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Mapa. plataa. charts, ate., may ba flimad at diffarant raduction ratioa. Thoaa too iarga to ba antlraly inciudad in ona axpoaura ara filmad baginning in tha uppar laft hand comar. laft to right and top to bottom, aa many framaa aa raquirad. Tha following diagrama illuatrata tha mathod: Laa eartaa. planchaa, tablaaux. ate. pauvant ktf fllm4a i daa taux da rMuction diffArants. Loraqua la documant aat trop grand pour itra raproduit an un saul cllch*. il aat film* i partir do i'argia sup4riaur gaucha. da gaucha k droita, at da haut 9n baa, an pranant la nombra d'Imagaa n4caasaira. Laa diagrammaa suivants IMustrant la m^thodn. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 )• i ( * rf w f i F • V S ! THE Lives of the Players THE Lives of the Players By JOHN GALT, Esq. Author of "The Life of Byron," "Annals of the Parish" etc. n -■ LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO. GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON 1880 M PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. Although this compilation will probably be among the most amusing books in the language, still the author can lay claim to very little merit. The subject was suggested by a literary friend, and he had only to select from abundant materials. In one respect he may not be deemed unde- serving of some indulgent consideration. The world is well aware that many of the early adven- tures of those who in riper life have added to our harmless pleasures, are difficult to describe in such a manner as not to render some of the most entertaining objectionable. His object, how- ever, was to produce a parlour-book, and the rule he prescribed to himself was to introduce nothing into it that would not be tolerated on the stage by the most fastidious. In this he is \ vi. PREFA CE. sensible that he may be questioned by those liquorish epicure^ who care not for the woodcock without the trail. The nature of his task necessarily directed him to disregard dates and minute circumstances, save in a few epochal events, and to study the general appearance rather than those particular markings which distinguish personal from historical por- traiture. His pencil has been withheld from warts, scars, and freckles, but the nobler features have been painted with industrious care. With several individuals he has perhaps not failed, and where he ventures to oifer a judgment either on defects, talents, or degrees of excellence, he has not only endeavoured to be correct in weighing the testimony of others, but well supported where he has found himself constrained to differ from received opinions. It will depend on the reception which this work may receive from the public, whether more shall be added. In the mean time, the author cannot omit to acknowledge the obliga- gations he is under for access to the dramatic collections of Mr. Mathews and Mr. Winstone, PJREFA CB. vu. which, though in some respects different, are each more valuable to histrionic biography, particularly the latter, than the works which relate to the lives of the players in the British Museum. He cannot also but acknowledge the politeness with which he was invited to examine a collection of original letters in the London Institution. His opportunities have therefore been such as to enable him to give a fair general view of the most im- portant characters, and in doing so he has studied less to echo the judgment of others, than to be firm and impartial in his own. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION - CHARLES HART THOMAS BETTERTON 9 EDWARD KYNAS20N JOSEPH HA YNES ROBERT WILKS NELL GWINN WILLIAM MOUNTFORT SAMUEL SANDFORD - Page 13 15 16 25 28 34 48 51 54 X. CONTENTS. MRS. ELIZABETH BARRY 55 MRS. ANNE OLDFIELD 57 RICHARD SAVAGE- 60 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE 74 eOLLEY CIBBER THOMAS DOG GET BARTON BOOTH GEORGE FARQUHAR - .FAMES QUIN LACY RYAN MRS. WOFFINGTON THOMAS WESTON DA VI IJ GARRICK 89 96 102 106 124 125 132 140 CONTENTS. SAMUEL FOOTE CFIARLES MACKLTN x\. 163 177 JOHN HENDERSON - 187 MRS. CHARLOTTE CHARKE 196 MRS. GEORGE ANNE BELLAMY - 215 ARTHUR MURPHY - 238 THOMAS KIN( 24i THO¥AS HOLCROFT 256 GEORGE FREDERfCK COOKE - 277 AfRS. BADDELEY 290 MfSS FA RREN - 296 MRS. JORDAN 299 JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE - 307 'V XII. CONTENTS. JOHN EMER y MRS. SIDDONS 828 331 THE LIVES OF rr THE PLAYERS. INTRODUCTION, THE notion thnt the English Stage has been indebted to no one so much as to Sir William Davenant, originated when the state of the theatre in Shakspeare's time was no longer recollected. It has been propagated by Malone, who was evidently not versed in the antiquity of the performed drama, and by Dr. Dr!>!:e, in his ponderous Shakspeare and his Times, who has not i:ive8tigated the subject with the same commendable zeal that he has done topics of inferior importance. For, in treating of the furniture of the stage, and arguing that the scenery was better and more appropriate than jNIr. Malone was disposed to allow, the Doctor has not adverted to his own reasoning with respect to tlie masques and pageants oc- casionally performed for the entertainment of the court. These gorgeous spectacles were completely theatrical in their nature, and only not dramatic because they involved no plot. The different companies of actors were, it is true, not likely to be at so much oxponso as the courtiers in their exhibitions ; but it sliould be recollected that the actors, in Shakspeare's time, were generally in the pay of some of the nobility,* and it is not probable that tlio patron of the player withheld his numiflcence from the decorations of the theatre. The reverse should be inferred ; besides, in all probal)ility, the ornaments of the courtly masques and pageants were disposed of to the theatres in the same mai-iner as the wardrol 3 of the London houses, in our own time, are Bometimes recruited from *Siv Itolii'i't Lane's coniimny, 1572 ; Earl of Leicester's company was incor- iiorutcil in 1.^74; in tlie siunt' ycav Lovl Clinton's; Lonl Warwick's iind tiie lionl (.'liiiiulu'rlain's 1672; tlie Karl of S\issi'x iri76 ; tlie Lord Howard, 1577; Karl of iCsscx IfM'** ; tlio Lord Stran;;e, 1579 ; and the same year Karl of Derliv ; tlie Lord A.lniiral, 1591 ; the Harl ot Hartford 1592 ; the Lonl Pembroke im ; and at the close of her Majesty s reiirn, the Earl of Worcester had in his pay a company of theatrical ])erforniers. 14 LIVES OF TBE PLATERS. cast-utt' court-dresses. If I am correct iu this ctuijectnre, we may form some idea of the style of the scenery with which the plays of Shakspeare were performed by looking at Ben Jonson's Hymencnal Masque; indeed the note is too curious and too apposite to be omitted. " Here the upper part of the scene, which was all of clouds, and artificially to swell and ride like the rack, began to open, and the air clearing, in the top thereof was discovered Juno sitting on a throne, supported by two beautiful peacocks ; her attire rich, and like a queen ; a white diadem on her head, from whence descended a veil, and that bound by a fascia of several coloured silks, set with all sorts of jewels, and raised on the top with lilies and roses ; in her right hand she held a sceptre, in the other a timbrel ; at her golden feet the hide of a lion was placed ; round about her the spirits of tlie air in several colours making music ; above her the region of fire with a continual motion was seen to whirl circularly, and Jupiter standing on the top brandishing his thunder ; beneath her the rainbow Iris, and on the two sides eight ladies attired richly, and alike in the most celestial colours, who represented her powers, as ahe is the governess of marriage." Here we have scenery, dresses, and machinery, as appropriate as in any spectacle that has been produced in our own time at Drury- Lane or Covent-Garden. Moreover, Coryate, in his Crudities, published in 1 611, writing from Venice in 1608, in describing the theatre, says — " The house is very beggarly and base, in comparison of our stately play-houses in England ; neither can their actors com- pare with us for apparel, show, and music." But in addition to this proof, I would add — "The order and signification of the dumb show " before the fourth act of the venerable tragedy of Gorbodnc, 1st. " The music of howe- bries began to play ; during which there came forth from under the stage, as though out of hell, three furies — Alecto, Megsera, and Tisiphone, clad in black garments, sprinkled with blood and llames ; their bodies girt with snakes, their heads spread with serpents instead of hair, the one bearing in her liand a snake, the other a whip, and the third a burning firebrand, each driving before them a king and a queen, which, moved by furies, unnaturally had slain their own children. The names of the kings and queens were these : — Tantalus, Medea, Athamas, Ino, Cambyses, Althea. After that the Furies and these had passed about the stage thrice, they departed, and then the music ceased." This performance took place in the course of the year in which Shakspeare was born. Those who tell us that Shakspeare's plays wore performed in front of an old blanket, with a label on it, tn inform the audience when the scone lay in Rome or in London, nmy as well tell us that Burleigh House, one of the noblest yet in England, erected in the days of Shakspeare, is of lath and plaster, covered with thatch. The drama in England arose much in the same way as it did in Greece. The strollers, witii their theatres in the yards of inns, answered to the company and carts of Thespis ; and the impruvu- «»« .ifc j ^rW . iM • CHARLES HART. 1& nicnts wvre gradual till in 1G31, to use the words of Sir George Buck, who wrote at that time, — " Dran^atic poesy is so lively expressed and represented upon the public stages of this city, London, as Rome in the highest pitch of her pomp and glory never saw it better performed." Much of the disparagement of the old English stage, a circumstance little known, is to be attributed to the defence of poesy by that dainty and fastidious gentleman. Sir Philip Sidney, whom none of the commentators on Shakspeare have hitherto noticed for an insidious attack on The Tempest. These slight notices I ht, /e deemed it expedient to introduce here, because, while I am very willing to admit that the English theatre is under great obligations to Sir William Davenant, I yet think that he was, by his French importations, the original corrupter of the old English stage, and that all we owe to the tasteful corrections of the late John Philip Kemble, have been only endeavours to restore the primitive style. CHARLES HART. The authentic records of the British Stage do not reach in any considerable quantity much farther back than the era of the Restor- ation. That there were good actors long before that time cannot be doubted ; it cannot, indeed, be supposed that the dramas of Shaks- peare and his contemporaries were acted by ordinary men, and it is certain that the histrionic art was then practised more as a trade than it perhaps has been since. The subject of the present memoir, Charles Hart, served a regular apprenticeship to the business. He was the grand-nephew of Shakspeare ; his father, also a player, being the eldest son of the poet's sister. At the usual ago he was placed as an apprentice with Robinson, then a celebrated actor, and commenced his career by playing female characters. In Shirley's tragedy of The Carnival, he is said to have made his first appearance as the Ducliess, or it was, at least, in that part that he iirst distinguished himself. On the abolition of the theatres in 1047 by the Puritans, many of the pliiyers went into the army, and Hart became a Lieutenant of horse in Prince Rupert's own regiment. But when the fate of Cliarles I. was settled, ho was among the actors who returned to the clandestine practice of their former vocation in the Metropolis, and was among tlie party taken into custody while performing the tragedy of Hollo. Upon tlmf. occasion he sustained the part of Otto. Hart was enrolled in the King's company established by Killigrew after the Restoration, and when Drury-Lano Theatre wns opened on the 8th April KJCIJ, ho made his Iirst appearance as Uemetrius, in Beaumont and Fletdni 's play of The Humourous Lieutenant. The play-bill of the evening has been preserved, and cannot but be curious to the stage autiquary. It wus as follows ;— 16 V LIVES OF THE PLAYEBH. By His Majesty's Company of Comedians, At the New Theatre in Drury-Lane, This day being Thursday, April 8, 1663, will be acted a Comedy called THE HUMOUROUS LIEUTENANT. Kiv5 ho followed the fortiuios oi Bet- terton to Liucoln'h-lnn-Field, where ho performed in Cyrus tht (heat. Concerning his private life I have gleaned nothing interesting j bu by tho following anecdote it would seem that he was naturally vain of his personal elegances, in which ho bure a great 1/ 28 \ lIVEii OF THE I'LAYER.^. resembliiuce to the celebrated Sir Charles Sedley, of which he was very proud. On one occasion he got a suit of clothes made similar . to those of that fashionable baronet, and appearing publicly in it Sir Charles punished his vanity in his usual mischievous way. He hired a bravo to pick a quarrel with Kynaston in the Park as himself, and to beat him most unmercifully. Kynaston protested he was not the person he was taken for ; but the ruffian only redoubled his blows. When the baronot was remonstrated with upon the transaction, he told the actor's friends that Kynaston had not suffered so much in his bones, as he had in his character, the whole town believing that he had undergone the disgrace of the chastisement. He left the stage befoi'e 1706, but the exact period is not recorded in any of my authorities, for in that year Downs speaks of Betterton and Underbill as being then the only emains of the Duke's servants. Kynaston died wealthy, and was buried in the church-yard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. ! ■ E«t I JOSEPH II A YNES. JosKPH Haynes was the Patcli of tlio theatre, if we may venture, though bat in metaplior, to transfer an officer or fool of regal consequence to the numio kin;;cl.jin. The place of his birth is not known, nor the exact condition of his parents, farther than that they were poor but in their character I'espectable. It woiil.l seem, how- ever, tliat Westminster has the honour of having produced him, as Tobyas TlioiDns, his original biographer, states that he was educated at St. Martin's school, where his progress was so extraordinary as to attract great admiration ; indeed, so remarkable were his aptitude and proficiency, that several gentlemen sent him to Oxford, in order that a lad of such lively intelligence should not be lost by the obscurity of his birth. At college lie was no less distinguished than he had been at school, and it is universally said of him, that hail his discretion been ecjual to his wit, he might hnve estahlislied a flourishing fortune. When Sir Joseph Williamson was elected Member for the Univei'sity. hti gave ITaynes some oniployment, and after ho becnme Secretary of State still continued him in his service. But the vanity and imprudence of Haynes were enemies to his advancement, for ho had no correct notion of eonfidentiiil business, and affected the airs of a statesman among liis comjianions, by tallung of the contents of the pul)lic (lispatciies which ho had translated int< Latin for h'S jiatron ; insomucli, that when he came to a tavern all were hushed but Machiavelli. Conduct of this kind was not however apiii-oved by Sir Joseph, who, still without losing his regard for his humour ai.J vivacity, found it necessary to be more wary with so indiscreet a servant, and U f JOSEPH HAYNES. 29 accordingly recommended him to one of the heads of the University of Cambridge, by whom he was indulgently entertained, and where he took the degree of Master of Arts. His native character and pro- pensity to tricks and jocularity continued, however, to keep pace with his learning ; for, soon after )ie had attained his academical dignity, a company of strolling players came to the city, and Joe, as our hero was familiarly called by all who knew him, \»as easily persuaded to join them. With these players he continued some time wandering over the country ; at last he came to London, where he was induced to perform at a tlieatre then recently erected in Hatton-garden, and when that establishment was broken up, he obtained an engagement at Drury Lane, about the time when the Duke of Buckingham brought out the Mehenrscd; and it so happened, that on the eve of the representation of that play. Lacy, who was to perform the part of Bays, fell sick, and Joe was suddenly substituted for him. By the Duke's suggestions, and the instructions which Lacy was able to give him, he uuide himself quickly master of the character, and per- formed it with great applavise ; indeed with such eminent succe"s, that many of the nobility, and some of the most ingenious men of the time, became solicitous of his acquaintance. The Duke himself was so much jjleasod with him and interested in his curious peculiarities, that when he went on his embassy to Paris he carried Jiaynes in his suite, and often entertained him more as a companion than so humble a dependant. Joe was mightily delighted with the French people, and he was no loss agreeable to them. His quaint pleasantry made him a fasci- nating companion to the nitn, and his whimsical p.assions as much so to the ladies. He soon saw, however, that he was deficient in rank, and to remedy the defect created himself a Count, and stayed behind the Dnke as such when his Grace returned home. He had now fairly set up on his own means, and his trade was lirosperous : but no state of life is without its cares, for although he borrowed money for some time with great ease and success, liveries ciune to be paid, duns multiplied, ami the steward on his estates in JMiglaud was one of the most irregnlar fellows possible, neglecting ;vl\vays to make him remittances in the most embarrassing manner. Jn a word, this rogue of a steward became so intolerable that Joe was olili'4i;(.) to ]iiit himself out of arm's way from his Parisian creditors, itnd steering for Dieppe, eml)arlved there for England. lie was joyously received by his old companions in Londtm, and iinnii'diately joined the players at the theatre in Dorset Gardens, and tlii'i(( ho became a noted diincer, "having," as siiys his bio- UiMphei', " Kiarned, it seems, in France that faculty so natural to the hVeneli, to lling his legs about." After some short time he left this tlieitre and went to Drury Lane, whore he continued until it was d('sti'(iy('(l by iire. While the tluiMtro was relmilding, Killigrew and Hart sent the scene-shit'tiu' to Paris, to learn something of the machinery of the French stage, and Joe agreed to accompany him to act as his interpreter ; but somehow Joo had occasion, before leaving L(mdon, 3 V I 30 LIVES OF THE FLAYEliS. i \ i tKit notwitlistaiiding that universities sire the in opinion, he was obliged to to aponJ the money given for their expenses. This however was no great embarrassment, for lie innnediately nominated himself secretary to the Duke of Monmouth, wlio had gone on a secret expedition to Maestriciht, and whom lie was obliged immediately to follow. By this expedient he contrived to travel on horseback to Dover, the scene-shifter acting as his servant. They soon rtuiched Paris, where the Count, much to his surprise, found that the inhabitants had memories, and that he was recollected by tlmse of whom he had done the honour of borrowing money ; but he for some time parried their hints for payment with the facetious dexterity of a Sheridan. At last they became tired with iiis fencing, and resolved to prevent his escape. Joe, however, being informed by a tavern keeper of their kind intentions, resolved on the instant to be ott' ; so borrowing from no .ess a persiniage than the rector of the Jesuits' College the sum of forty pounds, by a pretended note from the Duke of Monmouth, he returned to London with the scene-shifter, as well inform^jd of the theatric maciiines and scenes of the Paviaian theatre as if he had been all the time in Jerusalem. Next summer, he went with the King's Company to Oxford, where his salary as a player being inadequate to his expenses, he turned fortune-teller ; great hotbeds of all sorts of folly decamp in the night for London. Hart, who was a person of respectable conduct, had not been too well pleased with Joe's negotiations in France, and with his luiving squandered so much money in Paris to no purpose, had some natural anger against him, and this was cause enough for Joe to cherish spite in return. In the play of iJatUiiie\s Conspiracy, acted about this time, a great number of senators of Rome were wanted, and Hart made Joe one, although his salary, being fifty shillings a week, freed him from any obligation to accept the dignity. Joe, however, vfter some symptoms of I'ebellion, complied. He got a scaramoucii dress, a large full rutl", made himself wliiskers from ear to ear, puc on his head a merry Andrew's cap, and with a sliort pipe in his moiith, bearing a three-legged stool in his hand, he followed Hart on the stage, set himself down behind him, and l)cg;in to smoke his ])ipe, and to laugh and point at him. This ludicrous ligurt put the whole theatre in a roar of laughter. Hart, who was a man of sucii self-possession and equanimity that, happen what might, he never discomposed himself, continued his part without being aware of Joe's behaviour, wondering, however, at the seemingly unac- countable mirth. At last, happening to turn his head, he beheld Joe, and in great wrath instantly made his exit, swearing ho never would set his foot on the stage unUss Joe were immediately dis- missed. Joe was accordingly sent oil", but nothing downhearted, he instantly joined a company of strollers at (Jreenwich, where ho acted and danced for some time ; but tiring soon he lampooned them all and came to London. Joe had not forgotten that Hart had been the cause of his dismissal, and resolved to be revenged ; accordingly, as he was ono day walking in the street, he met a paraou of an odd, simple JOSEPH HAYNES. 31 appearance, whom he accosted in a friendly manner, as if they had been formerly acquainted, although he had never seen him before, and they adjourned toi^ether to a tavern, where the parson informed Joe that he had been Chaplain to the ship Monke, but was then in lack of employment. Joe expressed great satisfaction at hearing the news, as it was in his power to help him to a place of sixty pounds a year, bed, board, and washing, besides gifts at Christmas and Easter, only for officiating one hour in the four-and-twenty, from nine to ten o'clock in the forenoon. The marine priest was de- lighted, and, returning his wamaest thanks, entreated Joe to inform him of the particulars. Upon which Joe told Mm that his name was Haynes, that he was one of the patentees of Drury Lane theatre, and that he would make him chaplain to the playhouse. " A'jjainst to-morrow," said Joe, "I would have you provide yourself with a bell, and there is half-a-crown to buy one ; and at nine o'clock go to the playhouse and ring your bell and call them all to prayers, saying, in an audible voice, ' Players, come to prayers ! players, come to prayers ! ' This you must do, lest they mistake you for the dustman, both bells being so much alike. But there is one thing that I particularly desire you to take care of ; on the third door on the left hand, lives one Mr. Hart. That gentleman, whether ho be delirious or frantic, or whether he be possessed of some notions of Atheism, if you mention prayers, will laugh at you, perhaps swear, curse, and abuse you. If it proceed from the first, the poor unhappy gentleman ought to be pitied ; but if from the latter, he shall quit the house, for I will never suffer such wicked- ness in any playhouse where I am concerned ; and do, my good Sir, lot it be your earnest endeavour to find out the cause, and by your ghostly exhortations to remove the eft'ects, — such weeds must not be permitted to grow in a vineyard where yen are the gardener ; abuse you must expect, bui. your reward will be great gain — go to his house and oblige hiui to come along with you to prayers." Being thus advised, the parson, after a parting cup, withdrew and bouglit the bell. Next morning, according to orders, his reverence went to the theatre, rini/ing liis bell, and calling aloud, "Players, come to prayers ! phiyers, coine to prayers ! " Finding Hart's door open, he wont in bawling, " Players, come to prayers ! " Hart came down in a violent passion, and demanded to know why he was so disturbed < The parson replied, "Players, come to prayers ! " Hart, seeing no help, bridled his passion, and said, "that he wondered how a gentleman of his gown and seeming sense, could The parson looked at him with an eye again, and bawled to the pitch of liia make himself so ridiculous." (if doubt, then rang his bell voice, "Players, come to prayers!" Hart, in desperation, now began to swear ; but the other informed him, " I have been told of your cuising and swearing and atheistical blasphemies ; but, never- theless, I will do my duty," and accordingly laid hands on Hart to drag hini away, bawling, " Players, come to prayers ! " At this new al)surdity. Hart began to suspect that his reverence was mad, or tliat some trick was played iipon him, and asked him to 11 i ■I' 1^ tf 1 I 1 ^i ' ;t 1 i i 1 32 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. walk into, liis room, wlieu. aftor they had drniik a cup of sack togother, tho |iar.s(Hi told the wliolo story of his eiigiigouiciit. Tho poor inau was soon undeceived ; the story, however, taking wings, reached the ears of King Cliarles, who was so mighfily pleased with the joke, that lie sent for Joe, and had him reinstated in the theatre. But the adventure did not end here ; for the parson had a son who wns accounted a great swordsman, a tightintr, tiery, choleric, hectoring fellow, but, as such commonly are at bottom, as rank a coward as ever traduced his neigiiboiir beliind his back, and he swaggeringly vowed to revenge his father's wrongs. He met .Joe coming from the rehe.arsal one day, and desired him to draw ; Joe demanded to know why, and they adjourned to a tavern that lie might be informed. After learning the business, Joe agreed to give the satisfaction sought, but recpiested a short time to say his prayers, and retired to another room, where he prayed aloud that he might be forgiven for killing seventeen different jtersons in duels, and concluded by asking forgiveness for being obliged to add this unhappy gentleman to tho catalogue ! The other hearing him, and thinking his thread pf life near its end, ran down stairs, and left Joe to pay the reckoning. In the summer vacation Joe determined to turn mountebank, and set ont with a retinue of tumblers, dancers, etc. for Hertfoi'd. He himself passed by the venerable name of Signore Salmatius, whose fame sounded not only in Italy, but in most parts of Europe, as he himself declared. On his arrival at Hertford he commenced busi- ness, and great was his practice, and great liis applause ; the invalids and curious of all ages Hocking t(j him. But mortal greatness cannot continue hmg without change, and so Joe found ; for whilst in the meridian of his glory, a doctor, no less famous thnn himself, vulgarly called the Unborn Doctor, came rattling into Hertford in a C(m(;h and six, with tine liveries and a long train of attendants, which caused Joe's practice to decline. Hut he was not to be beaten in this manner, so he ordered his stage to be ri'Uioved to the same street and within three yards of his opponent's, determined to have his share in the spectatois if he could not obtain it in his practice ; nnd as the Unborn Doctor came on his .stage, .Joe mounted on his, and abiised him ni the most vituperative terms. The doctor retaliated, and had the best of the argument ; Joe challenged him to come next market day, and upon the public stage to discuss a point of physic with him. The challenge w.-is accepted, and they were attended with grand huzzas by the mob to their separate lodgings. The day being come, a great tioek assembled to hear this learned controversy ; and the adversaries being on the stage, .Foe proposed that each sliould mount a stool to be more conspicuous to tho spectators ; aiul this being agreed to, he couiuk mnil us t'ol^)\^s : "Gentlemen, 1 thaidv you all for your gooventy guineas. Mr. Cope himself not only gave him a release for all the expenses incurred by keepir.g his family, but made Mrs. Wilks a present of live guineas at her departure. But her father would listen neither to affection nor to charity : he not only refused to give her one shilling, but with rage, amounting almost to insanity, cursed her with the bitterest imprecations, and wished that her life might be one continued scene of misery. It is dithcult to account for such inordinate and unnatural fury, for there had been nothing very criminal iu her conduct. It would, r f ! I ' i 38 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. !' i therefore, seem that the h>*. sh-hearted choleric old man was instigated agamat her moi-e by that strange revulsion of nature, which makes s(ime minds regard with hatred, and as adversaries, those whom they have too hardly treated or injured. Mrs. Wilks, a gentle and piously- disposed young creature, endured his resentment and contumely with uncomplaining meekness, and was constant in her devotion in pray- ing for the welfare of her parents, and for their conversion to better feelings ; for her mother, in the end, had proved as rigid as her father, and even, it is said, goaded hiui r.gainst her. FurnisheiJ with letters from the veteran Richards to Betterton, Wilks and Iiis family embarked for England. They had a quick and prospeious voyage to Parkgate, and as soon as they had refreshed themselves, they hired liorses and came to West Chester, where they continued four or five days, and were handsomely entertained by the Irish nobility, then settled as refugees in that city. From thence tliey came in the stage-coach to London ; and on his arrival, Wilks presented himself to Betterton, and was received into the Drury-lane company at a salary of only fifteen shillings per week. His business, as Gibber relates, was insignificant ; the characters he had sustained in Dublin were all in the poissession of performers of greater name. Lyc'ppus, in the The Ma'uVs Tmijedij, was the part in which he first appeai'ed, and the best he was permitted to assume. His merit in it appears, however, to have been, considering the part, distinguished. Betterton, who performed Mektutins, having occasion to address him in extenuation of the King's death, did so with such dignity, that Wilks oould hardly nmster courage enough to make the proper replies ; but there was something so interesting in his diffidence, that the veteran said to him, — "Young man, this fear does not ill be- come you ; a horse that sets (mt at the strength of his speed will soon bo jadad." And Dryden, as well as Sir George Etheridge, Wycherley, Congreve, and all the wits of the age, were soon of opinion, that ho wculd, in the course of a few years, become the best C(unedian that had ever graced the English stage. O' Bryan says, that ho continued almost three years in L(indo otten associated with liglit-lieartodness ; nor does his life afford any sup[)ort to the opinion of the satirist, that those who have themselves drunk deeply of distress, are apt to look with dis- gust, rather than with pity, on the sufferings of others. Wilks continued in Ireland about two years after the departure of his friend Farcpihar, and the occasion which then induced him to leave Dublin was one of the most interesting incidents of his life. If the story which broke off his intercourse witli Ashbury, to whose kindness he had boon so mucli indebted, was founded in truth, it is impossible to withhold from his conduct the reproach of the basest ingratitude as well as of })roHigacy ; but if we adopt the accoinit of his friends, it will be equally impossible to refuse him the praise of manliness and candour. Mrs. Ashbury was much younger than her husband, and in her person elegant and beautiful. She played the princi[)al parts in genteel comedy with Wilks, and a report was soon spread abroad that their private rehearsals were distinguished for more than professional ardour. Such was the esteem in which Ashbury hold Wilks, and such his ctmfidenco in the character of his wife, that ho long disre- garded the rumour. It was, however, repeated so often to him, that ho at last began to suspect there might be some foundation for it, and he became in consequence uneasy, sometimes peevish, and reflected with chagrin that ho was himself older than his wife by many years, while Wilks, in the prime of life, possessed a person and manners highly calculated to engage a woman's fancy. Wilks was vexed that Ashbury should entertain iiny derogatory opinion of him, and one day inquired, with duuisiuu and fi-uuknosa, w 40 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. i : m- i . if he had ever given him, by word or action, any cause to think he could be guilty of such base ingratitude to him, who had laid him under so many obligations of honour and friendship? To this appeal the jealous husband answered sternly — " T ''c^e you have not been so perfidious." — "Sir," continued the other, "as you have known the world many years longer than I have done, I was in great hope that you would have been so far your own friend as not to give credit to idle and groundless reports. Rumour is a common liar, and if the tittle-tattle of the multitude shall be admitted as a sufficient proof, whose reputation is safe 1 I declare myself innocent, and am willing to give you the most convincing satisfaction that I am incapable of such unworthineas, whik I shall esteem myself liHppy if I can restore your former tranquillity and peace of mind." "That is not in your power," said Ashbiiry, " I wish it could be done ; but the arrow is lodged too deep ever to be drawn out." — " Then, Sir," replied Wilks, " since you are obstinately bent not to suft'er any means to be used which may remove your uneasiness, I can only promise you, that in a very little time I shall put it out of the power of malice to say that you shall disquiet yourself for the future on my account." ; Mrs, Ashbury was a woman of many excellent qualities, un- common piety, charity, and good-nature, virtues not then common among the ladies of the theatre. She was punctual in her devotions, and did not fail to receive the sacrament once in every month. One day, soon after tlie above conversation, and in the hope of removing the groundless jealousy of her husband, she delivered a paper into the hands of the minister at the communion-table, asserting her innocence, and declared the contents to be true. The clergyman showed the paper to Ashbury, who read it with visible emotion ; but still it had not the desired etFect ; and his wife, perceiving his jealousy unsatisfied, requested permission to retire from the tlieatro. With this he refused to comply, for he well knew that the stage could not be supported without her. Soon after, VVilks came t » him one morning, gave up all his parts, and informed him that in the course Oi a week he intended to sot out for England. Ashbury was overwhelmed with the news, and used all his rhot(U'ic to dissuade him from such a desiu;n ; and wlien ho found that he cuidd not prevail, ho called his wife, and desired lier to use her interest and inliuenco to induce him to continue with them. If any thing could have altered the determination of Wilks, these eai'uost solicitiitions would have done it ; but he soon cimvinced the Ashburys that their entreaties were unavailing, by producing letters from the theatre in London, showing that he had already made proposals to rejoin the company there, and that they had been acci'pted. However, at the intorcesHion of Mrs. Ashbury, ho stayed in Duhlin until houio of the other iictors liiul got up his |)kils, an«; !i over that impatient and imperious rebel was tempered by ge lerous regret." ■~.A^-, r I 44 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. I To the reader of If envy the VIII. the pn'-t of linckingliniii inivy seem to bo of little iiji()ortance, but there is an uflocting and quiet l)athos in it whieh the actox' of merit will not fail to make impressive. Wilks th()Ut,dit Buckint^ham entitled to his notice, and in the very first scene, the resentment borne by the character against Wolsey broke out in Wilka with an impetn.)sity not to bo restrained ; his action was vehement, and his stop hurried ; but when condennied, his demeanour was resigned and getitle, and his sorrow was dignified witli tlio nioekneas of (Jiiristianity. The Castalio of Wilks was long and justly admired. Indeed, it was said of him, in delicacy of address to ladies, lie surpassed the best actors of his own tiiue ; and the cliarm of his manner in approaching Monimia at their lirst interview, was of the highest order of gontleuianly acting. His delight at tlio reconciliation in tiie second act, liis rage and resentment in the third and fourth, and his tenderuuss and misery in the fifth, well entitled him to all the genen)U8 a[)probation with which he was txniformly received in that part. In Ilnmh'f, in speaking that impassioned soliloquy which discloses Hamlet's metlicl to catch the conscience of the King, a passage too often nogligiiitly i)erformed, and sometimes omitttid, he displayed great power and warmth of disposition. But sometimes he exceeded in vehomenco, and struck the judicious ear occasionally with some- thing like disscmance. The acdiloquy upon Death he spoke wit'i a serene, melancholy countenance, j.nd a grave despondency of action, in lino accordance with the phih)8ophy of the sentiments. In the assumed madness with Ophelia, in which Carrick was afterwards thought too boisterous, Wilks retained enougli of covert insanity, but at the same time he preserved the feelings of a lover, and the delicacy of a prince. The critics blamed him for his behaviour to the Ghost in the tirst act, but his conduct towards it '.vith his Mother in the third could not bo censured. His action in that great scene was a happy mixture of indignation allayed by tenderness, and liis whole deportment was lofty and graceful. When he presented the pictures, his reproaches were guarded with lilial reluctance ; and when he liuue to the j)athetic exclamation — "Mother, for love of graoe !" there was something in his nuvnncr expressibly gentle, and yet powerfully persuasive. His reputation, however, chiefly rested on his parts in genteel comedy ; and by ali tradition, his representation of Sir Harry Wildair was the most splendid imperstuiation of the careless gaiety of a young man whose high spirits aiul plentiful fortune thi'ew a gloss over the greatest extravagances, and has never been ecpiallod on the stage. So powerful was the inqjiession created by him in this character, fijiit >^ti'olo reprehends the audience for turning their attention to it whoo he was performing in other parts. In Lord Townly he has also been Jiighly commended. In the scene where he felt himself reduced to the lu'cessity of re))roaching Lady Townly with her faults, his demeanour surpassed all praise, for ho mixed a teiulerness witli li's anger that softened into tears. "If the judg- ment rf the crowd wore infallible," says Oibbor, "I am afraid we !♦ ROBERT WILK8. 46 shall be reduced to allow that the Beggar's Opera was the best written play, and Sir Harry Wildair, as Wilks played it, the best acted part that ever our English theatre had tu boast of." In the year 1708, some disagreements had arisen between the actors and the managers that caused an appeal to the Lord Chamberlain ; and in consequence of his interposition, Swiny, who was then sole director of the Opera, received permission to enter into a private treaty with such of the actors in Drury-Lane as might be thought tit to head a company, under their own management, and to be sharers with him in the Haymarket. Those chosen for this charge were Wilks, Dogget, Mrs. Oldtield, and CoUey Gibber. From this time Wilks continued both to prosper as a man, and to improve as a player ; b t Gibber does not very highly commend him as a manager. He dec. ribes him as too fond of fame, and less solic- itous for the pecuniar- interests of the theatre than for the glory of the performance ; ar d undoubtedly he makes these charges very clearly out. But st 11 it should be recollected that it was during the period of Wilks's j^ int management that tlie English stage was con- ducted with the greatest success. Earlier epochs of the drama were distinguished for more poetic talent, and later times can boast of greater splendour, tinsel, and scenery ; but no period in the history of the British theatre can show more uniform success, more general talent of so high a level in the players, nor audiences more distin- guished for good manners and intelligence. With this general remark we may conclude our narrative of the professional career of Wilks. He, without question, must have been an actor of no common qualifications^ but good sense and diligence did as much for him as his natural endowments. There was, however, a warmth about him as a man rarer than his genius and acquirements. To enumerate his generous and charitable actions, would be an endless task ; but his uniform friendly conduct cowards poor Farqu- har is justly entitled to be recorded, both for its disinterestedness, \ia constancy, and its liberality : on one occasion, at the close of Farquhar's unhappy life, it was kind to tenderness. The Earl of Orrery, who was then a great patron as well as master of learning, observing how little attention was paid to the merits of Farquhar, made him a present of a Lieutenant'" commission in his own regiment, which the dramatist held for several years Being thou induced to vOlicit the Duke of Ormond for preferment, he was promised by his Grace a captaincy then vacant, and authorized to dispose of his lieutenancy. Farquhar not doubting the sincerity of the Duke, sold his commission, and summoning his ereditors together, paid ott' their bills. By this honest proceeding he had left himself almost penniless, but still confiding in the honour of the Duke, he frequently waited on his Grace to remind him of his promise. At last, the Duke told him one morning that the commission had been given to another gentleman at the instigation of tlie Colonel, but added, that if he would attend him to Ireland, (for he was then appointed Lord Lieutenant,) he would give him the first company of foot or troop of dragoons that became vacant. Farquhar, who was 16 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. r I I' " naturally of a tender constitution and a sensitive heart, was greatly depressed by this disappointment ; he bewailed the unhappy hour in which he disposed of his, commission, and having spent the little residue of the money which remained, after paying his debts, he had nothing left to support himself and his family. Mr. Wilks one day missed him, and wondering at his absence, went to his lodgings, and found him overwhelmed with grief and despair. Ee inquired into the cause, and Farquhar related every thing that had passed between the Duke and him adding, that what gave him the greatest concern was his apprehension of having lo^t the Earl of Orrery's favour by parting with his commission. Wilks endeavoured to cheer him, by representing that the Earl was a man of so much honour, that he would not show nor even harbour in his breast any resentment upon that account, especially as the fault, if any had been committed, ought to be laid at the door of the Duko of Ormond. He then gave him his best advice in his kindest manner, and said there was but one way left for him to pursue, viz. " Write a play, and it shall be got up with all imaginable expedi- tion." " Write ? " cried Farquhay, starting from his chair, " is it possible that a man can write common sense who is heartless and has not one shilling in his pocket { " "Come, come, George," replied Wilks, "banish melancholy, draw your drama, and bring the sketch with you to-morrow, for I expect you to dine with me. But as an empty pocket may cramp your genius, I desire you to accept my mite," and he presented him with twenty guineas. When Wilks was gone, Farquhar retired to his study, and drew up the plot of The Beaux Stratagem, which he delivered to Wilks next day, and the design being approved, he was desired to proceed and not to lose a day with the composition. This comedy, which is one of the best extant, was begun, finished, and acted in the space of six weeks i but too late, with all that haste, for the advantage of the author. On the third night, which was for his benefit, Farquhar died of a broken heart. Another anecdote of a dift'erent kind showed that the good-nature and liberality of Wilks was not confined to objects of compassion or of friendship. He originated the proposal, by which a benefit was granted to assist the pariah of St. Martin-in-the-Fields to rebuild their church ; and the splendid Corinthian fabric that has been so long one of the principal ornaments of the metropolis, still standt a monument of dramatic munificence. There is something singularly ridiculous in making the play-house a coadjutor of the church. It is subversive of all our established notions^ — accustomed to say with De Foe, " Where'er the Lord erects a house of prayer, The Devil's sure to build a chapel near.' i But we must go no farther, for in this case, and even in these days of deci^lence, we fear it must be said, /- 1 I ith ROBERT WILKS. I 47 It will be found, upon examination, ^t.~ That Satan has the' largest congregation ; " i for whether the preachers are in fault, or the players more attractive, certainly St. Martin's-in-the-Fields cannot boast of being too greatly frequented. Among other of the many instances of Wilks's kind-heartedness, we should not forget his liberality to the wretched Savage. The life and miseries of that unhappy poet are too well known to be related here, especially as ohall have occasion, in his own life, to speak both of the extraortl .lary source from which they arose, and the remarkab circumstances by which they were distinguished. In the shifts for shelter, to which this ill-fated man was reduced, he was sometimes obliged to toke a dog's bed among the scenes of the playhouse. When Wilks was made acquainted with this, and the many hardships he had undergone, he went to the reputed mother of Savage, and so represented his desolate state to her that she was moved to give him sixty guineas ; at the same time, she assured Wilks that Savage was not, indeed, her son ; that he was palmed upon her for the child whicli she had put out to nurse, and that she could never acknow- ledge him as hers ; but as this is a point which Dr. Johnson, in his celebrated life of Savage, has disingenuously slurred over, we shall, in the proper place, treat of that particular more at large. The second Mrs. Wilks having followed her predecessor, Wilks married again ; and even in his third marriage he was as much ruled by affection, and as disinterested, as in the former two. The lady was a gentlewoman in Westminster, whose narrow circumstances compelled her to work with her needle, to support herself and family. Wilks having bought some hoUand for shirts, desired one of his acquaintance to get them made by a good sempstress, and it happened that they were j^iven to this respectable person. When half a dozen were finished, they were delivered to Wilks, who was so well pleased with the niceness of the work, that he requested the gentlewoman might herself bring the remainder to his lodgings. This she did, and from that day he looked upon her as the only woman that could then make him happy ; and, accordingly, he courted her in the most honourable manner A little time after their marriage, one of his acquaintance asked what could induce him, who had realised a plentiful fortune, to marry a woman who had none ? The reply of Wilks was characteristic. " Sir, as Providence has been pleased to bless me with a competency sufficient to maintain myself and a family, could I do better than take to my arms one who wanted such a blessing] 1 assure you, that as love was the only motive that prompted me to marry the gentle- woman who is now my wife, tiie unhappy circumstances she was in shall not in the least diminish, but rather serve to increase my att'oc- tion to her ; and I am fully convinced, that as our love is reciprocal, there will be no room for complaint on either side. I shall look upon her children as my own ; they shall not want anything that is neces- sary or convenient for them, nor am 1 under any apprehension of their not discharging a filial duby to m j, since they have been educated in the best and most virtuovis principles. 48 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. ^ r I His affection for this lady, and his tender regard for her children, could 8c&.oely be paralleled ; and such was their gratitude towards him, that it was not easy to determine, whether her love or their esteem for him was the greatest. Indeed, in the midst of what we would almost call a rich vein of prof^'ssional peculiarity, he was a man of many virtues and very estimable qualities. He died on the 27th of September, 1732, and was buried at mid- night by his own order, to avoid ostentation, in the church of St. Paul's, Covent-garden, where a monument was afterwards erected to his memory. It appears by the age stated on his portrait, that his death took place in the sixty seventh year of his age, but the reader will have observed, that there is a discrepancy of four years as to the period of his birth. NELL GWINN. Eleanor Gwinn was th^ daughter of a tradesman in mean cir- cumstances, who could not afford to bestow on her much education, but who took care to introduce her to as good company as possible, and to implant in her mind a sense of virtue and delicacy. At an early age she went to live with a widow lady, where a counsellor-at- law seeing her, was smitten with her beauty, and made love to her in rather a violent manner, but without success. This coming to the knowledge of the lady, who herself had a penchant for the lawyer, she became jealous, and ordered Nell to quit the house : she immediately did so, but met with a cold reception from her father, whose ear had been poisoned regarding her conduct by her mistress, by whom he was advised to send her into the country, to wean her from flattery and cure her of self-conceit, for which purpose the lady put ten guineas into his hand. Her father believing the story, threatened to abandon her for ever, unless she consented to live with an aunt in Yorkshire. Our heroine, however, would not consent to go, but directed her attention towards the stage, on which, as she was remarkable for beauty and vivacity, she imagined her tigure nlone, without any theatrical requisites, would enable her to succeed ; or, at least, if she could not wear the buskin with success, she apprehended no objection to her appearing as a lady in waiting, or one of the maids of the bed-chamber to the queens of the stage. Animated with these fancies, she conceived one of the boldest schemes a girl of her education could pos8il)ly imagine. She left her father's house, took a genteel lodging, and as her appearance was elegant, she passed as a young lady just conio from the country. In this retirement she applied herself to the reading of plays, and having a little money arising from her wages, and ten guineas from her lover the lawyer, she went often to the play, and took in as many ideas of theatrical action as she could possibly treasure in her mind. After living a inonth or two in this manner, she wrote a letter to Betterton, r I g sr l^ELL GWINN. 49 inviting him to her lodgings, and disclosing her scheme of coming on the stage. When Betterton had heard her recitation, he advised her to give up all idea of becoming a performer, though he admitted her genius lay that way. Her scheme being so far frustrated, and her money greatly dimin- ished, she began to be alarmed lest poverty should overtake her. Her resolution to appear on the stage was, however, none daunted. She quitted her gaj'^ apartments, dressed herself as an orange-girl, and went to the playhouse to follow the occupation. Her beauty soon drew attention ; the eyes of the players and of those sparkish gentle- men who frequent the theatre were fixed upon her, and their ears became greedy to hear the story and birth of the handsome orange- girl. Betterton, soon discovered her, and astonished at her resolution, began to form better expectations of one whose propensity to the stage was so violent as to excite her to appear in so low a character for the sake of acquiring instruction. He advised her to follow her bent, and appointed one of his subalterns to initiate her in the principles of acting. This player became enamoured of her, but she rejected his proposals. He however prevailed upon her to quit the profession of orange-selling. One day, when she was seeing her instructor perform the part of Creon in Dryden's (Edipus, her old lover, the Counsellor, in all the splendour of a consummate beau, came into the same box, and annoyed her ear with a repetition of his protestations. She heard him with indifference. He, however, resolved at all hazards to make her his own, and accordingly seized her as she came out of the theatre, hurried her into his chariot, and drove off for Richmond. Half a year elapsed before Nell made any public figure again ; but through the influence of her friend the Counsellor, she next season made her entry on the stage with very great ^clat, not so much as a fine actress, however, as a fine woman ; for though she certainly had a violent passion for the stage, her mediocrity as an actress shows the great difference between propensity and genius. She was never remarkable — her forte lay in speaking epilogues, and in exposing characters of vanity, with an air of coquetry and levity. " The orange-basket her fair arm did suit, Laden with pippins and Hesperian fruit ; This first step raised, to the wond'ring pit she sold The lovely fruit, smiling with streaks of gold. Fate now for her did its whole force engage, And from the pit she mounted to the stage ; There in full lustre did her glories shine, And long eclips'd spread forth their light divine ; There Hart and Rowley's soul she did ensnare, And made a King* a rival to a riay"r." Such is Lord Rochester's account. Langbaine, in his characters of the Dramatic Poets, tells us, that she spoke a new prologue to * Charles II. 80 LIVEi^ OF THE PLAYERS. ■Boamtiont and Fletcher's Kn'Kjht of the liiirnwrf Pentlr. We find her ivftorwiirda iicting the part of Quoeii Alnmliido in The Conq^icd of (Svenada, Floriint'l in 7Vi(' Mait'in Queen, Donna Jacintlia in The Mori: A.stroloiier, Valeria in The lio\iid MaiUj)-. lU'sidos the part of Valeria, she was appointed to speak the epilogue, in performing which slio so captivated the Kinj;;, who was present the first night of the pl.'iy, that his Majesty, when she liad done, went behind the scenes and carried her otV. Jlut there is another version of the story. The King having gone to the play with the Duke of York as private gentlemen, they sat in the next box to Nell aiul her lover, a young nobleman ; and as soon as the play was finiahed, Charles, the Duke, and the nobleman, retired with Nell to a tavern, where his Majesty, by his attentions, greatly annoyed her friend. When the reckoning came to be paid, the King, Eearching his pockets, found he had not money to discharge it, his brother was in the same situation, and Nell observed that she had got into the poorest company she had ever before been with at a tavern. The nobleman, however, paid the reckoning, and parted both with his money and his mistress. No sotmer had she risen in the King's favour, than her heart, naturally warm and genero^is, overflowed in acts of kindness. One of the greatest of our national monuments of benevolence owes its rise to her ; and in consequence, it is said to the following circum- stance. One day, when she was rolling about town in her carriage, a poor man soliciting charity, told her of his having been wounded in the Civil Wars in defence of the royal cause. Moved by his story, she considered it sad to think that wounds and scars, a stock for beggary, were often all the reward that soldiers receiveil for defending their ccmntry, and tliat it was great ingratitude on the part of the natiim to sutler them to sink to such distress. !Sho represented to the King the case of misery she had seen, and en- treated him to permit some scheme to be proposed for alleviating the siilferings of those in old age, whose v.'ounds and intirmities rendered them untit iov service. This idea she also communicated to persons of distinction, who were public-spirited enough to enccmrage it, and Chelsea Hospital was the result. Of all King Charles's mistresses, Nell Gwinn was undoubtedly the least offensive to the contending parties in the State. She never sided with either ; raised no enemies by her ambition, and lost no friends by her insolence. So far was she, indeed, from drawing aside the King from his atlairs, that she often excited him to diligence. One day, when he had been struggling in the council, and torn to pieces by the multiplicity of petitions for redress, the behaviour of his ministers, and the contentions of the Parliament, he retired very pensively to her apartment. Seeing his distress, she inquired the cause. "Oh, Nell, what shall I do," was his exclamation, "to please the people of England / they tear me to pieces." " If it please your Majesty," said she, " there is but one way left." " What is that \ " " Dismiss your ladies, and mind your business : the people of England will soon be pleased. " r ' WILLIAM MOUNTFORT. 61 This observation, the truth of which the King could not but acknowledge, struck him, but he never in his life had resolution enough to discharge one miitress, however disagreeable to the nation, or expensive to himself. During the troubles between his son the Duke of Monmouth, and the Duke of York, his Majesty, who loved both his son and brother, behaved with so much indifference and negligence in the business, that it WHS with groat difficulty he could be persuaded to attend the council, or despatch any attair whatever. One day, when the council luul met and waited long for him, a member came to his apartments, but was refused admittance. His Lordship complained to Nell of his dilatoriness, upon which she wagered him a hundred pounds, that the King would that evening attend the council. Accordingly she sunt for Killigrew, naturally a buffoon, but a free favourite with his Majesty, and desired him to dress himself in every respect as if for a journey, and enter the King's apartments without ceremony. As soon as his Majesty saw him ; " What, Killigrew ! are you mad i Why, where are you going ? Did not I order that nobody should disturb me ] " " I don't mind your orders, not I," said Kill i,rew ; "and I am going as fast as I can. " *' Why ? Where ? " said his Majesty — " where are you going ? " " Going ! why to hell," said Killigrew. " To hell, and what to do there 1 " "To fetch back Oliver Cromwell, to take some care of the national concerns, for I am sure your Majesty takes none." This expedient had the desired eflfect, for the King immediately went to Council. That his Majesty had a great regard for Nell appears strongly in his last moments, when he desired his brother not to let " poor Nell starve. " After the death of Charles she fell into obscurity ; the bustle at court, the political cabals, the contentions between the popish and protestant interests, quite engaged the attention of the public, and she was lost sight of. For the remainder of her life she lived in re- tirement, and in that situation there is no account of her. She was undoubtedly possessed of generous and distinguished talent ; united wit, beauty, and benevolence ; and if she deserve blame for impurity, there are few who can claim enconiuras for such eminent virtues. WILLIAM MOUNTFORT. The history of William Mountfort belongs more properly to human nature than to that of the stage, for his chief celebrity arose from actions more remarkable than those of the histrionic art. He was born in IGGO— the Biographia Britannica says 1659, and died in 1692, in the thirty-third year of his ago. It is of littl^ consequence whiclj \ 52 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. 1 1 is the right date of his livth, especially in a work that lays more stress upon events, than on dates of births or burials. He appears to have made his first appearance on the stage about the year 1682, and his rise was rapid. In 1685 he was chosen for the hero of Crown's *' Sir Courtly Nice," and his performance of the part was esteemed honourable to his talents and judgment. His last new character was in Drydeu's Cleomenes, in which, besides speaking the prologue, he acted the part of Cleanthes. In person he was tall, well made, fair, and of an agreeable aspect ; his voice clear, full, and melodious ; and in tragedy he obtained great admiration as a lover. His address had a delightful recommen- dation in it from the natural tones of his voice ; and of his words it is said, " Like flakes of featherM snow, They melted as they fell. " * Mountfort was particularly renowned for his performance of one scene in Alexander, when he throws himself at the feet of Statira for pardon of his past infidelities. In it he displayed the great, the ten- der, the penitent, the despairirg, the transported, and the amiable in the highest perfection. ' Tii comedy he was what is justly called the fine gentleman. In scenes of gaiety he never violated the respect due to the presence of an equal or superior, though inferior actors wers, in the parts. His only endeavour for attention was^by true and masterly touches. He never laughed at his own jest but when the business of the scene rendered it necessary, and he had a partic\ilar talent in saying brilliant things in a lively manner. The wit of the poet was sharpened by his delivery. It is said that tlie agreeable was so natural to him, that even in the dissolute chiiracter of Rover, he seemed to wash ofi" the guilt from the vice and to give it charms and merit. He had, besides, a variety in his genius which few actors have aspired to. He could entirely change himself ; could throw off the man of sense and assume the brisk, vain, r\ide, and lively coxcombj „ho flashy pretender to wit, and the dupe of his own sufficiency. Of vhis talent lie gave many amusing instances, particularly in Sjiarkish, in 2Vie Country Wife. In that of Sir Courtly Nice he was stil more eminent ; there the whole man was altered, and Mountfort was for- gotten in his part. The insipid, soft civility, tlie elegant and formal mien, the drawling delicacy of voice, the stately flatness of his address, and the empty eminence of his attitudes, exhibited the highest merit that can be looked for in an actor, lint he was cut ofl" in the very middle of his career ; and connected with the story are several curious circumstaiicos calculated at once to intereht and appal. A Captain Hill had made proposals of marriage to Mrs. Bracegirdle, which were declined, in consequence, as ho supposed, of a more than * A bad imitation by Drydeii, in the Spanish Friar, of the effect of Ulysses' spi'ttub in the Iliad. WILLIAM MOUNTFORT. 53 Platonic attachment for Mountfort, and which at various times he threatened to revenge. Among Hill's associates was Lord Mohun, whose youth perhaps afforded some palliative for his share in the machination of debauchery to which Hill resorted. This nobleman engaged with him in a perfidious scheme for the abduction of Mrs. Bracegirdle, whom Hill proposed to carrj off, and afterwards marry. They arranged with an owner of hackney-coaches to provide a carriage and six horses to take them to Totteridge, and appointed him to wait with this conveyance at the Horse Shoe tavern in Drury Lane. A party of soldiers were hired to assist in the exploit ; and as Mrs. Bracegirdle, who had been supping at Mr, Page's in Prince's Street, was going down Drury Lane towards her lodgings in Howard Street, Strand, about ten o'clock at night, on Friday the 9th of December 1C92, two of these soldiers pulled her away from Mr. Page, knocked her mother down, and tried to lift her into the car- riage. Her mother, upon whom the blow had providentially made but a slight impression, hung about lier neck and detained her on the spot. While Page called for help. Hill ran at him with his sword drawn, and again endeavoured to get Mrs. Braceairdle into the coach, but the alarm given by Page prevented him. Company came up, Hill insisted on seeing the lady home, and actually led her to the house in which she resided. Lord Mohun, who during the scuffle was seated in the coach, joined Hill in Hov. rd Street ; the soldiers were dismissed, but the two friends, with swords drawn, paraded for about an hour and a half before Mrs. Bracegirdle's door. Mrs. Brown, the landlady of the house where Mrs. Bracegirdle lodged, went out and expostulated with Lord Mohun and Hill, and then went, or sent, to Monntfort's house, to warn Mrs. Mountfort of the danger to which her husband was exposed. The watch, on going their round between eleven and twelve o'clock, found the two accomplices drinking wine in the street, a waiter having brought it to tliem from an adjacent tavern. Mrs. Brown, at this juncture, observed Mountfort turn into Howard Street, apparently coming towards her house, and hurried to meet him, and to mention his danger ; but he would not stoi), nor allow her time for the slightest communication. On gaining the spot where Lord Moluin stood, Hill being a little fartlier otf, respectfully saluted him, and was received with politeness. Lord Mohun then hinted that Momitfort had been sent for by Mrs. Bracegirdle, in consequen(!o of her projected abduction : a charge imniediately denied. Mountfort then expressed a hope, with some warmth, that his Lordship would not vindicate Hill, who ajiproaching in time to catch the substance of the remark, said hnatily, he could vindicate himself, and gave him a blow, and challenged him to light. They both went into the middle of the street, and nftcr two or tliroe passes, Mountfort was mortally wounde'l, and languished till the next day, when he expired. Hill fled, and Mohun, on the Slst of January 1<)!)3, was tried by the House of Peers as an accomplice, and accjuittod. 64 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. Without investigating the circumstances of this street brawl — this foul affair, it seems, though not quite relative to the matter, proper to mention, that although Lord Mohun was undoubtedly warmly attached to his fyiend, and in many respects full of the lower kind of chivalric feeling, yet in few men was there ever an instance of more evident fatality. About seven years after his acquittal, he was tried again upon a charge of murder, from which he was also acquitted by his Peers. Ultimately, however, he died of his wounds, after killing a third, the Duke of Hamilton, in a duel. SAMUEL SAND FORD, I CONSIDER the life of Samuel Sandford as affording a curious specimen of particular endowment. By the best accounts, he appears to have been a respectable comic actor ; but it was in tragedy, and a special line, that he chiefly shone. All his contem- poraries speak in high terms of his merits in dark parts, and there can be no doubt, that in some of them he displayed great force and dignity. He has been called the Spagnoletto of the stage, and was, beyond all comparison, excellent in disagreeable characters. As the chief pieces of Spagnoletto were of human nature in pain and agony, Colley Cibber says of Sandfcu'd, that "Upon the stage he was generally flagitious as a Creon in (Edipis ; a Maligni in The Villain, a tragedy by Thomas Porter ; an lago in Othello ; or a Machiavel in ( 'cenar Borqia. The painter might think the quiet objects of nature too tame for his pencil, and therefore chose to indulge its full power upon those of violence and horror." In Sandford it was endowment. But distinguished as Sandford was in atrocio.is representations, it was not from choice, but on account of deformities which almost unfitted him for the stage. He was low and crooked, and bo conspicuous were these bodily defects, that he coulu with no propriety be admitted into noble or amiable parts. The public became so accustomed to see him in the line which Nature had marked out for him, tliat they would at last scarcely tolerate him in any other but a villain's character. I have not ascertained the date of Sandford's birth, but he made his fii'st appearance on the stage in 1003, under the auspices of Sir William Davenant. The first part for which ho is mentioned is Sampson in Eonieo and Jnlirt ; he soon after sustained a minor part in The Adventures of Five if ours ; and when Davenant produced hii Man's the Master, ho and Harris sung an epilogue in the character of two street ballad-singera. He was the ForoHight in Love for Ijovr, When Botterton and his associates secodod to the new theatre in Lincoln's-inn-fields, he refused to join them as a partner, but they engaged him at a salary of threM pounds a week. The exact time of his death is not clearly known, but as he is not luuutioned by Downs among the uotors engaged to Swiney iu the ELIZABETH BABRY. 55 latter end of 1706, it is supposed that he died during the previous six years, for he certainly did exercise his profession in 1700. His ancestors were long settled at Sandford, a village in Shropshire, and he prided himself in the superiority of his birth ; but there was a Thomas Sandford, one of Shakspeare's fellow comedians, who has been supposed to be the grandfather of Samuel. Perhaps it may be considered as one of the merits of this player's personal conduct, that very little is known of him out of his profession ; for in the relation just made, all is comprehended that can be properly said of him as a man, and it is only as a player that we are left to regard him. Indeed, the allusion to his pride of birth, would seem to imply that he kept himself aloof from the other actors ; and CoUey Gibber almost directly intimates, that he was regarded among them with some invidia. " It is not improbable," ■ays he, " but that from Sandford's so masterly personating charac- ters of guilt, the inferior actors might think his success chiefly owing to the defects of his person." And he proceeds to tell his readers, that it was much the fashion in King Charles the Second's time for stage bravoes and murtherers to make themselves as hideous as possible ; a low artifice, which was carried to such extravagance, that the King himself, who was bl.iek-browed and of a swarthy complexion, once said of the murtherers in Macbeth, " What is the reason we never see a rogue in the play, but, godsfish ! they always clap a black periwig upon him, when it is well known that one of the greatest rogues in England always wears a fair one." To whom the King alluded is not now known, but it must eitlier have been a personal friend or foe. In his performance Sandford acted so well, that he was ever iden- tified with the part he performed, in so much that the applause was often withheld from him which he justly merited, merely because the people had a repugnance to the part he so ably acted. But to some, and among others to his eulf)gist Gibber, Sandford always appeared the honester man in proportion to the spirit with which he exposed the wicked characters. This should uniformly have been the case ; for it is the ol)ject and business of the stage to give pleasure ; and when it carries its representation so far as to make them produce pain, it goes beyond its right and natural limit. In so far, therefore, as Sandford, to tlio judicious spectator, gave only satisfaction he nnist have been a great actor, and been essentially a contributor to the true and laudable use of tlie stage ; even when he failed, he may be hon- estly called a theatrical martyr to poetical justice. AfRS. ELTZABETH BARRY, With wliatever adventures the players in early life are distinguished, it is certain tliat, after tliey have unoe attained a footing in their pro- fession , tliey are subject tu f^wur vigissitudt^s than tUt) voiumonult^ of mankind, \ 66 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. Mrs. Elizabeth Barry was the daughter of Edward Barry, Esq. , a barrister of some eminence in the early part of the reign of Charles I., and who, in consequence of raising a regiment for the service of that Prince in the Civil, Wars, was afterwards more generally known as Colonel Barry. By this proceeding, and tlie ill success which attended the royal cause, Mr. liarry was entirely ruined, and his cliildren obliged to provide for their own maintenance. Lady Daveiiant gave to this daughter, Elizabeth, a genteel education, and m.'ido her a constant associate, by which the graces of her behaviour were essentially improved ; and tinally, in the year 1073, she was received into the Duke's company. But her efforts at Hrst were extremely unpropitinus, insomuch that tlie managers deemed her totally incapable of making any ade- quate progress. At the end of the first year she was discharged among others who were thought to be a useless expense to it. When Cibber saw her first, she had not attained the celebrity she was des- tined to arrive at ; but she had an august per.son, a tine understanding, and was at the titne one of whom the world was disposed to think well. Threw times, according to Curl's History of the Stage, she was dismissed, as disappointing the expectations of her friends, and as often, by the interest of h^jr benefactor, reinstated. When Otway produced his Alcilnndes, her meiit, however, was such, as not only to excite the attention of the public, but to obtain the author's most glowing applause. Next season siie performed the lively character of Mrs. Lovit, in Etherege's Man of Mode; and, in 1G80, her perfor- mance of Monimia, in the Orphan of Otway, seems to have raised lior gradually to the highest eminence of her profession. The part of Belvidera, two years after in Kcnicr; Preserved, and Isabella, in Southern's Fatal. Marriage, in 1(594, procured her universal dis- tinction. When Mrs. Barry first appeared, her only pretentions to notice were a good air and manner, and a powerful and pleasing voice. Her ear, however, was extrenu^ly defective, and several eminent judges despaired of her siiccess ; but still she regularly improved, and at last placed herself indisputably in the highest rank of her profession. In characters of greatness, she actpiired high renown for elevation and dignity. "Her voice and motion," says CoUey Cil)l)er, "were superb and majestic — her voice full, clear, and strong; no violence of passion was too much for her ; and when distress (U' tenderness possessed her, she subsided into the most atl'i'cting melody and softness." In the sirt of exciting pity, she enjoyed a power beyond all the actresses of lier time. (Jildon, in his Life of Butterton, says, "1 have heard him say that she never uttered — ' .\1\ ! poor Castalio ! ' without weeping. '' Tn tlio gentle passions of Monimia and Belvidera sh(* has ■"over been excelled. In scenes of anger, despair, and resentiner.t, she was impetuous and terrible, and yet she poured forth the sentiment with the most enchanting harmony ; but it was by the soft and gentle afteotions that she gained the enviable distinction of the " famous," — at first applied to her in derision, but ANNE OLDFIELD. h7 such were the fair merits of her endeavours, that it was fixed to her in compliment ; and yet she was not, in many respects, a correct or an amiable women. There is, for example, no reason to dispute her criminal intimacy with the Earl of Rochester ; this much, however, may be said of her, that she fixed his afl'ections more strongly than any other female. His letters addressed to Madame B , first printed in the edition of his poems by J. Tonson, in 1716, are ,, .nerally said to have been his Lordship's epistolary correspondence witli this lady. In some of them he speaks with great fondness of a child he had by her, and to whom he afterwards, by will, left an annuity of forty pounds. The temptations to which a popular actress is exposed are numerous and powerful ; perhaps licentious vice, too, obtains an excuse readily among this class of persons ; but they should recollect that the honours of triumph are always proportioned to the dangers of trial. There is no reason why the stage should not be as rich in virtue as the warmest friends of the profession desire to see it attain, and therefore, we gladly draw a veil over the moral improprieties of Mrs. Barry, and would describe her deviations from chastity as more owing to her innate feelings than to h ,r profession. Davies ascribes her death to the bite of a favourite lapdog, who had been seized, unknown to her, with madness. She died on the 7th of March, 1713, aged fifty-five years, and was buried in Acton church-yard. MliS. ANNE OLDFIELD. As we bring the history of the stage downward, we find the actors begin to meet with formidable rivals in the actresses, and perhaps with few exceptions did tliey encounter one of more gaiety of heart than in tlio liuly whose brief memoirs now claim our attention. Anno Oldtield was born in tlie year 1083, and would, perhaps, never have appeared on the stage, liad not her father, a captain in the army, sipiandered her little fortune at an early period of her life. In consecpienco of this disaster she went to reside with her a\>nt, who kept the Mitre tavern in the then St. James's Market, whore Fanpiliar, the dramatist, one day overheard her reading Jioaumont and Fletcher's Scdriiful Ladij, in which she displayed such ease and spirit, tlwit, struck by her evident advantages fi>r tlie stage, he framed an excuse to enter the little parlour behind the bar, iti wliicii Miss Nancy was sitting. Far(|uliar full a victim to her charms, and it Juis been said, from a desire of possessiiij; wliiit tlio theatre would give him the means to attempt, he urged hei- to try lier talents on the stage, and after a little decent entreaty, not without trouble on Fiircpiliar's part, she nuido her debtit. Sir John V.inburnh frequented the house, and was known to Mrs. Oldtiuld's mother, from whom ho received a communication of the great warmth with which Farquhar extolled her daughter's abilities. \ 56 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. Vanburgh immediately addressed himself to the young lady, and having ascertained that her fancy tended to parts of a sprightly nature, he recommended her to Rich, the manager of Drury-Lane, by whom she was immediately engaged at a salary of fifteen shillings a week. Her talents soon rendered her distinguished among the young actresses of the time, and a man of quality having been heard to express himself much in her favour, Mr. Rich, who was no judge of merit himself, increased her terms to twenty shillings a week. Sir John Vanburgh has, however, the great honour of bringing forward this eminent actress, by giving her the part of Alinda, in Tlie Pilgrim, a gentle character, which well became that diffidence for which she was then chiefly distinguished. But it was not till 1705 that she was allowed to have attained her professional eminence. In that year she first became, properly speaking, publicly known ; and in Lady Betty Modiah, a character in The Careless Husband of Gibber, she attracted the attention she had laboured to attain. She was tall, genteel, and well-shaped ; her expressive features were enlivened by large and intelligent eyes, which she had a method of half shutting at times, that was delight- fully comic and agreeable ; in air and elegance of manner she excelled all her competitors, and was greatly superior to most of the young actresses in compass and harmony of voice. In tragedy, Mrs. Oldfield, from not liking it so well as comedy, never reached so much dignity as it was in her power to have done ; and in the full round of her glory she used to slight her best persona- tions of the Horioiis drama, saying sometimes, " I hate to have a page dragging my train about ; why don't they give Porter these parts ? she can put on a better tragedy -face than I can." But the constant ap- plause by which she was followed, so far reconciled her to them, that she generally at last consented to appear in tragic parts without niuch reluctance. Tho^nson's Sophonisba was the latest of this description, and upon her action and deportment the author has expressed himself with great ardour in the following lines. " Mrs. Oldfield in the character of Sophonisba, has excelled what even in the fondness of an author I could either wish or imagine ; the grace, dignity, and happy variety of her action have been luiiversally applauded, and are truly admirable." And his praise is not more liberal than just. The style of grandeur in which she uttered this line — " Not one base worJ of Carthago, for thy soul—" WJ13 at the time greatly commended, and produced an astonishing effect on the audience. But her Lady Townly has boon universally admitted as her chcf-iVicnwG. She slided so gracefully into tlie foibles and excesses of a fine woman confident in her wit and the stren^ ^,h of her charms, tliat no successor in the part has ever equalled her. Notwithstanding her questionable private life, she was often invited to the houses of women of fashion as unblemished in character as elevated in rank, for in those days it was the custom to invite ANNE OLDFIELD. 59 m distinguiahed professional people entirely for thei) public qualities alone, and without reference to their private delinquencies. Even the Royal family did not disdain to see Mrs. Oldfield at their parties. George the Second and Queen Caroline, when Prince and Princess of Wales, often condescended to converse with her. It is supposed that she was engaged in a tender intercourse with Farquhar, and was the Penelope of his amatory correspondence. — She lived successively with Arthur Manwaring, one of the moat accomplished characters of the age, and with General Churchill ; by each of whom she had a son. One day the Princess of Wales told her that she heard that Genei-al Churchill and she were married. "So it is said, may it please your Royal Highness, but we have not owned it yet." In private life, Mrs. Oldfield was generous, witty, and well-bred, and she was kind to Savage, though she disliked the man. It has been said, that to her influence he is indebted for his pardon when he was so unjustly cast for death. It is not, however, quite true that she allowed him an annuity, as ascribed to her by Dr. Johnson. With Pope she was never a favourite ; indeed the players of no sex were ever such with that acute and waspish satirist. She, it is well known, was the dying coquette of one of his epistles ; and yet he did not always treat her with his wonted severity, though he never Ir.st an opportunity of giving her a fling.* In fact, she was a curious compound of sense and beauty, and hazarded with impunity many foolish sayings, which she would, perhaps, have been the first herself to laugh at. One day she happened to be in some danger in a Gravesend-boat, and when tlie rest of Mie passengers lamented their fate, she put on an air of conscious dignity, and told them their deaths would be only a private loss : " but I am a public concern ! " She died on the 23rd of October, 1730, not only lamented for her rare professional endowments, but her agreeable qualities as a woman. Had her birth placed her in a higher rank of life, she had certainly appeared in reality what she was often on the stage — an agreeable, gay woman of quality, a little too conscious of her natural beauty. In the wearing of her person it is said she was particularly fortunate — her figure was always improving to her thirty-sixth year ; her excellence in acting was ever progressive, and she possessed an inestimable quality of never undertaking any part she liked, without having all the helps in it that another could possibly suggest, and yet it was hard to give her any hint she was unable to improve. She was, indeed, in all that respected her profession, tractable, judicious, and modest. Upon her extraordinary merits as Lady Townly, the managers made her a present of fifty guineas beyond her salary ; and in her last illness, she had the good sense and generosity to decline the residue of her salary. She was, to the last scene she acted, the delight of her spectators — Where in the whole such various beauties shine, 'Twere idle upon errors to repine. * Engaging Oldfield ! who with grace and ease Could join the arts to ruin and to please. \ 60 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. RICHARD SA VA GE. I I This vagabond was so poor a player, that had not his life been superbly written by Dr. Samuel Johnson, it should not have received a place in this work ; but the singular merits of that celebrated piece of biography, and the no less remarkable misrepresentations, as I conceive, by which it is deformed, induce me to attempt a version that shall not be so liable to objections on the score of probability. Savage was one of the Doctor's associates, and whatever affection could dictate, talent suggest, and eloquence enforce, has been em- ployed to adorn and exalt his character. The Countess of Macclesfield, a dissolute woman, had, for soQ)e time prior to the year 1697, lived in vexation with the Earl her husband, when their unhappiness rose to such a pitch, that she re- solved to be divorced from him, and accordingly declared the child, with which she was then great, begotten by the Earl Rivers. In those days the legislature was less scrupulous in many of its proceed- ings than it is in ours. Without obtaining, in the usual manner, a divorce in the Spiritual Court, the Earl of Macclesfield proceeded at once to parliament, and procured an act, by which his marriage was dissolved, and the childreh of his wife illegitimated. While his Lordship was prosecuting this object, the Countess was, on the 10th of January 1697-8, delivered of a son : at his baptism, Earl Rivers stood godfather, and gave him his own name. The circumstances under which Savage was born, naturally, perhaps, rendered him an object unpleasant to his mother ; he was the witness of her guilt, and she would feel towards him as if he had been the cause of her degradation. It might have been otherwise, and instead of distaste to the sight of the infant, she might, in one of those cap- rices of affection which nature, in similar cases, sometimes produces, have cherished him with intenser maternal fondne" .. In this, how- ever, the more common law prevailed ; and she accordingly sent him from her, committing him to the care of a poor woman, who was directed to eductte him as her own. Her mother, the Lady Mason, was the agent in the business ; and, notwithstanding that Dr. Johnson probably ref^eived his information from Savage himself, I cannot discern tlie ( uity of the opinion he expresses concerning this lady, nor was he judtitied in making use of the stnmg inpinuation to her prejudice which he has done. He says — " Her motne.-, the Lady Mason, whether in approbation, or to prevent more cri.iiinal contriv- ances, engaged to transact with the nurse, to pay I'or for her care, and to superintend the education of the child." The conduct of Lady Mason, in this transaction, is susceptible of a far more charitable interpretation ; and unless her general character warranted the suspicion, Dr. Johnson has treated her with libellous injustice. As a mother, she could not but be grieved at her daugh- ter's dishonour. It was natural that she sliould desire to see the witness of her disgrace removed from under the eyes of their friends and associates ; and, in engaging to effect the necessary arrangements with the nurse, she but performed a natural part. It is not true that ll eichaud savage. 