The greatest difficulty seems to have been experienced at rehearsal in persuading Ariadne the second even to walk up the steep rocks of Naxos.  The poor ballet-girl had been chosen for this duty less because of her courage than on account of an accidental resemblance she bore to Mrs. Mowatt.  “She stopped and shrieked halfway, protested she was dizzy, and might fall, and would not advance a step farther.  After about half-an-hour’s delay, during which the poor girl was encouraged, coaxed, and scolded abundantly, she allowed the carpenter, who had planned the rocky pathway, to lead her carefully up and down the declivity, and finally rushed up alone.”  At a certain cue she was required to fall upon her face, concealed from the audience by an intercepting rock, and then the lay figure took its flight through the air.

The success of the performance appears to have been complete.  The substitution of the double for Ariadne, and the dummy for the double, even puzzled spectators who were provided with powerful opera-glasses.  “The illusion was so perfect,” Mrs. Mowatt writes, “that on the first night of the representation, when Ariadne leaped from the rock, a man started up in the pit, exclaiming in a tone of genuine horror:  ’Good God! she is killed!’” How this exclamation must have rejoiced the heart of the stage-manager!  For one would rather not consider the possibility of the “man in the pit” having been placed there by that functionary with due instructions as to when and what he was to exclaim.

It is a sort of doubling when, in consequence of the illness or absence of a performer, his part is read by some other member of the company.  In this way curious experiments have sometimes been made upon public patience.  At Dublin, in 1743, Addison’s tragedy was announced for representation, with Sheridan, the actor, in the character of Cato.  Sheridan, however, suddenly declined to appear, the costume he had usually assumed in his performance of Cato being absent from the wardrobe.  In this emergency, Theophilus Cibber submitted a proposition to the audience that, in addition to appearing as Syphax in the play, he should read the part Mr. Sheridan ought to have filled.  The offer was accepted, the performance ensued, and apparently excited no opposition.  Sheridan was much incensed, however, and published an address to the public.  Cibber replied.  Sheridan issued a second address, to which Cibber again responded.  Their correspondence was subsequently reprinted in a pamphlet entitled “Sock and Buskin.”  But the fact remained that “Cato” had been represented with the chief part not acted, but read by a player who had other duties to fulfil in the tragedy.  One is reminded of the old-established story of the play of “Hamlet” being performed with the omission of the character of the Prince of Denmark; a tradition, or a jest, which has long been attributed to Joe Miller, or some similar compiler of facetiae.  It would seem, however, that even