[Footnote 1:  A “join” in theatrical wig-makers’ parlance is the point where the front-piece of the wig ends and the actor’s forehead begins.]

This pleased Henry immensely, for, as I hope to show later on, he fancied himself in Macbeth more than in any other part.

“It is generally conceded to be Hamlet,” said Henry.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Walter, “Macbeth. You sweat twice as much in that.”

In appearance Walter was very like Shakespeare’s bust in Stratford Church.  He was a most faithful and devoted servant, and was the only person with Henry Irving when he died.  Quiet in his ways, discreet, gentle, and very quick, he was the ideal dresser.

The Lyceum production of “The Merchant of Venice” was not so strictly archaeological as the Bancrofts’ had been, but it was very gravely beautiful and effective.  If less attention was paid to details of costumes and scenery, the play itself was arranged and acted very attractively and always went with a swing.  To the end of my partnership with Henry Irving it was a safe “draw” both in England and America.  By this time I must have played Portia over a thousand times.  During the first run of it the severe attack made on my acting of the part in Blackwood’s Magazine is worth alluding to.  The suggestion that I showed too much of a “coming-on” disposition in the Casket Scene affected me for years, and made me self-conscious and uncomfortable.  At last I lived it down.  Any suggestion of indelicacy in my treatment of a part always blighted me.  Mr. Dodgson (Lewis Carroll, of the immortal “Alice in Wonderland”) once brought a little girl to see me in “Faust.”  He wrote and told me that she had said (where Margaret begins to undress):  “Where is it going to stop?” and that perhaps in consideration of the fact that it could affect a mere child disagreeably, I ought to alter my business!

I had known dear Mr. Dodgson for years and years.  He was as fond of me as he could be of any one over the age of ten, but I was furious.  “I thought you only knew nice children,” was all the answer that I gave him.  “It would have seemed to me awful for a child to see harm where harm is; how much more when she sees it where harm is not.”

But I felt ashamed and shy whenever I played that scene.  It was the Casket Scene over again.

The unkind Blackwood article also blamed me for showing too plainly that Portia loves Bassanio before he has actually won her.  This seemed to me unjust, if only because Shakespeare makes Portia say before Bassanio chooses the right casket: 

     “One half of me is yours—­the other half yours—­All yours!”

Surely this suggests that she was not concealing her fondness like a Victorian maiden, and that Bassanio had most surely won her love, though not yet the right to be her husband.

“There is a soul of goodness in things evil,” and the criticism made me alter the setting of the scene, and so contrive it that Portia was behind and out of sight of the men who made hazard for her love.