61 Savage was " born with a legal claim to honour and to affluence ; " on the contrary, he was born with a taint that rendered him obnoxious to those who were interested in his welfare ; and Dr. Johnson, in the manner in which he speaks of this, does not evince his wonted acumen. He refers the feelings on the subject to a state of nature. He ought to have recollected, that the parties concerned in the expulsion of the bastard were habituated to an artificial con- dition, in which the feelings of nature are weaker in influence than the usages and institutions of society. The utmost degree of culpability which I am able to discover in the conduct of the mother, even upon Dr. Johnson's statement, amounts only to a wish to keep the child out of sight ; for it by no means appears, in any stage of the transaction, that concealment was at all sought — quite the contrary. Before the birth, the bastardy was proclaimed, and the subject discussed in the House of Lords : and at the birth, Earl Rivers, the assigned father, openly came forward, and assumed the paternity, as far as the law and the custom of the country would admit. Mrs. Lloyd, a lady who assisted at the christening in the capacity of godmotlier, so long as she lived, looked upon the child with tenderness : she knew that he had been removed from his mother by the Lady Mason, and that it was intended he should not be publicly brought up as her son. Mrs. Lloyd continued her attentions to Savage till he was ten years old ; and, at her death, she bequeathed to him a legacy of three hundred pounds. It is clear from this statement that there was no concealment for ten years. Dr. Johnson says of the legacy, that, as Savage "had none to prosecute his claim — to shelter him from oppression, or to call in the law to the assistance of justice — her will (Mrs. Lloyd's) was eluded by the executors, and no part of the money was ever paid." I am sure the reader will agree with me, that this is a very " lame and impotent conclusion ; " and that it is rankly imbued with that coarse misrepresentation which vulgar minds make, as it were, in extenuation of their debasement, when they have family connexions which they have not been able to preserve. Though, for a time, the executors of Mrs. Lloyd might have withheld the legacy from her godson, yet they could not always have done so. When he came of age, he was competent surely to have prosecuted them ; and he was certainly not without the capacity to discern his right, nor the disposition to annoy where ho thought that right denied. The whole story as related by Dr. Johnson, is full of discrepancies, and bears upon its forehead the marks (^f fallacy. He was himself in- capable of making untrue statementb ; and, save in this att'air, his judgment has been esteemed of a higher and more accurate order, even though it has been a general opinion tiiat he was on some points the most inveterately prejudiced of mankind. It is surprising that the Doctor never suspected that the reason why Savage did not obtain the legacy might have been that he could not prove his identity. After the death of Mrs. Lloyd, Lady Mason still continued her care ; and, under her direction. Savage was placed at a small 62 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. f became a patentee communication v.ith told him, or wrote not have been the grammar-school near St. Albans, where he W3jj called by the name of his nurse. Here he was initiated ia litei.'cure; and being of a lively genius, it is reasonable to suppose that his progress waa above mediocrity. While Savage was at school. Earl Rivers died. " He had frequently inquired for his son," says Dr. Johnson, but on what authority is not stated, " and had always been amused with evasive answers. On his deathbed, however, he thought it his duty to provide for him, and therefore demanded a positive account, with an importunity not to be diverted or denied ; " and, the Doctor adds, " his motlier, who could no longer refuse an answer, determined, at least, to give such as should cut hin off for ever f/om that happi- ness which competence aifords, and therefore declared that he was dead— ,7hich is, perhaps, the first instance of a lie invented by a niothei' to deprive her son of a provision which was designed him by another, and which she could not expect herself though he should lose it." I would rather believe that Dr. Johnson was in error, than that Nature went so far wrong. There is no shadow of evidence to show that Mrs. Brett — as the alleged mother of Savage was now called, in consequence of a aecoud marriage with Colonel Brett, who of Drury - lane Tlieatre — was in personal Earl' Rivers. But, granted that she had to him, that their son was dead, might it case ? for, p ^ I e hall have occasion to show, besides the fact relative to Mrs. Lloyd's legacy already noticed, the identity of the Countess of Macclesfield's son, and Savage, the poet and player, is by no means satisfactorily established. Be it also observed, that Earl Rivera could not but know, in the long course of more than ten years, in which the child was under the direction of his grandmother. Lady Mason, that she was the proper person to ask concerning him. But co suppose that, in so long a period. Earl Rivers, who had no objection to acknow- ledge the child — who was the child's godfatlier — never once inquired after hiai, is to accuse human nature, in his Lordship, of as groat an exception to its customs, as in the case of the mother : probability revolts at the supposition. Perhaps Lady Mason might have been by this time dead ; but, as I have shown, there was no special con- cealment, at least from Lord Rivers, of the existence of the clila, so long as he lived ; nor was it likely, when the part which Mrs. Lloyd acted towards hiui is considered, that there could have been any difficulty, so long as she was alive, of tracing him. Dr. Johnson assumes that the wickedness of the mother, in this instance was true : he even goes so far as to imply that Lord Rivers " had, in his will, bequeaJied to Savage six thousand pounds ; but that, on receiving the account of his death, he altered the will, and bestowed the legacy on another person." I think the fact of the case is, that the son of Earl Rivers and Lady Macclesfield was, at this time, really dead ; and this opinion is strengthened by the over en- deavour of Sa ?uge to exaggerate her unnatural enmity. If she had been his mother, there was on his part as great a deficiency of natural feeling towards her, as there was on her part towards him. RICHARD SAVAGE. 63 Truly, if we consider the number of years during which Lord Rivers, his father and godfather, never inquired after him, and the recipro- cal conduct of the motlier and the son, they must have been three of the most extraordinary personages ever described, for deficiency of natural affection. This interception of the provision which Lord Rivers intended to make, is rendered still more improbable by what Dr. Johnson, on the authority of Savage, immediately after states, viz. that his mother " endeavoured to rid herself from the danger of being at any time made known to him, by sending him secretly to the American plantations." Now be it remembered, that his mother became after- wards the wife of the patentee of the very theatre which Savage most frequented. " By whose kindness this scheme of kidnapping was counteracted, or by what interposition Mrs. Brett was induced to lay aside her design, I know not. It is not improbable that the Lady Mason might persuade or compel her to desist, or perhaps she could not easily find accomplices wicked enough to concur in such an action." After stating this. Dr. Johnson makes the following observations, the justice or common-sense of which is by no means apparent — " It may be conceived," says he, " that those who had, by a long grada- tion of guilt, hardened their hearts against the sense of common wickedness, would yet be shocked at the design of a mother to expose her son to slavery and want — to expose him without interest and without provocation ; and Savage might, on this occasion find protectors and advocates among those who had long traded in crimes, and whom compassion had never touched before." Without m(jre particularly adverting to the impro.. bility alto- gether of kidnapping the boy ii~ Virginia, I would only remark on the plain nonsense of Dr. Joh^: n's observations. Was it at all necessary to such a kidnapping scheme, that the mother should dis- close to the agents her relationship to the boy they were to convey out of the country in so surreptitious a manner ] and if they previously knew the relationship, and were creatures capable of executing such an unnatural machination, would they have scrupled to get this rich lady so efl'ectually into their power as they would have done, either by executing her scheme, or by seemingly conniving at it, by taking her son into their own charge ( If they did not know of the connexion, what comes of the Doctor's moral revulsion of the kidnappers I This part of the story, which rests on Savage's authority alone — and Savage was never respected by his con- temporaries for his probity — I have no hesitation in at once rejecting, as in its conception an extravagant monstrosity ; for the mother in all this period seems to have left the management of the child entirely to her own mother. Lady Mason, and no cause nor motive had occurred to move her to intercept the intended legacy, far less to instigate her to the wickedness of sending her son to slavery in Virginia. Dr. Johnson, in the same frame of insatiable credulity, contiimes — "Being hindered, by whatever means, of banishing him into another country, she formed soon after a scheme for burying him in 64 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. poverty and obscurity in liia own ; and that his station in life, if not the phice of his residence, might keep him for ever at a distance from her — (and yet slie was the wife of a patentee of the theatre) — she ordered him to be placed with a shoemaker in Holborn, that after the usual time of trial he might become his apprentice." The good Doctor, in the simplicity of his heart, states this on the authority of Savage himself. Now, mark how loosely this tale hangs together. In the first place, it supposes the mother all this time to be spon- taneously actuated by something like a demoniacal virulence against her sou, although it is manifest that Lady Mason was the agent in all that related to the child by Lord Rivers. Now, was Lady Mason dead when tliis project of the apprenticeship was hatched i It is not so said. Then who was the agent to negotiate with the shoemaker ? Did that agent know of the relationship of the child ? Was the shoemaker so incurious as to take no step to ascertain who were the connexions of this mysteri- ous apprentice / Was no money to be paid to the shoemaker I The story — though it be true, in fact, that Savage was an ai)prentice to a shoemaker in Holborn — appears utterly improbable in the alleged anterior machination. If, Lady Mason had been aiive, she vould of course, from )ier previous part in the plot, have been the negotiator, through the nurse, as whose son the bastard passed ; and here again the character of Lady Mascm comes to be considered. Has it ever been blemished in all this business ? and she was, at least, known to the nurse, if the nurse did not know who were the parents of the child. But observe what follows. While Savage is apprentice to the shoemaker, the nurse, wlio had always treated him as her own son, dies, and Savage, as her son, proceeds tj " take care of those few efl'euts which l:)y her death were, as he imagined, become his own." Now had this old woman no relations who knew that the child had been placed with her ? none to interfere, as people in their condition of life were likely to do, that he shoul;l have been permitted to take possession of her effects i Mark also ; in taking possession of her effects, Dr. Johnson says, "he opened her boxes and examined iier papers, among which he found some letters written to her by the Lady Mason, which informed him of his birth, and the reasons for which it was concealed." This is curious. Is it probable that Lady Mason would have c(jm- mitted herself by writing any such letters to the old won;an, had there existed such a wish for concealment as it is attempted to make us believe ? That there may have been letters from Lady Ma&on, which .suggested the idea of inquiring to whom they related ; ind that Savage, by inquiry, might have ascertained they concerned the child of Lady Macclestield and Lord Rivers, which had been placed while an infant with his mother, tlie nurse, is highly pro- bable ; and from the character of his mind, it is not at all unlikely that he should have either imagined himself to be that child, or fancied that, with the evidence, he might pass himself off as such. My opinion is that the latter was the case, and that the poet and player Richard Savage was, in his capacity of Lady Macclestield's son, an iniposter. A remarkable gleam of light is thrown upon the men A Ti D SA VAGE. 66 probability of this notion by a circumstance hitherto unnoticed. The famous trial of the Annesley family began about this time, and it is curious in how many points the abduction of the heir of that family resembles the pretended machinations of which Savage gives an account of his being himself, both in what was done and intended, the object.* When Savage had examined the papers found in the box of his niirse, or mother as I am disposed to think she really was, he remained no longer satisfied with his employment as a shoemaker, but resolved to share the affluence of the lady he was determined to consider as his mother ; and accordingly without scruple, he made use of every art to awaken her tenderness and attract her regard. It is singular enough, however, that this was done through the medium of letters ; the natural course would have been, had there been no con- sciousness of deception, to have gone to her at once in person, foi he had no reason at that time to think, though she might desire that her child should remain unknown, that she would reject him in the manner she did. Dr. Johnson says, that "neither his letters, nor the interposition of those friends which his merit or his distress pro- cured him, made any impression upon her mind. She still resolved to neglect, though she could no longer disown him." Now this is not correct ; for she did acknowledge that she had had a child, but which was dead, and she did deny that Savage was her son. In fact, being persuaded that he was an imposter, all the extraordinary anti- pathy with which she regarded him is explained, by the simple cir- cumstance of her believing that her own child was dead, and the natural mortification that she could not but suffer at the revival, after the lapse of so many years, of her dishonour and public degra- dation. Failing in the speculation of establishing himself as the son of a lady of fashion and of great wealth, he had recourse to his natural talents. At this period the Bangorian controversy agitated the liter- ary world, and filled the press with pamphlets and the coffee-houses with disputants. On this subject Savage made his first attempt, without any other knowledge of the question than what I)e had casually collected from conversation ; and wrote and published a poem against the Bishop. The merit or success of this performance is not known ; Savage himself became ashamed of it, and endeavoured to suppress it by destroying all the copies he could collect. Of the talent of this remarkable adventurer there can be no question; he was still but in his eighteenth year when he wrote Woman's a Riddle, which was brought out on the stage, but from which the unhappy author derived no profit. The piece had been originally offered by him to the theatre, and was returned as unlikely to succeed * A suiiniiiiry of the Annesley case as it was tried, and as it appeared in the Appeal, wliicli brings it within the State-trials, was published as " The Memoirs of an unfortunate Young Nobleman, returned from a Thirteen Years' Slavery in America, where he had been sent by the wicked contrivance of his cruel Uncle." \\ itiioiit the unnatural feeling of tlie mother, the Annesley case is not more ex- tr ^ordinary than Savage has made his. 6G LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. in representation. In consequence of which rejection he gave the manuscript to Mr. Bullock, and he having more interest, changed it ill some respects, and brought it upon the stage. In what way he maintained himself at this time is not explained ; but in two years after his first play he obtained a representation of another comedy, Love in a Veil, with, however, little better pecuniary success, for it appeared so lat„ in the season, that he obtained n<» otlier benefit from it than the acquaintance of Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Wilks the actor. Sir Richard having heard his story, declared in his favour with all the warmth of his cliiiractor, promoted his interest with zeal, related his alleged misfortunes on every occasion calculated to bespeak sympathy, applauded his merit, and took every opportunity of re- commending him to the favour of others, " The inhumanity of his mother," said Sir Richard, "has given him a right to find every good man his father." Nor did he admit Savage to his acquaintance only, but to his confidence, which appeared to consist in assisting Sir Richard to evade his creditors. But although for a time the friendship of Sir Richard was necessary to Savage, his practices and example were not calculated to improve his hibits. The kindness of the Knight did not, however, end in slight favours ; on the contrary, his affection ripened to such a degree, that he proposed Savage should marry his natural daughter, on whom he agreed to bestow a thousand pounds. But Sir Richard who was in promise and intention a man of great generosity, so condubted his affairs, that he was never able to raise the money, and the marriage was in consequence deferred from time to time, and was in the eud broken off entirely, in consequence of the imprudence of Savage himself, in representing some of his patron's foibles before persons who ho had not suspected would be so malicious as to prove tale-bearers. Savage being thus again abandoned to fortune, was reduced to the greatest distress, insomuch that, having nowhere to lay his head, he sometimes slept in the theatre and behind the scenes. This miser- able condition •'vp'- reported to Wilks the actor, who, on hearing his story, became greatly interested in him, and went himself to Mrs. Brett, as I have said, and rejjrosented to her his extreme misery. She, however, denied that he was her son, repeated the story of the deatli of her child, and refused to acknowledge him. Wilks, how- ever, so won upon her charity, tiiat ho obtained from her sixty pounds. It is said that she even promised him one hundred and fifty pounds more, but Ining engaged in tlio bubble speculations of that time, soon after lost so nmch money by the South-Sea scheme, that she pretended it was out of her power to assist him farther. This circumstance has been assumed as a proof of the truth of his story, but 1 think it aflords none ; because, from the gallant address and Hloquenco of Wilks, sixty pounds might bo obtAinod fi'om a gay and wealthy lady of damaged quality, to relieve a distressed youiig mail, witliout being any ))ro(if of ao close a connexion as Savage had rei)rosented existed between tlieni. The friendship of Wilks drew him into more intimate acquaintance }.. RICHARD SAVAGE. 67 with the other players, and his story being well known among them, and congenial to their romantic imaginations, they treated him with great kindness ; among others, Mrs. Oldtield took a charitable interest in his misfortunes, and was so moved by the tale, that she actually allowed him a pension of fifty pounds a year, which was regularly paid during her life. The character of that accomplished ;ictress might have led the world to suspect that this generosity was not altogether, as Savage represented it, the gratuity of benevolence ; especially as Dr. Johnson admits that his veracity was questioned, and that the only mention Savage has made of her in his works is in praise of her beauty. By the kindness of Wilks he had sometimes a benefit, and on these occasions he was patronized by some of the nobility, on account of his remarkable story. Dr. Johnson says that the Duke of Dorset told Savage, that it was just to consider him as an injured nobleman, and that in his opinion the nobility ought to think them- selves obliged, without solicitation, to take every opportunity of sup- porting him by their countenance and patronage. It is surprising that in repeating this story, which the Doctor probably did on the authority of Savage himself, the absurdity of it did not strike him ; the expression ascribed to the Duke rendering it ridiculous to suppose that his Grace would make use of any such expression, in speaking of one who, by the nature of his birth, was precluded from even pretending to rank. Another still less credible story is related of these benefits, no less than that " Savage had generally the mortification to hear that the whole interest of his mother was employed to frustrate his applications, and that she never left any expedient untried by which he might be cut off from the possibility of supporting life." The whole style, indeed, of the Doctor's Life of Savage is most extraordinary ; it is not easy to conceive how a man of probity, and of the alleged discernment of Dr. Johnson should have written so strongly of things as facts which appear so questionable. In what way, for example, could Mrs. Brett have interfered, otherwise than by representing to her friends that Savage was really not her son, and that in pretending to be so he was an impostor ? and if she believed and knew that her own son was dead, it was natural that she should do so. But in what way could she conceal in this, that she had once had a son, or even attempt it, the fact of her divorce being as notorious as the law itself I It might bo that some believed his story ; indeed, ho was possessed of sufficient plausibility to make converts ; but when the ordinary feelings of humanity are outraged by his annotations, it is impossible not to regard him with confirmed suspicion of his being an impostor. Dr. Johnson, in being so strougly an advocate for this loose and licentious person, has departed fartlier from his own reputation than in any other instance of his life, vehemently as it was occasionally distinguished both for prejudice and vituperation. It is indeed amazing, that, with all tliu indignation which the Docfor expresses against the imputed unnatural mother of Savage, he never seems to have examined into the truth of the story. It was always, a? it would appear, taken upon Savage's own represejitation — and he, r*^' \ 68 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. it is admitted, was a man whose veracity was questioned. But to proceed with his biography. His attendance at the theatre gave him a better idea of the drama t^'nn when he so preciously attempted comedy, and this led him, in the year 1724, to construct a tragedy on the story of Sir Thomas Overbury. Tlie history of this tragedy is in itself cnlculated to draw tears ; for, if we divest ourselves of the suspicion attached to the author's tale of his birth, and consider him only as a man of genius contending with t'ortune, there is nothing more truly tragic in the whole compass of poetry and romance. " During a considerable part of the time he was employed upon this performance," says Dr. Johnson, "he was without lod'^ings, and often witliout meat, nor liad he any other conveniences for study than the helds or the street allowed him. There he used to walk and form his speeches, and afterwards step into a shop, beg for a few moments the use of pen aiid ink, and write down what he had composed upon paper wliich hi' h^d picked up by accident." This is indeed a deplorable descrip- tion of genius in beggary, bui it partakes of the exaj,geration wliich runs through the whole narrative. The sympathy of the reader revolts at the swollen and tumid disti'ess, as incv)nsistent with the probability of nature. ThatSavage was during the time m great misery cannot be questioned, and that he may have once or twice begged for pen and ink to write down a speech he had composed in his walk is probable, biit that it was a custom of necessity with him during tlie whole time he v/as engaged in w. :ting the tragedy, is utterly incred- ible. When tlio tragedy was finished, his acquaintance with the actors was then turned to some account, but it was attended with humilia- tion ; not, however, materially more severe tl'an that which must be endured by very man of genius who viiiiures to encounter the illiterate phalanx by whom access to the stage is defended against Nature and Taste. The worst that Savage appears to have sutt'ered was from the suggestions of Theo])hilus Gibber, yet, in the preface to the play, he has commended him for ev^ry blooming excellence. Befitro the tragedy was deemed ready for representation, among others of whose criticism Savage was desirous of availing himself, was Aaron Hill, wiio wrote the prologue and epilogue, in which ho touches on the author's ill-fate with delicacy and tenderness. When at last the [ilay was by all these helps aiul emendations— the imper- tinences of the actors, and perhaps the strictui'es of more coni])etent critics — ready for representation, it was brought out, and Savage himself made his first appearance in the character of Sir Thomas Overbury, but with no e'c^lat. Neither his voice, look, nor gesture were such as are expected on the stage ; and he was so much ashamed of having been reduced, as it is said, to appear as a player, that he always blotted out his name fr.nn the lists, when a copy of his tragedy was to be shown to his friends. This jjriitext of modesty is of a piece with his character. It is much more conwistont with human nature, that ho should have desired the concealment because he had failed in the part, than that he should have been ashamed of attemjiting a taslv which misfortuno ai.xost imposed up(m him. On the authwrity RICH A EI) SA VAGE. 69 of Dr. Johnson, which in a question of literary taste may be safely relied on, the tragedy of Sir Thomas Overbnry exhibited gleams and glimmerings of genius, that shone tlirough all the clouds and mists which Theophilus Gibber had spread over it. The profits amounted to about a hundred pounds. Savage, with all the irregularities of his conduct, had the art, either by his address or wonderful story, to attach to him in every vicissitude many friends, and the friendship of Hill did not terminate with the representation of the play ; for when the dramatist was again at his last shift, he encouraged a subscription to a Miscellany of Poems with great zeal, in a periodical paper called '* The Plain Dealer," written by himself and Mr. Bond. Savage used sarcastically to call them the two contending powers of light and darkness. They wrote by turns, each six essays, and the character of the work regu- larly rose in Hill's weeks and fell in Mr. Bond's. Hill published the poet's story, and the more to awaken the public sympathy, he inserted some affecting verses upon the treatment which Savage had received from his mother. But Hill's kindness did not end with mere recom- mendation—he contributed several pieces of his own to swell the Miscellany. Nor were his kind endeavours happily fruitless. Con- tributions to the unfortunate author were directed to be left at Button's Coft'ee-house, and Savage going thither afew days afterwards, found to his surprise seventy guineas, which had been sent for him in consequence of Mr. Hill's patiietic appeal. To the Miscellany, when it was published, Savage wrote a preface, in which he gives an account of his motlier's cruelty — and to which Dr. Johnson ref '^ i for some of the facts on which he grounds the severity of his animadversions on her unnatural dispc jition. The work was dedi- cated to the famous Lady Mary Wortley Montague, whom Savage Hatters with more than the wonted saliva of the literary sycophants of that age. From this period his reputation began to advance, and he appeared to be gaining on mankind, when his life and fame were both brought into inuninent jeopardy. On the 20th of November, 1727, he came from Richmond, wliere he then lodged, tliat ho might pursue his studies unmolested, and accidentally meeting two friends, whose names were Merchant and (Jregory, he went with them to a coffee-house, where they sat late drinking. A.s the liouse could not accommodate them all with bods, they a!,'reed to ramble about the streets and divert themselves with such caaiuil amusements as fortune should send them. In their ramble, seeing a light in Robinson's collee-house, near Charing Cross, they wont in. Merchant demanded a room, and was told tliat there was a good tiro in the next jiarlour. whicli would bo iminediiitoly empty, as tlio coiniiany in it wt>ro then paying their reckoning. Alereliant, not satisfied with this answer, and ooing incensed with wine, rudely rushed into tho room, and was followed by his companions. He then boastfully placed himself between tho company and tlie iiro, and soon after kicked down the table. A (pnirrel ensued ; swords were drawn on both sides— for it was then tho custom among all persona of gentlemanly appearance to wear swords, In the sculfle a, \ 70 LIVES OF THE PLAYEHS. ■| 111 Mr. James Sinclair was killed ; Savage wounded a maid that attempted to hold him, and with Merchant forced his way out of tho house. Alarmed, and in confusion, they knew not where to fly, and in attempting to conceal themselves, one of the company pursued th^m with some soldiers whom he had called to his assistance, and secured them. Next morning they were carried before three Jus- tices, who committed them to the Gate-house, and in the evening they were removed to Newgate. The affair caused a great stir in the public mind, and when the day of trial came the Court was crowded to an unusual degree. In the examination of the witnesses there was some diflerer.oe in their respective depositions. But the evidence was, notwithstanding, irresistible. In his defence. Savage occupied more tlian an hour, during which he was listened to, both by the court ana the multitude, with the most attentive and respect- ful silence. Those, says Dr. Johnson, who thought he ought not to be acquitted, acknowledged that applause could not be refused him ; and those who before pitied his misfortunes, now reverenced his abilities. But Mr. Page, who presided as Judge, exhibited a degree of I'.ndignified asperity, such as rarely has disgraced the English bench. '* Gentlemen of the Jury," said he, in charging, "you are to consider that Mr. Savjige is a very great man ; a much greater man than I or you, Gentlemen of the Jury ; that he wears very fine clothes, much finer clothes than you or I, Gentlemen of the Jury ; that he has abundaTice of money in his pocket, much more than you or I, Gentlemen of the Jury ; but. Gentlemen of the Jury, is it not a very hard case. Gentlemen of the Jury, that Mr. Savage should therefore kill you or me, Gentlemen of the Jury ? " This looks so like caricature, that I suspect it has received some embellishment from the veracious pen of Savage himself, and one might find some ground in it to .'aise an opinion that Mr. Page was not an entire believer in ali thd story of the prisoner at the bar. In the end, Savage and one of his companions were found guilty of nuirder, and Mr. Merohsmb, who had no sword, of manslaughter. The only hope which Savage had now of life was in the mercy of tho Crown ; but Queen Caroline, who ruled the Govirnmcnt, was prejudiced against him by, as it was alleged, the infliienoo of his mother ; and yet that Princess was not likely cm slight grounds to have been so moved. It seems that when Savage had discovered his birth, or imagined himself the son of Earl Rivera and the C(mntess of Macclesfield, he was in the practice of walking in the evenuig be- fore his mother's house ; and one night, seeing the door open, he entered it, and finding no person in the passage to hinder him, went up stairs to the drawing-room where she was sitting. His appear- ance ularmed her, and her ci'ies having suminoneil tho servants to her assistance, she accused him of an intention to nuirder her. AHtonished at lier violence, hoendoavoured with the most submissive tenderness to soothe her rage, but hearing her utti-r such an accusa- tion, he prudently retired, and never afterwards attem]»ted to speak to her. In relating this anecdote Dr. Johnson falls ngain into the saiiio insensibility to the ]ilain import of the facts, which so singu- larly blemishes his Life of Savage, u work which for elegance of die- RICHARD SAVAGE. 71 tion has lon^ been esteemed one of the master-pieces of English literature. He goes so far as to insinuate that the calumny of the attempt to murder his mother was related by hevself to the Queen ; as if it were probable that, however desirous she might be to get rid of him, she would venture on so improbable a step as to interpose between the law and tlie loyal clemency. I doubt not that the story of his entering the house, ann(lent on the accidental favoiirs of uncertain [Jiitronage, — sources wiiich were scmietimes copicms, but at otlieis suddenly dry. His life was in consecjuenco spent between extravagance and penury ; what he had, he squandered, because he had no doubt of being abundantly 8»ip;)lied. By this time his filiai aftection was exhausted, and he threatened to harass Mrs. Brett with lampoons, unless she consented topmchaso an exemption by allowing him a pension. This expedient, says Dr. John- son, proved successful, merely because Ijord Tyreonnel received him into his family, treated him as his e(iual, and engaged to allow him a pen.Hion of two liundied a year. But in what relation did his Lordship stand to Mrs. Brett, and was he not otherwise acciuainted with Savage /—why did ho take him into his family ?— and when in V \ 72 LIVES OF THE PLAyERS. the end he was obliged to discard him, why woi ■> his threats against Mrs. Brett then disreffarded ? The whole of the remarks which the Doctor makes upon this crisis of Savage's adventures is puerile and affected, and betrays a greater partiality for effect than truth. "This," says the Doctor, " was the golden part of Mr. Savage's life, and for some time he had no reason to complain of fortune ; his appearance was splendid, his expenses large, and his acquaintance extensive. He was courted by all who endeavourjd to be thought men of genius, and caressed by all who valued themselves upon a refined taste. To admire Mr. Savage was a proof of discernment ; and to be acquainted with him was a title to poetical reputation. His presence was sufficient to make any place of public entertainment popular ; and his approbation and example constituted the fashion. So powerful is genius when it is invested with the glitter of atflucMice ! Men willingly pay to fortune that regard which they owe to merit, and are pleased when they have an opportunity at once of gratifying their vanity and practising their duty." T have been the more particular in making this extract because it is a fair specimen of the inflation which pervades the work. Dr. Johnson has clearly written it with no very careful reference to the condition of the man. J|ven with title, rank, and genius, all united, he knew enough of the world to know that Savage could not be the gorgeous character lie is here represented to have been. He was but a clever man, the dependent of a Lord, and enriched with a pension of two hundred pounds a-yeiir ! It was thoughtless exaggeration ; and the Doctor finds himself in the very next page obliged to acknowledge, "that Mr. Savage's esteem was no very certain possession, and that he would lampoon at one time those whom he praised at another." I ought not to say, that at the acts of Savage, Dr. Johnson spoke not his just sentiments ; I should do injustice to that great man if I did, and appear insensible to his magnificent morality ; for even while treating of his intimacy with Pope, Johnson seems to have been fully aware of its baseness. "He was considered," says the Doctor, " as a kind of confederate " with the author of the Dunciad, and " was suspected of supplying him with private intelligence and secret incidents ; so that the ignominy of an informer was added to the terror of a satirist. That ho was not altogether free from literary hypocrisy, and that he sometimes spcjke one thing and wrote anotiier, cannot be denied." At one time he publisiied a panegyric on Sir Robert Walpole, for which he was rewarded by him with twenty guineas, and yet he was vei'y far from approving of that Minister, and in coiiversation nienticmed him sometiuios with acrimony, and generally with contempt. And wliat excuse did ho make for this inconsisfeuoy? Ho alleged that at the liiuo ho was depondiint upon the Lord Tyr- conncl, an implicit follower of the ministry ! While Mr. Savago resided with Lord Tyrcfuinel, lie composed his poem of The M^aiulcrcr, a work which displays the jJOsscHsion of considerable talent, and which he dedieatod to his Lordship ; but they soon after quarrelled, and in that (juarrel it must be admittecl kICHAttD SAVACtE. 73 that our hero was by his own acknowledgments greatly to blame ; and by the statements of Lord Tyrconnel, unprincipled, audacious beyond all tolerance, selfish, and frau'^ulent. After he had been justly turned out of doors by Lord Tyrconnel, he wrote The Bastard, which he dedicated " with due reverence " to his mother. But of tlie story which he told himself of the molesta- tion it occasioned to Mrs. Brett, of which he could have no means of knowing, unless we allow the absurdity that she told it herself, I for one do not believe a single syllable. Under the nauie of the Volunteer Laureate he wrote for several successive years a series of adulatory verses to Queen Caroline, fur which he annually received fifty pounds ; but the verses were poor and vile, and the allowance he received must be considered not fur their merit but in charity for hiuiself. But full of troubles as his life had ever been, and prone as he was to exasperate thein, he was not always spared from the scourije of injustice. He was libelled, and in prosecuting the libeller was himjelf persecuted without cause. And yet it could not be said that he was he was altogether an object free honi suspicion ; for no sooner did he receive h^s annual fifty pounds from tiie Queen than he vanished from the sight of all his friends ; at last he appeared pennyless iis before, but he never con- fessed into what haunt he liad retreated, and it was commonly imagined that he spent his time and money, like other prodigals, " in riotous living." Whether the story of Mrs. Brett was beginning to be thought Vjetter founded than the romantic tale of Savage, or that his conduct was becoming worse as he grew older, is not so nnich the purpose in view, as the fact, that as his days increased his miseries multiplied, and as a resource, common in that age among literary adventurers, he had recourse to subscriptions for works that he intended to publish, but which he was either obliged to abandon from necessity, or never in sincerity meant to pursue. His life, unhappy as it may be imagined, Avas in 1738 embittered with new calamities. The death of the Queen deprived him of all hopes of perferiiiont, and he had many reasons to believe that Sir Robert Walpole abandoned him to his fortune. His spirit was. how- ever, uncontjuered. His poem on her Majesty's death " may be justly ranked," says Dr. Johnson, "amcmg the best pieces that the death of princes has produced." His distress was now publicly known ; the termination of his pension regarded as a loss — and his friends, to mitigate starvation, agreed to subscribe among them fifty pounds a-year, if he would retire to a cheap place in privacy — one of those plausible arrange- ments, to which few cliaracl-era can long submit. He accepted the proposition, but with intentions difluront from tliose of his friends. They intended that he should retire to Swansea for life, but ho designed only to take the opportunity which their scheme oilered, to retreat from the world tn prepare a play for the stage, and his other works for the press. "He had," says Dr. Johnson, "planned a scheme of life tor the country, of which he had no knowledge but from pastorals and songs. He imagined that he should be trans- 7^ 74 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. \ i' \ ported to scenes of flowery felicity, like those which one poet has reflected to another ; and had projected a perpetual round of inno- cent pleasures, of which he suspected no interruption from pride, or ignorance, or brutality." Full of these beautiful fancies, a subscription having been raised, by which the sum of fifty pounds a year was procured for him — equal to the magnificent pension which 'a poo^' ilayor," Mrs. Oldfield, had mnny years before allowed — . lof , cndou in 1739, having taken a render leave of his friends - u ■■. ;>«d not been gone above fourteen days, when they received a ..:.t,t('r ''i.. ,\ him, saying that he was still upon the road and without mc ; > i'. r mittance was sent to him, but at Bristol he found an embargo uj*. ,. '■,he shipping, so that he could not proceed to Swansea, and in the mean time he so irritated his friends that many of them cancelled their subscriptions, and in the end he was allowed to proceed to Swansea much dissatis- fied with his diminished allowance. He however completed his tragedy ; had recourse to another subscription-scheme for his works, and yet, through a course of distressing difficulties, he preserved his mind in its wonted cheerfulness. In this state of things his fortunes continued till the 10th of January, 1742-3, when hjS was arrested at Bristol for a debt of eight pounds. After this event he was removed to Newgate iu that city, where the celebrated Beau Nash, of Bath, sent him five pounds. His time in the prison was spent in study, or in receiving visits, but he sometimes descended to lower amusement, and mingled in con- versation with the criminals. When he had been six months in prison he received from his friend Pope a letter containing a charge of very atrocious ingratitude. To this charge he protested his inno- cence, and was evidently disturbed at the accusation. In a few days he became unwell, but his condition was not deemed to be dangerous. The last time the keeper saw him was on the 31st July, 1743, when Savage called him to his bed-side, and said with an uncommon ear- nestness, ' ' I have something to say to you " — but, after a pause, he moved his hand in a melancholy manner, and finding himself unable to utter what he intended to communicate, said " 'Tis gone ! " — the keeper soon after left him. My persuasion is that he intended to confess his imposture. Next morning he died, and was buried in the churchyard of St. Peter's, Bristol, at the expense of the keeper. SUSANNA CEN TL I VRE. I -' 11 Reality often beggars romance in the biogiaphy of the players, and the memoirs of this gifted lady, though not distinguished by the occurrence of many events, verifies the opinion. She was the daughter of a Liucolnshiro gentleman, Mr. Freeman, who being a zealous Parliameutariiin, was, at the time of the Rostoi'ation, exposed to such persecution, that his estate was confiscated, and himself obliged to SUSANNA CENTLIVBE. 75 seek an asylum in Ireland, where some have supposed that, about the year 3680, our heroine was born. Before she had completed her twelfth year she lost her mother, from whom, as her works abundantly testify, she must have received, even with her innate genius, the elements of an education conducted with no ordinary solicitude and skill. Her father married a second time, but her situation grew so unhappy with her stepmother, that it could not be endured, and in consequence, although almost desti- tute of money, she resolved to go up to London, conscious of pos- sessing endowments that would help her to fortune. At this time her father was again residing in England, and it happened in the course of her elopement from his house, that as sbo was proceeding on her journey alone and on foot, she fell in with the celebrated Anthony Hammond, then a student at the university of Cambridge. Interested by her youth, beauty, and enterprise, he fell instantly in love with her, and prevailed on her to accompany him to Cambridge, where, dressing her in boy's clothes, he introduced her to his companions as a relation who had come to see the colleges. This single adventure was a suitable prologue to an eccentric life, for it was obviously too extraordinary to last long, as, indeed, the result showed. When their intercourse had lasted some time, they grew tired of their hidden joys, insomuch that Hammond found no difficulty in persuading her to proceed to London ; and having fur- nished her with money, and a letter of recommendation to a gentle- woman of his acquaintance in town, they parted with protestations of attachment and hopes to meet again. Whether this story is altogether well founded cannot now be determined, but certain it is that in her sixteenth year she was mar- ried to her first husband, a well-born gentleman of the name of Fox ; he, however, diel in the course of the first twelve months, and with the aid of her wit and beauty she soon solaced her widowhood by a second marriage to an officer in the army of the name of Carrol, who was killed in a duel within a year and a lialf of their union. To her second husband she appears to have been sincerely attached, and his loss was lamented as a great affliction ; but the straitened circumstances in which he had bequeathed her to the world, roused her latent genius, and animated those talents for literature which have so brilliantly inscribed her name among the most illustrious dramatic writers of England. Alike to divert her melancholy and to improve her scanty means of livelihood, she had recourse to her pen, and published some of her earliest pieces under the name of Carrol. Her first drama was a tragedy, Tha Perjured Husband, but the native bent of her talent soon induced her to shake off the b iskin ; and among her eighteen plays only one other attempt in that department is found. When she made her first appearance on the stage seems to be involved in some obscurity, for she never became a distinguished performer, though she undoubtedly possessed an admirable conception of the dramatic art ; and it is no doubt owing to this circumstance that the event was so little remarkable. We find, however, that in 1700, while acting in Lee's Eival Queens at Windsor, the beam of 7G LIVES OF THE PLAYEES. her bright eye pierced the hear* of Mr. Joseph Centlivre, the principal cook to Queen Anne ; soon after lie married her, and they lived hap- pily together for seventeen years, during which she enjoyed a friendly intimacy with most qf the eminent wits of that period, and was much caressed by the great. Her spirit and beauty were, indeed, highly celebrated ; and, notwithstanding the blemish she incurred in the outset of her life, her good sense defended her against the assaults of folly. Like her father, she was xmiformly a fervent partisan, and zealously attached to Whig principles, more eagerly so, perhaps, than was comely in her sex. Her comedies evince not only this pre- dilection, but an ardent regard for the Hanoverian family ; and it has been said, that though by it she procured some fi'iends, she provoked many adversaries. On the Ist of December 1723, she died in the house of her husband in Spring Gardens, Charing Cross, and her memory was preserved with sentiments of esteem and affection by the numerous friends t:he had secured by her good-nature, intelligence, and sprightly conver- sation. These brief notices comprehend all that has been deemed worthy of being recorded for the information of posterity concerning Mrs. Centlivre ; but we can lordly imagine that the knowledge of charac- ter and of the ways of the world, which shines through her works, could have been obtained without adventure. In this knowledge she has few superiors ; for if in wit she was inferior to her distin- guished dramatic predecessor, Mrs. Behn, she was more than her equal in the skill with which she constructed her amusing plots, and the true nature with which slie endowed her characters. In terseness of language and brilliancy of wit she has had many rivals, for in these respects she was )iot eminent ; but the success with which her Bui I Stroke for a Wife, The Busy Body, and, above all, The Wonder, still maintain her celebrity on the stage, are proofs how well she had observed the manners of mankind, and penetrated to the cells of the comic echoes in the heart. COLLEY CIBBER. ( CoLbEV Gibber was born in London on the Gth November 1671. His tathuf was a native of Holsteiii, and came into England some time before the Restoration. He was a sculptor by profession, and of considerable celebrity. He executed ths basso-relievo on tbd pedestal of the London Monument, and the two figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, which were formerly over the gates of Bethlehem Hospital. One of these, the statue ot Raving Madness, lias always been esteemed a work of superior skill and art. His mother was descended of a respectable family of the name of CoUey, in Rutlandshire, but whicii had fallen into decay. In the year 1G82, when little more than ten years of age, he was !i VOLLEY riBBER. 77 sent to the free school of Grantham, in Lincohishire, where he passed from the lowest form to the uppermost, and acquired all tlie learning he ever could pretend to. His proficiency, as he acknowledges him- self, was not remarkable ; for he was a giddy, negligent boy, full of spirits, with small capacity to do right, and a lively alacrity to do wrong. It was not, however, so much from any deficiency of talent, that he WHS not distinguished among his school-fellows, as from his play- fulness and indiscretion ; indeed, his thoughtlessness, even at school, exposed liim to many mortifications, besides being whipped for inattention to his lessons. On one occasion, a great boy, in some wrangle at play, had insulted him, upon which he gave him a box on the ear ; the blow was soon returned by another which brought him to the ground, when one of his companions, whom he thought a good-natured lad, cried out to his antagonist, "Beat him, beat him soundly." This so amazed Gibber, that he lost the spirit to resist, and burst into tears. When the fray was over, he took his friend aside, and inquired how he came to be so fiercely against him : " Because," rei)lied the boy, *' you are always jeering and making a jest of me to every boy in the school." Without intending any harm his wit had secretly provoked the malice of his companion to such a degree that he could not repress his vindictive feelings when an opportunity occurred to indulge them. But he adds : "Many a mis- chief have I brought upon myself by the same folly in riper life. Whatever reason I liad to reproach my companion for declaring against me, I had none to wonder at it, while 1 was so often hurting him. I deserved his enmity by my not having hud sense enough to know that I had hurt him ; and he hated me, because he had not sense enough to know that I never intended to hurt him." What Colley Gibber observed upon having undesignedly provoked his school friend into an enemy, is a common case in society ; errors of this kind often sour the blood of acquaintance into aversion where it is but litth' suspected. It is not enough to say that no ofi"ence was intended : if the person to whom it is offered has either a wrong head or wants capacity to make the distinction, it may have the same effect as the grossest intention. In reality, if an adversary's parts are too slow to return your wit in kind, it is inhumanity to suppose him to be of a passive nature ; if you find him silent, there can be no excuse for not leaving off". When conscious that an antagonist can give as well as take, then the smarter the hit the more agreeable the parry. A manly character will never be grave on an attack of this kind ; but in the merriment of vulgar people, when the jest begins to swell into earnest, he that has least wit generally gives the first blow. Among the better sort, readiness of wit is not always a sign of intrinsic merit, nor the want of it a reproach to a man of plain sense ; who therefore should never have these liberties taken with liim, — ill-nature, I am sure it is, which a generous spirit will always avoid. Wounds yiven by inconsiderate insults are as dangerous as those given by opi)ression. There is, besides, a grossness in raillery that is sometimes more painful to the hearers than to the persons engaged in it. i 78 LIVES OF THIS PLAYERS. 'I :. I : \ In February l(>84-5, Kiny Cluules 11. died, and. being the only King he had ever seen, he speaks of his death with a degree of regret that can hardly, in these times, be appreciated. " It made," said he, " a strong impression upon me, as it drew tears from the eyes of the multitude, who looked no farther into his merits than I did ; but it was then a sort of school doctrine to regard our Monarch as a deity, as, in the former reign, it was to regard hiui as responsible in this world as well as in the next. But what gave Charles II. this peculiar possession of so many hearts was his affability, — a quality that goes farther with the greater part of mankind thaxi many higher virtues. Even his indolent amusement of playing with his dogs, und feeding his ducks in St. James's Park, made the common people adore him, and overlook in him what in a prince of a diflerent temper they would have otherwise regarded." The death of the King was an event in the history of the school : the master enjoined the boys, on the form with Gibber, severally to compose a funeral oration for the occasion. This was a task so entirely new, that the other boys heard the proposal, and declined the work, as above their capacity. Of course, his essay was crude and simple enough — the chief topic was the affability of the King, .•(rising out of his recoUebtion of the circumstances alluded to. The orati(ni was produced next morning : all the other boys pleaded their inability ; but the master, accepting the excuse rather as a mark of their modesty than of their idleness, only seemed to punish them by setting him at the head of the form— a preferment dearly bought, for he led a most uncomfortable life for many a day aniong them, being jeered and laughed at by them all, as one who had betrayed tlie wliole form, insomuch that scarcely one of them would keep hi» company ; and though it procured for him favour from the master, the distinction only provoked their envy, and subjected him to treatment that would have frightened a boy of a meeker spirit. It, Iiowever, had not the effect of repressing his emulation, which, strangely enough, he calls stupidity, because he did not affect to be of a lower capacity than he was conscious of possessing. On the 23rd of April following, being the coronation of the new King, the school petitioned for a holiday, to which the master agreed, provided any of the boys would write an English ode upon the t)ccasion. Gibber proved the author of the ode, which he produced in abont half an hour. It was as bad as could reasonably be expected ; but it served to get the school a play-day, and to stimulate the vanity of the author ; env}' of his school-fellows, that they a while it so irritated the left him out of the party of in that day's \ creation. Although he had most a mind to be Cibber has described tliese incidents of the liny's world amusingly, still the lesson to the man is impressive. Few have ever acquired nay degree of distinction, without observing something of an aliena- tion of heart produced by it aniong his contemporaries, especially among his early companicms. About the year 1G87, Gibber was taken from school to stand at the ■(flection of children into Winchester GoUege ; and being by his mother's side, a collateral descendant of William of Wykeman, the COLLET riBBER. founder, his father, who knew as little of the world as artists in gen- eral do, imagined that advantage would be security enough for his success, and so sent him thither without recommendation or interest, but only naked merit, and a pompous pedigree in his pocket. Had he tacked a direction to his back, and seiit him by the carrier to the mayor of the town, to be chosen member of Parliament there, he might have had just as much chance to have succeeded in the one as the other. But his father bought experience from his failure on thia occasion, and afterwards took more care of CoUey's brother, in re- commending him to the College, by presenting a statr*^ of the founder of his own making. This statue now stands over tiio school-door, and was so well executed, that it seemed to speak for its kinsman, and did so to good eftect ; for it was no sooner set up than the door of preferment was opened. It was about this time that Cibber first imbibed an inclination for the stage, which, however, he durst not reveal ; for, besides knowing that it would disoblige his father, he had no conception of any prac- ticable means of making his way to it. He therefore suppressed the bewitching ideas of so sublime a station, and compounded with his ambition, by adopting a lower scheme of getting the nearest way into the immediate life of a gentleman collegiate. At thia period his father was engaged at Chatsworth by the then Eavl of Devonshire, who was raising that princely place from Gothic ti > Classic magnifi- cence, and Cibber pressed him by letter not to let him wait another year for an uncertain preferment at Winchester, but give him leave to go at once to the University. This was acceded to ; but his father, unwilling to allow him to lie too long idling in London, sent for him down to Chatsworth, to be under his own eye, till he should be at leisure to carry him to Cambridge. Before setting out on his journey, the nation fell in labour of the Revolution of 1688, the news being then just brought to London that the Prince of Orange had landed in the West. It thus happened that when Cibber came to Nottingham, he found his father in arma thei;j among the forces which the Earl of Devonshire had raised. His father judged the season proper for a stripling to turn himself loose into the bustle of the world, and being too far advanced in years to endure the fatigues of a winter campaign, he entreated the Earl to accept his son in his stead. Tlvs was so well received, that his Lordship not only accepted his 8er^ ces, but promised his father that when affairs were settled he would provide for him. "At this crisis, " says Cibber, with that vanity which runs through all ho ever did or said, " it will be observed that the faio of King James, and of the Prince of Orange, and of myself, were all at once upon the anvil. Who knows," says he, " had I been sent to the University, but by this time that purer fomitain might have washed my imperfections into a capacity of writing, instead of plays and annual odes, sermons and pastoral letters ] " He claimed at this period to be considered as one among those desperate thousands who, after a patience sorely tried, took arms under the banner of Necessity. Up to this time, all tlie incidents which Cibber has recorded of himself have been detailed. How he •i 1 li m LI r i:S OF THE PL A YE MS. came to bo one of tlioso desperate thousands, or how his jjutieuce was soroly tried, ie about as ludicrous a pretention as some oi thosu {.<• pod fado apoloji;ie8 pf the managers, when a singer has happened to get a slight cold, or a playor an invitation to a gentleman's table ; "a bowl complaii'l," as old llock of Edinburgh once said t(» the audience of C<>oke, when that spirited player was unable to go tlirough ills part, in all the histories of empires, there is no (me instance of so bloodless a Revolution as that of England in 1088. The whigs, the lories, princes, prelates, nobles, clergy, common people, and a stand- ing army, were all unanimous. To have seen all England of one mind, is to have lived, as Oibber savagely says, " at a vcvy particular juncture. Happy nation, who are never divided amovg themselves but when they have least to coni plain of I " The philosophical sagacity of Cibbor has always been undervalued. Wo appears at this time to have had a very correct opinion of the state of tlio nition ; it accords with our own, which is, that from the tiuio of the Uostoration of Charles II. the anti-Stuart faction had lived in the ashes of the Revolution. I have long been of opinion, over since I studied the details of Charles I.'s reign, that there always exisUnl in England a faction adverse to the Stuart lino ; nor do I think it would bo a dillicult task to show, that in combinati(m with the Puritans and I'rosbyteriaus, it was that faction which 3[>irited on tho luaiccmtonts of Charles I.'s time to tiio tragedies of his reign. The contem|)orary writers of King Jamns ll.'s time sutHciently show that tlioro was no lack of froetUmx of tongue at that [)eiio:l. Though the rod of arbitrary }»ower was always shaking over tliom, wit.li what fn'odom and oontomi)t did the poo[)le in the open streets talk of liis wild measures to make a whole I'rotostant nation Rapists? and yet, in the height of security, the vulgar had no farther notion nsort's revolt, had withdrawn herself in tho night from London, and was within half a day's journey of Nottingham. In this alarm tho Earl of Devonshire's troops scrambled to arms, and having advanced some few miles on the L(mdon road, they met the Princess in a coach, attended only by the Lady Churchill, (after- wards tlie celebrated Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough,) whom tlicy conducted into Nottingliani amidst tho acclamations of tho peojile. The same night, all tlio noblemen and other persons of distinction then in ,irms with the Earl of Devcmshiro, had tho honour to sup at her l{oyal Higlinesa's table, which was then furnished, as all her necessary acconimodations were, at the charge of his Tjordahip. In consequence of the noble guests at the table happening to bo more in number than attendants out of livery could bo found, (Jibber, being well known to the Tiord Dovonsliiro's family, was reipu'sted by liis Ltu-dship's maltre d'hotel to attend tho Lady Churchill. l>eing so near tho table he gives a most satisfactory account of the conversation which ho overheard : it consisted of the important re()U0Hts, "some wine or water," — (piestions ecjualiy renuirkable for their political wisdom aiul simplicity. It ap[)ear3 that our predestinei' player fell in love i>n this occasion 82 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. i u with tlie Lady Churchill, for it would be wrong to recall her to the recollection of the reader with any minor epithet. The account of his feelings is amusing, considering the relative state of the parties, — he the son of a stohe-chipper, and she the loftiest lady of the greatest hero and statesman of the time. " The words, ' some wine and water,' I remember," says he, "came distinguished and observed to my ear, because they came from the fair guest whom I took such pleasure to wait on. Except at that single sound all my senses were collected into my eyes, which, during the whole entertainment, wanted no better amusement than of stealing now and then the delight of gazing on the object so near me. If so clear an emanation of beauty, such a commanding grace of aspect struck me into a regard that had something softer than the most profound respect in it, I cannot see why I may not without oiFence remember it ; since beauty, like the sun, must sometimes lose its power to choose, and will shine with etjual Avarmth on the peasant and the courtier." It would, however, be doing injustice to Gibber, who was not with- out gentlemanly delicacy, were we to atop here ; for he adds, with something both of correct taste and good feeling; "I remember, about twenty years after, when the same lady had given the world four of the loveliest daughters that ever were gazed on, even after they wore all nobly married, and were become the reigning toasts of every party of pleasure, their still k>vely mother had at the same time her votaries, and her health very often took the lead in those involuntary triumphs of beauty. However presumptuous or im- pertinent these thoughts might have appeared at my tirst entertain- ing them, why nuiy 1 not hope that my having kept them decently se1IH, lint) irlio for )nl- ingly, at his suggestion, Gibber drew up a petition in Latin to the Duke oi Devonshire, entreating his Grace would be pleased to do something for him ; and the Duke in reply requested him to come to London in the coarse of the winter, when he ' ould make some pro- vision for him. Accordingly to London he went ; but it was harder to know what he was really fit for, than to have got him any thing that was not fit for him. However, he commenced his first state of dependence, which lasted about five months • but in the interval he became wholly en- chanted by the stage, • id saw no other pleasure in any life but in that of an actor. On the stage alone he conceived there was a happi- ness preferable to all that courts or camps could offer ; and there, let father and mother take it as they pleased, he was determined to fix his ultimate views. In saying this he frankly' acknowledges that ho had not much to complain of in the remissness of the Duke of Devonshire ; on the contrary, he freely confesses that he believes his (trace's intentions towards him were only repressed by his own inconsiderate folly, for he was credibly inforinod by the gentlemen of liis Grace's household, that they had heard him in their hearing talk of rocommonding liiui to the Secretary of Htate for the first pre '^r vacancy in liis oflice. The allurements of a theatre, however, we... jtroug in his mind, and lie never repented the rashness which threw him on the stage ; on the contrary, he never ceased to think, that were it possible to remove the ^jrejudice which custom has thrown on the profession of an actor, many a well-born younger brother and beauty of low fortune would gladly adorn the stage, ratlior than pass their lives av ay unheeded and forgotten. A ctmsiderable part of Mr. Cil)ber's " Apology for his Life" is occupied with ihe condition in wliich he found the stage at the period he first a])[)eared on it ; and it must be confessed, that to judge of their merits hy the applau.se of tlieir contemporaries, the actors and actresses of tliat tit nt were possessed of nn having eounuanded The lhu}>1c Ihah.r, R,ii!i •^on liapiiened to be iuial)le to take his part of Lord 'I'onchwo' d. In ' is exigency, Mr. tJongreve, the author, advised tho manag n* to r^ vi it to Gibber, if, at so short a warning, he would undertake it. The llji,ttery of being so distinguished by soc(!lebrated an author, and the honour to act before a (^)ueun, made him blind to.-dl difliculties. He accepted the part, was ready in it before he slept, and next day the Queen was present at the performance. After the play Congreve complimenti'd him on his endeavoiu's ; assurtnl him that he had exceeded his expectations ; and proved as good as iiis word, for his salary was by his inlluence from that tii»ie augmented ; but soon after the actors and uuiniigers fell out of sorts, and a house divided against itself /(>riti(>d the ancient proverb. However, the King interixmed, an. I, under his Majesty's patronage, a party of the playi'rs, wi"i IJetterton at their liead, were formed in oiiposition to tiu) patentees. It was in tlie ye ic i;»!(4 t!';i the great war between the [)otentates of the drama rageti kvith the stormiest fury ; but the patentees were not ttblo to tiTto Viu: ueld till Easter Mond ly folhiwing. On that occasion. Gibber wioto j>ro)'>:'ue, iov \ hich lir received two guineas ; its c^'.it;^ ,d\'; i^ago, however, consisted in thi^ ai)prol»atioii with which i' .ad riicuived^ and the iu!provcd light in which it shovvu'l him ti! .1 e towj;. COLLEY CI B BE It 8.> Tn Sl;i l.*r'^*^'*; itre's tinio the nightly expenses for lights, etc. were but forty- tive shillings, and having deducted this charge, the residue was divided into shares (forty in number) between the proprietors an I the principal actors. In 1G66 the profits arising from acting plays, miisques, etc.. at the King's Theatre, was divided into twelve shares anvl tbree quarters, which produced him about £250 net per annum, i i Sir William Davenant's company, from the time their new theatre was opened in Portugal-row, the receipts, after deduct- ing the nightly expenses, were divided into fifteen shares, of which Davenant h;d ten, and the remainder was divided among the male members of his troop, according to their rank and merit. On the occasion of the great success which attended Love for Love, Congrevej bet'ides his ;)roiits from this play, was allowed a share, but the amount of retenders who disgraced tliem ! Cibher only escaped from thus miiiistering to the corruption of the public taste by being supi)osed in.uleciuate to fill axy of the leading characters. His patient stiuly could not, how- ever, continue long unnoticed ; and an occurrence took place liighlj' illustrative of the v(jcation of the players, and the gre.at importance of which trivial matters are to little men. ]t happened, on a Saturday morning, that the patentees received notice that JJetterton's party Avere to enact Hamlet on the Tuesday after. A march was in conseciuence resolved to be stolen on the enemy, and limnlet was on that night given out to be acted on Mon- day. The notic(! of this sotm reached the other party, who on hearing it, shortened tlieir tirst orders, and resolved also to act llamht on Monday, s(t tluit when their Monday's bills tame out, the consterna- tion of ('ihlier's friends was terrible. In this dilemma, the play \vi>s again changed; The Old Inivhilif was substituted, and Gibber playrd, for the first time, Aldenuan Fondlewife, with much applau.se. It was on this occasion that he first einin ntly distinguished himself as a player, and from this date gradually rose in his profession. After his appearance in The (Hd BoeheJor, he jjrodueed his lirst conioily, Loee\ Lud Sliij'f, which, by the friendly connuendations of Southern, was brought upon the stage. In tiiis comedy, Gibber him- self played the part of Sir Novelty with so much (?clat, that the Lord Ghami)erlaii! of the time .said it was thr Itcst first play that any autlioi , in his nieiiiitry, had produced ; and tliat for a young fellow to show liimself such an actor and author in one day, was smaething very h 1 1 ■86 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. extraordinary. His next part was in Lord Foppingham, in The Rc- hijise of Sir John Vanbrush ; and the year following lie appeared in /Esop, in the comedy of that name, by the same accomplished author. But his triumph in thfese parts only served to convince him that he was not destined to attain eminence in tra<,'edy ; for although he appeared at different times, with considerable approbation, in the character of lago, Wolsey, Syjihax, Richard the Third, etc., he was conscious that he did not possess a requisite tragedy voice. So strong, — so very nearly indispensable is that one article, voice, in the forming of a good tragedian, that an actor may want any other qualification whatsoever, and yet have a better chance for appla\ise than with all the skill in the world, if his voice is not equal to the part. It merits notice, however, that in the tragic characters just men- tioned, Cibber has been allowed to possess superior talent, — not, however, in the forcible enunciation of \v)iat he had to deliver, so much as in the propriety with whicli he did it ; and he makes an observation which cannot be too often repeated. "These characters," — he alludes to those just named — '' are generally better written, thicker sown witli sensible retlections, and come so much nearer to common life and nature tha!i characters of admiration, tliat I some- times could not lielp smiling at thodo dainty actors that were too Sijaeamish to swnllow them." It is not surely what wo act, but how wo act the })art allotted to rr?, that speaks our intrinsic wortl In real lif€\ tlie wise man or the fool, be lie prince or peasant, will be eqiuiUy the fool or the wise man. The next attenii)t of Cibber at dramatic c()mi>osition was Tjove in a Jiiddi^ — an opera got up expressly i)i imitation of Gay's Bcngar's Opera, but it did not succeed. Besides being an original dramatic author, CoUey Cibber had very considerable merit as an adaptor of o';' phiys to the taste of his own time. In this he had a strict eye, in many things, toJcremy Collier's "View of the Stage," etc., pul.lislied about the \ ear l(!7i) ; at tlie same time his approliation of that poj)ular writer's seiitiuients was not admitted to their full extent ; Sir Richard Steele, especially in No. VFII. of the Tatler, lias been ([iioted as allording a more just desc'iption of the stage, and yet tlie truth probably lay between them. Stct Jf recommends the stage as an easy and agreeable metliod of making a polite and moral gentry, which wnidd end, as he thought, in rendering the rest of the people regular in their conduct, and ambitious of laudable undertakings. " Tiie business of ))lay8," observes (Sillier, " is to recommend virtue and discountenance vice ; to show the uncertainty of human greatness, and the nnhai>py con- clusions of violence and injustice ; to exi)ose the singularities ot pride ; to repress atlectation; to make falsehood eontemptible ; and, in short, to Ining infamy and neglect u]ion every bad thing that deserves their visitations." fn so far it therefore eiMinot be said that there w;ih any great, diU'erence between tiie princi[iles of Collier and of St(>ele ; but it could not be maintained that they were both right. They regarded the stai:o too narrowly ; for, after all that may lie said of its moral inlluenee, iinqueslional)ly it ought only to be regarded sis an amuso- mont. it may touch moral lessons, and inculcate truth by example. VOLLEY CIBBEB. 87 "but it does not seem to be legitimately following its natural course when it assumes the character of a moral pulpit, and co^ tines its views only to the teaching of exemplary lessons. Still, however, Collier's work produced a great impression, and had its due effect, even at Court. Indecencies were no longer regarded as wit ; and such was the influence of his exhortation, that by degrees the fair sex came to fill the boxes on the first night of a new comedy with(nit bashfulness and without censure ; so strict was the watch which the Master of the Revels, who licenced all plays for the stage, contrived to keep over them. Indeed, he carried his authority in this respect to an extremity that argued but little for a fair concep- tion of his duties, and sometimes exposed him to ridicule and satire : he would strike out whole scenes of an immoral character, though it were shown to be reformed or punished. Still, however, in the end he so far succeeded, that many of those objections which, in the days of Steele and Collier, were justly alleged against the drama, have been removed ; and if the stage has since not been improved in vigour, it is undoubtedly no longer objectionable on the score either of un- chaste language or uncomely action. Cibber tells an amusing anecd(jte of what happened to himself when he presented his version of Kin-»• £3C r 88 LIVES OF THE PL AYE US. Uii beloiigod to several grave bodies — that they lived in colleges, and were, in fact, members of the law. The players were not, however, dismayed ; they stuck up bills for a new piece, and there was the same crowding to tlio theatre the next night. The autlior liaving by judicious Hattery tamed this wild audience, the piece was allowed to proceed. It was a farce, in which the French were laughably caricatured ; indeed, to such a degree, and so much in unison with the popular opinion, that the damnation of the piece was :)rgotten : I believe since that time the law has been allowed to take its course. In no part of his career was Colley Gibber ever otherwise than an actor of promise. He was at all times esteemed as a clever and judicious performer ; but he never fully realised the expectations of his friends : still he was undoubtedly a person of much merit, and in the "Apology for his Life " he has left behind him Mue of the most agreeable works in the English language— for, although it abounds in lively gossiping, it is nevertheless a book which contains many able and acute observations, with an air of agreeable trifling : wc in V . »; look for his competitor. In 1707 he was esteemed by Mr. Rich the patentee, as an actor of some consequence, but rather for his excellence generally, than for any particular distinction ; and in the ensuing year, when Colonel Brett who married the Countess of Macclesfield (the mother of Savage) became one of the patentees of Drury Lane, Cihber joined him. His life, as a player, had oven more than the common m(»notony of a player's life, and he had, chiefly owing to his good temper, fewer of the petty ''trignes which make up so nuich of its importance and bustle, than ure to be met with in the adventures of less eminent men. In 1711 he became united, as joint patentee, with Collier, Wilks. and Dogget, in the management of Drury Lane ; and, afterwards, in a like partnership with Booth, Wilks, and Sir Richard Steele. During this period, which did not end till 1731, the English stage, in point of performance, attained a pitch of sui-passing splendour ; but about that period the principal ijerformers diec^ or retired, and Gibber sold out his part of the patent, and knitted the stage as a business. It could not bo said that he entirely retired, for he occasionally played some of his be«t parts, and was rewarded by being paid fifty guineas per night -the higheni salary ever given till that time to any English player. In 174.>, though upwards of seventy-four, he appeared as Pandulph, m his ov, n drama, called t'apal Tyranuji, being an alteration of Shakespeare's Kiiuj John - and which, notwithstanding liis great age, he is said to have even then performed with great spirit "»wi px-etoi-natural vigour. It has been supposed, but without warranty from fact, that his promotion to tht" laurel in 1730, on the death of Mr. Ensden, had a material efl'ect in inducing him to leave the stage ; the result, how- ever, of his occasifmal «|»pearance afterwards refutes this conjecture ; for, by this time, he was well iware that he could not hope to attain greater eminence by continuing, and his fortune was adeiiuate to his wants. After he quitted the stage, he piwavd the remainder of his COLLEY CIBBER. 89 time in ease and good-huinour, and died on the 12th of December, 1757, at Islington, where he had recently completed his eighty-sixth year. His end was without pain ; and, considering the difficvilties he overcame, the honour he acquired, and, his long, gay, and happy life, he fairly deserves to be quoted as an instance of a felicitous and fortunate adventurer. The character of Gibber has not always received uniform justice, and especially in his difference with Pope, the poet, who, to un- common shrewdness, united a spiteful and vindictive nature. He, in fact, kept the laugh constantly against Pope, and preserved, in opposition to his malevolence and spleen, a gaiety and good-humour that was only the more to bo envied as it could seldom be disturbed. There was, in fact, at that time two kinds of literary men — those who were properly connected with the stage, and those Avho trusted more to the press. Gibber and Pope were at the head of the respec- tive parties ; and, in addition to personal rivalry, they had each tlie rancour of their different sects. It must, however, be admitted that Gibber had always the superiority in temper and cheerfulness ; and that, in both of these enviable qualities, if the pout coukl occasionally boast of saying the more brilliant witticisms, the player more regularly maintained a joyous and gentlemanly de[)()rtment. Few men had more personal friends, and perhaps a greater number of undeserved enemies ; but the malevolence of his adversaries had little effect on his spleen : he seemed, indeed, truly of Sir Harry Wildair's temperament. Nor did it seem within the power of age and infirmity to get the better of that self-satisfied humour which accom- panied him throughout life : even in his latter years, when in the midst of a circle of persons much his juniors, through his easy good-nature, liveliness in conversation, and a peculiar happiness he enjoyed in tell- ing a story, he was the very life of the party. Besides these high com- panionable qualities, he was celebrated for his benevolence and humanity, and by his unwearied charity, showed how truly he pos- sessed a good and tender heart. I have already described his person, as it is transmitted to us by himself. His chief excellence lay in the walk of fops and feeble old men in comedy ; in the former, he does not ai)pear to have been excelled in any period before him, and not often surpassed since. He has spoken of his merits with great moderation ; and there is good reason to believe that he has tipon tiie second day, he desired it might be given to another, and it was transferred accord- ingly to an actor who did the conception of the author better justice. CoUey Gibber describes Dogget as immovable in his opinion, in whatever he thought was right or wrong, and that he always set up for a theatrical patriot — was turbulent under every description of dramatic government — and so warm in the pursuit of his interest, that he generally outran it. He was three times unemployed at any theatre, from being unable to bear, in common with others, those accidents which, among the players, are unavoidable. But, although Dogget was often a disagreeable companion, yet his obstinacy at times assumed the deportment of virtue. From a severe exactness in his nature, he was often unhappy, especially in situations where irregularity too often prevails ; but, in his private affairs, he was always esteemed an uncommonly prudent man. When he returned to act under the patent in Drury Lane, he took unusual care to have his articles binding ; having, however, afterwards some reason to think that the patentees did not deal with him as tiiey ought, he (quitted the stage and would act no more ; hue the patentee who, ivoni other people's judgment, knew his value, thought tliat tlic sure way would be to solicit his return by the authority of the Lord Chamberlain. An application was accordingly made to his Lordship to bring up Doggot from JSorwich, where he then was. The actor, who had money in his pocket and freedom at his heart, was not in the least intimidated by this fi)rniidable suumions. He obeyed it with particular cheerfulness, and entertained his fellow-traveller, the messenger, all the way with much humour — for he could be often a cheerful companion. Upon his arrival in town, he applied to Lord Chief Justice Holt, and that eminent persim took particular notice of the application, for he not only discharged Dogget, but in open court censured the extravagance which had been committed in the process, under the name of the law. The agents, finding tliat tliey had not acted with duo circumspection, altered their manner, were mollified into milder proceedings, and pacified him in the best way they could. Although, in this instance, the oppression of authority was not resented by Dogyet as such, still the character of the transaction was not chnnged. With a perscm of less firmness, it niiuilit have been productive of evil, and tlierefore ought to be considered by its ten- dency, rather than its etl'ect. At the same time, there can be no doubt that tlie Lord Cliamberlain was not actuated by any malicious enmity : that he conceived his ottice invested him with the power he exercised, is certain ; but, with i jealousy of authority which can never bo too wakefuUy Avatched, such encroachments should be ever properly, according to law, resisted. in 17U8, Hwiny, who was sole director of the 0]^era, had the Lord IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) L % A t"ly, r;> in \\w it is j^t^nomlly ilrosHod iil<») my jku-hoii, in blatjiv. Aloliinchttly is iU ovcry-duy aiipiuol, and it has hitliorlo fnund fow lidlidays to niako it dian^'o its clotlxiH. In .short, my conHtitution iu' vi-ry HiiKuiotic and yi-t vnry amoroiiH ; botli which I ondcavonr to liidi), luHt till) formi'i- siiould otlond othorn, and thii lattor inoonnnodo myaoU'. And my roanon is ho viijihint in lostrainin},' tlioso two fuil- i:i!;s, tiiat i am taivun for an uaHy-naturcd man with my own mcx, and an ill-natnivd oh)wn by yoni'H. ■ I havo vt'*'v littio oHtato but what lit's umlor tho circumforonoo of my liat ; aiid shouhl I by niimtliancn comn to hmo my hoad, I nliould not bo worth a j^roat ; l)ut I oiii^Iit to thank J'roviiUinco tiiat i can l)y thnu! lionis' study live ono-and-twonty witli watisfaction to mysolf, and contribute to tlio maintcnanco of more families than aouii* who have tlio\isaiids a-yisnr. " I liavo Honu'tliinj^ in my outward behaviour wh'ch j^ivoastram^'irH a worse o[»inion of mo tlian I disorve ; l)nt I am more tiian rocom- |)cnsed by tho opinion of my ac(iuaintance, wiiich is as mucli abovu my discrt. " I iiave nuiny ac(|uaiMt;iuci\ very fow intimates, but no fricmd, — 1 moan in tho old romjihitic way ; I havo no secret so woij^hty l)nt wluit I can boar in my own breast ; nor any duels to light but what 1 may onLi;a",o in wiiluuit a aecoud ; nor can I htvo after the old romantic discipline. I would havo my passion, if not lod, yet at least Waited on by my reason ; and the greatest i)roof of i ly al'oction tiiat a lady must expect is this, 1 wo\dd run any ha;^ard to r.iako uh 'i)oth happy, but would not for any transitory pleasure luaUe either »)f us miser.'iblo. " if ever. Madam, you come to know the lifo of tiiis > iece, as woU as ho that drew it, you will conclude that I need m i subucribo tho name to tho pictiu-e.'' To this vivid sketch, it only remains for me to f-.ay n fow words ro- 8j)ecting his genius. .\r a player, his merits wer" obviously of ai' ordinary aliunp, for altiiougii he loft the stage in varly lifo, \w doc.