University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.,
In which I find a former acquaintance, and
malœ new ones.

The town of Coppleton is of modern
growth, and owes its importance principally
to its glove manufactories, and
two large establishments for the manufacture
of chemicals. In the morning
I took a stroll through it, to see what
was most worthy of note. As I roamed
up one street and down another,
my eyes frequently rested on flaming
placards, announcing that the theatre
would open on the following Monday,
with a new and efficient company;
and that the performances, by command
of his worship the Mayor, would
be “Speed the Plough,” and “The
Turnpike Gate.” I concluded that the
performance would be as good, at all
events, as any I had hitherto seen in
Puttenham, and so I said, thinking
aloud:

“I think, if I remain here so long,
I'll go. Why not?”

“Why not, indeed?” said some one
at my elbow.

I turned. My echo was a broad-shouldered
man, rather over the middle
size, with a square chin, large
mouth, and deeply-set eyes. He was
rather shabbily dressed in an old body-coat,
buttoned closely up to the chin,
trousers polished on the knees, boots
long guiltless of Day & Martin's manufactured
lustre, and a hat garnished
with brown on the edges of the crown.
The presumption was that he wore a
shirt, that being supposed to be a necessary
part of an Englishman's apparel,
but there was no ocular evidence
of the fact. I made up my mind
as to his profession, from his tone of
voice and manner, and rejoined:

“One of the company, I presume?”

“Sir, I have that honor. My name
is Fuzzy—Oliver Fuzzy. You will observe
my name in large letters on the
posters. I lead the business on this
circuit—play the Hamlets, Richards,
and others—and occasionally demean
myself by assisting in a broad-sword
combat between the pieces. However,
that keeps my hand in for Richard and
Macbeth, and `I dare do all that may
become a man; who dares do more is'
not Oliver Fuzzy. For all of which
old Hare, the Gov., allows me a miserable
sal., when we are playing, and
nothing and nopence a week when we
are not.”

“You have a prominent position,
Mr. Fuzzy, and it ought to be profitable.”

“`I do believe your grace,' it ought
to be, but it isn't. We don't play here
till next week, and as I'm up in every
thing we do for the first fortnight, I
have nothing to study, and so I am
roaming through the town, `a looker-on
here in Vienna,' cogitating on the
ways and means of raising a pot of
'arf-and-'arf.”

Here was a character, and I resolved
to study it.

“Suppose you join me in a pot,” I
said. “I have played a little myself
en amateur, and have a sympathy with
the profession.”

“Will I? `Come on, Macduff.”'

“But you'll have to point me out
the proper place, for I am a stranger
here.”

“Point! nothing easier, as long as
you'll point when we get there. `I do
remember me that hereabouts there
lives,' not `a starved apothecary,' but
a well-fed publican, who deals in most
excellent potations. Shall I attend
your grace?”

“Lead on; I follow,” I said, catching
his humor.

We soon found ourselves in a little,
quiet ale-house, in an alley just back
of a plain and dingy-looking building,
which my companion informed me was
the theatre. By the numerous portraits
of leading actors on the walls, as
well as from its proximity to the play-house,
I inferred that the place was a
resort for actors and their friends. A
couple of pots of half-and-half were
soon foaming before us, and Mr. Fuzzy,
blowing off the froth, and exclaiming,
“Off with his head! So much for
Buckingham,” took a hasty draught,
and replaced the half empty pot on
the table.

“With some bread and cheese, and
a pipe to follow,” he said, “this were
a banquet for the gods.”

“Wouldn't a chop be better?” I asked.

“Chop! if there be anything for
which this house is famous, outside of
its malt liquors, it is a chop.”

So I ordered the chops, and while
they were preparing, I asked him concerning
the actors.

“A very fine company, sir,” said he.
“It's true that our juvenile man is rather
shaky—the Governor goes in for
that line himself, and he's past it now
—fifty if he's a day; but juvenility is
his weakness. Then he chews his
words like Charles Kean—that young
man'll never make an actor; I know
it. I've seen him. Otherwise the
company is tip-top, for a poor circuit.
Cripps is our low comedy man—more
than passable; we've a very honest
fellow who makes an admirable villain;

and then there's Finch—a good
old fellow is Charley Finch—he does
everything well, and has to do everything,
second old man, heavy fathers,
high-priests, eccentric comedy, and so
on Then there's myself—well, I don't
boast; but I could have trod the London
boards before now. Lots of city
managers have made me offers; but
my health, my health, you see—here's
to you, sir?”

“And the women?”

“The ladies of the company are clever—one
especially—Cecilia Finch.
She's a prodigy; the best little juvenile,
the best daughter, and in chambermaids—well,
they haven't anything
in London can hold a candle to her.
Ah, she's a gem! and everything she
does is—done to a turn, I declare.”

The last observation had reference
to the chops, which the waiter then
placed upon the table, and which my
new friend attacked with a vehemence
and vigor highly complimentary to the
grazier who fed the sheep, and the
cook who prepared the meal, not ne
glecting his speech in the intervals of
mastication.

“We have a vacancy in the company,
though; we want a light comedy
man. We had one engaged, but a
screw's loose somehow. I suppose the
Governor will scare one up somewhere
in time. And here he comes, and
Charley Finch.”

