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 http://www.archive.org/details/echoesofplayhousOOrobirich 
 
AS UDY SADLIFE' 
 
 MRS. ABINQTON. 
 
 IN COLLEY GIBBER'S COMEDY, " THE DOUBLE GALLANT. 
 DRAWING BY ISAAC TAYLOR. 
 
C..I ' 
 
 ECHOES 
 OF THE * 
 PLAYHOUSE 
 
 Si REMINISCENCE 0Fg<;3/ 
 
 SOME PAST GLORI 
 OF THE ENGLISH 
 
 STAGE - : : : : 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD ROBINS, JR. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK & LONDON 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 189? 
 
Copyright, 1895 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 
 
 
 • • • > 
 
 • • • • 
 
 • • • •. 
 
 • • • 
 
 
 Ubc Iknicfterbocfter press, mew ffiorl? 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER - PAGE 
 
 I. — By Way of Proi^oguk . . . . i 
 
 II.— " IvK ROI S'AmUSK" .... 22 
 
 III. — "The Kngi<ish Roscius" ... 42 
 
 IV. — lylGHTS lyONG SiNCK BxTlNGUISHKD . 64 
 
 V. — Thk OivD Re^gime: and thk Nkw . 84 
 
 VI. — CiBBKR AND His ApoIvOGy . . .107 
 
 VII. — Nkw Masks and Facks . . .130 
 
 VIII. — lyOOKING IN AT THE) OpKRA . . I53 
 
 IX. — An Actor of the Oi^d Schooi. . .178 
 
 X. — An Irish Shyi^ock . . . . 200 
 
 XI. — ''A Vkry Good Mimic" . . . 222 
 
 XII. — The: PAI.MY Days of Garrick . . 243 
 
 XIII. — A Grkat lyiGHT Goes Out . . 266 
 
 XIV. — The Sparkling Sheridan . . . 287 
 
 XV. — Exeunt Omnes 306 
 
 iii 
 
 395900 
 
ILI.USTRATIONS. 
 
 Mrs. Abington .... Frontispiece 
 
 Shown as Lady Sadlife in Colley Gibber's comedy, 
 The Double Gallant. Reproduced from a Drawing 
 from life by Isaac Taylor, and engraved by W. 
 Walker. 1 
 
 Nki.Iv Gwynnk 26 
 
 From an engraving by Wriglit, after the portrait of 
 Sir Peter Lely. 
 
 Mrs. CivIVK 48 
 
 Fragment of an engraving by J. Faber. 
 
 Annk Bracegirdi^k .70 
 
 From an old print, 
 
 Gknti^Kman Smith 106 
 
 Shown as Captain Plume in Farquhar's comedy. 
 The Recruiting Officer. Drawn by Taylor, engraved 
 by Walker. » 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sprangkr Barry . . . 140 
 Shown as Bajazet and Sclima in Rowe's tragedy of 
 Tamerlane. From a Drawing by Roberts, engraved 
 by Thornthwaite.^ 
 
 Jambs Quin 178 
 
 After the painting by Hudson. 
 
 » Reproduced from lyowndes's British Theatre, published in lyondon, 
 
 1776-7. 
 * Reproduced from Bell's British Theatre, \Tj^. 
 
VI ILLUSTRATIONS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CharIvKS Macki^in and Mr. Dunstai^l . 200 
 
 As Sir Francis IVronghead and John Moody in 
 The Provoked Husband^ by Colley Cibber and Sir 
 John Vanbrugh. From an engraving by Reading of 
 the drawing by Dodd.* 
 
 David Garrick 222 
 
 From an engraving by Worthington, after the paint- 
 ing by Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 An Historic Pi.aybii.Iv 230 
 
 Facsimile of the programme for Garrick's first 
 lyoudon appearance. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington . . . . . .248 
 
 From an old print. 
 SamukIy Footk 270 
 
 Shown as Mrs. Cole in his own comedy of The 
 Minor. From an engraving by Walker of podd's 
 drawing.* 
 
 New Drury lyANE Theatre, Westminster . 286 
 
 Opened, 1794, and destroyed by fire, 1809. From an 
 graving by W. J. White, after a drawing by J. Capon. 
 
 Thomas King 300 
 
 Shown as Perez in Beaumont and Fletcher's Rule a 
 Wife and Have a Wife. From an engraving by 
 Collyer of Dodd's drawing.* 
 
 FOOTE AS " F0NDI.EWIFE " . . . .316 
 
 A scene from Congreve's comedy, The Old Bachelor. 
 From a Drawing from life by J. J. Barralet ; engraved 
 by Walker.' 
 
 Miss Younge 322 
 
 Shown as Zara in Congreve's tragedy, The Mourn- 
 ing Bride. From an engraving by Reading of 
 Roberts's drawing.^ 
 
 * Reproduced from TvOwndes's British Theatre, published in Ivondon, 
 1776-7. 
 » Reproduced from Bell's British Theatre, 1776. 
 
ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE 
 
ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BY WAY OF PROI.OGUK. 
 
 IT seems startling, not to say amusingly paradoxical, 
 to think that the English and American drama of 
 to-daj^, upon which a well-meaning clergyman occasion- 
 ally pours forth a torrent of righteous indignation, and 
 not always without reason, is the logical development 
 of that most religious of dramatic institutions, the Mira- 
 cle Play. The far-away period when pious composi- 
 tions were acted in England under the patronage of 
 the church authorities, with the object of pointing a 
 moral by illustrating the virtues, temptations, and mar- 
 tyrdom of the saints, was simply the forerunner of an 
 age when playwrights would concern themselves very 
 little as to the holy men and women of old, but a great 
 deal about heroes and heroines who, in some instances, 
 would prove as unsaintlike as the most exacting ad- 
 mirer oi Jin de siecle realism could desire. From the 
 
 I 
 
li^l '< \ ' ; '\'l ^.CH<)ES 0^ THE FLA YHO USE. 
 
 ecclesiastical, mediaeval atmosphere of the Miracles, 
 and thence through a variety of transitions typified 
 by the Morals, Allegories, Masks, and Interludes of 
 Plantagenet times, the wonderful efforts of the Eliza- 
 bethan authors, the brilliant but bad-tasting comedies 
 of the Stuart Restoration, and the more or less senten- 
 tious, artificial, 3^et occasionally delightful pieces of the 
 Georgian era, is evolved what has been proudly spoken 
 of as the nineteenth century drama. A strange com- 
 pound, certainly, to come down to us from the days of 
 cowled monk and princely bishop — a compound of good 
 and bad, of fine plays and trash, of innocent " ru- 
 ral ' ' productions, and unhealthy studies in crime, of 
 thoughtful, sombre works, and of "farce-comedies" 
 more appropriate to the circus ring than the footlights. 
 These are the lineal descendants of so spiritual an 
 ancestor. 
 
 Without attempting to follow the researches of anti- 
 quarians as to the first appearance of Miracle Plays in 
 England, it may be noted that they were given in Lon- 
 don in the twelfth century, according to the testimony 
 of William Fitzstephen, who refers, in his Life of 
 Thomas a Becket, to the performance in the metropolis 
 of " holy playes, representations of miracles, which 
 holy confessors have wrought, or representations of 
 torments." The subjects were not cheerful, from the 
 standpoint of the modern theatre-goer, who has even 
 been known to fall asleep over Shakespeare, but that 
 they were popular in different parts of the kingdom is 
 
BY WAY OF PROLOGUE, 3 
 
 a matter of record. In Dunstable, for instance, a monk 
 named Geoffrey superintended the presentation of a 
 drama dealing with the life of St. Katherine, and evi- 
 dently took upon himself the exacting duties of a stage 
 manager. As a rule, however, such management was 
 undertaken by laymen, the various trade guilds of im- 
 portant towns often being responsible for the proper 
 introduction of the plays. 
 
 The performers generally appeared on movable scaf- 
 folds or stages placed in the open streets, or in the 
 courtyard of an inn. Some of these scaffolds consisted 
 of two compartments, one above the other, in the lower 
 of which the dramatis personcs were obliged to dress, 
 and while the arrangement must have had its incon- 
 veniences, more particularly for the audience, the actors 
 possibly fared as comfortably as they would have done 
 in the average dressing-room of the American theatre. 
 Our auditoriums are fitted up like palaces, but alas ! 
 how much more like hovels oftentimes seem the quar- 
 ters on the other side of the proscenium. 
 
 The Miracles were seldom acted in England after the 
 middle of the sixteenth century, although they were 
 not absolutely unknown during the reign of James I. 
 Their place had gradually been taken by Moralities, 
 plays that mark a distinct advance in dramatic con- 
 struction, and a purpose on the part of the authors 
 to get away from the purely sacred nature of the 
 preceeding works. The characters of the Moralities 
 were allegorical or symbolical, just as are those of 
 
4 ECHOES OF THE PL A Y HO USE. 
 
 some pantomimic piece where Good and Evil, Avarice, 
 Generosity, and other abstract personages are repre- 
 sented, although it need hardly be added that the com- 
 parison goes no further. The Devil figured importantly 
 in these outgrowths of the old Miracles, and entertain- 
 ingly as well, as he has continued to do, in different 
 guises, through a variety of stage literature. Whether 
 posing as an out-and-out Mephistopheles, with cloven 
 foot and horns, or hiding under the stylish clothes of 
 the elegantly-gloved, polished villain of melodrama, 
 Satan has always rejoiced the heart of the play writer, 
 and hundreds of years from now, no doubt, his crush- 
 ing defeat in the last act, through the instrumentality 
 of the hero, will be received with every manifestation 
 of delight. In the Moralities the Devil was so repre- 
 sented that he might create amusement, and probably 
 actual merriment, among the spectators, so that he may 
 have been a comedian rather than the cynical, but gen- 
 tlemanly, Evil One of the Goethe type, or the majestic 
 personage pictured by Milton. There was one writer 
 of the time of Henry VI. who evidently looked upon 
 these plays as a work of this self-same Devil, for he 
 cried out against the frequency of their performances, 
 and set the pace for a host of agitators who have come 
 after him, and to whom the existence of the stage seems 
 one of the greatest evils of a world wherein they can 
 at best see but little good. 
 
 Companies of strolling players had now become nu- 
 merous, and as this ' ' barnstorming ' ' element increased 
 
BY WAY OF PROLOGUE. 5 
 
 there must have been a corresponding falling off in the 
 one-time ecclesiastical spirit that imparted dignity and 
 purity to the performances. With the change came 
 greater license, but the breaking up of the old tradi- 
 tions proved beneficial in the end, paving the way, as 
 it did, for the glorious Elizabethan epoch, when Shakes- 
 peare gave expression to developments and changes 
 which had been gradually shaping themselves for three 
 centuries. 
 
 Once that the sacerdotal character of the native 
 drama was lost the English kings, who generally had 
 a keen taste for the pleasures of life, began to directly 
 encourage the showing of these Moralities, Interludes, 
 or Masques. Henry VII. had two companies of play- 
 ers of his own ; Henry VIII., who placed the amuse- 
 ments of the Court on a very expensive footing, kept 
 three companies, and one of the members of his house- 
 hold was John Heywood, the dramatic author and 
 poet. At one time Heywood received the munificent 
 salary of five pounds a quarter,* but that was a regal 
 recompense compared to the three shillings and four 
 pence paid to the writer of a piece played at Court in the 
 year 1527. For the aforesaid shillings and pence, this 
 unfortunate genius was not only required to put the 
 dialogue into rhyme, but also had to have it both in 
 English and I^atin ! Surely, the commercial benefits 
 
 * Even allowing for the fact that this meant much more than 
 a similar amount now-a-days, the wage was hardly a princely 
 one. 
 
6 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 of the playwright are greater than they were in the 
 halcyon days of the Defender of the Faith. 
 
 The interludes of Heywood, which were more akin 
 to modern comedy than to the old Miracles or Morali- 
 ties ; Gammer Gurton's Needle^ written by John Still 
 (subsequently Bishop of Bath and Wells), and a play 
 called Ralph Roister Doister^ the work of Nicholas 
 Udall, a master at Eton, mark a radical departure in 
 the drama of the sixteenth century, and are really the 
 first examples of a notable development from the an- 
 cient order of things. Gammer Gurton' s Needle is gen- 
 erally regarded as the earliest regular English comedy, 
 whatever may be the claims for the priority of Udall's 
 production, and, asSchlegel well says : " However anti- 
 quated in language and versification, it possesses un- 
 equivocal merit in the low comic. The whole plot 
 turns on a lost needle, the finding of which is pursued 
 with the utmost assiduity ; the poverty of the persons 
 of the drama, which this supposes, and the whole of 
 their domestic conditions, is very amusingly portrayed, 
 and the part of the cunning beggar especially is drawn 
 with much humor." 
 
 A play having for the basis of its plot the search for 
 a needle, suggests the epoch of Sardou's charming 
 trifle, A Scrap of Paper (to use the Anglicized title), 
 rather than the time when works about the saints or 
 Bible characters were still familiar. But things moved 
 quickly on, the tendency was less heavenly but none 
 the less upward, and the religious controversies of the 
 
BV IVAY OF PROLOGUE. J 
 
 Reformation were now reflected in some of the inter- 
 ludes in a way that would never have been dreamed of 
 in an earlier century. It is related that before Henry 
 VIII. separated from the Church of Rome he once en- 
 tertained at Greenwich several French ambassadors, 
 for whose delectation he provided a Latin moral in 
 which the reformers were ridiculed and Luther and his 
 wife were represented. The latter wore a garment of 
 red silk, but whether it was thereby intended to rep- 
 resent her as a type of the scarlet woman further depo- 
 nent sayeth not. Morals espousing the Protestant 
 cause were written and played, however, with the 
 result that an Act of Parliament was passed setting 
 forth that no one should " play in interludes, sing or 
 rhyme any matter contrary to the doctrines of the 
 Church of Rome." For the first infringement of this 
 law a fine and a stay in jail of three months could be 
 imposed, while perpetual imprisonment was one of the 
 penalties meted out for a repetition of the offence. It 
 looks like the irony of fate, consequently, to read that 
 in the year 1551 the abandoned monastery of the Black- 
 friars, which had been surrendered to the Crown, or 
 confiscated, was turned into a sort of property-room, 
 where the dresses and appliances used in Court festivi- 
 ties could be stored. 
 
 During the reigns of Edward VI. and Queen Mary, 
 the drama had a rather precarious existence, and the 
 complete control the government exercised, at least 
 theoretically, over the players may be inferred from the 
 
8 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 fact that in 1549 it had been determined, for political 
 reasons, to put a temporary stop to public entertain- 
 ments. On the accession of Queen Mary she forbade 
 the introduction into the plays and interludes of senti- 
 ments favoring the Reformation, and one dramatist, 
 ready to follow the changing tide, wrote a piece en- 
 titled Respublica, wherein the principles of Luther were 
 held up to scorn and Mary was personified as Queen 
 N'emesis. Under Elizabeth, who took so keen an in- 
 terest in the drama, actors had still much to contend 
 with, and the Virgin Queen herself issued stringent or- 
 ders as to the licensing of performances, although there 
 is good reason to believe that the strollers of her time 
 stood in need of regulation. They were subjected, 
 among other things, to the thunders of the reformed 
 or Established Church, for the great plague of 1563, 
 when so many citizens of London were stricken, was 
 used by Archbishop Grindal as a proper excuse for 
 launching forth an invective against the poor players. 
 He called them an * ' idle sort of people, which had been 
 infamous in all good Commonwealths," and advised 
 the aboHtion of all dramatic entertainments for at least 
 a year, on the ground that attendance at them was 
 likely to spread the infection. He added that if the 
 performances were forbidden for all time '* it were not 
 amiss." However, the plague ran its woeful course, 
 the suggestion of the worthy Archbishop as to choking 
 oflf the drama " forever and a day" was not taken, and 
 several years later we find Elizabeth enjoying such com- 
 
BY WAY OF PROLOGUE. 9 
 
 positions as The Painful Pilgrimage^ As Plain As Can 
 Be (which evidently had no reference to her personal ap- 
 pearance), Six Fools, Orestes, King of Scots, and a num- 
 ber of others, not forgetting one with the idyllic title 
 of fack and fill. 
 
 But the patronage of royalty was not to save the 
 Thespian from a legislative enactment which should put 
 him in the same rank as a peddler, or a bear leader ; 
 indeed, the world moves so slowly that even yet virtu- 
 ous persons can be found who, in the inmost recesses 
 of their little minds, consider the actor scarcely better 
 than a mountebank. Many of the nobility had from a 
 by-gone period acted as sponsors for different companies 
 of players who were looked upon in the light of ser- 
 vants by their respective patrons, and as the custom 
 spread there came an abuse with it. Itinerants in no 
 wise connected with any noble house wandered aim- 
 lessly from town to town, and their number finally be- 
 came so great that in 1572 a law was passed providing 
 that ' ' all fencers, bearwards, common players in inter- 
 ludes and minstrels not belonging to any baron of this 
 realm, or towards any other honorable personage of 
 greater degree ; all jugglers, peddlers, tinkers and petty 
 chapmen, which said fencers, bearwards, common play- 
 ers in interludes and minstrels, etc. shall wander abroad 
 and not have license of two justices of the peace at 
 least shall be deemed and dealt with as rogues and 
 vagabonds. ' ' 
 
 Yet, while the unlicensed player was labelled a va- 
 
lO ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 grant, an incident occurred that was to signify much for 
 the future respectability of his craft. This was the 
 granting (1574) of the first royal patent ever given to 
 a company of English actors. The latter were the ser- 
 vants of the ambitious Karl of Leicester, among them 
 being James Burbage, the father of the more famous 
 Richard Burbage of happy Shakespearian memory. 
 The issuing of such a patent at once threw a sort of 
 high ofiicial sanction about the companj^ and the art it 
 represented, although the whole circumstance is more 
 important in the light of subsequent events than for 
 any very substantial results accruing to Lord Leicester's 
 dramatic henchmen. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen 
 of London, who entertained rather puritanical ideas 
 about the stage, and who practically had the power to 
 prevent the giving of any play within their jurisdiction, 
 did not show any enthusiasm for the troupe bearing the 
 royal patent, and so James Burbage betook himself to 
 the old monastic precinct of Blackfriars, then outside 
 the limits of the city. He bought certain rooms in the 
 neighborhood, and was having them altered into a 
 permanent playhouse, when a number of unsympathetic 
 but influential inhabitants of the district petitioned the 
 Privy Council to put a peremptory stop to his enter- 
 prise. The remonstrants, highly indignant that their 
 privacy should be invaded by anything so vulgar as a 
 set of vagabond actors, royal patent nevertheless and 
 notwithstanding, probably felt very much as might 
 some rich residents of upper Fifth Avenue were an 
 
BV WAY OF PROLOGUE. II 
 
 abattoir to be erected near their properties. The Black- 
 friars tax-payers complained that Burbage's "common 
 playhouse ' ' would ' * grow to the very great annoy- 
 ance and trouble, not only to all the nobelmen and 
 gentlemen thereabouts inhabiting ' ' but would also be- 
 come a general inconvenience, " both by reason of the 
 great resort and gathering together of all manner of 
 vagrant and lewde persons that under color of resorting 
 to the Playes will come thither and worke all manner 
 of mischiefe." 
 
 The petition was not granted, and the indignation 
 of the neighbors must only have increased on finding 
 that Burbage's example was followed elsewhere. In- 
 deed, two more places of dramatic amusement were 
 erected about this period, one called " The Theatre," 
 in Shoreditch, and the other, not far away, styled " The 
 Curtain." This certain indication of public profligacy 
 was too much for one learned divine, who preached 
 a delightfully sensational sermon, wherein he wailed 
 about the wickedness of I^ondon, which he stigmatized 
 as *' an abhominable and filthie citie," on the order of 
 ** Venus court and Bacchus kitchen," whatsoever that 
 might be, and added : " Looke but upon the common 
 playes in London, and see the multitude that flocketh 
 to them and followeth them ; behold the sumptuous 
 theatre houses, a continuall monument of London's 
 prodigalitie and follie." From this horrible vista of 
 sin he argued that : ' ' The cause of plagues is sinne, 
 if you look at it well, and the cause of sinne are playes ; 
 
12 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 therefore, the cause of plagues are playes." All of 
 which shows that the reverend gentleman had enough 
 knowledge of logic to enunciate a syllogism, however 
 defective might be his grammar or his common-sense. 
 While clergymen used the pulpit as a means of cir- 
 cumventing the wiles of his Satanic Majesty, insidiously 
 spread through theatrical abomination, there were lib- 
 eral-minded satirists who extracted humor from the 
 protests of these nervous gentlemen. One writer of 
 the day sings in this appreciative strain of the Philis- 
 tianism of I^ondon's Mayor and Aldermen : 
 
 " List unto my dittye 
 Alas ! the more the pittye, 
 From Troynovaunt's olde cittie 
 The Aldermen and Maier 
 Have drivn eche poore plaier : 
 The cause I will declaier. 
 They wisely doe complaine 
 Of Wilson and Jack Lane,* 
 And them who doe maintaine, 
 And stablish as a rule 
 Not one shall play the foole 
 But they — a worthy schoole. 
 Without a pipe and taber, 
 They only meane to laber, 
 To teche eche oxe-hed neyber, 
 This is the cause and reason. 
 At every tyme and season 
 That Playes are worse than treason." 
 
 Any impression that might have been produced by 
 those who ridiculed the bigotry of an inartistic city 
 corporation was in part dispelled by an accident which 
 ' * Two members of James Burbage's company. 
 
BV WAY OF PROLOGUE, 1% 
 
 occurred at a popular amusement resort of London, the 
 " Paris Garden," about 1583. The Garden was then 
 used for the baiting of wild beasts, but as the populace 
 never saw much moral difference between the exhibi- 
 tion of bears, lions, and the like, and the presentation 
 of plays, dramatic interests received a temporary set- ' 
 back when, on a certain Sunday, a gallery of the build- 
 ing suddenly gave way and many of the occupants were 
 injured. It was a judgment of God, said one puritani- 
 cal preacher. A few weeks later, Elizabeth, nothing 
 appalled, is choosing a company to be called the Queen's 
 Players, and is enjoying the Pastorall of Phillyda arid 
 Choryn, the History of Felix and Philomena, and other 
 interludes. So worldly a taste on the part of the sov- 
 ereign must have been a cause of sadness to a retainer 
 of Sir Francis Walsinghaiji who wrote to the latter that 
 ' ' the daylie abuse of stage playes is such an offence to 
 the Godly, and so great a hindrance to the Gospell, 
 as the papists do exceeding rejoice at the bleamysh 
 thereof, and not without cause, for every day in the 
 weak the players' bills are sett up in sondry places of 
 the cittie . . . whereas the wicked fation of Rome 
 laugheth for joy, while the Godly weepe for sorrow. 
 Woe is me ! the play houses are pestered when churches 
 are naked ; at the one it is not possible to get a place, 
 at the other voyde seates are plentie." Thus we see 
 that the ' ' wicked ' ' Papists were not the only ones who 
 laughed ; the worldly managers must have exulted as 
 well. 
 
14 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 Another proof of the popularity of the London thea- 
 tre in the latter half of the sixteenth century is fur- 
 nished, unwillingly enough, by the then rector of St. 
 Botolph's Church, a clergyman named Gosson. He 
 was the author of a book called The School of Abuse , 
 in which he remarked, among sundry interesting things ; 
 * * In our assemblies at plays in London you shall see 
 such heaving and shouting, such pitching and shoulder- 
 ing to sit by women, such care for their garments, that 
 they be not trodden, such eyes to their laps that no 
 chips light on them, such pillows to their backs that 
 they take no hurt, such masking in their ears, I know 
 not what ; such giving their pippins to pass the time ; 
 such playing at foot-saunt without cards, such ticking, 
 such toying, such smiling, such winking and such 
 manning them home when the sports are ended, that 
 it is a right comedy to mark their behaviour." 
 
 Fair theatre-goers of the olden time, you must have 
 had much more to answer for than the wearing of 
 large hats ! 
 
 All this while the profession of the player was ap- 
 proaching a more legitimate and enduring basis. Instead 
 of inn-yards and open thoroughfares the actors now 
 had regular houses in which to display their talents, 
 and it is supposed that between the years 1570 and 
 1600 at least eleven places of amusement were con- 
 structed in London. The most important of these, 
 from historic association, was the Globe Theatre, occu- 
 pied, as it was, by the company of which Shakespeare 
 
BV WAY OF PROLOGUE. 1 5 
 
 was a member. Here and at the Blackfriars Theatre 
 which was controlled by the same company, many of the 
 poets' plays had their initial productions, under the 
 direction of Richard Burbage. The latter was a much 
 better actor than Shakespeare, who appears to have 
 been a " utility man," rather than a leading one. In- 
 deed, tradition has it that in Hamlet the author merely 
 played the Ghost, and that in As You Like It he chose 
 the faithful Adam rather than the attractive Orlando. 
 
 The Globe has been described as a massive structure, 
 destitute of architectural ornament and without win- 
 dows in the outer wall. The pit was open to the sky, 
 and the actors performed by daylight ; the scene had 
 no other decoration than wrought tapestry. In the 
 background was a stage, a sort of balcony, which 
 served for various purposes and signified all manner of 
 things according to the circumstances. The players 
 appeared, with rare exceptions, in the dress of their 
 time, or at the most distinguished by high feathers on 
 their hats or roses on their shoes. The chief means of 
 disguise were false hair and beards and occasionally 
 even masks. The famous playhouse was destroyed 
 by fire in 1613, during the performance oi Henry VHL, 
 presumably Shakespeare's play of that name. As Sir 
 Henry Wotton related shortly after the event, in a 
 letter to his nephew, " the King's players had a new 
 play called All Is True, representing some principal 
 pieces of the reign of Henry VIII., which was set 
 forth with many extraordinary circumstances of pomp 
 
1 6 ECHOES OP THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 * 
 and majesty even to the matting of the stage ; the 
 
 knights of the order, with their Georges and Garter, 
 the guards with their embroidered coats and the hke : 
 sufficient, in truth, within a while, to make greatness 
 very familiar, if not ridiculous. Now King Henry 
 making a mask at the Cardinal Wolsey' s house, and 
 certain cannons being shot off at his entry, some of 
 the paper or other stuff wherewith one of them was 
 stopped, did light on the thatch, where, being thought 
 at first but an idle smoke, and their eyes more atten- 
 tive to the show, it kindled inwardly, and ran round 
 like a train, consuming, within less than an hour, the 
 whole house to the very grounds. This was the fatal 
 period of that virtuous fabric wherein yet nothing did 
 perish but wood and straw, and a few forsaken cloaks ; 
 only one man had his breeches set on fire, that would 
 perhaps have broiled him, if he had not, by the benefit 
 of a provident wit, put it out with bottle ale." 
 
 Bottle ale .saved the man's breeches, but it could not 
 prevent the destruction of the Globe, which came to 
 an untimely end through an excess of realistic display 
 — a fact worth remembering in these later days, when 
 stage pageants are looked upon as essentially modern 
 innovations. " Rare " Ben Jonson, who is said to have 
 been an eye-witness of the fire, thus alludes to it in his 
 Execration Upon Vulcan : 
 
 " But, O, those reeds ! thy mere disdain of them 
 Made thee beget that cruel stratagem, 
 Which some are pleased to style but thy mad pranlc. 
 
BY WAY OF PROLOGUE, I^ 
 
 Against the Globe, the glory of the Bank : 
 
 Which, though it were the fort of the whole parish, 
 
 Flanked with a ditch, and forc'd out of a marish, 
 
 I saw with two poor chambers taken in, 
 
 And raz'd, ere thought could urge, this might have been." 
 
 The theatre was rebuilt shortly afterward, but the 
 historical memories cluster altogether about the old 
 structure, rather than the new. 
 
 James I. showed a sincere interest in the drama, and 
 had a decided admiration for Shakespeare, to whom he 
 is believed to have addressed a letter with his own royal 
 hand. Shortly after ascending the throne of England he 
 granted a license to the actors of the Globe and Black- 
 friars, including by name lyawrence Fletcher, William 
 Shakespeare, Richard Burbage, Augustine Phillippes, 
 and others, whom he authorized to be known from that 
 time as the King's Players. They were allowed to 
 give " Comedies, tragedies, histories, interludes, mor- 
 als, pastorals and stage plays ' ' throughout the king- 
 dom. James manifested his love of theatricals in 
 many other ways, and his gay Queen, Anne of Den- 
 mark, was wont to act in, and manage, some of the 
 masks held at Court, but his enthusiasm did not pre- 
 vent his exercising a sort of censorship over the pieces 
 that were brought out during his reign. On one 
 occasion the drama of Eastward^ Ho ! gave offence to 
 the King because several passages reflected on the 
 Scotch, and the order went forth to arrest the authors. 
 Ben Jonson had been concerned in the writing of the 
 
l8 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 inhibited play, and although he was not molested he 
 took the ground that he was as guilty as the other two 
 authors, whom he voluntarily accompanied to prison. 
 The report went abroad that Jonson and his colleagues 
 would have their ears cut off, and it is recorded that 
 the poet's mother, at an entertainment given on their 
 discharge from durance vile, showed her son ' ' a paper 
 which she designed, if the sentence had taken effect, 
 to have mixed with his drink, and it was strong and 
 lusty poison ; to show that she was no churl she de- 
 signed to have first drank of it herself." What a 
 grand tragedy the sensitive old dame would have 
 evolved had the loyal Ben actually been deprived of 
 his ears. 
 
 While there is good reason to believe that Shakes- 
 peare's comedies and tragedies were appreciated during 
 his lifetime it is clear that the efforts of some of his con- 
 temporaries were not received with any vast amount of 
 favor. Certainly it is safe to make such an inference 
 from the critical sentiments of a theatre-goer of the time 
 who writes to a friend : ' ' They have plays at Court 
 every night, both holidays and working days, wherein 
 they show great patience, being for the most part such 
 poor stuff that instead of delight they send the audi- 
 tory away with discontent." The sentence may be 
 involved, but it is to the point, as is also his further 
 observation : " Indeed, our poet's brains and inven- 
 tions are grown very dry, insomuch, that of five new 
 plays there is not one that pleases, and therefore they 
 
BY WAY OF PROLOGUE, I9 
 
 are driven to furbish over their old, which stand them 
 in best stead and bring them most profit. ' ' No wonder, 
 if the old plays were those of Shakespeare, whose name 
 never spelt ruin at that early period. 
 
 Charles I. was well disposed toward the drama, while 
 the Puritans had anything but kindly feelings for it, 
 and as a consequence its exponents had a peculiar time 
 of it during the career of the ill-fated monarch and 
 were, before his death, practically prevented from act- 
 ing. Queen Henrietta Maria superintended the per- 
 formance of a pastoral one Christmas tide and even 
 condescended to take part therein herself, so that there 
 was great indignation in royal circles shortly afterward 
 when William Prynne published his celebrated tirade 
 against the stage. Histriomastix , the Player' s Scourge, 
 was the awe-inspiring name of the book, and its author 
 met with scant mercy at the hands of the government. 
 He was brutally punished for his boldness in assailing 
 a profession upon which royalty had smiled, being 
 placed in the pillory, deprived of part of his ears, fined 
 five thousand pounds, and, among incidental penalties, 
 sentenced to imprisonment for life. Prynne was vSent 
 to the Fleet, where he seems to have accepted his fate 
 with calmness and a moderate amount oi sang froid. 
 I^ater on he had his own triumph, for he was released 
 by order of the L,ong Parliament and became, for the 
 nonce, quite a hero. While in the Fleet he must have 
 solaced himself with many comfortable reflections 
 about the adversity attending upon the ' ' rogues and 
 
20 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 vagabonds ' ' of the stage, and nothing, possibly, gave 
 him greater delight that the remembrance of the year 
 1629, when a company of French artists, men and 
 women, appeared at the Blackfriars Theatre. This was 
 the first attempt made in England to popularize female 
 players, for all feminine parts were then taken by boys 
 or young men, and the innovation proved emphatically 
 unsuccessful, at least temporarily. The adventurous 
 actresses, or ' * monsters ' ' as Master Prynne ungallantly 
 calls them, were hissed off the stage, pelted with pip- 
 pins, and otherwise poorly treated, and the author of 
 the Histrioniastix has stigmatized the affair as ' * unwom- 
 anish," as well as "impudent, shameful" and "grace- 
 less." It may have been impudent, seeing that the 
 British public is prone to look upon any change from 
 the established order of things as more or less of an 
 impertinence, but when you call a coterie of French 
 actresses " graceless " we must differ with you. Master 
 Prynne. 
 
 The day was now approaching when neither French 
 women nor English actors would be allowed to amuse 
 the public. As early as 1642 Parliament ordered the 
 suppression of stage performances throughout the king- 
 dom '* during these calamitous times," and six years 
 later the House of Commons enacted that all players 
 were rogues, as defined by statutes of the reigns of 
 Elizabeth and James ; that the I^ord Mayor, justices of 
 the peace, and sheriffs might demolish all stage galler- 
 ies, seats, and boxes ; that players who persisted in fol- 
 
BY WAY OF PROLOGUE. 21 
 
 lowing their profession should be publicly whipped ; 
 and that any person witnessing a theatrical entertain- 
 ment should be fined five shillings. As this Pharasaical 
 process did not have all the results intended, a Provost 
 Marshal was appointed for the purpose of seizing upon 
 ballad-singers and prohibiting plays, in addition to 
 other congenial duties. 
 
 And now the unfortunate actors, hounded, from 
 pillar to post and unable to even acknowledge their 
 calling, much less to pursue it, drifted into other occu- 
 pations. Some of them became soldiers, some took up 
 trades, and many of them, no doubt, were never more 
 heard of or thought of by the public they had pleased 
 so well. They had fallen upon evil days, these light- 
 hearted mummers, and they would find that the Com- 
 monwealth did not mend matters, but a few of them 
 would yet return to the boards in the merry beginning 
 of the Restoration, and act as a connecting link between 
 the ancient rigime and the new. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 *' I,K ROI S'AMUSK." 
 
 DOUGHTY Oliver Cromwell struts his time upon 
 the stage of history ; his unambitious son 
 Richard succeeds to the Protectorship and then gladly 
 relinquishes the responsibility, and finally Charles II., 
 " who never said a foolish thing nor ever did a wise 
 one," has the good sense, nevertheless, to return to his 
 kingdom at the right moment. The English people 
 have tired of the Commonwealth, if, indeed, they ever 
 cared for it, and the witty sovereign, with his bril- 
 liant, dissolute retinue of courtiers, is received with 
 open arms. It is the honeymoon of the Restora- 
 tion, when the jester, capped and belled, is abroad in 
 the land, in spirit at least, and the nation, rebound- 
 ing from the hypocrisy of the Roundheads, is wait- 
 ing with childish eagerness to be amused. Men once 
 more begin to think of the poor players who had 
 been so ill bestowed during the past few years. In- 
 deed Rhodes, the one-time prompter of the Blackfriars, 
 and more lately a prosaic bookseller, had hastened 
 off to General Monk in the latter part of 1659 and 
 obtained permission to open a theatre in the Cockpit, 
 
 22 
 
'' LE Roi s' amuse:' 23 
 
 Drury I^ane. But the keynote to the dramatic Hfe 
 of King Charles' reign is struck when, a little later, 
 that mirth-loving monarch gives his sacred permission 
 for the erection of two theatres, one in the self-same 
 Drury I^ane, under the management of Thomas Killi- 
 grew, who has what is known as the '' King's Com- 
 pany," and the other in Salisbury Court, where Sir 
 William Davenant directs the fortunes of the " Duke 
 of York's Company." What a host of memories and 
 anecdotes the names of these two famous troupes call 
 up. Killigrew, who has been dubbed the jester of 
 King Charles II., had been a page of the unfortunate 
 Charles I., and accompanied the son into exile.* He 
 had a merry wit, and became the boon companion of 
 his new master when happier days dawned on the 
 House of Stuart. What more appropriate, therefore, 
 than that this purveyor to the royal amusement, this 
 whimsical groom of the Bed Chamber, should undertake 
 the direction of a theatre wherein the King was to pass 
 many a pleasant hour and draw inspiration for some 
 of his most serious amours. So we find that the ' * new 
 Theatre in Drury I<ane " was opened in 1663 by " His 
 Majesty's Company of Comedians," when was enacted 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's comedy of The Humorous 
 Lieutenant, with a cast including Charles Hart, Major 
 Mohun, Mr. Wintersel, Mr. Byrt, Mr. Clun, and Mrs. 
 
 * For some mysterious reason Dibdin insists that Killigrew 
 the manager was Henry, and not Thomas Killigrew, but all the 
 facts are against so wild a theory. 
 
24 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 Marshall. It is interesting to note that the perform- 
 ance began at 3P.M. "exactly" and that the prices 
 of admission were : boxes, four shillings ; pit, two shill- 
 ings six pence ; middle gallery, one shilling six pence, 
 and upper gallery, one shilling. 
 
 The mention of Mistress Marshall as one of the com- 
 pany shows that the innovation of having women on 
 the stage, which had been so frowned upon when the 
 be-pippined French actresses had appeared a few years 
 before, was now an accepted fact, and that the days 
 when handsome youths played feminine roles were fast 
 passing away. There was Charles Hart, for instance, 
 who was now essajdng the essentially masculine char- 
 acter of Demetrius in The Humorous Lieutenant, when 
 as a boy this talented grandnephew of Shakespeare had 
 impersonated women. Hereafter he was to figure in 
 such roles as Brutus, Othello, and Alexander the Great, 
 and to inspire the not very creditable affections of the 
 notorious but beautiful Lady Castlemaine, to whom our 
 old friend, Samuel Pepys, Esq., F. R. S., so often and 
 lovingly refers in his diary. 
 
 *' To the King's playhouse," says Mr. Pepys, under 
 date of April 7, 1668, *'and there saw The English 
 Monsieur (sitting for privacy sake in an upper box) : 
 the play hath much mirth in it as to that particular 
 humor. After the play done I down to Knipp,* and 
 did stay her undressing herself, and there saw the sev- 
 eral players, men and women, go by ; and pretty to see 
 * An actress belonging to the King's Company, 
 
'' LE ROI S' AM USE." 2$ 
 
 how strange they are all, one to another, after the play 
 is done. . . . Mrs. Knipp tells me that my Lady 
 Castlemaine is mightily in love with Hart, of their 
 house ; and he is much with her in private, and she 
 goes to him and do give him many presents ; and that 
 the thing is most certain, and Beck Marshall only privy 
 to it, and the means of bringing them together, which 
 is a very odd thing ; and by this means she is even 
 v/ith the King's love to Mrs. Davis." 
 
 A greater *' boy actress " than Hart had ever been 
 was Edward Kynaston, a member of the Duke of 
 York's Company, and " the last beautiful youth who 
 figured in petticoats on the stage. ' ' He was an unu- 
 sually handsome man, even in old age, and appears to 
 have made an admirable player of regal parts when he 
 abandoned the line of acting in which he had once won 
 such fame, " The loveliest lady that ever I saw in my 
 life ' ' is the way in which Pepys speaks of his perform- 
 ance in T/ie Loyall Subject^ and Colley Gibber says, 
 in referring to him : ' ' Though women were not ad- 
 mitted to the stage till the return of King Charles, yet 
 it could not be so suddenly supplied with them but that 
 there was still a necessity, for some time, to put the 
 handsomest young men in petticoats — which Kynaston 
 was then said to have worn with success, particularly 
 in the part of Kvadne in The Maid' s Tragedy^ which 
 I have heard him speak of ; and which calls to my 
 mind a ridiculous distress that arose from these sort of 
 shifts which the stage was then put to, The King 
 
26 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 coming a little before his usual time to a tragedy found 
 the actors not ready to begin, when his Majesty, not 
 choosing to have as much patience as his good subjects, 
 sent to them to know the meaning of it, upon which 
 the master of the company came to the box, and, rightly 
 judging that the best excuse for their default would be 
 the true one, fairly told his Majesty that the queen was 
 not shaved yet ; the King, whose good humor loved to 
 laugh .at a jest as well as to make one, accepted the 
 excuse, which served to divert him till the male queen 
 could be effeminated. In a word, Kynaston at that 
 time was so beautiful a youth that the ladies of quality 
 prided themselves in taking him with them in their 
 coaches to Hyde Park in his theatrical habit, after the 
 play ; which in those days they might have sufficient 
 time to do, because plays then were used to begin at 
 four o'clock, the hour that people of the same rank are 
 now going to dinner. ' ' 
 
 As the boys in petticoats were disappearing, the 
 women, who sometimes acted in petticoats and as often 
 turned the tables on their masculine predecessors by 
 posing on the stage as elegant young men, were fast 
 giving to the theatre a prestige — and, in some instances, 
 an unsavory reputation — which it had never enjoyed 
 before. One of the most notorious, and fascinating 
 actresses of that or later years was ' ' pretty witty Nell ' ' 
 Gwynne, who first came into prominence in 1665, when 
 she appeared at Drury L<ane in Dryden's play of The 
 Indian Emperor. She was then but fifteen years old, 
 
NELL QWYNNE. 
 
 FROM AN ENGRAVING BY WRIGHT, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY. 
 
''LB Roi s' amuse:* 27 
 
 and had been brought out at the instigation of Hart, 
 who finding her serving as an orange girl in the front 
 of the house, was attracted by her beauty and charm 
 of manner. So she was instructed in the rudiments of 
 acting by Shakespeare's kinsman and the actor Lacey 
 (who became so distinguished as a comedian that 
 Charles II. had his portrait painted in three different 
 characters) and soon showed herself to be an apt pupil. 
 There have been many pictures of their protSgee, but 
 one representing her as a charming, fair-haired woman 
 with blue eyes of the laughing order and a turned-up, 
 piquante nose, seems to be most in accord with what 
 one reads of this merry, kind-hearted creature, upon 
 whom the frailties of human nature and the opinions 
 of a world, which as often condemned as it admired 
 her, weighed so lightly. 
 
 Poor Nell soon caught the fanc}^ of the town, and 
 heading the popular wave that wafted her so speedily 
 into prosperity was the pleasure- seeking monarch him- 
 self, with whom the history of this actress is so inevitably 
 associated. Her birth was obscure, her father had been 
 either a fruiterer, as some say, or a captain, but be that 
 as it may, Eleanor Gwynne became the ancestress of a 
 semi-royal line represented by the Dukes of St. Albans, 
 and was one of several famous players whose blood runs 
 in the veins of English peers of the nineteenth century. 
 
 * ' To the King's House," writes the faithful Admiralty 
 Secretary, " and there saw The Humorous Lieutenant, 
 a silly play, I think ; only the spirit in it that grows 
 
28 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 very tall and then sinks again to nothing, having two 
 heads breeding upon one ; and then Knipp's singing did 
 please us. Here in a box above we spied Mrs. Pierce, 
 and going out they called us, and so we staid for them, 
 and Knipp took us all in, and brought to us Nelly, a 
 most pretty woman, who acted the great part Caelis to- 
 day very fine, and did it pretty well ; I kissed her, and 
 so did my wife, and a mighty pretty soul she is." 
 And again, later on, we read : 
 
 "After dinner with my wife to the King's house, 
 to see The May den Queene, a new play of Dryden's, 
 mightily commended for the regularity of it, and the 
 strain and wit ; and the truth is, there is a comical part 
 done by Nell, which is Florimel, that I never can hope 
 ever to see the like done again by man or woman. 
 The King and Duke of York were at the play. But so 
 great performance of a comical part was never, I be- 
 lieve, in the world before as Nell do this both as a mad 
 girle, then most and best of all when she comes in like 
 a young gallant ; and hath the motions and carriage of 
 a spark the most that ever I saw any man have. It 
 makes me, I confess, admire her. ' ' And Mr. Pepys keeps 
 on admiring her to the end of the chapter, with a keen 
 eye to her prettiness and an anecdote here and there 
 that makes her stand forth with all the Meissonier-like 
 clearness of a carefully executed picture. He sees her 
 loitering at her lodging door in Drury I^ane "in her 
 smock sleeves and bodice," and seeming "a mighty 
 pretty creature, ' ' and he meets her behind the scenes, 
 
'' LE ROi s' amuse:' 29 
 
 where her levity and looseness of conversation (once 
 he heard her cursing at the smallness of the audience) 
 leave a somewhat unpleasant impression on him. Yet 
 he thinks her delightful, in spite of it all, and so did 
 many more, including Charles Stuart, who doubtless 
 saw in her worst phases only the subjects for half a 
 dozen royal jests. He loved her in his careless, con- 
 temptuous way, and when he was dying prayed his 
 brother not to let poor Nellie starve. 
 
 Rochester has summed up her life in these clever lines : 
 
 " The orange basket her fair arm did suit, 
 Laden with pippins and Hesperian fruit ; 
 This first step raised, to the wond'ring pit she sold 
 The lovely fruit, smiling with streaks of gold. 
 Fate now for her did its whole force engage. 
 And from the pit she mounted to the stage ; 
 There in full lustre did her glories shine. 
 And long eclips'd, spread forth their light divine : 
 There Hart * and Rowley's soul she did ensnare. 
 And made a King a rival to a player." 
 
 What a company must have been the jesting Killi- 
 grew's, in those " palmy " seasons when ladies of qual- 
 ity often appeared at the theatre in masks, to avoid 
 blushing over the positive indecencies in many of the 
 comedies, and when Evelyn complains that *' plays are 
 now become with us a licentious excess, and a vice, 
 and need severe censors." The moral atmosphere be- 
 hind the scenes was stifling, and the conversation on 
 the stage not a bit more healthy ^t times, but the lax- 
 
 * Hart was madly in love with his pupil. 
 
30 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 ness of the age could not affect the genius or the fascina- 
 tion of the players. Take, for example, the beautiful 
 Mistress Hughes, who made her abode with Prince 
 Rupert, and who spent his money so lavishly that at 
 his death it was found necessary to sell his jewels by 
 lottery, in order to pay his debts. Then came Joseph 
 Haines, Cartwright, Clun, and others no less distin- 
 guished, not forgetting that "little man of mettle," 
 Major Mohun, whose tragic flights of eloquence were 
 thought so much of by Court and town. Haines, who 
 appears to have been a man of considerable originalitj^ 
 and humor, was once ordered by Hart, as chief of the 
 house or stage manager, to dress for one of the senators, 
 in Cataline's Conspiracy. This was nothing more 
 or less than acting as a ''super," and as Haines en- 
 joyed the then lavish salary of fifty shillings a week, 
 he naturally considered himself exempt from any such 
 assignment. Hart ungenerously insisted, none the 
 less obstinate, no doubt, because he and Haines hap- 
 pened to be on bad terms, and so the latter had to obey 
 with the poorest kind of grace. But he was to be re- 
 venged for the slight put upon him. " He gets a 
 scaramouch dress, a large full ruff, makes himself 
 whiskers from ear to ear, puts on a large merry Andrew's 
 cap, a short pipe in his mouth, a little three-legged 
 stool in his hand, and in this manner follows Mr. Hart 
 on the stage, sets himself down behind him, and begins 
 to smoke his pipe, laugh and point at him, which comi- 
 cal figure put all the house in an uproar, some laugh- 
 
"Z^ ROI S'AMUSEr 31 
 
 ing, some clapping, and some hallooing. Now Mr. 
 Hart, as those who knew him can aver, was a man of 
 that exactness and grandeur on the stage, that let what 
 would happen, he 'd never discompose himself or mind 
 anything but what he then represented, and had a 
 scene fallen behind him, he would not at that time look 
 back to see what was the matter, which Joe knowing, 
 remained still smoking ; the audience continued laugh- 
 ing, Mr. Hart acting and wondering at this unusual 
 occasion of their mirth — sometimes thinking it some 
 disturbance in the house ; again, that it might be some- 
 thing amiss in his dress. At last, turning himself 
 towards the scenes, he discovered Joe in the aforesaid 
 posture ; whereupon he immediatelj^ goes off the stage, 
 swearing he would never vSet foot on it again unless Joe 
 was immediately turned out of doors, which was no 
 sooner spoke than put in practice." 
 
 Haines seems to have been everything from a scholar 
 to a Bohemian of the most pronounced type. He held 
 a position at Cambridge University at one stage of his 
 career, but his chief claim to the consideration of pos- 
 terity lies in the fact that he was a leading low come- 
 dian at Drury lyane from 1672 to 1701, and made his 
 Sparkish, in The Country Wife, one of the most popu- 
 lar characters of the period. No one appreciated it 
 more, possibly, than the elegant fellows about town 
 whom he travestied. When James II. became King, 
 Haines declared his conversion to the doctrines of the 
 Roman Catholic Church, because the Virgin Mary had 
 
32 ECHOES OE THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 appeared to him in a vision and exclaimed, *'Joe, 
 arise ! " but as this revelation was looked upon in the 
 light of a joke and an amusing example of poor Joe's 
 eccentricity, he was not allowed the benefit of his 
 change of faith. He was actually made to recant on 
 the stage, before a large audience, and announce his 
 return to the Protestant fold. It must have been a 
 remarkable scene, but then Haines was himself a re- 
 markable man, and anything so bizarre was considered 
 peculiarly fitting. 
 
 Yet a stranger member of the Drury Lane set was 
 Cardell Goodman, who rejoiced under the not very 
 savory nickname of "Scum." The checquered his- 
 tory of '* Scum " shows that he had once been a stu- 
 dent at Cambridge, from which University he was 
 expelled for mutilating a picture of the curious Chan- 
 cellor of the institution, the picturesque Duke of Mon- 
 mouth. Like others who have failed in some more 
 prosaic profession he went on the stage, and made a 
 great reputation for himself as a promising young fel- 
 low who could play Julius CcBsar and Alexander with 
 dignity and fervor. He complained that his salary 
 was small, and that he could not dress as gallants of 
 his time should, and so he actually took " to the road " 
 and became a highwayman. The combination of art 
 and robbery had its drawbacks, and Goodman would 
 have ended his remarkable career on the gallows had 
 it not been for the clemency of James II. The ex- 
 highwayman was once heard to say that this act of 
 
'' LE ROI S'AMUSEr 33 
 
 James' ' ' was doing him so particular an honor, that 
 no man could wonder if his acknowledgment had car- 
 ried him a little further than ordinary in the interest 
 of that prince. But as he had lately been out of luck 
 in backing his old master, he had no way to get home 
 the life he was out, upon his account, but by being 
 under the same obligations to King William." This 
 rather mysterious remark was taken to mean that Good- 
 man having once volunteered to assassinate William 
 of Orange, as a slight acknowledgment of the kindness 
 of James, had now gone over heart and soul to the in- 
 terests of the latter' s son-in-law, in order to secure a 
 pardon from the new sovereign. The rascality of this 
 model player also included an attempt to kill two of 
 the Duchess of Cleveland's (Lady Castlemaine's) chil- 
 dren, by way of rewarding this fragile peeress for the 
 attentions which she had showered upon him. The plot 
 failed, and "Scum," who subsequently disappeared al- 
 together, contrived to save his neck at the expense of a 
 heavy fine. 
 
 They were an unprincipled crew, a few of these /r^- 
 tigh of Court and people. Look at Moll Davis. She 
 was a comedienne in the Duke's Company, a graceful 
 dancer, and so fine a singer of the ditty. My Lodging 
 is on the Cold Ground^ that she attracted the amorous 
 attention of King Charles. Mr. Pepys was pleased 
 " mightily " at her " dancing in a shepherd's clothes," 
 and he notes in one paragraph of that gossipy diary 
 that " Miss Davis is for certain going away from the 
 
 3 
 
34 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 Duke's house, the King being in love with her ; and a 
 house is taken for her, and furnishing ; and she hath 
 a ring given her already worth 600^." It is the old, 
 old story of Charles and his conquests, and so we are 
 not surprised to learn further on that once when Moll 
 played at Whitehall the Queen, Catharine of Braganza, 
 rose and left the house, or that the actress once made 
 Lady Castlemaine '* look fire " when the two favorites 
 were together at the theatre. She had a daughter by 
 Charles who was named Mary Tudor, and whose son, 
 the third Karl of Derwentwater, lost his head for too 
 actively sympathizing with his relative, the Old Pre- 
 tender. 
 
 Clun, one of the best actors of the King's house, was 
 set upon and murdered one night while travelling out 
 of town to his country-place. " The house will have a 
 great miss of him, ' ' quaintly chronicles the ubiquitous 
 Pepys. Then there is Nokes, a natural actor of ' ' plain 
 and palpable a simplicity" ; William Mountford, the 
 victim of the famous attempt to abduct Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle; Sanford, styled the " completest and most 
 natural performer of a villian that ever existed," and, 
 among others, John Lacey, a dancing-master by edu- 
 cation, but comedian and playwright by selection. 
 This actor deeply offended his Majest}^ on one occa- 
 sion by appearing in a comedy wherein the Court was 
 held up to contempt, and orders were given that the 
 troupe should stop performing. Charles relented, of 
 course (imagine him without his favorite theatre !), but 
 
'' LE Roi s' amuse:' 35 
 
 the comedy in question had to be withdrawn. *' The 
 King mightily angry," jots down Pepys, " and it was 
 bitter indeed, but very fine and witty." 
 
 Of such material as this were the players who formed 
 the two great theatrical troupes of the reign of Charles 
 II., and among whom the brightest and most enduring 
 light was the noble Betterton, to whose life the next 
 chapter is devoted. The King's Company, (which had 
 perhaps the greater prestige, because some of its mem- 
 bers belonged to the sovereign's household establish- 
 ment, wore an imposing scarlet uniform and were styled 
 Gentlemen of the Grand Chamber) entered into practi- 
 cal competition with the Duke's Company. Both houses 
 were under regulations of a strict order, and it was an 
 understood thing that no play presented at one of them 
 should be given at the rival theatre. Of course, fre- 
 quent bickerings and internal dissensions occurred, and 
 some of them were passed upon and dispelled by no 
 less august a person than the King himself, who would 
 doubtless have made a much better manager than he 
 did a ruler. When it came to Davenant's forces, knotty 
 problems were often decided by the Duke of York, that 
 curious compound of ability and incompetency, youth- 
 ful licentiousness and latter-day bigotry, who probably 
 looked upon the stage as an attractive plaything, and 
 nothing more. This toying with the drama must have 
 been a delightful pastime for the two brothers, even if 
 they had but little sympathy for the trials, privations, 
 and struggles of the actors themselves. 
 
36 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 So far as actual merit was in question the Duke's 
 company, with the incomparable Betterton at its head, 
 may have been the finer of the two organizations, all 
 things taken into consideration, but merit is a quantity 
 that does not always count in the success of stage per- 
 formances, even in these enlightened times. Critics 
 like to say that the best plays are the most paying to 
 the manager, because the wish is more or less father to 
 the thought, but the fact remains that some of the 
 flimsiest of pieces have proved the more remunerative 
 from the box-ofiice standpoint. Sir William Davenant 
 may have reasoned this way when he saw that the 
 popularity of his players was on the wane, for money 
 was a conspicuous factor in the theatre then, as it is 
 now. Managers are not necessarily philanthropists ; 
 they may often have artistic perceptions and ambitions, 
 but without well-filled coifers schemes of elevating the 
 stage are likely to degenerate into ' * such stufi" as 
 dreams are made on." Thoughtful youths who have 
 started out to bring the world to their feet through the 
 medium of Shakespearian tragedy have ended up by 
 convulsing the town 2iS farceurs, and more than one 
 well-meaning theatre lessee has turned his house into 
 a variety hall, and passed the rest of his life brooding 
 over what he might have accomplished as a promoter 
 of the legitimate. 
 
 At any rate, Davenant decided on introducing what 
 the indignant Dibdin says ''was then and is at this 
 moment the disgrace and reproach of the theatre. ' ' In 
 
" LE ROI S' AMUSE." 37 
 
 other words * ' operas and masques took the place of 
 tragedies and comedies, and to Psyche and Circe yielded 
 Cleopatra and Rosalhid. To see and to hear one thing, 
 and to think and to judge another, and nothing could 
 more completely verify the truth of this than what had 
 happened to the King's Company upon Davenant's 
 bringing forward these auxiliary helps ; for, though 
 they were composed of performers much superior to 
 those of the other they instantly experienced the most 
 cold and mortifying neglect, while the houses and the 
 coffers of the other house were completely filled ; nor 
 did they ever perfectly recover their estimation with 
 the public nor at all till they procured scenery and 
 decorations from France and attacked their opponents 
 with their own weapons." 
 
 Shakespeare and his less gifted companions had given 
 way, temporarily, to French gew-gaws and tinsel, and 
 the town went crazy over the importations from the 
 land of the hated Monsieur. Alas ! poor old Dibdin ! 
 " Go for masques, go for operas, go for spectacles if you 
 will," he wails; "let painting and music, those be- 
 coming attendants on poetry, aid the meritorious labours 
 of their lovely sister ; but let them keep within their 
 own province. I,et us have magic and fairy-land, and 
 let fairies bring about these transformations to the 
 belief of which our minds are accommodated ; but do 
 not suffer stuffed elephants, pasteboard lions and leath- 
 ern tygers to train the car of a real hero. I^et us re- 
 member that these tricks were borrowed from our 
 
38 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 fantastic neighbors the French ; and that, even in 
 France, Corneille with all his reputation never recov- 
 ered the kick that was given to it by the necessity he 
 was under of courting an auxiliary in the Flying 
 Horse." 
 
 Sensitive Dibdin ! Could you revisit the glimpses of 
 the moon you might take comfort in knowing that the 
 pros and cons of stage realism have been argued ever 
 since you left this sphere of action, and occasionally 
 by men who look upon the whole question as essen- 
 tially modern. The theatre of Shakespeare' s time was 
 not, to be sure, troubled with an excess of realism (to 
 which fortunate circumstance we doubtless owe the in- 
 troduction of so much beautiful imagery in his works), 
 but scenic effects and gorgeous costumes, by no means 
 unknown even then, were soon to play an important 
 part in the drama. 
 
 There is no doubt that while the new entertainments 
 proved a welcome change for a public which was pretty 
 much like any other in its love of novelty, they dis- 
 tinctly tended to lower the tone of the stage, particu- 
 larly at a season when morals on either side of the 
 footlights were none too rigid, to speak politely, and 
 when the new order of production gave such ample 
 excuse for license. One writer, in comparing the times 
 of Shakespeare with those of the Restoration, observes 
 that once ''many people thought a play an innocent 
 diversion for an idle hour or two, the plays themselves 
 being then more instructive and moral ; whereas of 
 
'' LE ROI S' AMUSE." 39 
 
 late the playhouses are so extremely pestered with wiz- 
 ard masks, and their trade occasioning continual quar- 
 rels and abuses, that many of the more civilized part 
 of the town are uneasy in the company, and shun the 
 theatre as they would a house of scandal." 
 
 The popularity of the Duke's house was not relished 
 by the King's Company, and an attempt was made to 
 stem the tide of success by producing, at Drury lyane, 
 parodies ridiculing the sumptuous affairs that were 
 turning the heads of the lyondoners. But the audiences 
 insisted on having their heads turned, notwithstand- 
 ing, and the " Gentlemen of the Grand Chamber," 
 with their lace and pretty scarlet uniforms, and their 
 fair companions, found themselves in the position of 
 dethroned favorites. But all this rivalry had an end, 
 for in 1682, when Killigrew and Davenant were both 
 dead, the two companies were united, through the in- 
 strumentality of Betterton, and began their joint season 
 at the new Drury lyane Theatre. 
 
 While these changes are going on Mr. Jeremy Collier, 
 M. A., is collecting material for his Short View of the Im- 
 mortality and Profaneness of the English Stage ^ which is 
 to create quite a stir and send the author's name down 
 to posterity — whereby he has an advantage over most of 
 the censors of the drama. In the preface of this volume 
 Mr. Collier announces his conviction that ' ' nothing has 
 gone farther in Debauching the Age than the Stage- 
 Poets and Play House." Further on he explains : 
 ' ' The business of plays is to recommend Vertue and 
 
40 ECHOES OF THE FLA YHOUSE. 
 
 discountenance Vice ; To shew the Uncertainty of Hu- 
 mane Greatness, the suddain Turns of Fate, and the 
 Unhappy Conclusions of Violence and Injustice. 'T is 
 to expose the Singularities of Pride and Fancy, to make 
 Folly and Falsehood contemptible, and to bring every 
 thing that is 111 under Infamy and Neglect. This de- 
 sign has been oddly pursued by the English Stage. 
 Our Poets write with a different view, and are gone 
 into another Interest. 'Tis true, were their intentions 
 fair, they might be Serviceable to this Purpose. They 
 have in a great measure the Springs of Thought and 
 Inclination in their Power. Show, Musick, Action 
 and Rhetorick, are moving Entertainments ; and, 
 rightly employed, would be very significant. But 
 Force and Motion are Things indifferent, and the Use 
 lies chiefly in the Application. These Advantages are 
 now, in the Enemies Hand, and under a very dangerous 
 management. I^ike Cannon seized, they are pointed 
 the wrong way ; and by the Strength of the Defence 
 the Mischief is made the greater. That this complaint 
 is not unreasonable, I shall endeavor to prove by shew- 
 ing the Misbehaviour of the Stage, with respect to Mo- 
 rality and Religion. Their I^iberties in the Following 
 Particulars are intolerable, viz. : Their Smuttiness of 
 Expression ; their Swearing Prophaneness, and I^ewed 
 Application of Scripture ; Their Abuse of the Clergy, 
 Their making their top Characters lyibertines, and giv- 
 ing them Success in their Debauchery." 
 
