University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.,
Wherein Selgrove quite undoes the work of
Coppleton, until we set two Richards in the
field.

Our season at Coppleton was a great
success. I became the fashion, and it
was considered high ton among the
glove-makers to witness the performance
of Mr. Neville, “an artist,” as
the Coppleton Journal observed, “without
a peer in his line of business.”
This should have been true, as Haresfoot
was an undoubted judge of acting,
and as he wrote the puff and paid
for its insertion, it was naturally to be
presumed that such was his unbiased
opinion. But the plain truth was merely
that I was no actor at all, and owed
my success to a fine figure, a rather
handsome face, a strong verbal memory,
and a full flow of animal spirits.
So long as I pleased the public, the
manager did not care to enlighten me
as to my deficiencies; and because I
pleased the public, my fellow-actors
did not dare to; and so I believed
myself to be a capital performer. I
know better now; but fortunately I
did not know then; and the occasional
sharp criticism of the judicious few
fell from my self-love as harmlessly as
the rain-drops from the back of a water-bird.
I did not forgive these candid
critics, nevertheless, for I believed,
as a matter of course, that each
had an especial spite at me, and looked
at my performance with the eyes of
envy and hatred.

I became intimate with none of the
company except Finch and his daughter,
both of whom interested me very
much—wonder mingling with the interest
in his case, and delight mingling
with the interest in hers. Cecilia
Finch was at that time about the age
of seventeen, and though her features
were neither classical in their outline,
nor striking in their general effect,
they were nevertheless beautiful from
their sweetness when in repose, and
their archness of expression when lit
up by conversation. I have said that
her features were not regular, her nose
being too small and her forehead too
high; but she had clear, hazel-grey
eyes, large and lustrous, and a pair of
lips that were delightful to look at in
repose, and were highly mobile under
emotion. In general her manner was
extremely quiet; but on the stage she
was dashing, without being bold, and

piquant without being pert. She was
a deserved favorite with the public, for
she had a deal of talent, capable of
still further development, while she was
respected by the actors in the company,
and petted by the actresses. This
popularity was not courted. She kept
herself apart from the rest, and devoted
herself to her father, to whom
she was a shadow—seeming never
more cheerful than when with him.

That Finch had been born, or at
least bred a gentleman, I had no manner
of doubt. His manner, language,
and evidently liberal education, betrayed
the fact. It was not very long
before I became sufficiently intimate
with him and his daughter to gain his
confidence, and, little by little, I obtained
the leading points of his history.
He had been the son of a
man of wealth and family, and at
the age of twenty had gone off to join
a company of strolling players. His
father, after endeavoring to reclaim
him in vain, had left his whole estate,
which was not entailed, to the younger
brother, and shortly after died.
Finch married a member of the company
to which he was attached. This
completely severed him from his family
connections, and his lot in life was
fixed.

I should have said, however, that
my intimacy in the company extended
to one more. I became well acquainted
with Billy Nuts, necessarily; for
Billy was the ubiquitous and energetic
factotum of the company, and whether
he prompted the performers,
painted scenery, made properties,
picked out dresses, or murdered the
King's English, he did it with a thoroughness
quite his own. I soon grew
to be a great favorite with Billy, prin
cipally, I believe, because I admired
hugely a new scene—an interior—
which he painted for us at Coppleton,
and which, especially when we consider
the scanty materials at his command,
was a really clever bit of art.
Billy was full of stories, too. He had
been nearly everywhere, had tried almost
every line of life, and had a yarn
apropos to every occasion. I used to
spend a deal of time, after rehearsal,
in the paint-loft, where Billy, when he
had nothing else to do, would patch
and re-vamp the old scenery, changing
a worn-out English landscape, by
the introduction of a palm-tree here
and a pyramid there, with divers daubs
of ochre and amber, into a passable
oriental view; and by a few upright
strokes, surrounded by zig-zag lines,
and some harlequin patches of color,
converting a plain English interior into
a Moorish palace. In all this my
former intercourse with Paul Bagby
enabled me to give Billy a hint or two
at times, which seemed to increase his
respect for me amazingly.

Finch, who had a taste for the fine
arts, used to climb to the paint-room
occasionally, and there we three held
confabulation on various matters to
our hearts' content.