I looked up, and there was my old
acquaintance, Haresfoot, in company
with a slender, pale and gentlemanly
old man. Haresfoot caught my eye,
and recognized me at once.

“Pray, my dear sir,” said he, shaking
me by the hand, “what lucky wind
has blown you to our coast?”

“An accident,” I replied; “but I am
right glad to see you. You're the manager,
I see.”

“Yes, and a very troubled one just
now. The most unfortunate thing in
the world. I've announced `Speed the
Plough,' and here my light comedian
sends me word three days before we
open, that he is laid up with a rheumatism
which will prevent his playing
for two months.”

“Very unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate! ruinous!”

And here the manager fired off his
peculiar winks, right and left, with
startling rapidity.

“By-the-bye, are you up in Bob
Handy?”

“I've done it a good while since.”

“Do it again. I'll announce you as
a distinguished amateur; give you
every chance. They're a most discriminating
and fashionable audience,
the wealthiest glovers in all England;
fine women too; set 'em all crazy. It's
a chance that only occurs once in a
life-time.”

I thought over the matter a little
while. There was a love of the stage
in me. I liked the experiment of the
thing, and had never any of its rough
experiences, and I consented.

Mr. Haresfoot was in a state of delight
at once, and fired off his double
winks more rapidly than ever. It was
arranged that I should appear on the
Monday following, and if I made a
hit a permanent engagement was to
follow, at a salary about equal to what
I could earn as a journeyman printer,
with two one-third benefits during the
year. It was also arranged that my
stage name should be Neville, that of
Fecit not being considered eligible;
and as Mr. Neville I was formally introduced
to Mr. Finch and Mr. Fuzzy,

over a pot of porter a-piece, which Mr.
Haresfoot insisted on providing in honor
of the occasion.

General conversation ensued, in
which old Finch bore his part, and I
was struck with the manner and spirit
of the old man's remarks. He was
evidently a man of education, and the
style of his conversation and movements
betokened the gentleman. How
such a man could ever have become a
strolling actor was a mystery, and I
determined to fathom it if possible.
Finch was a stage name; what his
real name was I felt certain I would
yet know. I was not of a curious nature,
in general, but here there was
something that provoked prying.

I pass over our conversation. As
soon as it closed I accompanied the
party to the theatre, where rehearsal
was about to begin, and was there introduced
to Billy Nuts, who combined
in his person the offices of prompter,
property-man, and wardrobe-keeper to
the rest of the company, male and female.

The rehearsal commenced. As it
was manifestly to the interest of every
member of the company that I should
succeed, one would have naturally
supposed that I should have received
every assistance and encouragement.
But actors have a contempt, generally
well founded, for amateurs; and do
not believe that any one can ever leap
to a position in their profession. They
think that the only way to attain eminence
is to climh the ladder, round by
round; a belief in the main correct
enough, although, those who have self-possession,
occasionally form exceptions
to the general conclusion. I
knew of this feeling, and was therefore
careful to make no attempt at act
ing during rehearsal, but walked
through my part in the most hurried
and business-like manner. Modest as
was my demeanor, it did not save me
from sneers and contemptuous looks
from every one on the stage except
from Finch and his daughter. Instead
of daunting me, this put me on my
mettle, and I took no apparent notice
of it, much as I chafed under the malicious
looks and words of my colleagues.

The announcement of “a distinguished
amateur, his first appearance
on the regular stage,” set the good
people of Coppleton in a fever of excitement,
and to the great delight of
the manager, every seat in the lower
tier of boxes was taken in advance.
The treasurer informed me as I entered
the theatre on Monday morning for
the last rehearsal, that the box-sheet
presented “a be-yu-tiful appearance,”
and Billy Nuts said to me, as I came
on the stage:

“'Ere's a go! Coppleton's waked
up! There'll be a crushin' 'ouse, and
if you fail after hall this blowin', my
heyes! won't there be a jolly row!”

When the night came, the little
house was jammed long before the
curtain rose, and on my appearance I
was warmly received, my stage-presence
being rather striking, and my
features prepossessing. But, to my
utter dismay, a powerful stage-fright
took possession of me; the audience
seemed to be sitting in a mist, my
tongue refused to move, and my knees
trembled so much that I was scarcely
able to stand. A dead and painful silence
fell over the house like a pall,
interrupted by a titter from one of the
side-boxes. I was about to turn and
flee from the stage, when I caught a

glimpse of the face of Fuzzy, maliciously
triumphant, at the wing.

It recalled my powers instantly.
The stage-fright left me as suddenly
as it had come. Through the part I
rattled vivaciously, my spirits rose
with every scene, never was I more
mercurial; and every fresh round
of applause gave me new spirit.
The curtain dropped on the epilogue
amid a deafening shout of the
audience, and I was called before the
curtain (a rare compliment in the
town) with the utmost enthusiasm. I
was announced to re-appear in the
same character on the Wednesday
following, to the apparent delight of
the house; and the performers crowded
around me on the stage to offer
their congratulations on my success.

“Hit's the greatest 'it, sir,” said
Billy Nuts, “has 'as been made 'ere,
by hall hodds. You're no hamachure;
you're a hactor.”

And Billy, in the exuberance of his
delight, qualified his assertion by an
expletive more earnest than pious, and
quite unnecessary to repeat.