Occasionally one person united two "lines of business," as in the case of Mrs. Bradshaw, who played "old women" and "heavy business" both, and when anything happened to disqualify such a person for work the inconvenience was of course very great. Mrs. Bradshaw, as I have said before, was very stout, but her frame was delicate in the extreme, and her slender ankles were unable to bear her great weight, and one of them broke. Of course that meant a long lying up in dry-dock for her, and any amount of worry for ever so many other people. Right in the middle of her imprisonment came the engagement of the German actor, Herr Daniel Bandmann. He was to open with "Hamlet," and, gracious Heaven! I was cast for the Queen-mother. It took a good deal in the way of being asked to do strange parts to startle me, but the Queen-mother did it. I was just nicely past sixteen, but even I dared not yet lay claim to seventeen, and I was to go on the stage for the serious Shakespearian mother of a star.

"Oh, I couldn't!"

"Can't be helped—no one else," growled Mr. Ellsler. "Just study your lines, right away, and do the best you can."

I had been brought up to obey, and I obeyed. We had heard much of Mr. Bandmann, of his originality, his impetuosity, and I had been very anxious to see him. After that cast, however, I would gladly have deferred the pleasure. The dreaded morning came. Mr. Bandmann, a very big man, to my frightened eyes looked gigantic. He was dark-skinned, he had crinkly, flowing hair, his eyes were of the curious red-brown color of a ripe chestnut. He was large of voice, and large of gesture. There was a greeting, a few introductions, and then rehearsal was on, and soon, oh! so soon, there came the call for the Queen. I came forward. He glanced down at me, half smiled, waved his arm, and said: "Not you, not the Player-Queen, but Gertrude."

I faintly answered: "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to play Gertrude."

"Oh, no you won't!" he cried, "not with me!" He was furious, he stamped his feet, he turned to the manager: "What's all this infernal nonsense? I want a woman for this part! What kind of witches' broth are you serving me, with an old woman for my Ophelia, and an apple-cheeked girl for my mother! She can't speak these lines! she, dumpling face!"

Mr. Ellsler said, quietly: "There is sickness in my company. The heavy woman cannot act; this young girl will not look the part, of course, but you need have no fear about the lines, she never loses a word."

"Curse the words! It is, that that little girl shall not read with the sense one line, no, not one line of the Shakespeare!" his English was fast going in his rage.

Mr. Ellsler answered: "She will read the part as well as you ever heard it in your life, Mr. Bandmann." And Mr. Bandmann gave a jeering laugh, and snapped his fingers loudly.

It was most insulting, and I felt overwhelmed with humiliation. Mr. Ellsler said, angrily: "Very well, as I have no one else to offer you, we will close the theatre for the night!"

But Mr. Bandmann did not want to close—not he. So, after swearing in German for a time, he resumed rehearsal, and when my time came to speak I could scarcely lift my drooping head or conquer the lump in my throat, but, somehow, I got out the entreating words:

He lifted his head suddenly—I went on:

He exclaimed, surprisedly: "So! so!" as I continued my speech. Now in this country, "So—so!" is a term applied to restless cows at milking-time, and the devil of ridicule, never long at rest in my mind, suddenly wakened, so that when I had to say:

and Mr. Bandmann smilingly cried: "So! so!" and I swiftly added the word "Bossy," and every soul on the stage broke into laughter. He saw he was laughed at, and it took a whole week's time and an elaborate explanation, to enable him to grasp the jest—but when he got a good hold of it, he so! so! bossied and stamped and laughed at a great rate.

During the rehearsal—which was difficult in the extreme, as his business (i.e., actions or poses accompanying certain words) was very different from that we were used to—he never found one single fault with my reading, and made just one suggestion, which I was most careful to follow—for one taste of his temper had been enough.

Then came the night—a big house, too, I remember. I wore long and loose garments to make me look more matronly; but, alas! the drapery Queen Gertrude wears, passed under her jaws from ear to ear, was particularly becoming to me, and brought me uncommonly near to prettiness. Mr. Ellsler groaned, but said nothing, while Mr. Bandmann sneered out an "Ach Himmel!" shrugged his shoulders, and made me feel real nice and happy. And when one considers that without me the theatre must have closed or changed its bill, even while one pities him for the infliction, one feels he was unnecessarily unkind.

Well, all went quietly until the closet scene—between Hamlet, the Queen, and the Ghost. It is a great scene, and he had some very effective business. I forgot Bandmann in Hamlet. I tried hard to show shame, pride, and terror. The applause was rapturous. The curtain fell, and—why, what, in the name of heaven, was happening to me?

