CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 
 ^934 
 
PN 2597J?96"l888""' "■'"""' 
 
 Representative actors 
 
 3 1924 027 117 963 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tlnis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027117963 
 
REPRESENTATIVE 
 ACTORS. 
 
THE "CHANDOS CLASSICS." 
 
 REPRESENTATIVE 
 ACTORS. 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 CRITICISMS, ANECDOTES, PERSONAL DESCRIPTIONS, 
 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 REFERRING TO MANY 
 
 CELEBRATED BRITISH ACTORS FROM THE SIXTEENTH TO THE 
 PRESENT CENTURY ; 
 
 BY 
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL, 
 
 EDITOR OF "the BOOK OF AUTHORS." 
 
 " The drama's laws the drama's patrons give ; 
 And we that live to please, must please — to live," 
 
 Dr. Johnson. 
 
 ' Let them be well used ; for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Eontion anH Neto ¥otfe: 
 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 
 
 1888. 
 
/\-x^l :Z 3 
 
 LONDON : 
 UADBUKY, AGNEW, & CO.., PRINTKHS, WinTBFRIAR& 
 
TO 
 
 MISS HELEN FAUCIT 
 
 (lady THEODORE UARTIh), 
 
 WHOSE LOFTY CONCEPTIONS OF THE TRAGIC OR TENDER 
 
 CHARACTERS OF SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 HAVE IMPERISHABLY ASSOCIATED HER NAME WITH 
 
 THE HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE HISTRIONIC ART; 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF ENDURING ADMIRATION. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The reader will not expect to find in this book a complete list 
 of the actors from the early date at which it commences. 
 Twenty volumes might hardly contain the memoirs of all the 
 actors that have "flourished" since a.d. 1580. The inten- 
 tion has been to produce a volume which the reader may dip 
 into as he would into a volume of Table Talk : a volume con- 
 taiEJsg many pleasant criticisms and diverting anecdotes. But 
 if there be many names wanting, it is believed there will also 
 be many names found which will fully bear out the character of 
 the work implied by its title. Of living and recent actors, the 
 information being scanty, the record must be small ; but what 
 could be collected has been set down. Lovers of music will 
 naturally inquire why the names of Santley and Reeves have 
 been omitted from a list that includes those of Beard, Braham, 
 and Bannister ; but it is for the editor, not less than the reader, 
 to lament the omission, particularly when it is affirmed that 
 much industry has been unavailingly exercised to do honour 
 to these splendid singers. Such, however, as the book is — 
 with all its sins of omission upon its head — it is sent forth to 
 find favour among those who may not be displeased at an 
 opportunity to examine without labour the traditions that lift 
 our staee above that of any other country, ancient or modern. 
 
SHORT NOTICE ON ENGLISH ACTING, 
 
 In that voluminous history of the stage published by Dibdin 
 in the year 1800, the author, in dealing with the English 
 Drama, descends to so remote a period as the Saxon Hep- 
 tarchy, and devotes a chapter to " Conjectures concerning the 
 Dramatic Art in Britain before the Norman Conquest." So 
 extensive an inquiry might indeed be found necessary in a work 
 treating of the stage from the days of the Flood ; bat it will be 
 thought enough if this brief review commences with the age 
 ■ that witnessed the production of the first piece possessing the 
 requisites of a stage-play. Such a piece would mark a varia- 
 tion in the hitherto invariable mode of entertaining the 
 public by those quaint dialogues called Interludes, and those 
 curious exhibitions called " Moralities" and " Mysteries," of 
 which the indecency and profanity are hardly qualified by the 
 obvious artlessness of the authors. 
 
 The only dramatist before Shakspeare, to whom can be 
 allowed anything like the genius to give help to the first feeble 
 struggles of the Drama, is Christopher Marlowe. The names 
 of Hoker, Sackville Lord Dorset, John Heywood (who is not 
 to be confounded with his son Jasper, the writer of two hundred 
 and twenty plays), Preston, and Edwards, are unfamiliar. I^yly 
 is better known as the inventor of the word eufhuism (which 
 is as little employed as the heavy work whence it is derived 
 is read), than as the author of nine colourless plays. The 
 " Spanish Tragedy" of Thomas Kyd was parodied and ridiculed 
 by all capable" of distinguishing good sense from nonsense. 
 But Marlowe claims to be considered as the poetical father of 
 Shakspeare, as a writer who, though he is here and there 
 turbulent and bombastic, exhibits in his performances not the 
 gleams, but the hot effulgence of a brilliant genius ; and whose 
 
\m A Short Notice on English Acting. 
 
 poetry, though sometimes cloying in its syrupy sweetness, is 
 radiant with the Hghts and graces of the highest order of 
 intellect. 
 
 If there be any scrapie in commencing the history of the 
 English drama with Shakspeare, there can be no hesitation in 
 commencing with him the history of English acting. It was 
 perhaps a necessary consequence that there should be no 
 great actor until he had written ; for it is hard to discover any 
 part in the plays written before his time which could be filled 
 by an actor with advantage to his genius. There were, indeed, 
 mummers, jesters, and fools before Burbage and Alleyn ; 
 mummers like Scoggan, who would amuse a dinner-company by 
 dressing up their fists, and making them act; jesters like 
 John Heywood, who were caressed by monarchs and states- 
 men ; and fools like Tarleton, who were privileged to take 
 liberties which would have cost other men their heads.' But 
 Shakspeare's demands upon the histiionic genius soon operated. 
 To act well, to act so as to give tangible proportions, to give 
 pulsation and passion to the fancies of the dramatist, evinced 
 powers which were to prove as uncommon as the genius of the 
 poet. 
 
 The influence of Shakspeare upon the stage of his time is 
 illustrated by the fact of no less than seventeen playhouses 
 flourishing during his life ; of which the most important were : 
 The Globe, a massive structure, with the pit open to the sky, 
 and in which the acting was by daylight. The scene had no 
 other decoration than wrought tapestry, which hung at some 
 distance from the walls, so as to give room for entrances.^ 
 The Blackfriars, which differed from the Globe by being 
 roofed in. The performances here were for the most part 
 during the winter. The pit audience sat upon benches ; room 
 was found on the stage for the select portion of the spectators, 
 including the critics." The Swan was the most westerly o( 
 the theatres, standing close to the water's edge. The 
 Fortune, which stood in Golden Lane, was built by Alleyn, 
 the player, at a cost of 560/., about the year 1600. In 162 1 
 
 1 Tarleton, however, must be mentioned with respect. He was inimi- 
 table m such parts as Launcelot in the " Merchant of Venice," and Touch- 
 stone in "As You Like It." Baker in his Chronicles says, that "for tha 
 iilown s part he never had his equal, and never will have " 
 
 " Sehleg«l, 8 Chariss Knight's Shakspeare, 
 
A Short Notice on EngCish Acting. ix 
 
 the interior was destroyed by fire ; it was reconstructed, and 
 the company continued to perform there until 1648. The 
 ground on which the Fortune stood was previously occu- 
 pied by a building used as a nursery for the children of 
 Henry VIII. The editor of the " Londina lllustrata," who 
 surveyed these premises in 18 18 or 181 9, found the floor oi 
 the upper gallery still remaining, with the marks where the 
 seats were fixed. The abrupt declination of this flooring 
 puzzled him to conjecture how it was possible to place any 
 furniture upon it ; yet the difficulty had been overcome by the 
 needy lodgers who congregated in the edifice ; for he found 
 " that they do by some means contrive to accommodate their 
 wretched beds, &c., to their situation, though it is certainly 
 like living on a flight of stairs." The Red Bull was a large 
 house, standing on a plot of ground called Red Bull Yard, near 
 the northern end of St. John's Street, Clerkenwell. According 
 to tradition, this was the house at which Shakspeare held 
 gentlemen's horses for hire. It was here, too, that Cox, 
 during the Civil Wars, when the drama was suppressed, re- 
 presented his Drolls. The Whitefriars was a small, ancient 
 structure, standing just out of Fleet Street. The company that 
 acted here was called the Prince's Servants. The Cockpit 
 was situated in Drury Lane. It was attacked and demolished 
 by a crowd consisting of many thousands ; was rebuilt, and 
 was one of the houses that escaped the fury of the fanatics in 
 1648. The Rose was built before 1598, being mentioned by 
 Taylor, the water-poet. The proprietor was Philip Henslowe, 
 and the players - were called the Lord Admiral's Servants. 
 Here were produced the dramas of Marlowe. In 16 [3, the 
 "house was closed ; but the period of its demoUtion is unknown. 
 The remaining theatres were: The Hope, in Southwark ; 
 The Cross Keys, in Gracechurch Street ; The Tuns ; The 
 Theatre ; The Curtain ; The Nursery, in Barbican ; The 
 Play-House, in Salisbury Court ; and two others. 
 
