Gordon and I had the privilege of seeing Charlotte Cushman when, no longer able to act in the plays in which she had so distinguished herself, she gave a reading at one of the large halls in New York. She was infirm, less from age than a malady which was consuming her. I found an immense audience assembled in her honor. There were no more seats, no more standing room. She had no assistants, no support. A chair behind a small table was all the mise en scène, and here, dressed in a matronly gown of black silk and lace, the great tragedienne seated herself. Her gray hair was rolled back à la Pompadour from her broad, high forehead, and beneath black brows her eye kindled as she glanced over the fine audience. As she described it afterward, "a modest farewell reading blossomed into a brilliant testimonial."

After our enthusiastic response to her graceful greeting, she said simply: "Ladies and gentlemen, I shall read—I trust for your pleasure, surely for mine," laying her hand upon her heart—"from the second scene in the third act of 'Henry the Eighth.'"

It so happened there had been, incident upon her appearance, a remarkable discussion in some of the journals of the day. The wise ones, the elect, had paused in their speculations as to the authorship of 360Shakespeare's plays, or the Letters of Junius, or the enlightenment of the nations by certain rearrangement of periods in Hamlet's immortal soliloquy, and had cast an eye of scrutiny upon Wolsey's magnificent monologue. To nous autres it seems clear enough as it is—but who are we that we should know the heart hidden under a red robe? They gravely opined that the king, not God, was meant in the lines, "Had I but served my God with half the zeal," etc. Without doubt Charlotte Cushman was aware of this remarkable discussion. A good many backs were straightened to "attention" as she reached the noble words:—

"... O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, He would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies."

She pointed upward as she uttered reverently the word "He."

From this, after a brief pause—she did not leave her seat all evening—she passed to "Much Ado about Nothing." Never was there such a Dogberry, bursting with arrogance and ignorance. Mrs. Maloney, on the Chinese question, followed, dismissing, with inimitable impudence, the mistress who had just shown her the door. Then she became the loyal, spirited, wildly sweet Kentucky girl and her blue-grass horse, Kentucky Belle,—utterly charming, both of them,—concluding with "Molly Carew," In this she was tremendous. The policemen at the door came in to listen; the applause 361was loud and long. "Molly Carew," forsooth! What is there in "Molly Carew"? What in the entreaty to take off her bonnet lest she cost her lover, as he declares, "the loss of me wanderin' soul," to bring down the house? What in the indignant summing up that she had better be careful; "you'll feel mighty queer when you see me weddin' mairching down the street an' yersilf not in it"?

I soon found out how much there was in Molly Carew per se with no Charlotte Cushman to interpret! I happened to have Samuel Lover's poems, and when I reached home, I took the book from the library shelves and summoned the children to listen to the funniest thing they had ever heard in all their lives. "I warn you," said I, "you'll half kill yourselves laughing."

I read "Molly Carew." Round eyes opened wider in astonishment as I proceeded. There was not a smile; not the faintest glimmer of mirth. Dead silence was broken by a polite "Is that all? Thank you, mamma," as they escaped. Oh, genius, gift of the gods! Who can measure it? Who, not born to it, can hope to win it! Who can attain even a faraway imitation of it! How it can clothe and glorify the simplest ideas! How it transfigured Charlotte Cushman—haggard and gray from keen physical suffering, knowing well that her hour was at hand! What noble restraint in her selections, ignoring pain and sorrow, denying herself the tribute of sympathy, bidding us good night with a smile on her lips and words demanding an answering smile on ours! 362 To remember Charlotte Cushman is to recall Madame Helena Modjeska—totally different, certainly not inferior. I met her in society in New York. Her beautiful face, her tender, sensitive mouth, and the "far-away look of her eyes, as though she were thinking of the wrongs of Poland," are never to be forgotten. And the splendor of her genius! I saw her as Ophelia to Edwin Booth's Hamlet. "You are as good as a Greek chorus, my lord,"—she in a Savonarola chair, he on a fauteuil at her feet. I saw her also as Queen Catherine. I think she impressed all who knew her as a most sad woman. But is not melancholy the prerogative of genius? I, for one, never knew a man or woman of genius, real genius, who was merry. Madame Modjeska made melancholy beautiful.

She was once the guest of a lady who had gathered together a number of choice spirits in her honor. One of them, forgotten of her good angel, asked, "How do you like our country, madame!"

"Oh," spreading out her hands to signify empty space, and speaking in a weary tone, "Oh! It is all—all one great level."

"Ah, but," said her hostess, "patience! I shall introduce you by and by to a little hill."

An introduction followed, and at the close of the evening Madame M............