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i^^ 
 
 
 
 ADAH ISAACS 
 
 MENKEN 
 
 f 
 
ADAH ISAACS 
 MENKEN 
 
 AN 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHAUD NORTHCOTT 
 
 Sbconc Edition. 
 
 
 PRINIliD AND I^UBLISHED BY 
 
 
 THE 
 
 PRESS PRINTERS, 
 
 LONG ACRE. LONDON', 
 1921 
 
 H 
 
 LTD. 
 
 :a^ 
 
|\5'?,o-5o: 
 
A FOREWORD. 
 
 ADAH Isaacs Menken — "the world's 
 delight,'' as Swinburne described 
 her — was one of the most remarkable 
 beauties of the 'sixties. She was well- 
 known as a dancer, circus rider, actress, 
 and male impersonator ; she was notorious 
 as having had four husbands ; she was 
 conspicuous in the world of letters 
 partly by her association with various 
 prominent English and French writer; and 
 partly by her volume of poems, entitled 
 " Infelicia," which she was permitted to 
 dedicate to Charles Dickens. 
 
 I desire to thank Mr. George R. Sims, 
 and a friend in New York, Mr. H. J. 
 Ketcham, for generous help in the pre- 
 paration of this sketch of her romantic 
 career. 
 
 RICHARD NORTHCOTT 
 
ADAH ISAACS MENKEN. 
 
 JUST over a century ago there was a shopkeeper in 
 Newcastle Street, a thoroughfare done away with by 
 the Holborn — Strand improvement, who sold second- 
 hand clothes. He once had an assistant named 
 James McCord, a young Irishman, who, thinking he might 
 better himself in a new country, severed his connection 
 with the wardrobe dealer, crossed the Atlantic, and settled 
 as a " general merchant " in Louisiana, in a village then 
 called Chartrain, the IVlilneburg of to-day, a few miles north 
 of New Orleans. Here he married a Creole, and by her had 
 a son (who died when a baby) and two daughters ; the elder 
 girl, born on June 15th, 1835, was christened Dolores Adios. 
 Two years later, James McCord died of fever. Not long 
 afterwards, the widow married Josiah Campbell, a surgeon in 
 the United States army. He took considerable interest in 
 the education of the two girls, and soon realised that the 
 elder was exceptionally gifted. Dolores was of a studious 
 turn of mind, a philomath, and with facility learned English 
 and Spanish. (French was used in everyday conversation.) 
 She was fond of Latin, and when she was twelve she trans- 
 lated the Iliad into French. On Dr. Campbell's death these 
 literary pursuits had to be abandoned, for he had spent his 
 earnings on giving his stepdaughter a sound education. 
 Happily, a planter in Cuba came forward to help the 
 family until the girls were of an age to earn their own living. 
 Their start was in the ballet at the Opera House, New Orleans. 
 
Bertha Theodore, as Dolores Adios McCord called herself 
 on the stage, soon attracted public notice, for she was a 
 graceful dancer and had beautiful features. When the opera 
 season finished, she appeared as a terpsichorean star at the 
 Ta^on Theatre in Havana for a short engagement. Then 
 came a long " rest," and seeing no immediate chance of 
 further work on the stage she secured a post as teacher of 
 English and Spanish at a young ladies' school. This mono- 
 tonous occupation, however, did not satisfy her active 
 inclinations. In the spring of 1852 she joined a travelling 
 hippodrome, managed by the French equestrian, Victor 
 Franconi ; the ring-master, Rodney Cullen, instructed her 
 in the business of haute-ecole, and having plenty of nerve, 
 pluck, and industry, she rapidly became efficient. But the 
 hardships she experienced — little rest, personal discomfort, 
 uncongenial surroundings, poor remuneration — soon con- 
 vinced her that the glory of the circus ring was as tinsel ; its 
 affected bohemianism was not suited to her sensitive nature. 
 She left the company, and on May 7th, 1853, we find her 
 the premiere danseuse at the Opera House in the city of 
 Mexico, appearing in Adolphe Adam's delightful ballet 
 " Giselle, ou les Willis." At the close of the season she 
 accompanied friends to Fort Lavaca, in the southern part of 
 Texas, to hunt buffalo, when she had an exciting experience, 
 being captured by a band of Indians. Here is her story 
 of the adventure : 
 
 I rode a splendid horse belonging to Captain Gonzalez, who kindly 
 loaned it to me. Both the horse and m3'self were in excellent spirits, 
 as indeed was the whole party, with one exception, a man named Gus 
 ^'arney. A more inveterate coward I have never seen ! We had 
 scarcely gone fifteen miles when he commenced hinting as to the 
 probabihty of Indians being in the vicinity. Several ladies became 
 alarmed at his suggestion. The men, however, attempted to make 
 sport of Varney's fears, but Ills cowardice was predominant over his 
 sense of shame. A practical joker proposed to raise a cry of " Indians 
 are coming," to frighten A'arney, and then ridicule him. Having 
 communicated the plan to us, we consented to act our parts by scream- 
 ing and pretending to be greatly alarmed. At a given signal, our 
 joker cried : " E.un for your lives, Indians are coming," I was about 
 
to do as directed when a sight I never shall forget presented itself to me. 
 Far over the hill were plainly visible a number of Indians, not mere 
 spectres but solid matter of fact bodies The thouglit of those savages 
 sent a chill through me ! I lost my balance, my consciousness left me, 
 and I remembered no more until I awolje within a wigwam, with a 
 dusky " son of the feather " gazuig intently upon me ! 
 
 " Pretty squaw — you mine now — me big cliief ! " murmured the 
 Indian, in broken English. 
 
 " Were any of my friends captured ? " I asked. 
 
 " One — little mole — big coward — no fight." 
 
 I understood from this that Varney had been caught as well as 
 myself. 
 
 " You see little mole ? " asked my captor. 
 
 At first I was disgu.sted at the idea, but having thought that Varney 
 might possess a knowledge whidi would assist in escape I consented. 
 The Indian gave a peculiar signal, which was immediately answered 
 in person by a young Indian girl. In appearance she did not possess 
 any refined beauty, but there was something about her which drew 
 me towards her ; there was something grand about her, as with stately 
 step she answered the summons. 
 
 " Why am I called ? " she enquired. 
 
 " I,atilerack is more proud than ever ! " said the Indian in Siiauish, 
 " Bring the white man I " She glanced toward me with a look of pitj', 
 and then, as if the act was a condescension on her part, obeyed the 
 command, 
 
 " Is the maiden yotir wife ? " I asked in Spanish. The Indian 
 started as if some immortal power had addressed him, as hitherto I had 
 spoken English. 
 
 " No," he answered ; "as eacli moon passes she grows more proud, 
 and although I am determined that she shall be mine she is determined 
 not to be." 
 
 " If you would niai'ry her, why do you wish that I, too, shall be 
 vour wife ? " 
 
 He replied : " The white beauty in summer, the red beauty in 
 printer ! " 
 
 I saw that it was useless to try to direct his mind from having 
 two wives at once ! As the Indian did not seem inclined to converse 
 further, I commenced to think of the future, when Varney entered. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Theodore," he said, in piteous accents. " Do contrive 
 some means whereby I can escape, and then I'll send out armed men 
 to rescue you ! " 
 
 Varney, finding me in no mood to talk with him, retired. I then 
 expressed a desire to speak with I^aulerack, which my dusky captor 
 consented to comply with. She entered, and at the same time the 
 Indian stationed himself outside the wigwam. 
 
 " Wliat does my pale sister want ? " asked Ivaulerack, in a more 
 pleasant voice than she had used in addressing her Indian admirer. 
 
 " Thy sister is named Bertha Theodore," I said in Spanish, " and 
 although I have seen you but once I already K)ve you ! " 
 
 " My white sister has my pity." 
 
 " And pity in a woman amounts to love," I quickly added. 
 
 " My sister is right," I^aulerack answered, " and my pity has thus 
 soon become a love ! " 
 
 " Thanks, thanks," I muttered. 
 
 " No thanks to me but to the Great Spirit who has willed it. The 
 Great Spirit has given thee the power of speaking in wirming speech." 
 
I perceived the advantage gained, and immediately followed it up. 
 
 " Then will you help me escape ? My friends perhaps think I am 
 dead ! " 
 
 I<aulerack's eyes shone with unusual brilliance as she said : 
 
 " AHiat are the pale sister's sufferings compared vrith mine ! 
 I,isten. My father was the chief of a powerful tribe. One cursed day 
 he was prevailed upon to go to battle with another tribe equally as 
 powerful. My father's tribe was victorious, and many captives were 
 taken. A guard was appointed to watch, but being so worn out, and, 
 moreover, thinking of the glory they had just acliieved, they tell to 
 dreaming. In the meantime, the enemy, although fairlj' beaten, was 
 not entirely subdued, and their chief, a man of wisdom, resolved upion 
 an attack, well knowing the condition of his opponents. His tribe 
 also was much worn out, but stimulated by the hopes of regaining their 
 lost honour, gladly moved on, and was successful. My father did all 
 in his power to repulse the enemy, but we were completely mastered. 
 A horrible massacre followed. My father was scalped on the spot. 
 Such a fate would surely have been mine but for the 5'oung warrior who 
 stands outside the wigw^am, Eagle Eye by name. He saw me, and 
 claimed me as his captive. He wished to wed me, but I have resisted 
 his attempts, and he dare not force me. But if I had a home not one 
 more moon would see me here." 
 
 I was touched by the plaintive manner in which the maiden told 
 her story, and said to her : "If we could escape together 3^ou would 
 alwaj^s be my dear sister, and share my home ! " 
 
 "We can but try," she said. "With the darkness to-night 
 we will start towards your home, and before the moon rises we shall 
 be far on the path." 
 
 Bidding me prepare, she quitted the wigwam, having first placed 
 her finger upon her hps as a warning to act silently. Night came at 
 last, but how long seemed the time ! My heart beat as a footstep 
 sounded nearer the tent. I was sure it must be her, and I sprang up 
 to greet her. A cliill, however, came over me as I belreld not Xaulerack 
 but my captor. Eagle Eye ! 
 
 " The pale face maiden seems anxious to meet me," he said. 
 
 " I thought it was Xauleraek come to talk with me as I am so 
 lonely." 
 
 " Eagle Eye would gladly stay with you," he answered. " Does 
 the pale tace maiden wish for anything ? " 
 
 " Nothing ! " 
 
 With a smile, whicli he intended for a lovmg one, but which in 
 my eyes appeared liideous, the Indian left the wigsvam. 
 
 A long time elapsed before I,aulerack made her appearance. " I 
 have kept my word. Follow me quietlj'," was all she said. 
 
 We had proceeded quite a distance when sounds of pursuit 
 followed us. 
 
 " Keep behind me and run," said I,aulerack 
 
 I did as directed, but found mj'self unequal to keep up with the 
 Indian maiden, who ran more hke a deer than a human beiug. I 
 consequently was far behind, when she stumbled over a stone. As 
 I came up, I was about to assist her to her feet, but .she said, " Do 
 not slop lor me, but run for your life." She was not so badly hurt as 
 I had supposed, and presently came witliin haiUng distance. " On, 
 on," she cried, and I endeavoured to quicken mv pace, but found it 
 imijussible to run at all ! 
 
 By this time we could hear guns, and I, expecting to be shot 
 
expressed my fear to I<aulerack, who laughed as she said, " They Are 
 up in the air, not at us ! " 
 
 Suddenly we came in view of an encampment, and a voice shouted 
 " Indians ! " 
 
 I knew these were white men, and I shouted " A white maiden 
 seeks protection." 
 
 But a volley was fired in our path, and I^aulerack was shot ! In 
 a faint voice she called out to me to drop, which I did. The Kangers 
 (for such they proved to be) hnding all qixiet, advanced cautiously. 
 In a loud scream I said, " There are no enemies, but a white woman 
 and an Indian maiden, whom you have shot." 
 
