I

Madam,” said Mr. Daly, the manager, in his politest style, “no one could regret the occurrence more than myself”—he pronounced the word “meself”—“especially as you say it has hurt your feelings. Do n't I know what feelings are?”—he pronounced the word “failings,” which tended in some measure to alter the effect of the phrase, though his friends would have been inclined to assert that its accuracy was not thereby diminished.

“I have been grossly insulted, sir,” said Mrs. Siddons.

“Grossly insulted,” echoed Mr. Siddons. He played the part of echo to his stately wife very well indeed.

“And it took place under your roof, sir,” said the lady.

“Your roof,” echoed the husband.

“And there's no one in the world sorrier than myself for it,” said Mr. Daly. “But I do n't think that you should take a joke of the college gentlemen so seriously.”

“Joke?” cried Mrs. Siddons, with a passion that caused the manager, in the instinct of self-preservation to jump back. “Joke, sir!—a joke passed upon Sarah Siddons! My husband, sir, whose honour I have ever upheld as dearer to me than life itself, will tell you that I am not accustomed to be made the subject of ribald jests.”

“I do n't know the tragedy that that quotation is made from,” remarked Mr. Daly, taking out his snuff-box and tapping it, affecting a coolness which he certainly was far from possessing; “but if it's all written in that strain I'll bring it out at Smock Alley and give you an extra benefit. You never spoke anything better than that phrase. Pray let us have it again, madam—'my husband, sir,' and so forth.”

Mrs. Siddons rose slowly and majestically. Her eyes flashed as she pointed a shapely forefinger to the door of the greenroom, saying in her deepest tones:

“Sir! degrade the room no longer by your presence. You have yet to know Sarah Siddons.”

“Sarah Siddons,” murmured the husband very weakly. He would have liked to maintain the stand taken up by his wife, but he had his fears that to do so would jeopardise the success of his appearance at the manager's treasury, and Mr. Siddons now and again gave people to understand that he could not love his wife so well loved he not the treasury more.

Mr. Daly laughed.

“Faith, Mrs. Siddons,” said he, “'t is a new thing for a man to be ordered out of his own house by a guest. I happen to be the owner of this tenement in Smock Alley, in the city of Dublin, and you are my guest—my honoured guest, madam. How could I fail to honour a lady who, in spite of the fact of being the greatest actress in the world, is still a pattern wife and mother?”

Mrs. Siddons was visibly softening under the balmy brogue of the Irishman.

“It is because I am sensible of my duties to my husband and my children that I feel the insult the more, sir,” she said, in a tone that was still tragic.

“Sure I know that that's what makes the sting of it so bitter,” said Mr. Daly, shaking his head sadly. “It's only the truly virtuous, madam, that have feelings”—again he pronounced the word “failings.”

“Enough, madam,” he continued, after he had flourished his handkerchief and had wiped away an imaginary tear. “Enough! In the name of the citizens of Dublin I offer you the humblest apology in my power for the gross misconduct of that scoundrel in the pit who called out, 'Well done, Sally, my jewel!' after your finest soliloquy; and I promise you that if we can find the miscreant we shall have him brought to justice.”

“If you believe that the citizens of Dublin are really conscious of the stigma which they shall bear for ages to come for having insulted one whose virtue has, I rejoice to say, been ever beyond reproach, I will accept your apology, sir,” said Mrs. Siddons with dignity.

“I 'll undertake to swear that the citizens feel the matter quite as deeply as I do, Mrs. Siddons,” cried Mr. Daly, with both his hands clasped over his waistcoat. “I dare swear that they do not even now know the enormity of your virtue, madam. It will be my pleasing duty to make them acquainted with it; and so, madam, I am your grateful, humble servant.”

With a low bow he made his escape from the green-room, leaving Mrs. Sid-dons seated on a high chair in precisely the attitude which she assumed when she sat for the Tragic Muse of Reynolds.

“Thank heavens that 's over!” muttered the manager, as he hurried down Smock Alley to the tavern at the corner kept by an old actor named Barney Rafferty, and much frequented by the Trinity College students, who in the year 1783 were quite as enthusiastic theatre-goers as their successors are in the present year.

“For the love of heaven, Barney, give us a jorum,” cried Daly, as he entered the bar parlor. “A jorum of punch, Barney, for I 'm as dry as a lime kiln, making speeches in King Cambyses' vein to that Queen of Tragedy.”

“It'll be at your hand in a minute, Mr. Daly, sir,” said Barney, hurrying off.

In the parlour were assembled a number of the “college boys,” as the students were always called in Dublin. They greeted the arrival of their friend Daly with acclamation, only they wanted to know what had occurred to detain him so long at the theatre.

“Delay and Daly have never been associated before now when there's a jorum of punch in view,” remarked young Mr. Blenerhassett of Limerick, who was reported to have a very pretty wit.

“It's lucky you see me among you at all, boys,” said the manager, wiping his brow. “By the powers, I might have remained in the green-room all night listening to homilies on the virtue of wives and the honour of husbands.”

“And 't is yourself that would be nothing the worse for listening to a homily or two on such topics,” remarked young Blake of Connaught. “And who was the preacher of the evening, Daly?”

“None else than the great Sarah herself, my boy,” replied the manager. “Saint Malachi! what did you mean by shouting out what you did, after that scene?” he added.

“What did I shout?” asked Jimmy Blake. “I only ventured humbly to cry, 'Well done, Sally, my jewel'—what offence is there in that?”

“Ay, by Saint Patrick, but there's much offence in 't,” cried Daly. “Mrs. Siddons sent for me to my dressing-room after the play, and there I found her pacing the green-room like a lioness in her cage, her husband, poor man, standing by as tame as the keeper of the royal beast.”

