THE ROGUEY MAN
A T baby boy I fondly peep—
I came to kiss good-night;
But, there, my darling's fast asleep,
Closed are those blue eyes bright.
Wee sturdy arms tired out with play
Are folded and at rest;
The feet that pattered round all day
Are tucked in downy nest.
A stray lock from the curly head
Lies on the snow-white brow;
The smile from merry lips has fled,
No dimple greets me now.
Softly he breathes; sleep on, sweet dear;
May happy dreams be thine,
And guardian-angels hover near,
To bless thee, baby mine.
****
But what in all the world is this—
The blankets thrown aside,
The rose-bud lips upraised to kiss,
The dancing eyes oped wide?
And loud he crows with baby glee,
His curls with laughter shake.
Why, he has just been fooling me—
The roguey man's awake!
Edmund Mitchell.
MY DESTINY.
A WAYSIDE ROMANCE.
By C. K. Burrow.
Illustrated by Fred Pegram.
I was travelling southward in no particularly contented mood—at least, it pleased me to think that I was going against my will, and solely out of respect to my father's brother, who had summoned me to his house on a matter which might have stirred my blood a little had I chosen to give my fancy range.
But youth is the most uncertain thing in the world, and, since the affair was none of my doing, I chose to assume that I had no interest in it.
And yet, when half my journey was done, I began to feel some uneasiness, some excitement even. This was partly due, no doubt, to the fact that I had never travelled before in my own chaise; it was an experience that made equal appeal to my pride and to my sense of responsibility. I was proud of my new importance, and at the same time a little fearful of making some mistake that should betray me as a novice to the vigilant eyes of innkeepers or hostlers.
I had recently, by the death of my father, come into a moderate fortune. I was the only child, and my mother had died long before, so that, apart from a few legacies, I was sole heir. As I have said, I was young, being no more than two and twenty, perhaps too young to have unchecked licence in the use of lands and money. You may be sure that life shone before me; it seemed to me a field for high adventure, a thing stuffed with romance. From the empty pockets of a boy I had suddenly risen to the full purse of a man of substance; and, to be honest, I think it was somewhat to my honour that I made no evil use of my new power. I had many faults then, pride being the chief; but since those days I have learnt wisdom. With the turn of the century many changes came to me; but I am now only writing of a single episode that occurred before this century was born.
Well, then, some three-fourths of the way between Worcester, from which I started, and Dorking, in Surrey, to which I was journeying, I stopped to change horses, and for my own and my servants' refreshment. During the last hour I had been thinking a good deal of what awaited me at my uncle's, and my pulse began to have the better of my will. In a word, I was going to see the girl whom I was destined to marry.
"I STOPPED TO CHANGE HORSES, AND SAW THE LANDLORD STANDING AT THE DOOR."
My father and his brother had not been on the best of terms for many years; but that had not prevented them from arranging that their children should wed—an arrangement in which I had never been consulted or, so far as I knew, the lady either. To add to the uncertainty of the whole affair, I had never seen her; I did not even know whether she were ugly or beautiful, short or tall. I might be going to assume a bondage of roses or of steel.
However, I was determined that if the damsel did not please me, or I her, there should be no marriage. I had no taste for martyrdom, and had too delicate a stomach to take a wife without love.
I forget the name of the village at which this halt was made, but I remember that the sign of the inn was the "George and Dragon." The place had a long white front, with green shutters to the windows, and over the door a great lamp hung from stanchions let into the wall. I judged that trade was slack, for as I descended from my carriage I saw the landlord standing at the door, smoking a pipe, and winking in the sunlight like a sleepy dog.
I told him to have fresh horses ready in an hour, and to attend to my servants' appetites, and also bade him send me a meal as quickly as he could; I intended to end my journey before sunset, and sleep that night in my uncle's house. He took my orders placidly (I never saw a host who was less awake), and conducted me to the parlour. It was empty, and I sat down by an open window to look out upon the village street. It was very warm and still, a day of perfect early summer weather, and before long, as though the mere air of the place inclined to rest, I began to nod in my chair.