 " Well, I would have sworn there were Indians in ambush," said 
 a rough voice, and presently he was joined by others, who came 
 towards us, and lifting I<aulerack carefully ' from the ground carried 
 her to the encampment. 
 
 " "We'll pursue these darned redskins," said the man. 
 
 " Their village is but a short distance from here, and they hold 
 a white man prisoner," I added, forgetting that Varney did not 
 deserve the blood that might be spilled by these brave fellows. 
 
 " My white sister," said I^aulerack, " I am dying." 
 
 " You will get well," I muttered, " and then we will never leave 
 one another. Had I not asked you to assist me to escape all would 
 have been well." 
 
 " No, fair maiden, it was no fault of yours. I will soon be with 
 my father and mother in the Happy Hunting Ground far, far away. 
 May the Great vSpirit watch over you." 
 
 The three men, who had been left to protect us from danger, now 
 came near, and bending down raised their hats, for within the circle 
 lay the inanimate I<aulerack ! 
 
 On the return of the other men I listened to the plan of the 
 attack, their capture of some Indians, and the rescue of Varney, 
 whom I saw conversing with the Rangers. 
 
 Among the captives was Eagle Eye, who was deeply affected at 
 the death of I^aulerack. In Spanish he said to me : ' ' White man 
 gave alarm when you escaped, in hope of gaining his liberty ! " I did 
 not translate this to the Rangers ! As I knew their tempers were of 
 a violent nature, I felt sure tliat Varney would swing if they learned 
 the truth. 
 
 After a march of many miles, we arrived at Austin, where for 
 three months I was kindly taken care of by General Harney,* who 
 was stationed there. 
 
 From Austin, " Bertha Theodore '' returned by coach 
 
 to New Orleans, and sought mental consolation — and 
 
 dollars — in literature, writing essays and poems for the 
 
 local newspaper. Her first serious effort in rhyme, " Laule- 
 
 rack " (later entitled "A Memory"), was in remembrance 
 
 of her dead friend. In considering the artistic value of this 
 
 ♦William Selby Harney was a distinguished General, who died in i88g. 
 The highest point (7,215 feet) of the Blaclc Hills in South Dakota is named 
 Harney's Peak, after him. One of his daughters became the mother of the 
 actress, Minnie Palmer. 
 
poem it must not be forgotten that the writer was only 
 twenty years of age. 
 
 LAUL BRACK. 
 
 I see her j^et, that dark-eyed one, 
 
 Whose bounding heart God folded up 
 In His — as shuts, when day is gone, 
 
 Upon the elf the blossom's cup. 
 On many hours like this we met, 
 
 And, as my lips did fondly greet her, 
 I blessed her as love's amulet ; 
 
 Earth hath no treasure dearer, sweeter. 
 
 The stars that look upon the hill, 
 
 And beckon from their homes at night. 
 Are soft and beautiful, yet still 
 
 Xot equal to her e\'cs of light. 
 They have the liquid glow of earth. 
 
 The sweetness of a summer even. 
 As if some angel at their birth 
 
 Had dipped' them in the hues of Heaven ! 
 
 They may not seem to others sweet 
 
 Or radiant with the beams above. 
 When first their soft sad glances meet 
 
 The eyes of those not bom for love ; 
 Yet when on me their tender beams 
 
 Are turned, beneath love's wild control, 
 Each soft sad orb of beauty seems 
 
 To look through muie into my soul. 
 
 I see her now, that dark-eyed one. 
 
 Whose bounding heart God folded up 
 In His — as shuts, when da 3' is done. 
 
 Upon the elf the blossom's cup. 
 Too'late we met. The burning brain 
 
 And acliing heart alone can tell ! 
 How filled our souls of death and pain 
 
 When came the last sad word. Farewell ! 
 
 Here are two more of her poems published at this 
 period* : 
 
 DREAMS OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Visions of Beauty, of Ivight and of I,ove, 
 
 Born in the soul of a dream, 
 lyOst like the phantom-bird under the dove 
 
 When she flies over a stream. 
 
 *The publication of these poems in America before Menken came to 
 England disposes of the fiction that her poetry was written for her by London 
 friends. 
 
Come you through portals where Angel wings droop, 
 
 Moved by the heaven of sleep ? 
 Or are you mockeries, crazing a soul. 
 
 Doomed with its waking to weep ? 
 
 I could believe you were shadows of earth — 
 
 Echoes of hopes that are vain. 
 But for the music you bring to my heart, 
 
 Waking its sunshine again. 
 
 And you are fleeting ! All vainly I strive 
 
 Beauties hke yours to portray ; 
 Forth from my pencil the bright picture starts. 
 
 And — you have faded away ! 
 
 I,ike to a bird that soars up from the spray, 
 
 When we would fetter its wing : 
 I^ike to the song that spurns memory's grasp, 
 
 When the voice yearneth to sing. 
 
 I(ike the clovid-glory that sunset lights up 
 When the storm bursts from its height ; 
 
 lyike the sheet-silver that rolls on the sea. 
 When it is touched by the night. 
 
 Bright, evanescent, you come and arc gone, 
 
 Visions of mystical birth ; 
 Art that could paint you was never vouchsafed 
 
 Unto the children of earth. 
 
 Yet in my soul there's a longing to tell 
 
 All you have seemed unto me ; 
 That unto others a glimpse of the skies 
 
 You in their sorrows might be. 
 
 Vain is the wish — better hope to describe 
 
 All that the spirit desires. 
 When through a cloud of vague fancies and scliemes 
 
 Fla,sh the Promethean fires. 
 
 I^et me then think of you. Visions of I^ight, 
 
 Not as the tissue of dreams. 
 But as realities destined to be 
 
 Bright in futurity's beams. 
 
 Ideals formed by a standard of earth 
 
 Sink at reality's shrine 
 Into the human and weak like ourselves, 
 
 I/Osing the essence divine. 
 
 But the fair pictures that fall from above 
 
 On the heart's mirror sublime. 
 Carry a signature written in tints. 
 
 Bright with the future of time. 
 
 And the heart, catching them, yieldeth a spark 
 
 Under each stroke of the rod ; 
 Sparks that fly upward and Ught the New I,ife, 
 
 Burning an incen.se to God ! 
 
WOUNDED. 
 
 I,et me lie down ! 
 Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree — 
 Here low in this trampled grass where I may see 
 The surge of the combat, and where I may hear 
 The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer — 
 
 I^et me he down ! 
 
 Oh, it was grand ! 
 I,ike a tempest we charged, in the triumph to share ; 
 The tempest — its fury and thunder were there ; 
 On, on, o'er entrenchment, o'er Hving and dead. 
 With the foe under foot, and the flag overhead — 
 
 Oh, it was grand ! 
 
 Oh, that last charge ! 
 Right through the dread host tore the shrapnel and shell. 
 Through without faltering — clear through with a 3'ell ; 
 Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom, 
 lyike heroes we dashed at the mandate of doom. 
 
 Oh, that last charge ! 
 
 Weary and faint ! 
 Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest 
 With this shot-shattered head and sabre-pierced breast ? 
 Comrades ! At roll-call, when I shall be sought. 
 Say, I fought where I fell, and fell where I fought, 
 
 Wounded and faint. 
 
 That the young poet had a sense of humour is indicated 
 in this " squib " : 
 
 Milton wrote a letter to his ladj' love. 
 
 Filled with warm and keen desire ; 
 He sought to raise a liame, and so he did — 
 
 The lady cast Iris nonsense in the fire ! 
 
 On April 3rd, 1856, Dolores Adios McCord married in 
 Galveston, Alexander Isaac Menken, a devout Jew, a musician 
 by profession, who had given her singing lessons. This was 
 a love match, and Adah (a corruption of Adios) Isaacs 
 Menken, as she then, and for the rest of her life, called herself, 
 adopted the religion of her husband. For a time she was 
 happy, but the humdrum existence of a childless wife 
 gradually jarred on her. She yearned for excitement, for 
 something more interesting than the duties of a housekeeper ! 
 Menken was not a wealthy man, but being the best teacher 
 in the district his time was fully occupied. And his beautiful 
 
^jXXXKXKKXXXKKXXXXXXXXXKXXXKXXXXXKXXXXXX 
 
 KiXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXKXXXKXXXXXXXXK 
 
 AN EARLY PORTRAIT OF MENKEN. 
 
young wife consequently did not see much of him. She felt 
 lonesome. She overlooked the fact that her husband was 
 working so arduously with the sole aim of ensuring her 
 comfort. Foolishly, in a fit of temper, after he had reproved 
 her for smoking cigarettes, she left home, and despite his 
 appeals she never again met him. 
 
 It was in Milman's tragedy of " Fazio " that she made 
 her debut as an actress, on May 3rd, 1858, at the Varieties 
 Theatre, New Orleans. A newspaper quotation proves that 
 she " made good " in the part of Bianca : 
 
 She created a furore. A complimentary benefit wa? tendered 
 her, signed by the Mayor of tlie City, the Governor of the State, and 
 other distinguished men. On this night she was crowned with 
 flowers by the first ladies of the city, and presented with a set of 
 diamonds by the stockliolders of the theatre, and a golden goblet 
 by other admirers. 
 
 She later sustained various male characters, among them 
 Robert Macaire, Rob Roy, and Jack Sheppard. 
 
 An enterprising touring manager, William Crisp, recog- 
 nising her power of attraction — from the box-office point of 
 view — then engaged her, and among the actors she supported 
 was the famous tragedian, James Murdoch. In The Stage, a 
 volume containing his reminiscences, there is an amusing 
 reference to the ambitious lady : 
 
 I was fulfilling a short engagement in Nashville, Tenn., and the 
 manager had made an arrangement with IMiss Adah Isaacs Menken 
 to act the leading female characters in my plays. I found her, 
 however, to be a mere novice, and not at all qualified for the important 
 situation to whicli she had aspired. But she was anxious to improve 
 and willing to be taught. 
 
 A woman of personal attractions, she made herself a great 
 favourite in Nashville. She dashed at everything in tragedy and 
 comedy with a reckless disregard of consequences, until at length, 
 with some degree of trepidation, she paused before the character 
 of I,ady Macbeth ! I found in the first rehearsal that she had no 
 knowledge of the part save what she had gained from seeing it 
 performed by popular actresses of the day. 
 
 Miss Menken was a woman of literary taste, and had gained 
 some reputation as a writer for newspapers and magazines. She 
 had withal a good imderstanding and a quick perception of what 
 may be termed the more palpable signification of what was written, 
 but could not rise to a perfect appreciation of its liighest sense. 
 
 So she came to me, and frankly said : 
 
" I know nothing of this part, and have a profound dread of 
 it, but I must act it, for I have told the manager that I was up to 
 the performance of all the leading characters ! " 
 
 ' Why," I repUed, " you don't even know the words, and have 
 no tune to study them." 
 
 " Oh, that's of no consequence," she said. " I can commit 
 the lines in a few hours if you will run over them and mark the 
 emphasis for me ! " 
 
 " But," T said, " that will not do unless you have a preconceived 
 idea of the character and an appreciation of the purposes in relation 
 to Macbeth. You can give no proper expression to the emphatic 
 words when they are pointed out to you, for you have no time to 
 acquire the power to bring them into proper subjection to 5'our will 
 cis expressive agents. All I can do tmder the circumstances is to read 
 the part to you, and leave you to your own resources for the rest." 
 
 Accordingly, I gave the lady a few general ideas of the action 
 of the part, and finished by begging her at least to learn the words, 
 and for the acting trust to chance ! 
 
 Night came, and with it came Miss Menken arrayed to personate 
 the would-be queen. She grasped the letter, and read it in the 
 approved stj'le, holding it at arms' length and gaspingly devouring 
 the words with all the intensity of ferocious desire ; then, throwing 
 her arms wildly over her head, she poured out such an apostrophe 
 to guilt, demons, and her own dark purposes that it would have 
 puzzled any one acquainted with the text to guess from what 
 unhmited " variorum " she could have studied the part. However, 
 as Casca said of Cicero, " He speaks Greek ! " And Miss Menken 
 spoke what the people thought was "Shakespeare," and for aught 
 they knew to the contrary it might have been Greek too ! 
 