I had been about two months in the
company, and our season at Coppleton
was about to close, when I learned the
cause of Finch's continued melancholy.
The poor man had been doomed to
death by his doctor, who informed him
that he labored under a disease of the
heart which might take him away at
any moment. This was the spectre
that haunted him night and day; that
clouded his life with a darkness the
most terrible, and which neither the
regard of those around him, nor the

affectionate ministrations of his daughter
could for a moment disperse. If it
fostered melancholy, however, it begat
gentleness; and Charles Finch had
never had a harsh or unkind word for
any one, and never appeared, under
any circumstances, to lose either patience
or temper.

The very day after I had obtained
these facts from Finch, we were in the
paint-room, as usual, and I was sketching
out a scene in charcoal on a flat,
for the use of Billy, when the latter
said:

“That's a werry good idear; Mr. Neville;
Spanish, is it not?”

“No, Billy; it is a sketch of a spot
where I was bred.”

“It looks Spanish. Lord bless you,
we haint no scenery here can hold a
candle to some in Spain. That flat the
Governor's so fly on, I painted from
memory, but it don't come up to the
real thing. If I could draw like you
now, I'd show 'em some paintin'.”

“So you've been in Spain, too?”

“I was a walley, sir, to a gent as
traveled in the Peninzelay—an' that
minds me of an event. I've been puzzlin'
my 'ead hever since you've been
with us, about your face, which I
know'd I'd seen afore—and now I know
why. I seed a young 'oman as looked
as like you as two peas—let me see—
the matter of twenty odd year ago.
My master, Mr. Teignham an' I was in
Cadiz.”

Finch started, and colored, for some
unexplained reason, but resumed his
self-possession in an instant. Nuts
went on with his story.

“One night, he sez to me, sez he,
`Villiam, we're goin' to the Consulate.'
`Wery vell, sir,' sez I. Ven ve got
there I found he vos to be a vitness to
a veddin'. I seed the marriage myself.
I didn't know their names; but the
young 'oman vos the von as resembled
you. There; that kind o' startled look
you put on brings her face back to me
right away.”

“What kind of looking man was
the bridegroom?”

“Vell, a tall, dark-complected man;
a leetle stiff, but a nob, every hinch
of 'im, or I'm no judge.”

“Were they Spaniard's?”

“I think not. They vouldn't 'a been
married at the Consulate hunless they
vos Henglish.”

The conversation soon changed, but
I thought over it for some time. Was
I always to be reminding every one of
some one else, and never to know even
the names of the party to whom I bore
so strange a resemblance?

Other matters drove the conversation
away from my mind. Our season
at Coppleton closed, and we next went
to Selgrove. We had no regular theatre
there, merely a temporarily-fitted
room, used at other times for concerts
and assemblies, spacious enough, however,
and likely to afford ample room
for our audience. For although Selgrove
was a theatrical town, the residence
of a population fond of amusements,
circumstances robbed us of our
power to attract. A religious revival
had taken place just before our advent,
and the clergymen of the place
preached furiously against the drama.
In spite of the reputation I bore from
Coppleton, in spite of the most flaming
placards, and the most labored advertisements,
our houses were meagre at
the commencement, and fell off visibly
every night, until an audience of six,
all told, caused the utmost consternation
to both manager and actors.

Well might we be alarmed. The
time for opening at Potterburn, our
next town, was not for three months,
and as all of us, except Finch, were
rather improvident, there was but a
gloomy prospect. Haresfoot managed
adroitly enough, changing the pieces
every night, and trying every expedient
his wits could invent; but all
was in vain. The theatre had been tabooed,
and the people would not come.
The treasury was soon emptied of the
surplus gained at Coppleton, and
though half salaries were submitted
to, the houses did not afford even these.
At length a council was held to determine
some plan by which we might
retrieve our losses, or fight our way
until the time announced for opening
at Potterburn.

A most forlorn and distressed set of
comedians, to be sure, gathered in
council upon the stage one Saturday
morning. Some had been confined for
a week to a single meal a day, others
were in debt for their lodgrings, and
none knew what to attempt.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Haresfoot,
when we had all assembled, “the treasury
is barren. Unless some one can
suggest a movement likely to be profitable,
we shall have to suspend our
performances until the season at Potterburn
opens.”

“I can think of nothing but an empty
belly,” growled Fuzzy. “I've been
living for the last week off a pair of
boots, and I can get through next week
on a coat; but I can't eat everything
I have on my back, you know.”

I was aghast at this for a moment.
I had read of people who had eaten
leather and cloth in shipwrecks, but
such a thing was strange in civilized
England in the nineteenth century.
The explanation soon flashed over my
mind that the articles had been sold
and the money devoted to the purchase
of food, and I grew easier. Then, as
no one had any plan to propose, I spoke
up myself and said:

“Have you ever given an entirely
new local piece on the circuit, Mr.
Haresfoot?”

