Amongst other of my recent notorious ballads of the polemic sort, I ought to name a famous couple—­“The Nun’s Appeal,” and “Open the Convents”—­which were written at the request of Lord Alfred Churchill, and given to Edith O’Gorman, the Escaped Nun (otherwise the excellent and eloquent Mrs. Auffray), to aid her Protestant Lectures everywhere:  she has circulated them over the three kingdoms, and is now doing the like in Australia and New Zealand.

In reply to some excellent members of the Romish Church, who have publicly accused me of maligning holy women and sacred retreats, my obvious answer is that I contend against the evil side both of nunneries and monkeries, whilst I may fairly admit some good to be found in both.  My real protest is for liberty both to mind and body, and against coercion of any kind, material or spiritual.  Given perfect freedom, I would not meddle with any one’s honest convictions:  “to a nunnery go” if thou wilt; only let the resolve be revocable, not a doom for ever.

CHAPTER XXIII.

PLAYS.

One of my latest publications is that of my “Trilogy of Plays,” with twelve dramatic scenes,—­issued by Allen & Co., of Waterloo Place.  The first of the three, “Alfred,” was put upon the stage at Manchester by that ill-starred genius, Walter Montgomery, who was bringing it out also at the Haymarket, a very short time before his lamentable death.  He was fond of the play and splendidly impersonated the hero-king, in the opening scene having trained his own white horse to gallop riderless across the stage when Alfred was supposed to have been defeated by the Danes.  The vision in act ii. scene i. was thrillingly effective; and the whole five acts went very well from beginning to end, the audience being preternaturally quiet,—­which disconcerted me until my theatrical mentor praised the silence of that vast crowd, as the best possible sign of success:  they were held enthralled as one man till the end came, and then came thunder.  Not thinking of what was expected of me in the way of thanks for the ovation their concluding cheers assailed me with, I got out of the theatre as quick as I could, and was half way to my hotel when two or three excited supers rushed after me with a “Good God, Mr. Tupper, come back, come back, or the place will be torn down!” so of course I hurried to the front—­to encounter a tumult of applause; although I must have looked rather ridiculous too, crossing the stage in my American cloak and brandishing an umbrella!  However, no one but myself seemed to notice the incongruity, and as I had humbly obeyed the people’s will, they generously condoned my first transgression.  I ought to record that my heroine Bertha was charmingly acted by Miss Henrietta Hodgson, now Mrs. Labouchere, who will quite recollect her early triumph in Martin Tupper’s first play.  My best compliments and kindly remembrance I here venture to offer to her.