play would be withdrawn,' which seemed to me a 
 better course than a ridiculous evasion, such as, ' owing to prior 
 arrangements,' etc., etc. I remember that I obtained great approval 
 for my boldness, and our successes were, as a result, believed in. 
 Strange as it may seem, directly after the announcement appeared, 
 the audiences improved almost nightly — the many beauties of the 
 production having, I suppose, begun to be talked about — and for 
 the last few performances the theatre was quite three-parts full. 
 We received a very influentially-slgned petition, begging us to act 
 the Merchant of Venice a little longer, in the hope that our reward 
 must surely come. Whether this production might have grown 
 to be one of the few plays that outlived failure and eventually 
 reached success, it is now impossible to say ; for we stood by our 
 advertisement, and withdrew it, after only thirty-six representa- 
 tions. 
 
 It is a great pleasure to record that during its brief career the 
 play was seen by many actors, who were all enraptured with it — 
 many of them saw the performance again and again. 
 
 I hope I have not wearied the reader with so long an account of 
 this ill-fated revival, which was not, however, without its influence 
 on much future work, and so served some good end ; but as I have 
 so often had to tell of our successes, I ought to speak as frankly of 
 our failures, and before finally dismissing the subject, I may say 
 that the result of the run, when the receipts were averaged, was 
 just to pay its way, leaving us minus the cost of the production, 
 some three thousand pounds — a large sum to spend upon a play in 
 such a little theatre. 
 
 Let me turn aside, if but for a page or two, from our own doings 
 to tell of two performances, each of moment in their different ways, 
 which occurred in the spring of this year — \h& premiere of Our Boys, 
 and the appearance of the great Italian actor, Salvini, in London. 
 
 Apropos of the first event, I was one Saturday night in the 
 billiard-room of the Garrick Club, where I recollect a group of men 
 coming in, who said they had been to see the new play at the 
 Vaudeville. All sorts of opinions were expressed, several present 
 thinking the comedy would only have quite a moderate run, when 
 Charles Mathews, who was playing pool, said quietly, ' I don't 
 agree with you fellows. I was there, and haven't laughed so 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 215 
 
 heartily for a long while. Byron this time — he doesn't always— has 
 taken his goods to exactly the right shop. That play is sure to 
 run.' 
 
 A few words on Salvini's magnificent acting as Othello : which 
 we first saw at a morning performance given at Drury Lane Theatre, 
 when all the then representative actors were invited and almost 
 entirely made up the vast assemblage. Salvini was only courteously 
 received on his first entrance, but very quickly impressed the re- 
 markable audience that no ordinary actor was before them. No 
 ovation that we have ever taken part in equalled in enthusiasm his 
 reception at the close of the third act ; while his acting that day 
 lives in our memory as the grandest and completest tragic effort 
 that we ever saw. We have at least to thank the Merchant of 
 Venice for frequent opportunities of seeing Salvini act, as Mrs. Ban- 
 croft was not concerned in it, and my small part ended quite early. 
 We saw him often as Othello, once as the Gladiator, also as Hamlet 
 — a performance, although the actor's physique and southern nature 
 (as in the most modest way he asserted to me) were opposed to the 
 part, full of exquisite beauties. To describe the wondrously touching 
 acting of his death, let me drop my own feeble pen and take up one 
 that was wielded then by G. H. Lewes, who wrote : ' No more pathetic 
 death has been seen on the stage. Among its many fine touches 
 there was the subtle invention of making the dying Hamlet draw 
 down the head of Horatio to kiss him before sinking into silence, 
 which reminds one of the " Kiss me, Hardy " of the dying Nelson ; 
 and this affecting motive was represented by an action as novel as 
 it was truthful, namely, the uncertain hand blindly searching for 
 the dear head, and then faintly closing on it with a sort of final 
 adieu.' We had the pleasure to make Salvini's acquaintance, and 
 still retain his valued friendship. The ability of the actor is only 
 equalled by the modesty of the man. 
 
 We are glad to be able to print a letter from the great artist : 
 
 ' fuin 9, 1875. 
 
 ' CnfeRE Madame, — Que vous Ites aimable ! 
 
 ' Je tiendrai votre joli cadeau comme un doux souvenir de votre 
 sincere amiti^. -Ce sera un pr^cieux talisman qui suivra le reste de 
 ma carrifere artistique, et qui, je suis sur, m'apportera du bonheur. 
 
 ' J'aurai le plaisir d'entendre la nouvelle pifece que vous allez 
 reprdsenter Lundi prochain, et j'accepterai la loge que vous avez eu 
 I'aimabilitd de me proposer. 
 
 ' Acceptez de nouveau mes remerciements, et croyez-moi, — Votre 
 d^voud, ToMMASo Salvini.' 
 
 Although it was so short a time since Money had been played, the 
 change in the theatre was magical, and all our friends at once came 
 back in crowds. This was our cast of the well-known characters on 
 May 29th: Lord Glossmore, Mr. Teesdale; Sir John Vesey, Mr. 
 
2i6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Charles CoUette ; Sir Frederick Blount, Mr. Bancroft ; Captain Dudley 
 Smooth, Mr. Archer ; Mr. Graves, Mr. George Honey ; Alfred 
 Evelyn, Mr. Coghlan ; Mr. Stout, Mr. Arthur Wood ; Mr. Sharp, 
 Mr. Denison ; An Old Member of the Club, Mr. F. Glover ; Lady 
 Franklin, Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft) ; Georgina Vesey, 
 Miss Carlotta Addison ; and Clara Douglas, Miss Ellen Terry. 
 
 On Saturday, June 19th, we gave a morning performance to a 
 crowded house of the smallest programrne ever, I should say, issued 
 in an important theatre, when Theyre Smith's charming little play, 
 A Happy Pair, and W. S. Gilbert's Sweethearts, were acted ; the 
 performance lasted about an hour and three-quarters, six people 
 only appearing on the stage. The cast of A Happy Pair was Mr. 
 Honeyton, Mr. Bancroft ; Mrs. Honeyton, Miss Ellen Terry. It 
 was simply for this one occasion that we played it ; but I remember 
 now the laughter and applause it caused. The chief reason for the 
 performance was to give poor Sothern, of whom at this time we 
 saw a good deal, an opportunity he much coveted of seeing Mrs. 
 Bancroft in Sweethearts. Money drew sixty brilliant houses, and 
 ran until August 6th, the usual time we closed our season, a result 
 partly, doubtless, due to a cold and rainy July. Although we had 
 arranged with Charles Reade to revive Masks and Faces, the clever 
 drama written by himself and Tom Taylor, in which we placed great 
 faith, we decided to spare ourselves further strain of rehearsals until 
 the autumn ; so resolved, in spite of a fear that it would be exhausted 
 for a time, to begin again with Lord Lytton's comedy until Peg 
 Woffington should be ready to replace it. 
 
 After this arduous season (for although the one failure had been 
 HOLIDAY f^'' more than compensated for by the successes, still 
 NOTES it left its wound), we were glad to get away and seek 
 BY MES. again lazy relief from work at Zurich and the Kaltbad, 
 BANCROFT, vvhere we became acquainted with a charming old 
 maiden lady, a sister of the late Dean Stanley. This time we 
 travelled with a large and cumbersome joint-stock portmanteau, 
 which we eventually christened the ' Eilgut,' for the reason that it 
 was constantly being lost for three or four days together, and after 
 telegrams had been sent in evei"y direction to trace its whereabouts, 
 and my anxiety had reached the highest pitch, I was informed that 
 it was coming by the ' Eilgut,' a sort oi petite vitesse, and very slow 
 method of progression. I lost this wretched box so often that I 
 determined to use it no more. (Ultimately it was degraded to an 
 appearance in Diplomacy, in which play it was carried across the 
 stage as Dora and Julian Beauclerc are about to start for their 
 honeymoon. 1 don't know where it is now, and I don't care !) To 
 return, I was constantly finding, on my arrival at various hotels, 
 that this unfortunate and troublesome trunk was missing. On 
 reaching Lucerne this year we discovered that our miserable box 
 was again lost ; what to do I covild not imagine. We proceeded to 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 217 
 
 the Kaltbad with nothing but our travelling-bags, and days passed 
 without news of the trunk. Several ladies, whom I knew, helped 
 me, and I was positively dressed for nearly a week by subscription. 
 I was sitting in my room one day completely heart-broken, and 
 arranging to return to England as soon as possible, when I heard 
 in the corridor an unusual commotion, and presently a chorus of 
 voices to the tune of ' See the Conquering Hero Comes.' I opened 
 my room door and there saw a procession, headed by my old friend 
 Mr. Palgrave Simpson, who carried an alpenstock, like a master 
 of the ceremonies, followed by the wretched ' Eilgut,' elaborately 
 decorated, and borne in triumph by two porters. After marching 
 twice up and down the corridor, the cause of such frequent dis- 
 comfort was deposited in my room, and then and there I vowed that 
 never again would I bring the 'Eilgut' abroad, and I kept my word. 
 The loss of my box and the want of clothes did not finish my list 
 of annoyances during my stay this year at the Kaltbad, as I was 
 robbed of my sleep by an unpleasant next-door neighbour who 
 snored terribly. The noise he made sounded more like the growl 
 of some animal than the breathing of a human being. I watched 
 for my persecutor day after day, but could never find him. I looked 
 at every man I saw on the terrace, who seemed likely to be a 
 snorer, with suspicion ; but more than this I could never do. I 
 found out his name in the bureau — he was a German — but from 
 the description I received there, failed to identify him. I felt sure 
 he was a big man, for only a big man could produce suck a snore. 
 During the day my deie noir would be out on some excursion, at 
 table d'h/ite I used to search with my eyes all round the room, iDut 
 always failed to fix my accusation definitely on anyone. I hoped 
 for every day to be his last in the hotel, but at night I found he still 
 remained. If I hurried to bed early in order to get an hour or 
 two's rest before he retired, it so happened that on those very 
 nights he had returned from some expedition and had gone 
 to bed early also. When he was tired the noise was louder and 
 deeper, so I could always tell when his day had been fatiguing, 
 for the sound was like the snore of a tired bull. It became so 
 terrible at last that I decided upon leaving ; for the hotel was too 
 crowded for me to change my room, and I was literally ill for want 
 of sleep, so we determined to go down by the little mountain rail- 
 way to Vitznau, to catch the steamer for Lucerne, and there secure 
 rooms for a fev^ days. We took our seats in the train, each carriage 
 of which is open, and simply divided into benches, and after we 
 had started, I was on the point of dropping off to sleep (completely 
 worn out for want of rest), when suddenly my eyes caught the 
 number of the hated room my cruel tormentor occupied, marked in 
 plain chalk figures on the soles of a pair of boots. There he was, 
 with his ugly feet up — two benches off — on the opposite side, read- 
 ing a newspaper, which completely hid the upper part of him. I 
 eagerly watched him, and when at last he dropped his paper and 
 
2i8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 the face was revealed, behold, instead of the big, burly creature I 
 expected, he was quite a little, undersized bit of humanity I ' Who 
 from such a stem would look for such a ' — snore ? I was consoled 
 when I found the porter had chalked his ugly shoes for the last 
 time, and we learnt that he had taken his departure from the 
 hotel. 
 
 Before returning to our mountain home, we went on to Lucerne 
 for the day, and on board the steamer met the Duke of Connaught, 
 whom I at first did not recognise in his suit of dittos and pot hat. 
 His Royal Highness was pleased to enter into conversation with 
 us, during which he noticed that several people on board were 
 staring at me, and whispering to each other. The Duke was much 
 amused, and laughingly remarked, ' You see, Mrs. Bancroft, I have 
 the advantage of you here ; they all know you, but they don't know 
 me.' 
 
 After our return to the Kaltbad, we were standing one day on the 
 terrace enjoying the beautiful view — the atmosphere being excep- 
 tionally clear, while the sun glittered as he well knows how in those 
 high regions. Our attention was suddenly attracted by a hurried 
 rush and bustle on the part of the waiters and maids, who were 
 running about in all directions, hastily shutting and securing the 
 jalousies of the hotel windows. On inquiry, we were answered by 
 the portier, ' L'orage ! I'orage !' and, sure enough, on looking in the 
 direction he pointed towards, we saw a strange sight : a huge, black 
 cloud was turning the corner of the opposite mountain like an angry 
 war-horse, and from its nostrils came streaks of fire. It was followed 
 by another and another ; they seemed to glide so rapidly in fren- 
 zied pursuit, that one stood wondering what they were flying from. 
 This was ' Monsieur I'Orage,' whose advent was always known by 
 the furious avant coureur I have described. It was the most awful 
 storm I ever witnessed even in the mountains, where sunshine and 
 tempest are so often mingled. It was, indeed, a sudden change 
 from gay to grave. The wind howled as if all the wild animals in 
 the world had been lashed into a fury, and, maddened with rage, 
 were going to devastate the earth. The thunder was terrible, and 
 filled one with a religious awe, as if it meant the end of all things. 
 The lightning came like knives cutting the clouds, with which it 
 was at war, into shreds ; then the hailstones, which were as large 
 as filberts, fell with such force that they seemed to split the air as 
 they descended. It was a terrible but grand experience. Presently 
 a change, as sudden as the storm, restored to us the giant sun, and 
 all was calm and beautiful again. In the evening we were dis- 
 cussing this event, when we were told a sad story of what had 
 happened on the lake below us. A young Frenchman and his 
 bride, who were passing part of their honeymoon at Lucerne, had 
 engaged a boat for a sort of love-cruise, and although the boatman 
 warned them of the danger of going alone, as a storm was brewing, 
 the lover-husband declined his services. Not long afterwards the 
 
THE SEASON OF 1874-75 219 
 
 anticipated storm broke out, and as the tiny boat with its happy- 
 load _ was about to turn a corner of the lake, the sudden squall 
 capsized it. The husband was saved, but his bride, who but a few 
 moments before was so joyous, so contented with her fate, was 
 drowned. The sympathy for the poor stricken bridegroom was 
 universal ; for a time he lost his reason, and could not be convinced 
 that his young wife was dead. It was, indeed, a sad ending to so 
 much happiness, and the story cast a gloom upon the place for a 
 long time. As the ill-starred girl lay in her last sleep, one felt the 
 words of Queen Gertrude : 
 
 ' I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, 
 And not have strew'd thy grave.' 
 
 Apropos of these sudden changes in the weather on the Lake of 
 Lucerne, there is an old well-known rhyme about its chief moun- 
 tainous feature, the rugged . Pilatus, which is made to act as a sort 
 of local barometer. The lines run as follow : 
 
 ' If Pilatus wears his cap, serene will be the day ; 
 If his collar he puts on. you may venture on your way. 
 But if his sword he wields, at home you'd better stay.' 
 
 The doggerel reminds me of a version of the prophecy given by 
 a little German boy, who was learning English, and mixed up the 
 two languages thus : 
 
 ' Wen Pilatus hat sein hut 
 Den de wedder's very gut ; 
 Wen Pilatus hat sein degen. 
 Den you know it's going to regen ; 
 Wen Pilatus hat sein schwerz. 
 Den de wedder's werse and werse.' 
 
 We thought we would make a change in the close of our holiday 
 this year, and resolved to pass it at Ostend, where we had the great 
 pleasure of being in the same hotel with an old and dear friend — the 
 late Mr. Critchett — whose opportune arrival and surgical skill saved 
 Mr. Bancroft from what might have been a serious illness, as 
 Mr. Critchett found him suffering from creeping erysipelas, caused 
 by a bite on the face by some diseased insect. When this trouble 
 passed, we had a delightful time, during which, on the beautiful 
 stretch of sands that lie out past the Marine Villa of the King of 
 the Belgians, we began to study Triplet and Peg Woffington. 
 
220 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1875-76. 
 
 Masks and Faces in preparation— Changes in structure and treatment— Mrs. 
 Bancroft on the character of Peg Woffington — On the reah'ty of emotion on 
 the stage — Charles Reade's criticism on the acting — Letters from Sir 
 William Fergusson and George Vandenhoff— Commission to Byron to 
 write a new comedy — Wrinkles — Les Pattes de Moiiche — The Moonstone — 
 Revival of Ok;-j— Adaptation of Nos In/imes—IUoess of Mrs. Bancroft and 
 Miss Ellen Terry— Impending- changes in the company — A dinner with 
 H. J. Montague and Henry Irving — Our annual holiday — Practical jokes- 
 Anecdote of Sir Julius Benedict — At the Eggischorn— Impromptu amuse- 
 ments — The Bel Alp — Meeting with Professor Tyndall. 
 
 INCLEIWENT as the summer had been, so was the autumn which 
 followed it magnificent ; we returned home, in fact, to find 
 weather that made one sigh to think our holiday had come to an 
 end. The heat was even greater than we had found abroad, and 
 the baked pavement of the still deserted streets seemed to reproach 
 one for the stupidity of coming back so soon to the monotonous 
 repetition of a well-worn play ; and small blame to it that Money, 
 when we recommenced our season on Saturday, September i8th, 
 declined to draw more than moderate houses for the few weeks we 
 should be obliged to act it, while Masks and Faces was prepared. 
 
 It was not an easy task to persuade Charles Reade (to whom the 
 comedy belonged, he having some years before laought Tom 
 Taylor's share from him, and with whom all our negotiation took 
 place) to give his consent to the changes we sought to make in the 
 play. At length, however, after many a tough fight, we won the 
 day and gained our wish, afterwards having the great satisfaction 
 of Charles Reade's approval of every change ; and when the play 
 reverted to him, he discarded the old book for ever, and ordered 
 replicas of our prompt copy for his future use. 
 
 There have been so many and such varying statements made 
 concerning these alterations of Masks and Faces, that perhaps the 
 outline of facts we will give upon the subject may still have interest, 
 especially to those connected with the two distinguished authors, 
 who might be fairly called the Beaumont and Fletcher of this 
 century. 
 
 First it was advisable, in our opinion, that the play should be in 
 three instead of in two acts as hitherto, and an opening scene was 
 suggested by ourselves to aid this view, Mrs. Bancroft drawing up 
 a rough sketch of an interview between Quin and Kitty Clive, to 
 end in a quarrel over their criticisms. This notion Reade at once 
 agreed to, and in his large-hearted way proposed that Tom Taylor 
 should be asked to write the dialogue, that he might have the fee 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 221 
 
 we proposed to give for the work, as it would be to him a little 
 consolation for no longer sharing in the nightly royalties. Taylor 
 agreed, wrote the scene admirably, and gracefully acknowledged 
 our cheque for fifty pounds, which he was good enough to think a 
 far larger sum than his work entitled him to accept. Some changes 
 at the end of Act I. were made by Reade. The dialogue of the 
 scene at Ernest Vane's house remained virtually the same so far as 
 mere words went, although distinctly, here and there, it was better 
 hooked-and-eyed together ; a few speeches and lines, having no 
 pretence in a literary sense, but of great value in the acting, were 
 now and again added by Reade at our suggestion throughout the 
 work ; but it was the treatment of the play we chiefly ventured to 
 alter, not the play itself. 
 
 Our great fight was over the end of it ; and only after many 
 struggles with Charles Reade did he allow us to cut out the old 
 stagey, rhyming tag, and agree to the pathetic ending we proposed. 
 We conquered him at last by acting to him what we wished to do, 
 when Peg, just before we wanted the curtain to fall, tearfully ac- 
 cepted the tenderly though modestly offered sympathy of the 
 grateful Triplet, and dropped her head upon his breast. Reade 
 cried like a child, and said to her, 'You're right, my dear ; you're a 
 woman, and of course you're right ; you shall have it your own 
 way.' In a letter written afterwards he says, ' Dear Peg, you are 
 too much for me ; and after this I don't measure my wit against 
 yours for a month or two. I cave in, as the Yankees say, and 
 submit at once to your proposal.' 
 
 We had many a talk together about the play with Charles 
 Reade, as to which was his share, and which was Tom Taylor's ; 
 he frankly told us the whole story of its growth and com- 
 pletion, always regarding the work as fairly divided between 
 them. The conception of the play, which arose from his looking 
 for a long time one day at Hogarth's portrait of Peg Wofiington in 
 the Garrick Club, and its most beautiful scene, were certainly 
 Reade's ; but Taylor was responsible for a delightful part of the 
 second act, and undoubtedly put many of Reade's early ideas into 
 more workmanlike shape. 
 
 Very diligent rehearsals attended this production, and we did not 
 feel it ready to face the heat of criticism until November. On 
 Friday, 5th, Money was withdrawn, and the following night we 
 acted the revised version of Reade and Taylor's play for the first 
 time, with the following cast : Sir Charles Pomander, Mr. Coghlan ; 
 Ernest Vane, Mr. Archer ; CoUey Cibber, Mr. Arthur Wood ; James 
 Quin, Mr. Teesdale ; Triplet, Mr. Bancroft ; Mr. Snarl, Mr. F. 
 Dewar ; Mr. Soaper, Mr. F. Glover ; Lysimachus, Master Glover ; 
 James Burdock, Mr. Stewart ; Colander, Mr. Denison ; Hundsdon, 
 Mr. Newton ; Peg Woffington, Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft) ; 
 Mabel Vane, Miss Ellen Terry ; Kitty Clive, Miss Brennan ; Mrs. 
 Triplet, Miss Lee ; Roxalana, Miss Glover. Act I. — The Green 
 
222 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Room of Old Covent Garden Theatre. Act II.— No. 51, Queen 
 Square. Act III. — Triplet's Home. 
 
 I (s. B. B.) may here say it was not without much fear and 
 trembling that I resolved to play the part of Triplet. I felt, how- 
 ever, unless I made some effort equally bold, that I should be 
 doomed to the inanition of ringing the changes on what had now 
 for some time grown to be called ' Bancroft parts.' Happily, 
 through hard work and patient thought, my ambition met with 
 some reward. During the run of the play, I remember attending a 
 meeting of a theatrical character, held at the Mansion House. Its 
 object has escaped my recollection ; but what lives in my memory 
 is encountering Benjamin Webster there. The old actor, after 
 looking long and earnestly at me for some time, said pleasant, grace- 
 ful things of his own old part to the younger Triplet. 
 
 Success of the highest kind rewarded our work, and it has 
 throughout been our impression that Masks and Faces has, in all 
 ways, been one of our truest friends. Permission was obtained 
 from the Committee of the Garrick Club to have copies made of 
 some pictures of the time from its celebrated collection, and so we 
 adorned the walls of the first act, which represented the green- 
 room of Old Covent Garden Theatre, with reproductions of 
 Grisson's portrait of CoUey Cibber as Lord Foppington ; the well- 
 known picture of Garrick as Richard III. ; Vanderguclit's portrait 
 of Woodward as Petruchio ; and Zoffany's Garrick and Mrs. 
 Pritchard in Macbeth, dressed in court clothes of the pei'iod. 
 
 The beautiful tapestry chamber which formed the scene of the 
 second act was, perhaps, with a group of characters on the stage, 
 one of the most real pictures of those times ever shown in a theatre. 
 
 Charles Reade, although very critical, was very pleased. On 
 reaching home after the first performance he wrote the following 
 lines, and sent with them in the morning an autograph letter of 
 Margaret Woffington's : 
 
 ' Presented by Charles Reade to his friend Mrs. Bancroft upon 
 her admirable personation of Peg Woffington in Masks and Faces. 
 — C. R., Nov. 6, 1875.' 
 
 Let us follow this allusion to a letter of the real woman with one 
 from her stage representative, which may have the interest of 
 explaining a new view of the character of Woffington as she appears 
 
 in the play. 
 
 You ask me to explain to you why I played Peg Woffington so 
 
 MRS. BAN- differently from previous readings of the part, giving 
 
 CROFT ON PEG another version almost of her character, and making 
 
 WOFFINGTON. hgj. appear as a different woman from what the authors 
 
 seemingly intended her to be, and as she had been represented by 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 223 
 
 other distinguished actresses. All great parts are capable of various 
 conceptions, and it is often a thankless office to play a character 
 which has been originally created by some one else, especially by 
 an actress of position, and I felt this difficulty very keenly when I 
 agreed to accept the part of Peg. With the public I felt safe, for 
 some years had elapsed since Masks and Faces had been seen by 
 them, and a new generation had, in the meantime, sprung up. 
 But many of the critics remembered the great original, Mrs. 
 Stirling ; and when Charles Reade first spoke to me on the subject, 
 I urged thafr the task would be a hard one for me, and I was 
 frightened at the thought of it. There was, as far as I could see, 
 but one way for me out of the difficulty, to treat the part in a dis- 
 tinctly new way ; so I set to work and read the book carefully to 
 find if it was possible to clothe Peg in a new dress. I had never 
 seen the piece played, although I have a faint remembrance of its 
 being acted somewhere in the country. Well, I first of all read the 
 play through two or three times, as is my custom, to make myself 
 perfectly acquainted with its argument. I then gave my whole 
 attention to the character of Margaret Woffington, as she is de- 
 picted in the play ; I pulled the part to pieces and put it together 
 again according to my own lights and fancies. I felt a pleasure in 
 doing this, and I will tell you why and how. While I am studying 
 a part I never lose sight of it. I get between the lines and round 
 about their meaning by reading them again and again until I am 
 able to understand perfectly their purpose, which I know is the 
 only way to arrive at that undercurrent of feeling which should 
 travel from actor to audience. I study every emotion that the 
 character is capable of, and then decide upon the rendering which 
 touches me most and is best suited to my method and style. At 
 last I absolutely live in the part, and associate myself so closely 
 with it, that by the time I step on to the stage to play it, I am 
 for the time, as it were, in thought and feeling, the person I 
 represent. 
 
 When I read Peg Woffington I was deeply impressed by the 
 beauty of the words she had to speak in her serious scenes. I soon 
 felt that one who could utter such sentiments and make so great a 
 sacrifice must be more than an ordinary woman, and possessing* a 
 nature far above her surroundings, capable of good deeds and noble 
 aspirations. Her words in the first scene addressed to the man she 
 loves, and to whom she confides her innermost thoughts, telling 
 him how weary to her is the emptiness of her life, point to a 
 superior mind. She wants to be a good woman, and asks him to 
 help her. He teaches her to trust him, and promises all that she 
 asks, and she is happy. 
 
 Here is an extract from the scene : 
 
 ' I can only love my superior. Be frank and honest as the day, 
 and you will be my superior, and I shall love you and bless the 
 
224 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 hour you shone on my artificial Hfe. It is no easy task : to be my 
 friend is to respect me that I may respect myself the more ; to be 
 my friend is to come between me and the temptations of an un- 
 protected life — the recklessness of a Vacant heart.' 
 
 She believes implicitly in this man, and bids him fill up the 
 vacant place in her heart, thinking him worthy and honest. But 
 when she discovers that he has betrayed, deceived, insulted her by 
 presenting himself to her as an unmarried man, when all the time 
 he had a young wife, her love now gives room for all the bitterness 
 of injured pride, hatred, and revenge — revenge against him, and 
 her, and all the world : 
 
 ' He shall rue the hour he trifled with a heart and brain like 
 mine. 
 
 ' Triplet : But, his poor wife ! 
 
 ' Peg : His wife ! Are wives' hearts the only hearts that feel, 
 and throb, and — break ! Let his wife look to herself. It is not 
 from me that mercy can come to her.' 
 
 Then in the scene when, full of venom, she overhears a conversa- 
 tion between the young wife and poor old Triplet, the only friend 
 who clings to Peg, the gentle sweetness and innocence of Mabel so 
 affect her that her revenge and anger disappear, leaving the 
 beauty of her nature to prompt her to make the greatest sacrifice in 
 her power. 
 Here is a fragment of the scene between the two women : 
 
 ' Peg : Such as you are the diamonds of the world ! Angel of 
 truth and goodness, you have conquered. The poor heart which 
 we both overrate shall be yours again. In my hands 'tis but painted 
 glass at best, but set in the lustre of your love, it may become a 
 priceless jewel. Will you trust me ? 
 
 ' Mabel : With my life !' 
 
 Surely a woman who can utter such words must be by nature good 
 and capable of fine emotions. She is sensitive, lovable, trusting 
 and charitable, passionate, headstrong and impulsive, ready to act 
 upon a revengeful impulse, however she might regret it afterwards ; 
 she pines for honest friendship and finds it not, and in the last act one 
 can see how her nature is warped and nearly spoiled. Read her 
 farewell speech to Mabel, so simple, true, and pathetic : 
 
 ' Mabel : In what way can I ever thank you ? 
 
 ' Peg : When hereafter, in your home of peace, you hear harsh 
 sentence passed on us, whose lot is admiration — rarely love, triumph, 
 but never tranquillity — think sometimes of Margaret Woffington, 
 and say stage-masks may cover honest faces, and hearts beat true 
 beneath a tinselled robe.' 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 225 
 
 Well, as the play was originally acted, after this touching fare- 
 well she goes off into laughter, and ends the play with a rhymed 
 comic tag. Now, does not the idea of this jar upon your senses, 
 after all the beautiful sentiments which she has expressed through- 
 out the play ? I could not have given any effect to the original end, 
 because I could not feel it ; it seemed unnatural ; it was against 
 my theory of Peg as I read her, and if Charles Reade had not allowed 
 me to alter the end of the play I could not have acted the part. It 
 was some time before I could bring him round to my way of think- 
 ing, so I illustrated my meaning by acting the last scene to him as 
 I wished it to be done. I explained to him that, after his ex- 
 quisitely-written farewell to Mabel, having restored the husband 
 to the wife, with her own heart breaking all the while, she could 
 not at once burst into comedy — for, although she despised the 
 husband for his deception and treachery, she could not root out in 
 a moment from her breast the love she had felt for him. 
 
 The change which I suggested was this : After Peg's farewell to 
 Mabel, and while kissing her, her eyes meet Ernest's ; she stands 
 gazing at him, as if to realize the fact that he could have been 
 capable of so much cruelty. Pale with emotion, she hands Mabel 
 to him and watches them as they are going through the doorway, 
 casting a last lingering look upon him. At that beautiful moment 
 of her anguish, crushed and broken, I am convinced that she should 
 be left to commune with her thoughts, with no one by her side but 
 her one tried old friend Triplet, upon whose breast she leans, and at 
 last gives way to the tears which have up to now been denied her. 
 The curtain should fall upon these two figures, leaving Peg in the 
 hearts of her audience, who have followed her in her sorrows, and 
 must, therefore, pity her. While deeply sympathizing with the 
 wife, they must love Peg for her noble conduct, and weep with her 
 in her suffering. 
 
 During my rehearsal in the drawing-room, Charles Reade was 
 silent ; and at the end, when I looked at him for his opinion, I found 
 that he was crying. He rose from his chair, took my hands in his, 
 and said, ' You are right, you have made me cry ; your instincts 
 are right ; it shall be so.' I acted it in this way, and the play has 
 ever since been a great favourite with the public. 
 
 I now add, by way of postscript to these remarks, a few words I 
 wrote with reference to the reality of emotion on the stage, which 
 appeared in Lo?igmar{s Magazine : 
 
 ' The performance of a moving situation, without the true ring of 
 sensibility in the actor, must fail to affect anyone. An emotional 
 break in the voice must be brought about naturally, and by a true 
 appreciation of the sentiment, or what does it become ? I can only 
 compare it to a bell with a wooden tongue — it makes a sound, but 
 there it ends. I cannot simulate suffering without an honest sym- 
 
226 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 pathy with it. I hold that without great nervous sensibiHty no oiie 
 can act pathos. It is a casket with the jewel absent. The voice in 
 emotion must be prompted by the heart ; and if that is " out of tune 
 and harsh," why then, indeed, the voice is " like sweet bells jangled." 
 I was once much impressed by a small child's criticism. He watched 
 for a long time, silently and attentively, a scene of great emotional 
 interest between two people. When asked what he thought of it, 
 he answered, " I like that one best." " Why ?" " She speaks like 
 telling the truth, and the other speaks like telling lies." What 
 criticism can be finer than this ? One was acting straight from the 
 heart, the other from not even next door but one to it.' 
 
 Under date November 15th we received a long and interesting 
 
 letter of criticism from Charles Reade, on the acting 
 
 ■ ■ ■ of his play, which was written after three visits to the 
 
 theatre, and occupied thirteen pages of letter-paper. The reader 
 
 need not be alarmed : he shall only have certain extracts from them 
 
 to read. 
 
 Of our own acting as Triplet and Peg Woffington the distin- 
 guished writer was so generous as to say : 
 
 ' I really can see in these two performances no fault. There are 
 a few lines, here and there, read somewhat differently from what I 
 read them, but then they are read naturally and effectively ; I ask 
 no more, I don't want machines to act my plays. I repeat, I can 
 see a wealth of thought, care, labour, and talent in these perform- 
 ances ; and I can see nothing wrong. I shall by-and-by propose 
 a single variation, but I have no correction to offer ; and in par- 
 ticular I disown with contempt the shallow suggestion of those 
 critics who would have Peg Woffington in Act II. shake off her 
 blow entirely, and make those introductions with a comic gusto, 
 forgetting alike that she is acting the woman of quality and that 
 she is not herself as happy as a lark. No ; give me the actor who 
 considers not each line only, but the dominant sentiment of the 
 entire scene, and deals with the lines accordingly. 
 
 « 11 « « o 
 
 ' goingoff through taking snuff without discretion. Very 
 
 few actors are to be trusted with a snuff-box ; indiscreetly used, it 
 fritters points away, instead of sharpening them.' 
 
 Charles Reade's praise of Mr. Coghlan's fine acting as Sir 
 Charles Pomander, and of Ellen Terry's exquisite performance of 
 Mabel Vane, is faintly qualified. He then falls foul, in his severest 
 strain, of one actor in the cast, lengthily and ably analyzing the 
 character, the rendition of which greatly distressed him. The 
 letter ends : 
 
 ' But who can foretell the future ? You and Mrs. Bancroft, and 
 Miss Terry, have got the third act pretty much to yourselves, and 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 227 
 
 you may be able to make the piece safe. Still, you must not fancy 
 that the play is written unevenly. Of course, it is written on the 
 principle of climax, and the third act is the most brilliant ; but, re- 
 member, too, in the third act we grease the fat sow, for the act is 
 nearly all in the hands of first-rate actors. 
 
 ' You will wonder at this tirade, but the fact is, my winter cough 
 has come on. I shall most likely not be out at nights for three 
 months, and may never again have the great pleasure of seeing 
 your performance and Mrs. Bancroft's, so I say my say and exhaust 
 the subject. 
 
 ' If . . . has moved my bile, everything else is so gratifying that 
 I shall be sure to forgive even poor . . . ; all the sooner for having 
 let out at him in this outrageous way, and so eased my mind. — 
 Yours very sincerely, Charles Reade.' 
 
 Among our collection of letters are also some others that should 
 be placed here, the first being from our valued friend. Sir William 
 Fergusson : 
 
 ' 16, George Street, Hanover Square, W., March 15, 1876. 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Bancroft,— I have to thank you most heartily for 
 the great treat of last night. I have rarely enjoyed myself more 
 thoroughly at the theatre. I was familiar with the play in former 
 days, when Mrs. Stirling and Webster were in all their force ; and, 
 though prepared by newspaper and other reports to be pleased, I 
 fancied that old recollections would cause me to feel a blank. 
 
 ' From the beginning to the end last night my interest never 
 flagged ; and, with pleasant memories of the past, I cannq^ refrain 
 from saying to you and your good man how truly 1 was gratified. 
 
 ' Both of you must be much fatigued with such hard work, and I 
 sincerely wish you a continuance of health and strength for your 
 arduous labours. 
 
 ' We suppose ourselves considerable theatrical critics in this 
 house, and I am glad to say that we are all of the same opinion in 
 regard to the enjoyment of last evening. 
 
 ' With kind regards to Squire, I remain, yours very sincerely, 
 Wm. Fergusson.' 
 
 Then came some pleasant lines from an old actor who passed 
 many years in America, and whose acquaintance we regret never 
 to have made : 
 
 ' loi, Gower Street. 
 
 ' Dear Sir, — I have to thank you for a great pleasure last night, 
 in the charming performance of Mrs. Bancroft. It is years since I 
 saw the play, and I confess to you that I did not know there was 
 an English-speaking actress who could move me to tears and 
 laughter by turns as the accomplished Peg Wofiington did last 
 night. Her comedy reminded me of poor Nisbett in her best days ; 
 
 IS— 2 
 
228 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 and her pathos had the sincerity in it which that accomplished 
 comedienne never reached. 
 
 ' I had not seen you act before, and your Triplet was a worthy 
 pendant to your lady's admirable picture. — With many thanks, I am, 
 yours faithfully, Geo. Vandenhoff. 
 
 ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' 
 
 Before we finally dismiss Masks and Faces upon its bright 
 career, let us mention the charming Woffington Gavotte, dedicated 
 to Mrs. Bancroft, and expressly composed for the second act by 
 Mr. Meredith Ball, which earned at once exceptional and universal 
 success. For months it was rare to come across a selection of 
 music that did not comprise it. 
 
 Our search after new plays never ceased. Of all the wilderness 
 of manuscripts that we had read since Robertson's death, only 
 Man and Wife and Sweethearts seemed to us worthy of production. 
 A new play written for us by H. J. Byron we had felt bound to 
 decline when it was finished (which subsequently failed entirely 
 when produced elsewhere), preferring now to give him a commis- 
 sion for a comedy in its place, with a guarantee to act it imme- 
 diately Masks and Faces was withdrawn. The bare outline of plot 
 decided on between us was, roughly, in this wise : the suggestion 
 growing from the idea of a sort of amplification of the young 
 people and the old people in Gilbert's delightful play. There were 
 to be contrasts of age throughout : in the first act young folk were 
 to injure old folk, and in the end, when they had grown quite old 
 themselves, were to redeem their error, and repair their wrong, by 
 compensating for it to the youthful descendants^-to be acted by 
 the same people — of the old couple whom they had wronged in 
 their youth. This was accompanied by a strict injunction that the 
 parts for Coghlan and Ellen Terry were to be of the first importance, 
 while ours might be quite secondary. 
 
 In February Byron read to us two acts of what was to be a 
 three-act comedy, and bitter was our disappointment ; the only 
 parts of any value were those destined for ourselves, while the in- 
 tended story was quite departed from and drifted into other 
 channels. We determined to face our obligation, and to hope for 
 something better from the last act. Unfortunately this did not 
 mend matters, for we found it impossible even to ask Miss Terry 
 to take the part designed for her, and Mr. Coghlan refused (with 
 every justice) to accept the character intended for him, after the 
 authors reading. 
 
 With the firm resolve never again to blindly accept an unwritten 
 play from any dramatist, we went bravely to work upon Wrinkles, 
 as Byron eventually christened his play. So strongly, however, 
 were we convinced how little right we had to hope for success, that 
 we turned for the first time to a fruitful source we had till now, 
 although often strongly tempted, abstained from drawing on — the 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 229 
 
 French stage — to find something there we could get ready quickly 
 if our forebodings should be realized. We had often and often 
 hankered after Sardou's Pattes de Moicche, and now decided that it 
 should be at once got ready. Towards this end, we saw Tom 
 Taylor, and arranged with him, as a master of the art of adaptation, 
 for a new version of this brilliant comedy, on lines he quite agreed 
 with, to be prepared with all speed, that it might be in our hands to 
 stem the torrent of disaster we felt, still more surely as we advanced 
 with the rehearsals, must be the fate of our new venture. 
 
 An announcement that Taylor was engaged upon this work for 
 us appeared in the columns of the World, and soon afterwards was 
 followed by a letter from Hare to say that the idea oi Les Pattes de 
 Mouche had also occurred to him, and that he wished to revive the 
 existing English version of the play, A Scrap of Paper, to replace a 
 programme which had failed to attract. Our emotions were very 
 conflicting between a strong desire to produce a version of the 
 comedy ourselves, and an equally strong desire not to thwart the 
 wishes of an old friend, towards whom, in fact, we were anxious to 
 show good feeling. This desire proved the stronger of the two, and 
 with very deep regret we stopped Tom Taylor's work, and gave 
 up two parts we have always wished, and even still would like, to 
 play. 
 
 Another novelty we hoped to have on hand was one which 
 Wilkie Collins was engaged upon — a stage version of his extra- 
 ordinary book. The Moonstone. This we looked towards as the 
 opening play for Mr. and Mrs. Kendal and Mr. Arthur Cecil at our 
 theatre, they having accepted engagements with us which were to 
 commence in the following autumn. 
 
 Although our fears for Byron's comedy were so great, we spared 
 neither money nor pains over it, and, anxious to know its fate, we 
 withdrew ^aj/Jj and Faces before there was any real need, knowing 
 it would in the future prove a valuable revival, for it had only been 
 acted a hundred and thirty nights. On the morning before 
 Wrinkles was produced, we met our old friend Corney Grain in 
 Bond Street, who asked us if we were going to have what he called 
 ' our usual success.' We at once said, ' No,' and that its fate was 
 sealed ; for we were never blinded to the faults of the play by the 
 excellence of our own parts, which contained some of the most 
 amusing things its gifted author ever wrote. We went to our work 
 with heavy hearts to face the following programme : On Thursday, 
 April 13th, 1876, for the first time. Wrinkles, written by Henry J. 
 Byron. Act I. — Spring : April, 1855. Characters : Graham Carre, 
 Mr. Flockton ; Harold Carre, Mr. Reginald Moore ; Bob Blewitt, 
 Mr. Bancroft ; Wilfred Gordon, Mr. Archer ; Renshaw, Mr. 
 Newton ; Reuben Gray, Mr. Glover ; Kate Rayner, Miss Carlisle ; 
 Winifred Piper, Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft). Act. II.— 
 Autumn: September, 1875. Act. III. — Winter: March, 1876. 
 Characters : Mr. Carre, Mr. Reginald Moore ; Wilfred Gordon, 
 
230 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Mr. Archer ; Mr. Blevvitt, Mr. Bancroft ; Fred Lynton, Mr. Kyrle ; 
 Mr. Radford, Mr. Teesdale ; Gray, Mr. Glover ; Kate Carre, Miss 
 Carlisle ; Miss Piper, Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft). 
 
 There is an indescribable magnetism between the audience and 
 the actor on ' first nights,' and although the parts of Bob Blewitt 
 and Winifred Piper were so amusing, and provoked such roars of 
 laughter that at times they almost threatened to save the play, the 
 story was so poor, and Byron had been so obstinate about some 
 proposed changes at the end of it, that our fears were prophetic, 
 and the curtain fell to a chorus of ominous sounds, which pro- 
 nounced the play to be a fiat failure. 
 
 On the following morning poor Byron came to us very contrite, 
 and, when too late, made the alterations we had wanted from the 
 first. He deeply regretted the failure for our sakes, as well as his 
 own, and wished to forego all fees. This, of course, we would not 
 listen to, and resolved to turn the tide as best we could. It was 
 here our wished-for Pattes des Moiiche would have served us well 
 and justified our belief, as was amply proved by the success which 
 had attended the production of A Scrap of Paper at the Court 
 Theatre. 
 
 It was in Wrinkles that Mr. Kyrle Bellew made his first appear- 
 ance, whom it was a great pleasure to us to be the means of intro- 
 ducing to the stage, in remembrance of our friendship with his 
 father. 
 
 Faiite de mieux; for we were in a terrible fix, we decided on a 
 revival of Ours to help us out of the difficulty. Ellen Terry at once 
 consented to play Blanche Haye, adding", with great good nature, 
 that she would even have taken the part in Wrinkles had we asked 
 her. We announced the failure of Mr. Byron's comedy in our 
 advertisements, and withdrew it after eighteen performances. 
 
 On Saturday, May 6th, Ours was acted with the following cast of 
 the characters : Prince Perovsky, Mr. Archer ; Colonel Shendr)'n, 
 Mr. Flockton ; Captain Samprey, Mr. Denison ; Angus Mac Alister, 
 Mr. Coghlan ; Hugh Chalcot, Mr. Bancroft ; Sergeant Jones, Mr. 
 Collette ; Lady Shendryn, Mrs. Leigh Murray ; Blanche Haye, 
 Miss Ellen Terry ; and Mary Netley, Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 As the comedy had not been played since its run in 1870-71, it 
 really came out quite fresh again, and was received with all the old 
 enthusiasm. Indeed, we believe that we might have put the six 
 Robertsonian plays upon a sort of dramatic wheel, and have gone 
 on for years, with nothing but successive revivals of them in their 
 turn, had neither madness nor crutches intervened. The charm of 
 Ellen Terry's acting on this occasion was a g'reat advantage, and 
 added much to the effect of the second act — perhaps the cleverest 
 in all the author's works : appealing as it does so powerfully to the 
 imagination without introducing a single element of drama upon 
 the actual scene. 
 
 The Moonstone, in which it was proposed that Mr. and Mrs. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 231 
 
 Kendal should act for the first time with us as Franklin Blake and 
 Rachel Verrinder, while Mr. Arthur Cecil was to be the Betteridge, 
 we having ourselves agreed to take the parts of Sergeant Cuff and ■ 
 Miss Clack (this tract-distributing, amusing spinster would have 
 offered Mrs. Bancroft an opportunity for character-painting which 
 was altogether removed from the range of parts she had been acting, 
 and she resigned it with regret), was thought by Wilkie Collins and 
 ourselves to be, perhaps, too melodramatic in its treatment for the 
 Prince of Wales's Theatre, and better suited to follow the great 
 success of the same author's New Magdalen at the Olympic. 
 When this decision was arrived at, we found ourselves somewhat 
 stranded for an autumn production suitable to the theatre and the 
 new-comers. Nothing new appeared upon the scene, and, following 
 up our faith in Les Pattes de Moiiche, Sardou's works were again 
 applied to, the result being a decision to have a version oi Nos 
 Intimes prepared. Mr. B. C. Stephenson, who then had always 
 .written as Mr. ' Bolton Rowe,' had long been anxious to do some 
 work for us, and he, in the first place, was commissioned to com- 
 mence the adaptation, which was completed by Mr. Clement Scott, 
 who wished to preserve his incognito, and chose the nom de plume 
 of ' Saville Rowe.' Mr. Scott was selected as collaborateiir on 
 account of his marvellous power of speed, and he revised and much 
 improved the adaptation with great rapidity. 
 
 Ours, meanwhile, was drawing houses crowded in every part, as 
 though it were a brand-new play, when the full tide of this great 
 success received an unhappy check through sudden illness. On 
 Thursday, June 15th, Mrs. Bancroft was unable to finish the part 
 of Mary Netley, and had to be taken home in a state of great 
 suffering after the second act. She struggled through her work on 
 the following evening, but on Saturday a long illness befell her, 
 and her sister Blanche took her place at the theatre. On the 
 Monday evening — too late, unfortunately, to make any arrange- 
 ments to replace her — Miss Ellen Terry was also taken ill, and 
 telegraphed her inability to act. It may be easily imagined that 
 the double calamity of Mrs. Bancroft and Miss Ellen Terry both 
 having to withdraw from the theatre was a death-blow to the 
 revival. At the end of the season there were important changes in 
 the company. Miss Ellen Terry was going to the Court Theatre ; 
 and Mr. Coghlan had decided to try his fortunes in America. It 
 was at this time, also, that Mr. James ended his long and friendly 
 connection with the theatre as our business manager, Mr. Charles 
 Walter being engaged as his successor. These changes were 
 carried even further, for we had resolved upon an entire and still 
 more elaborate redecoration of the theatre during the vacation, and 
 the work had been for a long time in progress. 
 
 In the summer of this year I met by chance H. J. Montague in 
 the Strand, who was on a visit for a few weeks from America, which 
 country he had now quite made his home. While we were talking. 
 
332 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Henry Irving joined us, and we all three arranged to dine together. 
 The remembrance of the few happy hours we so passed are tinged 
 with the sad thought that I never saw Montague again. 
 
 The rehearsals of the version of JVos Intimes, which was to be 
 called Peril, occupied the time until the close of the season on 
 August 4th. We then went for our holiday abroad, Mrs. Bancroft's 
 health being sufficiently restored to allow her to travel by easy 
 stages. A few pleasant days were again passed with friends at the 
 Baur au Lac, Zurich ; afterwards we went on to the Kaltbad, 
 where we found Palgrave Simpson, who seemed a sort of summer 
 fixture there, Arthur Cecil, and Clement Scott among the visitors. 
 
 Those were the days of youth and high spirits, and when I am 
 afraid I must confess to have been something of a practical joker ; 
 even in such a boyish fashion as one night, when a friend and I 
 had the outside of the hotel to ourselves— for the chance happened 
 while a dance was going on in the drawing-room, which opened by 
 very large French windows on to the terrace — driving some Swiss 
 cows, which had strayed down the mountain, into the midst of the 
 dancers, who scattered themselves in all directions with cries of 
 ' Les vaches ! les vaches !' We must have plagued the musicians 
 terribly, too, for we were always busy in the morning hiding the 
 drum-sticks. The performer on the noisy instrument they belonged 
 to passed much of his time in violent gesticulations, and uttering 
 the oft-repeated question, ' Wo sind die Trommel-schlagel ?' 
 
 Anecdotes of eminent people are generally interesting, as we 
 
 NOTES BY think the following incident in the life of so old a 
 M. E. B. friend of the public as the eminent musician, Sir Julius 
 Benedict, will be. It occurred during this stay at the Kaltbad, 
 where we were much amused by constantly discovering strange 
 likenesses amongst the visitors to many of our acquaintances and 
 friends, until at last we spoke of them by the names of those whom 
 they resembled. There was an old lady in the hotel whose features 
 so wonderfully suggested Sir Julius Benedict, that we never called 
 her, among ourselves, by any other name. Whether reading, 
 writing, sitting, or walking, she still was the living image of Sir 
 Julius. 
 
 One terribly Vi'et day, when we were quite in cloudland, the mist 
 being so dense that nothing- could be seen beyond the railings of 
 the terrace, and few had ventured beyond it, who should appear, to 
 our amazement, but the veritable Sir JuKus himself, having, in 
 spite of the weather, come up from Lucerne for the purpose of 
 seeing the Rigi. 
 
 He told us that when he started it was finer, and he was deter- 
 mined not to turn back, as he had never seen the Rigi, and was 
 obliged to return to England on the following day, adding, ' I am 
 old now, and may never have another opportunity, so I must see 
 the mountain to-day, wet or dry.' 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 233 
 
 With wonderful pluck he walked in the drenching rain from the 
 Kaltbad to the Kulm, had a look round, but of course saw very 
 little, for view there was none. He then walked down again to our 
 hotel, and, after having coffee with us, expressed a wish to see the 
 principal rooms. When we came to the large drawing-room, we 
 saw the little old lady who went by the name of ' Sir Julius,' sitting 
 reading in an easy-chair at the farther end of it. As we entered 
 we looked at one another, and, with a smile, wondered whether 
 we should draw attention to the resemblance. In a moment our 
 merriment was changed to sentiment. No sooner had Sir Julius's 
 name been uttered, and he had advanced a few steps towards 
 his prototype, than the old lady looked up, fixed her eyes upon 
 him for a moment, as though to realize, as it were, the fact 
 that she was not dreaming, then rose from her chair, approached 
 slowly, and with tears in her eyes exclaimed, 'Ach, Jules! mein 
 Gott, Sind sie es !' The old man started, and seemed suddenly 
 affected, then, kissing both her hands, said, ' Meine liebe ! meine 
 alte Freundin !' Greatly surprised at this touching recognition, we 
 left the old couple alone, and they conversed for a considerable 
 time together. 
 
 Before leaving, Sir Julius told us the history of this little drama. 
 The old lady had been the object of his earliest love, the first real 
 romance of his life, and they had not met for full forty years. I 
 never forgot this little episode, and, when next I played the part of 
 Jenny Northcott in Sweethearts, I repeated some of it in the scene 
 where Henry Spreadbrow returns, after an absence of thirty years, 
 to find that his early love had remained constant to his memory all 
 that time. It was a touch of nature which I could not do better 
 than imitate. 
 
 The following letter of mine vv'ill describe our movements when 
 we left the Lake of Lucerne : 
 
 ' Hr.tel Monnet, Vevey, Saturday, September 2 (1876). 
 
 ' My dear , — We were driven here by bad weather in the 
 
 mountains, and have found the sun again. 
 
 ' I will now tell you more of our holiday travels. When we left 
 the Kaltbad, our journey was made very pleasant by having our old 
 friends Arthur Cecil and Clement Scott as travelling companions. 
 I had an attack of hay fever (my old enemy) on our way to Ander- 
 matt, which inflamed my eyes dreadfully and left ine so miserable 
 and depressed, that on our arrival at the hotel, instead of being 
 able to join our party at dinner, I was glad to go to bed. By the 
 next morning, however, I was quite myself again, and we continued 
 our journey by carriage, over the Furka Pass. At the httle inn on 
 the summit we read the Queen's signature, written some years ago, 
 as " Countess of Kent," in the visitors' book. Our next stopping- 
 place was the Rhone Glacier Hotel, where the flies were so thick on 
 the ceiling of our room that it had the appearance of being covered 
 
234 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 with a heavy black pattern. I laugh as I write this, for when 
 Arthur Cecil came down to breakfast he said, " Oh, Mrs. B., I have 
 had such a night !" It appeared that before going to bed he had 
 pulled the bell-rope and disturbed what seemed a myriad of flies, 
 which had taken up their quarters upon it ; having been so suddenly 
 alarmed they were restless all night, and tormented poor Arthur 
 dreadfully. The next morning the air was so full of these creatures 
 that I was glad to dress quickly and get away. They were quite as 
 tiresome as mosquitoes, only not so vicious. 
 
 ' We made our way to the Eggischorn, the men walking to the 
 top whilst I was taken up chaise a porteur. We were unfortunate 
 in our weather during our three days' stay there, and none of us 
 were able to see much. It was intensely cold, and one night, when 
 everybody got as near to the wood fire as possible, all looking the 
 reverse of happy, I suggested to Mr. Cecil that he and I should try 
 to make the evening a little pleasanter, so we began by playing 
 games, and introduced one which chanced to be quite new to them 
 all. I placed the visitors round me in a circle, standing in the 
 middle myself as conductor of an imaginary orchestra, asking my 
 " band " to choose various musical instruments, and to play in 
 dumb show so long as I conducted with the batojtj but of course 
 you will know the game, so I need not describe it. All the visitors 
 joined in it heart and soul, and it was most amusing to see the 
 sage-looking scholars and pedagogues enjoying the fun. One of 
 my orchestra was Dr. George Johnson, the celebrated physician, 
 who, with his two daughters, was up there ; another resident was 
 Dr. Jex Blake. Thus we turned a dull evening into a merry one.' 
 [Note. — A long time afterwards, at an evening party, a gentleman 
 came up to me, saying, ' Let me bring myself to your recollection, 
 Mrs. Bancroft. I was the Jew's-harp in your Eggischorn orchestra 
 some years ago.'] 'The next night, still wet and misty, the visitors 
 seemed to look to us for help again, so with the addition of dumb 
 crambo (as I have never seen it done before), we sent them all to 
 bed at midnight instead of 9. 30, their usual hour. Even the tired 
 servants could not be persuaded to retire to rest. When we left 
 the hotel, the visitors turned out en masse to see us off. I forgot to 
 tell you before that we met the young' black Prince of Abyssinia, 
 who was under the care of Dr. Jex Blake. He was highly intel- 
 ligent and interesting to talk to. One day I found him reading 
 " The Last Days of Pompeii," and I remarked that I had read the 
 book three times myself He answered, " Well, I think I must 
 read it all through again, I am so very pleased with it." 
 
 ' Then came a lovely walk (for Mr. Bancroft and the others, I 
 being still taken chaise h porteur) over the Rieder Alp, and across 
 the foot of the great Aletsch Glacier, up to the primitive little inn 
 on the Bel Alp. 
 
 ' After staying there three days we started (the same procession 
 as before) for Brigue ; the morning was very cold, and Professor 
 
THE SEASON OF 1875-76 235 
 
 Tyndall, whose acquaintance, with that of Mrs. Tyndall, we had the 
 pleasure of making, very kindly insisted upon wrapping me up in 
 his travelling plaidie, which I sent back to him by one of the 
 porters who carriedme down the mountain. On the way, Mr. Scott 
 walked by the side of my chair-bearers and was telling me of an 
 accident which once befell Palgrave Simpson, who fell and injured 
 his foot, in the very descent which we were making. Directly 
 afterwards we heard shouts and cries lower down the steep, stony 
 path, and sent on one of our porters to ascertain what was the 
 matter. It transpired that Arthur Cecil, who had gone on in 
 advance, had fallen and sprained his foot badly, being led by a 
 man on each side of him into Brigue. It seemed so strange that 
 this should have happened just at the moment when I was listening 
 to the account of another accident in a similar way, and on the 
 same mountain ! I shall write again soon. — Ever affectionately, 
 M. E. B.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 876-77. 
 
 Redecorating and refurnishing — Production of Peril — Mr. and Mrs. Kendal 
 and Mr. Arthur Cecil join the company — A great success — Theatrical 
 banquet at the Mansion House ; the chief guests — A tribute to T. W. 
 Robertson — A seaside holiday : a veritable Mrs. Malaprop— Real and sham 
 poverty^ First series of inatindes — Journey to Paris to see Sardou's Dora ; 
 price paid for it — John Parry's farewell — Mrs. Bancroft's first public read- 
 ing — Complimentary benefit to Henry Compton — Benjamin Webster's 
 last appearance — An episode — Letter from him on London Ass7trance — A 
 trip to Paris — The Vicarage and London Assurance produced — Mrs. Ban- 
 croft's part as the Vicar's wife — Letter from James Anderson — Mrs. Langtry 
 — An Unequal Match in rehearsal — Holiday-making — A ' Dramatic Con- 
 trast' — First visit to the Engadine — The Stelvio Pass — Blocked at Gossen- 
 sass — Innsbruck and Salzbuig — The salt-mines of Berchtesyaden. 
 
 We had a very busy ten days before our re-opening, knowing the 
 
 BEGUN BY hazardous card we had resolved to play by venturing 
 
 s. B. B. for the first time into French drama. Although our 
 
 main attention was given to the play, some part of it was, perforce, 
 
 bestowed upon the new decorations and the furniture, which was 
 
 replaced throughout the theatre. The general tone was deep amber 
 
 satin and dark red, in place of the former light blue. Both tiers of 
 
 box-fronts were decorated with allegorical paintings typical of the 
 
 plays we had produced, and, to harmonize with a peacock frieze 
 
 over the proscenium, which was very elaborately painted on a gold 
 
 ground, handsome fans made of peacocks' feathers were attached 
 
 to each of the private boxes by gilt chains. 
 
 There is an old superstition that these beautiful plumes bring 
 
236 
 
 OVR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 sickneES with them. On the opening night of the season it so 
 befell that an occupant of one of the front stalls was seized with a 
 fit during the first act of Peril, and a lady had to be taken home 
 through sudden illness from a private box. Only a single audience 
 saw the fans, for this strange assertion, as it were, that there might 
 be truth in the superstitious saying, ended in their banishment for 
 ever. 
 
 Barring some nervousness caused to the actors by these little 
 contretemps in front of the curtain, all went well behind it. The 
 play and the new-comers were well received, and our anxieties set 
 at rest by its enthusiastic reception. The company Avas reinforced 
 by such leading members as Mr. and Mrs. Kendal and Arthur 
 Cecil, with valuable supporters in Henry Kemble and Charles 
 Sugden, as the playbill of the re-opening will show : 
 
 Tlie theatre lias been redecorated from designs suggested by Mr. Banc7-oft, 
 executed by Mr. Gordon, Mr. Harford, Mr. Pliillips, and Mr. Ballard. 
 
 On Saturday, September opth, 1876, at eight o'clock, will be produced a 
 new comedy in four acts, called PERIL, adapted for the English stage from 
 M. Victorien Sardou's ' JVos Intimes,' by Mr. Saville Rowe and Mr. Bolton 
 Rowe. 
 
 SIR GEORGE ORMOND, Bakt. 
 
 SIR WOODBINE GRAFTON, K.C.S, 
 
 PERCY GRAFTON 
 
 DR. THORNTON 
 
 CAPTAIN BRADFORD 
 
 MR. CROSSLEY BECK 
 
 MEADOWS 
 
 KEMP 
 
 LADY ORMOND 
 
 LUCY ORMOND 
 
 MRS. CROSSLEY BECK 
 
 SOPHIE . 
 
 Me. Bancroft. 
 
 Mr. Arthur Cecil. 
 
 Mr. W. Younge. 
 
 Mr. Kendal. 
 
 Mr. Charles Sugden. 
 
 Mr. Kemble. 
 
 Mr. Newton. 
 
 Mr. Glover. 
 
 Miss Madge Robertson. 
 
 (Mrs. Kendal.) 
 
 Miss Buckstone. 
 Mrs. Leigh Murray. 
 Miss Hertz. 
 
 The scene is laid at Ormond Court. 
 
 A new one-act play, written by Mr. Saville Rowe, was announced 
 at the foot of the programme. This referred to The Vicarage, which 
 had been charmingly written at our suggestion by Mr. Clement 
 Scott on Octave Feuillet's little story Le Village. 
 
 Naturally enough, there was much division of opinion in the 
 Press as to the merits of Peril, and some repining that we had not 
 been able to find a new English comedy to our liking. 
 
 The play was splendidly placed upon the stage : the old oak hall 
 of Ormond Court took days to erect, and was so elaborately built 
 with its massive staircase and rooms leading from a gallery as to 
 make it impossible to remove it entirely for change of scene. We 
 so arranged the play as to allow the hall to remain almost intact 
 during three acts, the boudoir being constructed to be ' set ' inside 
 the walls of it ; in fact, from November to the following April the 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 237 
 
 stage wore the aspect, day and night, of an Elizabethan interior, 
 furnished with a wealth of oak and armour, so mixed with decora- 
 tive china and modern luxuries as to make it often worth a visit 
 apart from its stage aspect. 
 
 The success of the production was extraordinary, and maintained 
 receipts as large as any of its predecessors in the little theatre ex- 
 cepting only Hchool. 
 
 I grew to like my own part very much, although when first the 
 play was thought of I had a great wish to act the Doctor. This, 
 however, we gave to Mr. Kendal, it being very desirable to make 
 so important an addition to the company happy. Sir George 
 Ormond, with his tender vein of manly pathos in the third act, 
 became quite a compensation, and I believe the performance ad- 
 vanced my reputation. 
 
 On October 26th, a banquet was given at the Mansion House to 
 the theatrical profession by the Lord Mayor, Mr. Alderman Cotton. 
 At this lapse of time it may be interesting if the reader is reminded 
 by a list of the chief guests who then were thought the leading 
 actors and dramatic lights of the town : 
 
 Miss Carlotta Addison, Mr. James Albery, Mr. G. W. Anson, Mr. F. Archer, 
 Signer Arditi, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, Mr. Barnes, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson 
 Barrett, Mr. Shiel Barry, Mr. W. Belford, Mr. and Mrs. BiUington, Miss Kate 
 Bishop, Mr. E. L. Blanchard, Madame Bodda (Miss Louisa Pyne), Mr. and 
 Mrs. Lionel Brough, Mr. Edgar Bruce, Mr. Buclistone, Miss Lucy Buclcstone, 
 Alderman Sir Robert Garden, Mr. Arthur Cecil, Mrs. Nye Chart, iVIr. and Mrs. 
 John Clarke, Mr. John Coleraan, Mr. Charles CoUette, Mr. H. B. Conway, 
 Mr. George Conquest, Mr. H. T. Craven, Mr. Creswicl<, Mr. Dillon Croker, 
 Mr. Charles Dickens, Mr. Everill, Miss Farren, Mr. Fernandez, Mr. David 
 Fisher, Mr. Flockton, Miss E. Fowler, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, Miss Glyn, Mr. 
 Otto Goldschmidt, Madame Lind Goldschmidt, Mr. Corney Grain, Mr. C. L. 
 Gruneisen, Mr, Andrew Halliday, Mr. Charles Harcourt, Mr. and Mrs. .Alex- 
 ander Henderson (Miss Lydia Thompson), Mr. W. J. Hill, Miss Henrietta 
 Hodson, Mr. and Miss Hollingshead, Mr. George Honey, Mr. Howe, Miss 
 Rose Hersee, Mr. David James, Miss Fanny Josephs, Mrs. Keeley, IMr. C. 
 Kelly, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. J. Knowles, Mr. H. Labouohere, Mrs. S. 
 Lane, Miss Larkin, Miss Leighton, Mrs. Arthur Lewis (Miss Kate Terry), 
 Miss Litton, Mr. Charles Lyall, M. Marius, Mr. Frank Marshall, Mr. Henry 
 Marston, Mr. Mead, Mrs. Alfred Mellon, Mr. Paul Merritt, Mr. and Mrs. J. B. 
 Monckton, Mrs. Gaston Murray, Mr. Henry Neville, Mr. Odell, Miss M. 
 Oliver, Mr. John Parry, Mr. Phelps, Mr. Planch^, Mr. R. Reece, Mr. and 
 Mrs. German Reed, Mr. Righton, Mr. W. Rignold, Mr. Carl Rosa, Miss 
 Amy Roselle, Mr. Alfred de Rothschild, Mr. Ryder, M. and Madame Sainton, 
 Mr. G. A. Sala, Mr. Clement Scott, Mr. E. T. Smith, Mrs. Stirling, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Arthur Stirling, Mr. C. Sugden, Mrs. Swanborough, Miss Ada Swan- 
 borough, Mr. Tom Taylor, Mr. Edward Terry, Miss Ellen Terry, Miss M. 
 Terry, Mr. Thomas Thome, Mr. C. Vandenhoff, Mr. W. H. Vernon, Miss 
 Venne, Mr. and Mrs. Hermann Vezin, Mr. Charles Warner, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Alfred Wigan, Mr. Horace Wigan, Mr. W. G. Wills, Hon. Lewis Wingfield, 
 Mrs. John Wood, and others. 
 
 We can relate an amusing incident which occurred during the 
 repast. One of the waiters handed some soup to a distinguished 
 
238 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 actress, who declined it. The man then said, with a persuasive 
 smile, ' Turik soup, ma'am.' The dish was still refused, evidently 
 to the waiter's amazement, for he returned to the charge with the 
 remark, ' Real /urt/e, ma'am !' When the lady still said ' No,' the 
 , expression on the man's face of mingled surprise, pity, and con- 
 tempt must be imagined. 
 
 There were, of course, many speeches, for one of which I was 
 called upon, and took occasion to allude to the late Mr. Robertson 
 in this way : ' In her endeavour, at the outset of management, to 
 tune, as it were, the fancy of modern manners to the beating of the 
 heart, Mrs. Bancroft was strengthened with the strong hand of 
 genius, and encouraged by the sympathy of a friend. When Thomas 
 William Robertson was taken from us, we, and the stage we love, 
 mourned a common friend. His was no chance success, as many 
 have insisted ; it was lasting. His influence was not ephemeral ; 
 it is with us now.' 
 
 Pen/ was so established in the favour of the public, that I spent 
 
 A SEASIDE some weeks at Brighton, being joined for the Sundays 
 
 HOLIDAY and Mondays by my husband, and pleasant detach- 
 
 BY MRS. ments of friends both among the company and outside 
 
 BANCROFT, {{g cheei-y circle. Long drives and walks to the Dyke 
 
 or Rottingdean passed the afternoons, and meriy dinners wound up 
 
 the evenings. 
 
