as a multiform actor, a dramatic chameleon, compelled by the special nature of his occupation, or rather by its lack of special nature, to appear young or old, crooked or straight, noble or base-born, savage or civilized, according to the good pleasure of the dramatist. "Thus, when Tancred declaims, Toi superbe Orbassan, c'est toi que je défie!' and flings his gauntlet upon the stage, Orbassan has but to wave his hand and an attendant advances boldly, stoops, picks up the gage of battle, and resumes his former position. That is thought to be a very simple duty. But to accomplish it without provoking the mirth of the audience is le sublime du métier-le triomphe de l'art!" The emotions of an author who for the first time sees himself in print, have often been descanted upon. The sensations of a "super," raised from the ranks, intrusted with the utterance of a few words, and enabled to read the entry of his own name in the playbills, are scarcely less entitled to sympathy. His task may be slight enough, the measure of speech permitted him most limited; the reference to him in the programmes may simply run CHARLES (a waiter). . Mr. JONES; or even "Our new play will be a great go!" a promoted "super" once observed to certain of his fellows. "I play a policeman! I go on in the last scene, and handcuff Mr. Rant. I have to say, 'Murder's the charge! Stand back!' Won't that fetch the house ?" There are soldiers doomed to perish in their first battle. And there have been "supers" who have failed to justify their advancement, and silenced for ever have had to fall back into the ranks again. The French stage has a story of a figurant who ruined at once a new tragedy and his own prospects by an unhappy lapsus linguæ, the result of undue haste and nervous excitement. He had but to cry, aloud, in the crisis of the drama: "Le roi se meurt!" He was perfect at rehearsal; he earned the applause even of the author. A brilliant future, as he deemed, was open to him. But at night he could only utter, in broken tones, "Le meurt se roi !" and the tragic situation was dissolved in laughter. So, in our own theatre, there is the established legend of Delpini, the Italian clown, who, charged to exclaim at a critical moment, "Pluck them asunder!" could produce no more intelligible speech than "Massonder em plocket!" Much mirth in the house and dismay on the stage ensued. But Delpini had gained his object. He had become qualified as an actor to participate in the benefits of the Theatrical Fund. As a mere pantomimist he was without a title. But John Kemble had kindly furthered the claim of the foreign clown by intrusting him for once with " a speaking part." The tragedian, however, had been quite unprepared for the misadventure that was to result. RAILWAY PORTER . . . Mr. BROWN; but the delight of the performer is infinite. His promotion is indeed of a prodigious kind. Hitherto but a lay-figure, he is now endowed with life. He has become an actor! The world is at length informed of his existence. He has emerged from the crowd, and though it may be but for a moment, can assert his individuality. He carries his part about with him every- Delpini was, it appears, doomed to morwhere it is but a slip of paper with tification in regard to his attempts at one line of writing running across it. He English speech upon the stage. He was exhibits it boastfully to his friends. He engaged as clown at the East London, or reads it again and again; recites it in Royalty Theatre, in Goodman's Fields, at every tone of voice he can command- a time when that establishment was withpractises his elocutionary powers upon out a license for dramatic performances, every possible occasion. A Parisian figu-and was incurring the bitter hostility of rant, advanced to the position of accessoire, was so elated that he is said to have expressed surprise that the people he met in the streets did not bow to him; that the sentinels on guard did not present arms as he passed. His reverence for the author in whose play he is to appear is boundless; he regards him as a second Shakespeare, if not something more. His devotion to the manager, who has given him the part, for a time approaches deliriousness. the patent managers. It was understood, however, that musical and pantomimic entertainments could lawfully be presented. But the unhappy clown, in the course of a harlequinade, had ventured to utter the simple words, "Roast Beef!" and forthwith he was prosecuted and sent to prison as a rogue and a vagabond. For a time he seems to have been even reduced to prison fare. His case is referred to in a prologue written by Miles Peter Andrews, and delivered upon in this spot, and there was also a ceaseless sound of disturbance, for the roar of swaying miles of wood surged above and below in continual thunder. Even the mildest airs of heaven seemed to have secret stings, which goaded the Tobereevil Woods unceasingly into motion and sound. The darkness and confusion were very awful in this solitary dungeon which the trees had made for themselves. It seemed like a meetingplace for evil spirits. Katherine approved of it, and, in order to enjoy herself, took her seat on a fallen trunk over which she had stumbled. CHAPTER XXX. TWO CONGENIAL SOuls. KATHERINE had not