[11] “_Lyceum.—Charles I., Mr. Henry Irving._ The profound admiration that has been manifested by all classes (for the past four months) in this noble poetic play, and the unqualified approval bestowed by the most illustrious auditors upon Mr. Henry Irving’s great creation of the martyr-king, have marked a new era in public taste. The manager is proud to be able to announce that the immense audiences nightly assembled render any change in the performances impossible.—_Miss Isabel Bateman_, in her tender and exquisitely pathetic portraiture of Queen Henrietta Maria.—_Mr. George Belmore_, in his vigorous and masterly assumption of Oliver Cromwell.” Thus the modern Elliston. [12] I have seen in an old criticism a notice of a leading performer who in similar fashion “condescended”—so it was phrased—to the part of the Ghost, and whose impersonation was declared to be “more than usually _gentlemanlike and reputable_.” [13] Old Cibber thus grumbled at Garrick’s rise, and other quidnuncs at Kemble’s; and when Edward Kean came, there was the old prompter, who, when asked his opinion if he were not equal to Kemble, said: “Very clever young man indeed, very clever; but Lord bless you, sir, Mr. Kemble _was a different thing altogether_.” [14] I have a vast collection of these things, filling some fourteen great folio volumes—an extraordinary tribute to the actor’s success. [15] At the close of the performance, Mr. Chippendale presented to him the sword used by Kean when playing Richard. Later a friend gave him “the George,” which the great actor also wore in the part. Lady Burdett-Coutts, always one of his great admirers, added Garrick’s ring, “in recognition of the gratification derived from his Shakespeare representations, uniting to many characteristics of his great predecessors in histrionic art (whom he is too young to remember) the charm of original thought.” I may add that I was the medium of conveying to Irving Macready’s dress as Virginius, at the request of Mrs. John Forster, to whose husband it had been given by the great tragedian, with the accompanying “tinfoil dagger” with which he used to immolate Virginia. [16] One night, during the performance of ‘Hamlet,’ something was thrown from the gallery on to the stage. It fell into the orchestra, and for a time could not be found. A sad-looking working-woman called at the stage-door to ask about it, and was glad to learn it was found. It was only a cheap, common thing. “I often go to the gallery,” she said, “and I wanted Mr. Irving to have this. I wanted him alone in the world to possess it.” “This,” he added, telling the story, “is the little trinket which I wear on my watch-chain.”