At this time I
seem to have been always at the side watching the acting. Mrs. Kean's
Katherine of Aragon was splendid, and Charles Kean's Wolsey, his best
part after, perhaps, his Richard II. Still, the lady who used to stand
ready with a tear-bottle to catch his tears as he came off after his
last scene rather overdid her admiration. My mental criticism at the
time was "What rubbish!" When I say in what parts Charles Kean was
"best," I don't mean to be assertive. How should a mere child be able to
decide? I "think back" and remember in what parts I liked him best, but
I may be quite wide of the mark.
In those days audiences liked plenty for their money, and a Shakespeare
play was not nearly long enough to fill the bill. English playgoers in
the early 'fifties did not emulate the Japanese, who go to the theater
early in the morning and stay there until late at night, still less the
Chinese, whose plays begin one week and end the next, but they thought
nothing of sitting in the theater from seven to twelve. In one of the
extra pieces which these hours necessitated, I played a "tiger," one of
those youthful grooms who are now almost a bygone fashion. The pride
that I had taken in my trembling star in the pantomime was almost
equaled now by my pride in my top-boots! They were too small and caused
me insupportable suffering, but I was so afraid that they would be taken
away if I complained, that every evening I used to put up valorously
with the torture.
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