-, not appear to havo felt within hinuself tho consciousness that he WiS able to excel, lie was vino of those men of genius, who deserve the epithet of bright, rather than sph'udiil. In the choice of his subjects, tho aprightli- ni>88 ol his dialogue, and the life of his characters, his contempovariea appeared, by their reception of his works, to h.ivo thor'i;ht him highly estimable, but posterity olijects to the licentiousness of siune of ais scenes, a fault he iidu'rited from the taste of iiis age ; still the reader that considers his youth, talents, and misfortunes, will sigh over tho memory of one wl.o has extended tho scope of jxcund ijleasures. It deserves to be particuliirly reiiiitrked, that tiUhough few men live Uioro in convorBatiun than Quin, there iu no gootl lifo of him extant. JAMJJS QUIN. iiil Lilies !18 1 bliiuk. md fmv utiuii is' vour to tllllliotlo ,w<» fiiil- 8CX, and iforoncH lio;i(l, I uco that ictiou to ios than itniiii,'t'rH I rocoin- jh abovo ■rion«l, — ghty l)ut but what th«! ulil 1, yet at al'ootion I'.iaku UH ,0 either as well ribe the V or lis re- iuiip, for to have jI. Ho briy;ht, iri!j;htli- pru'iiries 11 hijihly lie of ais lO reader iver the res. liien live extuut. The only one deserving of the name of a biographical picture, is the anonynioiis publication of I70(i, and that is in so many respects defective, that it is totally luiworthy of its professed ol)ject. It has beeu saiuthful years he laid no claim to any peculiar purity in his conduct, and formed, what he supposed, a very snug alliance with a woollen-draper's wife. One night he met the lady by .accident, jyid persuaded her to accompany him to a tavern, and she could not resist his persuasion. But a stupid waiter showed negligently into the same room a vestal, in company with the husband of the lady. Swords were drawn — the ladies screamed .and a battle ensued. A crim. con. and an assault and battery, were both instituted, and our hero fled to Dublin. The husband, however, died soon after, and Quin was invited to return. It was during this evasion, that I am of opinion he made his appearance as Abel, in Smock-Alley. After his return to the English stage, Quin, according to the cus- tom of that period, remained some time in the condition of a faggot, as the novice performers were at that time called, till an order came from the Lord Chamberlain to revive the tragedy of Tamerlane. It was got up with great magniHcence. It happened, however, that on the third night, the actor who perfurmod Bajazet was taken ill, and Quin was persuaded to read the part. In this he succeeded so well, tliiit the audience gave him the greatest applause. The next night lie had made himself perfect in the part, and performed with re- doiihled approbation ; but the theatrical world is a miniature of the real ; actora of twice Ids age thought his progress too rapid. It was not, however, till the year 172U, that he had any oppor- tunity of displaying liis great theatrical endowiiionts. In that season The Afcrr;i Wires of Wtndsor was revived, and there was no one of the whole company who would undertake the part of Falstaflf. Rich, the manager, was therefore inclined to give ui> the representation after it had been prepared, when Quin happening to come in his way, offered to attempt it. " Hem ! " said Rich, taking a pinch of snutf, "you attempt Fal- statf — why you might as well think of acting Cato after Booth ! The character of FiUstatf, young man, is (piite another character from what you think, (and taking another pinch of snutf,) it is not a little snivelliug part that— that — in short any one can do. There is not i ! JAMES QVIN. io^ ,he cus- faggot, er came ane. It that on ill, and so well, xt night ivith re- e of the oppor- kt season one of Rich, lentation Ihis way, Inpt Fal- Ih! The ler from [t a little le Ib not a man among you that has any idea of the part but myself. It is (juite out of your walk. No, never think of Falstaff— it is quite out of your walk, indeed, young man." Quin, however, took the part, and in his possession it became one of the ornaments of the English stage. Rich, however, had only spoken like the rest of the world. It is a vulgar error to suppose that artists are the best judges of the professional merits of each other. They may be, and commonly are, the best judges of the manipulation of their profession ; but there is no reason in experience that they should go farther. The opinion of an audience should, in cases similar to this, be always preferred to that of an individual. Artists can be in their profession no better judges, than they are themselves excellent ; but an audience, which is miscellaneous, will probably be always better, because each of those composing it has a higher unknown standard than his own experience. The next year, 1721, of Quin's performance, is remarkable in dramatic history, as the drst in which soldiers appeared as guards in the theatre : an useless pageant, an event which may be ascribed to the occasional want of common sense, for which the English Govern- ment has been of old distinguished. Before that season, the theatres had only been guarded by civil constables. A riot arising in that of Lincoln's Inn Fialds, gave an occasion for the military power to be added to the civil, for the protection of the audience and the players from insult. The occasion was this : A certain noble Earl, whether Scotch or Irish, the record does not say, much addicted to the wholesome and inspiring beverage of whiskey, was behind the scenes, and seeing one of his friends on the other side among the performers, crossed the stage ; of course, was hissed by the audience. Rich, who was on the side that the noble Earl came to, was so provoked, that he told his Lordship "not to be surprised if he was not allowed again to enter." The drunken Peer struck Mr, Rich u slap on the cheek, which was immediately returned, and his Lordship's face being round, and fat, and sleek, resounded with the smack cf the blow ; a battle royal ensued, the players on the one side, and that part of the aristocracy then behind the scenes on the other. In the end, the players being strongest, either in number or valour, thrashed tiie gentlemen, and turned them all out into the street, where they drew their swords, stormed the boxes, broke the sconces, cut the hangings, and made a wonderful riot, just as foolish sprigs of quality presume even yet to do. Quin came round with a constable and watchmen from the stage, charged the rioters, and they were all taken into custody, and carried in a body before Justice Hungerford, who then lived in the neighbour- hood, and were bound by him over to answer the consequences — tliey were soon, however, persuaded by their wiser friends to make up the matter, and the manager got ample redress. The King, on hearing of the att'air, was indignant, and ordered a guard to attend the theatres, and there it nightly stands ever since, a warning monument of a Lord drinking too much whiskey. We must ntjt suppose that the appearance of the military at the theatre wa^ a vohmtary act of the aovereign, although it 8 'J ) 1/ iio LIVES OF THE PLAYERS was, in political parlance, ascribed to him ; in point of fact, it was not only the opinion of the managers, but of others, that the uiilitaiy at the play-houses would give an air of consequence to the perform- ance, and suppress all future disturbances — they forgot to ascertain^ how far the soldiers had the power to act. A great controversy, in consequence of this innovation, arose among the people, and John Bull evinced his wonted sagacity. Some thought it would have the eflFect of dragooning the town into the approbation of a new piece, or a new actor ; and others, that the slightest indication on the part of the managers to direct the soldiers to act, would be worse for themselves than the tearing up of all the benches in the pit and gal- lery ; and in reality it has so happened ; the military are like those idols dumb which blinded nations stand in awe of. They have weapons in their hands, but they dare not use them ; and of this at the time the theatres were duly apprised by the Ciovernment. Still they persevere in maintaining this foolish pageantry, so much at vari- ance with the genius of the people, even though, from the beginning, the soldiers at the playhouses have in all rows and riots been objects of derision and contempt. The drst battle was much like the last. It was on the production of a new pantomime. In it a Madame Chateauneuf, a dancer, was to perform, but being taken ill the piece was suspended. The audi- ence endured the disappointment in silent patience ; the second night they only hissed, but on the third the storm arose. They handed out the ladies, and then began to demolish the interior of the house. A noble Marquis opened the war by proposing, as the shortest way of making all things clear, to set it on tire, but his Lordship was overruled, so they, in their tender mercy, only broke the harpsichord and bass-viols of the orchestra, the looking-glasses, sconces, and chandeliers ; pulled up the benches in the pit ; broke down the boxes and the royal arms, and some such trifling mischief as nearly ruined the whole concern. The noble peer who so distinguished himself by proposing to burn the theatre, relented, however, the next day, and sent the managers a hundred pound note for his share in the amusement. On this occasion the soldiers stood at their posts magniticently idle. The next theatrical fight was more national and patriotic. The proprietors of the little theatre in the Haymarkct, having imagined that French comedies would amuse the town, brought over a party of Parisians, and most atrociously introduced them on the stage. Every true-born Englishman felt the insult, and manfully resolved to avenge it. The curtain drew up, and each actor appeared with his guard, but the audience, not intimidated, were determined to stop the performance, and accordingly began with cat-calls, then a volley of pippins, and thirdly, a direful discharge of eggs. The pro- prietors lost their senses, more especially when they found the soldiers stood still ; and wringing their hands, and quaking with fear, slunk behind the scenes, wiiere, as a last resource against the whirlwind, they sent for a justice to read the riot-act, but when he came, instead of taking orders from them, he sent both troops and actors tramping uff thu stage. The warriors and heroes of the buakiu being thus dis- I 1 James quih 111 , it was uilitary erform- scertain^ , srsy, in id John lave the w piece, the part orse for and gal- ke those ey have )f this at kt. Still h at vari- jginning. n objects roductiou icer, was rhe audi- ond night y handed he house, rtest way ship was rpsichord ices, and own the as nearly inguished ever, the his share heir posts tic. The imagined posed -f, John Bull thought it then high tiiue to give the proprietors a taste of his power in punishment, so he demolished the house. The Ambassadors of France and Spain being present, he would not let them escape till they had witnessed his suavity, and accordingly he cut the traces of their carriages, and obliged them to sit out the per- formance of his prank. The contagion spread from the Haymarket to Drury Lane, and furnished Quin with an opportunity of showing the audience his self- possession and address. In the midst of a riot one night, when the play could not begin till some of the royal family, who had sent notice of their intention to be there, had come, he appeased a crowded and enraged audience by telling them one of his happiest stories. QuiUj indeed, never on any occasion lost his self-command. It is related of him that there was a riot once at the stage-door, when he wounded slightly in the hand a young fellow who had drawn upon him. The spark presently after came into one of the boxes over the stage-door. The play was Macbeth, and in the soliloquy where he sees the dagger, as Quin repeated, " And on tliy blade are drops of reeking blood," * the young gentleman bawled out — "Ay, reeking indeed — It is my blood." The actor gave him a severe side-look, and replied, loud enough to be heard, " D n your blcid ! " and then went on with the speech. Not long after this affair a circumstance occurred painful to repeat. Notwithstanding the rough fantastic manner which Quin often delighted to assume, no man was of a more humane disposition, or less addicted to revenge, at the same time he would not tamely, in any way, submit to an insult. It happened that at this period there was a Mr. Williams, a native of Wales, on the stage of Drury Lane, who performed the part of the messenger in the tragedy of Cato, and in saying " Cassar sends health to Cato," Quin was so amused at the manner in which he pronounced the last word — " Keeto," that he replied with his usual coolness, " Would he had sent a better messenger ! " a retort which so stung Williams, that he vowed revenge, and followed him when he came off into the green-room, where, after representing the professional injury in making him ridiculous before the audience, he challenged Quin to give him the redress of a gentleman. Quin, witli his wonted philosophy and humour, endeavoured to rally him, but it only added fuel to the rage of Williams, who, without farther remonstrance, retired and waited for him under the piazza, where he drew. In the scuffle Williams was killed. Quin was tried for the murder at the Old Bailey, and a verdict brought in against him of manslaughter, which at the time was applauded ns just and most equitable. In the year 1731, Quin was ciuiaidorod to have attained the meridian of his profession ; all the great actora had died or had * III tliose days thoy wore lens careful in giving the text than now, and the iintiiiuitius of the language were less uadertttood \ thitt acoouota for th« error here. ti' ''i 112 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS retired, and he had no competitor. His merit, however, was not allowed to him until he performed Cato. In undertaking the part he showed great good taste ; instead of having his name in the bills in the ordinary form, he paid a just compliment to the town and the merits of his predecessor, by having it stated that " the part of Cato would be only attempted by Mr, Quin." The propriety of this invitation was duly appreciated — a full house was the consequence, and the actor did not disappoint it. When he said, speaking of his son, *' Thanks to the Gods — my boy has done his duty," the whole house was so aflFected, that there was a universal shout of " Booth outdone." Yet this was not all, he was encored in the famous soliloquy ; and tradition still continues to repeat, that the character of Cato, as represented by this judicious actor, was one of the finest parts ever represented on any stage. For ten years, Quin continued at the head of his profession, iinrivalled — but the empire of the stage was not in all that time equally prosperous and in peace. The tyranny of the managers of Drury Lane, to whom the shares of Booth and CoUey Cibber had been sold, was so great, that the whole company rebelled, and attempted to form an independent state in the Haymarket. After various plots and conspiracies, the war ended, as far as Quin was concerned, in his becoming engaged by Fleetwood, who was the pur- chaser of the shares. It was on this occasion that Theophilus Cibber, having indulged his fancy farther than truth, some opprobrious words passed between him and Quin, who evinced his contempt for Theo- philus in the strongest and foulest expressions that the language could furnish : — enmity on Cibber's part continued, in consequence, to ferment until, as shall be duly reported, they came to a duel. In the mean time, Quin was appointed in Theophilus's place to read the new plays, and one of the stories related of the manner he exercised this vocation deserves to be repeated. A poor poet had placed a tragedy in his hands one night behind the scenes, whilst he was still dressed for the character he had per- formed. Quin put the manuscript into his pocket and forgot it. The bard having allowed some time to elapse, sufficient for the read- ing of the piece, called one morning to know what was its doom. Quin gave some invented reasons for its not being proper for the stage ; the author requested it might be given back to him, — " There," said Quin, " it lies in the window." But Bayes, on going to take it up, found a comedy, and his was a most direful tragedy — " Well, then," says the actor, " if that be not it, faith, Sir, I have certainly lost your play. " — "Lost my play!" cried the astonished bard — "Yes, by G — d ! but I have: look ye, however, here is a drawer full of both comedies and tragedies, take any two you please in the room of it." This was certainly treating the affair coolly enough, but the poet in the end was pacified, by having the run of the house, and his next piece was accepted, which, it is said, was no other than a rough copy of the one which had been so scurvily treated. But although the humour of Quin was on all occasions to assume thi^ grnff and cool manner, it was ever accompanied with some indi- JAMES QUIN. 113 \ I assume lue indi- cation of the native warmth and gentleness of his heart, which greatly softened all apparent acerbity, and even often pleased those that his words and style were calculated to ofiFend. This appears nowhere so effective as in his transactions with the celebrated George Anne Bellamy, whose Apoloj^y, unfortunati.'ly, can scarcely he regarded as entitled to full credit, for she herself acknowledges, that being written from recollection, it was not always correct, and it is now pretty well ascertained that it was not her own production, but dictated to an- other. His conduct towards Mi- Bellamy is almost now the only evidence remaining that he was not always that wit, actor, and eater which he is commonly represented to have been. His paternal kind- ness towards that lady had in it many amiable traits, and helps in some degree to give us an idea nearer to his worth than either the sayings or doings attributed to him. She was introduced to him by Rich, the manager of Covent Garden, where he was playing, or rather ruling, with a rod of iron. He then thought her too young for the stage, and on that account cherished a distaste of her ; but when she came out and displayed the powers she possessed, he generously suppressed his prejudices, and continued through life to treat her with more than common fiiendship. One day, while she was yet but only attracting the public attention, ho desired to speak with her after the rehearsal, and on entering his dressing-room, he took her by the hand, and said with that benignity which few could r.ssume better — " My dear girl you are very vastly followed, T hear. Do not let the love of finery, or any other inducement, prevail upon you to commit an indiscretion. Men in general are rascals — you are young and engaging, and therefore ought to be doubly cautious. If you want any thing in my power that money can purchase, come to me and say, James Quin, give me such a thing, and my purse shall be always at your service " — And his eyes glistened with the fond tear with which this fatherly admonition was delivered. In addition to this partiality for this young lady, who in the days of her gaiety and innocence was one of the most fascinating creatures of the period, Quin always was respected by keepvig the best company, and conducting himself in a gentlemanly manner. He not only often associated with men of high rank but of great talents, and was leas regarded as a distinguished player than as a man of the most companionable qualities. He numbered among the friends of his old age some of the highest names in the catalogue of the literary stars of the time, and was always eminent for the excellence with which he entertained them. His affection to Thomson the poet has often been mentioned, but the manner in which he evinced it, both during the poet's life and after his death, will ever be noticed with commendation. He delivered the prologue to Thomson's Coriokmus, written by Lord Lyttelton, and it has always been commemorated as one of the tenderest exhibitions that ever the stage displayed. — It was on the performance of this tragedy that he, owing to his pronunciation being of the old school, amused some of the audience by an inadvertent mistake. In the scene where the Boman ladies come in procession 114 LIVES OF THE r LAYERS. I' I to solicit CoriolanuB to return to Rome, ti.ey are attended by the tribunes. The centurions of the Volscian ar;ny bearing /asces, their ensigns of authority, they are ordered by tie hero to lower them, as a toten of respect. But the men who t erformed the centurions, imagining through Quin's mode of pronunciation, that he said/cfces, all bowed their heads — fortunately this ludicrous affair was in the rehearsal, and not before an audience. We now advance to that period when the whole style of acting was to undergo a change, and when the merits of Quin were destinnd to suffer an eclipse. He was at the head of the Drury Lano company, when Garrick made his appearance in the character of Richard the Third, at Good- man's Fields. But he was the only actor that could be opposed to him in any particular character. It was soon, however, manifest that Garrick's universality would not allow of any rival ; at the same time, although his general superiority was at once conceded, it was still maintained that Quin, in the parts of Sir John Brute, Sir John Fal- L.;aff, and in Cato, was still above all praise, and even in the opinion of many, he was still the superior of Garrick in every tragic character ;* but this was a factious opinion, for save in the three parts enumerated, in every other Garrick was the greatest performer. Quin himself saw that in striking out a more natural style, and with greater natural endowments, Garrick was destined to attain an eminence in the profession which had not before been reached. But still he for a long time adhered to his own peculiar old style, till the taste of the town could bo no longer resisted. The history of the stage, however, from this period, will more properly come into the life of Garrick, respecting which many more materials have been carefully preserved than of Quin's ; J shall, therefore, reserve the consideration of their joint performances until I have cause to treat more at large of Garrick's biography : in the mean time, it was admitted universally that Quin retired too soon from the stivge, and there is good reason to believe that had Rich treated him with more discretion, the world would not so early have had cause to lament his loss. Although Quin was a kind-hearted, jovial, and facetious man, I know not how it is, if it be not from the coarseness of some of his jokes, that a general impression prevails of his being a morose character. No general persuasion was ever more fallacious. He was naturally a handsome man, beloved by his friends, and always on joyous terms with himself. Few understood the inclinations of man better, and none could be more indulgent to unpremeditated • Bernard, in his Retrosiiections of the StiiRp, confirms thin opinion by that of the late Earl of ConynRhiuii, a nobleman who was in his time coiisitlered one of the best representatives of the true old Britisli I'eer. Quin wi.s with liis Lord- ship always spoken of as the great actor, and continufilly piti-hed by liim against Garrick, especially in tliese characters, and he felicitously described their respective merits. In Cassius and Brutus in tlie (juarrel-scene, he used to say that Quin resembled " a solid three-decker, lying quiet, and scorning to fire, but with evident power, if put forth, of sending his antagonist to the bottom ; — Garrick, a frigate running round it, attempting to grapjde, aud every moment threateuing an exploeioa that wottl4 destroy both." JAMES QUIN. 115 error. While he cherished a little aflFectation in himself, to conceal the warmth and mildness of his dispositions, he discerned every degree of it in others with a shrewd eye. I think he was an accomplished specimen of a man of the world, of the right sort, for ho was more amiable than he really seemed to be. Among other objects of interest to him was Macklin, the contemporary of so many ages of players ; but the intractable nature of that choleric and vacillating person, as will appear in his life, often interrupted their friendship. Still, such was the superiority of Quin's demeanour, that Macklin never spoke of him but with respect, even while their intercourse was suspended. During their quarrel, whenever they met there was a studied deportment on both sides, which seemed to indicate that only the necessity of business could ever bring them together. But after this non-intercourse had existed several years, an accident put an end to their formality, and the occasion had so much peculiarity that it merits a circumstantial recital. They attended the funeral of a brother performer, and after the interment, retired with several others to a tavern in Covent Garden. Neither of them was afraid of his bottle, and they both stayed so late, that about six o'clock in the morning they found themselves alone together. Both felt oddly at the circumstance. Quin, however, was the first to break the ice. He drank Macklin's health, who returned it, and then there was another pause. In the mean time Quin fell into a reverie for some time, when, suddenly recover- ing, he said to his companion — ''There has been a foolish quarrel between you and me, which, though accommodated, I must confess I have not been able entirely to forget till now. The melancholy occasion of our meeting, and the accident of being left together, have made me, thank God, see my error. If you can therefore forget it too, give me your hand, and let us live together in future as brother performers." Macklin instantly held out his hand, and assured him of his friendship — a fresh bottle was called for ; to this succeeded another— till Quin could neither speak nor move — chairs were called to take them home, but none could be found, when Macklin, who had still the use of his legs, desired two of the waiters to put Quin on his back, and triumphantly carried him to his lodgings. This affair, however, could not repress the ever-ready sarcasms of Quin. When Macklin first performed his great part of Shylock, he was so struck with the ability he displayed in it, that he could not help exclaiming, " If God Almighty writes a legible hand, that man must be a villain I" — And when Macklin, without due consideration, performed the character of Pandulph in King John, Quin, on being ^sked what he thought of it, said, "He was a Cardinal who had been originally a parish-clerk." But his best joke on Macklin was in reply to some one, who remarked that he might make a good actor, having such strong lines in his face ; "Lines, Sir," cried Quin, "I see nothing in the fellow's face but a d — ned deal of cordage ! " In fact, if we may venture to judge by the freedom with which Quin occasionally treated him, considering that actor's true character, Macklin, with all his eccentricities, must have been a favourite with him. llfi LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. n When Macklin was bringing out his tragedy of Henry VIT. or the Popish Impostor, Qnin told him it would not succeed, and the event fulfilled the prediction. " Well," said Quin, " what do you think of my judgment now ?''— ^" Why, T think iiosterity will do me justice," was the answer. — " I believe they will." retorted Quin, "for youi play now is only damned, but posterity will have the satisfaction to know that both play and author met with the saute fate." Quin had many amusing extravagances of humour, and, among others, of making an annual excursion. In these he selected some agreeable lady, and agreed with her to accompany him on his tour aa long as one hundred pounds would carry them, Quin gave the lady his name for the journey, and when the money was nearly spent they returned to London, and had a parting supper at the Piazzas, Covent Garden, where he paid her the balance, and dismissed the accommo- dating gentlewoman in nearly the following words; "Madam, for our mutual convenience I have given you the name of Quin for this some time past. There is no reason for carrying on this farce here ; and now. Madam, give me leave to un-Quin you, and restore to you yonr own name for the future." Thus the ceremony ended, and the damsel went away. Since I have broached the jokes and jests of Quin, I may as well go on with a few more. One day, at an auction of pictures, some one pointed out to him old C 7neral Guise, adding, " How very ill he looks ! " — " Guise, Sir ! " said Quin, " you're mistaken ; he is dead these two years." — "Nay," said the other, "believe your eyes, — there he is." Quin put on his spectacles, examined him from head to foot for some time, and then exclaimed, "Why, yes, Sir, I'm riglit enough ; he has been dead these two years, it is very evident, and has now only gotten a day-rule to see the pictures." Perhaps, as a wit and an epicure, Qnin is now more renowned than as an actor, for those who did rememVter him are all nearly extinct ; and it is chiefly of his humour, and talent in cappreciating the excell- ence of cookery, that he is now the subject of conversation. But even his merit in these will fade, for much of it, in respect to his wit, consisted in his manner ; even in his living there was a practical jocularity that added to the zest of his enjoyment ; and he assumed a peculiar humour in both that greatly increased the effect of what he said, and augmented his own relish of what he took. It was chiefly, however, as a practical joker that he excelled ; and it must be con- fessed that there is often much coarseness, though combined with a curious shrewdness, in his sayings. Previous to Macklin's time, it had been customary to represent Shylock as a low, mean personage, an elegant illustration of the or- dinary player's conception of the part, but he conferred on it the true tragic energy of the poet, which it has ever since maintained ; and Pope, it is said, cried of it, aloud in the pit, " This is the .Tew That Shakspeare drew." Quin when he read it in the journals, curled his lip and echoed, "Spew, reader, spew," JAMJJS QUIN. 117 d, Quin was considered by the public as a kind of wholesale dealer in rough fnn, and as miich attention was paid to his wit sometimes as it probably deserved. Dininsf one day at a party in Bath, he uttered somethini:? which caused a general murmur of delight ; a n(>bleuian pre- sent, who was not illustrious for the brilliancy of his ideas, exclaimed, "What a pity it is, Quin, my boy, that a clever fellow like you should be a player ! " Quin flashed his eye and replied, ** What would your Lordship have me to be, — a Lord ] " Some of liis sayiniis had, however, though not often, a playfulness and poetical beauty that merited no common praise. Being asked by a lady why there were more women in the world than men, " It is," said he, " in conformity with the arrangements of Nature, Madam ; we always see more of heaven than of earth." On another occasion, a lady one day, in speaking of transmigration, inquired of him "What creature's form would you hereafter prefer to inhabit ? " The lady had a very beautiful neck, Quin looked at it, and said, " A fly's, Madam, that I might have the pleasure of sometimes resting on your ladyship's neck." He sometimes made occasional visits to Plymouth to eat John Dories, and for some time he lived at hack and manger ; on these occasions he resided at one of the inns which liappened to be much infested with rats. " My drains," said the landlord, " run down to the quay, and the scents of the kitchen attract the rats." — " That's a pity," said Quin ; "at some leisure moment, before I return to town, remind me of the circumstance, and perhaps I may be able to suggest a remedy." In the mean time he lived expensively, and at the end of eight weeks he called for his bill. " What ! " said he, "one hundred and ffty pounds for eight weeks, in one of the cheap- est towns in England I " However, he paid the bill, and stepped into his chaise. "Oh, Mr. Quin," said the landlord, " I hope you have not forgot the remedy you promised me for the rats." — "There's your bill," replied the wit, " show them that when they come, and if they trouble your house again, I'll be d d ! " Quin's wit was sometimes distinguished for the drollery of the terms in which his remarks were couched. The original George Barnwell waf David Ross, of Covent Garden theatre. In his latter days he grew very portly, and his face became so overloaded with fat as to defeat its expression. On the last occasion in which he appeared in that part, Qiiin was behind the scenes, and meeting Ross, said, " Geoi'ge Barnwell, David, — George Barnwell, an apprentice ! — you look more like the Lord Mayor of London ! " Quin having bad an invitation from a certain nobleman, who was reputed to keep a very elegant table, to dine with him, he ac- cordingly waited upon his Lordship, but found the regale far from answeriiig his expectation. Upon his taking leave, the servants, who were very numerous, had ranged themselves in the hall ; Quin, finding that if he gave to each of them it would amount to a pretty large sum, asked, ' ' Which was the cook ? " who readily answered, " Me. Sir." He then inquired for the butler, who was as quick in replying as the other ; when he said to the first, " Here's half-a- prown for my eating," and to the other, "Here's five shillings for 118 LIVEH OF THE riAYEJiS. my wine ; but, by God, gentlemen, T never made so bad a dinner for the money in my life." The first time Quin was invited to dine upon a turtle, — he must have been then a young man, — he was asked whether hu preferred the calUpash to the calUpee ; and upon his acknowledging his ignorance, the donor of the treat, a West Indian, burst into a lond laugh, saying, " He thought so great an epicure as Mr. Quin could not be unacquainted with the ex(juisito niceties of so elegant a dish." — '* It may be an elegant dish," said Quin, "but, if it had been fit for Christians, we should have been acquainted with it as soon as the wild Indians. " A certain officer in the army, who was not altogether so courage- ous as might have been wished for in a person of his station, having one night at Bath received the grossest personal affront, that of being taken by the nose, without any way resenting it, he waited upon Quin the next morning to ask his advice, and know how ho should act. " Why, Sir," said he, " soap your nose for the future, and then, by God, they'll slip tlicir hold." Quin was asked why he did not marry, take a house, and set up an eqiiipiige. " 1 curry a coach, a wife, and a dinner always in my pocket," he replied ; "arid I can either take the number, obtain a divorce, or turn off my cook wlenever I please." Sometime before he dicid, he was observing to an intimate acquaintance that he felt the old man coming iipou him ; but that ho had this satisfactiim, let him die when he would, ho owed nothing to anj' man, not even to James Quin. One day he was ironically complinientod by a nobleman, who was a placeman, on liis happy i'etreat at Bath. " Look ye, my Lord," says he, " perhap'i 'tis a sinecure your Lordship would notaccojjfc of ; but, I can assure you, I gave u]) fourteen hundred a-year for it."' Quin was asked once by a gentleniaii what he thought of Garrick's acting Sir John Brute. " \Vhy, Sir," said Quin, "it is a part I never saw him in ; but I have seen him do Master Jackey Brute very oftea." During the management of Mr. Floetwood at Drury Lane, Quin was to make an apology for Mademoiselle Roland's not being able to perfornj a favourite dance, on account of having sprained her ankle. The audience was so greatly otit of temper at her not appoarins^, that it required even the conseipienco of so f;i]»ital an aofor to giiir their iittention. Qnin was appointecl, juul saiil, "Ladies and Oenthtmon, Madam— a — a Roland has |)iit her ankle out, I wish it had been her nook, and lio d d to her ! " and then I'etired with a hem, amidst shouts of laii(»hter and applause. An author, after reading an extreme bad play to Quin, nnked lis opinion of it. He answered that it would not do by any means. " I wish," resumed the author, "you would advise me what is best to do with it." — "That lean," says Q, in, " bhtt out one half and burn the other." Quin once, in the character of Cato, received a blow in hi^ face by an orange thrown from the U])per i^ailery ; such a cireumstance would have disconcerted many an actor possossod of loss presence of JAMES QUIN. 119 and Qiiin )Io to iiikle. that their 111 hor inidat mind, but instead of being disturbed, he wiped his face, and taking it up, observed, " It was not a Seville orange." Being once applied to by an author of his acquaintance who had written a play, to introduce him, and recommend his piece to the manager, Jamea readily agreed to do him all the service in his power ; but observing the shabbiness of his clothes, asked him if he had any other dress to appear in. " Yes," replied the bard, " I have more clothes than I shall ever wear out." Quin asked an explana- tion ; when the poet told him, in the first place, he had another coat at home that was so very ragged he could never wear it out, and that in the next place, he had three good suits at the pawnbroker's that he believed he should never get out to wear. Quin took the hint, and gave him five guineas to equip himself, introduced him to the manager, and his piece vras brought on. Mrs. Clivo coming one night into the Green-room, humming an Italian air, "Pray," said she to Quin, " dnora Something to a hair?" "Damn me, Madam,'' says Quin, " if I was thinking about you." "Sir John Brute," said she, "I beg pardon for interrupting your private meditations." "Madam," resumed Quin, " if spitting upon you was not taking notice of you, I would do it." Mrs. Clive had one night mislaid one of her ear-rings, which '.vere of some value, and in the heat of her passion she taxed the dressing- woman with lidving got it. The dresser protested her innocence. "Why," continued Mrs. C. "you have not the face to deny it. Why you can't help blushing at di.sowning it." Quin, who stood by during this controversy, told her v y coolly, " She was quite mis- taken, it was only the reflection of her f.ice." A young simple student, who attended the spouting clubs more than he did Westminster Hall, having made a slight acquaintance with Mr. Quin, he one night frankly told him his design was to come upon the stage, but tliat he wished to have the opinion of a competent judge before he actually put his design in execution, and without any more ceremony began to speak the soliloquy in Hamlet, "To be, or not to be,— that is the question," Quin could not help interrupting him, " No question at all — not to be, upon my honour." Quin had not, liowevcr, always the wit on his aide ; once, upon a journey to Somersetshire, having put u]) for a few days at a farm- house, ho turned his horse to rrass, and lost him. Upon inquiring after him of a country follow, Mid asking if there were any thieves or lioi'so- stealers in liis neighhourliood ] the follow answered, "No ; wo bo all honest folk here, but there's one Quin, I think they call him, a strolling-player from Ltmdon, mayhap he may have stole him." Having a now wig brought homo which he waa to wear upon a •articular occasion, a friend being by upon his trying it, before ho lad paid for it, cnmi»liiuontod him fnr his taato, and highly approved ;ho perriwig, "Faith, Sir," said Quin, "1 know not how good it I th 120 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. may prove in the long run, but at present it has run me over head and ears in debt." Quin and Ryan were once upon a journey in Wiltshire, when light- ing at an inn where tliey proposed stayini,' all night, thoy were told by the iandhjrd thore was not a room empty in the house except one, but that he could not recommend it to them for a particular reason ; they desired, to be shown it, and finding it one of the best apartments in the house, they begged to know what was the reason he could not let them lodge there that night. " Why, Gentlemen, to tell you the truth, it is haunted." " Pshaw ! " said Quin, "if that's all, bring us a bottle of your best, and get uk supper as soon as you can." The landlord acquiesced, when the trav'3llers having made a liearty meal, and drunk their bottle each, began to think it was high time to go to bed. "Ay," said Quin, " but we must dispatch this same ghost tirst, or perhaps we may have a troublesome guest when we are asleep." So saying, he drew his pistols, charged and placed them upon the table before him, when having called for an additional recruit of wine, " Now," said he, " wo are prepared." Twelve o'clock struck and no ghost yet appeared, but presently a rumbling noise was heard in the chimney. The rattling of a chain soon became very distinct, and a figure descended Whimsically olad, which made two or three motions, but without offering any violence. Hereupon, Quin took »ip a pistol that was ready primed, ai^d expostulated to their spirit- ual visiter, " Lo(jk ye, Mr. Ghost, if y has some reason to bo ashamed of me." Quin was one day lamenting that he grew old, when a shallow, iin|)ertiaent yonnu; fellow, askcul him what he would give to he as young as ho was. *' I would oven submit," said Quin, " to be almost as foolish." One evHuing. as he was drinking a bottle with Mallet the poet, and having given his opinion rather too freely ptitation. ilo was born in tho pariah of St. Margarot's, NVost- minntor, abont tho yoar l(»!)4, ami was o(bicatotl at St. Paul's School, and afterwards placed an approntioo with Mr. Lacy, his jjfodfatiior, AU attornoy ; but a stroui^ propensity for the Htaoth in tragetl} and couiedy. In his person he was deemed handsome, and his judgumnt was VMteemed accurate aiul critical ; no ono could iniderstand Ids author hotter, nor deliver his part with more correctness or with more niusical propriety. His feelings wore strong, and when indulged <»fton produced a groiit iihprossion on his aiutionco ; but they were Bonu>times obtuse, and the otlects of his ptu'foruiance wore not always similar, far loss uniform, in tlie same [)art. His chief defect was ui his voice, which ho lu'ver could master, even to his own satisfaction ; aiid he had tho njsfortuno, on two several occasions, to sustain aQvero injuries in that most essential «)rgan. In an accidental allVay with some waternuin, while yet a very youtJg man, he received a blow which turned his nose, and though tho deformity in conseipionco was not remarkable, his voice, which was naturally a sharp and shrill treble, was altered without advan- taj;e. And sid)se(piently some years ho was assailed by mistake in tho street by several rullians, who wounded him in tho mouth, and BO disabled him, that he was uuiiblo ti) porftu'm for some months after, nor did ho over recover his fair natural voice. In almost any other profession the injury would, perhaps, not havi> been important ; but to a poor man, who depended for his livelihood on his voice, it eoidd not bo considered as less tlan a vital calauiity. I can eoncei^'e nothing more depressing than a misfortune of this kind ; the full eonseiousuess of being able to gratify tho expectations of tho town remained, but to make them sensible that the injury ho had sustained was not of tho most essential nature was not in his power. Vet still the good sense of Ryan sustained him uiuler this tryiug injiu'y ; and it is said, that the extreme propriety of his deportment, the solicitude with which he studied his parts, and tho carefulness of his delivery, together with his unexceptionable private character, uiade liim over estunable with the public ; insou\uch that Frederick Prince of Wales, with uiany of the nobility, by tUeir kind- ness ar.d tesiimonies, contributed to make him some auiends for what h« suflered. An anecdote is toKl of him which can never be repeated without «ym|)athy. Ue luBt a favourite nephew, and was particularly MRS. WOTJflNGTON, 12& donlroiiM to piiy tlic liutt iiitttk «>f Uia iiU'cotiuii to thu rtiiuuiiiH. He Holicitud Rich the mana^or, to whom he was then engaged, to grant him ])ormia8i()n ; hut with tliat caprice in the exercise of power whi''h lie often indulged, Rich vefusod, and in consequence the funeral was ordered at an early hour ; but by the dilatoriness of the undertaker it took place so late, that Ryan had only time to follow the coffin to the church-door, where his fuelinga so overcame him, that he burst into a vehement lit of tears, and excited, in no ordinary degree, the sympathy of all those who were spectators of the aS'ecting scene. Wore I called on to express distinctly why I have a particular attachment to the momorv of Quin, the ever faithful friend of Ryan, I should feel myself at a great loss to explain. But a considerable intimacy with the biography of many actors has made me think there was something about him greater and better than about most of them ; his affections seem to liave been always gentlemanly, and hia conduct high-minded. Towards Ryan he was not only a friend, but a benofact(»r of that kind by which benefits are conferred as iiicunilunit and obligatory duties. For several years after Quin had retired from the stage as a profession, he annually performed the character of Sir John Falatatt' for the benefit of Ryan, and when his own growing intirmitius impaired his power, he exerted his influence to proc\iro the patronage of his acquaintance. That Ryan dosorveii the estimation in which he was held by those who regarded him as a friend, cannot be doubted ; few men evinced more wisdom and prudence in the selection of their intimates, or «o much preferred worthy to gcntcol society. He died on the 15th of August 17(10, at Rath, in the sixty-eighth year of his ace, more CHtoomed for his private worth than for his profeasional talent, and yet it was of the ntost meritorious description. MRS, \V OFFING TON, TriK biography of this celebrated beauty, is calculated to rebuke tlinso wilt) suppose that persons of quality derive from their blood »ome endowment of manners which over distinguishes them from the commonalty of mankind. The whf)le style of her conduct on the stage, and much of her fiiscination in private life, tended to prove that the dignity of station, and the precepts of the teacher can i>nly assist Nature ; and that even with all the helps that opulence and intelligence can bestow, the universal mother will at times send forth from lierself, and amidst the most unfavourable circumstances, individuals of such grace and genius lu no eftbrt of education ever can rival. Vulgar manners are, indeed, over found in the extremes of society— it is only where no restraint exists that genuine vulgarity is found ; urbanity is but another word for that kind of mannors induced by habit, and by deference for the feelings of others, which it is so much the business uf good breeding to 9 > !! M 126 LIVES Of THE PlAYEHS. iuculvate, but which Nature sometimes vohintarily confers. The regal palace and the beggar's hovel are the seats of true vulgarity, and it is only in thenx that the basest qualities of man are found. But I shall run into a more recondite disquisition than becomes my purpose. With the exception of Mrs. Woffington, we have but doubtful examples of that spirited, yet lady-like manner, for which she was ■o surpassingly eminent, having ever been seen in the low estate of her natal condition. She was the daughter of John Woffington, a journeyman brick- layer — poor in circumstances, and without one connexion to excite his ambition to break the thraldom of poverty. Still, though in the humblest walk of life, and amidst all the coarseness of vulgarity, his situation was not without the consolation of some of the virtues. He lived near George Lane, in Dame Street, Dublin — a sober, honest, pains-taking man, full of the kindliest domestic aifeutions, and esteemed by his superiors for the homely diligence with which he attended to his business. His wife managed the finance depart- ment of their frugal household with economy, and was as solicitous as himself that their childien should, as they advanced in life, repay their anxiety and love. But their mutual happiness was soon interrupted — a violent fever seized the husband, and his wife solicited in vain permission to send for a physician. He had a prejudice, not uncommon in their class of life, against the faculty, and would not consent until it was too late. It is unnecessary to mention, that even if this honest man had not been ambitious to keep his family comfortable and decent, to the full extent of their means, his condition was never such as could have enabled him to leave them otherwise than very poor. In fact, his last illness, with the medicines and necessaries he required, consumed all he had, and he left his wife and children abject, and in debt. The parish defrayed the expense of his funeral. The widow, being thus burdened to provide for the support of her family, saw no choice but to become a washerwoman, an avocation which her health and vigour enabled her to undertake properly. Her neighbours at once commended her humble prudence, and giving her their linen, encouraged her industry. By this means, with hard labour, care, and affection, the poor woman procured a lowly but unimpeachable livelihood for herself and the children. We have not ascertained the exact day when our heroine was bom, but at the death of her father she was about ten years old, and even at that early age her beauty was remarkable. An irresistible grace- fulness was conspicuous in all her actions ; a pleasing air, and, for her condition, a most surprising elegance, shone, as it were, around her. Her eyes were black of the darkest brilliancy, and while it was said they beamed with the most beautiful lustre, they revealed every movement of her heart, and showed, notwithstanding she was but little indebted to education, that acute discernment which distinguished her career throngliouL life. Her eyebrows, arched and vividly marked, possessed a flexibility which greatly increased the expression of her ulliyr features ; in love and terror they were powerful beyond cow u MAS. WOFfiNOTON, 127 of her ocation Her ng her hard ly but grace- nd, for around it was every ut little uished larked, of her id cou- ceptiun, but the beautiful ovrner never appeared to be sensible of their force. Her complexion was of the finest hue, and her nose being gently aquiline, gave her countenance an air of great majesty ; all her other features were of no inferior mould — she was altogether one of the most beautiful of Eve's daughters, and so many charms, com- bined with her spirit and shrewdness, indicated that she was assuredly destined for distinction. When in her fifth year, her father sent her to an old woman's school in the neighbourhood, where she continued until his death ; she was then removed to assist her mother, and commonly employed by her to carry home the clothes she washed, in the drudgery of which she was praised for her modesty and her solicitude. It was in the pursuit of this employment that the adventure happened to her which decided her future fortunes. A Mademoiselle Violante, now no longer remembered but as the first instructress of Mrs. Woflington, was the mistress of a show-booth in Dame Street, and having often seen our heroine fetching water from the Lift'ey for her mother's use, thought she was destined for a gayer employment. She accDrdingly resolved to have some con- versation with her, and if she answered the expectations inspired by her appearance, to engage her as an apprentice. This resolution was soon carried into eflfect. Our heroine one day returning home from one of her mother's friends, to whom she had been in the exercise of her calling, was met in the street by the maid of Mam'selle, who informed her that her mistress wanted to speak with her. She obeyed the message, and the French lady being confirmed in her presentiment, determined to apply to Mrs. Woflington to allow her daughter to be apprenticed. The poor woman accepted the proposal with joy, and our innocent and graceful heroine was assigned to be taught the dramatic art by the sorceress of the booth. Next day, with a light heart and bright hopes, she quitted the lowly drudgery of her mother's ceaseless toil, and was received with open arms by Violante, who, much pleased with her own discernment, predicted that she was destined to be an ornament, under her tuition, of the stage. She accordingly began instantly to give her pupil in- structions, bought her tine clothes, and taught her dancing — made her known to her friends ad a young lady she had a particular regard for, and who would, she had no doubt, realize all the high opinions she had formed of her talents. Her rapid progress confirmed the anticipations of her mistress, who, proud of her accomplishments, would not consent to withhold her loi.^er than necessary from the public, and decided that she should appear at the next opening of the booth, in a first-rate character. " Small things are great to little men. " Mam'selle was full of impor- tance with this afl'air, and the question she oftenest asked was, in what shall Miss appear I At last Polly in The Beygar's Opera was fixed on, and in the rehearsals never was such a goddess seen. A young creature, not yet in her teens, without education, practice, or friends, was naturally greatly dismayed at the thought of a public appcbrauue, but uevertheless, from the time that her mistress ha4 t 128 Lims oy tHB PLAtEMS. 1 :• [ ! '. i i iiitini:itcpelled to come forth as Scvul), which he performed with the great(mt e'clat ; ho afterwards attempted several parts in trngculy, iind liad occasion to cuvmo the defective taste and judgnuuit of the audience, THOMAS WESTON. 135 met Tom oyed was the Tlio the loro, s cir- irity, pre- ined ts ill iient Strolling companies are, in general, partnerships or commonwealths, where all share alike. The manager, for his trouble, care, and finding clothes and scenes, is entitled to four shares, which are called dearf ones. His duty is to mar age the treasury and to prepare tlie scheme of division, after paying bills, servants, lights, carriages, and all incidental charges, and to keep a book wherein all these matters are set down for the inspection of the company. This the manager of Tom's company balefully omitted to do, and divided the receipts as he thought proper, ever complaining that he was in advance. Our hero, conceiving all not right, took upon himself the office of prolo- cutor for his brethren, who bravely promised to back him, and insisted on seeing the stock-book. The m;inager asked him " If he wished to pay the debt the company owed ? " Tom answered, " He had a right to see it, whether or not." High words arose, and he was told he should play no more. The rest of the performers, who had promised to stand by him, slunk away, lest their sentence should be similar. Tom damned them all, and directly steered his course to a small troop that was roaring and rattling about twenty miles off. This new company was worse than Mrs. Carr's ; but the manager was honest, for there was nothing to filch, the receijjts of the house not paying more than the incidental charges. Tom, therefore, made away with .almost every thing he had, and with another of the per- formers was reduced to the utmost extremity, till they had only a shirt apiece, which they did not well know how to get washed. At length, they ventured to go a whole day without one, having only a handkerchief about their necks. The washerwoman promised them in the evening in time for the stage, but in the morning they were sadly distressed, as their landlady usually came in for money to pro- vide bi'eakfast before they wore up, and it was evident, unless some expedient was devised, would discover the nakedness of the land. In this crisis a happy thought occurred ; they resolved to make the sleeve of an old shirt personate the entire fabric. Tom first put it on, and when the old wouian came in, stretched out his hand and gave her the money. Ho soon, however, (]uitted tliis company, and set off for London, with all his wardrolie on his back. On his arrival, ho fcjund that Yates and Shuter bad taken a booth in Bartholomew fair, and he got an engagement w'th them during the fair. Ho paraded himself in his stngc-droas, in a gallery before tlie booth, between oacli performanoo, iunl played nine times in the day for a guinea. This money set him a littie upon his legs. By menus of a friend, he was soon after enu'iiged at Foote'a, in the Hayuiarket, in a very low cast ; for even at the coming out of The Minor, in the year 17(!l>, ho only ])laye(l Dick. On joining Footo, he married a young lady, a milliner in the Hay- market, and alio appeured in the tjieatre as Lucy, in The Minor: her forte was in singing and sentimental comcily. Ilia rcimtation was now rising : at the oml of the season ho engaged iiimsolf and liiswifeat Norwich, where lio stayed some time. He, however, again returned to the Haymarke: and played Jerry Sneak, which stamped him a favourite. At the t iid of the season ho wont with Mossop to Dublin, but did not perform with the same 130 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. I success as he had done in England. He, therefore, returned to his engagement at the Haymarket. One season he \vent to Chicliester, Salisbury, etc. where words arose between him and his wife, and they separated. But he was now on the road to preferment, for at the close of the H-i,ymarket season he got an engagement at Drury Lane at a salary of three pounds per week, and during the absence of Garrick in Italy, played Abel Drugger, and excelled, in public opinion, every one who had played the part. One of his companions at this time was Dick Hughes, who had the prudence to heal many a breach in politeness which Tom made when in liquor. Tom now took up his residence with a fair one in the elegant purlieus of Mutton Hill, at t!ie bottom of Leather Lane, Holborn, but owing to advances made to his creditors by the managers, he did not receive above half of his weekly salary. This, as he had no forethought, pinched him excessively, and tlio pittance was entirely owing before it became diie. But notwithstandin!^, he frequently neglected rehearsals, and even absented himself from the performance — an irregularity which obliged Garrick and Lacy to dis- chai'ge him. This brought him to his senses, and upon an examination of his aflFairs, he found them bad enough. He knew not how to proceed, but, pressed by necessity, he requested two of his acquaintances at Drury Lane to lay his case before the company, and to beg a collection for him. When the circumstances were made known, Garrick forgot his anger, sent him a present supply, and received him into the theatre again. When their benevolence reached him, he had neither hat nor waistcoat to wear ; but he returned to his duty, and a night was fixed for his benefit. The day before, how- ever, he did not appear, no bills were printed for his night, and of course tl'ere was no play, so that by his caprice the company lost a day's salary, and hi'>self the probable protits that might have iicorucd. Foote, wlio on every occasion was his friend, mentioned his diffi- culties to several of the nobility, and a subscription of seventy pounds was raised to pay his debts. This stopped some gaps, and lie contrived to have a pai't of it, by giving a friend a couple of notes of hand, for which he gave the money, and Tom spent it jovially, laughing at the trick by wliich he purchased the pleasure. His debts, lu>wever, again increased, and before even the summer season was over he could never show his head in public, unless on a Sunday. Ho then lived at Nowington, in Surrey, and stole into the theatre, when ho wanted, by a way few would have thought of. The doors of the Haymarket were always beset by bailitts, and the back way, by Mr. Foote's ho\ise in Suffolk-street, was also not safe ; he thcHiforo went into tho Tciiinis-court, James-street, ami glutting out at the top of tile building, entered the theatre by the ujiper windows of Mu! (lrt'HHini,'-rooi!iH. This load he pursiu'd for a whole soiisnn unsuspecteil, Dick Hughes always going before him as an advancid- guard, to s('(! that the coast was clear, During this season Foote took a lease of the Edinburgh theatre .111.' THOMAS WE ^"i TON 137 umer s oil a o tiie Tlio back ; he '^ out lows I'atre for throo yonrs, at six hundred poiiiids por jmiiiiiu, and uur hero entered into an eiigageiuent with him for Edinburgh, at live pounds per week. Until tno time when he should set out for Scotland, he lived in tho Haymarket theatre. During this recess ho kept close except on Sundays, and as the dressing-rooms wherein he lived were rather dark and dull, he usually after dinner brought a table into the lobby, and shutting the half-door, which had spiktis on the top of it, took the air and smoked his pipe without fear of the bailift". Once, indeed, lie was outwitted ; a man, /"lose face he was unacquainted with, came to the hatch, and having some clothes covered with green cloth, like a tailor, asked if Mr. Foote was at home. Tom unsuspectingly answered yes, and opened the hatch, where the bailift' entered "nd acquainted him that he had a writ against him. " Very well," said the delinquent, coolly, "Follow me to Mr. Foote, who will settle it either by paying the money or giving security." The baililf followed to tho passage leading to the stage, behind the boxes, which was very dark, and along which he groped slowly ; but Tom, knowing the way, soon got to the door, which had spikes also to it, and bolted it, then crossing the stage, went through Foote's house into Suffolk- street and escaped. He returned when the coast was clear, and was never after off his guard. Before, however, he set off' for Scotland, Foote obtained leave for him from the Chamberlain for the representati(m of The il/inoj' at the Haymarket. in wliich he himself played Mother Cole, and Weston Transfer. This brought him a hundred and eighty pounds, which put him a little Upon his legs. But the nianageisat Drury-lane sent him a demand for upwards of a hundred pounds which he owed thein ; he took, however, no notice of it, but set out a little sooner for Edinburgh. His first appearance in the Scottish metropolis was in Sharp, and he was e.'sceedingly well received. In truth, ho was considered now the best low comedian the Athenians had ever seen ; and at his benefit they proved their I'egard for him. In returning to London he played a few nights at York, in some of his celebrated parts. Ho here met witli Dibble Davis, and went with liim to Leeds, where they played and haa .': benetit ; and as it was too soon for the Haymarket season, they entered into a scheme of tantaragiging, that is, giving an entertainment consiatiug of prologues, epilogues, and some detached scenes from plays and farces. By these means they got a few pounds, and returned to Ltmdon, whore, by the inierpositicm of Foote, a reconciliati(»n ensued betwoi^n him and the Drury Lane managers, and he was engaged at live pounds per week ; but one half of tlie money was Btoi)ped to pay tho debt he owed them. An increase of riclies caused an increase of domands. His salary nt Drury Lane for playing thirty-two weeks was one hundred and ninety-two pounds ; this, with his salary at Foote's, and his benetit, being tho only person there indulged with one, and also his night at Drury Lane, could not in tho whole bo estimated at loss than six humUod pounds per annum. And yet he was in arrears with both !, , ■' 138 LIVEH OF THE FLAYERH. uiiuiiigers, and the old scores liad tge with earnestness, and to have applied to the classics with a promise of good success : but Johnson grew tired of his undertaking, the employment ill accorded with his reflective genius, and the servile task of inculcating the arid rules of grammar sickened him to disgust. Having struggled with his circumstances for about a year, he resolved to abandon the profession. Garrick, whose activity was becoming adventur'^.iis, grew weary of the listless- ness of a country town. He longed for a brighter and a busier scene ; and having connnmunicated his longings and aspirations to Johnson, he found him animated with congenial sentiments, and they resolved together on an expedition to the metropolis. Among other gentlemen in Lichtield with whom Garrick was at this period acqu>iinted, was a Mr. Gilbert Walmsley, Registrar of the 10 142 LIVES OF THE PLAYEltS. t Ecclesiastical Court, a man of erudition, and a warm and generous friend ; he was consulted on the occasion, and his regard for Garrick induced hiuj to write to Mr. Colscjn, a celebrated njatheniatician, then master of the school at Rochester, requesting in strong terms that he would take (Jarrick under his tuition. "He is," said Mr. NValmsley, " a very sensible young man, and a good scliolar ; of a sober and good dis^ osition, and as ingenious and promising a young man as ever 1 knew in my life." Mr. Colsim being willing to comply with his friend's request, Garrick and Johnson accordingly set off for London on the 2nd March, 173(>-7. The exodus from their early associates of two young men of genius is an niterestiiig event. The precise object of Garrick's adventure is not mentit)ned ; but it would seem to have been some Viigue intention of studying the law, as in the course of the week after iiia arrival in London, he was enti-red a student of Lincoln's- inn ; though even then visions of the stage probably floated in his imagination. On their arrival in London they lost no time in following their intentions. Without friends to help him forward, and without adequate means to maintain him during his studies, it was a blind throw with fortune for Garrick to attempt the law ; it shows, how- ever, that his mind was tilled with the idea of making a figure before the public. To what pursuit he addressed himself after he became a member of Lmcoln's-inn is not vei'y clear, but certain it is that he did not then avail himself of Mr. Walmsley's recommendation to Mr. Colson, of Rochester. About the end of tiie year his uncle, to whom he had been sent to Lissbon, came to London with tlie intention of settling, but liis design was frustrated by a tit of illness, which in a short time put an end to his days. By will he left Garrick a thousand ptmnds, who then had recourse to Mr. Colson, and placed himself under that gentleman's instructions until the death of his father, when he entered into partnership with his elder brother as a wii.e-merchant in the vicinity of the theatres. It would seem, both from the locality and what the sarcastic Foote said of Garrick, when he had attained the meridian of his glory, that their establishment was not eminent. " I remember Garrick living," said Foote, "in Durham-yaid, with three quarts of vinegar in the cellar, calling himself a wine-merchant." The situation of their business was, however, favourable to the cultivation of Garrick's peculiar talents ; a number of clubs were held in the neighbourhood, which the actors frequented, where he was often a guest, and became a distinguished critic on their performances, illustrating his rtiharks by the display of those talents for mimicry which he early evincrd, and which afterwards rendernd his personation of Bayes, in The Rehearsal, one of the most amusing of exhibitions. At this period the stage was in a low condition, and the actors were persons of a humble order of life. In tragedy, declanuition roared in a stentorian strain ; passion was rant, whining grief, vociferation terror, and drawling the gentle accents and soft solicita- DAVID GAR RICK 143 iFoote , til at Miig," 111 the their I'l'ick'a liuorl, ;camo [liarUb [nct'd, 11 The llctctl'S Lition L'l-ief, licita- tions of love ; the whole character of the drama partook of the same unnatural extravagance. Comedy was a mingled tissue of farce and butibonery, and tragedy was divorced from Nature. It is true that Macklin was a discriminating performer, and Quin without doubt an actor of great merit, but still the drama was generally sunk to a low ebb ; and the players ascribed, as in later times, the coarseness of their own performances to the corrupted taste of the age ; as if corruption were a voluntary vice, and not the gradual effect of medi- ocre endowment. Garrick liad now been about three years in London, during which he had studied the stage with the zeal of a votary ; and as the wine business with his brother did not answer the demands of his ambi- tion, he dissolved their partnership, and resolved to try his fortune on the stage. The remainder of the year he spent in private preparations for the design he had formed. He studied the best characters of Shakspeare with ardour and the intelligence with which genius is ever distinguished in a congenial pursuit, but the more he made himself acquainted vvith those delicacies and relined inflexions of motive and of character, which make up the life and peculiarities of the great poet's conceptions, his diffidence of himself increased ; he perceived, that to enxbody them, according to truth and nature, it would be necessary to attempt a new style of acting, to found a new school, greatly different from that with which the public appeared to be satisfied ; and the hazard of this he duly appreciated. He was at this time acquainted with Giffard,* then the manager of the theatre in Goodman's-fields, and having consulted him, he was led by his advice to make an experiment of himself in the country. Accordingly, in the summer of 1741, they set out together for Ips- wich, where a regular company was then performing ; here an arrangement was made for Garrick, under the name of Lyddal, to appear as Aboan in the tragedy of Oroonoko ; in that disguise he passed the Rubicon. His appearance surprised the audience, and such was his encoura- gint,' success, that in a few days he ventured to cast his black com- plexion, and show himself in the part of Cliamont in The Orphan. The applause received in this new character emboldened him to attempt comedy ; and such was the success which crowned his en- deavours that not only the inhabitants of Ipswich, but the gentry of the surrounding country, went in crowds to see him, — a proof of good taste in them and of excellewce in him. The merits of an actor should be of such a nature as to be seen at once ; he is no actor whose merits require to be studied in order to be appreciated, nor can he ever expect to reach the highest walk of * One of the Giffiinls was alive in 1802, in Cornwall, at the rare age of ninety, who not only played with Garrick at Goodnian's-lieUls, but was the Hamlet to Ciarriek's Osriek at Ipswich. It was conjecttireLl that he was the man who en- joyed the annuity for limited years from Sir Robert Walpole, tor whom, it is generally supposed, he wrote the play read by the Minister in the House of Conmions in 1737, as the ground- work for the Dramatic Licensiug Act. 144 LIVES OF THE I'LAYKHS. liis profession wlio is avurso to earn his way by liarcl labour. Of all tlie endowments of gunius, — tliat rare and i)eculiar gift which dis- tinguishes the possessors from other men, — the peculiarity of the player and the singer is one that shines at first sight ; if the excellence is not eminent on tlie first appeai'ance, it will never be brilliant afterwards, though patient study may ijulish mediocrity into re8i)ectability. The success of Garrick at Ipswich decided his destiny ; he always spoke of it with pride and gratitude, .and often said, had he failed there, it was his hxed resolution to return into private life ; it, \u>w- ever, confirmed his ])redili'ction, and he performed, to the delight of liis audience, not only alike in tragedy and comedy, but even in pantomime, and his agility as Harlecjuin rivalled his humour and his pathos. Before the end of the summer he oame back to London, resolved, in the cout.^e of the winter, to present himself before a metropolitan audience ; and, in the mean time, when it is said that he concerted all his measures to gain this point, we must interpret tliem to mean that he had recourse to those expedients to enhance his celebrity which the plajers so well know how to employ, and which is, in a special manner, necessary," to obtain a fair consideration in the tjsti- mation of the public. But on attempting to procure an engagement at one of the greit theatres he had the mortification to be rejected. Fleetwood and Rich, the two managers, regarded him as a mere strolling actor, a pretender, and treated his pretensions even with contumely. How often is the man conscious of possessing qualities calculated to obtain distinction, obliged to submit to repulses of this kind ! — How much ought such instances of rejected genius afterwards obtaining renown, to mitigate tlie arrogance of those who contemn untried worth ! Both Rich and Fleetwood had soon cause to rue their rejection of Garrick. On being repulsed by them he applied to his friend Giffurd, and agreed with him to act under his management, at the theatre in Goodman's-fields, for five pounds a week. It cannot be doubted that he felt, in being as it were tlius constrained to accept tliis engage- ment for such a part of tlie town, in some degree liumiliated ; but the cimsciousness of possessing talents that would shine out at last, in despite of all the mists that obscured his rising, prompted him to exert his best energies. Being determined to wrestle at once with fortune, he chose the part of Richard III. for his first exhibition, and in this great and arduous character he came out on the evening of the 19th of October, 1741. In all the memoirs of Garrick the effect of his first appearance has certainly been exaggerated, for the amount taken at the door in seven nights was only two hundred and sixteen pounds seven shil- lings, and yet we are told that the moment he appeared on the stage it was felt by the whole audience as if a new spirit had come among them. The very nature of Richard shone in his countenance, and the extraordinary intensity of visible expression with which it may be said he anticipated the sentiments ho uttered, produced the most earnest and vivid sympathy and delight. The astonishment of the Jiaa f in 3hil- f IJA Vin OARRICK. 145 audience was extreme, and something like consternation that such awful 'jower should be only imitation mingled with their pleasure, and heightened their enjoyment to the sublime. Thf renown of this performance rung tlirongh the town, and the whole metroijolis gradually became impatient to see that display of powers whicli all who had witnessed confessed themselves unable to describe. The theatres of Rich and Fleetwood were deserted, — the fashionables came in troops from all parts of Westminster, — the theatre at Goodman's-Helds shone with a splendour not its own, — even Pope, thou old, feeble, and querulous, was drawn thither from his grotto at Twickenham, and almost drew new inspiration from the delight he enjoyed, — such was the enthusiasm with which his con- temporaries spoke of his early career. In the course of the season he appeared in a variety of characters, in Lothario, Chamont, and several other parts in comedy, such as Sharp, in his own farce of The Lying Valet, Lord Foppington, Cap- tain Plume, and Bayes in The Rehearsal. Growing contident in his powers by such extraordinary success, though Richard IIL continind his favourite character, he resolved to attempt the more delicat( and perhaps difficult (me of Lear, He was moved to attempt this sublime part by an incident in itself exceedingly affecting. He had become acquainted with a man, whom he greatly esteemed, in Leman-street, Goodman's-fields. This old gentleman had an only daughter, about two years old, of whom he was doatingly fond ; one day, as he stood at an open window dand- ling and caressing the child, it suddenly sprung from his arms, and falling into a flagged area was killed on the spot. His mind instantly deserted him, — he stood at the window delirious, wild, and full of woe : the neighbours came flocking to the house, they took up the body and delivered it to him, thinking it might break the spell of his grief ; but it had no eflect, his senses were fled, and he continued bereft, filling the streets with the most piercing lamenta- tions. As he was in good circumstances his friends allowed him to remain in his house, under two keepers appointed by Dr. Munro, and Gar- rick went frequently to see the distracted old man, whose whole time was passed in going to the window, and there fondling in fancy nith his child ; after seemingly caressing it for some time, he appeared as if he dropped it, and immediately burst into the most heart-piercing cries of anguish and sorrow ; then he would sit down with his eyes fixed on one object, at times looking slowly around, as if to implore compassion. It is said that from this hint Garrick formed his unparalleled scene of the madness of Lear over the body of Cordelia ; and certainly it is not easy to determine from what slight analogies genius derives the elements of the things it creates. It shcmld, however, be recollected that the madness of Lear does not spring either from surprise or grief, as in this case ; but is the eft'ect of distraction, indignation mingled with sorrow, and disappointment, and remorse. In that exquisite performance, which touched the heart of the spectators with a sympathy more like grief than only synipathy, \\e hsvd fto suclden \ 140 LIVES OF THE PLAYERi^. 1 i ( 11 starts nor violent gesticulations ; his niovonionts wore slow and focl)lo, misery was in his look, ho fearfully moved his head, his eyes were fixed and glittering without speculation ; when he turned to those around him he paused, seonied to be summoning remembrance, and in every sad and demented feature expressed a total alienation of mind. As a contrast to the pathos of Lear he appeared in Abel Dniggor, and the critics of the day were in doubt in which part he was the greatest master. Hogarth, whose disconnuent of nature was of tlie shrewdest perspicacity, said of (Jarrick, after having Hcen him in Richard III. and Abel Drugger, " You are in your element when be- grimed with dirt, or up to the elbows in blood." By this time the ui miigers of Drnry Lane and Covent Carden had, in the deserted c>)nditiiin of tlicir iiouses, begun to repent of their rejection of Garrick, who was now the great. Apollo of all the play-going world, whose miracles in (ioodman's-liclds were attended by an unwearied multitude of wor8liii)per8 ; and Quin, wliom tliey affected to consider as above all competitors, partaking of the mana- ger's spleen, i,i addition to his own envy us (Jarrick brightened in his career, sa'.d, " This is t)ie wonder of a day,— fJarrick is a new religion ; tlie people follow him as another Whitfield, b\it they will sotm return to church again." The joke was relished and spread among the patrons of the players ; but Garrick, when this was reported to him, being then tlushed with success, does not appear to have been much disturbed by it, at least, there is no acrimony in the following epigram with which he answered the sarcasm : — " Pope Qnin, who damns all cluirches but liis own, Coiniiliiiua that lierosy iiiffHts tlu' town ; Thiit WhitHoUl Oariick Ima iniBlutI tlio ii^je, And taints the Hound religion of thu Hta){c : Ih" says that scliisni has turned tlie natiuuB brain, But eyes will open and to cliuich a^ain. Tliou grand iiifallililc, forbear to roar, Tliy bulls anil errors are reverM no nioio. ^V■lu'n doctrines meet witli general appr ibation, It is not heresy, but reformation." In May 1742, he closed the season at Goodman's-fields, after a career of the moat brilliant success. His fame was spread far and wide. The numagcrs of the Did>lin theatre Hcnt him pioposals inviting him to perform for them during tiie summer months, and he having accepted their terms, set out for Ireland, accompanied by Miss Wollington, about the beginning of dune. Garrick and this accompli.shed actress appiared together in several conu'diea, and were received with enthusii\sm : but tlie people being prepared for him in tragedy, it was in Kiehard and Liar that ho roused the greatest admiration. The theatre was, on the nights of his perforni'iuee. crowded with the rank and fashion of Ireland, and the weatlu'r being at the lime intensely hot, an epidemic rose in every (piarter of the town, which dividing the public interest with the player, was called the (iarrick fever, J) A vr n a A EurcK. 147 111 i>y •al ho of 1(1 ill Lll TTaving coinploted his ongagomont, ho returned to England with ]ii« laurols incroiised and fiourishiiig, wliere Fleetwood, convinced that ho was no longer a pretender but a man of genius, and afraid tliat sucli another campaign as the last at Goodman 's-tields would ])rove a serious injr>"y to his house, o|)enod a negotiation with him. TIk! treaty was soon concluded, a salary of five hundred pounds was agrcHHl upon for the season, tlie largest ever granted, and (Jittard witii liis wife, at (iarricl''8 suggestion, were also engaged, together Avith the host performers who liad acted with him at Ooodman's- fields. 'I'his arrangement was soon known, and diU'used, according to tlieatrical exaggeration, universal satisfaction. This particidar engagement is said to have been accepted by r.arrick with exju'essions of more than common pleasure ; it gratified liis nnihilion, ami was regavcUul by liim as an assurance that he Wduhl one day be the manager and proi)rietor of the theatre. But wlien it is considered that liis cliief study had been to ac(|uire a right and just concei)tii)n of the characters of Sliakspeare, it is surprising that tlie parts in which ho appeared, with the exception of Jtichard and Lear, were of far inferior consequence ; at last, however, in the course of the season, he added Hamlet to his list, in whicli he had made his first appearance in Dublin, and the description of his performance in it, merits to be often repeated. Wlie'i he entered tlie scene, his look spoke the character, a mind Aveiglied down witli apiu'eiiension and grief. Ht» moved slowly, and when ho paused he remained fixed in a melancholy attitude ; such was the expressi(m of his countenance, that the spectator could not mistake tlie sentiment to whicli ho was about to give utterance. The lino, " I have that within which passetli show," has l)een quoted as one of those masterly touches never heard before, but being heard, are never forgotten. In all the shiflings of his feelings, his voice, and even his appearance seemed to change, and when he beheld tlie ghost, his consternation was such, that the emotion of the spectators on looking at him was scarcely less than if they had actually themselves beheld a Hi)irit. He stood the statue of astonish- ment, his colour fled, and he sjioko in a low, trembling accent, and uttered his (piesticms with the ditHcnlty of extreme dread. It is to bo lamented that no description has been preserved of him in the ditleient great scones of his principal parts, but the testimonies which bear witness to the surprising powers of j)er8onation disjdayed in Handet, sufliciently assure us that he was possessed of wonderful ability in assuming the true characteristics of feidiug. It is not my intention to describe the efl'ect of (Jarrick's acting in all his parts, but only in those great delineations in which the highest histrionic talent has ever attenqtted to excel, liis perform- ance of iJayes in The luhc'trsdl, although not of that class of characters, has iil'.vjvys been recalled, in speaking of his ability as a mimic, as o'lO of his most delightful ellorta. At the time it was revived by him, the stage really st(Jod in need of the satire, and he judiciously yo altered the piece that it suited the follies and tonjper of the agt . Tho actors had lost, it is said, all judgment; the vicious taste of those who constructed the f\istiau, and cwUod ihw\- 148 LIVES OF THE PLAYEltS. selves poets, had frightened Nature from the stage ; and to vie with the extravagance of the authors, the best performers thought they could not show their talents enough. They strutted, they mouthed, they bellowed, and propriety was strangled and trodden, Iti their supernal violence and furor. This was all repugnant to the style of Garrick, and accordingly, in adapting 2'/ie Rehearsal to the stage, and the part of Bayes to himself, he seized each point of the extravagance in his contemporaries which his own taste condemned as absurd. And in consequence, by this part alone, he did wonders for tlie correction of the public taste ; for whilst the conceit and vanity of Hayes were embodied to the life, the faults of the actors were illustrated with the most admirable mimicry. To display their errors in the most glaring light, he affected to teach the pl.ayers to speak their speeclies in what he called the true theatrical manner — and for illustration, he selected some of the most eminent performers, and imitated their style and habit in the most perfect manner. Although in these imitations he chose the n)ost distinguished players, he yet never attempted Quin. Whether this was out of any awe or sentiment of respect, cannot now bo determined, but considering how sharjdy the veteran had expressed himself against the style of Garrick, there was good taste, from whatever cause arising, in this forbearance. The following season, 1743-4, opened less auspiciously than the preceding. It appears that Fleetwood, notwithstiindiiig the great success of Garrick, had formed a design to h)wer the salaries of the principal performers, and with that view counnunicated his scheme to JVIaeklin, who possessed considerable influence over the mind of Garrick, to induce him probably to accede to the manager's terms. Macklin, however, from some cause or another, broke off from liim and joim'd Garrick, witli whom he formed an alliance to withstand the oppression, as it was deemed, of the manager, and if possible, to set up a rival company. The performers flattered themselves tlmt Garrick would have weight enough to obtain a licence fc^r the little theatre in the Haymarket, but the Lord Chamberlain was deaf to their petition. Fleetwood remained inflexible, and the rebels, dis- appointed in their anticipations, became alarmed for themselves. Their heroism took more the character of common-sense than befitted personages of such high sentiment. They desirt^l Garrick to waive their demands, and to get them restored to their stations in the theatre. Overtures for a general pacification were accordingly nuulo —Fleetwood declared himself willing to receive them all again into grace and favour, with the exception of Macklin, who was excluded from the amnesty. After the best consideration I have been able to give to all tlie circuniBtunces of this affair, (iarrick seems to have acted as a gentle- man, and with liberality. To pacify Fleetwooti, wlio was [)artieularly incuuBed against Macklin, he ottered to play for a hundred guineas less than lie leoeived for the ff)rmer season, if that manager would re-engage MiicUlin. The otter was maile without ett'ect ; but Garriek'n concession to Macklin did not end with this attempt— he .'iddre.ssi'd himBelf to Rich, the other manager, and prevailed upon him to en- DAVID aAiinrcK. 149 the |vly 'lis llld Ik'H I'd gage Mrs. Macklin at three pounds a week, and, at the same time, offered to pay Macklin himself six pounds a week until he should become reconciled to the manager.