And with this nodding came a pleasant dream, and, of course, it was about her whom I was on my way to meet. It seemed that I saw her standing in a sunny orchard, with ripening apples over her head, and her face and dress were flecked with the moving shadows of leaves. The grass was high about her feet, reaching, indeed, almost to her knees; her brown hair floated free about her shoulders; and there was such a sweet smile on her lips, and so inviting a glance in her eyes, that I made forward as though to clasp her.
"Nay, Cousin Nigel," she said; "wait, Cousin Nigel," and stepped back. All my thought at once became how to win this fair creature of the orchard; but with that I awoke, and found myself in the parlour of the "George and Dragon," and there was a maid setting out my meal.
As I turned to the table there was a great noise of wheels and shouting, and I stood up to see what sort of traveller came with such a tumult of arrival. A chaise drew up before the door, the horses all of a foam, and the postillions smeared with dust. One of the men jumped down and had the door open before the landlord was awake. A very elegantly-dressed man stepped out and handed forth a lady after him; she took his hand timidly, without looking into his face, and I saw that she would have freed it again long before he had a mind to let it go.
She held her head so low that I could not get a clear sight of her face at that moment, but her figure (and I already held myself to be a judge in such matters) was so graceful and slim, and, as it were, with such a force of youth in it, that I felt myself happy only to have looked upon it. "Come, come," said I to myself, "remember Cousin Audrey and the errand you are on"; but the difficulty was that I had nothing of Cousin Audrey to remember except her name. I did not like the look of the girl's companion, and I liked it less when I saw him at close quarters, later on.
I sat down to the table while my gentleman was giving his orders, which he did with small courtesy and great noise, and had already made good way with an excellent cold capon before the new guests were ushered into the room. The man hesitated for a moment when he saw that the place was already occupied, but after looking me up and down in a manner that made the blood tingle in my cheeks, and, I suppose concluding that I was harmless, he came in without more ado and drew the girl after him. She had been crying; the tears even then were wet upon her lashes, and her breast shook with half-spent sobs.
She threw me a timid, wistful glance, and then dropped her eyes; if she had gone down on her knees and begged for my consideration it could not have made me more her servant than that glance. She was most tenderly pretty, and the more I stole furtive looks at her the more pleased I was with the message my eyes carried to my heart. As to her age, it could not have been beyond eighteen, so that I felt old by comparison, and I was infinitely touched by the redness of her eyes and cheeks where she had rubbed them with the tiny handkerchief still tight-clasped in her hand. I was sure she would have spoken to me had she dared, and I was resolved that, at any rate, we should not part unacquainted.
"A VERY ELEGANTLY DRESSED MAN STEPPED OUT OF THE COACH AND HANDED FORTH A LADY."
As for the child's companion, the mere sight of him, added to her tears, made me sick. He was not altogether an ill-looking man, and might by some have been accounted handsome; but he had a brutal mouth, a shifty, restless eye, and was of a swarthy, insolent complexion that I did not love. As for dress, he put my outfit, although I had rather prided myself upon it, completely out of countenance. He had more silk about him than all my wardrobe contained, and his ruffles were of the finest lace; he was also decked with gold chains and rare jewels—at least, to me the jewels appeared rare, but I doubt, after all, whether they were more than paste. He seated himself close to the lady, and would have ventured some tendernesses with her, but she gave him no encouragement; at which, smiling grimly to himself, he watched her as a cat watches a frightened bird.
I went on eating for some time, and applied myself with great attention to the wine, in order to spur a somewhat tardy tongue. In half an hour I knew my carriage would be ready, and that was but short time to succour beauty in distress, for that was what my heart conjectured the scene before me to represent. At last, leaning back in my chair and uttering a sigh of satisfaction, I found my voice.
"I give you good day, sir. This inn serves fair refreshment, and is better than it looks."
"I've known worse," he said, glancing at the table; then he turned his back on me again.
"You travel fast," I said, "as though upon some pleasant errand."
"Or as though the runners were behind," he said.
"No, no; even they, surely, would respect your company. The errand must be pleasant."
"Your conjecture, sir," he said, "may be right or it may be wrong. I imagine that to be my business."