 There is warrant for some of the critical Jeremy's 
 
'' LE ROI S' AMUSE." 4I 
 
 Jeremiad, but we are about to see the stage enter upon 
 an epoch whose glory shall not be dimmed for over a 
 century, and in which there shall be a distinct improve- 
 ment in some of the characteristics complained of in 
 the Short View. Collier will be thought of simply as 
 a literary freak, but the names of Betterton, of Old- 
 field, of Woffington, of Garrick, and of Kean will lin- 
 ger pleasantly in the world's memory for many a day. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 "the ENGI.ISH ROSCIUS." 
 
 " A S it was said of Brutus and Cassius, that they 
 J~\^ were the last of the Romans ; so may it be 
 said of Mr. Betterton, that he was the last of our tragedi- 
 ans, ' ' * wrote one of his admirers and biographers, and 
 his opinion was shared by many a theatre-goer who had 
 so often delighted in the versatile genius of the greatest 
 actor of his age. Thomas Betterton, the Ejiglish Ros- 
 citis as he was called by his contemporaries, began life 
 under circumstances singularly in contrast with the 
 distinction he was later to achieve. He was born in 
 Westminster about 1635, his father, Matthew Better- 
 ton, holding the respectable but not particularly ex- 
 alted position of an under-cook in the kitchen of 
 Charles I. As a lad the future Roscius was quiet and 
 studious, and received a fairly good education. Very 
 little is known of his early years, however, and there 
 has even been a dispute as to the bookseller to whom 
 he was apprenticed. It was probably Rhodes, the 
 whilom prompter and wardrobe-keeper of the Black- 
 friars, who discreetl}^ set up a book-shop at Charing 
 * Gildon's Life of Betterton. 
 42 
 
"772^^ ENGLISH ROSCIUS." 43 
 
 Cross after the triumph of the Puritans had taken away 
 the occupation of the players. According to Gildon, 
 in his so-called Life of Betterton, that " which prepared 
 Mr. Betterton and his fellow-prentice* for the stage 
 was, that his master Rhodes having formerly been 
 Wardrobe-keeper to the King's company of comedians 
 in the Blackfriars, on General Monck's march to lyon- 
 don, in 1659, with his Army, got a license from the 
 Powers then in being, to set up a company of Players 
 in the Cockpit in Drury Lane, and soon made his com- 
 pany complete, his apprentice, Mr. Betterton for Men's 
 Parts, and Mr. Kynaston for Women's parts, being at 
 the head of them. Mr. Betterton was now about twenty- 
 two years of age,t when he got great applause by act- 
 ing in the Loyal Subject, the Wild Goose Chace, the 
 Spanish Curate, and many more. But while our young 
 actor is thus rising under his master Rhodes, Sir Wil- 
 liam Davenant — getting a Patent of King Charles II. 
 for erecting a company under the name of the Duke of 
 York's Servants — took Mr. Betterton and all that acted 
 under Mr. Rhodes into his company. " 
 
 Davenant, after a more or less adventurous career 
 which included imprisonment in the Tower and a nar- 
 row escape from being put to death for too much affec- 
 tion for the Royal cause, found himself during the final 
 years of the Commonwealth in a melancholy condition 
 as to purse, and so set about to fill the latter by means 
 
 * Kynaston. 
 
 t Betterton must have been about twenty-four years old. 
 
44 ECHOES OF THE FLA YHOUSE. 
 
 of the drama. In other words, he wanted to start a 
 theatre, and though the scheme was difficult of accom- 
 phshment, seeing that ParHament had formerly enacted 
 such stringent laws against actors and those who patron- 
 ized them, he obtained sufficient influence with I^ord 
 Whitlocke and other gentlemen to inaugurate a series 
 of performances at Rutland House. This was in 1656, 
 and, while the public was now ripe for such a return to 
 first principles, a vast amount of tact and diplomacy 
 had to be used by the venturesome Davenant, that the 
 authorities should not put a stop to the enterprise. 
 What he must observe was an apparent, if not an actual 
 respect for the law, and so long as he would do this 
 hundreds of I^ondoners, secretly worn out by the many 
 absurd restrictions of the Puritans, were only too glad 
 to attend his entertainments. The introductory piece 
 *' required all the author's wit to make it answer differ- 
 ent intentions, for, first, it was to be so pleasing as to 
 gain applause ; and next, it was to be so remote from 
 the very appearance of a play as not to give any offence 
 to that pretended sanctity which was then in fashion. 
 It began with music, then followed a prologue, in which 
 the author banters the oddity of his own performance. 
 The curtain being drawn up to the sound of slow and 
 solemn music, there followed a grave declaration by 
 one in a gilded rostrum, who personated Diogenes, and 
 whose business it was to rail at and expose public en- 
 tertainments. Then music in a lighter strain, after 
 which a person in the character of Aristophanes, the 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSCIUSy 45 
 
 old comic poet, answered Diogenes, and showed the use 
 and excellency of dramatic entertainments. The whole 
 of the grave entertainment was concluded by a song 
 accompanied with music, to which the arguments on 
 both sides are succinctly and elegantly stated. The 
 .second part of the entertainment consisted of two light 
 declamations ; the first by a citizen of Paris, who wit- 
 tily rallies the follies of London ; the other by a citizen 
 of London, who takes the same liberty with Paris and 
 its inhabitants. To this was tacked a song, and after 
 that came a short epilogue : the music, which was very 
 good, was composed by Dr. Coleman, Captain Cook, 
 Mr. Harry Laws, and Mr. George Hudson." * 
 
 This was a mild sort of affair that would not satisfy 
 modern theatre-goers, but the spectators were duly 
 thankful for it, and their favor inspired Davenant to 
 venture further and produce pieces of a bolder type. 
 The theatre thus started under precarious auspices at 
 Rutland House was practically the forerunner of the 
 Duke's Theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, for the estab- 
 lishment of which he had received the royal patent. 
 He was b}^ no means without business sagacity, was 
 Sir William, and the articles of agreement entered into 
 between him and the players of the new companj^ show 
 that managerial contracts were in force over two cen- 
 turies ago. These articles make interesting reading, 
 something more than can be said for others of later 
 origin. They are dated November 5, 1660, and are 
 * Biographia Britannica. 
 
46 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 between Sir William Davenant, as party of the first 
 part, and Thomas Betterton (spelled Batterton), Thomas 
 Sheppej', Robert Nokes, James Noakes, Thomas Lo- 
 vell, John Moseley, Cave Underbill, Robert Turner, 
 and Thomas lyilleston, of the second part ; and Henry 
 Harris, painter, of the third part. It is provided that 
 during the occupation of temporary quarters the re- 
 ceipts accruing from the performances, after the pay- 
 ment for house-rent, supers and other necessary 
 expenses, shall be divided into fourteen shares, 
 whereof Davenant shall have four and the company 
 the remaining ten ; that " the said Thomas Batterton, 
 Thomas Sheppey, and the rest of the said company 
 shall admit such a consort of musicians into the said 
 playhouse for their necessary use, as the said Sir Wil- 
 liam shall nominate and provide, duringe their play- 
 inge in the said playhouse, not exceeding the rate of 
 30 s. the day ' ' ; and that when the company shall 
 be quartered in the new house to be erected by Dave- 
 nant the several receipts of the theatre are to be divided 
 into fifteen shares, two shares to be paid to the latter 
 towards *' the house-rent, buildinge, scafibldinge and 
 makinge of frames for scenes," one share for furnish- 
 ing scenery, costumes, and properties, seven to Sir Wil- 
 liam * ' to maintaine all the women that are to performe 
 or represent women's parts in the aforesaid tragedies, 
 comedies, playes, or representations," and the other 
 five shares to be divided among Betterton and his com- 
 panions. 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSCIUS:' 47 
 
 One of the articles sets forth that Davenant shall not 
 be responsible out of his shares ' ' for the supplyeinge 
 of cloathes, habitts, and scenes, to provide eyther hatts, 
 feathers, gloves, ribbons, swordebelts, bands, stock- 
 ings, or shoes" for any of the men actors, and it is 
 further stipulated : ' ' That a private boxe bee provided 
 and established for the use of Thomas Killigrew, Esq., 
 one of the groomes of his Majestie's bedchamber, suffi- 
 cient to conteine sixe persons, into which the said Mr. 
 Killigrew and such as he shall appoint, shall have lib- 
 erty to enter without any salary or pay for their entrance 
 into such a place of the said theatre as the said Sir 
 Wm. Davenant, his heirs, etc. shall appoint." 
 
 The clause last quoted shows a commendable spirit 
 of friendliness between rival managers, although the 
 courtesy of the box was probably due to Killigrew's 
 influence with the King. A man who could tell the 
 latter with impunity that he was going * ' to fetch Oliver 
 Cromwell from hell to take care of the aifairs of the na- 
 tion, for that his successor took no care of them at all " 
 must have been of sufficient importance, independent 
 of his theatrical pretensions, to receive the freedom of 
 Sir William's house. 
 
 The theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields designed for the 
 Duke's Company, a playhouse altered and rearranged 
 for the purpose, was opened in 1661 with an operatic 
 piece styled The Siege of Rhodes. In this production 
 Betterton played Solomon, the Magnificent, and Mistress 
 Saunderson, whom he was afterward to marry, enacted 
 
48 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 lanthe. It enjoyed a run of twelve nights, and was fol- 
 lowed by other successes, among them that historic re- 
 vival of Hamlet with Betterton as the melancholy hero. 
 ' * To the Opera, ' ' * writes Pepys, ' * and there saw Ham- 
 let^ Prince of Denmark done fvith scenes, very well ; 
 but above all, Betterton did the Prince's part beyond 
 imagination." It was a performance well deserving 
 a note in that voluminous diary, and one cannot but 
 envy the good fortune of those who witnessed it. The 
 attractive Mistress Saunderson, one of the first reg- 
 ular actresses on the English stage, and who was later 
 to have the honor of instructing the Princesses Mary 
 and Anne in the mysteries of elocution, was the fair 
 Ophelia, Mrs. Davenport essayed the Queen, Harris was 
 Horatio, and I^illeston the King. But the greatest of 
 these was the Hamlet of Betterton, to which, however, 
 one critic objected on the ground that it lacked origi- 
 nality. Whatever may have been the merits of this 
 creation as compared with other Hamlets it can be taken 
 for a certainty that Betterton played the role with won- 
 derful effectiveness and that it proved one of his finest 
 achievements. Colley Gibber, says in his Apology 
 apropos to Betterton' s appearance in the part in later 
 years : 
 
 " You may have seen a Hamlet perhaps who on the 
 first appearance of his father's spirit has thrown him- 
 self into all the straining vociferation requisite to 
 express rage and fury ; and the house has thundered 
 * The Duke's Theatre was also known as the Opera. 
 
CATHERINE CLIVE. 
 
 REPRODUCED FROM A FRAGMENT OF AN ENGRAVING BY J. FABER. 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSClUSr 49 
 
 applause, though the misguided actor all the while was 
 tearing a passion into rags. The late Mr. Addison, 
 whilst I sate by him to see this scene acted, made the 
 same observation, asking me with some surprise if I 
 thought Hamlet should be in so violent a passion with 
 the ghost, which though it might have astonished, 
 had not provoked him. For you may observe that in 
 this beautiful speech the passion never rises beyond an 
 almost breathless astonishment, or an impatience lim- 
 ited only by filial reverence to inquire into the sus- 
 pected wrongs that may have raised him from his 
 peaceful tomb, and a desire to know what a spirit so 
 seemingly distressed might wish or enjoin a sorrowful 
 son to execute towards his future quiet in the grave. 
 This was the light into which Betterton threw this 
 scene, which he opened with a pause of mute amaze- 
 ment, then rising slowly to a solemn, trembling voice 
 he made the ghost equally terrible to the spectators as 
 to himself and in the descriptive part of the natural 
 emotions which the ghostlj^ vision gave him, the bold- 
 ness of his expostulation was still governed by de- 
 cency, manly, but not braving — his voice never rising 
 into that seeming outrage or wild defiance of what he 
 naturally revered." 
 
 Indeed, it is related that although Betterton' s com- 
 plexion was naturally rudd}^ when, as Hamlet, he 
 was confronted by the Ghost he * ' instantly turned as 
 white as his neckcloth, while his whole body seemed 
 to be affected with a strong tremor " ; had his father's 
 
50 ECHOES OF THE PLA YHOUSE. 
 
 apparition actually risen before him he could not have 
 displayed greater agony. Tlje spectators shared the 
 horror themselves, and so did Barton Booth on the 
 memorable occasion of his first playing the Ghost to 
 Betterton's Hamlet and being so awe-stricken that he 
 could not speak his lines. 
 
 The man who was for half a century the most beloved 
 figure on the English stage may not have possessed 
 the extraordinary versatility of Garrick, yet he dis- 
 played remarkable variety in his art. One instance of 
 this, in the early part of his career, is shown by his 
 appearance in September, 1661, shortly after the revival 
 oi Hamlet (which was remunerative enough, by the way, 
 to show that Shakespeare was the name to conjure by 
 even during the careless, thoughtless reign of the 
 second Charles) as Sir Toby in Twelfth Night. Poor 
 Pepys could not enjoy the play because he went to see 
 it '* against my own mind and resolution," but his con- 
 temporaries who had no conscientious scruples of that 
 kind found in the adventures of Sir Toby and the rest 
 of that delightful company a generous entertainment. 
 In a succeeding production of Davenant's Love and 
 Honor Betterton played a certain Prince Alvaro, and 
 had the honor of wearing the King's coronation clothes, 
 while Mr. Harris, as another prince, donned a suit pre- 
 sented by the Duke of York, and Mr. Price, who did 
 Lionel^ was the recipient of a costume from I^ord 
 Oxford. 
 
 And so the * ' best actor in the world ' ' goes on build- 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSCWSr 5 I 
 
 ing up his reputation and adding to his already exten- 
 sive repertoire. In the spring of 1662 we have him 
 doing Mercutio in Romeo a7id Juliet, or more probably 
 a garbled version of the tragedy, for it was the fashion 
 in those days to lay violent hands on Shakespeare, 
 altering, adapting, and ruining his masterpieces under 
 the impression that they were made the more present- 
 able and elegant thereby. Davenant went so far as to 
 tamper with Measure for Measure, and actually inter- 
 jected into it the characters oi Beatrice and Benedick — an 
 innovation that appears to have had the seal of approval 
 put upon it by an unthinking public. Whether Romeo 
 and Juliet was so roughly treated or not, it is at least 
 very plain that Pepys, who had by this time recovered 
 from his attack of righteousness, thought nothing of it. 
 " My wife and I by coach first to see my little picture 
 that is a drawing, and thence to the Opera, and there 
 saw Romeo and Juliet the first time it was ever acted, 
 but it is a play of itself the worst that ever I heard, and 
 the worst acted that ever I saw these people do, and I 
 am resolved to go no more to see the first time of acting, 
 for they were all of them out more or less." The com- 
 plainant might not have so keenly taken to heart the 
 poorness of the acting could he have known how often 
 Romeo a?td Juliet was to be slaughtered in future gener- 
 ations by companies far inferior to the Duke's. 
 
 Nor was Pepys much impressed with a subsequent 
 Shakespearian performance wherein Betterton figured, 
 namely Henry the Eighth. He refers to it as *' the so 
 
52 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 much cried-up play," and writes it down as " so simple a 
 thing, made up of a great many patches, that besides the 
 shows and processions in it, there is nothing in the world 
 good or well done. ' ' Nevertheless, the play was acted 
 for fifteen consecutive days, and was evidently distin- 
 guished by an unusual exhibition of theatrical pomp. 
 What is much more interesting is the fact that Better- 
 ton, who acted the King, had his inspiration, as it 
 were, indirectly from Shakespeare himself. Sir Wil- 
 liam Davenant, who had coached his leading player in 
 the part, had himself been instructed in it by old Mr. 
 lyowen, who in his turn had been taught how to inter- 
 pret it by no less a person than the immortal Bard of 
 Avon. A few months later Macbeth was put on, and 
 as the critical Samuel condescended to call it " a pretty 
 good play, but admirably acted ' ' we can comfort our- 
 selves with the reflection that the beauties of the great 
 poet were not altogether lost upon him. 
 
 As a transition from the gloom of Macbeth may be 
 mentioned the performance of The Rivals, a probable 
 adaptation of the Two Noble Kinsmen attributed to the 
 authorship of Shakespeare and Fletcher. It introduced 
 music and dancing of an agreeable character and had 
 in it that famous song, ** My I^odging is on the Cold 
 Ground," which Moll Davis gave with sufficient charm 
 to delight the King and excite the jealousy of the usu- 
 ally amiable Mistress Gwynne. Betterton, as Philan- 
 der, made a fine impression and so did his rival by 
 courtesy, Mr. Harris. The latter won considerable 
 
''THE ENGLISH RO SCI US." 53 
 
 fame in these years, and had a more than ordinary 
 amount of talent, but success turned his head and after 
 demanding from Davenant a larger salary than that 
 paid to Betterton, he left the theatre in lyincoln's Inn 
 Fields, declaring that he would never act there more. 
 He modified his vow, however, as the King did not 
 encourage his attempt to join the other company, under 
 Killigrew, and so he came back penitently to the fold, 
 doubtless believing in his heart that he was far above 
 the modest Betterton. To be sure, he was a *'more 
 ayery ' ' man than his rival, and the oft-quoted but ever 
 quaint and amusing Pepys held him in high esteem. 
 *' Company at home," is the entry for January 24, 
 1666-7. " Amongst others. Captain Rolt. And anon, 
 at about seven or eight o'clock comes Mr. Harris of 
 the Duke's playhouse, and brings Mrs. Pierce with 
 him, and also one dressed like a country maid with a 
 straw hat on, and at first I could not tell who it was, 
 though I expected Knipp ; but it was she coming off 
 the stage just as she acted this day in The Goblins ; a 
 merry jade. Now my house is full and four fiddlers 
 that play well. Harris I first took to my closet : and 
 I find him a very curious and understanding person 
 in all pictures and other things [to find an actor under- 
 standing in other things must have been a revelation 
 for the writer] and a man of fine conversation ; and 
 so is Rolt. Among other things, Harris sung his 
 Irish song, the strangest in itself and the prettiest 
 sung by him that ever I heard." 
 
54 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 The great London plague of 1665 and the fire of 1666 
 put an end, for the time being, to all theatrical enter- 
 tainments in the metropolis. When the horrors at- 
 tendant upon these two calamities had passed away 
 the theatres were re-opened. Betterton resumed his 
 position at the Duke's house, acting in a round of 
 characters well calculated to test his versatility and 
 producing several of his own plays, incidentally show- 
 ing thereby that he was more gifted as a creator of 
 parts than of dramas. In the meanwhile Davenant had 
 planned the erection of a new theatre in Dorset Gar- 
 dens, Salisbury Court, and to this elaborate structure, 
 designed by Sir Christopher Wren, and costing, with 
 the scenery, some five thousand pounds, the Duke's 
 Players moved in 1671. Sir William was then dead, 
 and the royal patent was inherited by his wife and 
 sons. One of the sons, Charles Davenant, took the 
 ostensible direction of affairs, and Betterton had much 
 to say in the management of the performances. To 
 detail the various characters taken by the latter 
 during the remaining years that the company existed 
 is a matter for the historian of the stage, and can have 
 no excuse in the present unpretentious memoirs. Let 
 it sufiice to say that by this time Betterton was at the 
 height of a fame which was hardly to decrease with the 
 approach of old age, and had received the popular rec- 
 ognition which he so richly deserved. " There are so 
 many vouchers for the merit of this extraordinary ac- 
 tor, ' ' wrote Dibdin years after, ' ' that there would be no 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSCIUS:' 55 
 
 great difficulty in ascertaining, or risk in asserting pre- 
 cisely what they were. I must content myself, how- 
 ever, with saying that it has been unanimously allowed, 
 his personal and mental qualifications for the stage 
 were correct to perfection, and that, after a variety of 
 arguments to prove this, we are obliged to confess that 
 he appears never to have been on the stage for a single 
 moment the actor but the character he performed." 
 
 In 1682 was effected the union of the King's and the 
 Duke's Company, the consolidated organization open- 
 ing its season at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 
 which had been erected several years before under the 
 supervision of Sir Christopher Wren. The list of 
 players includes Betterton, and Mrs. Saunderson (now 
 Mrs. Betterton), Kynaston, Mrs. Barry, Mountford, 
 Smith, Underbill, and Sanford. Into this family was 
 soon to come Colley Cibber, joining it as an humble 
 but aspiring youth of nineteen, who for a while would 
 simply be known as Master Colley. Thomas Davies, 
 the actor and bookseller who ' ' mouthed a sentence as 
 curs mouth a bone," * was told by Cross, the prompter 
 of the house, that after waiting a long time for some 
 notice to be taken of him, Cibber obtained the honor 
 of carrying a message in some play to Betterton. 
 * ' Whatever was the cause. Master Colley was so terri- 
 fied that the scene was disconcerted by him. Betterton 
 asked in some anger who the young fellow was that 
 
 * Davies was fairly driven from the stage by this satirical line 
 of Churchill's. 
 
56 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 had committed the blunder. Downes repHed : * Mas- 
 ter CoUey.' ' Master CoUey ! then forfeit him.* 
 * Why, sir,' said Downes, * he has no salary.' * No,' 
 said Betterton, * why, then, put him down ten shil- 
 lings a week, and forfeit him five shillings.' To this 
 good-natured adjustment of reward and punishment, 
 Cibber owed the first money he ever received from the 
 theatre." 
 
 An incident like this was not likely to decrease the 
 admiration of the young unsalaried performer for the 
 great Betterton, and Cibber, when he came to write 
 that delightful Apology^ helped not a little to per- 
 petuate the fame of a man who seems to have been as 
 admirable in his personal relations as he was when 
 treading the boards. 
 
 "Betterton was an actor," eloquently says Cibber, 
 speaking con amore, "as Shakespeare was an author, 
 both without competitors ! formed for the mutual as- 
 sistance and illustration of each other's genius ! How 
 Shakespeare wrote, all men who have a taste for nature 
 may read, and know — but, with what higher rapture 
 would he still be read, could they conceive how Better- 
 ton played him. Then might they know, the one was 
 born alone to speak what the other only knew to write. 
 Pity it is that the momentary beauties flowing from an 
 harmonious elocution, cannot like those of poetry, be 
 their own record ! That the animated graces of the 
 player can live no longer than the instant breath and 
 motion that presents them ; or at best can but fairly 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSCIUSr 57 
 
 glimmer through the memory or imperfect attestation 
 of a few surviving spectators. Could how Betterton 
 spoke be as easily known as what he spoke ; then 
 might you see • the Muse of Shakespeare in her tri- 
 umph, with all her beauties in their best array, rising 
 into real life, and charming her beholders. But alas ! 
 since all this is so far out of the reach of description, 
 how shall I show you Betterton ? Should I therefore 
 tell you that all the Othellos^ Hamlets^ Hotspurs, Mac- 
 beths, and Brutus' s, whom you may have seen since 
 his time, have fallen far short of him ; this still would 
 give you no idea of his particular excellence." Then 
 CoUey tries to give some idea of the hero whom he 
 finds it so difficult to describe, and it is only to be re- 
 gretted that space does not permit of further quotations 
 from his enthusiastic estimate. 
 
 Anthony Aston, half-lawyer, half-actor, who trav- 
 elled through the English provinces during the early 
 Georgian era, giving a theatrical performance which 
 he st)ded a medley, has left us the following graphic 
 picture of the great actor. 
 
 ' * Mr. Betterton (although a superlative good actor) 
 labored under ill figure, being clumsily made, having 
 a great head, a short thick neck, stooped into the 
 shoulders, and had fat short arms, which he rarely 
 lifted higher than his stomach. His left hand fre- 
 quently lodged in his breast, between his coat and 
 waistcoat, while, with his right, he prepared his speech. 
 His actions were few, but just. — He had little eyes, 
 
58 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 and a broad face, a little pock-fretten ; a corpulent 
 body, and thick legs, with large feet. He was better 
 to meet than to follow ; for his aspect was serious, ven- 
 erable and majestic ; in his latter time a little paralytic. 
 His voice was low and grumbling ; yet he could tune 
 it by an artful climax^ which enforced universal atten- 
 tion, even from fops and orange girls. He was inca- 
 pable of dancing, even in a country dance ; as was Mrs. 
 Barry ; but their good qualities were more than equal 
 to their deficiencies ; while Mrs. Bracegirdle sung 
 very agreeably in the Loves of Mars and Venus, and 
 danced in a country dance, as well as Mr. Wicks, 
 though not with so much art and foppery, but like a 
 well-bred gentlewoman. Mr. Betterton was the most 
 extensive actor, from Alexander or Sir John Falstaff \ 
 but in that last character, he wanted the waggery of 
 Estcourt, the drollery of Harper, and salaciousness of 
 Jack Evans. But then, Estcourt was too trifling ; 
 Harper had too much of the Bartholomew-fair ; and 
 Evans misplaced his humor. — Thus, you see what flaws 
 are in bright diamonds : and I have often wished that 
 Mr. Betterton would have resigned the part of Hamlet 
 to some young actor (who might have personated, 
 though not have acted it better) for, when he threw 
 himself at Ophelia's feet, he appeared a little too grave 
 for a young student, lately come from the University 
 of Wittenburg ; and his repartees seemed rather as 
 Apophthegm?, from a sage philosopher, then the sport- 
 ing flashes of a young Hamlet ; and no one else could 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSCIUS." 59 
 
 have pleased the town, he was so rooted in their opin- 
 ion. His younger contemporary Powel attempted sev- 
 eral of Betterton's parts as Alexander, Jaffier, etc., but 
 lost his credit ; as in Alexander, he maintained not the 
 dignity of a King, but out-Heroded Herod ; and in 
 his poisoned mad scene, out-raved all probability ; 
 while Betterton kept his passion under, and shewed it 
 most (as fume smoakes most when stifled). Betterton 
 from the time he was dressed, to the end of the play, 
 kept his mind in the same temperament and adaptness 
 as the present character required. — If I was to write of 
 him all day I should still remember fresh matter in his 
 behalf." 
 
 Here was what might be termed an unemotional 
 critique, but it was probably a pretty just one except- 
 ing that Aston failed to grasp the achievements of the 
 actor from every point of view, and has thus left us 
 only half a picture, and not a flattered one at that. 
 
 Old Thomas might be drawing near the grave, but 
 a grateful town, which has not always been so constant 
 to its favorites, could never have too much of him. * 
 Its appreciation was never more generously shown than 
 at the historic benefit given in honor of the now ven- 
 erable player, in April, 1709. Love for Love was the 
 play, with the old man as Valentine ; the audience was 
 large and particularly brilliant, and to crown the tri- 
 
 * Bettertou only stayed at Drury Lane until 1695 ; then he 
 and a number of his companions formed a company of their 
 own in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and some years later they went 
 over to the new Queen's Theatre, in the Haymarket. 
 
60 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 umph of the evening Mrs. Barry delivered this epilogue 
 while she and lovely Mrs. Bracegirdle clasped him 
 about the waist : 
 
 ** So we to former leagues of Friendship true, 
 Have bid once more our peaceful homes adieu, 
 To aid old Thomas, and to pleasure you. 
 Like errant damsels boldly we engage, 
 Arm'd, as you see for the defenceless stage. 
 Time was when this good man no help did lack, 
 And scorned that any She should hold his Back. 
 But now, so age and frailty have ordained, 
 By two at once he 's forced to be sustained. 
 You see what failing nature brings man to. 
 And yet let none insult, for aught we know. 
 She may not bear so well with some of you : 
 Though old, you find his strength is not clean past, 
 But true as steel, he 's Mettle to the last. 
 If better he perform'd in days of yore. 
 Yet now he gives you all that 's in his power, 
 What can the youngest of you all do more?" 
 
 After this royal ovation ' ' old Thomas ' ' will go on 
 playing for another year, exerting much of the custom- 
 ary charm in comedy, and surprising every one by flashes 
 of ancient fire in such characters as Othello, Macbeth, and 
 Lear. During the autumn of 1709 he will be found at 
 the Haymarket Theatre, a house established a short 
 time before ostensibly for the presentation of opera, and 
 it is here that his memorable farewell to the stage he 
 loved so well is to be made on April 13, 17 10. " It is 
 his benefit night, and the tears are in his aged wife's 
 eyes and a painful sort of smile on her trembling lips, 
 for Betterton kisses her as he goes forth that afternoon 
 
'^^'THE ENGLISH ROSCWsr 6 1 
 
 to take leave, as it proved, of the stage forever. He is 
 in such pain from gout that he can scarcely walk to his 
 carriage, and how is he to enact the noble and fiery 
 Melantius, in that ill-named drama of horror, The 
 Maid's Tragedy "> Hoping for the best, the old player 
 is conveyed to the theatre, built by Sir John Vanbrugh, 
 in the Haymarket, the site of which is now occupied 
 by the Opera House. Through the stage- door he is 
 carried in loving arms to his dressing-room. At the 
 end of an hour Wilks is there, and Pinkethman, and 
 Mrs. Barry, all dressed for their parts, and agreeably 
 disappointed to find the Melantius of the night robed, 
 armored, and bes worded, with one foot in a buskin, 
 and the other in a slipper. To enable him even to wear 
 the latter, he had first thrust his inflamed foot into 
 water ; but stout as he seemed, trying his strength to 
 and fro in the room, the hand of death was at that mo- 
 ment descending on the grandest of English actors. 
 
 " The house arose to receive him who had delighted 
 themselves, their sires, and their grandsires. The au- 
 dience were packed like Norfolk bifiins. The edifice 
 itself was only five years old, and when it was abuild- 
 ing people laughed at the folly which reared a new 
 theatre in the country, instead of in I^ondon ; — for in 
 1705 all beyond the rural ha5^market was open field, 
 straight away westward and northward. That such a 
 house could ever be filled was set down as an impossi- 
 bility ; the achievement was accomplished on this 
 eventful benefit night ; when the popular favorite was 
 
62 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 about to utter his last words, and to belong thencefor- 
 ward only to the history of the stage he had adorned. 
 
 " There was a shout which shook him, as Lysippus 
 uttered the words ' Noble Melantius,' which heralded 
 his coming. Every word which could be applied to 
 himself was marked by a storm of applause, and when 
 Melantius said of Amintor : 
 
 • His youth did promise much, and his ripe years 
 Will see it all performed ' 
 
 a murmuring comment ran around the house, that this 
 had been eflfected by Betterton himself. Again, when 
 he bids Amintor * hear thy friend, who has more years 
 than thou ' there were probably few who did not wish 
 that Betterton were as young as Wilks ; but when he 
 subsequently thundered forth the famous passage * My 
 heart will never fail me ' there was a very tempest of 
 excitement, which was carried to its utmost height, in 
 thundering peal on peal of unbridled approbation, as 
 the great Rhodian gazed full on the house, exclaiming : 
 
 * My heart 
 And limbs are still the same : my will as great 
 To do you service.' " * 
 
 Poor Betterton ! His heart and will may have been 
 the same, but his gouty limbs were not, and he hastened 
 the inevitable event when he put his feet in cold water, 
 so that he might play at the benefit. Forty-eight hours 
 after this final triumph he was dead, and a whole coun- 
 * Dr. Doran. 
 
''THE ENGLISH ROSCIUSr 63 
 
 try mourned him as never actor had been mourned 
 before in England, and as perhaps none other, save 
 Garrick, has been since. He had lived to a fine old 
 age, great, lovable, and useful to the last ; smiled upon 
 by royalty as well as by the public and doubtless con- 
 tent in the feeling that though comparatively poor (a 
 foolish friend had helped to scatter his fortune by 
 unfortunate speculation) a grateful community would 
 never let him want. He was given an imposing burial 
 in Westminster Abbey, that historic resting-place for 
 the remains of so many who have contributed to Brit- 
 ain's greatness — among whom are none more deserving 
 of such honor than Thomas Betterton. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I^IGHTS I^ONG SINCK EXTINGUISHED. 
 
 WK have seen that at the benefit given Betterton 
 in 1 709 the epilogue was spoken by a Mrs. 
 Barry — "the famous Mrs. Barry," as she has been 
 styled. Famous she was, indeed, while she lived, 
 but the lustre of her achievements has diminished with 
 time, and now her name conveys little or no idea to 
 many who know the most minute detail in the career 
 of several less powerful actresses. Her father, Edward 
 Barry, a barrister, distinguished himself by raising a 
 regiment for the support of Charles I., and his un- 
 timely death left the daughter dependent upon the 
 charity of I^ady Davenant. The Davenant family 
 took a great interest in the girl's ambition to become 
 celebrated, and through their influence she was brought 
 out upon the stage, only to prove a comparative fail- 
 ure. In the meantime, the Earl of Rochester fell madly 
 in love with her and undertook her tuition, with the 
 result that though her morals were not improved by 
 the kindness of this noble patron her art gained mate- 
 rially. It is related how the Earl boasted that he 
 would make a great actress of her in six months, and 
 
 64 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED. 65 
 
 the brilliant reputation she afterward gained certainly 
 justified his confidence in her natural qualifications, 
 as well as in the excellence of his own iUvStruction. 
 Her first hit, as we would express it now, was made 
 in lyord Orrery's drama of Mustapha^ wherein she fig- 
 ured as the Queen of Hungary, and her advancement 
 after that event was rapid, even phenomenal. She 
 created a deep impression in Otway's Alcibiades, espe- 
 cially on the heart of the author himself, who cher- 
 ished for this gifted woman a love that she hardly 
 deserved. He conceived the parts of Monimia, in The 
 Orpha?i and of Belvidera, in Venice Preserved, that she 
 might play them, and thus added to her renown ; in- 
 deed, the title given her of " the famous Mrs. Barry " 
 dates from her appearance in the last-named piece. 
 
 In characters of greatness, according to Dibdin, she 
 was " graceful, noble, and dignified," no violence of 
 passion was beyond the reach of her feelings, and in 
 ''the most melting distress and tenderness she was 
 exquisitely affecting. Thus she was equally admira- 
 ble in Cassandra, Cleopatra, Roxana, Monimia, or Be Ivi- 
 deray The mention of the part of Roxana suggests 
 an anecdote of Mrs. Barry that is hardly creditable to 
 the personal character of the best actress Dryden ever 
 saw. Roxana is one of the two leading feminine roles 
 of The Rival Queens, or the Death of Alexander the 
 Great. This tragedy was once a favorite, but is now 
 only remembered in connection with the untimely fate 
 
 of its talented author, I^ee, whose career ended with 
 
 5 
 
^ ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 insanity. It so happened that when Barry was cast 
 for Roxana a Mrs. Boutelle whom she detested as a 
 dangerous rival, quite unnecessarily, as it seems, was 
 assigned the part of Statira. In one scene Roxana is 
 called upon to engage in a deadly struggle with Sta- 
 tira, and to this episode, exciting enough when sim- 
 ply acted, Mrs. Barry once gave a tinge of realism that 
 set the town agog for several days and put poor Mrs. 
 Boutelle in a tremor of horror. With a cry of " Die, 
 sorceress, die, and all my wrongs die with thee" — 
 lines into which she put even more than the usual 
 force — Mistress Barry sent her dagger completely 
 through the armor worn by the detested Statira. There 
 was a shriek from the slightly scratched Boutelle, and 
 no little commotion ; but the episode was soon hushed 
 up, after Roxana duly apologized and explained that 
 she had been carried away by the illusion of the mo- 
 ment. The uncharitable supposition was privately 
 expressed that temper rather than artistic feeling had 
 carried away the impetuous Barry, but she was pub- 
 licly given the benefit of the doubt. 
 
 This contretemps does not appear to have detracted 
 from the popularity of the celebrated Roxatia, nor was 
 her private life, (anything but a decorous one,) a hin- 
 drance to her career on the stage. The world was 
 much the same then as now. Gibber had a thorough 
 appreciation of her genius, for he refers to her "pres- 
 ence of elevated dignity," with her " Mien and motion 
 superb, and gracefully majestic; and *' her voice full, 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED. 6/ 
 
 clear and strong, so that no violence of passion could 
 be too much for her. ' ' He adds that ' ' when distress 
 or tenderness possessed her, she subsided into the most 
 affecting melody and softness. In the art of exciting 
 pity she had a power beyond all the actresses I have 
 yet seen, or what your imagination can conceive. Of 
 the former of these two great excellencies, she gave 
 the most delightful proofs in almost all the heroic plays 
 of Dryden and lyce ; and of the latter, in the softer 
 passions of Otway's Monimia and Belvidera. In scenes 
 of anger, defiance, or resentment, while she was im- 
 petuous, and terrible, she poured out the sentiment 
 with an enchanting harmony ; and it was this particu- 
 lar excellence, for which Dryden made her the above 
 recited compliment, upon her acting Cassmidra in his 
 Cleomenes. But here, I am apt to think his partiality 
 for that character may have tempted his judgment to 
 let it pass for her masterpiece ; when he could not but 
 know there were several other characters in which her 
 action might have given her a fairer pretence to the 
 praise he had bestowed on her, for Cassandra; for in 
 no part of that is there the least ground for compassion, 
 as in Monimia ; nor equal cause for admiration, as in 
 the noble love of Cleopatra, or the tempestuous jealousy 
 of Roxana. 'T was in these lights I thought Mrs. 
 Barry shone with a much brighter excellence than in 
 Cassandra. She was the first person whose merit was 
 distinguished by the indulgence of having an annual 
 Benefit-Play, which was granted to her alone, if I mis- 
 
68 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 take not, first in King James's time, and which became 
 not common to others, 'till the division of this com- 
 pany,* after the death of King William's Queen, Queen 
 Mary. This great actress dy'd of a fever toward the 
 latter end of Queen Anne ; the year I have forgot ; 
 but perhaps you will recollect it, by an Expression that 
 fell from her in blank Verse, in her last hours, when 
 she was delirious, viz. : ' Ha, ha ! and so they make us 
 Lords, by dozens ! ' " 
 
 Gibber places the date of her death upon her sup- 
 posed utterance of a verse referring to an increase of 
 the peerage for political reasons, during the reign of 
 Queen Anne ; he had forgotten that Mrs. Barry died 
 in 17 13, after having lived in retirement since her fare- 
 well appearance on the stage in 1710, That she has 
 not come down to posterity with the same eclat as two 
 or three other actresses long since departed is really 
 curious, for there has never been any difference of 
 opinion regarding her wonderful abilities as a trage- 
 dienne. The only disagreement seems to have been as 
 to her personal appearance, and the probabilities are 
 that while she was not handsome she had great fasci- 
 nation, not only for Rochester and poor Otway, but for 
 every one else. * ' With all her enchantment, ' ' Anthony 
 Aston records, * ' this fine creature was not handsome ; 
 her mouth opening most on the right side, which she 
 strove to draw the other way ; and at times composing 
 her face as if to have her picture drawn. She was 
 * Drury lyane. 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED. 69 
 
 middle-sized, had darkish hair, light eyes, and was 
 indifferent plump. In tragedy she was solemn and 
 august ; in comedy alert, easy and genteel ; pleavSant 
 in her face and manner, and filling the stage with a 
 variety of action." Yet Aston sadly adds that ''she 
 could not sing, nor dance ; no, not even in a country 
 dance. ' ' 
 
 Of far different character was that * ' darling of the 
 theatre," Mistress Anne Bracegirdle, a contemporary 
 of Barry, and an actress at whose pretty feet all the gal- 
 lants in town were ready to drop. But they would 
 have dropped in vain, for she would have none of them, 
 even though her admirers numbered the Dukes of 
 Devonshire and Dorset, the Earl of Halifax, Congreve, 
 and lyord Lovelace. Her virtue was extolled as much 
 as her talents, and so deep an impression did she make 
 by the possession of the former quality — not a very 
 common one for the actresses who surrounded her — 
 that Lord Halifax and his friends made up a purse of 
 800 guineas, which they presented to her as a slight 
 testimonial of their regard — and surprise. Macauley 
 has taken a rather cynical view of this '* Diana of the 
 stage!" (as Doctor Doran calls her), relating that 
 "those who are acquainted with the parts which she 
 was in the habit of saying, and with the epilogue which 
 it was her special business to recite, will not give her 
 credit for any extraordinary measure of virtue or deli- 
 cacy. She seemed to have been a cold, vain, interested 
 coquette who perfectly understood how much the influ- 
 
70 ECHOES OF THE PL A Y HO USE. 
 
 ence of her charms was increased by the fame of a 
 severity which cost her nothing, and who could ven- 
 ture to flirt with a succession of admirers in the just 
 confidence that no flame which vShe might kindle in 
 them would thaw her own ice." 
 
 Macauley's theory may be taken with the traditional 
 grain of salt, for his prejudices were so pronounced 
 that he was forced to give them to the world, even at 
 the expense of a woman's character. That the free- 
 and-easy people about her believed in her professions is 
 a very good indication of the sincerity of the heroine 
 of Congreve's famous lines : 
 
 " Would she could make of me a saint, 
 Or I of her a sinner. ' * 
 
 But in the role of heroine Mrs. Bracegirdle never ap- 
 peared under more exciting auspices than on the mem- 
 orable night when an attempt was made to carry off" 
 the unwiUing charmer. Among her string of hopeless, 
 sighing admirers, was a certain Captain Hill, who 
 determined to obtain possession by force of the lovely 
 object of his passion, and for this purpose enlisted the 
 services of the notorious lyord Mohun, a rufiianly aris- 
 tocrat quite ready for such a scheme. About ten 
 o'clock one night, when the unconscious Bracegirdle 
 and her mother were supping at the home of a Mr. 
 Page in Drury Lane, the two conspirators, assisted by 
 several soldiers whom they had bribed, attempted to 
 smuggle the actress into a carriage, as she was leaving 
 the house. The lady naturally protested, and her 
 
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 '" 
 
 ANNE BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 FROM AN OLD PRINT. 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED, yi 
 
 screams soon brought assistance ; an angry mob 
 gathered, and Lord Mohun and the Captain were only 
 too glad to take, themselves off. The affair had a fatal 
 ending for poor Will Mountford, a graceful, handsome 
 actor who used to play anything from a seventeenth 
 century fop to Alexander in the Rival Queens. This 
 playing of Alexander really cost him his life, as events 
 turned out, for Mrs. Bracegirdle was the Statira, and 
 Hill accordingly became absurdly jealous of the young 
 actor. When the attempted abduction had such an 
 unexpected ending the Captain met Mountford on the 
 street; an altercation ensued and Hill ran his rival 
 through the body with his sword, inflicting a fatal 
 wound. The murderer fled from England, the delect- 
 able Mohun was tried for his life, but acquitted on the 
 ground that there was not sufficient evidence to con- 
 nect him with the crime, and Mountford' s disconsolate 
 widow subsequently married another actor, Verbrug- 
 gen. This gallant second husband was the gentleman 
 who loved to say : " Damn me, though I don'^iuch 
 value my wife, yet nobody shall abuse her. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle left the stage during the reign of 
 Queen Anne, when the younger charms of Nance Old- 
 field were beginning to make her own position insecure, 
 and she lived to a good old age, dying as late as 1748.* 
 She must have read Cibber's Apology, and have taken 
 keen interest in the description of herself as it is here 
 repeated. 
 
 * She was born in 1663. 
 
72 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 " I come now to the last and only living person of 
 all those theatrical characters I have promised you, 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle ; who, I know, would rather pass her 
 remaining days forgotten as an actress, than to have 
 her youth recollected in the most favorable light I am 
 able to place it ; yet, as she is essentially necessary to 
 my theatrical history, and as I only bring her back 
 to the company of those with whom she passed the 
 spring and summer of her life, I hope it will excuse 
 the liberty I take, in commemorating the delight 
 which the publick received from her appearance, while 
 she was an ornament to the theatre. 
 
 "Mrs. Bracegirdle was, now, but just blooming to 
 her maturity ; her reputation as an actress, gradually 
 rising with that of her person ; never any woman was 
 in such general favor of her spectators, which to the 
 last scene of her dramatic life, she maintained by not 
 being unguarded in her private character. This dis- 
 cretion contributed, not a little, to make her the Cara, 
 the D«rling of the Theatre : For it will be no extrava- 
 gant thing to say, scarce an audience saw her, that 
 were less than half of them lovers, without a suspected 
 favorite among them ; and tho' she might be said to 
 have been the universal passion, and under the highest 
 temptations, her constancy in resisting them served 
 but to increase the number of her admirers. And this 
 perhaps you will more easily believe, when I extend 
 not my encomiums on her person, beyond a sincerity 
 that can be suspected ; for she had no greater claim to 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED. 73 
 
 beauty than what the most desirable brunette might 
 pretend to. But her youth, and hvely aspect threw out 
 such a glow of ■ health, and cheerfulness, that on the 
 stage few spectators that were not past it, could behold 
 her without desire. It was even the fashion among the 
 gay, and young, to have a taste or te^idre for Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle. She inspired the best authors to write for 
 her, and two of them, when they gave her a lover in a 
 play, seem'd palpably to plead their own passions, and 
 make their private court to her m fictitious characters. 
 In all the chief parts she acted, the desirable was so 
 predominant, that no judge could be cold enough to 
 consider, from what other particular excellence, she 
 became delightful. To speak critically of an actress, 
 that was extremely good were as hazardous as to be 
 positive in one's opinion of the best opera singer. Peo- 
 ple often judge by comparison, where there is no simil- 
 itude, in the performance. So that, in this case, we 
 have only taste to appeal to, and of taste there can be 
 no disputing. I shall therefore only say of Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle, that the most eminent authors always chose her 
 for their favorite character, and shall leave that uncon- 
 testable proof of her merit to its own value. Yet let 
 me say, that there were two very different characters in 
 which she acquitted herself with no common applause. 
 If anything could excuse that desperate extravagance 
 of love, that almost frantic passion of Lee's Alexander 
 the Great, it must have been when Mrs. Bracegirdle 
 was his Statira ; as when she acted Millama7it^ all the 
 
74 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 faults, follies, and affectations of that agreeable tyrant 
 were venially melted down into so many charms, and 
 attractions of a conscious beauty. In other characters, 
 where singing was a necessary part of them, her voice 
 and action gave a pleasure which good sense, in those 
 days, was not ashamed to give praise to. 
 
 "She retired from the stage in the height of her 
 favor from the publick, when most of her contempo- 
 raries, whom she had been bred up with, were declin- 
 ing, in the year 1710, nor could she be persuaded to 
 return to it, under new masters, upon the most advan- 
 tageous terms that were offered her ; excepting one 
 day, about a year after, to assist her good friend, Mr. 
 Betterton, when she played Angelica^ in Love for Love^ 
 for his benefit. She has still the happiness to retain 
 her usual cheerfulness, to be, without the transitory 
 charms of youth, agreeable." 
 
 The unfortunate Mountford, of whose death the icilly 
 moral Bracegirdle was the innocent cause, stands out 
 as one of the most attractive figures of the early days 
 of King William's reign. He was impressive in 
 tragedy, irresistible as a lover, and brilliant as a come- 
 dian ; his appearance was handsome and his voice a 
 marvel of melody. He made vice so alluring, did this 
 * ' Prince Charming ' ' of the stage, that Queen Mary 
 thought it was dangerous to see him act the unprinci- 
 pled Rover in one of the licentious Mrs. Behn's most 
 famous plays, and he was known to be the ' ' glass of 
 fashion " and the " mould of form "which so inspired 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED. 75 
 
 the great Mr. Wilks with the desire of imitation. " In 
 comedy," Gibber notes, " he gave the truest life to what 
 we call the fine gentleman ; his spirit shone the brighter 
 for being polished with decency : in scenes of gaiety he 
 never broke into the regard that was due to the pres- 
 ence of equal, or superior characters, tho' inferior ac- 
 tors played them ; he filled the stage, not by elbowing 
 and crossing it before others, or disconcerting their 
 action, but by surpassing them in true and masterly 
 touches of nature.* He never laughed at his own 
 jest, unless the point of his raillery upon another re- 
 quired it. He had a particular talent, in giving life to 
 bo7i mots and repartees ; the wit of the poet seem'd 
 always to come from his extempore, and sharpened into 
 more wit from his brilliant manner of delivering it. 
 . . . The agreeable was so natural to him, that 
 even in that dissolute character of the Rover he seem'd 
 to wash off the guilt from vice, and gave it charm and 
 merit." 
 
 Dashing Will's no less dashing wife Susannah, after- 
 ward to be Mrs. Verbruggen, was inimitable as a co- 
 quette of the type then known on the stage, and could 
 play a male coxcomb with remarkable humor and aban- 
 don. To again quote Gibber, whose cameo-like sketches 
 are often so delightful that to reproduce them requires 
 no apology, it appears that she was "mistress of more 
 variety of humor than I ever knew in any one woman 
 
 * This is a lesson that a few modern players might take to 
 heart. 
 
76 ECHOES OF THE FLA YHOUSE. 
 
 actress. This variety, too, was attended with an equal 
 vivacity, which made her excellent in characters ex- 
 tremely different. . . . Nor was her humor limited 
 to her sex, for while her shape permitted she was a 
 more adroit pretty fellow than is usually seen upon the 
 stage : her easy air, action, mien, and gesture quite 
 changed from the quoif, to the cock'd hat, and cavalier 
 in fashion. People were so fond of seeing her a man, 
 that when the part of Bays in the Rehearsal had for 
 some time lain dormant she was desired to take it up, 
 which I have seen her act with all the true, coxcombly 
 spirit, and humor, that the sufficiency of the character 
 required." 
 
 Of her Melantha in Marriage h la Mode the same 
 critic chronicles that it was * * as finished an imperti- 
 nence as ever fluttered in a drawing-room, and seems 
 to contain the most complete system of female foppery 
 that could possibly be crowded into the tortured form 
 of a fine lady. Her language, dress, motion, manners, 
 soul, and body are in a continual hurry to be something 
 more than is necessary or commendable. And though 
 1 doubt it will be a vain labor to offer you a just 
 likeness of Mrs. Mountford's action, yet the fantastick 
 impression is still so strong in my memory, that I can- 
 not help saying something tho' fantastically, about it. 
 The first ridiculous airs that break from her are upon 
 a gallant, never seen before, who delivers her a letter 
 from her father, recommending him to her good graces, 
 as an honorable lover. Here now, one would think she 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED. y; 
 
 might naturally show a little of the sex's decent re- 
 serve, tho' never so slightly covered! No, sir ; not a tittle 
 of it ; modesty is the virtue of a poor-soul' d country gen- 
 tlewoman ; she is too much a court lady to be under so 
 vulgar a confusion ; she reads the letter, therefore, with 
 a careless, dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming 
 it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her 
 father's commands, by making a complete conquest of 
 him at once ; and that the letter might not embarrass 
 her attack, crack ! she crumbles it at once into her 
 palm and pours upon him the whole artillery of airs, 
 eyes, and motion ; down goes her dainty, diving body 
 to the ground, as if she were sinking under the con- 
 scious load of her own attractions ; then launches into 
 a flood of fine language, and compliment, still playing 
 her chest forward, in fifty falls and ri.sings, like a swan 
 upon the waving water ; and, to complete her imperti- 
 nence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that she 
 will not give her lover leave to praise it : silent, assent- 
 ing bows, and vain endeavors to speak, are all the 
 share of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at 
 last, he is relieved from by her engagement to half a 
 score visits, which she swims from him to make, with 
 a promise to return in a twinkling." 
 
 With due allowance for eighteenth century affecta- 
 tion, this is as speaking a criticism as one could wish 
 for, even in this epoch of analytical discussion, when 
 the charms of an actress are put under the dramatic 
 editor's microscope and described in cold type with as 
 
;8 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 much minuteness as though Mr. Howells were dissect- 
 ing one of his commonplace heroines. But to dispose 
 of the blithesome Mountford, let it be added that in her 
 last years * she became mildly deranged. It is related 
 that one day, when her mind was clearer than usual, 
 she demanded to know what play was to be performed 
 at Drury I^ane that evening, and showed unusual in- 
 terest on hearing that it was to be Hamlet. The gen- 
 tle Ophelia had been one of her favorite parts, curiously 
 enough, and as the thought of past triumphs awoke 
 her dormant intellect she determined to play the char- 
 acter once again. She contrived to escape from her 
 attendants, hurried to the theatre, and concealing her- 
 self there until the cue for Ophelia's appearance in the 
 mad scene, she suddenly pushed by the actress to whom 
 the role was assigned, stepped upon the stage and rep- 
 resented the distraught heroine with an effectiveness 
 and wild realism that electrified the audience. It was 
 her farewell to the boards ; she was taken home, and 
 died soon after. The story is a trifle theatrical, and 
 may be apocryphal, but who cares to question it? The 
 idea of a demented actress representing with horrible 
 power the insanity of Ophelia is in itself essentially 
 dramatic, and no one should grudge Mrs. Mountford 
 the benefit of so unconventional an exit. 
 
 Among others in the talented company at Drury 
 lyane whom the invaluable Colley has painted for the 
 edification of succeeding generations, was that "cor- 
 * She died about 1703, 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED. yg 
 
 rect and natural comedian," Cave Underhill. He 
 seems to have been a first-class actor consigned to 
 second-class roles ; "his particular excellence was in 
 characters that may be called still-life, ' ' otherwise the 
 " stiff, the heavy and the stupid." He was especially 
 admired for his Grave-digger in Hamlet, and *' the 
 author of the Tatler recommends him to the favor of 
 the town upon that play 's being acted for his benefit, 
 wherein, after his age had some years obliged him to 
 leave the stage, he came on again, for that day, to 
 perform his old part ; but, alas ! so worn, and disabled 
 as if himself was to have lain in the grave he was dig- 
 ging ; when he could no more excite laughter, his 
 infirmities were dismissed with pity." 
 
 There was Tony Leigh, too, of whom the appreciative 
 'Charles II. used to speak as "My actor," and the 
 natural Nokes. " I saw him once," says Cibber of the 
 latter, ' ' giving an account of some table talk to another 
 actor behind the scenes, which a man of quality, acci- 
 dentally listening to, was so deceived by his manner 
 that he asked him if that was a new play he was re- 
 hearsing ? ' ' This anecdote was related to show that 
 Nokes had the same manner on and off" the stage. 
 " His person was of the middle size, his voice clear and 
 audible ; his natural countenance grave and sober ; 
 but the moment he spoke the settled seriousness of his 
 features was utterly discharg'd, and a dry drolling or 
 laughing levity took such full possession of him, that I 
 can only refer the idea of him to 3'our imagination. In 
 
8o ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 some of his low characters, that became it, he had a 
 shuffling shamble in his gait, with so contented an 
 ignorance in his aspect and an awkward absurdity in 
 his gesture, that had you not known him, you could 
 not have believ'd that naturally he could have had a 
 grain of common sense. In a word, I am tempted to 
 sum up the character of Nokes as a comedian, in a 
 parodie of what Shakespeare's Mark Antony says of 
 Brutus as a hero : 
 
 * His life was laughter, and the ludicrous 
 So mixt, in him, that nature might stand up, 
 And say to all the world, — this was an actor.' " 
 
 In a far different line of work was Sanford, who is 
 said to have been the best impersonator of stage villains 
 ever known. So thoroughly was he identified with 
 such parts that the audiences would tolerate him in 
 none others, and on one occasion the house became 
 ver}^ indignant because he ventured to appear as an 
 honest man. His private character was amiable, but a 
 wicked person they would have him on the stage. 
 Physical defects had not a little to do with the accident 
 that first cast him for this kind of parts ; he had a de- 
 formed body, and it can readily be imagined that he 
 could have made a highly popular Richard III. ' ' Had 
 Sandford lived in Shakespeare's time," according to 
 Cibber, " his judgment must have chose him, above all 
 other actors, to have played his Richard the Third ; I 
 leave his person out of the question, which, tho' nat- 
 urally made for it, yet that would have been the least 
 
LIGHTS LONG SINCE EXTINGUISHED, 8i 
 
 part of his recommendation ; Sandford had stronger 
 claims to it ; he had sometimes an uncouth stateliness 
 in his motion, a harsh and sullen pride of speech, a 
 meditating brow, a stern aspect, occasionally changing 
 into an almost ludicrous triumph over all goodness and 
 virtue : from thence falling into the most assuasive 
 gentleness, and soothing candor of a designing heart. 
 These, I say, must have preferred him to it ; these 
 would have been colors so essentially shining in that 
 character that it will be no dispraise to that great author 
 to say, Sanford must have shewn as many masterly 
 strokes in it (had he ever acted it) as are visible in the 
 writing it." 
 
 If Sanford entertained London bj^ his heavy villains 
 Richard Estcourt was no less acceptable from his won- 
 derful powers as a mimic. His life was a curious one, 
 beginning as it did on the stage and all but ending in a 
 tavern of which he was the proprietor. He was born in 
 1668 at Tewkesbury, and received his education in the 
 I^atin school at that place, only to hurry off as soon as 
 he could to act with a lot of strolling comedians. It is 
 said that he made his debut with these wanderers in 
 the feminine role of Roxana in the Rival Queens^ choos- 
 ing this part so as to conceal his identity. But he was 
 unable to escape detection, and, after being obliged to 
 return to his home he had the supreme mortification of 
 seeing himself apprenticed to a I^ondon apothecary. 
 Medicine bottles, mortars, and pestles were by no means 
 to young Kstcourt's taste, so he took French leave of 
 
 6 
 
82 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 his master, drifted about England and Ireland and 
 finally brought up at Drury L^ane. Here his powers 
 as a mimic brought him into favorable notice ; he imi- 
 tated the voices, gestures, and methods of prominent 
 actors, and earned the friendship of such men as the 
 Duke of Marlborough and Sir Richard Steele. Steele 
 helped to immortalize his friend by writing of him and 
 contended that * * the best man he knew of for heighten- 
 ing the revel-gaiety of a company was Dick Kstcourt. 
 Merry tales, accompanied with apt gestures and lively 
 representations of circumstances and persons beguile 
 the gravest mind into a consent to be as humorous as 
 himself. Add to this that when a man is in his good 
 grace, he has a mimickry that does not debase the per- 
 son he represents, but which, taking from the gravity 
 of the character, adds to the agreeableness of it." 
 
 The death of Kstcourt was soon followed by that of 
 George Powell, whose name will be found opposite the 
 part of Fortius in the original programme for Addison's 
 Cato. Addison has thus alluded in the Spectator 
 to the first Fortius, in a way that indicates the thorough 
 knowledge, on the part of this actor, of the advantages 
 of theatrical clap- trap : ' ' The warm and passionate 
 parts of tragedy are always the most taking with the 
 audience ; for which reason we often see the players 
 pronouncing in all the violence of action several parts 
 of the tragedy which the author writ with great temper, 
 and designed that they should have been so acted. I 
 have seen Powell very often raise himself a loud clap 
 
LIGHTS LOA'G SINCE EXTINGUISHED. 83 
 
 by this artifice." The author of Cafo admits, how- 
 ever, that Powell * ' is excellently formed for a tragedian, 
 and, when he pleases, deserves the admiration of the 
 best judges." 
 
 This player never occupied a position of the com- 
 manding sort, although he appears to have had a very 
 clear belief that he was the equal of Betterton. When 
 the latter had become old and gouty, Powell announced 
 that he would play Falstaff after the exact manner of 
 the great actor, and he not only mimicked the style 
 and voice of the original but also had the brutality to 
 burlesque his infirmities. Consequently we can hardly 
 wax sentimental in learning that his career was ruined 
 by intemperance or that he died in poverty, with the 
 bailiffs pursuing him to the grave. 
 
 With Powell must come to a close this brief sketch 
 of the brightest lights among the remarkable players 
 who acted as a connecting link between the end of the 
 seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
 While they dominate the scene changes are taking 
 place in the drama ; the old order of things is vanish- 
 ing, new faces are appearing, and the theatre of the 
 Restoration has already passed into history, to be con- 
 demned for its licentiousness but lovingly remembered 
 for the sake of the gifted men and charming women 
 who gave it such brilliance. We are now in the reign 
 of ** good Queen Anne " ; let us tarry for a chapter to 
 glance at theatrical conditions during the golden era of 
 this amiable but commonplace sovereign. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THK OI.D re:gimk and the; n^w. 
 
 " T T OW do you employ your time now ? " a lady 
 X X ^^ quality is asked in the early days of the 
 
 eighteenth century. 
 
 '* I lie in bed," she says, ''till noon, dress all the 
 afternoon, dine in the evening, and play at cards till 
 midnight." 
 
 ** How do you spend the Sabbath ? " 
 
 "In chit-chat." 
 
 ''What do you talk of?" 
 
 ' ' New fashions and new plays. ' ' 
 
 " How often do you go to Church ? " 
 
 " Twice a 3'ear or oftener, according as my husband 
 gives me new clothes. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Why do you go to church when you have new 
 clothes?" 
 
 " To see other people's finery, and to show my own, 
 and to laugh at those scurvy, out-of- fashion creatures 
 that come there for devotion." 
 
