To turn to the present century: M. de Lesseps has been so successful with the Suez Canal, and promises to be with the Panama one, that it is no wonder that he should have many followers; and it is to be noted that the canals proposed now are all on the large scale—canals for ships of large size. They are mostly through narrow necks of land, although one of them is to connect an inland town, Manchester, about thirty miles from salt water, directly with the sea. The Isthmus of Corinth is the site of another; and still another is to run into the great Sahara of Africa and convert it into a great salt-water lake. How long this lake would take to fill up with solid salt is a nice question, which we have not sufficient means of determining, as the other ‘salt lakes’ of the world are all supplied with fresh water, and have only as yet attained to a more or less briny state.
AN IRISH TRAVELLING THEATRE.
Many people who have heard of a travelling theatre may find perhaps the following peep behind the scenes somewhat interesting.
On a cold, bleak day towards the end of October 1885, I received the following letter:
Respected Lady—I is an actress, and has a travelling theatre. We came to this village two days ago; but the times is bad, and business so slack, I has had to sell most all the theatrical wardrobe; and in consequence we has but little left us we can wear. Respected lady, I writes to ask you to have the harte to help me and my company. Any evening dresses, especial ballett dresses, no matter how old, and any artificial flowers, will be thankful received by one who art and health is alike forsakin. Respected lady, I has a large family to provide for, and any old stockings and shoes I pray you to bestow, lady. My daughter is waiting for an answer. We has a benefit for her to-night. Any clothes, lady, looks well on the stage. Reserved seats fourpince, and pit twopince.—Yours respectful to command,
Madoline Emerson,
or Mary Flanagan.
I sent for the bearer of the letter, who had, as intimated, waited for my reply. A little girl of about eight years old appeared, and bowed to me very gravely. She was thinly and poorly clad, and looked miserably cold and wretched. Her little feet were without stockings, and red from exposure; they peeped through her broken shoes.
When I asked her would she like some food while she waited, her poor pinched little face brightened as she eagerly said: ‘Yes, lady, if you please. I have had no breakfast, and I am so hungry.’ So, while she partook of the meal she so much needed, I collected what clothes I could, and gave them to her, promising to have some more on the morrow, when I desired her to call again. She did so, bringing with her a letter full of expressions of gratitude from her mother for the help I had given. It was on this occasion I heard from little Mary the following history of a travelling theatre.
‘We came to this village two days ago. Our theatre is erected in the street, and we call ourselves the Emerson Company. That’s my mother’s name; and it sounds grander-like than my father’s, which is Flanagan. There are six of us alive; but my eldest sister is married these two years, and has a theatre of her own. We mostly marry into the profession, for we find it more useful,’ she added. ‘My big sister at home is fourteen, and we buried two. Next to her, then I come, and I am eight; and my only brother, who comes next to me, is six. No more of us act, because Maggie must mind the baby while mother is acting. My sister dances and sings beautifully; and as for an Irish jig, you never saw the like of her, she’s that good. But she gets frightfully tired, for she has heart disease; and the doctor says as how she may die any minute. I can sing too,’ she continued proudly; ‘and I could dance on the “tight wire” too; but I fell off it two years ago, because I forgot to rub my feet in a white powder we have to use before going on; and since then, I am afraid. But my little brother isn’t, and he can turn a summerset on the wire and juggle grand. He can throw the knives as high as that’—indicating with her hands a distance of three or four feet—‘and can bring the sharp points of the blades on to the palms of his hand without so much as giving them a scratch.’
‘How can he do that, if the knives are so sharp?’