It has been noted that Mr. Irving, towards the close of his performance as Robert Macaire, introduces a bit of expressive and suggestive "business." He has just became aware of the presence of his son, and is about to grasp him by the hand; but, before doing so, conscious of the crimes which his own hand has committed, he takes care to cover it with his handkerchief before it meets the honest palm of his innocent offspring. This avoidance of physical contact is a happy idea, and has its due effect. It is, we need scarcely say, only one of very many stage incidents in which a handkerchief has played important part. Mr. Irving, during his long career, and in the course his numerous impersonations, must often have made theatrical use of this familiar article. And, in truth, what would the stage be without its handkerchiefs, carried by so many people and applied to so many purposes? The mouchoir, in its various forms, may be said to wave triumphantly throughout the drama.

       In some respects it is historical. One thinks at once of Desdemona, and of the "napkin," spotted with strawberries, which was her first remembrance from the Moor, and her loss of which gave Iago so fine an opportunity. It was a wondrous handkerchief, if all that Othello said of it be true. An Egyptian charmer gave it to his mother; it was to have power, so long as she possessed it, to preserve her husband's affection to her, and when she lost it, that affection was to be lost; a sibyl, in her prophetic fury, sewed the work, the worms were hallowed that did breed the silk, and it was dyed in mummy conserved by the skilful from maidens' hearts. Surely this was the most marvellous of handkerchiefs in dramatic literature. We know what effect it had on Desdemona's fate; know how it dominates the third act of the tragedy, and what occasions it gives to Iago for impressive by-play. Then there is the "bloody napkin," dyed in Orlando's blood, which that sensational young man despatches to Rosalind by means of Oliver, and which causes that making-believe young lady to counterfeit a faint so very successfully. And, talking Mr. Irving, one is reminded of his speech, as Digby Grant, in reply to the presentation made him in the last act of "Two Roses," and of the handkerchief which bespreads over the head of Our Mr. Jenkins, what time addresses the little crowd before him. This piece of "business" is not quite worthy of the dignity of Digby Grant, but Mr. Jenkins makes some capital out it, and so the passage is retained. What Graves's handkerchiefs are to him in his memorable interview with Lady Franklin, everyone who has seen "Money" is aware. Could any impersonator of the melancholy widower be induced part with articles whose successive appearances induce so many laughs? The contrast between the white and coloured emblems of sorrow and emancipation is too "fetching" to be surrendered without a struggle.

       The truth is, the comedian, whether high or "low," knows only too well how valuable to him is the handkerchief with which can make comic play. The article is of more practical utility to him than to any of his masculine coadjutors, for all of whom, however, it has some attractions. The tragedian does not largely sport it: it is not altogether an aid to sentiment in the purposes to which it is usually put, and it is concealed within the folds of the little bag which your highly-strung hero carries suspended from his waist. That gentleman has been seen retire to the back of the stage and there blow his nose in manner delightfully surreptitious, the hope being that the audience does not notice so very unromantic a proceeding. With the young lover of modern drama or old comedy the thing is different. In the former case, the spotless white, perchance silk handkerchief is used to decorate the left breast of the coat. In the latter, the embroidered piece of cambric is an important adjunct to the general costume. Where would your beaux be without its aid — your "sparks" Congreve or Sheridan, whose "nice conduct" of it is part of the character and inseparable from it? No Wildair or Mirabell who respected himself would dream of disappointing the public in the matter of that piece of cambric. But it is the comedian, and especially the low comedian, who derives most professional benefit from his pocket-handkerchief. The listless swell will make solemn point of the wiping of his eyeglass, while the "first old man" will with equal deliberation make the most of cleaning his spectacles. Thereby the playgoer is kept on the tenter-hooks of expectation, and the actor "scores" the while. But happiest of all is the comic personage whom custom compels to come upon the stage with very gorgeous handkerchief trailing out his coat-tail pocket. There are comedians for whom this is the very soul of humour. It may have been funny once, when the world was young; but the world is now old and cynical, and that trailing piece of vivid colour is productive, alas! only of indifference or irritation.

       A certain amount of conventionality must, however, allowed. There are some things we cannot, and ought not to, alter. We cannot possibly interfere with the manipulation of the delicate square-inch of lace which the prima donna holds between her finger and her thumb, the while she warbles the woes Lucia or Amina et hoc genus omne. It would be cruel to strike at a tradition which the public respects and to which the prima donna herself so tenderly clings. After all, there is no harm in that tiny whiff of lace. Nor can we deprive the ordinary heroine of comedy or drama of one of the most cherished of her perquisites. The attractive young ladies must still be allowed to drop their handkerchiefs, merely that the attractive young man may pick it up and return it; they must still be permitted to hang it out — somehow or other — as a signal to their expectant lovers; and they must still be tolerated while they bury their faces in the indispensable "napkin" and sob out the agony of their little hearts. The handkerchief with which Angelina brushes away the sudden and unbidden tear must ever sacred — as sacred that other one, saturated, of course, chloroform, with which the "villyun" stupifies the virtuous man or maiden, previous to perpetrating an abduction, a murder, or a robbery. The stage would be nothing without its handkerchiefs. They figure in nearly every situation, and the right treatment of them is one the essentials of the dramatic art.

(THE END)