Chapter 3

Perhaps Fortune does not buffet any set of beings with more industry, and withal less effect, than Actors. There may be something in the habitual mutability of their feelings that evades the blow; they live, in a great measure, out of this dull sphere, "which men call earth;" they assume the dress, the tone, the gait of emperors, kings, nobles; the world slides, and they mark it not. The Actor leaves his home, and forgets every domestic exigence in the temporary government of a state, or overthrow of a tyrant; he is completely out of the real world until the dropping of the curtain. The time likewise not spent on the stage is passed in preparation for the night; and thus the shafts of fate glance from our Actor like swan-shot from an elephant, If struck at all, the barb must pierce the bones, and quiver in the marrow.

Our Actor--mind, we are speaking of players in the mass--is the most joyous, careless, superficial flutterer in existence. He knows every thing, yet has learned nothing; he has played at ducks and drakes over every rivulet of information, yet never plunged inch-deep into any thing beyond a play-book, or Joe Miller's jests. If he venture a scrap of Latin, be sure there is among his luggage a dictionary of quotations; if he speak of history,--why he has played in _Richard_ and _Coriolanus_. The stage is with him the fixed orb around which the whole world revolves; there is nothing worthy of a moment's devotion one hundred yards from the green-room. It is amusing to perceive how blind, how dead, is our real Actor to the stir and turmoil of politics; he will turn from a Salamanca to admire a _Sir John Brute's_ wig; Waterloo sinks into insignificance before the amber-headed cane of a _Sir Peter Teazle_. What is St. Stephen's to him--what the memory of Burke and Chatham? To be sure, Sheridan is well remembered; but then Sheridan wrote the _Critic_.

A mackerel lives longer out of water than does an Actor out of his element: he cannot, for a minute, "look abroad into universality." Keep him to the last edition of a new or old play, the burning of the two theatres, or an anecdote of John Kemble, and our Actor sparkles amazingly. Put to him an unprofessional question, and you strike him dumb; an abstract truth locks his jaws. On the contrary, listen to the stock-joke; lend an attentive ear to the witticism clubbed by the whole green-room--for there is rarely more than _one_ at a time in circulation--and no man talks faster--none with a deeper delight to himself--none more profound, more knowing. The conversation of our Actor is a fine "piece of mosaic." Here Shakspeare is laid under contribution--here Farquhar--here Otway. We have an undigested mass of quotations, dropping without order from him. In words he is absolutely impoverishable. What a lion he stalks in a country town! How he stilts himself upon his jokes over the sleek, unsuspecting heads of his astonished hearers! He tells a story; and, for the remainder of the night, sits embosomed in the ineffable lustre of his humour.--_Monthly Mag_.

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THE NOVELIST.

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THE BROKEN HEART.

A mutual affection had existed from their very childhood between Henri Merville and Louise Courtin; their respective parents were near neighbours, and on very friendly terms with one another; they, therefore, watched the infantile attachment of their children with great pleasure, and with still more self-congratulation did they perceive that, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their strength, it had ripened into an ardent and deep-rooted passion. When Henri, however, had attained his twentieth year, Louise being also only seventeen, it became necessary that he should leave the humble village of Verny, and perfect himself in his trade as a cabinet-maker, by visiting and working in some large and opulent towns. The lovers, amid their increasing happiness, had never thought of this long separation; so that when Henri was told by his father that he must leave home, and be away three years, and Louise informed by her mother of the same circumstance, the intelligence came upon them like an earthquake. Woman's feelings are more easily excited, and Louise felt as if Verny would be a desert without her dear Henri; he too was sad enough, although the preparations for his journey occupied the greatest portion of his time, and prevented his so continually thinking of the separation as she did. Grief and regret were useless; the parting hour arrived, and the now miserable pair were left to themselves. They mutually made vows of eternal constancy and fidelity; as is the custom in the provinces, they _exchanged rings_, and became rather more resigned to their unavoidable separation.

Henri at last departed, and was ten miles from Verny before he could comprehend how he had summoned up resolution enough to leave it. Louise, shut up in her little room, was weeping bitterly, and felt no inclination to go out, since she could no longer meet Henri; but, in a short time, both of them, without feeling less regret, bethought themselves of making the wearisome interval useful to their future prospects.