I was caught by the arms and lifted high in air; when I came down I was crushed to Hamlet's bosom, with a crackling sound of breaking Roman-pearl beads, and in a whirlwind of "Himmels!" "Gotts!" and things, I was kissed with frenzied wet kisses on either cheek—on my brow—my eyes. Then disjointed English came forth: "Oh, you so great, you kleine apple-cheeked girl! you maker of the fraud—you so great nobody! ach! you are fire—you have pride—you are a Gertrude who have shame!" More kisses, then suddenly he realized the audience was still applauding—loudly and heartily. He grasped my hand, he dragged me before the curtain, he bowed, he waved his hands, he threw one arm about my shoulders.

"Good Lord!" I thought, "he isn't going to do it all over again—out here, is he?" and I began backing out of sight as quickly as possible.

It was a very comforting plaster to apply to my wounds—such a success as that, but it would have been so much pleasanter not to have received the wound in the first place.

Mr. Bandmann's best work, I think, was done in "Narcisse." His Hamlet seemed to me too melodramatic—if I may say so. If Hamlet had had all that tremendous fund of energy, all that love of action, the Ghost need never have returned to "whet his almost blunted purpose." Nor could I like his scene with his guilty mother. There was not even a forced show of respect for her. There was no grief for her wrong-doing—rather, his whole tone was that of a triumphant detective. And his speeches, "Such an act!" and "Look upon this picture!" were given with such unction—such a sneeringly, perfect comprehension of her lust, as to become themselves lustful.

His Shylock was much admired, I believe, but Narcisse was a most artistic piece of work. His appearance was superb; his philosophical flippancy anent his poverty, his biting contempt of the powerful Pompadour; his passion and madness on discovering his lost wife in the person of the dying favorite, and his own death, were really great.

And just one little month after the departure of the impetuous German, who should be announced but Mr. Edwin Booth. I felt my eyes growing wider as I read in the cast, "Queen Gertrude—Miss Morris." Uncle Dick, behind me, said: "Would you like me to d——n poor Brad's bones for you, Clara? It's hard lines on you, and that's a fact!"

"Oh!" I thought, "why won't her blessed old bones mend themselves! she is not lazy, but they are! oh, dear! oh, dear!" and miserable tears slid down my cheeks all the way home, and moistened saltily my supper of crackers after I got there.

I had succeeded before, oh, yes; but I could not help recalling just how hot the ploughshares were over which I had walked to reach that success. Then, too, all girls have their gods—some have many of them. Some girls change them often. My gods were few. Sometimes I cast one down, but I never changed them, and on the highest, whitest pedestal of all, grave and gentle, stood the god of my professional idolatry—Edwin Booth. I wiped off cracker-crumbs with one hand and tears with the other.

It was so humiliating to be forced upon anyone, as I should be forced upon Mr. Booth, since there was still no one but my "apple-cheeked" self to go on for the Queen; and though I dreaded indignant complaint or disparaging remarks from him, I was honestly more unhappy over the annoyance this blemish on the cast would cause him. Well, it could not be helped, I should have to bear a second cruel mortification, that was all. I put my four remaining crackers back in their box, brushed up the crumbs, wiped my eyes, repeated my childish little old-time "Now I lay me," and went to sleep; only to dream of Mr. Booth holding out a hideous mask, and pressing me to have the decency to put it on before going on the stage for Gertrude.

When the dreaded Monday came, lo! a blizzard came with it. The trains were all late, or stalled entirely. We rehearsed, but there was no Mr. Booth present. He was held in a drift somewhere on the line, and at night, therefore, we all went early to the theatre, so that if he came we would have time to go over the important scenes—or if he did not come that we might prepare for another play.

He came. Oh, how my heart sank! This would be worse for him even than it had been for Mr. Bandmann, for the latter knew of his disappointing Queen in the morning, and had time to get over the shock, but poor Mr. Booth was to receive his blow only a few minutes before going on the stage. At last it came—the call.

"Mr. Booth would like to see you for a few moments in his room."

I went, I was cold all over. He was so tired, he would be so angry. I tapped. I went in. He was dressed for Hamlet, but he was adding a touch to his brows, and snipping a little at his nails—hurriedly. He looked up, said "Good-evening!" rather absently, then stopped, looked again, smiled, and waving his hand slightly, said, just in Bandmann's very words: "No, not you—not the Player-Queen—but Gertrude."

Tears rushed to my eyes, my whole heart was in my voice as I gasped: "I'm so sorry, sir, but I have to do Queen Gertrude. You see," I rushed on, "our heavy woman has a broken leg and can't act."

A whimsical look, half smile, half frown, came over his face. "That's bad for the heavy woman," he remarked.

"Yes," I acquiesced, "but, if you please, I had to do this part with Mr. Bandmann too, and—and—I'll only worry you with my looks, sir, not about the words or business."

