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men.

STRAY MEMORIES.

(Continued.)

N the year I forget the date-the old Soho Theatre in Dean Street was swept and garnished by a crowd of foreign workIt was rechristened "The Royalty Theatre," and a very dainty little French lady became the manageress. Madame Albina de Rhona-for that was the name of the lady-gave me an engagement, and it was at this theatre I had my first experience of what is called "stage fright." Why it should have come upon me at that especial time, when I had already taken part in so many performances, I cannot imagine, but come upon me it certainly did, and I shall remember the feeling, I think, to my dying day. I never see a young actress make her first appearance without a feeling of great sympathy. Stage fright is like nothing else in the world. You are standing there apparently quite well, and in your right mind, when you suddenly feel as if your tongue had become dislocated and was lying powerless in your mouth. Cold shivers begin to creep downwards from the nape of your neck and all up you at the same time, until they seem to meet in the small of your back. About this time you feel as if a centipede, all of whose feet had been carefully iced, had begun to run about in the roots of your hair. Your next agreeable sensation is the breaking out of a cold perspiration all over you. Then you feel as though somebody had cut the muscles at the back of your knees; your mouth begins slowly to open without giving utterance to a single sound, and your eyes seem inclined to jump out of your head over the footlights. At this period it is as well to get off the stage as quickly as possible, you are far beyond the hope of any human help. Whether everybody suffers in this manner or not I cannot say, but such were the feelings which over

mastered me one memorable evening when I was playing a small part in a piece called The Governor's Wife. Looking back now over a good many years, I shrewdly suspect I had not taken sufficient pains to get "word-perfect," and, if so, I fully deserved the torture I went through. I had just strength and sense enough to drag myself off the stage and seize hold of a book, with which, after a few moments, I reappeared and ignominiously read my part. I am thankful to say that I no longer, as may be expected, suffer from this fearsome malady, but whenever I have to play a new part, for days beforehand I feel as though every nerve in iny body was dancing an independent jig on its own account. Whether Madame de Rhona boxed my cars or not on the occasion I can't remember, but I think it's most likely she did, for she was a quick-tempered, bright, energetic little woman, full of vivacity and enthusiasm, ready at one moment to fly into a perfect fury and at the next to overwhelm you with compliments and adulation.

When I first acted before her she danced about the stage and around me in a perfect frenzy of anger at what she was pleased to call my stupidity, and she nearly frightened the wits out of me; then something I did suddenly pleased her, and she overwhelmed me with compliments and praise. After a little time this became the order of the day, and I eventually grew fond of her, for not only was she very kind-hearted, but she won my youthful affections by the compliments she poured upon me. As a friend of mine says, "gross flattery" has always been, and still is, "quite good enough for me." It was to her generosity, moreover, that I owed the first piece of jewellery I ever possessed, a pretty little brooch, which, with characteristic carelessness, I promptly lost. I admired her, too, very much. She was a wee thing like a toy-and her dancing, and the way in which she moved her hands and arms and feet was so precise, express and admirable." Despair entered my soul when I looked at my own big limbs and thought "how long and gaunt I am, and what a pattern of prim prettiness she is." So in order to get rid of my big hands I would tuck them up under my arms!-then she would call out that I looked like "an ugly young poulet trying to roost"! However, this elegant habit I maintained until years and

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years after, and was only broken of it at last by a friend saying he supposed I had very ugly hands. That did me good, and out they came, to prove they were not so very ugly after all. Vanity often. succeeds where remonstrance fails.

A piece called Attar Gull was played during my engagement at the Royalty, and I remember now with vivid satisfaction the applause I received for a certain "screaming scene" in which I played. It was an effective situation. I have no very vivid recollection of the piece. I was supposed to have a great horror of snakes, and for some reason or other it was necessary to cure me of this disgust. One of my Indian attendants was ordered to place a dead snake in my room. Out of revenge, he substitutes a live reptile. I appear at a window with the beast round my neck, screaming fearfully. The spectators on the stage think the snake is dead and can do me no harm, but in reality it is slowly strangling me. I commenced screaming in a frantic, heartrending manner, and continued screaming, each cry surpassing in intensity and agony the last. This used to bring down the house, and I was told by Madame de Rhona I had made a great effect. Ah! how sweet and pleasant the flattering words sounded in my young and inexperienced cars.