"Come," said I, "don't be angry, but drink a glass with me. We meet only to part, and good liquor will dwell better in the memory than curt words."
"Sir," he answered, eyeing me savagely, "I desire neither your liquor nor your acquaintance, and you may drink your wine yourself."
Now, although he was perfectly within his right in refusing my tendered courtesy, I did not at all like the manner of his refusal, and my blood began to warm, the more particularly as the girl had fallen again to quiet weeping.
"I thank you," I said, "for so gracious a permission, and may you learn better manners before you grow too old."
"The devil!" he said. "What ails the pair of you? The boy is impudent and deserves a whipping, and you," turning to the lady, "not much less. For God's sake stop snivelling and be done with this nonsense."
"As for the whipping," said I, dropping a hand on my sword, "I take and give only whippings with steel."
"Bravo!" he sneered, "and a pretty hand you make at the game, I'll be bound."
"I'm at your service, sir," I said, draining my glass.
The fellow was terribly put out, but I could see that he had good reason to avoid a quarrel; he looked from me to the window and from the window to the lady, and bit his lip with rage. After a pause, he said, more quietly—
"I fight only with men, and then with such as can show beards."
"For the lack of the beard," said I, "you have to thank my razor."
"Indeed," he said; "then the razor must be like my Lord Chancellor, and do little work."
"You have a pretty wit, sir!"
"I have often been commended for it."
"Doubtless by men, then," said I, "for it bites too sharply for women."
"Nay, you mistake, for women are my greatest flatterers." He smiled so grossly at the girl that if my life had had to answer for it I could not have held my tongue.
"Is it a woman's way to flatter by tears?" I asked.
"You young dog! If I had time and were unencumbered, I'd slit that saucy tongue of yours," he cried.
"I asked for information, sir, not for threats. I thought that in your charming society, which I enjoy immensely, women might find their pleasure in tears."
"You think too much, boy," he said; and then, with an oath, he left the room, and I heard him cursing the landlord for his delay in serving him, calling him more foul names than were proper for a girl to listen to. That was my opportunity, and I was quick to take it, the more readily as the lady's imploring eyes met mine again in full gaze.
"Madam," said I, "if you are in any trouble, and need a protector, my sword and life are at your service. I ask no questions—it is yours to command."
"Oh! sir," she answered, "I have been wicked, and 'tis now too late," and she fell to weeping afresh.
"Dry your eyes, dear lady. Foolish you may have been, but never wicked. Anyway, this is no time for repenting. Do you travel willingly with this gentleman, or do you wish to be rid of his company?"
"Yes, yes, to be rid of him—and to forget."
"His name is?"
"Northfield," she murmured, as his step sounded outside the door.
He entered, scowling, and glanced suspiciously at us; but as I had not moved and the lady was still trying to dry her tears, he said nothing, and sat down again at her side. A moment later food and wine were brought, and as they took their places at the table I rose and occupied my old station by the window.
My blood was up, and by this time I had forgotten all about the object of my journey; the lady's youth and beauty had made so subtle and at the same time so strong an appeal to me, that I stopped to consider nothing more. I have never, in all my life, been able to stand against a woman's weeping, and at the age at which I then was, just in the first flush of freedom, I was in no humour to reason with myself. I stood at the window, but in such a way that I missed nothing that passed at the table, and the more I saw the more I itched for battle.
Northfield ate largely and drank deeply, but the girl hardly carried a morsel to her mouth, and when she did the quivering of her lips was pitiful to see. He urged her to take more, but, she only shook her head, and at last put down her knife and fork altogether.
"'MADAM,' SAID I, 'IF YOU ARE IN ANY TROUBLE AND NEED A PROTECTOR, MY SWORD AND LIFE ARE AT YOUR SERVICE.'"
"Come, child," he said, "I begin to weary of this nonsense; I don't want a crying baby on my hands."
"I can't help crying," she said.
"You must help it, my lady; people will think strange things to see your red eyes, and perhaps spoil the sport."
My carriage was being brought round, and the sound of it made the man prick up his ears. At the same moment an idea shot into my head.