He rested his dark, unspeakably melancholy eyes on my face, his brows raised and then knit themselves in such troubled wise as made me long to put an arm about his shoulders and assure him I wouldn't be so awfully bad.

Then he sighed and said: "Well, it was the closet-scene I wanted to speak to you about. When the Ghost appears, you are to be—" He stopped, a faint smile touched his lips, even reached his eyes; he laid down his scissors, and remarked, "There's no denying it, my girl, I look a great deal more like your father than you look like my mother—but," he went on with his directions, and, considerate gentleman that he was, spoke no single unkind word to me, though my playing of that part must have been a great annoyance to him, when added to hunger and fatigue.

When the closet-scene was over, the curtain down, I caught up my petticoats and made a rapid flight roomward. The applause was filling the theatre. Mr. Booth, turning, called after me: "You—er—Gertrude—er—Queen! Oh, somebody call that child back here," and someone roared: "Clara—Mr. Booth is calling you!"

I turned, but stood still. He beckoned, then came to me, took my hand, and saying: "My dear, we must not keep them waiting too long!" led me before the curtain with him. I very slightly bent my head to the audience, whom I felt were applauding Hamlet only, but turned and bowed myself to the ground to him whose courtesy had brought me there.

When we came off he smiled amusedly, tapped me on the shoulder, and said: "My Gertrude, you are very young, but you know how to pay a pretty compliment—thank you, child!"

So, whenever you see pictures of nymphs or goddesses floating on pink clouds, and looking idiotically happy, you can say to yourself: "That's just how Clara Morris felt when Edwin Booth said she had paid him a compliment."

Yes, I floated, and I'll take a solemn oath, if necessary, that the whole theatre was filled with pink clouds the rest of that night—for girls are made that way, and they can't help it.

In after years I knew him better, and I treasure still the little note he sent me in answer to my congratulation on his escape from the bullet fired at him from the gallery of the theatre in Chicago. A note that expressed as much gentle surprise at my "kind thought for him," as though I only, and not the whole country, was rejoicing at his safety.

He had a wonderful power to win love from other men—yes, I use the word advisedly. It was not mere good-fellowship or even affection, but there was something so fine and true, so strong and sweet in his nature, that it won the love of those who knew him best.

It would seem like presumption for me to try to add one little leaf to the tight-woven laurel crown he wore. Everyone knows the agony of his "Fool's Revenge," the damnable malice of his Iago, the beauty and fire of Antony, and the pure perfection of his Hamlet—but how many knew the slow, cruel martyrdom of his private life! which he bore with such mute patience that in my heart there is an altar raised to the memory of that Saint Edwin of many sorrows, who was known and envied by the world at large—as the great actor, Edwin Booth.

Before one has "arrived," it is astonishing how precious the simplest word of encouragement or of praise becomes, if given by one who has "arrived." Not long ago a lady came up to me and said: "I am Mrs. D——, which is, of course, Greek to you; but I want to thank you now for your great goodness to me years ago. I was in the ballet in a Chicago theatre. You were playing 'Camille.' One day the actress who played Olympe was sick, and as I was, you said, the tallest and the handsomest of the girls, you gave the part to me. I was wild with delight until the nervousness got hold of me. I was not strong—my stomach failed me; the girls thought that very funny, and guyed me unmercifully. I was surely breaking down. You came along, ready to go on, and heard them. I could scarcely stand. You said: 'What's the matter—are you nervous?' I tried to speak, but only nodded. You took my hand and, stroking it, gently said, 'Isn't it awful?' then, glancing at my tormentors, added, 'but it's nothing to be ashamed of, and just as soon as you face the footlights all your courage will come back to you, and, my dear, comfort yourself with the knowledge that the perfectly collected, self-satisfied beginner rarely attains a very high position on the stage.' Oh, if you only knew how my heart jumped at your words. My fingers grew warmer, my nerves steadier, and I really did succeed in getting the lines over my lips some way. But you saved me, you made an actress of me. Ah, don't laugh! don't shake your head, please! Had I failed that night, don't you see, I should never have had a chance given me again; while, having got through safely, it was not long before I was pointed out as the girl who had played Olympe with Miss Morris, and on the strength of that I was trusted with another part, and so crept on gradually; and now I want to thank you for the sympathy and kindness you showed me so long ago"—and though her warm gratitude touched me deeply, I had then—have now—no recollection whatever of the incident she referred to, nor of ever having seen before her very handsome face. And so, no doubt, many of whom I write, who from their abundance cast me a word of praise or of advice now and again, will have no memory of the largesse which I have cherished all these years.

