THE LIFE Am iDVEI\'TURES OF PEG WOFFINGTON WITH PICTURES OF THE PERIOD U WHICH SHE LIVED- BY J. FITZGERALD MOLLOY AUTHOR OF "COURT LIFE BELOW STAIRS," ETC., ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1885. All rights reserved. J2S7 TO MISS ELLEN TERRY. Dear Madam, The brilliant actress who forms the subject of these pages rendered such service to the drama in the past century as entitles hei to a prominent position in its annals. You as a distinguished artist have achieved such histrionic triumphs in the present century as shall render your name illustrious in the- same hist CHAPTER III. A Faithless Lover — Fortune-hunting — News of a Marriage — Platred and Vengeance — Peg AVoffington's Plot — Young Mr. Adair — The Ridotto at Yauxhall Gardens — INIiss Dallaway and her Friends — A Scene — Re- proaches — A Lover's Departure . . . .48 CHAPTER IV. John Rich, Manager of Covent Garden — His First Panto- mime — His Treatment of Dramatic Authors — The Woffiugton's Interview with Him — Sensation in the Town — Actors at Covent Garden — Ryan's Tragedy in Real Life — Theophilus Gibber — Peg AVoffington's First Appearance in London — An Oldfashioned Comedy — Surprise and Admiration of the Town — Sir Harry Wildair — -All tlie Town in Love with Her 72 CHAPTER V. Peg WofRngton's Engagement at Drury Lane — Kitty Clive, her Passion for Tragedy — Delane the Student of T. C. D. — Macklin and his Adventures — The Turning-point of his Career — His Wonderful Shylock — What Mr. Pope said — Young David Garrick — His Early Life at Lichfield — Becomes a ^^^iue Merchant — Among the Critics at the Bedford — Hesitates to go CONTENTS. xiii on the Stage — Falls in Love with Peg Woffington — In the Green room at Drury Lane— Sir Charles Hanbury Williams — The Woffington's Definition of an Age 97 CHAPTER yi. Garrick's Irresolution — Plays at Ipswich under a False Name — First Appearance in Town — A Memorable Night — Description of his Richard — The Talk of the Town — Persons of Distinction at the Playhouse — Our little Poetical Hero — Letters to Peter — The Wine- merchant AviU not be Comforted — David's Arguments and Fair Promises — The Lying Valet — Mimicking the Old Players — The Favour of Great Men — Going to Dublin with Peg Woffington .... 137 CHAPTER YII. Excitement in Dublin — A W^arm Greeting — The Delight of the Town — Hamlet and Ophelia — Back to London — The Rival Playhouse — Quin's Reputation — His Con- tempt for Garrick — Quin andMacklin — A Green-room Quarrel— Making it up — Charming Susanna Cibber — 'A Romp and a Good-natured Boy' — Theo Cib- bers Baseness — Elopement, Rescue, and Action — Legal Bathos — Woffington and Garrick at Drury Lane 172 CHAPTER VIII. Peg Woffington and Garrick keep House — Old Colley Cibber — Drinking tea at Peggy's Rooms — Fielding, Quin, INlrs. Porter, Foote, Johnson, and Macklin — The Woffington and Garrick Part — Polly W^offington^ Kiv CONTENTS. Lord Tyrawley's Amour — George Anne Bellamy — Acting in a Barn — Captain Cholmondeley's Marriage — Violette the Dancer — Her Love for Garrick — Mar- riage — Peg Woffington goes to Covent Garden — Her DuMin Engagement 199 CHAPTER IX. Thomas Sheridan, the Manager — Letter to Garrick— Be- comes a Manager — Conditions of the Playhouse — A Theatrical Riot and its Result — Dublin before the Union — Lionel, Duke of Dorset, at the Castle — Diversions of the Town — High Life and Low — Mrs. Butler, jNliss Bellamy, and David Garrick — A Strange Love Letter — ]Mrs. Butler's Present . . . 24G THE LIFE AXD ADVENTURES OF PEG WO F FOG TON. Sail coia, ana promisea a, uieaiv ciuu uieciij mgut, VOL. I. B Kiv CONTENTS. Lord Tyrawley's Amour — George Anne Bellamy — Acting in a Barn — Captain Cholmondeley's Marriage — Violette the Dancer — Her Love for Garrick — Mar- riage — Peg Woffington goes to Covent Garden — Her Dublin Engagement 199 CHAPTEPv IX. Thomas Sheridan, the Manager — Letter to (jarrick — Be- comes a INlanager — Conditions of the Playhouse — A Theatrical Riot and its Result — Dublin before the Union — Lionel, Duke of Dorset, at the Castle — Diversions of the Town — High Life and Low — Mrs. Butler, IMiss Bellamy, and David Garrick — A StranD-*^ THE LIFE AXD ADVENTURES OF PEG WOFFINGTOK CHAPTER I. The Little Water-carrier and the Foreign Lady — Madame Violante and Mrs. Wofiington — Pupil to a Dancer — The Booth in Fownes Court — Little Peg in 'The Beggars' Opera ' — Charles Kelly and the ' Devil to Pay' — At the Aungier Street Playhouse — Dancing between the Acts — Playing Ophelia, Her Beauty and her Triumph — The Part of Phillis — Falling in Love — A Young Gentleman of Quality and his Ways — A Journey to London Town. At the close of an October day, in the year 1727, a child of about eight years old slowly tottered along Ormond Qnay, Dublin, under the weight of a pitcher of water which she carried on her head. The evening had set in dark and cold, and promised a bleak and dreary night. VOL. I. B 2 PEG WOFFINGTON. Already the sky was overcast with, heavy clouds ; a sad voiced north east wind sweeping np the sluggish LifFey, carried Avith it a chill penetrating mist that gradually increased to drenching rain. Heavily framed lamps, impri- soning the poor wan light of oil wicks, swung with many a creak from the corner houses of dreary streets and black-looking alleys ; or hung above the old stone bridges with quaint and ponderous balustrades, and buttresses green and slimy from the ebb and flow of countless tides, casting a patch of light upon the black waters beneath, as if seeking crimes and mys- teries hidden in their depths. A few pas- sengers, with heads bowed low, and cloaks and coats drawn tightly round them to avoid the bitter wind, hastened to and fro, shadow- like in the deepening gloom. A coach or two, rattled with noisy haste, ovei* the uneven pavements. The bells of the church clocks rang out six, their sounds falling faint and change- ful, like frightened voices crying for help from the heights of steeples and towers, upon which the vapour and cloud had already descended. THE CHILD LOOKED PICTURESQUE. 3 With the wind blowing in her face, the rain dashing on her scarcely covered hmbs, the child, labouring under the weight of her pitcher, made but slow way. At last, shivering in her wet rags, and overcome by her misery, she burst into tears ; raised her arms above her head, removed the pitcher, and sought the passing shelter of an open doorway. She had scarcely wiped the rain from her face with the remains of an old tattered and colour- less shawl which helped to cover her shoulders, when a lady, who had for some time followed her, also sought protection in the hall, faintly lit by the flickering rays of a lamp. ' You are cold, my childe,' said the lady, looking at her keenly. ' Yes, ma'am,' said the girl, raising her eyes, expressive of sui^prise, to the stranger's face. Even in her rags the child looked picturesque. Her dark, unkempt hair curled naturally round a well shaped head, and hung above a wide, low forehead ; her eyes, large and liquid, seemed almost black under the shadow of their long- lashes, and the full sweeping curve of her B 2 4 PEG WOFFINGTON. brows ; her cheeks were pale and beautifully oval ; her lips somewhat full and red : whilst her prettily dimpled chin gave a piquant look to the lower part of her face, which the sweet gravity of her eyes contradicted. 'And what is your name, my leetle childe?' said the lady in a voice to which a foreign accent gave a peculiar softness. 'Me name is Peg, ma'am,' said the girl, opening wide her eyes, made all the brighter by the tears which yet glistened in them. ' Peg ; it is a pretty name. , But is there no other?' asked the lady, pushing back the dark, tangled locks with a touch that was caressing in its gentleness. * Peg Woffington, ma'am,' said the girl, pleased Avith the lady's attentions. 'And where you live, eh, leetle Peg WofF- ing-ton? Is it far from here, eh?' continued the foreign lady, letting her eyes wander from the child's handsome face to her limbs, rounded and shaped with wonderful grace. ' Not far, ma'am,' said Peg. ' Me mother lives in George's Court. She is a widee; an' she MADAME VIOLANTE. 5 ^vashes for the neighbours ;' and so saying, ehe cast her eyes on the pitcher of water by her side, as if some train of thought had sud- denly suggested itself to her mind. 'An' this is washing day ; an' I've been carrjdn' jugs o' water since dinner. But this is the last of 'em ; an' — an' I must go now, ma'am ; for there's no sign o' the rain stoppin' an' mother will be wonderin' what keeps me,' said Peg, stooping to raise her burden on her head once more. 'And I shall go with you,' said the lady, with that foreign accent which gave her voice so sweet a sound. The child set the pitcher down again, straight- ened herself, and looked at the lady with eyes expressive of wonder. ' I am,' said the lady, ' Madame Violante. You perhaps have heard my name V ' What !' said Peg, in greater amazement now than ever ; for at the mention of that name there rose before her a vision of a great booth in Fownes Court, with a vast glare of lights ; where the sounds of fiddles and drums were heard strumming and beating right meny measures. 6 PEG WOFFINGTON. and to which crowds flocked nightly, that thej might see such tricks and daring feats as had never before been witnessed in this goodly city, 'And you are Madame 'Lante, that dances on the rope?' said Peg, looking down at the lady's feet, as if by her glance she would unravel the great mystery by which the cele- brated dancer nightly balanced herself on a tight-rope and skipped upon a slackwire above the heads of applauding crowds. 'The same,' said the French lady, smiling. ' AVould you like to dance also on the rope ' ' And wear such beautiful dresses, with spangles?' interrupted this juvenile daughter of Eve. * Oh, ma'am, I would be delighted !' ' Very well, I will teach you,' said Violante. 'And shall 1 wear a star on me forehead^ ma'am, when I dance — like you ?' she asked. ' Yes,' answered Madame Violante, ' if you learn quickly and well. But first we must ask your mother, and hear what she will say ; show me the way to her house, and whilst we go you can tell me all about yourself, my childe.' So Peg lifted the earthenware pitcher, that PEG TELLS HER STORY. 7 seemed now no heavier than a feather^ and placed it on her shapely head, and went ont into the darkness which was almost as of night. Her steps were so light and quick that her new friend could scarcely keep pace with her ; the raiu and wind were unheeded, though the one pattered on her face, and the other sent the poor rags fluttering from her rounded limhs. Presently they left the exposed quays and turn- ed up a dark narrow street, with high, black- looking houses on either side, in the friendly shelter of which the child, in answer to the Frenchwoman's questions, told her that she and her mother and her little sister were as poor as church mice, since, said she, ' the doctors, the devil take 'em, killed me father when he had the faver a few years ago ; an' sure, 'twas the first time in his life he ever had 'em to attend him, and 'twas his last. God be good to his sowl ; but they say the doctors are never lucky, and they kill a mighty lot o' people anyhow. An' me mother,' she continued, ' takes in wash- in', an' works hard all day, an' at night she sells oranges outside the doors o' the playhouse in 8 PEG WOFFINGTON. Anngier Street ; an' never a much she makes he that same ; an' as for meself, some- times I sell oranges too, an' sallacl for a ha'pen- ny a dish, an' water cresses in the sayson ; and the young gentlemen in Trinity College behave dacent to me, an' often give me a penny for nothin' at all, only because I talk to them, an' make them laugh ; an' they're not bad, poor fellows anyhow, when they have the money ; but sure there are times when they're just as poor as meself a'most, an' it's many a time I popped their clothes for them, comin' to the end o' the month, you know. But they're rale good hearted, an' they like me well.' At the end of this dark street they turned into a lane on the right, and finally entered an unsavoury court, lighted only by the dim rays of tallow candles shining through the small paned windows of the surrounding hovels. Quickly gliding into one of them, the child mounted a rickety stair, loudly calling out to her mother that a lady was coming to see her. At this information, a woman wearing a deep bordered blowsy cap that had once been Avhite, and a cotton gown, the sleeves of Avhich were rolled THE LADY THAT DANCES. to the shoulders, displaying her red and smoky arms fresh from the wash tub, hastily took a candle from a tin sconce nailed to the white- washed wall, and rushing forward with it, held it above the creaking stairway in a position most favourable to the descent of melted tallow on her visitor's head. ' Walk in, ma'am, an' welcome,' said the host- ess, foreseeing in her mind's eye an additional customer to the wash tub. Restoring the candle to the sconce, she made a rush at the best chair the poor room contained, and rubbed it heartily with her apron, Avhich she afterwards applied in the same manner to her perspiring face. ' An' won't you sit down, ma'am V she con- tinued, peering into the stranger's countenance through an atmosphere which was rendered a trifle misty by smoke from the turf fire, and steam from the wash tub. ' Peg, stir the cradle and don't let Polly Avake. Do you hear meV ' Mother,' said Peg, feeling herself called on to make some introduction, ' it's Madame 'Lante,' adding, after a moment's pause, 'the lady that dances on the rope.' And so saying, the child made a curtsey, not without grace, to her visitor. 10 PEG WOFFINGTON. Beino' favoured with this introcluction the o danseuse seated herself, and explamed the motive of her visit. She had beeu struck by the beauty of Peg's face, and by the gi-ace and bearing of her figure, and offered to take her as an apprentice and teach her the business of a tight-rope dancer. The poor v^asherwoman dried her arms, opened her eyes very wide, and looked bewildered at the unexpected proposal which was so suddenly laid before her. ' It will be well for the leetle Peg ; she will earn good salaries in a short times,' put in Mad- ame Yiolante, ' and I will dress and support her.' At this prospect a shrewd twinkle came into ^Irs. Woffington's eyes. She knew the value of money. ' Well, ma'am,' she said, putting her arms akimbo, ' none of me blood has ever been play- actors, or ever danced upon a rope ; an' for the matter o' that, me mother's people never dis- graced themselves be earning a penny piece, but lived upon their own 'states like the highest in the land ; an' sure, 'twas often tould us the head of the family was one o' the rale kings of Ireland himself. But sure, that was in the good MADAME VIOLANTES PUPIL. 11 OAvld times, and there's no use in talking o' them ; and here am I, only a poor widee-wo- man, God help me, with two children to support, an' the times mighty hard, and me good man took from me with little or no warning, God help ns ! An' it's a miserable world Ave live in.' ' It was sad,' the sympathetic Frenchwoman said, taking advantage of a slight pause in the widoAv's autobiographical sketch. ' An' sure, everyone knows, ma'am,' she con- tinued, ' that you bear the character of an honest woman, an' not like most o' them wenches belonging to the playhouse. An' sure as you say Peggy might earn a dacent livin' in a little while, an' that you will support and clothe the child, sure you may take her, an I'll pray God to protect her,' said the washerAvoman. So it was settled that Peg Avas to become one of Madame's pupils ; and in a little Avhile, attired in long drawers, short jacket, and flat pumps, she learned to dance and skip about the stage, and presently to sing songs ; for all of AA'hich she Avas duly admired by the fre- quenters of the booth, who flung her showers 12 PEG WOFFINGTON. of pence, which she quickly picked up and duly gave to her mother. But public taste is proverbially fickle. Although such suiprising performances on the tight-rope as Madame Violante's had never been seen in Dublin be- fore, yet there was a monotony about them which palled after awhile, and by degrees the pleasant booth in Fownes Court, with its sconces of tallow lights, its fiddles, its drums, its merry dances, and its aerial performances, became deserted. Now Madame Violante was a woman of enterprise and energy, and no sooner did one attraction fail to fill her coffers than she quickly looked about her for another; and, like those who seek in earnest, she found it in good time. But a little before all theatrical London had been in a state of intense excitement concern- ing a performance called ' The Beggars' Opera,' by the poet Gay. It had been produced by Eich, then manager of Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, and had been played for sixty two consecutive nights, * making Rich gay, and Gay rich.' The opera was furthermore not- able as being the occasion of a drawn battle ' THE BEGGARS' OPERA: V6 lietween George II. and her Grace the mad Duchess of Queensbury ; which of course added to its notoriety considerably. Now this comic opera had never been heard or witnessed in Dubhn, though the report of its sparkHng dia- logue, its genuine wit, and satirical ditties, had of course crossed the Channel. It therefore struck Madame Violante to form a company of children, instruct them in the parts of this opera, and have it performed in her booth. The idea was no sooner conceived than acted upon, and in a little while the Dublin public was invited to witness the results of her training. The principal character, Polly, Avas given to Peg Woffington ; and strange to say not only she, but almost all the children who person- ated the characters in this opera, afterwards became celebrated actors and actresses. Ma- dame Violante, meanwhile, moved to a more commodious booth in George's Court, which, on the night of the first performance of * The Beggars' Opera,' was prodigiously crowded. Amongst the audience sat a goodly number of Peg's old friends and admirers from Trinity 14 PEG WOFFIXGTON. College, who, when this lovely girl with the blue black hair and liquid eyes came forward, looking pale from fright, received her with an ovation that set her nervousness to flight, and gave her hope of much forbearance. The charm of her face, the beauty of her limbs, the natural grace of her movements would, if such were necessary, have compensated for much that was crude to a people ever keenly sensitive to the effects of physical gifts ; but her crudities were scarcely perceptible, and when the cur- tain fell that night the young actress had the satisfaction of knowing that her first appear- ance in what may be called an important part gave promise of future success. In those old days and good, there existed a common feeling of friendship between performers and their audiences, which was productive of many ad- vantages to both; and in accordance with the custom of the times, at the conclusion of the opera Madame Violante stepped forward from the world behind the scenes to receive the con- gratulations of her patrons on her financial success, as well as on the result of the training of her troupe. A MAX OF PARTS. 15 Little Peg Woffington also descended into the commonplace world by means of a half dozen creaking steps to receive her meed of praise, before joining her mother; who, hoarse from crying oranges at the door of the booth, was now awaiting her daughter, A\dth her empty basket on her arm, a comfortable sense of proprietorship in her manner, and a glow of pride in her honest face — round, rubicund, and set in a framework of blowsy borders. Now amongst those Avho most Avarm- ]y congi-atulated Peg and her patroness was ^Ir. Charles Coffey, a little, wiry, dark com- plexioned man, w^ho looked as if he were being half strangled by his high collar and many- folded cravat. His meagre frame was clad in a black body coat, his lower limbs in velvet breeches, fastened at the knee by rows of brass buttons and bows of black ribbon, and in worsted stockings that betrayed a lamentable lack of calf. For all that, it was easily seen Mr. Charles Coffey was a man of parts, and likewise of vast importance, for he was the composer of ' The Beggars' Wedding,' a ballad opera of gi-eat humour, which had met with prodigious IG PEG WOFFINGTON. success, if not in Dublin, at least in London, where it had been performed for thirty con- secutive nights at the Haymarket, and had likewise held the boards of Covent Garden and the great Drury Lane playhouse itself. More- over, he had likewise written, or rather plagiar- ised, a ballad farce rejoicing in the comprehen- sive title, ' The Devil to Pay,' which had also met with great applause at Drury Lane, and to which Miss Raftor (known afterwards as Kitty Clive) owed vast obligations, as it afforded her scope for the display of the comic talents which the world was not aware she possessed till then. Now it pleased Mr. Charles Coffey to gra- ciously offer to instruct Peg Woffington in the part of Nell, in his new ballad farce, the char- acter in which Kitty Raftor had won her laurels. He had closely studied the Drury Lane actress, luitil her every whimsical movement and humor- ous expression were stamped on his mind ; and these he was ready to teach Peggy, in order that his farce might meet a success in his native town, in which he was no prophet, such as it had already received in the greater capital. A T A UNGIER STREET PL A YHO USE. 17 At this proposal both Peg and her mistress were dehghted ; she was apt, studied hard, and made a sensation in the part when the ballad farce was dnly produced in Madame Violante's canvas covered booth. From this hour she was looked on as a prodigy, destined for renown some day, and was sought after by the polite circles of the town. From association with such society she, being imitative and impressionable, quickly learned to act in accordance with its genteel manners, just as she had rapidly learned singing from Charles Coffey, and French from Madame Violante. For a considerable time the charming Peggy acted small parts, sang ballads, and danced jigs under Madame Violante's management, but fate proving imkind to this lady, her business de- clined, and she was obliged to let her booth. But Peg's reputation as a clever and accom- plished young actress had meanwhile risen, and her services were sought for by Elrington, then manager of the Theatre Koyal, as the Aungier Street playhouse was called, where she sang in operas andfarces, and danced with great grace be- VOL. I. C 18 PEG WOFFINGTON. tween the acts, in company with Monsieur Moreau and Mr. William Delemain. It was not, howcA^er, mitil February, 1737, that she was permitted to make her appearance in what is known as ' a speaking character.' The accident which gave her this chance Avas the same which has afforded similar opportunities to many actresses who have afterwards become known to fame. The play of Hamlet, ' written by the famous Shakespeare,' was announced for performance at the Theatre Royal. Two days before that on which the tragedy was to be produced, the lady selected to play the part of Ophelia fell ill, when Peg came forward and offered to undertake the character. Elrington in return laughed at her proposal, but, nothing daunted, she offered to repeat some of Ophelia's lines for his benefit, the result being that Miss Woffin^'ton was announced in the bills to play the part of this woe stiicken heroine. She had long ago become a favourite with the public, and the event of her making her appearance in this important character caused a vast excitement, to her patrons in particular, / THE NEW OPHELIA. 19 and the town in general. True to their natural characteristic love of display, the good citizens of Dublin were excessively fond of playhouses. On friendly personal terms with most of the actors and actresses, they were familiar -^vith every event of their lives, and dealt out to them from pit and gallery their favour or displeasure, if with occasional indiscretion, at least with an openness that left no doubt as to their preju- dices. Peg Woffington had been known to them from the days when she had sold salad and watercresses in the streets, and the towm regard- ed licr w^ith especial favour ; her appearance in so prominent a part as that of Ophelia was there- fore looked forward to with unusual interest, and on the evening of the 17th of February the Aun- gier Street playhouse was crowded from pit to gallery to witness her performance. Seldom had tliere been seen so brilliant a house, or one more keenly, nay, anxiously, attentive ; and when at length Ophelia came forward, her dark eyes luminous w^ith excitement, her beautiful face pale from fear, she held her audience as by a spell, which the justness of her expression, and c2 20 PEG WOFFINGTON. grace of her manner heightened as the play pro- ceeded. When the curtain descended on the mad scene, it was felt that she had secm^ed a triumph which was not only complete in itself^ but gave promise of great achievements in the future. From this date she no longer danced between the acts, or sang ballads in small parts. It was her ambition to climb the ladder of theatrical fame, and, once having gained a step, she was not the woman to descend to her former level. Her next important part was that of Phillis in Sir Richard Steele's ' Conscious Lovers,' and was almost as great a success as her representa- tion of Ophelia. For two seasons she played leading parts, bringing large audiences and full coffers to the Aungier Street playhouse, gaining especial renown in the part of Sir Harry Wildair, an elegant young man of fashion. This character she had attempted at the desire of several persons of consequence, and so piquant and full of witchery was her personation of the fashionable rake, that she charmed the town to an uncommon degree. SHE FELL IN LOVE. 21 About this time an event happened which may be considered the turning point in her career : she fell in love. The object of her affection was a young gentleman of position but of small fortune, named Taaffe, the third son of a needy Irish peer. He was not only delighted with her talents as an actress, but fascinated by her beauty as a woman. He was a man well to look upon, tall and of goodly shape : with sea blue eyes, light brown hair, and a smile as bright, if, iilas, as deceptive as April sunshine. Night after night he sat in the boxes of the theatre, watching the play of her face that was more beautiful than health ; the glamour of her lustrous eyes ; the smiles that played round a mouth like unto ii cleft pomegranate ; the turn of her head ; the movement of her graceful limbs. When she left the stage, he felt as if sudden darkness had descended upon him. She Avas to him what sunlight is to the world. By day he wooed her with soft words and gentle looks, and many endearments, with all the passion, the longing, and the pain of his youth ; for he thought to himself no woman ever was born so beautiful as 22 PEG WOFFINGTON. she. And, as a woman, she loved him, not wisely, but too well ; trusting him with the pre- cious treasure of her honour, resting confident that because of her vast affection for him, he would in return make her his lawful wife. At his request she quitted the stage at a time when the promise of a great career shone before her ; at his desire she left her native city to accom- pany him to London. For she loved him all in all. 23 CHAPTER II. Ill INIerry London Town — The King's Court and the Prince's — Views of the Streets — The Coffee-houses and their Frequenters — Kound Covent Garden — The Players' Quarters and Clare Market — Laws Concern- ing the Playhouses and their Audiences — Dress of the Period — Johnson, Garrick, and Savage — At the Fountain Tavern — Visiting on ' Clean Shirt Day ' — Keynolds, Pope, and Smollett — Quin at Drury Lane, Cibber at Covent Garden — Vauxhall, its Ways audits Visitors— With Lady Caroline Petersham — A Strange Advertisement. When Peg Woffington arrived in town, London was then, as it had been for the last quarter of a century, the very centre of gaiety and dissipa- tion. The nobihty were divided in their alle- giance between the court of 8t. James, where George II., assisted by his German mistress ^ladame Walmoden, created Countess of Yar- mouth, held drawing-rooms twice a week ; and Norfolk House, where Frederick, Prince of 24 PEG WOFFINGTON. Wales, an outcast from the royal palace, had set up a court of his own, where he aacl his brilliant followers, gambled and fiddled, and danced and acted almost every night throughout the year. The middle and lower classes made merry over rumours that reached them of the royal wran- gles, but little heeding them, enjoyed themselves after their own fashion. The streets, with their steep roofed, strangely carved, curiousl}^ gabled houses, crushing up against, or over la]3ping each other in front by a foot or two, or lying snugly against deep windowed, square towered churches, were bright and busy all day long ; filled by a goodly crowd of courtiers and citizens, clad in many coloured suits, all of whom w^ere more or less known to each other, and ex- changed salutations or civilities with a gi'ace of movement and courtesy of speech lost to us in this latter day. In the centre of the thoroughfares heavily- built coaches, showily painted, emblazoned with coats of arms or coronets, lumbered along ; their slow way beset by carts, or by hired chairs swinging between abusive tongued chairmen, OLD LONDON STREETS. 25 or by tlie chairs of persons of quality carried by livery clad servants. To add, moreover, to the general obstruction of the naiTow streets, barrows of fruits, vegetables, and edibles lined either side, as if to nmrk where the pavements should have been. Over the pedestrian's head, from above the doorway of almost every shop, hung strangely painted signboards, adorned with heraldic bearings, paintings of grotesque and fabulous animals, boars of many colours, or cocks in legion, all of which swung and creaked threateningly with every wind that swept from the four corners of the globe. All day long and far into the night the coffee houses, which were to be found in all quarters of the town, were crowded by men of every degree. Those whose tastes or vocations took them to St. James's, or St. Paul's, alike used them as places for the interchange of polite conversation or the transaction of business. In these houses — the forerunners of clubs — the frequenters paid a penny or twopence, accord- ing to the situation and circumstance of the house, for a cup of good coffee, which sum like- 26 PEG WOFFINGTON. wise entitled the customer to read the broad- sheets of the day, to hnger for an hour or so and hear the latest news from the court or the city, the newest gossip from abroad, or from the green-room of the Drury Lane playhouse ; or to enter into a discussion on the political questions of the hour, the knavery of ministers and the sycophancy of their followers. There was ' Squire's Coffee House,' a deep- coloured red brick, picturesque, building, ad- joining ' Gray's Inn Gate,' which Sir Roger de Coverley himself used to frequent, in the first decade of the century ; when seated at the upper end of the room, at a high table, he would call for a clean pipe, a paper of tobacco, a dish of coffee, a wax candle, and a newspaper, with such an air of good humour that everybody delighted in serving him. There was Button's famous coffee house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, which Addison and his friends had frequented ; where Sir Richard Steele told his wittiest story ; where Dr. Garth uttered his best pun, and which had been made the receiving house for contributions to the SOME COFFEE-HOUSES. 27 Guardian; for which purpose a hon's head, designed by Hogarth, had been put up as a letter-box. And hkewise 'St. James's Coffee House,' in St. James's Street, where the Whigs gathered and talked politics, and arranged the affairs of Europe with a satisfaction heightened by sundry pinches of Brazil snuff; the same house where Dean Swift — now dying in Ireland ' like a rat in a hole,' as he expressed it — had received his letters from poor broken hearted Stella, under cover to Joseph Addison, Esquire. At the ' Grecian Coffee House,' handsome Jemmy Maclaine, the celebrated highwayman, tlie son of an Irish dean, the brother of a Calvinist minister, might be seen any day, sipping his coffee, making love to his land- lord's daughter, keeping an eye to his neigh- bour's property, and joining in the conversation with vast politeness, imtil one morning in May, 1750, when he Avas hung on the charge of stealing a laced waistcoat. In the open bal- cony at Toms ' a great crowd of noblemen adorned with their stars and garters, and men of quality, might be seen nightly, drinking 28 PEG WOFFINGTON. their tea and coffee, exposed to the crowd. But the ' Bedford Coffee House,' in Co vent Garden, was more than all others, at this period, signalized as the emporium of wit, the seat of criticism, and the standard of taste. Here courtiers and citizens met on common ground ; here, on the one hand, the price of stocks was gravely discussed, and on the other, Lord Chesterfield's last hon mot was laughingly re- peated. No student from the universities launching himself on the w^orld, no lawyer's clerk clapping on a sword, no haberdashers 'prentice donning a cue wig, but duly put in an appearance at the ' Bedford,' by way of qualifying himself as a man about town. In the little boxes, ranged round hke hives, men of every calling sipped their coffee nightly, discussing the affairs of the day, exchanging witicisms, and narrating stories more laughable than edifying. And wittiest among them all, creating roars of laughter by his sallies, or his mimicry of some well known actor or poli- tician, was a young gentleman of family and fortune, at this time a student of the Inner ROUND COVENT GARDEN. 2^ Temple. Dressed in a frock-suit of green, and silver lace, bag wig, sword, bouquet, and point ruffles, he frequented the place daily, until the carriage of some woman of quality would drive to the door, and, Mr. Samuel Foote being- inquired for, he would hasten out, hat in hand, and ride awav w^ith his lady fair. Covent Garden in those days was a busy hive, where not only coffee houses, but gay taverns, and ordinaries, and houses of dissipa- tion thickly clustered. At the ordinaries, din- ners were served at the rate of sixpence or a shilling per head ; for the latter sum two courses being supplied, a goodly company, though somewhat mixed, gathering round the board. In each of these houses a second apart- ment was also set aside for the accommoda- tion of the nobility and men of quality, where a higher tariff was charged, and where much wine and good was drunk. Here in this local- ity, which had long become the recognized rendezvous of most of the wits and men of parts, the players had theu' homes. Booth and Wilks had rendered Bow Street sacred in the 30 PEG WOFFINGTON. memory of play goers : and in this same street the ponderous Qiiin Kved at this date. Bet- tevton had resided in Russell Street, where Ryan now had his home ; Colley Cibber dwelt in Charles Street ; ]\Iacklin in St. James's Street : j\Irs. Pritchard in Craven Street ; Kitty Clive in Southampton Row ; whilst the less famous actors and actresses lodged in the smaller streets j^ranching from the Garden. They therefore met each other continually, and lived in a state of pleasant and friendly intercourse. 3Ioreover, they could, at less than an hour's notice, be mustered together for rehearsal, in case a sudden change in a play bill required tlie introduction of a fresh piece. But it was not the players alone who flocked together in those days ; members of other call- ings and professions were apt to congregate in one spot likewise. Barristers and lawyers dwelt mostly in the Inns of Court, or about West- minster Hall ; whilst the merchants and bankers lived in their Avarehouses or counting houses in the city; few of them, and these only of the wealthiest, venturing to approach the West- AT CLARE MARKET. dl end so near as Hatton Garden. Round Clare Market the butchers mustered in vast numbers. These brawny fellows were staunch friends of the players, to whom they were ever Avilling to give their services on occasions when disputes arose between them and the town, as was not infrequently the case ; and on nights when young men of fashion, or gentlemen of the Inns of Court, or the 'prentices bold, threatened a riot in the playhouse on account of some sup- posed offence given them by manager or actor, or were determined on condemning an author's play unheard, the timely appearance of such formidable critics, stationed in various parts of the house, made a due impression upon the nerves of the would be rioters. The laws which held sway relative to the playhouses were curious, but in some ways excellent, being of quite a different complexion from those which obtain now-a-days. None but persons of rank, quality, or fortune ever pre- sumed to sit in a box ; nor did a man ever enter one with his head covered. The boxes were, moreover, sacred to virtue and decorum, except 32 PEG WOFFINGTON. two or three on each side of the house, which were specially set aside for the women of the town. These were therefore visited by men at the peril of their characters. Xo indifferent or vulgar person frequented tiie pit, which was occupied by men of letters or wit, by students of the Inns of Court, barristers, or young mer- chants of rising eminence, all of whom were tjupposed to be well read in polite literature, and learned in dramatic lore. There judgments were therefore considered worthy of vast regard, as being dictated by experience, taste, and learning. The players, as a consequence, court- ed their good opinions in preference to those of the occupants of any other part of the house. When the play was over the critics began to talk, mustering in knots in the lobbies of the theatre, or in the coffee houses, especially the Bedford, where they dehvered judgments ac- cording to their lights, which were received by the town without dissent. On nights when some attraction brought a vast crowd to the house, an amphitheatre was reared at the back of the stage, where presently A T THE PL A YHO USE. 33 the spectators sat row upon row until the heads of those seated in high places touched the theatrical clouds. When this was filled, groups of ill dressed lads sat in front of it, three or four rows deep, otherwise those behind could not have seen, and a riot would have ensued. Nor was tliis all ; round the single entrance door at each side, the young gentlemen of fashion crowded in numbers, as this position gave them a delightful opportunity of display- ing their handsomely dressed persons to the best advantage. Here they diverted them- selves by staring, talking to each other across the stage during the performance, making audi- ble and not very complimentary comments on the actors, or such people in the pit as attracted their notice, and served as a butt for their wit. Such conduct was generally resented by the galleries, when the angry gods, in their just wrath, rained down on them showers of half- sucked oranges, half eaten pippins, and unsound apples, to the infinite terror of those who sat in the pit and boxes. The disadvantage under which this custom VOL. I. D 34 PEG WOFFINGTON. placed the poor players, can scarcely be con- ceived. * On a crowded night a performer could not step his foot with safety,' says Tate AVilkin- son, 'lest he should thereby hurt or offend, or be thrown down amongst scores of idle tipsy ap- prentices.' xA.mongst such a crowd would some charming Juliet be discovered in the tomb scene of ' Romeo and Juliet,' arrayed in a full white satin dress with large hoop, then considered in- dispensable to the proper costume of this love sick maiden ; and with such a throng surround- ing her bed would Desdemona bid her last fare- well to the murderous Moor. Sometimes, whilst the stage was so crowded, situations and scenes occurred in plays un- dreamt of by their authors. For instance, on one occasion, whilst an actor named Holland was playing Hamlet to a thronged house for his benefit, a ridiculous incident ha|)pened. When the ghost, with some difficult and many audible apologies, elbowed his way through the beaux, and appeared to this gentleman, his hat flew off his head ; this being the recog- nised mode of conveying a hint that his hair THE GHOST FLED. 35 stood on end, aud of expressing fright gener- ally. Presently, as he complained that the air bit shrewdly, and was very cold, a stout old lady with a compassionate heart and a red cloak, stepped down, unseen by him, from her seat in the amphitheatre, picked up his hat, and, coming behind him, placed it on his head, when poor Hamlet started in real terror. The house burst into roars of laughter, the ghost turned and fled, and Hamlet, after a moment's hesitation, followed him amidst ringing cheers. On another night it happened that a certain noble earl, during the murder scene in Macbeth, lounged across the stage in (^rder to chat with a friend of his whom he spied at the other side. Rich, the manager, duly incensed, declared he would never admit him on the stage again, to which the noble lord replied by giving him a blow in the face, which was duly returned by Rich, when a fracas commenced that extended itself to the whole house. Indeed, this custom of crowding the stage continued until lit) 2, when Garrick finally abolished it, to the vast indig- nation of the audience and performers ; the D 2 86 PEG WOFFINGTON. former regarding it as an infringement on their rights, the latter as an injustice because of the decrease in the receipts of their benefits which ensued. There were hkewise unwritten laws regard- ing dress, at this period, which were strictly adhered to ; the merchant being recognisable by his broad cloth and worsted hose, from the man of quality habited in velvet, satin, and silk. Moreover, those living at a distance of sixty or a hundred miles from the capital, scarce ever ventured to make the journey to town ; but when they did, the countryman was at once known by his suit of hght grey or drab cloth, his slouched hat, and uncurled hair. It was only a couple of years before the AYoffington's arrival that Samuel Johnson, in company with young Davy Garrick, had tra- velled up to London to seek his fortune ; when the philosopher in embryo had dined at ' The Pine Apple ' in New Street, on a cut of meat for which he paid sixpence, and bread a penny; or had in sadder times gone breadless by day and bedless by night, wandering wearily when WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS ASLEEP. 