"The chaise is ready," Northfield said; "quick, drink something at least, if you cannot eat."
He filled a glass with wine, and I could have sworn he adroitly dropped some accursed powder into it.
"Drink," he said, pushing it towards her.
"You are mistaken," said I: "that carriage is mine."
The girl had put out her hand to take the glass, but as I spoke I moved towards the door and purposely stumbled against her arm; the glass was overset, and as the liquor soaked into the cloth, there the powder lay upon the surface, like fine grey sand.
"A thousand pardons!" I said.
"You clumsy fool!" cried Northfield, rising as though to strike me. But he thought better of it, and took the lady roughly by the arm.
"Come, we will leave this gentleman to play the fool alone," he said.
"I'm going back," she said. "I will—go—no further with you."
"Come!" he said, and tightened his hold upon her arm until she cried out.
"Sir," said I, staring at the stained cloth, "did you ever know red wine to have grey dregs before?"
He turned pale, and the girl cried out again; she tried to free herself, and called in terror that she would not go. He clapped a heavy hand over her mouth.
"Mr. Northfield, if that is your true name," I said, "you're a rogue, and the lady shall not stir a step."
He released her suddenly to confront me, and in answer to a signal she ran round and stood trembling by my side.
"You see, she puts herself under my protection," I said. "It is not nice for a gentleman to drug a lady's wine; indeed, the law might have something to say."
"By God!" he cried, his face white with passion, "you shall pay for this. She is my wife."
He loosened his sword; I glanced out of the window and saw that my carriage was almost ready.
"No, no!" cried the girl.
"Keep close to me," I whispered to her, and we moved towards the door. But Northfield was there before us, and stood with his back against it, sword in hand. I drew, and, begging my companion not to spoil the chances of her escape by crying out, faced him with steadier nerves than I could have given myself credit for.
"Stand aside!" I cried.
"Fool, do you want your lungs pricked?"
"They are a fair target—try, if it pleases you." He made a pass at me, and in a wink we had engaged. I was a fair swordsman, but he was a better; I, however, had the advantage in cooler nerves and the better position, for so long as I could keep him to the door he could not fall back. I was fearful, every second, that the ring of steel would bring the servants about us, and therefore, at great risk, I tried to end the matter quickly.
My chance came—he overreached himself, my point entered his breast just below the neck, and he fell forward, swooning, upon his face. In a moment I had him on his back and his shirt open; the wound was nasty, but, I gladly thought, not serious; I had no fancy to have the man's death on my conscience.
The lady was so weak from terror that I had almost carry her out, but when we reached the door she plucked up courage to lean upon my arm. The landlord was blinking in the sun, as usual, and my chaise was ready. I put five pounds into his hand, bade him not disturb his other guest for half an hour, that we might have a good start in case the fellow was hot for a pursuit, and then, opening the carriage door, handed the girl in and bade the postillions ride for an extra guinea. Directly I was seated, off we went, at such a terrific pace and in such a cloud of dust that you would have thought a royal embassy was on the road to court.
"I PURPOSELY STUMBLED AGAINST HER ARM AND UPSET THE GLASS INTO WHICH HE HAD PUT THE POWDER."
I leaned back against the cushions at my companion's side, and looked at her cautiously. The tears had ceased, her eyes were closed, and though her mouth still quivered from time to time, her breathing gradually grew quieter and her breast still. I felt extraordinarily lifted up at the sight of her; she was so young, so sweet, so tenderly fashioned. Her left hand lay in her lap, and I saw that there was no wedding ring upon it; I had been certain before that the man had lied. I was so moved by her nearness to me that I could not refrain from touching her fingers. They closed upon mine for a happy second.
"My protector," she murmured.
In half an hour, when my heat had had time to cool, I began to reflect upon the strangeness of my situation, and it was certainly sufficiently awkward to make me serious. Here was I, a young bachelor, on my way to my uncle's house, whose daughter I was to marry, and in my carriage was a girl, young and pretty, and of a most engaging person, whose name I did not know, whose gallant, or abductor, or whatever he was, I had incontinently wounded, and whose simplicity, apparently, was so profound that she was as contented in my hands as she might have been in her mother's.