been long in this uncomfortable spot when she heard a sound which, fearless as she was, caused her a momentary shock. To hear a footstep in such a place was startling. Yet there was a crackling of the underwood to be detected through, or rather on the surface of, the roar of the woods. Her eyes, being now used to the darkness, distinguished the outline of a woman's form, which was groping its way amongst the bushes. Presently a scream from the new-comer announced fear at the glimmer of Miss Archbold's white furs. The figure fell and cowered on the ground, and Katherine amused herself for some minutes with the terror of this unknown and silly wretch. Then she touched the prostrate body with the toe of her little boot. "Get up quickly," she said, "whoever you may be !" bound to get my will whosomedever lends me a hand." "Come," said Katherine, "this is interesting. My dear wise woman, I thank you for your compliments, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. You thought you had something good, and you find you have something naughty; so you become quite friendly and tell me your secrets. Nothing could please me more. It gives me intense pleasure to meet with people who intend to have their will. And who is boy Con-and what is he to Simon?" She knew the story well, but chose to hear it from Tibbie. your He's my sister's own son, an' Simon's nephew," she said. "An' I've swore an oath on my knees that he shall be master o' Tobeerevil. There was a will that was nearly signed whin Paul Finiston he cut in an' turned us out o' doors. I've been years starvin' yonder wid the black-beetles an' the rats; an' I'm bound to have my reward. I'll get back to his kitchen, an’ I'll put my boy into Paul's shoes. I've been begging on the hills, but it's little I'll think o' that when I've the money-bags in my clutches, an' I'm come this ways through the woods in hopes o' meetin' somethin' wicked that 'd help me. There do be devils an' bad spirits always livin' in the threes-I'm not afraid o' them if they'd give me a han'. But I'm mortial feared o' the angels, for they might keep me from my will. Katherine looked at the creature with admiration. Where in all the land could she meet with anything so congenial as The creature, an old woman, revived at this hag, who had thus avowed a purpose the human voice, and gathered herself which had made them enemies at once? grotesquely into a sitting posture. They" For I," thought Katherine, "have de could see each other now, however dimly. Katherine looked like some beautiful fairy, who had chosen for no good end to pay a visit to this spot; the other like some witch in her familiar haunt. For the old woman was ugly, and she was weird. In short, she was Tibbie. ye now! "I know ye now!" she cried, "I know Ye're Sir John Archbold's daughter from beyant the mountain. Many a time I have heard o' the beauty o' yer face, an' the hardness o' yer heart. I know ye by yer hair, for though my eyes is not good, I can see the glint o't. I took ye for an angel, an' I'm not good company for the angels-not till my boy Con's someway settled to his property. When Simon gives him his rights, then I'll set my mind to goodness; but people can't get their wills wid the grace o' God about them. An' I'm termined that Paul Finiston shall be master of Tobereevil, and I am resolved to have my will. And this creature is also bent upon forcing fate, so that her Con shall take his place. Yet we shall be friends, in spite of this little difference." My dear soul," said she, "sit down on this stump and tell me all about it. I am anxious to hear your plans. What do you mean to do in order to ruin Paul Finiston?" "I would not tell you," said Tibbie, only that I know you are hard-hearted. If I thought you soft an' good, I wouldn't open my lips to ye, not if ye prayed me on yer knees. For Paul Finiston's the sort that women likes." "But he is a fool," said Katherine, “an impostor, and a beggar, who must be turned by the shoulders out of the country, Tibbie crowed, and clapped her hands " with delight. "Oh, musha!" she cried; "you have the purty tongue in your head." "How do you mean to do it?" asked Katherine. "Don't be afraid to tell me, for there is no one within miles of us. Shall you give him a taste of nightshade, or a little hemlock-tea ?" No," said Tibbie, doubtfully, as if the idea had not startled her, but was familiar to her mind. "I have thought o' that, an' thought o't, an' I'll thry another way. I'll do it by a charm. An' that's what brought me here to-day. There's roots that does be growin' in divils' places like this, an' if ye can catch them, an' keep them, ye may do anything ye like." "Roots!" said Katherine. do you do with them ?" "And what I "Some needs wan doin', an' some another," said Tibbie. "The best of all is a mandhrake, for that's a divil in itsel'. It looks like a little man, and ye hang it up in a corner, where it can see ye walkin' about. So long as you threat it well it'll bring ye the luck o' the world. go sarchin' through every bad place in the woods, and on the mountains, turnin' up the stones, and glowerin' under the bushes, hopin' to find a mandhrake that'll do my will. If I can find him, oh, honey! won't I make my own o' the miser? I'll make the keys dance