clung to the man whose life from his seventh year had been passed in
the "tented field," and who himself declared, "Rude am I in speech, and
little bless'd with the set phrase of peace."

In short, Salvini was a delight to eye and ear, and satisfied both
imagination and judgment in that first act. Like many people who are
much alone, I have the habit of speaking sometimes to myself--a habit I
repented of that day, yes, verily I did; for when, at Cyprus, Othello
entered and fiercely swept into his swarthy arms the pale loveliness of
Desdemona, 'twas like a tiger's spring upon a lamb. The bluff and honest
soldier, the English Shakespeare's Othello, was lost in an Italian
Othello. Passion choked, his gloating eyes burned with the mere lust of
the "sooty Moor" for that white creature of Venice. It was revolting,
and with a shiver I exclaimed aloud, "Ugh, you splendid brute!"
Realizing my fault, I drew quickly back into the shadow of the curtain;
but a man's rough voice had answered instantly, "Make it a _beast_,
ma'am, and I'm with you!" I was cruelly mortified.

[Illustration: _Tommaso Salvini_]

But there was worse to happen that day. The leading lady, Signora
Piamonti, an admirable actress, was the Desdemona. She played the part
remarkably well, and was a fairly attractive figure to the eye, if one
excepted her foot. It was exceptionally long and shapeless, and was most
vilely shod. Her dresses, too, all tipped up in the front, unduly
exposing the faulty members; many were the comments made, and often the
query followed, "Why doesn't she get some American shoes?" I am sorry to
say that some of our daily papers even were ungracious enough to refer
to that physical defect, when only her work should have been considered
and criticised.