Urged by the promptings of a fiery and ambitious soul, Mr. de Mortemar had been induced to take the Oxford Road Theatre at the very deadest and dullest time of the year--that dreary pause in the theatrical season which precedes the glory of Boxing-day--that fag-end of the year, during which the combined forces of a Macready and a Charles Mathews would scarcely suffice to illumine the profound darkness that foreshadows the rising of that brilliant luminary, the genuine face-distorting, policeman-overturning, baby-squashing, redhot-poker-brandishing, parcel-snatching, crinoline-flourishing Christmas clown--that wonder of wit and humour, who convulses his audience by asking them what they had for dinner the day after to-morrow, or by some sarcastic inquiry about a missing fourpenny-piece. Mr. de Mortemar had a soul above such small considerations as good or bad seasons. He had that within him which whispered that wherever the English language was spoken there must be an audience able to comprehend and admire his rendering of Hamlet and Romeo, Master Walter and Claude Melnotte, Alfred Evelyn, Charles Surface, John Mildmay, Citizen Sangfroid, Miles na Coppaleen, Sir Charles Coldstream, and Paul Pry. In _these_ few characters Mr. de Mortemar (_né_ Morris) felt himself unapproachable. Other provincial stars might pretend to a wider range of character; the modest De Mortemar only sought to surpass a Kean in Hamlet, a Gustavus Brooke in Master Walter, a Macready in Lear, a Charles Mathews in Coldstream, a Wigan in John Mildmay, a Boucicault in the faithful Miles, and a Wright in the inquisitive Paul. This much he felt that he could do, and he had no greedy desire to outstep the limit which liberal Nature had set upon his genius. “I played a burlesque character of Robson’s for my benefit at Market Deeping last year,” Mr. de Mortemar remarked to a friend at the little tavern next door to the Oxford Road Theatre; “and the _Deeping Examiner_ said that if it were possible I could excel in anything where all was excellence, I did excel in burlesque. But I don’t care to make my mark in London as a burlesque actor. A man can’t help it if Nature made him versatile, you see, Tommy; but there’s some kind of principle in these things, and what Edmund Kean wouldn’t have done, I won’t do. That’s my principle, and I mean to stick to it.” “And so I would, Morty, if I was you. Whatever Teddy Kean could do, you can do,” replied the humble Pylades. “And I’ll take another glass of bitter, if you’ll stand Sam.” “I _have_ played clown for my ben,” murmured the great De Mortemar; “but, though I drew an enormous house, I felt the injury to my self-respect was poorly paid for by a clear half.” “There ain’t nothing you can’t do, Morty, from Shylock to a flipflap. That ale’s uncommon hard; I think a six of brandy-and-water warm would do you more good, and wouldn’t hurt _me_.”