Part 7

The manager was an enthusiast in his way, and threw his whole heart and soul into playing the leading characters in the amateur comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays which he placed on his stage. And the ambitious authors who resorted to this means of publicity, were as a rule, so extremely pleased with the histrionic efforts of Mr. Lincoln, that in addition to the sum agreed upon for the representation, most of the mute inglorious ones would insist on making a little present to the conscientious manager-actor. But Mr. Lincoln was as proud as an Elliston, and carried himself with as much dignity. So that whenever the token of the Amateur’s gratitude was offered in the shape of money, the offended manager would draw himself grandly up and say, “Sir, I cannot accept a gift of money; though should you like to present me with a new hat, I shall not say you nay.” The Amateur usually took the hint, and in a few days a band-box containing a hat, was duly delivered at the stage door of the Theatre Royal. Yet strange to say, no Sheppey Islander had ever seen Mr. Lincoln in a new hat. Indeed, they had never seen him except in a very old one, which by a judicious use of oil and a silk handkerchief, showed bravely enough when cocked on the side of Mr. Lincoln’s head.

It is, of course, easy to guess the reason of this. The Amateur donors never thought of consulting their benefactor as to the size of his head, or as to the peculiar shape which he most affected. And so it happened, that not one of the head-dresses sent to him was of any practical benefit. For if it happened to be anything like a fit, it was sure to be of a shape to which Mr. Lincoln would not condescend. He had not, however, discarded them, but had placed them carefully in a cupboard in his bedroom, which cupboard he always kept carefully locked, carrying the key of it on his bunch. At rare intervals he would exhibit his collection to some old crony—just as a collector would show his pictures, or a connoisseur his cellar. Connected with each hat was a memory. The entire assortment was a sort of history of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, and as he pointed out the trophies he would couple with each the name of the amateur drama, the triumphant success of which it was intended to commemorate. Thus he would point to a tall beaver, with preposterous brim, such as comic artists place on the head of John Bull, and say,—“That is my Queen of Circassia’s hat;” or he would exhibit a light gossamer of most undoubtedly dandaical proportions, saying,—“That is my Murdered Monk’s hat;”—so on through the collection. There was a “Prodigal Son’s” hat, and an “Act on the Square” hat. The hat of the “Pilgrim Fathers—a Nautical Drama,” and the hat of “The Little Pig that Paid the Rent; an Irish Tragedy.”

Mr. Lincoln was more proud of his hats than of any other circumstance connected with his theatrical career—save one, and that was, that Mr. Gladstone had seen him play Hamlet and had expressed himself entirely satisfied with the performance.

In an evil moment, and at the mature age of fifty-two, Mr. Augustus Lincoln fell in love, and as often happens with the intellectually great, he fell in love with the very last person in the world whom he ought to have sought. Milly Brassey was a pert, pink-cheeked, saucy-eyed beauty, who played chamber-maid parts in his company. The Amateurs thought very much of Milly, and as she was not proud in the matter of receiving presents, it may be taken for granted that the sealskin jacket and diamond rings came from the gifted creatures whose works she had helped to illustrate. Off the stage she was a giddy, giggling little woman, always ready for a flirtation, and was madly loved by the _jeune premier_, and the low comedian of the company. Indeed, it is a matter of notoriety that a hostile meeting would have taken place between these jealous lovers had it not transpired that Milly was about to be led to the altar by the manager himself. So instead of meeting in Greenwich Park over the murderous muzzles of revolvers, they met in the “Goat and Compasses” over two glasses of cold gin.

Lincoln’s wedding was a very quiet affair. After all, no such very great change was to take place in the life of the bride. She was already a member of Lincoln’s company. She had now become a member of his household as well. Milly was a clever little actress, and if she did not really love her husband, she made that devoted man think that she did. His faith in her was unlimited, and although others thought that she flirted alternately with Philip Beresford, the _jeune premier_, and with Alf. Wild, the low comedian, Lincoln with a firm belief in his wife’s honesty and a still firmer belief in his own charms, saw nothing whatever. He was perfectly contented, and the amateurs, increasing in perseverance and impatience, brought him month after month new dramas for illustration, and new hats in token of esteem.

