Miss Ellen Terry’s First Appearance in New York—The Press on Charles and the Queen—A Professional MatinÉe—An Audience of Actors to See Louis XI.—How they Impressed the Actor, and what they Thought of Him—A Visit to Henry Ward Beecher—At Church and at Home—Mrs. Beecher and Miss Terry—Reminiscences—Studies of Death, Physiological and Idealistic—Louis’ Death and Hamlet’s—A Strange Story.

I.

New York received Miss Terry, on her first appearance before an American audience, as cordially as it had welcomed Irving. It was as Henrietta Maria that she spoke her first words on the stage of the New World.[11] There is no more tenderly poetic play in the repertoire of the modern drama than “Charles the First.” The story in Irving’s hands is told with a truthful simplicity that belongs to the highest form of theatrical art. All the leading critics recognized this. The effect of the well-known Hampton Court cloth was so perfect in its way and so new to some of them, that it was regarded as a cut cloth, with “raking” and water pieces. The “Tribune” interpreted the general opinion of the audience, when it said, “what most impressed them was Irving’s extraordinary physical fitness to the accepted ideal of Charles Stuart, combined with the passionate earnestness and personal magnetism that enable him to create and sustain a perfect illusion”; while it may be said to have just as happily expressed the views of another class in the words, “To the student Mr. Irving’s Charles is especially significant, as indicative of the actor’s method in applying what is termed ‘natural’ treatment to the poetic drama.”

“Louis XI.,” “The Merchant of Venice,” “The Lyons Mail,” and “The Belle’s Stratagem,” were the other pieces produced during the four weeks in New York. The theatre was crowded nightly, and on the Saturday matinÉes. The speculators found it easier to dispose of their tickets, as the weeks wore on, even than during the first five or six days of the engagement. Nothing damped the public ardor. The opera war between Mapleson and Abbey, as representatives of two great parties of wealthy art patrons, had no apparent influence on the receipts at the Star Theatre. One of the greatest nights of the month marked the first appearance of Patti at the Academy of Music. Inclement weather, abnormal charges for seats, strong counterattractions at the other houses, including the two grand Italian Opera Companies, might have been expected to discount the financial success of any rival entertainment. They made no difference to Irving. He was the talk, not of New York, but of America; and after her appearance as Portia, Miss Ellen Terry was almost as much written about as he himself. Unrivalled in the higher walks of comedy, at home or abroad, Miss Terry is as new to the American public in the naturalness of her methods, as Irving himself.

Shylock excited controversy, Louis inspired admiration, Dubosc and his virtuous double commanded respect, and the method of presenting the plays was a theme of praise and delight in and out of the press. Of Louis the “Sun” said “Mr. Irving won his audience to him almost at once. It was impossible to withstand the intensity, the vivid picturesqueness, and imposing reality of his portrayal, and after each great scene of the play he was called again and again before the curtain by hearty and most demonstrative applause. It was a wonderful performance, and the impression that it left is one that can never be laid aside.” The “Times” was struck with his appearance. “His make-up is as perfect in its kind as that of Charles the First, and nobody would imagine the actor to be the same as the actor in either of the other parts which he has presented. But the verisimilitude here goes much deeper than the make-up. There is the senile garrulity and the senile impatience of garrulity, the senile chuckle over successful strokes of business. And this character is deepened as the play advances. The occasional expressions of energy are spasmodic; and after each the patient relapses into a still more listless apathy, and this decay is progressive until the death-scene, which is the strongest and most impressive piece of realism that Mr. Irving has yet given us.” The “Herald” commended Shylock to the Shakespearian student, “as the best exposition of the character that can be seen on the stage”; while the “Tribune” said of Miss Terry, “Her simple manner, always large and adequate, with nothing puny or mincing about it, is one of the greatest beauties of the art which it so deftly conceals. Her embodiment of a woman’s loveliness, such as in Portia should be at once stately and fascinating, and inspire at once respect and passion, was felicitous beyond the reach of descriptive phrases. Her delivery of the Mercy speech was one of the few perfectly modulated and entirely beautiful pieces of eloquence that will dwell forever in memory. Her sweet and sparkling by-play in the ‘business’ about the ring and in her exit can only be called exquisite. Better comedy has not in our time been seen.”[12]

II.

