There is hardly necessity for further record of the curiosities of stage whispers; but here is a story of a sotto voce communication which must have gravely troubled its recipient.  A famous Lady Macbeth, “starring” in America, had been accidentally detained on her journey to a remote theatre.  She arrived in time only to change her dress rapidly and hurry on the scene.  The performers were all strangers to her.  At the conclusion of her first soliloquy, a messenger should enter to announce the coming of King Duncan.  But what was her amazement to hear, in answer to her demand, “What is your tidings?” not the usual reply, “The king comes here to-night,” but the whisper, spoken from behind a Scotch bonnet, upheld to prevent the words reaching the ears of the audience, “Hush!  I’m Macbeth.  We’ve cut the messenger out—­go on, please!”

Another disconcerted performer must have been the provincial Richard III., to whom the Ratcliffe of the theatre—­who ordinarily played harlequin, and could not enter without something of that tripping and twirling gait peculiar to pantomime—­brought the information, long before it was due, that “the Duke of Buckingham is taken!” “Not yet, you fool,” whispered Richard.  “Beg pardon; thought he was,” cried Harlequin Ratcliffe, as, carried away by his feelings or the force of habit, he threw what tumblers call “a Catherine wheel,” and made a rapid exit.

We conclude with noting a stage whisper of an old-established and yet most mysterious kind.  In a book of recent date dealing with theatrical life, we read that the words “John Orderly” uttered by the proprietor of a strolling theatre, behind the scenes, or in the wings of his establishment, constitute a hint to the players to curtail the performances and allow the curtain to fall as soon as may be.  Who was “John Orderly,” and how comes his name to be thus used as a watchword?  The Life of Edwin the actor, written by (to quote Macaulay) “that filthy and malignant baboon, John Williams, who called himself Anthony Pasquin,” and published late in the last century, contains the following passage:  “When theatric performers intend to abridge an act or play, they are accustomed to say, we will ‘John Audley’ it.  It originated thus:  In the year 1749, Shuter was master of a booth at Bartholomew Fair in West Smithfield, and it was his mode to lengthen the exhibition until a sufficient number of persons were gathered at the door to fill the house.  This event was signified by a fellow popping his head in at the gallery door and bellowing out ’John Audley!’ as if in the act of inquiry, though the intention was to let Shuter know that a fresh audience were in high expectation below.  The consequence of this notification was that the entertainments were instantly concluded, and the gates of the booth thrown open for a new auditory.”  That “John Audley” should be in time corrupted into “John Orderly,” is intelligible enough.  We don’t look to the showman or the strolling manager for nicety or correctness of pronunciation.  But whether such a person as John Audley ever existed, who he was, and what he did, that his name should be handed down in this way, from generation to generation, we are still left inquiring.