LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1700, 1 August 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TOLD AT THE HARLEQUIN'S HSAD. By Byron WtBUKB. You would not think it to look at him now, perhaps, but Coriolanus Croft, the somewhat tpherical landlord of tho Harlequin’s Head, Wasp’s Nest, Cinderborough, was once a slim person, arc! a talented dancer and pautomimist, as well as an active low comedian. He learnt his business as an actor in the old-fashioned way with the old fashioned result. He belonged to a school of hUtrions that is manifestly becoming smaller every year. Ho was duly apprenticed to the profession, and he honorably served his indentures. He but why proceed in this strain ? So long as the British Drama can abundantly recruit itself from the services, civil and military (especially civil), the B. D, is safe. Cinderborough is not what would be termed a theatrical town, but there was a time when it held a conspicuous position in a famous but long since obliterated circuit. The theatre, a queer, tumbledown old place in the centre of a maze of full-flavored courts, was inaccessible to anything on wheels. On a bespeak or benefit night the nobility and gentry had, along with humbler admirers of the drama, to risk suffocation at tho common (vary common) entrance to the Temple of Thespis before any part of the interior of the house could be .reached. And then ! Well, in severe weather tho place was cosy enough. A huge fire in an open grate made both pit and “ boxes ” quite comfortable ; albeit the establishment’s female purveyor of refreshments, who enjoyed a monopoly of the orange and nut trade, would occasionally break in upon a tender big of dialogue on tho stage by her energetic method of breaking a tough bit of coal in the pit. Tho famous old place is a theatre no longer, bat the Harlequin’s Head is still the favorite resort of members of the profession visiting Cinderborough ; for it is pleasant to sit in the snuggest of bar-parlors while the lively old fellow “shoulders his crutch and shows how fields were won,” or rath- r lights his pipe, and tells how houses were drawn when he was in the profession. Hear him. ‘ What do you ray, Polly?’ addressing his still handsome wife. ‘ Shall I tell our young friend hero’—meaning me— ‘ how it was you and I came to know each other ?’ ‘ Oh I I have no objection,’ replies she, with a captivating little laugh. ‘ Which version of the story are you going to tell ?’ ‘ My dear ’ began Mr Croft, in a deprecatory tone of voice. ‘I am sure I beg your pardon, Corry,’ she rejoined, with a propitiatory smile, ‘ I did not mean to say that you altered the facts at all; only it did strike mo that your last relation of the story was a rather distant relation of the first. ’ ‘ Good for yon, Polly,’ observed her husband approvingly; ‘ and now suppose you leave us to it You have this one with me, Sir’—to me; ‘Now you can retire’—to the handmaiden. ‘lt would net bo fair to Polly, there, to tell you how many years it is since I was engaged at a little town in Suffolk, playing low comedy, chiefly, and tinging and dancing between the pieces. My salary was one pound ono shilling per week. We were not a numerous company, but oar professional courage was marvellous. You may conceive the amount of doubling and trebling that went on when I toll you that we produced the entire round of Shakespeare’s plays with the aid of seven and three ladies ! Stars? Not a bit of it. The only star we had during tho entire season was my dear old friend Hardy, who came to ns from town to play Hecate. He is now manager of a theatre—l will not say where—and nearly as capable of undertatiug the roll of Falstaff, without suffering, as I am. I said the roll of Falstsff. Do you tumble ?’ I tumbled. ‘ Our great hit was with the pantomime, “The Sleeping Beauty.” As the low comedian of the company I naturally scored in the opening ; but it was as clown that I made those troops of friends who are so useful to a favorite actor in a small country town on his benefit night. I had had my benefits before, some of them it is true rather less than nominal, and I have had them since, of a more solid character, bus that ben. of mine in the little market town in Suffolk was decidedly the most remarkable that ever fell to my jlot. If we were a weak company in respect of the bard, there was no name for our want of strength in the comic business of the pantomime. Ono unhappy super, came oa for everything; he worked harder than any member of tho company, and. yon may imagine, got considerably more kicks than halfpence. As for such a thing as a “rally,” that was a physical impossibility. We had a capital house. “ The Ragpicker of Paris ” was tho drama, and then came the pantomime. It was the last night of the season. The manage, artfully enough, had worked up all the bespeaks for himself, and as the leading lady and gentleman were the only members of the company, besides myself, who had benefit terms, (and they were “terms!’) he had given me the choice of that night or none. He knew my share of the profits would not make much of a hole in his, and I was a safe card to play—a sort of thirteenth trump. Having to leave the town early next morning, I settled up at tho treasury, shook hands with tho boas (who expressed a hope that we might soon be together again, a hope which 1 did not share), had a parting with tho boys, and repaired to my lowly lodgings. My landlady (kindly, crusty old dame, I wonder if she is living yet—but no, that is impossible) was a widow, rather well-to-do for her station in life, who pieced out her scanty income by taking in suah persons as myself and keeping a mangle, hhe was waiting np for me as I entered ‘the many-raftered’ if not exactly dusky cobwebbed room —she was a pattern of thrift and cleanliness—and my supper was ready on the table. * I think yon will find all yon want, Mr Croft: there’s the kettle on the hob, and you know where the lump tugar is kept, if yon should require it; I must be off to bed. You must have a cup of coffee in the morning before you start, you know —it’s bad to go on a journey fasting ; so, good night; you shall be called in time.’ I thanked her, and she retired. As soon as I was alone I set to work in a motiveless way to count the proceeds of my ben. Perhaps I fancied I might make the amount more by counting; but count it I did. There it was —one sovereign in gold, fourteen shillings, and six sixpences, one of which was crooked. The crooked sixpence I placed in my watch-pocket—there was plenty of room for it—and tho remainder of my pile upon the high old-fashioned mantelpiece, the sovereign alongside of the silver, mounting guard. I relished my comfortable supper; there was a chance of my not getting into such comfortable quarters again in a hurry, as my expedition was one of speculation, and basinets was everywhere quisby. ‘Now,’ said I to myself, ‘I will just drink my own health, have one pipe, and then go

to bed.’ I had mixed my grog —it was the last drop In the bottle —filled my pipe, and r-a doing up to the mantelshelf for a piece of paper to obtain a light, when the fender gave way nnder me, and down went the whole of my pile of wealth ! I had never known what was meant by a cold sweat nntil that dreadful moment. I had one all over then. * What is the matter ? ’ exclaimed a voice from the upper regions. ‘Nothing,’! replied, in a tone of stimulated composure, ‘ I have merely dropped my pipe.’ My pipe ! While my landlady wo a speaking I heard a sound of something descending behind the mantelpiece widdle, widdle, widdle, widdle—and then the sonnd caused by that falling something ceased. It at .once flashed across my mind, ‘That is one of my coins.’ If it should be tbo sovereign! I waited until I hoard the old darao close her bedroom door, and then, it would have been impossible for me to ray why, proo-eded in my search like—like a thief in the night. As well as I could I shut out a sound, and aided by the imperfect light shed by a short sixteen and the glow cast by the embers of the fire, sifted the cinders in the hearth with painful care. After half an-hour spent in this cheerful exercise I found all the silver—sixteen shillings and sixpence—but the sovereign was missing. Recover that sovereign 1 must. Without it I was a prisoner. I mounted npoa a chair and scrutinized the place where the coin had lain. {To ho continued.)