This digression may be wide of the subject of novel reading, but the
real novel reader is at home anywhere. He has thoughts, dreams,
reveries, fancies. All the world is his novel and all actions are
stories and all the actors are characters. When Lucile Western, the
excellent American actress, was at the height of her powers, not long
before her last appearances, she had as her leading man a big, slouchy
and careless person, who was advertised as "the talented young English
actor, William Whally." In the intimacies of private association he was
known as Bill Whally, and his descent was straight down from "Mount
Sinai's awful height." He was a Hebrew and no better or more uneven and
reckless actor ever played melodramatic "heavies." He had a love for
Shakespeare, but could not play him; he had a love of drink and could
gratify it. His vigorous talents purchased for him much forbearance.
I've seen Mr. Whally play the fastidious and elegant "Sir Archibald
Levison" in shiny black doe-skin trousers and old-fashioned cloth
gaiters, because his condition rendered the problem of dressing somewhat
doubtful, though it could not obscure his acting. He was the only
walking embodiment of "Bill Sykes" I ever saw, and I contracted the
habit of going to see him kill Miss Western as "Nancy" because he
butchered that young woman with a broken chair more satisfactorily than
anybody else I ever saw. There was a murderer for you--Bill Sykes! Bad
as he was in most things, let us not forget that--he--killed--Nancy--
and--killed--her--well and--thoroughly. If that young woman didn't
snivel herself under a just sentence of death, I'm no fit householder to
serve on a jury. Every time Miss Western came around it was my custom to
read up fresh on "Oliver Twist" and hurry around and enjoy Bill Whally's
happy application of retribution with the aid of the old property chair.
There were six other persons whom I succeeded in persuading to applaud
the scene with me every time it was acted.