STORIES of the STAGE Edited by CLEMENT SCOTT 1. THE STAGE DOOR 2. THE GREEN ROOM BERKELEY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OP (K A PROLOGUE. The curtain rises, silence falls, And minds attuned to gloom or wit, Give expectation to the stalls, And anxious faces to the pit. In plays of ancient Greece we found A form that after time forsook ; Still I, your Chorus, must propound The argument that guides our book. A garland of old memories ; Tales of romance and kindliness ; Grief's calendar ; exultant cries Heard up the mountain of success ; The hate that dies, the loves that live. The fun of which we never tire— These humble gifts we freely give To friends around the Christmas fire ! The young beginners, struck with fright, Demand your mercy on their knees ; But if I guess your thoughts aright, You'll spare such favourites as these. If there be error, mine's the blame, Who forced on them a novel part ; I think you'll cheer them all the same. And Chorus thanks them from his heart. Toil is a pleasure when we know The sympathy that friendship sends, And Chorus gratefully can show A tried companionship of friends. We most of us play many parts. But let us thank this merry age, That there's one Door to all your hearts, And we have entered it — The Stage. C. W. S. STORIES OF THE STAGE EDITED BY CLEMENT SCOTT I. THE STAGE DOOR II. THE GREEN ROOM LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS Broadway, Ludgate Hill NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET THE STAGE DOOR STORIES BY THOSE WHO ENTER IT EDITED BY CLEMENT IV. SCOTT LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS Broadway, Ludgate Hill. NEW YORK : 416, BROOME STREET LOAN STACK CONTENTS. PAGE A PROLOGUE. By The Editor i THE STAGE DOOR KEEPER. By Clement W. Scott 5 THE BROKEN NECKLACE : A LOVE STORY. By Marie Bancroft 15 MY FIRST "READING." By Henry Irving 20 RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS. By Walter Lacy 22 JOHN CAMPBELL. A TRUE STORY OF A BENEFIT. By Henry Neville 27 THE STORY OF A GOOD GOBLIN. By E. L. Blanchard 32 LANDLADIES. By H. J. Byron 34- HOW I PLAYED PRINCE ALFRED. By W. Terriss 36 A NIGHT WITH KOTZEBUE. By J. Palgrave Simpson 38 OUR LITTLE WORLD. By John Hollingshead 43 THE PPIANTOM THEATRE. By Robert Reece 45 BENEFITS. By Lionel Brough 5~ OUR DOUBLES. By S. B. Bancroft 55 THE WAIL OF A BANNER-BEARER. By Arthur Matthison 57 COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. By W. S. Gilbert 60 THE MYSTERIOUS CUSTOMER. By J. L. Toole 65 MY ANTI-CLIMAX. By J. Ashby Sterry 68 BEHIND THE SCENES. By Kate MuN roe 71 EARLY EXPERIENCES. By Thomas Thorne 73 AN ADVENTURE IN A CAR. By Mrs. John Wood 74 OUR SCHOOL TPIEATRE. By Frank Marshall 77 A PAINFUL PREDICAMENT. Experienced by George Grossmith, Jun 81 A WRESTLING MATCH. By Barry Sullivan 83 BOHfiME. A FRENCH SONG. By Herman Merivale 84 MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT. By Charles Warner 85 A DOG'S TALE. By John Hare S7 MY DfiBUT AS OPHELIA. By Henrietta Hodson 89 XAROLLA : A CIRCUS STORY. By Alfred Thompson 91 AN EPILOGUE. By H. Savile Clarke 96 HA-iO THE STAGE DOOR. THE STAGE DOOR KEEPER. By clement W. SCOTT. MEAN and narrow open- ing in anun^ romantic wall — an en- trance less pretentious than any that can be found at the side of a factory gate — an ap- proach diffi- cult to find, hidden up a blind alley, swarming with miscellaneous cliildren, and lumbered up with ragged and disconsolate- looking scenery crumbling to ruin — a dark prison-looking gate, at whose ominous sight have fallen down the wreck of torn forests and the glory of departed palaces; the guardian an overworked and faithful servant, and the sentinel a carpenter, resting from his labours and smoking a clay pipe — this is the approach to a paradise that feeds' the un- healthy imagination with unworthy fancies, and has given the text for many a lying ser- mon — this is the Stage Door. It is always well that people should be sHglitly acquaijited v.ith tl^e subject they dis'- cuss ; and I sometimes wish that those who are so eloquent in denouncing scenes with which they are evidently unfamiliar, lives of which they know nothing, and professions which might be far more honourable and hon- oured were they not so persistently maligned, boasted half the philosophy^ perspicuity, shrewd judgment, and common sense of my old friend Tom Porter. He was a stage- door keeper, and. a matr of vast experience, great memory, and considerable attainments. His father had been an actor who, under an- other name, was famous in the dramatic annals of his time, and his son. promised to follow very clo.9e upon his father^s footsteps, when his bright career was cut short by, a blundering half-drunken carpenter, who left a trap open one night, and crippled the poor fellow for life. Misfortune, so I have been told, feli heavily upon Tom Porter's family soon aftei this deplorable accident, that nearly broke the. heart of an honourable and ambitious man. He had seen all the great actors from the time he could toddle to Drury Lane or Covent Garden ; he had lived in an atmo- sphere of art ; the talk was of nothing else but acting at home, over the baked joint on Sun- day down to bed-time on Saturday night, from morning till night, it was nothing but theatres and theatre-going, old texts and new read- , ings; and young Tom had dreamed of plsuying- 794 THE STAGE DOOR. Hamlet, Macbeth, Werner, and Richelieu with the best of them, when the hospital doctor pressed his hand, and told him at the very outset of his young life that he would never act again, and poor Tom turned his face to the wall, and sobbed like a child, " God's will be done ! " Yes, my dear sir, don't smile. Actors can pray, like the rest of us, and they have hearts of their own, I can assure you. But how to remain at the theatre? It would have been death to Tom Porter to desert that familiar ship. The very smell of the place fascinated him ; he would have taken checks at the top of the gallery stair- case sooner than leave the dear old walls; but it was not so bad as he thought, for he was appointed confidential secretary to suc- cessive managers at the best established theatres in London ; and it was only when age and infirmities crept upon him that old Tom went through the stages of prompter and copyist, till finally he was installed close by the stage door in that bright and cosy little recess, hung round with pictures, warmed by a bright fire, and made companionable by a comfortable cat. It was here that I made the good fellow's acquaintance, and derived such constant pleasure from his interesting and varied conversation. *' Yes, sir," he used to say to me, " there are good theatres and bad theatres, just as there are good parsons and bad parsons, or good judges and bad judges. We're none of us perfect in this world, except, no doubt, the good gentlemen who know such a pre- cious lot more about our business than we do ourselves. Look round here, sir, now do, and see for yourself, where are the broughams, and bouquets, and diamonds, and the swells waiting outside, that the papers make so much fuss about ! It all seems pretty neat, and tidy, and decent now, don't it ? You can sit there in the corner by tlie fire, and see them pass. All right, sir, sit you down ; don't mind the black cat, old Othello always takes the most comfortable seat in the room." And so I sat down and observed. A constant swaying backwards and forwards of an adjacent door ; dressers and mes- sengers passing in and out with a "Good evening, Mr. Porter," or a "Good night, Tom ; " modest women and quiet men pass- ing in and out in an orderly, business-like way; an occasional author, who disconso- lately called for his manuscript, or exultingly deposited a great roll of brown paper that would have broken down the rack, and was accordingly put aside for the manager — why, there was