By this time she appeared to be asleep, and I had not the heart to call her back to knowledge of the speeding carriage and her world of sorrows. But at last, when we were some dozen miles or so upon our way, I thought it best to try to bring matters to an issue. I touched her hand again, and again her fingers answered mine; she had not been asleep after all!
"Madam," I said, "we are now travelling southward, and if your home lies in this direction I will bid my men drive you there."
"Oh, no, no; not home!" she cried.
"Where, then, if not home?"
"Anywhere but home," she said; "my father will never forgive me."
"He could not, surely, withstand your pleading."
She opened her eyes and shook her head.
"He would never forgive a runaway," she said.
"Not even when the runaway thinks better of it, and returns?"
"Ah, but that is not all. If you only knew how naughty I've been!"
"MY POINT ENTERED HIS BREAST JUST BELOW THE NECK, AND HE FELL FORWARD SWOONING UPON HIS FACE."
"Dear lady, you make much of little; I dare take my oath you have no heavy sin upon your conscience. Suppose you did run away with this rascal Northfield, there's no great harm done, and you've stopped in time."
"I believed he loved me; he said he loved me, and I was so unhappy. But he was, oh! so rough, so cruel. I hated him then!"
She stamped her foot and set her little teeth together, which made the heat rise in me again. I was sorry that my sword had not pricked deeper; the man who could plot evil against so fair a life as this deserved no pity.
"Think no more of him," I said. "You are now with me, and as safe in my keeping, if you will trust me, as in a nursery."
"I trust you—yes," she said; "you saved me."
"Ah," said I, "if I had such a sweet maid as you for sister!"
"I will be your sister," she said, smiling into my eyes.
"Then, dear sister, you will have a brother whose life is at your command."
"You have already risked it once."
"That was nothing, child; even my groom would have done as much."
She shook her curls in pretty disbelief, and my responsibility began to weigh upon me again. For, although all this was very pretty, and a game at which I could have spent hours, yet the carriage was still flying at top speed towards my destination, and if the lady would not tell me where she lived, what was I to do? In all my uncertainty, however, and in spite of the talk of sister, I was sure of one thing, and that was, that I would not marry my Cousin Audrey.
After a time I drew to my companion again, and could not but observe how, with returning security, her loveliness grew; it seemed to expand and open, like a blossom shyly turning sunwards after a storm. The thought that if I insisted on taking her home I might have little opportunity to cultivate an acquaintance already dear to me, put another notion into my head; and although it was wild enough I was in no mood to reject it on that score.
"I am going," said I, "to a relative in Surrey, and if you like to come with me, I can promise you a courteous, if not a cordial, welcome. You will be safe there, at least, and to-morrow, or at any time you wish, I will see your father and plead for your forgiveness. It already grows towards evening, and we cannot now be far from my uncle's house."
"I will go with you," she said, "and, oh! thank you for the thought."
When it was settled, I began to see to what a pretty complication I was working, and, indeed, it seemed doubtful whether my own reception would be even courteous. The circumstances in which I met the lady would of course explain something; but I had no reason to suppose my uncle either blind or a fool, and I was determined, from the first, to let him see where my preference lay. As to my Cousin Audrey, since she had never seen me, she could not love me, so there would be no hearts broken. The probability was that she disliked the prospect of my visit as much as I did.
It was a beautiful, clear evening, wonderfully gracious and serene, and in the long silence that fell between us I turned to the carriage window and looked out at the country through which we sped.
My companion, during all the time we had been together, had never taken any account of the country—an omission I have observed in many girls. Presently we passed over the base of a noble hill, with white shining through the green, and all astir, as it seemed, with little winds.
"That must be Box Hill!" I cried.
She started and laid a hand on my arm, leaning to my side of the chaise to look.
"Box Hill!" she repeated, and her face paled and her voice shook.
"Why not Box Hill?" I said. "We're close to Dorking now."
"Dorking!"
The poor child shook with fright, and hid her face in her hands.
"Oh, you're taking me home," she cried, "and I did so trust you!"