After this "screaming success" I drifted to Bristol, for my sister Kate was playing an engagement in the city, and I acted with her. Mr. Chute was the manager, and he had a splendid company. Miss Madge Robertson (Mrs. Kendal) was there (I was much struck at that time by her voice-her singing voice-it was beautiful), Miss Henrietta Hodson (Mrs. Labouchere now), Mr. Arthur Wood (an admirable comedian), the Messrs. William and George Rignold, Miss Kate Bishop, and Mr. Coghlan, who was acting magnificently at that time, and dressing each of his characters so correctly and so perfectly that most of the audience did not understand it; for instance, he played the small part of Glavis in The Lady of Lyons, and looked a picture of the fop of the period-the long straggling hair, the high cravat, the eyeglass, the bows, jags and tags, and the manner!—all a perfect study. But that was some time ago, it was not understood, and the people laughed at his quaint dress!

This Bristol engagement was excellent practice for me, for we

played all things-Tragedy, Comedy, Farce, and Burlesque—my share being the second parts to my sister Kate-Nerissa, Hero, and so forth in Shakespeare's plays, and all sorts of odds and ends in the other plays. Burlesque, too! Of course I said I couldn't dance, I could not sing, but I was told I had to! and I did, in a wayit was a funny way-but it was the best thing that could happen to me, for it took the self-consciousness out of me, and after a while I thought it was capital fun, for the Bristol and Bath people were very kind. My sister and I, together with Henrietta Hodson, became great favourites, and we were petted, spoiled, and applauded to our hearts' content.

When we left Bristol we came back to London engagementsmy sister to the Lyceum Theatre, under M. Fechter's management, where she played a round of characters incomparably, and I to the Haymarket Theatre, with Mr. Buckstone.

I consider this engagement one of my lost opportunities that I would give much to find again! I fear I learnt but little here. I played in many plays. Hero in Much Ado About Nothing, Lady Touchwood in The Belle's Stratagem. In this comedy Miss Louisa Angell played Letitia Hardy, and I wondered if I ever should. I just "wondered," and that was all. I never felt jealous of other girls playing better parts. I think that was somewhat peculiar. Perhaps I was not ambitious, that was the reason I am sure, for to this day I only care to do my work well, and cannot even think or desire for to-morrow. It was at the Haymarket Theatre I first met Mr. Chippendale, Mr. Compton (he always walked to and from to the theatre, no matter what the weather), and dear old Mr. Howe. In The Little Treasure Mr. Howe played my father, and Mr. Sothern my lover. Somehow, I never could like Mr. Sothern. I admired him, but he teased me, and whilst I was acting pulled my hair, which I wore hanging down my back, and made me forget my part and look like an idiot. It was his fun, of course—but I was dull and could see no fun at all. I was then fifteen years old, and my sense of humour was not cultivated, I suppose. In the same play how much I did enjoy acting the scenes with my “father,” Mr. Howe. How the big tears rolled down his kind old face, and how I cried too. Oh, we did so enjoy it!

An old actor once said to me, "Never leave your stage effects to chance, my child, but rehearse, and find out all about it." As illustration of the truth of this I must tell of an incident which occurred whilst I was playing at the Haymarket. The play was

The Rivals-my part in it, Julia. I think I could play it well now, I certainly played it very ill then. It fell to my lot to finish the play-to, what is called, "speak the tag." Now, it has been for centuries, I believe, a superstition amongst actors that at rehearsal one must never "speak the tag," or else the speaker will be "unlucky." So at rehearsal I did not say the last few lines-I just said "Mum, mum, mum"! And when the first night came, instead of dropping my voice with the last word in the conventional and proper manner, I ended with an upward inflexion! The consternation this little innovation produced! The prompter was

so astonished he thought there was something more to be said, and did not give "the pull" for the curtain to come down. So it remained up, during a horrid pause!—until Mr. Buckstone, who was very deaf, not understanding what had happened, exclaimed in a very audible voice: "Eh! eh! Why the devil doesn't the curtain come down?" I should advise all young people to rehearse the tag and take the chance of being "unlucky." Miss Louise Keeley (Mrs. Montagu Williams) was at the Haymarket Theatre whilst I was there, and I liked her very much. She was always so merry and kind. One evening the Prince and Princess of Wales were in the Royal box-I think it was the very first time they had appeared at a theatre after their marriage. They sat rather far back in the box, the ladies and gentlemen of their suite occupying the front seats. The play was a sort of fairy play. Miss Keeley, dressed as a youth, sang a song, and as she sang she brought forward by the hand some well-known characters in fairy fiction-Cinderella, Little Boy Blue, Jack and Jill, introducing them to the audience. One verse of the song ran :—

"Here's the Prince of Happy Land,

Once he dwelt at the Lyceum ;

Here's another Prince in hand,

But being Invisible you can't see him."

Such a scene! In one moment the audience grasped the situation

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