I shall always regret that we never did “The School for Scandal,” or any of the other classic comedies, at the Lyceum.  There came a time when Henry was anxious for me to play Lady Teazle, but I opposed him, as I thought that I was too old.  It should have been one of my best parts.

“Star” performances, for the benefit of veteran actors retiring from the stage, were as common in my youth as now.  About this time I played in “Money” for the benefit of Henry Compton, a fine comedian who had delighted audiences at the Haymarket for many years.  On this occasion I did not play Clara Douglas as I had done during the revival at the Prince of Wales’s, but the comedy part, Georgina Vesey.  John Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Henry Neville, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, and, last but not least, Benjamin Webster, who came out of his retirement to play Graves—­“his original part”—­were in the cast.

I don’t think that Webster ever appeared on the stage again, although he lived on for many years in an old-fashioned house near Kennington Church, and died at a great age.  He has a descendant on the stage in Mr. Ben Webster, who acted with us at the Lyceum, and is now well known both in England and America.

Henry Compton’s son, Edward, was in this performance of “Money.”  He was engaged to the beautiful Adelaide Neilson, an actress whose brilliant career was cut off suddenly when she was riding in the Bois.  She drank a glass of milk when she was overheated, was taken ill, and died.  I am told that she commanded L700 a week in America, and in England people went wild over her Juliet.  She looked like a child of the warm South, although she was born, I think, in Manchester, and her looks were much in her favor as Juliet.  She belonged to the ripe, luscious, pomegranate type of woman.  The only living actress with the same kind of beauty is Maxine Elliott.

Adelaide Neilson had a short reign, but a most triumphant one.  It was easy to understand it when one saw her.  She was so gracious, so feminine, so lovely.  She did things well, but more from instinct than anything else.  She had no science.  Edward Compton now takes his own company round the provinces in an excellent repertoire of old comedies.  He has done as much to make country audiences familiar with them as Mr. Benson has done to make them familiar with Shakespeare.

I come now to the Lyceum rehearsals of November, 1878.  Although Henry Irving had played Hamlet for over two hundred nights in London, and for I don’t know how many nights in the provinces, he always rehearsed in cloak and rapier.  This careful attention to detail came back to my mind years afterwards, when he gave readings of Macbeth.  He never gave a public reading without first going through the entire play at home—­at home, that is to say, in a miserably uncomfortable hotel.

During the first rehearsal he read every one’s part except mine, which he skipped, and the power that he put into each part was extraordinary.  He threw himself so thoroughly into it that his skin contracted and his eyes shone.  His lips grew whiter and whiter, and his skin more and more drawn as the time went on, until he looked like a livid thing, but beautiful.