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.

And he read out of that stage-book--the genuine and old-established
"book of the