 We took part of a house on the King's Road, where there was a 
 very remarkable young person engaged as upper-housemaid, who 
 had the wonderful gift of twisting the Queen's English about in 
 such a manner that it was at times more than difficult to under- 
 stand her meaning. I don't think she knew herself what the words 
 she tried to pronounce meant, but it was her evident delight to give 
 utterance to the most extraordinary gibberish I ever listened to. 
 She was a veritable Mrs. Malaprop from a housemaid's point of 
 view. I accidentally from my dressing-room overheard conversa- 
 tions between her and a fellow-servant, and if the door was partly 
 open, I confess I was so attracted by her wonderful power of 
 word-twisting that I did not shut it. She assumed a kind of mincing 
 way of speaking, and I took down in pencil all the wonderful 
 things she said. In the following conversation I reproduce them 
 in their integrity : 
 
 Anne : ' Where does your parents live then ?' 
 
 Jane : 'They used to reside in 'Ighgate (put that picture straight, 
 it 'esitates me), but my mother found the air of 'Ighgate too strong 
 for her, and when she took ill the doctor said she must move to a 
 more atmospheric place. My poor mother had a bad time with my 
 father. He was a cruel 'usband, and behaved to her like a medi- 
 cated scoundrel.' 
 
 Anne : ' Well, I never !' 
 
 Jane: 'He was her second husband, you know, and we never 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 239 
 
 liked him. My poor dear father died five years ago. His suffer- 
 ings were awful ; he had a couple of ulsters in his inside.' 
 
 Anne : ' What, two of 'em ?' 
 
 Jane: 'Yes. So he died.' 
 
 Anne ; ' I should think he did.' 
 
 Jane : ' We didn't wish mother to re-wed, and we up and told 
 her one day that if she did we would go out of the house, as any 
 second husband we should look upon as an antelope.' 
 
 Anne : ' Why, of course.' 
 
 Jane : ' Well, she did marry again, and he was a punishment to 
 her, for he was always ill and complaining. Mother was nothing 
 but a nurse. First he had an illustrated sore throat, and was 
 awful bad when the influential gales was blowin' ; but he died of 
 various veins in his legs, a year ago, I am happy to say, for he 
 hated us, and we hated him. He gave himself such airs and got 
 that ^aughty that at last he arrived at such a perrogative he couldn't 
 consume it !' 
 
 I frequently spent my early morning in studying a new part, 
 going down to the beach and sitting on a bench there in a quiet 
 spot. One day I found myself quite alone for some time, when, 
 presently, I observed two ragged little girls playing amongst the 
 shingle. They were not near enough to disturb me, so I made no 
 attempt to move. By-and-by, however, one of them, who had been 
 staring at me from a little distance, became more interested in my 
 occupation, and gradually ventured nearer. She stood gazing at 
 me for some time, which made me feel fidgety, and I was just on 
 the point of telling the child to run away, when, after a snufHe (for 
 I presume pocket-handkerchiefs were at a premium with her) she 
 started a conversation. Her costume was limited to a poor ragged 
 frock over nothing at all, neither shoes nor stockings, long lank 
 hair, and an old straw-hat with the torn crown hanging on one side 
 of a very dirty face. She stood with her hands behind her, and 
 commenced : 
 
 Child : 'Are you readin', loidy ?' (snuffle). 
 
 Self ■ ' Why, of course ; can't you see, child ?' 
 
 Child : ' What are you a-readin' of?' 
 
 Self : ' A book.' 
 
 Child : ' Is it a noice book ? Is there fairies wot gives you 
 things ?' 
 
 Self : ' What things ?' 
 
 Child : ' Puddens and coikes !' (a big snufHe). 
 
 Self : ' No, nothing of that sort.' 
 
 Child: 'Then wot's the good o' readin' of it?' (The child 
 comes near and seats herself by my side, swinging her legs to and 
 fro. After a pause, and a good stare) — 
 
 Child : ' Are you a pretty loidy ?' 
 
 Self (inclined for a joke) : ' I am considered the beauty of 
 Brighton.' 
 
240 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Child (after a long look) : ' Oh ! /don't think so.' 
 
 Self : ' I'm sorry for that.' 
 
 Child (still swinging her legs) : ' I like your 'at.' 
 
 Self : ' I'm glad you like something.' 
 
 Child : ' My mother 'as one jist loike it.' 
 
 Self: 'Really?' 
 
 Child : ' Yes ; she bought it for a shiUin' in 'Igh Street.' 
 
 The frankness of the remarks greatly amused me. Suddenly the 
 girl made a move to go, saying, ' Good-bye, loidy,' when I remarked, 
 ' You are going home to dinner, I suppose.' She shook her lank 
 hair, and replied in the same artless manner : ' No ; I ain't got no 
 dinner ; never 'ave no dinner, 'cept on Sundays.' I began to get 
 interested in the poor little waif, and inquired further : ' No dinner 
 except on Sundays ?' 
 
 Child ; ' No, loidy.' 
 
 Self : 'A good tea, I dare say.' 
 
 Child : ' Only dry bread. Mother can't give us no butter.' 
 
 Self : ' If I gave you a penny, what would you do with it ? 
 
 Child (with a look, not being able to realize the possibility of 
 such a gift) : ' I would buy a bun ' ( a loud and prolonged snuffle). 
 
 I gave the child money, and she rapidly disappeared in the 
 direction of the shops. Coming hurriedly back, she seated herself 
 on the beach by the side of her ragged playmate, with whom she 
 shared her bun ; I was touched by the instinct to divide her 
 treasure with her poor companion. The child had some dinner, 
 and we became very good friends in the future. 
 
 This case of real poverty reminds me that I am, like others, 
 frequently accosted in the streets by professional beggars, and often 
 I cannot resist the temptation of indulging in a little cross-examina- 
 tion, more especially when I have reason to believe that the mendi- 
 cant is a sham. One day I was walking with a friend, when a boy, 
 whose begrimed face wore the imploring expression which is so 
 common amongst street beggars, and which gives them all a certain 
 resemblance, addressed me without any hesitation (his speech 
 naturally having had a very long run) : ' Please, mum, a halfpenny, 
 mum. So 'ungree, mum. Ain't 'ad nothink to heat since yester- 
 day mornin', mum. Do, mum ; I'm a poor horfun, mum.' ' Poor 
 boy ! An orphan ?' ' Yes, mum.' ' Dear me ! Where do your 
 father and mother live ?' ' In Queen Street, mum I' {Exit.) 
 
 During another walk I was addressed by a humble but apparently 
 respectable woman, who, I must confess, succeeded in completely 
 taking me in, for she did not ask for alms. She was a French- 
 woman, and spoke to me in her native tongue : ' Madame, veuillez 
 m'indiquer la route pour Finsbury Square ?' I directed her as well 
 as I could, seeing that we were standing in Portland Place ; and as 
 she left me she gave a piteous sigh and walked slowly along. It 
 occurred to me that she possibly was trying to get to some friends, 
 and had not the means to take omnibus or cab, so I offered her 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 241 
 
 some money, which, after well-acted surprise, she accepted with a 
 profusion of thanks. Six weeks afterwards I met the woman again, 
 but not recognising me, she asked the same question, to which I 
 replied, to her evident confusion, ' Comment ! Vous ne I'avez pas 
 encore trouve ?' 
 
 One more story of mendicity, and I will leave my indigent friends 
 to play out their dramas undisturbed by me. This is an incident 
 quite opposite in character, one of those sad cases which touch the 
 heart very deeply ; but, painful as it is, there is a tinge of serio- 
 comic in the tale at which, while sympathizing with the cause, one 
 cannot resist a smile. A. lady of culture, reduced to the last stage 
 of penury, and driven by hopeless despair to beggary, having tried 
 everything in the shape of work to keep body and soul together, 
 was, at last, forced by cruel fortune to a state bordering on dis- 
 traction ; she cared not for herself, but her baby boy cried for food, 
 and something must be done. IJeing at her wits' end, she con- 
 ceived the idea of going round to the various houses in the hope of 
 selling muffins ; she h'd her face as best she could, and, under the 
 shelter of a dark night, started on her weary errand. The poor 
 lady wandered from street to street, stopping to gaze down at the 
 kitchen windows, but could not for the life of her summon up 
 courage to ring the muffin-bell. At length, made desperate by the 
 remembrance of her baby boy, she did gently ring it, whispering 
 feebly over an area gate, ^ Micffins P The very sound of the bell, 
 and of her own voice, frightened her, and she clung to the railings, 
 muttering under her breath, ' Merciful heaven ! I hope they didn't 
 hear it !' 
 
 When her little son grows up to manhood, may his devotion to 
 his mother repay her for the indignity she suffered for his sake ! 
 
 Peril was the first play of which we gave a series of matinees, on 
 EESUMiiD BY alternate Saturdays, for some weeks, and so opened 
 s. E. B. out a distinct source of income for future successful 
 plays. We also, at this time, had the idea of instituting occasional 
 morning performances of programmes distinct from the evening 
 attractions, and, with this view, rehearsed an amusing comedy 
 called Husbands, founded on Sardou's Papillonne, by Mr. F. 
 Waller. The principal parts were to have been taken by Mr. and 
 Mrs. Kendal, Mr. Arthur Cecil, and myself; but the heavy scene 
 of the hall in Peril so blocked up the stage that for a time, at any 
 rate, we abandoned the intention. It was proved, however, at the 
 Court Theatre, a year or two later, to be a valualDle method of 
 trying plays. Among those produced there in this way were the 
 Ladies' Battle, and another version of Le Fits de Famille, which, 
 by the way, I christened the Queen's Shilling. 
 
 I heard at this time that Sardou was about to produce a new 
 play at the Thditre du Vaudeville called Dora, and, mindful of the 
 great success which was still attending the performance of our 
 
 16 
 
242 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 version of A'os In/i'mes, made plans' to be en rapport with the 
 premiere. My part in Peril was too important to allow me to give 
 it up so early 'in the run, but I was represented in Paris by Mr. B. 
 C. Stephenson. He returned extremely nervous as to the new 
 play's chance of success in England, although much impressed by 
 one or two cf its scenes. I pursued the matter further, on the 
 strength of a criticism I read in a French newspaper, and found 
 that the author had already sold the English and American rights 
 to a theatrical agent, a Monsieur Michaelis, with whom I treated, 
 inducing him to give me the refusal of the play until Ash Wednes- 
 day, which was fast approaching, when I promised to go to Paris 
 and see the play. This was all settled, and I went over, accom- 
 panied by Mr. Kendal, who accepted my invitation for companion- 
 ship. 
 
 We saw the play ; at the end of the famous scene des trois 
 homines I went to Michaelis and told him I had seen quite enough, 
 whatever the rest of the play might prove to be, to determine me 
 to give him a cheque at the end of the performance, if he would join 
 Kendal and myself at supper at a little English club, in the Chaussde 
 d'Antin, I then belonged to, but which has since known 'plunging' 
 days at baccarat, and is now no more. 
 
 Another fine scene followed in a subsequent act, and I felt 
 assured there was ample material for a play in England, whatever 
 the difficulties of transplanting it from Gallic soil might be, and 
 gladly gave Michaelis fifteen hundred pounds, which was then by 
 far the largest sum ever paid for a foreign work, for his rights, 
 returning after a cheery supper to our hotel quite contented with 
 my bargain. 
 
 Soon afterwards we placed the manuscript in the hands of 
 Clement Scott and B. C. Stephenson for consideration as to the 
 line to be taken in its adaptation, with whom, as was our custom 
 with all French plays, we worked in concert. A long time was spent 
 in deciding the plan before the work was begun. This gives me a 
 brief pause to speak of other matters 1 have to tell. 
 
 In February a complimentary performance was given at the 
 Gaiety Theatre to the accomplished entertainer, John Parry, who 
 then took his farewell of the public and appeared for the last time 
 before an audience, which comprised most of the notabilities of the 
 day. He was much affected by the warmth of his reception, and 
 it was some moments before his fingers proved that they still re- 
 tained their marvellous power over the piano. Fortunately for the 
 pubUc and his 'troops of friends,' Corney Grain has since proved at 
 least an equal master of the rare and difficult art of amusing large 
 assemblies single-handed ; while he in his turn has been followed 
 by the accomplished George Grossmith. 
 
 In this month also Mrs. Bancroft, as she was still not acting, 
 gave a reading in public for the first time ; the subject chosen was 
 the death of Jo, from Bleak House, the object being to aid the funds 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 243 
 
 of the Rev. Edward Ker Gray's church, St. Michael's and All Angels, 
 at Netting Hill. 
 
 That distinguished actor, Henry Compton, owing to a long 
 illness, so severe as to rob the public for ever of his services, and 
 make it impossible for him to act again, was offered by his brother 
 actors a complimentary benefit. A very representative committee 
 was formed, and a performance organized which proved one of the 
 most successful ever known. The result from all sources, I believe 
 — including a performance in Manchester, where Compton had 
 long been an especial favourite — reached the large sum of five 
 thousand pounds. At one of the committee meetings, a suggestion 
 I made was approved of, that the first act of Money would offer a 
 good opportunity for a fine cast, including the veteran actor, Ben- 
 jamin Webster, if he could be prevailed upon to appear for the event 
 in his original character of Graves, which he had created at the 
 Haymarket nearly forty years before. 
 
 Failing Irving as Alfred Evelyn, who did not like to take a part 
 new to him under such circumstances, and pleaded also as further 
 excuse, in a letter to me, the nightly labour of appearing as the 
 Thane of Cawdor, the committee, I remember, was indebted to 
 Mr. W. S. Gilbert for the admirable proposal that young Mr. 
 Compton should be asked to make his first appearance in London 
 on the occasion as Evelyn, and so give the opportunity to many old 
 friends of showing their regard and affection for his father by taking 
 the minor parts in support of the son. I give this interesting ex- 
 tract from the gigantic programme that was presented at Urury 
 Lane on the morning of March ist. Lord Lytton's comedy being 
 cast as follows : Lord Glossmore, Mr. Henry Neville ; Sir John 
 Vesey, Mr. Hare ; Sir Frederick Blount, Mr. Kendal ; Graves (his 
 original character), Mr. B. Webster ; Stout, Mr. David James ; 
 Alfred Evelyn, Mr. Edward Compton (his first appearance in 
 London) ; Sharp, Mr. William Farren ; Servant, Mr. Bancroft ; 
 Lady Franklin, Mrs. Bancroft ; Georgina Vesey, Miss Ellen Terry ; 
 Clara Douglas, Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 The selection from Money having been suggested by me, I was 
 asked to play Sir Frederick Blount, a part which I had acted for 
 so long a time ; but I thought that former leading members of the 
 old Haymarket Company, with which Compton had so long been 
 connected, had the first claim to be associated with his name on 
 such an occasion, so urged that the character should be offered to 
 Mr. Kendal, and proposed to appear myself as the servant who 
 makes the announcements of the names of those who attend the 
 reading of the will. When I entered, carefully liveried and 
 powdered, I was warmly received by the audience, who burst 
 into loud and general laughter as I announced ' Sir Frederick 
 Blount,' I being more or less identified with that eccentric per- 
 sonage myself 
 
 Webster — who was then nearly, if not quite, eighty, and whose 
 
 16—2 
 
244 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 last appearance on the stage I think this was — we had noticed to 
 be in a very infirm state at the one rehearsal he attended, for he 
 had kindly consented to appear. When he came to the wing dressed 
 for the performance, I saw plainly how feeble he was. As his cue 
 approached, he suddenly clung to me in a terror-stricken way, and 
 said with emotion, ' Oh, my dear boy, where am I ? I'm very 
 frightened : I don't remember what I have to do.' 
 
 I was greatly pained, and dreaded some catastrophe. Fortu- 
 nately the once famous old actor, whom it was sad indeed to see 
 so shattered, had but a few words to say. I endeavoured to cheer 
 him, and putting my arm round him, said gently, ' It's all right, 
 Mr. Webster ; you remember Mrs. Bancroft, don't you ?' ' Re- 
 member Marie ? of course I do.' ' Then, sir, you've nothing to 
 fear : she will come to you and look after you directly you step upon 
 the stage.' 
 
 I had to reassure and talk to him in this way as the cue came 
 nearer and nearer for me to announce him. I told him how and 
 when to follow me ; he gave me a last sad, wistful look, and then 
 obeyed me like a little child. After the applause which welcomed 
 the great comedian of days gone by had died away, which he 
 had lost the art of acknowledging, but stood as if in a dream, 
 Mrs. Bancroft gently took her place by the old man's side, as her 
 part allowed her to do, and helped him through the lines he had 
 to speak. 
 
 We never met again ; but a few days later, in answer to an inquiry 
 with regard to our forthcoming revival of London Assurance^ I re- 
 ceived the following letter from Mr. Webster, written, although very 
 tremblingly, in his own hand : 
 
 ' Royal Adelphi Theatre, hfarch 21, 1877. 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Bancroft,— Pray pardon my not having written to 
 you before, but a nervous attack to my right hand prevented me. 
 London Assurance was mine ever since it was written. 
 
 'The plot was originally John Brougham's, for which Vestris 
 made Boucicault give him half the proceeds ; so, between one 
 and the other, I paid very dearly for it. With kind regards to you 
 and Mrs. Bancroft, I am, yours faithfully, B. WEBSTER. 
 
 ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' 
 
 A few weeks afterwards Webster presided as Master at the 
 annual dinner of the Drury Lane Fund, which was held at Rich- 
 mond, when he startled the assembled company by asking them 
 to drink to 'The King P The old actoi-'s memoiy had grown 
 feeble, and he was livmg in the far-off past. What else I have to 
 say of this ' light of other days ' shall be written when I reach the 
 date of his death. 
 
 Clement Scott's ' fireside story,' as he called it, The Vicarage, was 
 to be played conjomtly with Dion Boucicault's comedy, London 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 245 
 
 Assurance (produced originally, by the way, the year I was born, 
 1841), which, with the author's consent, I had arranged in four acts. 
 Boucicault was in America at the time, and sent me his sanction 
 from Chicago in these words : 
 
 ' Your shape of London Assurance will be, like all you have done 
 at the Prince of Wales's, unexceptionable. I wish I could be there 
 to taste your brew.' 
 
 Both pieces were carefully rehearsed long before we needed 
 them, for Peril, had we chosen to keep it in the bills, would easily 
 have run through the season ; as, however, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal 
 had country engagements in the autumn, and we had decided to 
 produce Sardou's new play in the following January, we resolved 
 on the change at Easter. I gave up my part of Sir George Ormond 
 for the last three nights, and went to Paris with the adaptors to 
 again see Dora, and settle, finally, further details of its treatment 
 for England. Hare and John Clayton travelled by the same train 
 for a short holiday — it being Passion week — and a pleasant time 
 we all passed in the gay city more or less together. I remember 
 well how we all roared over one of the earliest performances of Bibe 
 at the Gymnase, afterwards adapted with amazing skill by F. C. 
 Burnand as Betsy. In a coup^ between Paris and Boulogne on 
 our journey home, the whole subject of the new play was well 
 thrashed out between myself and fellow-workers, and we saw our 
 way to what eventually became Diplomacy. 
 
 The change of programme took place in accordance with the 
 following announcement: On Saturday, March 31st, 1877, for the 
 first time, The Vicarage, by Mr. Saville Rowe, founded on the 
 French of M. Octave Feuillet. The Rev. Noel Haygarth, Mr. 
 Arthur Cecil ; George Clarke, C.B., Mr. Kendal ; Mason, Mr. 
 Newton ; Mrs. Haygarth, Mrs. Bancroft. Afterwards, revised by 
 the author, and to be played in four acts, Mr. Dion Boucicault's 
 comedy, Londo7i Assurance (for the first time at this theatre). Sir 
 Harcourt Courtly, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; Charles Courtly, Mr. Kendal ; 
 Mr. Harkaway, Mr. Teesdale ; Mr. Spanker, Mr. Kemble ; Mr. 
 Dazzle, Mr. Bancroft ; Mark Meddle, Mr. George Honey ; Cool, 
 Mr. Sugden ; Simpson, Mr. Newton ; Martin, Mr. Stuart ; Lady 
 Gay Spanker, Mrs. Kendal (Miss Madge Robertson) ; Grace Hark- 
 away, Miss Carlotta Addison (Mrs. La Trobe) ; Pert, Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 It may be interesting to note here that this was the- first play-bill 
 
 NOTES BY in which my name appeared without the prefix or 
 
 M. E. B. addition .of ' Marie Wilton.' 
 
 The double programme of The Vicarage and London Assurance 
 was not over until very late on the first night, and greatly accounted 
 for the extraordinary silence in which the curtain finally fell. But 
 I shall never forget the effect it had upon all concerned. Mrs. 
 
246 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Kendal was amazed ; it seemed to take away her breath, and after 
 a long look of surprise, first at one person and then at another, she 
 exclaimed, ' IVe/Lf Mr. Kendal remarked, 'What does it mean?' 
 Mr. Cecil observed, 'That's funny !' to which Mr. Bancroft replied 
 quietly, ' I don't see where the fun comes in — it's deuced puzzling !' 
 There they all stood, just as the curtain had closed them in, with 
 an expression of blank wonder on every face — sans applause, sans 
 caXl, sans everything ! Eventually Mr. Bancroft followed me to my 
 room, and asked me what I thought. Was it a failure? The 
 comedy went well throughout until the very end — then utter silence ! 
 What could it forebode ? After several conjectures, and many a 
 long pause to reflect, he took up my tumbler of lemon and water, 
 emptied it, and retired to his own room, leaving me minus my 
 constant beverage during my work. 
 
 How little an audience knows what power it possesses ! and how 
 frequently it can deprive a manager of a night's rest — nay, several ! 
 
 This remarkable occurrence was the topic of our conversation all 
 the next day ; but our hearts were made easy by the good old 
 comedy proving a great success until the end of the season, and 
 Mrs. Kendal fairly revelled in the character of Lady Gay. 
 
 With regard to my own share in Lo7tdon Assurance, I fear that 
 in the second act, to which the appearance of the small part of Pert 
 is limited, I can riot in the desire to augment its value. Pert is a 
 smart lady's-maid who has but a very short scene, but which in the 
 course of a few nights played double the time intended by the 
 author, and I don't know what he would have said to the liberties 
 taken with the text. The audience, however, laughed immoderately, 
 and seemed to thoroughly enjoy it, so 1 must include them in my 
 conspiracy. I well remember one night Mrs. Eoucicault, who 
 occupied a private box, was looking with amazement at my audacity, 
 but at the same time laughing heartily. 
 
 The following paragraph in my own words, concerning The 
 Vicarage, will not be without interest : 
 
 ' When I played the Vicar's wife I had to deliver a particular 
 speech which always affected me deeply — " God gave me a little 
 child ; but then, when all was bright and beautiful, God took His 
 gift away," etc. The remembrance of the death of my own child 
 was revived in these words. My mind was full of his image, and 
 my tears came in tribute to his memory. I could not have stopped 
 them if I had tried. The effect upon my audience was that not a 
 heart amongst them did not feel with me. Their silence spoke 
 volumes, and their tears told me of their sympathy.' 
 
 Spontaneous criticisms from fellow-workers are always delightful 
 in every art, as was this kind expression fron ^a veteran tragedian : 
 
 ' Grtrrick Club, May 3, 1877. 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Bancroft, — Pray do me the favour to accept an 
 old actor's warmest felicitations on your beautiful rendering of the 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 247 
 
 pai-son's wife in TAe Vicarage. A more perfect bit of quiet acting 
 I have never witnessed. You must believe me sincere when I tell . 
 you it moved me even to tears — the delicate harmony of comedy 
 and pathos awakened me to surprise and admiration. Having 
 gratified my love for legitimate acting so much, you will not, I trust, 
 refuse to accept the sincere and appreciative thanks of — Yours very 
 faithfully, James Anderson. 
 
 In the spring of this year, on an evening passed at Lady 
 RESUMED BY Scbright's, we first met a lady whose name was 
 s. B. B. destined soon to be known throughout the world — 
 Mrs. Langtry. It may be interesting to recall my first impressions 
 of one who leaped at a bound into extraordinary celebrity. I had 
 lingered after dinner talking to a friend, not knowing that more 
 people were coming later, and when I went upstairs again, Mrs. 
 Langtry was standing in the middle of the drawing-room, very 
 plainly dressed in black — one of a small group of people. I 
 exclaimed at once to my companion, 'Who is that lovely woman?' 
 We asked a generally well-informed man, who said, ' I am told she 
 is a Mrs. Langworthy, or Lang — something ; and that her father is 
 the Dean of Jersey.' Mrs. Langtry, I believe, had been brought 
 by one of Lord Ranelagh's daughters, now married to her brother, 
 Mr. Le Breton, who practises at the English bar. After awhile I 
 was presented by our hostess, and found the manner of this since 
 celebrated woman as full of charm as were her looks. Later on, at 
 Lord Houghton's and several other houses, we again met. Mrs. 
 Langtry then was famous, with all the London world running at her 
 heels ; but this charm of manner never changed — a charm, it 
 always seemed to me, as potent as her beauty. 
 
 The tide of success, which at this time remained unbroken, 
 followed our new programme, and continued throughout the season, 
 towards the end of which we resolved when we reopened in the 
 autumn to play Tom Taylor's comedy. An Unequal Match, in con- 
 junction with To Parents and Guardians, while the new Sardou 
 play was being finally prepared. Although I was told by many 
 good judges, including the late well-known musical critic of the 
 AtheniEum, Mr. C. L. Gruneisen, that Dora could not possibly be 
 made successful in her English dress (Gruneisen adding that the 
 only chance would be to set the play back to the Jacobite period), 
 my faith remained unshaken, and I grew more and more anxious to 
 get to work upon the venture. I am not a betting-man, but backed 
 my judgment on this occasion to the price of several hats I 
 
 This was to both of us a year of much social enjoyment and the 
 making of new friends, adding largely to the list of those who had 
 made their names familiar to the world : to have known dis- 
 tinguished and eminent people is not the least of the many debts 
 we owe to our work and to the stage. There needs no further 
 allusion here, excepting, perhaps, to mention for the moment, as he 
 
248 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 follows the same calling- as ourselves, delightful meetings— some- 
 times at our own table, sometimes in picnics on the Thames, which 
 he dearly loved — with that accomplished actor and companionable 
 friend Joseph Jefferson, of whom we hope to speak again. 
 
 As the season drew to an end, the mornings were occupied with 
 rehearsals of A71 Unequal Match, which Tom Taylor read to the 
 company, the play being somewhat altered from the printed book. 
 As usual then, we closed the theatre on the first Friday in August, 
 and on the following morning, without losing a single day, we 
 started for the mountains. 
 
 As soon as I got on board the boat for Calais, feeling a breeze, I 
 A ' DRAMATIC asked the usual question, ' What sort of a crossing 
 
 CONTKAST,' shall we have?' On being informed, ' Oh, a beautiful 
 BY MRS. crossing ; a bit " lumpy," perhaps, mum, after yester- 
 
 BANCROFT. (Jay's storm,' all those poor creatures (I am one of 
 them) who suffer more or less from 7nal de mer, immediately pre- 
 pared themselves for a private cabin, or a couch in the Chamber of 
 Horrors, otherwise the ladies' saloon. Of course I was assured 
 that the fresh air was safer for me ; but as all the cabins were 
 taken, I urged that, much as I disliked it, I would go downstairs, 
 'for' I added, 'I do not look my best when I'm ill.' We had 
 noticed, when we embarked, a very pretty girl with a tall good- 
 looking man, who was most attentive to her, watching her affec- 
 tionately, like a faithful dog. We remarked aside, 'A newly 
 married couple !' The bride was conscious of being observed, for 
 many eyes were gazing at her ; she seemed abashed, and almost 
 inclined to apologize for getting married. I had secured my couch, 
 and was resigned to a ' lumpy crossing,' for we had no sooner 
 started than the boat began to roll and pitch, and I felt thankful 
 that I had wisely prepared for the worst. Presently down came 
 the little bride, followed by her young husband, who anxiously asked 
 the stewardess if ' his wife ' could have a couch. ' Certainly,' was the 
 reply, as she pointed to one on the opposite side to mine. The 
 bride sat down, and the husband cheered her with assurances that 
 she would not be ill. ' Now, dearest pet, make up your mind that 
 you are not going to be ill, and you wotit. Your Regy will run 
 down every now and then to have a peep at you.' Then, turning to 
 the stewardess, he said, ' Kindly look after " my wife," won't you ?' 
 ' Certainly, sir.' After a little whispering close enough to the ear 
 to slyly kiss it, and a pause on the steps to throw a long, tender 
 glance at ' his wife ' before leaving her, he went away. In a few 
 moments the newly-made wife called the stewardess, and asked 
 whether she might occupy a couch she saw vacant on my side of 
 the saloon, which she thought preferable to her own. She was 
 conducted to it, at once closed her eyes, and prepared for sleep. 
 Soon afterwards a middle-aged lady, and somewhat plain, came 
 down. She was shown to the sofa just vacated by the bride, and 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 249 
 
 lay down immediately, covering herself with a travelling-cloak 
 which chanced to be similar to that worn by the other lady. In 
 about half an hour the bridegroom crept carefully down the steps, 
 as if he had no right there, to have a peep at his brand-new wife. 
 Seeing that all was tranquil and the stewardess idle, he retired 
 noiselessly. The middle-aged lady had turned her face to the 
 wall, and was asleep. By-and-by 'Regy' returned, and ventured 
 closer to the couch. He sat down, and said in the softest tone, ' Is 
 my pet one all right ? she has been a brave girl indeed ! We 
 shall soon be there, darling. Courage, little one ! your husband 
 is here !' Then he took out of a lovely new travelling-bag a bottle 
 of eau-de-Cologne and sprinkled her wrap with it, filling the close 
 atmosphere with delicious perfume, at the same time saying encourag- 
 ingly, ' Soon there now, dearie — soon there now. Who said she would 
 be ill ? Brave little wife ! and who loves his little girl, eh?' Then more 
 eau-de-Cologne, some of which must have gone into the poor lady's 
 eyes, for she woke with a start and sat bolt upright. When ' Regy ' 
 saw her face, he dropped the bottle and bolted up the steps as fast 
 as he could run, stumbling over the brass-bound edges of them on 
 his way. (I would have given worlds to have laughed outright, but 
 I dared not move — I was not good sailor enough !) A sudden 
 cessation of the ship's bad behaviour told us we were near the end of 
 our journey, and the ladies began to make a move to collect their 
 things. 
 
 The bewildered young husband ventured cautiously down again, 
 looking anxiously about for his wife, and seeing her seated on the 
 opposite side, went over to her, but not without casting an abashed 
 and uneasy glance at the middle-aged lady. I heard an explana- 
 tion going on between the just-wedded pair, and the young bride 
 crossed to where the other poor lady was sitting to recover her 
 eau-de-Cologne. She apologized for her husband's behaviour, 
 upon which the middle-aged lady remarked, ' Oh, not at all, not at 
 all ! I was asleep until your husband spoke, but when I heard his 
 words, I knew it was a mistake, for it is many years since my 
 husband has spoken like that to me.' There was pathos in this. 
 
 When we got on deck, we found ourselves in harbour. We were 
 much crowded, and while waiting at the gangway I heard the 
 young husband say in an undertone, ' Was my pretty flower ill ? 
 Did the little wifie suffer at all T At the same moment the gruff, 
 brusque, harsh voice of the other lady's husband said in a loud 
 tone, ' Were you sick, Eliza ?' During our journey these new and 
 old married couples must have fraternized, for when we got out at 
 Brussels we saw them, all four, dining together. Afterwards the 
 two ladies went for a little stroll in the town, having still time at 
 their disposal. They lingered too long, however, and the husbands 
 became, one extremely anxious, and the other wild with impatience ; 
 the. one in terror of ' anything having happened to the darling wifie,' 
 the other stamping with rage and muttering, ' Oh, these women 
 
2 50 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 and their infernal shops !' Presently there was a general commo- 
 tion, and travellers were taking their seats — still no sign of the two 
 ladies. The husbands rushed up and down the platform, asking 
 everybody if the wives had been seen. ' En voiture !' cried the 
 guard. Where on earth can they be ? At length the ladies 
 appeared in the distance running like mad. The bells rang, the 
 engine whistled, and all was bustle and confusion. The bridegroom 
 assisted his young wife tenderly into the carriage, saying, ' Oh, my 
 angel ! where were you ?' The older married man angrily ex- 
 claimed, as he hoisted his middle-aged wife up the steps with a 
 tremendous push, sending her parcels flying before her, 'Where 
 the devil have you been, Eliza ?' 
 
 It was in this year that we first went to the Engadine, and com- 
 menced our great attachment for the beautiful valley. 
 We rested on our way at Coire, and there engaged 
 an excellent carriage and friendly coachman to go in two easy days 
 to Pontresina by the Albula Pass. Needless to dwell on the ever- 
 changing beauties of the drive, which year by year grow more and 
 more familiar to the traveller ; needless to tell of the grandeur of 
 the Bergiinerstein, or how, soon afterwards, fertility changes to 
 sterility as the zigzags decrease, and the barren summit of the pass 
 is slowly reached — a strangely weird and desolate waste that might 
 have suggested many a background to Gustave Dor^, and seemed 
 fit only to be peopled by the creatures of his great imagination. 
 We stayed a brief month at Pontresina, and soon learned to love 
 the simple little village which slumbers in the valley of the Inn, six 
 thousand feet above the sea. The wonderful restorative effect of 
 its pure dry air upon those whom it suits, alone would make hard- 
 worked or brain-worn people grateful to it. We had now a little 
 extended the length of our holiday, closing the theatre for eight 
 weeks ; this gave us time for a short run to the Tyrol. We drove 
 in four days to Botzen : on the first to Tirano, then to the Baths of 
 Bormio, from which resting-place, on the next day, Mrs. Bancroft 
 accomplished the feat of walking to the summit of the wonderful 
 Stelvio Pass, the highest considerably in Europe. We then drove 
 to a rough halting-place called Spondinig, and as we descended 
 thfe pass, our coachman pointed out the spot made famous by the 
 recent De Tourville trial for murder. On the fourth day we rested 
 for lunch at Meran — a most picturesque town, reminding one 
 greatly of ' The Rows,' as they call the arcades at Chester, and 
 greatly frequented for the grape-cure — and in the evening arrived 
 at Botzen, where the church-bells seem to never cease from ringing. 
 At our hotel we had an amusing meeting with Mr. David James, 
 who, having been on a walking tour, had grown a heavy dark 
 beard, which greatly changed his appearance, and enabled him to 
 maintain a joke at our doubts as to his identity. Later on we 
 walked to the gaol where De Tourville was waiting' his sentence. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 251 
 
 and the prisoner was pointed out to us taking exercise, while 
 guarded, up and down a room. Then we bought grapes as big as 
 wahiuts, and melons fit for prizes, at a cost of very small coins, in the 
 pretty market-place. 
 
 We left the quaint old place by train over the Brenner Pass for 
 Innsbruck. It was a year of heavy floods, and rumours had 
 reached us that the line had been blocked through landslips caused 
 by the torrents. After careful inquiry at the station, we were told 
 we could safely make the journey, and that the rails were clear. 
 This was a deliberate misstatement, as we found to our cost at 
 noon, when the train was brought to a halt at a little village called 
 — its name, indeed, is a sort of Calais on our hearts — Gossensass. 
 There we learnt that gangs of men were working on the blocked 
 line to remove the vast masses of earth which stopped the way for 
 more than three parts of a mile, where the engineering qualities of 
 the railway were most remarkable. We were told we should very 
 likely be detained two hours, so soon we thought it best to storm 
 the village inn, and see what could be done in the way of food, all 
 that we had with us of the kind being a solitary melon, the remnant 
 of our marketing at Botzen. It turned out to be a fSte-day, pic- 
 turesque to see, but terrible to us in its results, for hunger in its 
 most ravenous form must have beset the natives, whose early 
 dinner, aided by the passengers of a train blocked before the one 
 we travelled by, had simply cleared the village larders, and left 
 nothing eatable to be got for love or money. For a time this 
 mattered little, but as the day wore on and our delay was hour after 
 hour prolonged (while further trains were imprisoned in our rear), 
 the pangs of hunger asserted themselves, and added to our suffer- 
 ings. The stationmaster was so besieged, and found himself so 
 unable to answer the shoals of questions by which he was assailed, 
 that at last, in despair, he destroyed his identity by removing his 
 tell-tale red cap. After all, we were travelling for our pleasure, 
 and the inconveniences we put up with were small indeed compared 
 with the anguish we saw endured by a traveller who had been 
 summoned by telegraph from Vienna to a sick-bed ; the despair of 
 a commercial person at some important difference the delay would 
 cause in his affairs ; and the moans and cries of starving animals 
 and fowls, packed in trucks or cooped in pens, regardless of all 
 humanity, but stacked like sandwiches, and now without food, or 
 drink, or standing space, but crowded on each other, and fighting 
 in the heat for every inch of breathing-room. In answer to their 
 appealing looks, all we could do was to give the wretched birds the 
 rmd of the melon we had just eaten. This miserable offering pro- 
 voked a sudden flutter of excitement, which in their eagerness caused 
 the poor suffering things to be all mixed up in a distorted way, that 
 would have been funny under other circumstances. 
 
 For more than seven hours were we thus kept at Gossensass. 
 Darkness had fallen, and with it heavy rain, until at last we began 
 
252 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 to think how best we could get through the night. We were 
 fortunate in the fellow-occupants of our compartment, a French 
 pasteur and his two daughters, who were also going on to Inns- 
 bruck, when, to our relief, the word came down the Pass— the 
 accident having befallen us at the steepest incline of this wonderful 
 piece of railway— that it was cleared enough for trains on our side 
 to ascend a little, while the blocked trains on the other side came 
 down. When this was done the wretched passengers, travel-worn 
 and weary, were transferred on foot, climbing as best they could 
 by the light of lanterns and of torches for a distance of some hun- 
 dreds of yards, and in the drenching thunder-storm, over the fallen 
 debris, the luggage being dragged over the big boulders of rock 
 and mounds of earth by the gangs of labourers, who looked like 
 devils by the torchlight, grimed as they were with dirt, having 
 been throughout the day and the past night at work to clear the 
 way. The task was not an easy one, but was in time safely accom- 
 plished. The trains from the Austrian side, when reladen, returned 
 to their starting-point, and vice versa with those that met them 
 from the contrary direction. The fate of the wretched cattle in 
 the trucks and the cooped-up fowls we never knew, but Time does 
 not efface our remembrance of this journey. When at last we 
 reached the train for Innsbruck, we hoped our woes were over ; 
 but we had not long started, when we halted in a tunnel. There 
 was an appalling silence for a time ; presently we learnt that we 
 had left half our train behind us, and the engine in the rear had 
 gone to pick it up. Afterwards we must have slept from sheer ex- 
 haustion ; for we remember nothing, until cries reached us of 
 ' Innsbruck ! Innsbruck !' when we felt, ' No, no ! there is no Inns- 
 bruck, there never was an Innsbruck, there never will be an Inns- 
 bruck !' At one a.m., however, we did find ourselves — wet, tired 
 out, and alrnost past hunger, but very thankful for our safety — in 
 the Tirolerhof 
 
 Of course during our brief stay we went to the old Franciscan 
 Church, and saw the bronze monuments of Maximilian and the 
 kings and queens surrounding him. We also drove to the famous 
 Schloss all tourists go to see, but whether to our unlucky journey 
 may be attributed our want of appreciation of the picturesque old 
 town, we don't know ; certain it is, we were glad to leave it after a 
 short two days and go on to Salzburg. An incident with the portier 
 of our hotel concerning our departure seemed to us amusing'. In 
 answer to a question as to how long it would take to get to Salz- 
 burg, he replied, ' Four hours was the former time, but that a new 
 line of railway had just been opened by which we should be able 
 to travel.' ' And how long by that ?' ' Seven hours and a half !' 
 Further inquiries informed us that the longer journey was passed 
 through more beautiful scenery than the old line traversed, and 
 the portier thought us poor creatures indeed when we decided 
 to be contented with the beaten track and run no further risk of 
 landslips. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1876-77 ij53 
 
 Pleasant days followed at the H6tel de I'Europe, Salzburg, surely 
 as prettily placed as any town or city need be. There we came 
 across friends, and with them went down the salt-mines of Berch- 
 tesgaden. The experience was then a strange one — very likely 
 now more cockneyfied, through the vast increase of tourists. Cross- 
 ing the subterranean lake, with its faint glimmer of light just 
 revealing the forms of shadowy-looking creatures who rowed the 
 boat, could not fail to call up mental pictures of the Styx. We 
 then drove on to the lovely Konigs-See, and when afterwards we 
 told Count Beust how near we had been to his villa above its 
 deep-green waters, he kindly regretted that we had not sought his 
 hospitality. 
 
 Our experiences at the salt-mines were thus related in a letter 
 written by Mrs. Bancroft ; 
 
 ' Hotel de VEurope, Salzburg, Tuesday {September, 1877). 
 
 'jMy dear , — We have been very like children during 
 
 this holiday trip, so keen was our desire to see everything and to 
 do eveiything. When we were told it was usual for visitors to pass 
 under a waterfall, never mind the wetting, we must do it. We drove 
 
 with the to Berchtesgaden, and went with them down the shaft 
 
 some hundreds of feet below the earth, the sensation being as if we 
 were sent flying to the lower regions, which were represented by 
 the salt-mines. After we had crossed a black, silent lake, the 
 border of which was feebly lit by faint glimmering oil-lamps, we 
 mounted on a kind of wooden plank on wheels at the mouth of a 
 long black tunnel, with a small bright star at the other end, which 
 we were told was daylight, and through which we should pass into 
 our own civilized world again. The ceremony we had to go through, 
 and the costumes we were obliged to don before we could be ad- 
 mitted into the bowels of the earth, caused me much amusement 
 (for the ludicrous side of things, if there is one at all, I am sure to 
 detect). We were shown into separate apartments, where attendants 
 were waiting to dress us. Our costumes were as follows : For the men, 
 a suit of white linen over their own, a felt hat, and a leather apron, 
 only not worn as one, as there were many shafts to descend quickly 
 in a sitting position ! 
 
 ' The ladies wore a white linen jacket, very full trousers, to allow 
 one's own dress to be tucked inside ; a leather belt and small felt 
 hat, with no brim, of saucepan shape. These linen suits are worn 
 to prevent the salt from penetrating through one's clothes. This is 
 all right enough when the lady's figure is slight, but when it happens 
 to be somewhat corpulent, the effect under these circumstances is 
 too comic. When we all emerged to cross the road in open day- 
 light, for the purpose of entering the mouth of the pit, a lady, whose 
 dimensions were, to say the least, bulky, made her appearance. 
 The effect on me was instantaneons, and I laughed till 1 suffered 
 positive pain. I was obliged to make her think that I was amused 
 
254 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 at the general effect, and not at her in particular, or the explanation 
 might have been a little unpleasant. But every time my eyes met 
 her large presence, I could not resist laughing. While we were in 
 the dark cavern of the earth, lit only by the dim lanterns which 
 were carried by our guides, I, of course, was unable to see her 
 distinctly, but 1 always knew when she was near, and could picture 
 her in " my mind's eye." When we emerged again into daylight 
 (covered thickly with salt — in fact, human beings well pickled), this 
 female Falstaff met my gaze once more, and I went off ag:ain into 
 such an ungovernable fit of laughter that I was pushed into my 
 dressing-room, where I could give vent to it to my heart's content. 
 I enclose a rough sketch of the lady's appearance. 
 
 ' I shall write again from Paris. — Yours ever, M. E. B.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1877-78. 
 
 A strong company — Some applications for engagements — Production of An 
 Unequal Match — To Parents and Guardians — Souvenir from Jefferson — 
 His temperainent and his acting — Finding a name for Dora — Diplomacy 
 decided on — jMr. Ollier's offer — Diplomacy produced — A triumph — Letter 
 from Sardou — The Saturday Review, Wilkie Collins, and Clement Scou 
 on Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft's parts in the play — A penalty of success : 
 Burnand's Diplunacy — Letter from Fanny Kemble — benefit performances 
 for John Clarke and Mrs. Mellon : Madame Celeste's last appearance — 
 Death of Charles Mathews — Pierre Berton : letter from him — An altered 
 cast — Away to the mountains again — A stammering tenor — The enraptured 
 doctor — Letter from Jenny Liiid — A reading at Pontresina — An adventure: 
 lost on the mountains — Death of H. J. Montague — Meeting with Fanny 
 Kemble — Paris — The Exhibition — J. L. Toole in disguise — Introduction to 
 Sardou — His house at Marly-le-roi — A practical joke. 
 
 Emboldened by continued prosperity, as well as by friendly 
 rivalry in management, to which for years we had been strangers, 
 when, without disciples, we remained for so long a time in almost 
 undisturbed possession of the field, we made still further engage- 
 ments for this season, resolving, when it was no longer possible — 
 through a greatly increasing demand by the side of which supply 
 by no means ran at the same pace — to keep our company so much 
 unchanged as in our earlier days, at least to replace any valued 
 members of it, whose services we might lose, regardless of cost to 
 our treasury. The salary list became, in fact, for so small a theatre, 
 remarkable ; the little house, however, seemed to bear a channed 
 life, as we were legislating only for success. 
 
 Prince of Wales's Royal Theatre. — Lessees and Managers, Mr.* 
 
 * This was the first time my name appeared in the play-bills in this capacity, 
 as, for a long lime, we shared Joey Ladle's objection to ' change the name of 
 the firm,'— S. B, B. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 255 
 
 and Mrs. Bancroft.— Season 1877-78.— Mr. Kendal, Mr. John 
 Clayton, Mr. Sugden, Mr. Kemble, Mr. Flockton, Mr. Teesdale, 
 Mr. W. Younge, Mr. Deane, Mr. Newton, Mr. C. Strick, Mr. 
 Arthur Cecil, and Mr. Bancroft ; Mrs. Kendal, Miss Litton, Miss 
 Le Thiere, Miss Kate Phillips, Miss Lamartine, Miss A. Wilton, 
 Miss Ida Hertz, Miss Lee, and Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 Although our company comprised this strong list of names, we 
 had further opportunities of adding to it, as the following amusing 
 applications will show : 
 
 ' HoNNERED Lady, — i was borne in alien Street and i am now 
 pottman at the swan with 2 neks i have no art to continue in my 
 persision so i writ to arsk you to putt me on the bords of your 
 theatre i am a borne actor for I citch myself makeing speaches out 
 of plays in the middel of the nite if you will give me the charnce I 
 vk^ill do my duty well and be a creditt to your theater if you see 
 your way to give me the charnce i must arsk you to say nothink of 
 it to my famly yours truly humble servent— Henry .' 
 
 'to Mr. Bangkroft — dear sir — could you be so kind as to teake 
 
 noites of Ellen 's letter wich i took the libty of writing asking 
 
 you if you could for kindly infrom har How she Could become a 
 Balled gril as i have a longing disire to become one hopeing you 
 will excuse the libty of troubilleng you i remaine your obedint 
 Servent Ellen . 
 
 ' wery tall age 19.' 
 
 ' Dear Lady, — I hope you will pardon me for troubling you but 
 if " you " will kindly read what " I " have got to say ; you will 
 perhaps, think, that I am justified in writing. I am twenty-two 
 years of age, and have been for a considerable time studying for 
 the stage. I am not merely stage struck ; but possess those quali- 
 fications which must inevitably raise me to its highest " step " ; 
 which is "that" of expressing extreme passion. I have applied to 
 several theatre's but all in vain. But I sincerely hope that you will 
 not follow their example, and " also " help to rescue me from the 
 poverty and insult to which I have been exposed these last few 
 year's. I have not been accustomed to an audience, therefore I 
 should like a few subordinate character's till I regain confidence, 
 once more I ask you kindly to do what I ask and you will be repaid 
 in a manner you little dream of — I am yours John .' 
 
 'Sir, — Pleese pardon me for taking the liberty but it is on 
 account of myself wishing to be an Actress I feel I never shall be 
 happy until I am one and I can assure you I will not be long lerning 
 what I have to lern. I can jump about, but I am only just begin- 
 ning to lern dancing, they tell me I am like a frog jumping about 
 I am 17 years old and big for my age when I was 15 I played with 
 
356 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 other girls at pretending to be circus girls I can sing pretty well 
 this writing look something dreadful but I am writing it at work 
 and I am in a hurry your Respec'y— ETHEL .' 
 
 ' Sir,— I am a young man age 20 my hight is 5ft 7in light weight 
 (Excuse the term please) very good looking and Nimble should like 
 to get into your theatre I have a good strong Voice and a distinct 
 plain and good pronyunciation Quick at learning parts I will 
 Agree to any propisition you make I have friends of position in 
 various parts of England shall do my best to please you all I ask in 
 Return is to have an allowance just for the necessaries and would 
 like to live on premises but be content with a Small room in the 
 vicinity I beg the honour of Being yours 
 
 ' obediently 
 
 ' Mr. Frank . 
 
 ' My dear sir I am of Course single do not Smoke or drink.' 
 
 "DEER Sir — ' I have a grate desire to becume An actorist I have 
 not Been on the stage before but ive allways wished to becume one 
 I have Nither Father nor Mother I have too brothers that all the 
 frends i have so I am in the world allone .So if you or any one would 
 take me I should be extreamly thankful! i have been in sirvice but 
 its no good its seems if ive been made for the stage its allways in 
 my hed and I am sure I would soon be a good actorist I went to 
 the Princess and the door Keeper He told me to write to any of the 
 mangers Sir i am not a Londer but yorkshire Girl i was 16 years 
 old Last febuary 
 
 ' i remain yours Respetfully M N 
 
 '— hamstedd Road N.V.' 
 
 The hopes we entertained that the dramatic profession had some- 
 what risen in public esteem were a little dashed when we found 
 they evidently were not shared by the 'famly' of the gentleman 
 who was 'borne in alien Street,' to whom we did not 'see our way' 
 to 'give the charnce' of appearing in the programme of Saturday, 
 September 29th, 1877, when Tom Taylors comedy. An Unequal 
 Match, was first acted by us with this cast : Sir Sowerby Honey- 
 wood, Mr. Kemble ; Harry Arncliffe, Mr. Sugden ; Captain Chil- 
 lingham, Mr. C. Strick ; Dr. Botcherby, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; John 
 Grazebrook, Mr. Flockton ; Blenkinsop, Mr. Bancroft ; Tofts, Mr. 
 W. Younge ; Herr Dummkopf, Mr. Deane ; Lady Honeywood, 
 Miss Ida Hertz ; Mrs. Montressor, Miss Litton ; Miss Leech, Miss 
 Lee ; Bessy Hebblethwaite, Miss Kate Phillips ; Hester Graze- 
 brook, Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 The play not only added a considerable sum to the treasury, but 
 ran pleasantly until the end of the year, and throughout the prepara- 
 tion of Sardou's new work, which was definitely announced for pro- 
 duction in January, until which date the Kendals could not rejoin 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 257 
 
 us. The old farce, first made famous by Alfred Wigan and the 
 Keeleys, To Parents and Guardians, the action of which Tom 
 Taylor reduced at our suggestion, and with great advantage he con- 
 sidered, to a single scene, proved an excellent afterpiece. It gave 
 Arthur Cecil an admirable part in the old French usher, while 
 Henry Kemble quite revelled in the boyish troubles of the fat butt 
 of the school, known to his playmates as Master William Waddilove. 
 
 It was at this time that Mr. Jefferson, who, had he not been so 
 distinguished as an actor, might easily have made painting his pro- 
 fession—his pictures having been more than once shown in the 
 Academy — gave us a charming souvenir from his brush of some 
 happy days we had passed together, chiefly on the river, and often 
 in the additional companionship of William Winter, an accom- 
 plished poet and critic, and also a fellow-countryman of his. The 
 subject is a backwater on the Thames in the early haze — the genre 
 being greatly that of the eminent French landscape painter, Corot. 
 
 Jefferson had lingered in the old country long after his engage- 
 ments here were over, for he loved England and its people, and 
 now was going home. The following letter was an answer to a 
 wish that he would add, if possible, to the value we set upon his 
 gift by writing his name on the canvas, which is quite important in 
 size, although so modestly spoken of by himself : 
 
 ' Brighton, Thursday, September 27, 1877. 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Bancroft, — I was sorry to find yourself and 
 Bancroft from home when I called on Monday with the little sketch 
 of the Thames. I am glad you like it. 
 
 ' Many thanks for your kind and beautiful letter. I shall be in 
 London on Sunday, and will call for the purpose of wishing you 
 both good-bye, and to sign the picture as you request. 
 
 ' Mrs. Jefferson joins me in love to you both, and we hope some 
 day to see you in America. 
 
 ' Always your friend and admirer, J. Jefferson.' 
 
 No man was ever more gifted with a poetic temperament than 
 Jefferson. He loved nature. To linger on an old bridge, or 
 wander in a country lane, would give him hours of happiness. 
 Every leaf had its charm in his eyes, each blade of grass he would, 
 as it were, photograph on his memory, parting with them regret- 
 fully, so ' loving-jealous ' was he of their beauties. Once, after a 
 long ramble near Cookham, he said, ' What a beautiful place is 
 your bonnie England ! How I should like to take it in my arms 
 and carry it right away !' He was as popular in society as on the 
 stage, and always charming in companionship. 
 
 A little story he told us of periodical visits to a certain theatre in 
 his own country, either by himself or some other distinguished 
 actor, we thought very touching in its simplicity. At this theatre 
 the actor had for years taken some friendly notice of an old stage 
 
2S8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 carpenter and scene-shifter named Jackson, whose life had interested 
 him, and who always got some substantial recognition when the 
 engagement ended. This went on for years, when, on one occa- 
 sion, the kind comedian looked about for the old man in vain. He 
 searched the theatre well, but could not find him ; so at last he sent 
 for the master-carpenter, and asked him where Jackson was. The 
 man first answered the question with a sorrowful look, then simply 
 pointing upwards, said quietly, ' I guess he's shifting clouds^ 
 
 It is impossible to recall more exquisite acting than Jefferson's 
 in the character of dear, dissolute, gentle Rip Van Winkle. When 
 this finished work of art first caused its sensation at the Adelphi, a 
 solemn-looking man who was seated in the upper boxes read from 
 his play-bill in an audible voice, ' Twenty years will elapse between 
 the acts.' He then rose, took up his hat, and, bowing to his neigh- 
 bour, said quietly, ' Sir, I wish you good-evening. Few present, I 
 take it, will survive to see the end of this play.' 
 
 We wonder if America will lend its great artist to us again. We 
 hope so, for few friendships are more valued by us than that of 
 Joseph Jefferson. 
 
 Sardou's play had meantime fully occupied both us and the 
 ' Brothers Rowe,' as they were called ; it was revised and revised, 
 but at last approached completion. Only a careful comparison of 
 the original manuscript with the English version would prove the 
 labour it involved, and the tact and skill it required to retain just 
 what was necessary from the French second act and incorporate it 
 with the first. When the play was read to the company, each 
 adaptor in turn taking an act, it produced a profound impression on 
 everyone present. One lady, who was cast for a small part, when 
 asked if she was interested in the story, replied, ' Interested ! if 
 anybody had spoken to me, I must have slapped their faces !' 
 Then there arose a tantalizing difficulty as to its title. Our dear 
 friend Charles Reade reminded us of the existence of his play Dora, 
 founded on Tennyson's poem, thinking if we retained the name that 
 a wide field would be opened to pirates. We first decided to 
 christen it Blackmail, but when we so advertised it, claim was laid 
 to the title as belonging to an unacted play by the late Watts 
 Phillips, who wrote so many admirable dramas for the Adelphi. 
 We next thought, apropos of the last act, of the Mousetrap, again 
 to find that some one had been beforehand ; eventually all the titles 
 thought of were, one nJght at home, written on slips of paper and 
 put into a hat. We decided that the one drawn oftenest in a given 
 time should be resolved on. This chanced to be Diplomacy, which 
 came out a long way ahead, and best of all, perhaps, fitted to the 
 line we adopted in the play. The hero, a young sailor in the 
 French, had become our military attach^ at Vienna, while his 
 brother (there was no kinship between these characters as Sardou 
 left them) was to be First Secretary in our Embassy at Paris. 
 Accident served us very much with regard to the political relations 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 259 
 
 between Russia and Turkey at the time, and the question of the 
 Constantinople defences was a prominent one of the day. The 
 scenes at Monte Carlo and Paris were elaborately prepared and 
 decorated, although, we frankly admit, not so elaborately as to 
 allow truth in the rumour that one suite of furniture had in the 
 days of the Empress Eugenie formerly graced her boudoir in the 
 Tuileries. Our desire for realism in the last act, which we laid in 
 the Chancellerie of the British Embassy, induced a special visit to 
 Paris for final details, for which every opportunity was given to us 
 through the kindness of Mr. (now Sir Francis) Adams, who was 
 then First Secretary, and our old friend George Greville, who, since 
 we knew him as a boy at Scarborough, had entered the diplomatic 
 service, and had become an attachi under Lord Lyons. 
 
 The rehearsals proceeded apace, and nothing in our career we 
 thought more clearly foreshadowed success — a view which was 
 strongly confirmed by our friend Mr. Pigott when he sent us the 
 Lord Chamberlain's license for its performance. 
 
 In the first days of the new year, about a week before the play 
 DIPLOMATIC came out, I received a visit at the theatre from Mr. 
 NOTES FROM Oilier, one of the leading librarians in Bond Street, 
 
 s. B. B.'s who said he wished to make a proposal with regard to 
 DESPATCH- (-jjg j]g^ production. Perhaps the interview that fol- 
 ^'~'^' lowed can be best related in dialogue ; which certainly 
 shall reproduce its exact purport, if not the actual words of the con- 
 versation : 
 
 Mr. Ollier : ' You have now pver a hundred and twenty stalls 
 in the theatre, Mr. Bancroft.' 
 
 Mr. Bancroft : ' Yes.' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' The charge for which at your booking-office is ten 
 shillings ?' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Yes.' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' Let us count them as a hundred and twenty, which, 
 at ten shillings each, would be sixty pounds a night, if all of them 
 were taken.' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Exactly.' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' Sixty pounds a night is at the rate of three hundred and 
 sixty pounds a week for six performances.' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' I follow you.' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' Well, Mr. Bancroft, from the night you produce 
 Diplomacy until the middle of July will be about five-and-twenty 
 weeks.' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Yes, I think so.' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' Three hundred and sixty pounds a week for five-and- 
 twenty weeks would be nine thousand pounds.' 
 
 Mr. B. : 'I don't know — haven't counted — but what are you 
 coming to i" 
 
 Mr. O. : ' This. I am prepared to take every stall in the theatre, 
 
 17 — 2 
 
26o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 at its full price, for six months, and to write you a cheque for the 
 whole sum at this moment.' 
 
 Mr. B. {after a pause) : 'You rather take my breath away, Mr. 
 Oilier ; but will you let me ask what prompts you to make such an 
 extraordinary proposal ?' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' Certainly. I have a great opinion of your judgment, 
 and am simply prepared to back it. I can't recall a cast of any 
 modern production with six such names as Mrs. Bancroft's and your 
 own, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. Arthur Cecil, and Mr. Clayton. 
 Added to which I know the play drew money in Paris, and 1 feel 
 sure you know what you are doing.' 
 
 Mr. B. : 'I am, of course, very much complimented, believe 
 me, by your proposal, and by what you say of me. I can do 
 nothing, however, it seems to me, but thank you for the offer, and 
 decline it.' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' Decline it ! Why ?' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' For one good reason. If the play should succeed, as 
 you expect, you would have a monopoly of the stalls, and could put 
 them at any price you like, leaving Mrs. Bancroft and myself to 
 bear the natural anger of the public' 
 
 Mr. O. : ' Well, Mr. Bancroft, I am sure you know your own 
 business best ; but I don't think in a long career I have met 
 another manager who would have refused the offer. Anyhow, I 
 wish you all the success you work so hard for, and many a long 
 year of it. Good-night !' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Good-night !' 
 
 The Friday night was devoted to a last rehearsal, which was 
 considerably enlivened by Arthur Cecil, pursued as usual by his 
 second self the Demon of Indecision, appearing in each of his 
 scenes with a totally distinct ' make-up ' for Baron Stein, and look- 
 ing like some new character dragged into the play at the last 
 moment, who was going to brighten it up by giving a sort of enter- 
 tainment d la Woodin. 
 
 This was the programme of what proved to be one of the best 
 trump cards of our twenty years' management : 
 
 On Saturday, January 12, 1878, for the first time, will be acted a flay in four 
 acts, catled, 
 
 DIPLOMACY, 
 
 adapted for the English stage from M. Victories Sardous comedy ' Dora,' by 
 Mr. Saville Rowe and Mr. Bolton Rowe. 
 
 Act I. — ' Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 'Tis woman's whole existence.' — Byron. 
 Act II. — ' Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down.' — Shakespeare. 
 Act III. — ' But hither shall I never come again, 
 
 Never lie by thy side, see thee no more. 
 Farewell !' — Tennyson. 
 Act IV. — ' What do you call the play ? 
 
 The Mouse-Trap ! Marry, h.Q^ 7— Shakespeare. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 261 
 
 COUNT ORLOFF 
 BARON STEIN ■ 
 MR. BEAUCLERC . 
 CAPTAIN BEAUCLERC 
 ALGIE FAIRFAX 
 MARKHAM . 
 ANTOINE 
 
 MARQUISE DE RIO-ZARES 
 COMTESSE ZICKA . 
 LADY HENRY FAIRFAX . 
 DORA .... 
 MION .... 
 
 Me. Bancroft. 
 Me. Arthur Cecil. 
 Mr. John Clayton. 
 Mr. Kendal. 
 Mr. Sugden. 
 Me. Newton. 
 Me. Deane. 
 Miss Le Thieee. 
 Mes. Bancroft. 
 Miss Lamaetine. 
 Mes. Kendal. 
 Miss Ida Heetz. 
 
 The play, from start to finish, was a triumph. Before I went 
 upon the stage for the splendid ' three-men scene,' I told the 
 prompter I was sure the applause would be tremendous at the end 
 of it, and asked him when we answered the call to keep the curtain 
 up a longer time than usual, I felt so certain of success. He more 
 than obeyed me in his zeal, and I thought would never ring the 
 curtain down again ; nothing, however, checked the salvos of ap- 
 plause and the roar of approving voices, for, again and again, the 
 curtain had to be raised in answer to the enthusiasm, which, at the 
 close of the fine scene between Mr. and Mrs. Kendal in the third 
 act, was almost repeated. At the end of the play, in answer to 
 an extraordinary ovation, which must live keenly in the memories 
 of all who were present, and enthusiastic calls for the author, I an- 
 nounced that the news of the play's reception should at once be 
 telegraphed to Monsieur Sardou, to whom the adaptors of his work 
 wished all the praise to go. The next day we received a most 
 gratifying and congratulatory answer. 
 
 In further acknowledgment of a little cadeau we ventured to send 
 the distinguished dramatist, came this letter : 
 
 ' Paris, le 21 Fdvrier, 187S. 
 
 ' Cher Monsieur, — Pardonnez-moi le retard que, j'ai mis kvous 
 ^crire. Je suis en ce moment accable de travail ; repdtant chaque 
 jour de midi k cinq heures, ecrivant toute la matinee, et le soir trop 
 fatigud pour reprendre la plume. 
 
 'J'ai regu avec un bien vif plaisir le charmant objet que vous 
 voulez bien m'envoyer ^ titre de souvenir de la part de Mrs. Ban- 
 croft, et de la votre. Je suis on ne peut plus sensible k I'amicale 
 pensee qui vous a conseill^ le gracieux envoi, et vous a fait choisir 
 I'objet de tous le plus propre k me rappeler sans cesse et le succfes 
 de Dora k Londres et la charmante urbanite de son directeur. Je 
 ne fumerai plus ddsormais une cigarette, sans penser k tout cela, et 
 le souvenir ne s'envolera pas avec la fum^e. 
 
 ' Priez Madame Bancroft de vouloir bien agr^er mes salutations 
 les plus empress^es, et permettez-moi de vous serrer la main cor- 
 dialement k I'anglaise. — Victorien Sardou.' 
 
 I may mention here that the part of Count Orlofif perhaps gave 
 me greater pleasure to act than any character I have ever played, 
 
262 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 although it is confined entirely to the one great scene— hardly ap- 
 pearing in the first act of the play, and not appearing after the 
 second. When I saw Dora originally, I felt the cast in regard to 
 the Orloff to be faulty, and that the scene between the three men 
 would gain if the part were given to an actor in whom the 
 audience placed equal confidence with the representatives of the 
 other two characters. To my thinking, in the big scene Orloff is 
 the best part of the three, and calls for the greatest judgment in 
 the acting. 
 
 A recent interesting discussion, provoked by one of the ablest of 
 our dramatic critics, allows me to take occasion to say that tears 
 never failed to come to my eyes at a fine moment requiring sup- 
 pressed emotion when acting this character. 
 
 Apropos of this feeling towards the part of Orloff", it was pleasant 
 to read the following words in the Saturday Review : 
 
 ' Some time ago, when writing of the performance of Dora in 
 Paris, we expressed a doubt whether adequate interpreters could be 
 found for the great scene between the three men. We may as well 
 say at once that we are delighted to find this doubt need not have 
 been entertained. 
 
 ' This scene, which no doubt is the one upon which the play 
 depends, is played as admirably here as it was at the Vaudeville in 
 Paris. 
 
 ' Mr. Bancroft's performance in the scene as Count Orloff could 
 hardly be improved, and his playing of the part throughout gives 
 a fresh proof of Mr. Bancroft's fine power of impersonation, a 
 thing somewhat different from acting in the loose sense which is 
 too commonly attached to the word. The character demands an 
 unusual capacity for indicating rather than expressing a pas- 
 sionate emotion, and in Mr. Bancroft's rendering of it we can find 
 no fault.' 
 
 Equally delightful was the valued criticism of the ever sympa- 
 thetic friend who wrote as follows : 
 
 * 90, Gloucester Place, Portman Square, W. , January 13, 1878. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — I went to the theatre with rheumatism 
 in my back and in my knees, and I was (I need not say how un- 
 willingly) obliged to get home to bed after seeing the first two acts 
 of the piece only, but I saw enough to justify me in sincerely con- 
 gratulating you and Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 ' You have won a great success, and you have most thoroughly 
 deserved it. I have never seen you do anything on the stage in 
 such a thoroughly masterly manner as the performance of your part 
 in the great scene. Your Triplet was an admirable piece of acting, 
 inost pathetic and true, but the Russian (a far more difficult part to 
 play) has beaten the Triplet. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 263 
 
 ' There was no mistaking the applause that broke out when you 
 left the scene. You had seized the sympathies of the audience. 
 
 ' Of the great success of the English Dora there is no manner of 
 doubt, and I heartily rejoice in it. — Yours always truly, Wilkie 
 Collins.' 
 
 From a too grateful letter, written by Mr. ' Saville Rowe,' I make 
 an extract, and give him the responsibility of playing upon an in- 
 strument which I have tried to refrain from blowing myself. 
 
 ' It was your strong intelligence and perception of dramatic 
 effect, my dear Bancroft, that secured for playgoers such a work as 
 this. Your assistance has made the " grand trio " the talk of the 
 town, and your consummate judgment in arrangement and stage 
 management ai"e found in every scene and every group. 
 
 ' The proudest day of my life was when I found myself associated, 
 however humbly, with such a theatre as the Prince of Wales's.' 
 
 In the same letter he further writes : 
 
 ' My own pen, necessarily forced to silence, longs to enter the 
 literary arena to proclaim what I so sincerely feel. ... As to Mrs. 
 Bancroft, what higher compliment can any critic pay than those 
 tears she commands at will ? What higher artistic triumph can 
 there be than to play such a character and wring from it every 
 possible drop of sympathy ? . . . One false note in such a harmony 
 would have produced discord.' 
 
 I may here add that Mrs. Bancroft tried very hard to escape play- 
 ing La Comtesse Zicka, and only yielded reluctantly to my strong 
 persuasions. She always felt herself to be physically unsuited to 
 the character, and was never happy in it, despite the great praise 
 her performance evoked. 
 