37 all the world was asleep, in company Avitli Richard Savage, poet and vagabond, round lonely squares and through deserted streets, silent save for the watchman's single noted call, or the striking of many toned clocks heard fi-om towers and steeples lost in dark- ness, until with the dawn of a new day fresh hopes were born within them. But now John- son, who has commenced to make way, might be seen in one of the boxes of ' The Fountain Tavern ' in the Strand, reading with rumbling voice, the ponderous speeches of his tragedy ' Irene,' to Mr. Peter Garrick ; or sauntering on ' clean shirt day ' to Salisbury Court to visit Mr. Samuel Richardson the printer, then un- known to fame ; or to carry copy to the editor of the Gentleman s Magazine, Mr. Edward Cave, of St. John's Gate ; a spot whicli Johnson first • beheld with reverence,' as the source from whicli so much polite knowledge sprang. Cave, Si rough, gruff fellow enough, who possessed a warm heart, was surrounded by a crowd of hack ^vi'iters, anxious to pen a sonnet or satire, essay or article, at the nod of their great chief. y 38 PEG WOFFINGTON. As an intellectual liixmy, he had promised Johnson a sight of the mighty geniuses who presided over the fortunes of his magazine ; and subsequently introduced him to them as they sat among the clouds, not of Olympus, but of tobacco smoke ascending from their pipes, in an ale-house in Clerkenwell. Fielding, who had not at this time written a line of his novels, but who Avas of good repute as a dramatist, might be seen loitering in the shop of his brother playwright, Robert Dodslej, who had once been a footman in the Lowther family and had now become a poet, dramatist, aud publisher. ' You know how decent, humble, inoffensive a creature Dodsley is — how little apt to forget or disguise his having been a footman,' writes Horace AValpole, the magnificent. The Muses, it would seem, had visited the worthy Dodsley whilst he wore the shoulder knot, and the first volume of his poems were very appropriately entitled, ' The Muse in Livery.' These verses were fortunate enough to attract the attention of Pope, who, as the saying is, took him by the hand, and established him as a bookseller. In turn. IN DODSLErS SHOP. 39 Dodsley was one of the first to practically re- cognise Johnson's worth as a poet by giving him ten guineas for ' London, a Poem in imita- tion of the third Satire of Jnvenal;' which 'happy offspring of his muse' had previously o'one the rounds of the booksellers, and had been rejected by them. He had hkewise helped Johnson by giving him a guinea now and then for paragraphs written for the London Chronicle, at a time when guineas were most welcome guests to the philosopher's palm. In this pleasant shop, situated in Pall Mall, might be seen many of the celebrities of the day; amongst others a thin faced, shrunken limbed little gentleman, shghtly bent, and clad in sober black, who was no other than Mr. Pope of Twickenham. Here also came for many an hours pleasant gossip, a remarkable lookmg man, pale faced and with thoughtful eyes, Ed- ward Young, who had not then wiitten his * Night Thoughts,' but who had given Drury Lane a couple of tragedies which met with but httle appreciation. And with him occasionally came a young man, a doctor's apprentice, Tobias George Smollett, who eight years later was to 40 PEG WOFFINGTON. become famous as the author of ' The Adven- tm-es of Roderick Random,' but who at this period, when he came to take a friendly pinch of snuff from Dodsley's box, and hsten to the pohte conversation of the men of parts who visited him, had merely written a tragedy which had been rejected by the managers of the Drury Lane and Covent Garden playhouses. Here, too, came young Mr. Arne, the uphol- sterer's son, the brother of the frail and beauti- ful actress, Susanna Maria Gibber. IMr. Arne — a slight, trim man, light of foot and easy of carriage, who dressed in black velvet even in the dog days — posed as a wit and a scholar, and had just then distinguished himself by setting Milton's ' Comus ' to music. Peg Woffington and her lover arrived in the early part of the summer, when the theatrical season proper was almost over, and the actors and actresses taking their annual benefits. At Drury Lane Mr. Quin was playing Julius Gassar, ' with the death of Brutus and Gassius,' followed by the 'Virgin Unmasked,' in which saucy Kitty Olive played one of her favourite characters — Miss Lucy. At Go vent Garden ' The Rehearsal ' DIVERSIONS OF THE TOWN. 41 was being played for Mr. Gibber's benefit, with * an epilogue written by Jo. Haines, comedian, of facetious memory, to be spoken by Mr. Gibber riding on an ass ; followed by a hornpipe by a gentleman in the character of a sailor.' A pan- tomime entertainment, rejoicing in the sugges- tive title of ' The Columbine Courtezan,' was given nightly at Punch's Theatre, adjoining the Tennis Court in St. James's Street ; and instead of the usual operatic performances at the Hay- market Theatre, assemblies were held weekly, ' to commence at nine, and no sooner,' to which the gay part of the town flocked in large numbers. Now that tlie long evenings and warm nights were at hand, the Marylebone Gardens threw wide their gates, and gave entertainments of music, when ' the nobility and gentry are ad- mitted for sixpence each ;' and Yauxhall put forth ail its gay allurements. On these calm bright evenings in early sum- mer the placid Thames was crowded by boats and barges, hung with bright bunting, and laden with gay companies of citizens on their way to Yauxhall Gardens, which had then no rival ; Ranelagh not being opened till April, 42 PEG WOFFINGTON. 1742. In the far stretching gardens of Yaux- hall were woods, open swards, picturesque vistas, tents, booths, and a platform for dancers, all of which were at night ' made illustrious by a thousand lights finely disposed.' In the glades, under the shade of spreading trees, walked gentlemen in silken hose and silver buckled shoes, their rich coloured velvet coats distended in the skirts by cane or buckram ; their padded breasts covered by bright-hued satin waistcoats, wide flapped and embroidered with gold or silver lace ; their jewelled hands half covered by point lace ruffles smelling of orange water ; their powdered wigs surmounted by three cornered hats ; and by their sides walked ladies of quality, powdered and patched, high heeled, low bodiced, and Avide skirted. In the pavilions at either side of the grove, which were divided into different departments, and adorned by pictures and portraits byHayman, from designs by Hogarth himself, sat various companies, not only of men and women of quality, but of goodly citizens in Avorsted hoso and square toed shoes, and coats ot honest broadcloth, who, Avith their buxom spouses and VAUXHALL GARDENS. 43. families, enjoyed themselves merrih^ enough; for here, as Boswell says, ' was good eating and drink- ing for those who chose to purchase that regale.' In the centre of the grove stood a vast or- chestra, where bands played, and ' concerts of musick ' were given nightly ; and at either side of which stood statues of Mr. Handel as Orpheus playing the lyre, Roubiliac's first work in Eng- land, and of John Milton, the latter being cast in lead, and painted stone colour. Vauxhall had been opened by Mr. Thomas Tyres, a man who had been bred to the law, which he soon forsook ; for, having a vivacious temper and an eccentric mind, he ' ran about the world with a pleasant carelessness, amusing everybody,' as Johnson's biographer says. In opening Vaux- hall Gardens, Tyres stated in his advertisements that he was ' merely ambitious of obliging the polite and worthy part of the town,' and charged a shilling simply ' to keep away such as were not fit to mix with those persons of quality, ladies and gentlemen, and others,' who should honour him with their company. The gardens, from the convenience they afforded, soon became, as may be readily sup- 44: PEG WOFFINGTON. posed, remarkable as a place of intrigue, a fact that did not in the least prevent others bent on more innocent enjoyment from frequenting them. To the diversions called Ridotti al Fresco, given here, most of the company went wearing masks and dominos, and wrapping their figures in ample cloaks, lawyer's gowns, and such articles of apparel as served for disguise. These ridotti commenced at about eight o'clock in the evening, and ended usually at four in the morning. They were extremely popular ; and so prodigious a number of coaches and chairs crossed Westminster Bridge en Q^oute for the gardens, from the polite part of the town, on nights when a ridotto Avas held, that an attempt to cross that thoroughfare oftentimes proved dangerous to limb and life. In the vicinity of Vauxhall, order was sought to be preserved by a hundred soldiers, whilst the way from there to town was patrolled by stout fellows well armed, and paid by Tyres to pro- tect the properties and lives of his patrons. Horace Walpole pleasantly discourses of a journey he made to Vauxhall, in company with Lady Caroline Petersham and Miss Ashe, with A MERRY PARTY. 45- whom indeed her ladyship had broke but a little while before, but again took under her protection, upon the assurance of Miss Ashe that she ' was as good as married ' to Mr. Wort- ley Montagu, Lady Mary's son; a gentleman alike remarkable for the number of his amours and his snufF boxes. When Walpole arrived he found the ladies 'had just finished their last layer of red_, and looked as handsome as crimson could make them. The party also numbered Lord March, Harry Vane, the Duke of Kingston, pretty Miss Beauclerc and Miss Sparre. As they sauntered down the Mall— a merry group of bright coloured ladies, and powdered and per- fumed gentlemen — Lady Caroline met her lord, who strode by them on the outside and re- passed them again without a word. At the end of the Mall, my lady called him, but he would not hear ; when she gave a familiar spring, and, between laughing and confusion, called out to him, ' My lord, my lord ! Why, you don't see us.' Then the remainder of the party advanced, feeluig somewhat awkward and anxious, for my lord did not love his lady, and Lady Caroline said, ' Do you go with us, or are 46 PEG WOFFINGTON. you going anywhere else?" to whicli her lord and master made answer, ' I don't go with yon, I am going somewhere else !' and quickly marched away. Not the less merry for his departnre, they got into a barge, a boat with a company playing French horns, attending them, as they floated down the tide ; when they de- barked, who should they meet but my Lord Granby, who reeled out of ' Jenny's Whim,' — a tavern at the end of the wooden bridge at Chelsea — as drunk as may be, and who, of course, accompanied them on their merry way ; w^hen he took occasion to propose to Miss Sparre, that they should shut themselves up for three weeks merely to rail at the world. Then they entered the Gardens and selected a box, in front of which Lady Caroline sat, looking dangerously handsome. Learning that my Lord Orford was in a neighbouring box, she sent for him to mince chickens ; when seven of these unhappy fowls were minced into a china dish, which her hospitable ladyship stewed over a lamp, Avitli three pats of butter, and a flagon of water, stir- i*ing and rattling and laughing till the company expected to have the dish about their ears every CROWDS GATHERED ROUND THEM. 47 moment. My lady had brought Betty, the famous fruit ghl, who, in her turn, brought hampers of strawberries and cherries ; and Betty waited on this excellent company, and then sat down at a little table beside them, and enjoyed her share of the good things of this life. Such jokes, and puns, and repartee — sometimes a little broad, it is true — never were heard ; such wit fell from their lips, such laughter rippled all round them, that they soon had the whole atten- tion of the garden, and crowds gathered about their box, till Harry Vane took up a bumper and drank their healths, and then proceeded to treat them with greater freedom, when they dispersed. Mention of Vauxhall is continually made in the newspapers of the day, in connection with the announcements of its/t^i^es, the people who had visited it, and sometimes with strange advertise- ments, one of which, strongly illustrative of the times, runs : 'Lost in the dark walk at Vauxhall last week, two female reputations ; one had a small speck, on account of some dirt previously thrown at it ; the other never soiled. Whoever will bring them back to their owners shall re- ceive five thousand pounds with thanks.' 48 CHAPTER III. A Faithless Lover — Fortune-hunting — News of a Marriage — Hatred and Vengeance — Peg Woffington's Plot — Young Mr. Adair — The Eidotto at Vauxhall Gardens — ]\riss Dallaway and her Friends — A Scene — PtC- proaches — A Lover's Departure. Such was London town when Peg Woffington and young TaafFe took up their residence in York Street, Covent Garden. For a few brief months all went well with them ; the actress was delighted with the infinite attractions and novelties of the capital, and her lover rejoiced that she was happy. But by degrees slow, but deadly sure, came the inevitable reaction of a passion not founded on unselfish affection; and the man who had sworn that he loved her more than life itself, and that his love for her would outlive his life, already grew cold in his ardour. For days PLAYING HER FALSE. 49 and weeks he was absent from her side. But she who had given him her heart loved him still, and Avas loath to admit that her affection was no longer retm-ned ; and by all those charming arts, Avhich tlie intuition of a woman of fine feel- ings teaches her to employ in inspiring or retain- ing a love that is dear to her, she strove to win him back once more. For a time it seemed as if she had succeeded ; to his carelessness ensued a tenderness that had in it something of self- reproach. At last there came a day when he an- nouncedthat urgent business affairs in connection witli his property, obhged him to leave town for Ireland, but he hoped to return in three weeks at the latest. And then followed many protestations of affection, which even she felt, came rather from the lips than from the heart ; for the old light was missing from his sea blue eyes, and the sound of his voice rang false. He had scarcely gone a week, when it reach- ed her ears that he had been playing her false ; that he had been wooing a young lady of quality and fortune; named Miss Dallaway, who was heiress to considerable wealth. More- VOL. I. E 60 PEG WOFFIXGTOy. over, his attentions to this young lady had proved so agreeable, that she had promised to wed him on his return to town. At this news, the Woffington was by turns astonished, in- credulous, and furious ; but recovering from the first condition, she took pains to ascertain that the rumour was undoubtedly true. Then the scales fell from her eyes, and she saw that the idol she had blindly worshipped, had not a heart of gold, as she had foolishly imagined, but of base clay, made very much after the pattern of the rest of mankind. She was not jealous of the woman he had asked to marry him, prob- ably for the sake of her mone}^ : but she was heart sore for loss of his love, indignant at the deception practised on her, and humiliated at the prospect of being flung aside, at the mere dictates of his caprice and convenience. Brooding over her wrongs, all her love for him turned to hatred and contempt; she was a woman scorned, and she was determined to have vengeance. It was not until she had thought for long and sorrowful days, that she at last hit upon a VENGEANCE. 61 plan of obtaining her vengeance ; but this, when once determined on, she, with the impetuous spirit wliich was so strong a trait of her charac- ter, did not hesitate to carry out. Knowing the name of the lady to whom her lover had proposed marriage, it Avas a matter of but shght difficulty to become acquainted with her by sight ; for being a woman of quality and fash- ion, she attended all the polite assembhes and entertainments of the town. The next step that the Woffington resolved on, was to meet her, obtain an introduction to her, and reveal to her that the man she had promised to Aved, was the lover of an Iiish actress. Thoughts of the sore pain and deep humiliation which this might cause Miss DallaAvay did not prevent the Woffington from carrying out her plans; this woman of fashion could not love him as she, the Woffing- ton, had loved him, with all the depth and force of her demonstrative Celtic nature, quick, sub- tle, and passionate ; and if she had suffered from his perfidy, why not this other woman hkewise. It was but just ! She must strike at him, though her shaft pierced another lieart. 52 PEG WOFFINGTON. Remembering how successfully she had played the part of Sir Harry Wiklair on the stage, she now resolved, in order to carry out her plans more successfully, to act the part of a young man of fashion in real life ; and, assuming male- attire, she so successfully disguised herself, that even those who had seen her take the part in the Dublin theatre, could not recognize her as Mr. Adair, a young Irishman of family and for- tune ; the name and character she now assumed. Attired in silken hose and satin breeches, with broidered waistcoat and wide flapped coat, pow- dered, painted, and bewigged, she sallied forth uj)on the town, a perfect specimen of the imper- tinent, dainty, and effeminate coxcombs of the period. Everywhere Miss Dallaway went, the Woffington was, if possible, present ; in the park before dinner, where the lady was sure to take the air ; in the theatre at night, where the lady sat in her box ; and to such assemblies as were open to the public for payment, Avhere the lady was most likely to attend. Moreover, the Woffington always took care that Miss Dalla- w^ay should notice her appearance, and occasion- AT A RIDOTTO. 53 nWj ventured to give such signs of admiration, ^nd indications of a smitten heart, as were per- missible by look and gestm-e. But all the while, the Woffingtou found it impossible to obtain the desired introduction; without which she dared not, in her character as a gallant, address the lady. At length fate granted her desire one night, when they were present at a pubhc ridotto in Vauxhall Gardens. When the Woffington, otherwise Mr. Adair, en- tered the grounds, the scene which presented itself Avas one of vast brilliancy and gaiety. In the orchestra a full band was discoursing the liveliest airs imaginable ; coloured lamps glittered amidst the thick leafed branches of oak and linden, that formed an arch like roof above the central walk of the aTOve ; the pavilions were crowded with brightly clad figures ; dancers glided to and fro upon the platform ; laughter rang in the air ; and every- where were men and women in masks, dominos, uniforms, or fancy costumes, busy in the pur- suit of enjoyment ; and all as merry as might be. Amongst those Mr. Adair walked with a 54 PEG WOFFINGTON. swaggering gait, s^Yinging liis gold nobbed clouded cane, with its great bnnch of silken tassels, to and fro, as if bis heart were as light as a feather ; a smile on his lips, a civil speech on his tongue, a glitter in his eye that miglit indicate love or mischief. At last he caught sight of the figure for which he had been diligently in search. Surrounded bj a group of friends. Miss Dallaway sat under a tree, Avatching the crowds pass and repass ; now and then making some comment which showed she was not devoid of Avit. Approaching the little knot with the easiest and most careless air in the AYorld, Mr. Adair recognized at a glance, a certain man of quality Avith Avhom he had during the Aveek exchanged civihties, Avhilst dining at the more select ordinary of the ' Bed- ford,' and AAath whom, on one occasion, he had cracked a bottle of port. AdA^ancing to him, he assumed his most courteous air, made a boAv Avhicli carried its credentials for good breeding in its CA^ery moA^ement, and spoke a A^astly cYvil speech. The man of quality Avas not behind hand in courtesy ; and presently MISS BALL AW AY. 55 yonng Adair, making a polite reference to Miss Dallaway, the man of quality offered to intro- duce his new friend to her. 'For,' said he, *you must know, the young lady has a partiality for your country, ha^dng given the strongest possible proof of it, by con- senting to wed one of your genial hearted race/ ' Indeed,' said Mr. Adair. ' The young lady confers an honour on us all by her choice ; all the more so from her condescending to over- look the worth and parts of those by whom she is at present suiTounded.' When the elaborate bows which succeeded this speech were made, and the gentlemen had assumed their erect figures once more, JMr. Adair was presented to Miss Dallaway, a young gentlewoman of scarcely more than eighteen summers, beautiful in features, dazzlingly fair, blue eyed, and with an expression of innocence and trust that quickly won its way to the heart. At the introduction, Mr. Adair slowly removed liis hat, and placing it, with a gesture perfect in gracefuhiess, over the region of his heart, bowed almost to the ground ; whilst the lady, 5G PEG WOFFINGTON. first rising from lier seat, seemed gradually and gently to sink amidst billows of lace and satin, as she cnrtesyed low in retm^n. ' Madam,' said Mr. Adair, in a voice which, though a trifle harsh, had in its undertone a ring which attracted its hearer, ' this day shall hence- forth be reckoned amongst the happiest in my life.' ' Sir,' said the lady, ' you are in truth vastly polite,' and raising her e^^es to his, she encoun- tered a glance, the fascination of which few men had found it possible to resist. * Madam,' said this pretty gentleman, ' when the truth is spoken concerning you it must ever seem polite ; for with such a theme, no tongue could discourse inelegantly.' The lady bowed once more and opened her jewelled fan, which she raised to her face in order to conceal the smile of pleasure that played about her lips. ' You have a knack, sir,' she said, ' of turning pretty compliments.' ' Yes, madam,' quoth he, ' when inspired by beauty and worth ; for compliments are the due YOUNG MR. ADAIR. 57 tributes to such qualities.' And so saying the gallant gentleman tapped a tiny gold box, helped himself with an air of satisfaction to snuff, and taking out his daintily scented hand- kerchief, lightly brushed a few grains which had fallen on the costly lace of his ruffles. ^ By degrees Miss Dallaway's friends gave way to the new comer, whose easy grace and vast courtesy, seemed to find ready favour in her eyes. Mr. Adair, seeing his advantage, quickly followed it up ; he was anxious to speak to her in a more sequestered spot, in order to expose the villainy of the man she had promised to wed. Therefore he said to her, as soon as the opportunity offered, ' The crowd here to night is prodigious, madam, in faith we have around us a mixed lot. You will find it more agreeable in the grove, I have no doubt ; may I do myself the honour of offering you my arm?' And so saying, he led the way down the cen- tral walk of the grove, with its star like lights and its fragrant odours. By degrees,' and, as it seemed, by accident, they outstepped their 58 PEG WOFFINGTON. friends ; for the crowd through which they mov- ed being great, thev were soon separated from her ; an advantage which was quickly folloAved up by the young gentleman proposing that they should turn down one of the paths to the right, in as much that it was far more agreeable by reason of its silence and seclusion. ' I believe sir, by your conversation, that you live in town,' said the lady, laying her hand on his arm as lightly as might be. ' At present, yes, madam,' says he, ' I have, however, been here but a few short months, having arrived in the spring from — from one of the universities.' * Young gentlemen are taught many things there,' says she. ' Yes, madam,' replies he mth a wicked smile, *in the one from which I came they learned many things — from me.' ' From you, sir !' stealing a glance at him. ' That is, I taught them some very pretty man- ners — I have always been famed for my manners.' ' Of that I have no doubt, sir,' repHed the lady. ' But alas, madam,' the gentleman said with a IT WAS TERRIBLY nEAL. 5& 8igb, ' I find that I have come to to^vii too late.' He felt as if lie were playing a part; the habit of acting, difficult to lay aside even in serious moments, was noAV strong upon him; the gardens with their hghts and music v/ere but a stage; the surroundings but theatrical accessories ; and the purport for which he had donned this disguise, and sallied forth upon the toAvn for the last week, but the plot of a comedy. And yet it was all real, terribly real, and under the bravery of that broidered satin Avaistcoat beat a woman's heart that was sick from grief, yet strong for revenge. 'Too late? May I venture to inquire why you say so ?' said ]Miss Dallaway. ' If I only dared to tell her,' said the gentle- man, in that undertone called on the stage an aside, which, though quite audible, is supposed to be unheard. Then he added, hi a louder though more desponding tone, ' Too late, madam, to secure my oAvn happiness.' ' How do you mean V queried Miss Dallaway, who seemed to conceive a sudden interest in the cause of his distress. 60 PEG WOFFINGTON. ' When I came to town.' said he, hftiug his eyes to hers, and catching a look of pleasure which promised a deeper concern in his affairs, * I heard the name of Miss Dallaway on every tongue. In the coffee houses it was spoken with respectful admiration, in all polite assem- blies with unmeasured praise. Eveiywhere her beauties and qualities were vastly lauded, until I grew impatient to see the object of such general esteem. But when at last good fortune permitted me to see her — when I saw you, madam, I knew that all I had heard had not done justice to your perfections ; I saw that your merits were as far superior to the compliments which every tongue had uttered, as glorious day is to the darlvuess of night ; as heaven itself is to this poor earth.' ' Oh I sir,' said the lady, blushing, ' you over- whelm me.' ' Nay, madam,' said the gallant, ' I speak but the naked truth. But with the knoAvledge of your perfections, came also the news that you had given your love, your life, to the keeping of one who had been happy enough to find favour in your eyes.' HE IS A WORTHLESS FELLOW. Gl ' That is true, sir,' said the lady, as if the fact had been suddenly recalled to her, and recalled without pleasure; *he— he is a gentleman of worth,' she added. « If he were indeed one likely to render you happy, madam,' said the gallant, ' I would never have sought this interview to-night.' 'What do you mean, sir?' said Miss Dalla- way, with a change of tone that indicated both surprise and displeasure. ' I mean,' he answered, boldly, ' that he is un- worthy of your esteem and love ; that, in fact, madam, he is a worthless fellow and a profligate.' 'It is false,' she said, indignantly, removing her hand from her companion's arm. ' This is a charge trumped up to blacken his character in my eyes, an unworthy trick to ingratiate yourself in my favour ; but, clever as you are, sir, it shall not succeed.' 'Upon my honour, madam, it is true,' said Mr. Adair, very quietly. ' I see you love him too, and I grieve indeed to pain you— in truth I do ; but this gentleman is well known, as I have recently learned, for his gallantries. Nay^ 02 PEG WOFFINGTON. bear with me whilst I tell you, that even while he made love to you from mercenary motives, he ^va.s carrying on an affair with an actress whom he brought to town from Ireland.' ' An actress ?' she gasped, pale now, and trembling all over. Then, the colour coming back into her cheeks, she cried out, ' I'll not believe it ; it cannot be possible that the man who swore he loved me — loved me better than all the world besides, loved me for myself alone — is false to me. Take back your words : say they are untrue, the trick of a rival in a war of love — or ' (with a change of tone no longer pleading, but commanding) ' produce me proof that your words are true.' 'Madam,' said the AYoffington, for it was no longer the man of fashion, but the woman who now spoke, ' I cannot take back my words : but, as it may be well for you to know this man, I will show you proof that what I have said is true.' And she drew out a bundle of letters, some of them of recent date, some of them well worn because often read. ' You know the writing V THEN READ THEM. 63 The young lady fixed her eyes on them for a second, and nodded her head. ' Tlien read them,' said the AVoffington. In her haste, Miss Dallaway almost tore the squarely folded sheets of paper bearing Taaffe's seal, and his characters addressed to Mrs. Mar- garet AVoffington, and read line after line that spoke of love and faithfulness for this actress, until the letters seemed to burn themselves into her brain; then the music of the band fell fainter and fainter on her ears, her head swam, and, with a low crj^, she tottered forward, and would have fallen, but that Peg Woffington caught her in her outstretched arms. The place Avas quite solitary ; no one had witnessed this scene. AVitli an effort Peg Woffington lifted the insensible girl to a bench close by, fanned her face, and chaffed her hands. ' Poor girl,' she said, ^ I did not think she loved him so ! What fools we women are I' Tears sprang into her eyes, and, bending down her head, she kissed the girl's forehead with tenderness. 'Did you know me, you would shrink from the touch of my lips,' she said, 64 PEG WOFFINGTON. almost in a whisper, and again she kissed her with the love of a sister. In a little Avhile the young lady opened her eyes, and, looking ronnd her, remembered all. ' My child,' said the Woffington, tenderly, for- getting completely the character she assumed, ' I have caused you some pain, but from suffering, good often springs. It is best that you should know the man to whom you were about to trust the happiness of your whole life as he really is. When next a man pleads to you, have more care regarding his character^ before you give him the treasure of your love.' ' You have saved me,' said the girl. * I loved him, and now — now ' ' You see he is unworthy of you. My task has been, after all, an ungracious one ; and when I undertook it I had no thought for the trouble it might bring you. Forgive me.' ' Then it was not to save me you told me thisf said Miss Dallaway, wonderingly. * No ; it was to punish him for his deception to — to one very near to me,' said the Woffing- ton ; her cheeks were burning. IF YOU KNEW ME. 65 * In any case, I owe yon thanks,' said the young lady, while tears almost choked her voice. ' Yonr words are kind ; surely, ah ! surely your heart must be good.' ' Good ? If you knew me, you would not say so,' said the Woffington. Then she hesitated just for a second ; longing, in obedience to some sudden impulse, to throw off the character she had assumed, and reveal herself; yet fearing to lose the regard which she had gained, and dread- ing the dislike and distrust which she Imew her name must call up. Suddenly resuming her for- mer air of a coxcomb, she therefore laughed airily and said, ' Madam, believe me, I am no better than my neighbours.' Miss Dallaway rose up, puzzled by the con- tradictions in manner and tone which this young man's manner betrayed. ' Let us seek my friends,' she said. ' I'm sure they have missed me.' She held out her hand, which the Woffington took in both of hers and raised it to her lips, not with affected gallantry, but in honest pity. Then arm in arm, and without exchanging VOL. I. F G6 PEG WOFFINGTON. another word, they went forth amongst the crowd. The first hght of a summer day had crept into the sky before the Woffington reached her lodgings in York Street, Covent Garden. In obedience to the lond smnmons of one of her chairmen, the door was quickly opened, not by a servant, but by her lover, who had just re- turned. She started for a moment in surprise ; then, getting out of her chair, she quickly passed him and entered the house, leaving him to wrangle with the chairmen. Passing into the sitting room, she flung off her dainty gold laced hat and powdered wig, loosened her cravat, undid her sword, cast it from her on the floor impatiently, and then sat down in a great chair to await his coming. Her mood had changed. The manner of the man about town had van- ished completely; the air of reckless audacity had given place to the weariness of reaction ; the scene in which she had so cleverly enacted a part, now affected her in an unlocked for degree, and filled her with bitter self reproach. ' Well, Peggy,' said Taafl"e, entering the room MEETING HER LOVER, 67 ivith a blithe air, * have you no word of welcome for me, after coming back to yon fonr days sooner than I expected V ' I am tired,' she answered, shortly, without looking at him. Her face was white and haggard seen by this early light ; there was a dangerous glitter in ]ier dark eyes, a defiant air in her bearing. ' Ah, I see,' said he, with a short laugh. ' You have been out amusing yourself at your old stage tricks again, and donning the breeches.' Coming over to where she was, he sat down beside her, and stretched out his arms as if to caress her, with such tenderness as was his wont in the first days of their courtship. The same light was in his sea blue eyes, the same smile on his lips wliich had first dazzled her, filled her heart with a torrent of happiness, and made her weigh the world light in the balance of his love. But now she saw only the weak- ness, deception, and cruelty of his nature re- flected in his eyes and playing on his lips, and she shrank from him. ' Don't touch me,' she said, in a tone such as F 2 68 PEG WOFFIKGTON. he liacl never heard her use before. He did not dare to disobey her. ' Why,' said he, ^ it's in mighty bad temper you are ; you don't seem to have got much di- version out of your night.^ ' I have got none,' she answered him, briefly. ' It's sorry I am for it,' he said, concihatingly. * And may I ask where you have been V * You may, for I intended telhng you. Though I may act many parts, I cannot play the hypocrite hke you.' This time she looked him in the face. ' What the devil do you mean by that civil speech?' asked the gentleman, beginning to comprehend her humour. ' I mean,' she answered, * that 1 have seen Miss Dallaway, the woman you promised tc> marry, and I have told her all.' ' Good God !' cried he, nervously grasping hold of his chair. ' Is this a part of your play- acting, or is it true ? Answer me at once ' ' It is true,' she replied, unflinchingly meeting the look of horror that crept into his face. ' You are a devil !' he almost hissed from between his clenched teeth. YOU HAVE DECEIVED ME. CO ' I am a Avoman,' she said, rising to her feet, and throwing back her finely turned head with so sudden a gesture, that her long black hair fell in a lustrous shower upon her shoulders — ' I am a woman, and you have deceived me. I loved you with all my heart, and you played me false. You swore fidelity to me, and then left me to whisper the same words in the ear of another dupe of your flattering speeches and soft ways. All the love I once bore you turned to hate, and I determined to expose you as the liar and hypocrite that you are.' Her eyes flashed, her breasts heaved with passion, her face flushed with the crimson of indignation. She was beautiful ; but the man before her thought only of the injury she had done him. His anger blinded him to the loveli- ness that had once fascinated him, and he rose up and cursed her. 'Tell me w^hat you have done,' he gasped, •seeing it was better for him to know the worst at once. ' What you have said to her.' 