“No, sir, never. In the first place
there is never any occurrence here to
dramatise, and in the second place the
London play-wrights ask too high for
their pieces.”

“Why,” I said, “the occurrences
may be invented, and as for the piece,
fudge something out of six or seven
forgotten plays, give the thing a local
name, paint new scenery, with views
of all the principal places in town, announce
it with a flourish of trumpets,
and the thing is done.”

The suggestion was hailed rapturously
by all save Billy Nuts.

“Hit's all wery fine,” said that worthy,
“hit's a hidea; lots o' tin in it, I
dessay; but where's the money to
come from to paint the scenery? I
can't daub up with nothin'. Prooshin
blue and chrome yaller, an' rose pink,
costs money. There's ten pound o'
whitin', an' a paper o' lampblack, an'
a pound o' glue in the paint-loft; an'
them won't do. Mebbe Mr. Neville 'll
show us how to make paint, as he's so
clever.”

“There's a chance to get money to
mount a piece,” said Haresfoot, “tho'
I don't like the way. You know young
Phipps, the butcher, That young man
is bent on making an Edmund Kean
or a Judy of himself, and he offers
twenty pounds to let him play Richard
for one night. It will be a sorry exhibition;
but the money is tempting.

Still, Richard by Phipps—ugh!”

We all laughed but Fuzzy; he was
indignant.

“Richard!” exclaimed the tragedian.
“Why, who's to play Richmond?”

“We expect you to do that,” answered
the manager.

“Me! I'm only to play second to a
London star, you know.”

“True, Mr. Fuzzy, but under such
circumstances, and on an occasion—”

“Occasion me no occasions, Mr.
Haresfoot. Second to a butcher! Never!
It's a desecration of the dramatic
temple—an insult to the memory
of Bill Shakspeare. My love for the
glorious art will not stand it. Besides,
Richard falls to me as the leading
man.”

“We can arrange all that,” replied
Haresfoot. “You two can play scene
for scene alternately; and then all you
have to do is to play him down.”

“Yes, play him down,” we all chorused.

“Well, I rather like that. I'll do it,”
shouted Fuzzy; “but I must have the
combat scene.”

“Unfortunately, Phipps, to whom I
have already suggested the doubling,
insists on being killed by Richmond.
Mr. Neville is to revenge the murder
of the tyrant, Gloster, on his representative,
and butcher the butcher.”

“That can all be arranged,” I interposed,
for a mischievous idea entered
my head. “I'll undertake to bring Mr.
Phipps to reason. Let us consider
that as all settled, and now we'll
sketch the plot and incident of the
piece. The first point is the title.”

“It'll have to be a taking one.”
growled Fuzzy, “or the jailor of Selgrove
will take us.”

“The very thing!” exclaimed Finch.
“The Jailor of Selgrove—a superb title.”

“Who is to be a miser and a ruffian?”
I said, “and yet neither one nor
the other. Supposed to be cruel to his
prisoners, he is really studious of their
comforts; and supposed to be a sordid
miser, he spends the money he amasses
by economy in secret charities to the
deserving.”

Haresfoot laughed, for he recognized
the prototype of my character.

“And aids a young man,” said he,
“who is poor and deserving, and in
love with a duke's daughter, who looks
down on him.”

“The young man turns out to be his
nevvy, to whom he leaves lots o' tin,”
suggested Billy Nuts.

“And the jailor an eccentric nobleman,
who takes the position in order
to effect good,” chimed in Finch.

“And the young man is charged
with murder, with the evidence strong
against him; but it is all cleared up in
the last scene,” put in one of the company.

“The murder being really committed
by his rival, a gloomy baronet,
who commits suicide in the last scene
but one, and, by way of atonement,
leaves half his fortune to the young-man
aforesaid, and the other half to
found a lunatic asylum,” added another.

“With a screaming funny man,”
said our low comedian, “the miser's
half-starved servant, who has two comic
songs, and a hornpipe in fetters.”

“And a duett with the lively maid
of the duke's daughter,” I said.

Thus suggestions were thrown in
and noted down; incidents were stolen
from other plays, and held ready

to be dovetailed in. Haresfoot and
Finch agreed to put the thing into proper
shape; I was to make sketches of
the interior of the county jail, the market
place, the main street, and other
spots of interest, and Billy was to paint
the new scenery.