 The Saturday Review (January 19, 1878), said : 
 
 ' Mdlle. Bartet, promising though her acting was, did not ap- 
 proach the complete mastery and finish which Mrs. Bancroft shows 
 in her playing of the Countess Zicka.' 
 
 The success of the play, which owed much to the acting of all 
 concerned, on which it is hardly our province to dwell at length, 
 passed all our experience. The crowds that congregated outside 
 the doors every night were large enough to make several audiences, 
 and had the theatre been twice its size, would have brought us 
 quickly quite a fortune, for it was crowded to its utmost capacity in 
 every part until July, seven times a week, as we gave an unbroken 
 series of morning performances. The seats were secured in ad- 
 vance for a longer time than I ever heard of — months, not weeks — 
 and it might well be wondered if the purchasers would ever be the 
 
264 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 occupants. The first time the late Prince Imperial saw the play 
 was from the dress-circle ; an example which many distinguished 
 people followed rather than wait for stalls or boxes. Lord Beacons- 
 field, who rarely went to the play — his only previous visit to our 
 theatre, when we were acting School, being recorded by himself in 
 his last novel— came one night to see Diplomacy. On entering the 
 stalls, where he sat, he was recognised by the audience, and re- 
 ceived an immense ovation, he being then at the height of public 
 favour. It was during this extraordinary career of success the fact 
 became confirmed, which a year before had dawned upon us, that 
 theatrical management might result in the means of retiring early 
 from its cares. 
 
 One penalty we had to pay for the craze the success had grown 
 to be. Mr. F. C. Burnand saw the play one night ; when the 
 curtain fell he went straight home to his desk, and did not leave it 
 until he finished a masterpiece of parody, which he called Dzp- 
 lunacy, and produced with all speed at the Strand Theatre. 
 
 Not only was the travesty immensely funny, but it was remark- 
 ably well played, the mannerisms and peculiarities of the actors 
 being wonderfully seized by the burlesque company, whose members 
 paid weekly visits to our matinees while their rehearsals were in 
 progress. For our own parts, it was very amusing to ' see ourselves 
 as others see us,' and we laughed as heartily at the good-natured 
 caricatures of our peculiarities by Miss Venne and Monsieur 
 Marius, as at the comic reproduction of Mrs. Kendal by Miss 
 Rachel Sanger, or at Mr. Penley's grotesque imitation of the peculi- 
 arities of the Baron Stein. We forget who burlesqued Mr. Kendal, 
 .but Mr. Clayton suffered at the hands of Mr. Harry Cox (an 
 original member of the first Prince of Wales's company, since 
 dead). The penalty we paid for all this good fun was thus : it being 
 easier to get seats for the burlesque than for the original, sometimes 
 people, tired of waiting, would go to the Strand before seeing our 
 play — a fatal thing to do — and try afterwards to take things au 
 serieux. Diplunacy had a great and deserved success, and ran by 
 our sides for many months. 
 
 An unpractised pen must sometimes beg pardon for not always 
 being kept strictly to the point and sequence of the story it is made 
 to tell, but we must not omit mention of a once distinguished 
 member of our calling — Fanny Kemble — whom we had so often 
 seen of late in the theatre, that we asked Mr. Henry Kemble, who 
 was still a member of our company, although not acting in Diplo- 
 macy, if he would beg from his accomplished relative her auto- 
 graph, that we might add it to a collection of some value and much 
 interest. Our request brought this kind reply : 
 
 ' IS, Connaught Square, April 7, 1878. 
 ' My dear Madam, — My nephew tells me that you have ex- 
 pressed a desire to possess my ugly and illegible handwriting. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 265 
 
 Here it is ! and I venture to avail myself of this opportunity of ex- 
 pressing how much I have enjoyed repeatedly the clever and 
 admix-ably acted piece which is now succeeding so brilliantly at 
 your theatre. " Old folks " are hard to please, and it is a good 
 action to give them pleasure, and so 1 hope you will allow me to 
 subscribe myself, my dear madam, your obliged servant, Frances 
 Anne Kemble. 
 ' To Mrs. Bancroft.' 
 
 We here may take occasion to mention two benefit performances 
 that were given at about this time, the first being to aid that old 
 friend of ours and favourite of the public — John Clarke ; the second 
 on behalf of that distinguished actress, Mrs. Alfred Mellon. Both 
 performances took place in the morning, and in the month of May. 
 Clarke asked, and at once with great pleasure received, our per- 
 mission to play Society, that he might appear once again as John 
 Chodd, junior. Several leading members of our company, includ- 
 ing ' Tom Stylus,' took part in the performance. Hare and Miss 
 Larkin again appeared as Lord and Lady Ptarmigant ; while many 
 actors of distinction also came to his aid, and gladly took small 
 parts in the celebrated ' Owl's Roost ' scene, with its amusing five- 
 shilling incident, which tended largely to make the performance of 
 Robertson's comedy a marked success. 
 
 The chief incident in the other benefit, which took place at Drury 
 Lane, was the appearance for the occasion (her last, I believe, upon 
 the stage, which greatly added to our interest in being present) of 
 her old friend and Adelphi comrade, Madame Celeste, who acted, 
 with extraordinary verve and power, a scene from her once famous 
 character of Miami in The Green Bushes. 
 
 Meanwhile, Sardou had produced another play at the Theatre du 
 Vaudeville, called Les Bourgeois de Pont-Arcy. We were repre- 
 sented at the first performance, but decided after careful thought 
 that it would be dangerous to attempt a play for England from it. 
 Pressed, however, to see it, and judge for ourselves, we arranged to 
 do so. The hurried visit resulted in confirming our decision, and 
 we again refused the play, notwithstanding the effect of its several 
 powerful scenes. 
 
 On June 24th, the English stage lost one of its brightest orna- 
 ments by the death of Charles Mathews. The final visit this in- 
 comparable comedian paid to a theatre as a spectator, but a few 
 weeks before, was to see Diplomacy, and this was the last time we 
 ever saw him. He afterwards went upon a provincial tour, and on 
 the journey by road from Staleybridge to Manchester he caught 
 a chill, and after a brief illness died at the Queen's Hotel, in that 
 city. 
 
 Charles Mathews was thirty when he went upon the stage, and 
 yet lived to be, for more than forty years, one of the most beloved 
 of the public's favourites. In a defence of himself, and the view he 
 
265 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 took of his art, he once said, ' It has been urged against me that I 
 always play the same characters in the same way, and that ten 
 years hence I should play the parts exactly as I play them now ; 
 this I take as a great compliment. It is a precision which has 
 been aimed at by the models of the profession, which I am proud 
 to follow, and shows, at least, that my acting, such as it is, is the 
 result of art and study, and not that of mere accident.' The name 
 of Charles Mathews has appeared very often m this book, and now, 
 alas ! we write it for the last time. 
 
 Pierre Berton, whose aquaintance we had previously made, the 
 jeime premier of the Paris Vaudeville and original representative of 
 the lover in Sardou's play, came to London this summer and saw 
 our performance. He promised, in the friendliest way, to make us 
 known to Sardou, with whom he had long been intimate, when we 
 passed through Paris, and shortly afterwards came this letter : 
 
 ' St. Valery-en-Caux, Lundi {July, 1878), Seine Inf™. 
 
 ' MoN CHER Monsieur Bancroft, — Hier j'ai fait part k 
 Sardou du grand plaisir que j'avais eu k voir reprdsenter Diplo- 
 macy, et je lui ai raconte dans le plus grand detail I'excellente 
 soiree que j'ai passee dans votre theatre. 
 
 ' II sera trfes heureux de vous recevoir, ainsi que Madame 
 Bancroft, lors de votre passage \ Paris et me charge de vous le 
 dire. Si done vous voulez bien me prdvenir un peu d'avance k 
 I'dpoque de votre retour de Suisse je me ferai un veritable plaisir de 
 vous mettre I'un et I'autre en relations directes. 
 
 ' Permettez-moi de vous remercier encore de I'accueil cordial que 
 vous avez bien voulu me faire, et croyez-moi, je vous prie, — Votre 
 bien devout, Pierre Berton.' 
 
 We were now busy in several ways. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, not 
 foreseeing the magnitude of the success which attended the pro- 
 duction of Diplomacy, had contracted engagements in the country, 
 which were to be filled in the autumn ; when, by arrangement with 
 us, they acted the play with great dclat in the leading cities. We 
 had no intention to resign our holiday, so resolved to keep the 
 theatre open, and get the best possible substitutes for those who 
 had to leave the cast. Miss Amy Roselle and handsome Harry 
 Conway were engaged for Dora and Julian Beauclerc, Miss Sophie 
 Young for Zicka, and Mr. Forbes-Robertson for Count Orloff. 
 
 All this involved much rehearsal, which also had to be given to 
 the members of a company formed for other provincial towns, so 
 that we found our hands full until we left home for our holiday at 
 the usual time. 
 
 The cast was then changed, and we received a telegram at 
 Ragatz informing us of the success of the new-comers ; but, of 
 course, the season of the year, and the removal of so many promi- 
 nent names from the programme, told upon the attendance at the 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 267 
 
 theatre, and the great crush to see the play was over. From Ragatz, 
 where we visited the curious baths of Pfaeffers (which gave us the 
 idea of being a squaUd place to be condemned for a ' cure '), we 
 drove in two days to Pontresina, traveUing this year by the beautiful 
 Schyn and Julier Passes, staying at Thusis long enough to go to 
 the third bridge of the wonderful Via Mala, perhaps the gem of 
 that kind of scenic beauty, before driving on to Tiefenkasten, where 
 we rested for the night. On the next day we halted at quaint little 
 Miihlen, which nestles in the heart of pine-clad hills, that in the 
 winter only allow the sun to reach the village for about two brief 
 hours of the day. After toiling up the pass, and before commencing 
 to descend by the zig-zags to Silvaplana, we came upon the wondrous 
 contrast presented by the view of the valley and its chain of lakes 
 extending from Campher to the Maloja. 
 
 We passed a delightful month at Pontresina, where we had the 
 happiness to become acquainted with the late Madame Goldschmidt, 
 who, as Jenny Lind, had held the highest and proudest place in 
 public affection and regard. We then had many cheery chats over 
 early experiences, and many a laugh too ; now we deeply deplore 
 the sad affliction which recently befell those who loved her. 
 
 Mrs. Bancroft was indebted to Madame Goldschmidt for the 
 following anecdote, which she told inimitably ; but, maybe, in the 
 attempt to write it much of its attractiveness will be lost. 
 
 The incident occurred during one of the provincial tours of the 
 great ' Swedish Nightingale ' and her operatic company. The tenor 
 of the troupe stammered so painfully, that it was often very difficult 
 to follow him, or to even guess his meaning, although when he 
 sang, not a trace of his affliction could be observed. 
 
 One day they were about to start by train from one town for the 
 next place on their list, and where they had to appear on the 
 same evening. They were all, except the tenor, seated in the 
 railway carriage, when suddenly the afflicted member of the com- 
 pany discovered, on looking into the luggage-van, that a certain 
 black box, which carried the important part of their wardrobe, had 
 been left behind. The train was on the point of starting, as the 
 tenor, in a terrible state of excitement and anxiety, rushed up to 
 the carriage where the others were seated, and stammered out : 
 
 Tenor : ' The b— b— b— b ' 
 
 Baritone : ' What's the matter ?' 
 
 Tenor : ' The b— b— b— b ' 
 
 Basso : ' What is it, my dear fellow — what is it ?' 
 
 Tenor : ' The bl-bl— bl— bl ' 
 
 Baritone : ' Sing it, man, sing it, for mercy's sake !' 
 
 Tenor (z« recitative) : ' All I fear is lost !' 
 
 Basso {shouting) -. ' What's lost ?' 
 
 Tenor : ' I fe — ar — is lost !' 
 
 Baritone {getting nervous) : ' What do you mean, man ? Go 
 on !' 
 
268 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Tenor : ' The black box !' 
 
 Basso : ' Yes— yes !' 
 
 Tenor : ' The black box !' 
 
 Baritone : ' What of it, man — what of it ?' 
 
 Tenor : ' The black box has been for— got — t — en !' 
 
 All the Company {jumping out) : ' Oh, my goodness.! we shall 
 have no clothes !' 
 
 A little incident connected with Madame Goldschmidt's visit to 
 Pontresina caused great amusement to her, and immense gratifica- 
 tion to another. One morning, quite early, Madanie took advan- 
 tage of the hotel visitors not being about, when, slipping into the 
 drawing-room unobserved by anyone, she sat down at the piano 
 and- began to warble forth some exquisite music. The doctor of 
 the village, who, of course, was an early riser, and busy paying his 
 first professional visits, happened to be passing the door of the 
 room at the time, and was at once attracted by her singing. He 
 stopped, looked through the glass door, and, seeing who was there, 
 could not resist turning the handle very softly, and entering the 
 room without a sound. He sat behind a screen and 'feasted,' as 
 he termed it, upon this accidental banquet of sweet voice-notes. 
 He had never heard the great songstress in his life, and could not 
 resist the temptation which offered itself to him. Madame Gold- 
 schmidt's back was turned in his direction, so that she could not 
 see him, and for a short time unconsciously afforded the doctor a 
 pleasure he said he should never forget. She was beginning afresh, 
 when suddenly the door (which he had left slightly ajar, fearing to 
 disturb her) creaked loudly ; she turned round, and seeing that she 
 was not alone, closed the piano and left the room. The doctor felt 
 sorry to have been the cause of her annoyance, but at the risk of 
 even losing all his patients through keeping them waiting, said he 
 could not help it. 
 
 Madame Goldschmidt was much amused when told of this adven- 
 ture, and had she known who it was, would, doubtless, have pre- 
 tended not to have seen the intruder, but have allowed him to 
 continue his delightful dream. Dr. Ludwig vowed vengeance to 
 the creaking door for a long time afterwards. 
 
 We print a letter received later on from this gifted and regretted 
 lady : 
 
 ' I, Moreton Gardens, South Kensington, November 15. 
 
 'Dear Mrs. Bancroft, — I am sony to hear that your head 
 still troubles )'0u. I hope time and calmness will come to your 
 help ; stage-work is so apt to disturb the head — the hurry, the 
 anxiety one always is in on the " planks " (as we call the stage in 
 my old country), makes the head to quiver and the sensitive nerves 
 to quake. 
 
 ' It is very kind of you to offer us a box, only, as you always can 
 sell yours, it is rather a hard task to ask you to become a loser 
 by us. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 269 
 
 ' But your kind offer, sincere as I know it is, has been fully 
 appreciated by us. 
 
 ' My young soldier is going to — Sheffield; and I love Sheffield just 
 now (never did before), as India or the Cape would have been trying 
 to him, as he has not been right. — Believe me, dear Mrs. Bancroft, 
 yours sincerely, Jenny Lind Goldschmidt.' 
 
 During this visit, and for the benefit of the Verschonerungs- 
 verein! or Paths and Ways Improvement Society (of which we 
 both hold diplomas as the only foreign members, and a mention of 
 which distinction might look well on our visiting cards !), Mrs. 
 Bancroft repeated her reading of the death of Jo, from Bleak 
 House; the result was very gratifying, and allows her to think in 
 many a walk, as she treads the well-made paths, how much she 
 helped to make them. One path was made up what is called the 
 Little Muotas, up which it is now a walk of alDOut an hour and a 
 half to the summit ; but, of course, it took much longer some years 
 ago, when an old lover of the Engadine and hardy climber. Sir 
 Paul Hunter, strayed there one afternoon to read. Becoming en- 
 grossed in his newspapers, the time flew by ; he found, when he 
 began to retrace his steps, that the night was already falling, and 
 soon he lost his way. Knowing that the descent would grow more 
 and more dangerous, he wisely returned to the summit and made 
 efforts to attract attention, either from some stray shepherd on the 
 mountain or from people in the valley far below. Shouts were soon 
 found to be of no avail, but placing newspapers, one by one, on the 
 end of his alpen-stock, he set fire to them, and by this means made 
 his plight known. He was answered from the village by a return 
 fire that his signals had been seen, and then, with the companion- 
 ship of his pipe, waited patiently for the rescue he now felt sure 
 would save him from being benighted. 
 
 The news soon spread that guides had gone up the mountain to 
 bring some one down in safety who had lost his way, and had been 
 making signals of distress. Lady Hunter, being among the visitors 
 who heard all this, began to wonder what could have detained her 
 husband. Meanwhile Sir Paul was found and guided down in 
 safety. It being now nearly dark, with great discretion he dis- 
 missed the guides as he neared the village, and sauntered to his 
 hotel as if nothing had been amiss, passing unobserved through 
 the little crowd which was waiting anxiously to leam who it was the 
 men had been sent in search of. As he, with complete sajtgfroid, 
 arrived at the hotel. Lady Hunter ran towards him, saying, ' Oh, 
 Paul, I am so glad to see you back ! where have you been ? Some 
 silly man has lost himself on one of the mountains, and I feared it 
 might be you P 
 
 It was here we cemented a friendship with Lord Edmond Fitz- 
 maurice, begun at the Kaltbad, while we found Charles Wyndham 
 at St. Moritz; and had several pleasant days together ; modest 
 
270 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 climbs, walks, and drives, to gather flowers in the Heuthal or Edel- 
 weiss above Zuz, iilled up our stay — during which the sad news 
 reached us of Harry Montague's almost sudden death in America, 
 while travelling with Diplojnacy^ in which, as the hero, he had made 
 a great success. Poor fellow ! he was a distinct loss in certain parts 
 to the stage, and his charm of manner made him a special favourite 
 everywhere. When in his company he somehow had the gift of 
 impressing the idea upon you that he had thought but of you since 
 your last parting, and, when he said 'good-bye,' that you would 
 remain in his memory until you met again. It was hard to die, 
 away from friends, in a foreign land, and as young in years as he 
 always seemed in heart — for he was hardly more than midway 
 between thirty and forty, that age upon the border-land when one 
 has to own to being no more quite young, while resenting for a 
 while that ambiguous epithet — ' middle-aged.' 
 
 From the Engadine we drove in four days — if lucky in your 
 carriage and your coachman, a pleasant way to travel — to the Lake 
 of Lucerne ; our stopping-places being Thusis, Dissentis, over the 
 Oberalp to Andermatt, and through Goschenen, with its brigand- 
 like colony of Italian navvies working fiercely at the great tunnel 
 and the mountain-railway ; then on through Altorf : the little town 
 sacred to the Swiss idol — William Tell : to Brunnen, where we met 
 Fanny Kemble, than whom no greater lover of the Alps has lived. 
 Year after year, until old age has come, do the mountains draw her 
 towards them, and many a sweet description of their beauties is to 
 be found in her charming books. After a day spent at Lucerne, 
 whither we liked to go, if only for a night, to drink in the weird and 
 plaintive music of the big church-organ there, we went on to Paris 
 to see a little of the Exhibition. It was hard, indeed, that year to 
 get one's foot inside the Fran9ais, and only through the courtesy of 
 Got and the then directeur, M. Emile Perrin, were we able to see 
 Angler's last new play, Les Fourchambault, and to be enraptured 
 by Sarah Bernhardt in the brilliant production of Hernani. We 
 this year paid an interesting visit to the charming green-room of 
 this most complete of theatres, and also saw some of the loges des 
 artistes. 
 
 Of course we went to see the realistic panorama of the ' Siege of 
 Paris,' and, while there, were greatly annoyed by a strange-looking 
 creature, who persisted in dogging our steps whichever way we 
 turned. He wore an odd slouch hat, the collar of his coat was 
 turned up, and one could not fail to observe his moustache, which 
 seemed to grow upwards in a singular fashion. This man followed 
 us round and round the gallery of the panorama, always halting 
 when we did ; at last, growing more familiar, he bestowed upon us 
 half-hearted nudges and mutterings, which, without" disclosing his 
 nationality, cast doubts upon his sanity. He presently became 
 more violent in his gesticulations, when his moustache suddenly 
 fell to the (ground, and at once revealed the well-known features of 
 — /. L. Toole .' 
 
THE SEASON OF 1877-78 271 
 
 It was during this stay in Paris that I was taken, according to 
 
 MR. BAN- promise, by my friend Pierre Barton to Marly-le-roi 
 croft'sintko- to be presented to Victorien Sardou. We had a 
 DUCTiON TO charming day, passing on our road from St. Germain 
 M. SARDOU. {jjg chateau of the great rival dramatist, Alexandre 
 Dumas. The old house, standing in a forest of well-kept grounds, 
 where Sardou passes much of his life, looking down upon the dis- 
 tant city where he has known the miseries of a struggling author, 
 and basked in the adulation of the theatre-going world, is itself, 
 with its enormous sphinxes, which guard the massive iron gates, 
 its tapestries, old furniture, and ' black-letter ' folios, alone well 
 worth a visit, without the privilege I enjoyed of a long talk with 
 their distinguished collector, a small, nervous, lean and wiry man, 
 shabbily dressed, wearing an old smoking-cap, his throat enveloped 
 in a white silk mufiSer — ei toujours sotiff?-ant, he being a martyr to 
 neuralgia. His head in those days, when he was just forty-seven, 
 struck me as a mixture of familiar points in pictures of Napoleon 
 Buonaparte and a typical Jesuit father, with a smile almost as 
 telling as Henry Irving's. 
 
 He talked with nervous speed, and then, with a charming manner, 
 would check himself politely for my foreign ear ; he deeply re- 
 gretted knowing no English, but said that his children, to whom 
 he pointed as they played under the shade of the big trees, were 
 learning our language. Even in a single visit it was easy to feel 
 that he had read and studied much. He is known to have rather a 
 mania for building and reconstructing. He is a hard worker, a 
 great reader, and loves to be surrounded by beautiful things. He 
 talked for a long while about Dora {Diplomacy), and dwelt with 
 glee on being abused for the perfume incident by which Zicka's 
 theft is detected, which he proved to have been a bit of real life. 
 The accomplished Jules Claretie, now director of the Theatre 
 Frangais, thus speaks of him : ' II salt tout, Sardou, il a tout lu, il 
 cause comme personne. L'auteur dramatique est egale en lui — et 
 ce n'est pas peu dire — par le merveilleux causeur, ^rudit, alerte, 
 l^ger, profond, incomparable. C'est un conteur exc^uis et un diseur 
 parfait' Like the great majority of his countrymen I found he had 
 never left his native land ! At our parting he gave me a photo- 
 graph of himself to hang up in our green-room, inscribed ' Souvenir 
 bien cordial au Directeur et aux Artistes du Theatre du Prince de 
 Galles. Septembre, 1878.— V. Sardou.' 
 
 As we did not intend to take up our parts again in Diplomacy, 
 which ran bravely on, we lingered awhile in Paris and extended 
 our holiday. 
 
 Breakfasting one morning at Champeaux, with the odd shingly 
 floor and the trees reaching to its glass roof, in the Place de la 
 Bourse, we were victims of a harmless practical joke, which we 
 afterwards heartily enjoyed, indulged in at our expense by a 
 humorous friend who had seen us enter the restaurant, where, 
 
272 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 presently, to our amazement, our little party became the object of 
 extraordinary attention and curiosity. Nothing seemed to be 
 thought good enough for us, the bowing and scraping increased 
 with each course, no end of little politesses were pressed upon us, 
 humble waiters left our table to the control of more gorgeous 
 persons, and the proprietors — or those in authority — attended to 
 our wants themselves. We wondered what it could mean ! we saw 
 no other English people in the room, and felt it to be unlikely, 
 almost impossible, that we were recognised, which might otherwise 
 have accounted for part of the curiosity, and for some of the atten- 
 tion. Scattered groups of remaining visitors whispered together, 
 and gazed at us in a marked and interested way. When, at last, 
 our bill was brought, it certainly seemed a little extravagant ; but 
 as nothing compared to the ceremonial with which our coats and 
 cloaks were given to us. The whole staff and their relatives — 
 uncles, cousins, aunts — seemed to be assembled to see our modest 
 departure. People rose from their seats and bowed humbly. 
 Why ? We had been pointed out, as we learnt, when we gained 
 the street, to the restaurateur as members of the English royal 
 family, travelling ijicog. to see the Exhibition quietly ! We certainly 
 discovered that we had breakfasted en Prince. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 878-79. 
 
 A month at Brighton — Death of Phelps and Wigan — Scheme to build a new 
 theatre, and its abandonment — The end of Diplomacy — Reproduction of 
 Caste — Letter by Mr. Bancroft to the Thnes on the production of plays by 
 English authors— Death of John Clarke — His weaknesses — His lameness 
 — Great kindness shown to actors by medical meii — Sir William Fergusson 
 — Sir Morell Mackenzie — Mr. Critchett — Dr. Quain — Les Bourgeois de 
 Pont-Arcy — 'Celebrities at Home' in the World — Count Gleichen — Prince 
 Leiningen — Sudden illness of George Honey — A tragedy behind the scenes 
 — A summer programme — Heads or Tails, Sweethearts, and Good for 
 Nothing — The Com^die Fran9aise company at the Gaiety — A banquet at 
 the Mansion House— Why we took the Haymarkel Theatre — Holiday notes 
 — An old lady and her parrot — Pleasant companions— Death of Fechter — 
 Entertainment for the church at Pontresina — Dcr erste Kotnicer. 
 
 When our pleasant ramble abroad was over, and we returned to 
 town, of course we went to see Diplomacy, and found those new to 
 it acting remarkably well ; although, to confess the truth, altered 
 casts of plays, however well acted, have rarely the same vitality, 
 unless a sufficient lapse of time blunts vivid remembrance of first 
 impressions. It was evident, however, that the run would still 
 continue for some time, so we resolved not to withdraw the play 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 273 
 
 until January, and then again to revive Cas/e, seven years having 
 passed away since we had laid aside that old friend. After a 
 short round of autumn enjoyment in town, we spent the month of 
 November at Brighton, travelling there in two easy days by road. 
 
 We had a pleasant time by the sea, and our friends at the 
 theatre, Arthur Cecil, Harry Conway, Henry Kemble, and Forbes- 
 Robertson, would come down to us on the Sundays ; among other 
 visitors were our old friend John Hare, whose country company 
 was acting Olivia at Mrs. Nye Chart's pretty theatre (he himself 
 one nig'ht giving his remarkable performance in A Quiet Rubber), 
 J. L. Toole, and one eminent in another walk of life, but always 
 very devoted to our calling, whom we have spoken of before, and 
 now had known and loved for years, the late Mr. Critchett, who was 
 snatching a brief autumn holiday, and, on his favourite old gray, 
 was often at the heels of the Brighton harriers. 
 
 It was during this month that two deaths occurred, which 
 robbed the list of distinguished actors of names not easily replaced 
 — Samuel Phelps and Alfred Wigan. The first-named passed 
 peacefully away at a little farm in Essex ; the latter died in pain at 
 Folkestone. 
 
 That Phelps did much for the stage he so many years adorned, 
 no lovers of it will dispute. His long and honourable career as 
 actor and manager at Sadler's Wells alone entitles his name to 
 the high place it holds : famous as it was for the production of 
 more than thirty of Shakespeare's plays. The remembrance of 
 his still splendid performances in later life at Drury Lane, the 
 Queen's, and the Gaiety Theatres is bright with modern playgoers, 
 as with young actors who could not fail to gain by their association 
 with so true and fine an artist. 
 
 Phelps's quiet, retiring nature made him a home-bird, and he 
 found his chief amusement in long walks and in fishing. Only late 
 in life did he become a member of the Garrick Club ; his presence 
 there was so welcome to those who knew him as to cause great re- 
 gret that he was so chary in his visits. An admirable portrait of 
 the famous actor in the character of Cardinal Wolsey, painted by 
 Johnston Forbes-Robertson, who, like Jefferson, combines the 
 use of the palette and maulstick with his love for the sock and 
 buskin, and who played often with the old actor at the end of his 
 career, was added by subscription on the part of a hundred mem- 
 bers to the valuable collection of paintings owned by the club. 
 
 We have a small anecdote of Phelps to tell when he was playing 
 Virginius in the old Sadler's Wells days. It happened on one 
 occasion that the ' super-master,' who acts as the leader of crowds, 
 had inet with an accident, and could not therefore fulfil his duties 
 as First Citizen in the forum scene, where Appius Claudius claims 
 Virginia from her father. So the little part which leads the chorus 
 of.voices was given to the man who was second in command. As 
 the time drew near he became very anxious and nervous, although 
 
 18 
 
274 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 the stage-manager had gone through the words with him several 
 times. The scene in the tragedy where Virginias appeals to the 
 crowd for their support against the demand of the tyrant Appius 
 Claudius is as follows : 
 
 ViRGINIUS : ' Friends and citizens, your hands, your hands ' 
 
 Crowd : ' They are yours, Virginias ; they are yours.' 
 
 ViRGINIUS : ' If ye have wives — if ye have children ' 
 
 Crowd : ' We have — we have.' 
 
 But the poor nervous man, in his fright, put the cart before the 
 horse, and the dialogue ran thus : 
 
 ViRGINIUS : ' Your hands, your hands ' 
 
 Citizen : 'We have, Virginius ; we have !' 
 
 ViRGINIUS : ' If ye have wives — if ye have children ' 
 
 Citizen : ' They a^re j/ours, Virginius ; they aj:e yours P 
 Strong in its contrast to the strength and ruggedness of Phelps's 
 acting was the delicate and minute art of Alfred Wigan, which will 
 be perhaps best recalled by thoughts of John Mildmay, the Poor 
 Noble?na?t, and Achille Talma Dufard. 
 
 It was at this time that a scheme, which had for some time occu- 
 pied our thoughts, to build a new theatre reached its height — a 
 scheme which embraced the notion of a double stage worked 
 hydraulically, to save delay in setting scenes, and since carried out 
 successfully in America. Our idea was at length, after long con- 
 sideration of the many difficulties involved, which of course included 
 the builder's joy, ' ancient lights,' abandoned. The site was excel- 
 lent : where Newman's Yard stood formerly in Regent Street, since 
 converted to a meat market, then again thought of for a theatre, 
 and since transformed into a picture gallery by Charles Halle and 
 Comyns Carr. 
 
 Early in December Mr. W. S. Gilbert read to us his charming 
 play Gretchen, than which no work of his is more finished, polished, 
 or poetic. Its fitness for our stage, however, we feared, and the 
 matter went no further ; but we did not lose the play without a 
 deep sigh of regret. Driven to desperation for some new work, we 
 decided to accept the again offered and twice discarded Bourgeois 
 de Pont-Arcy, prompted greatly to withdraw our former refusals by 
 the success at the Haymarket Theatre of The Crisis, a version of 
 Les Fourchambault, which seemed to us, when we saw it at the 
 Frangais, a still more difficult subject for adaptation. 
 
 Caste, as we have said, was soon to be revived, and the re- 
 hearsals, now in progress, were almost as arduous as for a new 
 play, only George Honey and ourselves remaining of the original 
 cast. It may here be mentioned, as an instance of the great change 
 that had come over things theatrical, and for which we were chiefly 
 responsible, that Mr. Honey, when he first played Eccles in 1867, 
 received eighteen pounds a week, while for this revival, we guaran- 
 teeing also a six months' engagement, his salary was sixty. 
 
 The career of Diplomacy was chequered at the end of its first 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 275 
 
 year of life through the illness of several representatives. Mr. 
 Clayton was ^ors de combat through loss of voice, Mr. Conway was 
 thrown from his horse and severely wounded in the head, Miss 
 Roselle, owing to a domestic affliction, had also to be absent. In 
 these emergencies Miss Henri appeared as Dora, Mr. Forbes- 
 Robertson as Julian ; while Mr. Kemble, with a loyalty to the 
 theatre for which we were much indebted, played at different times 
 the parts of Algie Fairfax, Henry Beauclerc, and Count Orloff— 
 Mr. Arthur Cecil being the only member of the cast who was so 
 fortunate as to remain steadfast, for he played the Baron Stein 
 throughout the long run of the play. 
 
 After a brilliant result, augmented considerably by great successes 
 in America and throughout England, we withdrew the play twelve 
 months after its production, and the following evening, Saturday, 
 January nth, Caste, which had last been revived in September, 
 1 87 1, the year its author died, was played as follows : George 
 D'Alroy, Mr. John Clayton ; Captain Hawtree and Eccles (their 
 original characters), Mr. Bancroft and Mr. George Honey ; Sam 
 Gerridge, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; the Marquise de Saint-Maur, Miss 
 Le Thiere ; Esther Eccles, Miss Amy Roselle (a charming per- 
 formance which greatly enhanced her reputation) ; Polly Eccles 
 (her original character), Mrs. Bancroft. The favourite old play 
 was marvellously welcomed, and the receipts equalled even the 
 early days of a new production, so we can turn, for the moment, 
 from our immediate doings. 
 
 As an item in a discussion at this time started in the Times with 
 regard to the absence from our stage of English works, and the 
 neglect by managers of the 'great unacted,' the following letter 
 may be worth reprinting ; it will, at least, serve to recall pleasant 
 memories of plays and things theatrical in those days : 
 
 ' Some lettei's which have appeared in the Times commenting 
 upon your article, "The Stage in 1878," would, I think, lead your 
 readers to infer that English dramatic authors have been badly 
 treated by the lessees of London theatres, and that their produc- 
 tions have been ignored, while the works of French playwrights 
 have been unduly encouraged. In -my humble opinion, this is not 
 at all the case. At the Prince of Wales's Theatre, since 1865, 
 twenty-two pieces have been produced ; of these, thirteen were new 
 works written by English authors — Society, Ours, Caste, Play, 
 School, and M. P., by Mr. Robertson ; How She Loves Him, by 
 Mr. Boucicault ; War to the Knife, A Hundred Thousand Pounds, 
 and Wrinkles, by Mr. Byron ; Man and Wife, by Mr. Wilkie 
 Collins ; Sweethearts, by Mr. Gilbert ; and Tame Cats, by Mr. 
 Edmund Yates. Revivals of the following six plays, all English, 
 have been given ; The Merchant of Venice, the School for Scandal, 
 • Money, London Assurance, Masks and Faces, and An Unequal 
 Match; while two plays only — Nos Intimes {Peril), Dora {Diplo- 
 
276 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 macy), and a one-act comedy, Le Village {The Vicarage), have 
 been adapted from the French stage. 
 
 ss SE e. * « o 
 
 ' I could write in the same strain about other theatres, and in 
 several cases could prove that where successful French plays were 
 rapidly adapted and acted, it was simply to dam the floods of 
 failure that had set in on the production of original English works, 
 but I do not think the argument would be at all interesting to the 
 London play-goer, who, I take it, cares but little for the source 
 whence his entertainment is derived ; I think, rather, that managers 
 would be indeed to blame were they to deny the English public the 
 pleasure of witnessing adaptations to our stage of the many great 
 dramatic works which are written by eminent Frenchmen, and I 
 wonder if German dramatists are blamed because Caste has achieved 
 a great success as a translated play in Berlin, or whether the Italians 
 upbraid Signer Salvini because he finds the greatest means for the 
 display of his genius in a translation of Othello. — Your faithful 
 servant, S. B. Bancroft.' 
 
 An old friend and comrade, John Clarke, who for a long time 
 had been ill from the same scourge — consumption — which carried 
 off his former rival, James Rogers, died in February of this year. 
 His association with us, as this book tells, was close and intimate, 
 never being, to our remembrance, broken by an unkind word. 
 
 Clarke, as the reader has been already told, dearly loved praise, 
 and this pardonable weakness was well known to his comrades, 
 who delighted in teasing him now and again by lauding some other 
 actor in his own line. This so irritated Clarke that he would always 
 quickly change the subject. One night he and some others — Toole 
 was one of them — after supping together at a club, were driving in 
 a cab in the direction of Clarke's house, as all the party lived in that 
 neighbourhood. Toole determined upon getting Clarke to invite 
 them in for a chat, that he might play upon his weakness, so began 
 to carry out the scheme in this way : 
 
 Toole : ' We'll come in if you'll ask us, Clarke.' 
 
 Clarke : ' No, Johnny ; not to-night. 1 must get to bed now, 
 as I have an early rehearsal. So I'll say good-night.' 
 
 Toole : ' Well, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you the wonderful 
 criticism I heard yesterday on your acting as Tom Dibbles ; it 
 must have been a fine performance.' 
 
 Clarke {pleased) : ' Oh — well, I hope I made a success. 
 But— a ' 
 
 Toole : ' I wish I could have seen it.' 
 
 Clarke : ' It's not so late as I thought. Will you come in for a 
 few minutes ?' ( They entered the housed 
 
 Toole : ' Didn't Rogers play the part once at the Strand ?' 
 
 Clarke {uneasily) : ' Ye — e — s.' 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 277 
 
 Toole : ' Clever fellow, Rogers. I suppose you saw him in it ?' 
 (sitting down). 
 
 Clarke : ' Look here, old fellow, you'd better not sit down, for I 
 can't let you stay long-.' 
 
 Toole : ' But I don't think Rogers could have been suited to the 
 part somehow.' 
 
 Clarke : ' Will you have a cigar ? Ah, I forgot you don't smoke ; 
 but have some whisky ?' 
 
 Toole : ' No, thanks ' {getting up). ' I don't think Jimmy was 
 to be mentioned in the same breath with you, Clarkie, as a character 
 actor.' 
 
 Clarke {flattered) : 'Oh — well — a — all well enough in certain 
 parts, you know — too fond of applause, perhaps. Do have some 
 whisky-^, it's not half-past one, and do sit down.' {After a pause.) 
 
 Toole : ' But everybody agrees that Buckstone was inimitable 
 when he first played Tom Dibbles. I suppose you often saw 
 him ?' 
 
 Clarke : ' Well, I must bundle you off, my boy ; I'm rather 
 tired. I'll let you out myself. Good-night.' 
 
 Toole {preparing to go) : ' When you played in Box and Cox 
 with George Honey you got the most applause, I always heard.' 
 
 Clarke : ' Ha, ha ! Yes, I did ; I did.' 
 
 Toole : ' Some one told me George was somehow " out of it " 
 altogether.' 
 
 Clarke : ' Yes, I think he was. Do come and sit up near the 
 fire. I like a chat when work is over.' 
 
 Toole : ' I think it rather hard on you, though, when they will 
 have it that you were a little heavy.' 
 
 Clarke : ' Oh, they say that, do they ? Well, it's just upon two ; 
 you really must be off. I'll see you out.' 
 
 Toole {buttoning up his coat) : ' M^ere you a bit heavy, 
 Clarkie?' 
 
 Clarke {shutting the door with a bang) : ' Good-night.' 
 
 It was often a marvel how the little man hid his lameness, the 
 result of an unfortunate accident through trusting himself, never 
 being an accomplised rider, on a strange and unmanageable horse, 
 which was lent to him by an officer in the Blues or Life Guards. 
 He always said he owed the preservation of his leg entirely to the 
 skill and patience of Sir William Fergusson, but for whom it would 
 have been taken off by the first surgeon called in. John Clarke's 
 good qualities were those of a fine nature ; his little foible — jealousy 
 of other comedians who played the same parts sometimes — was, at 
 its worst, but amusing. 
 
 The mention of Sir William Fergusson's name recalls vividly 
 to our minds the great and constant acts of kindness shown to 
 actors by him, and by many other distinguished medical men. 
 Let us hope our gratitude tries to keep pace with their large- 
 heartedness. We could fill many pages and write many eminent 
 
278 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 names concerning this subject, but will content ourselves with 
 instances that had special reference to our own theatre. 
 
 During this run of Caste, one night we received a message from 
 the stalls that ' Dr. (now Sir) Morell Mackenzie would like to 
 speak to us.' He had been for years a friend — indeed, it would be 
 impossible to over-estimate the services he has rendered us, sternly 
 refusing at all times to accept any fee or reward, whenever sent 
 for, and however tried his time ; even to the extent_ of paying, 
 throughout a prolonged sickness in our house, three visits in a day. 
 This goodness is well known among singers and actors, and we 
 hope he will forgive us for speaking of it to a wider circle. Dr. 
 Mackenzie was brought round to the green-room, and startled us 
 by saying quietly, ' You have a dying man upon your stage, who is 
 only fit to be in bed.' Inquiries told us that a poor fellow who 
 only appeared as a servant for one minute in the second act of 
 Caste, had been for some weeks ill, but was for so short a time in 
 the theatre, and kept his troubles so much to himself, that we knew 
 nothing of them. Dr. Mackenzie for a long while drove almost 
 daily to a humble lodging in a remote part of London, where by 
 no chance could he be likely to have other patients, to keep this 
 one alive. He was patched up for a time through unceasing 
 kindness ; but his state was beyond the power of doctors to do 
 linore than let him enter another year, when his troubles ceased 
 for ever. 
 
 A similar instance of wonderful kindness on the part of the late 
 Mr. Critchett was also shown to a member of our company, whose 
 child had the misfortune to so seriously injure an eye, that Mr. 
 Critchett found it necessary to remove it ; afterwards, and for 
 several weeks, going long distances to watch the poor boy through 
 the various stages of adapting an artificial substitute : not only 
 insisting upon doing all this, but providing everything that was 
 necessary, the distinguished oculist's fee being limited to the 
 father's grateful thanks. The only return we were allowed to 
 insist upon to these and to many other such men, was to make 
 them at all times, and especially for performances of exceptional 
 interest, free of our theatre, where they were ever the most welcome 
 guests. 
 
 We cannot quite leave this subject without a brief allusion to 
 another kind medical friend to our profession. Dr. Quain, to whom 
 we once remarked that his bright and cheery manner would alone 
 make him welcomed by any sufferer. ' Ah !' he replied, with his 
 well-known soupqon of an Irish brogue, ' although I am by nature 
 cheerful I began quite the other way, but was cured in my youth 
 by a kind friend who was already an eminent physician. One day 
 he took me with him to see a patient who was in a very critical 
 state, and when we approached the door of the bedroom, I put on 
 a grave and, as I then thought, appropriately solemn counten- 
 ance ; but my friend turned round just in time to start with horror. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 279 
 
 and whisper, " For mercy's sake, don't look like that, man, or the 
 poor soul will take you for the undertaker !" I never forgot that 
 lesson.' 
 
 It was decided to place Les Bourgeois de Pont-Arcy in Mr. 
 James Alberys hands for adaptation, he having lately, with con- 
 siderable skill, got over the difificulties of Les Fourchambaiilt j and, 
 as we closed the theatre this year for the first four days of Passion 
 Week, it was during a brief holiday spent at the Beach House 
 Hotel at Westgate that we received an admirable first instalment 
 of his work. Among other light literature of the week was some 
 account of ourselves in the house we lived in then as ' Celebrities 
 at Home ' in the World. We found it pleasant reading, and, in the 
 hope of its still proving so, reprint part of it, as the remarks embrace 
 a very interesting, though false, prophecy concerning the little 
 theatre in Tottenham Street : 
 
 ' As Sunday night settles down on western London, and average 
 Christians are safe in church, or poring over a good book at home, 
 carriages and cabs drive smartly up to the little red house in 
 Cavendish Square. It is neat and unpretending, this little red 
 house ; but those invited to it on Sunday evenings come in rare 
 good humour, for they know that they will meet pleasant company 
 of a representative kind. The noble army of nobodies are not 
 bidden to these dinners ; for host and hostess have but one day in 
 the week to di.ie out or entertain their friends, and time and space 
 must be made the most of. It is true that of all artistic workers, 
 the actor or singer enjoys success in his art the most fully. He 
 may have left pain and sorrow at home ; but the shadows of life 
 vanish in the glare of the footlights. It is not so easy for the 
 painter or the poet to feel this. The applause awarded to the 
 painter is as a kind of afterglow on his work. The poet is worse 
 off still ; for years will pass, and probably his best work be done, 
 before a tardy and grudging world jvill accept him at all. There 
 is nothing of this delay, hesitation, and obscurity in the career of 
 the actor. If up to the required standard of merit, he will not long 
 blush unseen. What names, except those of half a dozen leading 
 politicians, were and are best known even in this serious England 
 of ours ? Those of actors and singers. 
 
 ' There is, however, one drawback to the actor's glory. Work 
 begins for him when others go to play ; and bating one day in the 
 week, dramatic artists are playing at Castor and Pollux with their 
 friends : one is always where the other is not. Wherefore Sunday 
 is highly prized at the little red house in Cavendish Square. As 
 the canonical dinner-hour approaches, Mrs. Bancroft's pretty draw- 
 ing-room is occupied by men and women celebrated in the world 
 of politics, law, literature, and art. The talk to-night is — among a 
 hundred things — of Caste and Mr. Bancroft's Hawtree, declared on 
 all hands impossible of achievement by anybody but a soldier, till 
 the host observes, " I never miss an opportunity of explaining that 
 
28o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 I never was a soldier in my life, either regular or volunteer, although 
 you are good enough to say that Hawtree is too perfect to have 
 been done by anybody but a soldier. Perhaps you are caught by 
 the swinging walk, and the knack of carrying the sword. It is 
 merely the result of observation !" 
 
 ' Dinner over, there is, after the usual drawing-room interval, an 
 adjournment to the apartment overhead, the airiest and blithest of 
 smoking-rooms, overlooking the greenery of Cavendish Square. 
 It is here that, in an atmosphere fragrant with Cabanas, stories 
 and jokes are exchanged — some fresh from the mint, like Mr. 
 Byron's last saying to Mr. Justice Straight at the Beefsteak Club ; 
 others referring to theatrical and literary folk dead and gone, like 
 poor " Tom Robertson." " Poor fellow," remarks Mrs. Bancroft, 
 " he was only just beginning to enjoy his success when he died. 
 And how dull people seem to have been to neglect him so long !" 
 The opinion is hazarded that Society is not such a dramatic black 
 swan after all, and that unless marvellously well played it is un- 
 bearable. " But they need not have discouraged him," replies the 
 spirited lady of the house. "Perhaps Wigan, Charles Mathews, 
 Sothern, and Buckstone were right in refusing Society ; but Mr. 
 Buckstone need not have added prophecy to refusal by saying 
 Society must fail wherever it is produced." " Prophecy is indeed 
 dangerous," observes Mr. Bancroft, from behind a huge cigar. 
 " Even such clever people as journalists are apt to break down 
 when they try to play the prophet. Look at this cutting from a 
 newspaper edited by a very clever man." 
 
 'The cutting is certainly curious. The scribe of the year 1835, 
 when Mrs. Nisbett was manager of the Queen's Theatre in Totten- 
 ham Street, and D'Orsay, Vincent Cotton, and "Dolly" Fitz- 
 clarence were among the company present on the first night, 
 delivers himself as follows : " No theatre in the kingdom has 
 undergone so many changes, both in management and title, in a 
 few years as the Queen's. As certain parties are endeavouring to 
 make it attractive under female manage?nent, apparently sparing 
 no exertion or expense^ it may not be uninteresting to give some of 
 its history, from the last seven years. Beverley had a lease of it 
 at a rent of ^120 per annum ; and in the last year of his lease, by 
 the death of an old woman, the proprietorship fell into the hands 
 of a person named Perry, then a gTocer's shopman. Perry pur- 
 chased Beverley's remaining interest, and immediately contrived 
 to let it for ^1,000 a year ! The lowest sum he has since de- 
 manded, but which he has certainly not been fortunate enough 
 always to receive, since all the lessees have been ruined by the 
 speculation, has been ^800. It has been called as follows : King's 
 Concert Rooms, Regency, Tottenham Street Theatre, West London 
 Theatre, Fitzroy Theatre, and Queen's Theatre. ' Fools and their 
 money,' they say, ' are soon parted ;' and when we look to the ex- 
 penses incurred, and the nature of the entertainments, we cannot 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 281 
 
 discover a more expeditious method of relieving them of it. This 
 tfieatre can never be a fashionable one; we must not have namby- 
 pamby small-talk, but plenty of blue fire and mysterious disappear- 
 ances, which can alone, with reduced rent and prices, draw anything 
 like a paying audience " 
 
 ' Nothing was ever quite so wise as this opinion looked upon 
 paper. The management of Mrs. Nisbett, then the absolute queen 
 of comedy, as well as the most beautiful woman on the stage — 
 albeit Madame Vestris contested this latter palm — ended in failure ; 
 and the scribe had the pleasure of seeing the little house in Totten- 
 ham Street, lurid with blue fire, moderately filled with cheap 
 audiences, and let at a very low rent. It never made a success 
 even upon these terms, and seemed doomed to steady and per- 
 sistent failure till Miss Marie Wilton came to the rescue. 
 
 'As might be expected, the little red house in Cavendish Square 
 is adorned with many souvenirs of artist-life and artist-friends, such 
 as Mr. Frank Miles's portraits of Mrs. Langtry and Mrs. Corn- 
 wallis West ; a portrait of Maria Foote, sometime Countess of 
 Harrington, a kind friend to Marie Wilton to the day of her death ; 
 Mr. Val Prinsep's sketch of his picture of " The Minuet ;" a painting 
 by Mr. "Joe" Jefferson of a river-side scene; and many similar 
 tokens of regard. The smoking-room is decked with odds and 
 ends from the Engadine, where Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft spend part 
 of their well-earned holiday year after year. No souvenir of glacier- 
 land, however, is so dear to the hostess as the well-named " Monk," 
 an enormous Mount St. Bernard mastiff, whose brilliant coat speaks 
 of the grooming he receives daily. This splendid animal is the pet 
 of the house and the delight of all visitors to that focus of good 
 humour and good taste.' 
 
 It was also during the spring of this year that Count Gleichen 
 (H.S.H. Prince Victor of Hohenlohe) accepted a commission for 
 our busts. Many a pleasant morning was passed in this way in the 
 studio built in the garden of St. James's Palace. 
 
 One day Prince Leiningen came in, and for some time watched 
 the proceedings. Suddenly we observed that he was smiling, and 
 asked the reason. He replied, ' I don't know how it is ; but the 
 more serious Mrs. Bancroft tries to look, the more desirous I am to 
 laugh, as there always seems to be a smile waiting to burst forth, 
 and the eyes seem all the time to be dying to laugh, which, you 
 know, is very infectious.' The Prince's remark, we fear, somewhat 
 interfered with that day's sitting. 
 
 From close knowledge of the details, I must tell alone how the 
 
 run of Caste received a shock from the sudden and, as 
 
 ''ban^croft "' '' ^^"^'y proved, the fatal though lingering illness 
 
 with which George Honey was stricken while playing 
 
 Eccles. For some time he had not been well, and often spoke of 
 
 rheumatism in his arm and side ; in fact, we learnt afterwards that 
 
282 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 throughout the last act, for some days, he had changed part of his 
 business on the stage, and acted, as it were, left-handed. One 
 evening, when I arrived at the theatre, I chanced to meet Mr. 
 Kemble, whom I had not seen for some weeks, at the stage-door ; 
 he was the 'under-study' for the part of Eccles, but, in all his long- 
 connection with us. Honey had never once been ill enough to fail 
 in his work, nor was he at all of a complaining nature. In the 
 course of a pleasant talk, Kemble said how tired he was of doing 
 nothing, jokingly adding that he was driven to the resource of going 
 to the Olympic Theatre that night to get through his evening by 
 the aid of a tiresome melodrama. When I left the stage after the 
 scene in which Polly teaches Captain Hawtree the proper use of a 
 tea-kettle, I was in the nightly habit of finding Honey in the green- 
 room, where we generally talked together for a little while until he 
 was called to end the act, when I went to my room to change my 
 dress. On this particular evening he was not there, but I thought 
 nothing of his absence, and went my way. As I was about to put 
 on my uniform, I heard some commotion ; the call-boy rushed to 
 my door, saying, ' Come down, sir, please ; Mr. Honey's in a fit, 
 and can't go on the stage to end the act.' I ran to the wings, and 
 just had time to say to the prompter, ' Take a cab to the Olympic 
 Theatre, and fetch Mr. Kemble, you'll find him among the audience 
 there,' when the cue was given for the entrance of poor Honey, who 
 by this time had been lifted from the ground and placed in a chair. 
 The situation reached in the play was the end of the first act, where 
 George D'Alroy, full of love, defies the world and its opinion, 
 resolving to marry the humble Esther Eccles ; Sam Gerridge and 
 Polly, in contrast, have been quarrelling, and she has locked the 
 door against him, retaining the key. The romance of George and 
 Esther, at its supreme moment, is rudely interrupted by the shaking 
 of the door from the outside, and the voice of the now drunken 
 Eccles, noisily asking to be let in, awakes the lovers from the land 
 of dreams. Esther looks at George, and he at her — looks deeply 
 full of meaning that carry on the tale ; the girl silently crosses the 
 room, gets the key from her sister, unlocks the door, when the 
 wretched father reels into the room. This is what happened : 
 There was no time for thought ; at the moment I only saw that 
 Honey, from whatevei: cause, was helpless. I gave the knocks and 
 shook the door, crying out to Polly, in the voice of Eccles, for him 
 to be let in. The business of the scene was gone through without 
 those upon the stage knowing that anything was wrong. As the 
 key was turned in the lock by Miss Roselle, I gathered Honey up 
 in my arms, and held his body in the opened doorway, upon which 
 tableau the curtain fell. It took but a moment then to make the 
 terrible discovery that the audience had roared with laughter at the 
 powerless form of a paralyzed man. To find our old comrade, who 
 was a favourite with eveiyone, inarticulate, with one side of his 
 body helpless, was a painful shock to us all. Messengers were sent 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 283 
 
 at once for medical aid, also to Honey's house to warn those there 
 of his returning very ill ; I then, with help, carried him to his room, 
 where his vain efiforts to either speak or move were dreadful to see. 
 Dr. George Bird, of Welbeck Street, who had been our medical 
 adviser and kind friend for many years — since the days, in fact, 
 when he prolonged, as long as human skill could do so, the life of 
 Tom Robertson — was the first to arrive ; from his face, I saw at 
 once that things were serious, and presently he took poor Honey 
 home. Meanwhile, it was not difficult to cut Eccles out of the little 
 he had to do in the second act, and Mr. Kemble, through the 
 fortunate chance by which I knew his whereabouts, reached the 
 theatre in time to dress and end the part ; this I explained in a 
 brief apology to the audience, who knew nothing further of the 
 tragedy on our side of the curtain. In a few weeks poor Honey 
 recovered sufficiently from thfs first stroke to come down to the 
 theatre one night, without his doctor's sanction, and lamely played 
 his part — a danger he was prevented from again risking by peremp- 
 tory orders. With this exception, Henry Kemble gave an excellent 
 rendering of Eccles until this third run of CasU was brought to a 
 close. 
 
 The comedy was withdrawn at the end of May, and a summer 
 programme, of the lightest nature, perhaps, ever offered to the 
 public, was acted for the rest of the season ; and, to the amazement 
 of most people, was found strong enough to fill the theatre until nearly 
 the end of it, when very hot weather came. The play-bill, which 
 proves what may be almost termed the audacity of the experiment, 
 comprised Heads or Tails, a little comedietta originally produced 
 years before at the Olympic Theatre, written by Palgrave Simpson, 
 and now acted by Arthur Cecil, Harry Conway, and Henry Kemble, 
 who was veiy amusing as an amorous young man afflicted with a 
 chronic cold : the ladies engaged in the piece were Miss Ida Hertz 
 and Miss Augusta Wilton ; followed by W. S. Gilbert's delightful 
 gem. Sweethearts, in which we acted together for the first time ; 
 and Buckstone's comic drama. Good for Nothing, with this cast of 
 characters : Tom Dibbles, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; Harry Collier, Mr. 
 John Clayton, who was replaced by me when he left England to 
 join Dion Boucicault, whose eldest^ daughter he had married, in 
 America; Charlie, Mr. H. B. Conway; young Mr. Simpson, Mr. 
 Kemble ; and Nan, Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 This was the year when the company of the Comfedie Franqaise 
 played their brilliant engagement at the Gaiety Theatre, while their 
 own classic home was under repair. It fell to our lot to sit next to 
 Sarah Bernhardt, whom we had met several times before, at a 
 luncheon given in June, in honour of the distinguished troupe of 
 comedians which dates from Molifere, at the Mansion House, when 
 we were much amused by the extraordinary announcements of some 
 of the distinguished guests — Monsieur Coquelin became ' Cocker- 
 leen,' while the names given to Mounet-Sully and others defy 
 
284 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 transcription. Subsequently, we were obliged to assure Madame 
 Bernhardt and her companions that the Lord Mayor meant no 
 slight to them by not appearing in his robes and chain of office, nor 
 in dispensing with the presence of his sword and macebearers. 
 Others among them were somewhat affronted because the ' Long 
 Parlour'" in which the repast was served was adorned by busts of 
 Wellington and Nelson ! 
 
 Social events, more or less public, included some of those charm- 
 ing gatherings which continued for a few years on certain Sunday 
 afternoons in the picture-rooms of the Grosvenor Gallery. Nothing 
 of the sort that we remember ever was more successful in the 
 bringing together of people of every degree and kind, from princes 
 and princesses of the land to humble dwellers in Bohemia, for an 
 hour or two of camaraderie. The names of those one saw and met 
 there would fill a book, each page of which would burn with shining 
 lights. 
 
 I now approach a most important event in our theatrical life, — 
 why we took the Haymarket Theatre. Although we suffered very 
 much at times through the inconveniences of the little theatre, and 
 were annually reminded of its many drawbacks when the house was 
 inspected by the Lord Chamberlain's representatives, we were loth 
 to leave a home so endeared to us by the brightest e^-ents of our 
 career. Nearly every theatre in London, at one time or other, had 
 been offered to us ; and we always, half-jokingly, replied, ' No, the 
 Haymarket only will tempt us.' The knowledge of the ease, how- 
 ever, with which we could fill a larger house with a good play, and 
 some remembrance of the shoals of people who had never been able 
 to see Diplomacy, for example, led to serious thoughts upon the 
 subject, as well as the scheme of building a new theatre, which we 
 have mentioned. Nor must it be forgotten how many rivals had 
 sprung up since the opening of the Prince of Wales's Theatre in 
 1865. The Holborn, the Queen's (both since destroyed), the 
 Gaiety, the Vaudeville, the Court, the Criterion, the Globe, the 
 Opera Comique, the Folly (Toole's Theatre), and the Avenue, all 
 were new ; while the Savoy and the Comedy were already talked 
 about. All these new houses introduced, naturally, the luxuries we 
 had started. What a little time before had been exceptional now 
 became general ; for in earlier days, it may be remembered, carpets 
 in a theatre were unknown (to this day the ovAy faii/eiiils in which 
 they can be found in Paris are at the Grand Opdra ; for even at the 
 Fran(;ais the luxury stops short at the balcon). This was my state of 
 mind when the freehold of the St. James's Theatre was offered to 
 us at a price so tempting that it would have paid, we thought, to 
 pull it down and speculate in building chambers oh the site had we 
 cared to do so. The fortunes of the Ha)'market were not at this 
 time of the brightest, and some strange and indescribable presenti- 
 ment seemed to say, ' Don't even enter the St. James's, or you will 
 be tempted to buy it, and perhaps at the wrong moment.' Anyhow, 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 285 
 
 that was my line of action. Directly afterwards we heard that 
 Lord Kilmorey had become the purchaser, and as we had refused 
 the freehold, we found it easier, perhaps, to decline to become a 
 tenant. Then the news was soon afloat that Mr. Hare and Mr. 
 Kendal, who had now become his partner, were to be the new 
 managers, by whom it would be opened, after great alteration, in 
 the autumn. The friendly rivalry of our old companion, Hare, at 
 the Court mattered not, both being small outlying theatres — indeed, 
 was often good for both of us — but this news, I admit, made me 
 think how 1 could say checkmate ! In a few hours I was closeted 
 with Mr. J. S. Clarke, the then lessee of the Haymarket, to whom I 
 frankly said, ' I never had the pleasure of meeting you off the stage 
 before, Mr. Clarke ; but I will lay my cards on the table, and say 
 at once I want your theatre. How is it to be done ?' All sorts of 
 schemes and plans were talked out between us, and for several 
 weeks the matter was in abeyance. Then came a time when the 
 negotiations were quite at an end : I resolved to think no more of 
 the idea, and to stay at the dear old place. Suddenly Mr. Clarke 
 asked to see me one morning, and reopened the business. In a few 
 days all was settled. I agreed to buy the remnant of his tenancy ; 
 the trustees promised me a fresh lease of the property, and I under- 
 took to rebuild the interior. It was thus we achieved the ambition 
 we sought before we finally gave up management (which even then 
 we contemplated), to be lessees of the first Comedy Theatre in 
 England. 
 
 The close of this season was a very busy time. Long consulta- 
 tions in lawyers' offices : the same with architects : and anxious 
 interviews with Mr. Albery, who was behindhand with his work — 
 the play we had fixed on to open our final brief campaign at the 
 Prince of Wales's Theatre ; for which followed the making of fresh 
 engagements, as we both decided not to play in it, that my energies 
 might be better given to the rebuilding of our future home. How- 
 ever, all things have their end, and so had these trying weeks. 
 Great help had to be given to Mr. Albery with the last act of the 
 play, through unfortunate ill health which befell him at the time. 
 The rehearsals proceeded well, however, and on the ist of August 
 the season closed. On the 2nd I signed the Haymarket lease ; 
 and on the 3rd, worn out, we hurried off to our good friend, Pon- 
 tresina. 
 
 On our journey from Charing Cross to Dover, we had one more 
 HOLIDAY passenger in our compartment in the person of an 
 NOTES. elderly maiden lady, a native of the Emerald Isle, 
 as we soon discovered. By her side was a big cage covered with a 
 green baize cap. We were soon made aware that a parrot was in- 
 side by a remark every now and then, in a broad Irish brogue, from 
 underneath the aforesaid green baize : ' Hullabaloo, that's roight 1' 
 This speech from the parrot, which it had evidently been taught in 
 
286 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 the kitchen, greatly annoyed its mistress, who, every time it was 
 uttered, retaliated by giving the cage a bang. The proceeding 
 seemed so usual that the bird considered it as part of the perform- 
 ance, and was often only encouraged to repeat the observation. 
 The old lady exhibited much anxiety about the probable state of 
 the Channel, and kept asking questions of me as to what I 
 (M. E. B.) thought it would be like ; and as I answered her, she 
 would reply, in powerful Irish, with the same question in other 
 words, thus : ' Are ye a good sailor ?' ' Not at all.' ' Ye're not ? 
 ' No.' ' Ain't ye ?' ' Do you think it'll be calm i" ' I think so.' 
 ' Ye do ?' ' Yes.' ' Do yer ?' The parrot interrupting every now and 
 then from under the covering, ' Hullabaloo, that's roight.' ' You 
 think it'll be loike a lake ?' ' I really am sure it will be calm.' ' Ye 
 are ?' ' Yes.' ' Are ye ?' Parrot, ' Hullabaloo, that's roight.' 
 
 When we were on board, it turned out to be a little rougher than 
 we expected. The Irish lady was seated on a chair with the cage 
 close to her, and at every heave of the boat the poor thing gave 
 indications that she was not a good sailor ; the hidden parrot, at 
 each evidence of her sufferings, and much to her annoyance, ex- 
 claimed loudly, ' Hullabaloo, that's roight.' 
 
 At the Roseg Hotel, the friends we either found there, or who 
 arrived soon afterwards, numbered Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Yates, 
 Mr. (now Sir) Arthur Sullivan, Mr. Joseph Bamby, Mr. J. C. 
 Parkinson, Mr. and Mrs. George Lewis, Mr. Otto Goldschmidt, 
 Sir Daniel and Lady Lysons, Mr. Briton Riviere, Mr. Oscar 
 Browning, Mr. Rudolph Lehmann, Mr. and Mrs. Meadows White, 
 and Mr. Arthur Cecil. Does not the mere mention of these names 
 bespeak a happy holiday ? The news came, just after our arrival, 
 of Fechter's wretched death in America. Edmund Yates, who knew 
 him well, shared our regrets that the last years of this once fine 
 actor's life should have been so sad. But a decade or so before, 
 the idol of the public, the compeer of all distinguished in the arts, 
 the welcomed guest at homes like Gad's Hill ; and now to die, 
 beyond the seas, neglected, friendless, almost forgotten. Few 
 actors at their zenith have held greater sway ; few could compare 
 with him in romantic parts ; fewer still could claim to have stirred 
 two nations of playgoers in different tongues ; but such is the fleet- 
 ing nature of our work, so small the record of it left behind, that 
 one might ask how many are they who now can speak of Fechter 
 as he really was some five-and-twenty years ago ! His talent was 
 not confined to the stage, as an admirable and spirited bust of him- 
 self, his own work, now in the Garrick Club, will show. 
 
 Happy, lazy days, pleasant walks and drives with one or other of 
 the friends whose names we have mentioned, and whose presence 
 made this year's stay more, than ever to be remembered, soon re- 
 stored us from the wear of the hard end of our finished season, and 
 attached us more firmly than ever to the Engadine. Many wonder 
 at our fidelity, and fail to see the strong attraction there. These 
 
THE SEASON OF 1878-79 287 
 
 are matters not to be argued, or all the world might hurry for its 
 holiday to one spot ; but if to one spot we owe gratitude for re- 
 covered J->ealth and strength, for peace and rest from the turmoil of 
 a busy life, that spot is Pontresina. 
 
 The gratitude we feel towards the Engadine reminds me that one 
 day I was wandering through its beautiful woods with Mrs. George 
 Lewis, when we chanced to talk on this very subject of gratitude, and I 
 related to her a few cases in my experience where great kindnesses 
 had been rewarded by the opposite quality. After expressing her 
 opinion, Mrs. Lewis added, ' Well, I ought not to be very surprised, 
 for I know of an instance which is, to say the least, startling. It 
 was told to me by the friend to whom it occurred. A maid who 
 had not been with her very long fell seriously ill. The lady not 
 only fed this girl upon all sorts of delicacies, but absolutely nursed 
 her, night and day, during the serious part of hef illness. The girl 
 recovered, and was sent away to regain strength : but on her return 
 she gave notice to quit. Upon being asked her reason for so un- 
 accountable a decision, she replied that she had nothing to com- 
 plain of, except that as her mistress had nursed her so carefully 
 through an illness, she could not possibly be a lady, as no lady 
 would have done it ; therefore, as she could not afford to live with 
 anyone but a lady, she must leave !' 
 
 Moral. — 'There was once an animal with long ears, who, when 
 he had drunk from the pail, kicked it over.' 
 
 To aid the funds of the proposed little English church, we got 
 up our first important entertainment — this year in the big room 
 of the Krone Hotel — the sum realized being so great that the 
 foundation-stone was laid before we went away, and the building 
 really started. With such friends to help as were this year as- 
 sembled there, the programme took a strong musical turn, and the 
 amusement provided was very exceptional to be able to offer ia 
 a far-off mountain village. Visitors came in crowds from the 
 neighbouring resorts as well, and the affair was a great success all 
 round. Sir Arthur Sullivan and Mr. Otto Goldschmidt played a 
 splendid overture d. quatre jnains. We gave readings and recita- 
 tions, which were interspersed with songs, and concluded the 
 entertainment with the musical triumviretta. Cox and Box, which 
 was admirably played by the accomplished composer of its de- 
 lightful melodies ; Mr. Arthur Cecil ; and Mr. Barnby, who was a 
 capital Sergeant Bouncer. I was highly gratified at moving the 
 great actress, Madame Ristori, to tears during my reading of ' The 
 May Queen,' and very pleased with the bouquets of lovely mountain- 
 flowers handed to me by the well-known chaplain at Pontresina, 
 the Rev. J. W. Ayre. 
 
