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“Towards his design moves like a ghost.”

“These eyes, like lamps, whose wasting oil is spent,
Wax dim as drawing to their exigent.”

We will turn our eyes from the mimic scenes of the stage,
and the bustling drama of the green-room, to scenes and characters
contrasting with the first by their reality, and with the
second, by their sober tone of feeling; yet agreeing with both,
in that they are equally belonging to our story.

Let it be remembered, that at the time of which we write,
plays were performed (at the only theatre in New-York) but
three times a week—except that an occasional Saturday night
was pressed into the manager's service. The occurrences
which we are now to relate, happened on the evening after
those of the last chapter.

Every body conversant with New-York, its streets, and
alleys, knows that there is a narrow passage behind the park
play-house, called Theatre-alley. We have introduced the

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reader to this thoroughfare, already, in an early chapter. Of
this place, the building from which it derives its name forms
nearly one side, and on the other (at this time), are towering,
miscalled, fire-proof store-houses, and manufactories of those
potent missiles, fraught, like Pandora's box, with good and
evil, but leading on the human race to its destiny—books. At
the north-east corner of this alley, stands a stupendous hotel,
dedicated to temperance and every godly virtue. This passage
or alley existed at the time of which we treat; but of all
the towering walls which now enclose it, none were in being
except those of the theatre.

Opposite to the back or private entrance to this building,
stood a lofty wooden pile, erected for, and occupied by, the
painters, machinists, and carpenters of the establishment; to
the north of which (where now the above-mentioned temperance
hotel is planted), were several low, wooden dram-shops,
and other receptacles of intemperance and infamy; and to the
south, several taller wooden houses, occupied by the poor and
industrious; one of which tenements, immediately adjoining
the scene-house, was the residence of John Kent, the property-man
of the theatre, and his wife. We have seen in the
last chapter, that among other properties, he was to furnish a
tarrapin-supper for the young manager and his joyous companions.
As some of my readers may not be sufficiently initiated
in the mysteries of stage-management, I will tell them what a
property-man is.

Though, in such matters, I do consider my authority as
indifferent good, yet I will first give higher. Peter Quince
says, “I will drawa bill of properties, such as our play wants;”
and Bottom, who appears to be the manager, gives us a list of
beards, as “your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny
beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French crown-coloured
beard, your perfect yellow.”

That I may not mislead, let me note, that actors in the year
1811 found their own wigs and beards; but then property-beards
and wigs were supplied to the supernumeraries, the
“reverend, grave and potent seignors” of Venice, the senatorial
fathers of Rome, or parliamentary lords of England.

Quince performed the part of the prompter, whose duty it
was, to give a bill of properties to the property-man; and
these consisted of every imaginable thing. In the Midsummer
Night's Dream, for example, one property is an ass's
head; which, if not belonging to the manager, or one of the
company, the property-man must find elsewhere. Arms and

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ammunition, loaded pistols for sham mischief, and decanters of
liquor for real:—(for though the actors could dispense with the
bullets, they required the alcohol,)—love letters and challenges—
beds, bed-linen, and babies—in short, the property-man
was bound to produce whatever was required by the incidents
of the play, as set down in the “bill of properties” furnished
by the prompter. Such was the office of John Kent, besides
furnishing suppers occasionally for the manager, and doing other
extra services, for which he was well remunerated, and experienced
the favour of his employer. He was habitually kind—
perhaps, owing to former situations in life, he was rather submissive;
but Cooke used to say, when in his abusive half-tipsy
vein, that he was the only gentleman about the house.

This worthy couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kent, had no children;
and the wife was at this time dying of consumption—real,
honest, much-to-be-pitied consumption—not that disease sometimes
so called, which is the effect of folly or vice.

Kent and his wife were old. In youth they had been slaves
to the same master, under that system established and enforced
on her colonies by that nation who at the same time boasted,
justly, “that the chains of the slave fell from him on his touching
her shores;” that he became a man as soon as he breathed
the air of her glorious island; yet, with that inconsistency
so often seen in nations as well as individuals, sent her floating
dungeons with the heaviest chains, forged for the purpose, to
manacle the African, and convey him to a hopeless slavery
among her children in America; even refusing those children
the privilege of rejecting the unhallowed and poisonous gift.
But England has washed this stain from her hands; while the
blot remains where she fixed it, and has produced a cancerous
sore on the fairest political body that ever before existed.