* In the end, however, hostilities were suspended among the belligerents, and peace was proclaimed, by Garrick being announced to appear in the character of Baj s, on the 0th of December, IT'iS, but Macklin, stout rebel, still stood out. On the same day a pamphlet was published, entitled, ** The case of Charles Macklin, Comedian." Garrick was the principal person attacked in it, and all he could do was to disperse a hand-bill, stating that the pamphlet contained many injurious aspersions, and request- ing the public to suspend their judgment till he should have time, in the course of a day or two, to present a fair account of the whole transaction. Nothing, however, could appease the fury of Macklin's friends, A large party, led by Dr. Barrowby, went in crowds to the play- house ; Garrick appeared as annomiced, but was not suffered to speak. Off, off, resounded from all parts of the house. The play went on in dumb-sliow to the end, Garrick, during the uproar, standing aloof at the upper end of the stage, to avoid a thorough pelting of savomy missiles seldom used within a theatre. Macklin and his friends were triumphant for that night. Garrick engaged Guthrie, the historian, to answer the case of Macklin, and with great despatch he drew up a reply, and had an eminent friend in one of the Mr. Wyndhams, of Norfolk, who hap- pened to be an admirer of the athletic art. Having selected thirty of the ablest boxers of tlie time, Fleetwood admitted them into the theatre by a private passage, before the doors were opened, and they took possession of the middle of the pit. When the overture was playing, one of the boxers stopped the music, and standing up, said in a loud voice, " Gentlemen, I am told that some persoTis are hero with an intention not to hear the play ; I came to hear it ; I paid my money to hear it, and I desire that tliey who came to interrupt it may all withdi-aw, and not hinder my diversions." This, of course, occasioned a general uproar, but the boxers fell upon Macklin's party, and drove them out of the jiit. The battle was thus soon ended, and peace being conquered, Garrick then made his appearance, and went tlirough his part withdut interruption. Macklin was, however, only defeated, not subdued. On the 12th of December, 1743, Hve days after the battle, he published another pamphlet ; but the tables were turned with the jiubiic, and instead of the ill-used victim, which he supposed himself, they saw but a man of an iuHexible temper, intent on his own revengeful purposes, without regard to the conseipiencos which th.iy might entail on otiiers. The quarrel ceased to interest, and the remainder of the season passed in tranquility, and with increasing cclat to Garrick. In Juniiary following the Macklin war, Garrick aspired to another • But it may he th(inp;ht that ih\n wns not, entirely disinterested, m Macklin prolwbl^ witLcd to hohl him to their compact, 150 LIVES OF THE PLA YERS. I laurel, and chose Macbeth. On this occiision he resolved to revive the play as written by Shakspeare ; for, from the time of Sir William Davenant it had been always performed according to his alterations — indeed, so little was the true text then known, especi- ally among the players, that even Qiiin, when he heard of Garrick's intention, said, " What does he mean ? don't 1 play Macbeth as written by Shakspeare ? " This was the signal for pens ; a pajjer- war was immediately commenced, and the regenerator was assailed from all quarters ; but he took the field with his beaver down, or, in other words, in an anonymous pamphlet, and finally, according to promise, riade his appearance. His performance of this great and difficult part was a master-piece, but not equally excellent throughout. It was more characterised by nature than heroism ; and in this conception he perhaps evinc<;d great soundness of judgment and purity of taste — for the situations in which Macbeth is placed are so exciting, so full of intense feeling, that auy aspumed dignity of deportment, or deviation from the sin>- plicity of natural impulse, would have been a blemish. I have heard an authentic anecdote of the manner in which he played the dagger-scene, and the relation of it will serve to afiord a tolerably correct idea of his conception and execution of the part. It appears to have been widely different from the celebrated solemnity of John Kemble, and by contemporary accounts, as different too from the restless ecstasy of Quin. It had happened that the great Lord Mansfield had never seen Garrick's Macbeth, and that one day when they met at some coun- try dinuei", his Lordship mentioned the circumstance, and said that he understood the dagger-scene was even superior to his meeting with the Ghost in Hamlet, entreating Garrick to indulge him with a specimen. Garrick was flattered by tlie request, and replied that his Lordship was perhaps not aware of the difficulty, for so much of the interest depended on the state of the spectator's mind, produced by the preliminary circumstances of the drama, that it would not bo easy to excite any corresponding preparation — '* V our Lordship," said he, " cannot but remark the awful supernjitural key on which the whole tragedy is constructed. lieings of another si)here and condition than of the earth, have announced their intention to fulfil a fatal destiny on Macbeth, and I'ate, in the stupendous character of his lady, has prepared for them an unconscious coadjutor of dreadful influence. He has gained great renown, and been adorned with many honours. Duncan, the King, is his guest, and the ties nf kindred, and the obli^iitions of hospitality, and above all, loyalty, claim that rather than hear the knife against him, he should cover him with all his .shield ; yet, in these circuuistances, he has resolved to murder hiui, and the midnight hour and a storm lire accessories to his terrible feelings at the moment. Under them he is stalking to the chamber of the King, reflecting on the crisis in which he stands, and pausing at the door, agitated with conflicting emotions, ho says, "Is that a dai^'gcr," — " Po, p;;, Garrick, that's all well enough, biit come, show me the scene ! " cried his Lordship. Gar- rick bwwed respectfully, and replied, " When does your Lordship DAVIT) GAnBTCK. 151 )0 of •d uf ies iig he 118, oil iir- lip hold the next meeting ? " The judge was rebuked, for Garrick was acting the scene. Before the end of the month in which Garrick appeared as Macbeth, Begulus, a tragedy, was produced. The author was a Mr. Havard, the author of tScanderheg, and a tragedy, entitled Ckarhn J., both of that respectable degree of mediocrity which the world, without re- pining, soon forgets. Regulus was well received, and the story, familiar to every school-boy, was told with clearness in cori-ect language. Garrick persi mated the hero, and his energy and sensi- bility gave sentiment to the piece, which affected the audience with a degree of sympathy inconceivable, when one reads the unjjoetical common-places of the composition. The play accomplished its fate. It was laid aside after the eleventh niglit. About the end of March, in the same year, another new tragedy was produced, a free translation of Voltaire's Mahomet; a dr.mia which many critics of the Continent esteem as of great merit ; but, in truth, it is only an ingenious piece of artificial enthusiasm, lack- ing in the vigour of natural passion. It is a mere play — and is as like the genuine world of man, as painted actors and painted scenes are like its persons and circumstances. The part which Garrick re- presented was Zaphna, and it received all the exaltation which his genius could confer on insipid verse and rodomontade ; neither clergymen nor stock-jobbers should lay their mittened hands on the sensibilities of solemn tragedy. Voltaire, we allow, has constructed Borne pretty dranuis in verse, but he never looked into the heart of man. He was by nature a satirist, and never could see aught in the human bosom but sellish purposes and sordid designs. The season of 1744-5 was that in which Garrick reached the sum- mit of his profession, though he had not then gathered all his glory. He was the Lear, the Richard, the Hamlet, and the Macbeth of Shakspeare, or as nearly so as art can approach to nature ; but he had also a strong predilection for comedy, and in this season he ex- tended his walk in that line, At this time the modest star of Thomson, the delightful author of "The Seasons," was beginning to peer above the theatrical horizon, and he ventured to bring forward his tragedy of Tancvcd and l^itjis- munda, a composition full of beauties in the closet, but actionless upon the stage. The rules which Pope has given in his " Epistle to Lord Burlington," on gardening, were never more applicable than to this tender and pleasing poet — No pleasing intricacicH intervene, No artful wildneHs to perplex the scene ; Grove n()(l« to grove, each alley has a brother, And half tlie platform just reflects the other — for Thomson's forte was not dramatic ; even his elegant power of alliiHion, which renders " The Seasons" at once the sweetest, and the most refined poem in the language, is scarcely perceptible in his dramas. Mrs, Oibbor played Sigismunda to Garrick's Tancred, and with \ 152 LIVES OF TITK PLAYERS. H ;1 I u \l\. two Biich performers the piece could not, with the author's beautiful verse, be otherwise than successful. After Thomson's play, Garriok appeared in Othello, in which he hiwl made an attempt before ; but after the best consideration I have been able to give to all the different accounts of this performance, it umst, I fear, be pronounced a failure. Garrick, however, continued to repeat the part occasionally, but it never was with him a favourite, and as lie advanced in life, he retired gradually from it, until he per» formed it no more. It would be a curious speculation to attempt to determine the cause of Garrick's failure in Othello, for a failure it must be con- sidered, as compared with his transcendency in otb.er parts. In the just and natural inrtexion of the voice, accordant to the feeling and passion to be expressed, wo have no cause to doubt that he was ecpially excellent. The probability therefore is that he failed in the expression of the countenance alone, and that this default and short- coming to expectation was entirely owing to the black disguise he was obliged to assume. But why is Othello always performed as if he had been a negro ? It is true that Shakspeare makes him spoken of as such, and yet he w^s only a Moor — dark, doubtless, but not nnich darker than the Spaniard ; a blackamoor, undoubtedly meant a negro — and the very name, arising from the intervention of the a between the adjective and the substantive, shows that it was intended only for the blacks, there being in the sound a something which resembles the accent of the negroes. The season of 1745-G, was remarkable in the life of Garrick, as well as in the history of the kingdom. Theatricals were dull in Loudon, and the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, the wit among Lords, being Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and keeping a gayer court than that of the Sovereign himself, Garrick went to Dublin, and performed there with Sheridan, the father of the author of the School of Scandal. A short time before Garrick's arrival with Sheridan in London, Spranger Barry had made his first appearance. He came out in Othello with transcendent lustre, and his success, as compared with Garrick in that part, was so extraordinary, as to inspire all who wit- nessed his perfoi'inance with unbounded admiratiim. It is due, however, to the generosity of Garrick's disposition, to mention that no one was louder in their approbation of 13arry's performance than himself. By the time Garrick returned from Ireland, in May 174G, Rich, the Covent-Garden manager, who had rejected him with disdain, was convinced, by his success, that he was a great performer, and anxious to engage him, offered most advantageous terms. As a far- ther inducement ho proposed to open his theatre, which was then shut, for six nights, and to divide with him the profits. The offer was embraced, and Garrick ulayed his capital parts : he was thus secured for the winter to Covent (iarden. That winter proved Hie most flourishing which Covent Garden had ever known. Quiu, Garrick, Mrs. Cihbur, Mrs. I'ritchard, Wood, Hyan, and Chapman, formed the wont efl'^ctive company ever DA VI D GAlililCK. 153 in ith kvit- Ine, lliat liau atisemhled ; certainly not at all inferior to that golden age of the drama which saw Booth, Wilks, and Gibber in the same scene. It was during this season that Garrick and Quia appeared less as rivals than as reciprocal competitors, d(jing their best to obtain public favour. They frequently acted together in the same play. In Jane Hhore Quin was Gloucestt>r, and Uarriok Lord Hastings ; and in the first part of Henrij IV\ Garrick played Hotspur, to give new attrac- tions to Quin's Sir .John Falstaft", one of the most perfect impersona- tions which the stage has ever exhibited. This generous contention interested the public, and with the fashionable world Covent Garden was the rival of the Opera. Garrick had already twice attempted dramatic composition in two farces, Lethe, and 'Hit Lyiiuj Valet,* both of which, particularly the latter, may be said to be still in favourable possession of the stage. In this year, January 1747, he produced Miss in her Teena, a farce, calculated to afford mucli aunisument, though it is not often played. The fable is well imagined, the incidents spring naturally out of one another, with frecpient unexpected turns, but which never violate the rules of probability. It, however, must be confessed, that as it turned more on fashion than on manners, it is one of those plays which require an adaptation to every nev age. Garrick, in the mincing and missy character of Fribble, is said to have been ex- ceedingly comic. In the February following, the play of The Suspicious Husband, a commendable, heavy aft'air, such as might have been expected from a clever, worldly clerLjyman, was brought out. It has but still wit ; but the scenes and equivoques are managed with skill, and it is occasionally performed. Garrick's part in it was Ranger, and he acquitted himself with great spirit throughout the whole piece. The play, however, has been regularly sinking into oblivion since his time. The season closed at the tisual time, after a spring tide of success. Garrick and Quin never played better, and throughout it all they had no difference ; Garrick allowed his senior rival the applause due to him, and always spcike of his Falstaff as the perfection of acting. He admired Quin's vein of natural humour, and delighted in repeat- ing his roughest and most sarcastic jokes. The following story is one of the many he delighted to tell. Quin engaged a party of friends to sup at the Crown and Anchor. Garrick was of the number ; at a late hour the guests n)ado their escape from more wine. Quin having, or pretending to have, some business to settle with Garrick, detained hiui after the rest were gone. When they were ready to leave the tavern, a shower came down in such a deluge that they could not think of stirring. No hackney-coach was on the stand : two chairs were ordered : the liad lod, Iver • Garrick wiis but little scrupuldUH in niiiking use of tlio idoMs of others. Thf LyitKj Valet was tulten fioiu Thf Less icitk t'^/nvf/i , an uiipubliHhed phiy by Cunningham tlio poot, who was hinisolf a playur. Ilo dc(hcatcil liis poems to Garrick, who sunt him two guineas on the occasion, which lio returned, begging that tlicy might be added to the tlieatrical fund. ^s lU LIVES OF THE PLA YEKS. waiter reported that only one could be found. Garrick proposed that Quin should i;u first, and he would wait till the chair returned. " Poh ! that is standing on ceremony," said Quin; "we can go together." "Together? impossible!" " Inipr)8sible ! nothing more easy," replied Quin ; "I will go in the chair, and you can go in the lantern." Quin was a portly personage and David a manikin; but tlje humour of the story consisted in the spirit of the telling it. It is the misfortune of all good things, especially those of the playen, which depend on manner, seldom to interest, on repeating, by any other party than the first relater. About this time an incidetit occurred which had a great effect on the fortunes of Garrick. A banking-house, which had purchased Drury Lane tlieatre from Fleetwood, was under the necessity of stopping payment. The patent was at that time a grant from the Crown for twenty-one years, and had only a few to run. Lacy obtained a promise from the Duke of Grafton, then Lord Chamber- lain, that if he purchased, he should have in Jue time a renewal of the patent. The preliminaries being sett'*id. Lacy, in order to ensure success to his undertaking, invited Garrick to join him in the speculation. (Jarrick jumped at the bait : the dream of his ambition was in his powtr to be realized — his friends assisted him to accept the otter, and accordingly he was enabled to advance eight thousand pounds, and to reach the goal of his hopes. In the month of April 1747 an agreement was completed between them. The two managers opened the theatre on the 16th of September 1747, with a strong company, of which Barry was a member. Garrick spoke a prologue on the occasion, written by his early friend and fellow-adventurer. Dr. Samuel Johnson, not unworthy of his sonorous pen ; and Mrs. Woffington delivered an epilogue, the com- position of Garrick himself. In January 1748, Garrick, who had studied the part of Jaffier, in Otway's Venice Preserved, bro .ght out that tragedy, with the advan- tage of Quin in Pierre ; but he falling ill, it was undertaken by Barry, who did not equal him in the character. Jaftier was more suitable to his powers ; nevertheless, the ^jlay as it was performed was considered a masterly exhibition. Garrick then brought out the couiedy of The Foundling, to which he wrote the epilogue ; he also revised liomeo and Juliet,, in which Barry played Romeo, but he tool: 'limself no part in it ; he likewise revived Mucli Ado abov.t Notkinij, and played Benedict to Mrs. Prichard's Beatrice, in which both parties received the greatest applause. It was in this year also that Garrick brought out Irene, the tragedy which his friend Johnsou brought in his pocket to make his fortune, when they left Lichfield together, a work of superior literary merit. Full justice was done to it in the performance by the best strength of the compimy, but it was sustained by perseverance only nine nights, and then laid on the shelf. To the friendsliip of Garrick for the author, the acceptance of the play for representation can alone be ascribed, for it is impossible to conceive that ho could bo insensible to its deficiency in dramatic merit, or so dazzled with the mere verbal sonance of the language, DAVID GAUitlCK. 155 in lich uch ase klra. [test lene, Lake Irior the luce I the to latic as to suppose it alone would charm an audience for an entire evening. Dramatic poetry was not, indeed, the forte of Johnson's genius. An acute perception of moral beauty was his chief attribute, and if in that he was eminent, certain it is he has had his full share of respect. Johnson was, in fact, one of those characters who are regarded with esteem by mankind, more from an opinion of what they are capable of doiuj^ tbau for what tliey do. It was also in tliis season, so busy in novelties, that Aaron Hill's translation of Voltaire's Alero^e was brought out, a tragedy which partook in no inconsiderable degree of that pomp of phraseology which the audience felt so ponderous in Irene ; but t»»e incidents are striking, and with the lielp of Garrick and Mrs. Gibber, it proved most successful on representation. Garrick was now thriving ; his management of the theatre was judicious ; good taste and excellent sense appeared in all he under- took. Nature had gifted him with talents, and these were applied to their proper use with that skill and industry ivhich deserved i.nd gained success. Under these circumstances '.te resolved to marry, and Mrs. Woftington, who had long lived wit^ liim, waa said to have been so far the object of his first choice, thpl she herself declared he had tried a wedding-ring on her finger. We are, however, inclined to question the story, for tiie simple reason that Garrick was so evidently intent through life to raise himself in society, that it seems improbable, notwithstanding the example of similar things happen- ing to men of equal reputation for prudence. But whatever may have been his intention, it was not carried into efiect. The beauti- ful Violette, a dancer of supreme excellence, a native of Vienna, who took tliat Italian name, attracted his affections ; she was patronized by Lord and Lady Burlington, who on her marriage-day presented her with a casket of jewels and six thousand pounds, a gift so munificent that it confirmed a rumour which was then in vogue that she was the natural daughter of the Earl. With what assiduity Garrick may have guarded and cultivated liis own fame, he was undoubtedly a man not over jealous of merit in others ; on the contrary, it may be justly said, that he had pleasure in bringing forward rival talent, as if conscious that it was only by competition with great merit that his own superiority could be best shown. The entire season which he performed with Quin without a dift'erence was honourable to his temper and liberality ; and in the next season a new instance of what may really be called his magnani- mity was displayed in bringing out Othdlo, in which he had not met with complete success, and in giving the part to Barry, while he him- self took the chai icter of lago. In the course of the same year he also brought out Edward the Black Prince, by William fcihirley, a spiritless imitation of the manner of iShakspeare. In the following February (1750^, he brought out Whitehead's tragedy of The Iluinaa Father, a compoaitiou in which the style and fable are both equally rerined and classical. Garrick, who excelled in the parts of aged men, played the principal character, and the piece was admired and applauded on the stage, while the critics bore testimony to the beauty and purity of its literary merits m ihe closet. xm LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. All had hitherto gone projierously with the dramatic monarch ; but players aa well r.s men utt dcBtined to sutler change, and to know the stinijs of vici'tsitndc. Qiun, who was on the pinnacle of great- ness at Covent Garden, began to scowl at the flourishing fortuucB of his rival, and, like other potentates, thought in envious pride oniy of war : accordingly, by all the arts of theatric diplomacy, he availed liimself of some petty discoiiteiit«, which were discerned in the j)halanx of Dniry Lam;, and in the end induced Barry and Mr». I'richard to revolt. This defection was followed by that of Mm. WolKngton, so loni' the bosom friend of Garrick. But o\ir hero met the slut king of his lortunes courageously ; lie composed his manifesto in the shape of a prologue, mo.-e remaikalde for its titness than its felicity. Tlie campaign was opened with Borneo and Juliet, in which Mrs. Bellamy played the heroine and (iarrick tlio lover ; Barry and Mrs. Gibber in the same parts, shone glorious on the boards of C( vent Garden, and the battle raged for twelve nights with undiminished bravery : which was to win was still the question, when the town grew tired of the contest, and Rich, the manager of Covent Garden, deemed it expedient to change the play. Garrick thus remained master ot tlie Held, having played it tliirteen nights. This war gave rise to the following playful epigram in allusion to the story of the play :— " What play to-night ? " says angry Ned, As from hia bod he rouses ; " Romeo iigain ! " he Hhiikes his head, " A plague on botii your houses ! " Giirrick soon afterwards revived Congreve's tragedy of ThcMourn- biij Bride, a drama that without petulance may be said to owe much of its fame to a single passage, which, though tine in itself, is indebted for its celebrity to an extravagant eulogium of Dr. Johnson — it is the description of the interior of a cathedral :-- " Now all is liushM, and still as death, — 'tis dreadful ! How reverend is the face of this 'all pile, "Whose ancient pillars roar their tnarhlo heads. To hear aloft its a/'ch'd and ponderous roof, Looking tran exhibit. But they became the object of the malice and ridicule of all the wits about town. The indignatic . f the lower orders was kindled, that such a number of Frenchmen, as they call all foreigners, should be brought among them. Still Garrick thouglit that this patriotic prejudice might be allayed, and as the King, Georji;e II. had never seen him act, he so contrived it, that on the night when the dancers were to make their first appearance, his Majesty was induced to command his own per- formance of Richard III. But when the tragedy was over and the dancers entered, no respect was paid to the royal presence, all in the theatre was noise, tumult, and commotion. The King was amazed at the uproar, but being told that it was because the people hated the French, he smiled and withdrew. On that occasion, a gentleman, one of the most celebrated wits of the time, who had been in attendance on his Majesty, went afterwards to the green-room, and Garrick, anxious to know how the King had been pleased, inquired what his Majesty thouifht of Richard : "I can say nothing on that head," re- plied the courtier, " but when the actor told Richard, — * The Mayor of London comes to greet you,' the King roused himself, and when Taswell entered, butl'ooning the splendid annual, his Majesty said, ' Duke of Grafton, I like dat Lord Mayor ; ' and when the scene was over his Majesty exclaimed again, ' Duke of Grafton, dat is a good Lord Mayor ; ' and when Richard was ' i Bosworthfield, roaring for a horse, his Majesty said, 'Duke of Grafton^ will dat Lord Mayor not come again ? ' 11 ( • 158 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS, In the moan time the riot in the house was going on, and in the end, after tliree or four nights were successively tried to procure attention, the poor dancers were fairly driven from the stage, and the interior of the theatre, as in similar affairs when John Bull is in wrath, was defaced and the decorations demolished. At this epoch, wlien Garrick was attempting to introduce the Con- tinental hallet on tlie English stage, it ought not to be forgotten that he (lid not show his wonted acumen in judging of the legitimate drama. He rejected Home's tragedy of Dowjlus, one of the few per- formances which still retain, both in representation and reading, •'all their original brightness." His life, however, continued to afford few incidents for biography ; it was prosperous and pleasant, and flowed in the same even tenour for many years ; but about the beginning of 1703 another riot took place, in consequence of an attempt of the manager to introduce a new regulation, by which, during the run of a new play, no half-price was to be admitted. Tlie audience gained tlieir cause, but the incident deserves more partic- ular notice as an instance of the good sense with which Garrick for so many years managed Drury Lane. On the second night of the riot, the malevoli, as they were called, returned to the charge, and sunmioned the manager jto appear before them. As soon as he came on tiieir leader stood up, and, to the astonisliment of all his friends, said to Garrick. " Will you, or will you not allow admittance at half- price after the third act of every piece, except a new pantomime during its run in the lirst winter?" Garrick, with the most dis- arnung suavity, complied with the request, and the rioters were triumphant. But it must be acknowledged that John Bull did not on this occasion show all his wonted generosity and love of justice ; for during the disturbance on the preceding night. Moody, one of the actors, arrested one of the malevoli in the act of setting fire to the scenery. This material service was deemed an offence which re- (juired an apology. Moody was vehemently called for, and on his appearance liis turbulent judges in the ])it ordered him to ask pardon, to which, with great presence of mind, he answered, " Gen- tlemen, if by hindering the house from being burnt to the groinid, and saving many of your lives, I liave given you cause of displeasure, I ask your pardon." This their high mightinesses deemed an aggravation, and they connnanded him to implore pardon on his knees; but Moody replied with energy, "Gentlemen, 1 will not degr.ide myself so low, even in your opinion ; by such an act I should be an abject wretoh ;nifit ever to appear before you again.'" He then made his bow and walked off the stage, and tiarrick received hiin Avith open arms. The riot now assumed a new character ; the manager was again obliged to appear, and being ordered to dismiss Moody for his insolence, he assured them that Moodj^, though he was a useful actor, should not perform on his stiige so long as he remained under tlieir displeasure. lie tht-n retired, and once more embracing Moody, assured him that his salary should be regularly continued. On the next night the confederates were determined to renew the contest at Covent Garden theatre. Tlie manager there refused to I M DAVID GARRICK. 159 ho IlKjt lllU. that I the to submit to their dictation, and the interior of the hoiiae was instantly laid in ruins. Redress at law was solicited on the ringleaders, and Lord Mansfield so impressively delineated at once their folly and guilt, that they were ashamed of themselves ; Co vent Garden was thuii left at liberty to proceed according to the new regulation, but Garrick was obliged to submit to his capitulation. The last new part in which Garrick appeared, was Sir Anthony Bramville, in Mrs. Sheridan's sentimental comedy called The Dis- covery, which was brought out in 1763. The play itself has consider- able merit, and in this character, a solemn coxcomb of antiquated manners, he displayed a whimsical humour that added more interest to the piece than has been since his time discernil)le in it. He went on, however, repeating his favourite parts, and closed the season with apparent composure ; but the humiliations * of the riots, and other incidental anxieties, preyed upon his heart in secret, and he was advised both on his own account and the health of Mrs. Garrick, to go abroad, and accordingly, on the 15th of September 1763, he set out for Dover. Health, and the dissipation of his chagrin, led him to proceed, without material interruption, to the baths of Padua, which proved medicinal to Mrs. Garrick, and the chaiige of scene, as well as the novelty of the amusements in which he participated, essentially contributed to the restoration of himself. But ht was sometimes disconcerted — perhaps as often diverted, by the hauteur with which, as a player, he was treated by the Italian n'^bility ; the English travellers, however, whom he met with, always evinced towards him the greatest respect. The Duke of Parma was, however, an excep- tion, to the general pride affected by the Italians, and Garrick was several times invited before him to display "the glory of his art." But the scene with the celebrated Mademoiselle Clairon, on his return, at Paris, was one of the most brilliant of these favourite exhibitions, considering the talents of the performers, ever witnessed. A large party were assembled, and at the request of the company, Clairon and Garrick consented to exhibit specimens of their theatrical talents. The contest between them lasted some time, with great animation on both sides. It was however remarked, that the French gave the preference to Garrick ; with equal politeness, the English applauded Clairon ; but Garrick perceiving that his admirers were unacquainted with the English language, he was induced to exhibit in action the grief and delirium of the old gentleman who dropped his child in fondling it, and whose madness became the model of his own in Lear. The influence of the representation on the company was astonishment, succeeded by tears ; and Clairon, in a transport of admiration, caught him in her arms and kissed him. After about a year and a half's absence, Garrick returned to Lon- don, to the universal delight of the play-going world ; and the King * One of the nights when Garrick and Mrs. Gibber played, the cash receipts of Drury Lane amounted to no more than three pounds fifteen shillings and sixpence. 100 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. honoured his first re-appearuncc with liis presence. The joy of the audience on this occasion was not expressed by the usual clapping of hands and the clattering of sticks, but in loud sliouts and luizzas. It was remarked, by those who best appreciated his abilities, that by visiting foreign theatres he had greatly profited. His action, always spirited and proper, liad become easier, liis deportment more grace- ful, his man.ier more polished, and that the whole style of his acting was improved. Some short time after his return Dr. Goldsmith applied to CJarrick with his comedy of The Good-natured Man. He had early attacked the phiyer, when he was very young, and Garrick romembored the unprovoked malice afterwards, it is alleged, by declining the play; other and more commendable reasons have been assigned, but it cannot be questioned that the original injury of the Doctor's satire was recollected, and when a reason of so much importance to a spoiled child of the public can bo discovered, it is uiniecessary to look for a mere professional cause. However, in time they became mutually reconciled ; he even went so far, though he did not act in his comedy of She Stoops to Cour/He?-, to present the Doctor with a humorous prologue, and secured himself a niche in that beautiful temple of Retaliation whi(ih Goldsmith constructed over the mem- bers of the famous Literary Club. Am.mg other devices which occurred in the miiul of Garrick for the augmentation of l.ia fame and fortune, tlio Jubilee 'at Stratford- on-Avon, in honour of ShaUspeare, ouglit not to ho forgotten ; no author ever better merited such a celebration than the poet ; but the sober habits of the people, and the precarious temper of the climate, I fear, must ever pnicure for the idea of such a fete the epithet of prepohterous. Garrick afterwards brought the Jubilee to Driuy Lane theatre, where it was performed for nearly a hundred nights ; but the memo- rials which have been preserved of the representation do i\ot reflect much honour on the taste of the public, ami justly exposed Garrick to some degree of ridicule. Among other critics of whom the representation of tlio Stratford Jubilee, in the winter of 1770, stirred the gall, was Foote, a man naturally of an envious dispositioji, and who, from some unknown prejudice, is said to have secretly cherished an antipathy to Garrick. His spleen vented itself in a scheme for a burlesipie imitation of the pageant, in which a character, made as like Garrick as possible, was to be introduced. Foote, however, being under personal obliga- tions, was by the interference of a nobleman, who patronized them both, persuaded to forego his satire. By the death of Mr. Lacy, in 177''5, joint patentee of Driiry Lane, the whole management of the theatre devolved on Garrick. Jbit ho was now far advanced in life, approiiching three-score, and wuh alHictcd with chronic disorders. Mis friends, considering tiie increase of anxieties, were in C(niHe(iui'nce induced to advise him to retire from the stage, but he did not imnuMliately uilopt their advice. When, however, it eoidd no longer he wisely withstooil, he distinguished his retirement by an act of DAVID QARRIGK. 161 10 a- 10 ho SI) 1)0 of munificence that ought to be inscribed on his monument. Having, from his return in 1705, taken an active interest in promoting the Theatrical Fund, which had been established during liis absence on the Continent, he, on the 18th of Ma}' 1774, produced to an assem- blage of the players, called together in the Green-room of Drury Lane, satisfactory proofs of what he had done for the Fund, and in January 177G, the couiinittee, by his advice, was induced to apply iov an Act of Incorporation ; all the costs and charges of this act he defrayed himself, and on the 10th of June in that year, when he took his leave of the sta<,'e, in the part of Don Felix in The Wuiuler, he bestowed on the Fund the monies received at that final appearance. Soon after, he sold his interest in the patent of the theatre for the sum (jf thirty-five thousand pounds. His theatrical career being now over, I may be permitted to offer a short estimate of his life and character ; a task the more delightful, for if as a player he had no equal, he was a man distinguished for many virtues and accomplishments. Mr. Garrick was small in stature, but handsomely formed, and his deportment was graceful, easy, and eugagiug. His complexion was dark, but his countenance was enlivened with black eyes, of singular brilliancy. His voice was distinct, melodious, and commanding, and possessed an inexhaustible compass, or rather seemed to do so, for he managed it with such appropriate discietion that it was never heard pitched beyond his power. It would be unfair towards the character of this great artist, to say that he was never ex^f- led. In some parts others have surpassed him, but all his contemporaries agree that he beggared competition in those characters for which he was most celebrated ; and that he never performed any part without impressing his audience with ad- miration. In every department of the drauia he did not exceed all his rivals ; but there were characters in which he had none, and in which he gave the passion with the fidelity of Nature, and the regularity and beauty of consummate art. His talents as an author were not of the first class ; but he possessed, in many of his compositions, an ease and grace of no ordinary kind ; and had he not been the glory of the stagu, ho would have in consequence commanded the respect of posterity for the magnitude and variety of his works as an author, in which capacity, however, he has been praised too much. The farce of Hiijh Life beluw Stairs has been ascribed to him, and printed with his works, but it is the production of his friend, the Rev. James Townley,* to " Tlid lupiits of Townley are not f^eiR'vally known : lio wuh born in fiondon in 1715, and rfcoivcd Ids (iducation at Alcrcliaid-'railors' school, from wlience he was eU'ctod to St. .lohn's ('olli'f,n', Oxford. Soon after takin;:; orders, lie was cliosi'n niorninf,' preaclier at Lincoln's-Inn i'ha)iel, and h^cturer at St. Dinistan'H in the i'last . In 171(>, he married Miss Jane Honnin, of Windsor, descended from tlie I'oyn/ family, and ndati'd to tlio hde Dowaj^er Lady Spencer, tliron^h wliose jiatronage lie olitained tiie living of St, Jiciniett, (Iracecluirch Street, Ijun,is among theni. 'J SAMUEL FOOTS. 163 all the applause +hat embalms hia memory. In him talent and good sense were elegantly united, and if it be acknowledged that he waa of the highest order of genius in the mimic scene, it must also be conceded that he was eminent for many shining virtues as a man. From the evening on which he quitted the stage he was respected as an opident private gontleumn ; but he did not altogether forego his ability to delight. In the same season he was put into the com- mission of the peace, but ho was not known to have ever acted in tho character of a justice : the trust, however, was a becoming compli- ment ; he had earned it by tho correctness of his own conduct, and by the fortune which that conduct liad insured to him. A chronic disease, however, deprived him of the capacity of enjoying the com- fort and hajjpiness which he liad hoped would attend his retirement ; and on the 2Uth of January 1779 he breathed his last, at his house on the Adelphi-terrace, and was interred on the 1st of February following with great funeral pomp in Westminster Abbey, where a splendid monument has since been erected to his memory. SAMUEL FOOTE, .'111 Samuel Foote was a native of Truro, where he was born about tho year 1720. As his father was a respect.v-^lo country gentleman and a magi.strate of the county, he must be regarded as in point of birth considerably juperior to tho players in general. He was educated at Worcester, and by liis quickness gave an early promise of future talent. He was indeed, as he said himself, the fntlwf of many good things when but a mere child. His singular talent for mimicry ia said to have been unfolded by the following accident. Being at his father's during the Christmas holidays, a man in tho parish had been charged with a bastard child, which excited some conversation in tho family. Sam, then a boy between eleven and twelve, remarked, " I forseo how this business will end, as well as what the justices will say upon it." " Ay," said his father ; " well, Sam, let us hear it." Upon this he dressed up his face in a strong caricature likeness of one of their neighbours, a justice of tho peacu and thus pro- ceeded : — " ' Hem ! hem ! here's a fine job of work broke out indeed ! a feller begetting bastards uiuler our vei'y noses, (and let mo tell you, good people, a connnon labouring rascal, too,) when our taxes arc so groat, and our poor I'atos so high; wliy, 'tis an abomination; wo shall not liavo an honest servant maid in the noiglibonrhood, aUvl tlio wiiolo l)krish will swarm with bastards : therefore, I say, let liim bo fined for his pranks very severely ; and if tho rascal has not nmnoy, (as indeed how should he have it I) or can't iind security, (as indeed how should such a feller find security ?) let him be clapped up in prisoi) till lie find it ! ' 164 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. "The other justice will be milder. ** * Well, well, brother, this is not a new case ; bastards have been begotten before now, and bastards will be begotten to the end of thinion of (iarrick, imt inferior to Footo himself— and, with the as.sislance of his companion, performed with great (clat. One niyht, Wilkinson vent\ired to imitate Foote himself, and the audience cried out "Foote outdone ;"/i(' did not, liowcver, think so, biit complimented Wilkinson, when the l)lay was over, on his general success, saying he was welcome to make free with him, as the mimic mimicked was cer- tainly fair game, but, as his friend, he would tell him that he thought /m'.s ^j(Of the worst imitation of the whole; indeed, so bad, that he was afraid it would damn the reputation of the rest. During Foote's stay in Dublin he was much caressed; both for his talents as a dramatic writer and a gentleman possessed of extra- ordinary wit and i)leaHantry. On returning to London, Garrick eni;aged him, with Wilkinson, at Drury Lane, where their peculiar abilities were attended with extraordinary profit and applause — but the poor players, thtj chief subjects of their mimicry, w>jre greatly annoyed. One of them, I'arsons, even suHered so much from the manner in which he was imitated, that he took to his bed in kUitesB under the mortilication. )iut although the euecosa of Footo, l)oth as an author and an actor, •was greatly productive, uo income could keep pace with his expendi- ture, and he was, in consecpience, ever in ditticulty. He generally kept a town and a country hovise, a chariot, horsea, and servants, and with a table mostly occupied with persons of the lirst distinction for rank and wit. In consequence of this hospitable stpiandering, early in 1759, finding himself beset with duns, to raise the wind, he made a trip to Scotland, and for tlie expenses on the road he was obliged to borrow a hundred pounds from Garrick. The trip, however, turned out prolital;le, and he was well received by the gentry of Edinburgh as well as by the public in general. The Scots, nevertheless, did not escape his sarcasm. At a gentleman's table in the country, an old lady being called ujion for a toast, gave Clnirles the Third. "Of Si)ain, Madam," said Fiiote. " No, Sir," cried the lady, with some pettisluiess, "of England.'' — "Never mind her," said one of the comj)any, " she is one of our old folks who have not got rid of their liolitical invjudices." — "Oh, dear Sir, make no apology," cried Foote, " 1 was prepared for all this ; as, from your living so far north, 1 supi)(»si' none of you have yet heard of the Revolution." The following winter he again went to Dul/liu, where he brought out his afterwards greatly-celelirated ])lay of l^lic Mivor ; of which, on the night it was linst lepresented, the reception was but cool, and the piece was subsecpiently withdrawn, for that season. Altogether, this excursion to Dublin fell short of what ho had hoped, and he returned to London with his purse far from being replenished ; but, without alterations, he brought out The Minor there, and it proved eminently successful. SAMUEL FOOTE. 171 in 59, p to row out 1 .'i8 nut old 'Of nne the loir riod far iU ich, Eincl |iei', he but, fed In 17^1 ho bocanio roconcilod to Murpliy, and durhig the Hinnmcr they obtained permission to open Drury Lane together, whicli they did with Murj)liy'8 comedy of All in the Wrouf/. This summer specnhition, liowever, did not realize tlie expectations of the partners. In January foUowini,', he brought out at Coveiit (iarden Theatre a comedy in three acts, The Liar ; afterwards, in tlie foUowing smmiier, anotlier ])iece, The Oratom, the design of wliich was ti> expnso the prevailing passion for oratory — the allair of the 8U])])osed Cock-lane ghost, and the Debating Society held at the llobin Hood. In the performing of the latttir, some real characters were to bo sacrificed, and ani(»ng others the renownud Dr. Samuel Johnson, who was said to have been a willing believer in the ghost. Jiut this intention coming to the Doctor's ears, he employed a friend to buy for him a stout oak cudgel, and at the same time caused it to bo niadj known, both to the author and the public, that ho intended " to plant himself in the front of the stage-box on the first niglit of representation, and if any buflbcm attempted to take him off, or treat him with any degree of personal ridicule, to spring forward on the atage, knock him down in the face of the audience, and then appeal tu their common feeliu'^s and protection." Tliis rou^ii declaration frightened Aristophanes ; but considering that Dr. Johnson was in the habit of enjoying the satirist's imita- tions of others, in justice, he would not hiive had much to complain of had he been a little laughed at himself. He was a coarse, un- amiable person, and his peculiarities and afi'ectatioMs were such, that if the puldic mimicry of private individuals can be justified, the surly sage was as good a subject as any other. But although tlie Doctor was alarmed at the idea of being introduced on the stage, his criti- cisms on the character' and talents of Foote are the most judicious that were given. " He is not a good mimic," said the Doctor ; " but he has art, a fertility and variety of images, and is not deficient in reading. He has knowledge enough to till up his part : then he has great range for his wit ; ho never lets truth stand between him and a jest : and he is sometimes mighty coarse." It being observed to him that Foote had a singular talent of ex- hibiting character, the Doctor replied, " No, Sir ; it is not a talent, it is a vice ; it is what others abstain from." At another time Di\ Johnson, in speaking of his abilities, said, " I don't think Foote a good mimic. His imitations are not like : ho gives you something difl'erent from himself, without going into other people. He cannot take off any person, except he is strongly marked. He is like a painter wlio can draw the jKU'trait of a man who has a wen upon his face, and who, therefore, is easily known. ]f a man hops upon one leg, Foote can hop upon one leg ; but he has not a nice discrimination of character. He is, however, upon the whole, very entertaining, with a particular species of conversation, between art and bntfoonevy. I am afraid, however, Foote has no priuci|)le. He is at times neither governed by good manners nor discretion, and very little by allection. But for a broad laugh (and here the Doctor would himself gruffly smile at the recollection of it) I must confess, the scoundrel has no fellow." hi 172 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. " The first time," aaitl the Doctor on anotlior occasion, "I ever was in company witli Foote, I was resolved not to be pleased — and it is very ditlicult to please a man against his will. I went on eating my diinier pretty snlleiily, ;\Hoctin>f for a lony time not to mind him ; hnt the doj,' was so very comical, that 1 was obliged to lay down my knife and fork, throw myself back on my chair, and fairly laugh it out with the rest : there was no avoiding it — the fellow was irresist- ible." In 17<»rJ, Foote produced his celebrated farce of The Mayor of (iarratt ; a bold, spirited caricUare, possessing the rare merit of being so judiciously i)itclied, if tiie expression may bo allowed, and so harmoniously sustained tiiroughout, that, although greatly over- charged, it still seems exceedingly natural, lint, like that of all Foote's satires, which were either of personal characteristics, or of particular fashions, tlie raciness of its original Havour has evaporated, and the change that has since come upon nuinners and customs has made it now, not only obsolete but absurd. Tlie a2)probati(m with which this piece was received was such, that the receipts mended his fortune and his expensive habits revived. He repaired both his town and country houses, extended his hospital- ities, and actually' laid out £1200 on a service of plate. "NVheu reminded by one of his friends of this extravagance, he replied, that he acted from a i)rinciple of economy ; for as he knew he could never keep his gold, he prudently laid o»it his money in silver. In this year he reconciled himself to Tate Wilkinson, whom, on his return from Edinburgh, he had treated rather scurvily, and for five years there had, in consequence, been Vio inter- course between them. Their reconciliation was, however, sincere, and continued uninterrujited till the death of Foote. At the time of this reconciliation, the attractive powers of the friends were re- enforced by enlisting Weston, an actor of the legitimate blood, and possessed of talents, especially in comic simplicity, of the most ex- traordinary kind. In 1704, strengthened by Wilkinson and Weston, J''oote took the field with his comedy of TIiv, Pafrun, in which, though he did not so cleverly hit the taste of tlio town, as in some of his other works, he has yet placed botii his judgment and knowledge of human nature in a very conspicuous liglit, and good critics have estimated its merits as at least equal to those of his best compositions. It had not, how- ever, the charm of personal imitations, in the subsequent summer, he i)roduced the comedy of The Commitixarii, the satire of which fell in with public opinion, and in consequence, although not seasoned witli personalities, was reatly relished. In 1700, l)y being t I'own from his horse, one of his legs was broken in two i)laces, in such a manner as to require amputation ; a misfortune wliicli, however dangerous at the time, and inconvenient afterwards, did not ultimately nuich atlect his talent for amusing the million ; and he bore the operation, not only with fortitude, but even with jocularity. In one respect, this accident was productive of good-fortune. It hapi)ened in the presence of the Duke of York, the brother of George III. who did every thing in his power to alleviate its conse- V SAMUEL JfUjuTE. 173 ((uuncea ; ivnd among otluT good olHcoa, obtained for liiui a royal patent to erect a theatre in NN'estniinster, with a privilege of exhibiting (Iniinatic pieces there, from tlio 14th of May to the 14th of September, during his natural life ; under whic'^ Footo immediately purcliased the Hayniarket Theatre, which hitherto ho had only rented. In 17(58, while his genius was in the brightest glow, hia fatal propensity to gaming overciiiuc him at Bath on his way to Ireland, and he lost all his money, abcmt seventeen hundred pounds, and was in consequence oliliged to borrow as much as would defray the expenses of his journey. i*'it Fortune, though she could not keep up with him, was ever at Ins heels, and the succeaa t)i his Dublin excursion at that time indomnified him for the losses of his Bat'i adventure. His dilapidated Hnaiices being tli\is repaired, he returned to London in 17<)!*, and resumed his professional avocations. Towards the close of the dramatic season of tliat year, the public attention, having at the time no other ol)ject, was greatly engrossed by a proposal to celebrate the birth and genius of Shakspeare, by a jubilee at 8tratford-on-Avon, an account of which ought to hold a distinguished place in the annals of the Drama. It originated in consecpience of a clergyman, (who had purchased a property in Stratford, including the house and grounds where Shakspeare had resided,) cutting down a remarkable mulberry-tree which had been l)lantod by the poet's own hands, and which was regarded by the inhabitants of the town with a kind of religious veneration. The rumour of this sacrilege roused the whole community — not the extinction of the vestal lire at Rome, nor the stealing of the Tro- jan palladium, produeed a greater sensation. The inhabitants of Stratford, men, women, and cliildren, gathered round the house in successive crowds ; dogs stood sullen, and cats wrung their hands; and when they beheld the fallen tree, they were almost moved to sacrifice the offender. Tho tumult was, in fact, prodigious, con- sidering the occasion, and the culprit was obliged to fly the town at once ; and the inhabitants came to a resolution " never to admit any of the same family, or even of the same name, to reaide among them." It is not said how long this civic taste lasted. The uuilberry-tree was instantly purchased, cut uj), and retailed as sacred relics, as stand-difilies, tea-chests, medalliona. I have my- self a tn'iacco-pipe stopper thereof. Of these, the Corporation of Stratford secured the best part ; and in a box made of this wood they inclosed the freedom of the town to Garrick, as the great illus- trator of tlu' bard's ccmeeptions. 'J'iiis flattering compliment sug- gested to him the idea of a jubilee, and the projjosal met with uni- versal approbation. All summer jaunts ; all trips to watermg- places ; all fetes at home ; all engagements from abroad, were for a time sus- pended. Young and old, the halt and the lame — even the blirid — went to see the miraculous lion of the jubilee. Foote was of course in the tlii-ong, jiud took eveiy ooeasinu, in srpiibs and sarc,'i«ni ,, to arraign (ilarrieks taste and judgment in the whole aflair, and, iinieed, nothing could be more magniticently ridiculous. But his spleen took a more acrid character when ho discovered that Garrick, at the 12 174 LIVES OF THE PLAYEliiS. theiitre, intended to turn a penny out of it ; accordingly ho beset him, botlj in company and by tlie public papers, with all the force of his satire, and raised a chorus of laughter agaiust him. Owing to the wetness of the weather, the concern at Stratford had proved a sad dripping and dabbled-in-the-dirt afl'air ; but the exhi- bition of it which Garrick got up in Drury Lane Theatre, was such a capital hit, that Foote was maddened by its success, and in his ire resolved to bring out a mock procession, and introduce Garrick iiim- self on the stage as tlie principal tigure. A man was to be dressed to resemble the grand manager, in the character of steward of the jubilee, with his wand, white <,;'oves, and the mulberry-tree medal- lion of Shakspeare lianging n- his breast, while some droll was to address him in the well-known lines of the jubilee laureate — " A nation's tnste dejiends on you ; I'uiliiip.s a nation's virtues too ! " to which the counterfeit Garrick was to make no other answer, but clap his arms like the wings of a cock, and cry out — \ "Cock a doodlc-doo !" Garrick himself had early intelligence of the scheme, and was as if bo had coiiiu skinless from the knite of 8pagnoletlo. He writhed in misery, and all bis laurels withered on his brow, until he became sucli a piriful object tliat the friends of the parties deemed it neces- sary to interfere. It watj in consequence so contrived that the mimic and the manager met, as if by accident, at the house of a nobleman, a commou friend. When aligliting at the same time from their clinriots at his Loi'dwhip's door, (iarrick at once saw the object for whicli tlu-y were brougiit together, and after exchanging significant looks, Garrick bmke silence by asking, " Is it war or peace I " — "Oh! peace, by all means," replied Fo(jte, with much apparent good-humour. Thus John Bull was frustrated of his fun, and their old seeming friendship was restored. The new piece with which Foote amused the public in 1770 was the comedy of The Lame Lover ; but as the chief amusement of this piece dejiends on the performers, critics have not esteemed its literary merits, though tliese are great, as at all e(|ual to many of his other [iroductions. This was followed by the comedy of The Ma'nl of Bath., founded on circumstances W(4l known at the time, and composed in a spirit of better-natured pleasantry than often visited the writing-table ni the author. Soon after, at the conclusion of the season, he was again invited to winter in E lournev, and tdl having livent to oiiicry, |it( East InnienBe fortunes in a short period. These new men, from the extent of their purses and extravagance, not only ousted many of the old families from ilieir seats in Parliament, but erected superb mansions about the country, and blazed in all the pomp of Oriental splendour. Foote laid hold of the popular disgust at this overweening greatness, and composed The, Nabob, to ridicule the ostentatious pretensions that had proved so ofiensive to the ancient feelings of the nation. By this production the East Indians were inflamed against him, and two gentlemen, who had held high situations in India, undertook personally to chastise him. They accordingly furnished themselves with cudgels, and sallied forth to his house in Suffolk-street. On their arrival they sent up their names, and Foote received them in his drawing-room with that address and politeness which no one better knew how and when to practise. This had an immediate effect ; instead of attacking him with their sticks, they began to remonstrate, by stating the insult which particular persons of character and fortune had sustained by the licentiousness of his pen, and for no other reason than because Providence had favoured their industry and enterprise. They were proceeding in this strain, warming in wrath, when Foote, gently interrupting them, requested they would but hear him one word — which was to beg they would only state their grievances with temper till he made his justification, and then, if they were not fully satisfied, he was willing to meet every consequence. The gentlemen then resumed, and when they had finished, Foote began by assuring them, in the most solemn manner, that he had no particular person in view as the hero of his comedy ; that he took n\) his story from popular report ; and that as he was by trade a whole- sale character-monger, he thought he was perfectly secure from giving offence to individuals, particularly to the honourable part of the East, India Company's servants, by satirizing in a general way those who had acted otherwise. He followed up this apology by taking his comedy and explaining to them, so much to their satisfaction, that it was only a general satire on the unworthy part of the nabob gentry, that his visitors took coffee and stayed with him to dinner, delighted with his wit and the con- viviality of his other guests. Peace, by their account of the visit, was thus restored between Foote and the India corps. Perhaps wo have few instances of personal manners having, in similar circum- stances such a decided effect. The conduct of Foote was admirable, but the world, wo suspect will not have much admiration to spare either for the understanding or address of the Oriental champions. Till 177"), our hero was actively employed in his professional atl'airs, writing, acting, and travelling ; but in that year, having, in The Trip i<> (\tlais, ridiculed, under the name of Lady Kitty Crocodile, the eccentric Duchess of Kingston, ho incurred the anger of that resolute and vindictive damo, who rallied her friends and obtained the inter- dict of the Lord Chamberlain on the performance of the piece. A correspondence, in consequence, arose between the Duchess and Foote, which, however amusing it may have been in the gossiping of the tinio, has no other merit now than what may proceed from seeing 170 LIVES OF THE PLAYEim. I (. ^•i. how much a lady could throw off all delicacy, and a gentleman descend to scurrility. Next year he altered the prohibited piay, and brought it out under the title of Tlie Capuchin, a comedy which, though as a whole certainly not of a higli order, yet possesses scenes which, for terseness of language and shrewdness of remark, have not tlieir ecpials out of the works of IShakspeare. The individual against whom the satire was cl.ietiy levelled was a Dr. Jackson, the editor of a newspaper and the bosom friend of the Duchess ; but the revenge which this unprincipled person attenspted to take was so diabolical, both as respects the charge and the satanic zeal and constancy with which it was for a time sup- ported, that it can only be alluded to. The result, however, was according to the conviction of Foote's friends ; but the agitation he had suffered withered his talents, and, conscious of the shock his frame had sustained, he iunnediately began to prepare for the c(jnse- quences. On the iUth of January 1777, he disposed of his property in the Haymarkot Theatre to George Colman, tor a clear annuity of sixteen liundred pounds, payable (juarterly, together with a spucilic sum for the right of acting las inipublished pieces. Accordnig to this arrangeitient, the theatre, under the management of Colman, was wpendd in the May following, and a few nights after- wards Foote came on, as a peifonuer (jnly, in his own comedy of T/ic DtM npo)i '/'((.■(> ^Yic/iVs; but wlien he appeared on tlie stage, the whole audience were grieved at the blight whioli had evidently fallen iipo'; liim : his cheeks were wan and meagre, his eyes had lost their wonted intelligence, and his wiiole person appeared blasted. He rallied, however, a little in the course of the evening; buo the public seemed to accept his services rather in reiueiubraiice of what lie had l)een, than for what he then was. This visible decay soon after obbged hiiu to relinquish the stage, and he spent the remainder of the season at lirightou, where having in some degree recovered his spirits, he was advised by his physicians to try tlie Soutii of France. With this intent, he readied Dover on the liUth Octoljor, on his way to Calais. The wind proving unfavourabi'; on that day, he was in consecjueiice detained ; but las spirits rallied, and among other whimsical .sallies in which he indulged, one of thriii is humorous, and characteristic of tlie man. (hi going into the kitchen to order a particular dish for dinner, the cook, understanding he was about to embark for France, l)egan lo say that, for her part, she was never out ol her own country. " Why, Cookey," said Foote, "that's very extraordinary, as they tell me above-stairs that you have been several times all ovf urease ((.ireeee)."—" They may any what they please," repiieil '..e (.'ook, '• but 1 was never ten miles from Do\fr in all my life." — "^iay," said Foote, " that must be a lib, for I liavo seen y.ni myself at Spit- head :" a sally which amused all the servants in the kitchen, in whose laughter he heartily jniiu'il, iind gavi> thi'in a ciown lo f his bii'th. Fn 17')(> (Ihmv was a woman tluMi living, a lir.st-consin of IMacklin's mother, ;ind wlio resided with her at tho lime of 111. 'iirth ; this woman always sjiid that Charles Macklin wns two months old at tho battle of tho Hoyne, July 1, lOitO, atul this was partly coiillrmed by a strolling plaver of tho name of Ware, who was living in London about tho y(>ar 17^1. and was then eighty-twf) years of ago ; ho romojnbeved Macklin a full-grown man when he trr. *; 17^ LIVES OF TEE PLAYERS. was a bov, and that for his love of rioting and other dissipations he was then called " Wicked Charley," and " The Wild Irishman." It does not appear, however, that the question is of any importance, but Macklin himself always equivocated respecting his age, and his conduct as regards it was enigmatical. His earliest recollection of himself was when a boy of six or seven years of age, living on a small farm with his parents. His father was a Presbyterian, and his mother a Papist ; but in every other respect save that of religion they lived happily together. In their neighbourhood, a widow lady, a near relation of the Besborough family, resided, who took a partiality for young Macklin, and while he was under her protection the tragedy of The Orphan was <,'ot up duriiu,' the Christmas holidays, and the part of Monimia was assigned to him, which he performed with great applause: an incident which probably determined his future profession. At the age of fourtee.: he was bound an apprentice to a saddler, but his notions of life were of a higher scope, he soon escaped from his trade, and travelled up to Dublin on foot. How he nianaged to exist there he never told, but the story of the Irish judge come! partly in to explain it, and it was as humbly as could well bo : all he himself ever acknowledged was that after being some time in the metropolis he got settled as a badgeman in Trinity College. About the year 1725 he first came to London, and was engage'• ^ >'(• ,t some months with a son of the Dublin manager, who was oi a dissipated turn, and who, being well acquainted with the town, introdnccv^ him into nmny scenes of profiigacy. One night, at the gaming-taoie, Macklin won above four hundred pounds, and with this sum he and his companion, attended by two ladies of the town, went down to the iunnaculate borough of St. Alban's to enjoy for a few days the pleasures of the country. Their adventures there remind us of Miss Soraggs, in Goldsmith's " Vicar of Wakefield," so renowned for her taste in Shakspeare and the musical-glasses. One niyht they went to a pub- lic ball, and being dressed expensively were at first much noticed, but one of the ladies getting into a dispute about precedence in the country-dance, her language and temper betrayed her profession, and b( th she and her companion were in consecjuence (quickly handed ui.t of I) 3 room, and the gentlemen politely desired to follow them. His rambles to Wales and Bristol afterwards were sucli as might ?irii\rally bo expected t > happen to a wild young fellow who was iievri ' oubled with d'Tiidenou, While at tlie latter place he [)aid gr-jpt f'tten.irn to the daughter of a gentleman, who agreed to re- ceive; his visits in the dark, and left one of the windows of her f^rhers parloiu" unbolted tliat lu^ might get the more easily in, CHARLES MACK LIN. 179 ho nd ed Jill, ht WilH aid l'(3- Unfortunately for the player, he had that night to perform Hamlet and Harlequin, which made him late. On his setting out, too, a heavy shower drenched him to the skin, and, to complete the climax of misfortunes, just as he had raised tlie sash and was stepping in, he o rerbalanced a large china jar full of water, which made such a noise as to alarm the family. Miss heard tlie uproar and was the first down to see what was the matter, when she advised him to make the best of his way out of the house, and was obeyed. Re- flection then got the better of the lady's love, for she never after- wards spoke to him. I have not been able to glean much of Macklin's adventures till he appeared permanently on the L(mdon boards, on the 18th of September 1730, but he was in the metropolis undoubtedly when The Be(jgar's Opera was brought out in 17'l!8, and b'j;iig present at the tirst represeatation, ccmflnued what has been often n'ud, that its success was doubtful till after the opeuiug of the second act, when, after the chorus " Let us take the road," the appLiUse became universal and unbounded. In the scene where Peaciuun and Lockit are described settling their accounts, in which Lockit sings, " When you censure the age," &c. the whole audience turned their eyes on Sir Robert Walpole, who was in one of the side boxes, and loudly encored it. Sir Robert instantly saw that they applied the song to him, and no sooner '.vas it tinished, than he himself with great good humour encored it ; by which address he so won (m tl\e audience that they gave hiui a general huzza from all i^arts of the house, but afterwards he is sniil to have always evinced greai reluctance to be present at this popular political play. It is not generally known that the first song, " The modes of the cf)urt,"' was written by Lord Chestertield, — " Virgins are like tlie fair flower in its lustre," by Sir Charles Hanbury ^' 'lianis, — "Wlun you censure the age,' by Swift, —and "Gm ers and lawyers are jugglers alike," by Mr. Fortescue, Master he Rolls. r>ut to return to our narrative. The first part tha' aave b(3en able to assign to Macklin is, that on the 18th of Septendier 1730, he personated Sir Charles Freeman, in the great booth oi lie bowling- groen Southwark ; a proof that he did not then stand eminent, for the part is trifling, and the company was certainly n- iistinguished. But in the winter ot the same year he was engaged a u at Lincoln's- inn-tields, and received the lirst marks of approbation as an Irish witness ill the comedy of The Cuffcc-lidnsc Politicimi, and in conse- quence an iiiuiuacy between him and Fielding ripened into friendship. It is necessary to mention some facts, which belong more to general history than to the biography of our hero, but as the stage holds a mirror up tt) nature, and reflects tlm [lassing manners of the time, they may be as well noticed here as elsewhere. There as a house in Covent Garden reniiirkalile for selling Deri>yshire ai , chea;) and much like.' '»i— ** i- ( I I ! I 'i! 180 LIVES OF THE PLAYEBS. in particular who lived about London much frequented this house, wliich they did at this time in such nuinl)ers, that by way of distinction they were called the Derby Cai)t;iin9 ; a term much used by Farquhar and otlior comic writers of iiis day. Macklin often here drank his pint of Derby ale. At that time Covent (^iarden also was a scene of much dissipation, being surrounded with taverns and night-houses, v;hich, with the vicinity of tlie houses in Clare-market, Avere the rendezvous of tlie theatrical spirits. The ordinaries were there from sixpence to a shilling a-head ; at the latter were two courses, and a good deal of what was called good company in the mixed way. Tlie Bedford Head, in 3rai(lon-lane, was pr()1)ab]y among the last of them ; and there was perhaps among the people less distinction of orders and classes than is now commonly met with. The bulohers of Claro-market were the frionds of tlie players?, iind always in every riot sided with them, for it was not criminal in those days to be riotous. A countryiiian was instantly known bj^ his dress as well as his manners ; grey cloth or drab-colo\ir, with a slouched hat and lank hair, was the conunon hue and style of their appearance. London was then seldom visited ; stage-eoaches were fow, and the co^nitry shop-keepers had their goods sent t(» them on writ run orders. The city and we.st-end of the town were widely apart ; no merchant lived out(jf the former, his residence was attaclied to hi- counting-house. The first emi; -ation from the city was to Hatton-garlen, but none save men of large acknowledged fortune durst take so great a flight. The lawyers lived mostly in the inns of court, and the players around tlie theatres. The audiences were then of different natures to those of our day, likewise ; a vulgar person scarcely ever frequrnted the pit, and very few women, as is still the practice in foreign theatres. In that part of the house tl.T audience was composed of pre sperous young mer- chants, barristers, and students of the inns of c urt. Riots rarely disturbed (he tranquility of the pit; none but the people of indepen- dent fortune and avowed rank ever presunied to go into the boxes, and the lower ones were sacred to virtue and decorum. No man sat covered in a box, or stood up during the representation, save those only of the last row who could inconnuode nobody. Tlio women of the town seldom fre(piented the theatres, but kept few and t\r aloof in obscure situations ; neither boots nor spurs were admitted before tlie curtain, nor horses behind the scenes. There was in all public life a greater observa.ice of order, while in private a nun\> honmly aud liearty intermixtui'e. Many allusions to this state of society may be found in the comic writings of that time, and unless they are under- stood, some of the best jyoints of the plays fall without etl'eot. Conunly is the glass of fashion, — the figures are ever changing in it ; tragedy is the mirror of the passions, which are in every age .siniihu and un- alterable. It ought here to be mentioned, t'liat Afacklin was tried at the Old Bailey, on the J2th of Dceendn'r 1735, tor lut\ in'; run a fellow .'letor through the exc, in a passion, with a broomstiek, but he was found guilty only ot manslaughter. The particidar period when Macklin married is not very distinctly CHARLES MACKLIN. 181 iier- aroly len- xes, Hilt oi iloof iforo ililio and ly be noily ,L!,e(ly un- Okl actor mud notly made out to us ; but his eldest daughter played in 1742, the little Duke of York, in Richard the Third. Mrs. Macklin's name was Grace Parror, a good actresi iii odd and old women, the humble friend of Booth's wifo, Mjss Saintlowo, with whom sho lived. Tho marriage was prolitaljlu to Macklin, and she had an intractable hus- band to manage ; but as there was much good-nature on both sides between them, it proved tolerably happy. In 1741, Macklin certainly reached the highest height he was ordained to attain, and that was in the part of Shylock which was then raised from the base and blackguard cast into which it had been the custom of the players to represent it, and fairly admitted to its proper tragic importance — the cliaiige has been ascribed to Macklin, and tlie performance has been said to have been one of the noblest specimens of acting. The character of Shylock has indeed been always reck(med one of tlie most ditilcult to personate etiectively — many porformers, wlio liave been great in other parts, have failed entirely in this. Jiihn Philip Kemble's representation has been con- demned as an entire misconception. It was about the time that Macklin first played Shylock that his nmrriage with Miss Parror took place. The history of the revival of Shylock is ciu'ious, and should not bo omitted. It had happened that Fleetwood, the n'ana^er, was by his imprudence ruined, and induced Macklin, in one of his hours of difficulty, to join him in a bond for three thousand pounds. Macklin, however, soon saw his folly, and lesolved, if possible, to extricate himself. Full of gloomy refiecticms he went with his wife to Bristol, where 8(jon hearing how Fleetwood was embarrassed, he returned suddenly, in order to disengage himself from an obligation tliat threatened him with tho loss of liberty for life. On his return ho called at tlie manager's house, where, being told he was attending the late Frederick Prince of Wales in viewing the curiosities of Bar- tholomew Fair, he hastisned to the si)ot, where he told Fleetwood he had just broke out of ihirttol gaol, and a long frightful tale, all e([Mall}' true, A meeting was in conHe(|Uonce settled for that night, at which the actor playt-d his ])art so well that Paid Wiiitehead was induced to become bondsman for him, and so the matter \v.;s settled as far as ]\Iacklin was concerned. But Whitehead was soon obliged to pay the money, lor Fleetwooil ran away to Franco, leaving Mack- lin ill the management behind him ; and it was owing to this circum- stance that ho was led to revive the play of The Mtrchatit of VenicAi, which had been laid upon the shelf ever since 1701. to make way for an alteratinii (jf the .same play by Lord ^jansdown, called The Jew (if Venice. The play was announced to be in preparatiim. but when he came to affix to himself the part of Shylock the laugh was general. His best friends slio'i^ tlieir heads, and liis rivals exulted in seeret, and tlattiTed him with success to work liis destruction. His keen obser- vation and suspicious temper saw the train that was laying for him, and he sitemingly affected to assist it at the rehearsals, by playing under ooih his voice and power, and thus entrapped them in their own snare. I' ; 182 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS, The long expected night at last came ; the house was crowded froni roof to foundation, and the two front rows of the pit were filled with critics. " When," says he, " I made my appearance in the green-room, dressed, with my red hat on my head, my piqued beard, black gown, &c., and with a confidence which I had never before assumed, the performers all stared at one another." The bell at last rung ; he palpitated a little, then throwing himself on the protection of Providence boldly advanced on the stage, and was received with thunders of applause. The attempt was eminently successful, and I'aised himself to the summit of his glory. We are now verging to an important era in the history of the English stage, the appearance of Garrick. A few years before he came out at Goodman's Fields, Macklin had become acquainted witli him, and spoke of him as a very sprightly young man, neatly made, of an expressive countenance, and most entertaining manners. Garrick was at this time a wir i merchant, and they became intimate friends — and when he did appear as a player, Macklin was one of his warmest advocates. The revolution which Garrick introduced he warmly defended, and maintained, though he was not able to attain it well himself, that instead of an elevated voice or depression of its tones, and a formal measured step in treading the stage, the nat- ural familiarity of Garrick's manner was juster and superior. This was the more agreeable task for him, as Rich, several years before, had discharged himself from the Lincoln's Inn theatre for speaking too familiarly on the stage ; but he had now his revenge. In 1743 the irregularities in the concern had arisen to such a pitch with Mr. Fleetwood, that Macklin, with Garrick and several more of till Merforuiers, associated against him. An application was made by the;i. for a licence to perform at another theatre, but it was not granted. Disappointment and necessity soon compelled the refractory to go back, and Garrick joined them, but Macklin and his wife were excluded by the offended manager. Tliis affair cavne to a rupture between Garrick and Maokiin, and a shai-p controversy was the consequence, which ended, as wherever tlu re is nmre bitterness than reason, in no rational result. One fact, however, cannot be disguised ; Macklin wu'j left in the street, after his dismissal, in emb ,irass('«l circuiiistiinoes, and in a condition that could not but alloct the humane with pity. He was, however, so actuated by his ri'sentnient, that he di.l not feel it greatly himself. It was in their I'Uinity that, anmng other faults, he imputed avarice to Garrick : a charge, however, far t><.)m being well founded, for the utmost that could in justice be ewr said of Garrick was, that his economy was not umforni, nor always well regulated. Being excluded from Driiry Lane, Macklin, in the spring of 1744, openwl the iittle th\>^atre of the Haymarket with a tribe of green performers, who wvre his pupils ; but the speculation did not greatly siKvoed, and in lue following winter uiatttrs were so arranged that Im returned to Drury Lane, and conciliated the public on his •^pearance by a prologue of his own writing, in which his error was acknowicdyetl. Towards the close ol the season of X74tJ-47, the re^jutatiou of Thi CHARLES MACK LIN. 183 bat his leir ; a i.it was his was The Suspicious Husband sharpened a number of green-room wits, who thought less of it than the public. Macklin opposed himself to their opinion, and wrote a farce in vindication of the comedy, but it was withdrawn, being unsuccessful. In 1748, Mr. Thomas Sheridan, who was then manager of the Dublin Theatre, engaged Macklin and his wife for two years, at a salary of eight hundred pounds a-year ; liberal in itself, but beyond the establishment to sustain. This Macklin probably soon saw, but he had a greater theatrical grievance to complain of. They had scarcely been a month in Smock Alley, when he discovered that the manager was more inclined to perform traijedies than comedies, and was guilty of the heinous theatrical sin of putting his own name in the playbills in larger characters than Mr. Macklin's ; so that in the end, on account of Macklin's humour, both he and his wife were shut out of the Dublin tlieatre. He then returned to England, where he commenced manager with a strolling troop at Chester, and in the winter came back to London, and performed at Co vent Garden theatre. In 1753, having obtained from Garrick the use of his theatre, Drury Lane, for the night, he took a formal leave of the stage, with an epilogue written for the occasion by Garrick. The step was in itself ludicrous, for he was still in the vigorous possession of all his faculties ; but he had formed a scheme of at once making his fortune by establishing a tavei'n, coffee-house, and school of oratory, in the Piazza of Covent Garden — a scheme conceived in ignorance and carried into effect by presumption. It failed, though executed with much ceremonious mummery, neither consistent with the age nor the manners of the nation. Macklin, however, worked at his scheme till he became a bankrupt , when, being released from the duties of lecturer and tavern-keeper — duties which neither his talents or temper ever fitted him for executing properly, his intention was to found a new theatre in Ireland with Spranger Barry. In the mean time, an incident occurred sufHciently characteristic of our hero, and of a sort of men that go about town, sometimes with fortune, and sometimes with none, but equally worthless, and equally despised, whetlier with or without. INIiss Macklin had but just appeared on the stage, when a noble Lord well known on the turf, called on the morning of her benefit, as lier father was sitting at breakfast, and after praising her in the highest terms, his Lordship said to Macklin, " After what I have said of your daughter, Mr. Macklin, you may suppose I am not insensible to her merits — I mean to be her friend ; not in the article of taking tickets for her benefit, and such trifling acts of friendship, which mean nothing more than the vanity of patronage. I mean to be her friend for life." "What do you allude to?" said the actor, roused by the last expression, and staring at his guest. "Why," replied the other, " I mean as I say, to make her my friend for life : and as you are a man of the world, and it is fit you should bo considered in the business, I now inakt; you an otier of u I I i jMli 184 LIVfJS OF THE PLAYERS. four hundred per rtnnnm *or your daurrhter, and two hundred in like manner for yourself, to be secnrcd on any of my estates, durini? both of your natural lives." Macklin heard him ; ho was at the time sproading some butter on his I'oll, and hiul in his hand a laryo case-knife, which grasping firmly, and lookint; at the fellow, desired him inshmtly to quit the room, tellino; him how much he was surprised at his attempt at the honour of a child through the medium of a parent. He affected not to heed the reproof, when Macklin springing from his seat, and hold- ing his knife at his throat, bade him make the best of his way down- stairs. The noble rascal needed no other admonition, but jumped to the door, and soami^ered off across the market at full speed. Previously to tlio indentures being drawn between our hero and Barry, for their new theatre in Crow Street, Dublin, Macklin, gave ill a i>lan of mnnairerial arrangetneiit which rf)used Barry. Seeing him surprised. Macklin cried, " Nf)t, my dear Barry, that T want to take your ])art8 from you, but by way of giving the town variety, you shall ])lay Maclioth one night, and I another, and so on with the rest of the tragic characters. Thus we shall throw lights upon one another's performanpo, ar d give a bone to the lads f)f the College." Barry rennmstrated against this absurd project, telling him gently that Macklin had a large circle of comic parts, sufficient both for fame and fortune, without i-isking ihe taking up a new business, at his time of life. The taunt had the due effect. Barry would have nothing to do with him as a fellow-mannwr, though he afterwards engagfd him ns a journeyman, with his wife. Tn *h(' spring of 1757, Macklin. in consequence, went to Ireland with Bi'rry. and was present at laying the foundation-stone of Crow Street house. He was indeed a constant inspector of the progress of the building, descanting on the structure of the Greek and Roman theatres, of which ho knew as much as he did about the cathedral in Pandoiiioniuiii. To the no small amusement of the spectators, one of the workmen reminded him, that they were building an Irish not a Greek playhouse, and must build nccording to the plan ; at which he was .so offended, that he silently slunk away. Bi^fore the theatre was finished Mrs. Macklin died, to the great grief and loss of her husband, as her judgment and good sense often kept him within the pale of propriety. On the 2.'^rd of October 1758, the new theatre in Crow Street was opened, and Macklin joined the company, when a decent time after her death had elajised. In the course of the following year he re- turned to London, where I e pi'epared his amusing farce of Love n la Moih' for the stage — a stock ]u'ece, which though at first it met with opposition, is deservedly so still when actors can be found able to act it. The history of it is curious. Some time before '.roiiiLT to Dublin, Barry and Macklin had been spending tlie eveuinif at ajMiblic liouse, when they were joined by an Irishman, who bad be(>n somo years in the Prn.ssian service. He hajipened to seat himself in the same box with the managers, and as liarry ])erfectly understood the Tri.sh character, could tell agreeable stories about them, and was besides considered an ingenious humbug, CHARLES MAOKLI^. 185 not lich was ifter e re- ( }a with o act boon )y ail He 1(1 as 'able butr, ho soon scraped an acciuaintance with his countryiuaii, t iid brought him out in full blow. The simple, honest stranger was led on to speak of his birth, parentage, and education, and to tell them how he was originally designed for a priest, and following an uncle, who was of that profession, to France, to be bred up for t lat purpose ; how, luckily his uncle died and left him to follow the profession of his soul, wliicli was asoklior; how he afterwards listed in the Prussian service ; how he was rewarded by the yieat Frederick with a lieuten- ancy; aii'l how he was come over to Eughuid tu receive a legacy, left him by a cousin of his mother, a cheesemonger ia the Borough. To tliis account he gave them a long list of his amours in Franco and Prussia, and sung them humorous Irish songs, and yet was, withal, so open-hearted and unsuspecting, that Macklin jocularly attributed his great success among the ladies, to his having a tail behind, com- mon to all Irishmen. On the instant, the stranger pulled oil' his coat and waistcoat to convince Macklin that no Irisliman in tliat respect was better than another man. It was out of this conversation, and the simplicity of the othcer, that the construction of the farce origin- ated, at first intended for a live act play, but curtailed into a farce by the advice of Arthur MurpllJ^ Mackliu's next dramatic bantling was The Tnic-buiii IrinJiman, a clever farce, which was received with great success and popuhirity in Dublin, but when attempted in London was damned. Jn ITO-t he produced another piece, being then at Smock Alley theatre, called The TfKr-hurib SuDtchman, wlucii was so successful, that the author was encouraged to extend it, and it is now the far-famed Alan of the irurld; an admirable conce[)tion, ex(;ellently worked up and univer- sally admired as one of the best ecmiedies on the English stage ; but, save in the possession of a Scotchman, or of one who can speak the language properly, never ade(piately performed ; indeed, iKJihiiig can be more disgusting than Macklin's Scotch as such. He appears to have had no just idea of what it should be, but wrote bad language and spelled Scotch words with the English idiom, imagining that a distinct language, both in idiom and by the use of inflections, was the same as English. Macklin returned to London in 1707, where lie brought out the farce of Tlie Tnic-born Irishntau, but where, as 1 have already stated, it did not succeed, but it gave occasion to a remark of the author, which, for shrewdness, would have done honour to Qiiin. Seeing how tiatly the performance told on the audience, " 1 see it," said he ; "they are right. There's a geogra[)hy in humour as well as in morals, which 1 had not previously considered." About the year 1770 he returned to Ireland, having in the mean time been engaged in a Chancery suit, into which he entered with as much zeal and alacrity as if he had V)een the solicitor. In fact, he was so ; for he answered all the bills himself, ])reseiiting to the eye many a sheet of eiidh ss repetitions, with no improper orcvily, as if he dad been reL;ulaily l)red to the law. IJut. his I't'iforniaiiee in the character of an attorney was iiotliing equal to his more legiti- mate attempt as a p»layer in a new lino of characters. At the ago of seventy — but there is gi'eat reason, as 1 have shown, to believe, «>. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ■-■3t : 1.0 I.I 1.25 1^12.8 ■ 50 "^^ "it m us 1^ 2.0 U III 1.6 Hiotographic Sciaices Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRUT WnSTIR.N.Y. MSSO (716) 173-4303 <;^ V 1 p <^ :\ \ '■^\ \ m -^^ ■^ '/, %> c\ \ V o ;\ ■^ .^"!