At the written request of the leading actors and theatrical companies of New York, Irving gave a “professional matinÉe” at the Star Theatre. The play was “Louis XI.” It was the first time Irving had appeared before an audience of actors in any country. The house was packed from floor to ceiling. It was a singularly interesting and interested audience. No actor, proud of his profession, could have looked at it without a thrill of pleasure. Well-dressed, beaming with intelligence and intellectuality, it was on good terms with itself, and it settled down, in stalls, boxes, and dress-circle, with an air of pleasant expectation that was refreshing to contemplate.[13]

Nothing could be more satisfactory to Mr. Irving and to his friends, after the demonstrative applause of this very remarkable audience, than the “Interviews” of many of the best-known actors and actresses which appeared in the “Herald” on the following morning. Irving had no idea that such a tribute was to be paid to him when, in talking with some gentlemen of the press, at the close of the play, he said:—

“I never played before such an audience, so spontaneous in its appreciation and applause, and it will remain with me as one of the most interesting and most memorable events in my dramatic career. It is very commonly said that actors are the worst judges of acting. But I would ask why should actors be worse judges of their art than painters of paintings or musicians of music?”

“Your audience was very enthusiastic, was it not?”

“It could not well have been more so. You see actors know well from experience that an actor, to be stimulated, needs applause, and plenty of it. Applause is as necessary to an actor as to an orator. The greater the applause the more enthusiasm the actor puts into his work. Therefore those who applaud most get most, and consequently my audience of this afternoon”—

“Got the most out of your performance?”

“Well, they certainly excited me to feel the effect of their appreciation on my own work. I felt an elation for them, and an elation such as I have rarely experienced. I happened to walk into Mr. Millais’ studio, before leaving England. He had just finished a painting in which I was interested,—in fact, it was a portrait of myself. I found him in an extraordinarily cheerful mood. He clapped his hands with delight, as he said, pointing to the portrait, ‘Watts has just been here, and says it is the best thing I have ever done.’ Millais was especially pleased, for this compliment came from a brother artist. I dare say you will see the parallel in this my especial pleasure in receiving the plaudits of my brother artists.”

“And how did the audience differ from the audiences you have been playing to here?”

“This is the distinction, I think,—actors applaud all the touches as you put them on; a general audience applaud the whole effect when made. And so it was that all the little asides and touches of by-play this afternoon were taken with as keen an appreciation of them as of the whole effect of any scene or situation. I felt that my audience thoroughly knew what they were applauding for. I felt that they applauded myself and our company because they were really pleased; and I will say again that my first professional matinÉe has proved to be one of the pleasantest events of my life.”

“It was a great performance,” said Mr. Edward Gilmore, one of the managers of Niblo’s Garden.

“I have seen a good deal of acting,” said Mrs. Agnes Booth; “but I can honestly say I have never seen anything that pleased me more: it was simply perfect.”

“I have seen most of the performances in Europe of recent times,” said Mme. Cottrelly, who had been a leading German actress and manager before appearing on the Casino stage; “but I have never seen anything that equalled Mr. Irving’s performance this afternoon. I have never seen anything in the theatrical line that has been mounted more correctly. It has not been surpassed in the finest German court theatres that I have attended.”

“I think it is altogether one of the greatest performances the American public and profession have ever seen,” said Mr. Dan Harkins. “The wonderful perfection of detail and subtlety of by-play is, I think, greater than I have seen in any other performance, excepting, perhaps, Mr. Forrest’s ‘King Lear.’ Mr. Irving also is in a constant state of activity; when he is not talking he is acting. He is making some clever point all the time. The whole performance is great. It is great in the leading character, great in all that is subordinate to it, which, by an excellent stage management and a fine company, are brought into unusual prominence.”

Mr. McCaull remarked: “It’s a long way the finest piece of character-acting I have ever seen. Of course, I’m a young man, and haven’t seen much; but I’ve seen Mr. Irving twice in this part, and when I go to see a performance—out of my own theatre—twice, I can tell you that, in my opinion, it must be a very fine one.”

“I am very familiar with ‘Louis XI.,’” said Mr. Harry Edwards,[14] “as I have played in it myself a great deal. I appeared as Nemours with Mr. Gustavus V. Brooke, and his performance of Louis XI. was a very fine one. I then travelled for a year with Charles Kean, and played Courtier, the Physician, in ‘Louis XI.,’ and once appeared with Kean as Courtier. I also played Nemours with Charles Couldock. Well, I say all this to show you that I am pretty familiar with the play, and with great actors who have played ‘Louis XI.’ Mr. Irving’s Louis is one of the greatest performances I have ever seen as a whole, and far superior to that of any of his predecessors. He brings depth, more intensity, and more variety, to the character than any of them. His facial action is something wonderful. His performance stands on the highest plane of dramatic excellence, and on the same plane as Macready’s famous Werner. I may say that I am not an admirer of Mr. Irving in all parts, but his Louis is unapproachable. I never enjoyed a performance so much in my life, and I felt that I could sit it out for a week if I were given the opportunity.”