 Accustomed as we are now to scenic illustrations, to gorgeous 
 costumes, to the golden and silvern splendours of a really high 
 order of decorative art, it is perhaps difficult to repress a smile 
 at the simplicity of the EUzabethan public, who could accept 
 a square of tapestry, or even of coarse canvas, as a fairly 
 illusive substitute for such sumptuous or simple scenery as the 
 drama might demand. But the movement of the reflective 
 mind is rather to ndmiration than to merriment ; for assuming, 
 
X A Short Notice on English Acting. 
 
 as we may, that our ancestors were not more to be cozened in 
 what they saw than ourselves, we are lost in wonder at the 
 excellent genius of the players, to have so wrought upon the 
 fancies and passions of the spectator as to make his own 
 imagination furnish the scenery, and supply the services of the 
 property-man. 
 
 The Shakspearian theatre was indeed the school for great 
 actors. On the naked stage, unaided by the adventitious help 
 which, having long encroached upon the art of the player, has 
 in our own day become the chief, and often the sole attraction 
 of the playhouse, the actor of those times was taught to rely 
 upon his own performance for all the effect the spectacle was 
 to produce. If it was a formidable, it was an efficacious test 
 of his capacity. We should know what to think of an actor 
 who, from a bare platform, dressed in his every-day habiliments, 
 by the mere force of his gesture and his declamation of the 
 language of Hamlet or Coriolanus, transports us (with a closer 
 identification of our feelings with the spot, than were we 
 confronted with the highest triumphs of pictorial skill) to the 
 solemn scenery of Elsinore, or to the busy market-place of 
 ancient Rome. 
 
 To the hypothesis of the greatness of the players of that 
 period it may be objected that the dramatic art was in its 
 infancy; and. that as there were no precedents from which to 
 filch the materials with which greatness is reared, their per- 
 formances must have been rude, exaggerated, and exuberant ; 
 that the audiences they were called upon to please were 
 wholly destitute of critical taste, demonstrated by their capacity 
 for enjoying the monstrous absurdities of their " mysteries," 
 and the awkward fooling of their courtyard mimes. But if 
 dramatic history proves anything at all, it proves that pre- 
 cedents are not necessary to good acting. The numerous 
 schools which have been formed, and which have been shown 
 inadequate by the easy manner in which they have been ex- 
 ploded, all point to this. Betterton's school was exploded by 
 Garrick. Spranger Barry's school was exploded by Kemble. 
 Kemble's school was exploded by Kean. The very temi 
 school, indeed, illustrates a deficience, for Nature has no school. 
 Yet in speaking of schools of acting let us be careful to dis- 
 criminate between the founders and their imitators. When we 
 smile at the school of Betterton and Quin, we certainly do not 
 smile at the greatest Hamlet and Fahlaff of their age, but at 
 
A Short Notice on English Acting. xi 
 
 the mouthing, paving, solemn race of coxcombs that tried tp re- 
 produce them : at Mossop's gasp ; at Macklin's lediousness ; at 
 Davis's mumbling ; and at Sheridan's ponderosity of movement. 
 Every testimony of his period concurs in proving Kemble a 
 great actor ; yet were it possible for any actor of the day to 
 embody in his personations the traditions of Kemble's excel- 
 lences — the majestic stalk, the classic severity, the black- 
 browed frown of the noble Roman, would it be easy to con- 
 ceive any spectacle more likely to move our mirth, or provoke ■ 
 our contempt ? 
 
 But to revert to our earlier actors : it has been said that 
 Burbage, who was the original Richard III., Lowin the first 
 Hamlet and Henry VIII., and Kempe, who was inimitable in 
 the clown's parts, as much surpassed the school of Hart, Lacy, 
 and Mohun, as that school surpassed that of Betterton. To 
 judge from what has been written of him, Richard Burbage 
 was the greatest actor the English stage has ever known, 
 except Garrick. " He is a man famous as our English 
 Roscius/' said the Earl of Southampton, " one who fitteth the 
 action to the word, the word to the action, most admirably." 
 Sir Richard Baker pronounced him such, as an actor " as no 
 age must ever look to see the like." Alleyn takes rank after 
 Burbage. Ben Jonson celebrated him as possessing at once 
 the eloquence of Roscius and the gravity of ^Esop. He was 
 called by Heywood the best of players, and was commended 
 by Fuller for his sweet elocution, and the stateliness of his port 
 and aspect. Taylor was also another great actor ; and the 
 genius of Lowin, Kempe, Condel, Mason, Hemmings, and 
 Field, has been recorded by every writer on the Shakspearian 
 theatre. Whether, then, we question the superiority of Hart 
 and Lacy over Betterton and Quin, we are compelled to accept 
 the superiority of Burbage and AUeyn over Hart and his fellows ; 
 nay, to feel convinced in this, we have only to remember that 
 this very school of Burbage, acted under the eye and inspira- 
 tion of Shakspeare, the creator of those astonishing characters 
 in which they excelled.* 
 
 - It need not be doubted that Shakspeare instnicted the actors in his 
 plays, for Chetvvood in his " History of the Stage," quotes an author who 
 wrote about the year 1720, to the effect that he remembered "having, seen 
 Mr. Taylor of the Black-Friars Play-House act this part — i.e., JIamlct (who 
 was instrui-lcJ by the author, Shakesj>ear). " 
 
xii A Short Nohce on English Acting. 
 
 No reign was ever more propitious to the dramatic art than 
 that of Elizabeth. Many causes conspired to refine and 
 exalt the standard of our national tastes and manners. The 
 nations were beginning to recognise an empire populated by a 
 race who, with the hardiness, the bravery, and the honesty of the 
 North, combined the sympathies, the tenderness, and the graces 
 of the South. The age of chivalry in England, heightened by the 
 homage exacted by Elizabeth, and held to be due both by the 
 sovereign and the subject not more to the monarch than the 
 woman, was at its meridian. Philosophy, purified from the 
 cobwebs of the schools, was dictating eternal laws to the world 
 from an English throne. Poetry was idealizing the conceptions 
 of a rough and sturdy time by giving sweetness and delicacj 
 to the rude traditions of the heroic ages. In that reign the 
 history of the Drama in England commences, for from that 
 reign it drew its splendid inspirations, its lofty chivalry, its 
 chaste and exquisite conceptions of womanhood, its tone of 
 easy, high-bred, courtierly dignity. To the year 1647 the 
 history of the stage presents such a spectacle as the heavens 
 thick-strown with stars, with one great orb shining in sovereign 
 splendour amid them all. But there came a change. Charles I. 
 was a fugitive, or a martyr. The Puritans were piloting the 
 State. Praise-God-Barebones and his confreres, judging the 
 theatre to be lewd and iniquitous, issued ordinances by which 
 all stage-plays were absolutely forbidden ; stages, seats, and 
 galleries were ordered to be pulled down, and the players to be 
 punished as rogues and vagabonds. In addition to this the 
 money received at the doors of such theatres as might escape 
 the enactment was ordered to be given to the poor of the 
 parish, together with a fine of five shillings on every spectator 
 of a play.' 
 
 The players finding their occupation gone took arms in the 
 Royal cause. To that cause they were probably impelled less 
 from sympathy with their suffering king than from hatred of 
 his persecutors, who were also their own. Mohun, a famous 
 actor, of whom litde is known but the tradition of his greatness, 
 
 ' I would refer the reader who might desire more inronnation on this 
 subject to the short but exhaustive essay, The History of the Theatre 
 during its Suppression, in Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," a book 
 which he will probably have at hand. Those who desire a more elaborate 
 revisw will turn to Msslone or Dibdinj 
 
A Short Notice on English Acting. xlii 
 
 had command of a company and was made a major. Hart, an 
 eminent tragedian and an early lover of Nell Gwynne, had a 
 iroop of horse in Prince Rupert's regiment. Burt, who though 
 a good actor voluntarily yielded to the superior powers of 
 Hart, was a cornet in the same troop. Allen, of the Cockpit, 
 was a quartermaster-general. A large number of the actors 
 fell in defence of Royalism ; the few that survived contrived to 
 get possession of the Cockpit, where they acted by stealth. 
 For a time they were undisturbed, but information being 
 given against them, they were broken in on whilst acting 
 a piece called " The Bloody Brother," and carried to Hatton 
 House, detained during a mock trial, stripped and turned 
 loose, thankful for having escaped with their ears. Some of 
 them now made shift to earn a living by shopkeeping. Others 
 printed old editions of plays, which were purchased by those 
 who sympathized with the king's cause and lamented the mis- 
 fortunes of his adherents. Some starved and died. But 
 another change was at hand. The restoration of Charles II. 
 was the restoration of the players. The nation, long oppressed 
 by the fanatical rule of the Puritans, now that the nasal chant 
 was stilled and the cropped head low, clamoured for amuse- 
 ment. The Cockpit was taken and peopled. So was the Red 
 Bull. And with this was inaugurated a new epoch of theatrical 
 entertainments. 
 
