from the point where Main and Warren Streets unite, you see at your right hand the old-fashioned two-story wooden house in which Charlotte Cushman passed some of her early life. She was born in Boston, in that part of the town ycleped the North End, and in an old house that stood within the present enclosure of the Hancock School yard. It should not be forgotten that that sterling actor, John Gilbert, was born in the next house. Here young John spoke his first piece and here the great curtain was rung up for little Charlotte. When the lights shall be at last turned off, and darkness envelop the stage, there will be two wreaths of immortelles to be added to the tributes which that famed old quarter already claims for its long roll of celebrated names. It is related that, when a child, Charlotte was one day incautiously playing on Long Wharf, where her father kept a store, and there fell into the water. She was rescued and taken home dripping wet, but instead of an ecstatic burst of joy at the safety of her darling, her mother gave her a sound whipping. Perhaps this was only one of those sudden revulsions which Tom Hood exemplifies in his "Lost Heir." After her removal to Charlestown Charlotte went to Miss Austin's school. This lady was a relative of William Austin, the author of "Peter Rugg." Charlotte was a good scholar, and almost always had the badge of excellence suspended from her neck. She was very strong physically, as some of her schoolmates bear witness to this day. Although she displayed considerable aptitude as a reader, her predilection was, at this time, altogether in favor of a musical career, and she cultivated her voice assiduously to that end. Her first appearance in public was at a social concert given at the hall No. 1 Franklin Avenue, in Boston, March 25th, 1830, where she was assisted by Mr. Farmer, Mr. John F. Pray, Messrs. Stedman, Morris, and others. She also sang at one of Mrs. Wood's Concerts, and that lady, pleased with her fine contralto voice, advised her to turn her attention to the lyric drama. Mr. Maeder, the husband of Clara Fisher, brought her out as the Countess, in Les Noces de Figaro, in April, 1835, at the Tremont Theatre. Her voice failing, she determined to adopt the acting branch of the profession, and studied under the direction of W. E. Burton, the celebrated comedian. Having mastered the part of Lady Macbeth, she appeared with complete success at the New York theatres in this and other leading characters. At this time she brought out her youngest sister, Susan, herself assuming male parts. She was manageress of one of the Philadelphia theatres until Mr. Macready, in 1844, invited her to accompany him in a professional tour of the Northern States, which gave her an opportunity of displaying her tragic powers to advantage. During her tour with Macready, she played in Boston at the Old Melodeon, with scarcely a single voice of the press raised in her favor. Her benefit, at which the tragedian, with characteristic littleness, refused to appear, was a pecuniary loss to her. But it was during this trip that Macready said to her one day, in his brusque, pompous way, "Girl, you would do well in London." This remark was not lost on the quick-witted Yankee maiden. The next year found her in London, but she had kept her own counsel, and even Mr. Macready did not know her intention. In vain, however, she solicited an engagement, for she had neither fame nor beauty to recommend her. But at last, when she had spent almost her last farthing, except the little sum at her banker's, laid aside to take her back home in case all else should fail, a ray of hope appeared. Maddocks, the manager of the Princess's Theatre, proposed to her to appear in company with Mr. Forrest, who was then, like herself, seeking an opening at the London theatres. The shrewd manager thought that perhaps two American Stars might fill his house. "Give Charlotte's reply was characteristic of her acuteness. me," she said to the manager, "a chance first. If I succeed, I can well afford to play with Mr. Forrest; if I fail, I shall be only too glad to do so." She made her début as Bianca in Fazio. The first act, in which the dialogue is tame, passed off ominously. The audience were attentive, but undemonstrative. The actress retired to her dressing-room much depressed with the fear of failure. "This will never do, Sally," she remarked to her negro waiting-maid, then and after her affectionate attendant. "No, indeed, it won't, miss; but you'll fetch um bimeby," said the faithful creature. The play quietly proceeded until Bianca spoke the lines, 66 'Fazio, thou hast seen Aldabella!” Those words, in which love, anger, and jealousy were all struggling for the mastery, uttered with indescribable accent and energy, startled the audience out of its well-bred, coldblooded propriety; cheers filled the house, and Miss Cushman remained mistress of the situation. She afterwards appeared in conjunction with Mr. Forrest; but that gentleman, who had then for the nonce put a curb upon his fashion of tearing a passion to tatters, was overshadowed by her. Forrest resented the preference of the public by extreme rudeness to Charlotte on the stage, and by various unfriendly acts, which caused a rupture that was never healed. Forrest played Othello on the occasion above mentioned, Miss Cushman sustaining the part of Emilia. Her performance was throughout intelligent, impressive, natural, without any straining after effect; while her energy, at times, completely carried the audience along with her. By the friendship of Charles Kemble and of Mr. Phelps of Sadler's Wells she attracted the favorable notice of royalty. It is a fact as singular as it is true, that, on her return from England, Boston, the city of her birth, was the only place in which she did not at once meet a cordial reception; but her talents compelled their own recognition and buried the few paltry detractors out of sight. She appeared at the Federal Street Theatre and won an enthusiastic verdict of popular favor within that old temple of histrionic art. The part in which Miss Cushman has achieved her greatest reputation in this country is that of Meg Merrilies in "Guy Mannering," a creation peculiarly her own. The character, notwithstanding its repulsive features, becomes in her hands weird, terrible, and fascinating. Her somewhat masculine physique and angular physiognomy have given more character to the assumption of such male parts as Ion and Romeo than is usually the case with her sex. But Miss Cushman was a real artiste, limited to no narrow sphere of her calling. She could play Queen Catharine and Mrs. Simpson in the same evening with equal success, and retained in no small degree, when verging on threescore, the energy and dramatic force of her palmy days. At the opening of the Cushman School in Boston, Charlotte made an extempore address to the scholars, in which she explained to them her grand principle of action and the secret of her success. "Whatever you have to do," she said, "do it with all your might." THER CHAPTER II. AN HOUR IN THE GOVERNMENT DOCKYARD. "There, where your argosies with portly sail,- Do over-peer the petty traffickers." Merchant of Venice. HERE is a singular fascination in viewing objects created expressly for our destruction. The wounded soldier will make the most convulsive efforts to see the place where he has been struck, and if the leaden bullet which has so nearly threatened his life be placed in his hand, he regards it thereafter with a strange, unaccountable affection. So, when we find ourselves within the government dockyard we cannot pass by the rows of cannon gleaming in the sunshine, or the pyramids of shot and shell, without wondering how many they are destined to destroy. We have not yet learned to dispense with war, and the problem "How to kill" yet taxes the busiest brain, the most inventive genius. Somehow, too, there is a certain consciousness the moment you set foot within any little strip of territory over which Uncle Sam exercises exclusive authority. The trig, pipe-clayed marine paces stiffly up and down before the entrance, hugging his shining musket as if it were a piece of himself, and looking straight before him, though you would feel yourself more at ease if he would look at you. The officer you see coming, in the laced cap, and to whom you would fain address yourself, never allows your eye to meet his own, but marches straight on, as he would do if he were going to storm a battery. The workmen, even, pursue their labor without the cheerful cries and chaffing which enliven the toil of their brethren outside. The |