Turk was really a slight-made man, and as I had not seen him act at the time of these utterances, I could not understand his sister's praises of him as the best murderer to slow music that she had ever seen. His appearance in private life was, to say the best of it, insignificant, and as utterly opposed to that of a deeply-dyed ruffian as can well be imagined. The only likeness to the description Josey West had given of him that I could see was his 'glare,' and he certainly did roll his eyes as he spoke, with an effect which was nothing less than tremendous. I mentioned to him that I had heard the greatest praises of his acting, and that he played the villain's part to the life.

'And what does that prove?' he asked, with an oratorical flourish. 'Does it prove that I am fit for nothing better, or that I am a conscientious actor? When I have a part to play, I play it; I don't play Turk West every night. See me play the Thug, and I defy you to recognise me; see me as the First Murderer in Macbeth, and I defy you to recognise the Thug. When I first played the Thug, my own mother didn't know me; "That's something like acting," she said; and she ought to have known, rest her soul! for she played a baby in arms before she was out of long clothes, and spoke lines on the stage when she was three years old. Why, sir, my struggle with old Martin, in The Will and the Way, was said to be the most realistic thing ever seen on the stage--and do I look as if I would murder a man? It was art, sir, pure art. I am a conscientious actor--a conscientious actor, sir, Chris, my boy--and what I have to play, I play. Give me a strong leading part in a good piece, in a good theatre in the West-end--in the West-end, sir, Chris, my boy, not in this heaven-forsaken quarter--and then see what I can do! Why, sir, there are men occupying leading positions in our best theatres who can't hold a candle to Turk West--I'm not a vain man, and I say they can't hold a candle to Turk West! There are men--whose names I'll not mention, for I'm not envious and I only speak in the interests of art--men on the boards on the other side of Temple Bar--where I've never been seen--who are drawing large screws, and who have as much idea of acting as a barn-door fowl. What do they play? They play themselves, never mind what characters they represent. Dress doesn't make a character--it's the voice, and the manner, and the bearing. Why, look at----never mind; I said I wouldn't mention names. Directly he comes on the stage--whether he plays a young man or a middle-aged man or an old man, a man of this century or a man of the last century, or farther back if you please--everybody says, "Ah, there's old So-and-so!" And he uses the same action and the same leer and the same walk, as if the hundreds of characters he has played in his time were written to represent him, not as if, having taken to the stage, it was his duty to represent them. Call that acting! It's death and destruction to art, that's what it is. And the public stand it--stand it, sir, Chris, my boy--being led by the nose, as asses are, by critics who have reasons of their own for not putting their thumbs down on such incompetency. That's the word, sir, Chris, my boy, that's the word--incompetency. But wait-till I come out; wait till an author that I have in my eye-- yes, sir, I have him; I know him, and he believes in me, and I believe in him; we fight a common cause--wait till he has finished the piece he is writing for me, a piece representing two passions; one is not enough for Turk West. When that piece is performed at one of the West-end theatres, with Turk West in the leading character, you may mark a new era in the history of the stage. But mum, Chris, my boy, mum! Not a word of this to any of my relations.'

My acquiescent rejoinders were very pleasing to him, and he expressed a high opinion of my judgment.

'You shall come and see me play to-morrow night,' he said, 'at the Royal Columbia. I'm engaged there for the heavy business. Can you get away from work at half-past five o'clock? I'll come for you, if you like, and we'll walk together to the shop' (thus irreverently designating the Temple of Thespis).

I said I thought I could get away, and he promised to call for me.

'You will see, sir, Chris, my boy, the most villainous and incomprehensible blood-and-thunder melodrama that ever was presented on the stage--it is called The Knight of the Sable Plume, or The Bloodstained Banner. Isn't the very title enough to drive intelligent persons from the doors? But, sir, Chris, my boy, we play to a twopenny gallery, and the twopenny gallery will have blood for its money, and plenty of it. The Bloodstained Banner is a vile hash put together for a "star"--an arrant impostor, sir--who plays the leading part. I'll say nothing of him--you shall see and judge for yourself. I play Plantagenet the Ruthless; I don't slur my part because it's impossible, absurd, and ridiculous--you'll find no shirking in Turk West; he knows what duty is, and he does it. If I have lines given me to speak in which there isn't an atom of sense, it isn't my fault; I speak them because I'm paid to speak them, and I do my best to illuminate--that's the word, sir, Chris, my boy--to illuminate a character which is an insult to my intelligence. Necessity knows no law, and if I'm compelled to knuckle-down to fate to-day, I live in hopes that the sun will shine to-morrow.'