 " Pray, Madam, what books do you read ? " 
 
 " I read lew'd plays and winning romances." * 
 
 * From the English Lady's Catechism^ first published in 1703. 
 84 
 
THE OLD rAgIME AND THE NEW. 85 
 
 This very truthful lady whose frankness gives a 
 fairly correct idea of the daily habits of contemporary 
 women of fashion, might have added that she went to 
 the theatre, presumably Drury I^ane or Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, on the two or three evenings in the week when 
 performances were given, and that when she saw a 
 *'lew'd play" she was better pleased than if the bill 
 were Shakespearian. In all probability she belonged 
 to the bevy of coquettish damsels whom Addison has 
 immortalized in one of his brightest essays. 
 
 "Some years ago," he relates in the Spectator,^ *' I 
 was at the tragedy of Macbeth, and unfortunately placed 
 myself under a woman of quality that is since dead, 
 who, as I found by the noise she made, was newly re- 
 turned from France. t A little before the rising of the 
 curtain, sh-e broke out into a loud soliloquy, 'When 
 will the dear witches enter ? ' and immediately upon 
 their first appearance, asked a lady that sat three boxes 
 from her on her right hand, if those witches were not 
 charming creatures. A little after, as Betterton was 
 in one of the finest speeches of the play, she shook her 
 fan at another lady who sat as far on the left hand, and 
 told her with a whisper that might be heard all over 
 the pit, ' we must not expect to see Balloon to-night.' 
 Not long after, calling out to a young baronet by his 
 name, who sat three seats before me, she asked him 
 
 * No. 45, April izi, 1711. 
 
 t A trip to France was considered very comme ilfaut in Ad- 
 ^iSQn's day. 
 
86 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 whether Macbeth' s wife was still alive ; and before 
 he could give an answer, fell a talking of the ghost 
 of Banquo. She had by this time formed a little 
 audience to herself, and fixed the attention of all 
 about her. But as I had a mind to hear the play, 
 I got out of the sphere of her impertinence, and 
 planted myself in one of the most remotest corners 
 of the pit." 
 
 Addison was not the only unfortunate who had ex- 
 periences of this sort — for the matter of that, the gen- 
 tle art of talking, in and out of the boxes, and drawing 
 attention from the stage, is still cultivated in some 
 quarters — and it must have been a hard thing in those 
 days to keep the uninterrupted run of a performance. 
 There seems to have been a charming absence of self- 
 restraint among the patrons of the drama, between the 
 disturbances so often created in the upper gallery by 
 the servants of the aristocratic visitors, and the talk- 
 ing, walking about the theatre, and general want of 
 consideration among the ' ' quality ' ' themselves. The 
 ** plain people." in the middle class of life, who were 
 given to neither coquetry, gallantry, nor good clothes, 
 and their quiet, studious superiors who went to the 
 play for the play's sake, must have launched many a 
 secret, but nevertheless fervent anathema against the 
 frivolous disturbers of their peace. But democracy 
 was not as potent a factor in the theatre as out of it, 
 and the noisy airs and graces of the women, the star- 
 ing, the drivelling gossip and impertinences of the men, 
 
THE OLD REGIME AND THE NEW, 8/ 
 
 the flirting with the pretty orange girls,* and the 
 general arrogance of upper- tendom, went on un- 
 checked. 
 
 But the greatest confusion came from a custom which 
 Anne, who was no enthusiastic admirer of the theatre, 
 but who had a keen sense of decorum and decency, 
 tried hard to correct. This was in allowing members 
 of the audience to sit on the stage during a perform- 
 ance, mingle with the actors, stroll behind the scenes, 
 and even penetrate into the dressing-rooms of the ac- 
 tresses. It is hard to picture such a helter-skelter state 
 of affairs in the nineteenth century, when even the 
 meanest theatre has stringent regulations as to the ad- 
 mission of outsiders into the quarters of the performers. 
 • Imagine Mr. Irving acting Hamlet with some of his 
 audience nonchalantly reclining on chairs or sofas 
 placed near the wings ; or worse still, think of empty- 
 headed specimens of the jeuness doree calmly walking 
 around the players and almost jostling them, while 
 the latter were speaking their lines ; then stumbling 
 out among the scene- shifters, and finally ending by 
 superintending the toilets and make-up of the femi- 
 nine members of the company. Yet an anomaly like 
 this was patiently endured when Anne came to the 
 throne, probably because the public was hardened to 
 the whole wretched business. But the incongruity of 
 it gradually dawned upon the theatre-goers, and the 
 
 *The ostensible duty of the orange girls was to serve refresh- 
 ments between the acts. 
 
88 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 Queen herself undertook to institute a much-needed 
 reform in this direction. 
 
 Whatever may have been the virtues of the sover- 
 eign she had no very clear perception of the artistic, 
 and it is evident that her action came from a desire to 
 prevent immorality rather than from any hope to pre- 
 serve harmony and realism on the stage. That the 
 abuse referred to was calculated to foster a looseness 
 and want of decency in the relation between the ac- 
 tresses and the gentlemen who haunted their apart- 
 ments is a fact that requires no elaboration. Fully 
 conscious of this, Anne issued a proclamation setting 
 forth that "no person of what quality soever" should 
 "presume to go behind the stage, either before, or 
 during the acting of any play." It was further or- 
 dered " that no woman be allowed or presume to wear 
 a vizard mask in either of the theatres. And that no 
 person come into either house without paying the 
 prices established for their respective places." 
 
 The beaux who thought half the fun of going to 
 the theatre consisted in ogling the actresses behind the 
 scenes or boldly surveying the audience in front, were 
 loth to obey the royal commands. They died hard, as 
 it were, and it was not until about 1712, after another 
 proclamation had been issued, that the practice was 
 discontinued. The brilliant * * Dick ' ' Steele must have 
 been delighted when the end came, for he has some- 
 thing to say in a number of the Spectator about the 
 unsolicited performance of a young person who assisted 
 
THE OLD rAgIME AND THE NEW. 89 
 
 in presenting the play of Philaster. This was * ' a very- 
 lusty fellow, but withal a sort of beau, who getting 
 into one of the side-boxes in the stage before the cur- 
 tain drew, was disposed to show the whole audience 
 his activity by leaping over the spikes : he passed from 
 thence to one of the entering doors, where he took snuff 
 with tolerable good grace, displayed his fine clothes, 
 made two or three feint passes at the curtain with his 
 cane, and faced about and appeared at t'other door. 
 Here he affected to survey the whole house, bowed and 
 smiled at random, and then showed his teeth, which 
 were some of them indeed very white. After this he 
 retired behind the curtain, and obliged us with several 
 views of his person from every opening. During the 
 time of acting he appeared frequently in the prince's 
 apartment, [one of the scenes of Philaster] made one 
 at the hunting match, and was very forward in the 
 rebellion." 
 
 Once that these gentlemen so ** very forward " had 
 to retire from the unwilling gaze of the audience one 
 of the most striking differences between the old-fash- 
 ioned theatre and that of to-day was removed. In 
 some respects the conditions were very much the same 
 then as now. Actors often ranted in a way to make 
 the judicious grieve (this sorrow we shall have always 
 with us) ; there was the inevitable amount of sham, 
 fustian, and clap-trap about many things theatrical, 
 and the gallery was appealed to with an eagerness 
 worthy of a modern *' ham-fatter , " who will tear the 
 
go ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 proverbial passion into as many tatters as physical 
 strength and an unmerciful Providence will allow. 
 There were no melodramas, so called, but the mouths 
 of heroes were filled with bombast, producing "such 
 sentiments as proceed rather from a swelling than a 
 greatness of mind, ' ' and * * unnatural exclamations, 
 curses, vows, blasphemies, a defiance of mankind, and 
 an outraging of the gods ' ' frequently passed upon the 
 audience for "towering thoughts," and accordingly 
 met "with infinite applause."* There were "blood 
 and thunder" dramas, in which a general killing of 
 the principal characters formed an agreeable feature ; 
 plays in which the enforced use of the handkerchief by 
 tearful females was aimed at, and comedies constructed, 
 as the play-bills would now put it, for laughing pur- 
 poses only. Vaudeville, (whereby is meant variety en- 
 tertainment) alleged * ' farce-comedy ' ' (which is really 
 not farce-comedy at all) and dime museums were un- 
 known, but their places were well supplied by puppet 
 shows, wax works, including the image of a certain 
 countess who had "three hundred and sixty-five chil- 
 dren, all born at one birth," tight- rope walking, acro- 
 batic display, a gentleman without arms or hands, who 
 wrote "very fine with his mouth," a lad covered with 
 hog bristles, and any quantity of freaks, wild beasts, 
 and diverse objects of curious interest. 
 
 The scheme of interjecting a little dancing and sing- 
 ing, or, rather, a great deal of it, into a performance of 
 * Addison. 
 
THE OLD REGIME AND THE NEW. 9 1 
 
 the lighter vein, which ivS really the basis of the modern 
 farce-comedy, had exemplification even then, as the 
 following advertisement from the lyondon Daily Cou- 
 rant^ plainly shows : 
 
 *' At the Theatre in Dorset Gardens, this day being 
 Friday the 30th of April, will be presented a farce 
 call'd The Cheats of Scapin. And a comedy of two 
 acts only, call'd The Comical Rivals, or the School Boy. 
 With several Italian Sonatas by Signior Gasperini and 
 others. And the Devonshire Girl being now upon her 
 return to the City of Exeter, will perform three differ- 
 ent dances, particularly her last new entry in imitation 
 of Mademoiselle Subligni, and the Whip of Dunboyne 
 by Mr. Claxton her Master, being the last time of their 
 performance till winter. And at the desire of several 
 persons of quality (hearing that Mr. Pinkethman hath 
 hired the two famous French girls lately arrived from 
 the Emperor's Court). They will perform several 
 dances on the rope upon the stage, being improved to 
 that degree, far exceeding all others in that art. And 
 their Father presents you with the Newest Humors of 
 Harlequin as performed by him before the Grand Sig- 
 nior at Constantinople. Also the famous Mr. Evans, 
 lately arrived from Vienna, will show you wonders of 
 another kind, vaulting on the manag'd horse, being the 
 greatest master of that kind in the world. To begin 
 at Five so that all may be done by Nine a Clock. ' ' 
 
 Thej^ did some things better in that quaint period. 
 * April 30, 1703. 
 
92 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 The manager might furnish one with farce, comedy, 
 and specialties all in the same evening, but he kept 
 one distinct from the other ; at present the danc- 
 ing, the singing, the horse-vaulting, et caetera, are 
 integral parts of the " play," with the result that the 
 spectator, however much he may enjoy the incidental 
 features, is generally in a state of hopeless bewilder- 
 ment as to the nature or plot of the farce itself. 
 
 So far as the morals of the plays go, the stage has 
 greatly altered for the better. Even during Anne's 
 time much improvement in tone was to be noted, but 
 the foul atmosphere of the Restoration still pervaded the 
 theatres and spoiled many a fine work, whose author, 
 yielding to the taste of the age, tarnished the brilliancy 
 of his wit by the introduction of nastiness and in- 
 nuendo. So deeply rooted had become this habit of 
 catering to the worst feeling of the audience that when 
 Colley Gibber (whose career will be dwelt upon later) 
 sought to get out of the beaten path by writing so com- 
 paratively clean a comedy as The Careless Husband 
 the town was almost nonplussed. The hero. Lord 
 Morelove, was not the licentious lover of old, with the 
 manners of a gentleman and the heart of a libertine ; 
 on the contrary he proved honest, without being prud- 
 ish, and it may well be imagined how disappointed 
 were certain frequenters of the theatre at such a change 
 oi treatment. 
 
 In one of Steele's comedies, however, exception was 
 taken to a sentiment put into the mouth of a certain 
 
THE OLD rAgIME AND THE NEW. 93 
 
 character, and some time later Sir Richard very sen- 
 sibly modified the passage which had proved so ob- 
 jectionable even to several among his well-seasoned 
 clientelle. The play was The Funeral, or Grief a la 
 Mode, wherein those very necessary and respectable 
 persons, the undertakers, were satirized with a delight- 
 ful humor and originality that contributed largely to 
 its success. Steele hinself apologized, through the 
 medium of the Spectator,* for the offending lines — 
 which were by no means out of the way as things went 
 in those easy-going days, and pleaded in extenuation 
 that " if the audience would but consider the difficulty 
 of keeping up a sprightly dialogue for five acts to- 
 gether, they would allow a writer, when he wants wit, 
 and cannot please any otherwise, to help it out with a 
 little smuttiness. . . . When the author cannot 
 strike out of himself any more of that which he has 
 superior to those who make up the bulk of his audience, 
 his natural recourse is to that which he has in common 
 with them ; and a description which gratifies a sensual 
 appetite will please when the author has nothing about 
 him to delight a refined imagination." 
 
 A plausible excuse, especially for Dick, but think of 
 a dramatist being so frank in this year of grace, 1895. 
 
 Addison took a much higher view of the moral phase 
 of play writing. '* It is one of the most unaccount- 
 able things in our age," he mourns, " that the lewed- 
 ness of our theatre, should be so much complained of, 
 * No. 51, April 28, 1711. 
 
94 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE, 
 
 and so little redressed. It is to be hoped, that some 
 time or other we may be at leisure to restrain the licen- 
 tiousness of the theatre, and make it contribute its 
 assistance to the advancement of morality and to the 
 reformation of the age.* As matters stand at present, 
 multitudes are shut out from this noble diversion by 
 reason of those abuses and corruptions that accompany 
 it. A father is often afraid that his daughter should 
 be ruined by these entertainments, which were invented 
 for the accomplishment and refining of human nature. 
 The Athenian and Roman plays were written with 
 such a regard to morality, that Socrates used to fre- 
 quent the one and Cicero the other. . . . On the 
 contrary, cuckoldom is the basis of most of our modern 
 plays. If an alderman appears upon the stage, yo\x 
 may be sure it is to be cuckolded. An husband that is 
 a little grave or elderly generally meets with the same 
 fate. Knights and baronets, country squires, and jus- 
 tices of the quorum, come up to town for no other pur- 
 pose. I have seen poor Dogget cuckolded in all his ca- 
 pacities. In short our English writers are as frequently 
 severe upon this innocent, unhappy creature commonly 
 known by the name of a cuckold as the ancient comic 
 writers were upon an eating parasite, or a vainglorious 
 soldier. 
 
 * * At the same time the poet so contrives matters that 
 
 * Addison says in a foot-note concerning the reformation of 
 
 the age : "Impossible. No play will take, that is not adapted 
 
 to the prevailing manners. But to flatter the age is not the 
 
 way to reform it." 
 
THE OLD rAgiME AND THE NEW. 95 
 
 the two criminals are the favorites of the audience. 
 We sit still, and wish well to them through the whole 
 play, are pleased when they meet with proper opportu- 
 nities, and are out of humor when they are disappointed. 
 The truth of it is, the accomplished gentleman upon 
 the English stage is the person that is familiar with 
 other men's wives and indifferent to his own ; as the 
 fine woman is generall}^ a composition of sprightliness 
 and falsehood." 
 
 When Addison thus wailed over the degeneracy of 
 the drama better times were coming ; the curious min- 
 gling of wit, sparkle, and undisguised obscenity was giv- 
 ing way to a more sedate and classic style of composition, 
 and morality was to be the gainer, even though one 
 might often miss the abandon and unconventionality 
 of the old-fashioned school. It would be like the tran- 
 sition from an unrestrained, free-and-easy country dance 
 to the stately, dignified, and not alwaj^s exciting minuet. 
 
 Dryden, one of the greatest offenders against good 
 taste, was now dead, although his plays, poor stuff that 
 some of them seem, in the light of modern standards, 
 were still regarded with favor. 
 
 Congreve, whose epigrammatic wit and artificial yet 
 none the less undeniable charm were often disgraced by 
 the most unblushing ribaldry, had practically ceased to 
 write for the stage, and evinced more anxiety to be re- 
 garded as a private gentleman than as a dramatist or lit- 
 terateur. Possibly he regretted some of his broadness 
 of expression, and foresaw that the eighteenth century, 
 
96 ECHOES OP THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 which had come in like a young rake, would go out as a 
 very proper, punctilious old gentleman, primed with 
 nice sentiments and abhorring vulgarity and bluntness. 
 Whatever may have been his feelings on so delicate a 
 subject we find him, some years later, rebuking the ad- 
 miring Voltaire for having paid homage to him as an 
 author. " Mr. Congreve," relates the great French 
 skeptic, ''had one defect, which was his entertaining 
 too mean an idea of his own first profession, that of a 
 writer, though it was to this he owed his fame and for- 
 tune. He spoke of his works as trifles that were be- 
 neath him, and hinted to me in our first conversation, 
 that I should visit him upon no other footing than that 
 of a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplic- 
 ity. I answered that had he been so unfortunate as to 
 be a mere gentleman, I should never have come to see 
 him ; and I was very much disgusted at so unseasona- 
 ble a piece of vanity." 
 
 Voltaire's disgust did not interfere with his love of 
 Congreve' s work, for he pays the author of the Double 
 Dealer a remarkable tribute in one of his ' ' lyCtters 
 Concerning the English Nation." He thinks that 
 " Mr. Congreve raised the glory of comedy to a greater 
 heigh th than any English writer before or since his 
 time. He wrote only a few plays, but they are excel- 
 lent in their kind. The laws of the drama are strictly 
 observed in them." It is added that all the charac- 
 ters are ' ' shadowed with the utmost delicacy, and we 
 don't meet with so much as one low or coarse jest ^'^ a curi- 
 
THE OLD REGIME AND THE NEW, 9/ 
 
 ous criticism that is somewhat modified when we learn 
 that ' * the language is everywhere that of men of fash- 
 ion, but their actions are those of Knaves, a proof that 
 he was perfectly well acquainted with human nature, 
 and frequented what we call polite compan}^" 
 
 And so we see Congreve cheerfully but goutily going 
 down to his grave as a well-to-do gentleman might (not 
 as a poor scribe, be it remembered), beloved by his dis- 
 tinguished friends and rejoicing in the affections of his 
 very particular ch^re amie^ Henrietta, Duchess of Marl- 
 borough. After he died the Duchess, to whom the 
 great man had bequeathed the bulk of his fortune, put 
 a marble tablet near his resting-place in Westminster 
 Abbey, upon which she set forth, for the edification of 
 posterit}^ ** the happiness and honor she enjoyed in 
 the sincere friendship of so worthy and honest a man, 
 whose virtue, candor, and wit gained him the love and 
 esteem of the present age, and whose writings will be 
 the admiration of the future." When Sarah, the old 
 Duchess of Marlborough, read the inscription she re- 
 marked with characteristic venom : " I know not what 
 pleasure she might have had in his company, but I am 
 sure it was no honor." 
 
 Congreve' s plays are now as mouldy as that once 
 plump, handsome body of his which lies in the great 
 Abbey ; the student of the stage may know them, but 
 the theatre-goer will never see them more. After all, 
 it is only as he may have wished in those final days, as 
 he approached the Great Beyond with a genteel air of 
 
 7 
 
98 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 patience and philosophy that so keenly stirred the ad- 
 miration and sympathy of his associates. If in his 
 inner consciousness he felt that the age was improving 
 he never said so, for only a short time before his death 
 he wrote : 
 
 */ Come see thy friend, retired without regret, 
 Forgetting care, or striving to forget, 
 In easy contemplation soothing time. 
 With morals much, and now and then with rhyme. 
 Not so robust in body as in mind, 
 And always undejected, tho' declined ; 
 Not wondering at the world's new wicked ways, 
 Compared with those of our forefathers' days, 
 For virtue now is neither more nor less, 
 And vice is only varied in the dress. 
 Believe it, men have ever been the same. 
 And Ovid's Golden Age is but a dream." * 
 
 The long-since-forgotten plays of early eighteenth 
 century celebrity would, for the most part, seem stupid 
 enough and horridly archaic were they to be revived. 
 Yet many of them delighted large audiences and in- 
 spired the finest efforts of players whose names will 
 never be forgotten while there is interest in the history 
 of the English stage. There was The Provoked Wife 
 by Sir John Vanbrugh, a licentious comedy in which 
 Betterton created, with great success, the role of Sir 
 John Brute^ and which was later to be revived by Gar- 
 rick so that he might delight his admirers in the same 
 character. It was a scandalous piece, yet it had so 
 much genuine humor that Garrick ventured to add it 
 * Epistle of Improving the Present Time, 
 
THE OLD REGIME AND THE NEW. 99 
 
 to his repertoire, with some of the original grossness 
 left out, but as its heroine, Lady Brute, not content 
 with being a wanton herself, actually connived at the 
 ruin of her own niece, the oblivion that afterward over- 
 took it is a matter for congratulation rather than 
 regret. 
 
 Unlike the Provoked Wife and nearly all of its con- 
 temporaries. The Inconstaiit has survived to the present 
 day, and was re-produced only a few seasons ago by 
 Augustin Daly, with John Drew and Ada Rehan in 
 the cast. Poor Farquhar, its author, wrote plays that 
 had greater runs than the Inconstajit, but they have 
 been on the theatrical shelf many a long year. His 
 first effort was suggestively styled Love in a Bottle, 
 brought out when he was but twenty-one years old, 
 and which was received with such favor that he soon 
 produced the Constant Couple. Even in this era of 
 lengthy runs a series of fifty-three performances in one 
 season is not to be despised, while the fact that this 
 was the record of the Constant Couple in 1 700 was then 
 something phenomenal, and clearly indicates the meas- 
 ure of its popularity. His remarkable list included 
 the Recrtiiting Officer (wherein he depicted his own 
 image as Captain Plume and mirrored several of his 
 companions) and ended with perhaps the best of all, 
 The Beaux Stratagem. The latter was written under 
 peculiar conditions that contrasted in a pathetic way 
 with the triumphant reception accorded it. The comedy 
 was the product of six miserable weeks of worry and 
 
100 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 poverty, during which Farquhar lay dying of a linger- 
 ing illness, wondering how the members of his family 
 were to be fed, and seeing no happier prospect before 
 them than starvation. These were the circumstances 
 under which one of the most felicitous plays of the last 
 century was conceived and developed, the author even 
 then predicting that he would not live to see the end of 
 its run. 
 
 From the very first Farquhar had encountered an un- 
 usually checquered experience. When a mere youth 
 he took to the stage, where he chiefly distinguished 
 himself by accidentally w^ounding a fellow- performer 
 with his sword. He was a man of marked sensitive- 
 ness, and as a result of this unpleasant contretemps he 
 gave up any ambition to shine in the profession. Wilks, 
 however, advised him to write for the boards which he 
 could no longer adorn by his presence, *' and in return," 
 says Dibdin, ** Farquhar made his friend the hero of 
 his pieces, which, however, he is said to have drawn as 
 portraits of himself, having got a commission in the 
 army, and being a young man greatly esteemed by the 
 gaj^ world ; young, volatile, and w^ild, but polished, 
 sensible, and honorable." This "wild" but ** sensi- 
 ble " young fellow always had before his eyes the awful 
 spectre of poverty, and in his frantic effort to vanquish 
 it so overreached himself that the phantom became a 
 reality. He solemnly declared that he must marry a 
 rich woman, and a lady who happened to be rich in 
 nothing save her love for him, deceived this frank for- 
 
THE OLD REGIME ANL^ ^^TlfE-NElVr ' ' l6r 
 
 tune-hunter into the belief that she was weaUhy in 
 money as well as affection. So Farquhar wed her, 
 " without examining rent rolls or title deeds," and was 
 much disappointed on finding that his wife's purse was 
 no fuller than his own. He resigned his army com- 
 mission, on the supposition that an influential noble- 
 man would take care of him ; this anticipation, too, had 
 no realization, and the dramatist, with that awful fear 
 of a pauper's grave before his eyes, got poorer and 
 poorer. His wife, to whom, to do him justice, he was 
 sincerely attached, and his two little children were in 
 actual want, for his dramatic work brought but few 
 pounds into the household, and the misery of it all so 
 preyed on his mind that he fell ill and died before he 
 reached the age of thirty. 
 
 ' * Dear Bob, ' ' he wrote to Wilks just before his death, 
 ' ' I have not anything to leave thee, to perpetuate my 
 memory but two helpless girls ; look upon them some- 
 times and think of him who was to the last moment of 
 his life thine — G. Farquhar." Wilks did what he 
 could for the unfortunate children, but their mother 
 soon died, and the daughters of one of the greatest of 
 English playwrights were allowed by an ungrateful 
 public to eke out a precarious livelihood. 
 
 A writer who flourished after the manner of a green 
 bay tree in Queen Anne's reign was Nicholas Rowe, 
 over whose sentimental tragedies it became the fashion 
 to weep profusely. One of them that enjoyed a great 
 vogue was Tamerlane, in which the characters of King 
 
102 , kCHQES or THE FLA Y HO USE. 
 
 William and Louis XIV. were depicted under the re- 
 spective guises of Tamerlane and Bajazet ; and others 
 included the Fair Penitent and Jane Shore. Upon his 
 trying comedy he met with dismal failure, which does 
 not seem to have disconcerted him much, for when The 
 Biter was brought out in 1705 Rowe sat in the front of 
 the house and laughed, while all around him were hiss- 
 ing and hooting. 
 
 Of women dramatists there appears a curious array. 
 Aphra Behn, who had varied her discreditable career 
 by acting as a spy for the English Government, was no 
 longer alive to invent filthy plays, but Mrs. Centlivre was 
 writing, and so were Mrs. Pix, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. 
 Trotter (alias Cockburne). The last three, as Dibdin 
 contemptuously observes, ' ' made up a triumvirate of 
 lady wits who enjoyed a great deal the admiration of the 
 namby-pamby critics, and the indifference, and some- 
 times the ridicule of those whom heaven had vouch- 
 safed to endow with taste and judgment." To dwell 
 upon the effusions of these aspirants, or upon the more 
 important work of several of their masculine colleagues, 
 would take up two or three chapters, and so we will 
 dismiss the plays of the period by mentioning one 
 which, though no longer acted, is still remembered be- 
 cause it happens to be from the polished pen of Addi- 
 son. Cato was the name of the tragedy, and it has 
 been aptly described as * ' a compound of transcendant 
 beauties and absurdities." It had its day of prosperity 
 upon the stage ; indeed, it supplied the model for many 
 a later example of less scholarly writers, and now it 
 
THE OLD REGIME AND THE NEW. IO3 
 
 enjoys the somewhat dubious honor of being bound as 
 part of Addison's Works — and frequently skipped in the 
 reading thereof. Viewed from the present standpoint 
 it seems pros}^ and lacking in situation, but Mr. Addi- 
 son's contemporaries thought otherwise and quickly put 
 upon his drama the mark of emphatic approval. 
 
 Steele, who had dedicated his Tender Husband to his 
 collaborateur on the Spectator^ addressed some ' ' verses 
 to the Author of the Tragedy of Cato, ' ' to the effect that 
 
 ** While you the fierce divided Britons awe, 
 And Cato with an equal virtue draw. 
 While envy is itself in wonder lost, 
 And factions strive who shall applaud you most ; 
 Forgive the fond ambition of a friend, 
 Who hopes himself, not you, to recommend. 
 And join th' applause which all the learn'd bestow 
 On one, to whom a perfect work they owe. 
 To my light scenes I once inscribed your name. 
 And impotently strove to borrow fame : 
 Soon will that die, which adds thy name to mine ; 
 lyct me, then, live, join'd to a work of thine." 
 
 Pope wrote a prologue for Cato and took care to get 
 in a good word for home drama, as opposed to French 
 adaptations and the Italian opera, fast becoming quite 
 the rage. He concludes by calling upon Britons to 
 approve the play, and pointed out that 
 
 ** With honest scorn the first-fam'd Cato viewed 
 Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued : 
 Our scene precariously subsists too long 
 On French translation and Italian song : 
 Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, 
 Be justly warni'd with your own native rage. 
 Such plays alone should please a British ear, 
 As Cato's self had not disdained to hear." 
 
I04 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 The mention of these productions recalls the fact 
 that one of the homes of the drama at this time was 
 the Theatre Royal, Drury I^ane, which was managed 
 by Christopher Rich, a lawyer, from 1690 to 17 10, and 
 subsequently by Collier, Wilks, Dogget, and Cibber. 
 In the year 171 2 Dogget retired from the partnership, 
 and Barton Booth took his place, while two years later 
 we find Steele becoming its proprietor by virtue of a 
 life-patent granted to him. Henri Misson, the observ- 
 ant French traveller who visited England about the 
 end of the seventeenth century, naturally attended per- 
 formances at Drury Lane, and in his memoirs gives a 
 graphic idea of the interior of the house.* "The pit 
 is an amphitheatre fiU'd with benches without back 
 boards, and adorn'd and cover'd with green cloth. 
 Men of quality, particularly the younger sort, some 
 ladies of reputation and vertue, and abundance of dam- 
 sels that hunt for prey, sit all together in this place, 
 higgledy-piggledy, chatter, toy, play, hear, hear not. 
 Farther up, against the wall, under the first gallery, 
 and just opposite to the stage, rises another amphi- 
 theatre, which is taken up by persons of the best qual- 
 ity, among whom are generally very few men. The 
 galleries, whereof there are only two rows, are fill'd 
 with none but ordinary people, particularly the upper 
 one." 
 
 The Dorset Gardens Theatre, in Salisbury Court, 
 originally occupied by the defunct Duke of York's 
 * These Memoirs were translated into English in 1719. 
 
THE OLD REGIME AND THE NEW. I05 
 
 Company, now seemed in a languishing condition. 
 From being a temple for the muses of Tragedy and 
 Comedy it gradually sank to the meanest uses until it 
 was razed to the ground, in 1709. The house in I^in- 
 coln's Inn Fields had a fair amount of prosperity dur- 
 ing its occupancy by Betterton and his company, who 
 had revolted from the management of Rich, at Drury 
 Lane, but for some time previous to Anne's death it 
 remained untenanted. 
 
 lyondon had at least one theatre too many, but a 
 company was formed, notwithstanding, to build a new 
 one in the Haymarket, where that novel and popular 
 form of entertainment, Italian opera, might be pre- 
 sented. ** Of this theatre," says Cibber, " I saw the 
 first stone laid, on which was inscribed The Little 
 Whig^ in honor to a lady of extraordinary beauty,* 
 then the celebrated toast and pride of that party." 
 The house was opened with a great flourish of trum- 
 pets on an Easter Monday, 1705, with a performance 
 of The Triumph of Love, otherwise " a translated opera, 
 to Italian musick." Sir John Vanbrugh and Con- 
 greve, who directed the enterprise, hardly met with 
 the expected success, although they were joined by 
 Betterton and his associates, who came over from I^in- 
 coln's Inn Fields. But as Cibber has pointed out, the 
 company was no longer what it had been. " Several 
 of them, excellent in their different talents, were now 
 dead, as Smith, Kynaston, Sandford, and I^eigh, Mrs. 
 * Lady Sunderland, a daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, 
 
I06 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 Bettertoti and Underbill being, at tbis time, superannu- 
 ated pensioners, wbose places were generally but ill sup- 
 plied. Nor could it be expected tbat Betterton himself, 
 at past seventy, could retain his former force and spirit, 
 though he was yet far distant from any competitor. 
 Thus, then, were these remains of the best set of actors 
 that I believe were ever known, at once in England, by 
 time, death, and the satiety of their hearers, mould- 
 ' ring to decay," 
 
 Like equally sanguine managers of later years Con- 
 greve and Sir John gave up their new venture as soon 
 as they conveniently could, and one Owen Swinej^ en- 
 gaged to watch over the destinies of the theatre whose 
 
 " Majestic columns stand where dung hills lay, 
 And cars triumphal rise from carts of hay." 
 
GENTLEMAN SMITH, 
 
 AS ' ' PLUME "IN " THE RECRUITING OFFICER. " FROM A DRAWING BY ISAAC TAYLOR. 
 
:;^;;:i^'v;i: ; A ; 
 
 : f .. c : c , c 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ONE of the most interesting figures of the eigh- 
 teenth century stage, a man whose career makes 
 a bridge between the halcyon days of Betterton, Kynas- 
 ton, and Barry and those of the incomparable Garrick 
 (whom he contemptuously called *' the prettiest little 
 creature") now claims attention. This is none other 
 than Colley Gibber, whose want of genius was atoned 
 for by an " infinite variety ' ' which enabled him to be- 
 come actor, manager, dramatist, man about town and, 
 by some inscrutable dispensation of Providence and 
 royal favor, Poet Laureate of the English nation. As 
 an actor he was a success in characters of the light 
 foppish variety, yet he convulsed his friends, in a way 
 not intended, by his penchant for tragedy ; as a mana- 
 ger, he showed great administrative capacity, while he 
 could be overbearing and unpleasant ; as a dramatist 
 he wrote some popular, sprightly comedies, and as a 
 poet he seems to have been ** one of the worst on rec- 
 ord.' ' * * Colley Cibber, Sir, ' ' pompously said Dr. John- 
 son to the admiring Boswell, "was by no means a 
 blockhead ; but by arrogating to himself too much, he 
 
 107 
 
I08 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 was in danger of losing that degree of estimation to 
 which he was entitled." 
 
 The weighty Doctor, with all his prejudices and ar- 
 rogance, had an elephantine way of hitting the bull's 
 eye of truth about men and things, and he never gauged 
 a nature better than he did in this instance. When, 
 however, he called Cibber a " Poor creature," he shot 
 wide of the mark, for while the" volatile CoUey had a 
 thousand faults he accomplished too much to deserve 
 so mean a description. Yet it wouldhave been expect- 
 ing the impossible to ask that the man who insolently 
 referred to Garrick, even before his face, as *' Punch," 
 and who looked upon players as little more or less than 
 disreputable puppets, should find any great compliment 
 for a butterfly like the Laureate. Butterflies have their 
 uses, the one in this case writing an autobiography that 
 is now a theatrical classic, but Johnson could find no 
 health in them, particularly if their wings were singed 
 by the footlights. 
 
 Whatever was artistic in the temperament of this au- 
 thor-actor must have been inherited from his father, 
 Caius Gabriel Cibber, a native of Holstein who emi- 
 grated to England prior to the Restoration and after- 
 wards acquired considerable fame as a sculptor. His 
 figures are now forgotten, but the dandified form of his 
 son seems a reality even yet ; we can picture him flit- 
 ting about among the coxcombs of his time ; then rush- 
 ing to the theatre to play some character dear to his 
 heart, or hurrying home to compose a wretched ode 
 
CIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY:* lOQ 
 
 over which his friends were to laugh, and perhaps have 
 for a sharer in their merriment the complaisant CoUey 
 himself. 
 
 In 1682, when httle more than ten years old, the 
 young Gibber was sent to a school in Lincolnshire, 
 where his life seems to have been neither more brilliant 
 nor less lazy than that of the average boy. ** Even 
 there," he remembers, "I was the same inconsistent 
 creature I have been ever since ! always in full spirits, 
 in some small capacity to do right, but in a more fre- 
 quent alacrity to do wrong ; and consequently often 
 under a worse character than I wholly deserved." He 
 writes an ode, later on, and gets the ill-will of his fel- 
 low-students for his pains, not so much because the 
 poetry was bad, (although to judge by his subsequent 
 efforts in this direction it must have been a curiosity,) 
 as on account, very possibly, of his characteristic van- 
 ity at having perpetrated it. 
 
 Next the father tries to get his son admitted to Win- 
 chester College, but the fact that the lad is descended, 
 on his mother's side, from the founder of the institu- 
 tion, William of Wickham, is not sufficient for the pur- 
 pose, and so we shortly find Colley taking up arms in 
 the interests of William of Orange, among the troops 
 collected by his father's patron, the Karl of Devonshire, 
 to accomplish the ruin of the obstinate James II. The 
 peaceful establishment of King William on the English 
 throne put a stop to any budding desire on the youth's 
 part to become a great warrior, and now his tastes be- 
 
no ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 gin to incline toward the stage. He goes up to Lon- 
 don, ostensibly to await an appointment in the Secretary 
 of State's office, but the delay in the arrival of the 
 preferment is as balm to his soul, or, to use his own 
 quaint explanation : " The distant hope of a reversion 
 was too cold a temptation for a spirit impatient as mine, 
 that wanted immediate possession of what my heart 
 was so differently set upon. The allurements of a 
 theatre are still so_strong in my memory that perhaps 
 few, except those who have felt them, can conceive : 
 And I am yet so far willing to excuse my folly that I 
 am convinc'd, were it possible to take off that disgrace 
 and prejudice which custom has thrown upon the pro- 
 fession of an actor, many a well-born younger brother 
 and beauty of low fortune would gladly have adorn 'd 
 the theatre, who by their not being able to brook such 
 dishonor to their birth, have pass'd away their lives 
 decently unheeded and forgotten." 
 
 All thoughts of settling down to a Government clerk- 
 ship were finally thrown to the winds, and in 1690 the 
 aspiring young fellow became an humble actor, strictly 
 on probation, in the united company formed by Better- 
 ton, Mountford, Kynaston, Barry, Bracegirdle, and their 
 associates. He was to receive no pay until that fortu- 
 nate incident, already narrated, should bring him to the 
 attention of Betterton, but he looked upon the privilege 
 of witnessing gratis all the performances at the theatre 
 as a sufficient rew^ard for his modest services. Before 
 the first year's stay had ended Colley was receiving the 
 
CIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY:' III 
 
 princely salary of ten shillings a week, and he considered 
 himself the happiest of mortals. 
 
 To be sure, he burned with an ardent ambition to 
 play the lovers to the heroines of the chaste Bracegir- 
 dle, but he was soon snubbed out of any such wild 
 hopes. An inexperienced, unattractive looking actor 
 with an insufficient voice, a *' meagre person (tho' then 
 not ill made) with a dismal pale complexion " was not 
 a fit companion for one of the most charming of her 
 sex. But there was no such word as discouragement 
 in the egotistical lexicon of this curious "poor crea- 
 ture. ' ' Soon he is playing the Chaplain in The Orphan 
 of Otway, and winning the honest praise of Goodman, 
 now retired from the stage, who says with more vigor 
 than elegance, " If he does not make a good actor I '11 
 
 be d d." Then he gets married, on twenty pounds 
 
 a year from his father and twenty shillings a week from 
 the theatre ; looks upon his wife and himself as *' the 
 happiest young couple that ever took a leap in the 
 dark," and completes this vision of bliss by wooing the 
 poetic muse after that unblushingly absurd way of 
 his. 
 
 Once the illness of a superior serves him a good turn. 
 The Double Dealer is to be played before Queen Mary, 
 and Mr. Congreve, its author, finding that Kynaston is 
 too sick to take the part of Lord Touchwood, and much 
 disturbed by the discovery, at last asks Cibber to try the 
 character. The substitute is delighted, he plays with 
 confidence and success, her Most Gracious Majesty is 
 
112 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 present and listens to the dulcet voice of Mrs. Barry- 
 reciting a prologue proclaiming that 
 
 *' . . . never were in Rome nor Athens seen, 
 So fair a Circle, or so bright a Queen," 
 
 and after the performance the grateful Congreve thanks 
 Gibber warmly for his impersonation and induces the 
 management to increase the new Touchwood's wages by 
 five shillings. This, Gibber very frankly admits, only 
 served to heighten his own vanity, but could not recom- 
 mend him to any new trials of his capacity. " Not a 
 step farther could I get, 'till the company was again 
 divided ; when the desertion of the best actors left a 
 clear stage, for younger champions to mount, and show 
 their best pretensions to favor. ' ' 
 
 The rupture to which Gibber alludes occurred in 
 1695, when Rich, the manager of Drury lyane, attempted 
 to reduce the salary of his players, and ordered several 
 of Betterton and Mrs. Barry's favorite parts to be given 
 to Powell and Mrs. Bracegirdle respectively. The se- 
 cession of Betterton and his sympathizers left the old 
 company in a much weakened condition, and Mr. Rich 
 was glad to keep Golley at the Theatre Royal at a sal- 
 ary now fixed at thirty shillings a week. In the mean- 
 while, the new theatre of the deserters, in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, opens with a great flourish ; the town crowds 
 to see Betterton, as of old, but neglects Drury Lane, as 
 well it might, and Gibber mourns at the decadence of 
 the once favorite house. It is an ill wind that blows 
 
CTBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY^ II3 
 
 him good, however, even though he feels like shutting 
 his eyes when his colleagues slaughter Shakespeare or 
 otherwise provoke uncomplimentary comparisons with 
 the work of their rivals. 
 
 On a certain Saturday morning the players at the 
 old house got information that Hamlet was to be re- 
 vived at lyincoln's Inn Fields on the following Tuesday, 
 for the first time at the new establishment. In order 
 to steal a march upon the enemy it was determined to 
 present Hamlet at Drury lyane on Monday, one day 
 ahead of the other people, and this piece of enterprise 
 was received with unnecessary consternation by the 
 latter, considering that they had among them the 
 greatest Hamlet of the age. As Gibber very shrewdly 
 observes, they paid too much regard to the matter, 
 **for they shortened their first orders, and resolv'd 
 that Hamlet should to Hamlet be opposed, on the same 
 day ; whereas had they given notice in their bills, 
 that the same play would have been acted by them the 
 day after, the town would have been in no doubt, which 
 house they should have reserved themselves for ; ours 
 must certainly have been empty and theirs, with more 
 honor, been crowded." But managers, ancient or 
 modern, with all their nerve, find it hard to play this 
 sort of an " off "-game ; and so Hamlet was irrevocably 
 fixed upon for Monday, at the new house. The an- 
 nouncement fell like a bomb into the camp of the Rich 
 forces and in this predicament Powell, who was vain 
 enough to look upon himself as the rival, even the 
 
 8 
 
114 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 equal, of Betterton, suggested that the company should 
 drop Shakespeare for Monday, and replace him with 
 the Old Batchelor. With magnificent audacity he 
 promised to play the title part, one of Betterton' s fa- 
 mous characters, and to mimic the veteran therein. 
 This scheme meeting with great approval — '* as what- 
 ever can be supposed to ridicule merit, generally gives 
 joy to those that want it " — the bills were changed, 
 and it was given out that the part of the Old Batchelor 
 would be performed "in Imitation of the Original." 
 
 Powell and his companions were so busy in thinking 
 about their individual impersonations that it was not 
 until the last moment that they rectified a strange over- 
 sight. The part of Alderman Fondlewife in which the 
 natural Dogget (who had gone over to the enemy at 
 lyincoln's Inn Fields and who was later to be associa- 
 ted with Gibber as manager) formerly created so de- 
 lightful an impression, was unassigned, and nobody 
 had courage enough to invite odious comparisons by 
 playing it. Nobody ? No, that were too sweeping a 
 term, when Gibber was in the company, and so he gladly 
 volunteered to take up what no one else dared to 
 touch. *'If the fool has a mind to blow himself up, 
 at once," politely exclaimed Powell, "let us ev'n give 
 him a clear stage for it." 
 
 The young man was given a clear stage, in a way 
 that was hardly intended, for to judge from his own 
 narrative he proved quite as strong an attraction as 
 the over-bearing Powell, whose mimicking of Better- 
 
CIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY:' 11$ 
 
 ton possessed cftily a passing interest and diminished 
 rather than increased the artistic reputation of the 
 imitator. CoUey had but a few hours in which to 
 study the part, but as he had often witnessed Dogget's 
 performance of it, possibly with the view of trying it 
 himself at some future date, he had no trouble in com- 
 mitting the lines to memory. This was but half the 
 battle, however, and it is clear that the youthful aspir- 
 ant, who knew full well that the audience would care 
 nothing for an original interpretation of his own, diplo- 
 matically determined to closely imitate the redoubtable 
 Dogget. But let us tell the result in his own words, 
 wherein seeming modesty and natural vanity find such 
 funny combination. 
 
 *' At my first appearance, one might have imagined, 
 by the various murmurs of the audience, that they 
 were in doubt whether Dogget himself were not re- 
 turn' d, or that they could not conceive what strange 
 face it could be, that so nearly resembled him ; for I 
 had laid the tint of forty years, more than my real age, 
 upon my features, and, to the most minute placing of 
 an hair, was dressed exactly like him. When I spoke, 
 the surprise was still greater, as if I had not only bor- 
 rowed his cloaths, but, his voice too. But tho' that 
 was the least difficult part of him, to be imitated, they 
 seem'd to allow I had so much of him, in every other 
 requisite, that my applause was, perhaps, more than 
 proportionable : for, whether I had done so much, 
 where so little was expected, or that the generosity of 
 
Il6 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 my hearers were morie than usually zealous, upon so 
 unexpected an occasion or from whatever motive, such 
 favor might be pour'd upon me I cannot say ; but, in 
 plain and honest truth, upon my going off from the 
 first scene, a much better actor might have been proud 
 of the applause that followed me ; after one loud plaudit 
 was ended, and sunk into a general whisper, that 
 seem'd still to continue their private approbation, it 
 reviv'd to a second, and again to a third, still louder 
 than the former. If, to all this, I add that Dogget 
 himself was in the pit, at the same time, it would be 
 too rank affectation, if I should not confess, that, to see 
 him there a witness to my reception, was, to me, as 
 consummate a triumph as the heart of vanity could be 
 indulg'd with. But whatever vanity I might set upon 
 myself, from this unexpected success, I found that was 
 no rule to other people's judgment of me. There 
 were few or no parts, of the same kind, to be had ; nor 
 could they conceive from what I had done in this, what 
 other sort of character I could be fit for. If I solicited 
 for anything of a different nature, I was answered, 
 that was not in my way. And what was in my way, it 
 seems, was not, as yet, resolv'd upon. And though I 
 reply' d, that I thought anything, naturally written, ought 
 to be in everyone' s way that pretended to be an actor, this 
 was looked upon as a vain, impracticable conceit of my 
 own. Yet it is a conceit, that, in forty years farther 
 experience, I have not yet given up ; I still think that 
 a painter who can draw but one sort of objects, or an 
 
CIBBEK AND HIS ''APOLOGY," \\J 
 
 actor that shines but in one light, can neither of them 
 boast of that ample genius \yhich is necessary to form 
 a thorough mastery of his art. ' ' 
 
 These were wise sentiments, but the new Fondlewife 
 could not get his superiors at the theatre to believe 
 either in them or in him. Nothing daimted, he turned 
 playwright, wrote Love's Last Shift, which was acted 
 with success in 1695, and essayed the part of Sir Nov- 
 elty, a fop of the type then fashionable. Southern, the 
 author of the once popular drama of Oroonoko, was 
 pleased to commend Gibber's work, but, with the com- 
 mon distrust as to his powers as an actor, took the pre- 
 caution to say to him : " Young man, I pronounce thy 
 play a good one ; I will answer for its success, if thou 
 does not spoil it by thy own action." 
 
 But the complaisant Colley records that he made 
 such a good impression, both as actor and author " that 
 the people seem'd at a loss which they should give the 
 preference to." Some good-natured persons were kind 
 enough to hint that he had never written the comedy, 
 and Mr. Congreve, than whom there was no greater 
 authority on such matters, said that it contained many 
 things that were like wit, but, **in reality were not 
 wit " * ; while on the other hand, the Lord Chamber- 
 lain sagely gave out that it was the best first play that 
 any author in his memory had produced. And so, 
 between praise and censure, Cibber was getting himself 
 
 * Curiously enough, this criticism has been applied to Oscar 
 Wilde's bright but frothy comedies. 
 
Il8 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 talked about ; whereat his heart must have waxed ex- 
 ceeding joyful, even though his fellow actors still 
 elbowed him out of ''fat" parts. When Sir John 
 Vanbrugh actually composed a play * as a sequel to 
 Love 's Last Shift, and cast Colley for the leading char- 
 acter, Baron Popping tori, a sort of ennobled successor 
 to the gay Sir Novelty, the actor '* began, with others, 
 to have a better opinion of himself." 
 
 Gibber was now developing into an experienced play- 
 wright, a profession wherein he was to meet with 
 several dismal failures and as many brilliant successes. 
 He was not always paid his salary of thirty shillings a 
 week, and he says apologetically, "I think I may very 
 well be excused in my presuming to write plays, which 
 I was forced to do, for the support of my increasing 
 family, my precarious income as an actor being then 
 too scant to supply it with even the necessaries of life. 
 It may be observable too, that my muse and my spouse 
 were equally prolific ; that the one was seldom the 
 mother of a child but in the same year the other made 
 me the father of a play." One of the dramatic chil- 
 dren of this father has come down to us in his still used 
 adaptation of Richard LIL. 
 
 These were trying days for the buoyant Colley, but 
 like a cork, every time he was shoved under water, he 
 came bobbing up only the more serenely ; when greater 
 men sank, never to rise again, he kept swimming on, 
 for with all his frivolity and aping of the fashionable, 
 *The Relapse. 
 
GIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY." II9 
 
 he had before him continually one inspiring idea. He 
 must succeed ; whether as dramatist, comedian, or poet, 
 he perhaps cared not, but the name of Gibber was to 
 be famous, if its bearer could exert any influence on 
 the public mind. Everything conspired, apparently, 
 to crush the young man ; he was ridiculed, gossiped 
 about, and maligned, and his very energy at the thea- 
 tre only set the actors against him. Of his manager, 
 Rich, he had no very exalted idea. " Our good mas- 
 ter," he dryly says, " was as sly a tyrant as ever was 
 at the head of a theatre ; for he gave the actors more 
 liberty, and fewer days' pay than any of his predeces- 
 sors. He would laugh with them over a bottle, and 
 bite them, in their bargains. He kept them poor that 
 they might not be able to rebel ; and sometimes merry 
 that they might not think of it." If the author of the 
 Apology is to be relied upon, Mr. Rich had at least one 
 quality very suggestive of certain modern managers 
 who are nothing more or less than shrewd business 
 men. He "had no conception himself of theatrical 
 merit, either in authors or actors, [it is evident that he 
 had snubbed Colley in both capacities,] yet his judg- 
 ment was governed by a saving rule in both : he 
 look'd into his receipts for the value of a play, and 
 from common fame he judg'd of his actors." A con- 
 vincing proof, if one were needed, that the manager 
 who looks at theatrical art from a purely commercial 
 basis is not of recent growth. 
 
 Until philanthropists with well-lined pocket-books 
 
I20 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 undertake the conduct of a theatre no one can wonder 
 at the eye to windward which the less wealthy lessee 
 keeps on his exchequer, and it is agreeable to know 
 that while he may resemble the prudent Rich in this 
 respect he does not, as a rule, imitate the latter in 
 cheating the players out of their hard-earned wages. 
 
 As Gibber struggles cheerfully on, the Theatre Royal 
 Company steadily gains ground, and begins to take 
 precedence over the rival organization. " Better ton's 
 people (however good in their kind) were most of them 
 too far advanc'd in years to mend ; and tho' we, in 
 Drury Lane, were too young to be excellent, we were 
 not too old to be better. But what will not satiety de- 
 preciate. For though I must own, and avow, that in 
 our highest prosperity, I always thought we were 
 greatly their inferiors, yet by our good fortune of being 
 seen in quite new lights, \vhich several new- written 
 plays had shewn us in, we now began to make a con- 
 siderable stand against them." Who can doubt it, 
 when in addition to Wilks and other favorites the 
 charming Mistress Anne Oldfield, of whom anon, was 
 now a member of the Drury Lane forces. 
 
 As time goes on, the new Queen's Theatre in the 
 Hay market is erected and opened, and the forces from 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields take up their quarters there ; 
 then Owen Swiney becomes Sir John Vanbrugh's suc- 
 cessor in the management by promising to pay five 
 pounds rental for "every acting day." Swiney was a 
 great friend of his presumable rival, Mr. Rich, and 
 
CIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY." 121 
 
 there seems at first to have been a secret understand- 
 ing between them by which the two houses were to be 
 run under the same interest. Be that as it may, Wilks, 
 Estcourt, Mrs. Oldfield, and other players soon deserted 
 Drury Lane, to act at the new house, and before long, 
 after a disagreement between Rich and Swiney that 
 must have delighted Cibber, since he was the cause of 
 it, the latter joined the seceders. 
 
 His triumph was fast approaching. The players at 
 the Haymarket appear with varying success ; the pat- 
 entee of Drury Lane tries his luck with singers and 
 dancers ; then his house is closed, and finally, some- 
 time after it had been reopened with William Collier, 
 M. P., as manager, we find the players reunited at the 
 Theatre Royal, and Messrs. Collier, Cibber, Wilks, 
 and Dogget in command. The three last-named actors 
 were the real managers and formed the celebrated 
 ** triumvirate," under which the theatre enjoyed such 
 unusual prosperity. 
 
 Dogget, " who was naturally an ceconomist," writes 
 Cibber, ' ' kept our expenses and account to the best of 
 his power, within regulated bounds and moderation. 
 Wilks, w^ho had a stronger passion for glory than 
 lucre, was a little apt to be lavish, in what was not 
 always as necessary for the profit as the honor of the 
 theatre. For example, at the beginning of almost 
 every season, he would order two or three suits to be 
 made, or refresh'd, for actors of moderate consequence, 
 that his having constantly a new one for himself might 
 
122 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 Seem less particular, tho' he had, as yet, no new part 
 for it. This expeditious care of doing us good, with- 
 out waiting for our consent to it, Dogget always looked 
 upon with the eye of a man in pain. But I, who hated 
 pain (tho' I as little liked the favor as Dogget him- 
 self), rather chose to laugh at the circumstance, than 
 complain of what I knew was not to be cured but by 
 a remedy worse than the evil. Upon these occasions, 
 therefore, whenever I saw him and his followers so 
 prettily dress' d out for an old play, I only commended 
 his fancy ; or at most but whisper' d him not to give 
 himself so much trouble about others, upon whose 
 performance it would be thrown away ; to which, with 
 a smiling air of triumph over my want of penetration, 
 he has replied : ' Why, now, that was what I really did 
 it for ! to shew others that I love to take care of them, 
 as well as of myself.' " 
 
 Gibber confesses that of the two fellow- managers he 
 was rather inclined to Dogget' s way of thinking, but 
 he was too tactful to let Wilks know this, and reading 
 between the lines of his autobiography we can ^easily 
 see how often his worldly-wise suggestions and conces- 
 sions must have warded off conflicts between the lessee 
 of artistic taste and the one who had a more prosaic 
 and business-like view of his profession. While Wilks 
 kept dreaming of gorgeous costumes and accessories, 
 Dogget was seeing to the payment of bills and putting 
 the house on a financial basis unheard of in those 
 days when the very name of actor conjured up a disor- 
 
CIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY." I 23 
 
 dered vision of unsatisfied accounts, impecuniosity 
 and bailiffs. 
 
 * * In the twenty years while we were our own direc- 
 tors," Gibber goes on to say, with pardonable compla- 
 cency, " we never had a creditor that had occasion to 
 come twice for his bill ; every Monday morning dis- 
 charged us of all demands, before we took a vShilling 
 for our own use. And from this time, we neither 
 asked any actor, nor were desired by them, to sign any 
 written agreement (to the best of my memory) whatso- 
 ever. The rate of their respective salaries were only 
 enter' d in our daily pay-roll ; which plain record every 
 one look'd upon as good as City-Security." 
 
 The early history of the Triumvirate must have been 
 a sort of honeymoon, when everybody was in good 
 humor. The managers settled their weekly acounts 
 with a satisfaction not always to be derived from such 
 a process, the actors congratulated themselves on the 
 novel sensation of being well-paid and well-fed, and 
 the audience found nearly everything that the latter 
 did a source of delight. But life in a theatre is much 
 as it is on the large stage of the world, and there were 
 clouds as well as sunshine. Sometimes the clouds were 
 formed by the most petty causes, as in the storm 
 stirred up by the arrival of two performers from Ire- 
 land. They were two un-celebrated actors from the 
 Dublin Theatre, and as Wilks had been so kindly 
 received on his visit to the Emerald Isle he determined 
 to do what he could, in turn, for the indigent new- 
 
124 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 comers. He introduced them to the stage of Drury 
 I^ane, and by the way in which he took them under his 
 theatrical mantle gave great offence to the exacting 
 Dogget. 
 
 ' ' While Wilks was only animated by a grateful hos- 
 pitality to his friends, Dogget was ruffl'd in a storm, 
 and looked upon this generosity as so much insult and 
 injustice upon himself, and the fraternity. During 
 this disorder I stood by, a seeming quiet passenger, 
 and, since talking to the winds, I knew, could be to no 
 great purpose (whatever weakness it might be call'd) 
 could not help smiling to observe with what officious 
 ease and delight Wilks was treating his friends at our 
 expense who were scarce acquainted with them. For 
 it seems, all this was to end in their having a bene- 
 fit-play, in the height of the season, for the unprofit- 
 able service they had done us, without our consent, 
 or desire to employ them. Upon this Dogget bouuc'd 
 and grew almost as untractable as Wilks himself. 
 
 " Here, again, I was forc'd to clap my patience to 
 the helm, to weather this difficult point between them. 
 Applying myself therefore to the person I imagin'd 
 was most likely to hear me, I desired Dogget to con- 
 sider, that I must naturally be as much hurt by this 
 vain and over-bearing behaviour in Wilks as he could 
 be, and that tho' it was true these actors had no pre- 
 tence to the favor designed ; yet we could not say they 
 had done us any further harm, than letting the Town 
 see, the parts they had been shown in, had been better 
 
CTBBER AND HIS "apology:' 12$ 
 
 done by those to whom they properly belonged." 
 Thus the diplomatic CoUey went on arguing, and as 
 a result of his efforts to keep the peace in the theatrical 
 family the benefit took place, but in his endeavor to 
 make everything run along smoothly he went too far 
 and by himself supplying a deficiency of ten pounds in 
 the expected receipts put Wilks in an unreasonable 
 rage. The irate actor vowed he would leave the man- 
 agement and go to Ireland, and that if he were gone 
 Dogget and Gibber would not be able to keep the 
 doors open a week, and that */ by — — , he would not be 
 a drudge for nothing." 
 
 * ' As I knew all this was but the foam of the high 
 value he set upon himself, I thought it not amiss to 
 seem a little silently concerned, for the helpless condi- 
 tion to which his resentment of the injury I have re- 
 lated was going to reduce us : for I knew I had a friend 
 in his heart, that, if I gave him a little time to cool 
 would soon bring him to reason : the sweet morsel of a 
 thousand pounds a year was not to be met with at 
 every table, and might tempt a nicer palate than his 
 own to swallow it, when he was not out of humor. ' ' 
 The morsel was so tempting, indeed, that Wilks soon 
 got in the best of humor, but never offered to reim- 
 burse his companion for that much-objected- to ten 
 pounds. 
 
 To detail the incidents and vicissitudes of the Tri- 
 umvirate would be to fill a book ; they must be left 
 within the borders of the fascinating Apology, nor is 
 
126 . ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 there need to go into an account of how Barton Booth, 
 then a rising genius of the stage, was admitted to a 
 share in the management, to the disgust of Dogget, 
 who retired ; or how, a year or two later. Sir Richard 
 Steele was associated with the re-organized trio of Gib- 
 ber, Wilks, and Booth. Poor obstinate Dogget, he took 
 life hard to the last. He sued his old partners for 
 money alleged to be due him as his share in the profits 
 of the theatre, and got a verdict of six hundred pounds, 
 with interest, but when his lawyers' bills were paid he 
 ** scarce got one year's purchase," chronicles Gibber, 
 * ' of what we had offered him without law, which (as 
 he surviv'd but seven years after it) would have been 
 an annuity of five hundred pounds, and a sine cure for 
 life." When he went to the famous Button's coffee- 
 house, where such men as Addison, Steele, and Pope 
 were wont to meet and discuss the affairs of mankind, 
 he had the mortification of finding the hated Wilks 
 there, not to speak of the now detested Golley. * ' For 
 as Wilks and he were differently proud ; the one re- 
 joicing in a captious, over-bearing valiant pride ; and 
 the other in a stiff" sullen purse-pride, it may be easily 
 conceived, when two such tempers met, how agreeable 
 the sight of one was to the other." 
 
 But Gibber was to succeed in thawing out the icy re- 
 serve with which his former partner now surrounded 
 himself, and he did it, as might be expected, in a canny 
 fashion. One of the coffee-house wags, seizing the 
 humor of the situation, wrote him declaring that Dog- 
 
CIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY^ 12/ 
 
 get had passed away to another world, where there 
 were neither lawsuits nor unreasonable managers. 
 Colley was too old a bird to be deceived by the trick, 
 but seeing that he might himself make capital out of 
 it, answered the letter as though he believed the sad 
 news, and took occasion to deliver a fervent eulogy on 
 the character of the supposed dead man. 
 
 Dogget was only human, and when he was shown 
 what his former friend had so kindly written about him, 
 his heart softened. But let the diplomatist himself tell 
 us the result : 
 
 " One day sitting over-against him, at the same cof- 
 fee-house, where we often mixt at the same table, tho' 
 we never exchanged a single syllable, he graciously 
 extended his hand, for a pinch of my snuff. As this 
 seem'd from him, a sort of breaking the ice of his 
 temper, I took courage upon it, to break silence on my 
 side, and ask'd him how he lik'd it. To which, with 
 a slow hesitation, naturally assisted by the action of his 
 taking the snuff, he reply 'd — Umh ! the best — Umh — 
 I have tasted a great while. '^ And, after ** a few days 
 of these coy lady-like compliances on his side, he grew 
 into a more conversable temper. " 
 
 For all his managerial prosperity, his success as a 
 playwright and his popularity as a comedian, depart- 
 ments wherein he was in his legitimate sphere, Colley 
 Gibber probably cared less than for his appointment, in 
 1730, to the Poet I^aureateship. Yet among men with 
 literary pretensions he was the least deserving of the 
 
128 ECHOES Of THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 laurel, for as has been well said, in the whole twenty- 
 seven years that he boasted of the honor (he died in 
 1757) he never wrote a really good poem. He made it 
 a point to laugh publicly at his own effusions, but he 
 must have had a belief, in that curious old heart of his, 
 that they were by no means as poor as some jealous 
 fellow-poets would make out. 
 
