I returned to Boston, according to promise, in January, and acted several weeks. My voice had slightly improved. At times, I could use it without difficulty; but the least nervousness or anxiety was the signal for the departure of every smoother tone.

My southern tour was now to commence. In Washington I appeared for the first time, reëngaging twice. I next performed in Richmond, and then proceeded to Mobile. It was my first visit to that city since my return from Europe. I had abundant and most flattering cause to believe that I had not been forgotten. I rank that engagement amongst those which I shall ever look back upon with truest pleasure.

In New Orleans we had violent storms of rain through the larger half of the engagement. The climate had an injurious effect upon my health, and it was with difficulty that I struggled through the stipulated number of performances. Armand was produced here as in every other city in which I had performed. Fashion was also enacted at the St. Charles Theatre, and repeated several nights, drawing larger houses than any other play. The comedy was exceedingly well acted. The Adam Trueman of Mr. Lynn won him high and deserved encomiums. The Snobson of Mr. De Bar more than once overcame my gravity of countenance. I was content to enact Gertrude, as the character obviated all necessity for exertion exertion which I was nightly becoming more unable to make.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The Promise to Henry Actors' habitual Disregard

Departure from New Orleans. - Memphis. Clay fulfilled. - First Appearance. of physical Ailments. — Instance in London. Anecdote of Mrs. Glover's last Night. My second Appearance in Memphis.· Struggle with Indisposition. — Unavoidable Interruption of Play. Malaria. Journey eastward. Acting for Mrs. Warner's complimentary Benefit. Summer Intentions frustrated. — Serious and protracted Illness. Removal to Ravenswood. My Father's House. The distinguished Dr. M—tt. — Life's Movement in a sick Chamber. Summer. Autumn. Winter's Approach.The Pine Trees. Sunsets. Cheerful Visitants to the little Chamber. · A Child's Tribute to a Father. Anticipated Recovery. - Proposed Farewell of the Stage.— Answer to a Question often asked. - Aristocratic Affectation amongst the Profession. Passion for the Stage. A few Words of Warning to the young Aspirant for dramatic Honors.

Musings.

WE left New Orleans about the middle of March, 1853, in the queenly Magnolia. The young nephew Stanislas, whom I mentioned in the preceding chapter, was again my gallant escort. In four days we reached Memphis. Six years before I had promised Henry Clay not to pass that city again without appearing there in my professional capacity. I had never travelled on the southern portion of the Mississippi River since the spring when we spent those pleasant days with our distinguished countryman, on board of the Alexander Scott. We arrived in Memphis on Sunday morning. The next evening I made my début in Parthenia. I had been ill during my whole stay in New Orleans, and was (417)

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now making a desperate struggle with indisposition. I found the audience particularly inspiring the engagement promised to be brilliant in the extreme. As the curtain fell upon each act of Ingomar, I found it more and more difficult to proceed; but I knew from experience that a strongly concentrated will could master the infirmities of an exhausted physique. I invoked to my aid all the mental energy that could obey the summons, and ended the play successfully.

The next night I was announced to appear as Mrs. Haller. If I had been governed by common prudence, -I had almost written common sense, I should not have attempted the performance. But long habit, and the example of others, had accustomed me to make light of physical ailments when they interfered with professional duty. I had seen many an actor walk majestically upon the stage and play a part with thrilling. effect, who, the instant he was without the range of the footlights, sank down, unable to speak or to stand, from the excess of acute suffering. I have often seen actors fall into long fits of swooning, and, on recovering, be forced to return to the stage and continue their imbodiments. I remember one occasion in England when an actor, who was personating my father, drew down the displeasure of an audience by his feeble and uncertain delivery of the text. How little they suspected that he was dying at that very moment! Three days afterwards he had departed this life.

Mrs. Glover's last night in London* is an instance of the indomitable energy that characterizes the votary of the stage in his conflict with external circumstances.

* I was in England at the time. The above description was given me by a friend who was present at Mrs. Glover's farewell.

STRUGGLE WITH INDISPOSITION.

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She rose from an illness which her physician had pronounced fatal, to enact Mrs. Malaprop (in the comedy of the Rivals) on the occasion of her farewell of the stage. The instant the performance was over, her temporary strength evaporated. She was incapable of answering the summons of the audience—of crossing the stage before the footlights and courtesying her acknowledgments. At their clamorous demand to behold her once more, she was placed in an arm chair in the centre of the stage, surrounded and supported by a galaxy of distinguished performers, who had congregated in honor of her farewell. The curtain rose she feebly bowed her thanks, her adieu smiled upon the bouquets that fell in a floral deluge around her the curtain descended upon her last triumph. She was taken home, and in two days breathed her last.

A host of similar instances might be given to illustrate how difficult it is for an actor to admit the possibility of his physical condition interfering with the discharge of his public duty. It was an impression of this kind, deeply stamped upon my mind, that lured me to commit the indiscretion of endeavoring to perform on my second night in Memphis.

Mrs. Haller has but a few words to speak in the first act; and those I managed to utter, though with difficulty, for a fresh attack of bronchitis was added to incipient malaria. In the second act I had scarcely entered upon the stage before I began to be aware that I had miscalculated my powers. The third time I attempted to speak I found my voice had entirely departed. Again and again I tried to force out a sound — but my lips opened and closed again noiselessly. Dr. Sh, who afterwards attended me, used to say that he never

witnessed an exhibition at once so comical and so painful. The lips moving without producing the faintest articulation the look of consternation quickly followed by an expression of resolution not to be vanquished - the impotent battle with the inevitable.

But I was conquered I could not speak, and I could not have maintained an erect position much longer. The considerate manager, Mr. Charles, who occupied the stage with me, instantly apologized to the audience, and the curtain fell.

For nine days I remained dangerously ill. Dr. S-h advised that I should be removed the instant that I could bear the journey. He gave it as his medical opinion that, although it was hardly possible for me to rally in that atmosphere, I would rapidly recover when I once reached the other side of the mountains. We left Memphis on the twelfth day of our sojourn there, and, travelling slowly, arrived at my sister's resi dence, in Philadelphia, in ten days more. As Dr. S-h predicted, I began to revive as soon as we passed the mountains, and was soon convalescent.

At this period Mrs. Warner was about to leave America, where she had encountered a series of most heartbreaking trials. The autumn previous I had promised her my services for a benefit, at any time when she chose to call upon me. I thus hoped to make amends, in a slight degree, for the losses and discomfitures which had waylaid her whole path in a foreign land. She was now just recovering from a dangerous illness or rather, was supposed to be recovering. Late tidings bring the sad intelligence of a relapse, which it is feared may prove fatal. She was to receive a complimentary benefit at the Howard Athenæum, in