All might have gone well had it not been for the hats. Everybody in Lincoln’s company wanted a hat. Neither a _jeune premier_, nor a low comedian, can afford an unstinted indulgence in hats on two pounds a week, even when that modest stipend is regularly paid. Actors usually carry large ulster-cloaks that cover a multitude of sins. But a bad hat or a bad boot is always _en évidence_. To say that Milly was gifted with curiosity is simply to say that Milly was a woman. That she soon began to question her husband as to the contents of the locked cupboard, therefore goes without saying. But although Lincoln would have trusted her with almost any other secret, he was reticent concerning this. He had a sort of prescience that the volatile Milly might turn his collection into ridicule, and merely observing in answer to his wife’s queries that it was “Bluebeard’s Cupboard,” refused to be further cross-examined on the subject. Milly promised not to annoy him any more in the matter, and religiously kept her promise; only when he was out she tried every key in the house on the lock that kept her from a delightful mystery, and at last she found one that fitted, and opening “Bluebeard’s Cupboard” found it full,—not of heads without hats, but of hats without heads. So full was the cupboard of these samples of the hatter’s art, that she selected two, feeling confident, that from so large a bag, a brace would never be missed. These she secreted, and when her husband returned (he had gone to meet an Amateur, who was big with a tragedy called “The Paralytic”), she met him with a kiss, and they were quite happy till it was time to go to the theatre.

A week afterwards another Amateur wanted to see Mr. Lincoln. On this occasion the appointment was made at a Club in Adelphi Terrace. The interview was a short one, and Mr. Lincoln was able to bend his steps eastward some two hours before the time he had mentioned to Milly. He had to make a call in Greenwich, and in the Main Street of that highly-depressing village, he happened to look over the blind in a pastrycook’s window. He stopped suddenly, and shouted in a tone of the utmost consternation, “My ‘Murdered Monk’s’ hat!” And then after a pause, “My ‘Prodigal Son’s’ hat.” He looked again, and saw that the hats covered the empty heads of Philip Beresford and Alf. Wild, between whom sat his wife devouring open tarts, and laughing consumedly at her own jokes. He entered stealthily, and soon heard enough to show that he, her husband, was the subject of her witticisms. He strode up to them, and smashed the hats over the heads of the wearers, calling them varlets and minions. The Amateur of Adelphi Terrace had been good. So he was enabled to put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and withdraw six sovereigns. Handing two to each, he said solemnly, “In lieu of a week’s notice. Begone!” and then on his wife making a gesture of remonstrance, he said, in louder tones, “D’ye hear. _All_ of ye. Begone!” They went. And he has never seen any of them since.

XVII. _TRUE TO POLL_.

IT was a splendid morning in the leafy month of June—though down by the East India Docks “leafy” is scarcely the adjective which one would naturally select to qualify any month of the whole twelve. It was the morning on which Jack Tarpey, mariner, led Polly Andrews, spinster, to the altar. There is no altar in a Registrar’s Office, consequently the expression which I have used must be regarded as somewhat figurative. But an altar is by no means essential to the civil ceremony, and Jack and Poll were as much married as if they had been united by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, assisted by all the “Honourable and Reverends” in the service of the Church of England, as by law established. There, in a small parlour near the Commercial Road, Jack and Poll were made man and wife, or, to put it in the forcible language of the former, “had tied a knot with their lips as they couldn’t undo with their teeth.” The bride was accompanied by a lady friend—for, alas! she was an orphan—while the bridegroom was accompanied by his “shipmet,” young Joey Copper, who was selected to discharge the onerous duties devolving upon him, for a reason which may also be given in Jack’s own words: “Why,” he said, “do I ’ave Joey for my best man? Stan’ by, mate, an’ I’ll tell ye. I ’ave’s Joey for my best man because he _is_ the best man in all this ’ere blessed world. That’s why I ’ave’s Joey, d’ye see?” It may be taken for granted that they saw; because no one, having once asked the question, thought of putting it a second time.