 /'His friends gave out," Dr. Johnson tells Boswell, 
 ' * that he intended his birthday Odes should be bad ; 
 but that was not the case. Sir ; for he kept them many 
 months by him, and a few years before he died he 
 showed me one of them with great solicitude to render 
 it as perfect as might be, and I made some corrections 
 to which he was not very willing to submit. I remem- 
 ber the following couplet in allusion to the King * and 
 himself: 
 
 * Perch'don the eagle's soaring wing, 
 The lowly linnet loves to sing.' 
 
 * * Sir, he had heard something of the fabulous tale 
 of the wren sitting upon the eagle's wing, and he had 
 applied it to a linnet. ' ' 
 
 But the Poet I^aureate probably still considered him- 
 self a linnet, despite the objections of the ponderous 
 philosopher, and w^ent on singing as badly and happily 
 as ever until death put an end to his career. He had 
 gone through many experiences, some of them passing 
 bitter (had not Pope ungenerously made him the hero 
 
 * George II, 
 
CIBBER AND HIS ''APOLOGY^ l2g 
 
 of liis Dunciadf) but he would write verses to the end. 
 They are long since forgotten, but that entrancing 
 Apology with its delightful pictures of his theatrical 
 contemporaries, is as fresh as ever. It will be read 
 when greater poets than he have sunk into oblivion, 
 and thus perpetuate the name of one of the most re- 
 markable characters of a by-gone epoch. 
 
 9 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 NKW MASKS AND FACES. 
 
 " * Odious ! in woollen ! 'twould a saint provoke,* 
 (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ;) 
 * No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace 
 Wrap my cold limbs and shade my lifeless face : 
 One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead. 
 And Betty — give this cheek a little red.' " 
 
 THUS wrote the classic Pope in an imaginary 
 description of the last moments of that most 
 ravishing and graceful comedienne of her day, Mistress 
 Anne Oldfield, whose greatness consisted in a thousand 
 and one dainty attractions which still live in the writ- 
 ings of her contemporaries. That she is preserved to us 
 even in this shadowy form is cause for gratitude, for 
 until the indefatigable Edison shall have improved his 
 kinetoscope, so that the achievements of a player, 
 either in gesture, voice, or look, may be stereotyped for 
 all time, the lover of the drama can only familiarize 
 himself with dead-and-gone heroes and heroines of the 
 stage by reading the testimony of their admirers. 
 
 If such testimony is to count for anything, '' Nance " 
 Oldfield was one of the most 7idive and fascinating 
 women who ever trod the boards of an English theatre. 
 
 130 
 
NEW MASKS AND FACES, I31 
 
 And yet, strange to say, this daughter of Comedy, 
 who was to win such unforgettable distinction in imper- 
 sonating ladies of quality, was apprenticed in early 
 life to a seamstress, and had for her humble relative a 
 Mrs. Voss, hostess of the Mitre Tavern, in St. James 
 Market, London. Nance, as a young girl, made her 
 headquarters at this public house, and it was here that 
 the dashing Farquhar accidently heard her reading a 
 play as she stood behind the bar. He was so much 
 impressed ''with the proper emphasis and agreeable 
 turn that she gave to each character, that he swore 
 the girl was cut out for the stage." As the child had 
 a wild desire to become an actress, her mother, *' the 
 next time she saw Captain Vanbrugh (afterward Sir 
 John) who had a great respect for the family, acquainted 
 him with Captain Farquhar' s opinion, on which he 
 desired to know whether her heart was most tragedy 
 or comedy. Miss being called in, informed him that 
 her principal inclination was to the latter, having at 
 that time gone through all Beaumont and Fletcher's 
 comedies ; and the play she was reading when Captain 
 Farquhar had dined there having been The Scornful 
 Ladyy 
 
 As a result of this confession of youthful ambition 
 Captain Vanbrugh soon introduced Nance to the 
 patentee of Drury Lane, Mr. Rich, who took her into 
 his house at the sumptuous salary of fifteen shillings a 
 a week. "However, her agreeable figure and sweet- 
 ness of voice soon gave her the preference in the opin- 
 
132 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 ion of the whole town, to all the young actresses of 
 that time, and the Duke of Bedford, in particular, be- 
 ing pleased to speak to Mr. Rich in her favor, he in- 
 stantly raised her to twenty shillings per week. After 
 which her fame and salary gradually increased, till at 
 length they both obtained that height which her merit 
 entitled her to." 
 
 When perhaps not more than sixteen years old, in 
 1700, the young aspirant drew attention to herself by 
 playing Alinda in The Pilgrim, a re-arrangement by 
 Vanbrugh of one of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays, but 
 she had still several seasons to wait before she should 
 burst upon the town in all her glory by impersonating 
 the charming Lady Betty Modish in Gibber's comedy 
 of The Careless Husband. But let Gibber himself tell 
 us the story of her beginning and ultimate success. 
 
 "In the year 1699," he relates, ** Mrs. Oldfield was 
 first taken into the house, where she remained about a 
 twelvemonth almost a mute, and unheeded, till Sir John 
 Vanbrugh, who first recommended her, gave her the 
 part of Ali?ida in The Pilgrim, revised. This gentle 
 character, happily, became that want of confidence 
 which is inseparable from young beginners, who, with- 
 out it, seldom arrive at any excellence : Notwithstand- 
 ing, I own I was then so far deceived in my opinion of 
 her that I thought she had little more than her person, 
 that appear' d necessary to the forming of a good actress : 
 for she set out with so extraordinary diffidence, that it 
 kept her too despondingly down, to a formal, plain (not 
 
NE IV MA SKS AND FA CES, 1 3 3 
 
 to say) flat manner of speaking. Nor could the silver 
 tone of her voice, 'till after some time, incline my ear 
 to any hope in her favor. But public approbation is 
 . the warm weather of a theatrical plant, which will soon 
 bring it forward to whatever perfection nature has 
 design' d it. However Mrs. Oldfield (perhaps for want 
 of fresh parts) seem'd to come but slowly forward, 'till 
 the year 1703. 
 
 ''Our company, that summer, acted at Bath during 
 the residence of Queen Anne at that place At that 
 time it happen' d that Mrs. Verbruggen, by reason of 
 her last sickness (of which she some few months after 
 dy'd) was left in I^ondon ; and though most of her 
 parts were, of course, to be dispos'd of, yet so earnest 
 was the female scramble for them, that only one of them 
 fell to the share of Mrs. Oldfield, that oi Leonora in Sir 
 Courtly Nice ; a character of good plain sense, but not 
 over elegantly written. It was in this part that Mrs. 
 Oldfield surprised me into an opinion of her having all 
 the innate powers of a good actress, though they were 
 yet but in the bloom of what they promised. Before 
 she had acted this part I had so cold an expectation of 
 her abilities, that she could scarce prevail with me to 
 rehearse with her the scenes she was chiefly concerned 
 in, with Sir Courtly^ which I then acted. However, we 
 ran them over, with mutual inadvertency, of one an- 
 other. I seem'd careless, as concluding that any 
 assistance I could give her would be to little or no 
 purpose ; and she mutter' d out her words in a sort of 
 
134 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 misty manner, at my low opinion of her. But when 
 the play came to be acted, she had a just occasion to 
 triumph over the errors of my judgment, by the (al- 
 most) amazement that her unexpected performance 
 awak'd me to ; so forward and so sudden a step into 
 nature I had never seen ; and what made her perform- 
 ance more valuable, that I knew it all proceeded from 
 her understanding, untaught and unassisted by any 
 more experienced actor. ' ' 
 
 It is curious that in the early part of her career Mrs. 
 Oldfield suffered from the same fate that beset the in- 
 credulous Gibber — several competent judges refused to 
 believe in those remarkable powers which later were to 
 set all lyondon agog, especially when she should appear 
 in parts of the genteel comedy type. Even in 17 12- 13 
 Swift contemptuously writes to his beloved Stella : "I 
 was this morning at ten at the rehearsal of Mr, Addi- 
 son's play called Cato, which is to be acted on Friday. 
 There was not above half a score of us to see it. We 
 stood on the stage, and it was foolish enough to see the 
 actors prompted every moment, and the poet directing 
 them ; and the drab that acts Cato's daughter out in the 
 midst of a passionate part, and then calling out ' What 's 
 next?'" 
 
 But the " drab " that acted Gate's daughter had be- 
 come as famous as ever was that bitter, bishopric-hunt- 
 ing Dean. Once that Gibber became converted to her 
 praises he was quick to utilize her shining talents to his 
 own advantage. Her success as Leonora decided him 
 
NEW MASKS AND FACES. I 35 
 
 in the belief that she would soon be the " foremost 
 ornament of our theatre," and he adds : 
 
 " Upon this unexpected sally, then, of the power and 
 disposition of so unforeseen an actress, it was that I 
 again took up the two first acts of the Careless Husband, 
 which I had written the summer before, and had thrown 
 aside in despair of having justice done to the character 
 of Lady Betty Modish, by any one woman then among 
 us ; Mrs. Verbruggen being now in a very declining 
 state of health, and Mrs. Bracegirdle out of my reach, 
 and engag'd in another company : But, as I have said, 
 Mrs. Oldfield having thrown out such new proffers of 
 a genius, I was no longer at a loss for support ; my 
 doubts were dispell'd, and I had now a new call to finish 
 it. Accordingly, the Careless Husband took its fate 
 upon the stage the winter following in 1704. What- 
 ever favorable reception this comedy has met with 
 from the Publick it would be unjust in me not to place 
 a large share of it to the account of Mrs. Oldfield ; not 
 only from the uncommon excellence of her action, but 
 even from her personal manner of conversing. There 
 are many sentiments in the character of Lady Betty 
 Modish that I may almost say were originally her own, 
 or only dress' d with a little more care, than when they 
 negligently fell from her lively humor. Had her 
 birth * placed her in a higher rank of life, she had cer- 
 
 * It is said that Mrs. Oldfield's father, Captain Oldfield, was 
 by birth a gentleman. 
 
136 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 tainly appeared in reality, what in this play she only 
 excellently acted, an agreeably gay woman of quality, 
 a little too conscious of her natural attractions." 
 
 ' ' I have often seen her, ' ' writes on the admiring Col- 
 ley, ** in private societies where women of the best rank 
 might have borrowed some part of her behaviour, with- 
 out the least diminution of their sense or dignity. And 
 this very morning, where I am now writing at the Bath, 
 November 11, 1738, the same words were said of her 
 by a Lady of Condition, whose better j udgment of her 
 personal merit in that light has embolden' d me to re- 
 peat them." 
 
 The Oldfield's morals were of a somewhat flexible 
 character, to put it mildly, yet the fashionable people 
 of her time looked with leniency upon her little irregu- 
 larities, and made more of her than if she had been 
 the most exemplary of actresses. She had many mas- 
 culine admirers, and when Arthur Maynwaring, a 
 wealthy, influential bachelor, connected with Govern- 
 ment, crossed her smooth and easy-going path, she 
 succumbed to what she ma)^ have considered the 
 exigencies of the occasion, took charge of his household, 
 and loved him devotedly until his death, in 17 12, left 
 her without a protector. 
 
 But General Charles Churchill, the son of an elder 
 brother of the Duke of Marlborough, came to the rescue, 
 and helped to dispel the sorrow into which she had 
 been plunged by the decease of the handsome Mayn- 
 waring. 
 
NEW MASKS AND FACES. 1 37 
 
 "None led through youth a gayer life than he, 
 Cheerful in converse, smart in repartee," 
 
 SO it may be imagined that he proved a gay companion 
 for the yielding Nance. By him she had one son who 
 married Lady Mary Walpole, a natural child of the 
 great Sir Robert Walpole, and she was also the mother 
 of a son who had been publicly acknowledged by his 
 father, Mr. Maynwaring. I^ittle eccentricities of con- 
 duct like this were tenderly treated. 
 
 Chetwood, in his General History of the Stage, kindly 
 observes that * ' her amours seemed to lose that glare 
 which appears round the persons of the failing Fair ; 
 neither was it ever known that she troubled the repose 
 of any lady's lawful claim ; and was far more con- 
 stant than millions in the conjugal noose." 
 
 The same writer, who had himself seen Oldfield in 
 the meridian of her fame, remembered that '* in her 
 full round of glory in comedy she used to slight tragedy. 
 She would often say / hate to have a page dragging 
 my tail about. Why do they not give Porter these parts f 
 She can put on a better Tragedy face than I cayi. When 
 Mithridates was revised, it was with much difficulty she 
 was prevailed upon to take the part, but she perform' d 
 it to the utmost length of perfection, and, after that, 
 seem'd much better reconcil'd to Tragedy." 
 
 Indeed, while the actress was much more en rapporte 
 with comedy h la mode she could play tragic parts on 
 occasion, just as Chetwood pointed out. "What a 
 majestical dignity in Cleopatra!'' he exclaims fer- 
 
138 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE^ 
 
 vently, recalling her achievements. " Such a finished 
 figure on the stage was never yet seen. In Calista^ the 
 Fair Penitent, she was inimitable in the third act, with 
 Horatio, when she tears the letter, with 
 
 * . . .To atoms ! thus ! 
 Thus let me tear the vile detested falsehood, 
 The wicked lying evidence of shame ! * 
 
 her excellent clear voice of passion, her piercing flaming 
 eye, with manner and action suiting, us'd to make me 
 shrink with awe, and seem'd to put her monitor Horatio 
 into a mouse-hole. I almost gave him up for a trouble- 
 some puppy ; and though Mr. Booth play'd the part of 
 Lothario I could hardly lug him up to the importance 
 of triumphing over such a finish' d piece of perfection, 
 that seemed to be too much dignified to lose her Virtue. ' ' 
 The power of Mrs. Oldfield's acting seems to have 
 come from a subtle charm difficult to suggest because 
 of its delicacy and elusive-like quality, just as the most 
 fluent dramatic critic finds it hard to photograph the 
 witchery and piquancy of Ellen Terry through the 
 prosaic medium of pen, ink, and paper. "She was 
 tallish in stature," as Gibber pictures his frail friend, 
 * ' beautiful in action and aspect, and she always looked 
 like one of those principal figures in the finest paint- 
 ings that first seize and longest delight the eye of the 
 spectator. Her countenance was benevolent like her 
 heart, yet it could express contemptuous indignity so 
 well that once, when a malignant beau rose in the pit 
 
NE W MA SKS A ND FA CES. 1 39 
 
 to hiss her, she made him instantly hide his head and 
 vanish by a pausing look, and her utterance of the 
 words, ' poor creature.' " 
 
 Her benevolence of heart, to which Gibber thus al- 
 ludes in passing, had practical exemplification in her 
 assisting, with a pension of fifty pounds a year, that 
 curious literary individual, Richard Savage. She was 
 charitable in other directions, too, and she added to 
 this virtue a great good-sense and amiability in mat- 
 ters connected with her art. It appears that ** to the 
 last 3^ear of her life ' ' (again I must quote from the 
 indispensable Apology^ " she never undertook any 
 part she liked without being importunately desirous 
 of having all the helps in it that another could possibly 
 give her. By knowing so much herself, she found 
 how much more there was of nature yet needful to 
 be known.* Yet it was a hard matter to give her any 
 hint that she was not able to take or improve. With 
 all this merit she was tractable and less presuming in 
 her station than several that had not half her preten- 
 sions to be troublesome. But she lost nothing by her 
 easy conduct ; she had everything she ask'd, which 
 she took care should be always reasonable, because she 
 hated as much to be grudg'd as deny'd a civility. 
 Upon her extraordinary action in the Provoked Hus- 
 band, the managers made her a present of fifty guineas 
 more than her agreement, which never was more than 
 
 * This quotation deserves to be posted in the greenroom 
 of every theatre. 
 
I40 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 a verbal one ; for they knew she was above deserting 
 them to engage upon any other stage, and she was con- 
 scious they would never think it their interest to give 
 her cause of complaint." 
 
 What a shining example is Mistress Oldfield for 
 many an actress who, without one tenth of her ability, 
 turns the managerial hair almost white by her exactions 
 and assumption, and thinks the breaking of the most 
 ironclad contract quite in order — if the violation thereof 
 is done by herself. 
 
 With all her amiability the genial Nance had a mind 
 of her own, and even in her lovers .she showed herself 
 a woman of decision. She might sacrifice her honor 
 and risk her reputation for Mr. Maynwaring or Charles 
 Churchill, but she also could be as icy to an admirer as 
 was the chaste Bracegirdle. That trait was displayed 
 very clearly in the case of Sir Roger Mostings, a baro- 
 net who was madly enamoured of the actress, despite 
 the indifference with which his attentions were invaria- 
 bly treated. After the unsuccessful Jacobite uprising 
 of 17 15, Sir Roger, who then commanded a troop in the 
 Life Guards, spoke so freely in behalf of the noblemen 
 imprisoned for complicity in the rebellion, that he was 
 banished from Court and ordered to retire at once to 
 his estates. When the news of his disgrace came, his 
 greatest concern was at the prospect of leaving the 
 irresistible Oldfield. She might snub him as much as 
 she dared, yet it was a pleasure for him to see her, not- 
 withstanding, and now that even this enjoyment was 
 
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NEW MASKS AND FACES, I4I 
 
 denied him he shed bitter tears, soldier as he was. 
 Heroic measures were necessary unless he were to lose 
 the dear charmer forever, and so away he went to the 
 obdurate lady, hoping to soften her heart, by a propo- 
 sal of marriage. They should wed at once, and the 
 happy pair could pass their honeymoon on the estates 
 to which an unkind Government had ordered the too 
 talkative baronet. But this dream of happiness was 
 not to be ; Oldfield contemptuously refused the opportu- 
 nity of prefixing Lady to her name, and the disconso- 
 late Sir Roger had to retire into the country, hopeless 
 and alone. 
 
 When Mistress Oldfield died in 1730, her fame was 
 considered great enough to justify her burial in West- 
 minster Abbey, and the ceremonies attending her fu- 
 neral were marked by a pomp that might have sufiiced 
 for the putting away of royalty itself. Yet in France, 
 at this very time, actors were treated by the Church as 
 social lepers, and when their poor lives were finished, 
 and their last parts played, no consecrated ground 
 might hold their clay ; thieves, liars, and murderers 
 were not grudged a final lodging within the sacred 
 confines, but the unfortunate Thespian, however esti- 
 mable might have been his private character, was only 
 deemed fit for the cold grave of an unbaptized vaga- 
 bond. 
 
 How different was the picture in England, where we 
 have already seen the noble Betterton interred with 
 every circumstance of funereal glory. As the remains 
 
142 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 of that ** incomparable sweet girl " (for incomparable, 
 sweet, and girlish Oldfield continued to the end, despite 
 her forty-seven years), were reverently borne to the 
 Abbey, through the very street in which she had once 
 worked as a poor seamstress, more than one eyewitness 
 must have felt that, unlike the prophets, actresses were 
 not without honor in their own country, and that 
 transcendent genius, like charity,. would cover a mul- 
 titude of sins — even though the sinner belong to the 
 sometime despised player's craft. But no one could 
 despise the lovable Nance ; sooner would her contem- 
 poraries have railed at the rare sunshine for which they 
 often sighed, than have cast a stone at this fair, fragile 
 woman who had done so much to bring laughter into 
 their foggy, humdrum existence. 
 
 And so let us bid farewell to the comedienne in the 
 same Christian frame of mind. We never had the in- 
 estimable privilege of seeing her, yet we can read of 
 the charmer in the graphic pages of Gibber, and even 
 in this reflected fashion are glad to keep her image 
 before us. Her amours may be forgiven, at least on 
 this side the grave ; the two men for whom she sac- 
 rificed so much have been relegated to the limbo of 
 oblivion, and for the name of Oldfield there will al- 
 ways be a pleasant thought, a grateful word. 
 
 As that selfsame Savage, to whom she had been so 
 kind, wrote of her : 
 
 ** So bright she shone, in ev'ry different part, 
 She gain'd despotic empire o'er the heart ; 
 
NEW MASKS AND FACES. 1 43 
 
 Knew how each various motion to control, 
 Soothe ev'ry passion, and subdue the soul : 
 As she or gay, or sorrowful appears, 
 She charms our mirth, or triumphs in our tears. 
 When Cleopatra's form she chose to wear. 
 We saw the Monarch's mien, the beauty's air ; 
 Charm' d with the sight, her cause we all approve 
 
 And like her lover, give up all for love : 
 Antotiy's fate, instead of Ccssar's choose, 
 And wish for her we had a world to lose. 
 
 " But now the gay delightful scene is o'er, 
 And that sweet form must glad our world no more ; 
 Relentless Death has stop'd the tuneful tongue, 
 And clos'd those eyes, for all, but Death, too strong : 
 Blasted that face where ev'ry beauty bloom'd, 
 And to eternal rest the graceful mover doom'd." 
 
 One of the best known of Oldfield's associates was 
 the Robert Wilks of whom we have heard not a little 
 from Colley Gibber — the. selfsame Wilks who took 
 more interest in the artistic part of the management at 
 Drury Lane than he did in the very practical details 
 so dear to the business-like Dogget. He may have 
 had a weakness, just as the Apology shows, for deck- 
 ing himself in fine clothes, but it is to be remembered 
 that he likewise took care that his fellow-actors should 
 be similarly adorned. Indeed, he was one of the most 
 charitable actors of his time ; he it was who stirred 
 himself to help the two children of the unfortunate 
 Farquhar after the melancholy death of the soldier- 
 playwright ; he materially aided the erratic Richard 
 Savage,* who lacked the faculty of aiding himself, and 
 
 *When Savage was so destitute that starvation stared him 
 in the face a subscription was started in his behalf. He re- 
 
144 ECHOES OP THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 he was kindly in a thousand and one ways that be- 
 spoke the possession of a warm, sj^mpathetic heart. 
 He was " a man," says Dr. Johnson, '* who, whatever 
 were his abilities or skill as an actor, deserved at least 
 to be remembered for his virtues, which are not often 
 to be found in the World, and perhaps less often in his 
 profession than in others" — which shows that while 
 the learned lexicographer had a very correct idea as 
 to this actor's character, he put an unfair stigma upon 
 a fraternity noted for the generosity of its members. 
 
 Wilks came of an old Worcestershire family ; he was 
 born, however, near Dublin, where his father was one 
 of the pursuivants of the lyord lyieutenant of Ireland. 
 The son received what was then considered a genteel 
 education ; he wrote a fine hand, and when he reached 
 the age of eighteen got a clerkship in the Secretary of 
 State's office. But the drudgery and commonplace of 
 the work hardly proved an ideal occupation for the 
 young man, and his genius was soon to show itself in 
 a far different direction. It so happened that he lodged 
 near Mr. Richards, an actor well-known to Dublin 
 audiences, and with whom he formed a great intimacy. 
 Wilks, no doubt, looked upon his friend as something 
 wonderful and quite apart from the generality of man- 
 kind, and was only too glad to hold Richards' s play- 
 book, to see if the latter were letter-perfect in his lines. 
 
 ceived the money, set out on a journey for Wales, and after 
 getting as far as Bristol spent all of his new-found gold, ending 
 his remarkable career by dying in the jail of that place. 
 
NEW MASKS AND FACES, 1 45 
 
 " Mr. Wilks used to read the introductive speeches," 
 says Chetwood, " with such proper emphasis, cadence, 
 and all the various passions, that the encomiums given 
 by Mr. Richards began to fire his mind for the drama. 
 It was with very little persuasion he ventured to act 
 privately the Colonel in the Spanish Fryar, at Mr. 
 Ashbury's,* the ensuing Christmas ; where he received 
 such approbation from that great master as confirm' d 
 his intention. The first part he played in the theatre 
 was Othello, with the utmost applause ; and, as he told 
 me, pleased all but himself. He went on with great 
 success for two years when his friend Mr. Richards 
 advised him to try his fortune in England, and gave 
 him letters of recommendation to Mr. Betterton, who 
 receiv'd him very kindly, and entered him at fifteen 
 shillings a week." 
 
 At the very outset of his career in I^ondon Wilks un- 
 consciously paid Betterton one of the most flattering 
 of compliments, and it is probable that the dear old 
 man regarded him with all the more favor in conse- 
 quence. ** His first appearance on the English stage 
 was in the part of the young Prince in the Maid's 
 Tragedy, a very insignificant character, requiring little 
 more than an amiable figure. Mr. Betterton performed 
 Melantius ; but when that veteran actor came to ad- 
 dress him on the battlements, to excuse himself for the 
 death of the King in the play, Mr. Wilks affirmed to 
 
 * Joseph Ashbury was Master of the Revels in Ireland, and 
 an eminent actor and teacher as well. 
 
146 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 me that the dignity of Mr. Betterton struck him with 
 such an awe, that he had much ado to utter the little 
 he had to say. Mr. Better,ton, observing his confusion, 
 said to him, Young mari^ this fear does not ill become yoic ; 
 a horse that sets out at the strength of his speed will soon 
 be jaded. ' ' 
 
 The young man recovers from this fortunate fright, 
 rises rapidly in the estimation of the public, has his 
 salar}^ raised, and is professionally fathered b}^ Better- 
 ton. Then he marries, applies for an increase of com- 
 pensation, which is denied him, and thereupon contracts 
 with Mr. Ashbury to play in Dublin for sixty pounds 
 a year and a clear benefit, " which in those times was 
 much more than any other ever had." When he takes 
 his leave of " old Thomas " the great actor expresses 
 much regret at his coming departure and says: "I 
 fancy that gentleman (pointing to the manager*), if he 
 has not too much obstinacy to own it, will be the first 
 that repents your parting ; for, if I foresee aright, you 
 will be greatly wanted here. ' ' 
 
 This is balm to the wounded soul of Wilks, and he 
 goes to Ireland with the praise of the immortal Better- 
 ton ringing pleasantly through his head ; soon the 
 genteel Mountford dies and Drury lyane is bereft of 
 one of its strongest and most graceful pillars. The de- 
 serter is thereupon sent to with proposals to return at 
 a salary of four pounds a week (the equivalent to the 
 stipend of the English Roscius), and the temptation is 
 * Mr. Rich. 
 
• NEW MASKS AND FACES. 1 47 
 
 vSo great that a favorable answer is returned to the di- 
 rectorate of the Theatre Royal. But Ashbury has no 
 wish to let his new acquisition slip so easily through 
 his fingers ; he obtains an order from the Duke of 
 Orniond, I,ord Lieutenant of Ireland, to prevent the 
 departure of Mr. Wilks,, and the latter, having timeh^ 
 warning of so bold a stratagem on the part of a too 
 admiring manager, secretly boards a vessel at Hoath 
 and is soon landed, safe and sound, on English soil. 
 Back again at Drury Lane, he becomes a greater favor- 
 ite than ever ; a few years later he is one of the famous 
 Triumvirate of Drury Lane and contributing to that 
 golden era when "the stage was in full perfection" ; 
 while * * greenrooms were free from indecencies of 
 every kind, and might justly be compared to the most 
 elegant drawing-rooms of the prime quality." This 
 was the epoch when " no fops or coxcombs ever shew 'd 
 their monkey tricks there ; but if they chanced to thrust 
 in, were aw'd into respect; even persons of the first 
 rank and taste, of both sexes, would often mix with the 
 performers, without any stain to their honour or un- 
 derstanding ; and, indeed, Mr. Wilks was so genteelly 
 elegant in his fancy of dress for the stage, that he was 
 often followed in his fashion, tho', in the street, his 
 plainness of habit was remarkable. ' ' * 
 This remarkable actor, who was 
 
 "... bora with ev'ry art to please ! 
 Politeness, grace, gentiUty and ease," 
 
 * ChetwoQji. 
 
148 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 had a happy faculty of dressing himself to the best ad- 
 vantage, and this quality, combined with the fact that 
 he was an admirable comedian in a certain range of 
 debonair parts, made him a model for the elegant 
 beaux of his day. " Whatever he did on the stage," 
 said an admiring writer, * ' let it be ever so trifling — 
 whether it consisted in putting on his gloves, or taking 
 out his watch, lolling on his cane, or taking snuff" — 
 every movement was marked by such an ease of breed- 
 ing and manner, everything told so strongly the invol- 
 untary motion of a gentleman, that it was impossible 
 to consider the character he represented in any other 
 light than that of reality ; but what was still more sur- 
 prising, that person who could thus delight an audi- 
 ence from the gayety and sprightliness of his manner, 
 I met the next day in the street, hobbling to a hackney- 
 coach, so enfeebled by age* and infirmities that I could 
 scarcely believe him to be the same man." 
 
 As Steele nicely puts it, Wilks had ** a singular tal- 
 ent in representing the graces of nature ; Gibber the 
 deformity in the affectation of them, ' ' and he draws 
 this fine contrast between the rCvSpective methods of 
 the two actors : 
 
 " Were -I a writer of plays I should never employ 
 either of them in parts which had not their bent this 
 way. This is seen in the inimitable strain and run 
 of good humor which is kept up in the character of 
 
 * Wilks died in 1732, two or three years after this criticism 
 was penned. 
 
NEW MASKS AND FACES, 
 
 149 
 
 Wildair^ and in the nice and delicate abuse of under- 
 standing in that of Sir Novelty. Cibber in another 
 light hits exquisitely the flat civility of an affected 
 gentleman usher, and Wilks the easy flatness of a 
 gentleman. ... To beseech gracefully, to ap- 
 proach respectfully, to pity, to mourn, to love, are the 
 places wherein Wilks may be said to shine with the 
 utmost beauty. To rally pleasantly, to scorn artfully, 
 to flatter, to ridicule and neglect are what Cibber 
 would perform with no less excellence." 
 
 Of that third member of the Triumvirate, Thomas 
 Dogget, we have already heard something from Cibber 
 himself. He has been pictured as the most original and 
 the strictest observer of nature of his time, who was 
 ridiculous, without impropriety, and had a different look 
 for every different kind of humor. * ' Though he was 
 an excellent mimic, he imitated nothing but nature." 
 He was a queer man, this Dogget, with a wonderful 
 eye for the main chance and an essentially practical 
 way of viewing men and things. Once when his land- 
 lady 's maid went into his room and cut her throat with 
 one of the player's razors, he exhibited great emotion 
 on being told of the sad occurrence, but as he exclaimed 
 * ' Zounds ! I hope it was not with my best razor, ' ' it 
 w^as naturally inferred that his grief would not prove 
 incurable. 
 
 In his will Dogget bequeathed a sum of money the 
 interest whereof was to be devoted to the purchase of 
 a coat and silver badge to be rowed for every year by 
 
I50 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 Thames watermen, from London Bridge to Chelsea. 
 This gave rise to the following lines, written by a 
 facetious poet some years after the death of the testa- 
 tor : 
 
 '* Tom Dogget, the geatest sly drole in his parts, 
 In acting was certain a master of arts. 
 A monument left — no herald is fuller, 
 His praise is sung yearly by many a sculler. 
 Ten thousand years hence, if the world lasts so long, 
 Tom Dogget must still be the theme of their song." 
 
 A greater actor than Dogget was Barton Booth, one 
 
 of the most scholarly of tragedians, the creator of the 
 
 title part in Addison's Cato, and the dear friend of 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke, who was wont to send his chariot 
 
 to tbe theatre every evening to convey the great man 
 
 to the country. Pope has immortalized him in the 
 
 lines : 
 
 " Booth enters : hark ! the universal peal ! 
 ' But has he spoken ? ' Not a syllable. 
 ' What shook the stage and made the people stare ? ' 
 Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair." 
 
 Booth was a gentleman by birth, a relation of the 
 Earl of Warrington, and a prospective candidate for 
 Holy Orders. When seventeen years old he ran away 
 from home, and before very long, in 1698, had made 
 his dibut on the Dublin stage as the dusky Oroonoko. 
 The event was a triumph for the young actor, but, 
 curiously enough, came very near being a dismal fail- 
 ure, because of an odd accident that befell him. The 
 evening was very warm, and in the last scene of the 
 
NEW MASKS AND FACES, 151 
 
 play, as he waited to go on, he unthinkingly wiped his 
 darkened face, so that the lamp-black on it became 
 streaked, and, as he afterward expressed it, gave him 
 the appearance of a chimney-sweeper. Of course there 
 was much laughter from the audience at sight of the 
 strangely marked Oroonoko, but the next night when 
 the performance was repeated, an actress fitted a crape 
 mask to his face. As ill-luck would have it, this 
 contrivance slipped off in the very first scene, and 
 "Zounds!" subsequently related the tragedian, "I 
 looked like a magpie ! When I came off they lamp- 
 blacked me for the rest of the night, so that I was 
 flayed before it could be got off again." 
 
 Booth remained in Ireland nearly two years, and 
 then began his long career of triumphs in London. In 
 Dublin he had been an ardent lover of the flowing 
 bowl, but the sad straits into which Powell had fallen as 
 the result of drink made so distressful an impression on 
 him that he completely reformed in this direction, and 
 as he was naturally a student, possessed a melodious 
 voice, great personal beauty, and an intuitive dramatic 
 spirit, he quickly developed into an artist who in some 
 respects was looked upon, and justly, as Betterton's 
 successor. 
 
 He seems to have had much of the latter' s amiability 
 of character, or, to quote a quaint passage from Chet- 
 wood, " he had a vast fund of understanding as well 
 as good nature, and a persuasive elocution even in 
 common discourse, that would even compel you to be- 
 
152 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 lieve him against your judgment of things." It ap- 
 pears, further, that '* in his younger days he admired 
 none of the Heathen Deities so much as Jolly Bacchus ; 
 to him he was very devout ; yet, if he drank ever so 
 deep, it never marr'd his study or his stomach. But, 
 immediately after his marriage with Miss Santlow,* 
 whose wise conduct, beauty, and winning behaviour so 
 wrought upon him that home and her company were 
 his chief happiness, he entirely contemn' d the folly of 
 drinking out of season, and from one extreme fell, I 
 think, into the other too suddenly ; for his appetite for 
 food had no abatement. I have often know Mrs. 
 Booth, out of extreme tenderness to him, order the 
 table to be removed, for fear of overcharging his 
 stomach." Thus may we leave him to the care of 
 the watchful Santlow. 
 
 ^ Miss Santlow, his second wife, was an attractive actress, 
 once a ballet dancer. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I^OOKING IN AT THK OPKRA. 
 
 ONE of the most disturbing yet popular factors in 
 the theatrical life of Queen Anne's reign was 
 the introduction, on an ambitious scale, of Italian 
 opera. It proved disturbing because it filled with fear 
 the jealous hearts of legitimate actors and managers, 
 who saw in this thoroughly un-English and unusual 
 form of amusement a dangerous rival ; it was popular 
 since it gave Londoners something melodious and quite 
 different from the dramatic fare the}^ were generally 
 regaled with. Theatre-goers, even the best of them, 
 like novelty, and so when this new-fangled operatic 
 entertainment was brought into conservative Britain 
 from across the sea it became quite the vogue, much to 
 the sorrow of so critical an authority as Addison. It 
 was a sorrow, too, which he expressed in season and 
 out, and so we are not surprised when he announces, 
 in the Spectator, his design ' ' to deliver down to poster- 
 ity a faithful account of the Italian opera, and of the 
 gradual progress which it has made upon the English 
 stage," for ''there is no question," he thinks, "but 
 our great-grandchildren will be very curious to know 
 
 153 
 
154 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 the reason why their forefathers used to sit together 
 like an audience of foreigners in their own country, 
 and to hear whole plays acted before them, in a 
 tongue which they did not understand." 
 
 Short-sighted Addison ! The great-grandchildren 
 had no such curiosity. They sat together themselves 
 "like an audience of foreigners," and their own de- 
 scendants do the same thing now. But to read on 
 further from the Spectator : 
 
 '' Arsinoe was the first opera that gave us a taste 
 of Italian music. The great success this opera met 
 with produced some attempts of forming pieces upon 
 Italian plans, which should give a more natural and 
 reasonable entertainment than what can be met with 
 in the elaborate trifles of that nation. This alarmed 
 the poetasters and fiddlers of the town, who were used 
 to deal in a more ordinary kind of ware ; and therefore 
 laid down an established rule, which is received as 
 such to this day, * That nothing is capable of being 
 well set to music, that is not nonsense.' This maxim 
 was no sooner received, but we immediately fell to 
 translating the Italian operas, and as there was no 
 great danger of hurting the sense of those extraordi- 
 nary pieces, our authors would often make words of 
 their own which were entirely foreign to the meaning 
 of the passages they pretended to translate ; their chief 
 care being to make the numbers of the English verse 
 answer to those of the Italian, that both of them might 
 go to the same tune. ' ' 
 
LOOKING I IV AT THE OPERA, I 55 
 
 ** The next step to our refinement," it is pointed out, 
 " was the introducing of Italian actors into our opera, 
 who sung their parts in their own language, at the same 
 tune that our countrymen performed theirs in our native 
 tongue. The King or hero of the play generally spoke 
 in Italian, and his slaves answered him in English. 
 The lover frequently made his court, and gained the 
 heart of his princess, in a language she did not under- 
 sta^id. One would have thought it very difficult to 
 have carried on dialogues after this manner without an 
 interpreter between the persons that conversed to- 
 gether, but this was the state of the English stage for 
 about three years." 
 
 And yet the very posterity for whose benefit Addison 
 was writing, is so hardened to the anomalies and incoi:- 
 sistencies of Italian opera, that a little defect like this 
 could not possibly shock it. Nay, within the past two 
 or three years I have myself witnessed a performance 
 where the tenor sang in French, the soprano in German, 
 the baritone in Italian, and the other participants showed 
 more or less of a penchmit for the English mode of ex- 
 pression. Yet the production gave unlimited enjoy- 
 ment, as w^ell it might, for in opera the music 's the 
 thing, so far as the general public is concerned, and a 
 polyglot incident of this kind passes almost unnoticed. 
 What matters the language, if the voice be melodious. 
 The tenor may warble in Chinese if he so please, and 
 depict the most profound woe in the liveliest of florid 
 arias ; but so long as his notes have power to charm the 
 
156 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 ear there will be no complaint. Wagner strove to inject 
 a certain amount of realism and dramatic unity into his 
 works, and Verdi, who in most of his own operas was 
 a flagrant offender against probability, has tried the 
 same thing in Otello, yet for all that our venerable 
 friends, Trovaiore and the perennial Bohemian Girl, — 
 who has outgrown her girlhood these many seasons, — 
 still exert the old influence on the music-lover. 
 
 To return to Addison. "At length," he relates, 
 ' * the audience grew tired of understanding half the 
 opera ; and therefore, to ease themselves entirely of the 
 fatigue of thinking, have so ordered it at present, that 
 the whole opera is performed in an unknown tongue. 
 We no longer understand the language of our own 
 stage ; insomuch that I have often been afraid, when 
 I have seen our Italian performers chattering in the 
 vehemence of action, that they have been calling us 
 names, and abusing us among themselves ; but I hope, 
 since we do put such entire confidence in them, they 
 will not talk against us before our faces, though they 
 may do it with the same safety as if it were behind our 
 backs. In the meantime I cannot forbear thinking how 
 naturally an historian who writes two or three hundred 
 years hence, and does not know the taste of his wise 
 fore-fathers will make the following reflection : ' In 
 the beginning of the eighteenth century, the Italian 
 tongue was so well understood in England, that operas 
 were acted on the public stage in that language.' " 
 
 The Arsinoe referred to in this essay was given in 
 
LOOKING W AT THE OPERA, I^^ 
 
 its Anglicized form in 1705, and the advertisement of 
 the performance in the Daily Courant sets forth that 
 there will be presented at the Theatre Royal, Drury 
 I^ane, " a new Opera, never perform' d before, call'd 
 Arsinoe, Queen of Cyprus, After the Italian manner, all 
 Sung, being set to Musick by Mr. Clayton. With sev- 
 eral Entertainments of Dancing by Monsieur I'Abbee, 
 Monsieur du Ruel, Monsieur Cherrier, Mrs. Klford, 
 Mrs. du Ruel, Mrs. Moss, and others. And the famous 
 Signora Francisca Margaretta de I'Kpine will, before 
 the Beginning and after the Ending of the Opera, per- 
 form several entertainments of singing in Italian and 
 English. ' ' It was further announced that no person 
 should *' be admittted into the Boxes or Pitt but by the 
 Subscribers Tickets, to be delivered at Mrs. White's 
 Chocolate House." 
 
 During the season Arsinoe had twenty-four perform- 
 ances, although it was a trashy sort of compilation, and 
 it was followed, the succeeding year, by Camilla. This 
 proved to be a much more meritorious work, and was 
 an adaptation from the Italian of Stampiglio by Gib- 
 ber's old friend, Owen Swiney. The bright particular 
 star of the performance happened to be the famous Mrs. 
 Tofts, an English prima donna, w^ho had a handsome 
 presence, a fine voice, and accomplished methods. Cib- 
 ber says that * ' whatever defects the fashionably skilful 
 might find in her manner, she had, in the general sense 
 of her spectators, charms that few of the most learned 
 singers ever arrived at. The beauty of her fine propor- 
 
158 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 tioned figure, and exquisitely sweet silver tone of her 
 voice, with that peculiar rapid swiftness of her throat, 
 were perfections not to be imitated by art or labor." 
 
 Mrs. Tofts retired from the stage as early as 1709, 
 having amassed a modest fortune by her singing, and 
 at the very height of her beauty and popularity married 
 a scholarly and wealthy gentleman, Joseph Smith, who 
 was afterwards appointed Knglish consul to Venice. 
 Her reason gave way about this time, and although she 
 recovered for a season, the trouble finally returned and 
 she died many years later, old, forgotten, and demented. 
 Steele thus dwells upon her infirmity in the Taller : * 
 
 '* The great revolutions of this nature bring to my 
 mind the distresses of the unfortunate Camilla^ who 
 has had the ill-luck to break before her voice, and to 
 disappear at a time when her beauty was in the height 
 of its bloom. This lady entered so thoroughly into the 
 great characters she acted, that when she had finished 
 her part she could not think of retrenching her equi- 
 page, but would appear in her own lodgings with the 
 same magnificence that she did upon the stage. This 
 greatness of soul had reduced that unhappy princess to 
 an involuntary retirement, where she now passes her 
 time among the woods and forests, thinking on the 
 crowns and sceptres she has lost, and often humming 
 over in her solitude, 
 
 * I was born of royal race, 
 Yet must wander in disgrace, 'f etc. 
 
 * May 26, 1709. t A quotation from Camilla. 
 
LOOKING m AT THE OPERA, I 59 
 
 But for fear of being overheard, and her quahty known, 
 
 she usually sings it in Italian, 
 
 ' Nacqui al regno, nac qui al trono 
 E per sono 
 I Ventura pastorella.' " 
 
 It was of this unfortunate songstress that a poet of 
 her day wrote * : 
 
 " Music has learn'd the discords of the State, 
 And concerts jar with Whig and Tory hate. 
 Here Somerset and Devonshire attend 
 The British Tofts, and every note commend ; 
 To native merit just, and pleas'd to see 
 We've Roman arts, from Roman bondage free." 
 
 The more sweetly sang such charmers as Tofts or 
 handsome De I'Epine the more anxious and indignant 
 waxed certain watch-dogs of the English drama, whose 
 vivid imaginations pictured the total extinction of the 
 latter through the introduction of the hated opera. 
 Dennis, in an Essay on the Operas after the Italian Man- 
 ner (1706) complained that " tho' the Reformation and 
 lyiberty and the Drama were established among us to- 
 gether, and have flourished among us together, and 
 have still been like to have fall'n together, notwith- 
 standing all this, at this present juncture, when lyiberty 
 and the Reformation are in the utmost danger, we are 
 going very bravely to oppress the Drama, in order to 
 establish the luxurious diversions of those very nations, 
 from whose attempts and designs, both I^iberty and the 
 Reformation are in the utmost danger. ' ' 
 
 * Hughes, author of The Siege of Damascus, 
 
l6o ECHOES OF THE PL A Y HO USE, 
 
 But despite the warnings of the worthy Dennis, 
 opera, *' after the Italian manner " continued in favor, to 
 the great danger, in his own mind, of Drama, lyiberty, 
 and the Reformation. The works of this kind, where 
 the English and Italian elements had incongruous and 
 inartistic combination, came to an end with Pyrrhus 
 and Demetrius, a translation of the Pirro e Demetrio of 
 Adriano Morselli. Steele writes entertainingly of it in 
 the Tatler * : 
 
 * ' lyCtters from the Haymarket inform us that on Sat- 
 urday night last the opera of Pyrrhus and Demetrius 
 was performed with great applause. This intelligence 
 is not very acceptable to us friends of the theatre ; 
 for the stage being an entertainment of the reason and 
 all our faculties, this way of being pleased with the 
 suspense of them for three hours together, and being 
 given up to the shallow satisfaction of the ears and 
 eyes only, seems to arise rather from the degeneracy 
 of our understanding than an improvement of our di- 
 versions. That the understanding has no part in the 
 pleasure is evident from what these letters very posi- 
 tively assert ; to wit, that a great part of the perform- 
 ance was done in Italian : and a great critic fell into 
 fits in the gallery at seeing not only time and place, but 
 language and nations, confused in most incorrigible 
 manner. His spleen is so extremely moved on this oc- 
 casion, that he is going to publish another treatise 
 against the introduction of operas, which, he thinks, 
 * No. 4. 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA, l6l 
 
 has already inclined us to thoughts of peace, and, if, 
 tolerated, must infallibly dispirit us from carrying on 
 the war. He has communicated his scheme to the 
 whole room and declared in what manner things of this 
 kind were first introduced. He has on this occasion 
 considered the nature of sounds in general, and made 
 a very elaborate digression upon the I^ondon cries, 
 wherein he was shown, from reason and philosophy, 
 why oysters are cried, card-matches sung, and turnips 
 and all other vegetables neither cried, sung nor said, 
 but sold with an accent and tone neither natural to 
 man nor beast." 
 
 At the time that Sir Richard wrote this he was an 
 arch-enemy to the style of production which he thus 
 satirized, but he had the good grace, in a subsequent 
 number of the Tatler^ to praise one of the principals 
 in the cast, the favorite Nicolini. *' For my own part," 
 he admits, ' ' I was fully satisfied with the sight of an 
 actor, who, by the grace and propriety of his action 
 and gesture does honor to the human figure. Every- 
 one will imagine I mean Signor Nicolini, who sets off 
 the character he bears in an opera by his action, as 
 much as he does the words of it by his voice. Every 
 limb and every finger contributes to the part he acts, 
 inasmuch that a deaf man may go along with him in 
 the sense of it. There is scarce a beautiful posture in 
 an old statue which he does not plant himself in, as 
 
 * No. 113. 
 
1 62 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 the different circumstances of the story give occasion 
 for it." 
 
 This opera singer, who was known in private life as 
 the CavaHere Nicolino Grimaldi, enjoyed great public 
 favor, in the days when the Tatler was at the height of 
 its prosperity. He came from Naples, where he had 
 decided musical prestige, arriving in England in 1708, 
 appearing first in this very Pyrrhus and Demetrius^ and 
 returning to his native Italy in 17 12. 
 
 Of course Addison has something to say about him, 
 as for instance, in the fifth issue of the Spectator, a 
 portion of which may be quoted here as showing up the 
 all-absorbing question of opera in a humorous light : 
 
 " An opera may be allowed to be extravagantly 
 lavish in its decorations, as its only design is to gratify 
 the senses, and keep up an indolent attention in the 
 audience. Common sense, however, requires that there 
 should be nothing in the scenes and machines which 
 may appear childish and absurd. How would the wits 
 of King Charles's time have laughed to seeNicolini ex- 
 posed to a tempest in robes of ermine, and sailing in 
 an open boat upon a sea of pasteboard ? What a field 
 of raillery would they have been led into, had they 
 been entertained with painted dragons spitting wild- 
 fire, enchanted chariots drawn by Flanders mares, and 
 real cascades in artificial landscapes ? A little skill in 
 criticism would inform us, that shadows and realities 
 ought not to be mixed together in the same piece ; and 
 that the scenes which are designed as the representa- 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA. 1 63 
 
 tions of nature should be filled with resemblances, and 
 not with the things themselves. If one would repre- 
 sent a wide champaign country filled with herds and 
 flocks, it would be ridiculous to dravv the country only 
 upon the scenes, and to crowd several parts of the stage 
 with sheep and oxen. This is joining together incon- 
 sistencies, and making the decorations partly real, and 
 partly imaginary. I would recommend what I have 
 here said to the directors, as well as the admirers, of 
 our modern opera. 
 
 "As I was walking in the street about a fortnight 
 ago, I saw an ordinary fellow carrying a 'cage full of 
 little birds upon his shoulder ; and as I was wondering 
 with myself what use he would put them to, he was 
 met very luckily by an acquaintance, who had the 
 same curiosity. Upon his asking him what he had 
 upon his shoulders, he told him that he had been buy- 
 ing Sparrows for the opera. Sparrows for the opera, 
 says his friend, licking his lips. What ! are they to be 
 roasted? No, no, says the other, they are to enter 
 towards the end of the first act, and to fly about the 
 stage. 
 
 ''This strange dialogue awakened my curiosity so 
 far, that I immediately bought the opera, by which 
 means I perceived the sparrows w^ere to act the part 
 of singing-birds in a delightful grove ; though, upon 
 a nearer inquiry, I found the Sparrows put the same 
 trick upon the audience, that Sir Martin Mar-all^ 
 * In Dryden's comedy of that name. 
 
164 ECHOES OF THE PLA YHOUSE. 
 
 practised upon his mistress ; for though they flew in 
 sight, the music preceded from a concert of flageolets 
 and bird calls, which were planted behind the scenes. 
 At the same time I made this discovery : I found, by 
 the discourse of the actors, that there were great designs 
 on foot for the improvement of the opera ; that it had 
 been proposed to break down a part of the wall, and to 
 surprise the audience with a party of a hundred-horse, 
 and that there was actually a project of bringing the 
 New River into the house, to be employed in Jets 
 d'eau and water-works. This project, as I have since 
 heard, is postponed till the summer season ; when it is 
 thought that the coolness which proceeds from the 
 fountains and cascades will be more acceptable and re- 
 freshing to people of quality. 
 
 " But to return to the sparrows : there have been so 
 many flights of them let loose in the opera that it is 
 feared the house will never get rid of them ; and that 
 in other plays they make their entrance in very wTong 
 and improper scenes, so as to be seen flying in a lady's 
 bed-chamber, or perching upon a king's throne. I am 
 credibly informed that there was once a design of cast- 
 ing into an opera the story of Whittington and his cat ; 
 and that in order to do it, there had been got together 
 a great quantity of mice ; but Mr. Rich, the proprietor 
 of the playhouse, very prudently considered that it 
 would be impossible for the cat to kill them all, and 
 that consequently the princes of the stage might be as 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA. 165 
 
 much infested with mice, as the prince of the island 
 was before the cat's arrival upon it; for which reason 
 he would not permit it to be acted in his house. 
 
 "Before I dismiss this paper, I must inform my 
 reader, that there is a treaty on foot between London 
 and Wise * (who will be appointed gardeners of the 
 playhouse) to furnish the opera of Rinaldo and Arniida 
 with an orange-grove ; and that the next time it is 
 acted, the singing birds will be personated by tom-tits : 
 the undertakers being resolved to spare neither pains 
 nor money for the gratification of the audience. ' ' 
 
 So much for Addison's banter. Laugh as he might 
 at the inconsistencies of opera, (the laugh was all the 
 more bitter because his own opera of Rosamund had 
 failed,) the people went on patronizing the importation 
 and getting wellnigh hysterical on occasion, over the 
 attractions of the foreign Nicolini or the home-born 
 Tofts. Another singer who inspired enthusiasm was 
 Madame de I'Kpine, a dangerous rival to the latter, 
 and the happy possessor of a lovely voice. She came 
 over to England in company with a German musician, 
 Herr Greber, whereby she derived her rather undigni- 
 fied nickname. " Greber' s Peg." The De I'Kpine's 
 personal appearance was not as beautiful as her pow- 
 ers of expression, and so when she retired from the 
 stage in 17 18 and married Dr. Pepusch, the musician, 
 
 * The Queen's gardeners. 
 
1 66 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 he dubbed her " Hecate," a title which hardly proved 
 more complimentary. 
 
 This prima donna, as well as Nicolini, and Valentini, 
 a singer of considerable note, appeared in Almahide, 
 which is only remembered now because it was the first 
 opera to be given in London entirely in Italian. It 
 soon gave way to Francesco Maiicini's Hydaspes, a 
 much written about opera which became quite the 
 fashion, notwithstanding that its merits, musical or 
 otherwise, were hardly prominent. Its chief claim on 
 the interest of posterity lies in its much satirized scene 
 where a supposedly dreadful combat takes place be- 
 tween Hydaspes and a lion. Even the amount of 
 poetic license allowed to so flexible a thing as an Ital- 
 ian libretto has limits, and in this case the bounds of 
 probability were so grossly exceeded that the wits of 
 the town soon had everybody laughing at an encounter 
 where the hero had the pleasant duty of throwing 
 down an inoffensive man attired in a lion's skin, and 
 then posing before the audience as a mighty Nimrod. 
 
 As the story of the opera goes, Hydaspes and his 
 brother, Artaxerxes, the King of Persia, are both in 
 love with the beautiful Princess Berenice. The King 
 coming to the convenient conclusion that the best way 
 to dispose of a dangerous rival is to have him nicely 
 and very thoroughly devoured by a lion (one who 
 has n't dined for a day or two preferred,) orders Hy- 
 daspes to be thrown into the public arena, where the 
 hungry animal will do the rest. So when the third 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA, 1 67 
 
 act arrives, we see the unfortunate but always virtu- 
 ous young man brought on the stage closely guarded 
 by soldiers, while the Persians fill the royal amphi- 
 theatre, waiting eagerly for the coming sport. 
 
 Of course Berenice loves this noble specimen of pro- 
 spective mince-meat, and, quite naturally, she is on 
 hand to have a front-row view of the little divertisement 
 so thoughtfully prepared by the fraternal Artaxerxes. 
 
 "For thee, my life, I die," wails the hero (in 
 Italian) as he cordially greets his beloved. 
 
 " Oh, my soul ! a long farewell ! " continues Berenice 
 with customary Italian-opera cheerfulness. 
 
 "Oh, Berenice ! my love ! " answers her admirer. 
 
 " Hydaspes ! " she lisps, and thereupon both ex- 
 claim placidly : ' * Oh ! farewell ! ' ' 
 
 This eminently proper dialogue is evidently too 
 much for the impatient populace, for the stage direc- 
 tions now read : 
 
 " Berenice places herself on the steps of the amphi- 
 theatre, with Arbaces and the soldiers : Hydaspes re- 
 maining alone in the arena ; after which a lion comes 
 out of his den, which, not yet seeing Hydaspes, stalks 
 about looking at the spectators." 
 
 This is an accommodating sort of lion ; he kindly 
 resolves to give the hero time for a farewell sentiment, 
 and so we find Hydaspes crying out : 
 
 " Why dost thou, horrid monster pause ? 
 Come on ; now sate thy ravenous jaws ; 
 This naked bosom tear : 
 
1 68 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 But thou within shalt find a heart 
 Guarded by flames will make thee start, 
 And turn thy rage to fear." 
 
 Then Berenice comes forward, says something about 
 ** Ah, miserable me ! I die ! "and straightway goes off 
 into a dead faint, in true feminine fashion. However, 
 things soon take a cheerful turn for everybody except- 
 ing Artaxerxes 2i\\A the lion. '' Hydaspes, grasping 
 the lion's neck with his arms, strangles him, when 
 falling at last on the ground, he sets his foot on his 
 neck in sign of victory" — which, though a trifle ob- 
 scure in expression, means that as an animal throttler 
 Berenice' s cher ami is a decided success. 
 
 Hydaspes now feels so valiant' that he asks : 
 
 ** Is there another monster yet 
 Remains for me t' encounter? 
 No force that 's new 
 This fear can e'er subdue ! " 
 
 But we may leave the resuscitation of Berenice to the 
 imagination. The whole affair was, no doubt, su- 
 premely idiotic, for, to quote George Hogarth,* ''the 
 exhibition of Nicolini, alternately vaporing and ges- 
 ticulating to a poor biped in a lion's skin, then breath- 
 ing a love- tale in the pseudo-monster's ear, and at last 
 fairly throttling him on the stage, must have been ludi- 
 crous in the extreme." 
 
 The humor of the situation was sportively dwelt upon 
 in the Spectator (number 13), where Addison writes : 
 
 * Memoirs of the Musical Drama, 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA. 1 69 
 
 " There is nothing that of late years has afforded 
 matter of greater amusement to the town than Signior 
 Nicolini's combat with a lion in the Haymarket, which 
 has been very often exhibited to the general satisfaction 
 of most of the nobility and gentry in the kingdom of 
 Great Britain. Upon the first rumor of this intended 
 combat, it was confidently affirmed, and is still believed, 
 by many in both galleries, that there would be a tame 
 lion sent from the Tower every opera night, in order to 
 be killed by Hydaspes ; this report, though altogether 
 groundless, so universally prevailed in the upper regions 
 of the playhouse, that some of the most refined poli- 
 ticians in those parts of the audience, gave it out in 
 whispers that the lion was a cousin-german of the tiger 
 who made his appearance in King William's days, and 
 that the stage would be supplied with lions at the pub- 
 lic expense, during the whole session. Many likewise 
 were the conjectures of the treatment which this lion 
 was to meet with from the hands of Signior Nicolini ; 
 some supposed that he was to subdue him in recitative, 
 as Orpheus used to serve the wild beasts in his time, and 
 afterwards to knock him on the head ; some fancied 
 that the lion would not pretend to lay his paws upon 
 the hero, b}^ reason of the received opinion, that a lion 
 will not hurt a virgin. Several, who pretended to have 
 seen the opera in Italy, had informed their friends, that 
 the lion was to act a part in High Dutch, and roar twice 
 or thrice to a thoroughbass before he fell at the feet of 
 Hydaspes. ' ' 
 
I70 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 So Addison sets himself the task of finding out the 
 identity of the ferocious monster. There were three 
 lions in all, he learns. The first was a candle-snuffer, 
 ** who being a fellow of a testy, choleric temperament, 
 overdid his part and would not suffer himself to be 
 killed so easily as he ought to have done. ' ' Next came 
 a tailor by trade, *' who belonged to the playhouse and 
 had the character of a mild and peaceable man in his 
 profession. If the former was too furious, this was too 
 sheepish for his part ; insomuch that after a short mod- 
 est walk upon the stage, he would fall at the first touch 
 of Hydaspes, without grappling with him, and giving 
 him an opportunity of showing his variety of Italian 
 trips. It is said, indeed, that he once gave him a rip 
 in his flesh color doublet ; but this was only to make 
 work for himself in his private character of a tailor. ' ' 
 
 The third lion was much more acceptable to all con- 
 cerned. He was " a country gentleman, who does it 
 for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. 
 He says, very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he 
 does not act for gain ; that he indulges an innocent 
 pleasure in it ; and that it is better to pass away an 
 evening in this manner, than in gaming and drinking ; 
 but at the same time says, with a very agreeable raillery 
 upon himself, that if his name should be known the 
 ill-natured world might call him, ' the ass in the lion's 
 skin.' " 
 
 Operatic art in England was given a remarkable im- 
 petus by the arrival of Handel during the latter part of 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA. 171 
 
 17 10. Though but a young man he had already be- 
 come celebrated as a composer, and no sooner was he 
 in lyondon than Aaron Hill, who then managed the 
 Haymarket Theatre, asked him to wTite an opera for 
 production at that house. The arrangements were per- 
 fected, the music was composed within a fortnight and 
 the librettist, the poet Rossi, had a hard time to finish 
 his own work so as to keep pace with the rapid Handel. 
 The opera was entitled Rinaldo and when produced met 
 with the greatest success. Subsequently another of his 
 compositions, // Pastor Fido, was brought out, and in 
 17 13 his Theseus was presented. In the Daily Courant 
 of January 24th it is announced by the management of 
 the Haymarket that : 
 
 "This present Saturday the 24th of January, the 
 Opera of Theseus composed by Mr. Handel will be 
 represented in its Perfection, that is to say with all the 
 Scenes, Decorations, Flights and Machines. The Per- 
 formers are much concerned that they did not give the 
 Nobility and Gentry all the Satisfaction they could have 
 wished, when they represented it on Wednesday last, 
 having been hindered by some unforseen Accidents, at 
 that time insurmountable." 
 
 But what were the successes of the inane Hydaspes 
 or the classic, dignified Rinaldo as compared to that of 
 the Beggars' Opera, a work illustrating the now recog- 
 nized managerial axiom that it is useless to prophecy 
 as to the fate of a production. In one of those inimita- 
 ble conversations photographed for us by the obliging 
 
172 ECHOES OF THE PI A Y HO USE. 
 
 Boswell, Sir Joshua Reynolds says : " The Beggars' 
 Opera affords a proof how strangely people will differ 
 in opinion about a literary performance. Burke thinks 
 it has no merit" — to which the sage Johnson replies : 
 ** It was refused by one of the houses ; but I should 
 have thought it would succeed, not from any great ex- 
 cellence in the writing but from the novelty and the 
 general spirit and gaiety of the piece, which keeps the 
 audience always attentive, and dismisses them in good 
 humor." 
 
