To the outside world the player's life seems always bright—a rose-carpeted path with sunshine forever straying about the feet and breath of the sweetest gardens always in their atmosphere. To the players themselves, notwithstanding the hard work, it has the same beauty and fascinations that other professions have for those who have entered them. Lotta receiving the wild plaudits of her newsboy admirers—for all over the country the street Arabs express their willingness to "do ennythin' in de world fur Lottie"—accepting the baskets of flowers they send her with the pennies they have pooled, and doing her utmost to respond to a score of encores in response to their appeals is as charming a little picture of perfect happiness and contentment as we could find anywhere. Judic, the great opera bouffe singer, peddling cherries, at the great charity fair in Paris, from two panniers borne by a jackass, crying, "Buy my cherries, monsieur. I don't sell them dear. Five francs, the little basket," is a noble example of the generosity that distinguishes the profession of which she is a member. A popular American actress selling photographs for a little cripple she met in the street, and who had been rebuffed at several, is another example of the leaning towards charity and the kind-heartedness of a class of people against whom many bigots raise their hands and to whom they turn their backs, saying, as the Rev. Mr. Sabini said, that he didn't want to have anything to do with actors. The reader has probably heard the story, but I will repeat it here: George Holland, the actor, died in his eightieth year, on December 20, 1870. He was a player of exceeding merit in his day, and his demise was widely and deeply regretted. Friends gathered around his casket in the awful moment when they were to part with him forever. The rites of the church were wanted for him, of course, and an actor friend went to Rev. Sabini and asked him to officiate. He declined, saying: "I want to have nothing to do with an actor. There is a little place around the corner were they do these things." And sure enough there was, and the actors took their dead friend into "the little place around the corner," and Dr. Houghton said the last prayer over the dead player. That "place" is now known among actors and by the public too as "the little church around the corner." It is the Church of the Transfiguration, and is on Twenty-ninth Street near Madison Avenue.

It is only occasionally that scandal is given by the theatrical profession, but these few and far-between occasions are sufficient to keep alive the bad opinion that certain people have of actors and actresses. It is true the class is weak at many points, as are other classes, but as I have urged before, they maintain a higher standard of morality and adorn their circle better than any other people whose paths are strewn as plentifully with temptations. At the beginning of the eighteenth century the stage was in very bad condition because society was in a worse condition, and if there is frailty in the ranks of actresses of to-day, and weaknesses among actors, it is because their surroundings compel them to be what they are, and even under this compulsion they can hold their heads as high as their neighbors and look them in the face without feeling that they are any worse than the rest of the world, even if they are so bad. It is my purpose to say something about the dark side of theatrical life that the reader may see just what there is in the talk indulged by the scandal-mongers of the anti-theatrical class, and that it may be known that their indiscretions and their sins are no more heinous than the sins and transgressions of other people, and that in very few instances are they the outcome of the actor or actress's professional surroundings.

The estrangement of Edwin Booth and his wife or the divorce of Edwin Forrest from his wife did not cause the world to think any the less of these gentlemen as actors, and the events did not bring any opprobrium upon the profession. Sarah Bernhardt's open avowal that her children were fatherless and they were only "accidents" was a frank confession of an early indiscretion that almost everybody was ready to forgive. She was not received by society in this country, but society knelt before her at the shrine of Thespis, as they did at the feet of Mme. Patti, who flaunted Nicolini in the face of the public, as the successor of the Marquis de Caux in all the rights of a husband although there never had been any marriage ceremony to make the tenor the legal companion of the beautiful diva. For the sake of their art the sins of these two gifted women were partially forgotten, and while society could not open its doors to Mlle. Bernhardt or Mme. Patti, it went readily to the open doors through which the presence of the actress and of the songstress was to be reached.

A New York correspondent says: "Having mentioned two French actresses, let me drop into the true story of Bernhardt and Colombier's quarrel, and the book about America which has been put forth in Colombier's name. When Bernhardt came over here, she was accompanied by Jehan Soudan, a Parisian writer. He was very small, closely buttoned up to the neck, very bushy haired, and very much like a particularly mild and girlish divinity student. For all that, he was the accredited temporary lover of Bernhardt. His other errand was to write an account of her tour, to be published as from her own pen. While in this city he was an object of considerable ridicule, and his name was maltreated from Jehan Soudan into Sudden Johnny. But Colombier, the fair and fat actress of Bernhardt's company, did not regard him as comic. Quite on the contrary, she fell in love with him, and he fell in love with her. However, this new reciprocity of hearts was kept hidden until near the end of the journey. Then it came out through Sudden Johnny carelessly kissing Colombier too loud in a thin-partitioned dressing-room. The smack was heard by Bernhardt. I don't imagine that she cared much for Johnny, or would have missed him from the ranks of her favored admirers; but it made her just as mad as she could be to lose him to Colombier. Now, Colombier's beauty was marred by a deflection of her nose to one side. That's not much, for the chances are ten to one that the sides of your own face don't exactly agree. Try a glass critically, and see. Well, when Colombier emerged from her room with Johnny, to go on the stage, Sarah regarded her quizzically, and then said something in French equivalent to:—

"'Ah, my dear, I fear you kiss too much on one side of your mouth. It has really and truly bent your nose awry. Do let the other side have some of Jehan's attention.'