really nothing in the outside ap- pearance of the place to distinguish it from a factory, when the wheels of the machinery of pleasure spin round between seven o'clock and midnight. Where on earth is the fasci- nation of the stage door, and the glittering revelry of life behind the scenes ? I could not find anything of the kind, and old Tom was delighted at my antipathy to the dull and unromantic side of a world spangled with so much idealism and fancy. No sensible spec- tator likes to have his illusions destroyed. He does not care to see the ropes and spars, and guys and pulleys ; to be convinced that it is not a forest, but canvas; not a grass bank, but matting ; not a sparkling river, but glass and gelatine ; that the heroes and heroines discuss the ordinary affairs of life in the green-room ; that the adorable actress is compelled to paint her face and her eye- brows, and never fails to smother you with powder when she shakes her head ; that the pale student Hamlet looks as brown as a Zulu Kaffir, and the love-sick Romeo is daubed over like a Red Indian. No one has a right THE STAGE DOOR KEEPER. behind the scenes; not that there is the slightest temptation in such a prosy work- shop, but because it is cruel to tear down the veil and expose the machinery of so excellent an art. It is the dreariest and dirtiest of spots. So Tom Porter laughed when I obsti- nately refused to stir a step further than his comfortable sanctum, to which I obtained admission through some trifling service I had rendered to one of his family who was very dear to him indeed. Returning from the seaside one summer, I happened to be in a bad railway accident, and was mercifully preserved. I was able to pay some attention to the distresses of my unfortunate fellow-passengers, who stood dis- consolate and dazed, in a hideous wreck and heartrending confusion I can scarcely forget, or recall without a shudder. The sun-burned children crying for their dead mothers ; the ruin of life and pro- perty piled up amidst pipes, and pleasure baskets, and broken toys; the cruel engine lying twisted and torn, in a cloud of blinding mist ; the doctors hurrying to their mangled patients, presented a most distressing scene. Alone, and apparently uncared for, I found swooning on the embankment a young girl. At first I thought she was dead, so fair, calm, and undisturbed she looked, but a little brandy revived her, and I found that she was more frightened than hurt. Her nerves were far more injured than her body, and I soon saw that it was abso- lutely necessary to remove her immediately from the scene. She cried piteously for her father, and implored to be taken home ; and between the paroxysms of her fear, it was easy to see that her mind was intensely troubled with the thought that the news of the acci- dent would arrive in London before the poor girl could get home. " Oh, sir, I am travel- ling alone," she said; "if father hears of it, it will break his heart. What shall I do ? what shall I do ? " I reflected for an instant, and decided. A couple of miles away from the scene of the accident was the station of a branch line to London. A few shillings to a lad procured me a fly, by merciful chance we caught a train at the side station, and we were back in London just as they were howling the news of the frightful accident all over the streets. On the journey home I had ascertained that the father of my little protegee was a stage- door keeper at a theatre in the immediate neighbourhood of the Strand — where news bad and good spreads like wildfire. So I told the cabman to drive as fast as he could to the stage door of the theatre. It was best to take the bull by the horns, and to prevent mischief as soon as possible. I found a crowd of good-natured folk round the door that led to the theatre, and inside the stage-door keeper's box I could hear distinctly that strange, low, moaning wail as of a strong man in pain. It is terrible to hear a man sob ; and all these much- abused women at the vicious theatre were actually drying their eyes, and trying to comfort a broken-hearted father who thought he would never see his daughter again. " Make way there," I said, as I tried to make an opening through the crowd. The usual response came ; on one side the surly ill-conditioned " Why should I make way for you ? " on the other, " Why not let the gentleman pass ? " They did let the gentleman pass when they saw he had a young and frightened girl on his arm. There was a silence, and then we heard — " Father ! father ! " "Oh ! Madge, my little one; thank God !" 8 THE STAGE DOOR. That M'as all. AVe heard no more after that. They were united in an embrace that belongs to things heavenly, and that gives one a lump in the throat to think of it. And, strange to say, from that instant I was made welcome whenever I cared to look in upon Tom Porter the old stage-door keeper. The best chair in the little den was always at ray disposal, the warmest corner was mine by the fire out of all the draughts ; I was allowed to smoke a pipe if I leaned very much up the chimney ; and it was as much as my comfort was worth if I refused an occasional pull at the comforting " dog's nose " that simmered on the hob. The honest fellow could never get it out of his head that I had saved his daughter's life,, and that I was a kind of hero to be rewarded with all the hospitable honours of his paternal mansion. I had done nothing of the kind, but he insisted I was wrong, and there was no good in arguing the point. That reconciliation made a deep impression on the old man. She was alive who was dead. His heart made one bound from sorrow to unspeakable joy, and the happy accident of courtesy earned for me the never- ending gratitude of as honest a soul as ever lived. Fancy this, Mr. Preacher, you who are never weary of raising your eloquent voice against the antechamber of Hades, although I am sorry to say you use a very much stronger expression ; fancy this, Mr. • Tub Spouter in the parks, who tell me when I am walking out amidst the fields and the flowers that if I dare to enter a theatre I had better renounce all hope of salvation ; fancy this, my fine ladies who talk about " actors and actresses and such kind of people ; " fancy this, Mr. Superciliousness, who argue in some strange kind of way that those who possess unsavable souls are somehow connected with a most elevating and regenerating art, kept down from salvation by cruel prejudice and viler cant. Why, here was this venerable keeper of the door that leads to the stage, who had actually brought up his large family in an honest and God-fearing manner, and regarded his pure and tender little daughter as one of the best of the blessings that had cheered his simple life. The three cosiest scenes that at present appeal to my imagination are, the inside of a travelling caravan; the bar parlour of a country inn, with a happy circle enjoying the first autumn fire; and that small and neatly- arranged littlej den where the stage-door keeper is supposed to sulk away his life, and to be the intermediary between Cupid and the postman, I always envied our old firiend Mrs. Jarley, and can conceive no existence more delightful than to be dragged in a house upon wheels about the leafy lanes of Old England ; to sit outside in the morning, and eat your breakfast oif a drum, and to get to bed in a comfortable alcove when the mists begin to rise and the land is chill. And then there is the bar parlour, as seen by the lonely traveller, who peeps through the crimson cur- tains, and sees the firelight glancing upon the polished mahogany, blue china in a corner cupboard, and old Dutch clock that ticks, in a paternal fashion over the contented scene. Well is it for those who cannot enjoy realities to taste occasionally the pleasures of imagination. The caravan is the home of giants, dwarfs, hardware sellers, and