Mr. and Mrs. Kent were not Africans by birth, but descendants
from the people so long the prey of European and American
avarice; and by some intermixture of the blood of their
ancestors with that of their masters, their colour was that which
is known among us as mulatto, or mulatre; still they were
classed with what people of African descent (who abhor the
word “negro”) call “people of colour.”

The master of this couple had been a kind one; and they
had both received the rudiments of English literature, with the
foundation of a good moral and religious education; so that
being freed by his will at his death, they had lived reputably,
without the means however of accumulating property beyond
decent clothing and furniture. Owing to the long sickness of

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the wife, honest John's emoluments as property-man, had not
proved sufficient to supply the much valued little delicacies
that become necessaries to the sick; and which were the more
necessaries, as these people, having been house-servants in a
wealthy family when in a state of slavery, had been accustomed
to many of the luxuries of the rich.

Emma Portland became acquainted with the situation of
this honest pair and the sufferings of the woman, by observing
in the first place the conduct of the man, who, in his capacity
of property-man, was often brought under her view while
she attended upon her aunt and cousin. Hearing that his wife
was a helpless invalid, she introduced herself to her apartment
and bedside; for Emma had been taught not to shrink from
the duties of humanity, when most wanted; when the sufferers
were surrounded by objects, or divested of proprieties,
rendering their situation more deplorable. The precepts of
her master as she read them, or heard them read, and commented
upon from the pulpit, were as seed falling on good
ground, and springing up into fruits of well doing.

Neither the colour of the inhabitants of the house (for
Kent only occupied an upper apartment, and below, lived a
mass of deeper tint, with marks of greater poverty, and much
less of worth or cleanliness,) nor any objects disagreeable to
sight, could deter this delicate and lovely girl from frequent
visits to the worthy and grateful invalid. To motives of duty
and benevolence were added admiration of the resigned patience
of the sick woman, and the exemplary attention of her
husband. Emma carried fruits and conserves to the dying
woman; and she read to her in such books as she wished to
hear, and particularly passages in the bible.

To converse with the well disposed poor—to console them
in sickness or grief—was to Emma Portland a delightful duty.
It sometimes happened that the conversation when she was
with Mr. and Mrs. Kent, turned on topics which personally
interested her, owing to Kent's knowledge of affairs connected
with the theatre. I would willingly introduce my reader to one
such conversation, before relating the incident which is the
principal subject of this chapter.

The original of the picture I wish to paint, could only be
found in our northern portion of the United States, and I will not
believe that my readers are so fastidious as not to take pleasure
in the contemplation of such a painting, because it treats of the
familiar life of the poor; there shall be nothing in it so low as
is seen in the admired paintings of many a famous master. I

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would willingly execute my work in all the force of light, shade,
colour and expressionof Rembrandt, if I had the skill, but I
feel that I can only sketch.

Three figures were sitting in a small apartment, ten feet by
ten, or thereabout, the furniture of which, though decent and
clean, showed that it not only served for “parlour, kitchen and
hall,” but for bed-chamber. A table, small and of plain white-wood,
occupied the centre of the room. A tin lamp stood on
this table, and threw its light in just gradation, on the nearer,
or more distant objects of which my sketch is composed. Opposite
to the door and near the fire-place, where some bright
culinary utensils reflected the rays of the lamp, stood the bed;
on which, in a reclining posture, appeared a female in the decline
of life, much emaciated by the effects of a wasting chronic
disease. Her dark complexion rather than her features, showed
that she was allied to the African race. She was what is
called in the West Indies a quadroon. Disease had blanched
her face, and the hectic red on her cheek, death's seal, marked
her approaching dissolution. Her black eyes shone with that
brightness which, to those who know its cause, is so touching,
or so alarming.

Having given the dimensions of the room, I need not say
that although the table was in the centre, it was very near the
bed, and not far from the fire-place. On the mantel were
several china cups, some glasses and phials, apples and oranges.
Above these hung an india-ink drawing, a copy from a
print; it was enclosed in a black frame and covered by a
cracked glass. Between the table and the door sat a man of
sturdy frame, but time-worn; his age appeared to be sixty.
He was darker than the woman, and his features more African.
His crisped iron-grey hair thickly covered his head and shaded
his temples. His forehead was prominent; with many deep
wrinkles crossing it; while furrows as deep marked his cheek.
His dress was that of a labourer. It was neat, but here and
there patched with cloth that denoted the colour originally belonging
to the whole garment. He held his spectacles in his
left hand and his snuff box in his right. His eyes, full of
respectful attention, were fixed on the figure nearest to the table
and lamp; as were also, but with a more earnest gaze, those
of the reclining invalid.