* 1; 186 LIVES Oi» THE PLAYERH. /■ I when he was ten years older, — he aspired to new honours in Richard, Macbeth, and Othello. Early in the year 1772, being in London, he made an engagement with the manager of Covent Garden theatre, and on the 23rd of October, in the same season, performed Macbeth. Previously the character used to be dressed in a suit of scarlet and gold, witli a tie-wig, and, in every other respect, like a modem military officer : a glittering illustration of the state of learning among the players. Garrick always played it in this attire ; Macklin, however, saw the absurdity, and appeared in the old Caledonian habit, and the other characters were also appropriately dressed. But although his performance had many points of excellence, it was , not altogether a good performance, and he was treated with much con- tumely by some of the audience ; so much so, considering his great age, that it reflects on the parties the utmost disgrace. In 1775 he engaiijed to perform in Dublin and Cork, and he visited at intervals Scotland, and the provincial theatres. About this time, he, who had ever some scheme in his head besides those germane to the matter of his profession, intended to leave the public, and at the age of seventy-live, if not eighty-five, to begin a new career as a farmer ; out, like many others, it went off into thin air. i In 1781, the comedy of The Man of the World, a little softened to mitigate the licenser, was brought out at Covent Garden. But in the course of the season the author met with a great misfortune by the death of his daughter, whom he much lamented. In 1784, he accepted an engagement to perform in Dublin. He was then, at the lowest computation, eighty-five, but by strong probability, ninety- five ; yet at this extraordinary age, by either computation, did he engage to visit a distant land, and to perform at least twice a week two of the most difficult parts ; he fulfilled, however, not only his engagement with spirit, but visited Liverpool and Manchester in the course of his journey ; performed at each some of his principal characters, and continued, with scarcely any declen- sion of his powers, till the 28th of NovemKer 1788, when he first experienced a decay in his memory. Next year, on the 10th January 1789, his recollection again failed ; his last attempt on the stage was on the 7th of May following, when he tried Shylock for his own benefit, which the manager, knowing the state of the old man's finances, had granted, but to prevent disappointment, had another actor to study the part, for he dreaded the veteran's infirmities. Macklin having dressed himself with his usual accuracy, went into the green-room, and coming up to the late Mrs. Pope said, " My dear, aro you to play to-night?" — "Good God ! to be sure I am ; don't you see I am dressed for Portia ?"--** Ah, very true, I had forgot ; — but who is to play Sliylock ? " The feeble sadness with which he who was dressed for the Jew raid this depressed all who heard it. Mrs, Pope however answered, rousing herself, "Why, you ; are not you dressed for the pi^rt 1 '' He put his hand to his forehead, and said pathetically, "God help me ! — my memory has, I fear, left me!" The whole range of the invented drama has few JOHN HENt)BRSON. 187 more mournful scenes ; the poor old man, ninety-two or a hundred and two years old, went upon the stage and delivered two or three speeches, but evidently did not understand what he was repenting ; after some time he, however, recovered, but it was only a flash from the burnt-out candle in the socket. Nature could go no farther ; — he paused, — a poor, weak, and despised old man, — and looking helplessly around, said, " I can do no more,'' and retired from the stage for ever. In private life, after this affecting exhibition, one of the most truly so ever shown upon the stage, Macklin, relieved from the drudgery of duty, somewhat recovered his wonted firmness, and his last years were made comfortable with an annuity purchased for him by the generosity of his friends. The remainder of life he spent, however, with only occasional enjoyment ; he went regularly to the play, but sometimes he forgot even the performance before him, and inquired, " What was the play, and who the performers ; " but the audience pitied his feeble condition, — on his appearance at the pit-door, no matter how crowded the house was, they rose to make room for him, and to give him his accustomed seat, the centre of the bench behind the orchestra. One of the last efforts of his mind was when the Prince (George the Fourth) and Princess of Wales, after their marriage, appeared at the theatre ; the Prince recognised old Macklin and bosved to him, and the Princess soon after did the same, an honour which for some time gave him much pleasure, but he soon forgot it. On the 11th of July 1797, Death would equivocate with Time no longer, — Macklin in the evening composed himself, as some thought, for his usual sleep, but from that sleep he never woke again. He was buried in St. Paul's, Co vent Garden, and his funeral was not only solemnly attended by his theatrical brethren, but by a great concourse of the populace, who regarded his death as an event important somehow to them all, for it interested their imagination, he having lived in three centuries. it into •*My am ; had with who Why, 10 his has, I few JOHN HENDERSON. Whkneveh a person of extraordinary talent appears he is uni- formly followed by a herd of imitators, and men who, if they had cultivated their own powers, might have become eminent originals, by falling in with that fashion never attain more tiian secondary rank. One of this class was Henderson, who in his day held a very brilliant station in the opinion of his friends, but now, when we have only the records of his merits to compare with each other, seems, in fact, to have been really only an able imitator. Tl'.e greiit peculiar endowment of John Henderson was mimicry ; with the help of that talent, and in skilfully observing the distinc- tive characteristics of the celebrated players of the time, with a com- petent portion of natural shrewdness, he acquired considerable con- temporaneous celebrity ; but he was never a first-rate performer, f^f-^imm^ II n 188 LIVES OF THE PLAtEkS. oven while it is admitted that in some parts he displayed great ability. The object of his ambition was evidently to be a copy of Garrick, with the add:tion of something that belonged to himself, but he unquestionably failed, and not only fe'l greatly short of his model, but when he acted from himself proved of an inferior order. He was born in Goldsmith-street, Cheapside, in February, 1746-7, and claimed his de^scent from the famous Dr. Alexander Henderson, of Fordyll, in the North of Scotland, who maintained the cause of the Scottish Covenant and PresVjyterian Church discipline in a con- ference at the Isle of Wight with Charles I. in opposition to the hier- archy. This lineage is, however, considered a little apocryphal ; but his grandfather isnumtioned in the Memoirs of Mr. Annesley, whose singular advonturus attracted so much attention, and probably gave rise to the story of Savage and his unnatural mother. How often strange meetings and confluences of public persons are found in their meujoirs ! The reader of biograpliy, who I'eiiects on this, cannot but be struck with the truth of the aphorism that like draws to like ; in so many and snch vari(nis ways do individuals who resemble each other only in their notoriety constitute, as it were, a special class, by their accidental junction with each other. Henderson's father died when he was but two years old and left his mother, with two sons dependent upon her, with only the interest of a thousand pounds to support them. She, however, retired to Newport P i<,'nell, and with a meritorious parsimony was enabled to educate and bring them up. The eldest was apprenticed to an en- graver, but being of a delicate constitution ho was constrained, for the advantage of the air, to retire to Faddington, where being lodged in the same house with the afterwr.rda renowned Kitty Fisher, — who, in her day, if not the Cook's Oracle, was a weird sister of the "pot," — ho snddeiily, ahnost as it were by accident, died in her arms. John, our hero, continued Vi'ith his mother, who not MBS. CSARLoTl^t! GAAR^E. 203 etting r, Mhe it the gut on the hundred, alleging that was the custom in the trade when people dealt in large quantities. Her friend was so pleased with this liberality that she promised her all the custom she could bring, and if she had done much would in due time have shown her the way to prison. After this notable affair, when the sugar-dealer was gone with her bargain, Charlotte, considering that her business was now on the increase, began to think it was necessary to provide a large pair of scales, to weigh by the hundredweight, and a huge beam to hang it upon. For that purpose she set out next morning, but she could meet with nothing oi the kind, and returned home with a resolution to have a pair made. The worthy woman who kept the house, on hearing that she had been endeavouring to make this needless purchase, inquired into the necessity for it ; upon which Charlotte told her what had happened the day before, and mentioned with glee and triumph how liberal she hud been in the allowance to her friend ; but much to her conster- nation, the landlady, instead of commending her skill and dexterity, was like to strangle with laughter. Links and flambeaux are a commodity belonging to the oil trade, and Charlotte dealt in them. One of those nocturnal illuminators who help the bewildered in the twilight, bought often from her : gratified by his custom, she sometimes gave him a dram, and one evening thanked him for using her shop ; he bowed and smiled, — she curtsied, and he walked away backward ; but he had not been long gone when she discovered, to her amazement, that all her brass weights had been stolen. After this fracas she lost all relish for the business, and had some secret thoughts of shutting up shop ; and finally she did so, and opened a grand puppet-show over the Tennis Court in St. James's- street, for which, after much ado, she got a licence. This show was a very fine thing of the kind, and for some time it was marvellously prosperous, but in the end it sustained a blight ; and her husband, who had in the mean time gone to Jamaica, departed this life. Being, partly in consequence of fatigue in exhibiting her show, indisposed, and obliged for some time to give it up, she quitted the Tennis Court, and took a house in Marsham Street, Westminster, where she lived quietly for some time. At last, recovering her spirits, she transported fter dolls and puppets to Tunbridge Wells, but on arriving there found the ground pre-occupied, and was obliged soon after to return to London, where she let out her figures to a man who was chiefly employed in making them. In the end, the fashion proved to be transitory, so she sold the whole stock for twenty guineas, which had cost her nearly five hundred pounds ! She had not long parted with her images, when, being a widow, ■he was addressed by a wortliy gentleman, and so closely pursued that sill! at last consontod to u very secrot alliuuco with him. lint she was under obligations never to dovulgo his name : a misfortuno from which she suflered extremely, for he soon after their union died, and left her with her daughter in a state of great necessity. This, however, is her uwu account of the matter ; and the reader, :i i f > 204 LIVES OP TBtS PLAtEkS. ■vvithciut much assistance to his sagacity, will discern, that no avail- able reason is assigned for the mysterious concealment which she affected. At the same time that she was exposed to all the consequences of this misfortune, she was arrested for a debt of seven pounds, at the instigation of a person whom she describes " a wicked, drunken woman ; ". and after some time, and various attempts to find bail, she was at last obliged to surrender. By this time such had been her conduct, that it appears she had been deserted by all her own friends and relations, and was fairly an adventuress on the town ; at least, she does not appear to have applied to any of them in her distress, while she mentions that, as soon as it was known she was arrested, all the ladies, to the number of about a dozen or fourteen, who kept coflfee-houses about Covent Garden, assembled and offered to ransom her ; but although the debt was only seven pounds, they could not raise as much money among them all as would pay it and the costs. In the midst of these disasters, some of which are calcu- lated to force a smile, one meets with occasional touches of the most pathetic nature. The Garden ladies being unable to extricate poor Mrs. Charke from her " durance vile, ' she was compelled to ibide in the officer's house in a state of the greatest anxiety, and to leave her child, who was then only eight years of age, unacquainted, at her lodgings, with her forlorn condition. About seven o'clock next morning she, however, dis- patched a messenger to the unlucky creature, who came to her with overflowing eyes and a heart bursting with sorrow. After indulging for some time in nmtual and unavailing grief, Mrs. Charke sat down and wrote eight and thirty letters before stirring from her seat ; but they proved of no use. The poor little wench was the bearer of these imploring epistles, and neither ate nor drank till she had delivered them all. Not, however, to dwell on sacli details ; in the course of the day the ladies who had visited her the night before called on her with the cehibrated Mrs. Elizabeth Hughes, and with her aid contrived among them to raise money enough to procure her liberty. At this period Mrs. Charke, who had been throughout life partial to men's attire and vocations, was dressed as a cavalier, and went by the name of Sir Charles. Her hat being rather gaudy for her con- dition, and being the mark by which the officer had known her, she was advised by him to exchange it for his old one which she did accordingly. Having released her from captivity, her kind redeemers treated her with a joyous supper, and sent her home to her child with a guinea in her pocket, which they prevailed on her to accept as a present to her daughter. During tliis period she had lodgings in Qnocn-street, and foi some time, according to lior own account, behaved witli comparative pro- priety. Slio never made hor appoaranco abroad biit on Sunday, »nd had recourse to as many friends as she could muster for the support of her child and herself. Jiut the girl took her parent's misfortunes so much to heart that she became dangerously ill« la thU ori«is her Mks. (JhaHlotte chabke. 205 brother, Theophilus, was so far moved by a£fection and compassion towards her, that he sent her an apothecary at his own expense. It is only the squalid and disgusting features of poverty that we see ; its cares and heart-hurts are hidden from our sympathy. One Sunday, at this period, Mrs Oharke went out to raise a little money for herself and the sick child jy pledging a pair of handsome sleeve-buttons ; on her return, and asking the hmdlady how the child did, she received a satisfactory answer ; but on entering the room, she found the unhappy creature stretched on the floor in strong con- vulsions. She flew upon the child in distraction, lifted it up, then threw it down, rushed into the street, and by her screams drew a crowd around, to whom she related that her child was dead, and that she was in despair. In the midst of this scene of sorrow, a neighbour, who lived next door, hearing of her misfortunes, in a genteel and tender manner ofi'ered her his assistance unasked. He sent immediately a letter of condolence, inclosing the never-failing comforter of man, and con- tinued for some time after to send regularly to inquire for the child's health, with the same respectful regard which might have been ex- pected had the mother possessed that affluence which she had at one time enjoyed. It happened, very opportunely for our heroine, that this neighbour had a back-door into his house, by which she could visit him unper- ceived, which she often did, and by his kindness, received support for herself and the child ; and, as soon as her necessities came to be generally known, her assistance from the players does credit at once to their humanity and munificence ; but there appears tc have been ever a vein of eccentricity about her which rendered the best acts of their kindness often nugatory. Mrs. Charke, although a clever and intelligent person, had some- thing about her which always marred her intentions. She was now a regular nocturnal bird, and, as the health of her child improved, issued forth by owl-light in quest of adventures ; and as plays were often acted at the Tennis Court, she sometimes went thither to see if any character was wanted at the great slaughter-house of dramatic poetry. On one occasion The Recruiting Officer was to be performed there, and Captain Plume was so unfortunate that he came at five o'clock to say he had not been able to learn a line of his part. Mrs. Charke did not venture to tell them she could speak it, being apprehensive that the well-known sound of her voice would betray her to some of the bailiffs, by whom she was at that time pursued ; but in the end the question was put to her, and she answered in the aflirmative : resolving, however, to make the best terms she could, she pretended she had nothing ready — being in want of white stock- ings and a clean shirt ; though, in case of a chance, she had all those things in her pocket. After some delay, seeing they could not go on without her, she was engaged at a guinea. After the play, tlxe better to escape detection, she was obliged to change clothes with a person of low degree, by whose happy rags, and the covert of night, she reached her home in safety, where she rewarded her accommo' dating friend with a shilling. 14 r^ ^ I 206 LIVES OF THE FLAYERS. The sensation of this adventure had not subsided, when she was applied to by a fantastic mortal, Jockey Adams, famous for dancing the Jockey dance to the tune of " A horse to Newmarket." Gaping for a crust, she snapped at the first offered, and went with hiifi to a tov/n within four miles of London, where a very extraordinary occurrence took place to Mrs. Charke, who then wore men's apparel, and appeared, by the discretion which she maintained in that capacity, to be in truth a well-bred gentleman. In this situation a young lady of fortune fell in love with her, an assignation was made, and after a very farcical interview, she found herself under the necessity of disclosing her sex, to quench the flames of her mistress. Scarcely was this well over, when she was exposed to a new agitation of a different kind. A paltry fellow, who had been sometimes a supernumerary about the theatres, forged what she styles " a most villainous lie upon her." He asserted that she hired a tine bay gelding, and borrowed a pair of pistols, with which she encountered her father in Epping Forest, where she stopped his chariot, and upbraiding him, obtained his purse. The story soon reached her ear, and she was greatly exasperated ; the recital threw her into a rage, from which she did not recover for more than a month. The evening after she had heard the report, she was placed behind a screen in the room where the fellow was to be ; the lie was retold, she rnshed from her covert, and being armed on purpose with a thick oakun plant, knocked him down, and had she not been prevented, would have killed him on the spot. Her misfortunes were not, however, beyond the remedy of hope. Though she had grievously offended her father, yet, as he was an indulgent, good-natured man, she still cherished some expectation of being reconciled to him. This induced her, when she had published the first part of her memoirs, to acknowledge her errors, and beseech his clemency, but he returned her letter unopened — a circumstance which affected her in an extraordinary manner. It did not, as might have been expected, produce a sudden gust of passion, but sank into her heart, and preyed upon it with the slow and eating fire of grief and despair, ending in a fever, which long consumed her spirits, and was never effectually overcome. But to return to the narrative. After the love-lorn lady had re- tired from the town where she disclosed her unhappy passion, the whole gang of tlie strollers clandestinely removed themselves under the cloud of night to a neighbouring village, into which, about six o'clock on a Sunday morning, they made their triumphal entry. The landlord, who happened, luckily for them, to be an indolent, good- natured man, seeing so large a company and such boxes come to his house, easily dispensed with the oddity of their arrival, and called out lustily for his maid and daughter to set on the great pot for the buttock of beef, and to make a fine tire to roast the loin of veal, and ordered the hostler to help up with the boxes, which were very weighty, being packed with scabbardless swords and sticks of de- parted mops, which had been exalted into tragedy truncheons. In this town the players lived at rack and manger, but their trade failing they were, before a week was over, obliged to make a moon- light flitting. MRS. CHARLOTTE GRARKE. 207 r trade , moon- With a solitary shilling Mrs. Charke went to London, and took a lodging in Little Turnstile, Holbom ; but being soon inquired for, she set out the same day from town for Dartford, which she reached in a dreadful shower of rain about eight o'clock in the evening. She played that night ; but having caught cold became hoarse, and in consequence was turned off tlie next day with half-a-crown. She then returned to London, where, on account of her hoarseness, she had no way of getting her bread, and was reduced ) the necessity of pledging her own and her child's clothes for support. Before she began to recover her voice they were stripped to a bare change. As soon as she was capable of speaking she had another twilight ramble in quest of employment. In this adventure she went to play a part in Gravel Lane, where she met with a woman who told her she had scenes and clothes in limbo for two guineas, and if she could propose any means for their recovery, she would make Mrs. Charke the manager of her company. Accordingly, all devices were immedi- ately put into action, and the money was borrowed, the goods re- deemed, and next morning they were off with a few hands for Gravesend. There they played with some success, and thence went to Harwich, where they were also prosperous. But, unfortunately, the lady's husband was cast at Newgate for transportation, and they were obliged to break up their party, while she proceeded to that dismal castle to take leave of him before he set forward on his travels. In the mean time, though it has not been particularly noticed, the courteous reader cannot have been so ignorant of the world as not to know that in all this time Mrs. Charke was improving in her education, and the result soon manifested itself. Finding herself thus again thrown adrift on the world, she had no other way of raising the wind but by paying a visit of gratitude, in fact, of beggary, to the good-natured ladies who had so compassionately re- leased her from her first arrest. Among other distressful evening patroles which she made at this time was a visit to her brother, who kindly compassionated her wretchedness by putting half-a-crown in her hand, and invited her to dine with him next day at a friend's house. Out of this arrange- ment she was introduced as a man to a noble lord, who was particularly nice in re "pect to the person he required. At this time his lordship kept a mistress in his house : when there was company she dined with Mrs. Charke ; and when they were entirely by them- selves, Mrs. Charke was often permitted to dine with his Lordship and his favourite. In this situation the time of our heroine passed comfortably, but, at the instigation of some of his Lordship's friends, she was dis- charged, and again reduced to sorrow and destitution. Shame encompassed her, life became a burden, and she began to desire to die. When poverty throws us beyond the reach of pity, our condi* tion is like that of the poor wretch clothed with rags in a frosty morning ; no effort can make comfort. In this juncture she was fortunately inspired with adequate resolution. She took a neat lodging in a small street facing Bed- ■^•"''~*!*^*:^R''*»lW»B»n«W»»«««*!t^«fc!<»r*» II i "Hi • 208 LIVES OF THE PLA YER8. lion-square, and wrote a letter to a friend describing her hapless situation ; in the course of a quarter-of-an-hour his bount; enabled her to proceed to Newgate-market, where she purchased a quantity of pork, which she converted into sausages, and, with her daughter, set out to dispose of them, and proved eminently successful. In this affair she still continued to wear the dress of a man, but for a reason which she has never divulged ; perhaps protection. When she had sunk into the condition of a aausage-dealer, and was in other respects so humiliated, it could hardly be imagined that she could fall lower ; but an accident taught her that the measure of her afflictions was not yet full. Soon after setting up in that capacity she fell into low health, insomuch that she was chiefly indebted for assistance to her child, and though she restricted herself in every indulgence, she was still obliged to encroach on her slender finances, till she was reduced to her last three pounds of pork. These she left nicely prepared for sausages on a table covered up, while she went forth to breathe a little fresh air in the fields ; but when she returned — oh, disastrous chance ! — a hungry dog had moat remorse- lessly entered and devoured all her remaining stock. It would be to 'insult misery to indulge in the natural levity that this misfortune was calculated to excite ; for though in itself it may seem to have been a slight mischance, it was to the sufferers a great distress. Mrs. Charke and her child stared at one another in silence ; they sat down with despondency, conceiving that starvation must be their fate, having at that time neither meat, money, nor friends ; their week's lodging would expire next day, and a regular visit from their landlord was inevitable. After having sighed away her senses for her departed three pounds of pork, and thinking of her landlord, Mrs. Charke walked out, in- capable of reflecting on her distress. She had not, however, pro- ceeded far, when she met with an old gentlewoman, whom she had not seen for many years, who recognii:ed her at once, and inquired why she was so sad and clothed in man's apparel : this having been explained discreetly, when they parted, the good lady slipped five shillings into her hand, on which she went home, paid her lodging, and next morning quitted it. It has often been remarked, that if instances of kind-heartedness and magnanimity are to be sought for, they will chiefly be found among the poor and the friendless. On retiring from her lodgings in the neighbourhood of Red-lion-square, this unfortunate woman had nowhere to lay her head ; all around, the world was a desert. In this helplessness a young woman, who was herself in indigent circum- stances, invited the wretched mother and her child to take up their abode with her, and treated them with great charity at a time when, but for this beautiful instance of humane generosity, her child must have begged ht bread ; for she was then herself ill of a fever of the mind, and incapable of lending her advice or assistance. After some days the senses of the miserable mother returned, and she made her situation known to the nobleman whom she had formerly served, who immediately sent her a piece of gold, and expressed concern and sympathy for her situation. From this time she gradually re- covered. MBS. CHARLOTTE CHARKE. 209 At this period Mr. Yeates opened his new Wells, and she was engaged by him as a singer for a musical entertainment which he then brought forward. She subsequently obtained leave from Mr. Yeates to quit the Wells for four days, during which she appeared with great e'clat at Bartholomew Fair. Being thus again in obvious employment, her creditors became alert and importunate ; all she owed did not amount to five-and- twenty pounds, but it occa8i(med her as much perplexity as so many thousands. She was obliged to leave Mr, Yeates, to conceal herself from the eyes of those to whom she was indebted, and she retired to Petticoat-lane, Whitechapel, where sh^ joined a master of legerde- main, and assumed the name of Brown. She, however, did not relish this life long, and, in her jeopardy, she addressed her uncle, imploring his aid, and entreating him to advance her as much money as would enable her to set up a public-house. In this affair she acted with her wonted frankness ; she told him that she would not borrow the money because it might never be repaid, she therefore fairly asked him for a gift, and she was not disappointed. He wrote to her to take a house, and that he would advance the requisite money. She obeyed his directions, and being ever in a hurry from the hour of her birth, she took the first she saw with a bill on the window in Drury Lane — a house that had been irregularly and indecently kept. Her uncle was, however, as good as his promise : he advanced the money, and she posted away to her creditor who had a writ against her, which she settled, refusing, however, to pay the costs. Having settled with him, she then flew to the brokers to buy household fur- niture ; and, in less than three hours, her house was thoughtlessly furnished : but this affair was attended with so many extraordinary proceedings, that I cannot blame any one for being thrown into astonishment at her conduct. As soon as she had clustered an indis- tinguishable parcel of goods into her house, she resolved to sleep there that night. Beds were accordingly put up, but, by the time matters were in order, she was obliged to forego her intention, for it was near six o'clock in the morning. In other respects she managed not with more method ; in two days the house was opened, and, according to custom on such occasions, she gave an infinity of ham, and beef, and veal, to every soul who came and called for even a glass of brandy. In the course of twenty-four hours she ran out nearly seven pounds, and thought she was driving a roaring trade. The next step which Charlotte made towards getting a large estate was the profitable custom of several strolling-players, with whom, though they had no money she thought herself obliged to deal liber- ally, (as they styled themselves comedians,) until they had it in their power to pay, which they one and all expected soon to do. She had also another expedient scarcely less salutary for making a fortune ; she let three several rooms to as many persons, and some notion may be formed of their respectability by their fate — one of them narrowly escaped being hanged, another was reduced to common beggary, and the third was transported for life. This was not all. The water was laid into her cellar, and she never suspected that her tap ran as often 9» the water-gock ; her be©r was carried in pails to the two-pair of '■ f 1 MO LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. \ stairs floor, and the whole house was in a constant thunder-storm. Hints of what was going on began to glimpse out, and our heroine soon found that her lodgers had sometimes taken violent fancies to her very candlesticks and saucepans ; that her pewter shrank, and coals diminished ; and that, as she kept an eating-house, tliere was often a hue and cry after an imaginary dog that ran away with three parts of a joint of meat. In a word, she wjis obliged to shut up shop ; and going in her male attire to an old friend, she was, by her assist- ance, translated into a waiter at the King's-head, Mary-le-bone, then kept by a Mrs. Don. Mrs. Don was at first greatly pleased with her appearance, but was fearful that her service would be too hard, and admonished her to seek a less robust employment. However, all her arguments were overturned by the plausible and good reasons of our heroine, v/ho in the end was accepted ; a little demur, however, arose, when she un- derstood she had a child ; but this too, in the end was overcome, and the waiter was admitted to her board. At last Sunday came round, and Mrs. Charke began to shake in her shoes, fearing that as the house was generally much frequented on that day, she might be dis- covered ; but all pi^ssed off well. In the week-days, business, though not so brisk as on Sundays, was still good, but it left her leisure to attend to the garden, in the work of which she showed so much sagacity that good Mrs. Don could not makv; enough of her ; in short, an indirect overture was made to her by a kinswoman of Mrs. Don, and marriage was only prevented by the fact of her being a woman coming to light. She then attached herself to her brother, and having sown some of her wild oats, became a regular performer, and assisted to bring out her daughter. But the old man CoUey Cibber, who was greatly dis- pleased, interfered to her prejudice. Her distress and imprudence now took a new turn ; she was again reduced to great difficulties, but they were ultimately softened in their rigours by a present of a few pounds which she received from the Duke of Montague. After that she engaged herself at a guinea per diem to handle Punch at a puppet-show, which was kept by a Mr. Russel, for the higher classes, at Hickford's great room in Brewers- street, — a grand atfair, some of the female figures being ornamented with real diamonds lent for that purpose by ladies of quality. This way of life was, however, like all others which she had pursued, evanescent ; Mr. Russel was arrested, thrown into prison, became insane, and finally an idiot. In this unfortunate situation, Mrs. Charke, hearing he was moved into the Fleet, called one day to see him, and found to her horror and consternation, that the unfortunate man was just laid in his coffin. After the shock of this sad spectacle was over, she reproached the woman who had shown her up without telling her he was dead ; but at the same time she expressed her thankfulness in seeing he was provided with so handsome a winding-sheet and coflin. " Oh, Madam," replied the prison-hag, "when a debtor dies without effects he must be interred by the parish ; your friend must be turned over to a pariah-shell, for the indulgence of being buried otherwise renders MRS. CHARLOTTE CHARKE. 211 then the Warden of the Fleet liable for the debts of the deceased." This may have been the case, but surely the law cannot to this day be dis- graced by the continuation of such an atrocity ? After leaving the prison and the corpse of her friend, and having dried her cheeks and eyes, it occurred to our heroine that his puppets might be had on reasonable terms, and that by them she could not fail to realize a handsome fortune ; but on going to make an arrange- ment with his landlord, she found ho had valued them at sixty guineas, money down, which was beyond her means, and so ended the scheme. After this she remained about town till Bartholomew Fair was over, when she went into the country, and remained nearly nine years, the most remarkable of which were spent as a strolling-player, during which her daughter married one of the party, and in process of time came to be lady of an independent country company. The sketches which Mrs. Charke gives of her adventures as a stroller are curiously amusing ; odd and remarkable in many partic- ulars, they are yet not related without her characteristic humour. " I have seen," says she, " an Emperor as drunk as a Lord, and a Lord as elegant as a ticket- porter, — a Queen with one ruffle, and a Lord Townley without shoes. This last circumstance reminds me of the Queen, in The Spanish Friar, once playing without stockings, which, however, was caused by her own good nature ; her Majesty observing Torrismond to have a dirty pair with above twenty holes in sight, and her own legs not being so much exposed to view, kindly stripped them of a pair of fine cotton stockings, and lent them to the hero." This, however, is no overcharged picture of what often hap- pens among strollers. I was once myself a witness to a three-legged pot-doing cauldron in Macbeth, and instead of sinking into the earth, according to the text, deliberately walking o.T, pulled by a string tied to one of its feet. Being very unwell at Cirencester, she was advised, after getting a little better, to try horsemanship, and adopting this advice, she soon borrowed a horse for herself and another for her friend, the magnifi- cent stockingless queen. The person who furnished the horses was a reverend-looking elder about sixty years of age, with beautiful curling hair, and a florid complexion, that bespoke admiration and respect. His temper was moral and pleasing, his aspect agreeable, and his company entertaining, with which he often obliged our heroine while her friend was at the theatre. After riding out two or three times, the old gentleman perceiving her to grow better, courteously made her a present of the horse, and persuaded a young fellow he called his nephew to give the other to her friend, and finally induced the two ladies to determine on leaving the stage. But all this was deceit ; it turned out that the horse-jockeys were old game. They were detected in their frauds, and in less than a year the old man was dangled into the other world, and the young one died raving mad in a prison near London. From Cirencester the players went to Chippenham, and after experiencing the wonted disasters of the stroller's life, Mrs. Chirko passed to Tiverton, in Devonshire, where she joined, with her I Kl Ij . ;,i!*in.i_.iuju« ma ...,^ wm mi'«iim» mmifmtm:mmmmtmmn^mmmm 'ml I *J LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. friend and daughter, another party, nnder Mr. and Mrs. Elrington, with whom her success was only such aa might be expected from their common poverty, and the expedients to which such adventurers are always reduced. It is, however, impossible to follow her through all the vicissitudes of a stroller's life, nor would they merit the reader's attention ; they were with her as they have been with others, and are already sufficiently well known. The varieties of individual character may have produced cases of inflexion and exception, but the accidents which befell our heroine as a stroller were not of that kind ; it is more in what hapj)oncd to her when she was not a stroller that her fate is peculiar, and therefore I shall confine my attention chiefly to what may be regarded as her private adventures, rather than to those incidental to her profession, which, however, I must say, were abundantly eccentric of their kind, and sometimes full of humour. One, however, distressing enough at the time, I must not omit. After trt.versing the country in the course of a second reunion with Mr. and Mrs. Elrington, they came to Minchin Hampton, where they were exposed to great jeopardy. At that time it happened the Coyoner supported a relation in a most nefarious course of practice, by apprehending all persons over wh.)m he conceived the law gave him any authority ; and this ridiculous power he carried to a most oppressive extent. Under it ho committed the players to prison, and played so many fantastic tricks, that if he did not make the angels weep, he was often the cause of great vexa- tion to those who fell into his clutches. In the end, by the assistance of the lord of the manor, Mrs. Charke and her friends escaped from his talons, but the troubles she had undergone made her resolve to quit the stage, and try some other course of life. This determination was forced upon her by the pressure of circumstances, but there was still little wisdom in the mode she proposed to carry it into eHect. With that discretion which distinguished her conduct through life, she resolved to settle at Chepstow, and turn pastrycook there, witJi- out a shilling in the inuverse ! Accordingly, having taken a house in tliat town, she threw herself entirely on her friends, and moved onward in her scheme. An oven was constructed, but there was not a single penny to purchase a faggot to light it, and pies and their materials were equally scarce. However, nothing daunted, our heroine made her case known, and to baking she was enabled to go ; and partly through pity and curiosity she absolutely took twenty shillings in the way of trade in the course of the first day. But the promise of this prosperity was only a glimpse of sunshine : the natural aspect of her fortunes was lowering ; hiu' courage however was not dismayed, even when this glinqise of brightness passed away. She soon saw that she could not hope to succeed by her pastry, and she resolved to add to it another more hicrative branch of busi- ness. She went in one of her hurries and bought a sotv with pig, but after keeping it nearly three months, expocthig it would bring forth, the brute proved to bo an old barrow, and she was in conso(pienco glad to sell it to a butcher for a shilling or two loss tiian she originally gave for it. She had, however, by this time, to oons<»lo hor, a L^arduu 4^i% ME8. CnARLOTTE CHARKE. 213 well stored with fruits of all kinds, which amply promised to indemnify her for the disappointment sustained by the sow ; but just as the fruit was nearly ripe, a pack of wretches in one night robbed her garden and broke down many of her trees. Finding she was not likely to succeed at Chepstow, she was assisted by some of her friends to remove with the necessary utensils for the pastrycook's shop to .i little place called Poll, within five miles of the port of liristol. The place itself is, according to her description, not unpleasimt, but is inhabited, or rather infested, with the acum and dregs of the human race. " To be short," says she, " the villainies of these wretches are of so heinous and unlimited a nature, they render the place so unlike any other part of the habitable world, that I can compare it only to the antichamber of that abode in the next life we are admonished to avoid, by leading a good one here." And yet for nearly six months Mrs. Charke remained with hor female companion in this place. Hero she took a little shop, and being then in man's attire, and under the assumed name of Brown, she set out in a grand style, and put over her door in large, legible, permanent, and conspicuous characters and words at length, — " Brown, Pastry- cook, from Londoii." But she declares, that in all the time she remained there, she could not charge herself with ever having attempted to spoil the ingredients of a single tart. The summer-time, however, was the season of her trade, and she had no cause to complain ; but when the blustering weather set in, had not an uncle of her friend died and left her a legacy, they would have been reduced to the most woful extremities. On receiving this letter, it was shown to their landlord hoping that hu would lend Mrs. Charke a guinea to bear their cL rges to the relict of the deceased, who lived in Oxfordshire; but "the incredulous uiockhead," as she says, conceived the letter was a forgery, and con- trived as a device to get a guinea to run away with. He was, however, in error, and made a thousand awkward excuses for his unkindness when they had received the money. In the mean time, however, they were reduced to a sore pinch : still the bravery of our heroine was not to be subdued by adversity ; she considted on her pillow what was best to be done, and her friend agreed that what she had determined was the best, especially as there were only two little difHculties in the way. They agreed to go for the money, but, first, they had not a tingle groat between them in the world ; and, secondly, Mrn. Charke was in want of a hat, in con^'ecpience of having pledged her's at Bristol, — for she went all this time as a man ; — yet notwith- standing these impediments, they resolved to set out together, and did so. On reaching Bristol, Mrs. Charke, at the first word, though without her hat, raised enough to pay for their immediate wants, and she borrowed a covering for her unthinking head from a smart young journeyman who lived in the same house v/liero they lodged for that night. Next day, at the hour of five, they set out for Bath, where they encountered some obstacles, which, however, our heroine soon overcame, by giving her landlady her waistcoat for payment of hor day's score , she, however, redeemed it next morning by a con- tribution raised among the players, nm 214 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. Being thus empowered by the Lalp of a little cash, the legatees set out from Bath to Oxfordshire, and in three days reached the happy spot where they were supplied, in the form of their legacy, with that opiate for grief of which the want had made many a tedious night wakeful. They then returned to Bristol, where they met some of the Pell gentry, and learned that it was supposed they had run away. The borrowed hat was then returned to the owner ; our heroine re- leased h(ir own ; the landlord was paid his rent, and no creatures oould have been more honest ; but the legacy was exhausted, and, as Mrs. Charke says of herself, when it was so, she wa? no more regarded " than a dead cat." But still she was unsubdued. She then sat down and wrote a little lale, which filled up the first and second columns of a newspaper, and got an acquaintance to in- troduce her to the printer, who engaged her, at a small pittance to correct the press. Having thus secured something to fiddle on, she ran back from Bristol to Pell, exhorted her friend to come away, and leaving all to the landlord, to whom they were indebted eighteen ahillingd, she hastened to enter on her literary career. It did not, however, last above a month, when finding it impossible to subsist on what *he received, and the printer being unable to in- crease her wages, she applied to the players for a bf;nefit. This proved an unlucky speculation, for the house was filled with promises to overflowing, but instead of realising five-and-twent> pounds, as she expected, she was involved to the extent of four or five pounds, and obliged to shift her camp without beat of drum. She then joined her daughter's party at Wells, where she received a letter from her brother, "nforming her that Mr. Simpson, of Bath, was inclined to engage her as his prompter. This offier she embvnced with avidity, and was kindly received, t it the situation proved more troiiblesome than her health or temper couIJ endure; she was obliged to give it up, and after several characteristic expedients, she set out by Devizes for London, and by a very devious course ar ivod there in due time, where she began the publication of her memoirs in num- bers, on the 19th April 1755, ultimately resolving to open a magnifi- cent academy for young persons ambitious of acquiring eminence on the stage. But, like all her other schemes, this was conceived without udequate consideration — indeed, it was conceived with less probability than some of her most absurd projci^ts, and it of course fell to the ground. What became of her fo" several yeai's after is not very obvious, nor indeed till towards the close f her life, vvliou we find her in possession of a public house u,t Islington. It is certain, that about the year 1756 she had prepared a novel for the press, and Mr. White of Dublin accompanied his friend, a bookseller, to hear hur read it. Her house vas then a thatched hovel, in the purlieus of Clerkenwell Bridewell, on the wiiy to Islington, not far from the New River head. Mr. White and his compatiion having at last reached her door, and b'-ing admitted by a domestic, a tall, meagre, ragged figure with a blue apron before her, wlio spoke with a solenni voice and a hungry smile. The first objoct that prosontod itself whs a drosser, clean i^ must bo confessed, and fuiiiisliud with three or four MBS, BELLAMY. 215 deii plates, and underneath an eprthen pipkin^ and a black pitcher with a snip out of its mouth. To the right of the dresser sat the mistress of the mansion, on a maimed chair, under the mantelpiece, with a fire sufficient to put her visitors in mind of starvation. On one hob sat a monkey chattering, on the other a tabby cat of a melancholy aspect, and on the flounce of his lady's dingy petticoat reclined a dog, almost only the skeleton of one. He raised his shaggy head, and staring with bleared eyes, saluted the strangers with a snarl. A magpie was perched on her chair, and on her \n\) lay a mv tilated pair of bellows ; their pipe was gone, but they served as a succedaneuin for a writing-desk, on which lay displayed her hopes in the shape of the manuscript of her novel. Her ink-stand was a broken tea-cup ; her pen was worn to the stump, — she had but one. A rough deal board, with three supporters, was brought for the convenience of the visitors, and after they were accommodated, they entered upon business. The work was read — and she read it beautifully — remarks were made, and thirty guineas demanded for the copyright. The squalid hand-maiden looked with astonishment at the amount of the demand. The extortionate bookseller, offered five pounds ; some altercation ensued, but after it the man of trade doubled his offer : matters in the end were duly accommodated ; the lady stipulating for fifty copies in addition to the money. This appears to have been the last important transaction of her many-coloured life, nor indeed did she live very long afterwards, for she died on the 6th of April 1760. Biography presents few cases similar to the extraordinary life of Mrs. Charke, — a person of considerable talent, quick in the percep- tion of impropriety in others, but entirely under the government of the most irrational impulses. The English language affords no fit term to describe hor conduct, but the Scottish has a word appropriate in DAFT. MRS. GEORGE ANNE BELLAMY. This lady is as much celebrated by her letters concerning lioraclf, aa by her professional excellence, and yet they are generally believed to have been written by Alexander Bicknell, better known as the editor of Carver's Travels in Africa. Thoy are not, however, spurious ; she is supposed to have furnished the materials, and muat be held responsible for the chronological errors which impair thoir merit. She was born in the town of Fingal in Ireland, on St. George's day, 1731, and was baptized by the name of Georgiana ; but after she had grown up, it was discovered that she was entered in the parish register as having been christened George Anno. Though she bore the name of her mother's husband, she was really the child of Lord Tyrawley, and born under circumstances which justify me in saying, that her adventures began before she came into the world. Uer mother was the daughter of a wealthy farmer in the neighbour' 316 LIVES OF THE PLAYEH9. hood of Maidstone, and after some distressing family affain, WM placed at a boarding-school in Queen Square, London, by Mn. Godfrey, a sister of the great Duk<< of Marlborough, whence she wa* induced to elope with Lord Tyrawley, a young, accomplished, but dissipated nobleman. Having carried his prize to his apartments in Somerset House, she was treated with the same respect as if she had been really married to his Lordship, and actually assumed his nam(< She had not, how- ever, been long in this illusion, when his Lordship was ordered to join his regiment in Ireland . Their parting was becomingly pathetic, fOi.' they had given all for love ; but as soon as he reached Dublin, hd found it expedient to pay his addresses to a daughter of the Earl o( Blessington, to mend his shattered fortunes, and married her. In this, having acted without principle, the Earl was go indignant when he came to hear the truth, that he would make no settlement on them, and Tyrawley was justly disappointed. Being, however, a young man of talent, he solicited public employment, and was sent Ambassador to Lisbon. There, after the lapse of two years, the mother of our heroine joined him, and on her arrival was placed by his Lordship in the family of an English merchant, where she received the visits of his Lordship, and where, being unacquaint<)d that he had solaced himself with another mistress, her time passed in agreeable tranquility. It happened, however, that a Captain Bellamy, master of a ship consigned to the merchant, happened to become so enamoured of her, that he won her heart chiefly by informing her of the minister's new mistress ; and in revenge she accepted his hand, and bailed with him as the legal Mistress Bellamy to Ireland. Soon, however, after their arrival, she gave birth, greatly to his astonishment, to our heroine, for he had never suspected that there had been an intimacy to such an effect with Lord Tyrawley ! His Lordship believing that Mrs. Bellamy had run away to Ireland without tie, and in the wantonness of nature, and expecting that a child might be born to him ordered it immediately on its birth to be taken from her. Ultimately, when about two years old, George Anne was carried to the barracks at Dublin, by the lady of the Adjutant of his Lordship's regiment, in whose care she had been placed ; and when she had nearly attained the age of four years, the Adjutant received directions from Lord Tyrawley to send her to France. Whilst in London, on the way to the Continent, the maid-servant who had the care of her, happening to see her mother's name in the playbills of Covent Garden, thought she could not be an unaccept- able visitor, if she took the child to pay her respects to her. Accordingly, they went to Mrs. Bellamy's lodgings ; but on riuiuing delighted to her mother, the actress, fur Mrs. Bellamy was now on the stage, pushed away the child, exclaimiiv:,', after looking at her, "My God! what have you brought me luie? This goggle-eyed, splatter-faced, gabbart mouthed wretch is not my child ! Take her away." After a few necessary preparations, Miss Be1i;iniy was placed at MRS. n^LLAMY. m Boulogne, in the Convent of the Nunciates, in the lower town, where she had not been long when a nun was buried in the walls for incontinency. Every reader recollects so well the striking description of this fearful ceremony of punishment, in the poem of Marmion, that it need not be described here ; but so horrid a penalty, and the dirtiness of the house, occasioned our heroine to be removed to the Unulines, in the upper town, where she remained till she had reached her eleventh year, at which period she was brought to England. On reaching Dover, she was met by one Duvall, who had once been a domestic of Lord Tyrawley, and with whom she was tc reside during the absence of his Lordship, who was still abroad, but every day expected. This Duvall had a neighbour of the name of Jones, who, at the solicitations of his wife, had opened a china-shop. Mrs. Jones was the daughter of an apothecary in Westminster, and wa» well versed in the fashions and amusements of the gay world. Having received a genteel education, she spoke French badly, of course, and could invent with great facility interesting additions to the lies of the day. She had a good address, abounded in small- talk, understood flattery charmingly ; and all her female customer! were, in consequence, delighted with this fascinating lady. Our heroine, during her frequent visitations to the shop of Mrs. Jones, became acquainted with most of the nobility who frequented it. But this pleasure was at length disturbed by the long-wished-for arrival of Lord Tyrawley. His Lordship received his daughter in the kindest manner, but his Portuguese mistress, who had several children of her own, became her enemy, so obviously, that the acute young lady perceiving the nature of Donna Aura's heart, persuaded his Lordship to place her again with Mrs. Jones, where every thing went happily for some time, until she became indisposed ; when Lord Tyrawley, for the benefit of fresh air, was induced on her account to take a little box in Bushy Park, to which he removed his whole family, consisting of his Lordship, his tawny Dulcinea, three girls, all by different mothers, and George Anne. The boys were sent to school. — Heie his Lordship's fondness for her became unbounded. He thought he could discern in her features a perfect resemblance of himself, and anticipated when her wit would become as brilliant as his own, for he was acknowledged in that respect to possess uncommon talent. Lord Tyrawley having prohibited George Anne from reading Cassandra, the only romance in his library, she laid her hands on Pope's Homer, and learnt the first three books by rote, when she solicited his Lordship to introduce her to the author — as Pope of Twickenham should deservedly be considered. This ho indulgently, after many applications, consented to do. The day was fixed ; away they wont to the poet's dwelling, she full of great anticipations, and big with the thought of the important part she was to perform. The carriage stopped, the door was opoued, and they wore ushered into the presence of the great man, who, immediately on seeing her, rang the bell. The housekeeper answered it — "Take Miss," said Pope, " show her the gardens, and give her as much fruit as she can eat ! " did LIVES Of TUH PLAYEHS. Such a result humbled the young lady beyond all measure ; she was wroth with the innocent housekeeper, who did not remain long with her, but left her to devise a most effectual plan of revenge, Qo less than a resolution never to read ihe poet's works again, bnt wholly to attach herself to Dryden'a translation of Virgil. While ruminating on this great machination, the carriage was announced, atid on reaching it she found seated, with Lord Tyrawley, the famous Earl of Chesterfield ; and his Lordship's piquant conversation amply repaid her iu the way to Bushy Park for aJl the contumely she had sustained from the poet. Some time after, Lord Tyrawley being appointed Ambassador to Russia, one of the ladies of quality with whom she had formed aa acquaintance at the shop of Mrs. Jones, invited her, during his Lordship's absence, to stay with hor : an invitation gladly accepted, and to which his Lordship readily consented, on condition that she should not see her mother. But he had not been long on his mission, when enticed by the maid by whom she had been originally introduced to her mother, she left her splendid associations to reside with her. Lord Tyrawley immediately stopped his allowance for her support. This decided her destiny, and her imprudent mothci saw, when it was too late, that she had sacrificed the permanent interests of her child. Perhaps, humanely speaking, there was, after allj less to blame on her part than in the proud sternness of the father. Im> patience was the greatest fault, both of the mother and daughter — as it is of the unfortunate of mankind in general ; for, although it cannot be denied that there is a good luck in destiny, it is no less true that, if a man can afford to wait, he will in the end attain his desires, Among other friendships which the mother had formed about this period, was an intercourse of a very intimate kind with a Mrs. Jackson, who had come from India for the education of her daughters, aid who resided at Twickenham. She invited Mrs. Bellamy and her daughter to spend some time with her, and the invitation wua accepted. One day, while staying with this lady, she happened to be walking with our heroine, when they met Mrs. Wottington^ the distinguished actress, who immediately renewed a theatrical acquaintance with Mrs. Bellamy, and invited them both to spend some time with her at her house at Teddington. During their stay with her. Miss Bellamy formed some acquaintance with the most eminent actors of that time ; and while the two ladies remained with Mrs. Woffington a play was got up. The piece was The Distressed Mother, and the part of Andromache fell to our heroine ill which she acquitted herselt with distinction ; but, as this was not an appearance on a public stas^e, it is proper to reserve what is requisite to be said of her powers until that event. Upon returning to Twickenham, they found their friend Mrs. Jack* son so ill that her physician advised lior to change the air, and she removed, in consequence, to Henrietta Street, where the mother and da\ightor consented to become her guests. At this period the former h:id occasion frequently to call on Rich the manager, on business, and when she did was always accompanied by George Anne, between whom and his daughters an agreeable intimacy was formed. mus. Bellamy. an oth IS iier t!88, stin One evening the young ladies, among themselves, proposed to act Othello, and our heroine was to play the Moor. In due time accord- ingly, their preparations reached a rehearsal ; and as they were only amusing themselves, Miss Bellamy gave full scope to her voice, and w&s overheard by Mr. Rich, who declared he had never heard a better ; and, among other compliments, told her, that if she would turn her thoughts to the stage, she would make one of the hei% actresses in the world, and he would be happy to engage her. Mr. Kich, however, like the ordinary managers of the theatre, was not an eminent judge ; indeed, it was the opinion of the players, that he was not a judge at all, but was only one ol those sort of people who get into certain situations no one can explain how. This eulogium, however, had the eflfect, in her deserted condition, of turning her attention to the stage as a means of subsistence. Indeed, when the tenour and tendency of htr fortunes are considered, it seems as if no series of events ever more obviously dovetailed into each other than those of her life, to accomplish that consummation. She consulted with her mother upon what Mr. Rich had said, and the result, in a short time after, was an engagement with him, concluded when she was just fourteen. At that time her figure was elegaurt, and her voice powerful ; gay, light, and graceful, of inexhaustible spirits, and possessed of some humour,' the happiest auguries promised her success, and in the character of Monimia, then a favourite with the public, she came out under the auspices of youth, beauty, and emulation. Being prepared for her part. Rich thought the time was now arrived when he should introduce her to Quin. After waiting some time at the mouth of the lion's den, as the other performer* denominated Mr. Quin's dressing-room, they were at length i^mitted ; for except with Ryan, he kept himself aloof from the othcrlplayers, and seldom mixed with then., but in professional duty. Quin no sooner heard Rich propose that Mii^ Bellamy should appear in tlie character of Monimia, than, with t^e most sovereign contempt, he cried out, "It will not do. Sir;" upoii which Rich sur- prised at his plainness, retorted, "It shall do. Sir." After some farther pungent altercation, Quin said to her, "Child, I would advise you to play Serina before you think of Monimia." This sarcasm nettled her, and she animatedly repliec', " If I did. Sir, I should never live to play the Orphan." Still, however, he insisted on the impropriety of a child attempting the character, and concluded with threatening, that if Rich persisted in his resolution, he would declare to the public his opinion, and would not attend the rehear- sals. To reason with Qnin was unavailing after he had committed himself so far, and Rich led the trembling novice away, cheering her, however, aloud, that let who would oppose, he was resolved to protect her. Nor was his wonted indolence in this case to blame : before leaving the theatre he ordered the prompter to call a rehearsal of The Orphan, next morning. When the time arrived the two gentlemen who were to play the lovers, in order to pay their court to Quin, did not think proper to appear ; but Rich, justly offended, lined them more than usual : even Serina smiled with derision on the lovely young Monimia. /^l 220 LIVES OF TBB PLAYERS. . K - 1 Such things often happen, and in other professions as well m in the players'. Mankind are more guided by the predilections for or against one another than they are willing to allow ; they render the path to distinction easier to those they happen to favour, and more dlMcult to those they chance to dislike, than jnstice can warrant. Hence it is, that we sometimes see those who have been honoured for their prematurity, afterwards sink, to be heard of no more, long before they naturally die ; and others in great splendour at their setting, who have all day travelled in clouds and obscurity. Kich was mortitied at seeing his protegee treaited with such con* tempt ; but luckily the unjust opposition evinced towards her, only angered him into greater determination to adhere to his resolution, and he adopted the best means of making it effectual. The dresses of the theatrical ladies were at this period indifferent : empresses and queens were confined to black velvet, except on extraordinary occasions, when they put on embroidered petticoats ; the young ladies generally appeared in the cast garments of people of quality ; and sometimes stage brides and virgins in faded dresses. Rich, however, on this occasion, to put Miss Bellamy in good- humour, and to compensate for the affront she had received, took her to his mercer's, and gave her leave to choose a dress for herself. The following morning, Castalio and Polidore attended the rehearsal, but Chamont (Quin) was inexorable. The public, always inclined to the humane side, espoused the cause of our injured heroine as soon as the treatment she had met with was known, and became indignant at the conspiracy against her, for they attributed all that she had suffered to a machination of that kind. The important night, big with the fate of Miss Bellamy, at length arrived ; the curtain drew up, and a splendid audience were assem- bled ; but she was so dazzled by the lights, and stunned by the plaudits, that she stood for some time like a statue. Quin exulted at her con* fusion, and Rich, astonished at the effect, entreated her to exert herself. She tried, but could not be heard in the side boxes. The applause continued during the first act. The manager, having pledged himself for her success, had planted friends in different parts of the house to insure it ; but finding her unable to recover her self- possession, he was distracted, as if his own fate had depended upon her. Again he had recourse to persuasion ; but nothing could rouse her, till the fourth act, when to the amazement of the audience, the surprise of the other performers, and the exultation of the manager, she felt herself suddenly awakened, and burst out with great splen- dour. Quin was so astouislied at this unexpected display, that, with his wonted generosity of nature, he waited behind the scenes till the conclusion of the act, when, lifting her from the ground, he exclaimed aloud, "Thou art a divine creature, and the true spirit is in thee." Her triumph was complete ; the other performers, who, half an hour before, regarded her with pity, crowded around, and loaded her with gratulations ; and Quin, in contrition for his sarcasm, finding she was the reputed daughter of his old friend Lord Tyrawley, inclosed a bank-bill in a blank cover, and sent it by the penny post to her 3e upon rouse the MUS. BtiLLAMlt. 221 luuther ; besides favouriug the youug lady with a general invitation to his suppers, enjoining her at the same time never to cpme alone, because, as he jocularly said, he was not too old to be spared from censure. The ordinary chances incident to the profession facilitated her rise ; and the acquisition of friends among people of rank was the consequence. Rich could not afford her a salary equal to the success she had met with, but he gave her a free benefit ; wJiich, however, as she had but few friends, except those who, out of civility to Mr. Quin, espoused her cause, she had little reason to expect would prove lucrative. Sometime, however, before the day appointed she received a message from the Duchess of Queensberry to come to her Grace next day before twelve o'clock. But when she announced herself at Queensberry House, the groom of the chambers told her that the Duchess knew no such person. She assured him that by her Grace's own directions she had called ; he replied that there must have been some mistake, and with humiliation she returned home, expecting to receive taunts and sarcasms from a relation who had lately arrived fruiu Ireland, and who had afterwards considerable influence on her destiny. Accordingly, she ha«l no sooner returned from Queensberry House, and mentioned her reception, than this relation alleged that the invitation was a chimera of her own brain, generated by her vanity ; so virulent, indeed, were the deformed old lady's sarcasms, that Miss Bellamy, to shun her, went to the theatre. Upon entering the green-room, she was met by Prince Lobkowitz, requesting a box at her benefit for the corps diplomatique ; she thanked him for the honour, and informed his Highness they might be accommodated with a stage box. But he acquainted her that she had not a box to dispose of ; all but three private ones being retained for the Duchess of Queensberry. Our heroine thought the Prince was joking, especially as he had delivered to her the message of her Grace the night before, and which she had found a deception. He, however, persisted in what he said, and farther added, that the Duchess had sent for two hundred and fifty tickets. With this glad news she hastened home to tell her mother, and to retaliate upon her crooked relation, when she found a note from her Grace, requesting her to come next morning to Queensberry House. Having walked thither, she was immediately admitted to the Duchess, who said, " Well, young woman, what business had you in a chair yesterday ? it was a fine morning, and you might have walked. You look as you ought to do now (observing her linen gown) ; nothing is so vulgar as wear- ing silk in a morning - simplicity best becomes youth, and you do not stand in need of ornament ; therefore dress always plain, except when you are upon the stage." While her Grace was thus talking, she was cleaning a picture, which Miss Bellamy observing, requested permission to do. " Don't you think 1 have domestics enough, if 1 did not choose to do it myself \ ° ' said the Duchess. Miss Bellamy apologized for her presump- tion by telling her Grace that ihe had acquired some proficiency in the art while she had been at Airs. Jones's. The Duchess upon this exclaimed, " Are you the girl I have hoard Chesterfield speak of ? " 15 I I §22 LlVUS OP THt! PLAtEltS. Being answered in the affirmative, she ordered a canvass bag to bo taken from her cabinet, saying, ** No person can give Queensberry less than gold ; there are two hundred and fifty guineas, and twenty for the Duke's tickets and mine. But I must give you something for Tyrawley's sake. " She then took a bill from her pocket-book, which she put into Miss Bellamy's hands, and told her that a carriage was ordered to take her home, lest any accident should happen to her. The benefit, wiih this and other helps, surpassed her ir'.::t sanguine expectations. Among others who paid her particular attention was Lord Byron, who had little to boast of but his title and a fair face. He was offended at her rejection of his addresses, and resolved to be revenged ; for this purpose he engaged another nobleman to assist him, who was only distinguished for his profligacy. This associate had believed himself to be in love with a young lady, a friend of our heroine, and frequently, in consequence, called on Miss Bellamy. Her mother, who by this time had left the stage, and was become a confirmed devotee, enjoined her to break off hsr intimacy with that young lady, on account of her levity ; and because, though by birth a gentlewoman^ she had degraded herself by becoming the companion of a lady of quality who had eloped from her lord. Lord Byron's noble friend, knowing the religious predilections of Mrs. Bellamy, came one Sunday evening, when he knew she would be engaged, and said to our heroine that her friend was in a coach at the end of the street, and desired to sr ak with her. Without staying to put on her hat or gloves, she hastened to the coach, when, to her surprise, she was suddenly hoisted into it by his Lordship, who, jumping in after, was driven off" as fast as the horses could gallop. The Earl conveyed her to his own house ; and in answer to her remonstrance for the manner in which she had been abducted, assured her of Lord Byron's benevolent intentions ; implored her compassion for his friend ; and, having left her with his housekeeper, went out to prepare a lodging for her. Soon after he returned, and, to her astonishment, with one of her brothers, a lieutenant in the navy, who believing at the time she had run ofi" with the Right Honourable pander, inflicted a severe bodily chastisement on him, and immediately retired. Such is the substance of her own account of the matter ; but it deserves to be noticed, that she went afterwards with the Earl to the lodgings he had taken for her, which happened to be in the house of her own dress-maker, and it does not appear that she made any attempt to return home. Seeing, liowever, an account of the trans- action much exaggerated in the newspapers next day, she wrote to her mother the facts of the case, who returned her letter unopened. This sealed her doom ; she became unwell ; incurred debts to her lodging-keeper ; and was obliged, in consequence to go to her mother's relations, under tlie pretence of claiming a legacy which had been left to her some time before. In this journey, being led to dress neatly and plainly, she was regarded by them as a quaker. They, however, soon discovered her real character, and she was induced to leave them, even though their returning affection ought MRS. BELlAMt. 223 but it rl to the louse of ide any |e trans- Ivrote to (opened, to her to her which led to Iqiiaker. Iho was ought tu have softened her indii^nution at those reports to her disadvantage, reports to which they had lent, as she thought, too credulous an ear. From them she went to Ingateston, to spend some time with a young lady, an acquaintance, who had invited her ; and not finding her friend at home, in her forlornness she boarded herself with a farmer. While she resided with the farmer she often wrote to her mother, but coiild obtain no answer, and her spirits in consequence were again saddened. Exceedingly depressed, she one evening walked out alone, with Mrs. Rowe's " Letters from the Dead to the Living," which she read till they infected her mind, and she returned towards the house in superstitious dejection. In this condition she beheld, as she deemed it, an apparition of her parent coming towards her ; at the sight she immediately fancied that her mother was dead, and was coming to upbraid her as the cause of her death. But if the spirit did intend to do so it was a most unjust ghost, and different from all others ; for ghosts are always remarkable for their love of justice. However, it advanced, and our heroine became terrified, till the vision clasped her in its arms, and proved a real mother. It seems the deformed relation from Ireland had recently died, and that all Miss Bellamy's letters were discovered to have been in her possession, concealed from the disconsolate parent. It is surprising so many of such tricks should be found out by the same means ; persons who have an interest in concealing the letters of others should be sure always to burn them. When the two actresses had eased their labouring hearts in mutual explanation, the old lady related that Mrs. Jackson had married in- discreetly an Irishman, and that their home in London was in con- sequence broken up ; finally, having no other alternative, it was arranged between them that our heroine should return to the stage. Accordingly, on coming back to London, Mrs. Bellamy went towards Covent Gardens to concert the proper measures with Mr. Rich, when she met Mr. Sheridan, the father of the orator, who inquired for George Anne, and expressed a wish to engage her, but to this she could not consent until she had previously seen Mr. Rich. That gentleman, when she had told him what had passed with the Dublin manager, advised her to accept his offer, for the young lady would have not only the benefit in him of a great master in dramatic elo- cution, but the privilege of appearing, even though so young, in every principal character ; an advantage she could not expect in London, where the principal parts were considered as much the pro- perty of the performers as their weekly salary, and were only lent to novices for a trial of their skill. This advice was undoubtedly disinterested and judicious, but we are much inclined to doubt the fairness of the practice on which it was founded. There appears no reason, after a literary work has been published, to suppose that the writer has any authority longer over its knowledge ; it is then public property, and free to be appropriated as all readers may think fit : this opinion is not, however, willingly acceded to by authors, who for the most part imagine that they possess an everlasting surveillance over their own works, and a right to control the use which others may make of them. It is much in the same way that actors en* 224 LIVES OJf TB£! PLAtEliH. deavour to maintain their doctrine of a property iu characters, to which they can in justice lay no higher claim than that they had previously taken the pains to get them by heart. By the advice of Rich, however, Miss JBellamy, instead of attempting to differ from what was then the established custom of the stage, was induced to accede to the proposal of Mr. Sheridan, and went with her mother to Dublin, where, after a pleasant journey, not remarkable for any incident which deserves to be narrated here, save in a Mr. Crump professing love for her, with whom in the course of the journey they happened to fall in, they arrived in safety. In Dublin, our heroine waited in duty on Mrs. O'Hara, the sister of Lord Tyrawley, who had not seen her since she was an infant, and who was much pleased with her visit, without, however, being satis- fied with the profession to which she had been driven. But she agreed to introduce her to her acquaintances as the acknowledged daughter of her brother. Mrs. O'Hara kindly inquired into the state of her iinances, which gave her an opportunity of describing the eccentric liberality of the Duchess of Queensberry, with which she was naturally much entertained. She informed her also of the ad- ventures with Lord Byron and his friend, which had been the cause of her distress. In this frankness there was much discreticm, for the good opinion of no one is to be gained by half candour — a friend must be trusted with the secrets of the heart, as a physician, or a lawyer, with the defects as well as the rights of a case. The theatre was opened with eclat, and the court was brilliant, for the Earl of Chesterfield was at that time Viceroy of Ireland. Miss Bellamy became a public favourite, and was obliged to appear almost every night ; but her ambition to excel was as great as her desire of distinction, and she studied with assiduity, even anxiously, in ord^ r to be found worthy of the public approbation. She was, howevev , destined always to endure some repulsive mortification when she hri,d a just claim for fame or indulgence. In her agreement with Mr. Sheridan, she had stipulated, in the proud consciousness of her own powers, that she could perform Constance in King John, — a part un- suitable to her years. Garrick, being in Dublin at the same time, however, objected to this, and ultimately Miss Bellamy was rejected for the part. This was a breach of her engagement ; she told the circumstances to one of her father's fashionable relations, by whom she was much patronized, and the spirit of aristocracy was roused. The lady, who cherished a great partiality for Garrick, indignant at the treatment which her young friend suffered from his prejudice, requested her acquaintance not to go to the theatre that night. As her friends and visitors were numerous, and she was popular among the young gentry for the balls she gave, her request took great eft'ect, and when the play was performed the house was very thin. In London alone the profession is independent of individual iu- tluence : such an interference would there but only have brought a fuller or more noisy house. In this, however. Miss Bellamy's rela- tion acted properly, for her young friend was evidently the victim of professional jealousy ; and it was spirited to convince the players, by the exercise of hor power, tlitil tifior all tlieir fretting and strutting MRS. BELLAMY. 226 on the stage, they were only the puppet of rank and the toys of re' creation. The effect was humiliating to Garri^k, and still more when Miss Bellamy afterwards was brought out in Constance, and the house could not receive the numerous audience who sought admission. The event gave her fresh energy, and not being altogether free from the vixen, she resolved to be revenged ; accordingly, when one of Garrick's benefits came round, for he was to have two in the course of the season, he chose for the first Jane Shore, and applied to Miss Bellamy to play the part, but she would not, assigning for her reason the same that he had employed when he opposed her Constance, namely, she was too young. On this occasion he wrote her a note, which he intended to be most jocular, but which exposed him to the laughter of all Dublin — the Niagara of that sort of cataract. In this note he told her, that " if she would oblige him, he would write her a goody, goody epilogue ; which, with the help of her eyes, should do more mischief than ever the flesh or the Devil had done since the world began." This epistle he directed " To my soul's idol, the beautified Ophelia," and sent his servant with it ; but he having some amusement for himself to pursue, gave it to a porter in the street, and the porter upon reading the superscription, and not knowing any lady in the whole city who bore the title either of '* my soul's idol," or " the beautified Ophelia," concluded it was to answer some jocular purpose. He, therefore, carried it to his master, and by his means it got the next day into the newspapers, and set all Dublin in a roar. When a reconciliation with Garrick had been effected, Miss Bellamy's mother took a furnished house at the sheds of Clontarf for some time, where they resided till the winter, but Miss was a frequent visitor to the city. On one occasion she afforded the public some amusement which they had not bargained for. At a concert she happened to be seated next to Lord Chief Baron Bower, when a stranger, entering into conversation with his Lordship, remarked, that his daughter (meaning Miss Bellamy) was vastly like him. The Merchant of Venice was then reviving at the theatre, and she instantly made particular observations on his Lordship, to adopt in her part of Portia. In this she succeeded so happily, that when she made her appearance as the learned doctor from Padua, the audience simultaneously cried out, '* Here comes the young Lord Chief Baron ; " a title she retained during her residence in Ireland. Some of the little professional anecdotes of our heroine are piquant, and one of the best is an adventure, of which Mrs. Fumival was the cause. Early in the season All for Love, or the World well Lost, was prepared for representation ; Miss Bellamy was to perform Cleopatra, and Mrs. Fumival, Octavia. It happened that the Queen got a new splendid dress for the occasion, made out of a suite of silver tissue which had belonged to the Princess of Wales, and that she had many borrowed jewels to make it the more gorgeous. The paraphernalia were left in her dressing-room at the theatre by her servant, who neglected to close the door. Mrs. Fumival, in passing, beheld the glittering attire, and carrying it away put it on, so that 226 LIVES OF THE PLA YERS. t ! Miss Bellamy was o^^'ged to appear in a plain garb of white satin. In the mean time her servant, missing the dress, ran about like a mad creature, till she was informed that Mrs. Fnrnival had got it on, with whom she had an immediate battle. This, however, was not all : when Cleopatra appeared in her plain dress, the audience were astonished ; and when Mrs. Furnival came on, one of the ladies who had lent her jewels exclaimed aload, on seeing her, " The woman has got my diamonds ! " The gentlemen in the pit, on hear- ing this, concluded that she had been robbed, and the consternation which ensued is not to be described ; at length Mrs. Furnival was obliged to retire for the evening. About this period Garrick had purchased a half -share in the patent of Drury Lane, and the sound of Miss Bellamy's success in the Irish metropolis having reached him, he wished to engage her for the next London season, and made her an oli'er of ten pounds a week, which, however, she declined. Soon after, terror, arising from one of those accidents to which ladies on the stage are sometimes liable from the impertinence of young men, brought on a slight illness which inter- rupted her performance, but on her recovery she re-appeared. In this juncture of her story Miss Bellamy gives some interesting description of the humour of the Irish. It belongs, indeed, almost exclusively to the memoirs of the players, to furnish accounts of popular public manners ; but though the sketches of our heroine are written with vivacity, some of them are too circumstantial to be transposed into these pages ; still, to the student of man and nations, the characteristics they afford are curious, and it is impossible to look on har pictures without becoming sensible that the Irish character has as many peculiarities which distinguish it from that of the English, as features do individuals from one another. The people undoubtedly, from some constitutional exuberance, have more enjoyment in confusion and riot than their friends on this side the channel, and in consequence perhaps, they are less just ; but still a strong vein of generosity runs through all their pranks. At the close of the season our heroine resolved to return to London, and was the more induced to hasten her departure from Dublin, as Lord Tyrawley was coming from Russia to see his sister Mrs. O'Hara, then blind and in decaying health. It was impossible to leave a country, however, where she had received so much kind- ness from her relations and applause from the public, without regret. On reaching London, her mother informed Garrick of their arrival, an<' they were received by him with the kind cheerfulness of his charactor, while he expressed his sorrow that the state of his company prevented him from engaging our heroine. Quin was at this time in Bath, but Rich ronowed his friendship, and received them at his house in the country with undiminished regard. At length she was announced for the character of Belvidora, but instead of a full house, as she expected, it was far otherwise : her reception, however, was flattering, an'' when another play was given out for the following evening, the audience cried out for a repetition of Venice Preserved, which continued attractive to the end of the season, MRS. BELLAMY. 