The long-remembered beggar was his guest, won. The reverend champion stood. At his control, Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, With steady zeal, cach honest rustic ran; Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; Beside the bed where parting life was laid, E'en children followed, with endearing wile, His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, Eternal sunshine settles on his head. THE UNFOLDING OF MR. MUMFORD'S UMBRELLA.* [Mr. T. W. ROBERTSON, author of "Ours," and "Society," although he made his chief success as a dramatist, was long favourably known as a contributor to the light literature of the day. Died 1871.] afternoon, the theatre at even, and often study all the night, such is the laborious life which the enemies of our profession stigmatise as lazy. " THE name of Mephistopheles Mumford is too Evil days fell upon us; fever swept away my children. I had toiled to maintain them; I had to toil to bury them. They died of a terrible epide mic that raged in the year that the "Brigand' was brought out at Drury Lane. I was studying Massaroni at the time. I'll not endeavour to say how we felt it. My wife kept all their little shoes Four months after the interment of our last darling, my wife was again confined. I had my new little daughter christened Evadne. I had played Colonna the night before. Evadne, I need hardly say, was educated for the stage; that is, she was made to act as soon as she could toddle. Often as Rolla have I borne her on my shoulders across the bridge over the cataract, while the applause has thundered in my ears. Often have I wept over her, as I gently repudiated Mrs. Haller; and often, when I carried her home at night beneath my cloak, the darling would warm her little hands in my breast, and by the time I reached our lodgings have fallen fast asleep in my arms: in short, as my friend Tom Tearlungs (poor Tom was a tragedian at the east-end of London, and died of delirium tremens) said of her, "She was cradled in a helmet, nursed on rose-pink, and weaned on properties." By permission of the Author. According to a custom, seldom departed from in the dramatic profession, I married young; and according to another equally-established theatrical precedent, the lady I married was possessed only of the treasures of youth, beauty, and amiability. I once scorned the idea of marriage for money, but my views upon that subject have considerably modified. My salary (my wife did not act) was small, but as a compensation, my family was large. Six precious but expensive pledges of affection were born to us in as many years, and I had to work hard to find the necessary boots and batterpuddings. Rehearsal in the morning, study in the THE UNFOLDING OF MR. MUMFORD'S UMBRELLA. I have remarked that, generally, the fathers of actresses are absurdly prejudiced in favour of their daughters. They think no other girls can be so handsome, fascinating, or talented. I remember reading a very humorous description, in a work written by a gentleman who, in my poor opinion would have done more service to his country had he constructed a tragedy rather than a mere novel. It was of one Captain Costigan, the father of a Miss Fotheringay, and I laughed heartily at his ridiculous doating. I need not say that I am superior to that sort of weakness and in asserting that my Evadne was the loveliest girl ever seen, and the finest actress in certain parts that ever graced the stage, I am not influenced by partiality, but uttering a simple fact that would be endorsed by every check-taker in front of the house. You should have seen the box-plan on her benefits; you should have heard her receptions; you should have read the verses in the Poet's Corner of the Flamtattleton Free Press and the Slocum Advertiser; and you should have seen the child herself. My dear old friend, Jack Madigag, who played the low-comedy in the Cwymrymwymwygeiddon circuit, used to say, "Vad" (he always called her Vad) "has the sort of eyes that go right through a man like a gimlet, and come out at the back of his coat in the shape of brass buttons!" We worshipped her, Mistress Mephistopheles and I. We had lost six, we had to love her for seven! When Evadne was nearly nineteen years of age, we were acting in a small town in Ireland. I had played Virginius that night, the child, of course, playing Virginia. We were walking home together, when a young man, an officer at the barracks (I recognised him from having seen him in the boxes), came up to us, and asked Evadne if he should have the pleasure of seeing her home? I saw that he had been drinking, and I told him positively, but politely, that I was my daughter's escort. 163 "Look here, Hops," said he in uniform; "you're frightening the young lady. You'd better go to barracks." The tipsy officer was the son of an eminent English brewer (if eminence can be attained by brewing beer, which I doubt), and in the regiment was called "Hops." To cut short a long story, Hops was with difficulty prevailed upon to leave us, and the stranger asked my permission to accompany us as far as our door. The young man, whom I found to be a perfect gentleman, but lamentably ignorant of theatricals, walked by Evadne's side, and when we parted we both expressed our sense of obligation. "Don't mention it," was the reply. "With your permission, I will call to-morrow, and bring the man who left us to apologise." "Oh! don't bring him again," said the child. "I couldn't bear the sight of him!" "Then I must hope to bring his written apo logy." 