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Updated: April 30, 2025
The survivor of the days of Kean uttered a bellow for whisky-and-water. "That barrel," he said, "reminds me of Buckstone's days at the Haymarket. After the performance we used to meet at the Cafe de l'Europe, a few yards from the theatre. Our secret society sat there." "What was the society called, Mr. Maundrell?" asked a new member with unusual intrepidity.
He says that no one will mistake it for his speculation; it's Mr. Buckstone's affair altogether. True but I should like it to succeed, being Robert's play, notwithstanding. But the play is subtle and refined for pits and galleries. I am nervous about it. On the other hand, those theatrical people ought to know, and what in the world made them select it, if it is not likely to answer their purpose?
Perhaps he waw not so much at rest or so contented with her as with Alice. But then he loved her. And what have rest and contentment to do with love? Mr. Buckstone's campaign was brief much briefer than he supposed it would be.
Perhaps he waw not so much at rest or so contented with her as with Alice. But then he loved her. And what have rest and contentment to do with love? Mr. Buckstone's campaign was brief much briefer than he supposed it would be.
A cousin of mine, lately married, played the wife; and my aunt, I remember, got up and walked out in the middle of the second act. Robina, in spectacles and an early Victorian bonnet, reminded me of her. Young Bute played a comic cabman. It was at the old Haymarket, in Buckstone's time, that I first met the cabman of art and literature.
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