I said that I sincerely hoped the sun would shine to-morrow, and that it would shine brightly for him; and Turk West wrung my hand, and said that he wished the audiences he had to play to were as intellectually gifted as I was, adding that then there would be hope for the drama.

I obtained permission to leave on the following evening at the time mentioned by Turk, who was as good as his word in coming for me, and we walked together to the Royal Columbia Theatre.

'Prepare yourself, my boy,' he said, in the tone of one who was about to initiate a novice in solemn mysteries; 'I am going to take you behind the scenes.'

I was duly impressed by the great privilege in store for me, and I walked by the side of Turk West, glorified in a measure by his importance. The theatre was not yet open, and a large number of persons was waiting for admittance, some of whom, as regular frequenters, recognised Turk and pointed him out to their companions, who regarded him with looks of awe and wonder; others, unaware of the great presence, were kicking vigorously at the doors. After lingering a little and looking about him with an unconscious air (really, I now believe, to enjoy the small tribute of fame which was descending upon him; but I did not suspect this at the time), Turk preceded me down an unobtrusive narrow passage, the existence of which could have been known only to the initiated. This led to the stage-door, which to my astonishment was the meanest, shabbiest, and most battered door within my experience. We plunged at once into the dark recesses of the theatre; and after bumping my head very severely against jutting beams, and nearly breaking my neck by falling up and down unexpected steps, which were nothing more nor less than traps for the unwary, I found myself in a long barn-like room, full of draughts (which latter feature, indeed, seems to be the chronic complaint of all theatres, before and behind the curtain), and with a very low ceiling, which Turk informed me was the principal dressing-room for the gentlemen of the company. Therein were congregated seven or eight individuals, making-up for the first piece; some were rubbing themselves dry with dirty towels, some were dressing, some undressing, some painting their faces. One, whom I afterwards discovered was the low-comedy man, was sticking pieces of pluffy wool upon his nose and cheeks, and dabbing them with rouge, with which he was also painting his eyebrows, so that they might match his close-cropped, carroty-haired wig. Turk was familiarly and merrily greeted by all these brothers-in-arms, who all addressed him as 'Cully;' and as he returned the compliment and 'cullied' them, I presumed it was a family name which they all enjoyed. Turk proceeded at once to disrobe himself, and I, filled with wonder at the mysteries of which I was, for the first time, a privileged observer, turned my attention to the other members of the company. The room adjoining was also occupied, by the ladies of the company, to judge from their voices; they were in the merriest of spirits, and a smart rattle of jokes and saucy sayings passed from one room to another. Turk was evidently a favourite with the ladies, who called out 'Turk, my dear' this, and 'Turk, my dear' that, he returning their 'dears' with 'darlings,' as became a man of gallantry. When, after the lapse of a few minutes, I looked towards the place where Turk was, I discovered in his stead an imposing individual with a pair of magnificent moustaches on his lips, and such a development of calf to his legs as I certainly never should have given Turk credit for without ocular proof. I gazed at him in doubt as to whether it really was Turk I saw before me, and his voice presently convinced me that it was Turk, and no other. Over his herculean calves he drew a pair of doubtfully-white cotton tights, and over these a pair of yellow-satin breeches, rather the worse for wear; around his waist (no longer slim, but bulky, as became the 'heavy man') he drew a flaming red-silk sash, with enormous fringes, and a broad black belt, in which were ominously displayed two great knives and three great pistols. Then came a ballet shirt which had seen better days (or nights), then a blue-velvet jacket, with slashed sleeves and large brass buttons, and he completed his attire by throwing carelessly upon his head-- which was framed in a wig of black ringlets--a peaked black hat, with a stained red feather drooping over (I feel that I ought to say o'er') his brow.