Breakfast was provided at the residence of the landlord of the bridegroom, a house of public entertainment, at the corner of one of the somewhat melancholy streets abutting on the East India Docks. The sign of the house was the “Tartar Frigate,” and mine host had obligingly set apart his back parlour for the entertainment of Jack and his party, now increased by an addition of two other “shipmets.” The landlord of the “Tartar Frigate” was not, perhaps, a Gunter, but he understood the tastes of his patrons, and gave them what he called “a greasy and substawnshul set out.” There was a fine round of boiled beef, with carrots, boiled potatoes, and suet dumplings of great weight and sappiness. Following this there was a liberal dish of plum-duff; and to wind up with, there was half a Dutch cheese and pats of butter, about the composition of which, the less said here or elsewhere the better. The more solid part of the repast having been removed, all hands were piped to hot grog; a fiddler was introduced into the apartment, and all was jollity and dancing, until some difference of opinion arose between Jack’s male guests, as to which of the three should claim Poll’s lady friend as a partner. Jack, like the gallant and honest fellow that he was, stopped all disputes by announcing that there was to be no quarrel on his wedding-day, and that the proceedings, so far as he was concerned, were at an end. Then the punctilious tar paid the reckoning, and conveyed his wife to the apartments which she had engaged for them in Belt Alley, E.

A life on the Ocean Wave is regarded by some as the most jolly and enjoyable of all possible lives. But it must be admitted that the Ocean Wave is a relentless master, and has no more regard for the tender feelings of the mariner, and those who are dear to him, than the whale that swallowed Jonah. Jack and Poll had not been married three weeks, before his ship—_The Promise of the May_—was ready for sea, and Jack was ordered to join. Now I would call to my aid that which is not permitted to the Unvarnished writer—the lyre of the poet. For how shall I attune my harsh prose to the music of their sighs, the liquid measure of their tears?

It came, that final, that inevitable scene.

They stood on the quay, his arms round her waist, her head on his manly shoulder.

“Good-bye, lass,” he whispered, as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Goo—goo—good-bye,” she said, in an agony of sobbing.

“You’ll always think o’ me, Poll?”

“Aw—aw—always,” she cried, shaken with emotion.

“An’ you’ll always be true to me?”

“Aw—aw—always,” she moaned.

“Kiss me, lass.”

Their lips met in a fervent salute. Then he was led away to his ship by Joey Copper, his best man; and she, in a half fainting, half hysterical state, was conducted back to her apartments by her faithful female companion.

* * * * *

It was a splendid morning in the leafy month of August—for Samuel Taylor Coleridge to the contrary, I cannot conceive why June should be held to form a monopoly of leafiness—and Billy Bunting of the _Avalanche_ was proceeding along Lantern Lane, close to the Docks, when he beheld a female in distress. A hulking tramp with designs upon her purse, had compelled the lady to stop, and she was crying in vain to the great brick wall on either side, to help her. To “bear down upon” them, to call upon the villain to “belay there;” to knock him senseless in the roadway, and to offer his assistance to beauty in distress—to do all this, was, as is well-known to those conversant with the literature of the Rolling Deep—the work of a moment.

Billy loved a pretty face, and it was a pretty-one, of that plump and red kind so admired by sailors, which through tears looked up at Billy now. Giving the prostrate form of the tramp a kick, he gallantly offered his arm to the maiden, saying,—

“I must tow you out of the way of that skulking land-shark, my beauty.”

She, nothing displeased, took the offered arm; and declared that she was “_so_ obliged she couldn’t tell.”

“An’ wot’s yer name, my pretty poppet?”

“Polly,” she replied, with a blush that enhanced her many charms.

“An’ yer t’other name is—”

“Smith,” she replied, coyly.

“H’m. Wot d’ye think of Bunting as a name—come now?”

“Sweetly bee-utiful,” she murmured.

“That’s _my_ name.”

“No!” she exclaimed in a tone that betokened a delighted surprise.

