within my own knowledge had always impressed me strongly. One day he found on the brink of the Serpentine a young girl who had been driven from her home by the barbarity of a brutal step-mother. The wretched child contemplated suicide. Her demeanor attracted his attention. He spoke to her, induced her to confide to him her unhappy story, found her an asylum, fed, clothed, educated her, and enabled her to go on the stage, where she achieved a distinguished position, and to this day reveres the memory of her benefactor.
Reade and James had been school-fellows together at Kettering. Master Edwin had always been the "bad boy," and he recounted with great glee how he had induced Charles to play truant with him to go to Northampton to see a prize-fight, and how they both caught "toko" when they went back. It was pleasant to hear "the veterans act their young encounters o'er again." Indeed, this was quite a red-letter night to me.
On another occasion, Mr. Reade had given me carte blanche to invite a friend or two of my own. Phelps and Fechter had quarrelled, and I thought it an excellent opportunity for getting them "to bury the hatchet and to smoke the pipe of peace." When they met, Phelps was grim and growling, Fechter nervous and embarrassed; but before the dinner was half over they thawed, and by the time they got to their cigars (which Reade, despite his detestation of tobacco, stood like a martyr) they were sworn friends. Their experiences were rare and unique, and Reade drew them out with wonderful facility; for upon occasion he could be as good a listener as a talker. Altogether, this was a delightful evening. When we broke up, Fechter confided to our host, "Ah, Mr. Reade, he is a grand old man, and I loafe him like a brother, but, entre nous, he cannot play Hamlet." On the other hand, as he got into his cab, Phelps grunted, "After all, John, he's not a bad fellow for—for a Frenchman; but, by ! he can't act Shakespeare!"
The success of "It is Never Too Late to Mend" being an established fact, Mr. Reade's work was now in demand, and Mr. Alfred Wigan selected "The Double Marriage" (taken from "Le Château Grantier" of Macquet) to inaugurate the opening of the new Queen's Theatre,—that unfortunate building destined to prove hereafter so disastrous to Mr. Reade, so ruinous to me. Here, indeed, appeared a magnificent opportunity. A new, elegant, and commodious theatre, in an eligible situation, a fashionable management, with abundant capital at its back,—never was there a better chance for author to distinguish himself. The play, too, is "an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, and set down with as much modesty as cunning." Magnificent scenery, costumes, and appointments, a powerful and admirable company, were provided. Anticipation and expectation were on tiptoe. A few breezes had occurred at rehearsal, but they were mere summer storms, and had been smoothed over. All was in good order: the author was sanguine, the actors hopeful, the management confident of success. An eager and excited audience crammed the theatre from floor to dome on the opening night.
The play began well; the audience were pleased. As act succeeded act, they became more and more interested. At last came the great situation of the fourth act, which it was confidently anticipated would take the house by storm. And it did,—but not in the way the author intended.
Josephine, the heroine of "The Double Marriage," has given birth to a child under circumstances which, though ultimately explained satisfactorily, appear at the moment most compromising. The child is discovered; the unfortunate mother's honor, happiness, her very life, are at stake. In this supreme moment, her sister, a young girl, the incarnation of truth, purity, and innocence, comes forward in the presence of her affianced husband and her mother, the haughty Comtesse Grandpré, and, to save Josephine from shame, brands herself with infamy. Taking the child in her arms, the innocent girl declares that it is hers.