The next morning “the first appearance
of a young gentleman on any
stage, in the character of the Duke of
Gloster,” was duly announced, and the
bills were all underlined with the announcement
of the new piece, “a startling
local drama, to be produced with
entirely new scenery, costumes, properties
and effects.”

The bait took. Selgrove woke up.
The old taste for theatricals revived.
There was every prospect that in addition
to a crowded house to witness the
debut of Phipps we would have a perfect
jam on the first night of the new
piece.

As to Phipps's night, it was soon
placed beyond doubt, for every available
place was bespoken long before,
and when the doors were open, the
check-taker was kept busy for over an
hour without intermission, and long
before the rising of the curtain a large
board, with the words chalked upon it,
“No more standing-room,” had to be
placed at the door.

Matters did not go so smoothly on
the stage. Phipps had expected to be
furnished with the proper costume, and
was quite astounded, when he waited
at the wardrobe, to be shown a red regimental
coat and buff breeches, as the
dress assigned.

“Oh, come!” said he, “that won't
do, you know. I want my ten pounds'
worth.”

“Ain't you goin' to git it?” inquired
Billy. “What have you, or any man,
got agin that dress, I'd like to know?”

“Why, that's a soldier's coat.”

“Vell, vosn't King Richard a soldier?
That's the hidentical coat that
Garrick vore. I 'ope you don't think
you're a better hactor than Garrick,
Mr. Phipps.”

“Yes—that's all well enough; but
Richard was king.”

“So he vos; in course he vos. And
didn't his late majesty vear a red coat
an' bluff breeches? An' vosn't he a
king? In course he vos.”

“But look at the dress you've given
Mr. Fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy perwides that hisself; and
if he's goin' to make a fool of hisself,
by puttin' on such crinkums, that's his
business.”

There was no help for it; Mr. Phipps
was obliged to don the regimentals,
or go on in street costume. Of two
evils, he wisely chose the least. He
came to me with his troubles, and I
comforted him by asserting that the
costume was a minor matter, and that
spirited acting would replace any deficiency
in that line, especially among
among an audience made up largely
of his personal friends. The summons
of the call-boy cut short our discussion,
and at it we went.

I had seen a few performances before,
and a great many since; but I
never beheld any so peculiar as that I
witnessed on that evening. Phipps
was not only an untaught amateur,
but he had not a particle of natural
genius, and bellowed, stamped and
roared after a fashion which beggared
description. The alternation of scenes
made it worse, by contrast; for Fuzzy
was an actor, though a poor one, and
did not outrage all the proprieties by
his performance. As a large number

of Phipps's friends were in the house,
the hisses were always drowned by a
storm of applause; but the whole
scene was the most laughable ever
witnessed there; a hilarious tragedy.
The final scene was too much, however,
for the most staunch friend of the
debutant.

Both performers expected to have a
monopoly of the last scene, and simultaneously
made their entrances. The
audience stared, and when the two frantic
Richards demanded each a horse,
some mad-cap in the audience shouted
out:

“Better take a coach and pair!”

At this the house burst into a loud
guffaw; but the Richards were too
bent on their business to notice it.
Besides, the blood of each was up, and
they were determined to play each
other down. When they simultaneously
told me that they hated me for my
blood of Lancaster, I was well satisfied
that they hated me for something
else, and so vigorously did they assail
me, that I had some difficulty in preserving
my head from being cut open
by the foil of one or the other. However,
I fought vigorously, the audience
cheering at the unusually prolonged
combat, until my arm grew tired, and
I was forced to run for it. This they
did not mean to let me do; both had
their blood up at the trick I had played
them, and assailing me from separate
sides, cut off my retreat. Finding
my strength failing, I dodged between
the two, and overleaping the narrow
orchestra, sheltered myself amid the
audience in the pit. The two Richards
would have followed me to wreak
their revenge, but the fiddlers drove
them back, and they attacked each
other. How long they would have
continued amid the cheering of the
audience, it is impossible to say, but
an accident changed the character of
the combat. Fuzzy's foot tripped on
the edge of a trap-door which had not
been entirely closed, and falling forward,
his head struck Phipps full in
the stomach. Both fell, and their
swords flying out of their hands, the
curtain fell on the rival crookbacks
engaged in a supine position, in a game
of fisticuffs.

To prevent the house from being
torn down by the excited audience, the
rival Richards were forced to appear
before the curtain; Richard No. 1 with
his left eye in mourning, and Richard
No. 2 with the blood streaming from
his royal nostrils, while the Earl of
Richmond looked upon his late antagonists
from his sure refuge in the centre
of the pit.