Henry Irving was immensely funny as Doricourt.  We had sort of Beatrice and Benedick scenes together, and I began to notice what a lot his face did for him.  There have only been two faces on the stage in my time—­his and Duse’s.

My face has never been of much use to me, but my pace has filled the deficiency sometimes, in comedy at any rate.  In “The Belle’s Stratagem” the public had face and pace together, and they seemed to like it.

There was one scene in which I sang “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” I used to act it all the way through and give imitations of Doricourt—­ending up by chucking him under the chin.  The house rose at it!

I was often asked at this time when I went out to a party if I would not sing that dear little song from “The Cup.”  When I said I didn’t think it would sound very nice without the harp, as it was only a chant on two or three notes, some one would say: 

“Well, then, the song in ‘The Belle’s Stratagem’! That has no accompaniment!”

“No,” I used to answer, “but it isn’t a song.  It’s a look here, a gesture there, a laugh anywhere, and Henry Irving’s face everywhere!”

Miss Winifred Emery came to us for “The Belle’s Stratagem” and played the part that I had played years before at the Haymarket.  She was bewitching, and in her white wig in the ball-room, beautiful as well.  She knew how to bear herself on the stage instinctively, and could dance a minuet to perfection.  The daughter of Sam Emery, a great comedian in a day of comedians, and the granddaughter of the Emery, it was not surprising that she should show aptitude for the stage.

Mr. Howe was another new arrival in the Lyceum company.  He was at his funniest as Mr. Hardy in “The Belle’s Stratagem.”  It was not the first time that he had played my father in a piece (we had acted father and daughter in “The Little Treasure"), and I always called him “Daddy.”  The dear old man was much liked by every one.  He had a tremendous pair of legs, was bluff and bustling in manner, though courtly too, and cared more about gardening than acting.  He had a little farm at Isleworth, and he was one of those actors who do not allow the longest theatrical season to interfere with domesticity and horticulture!  Because of his stout gaitered legs and his Isleworth estate, Henry called him “the agricultural actor.”  He was a good old port and whisky drinker, but he could carry his liquor like a Regency man.

He was a walking history of the stage.  “Yes, my dear,” he used to say to me, “I was in the original cast of the first performance of ’The Lady of Lyons,’ which Lord Lytton gave Macready as a present, and I was the original Francois when ‘Richelieu’ was produced.  Lord Lytton wrote this part for a lady, but at rehearsal it was found that there was a good deal of movement awkward for a lady to do, so I was put into it.”

“What year was it, Daddy?”