"No more was said. But that Johnny and Colombier plotted a deep revenge is evident, for the book appears in Paris with the name of Colombier instead of Bernhardt as author, and among its numerous ridiculous lies about Americans are some spiteful little flings at Sarah. Thus Sudden Johnny gets even."

Mme. Patti, too, had a young man with her—Michael Mortier, brother of the editor of the Paris Figaro—who was to write a book for her, but in St. Louis he spoke too freely to a newspaper reporter about Mme. Patti's relations to Nicolini, and Mortier's life was thereafter made so miserable that he was glad soon to make a bee line for Paris, where it is to be hoped he is at present.

A London correspondent tells us how a favorite actress of that place faced three husbands, and as it is in order to continue turning the crank of the scandal machine while foreign talent is the material to be ground, I will give the paragraph. He says: "The true glory of the Lyceum Theatre is that English Bernhardt, Miss Ellen Terry. This blue-eyed, blonde-locked, Saxon siren is not a radiant beauty as was the ill-fated Adelaide Neilson, but she is something better—she is a charmeuse, as the French call any one possessing that peculiar feminine—which she exercises so powerfully—magnetism. She is the most gifted, and withal the most naturally graceful, woman that I have ever seen. The little movements and artistic attitudes of Sarah Bernhardt would seem forced and artificial beside that unborn charm and harmony of gesture, unstudied and perfect as the ripple of tall grasses or the swaying of the branches of a weeping willow beneath a summer breeze. She is pure womanly, every inch of her. She cannot be awkward even when she tries; and I saw her try the other night in 'The Belle's Stratagem;' but instead of transforming Letitia Handy into a country hoyden in accordance with the text, she only succeeded in assuming a pretty espieglerie that, had I been Doricourt, would have driven me to catch her straightway in my arms and kiss her, declaring that she was charming anyhow. Off the stage I am told that she is quite as fascinating as when before the foot-lights. She has proved the extent of her power of enchantment by successfully winning and wedding three husbands, all of whom are still living, divorce and not death having released her from two of them. In fact, it is reported that while walking in the Grosvenor Gallery recently, with her present spouse, Mr. Kelly, she came face to face with her two former husbands, who were promenading there together, and that the only embarrassed personage of the quartette was Mr. Kelly; and they do say that the law will soon be called into requisition to break the bonds that unite her to her present spouse, and that she will then become the wife of a prominent English actor. Truly this wonderful and interesting lady ought to inscribe on her wedding-ring the motto said to have been adopted by the old Countess of Desmond on the occasion of her fourth marriage:—

Jealousy is at the bottom of nearly every scandal connected with the stage, or with people who have been on the stage. The story of Lizzie McCall's crime is a peculiarly sad one. She had been a favorite burlesque actress, and was playing young heroines with Boucicault in 1880 when she met and married George Barry Wall, a young man of twenty-five years, she being twenty-three. She promised him to leave the stage forever, and in order that she might not be placed in the way of temptation Wall made his home in New Utrecht, Long Island, removing thence to New York. Jealousy early made its appearance in their home, and their married life was not happy or peaceful. They lived together for eighteen months, however, until one fine morning after a violent quarrel she snatched up a pistol and shot her husband through the throat.

A Russian theatre not long since was the scene of a real drama which deserves a place among the serious accidents of the stage. The two leading actresses were Frenchwomen who had come to St. Petersburg together as friends. They had occupied the same house, and lived on terms of the warmest intimacy for some time. Then a young swell, who had enrolled himself among the admirers of one of them, began to pay court to the other. The consequence was a jealousy which finally led to a separation of the whilom friends. They remained members of the same company, however, and their jealousies found vent about the theatre. One night after a dinner washed down with much champagne, the jilted actress became very violent, and attempted to assault her rival in her dressing-room. She was prevented, and went off threatening vengeance. The course of the piece brought them together in an impassioned scene, in the conclusion of which the one had to warn the other off with a dagger. Heated with wine, her jealousy inflamed by the presence of her faithless lover in a stage box, the jilted artiste lost control of herself, and instead of a warning, dealt her rival a stab. The wounded woman fell bleeding to the stage. Fortunately she was not fatally hurt, and her assailant escaped with an authoritative order to leave Russia, and stay away.