 Flushed with her reception, and the lavish applause which 
 followed the reading of the letter, she entered on the next scene, 
 where I,ady Macbeth chastises the flagging will of her consort " with 
 the valor of her tongue," and at her sneering reference to " the poor 
 cat i' the adage " she swept by her liege lord as if he were a fit object 
 for derision and contempt, and then came another round of applause. 
 After Macbeth's announcement that he was capable of doing " all 
 that dare become a man," the lady returned to the charge with most 
 determined scorn and denunciation, and in tones which might have 
 become a Xantippe exclaimed : 
 
 What beast was it then. 
 That made you break this enterprise to me ? 
 When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
 And, to be more than what you were, you would 
 Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : 
 Thes"^ have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
 Does unmake you. 
 Here, " taking the stage," she rushed back to Macbeth, and laying 
 her head on his shoulder whispered in his ear, "I don't know the 
 rest ! " 
 
 From that point Macbeth ceased to be the guilty thane, and became 
 a mere prompter in a Scotch kilt and tartans. For the rest of the 
 scene I gave the lady the words ! Clinging to my side, in a manner 
 very different from her former scornful bearmg, she took them line by 
 line before she littered them, still, however, receiving vociferous 
 
 IS 
 
applause, and particularly when she spoke o£ dashing out the brain^ 
 o/ her child ; until at length poor Macbeth, who was but playing a 
 " second fiddle " to liis imperious consort, was glad to make his exit 
 from a scene where " the honors " were certainly not " even." 
 
 Having recovered from her stage fright, Jiiss Jlenken, by what 
 is termed " winging it " — that is, by throwing down the book between 
 the wings of the scene when going on the stage, and taking it up again 
 for another reading when going off — contrived to get through the part ! 
 
 After five weeks in the Soiitfiern States, Menken can- 
 celled her engagement with Manager Crisp, on the ground 
 that she was nervous of the then prevalent yellow fever ! 
 
 She next became a model in a sculptor's studio at 
 Columbus, Ohio, and spent her leisure hours in writing 
 poems and articles for newspapers. One noteworthy con- 
 tribution, which was published in the Israelite, of Cincinnati 
 — the leading Jewish journal in America — was in admiration 
 of Baron Rothschild's success, after a long and plucky 
 struggle, in being permitted to take his seat in the House 
 of Commons, and this resulted in an autograph letter of 
 thanks from the famous financier, in which he called her 
 " the inspired Deborah of her adopted race." 
 
 Menken was back in Nashville when she was divorced, 
 on September 3rd, 1858, by her husband on account of 
 " incompatibility of temper and desertion.'' She then 
 went to the State of New York, and met John Carmel 
 Heenan, the prize fighter, popularly known as " The 
 Benicia Boy." He fascinated her, and she was married 
 to him by the Rev. J. S. Baldwin at the Rock Cottage 
 Inn, on the Bloomingdale Road, on April 3rd, 1859. 
 Strong and courageous herself, and the possessor of super- 
 abundant vitality, she loved strong and courageous men, 
 though it is strange that a woman with artistic tastes should 
 have been enamoured of a star of the ring ! " No one 
 ever saw me show the white feather ! " she said on one 
 occasion. Heenan does not appear to have had sufficient 
 money at that time to keep a wife, and consequently — for 
 the second time — to escape domestic drudgery she accepted 
 
a theatrical engagement. This was to impersonate the 
 high-spirited Juliana in John Tobin's posthumous comedy 
 " The Honeymoon," in a revival at Purday's National 
 Theatre, New York. On March 19th, 1860, she was seen 
 as Lady Teazle, an embodiment which was a dismal fiasco. 
 The following year she jumped the rails of failure into the 
 pastures of success. She appeared as Mazeppa I 
 
 " The Wild Horse, or Mazeppa " — to quote the original 
 title of the three-act drama by H. M. Milner based on 
 Byron's romance — was produced by Andrew Ducrow on 
 April 4th, 1831, an Easter Monday, at Astley's, with a 
 famous circus-actor, John Cartlitch, in the title-role. 
 Byron's poetic !,tory of Ivan Mazeppa (1644-1709) was 
 considerably varied in the Milnerian drama,* as is shown 
 by the plot of the stage-play : 
 
 In a conflict between Tartars and Poles, Mazeppa, the only child 
 of Abder Klian, King of Tartary, has been captured. Tlie boy is made 
 a page in the service of the Castellan of l,aurinski, and as years go on 
 he becomes a favourite with aU. Casslmir, as he is called, falls in love 
 with the Castellan's daughter, Olinska, and though she is fond of him 
 she, having to obey her father, becomes the affianced bride of a more 
 substantial suitor in the person of Premislas, the Count Palatine. 
 On the eve of the marriage, Cassimir enters the Count's apartment, 
 challenges him to a duel, and seriously wounds him. The young hero 
 is arrested, and the irate Castellan orders him "the punishment 
 inflicted on rebel slaves." Servants prepare " strong hempen lashings " 
 to bind him on the "fiery untamed steed." Olinska appeals for 
 mercy, but in vain, and Cassimir is fastened on the back of the horse, 
 which is then let loose and makes for the distant hills. 
 
 "After an accumulation of horrors," the horse and its human 
 freight reach Tartary, and in the vicinity of a shepherds' camp the 
 animal falls exhausted. Here, the aged Abder Khan recognises in 
 the delirious Cassimir his long-lost son ! Mazeppa soon gets well, and 
 
 ♦This drama, which was last performed at Astley's in 1872, with Marie 
 Henderson as the hero, was burlesqued by H. J. Byron in 1858 at the Olympic, 
 when Robson was the dashing rider, and also by Burnand, in "Mazeppa, or 
 ' bound ' to win," staged at the Gaiety in 1885, with Nellie Farren in the title- 
 rdle. The story of Mazeppa has formed the libretto of several operas, notably 
 the compositions of Joseph Maurer (produced at Bamberg in 1837), Fabrice 
 Campana {Bologna, 1850), S. B. Wietinghoff (Petrograd, 1859), Carlo Pedrotti 
 (Bologna, l86r), Felipe Pedrell (Madrid, 1881), Tschaikowsky (Moscow, 1884), 
 the Vicomtesse de Grandval (Bordeaux, 1892), and Adam Miinchheimer 
 (Warsaw, 1900). These operas, however, have been based on a different 
 version of the patriot's adventure, with a tenor as hero. No prima donna has 
 been seen riding a bare-backed liorse on a stage : 
 
rejoices that he can again " assume the godlike attitude of freedom 
 and of man ! " Abder Khan abdicates in his favour, and Mazeppa 
 is liaUed as King of Tartary. But complete happiness cannot be 
 realised without the companionship of Olinska. Accordingly, he 
 returns to Poland, mounted on the now tamed steed, and accompanied 
 by an armj' ! The troops arrive at the Castellan's residence, disguised 
 as peasants anxious to entertain him with national dances and feats 
 of arms ! Mazeppa meets Olinska, and learns that she is still faithful 
 to him, though the marriage is about to take place in the gardens of the 
 Castle, the Count having recovered from his injuries. Just as the 
 priest is starting the service, li'azeppa stops the proceedings, declaring 
 that Olinska " in heart and spirit, and by long previous vows, breathed 
 from the verj' bottom of her soul, is mine, and any other union, by 
 tyranny accomplished, is perjury and pollution." Mazeppa seizes his 
 sweetheart, which is the signal for his troops to attack and kill the Poles. 
 
 " Mazeppa " was an immense success at Astley's, 
 attracting large audiences for four montlis, and naturally 
 it was tal<en to America, where the first performance was 
 given in New York, on April 18th, 1833, at the Richmond 
 Hill Theatre. 
 
 JVlenken had seen one of the revivals, with Robert 
 Miles (destined to become a prominent manager) as the 
 gallant hero, and realising that the part wanted but little 
 histrionic skill, though it required a shapely figure for the 
 scenes in which Mazeppa is seen bound " with many a 
 thong " on the " fiery untamed steed," she thought she 
 would attempt the character. Very daringly, she made 
 her first appearance on June 7th, 1861, at the Green Street 
 Theatre, Albany, and the horse to which she was strapped 
 was Belle Beauty, one which had been ridden by Miles, 
 and therefore familiar with the work. Menken's success 
 was instantaneous, for physically she made an ideal hero. 
 Naturally, the mere fact of seeing a pretty woman, with 
 her hair clipped short, sustain a part hitherto played by 
 men aroused public curiosity. Soon came invitations to 
 star at theatres in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, and St. Louis, 
 and eventually she appeared in New York City, where it 
 was acknowledged that her impersonation was no paltry 
 frivolity. 
 
l^g^5^^^^2) 
 
 MENKEN AS MAZEPPA. 
 
 19 
 
Equally soon appeared other female Mazeppas ! 
 Menken's imitators included Addie Anderson, Charlotte 
 Crampton (who previously had won notoriety as Hamlet!), 
 Kate Fisher, Maud Forrester, Lea Hudson (who was killed 
 during a performance at St. Louis, by her horse slipping), 
 Oceana Judah, Kate Raymond, Amy Sheridan, Kate Vance, 
 Lisa Weber, Jenny Burgoyne (who fell from her mount 
 at the London Olympic), and Lizzie Wood. At Williams- 
 burg, New York, when the Mazeppa was Florence Temple, 
 the docile black horse was recognised in the auditorium ; 
 on the opening night a voice from the gallery enquired 
 " Where's the hearse? " — the " fiery untamed steed " being 
 the property of the local undertaker ! 
 
 But Menken's success as Mazeppa did not interfere 
 with another matrimonial escapade. On account of his 
 ill treatment, she secured divorce from Heenan in an 
 Indiana court on February 14th, 1862, but before obtaining 
 the decree she had married in New York, on October 5th, 
 1861, the humorist, Robert Henry Newell, better known 
 perhaps by his pseudonym, Orpheus C. Kerr. 
 
 She re-appeared at the Bowery Theatre, New York, in 
 June, 1862, and during that month had tiiree benefits. At 
 the first, on June 9th, she proved her veisatility by imper- 
 sonating nine characters in " The Female Robinson Crusoes." 
 On June 13th she acted in Pitt's melodrauia " The Whistler, 
 or the Fate of the Lily of St. Leonards," and appeared as 
 Corinthian Tom in " Tom and Jerry," and as Polly Crisp 
 in Coyne's farce " An Unprotected Female ; in the course 
 of the latter piece she entertained the audience with some 
 French and Italian songs. At her third benefit, seven nights 
 later, she made a picturesque Richmond in the fifth act of 
 '• Richard III," Harry Seymour being the King. 
 
 On August 24th, 1863, Menken was at the Opera House, 
 San Francisco, and she remained there until January 24th, 
 
1864. A little later, on April 22nd, she sailed from California 
 to England, a three months' voyage in those days. 
 
 Soon after her arrival in London, she placed herself 
 under the management of Edward Tyrrel Smith, an enter- 
 prising impresario, who, preliminary to her appearance at 
 Astley's, commenced to boom her in the press, and the 
 hoardings were placarded with lithographed portraits, 
 depicting her " in something less than a semi-nude con- 
 dition." One weekly paper, the Orchestra, protested 
 against the idea of a female impersonating the hero,* and 
 this brought forth a letter from Menken, written from the 
 Westminster Palace Hotel, and published on August 27th, 
 1864: 
 
 Sir, — In your leader la.st week on the " Morals of American Art," 
 you associate my name with wliat an American journal terms " the 
 naked drama," and express the hope that lir. H. T. Smith will not 
 degrade Aslley's by an exliibition of indecency. As I am about to 
 appear at that establishment, such an observation is calculated to 
 do me a serious injury, and I am sure you will allow me a few words of 
 explanation, as you confess you know nothing of the " merits of the 
 actress or her piece." 
 