Among my most treasured memories I find the gentle words and astonishing prophecy of Mr. Charles Kean. That was the last visit to this country of Mr. and Mrs. Kean, and his memory was failing him grievously. He had with him two English actors, each of whom knew every line of all his parts, and their duty was, when on the stage or off, so long as Mr. Kean was before the house, to keep their eyes on him, and at the first sign of hesitancy on his part one of them gave him the needed word. Once or twice, when he seemed quite bewildered, Mr. Cathcart, turning his back to the audience, spoke Mr. Kean's entire speech, imitating his nasal tones to the life.

But it was off the stage that the ancient couple were most delightful. Ellen and Charles were like a pair of old, old love-birds—a little dull of eye, nor quite perfect in the preening of their somewhat rumpled plumage, but billing and cooing with all the persistency and satisfaction of their first caging. Their appearance upon the street provoked amusement—sometimes even excitement. I often saw drivers of drays and wagons pull up their horses and stop in the crowded street to stare at them as they made their way toward the theatre. Mrs. Kean lived inside of the most astounding hoop woman ever carried. Its size, its weight, its tilting power were awful. Entrances had to be cleared of all chairs or tables to accommodate Mrs. Kean's hoop. People scrambled or slid sideways about her on the stage, swearing mentally all the time, while a sudden gasp from the front row or a groan from Mr. Cathcart announced a tilt and a revelation of heelless slippers and dead-white stockings, and in spite of his dignity Charles was not above a joke on Ellen's hoop, for one rainy day, as she strove to enter a carriage door she stuck fast, and the hoop—mercy! It was well Mr. Kean was there to hold it down; but as a troubled voice from within said: "I'm caught somehow—don't you see, Charles?" With a twinkling eye Charles replied: "Yes, Ellen, my dear, I do see—and—and I'm trying to keep everyone else from seeing, too!" a speech verging so closely upon impropriety that, with antique coquetry, Mrs. Kean punished him by tweaking his ear when he squeezed in beside her.

The Kean bonnet was the wonder of the town. It was a large coal-scuttle of white leghorn and at the back there was a sort of flounce of ribbon which she called her "bonnet-cape"; draped over it she wore a great, bright-green barège veil. But she was not half so funny as was her husband on the street. His short little person buttoned up tightly in a regular bottle-green "Mantellini" sort of overcoat, loaded with frogs of heavy cord, and lined, cuffed, and collared with fur of such remarkable color, quality, and marking as would have puzzled the most experienced student of natural history to name; while vicious little street boys at sight of it always put searching questions as to the cost of cat-skins in London.

As they came down the street together, Mrs. Kean, majestically towering above her lord and master, looked like an old-time frigate with every inch of canvas spread, while at her side Charles puffed and fretted like a small tug. The street boys were a continual torment to him, but Mrs. Kean appeared serenely unconscious of their existence, even when her husband made short rushes at them with his gold-headed cane, and crying: "Go a-way—you irreverent little brutes—go a-way!" and then puffed laboriously back to her again as she sailed calmly on.

One day a citizen caught one of the small savages, and after boxing his ears soundly, pitched him into the alley-way, when the seemingly enraged little Englishman said, deprecatingly: "I—I wouldn't hurt the little beast—he—he hasn't anyone to teach him any better, you know—poor little beggar!" and then he dropped behind for a moment to pitch a handful of coppers into the alley before hurrying up to his wife's side to boast of the jolly good drubbing the little monster had received—from which I gathered the idea that in a rage Charles would be as fierce as seething new milk.

Everyone who knew anything at all of this actor knew of his passionate love and reverence for his great father. He used always to carry his miniature in Hamlet, using it in the "Look here, upon this picture, then on this," scene; but I knew nothing of all that when he first arrived to play engagements both in Cleveland and Columbus, but being very eager to see all I could of him, I came very early to the theatre, and as I walked up and down behind the scenes I caught two or three times a glint of something on the floor, which might have been a bit of tinsel; but finally I went over to it, touched it with my foot, and then picked up an oval gold case, with handsome frame enclosing a picture; a bit of broken ribbon still hung from the ring on top of the frame. I ran with it to the prompter, who knew nothing of it, but said there would soon be a hue and cry for it from someone, as it was of value. "Perhaps you'd better take it to Mr. Kean—it might be his." I hesitated, but the prompter said he was busy and I was not, so I started toward the dressing-room the Keans shared together, when suddenly the door was flung open and Mr. Kean came out in evident excitement. He bumped against me as he was crying: "I say there—you—have you seen—oh, I—er beg your pardon!"

I also apologized, and added: "If you please, sir, does this belong to you? I found it behind the scenes."