ubiquitous cheap jacks; the country inn is the rest of the landscape painter; but the Cockney follower of art must warm his toes by the stage door fire. Fortified by this strange friendship of which I have spoken, and flattered by the THE STAGE DOOR KEEPER. warm attachment that old Tom expressed for me, I found myself very often, particularly in winter, a guest at his hospitable fire. My passion for the art of which he was so humble a representative grew under his guidance. He lent me strange old theatrical books that he had picked up at odd bookstalls, showed me rare prints he had collected, and de- lighted me with curious reminiscences of his valuable experience. Old Tom Porter must have been a nota- ble exception to his race, for I am given to understand that the Cerberus of the stage door is sometimes a strange dog, who snarls and shows his teeth when any one approaches his kennel. " Cave canem " should be written up over his lodge, for his primary idea is to look upon every one as an intruder, and he takes a delight in keeping an author — -who is his special abomination — in a thorough draught and in an ignominious position, in order to show how thoroughly he is the mas- ter, and the author is the slave. A fixed idea possesses him that the male portion of the Metropolis is in a combination to bear off the leading actress, storm the manager's castle, and hold high revel amidst the dirty ropes and grappling-irons that disfigure the hold of the theatrical ship. His first instinct is to act on the defensive, to assert his autho- rity in a brusque and bearish manner, and to look upon the world outside his tub as a set of refractory carpenters and supernumeraries. I may be mistaken, but this is the prevailing notion of the keeper of the stage door. Tom Porter belonged to quite a different school. He obtained influence and autho- rity without a harsh tone or a coarse word. He loved women because they were gentle and sweet as his own nature. About him there was a certain air of distinction and good breeding, and he handed the letters from the rack with the air of a courtier. And so it was that every one in the theatre made a friend and a confidant of the old man, they told him their troubles, and related their experiences, and with the aid of a prodigious memory, and a habit of jotting down what he heard, he managed to collect a fund of varied anecdotes and reminiscences. The most celebrated actors and actresses of the day had often dropped in for a chat with Tom Porter, to talk over old times, and compare notes, and so as his life had been devoted to the stage, and his tastes bound up in it, he became the storehouse to which many people referred when they were puzzled for a verifi- cation, circumstance, or a date. He was an encyclopaedia in himself, and had a strange method of memory to bring scenes of the past before him. The smiling retreat in which Tom Porter spent the best part of his days, now that his home was reduced to a simple lodging, his good wife was in her grave, and all his chil- dren scattered about the world, was hung about with pictures, all bearing upon the stage in some way or another. One of these pictures always absorbed my attention. It haunted me, and somehow or other invariably fascinated my eyes towards it. Placed too high on the walls to enable a close inspection, it seemed to my short sight like a fair-haired v/oman, clothed in white, and on her death-bed. " Dear dead women, with such hair too ! What's become of all the gold?" This familiar line haunted me whenever I looked at the picture. It was one of those strange, hungry faces that out- strip mere beauty with rare expression. The eyes closed now were a little sunken, and half overshadowed by the bar that marks both intellect and music. A large and full mouth gave the best character to the face, THE STAGE DOOR. and the hair, a luxurious river of gold, might have adorned the head of one of Raphael's Madonnas. Many would have scorned the idea of beauty in such a face, but it con- tained the reflection of strong character and soul, it represented an ideal nature, and in it was that tired and hunted look that mean nervous power and the exhaustion of keen susceptibility. What then was this strange picture of a fair, dead woman ? Was it a Juliet in her tomb? a Desdemona on her death-bed ? an Ophelia in her love swoon ? One night I was sitting alone with old Tom. It was bitter cold and dreary outside, and I suppose the play they were acting inside was unusually solemn, for not a sound could be heard through the swing-doors, and no car- penter, with some abnormal thirst upon him, disturbed our conversation and slouched out for his unnecessary beer. Neither of us spoke, and instinctively I found that I was looking at the picture. " What is it, Tom ? I didn't like to ask you, but what is it ? " " Eh ! What ? " said the old fellow, who was dozing off before the fire. " The picture. What does it mean ? " "Where?" " Up there ! " He took it down, and then I examined it for the first time. It was not Ophelia, or Juliet, or Desdemona. No Shakesperian heroine or romantic scene was here depicted. I rubbed away the dirt from the glass, and saw the figure of a fair English woman stretched upon a copper couch. She was wrapped in a white peignoir, and over her still white features trickled a silent stream of water that seemed to tighten the garments on her and to emphasize her shroud. It was the photograph of a dead woman in the Parisian Morgue. " This is what jealousy brings them to," said old Tom. " What do you mean ? Who was she ? " " One of the kindest, dearest women I ever knew. God bless her ! But because she had not admirers enough over here in England, she must needs leave the stage when she had made a considerable name, marry a foreigner, and settle in France. How the men loved her ! Not because she was so very beautiful, you know, for her features were sharp, and her cheek-bones were strongly marked ; but there was that in her face which scores of her rivals never had — an unsatis- fied hunger, an undetermined longing, a pathetic weariness, a kind of something in her expression which seemed to say, ' Only love me and understand me, only be patient with me and let us learn one another, and there will come a sympathy and a union which mere fools do not understand.' "Such women are not made for fools. The popular beauty, with a faultless face and a stereotyped expression, with a gaze on one side and a gaze on the other, always the same, the same vacant look, the same silly simper, the same attitude of self-satisfaction, as much as to say, ' I am a doll ; I am very lovely, but don't rumple my nice silver paper or dis- arrange my curls,' — these are the women for the majority. But then they don't under- stand anything about it, and don't deserve anything better than a soulless face and a settled smile. The Frenchman did who married this poor creature, and he so well appreciated the prize that his jealousy be- came a madness. Women like men to be a little jealous, for it is in a certain sense a compliment. When it is exaggerated, it be- comes a bore. "To tell you the truth, I don't believe she ever liked the man. He overwhelmed her THE STAGE DOOR KEEPER. ir with kindness, and that touched her heart. She pitied him and respected him ; but never loved him. If she could have eaten gold he would have given it to her. Every wish was anticipated ; every whim con- sidered. Her life with him was one round of luxury and contented ease ; but that is not love. A woman with a face like that, with such a restless, soaring, unsatisfied spirit, wanted a man with brain, and force, and power to love her. She was clever, and she desired intellect in her lover. She wanted to be led on to the higher tastes, culture, and light for which she inwardly craved. But she got suppers, dinners, smart dresses, and diamond rings, things