 To begin with, the play is I^ord Byron's " Mazeppa," and I imper- 
 sonate the hero, but my costume, or rather want of costume as might 
 be inferred, is not in the least indelicate, and in no way more open to 
 invidious comment than the dress worn by Cerito, Rosati, or even the 
 grotesque garb employed by ladies in burlesque on the I^ondon stage. 
 
 I have long been a student of sculpture, and my attitudes, selected 
 from the works of Canova, present a classicality which has invariably 
 been recognised by the foremost of American critics. 
 
 I may add that my performance of Mazeppa had a most prosperous 
 career in America, and as is usual in such cases my success created a 
 host of 'imitators, and some of these ladies, I hear, have adopted a style 
 of drapery inconsistent with delicacy or good taste. 
 
 "Mazeppa," Uke any other speciality, is easily vulgarised. I,et 
 " I,es Sylphides " be scantily dressed, and ungracefully acted by an 
 indifferent artist, and what will be more offensive ? The critics find 
 no fault with Mrs. Charles Keau's embodiment of Ion, and the young 
 ladies who exhibit their well-formed limbs in the Haymarket and 
 Strand burlesques (notably in such parts as Cupid or Ixion) are not 
 accused of indelicacy. 
 
 ♦Hitherto, only male Mazeppas had been seen in this country. The best 
 included Cartiitch (the creator of the part), the unfortunate Yates, John 
 Henderson, James Holloway, Thomas Moffatt, Henry Powell, and Walter 
 Roberts, while among the last were Charles Mortimer, who sustained the role 
 in the same theatre in 1862, under William Batty's management, and " Lord " 
 George Sanger, who revived the drama when touring with his circus. 
 
At any rate, do me the favour, as a stranger, to suf-pend 3^0111 
 opinion of my representation, and after ycu witness it I am quite 
 willing to abide by your criticism. 
 
 I am. Sir, yours very truly, Adah Isaacs Menken. 
 
 As a result of the preliminary puffing, there was an 
 excited assembly for Menken's debut on October 3rd, 1864, 
 and the resultant controversy as to the wisdom of per- 
 mitting a woman to represent the character had the usual 
 — and useful — effect of crowded audiences ! Indeed, the 
 " town " was attracted to the amphitheatre in the West- 
 minster Bridge Road by Menken, who, for advertisement 
 purposes, was driven about London in a landau with 
 tinkling bells attached to the collars of the two horses ! 
 
 E. T. Smith published a twenty-four page pamphlet 
 containing some of the favourable criticisms that had 
 been printed in the newspapers. As a preface, there was 
 a laudatory — though inaccurate ! — biography of the young 
 lady, in the course of which it was naively announced 
 that 
 
 the acting of I,a Menken is free from platitudes ; she never plays the 
 same piece twice aUke, acting from nature and Impulse alone. She 
 plays tragedy and comedj^ sings well, and is a first class danseuse. In 
 person, she is rather tall, graceful and remarkably well formed. She 
 is a brunette, with dreamy poetic eyes, black curling hair, and a pale 
 classic face. In manners, she is as simple and unaffected as a diild, 
 generous and kind to everyone, from the highest to the lowest in 
 society, a characteristic that has endeared her to all classes. 
 
 Here is an extract from the Times report : 
 
 The great feature in the revival of " Mazeppa " is the performance 
 of the principal cliaracter by Miss Adah Isaacs ]\ienken, a lady who 
 has created a furore in the United States, and who, in giving reality 
 to the part, goes through perils which were never contemplated by 
 her male predecessors. When first the horse is started, with the 
 rider strapped to his back, he appears on a succession of platforms 
 till he nearly reaches the top of the stage. In the old daj-s it was 
 the practice to allow the real Mazeppa to retire when he had passed 
 across the lowest platform, so that the rest of the journey was per- 
 formed by another horse mounted by a dummy. Miss Menken, 
 on the other hand, plays her game without a dummy, and fairly 
 ascends the greatest possible height. The combats and other athletic 
 feats belongmg to the part she performs with wondei-ful vigour and 
 spirit, a magnificent figure greatly increasing the effect of her 
 achievements. . Her dress is certainly not one that Queen 
 
'11: 
 
 MENKEN AS MAZEPPA. 
 
 23 
 
Elizabeth would have recommended to her maids of honour, but 
 certainly, also, it is not a whit more objectionable than those of the 
 female Highland boys and mythological beauties who are now 
 accepted as matters of course. 
 
 The Daily Telegraph suggested that 
 
 Coming from a country where " woman's rights " have been so 
 strenuously claimed, and where the feminine voice has so resolutely 
 made itself heard in every variety of vocation, there is nothing 
 absolutely astounding in the announcement that an American actress 
 would appear on the EngUsh stage as Mazeppa. ... No eyes 
 familiar with the brief costume permitted in ballet and burlesque 
 need be shocked by the appearance which Miss Menken presents when 
 divested of her sumptuous apparel for the memorable punishment 
 inflicted by the inexorable Castellan. . . . Miss Menken may 
 be described as having an excellent figure associated with a pretty 
 face, which are both set off by the possessor to the best possible 
 advantage. Her style of acting is that which will be best defined 
 as the result of studying in an attitudinising scliool, every sentence 
 being terminated with a pose, as if with the view of satisfying an 
 audience of photographers.* 
 
 Another description of her appeared in the Morning 
 Advertiser. Pictures, of some of the poses referred to will 
 be found on the three following pages. 
 
 Miss Menken's gradual awakening from the recollections of her 
 fearful ride to the comprehension of her rescue and safety were very 
 vividly and gracefully poitraj^ed, and the series of posts taken from 
 the most celebrated sculptors of antiquity, ui whicli, armed with 
 sword and shield, she was supposed to give vent to her rejoicings 
 at recovered liberty and aspirations after fame, were highly artistic 
 and eifective. . . . ,Shm in figure, of middle stature, and sinewy, 
 though beautifully formed in !tmb, the scanty drapery in which she 
 carries on the main action of the drama is admirably calculated to 
 exliibit these physical capabilities for the part, while at the same 
 time avoiding any offensive display, and the female portion of the 
 audience were as enthusiastic in their applause as the masculine. 
 
 This is a quotation from the Era : 
 
 On came ^liss Menken, the Mazeppa of the night, and as the 
 disguised Cassimir, appearing in a splendid dress, which becomingly 
 set forth her figure. The warmth of the reception was most 
 encouraging, and her statuesque attitudes, and the piquant foreign 
 accent in which her speeches were delivered, immediately secured 
 the favour of the audience. At the end of the first act when her 
 symmetrical figure was displayed in all its unreserved beauty as the 
 victim of the Castellan's vengeance, there was a vigorous renewal 
 of acclamations, and all apprehensions of the lessee sanctioning any 
 outrage on decorum were instantly removed. Miss Menken retains, 
 of course, the tight fleshings which have been properly worn by 
 previous Mazeppas in this situation, and for the usual dark-brown 
 
 *Thc last sentence was not included in Smith's quotations. 
 
,^J5!*^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 §1 
 
 jUil 
 
 ^ ":. 
 
 ■ ^^^ff ' ' 
 
 i ' 
 
 ^^^^^H 
 
 i^ 
 
 
 i 
 
 1» 
 
 i 
 
half-body she has substituted loose folds of wliite linen, which 
 descend only slightly towards the knee, but leave the upper limb 
 no more indelicately exposed than those of baUet and burlesque 
 ladies, who have seldom been accused of impropriety. The strapping 
 of Mazeppa to the wild horse and the career of the adventurous 
 representative of the Tartar Prince on the back of the untamed 
 steed, rushing over the raking platforms, displayed the boldness of 
 the lady even more than the combats which she had previously 
 fought, and so stirred the enthusiasm of the audience that a double 
 recall followed the descent of the curtain, when she was twice led 
 forward by the gallant Mr. Smith. At the end of the second act, 
 in which the steed had been bestrode in a masculine fashion and 
 some effective classical poses had been exhibited. Miss Menken 
 reappeared in obedience to a clamorous recall, on horseback, and 
 waved her acknowledgments of the favour with which she had been 
 so cordially received. 
 
 And one read in the Age : 
 
 By her beauty of person, Adah Isaacs Menken is peculiarly 
 fitted for such impersonations, and when to this physical advantage 
 is added a genius which burns and glows in every movement and 
 gesture, it is scarcely to be wondered at that she has created such 
 a furore and enthusiasm as was never created before. . . . She 
 stands peerless in " Mazeppa," where physical and mental conditions 
 are the elements of success. 
 
 Smith did not include in the pamphlet the com- 
 ments of the Orchestra f The report in this paper was 
 headed " Beauty Unadorned," and the writer remarl<ed 
 " We should hesitate about taking a sister just now to 
 Astley's.'' 
 
 In advertisements in the newspapers, Smith never 
 
 under-estimated the charm of his star, as will be noted by 
 
 the following flourish : 
 
 Miss Adah Isaacs Menken, whose graceful and classic beauty, 
 transcendent histrionic power, and heroic Amazonian courage form 
 the Delphic tripod from whidi the mspiratiou of her genius throws 
 a new spell even on Byron's Mazeppa, and who delights and enchains 
 the Old World as she has astonished and enthralled the New, appears 
 in her great impersonation of Mazeppa eveiy night. 
 
 " Delphic tripod " is good ! 
 
 Menken was supported by an experienced company, 
 Lucy Ashton making a sympathetic Olinska, Sam Emery 
 was an ideal Abder Khan, while the amusing Edward 
 Atkins made the most of his opportunities as the Castellan's 
 
FRONTISPIECE OF "THE 'MAZEPPA' GALOP.' 
 
 21) 
 
fussy servant, Drolinsko, and there was a corps de ballet 
 headed by " M. Milano and his Tartar spouse." An 
 orchestra, conducted by James TuUy, provided appropriate 
 music during the entertainment, one of the items played 
 being the " Mazeppa " galop, specially composed by J. W. 
 Trayhearne, which was published with a coloured picture 
 of the actress by Alfred Concanen. One night, in order 
 to satisfy the curiosity of a friend as to whether or not 
 she resorted to padding, a member of the company acting 
 a " thoughtful " part, gripped a leg of the equestrienne 
 as he was about to fasten her on the back of the horse ; 
 Menken resented this, and gave the young actor a box 
 on the ears ! But James Fernandez, the hero-victim of this 
 incident, had gained his end, and was able to report that 
 art had not been employed to adorn nature ! 
 
 Menken's first season at Astley's lasted for ten weeks, 
 "Mazeppa" having to be withdrawn on December 17th, 
 owing to the preparations for a pantomime. She then 
 went to Paris for a holiday, and met Alexandre Dumas 
 and Theophile Qautier. Later, she returned to America 
 for a tour, and in April, 1865, was appearing in a circus 
 at San Francisco. Louis Qottschalk, who was concertising 
 there, made a casual reference to her in his " Notes of a 
 Pianist " : " Miss Adah Menken, after having driven all 
 the people crazy, has carried away with her 50,000 dollars. 
 You will easily understand that the chaste muse, sister of 
 Apollo, can only go astray before a public which is 
 enthusiastic at the nudities of Mazeppa ! " During this 
 visit to the States, her husband, Newell, started divorce 
 proceedings, and the decree was granted in Indiana on 
 November 17th. But long before that date she had slipped 
 off to England, for on October 9th she was on the stage 
 at Astley's, appearing in " The Child of the Sun," a turgid 
 melodrama by John Brougham, the American playwright. 
 
MENKEN IN "LES PIRATES DE LA SAVANE." 
 31 
 
This piece was a failure, and on November 20th " Mazeppa " 
 was revived, attracting satisfactory audiences until 
 December 9th. 
 
 About this period Menken became friendly with 
 some of the literary giants of London, among them 
 Swinburne, Dickens, John Thomson, Robert Reece, Watts 
 Phillips, and John Oxenford. With the last-mentioned, 
 the dramatic critic of the Times, she attended the pro- 
 duction of Charles Reade's " It's Never Too Late to Mend," 
 at the Princess's Theatre, on October 4th. This was a 
 memorable evening. So thrilling was the death scene of 
 the boy Josephs (impersonated by Louisa Moore) that 
 Guest Tomlins, the dramatic critic of the Morning Advertiser, 
 rose from his seat in the stalls to protest against the " brutal 
 realism," and was then ejected ! Menken was introduced 
 to Reade, who subsequently outlined her in his diary as 
 " a clever woman with beautiful eyes ; a bad actress, but 
 made a hit by playing Mazeppa in tights ; goodish heart." 
 
