opened on the following Monday, and that
it was announced that Mrs. Siddons would
be passing through the town, and would
play Catherine in Henry the Eighth for one
night; of course, he had secured places
for all our party. Theatres were hardly
then what they have become since—either
the audience possessed less intellectual
culture, and were satisfied with less, or the
actor understood his art better; at all events
the amusement was very popular, and the
announcement of the opening of a country
theatre was a signal for a pleasurable
excitement in the neighbourhood. You may
imagine, then, how much the excitement was
increased by the prospect of seeing the
greatest actress of her own, perhaps of any
time, of whose retirement people already
began to talk.

"I shall not attempt to describe to you
what I should want words to convey—the
suffering majesty of the wronged Catherine,
almost divine as she appeared by the side of
the ranting Henry. She bore herself as if
she knew that she was every inch a queen,
her dignity giving a most moving pathos to
her womanly tenderness; while he,
uncomfortable with padding and vainly endeavouring
to speak in a voice suitable to his artificial
proportions, rendered absurd the violent but
princely tyrant of the poet. Such inequalities,
painful as they are, are looked upon as
matters of course in a country theatre. We
had come to see Mrs. Siddons, and expected
nothing but amusement from the blunders
and misapprehensions of the rest of the
company. My friends were familiar with most
of the actors—several were native to the
place—but the name of the actress who was
to play Anne Boleyn had already given rise
to some speculation in our party. No one
was acquainted with it, no one had seen the
lady who bore it. When she entered, in her
graceful and modest costume, there was an
involuntary start of admiration through the
house. Anything more lovely was never
seen; and when she spoke, her words were
delivered with propriety and intelligence, but
in a subdued and rather timid tone, which
added greatly to her charm. We held our
breaths lest we should lose one tremor of
her girlish voice. Catherine herself was
almost forgotten in sympathy and pity for Anne
Boleyn.

In the after-piece, the young actress
played again. This time she had a part which
entirely suited her: she had to play a spoilt
child sent to school to be taught manners.
The character was exactly suited to her
years and to her taste. She acted without
effort and with perfect success. It was
evident that for the time she was living in
the scene. It was impossible to express
delight while she was speaking and moving—
we feared to lose one glance of the mischief-
loving eyes, one toss of the beautiful head;
but, when at last we burst out into loud
applause, she looked round in amazement to
see for whom the demonstration was meant,
and when our renewed cries and the whispers
of some one who stood near her convinced
her that she was the object of our admiration,
a look of bewilderment which had much more
of displeasure than of triumph in it, broke
over her countenance; she made a hasty
salutation; and ran off the stage.

"Nobody thought, nobody spoke, of
anything but the beautiful actress. We soon
learnt that she was niece to the manager, and
was residing in the town with her mother,
a widow, and three or four brothers and
sisters. We went to the theatre whenever
she acted. Mrs. Topham invited her to her
house; so did all the ladies in the neighbourhood.
In the morning she looked even more
lovely than on the stage; she was hardly
seventeen; her complexion had the
transparency and the variability of early youth;
in her mind and manners, the simple
trustfulness of the child was blended with the
opening sensibilities of the woman. It is
impossible to give you any idea of the elastic
grace of her motions, of the marvellous and
ever-changing expressions of her countenance
—nothing that approached her could
withstand her witchery.

"As a natural consequence of her position
and her singular beauty, Violet Elder was
capricious and proud. She did not attempt to
conceal her dislike of some of the forward
coxcombs who pressed their attentions upon
her, or her displeasure at an ill-expressed or
too open compliment. How it was, I know
not; perhaps, because my silent admiration
was better suited to her taste; perhaps, as
I rather incline to think, from the natural
kindness of her heart which led her to see
the loneliness of mine, and to compassionate
the nervous tremor with which her presence
inspired me, for these or other reasons she
soon distinguished me and showed pleasure
in conversing with me. She took me into
her confidence, demanded litttle services of
me, treated me as a friend, and invited me
home to see her mother, whom she loved with
a devoted though sometimes dictatorial affection.
If she looked lovely among the gay
and wealthy where her only business was to
be amused, how much more lovely did she
appear in her simple home, the support and
ornament of the humble household. Here,
all pride, all restraint was lost in her affection
for her mother—a gentlewoman still
eminently handsome and not beyond the middle
age—and in her cordial and playful love
for her younger brothers and sisters. I must
not dwell on this part of my story, though
God knows I could linger over it for
hours.

"That I loved her with a true and earnest
passion, I need hardly tell you. She returned
my love; I had the assurance from her own
dear lips. After the term of my visit at
Topham Court had expired, I took lodgings