that no woman despises, but then how very few women do they satisfy. However, she mar- ried him, and she was soon cloyed with the sweets of her married life. She cursed herself for her ingratitude ; she wanted to love the man so much, and yet she couldn't. "But she was loyal, A woman with a nature like hers, had only to hold up her finger, and she might have had lovers by the score ; but she was loyal on my oath. *' Wearied with all this persistent devotion, and unsatisfied with her dissatisfaction, she lent herself to a deception innocently con- ceived, but one calculated to destroy the peace of her husband for ever. She meant no harm, but look at her there on her mise- rable death-bed. Her punishment came surely and swiftly enough. " She had a brother, of whose existence her husband was unaware. He was a scamp, a bad lot, and had been transported years be- fore for dishonesty in the bank in which he was employed. Her husband had been so good to her that she did not care to distress him with her family troubles, and so she. perhaps foolishly, covered over that bad spot, and held her tongue. " But she did not remember that the time would come when her brother's sentence would expire, and there must be an expla- nation. It did expire, and the brother came back to the world, penniless and an outcast. " He found his sister out, he traced her to Paris, and, woe-begone wretch as he was, presented himself at her luxurious apart- ments, luckily when her husband was away. " She was in a dilemma. She had not the heart to turn her brother away, and had not the strength to tell her husband. The most unfortunate course she could take, she took. Whenever her husband was out she received her brother, and delighted in surrounding his appearance with a mystery. Secret notes were conveyed to him. She admitted him to her apartments at unreasonable hours. No servant was taken into her confidence, and still in her heart desiring to spare her husband, she innocently compromised her reputation. " It is impossible to keep these scandals secret, let women manoeuvre as they will. Tongues will wag; and who amongst us is without enemies ? " Some kind Tago, good, generous, up- right, and self-denying creature, poured the necessary poison into the husband's ear. He received anonymous letters, and was told to be on his guard. ' English women are not to be trusted,' wrote the correspondent, in a female hand. You must remember the hus- band had a large fortune, and did not marry one of his own countrywomen. The expla- nation is obvious. "Once his jealousy was aroused, the cruelty of his nature came out ; and once the inno- cent woman knew that she was suspected, her better feelings were outraged. She was so true, that she hated the man who could £a THE STAGE DOOR. believe her false ; and in one of those wild freaks to which women are partial, she heaped up coals of fire, and bade her inno- cent brother come and act his part under more suspicious circumstances than ever. Poor thing ! she had friends as well as ene- mies ; and one night, when she had arranged a settlement for her brother, and had ordered him back to England, with his pockets lined, and an excellent start in life again, she received a note, scribbled in pencil : " * For God's sake, be cautious ; your husband is watching.' "She laughed a scornful laugh of triumph, and scattered the fragments of the note upon the floor, and then, as they were parting pos- sibly for many years, she led her brother to the door of her apartment. " She saw a dark shadow in the doorway opposite, and knew it must be her husband. Her heart was steeled and nerved for the encounter, and she hated the man for playing the spy upon her. A sudden inspiration came upon her. " ' Kiss me, Maurice,' she said. "Her brother kissed her, and wondered at the embrace that tightened about his neck. " ' Good night, dear.' " ' Good night' " What followed was the work of an in- stant. There was a loud scream of hatred that rang through the house, and the young brother, taken unawares, was hurled headlong down the stairs. The wife fled back. Without another word the husband rushed into the apartment like a madman. He did not wait for explanation, or ask it. His curses were so terrible, that the wife's blood chilled in her very veins. Her love died out under the fury of his accusations, and she laughed, pale and unmoved, at his bloodless face and quivering fingers. " It was the last sound heard in the tall Parisian house that night ; for, when the servants returned, they found their mistress stabbed to the heart with the dagger she had once worn as Juliet. Next day her husband's body was fished up from the Seine ! The day after, the suicide and the murdered* woman were side by side in the Morgue." Old Tom looked at me, and there were tears in his eyes. He kissed the picture- reverently, and put it back in its corner again. I looked astonished; and then he spoke : " It was the only time I was ever in Paris, and it will be the last. I went to claim what belonged to me. She was my sister. " Bless you, sir," said old Tom, "Othello was not the only one ! I could tell you scores of tragedies in our profession that arose out of jealousy. It is as useful a passion for dra- matic purposes as love, and that no author can da without, let him try ever so hard." ******* It was Christmas-time, and all was going on merrily at the theatres. Managers were nervously active, scene-painters worn out with fatigue and anxiet)^, stages crowded with neat girls and irrepressible children ; stage directors, loud of tongue but kind of heart, vowing vengeance one minute, and patting a child on the head the next — flouncing about with hands in pockets, and declaring, "It shall be done if I have to stay here all night, so there ! " and immediately afterwards dismiss- ing some section of giggling girls with a smile and a " There ! that will do, my dears ! Go to bed ! " For was it not v.'ithin a week of Boxing Night, that great feast-day in the Calendar of the Stage, when untold blessings are told out to thousands of honest and hard-working households by what I shall ever call the THE STAGE DOOR KEEPER. 13 charity of Christmas playgoing? At other times of the year there are signs of weari- ness and fatigue at the close of a series of rehearsals. Repetition induces a kind of con- tempt for the subject. But not at Christmas on the eve of the pantomime. Dear me, what a noise and a chattering ! The children look upon the stage as a huge playground, have games at hide-and-seek behind the wings, lose themselves in mysterious cellars, and get into endless scrapes. The girls gather into knots and discuss their dress, longing for the time when they will exchange their poor, worn, little gowns for the gorgeous vestments of the princes and princesses of imaginative extrava- ganza ; and everyone seems exhilarated with the thought that " treasury " will come very soon, and that unless something very unfore- seen and unexpected occurs, there will be a comfortable and convenient income for six or seven weeks at least. It is the fashion nowadays to sneer at our good old-fashioned Christmas amusement, and there is an in- clination to take sides against it, and to veneer it over with the cheap superciliousness that is the stock-in-trade of the Brummagem critic and the "second-hand gentleman"; but many of us would be sorry to deprive the children of their innocent sport, or to abolish, without ample reflection, one branch of the merry and healthy trade of pleasure. For the first time for six-and-twenty years Tom Porter was not at his post at the theatre. The old faces came to the door again, but they were not greeted by his cheery counte- nance. Where was old Tom? This was the question from the clown to the columbine. They all liked the good fellow, and as they are the most conservative of people, these artists, it