 A cheery letter written by her from 42, Dover Street 
 to Robert Reece may be quoted here: 
 
 To-day, Roberto, I should like to see you if you are good 
 tempered, and think you could be bored with rue and my ghosts. 
 They will be harmless to you, these ghosts of mine ; thej^ are .sad, 
 soft-footed things that wear my brain and hve on my heart, that 
 is the fragment I have left to be called heart. 
 
 I hear you are married — I am really glad of that. I 
 believe all good men should be married. Yet I don't believe in 
 women beuig married. Somehow, they all sink into nonentities 
 after this epoch in their existence. That is the fault of female 
 education. They are taught from their cradles to look upon marriage 
 as the one event of their lives. That accomphshed, nothmg remains. 
 Byron might have been right after all : " Man's love is of his life a 
 thing apart — it is a woman's whole existence." If tliis is true we do 
 not wonder to find so many stupid wives ; they are doing tire 
 " whole existence " sort of thing ! Good wives are rarely clever, 
 and clever wonien are rarely good. 
 
 I am digressing into mere twaddle from what I started out to 
 say to you. Come when you can get time, and tell me of our friends, 
 the gentle souls of air ; mine fly from me, only to fill my being with 
 the painful remembrance of their lost love for me — even me ! Once 
 the blest and chosen ! Now, a royal tigress waits in her lonely 
 jungle the coming of the king of forests. Brown gaiters not excluded. 
 — Yours, through all stages of loccil degradations, Infelicia Menken. 
 
At Christmas, Menken journeyed to New York, and 
 on April 30th, 1866, she revived " Mazeppa " at George 
 Wood's. Museum, a popular theatre in Broome Street. But 
 ill-health necessitated the clobing of this season on May 25th, 
 and on her recovery she made a profitable tour through the 
 Western States. 
 
 Though now free from matrimonial obligations, sha 
 could not remain single ! On August 21st she was married 
 to James Paul Barclay, an outside broker on Wall Street, 
 who had bought her a residence in Seventh Avenue, 38 and 
 39 Streets, New York, an abode she named Bleak House, 
 out of compliment to Charles Dickens I But this latest 
 — and last — husband, after spending £30,000 on her, speedily 
 realised that he had made a terrible mistake. They were 
 not well matched. He left her within two months, and was 
 found dead in Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, penniless I 
 
 Menken came back to England, making sundry appear- 
 ances as Mazeppa in Liverpool, and later in London at 
 the Pavilion. Then she went to Paris, and acted at the 
 Gait6, on December 30th, in the drama by Anicet Bourgeois 
 and Ferdinand Dugue, entitled " Les Pirates de la Savane," 
 a scene being introduced — with special music by Th^ophile 
 Semet — in which she impersonated Feorio, a dumb Mazeppa ! 
 This part she played for one hundred nights, the last per- 
 formance being witnessed by Napoleon HI, the King of 
 Greece, the Duke of Edinburgh, and the Prince Imperial. 
 Prince Jerome presented her with a diamond ring. Another 
 admirer sent her a pair of diamond ear-rings, which she 
 bluntly told him she consented to wear " not for the donor's 
 sake, but in hopes that their magnificence may create an 
 impression upon the audience of the Gaite! " During this 
 stay in the French capital she resumed friendly relations 
 with the elderly Dumas, and with him she was phota- 
 graphed! 
 
 33 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS AND MENKEN- 
 
For the third time " Mazeppa " was mounted for her 
 at Astley's ; this was on October 19th, 1867, but apparently 
 the novelty of her impersonation had worn off, for it was 
 announced that " a provincial engagement " would prevent 
 her staying in London after November 26th. However, 
 the " provincial engagement " was short, and early in the 
 following year she once again tried her luck at the trans- 
 pontine theatre. On January 26th, 1868, she appeared 
 there as William in Douglas Jerrcld's " Black-ey'd Susan " ; 
 on February 1st the old drama by J. T. Haines, " The French 
 Spy, or the Siege of Constantina," was revived, but even 
 this failed to arouse much enthusiasm, although she sus- 
 tained three roles, the spy, an arab boy, and the heroine 
 Mathilde. She took a benefit on February 11th, when the 
 programme included " The French Spy," the pantomime 
 " Jack Horner," and the second act of " Mazeppa." On 
 May 11th she appeared in the Milner-Byron drama at 
 Sadler's Wells, and the last occasion she acted on the stage 
 was at that theatre as Mazeppa on May 30th. 
 
 Menken quitted London for Paris, in order to fulfil 
 an engagement at the Chatelet. But she was ill, and, 
 recognising that her popularity was diminishing, she began 
 to realise the loneliness of the world. There were one or 
 two friends in London who would have done everything 
 for her had they known of her physical and mental state. 
 These friends, indeed, were seeing after the publication of 
 her poems, the collected edition of which she never saw! 
 She secured lodgings in the Rue Caumartin, and there she 
 died on August 10th, 1868, only 33 years of age. Two 
 days later she was buried at Pere la Chaise, her remains 
 being followed to the grave by about one hundred acquaint- 
 ances. On April 21st, 1869, her body was removed to 
 the Mont Parnasse Cemetery, through the instrumentality 
 of the Rothschild family. Upon the slab of grey stone 
 
 35 
 
now covering the coffin, rests a funeral urn, on one side of 
 which are the words " Thou l<nowest,'' and on the front, 
 also in English, is the inscription " Adah Isaacs Menken, 
 born in Louisiana, United States of America. Died in 
 Paris, August 10th, 1868." 
 
 H. B. Farnie, who was with her during her last weeks 
 in Paris, wrote to a friend : 
 
 I was engaged by the administration of the Chatelet to write 
 a drama for Mis,s Menken in June last, the date of her arrival in 
 Paris ; and from that time until her death in August I had frequent 
 opportunities of seeing her. She had only attended two rehearsals 
 of the " Pirates de la Savane," in which she was to open at the 
 Chatelet in the beginning of July when she was prostrated by the 
 painful illness which eventually killed her. The medical men in 
 Paris were puzzled at first by the symptoms ; and INl'iss Menken 
 herself believed that it was inflammatory rheiunatism. I<ater on 
 it was discovered to be an abscess under the left side. This abscess 
 was supposed by her medical attendants to have been of at least 
 three or four years' growth, and from the moment of its discovery 
 they gave up all hopes of saving her life. 
 
 I can bear witness to the exquisite suffering she endured for these 
 three months, and of the resignation and patience she invariably' 
 showed. Food she scarcely tasted, and she drank nothing but iced 
 water. Once, and only once, she rose from her bed in the Rue 
 Caumartin, and that was to try the effect of change of air at a prettj^ 
 village up the Seine at Bougival, a few miles from Paris. Accom- 
 panied by her maid, myself, and another friend, she managed to 
 make the little journej^, but the effort was too much for her enfeebled 
 frame, and immediately on arrival she went to bed very ill, and there 
 continued till her return to Paris, two days afterwards. 
 
 Miss Menken died in possession of the Jewish faith, and was 
 attended by ministers of religion. This I will say, without violating 
 the sanctity of death, that however stormy her life may have been 
 the end was peaceful and serene. 
 
 She was a woman of excellent heart, somewhat careless and 
 prodigal, it is true, but ever unselfish. As Dumas, the great author, 
 said to me in Havre, when I told him of her death, " Poor girl, why 
 was she not her own friend ! " 
 
 The versatile Menken found happiness in the society 
 
 of literary people, and had no time for parasitic thrasonical 
 
 dandies. One of her favourites in London was Algernon 
 
 Charles Swinburne. His poem " Dolores " will be recalled. 
 
 In a letter addressed to a friend from the Arts Club, on 
 
 January 26th, 1868, he wrote : 
 
 I am ashamed to have left your last note so long unanswered, 
 but I have been so worried of late with influenza, love-making, 
 
 36 
 
SWINBURNE AND MENKEN. 
 .(7 
 
rather unwholesome things such as business, money, elc, that I have 
 " left undone all that I should have done." I must send you in 
 a day or two a pholograph of my present possessor — known to 
 Britannia as Miss Menken, and to me as Dolores (her real Christian 
 name) — and m3^self taken together. "We both come out very well. 
 
 Later there was, as he described it, " a great row " 
 over this picture, and he took steps to have the sale of it 
 stopped. Seven months afterwards, on August 26th, he 
 wrote to the same friend : 
 
 I am sttre you were sorry on my account to hear of the death 
 of my poor dear Menken. It was a great .shock to me and a real 
 grief. I was ill for some da^-s. She was most lovable. 
 
 " The world's deh'ght," as he called her, treasured an 
 album containing autographs of distinguished men she 
 had met, and his contribution to it was the sonnet 
 " Dolorida " : 
 
 Combien de temps, dis, la belle, 
 Dis, veux-tu m'etre fiddle ? 
 Pour ime nuit, pour un jour, 
 
 Men amour ! 
 I,' Amour nous flatte et nous touche 
 Du doigt, de I'ceil, de la bouche. 
 Pour un jour, pour une nuit, 
 
 lit s'enfuit ! 
 
 This poem was printed in 1867 for private circulation, 
 but by Swinburne's request the copies were destroyed — 
 at least nearly all, for a few escaped destruction ! One can 
 be seen in the British Museum. Sixteen years later, in 
 1883, there v/as published a Christmas annual called 
 " Walnuts and Wine," and one of its features was a repro- 
 duction of this sonnet, translated by George Moore : 
 
 " How long canst thou be 
 Faithful," she said to me. 
 " For one night and a day, 
 
 Mistress, I may. 
 I^ove flatters us with sighs. 
 And kisses on mouth and eyes. 
 For one day and a night 
 
 Before his flight." 
 
Among the newspapers in which this publication was 
 referred to was the Pall Mall Gazette, and the review 
 therein brought a communication from Swinburne, pub- 
 Hshed on December 28th, 1883 : 
 
 From the Pall Mall Gazette I derive the information that ' ' Mr. 
 A. C. Swinburne " contributes " Dolorida " to a " Christmas Annual " 
 entitled " Walnuts and Wine." This announcement I presume to be 
 a seasonable freak of jocose invention, and the contribution announced 
 to be simply an example of Christmas burlesque ; but, in case smj too 
 innocent reader should imagine it to be anything else, I may perhaps 
 as well mention that the annual and the editor, the contributor and 
 the contribution, are all alilce unknown to your obedient servant. 
 
 Swinburne apparently had forgotten — or desired to 
 forget — that he had written the sonnet ! 
 
 Reference has been made to Menken's contributions 
 of poetry to the American press before she came to 
 England. The proofs of these poems had been kept by 
 her, and when in London in 1867 she was persuaded to 
 reprint a selection of thirty-one in book form. (" Wounded," 
 quoted on page 12 was not included.) They were arranged 
 for publication by another of her admirers, that chivalrous 
 gentleman John Thomson, who was Swinburne's private 
 secretary, and who wrote dramatic criticisms for the Weekly 
 Dispatch. " I worshipped the very ground she trod on," he 
 confessed in later years, " for she was the noblest as well as 
 the most gifted woman I have ever known." Thomson sub- 
 mitted the poems to John Camden Hotten, who agreed 
 to publish them. Thomson further consented to see the 
 book through the press, and it is interesting to know that 
 the original American cuttings used by the London printers 
 are now in the possession of that popular dramatist and 
 ardent playgoer Mr. George R. Sims, to whom they were 
 presented by Andrew Chatto, then associated with Hotten. 
 These are priceless souvenirs of a remarkable woman. 
 
 39 
 
Naturally, there was correspondence between poet 
 and publisher. Three of her letters may be quoted. They 
 were written from the Westminster Palace Hotel, where 
 she was residing. 
 
