"of the act." I might as well have whistled against thunder as argue with him while he was in the imperative mood: so I said no more about it, but took my own course. I arranged privately with the prompter to "ring down" at the proper climax of the scene, and the result was as I had anticipated,—the act-drop fell amidst a perfect tempest of applause. We had achieved a genuine coup de théâtre, and the audience rose at us; nor would they suffer the play to proceed till the author himself bowed his acknowledgments, when they cheered him again and again. Then he came round, panting with excitement, tears of joy running down his cheeks, and he absolutely hugged me with delight, as he exclaimed, "Oh! you villain—you traitor—you young vagabond!—you were right, after all!—it's beautiful—beautiful!"
This is only one instance out of a hundred I could cite to prove that, despite his elaborate theories about art, Mr. Reade was in reality only guided by actual practical results. I have frequently known him take grave exception to an actor's conception of a part at rehearsal, but if the offender struck fire at night, the end justified the means, even if his views were diametrically opposed to those of the author. If from some adverse circumstance—a bad house, an east wind, an unsympathetic audience—the play did not elicit the usual modicum of applause, then the actors were stigmatized as "duffers,"—"duffers, sir, who have defiled my com- position, mixed ditch-water with my champagne, murdered my work." The next night perhaps there was a good house, perhaps the wind was not in the east, perhaps a thousand things: at any rate, if the play was received enthusiastically, then all was condoned and forgiven. The popular applause was music to Mr. Reade; he would ensconce himself in his box, turn his back to the stage, and as the audience laughed or cried he laughed and cried with them, and their tears or cheers were always his barometers of the actor's ability. I have often heard him say that he thought the great orator or the great actor, quaffing the full wine of applause crushed in one moment into a golden cup and drained from the public heart, was the most enviable of human beings.
No man, except himself, ever combined in one and the same person such an extraordinary mass of contradictions as Charles Reade. Of course it is well known that if any one assailed him he dipped his pen in vitriol and poured the vials of his wrath upon his luckless adversary. On these occasions nothing could restrain the headstrong rush of his impetuosity, nothing check the torrent of his objurgations. Yet, on the other hand, if called upon to advise a friend under similar circumstances, he frequently exercised quite a judicial function, and was the very incarnation of mildness.
A remarkable illustration of this occurred while we were at X———. The night before our opening, a certain pressman had announced his intention of "slating" us. This ornament to literature turned up at night very drunk, and absolutely unable to get into the theatre without assistance. He slept quietly and composedly through the greater portion of the performance. All the same, the next day we got the promised "slating." Perhaps no man has been more fulsomely flattered or more villanously abused than I have been, consequently I have "ta'en fortune's buffets and rewards with equal thanks;" but this onslaught, knowing its origin, was more than I could stomach, so I rushed at pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a letter that was, I fear, more distinguished by vigor of vituperation than anything else. When I had finished this precious epistle, I took it to Reade. He read it carefully, and said very quietly,—
"Yes, a good letter,—very good. Couldn't you make it a little hotter?"
"I'll try," said I, and in the innocence of my heart I took it away, and, after half an hour spent in polishing it up and embellishing every epithet of scorn and contempt in my vocabulary, I returned with it in triumph.