'I have told her that you are a profligate,' she said, looking at him steadily. ' I have told 70 PEG WOFFINGTON. her that even whilst you spoke words of love to her, you were carrying on an affair with — with an actress you had brought with you from Ireland.' The words came as if wrenched from her. * She will not believe you,' he said^ catching at some straw by which he might yet be saved. 'I have taken care that she shall. I have shown her your letters to me,' she answered. ' Good God I 1 am undone,' he cried out in despair. ' Do you know that you have ruined me ? My affairs are going to the de\dl. She is an heiress ; I was to have married her in a couple of weeks, and her fortune would have saved me. You have destroyed me.' Woman like, she began to relent. He strode up and down the room with uneven steps ; his face pale as death, his brows knitted in anger, his lips twitching from the passion of his despair. ' I only know,' she answered back, with strongly imposed calmness, ' that you have deceived me. It was enough for me.' * You — you are a tigress,' he replied, hoarse with rage ; and snatching up his cloak and hat^ he rushed out of the room and out of the THEY TWO PARTED. 71 house without another word, nay, even without once looking back at her. For a moment she stood motionless, listening to the quick sound of his feet echoing down the lonely street in the early morning hour. Even then she knew that she would never again see this man Avhom she had loved so ^-eU, whom she, alas, yet loved, despite her wrongs and her rage. Even then she felt that time had turned over one of the brightest pages of her life, that something had gone from her existence which she could never again recover. Then a dull sense of misery and unutterable lonehness descended on her; and with a pas- sionate movement, she flung herself on a couch, and burying her face in her hands, sobbed as if her heart were breaking. 72 CHAPTER lY. John Rich, Manager of Covent Garden — His First Panto- mime — Plis Treatment of Dramatic Authors — The AVoffington's Interview with Him — Sensation in the Town — Actors at Covent Garden — Ryan's 'iragedy in Real Life — Theophilus Gibber — Peg Woffington's First Appearance in London — An Oldfashioned Comedy — Surprise and Admiration of the Town — Sir Harry Wildair — All the Town in Love with Her. Peg Woffington was not a woman to sit down idly, and break lier heart because of a lover's perfidy. Naturally energetic, she delighted in work, and happily for her generation of play- goers, now resolved to offer her services for the coming season to John Rich, who had eight years previously built Covent Garden theatre, of which he was now manager. Rich was a prominent character in his day ; remarkable for his eccentricities, and famous as being the first to introduce that form of entertainment now RICirS PANTOMIMES. 73 known as pantomime into 'England. In com- mon justice to his memory, it must be borne in mind that his productions were of a far more refined and intelHgible order, than these which obtain at the present day. His first attempt in this direction was the representation of a story from Ovid's ' Metamorphoses,' which, by the aid of magnificent scenes, glittering habits, charming dances, together with music and singing, he made wonderfully attractive to the town. Between the acts of this serious representation, he interwove a comic fable, which was chiefly founded on the courtship of his beautiful columbine and the lieroic harle- quin — a character it was the great delight of his life to represent. In this performance a variety of the most surprising adventures and tricks were produced by the mere wave of a magic wand : cottages and huts were trans- formed into palaces all aglitter with silver and gold ; men and women were turned in the tAvinkling of an eye into trees and stones; vast gardens sprung from the earth ; and such things happened as had never before been witnessed 74 PEG WOFFINGTON. by the play going world. The result was a complete success. Rich was the son of a gentleman, but was wholly illiterate ; this being probably due to some neglect in his education, for by the inven- tion of his pantomimes he proved himself to be a man of imagination and ability. The treatment of his harlequin likewise showed that he possessed the innate refinement of good- breeding. His ' Catching the Butterfly ' was declared by the chronicles of his times to be a most wonderful performance : whilst his harle- quin, hatched from an Qgg by the heat of the sun, proved such an attraction that crowds wait- ed for admission under the piazza of Covent Garden from mid-day, and threatened to break down the doors of the playhouse if they were not admitted at three o'clock, at least two hours before the entertainment commenced. This per- formance was said to be a masterpiece of dumb show, for Rich's harlequin never uttered a w^ord, yet such was the power he exhibited by his gestures and expressions, that he not only pro- voked laughter, but drew tears. Jackson, IIARLEQ UIKADES. 75 speaking of the last mention ed pantomime, says of Rich, or rather of the harlequin, ' from the first chipping of the agg, his receiving of mo- tion, his feeling of the gronncl, his standing np- right, to his qnick harlequin trip romid the empty shell, through the whole progression, every limb had its tongue, and every motion a voice, which spoke with most miraculous organ to the understandings and sensations of the observers.' Rich's success was such that his example was quickly followed ; and Drury Lane and the minor houses introduced harlequinades, in order to draw full audiences. So important indeed did the character of harlequin become, that he was played by such clever and accomplished actors as Woodward, O'Brien, Yates, and even Garrick himself, on an occasion when the regular harlequin of Goodman's Fields playhouse was taken suddenly ill ; this being of course before he attempted the part of Richard the Third in the same theatre. By degrees the harlequinade became vulgarized, and we read of one of those entertainments presented at the last mentioned 76 PEG WOFFINGTON. house which greatly took the toTrn. This was called ' A Hint to the Theatre, or Merlin in Labour; with the Birth, Adventures, Execution and RestoiTition of Harlequin, by Mr. Devoto.' The bills announcing this stated that, as the manager had put himself to great expense in getting the machinery made ' to the neatest perfection,' he hoped to be favoured with ' the company of the curious.' Accordingly the cimous and others flocked to witness the per- formance in great numbers. Perhaps it was the success of his dumb shows which helped Rich to cherish a fine contempt in his managerial soul for his contemporary i^lay- writers, whom he sorely aggrieved. When these children of the muses sent him their manuscripts. Rich flung them into the deep drawer of a cabinet, where they lay for months. Presently, when the aspirants for fame timidly approached him, and asked him, with bated breath, for tidings of their full blooded tragedies, or farcical comedies, the manager would coolly inform them he did not know which plays were theirs, but they might go to the deep A PAPER WAR. 77 drawer of the cabinet and take their choice, for he wanted none of them. This Httle peciiharitj of his got him into trouble, on one occasion at least. It happened that a medical man, ' calling himself Sir John Hill,' left a manuscript play of his, entitled ' Orpheus,' with Eich, or rather wdth that gentleman's maidservant. Of course it shared the fate, alas, common to its kind ; the manager never untying even the outer covering. In due time Mr. Rich announced the performance at his theatre of a play called Orpheus, which, * though done by a different hand,' the doctor in- sisted on claiming as his property. Subsequently a w^ar of words followed, in which the whole town took part. Then he Avho called himself Sir John Hill published his ' Oip)heus,' in the preface of w^hich he stated his case according to his lights. This was quickly followed by a pamphlet bearing the comprehensive title, 'Mr. Rich's answer to the many falsities and calumnies advanced by Mr. John Hill, Apothecary ;' which in turn elicited a another ' Answer to the many Plain and Notori- ous Lijes advanced by Mr. John Rich, Harlequin,' and so this paper war raged quite briskly for many months. 78 PEG WOFFINGTOX. For all this. Rich was, like most of those fol- lowing the same calling, a good hearted fellow enough ; in testimony of which statement a story is told of his behaviour to a poor man Avho fell from the gallery to the pit of Covent Garden, whilst witnessing some strange escapades of the harlequin. "When the man was picked up, his bones were found to be broken in many places ; learning which. Rich had him carefully tended, employing for the purpose the best medical skill of the town. A fcAv months later, the poor fel- low came to thank the manager for his kindness^ when Rich said to him, in his most serious manner, ' Well, my man, you must never try to come into the pit in that fashion again ; and to pre- vent it, I'll give you free admission to that part of the house as long as I live.' To the residence of John Rich, situated in the then highly fashionable quarter of Blooms- bury Square, the Woffington betook herself, and demanded an interview with the eccentric manager ; but, as she refused to give her name, she found this was no easy matter to obtain. According to John Gait, she paid no less than A LONDON ENGAGEMENT. 79 nineteen visits before she was admitted. At last she told the servant to say Miss Woffington desired to speak with 'Mv. Piicli ; when the man retm*ned with a thousand civil speeches and apologies, and, informing her that his master would see her at once, showed her into his private apartment. Entering the room, she found the manager lounging on a sofa, a book in one hand, a china cup, from which he occa- sionally sipped tea, in another, whilst around him were seven and twenty cats, engaged in the various occupations of staling at him, lick- ing his tea cup, eating the toast from his mouth, walking round his shoulders, and frisking about him with the freedom of long standing pets. The fame of Peg Woffington's achievements in the Dublin playhouse had crossed the Chan- nel, and made the manager willing to entertain her proposal of playing at his theatre during the following season. A salary of nine pounds a week was offered her, which she accepted w^illingly enough, and an engagement was then entered into, when it was decided that she should make her first bow to the English pubhc 80 PEG WOFFINGTON. in the following November, as Sylvia in George Farquhar's comedy, ' The Recruiting Officer.' The rumour that this new actress, who had the rare fortune to be appreciated in her own country, and whose beauty was, more- over, reputed to be little less than that of a goddess, was about to play at Covent Garden, iliade a vast sensation in the town. She was, on this her first appearance, to play the lead- ing character, and to- be supported by two actors who were popular favourites, Ryan and Theophilus Gibber ; players both, who subse- quently acted with her for years. Ryan, the son of an Irish tailor, had, when he and the century were in their teens, played in Macbeth with the famous Betterton; on which most memorable occasion he as Seyton, had worn a tremendous, full bottomed wig, which almost smothered him. From that day he had laboured with such effect in his profession, that Addison had selected him to play Marcus, in his great, long winded tragedy of ' Cato ;' and Garrick in after years confessed that this actor's Richard III. w^as a performance after which he had HE HAD KILLED HIS MAN. 81 shaped his own. His fame as a tragedian was not indeed confined to the stage, for he had killed his man in real life, surrounded by such common place effects as a tavern furnished. It happened one summer evening, as early as the year 1718, that after his performance in the Lincoln's Inn Fields playhouse, he had gone to sup quietly at the ' Sun ' in Long Acre;" and for the purpose of being more at his ease, he had taken off his sword, and placed it in the window. But as fate would have it, scarce had he laid by his Aveapon, when in struts, with the most rakish air imaginable, a famous bravado named Kelly, whose chief diversion it was to pick quarrels with strangers, in taverns and coffeehouses ; and then fall upon them with preconceived malice and wound them bodily, he being an excellent swordsman. On the present occasion, being flushed with Avine and full of bravery, he approached Ryan, who was quietly sitting at a far table, and, first daring him to fight him, he subsequently made passes at him which meant deadly harm; the actor, therefore, rushed for his sword. At this Kelly VOL. I. G 82 PEG WOFFINGTOX. seemed mightily diverted, and made thrusts at him afresh; whereon Ryan, in self protection, skilfully ran a sword through the body of his assailant, who in another second lay stark upon the tavern floor, his sword gi'asped tight in his stiff right hand, his life's blood oozing on the sand. The town was delighted beyond expression to get rid of this troublesome fellow, and Ryan in consequence rose in popular favour. Indeed, such a hold did he take on the public that, when subsequently he was set on in mistake whilst returning home late at night, and received a wound in the cheek that made his voice sound sharp and shrill, his audiences completely over- looked this defect, and never moved him from the warmth of their favour. Theophilus Gibber, son of old Colley, who was to act the part of Plume in '• The Recruiting Officer' on the Woffington's first appearance, had made that character a special study, and had been instructed in it by his father. Theo Cibber, as he was most frequently called, had ' a person far from pleasing, and the features of his face were rather disgusting,' as David Erskine THEO GIBBER. 83 Baker, Esquire, quaintly informs us. Theophilus Oibber had from early in his career developed what was known as 'a fondness for indul- gences ;' in other words, he was a scapegrace of the first water, as will presently be seen. But he had a good understanding, a quickness of parts, a perfect knowledge of the characters he represented, and a certain amount of vivacity occasionally amounting to rffi^onterie, which com- bined to make him an actor agreeable to the town. He had been, it may be noted, the original (leorge Barnwell in the tragedy of that title. Now, this play preached a moral, which, though a rare thing enough in those days, was by no means acceptable to the public ; in consequence of which, it was usual to introduce an epilogue at the end, which ridiculed, broadly of course, all the virtuous and l^eautiful sentiments gone before. To heighten the fun and give it a shai-per relish, this was spoken by Mrs. Gibber, who, smartly and with little disguise, satirised her husband's vices (for he had many, 'twas said) and excused her own, which were indeed the common property of the town. To render G 2 84 PEG WOFFINGTON. the occasion of Peg Woffington's first appear- ance the more important, Rich bespoke the favour of the presence of Frederick Prince of Wales and his Princess ; and as His Royal High- ness was always anxious to be diverted, he gra- ciously promised to be present. The play bill announcing the performance ran as follows : COVENT GARDEN. By command of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. By the Company of Comedians, At the Theatre Royal in Co vent Garden, This day will be presented a Comedy, call'd THE RECRUITING OFFICER, written by the late MR. FARQUHAR. The part of Sylvia by Miss WoFf ington, (Being the first time of her performing on that Stage). WITH DANCING By MoN. Desnoyer and Signora Barberini, ALSO By Mon. and jMade.moiselle Meckel, (The French Boy and Girl). To which by command will be added a Tragi -Comi -Pastoral Farce of Two Acts, call'd THE AVHAT D'YE CALL IT. Box, 5s. ; Pit, 3s. ; First Gallery, 2s. ; Upper Gallery, Is. To begin exactly at Six o'clock. AT CO VENT GARDEN PLAYHOUSE. 85 On the evening of the 6th of November, 1740, at the horn' of six o'clock, a briUiant and crowded audience had assembled in Co vent Garden Theatre. In the royal box, ' under a canopy of scarlet silk, most richly adorned with gold tissue and tassels of the same,' sat the Prince and Princess of Wales ; and in the boxes aroimd them, the gay and witty courtiers who had turned their backs on St. James's, to frisk, flatter, sparkle, and enjoy themselves in the light of the rising sun, who never, alas for him and them, reached the meridian of his power. In the pit, as usual, sat the students of the Inns of Court, the men about town, the young fellows from the Universities, with their periwigs, swords, ruffles, and snuff-boxes; glib compliments on their lips, merry twinkles in their eyes : and much knowledge of stage affairs in their heads : by which they would presently, over a glass of wine, try this Irish actress, and pronounce judg- ment upon her. Presently, when the fiddles had played their last long drawn notes, and the candles forming the footlights had been judici- ously snuffed, up went the heavy, green curtain ; 86 PEG WOFFINGTON. then a silence fell upon the honse_, broken only by the flnttering of fans and the snapping of snnff-box lids. The ' Recruiting Officer,' a comedy in which the AVoffington's name is closely connected, and in which she continued to divert the toAvn for years, had from its lively action, spirited dialogue, and rather broad fun, been long a standing favourite with playgoers. Moreover, 'twas said to be true to life, and, in- deed, it gives an excellent picture of the manners and ways of the times. George Farquhar had been himself a recruiting officer at Shrewsbury, where the scene is laid, and where he wrote the play ; and it was said he had drawn his own character in that of Captain Plume, ^ a rakehelly officer,' who is the iiero of the comedy. The heroine, Sylvia, daughter of worthy Justice Ballance, is a young gentlewoman full of dash and spirit, as may be gathered from the auto- biographical details, with which, in the first act, she is kind enough to favour her cousin Mehnda, who remarks that she, Sylvia, has the ' constitu- tion of an horse I' Says Sylvia in reply, AX OLD FASHIONED COMEDY. 87 ' So far as to be troubled with neither spleen, chohc, nor vapours; I need no salts for my stomach, no hartshorn for my head, nor wash for my complexion. I can gallop all the morn- ing after the hunting-horn, and all the evening after a fiddle. In short I can do everything with my father but drink, and shoot flying ; and I'm sure I could do everything my mother could, Avere I put to the trial.' Then Mehnda informs her that her captain has come to town. ' Ah, Melinda,' says she, ' now that he is come I'll take care he shan't go without a companioD.' ' You are certainly mad, cousin,' replies the other. ' And there's a pleasure sure in being mad, which none but madmen know,' quotes she. Then says Melinda, ' Thou poor romantic Quixote, hast thou the vanity to imagine that a young sprightly officer, that rambles o'er half the globe in half a year, can confine his thoughts to the little daughter of a country justice in an obscure part of the world V ' Psha r rephes Sylvia, ' what care I for his 88 PEG WOFFINGTON. thoughts ? I should not hke a man with con- fined thoughts ; it shows a naiTowness of soul. Constancy is but a dull, sleepy quality at best ; they will hardly admit it among the manly ^ar- tues, nor do I think it deserves a place with bravery, knowledge, policy, justice, and some other qualities that are proper to that noble sex. In short, Melinda, I think a petticoat a might}^ simple thing, and I am heartily tired of my sex.' She is, of course, in love with Captain Plume, a gentleman of parts, who describes himself as having been ' constant to fifteen at a time, but never melancholy for one.' As b}' the death of her brother she comes in for fifteen hundred a year, old Justice Ballance does not approve of Captain Plume as an heir to his estate and family, tells her she must think no more of him, and bids her take coach and go into the coun- try. This command she promises to obey, but in the third act she turns up in the apparel of a beau, and enters on the scene whilst Plume and Brazen — a very Caesar among women, and a recruiting officer likewise — are holding conversation. ' Save ye, save ye, gentlemen !' says she. THE PART OF SYLVIA. 69 ' My dear, I'm yours,' says Brazen, an impu- dent fellow, in truth. ' Do you know the gentleman ?' asks Plume. ' No, but I will presently,' says the other ; and then he turns to the pretty young gentleman. * Your name, my dear?' says he. ' Wilful,' says Sylvia, quite cute — ' Jack Wil- ful, at your service.' ' What, the Kentish Wilfuls, or those of Staf- fordshire V asks Captain Brazen. ' Both, sir, both ; I'm related to all the Wilfuls in Europe, and I'm the head of the family at present.' ' Do you live in the country, sir V asks Plume, who, of course, does not recognise her in this disguise which she has assumed. ' Yes, sir,' says she. ' I live where I stand ; I have neither house, home, nor habitation beyond this spot of ground.' ' What are you, sir V queries Brazen. ' A rake,' says she, plainly enough. ' In the army, I presume V says Plume. ' No, but I intend to 'list immediately. Look'e, gentlemen, he that bids the fairest has me.' 90 PEG WOFFINGTON. Then they botli bid for this recruit ; says Brazen, ' Sir, I'll prefer you ; I'll make you a corporal this minute.' ' Corporal !' says Plume — ' I'll make you my companion ; you shall eat with me.' ' You shall drink with me,' says Brazen. 'You shall lie with me, you young rogue,' says Plume. ' You shall receive your pay and do no duty,' says the other, bidding yet higher. ' Then,' says Sylvia, ' you must make me a field-officer.' This latter little joke was one which the audience invariably received with great relish. Presently Sylvia, who does not just yet enlist with either of these gallant gentlemen, objects to Plume's too friendly advances towards a cer- tain Rose, a young market-woman; but the cap- tain assures her on this delicate point, for says he, philosophically enough, it must be admitted, ' The women, you know, are the loadstones everywhere ; gain the wives, and you are caressed by the husbands ; please the mistress, and you are valued by the gallants ; secure an FIRST APPEARANCE IN LONDON. 9.1 interest A\dtli the finest ^vomen at Court, and yon procure tlie favour of the greatest men ; so kiss the prettiest wenches, and you are secure of 'hsting the lustiest fellows.' Finally Sylvia is discovered by her wearing a suit of clothes belonging to her late brother, is forgiven by her father, married to the man she loves, and all ends as happily as may be. Now for weeks previous the town was anxi- ous to see the Woffington in this favourite char- acter, the representation of which required so much spirit and vivacity ; and when, on the night of her first appearance, she was, in the second scene of the first act, discovered in an apartment, her mere appearance won upon the audience, and gained her a hearty round of applause. Slightly above the middle height, her figure had a symmetry and flexi- bility which lent a natural grace to her every movement ; whilst her luminous eyes, beautiful complexion, slightly aquiline nose, and tender lips, completed a picture that charmed even to fascination. Then the ease of her manner, the justness of her gestures, the rapt expression of 92 PEG WOFFINGTON. her face that seemed to reflect her speech, ren- dered her such an actress as had not been seen for years. Her pla^dug, indeed, was nature, and not art. To those present it seemed that up to this hour wooden hmbed, painted faced puppets had strutted mechanically across the stage, uttering speeches that lost their point, and be- came limp and dull on falling from their lips ; but now, such is the effect of genius, her mere presence amongst them seemed to endow them with souls, and transform them from marionettes to men and women with hearts an d human passions. Presently, when this charming woman came on the stage in the apparel of a pretty gentle- man about town, with a red coat, a sword, a hat Men troujfce, a martial twist in his cravat, a fierce knot in his periwig, a cane hanging from his button, the effect was marvellous. Her air was at once graceful and rakish ; her delivery pert and pointed ; the witchery of her glances Avas pronounced inimitable. There were no two opinions regarding her, pronounced in the coffee houses that night ; for all admitted that the satisfaction she afforded was beyond expression. SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 93 By desire, ' The Recruiting Officer ' was repeated for tliree nights running; a by no means incon- siderable comphment to the actress's powers in those days, when a fresh play was as a rule performed nightly. Her praise quickly reached the Court, and the Duke of Cumberland, and the Princesses Amelia, Caroline, and Louisa be- spoke a play in which she was to appear : to wit, ' The Double Gallant,' or the ' Sick Lady's Cure.' This was the occasion of her eighth appearance, and she was much applauded in the character she represented, that of Lady Sadlife. Subsequently she played Aura in ' The Country Lasses' ; and on the 21st of November, she appeared, ' by particular desire,' for the first time in London, as Sir Harry Wildair in the comedy of ' The Constant Couple, or a Trip to the Jubilee,' b^^ Farquhar. Sir Harry Wildair was a character scarce second in favour to Sylvia with the town ; both ha\^ng that dash and brilliancy which suited the complexion of the times. Sir Harry was a spark just come from France, and was at once the joy of the playhouses, and the life of 9i PEG WOFFINGTON. the park. He was brave and gay ; a gentleman of happy circnmstances ; a plentiful estate, and a genteel education, which left him as free from rigidness in his morals, as his constitution ren- dered him liberal in his pleasures. His humorous gaiety and the freedom of his behaviour — airy after the fashion of the times, yet tempered with honour — are skilfully pourtrayed in the series of his love adventures which constitute the comed}'-. This part had been first played by Wilks, who had some claims to be con- sidered a man of quality, and Avho made the representation of men about town his special study. So clever was his personation of Sir Harry, that it set him above the competition of all other actors of his time, and gained him that praise due to his great merit. Farquhar said that, when the stage had the misfortune to lose him. Sir Harry might go to the Jubilee. And since Wilks had taken his exit from this world's stage (now almost ten years ago) no other had been found to play the part with justness and spirit. The attempt of this new actress was there- fore looked for with eager curiosity by the pub- HER GREAT SUCCESS. 95 lie, and with some apprehension by her friends ; feelings that, on her appearance, were changed to admiration and delight. In the well bred rake of quality, who lightly tripped across the stage, singing a blithe song, and followed by two footmen, there was no trace of the woman. The audience beheld only a young man of faultless figure, distinguished by an ease of manner, polish of address, and nonchalance that at once surprised and fascinated them. Seldom had a player in one night attained such suc- cess. ' So infinitely did she surpass expecta- tion,' says Tate AVilkinson, in his memoirs, ' that the applause she received was beyond any at that time ever known. An elegant figure, she looked and acted Sir Harry Wildair with such spirit and deportment, that she gave flat con- tradiction to what Farquhar asserted — that when Wilks died. Sir Harry might go to the Jubilee.' Her success became the con- versation of every pohte circle, as well as in every tavern and coffeehouse in town, from St. Paul's to St. James's ; and so crowded were the houses it drew, that the part was repeated for twenty consecutive nights — a fact significantly 96 PEG WOFFINGTON. marking lier triumpli'aiid establishing her favour,. She subsequently played during the season Elvira in the ' Spanish Fryar ;' Yiolante iu the * Double Falsehood \ Laetitia in Congreve's ' Old Batchelor ;' Amanda in Gibber's ' Love's Last Shift,' and Phillis in Steele's 'Conscious Lovers.' In all of these she was successful ; for, aware that the public was a patron worth pleasing, she took infinite pains in all that con- cerned her profession ; made up with great care and judgment suitable to the part; committed her lines to mind (a practice that did not always obtain in her day), and strove to realize the author's ideal in the characters she assumed. Her reward came quickly, in the appreciation freely awarded her. She was installed as a favomite in the public mind, a position she retained during her bright, brief career. Praise of her rare beauty — a vast help to such talents as hers — was likewise on every tongue ; the poets penned sonnets to her ; the print-sellers sold her portraits ; and as Conway wrote to Walpole of her, in this her first season, ' All the town is in love mth her.' 97 CHAPTER V. Peg Woffington's Engagement at Drury Lane — Kitty Clive. her Passion for Tragedy — Delane the Student of T. C. D. — Macklin and his Adventures — ^The Turning-point of his Career — His Wonderful Shylock — What Mr. Pope said — Young David Garrick — His Early Life at Lichfield — Becomes a Wine Merchant — Among the Critics at the Bedford — Hesitates to go on the Stage — Falls in Love with Peg Woffington — In the Green room at Drury Lane — Sir Charles Hanbury Williams — The Woffington's Definition of an Age. Towards the end of the season — in May, 1741, — Peg Woffington ceased to act in the Co vent Garden playhonse, owing to a disagreement Avith Rich; and on the 19th of the month the following quaint advertisement appeared in the London Daily Post : 'Covent Garden.— -Whereas, some persons principally concerned in the Play of the Rehear- sal, &c. being indisposed, is the reason the same cannot be performed as Advertised in Saturday VOL. T. H 98 PEG WOFFINGTON. and Yesterday's Bills ; on this account the Com- pany are obhged to take this Method of return- ing Thanks to the Town for all their Favours, and humbly take their Leave till next Season.' Four months later, at the commencement of the winter season, she appeared as Sylvia on the boards of Drury Lane Theatre, of which Fleet- wood was then manager. Mrs. Pritchard, an ex- cellent actress, who had the previous season play- ed the leading parts at Drury Lane, now went over to Covent Garden, where she ventured to play the part of Syh^a ; but as her strength lay in the representation of tragic heroines, she did not win the applause which invariably attended the Woffington's personation of that favourite character. At Drury Lane there was a strong company this season, which numbered amongst its ladies Kitty Clive, Mrs. Butler, and Mrs. Bennet, whilst the male element was represented by Theo Gibber, Macklin, Delane, Milward, and Raftor. Quin was at this time playing in Dublin and the L'ish provinces. Kitty Clive, plain of face, warm of temper, KITTY CLIVE. 99 sharp of tongue, was pleased to regard the Woffington as her rival. Kitty had made her debut as a page in ' Mithridates King of Pontus ' in the Drmy Lane playhouse, about the same time as Peg Woffington made her first bow to the audience assembled in Madame Violante's booth ; but Kitty was then in her seventeenth year, Avhilst Peggy had but reached her tenth. This page which the youthful Kitty represented was not quite a mute creature, with no better task than supporting a train, or carrying a cup ; but had a song to sing proper to the circum- stances of the scene, which was received with extraordinary applause. But from pages in silken hose, velvet jerkin, and feathered cap, she gradually worked her way to better parts. She had once by her singing forced a reluctant audience to give a hearing to CoUey Cibber's Love in a Riddle, a favour denied to His Gra- cious Majesty of the following night; she had Hkewise been called ' a charming little devil ' by one of the pretty fellows in the stage box ; and presently she laid claims to be considered a great comic actress, by her bright, bhthesomo h2 100 PEG WOFFINGTON. rendering of Nell, in the ' Devil to Pay,' a ballad farce of Coffey's, as well as b}^ her representa- tion of singing chambermaids (chambermaids always sung in those days), hoydens, romps, and vulgar fine ladies. But she who had been styled 'a charming little devil ' possessed a soul that loftily soared above comedy, to the sublime regions of tragedy ; and her greatest delight in life was to play such parts as Ophelia, Desdemona, and Portia. Under her treatment these characters were little less than burlesques, especially when, in the trial scene, she, as Portia, introduced comic business and mimicked to the life the famous Lord Mans- field whose peculiarities were the laughing stock of the town. Kitty was altogether a person of vast importance ; she was the daughter of an Irish gentleman, one William Raftor, a native of the city of Kilkenny, who had been bred to the law, and whose property had been forfeited to the Crown, by reason of his having followed the fortunes of James the Second, and fought on the side of that unhappy monarch at the fa- mous Battle of the Boyne. Moreover, she had KITITS TEMPER. 101 married a brother of Baron Olive, and was the friend of Horace Walpole, Avho was in himself a gentleman of the highest quality, and a patron of all the arts. Though she parted from her husband soon after her marriage, no breath of scandal then, or throughout her career, was ever Mtached to her name. According to Arthur Murphy, she was ' a diamond of the first water,' but, like a diamond, she could cut deeply, for her tongue was as steel; and frequently she would aim one of her bitter speeches at this new actress, who had in one night gained the fame which it had taken her, the Clive, years to establish ; which speeches the Woffington would return in kind, but with a charming coolness that sent her hot tempered rival furious. In all her battles Kitty was loyally supported by her brother Jemmy Raftor, a very indifferent actor, but a genuine Irishman, who had the charac- teristic talent of telhng a humorous story, and turning a pretty compliment with wonderful ease. But in the ranks of the Drury Lane company the Woffington had a more friendly face turned towards her in that of young Delane, the son 102 PEG WOFFINGTON. of an Irish gentleman, who had been a student at Trinity College when she had sold oranges and watercresses to the ' college boys,' and enter- tained them with her Avit. His friends had destined him for the Chnrch, but the stage had more attractions for him than the pulpit, and, to their infinite disgust, he became a player. In the same year that the Woffington appeared as the pupil of Madame Yiolante, he was engaged at the Aungier Street Theatre by Elrington. Singularly handsome, with a gi-aceful figm*e, and a fuUtoned voice, he had the princi- pal acquirements which constitute a good actor. For three years he played in Dublin, at the end of which time he, like most of his countrymen then and now, was tempted by the more liberal rewards held out to talent, by the sister coun- try, and came to London. His first engage- ment was at the Goodman's Fields theatre, but he subsequently enlisted under Fleetwood's management, and played the romantic heroes at Drury Lane. Charles MackHn, another member of the com- pany, was also a countryman of the AVoffington's,. WICKED CHARLEY. 103 and soon became her friend. A lineal descend- ant of an Irish king, a runaway 'prentice of an Irish saddler, he had been in his day a stroll- ing player ; had acted Hamlet and harlequin the same night ; had passed as a vagrant and a vagabond, played in barns, had starved, been houseless, and had strutted his brief hour in a booth at Southwark Fair. He had been known in his earher days as ' the wild Irishman,' and had been called 'AVicked Charley.' Being a bohemian by nature and profession, his adven- tures were many, cmious, and amusing; and, when he became garrulous in his old age, the narration of these used to afford him and his friends much diversion. Amongst other stories, he used to tell that he and merry Dick Ashby, a dissipated fellow enough, the son of a Dublin manager, went into a gambling house by way of having a frolic one night, when he, Macklin, won over a hundred guineas, a sum that seemed to him inexhaustible. Accordingly next day he and his friend, attended by two ladies of the town, went down to St. Albans, to take the air, and enjoy the pleasures of the country. 104 PEG WOFFINGTON. One night this gay little party went to a public ball, and, being very expensively dressed, they passed as people of condition, nntil one of the ladies, getting into a dispute concerning the priority of place in a country dance, her lan- guage and temper discovered her profession ; when she and her companion were handed out of the room, and the gentlemen received a hint that it was desirable for them to follow. But at this time, when Woffington joined the Drury Lane company, Macklin was in the meridian of life. He had sown his wild oats, had married and settled down, and had proved himself a very useful actor. He had played such characters as Touchstone in ' As You Like It,' and Sir Francis Wronghead in ' The Pro- voked Husband,' with great success ; but he had at heart a great desire to play another character more important than these. So one day he smamoned courage to petition Fleetwood, the manager, to allow him to act Shylock in ' The Merchant of Venice ' for just one night. He had long studied the character, and on his representation of the Jew, he was satisfied to THE PART OF SHYLOCK. 