 No monarch ever seemed to favour more the conditions 
 under which the stage might reach a brilliant maturity than 
 Charles II. He had dramatists for his friends, actresses for 
 his mistresses, and players for his companions. He was con- 
 stant in his attendance at the theatres. Gratitude made no 
 portion of this king's character, or it might be thought his 
 advocacy of the theatre was in recognition of the services 
 the actors had rendered his father. His advocacy might have 
 done good had the stage been moral ; but the stage being im- 
 moral it did incalculable harm. It may be safely asserted that 
 no reign was ever more unpropitious to the drama than that of 
 Charles II. In its vaulting ambition to be happy our country 
 overleaped itself. It encouraged all kinds and degrees of 
 vice from the Continent under the impression that it was 
 trafficking in pleasure. The stage, true to its vocation, became 
 the mirror of the general depravity. Impurities were liberally 
 bandied. The foul satyr leered through every scene. Women 
 mockingly vizarded themselves to conceal the only blushes 
 
xiv A Short Notice on English Acting. 
 
 their cheeks could exhibit— that of the paint-pot. The pious, 
 with a horror that was quite genuine, ran to and fro with 
 hfted hands and white eyeballs. It was not enough that 
 Wycherley, Mrs. Behn, Dryden, Sedley, and Davenant were 
 writing for the public pollution ; females were now supplying the 
 place of boys; and the most wanton, the most corrupt, the 
 most unspeakable sentiments were being musically lilted by 
 the red lips of beautiful women.' The " tiring-room" was little 
 better than an infamous house where Moll Common was to 
 be seen preparing potions for rival courtezans to insure the 
 disgust of royalty, and where Doll Tearsheet was to be heaid 
 swearing at Sir Plume or Sir Fopling, for not giving her more 
 pieces. 
 
 In English comedy little purity is discernible before the time 
 of the elder Colman. Gibber, the last of the mts of the 
 Stuart epoch, repeats the obscene song of the comic muse, 
 though the equivocal lies rather in the situations than in the 
 sentiments of his plays. From Colman dates a succession of 
 performances, which while they are irreproachable enough in 
 their morals, taken collectively, may fairly compare in wit with 
 the best comedies of the Restoration. 
 
 Acting, from the time of Burbage and Lowin, may be said to 
 have undergone almost as many transitions as the drama. 
 Those who would seek an illustration of these changes might 
 probably find them in a series of representative plays from 
 Shakspeare to our own time. The stately splendour, the god-like 
 morality, the massive dignity, the profound philosophy of the 
 Shakspearian drama, would indicate with curious felicity, if we 
 may credit what has been told of Burbage and his brethren, 
 the characteristics of its early exponents. The sparkle, the 
 pertness, the licentiousness of the dramatists of the Stuart 
 epoch will present us with the qualities of the school of 
 Hart and Lacy. Coming to Quin and his imitators, we find 
 
 ' It is almost impossible to believe that any woman could have been 
 found to publioly pronounce some of tlie language that is to be read in the 
 plays of Dryden and Wycherley. Yet among the actresses in these and 
 even worse dramas the reputations of some have been handed dovm to us as 
 unimpeachable. Such was Mrs. Betterton ; such was Mrs. Bracegirdle. 
 Later on, whSn the licensing of plays came in vogue, a fine was levied 
 iipon any actor or actress giving utterance to an immoral sentence. 
 Among the first who were mulcted for this offence were Betteitou and 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle. 
 
A Short Notice on English Acting. xv 
 
 their acting represented by those solemn, drowsy tragedies to 
 which are subscribed the names of Addison, Banks, Fenton, 
 Rowe, Phillips, and others. The genius of the school of Weston 
 and Edwin will be found in the brocaded humour of the 
 Colmans, and the stern merriment of such writers as Boaden 
 and Kelly. And coming to our own time, we will find the 
 decay of the artificial comedy to indicate a school of actors 
 whose naturalness will not always exempt them from the charge 
 of occasional vulgarity. 
 
 Dibdin closes his bulky volumes with the name of Garrick, 
 whose praises he sounds with an energy which carries his 
 language into the dark regions of hyperbole. Writing earlier than 
 1800, Dibdin had seen Kemble, Cooke, and Henderson; but 
 the brilliant maturity of Edmund Kean he had not seen. Not 
 for Kemble, nor Cooke, nor Kean, is it probable, or is it to be 
 wished, that Dibdin would have dispossessed Garrick of his 
 throne ; yet I suspect had he witnessed the remarkable flux of 
 talent that followed the decay of the Garrick school of actors he 
 would have abated the enthusiasm, or at least qualified the praise 
 with which he deals with the names of his contemporaries. 
 There were giants no doubt in the days of Garrick ; actors and 
 actresses who present a perfect milky-way across the patined 
 vault of the dramatic heavens. Yet let us think on those who 
 followed. With the Garrick era there was undoubtedly high 
 art : but through the eras that followed, if we find less art, we 
 find more nature. In no way is this better illustrated than by 
 the direction taken by the genius of these actors. They were 
 most of them comedians capable indeed of the highest tragic 
 flight, but inclining towards comedy as the best reflection 
 of the life lived by the men and women who make up our 
 world. They overturned the ponderous tragedies which had 
 absorbed the energies of the Garrick school : they abandoned 
 the scowl, the gasp, the start, the stalk, and the gurgle, the 
 paving gesture and the theatrical air for the smiles or frowns, 
 the actions and the attitudes of real people. With the last of 
 the Garrick school — with old Bensley, for instance, in spite of 
 Lamb's praise — may be said to have died the survivor of a line 
 of traditional puppets who, " with all the contortions of the 
 sibyl, had little or nothing of the inspiration."* 
 
 * Burke. 
 
REPRESENTATIVE ACTORS. 
 
 Richard Tarleton. 
 
 1530-1588. 
 
 Tarleton was an actor at the Bull in Bishopsgate-street, and 
 performed originally in the play of " Henry V.," from which 
 Shakspeare is supposed to have collected the materials for his 
 play under the same title. When Elizabeth, at the solicitation 
 of Sir Francis Walsingham, appointed a dozen players to per- 
 form at Barn-Elms, allowing them wages and liveries as 
 grooms of the chamber, Tarleton was made a sort of manager. 
 An old author says, " That for the clown's part he never had 
 his equal." Even Ben Jonson, who libels actors, could not 
 refrain from applauding Tarleton. Indeed by all accounts his 
 humour was of an irresistible kind — I suppose something like 
 that of Weston — for we are told that " the self-same words 
 spoken by another would hardly move a merry man to smile, 
 which uttered by him would force a sad soul to laughter." 
 Tarleton for some time kept a tavern in Paternoster-row, and 
 afterwards the sign of the Tabor in Gracechurch-street, where 
 his humour operated as such an attraction that it was common 
 to have his portraits as a sign. Oldys' says " that there was a 
 sign in the Borough of a man playing on the pipe and tabor 
 with the name of Tarleton written under it, and that this portrait 
 was a copy of a wooden print which was published at the head 
 
 ^ William Oldys, the antiquary, born 1696, died 1 761. D'Israeli has 
 written an account of him in the "Curiosities of Literature." Francis 
 Grose, in his "Oho," a work full of keen humour and sharp satire, has 
 also given his hfe. "lie was a little mean-looking man, "he says, "of a 
 vulgar address, and vAen I knew him, rarely sober in the afternoon, never 
 alter supper." — Ed. 
 
 B 
 
2 Edward Alleyne 
 
 of a work called ' Tarleton's Jests.' "-Dibdin's -History of the 
 
 nt was a celebrated actor and jester, and was born at An- 
 dover in Shropshire. He was the author of a dramatic per- 
 formance called "The Seven Deadly Sins/' and many of his 
 witticisms have been printed in different ]^?.X-'ooo\.^.— Universal 
 
 Biography. , ■ , i • j 
 
 Tarleton's nose was flattened by a blow which he received 
 whilst parting some dogs and bears. This misfortune he 
 Uirned into merriment by noticing that it did not affect him, 
 tor that he had still sagacity enough to smell a knave from an 
 honest man. — Dramatic Anecdotes. 
 
 Richard Tarleton, for the clown's part, never had his match 
 nor ever will have.' — Baker's Chronicles. 
 
 Edward Alleyne. 
 1565-1626. 
 
 He was a youth of excellent capacity, a cheerful temper, a 
 tenacious memory, a sweet elocution, and in his person, of a 
 stately port and aspect. — Fuller. 
 
 If Rome so great and in her wisest age 
 
 Feared not to boast the glories of her stage, 
 
 A skilful Roscius and great ^sop, men 
 
 Yet crown'd with honours as with riches then, 
 
 Who had no less a trumpet to their name 
 
 Than Cicero, whose very breath was fame ; 
 
 How can so gieat example die in me. 
 
 That, Alleyne, I should pause to publish thee ? 
 
