GOING TO BED IN THE DAY-TIME.

39

During the entire time they remained the same pretty, sweet, unaffected, truth-loving children they had always been; never puffed up by their success, nor vain of the adulation they received.

Although the theatrical life naturally absorbed much of the time of these children, it was curious to see how nicely the moments were parceled off by their careful mother, that as little detriment as possible to the health and education of the children should result.

For instance, every morning they pursued their educational studies, their mother acting as instructress. At noon they dined, and soon after they went to bed. It was funny to see them put on their night-dresses while the sun was still shining, and go to bed, dropping off to sleep almost immediately. At night they were fresh and wide awake for their performances.

One of these little girls-Ellen-married a wealthy gentleman, and never returned to the stage; the otherKate-now celebrated as Miss Bateman-returned to the stage on reaching womanhood, and renewed the successes of her youth.

Many amusing incidents are related about child actors. One of the latest relates to a performance of "Dora,”—a pretty play founded on Tennyson's poem of that name. When the lady who plays the part of Mary Morrison made her exit to bring on her little Willie of four years, she was shocked to find a lubberly boy of at least fourteen, and as he was the only Willie at hand, on he must go, though he was well nigh as big as his mother. Farmer Allen of the play, being equal to the emergency, instead of inquiring, "How old are you, my little man?" endeavored to remedy the matter by saying, "How old are you, my strapping boy?" But he failed, for the boy, who was instructed to say "four to six," said it in such a coarse, sepulchral tone as to drive the good-natured

The

40

MRS. HALLER'S CHILDREN.

grandfather to exclaim, "Forty-six! You look it, my boy, you look it !"

Mrs. Mowatt relates an incident which occurred to her at Savannah, Ga., where she was playing. The play announced for the evening was "The Stranger." "I was informed at rehearsal that the two children who usually appeared as Mrs. Haller's forsaken little ones, were ill. No other children could be obtained. Yet children were indispensable adjuncts in the last scene. The play could not be changed at such hasty notice. What could be done? I was walking up and down behind the scenes, very much annoyed, and wondering how the difficulty could be overcome, when the person who temporarily officiated as my dressing maid accosted me. She was an exceedingly pretty mulatto girl. She saw that I was distressed about the absent children, and, with a great deal of hesitation, offered to supply the deficiency. I brightened at the prospect of deliverance from our dilemma, telling her that I would be much obliged, inquired to whom the children belonged. They are mine, ma'am,' she answered, timidly. I have a couple of pretty little ones, very much at your service.' Yours?' I answered, aghast at the information. 'Yours? why, Mrs. Haller's children are supposed to be white. I am afraid yours won't very readily pass for mine;' and I could hardly help laughing at the supposition. The young woman took my distressed merriment good naturedly, and replied, 'Oh, my children are not so very black, seeing as how their father is altogether white!' 'Do you really think they would pass for white children? Why the little girl has blue eyes, and they have both got hair nearly as light as yours; then you might powder them up a bit if you thought best.' I sent her for the children. They were really lovely little creatures, with clear cream-colored complexions, and hair that fell in showers of wavy ring

lets. I decided at once that they would do, and told her to bring them at night in their prettiest dresses, to which I would make any needful additions. The children do not make their appearance on the stage until the last act. After retouching their toilets, instructing them in what they had to do, and feeding them with sugar-plums, I told their mother to make them a bed with shawls in the corner of my dressing-room. She did so, and they slept quietly through four acts of the play. We gently awakened them for the fifth act. But their sleep was too thoroughly the sweet, deep slumber of happy childhood to be easily dispelled. With great difficulty I made them comprehend where they were, and what they must do. Even a fresh supply of sugar-plums failed to entirely arouse them. The sleepy heads would drop upon their pretty round shoulders, and they devoured the bon-bons with closed eyes. The curtain had risen, and the children must appear upon the stage. I led them to the wing, and gave them in charge of Francis. Francis walked on the stage, leading a child by each hand. The trio hardly made their appearance when the little girl, thoroughly wakened by the dazzling light, gave one frightened look at the audience, broke away from Francis, and, shrieking loudly, rushed up and down the stage, trying to find some avenue through which to escape. The audience shouted with laughter, and the galleries applauded the sport. The poor little girl grew more and more bewildered. Francis pursued her, dragging her brother after him. The unexpected exercise, added to his sister's continued cries, alarmed the boy. He screamed in concert, and, after some desperate struggles, obtained his liberty. Francis had now both children to chase about the stage. The boy he soon captured, and caught up under his arm, continuing his flight after the girl. She was finally secured. The children, according to stage direction, are

to be taken through a little cottage door, on the left of the stage. Francis, panting with his exertions, dragged them to the door, which he pushed open with his foot. The struggling children looked in terror at the cottage. They fancied it was the guard-house, in which colored persons are liable to be confined if they are found in the streets after a certain hour without a 'pass.' Clinging to Francis, they cried out together, 'Oh, don't ee put me in ee guard-house! Don't ee put me in ee guard-house!' The accent peculiar to their race, and their allusion to the 'guard-house,' at once betrayed to the audience their parentage. The whole house broke forth into an uproar of merriment. Francis disappeared, but the audience could not be quieted. I was suffering not a little at the contemplated impossibility of producing the children at the end of the play. But nobody cared to listen to another line. Mrs. Haller's colored children had unceremoniously destroyed every vestige of illusion. I made my supplication to 'kiss the features of the father in his babes,' in the most suppressed tone possible, yet the request produced a fresh burst of laughter. We hurried the play to a close. The entrance of the children, and the excitement produced upon the parents by their presence, we left to the imagination of the spectators. The play ended without the re-appearance of the juvenile unfortunates."

My sister, Eliza Logan, during her brilliant theatrical career, was very popular in Savannah. Once, after enacting the character of Mrs. Haller, the little creature who had just figured as her child ran into her dressing room to return a pocket handkerchief which my sister had dropped as she fell at the feet of the unrelenting husband. Observing the child carefully, she detected her color, and inquired who her mother was. The reply was

that her mother was a colored woman.

"Singular, but I remember hearing that Mrs. Mowatt, when she played this part here, had a colored child for the part of William."

"Dat's so, missis; I is de bery chile."

"You? why it's ten years ago."

"Yes missis, but I is a Quadroon Dwarf, an' I been playin' de Stronger's chile for all de Stronger's wot been comin' to Sawannah for de last twelve years."

So it is clear that, whatever the vicissitudes of her debut, the frightened little heroine of "ee guard-house" was not driven from the stage thereby.