He caught it from my hand, bent to look at it in the dim light, then, pressing it to his lips, exclaimed fervently: "Thank the good God!" He held up a length of broken black ribbon, saying: "Hey, but you have played me a nice trick!" I understood at once that he used the locket in "Hamlet," and I ventured: "If you can't wear gold and your ribbon cuts, could you not have a silver chain oxidized for your 'property' picture, sir?" He chucked me under the chin, exclaiming: "A good idea that—I—I'll tell Ellen of that; but, my dear, this is no 'property' locket—this is one of my greatest earthly treasures—it's the picture of——"

He stopped—he looked at me for quite a moment, then he said: "You come here to the light." I followed him obediently. "Now can you tell me who that is a miniature of?" and he placed the oval case in my hands. I gave a glance at the curled hair, the beautiful profile, the broad turned-down collar, and smilingly exclaimed: "It's Lord Byron!"

Good gracious, what was the matter with the little old gentleman! "Ha! ha!" he cried. "Ha! ha! listen to the girl!" He fairly pranced about; he got clear out on the dark stage and, holding out his hands to the emptiness, cried again: "Listen to the girl—Lord Byron, says she—at one glance!"

"Well," I replied resentfully, "it does look like Byron!" And he "Ha! ha'd!" some more, and wiped his eyes and said, "I must tell Ellen this. Come here, my dear, come here!" He took my hand and led me to the dressing-room, crying: "It's Charles, my dear—it's Charles—and oh, my dear, my dear, I—I have it—see now!" he held up the locket.

"Oh, how glad I am! And now, Charles, perhaps you'll give up that miserable ribbon," and she kissed his cheek in congratulation.

But on the old gentleman went: "And, Ellen, my dear, look at this girl here—just look at her. She found him for me, and I said, who is he—and she up and said—Ellen, are you listening?—said she, 'It's Lord Byron!'"

"Did she now?" exclaimed Mrs. Kean, with pleased eyes.

But I was getting mad, and I snapped a bit, I'm afraid, when I said: "Well, I don't know who it is, but it does look like Byron—I'll leave it to anyone in the company if it doesn't!"

"Listen to her, Ellen! Hang me if she's not getting hot about it, too!" Then he came over to me, and in the gravest, gentlest tone said, "It is like Byron, my girl, but it is not him—you found the picture of my beloved and great father, Edmund Kean," and he kissed me gently on the forehead, and said, "Thank you—thank you!" and as Mrs. Kean came over and put her arm about me and repeated the kiss and thanks, Charles snuffled most distinctly from the corner where he was folding his precious miniature within a silk handkerchief.

They were both at their very best in the tragedy of "Henry VIII." Mr. Kean's Wolsey was an impressive piece of work, and to the eye he was as true a Cardinal as ever shared in an Ecumenical Council in Catholic Rome, or hastened to private audience at the Vatican with the Pope himself; and his superb robes, his priestly splendor had nothing about them that was imitation. Everything was real—the silks, the jewelled cross and ring, and as to the lace, I gasped for breath with sheer astonishment. Never had I seen, even in a picture, anything to suggest the exquisite beauty of that ancient web. Full thirty inches deep, the yellowing wonder fell over the glowing cardinal-red beneath it. I cannot remember how many thousands of dollars they had gladly given for it to the sisters of the tottering old convent in the hills, where it had been created long ago; and though it seemed so fragily frail and useless a thing, yet had it proved strong enough to prop up the leaning walls of its old home, and spread a sound roof above the blessed altar there—so strong sometimes is beauty's weakness.

And Mrs. Kean, what a Catherine she was! Surely nothing could have been taken from the part, nothing added to it, without marring its perfection. In the earlier acts one seemed to catch a glimpse of that Ellen Tree who had been a beauty as well as a popular actress when Charles Kean had come a-wooing. Her clear, strong features, her stately bearing were beautifully suited to the part of Queen Catherine. Her performance of the court scene was a liberal education for any young actress. Her regal dignity, her pride, her passion of hatred for Wolsey held in strong leash, yet now and again springing up fiercely. Her address to the King was a delight to the ear, even while it moved one to the heart, and through the deep humility of her speech one saw, as through a veil, the stupendous pride of the Spanish princess, who knew herself the daughter of a king, if she were not the wife to one. With most pathetic dignity she gave her speech beginning:

maintaining perfect self-control, until she came to the words:

Her voice faltered, the words trembled on her lips:

In that painful pause one remembered with a pang that all those babes were dead in infancy, save only the Princess Mary. Then, controlling her emotion and lifting her head high, she went on to the challenge—if aught could be reported against her honor. It was a great act, her passionate cry to Wolsey:

thrilled the audience, while to his:

her sarcastic:

cut like a knife, and brought quick applause. But best, greatest, queenliest of all was her exit, when refusing to obey the King's command:

for years one might remember those ringing words:

It was a noble performance. Mr. Kean's mannerisms were less noticeable in Wolsey than in other parts, and the scenes between the Queen and Cardinal were a joy to lovers of Shakespeare.