 * Among the characters in our old plays a fool frequently occurs. The 
 terms clown and fool were (however improperly) used as synonymous by our 
 early writers ; but although the fool of our old plays denoted either a mere 
 natural, or else a witty hireling or artificial fool, retained for the purpose of 
 making sport for his employers, the clown was certainly a perfectly distinct 
 character, and one of much greater variety. A fool generally formed part 
 of the establishment of every nobleman in the i6tli century, and indeed 
 much later. The stage costume of the fool is not exactly known, but it 
 most probably closely resembled that used in common life — i.e., along cloak 
 or petticoat, originally worn by the idiot or natural fool, and intended for 
 purposes of concealment and cleanliness. It was of various colours, and 
 the materials were often costly, as of velvet, and fringed witJi yellow.— 
 Sktory of the Theatres, 1823. 
 
Edward Alleyne. 3 
 
 Who, both their graces in thyself hast more 
 Outstript than they did all who went before ; 
 And present worth in all dost so contract, 
 As others spake, but only thou dost act ; 
 Wear this renown. — JBen 'jfonson. 
 
 Edward Allen, the munificent founder of Dulwich College, 
 was a player, and the sole proprietor of his own theatre, which 
 he built from the ground, and this man could not be worth less 
 ••han 25,000/., a sum then equal to 100,000/. in our days, and 
 ot inferior, upon that account, to Mr. Garrick's fortune. — T. 
 Davies. 
 
 Alleyne's fortune proceeded no doubt from marrying three 
 wives, each of whom brought a handsome fortune, partly from 
 the success of his theatre, partly from his being keeper of the 
 King's wild beasts, and master of the Royal Bear Garden, and 
 partly from his being a most rigid and penurious economist, 
 which character he so strictly enjoined himself, that he was the 
 first pensioner in his own charity. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Alleyne united the very best works with a very sincere but 
 unostentatious faith. His biography is to be read in the 
 memorials of his yet existing and most bountiful charities : in 
 St. Botolph's where he was born, in Cripplegate, St. Luke's, 
 St. Saviour's (or St. Mary Overy, Southwark, as it was then 
 called), where he had laboured untiringly and reaped fortune 
 handsomely, helping many a poorer colleague the while. He 
 founded almshouses, where for two centuries and a half old 
 and infirm people, whose numbers would now make a total of 
 many hundreds, have been indebted to the forethought spring- 
 ing from the gratitude of this noble actor, for all that can add 
 comfort to declining years. But his noblest work of all was 
 the founding of Dulwich College, as an asylum for the aged 
 and a place of education for orphans. This foundation was 
 made and completed in Alleyne's hfetime; he did not wait 
 to order it to be done by his heirs ; and he immediately called 
 it " God's Gift College," intimating thereby that he was only 
 the steward of the fortune which had been gathered by his 
 industry. — Cornhill Magazine, 1867. 
 
 B 3 
 
Richard Burbage.* 
 
 1566-1619. 
 
 He was the admir'd example of the age, 
 
 And so observ'd all your dramatic laws, 
 
 He ne'er went off the stage but with applause. 
 
 Who his spectators and his auditors 
 
 Led in such silent chains of eyes and ears, 
 
 As none, whilst he on the stage his part did play, 
 
 Had power to speak or look another way. — Flecknoe. 
 
 Astronomers and star-gazers this year, 
 Write but of four eclipses — five appear ; 
 Death interposing Burbage, and their staying. 
 Hath made a visible eclipse of playing. — Middhton. 
 
 Excellencv in the meanest things deserves encouragement. 
 Richard Buroage and Eaward Allen : two such actors as no 
 age must ever look to see the like. — Baket's Chronicles. 
 
 He is a man famous as our English Roscius ; one who fitteth 
 the action to the word, the word to the action, most admirabty. 
 — Earl of Southampton. 
 
 Burbage, the great actor of Shakspeare's principal characters, 
 we are told was so eminent in his profession that no country 
 gentleman thought himself qualified for conversation without 
 having an acquaintance with Dick Burbage. — T. Davies. 
 
 If we may believe some authorities, and there is no reason 
 to doubt them, Burbage was not only a great painter of living 
 portraits upon the stage, but a limner of dead ones upon 
 canvas ; he was an artist as an actor, and attained considerable 
 skill as a delineator of likenesses in oil colours. — Payne Collier. 
 
 * Aliout the other actors of this period little infoniiation is to be gathered. 
 Lowin, Hemmings, Condel, Fletcher, Mason, Field, Taylor, and others 
 were all eminent in their various walks. Marlowe, in his preface to the 
 "Jew of Malta," writes that " Mr. Mason and Mr. Taylor performed theil 
 parts with that excellence that it was beyond conceiving." But of most of 
 tliese actors the traditions are vague and the memorials confused, and all 
 that we may really be said to know of them is that they were men whose 
 i;enius rendered them worthy to fill those lofty parts which were then being 
 written.— Ed. 
 
Robert Cox. 
 
 1580-1648. 
 
 As meanly as you may now think of these Drolls, they were 
 then acted by the best comedians, and I may say by some 
 that then exceeded all now living ; the incomparable Robert 
 Cox, who was not only the principal actor, but also the 
 contriver and author of most of these farces. How have I 
 
 ;ard him cried up for his John Swabber and Simpleton the 
 vjiuith, in which, he beirtg to appear -with a large piece of bread 
 and butter, I have frequently known several of the female 
 spectators and auditors to long for it; and once that well- 
 known natural 'yack Adams of Clerkenwell, seeing him with 
 bread and butter on the stage, and knowing him, cried out, 
 " Cuz ! Cuz ! give me some !" to the great pleasure of the 
 audience. And so naturally did he act the smith's part, that 
 being at a fair in a country town, and that farce being pre- 
 sented, the only master smith of the town came to him, saying, 
 " Well, although your father speaks so ill of you, yet when the 
 fair is done, if you will come and work with me, I will give 
 you twelvepence a week more than I give any other journey- 
 man." Thus was he taken for a smith bred, that was indeed 
 as much of any trade. — F. Kirkman^ " The Wits" -Lii']2. 
 
 At this epoch {i.e. during the suppression of the theatres by 
 the Puritans) a great comic genius, Robert Cox, invented a 
 peculiar sort of dramatic exhibition, suited to the necessities 
 of the time — short pieces which he mixed with other amuse- 
 ments, that these might disguise the acting. It was under the 
 pretence of rope-dancing that he filled the Red Bull playhouse, 
 which was a large one, with such a confluence, that as many 
 went back for want of room as entered. The dramatic con- 
 trivance consisted of a combination of the richest comic scenes" 
 into one piece, from Shakspeare, Marston, Shirley, &c., con- 
 
 ^ Kirkman was an obscure author, who is said to have mutilated twenty- 
 seven plays from Shakspeare, Jonson, and others. -^Ed. 
 
 ^ This collection by Kirkman has a view of the interior of the Red Bull 
 Theatre, as a frontispiece, which is very curious and valuable. It re- 
 presents a stage on which are seven figures, who perform before a number 
 of people, some of whom sit in a kind of boxes, the rest in rows like persons 
 seated at a dinner-table. The figures on the stage are — I, Sir John Falstaff 
 habited in the costume in which we are accustomed to see him, but very 
 
6 TJiouias Heyzuood. 
 
 cealed under some taking title ; and these pieces of plays were 
 called " Humours," or " Drolleries." . . . There are however some 
 original pieces by Cox himself, which were the most popular 
 favourites, being characters created by himself, for hraiself, 
 from ancient farces: such were "The Humours of John 
 Swabber," " Simpleton the Smith," &c. This Cox was the 
 delight of the city, the country, and the universities ; assisted 
 by the greatest actors of the time, expelled from the theatre, 
 it was he who still preserved alive, as it were by stealth, the 
 suppressed spirit of the drama. — Isaac D' Israeli. 
 
 Cox had very slender pretensions to be considered as an 
 author, his whole merit having consisted in raking diverting 
 circumstances from various plays, and forming them into farces 
 and drolls ; which being a good actor, he was well quaHfied to 
 do. — History of the Stage. 
 
 Thomas Hey wood. 
 
 Circa 1590-1645. 
 
