The old melodramatic stage ghost—­the spectre of “The Castle Spectre” school of plays—­the phantom in a white sheet with a dab of red paint upon its breast, that rose from behind a tomb when a blow was struck upon a gong and a teaspoonful of blue fire was lighted in the wings, probably found its last home in the travelling theatre long known as “Richardson’s.”  Expelled from the regular theatre, it became a wanderer upon the face of the earth, appearing at country fairs, and bringing to bear upon remote agricultural populations those terrors that had long since lost all value in the eyes of the townsfolk.  It lived to become a thing of scorn.  “Richardson’s Ghost” became a byword for a bankrupt phantom—­a preposterous apparition, that was, in fact, only too thoroughly seen through:  not to apply the words too literally.  Whether there is still a show calling itself “Richardson’s” (the original Richardson died a quarter of a century ago, and his immediate followers settled in a permanent London theatre long years back), and whether there is yet a phantom perambulating the country and calling itself “Richardson’s Ghost,” may be left to the very curious to inquire into and determine.  The travelling theatre nowadays has lost its occupation.  When the audiences began to travel, the stage could afford to be stationary.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE BOOK OF THE PLAY.

Mr. Thackeray has described a memorable performance at the Theatre Royal, Chatteries.  Arthur Pendennis and his young friend Harry Foker were among the audience; Lieutenants Rodgers and Podgers, and Cornet Tidmus, of the Dragoons, occupied a private box.  The play was “The Stranger.”  Bingley, the manager, appeared as the hero of the sombre work; Mrs. Haller was impersonated by Miss Fotheringay.  “I think ye’ll like Miss Fotheringay in Mrs. Haller, or me name’s not Jack Costigan,” observed the father of the actress.  Bingley, we are told, was great in the character of the Stranger, and wore the tight pantaloons and Hessian boots which stage tradition has duly prescribed as the costume of that doleful personage.  “Can’t stand you in tights and Hessians, Bingley,” young Mr. Foker had previously remarked.  He had the stage jewellery on too, selecting “the largest and most shining rings for himself,” and allowing his little finger to quiver out of his cloak, with a sham diamond ring covering the first joint of the finger, and twiddling it in the faces of the pit.  It is told of him that he made it a favour to the young men of his company to go on in light-comedy parts with that ring.  They flattered him by asking its history.  “It had belonged to George Frederick Cooke, who had had it from Mr. Quin, who may have bought it for a shilling.”  But Bingley fancied the world was fascinated by its glitter.