Mr. Augustus Lincoln was the manager of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island. He was an actor of the old school, and illustrated with great success the charnel house department of dramatic literature. Regarded simply from an artistic point of view, the performances given at the Theatre Royal may be described as fine and even formidable representations, but commercially considered they could scarcely be regarded as triumphs. The Sheppey Islanders were, at the time of which we are writing, people of a low and degraded taste, and showed a grovelling preference for the entertainments given at the music-halls. The permission to indulge in beer and tobacco, which is accorded in Caves of Harmony, may have had something to do with this preference; but it must be admitted that the Islanders considered “Hamlet,” “The Stranger,” and “The Iron Chest,” a trifle gloomy, even when illuminated by the genius of Mr. Augustus Lincoln. Indeed, had it not been for an accident, this enterprising lessee and manager would have been obliged, long before the incidents about to be related, to shut up his theatre and appear in a highly popular rÔle on the stage of the Bankruptcy Court.

Mr. Lincoln’s accident was the Amateur. That most industrious and most sanguine of mortals, having hawked his comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays to all the London managers with all the customary want of success, determined that Something must be Done. If caterers in the West End, blind to their own interests, and careless of the intellectual elevation of their patrons, refused to give him a show, as the bald phraseology of the stage has it, the amateur, with fine philanthropic feeling, determined to give himself a show. Now the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, was very often closed, and on such occasions, when he could raise a sufficient sum to pay for the advertisement, the circumstance was duly announced in the Era. It was through the medium of that highly diverting miscellany that Lincoln and the Amateur were brought together. And from the moment that introduction was effected, Lincoln never knew what it was to have the brokers in the house, an incident which, up to that time, was of not unfrequent occurrence.

The manager was an enthusiast in his way, and threw his whole heart and soul into playing the leading characters in the amateur comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays which he placed on his stage. And the ambitious authors who resorted to this means of publicity, were as a rule, so extremely pleased with the histrionic efforts of Mr. Lincoln, that in addition to the sum agreed upon for the representation, most of the mute inglorious ones would insist on making a little present to the conscientious manager-actor. But Mr. Lincoln was as proud as an Elliston, and carried himself with as much dignity. So that whenever the token of the Amateur’s gratitude was offered in the shape of money, the offended manager would draw himself grandly up and say, “Sir, I cannot accept a gift of money; though should you like to present me with a new hat, I shall not say you nay.” The Amateur usually took the hint, and in a few days a band-box containing a hat, was duly delivered at the stage door of the Theatre Royal. Yet strange to say, no Sheppey Islander had ever seen Mr. Lincoln in a new hat. Indeed, they had never seen him except in a very old one, which by a judicious use of oil and a silk handkerchief, showed bravely enough when cocked on the side of Mr. Lincoln’s head.

It is, of course, easy to guess the reason of this. The Amateur donors never thought of consulting their benefactor as to the size of his head, or as to the peculiar shape which he most affected. And so it happened, that not one of the head-dresses sent to him was of any practical benefit. For if it happened to be anything like a fit, it was sure to be of a shape to which Mr. Lincoln would not condescend. He had not, however, discarded them, but had placed them carefully in a cupboard in his bedroom, which cupboard he always kept carefully locked, carrying the key of it on his bunch. At rare intervals he would exhibit his collection to some old crony—just as a collector would show his pictures, or a connoisseur his cellar. Connected with each hat was a memory. The entire assortment was a sort of history of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, and as he pointed out the trophies he would couple with each the name of the amateur drama, the triumphant success of which it was intended to commemorate. Thus he would point to a tall beaver, with preposterous brim, such as comic artists place on the head of John Bull, and say,—“That is my Queen of Circassia’s hat;” or he would exhibit a light gossamer of most undoubtedly dandaical proportions, saying,—“That is my Murdered Monk’s hat;”—so on through the collection. There was a “Prodigal Son’s” hat, and an “Act on the Square” hat. The hat of the “Pilgrim Fathers—a Nautical Drama,” and the hat of “The Little Pig that Paid the Rent; an Irish Tragedy.”

Mr. Lincoln was more proud of his hats than of any other circumstance connected with his theatrical career—save one, and that was, that Mr. Gladstone had seen him play Hamlet and had expressed himself entirely satisfied with the performance.