 A dramatic vmter and actor in the reigns of Elizabeth, 
 James I., and Charles I. He is said to have been a most 
 voluminous author, having written no less than two hundred 
 plays, of which only twenty- four are extant. Neither the date 
 of his birth nor that of his death are on record. — Universal 
 Biography. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Hey^vood was not only an excellent actor, but 
 a very great author and dramatic poet. I have read all his 
 works that are extant, and in my poor judgment, he may be 
 accounted the iirst of the second-ranked poets in the reigns of 
 Queen Ehzabeth and Ring James I. Several modern authors 
 have borrowed from Mr. Ht-ystrod. I shall only mention t\vo, 
 Shadwell in his "Lancashire Witches," and Fielding in his 
 "Intriguing Chambermaid." — Chetwood's ''History of the Stage.' 
 
 much thinner than what he is now made to be; 2, Vctme Quickly; 3, 
 Clause, from Beaumont and Fletcher's "Beggar's Bush;" 4, the French 
 dancing-master from Lord Newcastle's comedy called "Variety;" and S 
 and 6, characters from pieces ^vritten by Cox himself. There is a figure 
 Eteppuig from behind a curtain pronouncing the words "Tu quoque," 
 meant for Green, a celebrated comedian of the time, highly praised by 
 Heywood in his preface to the comedy called " Tu quoque, " written by Cook 
 but called, by reason of Green's fine acting, " Green's Tu-quoque. "— Ed ' 
 
Thomas Killigrew. 7 
 
 This man, by some of the biographers, has been greatly ex- 
 tolled as a writei without any great appearance, however, 01 
 either truth or justice ; for the prodigious quantity he wrote, for 
 which he ransacked the ancients without mercy, whatever might 
 have been his real merit had he taken time to correct and 
 polish his works, rendered it impossible for him to turn any- 
 thing out of hand likely to secure him a solid reputation ; and 
 thus we have a list of twenty-four pieces, out of two hundred 
 and twenty which he himself says he either wrote or was con- 
 cerned in, little more known at this moment than by their 
 titles. Heywood was certainly a good classical scholar, and as 
 an actor he was pretty celebrated. Indeed, the pursuing this 
 occupation, and his being perpetually in company (for we are 
 ridiculously told he wrote his plays upon the backs of tavern 
 bills), must have left him but little opportunity to complete the 
 difficult task of writing plays, especially such an immense 
 number as are attributed to him.' — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Thomas Killigrew.^ 
 1611-1685. 
 
 Thomas Killigrew was born in 1611, was page to Charles I., 
 and accompanied the Prince of Wales into exile. During his 
 absence from England he visited France, Italy, and Spain, and 
 after the Restoration, was appointed by the new king (with 
 whom he was a great favourite) one of his grooms of the bed- 
 chamber. A vein of lively pleasantry, combined with a certain 
 oddity, both of person and manner, placed him high in the 
 good graces of Charles II., who would frequently allow him 
 free access to his person, when characters of the first dignity in 
 the State were refused it ; till Killigrew became almost the in- 
 separable companion of his monarch's familiar hours. This 
 was the Killigrew that obtained the appellation of "King 
 Charles's jester ;" but though he was undoubtedly a mirth- 
 creating spirit, his clever dramatic pieces discover few traces of 
 that facetiousness and whim which one imagines he must have 
 actually possessed. — Universal Biography. 
 
 He was a man of very droll make, and had an uncommon 
 
 1 Frequent mention of Tom Killigrew is made in Pepys's "Diary," but I 
 can find nothing illustrative of his character or his wit to quote. — Ed. 
 
8 Thomas Killigrew. 
 
 vein of humour, with which he used to divert that merry 
 monarch, Charles II., who on that account was fonder of liun 
 than of his best Ministers, and would give him access to his 
 presence, when he denied it to them. It was usually said of 
 him that when he attempted to write, he was nothing near so 
 smart as he was in conversation. — Dr. Carry. 
 
 Thomas Killigrew, commonly known by the name o\ King 
 Charles's jester, produced ten plays. They were prmcipally 
 written for his amusement when he was abroad, and not, as it 
 was generally imagined, as manager of his own theatre, for it is 
 pretty clear that he never had one. The history of Kilhgrew, 
 and that he followed Charles II. in exile and returned with 
 him, that he was groom of the bed-chamber and continued in 
 high favour with the King and had access to him when he 
 denied himself to the first characters in the kingdom, is per- 
 fectly well drawn. He had such lively parts, and was a man 
 of such eccentric and peculiar humour, that he was a perfect 
 counterpart to Charles ; and, having been admitted to habits 
 of freedom and familiarity during their residence abroad, he 
 was suffered to go sometimes to most unwarrantable lengths in 
 the liberties he took. There is a storj' told that he came to 
 the King dressed like a pilgrim, and being asked where he was 
 going, answered, " To fetch Oliver Cromwell from hell to take 
 care of the affairs of the nation, for that his successor took no 
 care at all of them." — C. Dibdin. 
 
 The jester Kilhgrew frequently had access to Charles II. 
 when admission was denied to the first peers in the realm. 
 Charles, who hated business as much as he loved pleasure, 
 often disappointed the council either by not attending or with- 
 drawing before the business was concluded. One day the council 
 sat a considerable time in expectation of his Majesty, when 
 the Duke of Lauderdale, so distinguished for his haughty de- 
 meanour, quitted the room in a great passion. On his way he 
 met Killigrew, to whom he expressed himself more freely than 
 courteously respecting his master. Kilhgrew bade his grace be 
 calm, for he would lay a wager of a hundred pounds that he 
 would make his Majesty attend the council in less than half an 
 hour. Lauderdale took him at his word, and Killigrew, getting 
 immediate admission to the King, told him all that had hap- 
 pened, adding, " I know your Majesty hates Lauderdale, though 
 the necessity of your Majesty's aflairs obliges you to receive 
 him ; now if you wish to get rid of a man you hate, come to the 
 
Edward Kynaston. 9 
 
 council, for Lauderdale is a man so boundlessly avaricious that 
 rather than pay the wager, he will hang himself and never plague 
 you more." The King laughed at the observation and attended 
 the council. — Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 Edward Kynaston. 
 1619-1687. 
 
 We hear of Kynaston, the last beautiful youth who figured 
 
 ' I petticoats on the stage, having been carried about in his 
 
 leatrical dress by ladies of fashion in their carriages. This 
 
 was an unseemly spectacle, and we can forgive the Puritans 
 
 for objecting to see " men in women's clothing." — T. Ca7npbell. 
 
 Aug. 18. — Captain Ferrers took me and Creed to the 
 Cockpitt play, the first that I have had time to see since my 
 coming from sea. " The Loyall Subject," where one Kinaston, 
 a boy, acted the Duke's sister, but made the loveliest lady 
 that ever I saw in my life. Jan. 7. — Tom and I and my 
 wife to the theatre, and there saw the "Silent Woman." 
 Among other things here Kinaston, the boy, had the good turn 
 to appear in three shapes ; first, as a poor woman in ordinarj' 
 clothes to please Morose ; then in fine clothes as a gallant, 
 and in them was clearly the prettiest woman in the whole house; 
 and lastly, as a man, and then likewise did appear the hand- 
 somest man in the whole house. — Pepys's "JDiary."^ 
 
 Though women were not admitted 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 into petticoats — which Kynaston was 
 then said to have worn with success, particularly in the part of 
 Evadne in the " Maid's Tragedy," which I have heard him 
 speak of; and which calls to my mind a ridiculous distress that 
 
 ' Pepys is frequent in his eulogies of one Mistress Knipp, an actress of 
 whom I can find no other mention. A note to the "Diary" says, "Of Mrs. 
 Knipp's history nothing seems known, except that she was a married actress 
 belonging to the King's House, and as late as 1677 her name occurs among 
 the performers in the 'Wily False One.'" In 1667, on the r2th of Feb- 
 ruary, Mr. Pepys went by coach to hear some Italian music. Here he 
 met Killigrew, a page of honour to Charles I., who when a boy "would go 
 to the Red Bull, and when the man cried to the boys, ' who will go and be 
 a devil, and he shall see the play for nothing ?' then would he go in, and be 
 a devil upon the stage, and so get to see plays. " He had a chat with Kil. 
 
I o Edward Kynaston. 
 
 arose from these sort of shifts which the stage was then put to. 
 The King 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 humour loved to laugh at a jest as well as tomake 
 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. Of this truth I had the curiosity 
 to inquire, and had it confirmed from his own mouth, in his 
 advanced age ; and indeed to the last of him his handsomeness 
 was very little abated ; even at past sixty his teeth were sound, 
 white, and even as one could wish to see in a reigning toast of 
 twenty. He had something of a formal gravity in his mien, 
 which was attributed to the stately step he had been so early 
 confined to, in a female decency. But even that, in characters 
 of superiority, had its proper graces ; it misbecame him not in 
 the part of Leon, in Fletcher's "Rule a Wife," &c., which- he 
 executed with a determined manliness and honest authority 
 well worth the best actor's imitation. He had a piercing eye, 
 and in characters of heroic life, a quick, imperious vivacity in 
 his tone of voice, that painted the tyrant truly terrible. There 
 were two plays of Dryden, in which he shone with uncommon 
 lustre — in "Aurengzebe" he played Morat, and in "Don 
 Sebastian" Muley Moloch; in both these parts he had a fierce 
 
 ligrew, who told him "that Knipp is Uke to make the best actor that ever 
 come upon the stage, she understanding so well, that tliey are going to give 
 her thirty pounds a year more." Killigi-ew further boasted "that by his 
 pams the stage is a thousand times better and more glorious than heretofore. 
 Now wax candles, and many of them, then not above 3lbs. of tallow ; now- 
 all thmgs civil, no rudeness anj-vvhere ; then as in a bear-garden ; then two 
 or three fiddlers, now nine or ten of the best ; then nothing but rashes 
 upon the ground, and everything else mean ; now all otherwise ; then the 
 Queen seldom, and the King never would come ; now, not the King only 
 Jr state, but all civil people do thmk they may come as well as any " 
 
yohn Lacey. 1 1 
 
 lion-like majesty in his port and utterance, that gave the spec- 
 tators a kind of trembling admiration. — Colley Cibber. 
 
