tured my back bone. The doctor said if the men who had laughed at my cries and gone on their way had come to me, I should have been a dead man. They would have lifted me no doubt, and if they had I should have died. I had saved my own life by directing that my body should not be lifted. I lay in this wretched state at the public-house for six weeks. I could not move my head. I had lumps of ice, dipped in brandy and champagne, put into my mouth. I had starch bandages on my legs—the most terrible things you can possibly imagine. The pain and misery of starch bandages is something terrific. As I gradually grew better I told the doctor I must have the bandages off. He said he could not allow it; but finally he removed one. I amused myself all night when he was gone by cutting off the other with a knife, the pain was unbearable. This occurred in August last (1868), and this (February, 1869) is

my first appearance in public since the accident."

"A remarkable story-a wonderful story," said Falstaff; "very wonderful indeed."

"It is true, every word," said Mr. Hare; "and now I will say good night—it will not do for me to be out late."

Mark Lemon gave our visitor his crutches, and, walking gently by his side to the door, watched him down stairs.

CHAPTER V.

OVER A SEA-COAL FIRE."

OT with the brave old editor, not with

the genial amateur actor, but alone in the firelight with memories that people the room strangely and sadly. Who could have dreamed when he talked of Falstaff's death that we should so soon be packing up our show for ever? Falstaff in his last hours babbled of green fields; Mark Lemon of old friends; of Leech, and Jerrold, and Hood, and Brooks. Not the faintest indication of the shadow that was coming made itself apparent in those northern days. We were too happy perhaps. One often pays dearly for being happy. It seems like a dream now, that northern tour,

calling over the incidents as I do by the fire on this calm October night. The show is over, the actors are dispersed, never to meet again; here by my side is the leader's flask, yonder his text of Falstaff, there his letters, and here my rough notes of the closing days. The firelight flickers tenderly upon these sad memorials, and I call to mind other firesides and other times; firesides made merry by jest and fun; times made pleasant by friends whose chairs are empty, whose voices are heard no more. So close upon those last hours of that last journey, I feel inclined to repeat the experiment of my previous chapter, offering the reader a simple transcription of my rough notes, instead of any further modification or development of them. It is a liberty which I hope the reader will forgive :

"Tuesday. . To Bradford.. The ride through the district in neighbourhood of Leeds; like a glimpse of Pandemonium.. In the evening a

splendid house, but prices lower than M. L. had yet played to; was amazed when he saw the figures. Agent said Dickens could get no higher prices.. Tried it, and was obliged to issue large number of free passes.. Election petition just concluded; great excitement. Ripley said to have spent £30,000, his published election bill £7,000, and he has had to pay all the costs attending his competition for and against. A self-made man. Came into the Hall just as entertainment was commencing, and received a tremendous ovation.. M. L. had some friends in the green-room, old Bradford friends, who were excited about election affairs.. Promised to come again to Bradford.. Next day we all parted; Mark Lemon to London, myself to Worcester, Bardolph and Shallow to Birmingham.. Alone from Bradford to York.. Birmingham late on Wednesday night, determined to go to Worcester by the mail.. Found Bardolph and Shallow at the