out o' his pockets, and the money-bags dance out o' the holes he has hid them in, an' the goold jump out o' the bags into Tibbie's pockets. I'll make him burn the will that has Paul in it, an' write out another that'll put Con in his place. I'll have all my own way; an' the ould villain may break his heart and die widout me needin' to lift a hand against him." "Capital," cried Katherine; "but where will you find the mandrake? Are you sure that it grows in this country at all? And suppose it does, don't you know that to suit your purpose it must spring from a murderer's grave? Then, even when it is found, there is danger in getting possession of it. It screams when its root is torn from the earth, and the shriek kills the person who plucks it." Tibbie's face fell as she listened. "You're larnder nor me,' she said. 'An' are ye 66 Certainly, the truth," said Katherine. Tibbie lifted up her voice and howled with disappointment. "Everythin's agin me," she said, rocking herself dismally. "But I'm not goin' to be baffled. I'll cross the says if ye'll tell me the counthry where it'll be found. I'll get somebody to pluck it for me that'll not know the harm. For I tell ye that I am bound to get my will." Katherine stood looking on, while the old creature thus bemoaned herself. "There, now," she said, presently, "do not cry any more. I have a mandrake myself, and I will give it to you. It will be no loss to me, for I have everything I want. I like meeting with difficulties, for I have power within myself to break them down. If you like to have the mandrake, I will give it to you." "Is it would "Like it!" cried Tibbie. I like it, she says? Oh, wirra, wirra! isn't her ladyship gone mad? Like to have the mandrake! Like to get my will! An' they said ye were hard-hearted. Then it's soft-hearted ye are, an' I was a fool to be talkin' to ye. Give away yer luck to wan like me! If I had it I'd see ye die afore I'd give it to ye." "Oh, very well," said Katherine, turning away. "Of course, if you don't want it, I can give it to some one else." Tibbie uttered a cry. She fell on the ground, and laid hold of Katherine's gown. "Ladyship, ladyship!" she said. "I meant no harm. It's on'y amazed I was, an' I ax yer honour's pardon. Give me up the mandhrake, an' ye may put yer foot on me, an' walk on me. I'll do anythin' in the world for ye when I have a divil to do my will. Ladyship, ladyship, give me the mandhrake!" "There, then," said Katherine, "I promise that you shall have it; and if ever I should want anything of you I expect you to be friendly. Stay, there is one thing 1 should like to see the house of Tobereevil. Bring me there, now, and you shall have the mandrake to-morrow. I don't want to see the miser; only his den." "Well," said Tibbie, who had now got on her feet, and recovered her self-possession, "if you can creep, an' hould yer tongue, an' if yer shoes don't squeak, I'll take ye through the place. There's little worth seein' for a lady like yersel', but come wid me if you like it. On'y don't blame Tibbie if Simon finds ye out.' "Leave that to me," said Katherine, “I'm not afraid of Simon." Tibbie clasped her hands and rocked herself with delight. "That's the mandhrake," she muttered. "There's nobody can gainsay her wid the mandhrake undher her thumb; an to-morrow it'll be Tibbie's." So these new friends set to work to repre It used to be said that at the Parisian Cirque, once famous for its battle pieces, refractory "supers" were always punished by being required to represent "the enemy" of the evening: the Russians, Prussians, English, or Arabs, as the case might be who were to be overcome by the victorious. soldiers of France-repulsed at the point of the bayonet, trampled upon and routed in a variety of ignominious ways. The sentatives of "the enemy" complained that they could not endure to be hopelessly beaten night after night. Their expostulation was unpatriotic; but it was natural. For " supers" have their feelings, moral as well as physical. At one of our own theatres a roulette table was introduced in a scene portraying the salon at Homburg, or Baden-Baden. Certain of the "supers' petitioned that they should not always appear as the losing gamesters. They desired sometimes to figure among the winners. It need hardly be said that the money that changed hands upon the occasion was only of that valueless kind that has no sort of currency off the stage. When "supers" appear as modern soldiers in action, it is found advisable to load their guns for them. They fear the "kick" of their weapons, and will, if possible, avoid firing them. Once in a military play a troop of grenadiers were required to fire a volley. Their officer waved his sword and gave the word of command superbly; but no sound followed, save only that of the snapping of locks. Not a gun had been loaded. An unfortunate unanimity had prevailed among the grenadiers. Each had forborne to load his weapon, trusting that his omission would escape notice in the general noise, and assured that a shot more or less could be of little consequence. It had occurred to no one of them that his scheme might be put into operation by others beside himself— still less that the whole band might adopt it. But this had happened. For the future their