In an evil moment, and at the mature age of fifty-two, Mr. Augustus Lincoln fell in love, and as often happens with the intellectually great, he fell in love with the very last person in the world whom he ought to have sought. Milly Brassey was a pert, pink-cheeked, saucy-eyed beauty, who played chamber-maid parts in his company. The Amateurs thought very much of Milly, and as she was not proud in the matter of receiving presents, it may be taken for granted that the sealskin jacket and diamond rings came from the gifted creatures whose works she had helped to illustrate. Off the stage she was a giddy, giggling little woman, always ready for a flirtation, and was madly loved by the jeune premier, and the low comedian of the company. Indeed, it is a matter of notoriety that a hostile meeting would have taken place between these jealous lovers had it not transpired that Milly was about to be led to the altar by the manager himself. So instead of meeting in Greenwich Park over the murderous muzzles of revolvers, they met in the “Goat and Compasses” over two glasses of cold gin.

Lincoln’s wedding was a very quiet affair. After all, no such very great change was to take place in the life of the bride. She was already a member of Lincoln’s company. She had now become a member of his household as well. Milly was a clever little actress, and if she did not really love her husband, she made that devoted man think that she did. His faith in her was unlimited, and although others thought that she flirted alternately with Philip Beresford, the jeune premier, and with Alf. Wild, the low comedian, Lincoln with a firm belief in his wife’s honesty and a still firmer belief in his own charms, saw nothing whatever. He was perfectly contented, and the amateurs, increasing in perseverance and impatience, brought him month after month new dramas for illustration, and new hats in token of esteem.

All might have gone well had it not been for the hats. Everybody in Lincoln’s company wanted a hat. Neither a jeune premier, nor a low comedian, can afford an unstinted indulgence in hats on two pounds a week, even when that modest stipend is regularly paid. Actors usually carry large ulster-cloaks that cover a multitude of sins. But a bad hat or a bad boot is always en Évidence. To say that Milly was gifted with curiosity is simply to say that Milly was a woman. That she soon began to question her husband as to the contents of the locked cupboard, therefore goes without saying. But although Lincoln would have trusted her with almost any other secret, he was reticent concerning this. He had a sort of prescience that the volatile Milly might turn his collection into ridicule, and merely observing in answer to his wife’s queries that it was “Bluebeard’s Cupboard,” refused to be further cross-examined on the subject. Milly promised not to annoy him any more in the matter, and religiously kept her promise; only when he was out she tried every key in the house on the lock that kept her from a delightful mystery, and at last she found one that fitted, and opening “Bluebeard’s Cupboard” found it full,—not of heads without hats, but of hats without heads. So full was the cupboard of these samples of the hatter’s art, that she selected two, feeling confident, that from so large a bag, a brace would never be missed. These she secreted, and when her husband returned (he had gone to meet an Amateur, who was big with a tragedy called “The Paralytic”), she met him with a kiss, and they were quite happy till it was time to go to the theatre.

A week afterwards another Amateur wanted to see Mr. Lincoln. On this occasion the appointment was made at a Club in Adelphi Terrace. The interview was a short one, and Mr. Lincoln was able to bend his steps eastward some two hours before the time he had mentioned to Milly. He had to make a call in Greenwich, and in the Main Street of that highly-depressing village, he happened to look over the blind in a pastrycook’s window. He stopped suddenly, and shouted in a tone of the utmost consternation, “My ‘Murdered Monk’s’ hat!” And then after a pause, “My ‘Prodigal Son’s’ hat.” He looked again, and saw that the hats covered the empty heads of Philip Beresford and Alf. Wild, between whom sat his wife devouring open tarts, and laughing consumedly at her own jokes. He entered stealthily, and soon heard enough to show that he, her husband, was the subject of her witticisms. He strode up to them, and smashed the hats over the heads of the wearers, calling them varlets and minions. The Amateur of Adelphi Terrace had been good. So he was enabled to put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and withdraw six sovereigns. Handing two to each, he said solemnly, “In lieu of a week’s notice. Begone!” and then on his wife making a gesture of remonstrance, he said, in louder tones, “D’ye hear. All of ye. Begone!” They went. And he has never seen any of them since.