ment at Astley's; but I had not refused scores of offers to act in London to débuter at Astley's in a convict's dress and a scratch-wig after all. I therefore not only declined to participate in the speculation, but tried to dissuade him from it. It was in vain that I recalled to his recollection the Boucicaultian fiasco at the Theatre Royal, Westminster. "He would have a shy," he said, "if he lost his hat." I suggested that he would lose his head first. Anyhow, he lost his money.
For some time after this he stuck to novel-writing, but always buzzed about the theatres, as a moth buzzes around the flame of a candle, and but too frequently, like the poor insect, he singed his wings.
It was about this period that I entered upon my ill-starred speculation at the Queen's Theatre. Then he was once more in his element; scarce a day or night passed that he was not at the stage door, or my house, advising, suggesting, and taking as much interest in the fortunes of Henry V. as if he were to be the hero of Agincourt, instead of myself. Months of hard work began to tell on me. A few weeks before the production took place, he said to me, "You seem tired and overworked. I want you to be as fresh as paint when you come out. Let us run down to Oxford for a week, and I'll undertake to freshen you up," So, to Oxford we went. He did the honors of the glorious old city, showed us all the lions, the stately colleges, the beautiful gardens, the statues, the libraries,—the Bodleian especially, where he assisted me in hunting up certain authorities I wanted. On Sunday he donned his cap and gown and escorted us to his collegiate church. It seemed strange to hear everybody call him "doctor," though not at all strange that every one he met seemed to know him and to love him. The glimpse of Oxford life afforded by this brief visit has left quite a pictorial imprint on my mind, a memory which no time can efface, but which others have described so well—notably, my friend Herman Merivale—that I dare not attempt it, I asked the "doctor" where the theatre was. He flushed with indignation as he made answer,—
"In the old times plays were acted in the colleges by the great players of the Elizabethan age and later periods before kings and queens, chancellors, vice-chancellors, deans, proctors, and the like; yet now, here, where every stone in the street knows my footfall, where, please God, my name will be remembered when I am dead,—now, while I am living, there is not a place where one of my plays can be acted; for the theatre—the theatre, my dear boy, I should be ashamed to show it to you—would disgrace a decent show at a country fair." While listening to this indignant denunciation, I little dreamt that in time to come I should even for a single night be condemned to act in the miserable shed which, to the discredit of the municipality, the authorities of the university, and the nineteenth century, is still designated the "Theatre Royal, Oxford."
When the curtain fell on "Henry V." on the night of my début in town, Charles Reade was the first man to come round to my room to congratulate me, and the last to leave it. Had I been his son, he could not have taken greater pride in me or have manifested more tender sympathy. The next morning at ten o'clock he was at my chambers. A certain journal had distinguished itself by the virulence and mendacity of an onslaught on me and my production. I had seen it before his arrival. He burst out, "You've seen it; of course you have. Some damned good-natured friend would be sure to let you know. Don't heed it, my dear boy; don't heed it. Look how they served me. Remember how that wooden-headed bully and blockhead in the 'Edinburgh' and the donkeys in the 'Saturday' let me have it. Bah ! what does an idiot like that know about Shakespeare? What was it Dryden said to Nat Lee?
They praise while they accuse
The too much vigor of your youthful muse;
For how should every sign-post dauber know
The worth of Titian or of Angelo?