'At all times, sir, I shall be most happy to sec You!" We went in, told our adventure to Mistress Mephistopheles, and were so excited by the event that we could eat no supper. The next day Lieutenant Lysart, for that was the name of our escort, brought an apologetic note from "Hops," and stayed with us to tea. After that he called upon us every day, and watched Evadne from his bɔx every night, to such an extent that Miss Panker, who had a pretty wit, and played the chambermaids, began to tease Evadne, and to call Lieutenant Lysart Romeo. My wife and I soon saw that they loved cach other. The child lost her appetite and her spirits, but as a sort of compensation, acted with frantic enthusiasm. The exercise of her art was a safetyvalve for overcharged and excited sentiment. I spoke to her upon the subject; so did her mother, Never mind, old feller," said he, "you can walk but she only answered us with tears, and we could behind, you know." He advanced towards the child. I held out my disengaged arm, which carried a short Roman sword, wrapped in a gun-case. The young man ran his nose on to the hilt, which peeped out of the case, and I dare say hurt himself very much. he swore an awful oath and cried "You infernal old vagabond, I'll wring your neck off!" Evadne threw herself between us, just as the heroines do in dramas; and I believe the drunken ruffian would have attacked me, but for the arrival of another young officer, in uniform. "Hallo! comer. What's the row?" asked the new The tipsy fellow swore. I explained: and Evadne trembled violently. not bear to see her weep. she should not have waited for me, and walked home again hastily, hoping to catch her. Her mother told me she had not seen her. I ran back to the theatre; the curtain had not fallen on the last piece. Evadne was nowhere to be found. By this time I grew seriously alarmed. I flew home, and found my wife in strong hysterics. With the assistance of the landlady, I restored her. She could not speak, but she held out in her hand a crumpled letter. It ran:- DEAREST, dearest, FATHER AND MOTHER,-I write this in great anguish, for I know that you will think me unaffectionate and undutiful. Oh! do not-do not think ill of me till you know all. It will be useless attempting to seek me, or to find out where we have gone. Heaven bless you! my dear father and mother. E. I learned afterwards that the note had been brought by a boy-a soldier's son-from the barracks. I will pass over our terrible trouble. The abandonment of fond parents by a young girl has been described too often for me to dwell upon it here. Suffice it, the child had quitted the town with Lysart. I made inquiries, but in vain. After the first im on the road, I could hear nothing of them. Fortunately, the two following nights I was out of the bills, but on the last night of the season I played Rolamo in the interesting and pathetic drama of "Clari; or, Home sweet Home." It is not a piece played much now-a-days. It would not suit the modern, natural, impertinently-familiar style of acting-the "how-do-you-do-to-day""half-a-pound-of-bacon-and-cut-it-fat" school, as I call it the school which teaches Richard, when, on the eve of the battle that is to decide his fate, crown, and kingdom, he asks Catesby, "Is ink and paper ready?" to do so in the tone that he would order a tavern-waiter to bring a fried sole and a chop to follow. A large house was attracted by my appearance in "Clari," for the piece treats of a father whose daughter has deserted him for the arms of a betrayer-in fact, the situation was exactly mine. It was a painful trial for me, but I owed a duty to the public, and I resolved to go through with it. The audience held their breath as the slow music played, and I appeared upon the bridge with my gun upon my shoulder. They received all that I said with the greatest attention but no applause. Every eye was watching to see how much of the emotion I expressed was real or false, human or dramatic. I felt my heart sink when Miss Panker, who played Clari (the child had been cast for the part), came on veiled, and told me a story so nearly resembling my own. When she asked my counsel as to the course she should pursue towards her father, I recited, amid a solemn silence— "Shall I paint his (her father's) agonising sufferings to you? I can do so, for I have felt it—I feel it now. I once had a daughter; oh! how I doated on her words cannot speak-thoughts cannot measure; yet she sacrificed me to a villain. Her ingratitude has bleached this head, her wickedness has broken this heart, and now my detestation is upon her. Oh! do not you resemble her! Remain not a moment longer from your father. Fly to him ere his heart give way as mine does now-ere he curses you as I now curse I could say no more; my feelings flooded my throat, and I fell on the stage senseless. I was laid on my bed with fever for three weeks; when I recovered, my wife-whose devotion during my illness deserved a piece of plate-caught it from me, and I had to nurse her. We pulled through it, though, and left the town, both very old and broken. Four years passed away. Each summer we received a letter containing five Bank of England notes, each for £10. The envelope bore a London post-mark, but, though the address was written in an unfamiliar hand, we knew from whom they came. I need not say they were left untouched. Our life was a sad one. After my illness, my voice lost much of its strength and mellowness, and even the most indulgent of British publics likes plenty of lungs. I could only get engagements in small theatres, where the salary was inconsiderable, even when paid. I was acting at Crumblecrag. It was a bitter winter, the snow was on the ground, and the business had been wretched. I was playing Rolla to a small but highly intelligent audience, and as the curtain fell, and I lay upon my bier, I was informed that a gentleman wished to speak to me. I got off my bier, dressed myself and went out. A tall man in a light coat was standing under a gas-lamp. I stepped forward and said Allow me to assist you." 