Miss Bertha Welby, who is a popular and talented actress, was a member of the "Only a Farmer's Daughter" company, of which Miss Lilian Cleves was the star. The two ladies could not get along together. Miss Welby insisted that Miss Cleves was jealous of her rival's success; and so it went on, until at last a low ruffian visited Miss Welby in her dressing-room one night, after the performance, and demanded money from her for having applauded her in several towns. She was afraid of the fellow, she said, and so paid him the sum he asked—$15. She then told him to go, and he went; but Miss Cleves, it appears, had assembled the members of the company at the door of the dressing-room to witness the payment of the man, who, as she declared, had led the claque that was making Miss Welby a greater actress than the star. Miss Welby asserted that the whole thing was a piece of blackmail, and that Miss Cleves had instigated it.

Operatic stars are violent sometimes in these exhibitions of jealousy. It will be remembered that at the last Cincinnati music festival, Gerster absolutely refused to sing if Miss Cary preceded her, and the Hungarian prima donna was induced to appear only by the graceful withdrawal of the fair American songstress. Miss Kellogg and Mlle. Roze had a bitter war in St. Louis in 1879, on account of their dressing-rooms, the American prima donna insisting on having the best the Grand Opera House afforded. She got it at last, and was shocked when she heard a story to the effect that Wakefield, then one of the proprietors, had a peep-hole above the dressing-room which he not only made use of himself but invited his friends to use.

The jealousy of Mrs. McKee Rankin (Kitty Blanchard) has more than once been made the subject of newspaper articles. She thought her robust husband went through the love scene with the Widow (Miss Eva Randolph) in the play with too lavish a display of affection, and the green-eyed monster took possession of her. She stood in the wings every night and watched the scene, and the more she watched it the madder she got until at last she demanded from her husband that Miss Randolph be dismissed. This Mr. Rankin sternly refused to do. Then Mrs. Rankin refused to play, and a clever young lady was given the part of Billy Piper. The newspapers praised the new Billy so highly that Mrs. Rankin hurried back to resume the part, but remained cold toward and entirely estranged from her husband. After some time the wound was healed and the couple reunited. There were several split-ups of this kind, but Mr. and Mrs. Rankin are now living happily together, and it is to be hoped that the success of their new play, "49," will keep them happy forever.

Now and then the jealous actress's feelings are expressed in a rather ridiculous manner. During the run of a spectacular play in one of the large cities one of those old chaps who like to linger behind the scenes and tickle the fairies under the chin succeeded in making himself the admirer of one of the ladies—one who played a prince or something of that kind. He brought her flowers every night, took her to supper after the play, and often paid for a ride under the starry night at a time when he should have been resting his hoary head upon his pillow at home. He kept this up for a while; then he suddenly turned his attention to another girl, who was doing a skipping-rope dance during an interval in the play. He began to bring her flowers and to feed her on midnight oysters, and to take her on moonlight rides. The pretty prince stood it as long as she could; then she made up her mind to be revenged on the old deceiver. She waited one night until she saw him talking to the skipping-rope dancer, when she picked up a broom, and stealing to the opposite side of the scene, made a high hit at his plug hat, just as he was presenting the rival a bouquet, and knocked the piece of head-gear clear into the outfield. The ancient Lothario felt around among the few hairs on the top of his head to see whether a piece of skull had not been chipped off; the skipping-rope dancer laughed; the pretty prince hauled off and was about to bat the bouquet to second base when the dancer danced, and what remained to do was to advise the "old gray" to go, which he did rapidly after regaining possession of his battered hat. He was advised that if he returned any more the broom would be used upon himself instead of his hat; and the scenes that he had haunted so long knew him no more after that night.

A New York wife wondered for a long time where her husband went at night. At least she learned that he haunted a down-town theatre. She knew her husband was very fond of the drama, but was astonished when she found out that he was patronizing the play without taking her along, so she dressed up one evening and going up to the box-office, asked the young man whose smiling face shone through the window, if Mr. So-and-So was there? Now she had gone to the right source for her information. Mr. So-and-So had taken away the affections of one of the actresses from the man in the box-office; therefore the man in the box-office manfully replied that Mr. So-and-So was back in Miss Whatdyecaller's dressing-room. Would the man in the box-office be kind enough to show Mr. So-and-So's wife where the dressing-room was? He would, most gladly. Calling his assistant to the window the treasurer took the lady in through the stage entrance and pointed out the dressing-room. Sure enough there was Mr. So-and-So in very close relation and very close conversation with Miss Whatdyecaller, who being a ballet girl, in the act of getting herself into her gauze and spangles, had little else on than her tights. The husband was astounded; the wife was boiling over with rage; the dancer did not know what to make of it. The husband said that there was blood in his spouse's eye and fled the scene. Mrs. So-and-So then turned her attention to the lady in summer costume, and there was a war of words that ended in the actress snapping her fingers in the wife's face, while the latter, unable to do or say anything in her rage, strutted out after her faithless lord and master, who was afraid to return home for three days, and did not return until he saw a "personal" in the Herald saying that all would be forgiven and no questions asked.