did not seem like old times to come to work at Christmas, and see a new guardian at the stage door. But disappointment yielded to sympathetic regret when it was whispered about that Tom Porter was very ill. He had worked on through a neglected cold, and he was very bad — so somebody said who had heard it from somebody else. Of late years there had been a mystery about the old man. No one knew exactly where he lived, and he showed an obstinate disinclination to tell them. He was to all intents and purposes the last of his race. The wife had died long ago. The sons had emigrated, and his favourite daughter, married now, had gone to join her brother in Australia, and so, when Tom Porter took ill, as they say, he found for the first time in his life that he was alone in the. world. This is a terrible moment in the life of a solitary man. His occupation at the theatre gave him friends, amusement, and distraction. He only came home to sleep, and got to work again, and hardly perceived the misery of isolation ; but when he had to lower his flag, and was compelled to keep to his bed, it was positive pain for a man of his disposition to look round the empty room and find solitude. Gaiety, excitement, business, conversa- tion, stories, and anecdotes had been the food of his daily life, and now, suddenly and unex- pectedly, he knew that he was very ill, and was too proud to tax the claims of friendship. There were hundreds of good men and women — for they are generous, self-sacrificing, self-denying, and most human in this great profession — who would have come and nursed the old man, but he preferred to go back to his hole and die without bothering a soul. But he sent for me all the same. He denied himself to all his old friends, he refused to let them know in what corner of this London world he was passing away, but 14 THE STAGE DOOR. one night I received a note scribbled in pen- cil, that said, " Come and see the old man, like a good friend. He is veiy bad and lonely." I followed the direction, and made for a top floor in a little cul-de-sac out of Great Ormond Street. I knocked at the door, and a faint voice answered me. There he lay, the good old fellow, and I could see that tlie pain of death was on his face. All was perfectly neat and in order ; no- thing had been neglected, but here he was in this silent upper room with nothing to console him but the dull roar of distant London. " I am going fast, old friend," he said. " I know it, I feel it. Let tlie doctors do what they will, I know I am going home. But, oh, do take me away from here. They are very kind, and charitable, and attentive, but they are strangers, and this silence is horrible. I want some excitement and noise. I'd sooner be in a hospital where I could hear some one talk, or in a workhouse to listen to a grumble; but oh, these days and nights without a word, I cannot en- dure it." I promised I would have him removed where he would be happier ; but I knew the end was very near. His breath came rapidly, and he looked at me with that searching, piercing gaze that means the end. All on a sudden he lifted himself up with some strange nervous power and pulled a book from under the pillow. " Look here," he said, " this was the work of my life." " I loved the old theatre, and it was my amusement to jot down all I heard when I got home. Here they all are, scraps, anec- dotes, stories, all sorts of odds and ends. If I lived two hundred years I never could get to the end of all I have heard at one place or another. I never showed it to any one but you, but I thought you might get something out of it that would make them laugh — ^yes, and perhaps make them cry. You love the stage, and I like you for it — besides, bless you, you saved my- girl." I protested. " Don't say another word — you saved my girl ; and where is she now ? Why doesn't she come to her old father, who is alone — so terribly alone." He was getting weaker now as he handed me the book of manuscript and newspaper cuttings, but he touched it tenderly till the last. It seemed as if he were parting from a dear friend. The breathing came harder than before, and I took his hand. A nervous thrill of satisfaction went through his body as our hands touched, for though I was a stranger, still he looked on me as a friend. " I shall not die alone now," he said. " God bless you for coming to the old man." He seemed asleep, but as I bent over him he was murmuring, " Take care of the book, it is yours — remember, yours." "Wliat shall I call it, Tom?" I whis- pered. His face lighted up for the last time, as he murmured very faintly, "The Stage Door." The rest was silence. THE BROKEN NECKLACE, 15 THE BROKEN NECKUCS: A LOVE STORY. By marie BANCROFT. EARS ago, in a small coun- try theatre, where my father was engaged, I was consi- dered by the manager a very clever child, and in children's parts had be- come a pet with the au- dience. Attractions must have been at a very low ebb when the manager conceived the idea of my playing " Juliet." I am thankful that such things do not occur now. Happy children ! and happier public ! I was a pale, thin, delicate-looking child, and very tall for my age, being only thirteen, although announced in the bills as twelve. Every one thought at that time that I should, if I lived, be a remarkably fine woman, but since playing "Juliet" on that memorable first occasion I have not grown an inch, and sometimes think that my tragic efforts gave as great a shock to my system as to my audience. Often on my way to and from our re- hearsals, when I had time to loiter, I stopped at a window in the little High Street, and longingly looked at a necklace of pearl beads, in three rows, marked five shillings — a for- tune to me then. I saved until I had half-a- crown, and then tried to induce the shopman to let me have it for that price ; but I failed. My father promised to buy me the treasure if I would be very good, and study "Juliet." How readily I said " Yes," for the labour of learning the words and being taught by my mother how to speak them, seemed light in- deed compared with the joy of possessing those little pearl beads. The night arrived for the "great dramatic event" (^nde advertisements). My mother could scarcely dress me, her hands trembled so. I could not help wondering why she should be so anxious. I was not. I was of that happy age that knovrs no responsibility. I had on a pretty white dress, trimmed with narrow silver lace, my hair hanging in large waves over my shoulders, and best adornment of all was my beautiful pearl necklace. Oh ! how every one would envy me those beads. All went well until the fourth act, when, in throwing my head back to drink the poison, my long train, which I wore for the first time in my life, and which had been a great anxiety to me all through the play, got entangled in my feet, and in the effort to save myself from falling, my necklace gave way, and the beads were scattered about in all directions. I looked scared for a moment ; but when I fully realized that it was broken, I fell to crying so bitterly that I thought my heart would break too. I sank on to the couch sobbing piteously. The audience thought this a good piece of acting, and gave me great applause. Nothing in the shape of fond persuasions, i6 THE STAGE DOOR. promises, threats, or arguments would induce me to go on for the last act — nothing but the restored necklace, one row of which was broken, and the beads scattered all over the stage. At length, my poor mother, who was almost wild with despair, promised me a new one if I would only finish the part. So, in the greatest grief, and with stifled sobs, I went through the last act. When I fell on Romeo's body there was great ap- plause, but in the middle of Friar Lau- rence's last speech I saw some of my beads lying close to his feet. His treading upon them seemed imminent, so I got up