The figure on which the light of my picture is concentrated,
and on whom the rays from the lamp fell, was a perfect contrast
in form and colour to her companions. She was seated
by the table, gracefully bending over, and reading in, a bible

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that occupied its centre. The light of the lamp illuminated
strongly the book of the reader. This made her, as she ought
to be, the principal figure, as well as the central one, of my
canvass. As she bowed her head over the pages, the reflected
light from the paper imparted a soft radiance to the lower part
of her countenance, while the direct rays illumed the alabaster
forehead. She was a figure of light. The glowing beams
from the lamp glittered and were lost among the clustering
tresses that surrounded and crowned with golden tints this portrait
of a virgin saint.

Emma Portland ceased reading and said, “Do I fatigue you,
Mrs. Kent?”

“No, Miss Emma,” was the reply; “but I fear you will fatigue
yourself—you read as if you felt every word.”

“I hope I do feel what I read; and I hope you have felt
every word.”

“Miss Emmy,” said Kent, “I hope it's no offence to say so,
but you read better than any body I ever heard, if I may not
except Mr. Cooke.”

“A good reader, an excellent scholar, took great pains to
teach me.” And Emma, as she spoke, thought of her lost
brother.

“When I have heard Mr. Cooke read over his part in his
dressing-room, it was just the same as talking,” said the man.

“So all good reading must be. It is only varied in dignity
or familiarity, as the subject requires. The good reader must
understand and feel the subject. It is this understanding and
feeling, added to Mr. Cooke's powers of voice, eye, and action,
which place him so high in his profession.”

“When you make your appearance,” the sick woman said,
“if I live I must see and hear you.”

“If you are not too much frightened, Miss Emmy,” said
Kent, “you will be—you will do—I will not say what. But I
remember Mrs. Darley, when she was Miss E. Westray, and
played in `Lover's Vows,' and `False Shame,' just about your
age; her lovely figure and innocent face—and you—”

“My friend,” said Emma, interrupting him, “you speak as
if you thought me devoted to the stage. Be undeceived. It is
the thing farthest from my thoughts.”

“I am glad of it,” said the invalid.

“It is the talk of the theatre,” said Kent.

“I can say I certainly never will be a player. I should
prefer a very humble station in private life, to the most
splendid rewards which follow on the applauses of a theatre.

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My duty has carried me to the house to serve my cousin and
aunt. I have been gratified to hear the applauses which my
cousin receives, when she gives additional force, by her genius,
to the lessons of the tragic muse; but I never wished to be a
teacher in that school. I would rather open the way to knowledge
by instructing the poor little neglected ones that we find
in holes and corners, and bring to our sunday-school. There I
feel that I am doing some good; and I do not seek applause.
In a short time, I hope to be excused from entering the walls
of the theatre, unless to see and hear some dramatic piece of
my choice; for there are many that I have seen with delight,
and many that I wish to see.”

“But you don't intend to go on the stage as an actress?”

“Certainly not.”

“Thank God,” said the sick woman.

“Thank God,” echoed her husband.

Emma looked at them with an air of surprise. There was
an earnest expression in the tone of voice, and the faces of the
old folks, that suggested to her the idea of relief from an anticipated
evil. There was a pause. At length she said, “Why
are you so earnest in your expression of satisfaction that I
have taken such a resolution?”

“Perhaps I ought not to say so,” said Kent; “but I think—
I think you are better as you are.”

“That may be,” she replied, smiling. “I might be the
worse if I failed in my attempt, or I might be intoxicated by
applause if I succeeded. But although I do not wish to tread
the stage, and exhibit myself before the mixed multitudes I
have seen in the play-house, yet, there are many who have
passed unhurt through the trials which must await those who
challenge public opinion in this manner, and, I hope, many
who have been of service to others.”

“After another pause, Kent said—“Miss Emmy, I hope so
too.”

“Mr. Kent, you must have known many excellent persons,
of both sexes, who have been, and are on the stage.”

“Certainly. But I believe they would have been full as
good if they had never been there. Miss Emmy, I have known
the play-house and the actors, ever since there was a play in
the country, almost—and to tell the truth—”

“Go on, Mr. Kent.”

“I would not wish to offend. I could tell—”

“I am sure you would only tell the truth.”

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