"Dear lady," I said, "if your home is here, 'tis no fault of mine that you are back again. Remember, I beseech you, that you never told me where you lived, nor did I question you."
She took no heed of me, but wrung her hands and cast herself back against the cushions in despair.
"To come back after all!" she cried. "I was wicked to run away, I know, I know; but to come back the same day like a child-truant! I never really loved Mr. Northfield, but he persuaded, and persuaded, and flattered me, and at last I promised. I was to marry my cousin, whom I'd never seen, and I couldn't bear the thought of it. He was coming to-to-day, and he'll be at h-home n-now, and I shall h-have to m-marry him!"
I listened to this speech in blank amazement; but when it was ended I laughed aloud for joy of the light that broke upon me.
"You're un-k-kind to l-laugh," she sobbed.
"Unkind to you?" I cried, catching her hand. "What is your name, sweet mistress?"
"Audrey M-Mortimer," she said.
"And mine," cried I, "is Nigel Gray, your Cousin Nigel, very much at your service, and very much in love with Cousin Audrey!"
For a moment we gazed into each other's eyes in a kind of transport, and then, without more ado, I took the little lady in my arms, and kissed her. At first she tried to be a little prim and coy, but, later, she sat upon my knee, although the chaise was narrow, and clasped her arms about my neck.
"You dear, brave cousin!" she cried.
"Am I so dreadful, and will you run away again?"
"Don't tease me, Nigel," she pleaded, and laid her cheek against mine. She was little more than a child, after all, and my heart beat high and quick to think from what, under Providence, I had saved her that day.
"What can I tell father?" she asked.
"I TOOK THE LITTLE LADY IN MY ARMS AND KISSED HER."
"You only left home this morning?"
"Yes, cousin."
"Tell him that you ventured on to the road to see this strange cousin of yours, and that he recognised you and picked you up."
"But that would be a story!"
"Well, I will tell it for you, if you will forgive me afterwards. Do you think you will ever love me, Audrey?"
"I love you already, Cousin Nigel."
"Nigel, without the cousin."
"Nigel," she said.
And so, you see, the adventure ended happily for both of us, but I told my Uncle Mortimer, privately, exactly what had really occurred, in order that we might be on guard against the man Northfield. He, however, had had his lesson; and his wound, I suppose, not proving serious, he hid the scar and thought it best to keep a closed mouth. Indeed, not long after, he disappeared from the country, and was heard of later on in America, where I trust he was better appreciated than he ever was here.
As for Audrey, no sweeter woman ever breathed than my wife, and she has made up to me a thousand fold for thinking so lightly of me before she had ever seen my face. And for myself, though I have had many encounters since then and against heavier odds, none ever had so fair a reward.
A FAMOUS WIGMAKER'S FAMOUS ALBUM.
SOME INTERESTING THEATRICAL AUTOGRAPHS.
By Gavin Macdonald.
Mr. William Clarkson, of Wellington Street, where the wigs come from, is almost as well known to the general public as the stars of the theatrical and musical professions who frequent his establishment.
In the whole of London, I doubt if you could find a more interesting place to spend an afternoon than the Wellington Street wig shop. And, if you are to any extent a hero worshipper of stage players, it is here you will find them, free, unconventional, Bohemian fellows all, with the strait lace of the footlights gone.
Clarkson's is a sort of theatrical Rotten Row, where all the professional world is wont to meet, and mix reminiscences and general chit-chat of the stage with orders for wigs and make-ups.
The shop itself is hardly less remarkable than the business carried on within it. It has a touch of the last century about it, with its low-pitched ceilings and curious anterooms.
From the former hang hundreds of grotesque pantomime and fancy-dress masks, scarcely clearing the heads of the customers. In glass cases around the walls of shop and anterooms are wigs and disguises and costumes of every description, an empire's ransom in paste jewels, and the serving of an army corps in stage weapons.
Almost any morning in the theatrical season you will find three or four well-known faces among the crowd in the establishment. It is a convenient meeting-place for one thing, and it teems with familiar faces and opportunities for friendly chats for another.