From the time I found the miniature and by accident fed Mr. Kean's innocent vanity in his father's likeness to Byron, he made much of me. Evening after evening, in Columbus, he would have me come to their dressing-room, for after the habit of the old-time actor, they came very early, dressed without flurry, and were ready before the overture was on. There they would tell me stories, and when Charles had a teasing fit on him, he would relate with great gusto the awful disaster that once overtook Ellen in a theatre in Scotland, "when she played a Swiss boy, my girl—and—and her breeches——"

"Now, Charles!" remonstrated Mrs. Kean.

"Knee breeches, you know, my dear——"

"Charles!" pleadingly.

"Were of black velvet—yes, black velvet, I remember because, when they broke from——"

"C-h-a-r-l-e-s!" and then the stately Mrs. Kean would turn her head away and give a small sob—when Charles would wink a knowing wink and trot over and pat the broad shoulder and kiss the rouged cheek, saying: "Why, why, Ellen, my dear, what a great baby! now, now, but you know those black breeches did break up before you got across the bridge."

Then Mrs. Kean turned and drove him into his own corner or out of the door, after which she would exclaim: "It's just one of his larks, my dear. I did have an accident, the seam of one leg of my breeches broke and showed the white lining a bit; but if you'll believe me, I've known that man to declare that—that—they fell off, my dear; but generally that's on Christmas or his birthday, when only friends are by."

Mr. Kean had been the first man to wear an absolutely correct cardinal's robe on the stage, and very proud he was of that fact, and never failed in giving his Ellen all the credit of it. Until this time actors had worn a scarlet "something," that seemed a cross between a king's mantle or a woman's wrapper. Mr. Kean had been quite carried away with enthusiasm over his coming production of "Henry VIII.," and his wife, seeing his disappointment and dissatisfaction over the costumer's best efforts in the direction of a cardinal's robe, determined, some way or somehow, to obtain for him an exact copy of the genuine article.

One night, while "Louis XI." was going on, Mrs. Kean herself told me how she had at last succeeded. They were in Rome for their holiday; they had many letters, some to very important personages. In her story Mrs. Kean gave names and dates and amounts of money expended, but they have passed from my memory, while the dramatic incident remains.

From the first she had made known to her most powerful Roman friend her desire to see the robe of a cardinal—to obtain measurements from it, and had been treated at first to a great showing of uplifted hands and eyes and many "impossibles," but later on had received positive promises of help. Yet days, even weeks passed, and always there was some excuse—nothing came of the fine promises.

One day, in her anxiety and disappointment, she mentioned to an English friend, who had long resided in Rome, her trouble over the procrastination of her Italian acquaintance, when the Englishwoman asked: "What have you paid him?" "Paid him?" cried Mrs. Kean. "Do you know you are speaking of F——, whose high official as well as social position is such——"

"Oh," laughed the visitor, "his position has nothing to do with it—his being your friend has nothing to do with it. The Italian palm is an itching palm—no wonder time is being wasted. Soothe that palm the next time he calls, and mention the day on which you are compelled to leave for home, and he will act quickly enough, though you really are asking for next to an impossibility, when you, a woman, ask to see and handle a cardinal's robe."

"Oh, my dear!" cried Mrs. Kean, "when that stately, gray-haired gentleman next came, I almost fainted at the thought of putting such an insult upon him as to offer him money. Indeed I could barely whisper, when clasping his hand I left some broad gold pieces there, murmuring, 'For the poor, sir!'—and if you'll believe me, he brightened up and instantly said: 'Keep to the house to-morrow, Madame, and I will notify you what you are to do, and the effort to get a robe to you here having failed, you will have to come to the general "audience" his Holiness will grant day after to-morrow, and, and, hem! you will do well to have some loose lire in your pouch, and be sure, sure, you carry a smelling-bottle. I suppose, of course, so famous an actress as yourself can faint at command, if need be? Then the tailor, an usher or two, possibly even a guard may require a fee, for they will run great risk in serving you, Madame. A woman within those sacred passages and chambers!'

"He held up his hands in horror, but nevertheless he was doing directly what he had been promising to do for weeks, and all for a few broad pieces of gold. After he left me I was fairly sick with feverish excitement. I dared not tell Charles of the arrangement; he would have left Rome instantly, and here was I preparing to bribe tailor, ushers, guard—and beyond them, to be still armed with loose lire. Oh, to what depth was I falling!