During the first eighteen months, he travelled about from town to town; but at last, in Lyons, made an engagement with a person who had a very extensive business, of the name of Gerval, for the remaining period. His master preferred cards and the bottle to work, and finding Henri honest and attentive, was anxious to retain him in his situation. He had a daughter, named Annette, a quick, lively, and fascinating girl, who seemed rather disposed to coquet with Henri, and was somewhat frequently in the workshop with him. Gerval observed, and by no means discouraged, this, thinking that, even after all, his assistant would become neither a bad partner for Annette nor himself; and that their intercourse, at all events, would keep away Louis, a former workman, who had affected a great regard for his daughter, but possessed very little inclination to use the saw or the plane. All this attention was very delightful to Henri, particularly as it proceeded from so interesting a creature as his present companion. Are, then, Verny and the sorrowful Louise quite forgotten? It must be confessed, that they almost escaped his memory, when thus employed with Annette; but, to do him justice, in the solitude of his chamber he experienced feelings almost akin to remorse; often in his dreams did he behold Louise, ever tender, ever affectionate, as in their infancy; this vision was recalled when he awoke, and he arose, vowing that she should never have a rival in his heart: but Henri was young, Louise two hundred _miles_ off, and Annette only two _steps_.

Gerval, to keep away all aspirants, gave it out that they were betrothed, and especially informed Louis, the dismissed swain, of this agreement, who, in consequence thereof, immediately left Lyons. Henri's time, meanwhile, was passing away; he had received some very tender letters from Louise, and had written to her, but less frequently than he would have done if Annette had not occupied his leisure hours. Having, however, received no intelligence from Verny for more than three months, he began to be disquieted, and determined to leave Gerval, notwithstanding all Annette's attractions. To be sure, he had found her very pretty and agreeable--he had romped and flirted with her--but had never, for a moment, thought of marrying her, and had, strictly speaking, been faithful to Louise. Judge then of his surprise, when, one night, Gerval returned home half-drunk, and asked them, if they were not beginning to think of the wedding. Annette threw herself into her father's arms; Henri, pale as death, hid his face with his hands, and knew not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the sight of this confusion, burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter; "You put me in mind," said he, at last, "of one of those _ninnies_ of lovers on the stage, who throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses, as if they were idols. Come, my lad, embrace your betrothed--exchange rings--and long live joy, for it costs nothing." The words "_exchange rings_" restored Henri to his senses, for he thought he beheld his beloved Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, "Dear Henri, what will become of me without you?" And this ring, too, which was asked from him, was the self-same one that he had received from her!--He immediately addressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, and, having thanked him, told him that he should never forget his friendship and his kind intentions, that he should always love Annette as a sister, but that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own native place. He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed her the ring, about which she had teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man's reproaches on _her_. These reproaches all fell on _him_; he bore them, however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was "_a good sort of fellow_," was, in the end, affected by it. "Go, then, and marry your betrothed," said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; "since it is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better. I must say, I shall regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval and his daughter."

Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. During the four or five first days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise--"Annette will console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me? Oh, yes!--she is so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity, when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I was placed." Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily, and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise, and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering. Oh! could he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that way! He tried to do so, but his efforts were fruitless: the first Sunday arrived, and he was still two days' journey from Verny. In the evening he found himself in a large town, called Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless endeavours, and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every thing seemed prepared for the festival--the street was neat and clean--the fountains adorned with branches, and decorated with large nosegays, tied together with beautiful ribands--fir-trees marked the dwellings of the young females--all had flowers around them, but he remarked, that _one_ had only white ones on it, fastened with a crape riband--the street was deserted. Before he could reach the inn, which was at the other end of the town, he had to pass by the church and the burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and in the latter there was an open grave. This melancholy sight rendered it evident, that some one was dead; that her loss had suspended the public joy; and the _bouquet_, encircled with crape, had been planted before the "house of mourning." He entered the church-yard--groups of females were walking there. They were conversing in a low tone, and Henri discovered that the deceased was young and beautiful; and that she had been the victim of a misplaced affection; he could not restrain his tears, for he thought how near, perhaps, he had been occasioning the death of his Louise. "But," said one of the females, "why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why did she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?"--"She always told me," replied Isabelle, (the person addressed, and who was in deeper mourning than the others,) "that she could only love once, and that she had no longer a heart to give."--"Well, then," said another, "was she sure that her lover was faithless?"--"Quite sure. She had long feared that he was; she saw it in his letters, for when a woman like Marie loves, the heart divines every thing; still, however, she flattered herself with the fond hope that he would return, and that her forgiveness of his neglect would revive in him all his former affection. Three months ago this hope was destroyed, she heard that he was--_married_. Since that time she has only languished; she wished to live for the sake of her parents, but her grief has proved the most powerful. He quitted me in the month of May," said she to me; "in the month of May I shall quit life." "That time is come, and Marie is no more."--"Tell us her whole history," exclaimed two or three of the listeners, at once. Isabelle consented; they were crowding round her, and Henri was approaching nearer, and redoubling his attention, when the funeral bell tolled drearily and solemnly. He started, and Isabelle said, with a sigh, "I must tell you my dear friend's story another time; we must now accompany her remains to their last sad home, and place these flowers upon her coffin."