 The preparation for this entertainment was most amusing. 
 Nothing was heard for days in the hotel but snatches of songs, 
 poems, recitations, musical selections, and dialogue from Cox and 
 Box. I used to spend the early morning in the drawing-room, 
 
288 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 rehearsing Tennyson's poem, with Mr. Otto Goldschmidt at the 
 piano. I had thought of introducing music at certain parts of the 
 poem, and asked Mr. Goldschmidt to kindly arrange something 
 appropriate for me. He was so pleased with the idea (for it had never 
 been done before) that in the kindest manner he consented, and 
 worked as hard as though he had been going to conduct the Bach 
 Choir. Then came the rehearsals of Cox and Box, so that the 
 days were pretty well filled up, and there were one or two visitors 
 who could not for the life of them understand it all. A friend of 
 ours, Mr. Arthur Swan, kindly offered to collect the ' properties ' 
 for Cox and Box, and gradually his room became so full of them 
 that the chambermaid thought he had gone mad, for it was with 
 difficulty she could do her work. Arthur Sullivan was very anxious 
 to have a gaudy waistcoat for Mr. Cox, and we searched Pontre- 
 sina and St. Moritz high and low, but nothing of the kind could be 
 found ; when we asked for it, the only answer we received was, 
 ' Nein, nein !' (If Byron had been there he would have remarked, 
 ' I don't want nine, I only want one!) At last, after fruitless efforts, 
 Arthur Sullivan having arrived at a stage of despair about the 
 failure, and wondering what he should do, an idea struck me. I 
 searched for a piece of the most startling material that I could buy, 
 and succeeded in finding a pattern that gave one a headache to 
 look at ; ' Mr. Cox' was in ecstasies. He brought me one of his 
 own waistcoats, which I covered with this wonderful conglomeration 
 of colour, and the garment caused quite a flutter of amusement 
 amongst the audience. Arthur Sullivan said he would never take 
 the cover off that waiscoat. I wonder if he ever did ! 
 
 We escaped, during this holiday, with a sprain and some few 
 bruises, from what might have been a serious accident. Driving in 
 an einspanner up the Bernina Road, a vicious horse nearly brought 
 us to grief by backing over a small precipice. It was one of the 
 few cases when jumping from the vehicle was the right thing to do, 
 and fortunately we both did it in the nick of time. 
 
 When we again turned our faces towards home and work, it 
 chanced to be on the same day that the Barnbys and Arthur Cecil 
 had fixed to go ; also that both Mr. Barnby and ourselves had 
 offered Arthur Cecil a seat in either of our carriages, our first 
 destination being the same. Those who know Arthur Cecil and 
 the difficulty of his life — how to make up his mind — may guess the 
 strait in which this double offer placed him. At length the matter 
 was decided by his learning that our carriage would start twenty 
 minutes later than the other, and he went with us ; his eccentric 
 proceedings at our departure from the hotel (messengers being 
 despatched each minute in search of things forgotten), and his pro- 
 longed adieux, procuring the distinction of being thus spoken of by 
 the head-waiter, who had witnessed the entertainment given by us 
 recently, ''Das ist, gewiss, der erste komicer P Finally, we drove 
 away amidst roars of laughter from a crowd of friends who saw us 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 289 
 
 off — the hood of the carriage being laden with unpacked luggage, 
 including a large wet sponge, hurriedly flung in at the last moment 
 by Mr. Frank Schuster — and enlivened further by cries from Arthur 
 Cecil, who shouted in turn, ' I must go back !' ' I haven't paid my 
 laundress !' ' I owe something at the chemist's !' ' I've given 
 nothing to the Church !' 
 
 After a very happy time we turned homeward to face rehearsals 
 at the Prince of Wales's and rebuilding in the Haymarket. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1879-80. 
 
 Last months at the Prince of Wales's Theatre — Duiy, Albery's adaptation of 
 Les Bourgeois de Pont-Arcy — An anxious time — Second visit to Sardou — 
 Death of Buckstone — An imitation of him — Farewell revival of Ours at the 
 Prince of Wales's — Thoughts on an opening programme — Letter from 
 Dion Boucicault — The reconstructed Haymarket — Its chief features — J. L, 
 Toole's sorrow — Refusal of a testimonial — Farevi^ell words at the old house 
 ■ — First performance at the Haymarket — The Pit Question — The dense fog 
 — Letter from Sothern — Appreciative notices of the new arrangements — ■ 
 A supper-party at the Lyceum — Lord Houghton — Sardou's Daniel Rochat 
 — A new version of Le Mart a la Campagne—ConxA Gleichen's busts of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft — Mr. Bancroft sits to Pellegrini ('Ape') for a 
 portrait — Revival of School — Extraordinary success — Impressions of Mod- 
 jeska's acting — Offer from Irving to take part in the Corsican. BrotJiers — 
 Visit from Sothern — Deaths of George Honey, J. R. Planch^, and Tom 
 Taylor — The Coquelins see School — The Haymarket sublet — Brilliant close 
 of the season — Again at Pontresina — Visit of the Prince and Princess 
 Christian — Another entertainment— Romance and reality — Paris — A visit 
 to Pere la Chaise — Malvern. 
 
 It will be readily believed that not without many stirring emotions 
 
 BEGUN did we begin our final season in the little theatre which 
 
 BY MR. had for so many years proved our firm and steadfast 
 
 BANCROFT, friend, and where we had earned both fame and fortune 
 
 — for who could foretell the fate of our bold removal, full as we were 
 
 of hope concerning it ? 
 
 Although a very effective drama was made from Les Bourgeois 
 de Pont-Arcy, there remained the blemish, always so against its 
 success, of unlocking a skeleton from a dead man's cupboard, and 
 a feeble love-story. The play was excellently acted ; but the 
 absence of both our names from the programme, an intention 
 already mentioned, gave it a strange look, which was perhaps 
 increased by the new arrangements and the announcement of our 
 early departure to the Haymarket. This combination of events 
 may have had some influence on the play's failure to attract large 
 audiences. We produced Mr. Albery's adaptation, which was 
 
 19 
 
290 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 called Dtify, on Saturday, September 27th, when it was performed 
 by the following cast : Sir Geoffrey Deene, Bart, Mr. H. B. Con- 
 way ; John Hamond, M.P., Mr. Arthur Cecil; Dick Fanshawe, 
 Mr. Forbes-Robertson ; Mr. Trelawney-Smith, Mr. Kemble ; Mr. 
 Pawley Fox, Mr. David Fisher, Jun. ; Stringer, Mr. Newton ; 
 Blake, Mr. Deane ; Lady Deene, Mrs. Hermann Vezin ; Mabel 
 Holne, Miss Marion Terry ; Mrs. Trelawney-Smith, Mrs. John 
 Wood ; Zoe Smith, Miss Augusta Wilton ; Marcelle Aubry, Miss 
 Linda Dietz. 
 
 To suggest the 'argument of the play' we chose a line from 
 Shakespeare's _/zi/z«j Casar^ 
 
 ' The evil that men do lives after them.' 
 
 On Tuesday, September 30th, we attended the final performance 
 at the Haymarket under Mr. J. S. Clarke's lesseeship. In his 
 speech at the end of the play he alluded in kind terms to our under- 
 taking, and on the following day we took possession of the theatre, 
 when its demolition immediately commenced. 
 
 These were anxious days and weeks, as may be well imagined, 
 not lessened by the annoyance of the new play — in spite of its being 
 admirably acted, for how could it be otherwise with such a list of 
 names, and always well received ? — having the aspect of not lasting 
 until the end of our time at the old theatre. We had ananged with 
 Mr. C. J. Phipps to be our architect, and he had prepared his plans, 
 founded on my theories, which in the kindest way he put into 
 practical form. These plans for the new internal structure had 
 now received the sanction of the trustees and the authorities, much 
 of the work being already in progress. 
 
 The following letter will suggest ubiquity on my part at this time : 
 
 ' no, Haverstock Hill, October ^, 1879. 
 ' Dear Bancroft, — I called at the Haymarket yesterday to 
 learn that " Mr. Bancroft had just left by the stage-door," and after- 
 wards at the Prince of Wales's, to be informed that " Mr. Bancroft 
 had just gone by Xh^ front door." "A plague o' both your houses," 
 thought I. I will try to look in at the stage-Aoor of the Prince of 
 Wales's about 12.45 to-morrow, and take my chance of finding you. 
 But if " Mr. Bancroft shall have left" — by the window ! I shall go 
 on and take my chance at both doors of the Haymarket. — Yours 
 sincerely, J. S. Clarke.' 
 
 While the first rough work of the builders, or rather destroyers, 
 was going on, I took the opportunity to see Sardou with reference 
 to his play which was soon to be produced at the Frangais, and of 
 which we had great hopes ; the distinguished author, .perhaps, 
 placed too much reliance on a statement made when he wrote to 
 me on the subject, ' II y a dans la pi^ce un tr^s beau role de femme, 
 dans le genre de Dora, et pas I'ombre cTadi/ltcrc' The great differ- 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 291 
 
 ence, it seems to me, in a word, between French and English novels 
 and plays, speaking generally, is that the one so often begins at the 
 exact point where the other usually ends — the marriage of the 
 heroine. 
 
 I had a pleasant reception at Marly-Ie-Roi on this second visit to 
 the dramatist's beautiful home. Of course I found Sardou wrapped 
 in the inevitable white mufHer, and, of course, as inevitably souffrant. 
 A long and cheerful talk confirmed my hopes about the play, and 
 sent me back in high spirits to the gay city (upon which one looks 
 down at Marly, as, on a clear day, London can be seen from Hamp- 
 stead or from Highgate). During my short stay in Paris, I remember 
 a festive night with my embassy friends at the Gymnase, after a 
 delightful dinner in their company, where they were having great 
 success with Jonathan, an audacity which, I presume, defied the 
 combined efforts of Burnand, Wyndham, and other accomplished 
 transplanters of such fragile wares, for it has never seen the lights 
 of London. When I got back to their glare — or, speaking by com- 
 parison after leaving Paris, to their dimness — it chanced that I was 
 obliged to attend some club committee meetings, held late at night, 
 during the time when double gangs of men were working at the 
 theatre, and still engaged in pulling the old interior to pieces. 
 There was a dreadful fascination in this work to me, and I could 
 never resist, when walking home in the small hours after one of 
 those protracted meetings, taking the Haymarket on my way just 
 to peer through the chinks in the hoarding, and see the falling 
 masses of timber which were being hurled from the upper parts 
 into the once classic pit by the night workmen, in hideous dust and 
 uproar : the effect being rather that of demons joyfully engaged in 
 some destructive orgie. While this work of demolition was in pro- 
 gress, I remember one of the men describing the fleas they dis- 
 turbed as being ' more like ponies ' ! Perhaps now and then I 
 thought at those times whether I was wrong to have embarked in 
 an undertaking of such cost and risk, for I was pledged to the 
 trustees to spend ten thousand pounds upon their property to the 
 satisfaction of their own architect, and knew already how far I 
 meant to exceed my obligation. 
 
 There came a period in the work which certainly was not 
 inspiriting. While its machinery was being lowered, and before it 
 was relaid, the stage was a yawning cellar, the auditorium was a 
 forest of scaffold-poles, supporting-planks, on which I walked many 
 a dangerous distance, and everything, in fact, was chaos. 
 
 Strangely enough, at the very time his former home was being so 
 completely destroyed, poor old Buckstone, whose health had for 
 some years been fast failing, died at Sydenham. I confess to some 
 feeling, which we both entertained when told of it, that at least he 
 was spared seeing the house that had for so many years been his — 
 where once he had secured what must have been fortune enough 
 ^demolished and rebuilt beyond his recognition. Buckstone ! 
 
 1 9 — 2 
 
292 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 What enjoyment his mere name recalls ! How one began to laugh 
 directly he spoke the simplest sentence, even before he came upon 
 the scene ; and when he entered how one roared out loud— a tribute 
 the whole audience paid him as if it were his right ! What an eye ! 
 what a mouth ! He was the best comedian in his line I ever saw, 
 and my youth owes much of its happiness to his ripe and over- 
 brimming humour. 
 
 To tell an anecdote of Buckstone is nearly impossible ; they must 
 have all been printed. • One night, years ago, at a party at Walter 
 Gowing's, Mr. Dillon Croker, a- well-known and admirable imitator 
 of the prominent actors of the day, was amusing the guests in that 
 way, when Mrs. Buckstone prevailed on him, after some difficulty, 
 to give an imitation of her husband, who, she urged, was in another 
 room, and really too deaf, in any case, to hear the fun. After a 
 reluctant consent, and amidst roars of laughter, the reproduction of 
 the favourite actor's peculiarities was most ably given. The laughter 
 was loud enough to attract Buckstone's attention, and he entered 
 the room in the middle of it, and stood close to me. Seeing the 
 sort of amusement going on, for he knew the bent of the entertainer, 
 whose back was towards him, he asked me in his funny way : 
 ' Who's he imitating now ?' ' You, sir,' I replied, stifling my 
 laughter. ' Eh ?' ' You, sir,' I repeated. ' Oh, me — ah, devilish 
 good, I dare say ! I could do it better myself !' 
 
 It was soon evident that Duty ought to be withdrawn, so we 
 resolved to appear in some performances of Ours at the old theatre 
 until our new home should be ready for us. The failing play there- 
 fore came to an end after a career of eight languid weeks, and 
 perhaps it was only right that the last bill at the little house should 
 bear the name of Robertson, to whom we owed so much of our 
 success there. In these words we announced the ' Farewell re^^val 
 at this theatre of Ours. Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft's last appearances 
 prior to the opening of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, under their 
 management, at the beginning of the new year.' Ours was cast in 
 this way : Prince Perovsky, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; Sir Alexander 
 Shendryn, Mr. Kemble ; Angus MacAlister, Mr. H. B. Conway ; 
 Hugh Chalcot, Mr. Bancroft ; Sergeant Jones, Mr. Forbes- 
 Robertson ; Lady Shendryn, Miss Le Thiere ; Blanche Haye, 
 Miss Marion Terry ; and Mai-y Netley, Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 This oft-tried friend again stood by us, and ser\'ed to fill the little 
 theatre until we left it. 
 
 We were perplexed as to what our opening programme in our 
 new undertaking should be, no one being better aware than our- 
 selves that our company had not the same strength as formerly for 
 certain plays, the greatly increased number of theatres having so 
 added to the difficulty of keeping the same actors together ; As 
 You Like It., the School for Scandal, Money, Masks and Faces, and 
 Old Heads and Young Hearts being all discussed between us. 
 With regard to the last-named comedy we \N'rote to the author, who 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 293 
 
 was then slowly recovering- from a recent serious illness. The 
 answer was, as usual, characteristic of the writer : 
 
 'Washington, November 7, 1879. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft,— I believe the right of Old Heads and 
 Young Hearts belongs to Webster. For many years, from 1841 to 
 i860, I never looked after such rights, and let them slide. Webster 
 picked them up somehow, and has since enjoyed them, rightly or 
 wrongly, I don't know. 
 
 'I doubt whether I shall ever cross the ocean again. I am rusti- 
 cating at Washington for a month or two, having recovered some 
 strength, and am waiting now to know if my lease of life is out, or 
 is to be renewed for another term. I have had notice to quit, but 
 am arguing the point ("just like you," I think I hear you say), and 
 nothing yet is settled between Nature and me. 
 
 ' With kind love to Mrs. Bancroft, and true wishes for your 
 success, — Believe me, sincerely yours, DiON Boucicault.' 
 
 Influenced by the remembrance that our own parts in it would be 
 light, our choice fell finally on Money. We had to make special 
 terms with the present Lord Lytton for its revival, as, by the law of 
 copyright, the work would soon become public property — the forty- 
 two years since its original production having then nearly ex- 
 pired ; so that this was the last run of the comedy for which fees 
 were paid. 
 
 We strengthened our company to the best of the means at our 
 disposal, but the five intervening years since its last revival rendered 
 it impossible to recall some of the former well-remembered suc- 
 cesses to the cast. Very elaborate scenery was talked over and 
 arranged ; in short, every effort was made in all departments to 
 outdo previous attempts in that direction. This involved a heavy 
 strain of work — through every hour of the day I was at the beck 
 and call of architect, scene-painters (several of whom were busy on 
 our behalf in different parts of London), decorators, clerk of the 
 works, stage-carpenters, costumiers, upholsterers, and the host of 
 smaller folk employed ad infinitum in and about a theatre. My 
 correspondence also greatly increased, and I had to play the long 
 and arduous part of Hugh Chalcot in Ours, which required all my 
 spirit every night. Afflicted as I had been for years with a ridiculous 
 mania for doing much of other people's work in addition to my own, 
 neither my position nor my state of mind could fairly be called 
 worthy of envy. I cannot too gratefully acknowledge the cheerful 
 support I found always at my side in Mrs. Bancroft, who is blessed 
 with the philosophy of thought that ' most things happen for the 
 best,' and that ' all will come right in the end ;' while I, under a 
 quiet exterior, inwardly ' grizzle ' unceasingly, until that end is 
 manifest. 
 
 The chief features in my rough outlines of the new theatre, made 
 
294 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 practical by Mr. Phipps, were the proscenium in the form of a 
 large gold frame, and the abolition of the pit. I make this early 
 allusion to the last idea to record many a view, from the giddy 
 heights of scaffoldings and ladders, which I had of my wife's little 
 figure gazing plaintively from where the footlights were to be, up to 
 the circle which was to be our equivalent for a pit, and to which 
 our old friends, by my ruthless act, were henceforth to be relegated ; 
 that was the one part of my scheme which frightened Mrs. Bancroft, 
 and more than once she asked if even ' a little tiny pit were possible.' 
 I was as fixed and determined in my views then, as I may, before 
 resuming the subject later on, frankly say I should be now if the 
 whole matter had to be begun again. 
 
 My other novelty — the frame — was quite original, and I may say 
 here that, when at Homburg a few years later I found the new 
 Opera House in Frankfort also had a proscenium much of the 
 same formation, 1 was comforted to learn, upon prompt and careful 
 inquiries, that its construction was later in date than the carrying 
 out of my idea at the Haymarket. Since then, at the reconstructed 
 Th^itre de la Monnaie, at Brussels, I have also been paid the 
 compliment of reproduction of my notion. 
 
 The scheme was for a time involved in some difficulty, when I 
 said : ' This is what the intention must combine : hidden footlights, 
 which, when the curtain falls and is within three feet of them, must 
 descend to make room for the heavy roller ; and when the curtain 
 is raised, the footlights must follow suit immediately, so that the 
 stage is never perceptibly darkened in either case.' The answer 
 was, ' Yes, that's all very well, but how is it to be carried out ?' I 
 replied, ' I haven't the faintest idea. I can only tell you w/ia/ I 
 want done, not /low to do it.' After a succession of experiments 
 and some trouble, the means were invented and executed by the 
 master carpenter, Oliver Wales, in a manner that has worked 
 successfully ever since. 
 
 I so seldom raise the veil which shields the private lives of the 
 most public men, that I hardly like to mention in this book what, if 
 I do, must be a sad page of it — the death of young Frank Toole at 
 the age of twenty-three. There is no member of the calling he 
 follows more loved and respected by his comrades than John 
 Lawrence Toole. The highest and the humblest in our ranks 
 shared a great sorrow, which, in the last month of this year, 
 shattered his hopes and left him for years an altered man. It is not 
 fit for me to write at all of the sad condition of qur old friend 
 through his own serious state of health, which added to the home 
 grief, and I will end this allusion to the sorrow by saying that the 
 most solemn, the most truly tragic contrast I ever saw, was this 
 favourite comedian, who now \A'as but the sick and afflicted father, 
 at his dead son's grave. 
 
 Perhaps the following letter addressed by me to the JVorld will 
 sufficiently explain itself: ' Some kind friends, we learn, have con- 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 295 
 
 ceived the idea of giving Mrs. Bancroft and myself a little present 
 at the close of our management of the Prince of Wales's Theatre. 
 But what was intended as a private surprise has, by unexpected 
 publicity, assumed the shape of a semi-public testimonial. Before 
 the matter proceeds further, therefore, I feel compelled, on the part 
 of my wife and myself, respectfully but fii-mly to decline what, had 
 it remained in its original shape, we should have been proud and 
 pleased to accept. I am sure that in acting thus our motives will 
 not be misconstrued, and that the friends with whom the idea 
 originated will know that we fully appreciate the feelings that 
 prompted it.' 
 
 The work grew heavier and heavier at the end. The Italian 
 workmen who were laying the mosaic floorings in various parts of 
 the theatre even remained at their posts throughout the Christmas 
 holidays, when we were free to make a calm inspection of how 
 things really stood — at other times the Babel of sounds distracted 
 and confused us. All was going well, and we felt able with cer- 
 tainty to fix the opening night. The rehearsals of Money, which 
 began in peace on the stage of the Prince of Wales's Theatre, 
 were ended in tumult at the Haymarket. At last all was ready, the 
 finishing-touch to the beauty of the decorations being given by 
 Mrs. Bancroft's ivory-coloured satin curtains. The weather un- 
 fortunately, was vile, with an exceptional visitation of dense, cold 
 fogs. 
 
 I have not yet mentioned that we were fortunate enough to find 
 an excellent tenant for the Prince of Wales's Theatre in Mr. Edgar 
 Bruce, who arranged to take possession of the premises directly we 
 vacated them, which was on Thursday, January 29th, when our 
 long and prosperous career there came to an end. After the final 
 performance (which certainly was appropriate in an atmospheric 
 sense, for the Crimean winter depicted in the third act of Ours 
 seemed a reminder of the frost outside), we were summoned again 
 and again before the footlights, and at last I spoke these words : 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen, — In taking our leave, after nearly fifteen 
 years' management, and fifteen years of very hard work, in this 
 theatre, where many of the happiest hours of perhaps the brightest 
 years of our lives have been passed, a few farewell words may be 
 expected from us. Forgive me if, on Mrs. Bancroft's part and my 
 own, I am only able to limit them to a reminder — and I hope the 
 reminder will not be an unwelcome one — that this is not " Good- 
 bye," but only '^ Au revoir" One compliment I must gratefully 
 acknowledge, the presence to-night — and under the greatest diffi- 
 culties in this dreadful weather — of many kind friends who have 
 come to see the last of us in our old home, and who, I believe, will 
 be with us on Saturday to wish us well in our new enterprise. In 
 conclusion, Mrs. Bancroft and myself most heartily wish Mr. Bruce, 
 who will be our successor here, all the good fortune that we have 
 enjoyed.' 
 
396 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Mrs. Bancroft was much affected at bidding good-bye to a home 
 so full of pleasant memories, so rich in artistic recollections, as the 
 following words of hers will show : 
 
 ' Were I to write till doomsday I could not convey the true state 
 of my feelings as the last nights of our management of the Prince 
 of Wales's Theatre came nearer and nearer. I could not sleep ; 
 my heart was sick. The prospect of having to say farewell to the 
 dear little house, every brick of which I loved, was a sad one for 
 me. I went there day after day, and wandered from room to room 
 quite alone. If there had been a listener, he would have heard my 
 audible words addressed to the silent walls, which seemed to look 
 reproachfully at me, and to say, " After all these years of service, 
 are you going to leave us ?" I here confess that if it could have 
 been possible, when the time for our parting drew near, I would 
 have remained in my old home, leaving Mr. Bancroft to manage 
 the Haymarket Theatre. I threw out a hint to him that we might 
 conduct the two houses, but of course it was a wild notion suggested 
 by the state of my feelings at the time ; and, on reflection, it would 
 have been more than folly, for the management of one leading 
 theatre is enough, and often too much, nowadays. 
 
 ' Never was a parting between two old friends more bitter than 
 that between me and my dear home. My faithful servant, who 
 throughout the twenty years' management personally attended me, 
 can testify to my emotion, when, after ray husband's farewell words, 
 I left the little stage for ever, rushed up to my dressing-room, and 
 cried bitterly. Even now, after a long lapse of years, I some- 
 times wander in the direction of the little theatre, looking so 
 desolate, neglected and deserted, to meditate upon the ruin of a 
 happy past.' 
 
 AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE. 
 
 Saturday, January 31st, 1880, was the eventful date fixed for the 
 beginning of our new theatrical life, and we had the pleasure of 
 being allowed to hand the proceeds (as announced) of our first 
 performance at the Haymarket to the widow of the late Mr. 
 Buckstone. 
 
 Just before I began to dress, Henry Irving was announced to me, 
 having found his way to the stage-door, in spite of the weather, on 
 his road to his own work. He was greatly struck with the change 
 in the theatre, and especially admired the new curtain (so beauti- 
 fully painted by Daniel White and John O'Connor), and the Shake- 
 spearian pictures, by J. D. Watson and F. Smith. We two stood 
 together in the balcony, where he shook my hand in friendship, and 
 wished us ' luck ' : a few minutes before the doors were opened to the 
 public in the densest, cruellest fog that, perhaps, even London ever 
 knew. Many are the stories one could tell of journeys to and from 
 the Haymarket that night ; for how the audience ever reached 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 297 
 
 their seats, and how the company all got there to act, really was a 
 marvel. 
 
 The chief parts in Lord Lytton's comedy were cast as follows r 
 Lord Glossmore, Mr. Forbes-Robertson ; Sir John Vesey, Bart., 
 Mr. Odell ; Sir Frederick Blount, Bart., Mr. Bancroft ; Captain 
 Dudley Smooth, Mr. Archer ; Mr. Graves, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; 
 Alfred Evelyn, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Mr. Stout, Mr. Kemble ; Mr. 
 Sharp, Mr. C. Brookfield ; An old Member of the Club, Mr. Vol- 
 laire ; Lady Franklin, Mrs. Bancroft ; Georgina Vesey, Miss Linda 
 Dietz ; Clara Douglas, Miss Marion Terry. 
 
 To take the events of that opening night in proper sequence, I 
 must begin with the Pit Question, and the riot that occurred when 
 the curtain rose. Anonymous reports had reached me that there 
 would most likely be a disturbance. I was sanguine enough, how- 
 ever, to hope that the following advertisement issued beforehand, 
 and the nature of the accommodation offered in place of the old 
 pit, would have prevented anything of the kind. Those hopes were 
 
 ' As some disappointment may be felt at the abolition of the pit, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft deem it necessary to explain the alteration. 
 
 ' With the present expenses of a first-class theatre, it is impossible 
 to give up the floor of the house — its most remunerative portion — 
 to low-priced seats, and the management, being unwilling to place 
 any part of the audience in close and confined space under the 
 balcony, the only alternative was to allot to the frequenters of the 
 pit the tier usually devoted to the upper boxes, and now called 
 the second circle. In carrying out the structural alterations of 
 the theatre, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft have, they hope, specially 
 attended to the comfort of visitors to these seats by raising the 
 ceiling, building a new stone staircase, a refreshment-room, and by 
 removing all obstacles to a clear view of the stage.' 
 
 Naturally enough, I think it may be expected that I should here 
 express some views on this then important subject, and tell what 
 led me to the bold measure of daring to abolish the pit, more 
 especially from the Haymarket Theatre, which had been long 
 known to boast, and truly enough, the possession of the best and 
 most comfortable pit ever to be found in a playhouse, from the 
 reason that it did not go under the dress circle. 
 
 To begin, it is perhaps necessary to remind young play-goers 
 that the pit in the old days occupied the entire fioor of the theatre, 
 extending to the orchestra, and as the charge for admission in the 
 leading houses was three shillings and sixpence, the pit quite earned 
 its title of being ' the backbone of the theatre.' The dress circle and 
 private boxes were the resort of the better classes, the wealthy, or 
 the fastidious. The modern stall was then unknown. Gradually 
 this luxury was introduced. Row by row, very insidiously, the 
 
298 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 cushioned chairs encroached upon the narrow benches, which, year 
 after year, were removed further and further from the stage, until at 
 last, in many theatres, all that was left of the old-fashioned pit was 
 a dark, low-ceilinged place hidden away under the dress circle, 
 which, by contrast with its former proud state, seemed but a kind 
 of cellar, or reminder of the black-hole of Calcutta. 
 
 That thousands of earnest play-goers would far rather sit there in 
 heat and discomfort than go up aloft to better accommodation I 
 don't doubt for a moment, nor do I for another moment deny that 
 I should very likely find myself of the party under their circum- 
 stances ; but that seems to me outside the question. Matters had 
 entirely changed. The pit had long lost, in most West End theatres, 
 the possibility of being the support it used to prove, owing to the 
 managers of them having, row by row, robbed it of its power, and 
 made the stalls instead their ' backbone.' This grew to be eminently 
 the case with our management, which could not have endured with- 
 out high-priced admission. 
 
 I don't think anything I might add to these remarks would 
 advance the argument, so I will return to the hooting and howling 
 which greeted the raising of the curtain, mingled with noisy cries 
 of ' Where's the pit ?' At the great disadvantage of being dressed 
 for Sir Frederick Blount, in which I wore a flaxen foppish wig and 
 pink complexion, I walked upon the stage and faced ihe anger of 
 the few who made the noise, which quite drowned the friendly 
 greeting of the many. Utterly unprepared what to saj', for I had 
 disregarded the anonymous warnings, I believe I owed something 
 to the manner in which I spoke the few broken sentences I was 
 allowed, through the tumult, to utter, and to never showing during 
 that mauvais quart d^heure (to be exact, more than twenty minutes) 
 the least sign of temper. What I said was not of much moment, 
 and very likely my attempts to speak were neither soothing nor 
 judicious ; but I am not of a 'knuckling-under' disposition, and, 
 at least, I thought myself justified in claiming the respect of the 
 audience. Unfortunately the diversion tended largely to disconcert 
 the actors, and to add greatly to the nervousness due to the position 
 of all concerned. 
 
 Most things have their comic side, and so even had this little 
 riot. Our relations with Mr. J. S. Clarke throughout the transfer of 
 the lease, with all the business it involved, had been always pleasant, 
 and we begged him to allow us to place a private box at bis dis- 
 posal. He had arranged with other members of his family to meet 
 his son outside the theatre, but was late in arrival through the dense 
 fog. When his son reached the theatre he ran to the box, and saw, 
 through the little window in the door of it, that it was still un- 
 occupied ; and also that 1 was standing on the stage and facing the 
 audience. He went back to the portico, hoping- every instant for 
 his fathei-'s arrival ; for several minutes there was no sign of him. 
 After a while, fearing he might have missed him through the fog. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 299 
 
 there being several doors adjoining, young Clarke again went to 
 the box, to find it still empty, and to still see me, through the glass 
 window, standing in front of the footlights as before. Such part of 
 the audience as he could observe were applauding violently. In 
 this way, for a long while, he was occupied; going to and from the 
 back of the private box and the front of the theatre, always to find 
 the former still untenanted, and always to see me still in the same 
 position. At last he ran against his people emerging from a cab, 
 when, half an hour behind their time, they reached the theatre. 
 Seizing his father's arm, he said, ' Come along, come along, or 
 you'll miss the end of the most wonderful ovation ! Bancroft, to 
 my certain knowledge, has been bowing to the audience for the 
 last twenty minutes. JVo actor in this world ever had so magnificent 
 a reception P When they entered their box they could hear as well 
 as see my greeting. 
 
 From a tiny square hole in my dressing-room I could see all that 
 MRS. went on behind the scenes, and could hear everything 
 BANCROFT'S that was said on the stage ; while Mr. Bancroft was 
 COMMENTS, going through that terrible ordeal, my profile might 
 have been seen at the aforesaid square aperture very much resem- 
 bling a postage stamp. The tumult became so awful that at last I 
 rushed downstairs and walked about wringing my hands, and 
 wondering how it would all end. If the malcontents could but have 
 seen me, I am sure they would have ceased. I at length resolved 
 that if the uproar lasted another three minutes I would myself 
 address ^the audience, and ask them to listen to me for the sake of 
 ' Auld Lang Syne,' and to say that after so long a service I ought 
 to be permitted to dictate to them, so to speak, and by gentle 
 reasoning bring about a reconciliation between us. But the noise 
 and hooting ended, and my speech was unnecessary ; my next 
 dread was that I too should be received with groans and hisses, 
 and I was cold with fear ; but my reception when I made my 
 appearance was so great, the welcome so hearty and prolonged, that, 
 combined with all the nervous excitement, it gave me courage, and 
 I acted better than I had done for some time. The night was one 
 of the most awful 1 can remember ; a short time before the doors 
 were opened I went round the beautiful theatre, and could scarcely 
 see the decorations through the black veil ; the elements indeed 
 were far from propitious, and, of "course, this calamity, for I can 
 call it nothing else, sadly helped to fan the flame of discontent and 
 temper amongst the pittites, and our positions for a time were not 
 to be envied. 
 
 During the evening I had received many beautiful bouquets, 
 which it was impossible to take home, as no carriage could fetch 
 us, and no cab would take a fare ; in fact, it was safer to walk, so I 
 left my flowers in charge of my dresser ; and our servant, who had 
 come from the house to help us home, walked ahead of us with a 
 
30O OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 white bouquet in his hand to serve as a kind of beacon. There 
 were many curious incidents connected with that eventful night. 
 A party of four started from Putney in clear weather, but suddenly 
 found themselves enveloped in the black fog on nearing town ; 
 they managed to reach the theatre, but when the performance was 
 over were persuaded to make their way for the night to a friend's 
 house in Bayswater, where the carriage and horse might be accom- 
 modated in the mews. After a tedious journey of some hours they 
 arrived at the house, but found the mews more than full of other 
 befogged victims. At their wits' end, they were at length forced to 
 this expedient : the carriage was left outside in the road, and the 
 horse (a valuable animal just recovered from a long sickness) and 
 man passed the night in the hall of the house ! 
 
 A curious incident also happened to our dear friend. Dr. George 
 Bird, who, after leaving the theatre, of course followed his maxim 
 to ' always walk home from the play,' a task, however, by no means 
 easy on this occasion. Living in Welbeck Street, he eventually 
 crossed Oxford Street safely, and then felt convinced that he was 
 somewhere parallel with his own house ; but whether he was strug- 
 gling along in Harley Street, Wimpole Street, or Welbeck Street, 
 he felt utterly unable to determine. At length the brilliant idea 
 occurred to him, that in this land of doctors, if he groped his way 
 to some door which carried a brass-plate, the name on it would be 
 sure, by the aid of a match, to tell him whereabouts he really was. 
 He at once carried out his plan, and in the first doorway he entered, 
 found a brass-plate. He then lighted a match, and read his own 
 name ! 
 
 I was inundated with communications on both sides of this vexed 
 RESUMED Pit Question, many of the letters being from occupants 
 BY s. B. B. of the upper circles on the first night, and, nearly all, 
 full of expressions of sympathy, whether the writers of them agreed 
 with me or not. I will dismiss the subject with one important letter 
 which came later on, through the distance it had to travel. The 
 writer's long connection with the Haymarket Theatre alone would 
 give it weight : 
 
 ' San Francisco, California, March 25, 1880. 
 
 ' Dear Bancroft, — I'm a poor hand at letter-writing ; I've such 
 hundreds to answer that I hurry-scurry through them as best I can ; 
 but I must send you a scrawl to congratulate you on the admirable 
 way in which you quelled the disgraceful disturbance on your first 
 night at the Haymarket. Leaving your snug little theatre where 
 you had done so much — so very much — to improve our art, and 
 where you were so brilliantly successful, seemed to me a most 
 dangerous move ; but I admire your pluck in taking the Haymarket, 
 and in doing precisely what I advised Buckstone and the trustees 
 to do ten or tweh-e years ago — i.e., abolish the pit. There was no 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 301 
 
 other way of making the theatre pay with the risk and heavy 
 expenses of first-class management and first-class artists. 
 
 ' I most sincerely hope and believe that your daring experiment 
 will be crowned with the success that you and Mrs. Bancroft so 
 richly deserve. — Sincerely yours, E. A. SOTHERN.' 
 
 While the fact passes through my mind, let me recall the wonder- 
 fully hearty and really affectionate greeting given to Mrs. Bancroft 
 \yhen she stepped upon the stage as Lady Franklin. I would also 
 like to add that my own reception as an actor was unmingled with 
 less pleasant sounds. The performance was full of faults on the 
 opening night, some of them being due to the strange ground and 
 want of rehearsal in the new theatre. As Dutton Cook aptly wrote, 
 ' It was a night of nervous excitement, and the players hardly yet 
 understood the perspective, or the optique du thMtre, of their new 
 position.' Mrs. Bancroft was, I think, the only member of the 
 company who entirely controlled her nervousness. Many short- 
 comings soon were remedied as we grew accustomed to the great 
 change in our surroundings. 
 
 An extract from a letter written by a cultured and travelled well- 
 known man, shall represent the many flattering remarks that reached 
 us about the theatre : 
 
 ' Having seen the interior of very many theatres in Europe, I feel 
 convinced there is nothing either in design, decoration, comfort, and 
 tout ensemble to equal the " Haymarket." .It would be ridiculous, 
 of course, to compare or contrast your house with those of magni- 
 tude like the "Scala" at Milan ; but, viewing it as a house of 
 comedy, it has not, in my humble judgment, a rival. 
 
 ' The proscenium and drop-scene were simply perfection. The 
 delicate tints of the panels, the extreme finish of the paintings in 
 them, the wealth of gilding, and the general harmony of colouring, 
 display an artistic merit of rare excellence. ' 
 
 ' In the distribution of the seats there is a boldness and liberality 
 in apportioning the space which should be an example to others for 
 all time. 
 
 ' In a word, it would be difficult for professional cavillers to pick 
 a hole in this, the most tasteful theatre in Europe. 
 
 ' It was to be expected there would be a Httle malicious rowdyism 
 about the pit ; public men must always prepare to encounter opposi- 
 tion when they innovate, be it for good or evil. Still, the heartfelt 
 applause of nineteen-twentieths of a brilliant audience must have 
 been token enough of the superb work you have achieved, and of 
 the exceptional reputation you and Mrs. Bancroft have earned as 
 the inaugurators and chief exponents of a new school of dramatic 
 art and of theatrical excellence.' 
 
 I add one more extract, from a letter written to me by the dis- 
 tinguished French comedian, Saint Germain : 
 
302 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 'Que son amenagement est bien entendu. Ah, cette fois ci. 
 Bravo, at sans restriction. Cet orchestre qu'on ne voit pas, cette 
 rampe presqu'imperceptible, cette absence du manteau d'Arlequin, 
 ce cadre contournant la sctee ! Le spectateur est devant un tableau 
 dont les personnages parlent et agissent. Cast parfait pour I'illu- 
 sion et pour le plaisir artistique.' 
 
 The Prince and Princess of Wales were at Sandringham on the 
 opening night, or would have been present, but witnessed the third 
 performance in our new house, when, fortunately. King Fog sus- 
 pended his rule and left the beauties of the theatre clear to view. 
 His Royal Highness expressed many kind wishes, and requested to 
 be taken over the theatre to see the great changes in it. 
 
 As I was making some arrangements for this purpose, I turned 
 to Oliver Wales, the master carpenter, and, in reference to a 
 question, said to him, quite unconsciously, ' Which way, Wales ?' 
 The Prince was close to my side, and the smile which played over 
 his face as I spoke, told me of the accidental double-meaning of 
 my words, and, it may be, they amused his Royal Highness. Such 
 fears for the future as the pit disturbance gave me were soon set at 
 rest, for any after objections were silent, and the receipts of the 
 theatre showed the difference between the old and new houses very 
 solidly. A series of morning performances of Money was started, 
 and all went well. 
 
 The reader will doubtless welcome a pause that lets me tell of 
 other things. A short time afterwards, a brilliant supper-party was 
 given by Irving on the Lyceum stage, which, with incredible speed, 
 was transformed into a banqueting-room, to celebrate the hundredth 
 performance of the Merchant of Venice. On this occasion the late 
 Lord Houghton proposed his host's health in a speech more remark- 
 able for a caustic objection to the view taken of Shylock's character 
 than for the platitudes to be expected on so festive an occasion, and 
 which fell like a bomb-shell upon the amazed listeners. The actor, 
 it will be remembered by his many distinguished hearers, very 
 cleverly countered the remarks by the way he happily turned the 
 words of his acknowledgment. It was altogether a memorable 
 evening. 
 
 Although in earlier life so delightful a writer as INIonckton Milnes, 
 Lord Houghton's keen wit has often proved a wonderful weapon ; 
 never more so, perhaps, than when, in answer to the boast of a well- 
 known woman of fashion that ' She had often had two men at her 
 feet at one time,' he asked if they were chiropodists. 
 
 A few days later, Daniel Rochat was produced by Sardou at the 
 Fran^ais, with that incomparable actor of certain parts, Delaunay, 
 as the hero, when, alas ! our hopes concerning it were blighted. I 
 could not leave our newly-started theatre to see the premiere., but 
 was represented by a distinguished friend, then resident in Paris, 
 who was not only a perfect French scholar, but one in whose judg- 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 303 
 
 ment I had great confidence. The work proved to be more a theo- 
 logical discussion than a drama, and certainly would not have been 
 acceptable on the English stage, even had the difficulty as to license 
 been overcome. Sardou, however, was very angry at my refusal of 
 the play, and I doubt if he has ever quite forgiven me for so firmly 
 disputing his beUef in it, although it proved a failure in Paris. 
 
 Our anticipation of this play being so suddenly and completely 
 wrecked, I turned to a leaning I had for years towards the old 
 comedy, Le Mari a la Cajnpagne, long known in England as the 
 Serious Family, and in which I had occasionally appeared, as 
 mentioned in an earlier chapter, as Captain Murphy Maguire. I 
 sought an interview with Mr. F. C. Burnand about it, who thought 
 the notion of a new version good, if some motive power other than 
 religion could be suggested on which to hang fresh treatment. 
 Suddenly, as these happy inspirations always come, he hit upon the 
 aesthetic craze, then rampant, on which to found his play, and we at 
 once went on with the scheme. Burnand's first wish was to make 
 the leading part a Frenchman, while my idea was to turn him into 
 an American— which Burnand soon afterwards agreed with. A 
 correspondence between us shows on what different footings the 
 question stood — actors, as varied as Monsieur Marius and Charles 
 Wyndham, being at different times suggested for it — the eventual 
 decision being that the character should be written for me. One 
 remark of Burnand's, from a letter informing us that he was ordered 
 off to Aix-les-Bains for a few weeks, I must bestow on the reader, 
 in which the writer says, ' I am (in spite of all exercise) a slave to 
 liver — i.e., a livery servant.' 
 
 In the spring of this year, I sat to Count Gleichen for the com- 
 panion to the bust of Mrs. Bancroft — which was shown in Xh^ foyer 
 at the opening of the theatre for a short time before being sent to 
 the Royal Academy, where both works were exhibited ; subse- 
 quently I presented them to the Garrick Club. I also gave some 
 sittings for a portrait to poor Carlo Pellegrini, apropos of which I 
 received this characteristic note from the accomplished ' Ape ' : 
 
 ' Studio, 53, Mortimer Street, Regent Street, W. , Thursday Evening. 
 ' Dear Bancroft, — I have sent your fac-simile to the Grosvenor. 
 I hope you will be well hanged — I mean the portrait. — Truly yours, 
 C. Pellegrini.' 
 
 We soon felt, from experience, that the ' runs ' of plays would, of 
 necessity, be much shorter, and the work in consequence much 
 harder at the Haymarket than at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. 
 
 Failing a new play, we decided to follow Money with a revival 
 of School, and learn at once the important fact to us — whether the 
 Robertsonian mine was likely to extend to the Haymarket, or if the 
 vein was a thing of the past, and, so far as we were concerned, 
 
304 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 quite worked out. Our own faith in it was strong, although but 
 Httle shared by others when we announced our intention. 
 
 We played Money for three months, during quite two of which 
 the houses continued full ; and in this short time the result sur- 
 passed a longer and, apparently, more successful run of the comedy 
 at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. 
 
 On the evening of Saturday, May ist, we changed our programme 
 and risked the experiment of a Robertson comedy on the larger 
 stage. There was no repetition of any disturbance about the lost 
 pit, which we thought a possible visitation for several ' first nights ' 
 to come ; the old friend was welcomed with enthusiasm to its new 
 home, the audience in the second circle proving that they could 
 laugh as loudly, and applaud as heartily, upstairs as down. The 
 comedy, which had been last produced by us in 1873, '"'s^^ cast as 
 follows : Lord Beaufoy, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Dr. Sutcliffe, Mr. 
 Kemble ; Beau Farintosh, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; Jack Poyntz, Mr. 
 Bancroft ; Mr. Krux, Mr. Forbes-Robertson ; Mrs. Sutcliffe, Mrs. 
 Canninge ; Bella, Miss Marion Terry ; and Naomi Tighe, Mrs. 
 Bancroft. 
 
 There will be interest in the statement that among the school- 
 girls during this run were the now popular Miss Kate Rorke and 
 Miss Mellon, a daughter of Mrs. Alfred Mellon, both of whom thus 
 first appeared upon the stage. 
 
 This re\-ival, instead of resulting in our destruction, as we freely 
 grant it might have done, proved an assurance that the commercial 
 side of our enterprise at least was secured, while the reception it 
 received was worthy any new play, and the demand for seats as 
 vigorous, leaving, indeed, no doubt that this delicate little comedy, 
 fragile in plot, idyllic in treatment, would maintain the position 
 before referred to, of being the most successful of all our plays. 
 
 On looking back at a book of engagements, it tells us that May 
 of this year was a busy month, but we need allusion only to things 
 theatrical. On the fifth we went to a morning performance at the 
 Court Theatre, and for the first time saw Modjeska in Heartsease, a 
 version of La Dame aux Camellias, in which her acting of the frail 
 heroine — although differently conceived — we thought, rivalled the 
 superb rendering of Sarah Bernhardt. On the seventh, there was 
 a remarkable performance given in French of L Avettiurih-e, 
 when nearly all the parts were taken by English actors, including 
 Mr. Beerbohm Tree and Miss Genevieve Ward, the only exception 
 being M. Marius. The fourteenth brought this note from Irving : 
 
 ' I5(r, Grafton Street, Bond Street, W. , May 14, 1880. 
 
 ' The happiest returns of the day, my dear Bancroft, and may 
 prosperity and happiness always be yours, 
 
 ' An old engagement obliges me to go to supper, but I'll get away 
 in time for 07ie cigar. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 305 
 
 ' No more, by heaven, for to-morrow is a busy day with both of 
 us.* — Affectionately yours, Henry Irving. 
 ' P.S. — I think this pocket-book is very pretty.' 
 
 It was about this time that Irving offered me a compliment I 
 have always valued, and but for the strain of work I had under- 
 gone, which made me already count the days, like an anxious 
 schoolboy, to the commencement of my holiday, I should have 
 been tempted to accept. He asked me to play Chiteau Renaud, 
 if only for a time, in his intended production of the Corsican 
 Brothers, a part I always had a hankering after. Perhaps, before 
 my career as an actor is finally closed, it may be that the pleasure 
 of appearing with my old friend will not be denied me. On a later 
 day came a visit from Sothern, who had just returned to England, 
 but sadly changed. Of course no one could better understand the 
 alteration in the theatre than old Haymarket actors, who always 
 failed to trace how the building could ever have borne its former 
 shape. Sothern was particularly struck with all he saw on either 
 side the curtain, and wished that in his bright days there the house 
 had been as we had made it. We don't remember whether the 
 once far-famed ' Dundreary' ever acted again, but month by month 
 he seemed to lose his strength, and fade away as he sought for 
 health at different seaside places. 
 
 Sothern's greatly-altered looks remind me that the illness with 
 which poor Honey was stricken about a year before this time had 
 lately made fierce strides, and news reached us that he was sinking 
 fast. A sad journey to his house to see him once more, and learn 
 how matters stood there, was taken together by three old friends of 
 his, Irving, Toole, and myself The dear fellow's efforts, when we 
 were at his bedside, to make us understand he knew us all, were 
 very painful. Once we just gathered that he framed the words 
 ' Sir Frederick,' addressed to me in remembrance of the part I 
 had played with him so many times in Money. The next day was 
 his last ; and not much longer than twelve months after he stood 
 by my side at John Clarke's grave in Highgate Cemetery, wonder- 
 ing who amongst us would be the next, he joined him there. Poor 
 Honey's long illness, and other troubles, had left his affairs in a 
 melancholy state, which the wonderful charity ever conspicuous 
 among actors for their afflicted brethren relieved by a fund, of which 
 Charles Santley, Henry Irving and I were made trustees. 
 
 The scythe of Death was this summer indeed busy in the drama's 
 ranks, for almost directly, and within a brief time of each other, 
 passed away two of its valued literary workers — the courtly veteran, 
 J. R. Planche, who was ever cheery, even when worldly troubles 
 overtook him at the age of eighty, and that accomplished play- 
 wright, Tom Taylor. 
 
 * In allusion to morning performances the next day. 
 
3o6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 To revert from so sad a subject to the mention of such distin- 
 guished followers of Momus as the Coquelins, aiW and cadet, let 
 me say that these clever brothers saw School during this revival. 
 Coquelin afterwards wrote to me : 
 
 ' Cher Monsieur Bancroft, — Vous avez un excellent theatre 
 que vous dirigez en maitre . . . et en maitre artiste . . . que pouvez 
 vous d&irer de plus ? — Votre ami, C. COQUEUN.' 
 
 It was pleasant, some years later, to find their impressions pub- 
 lished in Paris in La Vie Humoristique, the account of their visit 
 being admirably written by Coquelin cadet, and of which we append 
 the concluding sentences : 
 
 ' Les decors sont exdcutds de main de maitre. C'est le triomphe 
 de I'exactitude. Les comediens sont excellents. M. Bancroft joue 
 dans la pifece un role de grand gommeux anglais \ monocle, et rien 
 n'egale son dl^gance et sa stupidite. Madame Bancroft joue la 
 pensionnaire gaie ; cette petite femme est un melange d'Alphonsine 
 et de Chaumont — gaie, pimpante, mordane et d'une adresse ! . . . 
 C'est \2i great attraction du Theatre de Hay-Market. 
 
 'Aprfes, je reviens rapidement en cab {''^Hansom") k mon hotel, 
 et je me demande en chemin pourquoi les cabs vont si vite? C'est 
 tout simple : les cabs vont trfes vite parce que les cochers les poussent 
 derrifere.' 
 
 There is little more to tell before the season ended. We had 
 resolved, on taking the theatre, by way of compensation for the 
 extra work, to underlet it for some of the autumn months, so that 
 we might extend our holiday. Mr. J. S. Clarke this year became 
 our tenant, and decided during our absence to produce a new play 
 by Dion Boucicault, called a Bridal Tour. 
 
 At the end of July Mr. Burnand read the first and second acts of 
 his comedy, and delighted us with his work. Nt) cleverer dialogue 
 had we heard for many a day, while the characters were admirably 
 adapted, it seemed to us, to their proposed exponents. This helped 
 much to cheer our departure for the Engadine ; since the extra- 
 ordinary success of School, the result of which entirely passed all 
 the hopes I had formed of the theatre's possibilities, justified our 
 resuming the run of it, when we began work again in November. 
 The season closed brilliantly. Never was the saying ' A bad 
 beginning makes a good ending' more amply verified. I have 
 told how, on the opening night, some occupants of the second 
 circle were discontented and riotous ; let my postscript on the last 
 night be that tliey cheered us again and again with cries of ' Come 
 back soon !' On the following evening-, Mrs. Bancroft had the 
 pleasure of reading 'Major Namby' at the Lyceum Theatre at the 
 close of Henry living's season, and the next morning we started for 
 
THE SEASON OF 1879-80 307 
 
 Pontresina, having the welcome companionship, as a fellow- 
 traveller, of a dear and affectionate friend in J. C. Parkinson, 
 which made our journey memorably happy. 
 
 Again we had a hearty welcome to the little village, which was 
 this year for the first time honoured by a visit from the Prince and 
 Princess Christian, who were accompanied by the two young 
 princes. Mrs. Bancroft had the opportunity of nursing the young 
 Prince Christian during a throat affection, which earned for her 
 from their Royal Highnesses, at the time, the title of ' Dr. Bancroft.' 
 
 We yielded to a request to further aid the Church, and having 
 the great advantage of Arthur Cecil's companionship, resolved, in 
 .addition to readings, songs, and recitations, to act TAe Vicarage, 
 finding great help also in the presence and good nature of two dis- 
 tinguished musicians, Mr. Shakespeare, and Mr. Goring Thomas ; 
 while Mr. Parkinson was pressed into the service for the small part 
 of the Vicar's man-servant, which Mrs. Bancroft rendered more 
 important by writing some additional speeches. 
 
 This was a very successful entertainment, and, as the tickets 
 were ten francs each, realized a large sum, which our treasurer. 
 Dr. Ludwig, the clever and popular Pontresina medico, handed 
 over, to the great advantage of its good object. The Prince and 
 Princess Christian honoured us with their presence, and all the 
 available vehicles were chartered by visitors from St. Moritz. A 
 gentleman, who was staying at the Roseg Hotel, carried a large 
 copy of the programme to the summit of Piz Languard,'and there 
 attached it to a pole, earning the title of ' Bill-Poster to the Higher 
 Alps.' 
 
 Moderate excursions always satisfied our mountaineering ambi- 
 tion. Mrs. Bancroft was quite contented in having accomplished 
 the Diavolezza tour, while a climb up the easiest of the snow-peaks, 
 Piz Corvatsch, was my chief accomplishment. Some of these ex- 
 cursions this year were made in the companionship of Mr. Parkin- 
 son, and one day we all three went together to the Alp Griim, a visit 
 Mrs. Bancroft shall describe in her own words : ' We started at an 
 early hour, carrying a simple luncheon with us, consisting of sub- 
 stantial sandwiches and wine.. Mr. Parkinson, a keen admirer of 
 beautiful scenery, constantly expressed his delight at the views we 
 passed on the way. On reaching the summit, we all sat down on 
 a bench, and while we gazed on the lovely panorama before us, 
 prepared to unpack our lunch. During this operation, Mr. Parkin- 
 son, quite lost in admiration of the scene, went into ecstasies, and 
 gave vent to his rapture in words, " Oh, this is indeed divine ! 
 What a sky ! Look at that exquisitely peaceful valley, wrapped in 
 rich verdure, and surrounded by those grand, snow-clad mountains. 
 Where is there a painter who can reproduce such colours, such 
 tints, such shadows? No, Nature will not be imitated! How 
 noble are those rugged peaks ; grand, impregnable, defiant ! This 
 is indeed a heavenly spot for romantic meditation." Then, sud- 
 
 20 — 2 
 
3o8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 denly looking at the lunch, " Ok, the brutes ! I ordered beef, and 
 they've given me ha?n.'" The transition from poetry to sandwiches 
 was most amusing.' 
 
 How we enjoyed this long holiday ! How we delighted in the 
 feeling that Paris, this time, did not mean the end of it ! We went 
 about, and saw more of the gay city than we ever had the chance 
 to know before. One day we drove to Pfere la Chaise, passing on 
 the way the prison of La Roquette, where the guillotine is used, 
 when a French jury has the now rare courage to find no ' extenuating 
 circumstances ' to save a culprit from its knife. We, of course, went 
 to gaze upon the tomb of Abelard and Heloise, and other vaults 
 almost as celebrated : then, after wandering in the mid-day heat, 
 up and down its countless alleys, we emerged upon the broad main 
 path of the cemetery, at the end of which, above its noble flight of 
 steps, we saw a distant crowd and the figure of a man violently 
 gesticulating in its midst. We thought ourselves indeed in luck ; 
 there was evidently a big funeral taking place, and we just in time 
 to hear one of the customary orations delivered at the obsequies by 
 some eminent Frenchman. We hurried down the path, and up 
 the steep stone steps, hearing, nearer and nearer, the voice of 
 the speaker, and noticing, more and more, the rapt attention of 
 his listeners. Suddenly, as we got quite close, we found to our 
 great surprise that the speech was being made in our own language, 
 and as we panted up the last few steps, exhausted by heat and 
 fatigue, we just caught these words : ' Yes, that is the tomb of the 
 great Cherubini ; there lie the remains of the distinguished actor, 
 Talma ; and there' (in an undertone, pointing us out) 'are Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bancroft, of the Haymarket Theatre !' The crowd consisted 
 of a ' self-conducted ' tourist party, and we both felt fit to sink into 
 one of the open graves ! 
 
 After our stay in Paris, and before fulfilling an intention to visit 
 Malvern, we halted for a few days in London, chiefly to hear 
 Burnand read the third act of his play, which we felt to be con- 
 siderably behind the other two in merit, and required, we thought, 
 a good deal of altering. The old-fashioned inn, the Foley Arms, 
 so delightfully placed, was our home at Malvern, and we passed a 
 pleasant, quiet time there ; part of it being devoted to a mild 
 insight into the mysteries of hydropathy, under the guidance of the 
 amiable successor to Dr. Gully, the high-priest of the water-cure ; 
 part to long walks 
 
 ' Round about the Malvern Hills, 
 Where man may live as long as he wills ;' 
 
 charming drives to beautiful Eastnor, to Worcester to see the 
 potteries and Cathedral, and all the countiy round, in those canary- 
 coloured carriages, as quaint-looking as the drivers in their blue 
 coats and white beaver hats (only exchanged on Sundays for a 
 black one) which the Foley Arms affects ; part in receiving and 
 returning, early proofs of Burnand's progressing comedy. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1880-81 309 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1880-81. 
 
 The ' Windsor Strollers ' — Some good amateurs — Resumption with School and 
 The Vicarage — Burnand's comedy in rehearsal- A carriage accident — The 
 Colonel relegated to the Prince of Wales's — Masks and Faces in preparation 
 — ' Black Tuesday ' — The Haymarket that evening — Death of Sothern — 
 Love of practical joking — His opinion of Mrs. Bancroft — Revival of Masks 
 and Faces — Alternation of Triplet and CoUey Gibber with Arthur Cecil — 
 Letter from Mr, Gladstone — Death of Lord Beaconsfield — Shakespeare on 
 popular favourites — A morning call — Edwin Booth and Henry Irving — The 
 Meiningen Company — Society and Good for Nothing revived — Letter from 
 Ludwig Barnay — A practical joke by Mr. Bancroft — More wanderings 
 abroad — A story of Conio — On the sea and in the East — Impressions of 
 Gibraltar — Malta — Syra — Smyrna and Constantinople. 
 
 At the close of our long and delightful holiday we had the curious 
 experience of seeing Robertson's comedy, Play, acted by those 
 clever amateurs the ' Windsor Strollers,' at the odd little theatre in 
 the royal borough, since, we hear, destroyed. We distinctly recall 
 the excellent comic acting of Captain Gooch, and the ease and 
 sang-froid of Augustus Spalding ; while the Hon. Mrs. Wrottesley 
 reminded us strongly of the late Mrs. Frank Matthews, and played 
 with the skill of a practised actress. One of Sir Charles Young's 
 little pieces, called For Her Child's Sake, was acted on the same 
 evening by the lamented author and Lady Monckton, who was then 
 justly considered the first amateur of 'leading' parts; she has since 
 proved her undoubted and conspicuous ability, by her admirable per- 
 formance \njiin the Penman, when she joined the professional ranks. 
 
 We have never had the pleasure of seeing the other ' crack team,' 
 the ' Old Stagers,' although we more than once received an invita- 
 tion for the ' Canterbury Week,' which our holiday abroad com- 
 pelled us to forego, so we can only regret not knowing, except by 
 hearsay, how clever our old friends Sir Henry de Bathe and Sir 
 Spencer Ponsonby-Fane are as actors. Quintin Twiss we have 
 seen act several times, and especially recall an amateur pantomime 
 at the Gaiety, called Heme the Hunter, rendered memorable by 
 W. S. Gilbert appearing as harlequin, William Yardley as clown, 
 and the veteran Thomas Knox Holmes as pantaloon. Other 
 excellent amateurs whom we have seen on the stage certainly 
 comprise Lady Sebright, Lady Archibald Campbell, the Hon. Alec 
 Yorke, the Ponsonbys, and Charles Colnaghi. 
 
 While on this subject we may add that many admirable and suc- 
 cessful professional actors, who might easily be named, won their 
 spurs on the amateur stage. 
 
 We returned to work in November, resuming the run of School, 
 and acting also with Arthur Cecil in The Vicarage, the dear old- 
 
310 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 fashioned stay-at-home couple, and the wandering friend who for 
 the time so upsets the tranquiUity of their home. The only charige 
 in the cast of School was in the part of the usher, Krux, which 
 Mr. Brookfield now took in place of Mr. Forbes-Robertson, giving 
 an able but novel reading of the objectionable creature. 
 
 Mr. Burnand read his comedy in the green-room a few days 
 afterwards. All sorts of titles had been thought of for the new 
 work, two of which we remember. Tone and The Colonel. Seldom 
 has heartier laughter at a reading been heard than the bursts which 
 greeted the two first acts, but the comparative weakness of the third 
 was manifest both then and at the subsequent rehearsals. A very 
 elaborate esthetic scene, and equally telling furniture, with the 
 same characteristics, was prepared, and some of the parts would 
 certainly have been particularly well acted — to judge by the 
 rehearsals, which proceeded daily. 
 
 During their progress an unfortimate accident befell us. We 
 were driving a pair of young and rather restive horses, which were 
 giving the coachman some trouble ; the weather was bad, and 
 heavy flakes of snow were falling. While in earnest talk about the 
 play, we suddenly grew conscious that we were going at great 
 speed. This happened in Goodge Street. There one of the horses 
 got a leg over the pole, and in his efforts to extricate himself kicked 
 his companion, and the pair became maddened. We were now 
 nearing Middlesex Hospital. Things grew worse from the state of 
 the wet wooden pavement, and the coachman found himself power- 
 less to pull the horses up, so did his best to save us by driving: them 
 into a coal-waggon : this being empty, we cannoned from it, but 
 severely injured the horse that drew it. The concussion, however, 
 stopped the direction of our course, and the poor beasts dashed on 
 to the pavement and -into the railings of the private house adjoining 
 the chemist's at the corner of Berners Street. The railings were 
 smashed in, and the stones at their base torn up. Our descent into 
 the area was only prevented by a further flat railing or grating, 
 which enclosed it, still to be found in some old houses. The 
 brougham, by the force of all this, was turned over on its side, 
 which helped to bring the horses, wounded and entangled in their 
 broken harness, to a standstill. After a while, we were dragged 
 out through the window, fortunately unhurt, so far as flesh-wounds 
 went. The coachman was released from a perilous position more 
 frightened than injured, for he never afterwards drove with his 
 previous courage. 
 
 Although there was no doctor's bill to pay (if we may say so with- 
 out slight to veterinary surgeons), the reaction from the excitement 
 and alarm dwelt on our nerves for some time. 
 
 It was singular that this really alarming accident did not reach 
 the newspapers, while a few months previously a broken rein and a 
 consequent but momentary confusion, Avhich was arrested by the 
 prompt action of a policeman (certainly in the heart of town), was 
 
THE SEASON OF 1 880-81 311 
 
 placarded in the evening papers almost as soon as the occurrence 
 took place. 
 
 It is well to go from grave to gay when one can, so the sequel to 
 this carriage incident shall be told by Mrs. Bancroft ; ' I remember 
 my husband, who is very cool-headed in times of peril, putting all 
 the windows down and then holding me very tight until the crash 
 came. With a feeling of thankfulness that we escaped from what 
 might have been, for us, very serious, I will tell what happened 
 afterwards. I was dragged through the carriage-window by a 
 kindly navvy, whose black face almost frightened me out of the poor 
 senses I had left. Mr. Bancroft, whose hat, I may say, resembled 
 a concertina, took me into the chemist's close by, where they were 
 most kind, and gave me a restorative. With difficulty I got through 
 my work that night, for my nerves were completely unstrung. On 
 the following morning, after rehearsal, we walked down Northum- 
 berland Avenue to the Thames Embankment, and left orders for 
 the coachman to follow us there. I had by no means recovered 
 from the shock, and was still dwelling on our lucky escape, when 
 my attention was drawn to an uncovered cart being dragged lazily 
 along by a sleepy-looking horse, driven by a still more sleepy- 
 looking man. Inside the cart sat six very old Chelsea pensioners, 
 on six very old Windsor chairs, three on each side facing one 
 another. They had evidently been sent for an outing, but to judge 
 from the sad expression of their faces, and their weary eyes bent on 
 the bottom of the cart, wondering, perhaps, what they had done to 
 be so shaken about, neither looking to the left nor to the right, they 
 appeared to be more or less indifferent to everything that was going 
 on, looking the picture of resignation to the inevitable. A street 
 arab, who at a glance keenly appreciated the situation, stood gazing 
 at them with open mouth and a threatening twinkle in his eyes ; 
 and as-this cart-load of melancholy humanity slowly went along, he 
 said, in a whining voice, the tone of which fitted wonderfully to the 
 appearance of these poor soldiers of a long past, " Oh, what a day 
 you're 'aving !" Almost before our smiles had vanished, we saw the 
 carriage approaching, when our countenances suddenly changed, as 
 we asked ourselves, " Where on earth did the horse come from ?" 
 The coachman explained that, as our own horses were in hospital, 
 " knowing how nervous I was, he had borrowed a quiet one." I am 
 sure the animal came from some circus ; his colour was a sort of 
 rose-pink, he had pale, sleepy eyes, and a long cream-coloured tail 
 — a horse that would sit down when he heard a German band, from 
 force of habit ; his pace was that of the trained steed long accus- 
 tomed to carry a spangled lady on a decorated flat board like an 
 afternoon tea-table. The carriage was an open one, and I implored to 
 be allowed to get out and walk, for we were already attracting atten- 
 tion, and I feared the comic papers. The poor rose-pink steed 
 was quite calm ; no street noises disturbed him, and he was callous 
 to such rude remarks as " Oh ! I say, this is a horse wot leans agin' 
 
312 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 the wall to think !" " 'Ere, you with the long tail, a-robbin' the 
 sweepers of their coppers. Why don't you tie it up, mum, with 
 blue ribbon, or send him home to the Zoo ?" The circus-like steed 
 took no notice, and, I dare say, thought the boys were but clowns 
 in the ring. Had he seen a hoop, I am sure he would have jumped 
 through it ! At last we reached home, and the poor thing was sent 
 back to his native sawdust.' 
 
 After several attempts to alter the last act, and even to cut it out 
 altogether, we decided, all our objections being met in the kindest 
 spirit by the author, that Mr. Burnand's comedy was better suited 
 to a smaller theatre than the Haymarket ; and shortly after it 
 became the talk of the town at the Prince of Wales's, where TAe 
 Colonel was the means of re-establishing our old home in public 
 favour. 
 
 Not finding a new play to suit us among the reams of manuscript 
 we read, we resolved to revive Masks and paces, which had proved 
 so successful at the Prince of Wales's some five years or so before. 
 An offer to alternate the parts of Triplet and Colley Cibber, as 
 being likely to give some further interest to the performance, was 
 agreed to by Arthur Cecil ; so we began the new year by re- 
 hearsing the old play on its opening day, and, the cast being nearly 
 a changed one, it was a long time in preparation. 
 
 There was terrible weather early in the year : ' Black Tuesday ' 
 (January 1 8, 1 88 1) will be long remambered. On that afternoon we 
 saw one pavement of Regent Street quite clear of snow, while on 
 the opposite side the shops were closed, the drifts of snow being 
 half-way up the shutters ; the streets were deserts, and coachmen 
 of all vehicles had a hard time of it. It was weeks before the 
 mounds of snow piled in the squares and other open spots quite 
 disappeared. Naturally all places of amusement suffered very 
 much, and the theatres had their share of empty benches. 
 