 But the circumstances attending the introduction of 
 the piece were discouraging up to the moment of its 
 performance. It was written by the poet Gay, who 
 provided for it a story of low-life that seemed anything 
 but attractive on a first perusal of the libretto, and the 
 music was nothing more or less than an adaptation, by 
 Dr. Pepusch, of a number of national ditties. When 
 Gay went to his patron, the Duke of Queensbury, to 
 get an opinion of the affair, the noble critic remarked : 
 " This is a very odd thing, Gay ; it is either a very 
 good thing or a bad thing." So experienced a mana- 
 ger as Gibber utterly refused to produce it, and when 
 Rich * consented to put it on at his house in I^incoln's 
 Inn Fields (1727) it was by no means in an enthusias- 
 tic frame of mind that he yielded. To add to the trials 
 of the author, Quin refused to take the part of Macheath, 
 
 * John Rich opened the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields in 
 December, 17 14, under letters-patent originally granted by Char- 
 les II., and restored by George I. 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA. 1 73 
 
 because he had so poor an opinion of the opera, and it 
 was assigned to Thomas Walker, one of the most en- 
 tertaining, jovial, and hard-drinking actors of his time. 
 The leading feminine role of Polly was given to a Miss 
 Fenton * who was handsome, to be sure, but whose 
 chief claim to Mr. Rich's regard seems to have been 
 her offer to accept the modest salary of fifteen shillings 
 a week. In fact, all the preparations were made on the 
 most economical basis, as though no extravagance could 
 be justified in connection with pre-doomed failure. 
 
 The looked-for disaster never came. On the con- 
 trary, the Beggars' Opera passed into theatrical history 
 as one of the greatest of successes ; the town went wild 
 over it, and Rich made a fortune out of the enterprise. 
 To be sure, the Archbishop of Canterbury and many 
 other pious persons objected to the work on the ground 
 that its story, dealing, as it did, with highwaymen and 
 other lawless characters, was calculated to foster im- 
 morality. This far-fetched argument troubled the au- 
 diences not one bit ; they found in the piece a light, 
 agreeable entertainment just to their liking, and always 
 went away from the performance in that good hu- 
 mor to which Dr. Johnson referred many years later. 
 Whether they would have extracted as much enjoy- 
 ment from Polly, the second part which Gay wrote for 
 
 * Lavinia Fenton became famous in a day by her appearance 
 as Polly. She was a witty, charming woman who had a re- 
 markable career, which included her marriage to the Duke of 
 Bolton. 
 
174 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 the Beggars' Opera, is doubtful, but there was never a 
 chance for comparison, as the lyord Chamberlain re- 
 fused to license the sequel. 
 
 Everything was in readiness for the introduction of 
 Polly when the decision was announced. Rich and 
 Gay were deeply disappointed and mortified at so un- 
 expected a blow. Some uncharitable enemies of Gib- 
 ber charged that the refusal of a license was due to his 
 jealousy of Gay and his own ambition to bring out a 
 piece on the order of the Beggars' Opera, and so justice 
 demands that we give CoUey a hearing on the subject. 
 
 * ' After the vast success of that new species of dra- 
 matic poetry," he says, " the year following I was so 
 stupid as to attempt something of the same kind, upon 
 a quite diflferent foundation, that of recommending vir- 
 tue, and innocence ; which I ignorantly thought might 
 not have a less pretence to favor, than setting great- 
 ness and authority in a contemptible, and the most vul- 
 gar vice and wickedness, in an amiable light. But 
 behold how fondly I was mistaken ! Love in a Riddle 
 (for so my new-fangled performance was called) was as 
 vilely damn'd and hooted at as so vain a presumption, 
 in the idle cause of virtue, could deserve." 
 
 Gibber then goes on to say how it came about that 
 he was falsely accused of being privy to the suppression 
 of Polly, how many of his friends got out of humor with 
 him in consequence, and how Love in a Riddle suffered 
 such dire failure because of the popular belief in the 
 unjust rumor. He brought out his opera without con- 
 
LOOKING m AT THE OPERA. 1 75 
 
 sidering that ' * from the security of a full pit dunces 
 might be criticks, cowards valiant, and prentices gen- 
 tlemen." 
 
 ' ' Whether any such were concerned in the murder 
 of my play, I am not certain ; for I never endeavor' d 
 to discover any one of its assassins ; I cannot afford 
 them a milder name, from their unmanly manner of 
 destroying it. Had it been heard, they might have left 
 me nothing to say to them. 'Tis true, it faintly held 
 up its wounded head a second da)^ and would have 
 spoke for mercy, but was not suffered. Not even the 
 presence of a Royal Heir-apparent could protect it. 
 But then I was reduced to be serious with them ; their 
 clamor, then, became an insolence, which I thought it 
 my duty, by the sacrifice of any interest of my own, 
 to put an end to. I therefore quitted the actor for the 
 author, and stepping forward to the pit, told them. 
 That since I found they were not inclined that this play 
 should go forward^ I gave them my word that after this 
 night it should never be acted again : but that^ in the 
 meantime I hop'd they would consider in whose presence 
 they were^ and for that reason^ at leasts would suspend 
 what further marks of their displeasure they might 
 imagine I had deserved. At this there was a dead 
 silence ; and, after some little pause, a few civiliz'd 
 hands signify' d their approbation. When the play 
 went on I observ'd about a dozen persons, of no extra- 
 ordinary appearance, sullenly walk'd out of the pit. 
 After which, every scene of it, while uninterrupted, 
 
176 ECHOES OF THE PL A Y HO USE, 
 
 met with more applause than my best hopes had ex- 
 pected. But it came too late : Peace to its Manes ! I 
 had given my word it should fall, and I kept it by 
 giving out another play for the next day, though I 
 knew the boxes were all let for the same again." 
 
 "Peace to its Manes''' indeed. It was doubtless 
 poor stuff, this Love in a Riddle, but good or bad, the 
 public had resolved to have none of it, and there was 
 an end to the matter. But the Beggar's Opera con- 
 tinued popular for many a day, and we can imagine the 
 prosperous, illiterate John Rich, whom the success of the 
 piece lifted from comparative poverty to affluence, tell- 
 ing his friends how he had been one of the first to dis- 
 cover its merits. Even managers are forgetful, and 
 Rich was not less so than others of the same ilk. 
 He was the son of Christopher Rich, and for many 
 years enjoyed great celebrity as an effective pantomim- 
 ist ; indeed he seems to have been the first manager to 
 put pantomine on a popular and respectable footing on 
 the English stage. His Harlequins proved so attrac- 
 tive that he often drew the attention of play-goers from 
 the legitimate drama, and, in his own curious way he 
 even proved a rival of Garrick, who wrote of him : 
 
 " When Ivun* appeared, with matchless art and whim, 
 He gave the power of speech to every limb ; 
 Tho' mask'd and mute convey'd his quick intent. 
 And told in frolic gestures what he meant : 
 But now the motley coat and sword of wood 
 Require a tongue to make them understood." 
 *Rich used to appear in pantomime under the name of Mr. Ivun. 
 
LOOKING IN AT THE OPERA. 1 77 
 
 His pantomime was, indeed, faultless, but not so his 
 grammar or his general education. One of his peculi- 
 arities was to call everybody ' ' Mister, ' ' and this habit 
 once brought forth an unkind jest from the coarsest 
 and most unkind of men, the mimic Foote. The latter 
 on being addressed several times as "Mister," took 
 Rich to task for his bad manners in not adding * * Foote. ' ' 
 " Don't be angry," said the manager, "fori sometimes 
 forget my own name." "That's extraordinary," 
 replied Foote, "for though I knew you could not write 
 it, I did not suppose you could forget it. ' ' 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN ACTOR OF THK OI,D SCHOOI,. 
 
 WK oftetr hear the elderly play-goer speak lov- 
 ingly of the * ' actors of the old school," deplor- 
 ing the fact that they are passing away, and sighing 
 because their successors have not inherited all their 
 excellences. "There's poor So and So," he says 
 sadly, " he 's almost the last one left ; how I wish some 
 of the younger generation of players would take pat- 
 tern by him." And then he adds, mournfully : "The 
 palmy days of the drama are done for." 
 
 Dear old croaker ! Don't you know that it has been 
 the fashion for the past two centuries to talk about 
 those "palmy days," and to look upon the "old 
 school" as something never to return. Nay, those 
 among us who are now young will grow eloquent, 
 thirty years hence, over favorites of to-day, and com- 
 plain that the theatre is no longer what it was. It will 
 always be thus, venerable sir, and so take heart of 
 grace, for the "old school," like the poor, is sure to be 
 ever with us. If you are skeptical, read of Quin, who 
 was spoken of, in the autumn of his life, as one of the 
 last of the "old school," and who was, no doubt, 
 
 178 
 
JAMES QUIN. 
 
 FROM THE PAINTING BY HUDSON. 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 1 79 
 
 regarded by some of his contemporaries as a melan- 
 choly survivor of all that was best in the drama. He 
 has been dead for more than a century, but many who 
 came after him have had the same sort of honor paid 
 them b}^ admirers who could see no health in any but 
 the theatrical heroes of their youth. 
 
 lyike some other by-gone celebrities, Quin would pro- 
 bably be regarded as a very bad actor, could he be 
 resuscitated for the amusement of a modern audience. 
 They?;? de siecle critics would write him down as a * ' ran- 
 ter," and probably dispose of his performance much 
 after their fashion of dealing with the average second- 
 rate Shakesperian spouter. Yet for all that he was 
 one of the great players of his time, even though 
 Churchill did say of him : 
 
 " In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, 
 He could not for a moment sink the man. 
 In whatever cast his character was laid, 
 Self still, like oil, upon the surface played. 
 Nature, in spite of all. his skill, crept in ; 
 Horatio, Dorax, FalstafF— still 't was Quin." 
 
 James Quin was born in 1693, ^nd his father is said 
 to have been an English gentleman who settled in Ire- 
 land several years after this event. When the youth 
 had arrived at what was supposed to be the age of dis- 
 cretion he was sent off to London to study for the bar, 
 but the leading of a gay life and the reading of Shake- 
 speare proved much more to James's liking, than the 
 perusual of musty law books. His father dying about 
 
i8q echoes of the playhouse, 
 
 this time, and the parental legacy not being very large, 
 the presumable law student made up his mind to go 
 on the stage, a conclusion to which he was doubtless 
 influenced by the intimacy he had formed with Booth, 
 Wilks, and other well-known actors. But in the mean- 
 time he had contracted another intimacy by no means 
 so creditable ; a woollen draper's wife was the heroine 
 of it, and a subsequent encounter with tlie indignant 
 husband brought about such a scandal that young 
 Quin was glad to take temporary refuge in Ireland, 
 where he appears to have made his first essay on the 
 boards. 
 
 However, the woollen draper accommodatingly died ; 
 the affaire d' amour wsiS hushed up, and the aspirant 
 returned to I^ondon, to appear at Drury I^ane in 17 15. 
 For some time he seems to have remained * ' the mere 
 scene drudge, the faggot of the drama," assuming 
 secondary parts, and making little headway except in 
 obtaining a deal of valuable experience. It was not 
 until 1720, we are told, that he was able to properly 
 display his talents, and this was after he had left 
 Drury I^ane to join Rich's forces. 
 
 * ' Upon the revival of the Merry Wives of Windsor 
 at lyincoln's Inn Fields, of which the late Mr. Rich 
 was the manager, there was no one in the whole com- 
 pany who would undertake the part of Falstaff ; Rich 
 was, therefore, inclined to give up all thought of repre- 
 senting it, when Quin, happening to come in his way, 
 said, if he pleased he would attempt it. * Hem ! ' said 
 
Aisr ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. l8l 
 
 Rich, taking a pinch of snufF, ' You attempt Falstaff! 
 Why (hem !) — You might as well think of acting Cato 
 after Booth. The character of Falstaff, young man, is 
 quite another character from what you think ' (taking 
 another pinch of snuff) ; ' it is not a snivelling part, that 
 — that — in short, that any one can do. There is not a 
 man among you that has any idea of the part but my- 
 self. It is quite out of your walk. No, never think 
 of Falstaff— uitY&c think of Falstaff— \t is quite — quite 
 out of your walk, indeed, young man.' " * 
 
 Quin had a firm friend in Lacy Ryan, that delightful 
 exponent of tragic lovers or fine gentlemen in comedy, 
 and through Ryan's influence Rich was persuaded to 
 give the bold young fellow a trial. " The first night 
 of his appearance in this character he surprised and 
 astonished the audience ; no actor before ever entered 
 into the spirit of the author, and it seemed as if Shake- 
 speare had by intuition drawn the knight so long be- 
 fore for Quin only to represent. The just applause he 
 met with upon this occasion is incredible ; continued 
 clappings and peals of laughter, in some measure in- 
 terrupted the representation, though it was impossible 
 that any regularity whatever could have more in- 
 creased the mirth or excited the approbation of the 
 audience." 
 
 This was the beginning of a success that, with one 
 or two interruptions, was to last until the powers of 
 the younger and more natural Garrick would put a 
 * The Life of Mr, James Quin^ Comedian. 
 
1 82 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 heavy extinguisher on the histrionic fire of the senten- 
 tious James. An earlier interruption which threatened 
 to extinguish that fire before it had been weUnigh 
 kindled, was the unfortunate affair which involved 
 Quin in involuntary manslaughter. 
 
 He and another actor, William Bowen, got into an 
 altercation one April afternoon (1718) at the Fleece 
 Tavern, in Cornhill, after wine had been flowing 
 pretty freely and the conversation had drifted from 
 good-natured banter into a somewhat less pleasant 
 channel. Mr. Bowen taunted Quin with having acted 
 Tamerlane in a slipshod manner, and the latter replied 
 that Bowen " had no great occasion to value himself 
 for his performance, in that Mr. Johnson, who had 
 acted it but seldom, acted the part oi Jacomo in The 
 Libertine as well as he [Bowen] who had acted it 
 often."* Then the talk grew warmer, Quin told a 
 story that reflected on his friend's honor, and finally 
 Bowen rose up angrily, paid his reckoning and left the 
 tavern, with the remark that he would not stay in such 
 company any longer. 
 
 Quin, as he afterward testified in his own defence, 
 was sent for, a quarter of an hour later, by Bowen, 
 who insisted, strangely enough, upon drinking a pint 
 of wine with him. So after some discussion, the two 
 actors finally ended by going to the Pope's Head 
 Tavern, where, being shown a room, they called for 
 something to drink. The wine was brought, and each 
 * From a record of Quin's trial. 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 1 83 
 
 of them had taken a glass, when suddenly Bowen rose 
 and barricaded the door with two chairs, at the same 
 time telling his companion that *'he had injured him 
 past verbal reparation, and nothing but fighting should 
 make him amends." Thereupon, as Quin himself re- 
 lated, " he argued with him, endeavoring to dissuade 
 him, but Mr. Bowen bid him not trifle with him. That 
 he then desired Mr. Bowen again to defer his resentment 
 and sleep upon it, and if he could not come into temper 
 b}^ the next day, he would meet him and ask his par- 
 don in the same company that he had injured him in ; 
 but Mr. Bowen bid him again not to trifle with him, 
 for that he [Quin] had injured him in his reputation, 
 which he was resolved never to survive and would now 
 do himself justice, and drawing his sword in a violent 
 passion, swore if he did not draw he would run him 
 through, upon which he [Quin] was obliged to draw 
 in his own defence." In the struggle Bowen* was 
 mortally wounded and as the whole evidence went to 
 show that his death was due to his own rashness Quin 
 got off with a conviction for manslaughter, which 
 practically amounted to an acquittal. 
 
 Several seasons later (1721) the actor was to figure in 
 another exciting episode, although one of a far differ- 
 ent character. *' A certain noble earl, who was said 
 (and with some degree of certainty, as he drank usque- 
 baugh constantly at his waking) to have been in a state 
 
 * Bowen was evidently half crazy at the time from his numer- 
 ous libations. 
 
1 84 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 of intoxication for six years, was behind the scenes (at 
 lyincoln's Inn Fields) at the close of a comedy, and, 
 seeing one of his companions on the other side among 
 the performers, crossed the stage and was accord- 
 ingly hissed by the audience. Mr. Rich was on the 
 side the noble earl came over to, and on hearing the 
 uproar in the house at such an irregularity, the man- 
 ager said, ' I hope your lordship will not take it ill if I 
 give orders to the stage door keeper not to admit you 
 any more,' On his saying that, his lordship saluted 
 Mr. Rich with a slap on the face, which he immediately 
 returned, and, his lordship's face being round and fat, 
 made his cheek ring with the force of it. Upon this 
 spirited return my lord's drunken companions col- 
 lected themselves directly, and Mr. Rich was to be put 
 to death ; but Quin, Ryan, Walker, etc. stood forth in 
 the defence of the manager, and a grand scuffle ensued, 
 by which the gentlemen were all drove out at the stage 
 door into the street. They then sallied into the boxes, 
 with their swords drawn, and broke the scenes, cut 
 the hangings, which were gilt leather, finely painted, 
 and continued the riot until Mr. Quin came round with 
 a constable and watchmen, and charged them every 
 one into custody. They were carried before Justice 
 Hungerford, who then lived in the neighborhood, and 
 all bound over to answer the consequences ; but they 
 were soon persuaded by their wiser friends to make up 
 this matter, and the manager got ample redress. The 
 King, being informed of the whole afiair, was highly 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 1 85 
 
 offended, and ordered a guard to attend that theatre as 
 well as the other. ' ' 
 
 From his memorable appearance as Falstaff (^mvC s 
 success seemed assured, and the death of such favorites 
 as Wilks, Mistress Oldfield, and Booth all tended to 
 his own advantage, as giving him so much the wider 
 field for his achievements. But now he had left 
 Rich's company, where the prospects for his own ad- 
 vancement were not very encouraging, and returned 
 to his first love, Drury I^ane. Here it was that he 
 was called upon to essay Booth's old role of Cato^ 
 which was looked upon as peculiarly the property 
 of the latter, and the new impersonator of the char- 
 acter had the tact to announce in the play -bill that 
 *' the part of Cato would be only attempted by Mr. 
 Quin." This at once put the town in an amiable frame 
 of mind towards one who thus publicly intimated that 
 he had no hope of supplanting memories of Booth in 
 the same play, and only desired to modestly follow, as 
 best he might, in such illustrious footsteps. The first 
 night of the performance saw a large and favorably 
 disposed audience assembled at the theatre, and when 
 Quin spoke the lines : 
 
 "Thanks to the Gods ! — my boy has done his duty," 
 
 the spectators were so carried away with the effective- 
 ness of his acting that they cried out * * Booth outdone ! 
 Booth outdone ! " 
 At this period of prosperity Quin was in receipt of a 
 
1 86 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 very large salary, having been engaged on such advan- 
 tageous terms, it was reported, " as no hired actor has 
 had before." His manager was a Mr. Fleetwood, who 
 had come into possession of Drury L<ane under rather 
 curious circumstances, which resulted from the selling 
 of their interest in the old house by Booth and Gibber. 
 The new managers (including Highmore) were not to 
 the liking of the company, and so the players quietly 
 took themselves ofif (1733) to the Little Theatre in the 
 Haymarket and there set up an establishment on their 
 own account. This was a serious blow to Highmore 
 and his colleagues ; like Othello they found their occu- 
 pation gone, and they tried to invoke the majesty of 
 the law to force the mutineers back, on the presumption 
 that the revolt, being without authority of patent or 
 license, was manifestly illegal. An accommodating 
 magistrate granted a warrant for the arrest of one of the 
 malcontents, who was seized while he was on the stage, 
 and taken to Bridewell, but investigation showed that 
 his incarceration was itself illegal. This put a damper 
 on the proceedings determined upon by the proprietors 
 of Drury Lane, who were left in the ridiculous position 
 of monarchs without subjects to reign over,* and so 
 they were very glad to dispose of five sixths of their 
 shares to Mr. Fleetwood. 
 
 Fleetwood was a gentleman of fortune, and when 
 
 * It should be noted, however, that Highmore tried to keep 
 his house open by engaging Macklin and other players, but the 
 plan was not crowned with success. 
 
AM ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 1 8/ 
 
 the pantomimic Rich (who was now manager of the 
 Covent Garden Theatre, whither the Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields company had moved a short time before) came 
 to him with a proposal to unite in the purchase of 
 Drury Lane, he thought it a very good idea. It so 
 happened, however, that Mr. Fleetwood contributed 
 the money and Mr. Rich simply furnished the experi- 
 ence, and so, when a disagreement arose between the 
 two, the former retained possession of the theatre and 
 his ex-partner had to take himself off with nothing 
 to show for his scheme but the one thing he did not 
 need — a little more of the self-same experience. 
 
 The new manager of Drury Lane now proposed to 
 the revolters that they should enlist under his own stan- 
 dard and they, nothing loth, put up the shutters of 
 their house in the Haymarket and ensconced themselves 
 once more under the protecting roof of the Theatre 
 Royal. Each actor who had a say in the management 
 was to receive two hundred pounds a year and that 
 perquisite then so dear to the heart of a professional — 
 a " clear benefit." Quin's salary was made even 
 higher, in recognition of the commanding position 
 which he now had on the stage. 
 
 One of the company happened to be that very good- 
 for-nothing gentleman, Mr. Theophilus Gibber, who, 
 had he not been the son of so influential a man as the 
 energetic Colley, w^ould, in all probability, never have 
 been heard of by London play-goers. He was by no 
 means a bad actor, for he made a capital Pistol d^nA 
 
1 88 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 could put much sparkle and humor into parts of the 
 coxcomb order, yet, as Davies records, he generally 
 mixed so much of falsity and grimace in his work that 
 he often displeased the judicious spectator. He was 
 constantly in trouble of some kind, treated his wife — a 
 far finer artist than he — in a low-spirited manner, and 
 ended his variegated career by getting drowned while 
 crossing over to Ireland, Dibdin refers to Theophilus 
 as one *'who was forward in all manner of scrapes, 
 who has been considered by Goldsmith and others to 
 have fortunately escaped hanging by being drowned, 
 who, in short, was a constant imposition in everything 
 he said or did, all which is attributed by an author to 
 his having been born on the day of the most memorable 
 storm ever known in this kingdom, which happened 
 November 26, 1703." * 
 
 This grim caricature of a distinguished father (for 
 there was much about him that suggested a distorted 
 image of the worthy Colley) soon displayed the inherent 
 impishness of his nature by disloyalty to his new man- 
 ager. Mr. Fleetwood had an attack of gout, as seemed 
 to befit a gentleman of his means, and Theophilus 
 made use of the circumstance to go about telling ever}'- 
 body, in the most confidential manner, that the manager 
 was heavily in debt, that the actors' wages were in 
 arrears, and that affairs at the theatre were in the most 
 deplorable state imaginable. This treachery was too 
 much for Quin, who, whatever may have been his faults, 
 
 * The English long after spoke of it as the "great Storm." 
 
AM ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 1 89 
 
 was straightforward and honest, and as he did not hesi- 
 tate to express his opinion of it very forcibly, he and 
 Mr. Gibber soon had a falling out. 
 
 From that time Theophilus had nothing good to say 
 of Quin, and the ill-feeling that ever after existed 
 between them came to a head, years later, when the 
 latter was about to retire to Bath to spend the residue 
 of his days in the society of fashionable people, eat 
 well-cooked dinners, and give free exercise to 
 
 ** That tongue, which set the table in a roar, 
 And charm'd the public ear." 
 
 The affair happened in the Bedford coffee-house, 
 which the great actor was wont to frequent, and is thus 
 related by the author of the before quoted Life of Mr. 
 fames Quin, Comedian.'^ Gibber, whose impertinence 
 constantly kept pace with his vanity, having taken 
 something amiss that Quin said concerning his acting, 
 came one night strutting into the coffee-house, and hav- 
 ing walked up to the fireplace he said ** He was come 
 to call that capoii-loined rascal^ to an account for taking 
 liberties with his character. ' ' Somebody told him that 
 he had been passed by Quin, who was sitting at the 
 other end of the room, by a window. *' Ay, so I have 
 sure enough," says he, *'but I see he is busy talking 
 to Rich, and I won't disturb them now : I '11 take an- 
 other opportunity." " But," continued his informant, 
 finding the backwardness of Gibber, and willing to have 
 
 *This book was originally published in 1766. 
 
 t A delicate allusion to Quin's love for the pleasures of the 
 table. 
 
190 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HOUSE. 
 
 vSorae sport, **he sets off for Bath to-morrow, and may 
 not, perhaps, be in town again this twelvemonth." 
 "Is that the case," said Gibber (somewhat nettled at 
 finding his courage was suspected), '* then I e'en chas- 
 tise him now." 
 
 Upon this he goes up to Quin and calls out aloud : 
 *' You — Mr. Quin, I think you call yourself, I insist 
 upon satisfaction for the affront you gave me yesterday 
 — dem-me. " "If you have a mind to be flogged ' ' (re- 
 plied Quin) " I '11 do it for you with all my heart, d — mn 
 me!" "Draw, Sir!" resumed Gibber, "or I'll be 
 through you this instant." 
 
 ' * This ' ' (said Quin) " is an improper place to rehearse 
 Lord Foppingtonm ; but if you '11 go under the Piazza, 
 I may, perhaps, make you put up your sword faster 
 than you drew it." Gibber now went out ; Quin fol- 
 lowed, when they immediately drew. Gibber parried, 
 and retreated as far as the garden rails, when Quin, 
 tired with trifling so long, made a lunge and stumbled 
 over a stone. This is too golden an opportunity for 
 the valiant Theophilus to lose, so he accordingly makes 
 a bold thrust at the prostrate actor, slightly injuring 
 him in the forehead, and runs off" " full speed towards 
 the church, as if for sanctuary." 
 
 It seems to have been the fate of Quin, with all his 
 good traits, to go through life with an excitement of 
 some sort always on hand. On one occasion he waxed 
 very angry over a paragraph written by Aaron Hill in 
 The Prompter (1735) and had a rough and tumble fight 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. I9I 
 
 with the author as a result. The offending article spoke 
 of the actor as "Mr. All- weight " and informed him 
 that *' to be always deliberate and solemn is an error, as 
 certainly, though not as unpardonably, as never to be 
 so. To pause where no pauses are necessary, is the 
 way to destroy their effect when the sense stands in 
 need of their assistance. And, though dignity is finely 
 maintained by the weight of majestic composure, yet are 
 there scenes in your parts where the voice should be 
 sharp and impatient, the look disordered and agonized, 
 the action precipitate and turbulent ; for the sake of 
 such difference as we see in some smooth canal, where 
 the stream is scarce visible compared with the other 
 end of the same canal, rushing rapidly down a cascade, 
 and breaking beauties which owe their attraction to 
 violence." Mr. Hill's critique was evidently a just 
 one, yet what actor, be he ever so great, cares to have 
 his faults publicly analyzed. He may talk very beau- 
 tifully about his desire to court criticism, But even one 
 dissenting word in a long paean of praise will grate on 
 him as harshly as does one false note on the sensitive 
 ear of a musician. 
 
 But to return to the artistic career of the '* deliberate " 
 player who was chided in the above sketch. In the 
 season of 1738-39 he scores a fine success in Mustapha, 
 a play wherein the parts of Solyman, the Magnificent, 
 and Rustan, his vizier, are supposed to refer indirectly 
 to King George II. and Sir Robert Walpole. On the 
 night of its first performance the opponents of the Court 
 
192 ECHOES OP THE PLA Y HOUSE. 
 
 party are out in force, and there, in one of the boxes, 
 is the distinguished Pope, who goes behind the scenes 
 and warmly compliments Quin on his impersonation of 
 Solyman. The actor is delighted, of course, and when 
 a servant brings the poet his scarlet coat Mr. Quin, all 
 smiles and politeness, rushes forward and adjusts it 
 with his own hands. 
 
 The next season sees him giving a personal explana- 
 tion to his audience, all because a certain play called 
 The Fatal Retirement has proved a fiasco. Quin had 
 refused to act in it, and the author, a Mr. Brown, makes 
 up his mind that this circumstance had much to do with 
 the failure of the piece. So the friends of the angered 
 Brown fly to his rescue and make things unpleasant for 
 James every time he appears on the stage after the 
 single performance of the quickly retired Retirement. 
 Quin, not to be browbeaten, comes forward one night 
 and tells the house * ' that at the request of the author 
 he had read his piece before it was acted, and given him 
 his very sincere opinion of it ; that it was the very worst 
 play he had ever read in his life, and for that reason he 
 had refused to act in it. ' ' This quickly disposed of Mr. 
 Brown and his admirers. 
 
 The next year Quin is basking in the bright sunshine 
 of royalty, for he acts in the gardens of Cliefden before 
 Frederick, Prince of Wales, Prince George (afterward 
 George III.), and others of the hei r- apparent' s house- 
 hold. Milward, Mills, and more players were there, 
 not forgetting the hoy deuish Kitty Clive, who " pleas' d 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 1 93 
 
 by hiding all attempts to please, ' ' and Davies says of 
 the affair : * * The accommodation for the company, I 
 was told, was but scanty and ill-managed, and the 
 players were not treated as persons ought to be who 
 are employed by a prince. Quin, I believe, was ad- 
 mitted among those of the higher order, and Mrs. 
 Clive might be safely trusted to take care of herself 
 anywhere." The favored Quin was held in high es- 
 teem by Frederick, whose children he instructed in 
 elocution and even in the art of amateur acting, and 
 it is related that when, in after years, he was told what 
 a good impression George III. made in delivering his 
 first speech from the throne, the old man cried out 
 proudly : *' Ay ; I taught the boy to speak ! " 
 
 In the summer of 1741, Quin paid a professional 
 visit to Dublin (where he had played two years before), 
 in company with Ryan, Mrs. Clive, and Mademoiselle 
 Chateauneuf, a danseuse of great European reputa- 
 tion. This was a delightful combination for the ap- 
 preciative Irish, who were quick to recognize the value 
 of the dramatic feast spread out for their approval, 
 even though the receipts at the theatre were often so 
 meagre that the prudent Quin would never allow the 
 curtain to be raised until his salary had been brought 
 to him behind the scenes. He played the classic Cato 
 to the delight of a crowded audience, and afterward 
 figured as Othello — a very ponderous sort of Moor he 
 must have been— and went through a round of his 
 other favorite parts, including the senile Lear. In the 
 
194 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HOUSE, 
 
 latter performance he was assisted by the bouncing 
 CHve as Cordelia, and a pretty bad example of the good 
 daughter she probably made. 
 
 *' Mrs. Clive was the best player I ever saw " was 
 the comment of Dr. Johnson, which was "praise in- 
 deed ' ' from a Sir Hubert who affected to despise the 
 stage, and there is no doubt that in her own line of 
 bustling chambermaids and irrepressible hoydens she 
 must have been a delight even to the most critical. 
 She "had a facetious turn of humor/' says Chet- 
 wood, "and infinite spirits, with a voice and manner 
 in singing songs of pleasantry peculiar to herself." 
 When only twelve years old, Kitty Raft or (her father 
 was an Irish gentleman named Raftor who followed 
 the fortunes of James II., accompanied him to France,. 
 and served for a time as an army officer under the 
 standard of I^ouis XIV.), had such a love for the the- 
 atre that she used to tag after Mr. Wilks in the street, 
 to use her own expression, and gape at him as a won- 
 der. Later on Chetwood brought her to the attention 
 of Colley Gibber, who took her into his company on a 
 salary of twenty shillings a week, and from that mo- 
 ment her future was assured. Even when the London 
 public would have none of Gibber's Love in a Riddle 
 her presence in the cast commanded attention, and 
 Chetwood relates that as she came on in the part of 
 Phillida the tumult in the house temporarily subsided. 
 " A person in the stage box, next to my post, called 
 out to his companion in the following elegant style : 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. I95 
 
 * Zounds, Tom ! take care, or this charming little devil 
 will save all.' " 
 
 This '* charming little devil," who, by the way, once 
 referred to Garrick as *' that artful devil," must have 
 been a remarkable compound of ugliness and fascina- 
 tion, vulgarity and naivete, bad temper and shrewd 
 common-sense. In her last years she retired to a villa 
 at Strawberry Hill, where she had for an admiring 
 neighbor the gossipy Horace Walpole, and it was in 
 these quiet days that Frederick Reynolds met her at 
 a card party and found out that the inroads of time had 
 exerted no effect on her well-known petulence. ' * Quad- 
 rille was proposed, and all immediately took their sta- 
 tions. . . . I soon observed Mrs. Clive's countenance 
 alternately redden and turn pale, while her antago- 
 nist vainly attempted the suppression of a satisfaction 
 that momentarily betrayed itself in the curling corners 
 of her ugly mouth, and in the twinkling of her piggish 
 eyes. At last her Manille went, and with it the rem- 
 nants of her temper. Her face was of an universal 
 crimson, and tears of rage seemed ready to start into 
 her eyes. At that very moment, as Satan would have 
 it, her opponent, a dowager whose hoary head and eye- 
 brows were as white as those of an Albiness, triumph- 
 antly and briskly demanded payment for the two black 
 aces. ' Two black aces ! ' answered the enraged loser, 
 in a voice rendered almost unintelligible by pavSsion, 
 
 * here, take the money, though instead, I wish I could 
 give you two black ej/es, yoii old white cat.^ " 
 
196 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 Quill remained in Ireland until February, 1741-42, 
 and when he got back to London he was pained to 
 learn that the young Garrick, then in the very begin- 
 ning of his career, had caught the fancy of the fickle 
 public. ''Garrick is a new religion, and Whitefield 
 is followed for a time," he growled, " but they will all 
 come to church again." And to this the younger rival 
 answered by writing : 
 
 "Pope Quin, who damns all churches but his own, 
 Complains that heresy corrupts the town : 
 That Whitefield Garrick has misled the age. 
 'Schism,' he cries, * has turned the nation's brain, 
 But eyes -vyiH open, and to church again ! ' 
 Thou great Infallible, forbear to roar, 
 Thy bulls and errors are rever'd no more ; 
 When doctrines meet with general approbation, 
 It is not heresy, but reformation." 
 
 From this time on Quin made ineffectual attempts to 
 keep himself upon the pedestal which he had so long 
 occupied, but Garrick was the coming man, and noth- 
 ing that the veteran could do proved great enough to 
 bring back the undivided allegiance of the town. In 
 the season of 1746-7 he acted at Covent Garden, where 
 Garrick also appeared, and it is recorded that his Rich- 
 ard III. ''could scarcely draw together a decent appear- 
 ance of company in the boxes, and he was with some 
 difficulty tolerated in the part, when Garrick acted the 
 same character to crowded houses, and with very great 
 applause." 
 
 Poor Quin. He had fallen on strange days, and 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 1 97 
 
 his temper, never a model one, suffered not a little from 
 his reverses. He soon had a falling out with Rich, the 
 manager, and went off in a huff to Bath, (1748,) where 
 he rusticated until the beginning of the next season. 
 Then he sent the following brief note to Rich, intending 
 it, probably, in the double light of an apology and a 
 gentle reminder : 
 
 "I am at Bath. Quin." To this the manager la- 
 conically replied : 
 
 ** Stay there and be damned. Rich." 
 
 Subsequently, however, he returned to London, and 
 continued on the stage with varying fortune until May, 
 1 75 1. A few weeks earlier he had been given a bene- 
 fit, just three days before the death of his most influen- 
 tial patron, the Prince of Wales. By command of the 
 latter the play selected was Othello, with Quin as lago, 
 Spranger Barry in the title part, and Mrs. Gibber as 
 Desdemona. And yet, melancholy to say, the theatre 
 was far from well-filled. Quin emerged several times 
 afterward from his pleasant exile at Bath to play in 
 London, the last occasion being in 1753, when he re- 
 vived his famous impersonation of Falstaff at a benefit 
 for his friend Ryan. It is cheerful to think that on this 
 "' positive^ last appearance " the old actor had a right 
 worthy reception ; indeed, his success was so great that 
 Ryan asked him to repeat the performance the follow- 
 ing year. He declined, however, for he had recently 
 lost two of his front teeth, and he explained his refusal 
 in this terse letter : 
 
198 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 " My dear friend — There is no person on earth, 
 
 whom I would sooner serve than Ryan — but, by , I 
 
 will whistle Falstaffiox no man." 
 
 Once that he had settled down comfortably at Bath, 
 to enjoy the tittle-tattle of the visitors, and his wine, 
 whist, and venison, all of which he could command 
 through his income from a respectable annuity, Quin 
 forgot his troubles and became one of the wits of the 
 place. He loved to talk of the good things of the 
 table, and he even invented what he styled his * * Sia- 
 mese" soup* ; indeed, he prated so incessantly about 
 his gourmandizing that he probably got a worse repu- 
 tation in that respect than he deserved. How wide- 
 spread was the popular belief on the vSubject is shown 
 by Smollett' s saying in Humphrey C/ifiker that " Quin 
 is a real voluptuary in the articles of eating and drink- 
 ing ; and so confirmed an epicure in the common accep- 
 tation of the term, that he cannot put up with ordinary 
 fare." And Garrick in a prologue to Florizel and Per- 
 dita, spoken at Drury Lane in 1756, had a thought for 
 Quin's weakness when he said : 
 
 * It is told that Quin was so much bothered by importunate 
 friends to divulge the recipe of this soup that, in revenge, he in- 
 vited a number of them to dinner, promising to tell them of 
 the ingredients before they departed. When it came time to 
 leave the guests were horrified to discover that the liquid they 
 had so. much enjoyed, on the supposition that they were tasting 
 the genuine " Siamese " decoction, had been seasoned with a 
 pair of old shoes, chopped into mincemeat. 
 
AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 1 99 
 
 " But should you call for Falslaff, where to find him, 
 He's gone, nor left one cup of sack behind him. 
 Sunk in his elbow chair, no more he '11 roam. 
 No more with merry wags to Bastcheap come ; 
 He *sgone — to jest, and laugh, and give his sack at home." 
 
 The old fellow departed this life, with all its capons, 
 turtle soup, and cheering liquors, early in the year 1766. 
 A malignant fever carried him off ; but the ruling pas- 
 sion was strong even in his last moments, and the day 
 before his taking away he drank a bottle of claret — the 
 worst thing that he could have done under the circum- 
 stances — and expressed the hope that he should leave 
 all the pleasures of life with becoming dignity. And 
 so ended the career of one of the most striking per- 
 sonalities of the eighteenth century, in whom so many 
 contradicting qualities struggled for mastery. As an 
 actor stilted yet commanding and forceful, as a man 
 bad tempered and sensual, but generous, honest, and 
 witty — such was James Quin, on whose tomb might 
 justly have been written : "After life's fitful fever he 
 sleeps well." 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 AN IRISH SHYLOCK. 
 
 SINCE the golden days of the old Globe Theatre 
 the character of Shylock had been a favorite 
 one for the English actor to test his mettle with, yet it 
 remained for an Irishman to play the money-lender as 
 none other had been able to do before him, and as few, 
 if any, have done since. This Shylock^ of whom the 
 critical Pope said 
 
 '* This is the Jew 
 That Shakespeare drew," 
 
 was none other than Charles Macklin, who, though he 
 played many different parts, is now best known to fame 
 in connection with the Merchant of Venice. He was 
 one of the most disagreeable personalities, as he was also 
 one of the grandest actors, who ever trod the boards of 
 an English theatre ; boorish, quarrelsome, and coarse, 
 with an unpleasant face, (whose lines were once irrev- 
 erently spoken of as ** cordage,") yet for all this a 
 rough diamond of the first water, who sparkled ever so 
 brilliantly on the stage, however unpolished he might 
 seem amid less congenial surroundings. 
 
 200 
 
MACKLIN AND DUNSTALL. 
 
 A SCENE FROM COLLEY GIBBER'S " THE PROVOKED HUSBAND." FROM THE DRAWING BY DODD. 
 
AN IRISH SHY LOCK. 20I 
 
 Macklin's span of life almost exactly covered the 
 eighteenth century, his birth occurring, presumably, 
 about 1699 and his death in 1797. His first king was 
 William III., his last was George III. ; when he was 
 an ugly, unattractive little brat Marlborough dominated 
 the military stage, and Betterton still figured on the 
 mimic boards, the lovely Bracegirdle charmed all I^on- 
 don, and Garrick was yet unborn ; when he died Na- 
 poleon Bonaparte had appeared on the horizon of 
 history, Garrick had been gathered to his fathers 
 these eighteen years, and the boy Edmund Kean had 
 already begun, in poverty and drudgery, that phenome- 
 nal career whose blaze of glory would be quenched in 
 tears and fire-water. The father of the future Jew 
 was a Presbyterian farmer of Ulster, William Mcl^augh- 
 lin by name, and his mother happened to be a devout 
 Roman Catholic, so that the contradictions and contrasts 
 in the disposition of young Charles seem to have had 
 a certain excuse in the want of religious harmony ex- 
 isting in the paternal household. In the course of 
 several years McLaughlin, who, despite his Presbyte- 
 rianism had been a firm adherent of the cause of James 
 II., died of a broken heart, ** a victim to misapplied 
 loyalty and mistaken generosity," and the widow dried 
 her eyes in time to marry the landlord of a Dublin inn. 
 Her first husband was the descendant of an Irish King, 
 but Celtic sovereigns could be had at a discount in the 
 Kmerald Isle, and well-to-do tavern keepers were not 
 fit subjects for the turning up of one's pretty nose. 
 
202 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 Charles was now packed off to a boarding-school 
 near Dublin, kept by a Scotch pedagogue, and here he 
 proved a troublesome sort of pupil, getting a sound 
 whipping pretty much every day, and developing what 
 his biographer, Kirkman, calls a talent of mimicry 
 ' * which he exercised to the continual annoyance of the 
 pedant, by counterfeiting alternately the voices of him 
 and his wife Harriet, and calling aloud upon either, in 
 the voice of the other so exactly, as to baffle all their 
 vigilance in guarding against his pranks." 
 
 During these wild school-days young Mclyaughlin 
 took part in a performance of The Orphafi, gotten up 
 by a lady of the neighborhood, and being cast for the 
 fair Moftimia, acquitted himself with glory, imbibing, 
 at the same time, that taste for the drama which was 
 soon to have such influence on his career. " To those 
 who recollect the figure and the cast of countenance of 
 the veteran," writes William Cooke, another biographer 
 of Macklin, ' ' it must be difficult to reconcile the pos- 
 sibility of his performing this part at any time of life 
 with the smallest degree of propriety ; however, if we 
 are to take his own word for it (which is all the author- 
 ity that can be adduced) he not only looked the gentle 
 Monimia, but performed it with every degree of ap- 
 plause and encouragement. The play was repeated 
 three times with great applause before several of the 
 surrounding gentry and tenants, and every time he felt 
 himself acquire additional reputation." 
 
 Soon after this juvenile triumph the aspiring Monimia, 
 
AN IRISH SHYLOCK, 203 
 
 now in very masculine mood, ran away from home 
 with a few pounds of his mother's money in his pockets 
 and escaped over to lyondon in company with two 
 equally fly-away youths, one of whom eventually ended 
 his career on the scaffold. After arriving at the metrop- 
 olis, McLaughlin (for he had not then changed his name 
 to Macklin) lived in great luxury for several weeks, pat- 
 ronizing all the theatrical performances and otherwise 
 enjoying himself, and then, when his funds had disap- 
 peared, found employment in a public-house which a 
 lot of mountebanks used as a rendezvous. Here, " by 
 dint of genius and a high flow of spirits, "he * * became 
 the delight of all who frequented the house. He sung 
 for them, he danced, he mimicked, he spouted, and he 
 played the droll, insomuch that his fame spread abroad, 
 and the house was every night filled with respectable 
 opulent dealers. Clubs and meetings were instituted 
 for the purpose of enjoying the entertainment he af- 
 forded. In short, he became a most pleasing and pop- 
 ular character in that circle, and more than trebled the 
 income of the house by his talents. ' ' * 
 
 The rosy widow who kept the inn thought so much 
 of Master McLaughlin that she proposed to marry him, 
 and it is even said that they went through the form of 
 a wedding, but be that as it may, he was soon induced 
 to return to Dublin and accept the modest position of 
 * ' badgeman ' ' or porter at Trinity College. A badge- 
 man was subject to the call of the students, upon 
 * Kirkman. 
 
204 ECHOES OF THE FLA Y HO USE. 
 
 whom he was expected to wait, and whenever it was 
 his turn to serve, and he heard the cry of " Boy" he 
 would reply ' ' What number ? " to learn what room 
 he should go to for his orders. Long after these un- 
 pleasant experiences of servitude Macklin happened to 
 be playing at the Dublin Theatre when a party of bois- 
 terous young fellows created a disturbance in the house. 
 The actor came forward and soundly scolded them for 
 their impertinence, much to the chagrin of the black- 
 guards, and one of them, intending to be very insult- 
 ing, brutally cried out "Boy!" This ungenerous 
 reference to his old college days disconcerted Macklin 
 for a second, but when he replied, the very next 
 moment, "What number?" the house fairly shook 
 with the applause that rewarded his ready wit and 
 presence of mind. 
 
 For a youth like Macklin the life of a badgeman 
 proved even more than usually repulsive, and it was 
 not long before he shook the dust of Trinity from his 
 feet, and turned strolling actor, finally bringing up as 
 a member of an itinerant companj^ recently established 
 in a small theatre at Bristol. With this place as a base 
 of operation he travelled through Welsh and English 
 towns and villages, being all things by turns, from 
 stage manager or preserver of the peace to playwright 
 and actor, and gaining in this curious school of dra- 
 matic adversity no end of valuable experience. ' ' Some- 
 times he was an architect, and knocked up the stage 
 and seats in a barn ; sometimes he wrote an opening 
 
AN IRISH SHY LOGIC, 20^ 
 
 prologue, or a parting epilogue, for the company : at 
 others he wrote a song, complimentary and adulatory 
 to the village they happened to play in, which he al- 
 ways adapted to some sprightly popular air, and sung 
 himself ; and he often was champion, and stood forward 
 to repress the persons who were accustomed to intrude 
 upon and be rude to the actors." 
 
 Those were days when a player's path was seldom 
 strewn with roses, but for all that his very trials and 
 tribulations helped to bring out any talent that might 
 be in him. What would not a few Thespians of mod- 
 ern times say to roughing it after such a fashion, ac- 
 customed, as they too often are, to presenting but one 
 character night after night, perhaps for three or four 
 seasons at a stretch, and thinking themselves in poor 
 luck when called to take part in an occasional rehearsal. 
 How would they like the sensation, quite a familiar 
 one to Macklin, of playing in one evening Antonio and 
 Belvidera in Venice Preserved, Harlequin in the inci- 
 dental entertainment, singing three humorous songs 
 between the acts and furnishing, in addition to all this, 
 a lively Irish jig. But this was the sort of discipline 
 the stroller was subjected to until he drifted back to 
 lyondon, and appeared at lyincoln's Inn Fields in 1725 
 as Alcander in the CEdipus of Dryden and I^ee. 
 
 But it was to be some years, however, before Macklin 
 could score any real success on the metropolitan stage, 
 for his cultivation of dramatic methods more natural 
 than those of his contemporaries was by no means ap- 
 
206 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 predated on his first emerging from the provinces. " I 
 spoke so familiar, sir," he related years afterwards, 
 '* and so Httle in the hoity-toity tone of the tragedy of 
 that day, that the manager * told me I had better go 
 to grass for another year or two. ' ' To grass he did go 
 for a year or two, playing once more in oft-visited 
 neighborhoods, making Herculean efforts to get rid of 
 his Irish brogue, and succeeding, changing his name 
 to Mecklin or Macklin, as a concession to English 
 prejudice, changing his religion too, and boasting that 
 he was as staunch a Protestant as the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury. It was during this transition period, also, 
 that the adopter of a new accent, name, and creed, fur- 
 ther altered his condition by taking to himself a wife 
 who was afterwards to win distinction in her husband's 
 profession.! 
 
 When the Drury Lane actors revolted from the man- 
 agement of Highmore and set up for themselves in the 
 Haymarket, Macklin and his wife were engaged to ap- 
 pear at the former house, and it was here that the man 
 
 * Rich. 
 
 f One authority says that before her marriage Mrs. Macklin 
 was a Mrs. Ann Grace, the widow of a Dublin hosier, while 
 according to another oracle she was originally a Miss Grace 
 Purvor, with whose charms His Grace of Argyle had been 
 deeply smitten. She eventually achieved a great reputation in 
 " old woman's " parts of the comic order, and Chetwood writes 
 of her: "She never sets up for a heroine, or attempts to ap- 
 pear in an improper light ; she knows the power of her own 
 talents, and always shines with unborrow'd light, without the 
 danger of being eclipsed." 
 
AN IRISH SHYLOCK. 207 
 
 who had been invited to "go to grass ' ' began to build 
 the foundations of a great reputation by essaying, with 
 considerable approbation, a number of the elder Gib- 
 ber's parts. On the return of the original company, 
 under the standard of Fleetwood, Macklin left Drury 
 I^ane, and played for a time in the Haymarket. He 
 soon re-appeared at the old stand, however, and quickly 
 became the confidant and adviser of the new manager, 
 as well as his companion at White's gambling estab- 
 lishment. Fleetwood lost large sums of money through 
 too frequent visits to this delectable resort, and having 
 recourse to borrowing once induced Macklin to go his 
 bond to the tune of three thousand pounds. The ac- 
 tor contrived to have the poet Whitehead take his place 
 as the bondsman, and when Fleetwood, head over ears 
 in debt, fled from the kingdom to escape his creditors, 
 the obliging versifier, being utterly unable to pay the 
 amount for which he was now responsible, had to lan- 
 guish in jail for a lengthy period. 
 
 The excuse of Macklin, that " every man will save 
 himself from ruin if he can " will not heighten our idea 
 of his personal character, nor does a tragic occurrence 
 of the year 1735 put his fierce temper before us in any 
 but a wretched light. This occurrence was nothing less 
 than the killing of Thomas Hallam, a fellow- member 
 of the Drury I^ane company, as the result of a childish 
 quarrel over the ownership of a wig. Perhaps the story 
 will be best told by giving the testimony of Thomas 
 Arne, who happened to be a witness when Macklin had 
 
2o8 ECHOES OP THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 to stand trial for his life at the Old Bailey. Arne de- 
 posed * : 
 
 " I have the honor to be the numberer of the boxes 
 of Drury Lane play-house, under Mr. Fleetwood. On 
 Saturday night [May loth] I delivered my accounts in 
 at the property office; and then, at eight, I came into 
 the scene room, where the players warm themselves, 
 and sat in a chair at the side of the fire. Fronting the 
 fire there is a long seat, where five or six may sit. The 
 play \Trick for Trick] was almost done, and they 
 were making preparations for the entertainment, when 
 the prisoner came into the same room and sat down 
 next to me, and high words arose between him and the 
 deceased about a stock wig for a disguise in the enter- 
 tainment. The prisoner had played in the wig the 
 night before, and now, the deceased had got it. ' D — n 
 you for a rogue,' says the prisoner; 'what business 
 have you with my wig ? ' * I am no more a rogue than 
 yourself,' says the deceased. ' It 's a stock wig, and I 
 have as much right to it as you have. ' Some of the 
 players coming in, they desired the deceased to fetch 
 the wig, and give it to the prisoner, which he did and 
 then said to him, * Here is your wig. I have got one 
 I like better.' The prisoner sitting by me, took the 
 wig, and began to comb it out, and all seemed to be 
 quiet for about half a quarter of an hour ; but the pris- 
 oner began to grumble again, and said to the deceased, 
 
 * This testimony is quoted by Edward A. Parry in his inter- 
 esting memoirs of Macklin. 
 
AN IRISH SHYLOCK. 209 
 
 * G — d d — n you for a blackguard, scrub, rascal, how- 
 durst you have the impudence to take this wig ? ' 
 
 *'The deceased answered, 'I am no more a rascal 
 than yourself. ' Upon which the prisoner started up 
 from his chair, and with a stick in his hand, made a 
 lunge at the deceased, and thrust the stick into his left 
 eye, and, pulling it back again, looked pale, turned on 
 his heel, and, in a passion, threw the stick into the fire. 
 ' G — d d — n it ! ' says he ; and, turning about again on 
 his heel, he sat down. The deceased clapped his hand 
 to his eye, and said it was gone through his head. He 
 was going to sink, but they set him in a chair. The 
 prisoner came to him, and leaning upon his left arm, 
 put his hand to his eye. * I^ord ! ' cried the deceased, 
 
 * it is out ! ' * No, ' says the prisoner, ' I feel the ball roll 
 under my hand.' Young Mr. Gibber came in, and im- 
 mediately sent for Mr. Coldham, the surgeon." 
 
 The unfortunate Hallam died within a few hours, 
 and the only punishment that seems to have been meted 
 out to Macklin was an empty verdict of manslaughter. 
 Viewing the latter simply as an actor, we are glad to 
 see him soon back again at Drury Lane, popular as 
 ever, but judging him quite apart from his profession 
 one cannot but regret that he suffered so little for his 
 brutal lack of self-control. 
 
 During these early days in London a great rivalry 
 
 sprang up between Quin and Macklin, and for many 
 
 years these two giants of the stage — one so tenacious 
 
 of the old, artificial methods, and the other struggling 
 19 
 
210 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 for a freer, truer standard of acting — were at metaphori- 
 cal daggers drawn. In old age they became reconciled, 
 yet they probably never forgot the most absurd of all 
 their quarrels, which occurred a year or two after the 
 death of Hallam. One night when Macklin came off 
 the stage from playing Jerry Blackacre in the Plain 
 Dealer^ Quin, who was doing Captain Manly ^ reproached 
 him for trying to dominate the scene and obtaining the 
 attention of the audience at the expense of the other 
 performers. "Well, sir," said Macklin in narrating 
 the affair half a centur>^ later, * ' I told him that I did 
 not mean to disturb him by my acting, but to show off a 
 little myself. Well, sir, in the other scenes I did the 
 same, and made the audience laugh incontinently, and 
 he scolded me again, sir. I made the same apology, 
 but the surly fellow would not be appeased. Again, 
 sir, however, I did the same ; and when I returned to 
 the greenroom he abused me like a pickpocket, and 
 said I must leave off my damned tricks. I told him I 
 could not play otherwise. He said I could, and I 
 should. Upon which, sir, egad ! I said to him flatly, 
 * you lie ! ' He was chewing an apple at this moment ; 
 and spitting the contents into his hand, he threw them 
 into my face. 
 
 *' It is a fact, sir ! Well, sir, I went up to him di- 
 rectly (for I was a great boxing cull in those days) and 
 pushed him down into a chair and pummelled his face 
 damnably. He strove to resist but he was no match 
 for me ; and I made his face swell so with the blows, 
 
AN IRISH SHY LOCK, 211 
 
 that he could hardly speak. When he attempted to go 
 on with his part, sir, he mumbled so, that the audience 
 began to hiss. Upon which he went forward and told 
 them, sir, that something very unpleasant had hap- 
 pened, and that he was really very ill. But, sir, the 
 moment I went to strike him, there were many noble- 
 men in the greenroom, full dressed, with their swords 
 and large wigs (for the greenroom was a sort of state- 
 room then, sir). Well, they were all alarmed, and 
 jumped upon the benches, waiting in silent amaze- 
 ment, till the affair was over. ' ' 
 
 To curtail Macklin's description of the episode it 
 may be added that at the end of the performance Quin 
 demanded the doubtful sort of ' * satisfaction ' ' that is 
 supposed to come from the code of honor, but through 
 the entreaties of Fleetwood, who had no desire to lose 
 so valuable an actor as the fuming challenger, the 
 matter was settled peaceably by an apologj^ from Mack- 
 lin. The latter could afford to offer one with good 
 grace, for he had inflicted a glorious thumping on his 
 hated rival. It was that rival who once said of Mack- 
 lin, when it was remarked that the Irishman had 
 strong lines in his face, " I^ines, sir ! I see nothing in 
 the fellow's face but a damned deal of cordage.''' 
 
 But let us leave all this interesting pettiness and 
 come down to the year 1741, when Macklin, who by 
 this time had blossomed out into an unquestioned pop- 
 ular favorite, would put forth a Shy lock radically differ- 
 ent from the comic Jeza of the red wig type to which 
 
212^ ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 theatre-goers had been accustomed. He had long 
 debated, no doubt, on the dramatic possibilities and 
 seriousness of the role, and the absurdity of regarding 
 it as material for merry-making, and finally he induced 
 Fleetwood to revive the real Merchant of Venice^ which 
 had long been superseded by I^ord I^ansdowne's adap- 
 tation known as The Jew of Venice. In the latter, an 
 unnecessary version of a noble original, the inimitable 
 Dogget had once upon a time represented Shylock from 
 a low-comedy standpoint, to the great amusement and 
 edification of the groundlings, and in later years the 
 frolicksome Clive played Portia after the manner of a 
 stage chambermaid, and took such liberties with the 
 character that she even mimicked well-known lawyers 
 in the trial scene. Strange to say, it was this rompish 
 actress who did Portia on the memorable night when 
 Macklin revolutionized the public conception of the 
 usurious /(?ze^. 
 
 While the rehearsals were in progress it began to be 
 whispered around that Macklin intended to spring a 
 very dangerous innovation on the management of 
 Drury I^ane ; the amiable Quin (who was cast for An- 
 tonio^, predicted that the new Shylock would be hissed 
 oiF the stage, and Fleetwood, becoming alarmed, tried 
 to abandon the production altogether. But Macklin 
 never faltered in his purpose, and held the manager to 
 his promise, so on the evening of St. Valentine's Day 
 the frequenters of Drury lyane had the pleasure of as- 
 sisting at one of the most historical of all the important 
 
AN IRISH SHYLOCK. 213 
 
 performances in the eighteenth century. I^et us quote 
 the actor himself as to the outcome of his risky experi- 
 ment. 
 
 ''The long-expected night at last arrived, and the 
 house was crowded from top to bottom with the first 
 company in town. The two front rows of the pit as 
 usual were full of critics, who, Sir, I eyed through the 
 slit of curtain, and was glad to see them, as I wished 
 in such a cause to be tried by a special jury. When I 
 made my appearance in the greenroom, dressed for the 
 part, with my red hat on my head, my piqued beard, 
 loose black gown, etc., and with a confidence which I 
 never before assumed, the performers all stared at one 
 another, and evidently with a stare of disappointment. 
 Well, sir, hitherto all was right till the last bell 
 rung ; then, I confess, my heart began to beat a little. 
 However, I mustered up all the courage I could, and, 
 recommending my cause to Providence, threw myself 
 boldly on the stage, and was received by one of 
 the loudest thunders of applause I ever before experi- 
 enced. 
 
 ' ' The opening scenes being rather tame and level, 
 I could not expect much applause, but I found myself 
 well listened to. I could hear distinctly in the pit the 
 words * Very well — very well indeed ! This man seems 
 to know what he is about,' etc., etc. These encomiums 
 warmed me, but did not overset me. I knew where I 
 should have the pull, which was in the third act, and 
 reserved myself accordingly. At this period I threw 
 
214 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 out all my fire, and, as the contrasted passions of joy 
 for the Merchant's losses, and grief for the elopement 
 oi Jessica, o^^w a fine field for an actor's powers, I had 
 the good fortune to please beyond my warmest expec- 
 tations. The whole house was in an uproar of ap- 
 plause, and I was obliged to pause between the speeches 
 to give it vent, so as to be heard, 
 
 *' When I went behind the scenes after this act, the 
 manager met me and complimented me very highly on 
 my performance, and significantly added : ' Macklin, 
 you was right at last.' My brethren in the greenroom 
 joined in this eulogium, but with different views. He 
 was thinking of the increase of his treasury ; they, 
 only for saving appearances, wishing at the same time 
 that I had broke my neck in the attempt. The trial 
 scene wound up the fulness of my reputation. Here I 
 was well listened to ; and here I made such a silent 
 yet forcible impression on my audience, that I retired 
 from this great attempt most perfectly satisfied. On 
 my return to the greenroom after the play was over 
 it was crowded with nobility and critics, who all com- 
 plimented me in the warmest and most unbounded 
 manner, and the situation I felt myself in, I must con- 
 fess, was one of the most flattering and intoxicating 
 of my whole life. No money, no title could purchase 
 what I felt. And let no man tell me after this what 
 Fame will not inspire a man to do, and how far the at- 
 tainment of it will not remunerate his greatest labors. 
 By G — d, sir, though I was not worth fifty pounds in 
 
AN IRISH SHY LOCK, 21$ 
 
 the world at that time, yet, let me tell you, I was 
 Charles the Great for that night." 
 
 Thus, at one bound, Macklin reached a command- 
 ing position on the stage, added to his repertoire a 
 character which he would exploit successfully, at 
 intervals, for the next half century, and showed the 
 conservative British public that ''the Jew that 
 Shakespeare drew" should be played as a malevo- 
 lent, passionate creature, and not as a semi-buffoon 
 from whom the unthinking might extract many a 
 hearty guffaw. 
 