“He is the greatest actor who speaks the English language,” said Mr. Lewis Morrison. “I claim to know what good acting is. I have supported Salvini, whom I regard as the greatest artist on the foreign stage, and my preceptor was Edwin Booth. But even in Mr. Booth’s presence I must say that I have been moved to-day as I never was before. I am not given to gushing over an actor; but I never before saw a man’s soul, as I did in King Louis this afternoon. It was simply perfection. It was not the actor; it was Louis XI. that I saw. I must admit that I went to the theatre with a little prejudice against Mr. Irving. I had never seen him, and, from certain things which other actors had told me, I was prepared to find an overrated man. But what a performance it was! It was wonderful!—wonderful!”

Mr. W. A. McConnell, manager of Haverly’s Brooklyn Theatre, said: “He is a great actor. I have never before seen such conscientious attention to detail, such harmony in everything, from the people on the stage with him, down to the smallest thing. It is a lesson for us all.”

“As a manager,” said Mr. Palmer, of the Union Square Theatre, “it was a revelation to me to see such conscientious attention to detail. Every little thing in which good stage management could have been exhibited was shown by Mr. Irving’s company. They worked as one man. I have heard but one opinion among members of our company,—everybody was delighted.”

“What can I say that is strong enough?” exclaimed Miss Cary, of the Union Square Theatre Company. “I was delighted beyond measure. What a wonderful teacher Irving must be, and what a master of his art in every way! What impressed me particularly was the perfect harmony of the entire performance. How carefully and patiently everybody must have been drilled, and every detail which would add to the effect looked after!”

Mr. Osmond Tearle said: “I had seen Mr. Irving in everything except ‘Louis XI.’ before to-day’s matinÉe, and I have always admired him greatly as an actor. Now I have seen him as Louis XI. I admire him still more. It is the greatest thing I have ever seen him do. His business, as he warmed himself at the fire, was remarkable. When he came on in the last act, he looked like one of the fine old royal figures that stand outside Yorkminster in England; and when he took his crown off he looked like the picture of Father Time. His facial expression is astonishing, and in the wonderful death-scene his eyes seem to have gone altogether. The whole performance was fine; there was not a bad part in it.”

“I have only one word to say on this subject,” said Mr. John Gilbert, “and that is, that it is wonderful; perhaps I, however, may supplement that by saying that it is ‘extraordinary.’ I have seen Mr. Irving play ‘Louis XI.’ before to-day, and, in fact, I have attended nearly all his performances at the Star Theatre; but this afternoon he exceeded anything that he has done here before. He was clearly moved, in no slight degree, by the almost incessant applause of his professional brethren. I don’t know that I remember having seen a greater performance by any actor, not even excepting Macready’s Werner. I am not astonished at Mr. Irving’s great popularity in England. I am sure he deserves it.”

“I had never seen Mr. Irving before this afternoon,” said Mr. James Lewis, “and I was certainly not disappointed, although I had formed the highest expectations of him as an actor. There was a young actor, about nineteen years old, that sat by me, and he got on his seat and yelled ‘Bravo!’ Now, I didn’t do that; but I was just as much pleased and excited as the youngster. I think it was the greatest performance I ever saw. You have, perhaps, heard the popular gag, ‘That man tires me.’ Well, that man, Mr. Irving, tired me; but it was because he so wrought upon my feelings that when the play was over I felt so exhausted I could hardly leave my seat. The stage setting and management were good, but I have seen as good in this city before.”

Mrs. G. H. Gilbert, of Daly’s theatre, thought that it was the finest performance within her experience. “In the confession scene,” she said, “I thought him especially remarkable. I had seen him in ‘The Lyons Mail’ in London, and, now that I have seen his ‘Louis XI.,’ I want to see him in all his characters. The great applause that was given him by the vast gathering of his profession was, I assure you, not complimentary applause, but it was given in pure admiration of his great achievements.”