 Dear Mr. Hotten, — I am much pleased with the interview between 
 yourself and Mr. Ellington yesterday. Your ideas are all excellent, 
 and I am confident that we will have a grand success. I will call at 
 your office to-morrow about two o'clock, if you will be so kind as to be 
 at home to me. I am anxious to see the designs that are to be engraved ; 
 also I would be glad if I might look over the later proofs again, as I 
 was very ill when they were corrected for me. 
 
 You know I never really liked the idea of my portrait being 
 printed, but I am willing to submit to your judgment in all pertaining 
 to our mutual interest. The proofs of the portrait you sent me are 
 wonderfully well engraved. 
 
 Believe me, dear Sir, yours truly, ME^^EEN. 
 
 There is no " A " and no " I." 
 
 Dear Mr. Hotten, — I am glad we have found another copy of 
 " Answer me." I hope you will get it a good place in the book. It is 
 a poem that I like, and I beheve you will. If you beUeve in my idea of 
 omitting the " ' Karazah ' to ' Karl ' " you might put " Answer me " 
 there. However, I am sure you will do the best you caji for it. Can 
 you get " Aspiration " in ? Do try. When are we to see the final 
 proofs ? I am so anxious to get the book out. I fear j'ou put others 
 before me. In that case we shall certainly quarrel, and that would be 
 vastly disagreeable to me. Do hurry those printers, and I shall like 
 you better than I do now. 
 
 When you have an idle day let me come and see more of your 
 wonderful books. Yours faithfully, _Menkex. 
 
 (Both " Answer me " and " Aspiration " were inserted 
 in the book, and the "'Karazah' to 'Karl'" was net 
 omitted.) 
 
 Dear Mr. Hotten, — How long to wait for the proofs ? You do not 
 forget ? When am I to see you ? \^Tien will j'ou advertise the book ? 
 Remember I ask these questions merely from curiosity. The affair 
 is all decidedly yours. 
 
 I am satisfied with all 5'ou have done, except the portrait ; I do 
 not find it to be in character with the volrune. It looks affected. 
 Perhaps I am a little vain — all women are — but the picture is certainly 
 not beautiful. I have portraits that I think beautiful. I dare say 
 they are not like me, but I posed for them. Do tell me, mon ami, can 
 we not possibly have another made ? y^^. f^end, Mekken. 
 
 The volume was dedicated to Dickens, and contained 
 a miniature facsimile of his appreciation of the compliment, 
 
 40 
 
THE MENKEN PORTRAIT (enlarged) IN " INFELICIA." 
 
 41 
 
the letter, headed " Gad's Hill Place, Higham-by-Rochester, 
 Kent," being dated " Monday, 21st October, 1867." 
 
 Dear Miss Menken, — I shall have great pleasure in accepting 
 your Dedication, and I thank you for your portrait as a highly remark- 
 able specimen of photography. 
 
 I also thank you for the verses enclosed in your note. Many such 
 enclosures come to me, but few so pathetically written, and fewer 
 still so modestly sent. Faithfully yours, Charles Dickens. 
 
 On a page preceding the dedication are four (unacknow- 
 ledged) lines by Swinburne : 
 
 I^eaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, 
 Dead fruits of the fugitive years ; 
 
 Some stained as with wine, and made bloody. 
 And some as with tears ! 
 
 With the title " Infelicia," the little book, bound in 
 green cloth, was published in the autumn of 1868, soon 
 after Menken's death. The first edition (a copy of which 
 is one of my treasures) bears no publisher's or printer's 
 imprint ! Exactly twenty years later another edition 
 was published, but this time in Philadelphia. 
 
 In an anthology of American poems, W. M. Rossetti 
 included her " Infelix," " One Year .^go," " Aspiration," 
 and " Answer me," and from his critical remarks may be 
 quoted the following passage : 
 
 I^iving a turbid and irregular life, ^'ith uncommon versatihty of 
 talent (though she showed no great gift for her professional caUing as 
 an actress) Adah Menken had a vein of intense melancholy in her 
 character ; it predominates throughout her verses with a wearisome 
 iteration of emphasis, and was by no means vamped up for mere 
 purposes of effect. The poems contained in her single published 
 volume are mostly unformed rhapsodies — mndy and nebulous ; 
 perhaps only half intelligible to herself, and certainly more than half 
 unintelligible to the reader. Yet there are touches of genius which 
 place them in a very different category from many so-called poems of 
 more regular construction and more definable dcservings. They really 
 express a hfe of much passion, and not a little aspiration, a life deeply 
 
 4» 
 
sensible of loss, self-baffled, and mixing the wail of humiliation with 
 that of indignation — like the remnants of a defeated army, hotly 
 pursued. It is this life that cries out in the disordered verses, and 
 these have a responsive cry of their own. 
 
 Here are the four poems selected by Rossetti : 
 INFELIX. 
 
 ■Wliere is the promise of my years 
 
 Once written on my brow ? 
 Kre errors, agonies and fears 
 Brought with them all that speaks in tears. 
 Ere I had sunk beneath my peers ; 
 
 M'here sleeps that promise now ? 
 
 Nought lingers to redeem those hours. 
 
 Still, still to memory sweet ! 
 The flowers that bloomed in sunny bowers 
 Are withered all ; and Evil towers 
 Supreme above her sister powers 
 
 Of Sorrow and Deceit. 
 
 I look along the columned years 
 
 And see Life's riven fane. 
 Just where it fell, amid the jeers 
 Of scornful lips, whose mocking sneers 
 For ever hiss within mine ears 
 To break the sleep of pain. 
 
 I can but own my life is vain, 
 
 A desert void of peace. 
 I missed the goal I sought to gain ; 
 I missed the measure of the strain 
 That lulls Fame's fever in the brain. 
 
 And bids Earth's tumult cease. 
 
 Myself ! alas for theme so poor — 
 
 A theme but rich in Fear ; 
 I stand a wreck on Error's shore, 
 A spectre not within the door, 
 A houseless shadow evermore. 
 An exile lingering here. 
 
 *3 
 
ONE YEAR AGO. 
 
 In feeling I was but a child, 
 When lirst we met — one year ago. 
 
 As free and guUeless as the bird 
 
 That roams the dreamy woodland througli. 
 
 My heart was all a pleasant world 
 Of sunbeams dewed with April tears : 
 
 lyife's brightest page was turned to me. 
 And naught I read of doubts or fears. 
 
 We met — we loved — one year ago, 
 Beneath the stars of summer skies : 
 
 Alas ! I knew not then, as now. 
 The darkness of life's mysteries. 
 
 You took my hand — one year ago. 
 Beneath the azure dome above. 
 
 And, gazing on the stars, you told 
 The trembling story of your love. 
 
 I gave to you — one year ago. 
 
 The only jewel that was mine ; 
 ily heart took oft her lonely crown, 
 
 And all her riches gave to thine. 
 
 You loved me too, when first we met. 
 
 Your tender kisses told me so. 
 How changed you are from what you were 
 
 In life and love — one year ago ! 
 
 With mocking words and cold neglect, 
 ify truth and passion are repaid ; 
 
 And of a soul once fresh with love 
 A dreary desert you have made. 
 
 Why did you fill my youthful Ufe 
 
 "\Mth such wild dreams of hope and bli.ss > 
 
 Why did you say j'ou loved me then. 
 If it were all to end in this ? 
 
 You robbed me of my faith and trust 
 In all I<ifc's beauty — I,ove and Truth, 
 
 You left me nothing — nothing save 
 
 A hopeless, blighted, dreamless youth. 
 
 Strike if you will, and let the stroke 
 
 Be heavy as my weight of woe ; 
 I shall not shrink, my heart is cold ; 
 
 'Tis broken since one year ago. 
 
 ♦4 
 
<lXd^.}Cc^'-, 
 
 MENKEN THE POET. 
 
 45 
 
ASPIRATION. 
 
 Poor, impious Soul ! that fixes its high hopes 
 In the dim distance, on a throne of clouds. 
 
 And from the morning's mist would make the ropes 
 To draw it up amid acclaim of crowds — 
 
 Beware ! That soaring path is lined with shrouds ; 
 And he who braves it, though of sturdy breath, 
 May meet, half way, the avalanche and death ! 
 
 O, poor young Soul ! — whose year-devouring glance 
 
 Fixes in ecstacy upon a sta.r, 
 (Wliose feverish brilliance looks a part of earth, 
 
 Yet quivers where the feet of angels are. 
 And seems the future crown in realms afar) — 
 
 Beware ! A spark thou art, and dost but see 
 
 Thine own reflection in Eternity ! 
 
 ANSWER ME. 
 
 In from the night. 
 
 The Storm is lifting his black arms up to the sky. 
 
 Friend of my heart, who so gentlj' marks out the life-track for me, 
 
 draw near to-night ; 
 Forget the wailing of the low-voiced wind ; 
 Shut out the moanings of the freezing, and the starving, and the dying, 
 
 and bend your head low to me ; 
 Clasp my cold, cold hands in yours ; 
 Think of me tenderly and lovingly : 
 I<ook down into my eyes the while I question you ; and, if you love 
 
 me, answer me — 
 
 Oh, answer me ! 
 
 Is there not a gleam of Peace on all this tiresome earth ? 
 
 Does not one oasis cheer all this desert-world ? 
 
 When will all this toil and pain bring me the blessing ? 
 
 Must I ever plead for help to do the work before me set ? 
 
 Must I ever stumble and faint by the dark wayside ? 
 
 Oh, the dark, lonely wayside, with its dim-sheeted ghosts peering up 
 
 through their shallow graves ! 
 Must I ever tremble and pale at the great Bej^ond ? 
 Must I find Rest only in your bosom, as now I do ? 
 
 Answer me — 
 
 Oh, answer me ! 
 
 Speak to me tenderly. 
 
 Think of me lovingly. 
 
 lyCt your soft hands smooth back my hair ; 
 
 Take my cold, tear-stained face up to yours. 
 
 I^et mj^ lonely life creep into your warm bosom, knowing no other rest 
 
 but this. 
 I^et me question you, while sweet Faith and Ti^ust are folding their 
 
 white robes around me. 
 Thus am I purified, even to your love, that came like John the Baptist 
 
 in the Wilderness of Sin. 
 
 46 
 
You read the starry heaveus, aud lead lue forth. 
 
 But tell me if, in this world's Judea, there comes never quiet when 
 
 once the heart awakes ? 
 Wliy must it ever hush I,ove back ? 
 Must it only labour, strive, aud ache ? 
 Has it no reward but tliis ? 
 Has it no inheritance but to bear — and break ? 
 
 Answer me — 
 
 Oh, answer me ! 
 
 The Storm struggles with the Darkness. 
 
 Folded away in your arms, how Utile do I heed their battle ! 
 
 The trees clash in vain their naked swords against the door. 
 
 I go not forth while the low murmur of your voice is drifting all else 
 
 back to silence. 
 The Darkness presses his black forehead close to the window pane, 
 
 and beckons me without. 
 I,ove holds a lamp in this little room that hath power to blot back Fear. 
 But will the lamp ever starve for oil ? 
 Will its blood-red flame ever grow faint and blue ? 
 Will it uprear itself to a slender line of light ? 
 Will it grow pallid and motionless ? 
 Will it sink rayless to everlasting death ? 
 Answer me — 
 Oh, answer me ! 
 
 Look at these tear-drops. 
 
 See how they quiver and die on your open hands. 
 
 Fold these white garments close to my breast, while I question you. 
 
 Would you have me think that from the warm shelter of your heart 
 
 I must go to the grave ? 
 And when I am lying in my silent shroud, will you love me ? 
 When I am buried down in the cold wet earth, will you grieve that 
 
 you did not save me ? 
 Will your tears reach my jiale face through all the withered leaves 
 
 that will heap themselves upon my grave ? 
 Will you repent that you loosened your arms to let me fall so deep, 
 
 and so far out of sight ? 
 Will you come and tell me so when the coffin has shut out the Storm ? 
 An.swer me — 
 Oh, answer me ! 
 