 The Merchant of Venice drew crowded houses for 
 twenty-one nights, while noblemen, critics, and the 
 general theatre-goers vied with one another in prais- 
 ing the iconoclastic Macklin, who must have felt by 
 this time that nothing succeeded so well as success. 
 The dramatic force and almost ferocious attributes of 
 his Shy lock soon enlisted the royal attention of his very 
 German Majesty George II., who went to see the per- 
 formance, and was made so nervous by its realism that 
 he hardly slept the whole of that night. * ' In the morn- 
 ing," according to the actor Bernard, " the Premier, Sir 
 Robert Walpole, waited on the King, to express his 
 fears that the Commons would oppose a certain meas- 
 ure then in contemplation. ' I wish, your Majesty,' 
 said Sir Robert, ' it was possible to find a recipe for 
 frightening a House of Commons.' 'What do you 
 think,' replied the King, * of sending them to the the- 
 atre to see that Irishman play Shy lock .^ ' " 
 
2l6 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 The enthusiasm over the Merchant of Venice might 
 have been turned to good account by Fleetwood, but 
 that worthy, having apparently made up his mind to 
 ruin himself and his theatre as fast as circumstances 
 would allow, went on gambling and borrowing to 
 make good his loSvSes, getting into debt right and left, 
 leaving his actors' wages unpaid, and generally behav- 
 ing in a way to scandalize all decent men who had any 
 dealings with him. Affairs finally got so bad that 
 Garrick, by this time a very important member of the 
 company, proposed that the players should leave Fleet- 
 wood and his house in a body, it being hoped that the 
 I^ord Chamberlain, otherwise the Duke of Grafton, 
 would grant them permission to start a separate theat- 
 rical establishment of their own. After some objection 
 from Macklin, the plan was adopted, and a petition 
 setting forth the grievances and desires of the actors 
 brought to the attention of the Duke. The latter, 
 however, had no very high opinion of the ' * profes- 
 sion," and when he heard that Garrick received a 
 salary of five hundred pounds a year his Grace was 
 horrified at the fellow's presumption in wanting an 
 increase. Oliver Twist asking for more gruel must 
 have been modesty itself compared to so audacious a 
 suggestion. Grafton doubtless thought that the com- 
 pensation of Garrick' s was just five hundred pounds 
 of honest money wasted, and, indeed, he said to him : 
 **And this j^ou think too little, whilst I have a son, 
 who is heir to my title and estate, venturing his life 
 
AN IRISH SHY LOCK. 21/ 
 
 daily for his King and country at much less than half 
 that sum." 
 
 Thus it came to pass that the happy possessor of so 
 precious a son refused to grant the petition, and it was 
 not long before all the players had returned to the fold 
 of the erratic Fleetwood, barring the obstinate Macklin. 
 The great Shylock had been loth to enter into the revolt, 
 but once that he did he resolved to hold out for good 
 and all, with the result that he became persona non 
 grata to the triumphant manager. Garrick, in negoti- 
 ating for the return of the company, secured for him- 
 self the much-longed-for raise in his own salary, but 
 no one else seemingly benefited in any way by the 
 cessation of hostilities, and the unfortunate Macklin 
 found himself very much in the cold. In the mean- 
 time a Strong party was raised up in favor of the exile, 
 whose banishment, it was considered, and probably 
 with reason, might be directly traced to the desire of 
 Garrick to take care of himself and allow his Satanic 
 Majesty to look after the ''hindmost" of the party. 
 When little Davy made his reappearance at Drury 
 Lane the excitement was intense ; he was greeted with 
 hisses, groans, cat-calls, and showers of peas, eggs, 
 and apples, but he held his own and in a few days the 
 too-zealous friends of Macklin had to own that they 
 could accomplish nothing for their favorite. 
 
 By no means downcast, the masterful subject of all 
 this misplaced agitation organized a company of his 
 own, comprising, for the most part, the veriest novices 
 
2l8 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 in dramatic art, and after putting them through a deal 
 of training he managed to secure the Haymarket Tliea- 
 tre, which he opened in February, 1744. This piece 
 of enterprise, which soon died a natural death, exerted 
 an important influence on Macklin's life, in that it gave 
 him the idea, which he afterward followed out so suc- 
 cessfully, of coaching young aspirants. John O'Keefe 
 gives an entertaining account of how the veteran, a 
 number of years later, instructed two of his pupils. 
 Miss Ambrose and Mr. Glenville. Macklin was then 
 living in Dublin, and O'Keefe relates : 
 
 '* In Macklin's garden there were three long parallel 
 walks, and his method of exercising their voices was 
 thus : his two young pupils with back-boards (such as 
 they use in boarding-schools) walked firmly, slow and 
 well up and down the two side- walks ; Macklin himself 
 paraded the centre walk. At the end of every twelve 
 paces he made them stop ; and turning gracefully, the 
 young actor called out across the walk, ' How do you 
 do. Miss Ambrose ? ' She answered, ' Very well, I 
 thank you, Mr. Glenville ! ' They then took a few 
 more paces and the next question was, ' Do you not 
 think it a very fine day, Mr. Glenville ? ' * A very fine 
 day, indeed. Miss Ambrose ! ' was the answer. Their 
 walk continued and then, ' How do you do, Mr. Glen- 
 ville ? ' * Pretty well, I thank you. Miss Ambrose ! ' 
 And this exercise continued for an hour or so (Macklin 
 still keeping in the centre walk) in the full hearing of 
 their religious next-door neighbors. Such was Mack- 
 
AN IRISH SHY LOCK, 219 
 
 lin's method of training the management of the voice ; 
 if too high, too low, a wrong accent, or a faulty inflec- 
 tion, he immediately noticed it, and made them repeat 
 the words twenty times till all was right. ' ' 
 
 In December, 1744, when Drury Lanehad fallen into 
 new hands and Fleetwood had taken himself out of 
 England to escape his many creditors, Macklin re-ap- 
 peared there, to the great satisfaction of the town. 
 Soon he tries his hand at play-writing. Then he is 
 acting under the management of Garrick and James 
 Lacy, and we hear grotesque stories of his living in 
 Bow Street lodgings, in company with the former and 
 delightful Peg Woffington, all three sharing in a com- 
 mon purse and behaving generally in a curiously 
 unconventional fashion. Next he visits Ireland, soon 
 quarrels with Thomas Sheridan, the manager of the 
 Smock Alley Theatre in Dublin, returns to England, 
 and joins the Covent Garden forces under Rich. Now 
 he has congenial work in bringing before the public 
 his talented daughter Mary, an actress who could play 
 anything from Ophelia to a young man's part, and 
 whose singing and dancing were always the object 
 of much admiration. Her father spent a great deal 
 of money on her preliminary education, having her 
 instructed in many polite accomplishments that were 
 regarded quite de rigeur in those days, but when she 
 came to die, in 1 781, it was found that she had willed 
 her modest fortune away from the old man. 
 
 The year 1754 witnessed the putting into effect by 
 
220 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 Macklin of one of the wildest and most impossible of 
 schemes imaginable — nothing less indeed, than setting 
 himself up in Hart street, Covent Garden, as a tavern- 
 keeper. Here he expected to make a fortune by- 
 attracting to the place a host of brilliant men, who, 
 after dining at his ordinary, would listen to a lecture 
 by the ex-actor. This remarkable enterprise, to which 
 he gave the imposing name of "The British Inquisi- 
 tion," came to an ignominious end, as might have 
 been expected, with the bankruptcy of the projector. 
 
 But the vScope of this unpretentious volume will not 
 admit of a complete narrative of Macklin' s life, how- 
 ever interesting are its varied and oft-times vStirring 
 incidents. That *' sour- face dog," as Fielding once 
 called him, lived to drag out a painful old age, rendered 
 pathetic by his constant struggles to keep on the boards 
 in spite of failing memory, and thus escape the misery 
 of actual want.* We may pass over this time of men- 
 tal decay, and content ourselves, by way of conclusion, 
 with William Cooke's description of the old warrior's 
 last appearance on an earthly stage. It was in May, 
 1789, when he was cast for the perennial Shylock, 
 
 *' When Macklin had dressed himself for the part, 
 which he did with his usual accuracy, he went into the 
 greenroom, but with such a ' lack-lustre looking eye ' 
 
 * It is cheerful to note, however, that the last four years 
 of Macklin's life were made comparatively comfortable by the 
 receipt of an annuity. It was purchased for him after the pub- 
 lication of his two plays, the Man of the World and Love d, la 
 Mode, had yielded ^^1500. 
 
AN IRISH SHY LOCK. 221 
 
 as plainly indicated his inability to perfonn, and com- 
 ing up to the late Mrs. Pope, said, * My dear, are you 
 to play to-night ? ' ' Good God ! to be sure I am, sir. 
 Why, don't you see I am dressed for Portia f ' ' Ah ! 
 very true ; I had forgot. But, who is to play Shy lock f 
 The imbecile tone of his voice, and the inanity of the 
 look, with which the last question was asked, caused a 
 melancholy sensation in all who heard it. At last Mrs. 
 Pope, rousing herself, said * Why, you, to be sure ; are 
 you not dressed for the part ? ' He then seemed to rec- 
 ollect himself and, putting his hand to his head, ex- 
 claimed ' God help me ! My memory, I am afraid, has 
 left me.' He, however, after this went on the stage, 
 delivered two or three speeches of Shylock in a manner 
 that evidently proved he did not understand what he 
 was repeating. After a while he recovered himself a 
 little, and seemed to make an effort to rouse himself, 
 but in vain ; nature could assist him no further ; and, 
 after pausing some time as if considering what to do, 
 he then came forward and informed the audience, 
 * That he now found he was unable to proceed in the 
 part, and hoped they would accept Mr. Ryder * as his 
 substitute, who was already prepared to finish it.' The 
 audience accepted his apology with a mixed applause 
 of indulgence and commiseration, and he retired from 
 
 the stage forever." 
 
 * His understudy. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " \ lyly the run is now after Garrick, a wine mer- 
 /V chant, who is turned player, at Goodman's 
 Fields. He plays all parts and is a very good mimic. 
 His acting I have seen and may say to you, who will 
 not say it again here, I see nothing wonderful in it ; 
 but it is heresy to say so. ' ' 
 
 Thus wrote, in 1742, the observant but cynical Hor- 
 ace Walpole, who could never see much to wonder at in 
 anything, and who, doubtless, thought he was dealing 
 liberally by Mr. Garrick in allowing him to be a * * very 
 good mimic." For an ex- wine-merchant this was gen- 
 erous praise. 
 
 The mimic who had excited the momentary attention 
 of this most entertaining of gossips had come up to 
 I^ondon from I^itchfield in company with his tutor, 
 gruff young Samuel Johnson, in the year 1736, with 
 the intention of completing his studies under a Rev. 
 Mr. Colson and ultimately practising at the bar. His 
 arrival was preceded by several letters to the clergyman 
 from an influential functionary of Litchfield, Gilbert 
 Walmsley, who wrote : " My neighbor, Captain Gar- 
 
 222 
 
DAVID QARRICK. 
 
 AFTER A PAINTING BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. FROM AN ENGRAVING BY 
 W. H. WORTHINGTON. 
 
'* A VERY GOOD MIMIcr 223 
 
 rick * (who is an honest valuable man) has a son who 
 is a very sensible young fellow, and a good scholar, and 
 whom the Captain hopes, in some two or three years, 
 he shall be able to send to the Temple, and breed to the 
 Bar. But, at present, his pocket will not hold out for 
 sending him to the University. I have proposed you 
 taking him, if you think well of it, and your boarding 
 him, and instructing him in mathematics, and philoso- 
 phy, and humane learning. He is now nineteen, of 
 sober and good dispositions, and is as ingenious and 
 promising a young man as ever I knew in my life." 
 And in a subsequent letter Walmsley announces that 
 Davy " and another neighbor of mine, one Mr. John- 
 son, set out this morning for I^ondon together ; Davy 
 to be with you early the next week ; and Mr. Johnson 
 to try his fate with a tragedy, and to see to get himself 
 employed in some translation, either from the I^atin or 
 the French. Johnson is a very good scholar and poet, 
 and I have great hopes will turn out a fine tragedy 
 writer. ' ' 
 
 How differently things were to turn out. Garrick 
 would be the one to * ' try his fate ' ' with tragedy — and 
 comedy as well, and the learned Johnson, though he 
 
 * Captain Garrick, who held a commission in the King's 
 army, was the grandson of a French Protestant of that name 
 who settled in England after the revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantes. The Captain married the daughter of a Litchfield vi- 
 car, and David was born in 1716 in the Angel Inn at Hereford, 
 where the father of the future Roscius was then stationed as a 
 recruiting officer. 
 
224 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 might try his hand at play-writing, would live to culti- 
 vate a strongly expressed if hardly sincere aversion for 
 everything connected with the stage. Young Garrick, 
 to be sure, had already imbibed a love for the theatre ; 
 he had been in L<ondon before, had there seen Macklin 
 and the stilted Quin, and his heart could never be in 
 the dry-as-dust volumes that he was required to pore 
 over as preparation for the prosaic law. Soon an uncle, 
 (to see whom he had once made a trip to Lisbon,) con- 
 veniently died and left him a thousand pounds, then 
 came the taking off of his father, the Captain, and 
 Garrick, soon emerging from under the paternal wing 
 of the Rev. Mr. Colson, abandoned the classic atmos- 
 phere of philosophy and legal lore for the less exalted 
 air of the wine cellar. In other words David and his 
 brother Peter went into business as wine-merchants, 
 and Foote, the mimic and comedian, would relate in 
 after years how the future actor thought he really was 
 a wine-merchant because he kept three quarts of vine- 
 gar in the cellar. 
 
 But whatever the Garrick vaults contained, it is cer- 
 tain that one of the partners took no interest in them, 
 fortunately for posterity, for the very man who was to 
 become so avaricious as to chide that Irish sorceress, 
 Peg Woffington, for wasting his tea, refused to settle 
 down into the humdrum existence of a liquor- flavored 
 life in Durham Yard. While the plodding Peter at- 
 tended to the affairs of the firm David's mind was far 
 away, wondering what the Drury Lane company would 
 
*' A VERY GOOD MIMICr 22$ 
 
 play next, or dreaming, perhaps, that he were himself 
 the hero of this very house, as, indeed, it shortly came 
 to pass. But irregular ways and the building of air 
 castles, did not harmonize very successfully with the 
 selling of stimulants, so the partnership was soon dis- 
 solved, and David now joyfully turned his attention 
 towards that consuming ambition to shine on the stage 
 — an ambition which had possessed him ever since his 
 school-boy days, when he electrified the good people of 
 Litchfield by superintending a performance of The Re- 
 cruiting Officer and playing Sergeant Kite with wonder- 
 ful grace and vivacity. The last obstacle in his way, 
 the natural objections of a mother who shared in the 
 customary prejudices of her time, had been removed 
 by the recent death of that amiable lady, and as Thomas 
 Davies says in his memoirs of Garrick : " Mr. Garrick 
 now found himself free from all restraint, and in a situa- 
 tion to indulge himself in his darling passion for act- 
 ing, from which nothing but his tenderness for so dear 
 a relation as a mother had hitherto restrained him." 
 
 It may be doing Garrick an injustice to say so, but 
 it is quite possible that even this obstacle would not 
 have interfered very materially with the plans of a 
 youth who, with all his charm, grace of manner, genius 
 and lovableness had a peculiar streak of selfishness and 
 shrewdness in his curiously complex character. To be 
 sure, Dibdin declared him to be " an actor, a complete 
 actor and nothing but an actor," whether on or off" the 
 
 stage, alone or in company, '* or about whatever study, 
 15 
 
226 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 occupation or pursuit, ' ' but David was never so much 
 the actor as to forget his own interests, and while he 
 had the divine afflatus he also showed the instincts and 
 cold-blooded virtues of a man of the world. Macklin, 
 who knew him well, perhaps spoke half truly, if bit- 
 terly, when he said of the great player that " to friend- 
 ship with man, or love and friendship with woman, he 
 never was disposed, for love of himself always forbid 
 it." 
 
 Soon after Garrick's retirement from the unclassic 
 precincts of hogsheads and wine casks we hear of him 
 fraternizing with the best known of the London actors, 
 cultivating the managers and others most likely to be 
 of service to him, studying and reciting passages from 
 popular plays and even posing, occasionally, as a dra- 
 matic critic for the public prints. In the latter capac- 
 ity, we are told, he generally indulged in "judicious 
 observations and shrewd remarks, unmixed with that 
 gross illiberality which often disgraces the instructions 
 of modern stage critics. ' ' The next and by far the more 
 important step was his appearance at Ipswich, in the 
 summer of 1741, in a company under the direction of 
 Messrs. Giffard and Dunstall. He was not quite sure 
 of himself as yet, and did not wish to have the name of 
 Garrick associated with failure, so he chose ' ' Mr. Lyd- 
 dal " for a noni de theatre. It was as Lyddal, therefore, 
 that he made his debut in the character of Aboan, in 
 the still popular drama of Oroo7ioko, delighting the 
 audiences of commonplace Ipswich (who in after years 
 
"A VERY GOOD MIMIC* 227 
 
 claimed that they had discovered the new Roscius) with 
 this and other impersonations. 
 
 Even at this early stage of his career one detects 
 the remarkable versatility of the man, for during his 
 stay here he not o\Ay played the sorely tried Aboan,^ 
 the dashing Sir Harry Wildair, and other contrasting 
 roles, but he actually scored a success as Harleqimi. 
 Garrick had from the first a genius for depicting a va- 
 riety of emotions from the most tragic to the broadly 
 farcical, so that whether he lent sublimity to King 
 Lear, put new life into some genteel comedy role, or 
 appeared in a character of the roughly humorous 
 order, where his wonderful mimetic talents came into 
 full play, he nearly always seemed peculiarly fitted by 
 voice, gesture, look, and acting for whatever character 
 he happened to be portraying at the time. In after 
 years he would, on rare and ever- to-be remembered oc- 
 casions, indulge his friends with what he called his 
 rounds, ** This he did by standing behind a chair, and 
 conveying into his face every kind of passion, blend- 
 ing one into the other, and as it were shadowing 
 them with a prodigious number of gradations. At one 
 moment 3^ou laughed, at another you cried ; now he 
 terrified you, and presently you conceived yourself 
 something horrible, he seemed so terrified at you. Af- 
 terward he drew his features into the appearance of 
 
 * Garrick chose this character for his d^but so that he might 
 appear with a blackened face, and thus escape identification if 
 he made a fiasco. 
 
228 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 such dignified wisdom that Minerva might have been 
 proud of the portrait ; and then — degrading, yet admir- 
 able transition — he became a driveller. In short, his 
 face was what he obliged you to fancy it — age, youth, 
 plenty, poverty, everything it assumed." * 
 
 While Garrick continued to give his Ipswichian ad- 
 mirers a series of performances the like of which it had 
 never before been their pleasure to enjoy, that fertile 
 brain of his was planning how he should make his 
 initial metropolitan appearance in the autumn, when 
 Messrs. Giffard and Dunstall were to bring their com- 
 pany for the winter season to the theatre in Goodman's 
 Fields. t He finally decided to begin his venture with 
 Richard III., for, as he explained with a canniness 
 worthy of a frugal Scotchman, " if I should come forth 
 in a hero, or any part which is generally acted by a tall 
 fellow, I shall not be offered a larger salary than fort}'- 
 shillings per week. ' * Indeed, he could not have come 
 to a better determination whether from an artistic or — 
 what seemed equally important to the actor — a finan- 
 cial point of view. Then, as now, the fortunes of 
 Glocester were a source of interest both to the ground- 
 lings and the critical, and there was the further advan- 
 tage, as Garrick himself plainly said, of appearing in a 
 
 * Dibdin. 
 
 t This theatre was founded in 1729 by a certain Thomas 
 Odell, much to the scandal of many pious citizens in the 
 vicinity. It was subsequently shut up, owing to the objections 
 of the neighbors, but reopened in 1732 under Giflfard's manage- 
 ment. 
 
"A VERY GOOD All MIC* 229 
 
 part where tallness of stature or heroic figure would 
 not be expected. For this young giant of the stage 
 was only a giant in ability ; he was a little fellow as 
 physical measurement went and in that way at least 
 justified the contemptuous remark of old Gibber that he 
 was " the completest little doll of a figure— the prettiest 
 little creature." Then Gibber had no wish to see any 
 good in Garrick, whom he foolishly looked upon as a 
 rival to his worthless son, Theophilus, and even the 
 sting of the description could never blind one to the 
 distinction and personal advantages of this " little doll." 
 He had, in the first place, the most expressive features 
 — something that once prompted the free-tongued 
 Glive* to cry *' Damn him, he could act a gridiron'' 
 
 * Clive, a thorough artist herself, appreciated Garrick's 
 dramatic worth even better than most of her contemporaries. 
 *' In the height of the public admiration for you," she writes 
 him, " when you were never mentioned but as Garrick the 
 charming man, the fine fellow, the delightful creature, both by 
 men and ladies, when they were admiring everything you did, 
 and everything you scribbled, at this very time, I, the Pivy^ 
 was a living witness that they did not know, nor could they be 
 sensible of half your perfections. I have seen you with your 
 Magic hammer in your hand endeavoring to beat your ideas 
 into the heads of creatures who had none of their own. I have 
 seen you with lamb-like patience, endeavoring to make them 
 comprehend you, and I have seen you when that could not be 
 done — I have seen your lamb turned into a Hon ; by this your 
 great labor and pains the public was entertained ; they thought 
 they all acted very fine ; they did not see you pull the wires." 
 Discerning Clive, you would have made a charming writer had 
 fate not decreed that you should become famous by reciting 
 the words of others rather than your own. With a lusty elo- 
 quence like yours, perhaps it was better for your reputation. 
 
230 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 — and, as Fitzgerald had so graphically written, he 
 was ** neatly and elegantly made ; handsome, with a 
 French grace, yet combined with perfect manliness. 
 His frame had a surprising flexibility, and even elas- 
 ticity, which put all his limbs under the most perfect 
 control ; there was an elegant freedom in every motion, 
 regulated by the nicest propriety. His features were 
 wonderfully marked ; the eyebrows well-arched, as- 
 cending and descending with rapid play ; the mouth 
 expressive and bold ; and the wonderful eyes, bright, 
 intelligent, and darting fire." 
 
 The new ^/<:^«r^ appeared in October, 1741, at the 
 Goodman's Fields theatre before a curious but not over- 
 large audience.* The naturalness of his performance 
 at first startled, not to say shocked, the more critical 
 among the spectators, who had been used to a bom- 
 bastic Glocester, with plenty of theatrical clap-trap 
 but as the play progressed and they discovered the 
 true effectiveness of the impersonation their half- 
 formed censure turned into the most cordial sort of 
 applause. So successful, indeed, proved the experi- 
 ment of dressing Richard in this new guise, and so 
 pleased were the discriminating theatre-goers, that the 
 play was repeated six times. The receipts were not 
 magnificent, the take for the seven nights amount- 
 ing only to ^216 or ^217 ; but as Garrick began to 
 be talked about, discussed, praised, or objected to, the 
 
 * He was billed as ** A Gentleman (who never appeared on 
 any stage)." 
 
October igih, 1741. 
 
 GOODMAN'S FIELDS. 
 
 At the late Theatre in Goodman's Fields, this Day will be performed, 
 
 A Concert of Vocal and Instrumental Mimic, 
 
 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, called the 
 LIFE AND DEATH OF 
 
 Kin^ Richard the Third. 
 
 ^^ CONTAINING THE DISTRESSES OF K. HENRY VI. 
 
 The artful acquisition of the Crown by King Richard, 
 
 TTie Murder of Young King Edward V. and his Brother in the TosKr, 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE EARL OF RICHMOND, 
 
 And the Death of King Richard in the memonble Battle of Boiirarth Field, being the last that waa fought between thi Houses 
 of Yurk and Lancaster ; with many other true Historical Paasagei. 
 
 The Part of King Richard by A GENTLEMAN, 
 
 ftno never appeared on any SlapJ, 
 
 King Henry, by Mr. GIFFARD, Richmond, Mr. MARSHALL, 
 
 Prince Edward, by Miss HIPPISLEY. Duke of York. Miu NAYLOR. 
 
 Duke of Buckingham, Mr. PATERSON, Duke of Norfolk, Mr. BLAiLES, Lord Stanley. Mr. PAGETT, 
 
 Oiford, Mr. VaUGHAN, Tresjel, Mr. W. GIFFARD. Catesby. Mr. MARR, Ralcliff. Mr. CROFTS. 
 
 Blunt. Mr. NAYLOR. Tyrrel, Mr. PUTTENHAM, Lord Mayor. Mr. DUNSTALL. 
 
 The Queen, Mrs. STEEL. Ducheai of York, Mrs. YATES. 
 
 And the Part of Lady Anne, by Un. GIFFARD. 
 
 WITR 
 
 Entertainments of Dancing, 
 
 By Mot^s. FRO MET Madame DUVALT, and the Two Masters and Miss CRANIER. 
 
 ^^^ To which will be added a Ballad Opera, of One Act, called 
 
 The Virgin tJnvnasUd, 
 
 The Part of Lucy, by Miss HIPPISLEY. 
 Both of which will be performed Gratis, by Persons for their Divenion. 
 
 The Concert u/iU begin exactly at Six o'Clock. 
 
 AN HISTORIC PLAYBILL. 
 
 FACSIMILE OF THE PROGRAMME FOR QARRICK'S FIRST LONDON APPEARANCE. 
 
"A VERY GOOD MIMICS 23 1 
 
 houses soon visibly increased in size, especially when 
 he displayed the many-sided qualities of his art by 
 essaying a round of characters. One of the latter, 
 wherein he particularly caught the fancy of the town, 
 was that of Bayes in The Rehearsal, and his acting in 
 this part had, according to a story made public many 
 years later, a prologue of a rather serious nature — 
 which might have put an untimely extinguisher on 
 the new star. As Bayes, Garrick was to caricature 
 some of his brother performers, and he proposed 
 to Giffard that he should begin with that manager, 
 and thus prevent the other players from grumbling 
 because they were burlesqued. Giffard, as the anec- 
 dote runs, "supposing that Garrick would only just 
 glance at him, to countenance the mimicry of the 
 others, consented, but Garrick hit him off so truly, 
 and made him so completely ridiculous, at rehearsal, 
 that Giffard, in a rage, sent him a challenge, which 
 Garrick accepting, they met the next morning, when 
 the latter was wounded in the sword arm." So the 
 production of The Rehearsal had to be postponed for 
 a few nights, "on account," as officially announced, 
 " of the sudden indisposition of a principal performer," 
 and when Bayes finally came on the scene the carica- 
 ture of Giffard had been discarded. 
 
 As Garrick went on adding new parts to his reper- 
 toire, the playhouse in Goodman's Fields was more 
 and more patronized ; persons from all classes of life 
 rushed to see the prodigy, and the carriages of the 
 
232 ECHOES OF THE FLA Y HO USE. 
 
 nobility gave a gala air to the vicinity of the theatre 
 whenever a performance was in progress. Drury I,ane 
 and Covent Garden were practically deserted. In fine, 
 Garrick became the fashion, as he deserved to be, (this 
 is more than can be said for some players who are ele- 
 vated to the dignity of a fad,) and even the zealous 
 Gibber had to admit that there was some merit in this 
 iconoclastic young man who had with one blow of that 
 "magic hammer," immortalized by Clive, destroyed 
 the idols of rant, bombast, and unnaturalness. " But," 
 added CoUey, "he is not superior to my son Theo- 
 philus." At another time, when the old man was 
 deprecating the fuss made about Garrick, the once 
 charming Bracegirdle, now on the verge of the grave, 
 exclaimed : " Come, come. Gibber, tell me if there is 
 not something like envy in your character of this 
 young gentleman ; the actor who pleases everybody 
 must be a man of merit." Golley straightened himself 
 up, took a pinch of snuff to gain a little time, and 
 finally said: "Why, faith, Bracy, I believe you are 
 right ; the young fellow w clever." 
 
 Of all the laudation that Garrick ever received per- 
 haps nothing sank more deeply or gratefully into his 
 heart than the praise of Pope. The little, deformed poet 
 was looked upon as the very quintessence of taste and a 
 past grand master in matters of criticism, and so when 
 he actually condescended to go one evening to see the 
 modern Richard the excitement in the theatre waxed in- 
 tense. " When I was told that Pope was in the house," 
 Garrick himself once narrated, * * I instantly felt a pal- 
 
''A VERY GOOD MIMIC" 233 
 
 pitation at my heart, a tumultuous, not a disagreeable 
 emotion in my mind. I was then in the prime of 
 youth, and in the zenith of my theatrical ambition. 
 It gave me a particular pleasure that Richard was my 
 character when Pope was to see and hear me. As I 
 opened my part, I saw our little poetical hero dressed 
 in black, seated in a side box near the stage, and view- 
 ing me with a serious and earnest attention. His look 
 shot and thrilled like lightning through my frame, and 
 I had some hesitation in proceeding 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." Garrick 
 had every reason to be delighted on that eventful 
 night, and to cap the climax the famous poet turned 
 admiringly to Lord Orrery and said, with the empha- 
 sis of the Delphic Oracle: "That young man never 
 had his equal as an actor, and he will never have a 
 rival. ' ' * Was he a true prophet ? 
 
 During this period Garrick produced his own farce 
 of The Lying Valet, acted the Ghost in Hamlet, Fon- 
 dlewife in the Old Bachelor, and Costar Pearmain in 
 the Recruiting Officer, besides appearing, on one even- 
 ing, as Master Johnny, a fifteen-year old lad, in Gib- 
 ber's farce of The Schoolboy, and as the aged Lear. 
 This was versatility with a vengeance, but the player 
 knew his own powers. 
 
 One of the most sincere admirers of his perform- 
 
 * This was strong praise from Pope, who so well remembered 
 Betterton (whose portrait he had painted). 
 
234 ECHOES OF THE FLA YHOUSE, 
 
 ances happened to be the Reverend Thomas Newton, 
 afterwards more celebrated as Bishop Newton. This 
 accompHshed clergyman had been partially educated 
 in lyitchfield, a circumstance which made him pecu- 
 liarly interested in his fellow-townsman's career, and 
 now that he was an assistant at St. George's, Hanover 
 Square, he had an occasional opportunity of visiting 
 Goodman's Fields. He kept up a correspondence with 
 Garrick, encouraging him with the warmest sort of 
 encomiums, if any were needed, offering a suggestion 
 here and there, and on at least one occasion criticising 
 him very severely. For he writes in January, 17^2 : 
 *' I was almost angry with you, to see your name last 
 week in the bills for Costar Pearmain. I am not fond of 
 your acting such parts as Fondlewife^ or even Clodio,^ nor 
 should be of the Lying Valet, if it was not of your 
 own writing. You who are equal to the greatest parts, 
 strangely demean yourself in acting anything that is 
 low and little ; and not only I, but really all who ad- 
 mire you and wish you well, that is all who know you, 
 are grieved and wonder at it. There are abundance of 
 people who hit off low humor, and succeed in the 
 coxcomb and the buffoon very well ; but there is scarce 
 one in an age who is capable of acting the hero in 
 Tragedy, and the fine gentleman in Comedy. All who 
 have seen you say you have talents for all this ; and 
 when you can reap this field of fame alone without a 
 rival, why should you be content with only surpassing 
 * In Love Makes a Man, 
 
"^ VERY GOOD mimic:' 235 
 
 Chapman,* or Macklin, or young Gibber? Though 
 you perform these parts never so well, yet there is not 
 half the merit in excelling in them as in the others. 
 If I was an actor, surely I would rather endeavor to 
 be a Betterton, than a Nokes, or a Dogget," et cetera, 
 et cetera. The Rev. Mr. Newton spoke plainly, a fact 
 possibly due to Garrick's failure to provide him with 
 a box for a certain evening. Even a clerical critic may 
 be human. 
 
 When the season in Goodman's Fields came to an 
 end Garrick entered into an agreement with Fleet- 
 Wood, of Drury lyane, where he acted three nights, 
 and then visited Ireland, accompanied by Peg Woffing- 
 ton. The Englishman was received with the greatest 
 enthusiasm by the Dublinites ; the theatre was crowded 
 every night, despite the intense heat, and the combina- 
 tion of packed houses, stifling atmosphere, and hot 
 weather resulted in an epidemic called the ' ' Garrick 
 fever" which carried off a number of his Irish admir- 
 ers. But not even this melancholy incident could put 
 a damper on the glory of the engagement, and David 
 returned to England with a plethoric purse, an in- 
 creased reputation, and an added good-humor. Soon 
 he was playing at Drury I^ane in Otway's Orphan, 
 with the celebrated tragic actress Mrs. Pritchard (of 
 whom Garrick remarked that she was apt to blubber 
 her sorrows) as Monimia. This production was de- 
 
 * An excellent comedian whose Touchstone in As You Like 
 It was considered a great impersonation. 
 
236 ECHOES OF THE FLA Y HOUSE, 
 
 signed as an offset to a successful revival of Othello at 
 Covent Garden, in which Quin acted the Moor and 
 Mrs. Gibber signalized her return to the stage by 
 playing Desdemo7ia. 
 
 Mrs. Gibber, strangely enough, bore a remarkable 
 personal resemblance to Garrick, to whom she wrote 
 once upon a time, *' I desire you always to be my 
 lover upon the stage, and my friend off of it." "When 
 very young, ' ' relates Davies, ' ' her voice was so mel- 
 odious that her friends entertained great hopes of her 
 becoming a very excellent singer ; and I believe she 
 acted, when she was about fourteen years of age, the 
 part of Tom Thumb in the opera of that name, which 
 was set to music by her brother the celebrated Dr. 
 Arne, and performed at the little theatre in the Hay- 
 market. She certainly made some considerable pro- 
 gress in music, and was occasionally employed to sing 
 at concerts. When she was married to Theophilus 
 Gibber, his father, Golley Gibber, observed to his son, 
 that though his wife's voice was very pleasing, and 
 she had a good taste in music, yet as she could never 
 arrive at more than the rank of a second-rate singer, 
 her income would be extremely limited. The old man 
 added, that he had overheard her repeat a speech from 
 a tragedy, and he judged by her manner that her ear 
 was good. Upon this she became a pupil to her father- 
 in-law ; and he publicly declared that he took infinite 
 pleasure in the instruction of so promising a genius. 
 
 , . . Her great excellence consisted in that sim- 
 
"A VERY GOOD MlMlcr 237 
 
 plicity which needed no ornament ; in that sensibiUty 
 which despised all art. There was in her person little 
 or no elegance ; in her countenance a small share of 
 beauty ; but nature had given her such symmetry of 
 form and fine expression of feature, that she preserved 
 all the appearance of youth long after she had reached 
 to middle life. The harmony of her voice was as 
 powerful as the animation of her look. In grief or 
 tenderness her eyes looked as if they were in tears ; in 
 rage and despair they seemed to dart flashes of fire. 
 In spite of the unimportance of her figure, she main- 
 tained a dignity in her action and a grace in her 
 step."* 
 
 But to return to the now all-important " Davy." 
 The revival of The Orphan was soon followed by his 
 performance of Hamlet^ a character for which he had 
 long been carefully preparing himself, and which he 
 had already submitted to the approval of a Dublin au- 
 dience. The new conception of the Dane was received 
 by the I^ondon public with every token of admiration, 
 and while at this golden dawn of his fame anything that 
 the ' * little great man ' ' did was sure of an enthusiastic 
 reception, it is plain that his acting in this deepest of 
 Shakesperian parts would have commanded respect 
 and interest even under other circumstances. It is 
 recorded that ** the strong intelligence of his eye, the 
 
 * When Garrick heard of Mrs. Gibber's death he exclaimed : 
 "Then Tragedy is dead on one side" — that is to say, among 
 women players. 
 
238 ECHOES OF THE PL A YHOUSE. 
 
 animated expression of his whole countenance, the 
 flexibility of his voice, and his spirited action riveted 
 the attention of an admiring audience." But whether 
 this was the ideal Hamlet — "there's the rub" — is a 
 question hard to settle, and, for the matter of that, 
 mankind will have to assume a phenomenal harmony 
 of opinion before the real character of the Prince be- 
 comes a subject for agreement. 
 
 Garrick probably played Hamlet with a fine and ro- 
 mantic spirit quite foreign to the traditional ideas of 
 the part, and with certain Gallic touches that can now 
 be found in M. Mounet-Sully's picturesque, though 
 somewhat un-Knglish characterization. Indeed, one 
 critic had the temerity to write to Roscius complaining 
 that in spite of the grace and justness of his delivery, 
 upon the whole he "acted the part ill." This plain- 
 spoken person went on to say that "Instead of that 
 lovely unfortunate creature in whose happiness the 
 reader so warmly interests himself, and whose misfor- 
 fortunes he looks upon as his own, you exhibited a hot, 
 testy fellow, forever flying into a passion, even when 
 there was no provocation in the world." Could it be 
 that the subtleties of the melancholy hero were missed ? 
 
 At least one man had no very flattering opinion of 
 Garrick's Hamlet, and that was Dr. Johnson, whose 
 views on things theatrical were, at the best, far from 
 optimistic. "Who," asked the faithful Boswell, hor- 
 rified at his patron's assertion that a ballad-singer is 
 a higher man than an actor, " can repeat Hamlet's 
 
"A VERY GOOD MIMIC" 239 
 
 soliloquy ' To be or not to be ' as Garrick does it ? " 
 — ^Johnson : ' ' Anybody may. Jemmj- there (a boy 
 about eight years old who was in the room) will do it 
 as well in a week.—" Boswell : '' No, no, sir ; and as a 
 proof of the merit of great acting, and of the value 
 which mankind set upon it, Garrick has got ^100,000 " 
 — ^Johnson : * * Is getting ^100,000 a proof of excellence ? 
 That has been done by a scoundrel commissary." 
 
 We may pass over several incidents in Garrick' s 
 early career, such as the break and ultimate reconcilia- 
 tion with Fleetwood, of which poor Macklin became 
 the scapegoat. When Fleetwood's affairs assumed so 
 wretched a condition that he had to leave Drury lyane, 
 and the house came under new management, the pru- 
 dent David concluded to tempt fortune once again 
 among the Irish, partly moved thereto because the 
 Jacobite uprising of '45 threatened to keep lyondon in 
 an unsettled and unappreciative condition for some 
 time to come. When Thomas Sheridan, who was then 
 the reigning dramatic favorite in Dublin, heard of this 
 intention he wrote his English rival encouraging the 
 project, and suggesting a joint engagement, with an 
 equal division of the net profits. The upshot of it all 
 was that Garrick and Sheridan were soon playing on 
 the same boards, much to the delight of the Irish and 
 of the Dublin Castle set, headed by the famous lyord 
 Chesterfield. Being lyord-Iyieutenant at that time, 
 Chesterfield diplomatically endeavored to be more 
 Celtic than the natives. He excited much comment. 
 
240 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 accordingly, by his studious patronage of Sheridan and 
 his offensive neglect of his own compatriot, where- 
 by he hoped to prove his newly cultivated loyalty 
 for the people and institutions of the Emerald Isle. 
 He had been at particular pains to encourage Mr. 
 Sheridan's scheme of founding an academy of oratory, 
 remarking impressively, "Never let the thought of 
 your oratorical institution go out of your mind," but 
 several years later, when the politest of mankind no 
 longer figured as lyord-lyieutenant, he contented him- 
 self with the unwilling gift of a guinea to so commend- 
 able an enterprise. 
 
 It was during this season that a new and brilliant 
 star, Spranger Barry,* appeared in the theatrical firma- 
 ment and made so fine an impression in Dublin as 
 Othello that James I^acy immediately engaged him for 
 the forces at Drury I^ane. This fascinating young 
 Irishman, in some respects so like the dead and gone 
 
 * Barry married Mrs. Dancer, the widow of an actor. She 
 was the daughter of a Bath apothecary, and attained much dis- 
 tinction on the stage during the height of Spranger's popularity. 
 After the latter's death she became the wife of a Mr. Crawford, 
 who was enough of a brute to make her decHning years anything 
 but happy. Mrs. Crawford must have been an actress of uneven 
 merit, strikingly effective in scenes of violent passion, but com- 
 monplace amid less imposing surroundings. Boaden said her 
 voice " had a transpiercing effect that seemed absolutely to 
 wither up the hearer — it was a flaming arrow — it was the Hght- 
 ning of passion. ... It was an electric shock that drove the 
 blood back from the surface suddenly to the heart, and made 
 you cold and shuddering with terror in the midst of a crowded 
 theatre." 
 
'* A VERY GOOD MIMIC:* . 24 1 
 
 Mountford, had a wonderfully sweet voice, admirably 
 adapted to melt an audience in the portrayal of an un- 
 fortunate hero or a pathetic lover, and he possessed, in 
 addition to rare talents, a handsome, expressive face, a 
 graceful figure, and a general charm of manner that 
 made him irresistible in a certain line of romantic char- 
 acters. His Romeo was considered the beau-ideal of 
 elegance, grace, and youthful fire, and was even held, 
 by candid critics, to be superior to Garrick's. "It 
 was nicely and accurately decided," says Fitzgerald, 
 " that Barry was superior in the garden scene of the sec- 
 ond act, and Garrick in the scene with the Friar ; Barry 
 being superior in the other garden scenes, and Garrick 
 in the portrait of the Apothecary. Barry was also pre- 
 ferred in the first part of the tomb, and Garrick in the 
 dying part. Some said that Barry was an Arcadian, 
 Garrick a fashionable lover. But the best test is, that 
 after an interval Garrick, with that excellent good 
 sense which distinguished every act of his, quietly 
 dropped the part out of his repertoire." 
 
 But this is anticipating events with both Garrick 
 and Barry. The former, who proved generous enough 
 to warmly praise his rival, returned to England in May, 
 1746, to play at Covent Garden under the management 
 of Rich. It was in November of this year that Richard 
 Cumberland, then a pupil in Westminster School, saw 
 Garrick in Rowe's Fair Penitent, and he has left us a 
 graphic pen-picture of the performance, with a quota- 
 tion from which the present chapter may close. 
 16 
 
242. ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 "Quin," he remembers, " presented himself upon 
 the rising of the curtain in a green velvet coat em- 
 broidered down the seams, an enormous full -bottom 
 periwig, rolled stockings, and high-heeled, square-toed 
 shoes ; with very little variation of cadence, and in 
 deep, full tones, accompanied by a sawing kind of 
 motion which had more of the Senate than the stage 
 in it, he rolled out his heroics with an air of dignified 
 indifference that seemed to disdain the plaudits bestowed 
 on him. Mrs. Gibber, in a key high-pitched, but sweet 
 withal, sung, or rather recitatived Rowe's harmonious 
 strain, somewhat in the manner of the improvisatore's. 
 . . . Mrs. Pritchard was an actress of a different 
 cast, had more nature, and of course more change of 
 tone, and variety both of action and expression. In 
 my opinion the comparison was decidedly in her favor. 
 
 " But when, after long and eager expectation, I first 
 beheld little Garrick, then young and light, and alive 
 in every muscle and in every feature, come bounding 
 on the stage, and pointing at the wittol Altamont 
 (Ryan) and heavy-paced Horatio (Quin), Heavens, 
 what a transition ! It seemed as if a whole century 
 had been stepped over in the changing of a single scene 
 — old things were done away, and a new order at once 
 brought forward, light and luminous, and clearly des- 
 tined to dispel the barbarisms and bigotry of a tasteless 
 age, too long attached to the prejudices of custom, and 
 superstitiously devoted to the illusions of imposing 
 declamation." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 the; pai,my days of garrick. 
 
 GARRICK proved so great a magnet at Covent 
 Garden that I^acy, of the now almost deserted 
 Drury Lane, had the good sense to take the figurative 
 bull by the horns, by trying to catch the hero for his 
 own house. The result was a series of negotiations 
 ending in the purchase, by the actor, of a half interest 
 in the patent of the latter theatre, for the sum of 
 ^8000. Thus he became co-partner with Lacy in the 
 enterprise, and the strangest part of the whole transac- 
 tion was the indifference, nay, actual pleasure, with 
 which Rich, of Covent Garden, regarded the loss of 
 his most important performer. Davies explains this 
 singular philosophy when he says : * ' It was imagined 
 by those who knew his [Rich's] humor best, that he 
 would have been better pleased to see his great come- 
 dians show away to empty benches, that he might have 
 had an opportunity to mortify their pride, by bringing 
 out a new pantomime, and drawing the town after his 
 raree-show. Often he would take a peep at the house 
 through the curtain, and as often, from disappointment 
 and disgust, arising from the view of a full audience, 
 
 243 
 
244 ECHOES OF THE PLA YHOUSE. 
 
 break out into the following expression : ' ' What, are 
 you there? Well, much good may it do you ! ' " 
 
 Mr. Rich had so firm a belief in the efl&cacy of 
 pantomime and of his own talents therein, that he 
 looked upon the ' ' legitimate ' ' as something of an 
 impertinence, at least when he was obliged to give it 
 house-room. "Though he might have easily fixed 
 Mr. Garrick in his service long before he had bargained 
 for a share of Drury I^ane patent, he gave himself no 
 concern, when he was told of a rnatter so fatal to his 
 own interest ; he rather seemed to consider it as a 
 release from a disagreeable engagement, and consoled 
 himself with mimicking the great actor. It was a 
 ridiculous sight to see the old man upon his knees re- 
 peating Lear's curse to his daughter, after Garrick's 
 manner, as he termed it ; while some of the players 
 who stood round him gave him loud applause; and 
 others, though they were obliged to join in the general 
 approbation, heartily pitied his folly and despised his 
 ignorance." And so good-day to you, intelligent Mr. 
 Rich, and stifle any after regrets you may experience 
 with the comforting thought that your artistic percep- 
 tions are quite as deep as those of the average manager. 
 
 While Rich extracted entertainment from his carica- 
 ture of Garrick the latter quickly gathered a goodly 
 company about him, including the tragic Mistress 
 Pritchard and the engaging Mrs. Gibber, and re-opened 
 Drury I^ane in September, 1747, with the Merchant of 
 Venice. Garrick himself spoke a prologue written by 
 
THE PALMY DA YS OP GARRICK. 245 
 
 his friend, Dr. Johnson, who, for all his much vaunted 
 hatred of the stage, could, on occasion, stand sponsor 
 for it very gracefully. In these verses, which were 
 long cherished as among the classics of modern litera- 
 ture, the sage of Grub Street, briefly but cleverly des- 
 cribed the transitions of the drama from the time 
 
 " When I^earning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes 
 First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose ; 
 Each change of many-color'd life he drew, 
 Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new ; " 
 
 until coming down to his own time the poet says, truly 
 enough, if a bit pompously : 
 
 " The stage but echoes back the public voice ; 
 The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give ; 
 For we that live to please, must please to live," 
 
 and in conclusion he calls upon the crowded and bril- 
 liant audience to 
 
 *• . . . bid the reign commence 
 Of rescu'd Nature and reviving Sense ; 
 To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show, 
 For useful mirth, and salutary woe. 
 Bid scenic virtue form the rising age. 
 And truth diffuse her radiance from the stage." 
 
 There was one joyous woman there that happy night, 
 probably as the Portia, who could "diffuse her radi- 
 ance from the stage ' ' as few actresses have done before 
 or since, and whose plastic art seemed almost equally 
 suited to ' ' useful mirth " or " salutary woe. ' ' This 
 was brilliant Peg Woffington, she of the lovely pensive 
 face, squeaky voice, and imperious yet charming spirit, 
 
246 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 who could shine in anything from gloomy Lady Mac- 
 beth to the rakish Sir Harry Wildair^ and whose at- 
 tractions, if her contemporaries can be believed, suggest 
 a glorified mixture of Bracegirdle, Oldfield, and KUen 
 Terry. This bright particular star in Garrick's con- 
 stellation, who might have been a great tragedienne 
 had she iiot proved so wonderful in comedy, was the 
 daughter of an Irish laundress, and though she could 
 act the woman of quality as if " to the manner born " 
 a few of her Dublin admirers remembered how, as a 
 girl, she sold salad and water-cresses on the streets. 
 After the death of her father, a bricklayer. Peg's mother 
 opened a huckster's shop on Ormond Quay, in the Irish 
 capital, and the daughter, already pretty and attractive, 
 fell in with a rope dancer named Madame Violante, to 
 whom she was apprenticed, so to speak, as a promising 
 pupil. 
 
 Soon Woffington is dancing in the Violante' s booth, 
 and playing in a juvenile performance of the Beggar's 
 Opera, and when only seventeen she appears on the 
 Dublin stage. She tries the gentle Ophelia, and actu- 
 ally succeeds in the role, playing a number of other 
 parts and giving nothing more welcome than an essen- 
 tially /2^2^<2;2/^, feminine impersonation of the masculine 
 Wildair. It was in this character that she would sub- 
 sequently eclipse even Garrick and be the innocent cause 
 of a proposal of marriage from an infatuated young 
 lady, who would mistake Sir Harry for a man. So at 
 least goes the romance, and why care to doubt it ? 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK, 247 
 
 Next she is the centre of attraction, if not of gravity, 
 at Covent Garden, and the unemotional Walpole chroni- 
 cles that " there is much in vogue a Mrs. Woffington, 
 a bad actress, but she has life." I^ater she meets Gar- 
 rick, plays with him, and as she is not so strong in 
 moral as in artistic sense, thinks nothing of sharing the 
 same home with him. A curious partnership it must 
 have been and with far less about it of " loves young 
 dream" than one might imagine at the first blush. 
 Garrick, with his habitual closeness in money matters, 
 allowing Peg to share the expenses of the joint house- 
 hold, chiding her for spending too much during the 
 month that he footed the bills, and content that she 
 should make as lavish an outlay as she wished for the 
 next month ; Peg, charming and housewifely, happy 
 in the thought that Garrick may marry her, yet not 
 above a flirtation in another direction — this is the not 
 very edifying or even romantic picture as it has come 
 down to us. If the canvas be a trifle dimmed by age 
 we need not complain ; there is enough of it left to show 
 that the original colors were gairish rather than allur- 
 ing. 
 
 The new managment, so auspiciously inaugurated 
 with the assistance of two such curiously unlike persons 
 as Johnson and Mistress Woffington, was soon in full 
 swing. There were numerous revivals, one of them 
 being Henry V., in which Garrick generously allowed 
 Spranger Barry to play the King, (it was wisely done, 
 too, for Barry must have been an ideal Hal^ and mod- 
 
248 ECHOES OF THE FLA Y HO USE, 
 
 estly assigned himself to the Chorus. In the ensuing 
 season of 1748-9 Woffington, whose intimacy with the 
 actor-manager had come to a more or less prosaic end, 
 returned to Covent Garden and the easily consoled 
 Garrick went on producing a variety of plays, among 
 them Mtich Ado About Nothing, Romeo and Juliet, with 
 Barry as the fervid Montague, and Dr. Johnson's trag- 
 edy of Irene. 
 
 In bringing out the last named piece, Garrick exer- 
 cised the greatest care in casting the parts, the four 
 principal ones being divided between himself, Barry, 
 Mrs. Pritchard, and Mrs. Gibber, and he provided the 
 richest sort of a stage setting, but nothing could save 
 this ponderous, not to say stupid child of Johnson's 
 moralizing muse. On the first performance several of 
 the critics disapproved of the strangling of the fair 
 Ire7ie in full view of the house, and the accommodat- 
 ing Garrick, anxious to do anything that might make 
 the tragedy a success, modified the scene as desired, 
 yet it is painful to learn that * ' the approbation of 
 Irene was not so general as might have been expected." 
 In other words, to put it less politely, after an en- 
 forced run of nine nights the play was quietly con- 
 signed to the limbo of oblivion. It had a fine moral, 
 but all the fine morals in the world will not constitute 
 a theatrical hit. 
 
 If the serious Dr. Johnson could not please the town 
 just then a far different person had the power to do so, 
 and this was that delightful mimic and entertainer, but 
 
>^ "^~«iIC^^2 
 
 .><?-<S<><i^^3s*^!S^^^»C?A.;^?:,^^ 
 
 MRS. WOFFINGTON. 
 
 FROM AN OLD PRINT. 
 
THE PALMY DA YS OF GARRICK, 249 
 
 none the less unscrupulous scalawag, Samuel Foote. 
 Garrick, who spoke of him as ''a man of wonderful 
 abilities, and the most entertaining companion I have 
 ever known," was afraid of this heartless portrayer of 
 human frailties, and so were many other Londoners of 
 mark, for Foote made all his reputation, good or bad, 
 by caricaturing his contemporaries. And charming 
 caricatures they proved, too, excepting to the unfortu- 
 nate subjects of the sarcasm. Even Johnson admitted 
 the talents of this prince of mimics, although when it 
 came his turn to be parodied, he took good care that 
 no jest or jibe, however amusing, should be pointed at 
 his own expense. * * The first time I was in company 
 with Foote," the lexicographer tells Boswell, *' was at 
 Fitzherbert's. Having no good opinion of the fellow, 
 I was resolved not to be pleased ; and it is very diffi- 
 cult to please a man against his will. I went on eat- 
 ing my dinner pretty sullenly, affecting not to mind 
 him ; but the dog was so very comical, that I was 
 obliged to lay down my knife and fork, throw myself 
 back, and fairly laugh it out." 
 
 Wonderful indeed he must have been, this witty 
 Foote, to make the great Johnson forget for the nonce 
 the pleasures of Fitzherbert's dinner- table. " No, sir, 
 he was irresistible, ' ' the Doctor continues. * * He upon 
 one occasion experienced, in an extraordinary degree, 
 the efficacy of his powers of entertaining. Among the 
 many and various modes which he tried of getting 
 money, he became a partner with a small beer brewer, 
 
250 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 and he was to have a share of the profits for procuring 
 customers amongst his numerous acquaintance. Fitz- 
 herbert was one who took his small beer ; but it was 
 so bad that the servants resolved not to drink it. They 
 were at some loss how to notify their resolution, being 
 afraid of offending their master, who they knew liked 
 Foote much as a companion. At last they fixed upon 
 a little black boy, who was rather a favorite, to be 
 their deputy, and deliver their remonstrance ; and 
 having invested him with the whole authority of the 
 kitchen, he was to inform Mr. Fitzherbert, in all their 
 names, upon a certain day, that they would drink 
 Foote' s small beer no longer. On that day Foote hap- 
 pened to dine at Fitzherbert' s, and this boy served at 
 table; he was so delighted with Foote' s stories, and 
 merriment, and grimace, that when he went downstairs 
 he told them : ' This is the finest man I have ever 
 seen. I will not deliver your message. I will drink 
 his small beer.' " Verily, the man whose brilliancy 
 can give sparkle to bad beer must indeed be a bit of 
 a genius. 
 
 When Johnson became the subject of Mr. Foote' s 
 wit, the talents of the offender were hardly so well ap- 
 preciated. As Boswell tells us, when the Doctor was 
 informed that he was to be mimicked for the public 
 amusement he asked Thomas Davies, at whose house 
 he was dining, * ' what was the common price of an 
 oak stick," and being answered sixpence, *'Why, 
 then, sir," he replied, "give me leave to send your 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK. 25 I 
 
 servant to purchase me a shilling one. " I '11 have a 
 double quantity ; for I am told Foote means to take 
 me off^ as he calls it, and I am determined the fellow 
 shall not do it with impunity." Foote heard of the 
 intended purchase, took the hint, and wisely concluded 
 not to introduce the bulky portrait of Johnson in his 
 gallery of celebrities. 
 
 It was in Januarj^ of the year 1749 that Foote was 
 brought into particular prominence by an episode after- 
 wards spoken of as " the affair of the Bottle Conjuror." 
 He had been giving at the Haymarket a highly char- 
 acteristic and popular entertainment known as an 
 "'Auction of Pictures,'' when there appeared in the 
 papers one morning a remarkable advertisement. It 
 set forth that 
 
 " At the New Theatre in the Haymarket, this present 
 day, to be seen a person who performs the several most 
 surprising things following, viz. : First, he takes a com- 
 mon walking-cane from anj^ of the spectators, and 
 thereon he plays the music of every instrument now in 
 use, and likewise sings to surprising perfection. Sec- 
 ondly, he presents you with a common wine bottle, 
 which any of the spectators may first examine ; this 
 bottle is placed on a table in the middle of the stage, 
 and he (without any equivocation) goes into it, in the 
 sight of all the spectators, and sings in it ; during his 
 stay in the bottle any person may handle it, and see 
 plainly that it does not exceed a common tavern bottle. 
 Those on the stage or in the boxes may come in masked 
 
252 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 habits (if agreeable to them) and the performer (if de- 
 sired) will inform them who they are^ 
 
 This adventurous person also undertook to show the 
 dead, give a full view of the " persons who have injured 
 you, dead or alive ' ' and otherwise make things inter- 
 esting for the audience. 
 
 At half-past six in the evening, the time appointed 
 for the appearance of the mysterious bottle conjuror, a 
 crowd of curious people had assembled in the Hay- 
 market theatre, and when seven o'clock came and he had 
 not materialized some of the more impatient began 
 indulging in cat-calls and other signals of displeasure. 
 Thereupon, a man come on the stage who announced 
 that the admission money paid by the would-be specta- 
 tors was to be returned ; somebody else facetiously 
 called out that '* if they would come again the next 
 night, at double prices, the conjuror would go into a 
 pint bottle," and after this a candle was suddenly 
 thrown upon the stage. A row immediately ensued ; 
 the Duke of Cumberland in trying to escape from the 
 scuffle lost his diamond hilted sword ; and the more 
 rowdy element of the audience, now turned into an 
 angry mob, tore up the boxes and benches, pulled down 
 the curtain and scenery, and made a large bonfire of the 
 dibris opposite the entrance to the theatre. 
 
 The next morning the town was merrily gossiping 
 over the great hoax, and not a few averred that the 
 unconscionable Foote himself was at the bottom of the 
 whole affair, ' ' the most disgraceful attack that was ever 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICIC. 253 
 
 made upon the commonsense of the metropolis. ' ' Foote, 
 however, very stoutly denied any complicity in or 
 knowledge of the bottle-conjuring episode, and it is 
 quite possible that he spoke truly. 
 
 The frantic efforts of the great mimic to prove that 
 he had nothing to do with the trick, must have keenly 
 amused Garrick, who, while he treated Foote with the 
 greatest outward consideration, secretly feared and dis- 
 liked him. Davies has left it on record that Foote con- 
 sidered Garrick as a rival in theatrical fame, and yet, 
 as the biographer truly adds, *' no two men were more 
 opposite in their pretensions to stage merit : in acting, 
 Mr. Garrick was, doubtless, an unlimited genius ; 
 Foote was restrained to certain characters of his own 
 composition : though he had, for a few years, been 
 hired at a handsome salary as an actor, all his efforts, 
 both in tragedy and comedy, from Othello, his first at- 
 tempt, down to Ben the Sailor, one of his last, were 
 mean, disagreeable, and often distorted by grimace 
 and buffoonry. ' ' 
 
 The actor was wont to praise the mimic in the most 
 ostentatious, not to say fulsome manner — oh, thou 
 canny David — but these insincere commendations were 
 thrown away upon the dangerous " rival, "who only 
 went on abusing Garrick and borrowing his money all 
 the more. Foote '* constantly railed at Mr. Garrick in 
 all companies ; his abilities as an actor he questioned, 
 in contradiction to all the world ; his compositions as 
 a writer, he treated with scorn ; virtues, as a member 
 
254 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 of society, he had none ; he was covetous and tricking ; 
 in short, according to his opinion, he was everything 
 that was mean and unworthy of a gentleman.* Neither 
 his family, his friends, nor acquaintance, his father^ 
 mother, body, sotd, or muse, were spared by this strange 
 wit, who ran a-tilt at everybody, and was at the same 
 time caressed and feared, admired and hated by all. 
 
 ** In the meantime, these rival wits would often meei 
 at the houses of persons of fashion, who were glad to 
 have two such guests at their table, though they cer- 
 tainly should have entertained their friends separately ; 
 for Mr. Garrick was a muta persona in the presence of 
 Foote : he was all admiration when this great genius 
 entertained the company, and no man laughed more 
 heartily at his lively sallies than he did. It must be 
 owned that he tried all methods to conciliate Foote' s 
 mind ; so far at least, as to prevail upon him to forbear 
 his illiberal attacks upon him when absent ; and, this 
 he ought to have done for his own sake, for Foote often 
 rendered his conversation disgusting by his nauseous 
 abuse of Mr. Garrick ; but the more sensibility the 
 latter discovered, the greater price the former put upon 
 his ceasing from hostilities." 
 
