Bingley the manager, who assumed all the chief tragic and comic parts
except when he modestly retreated to make way for the London stars, who
came down occasionally to Chatteris, was great in the character of the
'Stranger.' He was attired in the tight pantaloons and Hessian boots
which the stage legend has given to that injured man, with a large cloak
and beaver and a hearse feather in it drooping over his raddled old face,
and only partially concealing his great buckled brown wig. He had the
stage jewellery on too, of which he selected the largest and most shiny
rings for himself, and allowed his little finger to quiver out of his
cloak with a sham diamond ring covering the first joint of the finger and
twiddling in the faces of the pit. Bingley made it a favour to the young
men of his company to go on in light comedy parts with that ring. They
flattered him by asking its history. The stage has its traditional jewels
as the Crown and all great families have. This had belonged to George
Frederick Cooke, who had had it from Mr. Quin, who may have bought it for
a shilling. Bingley fancied the world was fascinated with its glitter.

He was reading out of the stage-book--that wonderful stage-book which is
not bound like any other book in the world, but is rouged and tawdry like
the hero or heroine who holds it; and who holds it as people never do
hold books: and points with his finger to a passage, and wags his head
ominously at the audience, and then lifts up eyes and finger to the
ceiling professing to derive some intense consolation from the work
between which and heaven there is a strong affinity. Anybody who has ever
seen one of our great light comedians, X., in a chintz dressing-gown,
such as nobody ever wore, and representing himself to the public as a
young nobleman in his apartments, and whiling away the time with light
literature until his friend Sir Harry shall arrive, or his father shall
come down to breakfast--anybody, I say, who has seen the great X. over a