Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

have seen to-night an illustration of what I have preached over and over again, the endeavor of the artists to remember that they are presenting, not only in personal appearance, but in manner, the picture of what is past and gone, of another era, of another age almost, certainly of another generation. I wish to tell this to you two who have presented these characters so admirably. I shall go back to London and say 'I have seen acting.""

Thackeray then lived with a very great and dear friend of mine and my father's, and they had rooms together in Houston Street. I had a house next door but one to them, and this is how I became so intimate with Thackeray. The name of this gentleman was Will

Tyrone Power.

iam Duer Robinson, a member of an old and well-known family, a family whose property was confiscated in Revolutionary times because they stuck to the King. Thackeray I suppose took a fancy to me; at any rate it was understood every night when I came home from acting that if I saw a light in a

certain window I was to go in, and if not it was a sign they had gone out to dinner or to bed. When I did find them in we never parted until half-past two or three in the morning. Then was the time to see Thackeray at his best, because then he was like a boy; he did not attempt to be the genius of the party; he would let Robinson or me do the entertaining while he would be the audience. It did not matter how ridiculous or impossible might be the things I said, he would laugh till the tears ran down his face; such an unsophisticated, gentle-hearted creature as he was. He gave a large dinner at which I remember were Mr. Denning Duer, my father, George William Curtis, W. Robinson, myself, and others, eighteen in all. It was the

most delightful evening that could possibly be imagined. Thackeray two nights before had been to see my father play Shylock, and he said: "Wallack, that is the first Shylock who ever gave me the idea of what an ill-used man he was." On that evening I remember my father telling a story, which many an old actor here will recollect. It was the tale of a shipwreck as told by a clergyman who was on board, and the same scenes as described afterward by an old sailor, the captain of the maintop. Thackeray's gentle and generous nature was so aroused by it that the tears ran down his face. Certainly one of the finest things my father did was the telling of that story. George Curtis and I sang a duet, I remember, "Drink to Me only with Thine Eyes," and we were asked to repeat it three or four times. This all took place about the year 1855. On one occasion there was to be a dinner party of four. Thackeray said it might probably be the last time he should meet us convivially during this visit, so we agreed to dine together with him in Robinson's rooms. The party was to consist of Mr. Robinson, Thackeray, my father, and myself. The hour arrived, and I came with a message from my father, who was laid up with the gout, one of his bad

[graphic]
[merged small][merged small][graphic][subsumed][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[graphic][subsumed]

I.

THREE BAD MEN.

By W. M. Taber.

PON a dark night some
decades ago, a man car-
rying a lantern made
short turns on a muddy
road, close by the shore
of a gloomy looking
lake.

Two oarsmen sat in a barge not far away, and the trio waited an hour of unbroken silence. Then as the dampness showed a disposition to turn into rain, the upright waiter betrayed signs of impatience, and cursed the lateness of the hour, and as he spoke, the sound of approaching wheels was heard. Through the mud they came at good speed, until the horses were seen, panting and foaming, and then the vehicle itself, a sort of van, very long and narrow. The moment the horses were pulled up, a man in a black coat jumped off the box-seat, and pulling out a note-book, consulted it by the light of the van lamp.

"How many?" said the man with the lantern, producing a note-book, too.

"Four. First, Andrew Beckstein." Two more men had by this time alighted from the van. One placed his hand on the other's shoulder and guided him as though he were blind; yet he could not have been blind, for he saw the man with the lantern well enough, and said to him: "You will have to pay for this, you devil."

Of this complimentary speech, the party addressed took no notice, but made a check in his note-book. "Beckstein-right." "Henry Stork."

He who guided the first man to the boat had returned for the three others as their names were called, and now took his seat in the van, and was followed by the black-coated party, and they drove off into the darkness, while the man with the lantern stepped into the barge and the oarsmen bent to their work.

The boat was overloaded, yet in any well-regulated party no accident need have been feared, but Beckstein seemed uneasy and occasionally evinced an ardent desire to clutch the neck of the gentleman for whom he had already signified his antipathy.