227 of the One evening, when she was performing Athenais in Theodosius, she had scarcely come upon the stage when the first object she saw was Lord Byron, who had placed himself in the stage-box. The sight of his Lordship deprived her of all power, and she stood for some time motionless. Rich and his family saw her tremour from their box, and he came round to her assistance. Lord Byron had by this time quitted his place, and was leaning against one of the side- scenes when the manager entered. On seeing him his Lordship said, " Well, Rich, I am come to take away your Athenais ;" but the manager reproved him for so avowing his unjustifiable design, and remonstrated with him for alarming her, adding with firmness, *'I desire, my Lord, that you will quit the scenes, for I cannot stand tamely by and see my performers insulted." His Lordship, not choosing to resent the lecture, retired to his seat in the stage-box, but he wa>i no sooner there than the audience, to whom the story of Miss Bellamy was not unknown, obliged him to seek another part of the house. Quin was not at the theatre that evening, but he heard of her adventure, and Thomson the poet also being informed of it, came to the house. As Thomson passed near the back of the stage, he heard two persons in conversation, one of whom said to the other, " I will speak to her to-night, or I will shoot " Thomson could catch no more, but he concluded it could be no other than Lord Byron thus uttering his designs to a friend. The poet of "The Seasons" immediately told Quin, who by this time had come, what he had heard, and he said to the lady, '■ Madam, we must have no chairing of it to-night, you must go home under my arm." When she was undressed he ordered her chair to be brought from the stage-door, with all the curtains drawn, into the passage, that it might be supposed she was actually in it, whilst they walked together through the house, and reached her mother's in safety. When the chairmen soon after arrived, they mentioned that they had been stopped on the way by a man muffled up in a great coat, who lifted up the top of the chair and threw something into it. This excited much curiosity ; Quin ordered the letter to be taken out, and it proved to be from a young gentleman different from the individual suspected. They then sat down to supper, but just as they were seated, a waiter from the Bedford Head-tavern brought a letter. The scrawl came from Lord Byron, who, though lately married to one of the best and loveliest of her sex, made Miss Bellamy an offer of a settlement. Quin, as soon as he had read it, called for pen and ink, and sent the following answer : — " Lieutenant O'Hara's compliments to Lord Byron, and if he over dares to insult his sister again, it shall not bo either his title or his cowardice that shall preserve him from chastiseninnt. " Next morning the valiant nobleman set ofl:' for Nowstead Abbey, and troubled her no more ; but, nevertheless, her headlong destiny was not to be arrested. Next evening, as soon as her part on the stage was over, Quin, with pleasure sparklin;/ in his eyes, desired her to kneel to the first person she met in the acene-room. It was her father Lord Tyrawley: their meeting was aflfecting, and his Lordship requested her to hasten homo, as Quin and ho intended to sup with her ; and though her 228 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. mother was never present with his Lordship, he appeared in every other respect kindly diapoaed to the welfare of his daughter. Abeut this period she became deeply enamoured of Mr, Metham, and soon after, ae she regarded him as her husband-lu-be, she freely accepted his presents ; but in the mean time her evil genius was at work, for as soon as her benefit was over, Lord Tyrawley, much to her surprise, came to her, and insisted that she should accept the hand of Mr. Crump, the gentleman already mentioned. This she refused ; high words arose between them ; and the result was that she eloped with Mr. Metham. This decided her fate. She accompanied him to York, where for some time they lived together as man and wife. While there, a nobleman who had a horse to run for the race-plate, was at their house for some days, during which, at dinner, he sat at her right hand, and much to her annoyance kept his eye constantly and steadily fixed on her. At first she took no particular notice of this, being accustomed to receive many instances of homage to her charms in impudent staring ; but so marked a manner at last forced her to speak of it to Mr. Metham who laughingly informed her of the fact, thnt she was frightened by an innocent glass-eye. Towards the end of the year she was delivered of a child, the birth of which almost cost her her life, but it was the means of reconciling her to her mother, and, when scarcely recovered, she was urged to return to London, and to accept an advantageous engagement. It was not, however, till the beginning of February that they could leave York ; but on her arrival she was received with more public favour than she had ventured to expect. It would seem that the intercourse between people of rank and the players was in a remarkable state. The great received theatrical persons only as means of amusement, and were very little scrupulous about their personal reputation, even While they treated them appa- rently in the most condescending manner. At the approach of our heroine's benefit she received a card desiring her to attend next day on the Prince and Princess of Wales. So flattering a distinction was of course duly appreciated. While she was with their Royal High- nesses an instance of innate good-breeding occurred which well de- serves to be ever recorded. Tiie Duchess of Chandos was present. This beautiful lady had been elevated from the lowest obscurity to her station, and no great opinion was entertained of her mind or en- dowments, but an incident occurred which served to show the natural superiority of her feeling : the sun happened to shine full on the Princess, and was exceedingly troublesome, upon which the Duchess, with inimitable gracefulness, crossed the drawing-room, and having let down the curtain, returned to her place. The thonghtfulneaa and the elegance of the manner in which this was done were much ad- mired, and added to the renown which her beauty had spread abroad. The royal party chose a play for our heroine's bonofit, but tlio death of the Prince took place before it could be performed, and the theatres wore in consequence closed. Whatever may have been the porso lal fascinations of Mr. Metham, by whiqh our heroine was so onghanted, he was entirely in the clut- MRS. BELLAMY. 229 ches of one dreadful vice — gaming. Miss Bellamy had also by this time contracted a taste for expense ; she> took a house at Richmond, where Lord Tyrawley, her father, at thf > time resided, and a reconcili- ation was soon effected between theni. But it was at this juncture that the uncertain Fortune which attends on such pursuits as Mr. Metham's proved her wonted fickleness ; his affairs became embarr- assed, and those of his mistress's were in no better plight. It is an old saying, that as Poverty conies in at the door, Love flies out at the window, and it was so in this instance. Miss Bellamy, though still under age, young, and beautiful, was already waning in her love for Metham ; and possibly the chagrin arising from both their circum- stances had some effect in turning her thoughts to other speculations ; at least some fancy had got into her head that she might be able to captivate the French King, and all manner of other gay and foolish fancies began to take possession of her brain. With these she was induced to visit Tunbridge Wells, where she soon lost all that re- mained of her money, and was rejected by some of her father's rela- tions who were at the time there, but in a way that did them, it must be allowed, great honour. The two circumstances, want of money and the rejection by her relations, obliged her to return suddenly to London, where she formed, in rather a romantic manner, an acquaintance with Mr. Fox, the first Lord Holland, and his friend Mr. Calcraft. Not having money to pay for the horses which had brought her from Tunbridge Wells, she had sent to a friend of Mr. Metham's for a supply, and while the servant was gone Mr. Fox and Mr. Calcraft happened to pass, and were induced to visit her. In this afi"air a note for fifty po»mds was left for her on the mantel-shelf, and after an agreeable conversation they went away ; with this note she went, with other visitors who came in afterwards, to cards, and won as much more. It was now evident that her youthful habits were broken, and her principles becoming too flexible. It could not be said that she was absolutely profligate, but she had, from the period of her elopement, widely receded from feminine propriety, though still agreeable to her light and gay friends. She joined Ourrick and the performers at Drury Lane theati'j , at the same time she also set up a Pharo bank, and commenced a career that promised no honour and only hopes of emolument — if that epi- thet can be applied to an establishment which at the outset was eminently prosperous, insomuch that her profits soon enabled her to redeem her jewels, which were pledged for the capital of the bank : also to pay her debts, and to leavo her a considerable residue. When the theatrical season civme round. Miss Bellamy appeared as Juliet with (iarrick. During the run of the i>lay she formed an acquaintance with an old gentleman and a lady (Mr. Gunsel, of Don- nalan Park, near Colchoaier), which, in its opening, began with great felicity ; at the same time Mr. Metham, who had long been detained by his peciuiiary perplexities in the country, came to town, but not in circumstances of sufficient affluence to justify him in again setting up an establishment. It was on this occasion that, incited by her mother, she requested i 230 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. him to perform his promise of marrying her ; but he rose and abruptly left the room. Soon after she received a note from him, engaging himself and his brother-in-law, Mr. Dives, to dine with her, and requesting thnt there should be no other company. When they arrived there was a third gentleman with them, who proved to be an attorney. Mr. Metham mentioned a deed of settlement which he intended to make, by which, if he died without issue, the estates he expected by his father should go to Mr. Dives, who had married his sister, and that three hundred pounds on them should be secured to her, and two thousand pounds to their son. Thus ended that liaison, much in the usual way of such connexions. About this time an agreeable anecdote is related of a quarrel which arose between her and the famous Night Thoughts Young. Miss Bellamy objected to an absurd line in The Brothers, from Princess Irexine — " I will speak in thunder to you." The Doctor said he thought it the most forcible line in the piece ; to which she risibly replied that she thought it would be much more so if he added lightning. This nettled him, and he declared the play was the best he ever wrote. She reminded him of his Revenge, which set the other performers a smiling, and threw him into a passion. However, by a happy application of flattery, she appeased the Doctor, who. to the astonishment of all present, like another Jeptha, sacrificed the line, and ended all contest by inviting himself home to dine with her — a circumstance now mor« remarkable than in those days, for few servants of the Church, especially one possessing such a pious reputation as the author of Niffht Thoughts would have made such an appointment with a gay actress under protection. The 30th of January, the Martyrdom of King Charles, there being no performance at the theatre, and the day being also the anniver- sary of Mr, Metham's birth, his mistress gave a dinner to some of his friends, and among others he brought Mr. Calcraft with him. At this dinner, the dessert being too sumptuous, Mr. Metham quarrelled with her. The festivity of the company was in conse- quence destroyed, and our heroine solemnly vowed, that were he then to offer his hand she would reject it. Mr. Metham came next day and endeavoured to atone for his rudeness, but she remained inexorable ; after some days, finding she still objected to receive him as a lover, he solicited to be admitted as a friend, and to this she reluctantly consented. In this crisis she I'ocoived, under a blank cover, a present of a thousand pounds, which, however, she laid aside, persuaded tliat tlio donor would doclare himself. This afterwards proved to have been sent from Mr. Calcraft, who soon after pledged himself to the extent of fifty thousand pounds, to marry her after six or seven years, when he expected to be free to do so. In this ofi'er there was, however, great duplicity, for he had another wife then livinc, unknown to his friends and the world ; but though she was induced at first to refuse a representation relative to Metham's conduct, she was persuaded to MRS. BELLAMY. 231 i» lei lie lilt da a to change her mind, and in all but the name became the wife of Calcraft. It belongs not, however, to the character of this work to dwell on the hasty and headlong resolutions of Miss Bellamy. It is enough to mention, that without much affection, she lived with him, and being possessed both of great cleverness and much sagacity, it was generally considered that she was the Mary Anne Clarke of the day, but she mivterially assisted in the augmentation of Calcraft's fortune. It was commonly supposed that she was mati-ied to Calcraft ; yet, though regarded as the wife of a man in universal esteem, in the enjoyment of affluence, fame, and every luxury, she was now un- happy. Her heart lay cold in the midst of all the blandishments around her, and, with a gay and smiling countenance, her bosom was full of sorrow. She had strayed from the path of rectitude, she was conscious she had done so, and sought for peace of mind in the midst of a brilliant dissipation without finding it. Her health, from these secret causes, began to give way, and she was advised to visit the Bristol wells for a time. Scarcely, however, had she reached the place, when she was informed that Mr. Calcraft was seized with the gout in his head, and that her daughter was taken with the small-pox, and had infected her mother ; in consequence she was compelled, alike by anxiety and affection, to hasten to the invalids. Her alarm, hov^evor, proved fortunately greater than the event ; all recovered, and the tenour of her life flowed in its wonted channel, until the state of her health again obliged her to go abroad. On her return to London, she found Mr. Calcraft had enlarged their establishment, and taken a splendid house in Parliament-street ; but he refused to pay the extra expenses which had been incurred by housekeeping in their preceding residence. This, as represented in the Apology, was mean on his part ; but we must always recollect that the lady was profuse. On the morning in which she came to an explanation with Mr. Calcraft respecting their household bills, just as he had left the apartment from the altercation, a female was shown in— tall, thin, pale, and dejected, but with the remains of a mien which seemed to declare she had not been born to indigence. After some preliminary con irersation, she threw open a decent cloak that covered her variety of wretchedness, and exhibited such a spectacle of ruin and beggary, that was itself a painful affliction to witness. She then told her story— that she was the widow of a young baronet, the first lici.'.onant of a man-of-war, which had been blown up in battle. That her marriage had been one more of love than prudence, which had induced her father-iu-liiw to leave only his title and a very small estate to his son ; and that she had five children — four in misery. Her eldest son had some expectations from his uncle ; but the others wore most wretched, and her eldest daughter had, through the carelessness of the servant, fallen through a window, by which she had broken (me of her logs, that was obliged to^ be amputated. The shock of the catastrophe that had befallen 'her hi48Dand threw her into premature labour, and the child she had borne, and who was then four years old, there was ca\ise to foar would prove an idiot, These accumulated distresses had impaired 232 LIVES OF THE PLATERS. her own health, and occasioned the temporary loss of the use of her limbs, and in this state of grief, misfortune, and wart, she had been indticed to apply for assistance. Miss Bellamy presented her with more money than she could spare, which she had just received from Mr. Calcraft ; and at the same juncture, Mr. Fox, the father of the celebrated orator, entered the room. The poor lady's tale was briefly told, and he was exceedingly moved. He presented her with a note for fifty pounds, and soon after her four children, through his influence, were placed on the compassionate list with a pension of ten pounds a-year, and she herself was allowed fifty pounds annually from the Treasury, in consideration of her husband having lost hia life in the service of his country. This anecdote itself deserves the more consideration, as an instance where the private bounty of the man preceded the public justice of the minister, and reflects honour on the feelings of Miss Bellamy. At all times the agent of impulses, Miss Bellainy about this period rendered herself also distinguished by her patronage, after the condemnation of the Rev. Dr. Wilkinson, the first victim of the then New Marriage Act, The players are not all judiciously educated, nor do they always take the troiible to remedy early neglect or carelessness, though no class of public men requires more accuracy of information in renpect to national and historical costume. While Miss Bellamy continued to live with Mr. Calcraft, she still pursued her career on the stage. The Prophetess being appointed for representation, Mr. Ross consulted her how a Roman emperor should be dressed, and among other things she advised him to have a wig as near as possible made to resemble a natural head of hair. Mr. Rich thought it should be what was called a full-bottomed one ; and Miss Bellamy, smiling at this idea, put on a grave dramatic face, and sflM, " Then let it be as large a one as you can, and to render yourself the more conspicious, you must wear a hoop under your lamb-skins. " Both player and manager believing hev serious, the advice was taken, and never was a reception by any audience more joyous than that of poor Mr. Ross, on the night of representation, in his grotesque apparel, of imperial Cresar. The joke, however, had a good effect, as it broke the absurd custom of dressing the heroes of Greece and Rome in full-bottomed perukes. In the Apoloofy for her Life are several shrewd remarks, which partake of the vivacity of her character : I am, therefore, notwith- standing the cloud that hangs upon the thorough authenticity of the work, much inclined to believe the narrative genuine, and that it was dictated by herself. Mr. Calcraft apiioara to have b«en an able man of business, and much of the vituperation with which she accuses him - tturdid and ungallant qualities, should bo perhaps ascribed to feminine petulance. His greatest errors consisted in linking himself wioh so gay and so thoughtless a mistress ; vanity, undoubtedly, was one of the main motives that induced him. On one of her benefits, having a dramatic reason to postpone the evening she effected an exchange with Mrs. Hamilton, a vulgar MlliS. BELLAMY. 233 vvuiuau, whu rejoiced iu the hoauur of having her beuedt for the tirst of the season. The night happened to be wet ; the boxes were thin, and the two-shilling gallery overflowing, the company were admitted to them. Miss Bellamy pretended, or felt an ofl'ensive effluvia from them, and K<;s3 told Mrs. Hamilton in playful malice, that the reason why she held her handkerchief to her face during the performance was, because they stunk. On the subsequent evening, when Mrs. Hamilton should have performed for our heroine, she feigned illness. This disappointed the audience, and wlien slie next appeared they hissed her. At length upon the tumult a little ceasing, she stepped forward and said " Gemmem and ladies ! 1 suppose as how you hiss me, because 1 did not play at Miss Bellamy's beneflt. 1 would have performed, but she said my audience stunk, and were all tripe people." The house was in a roar of laughter, and the pit, with that ready taste by which they are ever distinguished, cried out, '' Well said. Tripe ! " and joined iu the universal encore. But I should observe, that about this period the spirit of Miss Bellamy was evidently chagrined. There is a malicious satisfaction plainly in some of her anecdotes of others, which cannot be applauded ; for undoubtedly she is depicted as a " good hater," and certainly some of her stories deeply partake of this unpleasant colouring. Considering, therefore, the question which hangs over the work ascribed to Bicknell, I am sufliciently justifled in omitting some of her tales, which, at the utmost, are only calculated to give pain to the descendants of those on whom she is made to inflict her asperity. At the same time, there are others so much out of the common cur- rent of events, that they cannot with so much premeditated inatten- tion be passed over ; for example, at the rehearsal of Dodsley's Cleon, the incidents were both characteristic in themselves and amusing. This tragedy Garrick had declined, but in the other house, by the simple and natural performance of our heroine, the play proved eflectual, notwithstanding the low and slow manner in which at the rehearsal she acted the madness — a style which had been condemned by the author, and by the lords and gentlemen who were then present. Among others at the rehearsal she perceived Mr. Metham, whom she had not met since they had separated, and who aSected an indifl'erence ai. abiite .my deferenee t<> wliicli he might imagine liiiiiself entitled, it is easy to conceive that liis superciliousness may liavo been the cause forclianging his profession. At the beginning of 1757 he oH'ered to enter himself a Student of the Middle Temple ; but the benchers objected to receive him, because he had been an actor. H»i then ap[)lied to the Society of Gray's Inn, where he met with a similar refusal. The conduct of ARTH UE MURPH 7. 241 :i) or IhI •li IM II. (if HI. (if these two learned bodies was, in this instance, mean ; for in all professions which have for their object the acquisition of a liveli- hood, it ought rather to be the system of the higher to encourage candidates for election to come from the lower. But it is not among men whose importance has been so much fenced as that of the lawyers, that wo should look for liberality ; and yet can aught be more absurd than that, in a vocation where every thing depends on the man himself, fitness should not be considered as the true qualifi- cation ? Murphy felt the repulse as if it had been a personal insult, and was fired with indignation ; but to be so affected by what wag probably a general rule, only shows how much more highly he considered himself than he ought to have done. He was, however, obliged to endure the exclusion ; but instead of going again on the stage, he employed himself on a weekly pcper. The Test,* devoted to the politics of Henry Fox. His patron, afterwards Lord Holland, spoke to Lord Mansfield of his rejection by the benchers of the Temple and of Gray's Inn, and his Lordship advised Murphy to offer himself at Lincoln's Inn, which he did, and was admitted. But the drama was still attractive, and in the following year his farce of The Upholsterer was produced with great success. His next piece was The Orplmn of China. In 1760 he also composed The Desert Island, and The Way to keep Him, which was at first in three acts, but afterwards enlarged in 1761 into a five act comedy ; in the same vear he likewise brought out All in the Wrong; The Citizen, and I'Vie Old Maid. All these pieces have undoubtedly the merit of being amusingly interesting in the representation, when aided by suitable talents in the actors ; in the closet, however, this is less obvious, for thoy have little of that brilliancy of dialogue which constitutes so much of what is deservedly considered as the wit of comedy. In 1762 he was called to the bar, and his law studies were en- livened by having engaged in The Auditor, in defence of Lord Bute against Wilkes's virulence in the North Briton. In the summer of 1763, he went to Norfolk circuit, from which he returned witli an empty purse. It was with reference to this occasion that his satirical friend Foote used to say, " that Murphy went the circuit in a stage-coach, and came homo in the basket." In Trinity term 1764, he made his first efi'ort at the bar, and was complimented by Lord Mansfield ; fiatterod by the distinction, he applied himself to the law with closer assiduity, but still his heart lay more to mimic scoiios than real life. He wrote the farce of Three Weeks after Mar- v'uuje ; and, in 1768, his tragedy of Zenobia was performed with dis- tinguished success. In 1772 ho produced The Grecian Daughter, which still maintains an occasional place in the series of those pieces whicli young actresses think necessary to go through before consider- ing their reputations established Tl\o play itself is only a regular piece * 111 condiictitij? TiiK Trst, lio used to send Ills nianuRcripts for insiiectioii to a small liniiNo at the, back of t'le public lionse at tliu Western corner of tlio Park of lluUaiul llousu, uud fron^ thuuue tliuy weru ruturuod with iuutructions how to proceed, 242 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. of heavy literature, — a leaden statue resembling some Athenian marble, a Parisian lay figure. In the following year his Alzuma wa« performed at Covent Garden ; and, in 1777, Know your own Mind. But it would be departing widely from the general design of thib ■work either to enumerate or criticise each of his twentj'three dramatic productions. At this time the study of the law continued to engross his attention ; he was, however, less distinguished in Westminster-hall than in the theatre, a circumstance that distinctly points out the mediocrity of his talents ; and yet it would seem that the praise of industry in cul- tivating them cannot be withheld. At the same time, although he relinquished the bar, in 1787, in a pet, it does not appear, even by his own account, tliat he was qualified to attain any very eminent station in that renowned profession. Ho was doomed to mediocrity from his birth ; and in consequence, although no misfortune of a very sullen hue seems at any period to have darkened his career, he never could rise higher in the scale of distinction than the limit prescribed by moderation. On leaving the bar, he bought a house on Kamniersmith-terrace, facing the Thames, the westernmost on the row, where he prepared his translation of Tacitus for the press. The distance fi'om town waa, however, inconvenient, and he removed to Knightsbridge. At this time he had been many years a Commissioner of Bankrupts, which he owed to Lord Loughborough, and attended regularly at Guildhall, till increasing infirmitios admonished him to resign. He then wrote a letter to Lord Eldon, the Chancellor, requesting that his resignation might be received ; but his Lordship, instead of accepting it, wrote him a most friendly letter, submitting, to his consideration whether his brother commissioners would not give that assistance to a gentleman so justly entitled to their respect, which his health might require ; and concluded by kindly saying, that, till he heard further from him, he would not notice the intention lie had expressed. But the answer of Murphy contained his resignation. In March 1803 his Majesty was pleased to assent to a proposal from Mr. Addington, (Lord Sidmouth,) to grant a pension to Murphy. As it is not often that instances of such consideration are bestowed on literary endeavours, it will give pleasure to see the record of this one, which appears particuharly honourable to his Lordship. •'Trcasury-chaiiibera, Whitohall, March 1, 1803. "Sir, " I AM directed by Mr. Addington to acquaint you, that his Majesty has been pleased to grant you a pension of two hundred pounds per annum, to take place from the Rth of January last. " Mr. Addington was induced to move his Majonty to confer this mark of favour upon you by no solicitation from any quarter, but from a desire to reward an author who for many years has contributed to tlio entertainment and instruction of the public. " Porinit mo to add, that liaviii;^' Iiad the honour of meeting you formerly at Lincoln's inn, and wishing well on all ociaHions to tho THOMAS KING. 243 cause of literature, I have a particular pleasure in making this com- munication to you. " I have the honour to be, Sir, *' Your most obedient humtle servant, '•John Sakgent." " To Arthur Murphy, Esq." In no ijeriod of his life could it be said that Murphy ever attained affluence, but the comforts he enjoyed were not derived from the pBotits of literature only, for besides his pension he had an annuity from a relation of two hundred pounds a year, and therafore did not C(iiue witliin the scope of those to whom the pathetic remark of Dry- dai aiJplies. " It will coijtin>io," says that illustrious genius, "to taivk the ingratitude of mankind, that they who teach wisdom by tie surest means shall generally live poor and unregarded, as if they wtre born only for the public and had no intovost in their well-being, b»it were to bo lighted up like tapers, and to waste themselves for the benefit of others." On the 18th of Juno 1 805, in the seventy-eighth year of his age, h« expired, and was interred in Hammersndth church, in the same Viult with his mother. TIIOMA S KING. Thomas Kino was born in the parish of St. George, Hanovcr- B|nare, in August 1730, educated at Westminster school, and, being iltended for the law, articled to an attorney. But his early predil- estion for the exhibitions of the stage soon interfered with his ittended profession. Ho first became an amateur performer, and in hs seventeenth year, having determined to obey the infhiences of his stars, ran away from the desk, and joined a troop of strollers tlen performing at Tunbridge. In so far his early history appears not to have been very diflerent fjom that of the connnon progeny of Thespis. Tlie buoyancy of liis Boirits in old age bore testimony to the hilai'ity of his youthful tem- jl'rament, and liis elopement from the desk was a becoming [jrologuo U his subsequent adventures. Ho was evidently a sju-ightly appren- tce, inheriting from Nature a competent shave of recklessness, and learing himself so bravely to Fortune that she was never able to O'uhIi liis coiiriigc!. Some pains have been taken in tho Riograpliia Dramatica to des- «ribo liim as a gentleman descended by his father's side froui a r(!S- jectable family in Hampshire, and that his mother was of tliolMisses «f (Jloucestershire— but who were these Dlisses / Tlie fact of his lieing, after his aspiring enterpvizo to Tunbridge, allowed to sow his wild oats as an unvalued vagabond, shows that his family could no- ittbrd to seek him, and that this vampod-up pedigree umat bo ret 244 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. garded about as real aa the glass diamonds and other trumpery of tlia green-room. From Tunbridge he became a legitimate stroller, and studied tragedy, comedy, pastoral, and farce, in booths and barns, gathering renown from the profitless plaudits of bumpkins. In this career ae encountered all the variegated calamities that players are heir to, accidents and expedients diversified with mirth and melancholy, which in after years often enlivened the topics of his conversation. He once walked from Beaconsfield to London and back in the same day, to raise a small sum to purchase properties, as they are techni- cally called, for his appearance at night in the character of Richard III. The profits of the play to him were threepence-halfpenny, &nd a share of the candle-ends which survived the performance: the latter he laid a votive offering at the shrine of a green-room goddess. In the summer of 1748 he performed in a booth at Windsor, and from this time the Fates that had malignantly frowned upon his fortunes, " Relax'd their brow^ and dress'd their eyea with smiles." Oarrick, who as a, manager had a quick ear to theatrical merit where- ever it could be heard of in the kingdom, was induced by the rep«rt of his abilities to visit Windsor, and having seen him perform, en- gaged him for two seasons to play at Drury Lane, where, on the lOfch of October, 1748, he made his first appearance as AUworth, in A Niw Way to Pay Old Debts. But although Garrick has undoubtedly the honour of having justly appreciated the talents of young King, Mrs. Pritchard is entitled io the praise of nicer discernment for discovering his peculiar forte. In the summer following she belonged to a company then performing at the theatre of Jacob's Well near Bristol, with which King was alio engaged ; persuaded that the cast of his abilities was comic, she male a point that he should play Benedict to her Beatrice, Ranger to lisr Clarinda, &c. But, nevertheless, it was thought by many that tie buskin suited him best, for he enacted Romeo, George Barnwel, &c., and Whitehead, the Poet Laureate, afterwards, in his drama af The Roman Father, assigned to him the part of Valerius. King himself was, however, conscious of his own endowments, aid finding himself seldom allowed to wear the sock, and having nav acquired some of the actor's capital, reputation, ho quitted the Enj- lisli stage and went to Dublin, where he continued several seuaois with rising fame and increasing profit. But he was induced by tlo exhortations of Mrs. Wofliington to return to London. Not, liowover, succeeding in forming a suitable engagement with tho maua^'ors thcrt, he accepted an offer from the proprietors of the Bath theatre to le principal performer and manager, in both of which capacities Ib satisfied alike the public and his employers. Mr. Sheridan, the father of the orator, having resumed the man- agement of the Dublin playhouse, which he bad resigned before Kinj left it, persuaded him to go back, where he remained nearly twj years, — indeed, until Sheridan thought fit to retire. In 1759, looking with ambitioo and regret to Drury Lane, he re- THOMAS KING. 245 turned to London, and, at the commencement of the season, having entered into another engagement with Garrick, made his appearance as Tom in The Conscious Lovers with distinguished reputation. In the course of this year he added considerably to his celebrity by the style in which he performed Squire Groom in Love-d,-la-Mode, then acted for the first time. But, although now considered an eminent performer, he was not yet reckoned in the highest class of the profession, nor, indeed, for some years after. It was in 1766-7, as Lord Ogleby in The Clandes- tine Marriage, that he achieved his fame ; by his excellent conception of that part, and the felicitous manner in which every point and turn were executed ; it is allowed by all those who recollect his perform- ance to have been one of the happiest histrionic efforts that the stage has produced. This comedy was the joint composition of Garrick and Colman, although the Biographia Dramatica states, on the authority of a gentleman who reported, as he said, from Colman himself, that " Garrick composed two acts, which he sent to me, desiring me to put them together, or do wha^ I could with them ; I did put them together, for I put them into the fire, and wrote the play myself." But, in this statement, the authors of the Biographia Dramatica have been misled ; and, therefore, as it is always interesting to correct any curious point in literary history, and as I have it in my power to set the facts of this case clear, I may be permitted to deviate from the general plan of my undertaking, in this instance, to do so. I have before me a letter from Colman to Garrick, in which he saya:— 4th December 1765. " Since my return from Bath I have been told, but I can hardly believe it, that in speaking of the ' Clandestine Marriage,' you have gone as far as to say, 'Colman lays a great stress on his having written this character (Lord Ogilby) on purpose for me : suppose it should come out that I rvrote it ? That the truth should come out is my earnest desire ; but I should be extremely sorry for your sake, that it should come out by such a declaration from you. Of all men in the world, I believe I may venture to say that I should be one of the last to take any thing to myself of which I was not the author ; and I should hope you could never so much forget yourself, and what is due to an old faithful fritad, as to endeavour to fasten such an im- putation on me. In the present case you must be sensible that such an insinuation from you must place mo in that ridiculous light ; but you know that it was not I but youi'solf who desired secrecy in rela- tion to our partnership, and you may rotnember the reasons you gave for it. You know, too, that, on the publication of the ]ilay, the whole affair was to come out, and t'.iat both our names were to appear together in the title page. *' Though I cannot believe, till I have the most indisputable proof of it, that you have thus suffered your anger to betray yourself to me, yet it puzxles me to account for an indifferent person s knowing so mucli of the matter ; and I must own that I am not only hurt by what I hear you have said, but by what I have known you have 24G LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. written. In your letter to Clutterl^uck, which is a kind of memorial against your old friend, you tell him, ' that you have formed a plan of a comedy called The Sisters; that I had brought some city characters into it ; and, moreover, that if the piece did not succeed, you had promised to take your part, with the shame that might belong to it, to yourself. ' I cannot quote the words of your letter, but I am sure I have not misrepresented the purport of it, though the whole is diametrically opposite to my notion of the state of the partnership subsisting between us. You have the plan of The Sisters by you, read it, and see if there are in it any traces of The Clandestine Marriage. You returned me the rough draught which I drew out of that story, and, thinking it might be of use in conducting the plot, I happened to preserve it ; let them be compared, and see what is the resemblance between them. The first plate of Hogarth's ' Marriage-Ji-la-modo,' was the ground I went upon ; I had long wished to see these charac- ters on the stage, and mentioned them as proper objects of comedy, before I had the pleasure of your acquaintance, in a letter written expressly in your defence against the attacks of your old arch-enemy, Shirley. " Again, was t^ere any promise of your taking your part to your- self out of tenderness to my reputation ? I do not remember it. I mulerstood it was to be a joint work in the fullest sense of the word , and never imagined that either of us, was to lay his linger on any particular scene and cry, * This is mine.' It is true indeed, that, by your suggestion, Hogarth's proud lord was converted into Lord Ogleby, and, as the play now stands, the levee scene at the beginning of the second act, and the whole of the fifth act are yours; but in the conduct as well as the dialogue of the fourth act, I think your fav- ourite, Lord Ogleby, has some obligations to me. However, if that be the part of the play whicli you are desirous to rest your fame upon 1 would not have dift'ered with you about the glory of it ; but I can- not help being hurt at your betraying so earnest a desire to winnow your wheat from my chaft', at the very time that I was eager to bestow the highest polish on every part of the work, only in the hopes of perpetuating our joint labours by raising a monument of the friend- ship between me and Mr. Garrick. If I could have awakened the genius of Shakspeare I would have done it ; not for the sake of adding to my own reputation, but that it might reflect an honour on us both. 1 do most solemnly protest that I felt myself more intei'ested as a friend, than as an author, in The Clandestine Marriage, and there was nothing in my power which I would not have undertaken in order to add to the brilliancy of its success. Judge, then, of my disappoint- ment to find you so cold and dead to all these feelings? Was it behav- ing towards me witli your visual opeiniess and ingenuousness of tonqier to reserve from me the oommunioation of your intentions on a point wherein our interest was mutual, till after the commencement of the season I In all our conversations concerning your return to the stage, for you always allowed a possibility, did jon ever tell me that if you did return, you would never play in a new piece, never play in The Clandestine Marriage 'i Did you not often regret the want <>f a per- former for this character; and did not I often express my hopes that THOMAS KING. 247 you might still perform it? Did you throw cold water on these hopes by any other manner than saying you did not believe you should ever play at all ? Nay, when your return to tlie stage was mentioned among your friends, and I joined in dissuading you from it, did you not openly applaud my disinterestedness, saying that your absence to me would be of more conseqiience than to any other person? Had I then the least reason to think that, if you did return, you would have any oV)jection to do the business you carved out for yourself ? So far was I from the slightest suspicion of it, that, some days after opening the theatre, when you first mentioned this matter to me at Richmond, although you then made no positive declaration, I was thunderstruck. Happening to come up to town next morning I heard, to my farther surprise, that you had declared your intention in the most open as well as positive manner behind the scenes : tlie whole theatre was ac(iuainted with a circumstance which was the most profound secret to me not twenty-four hours before. Ten days or a fortnight afterwards came our conference before your brother in Johnson's parlour ; but your behaviour to me in the intermediate time, as well as then, showed that you had imagined I had been sensibly affected by your unexpected conversation at Richmond ; for how did you treat me ? Like a friend who had written in conceit with you ? even like an author with whom you were on tolerable terms ? You formally demanded to know my positive resolutions ; you told me you would now consider the work as solely mine, that you must settle your business, that you had offers of other plays, etc. This was strange manager-like language to your friend and fellow scribbler ; so strange that, from that hour, I concluded, I had lost your confidence, and did not wonder that you were unwilling to ext'rfc your endeavours to establish the credit of a work which was to degrade your name by j(nning it to mine. " A word or two more audi have d(me. You tell Clutterbuck tliat, if I will not consent to the play's being done this season, you will put a negative on its being played at all. Is it possible you could know me so Tittle as to suppose I ever dreamed of it ? If what was undertaken on my part, cliiefly with a desire of perpetuating and strengthening the connexion between us, was only to serve as the era of its dissolution, the object for which I laboured vanished, and the appearance of our joint work would ratlier give me pain than pleasure. You also complain of what I have said on this occasion to other people ; I will not recriminate ui)on you, nor will I attempt to excuse my own peevishness ; I will only say thf 1 1 had a right to tell my friends that I had withdrawn the piece, as well as to assign your refusing to play, as the reason for it. Indeed, I could not see how I could well do otherwise. As to the words you charge me with, I never uttered them ; and, on the whole, I flatter myself you never had a difference with any friend who behaved with more moderation. "For both our sukea, the secret of our partnership, I think, ought to be made known ; on your part the world would see that you have acted with no more rigour towards me than you have exercised on yoiu'self, and I shall be delivered from the suspicion of the meanness of fathering a work of which I auj not the author. Hereafter, there- "( 248 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. fore, I shall take the liberty of mentioning the true state of the case, unless you let me know within a few days that you have an objection to it. " I could not bring myself to the formality of addressing you with Sir at opening my letter, though you have Mistered me in yours to Clutterbuck and Schomberg, and I hope you will excuse my subscrib- ing myself '* Your old friend, "Geobob Colman." Never was any document more decisive than this letter : not only the partnership, but the respective parts of the authors of The Clan- destine Marriage are pointed out. But let us see what Garrick says in reply. (( MR. OARRICK TO GEORGE COLMAK, ESQ. " Southampton-street, Dec. 5, 1765. "Though I am to obey his Majesty's commands this evening, and my head is ^uU of the character I am to play, yet I will answer your long letter however hastily or inaccurately. "You should not accuse me of any thing in our present circum- stances without mentioning your author ; let me know what indiffer- ent person told you, and I will answer both him and you. I hope I shall always know what is due to myself and an old friend ; and by having that best of feelings, I was astonished and unhappy to hear that you had complained of me (peevishly, indeed,) for not acting the character you had written on purpose for me : and that if you did not add that there vas an end of our friendship I was misinformed ; the former part was told me by several not indifferent persons, viz., Mr. Kent, Mr. Baldwin, Mr. Strahan, etc Your suspicions of my behaving in a manaqer-like manner before you went to Bath, are very unworthy of you ; I never assumed the consequence of a manager to any body, (for I know that fools may be, and that many fools have been, managers,) much less to one whom 1 leave your own hear*- to apply the rest. I was hurt to see yon persevere in a point, whici in the end would be of so little consequence to you, and of so much to me. If any of onr friends, (to whom I 'l-ire refer this affair,) will pronounce that you were friendly or kind in insisting iipon my return to the stage in the manner I should have done by acting in a new play, I will own that T am unfit for society, and unworthy the name of friend ; but, on the other hand, if they should declare that my plan of happiness was not to be broken in upon by any peculiar notions of yours, i^ will appear that your peevishness, as you are pleased to call it (before you went to Bath,) gave the first stab to our friendship. "Though I think your account of the comedy somewhat erroneous, yet I shall not enter into that lesser consideration of who did this or who did that, but return to matters of more consequence : I will adjust that business very easily when called upon. I am sorry that you have given a kind of hint at obligations by your mention of Mr, THOMAS KtNa. 249 are our Shirley. I may be mistaken, but when I recollect my being taxed by a lady before company, of not doing so much for you aa you have done for me, or words of the same import, and having heard since of her great warmth in our aflFair, I own myself surprised, and would wish for both our sakes that no account courant, (as there ought to be none in friendship,) may be produced on either side. You say, that you never knew of my resolution not to act in a new piece till after the season had commenced : I am greatly deceived if I cannot mention some persons, among which is one of your own friends, who can attest the contrary. Another part of your letter mentions my desire 'to winnow my wheat from your chaft',' — what can you possibly mean by that ? And do you think 1 have so much vanity of the author ? I am sure you cannot. I suspected, indeed, from your unfriendly demand upon me, and from words you dropped, of not being able to read the part of Lord Ogleby, and which is now con- firmed by your tauntingly giving the glory of the fourth to me, that you thought my portion of the play could only be supported by my own acting, and that you rather chose to ask what could not be granted, than tell me your doubts of my part of the work. This I mentioned very sincerely to Clutterbuck ; but whatever are our opinions upon this head is now of very little consequence, and if I guess right the chief matter to be answered in your letter is, whether the secret shall be told or not. As I have not been allowed to have any determination in the determination in the disposal of the unhappy comedy, I beg that you will act from your own discretion and feeling, and do whatever you please in the afiair, only permitting me to sub* scribe myself, " Your old friend, " D. Oarrick. "P.S. In my hurry I have overlooked something that you lay a great stress upon. You speak of my treatment of you at Richmond ; are you really in earnest to upbraid nie with saying that I should consider the work as solely yours ? Did I or could 1 mean any thing but that you should dispose of it as you pleased ] Were we not then the best friends, and till very near the time of your going to Bath, when I saw, with the greatest concern, a change in your looks and behaviour ? And could there be any thing of manager-like language in telling you I must fix the business of the season, and if you would not suff'er our play to be acted I must accept of other oilers to supply its place 1 Can any thing bo more reasonable or less unfriendly] and should not I rather accuse you of ising me in a strange manner by withdrawing the piece, when I had a share in it, and reckoned upon its appearance ? I have over thought you and loved you as an affec- tionate friend ; but, surely, your leaving London so abruptly, and leavinLf complaints of mo l)oliind yon, wore not among the many instances of your kindness und moderation to me ; and it' 1 betrayed any warmth in consequence of your conduct such warmth was at least niore natural and excusable than your own." To couqilete this little episode of literary jealousy, I will add the reply of (Jolman. 250 LiVEH 01'' THE FLA YE US. "■Dec. G, 17C5. " T AM snrry you gave yourself tl'.e trouble of answering uiy letter at a time when you might have been so niucli better employed ; however, if I may judge of your performance last night, it did you no more hurt than 1 inink your playing Lord Ogleby would do you. As a correspondence of this nature, so ditl'erent from what I expected evei" to open with you, must, I suppose, be irksome to you as myself, I will be as brief as possible. I will speak to no points but what are directly in answer to your last , and if, contraiy to niy intentions, my letter siiould be drawn out to any length, I hope you will the more readily excuse it, when I promise you that it is the last I will stud you on this very disagreeable subject. " If you ever spoke those memorable words mentioned in my last, you must easily recollect to whom they w?re spoken. It was need- less, therefore, for me to point out the particular person, especially as it was not by him tliey were reported to me. I told you I could hardly believe you capable of having ut;ered them, and hoped that if you favoured mo with an answer, you could and would have assured me that you neyer did. If you did, I must say, (as you do of my suspicions,) they were imworthy of you ; and it is no wonder that I should desire the true state of the case to be made known, rather than be under the imputation which they carried with them. *' My mention of Shirley was purely accidental, and never meant to convey the sense which you have extracted ; but, if my expressions with their gloss upon them can be interpreted as glancing in the least towards debtor ami creditor, I take shp.me upon, myself for having made use of them. However, you have been more than even with me by what you say of a certain jDerson. I am quite of Lockit's opinion that, among good friends, whatever they say or do, goes for nothing. That person, I am sure, has always had the greatest respect for you ; and, if there were any offensive words carried to you, they were occasioned by some irritating expressions brought from you. Spaniels who will fetch and carry may be useful ; out, Avhenever they lay hold of any thing, they do so tumble and distigure it, that, when it comes out of their moutlis, one can scarce discover it to be the same. The words thrown out before company I do not remember, but I think it very possible for you to have misconceived them, as I Bee you did what I said of my not being able to read the part of Lord Ogleby. I might intend it as a sincere compliment to your talent as an actor, but most certainly never meant a retlec<^iou on your abilities as r 1 author. There are charactijrs where the writer must necessarily leave a great deal to the player ; Lord Ogleby is one them ; and I know no player that c;in so well fill up such passages as yourself. I am sorry to find, after having for so nuiiiy j'ears past opened my heart to you very freelj'^, that you should suppose that 1 would rather choose to u."': what could not be granted, than to tell you my doubts of your portion of the work ; did I ever deal that way with you in any other matter ? I hate all crooked politics. I have written in concert before, and I have seen more manuscripts than ever I desire to see again ; but I cannot tax myself with having in one instance dissembled my real sentiments. Why then should you, my particular , THOMAS KING. 2S1 friend, suspect me of trifling with yon ? Why might not I reprehend what I disliked without your immediately crying, I am alicays very ready to give up what I write, as if it was a quality peculiar to your- self i and why might not I confess what I approved without suspicion of flattery or dissimulation ? " You tell me that you are greatly deceived if you cannot produce some persona, among which is one of my own friends, who can attest that 1 knew of your resolution not to act in a new piece, before the season commenced — you are very greatly deceived indeed. May I never be believed to speak one word of truth, and I know no greater curse, if I had the least conception of it till the time mentioned at large in my last letter ! Nay, in some fond moment, I had flattered myself that though you never regularly list yourself again in the service of the public, you might, perhaps, be tempted to act as a volunteer iu The Clandedine Marriage. 1 was even weak enough to communicate these hopes tO a particular friend, who was of our counsel. You see from what a mountain of hope I have fallen, and cannot wonder if I have received some little shock. On the whole it was not my unfriendly and unreasonable demand, but your long reserve, and most unexpected denial of what I thought would never have been questioned, that hfts occasioned our difl'erence. " I cannot reconcile your desiring the play to be considered as solely mine, with your complaints of being allowed to have any determination in the disposal of the comedy, when you had a share in it ; but if you now claim the right of your affirmative voice, as iu your letter to Clutterbuck you laid your claim to a negative one, you are welcome, if you please, to put the play into re' -tarsal ; but as it is against my opinion, I hooe you will not be farther offended that I give myself no concern al it. " I have sent you the titth act aa you desired ; but have had neither leisure nor inclination to compare it with that left by your brother yesterday. You know that it was my opinion that it wanted retrenching ; but for near two months I have been totally incapable of that task, as I could never, without pain, turn my eyes or thoughts on The Clandestine Marriage — this unhappy comedy, as you very properly call it. "You take great advantage of my acknowledgement of my own peevishness, and in one part of your letter seem to imply it deserved a harder name. You are pleased also to bandy about the words un- friendly and unreasonable, very liberally, both in your letter to mo and to Dr. Clutterbuck. The fact must speak for itself, and declare on which side friendship and reason has been most violated ; where- fore, all the notice I shall take of those marks of your ill-humour, is to wish that you may find all your other acquaintances less peevish, and more friendly, and more reasonable, and more faithful, than ** Your old friend, "Gboroe Colman." I These letters are curious, as relates to the authc.^hip of the comedy, the quarrel, and the appearance of Garrick as Lord Ogleby. It would seem, as it has boen generally believed, that he wrote that 262 LIVES OP THE PLAYERS. ingenious part for hiinaelf, and that he had from the tirst, agreed witli Colman to act it. 1 do not, therefore, think it a far-fetched inference to say from these vouchers, that the quarrel had tended to make him dislike the part, and was the cause of his resigning it to King. It has been supposed, that to avoid the positive identity of manner with Lord Chalkstone, in his own farce of Lethe, he made the surrender of the part ; for the two characters are greatly similar : and perhaps it had some influence in determining him. But there is a still more curious circumstance connected with the authorship of this celebrated play, than even the squabble between (Jarrick and Colman. The piece is a plagiarism from The False Concord, a farce acted at Covent Garden, March 20, 1704, for the benefit of Woodward ; but not printed. The author was the Rev. James Townley, Master of Merchant Taylor's School.* In the farce were three characters, Lord Lavendre, Mr. Suds, a soap-boiler, and a pert valet, which were transplanted, with the dialogue of some scenes, into The Clandestine Marriage, under the names of Lord Ogleby, Mr. Sterling, and Mr. Brush. These facts were first made public by Mr. Roberdeau, the gentleman who married a daughter of Mr. Townley. ; But to return to King. Mrs. Inchbald has said of the character of Lord Ogleby, in which he was so distinguished, that "it is an evidence of the fluctuation of maimers, modes, and opinions — forty years ago, it was reckoned so natural a representation of a man of fashion, that several nobleman were said to have been in the author's thoughts, when he designed the character ; now no part is so little understood in the play ; and his foibles seem so discordant with the manly faults of the present time, that his good qualities cannot atone for them." This, however, is shallow criticism, for it has been justly said in reply, that " considered merely as a delineation of manners, Lord Ogleby is no doubt a fleeting and fugacious being ; but the foundation of his artificial character is so noble, so generous, and so kindly, thai, whenever, it can find a proper representative, it must continue to excite our sympathies." And certainly this more acute observation has been confirmed by the reputation which Mr. Farren has acquired in it, in our own time. The manners of the play are, perhaps, a little obsolete, inasmuch as comedy dependfi so much in representing "the manners living as they rise " correctly ; but Lord Ogleby is one of those felicitous conceptions that will lomain ever green, flourishing as long as Nature can delight and afliectations be ridiculous. From his appearance in Lord Ogleby, King is commonly said to have possessed the confidence of Garrick — it would be more justly to allege the reverse ; for among the Garrick papers there are no im- portant traces of the fact ; and tlio following letters respecting an important incident in King's life, though they showed the strong attachment of the actor to the manager, help but little to prove it was reciprocal. * See Note on (jiiirrick's Lite. to to lim- au long it THOMAS KiNil 253 " Saturday, April 29, 1769. " Mr. Garrick'a compliments to Mr. King : though he is seldom surprised at what may happen in a theatre, yet he would be obliged to Mr. King if he would let him know, by a note, what ho was pleaatd to say of him and the farce of The Inmision, to Mr. Hopkins. Mr. Garrick assures Mr. King, that he will not send hia answer to the prompter, but to himself." The inference from this note is, that some of the common theatrical tattle, to which Garrick is alleged to have been too sensitive, had at this time disturbed him ; all that I have been able to trace concerning it is, that about two years prior, there was an entertainment called The Invasion then in the hands of the actors, as appears by a letter from King to Garrick, dated Liverpool, 24th July 1767, respecting which the writer says, ** As to The Invasion, I think it would be proper that I should keep my part, and Parsons be put into Snip. Sho\ild Yates think better of it, and take the covenant, you will undoubtedly choose to have him reinstated. Parsons has played the Harlequin one night for me : now, by this means, should sickness or any accident befall Yates or nie, you will be at a certainty ; the entertainment need not be stopped, as ho will then be ready to supply the place of either of us — Am I right I " Those who are curious in such matters, may bo able to settle this point by referring to the play-bills of the time, and as I do not deem it of any importance, I have only to mention, that in 1769 a farce called Invasion was printed, but never acted. It only ridicules the unnecessary apprehensions which were then entertained on account of the threatened invasion of the flat-bottomed boats from France. But there was another entertainment, called Harlequin's Invasion, a Christmas gambol, also brought out in 1759, and often performed at Drury Lane. The plan of this, however, is a supposed invasion made by Harlequin and his train upon the domains of Shakespeare. The characters are made to speak, and the catastrophe is the defeat of Harlequin. The dialogue was furnished by Mr. Garrick, who originally wrote some parts of it to serve a favourite performer at Bartholomew Fair imagine, relates. But the letter to which I particularly alluded, as tending to illus- trate the nature of the friendship between King and Garrick, is the following, in answer to the note of the latter. It is to this piece that the misunderstanding, I " Deau Sill, Russell Street, April oO, 1757. " As to what passed between Mr. Hopkins and me concerning The Invasion — as I have a better opinion of his integrity than of my own memory, I should have referred you to him for the account, had you not desired to have it under my hand — I have committed it to papur, I hope with a proper regard for truth, and as minutely as I am able. " You are, I find, displeased with my conduct ; no one thing on earth can make mo more unhappy — I have offended by giving niy 17 r / — iJ54 LIVES OF TUB PLAYERS. sentiments to, and sending a message by, the prompter. Let me, if I can, justify myself. When Mr. Lacy and you are on the spot, if I liavo anything that I think necessary to communicate to both, I always trouble Mr. Gr. Garrick, who kindly, in such cases, becomes a middle man, and acts for all parties. When you retire for a time, I look on Mr. G. Garrick as your representative ; if I have any thing in the way of business to settle with the managers, I think ii necessary for some other person to act for me. Who so likely to find the managers together as the prompter 1 Nay, I believe in every theatre where they are not happy enough to have a person of so useful and friendly a turn as Mr. Garrick, messages relative to the business of the stage are sent or given to the prompter, and I have ever thought it a part of his office to receive and deliver them. You desire I would let you know what I was pleased to say about you and the farce. I declare, upon my honour, that I do not recollect that your name vas mentioned, nor do I remember that there was any thing particidar said u,bout the farce ; but, as I have said before, I must refer you to Mr. Hjpkina ; some parts of the conversation may have slipped my memory, and I have not the least apprehension of his doin;,' me injustice. 1 shall only say, that it was out of my power, either on this or on any other occasion, whenever your name could be mentioned, to treat it otherwise than with a warmth of respect little short of enthusiasm ; and I defy the world, replete as it is with rascals, to produce one base enough to contradict me. " I have since your departure for Bath been most indelicately treated in many particulars, which I now shall never trouble you with a mention of. I liattered myself for some days past, that on your return to town, I should again have tlie pleasure of taking you by the hand, and, as usual, trusted you with everything that had made, or could make me happy ; on the contrary, your desiring an explanation in a note, seemed to forbid my waiting on you. Depend upon, it, dear Sir, I shall not become a trespasser. I know-^l feel myself unwortliily treated, I must and will assert, though that assertion shall never be made but to yourself, that your suspecting any part of the warmth of my attachment to ycju is uncandid, and your severity (for I shall never call coolness from yon by any other name) unwarrantable. 1 have for some time rejoiced in supposing myself an object of your esteem — while you seemed to think me deserving of it, I could have died to convince you it was not im- properly placed ; but you have suspected me, and 1 shall say but littli! more. Had I been a prince, I shoidd liave prided myself in having Mr. Garrick for my friend ; but were 1 this moment shirtless, I would not wholly give up the duty I owe myself merely because ho is njy employer. " I am ever and shall be, dear Sir, ** Your most ardent well-wisher, "And verji humble servant, *' TllUMA.S KiNtl. " You were some time ago anxious lest some of your letters should fall into improper hands ; 1 take the liberty to inclose your hint f the cscrutoirc ol' uu iutiauitc Mend, the author ot .several plcrtbaut diuniatic iiicccib, " THOMAS nOLCROFT. 257 in"i lii^i at once a poor boy contending with all the calamities that beset miserable poverty, and of native genius struggling with difBcultiep. It may be that his talents and taste were not trandcendant ; but it is impossible to contemplate the ills, the hardships, and the priva- tions of his early years, without regarding his career as wonderful in the annals of literature. Originally a beggar child in rags, afterwards A common Newmarket stable-boy, then a humble cobbler, he became an actor, and in the end a celebrated author, contributing to the theatrical enjoyments of a great nation in its refined capital, and of the most polished circles of a high aristocratic society. This remarkable person was born in Orange Court, Leicester Fields, London, on the 10th of December, 1745, old style. The reminiscences of his childhood appear to consist of such incidents as are common in the humble circumstances of his birth ; and the cha- racter of his father, restless and roving, seems to have been of all others the most likely to have bred his son for ignominy. But these defects were redeemed by an uncliangeable integrity, a purity of heart which often, like the precious stone on the dunghill, adorns the meanest condition. Holcroft's description of i,iie dispositions of his early associates is pleasing to humanity, and must bespeak respect, even from tlie great tor the simple annals of the poor. A good-natured apprentice-boy who took him to school, and made him afterwards a present of the History of Parismus and Parismenea, with the Seven Champions of Christendom, claims largely n the sympathy of those who are blest with that discernment which dis- covers worth beneath tatters and d .formity. " He was," says Hol- croft, "an exceedingly hard-featured youth, with thick lips, wide mouth, a broad nose, and his face very much marked with the small- pox ; but very kind and good-tempered. I perfectly remember his carrying me in my petticoats, consoling mo as we went, and giving me something nice to eat. " This, with his general character when he visited Holcroft's father in misfortune, ever with something kind to say, and good to give to the little boy, completes the outline of a character common in humble life, but seldom described. Holcroft was a singularly precocious child ; at five years old he learned to play on the violin, but his proliciency was blighted by a prideful remark of his uncle, who incjuirod with contempt of his father— "If he intended to make a fiddler of the boy?" The in- strument was, in consequence, laid aside, and the art of playing was soon forgotten. But, nevertheless, Holcroft says, that to this period his infantine life had passed under more favourable circumstances tlian are common to the children of the poor. When ho was about six years old the scene changed, hardships began, and suflerings in- creased. It would seem that his father's affairs in their little splioro then became embarrassed. On a sudden ho brt)ko up his household, and went into Berkshire, about thirty miles from London. The hoiiso there was situated at the corner of the road, close to a small conmKm. In this retired spot his fatlier began to renew to his son the lessons ho had received at school. In them, however, Holcroft niadu nu H I i! 258 LIVES OF TEE PLATERS. particular progress, till he thought of catching at once all the soundi he had been taught from the arrangement of the letters ; after which hia progress became so rapid as to surprise his teacher. The description of the process is not, however, very clear, and the reader must exercise his ingenuity to comprehend it. At that early period he showed not only talent, but a degree of courage and perseverance which would have distinv off iae rider's hat. fo have lost his hat would have been a terrible mis- fortune, he therefore alighted to pick it up, but when he attempted to remount he found ii impossible, all he could do. was to drag the sluggish animal along, and to cry bitterly. Twilight was closing, and he was alone on the common. At length the white railing of Ascot Heath race-course came in sight ; with difficulty he drew the horse to the railing, en which he clambered and reseated himself in the saddle : an achievement of this kind was undoubtedly remarkable in so yoTing a boy, but it was the forerunner of the address and spirit which he afterwards displayed as a groom at Newmarket. It would seem that both with aleit discei'nment and animal courage he was particularly endowed ; but he confesses that he was, nevertheless, when a child, full of superstitions ; when magpies crossed, or did not cross his path, he deemed them ominous of good or ill luck ; and when he walked he often pored upon the ground for pins or nails, which, according as they lay, foreboded misfoi'^uiie. He was not, however, tainted with the dread of spirits, nor aught of all the apparitional world revealed by ghosts and goblins, When his father had resided about twelve months in Berkshire, he began that wandering life which threw his son into such jeopardy, and from which nothing but some indestructible principle could have preserved him. His young remembrance recalled in after-life circumstances which convinced him he had been carried to London, where his parents grow very poor, and his mother was obliged to become a way-side pi'dlar ; with a basket on her arm of small haberdashery, pins, needles, and tape, and her little boy trotting at her heels, she tramped the villages to hawk her pedlary. With her husband the mother and son wont to Cambridge, and after- warils traversed the neighbouring villages. In one, remarkable for its neatness, tho name of which is not mentioned, their destitution ani'iimted to that calamitous degree, that Holcroft says himself, "Here it was that T was either e?i(!(juragod or commanded one day to go THOMAS HO L CROFT. 259 and not, i the to }>o by myaelf from house to house and beg." In this humiliating con- dition his ingenuity and the various tales he told procured him much kindness ; but when he returned to his parents and recited the false- hoods he had invented, his father became greatly agitated and ex- claimed to his wife, " This mue'i not be ; the poor child will become a common-place liar, a hedge-side rogue ; he will learn to pilfer, turn a confirmed vagrant, ^o on the highway when he is older, and get hanged ! He shall never go on such errands again ! " This affecting scene is one of the many instances in which reality surpasses fiction. The whole range of the drama cannot parallel an incident so pathetic: — A wretched family is in a stat** of such ex- treme destitution as to be obliged to send their little buy to beg hia bread from door to (''oor. His natural sagacity teaches him that the charity of man is only to be obtained by sympathy ; and his talent, young as he is, enables him to gain compassion to so great a degree that ho returns to his wretched parents at their place of rendezvous under the hedge, and exultingly displays tlie alms he has gathered. In relating how he had exerted his ingenuity, his father, though a wandering vagabond, has yet virtue enough to fear the consequences ; at first he is pleased with the address of the child, he inquires his method, and one falsehood after another is repeated, the poor man is astonished, his agitation rises to horror as the child proceeds, and, forgetting their mutual abjectness, he prefers starvation, — for such is the effect of his resolution, — to a repetition of the risk ; but the heart of the reader must supply the comment. The tear forgot as soon as shed is one of the boons of childhood ; whatever may have been his father's anguish, to himself the impres- sion was but the shadow of a passing cloud, and the common incidents of boyish admiration were sufficient to banish, though they could not obliterate them from his mind. The heart of youth is smooth, and sorrow cannot lay hold of it lo:ig, but the breast of manhood has many cells where griefs and care nestle and abide. Holcroft imagined that by a scene at Wisbeach fair his ardent lovo of the dramatic art was first excited, — the performance of a quack- doctor and his merry-andrew. And, really, when I reflect on the enjoyment I have had myself in such sights, yea, even unto this day, I sadden in contemplating the mirthless destiny of the rising genci I.. ut together with much skill and acumen : but it largely partakes o{ the inlierent fatdt of all HoliToft's dramat.v. compositions. The characters are caricatures, and tho manners unlike those of tho world. But, still, as an acting dranni, it was on'o of tho most popiilar over performed, and brought tho author nine hundred pounds from tho theatre, and three r his early life. It is, nevertheless, an amusing work ; but the author does not indulge himself in good-humoured views of character. Vices that invest our common nature are too unjustly ascribed to rank ; a Lord and a Bishop are the objects of his satire, and the faults of tliese individuals are displayed as the vices of their quality. Hitherto the biography of Holcroft has affording one of tlie most striking descriptions in literature — of talent combating fortune ; ami it is iirpossible to withhold sympathy, or repress admiration, at his strugpk^s, and his courage, and his victories ; but I doubt if the samf compassionate interest can be expected for his subsequent careei. He n^eppcd aside frf)m tlie sohor path by wliich he had gained so .liiicli dis' Miction, and, infected with the mania of the time, he deemed lamself (nialilied to I'xalt the condition of linmanity. I:,i J" fV-<, -.bci 17!)'2 ho became a. ni( inbor of the Society for (Joiisli lnti<(nai 'iiformi procc< 'Ut deav( ura truth '1 takii'^H fi a? 11 : but it ih .siii(' lie did not a]>prove of all their ■ , rji.l lie jd'^'ly objected to tlu' absurdity of their en- i/O dieide what is true, by votes instead of reason ; as if 1'^ hv '^eterminod li' o priictieal (piostions wiiich have under- lie i ebj'./t. THOMAS HOLCROFT, 273 ai'iicter. ribecl to and the quality, the ninst no ; anil n, at hia )t if tho Hiuiuenfc 111! had lie time, ity. ('iiiisli all thoiv hoir 011- •n ; as if iiudur- The heady current of affairs in France had alarmed the British Government, especially when they were so easily traced to doctrines that also agitated the public mind in this country ; coercive measures to repress the evil we: e in consequence determined upon. The society to which Holcroffc belonged became an object of jealousy and persecution ; and being in a great measure merely speculative, its meetings were deserted. Yet a few members of resolute courage, conscious that there was no treason in their topics, still adhered, and among others, Holcrof t. The panic before long evaporated which seized the (lovornment, though it was exasperated by Reeves' Association ; but it is matter of history that those adherents were marked out as delinquents ; some of them were arrested for high treason, and or- dered t*"' be tried. Among this number, besides the arrested, Hol- croft was included in the bill of indictment. Humours of the inten- tion of Government to proceed against him were circulated some days before, and occasioned him much disturbance of mind ; but as he had not been committed, he was beginning to disregard these re- ports, when he received the intelligence of being indicted. His friends advised him to fly, but he chose a manlier part, and determined on surrendering himself, which he did next day ; and as soon as the business of the court would permit, he thus addressed himself to the Lord Chief Justice. " My Lord — being informed that a bill for high treason has been preferred against me, Thomas Holcroft, by his Majesty's Attorney General, and returned a true bill by a grand jury of these realms, I come to surrender myself to this court and ray country, to be put upon my trial, that, if I am a guilty man, the whole extent of my guilt may become notorious ; and if innocent, the rectitude of my principles and conduct may be no less public. And I hope, my Lord, there is no appearance of vaunting, in assuring your Lordship, this court, and my country, that after the miafortune of having been suspected as an enemy to the peace and happiness of mankind, there is nothing on earth after which, as an individual, I more ardently aspire, than a full, fair, and public examination. I have farther to request, that your Lordship will inform me, if it bo not the practice in these cases to assign counsel, and to suffer the accused to speak in his own defence ? Likewise, whether free egress and regress be not allowed to such persons, books, and papers, as the accused or his counsel shall deem necessary for justitioition." Some conversation arose in the court as to his identity, which terminated in tho Solicitor-General moving his coiumittal ; he was accordingly taken into custody and sent to Newgate prison. In the course of a few days tin- solicitor for the Treasury, and two clerks, came to the prison and presented him with a copy of the indictment and a list of witnesses, together with a list of the jury, informing him, at the same time, that tho Crown would grant as many suhiuenas fire of expeiiHo, as he should think proper lo demand. Tho trials began on the following week, and tho account which Holcroft himself has given is at once ridiculous, Vnit so highly characteristic of hia self importance, that, merely as a trait of vanity, it well merits to be (^uotod. I I Si II 274 LIVES OF THE PLAYEES. ■ 'Perhaps this country never witnessed a moment more portentous. The hearts and countenances of men seemed pregnant with doubt and terror. They waited in something like a stupor of amazement for the fearful sentence on which their deliverance or their destruc- tion seemed to depend. Never surely, was the public mind more profoundly agitated. The whole power of Government was directed against Thomas Hardy ; * in his fate seemed involved the fate of the nation, and the verdict of Not Guilty seemed to burst its bonds, and to have released it from inconceivable misery and ages of impending slavery. The acclamations of the Old Bailey reverberated from the farthest shores of Scotland, and a whole people felt the enthusiastic transports of leeovered freedom." This theatric inflation suthciently proves the general deficiency of common sense by which those innocent traitors were uniuiated ; but Holcrutt was punished for indulging in the dreams by which this was precocded, for, after having prepared his defence, wliicli lie expected would gf) down to all posterity as something wonderful, certainly equal to Taul's i)efi>re Agi'ippa, lie was not allowed to be heard. And it woiil'l be uiifiiir not to notice a striking instance of the style in wliicii lie ma^nilied liiiiisolf on this occasion. The gentlemen who were placed at the bar "vith liiui, on being acquitted, bowed and re- tired, but Holcroft was determined to make a speech, and the Chief Justice was so indulg'Mit as almost to consent to hear I'mu ; he, hovv- evor, claimed half-au-honr, and, in consequence, was ordered to withdraw. There can be no doubt that Government, in this proceeding was actuated by an excitement produced by misrepresentation and that Holcroft, so far from encouraging any scheme cjf violence, did all in his small political capacity to direct the minds of t)ie Constitutional Society to cultivate tlieir intellects, which were certainly in a state of Nature. This was the liead and front of his oft'entling, and no nu)re. The persecution elevated him in his own opinion into mighty ct)n- secpience, and, instead of showing himselt possessed of the good tjisto wliicli should liave belonged to his innocence, ho was instigated by a vulgar cflVontery, to .brave und defj' the malice and the ignorance of his adversaries. In this he forgot that he had assumed the character of a philosopher, and took unwise pains to prove how much his skin- less mind unlilted hiin to submit the resignation of a martyr, and to act with tne resolution of a patriot. These political turmoils being ovv'-r, Holcroft resumed his literary labours, in which alone, as a public man, he was res))ectable. Low s Frdilfics came out in the spring of 1704, at Covent Garden, and met with a cool reception, in consecpuiuco of being too highly seasoned witli political allusions. In ITi^'"), 17!H), ITDT, and 1798, he successively brought out dill'erent dramas, all partaking of his general merit, but The llc.'icrfcd Daxtjhft r was received with the greatest applause. As I do not, however, \indei'tako to criticise each of his works, it is un- necessary to bo particular in recording their mere names. As con- trivances, arranged with skill, his jilots are often ingenious ; and as Oiu; of till! iillf'cil ('(iiisiiiratni's, a .shoemaker, i* THOMAS HOLCROFT. 275 itcrary lul met 'Hsivi'ly •it, l)ut Aa t IS un- \,s oon- iUIll lis congregated feelings, his characters have great merit, but they look not like things of flesh and blood. Thej' havo, it is true, individuality distinctly impvossud npon thoii, too distinctly, but witliout those shades and delicate tints that mark tlie beings of life : they lack in personal features. Ill 171)0, Holcroft left England for Hamburg, bnt, before his departure, ho married his fourth wife, and, it is said, the marriage was affectionate and liappy. In ))rivate life lie was, indeed, exemplary, and it was only in the distinction to whioh he was raised by political persecution that liis conduct was not uniformly discreet ; self-estimation, probably, entered a little too largely into his trans- actions with others, but it was a blemish that chieily affected himself and his own interests. Diu'ing the two last years he spent in England, before going abroad, he kept a diary, in which his own account of all his trans- actions are carefully recorded, and some of them with acumen ; but it shows that his mind was now deeply ingrained with politics, and that, while he conceived himself growing a greater public man, ho was daily becoming less a wise one. But there are occasional touches and anecdotes of a better kind. One relating to a dispi'te between Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds is curious, as connected with a celebrated work of art. " Burke endeavoured to persuade Sir Joshua Reynolds to alter his picture of the Dying Cardinal, by taking away the Devil, which Burke said was an absurd and ridiculous incident, and a disgi-ace to the artist. Sir Joshua replied, " That if Mr. Burke thought proper, he could argue as well as per contra ;" and Burke asked, "If he supposed him so unprincipled as to speak from anything but convic- tion I " "No," said Sir Joshua, "but had yon happened to take the other side, you coidd have spoken with eiiual force." Burke again urged him to obliterate this blemish ; Sir Joshua had heard his arguments, and desired to know if he could answer them, replied, "It was a thouglit he had conceived and executed to the satisfaction of himself .and many others, and, having placed the Devil there, there ho should riMuiiiii." I havo had occasion to notice already that Holcroft, at one time, was very assiduous in jiropitiating the ftivoiu' of the great, and, not bel\ig successfu\ he evidently became morose against them, and the system of thiui^s which upheld tliem. In his diary there is a con- fession «if liis weakness. "1 saw I was observed by Oeneral F— ^ ; we know :^ach other personally, but are not ac(piM luted ; acquaintance, indeed, among persons of rank, 1 have very few. My feelings will not sutler lue to be forward ; and such persons are known only to the obtruding, or those who minister to their innnediate pleasures and vices. Men of literature lay claim tohonoiu's to which men of rank have but seldom any good pretensions, and both seem jealous of their individual prei'ogativos. " In the diary there are some little curious biographical anecdotes, and the following, respecting a very cclobratod person, is particularly characteristic, '•f It I' 276 LIVES OF THE PLATERS. " Home Tooke takes some pleasure in praising his daughters (they went under the name of the Misses Harts,) which he sometimes does by those equivocatory falsehoods which are one of his principal pleasures. Of the eldest, he says, ' All the beer brewed in this house is of that yoxing lady's brewing. ' It would be equally true were he to say all the hogs killed in this house are of that lady's killing, for they brew no beer. When a member of the Consti- tutional f'noiety, I have frequently heard him utter sentences, the firat part v which would have subjected him to death by the law but for the salvo that followed ; and the more violent they were thus contrasted and equivocatory, the greater was his delight." Upon the whole, the gossip in his Diary is not particularly interest- ing, it is that of any common town man, but the reader who looks at it will be amused with what special attention he mentions every man of rank he met with, and scarcely one o* his own station. Yet, notwithstanding this weakness, it certainly reflects credit both on his attainments and general behaviour that a person who began life in his circumstances, should by the force only of natural talent, have raised himself unpatronised to such respectability. Soon after his arrival at Hamburg, he attempted to set up a literary journal, but it only reached the second number. Such an undertaking was beyond his powers, and whatever patronage the design might have met with, it was not likely to succeed by its own merits. During his residence in Hamburg he resolved to abandon, and did so for some time, his picture-dealing ; but he was tempted to renew the speculaf . i, and, of course, lost money, and yet he believed himself no iiioompetent judge of the merits of paintings. While in that city, he met with an alarming accident. He had been recommended to bathe his feet in hot water, and mix a certain quantity of aqua fortis in the bath ; as he was pouring the medicine, the steam of the water caused the bottle to burst. The aqua fortis flew up to his face, and burned his wrists severely, but his spectacles preserved his sight ; he was, however, some time recovering from the effects, but he bore his sufferinirs, as indeed all his misfortunes, with equanimity. Having stayed upwards of a year at Hamburg, he proceeded to Paris, where he remained above two vears, employed in collecting materials for his work on the Manrn^rs of the French Capital, published on his return in 1804 ; a most interesting and amusing book, but it is no longer referred to. On his return from the Continent ho embarked with a brother of his wife in the establishment of a printing-office ; it proved, however, unsuccessful, and he had, a'nout tho same period, the mortification to incur the damnation of his drama of The Vindictive Man. At tho same time his health, which luiid long been infirm, began to fail, and. on the 23rd »>f March 18<11>, at the age of sixty-three, he died. During the last six wr^eks of his illness he suffered niuch, Vmt throughout he sustaineii himself with that vigour of n^solution which he often exerted with so much fortituvU> in the calamities and trials of his early lift), GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE. 277 His biographer has injudiciously applied to him the epithet of great ; undoubtedly, however, he was an able man in a department of literature, the drama, at once the most splendid and the most diffi- cult. But, though meritorious and sometimes brilliantly successful, he is far short of the first rank. Still, such was the native energy by which he was actuated, that it prompted him often to undertakings to which his abilities and knowledge were not equal. He has however built for himself an eminent monument in the literature of his coun- try ; insomuch that it will be rare to find, among the celebrated authors of England, a man who had to surmount so many obstacles, and in all acquitted himself so well. GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE. of This great performer, for the vigour, the nature, and the austerity of his manner and talents, may be justly called the Tacitus of the stage. In his action there was, comparatively to his energy, but little grace ; his strength consisted in a peculiar straight forwardness — a strong Tuscan ability, which enabled him to sustain the greatest parts, and in which vastness of power was the predominant quality. He was born in Westminster, on Saturday the 17th April.] 