PHILIP BURNE-JONES' SKETCH OF HIMSELF.
THUMBNAIL BY PHIL MAY.
The groups of actors, actresses, musicians or artists, as the case may be, stand here and there chatting unconcernedly, while the various employés rush hither and thither, dodging between them like a pack of startled deer. And down at the desk sits Mr. Clarkson himself, characteristically occupied in doing twenty things at once. First, it is a genial word with a well-known star across the top of his desk. Then a word is exchanged with a distant group, during which the telephone rings up, and there is the Prince of Wales' fancy-dress ball costume to be discussed. Sir Henry Irving wants a wig curled, or possibly a new elephant is required in a hurry for a West-end pantomime.
Meanwhile assistants momentarily consult him, till you begin to think it is a miracle his reason survives; yet somehow all are answered, and additional orders are shouted to others in the far corners of the building into the bargain. This strange mixture of hustle and scurry on the one hand and on the other is a feature of Clarkson's I have never yet missed, although I have visited the place times without number.
Needless to say, there is scarcely a member of the artistic professions whom Mr. Clarkson cannot number among his friends. He is always ready with an apropos story should any of them be mentioned, or should you evince any special interest in the subject it is quite possible he will show you his famous albums, and point out the absent one's autograph and remarks.
The autograph books—for there are two of them—are the most wonderful of their kind in the world, containing as they do the signatures of almost every member of the theatrical profession, both here and abroad.
SIR HENRY IRVING'S AUTOGRAPH.
There are many hundreds of them, many accompanied by quotations from favourite parts, snatches of verse, stage catch phrases identified with their names, and so forth.
Many of the artists have contributed sketches. The musicians in most cases have scribbled bars of their own compositions after their autographs.
For the purpose of illustrating this article I have reproduced a few autographs from this unique collection. To publish them all would need a special edition.
Most if not all of the names will be familiar to the readers of this magazine.
First we give some artists' thumbnails. The most ambitious is the pen drawing of a Cavalier's head, by Mr. Seymour Lucas, R.A.
It is a pity that we are not able to give a larger reproduction of the inimitable pencil drawing of a negro's head by Phil May. It is a wonderful piece of drawing.
MISS TERRY'S QUOTATION—
Perhaps the cleverest thing in the album is the sketch by that versatile actor-artist, J. Bernard Partridge.
Not less interesting is the sketch of himself by Philip Burne-Jones.
After the artists come the actors and actresses.
Miss Ellen Terry quotes Shakespeare, "And mine, to eke out his." Underneath is a particularly happy retort by Sir Arthur Sullivan, who is inclined to baldness. He writes: "And his (Clarkson's), to eke out mine (hair)."
—AND SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN'S RETORT.
What Mr. Tree means by his quotation from Henry V. I am not prepared to say. Is it the wig or the maker? I leave it to Mr. Clarkson.
All playgoers will be glad to compare the diversified signatures, whether their favourite be Sir Henry Irving, Sir Squire or Lady Bancroft, Mr. Forbes Robertson, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, or the veteran Mr. Toole.
Sarah Bernhardt writes a French sentence. Curiously enough, although this appears at the very bottom of a page, it was the first autograph in the book; another instance of the great Sarah's eccentricity.
SIR SQUIRE AND LADY BANCROFT'S CONTRIBUTION.
Mr. Clarkson supplies Sarah Bernhardt with all her wigs, and they are never even curled by anyone but him, being sent especially from Paris for the purpose.
MR. G. R. SIMS ON THE "WIGGERIES." |
MADAME PATTI'S TEXT. |
MADAME MELBA WISHES "GOOD LUCK." |
MR. F. STOREY'S IDEA OF HIMSELF. |
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AN AIR BY A POPULAR COMPOSER. |
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| MR. DIOSY WRITES A |
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WHAT ONE OF THE "BABES IN THE WOOD" SAYS. |
MR. TREE QUOTES SHAKESPEARE.
Mr. Fred Storey's portrait of himself was in all probability produced by the aid of a particularly lissom quill pen.
Mr. George R. Sims contributes a funny travesty of a speech of one of the witches in Macbeth—