'How dare you to touch me?" I cried, feeling, partly from indignation, partly from dramatic habit-Heaven help me!—for the hilt of my sword. "I want to speak to you," said Lysart. "Wo cannot talk in the open air; oblige me by coming to the hotel for a few minutes-only for a few minutes." He seemed not only easy and unconcerned, but in high spirits and good humour. I followed him mechanically. We were shown into a room, and he shut the door. 'Now, my dear Mr. Mumford," he began. "Have you brought me here to insult me, Mr. Lysart ?" "Pardon me. I am now Sir Percy Lysart!" "You are a villain, sir!" I exclaimed. "Where is my child? my daughter? where is she? Give her to me!" "Evadne Mumford," he replied, "exists no longer!" "Dead!" He made no answer, but went to the door, opened it, and, admitting a woman elegantly dressed, said"Allow me to present you to Lady Lysart!" Great Heaven! It was Evadne ! I knew it was Evadne, for the next moment I had her in my arms and on my knees. Oh! how we kissed each other, and how we cried and sobbed, and how happy we were! (Sir Percy walked away, and pulled out his pocket-handkerchief.) It was herself, Evadne; oh! my darling and my joy! My Vad! Vad!! Vad!!! And it was all real and truc, and not a dream, and I shouldn't wake up to watch the squares of the window-panes upon the blind. "But mamma," said Evadne-I beg her pardon, Lady Lysart. "Never mind mamma, my pet, she's in bed and asleep. Tell me all about it." "That's mine, papa!" said Lady Lysart. "And mine," said the baronet; "allow me to put in my claim to joint-proprietorship." The baby-a son eight months old-was a great success; he was good with me, but would not go to his grandmamma-a course of conduct that enabled me to triumph over Mistress Mephisto "Without a shilling," laughed Evadne's husband, the baronet; "but three months ago she died-"pheles for a week. "And we have only just found out where you were," added the baronet's wife. I blessed them both, and then shook hands with my son-in-law. I had begun to cry copiously when I remembered I hadn't time for it. Lady Lysart threw a cloak over her head and shoulders-she looked exactly as she used to do in Little Red Riding Hood, in the opening of the pantomime at Bagshot-in-the-Wold-and ran home with me. My wife had gone to bed, leaving a tripe supper in a vegetable dish on the hob for me. It is odd, but in all the important events of my life tripe has ever pursued me-ever been on my track! The fire had gone out, and the lucifers were in the bedroom. We groped up-stairs in the dark. "That you?" said my wife, from under the bedclothes. Had your tripe ?" 66 "Tripe be hanged, madam. Behold your child!" And I struck a lucifer. Need I describe the meeting? We all went back to the hotel, where a table was laid with all the delicacies of the season-including lobster-salad; but we none of us could eat, except Sir Percy, who enjoyed himself and the lobstersalad amazingly. After supper, when we were all seated round the fire, Evadne left the room for a few minutes and returned with-what do you think? A baby! A real live baby, with practicable mouth, and eyes to work-a baby who, as soon as it was in my arms, seized my wig and sucked my eyebrows. The next morning the baronet asked me when I could leave the company I was engaged in. He told me, too, that he was expecting a cheque from his banker's. "If it will be of any accommodation, Sir Percy," I said, "here is a cool two hundred I can lend you." I placed on the table the notes that had been sent me. Evadne looked at them, showed them to her husband, and then, throwing her arms round my neck, said, "Oh! you dear, good, old daddy. I thought you wouldn't use them. If you had you would have taken a theatre." It is probable I might. I did not take a public farewell of the stage, nor do I regret that I did not. The British public has neglected me-the British public must take the consequences. My son-in-law repudiates the idea of my taking a national theatre, and, by means of my own performances, restoring the legitimate drama to its proper home. I proposed it to him, but his answer was, "he didn't see it," nor, strange to say, did Evadne either. There are no actors now-a-days, nor do I wonder at it. Though I have not made as great a name as Garrick or Kemble, I shall be the means of introducing to the House of Commons those graces of oratory so long neglected there. I am teaching my grandson, Master Lysart, the art of clocution, and, when he becomes a member, my declamatory powers will live again in him. THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE, APPLIED. [EDMUND WALLER. See Page 29.] HYRSIS, a youth of the in- O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery spired train, Fair Saccharissa loved, but loved in vain; meads; Invoked to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of his crucl fair. Like Phoebus sung the no Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer, less amorous boy; O'er these he fled; and now approaching near, Like Daphne she, as Had reached the nymph with his harmonious lay, lovely, and as coy! Whom all his charms could not incline to stay, With numbers he the fly. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, ing nymph pursues, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain; All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his passion and approve his song. With numbers, such as Phoebus' self Such, is the chase when Love and Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He caught at love, and filled his arms with boys. |