 In a letter to a friend Mrs. Bancroft thus described the day : 
 ' The cyclone of Tuesday last photographed itself upon my memory, 
 and the negative is kept, so that I can reproduce it whenever it may 
 be necessary. It seemed as if Siberia and all the Russias had sent 
 their snow to London, to be added to and piled upon our own. 
 The anxiety was " how shall we manage to struggle to the" theatre 
 at night ?" But where there's a will there's a way, and although 
 the former was pretty well frozen, and the latter was blocked up 
 with snow, we turned up at the stage-door in appearance like 
 Father (and Mother) Christmas. Every member of the company 
 reached the theatre safely, several having to come long distances ; 
 it was funny to see the various effects the weather had on us : some 
 faces were white, others red, others blue — / was all three ! The 
 Vicarage was the first piece, and when the curtain rose, discovering 
 Mr. Cecil and myself as the Vicar and his wife playing chess, the 
 auditorium presented the strangest picture, but all the same so 
 ludicrous, that I could hardly resist laughing outright. There were 
 
THE SEASON OF 1880-81 313 
 
 seven people in the stalls with topcoats, mufflers, fur cloaks, and 
 large hoods — they must have fancied themselves in sleighs ; hardly 
 anyone in the balcony, and the people in' the rest of the theatre 
 seemed swathed in shawls, leaving nothing but a row of noses to 
 be seen. How they must have loved the drama to come at all ! I 
 could not proceed for a moment, for I saw at once the comic aspect 
 of the situation, and when my gaze met the expression on the faces 
 of the stall-occupants I could not restrain my laughter any longer. 
 I should have much liked to have invited them to tea in the green- 
 room, and have had no performance at all ! It was like playing to 
 a dead wall, not a sound of applause or laughter throughout the 
 evening. They might have been figures from Madame Tussaud's ! 
 When we started to walk or " thud " home, the expression on both 
 our faces would have been a study for a painter. The snow was 
 coming down fast, in flakes as big as notes waiting for an answer. 
 We were soon as white as the snow, and looked for all the world 
 like something "doomed for a certain time to walk the earth." 
 When at last we arrived home, we found the coachman with a spade 
 shovelling away the miniature mountains from the front of the 
 house ; I suppose he thought we were a part of them, for he nearly 
 shovelled us into the road too, before he discovered that we were 
 his master and mistress.' 
 
 If this state of things was trying to the robust, what must it have 
 been to the sick and ailing ? 
 
 Poor Sothern during all the winter had been wasting very fast. 
 After our return from Malvern we could not fail to see the rapid 
 strides disease had made ; and although to the last he looked for- 
 ward to recovery, it was plainly not to be. He lived then in Vere 
 Street, quite close to us, and we saw him as often as his sad state 
 allowed, for we both were fond of him, and were glad to be among 
 the last of his old friends to grasp his hand. The severe weather, 
 without doubt, put out the flickering flame a little earlier than might 
 have been. He died on the 20th, and a few fast friends went with 
 his remains to Southampton, where, in accordance with his wish, all 
 that is left of the once-courted Edward Askew Sothern lies. 
 
 How truly Pope says, 
 
 ' What's fame ? A fancied life in others' breath, 
 A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death.' 
 
 Let us once more recall his merry nature in happier days, and 
 give an instance of Sothern's well-known love of practical joking. 
 The keen enjoyment he derived, even when but a momentary 
 success could crown his unstinted expenditure of either time or 
 money, best proves this. The odd things he would constantly do 
 are difficult to write about, but we will try to relate an instance of a 
 joke, quite harmless in its results, of a kind he thoroughly enjoyed. 
 After acting in Liverpool, he had a spare week before going on to 
 Ireland, which he passed with a friend (as fond of fun as himself) 
 
314 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 in North Wales, when the two put up at a well-known old inn near 
 Bangor, greatly resorted to by famous anglers. 
 
 Sothem soon found out it was the custom for the oldest resident 
 among the guests for the time being to preside at the little iad^e 
 d'hote, over which they talked out their day's sport, and that it was 
 the rule for the chairman always to say grace. The joker one 
 evening learnt by accident, not long before the dinner-hour, that 
 the visitor who had for some days presided had received a telegram 
 which compelled a hurried packing up, and his departure. The 
 spirit of mischief prompted Sothern to send a little note in the 
 name of the landlord to all the other guests, some dozen or fifteen 
 — of course privately and separately — couched in these words : 
 ' Our esteemed president, I regret to say, will not be at dinner this 
 evening. May I venture to request you to have the kindness to say 
 grace in his aiosence ? The signal for the same will be two sharp 
 knocks upon the sideboard.' The signal, at the proper moment, 
 was of course given by Sothern, who was more than repaid by the 
 glee with which he often told how all the guests rose to a man, as 
 at a word of command, each commencing to pronounce his favourite 
 form of grace ; and then, with all sorts of blundering apologies to 
 each other, they resumed their seats. 
 
 Not until some time after he had passed away did the following 
 extract from a series of theatrical opinions by Sothern, which ap- 
 peared in America under the title of Birds of a Feather, come to 
 our knowledge : 
 
 ' Among the actresses, I should certainly place Mrs. Bancroft 
 and Mrs. Kendal in the foremost rank, their specialities being high 
 comedy. Mrs. Bancroft I consider the best actress on the Enghsh 
 stage ; in fact, I might say on any stage. She commenced her 
 profession as a burlesque actress, and was one of the best we have 
 ever seen in England. When she took the Prince of Wales's 
 Theatre she discarded the burlesque business, and, to the amaze- 
 ment of everyone, proved herself the finest comedy actress in 
 London. Her face, though not essentially pretty, is a mass of 
 intelhgence.' 
 
 To return to the rehearsals of Masks and Faces, which were con- 
 ducted with all the care bestowed upon a new work. Elaborate 
 dresses were made from the designs of the Hon. Lewis Wingfield ; 
 the scenery'and accessories realized the beauties of the eighteenth 
 century, as fully, perhaps, as any of our previous productions ; and 
 the revival commenced on Saturday, February 5th, 1881, with the 
 following cast of the familiar characters : Sir Charles Pomander, 
 Mr. H. B. Conway ; Ernest Vane, Mr. Dacre ; James Quin, Mr. 
 Teesdale ; CoUey Cibber (on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday 
 Evenings), Mr. Arthur Cecil — (on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday 
 evenings), Mr. Bancroft ; Triplet (on Tuesday, Thursday, and 
 
THE SEASON OF 1 880-81 315 
 
 Saturday evenings), Mr. Bancroft — (on Monday, Wednesday, and 
 Friday evenings), Mr. Arthur Cecil ; Mr. Snarl, Mr. Kemble ; Mr. 
 Soaper, Mr. C. Brookfield ; Lysimachus, Miss Kate Grattan ; 
 James Burdock, Mr. Stewart Dawson ; Colander, Mr. E. Smedley ; 
 Hundsdon, Mr. Dean ; Peg WoiBngton, Mrs. Bancroft ; Mabel 
 Vane, Miss Marion Terry ; Kitty Clive, Miss Wade ; Mrs. Triplet, 
 Mrs. Canninge ; Roxalana, Miss Mabel Grattan. The alternation 
 of the part of Triplet was the subject of an admirable comic sketch 
 by Charles Brookfield, depicting the two Triplets, the one lean and 
 hungry, the other in better feather, as both dressed for the part by 
 mistake on the same evening, and meeting on the staircase with 
 these exclamations, ' Really, my dear Arthur !' ' Oh, my goodness, 
 B. !' Dear Arthur, will you forgive us for thinking, whenever we 
 look at this caricature, that you seem too highly nourished for poor 
 half-starved Triplet? Collectors of correspondence on stage detail 
 will find some interesting letters at this date in the Daily News on 
 the subject of our exactitude, which are too voluminous to quote 
 here. We were even able to settle the question of whether or not 
 Roman numerals on the dial of a clock were correct, by speaking 
 of the actual time-piece which Foote presented to the green-room 
 of the old Haymarket Theatre more than a hundred years ago. 
 
 I (s. B. B.) bestowed great thought upon the part of Triplet, and 
 if I may accept the warm praises of the most accomplished critics, 
 I must believe the result was evident in an improved performance 
 on my less-matured attempt in 1875. A more refined view of the 
 character than had, so far as I could learn, been before taken of it, 
 I justify by the delicate treatment Peg Woffington shows Triplet in 
 her charity and help : were he not the broken wreck of a somewhat 
 cultured person, I think the kind-hearted, busy actress would have 
 relieved his wants in a blunter and simpler way. 
 
 The stir made by the performance far eclipsed our first production 
 of the play, and, as with School^ showed the value of our repertoire. 
 The criticisms, in fact, were one loud chorus of praise. Charles 
 Reade came to see the revival, and it is our impression that the 
 occasion was his last visit to a theatre ; he was, as we had always 
 found him, generous in his praise, keen in his judgment, helpful in 
 his criticism. 
 
 Before the play commenced, one night we leamt that Mr. Glad- 
 stone had stall-seats which were far removed from the stage, and 
 when he found this was so, had asked if anything could be done to 
 place him nearer, as his sense of hearing was becoming less keen. 
 We found the only vacant seats in the house were in the Royal 
 Box, which we begged to place at his disposal. In a day or two 
 came this autograph letter of thanks in generous acknowledgment 
 of so small a politeness : 
 
 ' 10, Downing Street, Whitehall, April t^, 1881. 
 
 ' Dear Sir, — Let me thank you very much for your courtesy in 
 allowing me with my party to occupy a most advantageous post in 
 
3i6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 your theatre on Saturday night. By so doing you secured to ms 
 the fulness of a great treat, which otherwise dechning powers of 
 sight and hearing would somewhat have impaired. 
 ' ' For the capital acting of the chief parts I was prepared ; but 
 the whole cast, likewise, seemed to me excellent. — I remain, dear 
 sir, your very faithful and obliged, W. E. GLADSTONE. 
 ' S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' 
 
 The life of that great statesman. Lord Beaconsfield, Gladstone's 
 strongest rival, was at this time hanging by a thread, and added 
 deeply to our regret at never having known him ; but a few weeks 
 before his fatal illness we missed one night, and only by three 
 minutes, the honour of presentation to him. The date of his death, 
 April igth, it still well remembered. These two great rivals of our 
 day, Disraeli and Gladstone, we have heard both cheered and 
 hooted in their turn by the mob. 
 
 Shakespeare, in truth, was ' not for an age, but for all time.' 
 How his words apply to any sometime idol of the crowd ! ' There 
 have been many great menihat have flattered the people, who never 
 loved them ; and there be many that they have loved, they know 
 not wherefore ; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate 
 upon no better ground.' 
 
 It was in the spring of this year that a rather amusing incident 
 occurred, which may be worth the telling here. When it happened, 
 we were careful to keep it from publicity. 
 
 Like most theatrical people, we were tormented by callers at all 
 hours of the day, and long had been obliged to teach our servants 
 to deny us to the band of applicants who looked like stage aspirants 
 or members of the fraternity of the ' great unacted.' One morning, 
 quite early, when the manservant who knew our ways, and had 
 learnt at certain hours to deny us to all comers, had been sent on a 
 message in the neighbourhood, the bell was answered by a foolish 
 housemaid who had no right to attend to its summons. The girl 
 admitted two ladies, showed them into a room downstairs, and 
 then announced that ' Mrs. Louison wished to see us.' We were 
 very busy at the time, and very angry at the interruption to our 
 work. Knowing no person named Louison, a polite message was 
 sent to the ladies to the effect that ' Mrs. Bancroft regretted she 
 was unable to see them so early without an appointment.' We 
 afterwards heard that when this message was delivered, both the 
 ladies repeated Mrs. Bancroft's name in some surprise, and, after 
 talking together, went away on foot. In the evening a letter was 
 received from Lady Sophia Macnamara, explaining that she was 
 one of the callers in the morning, and had mistaken 31, Cavendish 
 Square, for No. 37, the house of the distinguished dental surgeon, 
 Mr. (now Sir) John Tomes, with whom an appointment had been 
 made for the Princess Louise, on whom she was in waiting, and 
 who was our other visitor, the foolish servant having blundered 
 
THE SEASON OF 1 880-81 317 
 
 over the name announced by Lady Sophia. An answer explained 
 the facts of the case from our side, and shortly afterwards, being 
 invited by Sir Edward and Lady Inglefield to the honour of meet- 
 ing her Royal Highness, to whom Mrs. Bancroft was presented, 
 the Princess laughingly inquired of her ' if she remembered Mrs. 
 Louison ?' 
 
 There is but little else to tell of this part of the season, as Masks 
 and Faces uninterruptedly pursued its career of great attractive- 
 ness, which far eclipsed its earlier success at the Prince of Wales's 
 Theatre ; but we linger for a moment on the artistic recollection of 
 some very interesting performances of Othello given at the Lyceum, 
 in which Edwin Booth and Henry Irving, in friendly rivalry, alter- 
 nated the parts of lago and the Moor ; while Drury Lane was 
 visited by the distinguished Meiningen Company of German actors, 
 whom we also saw. We remember most their splendid grouping 
 and management of crowds va. Julius Ciesar, only Ludwig Barnay's 
 acting as Mark Antony striking us as being of the higher order. 
 We had the pleasure to meet the leading members of the troupe, at 
 a reception given to them shortly afterwards, in the studio of Mr. 
 Boehm, the eminent sculptor, when their Royal Highnesses the 
 Prince and Princess of Wales honoured the gathering with their 
 presence. 
 
 This second run of Masks and Faces lasted well beyond a 
 hundred nights, and to close the season, a few final representations 
 of Society and renewed performances of Good for Nothing formed 
 the attraction. This change of programme commenced on June 
 I rth. We announced that the old comedy, which more than fifteen 
 years before had laid the foundation of our success and had not 
 been revived since 1874, would now be acted for the last times 
 under our management, and for a brief period only, the principal 
 parts being taken as follows : Lord Ptarmigant, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; 
 Sidney Daryl, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Tom Stylus, Mr. Bancroft ; 
 Mr. John Chodd, sen., Mr. Kemble ; Mr. John Chodd, jun., Mr. C. 
 Brookfield ; Lady Ptarmigant, Mrs. Canninge ; and Maud Hether- 
 ington. Miss Cavalier. 
 
 A very elaborate scene of the London Square was painted by 
 Mr. Hann, and we were glad to find the old comedy stood the 
 lapse of time, and transplanting to the larger stage, far better than 
 was expected. This final performance by us of Society — for at the 
 end of it we gave up the rights to the author's children — was full of 
 memories to us both, it having been the lucky stepping-stone to all 
 that followed in our career. 
 
 Buckstone's effective comic drama, which so delightfully makes 
 poor Nan a charming heroine, materially strengthened the bill, 
 and was played as in the old Prince of Wales's days two years 
 before. 
 
 Apropos of this performance came the following letter from the 
 accomplished German actor of whom we have just spoken : 
 
3i8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' 8, Craven Street, June i8, 1881. 
 
 ' Highly honoured Sir, — Allow me to tell you how much I 
 was charmed with yesterday's representation both of Society and 
 Good for Nothing. I confess I wondered at and admired likewise 
 the perfection of the particular artistic performances, as well as the 
 entire production and the excellent ensemble. Receive my hearty 
 thanks for giving me the opportunity of seeing this representation, 
 which will form a striking point in my London recollections. — In 
 great esteem, yours, Ludwig Barnay, 
 
 'To S. B. Bancroft, Esq.' 
 
 We had, some time before, bought the English rights of a bright 
 little one-act comedy, played by Chaumont as Lolotte ; and a 
 version, suggested by the story, was very cleverly written for us by 
 Mr. Burnand, under the title of A Lesson. This, we resolved, 
 should commence the following season in November, in conjunc- 
 tion with a revival {faute de ?nieux) of Tom Taylor's drama, Plot 
 and Passion. These plays were partly got ready before we closed, 
 and, having again let our theatre for an autumn season, we had 
 the curious experience of renewing old memories by once or twice 
 rehearsing on the familiar stage of the Prince of Wales's Theatre, 
 which was kindly offered to us by our tenant, Mr. Bruce, who was 
 still prospering with The Colonel. 
 
 We may here say that the Prince of Wales's Theatre was subse- 
 quently condemned by the authorities, and, after being for some 
 time untenanted, was eventually occupied by the Salvation Army. 
 If ever we are at all near, it is difficult to resist looking at our 
 former home, for a walk in front of it and round about the old 
 stage-door is fertile in remembrances ; even to the same butcher in 
 an adjoining street, who still solicits custom from the passers-by in 
 terms which had often amused us : ' Now then, gather round, ladies 
 — gather round ; the finest beef in London : hask the hanimal !' 
 Outside the deserted little theatre we lately read an announcement 
 of an approaching ' send off' to be given to a member of the ' corps,' 
 who was about to visit America. At the foot of the placard were 
 these extraordinary words : ' At 9.30 — Ham ! Jam ! and Hallelujah !' 
 
 After an association, as pleasant privately as it was professionally, 
 of many years' duration, at the close of this season, we lost the 
 valuable services of our musical conductor, Mr. Meredith Ball, who 
 obtained an engagement at the Lyceum Theatre, where the season 
 was more extended and without the long vacations we felt we had 
 earned. Mr. Ball, it need not be said, has proved his value to Mr. 
 Irving in many magnificent productions — notably in Faust. 
 
 I recall some rare fun we had with Meredith Ball, through my 
 
 A PRACTICAL reviving a practical joke, almost as old no doubt as 
 
 JOKE BY MR. the historical ' Berners Street hoax.' I had a large 
 
 BANCROFT, number of visiting-cards eng-raved, bearing the name 
 
 of ' Mr. J. J. Withers,' and for months afterwards, wherever Mere- 
 
THE SEASON OF 1 880-81 319 
 
 dith Ball went, one of these cards would follow him, being left by 
 confederates at his house, or at the theatre by myself, when it was 
 known the caller would not find him. After awhile, the mystery was 
 increased by such pencilled messages as, ' So sorry to miss you ; 
 saw our old Liverpool friends yesterday' — 'Unlucky again ;• will 
 call to-morrow at twelve.' Ball, terribly agitated and puzzled, 
 would confide to us at night that this invisible visitor went between 
 him and his rest, for he prided himself on a good memory, and 
 asserted that he had never known anyone named Withers in his 
 life. AH'appointments made, of course, were broken, to be followed 
 by another card with an apology, left by me with our hall-keeper, 
 who played conspirator, and who, in answer to searching inquiries 
 as to Withers's personal appearance, gave a vague description, 
 which still hid my identity. Letters soon followed the cards, 
 regretting the writer's ill-luck at not finding 'his old friend ;' great 
 indignation on Ball's part at the expression, which culminated in 
 an agony of despair as to who his tormentor could really be, when 
 Withers said in a postscript, ' So you, too, are married, old fellow !' 
 Telegrams followed letters, with the same fun and result ; and, 
 after making an appointment at the Crystal Palace, we followed it 
 up by a telegram from Euston, of course signed Withers, expressing 
 his regret at being hurriedly summoned to Liverpool. The next 
 step, in a day or two's time, was a letter, bearing the Liverpool 
 postmark, from ' Mrs. Withers !' explaining that her husband had 
 hurriedly sailed on a business matter for New York, and begged 
 her to express his deep regret at not having yet renewed his old 
 friendship. Ball's agitation at the whole affair, I am afraid, caused 
 us immense amusement. After a long lapse of time — a year, I 
 think — ' J. J. Withers ' returned from the States, and again left his 
 card at the theatre and also at Ball's house ; the excitement of the 
 unfortunate recipient was once more worked up to fever-heat, and 
 the same sort of fun was again carried on successfully, although 
 broken by a holiday, before Ball, maddened by all sorts of adven- 
 tures and delays on the part of the ghostly ' J. J. Withers,' suc- 
 ceeded in meeting ' his old friend ;' his unsuspicious nature never 
 once being awakened by misgivings. During this holiday. Ball 
 stayed with friends in Leicestershire, to whom he told the story 
 and all its torments. Months afterwards, when he was leading his 
 band in the orchestra of the little Prince of Wales's Theatre one 
 evening, a man came hurriedly to the door, when this conversation 
 took place : 
 
 Messenger : ' Mr. Ball, there's a gentleman at the stage-door 
 who wants to see you, sir.' 
 
 Ball (fully occupied with a delightful operatic selection) : ' Go 
 away, I can't speak to you now.' 
 
 Messenger: 'Very sorry, sir; but the gent says it's most 
 important, and he must see you.' 
 
 Ball (taking up his violin, of which he was a master in Costa's 
 
320 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 band) : ' Must see me. Go back and ask the gentleman's 
 name.' 
 
 Ball for a few minutes afterwards was lost in the execution of a 
 dreamy solo which, being out of sight of the audience, he would 
 sometimes play himself, when the man returned and again put his 
 head in at the door. 
 
 Messenger : ' Beg pardon, Mr. Ball.' 
 
 Ball : ' Well ?' 
 
 Messenger : ' The gent says his name is Mr. J. J. Withers, 
 sir.' 
 
 Ball (almost dropping his fiddle) : 'What !' 
 
 Messenger : ' Mr. J. J. Withers, sir.' 
 
 Ball (still fiddling violently) : ' Withers !— at last. Don't let 
 him go. HI be upstairs in a minute. Shut the door — lock him in 
 — anything — but don't let him escape !' 
 
 Messenger : ' All right, sir.' (Going away.) ' What's up ? 
 Who's this Withers, I wonder ?' 
 
 Ball hurried the time, brought the selection to an end — threw 
 down his violin —rushed upstairs, and arrived, panting, in the hall, 
 to be received with roars of laughter by — his friend from Leicester- 
 shire, who had not forgotten Ball's story of the previous summer, 
 and announced himself for a joke as the shadowy 'J. J. Withers.' 
 
 A long, long time afterwards I came across a packet of cards 
 which still bore the name of 'J. J. Withers.' I thought of all the 
 old fun, and that it was unlikely we could again revive it, so I 
 sealed up the cards in a large envelope and addressed them to the 
 theatre, with my compliments, to Meredith Ball. In the evening, 
 our old friend told me with quite a sorrowful voice, and a really 
 saddened look, that / kad shattered the roma7ice of his life ! I 
 hope he has long since forgiven my ruthless act. 
 
 The season came to an end with the month of July, and again we 
 were faithful to Pontresina. Again, too, we were fortunate in 
 travelling companions, meeting, on their way to the same destina- 
 tion. Lord Bennet and Arthur Cecil, with whom we recall a pleasant 
 evening in the little inn at Muhlen, where the former, to the latter's 
 accompaniment, by his charming singing of ' Santa Lucia,' stirred 
 such powerful emotions in the breast of the landlord's pretty 
 daughter — which we framed of course as a love-story — that she 
 burst into tears and ran out of the room. 
 
 We had a warm welcome from our old hosts, who received us 
 with smiles and bouquets, at the Hotel Roseg, and a restful stay 
 there. Of the Engadine there is nothing new to tell ; the usual 
 visitation from wandering minstrels, Tyrolean vocalists, and travel- 
 ling conjurers being this year supplemented by an excellent Hun- 
 garian band, which performed alternately at the chief hotels at 
 St. Moritz and Pontresina. 
 
 These entertainments were added to by still another given for 
 
THE SEASON OF 1 880-81 321 
 
 the charities by ourselves and friends. Our efforts grew more 
 and more ambitious and dramatic, trying the utmost resources 
 of the Engadine to illustrate, for we not only repeated our perform- 
 ance of The Vicarage, but followed it by the amusing scene between 
 Lady Franklin and Mr. Graves from Lord Lytton's comedy Money, 
 and also acted Good for Nothing. 
 
 This entertainment largely increased both funds for which we 
 worked, and the result well repaid the labour of all concerne'd, 
 which was really considerable. In The Vicarage we this year had 
 the experienced aid of an excellent amateur in Mr. Dundas 
 Gardiner on the stage, while another, Mr. Byrom, helped us very 
 much 'behind the scenes,' clearing and rearranging the stage, in 
 fact, in sight of the audience, for there was no curtain. We also 
 found highly intelligent recruits in an ardent lover of the Engadine, 
 Mr. Arthur Swan, and a young soldier son' of Madame Lind Gold- 
 schmidt, both of whom aided Arthur Cecil and ourselves very much 
 in making up the cast of the farce, which was admirably played 
 throughout. 
 
 When we left Pontresina this year we went down to Italy by the 
 Maloja Pass ; breaking the great descent from the high air for one 
 night at a new hotel, and kind of half-way house, built evidently for 
 the purpose, at Promontogno. In the morning we drove past the 
 frontier at Castasegna, where the douane is, and on to Colico ; there 
 we caught the boat for Cadenabbia, and in its olive groves we 
 dreamed away another fragment of repose. 
 
 In the words of Longfellow, who wrote them of this enchanting 
 spot : 
 
 ' I ask myself, Is this a dream ? 
 Will it all vanish into air? 
 Is there a land of such supreme 
 And perfect beauty anywhere ?' 
 
 Seated one night by the little quay in front of the H6tel Belle 
 Vue, when the lake was bathed in moonlight, which wrought to the 
 full its romantic influence, we were told a little story of its fascina- 
 tion in something like these words : 
 
 ' It is five-and-twenty years since I first visited the Lake of Como, 
 and I come to it again and again whenever I can do so. The first 
 time I was here I fell into conversation with a stranger who wag 
 then what I am now, a middle-aged Englishman, whom I had met 
 on one of the boats. He told me that it was then twenty-five years 
 since he had known the lake — when he was a youngster enjoying a 
 holiday before joining his regiment, to which he had just been 
 gazetted, in India. He fell ill with fever during his first year of 
 service, and was sent home on sick leave. He disembarked at 
 some port in the Mediterranean, resolved to take the Lake of Como 
 for a brief visit on his way to his own country. Bewitched by its 
 beauties more and more, he lingered on, till at last he felt how little 
 of his leave would remain for home and friends. England, he 
 
 21 
 
322 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 added, he found so cold and sunless, while his beloved lake acted 
 so powerfully as a magnet as to draw him back to pass there the 
 brief remnant of his leave. I came,' said the soldier, ' as fast as I 
 could get here, being miserly over every hour I had left to me for 
 indulgence in its fascination. One day, quite soon, I met an Italian 
 girl with whom I fell desperately in love. In a few words I'll tell 
 you my life and history since I proposed to her — I was accepted ; 
 I resigned my commission ; I married ; I bought a villa on the 
 shores of Como ; I've lived there ever since ; and here,' pointing to 
 a handsome lad of some twenty years, 'comes my son. Let rne 
 present him.' 
 
 Our holiday was far from ended. As I had arranged to go for a 
 
 ON THE SEA trip to Constantinople, chiefly for the sake of a sea- 
 
 AND IN voyage in the delightful companionship of J. C. Parkin- 
 
 THE EAST, son, Mrs. Bancroft deciding meanwhile to renew her 
 
 BY s. B. B. acquaintance with Malvern, my pen must, unaided, 
 travel to the end of this chapter, to describe ' fresh fields and 
 pastures new.' Some items of our experiences, I hope, will not be 
 without interest. 
 
 We took passage for Malta in the P. and O. steamship Deccan, 
 and by the great kindness of our friend Mr. Sutherland (now M.P. 
 for Greenock), the chairman of the company, were allowed the 
 privilege of two of her officers' cabins on deck. Before we sailed, 
 Mrs. Bancroft went with me one day to go over the ship and lunch 
 with the captain and ofiScers. The visit, I regret to say, seemed 
 only to confirm her terror of the sea, ' and all that therein is.' She 
 preferred the bracing air and hills of Malvern to the possibilities of 
 the Channel, and more especially the Bay of Biscay. 
 
 On September 28th, we sailed from Southampton. The pilot, 
 when he left us, bore a little bundle of parting telegrams, and then 
 came the peace given only by the sea. My friend Parkinson lived 
 in the chief officer's cabin, while I occupied the doctor's sanctum. 
 Although the space and privacy this concession gave were highly 
 valued, truth compels me to tell the luxury was not an unmixed 
 blessing, for just outside my door there was a kind of poultry-yard, 
 the feathered occupants of which never failed to remind me of their 
 existence in the early hours, while, periodically, their short span of 
 life was noisily shortened for table purposes. Very close, and also 
 within view, was the slaughter-house and home of the- ship's 
 butcher ! So the intending traveller by sea will learn there are 
 many considerations in the choice of a deck-cabin. The greatest 
 question of all, however — the weather — was solved quite in our 
 favour. The dreaded Bay was almost pond like, and the knot of 
 fellow-passengers whom we chummed with — chiefly soldiers and 
 civil servants returning from ' leave ' to India — cordial and friendly ; 
 the picturesque surroundings of ayahs, seedie boys, coolies, negroes, 
 • lascars, and Chinamen being new to me, although familiar enough 
 
THE SEASON OF 1 880-81 323 
 
 to so tried an Eastern traveller as my companion, and often 
 described by his graphic pen. There was also a handsome but 
 wicked-looking syce (I think that is the correct name for a groom 
 in India) on board, who was in charge of two blood-horses which 
 he was taking out to his master, the Rajah of somewhere. The 
 man, I remember, wore rings on some of his toes, and silver orna- 
 ments screwed through his nostrils. This trip was of wonderful 
 service in furnishing me with all kinds of detail for a proposed 
 revival we contemplated, in time of need, of the old Haymarket 
 comedy, the Overland Route, and I did not fail to observe all that 
 passed around me, taking copious notes, and making rough draw- 
 ings of much that was enacted in the way of life on ship-board. 
 
 We reached Gibraltar at noon on the Sunday after we sailed, 
 and, having to remain some hours in harbour for coaling purposes, 
 after going through the pratique ceremony, we spent the time on 
 shore. The heat was intense, and the parched air in strong con- 
 trast to the breezes that followed our floating home. After a halt 
 at the telegraph-office to let our belongings know.that all was well, 
 and a visit to the English Club, where we devoured, as travellers 
 only can, a file of the Times, we inspected all that we could see, in 
 the hours at our disposal, of England's wonderful possession, which 
 breathes ' Rule Britannia' at every turn one takes, and still had 
 time to drive to the Spanish lines, and through a neighbouring 
 village before rejoining our ship. When we reached her deck I 
 learnt another lesson — my cabin was on the coaling side, and I had 
 not shut the window ! 
 
 In lovely weather still, which grew appreciably hotter day by 
 day, we sailed for Malta. 
 
 Soon the piano was hoisted from the saloon to the upper-deck, 
 where ladies played or, sang, and where small impromptu dances 
 were indulged in by those inclined that way. The days went 
 quickly by, and we were very close to Malta before I felt the 
 smallest wish to resign a meal. My last breakfast on board the 
 Deccan proved, I confess, a trouble to me, and I was reminded that 
 la mer, with the privilege of her sex, gave indications of a change 
 of temper. Nothing serious, however, happened before we said 
 good-bye to our friends on board, and were rowed ashore as the 
 majestic troopship Jumna moved slowly from the harbour on her 
 road to India. 
 
 The value of Malta to us is, perhaps, hardly appreciated by those 
 who have never seen the island or the Mediterranean. I know that 
 the sight of it very much impressed my mind. Our visit was most 
 interesting, although limited to two days and a night, for into that 
 brief time we crowded much experience. Being made free of the 
 English Club, we had another chance of knowing something of the 
 world's doings. Of course we bought lace and silver things in the 
 Strada Reale, and saw the Church of the Knights of St. John ; but 
 our most interesting excursion was to a monastery, of which I 
 
 21 — 2 
 
324 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 forget the name, although I remember well being shown the vaults 
 where dead monks, like mummies, were propped up in niches, and 
 the calm smile of the brother who escorted us when he pointed to a 
 vacant space which he explained was waiting so for him. He was 
 an old man then, so perhaps his time may have already come to be 
 placed there. 
 
 Our pleasant stay at Malta was cut short by hurried news that 
 the Cunard ship Cherbourg^ in which we had booked a cabin for 
 Constantinople, would sail earlier than was expected ; so we 
 packed in haste and got on board at nightfall with little time 
 to spare. 
 
 The weather had distinctly changed, and for the worse. A vile 
 wind, called the sirocco, made things wretched for the time, es- 
 pecially to those who, like myself, can only be called fine-weather 
 sailors. 
 
 All the next day I was in my berth, my frame of mind being only 
 known by sufferers from sea-sickness. In a spirit far removed 
 from any thought of boasting, but of perfect thankfulness, it may 
 be of some interest to state that this day and another day in 1858, 
 and also from the same cause when I crossed the Atlantic, are the 
 only days since my early boyhood that I have passed in bed. 
 Many a time I dare say I should have been wiser to have stayed 
 there, but I have always struggled against small illnesses, having 
 often acted when in pain, and often, too, in sorrow. 
 
 On the following morning my friend Parkinson conquered my 
 demoralized state, and helped me, in a condition of eccentric dis- 
 habille, to reach the deck ; there I remained throughout the day, 
 and soon was well again. Our life was very changed from the 
 routine of the Deccan — all was now on a much smaller scale, and 
 by no means so amusing ; there was but a mere handful of pas- 
 sengers, while we carried heavy cargo, which we learnt would 
 necessitate delays at Syra and .Smyrna before we reached Con- 
 stantinople. Our chief amusement was listening to marvellous 
 yarns spun by one of the officers, who owed to his Munchausen- 
 like proclivities the name we always knew him by — ' The Baron.' 
 The Cherbourg was one of the smaller vessels of the Cunard fleet, 
 and, by comparison with the big P. and O. steamer we had quitted, 
 and the frequency with which we had the chief deck all to our- 
 selves, we might have been on a large steam yacht. In beautiful 
 weather we passed through a sort of network, to judge by the 
 charts, of Grecian islands, and anchored at daybreak one morning 
 in the bay off Syra. Parkinson and I at once were rowed ashore 
 to see the picturesque little city, which ranks second in importance, 
 I believe, in the Greek kingdom. We caught sight of a small boy 
 who, as he walked down the chief street, affixed here and there 
 upon the walls a brief announcement printed on note-paper with a 
 mourning edge. Upon inspection, we gathered that it referred to 
 a funeral to take place that day. Later on two Greek ladies. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1 880-81 325 
 
 fellow-passengers, also came ashore, and we found the ceremony 
 was about to be held in the cathedral, so we resolved to go there 
 and see the rites ; on our way a little crowd attracted our attention, 
 and we found ourselves outside the home of the deceased — an old 
 lady who had only died that morning. Soon her body was carried 
 forth by sailors upon an open bier, and, as it passed, some people 
 came out upon the house-tops, and cast vessels of water on the 
 ground between the corpse ^nd those who followed it to the grave. 
 This was explained to us as an old Eastern superstition, its purport 
 being to keep death away from the survivors ; we were also told 
 that the dress in which the poor, cofKnless body was clothed was 
 most likely the result of the savings of a lifetime. We followed, 
 full of reflections, to the handsome church, where many priests, 
 clad in the gorgeous garments of the Greek ritual, surrounded by 
 the mourners and the bearers of handsome censers, received the 
 dead with chants, and fulfilled the last obsequies ; one of the dig- 
 nitaries seemed throughout the ceremony to keep an eye upon us, 
 but I have every hope that our behaviour was quite decorous while, 
 like all present, we stood round the bier, and carried in our hands 
 long lighted candles. When all was over our thoughts were 
 brought back to a strong sense of this world's smallness by the 
 unseemly haste displayed in extinguishing the said candles ; for, 
 with marvellous dexterity, two creatures had blown the whole large 
 number out almost before the body had been carried from the 
 building. 
 
 There was still more cargo to discharge, or else some to take on 
 board, when the night fell, so we remained at anchor in the harbour, 
 our vexation at the delay being little assuaged by the sight of 
 burning mills, which caught fire soon afterwards. These mills 
 were built upon some heights, and the flames with much grandeur 
 lighted up the city and the shipping which reposed in its little 
 bay. 
 
 Soon we were at Smyrna, and, again delayed by cargo, we went 
 on shore : certainly we had seen nothing so Eastern as the sight 
 the quays presented. We found types of every race and nation in 
 all the picturesqueness taught by some remembrance of the 
 ' Arabian Nights.' Caravans on their way with their troops of 
 camels, merchants and pilgrims, and many countenances whose 
 owners looked like murderers or thieves. We made straight for 
 our Consul, and were much indebted to his kindness ; he was a 
 cheery, good-looking old gentleman, and warned us strongly not to 
 go to Ephesus, as its neighbourhood was at the time infested by 
 bandits. Had I disobeyed the kind advice, what a chance might 
 have been given for sensation paragraphs, headed in the London 
 newspapers ' An Actor's Ransom ' ! Our friend urged us by all 
 means to quit the quays well before nightfall ; and so that we 
 might see the bazaars in safety, he sent us through them under 
 the care of his own cavass, a handsome petticoated Greek, who 
 
326 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 recalled Byron's corsair to my mind, with his sash and girdle one 
 mass of pistols, swords, and daggers, somewhat interfered with by 
 a prosaic umbrella. Under this escort we went fearlessly where 
 otherwise we never should have ventured to intrude. We also 
 followed the wise counsel of our new-found friend, and slept on board. 
 
 Irritated in the morning at seeing the mass of cargo still to be 
 stowed away, and a little tired of the stories of the modern Mun- 
 chausen, we resolved to tranship to a Russian steamer sailing that 
 afternoon for Constantinople, and to quit the Che^-bourg. All this, 
 with a little strategy, was briefly done. We soon found ourselves 
 on board the Nahimoff, and the proud possessors of a state cabin 
 containing two iron bedsteads — luxuries till then unknown to us at 
 sea. 
 
 After an excellent dinner, and tasting tea really a la Russe, we 
 went on the lower deck, and, in the moonlight, made the tour of its 
 picturesque-looking native occupants ; for your Easterns spend 
 but little on transit — most of the travellers, in fact, carried their 
 own bedding, or were contented with the hospitality of a prayer- 
 carpet. 
 
 We saw wonderful groups of humanity huddled patiently to- 
 gether, sometimes in the open, sometimes under improvised tents ; 
 and before turning in to our more refined quarters, had a pleasant 
 talk with the captain, who proved to be an Irishman by birth, 
 though naturalized as a Russian, who owned the British name of 
 Thomas. 
 
 Our sojourn on this ship, if all went well, was only to extend to 
 forty hours ; and cheerfully enough they passed away, there being 
 much to watch, when we were up and about next day, in the move- 
 ments of our humbler travelling-companions, whose lives on deck 
 were so en Evidence. Among them, to our amazement, we found an 
 officer of some rank in the Turkish army, who travelled with his 
 own bed, and packed it up himself ; while all the way from Smyrna 
 to Constantinople he removed no clothing but his boots, and lived 
 entirely, throughout both days, on scraps of cheese and olives. 
 The well-known reputation of the Turks as soldiers, if well led, is 
 doubtless a little due to the small amount of food they want, even 
 in hardship. ' Tommy Atkins,' I fancy, must have his commissariat 
 better supplied. So far as we could see and judge, no single soul 
 on board, except the few who travelled at first-class fares and ate 
 and drank in the saloon, spent a single coin. One and all seemed 
 to carry with them, in a sort of gipsy fashion, everything they 
 wanted, and showed no sign of irritation or fatigue. When morn- 
 ing came they calmly stowed away their bedding ; and when evening 
 fell, before remaking it, they sedately spread their prayer-carpets 
 and went through their orisons, unmindful of the gaze of the be- 
 nighted. My thought as I again went to bed was what on earth 
 would happen to them all if a storm came on ! Would such a 
 visitation, I wonder, have ruffled their seeming stoicism? 
 
THE SEASON OF 1880-81 327 
 
 After a short agony as to the load of humanity on board inter- 
 fering with a clean bill of health, and bitter thoughts of possible 
 quarantine, we steamed down the Bosphorus at an early hour. 
 The morning mists fortunately dispersed in time to show us the 
 wonderful view as we approached Constantinople — a view described 
 so often and so ably that I shall not attempt to paint the picture of 
 its mosques and minarets, its towers and temples, glittering in the 
 Eastern sun. 
 
 When we landed, disenchantment came. Our quarters were at 
 Missiri's during our short visit, and we carried away no particular 
 remembrance of its comfort. A guide, who proved an amusing 
 rascal with a strong belief in the powers of 'backsheesh,' was 
 engaged, and a few days were devoted to hard sight-seeing. We 
 ascended the Galata Tower, from which the sight well repays the 
 toil ; we ' did ' Santa Sophia and other mosques until we were 
 tired of taking off our boots, and shambling in ill-fitting slippers on 
 the marble floors ; we saw and marvelled at both the dancing and 
 the howling dervishes ; we rowed in a caique on the Golden Horn ; 
 we bought bad cigarettes in the Grande Rue of Pera (which, to my 
 thinking, is very like a street in a third-rate Italian town, with 
 nothing but the fez to bespeak the East) ; we thought the bazaars 
 of Stamboul very inferior to those we had visited at Sriiyrna ; we 
 went to a music-hall with the British Consul, who was most kind to 
 us, and found the stage occupied by English artists well known at 
 the Oxford or the Alhambra ; we enjoyed the hospitality of the 
 English Club, where we saw our friend the Turkish officer as a 
 guest, looking furtively at our table, we thought, and guessing how 
 much we remembered of the cheese and olives ; we saw the crowds 
 of scarred street-dogs, and heard their howls too often in the night ; 
 we were jolted to death in the vilest vehicles over the worst-paved 
 roads I have ever seen or read of ; in a word, we rushed about 
 from place to place and saw much that lies between Stamboul and 
 Therapia, including a sweet and peaceful reminder of home in the 
 green and well-kept cemetery, with its English custodian, on the 
 heights of Scutari, where lie the graves of many of our Crimean 
 heroes. 
 
 Invitations to dinner, and one to a soiree and some amateur 
 theatricals given at the summer residence of the British Embassy 
 at Therapia, reached me, which were all the pleasanter as I bore 
 no letters of introduction. I could not accept them, for it was ' the 
 sea, the sea, the open sea,' I wanted, and, my time being limited, I 
 took passage for Marseilles in one of the Messagerie Imperiale 
 line of steamers. The voyage, alas, had to be made alone, for 
 Parkinson was not, like me, tied to dates, and had resolved to 
 ramble on. My old friend saw me off, and, as he was rowed back 
 to the shore, I felt veiy like the returning schoolboy of my youth, 
 who waves his adieux with ghastly smiles, which vainly try to mask 
 his deep emotions, as those dear to him fade further from his view. 
 
328 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 This six days' voyage in the Provence was strong in contrast 
 to the time I had passed on board the Deccan. Of the two services 
 I preferred the English hne, although many frequent travellers in 
 the Mediterranean think otherwise. I was unfortunate with regard 
 to our stopping-places, as we were anchored off the Piraeus in the 
 middle of the night (I remember being at once woke up by the 
 silence of the engines), and reached the Bay of Naples at an hour 
 too late to go ashore ; although even then our deck swarmed with 
 vendors of goods in mock coral and doubtful tortoise-shell, than 
 which a few stale English newspapers were much more in request, 
 The number of my fellow-passengers was limited ; they included, 
 however, two Englishmen, a Q.C. and a doctor, with whom I 
 chummed, which partly passed the time, the rest being given up to 
 studying the part of Fouchd for our coming performance of Plot 
 and Passion. The weather throughout was good, and the shores 
 of the Riviera looked very beautiful as we neared our destination. 
 I could hardly believe, as I thought over all I had seen, that I had 
 been but four short weeks away from England. 
 
 After the delights of the douane at Marseilles, there was yet time 
 for a drive through the town before starting for Paris by the night 
 express. Although it was now the end of October the trees in the 
 chief streets were still thickly clad with autumn leaves, and French 
 gaiety reigned in the pretty shops and on the handsome boulevards. 
 As we travelled northwards, a few hours later, we grew rapidly 
 conscious of great change in the temperature. At Lyons one 
 positively shivered, and the arrival in Paris at daybreak on a wintry 
 morning was in strong contrast to the Mediterranean heat of the 
 day before. 
 
 Paris playbills at this time included Le Monde ou Pon iennuie, 
 with its almost ideal original cast, at the Frangais, and Divorqons, 
 with the humorous acting of Chaumont and Daubray, at the Palais 
 Royal. I also learnt much about Sardou's coming play at the 
 Vaudeville before my return home, after an absence of thirty-three 
 days, to take up the rehearsals of Plot and Passion. During these 
 final preparations came the premiere of Odette, for which I crossed 
 the Channel again on a night I shall not readily forget ; the 
 weather at Dover Town Station was described, in answer to the 
 anxious question of a fellow-traveller in the same compartment, as 
 ' very dirty.' I guessed what this might mean, for it was raining 
 in torrents and blowing hard ; as I reached the gangway the deck 
 of the steamer seemed to be looking at me ; one moment's hesita- 
 tion between a bed at the Lord Warden or continuing my journey 
 ended in the latter choice. There was no private cabin to be had 
 for love or money ; the brief delay in learning this was long enough 
 to fill the saloon below, where, however, I found one vacant sofa, 
 and still can hear the groans of a fat Frenchman, who was my 
 nearest neighbour. We all passed an odious time, and I was not 
 sorry to be at last safely landed at the Mirabeau. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-82 329 
 
 Sardou's play proved greatly successful, the opening and closing 
 acts especially so ; the first act, indeed, is a play complete in itself, 
 and one of the most powerful the great dramatist ever wrote. At 
 its close I remember the chorus of voices in the couloirs — ' La 
 pifece est finie ! Qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire ?' In spite of this, and 
 many apparent difficulties in adapting it to the English stage, I 
 bought the right to do our best with it. That fine actor, Adolphe 
 Dupuis, although a little old for his character, and Blanche Pierson, 
 carried off the honours, Maria Legault being charming as the 
 ingilnue. 
 
 The old proverb was once more true — the storm was followed by 
 a calm, and when I recrossed the Manche, it was as hushed and 
 silent as a lake. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 88 1 -82. 
 
 Plot and Passion — A Lesson — Letter from F. C. Burnand— Mrs. Langtry's 
 dibut — Engagement of Madame Modjeska for Odette — Mrs. Langtry's 
 resolve to become a professional actress — Her appearance in Ours — Dinner 
 at Marlborough House to leading London actors — Death of the Dowager 
 Countess of Essex (' Kitty Stephens ')— Sardou's new play — An incident at 
 the ThMtre du Vaudeville — Odette — Modjeska's acting — Foundation of the 
 Actors' Benevolent Fund — Characteristic letter from Dion Boucicault — 
 Death of Benjamin Webster — His services to the stage — Letter from Henry 
 Irving — Engagement of Mrs. John Wood and David James— Arthur Cecil 
 leaves the company^Parting letters — End of a brilliant season — Again in 
 Switzerland — "The Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol — Church and stage — 
 Charles Wyndham's correspondence — A joke at Cadenabbia — A ' Funeral 
 Note.' 
 
 With regard to the elements, we have often been unlucky on our 
 opening nights, and this year were more so than usual, for the 26th 
 of November was most tempestuous ; throughout the evening the 
 sound of the storm penetrated to the theatre ; the large ventilator 
 over the sunlight, and smaller ones above the gallery ceiling, 
 groaned and rattled as the hurricane of wind whirled them round 
 and round, shaking their safety. When the audience assembled it 
 could not have been in a cheerful frame of mind. Whether the 
 drama, or the actors, or the spectators were one or the other, or all 
 three, a little dull, does not much matter now, but as truthful 
 chroniclers, we must not claim Plot and Passion to rank with our 
 best successes. 
 
 The novelty which followed fortunately made amends, and was 
 most warmly received. Mr. Burnand was unable to be present on 
 the first night of his clever little play, but wrote a letter on the 
 following day, which will confirm our impressions of the elements, 
 
330 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 and which we hope he will forgive us for printing as a sequel to an 
 extract from the play-bill. 
 
 This was our cast of P/oi and Passion, for which, it should be 
 mentioned, very effective costumes were designed by the Hon. Lewis 
 Wingfield ; Joseph Fouchd, Duke of Otranto, Mr. Bancroft ; Mar- 
 quis de Cevennes, Mr. Pinero ; Berthier, the Grand Chamberlain, 
 Mr. Teesdale ; Henri de Neuville, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Maximilian 
 Desmarets, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; GrisbouUe, Mr. Stewart Dawson ; 
 Jabot, Mr. Dean ; Marie de Fontanges, Miss Ada Cavendish ; 
 Cecile, Miss Augusta Wilton. After the drama was played for the 
 first time A Lesson, a new comedy in one act (founded on Lolotte), 
 written by Mr. F. C. Burnand : Sir Thomas Duncan, Mr. C. Brook- 
 field ; Mr. Wentworth, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Lady Duncan, Miss 
 Blanche Henri ; Markham, Miss Warden ; Miss Kate Reeve {of 
 the Theatres Royal), Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 ' i8, Royal Crescent, Ramsgate, November 27, 1881. 
 ' My dear Mrs. Bancroft, — Excuse the style of this letter, 
 for after such a fearful night here, not at the Haymarket, I write 
 with (a pen^yes) several tiles off! ! I sincerely congratulate you 
 upon what appears from the Observer to have been a Big Success 
 with a very Small Piece. We came down here to rest and be 
 thankful. We did not rest, and we are not thankful. Such a gale ! 
 The centre part of the crescent veranda at the back blown right 
 down, and the doors blockaded ; chimneys nowhere ; wrecks— 
 alas ! everywhere. Tugs and lifeboats in full employ. "A night 
 for crossing !" Well, to some it was a night for crossing themselves 
 and saying their prayers, for we thought that Mother Shipton's 
 prophecies had come true, and there was an end of everything, as 
 there is to this letter. Wife and self immensely pleased. We 
 thought of you at 10 and io'30 last night, and wondered. — Yours 
 very truly, F. C. BURNAND.' 
 
 A few days afterwards, and while our minds were agitated as to 
 the enduring capacity of Plot and Passion — that long-looked-for 
 treasure, a good original play, not having fallen into our hands, and 
 there being some months to face before the version of Sardou's 
 Odette could possibly be ready for production — we received a visit 
 from Mrs. Labouchere, who confirmed some rumours, which had 
 already appeared in print, apropos of a performance for a charity 
 in which she had taken part at Twickenham, announcing Mrs. 
 Langtry's determination to go upon the stage, and, if her ddbut 
 warranted her hopes, to follow the calling of an actress. Mrs. 
 Labouchere asked if we would allow this experiment to be made at 
 the Haymarket Theatre in an afternoon performance, to be given 
 in aid of the Royal General Theatrical Fund, when Mrs. Langtry 
 proposed to appear as Miss Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conquer, 
 in which part Mrs. Labouchere was already engaged in coaching 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-82 331 
 
 her. We took a day to reflect and weigh the muny pros and cons 
 the starthng proposition involved. We knew that our refusal would 
 be followed by immediate acquiescence at another theatre, while 
 we also felt that the extraordinary career of popularity which had 
 been Mrs. Langtry's lot for several London seasons must have 
 destroyed all fear of complete failure, for the ordeal of ' facing the 
 public ' had already been often and gracefully passed through, and 
 rendered composure almost a certainty, so our decision was to 
 announce the performance to take place on the 15th of December : 
 the prices of admission being arranged so as to serve the Charity 
 in a material way. Never, perhaps, was a theatre more besieged 
 for seats. All sections of society fought for places, and loud were 
 the lamentations in many a high quarter where non-success had 
 followed every effort to procure them. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Langtry, with quiet confidence, pursued her re- 
 hearsals, and public excitement to be present at this exceptional 
 dStei reached fever heat. Even the late Abraham Hayward, ac- 
 quaintance with whose wit and anecdote we had first made at the 
 table of Lord Chief Justice Cockburn, shared it so far as to write a 
 criticism on the event for the Times. 
 
 Before an audience which included the Prince and Princess of 
 Wales, and representatives of great distinction in fashion, art, and 
 literature, the performance took place. We occupied the novel 
 position of witnessing it from the stalls of our own theatre. Mrs. 
 Langtry was very quietly received upon her first entrance, but the 
 audience gradually thawed towards her, and it was generally agreed 
 that the effort was one of marked ability and promise. With re- 
 gard to its substantial result to the Theatrical Fund — the bribes and 
 efforts to obtain seats at any cost being throughout disregarded, 
 and the advertised prices strictly adhered to — we had the pleasure 
 of handing the secretary ^430. 
 
 Frequent conversations with Mrs. Langtry convinced us of her 
 earnest intention to play with all seriousness and desperation for an 
 important stake, and we agreed upon the terms of an engagement 
 until April, which month we had fixed for our production of Odette, 
 having in the meantime been so fortunate as to induce Madame 
 Modjeska, who was passing through London on her way to act in 
 Poland, to accept the part of the heroine, and to return for the re- 
 hearsals of the play as soon as she was free. 
 
 Without gratifying a very pardonable curiosity as to the terms of 
 our contract with Mrs Langtry, we may say that there was nothing 
 ridiculous about it. Mrs. Langtry was good enough to think her 
 appearance at our theatre, and the help she would receive, as of the 
 first importance, and, of her own accord, refused other dazzling 
 proposals with which she was deluged. 
 
 We fixed upon the pretty part of Blanche Haye in Robertson's 
 comedy Ours for Mrs. Langtry's professional appearance, the cha- 
 racter being one that was aided by her great natural gifts, and not 
 
332 OUR jfOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 calling for too many prospective qualities ; while she would be 
 helped in turn, throughout the play, by prominent members of 
 the company. During the rehearsals, the following words accom- 
 paLhled a little present to Mrs. Bancroft : ' With real affection from 
 your pupil (dull, but grateful for the pains taken with her).— 
 LiLLlE Langtry.' 
 
 Let us at once say that we have never seen reason to regret hav- 
 ing been the means of introducing Mrs. Langtry to the profession 
 in which she has now for years been so earnest a worker as to 
 achieve successfar beyond that derived from mere curiosity. Shewas, 
 besides, so apt and zealous a pupil as to render it a pleasure to help 
 her to success, and her three months' engagement remains among our 
 bright recollections of the Haymarket. These performances com- 
 menced on Thursday, January 19th, and evoked an extraordinary 
 degree of public curiosity. The cast of Ozirs was as follows : Prince 
 Perovsky, Mr. Arthur Cecil ; Sir Alexander Shendryn, Mr. Pinero ; 
 Angus MacAlister, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Hugh Chalcot, Mr. Ban- 
 croft ; Sergeant Jones, Mr. C. Brookfield ; Lady Shendryn, Miss 
 Le Thiere ; Blanche Haye, Mrs. Langtry ; and Mary Netley, Mrs. 
 Bancroft. Morning performances of Goldsmith's comedy, Ske 
 Stoops to Conquer, and Mr. Burnand's new comedy were given 
 every Thursday, and of Ours every Saturday. The playbill also 
 contained the following announcement : ' Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft 
 beg to state that their rights in the Robertson comedies will shordy 
 expire. Ours, Caste, and School, therefore, can only be played 
 again for a fixed number of nights under their management, as 
 opportunities may arise, and will then cease to form part of their 
 repertoire.' 
 
 Our cast of Goldsmith's fine old play, which was rehearsed in a 
 great hurry, did not seem to us to present any particular or dis- 
 tinctive merit, with the exception of what we always thought a re- 
 markable performance of the small part of Diggory by Mr. Pinero. 
 
 An invitation from the Prince of Wales to some of the leading 
 NOTES London actors, to have the honour of dining at Marl- 
 BY MR. borough House on the evening of February 19th, was 
 
 BANCROFT, among the many gracious acts by which his Royal 
 Highness has honoured, and endeared himself to, the theatrical 
 profession. On this occasion I learnt for the first time that our 
 management — then about seventeen years old — had outlived all 
 former co-existing ones ; and as the doyen in length of service, 
 though not in years, I found myself honoured by being placed on 
 the right hand of our Royal host. During dinner I counted 
 that the table was laid for thirty-eight, and although I then kept no 
 record, I think I can trust my memory to recall the names of those 
 present. Some imperfect lists of the guests, I know, were published 
 at the time the compliment was paid, so this may be thought a 
 proper opportunity to make the bare record correct : The Prince of 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-82 333 
 
 Wales, Prince Leiningen, the Duke of Beaufort, Lord Lytton, Lord 
 Fife, the late Lords Aylesford and Torrington, Lord Londes- 
 borough. Lord Carrington, Sir George Wombwell, Sir Spencer 
 Ponsonby-Fane, Sir Dighton Probyn, Mr. (now Sir) Francis 
 Knollys, Mr. Tyrwhitt- Wilson, Colonel Farquharson, Mr. H. Cal- 
 craft, Mr. Charles Hall, Mr. E. F. S. Pigott, Mr. W. H. Russell, 
 Mr. George Augustus Sala, Mr. F. C. Burnand, Mr. George Lewis, 
 Mr. HoUingshead, Mr. Henry Irving, Mr. Hare, Mr. Coghlan, Mr. 
 Kendal, Mr. Arthur Cecil, Mr. John Clayton, Mr. David James, 
 Mr. George Grossmith, Mr. Edgar Bruce, Mr. Lionel Brough, Mr. 
 Henry Neville, Mr. Hermann Vezin, Mr. Charles Wyndham, Mr. 
 J. L. Toole, and myself Mr. Byron, I remember, had also the 
 honour of being invited ; but, unhappily, the state of his health 
 compelled him to ask to be excused. 
 
 It was at this time, February 22nd, 1882, that a very old lady, 
 whom we had often had the pleasure to meet, passed away at the 
 age of eighty-eight — the Dowager Countess of Essex — who, years 
 gone by, had enthralled the play-going world as ' Kitty Stephens.' 
 Leigh Hunt said that her singing was 'like nothing else to be 
 heard on the stage, and left all competition far behind.' Actors 
 and actresses, like clergymen and barristers, seem to be somewhat 
 remarkable for longevity, which, I have often thought, may be 
 partly due to a constant exercise of the lungs. 
 
 Meanwhile, we were deeply engaged upon Odette, working in 
 concert with Mr. Clement Scott, to whom we had entrusted its 
 adaptation, although he chose to remain anonymou^ modestly pre- 
 ferring that the play should be simply announced as written by M. 
 Sardou. It was a difficult play to manipulate, Sardou having con- 
 ceived it as a strong protest against the condition of the law of 
 divorce in France, of which an outraged husband could not then 
 avail himself So violent was the distinguished author on the 
 subject, that he also attacked it from a comical point of view in his 
 admirable Palais Royal comedy, Divorqons. This state of affairs 
 differed so materially from the experience of Sir James Hannen 
 and Sir Charles Butt, that it was found necessary in Anglicising 
 the work to make the husband a man who shunned such exposes, 
 and chose rather to punish his wife by leaving her as such, and so 
 preventing a marriage with her lover ; with a view to perfectly 
 adapt the part to the accent of Modjeska, we left the erring woman 
 a foreigner. In like manner, we increased the importance of the 
 major-domo at the gambling-hell, so admirably acted by Mr. 
 Brookfield ; while the part of Lady Walker, greatly written and 
 suggested by Mrs. Bancroft, was of infinite value in her hands to 
 the lighter scenes. In this play, we first had the advantage of Mr. 
 Telbin's services, to whose brush we owed the splendid scene of 
 the villa at Nice, with the exquisitely painted view of its harbour 
 and the Mediterranean. Early in March, the adaptation was read 
 to the company ; its rehearsals, which were very prolonged and 
 
334 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 painstaking, then commenced, for which Madame Modjeska pre- 
 sently returned from Warsaw. The work was ready for produc- 
 tion, as we had arranged, before the end of April. It was impos- 
 sible to escape the radical fault of the play, to which I have before 
 alluded— the overwhelming strength of the first act, which dwarfed 
 the others. The long absence of the heroine from the stage which 
 followed— until, in fact, the middle of the third act — was another 
 serious blemish, and required, perhaps, more than the many 
 beauties of the closing scenes as compensation. 
 
 This drawback recalls a little incident that happened at the 
 Theatre du Vaudeville on one of my visits, soon after the produc- 
 tion of the play, and was amusing enough at the time. A Parisian 
 couple came into the stalls directly the first act had ended, and sat 
 immediately in front of me. By their chatter, it was soon evident 
 that Mademoiselle Pierson, who played Odette, was the great 
 object of their visit and the idol of the lady ; the curtain having 
 just fallen upon the favourite actress's great opening scene, and, 
 counting two long French entr'actes, full an hour and a half had 
 to elapse before she appeared again. When the second act was 
 about a third over, the lady, who evidently knew nothing of the 
 play, said to her companion, ' Mais, oil est Pierson ? Then, at 
 each fresh entrance of a female character, she cried, ' Ah, la voilk !' 
 when up went her opera-glass, to be followed by a regretful, ' Non, 
 ce n'est pas Pierson.' Further and further proceeded the play, 
 which was constantly interrupted by the plaintive question, ' Mais, 
 done, ou est Pi^son?' and the querulous reply, 'Tais-toi, ma chfere.' 
 At the end of Act II., the lady plainly began to think herself cruelly 
 swindled, and, till the curtain rose again, little more was heard 
 from her than ' Oil est Pierson ?' The third act commenced with a 
 long scene between men ; the little lady grew more and more ex- 
 asperated, when at last, to her evident relief, quite a crowd of 
 women in evening toilettes entered on the scene. With a sigh of 
 forgiveness she again seized her opera-glass, eagerly scanning the 
 features of each one of them in turn, only to find the object of her 
 adoration still was absent. No words can paint the expression of 
 mingled disgust and anguish she then threw into her inquiry, 'Mais, 
 mon Dieu, mon ami, ou done est Pierson ?' When, at length, the 
 charming actress, exquisitely dressed, really entered, and her long- 
 suffering companion whispered triumphantly, ' La voilk, c'est elle ; 
 c'est Pierson !' the poor little woman answered, ' Oui, mais allons 
 nous en, il est temps de se coucher maintenant !' 
 
 Actors often have the reputation — it may be as erroneously as in 
 many other things, of gauging the worth of a play by the esteem in 
 which they chance to value their individual parts ; certainly the 
 foible held good in the case of Odette, so far as the original repre- 
 sentatives of the husband and wife were concerned. It may be 
 remembered that the former is all-important early and until the 
 middle of the play, while the little anecdote just related explains 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-82 
 
 335 
 
 how the wife disappears for a long time, and then is paramount in 
 the powerful closing scenes. Adolphe Dupuis, whose great talents 
 justified Sardou's choice of him for the hero, for which he was 
 already too old, when asked what the new play would do, replied, 
 that, ' if the end of it were only as good as its commencement and 
 next act, he should have little doubt of its success ; but he greatly 
 feared the catastrophe, in which he was but little concerned, would 
 prove too weak !' while Pierson's answer to the same question was 
 to the effect that, 'after so strong a beginning she dreaded the 
 dulness of the following act, in which she had nothing to do, and 
 which she feared the pathetic ending could hardly save !' There 
 are little plays, the reader will see, on both sides the curtain. 
 
 Our English version was more sumptuously placed upon the 
 stage than any play of its genre had ever been before, and was now 
 to face the verdict of the public, according to a copy of the original 
 bill of the play : 
 
 On Tuesday, April 25, 1882, will be acted, 
 
 ODETTE: 
 
 A NEW PLAY, WRITTEN BY VICTORIEN SARDOU. 
 
 The action of the first act is laid in Paris fifteen years ago ; the rest of the flay 
 occurs at Nice in the present day. 
 
 Act I. — ' Who overcomes 
 By force, hath overcome but half his ios.'— Milton. 
 
 Act II.— ' One fair daughter and no more, 
 
 The which he loved passing well.' — Shakespeare. 
 
 Act III. — ' Sweet is revenge 
 
 — especially to women.'— ^j/rere. 
 
 Act IV. — ' She clasp'd her fervent hands. 
 
 And the tears began to stream. 
 Large and bitter, and fast they fell — 
 Remorse was so extreme.' — Hood. 
 
 LORD HENRY TREVENE 
 
 LORD ARTHUR TREVENE 
 
 LORD SHANDON 
 
 PRINCE TROUBITZKOY 
 
 JOHN STRATFORD 
 
 PHILIP EDEN . 
 
 DR. BROADWAY WILKES 
 
 MR. HANWAY . 
 
 CHEVALIER CARAVANI 
 
 NARCISSE . 
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 JOSEPH 
 
 LADY HENRY TREVENE 
 
 LADY WALKER . 
 
 EVA TREVENE . 
 
 MARGARET EDEN 
 
 PRINCESS DE GOERTZ 
 
 
 
 Mr. Bancroft. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Carne. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Frank Cooper. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Smedley. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Arthur Cecil. 
 
 
 
 Mr. H. B. Conway. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Ohten Dove. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Pinero. 
 
 
 
 Signor Marchetti. 
 
 
 
 Mr. C. Brookfield. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Gerard. 
 
 
 
 Mr. Stewart Dawson 
 
 
 
 Madame Modjeska. 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 
 
 Miss C. Grahame. 
 
 
 
 Miss Measor. 
 
 
 
 Miss Maria Daly. 
 
336 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 COUNTESS KAROLA .... Miss Ruth Francis. 
 
 MRS. HANWAY . . . Miss Florence Wade. 
 
 MISS BERTRAM . . Miss Giffaed. 
 
 OLGA . . . Miss Warden. 
 
 Madame Modjeska received the warmest of welcomes on her 
 return to the London stage, and rendered infinite service to the 
 play by her superb acting. The close of the first act created the 
 same furore as in Paris, the curtain being raised again and again 
 in answer to the tumult of applause, and made us fear the like 
 excitement could not be rekindled. The second act (which was 
 greatly improved by subsequent cutting) was thought too long ; 
 but the splendid interview at the end of the third between the long- 
 parted husband and wife was loudly cheered, chiefly owing to 
 Madame Modjeska's fine acting. The effect of the end was 
 weakened through the lateness of the hour at which the curtain 
 finally fell, leaving us in doubt as to the ultimate fate of the play. 
 It proved, however, to be a success, best described, perhaps, by the 
 word aggravating, as from week to week, through the compara- 
 tively feeble demand for seats any lengthened time in advance, we 
 were kept in doubt as to its real hold upon the public, and whether 
 the play would last through the season, for which period we had 
 guaranteed a costly engagement to Madame Modjeska. All, how- 
 ever, went well — steadily, if slowly ; the stalls and best places were 
 nightly taken and quite full, but the play never appealed greatly 
 to the cheaper parts. The result on the production was largely 
 profitable, in spite of the early feeling of insecurity concerning it. 
 
 It was in the spring of this year that various ideas and schemes, 
 which had for some time been occasionally discussed between 
 certain leading actors, took more tangible form ; and the early 
 meetings, at first informal, held at the pleasant supper-table of that 
 most hospitable of hosts, Henry Irving (in the interesting room 
 belonging to the Lyceum Theatre, which was formerly the meeting- 
 place of the ' Sublime Society of Beef Steaks,' not to be confounded 
 with the more modern but delightful Beefsteak Club), resulted in 
 the foundation of that valuable institution, the Actors' Benevolent 
 Fund. The principal lessees of the London theatres each promised 
 an annual subscription of a hundred pounds, so long as their reign 
 of management might last, and so formed a sound basis, in the 
 shape of a commencing income of over a thousand pounds, upon 
 which the scheme might develop. 
 