and rescued them, and then lay down again. Of course, the rest of Friar Laurence's speech was not heard, and the curtain fell amidst loud laughter. I had a good scolding from father, mother, and manager, who hoped that when I again played Juliet I should think more of the part than of the orna- ments. As we were leaving the theatre, my eyes swollen from crying over the injured neck- lace, a gentleman who had witnessed the performance and the scene stepped up to us, and said, " I hope you will pardon me for speaking to you ; my name is Captain . Let me tell you how much I have been impressed by your little daughter's acting as Juliet; it really was, for so young an actress, very remarkable. Take care of her, sir, there is a bright career before her. Good night. Good night, little one ! " He shook my hand, and asked me if I would give him the remnant of my broken necklace, which I had so carefully rescued from destruction when supposed to be dead. I trembled at the thought of parting with it ; but my mother whispered to me, " I am going to buy you another." So I gave it. On our way home we talked of nothing else — my father dwelling on the criticism, and I on the final disap- pearance of my necklace. For many and many a night I quite looked for my " prophet," but he had gone as mysteriously as he had come. Often on our way home I have said, " We have never seen that kind gentleman since, father, and, though I only saw him once, I seem to miss him somehow ; will his words ever come true, I wonder ? " About two years after that, we joined the company of the Bristol Theatre, where I played almost every class of part that ever was written ; one night I appeared as Ophelia, owing to the illness of the leading lady. I felt that I had made a success, and was leaving the theatre with my mother, who instructed me in every part I played, talking to her, and feeling very happy, when who should step up to us, but my "prophet." We both recognized him at once. I was delighted, my mother gratified, and so far as circum- stances would permit, she showed that his criticism and kind compliments were most acceptable two years ago, but, having some considerable knowledge of the world, she feared that his admiration of me as a child, might grow into something more serious, and she therefore did not receive him with that warmth she otherwise might have done. He said, " Well, little one, you see I was right, you are going up the ladder, step by step ; mark my words, the next one will be London." My heart jumped at the sight of this man; there was a kind of mystery about him, he seemed to be mixed up with my life some- how, and whatever part of importance I played, I always thought of him and of his kind words. He showed me the string of pearls, and said, "You see how I have treasured these. I don't intend to part wit-h THE BROKEN NECKLACE. 17 them. I shall never give them back to you unless you ask me for them." How different were my feelings for those pearls now; it seemed like taking away my heart when he first asked me for them, and how, unknown to myself, he had taken away my heart. Every night during his short stay he sat In a corner of the dress circle, and at the end of the play would show me the pearl beads ; he would wait sometimes outside the stage door, just to press my hand and say, *' Good-night, little one ; " he had not time to say more, for my mother used to sit at the window of our lodgings, which were opposite, to see me come home. I was now in love for the very first time in my life. How everything else in the whole world suddenly dwindled into nothing. Father, mother, sisters, theatres, acting— all seemed to be shut out by a curtain, and only one being was in view. There was nothing in this man to attract a girl of my age : he was not young, not what is called good-looking, and was poor ; but what was all this to me ? I argued with myself that all the nicest people were poor, and I didn't care ; but I had never had an opportunity of telling him all this, for my mother had declined to encou- rage his visits, and so he kept away, and never tried to see me, except for one moment to say *' Good night." One night I received a note from him, only a fewUnes, saying, "Good-bye, little one. I wonder if we shall ever meet again. I shall never part with your pearls. I love you, little one, I wish you loved me, but it is better for you that you should not." This was the first opportunity he had ever given me of telling him how much I loved him, and I was resolved to take it. I gave the note to my mother, and im- plored her to let me see him. She refused. saying I was a silly girl. I fancy she said a fool, but I was too agitated to remember. " How can you think seriously of such a mysterious person ? " Mysterious ! she would not give him a chance of being anything else. " Surely," she continued, " you cannot wish to destroy all your professional prospects. Let me hear no more of this nonsense. Thank goodness he is gone, and you will forget him in a few days." " Forget him ! and in a few days ! Oh, mother ! " I knew his address in Ireland, and after vainly trying to follow my mother's counsel, I wrote to him saying that I loved him more than anything else in the world, and that if he really cared for me as much, I would run away, and go to him ; that if I did not marry him I would marry no one else ; that I could not study, that I could do nothing but think of him. He replied that it seemed hard to take me from a profession in which I was destined to shine — that he should for • ever reproach himself if I re- gretted, when too late, the step I had taken — that his love and empty pockets would be but a miserable return for the sacrifice I should make. He begged me to reflect. I did, and the more I reflected the more determined I became, and I told him so. He answered that he would not fight with his feelings any longer ; that he was sure, when once we were married, my mother would soon forgive us. And so it came about that I was to start on a certain day. All was settled. I was to receive the final letter with instructions, and the money for my journey. I thought the day would never come. Time seemed to creep and not to fly. But as the day drew nearer and nearer, my heart, which had been so light and joyful, began to beat with a heavier thud. There was a kind of fear — l& THE STAGE DOOR. a wish to run away from myself, for I felt afraid of myself — my head and my heart began to argue. -. On the night before I was to leave my home, I returned from my work at the theatre. I found my mother waiting supper for me as usual. I could not eat, I was nervous and thoughtful. My mother asked me if I was ill, or had I been annoyed at the theatre? I shook my head. I could not trust myself to speak. When she kissed me and said, " Good-night, God bless you ! " I whispered to myself, " Will He bless me to- morrow?" The words fell from her lips like a reproach, for although she said them to me every night, they never seemed to mean so much before — they never set me thinking as they did that night. When I was alone in my little bed-room, I fell on my knees and prayed to God to help me and to guide me, for my heart was full of doubt. I felt how I was deceiving my dear mother, to whom I owed everything — - who had taught me, who had worked for me, and who was now dependent upon me. If I went away, what would become of her and my young sisters, for my father's health was getting worse and worse. Oh ! how I wept and prayed that night ! I implored God to help me in my trouble and to give me some warning in my dreams. I cried myself to sleep but awoke several times. I heard the church-bell toll four, six, and eight. Still no warning dream. I tried to think that perhaps my going would be for the best, or I should have surely dreamt something, and I felt a little happier as I lay thinking. Half-past