 Five more poems from " Infelicia '' may be repro- 
 duced : 
 
 ADELINA PATTI. 
 
 Thou Pleiad of the lyric world 
 
 WTiere Pasta, Garcia shone. 
 Come back with thy sweet voice again. 
 
 And gem the starry zone. 
 
 Though faded, still the vision sees 
 
 The loveliest child of night. 
 The fairest of all the Pleiades, 
 
 Its glory and its light. 
 
 47 
 
How fell with music from thy tongue 
 
 The picture which it drew 
 Of I,ucia, radiant, warm, and young — 
 
 Amina, fond and true. 
 
 Or the young Marie's grace and art. 
 So free from earthly strife. 
 
 Beating upon the sounding heart 
 The gay tattoo of life ! 
 
 Fair Florence ! home of glorious Art, 
 And mistress of its sphere. 
 
 Clasp fast thj' beauties to tlij' heart — 
 Behold thy rival here ! 
 
 THE SHIP THAT WENT DOWN. 
 
 who hath not sent out ships to sea ? 
 
 Who hath not toiled through light and darkness to make them strong 
 
 for battle ? 
 And how we freighted them with dust from the moimtain mines ! 
 And red gold, coined from the heart's blood, rich in Youth, I,ove, and 
 
 Beauty ! 
 And we have fondl}^ sent forth on their white decks seven times a 
 
 hundred souls. 
 Sent them out like sea-girt worlds full of hope, love, care and faith. 
 Oh, mariners, mariners, watch and beware ! 
 
 See the Ship that I sent forth ! 
 
 How proudly she nods her regal head to eacli saluting wave ! 
 
 How defiantly she flaps her white sails at the sun, who, in envv of her 
 
 beauty, screens his face behind a passing cloud, yet never losing 
 
 sight of her. 
 The ocean hath decked himself in robes of softest blue, and lifted his 
 
 spray-flags to greet her. 
 The crimson sky hath swooped down from her Heaven-Palace, and 
 
 sitteth with her white feet dabbling in the borders of the sea, 
 
 while she sendeth sweet promises on the wings of the wind to m}' 
 
 fair Ship. 
 
 Oh, mariners, mariners, why did ye not watcli and beware ! 
 
 The faithless skj' is black. 
 
 The ocean howls on the Ship's rough track. 
 
 The strong wind, and the shouting rain sweep bj- like an armed host 
 
 whooping out their wild battle-cry. 
 The tall masts dip their heads down into the deep. 
 The wet shrouds rattle as they seem to whisper prayers to themselves : 
 But the waves leap over their pallid sails, and grapple and gnaw at 
 
 their seams. 
 The poor Ship shrieks and groans out her despair. 
 She rises up to plead with the sky, and sinks down the deep vallej- of 
 
 water to pray. 
 
 O God, make us strong tor the battle ! 
 
 48 
 
Too late, too late ! 
 
 The life-boats are lost. 
 
 The rent spars have groaned out their lives, and the white sails have 
 
 shrouded them in their rough beds of Death. 
 Strong maruiers have failed in the terror and strife. 
 White lips are gasping for breath, and trembling out prayers, and 
 
 waiting to die. 
 And the Ship, once so fair, lies a lite-freighted wreck. 
 The Promises, Hopes, and I,oves, arc sinking, sinking away. 
 The wuids shriek out their jov, and the waves shout out their anthem 
 
 of Death. 
 
 Pitiless wind ! Pitiless ocean ! 
 
 Oh, mariners, is there no help ? 
 
 Is there no beacon-light in the distance ? 
 
 Dash the tears of blood from your eyes, and look over these Alps of 
 
 water ! 
 See ye no sail glittering through the darkness ? 
 Is there no help ? 
 Must they die, all die ? 
 
 So much of Youth, so much of Beauty, so much of I,ife ? 
 The waves answer with ravenous roar ; 
 They grapple like demons the trembling Ship ! 
 Compassless, rudderless, the poor Ship pleads. 
 In vain ! in vain ! 
 With a struggling, shivering, dying gasp, my good Ship sank down, 
 
 down, down to the soundless folds of the fathomless ocean. 
 I,ost — lost — lost ! 
 
 MY HERITAGE! 
 
 " My Heritage ! " It is to live within 
 
 The marts of Pleasure and of Gain, j'et be 
 
 No willing worshipper at either shrine ; 
 
 To think, and speak, and act, not for my pleasure 
 
 Birt others. The veriest slave of time 
 
 And circumstances. Fortune's toy ! 
 
 To hear of fraud, injustice, and oppression, 
 
 And feel who is the unshielded victim. 
 
 Cold friends and causeless foes ! 
 
 Proud thoughts that rise to fall. 
 Bright stars that set in seas of blood ; 
 Affections, which are passions, lava-like 
 Destroying what they rest upon. I^ove's 
 Pond and fervid tide preparing icebergs. 
 That fragile bark, this loving human heart ! 
 
 O'er mastering Pride ! 
 
 Ruler of the Soul ! 
 I,ife, with all its changes, cannot bow ye. 
 
 Soul subduing Poverty ! 
 That lays his iron, cold .grasp upon the high 
 Free spirit : strength, sorrow-born, that bends 
 But breaks not in his clasp — all, all 
 
 These are " my heritage ! " 
 And mine to know a reckless human love, all passion and intensits', 
 and see a mist come o'er the scene, a dimness steal o'er the soul ! 
 
 49 
 
Mine to dream of joy and wake to wretchedness 
 
 Mine to stand on the brink of life 
 
 One little moment where the fresh'ning breeze 
 
 Steals o'er the languid lip and brow, telling 
 
 Of forest leaf, and ocean wave, and happy 
 
 Homes, and clieerful toil ; and bringing gently 
 
 To this wearied heart its long-forgotten dreams of gladness. 
 
 But turning the fevered cheek to meet the soft kiss of the winds, my 
 
 eyes look to the sky, where I send up my soul in thanks. The 
 
 sky is clouded — no stars — no music — the heavens are htished. 
 My poor soul comes back to me, weary and disappointed. 
 The very breath of Heaven, that comes to all, comes not to me. 
 Bound in iron gj'ves of unremitting toil, my vital air is vpretchedness — 
 
 what need I any other ? 
 " My Heritage ! " 
 The shrouded eye, the trampled leaf, wind-driven and soiled with 
 
 dust — these tell the tale. 
 Mine to watch the glorious light of intellect 
 Burn dimly, and expire ; and mark the soul. 
 Though born in Heaven, pause in its high career. 
 Waive in its course, and fall, to grovel in 
 The darkness of earth's contamination, till 
 Even Death shall scorn to give a thing 
 So low his welcome greeting ! 
 Wlio would be that pale. 
 
 Blue mist, that hangs so low in air, like Hope 
 That has abandoned Earth, yet readietli 
 Not the stars in their proud homes ? 
 A dying eagle, striving to reach the sun ? 
 A little child talking to the gay clouds as they flaunt past in their 
 
 purple and crimson robes ? 
 A timid little flower singing to the grand old trees ? 
 Foolish waves, leaping up and trying to kiss the moon ? 
 A little bird mocking the stars ? 
 Yet tliis is v/hat men call Genius. 
 
 DRIFTS THAT BAR MY DOOR. 
 
 Oh, Angels ! will ye never sweep the drifts from my door ? 
 
 Will ye never wipe the gathering rust from the hinges ? 
 
 How long must I plead and cry in vain ? 
 
 I<ift back the iron bars, and lead me hence. 
 
 Is there not a land of peace beyond my door ? 
 
 Oh, lead me to it — give me rest — release me from the unequal strife. 
 
 Heaven can attest that I fought bravely when the heavy blows fell 
 
 fast. 
 Was it my sin that strength failed ? 
 Was it my sin that the battle was in vain ? 
 Was it my sin that I lost the prize ? I do not sorrow for all the bitter 
 
 pain and blood it cost me. 
 Why do ye stand sobbing in the sunshine ? 
 I cannot weep. 
 
 There is no sunlight in this dark cell. 
 I ani starving for light. 
 Oh, Angels ! sweep the drifts away — unbar my door ! 
 
 50 
 
Oh, is this all ? 
 
 Is there nothing more of life ? 
 
 See how dark and cold my cell. 
 
 The pictures on the walls are covered with mould. 
 
 The earth-floor is slimy with my wasting blood. 
 
 The embers are smouldering in the ashes. 
 
 The lamp is dimly flickering, and will soon starve for oil in this horrid 
 
 gloom. 
 My wild eyes paint shadows on the walls. 
 
 And I hear the poor ghost of my lost love moaning and sobbing without . 
 Shrieks of my unhappiness are borne to me on the wings of the wind. 
 I sit cowering in fear, with my tattered garments close around my 
 
 choking throat. 
 1 move my pale lips to pray ; but my soul has lost her wonted power. 
 Faith is weak. 
 
 Hope has laid her whitened corse ujion my bosom. 
 The lamp sinks lower and lower. 
 Oh, Angels ! sweep the drifts away — unbar my door ! 
 
 Angels, is this my reward ? 
 
 Is this the crown ye promised to set down on the foreheads of the 
 
 loving — the suffering — the deserted ? 
 Where are the sheaves I toiled for ? 
 Where the golden grain ye promised ? 
 These are but withered leaves. 
 Oh, is this all ? 
 
 Meekly I have toiled and spun the fleece. 
 
 All the work ye assigned, my willing hands have accomplished. 
 See how thin they are, and how they bleed. 
 Ah me ! what meagre pay, e'en when the task is over ! 
 My fainting child, whose golden head graces e'en this dungeon, looks 
 
 up to me and pleads for life. 
 Oh God ! my heart is breaking ! 
 Despair and Death have forced their skeleton forms through the grated 
 
 window of my cell, and stand clamoring for their prey. 
 The lamp is almost burnt out. 
 Angels, sweep the drifts away — unbar my door ! 
 
 Life is a lie, and I,ove a cheat. 
 
 There is a graveyard in my poor heart — dark, heaped-up graves, from 
 
 which no flowers spring. 
 The walls are so high that the trembling wings of birds do break ere 
 
 they reach the summit, and they fall, wounded, and die in my 
 
 bosom. 
 I wander 'mid the gray old tombs, and talk with the ghosts of my 
 
 buried hopes. 
 They tell me of my Eros, and how they fluttered around him, bearing 
 
 sweet messages of my love, until one day, with his strong arm, he 
 
 struck them dead at his feet. 
 Since then, these poor lonely ghosts have haunted me night and day, 
 
 for it was I who decked them in my crimson heart-tides, and sent 
 
 them forth in chariots of fire. 
 Every breath of wind bears me their shrieks and groans. 
 I hasten to their graves, and tear back folds and folds of their shrouds, 
 
 and try to pour into their cold, nerveless veins the quickening 
 
 tide of life once more. 
 
 SI 
 
Too late — too late ! 
 
 Despair hath driven back Death, and clasps me in his black arms. 
 
 And the lamp I 
 
 See, the lamp is dying out ! 
 
 Oh Angels ! sweep the drifts from my door I lift up the bars ! 
 
 Oh, let me sleep. 
 
 I close my weary eyes to think — to dream. 
 
 Is this what dreams are woven of ? 
 
 I stand on the brink of a precipice, with my shivering child strained 
 
 A yawning chasm lies below. [to my bare bosom. 
 
 My trembling feet are on the brink. i 
 
 I hear again his voice ; but he reacheth not out his hand to save me. 
 
 Why can I not move my lips to pray ? 
 
 They are cold. 
 
 My soul is dumb, too. 
 
 Death hath conquered ! 
 
 I feel his icy fingers moving slow! 3' along my heartstrings. 
 
 How cold and stiff ! 
 
 The ghosts of my dead hopes are closing around me. 
 
 The}- stifle me. 
 
 They whisper that Eros has come back to me. 
 
 But I only see a skeleton wrapped in blood-stained cerements. 
 
 There are no lips to kiss me bark to life. 
 