756. His father was a captain in the 4th Dragoons, and died while a young man, leaving his widow in straightened circumstances. Her name was Benton. Soon after the death of her husband, she went to reside at Berwick- upon-Tweedr where her son was put to school. What progress he made in learning has not been carefully recorded, but he was generally among the players regarded as a man who had been well educated, which, however, cannot be received, considering their common deficiency, as demonstrative of any superior acquirement. The first play he ever read was Venice Preserved, and from a portrait of Woodward, as Mercutio, and the representation of a puppet-show, he formed his earliest crude and nebtilous idea of a theatrical scage. The first drama he saw acted was The Provoked Husband, by the Edinburgh comedians, in the Town-hall of the borough. James Aicken, of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, was the Lord Townley of the evening ; his memoir does not, however, preserve the name of the Lady Townley, but all was wonderful and elegant, and made an indelible impression. At this period, his mother was dead, and he lived with her sisters ; and as playbooks made no part of their library, he borrowed them from every quarter, and his attachment to the histrionic profession, " Grew with his growth, and strengthen'd with his «trength." In April 1769, another detachment of the Edinburgh company shed life and glory in the Town-hall — and the sehnol-hoys imitated tlieir heroics, by forming a company, of which Cooke was a member. 278 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. Their theatre was a barn ; their stage the floor ; their scenery mat^ and coloured paper, and their wardrobe a beggarly combination of borrowed garbs and discarded finery. Feniiile characters were entirely omitted, except when Hamlet was brought out. On that occasion, the Queen was retained, and performed by a boy. Our hero's first appearance among them was as Young Meadows, in the opera of Love in a Village, in which he sang two of the songs ; but his chief part was Horatio in Hantkt, in which, though he was far from being esteemed at the head of the company, some of the Edin- burgh players commended his exertions. Boyish predilections are not, however, always to be regarded as indicative of talent, and although some of Cooke's juvenile adventures strongly marked the bias of his mind to the stage, and gave rise to laughable occurrences, it may be safely said, that the abilities he afterwards displayed were not decidedly apparent in his youth, however strong and constant his inclination may have been. During the time that the Edinburgh players were in Berwick, the school-boys were alert to escape the vigilance of the door-keepers. On one occasion, Cooke obtained a clandestine entrance, and when boliind the scenes espied a barrel, which seemed to afford him a snug hiding place. Into it he instantly leaped for concealment, and dis- covered in the bottom two twenty-four pound cannon-balls, but not yet being initiated into the mysteries of the theatre, he wondered what the balls were doing there, little suspecting that they assisted in making thunder, as well as Cyclops, or cannon. The play was Macbeth, and to give due effect to the entrance of the witches, the thunder was wanted for the first scene. The property-man approached and seized the cask, to cover the open end of which lie fastened a piece of old carpet. Our hero remained crouched and silent, but the machine was lifted carefully by the property-man, and carried to tlie side-scene lest the thunder should roll before its cue, swearing, how- ever, that the cannon-balls were cursedly heavy. The witclies entered amidst lightning of I'osin — the thunder bell rang, our hero sweated — tlie barrel received its impetus, and his iron companions rolled and rattled. It entered on the stage, and Cooke bursting ofl' the carpet-head of the barrel, appeared before the audience with his head out, just as the witches agreed to meet again, " When tliu Imrly-lnirly's done." It was about the time when this affair took place that our hero was bound as an apprentice to a printer, but this measure, con- ceived in kindness, and intended to mode-ate his excess of passion, only made him more impassioned in his love of the stage, and to in- fect his associates. In fact, the mania had deeply touched all liis shopmen, and nothing would serve them but a secret exhibition, to the annoyance and just displeasure of their master. Early in the year 1770 a band of strollers came to Berwick. They converted an old malt-hcmse into a theatre, and opened their elegant performances with The Provoked Husband. At this place Cooke saw The Bad of Ensex, Ovoonuho, and several other pieces. In the autumn of the same year some of the young men of the town associ- GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE. 279 ated to perform the tragedy of Cato. Lucius was enacted by Cooke, and was happily achieved on the 5th of Novembev, 1770. Whether our hero had improved, or his master considered his cure to sobriety hopeless, certain it is that George Frederick did not long remain with the printers ; his indentures were cancelled in 1771, and he immediately set of for London. In the month of November following he went to Holland, but for what purpose is not recorded ; and in the year after he returned to Berwick, still more, if possible, addicted to the reading of plays. In 1773 another strolling company came to Berwick, and Cooke learnt from them sundry lessons, no doubt brave ones, of Lear, Richard, Hamlet, Othello, &c. ; and again in the year following he went to London, where he witnessed with entliusiastic delight the greatest masters of that time of the sock and buskin. He saw Sam Foote, of celebrity in his way — the most impudent of mankind, and though renowned upon the town, a person of little reputation among the judicious. The winter campaign at Covent Garden was opened with Murphy's tragedy of The Grecian Daughter, a piece of rant which Mrs. Siddons dignitied. During this season Cooke first saw Garrick. His charac- ter was Leon, in Beaumont and Fletcher's comedy oi Rule a Wife, and have a Wife. It is of some importance to notice, that soon after this period Cooke saw Macklin perform both Sir Archy Macsarcasm and Shylock, and probably derived from the performance, hints for that admirable truth with which he afterwards represented those parts himself. He, however, did not make his regular debut until the spring of 1770, and not then in London, but in the sober town of Brentford, where, in the character of Dumont, in tlie tragedy of Jaue tShure, ho first came forth " to fret and strut his hour upon the stage." '' We dressed," says he, " in one room ; it was at the audience-end of the house, and we had to pass through the pit to reach the stage, which was no higher than the floor, for the theatre was only a large room in a public-house." What success he gained on this occasion is not mentioned, but on the following night, as Ensign Dudley in I'he Wed Indian, his applause was wonderful for Brentford. In the summer of 1777, having now attained the legal age of man- hood, and fairly adopted his profession, he visited Edinburgh and Berwick, and tlience, being fi'eed from restraint, he made a rapid transit to Hastings, in the south of England. From thence, having tired both natives and strangers, the players went off in a body to Rye, and enacted in that distinguislicd town, all sorts of dramas in an old school-house. In the spring of 1778, he made his first appearance as an actor in London, but lie then attracted no admira- tion. Between the time of his first acting in London and the autumn of 177t>, Cooke played in various characters at the Haymarket theatre, and at that time ran the customary round of Thespian itinerancy, a growing favourite. It has been said, that it was during this time ho acquired those habits as a man, which afterwards maimed hia skill and ability as an actor. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 1.25 ittiM 12.: mm — 2.2 1.4 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation \ <^ [V k •N? :\ \ ■^V^ c> 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WHSTIR.N.Y, MSaO (716) 173-4503 ) . "■' ■..".'' "'i ^> J > ' ■" ' , I ^ V i 280 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. ' In September 1779, he became a member of a strolling company at Sudbury in Suffolk, but from that period he is lost sight of, and from 1781 to 1783 his life affords no adventures worth recording but the dull routine of alternate starvation and fun, the essentials of a stroller's biography. During this interval he was, however, occasion- ally in the metropolis, and had several opportunities of studying Henderson, after which he made an engagement with the company at Manchester, which he ever considered an important epoch in his life, but the wherefore is not very obvious. He, however, made his first appearance there on the 2nd of Januanr 1784, as Philotas, in The Grecian Daughter, and was received with much applause : the part, however, is not calculated to make a deep impression ; indeed, the whole play is feeble, and affords no character adequate to elicit fire such as that of Cooke. About the beginning of June the Manchester theatre was closed, and in the middle of the month our hero went to Lancaster, where he formed an engagement for the summer. From Lancaster the company went to Preston, where he made an engagement for Liverpool and Mano.hester, and in September he played for the first time in Liverpool ; the part was Frankly, in The Suspicious Hmband. In December the company removed to Manchester, and on the 6th of February he left his situation for three months, on account of Moss, to whom the part of Sir Peter Teazle, which Cooke had played at Liverpool with ^clat, was, he though, improperly given. It is necessary, perhaps, to observe here, that although our hero describes Moss as " a doulDtful actor," it is extremely probable that in this part he was superior. I knew him well myself, and, in caricature parts, I have not yet, with the exception of Liston, seen his equal. From being a general player, and in all parts rather above mediocrity, his true particular merits were never justly appreciated ; he was properly a farce actor, and in the grotesque characters of O'Keeffe his ability was irresistibly laughable. In Sir Peter Teazle he perhaps, a little overstepped the modesty of Nature, but it was on the right side. His Lingo was a master-piece ; no player, for the last six-and-twenty years on the London stage, could surpass it. In June following Cooke again returned to Lancaster, and was esteemed at tho time a rising man in his profession ; his salary was, however, only two guinea^) a week, but it was the highest in that company. At this period he had a given time for study, not unusually long ; he was, however, occasionally afflicted with those fits of inebriety which accompanied him through life, and so often seduced him from his duty. On the 29th of July 1786, he made his first appearance at York as Count Baldwin, in Isabella; and the same night was rendered remarkable by Mrs. Siddons performing there after hor great success in London. From Yoik the company went with her to Hull. In September Cooke was engaged to act with Mrs. Siddons at Chester, a decisive proof that his merits were growing with the public, for she '.vas then in the morning of her glory, and the selection of him must have been made with reference to her splendour. I ' I . C^£:onCtE FREDERICK COOtE. 281 Sir In Januai-y 1788 our hero acted for the first time at Newcaatle- upon-Tyne, and in the character of Othello his merits were justly appreciated ; at his benefit he came out as Bichard the Third, with increasing reputation. He then returned to Manchester. It was soon after his arrival there that the scene took place which Biley has happily described in his " Itinerant," and which cannot be omitted here, it is so illustrative both of the actor and the man. One evening they were in the bar of a public-house, amongst a promiscuous company, when, Cooke evidently yielding to his habitual failing, Riley became anxious to get him home while he was in good- humour. Perhaps, pressing a little too eagerly, he roused the lion, and Cooke exclaimed, eyeing him with scorn, " I see what you are about, you hypocritical scoundrel, you canting Methodist thief ! Am I, George Frederick Cooke, to be controlled by such a would-be Puritan as you ? I'll teach you to dictate to a tragedian ! " Then, pulling off his coat and holding up his list, he exclaimed, in a menac- ing attitude, "Come out, thou prince of deceivers! though thcu hast faith to remove mountains, thou shalt not remove me ! — Come out, I say ! " There was a large fire in the grate, before which et.od, with his skirts under each arm, a pitiful imitation of a kind of beaux then in fashion, deficient in cleanliness, shabby in costume, and, of course, insensible to propriety, and he wore a faded hat with a narrow brim, conceitedly placed on the side of his head. This filthy fop straddled, like the Colossus of Rhodes, before the fire. At length he caught the eye of Cooke, who, in silent amazement, examined him from top to toe, and turning to Riley, burst into a loud laugh, and cried, " Beau Nasty ! " and immediately rising and taking up the skirts of his coat, in imitation of the other, turned like him, too, his back to the fire, and then approaching said in an afi'ected whisper, but loud enough to be heard, — *' Pray, Sir, how is soap ? " "Soap?" " Yes, Sir, soap ; I understand it is coming down." "I'm glad of it, Sir." " Indeed, Sir, you have cause, if one may judge from your appear- ance." At this there was a general laugh : the stranger, however, affected not to observe it, but hitting his boots with a flouriahing air rung the bell, and inquired if he could have " a weal killut, or a mutton chip." "What do you think," said Cooke, "of a roasted puppy? because," taking up the poker, " I'll spit you and roast you in a minute." The dirty beau retreated towards the door, and Cooke, following, cried out, in tlie attitude of Macbeth, — " Avaunt, and quit my sight ! thy face is dirty and, and thy hands unwushod ; avaunt, avaunt, I say ! " — then, loplacing the poker, he added, and returning to his seat, " Being gone, I am a man agaiv." It happened that a noted boxer made one of the company, a remark- ably ptrong man, modest and good-natured. This scuno had such an efi'eut upon iiim that lie burst into an immoderate fit of laughter^ 282 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. I' '\ which drew the actor's attention, and turning witl^ his bitterest look, Cooke addressed him in the most contemptuous manner. The pugilist, knowing his peculiarities, bore his contemptuous epithets as long as possible, until they became so gross as to be no longer en- durable, when calmly taking him in his arms, as though he had beon a child, he set him down in the street, and bolted the door. Our hero entreated at the window, the night being wet, for admission, in vain ; and being unheeded, he broke several panes, and inserting his head through the fracture said, "Gentlemen, I have taken some pai7is to gain admittance ; — pray let me in, I see through ray error." Scenes of this kind were common in the nights of our hero. Once at Glasgow, Rock of Edinburgh, had occasion to make an apology for Cooke's being unable to act, and it was to a trayic tone, suiting the action to the word, — "Ladies and Gentleman, Mr. Cooke, I am grieved to say has been taken with a howl complaint."* At the Newcastle assize^, in 1789, Cooke performed with the celebrated Mrs. Jordan, and, in the same year, he also played with the famous Lord Ogleby, King, pursuing his profession with credit to himself, notwithstanding occasional interruptions arising from his unfortunate excesses. In 1791 he was a member of a strolling company at Buxton, and afterwards he returned to Manchester, thence to Liverpool, whore he found himself the brightest, though, in the opinion of the audience, the dimmest star in a London constellation. It was at this time he played Lear for his own benefit ; but for the part, however judicious his conception, his physical powers were of too physical a texture. The year 1793 passed with him much in the same way as those immediately preceding. In July 1794 he was at Buxton, where lie commenced a journal, in which he has noted the books he then read, and in which there is a character of Dr. Johnson, drawn with force and discrimination. "Upon considering Dr. Johnson's life," says he, "which seems very accurately delineated by Boswell, I do not find the doctor that amiable, nor sometimes that respectable character I expected or wished. He is drawn overbearing, arrogant, extremely vain of his literary abilities, and forgetting all decorum when the company he happened to be in did not pay him that implicit attention and obedi- ence he thought, even from men of equal or superior learning, ho had a right to demand. Harsh and rude to women, and atlecting to depreciate the literary merits of others, constituting himself sole judge of literary differences." This journal contains an account also of his transactions at Buxton, but it is not remarkable for any other (^notable passage, except, it may be, one concerning America, in which he discriminates, with considerable fairness, the character of General Washington, as compared with the patriots of Paris at that time, and another which remembering his own infirmity, cannot be perused witliout sympathy. * iiyjyi— muivuijig iiuiicli-bowl. } GEOliGE FREhEttlCK COOKE. 28S and jeenis that or of his y lie jedi- , ho ug to sole " Drunkenness," says he, '* is the next leveller to death ; with this difference, that the former is always attended >rith shame and reproach, while the latter being the certain lot of mortality, produces sympathy, and may be attended with honour," Early in November 1794, he embarked at Holyhead for Dublin, and, from his arrival, he dates a new era in his life. He was then thirty-eight years of age, and was still only a provincial player, but he now took possession of the Dublin stage without a rival. His first appearance was in the part of Othello. * ' The Dublin theatre was then," he says, *' at a low ebb ; the performers ill paid ; and the houses, scenes, and dresses, very mean and bad. " But his unfortunate habit, more than the circumstances of the theatre, forced him to retire for a while from the stage, and to commit many pranks, which ultimately brought him to such a state of degradation that, either in shame or in drunkenness, he enlisted in a regiment destined for the West Indies. One evil is generally the forerunner of another — sickness pre- vented him from embarking, and he was in England, 1796, as a soldier, dissatisfied with himself and his military profession. From this state he was relieved, on making his situation known to his old friende, the managers of the Manchester theatre, who procured his discharge, and subsequently engaged him ; but, before he joined their party, his excesses involved him in many disgraceful troubles. In the course of the same year, 1796, he married a Miss Daniels, of the Chester theatre, at the time he was professionally in that city. After his marriage he went to Dublin, where he played lago, which was ever after one of his greatest parts. Subsequent to the rebellion in 1798, Cooke again played in Dublin, and, I believe, it was under this engagement that he first performed there with Kemble. An anecdote of the two, when they acted together there, is so characteristic of both, that it ought to be studiously preserved in their biography. Our hero was waiting at the side-scene for his cue to go on, when Kemble came up to him. "Mr. Cooke," said ho, "you distressed me exceedingly in my last scene ; I could scarcely get on ; you did not give jue the cue more than once ; you were very imperfect." *' Sir, I was perfect." " Excuse me, Sir, you were not." «'ByG 1 was. Sir," " You were not, Sir." " I'll tell you what, I'll not have your faults fathered upon me ; and d — n me, black Jack, if I don't make you tremble in your pumps one of these days, yet. " It is evident, from this little scene, that Cooke was conscious that he ijossessod the power to rival Kemblo, and that he, even after having been so lonjf on the boards of the provinces, was looking forward to an appearance in London. It was about this time that Mrs. Cooke left hnn. From Dublin ho went to Cork, and thence with the company to Limerick ; aud, iu December 1799, he was in Dublin, but his fume 284 LIVES OJ? 1*MM PLAYEIta. was, in the mean time, filling a larger space in the world. On the 14th of February 1800, he received a letter from Mr. Lewis of Oovent Garden, telling him there would be an opening for him next year if he wished it ; and, in the June following, ho entered into an engagement with Mr. Harris, the manager of that theatre ; and on iSunday, the 26th of October, near midnight, he reached the metro- polis. On the 31st of the same month he came forth in the character of Richard the Third, and estabhshed his fame : "never," he has said himself, " was a reception more flattering, nor ever did 1 receive moi-e encouraging, indulgent, and warm approbation than on that night, both through the play, and at the conclusion. Mr. Kemple did me the honour of making one of the audience." He was, at this time, in the forty-tifth year of his age, but he was still, notwithstanding his occasional excesses, in the tuU possession of all his faculties ; and it appears that he could only be regarded as having attained the full possession of them ; for they were ."''ow in their development ; and, notwithstanding his intense passion for the stage, it could not be justly said that he was much sooner refined for the taste of London. His second character was Shy lock ; his third Sir Archy Macsarcasm ; his fourth was lago, in which, it has been thought by good judgeri, he had uo competitor, but many also imagined that he showed his hypocrisy so openly that it was wonderful how Othello could have been deceived by him. After lago he attempted Macbeth, but, though ho was allowed to be great, it was not esteemed one of his happiest characters. I shall not follow him, however, in all his parts ; it is enough to say they were the principal in tlie dramas of the time, in each of which he was never wanting in power, and often produced the most stupendous effects, both as to nature and skill. On the 27th January 1801, he took his first benefit, and, with a libe- rality not often imitated since, and always rare, it was given thus early and free of expense, in consideration of the impression which his performance has made on the town. Cooke was now at the top of his profession ; he could hope to ascend no higher ; and for a time his career was similar to that of the most distinguished performers. The great towns in which he had formerly performed, not indeed unheeded, became eager to see him, as if the appearance on the London stage had added some new faculty, or was aught more than a test. But m this respect he had nothing to com- plain. It is the way of the world ; for although the talents of an author or artist receive no addition from success, yet success itself often depends on accident. A man, who is of weight in his circle, will often accomplish more for a candidate for fame than all the can- didate's own endeavours, and sometimes even where he has less merit than in tliooo things which have been neglected. Such is the spell of power, that waits nium patroiiajjo, and leads public opinion ; the deliciency will be oveiluukud and only the aimable and beautiful become the subjects of descant. What added, perhaps, to the happiness of our hero at this time, when, " with all his blushing i'loiiours thick upon him," he returned to his country accjUaiulanct', allui las triiiuiphunt ovation on thu London GEORGE PREDEHICK COOKE, 285 stage, was the disolution of his marriage with Miss Daniels. There was something never very clearly explicable in his connection with that lady. Their marriage may have been like that of the beggars, which was for a six weeks ; certain, however, it is, that it was duly put an end to, not by death, but by the E.ight Honourable Sir William Scott, as announced in the public prints of the time, viz., " On the fourth of July instant, a cause respecting the validity of the marriage of Mr. George Cooke, of the Theatre Royal Covent Garden, and Miss Alicia Daniels, of the Theatre Royal Bath, came on to be heard in Doctors' Commons, before the Right Honourable Sir Wm. Scott, when the learned Judge pronounced the marriage null and void." It is, however, worthy of remark, that the playhouse of Bath is called a Theatre Royal, and that no reason is assigned for the dissolution : Cooke himself was not a man likely to have put into the newspapers a sentence of this kind, and we know nothing of the lady and as little of her kin. It would be to repeat a subject which has been already exhausted, to tell how he was received in the country after his metropolitan test. Before, he was considered an able performer ; he had now, at least, in some points, no rival, and Edinburgh, with its usual loquacity, was garrulous of applause. His American biographer speaks of the Scotch critics as the best judges of the dialect he made use of in Sir Archy and Sir Pertinax ; he meant accent, for Macklin's Scotch was worse than detestable — it was odious. From Edinburgh, Cooke wont to the muslin-manufactnring city of Glasgow, of which his praise is sweet and precious ; " Where," says he, " I tinished my number of nights, and quitted Scotland, very sensible of the favours with which I had been received :" — a memorandum which gives us good reason to think that it was on this occasion he suffered, as we have already said, from the bowl com- plaint — (the punch-bowl). It is but justice to Manchester to say, that he was received as one coming there with " brows bound with victorious wreaths." It had ever been a place in which he had been received with kindness. He liked the inhabitants for their hospitality. Though he clambered the steep of fortune elsewhere with hard labour and with difficulty, there he was always regarded with distinction, and before his talents had received the mintage of London, the value of the bullion was justly appreciated. From Manchester he went to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and played or drank there more than he should have done, for he did not appear in London in time, and a month of his life is unaccounted for. ^4 iter his appearance, and acting some of his greatest parts, he was brought out in 1802 in Orsino in Alfonno, in which his admirers were divided : some of them thought, that by bringing him in a new part and a new play, his attractions were failing ; but if we consider managers as men, the affair admits of another explanation. His attractions may not have failed, but his novelty was wearing off among those who wore not regular playgoers ; and it is probable, as tragedies arc generally expensive treats, that the managers rested on the sterling influence of his ability to secure success. 11) 286 LIVBS OP THE PLAYEliS. 4 . ' On the 24th February, he had his second benefit in London, but the proceeds to himself, though it was also clear, were less than his first. It produced to him £409 13s. 6d. Subsequently he entered into an engagement with Mr. Harris, for three years, which, after the third year of his first article, was at a salary of fourteen guineas a-vveek. The career and course of Cooke, making due allowonce for his personal peculiarities, was little diit'erent from that of other eminent performers. He was now a decided favourite with the national, as well as the London public, and his endeavours were uniformly crowned with approbation ; although it must be confessed, that he received instances of popular punishment, in consequence of a neglect generally ascribed to his early and irrepressible inclination for the bottle. It appears that he at various times kept his journal with consider- able care ; but it contains little that is interesting to the general reader, however much it may have been to himself ; and the fact must not be disguised that though often a brilliant companion, he was often shunned ; his sobriety could not always be counted upon, and when h^ had taken too much wine, he was obstreperous, and could not be easily guided. On the stage he was wonderful ; in the parlour doubtful, and sometimes dangerous. His company was in consequence not much sought for, and on the stage alone it was allowed that he was most desirable. On the 11th of May 1802, he first disappointed the London audience, by one of those unfortunate relapies of his early habit, now become inveterate, to which we have so often alluded. The play was Alfonso, in which he had undertaken the part of Orsino, and it was a benefit-night. He came upon the stage, attempted to perform, was hissed, and ultimately obliged to retire. The event was long obviously inevitable ; for although from his first appearance, he had, under the influence of resolution, seconded by emulation, preserved the good opinion of the public, the devil was still in Eossession of the stronghold, and the only wonder was that Cooke ad so long withstood the tempter. On the 3rd of June he was in a condition to resume his professional exertions, but he had now passed the hill-top of his hopes and endeavours. He had no higher height to ascend — his descent was rapid, and on the other side, but marked rather by the adventures and follies of occasional convivial indulgence, than by those chances that constitute the better and more interesting part of biography. It is, however, from no lack of materials that I in this manner, perhaps too slightly, regard my subject, for the circumstances of no actor's life have been so well preserved as those of Cooke's from his appearance on the London stage. To these remarks I regret to add u painful fact. On the 20th of April 1803, Cooke took his benefit in London. There is, however, no reason to believe that it was like the other two, free, nor tliat the proceeds from the public were so liberal even as tlio last — a proof that hia estimation wa» fading. In Soptouiber ho returned from his summer excursions and re- GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE. 287 and re- sumed his place at Covent Garden, where Kemble having become a proprietor, he found him there with his superb sister, Mrs. Siddons. It might have been supposed that the population of London would have crowded the house to see Shakespeare illustrated by the acting of such a trio, but it did not take place. It even was ordained for the boy Betty to eclipse all their influence and splendour for a season. The first appearance of Kemble and Cooke on the stage together was on the 3rd of October, when the latter played Gloucester to the Richmond of the former. They both employed their best energies, and were justly rewarded by the plaudits bestowed by the audience. But it must not be omitted that Kemble, in taking the inferior part, evinced, perhaps, as good a knowledge of the world as a conscious- ness of ability, for by so doing he augmented the respect previously entertained for hia character. Three days after, Douglas was per- formed, in which Kemble again took the subordinate part of Old Norval. Cooke was the Glenalvon of the night, and Mrs. Siddons the Lady Randolph. In this way the performances of the season were conducted. The habiliments were of the most gorgeous des- cription, the scenery could not be surpassed, and the propriety of all the incidental decoration nearly perfect, but, notwithstanding, it was not a profitable season. Cooke's benefit for the spring of 1804 was so near a disappointment that ho never took another in London, and his career in private life was become low, ofl^ensive, and violent. On the stage he was several times hissedfor incapable intoxication, and Kemble, by his circumspect behaviour, augmented his superiority. In the meantime, the whole host of the theatre were destined to receive a severe humiliation in the appearance of Master Betty, who was now gradually becoming the idol of the hour. It cannot be disputed that the boy was followed by the fashion more than in consequence of any just discrimination of his merits, and that, although it must be conceded to the mortiQed actors that he was not such a prodigy as his worshippers proclaimed him, he yet served to show the world that, although endowment sometimes raised the player's to an intellectual art, it was in truth but a tyro's study, and required in most cases but the vulgar preparation of mechanical disci- pline. In 1805, Cooke was in all respects, both as a man and a player, as he had been in the preceding year, but his deplorable avidity was becoming stronger and stronger. The year 180G was such another as the last. Cooke does not appear to have been re-engaged at the opening season for 1807. It was commonly supposed that he had gone abroad, but the improvident man had incurred debts, and was either in hiding or in prison. About the end of the year he was set at liberty at Appleby, and little more can be said of him, than that while in continement there, he had kept a journal, if such it may be called, which consisted only of recollections and short notes on the books he then read. From Appleby prison he was liberated by Rock, connected with the theatres of Edinburgh and Glasgow, and made an engagement with him, under which he acted with regularity from 288 II LIVES OF THE FLAYERS. '^ December to July. In these professional engagements there is nothing interesting ; they were each like another. A player's life, when well conducted, affords a few incidents to biography as that of any ordinary man of business ; adventure is seldom on the stretch, or eccentricity on the wing saved difficulty. In 1808 Cooke married again, which is the only event affecting the fortunes of the man, whicli may have been said to have taken place in this year, not distinguished by any uncommon occurrence. In 1809 a cabal, it cannot be called a conspiracy, undoubtedly existed against Cooke among the admirers of John Kemble. Un- doubtedly that person was, in private life, both agreeable and respectable, but it cannot be disputed that he had something of the pedant about him, and that the approbation which awaited him on the stage, was not entirely a tribute to professional excellence. His unblemished honour as a gentleman did much for him, and although it was suspected that he lent his countenance to the detractions of Cooke, every one who knew him in private must have scouted the imputation as a calumny. Indeed, the malice of Cooke's enemies stood not in need of any such encouragement. The admirers of Kemble required nothing more than Cooke's own imprudence to justify their preference. But malignity goes always farther than for its own base purposes it need do ; a mysterious corrective provided by Nature. That Cooke's love of wine impaired his powers, and that he allowed it to grow into an odious habit is true, but I believe it is a received doctrine, that the private conduct of a public person is not a fair subject of public criticism ; certain it is, that Cooke had been once a man of genius, and his infatuation was rather a topic for commiseration than scorn. There are, however, always in the precincts of the playhouse and the booksellers' shop, a race of human creatures who live by misrepresentation, and who cannot discern the distinction between the misrepresentation and criticism ; Cooke had unfortunately, by his infirmitj', which in charity may have been said to have grown to disease, furnished that despicable tribe with the means to injure him with the world. In this year Covent Garden theatre was rebuilt after its destruction by tire, was again opened with a flat prologue, recited by Kemble : and when what was called the O. P. war between the proprietors and the public was put an end to, the business went on as usual. On the errors of Cooke, as they originated in a habit that had now become a vice, it were disagreeable to enlarge. The unfortunate man was every day losing by his behaviour the regard of the London people ; and the daily press, forgetful of its own power and dignity, made itself an agent in the unworthy business of holding him up to public con- tempt. In the year 1810 and on the 5th of Juno, he played Falstaff in tho First Part of Henry IV., and it wjis his last performance in London. Soon after, going to Liverpool, ho fell in there with the manager of the New York theatre, with whom lie entered into an engagement, and embarked for America on the 4th of October, 1810. On tho IGth of November 1810, he arrived at New York, where, on the 2l8t of the same mouth, he made his tivat appearance as Richard III. on the ! GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE. 289 American stage. A vast crowd assembled, great confusion ensued at the theatre, and, to do the inhabitants of that city justice, there was ample anxiety to see him. It is said, that previous to going that night on the stage, he was greatly agitated. He trembled like a novice, and the idea of appearing before a new people, and in a new world, at his advanced life, occupied his whole mind, and tilled him with apprehensions greater than he had experienced when he first acted in London. This was no doubt the truth, for it could not be the effect of pro- fessional deference for the taste of the audience, an unjust detractive spirit existing among many Englishmen with respect to that point. Cooke had, in his own circumstances, obvious causes for dismay and emotion, and it may perhaps be said justly, that they overcame the national disrespect with which the audience is regarded. Though the New York audience may not be always judicious in their criticisms of the players from England, the players tc still less so in their act- ing. In the desire to excel and be distinguished, they all overact, and, if the audience do not ppplaud exactly at the proper place, it is more owing to this cause than to the want of just feeling in the audi- ence. From New York, Cooke went to Boston, where he performed four- teen nights with his wonted success, but with some drawback on the favour of the public, arising from his truly calamitous habit. But I will hasten over these scenes of melancholy prostration. The details are, in themselves, disgusting ; and, considering them as the vice and lapses of a man of genius, they are humiliating to human nature. His American biographer has been, as to his conduct, in my opinion, too minute, but the correctness of his narrative is considered unimpeach- able. The errors of the players, so full of extraordinary occurrences — such pictures at once of high and low human nature — of suflfering and enjoyment, form, after all, a disheartening task. Among the incidents of Cooke's imprudence, adventures occur that both shock and injure, by being mingled with circumstances which should be as seldom as possible disclosed. He had a warm and generous heart in the midst of all his grossness ; and, in some instances, even in the basest intoxication, it shone forth with a beautiful radiance. From New York, after his excursion to Boston, and a second en- gagement had been concluded, he went to Philadelphia. On the eve of his departure, however, he was taken ill, which detained him a short time, but, having recovered, he went forward, and, after sev- eral exhibitions, he again fell ill. It could no longer be disguised from himself or his friends that his constitution was breaking up ; he lingered, however, with occasional lapses, for some time, perform- ing now and then his favourite characters. His last appearance was in New York, as Richard III., on the 20th of March, 1812, and the progress of decay continued with him till the 26th of September, of that year, when he breathed his last. On the following day his re- mains were deposited in St. Paul's churchyard, in Broadway, New York, with all due respect, and with many testimonies of popular homage evinced by the multitude that attended his funeral. 290 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. It cannot be justly said that Cooke was a performer whose talents were in apy degree neglected by the world, although it was late in life before he reached the London stage. He was naturally a man of stronji sense, something of Quin's disposition, but he wanted the gentlemanly propriety of that great performer. He is still consid- ered as having been an ornament to his profession, and is never spoken of without an epithet of admiration for hi^i abilities, and a sigh for his incurable indiscretions. Biography affords few exam- ples of a career more disagreeable than that of Cooke, arising almost entirely from the effects of his fatal indulgence, especially after he went to America. Strange that a man, whose histrionic conceptions were more distingjished for good sense and forcible expression than that of any otlier performer, should have been, in private life, so addicted to wine as to render the word odious not too emphatic a phrase in the description of it. «*i MRS. BADDELEY. " A kind of sleepy Venus seemed Divdft, Yet very fit to murder sleep in those Who gaz'd upon her cheek's transcendent hue, Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose ; Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true. Thinner she might have been and yet scarce lose ; Yet after all 'twould puzzle to say where It would net spoil some separate charm to pare. She was not violently lively, but Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking, Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, ' They put beholders in a tender taking ; She look'd (this simile's quite new,) just cut From marble, like Pygmalion's statue wakmg. The mortal and the marble still at strife, And timidly expanding into life."— Byuon. Such was Mrs. Baddeley, who, if her mind had even in a remote degree possessed any grace comparable to those of her alluring person, would have ranked among the most celebrated women of ancient or of modern times. But the passion of her life was enjoy- naent, and, in all its stages, so unchecked by intellectual considera- tions, that it can only be fitly described by an austere pen. Sophia Snow, her maiden name, was born in 1745, and was the daughter of the Serjeant-trumpeter to King George II. Her educa- tion was genteel, and she was early distinguished for the melody of her voice, the soft delicacy of her beauty, and an indescribable sweetness of manner. Her father saw in her vocal endowments a treasure deserving of the utmost care, and cultivated her taste for music with ardent MRS. BADDELEY. 291 assiduity, but his discipline was severe : perhaps, however, he may have been excited by her inattention, for she was of an easy, indolent, voluptuous nature, and delighted more to indulge in the love-tales of novels, than to study the task of his lessons. His zeal in tuition, and her longing for more pleasureable pastime, led soon to the natural result. At eighteen she eloped with Baddeley, who then belonged to the Drury-Lane co-npany, and soon after, in 1764, when she had become his wife, she made her first appearance on the stage as Cordelia, in Lear, and was received with the loudest applause. Her debut was, however, rendered remarkable by an occurrence which affected the feelings of the audience more than her singular beauty. Never having seen the play, and being requested to read the part in the absence of an actress who was suddenly taken ill, wlien Edgar came upon the stage as mad Tom, his figure and manner gave her such a shock that she screamed in real terror and fainted. This unexpected incident roused the sympathy of all present, and when she recovered, and resumed the performance, she was encouraged to proceed with the most generous plaudits. Her vocal powers were deemed of the highest order, and she was soon engaged as a singer at Vauxhall, and subsequently at Ranelagh, where her salary was twelve guineas a-week. Her forte at the theatre was genteel comedy ; but once, during the illness of Mrs. Barry, she performed the part of Mrs. Beverley in The Gamester, and acquitted herself with more than common ability. At what time her career of shame began admits of no precise proof ; but for the space of three years which she lived with her husband, there was no public impeachment of her character : she, appears, however, before her separation from Baddeley, to have received the visits of dissolute young nobleman, and there is cause to fear that long before she threw herself publicly away, her conduct had not been without some secret stain. Soon after their separation, Mr. and Mrs. Baddeley continued to perform at the same theatre together, without speaking to each other, save in their respective parts : she then squandering character in gay profligacy, and he a calm auditor to the reports of her intrigues. On one occasion, when their Majebuies King George III. and Queen Charlotte, of punctilious memory, were present, Mrs. Baddeley played Fanny in The Clandestine Marriage, and her husband Canton. In the scene where the Swiss exhausts all his adulation to recommend her to Lord Ogleby, their relative situation caused a universal laugh, in which the King and Queen heartily joined. And she was next day honoured with a message from George the Third, desiring her to go to ZofFany, and have her picture taken in the attitude and situation in which she appeared when Fanny joins Canton and Lord Ogleby, and when the application for the man she loves is construed by his Lordship into an amorous solicitation himself. The incident of her picture having been ordered by his Majesty, tended to make her more the fashion, and the prodigality lavished upon her by her admirers, showed the extent to which beauty will seduce its votaries, when celebrity flavours the delicious cup, I 292 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. Among hor numberless suitors was a young nobleman, whose ardour was certainly somewhat of a peculiar taste, for he solicited an interview with her in Henry VII, 's Chapel. His love, however, was rejected, but he presented her with three hundred pounds for her friendship, and they made a moral tour of the Abbey tcigether, and were vastly pleased with the wax-worl;. Subsequently, he became her prodigal protector. Although the life of Mrs. Baddeley was not remarkable for kindly feelings, she was not incapable of attachments, and once when deserted in displeastire by one of her admirers, she swallowed poison, from which she was recovered with difficulty. It is true that she was then deeply in debt, the plagues of which, without the anguish of faithless love, li;ivc broken as tough a heart. There is nothing more remarkable in all the biography of Mrs, Baddeley, than the influence she appears to have possessed among the great, even reaching to public patronage. The same moral laxity, in which it originated, may exist as powerfully in the present time ; perhaps it would be considered affectation to doubt it ; but unques- tionably the age has improved in decorum ; and if we are not more virtuous than our predecessors, more homage is now paid to public opinion. It does not however appear, that she made any sordid trafiic of her patronage, but only occasionally employed it to soften the asperities of misfortune to he^ friends. One part of her conduct was something akin to fatality ; for al- though it may be justly said that she was in the enjoyment of great affluence, yet such was her contempt for fortune, and the prodigality of her expenditure, that she was ever standing on the briuK of want. The slightest indisposition would at any time, in her highest state, have hurled her to beggary. She never appears to have had any thought of to-morrow, for she scattered her money with the most imprudent profusion ; bought dresses and jewels without measure, and bestowed them on her acquaintances so readily as to diminish the value of her recklepi gifts. On one occasion she was advised, for the determination could spring from no motive of her own, to apply to Garrick for an increase of salary j but he refused to comply with her request and in conse- quence she resolved to quit the stage, and in disgust uotually did so for a considerable time. At this period she was under the protec- tion of her Abbey lover, who appears to have really felt uncommon attachment to her, mingled witli vanity, for he supplied her caprice with the most extraordinary liberality. Mrs. Baddeley was only celebrated for beauty and professional talent. She may have been intelligent in other respects, and pos- sessed of conversational graces ; but the fact does not appear ; on the contrary, she seems to have been under the level of most women in understanding. Cunning, however, was deeply ingrained with apparent simplicity, and by it she deceived those who esteemed themselves greatest in hor confidence. Her conduct, when her mother was supposed to be dying, was as heartless as if it had been a tragedy spectacle of the theatre. She Avas at Wv} bedside, all tears- -a very Magdalen — and received the ex- MRS. BADDELEY. 993 whose hortations of her afflicted parent with many penitential promises ; but as Mrs. Snow did not immediately then die she quitted the sick chamber, resumed her profligacy, and, with no syr.ptom of contri- tion, proposed to her female friend that they should go to Paris to sfe the French amusements, and, if possible, to bring over new dresses. This turpitude was of a more offensive hue th?\n either whim or thoughtlessness ; for, notwithstanding the tears and pledges on her knees to her dying mother, the journey was to fulfil a pro- mise she was under at the time to a favourite paramour. He had, however, returned to England before she arrived at Paris ; but nevertheless, as if infected with the volatile genius of the place, slie set herself earnestly to enjoy its pleasures. Immediately the most fashionable shoemaker was summoned, the skotch of whose appearance is au umusing picture of the Parisian niE.nners of that period. He was dresaed in the highe,' t stylo of the mode, in a suit of black silk, with a cocked-hat under his arm, his hair superbly magnified with frizzle and powder, and his thigh sus- taining a courtier's sword. This phenomenon, common to Paris in those days, was rendered complete, when, after performing his con- gees, he called in his servant, who attended with a silk bag of shapes and patterns, to display the glory of his art. Another of her Parisian adventuies had true comedy in it, and might be worked into an agreeable fa.-ce. After viewing the por- celain manufacture at Sevre, she stoppgd at tije inn for dinner, at which two daughters of the landlady attended. It was soon observed that one of them eyad the female companion of Mrs. Baddeley in a particular manner, in consequence of taking it into her head, that because she was dresaed in a riding-habit she was a gentleman in disguise. Mrs. Baddeley humoured her fancy, and said, " If not engaged, this friend of mine, who has dressed himself like a woman, is so much in love with you, that I don't know what will be the consequence." The simple girl replied, that she had never before seen a man she could make choice of. The companion assured her that she was indeed a woman, but Mrs. Baddeley contradicted her ; and when she retired to her chamber, the silly maiden, in the plainest terms, and with the utmost naivete', declared how much she was dying with love ; saying, that [she might be little esteemed for declaring her passion, but she was unable to conceal it, and would follow her to the world's end. Mrs. Baddeley came into the roonj and insisted that the girl should be made happy ; the landlady also came in, and approving the choice, told them that her daughter had a pretty fortune, and would make a good wife for any man ; upon which the enamoured damsel threw her arms round the neck of her adored, and began to weep, and kiss, and fondle over her. As Mrs. Baddeley found it would be necessary to stop for the night, to keep up the farce she ordered in her hearing two bed- rooms, and when her companion went to take possession of hers, she found the demoiselle secreted there : this brought on the denoue- ment. Aft<'V having indulged herself with all tlie sights worth seeing 294 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. within fifty miles of Paris^ Mrs. Baddeley left that city on her return to London. In the course of the journey to Calais, as she travelled night and day, she and her friend were often a good deal intimidated by the innkeepers, who would have induced tliem to stay at their housed for the night ; but in despite of all the frightful tales of many robberies, they still hastened on. One night, however, they were pursued by two horsemen ; they ordered their drivers to mend their pace, — the horsemen bellowed stop, stop ! — the drivers hastened forr. ard, their attendants seized their pistols, and the ladies took one each, determi.Viis supported by tlju weekly contributions of tho players. 296 LIVES OF THE PLA YERS. MISS FARREN. iij The materials for the life of this elegant lady are few, and except in one incident not remarkable. Her memory, however, ought to be cherished among the players, not so much on account of her eminence in the profession, as for the example she sets in the propriety of her conduct, which, notwithstanding all the temptations that surrounded her, was so unblemished as to make her elevation to an ancient coronet seem almost a becoming reward. But, perhaps, it belongs to the merits of her character, that her career, though one of the most dis- tinguished, has been so free of adventure. The life of an actor, after reputation has been established, flows on in an unvaried tenour, save when native eccentricity impels to deviation. Miss Farren was born in 1759. Her father was a surgeon and apothecary in Cork, and her moilier the daughter of a brewer in Liverpool. There was, therefore, nothing in the circumstances of her birth particularly calculated to produce that ease, grace, and delicacy for which she was afterwards justly celebrated. They were, like the brilliancy of Mrs. WoflSngton, natural gifts polished by cor- rect taste, and regulated by good sense and discernment. Her early domestic circumstances were indeed unfavourable to the acquisition of elegance, and it must ever be ascribed both to talent and judg- ment that she rose so beautifully above them — for the habits of her father were low and irregular, and had it not been for the exertions of her mother, and the assistance occasionally received from her relations, the condition of the family must have been wretched in the extreme. Although the world possesses no record of the diflBculties which clouded the morning of Miss Farren's life, they were of a kind easily conceived. Penury blew blightingly, and grief at the sight of a parent, often deformed by dissipation, and yet in other moments exhibiting qualities entitled to love and esteem, darkened the aspect of her future fortunes. She was very young when she made her first appearance on the stage. It was at Liverpool, in 1773, in the character of Rosetta, in the comic opera of Love in a Village, but, although then only in her fifteenth year, she gave such promise of excellence, that she almost immediately became a favourite with the public, and afterwards, with increasing estimation, acted at Shrewsbury, Chester, and those other towns which then constituted the orbit of the Liverpool company. Younger, the manager, was an old and expci onced veteran; he saw, from the first night, that Miss Farren was destined to attain distinction in her profession, and assisted her studios, and watched over her with parental solicitude. In 1777, he advised her to seek her fortune in London, and gave hor an introduction to the elder Colman, at whose theatre in the Haj market she soon after appeared, on the 10th of June, as Miss Hardcastlo, in She Stoops to Conquer.* • Edwin and Henderson also appiuirod on the same night. MISS FABEEN. It is not a part that was exactly suited to the display of her peculiar excellencies^ but she nevertheless accquitted herself so well in it that the newspaper critics described her performance as not unworthy of the great theatres. Her person was thin, genteel, and above the middle stature ; her countenance expressive, and full of of sensibility ; her voice clear, but rather sharp and unvaried ; her action not awkward, and her delivery emphatic and distinct. " When," says the critic of the day, "Miss Farren learns to tread the stage with more ease, to modulate and vary her voice ; to correct, in pirit, and regulate her action ; and to give a proper utterance to her feelings, by a suitable expression of voice and countenance, in our opinion she will be a most valuable acquisition to our London theatres." Considering the haste in which the morning criticisms on the theatres are written, and the little time allowed to solicit the fittest phrase to convey the degree of merit that the critics would express, it is still sufficiently obvious that her first appearance must have been highly satisfactory to the public, and encouraging to herself. But the true bent of her talents was not at the time perceived, and was rather a disclosure by accident to herself, the managers and the audience. In the winter she accepted an offer from Covent Garden, but she did not greatly increase her fame there ; for the managers placed her in tragedy, where, though her taste and good sense allowed no failure, she yet could achieve nothing beyond respectable mediocrity. At Drury Lane theatre she, however, found her proper stage, to which she soon after removed, but still as a tragic actress, till accident brought her into her destined sphere. It happened that Mrs. Abington, the delight of the town in her particular range of character, went to Covent Garden, and the pro- prietors selected Miss Farren to fill her place. The choice at the time was deemed hazardous to the fame of the lady. The public had previously entertained great hopes of her, and it was on that an- ticipation that she had been selected ; but Mrs. Abington was so established in the parts that Miss Farren was called on to supply, that they were in a great measure considered as peculiarly her own : a circuujstance that exposed her acting to a severe test, placing her, a novice, in comparison w' .i oi who to great natural excellence added long experience ; n^ ?:'.e withstood the ordeal. Parsons, who had the tact to discover her true merit, advised her to make her experiment in the rivalry, with Lady Townley ; and so complete was her success that the performance was not only crowned with great Rpphuiao, but procured her the acquaintance of many of the most respectable in the fashionable circles. In the style of her acting as Lady Townley I have been often ansurod that she atJorded a very fascinating representation of a thoughtless liidy of quality, whose real virtues were disguised by follies carelessly aspumed. It was marked with even more delicacy than Mrs. Abington had been able to show in any of her performan- ces, and in this respect finely presented a gentlewoman of the same nature, but in the opinion of the public more refined. Her talents were perhaps, however, luss versatile, and after having seen her in 298 LtVES Of THE PLAYEHS. all those different characters, in which she was deemed happiest, the conclusion was general that although Lady Townley was not her most pleasing personation, it was the part in which her art and en- dowment were best shown. The public preferred her Lady Teazle, and it appears that it must have been distinguished by some superior charm ; but I have been told by good judges that it was in several points not so appropriate in manner as the performance of Mrs. Jordan. Those of that opinion regarded it as too much of the fine lady, and defective in those little points and sparkles of rusticity, which are still by the philosophical critics supposed to mark the country education of the fascinating heroine. She was as the camelia of the conservatory — soft, beautiful, and delicate : and Mrs. Jordan's as the rose of the garden sprinkled with dew. It cannot be disputed, from all I have been ever able to learn res- pecting the style of Miss Farren, that, although it was superior, in- deed, of its kind, her talents were of very limited scope. In the ladies of comedy she had no competitor ; they were, however, all much alike, and equally remarkable for that sensitive delicacy which may be said to have been her distinguishing characteristic ; in other parts, though always respectable, she could never exhibit any thing like the splendour which fascinated in her proper walk. She had not been long on the London stage when, by the propri- ety of her private conduct, and the gracefulness of her professional merit, she was invited to distinguished parties in fashionable life, where she attracted the attention of the Earl of Derby. The domestic circumstances of his Lordship rendered a union impossible so long as the Countess lived, and the profession and origin of Miss Farren might have rendered, therefore, a liaison between them not offensive in the eyes of many in the world. But not a whisper of scandal was breathed upon their intimacy. His Lord- ship, on the contrary, discovered that the more he knew of her she better deserved his esteem, and they judiciously placed a restraint on their mutual passion by never being seen together ex- cept in the presence of a third party. At length the Countess of Derby, who had lived long separate from her lord, died, and the way being thus cleared for Miss Farren, she took leave of the public at Drury Lane on the 7th of April, 1797, as Lady Teazle in The School for Scandal, and, on the 8th of May follow- ing, was married to the Earl by special licence, at his Lordship's mansion in Grosvenor Square. With this event her biography, according to the plan of this work, should conclude, but it would look like stinted praise to amiable merit were it omitted to be men- tioned that, in real dignity, she conducted herself as elegantly deserv- ing of admiration, as in the mimic scene. Queen Charlotte, the most rigid discriminator of female worth, received lier with marks of special recognisance, and it must be regarded as a peculiar honour, conferred for the blamelessness of her professional life, that she was selected to make one in the procession at the marriage of the Princess Royal. She did not succumb to the hand of death till after having long enjoyed the distinctions and opulence of her rank.* * Considering the tone of approbation in which tlic foregoing sketch hns been expressed, it is perhaps necessary to mention tliat I have peruscil witli attention MliS. JOllDAN. 299 MRS. JORDAN. MB It is impossible to think of this lady without pleasure, or to read her story without pity. The name by which she became so celebrated was assumed ; her real name was Dorothy Bland, and it is conjectured that she was bom in Waterford, about the year 1762. In 1777, she made her first appearance on the stage in Dublin, as Miss Francis, under the management of Ryder, in the Phebe oi As Yon lAke It; but it was not till the next season, when engaged with his rival Daly, that her theatrical career properly began. She was taken by him to Cork, in her seventeenth year and though not eminent for great beauty, was much admired for an archness of manner even more winning. The playhouse happened that season not to be popular, and, on her benefit, the audience was so thin, that the young men present insisted that she should be favoured with another night, which being granted, they exerted themselves so well in the disposal of tickets, that the result far exceeded her expectations : an inciient which sufficiently proves that her talents, and the charm of her delightful and sportive simplicity, were even then so obvious as to be deemed entitled to encourageirient. It was not, however, till July 1782, that INIrs. Jordan came to Leeds in England, where she arrived witn her mother, brother, and sister. Tate Wilkinson was manager, and in Mrs. Bland, the mother, he discovered a lady who had performed Desdemona with himself at Dublin twenty-four years before. He, in consequence of that circumstance, rejoiced to see them, and inquired of our heroine whether her line was tragedy, comedy, or opera, and was exceedingly astonished when answered "all." After some conversation, he formed an engagement with her, and, on the 11th of July 1782, she was put up for Calista in The Fair Penitent. Wilkinson, during their first interview, had detected no comic symptom about her ; but the melody of her voice, in a few lines which she repeated of that part, deeply affected his feelings, and he poured out his praise of the truth and nature with which she had comprehended their sentiment, with no stinted applause. Besides the tragic part of Calista, it was announced in the bills that she would sing the song of The Greenwood Laddie, but, on the night of her appearance, she was listened to with so much attention during the tragedy, that he became apprehensive at the ludicrous the Memoirs of Lady Derby, jmblished under Uie signature of Petronius Arbiter, and that, although the author has Indulged himself in ill-natured and envious satire, ho has not found that his malice could impute worse to her than original jioverty. The biographical sketch, in reply to tliat sordid attack, contradicts M(Miio of the alleged calumny ; but no contradiction was necessary, except on the imputed ingratitude to Mr. Younger of Liverpool, and that has been eftectually proved to have been an invention. Doubtless the elevation to which she had raised herself in private society may have made her fastidious towards some of the players, and provoked tattle and enmity ; but the decorum with which she uphold her rank as a Countess goes far to prove the solid worth of her character. 300 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. idea of Calista rising from the dead and rushing before the audience to sing a ballad which nobody cared about ; his apprehensions, how- ever, were of short duration, when she jumped on the stage with her elastic spring, in a frock and mob-cap, and, with her voice and smile fascinated the audience. From Leeds she proceeded with Wilkinson to York. It was then the race-week, when the theatre is always well attended, and an opportunity was offered her of playing Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp, before William Smith of Drury Lane. Smith was warm- hearted and gentlemanly, and when he discovered merit was not slow in communicating to others the impression he had received from it. He both wrote and spoke of Mrs. Jordan's talents with enthusiasm, insomuch that Wilkinson became alarmed lest he should be obliged to part with his *' treasure." From York she went with the company round their circuit, in the course of which the manager thought that Sheffield might merit a visit, although of late that town had shown a ruinous indifference to theatrical exhibitions ; accordingly, they went also thither, and her reputation was considerably increased by her unabated endeavours tu attain excellence. The company then travelled to Kingston-upon-HuU, where, by the end of the year, her talents so highly excited the envy of her stage sisters, that they began to insinuate detraction against her private conduct insomuch that her reception was very chilling ; but when it became known that her manners were decorous, and her diligence extraordinary, she was fully received into favour, and her benefit flatteringly attended. In 1783 she appeared for the first time in a male part, William, in the pleasing opera of Rodna, though with ^clat, not probably with that warmth of applause which she subsequently received in it ; for a country audience, in these transformations, is generally more fastidious than a metropolitan. During the spring meeting at York, the jealousy of the female performers often annoyed her, particularly a Mrs. Ward, a com- petitor with her in male parts. This lady was at the head of the spiteful, who placed themselves at the stage-doors, and with all their ingenuity endeavoured to disturb the self-possession of Mrs. Jordan while acting. In this envious cruelty they persevered so long that at last she affected to be exceedingly distressed by the annoyance, and intreated the sympathy of the audience by the appearance she assumed. This led to inquiries, and, in the end, the malignants were scattered from their post. At this period there was a Mrs. Brown in the company, possessed of great comic talent, who in her range of characters acted the Country Girl in such a manner as to attract the particular attention of Mrs. Jordan, who till then was unacquainted with the part. Those who recollect the rich excellence and artlessness with which she afterwards performed this character, will readily acknowledge that the conception of it must have been truly her own, but detrac- tion has ascribed her grace and na'ivetd in it to an imitation of Mrs. Brown, — as if that could be called an imitation which fur transcended MRS. JORDAN. 301 the original. The elastic step, artless action, the sincere laugh, and, if the expression may be used, the juicy tones of her clear and melodious voice, so peculiar to Mrs. Jordan, could never have been attained by studying any other. The manner in which she used to pronounce the single word " ecod ! " was as if she had taken a mouthful of some ripe and delicious peach. In 1786, Mrs. Jordan was engaged for Driiry Lane theatre, and it is said that previous to her leparture from Tate Wilkinson's company she evinced a degree of chagrin at something in her situation with it, which often betrayed her into spirits of petulance at variance with the wonted tenour of her excellent temper, insomuch that it tended to deteriorate the favour which she had enjoyed with the public, and in consequence her benefit at Leeds was very thinly attended. Mrs. Siddons, who saw her while this mood was on her, formed no very elevated idea of her powers, and thouglit she was better where she was than to venture on the London boards. Her last performance with Wilkinson's company was at Wakefield, on Friday September, 9, 1786, as Patrick in The Poor Soldier, after which she proceeded to fulfil her London engagement, and, it is said, diffident of success ; indeed, it would seem that she had still no reason to be otherwise, for, whatever might be her own consciousness of ability, her success in the country had not been eminently triumphant, as hev salary, which was only four pounds per week, sufficiently proves. On the 18th of October 1786, she made her appearance in The Country Girl. " She came to town," says Mrs. Inchbald, " with no report in her favour to elevate her above a very moderate salary, or to attract more than a very moderate house when she appeared. But here moderation stopped. She at once displayed such consummate art with such bewitching nature, such excellent sense, and such innocent simplicity, that her auditors were boundless in their plaudits, and so warm in their praises when they left the theatre, that their friends at home would not give credit to the extent of their eulo- giums." Such is the account of Mrs. Jordan's first .ppearance in the metropolis, and perhaps no actress ever excited so much true laughter as this delightful lady in the course of her subsequent career. Her second part was Viola, in The Twelfth Night, which she acted on the 11th of November 1785. Her merit in this very different character from Peggy was unquestionably of as high an order, but it was of that kind which is more frequently exhibited, and though requiring equal judgment, stands less in need of peculiar endowment. To Viola succeeded Iiiiogen, in C\i'nbdinc, a part of the same genus, and although it never admitted of a question that in these delicate characters Mrs. Jordan shone with unrivalled excellence, yet the taste of the town took more to her comic vein ; nor is this to be much wondered at, for, in the representations on the stage, a farce somehow affords more pleasure, though of a different kind, than even Macbeth ; and the same thing often happens in literature ; authors of very paltry powers are frequently raised for a time to great popularity, while those of far higher genius are allowed to pine in neglect. Milton was a century in coming to his fame as a poet. 20 7-1 302 LIVES OP THE PLAYERS, In the course of the season Mrs. Jord .n had so fully established herself in the good graces of the Londoi audience, that her salary was doubled, and two benefits allowed her. When the season was over, she returned to Leeds, thinking it not improbable that Wilkin- son, now that she had stood the ordeal of London, would entreat her to act. On the night of her arrival she went to the theatre, and was recognised with pleasure by the audience, and between the play and farce went down to the green-room and made her compliments to her former associates. Afterwards, as she had anticipated, the manager solicited her to act for a single night, dividing the profits with her, after deducting fifteen pounds for the expenses. In this he acted with commendable liberality, for he did not expect any great profit ; he remembered that the Leeds people had enjoyed or neglected her for four summers, and had not distinguished her farewell benefit by any particular patronage. But Fashion had worked a mighty change; though Mrs. Jordan was still only the same, the test of London had determined her value, and the Leeds public longed to see the actress who was now found inestimable, but whom so few months before they had regarded as but little worthy of their esteem. On the 2l8t of June she performed in The Country Girl, and the house overflowed before the play began : no less than seven rows of the pit were laid into boxes. It is this uncertainty in the favour of the public that deprives their applause of half its value. Mrs. Jordan could not but rejoice in the profits of her performance ; if she had any gratification in the plaudits of the crowd, it must have partaken of a vindictive sentiment, such as the injured feel when they obtain justice. From Leeds she proceeded to York, where she again performed her most celebrated parts, but not with such decided success as she expected : for Mrs Siddons, who was to succeed her, was there the favourite. But on going North, to Edinburgh, her reception was all she could desire, and in taking her benefit she evinced her gratitude by reciting a poetical address of her own composition, easy and fluent in the verse, and rather, perhaps, above the ordinary chiming of such sort of stage stratagems. She thence proceeded to Glasgow, where she was also welcomed with much distinction ; indeed, to do the play-goers of that city justice, they on this occasion shewed some- thing of classic taste mingled with a little jealousy of their Edinburgh neighbours. They presented her with a gold medal with an inscrip- tion, as Mr. Boaden says, not badly twined, and transmitted it with a single line of admiration and jealousy. tt, TO MR3. JORDAN. " MADAM, '* AccEFT this trifle from the Glasgow audience, who are as great admirers of genius as the critics of Edinburgh." The inscription on tlie medal was allusive to the Glasgow arms, a tree, &c. •• Bays from our tree you could not gather No branch of it deserves the name ; So take it all, call it a feather, And place it iu your cap of fame." MRS. JORDAN. 308 rms, a This is certainly not very perspicuous, and needs a note to explain it, but the conceit of honouring a distinguished pubUc person with a medal had something elegant in it. She then returned to Drury Lane theatre, and her regular career now commenced. Her life falling into the routine of her profession, fur a long time afforded few incidents into which the public could have any legitimate authority to pry. In the summer (1787), she again made another professional tour northward, and during the three nights she performed at Leeds her success was as brilliant as on the single night on which she acted there the preceding 3'ear. But considering her now at the summit of her profession it is not my intention to be more circumstantial. Those who recollect her prime must acknowledge that in several favourite parts she has never had any competitor that could in the remotest degree be compared with her. In her peculiar comic style there was the strongest stamp of what is called genius that can well be imagined ; it was emphatically natural, but such nature as is only rarely seen, and yet it was altogether art — consummate art. To compare Mrs. Jordan's merits with those of Mrs. Siddons, if poetical supremacy must be awarded to deliberate grandeur and solemnity of the latter, the former must still be allowed to have been in her own walk equally great, though the greatness was of a different kind. In the performance of Mrs. Siddons' the spectator sat asto- nished, and at her occasional bursts of glorious passion expressed to his neighbour wonder and delight ; but no one had ever that per- ception of art who saw Mrs. Jordan in her favourite characters : no one ever felt that he beheld reality in Mrs. Siddons, but something more sublime, — the poetry of human nature ; and yet in the midst of an enjoyment equally refined, it woa impossible ever to imagine that the acting of her winning contemporary was the effect of assumed feelings and artificial impulses. It was the perfect manner in which Mrs. Jordan inhaled the spirit of her part that h-^r inimi- table power of delighting consisted. The progress of Mrs. Jordan in her profession was marked in Yorkshire with less approbation than in any other part of the king- dom, and perhaps it was owing to her having discerned the indiffer- ent judgment exercised by the audiences there, that caused her to regard her first departure for London with that distaste against them which has been ah-eady noticed. It is said that at one time she felt her insensibility so strongly that she declared she never would act again among them. Whether this coldness on their part arose from any general carelessness about dramatic entertainments, or particular feeling towards her, might be susceptible of question, had not Mrs. Siddons observed in her own case the same thing as a common attendant on acting in the country. "Acting Isabella, for instance," said she, " out of London, is double fatigue ; there the loud and long applause at the great points and striking situations invigorated the system, and the time it occupied recruited the health and nerve. A cold, respectful, and hard audience chills and deadens an actress, and throws her back upon herself ; whereas the warmth of approba- tion confirms her in the character, and she kindles with the enthu- siasm she feels around." 304 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. This is no doubt true : it has been often observed that the pkyers do not perform so well to thin audiences as when the theatre is full ; but I am inclined to think that the cursory inspection of the merits of Mrs. Jordan in Yorkshire was not altogether owing to this cause, but had something of a speciality of taste in it. They preferred the courtly style of Miss Farren; which, with all its elegance, was of a far lower kind than the playful buoyancy of Mrs. Jordan's : a circumstance which suggests, as a conjecture, that they were in those days, probably inferior in taste to many other parts of the country where there is alike less opulence and fewer pretensions to fashion. It may not, in fact, however have been so, but the admiration of attitudinarian gracefulness has long been regarded as the mintage of rank by those who do not consider that it is only an acquirement impressed by education to conceal some natural deficiency ; at least, the high and low vulgar have ever a notion that the visible touch of the dancing-master is necessary to authenticate polite manners, and to verify the true demeanour of fashionable life. They cannot imagine that all the real difference between a good and bad manner consists in the former being only more gentle and more guarded in the disclosure of common feelings. The hoyden tickling of propriety, which Mrs. Jordan in her romping so felicitously practised, was among the extremest e Mies of a happy nature, and in its essence as pure as the graces tnat were deemed more genteel. Had the effervescence of her familiarity been stronger, it might have offended delicacy, but its joyous sparkling only increased the aroma. In 1790, when she formed her domestic connexion with the Duke of Clarence, she was considerably annoyed at the strictures of the newspapers on that circumstance, for by the dint of their endeavours to represent her as losing her respect for the public in consequence of private blandishments, a very strong feeling was excited. On the 10th of December 1790 this was so obviously the case, that when she came on the stage the displeasure was manifest, but she advanced to the front and intrepidly said to the audience : — " Ladies and Gentlemen, " I should conceive myself utterly unworthy of your favour, if the slightest mark of public disapprobation did not affect me very sensibly. " Since I have had the honour and the happiness to strive here to please you, it has been ray constant endeavour, by unremitting assiduity, to merit your approbation. I beg leave to assure you, upon my honour, that I have never absented myself one minute from the duties of my profession but from real indisposition ; thus having invariably acted, I do consider myself under the public protection." The force of manner in which this was delivered, and the style in which she resumed her character in the play, produced all the effect that could have been desired, and from that time her domestic situation was not adverted to as a cause to annoy her in her profession. The incident is, however, curious, as affording a trait of the personal energy of her character more decisive than any other hitherto mentioned ; for she was naturally nervous and \ t , MRS. JORDAN. 