Gordon and I had the privilege of seeing Charlotte Cushman when, no longer able to act in the plays in which she had so distinguished herself, she gave a reading at one of the large halls in New York. She was infirm, less from age than a malady which was consuming her. I found an immense audience assembled in her honor. There were no more seats, no more standing room. She had no assistants, no support. A chair behind a small table was all the mise en scÈne, and here, dressed in a matronly gown of black silk and lace, the great tragedienne seated herself. Her gray hair was rolled back À la Pompadour from her broad, high forehead, and beneath black brows her eye kindled as she glanced over the fine audience. As she described it afterward, "a modest farewell reading blossomed into a brilliant testimonial."

After our enthusiastic response to her graceful greeting, she said simply: "Ladies and gentlemen, I shall read—I trust for your pleasure, surely for mine," laying her hand upon her heart—"from the second scene in the third act of 'Henry the Eighth.'"

It so happened there had been, incident upon her appearance, a remarkable discussion in some of the journals of the day. The wise ones, the elect, had paused in their speculations as to the authorship of Shakespeare's plays, or the Letters of Junius, or the enlightenment of the nations by certain rearrangement of periods in Hamlet's immortal soliloquy, and had cast an eye of scrutiny upon Wolsey's magnificent monologue. To nous autres it seems clear enough as it is—but who are we that we should know the heart hidden under a red robe? They gravely opined that the king, not God, was meant in the lines, "Had I but served my God with half the zeal," etc. Without doubt Charlotte Cushman was aware of this remarkable discussion. A good many backs were straightened to "attention" as she reached the noble words:—

She pointed upward as she uttered reverently the word "He."

From this, after a brief pause—she did not leave her seat all evening—she passed to "Much Ado about Nothing." Never was there such a Dogberry, bursting with arrogance and ignorance. Mrs. Maloney, on the Chinese question, followed, dismissing, with inimitable impudence, the mistress who had just shown her the door. Then she became the loyal, spirited, wildly sweet Kentucky girl and her blue-grass horse, Kentucky Belle,—utterly charming, both of them,—concluding with "Molly Carew," In this she was tremendous. The policemen at the door came in to listen; the applause was loud and long. "Molly Carew," forsooth! What is there in "Molly Carew"? What in the entreaty to take off her bonnet lest she cost her lover, as he declares, "the loss of me wanderin' soul," to bring down the house? What in the indignant summing up that she had better be careful; "you'll feel mighty queer when you see me weddin' mairching down the street an' yersilf not in it"?

I soon found out how much there was in Molly Carew per se with no Charlotte Cushman to interpret! I happened to have Samuel Lover's poems, and when I reached home, I took the book from the library shelves and summoned the children to listen to the funniest thing they had ever heard in all their lives. "I warn you," said I, "you'll half kill yourselves laughing."

I read "Molly Carew." Round eyes opened wider in astonishment as I proceeded. There was not a smile; not the faintest glimmer of mirth. Dead silence was broken by a polite "Is that all? Thank you, mamma," as they escaped. Oh, genius, gift of the gods! Who can measure it? Who, not born to it, can hope to win it! Who can attain even a faraway imitation of it! How it can clothe and glorify the simplest ideas! How it transfigured Charlotte Cushman—haggard and gray from keen physical suffering, knowing well that her hour was at hand! What noble restraint in her selections, ignoring pain and sorrow, denying herself the tribute of sympathy, bidding us good night with a smile on her lips and words demanding an answering smile on ours! To remember Charlotte Cushman is to recall Madame Helena Modjeska—totally different, certainly not inferior. I met her in society in New York. Her beautiful face, her tender, sensitive mouth, and the "far-away look of her eyes, as though she were thinking of the wrongs of Poland," are never to be forgotten. And the splendor of her genius! I saw her as Ophelia to Edwin Booth's Hamlet. "You are as good as a Greek chorus, my lord,"—she in a Savonarola chair, he on a fauteuil at her feet. I saw her also as Queen Catherine. I think she impressed all who knew her as a most sad woman. But is not melancholy the prerogative of genius? I, for one, never knew a man or woman of genius, real genius, who was merry. Madame Modjeska made melancholy beautiful.

She was once the guest of a lady who had gathered together a number of choice spirits in her honor. One of them, forgotten of her good angel, asked, "How do you like our country, madame!"

"Oh," spreading out her hands to signify empty space, and speaking in a weary tone, "Oh! It is all—all one great level."

"Ah, but," said her hostess, "patience! I shall introduce you by and by to a little hill."

An introduction followed, and at the close of the evening Madame Modjeska, pressing the hand of her hostess at parting, said with feeling:—

"Ah, madame! She was one great mountain!"