guns were given them loaded. LOST HOURS. Ir was a mournful watch she kept, And the pitiless stars shone bright; And she cried, as she thought of her drooping flowers, What a harvest might have been garnered in, What happy memories might have shone, If a steadier foot had gained them! And she cried as she sat mid her faded flowers, "Rashness and weakness bring fatal dowers; Oh my lost hours!" Too late for battle, too late for fame, Comes the vision of better life. With eyes that are burning with tears of shame The patient love cannot pardon now, She looks on the world's keen strife; Or the fond believing cheer. Where the white cross stands and the violets blow, Lie the loved that made life so dear. AMONG THE MARKETS. IN TWO PARTS. PART I. THANKS to the wholesale demolition of ancient slums, Smithfield, or Smoothfield, the ancient" campus planus," is no longer difficult of access. The narrow streets and tortuous approaches, once made dangerous to life and limb by countless herds of overdriven cattle, have disappeared, leaving in their place broad roadways and open spaces to be let for building purposes, at prices which would make even the fortunate shoddy aristocrats of Fifth Avenue stare with amazement. The old streets and time-honoured landmarks have been swept away, and the fine old English cattle-dealer, with mouth full of strange oaths and greasy pocket well lined with oleaginous country notes, has disappeared from the ancient field. The cattle-pens are gone, and the poor goaded oxen and worried sheep have betaken themselves to Islington. Öften have I wondered what became of the sorry hacks formerly sold in Smithfield. What could those poor wall-eyed, wind-galled, spavined, foundered, staggery bags of bones be good for? For the knacker's yard? 66 With light, Slopes of Victoria Regina. At last came the great day when Dogstealer (by Birdcatcher-Nancy) was to prove his mettle, and carry the fortunes of that ignoble Cæsar, his owner, to victory. The vast Roodee was crammed with eager spectators, the walls of ancient Chester covered with anxious bettors clinging like flies on the steep sides of the natural amphitheatre. The favourite was the cynosure of all eyes, the observed of all, as, steered by a tiny miniature man in shining satin, he took his preliminary canter. The hour had come, and the horse; the flag fell, and Dogstealer made short work of his numerous opponents. Bearing his colours gallantly to the fore, he came away at the distance, and amid shouts of "The favourite walks in," passed the post, the winner of the Chester "Coop." He was a proud horse that day. Eyes hitherto blinded by prejudice or hoodwinked by antagonism suddenly opened to his good points. Persistent detractors who had denounced him as a fiddle-headed, slack-ribbed brute, with "too much daylight under him," sorrowfully confessed him a veritable "clinker." Bright eyes looked lovingly upon him, and small white plump hands-long to be gloved with the proceeds of his victoryapplauded him enthusiastically. Flushed with victory, his owner-with whom it had been a case of " man or mouse" that day-led the beautiful animal in to weigh; the tidings of Dogstealer's feat sped far and near, while his lucky backers rubbed their hands amid the ominous silence of the ring, and drank Dogstealer's health in rivers of champagne. He did not get on so well afterwards. Defeat after defeat dimmed the glory of his scutcheon; down he went, ever lower and lower yetto the cab, and ultimately to that lowest deep of "Smiffle." There is some comfort in reflecting that his ungrateful owner was hanged. "Rest," he answered, coolly, "my 'osses rest when they're dead. You see, sir, I buy 'em at Smiffle, two pun ten a head all round, and sell 'em dead for a sov. They mostly last from six weeks to two months, so my 'osses don't take much out of me. In course I picks them as has a bit o' blood in 'em, and I looks out for a wicious heye; I likes a wicious heye, I do. A 'oss as has wice in him has go in him, safe as the Bank; and temper or no temper, let me alone for putting 'em along." And the heartless Automedon put them along accordingly. Unfortunate "tits" persuaded by all-powerful whipcord to "spank" along sorely against their will! That near leader, now quivering under the lash of a vulgar 'bus driver is a thorough-bred equine aristocrat, every inch of him. The blood of the Darley Arabian, his desert-born ancestor, courses through his veins and throbs in the great heart age and ill-usage have The Smithfield of tradition is no more. A failed to quell. The condition of those stately building, chiefly of iron and glass, shaky fore-legs, sadly battered about the but with external facing of red brick and knees, was once a source of care and sleep-white stone, as if indicating the streaks of less nights to the high and mighty ones of the land, for he was then a popular favourite for a great "event." His morning gallops, watched from afar by vigilant touts, were duly chronicled with the same loving minuteness that records the walks on the fat and lean within, is dedicated to the purpose of a metropolitan dead meat market. Light and graceful, but immensely strong iron arches, enclose a vast space furnished with material for countless Homeric banquets. |