Such is an imperfect picture of a really remarkable man, who has left a deep impression on his contemporaries. It was lately written of him by one not always inclined to be partial to him: “We find the quality of nobility to be the keynote of his character. No one ever accused him of a mean or low act. His instincts are, to use a word that has been often applied to them, ‘princely.’ He has in him that curious combination of gentleness and dignity which used to be called ‘the grand style.’ Without being tortuous in his methods, he is instinctively diplomatic, and there are suggestions of delicacy, almost of asceticism, in his physique, which convey an impression of refinement and possible self-denial.” Such a character as this given of some stranger unknown would irresistibly attract and make us eager to know him. And the author of animated pictures of society in the various capitals adds these touches: “Whatever he does is done on a great, even a grand, scale, and done without ostentation, without violating any of the laws of good taste. His figure is interesting, and not wanting in distinction. His manner is polished and gentle; his voice, off the stage, always agreeable, and his style peculiarly winning.” THE END BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. FOOTNOTES [1] Long after, in his prosperity, he recalled to American listeners an excellent piece of advice given him by this actress. He was speaking of the invaluable practice of revealing thoughts in the face before giving them utterance, where, he said, it “will be found that the most natural, the most seemingly accidental, effects are obtained when the working of the mind is seen before the tongue gives its words. This lesson was enjoined on me when I was a very young man by that remarkable actress, Charlotte Cushman. I remember that when she played Meg Merrilies I was cast for Henry Bertram, on the principle, seemingly, that an actor with no singing voice is admirably fitted for a singing part. It was my duty to give Meg Merrilies a piece of money, and I did it after the traditional fashion by handing her a large purse full of coin of the realm, in the shape of broken crockery, which was generally used in financial transactions on the stage, because when the virtuous maiden rejected with scorn the advances of the lordly libertine, and threw his pernicious bribe upon the ground, the clatter of the broken crockery suggested fabulous wealth. But after the play, Miss Cushman, in the course of some kindly advice, said to me, ‘Instead of giving me that purse, don’t you think it would have been much more natural if you had taken a number of coins from your pocket and given me the smallest? That is the way one gives alms to a beggar, and it would have added greatly to the realism of the scene.’ I have never forgotten that lesson.”