No wonder then that I impressed Mr. Byrn, who had a theory that "an
actress was no actress unless she learned to dance early." Whenever he
was not actually putting me through my paces, I was busy watching him
teach the others. There was the minuet, to which he used to attach great
importance, and there was "walking the plank." Up and down one of the
long planks, extending the length of the stage, we had to walk first
slowly and then quicker and quicker until we were able at a
considerable pace to walk the whole length of it without deviating an
inch from the straight line. This exercise, Mr. Byrn used to say, and
quite truly, I think, taught us uprightness of carriage and certainty of
step.

"Eyes right! Chest out! Chin tucked in!" I can hear the dear old man
shouting at us as if it were yesterday; and I have learned to see of
what value all his drilling was, not only to deportment, but to clear
utterance. It would not be a bad thing if there were more "old fops"
like Oscar Byrn in the theaters of to-day. That old-fashioned art of
"deportment" is sadly neglected.

The pantomime in which I was the fairy Goldenstar was very frequently
preceded by "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and the two parts on one night
must have been fairly heavy work for a child, but I delighted in it.

In the same year (1858) I played Karl in "Faust and Marguerite," a jolly
little part with plenty of points in it, but not nearly as good a part
as Puck. Progress on the stage is often crab-like, and little parts, big
parts, and no parts at all must be accepted as "all in the day's work."
In these days I was cast for many a "dumb" part. I walked on in "The
Merchant of Venice" carrying a basket of doves; in "Richard II." I
climbed up a pole in the street scene; in "Henry VIII." I was "top