 I would like to add a few personal remarks on tHis subject, it 
 being one in which I feel the deepest interest. My own early idea 
 was that all actors, while fulfilling engag'ements, should pay a tax 
 of twopence in the pound, or at some such sort of rate as might 
 prove sufficient, to be drawn weekly from their various salaries. 
 The chief objection raised to this plan was, what was feared might 
 be thought its inquisitorial nature in the way of disclosing the 
 extent of the actoi-'s income ; but as the treasurer of every theatre 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-82 337 
 
 must of necessity be acquainted with the amounts of all the salaries 
 he has to pay, he would simply have deducted the arranged per- 
 centage, and have sent the gross amount — as from the theatre he 
 represented — to the secretary. Some experience of the fund has 
 not shaken my belief in this system, or some modification of it. I 
 still cannot help regarding such a principle as the best means of 
 preventing the emphatic danger the institution, I fear, now presents, 
 of discouraging the heavy and self-imposed labours of the com- 
 mittee, and also of disheartening the managers, and lessening the 
 degree of their support. Many of them are known to feel that they 
 contribute far too largely in proportion to the often niggardly sums 
 subscribed by some actors who would do well to follow the example 
 of those who are more generous, for such donations surely should 
 be the backbone of the fund. As I ventured to say on one of the 
 occasions when I had the honour to preside at the annual meeting 
 of the fund : 
 
 'The great danger I dread is a fear that this association should 
 become more a managers' fund than an actors' fund. From all I 
 can learn of other benevolent societies, no supporters who are 
 placed in a position of control contribute so largely in proportion 
 as the managers do to this fund — or, indeed, with any approach to 
 their liberality. I believe I have said more than enough to secure 
 the good example of the managers being followed in the future. 
 No one yet begged from an actor for charity in vain, so don't refuse 
 me. I ask you, as it were, to give freely in the dark to bring light 
 to others, for I hope to see the Actors' Benevolent Fund a monu- 
 ment to our stability and of our goodness to each other in sickness 
 and in sorrow. 
 
 ' I urge you to generously support the Actors' Benevolent Fund. 
 In doing so you declare that misfortune is often undeserved, often 
 inevitable, and you do your best to lessen its sorrows. Remember 
 how many there are who must simply live before they can hope to 
 save, and that to be provident is a luxury many would indulge in 
 were they only able. I ask you to do what other professions do — • 
 what authors and painters, lawyers and doctors, have done long 
 ago — to maintain a benevolent fund for the use of those among us 
 who have been less fortunate than ourselves, and who in the fierce 
 fight of life have fallen by the way. I commend to your generosity 
 and to your sympathy — and, may I add, to your wisdom and your 
 sense of justice— the fund created by actors, managed by actors, 
 supported by actors for the relief of actors, and which is destined, I 
 hope and believe, to be the means of permanently destroying much 
 of the misery as common to our own as. to every other calling.' 
 
 The following letter is so characteristic of the writer, and so 
 clever in itself, that the reader will welcome the space it occupies ; 
 
 23 
 
338 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' io8, Park Street, Friday, Jane 9, 1882. 
 
 'My dear B., — I send you the promised sun-picture, or photo- 
 graph, with inscription. Either Monday or Tuesday— whichever 
 is the more convenient, will find me delighted to see the play. 
 
 ' Now, my dear friend, will you feel offended with an old soldier 
 if he intrudes on your plan of battle by a remark ? 
 
 'Why are Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft taking a back-seat in their 
 own theatre .'' They efface themselves ! Who made the establish- 
 ment ? with whom is it wholly identified ? of what materials is it 
 built ? There — it's out ! 
 
 ' Your wife's work may be lightened by a selection of those bright 
 comedy parts which she plays without exertion ; but //ay she must, 
 and it surely gives her no more trouble to play Polly Eccles than a 
 scene or two in Odette. 
 
 ' Tell Marie, with my love, that there is nothing so destructive as 
 rest, if persisted in ; you must alter the vowel — it becomes rust, 
 and it eats into life. Hers is too precious to let her fool it away ; 
 she is looking splendid, and as fresh as a pat of butter. Let us see 
 her in a good romping girl ; why don't you get up a version of the 
 Country Girl? Let her play Hoyden, and you play Lord Fopping- 
 ton. 
 
 ' I dare say you will ask me to mind my own business. Well, if 
 you do, I shall say that the leading interests of the Drama, which 
 you and she now represent, are my business ; that the regard and 
 affection I have personally entertained for your wife since she was 
 a child — pray excuse me — and the friendship I have felt for you, 
 induced me to repeat what I have heard from more than one person 
 on both sides of the Atlantic. — Ever yours sincerely, DiON BOUCI- 
 CAULT.' 
 
 Much of this kindly-meant advice was as clever as the writer of 
 it, but we had too long ' gone our ways ' to follow it, too long been 
 contented to sometimes, in our best judgment, merely aid a good 
 ensemble rather than thrust ourselves into all the leading parts, which 
 often we could aid others to better represent. 
 
 One with whom the writer of the above letter had been closely 
 associated in earlier days, both as author and actor, and who had 
 lived so long as to have grown to be, at least of its great ornaments, 
 the doyen of the English stage — Benjamin Webster — passed away 
 in July at the age of eighty-four or five. His fame as an actor 
 would have been even greater had he never been a manager. For 
 a long time he was lessee of both the Haymarket and Adelphi, 
 Theatres, a double care, which often prevented his being perfect in 
 the words of many of his splendid creations ; but old lovers of the 
 drama will need no reminder of the force and pathos of his acting 
 as Triplet, Richard Pride, Luke Fielding, in the Willow Copse; 
 Robert Landry, the hero of the Dead Heart; Joey Ladle, in No 
 Thoroughfare ; and in scores of plays which followed then in 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-82 339 
 
 quicker succession than in these days of interminable ' runs.' 
 Webster must once have been very handsome ; his eye was 
 splendid, and his movements always graceful, possibly owing 
 to the fact that in his early struggling days he for a time taught 
 dancing. 
 
 Alas ! how fleeting is all ' fame — perhaps in no case more 
 markedly than in the actor's art — for, after all, how few really 
 remember, or now know, much of Webster's services to the stage, 
 and the many great productions, with their remarkable casts, which 
 he gave to it, crowned perhaps by the original representations of 
 some of Bulwer's plays, and the comedies of Douglas Jerrold and 
 Dion Boucicault. 
 
 A few words received from Irving are so charmingly expressed 
 as to alone entitle them to a fragment of this chapter. 
 
 ' isa, Grafton Street, Bond Street, W., July 25, 1882. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — I shall wear your gift — and a rare one 
 it is — as I wear you, the giver, in my heart. 
 
 ' My regard for you is not a fading one. In this world there is 
 not too much fair friendship, is there ? And I hope it is a gratifica- 
 tion to you —it is to me, old friend — to know that we can count alike 
 upon a friend in sorrow and in gladness.— Affectionately yours, 
 Henry Irving.' 
 
 There is but little else to tell of the closing weeks before our 
 summer holiday. Working ever ahead, we had for a long while 
 been busy on the old Haymarket comedy, the Overland Route, 
 and as we had decided to commence our next season with its elabo- 
 rate revival, for which we had secured valuable additions to our 
 company in ^Mrs. John Wood and Mr. David James, the rehearsals 
 began — some time before we went away. They were saddened by 
 the great regret of Arthur Cecil's secession from the company, to 
 which for six years he had given his valued aid. Two of his 
 finished performances will be especially remembered as perfect 
 specimens of character-painting — Sir Woodbine Grafton, the 
 dyspeptic Anglo-Indian in Peril, and Baron Stein, the Russo- 
 Teutonic spy in Diplomacy. Happily this step in no way inter- 
 fered with our close friendship, which was to be immediately re- 
 newed in the little mountain village he loved as we did — Pontresina 
 — and as the words of the accompanying letter will prove : 
 
 ' Garrick Club, July 14, 1882. 
 ' Dearest Mrs. B., — I beg you and B. to accept this little 
 present, which I offer you as a souvenir of my happy association 
 with you for six years — a longer period than I have ever passed 
 under any other management, and a pleasanter one by far than I 
 can ever expect to pass elsewhere. With every good wish, always 
 yours affectionately, Arthur Cecil Blunt.' 
 
340 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 It was then that Mr. Pinero also gave up acting regularly, and 
 pledging himself to long engagements, so that he might devote more 
 time to authorship, in which career his subsequent successes have 
 more than justified the decision we at the time personally regretted. 
 A pleasant sentence which we quote from a good-bye letter he 
 wrote gratified us very much. ' In one's early days, what is known 
 as " sentiment in business " flourished poorly. In the Haymarket 
 Theatre, the actor's willingness to do as much as he can for his 
 managers is outmatched by his manager's anxiety to do more for 
 the actor. I carry away with me a regard for you both, quite un- 
 business-like, but which I am glad to acknowledge always and 
 everywhere.' 
 
 Another kind expression of farewell from one we have named 
 before, and who had sent us from his own land his delightful books 
 describing his rambles in ours that he loved so well, reached us 
 just as we were leaving England : 
 
 ' Morley's Hotel, August 2, 1882. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — Your kind and gentle farewell word has 
 been received. The only sad thing about coming to England is 
 that one has to go away. 
 
 ' I think that I leave here, at least, z.few loving friends who won't 
 forget me. I am sure that I take away with me memories that will 
 always be affectionately cherished. I am truly glad to have your 
 portrait. Remember me to Mrs. Bancroft. I am always her friend 
 and yours. — William Winter.' 
 
 So ended a season which had proved to be one of the most 
 successful we had ever known. 
 
 When we reached the Engadine, we found the little English 
 church almost completed, and during our stay it was opened with 
 some solemnity, the Bishop of Bedford having come from England 
 to perform the ceremony ; while the Bishop of Gloucester and 
 Bristol, a well-known mountaineer and lover of the glaciers, whose 
 friendship and hospitality we had enjoyed in London, was also 
 present. May we pause a moment to say how highly we have 
 always esteemed the privilege of acquaintance with one whose 
 character must ever ennoble him in the thoughts of those who are, 
 in the true sense, hero-worshippers ? for no act of heroism could 
 be greater than his, when, now some five-and-twenty years ago, 
 through a dreadful railway accident, although terribly scalded, 
 wounded, and with a broken leg, he dragged himself from under- 
 neath the debris of the wrecked train, refusing to allow his own 
 condition, which seemed at the time likely to be fatal, to be relieved 
 until he had ministered what spiritual help he could to those around 
 him who were even nearer unto death. 
 
 His lordship, during this stay in the Engadine, remained faithful 
 to his love for the Bel Alp and the Great Aletsch, the largest ice- 
 field in Switzerland, for we remember his saying that ' if he might 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-82 341 
 
 venture the opinion, the Morterasch, as a glacier, was hardly fit for 
 a gentleman.' 
 
 The Prince and Princess Christian were again in Pontresina this 
 year, and her Royal Highness gave a very handsome altar-cloth to 
 the church, in fulfilment of a promise made on her previous visit. 
 There were also other gifts, three of which brought the Church and 
 stage in further union, for Mr. Arthur Cecil gave the books, Mr. 
 Bancroft the bell, while Mrs. Bancroft erected a beautiful memorial 
 window above the altar to the memory of her mother. 
 
 The church being opened, we saw no further need for entertain- 
 ments in its aid, and were glad of this, as there was very cheery 
 company this year in the Engadine ; old friends at Pontresina, and 
 Charles Wyndham, true to his preference for St. Moritz — and who, 
 by the way, unlike ourselves, allows his business affairs to follow 
 him when he takes a holiday, and is consequently often a martyr to 
 telegrams and letters. One of Charles Wyndham's oddities takes 
 the singular form of posting letters or despatching telegrams fo 
 himself, as reminders of certain things he may promptly wish to do. 
 
 On one of our wanderings through the Pontresina woods, we sat 
 upon the bench which had been erected by the kind villagers as a 
 compliment to Mrs. Bancroft, and was inscribed with her name. 
 On the seat we read these words, written in pencil : 
 
 ' If all the world's a stage, as men repeat, 
 
 And all the men and women in it actors. 
 The more we owe to one who gives the seat, 
 
 And saves us all the greed of Swiss contractors. 
 
 ' And yet, ungrateful still, a fault I trace. 
 
 For Bancroft's not the name my faith was built on ; 
 How gladly would I pay for any place. 
 If only I might sit by Marie Wilton.' 
 
 Later in our ramble, on the hillside above the Samaden road, 
 while watching the woodcutters at work, by way of contrast, we 
 came across this remarkable specimen of the English language 
 affixed to a tree, as a warning to passers-by : ' In the month of 
 Juli and August it will cuttered the wood in the forrest Because 
 by the transport stones also are coming down is it necessary to 
 have care of it.' 
 
 Some of us ended our holiday at the Italian lakes ; again 
 attracted by the magnetic Como, we stayed first at Cadenabbia, 
 where we found Mr. Labouchere in the solitary companionship of 
 his cigarettes, peacefully recuperating from the labours of the 
 session, and soon proving that the House of Commons had not 
 robbed him of his fund of good stories. 
 
 We were walking in the garden one lovely evening, having ar- 
 ranged to dine late, when we saw (and heard), through the open 
 windows, the crowded table d'hote. In a conspicuous position we 
 also saw, to our surprise, and I think to our amusement, the tired 
 M.P. seated between two well-known dignitaries of the church, and 
 
342 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 evidently completing a merry trio. When the meal was over, 
 chancing to have an hotel acquaintance with one of these prelates, 
 we were chatting together by the shore of the lake, and asked how 
 he had got on at dinner. ' Oh, admirably,' he replied. ' My friend 
 and I were so fortunate in our neighbour, a delightful companion. 
 I wonder if you happen to know who the gentleman is ? He is 
 sitting over there.' 
 
 Under the olive grove the senior member for Northampton was 
 seated in an American rocking-chair surrounded by a halo of 
 smoke. 
 
 ' Oh,' we answered, ' don't you recognise him ?' ' No ; is he 
 someone we should have known by sight ? People look so different 
 abroad.' ' That is Mr. Labouchere,' we briefly replied. ' Really, 
 you don't say so !' 
 
 What those simple words might have meant to convey we never 
 knew, for the speaker hurried off to impart the information to his 
 companion. 
 
 Hard by the hotel, and close to the pretty villas built by our 
 friends Signer Piatti and Mr. Heathcote Long, was a shop kept by 
 an old curiosity-dealer, with whom we had rare fun one day. We 
 had been. buying some pretty pieces of silk, and, when about to 
 leave, stopped to turn over a tray full of odds and ends, in which 
 old shoe-buckles, stick-handles, medals, coins, supposed relics from 
 Pompeii, trophies from battle-fields, and every conceivable kind of 
 rubbish were mixed together in a wonderful way. In this oUa- 
 podrida we came across a mysterious-looking- piece of old ironwork 
 which, on closer inspection, amused as immensely. We saw our 
 way to a joke with the bric-A-brac merchant, and retired to a 
 distant corner with our treasure, pretending to examine it closely. 
 A friend was passing the little shop at the moment, and we made 
 him a party to the fun, anxiously asking his opinion_ on the worth 
 of our discovery, and entering into apparent ecstasies, over it, to 
 the amazement of the old Italian, who closely watched us. We 
 weighed it, breathed on it, polished it, whispered over it, then took 
 it to the sunlight and inspected it through a magnifying-glass in 
 various ways. At last we asked the shopkeeper what he would take 
 for the apparent treasure. The wily dealer, completely taken in by 
 our pantomime, was at once alive to its merits, and assured us it 
 was ' a rare specimen.' We cordially agreed, and begged him to 
 be candid as to its being really genuine. ' Mais oui, oui, oui ; c'est 
 vraiment — vraiment veritable : et bien remarquable !' ' Combien ?" 
 ' Pour vous — mais seulement pour vous — vingt-cinq francs.' 
 
 We suggested the five without the twenty. The old man nearly 
 had a fit, and asked us if we wished to rob him. We worked up 
 the scene to a very funny pitch, and were obliged to go away to 
 hide our laughter, saying we would think the matter over. 
 
 This wonderful discovery, this veritable antiquity, was, in truth, a 
 broken fragment of worthless old iron, impressed with the Royal 
 
THE SEASON OF 1881-83 343 
 
 Arms and motto of England, and stamped with these words, 
 ' Barnard, Bishop and Barnards' patent mowing machine !' 
 
 Refreshed and feeling young again, we soon started homewards, 
 but took rather a long way round, driving first to Varese, then by 
 Laveno to Lago Maggiore and the Borromean Islands (which, 
 frankly, we thought rather a Roshei-villean fraud, and but little 
 worth the trouble of ' interviewing '), thence to Locarno, and, in the 
 first year of its completion, over the stupendous Gothard railway, 
 and through its giant tunnel to Lucerne. 
 
 At this point we were less than twenty-four hours from the Hay- 
 market, and our approaching more intimate acquaintance with the 
 characters of Jenny Sebright and Tom Dexter in Tom Taylor's 
 comedy. 
 
 An odd coincidence was for years connected with our manage- 
 A ' FUNERAL ment at the Prince of Wales's Theatre which may be 
 
 NOTE ' BY worth telling — its relation, at any rate, will interest the 
 
 M. E. B. superstitious and amuse the sceptical. I allude to the 
 appearance by the stage-door on the eve of successful productions 
 of a black cat, or rather kitten. The mystic time for this appa- 
 rition was always night, and each fresh arrival was christened after 
 a leading character of the coming play. It really sounds incredible, 
 but on many Fridays preceding the Saturday productions our little 
 harbinger of good luck ran in. It grew to be recognised by every- 
 one as the foreteller of success ; and when we arrived at the theatre 
 on the Saturday, on which day we nearly always produced our 
 plays, or started any new venture, we were greeted by our hall- 
 porter with the news, announced in all seriousness, ' The black cat 
 has arrived, madam.' 
 
 For many years our sable friend presented hiniself at the stage- 
 door, passed through the hall, and ran straight into the theatre. 
 On the Friday night after the last rehearsal of the School for 
 Scandal we were leaving the theatre on our way home, and I felt 
 much disappointed that our ghostly visitor had failed us, when 
 before we reached the end of the street, a wee black thing, no 
 bigger than a rat, rushed past us, as if he knew he was late. I stood 
 still to watch, and saw him run through the hall-door, and then went 
 home delighted. The little thing was christened Joseph Surface, 
 and soon became a great pet with everyone ; but, unlike his name- 
 sake, was a faithful friend. He was never so happy as during 
 rehearsals, for he was on affectionate terms with all the company, 
 and was more like a dog in sagacity. While we "were abroad for 
 this holiday he died, and was buried under the Haymarket stage by 
 the servants who had often fondled him. Everyone in the theatre 
 felt a sincere pang of regret at the death of ' dear Joe.' Had I 
 asked either of my friends, Mr. Burnand or Mr. Gilbert, for an 
 epitaph, they doubtless would have forestalled me in suggesting, 
 ' RequiesCAT in'pace !' 
 
344 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 882-83. 
 
 Lord Wolseley and Tel-el-Kebir — A bright season— Production of tlie Over- 
 land Route — Nearly Seven — Sardou's Fedora — The audience at the rdpiti- 
 tion gin^rale — Sarah Bernhardt's acting — Burning of the Alhambra — 
 Christmas with Edmund Yates at Eastbourne — Death of Miss Kelly — 
 Reminiscence by Mrs. Bancroft — Revival of Caste — The acting of Mrs. 
 Stirling — Herman Merivale's adaptation of Fedora — Engagement of Mrs. 
 Bernard-Beere and Mr. Coghlan — A sketch by Linley Sambourne — Reap- 
 pearance of Mr. Hare as Sam Gerridge in last representation of Caste — A 
 memorable evening — Stage tributes : a story of herrings — School — Death of 
 Mr. Charles Walter — Ominous prognostications with regard to Fedora — 
 Its great success — Removal to Berkeley Square — Banquet to Henry Irving 
 at St. James's Hall — Farewell supper given to him at the Garrick Club by 
 Mr. Bancroft — Mr. Hare's proposal of his host's health — Holiday at Hom- 
 burg — Letter from the Duke of Albany — Death of Mr. Dutton Cook— A 
 visit to Zermatt — The Matterhorn. 
 
 Oh, the penalty that has to be paid on returning-, from a holiday by 
 those who, like ourselves, never allow letters to be sent after them ! 
 However, among the basketfuls of correspondence we found wait- 
 ing this year was one delightful letter written from Alexandria on 
 August 1 8th by Lord (then Sir Garnet) Wolseley, in which he 
 cheerily foretold the_ victory of Tel-el-Kebir in these words : 'The 
 "array" keeps arriving daily, and I hope very soon to be in a 
 position to bring Mr. Arabi to book.' 
 
 The realization of this prophecy, and the curious incident of a 
 strange atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, 
 and which immediately preceded it, prompted some verses, that 
 were sent to the hero of the achievement and thus acknowledged : 
 
 ' War Office, March 6, 1883. 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Bancroft,— I am very glad Mr. Bancroft 
 induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them 
 extremely. 
 
 ' The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is told 
 most feelingly and well. 
 
 ' I shall put the little poem away among my treasures. Many, 
 many thanks for it. — Sincerely yours, Wolseley.' 
 
 Advantage was taken of the recess to refurnish and redecorate 
 parts of the theatre, which certainly was more an extravagance 
 than a necessity. This was throughout a bright season, from first 
 to last, or ' find to finish,' in hunting parlance ; an almost un- 
 broken one of high success ; the career of crowded houses being 
 checked for a little while at Christmas-time, the immediate cause of 
 
THE SEASON OF 1882 83 345 
 
 which, beyond the then despotic rule of King Pantomime, will be 
 better alluded to later on. 
 
 In the Overland Route both the saloon and the upper deck of 
 the s.s. Poonah, one of the older type, of the fine P. and O. fleet, 
 and consequently better suited to our purpose, were, as far as pos- 
 sible, reproduced, after months of labour, by Mr. Hann — thanks to 
 the opportunities Mr. Sutherland had so kindly placed at our dis- 
 posal. The Eastern trip, written of in a previous chapter, now 
 became of professional value in the reproduction of the many 
 familiar details of life on ship-board ; we were also fortunate in 
 securing some real niggers, lascars, and ayahs, who lent great 
 reality to the pictures. The scene of the last act, when the ship 
 had run aground upon a coral reef in the Red Sea, was magnifi- 
 cently painted by Mr. Telbin, whose acquaintance with the East 
 and the Holy Land enabled him to boldly treat the subject. Our 
 nightly voyage in the Sitnoom was in the fairest weather, for our 
 revival of the old comedy began the season brilliantly, and was 
 received with all the favour given to a successful new production. 
 This was the detailed part of the playbill : On Saturday, October 
 7th, 1882, Tom Taylor's Comedy, The Overland Route. (The 
 action of the first and second acts takes place on board the 
 P. and O. steamship Simoom; the third act passes on a desert 
 island in the Red Sea.) Sir Solomon Eraser, K.C.B., Mr. Alfred 
 Bishop ; Major McTurk, Mr. Everill ; Captain Clavering, Mr. 
 Smedley ; Captain Sebright, R.N., Mr. Vernon ; Mr. Colepepper, 
 Mr. C. Brookfield ; Mr. Lovibond, Mr. David James ; Tom 
 Dexter, Mr. Bancroft ; Captain Smart, Mr. Carne ; Mr. Hardisty, 
 Mr. Gerrard ; Tottle, Mr. Stewart Dawson ; Moleskin, Mr. Fabert ; 
 Limpet, Mr. Elliot ; Mrs. Sebright, Mrs. Bancroft ; Mrs. Lovibond, 
 Mrs. John Wood ; Mary Colepepper, Miss Tilbury ; Mrs. Rabbits, 
 Miss Maria Daly ; Grimwood, Miss N. Phillips. Passengers, 
 stewards, crew, lascars, punkahwallahs, ayahs, etc. 
 
 Before I tell the reader, what I hope will prove of some interest, 
 NOTES BY the first news we had of Fedora, let me mention a 
 s. B. B. clever little monologue called Nearly Seven, written 
 and acted by Charles Brookfield, which was the lever-de-rideau 
 during the run of the Overland Route; also that the author of that 
 comedy being unhappily no more, we could not seek his help for 
 certain revisions of his play, which were made, however, with great 
 regard for his work. A very amusing and successful scene between 
 Mrs. John Wood and herself, which became a feature of the even- 
 ing, was cleverly written by Mrs. Bancroft, who also supplied an 
 admirable addition to a dialogue between Mrs. Wood and David 
 James, both of whom were good enough to think it of real value to 
 their parts. 
 
 Sardou, we knew, had devoted some months to the writing of a 
 new play, also that Sarah Bernhardt was to create a great part, but 
 
346 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 all the account he so far divulged of his story was that it dealt 
 with the modern terror — Nihilism. Masterly as a reader and 
 inventor of stage business for his own works, he soon after had 
 his play in full rehearsal at the Vaudeville, when I received the 
 following : 
 
 ' La pifece de Sardou est tr^s interessante : sa lecture a fait k 
 tous, une profonde impression, et Sarah, qui I'entendait pour la 
 seconde fois n'a pu s'empScher de verser des torrents de larmes. 
 
 i» T< O C 5! O 
 
 ' En somme, Sarah, role magnifique dcrit trhs specialement et 
 trfes habilement pour elle. Pour Berton, un beau role dans les 
 cords de celui qu'il a' ]ou6 dans Dora. Tous les autres roles sont 
 des compasses k I'exception d'un role de femme, ^pisodique, mais 
 spirituelle, gai, que Madame Bancroft jouerait divinement s'il 
 n'dtait pas indigne de son talent.' 
 
 Fedora was produced in December, and I felt the importance of 
 witnessing the rdf^tition gMe'rale, which in Paris has all the force 
 and effect of a premiere., excepting only that the audience is re- 
 stricted to the privileged, so Mr. Conway kindly qualified himself 
 to replace me as the ship's doctor, and let me free to go to Paris. 
 On the eve of the big rehearsal I dined with my friend Pierre 
 Berton, when he told me the story of the play. I confess, from its 
 bald relation, I reluctantly arrived at the sure conviction that my 
 journey was in vain, and that the eagerly expected work, which was 
 keeping all Paris in a fever of expectation, and formed the main 
 topic of the Boulevardiers, would prove to be but a bloodthirsty 
 melodrama. 
 
 On the following day, however, 1 found myself among the 
 favoured occupants of the stalls, one of my immediate companions 
 being Mr. M. L. Mayer, to whom lovers of French plays have been 
 so indebted for years in London, and who was interested with me 
 in the English rights, while on my other side was ' Theoc,' the 
 pleasant Parisian.contributor to the World. We were surrounded 
 by literary and artistic celebrities : there, in a baignoire., was 
 Alexandre Dumas, the dramatist's great rival ; above, in the bal- 
 cony, sat Blanche Pierson and Maria Legault, looking down on the 
 scene of their recent triumphs in Odette. Coquelin and Got came 
 up the Avenue de I'Op^ra from the classic home of Moli^re ; 
 Alphonse Daudet and Georges Ohnet in close companionship ; the 
 dreaded- critic Francesque Sarcey ; Auguste Vitu, of the Figaro j 
 Albert Wolff, whose strange features are so ably reproduced in the 
 Mus^e Grevin, the Tussaud's of Paris, are among the scores of 
 names, owned by those of Boulevard ' light and leading,' I could 
 recall. 
 
 After some delay, the curtain, without the warning three knocks, 
 
THE SEASON OF 1S&2-83 347 
 
 was raised upon an empty stage ; some person in authority then 
 stepped forward to make an announcement, which seemed to fore- 
 tell postponement ; postponement it was, but only for an hour, the 
 cause being the non-arrival of the great Sarah's gowns. After 
 anathemas hurled at the modiste, we consoled ourselves with 
 cigarettes upon the Boulevard. Presently we returned to our 
 places, Sardou and the managers soon afterwards came to a large 
 space kept for them in the stalls, and the play began. In five 
 minutes the audience was under a spell which did not once abate 
 throughout the whole four acts. Never was treatment of a strange 
 and dangerous subject more masterly ; never was acting more 
 superb than Sarah showed that day to those privileged to witness 
 it. Rachel, I think, has been described as 'the panther of the 
 stage :' her feline mantle certainly has descended to Sarah Bern- 
 hardt ; Sardou's delighted appreciation of the perfect rendering of 
 his heroine being only equalled by his pleased acceptance of the 
 congratulations which were showered upon him at the end of every 
 act. Needless to say there was not a moment's hesitation as to 
 buying the English rights in the play. 
 
 Among other news from London at this time was the burning of 
 the Alhambra Theatre ; happily, unlike the previous terrible 
 catastrophe at Vienna, unattended by loss of life. The calamity, 
 however, dealt a serious blow to the theatres at the time — it proved 
 enough of a storm to wreck the good ship Simoom, and so far put a 
 check upon our Overland Route, that I did not think it worth while, 
 on my return home, to resume my part. Mrs. Bancroft also re- 
 signed the coquetries of Jenny Sebright to other hands, which 
 allowed us to spend a brief but well-remembered Christmas holiday, 
 in companionship with Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Yates, in the com- 
 fortable old Albion Hotel at Eastbourne. 
 
 Yates was in great form, and, among many of his excellent 
 stories, Mrs. Bancroft reminds me of the following, which he told 
 with all the verve of a clever actor, a power evidently inherited from 
 his gifted parents, which amused us immensely. After an unfortu- 
 nate night railway accident, in which, unhappily, many people were 
 more or less injured, a search was made amongst the ddbris for the 
 victims. While two railway guards were looking about with the 
 aid of lighted lanterns, they suddenly came across a prostrate 
 figure, wedged in between some of the broken timber. This poor 
 man was apparently so injured that the whole of one side of his 
 body, and especially his face, was, as it were, forced in an upward 
 direction. The two guards, discovering this, immediately set to 
 work to endeavour, by one pulling one way and one pulling another, 
 to get him straight. They began their operations ; the chief man 
 directing his mate to pull up one side with a jerk, whilst he held 
 firmly by the other. While this violent effort was going on, the 
 poor victim cried out to them piteously (but for a long time in vain), 
 ' No, no ; born so, born so !' It was some seconds before the two 
 
348 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 men ascertained that this apparent result of the railway accident 
 was in reality a physical deformity. 
 
 It was at the close of this year that Miss Kelly, the once famous 
 actress of the Sergeant's Wife and other dramas, died at the great 
 age of ninety-three. Shordy before she passed away, I missed a 
 pleasant opportunity of making her acquaintance in the companion- 
 ship of Toole and Irving, who went to see her in her little country 
 home. It was she who built the Royalty Theatre, which was so 
 long a nursery for amateurs, where so many leaders of our stage 
 made their first appearances in times gone by ; and hers was the 
 life which had twice been placed in peril by maniacs who were in 
 love with her, and resented the popular actress's refusal of their 
 offers by firing at her with a pistol from the pit. This old lady, 
 bright and cheery to the close of her long life, brings to my remem- 
 brance a quaint and interesting friend of ours, a description of 
 whom I am sure will be far more amusing from Mrs. Bancroft's pen : 
 
 ' Amongst my numerous acquaintances I have met with some 
 curious people with characteristics — possibly eccentricities — that 
 might be passed over by many, but, as I have before said, from my 
 childhood I have never failed to detect these peculiarities. Until 
 her death, I had the pleasure of knovifing a very eccentric and inter- 
 esting old maiden lady. I say the pleasure, because I had a great 
 regard for her. Her nature was kindly and amiable, and no one 
 ever heard her say an ungenerous thing of man, woman, or child. 
 She never joined in malicious gossip, and when she was unable to 
 praise would be silent — a noble example to womankind, I take it. 
 
 ' Well, this dear lady, who was eighty-five years old, remembered 
 many extraordinary events. Her anecdotes of days gone by were 
 very diverting ; and, although she dressed in the most Noah's Ark 
 sort of fashion, and spoke in the most old-world way, her nature 
 was as bright as a girl's. She loved the society of young people, 
 mixing herself up with their lives with the keenest enjoyment. All 
 her recollections of the past were merry ; she seemed to be ever 
 happy, and one day when asked if she would like to li\'e to a tre- 
 mendous age, she laughingly replied, '' Oh, I don't much care ; 
 only I hope when I do die they'll bury me in a cheerful church- 
 yard." 
 
 ' At an evening party once there had been a great deal of classi- 
 cal music, which was evidently somewhat too serious for her taste, 
 for, when asked what she thought of it, she replied in her usual 
 cheery manner, " Oh, it is most charming ! Do you think you 
 could get them to play ' Tommy, make room for your uncle ' ? It is 
 charmingly amusing, and I should be mightily obleeged." 
 
 ' Mr. Bancroft one evening took her in to dinner, and remarked 
 upon her wonderful health. The vivacious old lady replied that 
 she had never known pain or ache in her life. " Not even tooth- 
 ache ?" ■" Oh, never ; don't know what the dreadful thing means," 
 
THE SEASON OF 1882-83 349 
 
 " Not a simple headache ?" " Oh no, never ; I think it ioo 
 ridic'Ious !" " Nor ever a heartache ?" The old lady at once 
 answered archly, smiling sweetly at her companion, " Noiyei/" 
 
 ' I remember being present at an " at home " she gave. Her 
 rooms were most quaintly furnished, and one seemed to live far, 
 far back in the past as one gazed at her spinet, and her old-fashioned 
 harp. Her dress comprised a pink silk skirt, trimmed with a 
 matchless lace flounce, a low black velvet bodice, a satin scarf of 
 the family tartan, for she was proud of her Scotch descent ; open- 
 ■v^orked stockings, and sandalled shoes. She carried a bag of some 
 beautiful material over her arm, her " get- up " being completed by 
 a necklace of old coral medallions and long ear-rings to match. 
 Her hair was plaited in a small knot at the back, and three lank 
 ringlets hung on each side of her face. She received her guests 
 with a low curtsey, and was the cheeriest of hostesses. There was 
 a great deal of music, but not a single sad air was played. The 
 old lady related anecdotes in abundance, and her great anxiety 
 was to see all the young people who were there happy and amiable. 
 
 ' She had a habit of speaking her thoughts aloud, and this 
 peculiarity sometimes caused much amusement. A young lady 
 who had a very pretty voice was asked to sing, and at once con- 
 sented. The guests gathered round. Our old friend sat near the 
 singer, and commented audibly on the song with delightful uncon- 
 sciousness, which made it hard for anyone to preserve a grave 
 countenance. The song commenced : 
 ' " Kathleen Mavourneen, 
 
 (' " Oh, what a charming name !") 
 
 the gray dawn is breaking, 
 
 (' " Yes, I've seen it often, coming home from a ball.") 
 The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, 
 
 (' "Oh yes, I know, in Switzerland.") 
 
 The lark, from her light wings, the bright dew is shaking, 
 
 (' " Oh, the dear little thing !") 
 
 Kathleen Mavourneen — what, slumbering still ! 
 
 (' " Perhaps she was up late, poor dear.") 
 
 Oh, dost ihou not know that this night we must sever? 
 Oh, dost thou not know, love, this night we must part? 
 
 (' •' Oh, how can she be so cruel !") 
 
 It may be for years, or it may be for ever, 
 (' " Oh, gracious, what a long time !") 
 
 Then wake from thy slumber, thou voice of my heart !" 
 (' " Get up, you lazy hussy !") 
 
 ' I need not say that it was with extreme difficulty the young 
 vocalist could continue, and when the old lady shouted " Get up, 
 you lazy hussy !" we were all convulsed. 
 
350 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' Just as her last guests were preparing to go, our hostess sat- 
 down to the spinet to play, as she said, " God save the King." ' 
 
 We began the new year well enough, for on its first day Mr. 
 Pinero commenced a play which we had commissioned him to 
 write for us ; we also resumed the rehearsals for our coming fare- 
 well revival of Caste, which had been interrupted by the trip to 
 Paris. This performance by us was a case of ' now or never,' as 
 our rights in the Robertson comedies were, by arrangement with 
 the author's son, to end in the following summer. This dear old 
 friend— the king of its brilliant author's works — was acted on Satur- 
 day, January 20th, with the following distribution of the seven well- 
 known characters, our two selves being now the sole members of 
 the first cast : George D'Alroy, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Captain Haw- 
 tree, Mr. Bancroft ; Eccles, Mr. David James ; Sam Gerridge, Mr. 
 C. Brookfield ; Marquise de Saint Maur, Mrs. Stirling ; Esther 
 Eccles, Miss Gerard ; and Polly Eccles, Mrs. Bancroft — (positively 
 for the last times). 
 
 These performances enjoyed all their old success, and we were 
 again most fortunate with regard to the acting of those new to the 
 play ; but younger members of the cast will forgive our saying that 
 the revival was chiefly memorable to us by the sincere pleasure we 
 had in persuading that perfect mistress of her art, Mrs. Stirling, to 
 play the Marquise de Saint Maur, which proved of infinite value, 
 and whose influence at the rehearsals, owing to the unwearying 
 pains she took throughout them, was always of good effect ; also 
 by our good fortune in replacing* the magnificent performance of 
 poor George Honey as Eccles by David James's equally able treat- 
 ment of the part. Comparisons often enough are indeed odious ; 
 but although we thought it impossible ever to realize another Eccles, 
 so keen is our remembrance of each intonation in eveiy speech as 
 originally rendered, it is but an honest tribute to Mr. James's acting 
 to admit that in some scenes we preferred its humour. We can 
 imagine no funnier treatment of many lines, and laugh now heartily 
 at the remembrance of his bibulous assurance to the Marquise that 
 he was ' always at home on Thursdays from three to six.' I fear 
 this must be owned to be a 'gag,' for which Mr. James was very 
 much obliged to Mrs. Bancroft, and which, I think, the author, had 
 he lived, would have gratefully added to his book of the play. 
 
 From the time of the resolve to produce Fedora, we were con- 
 stantly at work upon its preparation ; and gave Sardou's manu- 
 script to Mr. Herman Merivale, and asked if he would like to 
 undertake its adaptation. Without being at all keen upon the 
 matter, he promised to take the book down to Eastbourne, where 
 he then lived, and see what he thought about it. The next day 
 came a letter to say that he had put off opening the parcel until 
 quite late at night, when, after glancing over a few pages, he grew 
 so engrossed in its story that he found it impossible to get to bed 
 
THE SEASON OF 1S82-83 351 
 
 until the last sentence of the fascinating play was devoured. 
 Naturally we were delighted with this opinion, and arranged for 
 the work to be commenced at once ; the adaptation was admirably 
 and speedily finished, being a labour of pleasure. Great aid was 
 given to Mr. Merivale, who, I am sure, would be the first to acknow- 
 ledge it, in the character that had to be concocted, and written up 
 for herself, by Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 After careful thought we decided to entrust the splendid part of 
 Fedora to Mrs. Bernard-Beere, and engaged Mr. Coghlan to play 
 the hero. As for ourselves, we were satisfied to take two characters 
 which the French describe as ' side-dishes,' and to give them all 
 the value in our power. So for a few weeks things rested, until the 
 long rehearsals were begun. 
 
 Meanwhile our faithful friend Casie pursued its way. A pleasant 
 souvenir of the old play came to us from Linley Sambourne, who 
 sent us the original of one of the earliest drawings he made for 
 Punch when quite a youngster. It is a sketch of Papa Eccles, who 
 had evidently just ' met a friend round the corner,' supported by 
 Captain Hawtree and Sam Gerridge. In the artist's own words : 
 ' It was done early in the year 1867, when 1 was just beginning to 
 draw, and twenty-two years of age. I went to the pit to delight in 
 Caste, and drew the sketch from memory. The late Mark Lemon 
 selected it from others for me to put on wood for Punch, and it 
 appeared in the number for July 20th, 1867.' 
 
 It chanced that our friend and comrade, Mr. Hare, was not acting 
 in his own theatre at this time, and the idea occurred to us that it 
 would be delightful to all three if, on the last night of Caste, under 
 our management, he would appear in his original character of the 
 gasman. His answer to a letter suggesting this happy thought will 
 best speak his feelings on the subject : 
 
 ' The Red House, Hornton Street, Campden Hill, March 6, 1883. 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Bancroft,— Believe me, I reciprocate all the 
 kind feelings expressed in your letter. It will be to me a source of 
 the greatest pleasure to be once more " Sam " to your " Polly " on 
 the occasion of your last appearance in Caste, associated as that 
 play is, in my mind, with such a host of pleasant and kindly 
 memories. Those old times were indeed happy ones, and the 
 recollection of them is not easily to be effaced. — Believe me, dear 
 Mrs. Bancroft, always yours, John Hare.' 
 
 The evening of Friday, April 13th, 1883, will long be remembered 
 by us, and is not likely to fade easily from the memory of anyone 
 present. There had been a very extraordinary demand for all the 
 reserved seats ; many persons of eminence and distinction anxious 
 to be present applied, to our great regret, too late, while the crowd 
 at the doors leading to, the cheaper parts of the theatre thronged 
 the Haymarket from an early hour in the day. It was apparent. 
 
352 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 directly the curtain rose, that the audience was exceptional, and 
 that some strange magnetic influence affected both auditor and 
 actor ; the reception of all the familiar characters was very pro- 
 longed, while of Mr. Hare, the moment he appeared as Sam 
 Gerridge, and of ourselves — no other word will so express the 
 demonstration as — affectionate. It would look like exaggeration to 
 describe the enthusiasm which followed the comedy, or the scene 
 that occurred at the close of it. ' Polly Eccles ■' had been through- 
 out the evening the recipient of magnificent presents of flowers, one 
 gigantic bouquet bearing her name in roses. At the end of the 
 play these beautiful offerings were all banked up in every direction 
 on the humble furniture of the ' Little House in Stangate,' when, 
 time after time, she bowed her adieux to the excited audience, 
 standing in turn with her old comrade, whose presence had so 
 graced the occasion, with Mrs. Stirling, and finally again and again 
 with her hand in Captain Hawtree's. 
 
 Mrs. Bancroft has a story to tell here : 
 
 ' This wonderful floral tribute, which was followed by the gift of 
 a bracelet composed of large brilliants, and inscribed, "From 
 Captain Hawtree to Polly Eccles," was strong in contrast to my 
 first experience of souvenirs in a theatre, which takes me back again 
 to childhood's days. 
 
 ' 1 have a vivid recollection of acting in a temporary theatre 
 built on the beach of a small fishing town somewhere in the North, 
 and will relate an incident which abruptly terminated one of my 
 performances. The floor of our dressing-room was simply the 
 sandy shore, and there was a wooden plank close to the table, upon 
 which I stood, preparing for a Highland-fling to be danced by me. 
 Suddenly an unusually high tide took place, and the water made 
 rapid progress into this room, so I hurried upstairs, but not before 
 my thin shoes had been well filled with sea-water. The reader, 
 who may know the dance-step of a fling, will be able to imagine 
 the effect my wet shoes had upon the stage. I must have caused a 
 great sensation amongst the fishwives, who, unable to control their 
 ecstasies, threw herrings on to the stage to me with such exclama- 
 tions as "The bonnie wee bairnie !" " She's just like ma Maggie !" 
 " Oh, the dearie !" " Fling her a herrin' !" I intended to take no 
 notice of this eccentric form of bouquet (so horrified was I), but 
 someone called out from the wings, " Pick them up and acknow- 
 ledge them, or there will be a riot." So, frightened out of my life 
 I forced an alarmed smile upon my face, gathered up the herrings, 
 which slipped from my hands as soon as I took hold of them, and 
 got off the stage as quickly as possible, my small arms being laden 
 with these fishy offerings. The dance was loudly encored ; but 
 before I had got half through its repetition an alarm was raised : 
 " The sea is on us ! The sea is on us ! Save the wee lassie !" 
 
THE SEASON OF 1882-83 353 
 
 The lights suddenly went out, and the scrimmage was awful. I 
 was seized and thrust into a large fish-basket (I smelt it 1) and 
 carried off on some man's back, who, I believe, jumped on the 
 stage to rescue me. I can smell those herrings still, and have never 
 cared for fish since that experience !' 
 
 Then came a cordial but brief adieu to Jack Poyntz and dear 
 'Nummy' Tighe in School. These performances we were com- 
 pelled to limit to three weeks, our version of Sardou's play being 
 almost ripe for production, and could not wisely be further delayed, 
 as the season was already advancing. Had we chosen, we might 
 easily have continued the old Robertsonian favourites until its close ; 
 but we dreaded the renewal of such monotony, for whenever we 
 had of late years resumed the long familiar parts, the intervals 
 seemed to disappear, and we almost felt as though we had never 
 acted any others. After playing Polly Eccles and Naomi Tighe 
 for the last times, Mrs. Bancroft received numerous requests for 
 various things she had worn in those characters, and some time 
 was spent in selecting shoes, gloves, or flowers, and sending them 
 to their new owners. I remember her looking for a long time at 
 Polly's hoUand apron (marked ' Polly Eccles ' on the band), and 
 bidding it an affectionate ' good-bye.' 
 
 The letter from her ' adored Jack Poyntz,' which Naomi Tighe 
 read so many times in the last act, was given, at his request, to 
 Mr. Hastings. A few things were retained, which in years to 
 come will be looked upon by us as relics of bright and happy days 
 gone by. 
 
 During this farewell to School., and while my heavy work with 
 the rehearsals of Fedora was at its height, we lost the services of 
 our secretary and business manager, Mr. Charles Walter, who had 
 enjoyed our confidence in that capacity for seven years. Always a 
 man of delicate health, his cheery nature fought so hard, and he 
 had recovered so frequently from many attacks, that his death, 
 after a brief illness, was a great shock, and cast a gloom over the 
 theatre, where he was very popular. This calamity gave me much 
 extra work at a time of great anxiety, and I decided for the future 
 to divide the duties combined by Mr. Walter, and engaged Mr. 
 Edward Russell, who had long held a responsible position with 
 Mr. Irving, as treasurer, giving the office of secretary to Mr. G. F. 
 Bashford, who was well qualified for the post. He formerly held a 
 commission in the Scots Greys, and after he left the service had 
 married Mrs. Bancroft's sister Augusta. 
 
 Loud were the ominous prognostications with regard to the fate 
 oi Fedora in England. Grave' head-shakings emphasised the opinions 
 so freely urged that the subject would be found repugnant. Out- 
 spoken were the thoughts that the task was hopeless without Sarah 
 Bernhardt. One little incident, perhaps, will best illustrate these 
 forebodings. 
 
 23 
 
334 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 A dear friend of ours, whom we will call Mr. ' X.' (as he would 
 doubtless prefer to remain ' an unknown quantity'), called one day, 
 less than a week before the announced date of this 'rash' pro- 
 duction, when there was some talk between us to this effect : 
 
 Mr. X. ; ' Frankly, my dear B., what do you think your new play 
 will really do ?' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Frankly, it will be an emphatic success ; and, as it did 
 in Paris, will draw the town.' 
 
 Mr. X. : ' I'm delighted, if you truly think so.' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Between ourselves, I have no doubt about it, or a 
 moment's dread of any other result. You know the extent of my 
 original belief in it — to say nothing of the big figures dealing with a 
 Sardou play means ; now that the dull and depressing period of the 
 long rehearsals — when one wonders if the work in hand was ever 
 worth the labour — has passed, its value is manifest.' 
 
 Mr. X. : '.And Mrs. Bernard-Beere ?' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Will astonish all of you. Of course she is not the 
 divine Sarah, and we almost regret that she went to Paris to see 
 her.' 
 
 Mr. X.: 'Why?' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Sarah Bernhardt is now, I take it, the great tragic 
 actress of the world. I never saw Rachel, but I can't imagine her 
 being greater than Sarah at her best. Now for Mrs. Bemard-Beere 
 to really imitate her is impossible. A contralto must never try to 
 sing soprano songs. This, when Mrs. Bernard-Beere began her 
 rehearsals, she, to some extent, wished to do ; but, with patience 
 and friendly guidance, her quick intelligence soon appreciated the 
 difference between a slavish imitation of an individual, and adapt- 
 ing to another model much of the masterly stage-business which 
 was, in truth, the invention of the author.' 
 
 Mr. X. : 'I think I follow your argument, my dear B.' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Certainly we never met anyone who would more 
 readily listen to suggestions, or work harder to embody them with 
 life and meaning.' 
 
 Mr. X. : 'Is the play much altered from the French? 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Very little ; Merivale's work is admirable. I have 
 ventured in the stage-management to slightly modify a few painful 
 details in the first act, and to trust for their full effect to the 
 imagination of the audience.* Remember the end of the second 
 act of Ours J once show the troops passing the window and, in my 
 poor judgment, the play is destroyed. I think you will acknow- 
 ledge the scene I allude to is the most powerful instance of stage- 
 craft and construction you can remember. The smaller parts 
 require very careful " coaching ;" the least movement of everyone 
 concerned has its meaning.' 
 
 * As a proof of the power of imagination — if properly worked on a vei7 
 
 old stager said to me, after seeing this scene, ' My dear B. , when the surgeon 
 went into the bedroom, and the doors were shut, I give you my word I could 
 hear the dying man's moans through the walls.' 
 
THE SEASON OF 1882-83 355 
 
 Mr. X. ; ' Then what on earth do the adverse rumours afloat 
 mean ?' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' I can't imagine ; I can only ask you not to contradict 
 them.' 
 
 Mr. X. : ' JVoi to contradict them !' 
 
 Mr. B. : 'By no means.' 
 
 Mr. X. : ' Why, there are people, and this is really the reason of 
 my coming to you at this busy time, going about, not ill-naturedly, 
 but convinced from report that their chatter is true, saying that 
 Fedora will be the direst failure on record ; and one of them goes 
 so far as to add that he knows for a fact another play is being 
 rehearsed sub rosa in the afternoons, all concerned in it being 
 under the strictest pledge of secrecy, so as to quickly stem the tide 
 of disaster that is sure to flow.' 
 
 Mr. B. (laughing heartily) : ' Let him chatter ; don't curb his 
 tongue. He means us no harm, and certainly is doing us good.' 
 
 Mr. X. : ' Good ! Tell we why you think so.' 
 
 Mr. B. : 'In things theatrical there is nothing more valuable 
 than a revulsion of feeling. If our audience, next Saturday, is pre- 
 pared but for failure, it will only add warmth to their reception of a 
 success.' 
 
 Mr. X. : 'And that you feel you are on the heels of?' 
 
 Mr. B. : ' Yes, and with nothing, that I can foresee, likely to trip 
 us up.' 
 
 Mr. X. : ' Good-bye, my dear B. ; though, for all you say, I 
 shall go to my stall with anxiety.' 
 
 Mr. B. : 'It will be all right. I only wish it was over, for I feel 
 rather worn out, the work having been unusually heavy.' 
 
 That these sanguine expectations were verified is matter of stage 
 history. The success of the play was phenomenal, and never for a 
 moment in doubt. News of its magnificent reception was tele- 
 graphed to Sardou, who was staying at Marly, all efforts having 
 failed to induce him to cross the Channel to pay his first visit to 
 London and assist at 2i premiere. 
 
 We now give a copy of the playbill, and acknowledge how much 
 we owed to the good-nature and courtesy of M. Demidoff, of the 
 Russian Embassy, for a careful lesson in the proper sound of the 
 national names and sentences used in the play. 
 
 On Saturday, May s, 1S83, will be acted 
 
 FEDORA: 
 
 A play in four acts, written by Victorien Sardou. The English version by 
 Herman Merivale. The first act passes at St. Petersburg ; the rest of the play 
 in Paris. 
 
 LORIS IPANOFF .... Me. Charles Coghlan. 
 
 JEAN DE SIRIEX .... Mr. Bancroft. 
 
 PIERRE BOROFF .... Mr. Carne. 
 
 M. ROUVEL ..... Mr. Smedley. 
 
 23—2 
 
356 
 
 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 M. VERNET 
 
 DR. LORECK 
 
 GRETCH . 
 
 BOLESLAS LASINSKI 
 
 TCHILEFF 
 
 DESIRE . 
 
 DMITRI . 
 
 KIRILL . 
 
 IVAN 
 
 PRINCESS FEDORA ROMAZOFF 
 
 COUNTESS OLGA SOUKAREFF 
 
 BARONESS OCKAR 
 
 MADAME DE TOURNIS 
 
 MARKA .... 
 
 Mr. H. Fitzpatrick. 
 
 Mr. Elliot. 
 
 Mr. C. Brookfield. 
 
 Mk. Francis. 
 
 Mr. F. Everill. 
 
 Mr. Gerrard. 
 
 Miss Julia Gwynne. 
 
 Mr. Stewart Dawson. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. 
 
 Mrs. Bernard-Beere. 
 
 Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 Miss Herbert. 
 
 Miss Merrill. 
 
 Miss R. Taylor. 
 
 The play's wonderful success allows us a pause to speak of other 
 things, and as our changes of residence have hitherto been noted, 
 it may be mentioned, especially as a manager's private address 
 becomes somewhat public by the Lord Chamberlain's license re- 
 quiring it to be printed on every playbill, that, having felt the want 
 of sun very much in the house we had occupied for eight years in 
 Cavendish Square, owing to its northern aspect, we had often 
 sought to change it. A few months previously we came across a 
 pleasant house, not too large, in Berkeley Square, which gave us 
 again our beloved trees, among the finest in London, and supplied 
 the lack of sun ; so we bought the lease, and in the following summer 
 first lived there. Later on, our interest in this new home was 
 not lessened by Lady Molesworth, whose friendship we shall be 
 always proud of having enjoyed, telling us that she was married 
 from the same house, nor by learning that within a few doors Mrs. 
 Bancroft's maternal great-grandfather had once resided. 
 
 On the 4th of July, one of the greatest compliments I can re- 
 member ever being offered to an actor was paid to Henry Irving, 
 and through him to the entire theatrical world, in the banquet which 
 was given in his honour at St. James's Hall, prior to his first visit 
 to America, under the presidency of the Lord Chief Justice of 
 England, Lord Coleridge — an event only to be paralleled by refer- 
 ence to the great festival when John Kemble left the stage. To 
 name those who filled the great hall on the occasion would be to 
 print a list of England's celebrities ; not only in literature and art, 
 for leaders in almost every phase of intellect and eminence were 
 present, in which sense it eclipsed the Charles Kean banquet. 
 There are more appropriate places to chronicle the event in detail 
 than the pages of this book, which, however, would be incomplete 
 without this brief allusion to it. 
 
 I performed rather a feat, which was entirely unpremeditated, on 
 the memorable evening. Fedora was acted at an hour that allowed 
 me to sit down to the soup, although I had to disappear with the 
 fish. In the second and third acts of the play, I wore evening 
 dress. Some eight minutes before the end of the second act, and 
 during the interval, I was free, and on the spur of the moment re- 
 
THE SEASON OF 1882-83 
 
 357 
 
 turned at full speed to St. James's Hall, Just as I was— made up as 
 the French diplomate, my head suggestmg a kind of younger Due 
 d'Aumale. I was fortunate enough to enter the room at the happy 
 moment when Lord Coleridge was proposing the chief toast, and 
 able to remain long enough to hear the greater part of Irving's 
 reply. Of course I knew my time almost to a second, and was 
 back on the Haymarket stage, somewhat out of breath, for I made 
 both journeys on foot, without causing any delay. When I had 
 finished my part, I went again to the hall, and was lucky enough to 
 hear Mr. Lowell, one of the best and most amusing orators I ever 
 listened to, conclude an eloquent speech. 
 
 In the following week another banquet of some interest took 
 place, which may be more fully dwelt on in this book, as it emanated 
 from myself. The idea occurred to me to give a farewell supper 
 to Irving before his departure, and to let it have the distinctive 
 character of inviting none but actors to it. Feeling that nowhere 
 could it be given so appropriately, I ventured to ask the sub-com- 
 mittee of the Garrick Club if, under the special circumstances, it 
 might be allowed to take place in the chief dming-room at midnight. 
 Greatly to my delight, the kindness of acquiescence was accorded 
 to me. Sir Algernon Borthwick being good enough to write my 
 request was ' an honour to the club.' The room, so wonderfully 
 appropriate for the purpose, was arranged to accommodate ninety 
 guests, whose names it may be interesting to preserve : 
 
 Mr. James Anderson, 
 Mr. G. W. Anson, 
 Mr. F. Archer, 
 Mr. George Alexander, 
 Mr. H. Ashley, 
 M. Pierre Berton, 
 Mr. Lawrence Barrett, 
 Mr. Wilson Barrett, 
 Mr. George Barrett, 
 Mr. J. H. Barnes, 
 Mr. Lionel Brough, 
 Mr. Dion G. Boucicault, 
 Mr. Kyrle Bellew, 
 Mr. Alfred Bishop, 
 Mr. C. Brookfield, 
 Mr. J. Billington, 
 Mr. Edgar Bruce, 
 Mr. G. F. Bashford, 
 Mr. W. Creswick, 
 Mr. J. Carne, 
 Mr. John Clayton, 
 Mr. Arthur Cecil, 
 Mr. H. B, Conway, 
 Mr. Charles Coghlan, 
 Mr. J. S. Clarke, 
 Mr. George Conquest, 
 Mr. Arthur Dacre, 
 Mr. Stewart Dawson, | 
 
 Mr. F. Everill, 
 Mr. W. G. Elliot, 
 Mr. J. Fernandez, 
 Mr. David Fisher, 
 Mr. H. Fitzpatrick, 
 Mr. Corney Grain, 
 Mr. George Grossmith, 
 Mr. E. Girardot, 
 Mr. Hare, 
 
 Mr. Augustus Harris, 
 Mr. Howe, 
 Mr. E. Hastings, 
 Mr. Irving, 
 Mr. David James, 
 Mr. H. Jackson, 
 Mr. W. H. Kendal, 
 Mr. Walter Lacy, 
 Mr. F. Leslie, 
 Mr. H. J. Loveday, 
 M. Marius, 
 Mr. J. Maclean, 
 Mr. W. Mackintosh, 
 Mr. T. Mead, 
 Mr. Henry Neville, 
 Mr. Alfred Nelson, 
 Mr. A. W. Pinero, 
 Mr. R. Pateman, 
 Mr. Howard Paul, 
 
 Mr. H. Paulton, 
 Mr. John Ryder, 
 Mr. "E. Righton, 
 Mr. Alfred Reed, 
 Mr. Forbes-Robertson, 
 Mr. J. T. Raymond,, 
 Mr. E. Russell, 
 Mr. E. Smedley, 
 Mr. R. Soutar, 
 Mr. Arthur Stirling, 
 Mr. C. Sugden, 
 Mr. Herbert Standing, 
 Mr. T. Swinbourne, 
 Mr. Bram Stoker, 
 Mr. W. Terriss, 
 Mr. H. Beerbohm Tree, 
 Mr. T. Thorne, 
 Mr. Edward Terry, 
 Mr. J. G. Taylor, 
 Mr. J. L. Toole, 
 Mr. W. H. Vernon, 
 Mr. Percy Vernon, 
 Mr. Hermann Vezin, 
 Mr. R. H. Wyndham, 
 Mr, Charles Warner, 
 Mr. E. S. WiUard, 
 Mr. E. N. Wenman, 
 Mr. E. D. Ward. 
 
358 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Engagements in America and the provinces robbed me of a few 
 friends, whose names may possibly be missed from the list, and 
 whose presence would have delighted me. 
 
 Excepting only Mr. Bashford and Mr. Russell, our secretary and 
 treasurer, and Mr. Bram Stoker and Mr. Loveday, so long and 
 closely associated with Mr. Irving, all present were actors. _ The 
 gathering was commented upon as a ' supper of honour,' and it may 
 be interesting to preserve here the speech in which I proposed the 
 health of my chief guest : 
 
 ' Your greeting makes me very nervous ; in fact, the remembrance 
 of the audience I had to face to-night made me very nervous during 
 the day, when, suddenly, I took comfort from the thought that if I 
 should break down in my attempt to address you, I had provided 
 the best possible " under-study " in my young friend Mr. Ward, who 
 not only could pick me up, but "take me off" so well, I am told, 
 and on the best possible authority, that you would be unable to 
 detect the difference ;* however, I hope I shall not have to call 
 upon his good-natured imitation, for of whatever quality the stuff 
 may be, no doubt you would prefer the original article. My posi- 
 tion at the present moment is a proud one. I am proud of the 
 generous compliment paid me by the committee of this club in 
 allowing me the great privilege of entertaining you in this room, 
 and I am indeed gratified to find myself surrounded by so many 
 who rank from very dear friends to most valued acquaintances ; 
 while from the walls around us we are looked down upon by the 
 effigies of those whose names mean all that is famous in the past 
 of our great theatrical history ; for I am bold enough to contend 
 that from the days of the giant after whose immortal name this 
 club is called, to those of my most distinguished guest, no country 
 in the world can boast a prouder dramatic history than our own, 
 and that no actors in the world have done more — taken from all 
 time and for all in all — to uphold and adorn the beautiful art we 
 follow than the actors of England. My words may sound egotistical, 
 addressed as they are by an actor to actors, but such is not my 
 wish ; and surely there must be proof of the truth of what I have 
 ventured to say in the esteem in which gradually, and by hard and 
 good work, our profession has been brought to be regarded. In 
 the foremost ranks of those who ha\e so worked must be placed 
 the name of Henry Irving. When the idea first came to me to ask 
 you to give me the honour of your company to wish Mr. Ii-ving 
 God-speed before he sails for America, it was with the thought that 
 it would not perhaps be the least valued of the compliments that 
 have been showered upon him to know that his comrades are 
 among his best well-wishers. I would ask you to remember that, 
 however high the position we may attain, or however humbly we 
 
 * An allusion to Mr. E D. Ward's amusing imitation of me in a burlesque 
 on Fedora^ tlien being played f\t Toole's Tlieatre. 
 
THE SEASON OF 1882-83 359 
 
 may remain in the ranks, the reflection of the great honour shown 
 to Henry Irving last Wednesday by that wonderful representative 
 gathering of the intellect of this land is shed upon our art and upon 
 us, and that a share of its brightness belongs to the humblest 
 amongst us. Although I will yield to none of you in my affection 
 for him, I confess that it requires a sweeter voice, a more fluent 
 tongue, than fall to my lot, to sing the praises of our friend ; but, 
 fortunately for me, neither he nor his deeds are strangers to you, 
 and a brief reminder will fill your hearts with all the good wishes I 
 ask for him ; and I cannot but think it would sound fulsome, in 
 such an assembly as this, were I to dwell at too great a length on 
 his many claims to our regard and admiration. No one knows him 
 as you do, none are fonder of him than we are, and none are 
 prouder of his great success than we — his fellow-workers.' 
 
 In the course of the generous speech in which my old friend 
 Hare, who sat on my left hand, proposed my health, he spoke 
 words which touched me very much, and my vanity must bear the 
 blame of their appearance here : 
 
 ' It seems to me to have been a peculiarly fit and gracious thing 
 that we should have been invited by the oldest and most successful 
 manager in London to drink " bon voyage " and " God-speed " to 
 its most distinguished and successful actor. To praise a man before 
 his face is a somewhat delicate task ; but fortunately we all know 
 Mr. Bancroft so well, and esteem him so highly, that he may well 
 be spared any eulogies from me. His great ability as a manager is 
 known to all, and it should never be forgotten that he was the first 
 to originate and to introduce those reforms to which the dramatic 
 profession owes so much of its present proud position ; although 
 other managers have followed, and successfully followed, his lead, 
 it should always be remembered that the lead was his. Those who 
 have been fortunate enough to serve under his management — and 
 there must be many such at this table — can testify to his unvarying 
 kindness, his generosity, and his just dealings with all, and many of 
 his most generous actions have been known only to the recipients 
 of them. Perhaps not the least pleasing of Mr. Bancroft's reflec- 
 tions in the evening of his life, when we trust he may long enjoy 
 the rest he deserves, and has worked for so well, will be that his 
 long career as a manager has been one of probity and honour, 
 that he has intentionally wronged no man, but that many owe much 
 to him, and hold him in affectionate remembrance. As one of his 
 oldest friends and fellow-workers, as one who passed ten happy 
 years under his management, as his largest debtor for innumerable 
 acts of kindness, I ask you to join me in heartily drinking " The 
 health of Mr. Bancroft." ' 
 
 Some able remarks in his own language were delightfully spoken 
 by Pierre Berton, who represented the French stage, and a brilliant 
 
36o OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 impromptu speech was delivered by Mr. Lawrence Barrett, the dis- 
 tinguished American actor (who arrived in England, to my great 
 pleasure, just in time to be present). This was unhappily lost, 
 except upon the fortunate hearers, as the speaker did not make a 
 single note, and all his efforts on the following day to recall his 
 words were unavailing. 
 
 I will close my reference to this supper-party by anticipating 
 events a little, and will relate a pleasant incident that happened 
 late on a night in the following spring. My wife was on the stair- 
 case, on her way to her room, when we were startled by a loud 
 knocking at the front door. The servants had locked up the house 
 and, I thought, had gone to bed ; but one of them had not, it 
 seemed, for I heard the door-chain loosened, and in a moment 
 more a well-known voice asked if I was at home or not. As I ran 
 downstairs I called out to Mrs. Bancroft, ' Come down again ; I am 
 sure it's Irving.' He almost embraced me in the hall, and said, in 
 the next breath, ' How white you've grown, old fellow !' He had 
 only that evening I'eturned from America, and took his chance of 
 finding us at home. What a long delightful talk we had ! and the 
 clock struck often while we listened to his tale of travels and 
 experiences. 
 
 Some requirements of the Metropolitan Board of Works, resulting 
 doubtless from the burning of the Ring Theatre, in Vienna, and the 
 more recent Alhambra catastrophe, having regard to the London 
 theatres, with a view to better ensure the safety of the public in the 
 event of fire, had to be complied with before a fixed date, which 
 necessitated our breaking the run of Fedora. This was a misfor- 
 tune, as the play had so firm a hold on public favour that fair 
 weather or foul, heat or cold — and the thermometer often rules 
 theatres with an iron will — made no difference in its attraction, and 
 would otherwise have induced us to keep the theatre open through 
 the summer, but, under the circumstances, we decided to leave 
 town for a holiday at our usual time, giving up our parts, until the 
 enforced date of closing in August, to Mr. Conway and Miss 
 Calhoun, a clever young Californian actress, who had for some little 
 time been a member of our company without having had the oppor- 
 tunity of an appearance. Mr. Coghlan, tempted by a large offer to 
 revisit America, begged to be released from his engagement at the 
 date of closing, and we agreed to his wish. 
 
 This year we respected the objection to toiijours perdrix, and 
 resolved to try new ground for our holiday. Reluctantly we forsook 
 the Engadine, at any rate for a season. This was a good resolve, 
 for even the miser who daily gloats over his hoard may chink his 
 gold too often ; then its sound grows so familiar that he loses some 
 of the sweetness of its music. 
 
 We chose Homburg for the first part of our stay abroad, and 
 were cheerfully lodged in the Untere Promenade. We only toyed 
 with the Elizabeth Brunnen, and relied for renovation more upon 
 
THE SEASON OF 1882-83 361 
 
 the good air and bright society, of which there was no lacli. Some- 
 times in the early morning the crowd of health-seekers was very 
 largely Park and Piccadilly in its character, for the list of water- 
 drinkers would have done credit to any fashionable gathering 
 honoured by Royalty downwards, and chronicled in the Morning 
 Post. 
 
 We met and made no end of friends, and passed a pleasant 
 ' cure.' My share of it was somewhat interfered with by a rash 
 resolve to take up the part of Loris Ipanoff when we resumed the 
 run of Fedora, as I had found some difficulty in otherwise replacing 
 Coghlan. 
 
 During our stay the Prince of Wales, always among the most 
 punctual at the favoured spring, took many opportunities to be 
 gracious, and the late Duke and the Duchess of Albany honoured 
 us one evening with an invitation to their villa, when Mrs. Bancroft 
 added her signature to his Royal Highness's remarkable book of 
 autographs, in which I had already had the honour to write my name 
 on an occasion when I passed a day at Claremont, at the invitation 
 of the Prince, from whom a few days afterwards I received this 
 letter : 
 
 ' Osborne, April 12, 1881. 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Bancroft, — Pray accept my best thanks for the 
 photograph of Mrs. Bancroft, which I think excellent, also for your 
 own as " Triplet." I shall value them very much. With kind 
 regards to Mrs. Bancroft, believe me, yours very truly, Leopold.' 
 
 There is no need to dwell upon the familiar routine of a German 
 watering-place. The waters may be laden with iron or charged 
 with salt ; the baths may be of pine, or perhaps of mud ; still the 
 life is much the same : there is generally a strong family resem- 
 blance between the Schloss, the Kursaal, the band, and the con- 
 stant evidence of the Kaiser's vast army. Whichever the Bad you 
 choose, or is chosen for you, the stall-keepers seem ubiquitous, and 
 to pursue their victims with their corals, their tortoise-shells, and 
 their filigrees, no matter where they wander. 
 