105 let his reputation rest for ever. xVfter some persuasion, the manager consented, to Mackhn's vast dehght : and ' The Merchant of Venice/ * written by Shakespeare,' was speedily an- nounced for performance. In order to render the play more palatable to the public, it was set forth that the part of Lorenzo would be played by Mr. Lowe, ' in which will be intro- duced songs proper to the play, with enter- tainments of dancing by Signer and Signora Fansau, viz., Le Genereux Corsair, with deaths and decorations entirely new.' The bills fur- thermore added that, 'as no money will be taken for the future behind the scenes, 'tis hop'd that none will take it ill they can't be admitted there.' Now, heretofore, the character of the Jew had been played as a low comedy part by all actors ; nay, even the celebrated Doggett had played it in the style of a broad farce. But Mackhn was resolved to depart from old tra- ditions, and for one night at least, to present the Jew as a serious character. Rumour of this resolution having got abroad, the company 106 PEG WOFFINGTON. generally regarded it as a joke; but finding that Macklin was serious in his determination, they requested the manager to make him give up a part, his plajdng of which would bring disgrace on them all. Fleetwood fled in con- sternation to Macklin, who merely said he would pledge his life on the success of the play. AVhat his intended treatment of the Jew really was, none could tell ; for at the rehearsal he merely spoke his hues in an undertone, unac- companied by gestures. But those who were to play with him entertained many fears concerning his representation ; especially when it was re- membered that Rich had once dismissed him for not declaiming in the stilted orthodox manner, when he played a tragedy part, and had treated it ' too familiarly,' to use the phrase of the harlequin manager. If he had then departed from the beaten track, what might he not do now with the comical Jew? There was no knowing. At last the eventful night arrived on which Mackhn was satisfied to rest his future theatrical reputation. Kitty Clive was cast for her fav- THEY NEVER SAW SUCH A JEW. 107 ourite part as Portia, the WoflQngton as Nerissa, and Delane for tlie Merchant. When MacMin made his appearance in the green room, dressed for the part, he wore a piqued beard, a loose bhick gown tied with a coloured sash, and a red hat ; for, as he subsequently explained to Pope, he had read that Jews in Italy, especially in. Venice, wore hats of that colour. ^Moreover, his face was carefully painted, and the lines on his brow and cheeks well marked. Those in the green room stared at him with wonder. There was no trace of the comic element in this HebrcAv. Their worst fears were now con- firmed. ' Look at his face,' whispered one of them. ' Why,^ says another, ' if Almighty God writes a legible hand, Macklin must be a villain.' Then out spoke Kitty Clive, who was already dressed as Portia, and expected to create great mirth in that part : ' Sure,' says she, ' no one ever saw such a Jew.' ' Did you expect to see him wear a couple of hats, and carry a bag on his back, ma'am V asks the Woffington,with an air of innocent curiosity. ' No, Peggy, no more than I expected to see 108 PEG WOFFTNGTON. Mm carry au orange basket on his arm,' replies the smart tongued lady, tnrniug quickly away. Meanwhile, Macklin nervously paced the room, muttering his lines in an undertone, until De- lane, coming in, announced that the house was crowded from top to bottom ; whereon the Jew w^ent on the stage, and looking through a slit in the curtain, saw the news was true, and felt gratified. The two front rows of the pit were already crowded with critics, wearing the air of men who had come to pass a highly diverting evening. ' Ahem,' said Macklin, with his eye at the sht, *I shall be tried to-night by a special jury.* His heart sank ; was he wise, after all, in his de- termination of playing the Jew as a serious cha- racter ? His whole future as a player depended on this night. As he turned away in nervous impatience, he felt a hand placed gently on his arm, and looking up, encountered two lumin- ous eyes that shone upon him comfortingly in the semi gloom of the great stage, and heard Peg Woffington's voice whisper, ' Courage, Mac, courage. Show them you can act.' In another second the stage was cleared, and the bell for SHYLOCK IN SUSPENSE, 10$> the curtain rang with a merry httle peal that seemed to liim to cany rejoicement and assur- ance with it ; and, moreover, the tone was Kke to the voice that had just spoken words of hope in his ear. The heavy green curtain Avent up with many a creak ; the actors commenced their parts. Macklin's heart began to flutter wildly, 'but commending my cause to Providence,' says he, ' I went boldly on the stage.' He was received with some applause, though his appearance caused general surprise. Then came the terrible hour of judgment, in which he was to be set down as one who had read Shakespeare aright — or as a fool who had dared to ignore the traditions handed down to him by his betters. The opening scenes were tame and level ; but from those terrible front rows in the pit, which had seemed at first bristhng with sarcasm, and mocking hil- arity, he caught the words, *Very well — very well indeed. This man seems to know what he is about.' Which praise, though faint, had the grateful effect of warming him to his work. 110 PEG WOFFINGTON. A night, a week, ay, whole years seemed to have passed over his head before the third act came, for which he had reserved all his strength in contrasting the passions of joy and triumph for the merchant's losses, with grief and despair for Jessica's elopement. In bewailing her loss, he rushed upon the stage Tiatless, his face distorted by rage, his eyes bewildered, his hands fiercely clutched, his every movement abruj)t and convulsive. Never had his audience seen such a representation of the Jew ; but though new to them, they felt an echo in their hearts which told them it was true to nature. Then came the most vehement applause ; the whole house was in an uproar ; he was saved, his success was assured. At the trial scene all elements of burlesque were abol- ished; even KittvClive did not for once venture on her mimicry of Lord Mansfield. In this culminating scene a veritable Shylock stood upon the stage ; merciless, full of the passions of hatred and revenge ; and so intensely were they pourtrayed, that, when he whetted the glittering knife which was to cut away the pound of flesh, IN THE GREEN ROOM. Ill the whole house shuddered. Never had there been such acting, and seldom such applause as rang through the house when the curtain descended. The green room presented a curious appear- ance at the conclusion of the performance. Here were assembled the nobility and critics : some of the former adorned with stars and a-ar- ters, and all of them clad in velvets of many colours and satins of rich sheen ; and mixing amongst them, in the freest manner possible, were the actors and actresses, scarcely less bril- liant in the richness of their sixteenth century Venetian costumes. What bows were changed, what compliments were paid, what judgments were passed ! Everyone was now elated by the triumph, as if it had been a personal matter ; and when Macklin came into the room, a crowd pressed round him ready to offer him a thousand congratulations. ' Ah, Macklin, you were right, after all,' said Fleetwood, shaking him heartily by the hand. *And may I ask Mrs. Olive,' says Fielding, going over to that lady, who was yet attired in the gown of one pertaining to the law, ' whv 112 PEG WOFFINGTON. you did not give us your imitation of the great man to-niglit?* ' In faith,' says honest Kitty Clive, ' when I looked at Shylock I was afraid.' Then up went Peg Woffington to the hero of the hour. ' An' sure,' says she in an aside, as- suming a broad brogue as she spoke, ' it takes an Irishman to tache them what a Jew is like.' ' God bless you, Peggy !' said he, in the same tone, and his voice trembled a little. ' Your words made a man of me.' * Arrah, whist, Charley Macklin ; sure it's yom-self always had the palavering tongue,' answered she, archly; and then she sli]Dped away, for others pressed forward to greet him. Presently there was a stir and bustle in the far end of the green room, and a group of be- wigged and beruffled gentlemen came slowly along, bowing their heads, and occasionally laughing mighty heartily, in answer to the re- marks of a thin legged little gentleman, demure- ly dressed in black, who walked in the centre of this human cluster. This little gentleman in black had a remarkable looking countenance, WHAT POPE SAID. 113 Avith dark looking eyes, and eyebrows that seemed to occupy undue space in the upper part of his face. AVhen he came to where MackHn stood, he paused, as did those surround- ing him hkewise ; a faded smile crossed his thin lips, and, rippling upwards, caught the sparkle of his eyes before it lost itself in the wrinkles of his forehead. Then he helped himself leisurely to snuff, rested both his bony hands on his gold- nobbed cane, and looked the actor full in the face. Macklin trembled as he glanced down at him, for he knew well that a biting epigram, or a sarcastic phrase uttered by these thin lips, would be repeated in every coffee house and tavern in town on the morrow. ' May I A^enture to hope,' he said, speaking with a big voice to hide his nervousness, and bowing with quaint theatric grace, ' that my poor efforts to-night have given the great Mr. Pope some shght satisfaction V The little gentleman smiled again ; those around him bent their heads in one common movement, to catch his words ; then, pointing his forefinger to Macklin, he said, VOL. I. I 114 PEG WOFFINGTON. ' This is the Jew That Shakespeare drew.' Poor Macklin, overwhelmed by the compK- ment, bowed halfway to the ground ; the group surrounding the little gentleman cried, ' Excel- lent ! — prodigiously fine !' and without another word he went out of the green room, sur- rounded by his courtiers, to where his coach waited him in the lane. The couplet, which has outlived the poet who uttered it, and the actor to whom it was applied, was repeated all over the town that night. ' Gad, sir,' Macklin would say long years after, when recounting the glories of this memorable evening over a bottle of old port in a snug box at the Bedford — * gad, sir, though I was not worth fifty pounds in the world at that time, let me tell you I was Charles the Great for that night.' During the Woffington's first season at Drury Lane, there frequently came to the green room of the theatre * a very sprightly young man, neatly made j' whose bright face, singularly mo- bile, and remarkable moreover for its luminous eyes, at once attracted the actress's atten- YOC/XG DAVID GARRICK. 115 tion. This was David Garrick, a character destined to play an important part in the drama of Peg Woffington's hfe. His father, a gentle- man of French origin, had been an officer in the Enghsh army, whose regiment was for several years stationed at Lichfield. Here the Captain married a lady descended on the maternal side from an Irish family, who bore him ten children. The tliird of these was David, who grew into a lad full of brightness and promise, showing amongst his other talents a tm'n for mimicry and recitation. He had indeed, at the age of ten, indicated where the bent of his genius lay, by forming a few of his schoolfellows and his sis- ters into a theatiical company, which, under his direction, performed Farquhar's ' Kecruiting Offi- cer ' before a considerable audience. A year later and the sprightly lad was sent to Portugal to his uncle, a prosperous wine merchant, who had promised to establish him in his house. But the wine trade had no attraction for David, and in little more than twelve months he returned to Lichfield once more, to a home that would have been happy but for its stings of petty poverty. To i2 IIG PEG WOFFINGTOX. strive and remedy this lack of fortune Captain Gamck went to Gibraltar two years after his son's return from Portugal ; the exile from his affec- tionate but large famil}^ being in some measure compensated for by a pay double the amount of that he had previously enjoyed. But even with that portion of it Avhich he allowed his delicate and desponding wife, and seven surviv- ing children, life was to them a long con- j tinned struggle to sustain a shabby gentility in the eyes of their Lichfield neighbours. During the Captain's residence in what was known as ' foreign parts,' David, then a lad of fourteen, seems to have been the member of the family who was selected to carry on a corre- spondence with the absent head of his house. These letters, presented to the Dyce and Forster Library in the South Kensington Museum, by the late John Forster, are marvellously interest- ing. Some of them tell stories of a poverty Avhich, though occasionally galling, never called forth a complaint but was ever borne with a brave show of cheerfulness. ' My mamma received the £30 you was so good GARRICKS EARLY LETTERS, 117 as to send,' says David, in the earliest of these clearly written epistles, commencing with ' Hon. Sir,' and directed in big schoolboy characters ' To Captain Garrick, on Brigadier Kirk's Regiment at Gibraltar/ *She paid £10 to Mr. Rider, one year's rent; and £10 to ye baker, and if you can spare a little more, or tell her you will, she is in hopes of paying all ye debt, that you may have nothing to fret you wheti you come home.' The Captain took the hint as to sparing a little more, for presently David writes, ' My mamma sends her dearest Love and affection to you, and desires me to tell you she has cleared al- most the Debts, except a little to ye Butcher, Avhich she hopes to clear in a month or two.' Then the poor Captain in foreign parts has to learn that they are so ' very shabby in cloathes and in all our accoutrements, that we was rather like so many beggars than Gentlemen Soldiers,' The poor wife at home 'j^has been nursing one of her daughters, who lay ill, amost six months, and has become unwell herself and is ordered to drink wine, which is sorely against her inclination, as her pocket cannot afford it.' 118 PEG WOFFINGTON. Then ' my sister Lenny and sister Jenny,' writes young Davy to his father, ' send their Duty to you, and being in great want for some Lace for their Heads, and my Mamma being but very low in ye Purse, by reason of her illness, could not afford y™ so much money, they with ye greatest Duty and Obedience request a small matter to purchase their Head Ornaments. Great necessity compels them to give you tliis trouble, for they have never worn anything else but plain Head Cloathes, which hardly distin- guishes them from ye vulgar madams.' The lad has had a present made him by Mr. Hervey, lately come'from London, of ' two pair of large silver buckles, one pair for my shoes, and ye other for ye Breeches knees.' But alas, what use are the latter, if young David has no decent breeches to wear. Perhaps iiis father will take the hint, but alas, the Captain in foreign parts has a mind that does not readily receive sug- gestions where money is concerned, and his son after waiting a long time is obliged to speak plainly. ' I must tell my dear papa,' writes he, ap- 'DEAR LIFE AND SOUL: 119 proacliing the subject in a wily manner, ' that I am quite turned Philosopher ; you perhaps may think me vain, but to show you I am not, I would gladly get shut of my characteristick of a philosopher, viz. a ragged pair of breeches. Now, the only way you have to cure your son. of his philosophick qualification is to send some handsome thing for a waistcoat, and pair of breeches to hide his nakedness. They tell me velvet is very cheap at Gibraltar. Amen, and so be it I' No wonder he ' began the world,' as Johnson said, ' with a great hunger for money/ for, as the philosopher used to remark, ' he was bred in a family whose study was to make four- pence do as much as others made fourpence halfpenny do.' The poor wife, who had borne him ten children, and whose health was now shattered, writes to her absent husband occasionally, not of the poverty of her home, but, like a true wife, of the riches of that love which lay stored for him in her faithful heart. ' Dear life and soul,' she calls him tenderly; and then comes a confession that must have been sweet indeed 120 PEG WOFFINGTOX. to tlie exile. ' I am not able,' she says, ' to live easy longer without you ; for I grow very jealous. But in the midst of all this, I do not blame my dear. I have very sad dreams for you, but I have the pleasure when I am up to think, were I with you, how tender my dear soul would be to me; nay, was, when I was with you last. ! that I had you in my arms. I would tell my dear life how much I am his.' Then David testifies in a charming manner to the affection of his mother for his father. Speak- ing of a miniature of the Captain's, which the lad says he would sooner have one glance at, than look a whole day at the finest picture in the world, he tells his father, ' My poor mamma sighs when- ever she passes the picture.' And again he adds, * My mamma sends her most tender affections. She says your presence would do her more good than all the physicians in Europe.' She has ' a fever upon her spirits,' and is sadly depressed by the absence of him vrhom she loves, and whom she thinks of by day and dreams of by night; and when he has been away for some two years, she can bear the CAPTAIN GARRICK RETURNS. 121 separation no longer, and lias a scheme for bringing him back to England which young Davy reveals to his father. ' My mamma,' says he, ' designs to try her interest to get you leave to come over by next spring, if you are not sent for over before. She designs to apply first to the Brigadeer. My mamma Avill get ^Ir. Hervey to write her a pretty Letter to ye Brigadeer ye Purpot of it shall be this, that you having a son to put out, and my mamma being uncapable to do it her- self, it would be a great detriment to the Family if you was not here to do it yourself; and as soon as Mr. Hervey has done it, my mamma will copy it, and sent it to Mr. Adair to give it to ye Brigadeer.' After an absence of about three years, Cap- tain Garrick returned, and David was sent to a school advertised in the Gentleman s Magazine as * At Edial, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, where young gentlemen are taught the Latin and Greek Languages by Samuel Johnson.' The said Samuel Johnson, whose father was a book- seller in Lichfield, was well known to David 122 PEG WOFFINGTON. Garrick, who, in common with his fellow scholars, had but little reverence for their master's learning. They laughed at his nn- couth gesticulations, and the oddities of his manner ; whilst Mrs. Johnson, a lady described by Garrick to Boswell as * very fat, with a bosom of more than ordinary protuberance, with swelled cheeks, of a florid red, produced by thick painting, and increased by the liberal use of cordials ; flaring and fantastic in her dress, and affected both in her speech and her general behaviour,' was a fruitful source for David's mimicry. « The young rogues,' says Boswell, speaking of this time, ' used to listen at the door of his bed chamber, and peep through the keyhole, that they might turn into ridicule his tumultuous and awkward fond- ness for Mrs. Johnson, whom he used to name by the familiar appellation of Tetty or Tetsey, which, hke Betty or Betsey, is provincially used as a contraction for Elizabeth, her Chris- tian name, but which seems ludicrous when applied to a woman of her age and appearance.' Johnson's academy had a short life, if a DAVID COMES TO TOWN. 123 merry one, and when its doors closed Garrick and he went np to town ; Johnson having a tragedy, and twopence halfpenny in his pocket, as he used to reconnt in his palmier days, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. Garrick entered himself as a student of the Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn, paying as fees ' for the use of this society the sum of three pounds, three shillings, and fourpence.' Then he went to study under Mr. Colson, ' a rational philoso- pher,' the chief purpose for which he had left his home. This was an eventful year in his life. Scarce a month had elapsed from the day on which he had departed from Lichfield, when news came to him of his father's death ; his mother quickly followed to the grave the man she had loved all her life ; and finally came the demise of the Lisbon wine merchant, who left his nephew and namesake a legacy of one thousand pounds sterling. All idea of studying for the law was now abandoned, and it was decided that David Garrick and his brother Peter, his senior by six years, should set up as partners in the wine 124 PEG WOFFINGTON. trade ; Peter to conduct the business in Lich- field, and David in Durham Yard, situated at the end of one of the smaller streets leading from the Strand. Here, as Foote afterwards said, he hved, ' with three quarts of vinegar in a cellar, and called himself a wine merchant.' David soon showed he had no talent for business, and paid it but little heed, to the great disgust of his elder brother, a man of very different cast ; formal, methodical, and industrious, who even at this time, entertained a wholesome horror of liis brother's predilection for the company of players. But fate, it seemed, favcnred David's passion for the society of those connected in any way with the playhouses, inasmuch as Durham Yard was wdthin a stone's throw of Covent Garden, and that the space which lay between swarmed w^ith the coffee houses, taverns, and ordinaries where the sons of Thespis most did congregate. With all of them Garrick made friends ; his bright face, ready ways, and pleas- ant manners being certain passports to the good fellowship of a race then and now pro- verbially genial. AT THE BEDFORD. 125 At those ordiDaries or coffee houses he spent that portion of the day which was not devoted to the study of Shakespeare at his desk. Then at night he Avould sit in the pit of Drury Lane or Covent Garden, watching Delane's graceful lovers, or Theo Gibber's fops ; after which he w^ould hie him to the Bedford, the recognised emporium of wit and criticism, where he would listen to plain faced Jemmy Raftor tell one of his droll Irish stories, or hear Ryan discourse in his discontented, piping voice, of the traditional glory of all things dramatic in the past, and of their woiMilessness in the present. ' You should have seen the great Wilks, sir,' he would say, ' ah, he was an actor, and his w^ere the days when good acting might be seen at the playhouse,' (here a pinch of snuff) ; ' and Betterton, sir, whose aAve inspiring Hamlet can never again be equalled ; and then Barton Booth, a gentleman, sir, and a player of prodigious merit.' But 'twas sure the old school was dead ; the old traditions had passed away for ever, (here a grave shake of his head). Perhaps some trace lingered yet in his own playing, it was not 126 PEG WOFFINGTON. for him to say, but he had received great com- mendations for his Richard the Third : that was true, and he had the honour of being instructed in the part of Marcus in the tragedy of 'Cat o' by its author, the great Mr. Addison himself. Then followed a chorus of critics who had sat in the front rows of the pit, and spoke learnedly of the play, praised the stormy mouthing of Bridge- water or Walker, the stiff jointed love making of Milward, or damned some trembling aspirant to fame, as lightly as they took a pinch of snuff. Xow and then Garrick would add his voice, and lay down his opinions with all the self assertion of youth. Amongst the company Avith which he freely mixed, he singled out two men as his especial friends ; these were Macklin of Drury Lane, and Giffard, the manager of the Good- man's Fields playhouse. With these kindred spirits he frequently lamented the condition to which the stage was reduced, where nature was wholly ignored, and false principles of art sup- plied in its place. Comedy was boldly reduced to farce 'that frequently bordered on buffoonery, passion was interpreted by inflated ranting, love DAVID'S FPdENDS. 127 made its protestations in a measured drawl, whilst the ordinary dialogue was delivered in a set, monotonous tone, most wearisome to the ear. ]\Iacklin would call to mind his dismissal for speaking a part too familiarly, and his recent success in playing Shylock with realism; and GifFard was of opmion that the town submitted to the present school of acting, merely for want of knowing better. Then the young wine merchant would show them how comedy should be played according to his thinking. How the jest should flow from the lips naturally and promptly, the laugh come freely as if honestly enjoyed, the facial expression suiting the words and action. Then, as to tragedy, he would show them how he would play Hamlet if he were an actor. The young Dane on behold- ing his father's ghost should be fixed in mute astonishment, his cheeks should gradually grow pale, his eyes blaze from fear and horror, his voice tremble, as he questioned the visitor from an unknown sphere. Then in the scene with Ophelia, he should feign madness by look and gesture, and the expression of his speech ; and 128 PEG WOFFINGTON. to the Queen he should speak daggers to rend her heart with sorrow and remorse; and as Garriok ilhistrated his conceptions by gesture, tone, and facial expression, the two actors, stand- ing mutely by, would look at, and listen to him with surprise, glancing at each other signifi- cantly, and nodding their heads sagely. Then they would both urge him to give up trade, and take to the stage, for they were sure he had the makings of a great actor in him. But this was a suggestion which, though his heart bounded forward to follow it, he was loath to put into practice. All the traditional pre- judices of caste handed down to him by the struggling captain in a walking regiment, and his genteel wife with relatives in the church ; and carefully maintained by the highly respect- able wine merchant in Lichfield and his sisters, rose in David's mind, and for a time held him back from the calling of a player. An actor was indeed in those days considered a veritable vagabond ; a wortliless, godless creature, the fitting object for the censure and disdain of his fellow creature. More than twenty years later, GARPdCK HESITATES. 129 when Garrick's example might be supposed to have m some measure mitigated such opinions, Horace Walpole, tlie elegant patron of arts, lamenting in the bitterness of his heart Lady- Susan Strangeways' marriage with ' O'Brien the actor ' — a man of irreproachable character, the descendant of an old Irish family ruined by its adherence to James 11. — declares this union 'the completion of disgrace. Even a footman were preferable. The publicity of the hero's profession,' adds this fine gentleman, the de- scendant of an honest timber merchant, ' per- petuates the mortification. I could not have believed that Lady Susan would have stooped so low.' To become a player was therefore not a step for Garrick to take without consideration and apprehension. Meanwhile, as may well be sup- posed, the wine trade did not prosper ; and when sober Peter Garrick came up to town, he found his partner and brother restless and unhappy. 'All my Illness and lowness of Spirits,' he subsequently wrote to Peter, when he had made the great plunge, ' was owing to my want of VOL. I. K 130 PEG WOFFINGTON. resolution to tell you my thoughts when here." But before he had taken the decisive step, and whilst he was yet struggling with his inclina- tions, he had made the acquaintance of the Irish actress who had taken the town by storm. Night after night young Garrick was found amongst the crowds which flocked to see her at Covent Garden and Drury Lane, nor had she a more enthu- siastic admirer than he. Here was an actress after his own heart ; one who neither reduced comedy to burlesque, nor tragedy to rant, but who was at one with nature. He noted that her style had the effect of electrifying her audiences ; and this gave him strong hopes of at least finding a patient hearing, if ever indeed he came to seek his fortune on the boards. It was only natural that this bright looking young man, full of en- thusiasm for the stage, should tell this charming creature with the soft eyes, tender lips, and graceful ways, all that he thought of her as an actress, and much that he felt for her as a wo- man ; and Peggy, with her susceptible Hibernian heart, listened to his earnest voice, looked into his flashing eyes, and loved him. And oh, what WOFFINGTON AND GARRICK. 131 a happy time this was for both of them, with all life before them ; with such golden dreams of fame in their heads ; with such warm love iu their hearts. In the spacious, high- eeilinged green room of old Drmy Lane, with its great oak fire place, curiously carv^ed, and running half way up the wall ; its ponderous- framed pictures of Nell Gwyn and Congreve ; its dust covered bust of Shakespeare ; its great settle, capable of accommodating a dozen per- sons, drawn close up by the fire ; its faded crimson- velvet curtains pulled across the high, narrow windows Garrick would wait in the evenings, with ever a laugh and jest on his lips for the group around him, but with his eye turned iinxiously to the door as if he expected some one to enter every minute. Presently the door would be flung wide open, and the imperious, graceful figure of Peg Woffington would sweep in, di-essed as Sylvia, or as Lady Betty Modish. Then her lover would join her, and they would sit in some quiet corner of the big room, dimlj- lighted by a sconce of wax tapers above the chimney piece, his hand touching hers, her eyes K 2 132 PEG WOFFINGTON. flashing on liim in the full radiance of her love,, whilst they whispered each other volumes of the airiest nothings in the world : disagreeing to agree, and painting verbal portraits of each other that borrowed wondrons colonrs from the light of their mutnal passion. Then he would take from his pocket a copv of the Gentleman s Magazine just published, and read for her some verses, ^\ii\\ which he seemed most familiar, and which were addressed to Sylvia, and signed ' G.' ' May Heaven and Sylvia grant my suit,' commences one of these verses, which are full of quaint references to * wavering hearts, sighing swains, constant flames,' and such like phrases, unintelligible to all unacquainted with love. Presently the hated voice of the call boy would summon her from the heaven of her happiness ; when, rising up, she and Garrick would walk, hand in hand, towards the Avings, in the friendly shades of which he would kiss her on the lips; and then, being free of the house, run round to the stage box, that he might be the first to give the signal of her approach by his applause. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS. 133 Another admirer of Peg Woffington at this period was Sir Charles Hanbuiy WilHams, ' one of the plenipotentiaries of fashion,' wit, satirist, poet, paymaster of the marines, and as pretty ca gentleman as ever cracked a bottle at White's. He was the friend of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, of Fox, of Horace Walpole, and of merry Dick Edgecumbe, and had the reputation of being a rake of the first water. Lady Mary" said of him that he might be happy if he add- ed to his natural and acquired endowments a dash of morality ; but Sir Charles knew little of morals and cared for them still less ; they being to his mind but dull things at best. However, this lamentable absence of virtue, was no drawback to the friendship of his contemporaries, few of whom were a whit better themselves. He could tell the wittiest if not the decentest of stories ; pen a pasquinade in the twinkling of an eye ; ridicule a political enemy in a scathing lam- poon ; and gamble from sunset to sunrise ; for all of wJiich qualities he was dear to his friends. With Fox he was ever ' dear Charles ;' Walpole had his portrait framed in black and gold, and 134 PEG WOFFIKGTON. set in a panel of the bow window room in that wonderful gimcrack Gothic castle known as Strawberry Hill ; whilst Lady Mary hears that * he suffers under a dearth of flatterers.' Sir Charles duly fell in love with the beautiful Woffington, and composed poems addressed to her, one of which, ' Lovely Peggy,' included in one of the editions of his works, published in 1776, was vastly admired by the town. It is in itself an excellent example of the love verses of the period, and is not without touches of poetic beauty. Once more 1*11 time the vocal shell To hills and dales my passion tell, A flame which time can never quell, That burns for lovely Peggy. Ye greater bards the lyre should hit, For say what subject is more fit, Than to record the sparkling wit And bloom of lovely Peggy. The sun first rising in the morn, That paints the dew bespangled thorn, Does not so much the day adorn As does mj lovely Peggy. And when in Thetis lap to rest, He streaks with gold the ruddy west, He's not so beauteous as undressed Appears my lovely Peggy. LOVELY PEGGY. 135 Were slie arrayed in rustic weed, AVith her the bleating flocks I'd feed, And pipe upon mine oaken reed, To please ray lovely Peggy. With her a cottage would delight, All's happy when she's in my sight, But when she's gone it's endless night, All's dark without my Peggy. The zephyr air the violet blows, Or breathes upon the damask rose, He does not haK the sweets disclose That does my lovely Peggy. I stole a kiss the other day. And trust me, nought but truth I say, The fragrant breath of blooming may, Was not so sweet as Peggy. While bees from flower to flower shall rove, And linnets warble through the grove, Or stately swans the waters love, So long shall I love Peggy. And when death, with his pointed dart, Shall strike the blow that rives my heart, My words shall be when I depart, Adieu, my lovely Peggy. Garrick, as Avas natural, entertained a great dread of his verse making, witty rival^ and entreated the Woffington not to see or hsten to him. One evening when Garrick visited her he asked her how long it was since she had seen Sir Charles. 136 PEG WOFFINGTON. ' Not for au age,' says she,- with a humorous smile on her charming face. , ' Nay,' said Garrick, .gravely, ' I lv«iow you have seen him this morning.' ' Well,' replied she said, going up to him, her beautiful- lips pouting like a child's, * I count time by your absence ; I have not seeu you since morning, and is it n6t an age since then.' > 137 CHAPTER VI. Garrick's Irresolution — Plarys at Ipswich under a False Name — First Appearance in Town — a Memorable Night — Description of his Richard — The Talk of the Town — Persons of Distinction at the Playhouse— Our little Poetical Hero— Letters to Peter— The Wine- merchant will not be Comforted — David's Arguments and Fair Promises— 'i he Lying Valet — Mimicking the Old Players — The Favour of Great Men — Going to Dublin with Peg AVoffington. Meanwhile Ganick continued nervously irre- solute concerning his future, experiencing by turns both hope and despair. Now his spirits rose at the prospect of his success as an acior held out to him by his friends, and by the wo- man he loved ; and again his mind was sorely depressed by the letters of grave reproof he received from respectable Peter at Lichfield; wdio heard with much disquietude that his bro- • ther David had formed a friendship Avitli one 138 PEG WOFFIXGTON. Giffarcl, a player. After long continued mental fluctuations, it happened in the summer of 1741, the fourth year of his career as a mne merchant, that through the interest of this same player and manager, an opportunity was offered him of testing his strength as an actor, and for a few nights at least, of gratifying the longing and ambition to play before an audience, Avhich had taken a firm hold upon liis life. Moreover, this could be done in the most private manner pos- sible, so that his friends in town, or Peter con- ducting his decent business in Lichfield, need know nothing of the matter ; for the theatre concerning which this offer was made was at Ipswich, and he could, of course, change his name for the occasion. Accordingly, away he went quite secretly with Giffard to Ipswich, carrying with him the Woffington's best wishes for his success ; and in due time he appeared as x\boan — a blackamoor — in the tragedy of ' Oroonoko ;' a part which recommended itself to the nervous amateur, from the fact that the necessary black face offered an excellent disguise. The reception he received GOODMAN'S FIELDS PLAYHOUSE. 139 was sufficient to eiicourag-e bis appocirance in other cliaracters, including that of Captain Brazen ; and in these his success was such, that the house was not only crowded nightly by the inhabitants of Ipswich, but the suiTounding gentry drove in their coaches to sec this ex- cellent new player, styling himself Lyddal. This indooked for result, coupled with the fact of his fast declining business, finally determined him to become an actor; and he accordingly arranged with GifFard, to play Richard III. at his theatre in Goodman's Fields in the coming autumn. This playhouse, situated in an unsavoury dis- trict, had never been favoured with the company of the polite. Indeed_, it merely existed on suf- ferance : four years pre^^ously, the passing of the Licensing Bill had limited the number of London theatres to two. In order, therefore, to keep its doors open, the manager had recoui'se to a very simple ruse, Avhich at the same time fulfilled its object ; this was to charge for an entertainment of singing and dancing, and per- form the plays gratis. Such was the theatre where Garrick first made his bow to a London 140 PEG WOFFINGTON. audience. Towards the middle of October it was whispered in the green rooms of the two West end theatres, and in the coffee houses and taverns all over the town, that a young gentle- man of great promise was about to act the part of Kichard III. in the Goodman's Fields playhouse. ]\Iuch curiosity therefore obtained, especially amongst the friends of the said young gentleman. Presently the London IJailij News printed the following announcement in its advertising columns : Goodman's fields. At the Late Theatre in Goodman's Fields, Monday next (Oct. 19th) will be performed a CONCERT OF VOCAL and INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC, Divided into Two Parts. Tickets at Three, Two, and One Shilling. Places for the Boxes to be taken at the ' Fleece Tavern,' near the Theatre. N.B. — Between the Two Parts of the Concert will be presented an Historical Play, calFd The LIFE and death of KING RICHARD THE THIRD. Containing The Distresses and Death of King Henry VI., The Artful Acquisition of the Crown by King Richard, The Murder of young King Edward V. and his Brother in the Tower, PLAYING RICHARD THE THIRD. 141 The Landing of the Earl of Richmond, And the Death of King Richard in the Memorable Battle of Bosworth-Field, being the last that was fought between the Houses of York and Lancaster, With many other true Historical Passages. The Part of King Richard by a Gentleman (Who never appeared on any stage). With entertainments of Dancing, by Mons. Fp.oment, Madame Duvall, and the two Masters and INIiss Grainer. To which will be added a Ballad Opera in One Act, call'd THE VIRGIN UNMASKED, Both which will be performed gratis by Persons for their Diversion. The Concert will begin exactly at Six o'clock. It happened at this very time that a battle royal was raging between the two greater houses, where for four consecutive nights ' As You Like It' was being played ; Peg Woffing- to]i and ]\Iilward taking the parts of Kosalind and Orlando at the Lane, and Mrs. Prit chard and Hale enacting the same at the Garden. On the fourth night, Monday, October 1 9th, 1741, Garrick appeared in the part of Richard III., playing Colley Gibber's freely treated, but veiy effective version of the great tragedy. In this the poet laureate, who modelled his style after an antiquated actor named Saudford, used 142 PEG WOFFINGTON. in liis day to drawl and declaim the part in a slirill, feeble voice, and strut about the boards, to the great satisfaction of his audiences. But no- thing could present a more striking contrast tf ■ his playing than that of Garrick's ; here ther * was neither strut nor drawl. As lie can e before a house crowded by those whom curi- osity or interest had drawn to this end of the town, the character he assumed was at once visible in the lines of his singularly mobile face, in the accents of his voice, in every turn and movement of his figure. As he proceeded, it was seen that nature had given place to rant. Here was a man acting as if he veritably felt the contending passions that swayed the wicked king. Xever had such playing been seen be- fore, and those who w^itnessed it, were at first undecided as to whether they should accept or reject such a complete innovation. But, before they were aw^are of it, he had touched their hearts, and now played upon them at will : and presently an irresistible burst of applause ringing through the house, proclaimed that his genius had triumphed over prejudice. ' His look, his AX OLD FRIEND'S OPIXIOX. 