 * In Roger's Table Talk is found a curious distinction made 
 by Arthur Murphy, the actor, between Garrick's private 
 and professional life. "Mr. Murphy, sir, you knew Mr. Gar- 
 rick?" "Yes, sir, I did, and no man better." "Well, sir, 
 what did you think of his acting ? " After a pause : " Well, 
 sir, off the stage he was a mean sneaking little fellow. But on 
 the stage " — throwing up his hands and eyes— "oh, my Great 
 God ! " 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK, 255 
 
 Richard Cumberland, who saw much of both these 
 remarkable men, indicates in his memoirs that Garrick 
 was far from being a tmita persona^ as Davies classi- 
 cally puts it, in the presence of the much-to-be-feared 
 caricaturist. '*I made a visit with him [Garrick] by 
 his own proposal to Foote at Parson's Green ; I have 
 heard it said he was reserved and uneasy in his com- 
 pany ; I never saw him more at ease and in a happier 
 flow of spirits than on that occasion. . . . We had 
 taken him [Foote] by surprise and of course were with 
 him some hours before dinner, to make sure of our 
 own if he had missed of his. He seemed overjoyed to 
 see us, engaged us to stay, walked with us in his gar- 
 den and read to us some scenes roughly sketched for 
 his Maid of Bath. His dinner was quite good enough 
 and his wine superlative. Sir Robert Fletcher, who 
 had served in the East Indies, dropt in before dinner and 
 made the fourth of our party. When we had passed 
 about two hours in perfect harmony and hilarity, Gar- 
 rick called for his tea, and Sir Robert rose to depart : 
 there was an unlucky screen in the room that hid the 
 door, and behind which he hid himself for some pur- 
 pose, whether natural or artificial I know not ; but 
 Foote, supposing him gone, instantly began to play off 
 his ridicule at the expense of his departed guest. I 
 must confess it was (in the cant phrase) a way that he 
 had, and just now a very unlucky way, for Sir Robert, 
 bolting from behind the screen, cried out — * I am not 
 gone, Foote ; spare me till I am out of hearing ; and 
 
256 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE, 
 
 now with your leave I will stay till these gentlemen 
 depart, and then you shall amuse me at their cost, as 
 you have amused them at mine.' 
 
 ' ' A remonstrance of this sort was an electric shock 
 that could not be parried. No wit could furnish an 
 evasion, no explanation could suffice for an excuse. 
 The offended gentleman was to the full as angry as a 
 brave man ought to be with an unfortunate wit, who 
 possessed very little of that quality, which he abounded 
 in. This event, which deprived Foote of all presence 
 of mind, gave occasion to Garrick to display his genius 
 and good nature in their brightest lustre : I never 
 saw him in a more amiable light ; the infinite address 
 and ingenuity, that he exhibited, in softening the en- 
 raged guest, and reconciling him to pass over an affront 
 as gross as could well be put upon a man, were at 
 once the most comic and the most complete I ever wit- 
 nessed. Why was not James Boswell present to have 
 recorded the dialogue and the action of the scene ? My 
 stupid head only carried away the effect of it. It was 
 as if Diomed (who being the son of Tydeus was, I con- 
 clude, a great hero in a small compass) had been shield- 
 ing Thersites from the wrath of Ajax ; and so wrathful 
 was our Ajax, that if I did not recollect there was a 
 certain actor at Delhi, who in the height of the 
 massacre charmed away the furious passions of 
 Nadir Shaw, and saved a remnant of the city, I 
 should say this was a victory without a parallel. I 
 hope Foote was very grateful, but when a man has 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK. 257 
 
 been completely humbled, he is not very fond of 
 recollecting it." 
 
 To wander back to more important events in Gar- 
 rick's career, let us mention the appearance on the 
 scene of the graceful Violette, whom he was after- 
 wards to marry. Bva Maria Violette, or to give her 
 real name, Eva Maria Veigel, was a native of Vienna, 
 where she had been educated as a danseuse. She ap- 
 peared at the Austrian Court, where she danced for 
 the edification of the Empress-Queen, Maria Theresa, 
 and soon after set out for London to seek her fortunes. 
 The cause of this sudden departure has been explained, 
 and perhaps truly, by the statement that Maria The- 
 resa, perceiving that her husband, the Emperor, re- 
 garded Mile. Violette with marked attention, proposed 
 this journey to England and forwarded powerful rec- 
 ommendations in her favor. It is at least certain that 
 she found most influential backing when she arrived ; 
 King George II. commanded the play on her first 
 appearance at Drury I^ane, in December, 1746, and 
 she was warmly befriended by the family of the Earl 
 of Burlington.* With such distinguished patronage, 
 added to the fact that she was very attractive both as 
 to her personality and her dancing, the Violette soon 
 became quite the fashion ; she resided with the Count- 
 ess of Burlington, who used to go with her to the the- 
 atre, playing the part of an amateur lady's maid, and 
 Walpole, in a letter to Montague, chronicles that " the 
 
 * There was an unfounded story afloat to the effect that Lord 
 Burlington was Mile. Violette's father. 
 
258 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 fame of the Violette increases daily. The sister Count- 
 esses of Burlington and Talbot exert all their stores of 
 sullen partiality and competition for her. The former 
 visits her, and is having her picture " ; and so on, in 
 the true Walpolian vein of gossip. 
 
 Soon Garrick is paying his court to the favorite, who 
 returns his attachment ; then he makes a formal and 
 very stately proposal to lyady Burlington for the hand 
 of the charmer, and has the good fortune to be ac- 
 cepted. Next he becomes an honored guest at Bur- 
 lington House, and we hear of him dancing attendance 
 upon his Jiande at fashionable entertainments. In 
 describing one given at Richmond, Walpole writes : 
 " There was an admirable scene, Lady Burlington 
 brought the Violette^ and the Richmond had asked 
 Garrick, who stood ogling and sighing the whole time, 
 while my lady kept a most fierce look-out. Sabbatini 
 asked me, ' And who is that ? ' It was a distressing 
 question ; after a little hesitation I replied : * Mais, 
 c' est Madertioiselle Violette.'''' 
 
 But while Walpole' s snobbishness might be pained 
 at seeing a mere dancer among such a brilliant array 
 of titled personages, Garrick had no such feeling, nat- 
 urally enough, and he proudly made her the possessor 
 of his now great name, just one month later (June, 
 1749). It proved to be a very happy marriage, and 
 none the less so to the business-like husband, because 
 the wife brought with her a dot of ;^6ooo, the gift of 
 the Burlington family. 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK. 259 
 
 It was about this time that Garrick began to experi- 
 ence with full force those troubles and petty annoy- 
 ances which inevitably fall to the lot of any success- 
 ful manager who has long to deal with a company of 
 his own. A man in such a position is like the ruler 
 over a lot of children in whom, perhaps, he only takes 
 an interest in so far as they contribute to his own glory 
 and fortune. The players, on their side, are sensitive 
 to a remarkable degree ; they have their jealousies 
 and ambitions under poor control, and to the not in- 
 frequent idea of their own importance they combine 
 a secret feeling that their manager is trying to get 
 from them a maximum of work at a minimum of 
 salary. And so it happened that Spranger Barry, 
 and Mrs. Cibber became peevish and discontented 
 with Garrick, believed that they were shabbily treated 
 (no doubt they thought so without good reason), and 
 finally went bag and baggage over to the enemy, in 
 the person of Mr. Rich, of Covent Garden. This 
 proved rather an unpleasant revolt for Garrick, but 
 he showed himself equal to the emergency. The 
 play-goers were the gainers by the episode, for it gave 
 them two productions of Romeo and Juliet over which 
 they could talk for many a day, and perhaps say to 
 their open-mouthed grandchildren : '* Kgad, boys, you 
 should have seen Barry's Romeo — there was a lover for 
 you!" or " I think Mr. Garrick was the better hero 
 of the two ! " or *' Zounds, what a glorious /?//?>/ did 
 my friend Mrs. Cibber make." 
 
26o ECHOES OP THE FLA YHOUSE. 
 
 It was in October, 1749, when the two rebellious sub- 
 jects of Drury I^ane began their campaign at Covent 
 Garden with their much admired impersonations in 
 Shakespeare's tragic love story, but Garrick met them 
 on their own ground by appearing in the same play. At 
 first both houses were crowded by persons who rejoiced 
 in the sensation of comparing the rival productions, and 
 coffee-house and drawing-room were filled with discus- 
 sions as to the relative merits of Garrick and Barry as 
 well as of the two Juliets^ Mrs. Gibber and Miss Bel- 
 lamy. One critic remarked epigrammatically that **at 
 Covent Garden he saw Juliet and Romeo and at Drury 
 I^ane Romeo and Juliet^ ' ' which sounds very clever, to 
 be sure, but is probably a poor opinion, for if contem- 
 porary testimony on the subject is to go for anything, 
 Barry, rather than Garrick, proved the ideal Ro?neo. 
 We can imagine Spranger, passionate, handsome, full of 
 grace and very, very human — just the lover a woman 
 would admire — while with Garrick the picture is equally 
 interesting but the colors are not so warm and sensuous, 
 and face and figure lack the indefinable but none the 
 less potent charm that made his rival so fascinating a 
 Mo7itague. 
 
 But the theatre-goer, past and present, has been 
 known to have too much of a good thing, as instanced 
 in the case of these phenomenally-cast Romeo ayid 
 Juliets. The public began to clamor for something 
 new, and heartily sympathized with the hero of the 
 epigram which ran 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK. 26 1 
 
 " Well, what's to-uight," says angry Ned, 
 
 As up from bed he rouses : 
 *' Romeo again ! " and shakes his head ; 
 ** Ah, plague on both your houses." 
 
 So the play was duly withdrawn, but not until the 
 Drury I^ane revival had brought into greater prominence 
 than ever the charming, the capricious, and the depraved 
 George iVnn Bellamy, whose checkered career was filled 
 with an unhallowed, unclean spirit of romance that 
 made her one of the most notorious women of her day. 
 She was the illegitimate daughter of I^ord Tyrawley, 
 who had her educated in a French convent ; later on 
 she was abducted by the then Lord Byron, a great 
 scoundrel where women were concerned ; appeared 
 with success on the Dublin stage and was soon the 
 heroine of a riot ; had an almost historic quarrel with 
 the Woffington, and went through a series of experi- 
 ences, amorous and otherwise, that "excited the won- 
 der, admiration, and pitying contempt of the town for 
 thirty years." "To say that she was a siren who 
 lured men to destruction, is to say little," observes Dr. 
 Doran, " for she went down to him with each victim ; 
 but she rose from the wreck more exquisitely seductive 
 and terribly fascinating than ever, to find a new prey 
 whom she might ensnare and betray." 
 
 The same writer tells us in that entertainingly pictur- 
 esque fashion of his how the feminine love of finery 
 prompted the unclassic tussle between this same dan- 
 gerous siren and the no less formidable Peg. ' ' The 
 
262 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 charming George Ann Bellamy had procured from 
 Paris two gorgeous dresses wherein to enact Statira in 
 the Rival Queens."^ Roxana was played by Peg Woffing- 
 ton ; and she was so overcome by malice, hatred, and 
 all uncharitableness, when she saw herself eclipsed by 
 the dazzling glories of the resplendent Bellamy, that 
 Peg at length resolved to drive her off the stage, and 
 with upheld dagger had wellnigh stabbed her at the 
 side-scenes. Alexander and a posse of chiefs with 
 hard names were at hand, but the less brilliantly, clad 
 Roxa7ia rolled Statira and her spangled sack in the 
 dust, pommelling her the while with the handle of her 
 dagger, and screaming aloud : 
 
 * Nor he, nor heaven, shall shield thee from my justice ; 
 Die, sorceress, die, and all my wrongs die with thee.' " 
 
 The once magnificent Bellamy with her Parisian 
 gowns, her beauty, her talents, and her profligacy, she 
 whom Dr. Johnson said " left nothing to be desired," 
 ended her life, sadly but appropriately enough, in pov- 
 erty and what was for her worse than disgrace — com- 
 parative oblivion. When she made her final bid for 
 popular favor in Dublin (November, 1760), 2iS Belvidera 
 in Venice Preserved, the theatre was so crowded that 
 many persons w^ere hustled and jostled into the building 
 without paying the doorkeeper, but what a terrible dis- 
 appointment was in store for them. Tate Wilkinson 
 
 * It will be remembered that the same play was the scene of 
 a nearly tragic quarrel, of which Mrs. Barry was the not very 
 creditable heroine. 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK, 263 
 
 saw the pathetic performance and notes in his memoirs 
 how, on her speaking the first line behind the scenes 
 
 " lycad me, ye Virgins, lead me to that kind voice," 
 it struck the ears of the audience as uncouth and un- 
 musical ; yet she was received as was prepared and 
 determined by all who were her or Mr. Mossop's* 
 friends, and the public at large with repeated plaudits 
 on her entree. '*But the roses were fled ; the young, the 
 once lovely Bellamy was turned haggard ! and her eyes 
 that used to charm all hearts, appeared sunk, large, 
 hollow, and ghostly. O Time ! Time ! thy glass should 
 be often consulted ! for before the short first scene had 
 elapsed disappointment, chagrin, and pity sat on every 
 eye and countenance. . . . She left Dublin with- 
 out a single friend to regret her loss. What a change 
 from the days of her youth ! " f 
 
 To bid a painful adieu to the prematurely broken 
 down Bellamy and come back to more pleasant scenes 
 of which Garrick was the hero, let it be noted that the 
 latter went on his prosperous way rejoicing, reviving 
 old plays, producing new ones, and adding at every 
 turn to his already extensive repertoire. If he was an 
 ambitious actor, he was none the less a shrewd, money- 
 getting manager, and he thought it a happy idea to 
 
 * Henry Mossop, who was then manager as well as actor, 
 t Bellamy's last appearance was at a benefit given for her as 
 late as 1785. Miss Farren spoke an address which concluded : 
 
 '* But see, oppress'd with gratitude and tears, 
 To pay her duteous tribute, she appears." 
 
264 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 vary the exhibition of the ** legitimate " at Dniry Lane 
 by an occasional entertainment of entirely different 
 character. This is how it came to pass that in Novem- 
 ber, 1755, there was produced after the most elaborate 
 preparations, a spectacle called The Chinese Festival^ 
 in which rich costumes, fine scenic effects, music, dan- 
 cing, and a variety of other features made up a perform- 
 ance of a kind that would be highly popular in these 
 " degenerate " days. The affair might have been just 
 as popular then had not an unfortunate international 
 matter, which had no real bearing on this ' ' Chinese ' ' 
 or any other "Festival," arisen at that time. This 
 was the breaking out of hostilities between England 
 and France, and the London public, in its frantic* 
 endeavors to be patriotic, lost all common sense — as 
 the public will do at certain seasons — and took violent 
 umbrage because Mr. Garrick's new venture enlisted 
 the services of a number of French dancers. 
 
 For five nights the theatre was the scene of tumults, 
 the occupants of the boxes sustaining Mr. Garrick, and 
 thereby only infuriating the more the malcontents in 
 the pit and galleries, who insisted on having the 
 spectacle withdrawn from the boards altogether. As 
 a climax to the disorder some gentlemen jumped from 
 their boxes, into the pit, and entered, sword in hand, 
 into a conflict with the ringleaders ; blood was shed, 
 women screamed and fainted, as was to be expected, 
 and the now exasperated mob ended up by wrecking 
 the inside of the theatre and doing as much incidental 
 
THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK. 265 
 
 damage as possible. Garrick actually feared for his 
 life, and the rioters repaired to his house, where they 
 smashed the windows as a slight mark of their august 
 disapproval. Though the excitement ceased when the 
 obnoxious ' ' Festival ' ' was retired and the Frenchmen 
 sent about their business, many a day elapsed before 
 the episode was forgotten. 
 
 One of the few amusing things about the whole 
 affair was the dragging out for the occasion of his very 
 peculiar Majesty, King George II., whose presence 
 at the theatre on one of these memorable nights would, 
 it was believed, have a restraining effect on the audience. 
 So the old King, who knew nothing about the drama 
 and cared less, commanded a performance of Richard 
 III. , witnessed it himself and laughed at the disorder 
 among the spectators. When the play was over Garrick 
 eagerly asked Mr. Fitzherbert, who had been in the 
 Royal box, how His Majesty liked the Richard. '*I 
 can say nothing on that head," replied Fitzherbert, 
 ' ' but when an actor told Richard ' The Mayor of I^on- 
 don comes to greet you ' the King roused himself ; and 
 when Taswell entered buffooning the character, the 
 King exclaimed : ' Duke of Grafton^ I like that Lord 
 Mayor'; and when the scene was over, he said again, 
 'Duke of Grafton^ that is good Lord Mayor.'' " And 
 this was the extent of his criticism, excepting that 
 when Richard was in Bos worth Field, shouting for a 
 horse, George exclaimed: ''Duke of Grafton^ will 
 that Lord Mayor not come again f ' ' 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A GRKAT I,IGHT GOES OUT. 
 
 GARRICK watched every action of the rival com- 
 pany at Covent Garden with the keen eye of 
 a hawk, and there was one pathetic incident at that 
 house that must have had for him a painful interest. 
 It was the final appearance on the stage, as it turned 
 out, of his one-time companion. Peg Woffington. Her 
 powers and beauty were on the wane, although she 
 was still on the right side of forty, when she volun- 
 teered in May, 1757, to play her favorite Rosalind, for 
 the benefit of some fellow-artists. Tate Wilkinson, 
 then a young actor who had shown enough hardihood 
 to burlesque the Woffington, watched the progress of 
 the performance from the wings, and we will let him 
 tell the brief but pitiful story of her farewell. 
 
 ' ' She went through Rosalind for four acts without 
 my perceiving that she was in the least disordered ; 
 but in the fifth act she complained of great indisposi- 
 tion. I offered her my arm, which she graciously ac- 
 cepted. I thought she looked softened in her manner, 
 and had less of the hauteur. When she came off" at 
 
 266 
 
A GREAT LIGHT GOES OUT. 267 
 
 the quick change of dress, she again complained of 
 being ill, but got accoutred, and returned to finish the 
 part, and pronounced the Epilogue speech, ' If it be 
 true that, good wine needs no bush, ' etc. But when 
 arrived at * If I were a woman I would kiss as many 
 of you as had beards,' etc., her voice broke — she fal- 
 tered — endeavored to go on, but could not proceed ; 
 then in a voice of tremor exclaimed, ' O God ! O God ! ' 
 and tottered to the stage door speechless, where she 
 was caught. The audience, of course, applauded till 
 she was out of sight, and then sunk into awful looks 
 of astonishment, both young and old, before and be- 
 hind the curtain, to see one of the most handsome 
 women of the age, a favorite principal actress, and who 
 had for several seasons given high entertainment, 
 struck so suddenly by the hand of Death, in such a 
 time and place, and in the prime of life." 
 
 She had indeed been stricken by the hand of Death, 
 and never more could tread the boards she loved so 
 well, but the final blow did not come until three years 
 later, when she quietly passed away at Teddington. 
 Perhaps Garrick shed an un-theatrical tear when he 
 heard the news, and then — forgot her for ever. 
 
 Roscius never lived in the past, however charming 
 it might have been, and even had he been disposed to 
 do so, the cares of management forced him to 
 
 ** Act, — act in the living present," 
 but whether with 
 
 ** Heart within, and God o'erhead" 
 
268 ECHOES OF THE FLA Y HOUSE. 
 
 it is hard to determine. At any rate, one of the living 
 issues which soon gave him not a little anxiety was 
 the transient popularity of Thomas Sheridan, who had 
 left Dublin and joined forces with the hero of Drury 
 I,ane, "Sherry is dull, naturally dull, but it must 
 have taken him a great deal of pains to become what 
 we now see him " growled Dr. Johnson, and it is plain 
 that the father of Richard Brinsley was a pretty poor 
 sort of actor, but he had the theatrical bee in his bon- 
 net, and studied hard to be a genius. He was * ' acting 
 mad, haranguing mad, teaching mad, managing mad," 
 according to a sour epigram of old Macklin, but with 
 all his madness he contrived to play King John so 
 eflfectively at Drury Lane that Garrick became con- 
 sumed with jealousy. Kven so friendly a critic as 
 Davies frankly admits that the manager grew very 
 envious of his histrionic inferior, * ' especially when he 
 was informed by a very intimate acquaintance, that 
 the King was uncommonly pleased with that actor's 
 [Sheridan's] representation of the part." It is added 
 that * ' this was a bitter cup ; and to make the draught 
 still more unpalatable, upon his asking whether His 
 Majesty approved his playing the Bastard, he was told, 
 without the least compliment paid to his action, it 
 was imagined that the King thought the character was 
 rather too bold in the drawing, and the coloring was 
 overcharged and glaring. Mr. Garrick, who had been 
 so accustomed to applause, and who of all men living 
 most sensibly felt the neglect of it, was greatly struck 
 
A GREA T LIGHT GOES OUT. 269 
 
 with a preference given to another, and which left him 
 out of all consideration ; and though the boxes were 
 taken for King John several nights successively, he 
 would never after permit the play to be acted. ' ' There is 
 a wee bit of the snob in most of us, and although 
 Garrick knew in his heart that the opinion of Dutchy 
 George was not worth a bagatelle, the Royal preference 
 for Sheridan soon put an end to the relations, personal 
 and professional, between the two actors, one of whom 
 "could not bear an equal, nor the other a superior." 
 'T was not long, however, before George II. had de- 
 parted this life and could cause no more heartburnings 
 by his august critiques of things theatrical, while Gar- 
 rick suddenly found himself the hero of a very remark- 
 able work which must have gratified his vanity as 
 much as it chagrined many of his fellow-players. It 
 was Charles Churchill's poem of The Rosciad^ which 
 made a great commotion at the time because of its 
 satirical flings against a number of stage favorites. 
 Churchill, himself a constant theatre-goer, had studied 
 their characteristics, more particularly their failings, 
 with a calm, judicious eye, free from emotions that 
 might blind his judgment, and while his criticisms in 
 the Rosciad were frequently true and to the point, the 
 unfortunate subjects of them were none the less angry 
 on this score. He spoke of Macklin as a man 
 
 "... who largely deals in half-form 'd sounds, 
 Who wantonly transgresses nature's bounds, 
 Whose acting 's hard, affected and constrain'd ; " 
 
 * Published in March, 1761. 
 
270 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 he pointed out that Quin (who was still living to grit 
 his epicurean teeth at the satire) 
 
 "... could not for a moment sink the man," 
 
 and gave vent to that now historic saying about Davies, 
 who 
 
 ** Mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone." 
 
 Of the urbane and painstaking Havard,* Churchill 
 averred that he loved, hated and raged, triumphed and 
 complained, all in the same strains, and that 
 
 " His easy, vacant face proclaim'd a heart 
 Which could not feel emotions nor impart," 
 
 while he defined Foote's powers very succinctly by 
 saying that 
 
 " His strokes of humor and his bursts of sport. 
 Are all contain'd in this one word, distort. 
 Doth a man stutter, look asquint, or halt ? 
 Mimics draw humor out of nature's fault ; 
 With personal defects their mirth adorn, 
 And hang misfortunes out to public scorn." 
 
 ^ " Ha vard undertook the tragedy of Charles I. at the desire 
 of the manager of the company of Lincoln's Inn Fields, to 
 which he then belonged, in 1737. The manager had probably 
 read of the salutary effects produced on the genius of Kuripides 
 by seclusion in his cave, and he was determined to give Havard 
 the same advantage in a garret during the composition of his 
 task. He invited him to his house, took him up to one of its 
 airiest apartments, and there locked him up for so many hours 
 every day, well knowing his desultory habits, nor released him, 
 after he had once turned the clavis tragica, till the unfortunate 
 bard had repeated through the key-hole a certain number of 
 new speeches in the progressive tragedy."— Thomas Camp- 
 
SAMUEL FOOTE. 
 
 AS MrtS. COLE " IN HIS OWN COMEDY OF THE MINOR. " — ' ' MY THOUGHTS ARE FIXED 
 UPON A BETTER PLACE." FROM A DRAWING BY DODD. 
 
A GREAT LIGHT GOES OUT, 27 1 
 
 Yet with all this acidity the author of the Rosdad knew 
 how to indulge in the most mellifluous of compliments, 
 as when he referred to the *' giggling, plotting cham- 
 bermaids," the "hoydens and romps" of ''General 
 Clive,'^ who 
 
 ** Original in spirit and in ease, 
 She pleas'd by hiding all attempts to please. 
 No comic actress ever yet could raise 
 On humor's base more merit or more praise." 
 
 As to Garrick, the idol of the poem and poet, no 
 praise could be too strong, no metaphor too eloquent, 
 and so we read that 
 
 " If manly sense, if nature link'dwith art ; 
 If thorough knowledge of the human heart ; 
 If powers of acting vast and unconfin'd ; 
 If fewer faults with greatest beauties joined ; 
 If strong expression, and great powers which lie 
 Within the magic circle of the eye ; 
 If feelings which few hearts like his can know, 
 And which no face so well as his can show ; 
 Deserve the preference : Garrick, take the chair, 
 Nor quit it, till thou place an equal there." 
 
 This was all very pretty, but the subject of the adu- 
 lation was enough a man of the world to know that his 
 own popularity was not likely to be increased by a pen 
 which so severely scratched many of his contempora- 
 ries. It is possible that his reception of the Rosciad 
 proved disappointing to the writer, or that he said 
 something on the subject which gave offence to the 
 latter, but whatever may have been the reason Church- 
 ill soon got out a new poem entitled The Apology. 
 
272 ECHOES OP THE PLA Y HO USE, 
 
 Here the panegyrist turned cynic, and not only aimed 
 
 many an arrow at the player's art in general, but 
 
 hurled a particularly poisonous one at his late hero, 
 
 speaking of him as a ** vain tyrant," suriiounded by 
 
 " His puny greenroom wits, and venal bards, 
 Who meanly tremble at a puppet's frown, 
 And for a playhouse freedom, sell their own." 
 
 Garrick was, at the best, peculiarly sensitive to any 
 unfavorable criticism, and grew very uncomfortable 
 over the newly conferred titles of ' * tyrant ' ' and ' ' pup- 
 pet. ' ' But he could take a hand himself in poetical 
 warfare of this kind, and being, as his friend Gold- 
 smith said, **awit, if not first, in the very first line," 
 he made a formidable adversary. When Dr. Hill, a 
 famous quack, attacked Garrick in the newspapers 
 (presumably because even the talents of the actor could 
 not save from disastrous failure a poor farce written by 
 the empirical gentleman) he was quickly disposed of 
 by one of the cleverest and most cutting couplets that 
 ever graced the English language. It was simply 
 this : 
 
 '* Epigram on Dr. Hiivi,. 
 
 Vox physic and/arces his equal there scarce is; 
 His yhrces are physic ; h.\s physic a farce is." 
 
 Garrick, who wrote the lines, had administered an- 
 other shock in verse, some time before, to the same 
 culprit. Hill had published a pamphlet containing 
 A Petition from the Letters I and U to David Garrick^ 
 Esq.y in which it was contended that the great player 
 
A GkEAT LIGHT GOES OUT, 2y^ 
 
 misplaced the aforesaid letters in his pronunciation of 
 certain words. To this the guilty man made answer : 
 
 " If *t is true, as you say, that I 've injured a letter, 
 I '11 change my note soon, and I hope for the better. 
 May the right use of letters, as well as of men. 
 Hereafter be fix'd by the tongue and the pen : 
 Most devoutly I wish they may both have their due, 
 And that /may be never mistaken for f/." 
 
 Poor poetry it all may have been, as standards go in 
 these days of naturalism, realism, pre-Raphaelism, and 
 various other isms, but it served its purpose well by 
 contributing to the gayety of nations. Can the same 
 thing be said of much of our modern verse ? 
 
 Sometimes Mr. Garrick had greater managerial 
 troubles than those associated with the writing of 
 witty epigrams, as, for instance, in the beginning of 
 1763, when he went through the unpleasant experi- 
 ence of another theatrical riot. There was no ob- 
 noxious Chinese Festival this time ; the bone of 
 contention proved to be a financial rather than a patri- 
 otic one. It appears that the treasurer of Drury L,ane, 
 Benjamin Victor, had altered Shakespeare's Two Gen- 
 tlemen of Verona, and when the play was to be given 
 for the benefit night of the adapter, a paper was circu- 
 lated in public places setting forth the injustice of the 
 management in treating the production as an absolute 
 novelty and charging full prices for what was nothing 
 more or less than a revival. When the benefit evening 
 came (the sixth evening of the performance of the 
 comedy) the head and front of the malcontents, a Mr. 
 
 i8 
 
274 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 Fitzpatrick, " harangued the spectators from the boxes, 
 and set forth, in very warm and opprobrious language, 
 the impositions of the managers, and with much vehe- 
 mence, pleaded the right of the audience to fix the 
 price of their bill of fare.* When Mr. Garrick came 
 forward to address the house, he was received with 
 noise and uproar, and treated with the utmost con- 
 tempt by the orator and his friends. He was not 
 permitted to show the progressive accumulation of 
 theatrical expenses, the nightly charge of which, from 
 the year 1702 to 1760, had been raised from 34 pounds 
 to above 90 pounds." 
 
 Whatever may have been the merits of the dispute 
 — and it was argued with some show of justice, in be- 
 half of the patentee, that he had been put to consid- 
 erable extra expense through the Two Gentlemen of 
 Verojia — the uproar of the house became so great that 
 Garrick could not make himself heard. As it seemed 
 evident that he had no intention of yielding to the 
 popular clamor the indignant spectators broke out into 
 unrestrained riot, tore up the seats, smashed the lus- 
 tres and girandoles, and generally behaved themselves 
 like rufi&ans of the most approved type. And that 
 put a violent end to the performance for the benefit 
 of the unfortunate and unvictorious Victor. 
 
 When the next night came, a new tragedy, Elvira, 
 was the attraction, but it was plainly to be seen, from 
 
 * It was demanded that ouly half-price should be charged 
 after the third act. 
 
A GREAT LIGHT GOES OUT. 275 
 
 the very moment the doors of the theatre opened, that 
 the play was not the thing on this occasion. As Gar- 
 rick made his appearance, several in the large audi- 
 ence, now in tumultuous mood, cried out : "Will you 
 or will you not, give admittance for half-price, after the 
 third act of a play, except during the first winter a 
 pantomine is performed ? ' ' Garrick replied to this 
 demand with a reluctant ' ' Yes ! ' ' upon which there 
 was loud applause. 
 
 The episode did not end here, for the house now in- 
 sisted on apologies from several of the manager's com- 
 pany. It is hard to imagine just what the poor players 
 had done to ask pardon about, but a mob, particularly 
 an English one, is inclined to be brutal, and it was 
 decided that the fun should not cease with the submis- 
 sion of the chief offender. Moody, one of the unfor- 
 tunates, was called upon to express his contrition for 
 having interfered, the previous night, with a scoundrel 
 who attempted to set fire to the theatre, and thinking 
 that he would get out of the difficulty in a tactful man- 
 ner the actor said, in the voice of a low-comedy Irish- 
 man, that "he was very sorry he had displeased the 
 audience by saving their lives in putting out the fire. ' ' 
 But this remark added fuel to the flame, instead of ex- 
 tinguishing it. Fierce cries of * ' Down on your knees ! ' ' 
 and * * Ask for pardon ! ' ' rang through the house with 
 such vehemence that it was plain to see what would 
 have been Moody's fate had he been in the pit, or even 
 in the boxes. But he was not to be frightened into so 
 
276 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 dishonorable a compliance ; he boldly faced the sea of 
 angry faces and shouted above the din, " I will not, 
 by G — ." When he went behind the scenes Garrick, 
 who with all his faults could sympathize with bravery, 
 gave him an admiring embrace, saying at the same 
 time that * * whilst he [Garrick] was master of a guinea 
 Moody should be paid his income." 
 
 This was a pretty little incident, of course (how 
 charming is the picture of the mighty David unbend- 
 ing in the presence of his company to caress one of his 
 subordinates) but unfortunately the story has a tamer 
 conclusion. What does the prudent Roscius do next 
 but bounce on the stage and assure the howling ruffi- 
 ans that Mr. Moody " should not appear again during 
 the time of their displeasure. ' ' The man who so often 
 threw his soul into some of the most valiant and heroic 
 of theatrical personages could not even imitate the 
 manliness of one of his own henchmen. 
 
 In the meantime things resumed their normal con- 
 dition at Drury I^ane, but Moody found himself in an 
 awkward predicament. He was unable to appear at 
 that theatre, and yet unwilling either to take one of 
 Garrick' s treasured guineas or to leave I^ondon for the 
 provincial stage. Finally he took the bull by the 
 horns, or rather bearded the leonine Fitzpatrick in 
 his chambers in the Temple. *'I suppose, sir, you 
 know me," said Moody, as he entered the room. 
 
 " Very well, sir ; and how came I by the honor of 
 this visit ? ' ' demanded the astonished Fitzpatrick. 
 
A GREAT LIGHT GOES OUT, 277 
 
 ** How dare you ask me that question, when you 
 know what passed at Drury Lane, where I was called 
 upon to dishonor myself, by asking pardon of the audi- 
 ence upon my knees." 
 
 " No, sir, I was not the person who spoke to you." 
 
 "Sir, you did, I saw you and heard you. And what 
 crime had I committed to be obliged to stoop to such 
 an ignominious submission ? I had prevented a wretch 
 from setting fire to the playhouse, and had espoused 
 the cause of a gentleman in whose services I had en- 
 listed ! " 
 
 *' I do not understand being treated in this manner 
 in my own house ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Sir, I will attend you where you please ; for, be 
 assured, I will not leave you till you have satisfied me 
 one way or other." 
 
 It is pleasant to learn that after much parleying be- 
 tween Mr. Fitzpatrick, who stood very much upon his 
 dignity, and Mr. Moody, who was determined to have 
 redress, the former wrote to Garrick that whenever 
 the actor should be allowed on the stage of Drury 
 lyane he (Fitzpatrick) and his friends would attend 
 and help to reinstate the delinquent in the popular 
 regard.* 
 
 * Of this John Moody, who proved a valuable actor in his 
 careful, conscientious way, an amusing anecdote was related 
 some years ago in the Cornhill Magazine. Among the traits 
 of stupidity put to the account of actors, by which droll unre- 
 hearsed effects have been produced on the stage, there is none 
 that is supposed to convey greater proof of stupidity than that 
 
2/8 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 And now it must be confessed that the greatest actor 
 of his time, the man who had held London entranced 
 for twenty years, experienced a sudden coldness on the 
 part of the public. The theatre-goer has from days 
 immemorial claimed the right to be capricious ; he 
 may laud a player to the skies one season and wish 
 him in the subterranean regions the next ; and accord- 
 ingly, when the Beggar's Opera had a revival at Cov- 
 ent Garden, he exercised this sacred prerogative by 
 getting madly enthusiastic over the new Polly Peachum, 
 rich- voiced Miss Brent,* and turning a cold shoulder 
 on the idol of Drury lyane. All the beauties of Ham- 
 let, Ranger^ Benedick, and Lear — characters which 
 
 which distinguished the actor who originally represented Lord 
 Burghley in the Critic. The names of several players are 
 mentioned, each as being the hero of this story ; but the orig- 
 inal Lord Burghley, or Burleigh, was Irish Moody, far too 
 acute an actor to be suspected for a fool. When Sheridan 
 selected him for the part, the manager declared that Moody 
 would be sure to commit some ridiculous error and ruin the 
 eflFect. The author protested that such a result was impossible ; 
 and, according to the fashion of the times, a wager was laid 
 and Sheridan hurried to the performer of the part to give him 
 such instructions as should render any mistake beyond possi- 
 bility. Lord Burghley has nothing to say, merely to sit a while; 
 and then, as the stage directions informed him, and as Sheridan 
 impressed it on his mind, " Lord Burghley comes forward, 
 pauses near Dangle, shakes his head and exit." The actor 
 thoroughly understood the direction, he said, and could not err. 
 At night he came forward, did pass near Dangle, shook his 
 (Danglers) head, and went solemnly off, 
 
 * Miss Brent was a pupil of Dr. Arne, and had, curiously 
 enough, been refused an engagement at Drury I^ane prior to 
 her success in the Beggar's Opera, 
 
A CHEAT LIGHT GOES OUT, 279 
 
 Garrick resuscitated in a vain endeavor to check the 
 tide that was hurrying the people towards Covent 
 Garden — were as nothing to the attractions of Polly. 
 '* That bewitching syren charmed all the world, and, 
 like another Orpheus, drew crowds perpetually after 
 her," while on one awful night at the rival house, 
 when Garrick and Mrs. Gibber acted, the receipts were 
 less than four pounds ! 
 
 Poor Garrick ! This was more than human nature, 
 or at least his nature, could stand. Mens conscia recH 
 might be a fine old Latin motto, very admirable when 
 used in a classic tragedy, but what was the conscious- 
 ness of intrinsic merit worth, under such dismal cir- 
 cumstances, to a man whose very existence depended 
 upon the applause of the multitude ? What availed it 
 to be the most distinguished tragedian or comedian in 
 the world if you could only draw three pounds, fifteen 
 shillings and six pence per night, with a singing 
 woman piling up the gold at another house? It is 
 quite natural, therefore, that the deserted favorite 
 should temporarily relinquish the management of 
 Drury I^ane to his brother, George Garrick, and Mr. . 
 lyacy, and take a European tour in accompany with 
 the most faithful and devoted of wives, who during 
 the whole of their married life was never absent from 
 her illustrious husband for so long a space as twenty- 
 four hours. 
 
 It was in the autumn of 1763 that the Garricks set 
 out on a journey which proved a decided balm to the 
 
28o ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 soul of the discomfited David. Everywhere he was 
 received with the greatest kindness and consideration ; 
 he had a special audience with the Duke of Parma, 
 before whom he recited a scene from Macbeth, and he 
 felt the supreme happiness of being embraced by the 
 fascinating Mile. Clairon. This French actress saw 
 Garrick represent, in pantomime, the grief of a father 
 over the death of his child ; she was so wrought up by 
 the superb exhibition of power that she caught her 
 surprised colleague around the neck, kissed him fer- 
 vently, and then politely apologized to the amused 
 Mrs. Garrick. 
 
 Garrick enjoyed himself thoroughly for more than 
 a year and then turned his face homeward,* after 
 being careful to send in advance of himself a poem 
 called The Sick Monkey. This effusion was written 
 as a satirical account of his travels, something that 
 should disarm the criticism of his enemies, but it 
 proved dull, in wretched taste, and fell as flat as the 
 much-quoted pancake. After he reached London, 
 however, and re-appeared some months later (Novem- 
 ber, 1765) as the crusty Benedick, King George III. 
 applauded from the royal box and the crowded audi- 
 ence showed by its cheers that the idol had been re- 
 placed on his well-earned pedestal. ** Mr. Garrick 
 has benefited by his wanderings," reported the crit- 
 ics. " Kven the great Roscius may learn by experi- 
 
 * He had become alarmed, no doubt, at the growing popu- 
 larity of that brilliant young actor, William Powell. 
 
A GEE AT LIGHT GOES OUT. 28 1 
 
 ence," said one; ''his deportment is more graceful 
 and his manner more elegant, ' ' observed another ; 
 and " he has given up all theatrical clap-trap," wisely 
 added a third. In fine, Davy was himself again, so 
 far as public favor was concerned, although physically 
 he was already on the wane. Some of the old-time 
 vitality, a flash of the early fire, might be missed ; the 
 once dainty figure had grown corpulent, and frequent 
 attacks of gout and a more serious trouble warned him 
 that he could no longer tax his strength as he was 
 wont to do. No one was more alive to the limitations 
 which age was fast putting on his genius than the 
 actor himself, who humorously alluded to them in the 
 prologue which he spoke on the revival of Much Ado 
 About Nothing. 
 
 " In four-and-twenty years the spirits cool ; 
 Is it not long enough to play the fool ? 
 To prove it is, permit me to repeat 
 What late I heard in passing through the street ; 
 A youth of parts, with ladies by his side, 
 Thus cocked his glass, and through it shot my pride ; 
 *^Tis he, by Jove ! grown quite a clumsy fellow, 
 He '' s fit fornothing but a Punchinello " — 
 * O yes ! for comic scenes. Sir John — no further ; 
 He 's much too fat for battles, rapes and murther,' 
 Worn in the service, you my faults will spare. 
 And make allowance for the wear and tear," 
 
 We next hear of Garrick as hard at work writing 
 plays, one of them The Country Girl. It was a free but 
 decent adaptation of Wycherley's Country Wife, one 
 of the most filthy plays of the Restoration period, 
 
282 ECHOES OF THE PLA YHOUSE. 
 
 and in spite of its attractiveness in this new dress 
 it suflfered from one serious drawback. Miss Reynolds, 
 who played the title character, was too old and 
 homely to look the ideal country girl of sixteen or 
 so. Yet what theatre-goer of to-day has not met with 
 a like anomaly, and become hardened, perhaps, to 
 Juliets old enough to be grandmothers, charming but 
 middle-aged Portias, Rosalinds of maternal, benevolent 
 aspect, and fine Hamlets of fifty or sixty. One of the 
 best modern performances of Lady Teazle was that 
 given several years ago by a gifted artiste of seventy, 
 who can still delight an audience as do but few liv- 
 ing actresses. We are lenient with such a drawback, 
 for we know that when a woman plays Lady Teazle 
 or Juliet as she should, she is often too old to look 
 the part. But in the days of Garrick critics and public 
 were not always so philosophical, and the Country Girl 
 hardly met with the success anticipated by the author. 
 Garrick' s brilliant career was now drawing to a close. 
 We can leave to better biographers the account of his 
 last professional years, not even halting to describe 
 his participation in the Stratford Jubilee (held osten- 
 sibly in honor of Shakespeare but given quite as 
 much in recognition of Garrick), and hurrying on to 
 that tearful night* of June lo, 1776, when this Titan 
 
 * About the same time Garrick sold his share in the patent 
 of Drury Lane for ;^35,ooo. The purchasers were Richard 
 Brinsley Sheridan, Thomas I^inley, and Richard Ford, and Sheri- 
 dan assumed the actual management of the theatre. 
 
A GREAT LIGHT GOES OUT, 283 
 
 of the stage bid farewell to it forever. Before that last 
 performance, Garrick appeared in a round of his most 
 famous characters ; and that entertaining raconteur, 
 Frederick Reynolds, tells how he saw the great man's 
 final presentation of Hamlet. 
 
 **On the morning of that day," says Reynolds, 
 ** Perkins, who was my father's wig maker, as well as 
 Garrick's, cut and trimmed my hair for the occasion. 
 During the operation he told me, that when I saw 
 Garrick first behold the ghost, I should see each indi- 
 vidual hair of his head stand upright ; and he con- 
 cluded, by hoping, that though I so much admired 
 the actor, I would reserve a mite of approbation for 
 him, as the artist of this most ingenious, mechanical 
 wig ; ' the real cause, ' he added, ' entre nous, of his 
 prodigious effects in that vScene.' Whether this story 
 was related by the facetious perruquier to puff himself, 
 or to hoax me, I will not pretend to decide ; but this I 
 can say with truth, that though I did not see Garrick's 
 hair rise perpendicularly, mine did, when he broke 
 from Horatio and Marcellus, with anger flashing from 
 ' his two balls of fire ' (as his eyes were rightly called) 
 exclaiming, 
 
 * By heaveu, I *11 make a ghost of him that lets me.' " 
 
 The narrator was also on hand on the farewell even- 
 ing. Garrick played Felix in The Wonder with a fire 
 that made him young again and afterwards addressed 
 the enthusiastic yet sorrowing house, broke down in 
 
284 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 the middle of this, the most pathetic Epilogue of his 
 life, recovered himself, ended his valedictory and then, 
 solemnly bowing, walked off the stage forever, amid 
 the mingled tears and plaudits of the brilliant assem- 
 blage. On this night, continues Reynolds, ' ' my 
 brother Jack and I, after waiting two hours, succeeded 
 at length in entering the pit. But the commencement 
 of the evening was somewhat unfortunate to my brother, 
 who, during the struggle in the pit passage, not only 
 had his watch stolen, but so completely lost his temper 
 that, on the detection of the thief, who immediately 
 offered to restore the property. Jack, instead of receiv- 
 ing it, with all the fury of an enraged young lawyer de- 
 termined to have the stolen goods found on him. Ac- 
 cordingly he seized him, and shouted for police officers — 
 in vain ; the crowd involuntarily prevented a possibility 
 of their interference. . . . Jack now dragged the 
 thief into the pit, and again called loudly for police 
 officers, who at length came, though somewhat late ; 
 for owing to the increased confusion the bird had at 
 length broken from Jack and flown ! 
 
 "The riot and struggle for places can scarcely 
 be imagined," continues Reynolds, **even from the 
 above anecdote. Though a side box close to where 
 we sat was completely filled, we beheld the door burst 
 open, and an Irish gentleman attempt to make entry, 
 vi et armis. ' Shut the door, box-keeper,' loudly cried 
 some of the party, ' There 's room by the pow'rs ! * 
 cried the Irishman, and persisted in advancing. On 
 
A GREA T LIGHT GOES OUT. 2^5 
 
 this, a gentleman in the second row rose, and exclaimed, 
 * Turn out that blackguard ! ' 'Oh, and that is your 
 mode, honey ? ' coolly retorted the Irishman, * come, 
 come out, my dear, and give me satisfaction, or I '11 
 pull your nose, faith, you coward, and shillaly you 
 through the lobby ! ' 
 
 ''This public insult left the tenant in possession no 
 alternative ; so he rushed out to accept the challenge ; 
 when, to the pit's general amusement, the Irishman 
 jumped into his place, and having deliberately seated 
 and adjusted himself, he turned around and cried ; ' I '11 
 talk to you after the play is over.' 
 
 ' ' The comedy of The Wonder commenced, but I 
 have scarcely any recollection of what passed during 
 its representation ; or, if I had, would it not be tedious 
 to repeat a ten times told tale?* I only remember 
 that Garrick and his hearers were mutually afifected by 
 the farewell address ; particularly in that part where 
 he said 'The jingle of rhyme and the language of 
 fiction would but ill suit his present feelings ' and also, 
 when putting his hand to his breast he exclaimed, 
 ' Whatever may be the changes of my future life, the 
 deepest impression of your gratitude will remain here, 
 fixed and unalterable.' Still, however, though my 
 memory will not allow me to dwell further on the 
 events of the evening my pride will never permit me 
 to forget, that I witnessed Garrick's dramatic death." 
 
 The physical death of this wondrous player, who 
 * Would that lie had done so, nevertheless. 
 
286 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 had so often mimicked the Grim Visitor that now stood 
 upon his threshold, occurred peacefully and painlessly 
 on January 20, 1779. Two days after the funeral (his 
 remains were laid with great pomp and ceremony at 
 the base of Shakespeare's statue in Poet's Comer, 
 Westminster Abbey) his brother George Garrick went 
 over to the great Majority, fitly enough, as it seemed. 
 George had been David's right hand man at Drury 
 I^ane, a Fidus Achates as well as a relation. On his 
 returning to the theatre after a brief absence he would 
 invariably ask ' ' Has my brother wanted me ? ' ' and 
 when he was gathered unto his fathers, a friend said 
 wittily but tenderly, ** His brother wanted him.'* 
 
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CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THK SP ARRIVING SH:eRIDAN. 
 
 * ' T HAVE been very seriously at work on a book, 
 X which I am just now sending to the press, and 
 which I think will do me some credit, if it leads to 
 nothing else. However, the profitable afiair is of 
 another nature. There will be a Comedy of mine in 
 rehearsal at Covent Garden within a few days. I did 
 not set to work on it till within a few days of my set- 
 ting out for Crome, so you may think I have not, for 
 these last six weeks, been very idle. I have done it at 
 Mr. Harris's (the manager's) own request ; it is now 
 complete in his hands, and preparing for the stage. 
 He, and some of his friends also who have heard it, 
 assure me in the most flattering terms that there is not 
 a doubt of its success. It will be very well played, 
 and Harris tells me that the least shilling I shall get 
 (if it succeeds) will be six hundred pounds. I shall 
 make no secret of it towards the time of representation, 
 that it may not lose any support my friends can give it. 
 I had not written a line of it two months ago, except 
 a scene or two, which I believe you have seen in an 
 oiF act of a little farce. ' ' 
 
 287 
 
288 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE. 
 
 Thus wrote a certain young gentleman to his father- 
 in-law, Thomas Linley, in November, 1774. It need 
 hardly be added that the son-in-law was Richard Brins- 
 ley Sheridan, who, at the early age of twenty-three, 
 had translated Aristaenetus, fought a couple of duels, 
 eloped with and married, the beautiful Miss lyinley of 
 Bath, and just completed a comedy which is still con- 
 sidered one of the most delightful in the English 
 language. 
 
 This prodig}^ — for so must have been the man who 
 could produce both The Rivals and The School for 
 Scandal before he reached his thirtieth year — was the 
 son of Thomas Sheridan, the self-constituted rival of 
 Garrick, and the grandson of Dr. Sheridan, who ob- 
 tained a sort of reflected glory from his intimacy with 
 Jonathan Swift. Richard's mother, charming woman, 
 had intellectual gifts of a much more than respectable 
 order ; she was the author of several long-since for- 
 gotten novels and of a play* which so august an 
 authority as Garrick pronounced * ' one of the best 
 comedies he ever read." Another comedy of hers, 
 which never saw the light, might have possessed in- 
 terest even for posterity, since Tom Moore records 
 that it ' * has been supposed by some of those sagacious 
 persons, who love to look for flaws in the titles of 
 fame, to have passed, with her other papers, into the 
 possession of her son, and after a transforming sleep, 
 like that of the chrysalis, in his hands, to have taken 
 
 * The Discovery. 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN. 289 
 
 wing at length in the brilliant form of The Rivals'^ 
 Poor lady ! even were this true, you never would have 
 grudged your erratic son the fame of it all. 
 
 As a schoolboy young Richard proved a dismal fail- 
 ure, and he who, in less than thirty years afterwards, 
 * ' held senates enchained by his eloquence and audi- 
 ences fascinated by his wit, was, by common consent 
 both of parent and preceptor, pronounced to be * a 
 most impenetrable dunce.' " At Harrow he was a 
 sad fellow when it came to study hours, but at play- 
 time he proved so lovable, manly, and genial that he 
 suffered less punishment for his indolence than might 
 otherwise have been meted out to him. The erudite 
 Dr. Parr, then one of the under-masters of the school, 
 wrote of Sheridan many years later : ' * There was 
 little in his boyhood worth communication. He was 
 inferior to many of his school-fellows in the ordinary 
 business of school, and I do not remember any one 
 instance in which he distinguished himself by lyatin 
 or English composition, in prose or verse. . . . 
 His eye, his countenance, his general manner, were 
 striking. His answers to any common question were 
 prompt and acute. We knew the esteem, and even 
 admiration, which, somehow or other, all his school- 
 fellows felt for him. He was mischievous enough, 
 but his pranks were accompanied by a sort of vivac- 
 ity and cheerfulness which delighted Sumner* and my- 
 self. I had much talk with him about his apple-loft, 
 
 * Dr. Robert Sumner, then the upper-master. 
 
290 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 for the supply of which all the gardens in the neigh- 
 borhood were taxed, and some of the lower boys were 
 employed to furnish it. I threatened, but without 
 asperity, to trace the depredators through his associ- 
 ates, up to their leader. He, with perfect good-hu- 
 mor, set me at defiance, and I never could bring the 
 charge home to him." 
 
 This bright young scamp, who could steal apples, 
 neglect his lessons, and yet endear himself to his 
 teachers by his natural charm and sprightliness, soon 
 grew ambitious. He had a soul above apples after 
 all ; he longed for the airy pinnacle of a literary celeb- 
 rity, and in the year 1770, when he is living with his 
 father at Bath, we find him scheming with an old 
 Harrow chum, young Halhead, now at Oxford, to 
 make the world ring with the sound of their names. 
 They are so boyish about it all, too ; as, for instance, 
 when they determine to translate the epistles of Aris- 
 taenetus, about whom nobody cares, and especially 
 when done into English by two unknown lads. Then 
 they write a parody Qa\\^6. Jupiter, which never gets 
 acted ; they issue one number of a rather puerile 
 paper called Hernan' s Miscellany, and plan half a 
 dozen works whose brilliancy must surely set the 
 Thames on fire. 
 
 The only tangible result of this literary partnership 
 is that translation of Aristsenetus, which is expected 
 to win so much classical reputation for the appren- 
 tices. The first part of the work — alas ! there never 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN. 29 1 
 
 was the least demand for the second part — appeared 
 anonymously in August, 1771, and for a time all too 
 brief the ambitious authors deceived themselves with 
 dreams as to its success. Several of the reviews are 
 fairly favorable, and a friend writes to Sheridan : * * It 
 begins to make some noise, and is fathered on Mr. 
 Johnson, author of the English Dictionary ^ Poor 
 Johnson ! 
 
 Then comes a harsh critic who growls : * ' No such 
 writer as Aristaenetus ever existed in the classic sera ; 
 nor did even the unhappy schools, after the destruc- 
 tion of the Eastern Empire, produce such a writer. 
 It was left to the latter times of monkish imposition 
 to give such trash as this, on which the translator has 
 ill spent his time. We have been as idly employed 
 in reading it, and our readers will in proportion lose 
 their time in perusing this article." Ungenerous 
 man ! Perhaps you enjoyed, later on, the wit and 
 sparkle of The Rivals or the School for Scandal^ and 
 never knew that the playwright who gave you such 
 unstinted pleasure was the aspiring young person 
 whom you had so unmercifully rebuked. 
 
 With all their zeal for classic lore and modem fame 
 there was one passion which the translators found 
 much more poetic and enthralling. They had both 
 fallen madly in love with the lovely " Maid of Bath " 
 — Halhead deeply but hopelessly ; Sheridan, as was 
 his way, impetuously and buoyantly. Miss lyinley, 
 then not more than sixteen or seventeen, was a fit 
 
292 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 subject for such ardent heroine-worship. The daugh- 
 ter of an eminent composer, she followed out the mu- 
 sical traditions of the family by singing in oratorio, 
 but no amount of publicity or admiration could de- 
 stroy the bloom of her girlish sweetness and modesty, 
 or take away one whit of the gentleness and purity of 
 that angelic face.* 
 
 ' ' Her exquisite and delicate loveliness, all the more 
 fascinating for the tender sadness which seemed, as a 
 contemporary describes it, to project over her the 
 shadow of early death ; her sweet voice, and the pathetic 
 expression of her singing, the timid and touching grace 
 of her air and deportment, had won universal admira- 
 tion for Eliza Ann lyinley. From the days when, a 
 girl of nine, she stood with her little basket at the pump- 
 room door, timidly offering the tickets for her father's 
 benefit concerts, to those when, in her teens, she was 
 the belle of the Bath assemblies, none could resist her 
 beseeching grace. I^overs and wooers flocked about 
 her ; Richard Walter lyong, the Wiltshire miser, laid his 
 thousands at her feet. Even Foote, when he took the 
 story of Miss lyinley's rejection of that sordid old 
 hunks as the subject of his Maid of Bath, in 1770, 
 laid no stain of his satirical brush on her. Nor had 
 she resisted only the temptation of money : coronets, 
 it was whispered, had been laid at her feet as well as 
 money. When she appeared at the Oxford oratorios, 
 
 * " To see her as she stood siuging beside me at the pianoforte 
 was like looking into the face of an angel." — Wii,i,iam Jackson. 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN. 293 
 
 grave dons and young gentlemen were alike subdued. 
 In I^ondon, where she sang at Covent Garden, in the 
 Lent of 1773, the King himself is said to have been as 
 much fascinated by her eyes and voice as by the music 
 of his favorite Handel."* 
 
 Sheridan's courtship prospered, notwithstanding the 
 claims and importunities of more pretentious admirers, 
 one of whom happened to be his brother Charles. The 
 melancholy, love-lorn Halhead took himself out of the 
 lists altogether by going to India, and the now success- 
 ful suitor gave vent to his poetic muse in several well- 
 tuned love verses, such as 
 
 " Dry be that tear, my gentlest love, 
 Be hush'd that struggling sigh. 
 Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove 
 More fix'd, more true than I. 
 Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear. 
 Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear, — 
 Dry be that tear." 
 
 Whether the * ' boding doubt ' ' and ' * anxious fear ' ' 
 thus referred to had anything to do with the unwelcome 
 attentions of the blackguardly Captain Mathews it is 
 now hard to say, but it is certain that the unpleasant 
 notoriety into which this married rotie was fast bring- 
 ing the young singer influenced her sudden determi- 
 nation to seek temporary refuge in a French convent. 
 Sheridan gladly fell in with this rather wild project ; he 
 saw in it the prospect of a wedding rather than a con- 
 
 * I^eslie' s Life of Reynolds, 
 
294 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 vent, and thus it came about that on a certain evening 
 when Mr. I^inley and several of his family ("a nest of 
 nightingales" Dr. Burney called them) were absent 
 at a concert, one of the nightingales flew away. Young 
 Richard appears at her father's house with a sedan 
 chair, takes the fair charmer to a postchaise waiting for 
 them on the I^ondon Road, and here, being joined by 
 a woman "specially engaged " to play Propriety, they 
 set out on their adventurous journey. Arrived in Lon- 
 don, the now cautious lover introduces his intended 
 bride to a wealthy brandy merchant, an old friend of 
 the Sheridan family, as a rich heiress who was eloping 
 with him to the Continent ; the old man is delighted 
 at Richard's wisdom, compliments him, too, on having 
 given up all ideas of marrying " that Miss I^inley, of 
 Bath," and enables the couple to make good their 
 immediate escape to France. 
 
 It would be going into ancient history, however, to 
 narrate how they were married by a priest at a little 
 village near Calais, how they were finally induced to 
 return home, and how Sheridan fought two duels with 
 that prince of hounds, Mathews, and got seriously 
 wounded in the second encounter. Meanwhile, the 
 respective fathers of the young lovers were deeply cha- 
 grined at the whole afiair. Sheridan, fearful that an 
 avowal of the marriage would cause Mr, Linley to 
 separate Mrs. Sheridan from him forever, never told of 
 the ceremony at Calais, and the supposed Miss Linley, 
 no less reticent, went on living with her father, sing- 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN. 295 
 
 ing divinely and looking lovelier and more pathetic 
 than ever. One hears several pretty stories about the 
 shifts to which the two unhappy ones were reduced so 
 as to get a glimpse of each other, one anecdote, the 
 most romantic of them all, picturing Sheridan dis- 
 guised as a hackney coachman, driving his wife home 
 from a Coyent Garden concert. At last, as all the 
 world and his wife know, the stern heart of the pater- 
 nal lyinley relented, the misery, the romance, the stolen 
 conversations, and the surreptitious glances came to 
 an end, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan and Kliza Ann 
 Sheridan, his wife, went through the formality of a 
 duly English marriage, under ofl&cial license, in April, 
 
 1773- 
 
 The now twice-married couple settled down quietly 
 in a little cottage at East Burnham, and though their 
 resources were limited Sheridan manfully refused to 
 allow his wife to sing any more in public, notwith- 
 standing the tempting offers of managers from differ- 
 ent parts of the kingdom. In so doing he naturally 
 deprived the concert-stage of a rare acquisition, and 
 put an extinguisher on Mrs. Sheridan's professional 
 career ; but as she was only too glad to give up her 
 vocation and Sheridan himself had no idea of living 
 off the earnings of his companion, nobody had a right 
 to complain. Such a disposition of affairs might not 
 have suited the ''New Woman," but unfortunately, 
 that indispensable personage had not then appeared 
 on the social horizon. 
 
296 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 Dr. Johnson, in his dogmatic way, highly approved 
 of Sheridan's decision. '*We talked," says Boswell, 
 "of a young gentleman's marriage with an eminent 
 singer, and his determination that she should no longer 
 sing in public, though his father was very earnest she 
 should because her talents would be liberally rewarded. 
 It was questioned whether the young gentleman, who 
 had not a shilling in the world, but was blessed with 
 very uncommon talents, was not foolishly delicate or 
 foolishly proud, and his father truly rational without 
 being mean. Johnson, with all the high spirit of a 
 Roman senator, exclaimed : ' He resolved wisely and 
 nobly, to be sure. He is a brave man. Would not a 
 gentleman be disgraced by having his wife singing 
 publicly for hire? No, sir, there can be no doubt 
 here.'" 
 