305 111 ing a than B and even timid, until actually before the audience on the stage. It might, therefore, have been supposed that in this little scene she would have been incapable of such self-possession ; she appears, how- ever, to have enjoyed great moral courage, and to have possessed re- sources in it that qualified her to withstand the shocks of adversity with firmness and resolution. In her feelings Mrs. Jordan was warm and generous ; in those ex- hibitions of the theatre, given to assist individual distress, and to aid the families of the sailors who suffered in the great sea-fights, her assistance was ever ready. An anecdote of her private charity possesses both beauty and character. When at Chester a widow was thrown into prison by a creditor for a small debt, which, with ex- penses, amounted to eight pounds ; this Mrs. Jordan paid. On the afternoon of the same day the poor woman was liberated, and as her benefactor was taking her usual walk, the widow with her children followed, and just as Mrs. Jordan had taken shelter in a porch from a shower of rain, dropped on her knees in gratitude to thank her. The children, beholding the emotion of their mother, by their cries made the scene so affecting, that Mrs. Jordan, unable to control her feelings, stooped to kiss the children, and slipping a pound note into the mother's hand requested, in her usual playful manner, that she would go away. Another person, who had taken shelter under the porch and wit- nessed the transaction, came forward and said, "Lady, pardon the freedom of a stranger, but would to the Lord the world were all like thee ! " His figure bespoke his calling, and she immediately retreated a little, and said, " No, I won't shake hands with you ! " "Whyl" " Because you are a Methodist preacher, and when you know who I am you'll send me to the devil." "The Lord forbid ! I am, as you say, a preacher of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, who tells us to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and relieve the distressed ; and do you think I can behold a sister fulfil the commands of my Great Master without feeling that spiritual attachment which leads me to break through worldly cus- toms, and offer you the right hand of frier.dship and brotherly love ]" " Well, you are a good old soul, I dare say, but I don't like fana- tics, and you'll not like me when I tell you who I am." " I hope I shall." "Well, then, I am a player." The preacher sighed. " Yes, I am a player, and you must have heard of me, — Mrs. Jor- dan is my name." After a short pause he again extended his hand, and, with a com- plaisant countenance, replied : — "The Lord bless thee, whoever thou art ! His goodness is un- limited. He has bestowed on thee a large portion of his spuit ; and, as to thy calling, if thy soul upbraid thee not, the Lord forbid that I should ! " Thus reconciled, and the rain abated, they left the porch : the 30G LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. offer of his arm was accepted, and they proceeded arm-in-arm to- gether ; at parting, the preacher shook hands with her, saying :— " Fare thee well, sister ; I know not what tlie principles of people of thy calling may be ; thou art the first I ever conversed with ; but, if their benevolent practices equal thine, I hope and trust at the great day iho Ahnighty will say to each, 'Thy sins are forgiven thee.' " The education of Mrs. Jordan appears to have been bestowed on a better soil than is common to the ladies of tlio stage, whoso literary attainments are rarely remarkable. That she possessed a vivid zest for poetry may be naturally concluded from the taste she evinced in the selection of such gentle parts as Viola and Imogen ; but she also wrote verses with facility, and sometimes with a glow of sentiment that was often elegant and almost poetical. Whether, however, her pen ever aspired to greater things than occasional lines, does not seem to be determined, but, from those she has written, there can be no doubt that she was capable of higher flights and more considerable ett'usions. From 1809 to 1811, it was publicly alleged that the circumstances of thc» Duke of Clarence were embarrassed, and also that his connexion wikh Mrs. Jordan was no loiger productive of that felicity which had once rendered it a topic of admiration, but it has since been ascertained that the former allegation was grossly exaggerated, and that the latier was untrue. Why, then, it may be asked, did they separate ? To this question I presume not to offer an answer, but I am inclined to tliink th.at the cause may, perhaps, be found in the state of the Royal family. With, therefore, no other grounds for conjecture, I imagine that the separ-ition was dictated by state policy, for, notwithstanding the numerous family of George 111. the prospect of male heirs from him to the crown was exceedingly r^oubtful, and, in proportion to the uncertainty, it is natural to suppose that the family may have become anxious for the marriage of the Piinces. I do not, however, insist on this notion, but it appears as likely to have been the real cause of the separation, as many of the absurd and unjust tales industriously published at the time concerning it. I ground my opinion on the siuqde fact there was no quarrel between the parties when the separ- ation did take place ; on the contrary, the Duke himself communi- cated to Mrs. Jordan the painful intelligeuiie of the necessity by which he wao constrained. In all things he has acted towards herself and their mutual family with exemplary liberality, and it is under- stood, that he still cherished her memory with esteem and affection. Moreover, I confess myself one of those who do not think that the close of Mrs. Jordan's life was at all of that destitute kind which the world has been malignantly taught to believe. The disease of which this fascinating woman died, on the 3rd of July ISlfi, was itself of a kind calculated to produce excessive misery of mind in its progress, and the condition in which it niay bo said to have found her, was not only of hor own choice but the result of advice. To her family, tlio i'ei)orts abroad concerning her end uuift have been most atHioting, and yet it is impossible to discover in the real circumstances aught that ehouk] have wounded their feelings, or excited the sens 'ty JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE. 307 to- public. The tiUo, however, is a ravelled skein, and it has been doubly entangled by misrepresentation. Yet, in its leading circumstances, it possesses this redeeming quality, that she herself never complained of any injurious treatment from the Duke, but only from her own friends ; nor did she conceive herself placed in such distress as to preclude the hope of being soon released from her difficulties. She died, it is true, in an unhappy crisis of her affairs, but the embarrass- ment was not of such a kind as might have not been, in a short time, surmounted. More of calamitous accident certainly mingled with her latter days than might have been anticipated from her uniform train of good fortune, but still she can in no respect be considered as unfortunate, for though her lot, in the end, was embittered by mischances, over which no prudence could exerciao a decided control, her greatest error was owing to her own easy good-nature and had its origin in kindness. All that related to herself was frank and above board, insomuch that her feminine frailties partook of the character oif virtues ; and it cannot be said that she was defective in more than one feminine grace, whilst she possessed many charms which those, proud of that solitary ornament, are often unambitious to acquire. In a word, she lived in a flutter, and died in vexation, but her life was untarnished as an actress by any extraordinary sorrow or stain. Independent of her histrionic merits, Mrs. Jordan was justly entitled to be regarded as possessing great general talent. I have already mentioned her literary attainments ; but it is chiefly to the stamina of her understanding that I allude. Though of an easy nature, and too prone to coniide in those for whom she cherished friendship or esteem, she yet lossessed no ordinary discernment in business. Tate Wilkinson says of her, in 1700, that, " at making a bargain, Mrs. Jordan is too many for the cunningest devil of us all." Nor ought I to omit, in summing up her character, when reflecting on the rank and consideration to which her family has been raised, that he also was prophetically happy in calling her " the lucky child of Fortune, lulled, caressed, and nursed in the lap of Nature." JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE. Thk Kemblo dynasty is one of the most illustrious that has ever oc- cupied the mimic throne. It succeeded the Cihber, but, in proportion as the genius of Mrs. Siddons excelled that of old Colley, so has the renown of lier hou.so transoendod not only that of his, but of every other which the annals of the stage record. Next to the arch- enjprcsa*' of the dranui, her brother, John Philip, is the most distin- guished of all the histrionic princes of their lino. Ho was born at Proscot, in Lancashire, on the 1st of February 1757. His father being the manager of a respectable provincial company, * Au ciiithot given by tho Uussiuus to Calliuviuo II, 308 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. he was early introduced on the stage. On the 12th of February 1767, he performed at Worcester the part of the Duke of York, in Havard's Charles the First, a tragedy which, at that time, was not only popular but celebrated for its allectiny pathos. How it should ever have been alleged that the father of Kemble never intended the stage for his profession is of no importance to ascertain ; in no other would he havo been more eminent, and certainly his introduction up(m the boards, at the age of ten, justilies the supposition that, if he had not been intended for a phiyor, it was a strange oversight to awaken his dramatic taste so early. From Worcester, where he attended a prepai-atory school, he was sent to the Roman Catholic chan^-able seminary at yedgeley-pavk to complete his education, and he distinguished himself thei-e by his diligence and proliciency, insomuch that it was resolved to send him to the English college at Douay, to qualify him for the church. At Douay he acquired, besides the reputation of being a good scholar, distinction as a reciter of English poetry, and endeared himself to his companions by accepting the task of getting by heart two books of Homer, which had been imposed on his class as a vica- rious atonement for some indiscretion. Uut, although his appear- ance at college was unquestionably highly to his credit, his mind had no inclination to the Churcl' ; all his views and hopes were directed to the theatre, and accordingly, when ho returned to Eng- land, ha made his tirst professional lippeai'ance on the 8th of Jan- uary, 1776, as Theodosius, at Wolverhampton. There is no reason to believe thai, \i\ the beginning of his career, Kemb'e was particularly eminent ; but Boaden derides the attempts that have been made to attacli to his history some of the old estab- lished anecdotes and expedients which tradition has amusingly ascribed to other ^ Hyers. He mentions, however, that while Kemble wns little more than twenty, ho had produced some dramatic pieces, subsequently played at York, T,ivorpool, and Edinburgh, and delivered lectures upon oratory, sacred and profane, circumstances which uufficiently of themselves show n desire to acmhle ! Kemble brought out an alteration of The Comedy of Errors, in which, with some whimsicality, he puzzled the audience, as well as the dramatis porsonie, by making the two Dromios black-a-moors ; as if the humour of the piece did not depend on the audience being always sensible of the difference between them. The fame of Kemble was now beginning to reach London ; for, independent of his dramas, whicli, however, were not brilliant, his lectures on oratory served to obtain for hinv the respect of many witliin the Y(»rk district of theatres, who went not to the play- houses. I 310 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. In 1781, he performed Puff in The Critic, at Edinburgh, and after- wards he accei ted an engagement at Dublin. Mrs. Jordan was then in the Irish metropolis, and known to the playgoers as Miss Francis ; but all the party then in Dublin were eclipsed by Kemble. From Dublin he went to Cork, where his reception was less splendid ; the Corkers disputed the taste of the capital, and judged for themselves. He thenci proceeded to Limerick, and in October 1782 returned to Dublin ; but it was not until the summer of the following year that the superiority of his merit was determined by his being brought into comparison with Mrs. Siddons. It was in this season that Miss Philips, afterwards the celebrated Mrs. Crouch, came to Dublin. Kemble became mxich attached to her, and would have married her had she permitted. The news- papers, however, which have at all times so much to say of the players that one is apt to imagine they are in their pay, had a great deal to do about this matter, and, among other things, gossipped till they were tired about an anecdote which must not be omitted. Kemble and Miss Philips were at Cork, and he was intrusted by her father, who was ill of the gout, to see her home at night from the theatre till he should get better. One evenini;, some young officers of the garrison wishing to assume the honour, besieged her dressing-room door ; she refused to go with them, but they would not leave the house without her. Kemble took his sword, and passing through them said, " Gentleman, Mr. Philips, who is confined by illness, has requested me to conduct his daughter from the theatre ; and as gentlemen I trust you will not molest her, for, be assured, T will maintain the trust reposed in me." After delivering this heroical speech, he then called to her that her father would be anxious for htr leturn ; she at length ventured forth, but, seeing tlie officers, she would agp'a have retired ; Kemble, however, caught hold of her, and with his wonted solemnity and in his best buskins, said, " Be under no apprehension, I am resolved to protect you ; if any gentleman is dissatisfied with my behaviour, I will meet him, if he pleases, to-morrow morning, if he can prove it to be wrong, I shuil be ready to apologise for it." It would have been more becoming, and a better reproof, had he called in the aid of the constables ; but this tiight of romance was attributed to love. Kemble then went to London, and the 30th of September 1783, made his first appearance at Drury Lane theatre as Hamlet. It waa always with him a favourite part, but his performance in the character, was pedantic, — more like a college-professor tlian a prince. When he entered on the stage it is said that the spectators exclaimed, "How very like his sister!" and, as the performance proceeded, they thought his conception of the part original. It was undoubtedly so, for in the cliaractor there was niore of John Philip Kemble than of H ulet the Dane. He certainly recited the jjrincipal speeches with good emphasis, and looked the pantomime of the part with much intelligence ; but there was an evident art throuirhout, and the impression or me was that of Kemble trying how Humlet should bo doiiL>. It was a great ultbit of a grout artist, JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE. 311 ning, it." d he was but I ooald never- discern aught in it save the rehearsal of an endea- vour. He was to me the least satisfactory Hamlet 1 have ever seen, for he did and said some things so well that one was continually expecting when he would enter into the part. It was the most admirable piece of patch-work, art and nature that the stage could exhibit ; for if the spectator fixed on particular points and called them excellent, ten co one they were so, and beautiful beyond praise, but the intermediate passages between one of these and the next of the same kind was " dowlas, filthy dowlas." I never saw Kemble's Hamlet without alternate feelings of admiration and disgust, nor left the theatre without being angry that one so able to do well should do so ill. In my opinion he misconceived the character, and too uniformly sustained throughout the whole part the same melancholy mood which had invested him before the interview with the ghost ; whereas the poet has clearly indicated that he should be sometimes different : indeed, Hamlet himself not only feigns distraction of mind after he has seen the ghost, but actually says aside to Horatio, in a passage to which the actors make Marcellus always an auditor : " Hamlet. Once more remove, good friends." The obvious action in saying this is, that Hamlet should take Horatio aside from Marcellus, and that the latter should observe to him, Boratio. " Oh, day and night ! but this is wondrous strange." The Prince then replies, and evidently to Horatio only, '• Ham, And therefore, as a stranger, give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Thau are dreamt of in your philosophy. But, come, Swear as before, never, so help you mercy. How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself, (As I, perchance, hereafter shall think meet To put an antick disposition on,) That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumbered thus, or tliis head-shake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful jihrase — Ah Well, we know, — or Wc could an if we would, — Or, If we list to speak. — or There may be an if there might, (Or such ambiguous giving out) denote That you know aught of me. This do ye swear. So grace and mercy, at your most need help you." The whole of this passage is obviously a confidential exhortation to Horatio .?!one, for to Marcellus ho resumes the same antick disposi- tion in which he was found by the two friends after the ghost had disappeared. The passage quoted, instead of being delivered as it was by Kemble like earnest reasoning, should be uttered with a grieved and loaded heart. And the " Rest, rest, perturbed spirit," is an apostrophe of a mind in extreme anguish. When this little apart scene with Horatio is over, I imagine, as the most natural course, tluit tlien Hamlet turned round to JVlarcellus, and again began in the atfectod craze with which ho had previously shown himself, • jj 312 LIVES OF TEE PLAYERS. " So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you," &c. But particular criticism of this kind does not fall within the design and scope of this work ; on a part, however, so celebrated as that of Hamlet, and especially as it was performed by Kemble, I may hope for a little indulgence. Moreover, in this particular scene, as it affords a key to the whole character, for I conceive towards every other person but Horatio, Hamlet should from that time be seen infected with an " antick disposition," and that it is only in the soliloquies and when alone he is himself again. The text, indeed, in the last scene of the second act shows this, for from the interview after the disappearance of the Ghost, Hamlet is in his assumed madness ; in that line soliloquy, however, he throws off his disguise. Kemble in this also erred, for when Hamlet says to the gentlemen with whom he had been talking, " Ay, so, God be wi' you," it should have been uttered fantastically, and then he should have looked cautiously around, apprehensive of being observed, and after a pause said, " Now lam alone;" then, after a short meditation, begun, " 0, what a rogue and peasant slave am I." The next scene in which he is in his natural character, is the famoOB soliloquy of " To be, or not to bo ; " he is then not aware of the eaves-droppers around him, but when Ophelia breaks in upon him he instantly passes from the pensive ruinination in which he had been engaged, puts on his "antick disposition," and all his conversa4on is in his feigned character. In the scene with the players, who are strangers, and not being members of the court, Hamlet bears him as comports with his dignity ; but when Polonius, Kosincrantz, and Guildenstern come in upon them, Hamlet again resumes his app .rent insanity. Tliey, however, ro sooner retire and Horatio enters, than he is again him- self, and speaks to him with the same sorrow and confidence that he had done in the former scene, and udIocIcs the cause of his hesitation, wishing human proof to convince him of his uncle's guilt, and that it was not " a damned ghost " that they had seen. In the scene with the play Hamlet is again plainly in disguise, but Horatio is in his confidence, and by him he is understood. Still apprehensive of being observed, he continues mystical, for some of the spectators at the play are still on the stage in the little scene which follows the play, but only part of what passes between Hamlet and Horatio should be in foolery. The words of the Prince, " Oh, good Horatio," should bo the commencement of some confidential conversation, in which they are interrupted by the entrance of Rosincrantz and Guildenstern, towards whom Hamlet again puts on his madness ; however, being JOHN PHILIP KBMBLE. 313 e of !ene nlet )ing satisfied that it was no " damned ghost," and that the King is the murderer, he begins to act on the suggestion of the ghost. I need not, however, pursue this analysis farther ; it is clear that Shakespeare's Hamlet has two characters, first his own natural and gracious dispositions, and second, the artificial madness which he assumed after the interview with his father's spirit ; but it always struck me as if Kemble attempted the part only as one, and that in this misconception lay the defect of his performance. In the rational and natural scenes Kemble was admirable, but in the affected insanity, to my taste, odious ; and, therefore, I have ever been of opinion, that although ihe performance of certain passages was great, the performance of the whole character was, for a man of his discern- ment, marvellously deficient in discrimination. Kenible's second part in London was Richard III. Boaden, his eulogist, acknowledges that it was not so striking as in his latter years. The truth is, that Kemble, with many noble external quali- ties for a great actor, was one of those men of genius who are always progressive till the wane of their faculties, and who, at two distant and different period of life, do not appear as the same individual. In Sir Giles Overreach, he was also not eminent when he first performed it, and in King John, which he undertook at the command of their Majesties, the audience considered him cold and artificial — a lay-figure. But I do not propose to record all the characters which Kemble performed, because it can be of little use to the reader to receive merely a catalogue of parts. I would rather describe his merits, which were undoubtedly of a very high order, but it is a diseased swelling in truth to represent him supreme in all hib parts. One who has seen him on the stage says — "I saw him first in Glasgow, so long now that the period ia beyond my recollection, and the part was Macbeth. His appearance I well remember, but 1 was greatly disappointed when he spoke, and I recollect two gross blunders, which, young as I was, I felt to be in the worst possible conception. The first was in the manner in which he uttered, ' Wake, Duncan with this knocking. ' He really appeared to be in a towering passion, because Duncan slept too soundly ; the ot?>er was in repeating — ' To-morrow, and to-morrow.' At which stately John appeared to be most absurdly angry ; but when, years after, I saw him in London, he had corrected himself in both these points ; he never became, however, thoroughly master of the part. The chiselling of the studio ever remained too conspicuous on the whole statue ; but still there was no conception of the general idea he had formed as to how Macbeth should be played, nor in his own endeavours to embody it. Had I never seen hiiu in Cardinal Wolsey, and above all, in Coriolanus, I must have estimated his tal- ents and taste far under the standard of his admirers, and his power in delineating the nicer discrimination of the lines and shades of a part as not above mediocrity. His chief force was in his attitudes, and in that respect he was so excellent, that by his excellence, the 314 LIVES OF THE PlAYEtlS. Bwarm of attitndinarians who have taken after his example, h»ve introduced a species of action on the stage which has but a slight affinity to natural gesticulation." The look of Kenible in pathetic parts was always touchingly beaut- iful ; but sensible of his power in awakening tender sympathy, he often sustained the look too long, and was obliged in consequence, occasionally, to snivel, or snifter, one of the most disagreeable acci- dents that flesh is heir to ; and when he did speak at last, he might as well l»ave held his tongue, for the native infirmity of his voice became sepulchral. It was in his look and attitude that Kemble was great or tender ; in the articulation of the sentiment he often failed. But let me not be misunderstood ; because I would object to his general artificial manner, it is not to be imputed to me that I think mere nature should be the example, though it certainly ought to be the theme of acting. The object of the stage is to give pleasure, and to distill it from crimes and follies, — from actions that 'n real life would be hideous or contemptible. I do not therefore object to the principle of Kemble's action, for it was most judicious, but only to the execu- tion, which was not so perfect as the conception. Acting should be to nature, what blank verse is to prose, a little more guarded and measured in its form, but still the same in language. On the 8th December, 1787, Kemble was married. It was thought that in choosing his wife, he did not avail himself of his worldly ad- vantages ; but, notwithstanding that address, which was often visible in his professional pursuits, there was much native simplicity in his personal character ; he was at the same time shrewd enough to per- ceive that he was only flattered by the great on account of his pro- fessional excellence, and that he had no hold of them as a man. It argues but a shallow knowledge of the world, when one, without connexions or fortune, mistakes the attentions paid to his professional attainments for that kind of friendship which only exists among equals. Boaden's account of the wedding-day ought not to be omittt J. They were married in the morning ; Mrs. Bannister, who accompanied the bride to church, inquired where they intended to eat their wedding- dinner. Kemble, who had made no arrangement, replied he did not know ; at home, he supposed. Upon this Mrs. Bannister said, if they would honour Mr. Bannister and herself, they would be grati- fied. Kemble assented, and an early dinner was prepared, for both Bannister and the bride were to act that evening. Kemble arrived tardily ; they began to fear he would not come, and they were a little alarmed ; at last, however, he was seen delil)crately approaching the door, and good-humour revived. Soon after the cloth was removed the bride and Bannister went off to the theatre together, and the bridegroom remained amusing himself with the children, and con- versing in his usual way, in a manner more after the fashion of the philosophers, than might have been expected from a player on such a joyous occasion. When it grew late he ordered a coach to take him to the theatre, from which he brought home his bride to the house in Caroline Street, Bedford Square, that had been prepared for her reception. JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE. 316 In the season of 1788-9, Kerable was appointed manager of Drury Lane. King had been his predecessor, but there was something bo- hind the curtain which the public did not very well know, as the cause of his retiring, and Kemble was, seemingly, so forced into the situation of manager, that he deemed it advisable to address the public on the subject in consequence of what had been alleged. '* I find myself," said he, " arraigned by an anonymous letter, as having undertaken the manag.^ment of Drury Lane theatre under humiliating restrictions. I do assure that writer and the public that no humiliation degrades my services to those who do me the honour to employ me ; and that the power intrusted to me is perfectly satis- factory to my own feelings, and entirely adequate to the liberal en- couragement of poets, of performers, and to the conduct of the busi- ness of the theatre. '* The public approbation of my humble endeavours in the discharge of my duty will be the constant object of my ambition ; and as far as diligence and assiduity are claims to merits I trust I shall not be found deficient. '* I am happy to add that I find myself most fairly and ably sup- ported by the general zeal and exertions of a company of performers, BO capable of making the stage a source of pleasure and amusement." That during the time of Mr. Kemble's administration of the theatre a new era commenced is unquestionable. The scenery was rendered far more appropriate, and all the properties of the stage more splendid and suitable, to augment the illusions of the scene. While this taste was regulated by his excellent judgment of effect, it cannot be doubted that he was the parent of the modern improvements of the stage. At the same time it must be admitted that the tendency of these improvements has been to make the ad- juncts of greater importance than the drama itself, and that often the audience is assembled more to witness the gorgeousness of the puppet-show, than to hear the poet's sentiment, or to enjoy the player's art. Soon after Kemble had been promoted to the management of Drury Lane, he took, in conjunction with Mr. Aickin, the Liverpool theatre, and he was in the very depth of dramatic business, for about the same time he began the composition of a tragedy. In 1789-90 Kemble took considerable interest in an event of that period, by which the public were greatly excited — the exhuma- tion of Milton. A monument was intended to be raised to his memory in Cripplegate church, where he was interred, and it became in consequence, as it was supposed, necessary to ascer- tain exactly where the body lay ; a search was accordingly in- stituted, and it was at last determined that the poet's relics were found. Two of the gentlemen engaged in the business repaired to the spot, and in vain endeavoured to discover an inscription on the leaden coflin, which was old and much corroded. They were, how- ever, satistied of the material fact, and retired, leaving the remains undisturbed, and directing the grave to be again closed. It was then the proti'.nation commenced— a pawnbroker and a publican, belonging to the parish, resolved to see what could be seen, and brought out 1> I 316 Lims OF TlllH PLAYEll!^. the coffin to the light, which they rudely opeiiecl, and found the body enveloped in a shroud of many folds, which they disturbed, and broke the ribs that were still standing up within it. These miscreants then attempted to extract the teeth, and the pawnbroker attempted to purloin the whole lower jaw. From their ravages the coffin passed into the custody of the sexton's female servant, who with the watchman, light'"' candles and made a show of it, and absolutely sold the teeth and smaller bones, with the hair. A player of the name of Ellis was among the curious, and he bought some of the hair and one of the ribs, which he showed to Kemble. This hideous transaction had its natural effect on his aensibility ; ho went to examme the remains himself, and was inclined to believe that the body which had suflt'ered this blasphemous exhumation was indeed that of the poet ; but Steevens, the commen- tator of Shakspeare, examined the matter carefully, and there is still reason to hope that the body was not that of the sacred bard. But the incident is awful ; thj mere possibility of such a desecration taking place in one of the most civilized and Christian capitals of Europe is appaling, when we reflect that it was on the remains too of a poet only in estimation lower than the prophets of God. On the 23rd of October 1790, Kemble retired from the manage- ment of Drury Lane theatre, and on the 10th of November he acted, for the first time in London, the part of Charles Surface in The Schc\ for Scandal. I consider this an important biographical fact, tending to show more of his natural character than transactions of far greater consequence ; for in the whole range of the drama there is but one other, Sir Harry Wildair, that he was less fitted to sustain. Wliatever Kemble attempted would be impressed with good sense, mingled with a flavouring of pedantry ; but nevertheless there was always about him a stronger desire to excel than he hrd the power to execute — and the assumption of Charles Surface mt jt be ascribed to this ambition. I remembered hearing a story reported of his being lectured in the street by some of the play-going critics for venturing the experiment. An incident deserves to be mentioned at this time, though belonging more to the history of the stage than the biography of Kemble. On the 4th of June 1791, Drury Lane theatre was condemned and the fact was announced in a playful paragraph, which for its ov/n siiirit deserves preservation. " THE DEATH OF OLD UKURY. *' On Saturday night, of a gradual decay, and in the 117th year of her age, died Old Madame Drury, who existed through six reigns, and saw many generations pass in review before her. She remem- bered Betterton in his declining age ; lived in intimacy with Wilkes, Booth, and Gibber, and knew old Macklin when he was a stripling. " Her hospitality exceeded that of the English character, even in its early days of festivity, having almost the whole of her life entertained from one to two tliousand persons, of both sexes, six nights out of seven in the week. She was an excellent poetess, could be grave and gay by turns, and yet sometimes catching the disorder from intrusive guests, could bo dull enough in all conscience. JOJiJ^ PJtlLlP khmblh. 317 sense, ere was power ixscribed lis being nturing longing e. On and the spirit year of reigns, reiuem- Wilkes, i-ipling. even in her life sxes, six poetess, ling the iscicucc. " Her memory was most excellent, and her singing kept on in siicli a gradual state of improvement, that it was allowed her voice was better the three or four last years of her life, than when she waa in her prime and at the latter end of the last century. " She had a rout of nearly two thousand persons at her house the very night of her death, and the old lady found herself in such high spirits, that she said she would give them "no supper" without a " song," which being complied with, she fell gently back in her chair, and expired without a groan. " Dr. Palmer, (one of lier family physicians), attended her in her last moments, and announced her dissolution to the company." In the course of the summer, Kemble made an excursion to France, in consequence of a severe illness of his brother Charles, then at the College of Doiiay, but thcsy met on the road ; and the manner in wliicli they met is represented as having been characteristic of John's peculiar humour. Without question, though his attainments were respectable, his character was in minor points strongly marked with singularities. In his younger years these may have originated in the desire of attracting public notice, but in after-life they certainly gave him a slight cast of eccentricity. I have already shown his temper on the stage, and his philosophical composure at his marriage — Ills visit to his brother was performed in the same spirit. Being alone and reading in his carriage when that in wh" ;h his brother was advancing, he was startled by the sound of the other, and, raising his eyes from the book, exclaimed "Charles." A mutual recognition and a fraternal embrace was the consequence, and Kemble, who is said to have never been an inquisitive traveller, tlien coolly re-embarked in the same carriage with his brother, and returned with him to England. Such quiet self-possessi(m was, no doubt in some degree natural to Kemble, and must have been highly useful to him in his profession ; but, like many others, aware of their peculiarities, he probably sometimes indulged himself in it for momentary amusement, and to give matter for conversation, even while he felt more than he affected to feel. But injustice would be done to Kemble in the subsequent transactions connected with the management of the theatre, were it not recollected that witli whatever coolness he went through his duties, ho had, in tlie peculiarities of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, to encounter no inconsiderable obstacles. Kemble did not find his situation a happy one as manager of Drury Lfine theatre. His aim was to exalt the renown of the stage. Sheridan cared less for its reputation, and became a loading politician, and weekly made the drama subservient to political patronage. Kemble saw this, and ^vas with difficulty persuaded to rnniiiin as manaL^'or ; for Mio allairs of tlio hcmso were conducted without reference to ills judgment, which lie felt was undervalued. Fn the management of the course he adopted to obtain release from this thraldom, much of his peculiar character was displayed. When ho liad resolved to retire from the management of Drury 21 jn ri ii S18 LIVES OF THE PLAYEltS. Lane, there was a supper of some of the principal performers ; Sheridan was expected after the rising of the IIouho of Commons, and Kenible, with an inarticulate murmur, as it has been happily called, alarmed the company with the prospect of a scene. At length Sheridan arrived, looked kindly at Kemble, but the mimic monarch retained his state, and churmcd his cherished wrath loud enough to be heard, then, rising, he astonished the senator and i'U present with a speech " in Ercoles' vein ;" — " I am," said he, " an eagle whose wings have been bound d(jwn by frosts and snows, but now I shake my pinions and cleave into the general air unto which I am born." He then deliberately resumed his seat, and was again magniticcntly sullen. Sheridan, with his usual perspicacity looked into the eagle's heart, and shifting his seat to the eagle's side, soon whispered liim into good-humour and their ditlereuces were adjusted. The mock heroics of the theatre, however amusing to the general reader, are to the beings of that element stupendously solemn ; the bombast of Kemble's speech has been deemed Shakespearian ! It would be to omit an incident at once characteristic oi the taste and feeling of Kemble, not to notice that on the 24th of January 1793, when the tidings of the execution of Louis XVI. reached Lon- don, he closed the theatre. Boaden speaks of Kemble as being averse to those melodramatic exhibitions which were imported from the Germans, and that ' ' he did his utmost to keep down this rage after novelty, but he found it beyond his power." In this a compliment is paid to his taste at the expense of his judgment, for ho ought to have discerned in what way the current, ran, and directed its tendency into a proper channel, especially when it was confessedly too stron/ to be resisted. The interest which the dramas of Germany excite^ in the British public might have been better gratified by procuring good translations of the plays of her great authors, than by ministering, witli her "two- penny trash," to the flagrant feelings and audacious passions of the galleries. Kemble was sensible a change had come over the popular taste, and that the hideous events of the French revolution had whetted a morbid craving and appetite for suppers of horror. Had he really possessed that philosophic judgment which has been ascribed to him, instead of allowing the stage to be usurped by the base and coarse of German genius, he would himself have led the way by the exhibition of her noblest productions. But he really himself was very culpable in accelerating the progressof the melodramatic epidemic. Under a judicious adaptation, would not The JioJilwia have been a far richer entertainment than such liodlamitio stiiil ii« 'llw Minuitaive.rvHf It is, indeed, in vain to say thai Keml)le nnderstixid the taste of the time, when he kept back words of genius and ))t;rniitted from the same school rant and bombast disgusting to ev(!ry judicious sjx^ctatnr. It is not too harsh to say that Kemble ojiposed the (ierinan theatre and countenanced the German booth, not intentionally, but by not availing himself of the sublime productions whioli the former all'orded, and allowing the offal from the bloody shambles of the latter to dis- grace his stage. John piiilif Kemble. 319 ramatic it "ho oiincl it ) at tho it way uinel, Tho Miblic ma of "two- f tho piihir |un had Had scribed ISO and by tho elf was idcinic. \ a far of tlio mi the ctatnl'. leatro by not orilod, to dis- Indoed, if Mr. Boaden reports his opinions aright, Kenible must have had both a narrow conception of the power of genius, and an erroneous idea of w lat the age required, for he makes him say, that " at Drury Lane tlieatre they did not want plays, the ti-easures of our ancient authors were unexhaustible ; showy after-pieces and laughable farces might be necessary, but what could be expected now in the way of the regular drama that previcnisly had not been better done ] " It is to bo feared that this is a stock opinion in the green- room, and will be over productive to the marring of public pleasure, till soiue manager has the good sense not to aUow the stage to bo ni'ide an arena for actors to compete with each other in the same parts : the public are no longer invited to see new works of genius, but to determine whether Miss This is greater than Mrs, That in certain st(jck-character8 in which Mrs. That was decidedly greater than Miss This. The dogma goes, in fact, to close the stage against the essays of modern genius, and to substitute a comparison between the merits of actors. There are, no doubt, vast treasures of ancient dramatic composition on tho shelves of the libraries ; but there they ever rest, because it does not suit the theatres to employ adequate talent to adapt them to the change that has taken place in the public taste since they were first written. The misfortune of the stage at present is, that the players, who are seldom eminently quaiilied by any particular advantages for the task, arrogate to tliemselves tho characters of literary critics, and determine what the town shall receive from them, as if the faculty of judiciously reciting tho poet's comi)oHition qualified them in any superior degree to decide concerning its merits. On tho 2ist of April 17!>4, the superb pile which had been erected on the site of old Drury Lane theatre, was opened for the regular drama by Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, as Macbeth and his tremendous lady. The edifice itself, tlKJUgh never completed, gratified the pride of tiie people both by its size and magnificence, and the performance of the tragedy surpassed both in the talent of the actors and the splendour of tho scene all that had ever been exhibited on the English stage. On the 2nd of April 170(j, the famous forgery of Vortiijeni, by yijung Ireland, was acted and condemned. That it was so justly has never been disputed, but considered as the work of a boy, it is an extraordinary production. The private maimers of Kemble were essentially tragic. Tho I'arisiaus wondered at his talent for silence. To them he appeared thoughtful and reserved, but they admired the statuary gracefulness of his manners. During the seasim that Master Betty was tho fashion, Komlde prudciutly made no attempt to resist tho hondlong rush of the town. it was fi'Oipiently allngod at the time, that he considered the talents of that infelligent boy with jtsalousy ! He hail too much good sense ; fcH" he couhl not but see that Hetty acted from being taught how, and had no conci^ption in his own mind of tho characters ho under- took. He was but a clever automaton, a thing that worked well under the dirccliou of others. As a child ho was surprising but as an M 320 LIVEH OP fim PLAtEllS. i •i M ii h actor, with those who did perforin from their own conceptions, he was not even mediocre. One who saw Kemble in the winter, in Coriolanus, I believe 180G-7, says : "Had he only acted in that character he would have been deemed the vary greatest male actor ever seen ; it was in all points of concep- tion, look, and utterance, equal to the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. Siddons. In no other part whatever, did he, or could he attain equal eminence. In every other, as compared with his masterful energy in this noble creation of the poet, he was only secondary. "I frequently saw him in Coriolanus, but I happened not to be pres- ent when the apple fell on the stage between him and Voluumia, a part which Mrs. Siddons sustained with all her wonted dignity. This inciilent of the apple gave rise to one of those occasional scenes, in which Kemble displayed liis overcharged self-possession, and ren- dered the occurrence so important, to those who witnessed it, as to give it the impression of an event. At the moment when Volumnia is supplicating her son, the conqueror, to ^pare her country, the apple fell between them ; taking up the missile with all the dignity of the character, he advanced, Coriolanus- like, to the front of the stage, and addressed the audience as follows " — " Ladies and Gentlemen, "I have been many years acquainted with the benevolence and liberality of a London audience ; but we cannot proceed this evening with the performance, unless wc are protected, especially when ladies are thus exposed to insult." A person in the gallery called out " We can't hear." Kemble replied indignantly, " I will raise my voice, and the galleries shall hear me." "This protection is what the audience owe it to themselves to grant ; what the performers, for the credit of their profession, have a right to demand, and what I will venture so far to assert, that, on the part of the proprietors, I here offer a hundred guineas to any man who will disclose the rufhan who has been guilty of this act, " I throw myself, ladies and gentlemen, upon the high sense of breeding that distinguishes a London audience ; and I hope 1 shall never be wanting in my duty to the public ; but nothing shall induce me to suffer insult." In this little affair, the true spirit of Kemble was fully illustrated. There was that skinless sensibility which rendered him on all occasions so acute to the very shadow of affront. For the scene was always listened to with silence and awe, such as ever attended the united efforts of Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, and certainly it might have occurred to him, that the sudden appeiiranco of the apple was not intended as a personal insult to either, and did not jtistify so much ado about nothing. It was indeed an accident ; for the apple was not thrown at the performers, but at some dlHorderly fcnndes in the boxes, and nnly l)y chance fell upim the ,stjit:e. On tlu! 'J((th Soplumlior ISOS, Cuveiil, (iiinlm was di'stroyed by lire but Kemble sustained this vast misfortune, the loss of his whole pro- perty and the suHi)ension of his profession, with great e(iuanimity. Itoaden has described with no inconsiderublo force, the scene in Ida dressing-room when hu visited hiiu. JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE. 321 1 by I'm) olo pi'o- iniinity. u in liiu " In the morning after the fire, as soon as I had breakfasted, I hastened to Great Russell Street, to ascertain the state of the sufferers, nuil to give any little aid that I might be able to render. Honest John Rousham in silence let me in, and walked np-stairs before me into Mr. Kemhle's dressing-room. He was standing before the glass, totally absorbed, and yet at intervals endeavouring to shave himself. " Mrs Kembln was sitting, in tears, on a sofa, and on seeing me exclaimed, *0h Mr. Boaden, we are totally ruined, and have the world to begin again.' " His brother Charles, wrapt up just as he had come from the fire, was sitting attentive upon the end of the sofa ; and a gentleman much attached to Mr. Harris, who in and about the theatre was familiarly styled ' old Dives,' with his back to the wall and leaning upon his cane, sat frowning in a corner. It was not a situaticm that called for a speech ; our salutations were like those at a funeral. I took a chair, and sat observing the manner and the look of Kemble. Nothing could be more natural than for Mrs. Kemble to feel and think of their personal loss in this dreadful calamity. Her husband, I am convinced, while I saw him, never thought of himself at all. His mind was rather raised than dejected, and his imagination distended with the pictured detail of all the treasures that had perished in the conflagration. At length he broke out in exclamation which I have preserved as characteristic of his turn of mind. "'Yes, it has perished, that magnificent theatre, which, for all the purposes of exhibition or comfort, was the first in Europe. It is gone, with all its treasures of every descriptioii, and some which can never be replaced. That libraiy which contained all those immortal productions of our countrymen, prepared for the purposes of representation ! The vast collection of music composed by the greatest geniuses in that science — by Handel, Arne, and others ; most of it manuscript in the original score ! That wardrobe, stored with the costumes of all ages and nations, accumulated by unwearied research and at incredible expense ! Scenery, the triumph of the art, unrivalled for its accuracy, and so exq\iisitely finished, that it might have been the ornament of your drawing-rooms, were they only large enough to contain it ! Of all this vast treasure, nothing now remains, but the arms of England over the entrance of the theatre;, and a RcMiian eagle standing solitary in the market-place." ' On this disastro\i8 occasion, several of the friends of Kemble came forward with their assistance in the most munil cent manner. His late Majesty George IV. was among tlie earliest, and the late Duke of Northumberland in the handsomest manner offered a loan of £10,000. In the course of a few days, the Opera-house was prepared for the recepticm of the Covcjit Garden company, who c(munenced a series of purformanoos there till the end of the season, while another theatre on the site of tiie old i?no was erecting on a more magnificent scale ; but the templar exterior of that edilico is a disgrace to the taste alike of the architect and the managers, and the less said about it a.s a building the better. The day on which the foundation sttmo of the theatre was laid, H . =sl::u^-j..'h..„ .JTW' at: ' 322 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. was distinguished by an act of princely ninnificence toAvards Mr. Kemble by the Duke of Nortliumborland. Tlio i)voi>rietors and tlioir friends dined together, and Kemble rose with a letter in his hand which he had that moment received from the Duke. It noticed the business of the day, as rendering it one of the proudest in Mr. Kem- ble's life, and convoyed his Grace's dcturminatitm to make it one of the happiest ; and, as no doubt the jf)y of all concerned wo\ild demand and justify a bonfire on the occasion, he begged tliat Mr. Kemble would use the inclosed to light the pile. It was his bond for ten thousand pounds cancelled. But, perhaps, the most remarkable circumstance connected with the re-building, after this magnificent incident, was the O. P. war, a series of tumults which lasted for sixty-eight consecutive nights, between the proprietors and the public, chiefly in its fury directed against Kemble, as if he, who was only one of the ])roprietor8, had been himself the cause of the attempt to raise the prices, an attempt which the public resisted. Tiie details of this systematic riot are not worthy of more circumstantial notice, but thrcnighout them the pertinacity of Kemble's perseverance to enforce the will of the proprietors on the people, had more of ol)stinacy than of firmness, and evinced more of that self-will wliieh wjih the cliaracteristic of his temper, than the jiractical wisdom which it was frequently said ho possessed in an eminent decree. The treaty of peace and the whole ceremony of the negotiation between the belligerents are wortliy of i)Iace in tlie history of Eng- land, so happily do they serve to illustrate the spirit and manners of the age. Mr. Clifford, a barrister, the most distinguished chieftain of the rioters, had been given into the cnstody of a constable by one of the servants of the theatre, and in consecpience he brought an action for the injury, and obtained from a special jury a verdict of damages of five pounds ; immediately after which, to celebrate their success in the war, the O.l^'s advertised a pul;iic dinnei' to take place, and all w^io disa]>proved of the cfmuuct of the managers and proiirietors of the theatre were invited ; Mr. Clifford was to be in the chair. Tlie company consisted of about thrcfo Inmdred ]iersons, and after the King's luMlth, Mr. Clill'ord stated that he liad that morning received a mi'ssage from Mr. Kemhle, expressing a '.;reat desire to attend the meeting could he be assured of civil treatment. Mr. Clifford, as their Ciiairman, then said, tliat he had ventured to assure him of such a recepticm as one gentleman ought to receive fiom others ; and if supported in this pledgi^, he would innncdiately invito Mr. Kemble, who was in the house to meet tlienj. The proiicisilinu was inuinimously acceded to. Kemlile then cntenid, was receivid with as much apidause as ever attenihnl his finest cH'orls im the stiigi;, and Avas seated in a chair on tiu) right hand of the Clliairman, wiio again addressed the meeting, and stated (hat Mi'. Kemlih) hail expressed himself sincerely sorry ff)r the interrnption of tliatgnod understanding which had evtM' tixisted betweciii Ihe public and the stage. He hi.d also, on the part of himself and the other proprieturs, expressed a strong desire to do every tiling in tlit^ir power to concili- ate the public, and restore t'laf, unison of feeling which had horctof ui-o been ao pomniuu betwuuu them, JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE. 323 In the mean time a Committee had retired from the hall to draw up the treaty, and soon after they returned with it in the shape of the following Resolutions, which were then read from the Chair. "We presume that the public will be satisfied with these, if acceded to on the part of the proprietors this evening, viz. ' * I. That the private boxes shall be reduced to the same state as they were in the year 1802. " IT. That the Pit shall be three shillings and sixpence, and the Boxes seven shillings. " III. That an apology shall be made on the part of the proprietors to the public, and Mr. Brandon shall be dismissed." [He was the person who gave Mr. Clifford into custody.] " IV. That all prosecutions and actions on both sides shall be quashed." The Resolutions were severally put, and adopted almost unani- mously. The chairman then proposed a toast : — " May this day's meeting produce a reconciliation between the managers of Covent Garden theatre and the public, equally advan- tageous to both ! " and it was drunk with three cheers. Mr. Kemble then rose, and said, " (lentlemen, " Before I withdraw for the purpose of making the necessary pre- parations for stating the arrangement that has taken place in to-mor- row's newspapers, I beg leave to express my hope, whish I do from the bottom of my heart, that the propositions now agreed to will lay the foundation of a lasting good understanding between the public and the theatre ; I have also to return you personally my best thanks for the kind and polite treatment I have received since I came into this room." Mr. Kemble then retired. A transaction of this kind has no parallel in the annals of any other kingdom, and although no possible excuse can be made for the pro- prietors resisting the public will so long, stul the affair itself merits to be ever quoted as an instance of the good sense and resolution of the British public. Doubts have been thrown out of the prudence of the Government in permitting the tumults to rage in the theatre so long as sixty-eight nights, but on few ocvvsicns have poi)ular feel- ing boon so wisely considered, or the Treedom of the people more judiciously indulged. Tlie tumult at the theatre was that night of a n»ore mitigated des- cription, in conse([uonco of the dinner at the Crown and Anchor, and the interruptions during the play proceeded only from communica- tions made alm-ist every minute fri)ui the town to the pit ; at length the cry of " Mr. Kemble" was heard, and he made his appearance as ho came from the camp of the enemy. Silence being procured, ho addressed the audience. " Ladies and Gentlemen, " I ask a thousand pardons for presuming to appear before you in I \ 324 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. tho unfortunate so long should sincerely lament engage that all to on the part a dress so little suitable to the very high respect which I feel, and which it is ray anxious wish ever to show in this place ; it is entirely owing to the circumstance of my not being apprised that I should have the honour of appearing before you this night. ladies and Gentlemen, 1 have been with the company of gentlemen who have dined together at the Crown and Anchor tavern, where a set of pro- positions were submitted to us for consideration, and to which the proprietors have agreed. The first proposition is, that the boxes should continue at seven shillings, that the pit should be lowered to the old price, and that the tier of private boxes should be restored to the public at the end of the present season. And, Ladies and Gentlemen, that no trace or recol'ection of differences which have unhappily prevailed remain, I am further to say, that we most the course that has been pursued, and we legal proceedings shall forthwith be put a stop of the proprietors ; I pledge myself that instructions to that ellect shall be given immediately. Now, Ladies and (jentlemen, before I retire give me leave to express my most lively sense — " Here a tumult arose, and he made his bow and retired. But peace was not yet proclaimed ; Kemble either forgot or intentionally omitted the condition with respect to Mr. Brandtm, and the tempest again rose. At last Munden api)earod with Brandon to read an apology, but he was assailed with all sorts of missiles from the pit, and compelled to withdraw ; another attempt by the son of Mr. Harris was made in favour of Brandon, but the answer was " He must be dismissed." On the following evening all things denoted the renewal of hostili- ties, and Kemble again came forward and said, " Ladies and Gentlemen, " Having had the misfortune to incur the displeasure, Mr. Brandon has withdrawn himself from the office of the box-book and housekeeper to the theatre." But this was not enough. The proprietors had attempted to equivocate with the public, and the O. P.'s in their 'ndignation insisted that a specific apology should be made for the employment of the boxers to coerce them, for such had been the case. And Kemble immediately camo forward and apol ii liiiuti'd nuudior of nights, and all his sul)se(iuent en- gagements wore (jf the sauie character. JOHN PHILIP KEMBLtJ. 327 "I In 1817 he visited Edinburgh, and took leave of the Scottish public in an address written by Sir Walter Scott ; and on the 23rd of June, in the same year, he acted for the last time in London, and tooic leave of tlie public in his greatest jmrt, Coriolanus. On tliis occasion ho received a C()mi)liment to the undecayed energy of his powers in a cry fi'om the pit of no farewell ; but he, nevertheless, camo forward and said, ' Ladies and Gentlemen, have now appeared before you for the last time. This night closes my professional life. " I am so m\ich agitated that I cannot express with any tolerable propriety what I wish to say. I feared, indeed, that T should not be able to take my leave of you with sullicient fortitude — composure I mean— and had intended to withdraw myself before you in silence ; but I suflered myself to bo persuaded tliut, if it were only from old custom, some little parting word would be expected from me on this occasion. Ladies and Gentlemen, I entreat you to believe, that whatever abilities 1 have possessed, either as an actor in the perfor- mance of the characters allotted to me, or as a manager, in endeav- ouring at a union of propriety and splendour in the representation of our best plays, and particularly of those of the divine Shakspeare, — I entreat you to believe, that all my labours, all my studies, what- ever they have been, liave been made delightful to me by the appro- bation with Avhich you have lieen pleased constantly to reward them. "1 beg you, Ladies and 'Jentlcmen, to accept my thanks fur the great kindness you have invariably shown me, from the first night I became a candidate for public favour, down to this painful moment of my parting with you ! I must take my leave at once. Ladies and Gentlemen, I most respectfully bid you a long and an unwilling fare- well." A few days after, a public dinner was given to him by a numero\is body of his friends and admirers. The chair was tilled by Lord Holland, with IVIr. Kemble on his right, and the Duke of Bedford on liis left. After dinner it was announced that the players intended to i)resent him witli an elegant vase ; and an ode written for the occasion by the author of ''The Pleasures of Hope," was recited which, however, was not mi the happiest vein of that poet's elegant genius. Tnere was but liitio to adil to these few sketches. Mr. Kemble soon after retired, on account of the state; of h.s health, to the South of France, and fixed his residence at Toulouse, from which, after several sea.'ions, he was ind\iced lo move to Switzeihuid, whence ho was suddenly sunuimned to London by the death of ]\lr. Thomas Harris, his co-i)ro])rietor in tlie theatre. On this occasion he made over his sliare of the tluatre to his brother Charles, and returned to Lausanne. From Lausainie he mack; an excursion into Italy ; at Home, however, his health became so impaired that his ])hysieian ordered him back to Switzerland, but thou<;h his fiymptoms for a time were llattering, he died on the 20th of February I82;5j in the siAty-sixth year of his ago. \>t 328 LIVES OF THE PLA YERS. That the professional talent of Mr. Keinble was of the most splendid kind, and that, by his sentlemanly conduct through life, he reflected honour on his profession, are two points of no controversy. Objection may be taken, perhaps, to the first, arising from a natural weakness in his voice, and something not regularly clear in the conception of particular passages in some of his great parts, but still all his contemporaries will agree that he left but little to be desired to complete his excellence. ft may, in like manner, be objected to his private manners that they were tinged with affectation ; but it ought to be remembered that Kemble was one of those occosic. lal men on whom Nature bestows singular endowments, and what, in ordinary men, would have been called afFoctaticm, in him probably proceeded from the peculiar fcc^liiigs connected with his greater qualities. In literary reputation he is below Garrick, and liis compositions for the theatre are not distinguished by any brilliancy. On the contrary, some of them may, hereafter, tend to dim the splendour of his professional fame. But, in one respect, he ought ever to be regarded as one to whom the British stage is under the greatest obligations. Before his time exactness, in all the circumstances of the scene, was not a primary object of solicitude with the manager ; but in many of his represen- taticms, we have seen this fulfilled, and learning guiding taste even to the minutest article of furniture and ornament. Had he possessed no other merit than what belongs to him from this source, he must still have been esteemed as one of the most eminent contributors to the innocent enjherii of Scliiller once, protect me from knowing them again ; but 1 am safe, Emery is gone, and Morton's text affords no adecjuate idea of his vehemence. It were useless to speculate on the excellence to which Emery, had he lived, might have attained in parts of that kind. The dran)a has few of them, but, undcnibtedly, all his merits in simple and comic characters shrink into insigniticanco compared with the tremendous energy of which he showed himself possessed, in those peals of terror more dreadful than thunder, which Tyke launches in his despair. To the duties of his profession, Emery was an example to his brethren ; he never, on any occasion but when suffering from severe indisposition, absented himself from the theatre, and was always master of his part. He had some talent in writing songs in the York- shire dialect, was a pleasant companion, and in drawing he was so accouiplisheil, that had he not made tiie stage his profession, he was undoubtedly (|UiiliiiiMl to liavc risen to eminence as ;ni artist witli his jteneil. Ihit befell prematuv(!ly, the victim of a gradual decay of Mature, I ludieve, in conser|iU)nce of having nqitured a blood-vessel, on the L'.'tth of .Inly, in the ion.y-lifth ytjar of his age, heaving a widow and seven children to deplore iiis early doom, 'lo them the players, however, generously did all they could to mitigate so great a misfor- tune, and the contributions to rai.si: a funtl \' >r their HUp|ioit did honour alike to the fraternal spirit of the proles.'jion and to humanity. .; MltS. S 11) DONS. 331 31 US. SIBDONS. " Pity it is that the momentary beauties flowing from an harmon- ious elocution cannot, like tlmse of poetry, be their own record ! that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them ; or at best can but imperfectly glinuner through the memory of a few surviving spectators ;" says CoUey Gibber, and who, that remembers the triumphs of Mrs. Hiddons, can withhold amen to these beautiful expressions of regret. Had 1 indulged my own feelings, I should not have attempted any portrait of her character here, for she still lives, and I have received such exquisite delight from her personations, that it would seem a sordid ingratitude to say aught of her susceptible of being constructed to imply any sentiment but admiration. Could it, however, be imagined that a collection of the Lives of Players would be acceptable without some aceoiuit of this sublime actress ? Or that any cue who has enjoyed the Avatar of such perfection should not desire to tell posterity how much they have missed. Mrs. Siddons, the daughter of Roger Kemble and Sarah Ward his wife, was born at Brecknock, in South Wales, in the year 1755. Aa they were players, and her father the manager of a company, she was introduced in childhood on the stage. An anecdote of her earliest performance, considered in connecticm with her subsequent fame, possesses peculiar beauty. The family, at the time, were in such pressing circumstances as rendered their benefit important, and the child to stimulate curiosity, was brougiit forward in some jnvenilo part. The taste of the audience was, however, ott'endeu at her ex- treme youth, and the house was so shaken with uproar, that the young Melpomene, in alarm, was bashfully retiring, when her mother rushed forward, and, with that intellectual dexterity for which so many of her family have been distinguished, led her to the front of tlie stage, and nuule her repeat the fable of thk bovs and fkoos, so appropriate to the occasion, that the audience at once applautlcd, admiring alike the mother's address and the elocution of the child. Ln her thirteenth year, Mrs. Siddons was the heroine in some of the standard English operas, and sang tin airs incidental to the parts with a degree of vocal elegance, seldom hoard among the migratory nightingales of Thespis. In her hf teenth year, a mutual passion arose between her and a young man, an actor of all work in her father's company, but, as it was deemed by her parents rash and prenaature, tiu'y removed her from the stnge and placed her as lady's maid with a Mrs. (Jreatlieud, of (luy's (UilV, in Warwickshire. Her enthusiasm for iter destined profession, however, sulicreil no (liminutiou, and it is SOUK! encouragement to conscious talent to know that, at this jn'riod, .she applied for an engagement to CJarriek, and was rejectetl. In iu^r eighteenth year she was married to Siddons, her llonieo, with the consent of her parents, anil soon after made her aiq)earanco on the stage at Cheltenham. In this situation she obtaintal the patronage of the first Earl of Aylesbury, who being not only a man of taste, \ 1? : iJ32 LIVES OF THE 1' LAYERS. but, what was of more importance, a noUleiiiaii, recduiinondocl her to Garrick, and induced him to request Sir Henry liute Dudley, then only the Rev. Mr. Bate, to attend her iiurformances, and roport upon her merits. IJate executed his mission with discernment. He saw Mrs. Siddons in various characters, but was most struck with her in llosiland, a part which, at her age, and in her then uncertain fortune.s, slie sus- tained with tliat mingled tenderness and spirit which makes it one of the finest and most difficult, though seemingly one of tlie easiest of all Shakspeare's characters, it so convinced him of her merits, that he persuaded lier to proceed to London, and urged Carrick to grant her an opportunity of appearing before the jiublicr, conlident that her talents would secure lier an (.■ngageimut. (h\ Friday, the 2!)th of December 1775, she accordingly made her tirst appearance at Drury Lane, and, with tiiat correctness of taste for which she was ever distinguished, she chose the temperate part of Portia in tlie Mercltant of Venice, It was not then the custom tt) bespeak the ap- probation of the public by any of those numerous artitices with which the world has since become familiar, but nevertheless, Mrs. Siddons was received with so much distinction that, on the Tuesday following, she again repeated the part. I am not one of those who believe that Garrick was actuated by jealousy in keeping back Mrs. Siddons; f(jr whatever may have ()ec'n his own merit as a performer, he certainly was not very perspicacious in discerning that of others ; he hud, moreover, too nuich regard for his pecuniary interest to have withheld Mrs. Siddons from the public, had he discovered the extent of her powei'S. The nature of tiie loose agreement with Mr. Bate, to aflbrd her an opportunity of being seen by a London audience, may have also tended to prevent her frcmi getting into any of those parts which best suited her talents ; and certain it is, that with all genius there are cases in which it will scarcely rise to mediocrity, and yet possess at the time a latent energy capable of the most astonishing etl'ects. Mrs. Siddons performed often, but she was only admired as a beautiful woman ; she appeared in no cliaracter which afforded her an opportunity of showing what she could do. Those Avho have accused Garrick of having repressed her powers, forget that the audience saw as imperfectly as he did the energy which she was capable of exerting. The fact seeins to have been, that Garrick was disposed to consider comedy as the forte of the Tragic Muse, and it niilst therefore be regarded as an instance of favour that he revived Tlw Susincians Hutiband on purpose for her Mrs. Strictland, and played Hanger himself to her, old as he then was, and the part recpiiring youthful buoyancy and ease. It should also be recollected that the in)pression which Garrick hatl received of Mrs. Siddons' capacity was derived from the opinion of the Rev. Mr. ]*>ato, and ho liad preferred her ])erformance of Rosiland to all the «»ther parts in which sho liad apiiearnd bofon; liini. I cannot, indeed, in any dogn-e acceede to the corrcctntiss of the theatrical tradition, that (iarrick did not justice to the powers of Mrs. Siddons, for ho revived, after several years' suspense, Jilchard the Thlvd, and gave her the i^art of Lady Anne to his own cliuractur of MRS. SID DONS. 333 of tllO )f Mrs. ard the ictor of the usurper. It may be true that Mrs. Siddons herself felt she had not beeri well used, but that feeling might proceed from a conscious- ness of possessing talent which had not been called forth. Ignorance, however, of what she was capable of achieving would more clearly explain the cause of her comparative failure than any invidious motive on the part of the manager, who had a clear interest in her success. In two of Garrick's revived plays she was chosen to act the most distinguished parts with himself, and her name was printed in large type on the bills, an index of no small importance, at least, in green-room estimation. When Mrs. Siddons left Drury Lane she accepted an engagement at Birmingham, and Henderson has the honour of first discovering there her great powers, in the summer of 1776, when he pronounced that she would never be surpassed ; indeed, he wrote immediately to the manager of the Bath theatre, to engage her without delay. The fame she acquired at Bath prepared the metropolitan playgoers for her second appearance ; and accordingly on the ]Oth of October 1782, she returned to the stago of Drury Lane theatre, then under the management of King, and . ook the part of Isabella, in The Fatal Marriage. After having performed Isabella eight times before the 30th of October, she came out on that night as Euphrasia, in The Circcian Daughter, with scarcely less distinction ; whatever, indeed, was less splendid in the part must be ascribed to the author. The text of Murphy could not delight like the simplicity of Southeme, but the performance had all the pathos and power in an equally transcendant degree with that of Isabella. Her third appearance was in Jane Shore, a drama, which with scarcely more merit than its national and historical associations, has, from its first appearance, always maintained a respectable place on the stage. The eifects of Mrs. Siddons' acting in the fifth act, are the only evidences that can be now referred to in proof of her great- ness ; sobs, and shrieks, and fainting fits, and universal tears drowned the applause. Her next part, on the 29th November, was Calista in The Fair Penitent. It must surprise the reader to find that Shakspeare waq neglected ; but it is a fact that speaks volumes of the taste which rules the stage. The text of Rowe certainly possesses many beautiful passages, and the general conception of the whole character, both in the silent action, and in the delivery of the dialogue being executed in the great style of Mrs. Siddons, made it decidedly the noblest part in which she had appeared in London. She chose the part of Belvidera for her first benefit, for her attractions had i)roved so great, that she was allowed two, and her weekly salary was increased. For her second benefit she chose Congreve's AIour)dng Uride, and was tlio Zara. These six parts were all that Mrs. Siddons acted during the first winter. Isabell was considered the chief of them in elloct, and that can easily be cimcoived, as it is more pregnant with simplicity, which was ever the grand foaturo of Mrs. Siddons' style — in addition to that visible intellectual conception, if the expression may be used, in the accuracy of which she could have no superior. At the end of 22 I>» 334 LIVES OF THE PLAYEMS. i^e season she went to Dublin where her brother John was engaged for three years, and where, now ripening into fame, she grew as successful as in London. On her return to the metropolis, she visited Dr. Johnson, who says in a letter to Mrs. Thrale, "Mrs. Siddona, in her visit to me, behaved with great modesty and propriety, and left nothing behind her to be censured or despised. Neither praise nor money, the two powerful corrupters of mankind, seem to have depraved her. I shall be glad to see her again. Mrs. Siddons and I talked of plays, and she told me her intention of exhibiting this winter the characters of Constance, Katherine, and Isabella, in Shakspeare." On this occasion the Doctor was gallant. When she came into the room, there happened to be no chair ready, " Madam," said ho, "you who so often occasion a want of seats to other people, will the more easily excuse the want of one yourself." Among the coDiplimsnts paid to Mrs. Siddons was the crowning one, as I doubt not the players deemed it— the presence of the court at each of her characters during the tirst season — and her being afterwards appointed reading preceptress to the Princesses. The greatest compliment, however, was paid in the justness of sentiment with which she was uniformly regarded — cahn admit ation, and anxiety, wiih the profoundest sympathy, were her constant attendants. Those paroxysms of rapture, with which the vulgar and fantastical idolize some kinds of theatric talent, are proofs ratlier of its mediocrity, than of excellence. Judicious admiration is a quiet feeling, and the correctness of taste with which this gifted lady was through life regarded, was something akin to the calm delight with which the works of Shakspeare and Milton are studied and enjoyed. On the 3rd November she played Isabella in Measure for Mecisurc, a part well calculated to bring out the same class of feelings in a higher degree, that made her formerly take Portia, earnestness and dignity, and enabled the soul " sitting in her eye," to speak far more than the poet has or could have expressed. The first appearance of Mrs. Siddons and her brother John was in The Gamester, herself as Mrs. Beverley, and he as the infatuatec^ husband. But although Mrs. Siddons' walk was with the greatest parts on the stage, it must not be forgotten that there are characteis besides them in other dramas of the golden age which requir " powers as great as she had displayed. It is, however, the system of the managers to attend only to what are called stock pieces, reducing the stage to a mere arena of competition for performers to try their comparative strength — a system injurious to the i^layers, and niggardly to the public. In 1784 the malicious demon, the sliadow of Merit, was discovered following Mrs. Siddons, and with so much effect, that she found her- self rbliged to address the audience, oven after those who were supposed to have cause of complaint, had actjuitted her. " Ladies and Gentlemen, " The kind and thvttoring partiality whicli I have uniformly experienced in this place, would make the present interruption distressing to mo indeed, wore 1 in the slightest degree conscious of having deserved your censure. 1 feel no sucli consciousness. The stories which liave been circulated against me are calumnies. When MBS. SIDDONS. 335 in a 33 and they shall be proved to be true, my aspersers will be justified : but till then, my respect for the public leads me to be confident that I shall be protected from unmerited insult." This address in her own case was delivered with all the dignity with which she sustained the part of Shakspeare's Isabella. But the firmness which sustained her before the audience, failed when she retired to her dressing-room, and the manager was obliged to solicit a short indulgence till she had recovered from her agitation. In the course of the same year she visited Edinburgh, where she performed eleven nights, and since that period it has become a portion of the players' creed, that the Edinburgh audience is the most tasteful and judicious in the United Kingdom ; an opinion which is probably not altogether unfounded, for a larger portion of the inhabitants of that city have literary habits than perhaps those of any other, with the same degree of practical knowledge of the world and the various phases of man. It enables them to appreciate the beauties of the text with more acumen, while the advantages which they share in common with other places, give them the power of judging as to the fitness of the feelings with which the sentiments are expressed. But although the triumph of Mrs. Siddons was complete during her first great season in London, it was not until she had appeared as Lady Macbeth that all the critics concurred in her indisputable supremacy. "When I first saw her in that character," says a journalist, "it was at Durham, at a time of life when the youthful mind receives its most lasting impressions, and in the course of a journey, iinder- taken with two schoolfellows, for the express purpose of visiting those border antiquities which Sir Walter Scott has since elevated to an equal degree of interest with the storied scenes of Greece and Italy. But as I am at no time liable to be very deeply aftected by the first sight of the most remarkable objects — the effect grows upon me, whether of distaste or admiration — 1 was not greatly struck with the first appearance of Mrs. Siddons in the scene. Her figure, sublime as it then was, only came up to my expectation : perhaps I felt she was too great for the place. This might bo a physical eftect, arising from the I'elative size of the stage compared with herself ; but I might be justified in ascribing ittoaromantic perception of the majesty of her own grandeur, as the Greeks thought the Minerva of Phidias filled the whole temple. Sho entered, accoi'ding to the tragedy, reading the letter. It was evident by her manner that Lady Macbetli had previously seen something in the letter which had so att'ected her, that she had instinctively come forwai'd two or three paces from the spot where she had first opened it. But when she came to " thoy made themselves air," she paused f(U' an instant, as if doubtful of the term employed, and then uttered the word AIR in a tone of wonder. From that moment her voice assumed a more earnest accent, and 1 would say the demon of the chai'actor took possession of her. I cannot, at this distance of time, and through the long vista of events on which memory looks back, describe any thing in her general performance which affected me so much as the low deei) accent of approhensioii, or of conscioun conspiracy which she sustained I i I I i 336 LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. throughout, especially as it influenced the utterance of her Med«an invocation to the ' Spirits that tend on mortal thought ' and still more in the subsequent scene, where she chastises, with her valour, the hesitation of Macbeth. The manner in which she delivered the speech — ' I have V)ecn a mother,' has ever since pealed in the echoes of my remembrance as something indescribable; so far from impressing me with any thing of "a tiend-liku woman," as I have lieard iier involuntarily called, it filled me with mysterious wonder that there should be a being of such incomprehensible strength of resolution. When Macbeth exclaims, in his admiration — ' Bring forth men children only,' he seemed but to illustrate my own feeling. The magnificence of her descent from the throne at the banquet, was another oxamplf of the previously inconceivable sublimity of the genius that directed her conception of the part ; and perhaps, as such, was not inferior to her somnambulism. Whether her action in the dream scene — that brightest spark of the poet's fire — was according to the phenomenon of the disease, I would not examine ; for it was so tremendous, that, with such a character, gnawed with the I'romothean agonies of crime, it ought to have been natural. Through all the perfonnanco of the evening she spoke as it were in a suppressed voice, that seemed to lend additional poetry to the text, and which one scarcely could give in mere writing. I afterwards, however, suspected it was accidental. Henry Siddons, her son, who performed Macbeth, was not a judicious actor ; his emphasis was too boisterous, and it might bt- that she assumed tliat under-tone, which seemed so poetical, from a desire to moderate his loud vehemence ; at least, 1 never heard her speak in the same key again." Of Mrs. Siddons' attainuients in couiody 1 shall make no other I'emark than that surely it was a mystery to think it pussible she could ever be endured in it. Nature was insulted wlion it was imagined that she could laugh otherwise than in scorn. Endured she no doubt was, and admired too, but it was profanation ; she had no fit attributes but the dagger and the bowl. 1 have had more tlian once occasion to observe that a player's life, when the goal of London approbation has been attained, becomes tame and stale, but, it sometimes happens, that circumstances arise which render it remarkable. In tlio history of Mrs. Hiddons there is an incident of this kind, highly iUustrative of her prudence and good sense. During the illness of (Jeorgo J II. in 1788, she was among the earliest to discover his mental aberration, and the circumstances which tirst attracted her attention to ii was an occurrence on the jjart of flio King himself which, perhaps, had he been of a different character, would not have so particularly excited her surprise. In hor occasional attendance at tlio palaces, as preceptress in elocution to the princesses, His Majesty always treated her with unconinon MBS. SIDD0N8. 337 attention. But, on the occasion alluded to, he put into her hands a sheet of paper merely subscribed with his name, — with what intent can only be conjectured, but with the discretion which characterised her general conduct, she delivered it to the Queen, who received it with dignity, and with the delicacy that Mrs. Siddons justly merited. The incident, considering the King's strict character, was at t, e time regarded with apprehension, but it deserves attention in another point of view ; for had there been the slightest hesitation on the !)art of Mrs. Siddons, had she not gone at once to her Majesty, from lerself, and unadvised, the motives of her decision might have become questionable. It is, therefore, one of those facts which show how little the profession ought to be blamed for the errors of individuals. Indeed, why should it ever be so, for the very end and business of the players should make them familiar with highminded- ness and virtuous demeanour 1 Mrs. Siddons, in this incident, only illustrated the dignity of her real character, by showing that the aentiments she often expressed, as an agent, were congenial to her own personal feelings. In performing Katharine in Henry VIII. — a character depicting simple dignity, h( r majestic form gave all the greatness that a perusal of the play would seem to require for an adequate representa- tive. But still more with her intellectual expression of countenance, it became only inferior to the sublimity of Lady Macbeth, though of a very different kind indeed. The manner in which she retired from the trial scene was equal to her grandeur at the banquet in Macbeth, and the sensibility with which she uttered, "God help me !" as she quitted the room, was, perhaps, the most exquisitely just expression of grief and feeling ever uttered in representation. One would, however, only tire in prolonging the description of her dignity and sensibility. Her excellence in these two great and rare qualities constituted the main ingredient of her amazing sorcery. But the intelligent sensibility which shone so beautifully on the stage, and so fascinated her auditors, was, in some respects, a bane- ful gift to herself, especially in the circumstances of that trial of the heart when she lost her two daughters. The early fate of these singularly beautiful young ladies, in itself deeply affecting, was enhanced to the sympathy of the world, by the romance in which it was involved. More perhaps, it would be injudicious to say here, as the story of the late Sir Thomas Lawrence's attachment to them both has recently been told by his biographer with sufficient minuteness ; a letter, however, of their mother, on the occasion, can from no sketch of her life be properly omitted, not only for the beauty of the spirit that breathes in it, but the almost Shakspearian dignity of the composition. It will suggest to posterity some idea of her poetical greatness of character, when those who still remember it can no longer bear witness to the justness of the admiration of their contemporaries. " The testimony of the wisdom of all ages," says Mrs. Siddons, " from the foundation uf the world to this day, is childishness and i 1 1\ 338 LIVES OF THE FLA YEBS. folly, if happiness be anything more than a name : and I am sure our own experience will not enable us to refute the opinion ; no, no, it is the inhabitant of a better world. Content, the offspring of Moderation, is all we ought to aspire to here, and moderation will be our best and surest guide to that happiness to which she will most assuredly conduct us. If Mr. L think himself unfortunate, let him look on me and be silent. The inscrutable ways of Providence ! Two lovely creatures gone, and another is just arrived from school, with all the dazzling frightful sort of beauty that irradiated the countenance of Maria, and makes me shudder when 1 look at her. I feel myself, like poor Niobe, grasping to her bosom the last and youngest of her children, and like her, look every moment for the vengeful arrow of destruction." Independently of the severe calamity which befell Mrs. Siddons in the loss of her daughters, it has been said that she was latterly not happy in her domestie circumstances ; but into topics of that private nature the public has no right to search. We have only to consider her as au actress, and in that capacity she was beyond all praise. In what other respects her intellectual accomplishments may have been eminent, 1 have no desire to ascertain — it is only as the representa- tive of the conceptions of the great dramatic poets that 1 wish to consider her, and I regard all the other incidents of her life, but as those minor accidents of situation and fortune, which are conmionly rejected in biographical memoirs. On the 29th June 1812, she took leave of the public. The performance of the evening was Macbeth. In the large audience there appeared to be a strong feeling of regret that, yet in possession of such visible energy, she should have felt herself so summoned by Nature, as to think of retiring. The occasion was distinguished fey an instance of good taste on the part of the audience, which has no precedent in the annals of the stage. When she had retired from the sublime scene of the dream, a general movement was observed in the house, the remainder of the play was dismissed, and the spectators only lingered till she had repeated a short address. She, however, came forward for the benefit of her brother, in the year following, also for the same purpose in 1816 ; and, at the request of the Princess Charlotte, she played again in the same year ; but the Princess was unable to be present. Of her life in retirement the public heard little. But her name is never mentioned without expressions of admiration, when the parts in which she excelled are spoken of ; nor without a lamentation, that such excellence in art can be seen no more. Her death took place on the 8th June 1831, at her residence in Upper Baker Street, to the deep regret of a wide circle of admirers. The End. Paiiiluy : I'liuted by Alex. (iarUner. i New Books and New Editiom THE WOLFE OF BADENOCH. A Hiatorioal Romance of the Fourteenth Century. By Sir Thomas Dick Lauder. Complete unabridged edition. Thick Crown 8vo. Price 6s. Thi» most intereating romance hat been frequently described a» equal in interest to any of Sir Walter Scott s historical tales. This is a complete unabridged edition, and is uniform with " Highland Legends " and " Tales of the Highlands," by the same author. As several abridged editions of the work have been published, especial atterUion is drawn to the fact tliat the above edition is complete. By John Galt, Esq. THE LIVES OF THE PLAYERS. Post 8vo. Price 5s. Interesting accounts of the lives of distinguished actors, such as Betterton, Gibber, Farquhar, Garri4:k, Foote, Macklin, Murphy, Kemble, Siddons, tory of this prosperous city. In addition it is the first written in chronological order. Comprising a large handsome volume in Sixty Chapters, and extensive Appendix and Index, and illustrated throughout with many ' 'teresting engravinga and drawings. THE COLLECTED WRITINGS OF DOUGAL GRA HA M, " Skellat," BeUman of Glasgow. Edited with Notes, together with a Biographical and Biblio> graphical Introduction, and a Sketch of the Chap Literature of Scotland, by George Mac Greoob, F.S.A.Scot. Impression limited to 260 copies. 2 Vols., Demy 8vo. Price 2l8. With very trifling exceptions Graham was the only writer ^f purely Scottish chap-books of a secular description, almost cdl the others circulated being reprints of English productions. His writings are exceedingly facetious and highly illustrative of the social life of the period. SCOTTISH PROVERBS. By Andrew Hendbrson. Crown 8vo. Cheaper edition. Price 28. 6d. A cheap edition of a book that has long held a high place in Scottish Literature. \»v 6 NEW BOOKS THE BOOK or SCOTTISH ANECDOTE: Humor- 0U8, Social, Legendary, aiul Historical. Edite