'A poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is seen no more.'"
There was inexpressible pathos in his tone, and his fine face looked thin and worn—it did not take much to soften both John's feelings and mine towards the "poor player." Besides, we had lately been studying Shakspeare, who for the first time of reading generally sends all young people tragedy-mad.
"You acted well to-day," said John; "all the folk here took you for a methodist preacher."
"Yet I never meddled with theology—only common morality. You cannot say I did."
John thought a moment, and then answered—
"No. But what put the scheme into your head?"
"The fact that, under a like necessity, the same amusing play was played out here years ago, as I told you, by John Philip—no, I will not conceal his name, the greatest actor and the truest gentleman our English stage has ever seen—John Philip Kemble."
And he raised his hat with sincere reverence. We too had heard—at least John had—of this wonderful man.
I saw the fascination of Mr. Charles's society was strongly upon him. It was no wonder. More brilliant, more versatile talent I never saw. He turned "from grave to gay, from lively to severe"—appearing in all phases like the gentleman, the scholar, and the man of the world. And neither John nor I had ever met any one of these characters, all so irresistibly alluring at our age.
I say OUR, because though I followed where he led, I always did it of my own will likewise.