after his sword is taken from him, like some helpless infant.”  “The fight,” writes another critic, “was maintained under various vicissitudes, by one of which he was thrown to the earth; on his knee he defended himself, recovered his footing, and pressed his antagonist with renewed fury; his sword was struck from his grasp—­he was mortally wounded; disdaining to fall”—­and so on.  No wonder that many Richmonds and Macduffs, after combating with Mr. Kean, were left so exhausted and scant of breath as to be scarcely able to deliver audibly the closing speeches of their parts.  The American stage has a highly-coloured story of an English melodramatic actor with the pseudonym of Bill Shipton, who, “enacting a British officer in ’The Early Life of Washington,’ got so stupidly intoxicated that when Miss Cuff, who played the youthful hero, had to fight and kill him in a duel, Bill Shipton wouldn’t die; he even said loudly on the stage that he wouldn’t.  Mary Cuff fought on until she was ready to faint, and after she had repeated his cue for dying, which was, ’Cowardly, hired assassin!’ for the fourteenth time, he absolutely jumped off the stage, not even pretending to be on the point of death.  Our indignant citizens then chased him all over the house, and he only escaped by jumping into the coffin which they bring on in Hamlet, Romeo, and Richard.”  The story has its humour, but is not to be implicitly credited.

Broad-sword combats were at one time very popular interludes at minor theatres.  They were often quite distinct performances, prized for their own sake, and quite irrespective of their dramatic relevancy.  It cannot be said that they suggested much resemblance to actual warfare.  Still they demanded of the performers skill of a peculiar kind, great physical endurance and ceaseless activity.  The combat-sword was an unlikely-looking weapon, very short in the blade, with a protuberant hilt of curved bars to protect the knuckles of the combatant.  The orchestra supplied a strongly-accentuated tune, and the swords clashed together in strict time with the music.  The fight raged hither and thither about the stage, each blow and parry, thrust and guard, being a matter of strict pre-arrangement.  The music was hurried or slackened accordingly as the combat became more or less furious.  “One, two, three, and under; one, two, three, and over;” “robber’s cuts;” “sixes”—­the encounter had an abundance of technical terms.  And each performer was allowed a fair share of the feats accomplished:  the combatants took turns in executing the strangest exploits.  Alternately they were beaten down on one knee, even lower still, till they crawled serpent-wise about the boards; they leaped into the air to avoid chopping blows at their lower members; they suddenly span round on their heels, recovering themselves in time to guard a serious blow, aimed with too much deliberation at some vital portion of their frames; occasionally they contrived an unexpected parry by