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Le Kain, the French actor, who retired from the Parisian stage, like our Garrick, covered with glory and gold, was one day congratulated by a company on the retirement which he was preparing to enjoy. “As to glory,” modestly replied this actor, “I do not flatter myself to have acquired much. This kind of reward is always disputed by many, and you yourselves would not allow it, were I to assume it. As to the money, I have not so much reason to be satisfied; at the Italian Theatre, their share is far more considerable than mine; an actor there may get twenty to twenty-five thousand livres, and my share amounts at the most to ten or twelve thousand.” “How! the devil!” exclaimed a rude chevalier of the order of St. Louis, who was present, “How! the devil! a vile stroller is not content with twelve thousand livres annually, and I, who am in the king’s service, who sleep upon a cannon and lavish my blood for my country, I must consider myself as fortunate in having obtained a pension of one thousand livres.” “And do you account as nothing, sir, the liberty of addressing me thus?” replied Le Kain, with all the sublimity and conciseness of an irritated Orosmane.

The memoirs of Mademoiselle Clairon display her exalted feeling of the character of a sublime actress; she was of opinion, that in common life the truly sublime actor should be a hero, or heroine off the stage. “If I am only a vulgar and ordinary woman during twenty hours of the day, whatever effort I may make, I shall only be an ordinary and vulgar woman in Agrippina or Semiramis, during the remaining four.” In society she was nicknamed the Queen of Carthage, from her admirable personification of Dido in a tragedy of that name.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Palmer’s death took place on the Liverpool stage, August 2, 1798; he was in the fifty-seventh year of his age. The death of his wife and his son had some time before thrown him into a profound melancholy, and on this occasion he was unfortunately “cast” for the agitating part of “the Stranger.” He appeared unusually moved on uttering the words “there is another and a better world,” in the third act. In the first scene of the following act, when he was asked “Why did you not keep your children with you? they would have amused you in many a dreary hour,” he turned to reply–and “for the space of about ten seconds, he paused as if waiting for the prompter to give him the word”–says Mr. Whitfield the actor, who was then with him upon the stage–“then put out his right hand, as if going to take hold of mine. It dropt, as if to support his fall, but it had no power; in that instant he fell, but not at full length, he crouched in falling, so that his head did not strike the stage with great violence. He never breathed after. I think I may venture to say he died without a pang.” It is one of the most melancholy incidents connected with theatrical history.]