Page:ONCE A WEEK JUL TO DEC 1860.pdf/144

136 boy with a grain of life in him would choose to be a tailor as a matter of taste. As for me, it worried me to death to sit hour after hour, stitch, stitch, stitch, and I used to beguile the time by reciting and reading to the few men my father employed, and they did my share of work in return for the amusement it afforded them. At the age of fifteen I took part in some private theatricals in the town, and found the bustle of preparation much more pleasant than the dull shop-work. They went off well, and when next the players came to the town I went to the manager and asked him to take me. He laughed, for I was fit for nothing. Of course I was too big for a page, and too little for a man-at-arms, too young for a first, second, or even third lover, and too old for any accidental boy parts. I was disappointed, but I soon had to leave the then detested shop. My father was rather of a serious turn. He heard of my going to the manager, and locked me up, then about sixteen, and fed me on bread and water. This was rather too bad, so I took French leave, and when the bread and water came one morning, there was no one to eat it. I was pleased to find myself with a pair of socks and a clean shirt wrapt up in a handkerchief about ‘to face the world,’ and ‘try to wring the hard held honours from stern fortune’s hand.’ Still I was young then. I need scarcely tell you that sitting here I often regretted that fine May morning’s work that took me from home.

“I went to one town after another, and at each sought out the manager of the theatre, and tried hard to get in as anything. I was no use, my voice was not yet set or certain. ‘Why, young sir,’ said one to me, ‘you’re as slim as a girl, and if you were to make love in the tone you’ve been talking to me in, the people would insist that I had made a girl play the lover’s part. I’d take you, but you are no use to me at all—two years hence you can come again, then I may talk to you.’

“I felt it was true, but still wanted to be in a theatre, so I entered a travelling circus company as holder and ring raker. I kept at it for eighteen months, and then the manager joined another in the regular acting line. Now was my chance. They wanted a lover, and wanted him to ride; their first lover could no more sit a horse than a sack could; the first lady saw him once, and said she should die with laughing if he came on, so I offered. I did well, and thought I was on the road to fortune; I felt that Kemble and the rest of the great actors were only the same men as I was, with better chances. That is more than forty years ago though. I’m wiser now.

“After this success I became first gentleman in that company, and remained so for some years. The manager took the leading parts, so I had no chance. I changed my name, first as Gowling did not look well in a bill, and next because I did not want to hurt my poor old father’s feelings more than I could help—I took the name of Alphonsus Montague. It looked well on the bills, I used to think at one time. Somebody, I forget who, says, “What’s in a name?” I know there is a good deal in a name when it’s on the play-bills; and the public being judge, Alphonsus Montague was better than James Gowling, for it drew better houses.

“In the company there was a girl who took second lady. I don’t say I fell in love with her: I don’t think men of our class do fall in love. The constant exercising the imitative powers in delineating that passion, weakens, I think, the power of feeling it as other men feel it. I liked her; she was good, industrious, rising in the profession, and I married her. There never was a better woman lived, and she had her reward: I don’t suppose that there ever was a woman more respected in any company. I never had even a row about her but once, and then, a man being very insolent to her, she came and told me, just as I came off as Macduff in ‘Macbeth.’ I went to the manager and told him that the man must leave the place at once. The manager said it was impossible; he was a son of the noble owner of half the town; his father was then in the house; these things must be endured. I said they should not be endured; and that if he would not protect the ladies in his company, I should take the liberty of protecting my wife.”

“And how did it end?”

“Why, I went to the little beast, titled as he was, and kicked him out at the stage door. I did, sir, though you would not think it to look at me now.”

“And the manager?”

“Came and thanked me. Said he was much obliged to me; he had had more annoyance from the complaints of the girls about that fellow than from any other cause. He raised mine and my wife’s salary that same week.”

I had been noticing while he was speaking a number of children who came out of the house, and were dispersing in various groups to play. They were all dressed alike in the grey, true pauper grey, and ran and jumped as if they were not dependent on a paternal state for their support. One child, a little, large eyed girl, passed once or twice before us, and then stood still, looking at me a little way off. I looked at her, and she pulled the corner of her little apron, and blushed, and so remained till he had done speaking.

“Whose is that pretty child, there?” said I.

“That—that’s my little Alice. Here, Alice! come here, dear.”

The child needed no second bidding, but ran to the old pauper; and, being lifted with no little effort on to his knee, hid her face against his breast, and still glanced at me. I, of course, found some object of attraction in the garden that enabled me to let her see my face without my appearing to see her; she was soon satisfied, apparently, for the glances became more bold and determined.

“Who is that, Papa Gowling?”

“A friend of mine; he won’t hurt you.”

She looked again to see if I had any intention of doing her mischief, and, being satisfied, sat upright on the old man’s knee.

“There, Alice, you see he’s not going to hurt my little Alice. Won’t you shake hands with him?”

She did.

“ThisThis is [sic] your grand-child?” said I.