 Thus we come down on a quick pace to the anx- 
 iously awaited night of January ry, 1775, when The 
 Rivals was produced at Covent Garden, with Edward 
 Shuter as Sir Anthony Absolute, Woodward as Captain 
 Absolute, I^ewis as Falkland, Quick as Acres, Lee as 
 Sir Lucius O' Trigger, Mrs. Green as Mrs. Malaprop, 
 and Miss Barnsanti as Lydia Languish. The first 
 performance of the play was a failure, principally be- 
 cause Mr. lyce made so poor an impression as Sir Lu- 
 cius ; he was replaced in the part by a Mr. Clinch, and 
 the false start was soon forgotten in the popularity that 
 attended ensuing presentations of this rare comedy. 
 We who have seen it acted by that incomparable com- 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN, 297 
 
 pany headed by Joseph Jefferson (the most lovable and 
 humorous of Acres), Mrs. John Drew (the inimitable 
 Malaprop), and the late William J. Florence (an ideal 
 Sir Lucius) may well ask whether The Rivals had so 
 fine an illustration on its introduction to the stage. 
 The original cast seems to have been, with one or two 
 exceptions, capable rather than strikingly effective. 
 Shuter, to be sure, was considered by Garrick to be 
 the greatest comic genius he had ever seen, but his 
 humor was broad and inclined to buffoonery, and one 
 can imagine that the choleric Sir Anthony, as he 
 played him, must have been more grateful to the gal- 
 leries than to the critics.* Woodward, versatile com- 
 edian that he was, could hardly have been at his best 
 as the ardent Captain Absolute, while vain little Quick, 
 
 * This performer was once engaged for a few nights in a prin- 
 cipal city in the north of England. It happened that the stage 
 that he went down in (and in which there was only an old 
 gentleman and himself) was stopped on the road by a single 
 highwayman. The old gentleman, in order to save his own 
 money, pretended to be asleep, but Shuter resolved to be even 
 with him. Accordingly, when the highwayman presented his 
 pistol, and commanded Shuter to deliver his money instantly, 
 or he was a dead man — " Money," returned he, with an idiotic 
 shrug and a countenance inexpressibly vacant — " Oh, I/ud, sir, 
 they never trust me with any ; for my uncle here always pays 
 for me, turnpikes and all, your honor!" Upon which the 
 highwayman gave him a few curses for his stupidity, compli- 
 mented the old gentleman with a smart slap on the face to 
 awaken him, and robbed him of every shilling he had in his 
 pocket, while Shuter, who did not lose a single farthing, pur- 
 sued his journey with great satisfaction and merriment, laugh- 
 ing heartily at his fellow-traveller.— Theatrical Anecdotes, 
 
298 ECHOES OF THE PL A Y HO USE. 
 
 the first of To7iy Lumpkins, in whom " noise and ex- 
 travagance ' ' were substituted for * * nature and hu- 
 mor, ' ' probably missed not a few of the delicately put 
 on colors in the figure of ' ' fighting Bob. ' ' William 
 lycwis, no doubt, made a gentlemanly and effective 
 Falkland, and L<ee Lewes, one of the great Harlequins 
 of his time, may have been a suitable Fag, but it is 
 safe to assume that Mrs. Green, a droll but by no 
 means great actress, was not the very best of Mala- 
 props. The names of Barnsanti, Dunstal, Fearon, 
 Mrs. Bulkley, and Mrs. Lessingham, the other mem- 
 bers of the cast, signified little then and nothing now. 
 Can it then be possible that a fin de Steele audience 
 has seen a finer performance of The Rivals than that 
 vouchsafed the frequenters of Covent Garden on the 
 great initial night? Certainly our conservative old 
 gentleman, who mourns for the ' ' palmy days ' ' of his 
 past, will never admit such a heresy into his theatrical 
 catechism. 
 
 A still greater triumph than the ultimate success of 
 The Rivals is awaiting the now much be-praised Sheri- 
 dan. First he collaborates with Mr. I^inley in writing 
 the opera of The Duenna, which has a run of over sev- 
 enty nights at Covent Garden during the season of 
 1775-6* ; then he combines with Mr. I^inley and Dr. 
 
 * " In order to counteract this great success of the rival house, 
 Garrick found it necessary to bring forward all the weight of 
 his own best characters ; and even had recourse to the expedi- 
 ent of playing off the mother against the son, by reviving Mrs. 
 Frances Sheridan's comedy of The Discovery, zm \ acting the 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN, 299 
 
 Ford to purchase Garrick's interest in the Drury I^ane 
 Theatre, and next brings out, in his new capacity of 
 manager, his adaptation of Vanbrugh's Relapse, called 
 A Trip to Scarborough. Still this is merely prelimi- 
 nary to the greatest epoch in the purely theatrical por- 
 tion of his life, that 8th of May, 1777, when The School 
 for Scandal first sees the light. 
 
 The new comedy gave Sheridan much greater con- 
 cern than did The Rivals ; he had changed the story, 
 elaborated the dialogue, and polished up the epigrams 
 materially before the final draft was ready for the 
 prompter, nor is it strange, therefore, to find that while 
 it lacks the spontaneity and naturalness of its prede- 
 cessor, The School for Scandal is far more witty and scin- 
 tillating. It may be artificial — was not the life it 
 pictured artificial — and it is worse than faulty from a 
 dramatic standpoint, yet its sparkle is still undimmed 
 more than a century after the first production. Though 
 the play be merely the champagne of Sheridan's gen- 
 ius, the vintage is a rich one, and seems to improve 
 with age. 
 
 The circumstances under which the new comedy first 
 appeared were probably much more favorable, with re- 
 spect to the cast, than in the case of The Rivals, for this 
 was the assignment of characters : 
 
 principal part in it himself. In allusion to the increased fa- 
 tigue which this competition with The Duenna brought upon 
 Garrick, who was then entering on his sixtieth year, it was said, 
 by an actor of the day, that " the old woman would be the death 
 of the old man."— Moors. 
 
300 
 
 ECHOES OF THE PLA YHOUSE. \ 
 
 Sir Peter Teazle 
 
 Sir Oliver Surface . 
 
 Joseph Surface 
 
 Charles Surface 
 
 Crabtree. 
 
 Sir Benjamin Backbite 
 
 Rowley 
 
 Moses 
 
 Trip . 
 
 Snake 
 
 Careless 
 
 Sir Harry Bumper 
 
 Lady Teazle 
 
 Maria 
 
 Lady Sneerwell 
 
 Mrs. Candour . 
 
 Mr. King. 
 Mr. Yates. 
 Mr. Palmer. ' ^ 
 Mr. Smith. ' 
 Mr. Parsons. 
 Mr. Dodd. 
 Mr. Aickin. 
 Mr. Baddeley. 
 Mr. Lamash. 
 Mr. Packer. 
 Mr. Farren. 
 Mr. Gawdry. 
 
 Mrs. Abington 
 Miss P. Hopkins. 
 Miss Sherry. 
 Miss Pope. 
 
 The most brilliant star in this galaxy was the beau- 
 tiful Mrs. Abington, who had such various claims to 
 celebrity. She was the questionable heroine of several 
 as questionable amours (had not Garrick called her 
 *' that worst of women ? "), and she came out of the 
 dregs of I^ondon life, yet she triumphed over her sur- 
 roundings, developed into an actress of rare spirit and 
 humor, set the fashions for society,* which even ad- 
 mitted her within its well-guarded precincts, had her 
 portrait painted by the great Sir Joshua Reynolds, and 
 earned the encomiums of Horace Walpole. It was the 
 latter who wrote of her, referring to an unfounded re- 
 mor that she had retired from the stage : 
 
 * The once popular *' Abington " caps were named in honor 
 of this actress. 
 
THOMAS KING. 
 
 IN BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER'S RULE A WIFE AND HAVE A WIFE." 
 FROM A DRAWING BY DODD. 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN. 30I 
 
 " Sad with the news, Thalia mourned ; 
 The Graces joined her train ; 
 And naught but sighs for sighs return'd. 
 Were heard at Drury I^ane. 
 
 But see— 'tis false ! in Nature's style 
 
 She comes, by Fancy dress' d ; 
 Again gives Comedy her smile, ' 
 
 And Fashion all her taste." 
 
 This was the Abington who delighted the audience 
 that night, critics and laymen alike, by her performance 
 of the elegant Lady Teazle. She had been a kitchen 
 wench, a seller of flowers (did not a few persons with 
 inconvenient memories recall her nickname of * * Nose- 
 gay Fan "*) and an errand girl to a French milliner, 
 but she could play the country miss turned woman 
 of fashion with a naturalness and sureness of touch 
 that bespoke the Duchess, rather than the cobbler's 
 daughter. 
 
 As the Lady Teazle proved so admirable, likewise 
 did the Sir Peter of Thomas King, the intimate friend 
 of Garrick, and a conservative actor whose epigram- 
 matic, dryly amusing style must have seemed just 
 suited to the part. How could it have been otherwise 
 with a man of whom Charles I^amb wrote so pictur- 
 esquely : '' His acting left a taste on the palate sharp 
 and sweet like a quince ; with an old, hard, rough, 
 withered face, like a john-apple, puckered up into a 
 thousand wrinkles ; with shrewd hints and tart replies." 
 
 * Fanny Barton was her maiden name. Her father was some- 
 times a soldier in the Guards, and sometimes a cobbler. 
 
302 ECHOES OF THE PLA Y HO USE, 
 
 Another of the dramatis personcs who must have 
 added strength to the cast was William Smith — 
 
 *' Smith the genteel, the airy and the smart," 
 as Churchill called him. To play Charles Surface one 
 had to be a gentleman as well as a comedian, and 
 Sheridan was peculiarly fortunate in having at hand 
 an actor whose distinction of manner and good-breed- 
 ing enabled him to give such realism to the character. 
 Charles represented what would now be vulgarly termed 
 a * ' dress-suit ' ' part, and those of us who have seen 
 some talented but hopelessly outre comedian trying to 
 look comfortable as the hero of a stage drawing-room 
 can understand how difficult it is to procure the neces- 
 sary combination in this respect. Even men who are 
 gentlemen by birth and education cannot always ap- 
 pear graceful and at ease in so-called society plays. 
 But '* Gentleman Smith," with an elegance that never 
 deserted him, either on or off the boards, played the 
 careless Surface with a finish and air of fashionable 
 ease that proved a delight to the audiences of his own 
 generation, while it set the model for the players of a 
 future one. 
 
 A fine group, these first exponents of The School for 
 Scandal. There was Yates, so excellent as an humor- 
 ous old man, who must have been an unctuous Sir Oli- 
 ver ; and we know that John Palmer's Joseph Surface 
 was considered unapproachable. ' * So admirable a 
 hypocrite has never yet been seen : his manners, his 
 deportment, his address, combined to render him the 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN. 303 
 
 very man he desired to paint. His performance on the 
 stage bore a very strong similarity to that he was fam- 
 ous for in private life. He was plausible, of pleasing 
 address, of much politeness and even of great grace. 
 He was fond of pleasure, which he pursued with so 
 much avidity as to be generally very careless of his 
 theatrical duties."* Then what a life-like Sir Ben- 
 jamin was James Dodd, who has been pronounced the 
 most perfect fopling ever seen upon the stage. ' * He 
 took his snuff, or applied the quintessence of roses to 
 his nose with an air of complacent superiority, such as 
 won the hearts of all conversant with that style of af- 
 fectation." Such was the man who was spoken of as 
 ** the prince of pink heels and the Soul of empty emi- 
 nence. ' ' 
 
 But there is no need to dwell on the individual vir- 
 tues of the players who lent such eclai to the initial per- 
 formance. It was a triumphant night for all concerned, 
 from Sheridan down to the prompter, f and the applause 
 was frequent and enthusiastic, as though prophetic of 
 the reception this glittering work would meet with in 
 after years. Frederick Reynolds, then a mere lad, 
 quaintly relates how he was returning home from Lin- 
 coln's Inn about nine o'clock that evening, and pass- 
 ing through the Pit-passage, from Vinegar- Yard to 
 Brydges Street, he heard such a tremendous noise over 
 
 * Life of Sheridan. 
 
 t Hopkins, the father of the original Maria (Miss P. Hop- 
 kins). Miss Hopkins afterwards became the wife of John Philip 
 Kemble. 
 
304 ECHOES OF THE FLA Y HO USE, 
 
 his head that, ' ' fearing the theatre was proceeding to 
 fall about it," he ran for his life, ** but found the next 
 morning, that the noise did not arise from the falling 
 of the house, but from the falling of the screen, in the 
 fourth act, so violent and so tumultuous were the 
 applause and laughter." 
 
 The comedy, as we know, had a talkative beginning, 
 and the action, of which there is not over-much at best, 
 was late in developing, so that one of the spectators 
 exclaimed impatiently, during the scene at Lady Sneer- 
 welVs in the second act, *' I wish these people would 
 have done talking, and let the play begin." As the 
 interest in the slender story increased, and it was seen 
 how witty and delightful became this very * ' talking, ' ' 
 the house warmed to the performance and ended by 
 putting the seal of its most vociferous approval upon 
 the new production. The shekels began pouring into 
 Drury lyane box-ofl5ce, and even when it ceased to ex- 
 ert the charm of novelty The School for Scandal could 
 be revived at this house with the most profitable re- 
 sults. Garrick had taken the greatest interest in the 
 rehearsals, for he was proud of his managerial succes- 
 sor, and when the popularity of the piece was assured 
 he sent his ' ' best wishes and compliments to Mr. Sheri- 
 dan ' ' and added : * * A gentleman who is as mad as 
 myself about the School remark' d that the characters 
 upon the stage at the falling of the screen stand too 
 long before they speak — I thought so too the first night 
 — he said it was the same on the second, and was re- 
 
THE SPARKLING SHERIDAN. 305 
 
 mark'd by others ; — tho' they should be astonish' d, and 
 a Httle petrified, yet it may be carried to too great a 
 length. All praise at I^ord Lucan's last night." If a 
 keen critic such as Garrick could acknowledge him- 
 self mad about the comedy, Sheridan might well rest 
 satisfied. 
 
 There were several of the author's enemies who re- 
 fused to rest satisfied, however, and they insisted that 
 he had not written The School for Scandal at all. The 
 discussion even assumed the dignity of a controversy 
 of the Shakespeare-Bacon -Donnelly type, and there 
 were several wiseacres who mysteriously hinted that 
 the daughter of a Thames Street merchant was respon- 
 sible for the play. This young lady, it appears, put 
 the manuscript into Sheridan's hands at the beginning 
 of the season, and then marched off to the Bristol hot- 
 wells, where she conveniently died in time to leave 
 Richard Brinsley in full possession of the field — and 
 the comedy. In later years, w^hen John Watkins, 
 Doctor of lyaws, et cetera^ et cetera:, came to write his 
 memoirs of Sheridan, he gave particular credence to 
 this rumor, and lamented that the doubt thus raised 
 had never been cleared up, "because an unfavorable 
 impression has been made, which will become deeper 
 and more extensive in proportion to the lapse of years, 
 and the efforts that may be made for its removal." 
 You were a poor prophet. Dr. Watkins. The public 
 of to-day knows as little of the story as it does — 
 saving your memory — of John Watkins, I^Iy.D. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 EXKUNT OMNKS. 
 
 THE eighteenth century, so rich in its theatrical 
 life and tradition, now sped on the homeward 
 stretch, and the time was fast approaching when the 
 players who had drawn their inspiration from the 
 marvellous Garrick would make their final exits. A 
 new dramatic era, glorious in the possession of the 
 tragic Siddons and the mighty Kean, waited on the 
 threshold of the theatre ; when its knock was heard the 
 great Roscius had departed,* but some of his contem- 
 poraries yet remained to bring back pleasant memories 
 of the past, and unconsciously prepare the way for the 
 giants of a different school and age. Before closing 
 these ' ' Echoes ' ' of the old-time theatre, we might 
 therefore linger for a moment among the coterie of 
 entertainers who so gracefully ushered out the ancient 
 regime — one of the most imposing epochs that the 
 historian of the stage will ever chronicle. 
 
 There was the statuesque, the Medea-like Mistress 
 Yates, a beautiful incarnation of tragedy, whose 
 
 * It must not be forgotten, however, that Siddons acted in 
 Garrick 's company and made a failure as Portia. Her genius 
 and her fame never developed until after the great actor's 
 death. 
 
 306 
 
EXEUNT OMNES. 307 
 
 haughty, disdainful looks and noble voice could 
 command the attention of even the dullest spectator. 
 She was not what in these days one calls a sympa- 
 thetic actress ; on the contrary, she seemed all fire 
 and majestic dignity, without that emotion which 
 one associates with less strong-minded members of 
 her sex, and Churchill wrote of her that 
 
 ". . . through the region of that beauteous face, 
 We no variety of passions trace. 
 Dead to the soft emotions of the heart, 
 No kindred softness can those eyes impart. 
 The brow still fix'd in sorrow's sullen frame, 
 Void of distinction, marks all parts the same." 
 
 That she could, on occasion, display a fair amount 
 of esprit and even humor, in spite of all her grandeur 
 and classic severity, is shown by what William Godwin, 
 the husband of Mary Wollstonecraft, wrote of her 
 Violante in The Wonder. * * What I recollect best of 
 Mrs. Yates," he says, " is the scene in which Garrick, 
 having offended her by a jealousy, not altogether with- 
 out an apparent cause, the lady, conscious of her entire 
 innocence, at length expresses a serious resentment. 
 Felix had till then indulged his angry feelings ; but 
 finding at last that he had gone too far, applies himself 
 with all a lover's art to soothe her. She turns her back 
 to him, and draws away her chair; he follows her, 
 and draws his chair nearer ; she draws away further ; 
 at length by his winning, entreating, and cajoling, she 
 is gradually induced to melt, and finally makes it up 
 with him. Her condescension in every stage, from its 
 
308 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 commencement to its conclusion, was admirable. Her 
 dignity was great and lofty, and the effect highly en- 
 hanced by her beauty ; and when by degrees she laid 
 aside her frown — when her lips began to relax toward 
 a smile, while one cloud vanished after another, the 
 spectator thought he had never seen anything so lovely 
 and irresistible, and the effect was greatly owing to 
 her queen-like majesty. The conclusion, in a graceful 
 and wayward beauty, would have been comparatively 
 nothing ; with Mrs. Yates's figure and demeanor it laid 
 the whole audience, as well as the lover, at her feet." 
 
 One of this imposing woman's great parts was Lady 
 Macbeth, in which it was even considered that she 
 equalled the famous Mrs. Pritchard.* The Macbeth 
 who assisted her in a notable production of the tragedy 
 was John Henderson, of whom Mrs. Siddons has left it 
 on record that he was ' ' the soul of feeling and intelli- 
 gence. ' ' 
 
 * Mrs. Pritchard (born 17 ii, died 1768) lacked grace, breeding, 
 and gentility of manner, but she acted low comedy characters, 
 such as women of the shrewish, common type, with unbounded 
 humor, while she won great favor in certain tragic parts, not- 
 withstanding her exuberance of expression, and her disposition, 
 as Garrick pointed out, to " blubber her sorrows." This was 
 the actress of whom Dr. Johnson said to Mrs. Siddons that 
 *' in common life she was a vulgar idiot." The same critic ob- 
 served once that *'her playing was quite mechanical. It is 
 wonderful how little mind she had. Sir, she had never read 
 the tragedy oi Macbeth through. She no more thought of the 
 play out of which her part was taken, than a shoemaker thinks 
 of the skin out of which the piece of leather of which he is 
 making a pair of shoes is cut." 
 
EXEUNT OMNES. 309 
 
 The name of Henderson has nothing magical or 
 inspiring about it now, but a century ago it called up 
 sunny visions of one of the most unctuous of Falstaffs, 
 who could also, on occasion, metamorphose himself into 
 the far different character of the subj ective Hamlet. His 
 eye might lack expression, his voice be weak, and his 
 figure wanting in grace and symmetry, but he was a 
 fine actor, for all that. He came of good stock, was a 
 gentleman by ancestry and breeding, and as a youth 
 developed a very ardent ambition for the stage. In 
 1768 he solicited the interest of George Garrick, who 
 pronounced against the histrionic prospects of the aspi- 
 rant, owing to the poverty of his vocal equipment. 
 But the young man is not to be daunted ; he procures 
 an engagement at Bath, where he makes a success, 
 and this is but the prelude to an honored career on the 
 metropolitan stage. David Garrick, who seems to have 
 had for him a mixture of jealousy and contempt, writes 
 in 1775 : 
 
 '*I have seen the great Henderson, who has some- 
 thing and is nothing — he might be made to figure 
 among the puppets of these times. His Don John is a 
 comic Cato, and his Hamlet a mixture of tragedy, com- 
 edy, pastoral, farce, and nonsense. However, though 
 my wife is outrageous, I am in the secret ; and see 
 sparks of fire which might be blown to warm even a 
 lyondon audience at Christmas — he is a dramatic phe- 
 nomenon and his friends, but more particularly Cum- 
 berland, has [have] ruined him ; he has a manner of 
 
3IO ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 pawing when he would be emphatic, that is ridiculous, 
 and must be changed, or he would not be suffered at 
 the Bedford Coffee-house." 
 
 But as the younger Colman well said, although 
 Henderson was many degrees below the standard of 
 Garrick's theatrical genius, he was ''many degrees 
 above the mark of his critical detraction." Indeed, 
 with all his physical limitations he made a fine impres- 
 sion as Benedick^ in which he seems to have imitated 
 the jealous David so well as to almost eclipse the latter 
 in that character — a fairly good showing for an actor 
 who *' had something and was nothing," especially if 
 we add this to the list of his other successes, headed 
 by Falstaff. 
 
 In referring in his Random Records to the diplomatic 
 way in which the elder Colman* brought Henderson 
 before the public, the manager's son writes : " There 
 is no denying that he had contracted some bad habits 
 in his deportment, such as an odd mode of receding 
 from parties on the stage, with the palms of his hands 
 turned outwards, and thus backing from one of the 
 dramatis persome wh&n he was expressing happiness at 
 meeting. With these adventitious faults, he had to 
 contend against physical drawbacks ; his eye wanted 
 expression and his figure was not well put together. 
 My father was ambitious to start him in characters 
 whose dress might either help or completely hide per- 
 
 * Colman bought the Hay market theatre from Foote a short 
 time before the latter's death, which occmred iu October, 1777. 
 
EXEUNT OMNES. 3II 
 
 sonal deficiencies ; accordingly it was arranged that 
 the two first personations should be Shylock and Hamlet^ 
 in which the Jew's gaberdine and the Prince of Den- 
 mark's ' inky cloak ' and ' suit of solemn black,' were 
 of great service. I know not whether Falstaff imme- 
 diately followed these, but whenever he did come, Sir 
 John' s proportions were not expected to present a model 
 for the students of the Royal Academy. By this manage- 
 ment the actor's talents soon made sufiicient way to 
 battle such ill natured remarks as might have been ex- 
 pected upon symmetry ; and the audience was prepared 
 to admit, when he came to the lovers and heroes, that 
 ' Before such merit all objections fly.'" 
 A player of far different calibre was Henry Mossop,* 
 vehement, vain, and sonorous of voice, who could 
 
 "In monosyllables his thunders roll," 
 and who, in spite of his awkwardness and hardness of 
 expression, was looked upon as one of the best actors 
 of his time. We read of his quarrelsome disposition, 
 his checquered career, his envy of Garrick, and cannot 
 but derive amusement from his altercation with Thomas 
 Sheridan. It was in the youthful days of Mossop, just 
 after he had won a remarkable initial triumph in Sheri- 
 dan's company at the Smock Alley Theatre, in Dub- 
 lin. He had appeared as Richard III., attired in a 
 rather dandified and inappropriate costume, and hearing 
 that the manager had casually commented on the cir- 
 
 * Mossop was the son of an Irish clergyman of the Established 
 Church, and first saw the light in 1729. He died in 1773. 
 
312 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 cumstance, he sought him out and said in his declama- 
 tory, deliberate fashion : " Mr. She-ri-dan, I hear you 
 said I dressed Richard like a cox-comb : that is an af- 
 front : you wear a sword, pull it out of the scab-bard ! 
 I '11 draw mine and thrust it into your bo-dy ! " 
 
 There was no pulling of scab-bards, however, for 
 Sheridan had the good sense to take the challenge for 
 what it was worth. Mossop had a weakness for indulg- 
 ing in heroics off the stage as well as on, and he was 
 not always as impressive in real life as he intended to 
 be. Certainly he could exert no terrors for the Dublin 
 cobbler who refused to leave the actor's boots at home 
 until the bill for their mending was settled. "Tell 
 me," thundered the tragedian, putting on his most 
 crushingly tragic air, * ' are you the noted cobbler I oft 
 have heard of?" ''Yes," replied the man, "and I 
 think you are the diverting vagabond I have often 
 seen ! ' ' 
 
 It was a comparatively short life, but not always a 
 merry one, this meteoric existence of Mossop. There 
 were moments of delirious success, both in London and 
 Dublin, but the cares and responsibilities of manage- 
 ment, when he set out for himself in the Irish capital, 
 crushed him in the end. He died in abject poverty, 
 and all the money found in his possession was four- 
 pence. It is better to leave him under more cheerful 
 circumstances, and we may do so by a quotation or two 
 from those chatty Recollections of John O' Keefe. * * I was 
 one night witness to an untoward circumstance at Smock 
 
EXEUNT OMNES. 313 
 
 Alley Theatre," he writes. ''Congreve's Mourning 
 Bride was the tragedy ; Mossop, Osmin, and a subor- 
 dinate actor Selim. Selim being stabbed by Osmin 
 should have remained dead on the stage, but seized 
 with a fit of coughing he unluckily put up his hand 
 and loosened his stock, which set the audience in a burst 
 of laughter. The scene over, the enraged manager and 
 actor railed at his underling for daring to appear alive 
 when he was dead, who, in excuse, said he must have 
 choked had he not done as he did : Mossop replied, 
 ' Sir, you should choke a thousand times rather than 
 spoil my scene.' 
 
 " At a period when the payments were not very 
 ready ' ' (O' Keefe continues) ' ' at the Smock Alley treas- 
 ury, one night, Mossop, in Lear, was supported in the 
 arms of an actor who played Kent, and who whispered to 
 him, ' If you don't give me your honor, sir, that you '11 
 pay me my arrears this night, before I go home, I '11 let 
 you drop about the boards.' Mossop alarmed, said, 
 ' Don't talk to me now.' ' I will,' said Kent, ' I will ; 
 I'll let you drop.' Mossop was obliged to give the 
 promise, and the actor thus got his money, though a 
 few of the others went home without theirs. Such the 
 efifect of a well-timed hint, though desperate." 
 
 A more sedate figure on our eighteenth century can- 
 vas was Tate Wilkinson, a phenomenal mimic, a very 
 poor actor, and an energetic provincial manager. Of 
 his imitative powers, there are a number of anecdotes, 
 one of which relates how Tate passed himself ofi" for 
 
314 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 Foote before a London audience, which was so thor- 
 oughly deceived as to indulge in cries of '* Bravo, 
 Foote ! " and such comments as "What fine spirits 
 Sam 's in to-night. ' ' All the while the original who was 
 being so wonderfully copied sat concealed in his private 
 box, hugely enjoying the hoax. Perhaps the most in- 
 teresting of all these stories is the familiar one concern- 
 ing the seductive Woffington, which John Bernard can 
 give us. 
 
 On his first visit to Dublin with Foote, they were en- 
 gaged by Barry and Mossop to give their entertain- 
 ments on the alternate nights with Peg Woffington 's 
 performances. Foote considered that it would be an 
 attractive feature in the bill, if he announced an imi- 
 tation of the above lady by Wilkinson ; but the design 
 coming to her ears, she sent Sam an abusive note ac- 
 quainting him that if he attempted to take her off she 
 had some fi-iends in Dublin who would oblige him to 
 take himself off. Foote showed this epistle to his com- 
 panion, who, nothing daunted, proposed that instead 
 of an * ' imitation ' ' they would give a scene from Alex- 
 ander the Great in character, Foote mimicing Barry in 
 the hero, and Wilkinson, Mrs. W. as Roxana. Prepa- 
 rations were accordingly made, and their bills pub- 
 lished : what gave greater zest to the announcement 
 was, that Alexander the Great had been played the 
 night before. Among the flood of spectators came Peg 
 in person, and seated herself in the stage box, not only 
 to enlist the audience in her favor, and silence Foote 
 
EXEUNT OMNES, 315 
 
 by her appearance (which was truly beautiful), but if 
 anything occurred to give the wink to a party of young 
 Irish in the pit, who would rise up to execute immedi- 
 ate vengeance on the mimics. Sam and Tate were thus 
 treading on the surface of a secret mine. 
 
 When Foote appeared, as he could present no resem- 
 blance to Barry but in manner and accent, the surprise 
 was necessarily transferred to the entrance of his com- 
 panion, a tall and dignified female, something like the 
 original in face, but so like in figure and deportment 
 that the spectators glanced their eyes from box to stage 
 and stage to box, to convince themselves of Mrs. W.'s 
 identity. Peg herself was not the least astonished, and 
 her myrmidons below were uncertain how to act. 
 
 Foote commenced the scene sufficiently like Barry to 
 have procured applause, had not Tate thrown himself 
 into one of Peg's favorite attitudes meanwhile, and di- 
 verted the attention. Eye and ear were now directed 
 to the latter, and the first tone of his voice drew a thun- 
 dering response from the lips of his auditors. As he 
 proceeded the effect increased ; the house was electri- 
 fied ; his enemies were overpowered, and Peg herself 
 set the seal of his talents by beating her fan to pieces 
 on the beading of the boxes.* 
 
 Probably no one who ever had to do with the theat- 
 rical profession had more personal peculiarities than 
 this same Tate Wilkinson. A sweeping assertion, con- 
 sidering the curious characteristics of many a player 
 * Retrospections of the Stage. 
 
3l6 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE, 
 
 and manager, past or present, but it is at least certain 
 that the intimate friends of the mimic bore eloquent 
 testimony to his remarkable habits and individuality. 
 He had a sweet way, for instance, of going into the 
 gallery of his theatre and there hissing with the ut- 
 most vehemence any player who had refused to take 
 his advice on some point of acting, and it is said that 
 on one unexpected occasion he made his sibilant objec- 
 tions so unbearable to the occupants of the upper tier 
 that he was ignominiously hustled out of his own 
 house into the street. 
 
 The most amusing of all his eccentricities was a 
 fondness for rambling on in his conversation and going 
 from one topic to another with an irrelevancy that 
 caused the greatest wonderment from those who were 
 not familiar with this little weakness. ' ' Sir, ' ' he once 
 wandered on aimlessly to Michael Kelly, " Barry, sir, 
 was as much superior to Garrick in Romeo as York 
 Minster is to a Methodist chapel — not but I think that 
 if lobster sauce is not well made, a turbot isn't eatable, 
 let it be ever so firm. Then there 's that Miss Rey- 
 nolds : why she, sir, fancies herself a singer, but she 
 is quite a squalini, sir ! A nuisance, sir ! going about 
 my house the whole of the day roaring out The Soldier 
 tired of War' s Alarms, ah! she has tired me and 
 alarmed the whole neighborhood ; not but when rab- 
 bits are young and tender they are very nice eating. 
 There was Mrs. Barry, for example ; Mrs. Barry was 
 very fine and very majestic in Zenobia ; Barry in the 
 
FOOTE AS FONDLEWIFE.' 
 
 SCENE FROM CONGREVE'8 COMEDY, THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 / BY J. J. BARRALET. 
 
 FROM A DRAWING 
 
EXEUNT OMNES, 317 
 
 same play was very good ; not but that the wild rab- 
 bits are better than tame ones. Though Mrs. Barry 
 was so great in her day, yet Mrs. Siddons — stewed and 
 smothered with onions either of them are delicious. 
 Mrs. Pope was admirable in Queen Elizabeth — a man I 
 had here made a very good Oroonoko ; not but I would 
 always advise you to have a call's head dressed with 
 the skin on, but you must always bespeak it of the 
 butcher yourself; though the late bespeak of I^ord 
 Scarborough did nothing for me, nothing at all — the 
 house was one of the worst of the whole season ; with 
 bacon and green — not twenty pounds altogether, with 
 parsley and butter." 
 
 •To speak of the idiosyncracies of actors suggests 
 an endless string of anecdotes, not the least amusing 
 of which has for its hero the solemn and sagacious 
 William Bensley, an ideal Malvolio and an impressive 
 Ghost in Hamlet. Bensley had been in the army and 
 we are told * that when he thought proper to unbend 
 from his dignified stateliness he was prone to the 
 relation of his moving accidents by flood and field. 
 Whenever the name of any foreign station occurred in 
 conversation Bensley would exclaim, ' ' I was there in 
 
 such a year, and served under (such a General) as 
 
 lieutenant," etc. Charles Bannister (against whose 
 punning propensities Bensley waged war) had noted 
 down all these assertions for many months, and on one 
 particular evening, after a coolness for some days be- 
 * Records of a Stage Veteran, 
 
3l8 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 tween the tragedian and himself, proposed his health 
 in the following words: "Gentlemen, I rise to drink 
 the health of one who has sought the bubble reputation 
 even in the cannon's mouth ; who, quitting the field 
 of fame, bespoke her trumpet to. bray forth his eulogies 
 in the path of the drama. The scenic power of my 
 friend, Mr. Bensley, you well know, you all appreciate 
 [loud plaudits, and Bensley, overcome by gratitude, 
 fervently squeezing Bannister's hand] but, Gentlemen, 
 it is as a defender of his country that I rise to drink 
 his health ; he has fought, he has bled for Old England 
 [tremendous applause, and Bensley bowing his ac- 
 knowledgments] . He was captain in the regiment 
 
 at Calcutta in . He was at in . He led 
 
 the forlorn hope at in 17 [Here Bannister enu- 
 merated all the places Bensley had ever mentioned in 
 his moments of exhilaration, to the tragedian's dismay.] 
 Gentlemen," concluded Charles, "my friend's age is 
 but forty-six, he has been twenty years on the stage — 
 I find, therefore, by accurate calculation that he must 
 have carried a pair of colors when eighteen months old 
 — an instance of precocity, power, and courage unex- 
 ampled in the history of the world. ' ' * 
 
 Poor Bensley might prose on about his martial ex- 
 perience and act with force as well, and the witty Ban- 
 
 * Ralph Wewitzer tells of a country gentleman, who having 
 fallen asleep while Bensley was repeating a long speech in 
 "his usual croaking voice," suddenly started up and cried out : 
 " Hullo ! reach me my blunderbuss this instant ; I thought I 
 had shot that croaking devil yesterday." 
 
EXEUNT OMNES. 319 
 
 nister could conjure large audiences by the spell of his 
 sweet voice and amusing burlesque of Italian singers, 
 but neither of them held the same warm place in the 
 public heart as did the estimable Mrs. Pope. What a 
 host of associations cluster about her name. The friend 
 and colleague of Garrick, in whose company she figured 
 so conspicuously, and a player at Drury I^ane, for 
 many years, she represented all that was best in the 
 school with which she was so pleasurably identified, 
 and when she died in 1797, another link was lost 
 between two great theatrical epochs. 
 
 Her maiden name was Younge, and she came of a 
 very respectable but impecunious family. Just as she 
 was preparing to earn her own liv^'ng, as one historian 
 curiously informs us,* "a dignified Professor of the 
 lyong Robe paid his devoirs to her. This gentleman 
 being early bred an apothecary, and afterwards pursu- 
 ing the I^aw (with whose quibbles he soon became 
 very conversant) it is not to be expected he should be 
 a connoisseur in the mysteries of Cupid." But it 
 seems that * * short was the date ' ' of this paradoxical 
 love-affair '* where the hearts did not unite." In brief, 
 *'the natural moroseness of his temper breaking out, 
 removed the artificial affection she was induced to 
 shew him ; and despising a settlement so incompatible 
 with happiness, she really dissolved a connection in 
 which her hand, not her heart, consented." 
 
 Miss Younge, now fancy free, determined "to be 
 * The Secret History of the Green Room. 
 
320 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 the carver of her own happiness, ' ' and having a strong 
 liking for the works of the English dramatists concluded 
 that she might do worse than play in some of them her- 
 self. She procured a note of introduction to Garrick, 
 who took an interest in her ambitions, and was soon a 
 prominent member of his'company . Her salary was next 
 raised to three pounds, and at the end of the season 
 she was disporting herself in comparative luxury to the 
 tune of five pounds a week. She was an attractive 
 woman, with superb neck and shoulders, and a face 
 that had great beauty of expression, although her fea- 
 tures were not actually handsome, nor did she lose any- 
 thing by being frequently compared to the famous I^ady 
 Sarah Lennox. Lady Sarah was probably the only 
 woman that honest, phlegmatic George III. ever pas- 
 sionately loved ; he would have married her had he 
 not been unfortunate enough to be a King, and he was 
 himself one of the first to notice the strong resemblance 
 between the actress and his one-time sweetheart. 
 There is, indeed, a pathetic little story as to how, many 
 years later, when the charms of both women were 
 faded. His Majesty attended a performance at Drury 
 Lane and seeing Mrs. Pope on the stage, (in middle 
 life she married Pope, the actor, who was young enough 
 to be her son,) he startled the Queen by muttering in a 
 melancholy, preoccupied manner, *'She is like Lady 
 Sarah still." 
 
 Miss Younge was unusually valuable in that she 
 could play both tragedy and comedy, going from Lady 
 
kkeu^t omues. 3^1 
 
 Macbeth and Juliet to Rosalind^ and then descending 
 below-stairs to the atmosphere of dancing chamber- 
 maids, with ease and success. But she shone more 
 brightly in comedy than in the serious roles ; she had a 
 dry humor that proved irresistible, and as Hazlitt said, 
 was " the very picture of a duenna, a maiden lady, or 
 antiquated dowager— the latter spring of beauty, the 
 second childhood of vanity ; more quiet, fantastic and 
 old-fashioned, more pert, frothy and light-headed than 
 anything can be imagined." 
 
 She owed not a little of her effectiveness to the train- 
 ing of Garrick, whose temper she could disturb just as 
 well as did several more of his feminine supporters. 
 There is a rather foolish legend that the squabbles of 
 the actresses hastened his retirement from the stage, 
 and that a certain undignified contest over a petticoat, 
 of which Miss Younge and Mrs. Yates were the hero- 
 ines, gave the coup de grace to his determination to 
 quit the boards forever. Garrick was too experienced 
 a manager to be driven off by these tempests in a tea- 
 pot, although some wiseacres would have it so, never- 
 theless, and one of them wrote the following epigram 
 entitled The Manager' s Distress. 
 
 * I have no nerves,' says Younge, * I cannot act.' " 
 
 * I 've lost my limbs,' cried Abington ; * 't is fact.' 
 Yates screams, ' I 've lost my voice, my throat's so sore.' 
 Garrick declares he '11 play the fool no more. 
 Without nerves, limbs, and voice, no show, that 's certain 
 Here prompter, ring the bell, and drop the curtain." 
 
322 ECHOES OF THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 lyCt US drop the curtain on Younge without a thought 
 for petty bickerings, heart-burnings, or prosaic petti- 
 coats. What prettier scene on which to ring it down 
 than that June night of 1776 when Garrick plays Lear 
 for the last time. He has acted the old Ki7ig with 
 even more than the customary pathos, as though the 
 part harmonized with his sadness of mood, and when 
 the performance is over he solemnly leads Coj'delia 
 (Miss Younge) to the greenroom. The veteran knows 
 that he has but one more appearance to make before 
 bidding farewell to the theatre forever, and he says to 
 his companion, with a sigh: "Oh, Bess! this is the 
 last time of my being your father ; you must now look 
 out for some one else to adopt you." Cordelia falls on 
 her knees with theatrical, yet real feeling, and falters, 
 "Then, sir, pray give me a father's blessing." And 
 as the mournful Roscius gently raises her, while the rest 
 of the company look on silently at this never-to-be-for- 
 gotten epilogue, he cries, trembling and affectionately, 
 •' God bless you God bless you all ! " and hur- 
 ries from the room. 
 
 It is so characteristic, so like the emotional children 
 of the stage, and withal so sincere ; a charming picture 
 into which, through all the tears, comes a glimpse of 
 golden sunshine. A happy moment, is it not, for the 
 lowering of the green baize on the many scenes de- 
 picted in these Echoes of The Playhouse ? We can put out 
 the lights, shut up the house, and go home, not in sad- 
 ness, but hopefully, cheerfully. Betterton, Bracegirdle, 
 

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EXEUNT OMNES. 323 
 
 Oldfield, Garrick, Woffington and the rest — they have 
 
 all gone, but the Muse whom they ennobled lives on, 
 
 richer in memories of the past and strong in promise 
 
 for the future. Like some resplendant Cleopatra, 
 
 ** Age cannot witlier her, nor custom stale 
 Her infinite variety." 
 
 THE END. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Abington, Mrs., 300, 301, 321 
 Addison, Joseph, 49, 82, 83, 85, 
 86, 93, 94, 95, 102, 103, 126, 
 153, 154, 155, 156, 162, 163, 
 164, 165, 168, 169, 170 
 Aickin, actor, 300 
 Ambrose, Miss, 218 
 Aune, of Denmark, 17 
 Anne, Princess and Queen, 48, 
 
 68, 87, 88, 133 
 Argyle, Duke of, 206 
 Arne, Thomas, 207, 208, 209, 
 
 236, 278 
 Ashbury, Joseph, 145, 146, 147 
 Aston, Anthony, 57, 59, 68, 69 
 
 B 
 
 Baddeley, R., 300 
 
 Bannister, Charles, 317, 318, 
 
 319 
 Barnsanti, Miss, 296, 298 
 Barry, Edward, 64 
 Barry, Elizabeth, 55, 58, 60, 61, 
 
 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, no, 
 
 112, 262 
 Barry, Mrs. Spranger, 240, 316, 
 
 317 
 Barry, Spranger, 197, 240, 241, 
 
 247, 248, 259, 260, 314, 315, 
 
 316 
 Bedford, Duke of, 132 
 Behn. Mrs., 74, T02 
 Bellamy, Mrs., 260, 261, 262, 
 
 263 
 
 Bensley, William, 317, 318, 
 
 319 
 Bernard, John, 215, 314, 315 
 Betterton, Matthew, 42 
 Betterton, Mrs., 47, 48, 55, 60, 
 
 106 
 Betterton, Thomas, 35, 36, 39, 
 41, 42, 43, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 
 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 
 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 74, 83, 
 85, 98, 105, 106, no, 112, 114, 
 120, 141, 145, 146, 151, 201, 
 233, 235, 322 
 Boaden, James, 240 
 Bolingbroke, Lord, 150 
 Bolton, Duke of, 173 
 Booth, Barton, 50, 104, 126, 
 138, 150, J51, 152, 180, 181, 
 185, 186 
 Booth, Mrs. {see Santlow) 
 Boswell, James, 107, 128, 172, 
 
 238, 239, 249, 250, 256, 296 
 Boutelle, Mrs., 66 
 Bowen, William, 182, 183 
 Bracegirdle, Mrs., 34, 58, 60, 
 69, 70, 71,72,73.74, no, III, 
 112, 135, 140, 201, 232, 246, 
 322 
 Brent, Miss, 278, 279 
 Brown, a dramatist, 192 
 Bulkley, Mrs., 298 
 Burbage, James, 10 
 Burbage, Richard, 10, 15, 17 
 Burke, Edmund, 172 
 Burlington, Earl of, 257 
 Burlington, Countess of, 258 
 Burney, Dr., 294 
 
 325 
 
326 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Byron, Lord, 261 
 Byrt, actor, 23 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, 270 
 Cartwright, actor, 30 
 Castlemaine, Lady, 24, 25, 33, 
 
 34 
 Catharine, of Braganza, 34 
 Centlivre, Mrs., 102 
 Chapman, Mr., 235 
 Charles I., 19, 64 
 Charles IL, 22, 23, 25, 26, 27, 
 
 28, 29, 33, 34, 35, 47, 50, 53, 
 
 79 
 
 Chateauneuf, Mile., 193 
 
 Cherrier, Monsieur, 157 
 
 Chesterfield, Earl of, 239, 240 
 
 Chetwood, W. R., 137, 145, 
 147, 151, 194, 206 
 
 Churchill, Charles, 55, 179, 
 269, 270, 271, 272, 302, 307 
 
 Churchill, General, 136, 137, 
 140 
 
 Cibber, Colley, 25, 48, 55, 56, 
 57, 66, 67, 68, 75, 78, 79, 80, 
 92, 104, 105, 107, 108, 109, 
 lio, i]i, 112, 113, 114, 115, 
 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 
 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 
 128, 129, 132, 133, 134, 135, 
 136, 138, 139, 142, 143, 148, 
 149, 157, 172, 174, 175, 176, 
 186, 187, 188, 194, 207, 229, 
 232, 236 
 
 Cibber, C. G., 108 
 
 Cibber, Mrs., 188, 197, 236, 237, 
 242, 244, 248, 259, 260, 279 
 
 Cibber, Theophilus, 187, 188, 
 189, 190, 208, 229, 232, 235, 
 236 
 
 Clairon, Mile., 280 
 
 Claxton, Mr., 91 
 
 Clayton, Mr., 157 
 
 Clinch, actor, 296 
 
 Clive, Mrs., 192, 193, 194, 195, 
 212, 229, 232, 271 
 
 Clun, actor, 23, 30, 34 
 
 Coldham, Dr., 209 
 Coleman, Dr., 45 
 Collier, Jeremy, 39, 40, 41 
 Collier, William, 104, 121 
 Coleman, the elder, 310, 311 
 Coleman, the younger, 310, 
 
 311 
 Colson, Rev. Mr., 222, 223,2^4 
 Congreve, William, 69, 95, 96, 
 
 97, 98, 105, 106, III, 112, 117 
 Cook, Captain, 45 
 Cooke, William, 202, 220 
 Corneille,'38 
 Crawford, Mr., 240 
 Crawford, Mrs. {see Mrs. 
 
 Spr anger Barry) 
 Cromwell, Oliver, 22, 47 
 Cromwell, Richard, 22 
 Cross, Richard, 55 
 Cumberland, Richard, 241, 255 
 Cumberland, Duke of, 252 
 
 Daly, Augustin, 99 
 
 Dancer, Mrs. {see Mrs. »Spran- 
 
 ger Barry) 
 Davenant, Charles, 54 
 Davenant, Lady, 64 
 Davenant, Sir William, 23, 36, 
 
 37, 39, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 5 1, 
 
 52, 53, 54 
 Davenport, Mrs., 48 
 Davies, Thomas, 55, 188, 193, 
 
 225, 236, 243, 250, 253, 255, 
 
 268, 276 
 Davis, Mrs., 25, 33, 34, 52 
 Del'Bpme, Mrs., 157, 159, 165, 
 
 166 
 Dennis, John, 159, 160 
 Derwentwater, Earl of, 34 
 Devonshire, Duke of, 69, 109 
 Dibdin, Charles, 23, 36, 37, 38, 
 
 54, 65, TOO, 102, 188, 225, 228 
 Dodd, James, 300, 303 
 Dogget, Thomas, 94, 104, 114, 
 
 115, 116, 121, 122, 123, 124, 
 
 125, 126, 127, 143, 149, 150, 
 
 212, 235 
 
INDEX. 
 
 327 
 
 Doran, Dr., 69, 261 
 Dorset, Duke of, 69 
 Downes, John, 56 
 Drew, John, 99 
 Drew, Mrs, John, 297 
 Dryden, John, 65, 67, 95 
 Dunstal, actor, 298 
 Dunstall, Mr., 226, 228 
 Du Ruel, M., 157 
 Du Ruel, Mrs., 157 
 
 El ford, Mrs., 157 
 Elizabeth, Queen, 8, 13 
 Bstcourt, Richard, 58, 81, 82, 
 
 121 
 
 Evans, acrobat, 91 
 Evans, Jack, 58 
 Evelyn, John, 29 
 
 V 
 
 Farquhar, George, 99, 100, 101, 
 
 131. 143 
 Farren, actor, 300 
 Farren, Miss, 263 
 Fearou, actor, 298 
 Fenton, Lavinia, 173 
 Fielding, Henry, 220 
 Fitzgerald, Percy, 230, 241 
 Fitzherbert, Mr., 249, 250, 265 
 Fitzpatrick, Mr,, 274, 276, 277 
 Fitzstephen, William, 2 
 Fleetwood, Charles, 186, 187, 
 188, 207, 208, 211, 212, 214, 
 216, 217, 219, 235, 239 
 Fletcher, L., 17 
 Fletcher, Sir Robert, 255, 256 
 Florence, W. J., 297 
 Fcote, Samuel, 177, 224, 248, 
 249, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 
 256, 257, 270, 292, 310, 314, 
 
 315 
 Ford, Richard, 282, 299 
 Frederick, Prince ot Wales, 
 
 192, 193, 197 
 
 G 
 
 Garrick, Captain, 222, 223, 224 
 
 Garrick, David, 41, 50, 63, 98, 
 
 107, 108, 176, 181, 182, 195, 
 
 196, 198, 201, 216, 217, 219, 
 
 222, 223, 224, 226, 227, 228, 
 
 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 
 
 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 
 
 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 
 
 247, 248, 249, 253, 254, 255, 
 
 256, 257, 258, 259, 260, 261, 
 
 263, 264, 265, 267, 268, 269, 
 
 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276, 
 
 277, 278, 279, 280, 281, 282, 
 
 283, 284, 285, 286, 288, 297, 
 
 299. 300, 301, 304, 305, 306, 
 
 307, 308, 309, 310, 311, 316, 
 
 319, 320, 321, 322, 323 
 
 GaiTick, George, 279, 286, 309 
 
 Garrick, Mrs. (Captain), 225 
 
 Garrick, Mrs. (David), 257, 
 
 258, 279, 280, 309 
 Garrick, Peter, 224, 225 
 Gasperini, Sigiior, 91 
 Gawdry, actor, 300 
 Gay, John, 172, 173, 174 
 Geoffrey, monk, 3 
 George I., 172, 184 
 George 11., 128, 191, 215, 257, 
 
 265, 268, 269 
 George III., 192, 193, 201, 280, 
 
 293, 320 
 Giffard, Mr., 226, 228, 231 
 Gildon, Charles, 42, 43 
 Glenville, Mr., 218 
 Godwin, William, 307 
 Goldsmith, Oliver, 188, 272 
 Goodman, Cardell, 32, 33, 11 1 
 Gosson, Rev. Dr., 14 
 Grafton, Duke of, 216, 217, 
 
 265 
 Greber, Herr, 165 
 Green, Mrs., 296, 298 
 Grindal, Archbishop, 8 
 Gwynne, Eleanor, 26, 27, 28, 
 29, 52 
 
328 
 
 INDEX, 
 
 H 
 Haines, Joseph, 30, 31, 32 
 Halifax, Earl of, 69 
 Halhead, Mr., 290, 291, 293 
 Hallam, Thomas, 207, 208, 
 
 209, 210 
 Handel, G. F., 170, 171 
 Harper, John, 58 
 Harris, Henry, 46, 48, 50, 52, 
 
 53 
 Harris, manager, 287 
 Hart, Charles, 23, 24, 25, 27, 
 
 29, 30, 31 
 Havard, actor, 270 
 Hazlitt, William, 321 
 Henderson, John, 308, 309, 
 
 310. 311 
 Henrietta Maria, Queen, 19 
 Henry VII., 5 
 Henry VIII., 5, 7 
 Heywood, John, 5, 6 
 Highmore, John, 186, 206 
 Hill, Aaron, 171, 190, 191 
 Hill, Captain, 70, 71 
 Hill, Dr., 272, 273 
 Hogarth, George, 168 
 Hopkins, Miss, 300, 303 
 Hopkins, prompter, 303 
 Hudson, George, 45 
 Hughes, Mrs., 30 
 Hughes, poet, 159. 
 Hungerford, Justice, 184 
 
 Irving, Henry, 87 
 
 J 
 
 Jackson, William, 292 
 
 James I., 17 
 
 James IL, 28, 31, 32, 33, 35, 50, 
 109, 194 
 
 Jefferson, Joseph, 297 
 
 Johnson, actor, 182 
 
 Johnson, Dr., 107, 108, 128, 
 144, 172, 173, 194. 222, 223, 
 224, 238, 239, 245, 247, 248, 
 249, 250, 251, 262, 268, 291, 
 296, 308 
 
 Jonson, Ben, 16, 17, 18 
 
 K 
 
 Kean, Edmund, 41, 201, 306 
 Kelly, Michael, 316 
 Kemble, John Philip, 303 
 Killigrew, Thomas, 23, 39, 47, 
 
 53 
 King, Thomas, 300, 301 
 Kirkman, J. T., 202 
 Knipp, Mrs., 24, 25, 28, 53 
 Kynaston, Edward, 25, 26, 43, 
 
 55, 105, lib, III 
 
 L'Abbee, M., 157 
 
 Lacey, John, 27, 34 
 
 Lacy, James, 219, 240, 243, 279 
 
 lyamash, actor, 300 
 
 Ivamb, Charles, 301 
 
 Lane, Jack, 12 
 
 Laws, Harry, 45 
 
 Lee, actor, 296 
 
 Lee, Nathaniel, 65, 66, 67 
 
 Lennox, Lady Sarah, 320 
 
 Leicester, Earl of, 10 
 
 Leigh, Anthony, 79, 105 
 
 Lessingham, Mrs., 298 
 
 Lewes, Lee, 298 
 
 Lewis, William, 296, 298 
 
 Lilleston, Thomas, 46, 48 
 
 Linley, Miss, 288, 291, 292, 
 
 293, 294, 295, 296 
 
 Linley, Thomas, 282, 288, 292, 
 
 294, 295, 298 
 London, gardener, 165 
 Long, R. W., 292 
 Louis XIV., 102, T94 
 Lovelace, Lord, 69 
 Lovell, Thomas, 46 
 Lowen, John, 52 
 Lucan, Lord, 305 
 Luther, 7 
 
 M 
 
 Macaulay, T. B., 69, 70 
 
 Macklin, Charles, 186, 200, 
 
 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 
 
 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 
 
 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 
 
INDEX. 
 
 329 
 
 219, 220, 221, 224, 226, 235, 
 
 239, 268, 269 
 Macklin, Mary, 219 
 Macklin, Mrs., 206 
 Manley, Mrs., 102 
 Mancini, Francesco, 166 
 Maria, Theresa, of Austria, 
 
 257 
 Marlborough, Duke of, 82, 
 
 201 
 Marlborough, Henrietta, 
 
 Duchess of, 97 
 Marlborough, Sarah, Duchess 
 
 of, 97 
 Mary (Stuart), Princess and 
 
 Queen, 48, 68, 74, 11 1 
 Mary (Tudor), Queen, 8 
 Marshall, Mrs., 24, 25 
 Mathews, Captain, 2^3, 294 
 Mayn waring, Arthur, 136, 137, 
 
 140 
 Mclyoughlin, William, 201 
 Milward, Mr. 192 
 Misson, Henri, 104 
 Mohun, Lord, 70, 71 
 Mohun, Major, 23, 30 
 Monk, General, 22, 43 
 Monmouth, Duke of, 32 
 Montague, Mr., 257 
 Moody, John, 275, 276, 277 
 Moore, Thomas, 288, 299 
 Morselli, A., 160 
 Moseley, John, 46 
 Moss, Mrs., 157 
 Mossop, Henry, 263, 311, 312, 
 
 313, 314 
 Mostings, Sir R., 140, 141 
 Mounet-Sully, M., 238 
 Mountford, Mrs., 71, 75, 76, 77, 
 
 78, I33> 135 
 Mountford, William, 34, 55, 
 
 71, 74, 75, 110, 146, 241 
 Murphy, Arthur, 254 
 
 N 
 
 Napoleon Buonaparte, 201 
 Newton, Rev. Thomas, 234, 
 235 
 
 Nicolini, Signor, 161, 162, 165, 
 
 166, 168, 169 
 Nokes, James, 34, 46, 79, 80, 
 
 235 
 Nokes, Robert, 46 
 
 Odell, Thomas, 228 
 
 O'Keefe, John, 218, 312, 313 
 
 Oldfield, Captain, 135 
 
 Oldfield, Mrs., 41, 71, 120, 121, 
 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 
 136, 137, 138, I39» 140. 141, 
 142, 143, 185, 246, 323 
 
 Ormond, Duke of, 147 
 
 Orrery, Lord, 65, 233 
 
 Otway, Thomas, 65, 67, 68, ill 
 
 Oxford, Barl of, 50 
 
 Packer, actor, 300 
 
 Page, Mr., 70 
 
 Palmer, John, 300, 302, 303 
 
 Parma, Duke of, 280 
 
 Parr, Dr., 289 
 
 Parry, B. A., 208 
 
 Parsons, actor, 300 
 
 Pepusch, Dr., 165, 172 
 
 Pepys, Samuel, 24, 25, 27, 28, 
 
 29. 33, 34, 35, 48, 50, 51, 52, 
 
 53 
 Phillipes, A., 17 
 Pierce, Mrs., 28, 53 
 Pinkethman, William, 61, 91 
 Pix, Mrs., 102 
 Pope, A. (the actor), 320 
 Pope, Alexander, 103, 126, 128, 
 
 130, 150, 192, 200, 232, 233 
 Pope, Mrs., 221, 317, 319, 320, 
 
 321, 322 
 Pope, Miss, 300 
 Porter, Mrs., 137 
 Powell, George, 59, 82, 83, 112, 
 
 113, 114, 151 
 Powell, William, 280 
 Price, Joseph, 50 
 Prince Rupert, 30 
 
330 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Pritchard, Mrs., 235, 242, 244, 
 
 248, 308 
 Prynne, William, 19, 20 
 
 Queensbury, Duke of, 172 
 Quick, John, 296, 297, 298 
 Quin, James, 172, 178, 179, 
 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 
 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 
 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 
 198, 199, 209, 210, 211, 212, 
 224, 236, 242, 270 
 
 R 
 
 Raftor, see Clive 
 
 Rehau, Ada, 99 
 
 Reynolds, Frederick, 195, 283, 
 
 284, 285, 303, 304 
 Reynolds, Miss, 282, 316 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 172, 300 
 Rhodes, J., 22, 4?, 43 
 Rich, Chr., 104, 105, 112, 119, 
 
 120, 121, 131, 132, 146, 164, 
 
 176 
 Rich, John, 172, 173, 174, 176, 
 
 177, 180, 181, 184, 187, 189, 
 
 197, 206, 219, 241, 243, 244, 
 
 259 
 Richards, Mr., 144, 145 
 Rochester, Earl of, 29, 64, 68 
 Rolt, Captain, 53 
 Rossi, poet, 1 71 
 Rowe, Nicholas, loi, 102 
 Rowley, William, 29 
 Ryan, Lacy, 181, 184, 193, 197, 
 
 198, 242 
 Ryder, Mr., 221 
 
 Sabbatini, 258 
 
 Sanford, Samuel, 34, 55, 80, 81, 
 
 105 
 Santlow, Miss, 152 
 Saunderson, Mrs. {see Mrs. 
 
 Betterton) 
 Savage, Richard, 139, 142, 143, 
 
 J44 
 
 Scarborough, Lord, 317 
 Schlegel, A. W., 6 
 Shakespeare, 5, 14, 17, iS, 52, 
 
 56, 80, 245, 282 
 Sheppey, Thomas, 46 
 Sheridan, Charles, 293 
 Sheridan, Dr., 288 
 Sheridan, Mrs., 288, 289 
 Sheridan, R. B., 268, 278, 282, 
 
 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 
 
 293, 294, 295, 296, 298, 299, 
 
 302, 303, 304, 305 
 Sheridan, Thomas, 219, 239, 
 
 240, 268, 269, 288, 290, 296, 
 
 311, 312 
 Sherry, Miss, 300 
 Shuter, Edward, 296, 297 
 Siddons, Mrs., 306, 308, 317 
 Smith, William, 55, 105 
 Smith, Joseph, 158 
 Smith, William, 300, 302 
 Smollett, T., 198 
 Southern, Thomas, 117 
 Stampiglio, composer, 157 
 Steele, Sir R., 82, 88, 92, 93, 
 
 103, 104, 126, 148, 158, 160, 
 
 161 
 Still, John, 6 
 Subligni, Mile., 91 
 Sumner, Dr. R., 289 
 Sunderland, Lord, 105 
 Swift, Dean, 134, 288 
 Swiney, Owen, 106, 120, 121, 
 
 157 
 
 T 
 
 Talbot, Countess of, 258 
 Taswell, actor, 265 
 Terry, Ellen, 138, 246 
 Tofts, Mrs., 157, 158, 159, 165 
 Trotter, Mrs., 102 
 Tudor, Mary, 34 
 Turner, Robert, 46 
 Tyrawley, Lord, 261 
 
 U 
 
 Udall, Nicholas, 6 
 Underbill, Cave, 46, 55, 79, 
 106 
 
INDEX. 
 
 331 
 
 Valentini, Siguor, 166 
 Vanbrugh, Sir John, 98, 105, 
 
 106, 118, 120, 131, 132 
 Verbruggen, John, 71 
 Verbruggen, Mrs. {see Mrs. 
 
 Mounlford) 
 Verdi, G., 156 
 Victor, Benjamin, 273, 274 
 Violante, Madame, 246 
 Violette, Eva Maria {see Mrs. 
 
 Garrick) 
 Voltaire, 96 
 Voss Mrs., 131 
 
 W 
 
 Wagner, R., 156 
 Walker, Thomas, 173, 184 
 Walmsley, Gilbert, 222, 223 
 Walpole, Horace, 195, 222, 
 
 247, 257, 258, 300, 301 
 Walpole, Lady Mary, 137 
 Walpole, Sir R., 137, 191, 215 
 Walsingham, Sir F., 13 
 Warrington, Earl of, 150 
 Watkins, Dr. John, 305 
 Wewitzer, Ralph, 318 
 Whitehead, P., 207 
 
 Whitlock, Lord, 44 
 
 Wicks, actor, 58 
 
 Wilde, O., 117 
 
 Wilkinson, Tate, 262, 263, 266, 
 267, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317 
 
 Wilks, Robert, 62,75, 100, loi, 
 104, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 
 125, 126, 143, 144, 145, 146, 
 147, 148, 149, 180, 185, 194 
 
 William of Orange, 33, 102, 
 109, 201 
 
 Wilson, actor, 12 
 
 Wintersel, Mr., 23 
 
 Wise, gardener, 165 
 
 Woffington, Mrs., 41, 219, 224, 
 235, 245, 246, 247, 248, 261, 
 262, 266, 267, 314, 315, 323 
 
 Wollstonecraft, Mary, 307 
 
 Woodward, H., 296, 297 
 
 Wotton, Sir H., 15, 16 
 
 Wren, Sir Chr., 54, 55 
 
 Wycherley, 281 
 
 Yates, R. , 300, 302 
 Yates, Mrs., 306, 307, 308, 321 
 York, Duke of {see James 11. ) 
 Younge, Miss {sec Mrs. Pope) 
 
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