eight was the post time, and I had told the servant to bring any letters there might be for me to my room. The half-hour struck. I heard the post- man's knock. My heart seemed to stop beating. I heard the girl on the stairs. I could scarcely breathe. A knock at the door. This was the final letter. I jumped out of bed, and as I crossed the room to open the door, a voice, as if in great haste, said quickly, "Don't go." God alone knows v/hat my feelings were at that moment. Never — never, to my dying day, shall I forget it. A thrill, first of awe and terror, then of thankfulness, came over me. I fell on my knees, and said, " I won't go." The servant impatiently pushed the letter under the door. I opened it. There were the final instructions — how he would meet me on the journey, and the money for my expenses. I threw on ray dressing-gown, sat down, and ^vrote these words — " Don't expect me, I cannot go. I have changed my mind." I enclosed the money, and sent the letter to the post. I gave a sigh of relief, lay down on the bed, and cried bitterly. One morning, during breakfast, a few weeks later, my mother (who up to this time knew nothing of my little story) handed me the newspaper, and with a smile of satisfac- tion pointed to the marriage column. He had married ! I threw my arms around my mother's neck, had a good cry, and told her everything. The words of my " prophet " were ful- filled, and some two or three years later I was acting in a London theatre. Whenever I made a success, I thought of his kind words when I first saw him, and I remem- bered how I had grown to love him at last. One day I was walking slowly up Regent Street, when I stopped, without knowing why, at the Carrara marble works. Serious thoughts came over me as I contemplated the headstones and monuments,, and as I turned from them with a sigh, a voice by my side said, in a low tone, "Well, my faithless THE BROKEN NECKLACE. 19 little one." I turned, and saw my "pro- phet." My first instinct was to run away, but my legs would not move. " You see," he said, " what came of your suddenly changing your mind, I revenged my- self and got married. How cruel you were ! " He told me that he had married a rich widow, that he proposed, was accepted, and was married within a month from my refusal. After thinking to myself that widows lost no time in settling their affairs, I told him the story of my warning, and he seemed much impressed by it. He answered, "It was, I am sure, a timely warning, for we should have been very poor, and consequently very miser- able. It would have been a dreary life for you, and much too big a sacrifice, with all your bright prospects. I am now a widower, with one little child. My wife died a year after our marriage. I am rich now, and can return to my old young love. I wonder if my little Juliet loves me still as much as she said she did ? " Yes, I did, but I would not say so. I was afraid to hope again, so I said, " You had better not see me any more ; you will soon forget me." He replied, " Never, until I am under one of those," pointing to the headstones in the window. A cold chill ran through me as he said those words. He was under orders to sail for India the following week, so no time was to be lost. He called on my mother, and asked her consent to our corresponding and to our marrying on his return to England, which would be in a year, providing she consented. My mother hesitated, but after tears and en- treaties from me, and with the hope that he would marry a black woman, or that I should forget him, or that sometliing would happen to keep him in India, she reluctantly con- sented. The fates seemed to will it this time, and so I was very happy again. The day came to say good-bye. He showed me the pearl necklace, saying, "You see how I have guarded it. I will never part with it ; it seems to have linked our two lives together." I looked at the broken beads, and all the old times came back to me. There was my necklace just as I had left it, with two rows complete, and the third partly gone; and there was the knot which I had made to prevent the other beads from falling off. I somehow wished there had been no broken link. I had begun to feel sather superstitious now about our courtship. I was to have a letter from him by every mail. Every mail brought me one, full of love and kind words. No one ever seemed to speak such words as he did, they were j so good and honest. I always felt that I j could trust him, and that is why I loved j him. Six months passed — seven, eight, and ! nine — and every mail brought me. my letter. I How anxiously I looked for bis handwriting — I counted the days and hours. At last, the day came, but no letter ; the next mail, arrived, and the next, but still no letter. What could it mean? My mother, smiling, said, " Ah, my child, the old, old story ; and I am not sorry." After a few day?' reflec- tion, I began to think that she was right, and that I had been a fool; but I was very un- happy. He had seemed to be my guiding star ever since I was a little girl, and all my first and purest love was his. Oh, it was dreadful to bear ! One day, very shortly after his third letter was due, I was again in Regent Street, and thought of the day I had met him there, I was very sad and miserable, but still could not help clinging to the hope of seeing him again, and that all would be explained. He THE STAGE DOOR. had been so frank and honest, I could not help trusting to his honour. Perhaps he was coming home to surprise me. As I ap- proached the Carrara marble works, I thought how strange it would be if I met him there again. I hurried to the place, with a kind of superstitious feeling — having met him there so strangely before, I should, perhaps, as strangely meet him there again. I stopped at the old spot, waited, looked about — no, not there ! Ah ! I remembered, I was look- ing in at the window when he came ; I will do so again. I looked in at the window, and there I saw a large white headstone, with these words : gacred to the Memory of CAPTAIN , WHO DIED SUDDENLY, AT KURRACHEE, &C., &C. How I got home, I know not. I found my mother in tears, reading a letter which she had received from his dearest friend, who had found my letters among his papers. He had died soon after writing to me for the last time, and my little pearl necklace was buried with him. MY FIRST "READING." By henry IRVING. ANY years ago {I think it was in the autumn of 1858), I made an am- bitious ap- peal to the public which I don't sup- pose any- body remem- bers but my- self I had at that time been about two"years upon the stage, and was fulfilling my first engagement at Edinburgh. Like all young men, I was full of hope, and looked forward buoyantly to the time when I should leave the bottom rung of the ladder far below me. The weeks rolled on, how- ever, and my name continued to occupy a useful but obscure position in the playbill, and nothing occurred to suggest to the man- ager the propriety of doubling my salary, although he took care to assure me that I was " made to rise." It may be mentioned that I was then receiving thirty shillings per week, which was the usual remuneration for what is termed "juvenile lead." At last a brilliant idea occurred to me. It happened to be vacation time — "preach- ing week," as it is called in Scotland — and it struck me that I might turn my leisure to account by giving a leading. I imparted this project to another member of the com- pany, who entered into it with enthusiasm. He, too, was young and ambitious. It was the business aspect of the enterprise which fired his imagination, it was the artistic aim that excited mine. When I promised him half the profits, but not before, he had a vision of the excited crowd surging round the doors, of his characteristic energy in keeping them back with one hand and taking the MV FIRST "reading:' 21 money