The meanest trick, I think, that was ever prompted by jealousy was one in which a well-known comedian and a handsome juvenile lady were made the victims. Having determined to go to a fancy dress ball, they borrowed a Mephistopheles and Venus costume, and having dressed at the theatre in which they were playing, took their clothes to their boarding-house, the comedian retaining only his ulster and the young lady only her silk fur-lined cloak. In the same house the leading lady roomed, and as the comedian had been somewhat attentive to her she grew jealous when she saw him escorting the other flame to the ball, and that both might be taught a lesson she resolved upon a plan of action which she faithfully carried out. The comedian and his companion had plenty of fun at the ball. They returned to their boarding-house about three A.M. Both had latch-keys, but they wouldn't work. Somebody had fastened down the bolt. What were they to do? It was a cold morning with snow on the ground and snow still falling. Their carriage had gone; they didn't wish to go to a hotel in masquerade style, so they resolved to stick it out until the door would be opened. And they did so. The comedian wrapped his ulster around him and sat down on the doorstep; the young lady gathered her cloak around her as tightly as she could and stood up in a corner of the entrance, shivering and wondering what the people thought who passed by and looked at them. They remained there three hours, and when the door was opened, it was the leading lady who did the opening. She laughed as if she would lose her life in the effort when she saw the plight the two were in, and said as they passed up the hall that she was sorry she had put down that bolt when she came home, but she thought they were both in the house.

The story of an actor's jealousy is nicely told by a New York paper in the following: A handsome young actress attached regularly to one of the New York theatres has a husband and a baby, a sickly little thing, and the husband is outrageously jealous, all the more that this season he has done "job work," which has kept him "on the road" pretty constantly. Lately he "came in," the "combination" with which he was connected having "gone up." He arrived unexpectedly late one afternoon, and found his wife out. On the table lay a note addressed to her in a masculine hand. It was open and ran thus:—

"Dear Friend: I do not think you have any cause to be anxious about the baby. It is only cutting its teeth a little hard—that's all. However, as you desire it, and say it would relieve your mind while you are away at the theatre, I will come to-night about nine and stay all night with you. Don't speak of the trouble. I shall only be too glad to let you get a little sleep after being up so much with baby.

Your true friend,
K.S. Stanton, M.D."

The husband was furious at this note, seemingly so harmless. He thrust it into his pocket, and without waiting to see his wife strode from the house. He had now, he thought, what he had long suspected, proof of his wife's infidelity. Why, it was shamless! Dr. Stanton would pass the night, would he, and blame it on the baby! but he should find that there was a husband around ready to deal terrible vengeance upon the betrayer. His feelings were not pleasant ones, as he lay perdue the rest of the day, nursing his wrath, to keep it warm. When the pretty young actress came home she was told that a gentleman had called and gone away in a great hurry, leaving no name. At about half-past ten that evening, while she was at the theatre, the door of her bed-room was dragged open furiously, and the enraged husband rushed in. He looked around under the bed and into the closets, but found no man.

There were, however, two persons in the room. One an infant slumbering peacefully in the crib, the other a lady sitting at a small table on which lay several little bits of white paper into which she was pouring some globules from a tiny bottle. Her eyes were blue, her complexion a pure pink and white, and her hair, curling in loose ringlets over her well-formed head, was just touched with gray. She looked up astonished and said:—

"Don't make such a noise; you'll wake the child. Are you a burglar or what do you want?"

The husband paused in his fruitless search and replied: "I want that man."

"What man?"

"The man that's made an appointment with my wife for to-night."

"Who is your wife and what business have you in Miss ——'s bed-room?" asked the lady. "Miss ——'s my wife."

"Indeed; well, you can't make me believe that she ever made any appointment with any man she oughtn't to make."

"I can't, can't I? read that then," he said, throwing the letter on the table and scattering the medicine. The lady read the letter and began to laugh, which enraged the husband still more.

"Where have you hidden this Dr. Stanton? I will blow his brains out," he cried.

"No, you won't."

"You see if I don't."

"Well, blow then: I am Dr. Stanton, the author of that letter," said the lady.

She had to sign her name, Kate S. Stanton, and show him that the writing was the same as in the note, before he would be convinced, and then he was the most sheepish-looking man in New York. The story got out, and he was the butt of every actor in the city. They refused to believe that he "walked home." They condoled with him on account of his ill health, which forced him to stop acting. They recommended him to consult a doctor, especially a lady doctor, Kate Stanton, for example. Altogether he was so "roasted" that he will have to have more than a mere letter in future to make him thirst for vengeance.

"Hang these women doctors!" is all you can get him to say; "if they must be doctors, why can't they sign their full name, and not make trouble between man and wife?"