 Kynaston, who performed the parts of women in his youth,' 
 of lovers in his maturer age, and of genteel old men later in 
 life, is said not only to have possessed a grace and an ease that 
 nothing ever surpassed, but to have thrown a peculiar dignity into 
 everything he performed. We are told that, though Betterton 
 and' Kynaston both observed the rules of truth and nature, 
 they were each as different in their acting as in their form or 
 features. This we know is requisite, and this particular dis- 
 crimination seems to have made up a great part of the excellent 
 acting of that time. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 John Lacey. 
 1622-1681. 
 
 John Lacey, a dramatic writer, was bom at Doncaster, and 
 bred a dancing-master; this employment he quitted for the 
 army, but subsequently took to the stage, and acquired such 
 ability as a comedian that Charles II. had his portrait painted 
 in three different characters. He wrote the comedies of the 
 "Dumb Lady," "Sir Hercules Buffoon," "Old Troop," and 
 "Savniey the Scot." — Universal Biography. 
 
 A comedian whose abilities in action were sufficiently known 
 to all that frequented the King's Theatre, where he was for 
 many years an actor, and performed all parts that he undertook 
 
 ^ All accounts exhibit Kynaston as the most celebrated actor of women's 
 parts of his day. It was not until after the Restoration that women per- 
 formed on the stage. They were introduced by Sir William Davenant at 
 his theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields in 1662. The play was the "Siege of 
 Rhodes," in which Mrs. Saunderson, the first female actress that ever 
 played for hire before the public in England, took the part of the heroine. 
 In 1593, one Dr. Reynolds had published a foaming invective against stage- ( 
 plays, in which he vigorously attacked the sin of boys wearing the dress, 
 and affecting the airs of women ; yet Tom NasK in his ' ' Pierce PennilessC; " 
 applauds the English stage for not having courtezans or \vomen-actors (the 
 definition is his), as they have abroad. D'Israeli attributes the change less 
 to an improved taste than to necessity ; "for," he says, "the boys who had 
 been trained to act female characters before the Rebellion, during the sus- 
 pension of the theatre (by the Puritans), had grown too masculine to resume 
 their tender office at the Restoration." This innovation of actresses, pro- 
 nounced an indecorum, though copiously apologized for, grew speedily 
 popular, so much so , indeed, that before long plays were represented of 
 which the cast consisted wholly of women-— Ed. 
 
12 Mrs. Better ton. 
 
 to a miracle, insomuch that I am apt to believe, tliat as this 
 age never had, so the next never will have, his equal — at least 
 not his superior. He was so well approved of by King 
 Charles II., an undeniable judge in dramatick arts, that he 
 caused his picture to be drawn in three several figures in the 
 same table — viz.. That of Teague in the " Committee," Mr. 
 Scruple in " The Cheats," and M. Galliard in " The Variety," 
 which piece is still in being in Windsor Castle. Nor did his 
 talents wholly lie in acting : he knew both how to judge and ' 
 write plays ; and if his comedies are somewhat allied to French 
 farces, it is out of choice rather than want of ability to write true 
 comedy. — Gerard Langbaine. 
 
 To the King's House and there saw the " Taming of the 
 Shrew,". . . . andbestpart^arc/wji'donebyLacey. — To the King's 
 Playhouse and saw " Love in a Maze ;" but a sorry play, only 
 Lacey's clown part which he did most admirably indeed. — To 
 the King's House to see " Horace ;" this is the third day of its 
 acting ; a silly tragedy, but Lacey hath made a farce of several 
 dances, between each act, one ; but his words are but silly, and 
 invention not extraordinary as to the dances. — To the Royal 
 Theatre, and there saw "The Committee," a merry but 
 indifferent play, only Lacey's part, an Irish footman, is beyond 
 \xc&g\n.d.i\Qxx.—Fej>ys's " Diary." 
 
 Mrs. Bettertoa. 
 . . . .-1712. 
 
 Though far advanced in years, she was still so great an 
 actress that even the famous Mrs. Barry, who acted Lady Mac- 
 beth after her, could not in that part, with all her superior 
 strength and melody of voice, throw out those quick and care- 
 less tones of terror which the other gave, with a facility in her 
 manner that rendered her at once tremendous and delightful. 
 Time could not impair her skill though it gave her person to 
 decay. She was to the last the admiration of all true judges of 
 nature and lovers of Shakspeare, in whose plays she chiefly 
 excelled, and without a rival. She was tlie faithful companion 
 01 her husband and his fellow-labourer for five-and-forty years 
 and was a woman of unblemished and sober liit.—Colley Gibber 
 
 Mrs. Betterton was remarkable for performing the female 
 characters of Shakspeare to a greater degree of excellence than 
 
Thomas Better Ion. 1 3 
 
 any other actress before or since, which exhibits a most striking 
 proof that she must have been critically a judge of nature, for 
 though many of them are purposely underwritten because they 
 were performed in Shakspeare's time by men, yet there is a 
 feminine truth and beauty in them more winning than all we 
 find in those overcharged characters which, in some of the 
 more modem tragedies — a mode we have borrowed from the 
 French — seem to have all the conduct of the piece. The fact 
 is, that when women came to grace the stage, the authors were 
 so delighted with this pleasurable and advantageous circum- 
 stance, that they did not know how to husband it, but as much 
 overshot the mark as their predecessors had come short of it. 
 It is related of Mrs. Betterton that, though Lady Macbeth had 
 been frequently well performed, no actress, not even Mrs. 
 Barry, could in the smallest degree be compared to her. Her 
 judgment as an actress is said to have been so consummate 
 that no female performer succeeded who did not imitate her, 
 or failed who did. — C. DiOdin. 
 
 It is nac positively certain, but it is extremely probable that 
 the earliest regular actress of the English stage was a Mrs. 
 Saunderson, afterwards Mrs. Betterton,' the wife of the famous 
 actor. At all events, if not the earliest, she was the greatest 
 actress for many years after the Restoration. — Thomas Camp- 
 bell. 
 
 Thomas Betterton, 
 1635-1710. 
 
 March i, 1660. — To White-friars, and saw "The Bondman" 
 acted ; an excellent play and well done ; but above all that 
 ever I saw, Betterton do the Bondman best May 28, 1663. — 
 By water to the Royal Theatre ; but that was so full they told 
 us we could have no room. And so to the Duke's House ; and 
 there saw " Hamlet" done, giving us fresh reason never to 
 think enough of Betterton. — Pepys's '■'■Diary." 
 
 Betterton, although his countenance was ruddy and sanguine, 
 when he performed Hamlet, through the sudden and violent 
 emotion of amazement and horror at the presence of his 
 
 ' She is called lanthe by Pepys in his "Diary," as having performed laittht 
 in Davenant's play of the " Siege of Rhodes." Apparently Pepys greatly 
 admired her, praising her sweet voice and her "incomparable acting" 
 wherever he mentions her. — Ed. 
 
t^ Thomas Better ton. 
 
 father's spectre, instantly turned as white as his neckcloth, 
 while his whole body seemed to be affected with a strong 
 tremor: had his father's apparition actually risen before 
 him he could not have been seized with more real agonies. 
 This struck the spectators so forcibly that they felt a shudder- 
 ing in their veins, and participated in the astonishment and the 
 horror so apparent in the actor. Davies, in his " Dramatic Mis- 
 cellanies," records this fact; and in the " Richardsoniana" we 
 find that the first time Booth attempted the ghost when Betterton 
 acted Hamlet, that actor's look at times struck him with such 
 horror that he became disconcerted to such a degree that he 
 could not speak his part' Here seems no want of evidence 
 of the force of the ideal presence in this marvellous acting; 
 these facts might deserve a philosophical investigation. — Isaac 
 D^ Israeli, " Curiosities of Liter atur:'' 
 
 Boswell : " If Betterton and Foote were to walk into this 
 room, you would respect Betterton much more than Foote." 
 Johnson: "If Betterton were to walk into this room with 
 Foote, Foote would soon drive him out of it. Foote, sir, 
 qiiatenus Foote, has powers superior to them all." — Life of 
 Joh7ison. 
 
 Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be recorded with 
 the same respect as Roscius among the Romans. I have 
 hardly a notion that any performer of antiquity could surpass 
 the action of Mr. Betterton in any of the occasions in which he 
 has appeared upon our stage. The wonderful agony which 
 he appeared in when he examined the circumstance of the 
 handkerchief in the part of Othello, the mixture of love that 
 mtruded upon his mind upon the innocent answers Desdemona 
 makes, betrayed in his gesture such a variety and vicissitude 
 of passions as would admonish a man to be afraid of his own 
 heart, and perfectly convince him that it is to stab it to admit 
 that worst of daggers — ^jealousy. Whoever reads in his closet 
 this admirable scene will find that he cannot (except he has as 
 warm an imagination as Shakspeare himself) find any but dry, 
 incoherent, and broken sentences. But a reader that has seen 
 Betterton act it observes there could not be a word 
 
 1 A similar stoi-y is told by Chetwood of Wilks, who, acting in "The 
 Maid's Tragedy" with Betterton, was so much struck by the actor's dignity, 
 that he could hardly speak. Betterton, remarking his confusion, said, 
 "Young man, this fear does not ill become you — a hoi-se that sets out at 
 the strength of his speed will soon be jaded." — Ed. 
 
Thomas Better ton. 1 5 
 
 added, that longer speeches had been unnatural, nay, im 
 possible, in Othello's circumstances. This is such a triumph 
 over difficulties that we feel almost persuaded that the defi- 
 ciencies themselves contributed to the success. — Addison. 
 
 Mr. Betterton, although a superlative good actor, laboured 
 under an ill figure,' being clumsily made, having a great head, 
 short thick neck, stooped in the shoulders, and had fat short 
 arms which he rarely lifted higher than his stomach. His left 
 hand frequently 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 and a broad 
 face, a little pock-bitten, a corpulent body, with thick legs and 
 large feet. He was better to meet than to follow, for his 
 aspect was serious, venerable, 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 
 attention even from the fops and orange-girls. He was in- 
 capable of dancing even in a country dance, as was Mrs. 
 Barry, but their good qualities were more than equal to their 
 deficiencies. — Anthony Aston' s' '■'■ Brief Supplement!' 
 
 You may have seen a Hamlet perhaps who on the first ap- 
 pearance of his father's spirit has thrown himself into all the 
 straining vociferation requisite to express rage and fury ; and 
 the house has thundered applause, though the rnisguided 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 
 
 '^ Colley Cibber, on the other hand, says that Betterton's person was 
 suitable to his voice — -"more manly than sweet, not exceeding tlie middle 
 stature, inclining to be coi-pulpnt, of a serious and penetrating aspect, his 
 limbs nearer the atMetic than the delicate proportion, yet however formed, 
 there arose from the harmony of the whole a commanding mien of majesty 
 which the fairer-faced, or as Shakspeare calls them, the curled darlings of 
 his time, ever wanted something to be equal masters of. " 
 
 ^ This man, it has been said contemptuously, ' ' known by the name of 
 Tony Aston, was a very curious character. He was an attorney, and turned 
 actor, and being determined to follow the profession in its primitive style, he 
 resorted to all the principal towns in England with a performance he called 
 his medley, which was a farrago taken from different plays. His company 
 consisted of himself, his wife, and his son. He was very dexterous in the 
 exertion of his legal abilities, which was frequently called forth in defence 
 of his monopolizing towns, and he got such a character this way, and was 
 supposed to understand the spirit of the old laws respecting public exhibi- 
 tionr. so well, that he was permitted to speak his sentiments on a biU pending 
 at that time in the House of Commons, for the regidation of the stage." 
 He died 1753. Chetwood has written a memoir of him. 
 
1 6 Thomas Better ion. 
 
 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 limited only by filial reverence to inquire into the 
 suspected wrongs that may have '■aised him from his peaceful 
 tomb, and a desire to know what a spirit so seemingly dis- 
 tressed 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 amazement, 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 ghostly vision gave him, the bold- 
 ness of his expostulation was still governed by decency, manly, 
 but not braving — his voice never rising into that seeming 
 outrage or wild defiance of what he naturally revered. — Colley 
 Gibber. 
 
 Betterton was the greatest actor the English stage ever 
 possessed, with the exception perhaps of the more versatile 
 Garrick. Almost incredible accounts remain to us of the 
 effects produced by his performances. The magnetic influence 
 of tone and expression seemed to mesmerize an audience, and 
 make them the followers of his slightest intonation. Almost 
 without speaking he could let them into the workings of his 
 mind and anticipate his next motion, as if it arose firom their 
 own volition. — Blackwood's Magazine^ 1861. 
 
 Pepys does not speak much of Betterton, the chief performer 
 at the Portugal-street Play house.' The reason must be either 
 
 ' Portugal-street, limning parallel with the south side of Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, is the site of Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, sometimes styled tlie 
 ' ' Duke's Theatre. " The back or north front of it opened upon the south 
 side of Lincoln's Irm, then Portugal Row, on the site of the Museum of the 
 College of Surgeons. This theatre, which was built after a design by Sir 
 C. Wren, was opened in the spring of 1662 under a patent granted to Sir 
 William Davenant. — Jesse's " London." Keadere of theatrical history are 
 generally led to conclude that there was only one theatre in the Lincoln's 
 Inn quarter; but this is a mistake. There were at least two successive 
 ho\ises in two different places, though usually confounded under the title of 
 the " theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields." The fir.stwas in Gibbon's tennij- 
 court, in Vere-street, Clare-market.— //««/j " Town." The otlicr was liic 
 il--^)"" referred to by Jesse. — Ed. 
 
Thomas Better ton. 1 7 
 
 that Betterton played clitefly in tragedy, or that his comic 
 talent (which is probable) was not equal to his tragic. He 
 was the great actor of his time, as Garrick was of the last 
 centur}', and Mr. Kean lately. His most admired character 
 appears to have been that oi Hamlet. . . . .Betterton died old and 
 poor, rather, it should seem from misfortune than from im- 
 prudence. The actors in those times, though much admired, 
 were not rewarded as they have been since, nor received any- 
 thing like the modern salaries. His death is said to have been 
 hastened by tampering with the gout, in order to perform on 
 his benefit night. His person was rather manly than graceful. 
 He was a good-natured man, and, like Mohfere, would perform 
 when he was ill rather than hinder the profits of his brother- 
 actors. At Caen Wood, Hampstead, the seat of Lord Mans- 
 field, there is a portrait of him by Pope, who was an amateur 
 in painting. They became acquainted when the latter was 
 young and the actor old, and took such a liking to one 
 another that Pope is supposed to have had a hand in a 
 volume of pieces from Chaucer, purporting to have been 
 modernized by Betterton. — Leigh Hunt, " The Towjiy 
 
 The son of Charles I.'s cook was, for fifty-one years, the 
 pride of the English theatre. His acting was witnessed by 
 more than one old contemporary of Shakspeare — the poet's 
 younger brother being among them — he surviving till shortly 
 after the accession of Charles II. ; and a few of Bet- 
 terton's younger fellow-actors lived to speak of his great 
 glory to old stagers who were loquacious in the early days of 
 elderly men yet paying scot and lot among us.' The frozen- 
 out actors warmed into life and laughter again beneath the 
 sunshine of his presence. His dignity, his marvellous talent, 
 his versatility, his imperishable fame, are all well known and 
 acknowledged. His industry is indicated by the fact that he 
 
 ' In 1709 Mrs. Bracegirdle and Mrs. Bariy played in " Love for Love" at 
 Drury Lane, for Betterton's benefit. He stood forward, and whilst the fol- 
 lowing epilogue was spoken by Mrs. Bany, the two actresses clasped him 
 ronnd the waist : — 
 
 ". . . . So we, to foi-mer 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 scorn'd that any she should hold his back. 
 C 
 
iS Thomas Better ton. 
 
 created one hundred and thirty new characters ! Among them 
 were yaffier and Valentine, three Virginiuses, and Sir yohn 
 Brute. He was as mirthful in Fahtaff as he was majestic in 
 Alexander ; and the craft of his Ulysses, the grace and passion 
 of his Hamlet, the terrible force of his Othello, were not more 
 remarkable than the low comedy of his Old Bachelor, the 
 airiness of his Woodville, or the cowardly bluster of his Ther- 
 sites. The old actors who had been frozen out, and the new 
 who had much to learn, could not have rallied round a more 
 noble or a worthier chief; for Betterton was not a greater actor 
 than he was a true and honourable gentleman. Only for him 
 the old frozen- outs would have fared but badly. He enriched 
 himself and them, and, as long as he lived, gave dignity to his 
 profession. The humble lad, born in Tothill-street, before 
 monarchy and the stage went down, had a royal funeral in 
 Westminster Abbey, after dying in harness almost in sight of 
 the lamps. He deserved no less, for he was the king of an art 
 which had well-nigh perished in the Commonwealth times, and 
 he was a monarch who probably has never since had, alto- 
 gether, his equal. Off, as on the stage, he was exemplary in 
 his bearing ; true to every duty ; as good a country-gentleman 
 on his farm in Berkshire as he was perfect actor in town; 
 pursuing with his excellent wife the even tenor of his way j 
 not tempted by the vices of his time, not disturbed by its 
 poHtics ; not tippling like Underhill, not plotting and betray- 
 ing the plotters against William, like Goodman, nor carrying 
 letters for a costly fee between London and St. Germains, like 
 Scudamore. If there had been a leading player on the stage 
 in 1647, with the qualities, public and private, which distin- 
 guished Betterton, there perhaps would have been a less severe 
 
 But now, so age and frailty have ordained, 
 
 By two at once he's forced to be sustain'd. 
 