143 voice, his attitude changed with every sentiment,' says Arthur Murphy, one of his biogi-aphers. * The rage and rapidity with which he spoke '' The north — what do they in the north, When they should serve their sovereign in the west?" made a most astonishing impression. His so- hloquy in the tent scene discovered the inward man. Everything he described was ahnost reahty ; the spectator thought he heard the hum of eitlier army from camp to camp, and steed threatening steed. When he started from his dream, he was a spectacle of horror. In all, the audience saw an exact imitation of nature.' Then comes the interesting testimony to his genius of Mr. Swynfen, an honest neigh- bour and friend of the Garricks at Lichfield, who sat in the Goodman's Fields on this event- ful night, and wrote the news of it next day to Peter, preserved in the collection already mentioned. ' My good friend David Garrick performed last night at Goodman's Fields The- atre,' says this good old gentleman. ' I was there, and was witness to a most general ap- plause He gain'd in the character of Richard 144 PEG WOFFINGTON. the Third ; for I beheve there was not one hi the House that was not in Raptures, and I heard several Men of Judgment declare it their Opinion that nobody ever excelled Him in that Part ; and that they were surprised, with so peculiar a Genius, how it was possible for Him to keep off the stage so long.' The next day nothing was talked of but the performance of the young gentleman, whose name was not yet printed in the bills, but who was pretty well known to the town. Groups gathered in the coffee houses to hear the en- thusiastic descriptions of him given by those who had witnessed his performance. The critics met each other, exchanged bows, took snuff, bobbed their wigs, raised their eyebrows, and looked grave ; for it was certain the world was coming to an end now that the town had ven- tured to admire a man, in whose favour they had not first pronounced. To cap all, the London Daily Post, which had seldom indeed noticed even the finest performance, actually devoted half a dozen lines to the commendation of this young man. HE OBLIGES THE TOWN. 145 * Last night,' runs the paragraph, ' was per- form'd Gratis the Tragedy of Richard III., at the late Theatre in Goodman's Fields, when the Character of Richard was perform'd by a Gentle- man who never appear'd before, whose recep- tion was the most extraordinary and great that ever was known npon snch an occasion ; and we hear he obliges the Town this Evening with the same Performance.' It was not only the following evening bnt four times during this week, and every night of the following save one, that he obliged the town by his performance of Richard. The fame of his extraordinary acting ran from east to Avest ; and every evening a vast concourse of people gathered outside the doors of the little theatre hours before they were opened, whilst hundreds were imable to obtain admit- ance. Even Drury Lane with the acting of the charming Woffington as Adriana in ' The Comedy of Errors,' Berintha in ' The Relapse,' and Clarinda in ' The Double Gallant,' Avas left half-empty. Time seemed but to increase the fame of this new actor. ' From the polite ends of VOL. I. L 146 PEG WOFFINGTON. Westminster,' says Murphy, quaintly enough, * the most elegant company flocked to Good- man's Fields, insomuch that from Temple Bar the whole way Avas covered with a string of coaches.' People of the first figure and fashion, dukes and duchesses by the dozen, ministers and members of parliament, wits, critics, and poets, all rushed to see the great actor ; more- over, the Prince was expected nightly. The Rev. Thomas Newton, a gentleman described as a learned person with a critical eye, who afterwards became a right reverend bishop, but who was at this time tutor to Lord Car- penter's son, writes to Garrick to secure for himself and his party a stage box that they ' might see his looks in the scene with tlie Lady Anne.' The ladies expressed themselves ' almost in love with Richard,' and Mr. Newton \\dshes later on to take another box for some other friends in order to see Garrick in ' The Orphan ' and ' The Lying Valet,' new characters he essayed. These were to include amongst them Mrs. Porter, a famous and most charming actress now some time retired, ' and no less a WHAT MRS. PORTER SAW. 147 raaii than 'Mr. Pulteney desires to be of our party, aud have a place in our box,' writes the Reverend Thomas. 'My. Pulteney was certainly vi man of consequence, having l)een Secretary of AVar, and being at this time the most popular man in England, though in the following year lie ' shrank into insignificance and an earldom.' P^or all that, Garrick's arrangements did not permit him to act in these j^lays on the night suggested by the embryo bishop, who conse- quently Avrites to the player, ' It would certainly liave been a very great honour to you, if of no otlier advantage, for such a person as My. Pul- teney to come so far to be one of your audience ; and if I liad been in your capacity I should have thought it worth Avhile to have strained a point, or done almost anything rather than have disappointed him. I would have acted that night, if I had spared myself all the rest for it.' However, the party came later on and Airs. Porter was in raptures ; ' she returned to town on purpose to see you,' says Newton, ' and de- clares she would not but have come for the world. You are born an actor, she says, and l2 148 PEG WOFFINGTON. do more at your first appearing than ever any- body did Avitli twenty years' practice ; and good God, says she, what will he be in time.' An- other famous actress, j\Irs. Bracegirdle, who had played in the previous century, and whc^ had now retired for over thirty years, came out into the world again, anxious to see this prodigy of her later days; and Avith her came old Colley Gibber, who had laughed maliciously whenever Garrick's praises had been sung, but who, when he had seen him act, was forced to mutter the bare admission, ' Why, faith, Bracey, the fellow is clever.' Among others who flocked to the stuffy little theatre was my Lord Orrery, an authority where the drama was concerned, and a critic, mind you, of the first understanding, and, moreover, a man of vast experience. He was delighted with Garrick's prodigious powers, but feared the young man would be spoiled, 'for,' says his lordship, ' he will have no competitor.' Then his grace of Argyle drove down in his ponderous coach to Goodman's Fields, and swore a ducal oath that this player was superior to the great Bet- THE BEST PLAYER IN ENGLAND. 149 terton of famous memory. Likewise came Horace AValpole, dainty in ruffles and velvet, and high- heeled, silver-buckled shoes, who never had sympathy with public opinions, and now barely admitted with a sneer that ' the wine-merchant turned player,' was an excellent mimic, but he could see nothing in his acting, 'though,' he added, ' it is heresy to say so.' Mr. Pitt came also and added his testimony that 'this young man was the best player in England.' But amongst all those who flocked nightly to the playhouse, there was one of whom Gamck Avas far more proud than the dozen dukes, who, according to Gray, were to be seen at Goodman's Fields of a night. This was none other than Mr. Pope, who was looked upon Avith the most profomid respect, and whose opinions were regarded with feelings httle less than reverent by his contemporaries. Garrick, long years after, described his sensations to Percival fStockdale, on learning that the little poet of Twickenham was one of his auditors. 'AYhen I was told,' said lie, 'that Pope was in the house, I instantaneously felt a palpitation 150 PEG WOFFINGTON. at my lieart ; a tumultiious, not a disagreeable emotion in my mind. As I opened my part, I saw onr little poetical hero, dressed in black, seated in a side box near the stage, and viewing me with a serious and earnest attention. His look shot and thrilled like lightning through my frame, and 1 had some hesitation in pro- ceeding from anxiety and from joy. As Richard gradually blazed forth, the house was in a roar of applause, and the conspiring hand of Pope shadowed me with laurels.' The consj^iring tongue of little j\Ir. Pope, however, did him more honour still. Turning to my Lord Orrery — beside whom he Avas seated— the little poet said, ' That young man never had his equal as an actor, and he will never have a rival !' But, although the town might ring with the news of his triumph, David had his private misgivings, which were not easily to be over- come, regarchng the step he had taken. He knew but too well that his brother Peter, sedate and grave ; his sisters, who even in the gentility of their early girlhood had feared to be con- sidered as mere vulgar madams; and his friends WRITING TO PETER. 151 — these terrible friends, who are as the plague and pestilence to many an aspiring life — would one and all regard this new departure as a black disgrace wantonly flung upon the spot- lessness of their respectability. Accordingly, he must write to them, and get his good fiiend Mr. Sw^'nfen to do so likewise, and represent in as fair a light as was possible, this dreadful act of his, before any false and misleading reports coiicerning him could reach their ears. On the morning following his great performance, therefore, Mr. Swynfen Avrote to Peter ; and even during the excitement of that day, David him- self found time to pen a letter to his brother, and to his cousin Peter Fermi gnac, a scion of the wealthier branch of the family. ' I do not doubt,' commenced Mr. Swynfen, bluntly enough, in his epistle to Peter, * but you Avill soon hear my good Friend David Garrick performed last night at Goodman's Fields Thea- tre ; and for fear yoii should hear any false or malicious Account that may perhaps be dis- agreeable to you, I will give you the Truth, which much pleased me.' Then follows the 152 PEG WOFFINGTON. account of that most memorable night ah'eady qnoted. Moreover the worthy man strives to ap~ pease Peter by imputing to him sentiments less narrow in their circumference than those which sway his neighbours ; which shows that he mis- took his man, as the wine-merchant of Lich- field soon let him see. ' Many of his Country Friends,' continues Mr. Swynfen, ' who have been most used to Theatrical Performances in Town Halls, &c., by strollers, will be apt to imagine the highest Pitch a Man can arrive at on the Stage, is about that exalted degree of Heroism as the Herberts and the Hailams have formerly made us laugh and cry with; and there are, I don't question, many others, who because their fathers were call'd Gentle- men, or perhaps themselves the first, that will think it a disgrace and a scandal that the Child of an old Friend should endeavour to get an honest Livehhood, and is not content to live in a scanty manner all his Life because his Father was a Gentleman. I think I know you well enough to be convinced that you have not the same sentiments, and I hope there are DAVID PLEADS. 153 some other of bis Friends, who will not alter their Opinion or Regard for Him, till they find the Stage corrupt his Morals and makes Him less deserving, which I do not take by any means to be a necessary consequence, nor likely to happen to my honest Friend David.' But honest Davids letter to his brother is not quite so hopeful ; he knows Peter's hard nature, and pleads to him submissively. ' I rece'd my shirt safe,' he commences ; ' and am now to tell you what I suppose you may have heard of before this. But before I let you into my affair, 'tis proper to premise some things, that I may appear less culpable in yr opinion than I might otherwise do. I have made an Exact Estimate of my stock of wine, and Avhat money I have out at interest, and find that since I have been a wine merchant, I have run out near four hundred pounds, and trade not increasing. I was very sensible some way must be thought of to redeem it. My mind (as you must know) has been always inclin'd to ye Stage, nay, so strongly so that all my Illness and lowness of Spirits was owing 154 PEG WOFFINGTOX. to my want of resolution to tell you my thoughts when here. Finding at last both my Inclination and Interest requir'd some new way of Life I have chose ye most agreeable to myself, and though I know you will be much displeas'd at me, 3'et I hope when you shall find that I have ye genius for an actor without ye vices, you will think less severe on me, and not be asham'd to own me for a Brother.' How could Peter resist this touching apjDcal ? ' Last night,' he continues, ' I played Richard ye Third to ye surprise of Every Body, and as I shall make very near £300 per annum by It, and as it is really what I doat upon, I am resolv'd to pursue it.' Then he adds, nervously, 'Pray write me an answer immediately,' and concludes with a postscript, ' I have a farce (" Ye Lying Yalet ") coming out at Drury Lane.' Then comes the letter to his cousin, Peter Fermignac. Lest this worthy relative, whom he is anxious to conciliate, should be appre- hensive of his design to continue on the stage, he troubles him with an account of his inten- HIS MOST HUMBLE SERVANT. 155 tiun. To him he therefore repeats the excuses ah-eadv made to Peter. ' Yon must kno^v,' he writes, ' that since I have been in Business (the wine trade I meanj, I have run out al- most half my Fortune.' After some further particulars relative to business, he continues, ' ^ly mind led me to the stage, which, from being very young, I found myself very much Inclining to, and have been very unhappy that I could not come upon it before. The only thing that gives me pain is that my Friends, I suppose, will look very cool upon me, j)cirticu- larly the Chief of them ; but what can 1 do ? I am wholly bent upon the thing, and can make £300 per annum by it. xVs my brother will settle at Lichfield, I design to throw up the wine trade as soon as I can conveniently, and desire you Avill let my uncle know. If you should Avant to speak to me, the Stage Door will be always open to you, or any other part of the house, for I am manager Avith ]\Ir. Gififard, and you may ahvays command your most humble serA'ant.' This letter 'My. Peter Fermignac sent to his 156 PEG WOFFINGTON. aunt, with the following quaint commentary : — * Dear madam, the imcler written is a copy of a Letter sent me from David Garric, who play'd Crook'd Back Richard last night, and does it to-night again at Goodman's Fiekls. I leave you to consider of it, and am very sorry for the contents, but I thought fit to communicate them to you, and am your most dutiful nephew.' When the sedate Peter had sufficiently re- covered from the prodigious hlow which his re- spectable feelings had received by his brother's news, he wrote up to town, in no gentle terms, it may be assumed. What he said can alone be gathered from David's i/eply. ' My Dear Brother,' writes the poor, perplexed player, ' the uneasiness I have received at your letter is inexpressible ; however, 'twas a shock I ex- pected, and had guarded Myself as well as I could against it ; and the Love I sincerely have for you, together with ye prevailing iVrguments you have made use of, were enough to over- throw my strongest resolutions, did not neces- sity (a very pressing advocate) on my side convince me that I am not so much to blame POOR PERPLEXED PLAYER. IbJ as YOU think I am. A>s to my uncle upbraiding YOU ^vitli keeping our Circumstances a secret, I am surprised at it, for to be sure what I haYe run out has been more owing to my own wil- fulness than any Great miscarriage in Trade. But run out I haYc, and, let me liye ncYcr so ^^•arily, 1 must run out more, and indeed the Trade we have, if you will reflect very seri- ously, can never be sufficient to maintain me and a servant handsomely. As for the stage,' he urges, with much meekness of spirit, ' I know in general it deserves your Censure, but, if you will consider hoNv handsomely and how reputably some have liv'd, as Booth, Mills, Wilks, Cibbcr, &c., and admitted into and ad- mired by the Best Companies, &c. And as my genius that way (by ye best judges) is thought wonderful, how can you be so averse to my proceedings, when not only my Inclinations, but my Friends, who at first were surpris'd at my intent Ijy seeing me on ye stage, are now well convinc'd ^twas impossible for me to keep off. As to Company,' he continues, w^ith a par- donable air of pride, ' ye Best in Town are 158 PEG WOFFINGTON. desirous of mine, and I have rece'd more civili- ties and favours from such since my playing than I ever did in all my Life before. 3Ir. Glover (Leonidas, I mean) has been every night to see me, and sent for me, and told me as Avell as Every Body he converses with that he had not seen such acting for ten years be- fore. In short, were I to tell you Avhat they ^say about me, 'twould be too vain, though I am now writing to a Brother. However, Dear Peter, so willing am I to be continu'd in your affections that, were I certain of a less income with more reputation, I would gladly take to It. I have not yet had my name in ye Bills, and have play'd only ye Part of Richard III., which brings crowded audiences every night, and ]Mr. Giffard returns ye service I have done him very amply. However, Dear Peter, write me a Letter next post, and Pll give you a full answer, not having Time enough at present. I have not a Debt of twenty shillings upon me, so in that be very easy. I am sorry my sisters are under such uneasiness, and as I really love both them and you, will ever make it my PETER CONri?^'UES WRATHFUL. 159 study to appear your afFectionatc Brother.' But even these soft words had not the desncd effect of turning away Peter's wrath. An honest wine merchant, whose father had been a recruit- ing officer, whose mother had been the daughter of an impoverished vicar choral, disgraced by a brother turned stage player, Avas a serious matter, not to be lightly overlooked. In the eyes of his neighbours poor Peter must assuredly fall from the high estate of his respectability ; nay, his very business would assuredly feel the shock from the proceedings of one Avho was once intimately connected witli it. Therefore Peter s anger was exceeding great, the more so as no persuasion he could use, no arguments concerning the misfortunes which his brother's stage playing must assuredly entail on the family, had any avail with the perpetrator of the outrage, who met his complaints with gentle reasonings, his sneers and murmu rings witli fair words and kind. ' I am very sorry you still seem so utterly averse to what I am so greatly Inclin'd, and to what ye best Judges think I have ye greatest 160 PEG WOFFINGTON. of Genius for,' David again writes to him on the 10th of November. ' The great, nay, inde- scribable snccess and approbation I have met with from ye Greatest Persons in England have almost made me resolve (though I'm sorry to say it against your entreaties) to pursue it, as I certainly shall make a fortune by it, if Health continues. Mr. Lyttleton, Mr. Pitt, and several other members of Parliament were to see me play Chamont in ''' Ye Orphan," and ]\Ir. Pitt, who is reckon'd ye Greatest Orator in the House of Commons, said I was ye best actor ye Eng- lish Stage had produc'd, and he sent a Gentle- man to me to let me know he and ye other Gentlemen would be glad to see Me. The Prince has heard so great a character of me that we are in daily expectation of his coming to same.' Then he proceeds to business, of which he never lost sight even in his palmiest days. ' I have been told/ he writes, ' that you are afraid Giflfard has had my money. Upon my honour he does not owe me a farthing, hav- ing paid me long ago what I lent him, which was but £30. I receive at present from him HIS FIRST SALARY. 161 (tho' 'tis a secret) six guineas a week, and am to have a clear Benefit, whicli will be very soon, and I have been offer'd for it £120. You can't imagine what regard I meet with ; ye Pit and Boxes are to be put together, and I shall have all my friends (who still continue so to me, though you cannot be brought over). If you come to town, your lodgings w411 cost you nothing, I having a bed at Arthur's for you. Pray let me know if you'll come immediately. And if you chuse to have your share with what you have at Lichfield, ye Cooper shall take a Strict Survey of ye vaults, and I will be at half ye expense of ye carriage ; if not, I'll make a sale here, but let me know what you resolve upon, and I will assure you 'tis my greatest de- sire to continue your affectionate Brother.' The account of so much honour done the player by Mr. Glover, an author of eminence in his day, a clever speaker, and an adviser of the Prince's, and by Mr. Lyttleton, likewise a friend of His R'oyal Highness, probably helped to lighten the burden of disgrace that Peter had allowed to fall so heavily on his shoul- VOL. I. M 162 PEG WOFFINGTON. ders, for David, in writing to him next, says : ' As you finished your last Letter with saying, though you did not approve of ye Stage, yet you would always be my affectionate Brother, I may now venture to tell you I am very near quite resolv'd to be a player, as I have ye judgment of ye best Judges (who to a man are of opinion) that I shall turn out (nay, they say have) not only ye Best Tragedian, but Come- dian in England. I would not say so much to anybody else, but as this may somewhat palli- ate my Folly you must excuse me. Mr. Lyttle- ton was with me last night, and took me by the hand, and said he never saw such playing upon ye English stage before. I have great offers from Fleetwood, but he's going to sell to Gen- tlemen, and I don't doubt but I will make for myself very greatly. We have greater business than either Drury Lane or Covent Garden. Mr. Giffard himself gave me yesterday twenty Guineas for a Ticket. As to hurting you in your affairs, it shall be my constant endeavours to forward your welfare with my all. If you should want money, and I have it, you shall ' TIS AN HONO UR 168 command my whole, and I know I shall soon be more able by playing and writing to do you service than any other way. My nncle,' he adds, * I am told, will be reconcil'd to me, for •even ye merchants say 'tis an honour to him^ not otherwise.' Surely, with tidings of such prosperity, with offers of such generosity, and with the intelligence of his uncle's reconciliation^ Peter could not hold out any longer ; and so a recon- ciliation ensued, over which the wine merchant had in after years much reason to rejoice. Meanwhile, David, or as the play bills down to the 22nd of November continued to style him, * The young gentleman who perform'd Richard,' was playing several new characters, such as Olodio in ' Love Makes a Man,' Chamont in ' The Orphan,' Jack Smatter in ' Pamela,' and Avin- ning fresh success. The London Daily Post of November the 27th, speaking of the Goodman's Fields playhouse, says, ' Several hundred per- sons were obliged to return for want of room ; the House being full soon after five o'clock.' His farce^ ' The Lying Valet,' was ready by M 2 164 PEG WOFFINGTON. the end of November, and was produced on the 30th of that month, not at Druiy Lane, but at Goodman s Fields, Garrick playing the part of Sharp ; and such was its success, that five days later the farce, in two acts, was published for a shilling, ' As it is performed Gratis at the late Theatre in Goodman's Fields, by David Gar- rick ;' a name to become henceforth memorable in the annals of the stage. Of course a copy of this farce was sent to Peter, with all the pride which an author feels in his first born. ' On Monday last, I sent you,' he writes to him, *"The Lying Valet." The Valet takes pro- digiously, and is approv'd of by men of Genius, and thought ye most diverting Farce that ever was perform'd. I believe you'll find it read pretty well, and in performance it's a general Roar from beginning to end; and I have got as much Reputation in ye Character of Sharp as in any other character I have perform'd.' Then he names the various plays in which he has acted, thinldng Peter would be glad to hear of them, and adds, ' I have had great success in all ; and 'tis not determined whether I play THE TOWN WAS MAD. 165 tragedy or comedy best. Old Gibber has spoken with ye greatest commendation of my acting.' On the 2nd of December (the occasion of his first benefit), Garrick played this farce, which was preceded by the tragedy of ' The Fair Penitent,' taking the part of Lothario, 'being the first time of his appearance in that char- acter.' So great was the expected crush, it was announced that for this night ' the Stage will be built after the Manner of an Amphi- theatre, when servants will be allow'd to keep Places, and likewise in the Front Boxes, but not in the Pit, who are desir'd to be at the House by Three o'clock.' The downfall of the old school of acting was now complete. Having once seen nature pour- tray ed on the stage, Garrick felt sure the town would never again accept pedantic rant in its place. The old actors were of course terribly incensed by his success. Quin, who for years had been without a rival, could ill brook one now in a novice of ^yq and twenty summers. The town was, he declared, mad, but would pre- sently come to its senses, whence, the inference 166 PEG WOFFINGTON. "svas, it would return to its old love in the sturdy person of this famous old ranter again. The young man's style, he furthermore declared, was heresy ; to which Garrick replied, it was reformation. He was yet, however, to give the old school its final blow, by his performance in ' The Rehearsal.' In this amusing comedy — in which Mr. Bayes, a stage manager, in- structs his company in the way they should act — Garrick saw an ample outlet for the rich vein of mimicry he possessed^ inasmuch that, as the manager, he could give representations of the best known actors of the day. Yet for some time he shrank from affording them such an- noyance as this must naturally cause, though GifFard was desirous of putting the comedy on his stage. A strange tale, beautifully illustra- tive of human nature, hangs thereby, which is told in a manuscript note that I found among the pages of some old theatrical records, once the property of Dr. Burney. His son, Charles Burney, writes — ' While Mr. Garrick was acting at the Theatre in Goodman's Fields, Mr. GifFard, the manager, THE PART OF BAYES. 167 urged him to play the part of Bayes on that ' stage, in order that he might display his talents J for mimicry in his imitation of the favourite i actors at all the theatres. Mr. Garrick declined it at first ; but when Mr. GifFard pressed the i point strongly, Mr. Garrick promised to play I the part, provided he might be allowed to take I ofi' the manager himself. Mr. Giffard declared he had not the sHghtest objection ; but when the trial was made, and Mr. Garrick's imitation of Mr. Giffard created unusual laughter, it of- fended him so deeply, that a challenge was the consequence, and Mr. Gan-ick was wounded in the arm. This story my father, Dr. Burney, 1 received from Mr. Garrick.' / ' The Rehearsal ' was, however, played without the personation of Giffard on the 3rd of February, 1 742, with prodigious success. The whole town laughed loud and long at the imitations of those they had formerly admired. ' In the character of Bayes,' says Arthur IMurphy, ' he exhibited to the life the vain coxcomb who had the highest conceit of himself, and thought the art of dra- matic poetry consisted in strokes of surprise and 1C8 PEG WOFFINGTON. thundering versification. The players of his day he saw were equally mistaken. In order, therefore, to display their errors in the most glaring light, he took upon him occasionally to check the performers who were rehearsing his play, and teach them to deliver their speech in what he called the true theatrical manner. For this purpose he selected some of the most eminent performers of the time, and by his wonderful powers of mimicry was able to assume the air, the manner, and the deportment of each in his turn. Delane w^as at the head of his profession. He was tall and comely, had a clear and strong voice, but was a mere de- claimer. Garrick began with him ; he-retired to the upper part of the stage, and drawing his left arm across his breast, rested his right elbow on it, raising a finger to his nose, and then came forward in a stately gait, nodding his head as he advanced, and in the exact tones of Delane spoke the following lines : " So boar and sow, when any storm is nigh. Snuff up and smell it gath'ring in the sky." ' Those who were mimicked were of course FAR FROM REPENTING. 169 outrageous, but the town was highly diverted, and, Garrick and his manager were equally {satisfied. In March he had another benefit on the 18th, when he played Master Johnny, a lad of fifteen in ' The School-boy,' after the perform- ance of ' King Lear.' ' The farce of "The School- boy," ' says Boaden, in his biographical memoir, w^as written by Colley Gibber, who was still living ; and he might, and very probably did, see that wonderful junction of eighty-four and fifteen by the same actor.' His fame daily in- creased, the crowds still flocked to Goodman's Fields, and the gi-eat ones of the earth paid him honour. In April he writes to Peter with a sense of triumph at his heart. • Ye favour I meet from ye Greatest Men, has made me far from Repenting of my choice. I am very intimate with Mr. Glover, who will bring out a tragedy next winter upon my account. I have supped twice with ye Great Mr. Murray, Counsellor, and shall with j\lr. Pope by his introduction. I supped with Mr. Lyttle- ton, ye Prince's Favourite, last Thiu'sday night, and met with ye highest civility and. complais- 170 PEG WOFFINGTON. ance. He told me he never knew what acting- was till I apj)eared, and said I was only born to act what Shakespeare writ. These things daily occurring give me great Pleasure. I dined with Lord Halifax and Lord Sandwich, two very in- genious noblemen, yesterday, and am to dine at Lord Halifax's next Sunday with Lord Chester- held. I have ye pleasure of being very intimate with Mr. Hawkins Bro^^^le of Burton ; in short, I believe nobody (as an actor) was ever more caressed, and my character as a private man inakes them more desirous of my company. All this entre nous as one brother to another. I am not fix'd for next year, but shall certainly be at ye other end of ye Town. I am offered five hundred gumeas and a clear benefit, or part of management. I can't be resolved what I shall do till ye season is finished.' In this month he made his first appearance at Drury Lane, on which occasion he played for the benefit of the widow of a comedian named Hai-per ; and later on entered into an engage- ment with Fleetwood to play at his theatre in the coming autumn. Before the end of this TOGETHER THEY DEPARTED. 171 most memorable season, his fame had spread so far that it crossed the St. George's Channel, and Du Yal, the manager of Smock Alley Theatre in Dubhn, arranged with him and Peg Woffington to play in that fair city in the months of June, July, and iVugust. And so together they de- parted for Ireland. 172 CHAPTER VII. Excitement in Dublin — A Warm Greeting — The Delight of the Town — Hamlet and Ophelia — Back to Loudon — The Rival Playhouse — Quin's Reputation — His Con- tempt for Garrick — Quin andMacklin — A Green-room Quarrel — Making it up — Charming Susanna Cibber — 'A Romp and a Good-natured Boy' — Theo Gib- ber's Baseness — Elopement, Rescue, and Action — Legal Bathos — Woffington and Garrick at Drury Lane. The announcement that Peg Woffington, a child of the people, who had thh-teen years ago sung in a canvas booth in George's Court, had first put forth her genius at the Aungier Street playhouse, and had since gained wide- spread fame in London town, was to appear at the Smock Alley Theatre, threw the excitable citizens of Dublin into a fever of delight. This was heightened by the advertisements stating that Garrick would likewise play on the same IN DUBLIN. 17S stage at the same time. The season was not to commence at Smock Alley till the middle of June. On the 8th of that month the Dublin Mercury announced to its readers that ' the famous Mr. Garrick and Miss Woffington are hourly expected from England to entertain the nobihty and gentry during the summer season, when especially the part of Sir Harry Wildair will be performed by Miss Woffington.' The same journal, it may be noticed, requested the manager of the theatre ' that he will cause the nails to be carefully pulled out of the benches of the pit, otherwise nine gentlemen in ten will be a pair of stockings out of pocket every time they go there.' On the 11th of June, 1742, Peg Woffington arrived in her native city with Garrick and the Signora Barbarina, who was to dance between the acts, and represent in her charming person a Nymph of the Plain, in the new grand ballet called * The Rural Assembly.' Dancing, it may be here remarked, was an important item in the programme during this engagement; for pre- sently, when, at the desire of several persons of 174 PEG WOFFTNGTON. quality, Garrick played the part of Lothario in « The Fair Penitent,' the following ' entertain- ments of dancing' were given between the acts. At the conclusion of Act I., ' The Grecian Sailor,' by Mr. Will Delamain ; of Act II., ' The Wooden Shoe Dance,' by Mr. Morris; of Act III., a musett by Signora Barbarina ; of Act IV., ' The Old Woman with Pierrot in the Basket,' by Mr. Morris. Four days after the arrival of the AVoffington and Garrick, the season commenced at tlie Smock Alley playhouse, when she appeared in her famous character as Sir Harry Wildair. Her name had become a familiar sound in the mouths of the goodly citizens ; stories of her wit and repartee w^ere yet recounted in the quadrangles of Trinity College ; and a tradi- tion of her beauty lingered like a warm memory in the hearts of a people never insensible to the effect of woman's loveliness. She had come back to her own people ; not a man and woman in the town but felt as if they had a special interest in her ; as if her triumphs in some way reflected credit on them in whose midst the AN IRISH GREETING. 175 first years of her life hiad been speut. So the audience that gathered to receive her on this the first night of her reappearance was great. iVs she came upon the stage, she saw a sea of bright faces beaming on her from pit to gallery ; and a pleasant sense of kindly gratitude went out from her heart to theirs that united them in a common bond of friendship. Cheer upon cheer rang through the house, in response to which, mth a strange fluttering at her heart, with smiles on her lips, and with tears in her beauti- ful eyes, she boAved again and again. Garrick was not pla^dng that night, but he stood at the wings to witness her reception, and when she came off the stage he was ready to greet her. < x\h ! Peggy,' he said, ' you are the queen of all hearts.' She looked straight at the bright face before her, and a smile in which sadness lurked shadow-like came on her hps. ' Ay,' she replied, as she passed him, ' queen of all hearts, yet not legal mistress of one.' Dubhn audiences had pleasant memories of her Sir Harry Wildair, but practice having added a higher polish, a more subtle finish to her act- 176 PEG WOFFINGTON. ing, tlicy were now delighted beyond expres- sion with the perfect pictnre of the graceful and accomplished rake which she presented them. She became the theme of every tongue ; prints of her were exposed for sale in the station- ers' windows ; and ballads setting forth the charms of 'purty Peggy, the true love of my heart, with eyes as black as hurtle berry, and glance like Cupid's dart,' were sung and sold in vast numbers in the streets. On the third night of the season, Garrick ap- peared as Richard the Third, the Woffington playing Lady Anne, and the theatre Avas again crowded to excess by people of the first consequence, who three hours before the per- formance commenced had sent servants to keep their places. The combination of two such famous personages playing in the same house made the town stage mad ; and the scenes which were occasionally witnessed in the play house were distressing. Women shrieked at Eichard's 'death, sobbed aloud at sad Ophelia's madness, and went into hysterics over the sor- rows of King Lear. The heat which the people GARRICK PLAYS HAMLET. 177 endured in the stifling atmosphere for hours, was prodigious. So warm was the season to- wards the end of June and the commencement of the following month, that the Dublin Mercury of July the 6th mentions that ' oats is very near being reaped, and if the weather is favour- ble we will have some in our own market next Saturday, which is something extraordinary ; oats being the latest gi-ain.' The result of this unusually warm weather, and the crowded houses in Smock Alley was, that a fever broke out in the town, which attacked many, and carried away numbers from the playhouse to the grave. It was during this engagement that Garrick first attempted the part of Hamlet, which he had long and carefully studied. The DubKn citizens were not only enthusiastic admirers of the drama, but were, moreover, profound wor- shippers of Shakespeare ; therefore the an- nouncement that Garrick was about to play this favourite character gave them unbounded satis- faction, and though their expectations were great, they were not disappointed. Never VOL. I. N 178 PEG WOFFINGTON. had they witnessed such actmg. On his first appearance the marked melancholy of his face, the deep thought dwelling in his eyes, his list- less movements, and attitudes indicative of de- pression struck all beholders ; while his mere utterance of the line, ' I have that within me which passeth all show,' sent a thrill of sym- pathy through their hearts. When presently the ghost appeared the colour fled from his face, the words trembled as they escaped his lips. Then his exquisite sensibility, the melting tenderness of his love for Ophelia, the whirlwind of his passion, the depth and despair of his grief were pourtrayed with an effect never before produced. ' The strong intelligence of his eye,' says Davis, speaking of him in this play, ' the animated expression of his whole countenance, the flexibiHty of his voice, and his spirited action riveted the attention of an adixdring audience.' Nothing could be more graceful, more pathetic, more beautiful than the Woffington as Ophe- lia ; her love and sorrow were inexpressi- bly tender, her madness filled the house with awe and brought tears to many eyes. But END OF THE DUBLIN SEASON. 