A series of interested exclamations passed round the room, and the circle of heads about the table became narrower. “Mother o' Moses! She objected to my civil words of encouragement?” said Mr. Blake.

“She declared that not only had she been insulted, but her husband's honour had been dragged in the mire, and her innocent children's names had been sullied.”

“Faith, that was a Sally for you, Mr. Daly,” said young Home, the Dublin painter to whom Mrs. Siddons had refused to sit, assuring him that she could only pay such a compliment to Sir Joshua Reynolds.

“Boys, may this be my poison if I ever put in a worse half hour,” cried Daly, as he raised a tumbler of punch and swallowed half the contents.

“I 'd give fifty pounds to have been there,” said Home. “Think what a picture it would make!—the indignant Sarah, the ever courteous manager Daly, and the humble husband in the corner. What would not posterity pay for such a picture!”

“A guinea in hand is worth a purse in the future,” said one of the college boys. “I wish I could draw a bill on posterity for the payment of the silversmith who made my buckles.”

“Daly,” said Blake, “you're after playing a joke on us. Sally never took you to task for what I shouted from the Pit.”

Mr. Daly became dignified—he had finished the tumbler of punch. He drew himself up, and, with one hand thrust into his waistcoat, he said: “Sir, I conceive that I understand as well as any gentleman present what constitutes the elements of a jest. I have just conveyed to you a statement of facts, sir. If you had seen Sarah Siddons as I left her—egad, she is a very fine woman—you would n't hint that there was much jest in the matter. Oh, lord, boys”—another jug of punch had just been brought in, and the manager was becoming genial once more—“Oh, lord, you should have heard the way she talked about the honour of her husband, as if there never had been a virtuous woman on the boards until Sarah Siddons arose!”

“And was there one, Daly?” asked young Murphy, a gentleman from whom great things were expected by his college and his creditors.

“There was surely, my boy,” said Daly, “but I've forgot her name. The name's not to the point. I tell you, then, the Siddons stormed in the stateliest blank verse and periods, about how she had elevated the stage—how she had checked Brereton for clasping her as she thought too ardently—how she had family prayers every day, and looked forward to the day when she could afford a private chaplain.”

“Stop there,” shouted Blake. “You'll begin to exaggerate if you go beyond the chaplain, Daly.”

“It's the truth I've told so far, at any rate, barring the chaplain,” said Daly.

“And all because I saw she was a bit nervous and did my best to encourage her and give her confidence by shouting, 'Well done, Sally!'” said Blake. “Boys, it's not Sarah Siddons that has been insulted, it's Trinity College—it's the city of Dublin! by my soul, it's the Irish nation that she has insulted by supposing them capable of insulting a woman.”

“Faith, there 's something in that, Jimmy,” said half a dozen voices.

“Who is this Sarah Siddons, will ye tell me, for I 'd like to know?” resumed Blake, casting a look of almost painful enquiry round the room.

“Ay, that 's the question,” said Daly, in a tone that he invariably reserved for the soliloquy which flourished on the stage a century ago.

“We 're all gentlemen here,” resumed Mr. Blake.

“And that 's more than she is,” said young Blenerhassett of Limerick.

“Gentlemen,” said the manager, “I beg that you'll not forget that Mrs. Siddons and myself belong to the same profession. I cannot suffer anything derogatory”—the word gave him some trouble, but he mastered it after a few false starts—“to the stage to be uttered in this apartment.”

“You adorn the profession, sir,” said Blake. “But can the same be said of Mrs. Siddons? What could Garrick make of her, gentlemen?”

“Ahem! we know what he failed to make of her,” said Digges, the actor, who sat in the corner, and was supposed to have more Drury Lane scandal on his fingers' ends than Daly himself.

“Pooh!” sneered Daly. “Davy Garrick never made love to her, Digges. It was her vanity that tried to make out that he did.”

“He did not make her a London success—that's certain,” said Blake. “And though Dublin, with the assistance of the College, can pronounce a better judgment on an actor or actress than London, still we must admit that London is improving, and if there had been any merit in Sarah Siddons she would not have been forced to keep to the provinces as she does now. Gentlemen, she has insulted us and it's our duty to teach her a lesson.”

“And we're the boys to do it,” said one Moriarty.

“Gentlemen, I 'll take my leave of you,” said the manager, rising with a little assistance and bowing to the company. “It's not for me to dictate any course for you to pursue. I do n't presume to ask to be let into any of your secrets; I only beg that you will remember that Mrs. Siddons has three more nights to appear in my theatre, and she grasps so large a share of the receipts that, unless the house continues to be crowded, it's a loser I'll be at the end of the engagement. You'll not do anything that will jeopardise the pit or the gallery—the boxes are sure—for the rest of the week.”

“Trust to us, sir, trust to us,” said Jimmy Blake, as the manager withdrew. “Now, boys,” he continued in a low voice, bending over the table, “I've hit upon a way of convincing this fine lady that has taken the drama under her wing, so to speak, that she can't play any of her high tragedy tricks here, whatever she may do at Bath. She does n't understand us, boys; well, we'll teach her to.”

“Bravo, Jimmy!”

“The Blake's Country and the sky over it!”

“Give us your notions,” came several voices from around the table.

“She bragged of her respectability; of her armour of virtue, Daly told us. Well, suppose we put a decent coat on Dionysius Hogan and send him to propose an elopement to her to-morrow; how would that do for a joke when it gets around the town?”

“By the powers, boys, whether or not Dionysius gets kicked down the stairs, she'll be the laughing-stock of the town. It's a genius”—he pronounced it “jan-yus”—“that you are, Jimmy, and no mistake,” cried young Moriarty.

“We'll talk it over,” said Jimmy. And they did talk it over.