 It was during this summer trip that we read with great regret of 
 the sudden death of Mr. Dutton Cook, whom we regarded as one 
 of the ablest, as he was certainly one of the most difficult to please, 
 of all our dramatic critics. Personally, I have often worked my 
 hardest to wring one line of praise from his cold but honest pen, 
 and never felt more rewarded than when I earned it. 
 
 Feeling that our holiday would be incomplete without a peep at 
 the mountains, we fixed on Zermatt for a short visit. Our journey 
 there, after we left the Lake of Thun, was through a part of the 
 country new to us, by Kandersteg, and over the Gemmi Pass, to 
 the Baths of Leuk, where from a gallery you can see the patients 
 bathing, many of whom pass the hours they are condemned to 
 sjaend immersed in the mud playing chess, or drinking coffee ; 
 
362 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 thence down to the pestilential valley of the Rhone, where at 
 almost every turn one meets the two Swiss horrors, the goitre and 
 the cretin. 
 
 Too tired to push on to the little inn at Stalden, we had to sleep 
 in the depressing, though picturesque, village of Visp, starting 
 gladly with early morning for our destination, and, on a perfect 
 day, first saw the noble Matterhorn, which certainly, of all the giant 
 Alpine peaks, should be called the monarch. As seen from the 
 Homli and the Riffel, he is grander still, and remains graven upon 
 the memory in all his dignity ; seeming, as it were, to frown in 
 triumph upon the graves in the little churchyard far below, where 
 lie the bones of those who were of the party that first conquered 
 him, but met death in their descent, as if in retribution for their 
 presumption. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE SEASON OF 1 883-84. 
 
 Resumption oi Fedora : Mr. Bancroft as Loris Ipanoff— A story of his eyeglass 
 — Letter from Mrs. Langtry — Mr. Pinero's comedy. Lords and Commons — 
 Its origin and production — ' Behind the Scenes ' — Resolution to retire from 
 the cares of management — Revival of Peril and A Lesson — Sittings for a 
 portrait to W. W. Ouless, R.A. — Death of the Duke of Albany— A letter 
 of condolence — Deaths of Charles Reade and H. J. Byron— Reade's friend- 
 ship — Anecdote of Byron, and characteristic letter from him — His im- 
 promptu jokes — His manner of writing his plays : an amusing incident — ■ 
 The Rivals — Pains taken in its production — The cast — The first night — A 
 costly awning — The Engadine once more — A story of filial love — A fortnight 
 at Brighton — Mr. and Mrs. Sala — Baron Huddleston : his story of a 
 notorious criminal — The lady of the manor — Correspondence on the 
 prospective retirement — Letters from F. C. Burnand, Wilkie Collins, W. S. 
 Gilbert, John Hare, Lord Londesborough, W. W. Oiiless, J. C. Parkinson, 
 A. W. Pinero, B. C. Stephenson, Moy Thomas, and Edmund Yates, 
 
 The alterations in the theatre were entirely confined to that part 
 of it behind the curtain, and when we reached town, we found the 
 stage still in the hands of the contractor, but the work, although 
 completed by the fixed date, allowed me a few days only to rehearse 
 my new part of Loris Ipanoff, to which I had been obliged to 
 devote a large share of my time when abroad. This great dis- 
 advantage — lack of time — did not fully manifest itself until the 
 opening night (September 29th), when I felt myself to be insuffi- 
 ciently rehearsed, and to a considerable extent unprepared to do 
 justice to my intentions. My performance, so far as my own judg- 
 ment upon it may be accepted, improved greatly in a few days ; 
 and not being, I hope, given to over-value my own work, I regard 
 the third act, in which Loris relates at great length the story of his 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 363 
 
 wrongs, among the best of my efforts as an actor. The character, 
 however, in the fourth act, to receive full justice, requires certain 
 qualities of voice greater in power than are at my command. With 
 the serious drawbacks also of having broken the run, and the loss 
 of Mrs. Bancroft's services (which always militated like magic 
 against the attractive powers of any play), we felt that Fedora 
 could not be expected to regain its former fierce hold upon the 
 public. 
 
 There was some surmise, I remember, as to whether Mr. Ban- 
 NOTE BY croft would discard his eye-glass, he being very help- 
 M. E. B. less without it. In his assumption of Loris Ipanoff, as 
 in Triplet and several other characters, he, of course, did so, except 
 at rehearsal, when it had to be used with double care in order to 
 master the business of the scene ; and I remember very old- 
 fashioned glasses of the period being bought for Joseph Surface 
 and other last century parts which, although carried out of sight, 
 could have been used in the event of any emergency. This cir- 
 cumstance reminds me to tell briefly how, at one of Lady Hayter's 
 delightful parties, we were treated to a hearty laugh at my hus- 
 band's expense. On our arrival at the supper-table. Miss Melita 
 Ponsonby (if she will forgive me for mentioning her name) laugh- 
 ingly remarked how completely hors de combat she felt, having lost 
 her eye-glass on her way from one party to another that evening. 
 She was quite unable to recognise her friends in the room, or to 
 distinguish one thing from another on the table. Miss Ponsonby 
 was so plainly at a loss to know what to do, that Mr. Bancroft 
 offered to assist her to some refreshment, and she thanked him. 
 My husband immediately adjusted his eye-glass, and began to look 
 about for something. Miss Ponsonby laughingly remarked, ' Ah, 
 your glass would be no use to me ; I am more blind than you, Mr. 
 Bancroft!' Upon which he replied, 'Then you must be blind 
 indeed. Miss Ponsonby.' She then asked permission to try his 
 glass, and found, to her great delight, that it suited her sight 
 exactly ; for she was able to look about the room, to distinguish 
 her friends, and to walk round the table to choose for herself Mr. 
 Bancroft's eye-glass is always firmly fastened to his collar-stud, and 
 cannot be removed without some difficulty. His ludicrous attitude, 
 consequently, may well be imagined when I say that wherever Miss 
 Ponsonby went, Mr. Bancroft was of necessity compelled to follow, 
 for she, unexpectedly finding a glass through which she could see 
 so clearly, was naturally not inclined to let the prize go in a hurry. 
 So away Miss Ponsonby went, followed everywhere by Mr. Ban- 
 croft, attached by a short string which he vainly attempted to 
 detach. It had the funniest effect possible, for whenever Miss Pon- 
 sonby stopped suddenly to see what she would like to select, down 
 went my husband's face too, and his serious expression of counten- 
 ance made us laugh all the more. This eye-glass of Mr. Bancroft's 
 
364 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 has often been the cause of good fun to me, and a blessing to the 
 caricaturists. 
 
 We had the pleasure this autumn to renew our friendly relations 
 with Mrs. Langtry, who had passed a long tinie in the United 
 States, and was returning there with the intention to act Feri/, 
 there called A Wifis Peril, as its own title was claimed by an 
 American author. The following letter will explain a small share 
 we had in the matter : 
 
 ' 120, West Thirteenth Street, New York, October 28, 1883. 
 
 ' My dear Mr. Bancroft, — Many, many thanks for your kind- 
 ness in letting me have your prompt-book of Peril; I appreciate 
 the gift, and thank you heartily for your generosity. I was dread- 
 fully worried all the way across, not knowing how I should manage 
 without it, for I know how much the success of Peril was due to 
 the perfect stage-management. 
 
 ' I have been overworking myself, rehearsing from ten till ten 
 every day, and am feeling the effects. I wish I could take things 
 a little more easily, but the love of acting grows upon me, and I 
 think of absolutely nothing else. 
 
 ' I shall never forget your and " Mrs. B.'s " kindness in giving me 
 my first engagement, for I feel that my subsequent success was 
 owing in a very great degree to the position you gave me. I am 
 writing what I feel. 
 
 ****** 
 
 ' I must tell you again how grateful I am to you for the prompt- 
 book, and if the piece succeeds, I shall attribute it to you. — Yours 
 very truly, LiLLlE Langtry.' 
 
 Fedora only served the purpose of drawing fairly good houses 
 RESUMED until we prepared Mr. Pinero's comedy, to which he 
 BY s, E. B. had given the attractive title Lords and Commons. 
 How this play came about may be worth the telling. One day, on 
 my way from Paris by the tidal train, on board the boat I met 
 Henry Russell, the still hale and hearty composer of ' Cheer, Boys, 
 Cheer,' ' The Ivy Green,' ' The Land of the West,' and scores of 
 other well-known songs. Mr. Russell, who has lived for years at 
 Boulogne, where he is as well known as the prefet himself, told me 
 he had just finished reading a novel which had pleased him veiy 
 much, and in which he thought were the germs of a good play. 
 Very kindly he afterwards sent us the book, which we found to be a 
 rather crude translation of a clever Swedish romance. We told 
 the plot to Mr. Pinero, who thought he saw in it the starting-point 
 for his work, and although his play owed a little in incident to its 
 story, it was only in outline and suggestion. 
 
 The author read and rehearsed his play with great skill, giving 
 all concerned a clear insight into the value of his characters : an 
 art rarely possessed in the highest degree, in my experience, but by 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 
 
 36s 
 
 author-actors, as, for instance, Dion Boucicault and T. W. Robert- 
 son (who was for some time an actor, although never a prominent 
 one)._ This faculty is shared, doubtless owing to a long-since- 
 acquired intimate acquaintance with the stage, by W. S. Gilbert. 
 H. J. Byron, strange to say, was devoid of the power ; on the other 
 hand, so far as our experience goes, it is distinctly owned by F. C. 
 Bumand, who acted a good deal en amateur. Was he not, indeed, 
 the founder of the A. D. C. at Cambridge ? 
 
 Lords and Commons allowed us the great pleasure of again 
 numbering Mrs. Stirling among the members of our company, to 
 which Mr. Forbes-Robertson also returned, to remain prominently 
 connected with us until the close of our management. 
 
 The author diligently directed the rehearsals, and no pains were 
 spared by all concerned to bring his work successfully through its 
 ordeal. As for ddcor, perhaps stage illusion went as far as need be 
 in the old hall and the terrace, which were perfect specimens of Mr. 
 Telbin's art, while the tapestry-room was made very complete by 
 Mr. Walter Johnstone. Caryl Court, both in its decay and renova- 
 tion, was a splendid specimen of an old English mansion. 
 
 The construction of the play was full of talent and ingenuity, the 
 types of characters most original (although in some cases drawn, 
 perhaps, with too strong a leaning towards the meaner side of our 
 poor humanity), and much of the dialogue showed the highest 
 excellence ; but, unfortunately, the sympathy of the audience early 
 in the story was forfeited by the aristocrats, and, once lost, it was 
 difficult to restore it to them, in spite of the pathetic beauty of the 
 closing scene, which was treated with exceptional skill by Forbes- 
 Robertson. 
 
 On Saturday, November 24, 1883, will he played, for the first time, 
 
 LORDS AND COMMONS: 
 
 AN ORIGINAL COMEDY, IN FOUR ACTS, WRITTEN BY A. W. PINERO. 
 
 The scene is laid at Caryl Court, near Ottway, St. Anne, in the spring and 
 summer of the present time. 
 
 EARL OF CARYL 
 
 LORD PERCY LEWISCOURT 
 
 SIR GEORGE PARNACOTT, M.D. 
 
 TOM JERVOISE . 
 
 MR. SMEE 
 
 MR. CHAD 
 
 MR. TREDGER . 
 
 PRESSENGER . 
 
 BABY RADBONE 
 
 COUNTESS OF CARYL 
 
 LADY NELL 
 
 MRS. DEVENISH 
 
 MISS MAPLEBECK 
 
 Mr. Forees-Robertson. 
 Mr. C. Brookfield. 
 Mr. Elliot. 
 Mr. Bancroft. 
 Mr. Alfred Bishop. 
 Mr. Girardot. 
 Mr. Albert Sims. 
 Mr. Percy Vernon. 
 Mr. Stewart Dawson. 
 Mrs. Stirling. 
 Miss Calhoun. 
 Mrs. Bernard-Beere. 
 Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 Tradespeople, men and women-servants. 
 
366 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 The author referred the critics and the public to Manner of Bars, 
 a Swedish romance by Maria Sophia Schwartz, the perusal of which 
 suggested the argument of his play. 
 
 Because the play, which was acted for nearly eighty nights, only 
 attracted full houses for the first few weeks of its performance, it 
 was referred to after its withdrawal as having been a failure, and 
 resulting in a loss. This impression was quite erroneous, for with- 
 out pretending to rank as a great success, the career of the play 
 was by no means without profit to author and manager. Unfortu- 
 nately in fame to either it did not answer early hopes, partly owing, 
 it may be, to the high standard of all-round completeness the press 
 and the public had, fairly enough, grown to expect from us — a com- 
 pliment, however gratifying as a sort of medal awarded for general 
 excellence, by no means without its reverse side. In Mrs. Ban- 
 croft's words : 
 
 ' It would be very interesting to an audience to be given now and 
 then a peep behind the scenes, or in the green-room ; they would 
 often see what good servants to the public are the actors ; how 
 often, when suffering acute pain, they have gone through their work 
 so bravely that the audience has not detected even a look of it. 
 The public owe more to the actor than they will perhaps be pre- 
 pared to admit. I have known that grand old actress Mrs. Stirling, 
 when suffering from a severe attack of bronchitis, to go to the 
 theatre in all weathers and at great risk, more especially at her age, 
 and when she ought to have been in bed. I have seen her arrive 
 scarcely able to breathe, but insisting upon going through her 
 duties ; this has often been an anxiety, for while admiring her 
 courage, I have feared bad results from it. Mrs. Stirling's sight 
 being impaired, she always dreaded stairs ; and, unfortunately for 
 her, in the hall of Caryl Court there was a long gallery and then a 
 tall flight of steps leading from it to the stage, while behind the 
 scenes there was another flight to reach this gallery. Luckily she 
 did not enter alone, but had the kindly help of Miss Eleanor 
 Calhoun, who played her daughter in the piece. When Mrs. Stir- 
 ling was ill, these stairs would naturally be a double anxiety, but she 
 would listen to no change of entrance in the scene which might 
 affect the arrangement of the play, and I often felt anxious about 
 her. One would imagine, to see her slowly and cautiously ascend 
 the flight of steps, stopping every now and then to murmur, " Oh, 
 these stairs !" that she would scarcely be able to get through her 
 part ; but although she has stood gasping for breath and terribly 
 ailing, the moment her cue came to go on the stage she seemed to 
 become twenty years younger : vigour returned to her limbs, and 
 she walked with such a firm and stately gait that the change was 
 extraordinary. Her grand voice was alone worth a good walk to 
 listen to, and her acting of the part was as no one else could act it. 
 
 ' This allusion to Lords and Commons reminds me of Mr. Brook- 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 367 
 
 field's remarkable "make-up" for Lord Percy Lewiscourt, which 
 was so complete a disguise that when he first entered the green- 
 room I could not for a time imagine who he could be. It was a 
 most wonderful metamorphosis, and his acting of the part added to 
 the list of his numerous clever impersonations.' 
 
 We now approach a crisis in our management : the moment 
 when we came to the resolve to retire altogether from its cares. 
 This happened towards the end of 1883. Our impulse was doubt- 
 less somewhat hastened by the result of our two last seasons of 
 unthought-of success, and, indeed, by the almost unbroken full tide 
 of prosperity which had followed our perilous removal, achieved, as 
 it had been so often and to our regret, with old material. After 
 dwelling anxiously on the subject in all its important bearings — we 
 even went so far as to fix the date of the realization of our wish, 
 thinking the end of twenty years' management, then some eighteen 
 months distant, would be a fair climax to set upon our labours. 
 But we kept these thoughts at first to ourselves until we felt assured 
 they were not transient. Only those closely connected with the 
 entire control of a popular and successful theatre can know the 
 mental and bodily strain it means, and they alone can count the 
 cost, in wear and tear, which buys its prizes. In considering our, 
 decision, the exceptional fact must not be lost sight of that we first 
 held the reins of management at a time of life very early to assume 
 responsibility. Perhaps the date when this determination was 
 made public will be a better moment to give more fully the pros 
 and cons, the whys and wherefores, that governed our resolve. 
 
 Although some people were much in love with the play, the 
 attractive powers of Lords and Commons waned sooner than we 
 expected, so we revived Peril, which had not been acted since its 
 career of great success at the Prince of Wales's Theatre seven years 
 before. Mr. Burnand's clever Lesson, given by the actress to the 
 amateur, was played in conjunction with the more important piece. 
 This programme was a stop-gap while the preparations were com- 
 pleted for a contemplated production of The Rivals. As I resigned 
 my original part of Sir George Ormond to Mr. Forbes-Robertson, 
 and appeared for the first time as the moving spirit of the play, the 
 sharp-witted doctor, the cast of Peril on February 16, 1884, was 
 entirely new, being- as follows : Sir George Ormond, Bart., Mr. 
 Forbes-Robertson ; Sir Woodbine Grafton, K.C.S.I., Mr. Alfred 
 Bishop ; Captain Bradford, Mr. H. B. Conway ; Dr. Thornton, 
 Mr. Bancroft ; Mr. Crossley Beck, Mr. C. Brookfield ; Percy 
 Grafton, Mr. H. Eversfield ; Meadows, Mr. Percy Vernon ; Kemp, 
 Mr. Elliot ; Lady Ormond, Mrs. Bemard-Beere ; Lucy Ormond, 
 Miss Julia Gwynne ; Mrs. Crossley Beck, Mrs. Canninge ; Sophie, 
 Miss Augusta Wilton. 
 
 On this occasion Mrs. Bancroft was again supported in A Lesson 
 by Mr. Brookfield in his admirable character-sketch of the old 
 
368 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Scotch knight, and by Miss Calhoun and Mr. Forbes- Robertson in 
 the other parts. 
 
 It was during the spring of this year that the chief sittings were 
 given for a portrait Mr. Ouless, R.A., painted of me, and which a 
 little later was shown in the exhibition of the Royal Academy. I 
 look back to the pleasant hours passed in the studio, and many de- 
 lightful talks while the work progressed, as the commencement of a 
 friendship I highly prize. 
 
 Before our account of TAe Rivals, we will tell of events which 
 happened while the play was in preparation, for the King of Terrors 
 was busy with his remorseless scythe. In March came the sad 
 and startling news of the Duke of Albany's sudden death at Cannes. 
 The lessees of the London theatres were informed by the Lord 
 Chamberlain that they were at liberty to exercise their discretion 
 with regard to closing their doors on the night of his Royal High- 
 ness's funeral, and by common consent the managers decided to 
 mark their respect for the lamented Prince's memory by suspending 
 all performances. A letter of condolence was addressed to the 
 Prince of Wales by representative leading actors then in London. 
 Mr. Irving was in America, and it fell to my lot, as the senior 
 manager, to forward the document to Mr. (now Sir) Francis KnoUys, 
 which was most graciously and cordially acknowledged by his 
 Royal Highness. 
 
 In the following month, and, if I remember rightly, on the same 
 day (Good Friday), two distinguished dramatists, whose names 
 have often graced these pages, passed away — Charles Reade and 
 Henry James Byron ; the former in his seventieth year, the latter 
 in the prime of life, he being only fifty. 
 
 Reade, whose world-wide fame as a novelist and man of letters 
 entitles his name to be enrolled among the literary giants of the 
 age, had long been suffering, and for years had been a martyr to 
 asthma and bronchitis. He was brought home, after a fruidess 
 search for better health on the shores of the Mediterranean, only 
 in time to die in his native land, where his memory will long be 
 honoured. The recollection of his friendship, which we enjoyed 
 for twelve years, and of his many kind and gentle acts, we shall 
 always treasure. 
 
 Our pleasure that this feeling was reciprocal may be best 
 imagined when we read, in the ' Life of Charles Reade,' these 
 words : 
 
 ' Below a very natural and sweet letter of hers, ending with a 
 cordial " God bless you !" Charles Reade has inscribed these 
 words : " Mrs. Bancroft (Marie Wilton), a gifted and amiable 
 artist, who in this letter makes too much of my friendship, which 
 both she and her husband had so richly earned by their kindness 
 and courtesy to me." ' 
 
 Poor Byron, who, it may not generally be known, was of th'e 
 same lineage as the immortal poet, as a reference to Lodge or 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 369 
 
 Burke will show, and, as one may have imagined his great relati\e 
 to have been, was a Bohemian to the core. Talking one day at 
 dinner of his distinguished ancestor, when eating heartily of turkey, 
 he said, ' I'm quite ashamed, but I must have some more of that 
 bird.' Mrs. Byron, as he was assisted, remarked, ' My dear Harry, 
 really you'll be ill ; how greedy you are !' He laughed, and 
 replied, ' It's all in honour of the family motto, " Greedy {crede) 
 Byron /" ' 
 
 During his long career as a dramatic author, which must have 
 spread over a period approaching thirty years, Byron wrote more 
 than a hundred plays and burlesques, in not one of which can be 
 found a single line that the purest-minded person might not have 
 listened to. In his very early days Byron had also been an actor, 
 Tom Robertson, Fred Younge, and he, once being members of the 
 same company. Later in his life he went upon the stage again, 
 but then only played characters written by himself His health 
 had long been failing, and it was for some time plainly evident to 
 the few friends he cared to keep about him that his race was nearly 
 run. He grew dreadfully restless, and was constantly changing 
 his home, generally having at least a couple of empty houses on 
 his hands. Within quite a short period we have correspondence 
 dated by him from Eccleston Square, Bedford Square, Clapham 
 Park, and Sutton. One characteristic letter from him will be well 
 placed here : 
 
 ' Langton Ledge, Sutton, Surrey, /nne 25, 1882. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — I ought to have answered your very 
 kind letter before, but upon my word the weather has been so de- 
 pressing that I have had no "go" in me, and have not taken up a 
 pen, except under protest and on compulsion, for a month. If the 
 sun would only show up like a man, I should feel like another one, 
 but constant clouds and almost ceaseless winds drive one wretched. 
 Good for the theatres, though. You will both soon enjoy what the 
 papers always madden me by calling a " well-deser\'ed " or " well- 
 earned " holiday, and will, I suppose, seek the Engadine again. 
 
 ' I hope Mrs. Bancroft has escaped her quondam enemy, hay- 
 fever, this year ; I always think of her when passing the carts full 
 of it — hay, not fever. 
 
 ' I have a lot of work on hand, with a most horrible and revolting 
 distaste for doing it, and the very name of a playhouse drives me 
 frantic. A boy came and left a bill announcing Collette as the 
 Colonel at the Public Hall here last week. It is lucky I didn't catch 
 him ; but the Sutton boys are very agile. I like Collette, and I 
 like the Colonel, but there are limits. Arthur Sketchley has been 
 here for two or three days. He left yesterday, but the staircase 
 still trembles.* And now, hoping you may both enjoy your rest, 
 and with kindest regards, believe me, yours always sincerely, H. J. 
 Byron.' 
 
 * Of course, in allusion to Sl^etchley's enormous bulk and weigtit. 
 
 24 
 
370 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 Poor dear Byron ! How handsome he once was ! How the 
 hours seemed to fly in his companionship ! His very name meant 
 fun. Perhaps no writer ever had a greater power in twisting his 
 languag;e into puns, while his intense appreciation of another's joke 
 was dehghtful to see. 
 
 It would be easy to fill pages with his witticisms ; but, without 
 wearying the reader, we both feel compelled to recall one or two of 
 his impromptu jokes. 
 
 It was at the little Prince of Wales's Theatre that he first sug- 
 gested his Shakespearian motto for the box-book keeper, ' So much 
 for Booking 'e?n P which afterwards was sent to Punch. There was 
 a carpenter in the theatre, by name Cressy, who was such a par- 
 ticularly quiet, steady man, that it was remarked by several members 
 of the company, who were speaking of him in the green-room, when 
 someone said he understood that Cressy at one time had been a 
 drinker, but that he had taken the pledge years ago, and became a 
 changed man. Byron observed, ' Yes, now he is Water-Cressy! 
 
 When his play Dearer than Life was produced at the Queen's 
 Theatre, in Long Acre, all had gone well with it until the end of 
 the second act, after which there was a very long delay. The 
 audience grew more and more impatient, the band played waltz 
 after waltz, still the curtain was not taken up. Byron was walking 
 uneasily up and down the corridor at the back of the dress circle, 
 chafing over the mishap, and tugging, as he always did when 
 agitated, at one side of his moustache, when a friendly critic, almost 
 as anxious as himself, came up to him, and said, 'What, in the 
 name of goodness, are they doing ?' ' I don't know,' moaned 
 Byron. 
 
 At this moment the distinct sound of a saw, hard at work behind 
 the scenes, was heard above the uproar : saw — saw — saw ! ' What 
 are they doing now, my dear Byron ?' ' I think they must be cut- 
 ting out the last act P 
 
 At the time of his disastrous management of the three theatres in 
 Liverpool, an intimate London friend, who met him suddenly in the 
 street, was much struck with his anxious look and altered appear- 
 ance, and asked sympathetically, ' What's the matter, old fellow — 
 liver? 'Yes,' said Byron languidly, '■ Liverpool P 
 
 The friend couldn't help laughing heartily, but went on, ' Really, 
 now, do take some advice ; you've grown so thin. Have you tried 
 cod-hver oil?' Byron replied, 'No ; but I've tried Theatre Royal P 
 
 Two of his jokes, which must have been among the last he ever 
 uttered, no doubt found their way into print, but even at this risk 
 we will venture to tell them here. 
 
 One day, at Clapham, where he died, he received a letter from 
 his coachman, who was at the Bedford Square house, about a sick 
 horse. Byron told a friend of the circumstance in this way : 
 
 ' They won't let me alone even down here ; they will worry me 
 about trifles. This morning my fool of a coachman wrote to tell 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 371 
 
 me that a horse was ill, and wanted to know if he might gtve him a 
 ball. I answered, " Oh, yes, if you like, give him a ball; but dorit 
 ask too many people /" ' Then adding, through his laughter, ' I 
 don't suppose the fellow will understand it.' 
 
 Still later on, he said, ' People are very kind to me. I had no 
 idea so many friends remembered me. I thought myself much 
 more forgotten. Lovely flowers and delicious fruit are brought so 
 often ; and game, and other things. Last week a dear old friend 
 sent me a hare. I never saw such an animal ; the biggest hare that 
 ever ran, I think. I really fancied Kendal must be inside it !' (in 
 allusion to the partnership management of the St. James's Theatre 
 by Mr. Hare and Mr. Kendal). 
 
 Byron's was a happy-go-lucky nature ; everything was sure to be 
 NOTE BY right, because he wished it. He was the epitome of 
 M. E. B. good nature ; the most charming companion in the 
 world, often keeping everyone about him in fits of laughter, when it 
 was most amusing to see him laugh till he cried at his own jokes, 
 and his laughter was so infectious that, no matter what humour one 
 was in, a grave countenance was impossible. He would always 
 write best under pressure. If too much time were given him his 
 work would drag lazily along, and before he had half finished it he 
 would be weary of the subject and want to start on something 
 else. 
 
 I well remember his saying to me, ' I have taken a positive dis- 
 like to ,' naming a character in the play. ' I won't have any- 
 thing more to say to him. I made his acquaintance six weeks ago, 
 and I am tired to death of him and his long speeches. He is a 
 poor spirited brute, and he must be locked up ; if I meet him again 
 I shall cut him. So will the actor who plays him. So will the 
 critics who see him.' The late Mrs. Byron has often amused me 
 with accounts of how her husband would (when pressed for time) 
 write his plays. If walking with him he would suddenly, as an idea 
 struck him, stop, and on the back of an envelope, leaning against a 
 wall or maybe a house-door, submit it at once to paper for fear of 
 forgetting it. She was always glad when a play was finished, for 
 while it was being written nothing else was talked about. In the 
 middle of a conversation he would rush to his desk to jot down a 
 thought which had just occurred to him. Wrinkles would, I am 
 convinced, have been a better play if less time had been given him 
 to write it. 
 
 On an occasion when he complained of a cold, and was asked 
 how he caught it, he said that while taking his morning ablution 
 such a capital idea suggested itself to him that he jumped out of his 
 bath to write it down at once. 
 
 In a hurried and most earnest manner he, one day, was jotting 
 down an important inspiration, leaning heavily against the hall- 
 door of a house in the neighbourhood of Doughty Street, where he 
 
 24—2 
 
372 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 lived, when suddenly it was opened by an elderly lady, who was 
 coming out. Byron fell into the hall, upsetting the lady, who in 
 alarm screamed loudly. The situation must have been very ludi- 
 crous, for Byron laughed to such a degree that he couldn't get up, 
 while Mrs. Byron stood on the doorstep trying to explain and apolo- 
 gize ; but the lady, when she recovered herself sufficiently to speak 
 at all, exclaimed, ' Take him away, ma'am, to some asylum !' The 
 more Byron tried to apologize the less able he became to do so, for 
 the sight of the elderly lady, with her bonnet on one side, her bag 
 and umbrella on the mat, and her eyes starting from her head with 
 fright, sent him off into a kind of hysterics. He laughed so much 
 when he told us of this that it was with difficulty we followed the 
 story. We only regretted that he could not introduce the scene 
 into a play ; but he said it would be hard on the Christmas clowns. 
 He was laid at rest in Brompton Cemetery. Peace be with thy 
 remains, my old friend. 
 
 We had often contemplated, among other notions (which included 
 
 RESUMED Shakespeare's comedy, the Merry Wives of Windsor^ 
 BY s. E. B. always to be thrown aside for the want of a Falstaff), a 
 picturesque and historical production of The Rivals, when an oppor- 
 tunity offered itself, and had bestowed some work and much thought 
 upon a re-arrangement and transition of certain scenes to prevent 
 the frequent change so common and often so unnecessary in the 
 days of Sheridan, and to allow of the intended elaborate picture of 
 old Bath. 
 
 To better carry out these plans we sought the aid of Mr. Pinero, 
 who became partly responsible for the version presented of the 
 standard comedy. Mr. Telbin went down to the famous old city to 
 seek authorities and make sketches for his beautiful opening scene, 
 in which so much last-century detail was shown. We must have 
 tried the patience of those kind friends in the reading-room of the 
 British Museum, who cheerfully devoted considerable time towards 
 helping our researches to learn all we could of the fashionable 
 resort of our forefathers — the Carlsbad and Kissingen of their day. 
 We found a mine of information to govern the work of our other 
 scenic artists, and to aid us in producing the play. 
 
 The gavotte we introduced in the ' Tea-room ' leading from the 
 pump-room, where hung the authenticated portrait of the city's 
 former king, Beau Nash, was the result of some pains, and the 
 designs for the historically correct and beautiful dresses were made 
 by Mr. Forbes-Robertson. 
 
 As regards the distribution of the famous well-known characters 
 in the comedy, it may be there were instances of square pegs in 
 round holes. One of the original notions was a personation of 
 Mrs. Malaprop on novel lines by Mrs. Bancroft, but early re- 
 hearsals led us to fear that the experiment would have been at 
 least dangerous, and the idea was abandoned. We decided instead 
 
THE SEASON OF 18S3-84 373 
 
 to give the public the certainty of Mrs. Stiriing's splendid perform- 
 ance, and also engaged our old friend, Lionel Brough, to repeat his 
 well-known version of the valiant Bob Acres. Mr. Pinero, who had 
 a fancy for the part, undertook the responsibility of Sir Anthony 
 Absolute, the other characters being acted by members of the com- 
 pany as it stood. Influenced perhaps by the remembrance in very 
 early stage days of Leigh Murray's estimate of the thankless part 
 of Faulkland, when he told me that he preferred it to that of Captain 
 Absolute (a choice, I admit, I cannot understand), I resolved to 
 try and force his comically jealous nature into more prominence 
 than it sometimes receives, especially as my playing a minor part 
 enabled us to persuade Mrs. Bernard-Beere to accept the equally 
 thankless task of treating the companion character of the mawkish 
 Julia in the same way. I venture to think that we met with some 
 reward at the hands of the critical. 
 
 Perhaps this is the best place to insert an extract from the bill of 
 the play for Saturday, May 3rd, 1884, before finishing my notes on 
 this costly revival : 
 
 ' In submitting this performance of Sheridan's comedy, Tke 
 Rivals, for public approval, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft are actuated by 
 the same desire which guided their revival of the School for Scandal 
 — a desire to heighten the effect of the author's play without en- 
 cumbering its action. While strictly preserving the text, it has 
 been found possible, by means of a few transpositions in the 
 dialogue and some variation of locality, to avoid shifting the scenes 
 in view of the audience. 
 
 ' For this arrangement of the comedy, Mr. Bancroft and Mr. 
 Pinero are jointly responsible. Characters : Sir Anthony Absolute, 
 Mr. A. W. Pinero ; Sir Lucius O'Trigger, Mr. Alfred Bishop ; 
 Captain Absolute, Mr. Forbes-Robertson ; Mr. Faulkland, Mr. 
 Bancroft ; Bob Acres, Mr. Lionel Brough ; David, Mr. C. Brook- 
 field ; Fag, Mr. Elliot ; Thomas, Mr. Percy Vernon ; Mrs. Mala- 
 prop, Mrs. Stirling ; Julia Melville, Mrs. Bernard-Beere ; Lydia 
 Languish, Miss Calhoun ; Lucy, Miss Julia Gwynne.' 
 
 I was conscious from the rising of the curtain that a certain 
 hostile feeling reigned in parts of the house ; but did not expect, 
 when r first appeared in the play, and paid my visit to Jack Abso- 
 lute in the picturesque old inn, where 'Ensign Beverley' was 
 lodged in our re-arrangement of the scenery, to be received with 
 the hooting and hisses that saluted me from a persistent few, and 
 which the mingled cheers and applause of the main audience failed 
 to drown. I remained for some time, apparently unmoved, before 
 the confused uproar abated, and until the performance was over 
 failed to know its reason. I then learnt that it was a resentment, 
 by a few noisy occupants of the upper circle, of a wetting through 
 a sudden shower, which in truth hastened the opening of the doors 
 
374 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 before the appointed hour, the malcontents being under the impres- 
 sion, I was told, that the attendants were late in their duty. 
 
 -A letter I wrote to the newspapers on the subject will perhaps 
 better explain the circumstance, and another incident, indirectly 
 connected with it, which I did not refer to at the time of its 
 occurrence : 
 
 ' I learn from my correspondence of this morning that the 
 antagonistic reception given to me by a few among the audience 
 at the Haymarket Theatre on Saturday evening had nothing to do 
 with the performance of The Rivals, nor was it a revival of the old 
 pit grievance, but the result of an angry feeling caused by the un- 
 pleasant effect of a hailstorm which occurred, unfortunately, just 
 before the doors were opened, the cries raised against me when I 
 went upon the stage being for shelter outside the theatre. 
 
 ' In the autumn of 1882, at the wish of Mrs. Bancroft, I erected, 
 at the entrances to the second circle and the gallery of the Hay- 
 marlcet Theatre, two large awnings for use in wet and threatening 
 weather. They were for some time successfully used. On an after- 
 noon in December, 1882, while the awning to the second circle was 
 being put up, one of my servants had the misfortune to let an iron 
 bar fall on the hat of a passer-by. A heavy claim for damages was 
 soon after brought against me. The event was, to avoid adding 
 litigation to other anxieties of theatrical management, that I com- 
 promised the matter at a cost of £6(X>. I then did my utmost to 
 get consent for the supports of the awnings to remain permanent 
 fixtures, but this was objected to, so I decided to abolish them alto- 
 gether, not being anxious for a repetition of the catastrophe. 
 
 ' If you will publish this letter, it will be a kindness to allow me 
 the opportunity of offering some proof that I have not been unmindful 
 of the comfort of every section of the public who visit the theatre 
 which I have the honour to direct.' 
 
 I am inclined to regard the old comedy as a bad selection for • 
 elaborate illustration. Its plot and incidents are too disjointed 
 and fragile to bear such detailed treatment as harmonized per- 
 fectly with the author's great companion work, the School for 
 Scmidal. 
 
 The full houses the revival attracted for a few weeks sufficed to 
 more than recoup the large outlay on its production ; but the per- 
 formance never laid a firm hold upon the public, and the play had 
 but a languid existence afterwards. 
 
 This season was the least successful we knew at the Haymarket 
 Theatre, as throughout its duration we did not achieve any marked 
 attraction, greatly owing to the small part Mrs. Bancroft had taken 
 in the performances, her appearances being limited to a secondary 
 character in Lords and Commons and the revival of A Lesson. It 
 may be interesting to state, however, that the result, in spite of 
 
THE SEASON OF 1S83-84 375 
 
 these drawbacks, would have ranked as an average season in the 
 old days at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. At its close we re- 
 solved upon a long holiday, to allow full reflection before publicly 
 announcing so important a decision as our intended retirement 
 from management. 
 
 After playing truant in the previous year, we returned again to 
 the Engadine ; and as this will be the last mention we shall make 
 in this book of Pontresina, let me tell a little tale of filial love we 
 learnt there. For five-and-twenty years Madame Leupold, who 
 was a brilliant pianist, and for some time gave lessons to the 
 daughters of the Prince and Princess of Wales, had visited the 
 little village with her son Hugo. Always delicate, she had long 
 been a sufferer, and became a martyr to sleeplessness and neuralgic 
 pain ; noise and crowds grew gradually more trying as the power 
 of sleep grew less with her ; and, although she stayed in the quietest 
 inn, even its share of bustle became unbearable. At last she took 
 up her summer quarters in a humble cottage which belonged to the 
 friendly innkeeper. On a grassy slope above was a favoured spot 
 where, when well enough, the little lady would sit for hours, under 
 the shade of a tent-umbrella, attended by the devoted son, who had 
 abandoned his profession, and sacrificed his chances in the race of 
 life, to stay by her side. In the year before they arrived together 
 to spend the summer in the same peaceful way, and as towards 
 evening they reached their destination, the mother's eyes sought 
 her favourite resting-place ; she saw to her amazement and regret 
 that a chdlet had been built upon the nook she knew so well. Horri- 
 fied, she turned to her son, and exclaimed that Pontresina would never 
 be the same to her again. He consoled her, saying that to-morrow 
 they would seek another corner, and soon prevailed upon her to 
 rest quietly till then. In the morning Hugo went to his mother 
 with the news that he knew all about the little chdlet — that the 
 owner had not yet taken possession, and that he had the key to 
 show her over it, if she would go with him. With difficulty the son 
 coaxed a reluctant consent from his mother, and tenderly he helped 
 her up the new-made path. Arrived at the porch, he unlocked the 
 door, and they both entered. The invalid's delight and admiration 
 were unbounded at the charming little rooms, with their lovely 
 views, the tiny kitchen, the open piano, and every detail of pretty 
 furniture. All was complete — nothing was wanting but a master. 
 ' Oh, Hugo, what a little paradise ! How quickly it has all been 
 finished ; what taste, what comfort ! But we must not envy ; you 
 say you know who has done all this — tell me who the owner of it is.' 
 He kissed her and said, ' You, mother dear! 
 
 Silently, with the aid of good friends in the village, had Hugo 
 carried out the building and furnishing of this fairy home, and in 
 his own quiet way he had acted his little play. 
 
 Madame Leupold was only spared a few years' enjoyment of her 
 
375 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 mountain home ; her health faded slowly, and not long afterwards 
 she passed quietly away. Her remains lie in a comer of the httle 
 village churchyard, where they were borne by the guides through 
 the deep winter snow, and followed by the peasants and the school- 
 children, who chanted by her simple grave the hymns they learnt 
 from her. 
 
 Our long holiday ended in a pleasant fortnight spent at Brighton, 
 where we were happy, as either hosts or guests, in an interchange 
 of dinners with Baron and Lady Diana Huddleston, the Yates's, the 
 Salas, the Rev. Henry White, Edward Dicey, J. C. Parkinson, and 
 other friends. This was the last we ever saw of Mrs. Sala, a true 
 woman, to know whom meant to esteem and admire her many 
 beautiful qualities. Shortly afterwards she sailed for Australia with 
 her husband, from which country she was destined never to return. 
 
 In a letter received from Mr. Sala, bearing date ' Monday, 13th 
 October, 1884,' and which is a beautiful specimen of his marvellous 
 handwriting, are these words : 
 
 ' I have written this on the back of "k slip of " copy'' which has 
 served its turn. In the event of my returning from the Antipodes 
 as " a grand pianoforte," this scribble may serve as a memento of 
 yours very faithfully, GEORGE AUGUSTUS Sala.' 
 
 At one of these pleasant dinners. Baron Huddleston, who is well 
 and widely known as a raconteur with a never-ending budget of 
 professional and other experiences, told a remarkable story of a 
 notorious criminal, whose skill must have been worthy of Jim the 
 Penman, which greatly struck us at the time, and vividly recalled 
 the name and fame of our old friend, Wilkie Collins, who would 
 have revelled in its strange details : indeed, it might perhaps have 
 added to the many phantoms he once told us often followed him 
 up the staircase as he went to bed, after writing very late. So far 
 as we are able, we will repeat the anecdote in Baron Huddleston's 
 own words. 
 
 In the year 1844, not very long after the now ' Last of the Barons ' 
 was called to the bar, a man named Bowen was tried for destroying 
 and defacing a register of baptisms, marriages, and burials. He 
 had, it transpired, devoted himself for years to getting up and, as 
 it now seemed, to manufacturing pedigrees. He was desirous of 
 making out a link which was wanting in the title to some property, 
 and he conceived the notion of forging an entr)' in an old will to 
 effect his object. For this purpose he went to Oxford, and there 
 applied to see the wills of a certain date, for in those days, strange 
 to say, wills were kept in old wine-hampers in the Bodleian Library. 
 The custodian produced a roll of wills of the particular year in- 
 quired for, and, while his attention was cleverly diverted for a 
 moment, the man Bowen abstracted one will from the roll without 
 detection. He took it away, and then, by means of a cunning 
 chemical preparation, removed a passage in the will, and inserted 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 377 
 
 in its place, in handwriting which marvellously imitated that in 
 which the body of the will was written, a description that was 
 essential to support the link in the chain he was forging. Having 
 done this, he paid a second visit to the Bodleian Library, when he 
 again procured the roll of the year wanted, and replaced in it the 
 will which he' had so cleverly altered. The roll was subsequently 
 put back into its original repository without its unsuspecting guar- 
 dian perceiving what had been done. The next step was to apply 
 in due form for a copy of that particular will, and the clerk to the 
 proper oiBcer prepared in the ordinary way to make it for him ; but 
 while engaged in his work he went away to dinner, leaving the copy 
 and the original will open on his desk. During his absence a 
 strong mid-day sun, playing through the window of the office upon 
 the will, brought out the original handwriting, which had been 
 temporarily defaced, and the clerk on his return found, to his 
 amazement, passages in the will which certainly had not been there 
 when he was making the copy before he went to dinner. 
 
 This of course, excited immediate suspicion, and the authorities 
 were on the look-out for the man's return when he should come for 
 the copy he had ordered. The curator had some difficulty in bring- 
 ing to his mind the face of the scoundrel, but he perfectly well re- 
 collected that he had in his possession a remarkable-looking carpet- 
 bag, from which he had taken some papers. In the meantime, to 
 further carry out and complete his villainous plan, it became neces- 
 sary to remove the original evidence of the entry which he had de- 
 stroyed, and for this purpose Bowen went to Pirton Church, in 
 Worcestershire, where, in the parish register of marriages, etc., was 
 the entry which he wanted to remove. 
 
 He got the curate to show him the register, and then, feigning 
 illness, while the clergyman went to fetch a glass of water for him, 
 he tore out the entry. The curate, as he moved away, fortunately 
 heard the tearing of the paper, and suspecting foul play, turned 
 back just in time to discover what had been done. He cleverly de- 
 tained the man while the police were sent tor. When Bowen was 
 apprehended, and the proofs of his guilt made apparent, he had in 
 his possession at the time the identical carpet-bag which had 
 engaged the attention of the custodian at Oxford, and in it were 
 found pieces of old faded parchment, a small stock of chemical 
 preparations, various coloured inks, pens, etc. Bowen was tried 
 for this offence and convicted before Lord Chief Justice Tindal, and 
 although a point of law was argued before the fifteen judges the 
 conviction was aflfirmed, and he was sentenced to seven years' 
 transportation. 
 
 There could not be more kindly host and hostess than Baron and 
 
 NOTE BY Lady Diana Huddleston, whose devotion to her hus- 
 
 M. E. B. band, and never-wearying care during his recent serious 
 
 attacks of illness, cannot fail to excite the admiration of all who 
 
378 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 have the privilege of their acquaintance. I own to a great affec- 
 tion for ' Lady Di,' and value her friendship very highly. During a 
 delightful visit to their pretty, cosy, comfortable ' Grange ' at Ascot, 
 and while walking through the well-kept grounds, an unexpected 
 amusement presented itself, for we heard the sound of a brass band, 
 which seemed quite close. Presently the Baron came along 
 hurriedly, and told us that the band of the Bisley Farm School (I 
 think it was so called), which is composed of poor boys who are 
 boarded, lodged, taught music, and to play various instruments, 
 were performing selections in the neighbourhood. Would we like 
 them to be invited into the grounds, that we might hear them ? We 
 were delighted with the idea, and by-and-by in they all marched, 
 headed by their leader and instructor. Meanwhile Lady Diana 
 and my husband had seated themselves in a tiny arbour, so that 
 the boys, not seeing her ladyship take any active part in their recep- 
 tion, concluded that I, who, accompanied by the Baron, met them 
 as they came along, must be their hostess. They played some well- 
 known airs, ably led by their conductor, in a remarkable manner 
 for boys so young. One little fellow amused me particularly ; I 
 think he must have had a troublesome cold in his head, for there 
 was a crystal tear at the tip of his nose which remained stationary. 
 No exertion over his clarionet, even when playing/or^^, seemed to 
 disturb its position. This attracted my attention, and I could not 
 help speculating as to its ultimate destination. 
 
 When the boys had finished their selection, I made a speech to 
 them, in which I reminded them ' how much they were indebted 
 to the friendly and charitable society which had taken such pains 
 to teach them music, thereby providing them with a source of liveli- 
 hood in the future, and that I hoped they would never cease to be 
 grateful to their benefactors.' They were all affected by the 
 address, especially the blower of the clarionet, who, being on the 
 point of crying, much imperilled the hitherto firm steadiness of the 
 crystal appendage. My limited audience consisted of the Baron, 
 who stood by me thoroughly enjoying the whole performance. 
 Lady Diana and my husband, who were sitting a little further off, 
 laughing heartily. When I came to the end of my speech I bade 
 them play ' God save the Queen.' There was a slight difference of 
 opinion amongst the instruments, but on the whole they got through 
 the anthem very satisfactorily. When this was over I called for 
 ' three cheers for the Queen ;' the little fellows shouted with all 
 their hearts and lungs. Then I said 'one more,' to which they 
 responded with the same spirit. ' One more,' I cried, and just as 
 they were about to break forth again louder than e^•er, I continued, 
 'for me.' They were amused and delighted, and gave me a very 
 warm and hearty cheer, but the effort of shouting had evidently 
 alarmed and disturbed the crystal tear ; it had disappeared, but 
 where it travelled, far or near, I never ascertained. After this cere- 
 mony the Baron and I marched the little musicians into the house 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 379 
 
 to the tune of ' Auld Lang Syne,' and as I had never seen them 
 before, I thought the air so appropriate ! In a long room, tea, 
 cakes, bread and butter, jam, and all sorts of good things had been 
 ordered by the Baron and Lady Diana, and prepared at short 
 notice by their kindly cook. After a splendid tea, and a good look 
 at the birds and animals which the Baron and Lady Diana love to 
 have about them, the boys left the Grange, delighted with their 
 visit, and fully convinced, I am sure, that I was the ' lady of the 
 manor.' 
 
 We had now ample time for reflection, and did not swerve from 
 
 FURTHER our intention to abandon management at the close of 
 
 NOTES BY one more season, and to limit our subsequent respon- 
 
 AND TO sibilities,with regard to our art, to occasional appear- 
 
 s. B. B. ances as actors only. Many of our arguments were 
 
 doubtless commonplace enough, as to some extent they must be in 
 
 weighing any such decision. Running uphill is a delightful game, 
 
 especially if you are so fortunate as to succeed in even sighting 
 
 the top ; but one false step there may hurl you quickly down 
 
 again ! 
 
 To our near friends, and to those whom we thought sufficiently 
 interested in such a matter, we wrote privately before making the 
 public announcement of our intention. From the many replies we 
 received perhaps the following extracts will not be without interest 
 to the general reader. 
 
 Mr. Burnand wrote, and, of course, in a characteristic vein : 
 
 ' Dear B, — You are a lucky man, and a wise one. A deservedly 
 fortunate pair, and a sagacious couple. 
 
 ' Ktyour age to be able to retire ! ! My ! Wouldn't / if I could ! 
 But I shall never be able to retire ; never free, never out of harness, 
 until I lie down in the loose-box and am carried off to the knacker's, 
 unless I go to the dogs previously by some shorter and cheaper 
 route. — Yours ever, F. C. B.' 
 
 In spite of a severe attack of illness these sympathetic lines were 
 penned by their accomplished author : 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — Under any circumstances I should have 
 read your letter with true interest and pleasure, but at a time of 
 suffering and depression your remembrance of our old friendship is 
 doubly precious and doubly dear to me. With all my heart, I 
 congratulate you and Mrs. Bancroft on retirement from the toils 
 and cares of a career of management, which will be remembered 
 among the noblest traditions of the English stage. — Always truly 
 yours, WiLKiE Collins.' 
 
 . We received the following from an old friend of many years' 
 standing, and heartily shared his regret that we had not been asso- 
 ciated with more of his work : 
 
3So OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — I congratulate you heartily upon what 
 I am sure is a subject of congratulation to Mrs. Bancroft and your- 
 self, however discomforting your retirement from management must 
 necessarily be to all play-goers. I only regret that I have not had 
 an opportunity of contributing appreciably to the successful result 
 of your twenty years' work. 
 
 ' With kindest regards to Mrs. Bancroft, I am, very truly yours, 
 W. S. Gilbert.' 
 
 There could be no more competent critic of the circumstances 
 than our old comrade who wrote this letter : 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — I am delighted, though not surprised; 
 to learn that you are in the proud position of being able to retire 
 in the prime of your life from our harassing and wearying pro- 
 fession. 
 
 ' You have both worked well and loyally, have done the stage the 
 highest service, and well desei-ve your rest. 
 
 ' That the same good fortune which has attached itself to you in 
 your public career may follow you in all things in your private life 
 is the very sincere wish of your old friend and fellow-worker, JOHN 
 Hare.' 
 
 From a well-known lover of the drama, one to whom we have 
 owed for many years constant acts of kindness, came this warm 
 expression of regret : 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Bancroft, — Lady Londesborough and myself re- 
 gretted extremely to learn of the determination of Mrs. IJancroft 
 and yourself to retire from management. 
 
 ' You have certainly done so much in every sense for your pro- 
 fession (for the difference in the production of pieces, and the rise 
 in the salaries, and consequently in the position of actors and 
 actresses, is mainly owing to you), that you may fairly claim a right 
 to retire ; but we shall all sadly miss you both. 
 
 ' We hope that you will remember to keep a box for us on the 
 melancholy occasion of your farewell, to which we shall certainly 
 go, whenever it may be, and whatever engagement we may have. 
 — Believe me, yours very truly, Londesborough.' 
 
 Here is a fragment from a charming letter written by Mr. W. W. 
 Ouless, R.A. : 
 
 ' Thank you very much for your kind letter, and the mark of 
 friendship, which I warmly appreciate. 
 
 ' I hope Mrs. Bancroft and you will have many, many years of 
 happiness, and that we shall long enjoy the advantage of seeing 
 the actor even greater for having thrown off the care of manage- 
 ment.' 
 
THE SEASON OF 1883-84 381 
 
 Mr. J. C. Parkinson's words bespeak his true friendship for us : 
 
 ' I have none of the mixed feehng that will animate those who 
 are naturally pained at losing so much out of their side of your 
 lives. Mine is unqualified rejoicing at your timely wisdom. As 
 one of the public, I shall not lose you altogether as artists, and as 
 private friends (by far my strongest part) I hope to be drawn closer 
 to you both in a thousand ways. The wisdom of it ! The wisdom 
 of it ! If I were absolute fairy monarch, and could decree for you, 
 I would have fixed matters beyond the possibility of retreat pre- 
 cisely as you have fixed them for yourselves.' 
 
 Mr. Pinero sent us the following generous and valued words : 
 
 ' It is my opinion, expressed here as it is elsewhere, that the 
 present advanced condition of the English stage — throwing as it 
 does a clear, natural light upon the manners and life of people, 
 where a few years ago there was nothing but mouthing and tinsel 
 — is due to the crusade begun by Mrs. Bancroft and yourself in 
 your little Prince of Wales's Theatre. When the history of the 
 stage and its progress is adequately and faithfully written, Mrs. 
 Bancroft's name and your own must be recorded with honour and 
 gratitude.' 
 
 It was with great pleasure that we read the following from Mr. B. 
 C. Stephenson ('Bolton Rowe') : 
 
 ' I cannot help telling you how much I regret to hear that Mrs- 
 Bancroft and yourself have made up your minds to retire from 
 management. 
 
 ' If any two human beings ever deserved repose, certainly you do, 
 and it must be a great satisfaction to be able to claim it at the time 
 when the tide of your success is at its highest. 
 
 ' Since you took the Prince of Wales's Theatre in hand, the 
 English stage has altered much, and no one has had more to do 
 with its alteration and improvement than yourselves. There is 
 scarcely a theatre in London that does not show the mark of your 
 work, and seldom does a good performance take place without the 
 help of some one who has passed his apprenticeship under your 
 management.' 
 
 That distinguished dramatic critic, Mr. Moy Thomas, with whom 
 we have only enjoyed a bare acquaintance, wrote thus : 
 
 ' The influence of your reign, both at the Prince of Wales's and 
 at the Haymarket, will remain and grow. It is easy, as Tennyson 
 says, to sow when you have the seed. Others have done some- 
 thing towards the remarkable revival of dramatic art in our days, 
 but there is all the difference in the world between originating and 
 following. 
 
 ' As to Mrs. Bancroft, who is there who will not wish to her, and 
 
382 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 all dear to her, a long life of happy leisure, and many a. pleasant 
 evening va. front of the curtain ?' 
 
 We cannot better close these extracts than by the congratulations 
 of our old friend Mr. Edmund Yates : 
 
 'My dear B.,— I am heartily delighted at the news which I 
 received from you ten minutes ago, and I most warmly congratulate 
 you both on your sensible decision. 
 
 ' Few persons who have not actually been " in the profession " 
 could know so well as I do what that decision means. The 
 triumphs, the applause, the delights of conquering difficulties and 
 converting them into glories, the top-tree position striven for so 
 sedulously, earned with such labour and pains— all these have to be 
 relinquished. But, oh ! the exquisite joy of being your own master, 
 of snapping your fingers at the public, careless whether they come 
 or stay away, of being wholly independent of heat or " Healtheries," 
 or anybody's grim patronage ! 
 
 ' To our thinking you have decided most wisely, and we wish you 
 heartiest and happiest enjoyment of your coming enfranchisement. 
 — Always both of yours, E. Y.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 OUR FAREWELL SEASON : 1 884-85. 
 
 Announcement of the Farewell Season — ' Interviewed' on the subject — Stage 
 salaries — Long runs destructive to art — Short revivals — Diplomacy — Speech 
 on opening night — An escape from fire — Banquet of the Dramatic and 
 Musical Sick Fund : Mr. Bancroft proposes the health of Mr. Hare — 
 Masks and Paces — Opinion on Mr. Bancroft's Triplet — Mr. J. M. Levy— 
 The dramatic critics — Ours — A ' scratch bill ' : Katharine and Petruchio, 
 Sweethearts, and Good for Nothing — A popular error refuted — Synopsis of 
 productions at both the Prince of Wales's and the Haymarket theatres, and 
 brief account of their ratio of success — Mrs. Bancroft on her characters in 
 Robertson's comedies — Afternoon performance of Masks and Paces at the 
 Crystal Palace — Besieged for seats for the farewell night — Letter from Sir 
 William Brett (Lord Esher) — List of members of the company — Letter 
 from J. L. Toole — Compliments and personal tributes — The great crowd — 
 The farewell programme— The audience — Clement Scott's Valedictory Ode, 
 spoken by Henry Irving — Mr. Bancroft's speech — Letters from Sir Algernon 
 Borthwiok, Mr. Robert Browning, Sir John Monckton, Mrs. Keeley, Mr. 
 Charles Wyndham, and 'A Lover of the Engadine ' — Mr. Bancroft as 
 Chairman at the Royal General Theatrical Fund dinner at the Freemasons' 
 Tavern — Loyal allusions — Mr. Sims Reeves — The toast of the evening — 
 Letter by Mrs. Bancroft — L'envoi. 
 
 ' Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft beg to announce that this will be their 
 Farewell Season. Soon after the twentieth anniversary of the 
 opening of the Prince of Wales's Theatre on April 15th, 1865, they 
 will retire from management.' 
 
 These few words caused a considerable stir in the theatrical 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEA SOiV .■ 1 884-8 5 383 
 
 world ; they not only drew forth much comment, but leading 
 articles in many of the chief newspapers. 
 
 One important morning journal ' interviewed ' us, and something 
 of what we said on the subject at the time may more faithfully give 
 our reasons than words since thought out might do : 
 
 'When Mr. Bancroft is asked ''why he and Mrs. Bancroft are 
 giving up their managerial position while in the prime of life," he 
 answers promptly enough : " For several reasons, which, to us at 
 least, appear good. We think it better to retire while we are, if it 
 may be said with due modesty, high in public favour, one iota of 
 which we should be sorry to lose. In a few more years we might 
 be lost among the crowd of those who have since ourselves attempted 
 to put pieces adequately on the stage, both as to acting and scenery. 
 The reputation we have acquired by years of hard work we wish to 
 keep ; and we should like to enjoy some of the fruit from the trees 
 we have planted and laboriously cultivated. It is frequently over- 
 looked that the management of a theatre involves a great deal of 
 attention every day, to say nothing of the perpetual strain of always 
 working months ahead. When you add to this the tedium of 
 rehearsals and the exertion of acting at night, it makes life a round 
 of work. We do not complain. The public have repaid our 
 liberality in management by yet larger liberality. But we are con- 
 tent to rest and be thankful before our distinctive work is for- 
 gotten or merged in that of others." 
 
 ' " You are, I think, responsible in great measure for the present 
 high salaries paid to actors, and for the costly manner in which the 
 public look to see plays put upon the stage ?" 
 
 ' " In great measure, certainly, for the latter, and almost wholly 
 for the former. We do not pretend for a moment that we invented 
 sumptuous mise en seine, but we happened to be the persons who 
 brought it so into fashion, as it were, as to secure general imitation 
 or adoption, and that care in little things which has since become 
 almost universal ; for it was at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre 
 that the example was set of putting every piece on the stage in a 
 realistic way — our stage-rooms became, in fact, such sumptuous 
 apartments that I remember Sir William Fergusson once saying 
 that "the only drawback to visiting our theatre was that it dis- 
 gusted him with his own home." It was also our ambition to have 
 every small part in a comedy played as well as possible, and after 
 continued preparation. We began with three weeks' rehearsal for 
 a play, afterwards extended to six, since to a couple of months, and 
 in some cases longer." 
 
 ' " And the payment of actors ?" 
 
 ' " Salaries have risen, certainly, to an extraordinary extent. A 
 few instances may be amusing. During our career we have paid 
 the same actor, for playing the same part in the same piece, 
 eighteen and sixty pounds a week, with an interval of some ten 
 
384 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 years only. There are cases, of course, in which an actor improves 
 his position so rapidly as to command a great increase of salary in 
 the same theatre : for instance, we ended by giving a member of 
 our company ten times the salary at which we originally engaged 
 him ; and another, who first received nine pounds a week, was last 
 paid fifty. Such prices would have appeared fabulous twenty years 
 ago. When that great artist, Mrs. Stirling, played in Caste at the 
 Haymarket Theatre, she received seven times the salaiy of the 
 original representative of the Marquise de St. Maur." 
 ' " What is the highest salary you have ever paid ?" 
 ' " For a special engagement a hundred pounds a week, with 
 other charges and contingencies. No, it was not to Mrs. Langtry ! 
 When we induced Miss Ellen Terry to return to the stage in 1875, 
 she was content with twenty pounds a week, which was considered 
 a high price then. Our finding her, and bringing her back to the 
 stage, is one of our brightest recollections. It was a victory which 
 consoled us amply for an awful defeat. Our Merchant of Venice 
 was not merely what the French call ' a baking,' and we English 
 theatrical people call ' a frost ' — it was a perfect Moscow !" ' 
 
 This rise in salaries was commenced by an unswerving objection 
 NOTES BY to the old custom of all the leading members of a com- 
 s. E. B. pany taking an annual benefit — a system which we 
 worked hard to exterminate, for I strongly hold the opinion that 
 ' benefits ' should only be given to actors in distress through illness, 
 or in aid of their families should they be left unprovided for, and 
 on behalf of charitable institutions. A further reason for the 
 increase in actors' incomes may be traced to the acceptance of 
 engagements for special parts and runs of plays instead of for fixed 
 and lengthened periods, as was formerly a general custom. 
 
 But to return to our retirement from management — Were there 
 not many other good and valid reasons ? What would a barrister 
 say to pleading the same cause for one, two, or three hundred days 
 running, with no occasional rising of the court, even if given the 
 variety of appealing to a fresh jury ? Long runs of plays are 
 wonderfully remunerative to the manager, and a great relief from 
 anxiety and work, but must be, eventually, very destructive to our 
 art. After about fifty consecutive nights, in my poor belief, the 
 actor has done all in his power with any part ; to say nothing of 
 having then played it to the most appreciative audiences, for that 
 time will have been more or less taken up by keen theatre-goers, 
 and he will afterwards often find himself acting to many who only 
 by the programme know so much as his name. Except at intervals, 
 after some such first run, would it be to the actor's professional 
 advancement to constantly repeat any character, such occasional 
 performances would suffice for showing new ideas and improve- 
 ments. I think I am inclined, in talking of long runs, to remember 
 the words of the immortal Siddons; when she first entered Drury 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-85 385 
 
 Lane Theatre, before the original enormous size of its interior 
 was reduced. The great actress looked quietly round the vast 
 building, and then said, with a sigh : ' Behold the tomb of the 
 drama !' 
 
 Besides, for our wants, and the claims upon us, we had all we 
 needed. Great wealth, I fancy, must be a considerable anxiety, 
 and I often think of words I heard spoken by a well-known man of 
 vast riches when asked at a club if he could mention what particu- 
 lar advantages he derived from the possession : ' One only comes to 
 my mind,' he replied. ' I can afford to be robbed.' 
 
 There is but little to tell of the acting during this farewell season, 
 for it was mainly given up to short revivals of familiar plays — the 
 first and most successful of them being Diplomacy, which had not 
 been acted in London since its production at the Prince of Wales's 
 Theatre, nearly seven years before. Although the piece was well 
 played and splendidly received, it was almost impossible for the 
 new cast to vie with the distribution we first gave it, no less than 
 four of the original members being at the date of its revival engaged 
 in management themselves — Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. John 
 Clayton, and Mr. Arthur Cecil — while neither of ourselves retained 
 our former characters. Mrs. Bancroft was glad to resign the 
 sorrows of Zicka to the capable hands of Mrs. Bernard-Beere, and 
 to ' write up ' for herself into a prominence, which proved of great 
 value to the revival, the minor but more congenial part of Lady 
 Henry Fairfax, which, out of slight material, became an important 
 and enjoyable character. Her amusing description of the Berne 
 clock will be long remembered. On the other hand I gave up, 
 with many a sigh, my favourite Orloff to Mr. Barrymore, a clever 
 actor best known in America, who joined our company for the 
 purpose, thinking that on the whole I should best serve the general 
 effect as Henry Beauclerc, which part was made so marked a 
 feature when we first produced Diplomacy by the admirable acting 
 of John Clayton, whose recent death has been a great loss to the 
 stage. Miss Le Thiere's excellent performance of Don Alva's 
 widow alone remained of our first distribution. The cast on Satur- 
 day, November 8th, was as follows : Henry Beauclerc, Mr. Ban- 
 croft ; Julian Beauclerc, Mr. Forbes-Robertson ; Algie Fairfax, 
 Mr. Elliot ; Count Orloff", Mr. Barrymore ; Baron Stein, Mr. C. 
 Brookfield ; Markham, Mr. Yorke ;^ntoine, Mr. Charles Eaton ; 
 Lady Henry Fairfax, Mrs. Bancroft ; Marquise de Rio-Zar^s, Miss 
 Le Thiere ; Countess Zicka, Mrs. Bernard-Beere ; Dora, Miss 
 Calhoun ; Mion, Miss Polak. The demonstration when the curtain 
 finally fell was so great as to compel a personal response, which 
 came in these few hastily-thought-over words : 
 
 ' Ladies and Gentlemen — I have so seldom ventured to address 
 you, and have not troubled you with what have grown to be called 
 " first-night speeches," that you will excuse my thinking your 
 applause to-night to be in some way a wish that I should break 
 
 25 
 
386 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 my rule. It would be affectation not to know that part of that 
 applause is provoked by the announcement of our intended retire- 
 ment from the work — the very hard work, however successful — and 
 the duties of theatrical management. What I may have to say on 
 that subject — which will be far more on behalf of that distinguished 
 member of the profession she adorns, Mrs. Bancroft, than for my 
 own poor part — must, I am sure you will agree with me, be still a 
 little while delayed. 
 
 ' I will only say now that, perhaps, I have the opinion that no 
 one in any walk of life should keep a position of command too 
 long ; and if my wife and I between us have held the reins of 
 management for nearly twenty years, you must forgive us on the 
 plea that we were both exceptionally young when we first took 
 them up. 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen, for all your great kindness to us believe 
 in our gratitude, and let us hope that we shall never forfeit your 
 regard.' 
 
 Sardou's Theodora was produced in Paris soon afterwards at the 
 Porte St. Martin, and although a brilliant picture of the days of 
 Justinian offered temptation as a final managerial blaze, we decided 
 that the game was hardly worth the candle. Again we contem- 
 plated a revival of Boucicault's Old Heads and Young HearJs, the 
 author kindly agreeing to revise his work ; but we found at re- 
 hearsal that inexorable Time had played his part too well, and 
 thought the comedy somewhat old-fashioned. Other ideas in- 
 cluded the production of an original comedy written by the accom- 
 plished Ouida, the charming dialogue in which did not, to our great 
 regret, compensate for a lack of incident, and that dreadful diificulty 
 to so many delightful writers — construction. It is not an easy task 
 to write, as it were, a three-volume novel in about a tenth of its 
 usual space, and without a descriptive page or the aid of a marginal 
 note. 
 
 Just before the withdrawal of Diplomacy, we narrowly escaped 
 the catastrophe of fire. A piece of scenery in the garden outside 
 the house at Monte Carlo caught light, and at once alarmed the 
 audience. I immediately took Mrs. Bancroft by the arm, and we 
 walked on the stage together, and stood close to the flame ; this 
 presence of mind calmed those who were agitated, while a fireman 
 happily extinguished it with one of the buckets of water and a wet 
 blanket, which are always kept in readiness. The audience behaved 
 with remarkable composure, and, happily, all was well. 
 