179 whether she played Opheha, or Cordeha, L^eti- tia in ' The Old Bachelor,' or Miss Lucy in ' The Virgin Unmasked,' she charmed her Dublin admirers. On the first night of July she took her benefit, when was presented ' The Tragical History of King Richard the Third ; the part of King Richard to be performed by 3Ir. Garrick, being the last time of liis appearing in that character during the season; the part of Lady Anne to be performed by Miss WoflSngton ; ^vith enter- tainments of dancing by Signora Barbarina. To which will be added a diverting ballad opera called " The Virgin Unmasked." The part of Miss Lucy by Miss AVoffington, with a new epilogue in the character of Miss Lucy wrote by Air. Garrick.' This brief but remarkable season ended on the 1 9th of August, 1742, when the AA^oflSngton and Garrick returned to London, preparatory to their appearance in ^September at old Drury Lane. The London season now commencing was one of the most brilliant and memorable in the history of the stage ; brilliant because of x2 180 PEG WOFFIXGTON. those two stars avIio had so suddenly arisen in the theatrical firmament, memora,ble as a period when the battle between the old school and the new was fought with a A^ast show of bravery on either side. At Drury Lane, Fleet- wood had gathered round him, besides the AYoffington and Garrick, such favourite players as Kitty Clive, Mrs. Pritchard, and Macklin; whilst at Co vent Garden were Mrs. Gibber, Quin, Ryan, and Bridgewater. Quin was the acknowledged head of the old school. He had in his day played with Wilks and Booth, and since the re- tirement of the latter he had no rival till young Garrick came to push him from his high place in the playgoers' regard. His famous soliloquy in Cato, it was remembered, had been encored ; his Sir John Bute had been pronounced inimit- able ; his Falstaff was considered unequalled. Foote recommended anyone who wanted to witness a character perfectly played to see ]\Ir. Quin in this part, ' and if he does not express a desire to spend an evening with that merry mortal,' said the wit, * why, I would not spend one with him if he would pay my reckoning.' QUIN AND MAC KLIN. 181 Quin's contempt for Garrick and bis new fangled ways was openly avowed. ' If he is right,' said the veteran, with an incredulons smile, ' then I and the rest of the players must have been wrong.' He bad no fear, therefore, of this young jackanapes, and was ready to test the public favour with him any night. The dishke which he cherished for Garrick he likewise heartily extended to another mem- ber of the Drury Lane company, Macklin, who, by his playing the part of Shylock in a realistic manner but a little before, had it was certain paved the way for the natural school of act- ing. Moreover, there had been an old standing quarrel between these actors, the origin of which happily illustrates the manners of the green room in those days. It happened one night that, when Macklin was playing the part of Jerry Blackacre to Quin's Captain Manly, the former, by some business he introduced, made the audience laugh heartily. When they came off the stage, Quin, who ruled as supreme despot in the theatre, abused him in round terms, told him he was at his tricks, and there was no 182 PEG WOFFINGTON. having a chaste scene with him as an actor. To this Mackhn rephecl that he did not want to disturb him, but was anxious to show off a Kttle himself. In the follomng scenes Mackhn con- tinued the same business, when the audience now laughed more than ever, and gave him some signs of their approbation, which disturbed the great man mightily, who, on going into the green room, indulged in fresh abuse. Mackliii declared he could not play otherwise ; Quin in- sisted that he could, to which the other replied in plain English, ' You lie !' Now at that in- stant it happened that Quin was chewing an apple, which, in his vast indignation, he spat into his hand and flung full in ^lacklin's face. In a second the green room was in confusion ; there Avas a violent scuffle, and in less than a minute Macklin had forced Quin into a chair, and was pummelling his face in a right hearty manner, until it was swelled to double its ordi- nary size. To make matters worse, Quin was obliged to go on the stage in a short time, but he mumbled his part in such a manner that the audience began to hiss, whereupon he at once HE REQUESTED SATISEACTION. 183 stepped to the centre, informed them that some- thing unpleasant had happened, and that he Avas ill. When the curtain was down, he told Mackhn he must give him satisfaction, and that, when he had changed his clothes, he would wait for him at the Obelisk at Covent Garden. Macklin promised he would be with him presently ; but Avhen Quin had gone he remembered he had to play in the after piece, so he resolved that till this was over he would let Quin fret and fume. When the part was finished, Fleetwood, who was desirous of peace among the members of his company, carried Mackhn to his house, where he made him sup and slee^^, and, when morning came, persuaded him to make an apology to Mr. Quin, which he did, and there the matter dropped. After this no word was spoken between them for long, and a studied deportment on either side seemed to indicate that nothing save the necessity of business could ever make them associate again. Till at last it happened they both, in company with many others, met one evening in a tavern at Covent 184: PEG WOFFINGTON. Garden. Their hearts were softened, for they had just returned from laying a fellow actor at rest — an excellent fellow, the son of a baker, concerning whom Foote, who conld not resist being funny even on such an occasion, said they ' had been to see him shovelled into the family oven.' By degrees the company at the tavern dropped off one by one, until these two were left together. Presently Quin roused himself, looked round, and finding he was alone in Macklin's company, became embarrassed; and for some moments there was silence in the room. But in a little Avhile he, in polite and solid phrases, drank Mackhn's health, which the latter, as in duty bound, returned. Then came a pause more awkward than the first, which Quin again broke by addressing his companion. ' There has been a foolish quarrel between you and me, sir,' said he, ' which, though accommodated, I must con- fess I have been unable to forget till now. The melancholy occasion of our meeting, and the circumstance of our being left together, I thank God, have made me see my error. If you GIVE ME YOUR HAND. 185 can, therefore, forget it, give me your hand, and let iis Kve together in future like brother performers. Macklin eagerly stretched out his hand, and assured him of his friendship in hearty words. It Avould not have been proper if this reconciliation Avas not sealed by a fresh bottle, ordered by MackHu, which was followed by another called for by Quin ; and by the time this was finish^ed, the latter had cjuietly closed his eyes on this wicked world of hatred and quarrels and revenge, and wandered into the peaceful land of dreams. The hght of early dawn had by this time begun to peep in at the high, narrow windows of the tavern parlour ; the candles burned low in their- soc- kets, and it was full time for Mr. Quin to rest in his virtuous bed. A chair was therefore sent for, but not one could be found at that hour, when Macklin, desiring the waiters to lift the great man on his back, can-ied him in that manner to his lodgings. But Quin was not, in his cooler moments, ready to act up to the words he had uttered when his heart and his head were softened by wine. He seldom men- 186 PEG WOFFINGTON. tionecl Macklin's name without a sneer or a sarcastic remark ; and he was now mortified that this excellent old actor should strengthen the opposition company of Drmy Lane play house. The actress engaged to take the principal female parts at Covent Garden, was the wife of the unfortunate scapegrace Theophilus Gibber. This lady, who rejoiced in the name of Susanna Maria, long occupied -the attention of the town. She was the daughter of a respectable uphols- terer in Govent Garden, and sister to Thomas Arne, afterwards doctor of music. She, too, had a musical genius, and a voice so sweet that Handel specially arranged one of the airs in the ' Messiah ' to suit her. Shortly after her marriage with Theo Gibber, she expressed a strong desire to become an actress, for which her melodious voice, beautiful face, and graceful figure seemed eminently suited. She therefore received in- structions from her father-in-law, old Golley, who was regarded as a master of his art. She subsequently appeared as Zara in the tragedy of that name at Drury Lane in the CHARMING MRS. CIBBER. 187 year 1736, when, according to a quaint account, ' She gave both surprise and dehght to the audience, who were no less charmed with the beauties of her present performance than with the prospect of future entertainment from so valuable an acquisition to the stage ; a prospect which was ever after perfectly maintained, and a meredian lustre shone forth fully equal to what was promised from the morning dawn.' The ' meredian lustre ' was for a time, how- ever, eclipsed by the ugly shadow of her hus- band's wickedness; the story of which vastly diverted the town, whilst it lent additional interest in the performances of this frail and beautiful woman, who was more sinned against than sinning. Theophilus Gibber had, even in the first years of their married life, appropriated his wife's earnings, and freely squancjered them in reckless profligacy. Not satisfied, however, with this, he being sorely pressed for money by reason of his extravagances, and being utterly devoid of principle, determined to sell his wife's honour. For this purpose, Mr. Gibber, hideous and worthless, introduced to her house a young 188 PEG WOFFINGTOK. gentleman of comely mien, who was possessed of station and fortune. The yonng gentleman's name was William Sloper, but Gibber presented him as Mr. l^enefit, adding that the youth ' was a romp and a good-natured boy.' Soon after Mrs. Gibber making the acquaintance of Sloper, her spouse, affectionately anxious to give her change of air, took lodgings at Ken- sington for her and himself and the young gentleman, whose good nature Mr. Gibber tested by borrowing from him sums amounting to four hundred pounds. They had been but a little while established at Kensington when, unfortunately, Mr. Gibber found himself called away on press- ing business to France. When he subsequently returned, he refused to occupy his former lodg- ings, but w^as obliging enough to hire a bed for himself at the ' Blue Green Inn,' not far removed. AVhen he had first supped comfortably vWtli his wife and their mutual friend, he retired nightly to this inn, being conducted thither by a man with a lanthorn and a candle. Next morning he returned to breakfast with them. For the accommodations, both at the lodgings and the MRS. GIBBER ELOPES. ISO" inn, Toung Sloper freely paid, being a good natured boy and, moreover, a romp. Now Mrs. Gibber, seeing lier husband's base- ness, despised liim heartily, and was too spirited to admit of an arrangement by which her lover was heavily mulcted of his money, whilst her infamous spouse was spared the censure of the world. She therefore eloped with Sloper, Avhom she had learned to love. This was a movement Mr. Gibber had not expected, and it was now plain to him that he must pose before the town as an outraged husband whose friendship had been vilely abused. The role has frequently been played since then with more or less suc- cess. He therefore, accompanied by Mr. Fife, a sergeant in the Guards, set off in a coach for Burnham, the place where Sloper was staying, in order to rescue his ^\^fe. Entering her lodg- ings whilst she and her friend were at breakfast, Gibber and the sergeant of the Guards carried her away, whilst Sloper cursed many oaths and called Theophilus a villain. As she was being taken to the coach, her lover walking beside her, she put her hand in her pocket and gave 190 PEG WOFFINGTON. him a watch, ou which he cried out 'twas Avell remembered, as the rascal wonkl have ]iad it else. When ihej came to the inn at Slough, Gibber and his wife rested there, and next day he drove her across country, fearing she might be rescued by her lover, and, enter- ing the town next evening, he placed her at the ' Bull Head Tavern,' near Clare Market, luider the care of Mr. Stint, candle snuffer at Covent Garden play house. Presently her brother, Mr. Arne, came, and he called out to Mr. Stint, and besought him to let his sister go with him, saying he would take care of her ; but the candle snuffer refused, making answer, ' I shall not l:»etray the trust which was placed in me.' Then, not being admitted, Arne gath- ered together a gTt^at crowd from the neigh- bouring market, to the number of over one hundred, and broke into the house, and beat the snuffer of candles severely, injuring him in the body, and tearing the clothes from his back, which was left naked. In this manner Mrs. Gibber was rescued, and restored to her friend, under whose protection and care she lived happily till her deatJi. SEEKING DAMAGES. 191 Gibber, seeing in this a cause for the recovery of damages, took an action against Sloper for eloping with his wife, whereby he, sad to rehite, ' lost her company, comfort, society, and assist- ance.' The damages claimed for such loss were estimated at the round sum of five thou- sand pounds. The foolish bathos indulged in by the gentlemen learned in the law, who conducted the case, is quite on a par with that which distinguishes many members of that eminent profession at the present day. The wise Solicitor General, one Mr. Strange, who stated the plaintiff's case, declared, in a voice choked by emotion, that no sum of money could compensate for the injury done to Mr. Gibber, which was of the most tender concern to his peace of mind, happiness, and hopes of posterity ; for no sum of money could restore that tranquillity of mind which had now deserted him for ever. The learned Mr. Strange, however, took an opportunity of hinting that five thousand pounds would be regarded by his client as a slight recompense to his deeply wounded honour. The observations ' upon the 192 PEG WOFFINGTON. plaintiff being a player ' made by the eloquent gentleman are wonderfully qnaint, and more- over amnsing, when read by the light of modern times. He was fnlly aware that in a matter of this nature ^players were considered as not upon the same footing with the rest of the subjects.' It was true the plaintiff was a player, hut he was also a gentleman, being well de- scended, and having had a liberal education; his father was well known to all gentlemen who delighted in theatrical entertainments to be of the first figure in that profession, and an author too ; and the plaintifi^s grandfather was the best statuary of his times ; and the plaintiff, by the mother's side, was related to William of Wykeham, and, in right of that pedigree, had received his education upon a foundation of government. The learned gentleman likewise dwelt upon Mr. Gibber being 'endowed with the finest sense of morality,' and became elo- quent on the mischievous consequences of suffering a man to commit such an injury to the married state without being obliged to repair it in damages. The jury, however, THEATRICAL SEASON OF 1742. 193 duly appreciated Mr. Gibber's fine sense of morality and Mr. Strange's bathos, and awarded ten pounds damages to the ill looking vaga- bond, Theophilus Gibber. On the 22nd of September, 1742, Govent Garden Theatre opened for the season with ' Othello,' Mrs. Gibber playing Desdemona, it being ' her first appearance on that stage.' The parts were ' all new dressed and the theatre new decorated,' as the bills informed the public. A few nights later. Peg Wofiington and Garrick appeared respectively as Sylvia and Gaptain Plume, and so great a crowd was expected that it was announced ' No persons will be admitted behind the scenes but those who have silver tickets.' The lines of carriages and chairs which had stretched from Temple Bar to White- chapel when Garrick had played at Goodman's Fields, now blocked up Drury Lane and its adjacent streets. Night after night the theatre was crowded to excess, and nothing could ex- ceed the dehght and applause when the two reigning favourites appeared in the one piece. It became plain, even to Quin, who still thun- VOL. I. O 194 PEG WOFFINGTON. dered and strutted at Covent Garden, that the days of the old school were numbered. Yet he was not willing to quietly lay down his arms and own himself defeated in the combat with this young David, but plucked up courage enough to play Richard the Third on the same night as Garrick. An account of the marked diff- erence between the champion of the old school and the new is given us by one who saw both play later on in Rowe's ' Fair Penitent,' on the stage of Drury Lane. Garrick took the part of Lothario, Quin of Horatio. Upon the rising of the curtain the latter presented himself in a green velvet coat embroidered down the seams, an enormous full- bottomed periwig, rolled stockings, and high heeled square toed shoes. ' With very little variation of cadence, and in a deep, full tone, accompanied by a sawing kind of action, which had more of the senate than of the stage in it, he rolled out his heroics, with an air of digni- fied indifference which seemed to disdain the plaudits that were bestoAved on him,' Avrites Richard Cumberland in his ' ^Memoirs.' ' But when I beheld little Garrick, young and light HEAVENS, WHAT A TRANSITION! 195 and alive in every mnsclc and in every feature, heavens, what a transition I It seemed as if a whole century had been stept over in the tran- sition of a single scene ; old things were done away, and a new order at once brought forward, bright and luminous, and clearly destined to dispel the barbarisms and bigotry of a tasteless age, too long attached to the prejudices of €Ustom, and superstitiously devoted to the illusions of imposing declamation.' Early in this season Garrick produced 'King Lear,' which he had attempted at Goodman's Fields, and subsequently played during his Dub- hn engagement. As an instance of the pains which he took in the study of his characters it may be mentioned that Avhen he first played in this tragedy, he had requested his old friend Mackhn, and Dr. Barrowly, a physician by pro- fession, a dramatic critic by reputation, to sit in judgment on his performance. These worthy men accepted the pleasurable task, and Avith that conscientiousness which distinguishes friends dehvered their opinions next morning. He was dressed very appropriately for King Lear, they 196 PEG WOFFIXGTON. admitted, but he did not sufficiently enter intO' the infirmities of a man four score and upwards. Then in the repetition of the cm'se he began too low and ended too high, the reverse of which would, they argued, have a better effect ; and in the fourth act he had not dignity enough, and his voice was too loud. To all of which Garrick listened with patience, nay, he even made notes of their remarks, and, thanking them, said he would not again play the part till he had pro- fited by their judicious hints. When in due time he again appeared as King Lear, his friends, who once more acted as his critics, assured him he played the part rather worse than before. They were good enough to off'er him their services at rehearsal, which he declined on the plea that so much graciousness would embarrass him. On his third appearance as the sad old man his critics were of opinion that he had sufficiently profited by their advice and praised him accordingly. The announcement that he was again to play the part with the Woffington as Cordelia, caused a thrill of ex- citement in every coffee house and tavern in GARPJCK AS LEAR. 197 town ; nor on the night when the Drmy Lane •curtam fell on the last act of the tragedy was Ids audience disappointed. O'Keeffe tells us his exclaiming, in the bitterness of his anger, ' I will do such things —what they are I know not,' and his sudden recollection of his own want of power ^vere so pitiable as to touch the heart of every spectator. The sim- plicity of his saying, ' Be these tears wet — yes, faith,' putting his finger to the cheek of Corde- lia, was exquisite. Xever had the sorrows, rage, and madness of the king been so pour- trayed, and never had Garrick more forcibly impressed the public. ' The curse,' says Mack- lin, ' exceeded all imagination, and had such an effect that it seemed to electrify the audi- ence with horror. The w^ords, "kill — kill — kill," echoed all the revenge of the frantic king, whilst he exhibited such a sense of the pathetic on discovering Cordelia as drew tears of com- miseration from the whole house. In short, he made it a chef-d'oeuvre, and a chef -doe awe it continued to the end of his life.' Garrick had carefully studied the expressions and signs of 198 PEG WOFFINGTON. madness which he so skilfully represented from one who had suddenly lost his reason through a dreadful affliction. This unhappy man had, whilst dandling his only child, a little girl of whom he was passionately fond, at his dining- room window, let it drop into the flagged area, Avhen it was instantly killed. His shrieks sum- moned the household, who, by way of assuaging his grief, placed the lifeless body of the child in his arms. From that moment his senses fled for ever. But for years he almost daily re- hearsed the terrible tragedy ; seizing a pillow, he would dandle and caress it, then let it sud- denly drop, when he gave vent to the most heart piercing shrieks^ Avhich gradually subsided to low, tremulous moans. From this study Gamck had taken his hints for the representa- tion of King Lear's madness over the body of Cordelia which had electrified his audience. 199 CHAPTER VIII. Peg Woffington and Garrick keep House — Old Colley Gibber — Drinking tea at Peggy's Rooms — Fiekling, Quin, Mrs. Porter, Foote, Johnson, and Macklin — 'J'he AVoffington and Garrick Part — Polly Woffington, Lord Tyrawley's Amour — George Anne Bellamy — Acting in a Barn — Captain Cholmondeley's Marriage — Violette the Dancer — Her Love for Garrick — Mar- riage — Peg Woffington goes to Covent Garden — Her Dublin Engagement. On their return from Dublin, Peg Woffington and Garrick kept house together in Bow Street, when it was agreed between them that they should alternately defray the monthly expenses. Here they entertained the first wits of the day, and it soon became a standing joke that a more hospitable board was always spread before their visitors on the month when it was Peggy's turn to pay the reckoning. Wliat illustrious men and women, whose names are now as household 200 PEG WOFFINGTON. Avords in our mouths, assembled in her rooms ; what wit and repartee were exchanged round her board ! Here came Samuel Foote, the prince of wits, the most perfect of mimics, whom Garrick feared in secret, and conciliated in public ; and burly figured Samuel Johnson, now a writer for the Gentleman s Magazine, who likewise feared Foote, but chuckled heartily over the jokes he made at Davy's expense ; and Charles Macklin, who had always an excel- lent story to tell, and told it with the humour native to his race ; and Mrs. Porter, who had played to Queen Anne, and who now delighted in meeting the young generation of players who were carrying the town before them ; and Henry Fielding, who just at this time had pro- duced his comedy ' The Wedding Day,' with but little success. And likewise came Dr. John Hoadly (son of the right reverend bishop), a chaplain in the household of the Prince of Wales, and, as became one who held such posi- tion, a play writer. It was here, in the Woffiog- ton's lodgings, as he mentions in his letters, that he read Garrick his farce, ' The Force of Truth,' TEA WITH PEG ]]VFFIXGTOX. 201 Another playwright also frequently visited these pleasant apartments in Bow Street, old Colley Cibber, an antiquated beau, dramatic author, retired player, ex-manager, and most execrable laureate, at your service. Watch him as he enters Garrick's lodgings ; his ponderous wig- falls upon the shoulders of his velvet coat, richly embroidered at the seams and at the flaps ; his shrunken shanks are clad in silken stockings ; his feet encased in high heeled, sil- ver buckled shoes ; his thin fingers are adorned with precious stones, and as he presses his gold- laced hat above his heart and makes a low bow to Mistress AVoffington, with whom 'tis whisper- ed he is in love, there is a world of grace in his movements. His thin sharp features, aquiline nose, bright small eyes, and great plumage like wig, together with his solemn strutting air, give him the appearance of some grotesque bird, at once venerable and vindictive looking. Amongst all the actors of the old school there is not one so slow to admit the merits of Garrick's powers, and old Colley's sharpest words are continually hurled at young- Davy's head. 202 PEG WOFFINGTON. Let us picture to ourselves a few of the Wof- fington's friends — Ryan, Fielding, Mrs. Porter, and of course Gibber and Garrick — drinking tea in Peggy's sitting room in Bow Street ; a high- ceilinged, wainscoted apartment, with quaint engravings and concave miiTors hanging on the painted walls, silver sconces branching from the carved oak chimney piece, and a polished floor on which the high heels of the company patter when they walk. Let us listen to their .pleas- ant banter, their wit, their friendly bickerings and droll stories. ' Faith, I'm vastly sorry,' says old Gibber, with a Avicked twinkle in his eye that belies his words addressed to Fielding, 'that your ' Wedding Day ' didn't bring you more pleasure and profit.' ' Much obliged to you, idr. Gibber,' says the unsuccessful dramatist, ' but the public taste has been spoiled for originality by the plagiar- ised rubbish forced down its throat for the last fifty years.' ' Ha, ha, ha !' laughs burly Quin, ' that's one for you, !Mr. Gibber.' OLD COLLET CLBBER. 203 The laureate drew out his box and daintily helped himself to a pinch of snuff. ' When,' said Garrick, by way of soothing him, ' may we hope to have another comedy from Mr. Gibber's pen.' " Psh,' said the old man spitefully, throwing away the snuff he held in his dainty fingers, ' What is the use of my writing another comedy, when we have no actors to play it?'* ^ It would be impossible indeed, sir,' said Gar- rick, with a malicious smile hovering on his lips, ' to get actors to play such absurd characters as "The Rival Fools."' — This was a comedy of Gibber's which had been a dead failure, and he now Avinced at its name, whilst the others laughed with a pleasant sense of enjo^mient. ' Xow,' said the charming hostess from behind her tea kettle, ' this is my kingdom, and here I rule supreme ' * Madam,' said Gibber, rising from his high backed chair, and bowing to her ^Wth courtly grace, 'Madam, you rule supreme in all hearts.' 'Much obliged to you, sir,' said Peg, with one * ^Macklin's ' Memoirs,* p. 101. 204 PEG WOFFINGTON. of her brightest smiles, * but I was about to say that I won't have my subjects quarrel among themselves. We poor players are looked upon by one half the world as rogues and vagabonds, and by the other half as soulless puppets — why can we not regard each other with kindness r ' True, ma'am,' says Mrs. Porter, her wrinkled face beaming all over with kindness. * Speaking of puppets,' said Ryan, in his whistling voice, ' I'll tell you a story ' *Ah, you often tell stories, Jimmy,' said Garrick. 'A story of the great Betterton,' continued Ryan, unheeding the interruption. ' One day, being in company with a rustic at Bartholomew Fair, he went to visit the puppet show. The manager refused to take the money. " Mr. Betterton," says he, " you are a fellow actor — Avalk in and see my company perform and Avelcome, sir." The rustic, who had never before been within a booth or playhouse, expressed himself vastly delighted by the humour of the puppets. " Faith," he says, " they are such jolly fellows, HODGE AND THE PUPPETS. 205 I Avill drink with them." Betterton assured him they were but rags and sticks, but this the rustic refused to beheve tiU he Avas taken be- hind the scenes, and saw the once meny com- pany silent now, and laid pell mell in a box. On that same night Betterton took him to the theatre, and placed him in front of the stage by way of giving him a great treat, as he and Mrs. Barry Avere to play in " The Orphan;" and, thought Betterton, if the fellow was amazed by the performance of puppets, hoAv much more will he delight in good actors ? When the play was over, Betterton met his friend. "AVell," says he, " how liked you the entertainment ?" " I don't know," replies Hodge, "■ but 'twas well enough for rags and sticks." ' 'Gad!' said Garrick, ^the opinion of the rustic and of the great Mr. Johnson about us are much the same. What did he say the other day'?' (and Garrick drew down his wig on his forehead, wrinkled up his face in an inimitable manner and mimicked Johnson's voice to perfec- tion), ' "a player, sir, is a fellow who claps a hump on his back, and a lump on his leg, and cries I 206 PEG WOFFINGTON. am Richard III. Nay, sir, a ballad singer is a higher mau, for he does two things ; he repeats and he sings, there is both recitation and music in his performance ; the player only recites." '* When they had all laughed at Garrick's imita- tion : • Egad,' says Quin, ' I'll tell you what Lord Lincoln said to me the other day. " Quin," said he, "' 'tis the devil of a pity that a clever fellow like you should be a player." " Why ?" says I, in great sm-prise. *' Would you have me a lord?-" *Good, good,' says Cibber, chuckling in great glee. 'Foote said a good thing last week to the same noble lord,' said Garrick. ' His lordship asked him to dine, and Foote went, daintily deckeel in lace and ruffles. As they entered the room, his lordship remarked to Foote that his handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket. *' Thank you, my lord," said Foote, who had purposely designed this piece of foppery, and now resented the remark. "' Thank you ; your lordship knows the company better than I do." ' * Bosweirs 'Johnson,' Edn. 1848, p. 556. SAMUEL FOOTE. 207 * Ah, lie is a witty dog,' remarks the Woffing- ton. ' And, as I Hve, here he comes.' ' Speak of the devil ' says Quin. * And you will mention the name of one of yonr most intimate friends,' Foote said, enter- ing the room, and making his bow to those assembled. 'Your servant, i\lrs. AVoffington.' 'A cup of tea, sir ?' said she ; and in a moment he was by her side. ' All, Mr. Cibber,' said he, when he was seated, ' I am glad to see you looking so well.' ' Egad, sir,' the laureate answered, ' at my age 'tis well for a man if he can look at all ;' and in the enjoyment of this apt speech, he shakes his head, until his wig in turn shakes the powder from its ponderous folds. Presently conies a loud knocking at the door, afterwards a heavy step is heard in the hall, and iSamuel Johnson enters, bobbing his scratch- Avig in friendly salutation to all assembled. Then he seats himself close by Cibber, for whom he had no love. But the poet laureate thinks Avell of the learned Mr. Johnson, whom, by and by, he will consult regarding one of the 208 PEG WOFFINGTON. wonderful birthday odes to royalty, which are the laughing stock of the town, but Avhich Gibber considers it his duty to grind out annually from the heavy mill work of his brain. In a little while the conversation turns on Mack- lin, whose head, Quin and Ryan avow, has been turned by the success of his Shylock, when suddenly up starts Foote, a merry twinkle in his eye, as if on mischief bent. By a mere effort of will, he rapidly changes the whole expression of his face ; his eyebrows seemed to stand like pent houses over his eyes ; his manner assumes an air of vast importance. ' Now, madam,' he says, turning to the AVof- fington, in the exact tones of Macklin, ' I, Charles Macklin, tell you there are no good plays among the ancients, and only one great one among the moderns, and that is the " Merchant of Venice," and there's only one man can play it. Now, madam, you have been very attentive, and I'll tell you an anecdote of that play. When a royal personage, who shall be nameless, wit- nessed my performance of the Jew, he sent for me to his box, and remarked, " Sir, if I were MRS. PORTER. 209 not the prince, ha — hum — yon understand, I should wish to be ]\lr. Mackhn." Upon which I answered, " Sir, being Mr. Macldin, I do not desire to be '' ' At this moment a voice interrupts Foote : * Xo, I'll be damned, if I ever said that ;' and Mackhn, who, amused by Foote's mimicry, had stood at the door unheeded by the company for some time, enters the room amidst the laughter of all. Soon after, Mrs. Porter rises, and Gibber is ready to conduct her, with great gallantry, to her chair. ' Pray, madam, do you carry firearms with you now ? ' said the old fellow, referring to an epi- sode in her career, when she presented a pistol at the head of a highwayman who had de- manded her purse whilst she drove in her chaise to Hendon. 'No, no, Mr. Gibber,' said she, laughing and shaking her head. 'Did you shoot the villain, ma'am f asks the Woffington. 'Xo, child; thank God, I didn't,' says she. ' For the poor fellow told me he was driven to VOL. I. P 210 PEG WOFFINGTON. the roads to relieve the wants of a starving family.' ' And you voluntarily gave him your purse, ma'am f says Johnson, with a look of approba- tion. 'And, moreover,' added Cibber, 'made him an honest man by finding out the truth of his story, and raising sixty pounds for him I' 'It was bravely done,' says the Woffington. 'But not more than you would have done, child,' she replies ; and embracing her, she departs, leaning on Colley Gibber's arm. It is now full time for Peggy and Garrick to prepare for the theatre, so Quin and Ryan take their leave, and Foote and Fielding depart for the ' Bedford,' where the former has many friends awaiting him, with some of whom he Avill presently sit in the front benches of the pit at Drury Lane, and play the part of a critic, with much amusement to himself and to those who may have the benefit of his remarks. The connection between the Woffington and Garrick did not last more than a couple of years. Save in that art in which they both held GARRICK'S ECONOMY. 211 superior rank, they had but little in common. The Woffington was impetuous, Avarm hearted, and extravagant, whilst Garrick was cold, cautious, and economical to a degree that made him the butt of a thousand jests and witticisms. Bos- well records that, whilst Johnson was drinking tea with them once, Ganick grumbled at her for making it too strong. ' Why,' said he, ' it is as red as blood.' It was Garrick's month to pay the household expenditure. Foote of course laid hold of this trait in the great actor's character^ and cracked his jests upon it, till David waxed wrathful. One night, when they were both leaving the ' Bedford,' Garrick dropped a guinea, for which he vainly made diligent search. ' Where on earth can it have gone V said Foote. *To the devil, I think,' said the other, irritably. ' Ah ! Davy,' replied the wit, ' let you alone for making a guinea go further than anyone else.' On hearing which the coffee house gossips cackled with laughter, swore 'twas prodigiously fine, and repeated it all over the town next day. p 2 212 PEG WOFFINGTON. Yet, for all his saving, economy was a feature which he by no means relished in his friends ; and one day, when Delane was telling Foote of Gamck's reflection on another man's parsi- mony, he wondered why David would not pluck the beam out of his own eye first. ' Why, so he would,' replied Foote, * if he were sure of selling the timber.' Notwithstanding all the disparity which existed in their characters, it seemed that, in the first glow of their friendship, Garrick had intended making this beautiful woman his wife. Macklin, who was for a time a close friend of both, and who at one period kept house with them, believed, from many conversations which he had with Peg Woffington, that she was assured Garrick would many her. Arthur Murphy, who, as he says, enjoyed the pleasure of her acquaintance for years, heard her tell at different times that Garrick went so far as to try the wedding ring- on her finger ; whilst Boaden asserts * it was supposed that Gamck had really married her.' She loved him with all the strength of her passionate nature ; hoped to spend her days by WOFFINGTON AND GARPJCK PART. 213 his side ; to nestle his children at her breast ; to share the meridian of his fame ; to cheer the evening of his life ; but Garrick, cautious, irresolute, and mercenary, hesitated till such love as he had ever felt for her drifted by his life. At last the hour of their separation was at hand. Mackhn tells us how they parted. One night Garrick returned to his lodgings in Bow Street, and found the Woffington, who had not been playing that evening, Avaiting up for him. She greeted him with words that ring like music on the toiler's ears, when coming from the lips of a woman he loves ; but her ways were quieter than usual, and in her eyes was a look of thought close kin to sadness. 'Peggy,' said Garrick, sitting down beside her in the shadow of the high, carved oak chimney piece, ' are you not well V ' I am.' ' But you seem dull.' ' I have been thinking much whilst here alone to-night.' ' And what were the thoughts that made you sad?' he asked, taking her hand in his. 214 PEG WOFFINGTON. ' Those of my past life. David, I have been thinking of our marriage.' ' Oh ! is that all V he said, affecting to laugh hghtly. ' All !' she answered; 'marriage means a great deal to a woman — a great deal to me.' 'Yes, yes, yes,' he replied, evasively, not knowing what to say, and feeling that her eyes were steadily fixed upon him. ' David,' she said, quietly, but in a tone that was almost imploring, ' when is it to be V 'What?' ' Om' marriage.' ' Oh ! I can't say now ; we'll talk of it another time,' he replied, rising to his feet, as if to end the conversation. ' Why not speak of it to-night ?' * Because — because I'm tired.' She had tact, and saw there was no use pur- suing the subject then, so she let it drop. Next morning Garrick was restless, ill at ease, and unusually silent ; it was now the Woffing- ton's turn to ask him if all was well with him. ' Well with me,' he replied, as if disturbed I SHALL ALWAYS LOVE YOU. 215 from a train of thought. ' Yes — that is, no ;' he did not look at her as he spoke. On the stage she exhibited vivacious audacity and briUiant courage ; in her home she betrayed a woman's hopes and fears. ' Will you not tell me what troubles you?' she said, ' you know a burden shared loses half its Aveight.' * Well,' he said, looking down, ' I have been thinking, Peggy, that marriage would be the most foolish thing possible for both of us. It would only hamper us ; the knowledge of the fact that we were chained together would make us miserable.' The colour came into her face. * And your promises ?' she said. ' Were foolish,' he answered ; then he went on rapidly, ' I shall always love you, let all go on as before ' ' Until the day comes at last when, grown tired of me, you will cast me off as your dis- carded mistress/ she said, rising to her feet, whilst a light came into her eyes that he recog- nized as a danger signal. 