“Mr. Irving’s Louis,” said Mr. Dan Frohman, “is a vivid and powerful transcript from history. Once or twice, at the end of an act, he lapsed into his natural voice; but this may be excused from the great draught that such a character must make upon his strength. As a picture of the subtle, crafty, and avaricious old monarch, his representation was absolutely perfect. I think Mr. living’s ‘Louis XI.,’ in a word, is a sort of dramatic liberal education. Every actor can learn something from him. I wish our actors could keep the integrity of their characters as perfectly as Mr. Irving does.”

“Mr. Irving is the greatest actor I have ever seen,” said Mr. Tony Pastor. “I have been to see him several times, and this is my opinion. It aint buncombe. It comes from the heart. I’ve seen all the greatest actors, and have been a great deal to the theatres since I have been in this business; but I have never seen any one as good as Mr. Irving. This is a compliment I am paying to a man I am not personally acquainted with, and perhaps we shall never meet. I don’t praise him so because I had an invitation this afternoon; I would have admired and applauded his performance just as much if I had paid a twenty-dollar bill for it.”

“Mr. Irving’s Louis,” Mr. Colville said, “is superior beyond criticism. It is the most perfect performance I have ever witnessed. I was acting manager of the old Broadway Theatre when Charles Kean played there, and, of course, saw him in the part.”

III.

“If one had arranged events in America to one’s own liking one could not have had them go along more pleasantly,” said Irving, one Sunday afternoon, when he was giving me an account of his visit to Mr. Henry Ward Beecher and Mrs. Beecher, at Brooklyn; “indeed, one would have had to lay in a stock of vanity to even dream of such a reception as we have had. It needs a little hostility here and there in the press at home, and on this side, to give a wholesome flavor to the sweets. It is a great reward, all this, for one’s labor. I was struck the other day with some passages of Emerson, in his essay on Fate, where he says, ‘Concentration is the secret of strength in politics, in war, in trade; in short, in all management of human affairs.’ One of the high anecdotes of the world is the reply of Newton to the inquiry, how he had ‘been able to achieve his discoveries’: ‘By always intending my mind.’ Diligence passe sens, Henry VIII. was wont to say, or, Great is drill. John Kemble said that the worst provincial company of actors would go through a play better than the best amateur company. No genius can recite a ballad at first reading so well as mediocrity can at the fifteenth or twentieth reading. A humorous friend of mine thinks the reason Nature is so perfect in her art, and gets up such inconceivably fine sunsets, is, that ‘she has learned at last by dint of doing the same thing so very often.’ A wonderful writer, Emerson! He gives the right cue to all stage-managers,—rehearsal! rehearsal! Mr. Beecher has evidently been a hard-worker all his life, a persistent man; and nothing is done without it. First lay down your lines; settle what you mean to do, what you find you can do, and do it; the greater the opposition the more courageous and persevering you must be; and if you are right, and strength and life hold out, you must win. But I want to tell you about the visit to Brooklyn. Miss Terry and I were invited to visit Mr. Henry Ward Beecher. We went on Sunday to his church. He preached a good, stirring sermon, full of strong common-sense. It was what might, in some respects, be called an old-fashioned sermon, though it was also exceedingly liberal. The spirit of its teaching was the doctrine of brotherly love. The preacher told his congregation that a man was not simply a follower of Christ because he went to church on Sundays. A man could, he said, be a follower of the Saviour without going to church at all. He could also be a follower of Christ, if he wished, and belong to any church he liked,—Baptist, Wesleyan, Lutheran. A Pagan could be a follower of Christ if he lived up to His doctrine of charity. To do good is the chief end and aim of a good life. It was an extemporaneous sermon so far as the absence of manuscript or notes went, and was delivered with masterful point and vigor, and with some touches of pure comedy; Mr. Beecher is a great comedian. After the service Mr. Beecher came to us, and offered his arm to Miss Terry. She took one arm, his wife the other. I followed with his son, and several other relations. A few members of the congregation joined the little procession. Following Mr. Beecher with the ladies, we walked down the aisle and into the street, to his house. There was something very simple and dignified about the whole business, something that to me smacked of the primitive churches, without their austerity. Mrs. Beecher is seventy-one years of age,—a perfect gentlewoman, Quaker-like in her dress and manners, gentle of speech, but with a certain suggestion of firmness of purpose. Beecher struck me as a strong, robust, genial, human man, a broad, big fellow. We had dinner,—the early dinner that was in vogue when I was a boy. It was, I should say, a regular solid New England meal,—rich soup, plenty of fish, a joint of beef; and some generous port was on the table. The host was most pleasant and simple; the hostess, most unsophisticated and kindly. She took greatly to Miss Terry, who also took greatly to her.”