 My old friend Hare occupied the chair on Ash-Wednesday (the 
 theatres were still closed then) at the banquet of the Dramatic and 
 Musical Sick Fund, and on the occasion I had the privilege of propos- 
 ing his health in these terms : 'Rising so late in the evening to have 
 the honour of saying a few words, I fear they would seem, after the 
 eloquence we have listened to, very like a weak after-piece following 
 a strong play, did I not at once claim your patience by assuring 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-85 387 
 
 you that the interest of my story begins with the rising of the 
 curtain, for the great pleasure falls to my lot of asking you to drink 
 to your chairman's health. Mr. Hare is surrounded by many old 
 and dear friends, but I think I may venture to say that I am the 
 oldest, at least of his theatrical friends, for it is now a little over 
 twenty years since we first met in a country theatre, when he was 
 little more than a boy, and I in my early manhood. A friendship 
 was then cemented which has withstood the storms of this fierce 
 fight of life, and remains to me now — one of my most cherished 
 sentiments. There is little need for me to remind you of Mr. Hare's 
 career ; of the ten years — perhaps the ten happiest years of my life — 
 he served under the flag of Mrs. Bancroft and myself at the Prince of 
 Wales's Theatre ; of the delightful creations on that stage for which 
 we were so indebted to him ; nor, when the time came for him to 
 leave us, how our loss was the public gain, as the accomplished 
 actor soon developed into the accomplished manager. In that 
 capacity you may perhaps, in your kindness, accept my admiration 
 for Mr. Hare's work as, in some small way, the opinion of an 
 expert. Without further preface, I ask you to join me in the 
 pleasure of drinking to the health of your chairman, who, as actor 
 and manager, has done much to adorn and uphold the art of which 
 he is so distinguished a follower.' 
 
 We next played in Masks and Faces, Mr. Forbes-Robertson 
 being the Pomander ; Mr. Barrymore, Ernest Vane ; Mr. Brook- 
 field, CoIIey Gibber ; Mr. Kemble and Mr. Wyatt the two critics, 
 Soaper and Snarl ; and Miss Calhoun, Mabel Vane. The favourite 
 old comedy was warmly welcomed, and many critics dwelt on the 
 regret evoked by our approaching intention, which they kindly said 
 our acting in this revival served largely to increase. 
 
 It was a great gratification to me to find unqualified][and un- 
 grudging praise given to my third attempt to act the part of 
 Triplet, a performance, whatever its true value, upon which I had 
 bestowed infinite pains. All previous reservations seemed to be 
 withdrawn, and my determination to be fully acknowledged as, in 
 truth, not only an actor of what may be called modern swelldom 
 was, dare I hope ? achieved. A very able and, if I may be allowed 
 to say so, not too easily-pleased critic, Mr. William Archer, did me 
 the honour to write his opinion in these words : ' There is no more 
 delicate, more pathetic, more lovable piece of acting than Mr. 
 Bancroft's Triplet on the English stage. The green-room scene 
 appeals to me more irresistibly every time I see it. Such acting 
 would move a heart of stone or an eye of glass. Everyone who 
 has not seen it should see it forthwith, and everyone who has seen 
 it once, twice, or thrice should see it again, even to the seventh 
 time.' The writer of those lines doubtless does not know how 
 much — with many other ably if too generously expressed compli- 
 ments — they meant to me. 
 
 It may be that the revived interest taken by journalists in 
 
 25—2 
 
388 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 theatrical matters went hand in hand with some productions at the 
 Httle Prince of Wales's Theatre, and it is also probable that much 
 which is beautiful in our art might have been at least retarded but 
 for the keen love and knowledge of the drama possessed by Mr. J. 
 M. Levy, who was, there can be no doubt, the first proprietor of a 
 leading newspaper to regularly give to the subject the space never 
 bestowed upon it with any constancy before. Other journals then 
 followed an example which allowed their writers to greatly help the 
 stage by giving, instead of, as was so often the case in the old days, 
 mere reports of plays, extended and sympathetic reviews upon the 
 work of both the manager and the actor. 
 
 : . My opinion of those who so ably fill the onerous position of 
 writing about the theatre I ventured to comprise in the farewell 
 words I spoke on the part of Mrs. Bancroft and myself when we 
 left the Haymarket Theatre — those words in which I endeavoured 
 to express our deep obligations for constant kindness and encourage- 
 ment extending from the days of Oxenford, Bayle Bernard, Leicester 
 Buckingham, and others since dead, to those of their accomplished 
 successors, to name whom would be invidious — will be found at the 
 close of this chapter. 
 
 To those brief but earnest sentences I would like to add one more 
 thought of the critics and the fulfilment of their work. While sitting 
 in judgment, and in apportioning their praise, perhaps I may be 
 excused for thinking that some among them do not always judge 
 with sufficient care of the ease or difficulty of the actor's immediate 
 task. It may be that certain parts are so easy to play as to be, or 
 as should be, within the means of many able actors ; while, on the 
 other hand, the difficulties of other characters may be so great, 
 almost so insurmountable, that praise may not be always freely 
 enough given to efforts which, without even nearing the goal, are 
 far in the right direction towards the complete realization only 
 within the means of the highest command of acting. I give these 
 views in all humility, and from an actor's point of view. Perhaps 
 the critic's answerwould be that it is a technical question, andthat itis 
 hardly his business to draw these fine lines ; but thought on the sub- 
 ject, at least, would produce no harm, nor would discussion hurt the 
 art dramatic critics have in recent years done so much to serve. 
 
 " We felt that the name of Robertson, so intimately associated 
 with our career, should be connected, if only for a short time, with 
 our farewell season, and we arranged with the author's son to give 
 some final performances of Ours, having definitely said good-bye 
 to Caste and School m 1883. This oft-tried friend was at least an 
 appropriate farewell to the six comedies of which series it had been 
 the most frequently revived, although, speaking personally and 
 selfishly, 1 am bound to s^y that the monotony of again acting 
 a part which 1 thought I had done with for ever was greatly in- 
 creased by tedious rehearsals with those new to the play, and 
 
 almost amounted to pain. When I resigned myself with a deep 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-85 389 
 
 sigh to the inevitable, and was discovered, in the opening scene, 
 asleep under the shade of a big tree, as I heard the familiar air, 
 the ' Chanson de Fortunio,' which was played for the rising of the 
 curtain, I had a sort of brief, wild dream. I thought the tune in 
 cradle-days had been my lullaby, and wondered if it would be 
 chosen for my requiem. 
 
 The familiar parts were mostly in new hands, as follows : Prince 
 Perovsky, Mr. C. Brookfield ; Colonel Sir Alexander Shendryn, Mr 
 Kemble ; Angus MacAlister, Mr. Barrymore ; Hugh Chalcot (for 
 the last times), Mr. Bancroft ; Sergeant Jones, Mr. E. Maurice ; 
 Lady Shendryn, Miss Victor ; Blanche Haye, Miss Calhoun ; 
 Mary Netley (for the last times) Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 Next came a '.scratch bill,' of whicb the principal item was 
 Sweethearts, in which we acted for the first time at the Haymarket ; 
 Mr. Gilbert's ever-charming play being followed by Good for 
 Nothing, Mrs. Bancroft again appearing as poor Nan ; these pieces 
 being preceded by a curtailed version of Catharine and Petruchio, 
 as arranged by David Garrick from Shakespeare's Taming of the 
 Shrew, Petruchio being played by Mr. Forbes-Robertson, Grumio 
 by Mr. Kemble, Biondello by Mr. C. Brookfield, and Katharine by 
 Mrs. Bernard-Beere. 
 
 I very nearly decided upon essaying the strange character of 
 Tartuffe, which has not, I think, been acted in English since 
 Webster played it, in place of reviving the old Shakespearian 
 fragment ; but I stood in need of greater time to mature my 
 thoughts about it than the approaching close of the season would 
 have given me. 
 
 These performances, and a few final repetitions of Diplomacy and 
 Masks and Faces, brought us to the eventful night of our farewell ; 
 but before we speak of that, it may be well to dispose of one or two 
 other matters which we have not yet mentioned. 
 
 Rumours and inferences, after awhile, were afloat that one reason 
 for our retirement was that management at the Haymarket had not 
 been so successful as at our former theatre. I took no notice of the 
 reports at the time, thinking, with one of Gilbert's amusing creations 
 at the Savoy Theatre, ' that it really didn't matter.' Eventually, 
 however, I found it advisable to publicly contradict the error in 
 these words : ' In your interesting article, " Plays at Popular 
 Prices," you are kind enough to speak of me in these terms : " Mr. 
 Bancroft was the pioneer of the dear stall. He abolished the pit at 
 the theatre designed under his eye. Eventually he had gracefully 
 to confess to failure, and it would be well if those who followed his 
 lead adrnitted an error in judgment." 
 
 ' It is true that in 1874, owing to constantly increasing outlay at 
 the Prince of Wales's Theatre, I instituted the ten-shilling stall ; 
 but I must decline to be held responsible if managers of less ex- 
 pensive theatres thought fit to follow my lead, nor is it now my 
 affair as to whether the moment has come for some lessees to 
 
390 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 consider a re-arrangement of their charges for admission. But on 
 part of the sentences I quote from your paper 1 have, if you will 
 permit me, something to say. As I never had reason to regret 
 either being "the pioneer of the dear stall" or having "abolished 
 the pit," I don't know to what failure I " had gracefully to confess." 
 
 ' I have always refrained from parading the profits and losses of 
 management ; but I am not sorry — more in justice to the Hay- 
 market Theatre as a property than in defence of the line of action I 
 pursued there — that your friendly remarks give me an opportunity 
 to contradict what I have read in several newspapers — in words 
 sometimes veiled, sometimes more outspoken — that the resignation 
 of management by Mrs. Bancroft and myself was partly due to the 
 tide of success which followed our efforts at the smaller theatre not 
 having flowed so freely towards the larger house. Let me add that 
 I am willing and prepared to substantiate the following statements 
 in the completest way : 
 
 ' Briefly, then, our management of the Haymarket Theatre (not- 
 withstanding the large amount expended in its reconstruction, which 
 was borne entirely by us) resulted in almost doubling the sum we 
 had realized at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. This end was 
 achieved by comparatively short "runs," and a consequent great 
 increase of work, the strain of which we soon began to feel. Our 
 resolve to retire from management was arrived at in November, 
 1883 ; in October, 1884, that determination was made public; in 
 July, 1885, it took effect. Vozid tout!' 
 
 At this stage of our book a synopsis of our various productions 
 and a brief account of their ratio of success will, I imagine, deserve 
 the attention of those who may be called, in a way, 'behind the 
 scenes,' while, perhaps, the statement will not be altogether without 
 interest for the general reader. 
 
 The natural beginning is to speak first of the six Robertson 
 comedies. Society was produced in 1865, was revived twice at the 
 Prince of Wales's Theatre, in 1868 and 1874, and once at the Hay- 
 market, in 1 88 1 ; counting performances in the provinces, we played 
 Society nearly five hundred times. Ours was produced in 1866, 
 was revived three times i^ the Prince of Wales's Theatre, in 1870, 
 1876, and 1879, and twice at the Haymarket, in 1882 and 1885, 
 being acted by us seven hundred times. Caste was produced in 
 1867, and was revived twice at the little theatre, in 1 87 1 and 1879, 
 once at the Haymarket in 1883, being played by us, including per- 
 formances at the Standard Theatre, six hundred and fifty times 
 Play was produced at the Prince of Wales's Theatre in 1868, and 
 ran one hundred and six nights. It was never revived by us. 
 School vizs produced in 1869, and was once revived at the Prince 
 of Wales's Theatre, in 1873, ^"d twice at the Haymarket, in 1880 
 and 1883, being acted by us eight hundred times. M.P. was first 
 played in 1870 for one hundred and fifty-six nights, and, like Play, 
 was never revived by us. This calculation makes in all nearly three 
 thousand performances of the Robertson comedies, representing, in 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON.- 1884-85 391 
 
 fact, the evenings, counting rehearsals and deducting Sundays, of 
 ten years of life ! 
 
 No words — at least no power over words at my command — can 
 add anything to this brief statement. Ten years of life ! 
 
 The ratio of success achieved by these six comedies was as 
 follows : School, first ; Ours, second ; Caste, third ; Society, fourth ; 
 M.P., fifth ; Play, sixth. 
 
 As to our other plays, their degrees of success were in the follow- 
 ing order : Diplomacy, two runs, first ; Masks and Faces, three runs, 
 second ; Money, three runs, third ; Fedora, one run, fourth ; Peril, 
 two runs, fifth ; Sweethearts is difficult to place, as it was'not long 
 enough to form the sole attraction, but it undoubtedly drew large 
 houses during two runs. 
 
 Of other plays acted for one run only, five of them were almost 
 level in result. At the Prince of Wales's the School for Scandal, 
 M.P., and London Assurance (which was aided materially by being 
 played with the Vicarage) ; at the Haymarket Odette and the Over- 
 land Route. All these productions proved very attractive, but for 
 less periods than those previously named. 
 
 Then came seven others, which were also all successful, but in a 
 lesser degree and in the following sequence : Man and Wife, Play, 
 An Unequal Match, and A Hundred Thousand Pounds at the 
 Prince of Wales's ; at the Haymarket Lords and Commons, The 
 Rivals, and Plot and Passion (the last-named had the great 
 advantage of the companionship of A Lesson). 
 
 The plays produced by us at the Prince of Wales's Theatre which 
 failed were The Merchant of Venice, How She Loves Him, Tame 
 Cats, Wrinkles, and Duty. 
 
 No production of a new play, or revival of an old one, failed to 
 attract during our management of the Haymarket Theatre. 
 
 Taking our plays together, the principal successes were achieved 
 in this order : 
 
 
 For one run : 
 
 
 School 
 
 Prince of Wales's 
 
 First. 
 
 Diplomacy 
 
 Prince of Wales's 
 
 Second. 
 
 Fedora. 
 
 Haymarket 
 
 Third. 
 
 Ours . 
 
 Haymarket . 
 
 Fourth. 
 
 Masks and Faces 
 
 Haymarket 
 
 Fifth. 
 
 Peril . 
 
 Prince of Wales's 
 
 Sixth. 
 
 Counting all runs of each play at both theatres : 
 School .... First. 
 Ours .... Second. 
 
 Diplomacy . . . Third. 
 
 Masks and Faces . . . Fourth. 
 
 Caste .... Fifth. 
 
 Money .... Sixth. 
 It may have interest here if I tell the reader, having ceased 
 NOTE playing them for ever, which, of all the parts Tom 
 BY M. E. B. Robertson wrote for me, I liked the best. In this hope 
 I will classify my preference in rotation. First, Naomi Tighe, in 
 
392 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 School. Second, Polly Eccles, in Caste. TKird, Cecilia Duns- 
 combe, in M.P. Fourth, Mary Netley, in Otcrs. Fifth, Rosie 
 Fanquehere, in Play. (Of Maud Hetherington, in Society, \ need 
 not speak, as the play, it will be remembered, was not originally 
 written for us.) Many lovers of the old plays will, perhaps, be sur- 
 prised at my preference, as I am under the impression that Polly 
 Eccles may be thought to have been my favourite character. No, 
 it was not. I love Polly for the innate fine qualities of her nature ; 
 her devotion to her d ssolute, worthless father ; her filial desire to 
 screen the worst side of his nature (if there could be a worse) by 
 trying to make him appear a little better in the estimation of others. 
 Her love for her sister ; her real goodness under a rough exterior ; 
 the under-current of mischief and keen appreciation of humour. 
 All these genuine qualities appealed to me largely, and I hope I 
 understood them, otherwise I do not think I could have made the 
 impression in the part which I am told 1 did. I thoroughly enjoyed 
 the boundless love of fun, the brisk gaiety of Polly's happy nature, 
 and I felt acutely the pathos of her serious scenes. 
 
 The character is very dramatic in parts, and requires all the 
 nervous acting I could bring to bear upon it. The last act of Caste 
 is the longest I ever appeared in, and I believe one of the longest 
 in the whole range of the Drama, for it often played nearly an hour 
 and a half, and Polly is but seldom off the stage throughout it. Almost 
 every word she has to say is a pearl, so to speak, and affects the 
 audience more or less. Hers is always a welcome presence, for 
 everyone loves Polly : I am naturally very proud of my success in 
 the part, and feel happy in all that is now left to me — the re- 
 membrance of it. Success imisi bring pleasure, and ' labour's light 
 as ease when with cheerfulness 'tis done ;' and although Polly is not 
 my favourite character, still 1 love her for her strange mixture of 
 boisterous fun, tenderness, and affection. The sudden transitions, 
 too, from broad comic humour to deep feeling pleased me, and my 
 heart was therefore in my work. In the situation where George 
 D'Alroy suddenly returns from India when he is thought to be 
 dead, I felt the reality of the scene so thoroughly that I cried every 
 night when acting it. Polly Eccles, as a work of art, did me more 
 credit than all the others, and doubtless, as an artistic effort, stands 
 first in the rank, for she is a difficult part to play : the range of 
 feeling must be very wide to fully reproduce the intentions of the - 
 author. Caste is assuredly Tom Robertson's chef-d'ceuvre, and one 
 of the cleverest plays written in my time. Well, then why, in the 
 face of all this, was not Polly Eccles my favourite part ? 
 
 I fear I can only give a woman's reason, and say that ' it was 
 not ' : I certainly felt happier when I was playing Naomi Tighe — 
 dear ' Nummy !' I affectionately hug the memory of ' Nummy,' 
 and wear her in my ' heart of hearts ' as freshly as though I were 
 still representing her. The artless simplicity and sunny nature of 
 ' Nummy,' the utter ignorance of the existence of any sadness in 
 the whole world except what school discipline enforces, her fearless 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-1885 393 
 
 and open avowal of her romantic adoration for Jack Poyntz, make 
 her a lovable thing. She is one big slice of sunshine, and she had 
 no drunken father ! It was a delight to act Naomi Tighe ; she is 
 as fresh as country butter, and every word she utters breathes the 
 unladen atmosphere of a bright, green spot ' far from the madding 
 crowd.' 
 
 Speaking of ' Nummy ' reminds me of our early rehearsals of 
 School. One morning, we were going through the scene - where 
 Lord Beaufoy, having found a tiny shoe which had slipped from 
 Bella's foot as she ran away alarmed at a galloping bull, but which 
 he carefully hides, asks the girls ' if they have lost anything.' They 
 both reflect and look about, but cannot imagine what it can be, as 
 nothing seems missing. This particular morning, so imbued and 
 engrossed was 1 in the situation, that while wondering what I could 
 have lost, I instinctively and in alarm suddenly put my hand to my 
 chignon with a look of terror, and remained so for a second. This 
 purely impulsive action so amused and impressed Tom Robertson 
 that he begged me to do it at night. I did so, and I shall never 
 forget the burst of laughter and applause which greeted its effect. 
 Needless to add, I repeated it every night until further notice, and 
 the ' business ' was written by Robertson in his book. 
 
 Cecilia Dunscombe in M.P. was a part I lik§d immensely, and 
 I always felt sorry not to have had a chance of playing her again. 
 She was written as a type of a ' girl of the period,' who, if hot care- 
 fully handled, might on the stage become offensive. There are 
 many temptations in a part of this calibre to enlarge upon the 
 eccentricities of a 'good fellow' sort of woman. I was careful to 
 preserve all the points the author intended when he wrote the 
 play ; but I worked to make the audience like her, by giving an 
 amusing, but, at the same time, a feminine rendering of her charac- 
 ter. A leading critic was good enough to say 'of this perfor^n- 
 ance : ' The perfect command of appropriate gesture and move- 
 ment ; the subtler play of feature ; the power to indicate, in spite 
 of an exterior of frivolity and mirth, a deeper and more earnest 
 nature — these are things which on our stage are unhappily given 
 but to the few.' 
 
 I thoroughly enjoyed the last act. Robertson always gave me 
 a carte blanche to do what I liked with the parts he wrote for me, 
 and often said 'he knew full well that he could trust to my good 
 taste and discretion.' I think my instincts never misguided me. 
 When poor Tom, who was then fading fast, saw M.P., he said to 
 me, ' I must write more parts for you, Marie ; it does me good,, for 
 I can see you as I put the words on paper !' He never wrote 
 another. I have an affection for Cecilia Dunscombe, and one 
 reason may be that this was the last part I ever created for the 
 author, although he would often, during his sad illness, speak hope- 
 fully of the three plays he had made up his mind to write for us 
 to succeed one another, which were to be called, in turn. Faith, 
 Hope, and Charity — ^' such good parts for you, Marie,' he would 
 
394 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 say. It made me wretched indeed to hear him talk in that way 
 when I knew how fatal was his malady. 
 
 Mary Netley is not a good part to read in the book, and had not 
 Tom Robertson asked me to ' build it up,' she would have fallen 
 comparatively flat upon the audience. When he had finished 
 reading the piece to us, he begged me to do all I could in the scene 
 which concerned me in the last act, for somehow he felt unable to 
 make Mary as prominent as he wished, so at the rehearsals I set 
 to work, and invented business and dialogue, which, happily, met 
 with his approval ; he declared I greatly helped the act, which 
 was not only improbable, but in parts very weak. The audience 
 laughed at the fun, and forgave the rest. I must confess that I 
 often felt a little ashamed of the expedients I was obliged to adopt, 
 and was fully conscious that it was not art, only fun and frolic, 
 where we pretended to be soldiers going through our exercises. 
 The audience thoroughly enjoyed it, however ; for although it 
 was improbable, it was harmless and amusing. I remember with 
 what care I made the famous roley-poley pudding every night 
 during the first run of Ours. This pudding was eagerly waited 
 for by a little family of poor children — I made a very big one and 
 filled it with jam. Ours was, in spite of its weak points in the last 
 act, a great favourite with the public, and never failed to be our 
 good friend whenever we called upon it to help us, and so, as a 
 true friend, it will be a treasure in ' my memory locked.' 
 
 Rosie Fanquehere in Piay was a slenderly-written part, as, 
 indeed, was the whole comedy, which depended greatly upon the 
 acting, it being' so slight in plot and incident, and the weakest, in 
 every sense, of Robertson's works. There was a pretty moment 
 in the first act, where I had to describe my sensations when 
 drowning ; this was written in verj' simple, unaffected language : 
 the speech never failed to touch me as I delivered it, and the 
 audience also were often moved to tears. I had an effective scene 
 in the ruins of the Alte Schloss with poor Montague, who played 
 Frank Price charmingly. It was one of the prettiest of love- 
 scenes. We sailg a duet, partly in English, partly in German. I 
 often look at a picture of the scene on a copy of the music, and 
 note how good the likenesses must have been then. But the piece 
 was too slender to endure a revival, so after the first run poor 
 Rosie disappeared. This part is the last in my list because she 
 was the least attractive to me. But all the plays were my good 
 friends, and I love them, and thank them. Good-bye, 'Nummy' 
 (dear ' Nummy !'), Polly, Cecilia, Mary, and Rosie ; I shall, while 
 memory lasts, cherish and remember you with grateful thoughts. 
 I kiss my hands to you all, my dear companions and playmates. 
 In every beat of my heart there is a corner kept for you. Often, 
 when I am alone, I think of you, and live again in the sweet and 
 joyous words we spoke together. Good-bye, good-bye ; as I write 
 my farewell to you, every letter holds a tear. 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON .■ 1884-85 395 
 
 An experience quite new to us was an afternoon performance of 
 
 RESUMED Masks and .Faces, which we gave, after repeated re- 
 
 BY s. B. B. quests, at the Crystal Palace. Notwithstanding the broil- 
 ing July heat, the large theatre was packed in a remarkable way, and 
 we and the play were received with enthusiasm. When it was over, 
 the bulk of the audience, largely composed of ladies, walked round 
 to the stage-door, and there formed a long lane, through which we 
 were obliged to pass to get away. We hesitated for a time, but at 
 last, in answer to the manager's earnest entreaties, gave way, and 
 so made a sort of royal progress out of the building. Scores of 
 ladies followed Mrs. Bancroft with the kindest demonstrations of 
 more than good feeling, and she drove home laden with pretty 
 baskets and bunches of flowers, deeply touched by the many sweet 
 words that were spoken to her. 
 
 From the day that our farewell was announced, the booking- 
 office was besieged by applications, made in every possible way, to 
 secure seats for the last night of our management, and it became a 
 very difficult matter to deal with them, as no building that I know 
 anything about would have held the many thousands who honoured 
 us with a wish to be present. On all important occasions the task 
 of the management is very onerous in apportioning the seats, but 
 for so special a night the difficulties were a hundred-fold increased. 
 To accommodate as large a number as was possible, the ordinary 
 capacious stall and balcony armchairs were taken away, and smaller 
 ones placed in their stead. This, of course, made room for a great 
 many. We had another difficulty to contend with in the effiarts 
 made to obtain admission, at almost any cost, by bribery, and only 
 owing to the perfect loyalty of all concerned was it possible to 
 secure our intention that every place in the theatre should be either 
 sold at the ordinary charge or given away. This, so far as we were 
 concerned, was accomplished, every single seat being disposed of 
 direct from the theatre, and the vouchers only issued at the last 
 moment, it being impossible for us to do more to prevent them 
 being sold again, or to say what might have been paid for tickets 
 that may have changed hands, as twenty guineas were freely offered 
 for a corner in any part of the theatre by enthusiasts. 
 
 We were much honoured by the Prince of Wales suggesting the 
 date, in order that he might, with the Princess of Wales, be present ; 
 while the Prince and Princess Christian signified their intention to 
 occupy a private box. Very great compliments were also paid us 
 by all ' sorts and conditions of men ' in the personal letters we 
 received wishing seats to be reserved. 
 
 The final programme was a subject of much thought. 
 
 Immediately on his return from America — 1 think in April — 
 Irving had expressed his earnest wish to take part in it, either in 
 acting or speaking an address, as we might think for the best, an 
 offer we gratefully accepted, it being agreed that he should speak 
 some appropriate lines which our old friend Clement Scott con- 
 sented to write : and whose acknowledgment of our wish that he 
 
396 
 
 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 would do us this service came in these words ; ' If this were not 
 indeed a "labour of love,'' I should never put pen to paper any 
 more, or cudgel my brains in any delightful cause again. I take it 
 as an act of extreme friendship to endow me with this " office of 
 love." This compliment to me shows that you two, who are about 
 my oldest friends, recognise that I have some place in the re- 
 vivalism that you instituted. My sole fear is that, with all my 
 earnest endeavours, I shall not be able to do full justice to a theme 
 that is so dear to my heart, or to express with adequate enthusiasm 
 what I really feel.' 
 
 We decided that it would give a distinctive character to the 
 event to limit those who acted on the occasion to the names of 
 past and present members of our companies, of whom we have 
 compiled the following interesting list, many among them having 
 made their first appearances on the stage, or in London, under our 
 management : 
 
 Mr. Addison, 
 
 Mr. F. Archer, 
 
 Mr. Barrymore, 
 
 Mr. Kyrle Bellew, 
 
 Mr. Alfred Bishop, 
 
 Mr. Blakeley, 
 
 Mr. E. H. Brooke, 
 
 Mr. C. Brookfield, 
 
 Mr. I^ionel Brough, 
 
 Mr. Carne, 
 
 Mr. R. Cathcart, 
 
 Mr. Arthur Cecil, 
 
 Mr. John Clarke, 
 
 Mr. John Clayton, 
 
 Mr. Coghlan, 
 
 Mr. CoUette, 
 
 Mr. H. B. Conway, 
 
 Mr. F. Cooper, 
 
 Mr. Dacre, 
 
 Mr. Stewart Dawson, 
 
 Mr. Denison, 
 
 Mr. F. Dewar, 
 
 Mr. E. Dyas, 
 
 Mr. Elliot, 
 
 Mr. Ellwood, 
 
 Mr. Everill, 
 
 Mr. Eversfield, 
 
 Mr. Fabert, 
 
 Mr. Flockton, 
 
 Mr. F. Glover, 
 
 Mr. Hare, 
 
 Mr. W. Herbert, 
 
 Mr. George Honey, 
 
 Mr. David James, 
 
 Mr. Kemble, 
 
 Mr. Kendal, 
 
 Mr. Markby, 
 
 Mr. E Maurice, 
 
 Miss B. Goodall, 
 
 Mr, H. J, Montague, 
 
 Miss C. Grahame, 
 
 Mr. Montgomery, 
 
 Miss Julia Gwynne, 
 
 Mr. Reginald Moore, 
 
 Miss Henri, 
 
 Mr. Odell, 
 
 Miss Hertz, 
 
 Mr. Perceval-Clark, 
 
 Miss Henrietta Hodson 
 
 Mr. Pinero, 
 
 Miss Fanny Josephs, 
 
 Mr. J. W. Ray, 
 
 Mrs. Kendal, 
 
 Mr. Lin Rayne, 
 
 Mrs. Langtry, 
 
 Mr. Forbes-Robertson, 
 
 Miss Larkin, 
 
 Mr. Smedley, 
 
 Miss Le Thiere, 
 
 Mr. Standing, 
 
 Miss Litton, 
 
 Mr. Sugden, 
 
 Miss Rose Massey, 
 
 Mr. Teesdale, 
 
 Miss Measor, 
 
 Mr. Terriss, 
 
 Miss Mellon, 
 
 Mr. H. Vaughan, 
 
 Madame Modjeska, 
 
 Mr. Vollaire, 
 
 Miss Louisa Moore, 
 
 Mr. Arthur Wood, 
 
 Mrs. Gaston Murray, 
 
 Mr. Chas, Wyndham, 
 
 Mrs. Leigh Murray, 
 
 Mr. F. Younge, 
 
 Miss Kate Phillips, 
 
 Mr. William Younge, 
 
 Miss Kate Rorke, 
 
 Miss Carlotta Addison, 
 
 Miss Amy Roselle, 
 
 Mrs. Bernard-Beere, 
 
 Mrs. Saville, 
 
 Miss Brennan, 
 
 Mrs, Stirling, 
 
 Miss Fanny Brough, 
 
 Miss Ellen Terry, 
 
 Miss Buckstone, 
 
 Miss Marion Terry, 
 
 Miss Calhoun, 
 
 Miss Lydia Thompson, 
 
 Mrs. Canninge, 
 
 Miss Tilbury, 
 
 Miss Carlisle, 
 
 Mrs. Herman Vezin, 
 
 Miss Cavalier, 
 
 Miss Victor, 
 
 Miss Ada Cavendish , 
 
 Miss Florence Wade, 
 
 Miss Maria Daly, 
 
 Miss Warden, 
 
 Miss Linda Dietz, 
 
 Miss Maud Williamson, 
 
 Miss Ada Dyas, 
 
 Miss Augusta Wilton, 
 
 Miss Erskine, 
 
 Miss Blanche Wilton, 
 
 Miss Lydia Foote, 
 
 Mrs. John Wood, 
 
 Miss Gerard, 
 
 Miss Sophie Young. 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON; 1884-85 397 
 
 Needless to say, the following characteristic note was hailed with 
 the heartiest of welcomes : 
 
 ' Garrick Club, /une 9, 1885. 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — I need scarcely tell you what great 
 pleasure it will give me to do something on the occasion of your 
 retirement from management : play the audience in or out ; as 
 early as you choose, or as late ; or even, on such an interesting 
 evening, turn up the gas ; go round with the apples, oranges, etc. ; 
 ring up the curtain ; clear the stage, or anything ! With all kind 
 messages to your dear wife, sincerely yours, J. L. Toole.' 
 
 I will not dwell in further detail on the great compliments paid 
 us by those who took part in the entertainment, as a copy of the 
 playbill will speak more eloquently than would any words of ours. 
 We must, however, briefly allude to some of the many personal 
 tributes which tended so largely to complete it. Several managers 
 of leading theatres changed their programmes, or altered the hours 
 of commencement, in order to be present, while other friends sacri- 
 ficed some days of hard-earned holiday to remain purposely in 
 England, or returned from the Continent to do us honour. ' We 
 can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever 
 thanks !' 
 
 It was with great pleasure we received a large silver goblet, 
 inscribed : 'A grateful remembrance from the working staff behind 
 the scenes,' which was presented, on behalf of the subscribers, in 
 affectionate terms by Mr. Hastings, who had passed so many years 
 under our management. We could not fail to be greatly interested 
 at seeing all the contributors to the gift ranged in two groups upon 
 the stage — those who had served us in both theatres being divided 
 from the others who had been with us at the Haymarket only. 
 We also exchanged souvenirs with all the members of our com- 
 pany. The gifts presented to us we shall ever highly prize. 
 
 There is not much more to tell. Very early on the eventful day 
 earnest knots of people began to assemble round the doors leading 
 to the unreserved seats, which we would not allow to be secured in 
 advance. I have heard of the most enthusiastic among those 
 present at Macready's farewell of the stage, when plays began 
 much earlier than now, being at the pit entrance of Drury Lane by 
 one o'clock ; and when Charles Kean retired from the Princess's, I 
 was myself in the crowd before four : but devoted indeed is the play- 
 goer who thinks nothing nowadays of arriving with his camp-stool 
 and sandwiches at ten a.m. to see a play begin quite ten hours later. 
 Hour by hour the number swelled. It grew so large at last, and so 
 utterly beyond all chance of more than a fraction of it ever fighting 
 its way into the theatre, that the traffic had to be turned aside by 
 the police, and sent, to the amazement of many occupants of cabs 
 and other vehicles, by neighbouring thoroughfares. 
 
 The whole proceeding had a strange, magnetic effect upon me, 
 
398 
 
 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 and I watched it long and often. It would be wrong, however, to 
 presume that our readers could share the sentiment ; and without 
 further trial to their patience, we will let a copy of the playbill say 
 what was acted, and by whom : 
 
 THEATRE ROYAL, HAYMARKET. 
 
 Farewell programme on the occasion of Mr. and Mrs, Bancroft s Retirement 
 
 from Managefnentj Monday, July 20, 1885. 
 Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales having graciously 
 
 signified their intention to be present. 
 
 The selections from Money and London Assurance will be acted entirely by 
 
 past members of Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft's companies, who have volunteered 
 
 this compliment to their former managers. 
 
 At eight o'clock will be flayed 
 THE FIRST ACT OF LORD LYTTON'S COMEDY, 
 
 MONEY. 
 
 LORD GLOSSMORE . 
 
 SIR FREDERICK BLOUNT. 
 
 SIR JOHN VESEY 
 
 CAPTAIN DUDLEY SMOOTH 
 
 MR. GRAVES . 
 
 MR. STOUT 
 
 ALFRED EVELYN 
 
 MR. SHARP 
 
 GROOM OF THE CHAMBERS 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 LADY FRANKLIN 
 
 CLARA DOUGLAS 
 
 GEORGINA VESEY . 
 
 MAIDSERVANT 
 
 Mr. Alfred Bishop. 
 
 Mr. Charles Wyndham. 
 
 Mr. Collette. 
 
 Me. Archer. 
 
 Mr. Arthur Cecil. 
 
 Mr. David James. 
 
 Mr. Coghlan. 
 
 Mr. Blakeley. 
 
 Mr. Sugden. 
 
 Mr. John Clayton. 
 
 Mrs. Stirling. 
 
 Miss Ellen Terry. 
 
 Mrs. Langtry. 
 
 Mrs. John Wood. 
 
 A SCENE FROM DION BOUCICAULT S COMEDY, 
 
 LONDON ASSURANCE. 
 
 SIR HARCOURT COURTLY 
 CHARLES COURTLY 
 DAZZLE . , . . 
 
 DOLLY SPANKER 
 MAX HARKAWAY 
 SERVANT 
 
 LADY GAY SPANKER 
 GRACE HARKAWAY . 
 
 Mr. H.iRE. 
 
 Mr. Tekkiss. 
 
 Mr. Kendal. 
 
 Mr. a. W. Pinero. 
 
 Mr. F. Everill. 
 
 Mr. Kvrle Bellew. 
 
 Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 Miss Carlotta Addison. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, with meinbers of their present company, 
 will play the second .\nd third acts of 
 
 MASKS AND FACES: 
 
 AN ORIGINAL COMEDY, 
 Written by Charles Keade and Tom Taylor. 
 SIR CHARLES POMANDER . . Mr. Forbes-Robertson. 
 
 ERNEST VANE . . Mr. Barrymore. 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON.- 1884-85 399 
 
 JAMES QUIN . . . , Mr. E. MAURICE. 
 
 COLLEY GIBBER . Mr. C. Brookfield. 
 
 MR. SOAPER . ... Mr. Elliot. 
 
 MR. SNARL . ... Mr. Kemble. 
 
 TRIPLET . . . Mr. Bancroft. 
 
 LYSIMACHUS . . . Miss Kate Grattan. 
 
 JAMES BURDOCK .... Mr. Perceval-Clark. 
 
 COLANDER ..... Mr. C. Eaton. 
 
 HUNDSDON .... Mr. York. 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON . . . Mrs. Bancroft. 
 
 MABEL VANE . . . Miss Calhoun. 
 
 KITTY CLIVE'. . . Miss Maud WILLIAMSON, 
 
 MRS. TRIPLET. , . Mrs. Canninge. 
 
 ROXALANA . ... Miss Mabel Grattan. 
 
 MR. HENRY IRVING will speak a few parting words, 
 
 written in verse by Mr. Clement Scott ; and MR. J. L, TOOLE will appear. 
 
 MR. BANCROFT will bid farewell. 
 
 It would be a hopeless task to give a correct description of the 
 audience, or a complete list of the well-known names of leading 
 people in their varied walks of life who honoured us by their pre- 
 sence, for many celebrities, who had failed to obtain other seats, 
 were hidden away in the upper circles. Suffice it to say, that of 
 diplomacy, politics, and society, most distinguished representatives 
 were present : as was equally the case with the army and sister 
 service, the law, medicine, science, and the Church ; while the 
 Royal Academy sent us not only its accomplished President, but 
 many others whose great names are household words ; literature in 
 every branch, and journalism in all aspects, seemed to bristle in 
 the stalls, as was the case with music and the drama ; indeed, a 
 list of names would be but a brief epitome of ' Men of the Time.' 
 
 I have not the power to describe, as might be, the demeanour of 
 this wonderful audience throughout the evening, and their cordial 
 welcome of favourite after favourite. As the time approached for 
 Mrs. Bancroft to go on the stage as Peg Woffington, I asked for a 
 knife, and cut a hole in part of the scene, that I might see the 
 effect of her appearance as well as hear her greeting. I borrowed 
 an opera-glass for the purpose, and caught a hurried glimpse of 
 several friends ; I recollect being reminded, by the powerful face of 
 Sir Henry Thompson, of a kind invitation to join one of his delight- 
 ful ' octaves ' in the first days of my emancipation. I also saw our 
 dear friends Mr. and Mrs. Charles Skirrow ; and, if I i"emember 
 rightly, close to the stage was Mrs. Gabrielli, and, further away, 
 Mrs. Quintin Twiss. Just before Mrs. Bancroft entered I caught 
 sight of Lady Dorothy Nevill, looking, as usual, like a charming 
 picture of one of her own ancestors ; and of a face rarely seen at 
 the play — that of Robert Browning. 
 
 The demonstration was very moving, and very extraordinary ; 
 while the warmth of my own reception, a few minutes later, I con- 
 fess, bewildered me ; it seemed like the sound and roar of many 
 voices, but I could see nothing ; and never do in playing parts 
 
400 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 like Triplet, in which it is impossible to wear any sort of eyeglasses. 
 When the play was over I had to go hurriedly to my room to 
 change my clothes and prepare for my final words, so, alas ! I did 
 not hear Irving speak- Scott's ode, which I am told he deli\-ered 
 with infinite grace, as in the days of epilogues and prologues to the 
 play : the ovation which greeted him only travelled to me, as later on 
 I was conscious of the loud bursts of laughter which followed Toole's 
 humorous but affectionate speech. I reached the wings in time to 
 hear him express his concluding hope that the brief engagement 
 of Irving and himself under our management, which was limited 
 in fact to one night, would not be reported as having been the 
 means of closing the theatre ! I think I have told all that may 
 have interest, for I must yield to Mrs. Bancroft a woman's privilege 
 — the last word. Before that is uttered I will find space for 
 Clement Scott's verses, and for the farewell words I did my best 
 to speak : 
 
 A VALEDICTORY ODE. 
 A friend and neighbour from the busy Strand, 
 
 Warned by the summons of Fate's prompting Bell, 
 Has come to take two comrades by the hand. 
 
 And bid them both regretfully ' Farewell. ' 
 Parting to lovers may be ' sorrow sweet,' 
 
 To friends all separation must give pain ; 
 But time, consoling, turns the travelled feet. 
 
 And tells the parted — they may meet again. 
 No age or sickness saddens this adieu. 
 
 No piteous cause I plead, no alms I beg ; 
 My toast is ' Triplet, here's long life to you. 
 
 And years more laughter to delightful Peg.' 
 The sailor sights at last his native land. 
 
 The swallow follows to accustomed nest ; 
 So, two tried actors, toiling hand in hand. 
 
 Demand at last toil's after-blessing — Rest. 
 Their steady course was fann'd by favouring gales, 
 
 Their loyal purpose dimm'd by no regret ; 
 Sponsors they stood to infant ' Prince of Wales,' 
 
 With life renewed the classic ' Haymarket.' 
 Not to all artists, earnest though their aim. 
 
 As retrospective vision there appears 
 The priceless gift of an untarnished name, 
 
 The blameless history of twenty years. 
 Fired by the flush of youth, they found a way 
 
 To give to fading art a healthy cure ; 
 The stage they loved revived beneath their sway, 
 They made art earnest, and they kept it pure. 
 Shall we forget, at this their parting hour, 
 
 How fact and fancy intertwine and blend? 
 Saying, * The Stage acknowledged them a power. 
 
 Actor and actress found in them a friend.' 
 ' Ars est celare artem^' 'tis inscribed, 
 
 Crowning this stage, and fancifully wrought ; 
 From great ones past this precept they imbibed. 
 This needful lesson dutifully taught. 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-85 401 
 
 Dramatic flowers they gathered by the way, 
 
 And chose the brightest wheresoe'er it grows ; 
 Never disdaining to contrast in play 
 
 French tiger-lily with sweet English rose. 
 With kindly Robertson they formed a ' School,' 
 
 Rejoiced in ' Play ' after long anxious hours ; 
 ' Caste ' was for them, and theirs, a golden rule, 
 
 And thus by principle we made them ' Ours.' 
 Such an example in the after age 
 
 Will throw a softening haze o'er bygone care ; 
 We close the volume at its brightest page. 
 
 But leave a blossom of remembrance there. 
 Good-bye, the cttp of sympathy let's fill, 
 
 We'll drink it deep ere sorrow's sun be set ; 
 Together yon have mounted life's long hill. 
 
 And leave behind no record of regret. 
 Good-bye, old friends, it shall not be farewell ; 
 
 Love is of art the birth and after-growth ; 
 ' Heaven prosper you ' shall be our only knell. 
 
 Our parting prayer be this, ' God bless you both.' 
 
 When Toole had finished and the audience was recovering from 
 the effect of the amusement he had caused, the stage was strewn 
 with the beautiful flowers that had been arriving throughout the 
 evening for Mrs. Bancroft, and in their midst — full of the thought 
 how serious the moment really was to us — I spoke these farewell 
 words : 
 
 ' May it please your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen, 
 — For a long time now I have dreaded this moment, and have 
 often wondered if, when it came, I should be able to speak to you 
 at all. My best hope of doing so is in the remembrance that I 
 have to offer, as well as my own thanks, the thanks of Mrs. 
 Bancroft, whose life, from her early childhood, has been passed in 
 the service of the public, for the many years of constant kindness 
 shown to us, not only by this brilliant and representative audience, 
 but by that great world of friends unknown, yet known so well — the 
 public. 
 
 ' We do not take this, to us, important step without full reflection 
 — we know how much, in resigning management, we give up, but 
 release from the sordid side of life, which must have its share in 
 every profession, makes some amends — while that which for so long 
 a time has been our pride is also a great responsibility, and, believe 
 me, we value your regard too highly to risk for a moment a fraction 
 of its decay. 
 
 ' We feel how far beyond our merits are the honours and compli- 
 ments which have been showered upon us from every side, and I 
 am deeply conscious of the poverty of my attempt to acknowledge 
 them. Robbed now 6f the actor's art, I must ask you to clothe my 
 words with all the eloquence and wealth of thanks I mean them 
 to convey ; but I almost think the sympathy between us at this 
 
 26 
 
402 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 moment is beyond words. If it has been my privilege to spare 
 Mrs. Bancroft such labour and anxieties as should not be a woman's 
 lot, how amply have I been a thousand-fold repaid ! Most of us, 
 I think, owe Mrs. Bancroft something, but I am by far the heaviest 
 in her debt. I alone know how she has supported me in trouble, 
 saved me from many errors, helped me to many victories ; and it is 
 she who has given to our work those finishing touches, those last 
 strokes of genius, which, in all art, are priceless. And so, ladies 
 and gentlemen, we worked together until we earned, very gradually, 
 our proud possession — the confidence of the public. Whatever that 
 work may be worth, it has been thorough and honest, for neither of 
 us has ever bought any man's favour. It would ill become me to 
 talk of what we have tried to do, but should we be remembered as 
 the humble pioneers of anything that may have advanced the art 
 we love — if we should be thought, in some way, to have helped to 
 make its position better than we found it, it would be a high dis- 
 tinction. No general can succeed without a staff and an army. In 
 every branch our fellow-workers — from those distinguished authors 
 and actors, those masters of the craft, whose names will spring at 
 once to your memories, to the humblest members of our ranks, have 
 been so loyal and so forbearing to us that we shall feel for ever in 
 their debt. Indeed, it is but the simple truth to say that all we 
 have earned of fame and fortune we owe to the calling we have 
 followed, and it would be a poor return not to give it back the 
 brightest feelings of our natures. 
 
 ' Now that my words are, I hope, beyond the fear of miscon- 
 struction, I would like to acknowledge our obligations to that great 
 power, the Press ; which of late years, in my humble judgment, has 
 done much to aid the actor and his art to reach the position they 
 enjoy. It seems to me that at no time in the history of the Stage, 
 when the managers have worked in a bold spirit and towards good 
 ends, have the dramatic critics so quickly stood by their sides and 
 marched with them on the road. Individually I owe much to the 
 Press. I can truly say 1 never read an adverse opinion of my own 
 work without thinking if it were correct. I have generally had to 
 admit that it was, and the result has been at least an earnest effort 
 to lessen the faults that may have been found with me. 
 
 ' 1 beg leave to offer, as managers, our heartfelt thanks to the 
 gentlemen of the Press for their encouragement, so valuable to 
 youth, of our earlier efforts, while we shall always remember the 
 honour they have done us in judging our maturer work by the 
 highest standard. 
 
 ' Our thanks are not yet exhausted ; how cordially are they due 
 to those old comrades who have come here to-night to give us so 
 strong a sign of their goodwill, joined by those valued friends, John 
 Toole and Henry Irving. The distinction given to our retirement 
 by such proofs of friendship, and by Mr. Irving's recital of Mr. 
 Scott's generous poem, are, to us, beyond value. Let me ask them 
 
, OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-85 403 
 
 to believe that our remembrance of their kindness — Hke our re- 
 membrance of this scene — will never pass away. 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen, I have detained you too long. I must 
 not impose upon your generosity, to which I have no better claim 
 than some devotion to hard work, although your goodness tempts 
 me to say one thing of myself which may secure me that fragment 
 of your remembrance I ask as my own. It is now more than 
 twenty-four years since, as a lad of nineteen, I first tried to become 
 an actor ; during that time, averaging, I think, between ten and 
 eleven months of every year, whenever my name has been in a 
 playbill I have appeared in answer to it, having never once failed, 
 to the best of my sti'ength, in my duty to the public. I cannot 
 longer defer the pain 1 must give myself — to say how much we 
 thank you is but little, to feel how much we thank you is a great 
 deal. Whether as actors it may sometimes be our delight and our 
 privilege to appear at intervals before you, I don't yet know ; but 
 as managers I have now, in my wife's name and my own, to bid 
 you good-bye. We do- so, ladies and gentlemen, with feelings of 
 thankfulness, of great respect, and, if you will permit us to approach 
 you so nearly, with feelings of deep affection.' 
 
 Mrs. Bancroft's pen shall tell what followed ; I will only detain 
 the reader with a few and varied extracts from many letters on the 
 subject, and some words I spoke two evenings later as Chairman at 
 the Banquet in aid of the Royal Theatrical Fund, when I suc- 
 ceeded in raising, naturally to my pride and gratification, a sub- 
 scription list which passed all previous records, amounting to 
 .£1,300. 
 
 What follows immediately needs no further introduction : 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Bancroft, — 1 have observed your career from its 
 beginning, and can bear testimony to the enormous improvement 
 you have effected on the English stage. 
 
 ' You were the first to teach the school of Nature, and not only 
 by your own bright impersonations, but also by your influence over 
 all those with whom you were brought in contact, to prove that 
 English Art is second to none. 
 
 ' Following in your footsteps, and emulous of your achievements, 
 many have attained fame and fortune. But it is my firm belief that 
 to you, and to you especially, is to be attributed the great and suc- 
 cessful development of our Modern Drama. — Sincerely yours, 
 Algernon Borthwick.' 
 
 ' Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, — Are you too tired of being 
 told how much everybody admires and loves you both ? All I can 
 say is, that I heartily wish I had been privileged to begin feeling 
 twenty years ago what I feel now, and I shall make myself what 
 amends are in my power by feeling as long as I live. 
 
 26 — 2 
 
404 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' All happiness to you, from yours, gratefully and affectionately 
 ever, Robert Browning.' 
 
 ' My dear Bancroft, — You and your wife will be in receipt of 
 numberless letters of admiration and sympathetic farewell. Let me 
 and mine add our mite, and congratulate you both most warmly on 
 the demonstration of last night. 
 
 ' I myself am a pretty old playgoer, dating from " old Dowton " — 
 whom I well knew on the "Kent circuit" about 1840— the elder 
 Farren, Mrs. Glover, etc., and in bygone days never missed any 
 event of genuine interest. Among the most prominent of such occa- 
 sions was the farewell of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean, on Monday 
 August 29, 1859. (I have my stall ticket still by me.) The Times 
 spoke of it as " one of the most imposing ovations ever seen within 
 the walls of a theatre," and it was ; last evening was another, but 
 there was this difference — the thoroughly representative character 
 of last night's audience was never, in my experience, equalled. 
 Therein shines the ti-ue public feeling, all up and down the ladder, 
 towards you both, and on this Lady Monckton and myself so 
 heartily and sympathetically congratulate you. — With kindest 
 wishes, I am, your old friend, JOHN B. Monckton.' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Bancroft, — Will you allow me to be one of 
 the crowd who will assemble on the night of the 20th, to express 
 their regret at your retirement from management, for regret will be 
 the general feeling ? 
 
 ' My career was ended when yours began. 
 
 ' With kindest regards to Mr. Bancroft and yourself, believe me, 
 yours sincerely, Mary Anne Keeley.' 
 
 ' My dear Friend, — I congratulate you on the brilliant termina- 
 tion of an honourable career of management. How strange are the 
 phases of life ! Little did I think on the occasion of my first seeing 
 you in Liverpool (when you acted in the Woman in Mauve) that I 
 should see you in the exceptionally proud position you stood in last 
 Monday ; and still less that I should be classed amongst your 
 friends, permitted to add my quota to the goodwill and admiration 
 you were greeted with. 
 
 ' My kindest regards and best wishes to you both, my dear 
 Bancroft, and believe me, yours sincerely, Chas. Wyndham.' 
 
 ' Dear Madam, — How many of your most respectful admirers 
 were unable to be present at your farewell last night you will never 
 know ; but many of us absent in body were yet present in spirit. 
 You have helped the humble writer of this letter m so many ways, 
 and not least in having cleared away the mists of prejudice and 
 ignorance which a puritanical education had raised up. 
 
 ' It has been by such good work as yours and your husband's 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON : 1884-85 405 
 
 that the Drama has risen to its proper position, and been ennobled 
 even in the eyes of those brought up to despise and condemn it. — 
 Yours truly, A Lover of the Engadine.' 
 
 In spite of the heat and the lateness of the season, there was a 
 wonderful gathering in the large hall of the Freemasons' Tavern on 
 the evening of Wednesday, July 22nd ; but I will not trouble the 
 reader with any more lists of names. In proposing the toast of 
 ' The Queen ' I ventured to say : 
 
 ' Duty and pleasure are rarely so happily combined as in the 
 honour a chairman enjoys while proposing the " Health of Her 
 Majesty." As an actor it will always be a personal regret with me 
 that the privilege of appearing before the Queen has not fallen to 
 my lot, but her Majesty ceased to go to the play in the year I went 
 upon the stage.' 
 
 I also give an extract from the next Royal toast : 
 
 ' It is a privilege and a distinction, which must be highly valued 
 by an actor, to ask such a representative gathering as this to drink 
 to the health of one who has in the most gracious way, and for 
 many years, shown sympathy with, and interest in, the stage and 
 its professors. I need not say I have the honour to allude to his 
 Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. With, I hope, a full sense of 
 my duty to the Prince of Wales, I venture to say that the senti- 
 ments with which his Royal Highness is regarded by those whom 
 I at this moment represent are best expressed by the word affec- 
 tion.' The day following being fixed for the marriage of the 
 Princess Beatrice, was an opportunity for some reference to her 
 Royal Highness and her Majesty, which was warmly cheered : 
 ' I cannot complete this toast without alluding to the ceremony of 
 to-morrow, and wishing the Princess Beatrice in her marriage the 
 happiness so deserved by a life which has sweetly illustrated all 
 that is beautiful in filial devotion.' 
 
 I must not refrain from mentioning that Mr. Sims Reeves, who 
 not only did me the honour to offer his services, but wrote to tell 
 me that he meant to sing ' The Death of Nelson ' and ' The Bay of 
 Biscay,' then fulfilled his promise in a way which roused the 
 audience to extreme enthusiasm, to be even increased when the 
 great singer responded with his exquisite rendering of ' My Pretty 
 Jane.' 
 
 I was also under great obligations to my friends Edmund Yates, 
 J. C. Parkinson, Arthur Pinero, Justin McCarthy, Comyns Carr, 
 T. H. S. Escott, Charles Dickens, and John Hare, for their elo- 
 quence on the occasion. I failed to persuade Barry Sullivan, who 
 was present, to join the speakers, but he generously added fifty 
 guineas to my subscription list, as did a warm-hearted friend, 
 Warren William de la Rue. 
 
 In proposing the ' toast of the evening,' to which I had given a 
 great deal of thought, I said : 
 
4o6 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 ' I shall beg you to join me in drinking to the continued pros- 
 perity of " The Royal General Theatrical Fund." While I feel 
 deeply the compliment of being allowed to do so, I feel still more 
 deeply the responsibility of venturing to follow in the wake of those 
 distmguished men who have addressed you from this chair — men 
 known throughout the land by their genius, illustrious from their 
 position and their rank, or esteemed for their talents and their 
 culture by all the world. But dwarfed as I am by the great gifts 
 of my predecessors, I will yield to none of them in my desire to 
 serve, to the utmost of my power, the calling I have the honour to 
 follow, and to which I owe so much. 
 
 ' I will not attempt a detailed account of the work of this Fund 
 — a very old friend of mine will best do that— Mr. Thomas S win- 
 bourne, with whom I had the pleasure to act in 1861, the first year 
 I was on the stage — indeed, I can remember well the agony I 
 suffered while playing Osric — a part in which I could not make up 
 my mind to wear an eyeglass, lest I should let the Prince of 
 Denmark fall when I had to catch him — but here he is to bear 
 witness that he made a swan-like end in my arms ; and another 
 old friend, my first manager, Mr. Mercer Simpson, is present to 
 vouch for this having occurred in his theatre. And to these old 
 friends I owe some of the earliest words of encouragement I ever 
 received. Mr. Swinbourne will tell you of the Fund's good work 
 better than I can, while I content myself with an appeal on broader 
 lines, helped in the endeavour to stir your kind and charitable 
 feelings by the thought that I am addressing many whom I have 
 the honour .to call my friends, and by the knowledge that you are 
 all lovers of the drama. I will even venture to think of you for 
 the moment as in the drama's debt, for is there anyone present 
 who does not owe something to the players ? Have they not 
 soothed for you many a care and lightened many a sorrow ? I 
 don't say this, in any sense as an apologist ; I can only ask for your 
 help, confident in the hope that you regard the actor as a member 
 of an onerous and responsible profession, for I hold the belief that 
 the stage, like every other calling, as respect is shown to it, will so 
 respect itself 
 
 ' It is not with the bright and glittering side of my art I have to 
 deal to-night ; not with those happy few who, having toiled long 
 and steadily up the steepest of all roads — the road that bears the 
 finger-post to fame — have snatched its prizes ; though even with 
 the mightiest actor let me remind you how fleeting is his renown, 
 how far less lasting his hold upon posterity than that enjoyed by 
 the followers of every other intellectual calling in the world. 
 Brilliant as his triumphs are in the moments of success (and far be 
 it from me to undervalue their delights), his work is not carved in 
 marble — is not cut in stone — it lives not eveij upon canvas. When 
 the last words of his part in the play are spoken, their tones — the 
 speaker's looks — are buried by the remorseless curtain as it falls, 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-85 407 
 
 and have but a lame existence in criticism and tradition. £yoficx> 
 may enrich our National Gallery with the magic art of Raphael, 
 but ten times that sum could not buy for us one performance by 
 David Garrick. The path the actor treads is laid but with sand, 
 and his footmarks can in a moment be almost washed away, either 
 by some sad calamity, as ill-health, or by whatever wave may be 
 the fashion of the hour, leaving only the "baseless fabric of a 
 vision." 
 
 ' But I am wandering from my proper purpose. My duty is a 
 simple one, and, were I better able to discharge it, would be delight- 
 ful to me. I have to appeal to you for aid, not for the improvident 
 and undeserving, but for those who have for many years helped 
 themselves, who have put something regularly away, by their sub- 
 scriptions to this fund, towards the dull winters of lives passed in 
 your service — old soldiers indeed who have well earned their 
 pensions. The shining lights of the stage would burn less brightly 
 were they not carefully tended by their valuable subordinates. 
 Shylock could not act his grandest scene but for the humble aid of 
 Tubal ; while Sir Peter and Lady Teazle might have lived more 
 happily together but for Mr. Snake. 
 
 ' I fear I am speaking too long. Let me remember — 
 ' " My tongue within my lips I rein. 
 
 For who talks much, must tall< in vain." 
 
 ' In conclusion, may I say this — and forgive me if my words take 
 a personal tone. I don't appear as the advocate of a cause of 
 which I know little or nothing. The brief which has been entrusted 
 to me I hold, as it were, for my poorer brethren — for those who 
 are old and perhaps forgotten. I am an actor pleading to you for 
 actors, and I speak as one who has tasted the bitters as well as the 
 sweets of his craft ; as one who has seen in his life, from actors, 
 such deeds of self-denial, of single-heartedness, and of good-will, 
 as it would not become me to dwell upon. Pope truly says — 
 ' " In faith and hope the world will disagree, 
 But all mankind's concern is charity." 
 
 ' I appeal to you on behalf of those who have been passed in the 
 race and have fallen footsore by the wayside, but who are not less 
 deserving than more fortunate followers of the beautiful art to which 
 my best strength has been devoted, and in which my interest will 
 be undying.' 
 
 The following letter, written by Mrs. Bancroft, and dated Thurs- 
 day, July 23, 1885, happily exists to best describe a few more inci- 
 dents, and will appropriately close the volume : 
 
 ' We both deeply regretted that at the last moment you were pre- 
 vented from being present at our farewell ! Of course you have 
 read the accounts, and the long leading articles in the newspapers ; 
 but no written description can give you an adequate idea of the 
 \\'ho!e scene from the rise of the curtain until its final fall, which 
 
4o8 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 closed, for ever, our career as managers. Many weeks before the, 
 to us, memorable night arrived, I felt as though a heavy weight 
 were tugging at my heart. Those two relentless words " good-bye " 
 haunted me, wherever I went, whatever I did. They were the last 
 visions in my mind when going to sleep, and they rose up in big 
 letters on my awaking. You will never know, and I can never 
 explain to you, what a sad load it has been to carry in my thoughts. 
 Was I not going to bid adieu to my dear public, my good faithful 
 friends who helped me to launch the little ship with the three lucky 
 plumes at its figure-head (have they not been lucky to me ?), and 
 who encourages me on and on until I had completed twenty long 
 voyages. Some of our friends have reproached us for throwing 
 down the reins so soon ; but we feel that we have done all we 
 can for our art (if we stayed too long it might be forgotten kow 
 fniich we have done). We have achieved all we desire for ourselves, 
 and we don't wish to linger so long upon the scene as to outlive, 
 perhaps, the liking of the public. We have been successful beyond 
 our wildest hopes, but not without very hard work, and now we lay 
 down our arms that they may be taken up by others who are 
 " eager for the fray." 
 
 'The beautiful theatre presented a striking appearance. The 
 royal box was occupied by the Prince and Princess of Wales and 
 the three young princesses ; the box on the opposite side by the 
 Prince and Princess Christian, with whom were Mr. and Mrs. 
 Jeune. The stalls were taken away, and in their stead were small 
 chairs — making the house look as closely packed as a box of figs 
 or sardines. It almost seemed as if everybody of distinction was 
 squeezed into the building, and it was with a feeling of real pride 
 that I looked upon the assembly which had come to do us so much 
 honour. The great desire to be present was proof to us of high 
 esteem and an acknowledgment of the good work we hope we have 
 accomplished. It was, indeed, a moment to live for, to labour for. 
 The theatre looked so gay and bright, like one huge bouquet set 
 with brilliants. There was no feeling, 1 am sure, amongst that 
 wonderful audience but of goodwill, and the hearts of all seemed to 
 throb with one big beat, and that was for us. 
 
 ' How I managed to dress for my part, \ know not. I can only 
 remember floral offerings of every conceivable design being brought 
 to me, until there were so many that they had to be taken to a 
 .larger room. When I walked on to the stage in the second act of 
 Masks and Faces, amongst Ernest Vane's other guests, my recep- 
 tion was so overpowering, and the " Good-bye " in my throat so 
 big, that I nearly gave way. Someone (I think it was Mr. Barry- 
 more) whispered to me, " Bear up," and that brought me to myself. 
 You know how nervous and sensitive I am, but 1 gathered up all 
 the strength at my command, and conquered the almost uncon- 
 trollable desire to cry. During the last act, when you know poor 
 " Peg" is sorely tried, and has somany different emotions to por- 
 
OUR FAREWELL SEASON: 1884-85 409 
 
 tray, it was with the greatest difficulty I managed to keep up until 
 the end. But when the moment came to speak that beautiful 
 "farewell" to Mabel Vane, every word seemed so appropriate, 
 fitting in so strangely to the occasion, that I could fight against my 
 emotions no longer ; the tears that had been waiting for the gates 
 to open came freely to my eyes, and I fairly broke down. Mr. 
 Irving delivered the " Good-bye " address with deep feeling ; and 
 dear little Toole, in his own quaint fashion, spoke of us both with 
 affection. 
 
 'After this came Mr. Bancroft's " Farewell." How he got through 
 it as he did is a marvel to me, for he was painfully agitated. The 
 stage was beautifully decorated with masses of flowers by several 
 ladies, who kindly offered to do the duty, and a path was formed 
 right down to the footlights, with a border of bouquets on each 
 side, through which we both walked when we went on to make our 
 final bow. The curtain was raised many times, and the sight of 
 the upstanding audience cheering and waving their handkerchiefs 
 was something to remember. The sound of their voices, the 
 enthusiasm, the deafening applause, and "Auld Lang Syne" played 
 by the band, was all so bewildering to my senses, that I felt dazed 
 and as in a dream. 
 
 ' When all this was over the Princess of Wales sent for me, and 
 after gracious words of sympathy, presented me with the bouquet 
 which she was carrying. You may imagine how deeply all this 
 affected me. Many dear friends came round to speak pleasant 
 words to me afterwards, and I was urged to go to a party given by 
 Mr. Alfred de Rothschild, to which he had kindly invited us. I 
 was advised that it would put my thoughts for a time into another 
 groove, and would help me to a better night's rest than if I went 
 immediately home after the tension and excitement I had gone 
 through. We remained in the theatre some time before starting, 
 but the crowd which had assembled in order to see us leave, com- 
 pletely blocking the whole of Suffolk Street, still waited, and as we 
 passed through to the carriage, those who were near enough pressed 
 forward to shake hands with us, while expressions of regret and 
 good wishes were called out to us on every side. As the carriage 
 went slowly through the crowd, hands were thrust in, and grasping 
 mine, the people shouted, " It mustn't be good-bye !" " Don't go 
 away !" " Stay with your friends !" 
 
 ' At Mr. de Rothschild's beautiful house we again met the Prince 
 of Wales, who talked with us for a long time in the most flattering 
 way. We saw many people who had been at the theatre. Lord 
 Granville being particularly kind in echoing remarks contained in a 
 letter he wrote a few days ago. When at last we reached home, I 
 threw on a dressing-gown, and had a long think and a good cry. 
 After all the noise, excitement, and suppressed emotion, having 
 been, as it were, " the observed of all observers," I sat alone in the 
 silence of the night reflecting, looking back through that long vista 
 
410 OUR JOINT NARRATIVE 
 
 of the past, with its hard work, many triumphs, and bold achieve- 
 ments. I thought of my early struggles in childhood and girlhood 
 — which made the water very rough for me to wade — but now that 
 I am safely landed, I cannot help looking sadly back upon the 
 stormy sea through which I had to pass. My sleep that night was 
 fitful, as you may well believe, and in the morning when I tried to 
 speak I found that my voice had left me ; the vocal cord had 
 collapsed, and the reaction was almost as bad as the nervous agita- 
 tion which had caused it. 
 
 ' I have received many charming letters, amongst them being 
 one from Lady Salisbury, and another from Lady Iddesleigh — ■ 
 letters that I shall treasure very much ; in the future I shall read 
 them many a time, and picture in my memory that eventful night. 
 
 ' Well, the bouquets were so numerous that they had to be sent 
 home on the following day in a van, and when they arrived they 
 could not all be accommodated inside the house, so they were / 
 placed in the balcony, which soon was filled. When the van?) 
 arrived, a small crowd of people soon collected, and the remarks ^ 
 from some of them, which were afterwards repeated to me, were 
 most amusing. " What's all this mean ?" said one. " If s either a 
 weddin' or a funeral," was the reply. " Who lives here ?" " Oh ! / 
 know why : it's the Bancrofts' 'ouse ; they've jist 'ad a heap of 
 money left them by a relation wot insists on theij leavin' the stage !" 
 " Oh, then all this is for a party !" " It's more like a royal 
 mausoleum !" 
 
 ' The lovely flowers are fading fast, and yesterday I found that 
 one of the huge offerings had been sent to me in a handsome silver 
 bowl. 
 
 ' I am now counting the hours to our start for my dear Engadine ; 
 there I shall find the rest which I need this time more than ever. I 
 feel so tired, so sleepy, that when I get to Pontresina I shall lie 
 down, look at my old friends the mountains, which divide me from 
 the hurly-burly through which I have passed on the other side of 
 them, and not wish to get up again for days. Good-bye — no, no ! 
 au revoir to you, dear. Think of me this time next week, when I 
 would not change places with you, much as I like you.' 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 We now put down the pen. Our work is done, and we have 
 achieved the ambition of accomplishing the task ourselves. In the 
 last words of Margaret Woffington, we say to our readers : ' Good- 
 bye. When hereafter you hear harsh sentence passed on us — 
 whose lot was admiration, rarely love ; triumph, but seldom tran- 
 quillity — think sometimes of us and say. Stage Masks may cover 
 honest Faces, and hearts beat true beneath a tinselled robe.' 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. 
 
 C, C. &= Co.