Those who make long voyages must needs put up with short courtships, and Billy Bunting had not been many days acquainted with Miss Smith before she had promised to be his, and the marriage was duly solemnised at the Little Bethel, Lancington St., by Mr. Morth, the esteemed pastor of that conventicle. They spent the day at Gravesend, enjoying its natural and artificial beauties, including the Rosherville Gardens, where they were almost as happy as the advertisements of that pleasaunce would lead one to suppose. And then they returned to their humble lodging in Belt Alley, E.

Alas! for the brevity of human happiness. Poor Polly Andrews was no sooner married to her Jack Tarpey than the _Promise of the May_ was ordered on a twelve months’ voyage. And Polly Smith has been but a brief fortnight the adored wife of Billy Bunting when the _Avalanche_ is ready to go sailing about the world for a similar period. But, cheer up, brave hearts! Courage, dear souls!

“There’s a sweet little Cherub that sits up aloft To keep watch o’er the life of poor Jack.”

And the little Cherub who, from that elevated position, is solicitous concerning the well-being of poor Jack, will no doubt exhibit an equal solicitude in the case of poor Billy Bunting. But it is useless to preach philosophy to breaking hearts. It was a sad scene that which took place on the quay as Polly bid her Bill adieu. She could but hope; he could but hope, and a year after all is only three hundred and sixty-five miserable little days. It will soon be over.

But the _Avalanche_ was not to be a year out of port.

And here comes the interesting part of this strange narrative.

At the beginning of September, in the year of which I am writing, a very violent and lasting gale burst over certain Northern latitudes. And nowhere was that gale felt more severely than in the Bay of Biscay. Many lives were lost in that ill-omened water—for why it should be called a “Bay” while the Adriatic is called a “Sea,” I have never since the happy days of boyhood been able to discover. The waves rose mountains high, the wind blew a hurricane, and everything that out-lived the first fury of the elements scudded along under bare poles. That everything did _not_ out-live the first fury of the elements will appear presently.

One of the vessels encountering that memorable storm was the _Avalanche_. She encountered it, and overcame it, but with considerable loss to herself. Her mainmast had been snapped in two like a brittle twig. Her canvas was in shreds, part of her bulwarks was swept away, and the pumps were continually at work, to lessen the volume of water that half filled her hold. Though all was calm now, she could not move.

“There she lay” several days, “in the Bay of Biscay O!” At last the inevitable “sail in sight appeared.” It was a sail however that promised no assistance. For when examined through the glass it appeared to be a raft, with a solitary human being on board. There was much speculation as it bore down upon them; at last the raft touched the _Avalanche_, and its sole occupant, worn out with hunger, thirst, anxiety, and fear, was helped up the side of the _Avalanche_, and fell upon the deck in a faint that looked uncommonly like death. Unremitting attention and a judicious administration of rum brought him to; and when he was sufficiently restored he informed his rescuers that his name was Jack Tarpey, of the _Promise of the May_; which doomed vessel having encountered the late gales in the Bay succumbed to the last and worst, and went down with all hands, save three who had taken to the raft, His two companions had died of cold and exhaustion. He alone survived of all the crew.

Billy Bunting was a tender-hearted fellow, and “took to” this shipwrecked mariner. They became indeed such chums that Jack bade fair to forget the excellent Joey Copper: now no more. At last relief came to the _Avalanche_, and the disabled vessel was assisted on her homeward way. As the days sped on, the friendship between Jack and Billy increased. They had a bond of sympathy in common. Both had married Polls, and both these Polls lived in Belt Alley, E.

“She’s that fond o’ me, Jack—bless her,” Billy would say.

“Ah, she do love me, Bill—bless ’er old ’art,” Jack would reply.

It was a long and weary business getting the _Avalanche_ into dock. And it was a long and weary time before Bill and Jack were allowed to go ashore—for Jack had joined the crew of the _Avalanche_. But the day of emancipation did eventually arrive. And more exultant mariners never left a ship. Neither of these happy-go-lucky sons of Neptune could remember the number of his house in Belt Alley, but each could swear to the external appearance of it. So they chartered a four-wheeler, and as they drove down the alley each had his eye on the window.

