idly built, of medium height--never fat. His square,
deeply-lined, even-furrowed face was clean shaven. His head, a little
bald on top, had a thin covering of curly gray hair, which he wore a
trifle long; while his suit of black cloth--always a size or two too
large for him--and his never-changing big hat of black felt were excuse
enough for any man's asking him about the state of the crops--which they
often did, and were generally urgently invited to go to the hottest Hades
for their pains.

On his brow there was a deep and permanent scowl that seemed cut there to
the very bone. Two deep, heavy lines ran from the sides of his nose to
the corners of his lips, where they suddenly became deeper before
continuing down toward his chin, while a strong cast in one of his
steely-blue eyes gave a touch of malevolence to the severity of his face.

The strong point of his acting was in the expression of intense
emotion--particularly grief or frenzied rage. He was utterly lacking in
dignity, courtliness, or subtlety. He was best as a rustic, and he was
the only creature I ever saw who could "snuffle" without being absurd or
offensive.

Generally, if anything went wrong, Mr. Couldock's rage broke forth on the
instant, but he had been known to keep a rod in pickle for a day or more,
as in the case of a friend of mine--at least it was the husband of my
friend Mollie. He had played _Salanio_ in "The Merchant of Venice," and
in some way had offended the star, who cursed him _sotto voce_ at the
moment of the offence, and then seemed to forget all about the matter.
Next morning, at rehearsal, nothing was said till its close, when Mr.
Couldock quite quietly asked my friend to look in at his dressing-room
that evening before the play began.

Poor John was uneasy all the afternoon, still he drew some comfort from
the calmness of Mr. Couldock's manner. Evening came, John was before the
bar. The star seemed particularly gentle--he removed his coat leisurely
and said:

"You played _Salanio_ last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"And your name is--er?"

"Ogden, sir," replied John.

"Ah, yes, Ogden. Well, how long have you been at it, Ogden?"

"About three years," answered the now confident and composed prisoner at
the bar.

"Three years? huh! Well, will you let me give you a bit of advice,
Ogden?"

"Why, yes, sir, I shall be glad to listen to any advice from you,"
earnestly protested the infatuated one.

"Well," snapped the star, rather