lates, was prepared
for poor Edmund Kean, as, towards the close of his career, he was wont
to stagger from before the foot-lights, and, overcome by his exertions
and infirmities, to sink, "a helpless, speechless, fainting, bent-up
mass," into the chair placed in readiness to receive the shattered,
ruined actor. With Kean's prototype in acting and in excess, George
Frederick Cooke, it was less a question of stage or side-wing
refreshments than of the measure of preliminary potation he had
indulged in. In what state would he come down to the theatre? Upon the
answer to that inquiry the entertainments of the night greatly
depended. "I was drunk the night before last," Cooke said on one
occasion; "still I acted, and they hissed me. Last night I was drunk
again, and I didn't act; they hissed all the same. There's no knowing
how to please the public." A fine actor, Cooke was also a genuine
humorist, and it must be said for him, although a like excuse has been
perhaps too often pleaded for such failings as his, that his senses
gave way, and his brain became affected after very slight indulgence.
From this, however, he could not be persuaded to abstain, and so made
havoc of his genius, and terminated, prematurely and ignobly enough,
his professional career.

Many stories are extant as to performances being interrupted by the
entry of innocent messengers bringing to the players, in the presence
of the audience, refreshments they had designed to consume behind the
scenes, or sheltered from observation between the wings. Thus it is
told of one Walls, who was the prompter in a Scottish theatre, and
occasionally appeared in minor parts, that he once directed a
maid-of-all-work, employed in the wardrobe department of the theatre,
to bring him a gill of whisky. The night was wet, so the girl, not
caring to go out, intrusted the commission to a little boy who
happened to be standing by. The play was "Othello," and Walls played
the Duke. The scene of the senate was in course of representation.
Brabantio had just stated:

My particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature,
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,
And it is still itself--

and the Duke, obedient to his cue, had inquired:

Why, what's the matter?

when the little boy appeared upon the stage, bearing a pewter measure,
and explained: "It's just the whisky, Mr. Walls; and I couldna git ony
at fourpence, so yer