Before the war which cut me off from every pleasure demanding leisure and a little money, I heard the elder Booth in "Hamlet"—and I must confess he was rather a wheezy Hamlet in his old age. In Brooklyn the circumstances of my life forbade my indulging my passion for music and the enjoyment of a good play, but we had tickets for gallery seats to see Edwin Booth when Madame Modjeska played with him. Afterward we saw him in "The Fool's Revenge," and I remember being quite carried away and oblivious of everything except his splendid acting, until the calm voice of my son recalled me, "Don't you think, mamma, you had better sit down?" I spent a summer at Narragansett in the same hotel with Mr. Booth when he was resting his weary brain. He had a hooded chair placed in a corner of a veranda overlooking the sea, and there alone and in silence he spent most of his time. His devoted daughter ministered to him and carefully protected him from intrusion. At certain conditions of the tide the sands of the Narragansett beach emit a weird, faint, singing sound as the waves recede from them,—moaning, as it were, because they are left behind. These sounds could not be heard by every ear. Some eager listeners never could hear them. I used to wonder if Edwin Booth did, and wish I could ask him what they said to him. I might even tell him what they said to me! But his "Edwina" watched him jealously, and we respected his evident prostration of mind and spirit. His place at table was near mine. A moonlight smile would steal over his face when his two grandchildren, rosy little tots, came to him at dessert for a bit of sweet from the hand whose slightest gesture had once been able to move a multitude. The next time he was brought vividly before us we were in a great assembly of his friends, listening to Mr. Parke Godwin,—his friend and ours,—as he told of the sun whose rise, whose splendid noon, and whose setting we were ever to remember.

In the autumn of 1882 our old Southern friend, General R. D. Lilley, visited New York in the interests of Washington and Lee University. Colonel Mapleson, with Adelina Patti, Nicolini, and the famous danseuse, Cavalassi, had just arrived for a brilliant season at the Metropolitan Opera House. General Lilley sent me a letter from Colonel Mapleson,—which lies before me,—in which he offered "a grand entertainment to be given about the 3d of March for the endowment of scholarships in Washington and Lee University, in which entertainment the leading artists of the opera would appear," and asked for a committee of ladies to act in concert with him.

General Lilley was in a quandary. He knew no New York ladies. No more did I. But finally he won his way into the good graces of the widow of Governor Dix and mother of the Rev. Morgan Dix, who granted her drawing-room for our meetings, and doubtless consulted her own visiting list to find patronesses. When, at the general's earnest prayer, I went over to the first meeting, I found a noble band of women all enthusiasm over the project. I was a stranger in New York, and but dimly recognized the names on the committee with my own: Mrs. John Dix, Mrs. August Belmont, Mrs. William M. Evarts, Mrs. Francis R. Rives, Mrs. John Jay, Mrs. (Commodore) Vanderbilt, Mrs. Vincenzo Botta, Mrs. Henry Clews, Mrs. James Brown Potter, Mrs. Winfield S. Hancock, and others, about fifty in all! I can now easily understand that this committee had but to will a thing, and if it were not accomplished, the fault would not lie in their lack of potentiality. They had but to say the word. Means, overflowing means, and generous patronage would be assured.

Colonel Mapleson met with us at our meetings, which Mrs. Dix made delightful. We had animated discussions over Mrs. Dix's tea-cups, and adopted fine resolutions. Patti, the colonel assured us, would sing,—certainly,—but she needed a vast deal of coaxing and mock entreaty. Then every day Nicolini—whom she had recently married—wrote us a letter presenting some difficulty which we must settle. The flowers we ordered were beyond compare—to Arditi, the orchestra leader, a large music scroll in white flowers, and upon this ground the first bars of his "Il bacio" in blue violets. To the witch Cavalassi we voted a floral slipper, to Colonel Mapleson a silken banner of Stars and Stripes. What, alas! could we do for Patti? Could anything be enough? At last we sent for Colonel Mapleson. "Ladies," he said, "this will be your easiest task. Come to the opera-house with bouquets in your hands or corsage, tied with cords you have taken from your fans, and throw them to her, impulsively. There's nothing she so dotes on as to run all over the stage and pick up flowers, affect intense surprise at each new bouquet, press them to her heart, and be utterly overcome at last as she runs away."

All this was done, I learned, for I was not there to see! Colonel Mapleson, however, did not forget me. He sent me the monogram cut in gold of Washington and Lee University, and I often wear it as a souvenir of my charming hours with good Mrs. Dix and her friends.

When I came to the city to live, I found that Dr. Dix, his lovely mother, and many of the ladies of our committee still remembered me. This was not the last time we were together in a benevolent enterprise, nor the last time Patti honored me. Childish as were the little arts attributed to her by Colonel Mapleson, she could give evidence of a big warm heart on occasion!