As the distance from the shore increased, lights were neared; had day broken suddenly they would have been discovered shining from the windows of a large, rugged stone building, standing with its outhouses on a small island. But in the darkness, the lights alone were visible, these, and others swinging in the hands of men who awaited the barge on a stone jetty.

Suddenly Beckstein sprang to his feet and over the oarsmen in an effort to reach the man he regarded as his enemy. The rowers started up to detain him, and the violent motion proving disastrous to the overloaded boat, it capsized, and all were in the water together. Those on the jetty, notified by cries and shouts of some misadventure, pulled speedily to the rescue in another boat, and found the oarsmen supporting Beckstein and Stork, and the gentleman of the lantern supporting himself. Struggling for breath, he exclaimed:

"Where are the Billingtons?"

"Were they with you? I see nothing, no one."

"Some object is floating off there to the right."

The rowers pulled in the direction What made you indicated, and the object proved to be a hat. On the inside were the initials H. B.

[graphic]

"Bad roads, and a bit of the harness broke. We were delayed an hour. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Goodnight."

VOL. IV.-78

The boat was allowed to drift around for a time, all eyes intently fixed upon the black water, but in vain. No cry

[blocks in formation]

THREE bad men lived on Cripplegate Hill. One was tall and the others were short; one was dark and the others were fair; whatever one was, the others were not, except that all were wicked-of that there could be no doubt. This reputation was not so much due to what people knew about them as to what was unknown. Honesty needs no mystery, and these men were strange characters certainly, as may be judged from the following authentic account of their arrival and residence in the neighborhood.

Nearly opposite Mr. Trumper's public house there had been a large, square brick building of many windows, unoccupied for many years, which of course was said to be haunted, like all other gloomy houses without mortal tenants. One day a thick fog settled down on Cripplegate Hill; it was a busy day for Trumper, for men came running in every few minutes, to drive the fog out of themselves on the displacement principle; and just after dark a man reeled into the public room with his teeth chattering as much from fear as cold.

"What's the matter, John?" said jolly Tom Trumper; "seen a ghost?" "You can laugh," said the man sul lenly; "but I've heard one."

[blocks in formation]

slammed in that empty house, you'd better give me no more to drink."

"That's all right, John," said Mr. Trumper; "you can't tell the direction of sounds in a fog. Everybody knows that."

"I don't," said John, shaking his head.

Mr. Trumper was awakened from a sound slumber that night by a touch upon his shoulder. He started up, blinking sleepily, and found his wife standing shivering by the bedside.

"What's the matter? house afire?" he said, uttering his greatest dread first.

"Thomas," said Mrs. Trumper, "I'm afraid."

[ocr errors]

What is it, then?" said her husband, waking up rapidly now.

"John Ridley was right; the ghosts are walking in that house to-night." "Nonsense; go to bed; rats, more likely," said Mr. Trumper.

66

Look, Thomas, look! do rats carry candles?" and sure enough, the fog having lifted and Mr. Trumper being able to overlook the street from his position in bed, he saw lights flitting from the windows of the brick house. He rubbed his eyes, but it was no delusion. Gradually he made out a man's tall figure, very thin, with clothes hanging loose about him, and a face that seemed almost covered with black hair. Then a window was opened, a shutter closed with a loud noise, and he saw no more. Mr. Trumper was startled, it must be owned, but he owed his reputation of a wise man, in the neighborhood, to a certain gift of common sense, and he was not to be frightened into a belief in any supernatural agency.

"There was a fog all day," he thought to himself, "and some people have moved in under its cover, and a precious queer lot they must be;" and having reassured his wife with this view of the case, he went to sleep again.

But if he expected to have his curiosity gratified next morning he was doomed to disappointment, for no signs of occupants were visible about the house across the way. Throughout the day the new tenants were the great topic of discussion, and even the cause of some excitement, but all surmises

« AnkstesnisTęsti »