“Mr. Beecher had been at the theatre the night before?”

“Yes, to see ‘Louis XI.’”

“Did he talk much?”

“Oh, yes! and his conversation was most interesting. He related, and very graphically, an incident of the troubled times before the abolition of slavery. ‘One day in the pulpit,’ he said, ‘I asked my people, suppose you had a sister, and she came to you and said, “I would like to stay in your city of Brooklyn; I think I would be very happy here; but I must go away, I cannot stay; I must depart, probably to live with a reprobate, some hard, cruel man, who will lay claim to me, body and soul.” You say, “Why, why must you go?” She answers, “Because my body is worth so much, and I am to be sold; and my little child, it, too, is of value in the same way; my child will be sold, and we shall be separated.” There was a dead silence in the church. ‘My friends,’ I said, ‘you have a sister in that position; and I want you to buy that woman!’ “Come up here, Dinah Cullum” (or whatever her name was), I said, and out of the congregation stepped a beautiful woman, a mulatto, and I said, “Here she is; here is my sister, your sister!” The collecting basket was sent around. More than enough was realized to buy the woman. And I said to her, “Dinah Cullum, you are free.” Then addressing my people again, I said, “Now you can buy the child”; and they did, and we gave the child to its mother!’

“It used to be said of Lord Beaconsfield,” Irving continued, “that his Oriental blood and his race instincts gave him his fondness for jewels; but Beecher seems to have the same kind of taste. He brought out from a cabinet a handful of rings, and asked me which I thought Miss Terry would like best. Then he took them to her and she selected an aqua marina, which he placed upon her finger, and begged her to accept as a souvenir of her visit to Brooklyn. ‘May I?’ said Miss Terry to Mrs. Beecher. ‘Yes, my dear, take it,’ said Mrs. Beecher; and she did. It was quite touching to see the two women together, so different in their stations, their years, their occupations. Miss Terry was the first actress Mrs. Beecher had ever known. To begin with, she was very courteous; her greeting was hospitable, but not cordial. The suggestion of coldness in her demeanor gradually thawed, and at the close of the visit she took Miss Terry into her arms, and the two women cried. ‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.’ Human sympathy,—what a fine thing it is! It is easy to understand how a woman of the training and surroundings that belong to the class in which Mrs. Beecher has lived might regard an actress, and especially one who has made a name, and is therefore the object of gossip. All the more delightful is the bit of womanly sympathy that can bind together two natures which the austerity of professed religionists would keep asunder.”

“It is a greater triumph for the stage than you, perhaps, quite appreciate,—this visit to the home of a popular preacher; for, however liberal Mr. Beecher’s sentiments may be in regard to plays and players, there are members of his congregation who will not approve of his going to the theatre, and who will probably be horrified at his entertaining you at his own home.”

“No doubt,” Irving replied. “Beecher said to me, ‘I wish you could come and spend a week with me at my little country-house. You might leave all the talking to me, if you liked. I would give you a bit of a sermon now and then, and you in return should give me a bit of acting. Oh, we should have a pleasant time! You could lie on your back and smoke and rest. I suppose some day you will allow yourself a little rest.’”

“What was the Beecher home like? New or old,—characteristic of the host or not?”

“Quite characteristic, I should say. It impressed me as a home that had been gradually furnished over a period of many years. That was particularly the case with regard to the library. Around the walls were a series of cabinets, with old china and glass in them. The room had an old English, or what I suppose would be called an old New England, appearance. Books, pictures, china, and a wholesome perfume of tobacco-smoke. Mr. Beecher does not smoke, but his sons do. ‘I cannot pretend to put down these small vices,’ he said. ‘I once tried to, I believe.’—‘Oh, yes,’ said one of his sons, a fine fellow,—‘the only thrashing he ever gave me was for smoking a cigar; and when the war broke out, and I went to the front, the first present I received from home was a box of cigars, sent to me by my father.’ Altogether I was deeply impressed with Beecher. A robust, fearless man, I can quite understand how great he might be in face of opposition. Indeed, I was witness of this on the occasion of his famous platform fight at Manchester, during the war. I was acting in a stock company there at the time, and either in the first or last piece, I forget which, I was able to go and hear him speak. The incident, as you know, is historical on this side of the Atlantic, and it created quite a sensation in Manchester. The lecture-room was packed with secessionists. Beecher was attacking the South, and upholding the Federal cause. The great, surging crowd hooted and yelled at him. I fear I did not know much about the rights or wrongs of the matter. I had my work to do, and, though I watched the course of the American trouble, I had no very definite views about it. But I admired the American preacher. He faced his opponents with a calm, resolute face,—stood there like a rock. Whenever there was a lull in this commotion he would speak, and his words were defiant. There was the sound of the trumpet in them. We English admire courage, worship pluck, and after a time the men who had tried their hardest to shout Beecher down evidently felt ashamed. There presently arose cries of ‘Hear him!’ and ‘Fair play!’ Beecher stood there firm and defiant, and I felt my heart go out to him. Once more he got a few words in. They bore upon the rights of free speech, and in a little while he had the floor, as they say in America, and kept it. It seemed as if he were inspired. He spoke with a fervid eloquence I don’t think I have ever heard equalled. In the end he carried the entire meeting with him. The crowd evidently knew no more about the real merits of the quarrel between North and South than I did. They entered the hall Confederates, and left it out-and-out Federals, if one should judge by the thundering cheers that broke out every now and then during the remainder of Beecher’s oration, and the unanimous applause that marked the finish of it.”