 Oh ghosts of I*ove, move back — give me air ! 
 
 Ye smell of the dusty grave. 
 
 Ye have pressed your cold hands upon my eyes until they are eclipsed . 
 
 The lamp has burnt out. 
 
 Oh Angels ! be quick ! sweep the drifts away ! unbar mv door ! 
 
 Oh, light ! light ! 
 
 MYSELF' 
 
 Away down into the shadowy depths of the Real I once lived. 
 
 I thought that to seem was to be. 
 
 But the waters were beautiful, yet they were bitter. 
 
 I waited, and hoped, and prayed ; 
 
 Counting the heart-throbs and the tears that answered them. 
 
 Through my earnest i^leadings for the True, I learned that the mildest 
 
 mercy of life was a smiling sneer ; 
 And that the business of the world was to lash with vengeance all who 
 
 dared to be what their God had made them. 
 Smother back tears to the red blood of the heart ! 
 Crush out things called souls 1 
 No room for them here ! 
 
 Now I gloss mv pale face with laughter, and sail mv voice on with the 
 
 tide. 
 Decked in jewels and lace, I laugh beneath the gas-light's glare, and 
 
 quaff the purple wine. 
 But the minor-keyed soul is standing naked and hungrj- upon one of 
 
 Heaven's high hills of li.ght. 
 Standing and waiting for the blood of the feast ! 
 Starving for one poor word ! 
 M'aiting for (Jod to launch out some beacon on the boundless shores of 
 
 this Night. 
 Shivering for the uprising of some soft wing under which it may creep, 
 
 lizard-like, to warmth and rest. 
 Waiting ! Starving ! Shivering ! 
 
 S3 
 
still I trim my white bosom with crimson roses ; for none shall see 
 
 the thorns. 
 I bind my aching brow with a jewelled crown, that none shall see the 
 
 iron one beneath. 
 My silver-sandaled feet keep impatient time to the music, because I 
 
 cann6t be calm. 
 I laugh at earth's passion-fever of I^ove ; yet I know that God is near 
 
 to the soul on the hill, and hears the ceaseless ebb and flow of 
 
 a hopeless love, through all my laughter. 
 But if I can cheat my heart with the old comfort, that love can be 
 
 forgotten, is it not better ? 
 After all, living is but to play a part ! 
 The poorest worm would be a jewel-headed snake if she could ! 
 
 All this grandeur of glare and glitter has its night-time. 
 
 The pallid eyes must shut out smiles and daylight. 
 
 Then I fold my cold hands, and look down at the restless rivers of 
 
 a love that rushes through my life. 
 Unseen and unknown they tide ou over black rocks and chasms of 
 
 Death. 
 Oh, for one sweet word to bridge their terrible depths! 
 
 jealous soul ! why wilt thou crave and yearn for what thovi canst 
 
 not have ? 
 And life is so long — so long ! 
 
 With the daylight comes the business of living. 
 
 The prayers that I sent trembling up the golden thread of hope all 
 come back to me. 
 
 1 lock them close in m}' bosom, far under the velvet and roses of the 
 
 world. 
 For I know that stronger than these torrents of passion is the soul that 
 
 hath lifted itself up to the hill. 
 What care I for his careless laugh ? 
 I do not sigh ; but I know that God hears the life-blood dripping as 
 
 I, too, laugh. 
 I would not be thought a foolish rose, that flaunts her red heart out to 
 
 the sun. 
 I<oving is not living ! 
 
 Yet through all tlris I know that night will roll back from the stUl, 
 
 gray plain of Heaven, and that my triumph shall rise sweet with 
 
 the dawn ! 
 When these mortal mists .shall unclothe the world, then shall I be 
 
 known as I am ! 
 When I dare be dead and buried behind a wall of wings, then shall He 
 
 know me ! 
 When this world shall fall, like some old ghost, wrapped in the black 
 
 skirts of the wind, down into the fathomless eternity of fire, then 
 
 shall souls uprise ! 
 Wlien God shall lift the frozen seal from struggling voices, then shall 
 
 we speak ! 
 When the purple-and-gold of our inner natures shall be lighted up in 
 
 the Eternity of Truth, then will love be mine ! 
 I can wait ! 
 
 0l=l|t^|^t(=fi; 
 
MONOGRAPHS by RICHARD NORTHCOTT. 
 
 Those priced are obtainable, post free, of Tlie Publisher, 
 Press Printers, Ltd., Long Acre, London, W.C.2. 
 
 Beethoven's " Fidelio " in London. 3s. 6d. 
 
 Mr. Richard Northcott, whose little books on music are 
 tabloids of information not elsewhere accessible, has just 
 published "Beethoven's 'Fidelio' in I,ondon." Like its 
 predecessors, the brochure bespeaks careful research, and 
 the facts about the famous opera are stated comprehensively, 
 clearly, and concisely. — Sunday Times. 
 
 While on the subject of opera I may seasonably compliment 
 Mr. Ricliard Northcott on his recentlj' issued monograph on 
 Beethoven's " Fidelio." Mr. Northcott has lately acquired 
 a habit of compiling miniature works of facts and dates which 
 are so reliable as to be of considerable value for reference. — 
 Referee. 
 
 Donizetti : A Sketch of his Life and a Record of 
 HIS Operas. 
 
 A labour of love, and the labour must have been as great 
 as the love to collect such a mass of names and dates of 
 notable performances of the composer's works. ]\Ir. Northcott 
 writes sympathetically of the composer, but with frankness 
 concerning his failings. — Referee. 
 
 Mr. Richard Northcott's valuable little brochure. — West- 
 minster Gazette. 
 
 Bizet and "' Carmen." 
 
 A little volume that should be in the hands of every opera- 
 lover. — Observer. 
 
 An interesting and valuable addition to operatic literature. 
 It bears evidence of musical enthusiasm and mole-like 
 industry. — Gentlewoman. 
 
 The Story of Wagner's " Parsifal," with Notes on 
 the Poem and the Music. 
 
 The story on which the work is based is admirably narrated, 
 while the remarks, analytical and historical, concerning the 
 music are equally helpful and well considered. That" over 
 15,000 copies of the booklet have alreadj- been sold sufficientiv 
 attests its appreciation by the public. — ]\'csiminsier Gazette. 
 
 " Parsifal " and Wagner's other Operas. 
 
 Into it there is compressed much knowledge of AVaguer's 
 music, with fresh gleanings about it, and the style is terse and 
 readable. — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 An excellent work for the laj'nian, and an invaluable book 
 of reference for the critic. — Musical Courier. 
 
 Souvenir of the London Production of " Parsifal." 
 
 An admirable guide. — Morning Post. 
 54 
 
Royal Performances in London Theatres. 5s. 
 
 The time spent in the research necessary to bring to light 
 all that Mr. Northcott has collected into his little volume, 
 great though it must have been, has been amply rewarded, 
 for he has set down nothing that is not of interest, while the 
 value of the book to the student of our social-musical history 
 is very great. — Robin I^egge in Daily Telegraph. 
 
 A Tribute to Algarotti. 
 
 A reprint of Algarotti's once famous essay on the Opera, 
 together with an interesting sketch of his life. ... I 
 have read both the essay and the admirably concise biography 
 with much interest, and warmly commend Mx. Northcott' s 
 pages to all who take a more or less intelligent interest in the 
 history of one of the most fascinating of art forms. — Ernest 
 KuHE in Lady's Pictorial. 
 
 Mr. Richard Northcott has done a real service to the 
 musical world in issuing this delightful little book. — Musical 
 Times. 
 
 Jacques Offenbach : A Sketch of his Life and a 
 Record of his Operas. 7s. Qd. 
 
 In the rapidly growing series of monographs on operatic 
 subjects due to the diligent research and accurate and 
 methodical mode of workmanship characteristic of Richard 
 Northcott, one could hardly find a more valuable, detailed, 
 and admirably exhaustive one than that on Jacques Offenbach. 
 — Stage. 
 
 Mr. Northcott's monograph is certainly an interesting and 
 readable little book. — Gentlewoman. 
 
 Gounod's Operas in London. 
 
 There is nothing of the dull, stereotyped biographical form 
 in an excellent little book *' Gounod's Operas in lyondon," 
 written by Richard Northcott, The author has a happy 
 faculty in presenting his facts, which cover the entire range 
 of the composer's operas performed in I^ondon. — Queen. 
 
 Mr.. Northcott's little volume should find a place in every 
 musical library, for its accuracy of detail is rare. — Sunday 
 Times. 
 Souvenir of the Royal Opera, Covent Garden. 
 
 As furnishing us with a peep into I,oudon's operatic past, 
 and recalling many a red-letter day — or night — in the long 
 history of the " Garden," Mr. Northcott's pages are as welcome 
 as they are timely. All manner of odd things he tells us. — 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 
 A Short History of the First Masonic Opera, " The 
 Generous Freemason." 
 
 Mr. Richard Northcott has, with a great deal of care and 
 evidently no small labour, written a most interesting little 
 history. — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Charles Dibdin's Masonic Pantomime, " Harlequin 
 Freemason." 
 
 Mr. Northcott's monograph is extremely interesting. — PaU 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 55 
 
Hunting Jingles. 5s. 
 
 A slim, but very interesting little book. — Sketch. 
 
 Hunting songs do not play a very conspicuous part in modern 
 music, but it was an excellent idea, none the less, on the part 
 of Mr. Richard Northcott to collect all the information on the 
 subject, which he has brought together in " Hunting Jingles." 
 Surprising, indeed, is the number of ditties of this type which 
 have been preserved, and those who seek further information 
 on this or any other aspect of the subject can certainly not do 
 better than consult Mr. Northcott's most excellent and enter- 
 taining antholog}'. — yVestminster Gazette, 
 
 Mr. Northcott gives us some capital anecdotes, and embel- 
 lishes his songs and short histories with several portieits and 
 prints. Altogether, a very enjoyable little collection. — Illus- 
 trated Sporting and Dramatic New^. 
 
 A most interesting little book, which will fascinate all good 
 sportsmen. — Graphic. 
 
 The Life of Sir Henry R. Bishop. 12s. 
 
 One puts down this short book with the feeling that musical 
 biography could hardly be better written, and that the pity is 
 that it is seldom so written. The facts have been laboriously 
 collected, are well arranged, and are given practically without 
 comment — here and there an exclamation mark is the most the 
 author allows himself, — Times Literary Supplement. 
 
 If you should harbour a suspicion that any book about 
 Bishop must be a dry-as-dust sort of ai¥air, I would recommend 
 you promptly to turn to this biography, which not only is a 
 mine of out-of-the-waj' information but tells us all manner of 
 things about Bishop himself and his personal outlook on the 
 musical conditions of his time that make most interesting 
 reading. — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 A miniature replete with valuable information, which bespeaks 
 years of careful and conscientious research. — Monthly Musical 
 Record. 
 
 Even among students of musical histor3', where would jou 
 hope to find one who could pass an examination on the life of 
 the composer of " Home, Sweet Home " ? Indeed, is it even 
 certain that every musical enthusiast could tell you off-hand 
 who it was that composed that immortal IjTic ? Possibly, these 
 thoughts were in the mind of Sir. Riclrard Xorlhcott when he 
 took pen in hand to write " The I,ife of Sir Henij- R, Bishop." 
 Curiousl}' enough, it had never before occurred to any musical 
 historian to undertake such a task, and the greater tile credit, 
 therefore, that must go to the writer of this extraordinarily 
 interesting and informing biography, the production of which 
 must have entailed an immense amount of careful research. — 
 Ernest Kuhe in Lady's Pictorial. 
 
 In none of Richard Northcott's previously published mono- 
 graphs have the results of patient investigation and successful 
 research been set forth more fully and in more attractive form 
 than in " The I,ife of Sir Henry R. Bishop." — Stage. 
 
 Adah Isaacs Menken. 5s. 
 
 Records of the Royal Opera, Covent G..\rden, 1888- 
 
 1921. In the Press. 
 The Life of Sir Michael CosT.^. In preparation. 
 
 S6