They walked on mournfully, two and two, and Henri followed them with an interest that he could not account for, or define. The coffin advanced, preceded by the priests, bearing torches that were obscured by the silvery light of the moon; it was carried by six men, and among them it was easy to recognise Guillaume, by his profound sorrow; for, to Henri's great surprise, he alone wept. The more aged men who followed the corpse, the one even next it, and who, of course, was the father, or nearest relative of the deceased, had, like the rest, merely a composed and serious countenance, undisfigured by any great affliction. The body was lowered into the grave; the officiating minister made a brief, and somewhat cold, discourse on the frailty of life; the young females afterwards came forward, and each threw her wreath of flowers on the coffin; and then chanted some rhymes.

The grave was then about to be filled up; the noise of the earth, in falling, resounded on the coffin, and Henri shuddered. The crowd gradually dispersed; Guillaume and Isabelle alone remained beside the tomb; Henri approached it, and Isabelle observing him, with a forced smile, said, "Did you know her? I have seen you follow the funeral train with apparent interest, and now I behold you in tears; are you a relation, friend, or only even a native of the same place?" Henri listened to these questions with great surprise; "I scarcely understand you," he at length replied; "I am merely a traveller; but the deceased was, doubtless, _your_ friend?"--"Yes, my best, my dearest friend; yet our friendship was doomed to be of very short continuance. I was not at all acquainted with her until, about three months ago, she came to reside with my father, who is a physician, and to whose care her relations, when aware of her forlorn state, confided her." "Her relations," remarked Henri, "did not seem to be much affected; they appeared, indeed, quite resigned to their loss." "Her relations!" replied Isabelle, "she had none here; she was a stranger, and my father attended as chief mourner; he lamented her loss, but Marie was not his daughter, although I _myself_ loved her as a sister." "Marie!" she was called Marie! but what was her family-name? Often shall I think of her unhappy destiny. "Marie was only a name that she adopted, and we called her, because she could never bear to hear her own." "Isabelle," said she to me, almost at our first meeting, "never name me as he who has destroyed me named me; never, I entreat you, call me _dear Louise_." "Louise!" exclaimed Henri, growing pale as death; "Louise!" "Yes, Louise Courtin, of Verny!" No sooner had Isabelle uttered these words, than she beheld the young traveller fall senseless beside the grave, feebly repeating the name of Louise. Isabelle, in alarm, called her brother to her assistance; they raised up the stranger, who opened his eyes for a moment, and again muttered the same words. "Gracious Providence!" exclaimed the affrighted girl, "it is--it must be--Henri!" The youth made an effort, and cried out, in a frantic manner: "Yes! Henri, the murderer of his beloved; the assassin of Louise!" He then again fell down exhausted, and to all appearance dead. Guillaume had him conveyed to his father's, where every assistance that skill could devise, was tendered him; but he only recovered his recollection sufficiently to learn from Isabelle, that a person named Louis had brought positive intelligence to Verny, that Henri had espoused his master's daughter at Lyons; that her father himself had made him acquainted with the circumstance, and that he had seen the newly married couple in all the raptures of connubial happiness. It was impossible to discredit this news, which was a death-blow to the sensitive Louise.

After having listened to this melancholy narrative, Henri, when he had regained sufficient composure, entrusted Isabelle with his vindication, for Louise's parents and his own, and expired without a groan the next day. The same moon which had illuminated his betrothed's funeral shone upon his, and they repose beside each other in the picturesque burial-ground of Nuneville, not quite forgotten or unlamented by its inhabitants.--_Abridged from a collection of interesting Tales and Sketches, entitled "A Cantab's Leisure."_

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THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.

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BEARS ON THE ICE.