with the other ; and afterwards, of the bags of coin neatly tied and carefully ac- counted for, according to some admirable system of book-keeping by double entry. This was enough for me, and I appointed him to the very responsible position of manager, and we went about feeling a deep compassion for people whose fortunes were not, like ours, on the point of being made. Having arranged all the financial details, we came to the secondary but inevitable question — Where was the reading to be given ? It would scarcely do in Edinburgh ; the public there had too many other matters to think about. Linlithgow was a likely place. Nothing very exciting had occurred in Linlithgow since the Regent Murray was 'shot by Hamilton of Bothwell Haugh. The old town was probably weary of that subject now, and would be grateful to us for cutting out the Regent Murray with a much superior sensation. My friend the manager accord- ingly paid several visits to Linlithgow, en- gaged the Town Hall, ordered the posters, and came back every time full of confidence. Meanwhile, I was absorbed in "The Lady of Lyons," which, being the play that most charmed the fancy of a young actor, I had decided to read; and day after day, perched on Arthur's Seat, I worked myself into a romantic fever, with which I had little doubt I should inoculate the good people of Linlithgow. The day came which was to make or mar us quite, and we arrived at Linlithgow in high spirits. I felt a thrill of pride at seeing my name for the first time in big capitals on the posters, which announced that at " eight o'clock precisely Mr. Henry Irving would read ' The Lady of Lyons.' " This was highly satisfactory, and gave us an excellent appetite for a frugal tea. At the hotel we eagerly questioned our waiter as to the pro- bability of there being a great rush. He pon- dered some time, as if calculating the number of people who had personally assured him of their determination to be present ; but we could get no other answer out of him than " Nane can tell." Did he think there would be fifty people there? " Nane can tell." Did he think that the throng would be so great that the Provost would have to be sum- moned to keep order ? Even this aut have occurred during the run of " Henry the Eightli," in Charles Kean's time. My dressing-room, at that time, was a small square one, in -which Harley, Meadows, and James Vining also dressed. It evidently was in the previous Maddox management, when I often played in three and four pieces a night. Anyhow, I invited the ami- able chorus-man to have some drink, and a brandy-and-soda was brought for him. We chatted pleasantly, especially about the days when I so much enjoyed those notes Ambrosian at the Cider Cellars and Coal Hole, down to the time when George Stans- bury and Paul Bedford did their duets at Evans's Hotel in Covent Garden. But when I remarked that Appleyard was the most popular ballad-singer, the chorus-man asked me if I should remember the voice again if I heard it. I replied, " Certainly I should ;" when in somewhat tremulous, but sweet tones, he sang a verse of Appleyard's favour- ite ballad, "Alice Gray." " Why, you are Appleyard ! " I exclaimed. "Yes," he said, "that was my name at Offley's, when I sang with such confidence and applause, but some of my patrons having induced me to acquire a knowledge of music, I lost my nerve as soon as I knew what I was about, and could no longer command a position." This most amiable and respected gentle- man was the father of two beautiful and accomplished actresses, not unkno\\m to fame. The late Mr. Ranoe afterwards became prompter at the Italian Opera, and was the best of good fellows. JOHN CAmPB'E'LL. 11 JOHN CAMPBELL: A TRUE STORY OF A BENEFIT. By iHENRY NEVILLE. N the apoc- ryphal "good old times of the drama," necessi ty created many mon- sters. The " Monster Benefit "was one, and it really meant much more than it does in these ra- pid times of railway and telegraphy. A benefit often paid the arrears of salary, and enabled the poor actor to pay off the obliging butcher, baker, or clear out the brokers, and generally to " hold up his head," as he called it, to carry him, and more particularly his, to the next town, which, with the difficulties of the coach- ing days of which I write, appeared so much farther off than now. The expense and difficulty of postage and transit obliged many a fine actor to wear out his life in the provinces, and come to an obscure, modest grave in some out-of-the-way churchyard ; his ability never having asserted itself, never having become, as it were, pubUc property. His genius belonged only to a circuit, not as now, to the whole world. The word Benefit was thoroughly expressive. It was originated and intended to alleviate some of the many — too many — privations and vexations to which the old actors were too frequently subject. Vagabond life possessed especial fasci- nation, there was so much hope in it. London was the goal to which every one earnestly strove. The vital, pressing necessity for the par- ticular benefit of which I write, was the honourable discharge of a long account for attendance and physic for a poor little inno- cent child, afflicted with fever first, then a lingering ailment which kept him in bed, many, many weary months, never to rise again straight and strong as other children. The Campbells were leaving the town to try their fortune elsewhere ; the doctor must be paid, he had been so kind, so patient, so attentive — all the best feeUngs of these good people's nature were invoked in the dis- charge of this sacred debt. Had he not saved their child, their only one? They were, beyond expression, grateful to God and the doctor. True, he had never asked for his fees, nor demanded payment for the physic, but perhaps for that very reason they would have parted with their showiest pro- perties — well, even the clothes off their backs, for this interesting debt : indeed, they often discussed how to " raise the wind," and cal- culated to a nicety how much their scanty effects would produce. At last a benefit was suggested, as affording the readiest and most promising settlement. Our hero had hardly acquired that enviable position in tlie theatre which entitled him to a benefit ; con- sequently, he would have to depend on an 28 THE STAGE DOOR. attractive bill — never hinting at the great necessity which compelled the appeal to the public. Arrangements were satisfactorily made with the liberal manager, and the benefit was to take place in something less than three weeks. Then came the great question of what to perform to tempt the public. Camp- bell was only the "walking gentleman" of the establishment, and the leading man had to be consulted. Campbell would have played " Richard the Third " because Edmund Kean had made it popular by his marvellous per- formance, and nothing seemed easier than to copy him, and create the same effect; but no, the leading man would play Richard, or nothing. "But you must play the leading part, John, on your benefit night; it's only right you should," said John's loving little wife. " Besides it's your opportunity ; you are clever enough." Of course she thought him clever enough. Dear soul. " Will he play lago to your Othello?" capital suggestion? Would he? Yes, he would ! with greatest pleasure, espe- cially as Campbell had so short a time to study it, and would have to buy his " props ;" and oh, rapture ! possibly couldn't buy them, and would have to paint his legs as well as his handsome face, thought the leading man. Genius never sticks at trifles — obstacles are only things to be overcome ; nothing should stop him. John Campbell would play "Othello," and his wife's favourite piece, " Lilian, the Show Girl ;" a tragedy and a drama, " for this night only," with " Jump Jim Crow," and a jig in the middle, " By particular de- sire." But stop! by a'/^(7J