himself reluctantly arrived at the same conclusion.
As we went away into the winter's night,—or rather morning, for it was two o'clock when we started for the North,—he took a huge silk muffler from his own neck and tied it round mine. We never paid so dearly for seeing a play, for the very marrow in our bones seemed frozen when we got to Glasgow the next day.
The failure of "Joan" almost disgusted him with the theatre, and he retired from active participation in the fight, when, to his astonishment and delight, "It is Never Too Late to Mend" landed him once more in the full flood of success. Mr. Walter Gooch had entered upon the management at the Princess's. It occurred to him that "It is Never Too Late to Mend" had not been acted in town for years, that it had been a great success at the Princess's before, and might be so again. Arrangements were therefore made for its production: there was only one difficulty, the part of Jacky. Adequate representatives could be found for all the other parts. Indeed, Messrs. Loraine, George Vining, and Henry Neville had already played my part, and Mr. Warner was now prepared to play it; but there was but one Jacky, and his name was Calhaem. Upon the first production of the drama, Mr. Calhaem wished to play Crawley (the part originally intended for Robson), but, fortunately, he yielded to my persuasion and played Jacky,—an impersonation marked by genius of the highest order and one which as a creation is quite worthy of being remembered with the Dundreary of Sothern, the Rip Van Winkle of Jefferson, and the. Digby Grant of Irving. Strange to say, at the time of the proposed revival of "It is Never Too Late to Mend," Mr. Calhaem was again under an engagement to me in the country. I could ill afford to lose him; but when Mr. Reade and Mr. Gooch both appealed to me, I could not say "Nay." So Jacky once more assisted to pilot "It is Never Too Late to Mend" into the haven of success.
THE RIFLED HIVE.
O BEE! happy, happy bee!
That to the lily's ear thyself dost shrive,
Ruin and wrath are sudden come to thee,—
They rifle in the wood thy secret hive.
Oh, rush from out thy snowy satin tent.
And freight no more with wax thy crimson thighs;
Stay not until with sweets thou art distent,
But dash the pollen from thine angry eyes,
And, with thy nimble thoughts on vengeance bent,
Wing thy unerring course beneath the whirling skies.
Out of the lily come, out of the amorous rose,
Out of the hollyhock's deep crimson bell,
Out of the harp-like tulip, out of those
Beds of hyacinths and asphodel,
And linger not the havoc to disclose,
For I will every injured toiler tell.