216 PEG WOFFINGTON. * Never, Peggy, I swear to yoii,' he said, anxious to soothe her at any cost. ' Sir, you are a har !' she repHed, her wrath bursting forth ; her cheeks were aflame with humihation, her eyes ablaze with indignation. * You promised to make me your wife and I believed — and loved you ; but, now that I know you as you are, I would not marry you if you were to ask me on your knees.' ' Peggy,' said he, nervously, ' don't be un- reasonable. You know I love you.' ' Sir, don't insult me,' she answered, with spirit. ' To-day I leave the house, and I shall never again willingly interchange a word with you except on business.' So saying, she quitted the room, unwilUng to hear another word from him. Believing she would not put her promises into execution when her passion cooled, he left the house, to find her gone on his return in the afternoon. She had lefL a parcel for him containing all the presents he had given her, with a written request that he might return sach as she had presented him. Now, amongst those mementoes which the THE DIAMOND BUCKLES. 217 liberal and warm hearted Woffington h^?d given him, were a handsome pair of diamond shoe- buckles of considerable value. With these he was unwilling to part, and accordingly, when he returned her presents, the most considerable of all was missing. * She w^aited a month,' says Macklin, ' to see whether he would return them ; she then wrote him a letter delicately touching on the circumstance. To this, Garrick replied, saying, " as they were the only little memorials he had of the many happy hours which passed between them, he hoped she would permit him to keep them for her sake." Woffington saw through this, but had too much spirit to reply ; and he retained the buckles to the last hour of his life.' Garrick, according to Miss Bellamy's ' Memoirs,' * languished for a reconciliation,' but to this the Woffington would not consent. Soon after her departure from Bow Street she took up her residence at Teddington, when she sent for her sister Polly, for whose education in a French convent she had for years past generously paid. It was her intention to bring her sister forward 218 PEG WOFFIXGTOX. on the stage as an actress, and in order to test her abihties she got np a private performance of « The Distressed Mother,' the important part of Hermione being allotted to Miss Polly, and Andromache to a young lady who rejoiced in the somewhat singular names of George Anne Bellamy, of whom the world was to hear over- much for the next half century. However, it was not only her names and subsequent career which were remarkable, but also the circumstances attending her entrance on the world's stage. At the age of sweet fourteen. Miss Seal, who afterwards became the mother of George Anne Bellamy, eloped from a highly genteel boarding- school in Queen's Square with my Lord T^Taw- ley; an Irish nobleman remarkable for his gallantry, a soldier distinguished for his bravery, a man of parts remarkable for his wit. The young lady, who was captivated by his assidu- ous addresses, took up her residence with my lord at Somerset House, where she was treated ^yiih all honour and respect. These two had not dwelt within one house for quite twelvemonths, when the noble lord was ordered to join his MY LORD TYRAWLEY. 219 regiment in Ireland; it being all the more neces- Rary for him to depart, becanse his property in that country required his inspection. He there- fore tore himself away from the lady whom he loved, and whom he left in a state of distraction. Arriving in Ireland, he found his affairs in a desperate condition ; an unjust steward having taken an opportunity of enriching himself and leaving his lordship poor indeed. There was clearly but one remedy by which he could re- trieve his fallen fortunes, and that was by mar- liage. Here were all the elements of romance, ready for the strong hand of Fate to mould into tragedy or comedy at her will. His affairs being urgent, my lord looked around him for a mate possessing wealth, and selected as the object of his choice Lady Mary Stewart, daughter of the Earl of Blessington, who had a fortune of thirty thousand pounds. Though her ladyship was by no means hand- some, her figure was described as genteel and her disposition engaging. To her, therefore, the noble lord paid his devoirs, postponing to tell the lady of his heart residing at Somerset 520 PEG WOFFINGTON. House the necessity that had arisen for his marriage. Now it happened that my Lord Blessington had heard much of Miss Seal, who indeed called herself Lady Tyrawley; and, being anxions for his daughter's happiness, he wrote a vastly polite letter to the lady, ask- ing if her connection with her lover had been broken off. informing her at the same time that his motive for this inquiry was his lordship's approaching marriage with my Lady Mar3\ Whereon the lady of Somerset House fell into a most violent rage, and in her fury sent back to Earl Blessington every letter she had re- ceived from her lover, each one containing ardent protestations of eternal love and fidelity. Amongst these she, in her blind fury, enclosed one she ^had just received, the seal of which she had not even broken. In this Lord Tyrawley confessed all to her, his loss of fortune, the entanglement of his affairs, his approaching marriage with one whom, he said, he would tarry with not a day longer than was neces- sary for him to receive lier portion. Then he would immediately fly on the v/ings of love to LADY MARY STEWART. 221 her Avho alone possessed his heart. He added by way of detail that Lady Mary was ugly and foolish, but he had elected to marry her rather than a woman who was sensible and beautiful, lest these charms might wean him from the aiFection of one who was his wife in the sight of heaven. At reading this very charming and expressive letter, my Lord Blessington was flung into a state of fury bordering on mad- ness ; when he recovered, he forbade his daugh- ter ever to see the perfidious Tyrawley again. It is highly probable she would have obeyed, but that she had already privately married his lordship, who, not being quite certain as to the old earl's sentiments towards him, had at all hazards resolved in this manner to secure the lady, or rather her fortune. But even a guinea of this the earl now refused to give ; Avhereon the bridegroom demanded and obtained a separ- ation from his wife, and, returning to England, had sufficient interest to be sent at his request as minister to one of the foreign courts. In the next scene of this romance, !Miss Seal,, late of Somerset House, became an actress, and 222 PEG WOFFINGTON. weut over to Dublin, where, her connection mth Lord Tyrawley being well known, she caused some attention. Here she remained for several years. In the meantime her lover forgave her, frequently wrote to her, and pressed her to join him in Lisbon. To this she at last con- sented, and, arriving in that city, Lord Tyraw- ley, for reasons of his own, placed her in the family of a British merchant, where he occasion- ally visited her. Whilst in Lisbon she met with an English gentleman, named Bellamy ; who, struck with her charms and unacquainted with her situation, became enamoured of her, and solicited her hand. This she refused, until one day it came to her ears that my lord had an intiigue with a lady named Donna Anna, when, in a fit of jealousy, she accepted Bellamy's offer, married him, sailed with him for Ireland, and in a few months presented him, to his infinite surprise, with a daughter. So ungrateful was he that he instantly abandoned her, and never saw her again. The child, which Avas named George Anne Bellamy, being Tyrawley 's off- spring, his lordship gave instructions to have her taken care of, sent her, when of proper age, GEORGE ANNE BELLAMY. 223 to be educated in a French convent, and then handed her over to the charge of a lady of quahty. In the meanthne, Mrs. Bellamy returned to the stage, and, as she had never exhibited any talent in that line, she was soon reduced to ex- treme poverty. This condition had been con- siderably hastened by the fact that a mere boy whom she had recently married — the son of Sir George Walter — had stripped her of all the valuables she possessed, and, dressing a com- panion of his in his ^vife's finery, set off with her to join his regiment at Gibraltar. Whilst in this state, she sought an interview with her daughter, and besought her to take up her resi- dence with her; believing that, in such case. Lord Tyrawley would allow her the sum of one hundred a year, which he had stipulated to pay the lady of quality for George Anne's mainten- ance. Her daughter consented to the proposal, Avhich, however, had not the result Mrs. Bellamy expected ; for not only did he refuse her an allowance, but he wrote to England renouncing his daughter for ever. At this period of her history. Peg Woffington met ^Irs. Bellamy, whom she had formerly 224 PEG WOFFINGTON. known in the Dublin theatre, and, with that ready generosity which was always a marked trait in her character, invited the unhappy wo- man and her daughter to stay at Teddington. This offer ]\Irs. Bellamy quickly accepted, and George Anne, being much of the same age as Miss Polly Woffington, was asked to take part in the performance which was to test the his- trionic powers of that young lady. A barn was fitted up as a theatre for the occasion, which was considered by Hermione and Andromache as one of vast importance. Peg Woffington and Mrs. Bellamy played the parts of attendants, the great Garrick undertook the character of Orestes, and the barn Avas crowded by people of the first fashion and quality in the neigh- bourhood. It Avas indeed a much more event- ful performance for the two young girls who sustained the principal parts than even they imagined, for the beautiful blue eyed Bellamy gave such proofs of her power as at once indi- cated her career, whilst charming Polly Woffing- ton made a conquest of the Hon. Captain Chol- mondeley's heart, and from that hour kept it MISS POLLY WOFFINGTON. 225 through life till death. The captain was a staid man and good, who subsequently left the army to enter the church ; he was a younger son of Earl Cholmondeley, a nobleman excessively poor and proud. Walpole, in one of his pleasant epistles, tells us of a ' terrible disgrace ' which befell his lordship ' t'other night at Ranelagh. You know all the history of his letters to borrow money to pay for damask for his fine room at Richmond. As he was going in, in the crowd, a woman offered him roses — " right damask, my lord." He concluded she had been put upon it.' After a short courtship. Captain Cholmondeley offered his heart and hand to Miss Polly, who, having already stolen the one, now willingly enough accepted the other. When the old earl, whose household goods had by this time been seized for debt, heard of this intended alliance, he broke out in great wrath ; for not only was the object of his son's choice the sister of a player, but she had not a penny of fortune save whatever the actress in her generosity might allow her. He therefore posted off in great haste to see Peg Woffington, in order to break VOL. I. Q 226 PEG WOFFINGTON. off the match betAveen the young people, if possible. Peg received him graciously, and by her soft words helped to tmii away the first impetuous rush of his anger. ' They love each other, my lord,' she said, calmly, ' and I see for both a fair prospect of happiness.' ' Love and happiness, madam !' said he, as if much disgusted by the probability of such a future. ' Pshaw ! let us speak sense ; the fellow has not a penny save his pay, and this marriage will be their ruin.' ' I think, my lord,' she answered, * that honest love sometimes saves lives from wreckage.' ' But to be plain, madam,' said he, ' my son is a man of quality, and might marry a fortune.' ' AVhilst the girl he honours with his attentions is but the sister of a player,' she said. ' But, my lord, her name is spotless ; she is by education a gentlewoman, and she shall not be dowerless.' At hearing this latter piece of intelligence his lordship felt inclined to view the union with less horror. By degrees, indeed, he became so subdued under the influence of the Woffington's OLD LORD CHOLMONDELEY, 227 good sense and powers of fascination, that before he left he declared himself satisfied Avith the marriage he had come to break off. As he stood np to take his departure, he begged that dear Mrs. Woffington would forgive his being previously offended with his son's conduct. * Previously offended !' repeated she. ' It is I who have cause for offence, my lord.' ' Why, dear madam, how can that be?' asked he, in great amazement. ' Because,' said Peggy, speaking with empha- sis, ' I had but one beggar to support, and now I shall have two ;' and she curtesyed, to show the inter^-iew was at an end. The marriage took place in 1746, and Mrs. Cholmondeley became ' a bright and airy' matron, living on terms of friendship with Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith, and the celebrities of her age. The Woffington lived to see four children born to her sister, two of whom subsequently married into the noble houses of Townshend and Bellingham. Now, in the same year that saw Mrs. Chol- mondeley a bride, there arrived in town a young q2 228 PEG WOFFINGTON. lady, fair to look upon, who in a little while filled that place in Garrick's life which he had once promised Peg WoflSngton she should occupy. This lady was the daughter of a respectable inhabitant of Vienna, and had been baptised Eva Maria Veigel. Destined to become a dancer by profession, she was received as a pupil by M. Hilferding, the celebrated maitre de ballet, who, with others whom he taught, introduced her to the Court, in order to form a class for the royal children. Her grace and beauty attracted the attention of the Empress Maria Theresa, who desired she should change her name from Yeigel (which in Vienna patois signifies Violet) to Vio- lette. The admiration of the empress for the young dancer soon becoming shared by the emperor, Frederick I., her imperial Majesty, in order to prevent unpleasant consequences, hur- ried her off to London, furnishing her at the same time Avith favourable recommendations to English ladies of the first importance, amongst Avhom were the sister Countesses of Burlington and Talbot. Both of these ladies received Mademoiselle Violette — who, it may be re- MADEMOISELLE VIOLETTE. 229 marked, arrived in the becoming costume of a page — with open arms, exerting, as AValpole says, ' their stores of sullen partiality and com- petition for her.' My Lady Burlington had her portrait painted, and carried her to the houses of her friends, whilst my Lady Talbot intro- duced her to Frederick Prince of Wales, the doors of whose court were ever open to singers, fiddlers, and dancers. Now, His Royal Highness w^as pohtely supposed to be at once judge and patron of all the arts, and his opinions were always listened to, and his suggestions followed with that attention due to a princely connoisseur. It was an anxious moment, therefore, for the sister countesses when he pronounced judgment on the Violette. To their delight, he praised her in rapturous terms ; but, in order that her movements might acquire a greater grace, he suggested that she should take lessons from his favourite, Denoyer, a French gentleman of rare talent, who, to his various professions of dancing- master, fiddler, and spy, added the more useful occupation of man midwife. This advice the Violette, being no courtier, neglected to follow, 230 PEG WOFFINGTOK. whereby she lost the favour and patronage of this remarkable prince. With such support as that of the charming countesses, it was the easiest thing possible for her to get an engagement as dancer at the Opera House ; all the more so as it was at this time governed by a company of lords and men of quality, headed by my Lord Middlesex, who devoted their elegant leisure to diverting the town in this way, to the ruination of their fortunes. Accordingly she made her debut in October, 174G ; on which occasion George II. was induced to lend his august presence, as likewise that of his fair, fat, German mistress, Madame Walmoden. The fashionable part of the town was thrown into a state of vast excite- ment over the first appearance of this dancer, who had brought with her the commendations of an empress. The Opera House was crowded by a most brilhant company ; and there, at the wings, was my Lady Burlington, ready to hold the Violette's pelisse whilst she was on, and wrap it round her when she came off the stage. Then when the Violette danced, it was declared THE VTOLETTE\S DEBUT. 231 that never liacl there been witnessed such a luiion of grace and beauty. The whole house rose in its enthusiasm, and applauded again and again until the charming danseuse came for- ward, the bright colour dying her olive cheek, her dark eyes glistening with excitement, and bowed her thanks repeatedly. In the Went- worth correspondence, my Lord Strafford thought it worth mentioning that the Yiolette ' surprised her audience at her first appearance upon the stage ; for at her beginning to caper, she showed a neat pair of black velvet breeches, with rolled stockings ; but finding they were unusual in England, she changes them the next time for a pair of white drawers.' But, if she lost the patronage of Frederick, Prince of Wales, she gained favour in the eyes of the king, who, though ancient, was amorous, and could yet leer at a pretty woman, and stutter compliments in broken English in their ears. According to a rare and curious pamphlet entitled ' The Memoirs of St. James's,' printed by H. Carpenter in Fleet Street, about the year 1749, His Gracious Majesty conceived a most 232 PEG WOFFINGTON. violent admiration for her, ' insomuch that, not- withstanding the pressing exigency of state affairs, he could not abstain so much as one evening from viewing the delightful perform- ances of this new charmer, whose graceful personage and active accomplishments made such warm impressions on his old heart that they entirely obliterated all the affection that he had formerly conceived for the adorable AValmoden. So that at one moment the coun- tess lost all the empire over his soul that she had maintained the possession of for ever so many years. But such was the dexterity of His Majesty that, notwithstanding his hasty temper and choleric disposition, he found means to keep his new passion a secret from her for some time, to prevent those domestic feuds and strifes which he must be certain it would oc- casion, as soon as ever she should perceive the least spark of that flame which burnt so vehe- mently in his breast.' The king, therefore, employed a courtier, learned in the ways of love, to plead his cause ; ' contenting himself with the sole pleasure of enjoying a sight of THE KING LOVES HER. 233 his charmer through his perspective glass, whenever she made her appearance in pubKc ; jieither conlcl the penetrating Walmoden take the least umbrage at his constant attendance at the opera, as she had always been a great promoter of that amusement.' The Violette, however, would not listen to the pleadings of love made by the courtier on behalf of his king. Had it, she answered, been her desire to acquire w^ealth or rank at the expense of her reputation, it would have been in her power to have accepted of such long since. This was language foreign indeed to His Gracious Majesty's ears, and his disappoint- ment was great. To make matters worse, the Walmoden came to hear of the king's incon- stancy, when in a violent rage ' she flew to the king's apartments, and, meeting with him alone, upbraided him in the most bitter and oppro- brious terms with his injurious treatment of her. He, no longer able to disguise the want of his former affection for her, much provoked at her coming to the knowledge of the affair, and more vexed at the lingering disappoint- 234 l^EG WOFFINGTON. ments that had all along attended the course of his amour, was so incensed that, having no longer command over himself or his passion, nor any regard to her person or sex, he re- tm-ned her voUies of npbraidings with such smart blows as soon forced her to quit the chamber.' The Violette was, however, carefully guarded by her patronesses, and for awhile all went well at the opera house ; but she was soon destined to meet with some unpleasantness. Her refusal to take dancing lessons from Denoyer at the prince's special request was the means of bring- ing her into disgrace with that illustrious per- sonage and his butterfly court : and my Lord Middlesex, seeing in her a rival to his mistress, the famous Nardi, quarrelled with the ' most admired dancer in the world,' seized this opportunity of involving the whole menage of the opera in the altercation, dissolved the committee of noble lords and pretty gentlemen, and shut up the opera house. Great was the sensation which followed ; for my lord not only closed the opera house, but his exchequer like- THE COMPOSER GLUCK. 235 wise, and declined to pay anybody, save indeed the composer Gluck, who had highly diverted the town during the season by playing on a set of drinking glasses modulated with water. In reward for this ingenious talent Gltlck received a bad note from his lordship, whilst the principal man dancer was, by reason of his being left penniless, arrested for debt when the j)oor, fantastic fellow was mercilessly thrown into durance vile. But the Violette was not long without ano- ther engagement, and she accordingly made her appearance at Drury Lane on the 3rd of Decem- ber, 1746, when she danced between the acts in company with Signer Salomon. Now the Violette had, some months before this, sat one night in the Countess of Burlington's box, and seen Garrick act, whereon she fell in love with him. When, a little later, the actor met her at one of the drawing rooms of his fashionable friends, he had at first sight returned her love ; and from that hour Peg Wofiington was forgotten. To woo the Violette was not, however^ an easy matter ; for my Lady Burlington was not pleased 236 PEG WOFFIXGTOX. to regard liim in ihe light of a suitor with fav- ourable eyes. Garrick had not then reached the meridian of his fame ; and the countess was of opinion that other suitors more eligible with regard to fortune and position might claim the hand of her beautiful protegee. There were indeed many men of the first rank and fashion ever ready to flutter around her wherever she went, and amongst these was WiUiam, fifth Earl of Coventry, whose admiration was plain to all, though his intentions were not quite so certain to the world. Horace Walpole tells an amusing story of my lord following the Violette, who was under my Lady Burlington's arm at a fine masquerade. Seeing this, the countess pulled off her glove, and moved her wedding ring up and down her finger. ' Which,' says Walpole, ' it seems was to signify that no other terms would be accepted.' A short time after, the same writer speaks of the Yiolette and Garrick being at ' the prettiest entertainment in the world,' given by the Duchess of Richmond, which was honoured by the presence of the King, the Priucess Emily, THE DUKE OF RICHMOND'S FETE. 237 the Duke of Cumberland, and his mistress, Peggy- Banks. Two black princes, the Duke of Mo- dena, the mad Duchess of Queensbuiy (dressed in a white apron and white hood), Lady Lin- coln, Lord Holderness, ' all the Fitzes upon earth,' and everybody of fashion in town were like^vise present. The gardens at Eichmond House, Whitehall, sloped down to the Thames, on Avhich lighters were moored. On these ' a concert of water music was performed,' after which a vast number of rockets were thrown into the air ; then wheels, ranged along the rails of the terrace, were let off, and fireworks discharged from the boats which covered the river ; and finally there was the illumination of a pavilion on the top of the slope, in the bright glare of which the shore and the adjacent houses Avere seen thronged w^ith spectators. The King and the Princess Emily 'bestowed themselves upon the mob,' whilst the Duke of Cumberland, with Peggy Banks, and pretty Mrs. Pitt, who was likewise supposed to share a comer of his royally capacious heart, sang ' God Save the King,' by way of setting a good 238 PEG WOFFINGTON. example to the crowd. The observed of all observers was the Duke of Modena, a charming creatm-e, who, ' instead of wearing his wig down to his nose, to hide the humour in his face, has taken to paint his forehead white, which, how- ever, with the large quantity of red that he always wears on the rest of his face, makes him ridiculous enough/ The Duchess of Richmond had asked Garrick, whilst Lady Burlington had brought the Violette, but the countess kept such a guard upon her protegee that the lovers could do no more than sigh and ogle each other the whole night. Presently Sabbatini, one of the Duke of Modena's com-t, came up to Wal- pole, and asked who all the people were. ' And who is that V said he. ' C'est miladi Hartingdon, la belle fille du Due de Devonshire.' ' Et qui est cette autre dame V It was a distressing question ; after a little hesitation, Walpole replied, 'Mais c'est Made- moiselle Violette.' * Et comment Mademoiselle Violette ! J'ai connu une Mademoiselle Violette par example.' GARRICKS MARRIAGE. L>39 Walpole begged him to look at Miss Bishop, ii fashionable beauty. But love, who laughs at locksmiths, no doubt behaves in the same impertinent manner to countesses ; at all events, Garrick found oppor- tunities of meeting the Violette in secret, when they exchanged vows of eternal fidelity. Long years afterwards, she used to tell how the great actor once dressed himself up as an old woman in order to convey her a letter. Unable to ex- tinguish the love which had taken possession of the dancer's heart for Garrick, my Lady Bur- lington at last gave her consent to their union, and one fine morning early in June, 1749, the dancer and the actor were wedded. A marriage settlement of ten thousand pounds was made upon the bride ; my Lady Burhngton giving six thousand, and Garrick the remaining sum. It happened that in 1747, a period at which Gamck had begun to give proof of his devotion to the A'iolette, he became joint patentee with Lacy, of Drury Lane Theatre, a circumstance especially disagreeable to the AVoffington, whose engagement to Lacy obliged her to continue a 240 PEG WOFFINGTON. member of his company for the commg season. Garrick, according to Mackhn, felt Hkewise em- barrassed ; but what made the WoiEngton's ' situation more critical,' he adds, ' was the inter- ference of Mrs. Gibber, Pritchard, and CKve, particularly the latter, who, being naturally quick as well as coarse in her passion, frequently drew upon her the sarcastic rephes of Woffing- ton, who made battle with a better grace and the utmost composure of temper.' The first hour she was free, she therefore withdrew her services from Drury Lane, and went over to Co vent Garden, under Rich's man- agement, and during the first months of her engagement here won a fresh triumph by her personation of Lady Jane Grey in Rowe's tra- gedy of that name. Never, indeed, it was said, was her beautiful face, her graceful figure, seen to better advantage, whilst her pathos moved the house to tears. Not satisfied with the suc- cess she had already gained, she, whilst the theatre was closed during the summer months of 1748, crossed over to Paris, in order to take lessons from the famous Mademoiselle Dumesuil. PEG GOES TO PARIS. 241 From the clay when httle Peg "Woffington had learned French and dancing from Madame Yio- lante, she had never failed to seize on every possible opportunity of improving herself; and now, not satisfied with her position as the first actress in England, she, recognising the greater excellence of the Frenchwoman, resolved to be- come her pnpil. The Dnmesnil was at this time at the head of her profession in France. Her elocution was considered unsurpassed, her ac- tions pronoimced classical in their grace, and her manner the reflection of Nature, it being her chief study to identify herself with the character she personated. Peg Woflington studied her closely, and, on her return from Paris, played Yeturia in Thomson's 'Corio- lanus,' which the town vastly admired. Like a true artist, it was the ambition of her life to gain the public favour, and the result was that which usually attends such endeavours. In Veturia she sacrificed her beauty to the propriety of the character by painting her face with wrinkles and other imlovely signs of age ; and again she frequently accepted inferior parts in VOL. I. E 242 PEG WOFFINGTON. plays, in order to strengtlien the cast. Tate Wil- kinson bears evidence that ' she never permitted her love of pleasure and conviviality to occasion the least defect in her duty to the public as a performer. Six nights in the week has been often her appointed lot for playing without murmuring ; she was ever ready at the call of the audience, and though in the possession of all the first line of characters, 3^et she never thought it improper or a degradation of her consequence to constantly play parts which are mentioned as insults in the country if offered to a lady of consequence.' So much could not be said for other actresses of her time, who delighted in harassing the souls of their managers by the refusal of parts, as well as by convenient illnesses which were wont to attack them at their own sweet Avills. This was, indeed, a constant practice not only with Mrs. Gibber, but with Quin and Barry like- wise, who were at this time members of the Covent Garden company. At a few hours' notice they frequently sent word that they were attacked with an illness, Avhereon the tragedies SHE PROTESTS. 243 they were advertised to perform were substi- tuted for the sprightly comedies in which Peg AVoffington was always certain to draw a crowded house. Considering this treatment un- just, the latter protested against it ; but this not liaving the desired effect, she threatened that, if it occurred again, she would likewise be seized by a convenient illness. Soon after it happened that Mrs. Gibber was announced to play Jane Shore, but almost at the last moment she declared herself too indisposed to act, and Peg Woffington was instead announced to perform Sir Harry Wildair; but just as the doors of the playhouse were opened, she de- spatched a message to the manager that she also had suddenly been taken ill, and would be unable to play that evening. Therefore the only thing which could be done was to sub- stitute another comedy. This the remain- ing members of the company performed so badly that the audience became incensed to a degree, and resolved to punish the offend- ing absentees in general for their capricious conduct, and Peg Woffington in particular Ii2 244 PEG WOFFIXGTOX. for having disappointed tliem on this special occasion. Accordingly, when, a couple of nights later, she appeared as Lady Jane Grey, for the first time in her life she was received with a storm of disapprobation. She stood still a mo- ment speechless from surprise, when the audi- ence bade her ask pardon. * Whoever saw her tliat night,' says Tate Wilkinson, who tells the story in his interest- ing memoirs, ' will own they never beheld any figure half so beautiful since. Her anger gave a glow to her complexion^ and even added lustre to her cliarming eyes. She behaved with great resolution, and treated their rudeness with glorious contempt. She left the stage, was called for, and with infinite persuasion was prevailed upon to return. However, she did, walked forward, and told them she was then ready and willing to perform her character, if they chose to permit her ; that the decision was theirs, on or off, just as they pleased — it was a matter of indifference to her. The ons had it, and all went smoothly afterwards.' She, however, attributed the origin of the ENGAGED BY SHERIDAN. 245 storm to the contrivance cf the manager, who took this means of frightening her against being ill at an inopportune moment. She therefore resented it as an insult, and refused to engage herself to him at the end of the season. The only other theatre opened to her in London was Drury Lane, and, Gamck being manager of this, she was reluctant to serve under his generalship. At this crisis, she turned her thoughts to the playhouses of her native city, crossed the Channel, and was engaged by Tom Sheridan, father of the famous dramatist, for the season of 1751, at a salary of four hundred pounds. 2^6 CHAPTER JX. Thomas Sheridan, the Manager — Letter to Garrick— Be- comes a Manager — Conditions of the Playhouse — A Theatrical Riot and its Result — Dublin before the Union — Lionel, Duke of Dorset, at the Castle — Diversions of the Town — High Life and Low — INIrs. Butler, JMiss Bellamy, and David Garrick — A Strange Love Letter — Mrs. Butler's Present. TuOMAS Sheridan, the manager of the Dubhii theatres, with whom Peg Woffington now en- gaged, was a man whose name is intimately connected with the history of the Irish stage. He was son of the Rev. Dr. Sheridan and godson of poor Dean Swift of witty memory. He had been educated at Westminster School, and had grad- uated at Trinity College, Dublin, where he was yet reading for a fellowship when David Ganick paid his first visit to the Irish capital. Seeing the great actor perform, Sheridan was seized SHEPdDAN BECOMES AN ACTOR. 247 by stage fever, aucl, abandoning all idea of becoming a fellow, he, to the intense disgust and indignation of his friends, left college and became a player. His appearance on the boards of Smock Alley Theatre on the 29th of January, 1743, in the character of Richard HI., caused considerable sensation in the town. He was in the twenty-third year of his age ; his appear- ance was handsome, his voice melloAv and ex- pressive, and his debitt was a decided success. He next played Othello, Hamlet, Cato and Brutus, and his acting gained so rapidly on the town that he became the rage ; his name was on all men's lips. ' So great,' says Davis, ' was his influence over the Dublin audience that Quin, who arrived in that city during the first warm glow of Mr. Slieridan's prosperity, with an intention to act a number of characters, and put a handsome sum of money in his pocket (a custom which he had often practised), was obhged to quit the metropolis with disgust, if not in disgrace. He was told by the proprietors that all the acting days during the remainder of the winter were engaged to the new actor.' 248 PEG WOFFINGTON. His fame rapidly spread across the Channel, and Garrick wrote to him suggesting that he might share the honours of London town with him. Sheridan's interesting reply to this is preserved in the Garrick correspondence, dated April, 1 743. He commences by apologising for not haviuo; answered Garrick's obliging letter with greater speed, more than a fortnight hav- ing passed since he had received it, but during that time he had had three new characters to study as well as to play, Othello being one of them. He thanks him for his invitation to pass the summer with him at Walton, an enjoyment which the posture of his affairs will not permit. However, it is not improbable but that he may see London about the middle of May, as he intends to take a jaunt of pleasure there if all goes well. Then he continues : ' I have not as yet fixed any scheme for the next winter, but I have been offered such advantageous terms as will, I believe, detain me here till January at least. As to your proposal of our playing together, I am afraid I have too many power- ful reasons against it ; a well cut pebble may SHERIDAN AND GARRICK. 249 pass for a diamond till a fine brilliant is placed near it, and puts it ont of countenance. (A hold metaphor that ; or, as Bayes says, " Egad, that's one of my bold strokes.") Besides, we should clash so much in regard to characters that I am afraid it is impossible we can be in the same house. Richard, Hamlet, and Lear, as they are your favourite characters, are mine also ; and though you were so condescending to say I might appear in any part of yours, yet I cjues- tion whether the town would bear to see a worse performer in one of your characters in the same house with you, though they might endure him in another.' He has, however, a scheme to pro- pose to Garrick, which at first view may seem a little extraordinary, but which, if rightly con- sidered, might turn to the advantage of both ; which is, that Garrick might be brought to divide his immortality with him, when, like Castor and Pollux, they might always appear in different hemispheres, or in plain Enghsh, they might divide the kingdoms between them, one playing one winter in Dublin and another in London : when they would be always new in 250 PEG WOFFINGTON. both kingdoms, and consequently the more followed. ' Bnt more of this,' he concludes, * when I have the pleasure of meeting- you. Pray remember my best respects to Mrs. Wof- fington. I should own myself unpardonable, in not having wrote to her, were it in my power ; but I have been already sufficiently punished at the loss of so agTeeable a correspondent, for, I assure you, I have a long time envied her pretty Chronon that pleasure : as soon as I have a mo- ment to spare, I intend to do myself the honour to write to her.' Sheridan in a short time quarrelled with the manager of Smock Alley, when he went over to the opposition playhouse in Aungier Street, and back again to the theatre in which he made his first appearance. Dissatisfied with the condition of things here, he crossed the Channel, and in March, 1744, played at Co vent Garden in oppo- sition to Garrick, to which theatre he succeeded in drawing great audiences. But two play- houses in Dublin could not find sufficient sup- port ; the proprietors therefore for once in a way acted wisely in agreeing that the one company CUSTOMS OF THE THEATRE. 