"Next day I received a card of admission for the 'audience,' and orders: 'To keep my eyes open—to show no surprise, but to follow silently wherever a hand beckoned with a single finger. To bring all things needful for my use—not forgetting the loose lire and the smelling-bottle.'

"When I entered the carriage to go to the Vatican, I was so weak with hope and fear and fright that Charles was quite upset about me, and was all for going with me; so I had to brace up and pretend the air was already doing me good. As I looked back at him, I wondered if he would divorce me, if in my effort to secure the pattern of a cardinal's gown I should create a tremendous scandal? I wore the regulation black silk, with black veil, demanded for the occasion, but besides the little pouch of silk depending from my belt with lire, salts, and 'kerchief, I had beneath my gown a pocket in which were some white Swiss muslin, pins, pencil, and tablets, and small scissors.

"There were many carriages—many people. I saw them all as in a dream. In a magnificent room the ladies were formed in line, waiting to be admitted to the Holy Father's presence. I was forgetting to keep my eyes open—there was a stir. A great door was opening down its centre. I heard a faint, low 'Hem!' The line began to move forward—a little louder that 'Hem!' Suddenly my eyes cleared—I looked. A pair of curtains, a little ahead, trembled. I drew my smelling-bottle and held it to my nostrils, as if ill, but no one noticed me—all were intent upon the opening of the great door. As I came on a line with the curtains, a hand, dream-like, beckoned. I stepped sidewise between the curtains, that parted, then fell thick and soft behind me. Another white beckoning hand appeared at the far side of this chamber. Swiftly I crossed toward it. A whisper of 'Quick! quick!' just reached me—a door opened, and I was in a passage-way, and for the first time saw a guide.

"At the foot of the stairs he paused—yet the voice had said 'Quick! quick!' I thought of the loose lire—yes, that was it. I gave him three, and saw him glide up the stairs with cat-like stealth. Here were bare walls and floors, and all that cold cleanliness that makes a woman shrink and shiver.

"At last I was in a small, bare room, with brick-paved floor. A table stood in its centre, and a small and wizened man, red-eyed and old, glided in and laid upon the table—oh, joy—oh, triumph almost reached!—a glowing-red cardinal's robe. As I laid my hand upon it the ferret-like custodian gave a sort of whispered groan, 'Oh, the sacrilege! and the danger! his whole life's occupation risked!'

"I remembered the 'itching palm,' and as my hand went toward my pocket, his brown claw was extended, and the glint of gold so warmed his heart that smiles came about his toothless mouth, and seeing me, woman fashion, measuring by finger-lengths, he offered me a dirty old tape-measure—then stole to the second door 'to watch for me.' Oh, yes—to watch like the cat—while with all the haste possible the good and most high lady would gain such knowledge as she could, and after all the robe was but an old one, etc., etc.

"All whispered, while I with the deft fingers of a skilled seamstress and the comprehending eye of the actress, well used to strange costumes, was measuring here and putting down notes, swiftly pinning on a bit of muslin there, and cutting an exact pattern. And, lo! the piece that crosses the chest, cape-like, yet without visible opening, came near undoing me. Tears began to blind me, but—but, ah well, my dear, I thought of Charles, and it is astonishing what love can do to sharpen the eyes and clear the brain. Suddenly the thing seemed quite plain to me. I then turned the hem, and ripping it open an inch or so, I took a few ravellings of the silk, where it was clean and bright, for a sample for the dyers to go by—since the silk would have to be prepared especially if it was to be absolutely correct.

"I rearranged my veil, crept to the door, and agreeably surprised the watchers by telling them I was through. The ferrety old man had the robe in his arms, and was gliding swiftly out of the room in the merest instant. I followed as softly as possible the other watcher. Once an unseen man cleared his throat as we passed, and I thought my guide would have fallen from sheer terror, but we reached in safety the frescoed corridor again and stood at the door waiting. The guide scratched gently with his nails on the lower panel—a pause, then the door began to move, and he disappeared as a ghost might have done. Across the room a hand appeared between the hangings, beckoning me; I moved swiftly toward it. I could hear a hum of voices, low and restrained. There was but one room now between me and the great chamber in which we had waited in line for 'audience.' No further signal came, what should I do? I was nearly fainting. Then another hand, a hand I knew by the splendid ring on its middle finger, appeared. I almost staggered to it. A whisper like a breath came to me, 'smelling-salts,' in an instant the bottle was in my hand, I was through the curtains, my Italian friend was asking me, was I not wrong to remain in Rome so late? He hoped my faintness was quite past, but he must himself see me to my carriage, and so he swept me forth, under cover of his courteous chatter, and the next day I sent him money for those who had to be rewarded.