“Stop!” shouted Bill, “that’s my ’ouse.”

“An’ mine,” echoed Jack, thinking that affairs were now culminating towards a coincidence. A blind was pulled suddenly down, and cabby thought he heard boys practising with a pistol in the back-yard. The mariners heard nothing. They were both knocking at the same door. There was no answer. They knocked again. Still no answer. They broke the door down. On the floor lay a plump, red-faced girl, shot through the heart, a pistol in her hand. Both exclaimed at the same moment,—

“Polly!”

On searching her boxes, they found that she had piously preserved copies of the certificates of her marriage to each—together with vouchers for two other unions since contracted.

XVIII. _JOHN PHILP_, _MASTER CARPENTER_.

ABOUT ten years ago Mr. Landor was the lessee and manager of the Lugubreum Theatre, and John Philp was his master carpenter. In those days the staple of the Lugubreum entertainment was melodrama, preceded by farce. Mr. Landor found Philp, who was about thirty-five years of age, exceedingly useful. He was quick, intelligent, and ingenious. He had been brought up to the stage-carpentering business from his earliest days, and had omitted to soak his faculties in gin, as is too often the practice with gentlemen of his profession. Philp’s powers of invention were indeed notorious, and many famous contrivances, without which certain celebrated sensational scenes must have miserably failed, could be traced to his suggestions. He was, withal, a modest, cheery-little fellow, much beloved by his associates, and greatly respected by his employer, who regarded him as one of his most valuable allies.

John Philp lived in a part of old Camberwell, that had not then been disturbed by the invasion of the speculative builder. He rented a substantially built little cottage of five rooms, with quite a large garden in the back. Philp’s gardening was, it must be admitted, of a somewhat theatrical kind. He had erected a flagstaff painted in stripes, on the top of which was a weather-cock of his own contrivance—an indicator which to the very last he believed told him what way the wind blew. At the end of the garden was a formidable grotto—the effect of which was somewhat marred by the introduction of pieces of coloured glass. On the side walk were placed two wooden pedestals, also painted in various bright colours; upon these stood statuettes of his favourite great men. Upon one was William Shakespear—copied from the famous work once erected in Garrick’s Villa, and now standing in the British Museum. And upon the other was Mr. Dion Boucicault, appealing to the dog Tatters—an animal which is often alluded to in the _Shaughraun_, but never appears in that interesting production.

John Philp’s widowed mother lived with him in Artesian Cottages, and kept house for him. She was a brisk, wholesome-looking old lady, and was very proud of her son—as indeed she had a right to be—and would grow garrulous about his merits, his personal beauty, and his infantile maladies, at the mere mention of his name. John was very much attached to the old lady—devoting his Sunday afternoons to her entertainment. What happy days those were when she sat in an arbour in the Greyhound at Dulwich, drinking tea, while John sipped his ale and smoked his pipe. What royal times, too, when the funds permitted a trip to Gravesend; and when shrimps and most marvellous water-cresses formed an addition to the feast. And what words can describe that period of delirious excitement when a buoyant exchequer and the closing of the Lugubreum for repairs, permitted that memorable week at Margate. Alas! such happiness was to be short-lived. And the beginning of the sorrow of Mrs. Philp was to be mysteriously bound up with the success in this country of _opera bouffe_.

Mr. Landor was an astute man, and had no exalted notion of his functions as a manager. He laughed at those who prated about “High Art,” and the rest of it, and spoke of himself as a business man, whose object in life was to make money, by supplying a certain commodity for which there existed a public demand. Now the public demand for melodrama and farce became very slack. Heavy villains and sensational “sets” became a drug in the market; and Mr. Landor having duly weighed the pros and cons of the matter, determined to alter the character of his theatre and make _opera bouffe_ his leading suit. Old supporters of the Lugubreum growled. But the public came. The dissemination of paper was stopped. The free list was entirely suspended. And the Lugubreum was doing a roaring trade. Philp still held his position as head carpenter, with labours necessarily lightened, but with salary undiminished.