251 slioiilcl play alternately at each lioiise, ancly moreover, invited Sheridan to return, and take the full management. This he accepted, and came back to Dublin within the same year as he had quitted it. Now, at this period, the Dublin theatres had been fast hastening to ruin from bad manage- ment, the wretched acting of stock companies, and certain liberties allowed a portion of the audiences. Amongst the latter it was the habit of the imdergraduates from the college to visit the theatre for the mid-day rehearsal, crowding the stage to such an extent that the players Avere surrounded by a circle of those precocious youths, who made audible comments not always of the most complimentary order, and cracked jests of the freest character. At night these ' college boyvS,' as they were called, to- gether with the young men of quality about town, thronged behind the scenes, or crowded the green room, where they diverted them- selves according to their desires ; flocking on to the stage Avhen the curtain went up, where they lounged at the entrances, crossed before the 252 PEG WOFFINGTON. footlights, and exchanged civihties or the reverse with the pit and boxes at their own sweet wills during the performance. These abnses Sheridan was determined to abolish ; but time honoured customs that admitted such pleasant liberties were not to be removed in a daj, and for three years he struggled against them with but slight success. At last a circumstance occurred, which though at first fraught with discord and danger, resulted in gaining him the assistance of the town in preserving order and decency in his theatre. It happened one night in January, 1747, whilst the comedy of '^Esop' was being perform- ed, a young man of quality named Kelly, entered the theatre. This pretty fellow was much inflamed with wine, and was therefore in 57 Sheridan was therefore requested to open the theatre, when he was assured he would receive powerful protection. He accordingly in a short time announced the performance of 'Richard III./ his favourite character. No sooner were the doors of the theatre opened, than the house was filled by Sheridan's friends, to the vast surprise of the rioters, who arrived late, and in comparative- ly small numbers. They, however, considered themselves sufficient to create a disturbance ; and when Sheridan appeared, they set up a cry of • Submission, submission, submission, off, off, off," which was answered by a counter cry of ' Xo submission ; on with the play.' At this, a citizen of fair renown, named Charles Lucas, stood up in the pit, and claimed a hearing. Every person in the house, he said, came to receive the entertaiament promised in the bill, for which he paid liis money. The actors were therefore the servants of the audience, and under their protection during the performance ; and he Avas of opinion that every insult or inter- ruption given them in the discharge of their duty was offered to the public. In conclusion, VOL. I. S 258 PEG WOFFINGTON. he "wonld ask those who were in favour of the decency and freedom of the stage to hold up their hands, from which sign it might be learned if the play was to proceed or not. Amidst shouts of applause, more than two thirds of those present held^ up their hands, at which the rioters left the house, and the play ended peace- fully. But the Kellyites were not yet suppress- ed ; their threats of vengeance continued ; they were determined to ruin the manager. By way of indicating the spirit which animated them, they set upon Charles Lucas two nights after his speech, and beat him severely whilst he was peaceably walking through Sackville Street. Next day he had an advertisement printed and distributed all over the town, offering a reward <3f five pounds for the arrest of a number of dis- orderly persons, in the garb of gentlemen, who had assaulted him in a cowardly manner. Sheridan, seeing the rioters were yet bent upon injuring him, closed the theatre again, and it was not for some weeks later that he once more ventured to open it, when ' The Fair Penitent ' was announced to be performed for SHERWAX IS ORDERED OFF. 259 the benefit of the Hospital for Incurables. The governors of this institute, who were all persons <:»f consequence, assured the manager they would take it on themselves to defend him from danger or insult, and several ladies of quality promised their presence on the occasion. AY hen the night came, a brilliant house assembled ; the governors of the hospital were all present, carrying white wands ; ladies of the first fashion filled the boxes, and over a hundred of them had to be accommodated with seats on the stage. It was, however, noticed that about thirty young men had taken possession of the middle part of the first three benches in the pit. When the curtain rose, Sheridan was in due state ushered on the stage by some of the governors, when he came forward to speak a prologue. No sooner, however, had he appeared tlian the thu'ty men in front, who it was now seen were all armed, rose up in a body and authoritatively ordered him ofi*. The manager bowed to the house and withdrew, when a violent argument between these men and the governors ensued. Amongst the latter was a student from the col- s 2 260 PEG WOFFINGTON. lege in his bachelor's gown, who spoke with great warmth in Sheridan's defence, in return for which one of the rioters struck him with an apple, and called him a scoundrel. At this in- sult offered to one of their body, several of the undergraduates who were present flew like feathered Mercury to the college, and in a short time returned with a number of their fellow- students, all armed. Meanwhile the rioters, seeing the ' college boys ' had rushed from the house, guessed their errand, and quickly left the pit. The undergraduates were therefore disapj^ointed of their prey, but, their blood being up, they were not easily pacified. They had during this disturbance remained neutral, but now the}^ were glad to take this oppor- tunity of one of their body being insulted to espouse the cause of a man who had left old Trinity to become a player. The}?- had therefore a double incentive in punishing the rioters. Not finding them at the theatre, they searched every club, coffee house, and tavern in the town, but in vain. They then re- turned to the college, baffled for the present, A COUXCIL OF WAR. 281 but more determined ou vengeance than ever, and held a council of war, which lasted all night. Next morning, when the gates were opened, out they flocked to a man, armed and ready for combat, and, separating into various bodies, went in search of the rioters at their divers residences. They were informed that the man who had fired the apple had but just come up from the country ; but not being aware of his abode, they were compelled to inquire at lodging houses and hotels for him, and it was not until eleven o'clock that he was led a captive inside the college gates. The city was meanwhile in a tumult of excitement ; the guardians of the peace seldom interfered Avith the students ; the shop keepers, fearing a general riot, had not opened their doors; business was suspended; and many of the rioters, conscious of the search which was being made for them, rushed in fear of their lives to the Court of Chancery, where the Chan- cellor was sitting, and besought his protection. Having secured the principal offender, a great number of the undergraduates next sallied forth to look for a young officer, a gay jack-a-dandy, 262 PEG WOFFINGTON. who had hkewise made himself specially offen- sive. It was known that he lived in his father's house in Capel Street, which was found by the students barricaded and guarded. These ob- stacles but made tliem more desperate, and afforded them a pleasant, though dangerous incentive to their efforts. A raid was promptly made, a skilful breach effected, the offender seized, placed in a hackney coach, and, amidst loud huzzas, hurried within the walls of Trinity. Then came the punishments. The first offen- der was compelled to travel on his bare knees round all the courts of the college, and to repeat a form of humble apology prepared the previous night ; the second offender was, by reason of his holding the king's commission, allowed to read the apology standing. Both were glad to escape with a chastisement which, if humiliating, at least mercifully left them whole bones. The theatre was now ordered by the Lords Justices to be closed, and the next scene of this eventful drama was laid in court ; Sheridan having taken an action against Kelly for assault, and damages done to the theatrical wardrobe ; SHERIDAN PROSECUTES. 263 the manager in return being indicted for assault and battery. Sheridan Avas tried first, but so clearly and satisfactorily was it proved he had been incited to a breach of the peace, that the jury, without leaving their box, acquitted him. Then came Kelly's turn. The first wit- ness called was the prosecutor. The chief counsel for the defence rose up with that air of dignity becoming one learned in the law, and said he vastly desired to see a curiosity. He had seen a gentleman soldier, likewise a gentleman tailor (laughter in court), but he had never yet seen a gentleman actor (great laughter). On which Sheridan turned to him calmly, and said, ' Sir, you see one now.' An answer which was received with such prodigious applause that it dawned on the learned gentle- man he had made a mistake. Justice Ward tried the case, which ended by Kelly being sentenced to three months' imprisonment and fined five hundred pounds. This imdreamt of result fell hke a thunderbolt on Kelly. At the commencement of the suit it was rumoured that a subscription would be made to defray 264 PEG WOFFINGTON. his law expenses, but in the hour of trial his friends deserted him, and left him to meet his fate alone. A week's impiisonment seemed to have the wholesome effect of bringing him to his senses, for at the expiration of that period he, with words of sorrow and humility, applied to Sheridan that he might petition the court in favour of lightening his sentence, which this man, whom he had called a scoundrel, accord- ingly did, with such good effect that the fine was remitted, and, Sheridan further pledging himself as bail for the prisoner's future good conduct, that young gentleman was restored to liberty once more. Dublin in the days before the Union was the gay capital of a prosperous nation, and boasted of a society at once cultured, fashion- able, and brilliant. A native parliament sat in College Green ; Irish peers and commons of note dwelt in the city; and the lord lieuten- ant, then surrounded by regal pomp and cir- cumstances of state, held court at the castle. Irish society, smaller in its circle than that which revolved round the Court of St. James's, DUBLIN IX THE LAST CEXTURY. 265 was not less brilliant ; the beauty of its Avomen was proverbial, the sprightliness of its men char- acteristic. By nature a pleasure loving people, their clays and nights were chiefly devoted to the piu'suit of amusement : and the diaries and memoirs of those who formed part of the gay and goodly crowd that held revelry in the middle of the last century in the Irish capital, present us with a series of vivacious and in- teresting pictures. The chief and most fashionable promenade in the city was St. Stephen's Green, which was to the residents of the Irish capital what the Mall was to Londoners. Situated in the centre of the town, it was planted with trees, and boasted broad and shady walks, Avhere ladies of quality and men of fashion disported them- selves in the mornings. Having taken the air here, they visited and went to dinner betimes. Then in fair weather they drove in great coaches or rode on horseback to the Phoenix Park, a piece of ground which, with its delight- ful wood and turfy ground, rivalled St. James's or Hyde Park. Moreover, it commanded an 266 PEG WOFFINGTON. agreeable prospect of the Dublin mountains, from which healthful breezes blew. In the midst of the wood, in view of the column sur- mounted by the fabulous bird which gives its name to the park, the gift of Lord Chesterfield, a circular shaped space was cleared, where society met and talked of routs and ridotti, plays and concerts, its neighbours' shortcomings, and all the delightful scandal of the town. The polite Lord Chesterfield, just mentioned, during his reign as lord lieutenant, a few years before the Woffington's second visit to her native city, had left behind him reminis- cences of costly splendour that equalled, if not eclipsed, the glory of St. James's. He had added to the Castle a new room, which was allowed to be the most magnificent in the three kingdoms. Li this he held balls, to which the nobility of the land were bidden, where, when dancing was over, says Victor, quaint- ly enough, *the company retired to an apart- ment, to a cold supper, with all kinds of the best wines and sweetmeats. The whole apart- ment was most elegantly disposed and orna- MY LOUD CHESTEBFIELD'S REIGN. 267 mented ^vitli transparent paintings, throngb which was cast a shade hke mconhght ; Antes and other soft instruments playing all the while, but, like the candles, nnseen. iVt each end of the building, through which the company passed, were placed fountains of lavender water that diffused a most grateful odour through this fairy scene, which surpassed everything of the kind in Spencer, as it proved not only a fine feast for the imagination, but after the dream, for our sensualities by the excellent substantials at the sideboard.' The luxuiious earl had been succeeded for a brief while by my Lord Harrington, who in turn gave place to Lionel, Duke of Dorset ; his grace arri^dng in Ireland towards the autumn of 1751, in the same month as Peg Woffington made her appearance at Smock Alley playhouse. The sharp tongued Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, who seldom indeed had a good word to say of anyone, writes in a charmingly characteristic manner of his grace. ' Such a wretch as he is I hardly know,' says the eccentric duchess, * and his wife — whose j)assion is only for money 268 PEG WOFFINGTON. — assists liim in his odious affair with Lady Betty Jermyii, who has a great deal to dispose of.' Wretch or no wretch, he Avas, for a time at least, popular in the Irish capital ; and ex- ceeding great was the throng of courtiers that flocked to the Castle drawing rooms during his reign. Mrs. Delany, in one of her letters, pleasantly gossips of going to the Vice-regal Court one birthday in her coach, whilst a friend of hers, whom she styles ]\Iadame, Avent thither in her sedan, ' with her three footmen in saxon- grecn, with orange coloured cockades/ march- ing in step before her. ' Can you tell why she desired me to go with her? asks Mrs. Delany, giving way to a bit of feminine pique. ' I can. She was superb in brown and gold and dia- monds ; I was clad in purple and white silk I bought when last year in England ; and my littleness set off her greatness.' After half-an- hour's stoppage on the way, caused by the vast number of coaches and chairs blocking the thoroughfares leading courtwards, this blaze of colour reached the Castle, and took its w^ay to the draAving room, where the duke and duchess A CASTLE DRAWING-ROOM. 269 came, ' half-an-hoiir after one, very graceful and princeh'. The duchess had a blue padnasoy, embroidered very richly with gold ; and there was a great deal of handsome finery.' Presently a band and choir, under the direction of Du- bourg, gave a birthday song in honour of royalty, Avhich was vastly admired ; and in the evening a ball was held in the old beef eaters hall, an apartment capable of holding seven hundred persons. The crowd assembled on this occasion was so prodigious that the ladies were seated on an amphitheatre at one end of the room in rows one above another, so that the last row almost touched the ceiling, presenting an appearance which reminded some of the gentlemen of ^ a Cupid's paradise in a puppet show.' In this vast room, with its blaze of lights and shining floor, women with narrow waists, bare breasts, and far extending hoops, danced stately minuets with men in powdered wigs, velvet coats, and high heeled shoes ; courtesying, undulating, ad- vancing, and retreating with slow pace and a world of grace to the measured music discoursed 270 PEG WOFFINGTON. by Frencli horns. In an apartment at the end of a suite sat the Duchess of Dorset, playing basset with some dowagers whose dancing days were over, whilst in the rooms adjoining were (juadrille parties, where those w^ho had danced might saunter up and down and look on at the games. Finally, the Duke and Duchess, who had been vastly obliging all the evening, led the way to supper, which was laid in the council chamber. ' In the midst of this apartment was placed a holly tree, illuminated by a hundred wax tapers ; round it was placed all sorts of meat, fruit, and sweetmeats ; servants waited and were encompassed round by a table to Avhich the company came by tm-ns to take what they wanted. When the doors were first opened, the hurly burly is not to be described ; squall- ing, shrieking, all sorts of noises ; some ladies lost their lappets, others were trod upon, and poor Lady Santry almost lost her breath in the scuffle, and fanned herself two hours before she could recover herself enough to know if she was dead or alive.' But it was not only at the castle that great A GAY CAPITAL. 271 receptions were held and lively balls given. The stately and magnificent mansions of the nobility, faced with sparkling granite native to the Wicklow hills, and adorned by the genius of foreign artists, which retain traces of their beauty to the present day, though converted into schools or let in tenements, were in those times the scenes of constant revelry. i\Iy Lord Gran- dison delighted in assembling the wit and beauty of the capital round a board heavy from the weight of golden candelabra and services of silver. Lord Mountjoy gave balls that were the talk of the city ; his lordship was a gay man, though not a brave, for when he quar- relled with old Norse the gambler, my lord re- fused to fight him, whereon the man who loved cards, by way of having revenge in a fashion truly Hibernian, went home and cut his own throat — a fact that by no means prevented Lord Mountjoy from diverting himself as usual. Then Lady Doneraile had famous quadrille- parties at her handsome mansion in Dawson Street ; my Lord Strangford and his lady gave delightful concerts ; and Bishop Clayton's wife, 272 PEG WOFFINGTON. Avho loved this world well, opened the doors of her big mansion, with a front like Devonshire House, situated in Stephen's Green, every Wed- nesday for the reception of her friends, who passed through a great hall filled with servants in showy liveries. The reception room was ' wainscoted with oak, the panels all carved, and the doors and chimney finished with a very fine high carving, the ceiling stucco, the Avindow- curtains and chairs yellow Genoa damask, por- traits and landscapes very well done round the room, marble tables between the windoAvs, and looldng glasses with gilt frames, besides virtu and busts that his lordship brought from Italy, the floor being covered with the finest Persian carpet that ever was seen.' The bishop did not love the things of earth less than his buxom spouse, and ' kept a very handsome table, six dishes of meat being con- stantly at dinner, and six plates at supper.' The clergy, indeed, took no ordinary share in entertaining the town, an excellent example being set them by the primate, whose choice dinners and cosy suppers were luxuries long to HOW STONE BECAME PRIMATE. 273 be remembered. This right reverend and easy- going man's vocation for the church had been decided, not so much by divine inspiration as by a game of dice. The story is told in one of Dean Swift's letters, given in Nichol's ' Literary illustrations.' When the Duke of Dorset, who had been lord lieutenant about sixteen years previous to his appointment to that office in 1751, was quitting Ireland, he had but two pre- ferments to bestow, a cornetcy and a church living, value two hundred a year. For the for- mer two of the duke's friends, Lushington and Stone, anxiously contended, and, not being able to settle the matter amicably between them, it was agreed that dice should decide which would become a pastor of souls, and which a gay and gallant soldier. Lushington won the game, and entered the army, whilst Stone went into the Church. Being a very ingenious man, he quickly rose in his profession to be Bishop of Deny and subsequently Archbishop of Armagh and Primate. Once when this worthy man was about to give a dinner, in honour of the birth- day of his friend and patron, the Duke of Dor- VOL. I. T 274 PEG WOFFIXGTON. set, he ordered a Perigord pie for the occasion, with directions to have this dehcacy directed to a merchant of his acquaintance. The pie arrived in the absence of the merchant, Avhose ■wife, supposing it to be a present from one of her husband's friends abroad, sent out and in- vited some of her neiglibours to sup with her at an early date. But on the very day when these good people Avere to regale themselves, the primate's maitre d'hotel, who had hitherto in- quired in vain for the lost pie, hearing of the good lady's hospitable intentions, swooped down on her, and carried it away. 'I own,' writes Mrs. Delany, who tells the story, ' I am sorry they did not eat it ; such ex- pensive rarities do not become the table of a prelate, who ought not to ape the fantastical luxuriances of fashionable tables.' This charm- ing correspondent likewise speaks of the dinners of the Bishop of Elphin, whose daughter ' was brought up like a princess,' The bishop ' lives well,' she writes, ' but high living is too much the fashion here. You are not invited to dinner to any private gentleman of a thousand a year THE CITY IS MUSICAL. • 275 •or less, that does not give you seven dishes at one course, and Burgundy and Champagne ; and these dinners they give once or twice a Aveek.' A taste for painting and music likewise obtain- ed, and was highly encouraged ; for the former by the exhibitions at the Royal Academy in Shaw's Court, Dame Street, for the latter by the performances of oratorios constantly sung at St. Patrick's cathedral, and concerts which were al- Avays attended by vast crowds. An excellent en- tertainment was given every Wednesday during the season by a musical society, the members of which were all men of quality, some of whom played prodigiously Avell, notably Mr. Brownlow, M.P., a fine executor on the harpsichord, and Captain Reade, who performed on the German flute to great perfection. At the Philharmonic Room in Fishamble Street, concerts were almost nightly given, the place ' being illuminated with wax and the whole conducted in the genteelest manner.' Likewise at the Great Music Room in Crow Street there was a weekly concert given, * the instrumental parts by Messrs. j\larella, Lee, T 2 276 PEG WOFFINGTON. Storace, De Boeck, and others; the vocal by Mr. SnlHvan. To begin exactly at seven o'clock and continue nntil nine each night, after which there will be a ridotto, mth tea, coffee, chocolate, jellies, cards, and all sorts of liquids of the best kind at the usual prices, and suppers by giving notice the day before.' By way of adding to the diversion of the town, subscription balls were got up by the beaux, headed by Lord Belfreld, and were occa- sionally held in one of the theatres, converted for the time being into a ball roora. One of these which was given whilst the Woffington was in Dublin, cost seven hundred pounds. The theatre in which it took place was dressed to represent a wood, space being left in the middle for thirty couple to dance. At one end was a portico of Doric pillars, lighted by green wax candles, arranged in baskets of flowers; then there was a Gothic temple in which refreshments were served, and a jasmine bower where lovers whispered, and a grotto with rustic arches, where the musicians, dressed as shepherds and shepherdesses, discoursed sweet sounds. The A GREAT BALL. Ill trees which hnecl the walls were the veritable growth of nature, aclornecl by art in the shape of cotton leaves. The Duke and Duchess of Dorset were present, as were all the members of the polite world which the city numbered ; and enjoyed themselves vastly, dancing being kept up long after daylight did appear. One of the most inveterate dancers of the night was a certain Captain Folliat, ' a man of six feet odd inches high, black, awkward, roaring, ramping.' His gaunt figure was seen continually m every dance. ' 1 thought,' says a partner of his whom he most affected on this occasion, ' he would ]iave shook my arms off, and crushed my toes to atoms ; every moment he did some blundering thing, and as often asked " my ladyship's par- don." I was pitied by the whole company ; at last I resolved to dispatch him with dancing, since he was not worth my conquest any other way ; I called a council about it, having some scruples of conscience, and fearing he might appear and haunt me after his death staggered my resolutions — but Avhen it was made plain to me that I should do the world a great piece of 278 PEG WOFFINGTON. service by dispatching him, it solved all nij scruples, and I had no more qualms about it. In the midst of liis furious dancing, when he was throwing his arms about him most outrageously, (just like a card scaramouch on a stick), snap went something, that we all thought had been the main bone of his leg, but it proved only a bone of his toe. Notwithstanding this he fought upon his stumps, and would not spare me one dance.' Besides these social amusements, there were great reviews held frequently in the park, where the troops, to quote from the Dublin Journal^ *went through their different evolutions and firings with the greatest exactness, to the satis- faction of the duke and the general officers.' These reviews were attended by all the fashion- able world. Her Grace of Dorset at its head in a yellow coach and six horses, very fine to see. Then the citizens frequented the public gardens every night, they being open to all; where, says Benjamin Victor, in writing to the Coun- tess of Orrery, ' great regularity and decency is unaccountably preserved, and of course unusual THE PUBLIC GARDENS. 279 dulness is the consequence. If no valiant cap- tain will knock doAvn a lady, nor any lady cock her pistol at her perfidious man (both these shocking events happened lately in the public gardens), we must remain in this stupid state of tranquillity.' At Marlborough Green there were bi-weekly entertainments made up of dancing, fiddling, and singing by Miss Eachel Baptist, an African lady who wore a wreath of roses, and clad her sable person in orange silk. So multiform, indeed, were its attractions that the green was usually attended by vast crowds. So far as cleanliness morally and physically went, Dublin was much in the same condition as the sister capital. An advertisement in Faulkner s Journal, October 2nd, 1751, informs the inhabitants of the city ' they are requested by the Lord Mayor to sweep the dirt before their houses, tAvice every week, into the Chan- nel, for the speedier removal of the same by the scavengers, otherwise they w^ill be fined.' The same journal says, ' Street and house rob- beries are now become so common in this city that it is dangerous to be out late on evenings ; 280 PEG WOFFINGTON. and hats, capucliins, books, etc., are frequently >stolen from churches and other places of worship in the time of divine service.' This statement is verified by the oftentimes quaint reports in the daily papers; a few of which will serve to illustrate the general condition of the town. * Last Thursday,' says Faulkner s Journal, Oc- tober 15th, 1751, 'a young gentleman was attacked by a single highwayman near Harold's Cross, who robbed him of his gold watch, twenty guineas, three crowns, and a shilling. He rode a bay gelding about fourteen hands and a half high, was dressed in a white fustian frock, a scarlet waistcoat, and a silver laced hat, and appeared by his looks to be about thirty years of age.' Here is another. ' Last Sunday night a gentleman was attacked in Mary's Lane by two fellows with an intent to rob him ; he seized one of them and threw him into a cellar, but the other knocked him down ; he soon recovered himself, and boldly attacked them again, upon which they made off, but he still pursued, and took one of them, and called a watchman who was only a sliort distance from him, but would CONDITION OF THE TOWN. 281 not come to his assistance ; the gentleman was obliged to let the villain go on some ruffians coming up. He lost his watch and buttons, but the next morning found them in some mud Avhere he had been knocked down. The same day a woman, genteely dressed, was detected for picking the pocket of a gentlewoman in Liffey Street, out of which she had taken fifteen shillings, and, upon searching her, half- a-crown was found in her shoe, and half a pistol in a snuff box — the rest she lost in the hurry. The populace dragged her to the quay, tied a ship's rope round her, and ducked her severely.' A few days later we read that ' some rogues attempted to rob the house of Mr. Pres- ton in Little Butter Lane, but, by the courage of his daughter, were prevented from accom- plishing their design, who, on hearing a noise, got out of bed, charged two pistols, opened the parlour window, and fired amongst them, upon which they made off; she then charged again, Avent upstairs and looked out of the window, in order to give them another salute if they thought it proper to have paid a second visit.' 282 PEG WOFFINGTON. A paragraph, which throws a somewhat curious hght on the punishment of criminals, says, 'The woman whom the watch discharged the other night, and w^ho was principal in stealing a great quantity of plate^ is the very notorious pickpocket who goes into public assemblies in fine cloathes, the better to perpetrate her wick- edness, and who was some time ago con^-icted of picking pockets, and sentenced to be whipt at the cart's tail ; but the hangman did not think fit to execute the sentence, so she only walked after the cart in a sort of triumph to College Green, where she was put into a landau, though two poor devils were almost whipt to death the same week, not having stolen money enough to bribe the hangman or some other officer.' It was not only money and goods, however, which were stolen in those da^^s, but human beings. * Last week,' says the Dublin Journal, August, 1751, 'a man near Aungier Street de- sired two little girls to go along with him on pretence of seeing his wife whom they knew, and to bring their caps with them, which they CHILD STEALIXG. 285 did ; but tlieir mothers getting intelligence which way they had gone, pursued and luckily came up with them on George's Quay, and brought them back. 'Tis imagined the villain intended to put them on board a kid-ship, to send them to the plantations in America.' A month later a ' fellow was taken up in Back Lane for running away with a child from a woman, and as it has not since been hoard of he was committed on suspicion of kidnapping or murdering of it.' A little while later we read in the same paper that, ' since the late strict and severe inquiry after the kidnappers, these miscreants have ceased to perpetrate their vil- lainy, at least, in so public a manner as here- tofore ; but we are told that amongst these robbers there is a prime young villain, who sometimes in the dress of a beau, and at other times like a merchant, tells the wretches he deludes that he went a few years ago from Dublin to America, a poor boy to try his fortune, and that a lady of that country soon fell in love with him ; that he married her and has now many negro slaves under him, and that all the 284 PEG WOFFINGTON. women who transport themselves, especially from Ireland, immediately get rich husbands. Besides this fine-dressed rogue, there are several in the habit of sailors, who pick up poor trades- men in the street, pretending to knoAv them; then ply them with spirituous liquors, and abun- dance of lies about the pleasures they are to enjoy in the plantations abroad, by which means they delude those unhappy victims into a miserable and dangerous voyage, where they he during the whole time promiscuously in the hold of the ship, in filth and nastiness, insulted perpetually by brutish sailors, and generally die miserably in their tedious passage.' The streets were badly lit, ill paved, ' out of repair, and in several places raised to such a height that carriages or horses cannot with safety pass over the same,' whilst the entrances to underground cellars, extending far into the side walk, without rail or other protection, were frequently the cause of severe accidents, and •occasioned deaths to those who passed that way, as we learn from the papers. Speaking of these mishaps, Faulkner s Jourmd says, ' As STURDY AND STROLLING BEGGARS 285' lives are sometimes lost, and many legs, arms, skulls, and bones of common people broken by cellars projecting too far into the streets, it is most Immbly requested by many who wish well to the publick, and are not carried in coaches or chairs, that some of our nobility, gentry, magistrates, grand and j:>leGt."— Saturday Review. WORDS OF HOPE AND COMFORT TO THOSE IN SORROW. Dedicated by Permission to The Queen. Fourth Edition. 1 vol. small 4to. 5s. "The writer of the tenderly-conceived letters in this volume was Mrs. Julius Hare, a sister of Mr. Maurice. They are instinct with the devout submissiveness and fine sympathy which we associate with the name of Maurice; but in her there is added a winningness of tact, and sometimes, too, a directness of language, which we hardly find even in the brother. The letters were privately printed and circu- lated, and were found to be the source of much comfort, which they cannot fail to afford now to a ^vide circle. A sweetly-conceived memorial poem, bearing the well-known Initials, 'E. H. P.', gives a very faithful outline of the life." — British Quar'terly Review. PLAIN SPEAKING. By Author of " John Halifax, Gentleman." 1 vol. crown 8vo. 10s. 6d. "We recommend 'Plain Speaking' to all who like amusing, wholesome, and instructive reading. The contents of Mrs. Craik's volume are of the most mulri- farious kind, but all the papers are good and readable, and one at least of them of real importance."— '. " There is artistic realism both in the conception and the delineation of the per- sonages ; the action and interest are unflaggingly sustained from first to last, and the book is pervaded by an atmosphere of elevated and earnest thought." — Scotsman. By THE BRANDRETHS. the Right Hon. A. J. B. Beresford Hope, M.F., Author of " Strictly Tied Up." "In 'The Brandreths" we have a sequel to ilr. Beresford Hope's clever novel of ' Strictly Tied Up,' and we may add that it is a decided improvement on his mailen effort Mr. Hope writes of political life and the vicissitudes of parties with the knowledge and experience of a veteran politician. The novel is one which will repay careful reading." — Times. " 'The Brandreths' has all the charm of its predecessor. The great attraction of the novel is the easy, conversational, knowledgeable tone of it ; the sketching from the life, and yet not so close to the life as to be malicious, men. women, periods, and events, to all of which intelligent readers can fit a ■aame.'''—SperMor. SOPHY: OR THE ADVENTURES OF A SAVAGE. By Violet Fane, Author of "Denzil Place," &c. •' ' Sophy ' is the clever and original work of a clever woman. Its merits are of a strikingly unusual kind. It is charged throughout with the strongest human interest. It is, in a word, a novel that will make its mark." — World. " This novel is as amusing, piquant, droll, and suggestive as it can be. It over- flows with humour, nor are there wanting touches of genuine feeling. To consider- able imaginative po^er, the writer joins keen observation." — Daily News. MY LORD AND MY LADY. By Mrs. Forrester, Author of "Viva," "Mignon," &c. " This novel will take a high place among the successes of the season, ^t is as fresh a novel as it is interesting, as attractive as it is realistically true, as full of novelty of presentment as it is of close study and observation of life." — World. " A love story of considerable interest. The novel is full of surprises, and will serve to while away a leisure hour most agreeably."— Z)ai7i/ Telegraph. HIS LITTLE MOTHER: and Other Tales. By the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman." ' This is an interesting book, written in a pleasant manner, and full of shrewd observation and kindly feeling. It is a book that will be read with interest, and that cannot be lightly forgotten." — St. James's Gazette. "The Author of 'John Halifax' always writes with grace and feeling, and never- more so than in the present volume."— J/ornwfif Post. Published annually, in One Vol., royal 8uo, with the Arms beautifully engraved, handsomely bound, with gilt edges, price 31s. 6rf. LODGERS PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE, CORRECTED BY THE NOBILITY. THE FIFTY-THIED EDITION FOR 1884 IS NOW EEADY. Lodge's Peerage and Baronetage is acknowledged to be the most complete, as well as the most elegant, work of the kind. As an esta- blished and authentic authority on all questions respecting the family histories, honours, and connections of the titled aristocracy, no work has ever stood so high. It is published under the especial patronage of Her Majesty, and is annually corrected throughout, from the personal com- munications of the Nobility. It is the only work of its class in which, the type being kept constantly standing, every correction is made in its proper place to the date of publication, an advantage which gives it supremacy over all its competitors. Independently of its full and authentic informa- tion respecting the existing Peers and Baronets of the realm, the most sedulous attention is given in its pages to the collateral branches of the various noble families, and the names of many thousand individuals are introduced, which do not appear in other records of the titled classes. For its authority, correctness, and facility of arrangement, and the beauty of its typography and binding, the work is justly entitled to the place it occupies on the tables of Her Majesty and the Nobility. LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS. Historical View of the Peerage. Parliamentary Roll of the House of Lords. English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their orders of Precedence. Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain and the United Kingdom, holding supe- rior rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage. Alphabetical list of Scotch and Irish Peers, holding superior titles in the Peerage of Great Britain and the United Kingdom. A Collective list of Peers, in their order of Precedence. Table of Precedency among Men. Table of Precedency among Women. The Queen and the Royal Family. Peers of the Blood RoyaL The Peerage, alphabetically arranged. Families of such Extinct Peers as have left "Widows or Issue. Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the Peers. The Archbishops and Bishops of England and Ireland. The Baronetage alphabetically arranged. Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by members of Noble Families. Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of Peers, usually borne by their Eldest Sons. Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Dukes, Marquises, and Earls, who,» hav- ing married Commoners, retain the title of Lady before their own Christian and their Husband's Surnames. Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Viscounts and Barons, who, having married Commoners, are styled Honour- able Mrs. ; and, in case of the husband being a Baronet or Knight, Hon. Lady. A List of the Orders of Knighthood. Mottoes alphabetically arranged and trans- lated. " This work is the most perfect and elaborate record of the living and recently de- ceased members of the Peerage of the Three Kingdoms as it stands at this day. It is a most useful publication. We are happy to bear testimony to the fact that scrupulous accuracy is a distinguishing feature of this book." — Times. "Lodge's Peerage must supersede all other works of the kind, for two reasons: first, It is on a better plan ; and secondly, it is better executed. 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