"And for fear of Charles's rage about the infamy of bribing, said nothing, till he, in great anxiety about my feverish state, removed me from Rome. And then, my dear! I threw my arms about his neck and told him he should have a true and veritable cardinal's robe for his Wolsey, and in outrageous pride I cried: 'Ego hoc feci!'" At which I gravely said: "That sounds like 'I have done something,' anyway it's I; but that 'fetchy' word bothers me."

And she laughed and laughed, and said: "It means I did this! And I am ashamed to have used a Latin term to you, child. You must forgive me for it, but I must tell Charles that 'fetchy' word that bothered you—I must indeed, because he does so love his laugh!"

Then came the night when by chance I played an important part in one of their plays. My scenes were mostly with Mr. Cathcart, and I only came in contact with Mr. Kean for a moment in one act. I was as usual frightened half out of my life, and as I stood in the entrance ready to go on, Mr. Kean smilingly caught my fingers as he was passing me, but their icy coldness brought him to a stand-still. "Why, why! bless my soul, what's the matter? this—this is not nervousness, is it?" he stammered.

I nodded my head. "Oh, good Lord!" he cried. "I say, Cathcart, here's a go—this poor child can't even open her mouth now——"

I tried to tell him I should be all right soon, but there was no time. The word of entrance came, and a cue takes the pas even in presence of a star. I went on, and as my lines were delivered clearly and distinctly, I saw the relieved face of Mr. Kean peering at us, and when Mr. Cathcart (who enacted my soldierly lover) gave me a sounding kiss upon the cheek as he embraced me in farewell, we plainly heard the old gentleman exclaim: "Well, well, really now, James, upon my word, you are coming on!" and Mr. Cathcart's broad shoulders shook with laughter rather than grief as he rushed from me.

When, later on, Mr. Kean took my hand to give it in betrothal to my lover, he found it so burning hot as to attract his attention.

Next night I did not play at all, but came to look on, and being invited to the dressing-room, Mr. Kean suddenly asked me: "Who are you, child?"

"No one," I promptly answered.

He laughed a little and nudged his Ellen, then went on: "I mean—who are your people?"

"I have none," I said, then quickly corrected, "except my mother."

"Ah, yes, yes, that's what we want to get at—who is that mother? for I recognize an inherited talent here—a natural grace and ease, impossible for one so young to acquire by any amount of effort."

I was a bit confused—I hesitated. Mrs. Kean asked: "Were both of your parents actors, child?"

Suddenly I broke into laughter. The thought of my mother as an actress filled me with amusement. "Oh, I beg your pardon," I cried, "I have no father, and my mother just works at sewing or nursing or housekeeping or anything she can get to do that's honest."

They looked disappointedly at each other, then Mrs. Kean brightened up and exclaimed: "Then it's foreign blood, Charles—you can see it in her use of her hands."

They turned expectantly to me. I thought of the big, smiling French-Canadian father, who had been the bête noire of my babyhood. My head drooped. "He, my father, was bad," I said, "his father and mother were from the south of France, but he was a horrid Canadian—my mother, though, is a true American," I proudly ended.

"That's it!" they exclaimed together, "the French blood!" and Mr. Kean nodded his head and tapped his brow and said: "You remember, Ellen, what I told you last night—I said 'temperament'—here it is in this small nobody; no offence to you, my girl. Here's our dear niece, who can't act at all, God bless her! our 'blood,' but no temperament. Now listen to me, you bright child!"

He pushed my hair back from my forehead, so that I must have looked quite wild, and went on: "I have seen you watch that dear woman over there, night after night; you admire her, I know." (I nodded hard.) "You think her a great, great way from you?" (More nods.) "A lifetime almost?" (Another nod.) "Then listen to what an old man, but a most experienced actor, prophesies for you. Without interest in high places, without help from anyone, except from the Great Helper of us all, you, little girl, daughter of the true American mother and the bad French father, will, inside of five years, be acting my wife's parts—and acting them well."

I could not help it, it seemed so utterly absurd, I laughed aloud. He smiled indulgently, and said: "It seems so funny—does it? Wait a bit, my dear, when my prophecy comes true you will no longer laugh, and you will remember us."

He gave me his hand in farewell, so did his gracious wife, then with tears in my eyes I said: "I was only laughing at my own insignificance, sir, and I shall remember your kindness always, whether I succeed or not, just as I shall remember your great acting."

Simultaneously they patted me on the shoulder, and I left them. Then Mr. Kean put his arm about his wife and kissed her, I know he did, because I looked back and saw them thus reflected in the looking-glass. But did I not say they were love-birds?

Four years from that month I stood trembling and happy before the audience who generously applauded my "sleep-walking scene" in "Macbeth," and suddenly I seemed to hear the kind old voice making the astonishing prophecy, and joyed to think of its fulfilment, with a whole year to the good.