_From the Tales of a Voyager._

With two boats, we assailed six of these animals, who had collected round the "crang," or carcass of a whale. After lying at the bottom of the sea for some time, the body of the whale rises to the surface, probably buoyed up by gas generated by putrefaction in its entrails. This circumstance is by no means uncommon, especially late in the summer, when time has been allowed for fermentation; but it seems to point out that the depths of the Arctic Ocean contain few or no animals to prey upon the numerous carcasses which are let sink after flinching, since, otherwise, the mass would become pierced and unable to float, if not wholly devoured. We slew five of the six bears, and brought a half-grown cub on board alive. This poor harmless beast was wounded in two or three places superficially with a boat hook, but its disposition seemed scarcely to have warranted these trifling blows. I was moved to compassion as it sat upon the jaw-bone of a whale, which projected beneath the tafrail, at one moment devouring pieces of its mother and sister with avidity, and at the next stretching its throat and blaring out mournfully, when a fragment of ice met its view, passing astern as we sailed on our course. It was about the size of a sheep, and after their tea the sailors got it down below, and turned it loose betwixt decks, from whence it sent up all hands with precipitation, some of them quitting their berths half-naked, as if a fall had been called. After a sufficient allowance of frolic had gratified the crew, a daring Shetlander collared the bear as if it had been a dog, and fastened a fresh rope round its neck, and having forced it to leap overboard, the rope's end was thrown to the boat's crew of a visiter, at that moment about to leave us, and it was towed or rather led away. The following day I saw its skin stretched on the shrouds of the vessel, to whose captain it had been presented. The other bear chace was after a monstrous male, who resolutely faced us, and would have boarded our boat had it not shot past him. He was flanked by the ship, which had run down upon him as he lay exactly in her course, and by the boat, which had got between him and the ice, and seeing no other resource, he turned upon the boat. When discovered, he was so near the floe that, wishing to intercept him, we leaped into the boat, and lowered away without waiting for a gun; we were, therefore, obliged to meet him at close quarters. But while we stood prepared, Shipley with a lance, and myself with the boat's hatchet, to receive his onset, the skiff was allowed to keep on her headway, and we passed beyond our foe, who took advantage of the error, and dashed forward to the ice, which he gained just as our boat in pursuit of him ran her nose up against the floe, and almost tripped his heels.

It was said by the harpooner, who first caught sight of this bear, that he was floating on his back in the water; and Greenlanders maintain, how truly or wrongly I know not, that bears sometimes throw themselves into this position to avoid being seen. Another reason for this attitude they affirm to be, a power possessed by bears of flinging themselves suddenly forward, by a violent jerk, whilst extended on their backs, so as to bring themselves at once into a boat; but this is a feat of which I do not believe them capable. Whilst speaking of bears, I may mention here, that the mate of the Dundee nearly lost his life this summer, from the fury of a she brownie, who attacked him on the ice. After killing her cub, he had fired at her, and struck her on the jaw, which remained gasping, as if dislocated, and believing her _hors de combat_, he got upon the floe, to take possession of her slain offspring. The she bear, however, though she had fled, now returned, and rushing towards her enemy, threw him down, but was unable to mangle him; for though her mouth was wide open, she had lost the ability to close it. Nevertheless, she mounted upon his prostrate body, and trampled it severely, before the crew of his boat could come to his rescue. When they did arrive, a sailor who brought the gun lost his presence of mind at the sight before him, and stood staring at the scene inactive; others, more bold, thrust the bear aside with lances; and the mate being freed from its weight, arose, took the gun from its bearer, and shot away the unlucky lower jaw of the beast completely. She then fell a victim to the weapons of his men. When I received this account from him, he was nearly recovered from the violence he had suffered from the enraged brute, but not till after having been for some time confined to his hammock.

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THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles. SHAKSPEARE.

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ANCIENT AND MODERN THEATRES.

It appears, that our ancient theatres were little better than _barns_, while those of the present day may vie with palaces in extent, splendour, and decoration; and nothing can more strongly exhibit the contrast between the present age and that of Queen Elizabeth, than the difference in the expense of a London theatre. The Rose playhouse, which was erected about the year 1592, cost only 103l. 2s. 7d.,--a sum which would scarcely pay half the expenses of a modern patent theatre for a single night. Only let the reader think of the rush roof of the _Globe_, and the gilt-work ceilings of our present theatres; the open area,--and the cloth-covered seats of the pit; and the magnificence of our saloons, halls, staircases, and corridors,--all in the noblest style of architectural decoration--_Companion to the Theatres._

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