IV.

Among the little suppers which Irving accepted after the play was a cosey entertainment given by Major Frank Bond, at which a dozen gentlemen of distinction in politics, science, and the army, were present. Dr. Fordyce Barker, who was intimate with Dickens, during that illustrious author’s visits to America, was one of the guests. He started, among other subjects, a very interesting conversation.

“Have you ever made studies of deaths for stage purposes?” asked Dr. Barker.

“No.”

“And yet your last moments of Mathias and of Louis XI. are perfectly consistent and correct psychologically.”

“My idea is to make death in these cases a characteristic Nemesis; for example, Mathias dies of the fear of discovery; he is fatally haunted by the dread of being found out, and dies of it in a dream. Louis pulls himself together by a great effort of will in his weakest physical moment, to fall dead—struck as if by a thunderbolt—while giving an arrogant command that is to control Heaven itself; and it seems to me that he should collapse ignominiously, as I try to illustrate.”

“You succeed perfectly,” the doctor replied, “and from a physiological point of view, too.”

“Hamlet’s death, on the other hand, I would try to make sweet and gentle as the character, as if the ‘flights of angels winged him to his rest.’”

“You seem to have a genius for fathoming the conceptions of your authors, Mr. Irving,” said the doctor; “and it is, of course, very important to the illusion of a scene that the reality of it should be consistently maintained. Last night I went to see a play called ‘Moths,’ at Wallack’s. There is a young man in it who acts very well; but he, probably by the fault of the author more than his own, commits a grave error in the manner of his death. We are told that he is shot through the lungs. This means almost immediate unconsciousness, and a quick, painless death; yet the actor in question came upon the stage after receiving this fatal wound, made a coherent speech, and died in a peaceful attitude.”

“Talking of interesting psychological investigations,” said Irving, “I came upon a curious story, the other day, of the execution of Dr. de la Pommerais, in 1864. He was a poisoner, somewhat after the Palmer type. I was present, then a boy, during the trial of the English murderer, and was, therefore, all the more interested in the last hours of the Frenchman. He was a skilled physician, it seems, and a surgeon named Velpeau visited him in his prison, the night before his execution, in the pure interest of physiological science. ‘I need not tell you,’ he said to de la Pommerais, ‘that one of the most interesting questions in this connection is, whether any ray of memory or sensibility survives in the brain of a man after his head is severed from his body.’ The condemned man turned a startled and anxious face to the surgeon. ‘You are to die; nothing, it seems, can save you. Will you not, therefore, utilize your death in the interest of science?’ Professional instinct mastered physical fear, and de la Pommerais said, ‘I will, my friend; I will.’ Velpeau then sat down, and the two discussed and arranged the proposed experiment. ‘When the knife falls,’ said Velpeau, ‘I shall be standing at your side, and your head will at once pass from the executioner’s hands into mine. I will then cry distinctly into your ear: “Count de la Pommerais, can you at this moment thrice lower the lid of your right eye while the left remains open?“‘ The next day, when the great surgeon reached the condemned cell, he found the doomed man practising the sign agreed upon. A few minutes later the guillotine had done its work,—the head was in Velpeau’s hands and the question put. Familiar as he was with the most shocking scenes, it is said that Velpeau was almost frozen with terror as he saw the right lid fall, while the other eye looked fixedly at him. ‘Again,’ he cried frantically. The lids moved, but they did not part. It was all over. A ghastly story. One hopes it may not be true.”