 You see what failing nature brings man to, 
 
 And yet, let none insult ; for aught we know, 
 
 She may not wear so well with some of you. 
 
 Though old, you'll find his strength is not yet iiass'd. 
 
 But tme as steel, he's metal to the last. 
 
 If better he perfonn'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 ?" &c. 
 
 ?45!)-Er' *^" '''^ ^'''"'' ''^^ *^'^ ^°^^'^ ^°""'' Jotason'i ert 
 
jfoseph Ashbiiry. 19 
 
 ordinance than that which inflicted so much misery on the 
 "frozen-out actors." — Cornhill Magazine, 1862. 
 
 There are so many vouchers for the merit of this extra- 
 ordinary actor that there would be no great difficulty in ascer- 
 taining or risk in asserting precisely what they were. I must 
 content, myself with saying that it has been unanimously 
 allowed, his mental and personal qualifications for the stage 
 were correct to perfection, and that, after a variety of argu- 
 ments 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. — DiMin^ 
 
 Joseph Ashbury. 
 
 1638-1720. 
 
 This worthy gentleman was born in London, the year 1638, 
 of an ancient family. His fa;ther married a near relation of 
 that great scholar and soldier Sir Walter Raleigh, who was first 
 gentleman to that Duke of Buckingham that was killed by 
 Lieutenant Felton in the reign of King Charles I. The 
 gentleman I am about to give an account of was sent very 
 young to Eton School, near Windsor, where he received a 
 genteel education, being very well instructed in classical 
 learning. After the death of his father, his friends procured 
 him a pair of colours in the army under the Duke of Ormond, 
 which was the first time of his coming into this kingdom 
 (Ireland) in the last year of Oliver Cromwell's administration. 
 Mr. Ashbury was one of the number of officers that seized the 
 castle of Dublin when Governor Jones was made prisoner, 
 and secured in behalf of King Charles II. He was made 
 lieutenant of foot of a company granted by that monarch to 
 
 • In a note appended to-this passage, Dibdin spealcs of having in his 
 youth been acquainted with old Steed, ;who had been many years prompter 
 of Covent Garden Theatre. From Steed, Dibdin derived much information 
 respecting the actors of a long-preceding epoch. It is remarkable that 
 Steed, who had seen Betterton perfonn, though he allowed him all the 
 merits praised by Gibber, affirmed that, "taking everything into considera- 
 tion, he was by no means equal to Garrick." Steed's authority imparts to 
 Dibdin's criticisms on bygone actors a value which they would not have, 
 were they based only on the testimonies of Gibber, Steele, and other ccn- 
 temporary writers. — Ed. 
 
 C 3 
 
20 yoseph Ashhtry. 
 
 the city of Dublin, in the year 1660 and 1662 ; the DuVe of 
 On-nond, the then lord lieutenant, made him one of the gentle- 
 men of his retinue, and deputy-master of the Revels under 
 John Ogilbey, Esq., some time after. In the year 1682, at the 
 death of the Master of the Revels, through Mr. Ashbur/s 
 interest ivith the Duke of Ormond, he was made Patentee, and 
 Master of the Revels in this kingdom (Ireland). His first wife 
 was sister to an eminent actor of that time, Mr. Richards, by 
 ■ whom he had two children, who died in their infancy j and 
 the mother of them being a very infirm woman, was not long 
 after the death of her second child before she left the world. 
 Mr. Ashbury continued a widower many years, till fixing his 
 eyes upon Miss Darling. By this lady he had two sons. 
 Mr. Ashbury was not only the principal actor in his time, 
 but the best teacher of the rudiments of that science in the 
 three kingdoms. I speak not from my own judgment, but 
 that of many others, as Mr. Wilks, Mr. Booth, Mr. Keene, 
 &c. Mr. Ashbury succeeded Mr. Darling as steward of the 
 King's Inns, a post of good profit. I had not the pleasure of 
 knowing this great man but till the latter part of his life ; yet 
 notwithstanding his great age, I have seen him perform several 
 parts with the utmost satisfaction, and though at his years it 
 could not be expected the fire of youth and vigour should 
 blaze out, yet truth and nature might be seen in a just light 
 His person was of an advantageous height, well-proportioned, and 
 manly, and, notwithstanding his great age, erect ; a countenance 
 that demanded a reverential awe j a full and meaning eye, 
 piercing though not in its full lustre. I have seen him acquit 
 himself in the part of Careless, in " The Comniittee," so well 
 that his years never struck upon remembrance. And his 
 person, figure, and manner in Dm Quixote were inimitable. 
 The use of a short cloak in former fashions on the stage seemed 
 habitual to him, and in comedy he seemed to wear it in 
 imagination, which often produced action, though not ungrace- 
 ful, particular and odd to many of the audience. This great 
 man was Master of the Revels to five monarchs of England— 
 viz., King Charles XL, King James II., King William, Queen 
 Anne, and Kmg George l.—Chetwood's "History of the Stage." 
 
21 
 
 Joseph Haines. 
 163S— i7o[. 
 
 The anecdotes related of this facetious comedian are innu 
 merable. Among those which are not so generally known is 
 the following, extracted from a work containing memoirs of his 
 life, dated 1701. Some idea of the character of the famous 
 tragedian Hart may be also gathered from it : — 
 
 "About this time (1673) there happened a small pique 
 between Mr. Hart and Joe, upon the account of his late nego- 
 tiation in France, and there spending the company's money to 
 so little purpose, or, as I may properly say, to no purpose at 
 all. There happened to be one night a play called " Cataline's 
 Conspiracy," wherein there was wanting a great number of 
 senators. Now Mr. Hart, being chief of the house, would 
 oblige Joe to dress for one of these senators, although his 
 salary, being fifty shillings a week, freed him from any such 
 obligation. But Mr. Hart, as I said before, being sole governor 
 of the playhouse, and at a small variance with Joe, commands 
 it, and the other must obey. Joe being vexed at the slight 
 Mr. Hart had put upon him, found out this method of being 
 revenged upon him. He gets a scaramouch dress, a large full 
 ruff, makes himself whiskers from ear to ear, puts on a long 
 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 comical figure 
 put all the house in an uproar, some laughing, 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 him- 
 self 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 
 smoaking ; the audience continued laughing ; Mr. Hart acting 
 find wondering at this unusual occasion of their mirth — some- 
 Limes thinking it some disturbance in the house ; again, that it 
 might be something amiss in his dress. At last, turning him- 
 self towards the scenes, he discovered Joe in the aforesaid 
 posture ; whereupon he immediately goes off the stage, swear- 
 
2 2 Eleanor Gwynne. 
 
 ing he would never set foot on it again unless Joe was immedi 
 ately turned out of doors ; which wag no sooner spoke than put 
 in practice.'"— i?. Wewitzer's '■^Dramatic Remains." 
 
 Eleanor Gwynne. 
 1642-1691. 
 
 To the King's House, and there saw the " Humorous Lieu 
 tenant," a silly play, I think ; only the spirit in it that grows 
 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 Cmlia to-day very fine, and did it pretty well ; _ I kissed her, 
 and so did my wife, and a mighty pretty soul she is. — Pepys^ _ 
 
 Guin,^ the indiscreetest and wildest creature that ever was in 
 
 ^ In other parts of this work I have called attention to the extraordinary 
 liberties taken with their audiences by actors. This joke of Haines, how- 
 ever, is mild compared to what was once done at a Dublin theatre. Peg 
 Woffingtou was acting "Lear" with Garrick ; in the part where the old King 
 recovers from his delirium, and sleeps with his head on Cordelia's lap, a 
 gentleman came forward from behind the scenes and threw his arms around 
 Peg's waist. This affront, which a modem audience would probably have 
 resented by destroying the interior of the theatre, seemed rather to entertain 
 the Dublin public. — Ed. 
 
 ^ From Pepys's entries a fair idea of Nell's histrionic powers may be 
 gathered. In 1666, he tells us that he saw a comical part done by Ndl, 
 "which is Florimel, that I never can hope to see the like done again by 
 man or woman. " This is on the 2nd of March ; but on the 7th, he dis- 
 covers that, as a dancer, Moll Davies is infinitely superior to NeU. On the 
 25th he sees Nell again, so acting "a merry part," "as cannot be better 
 done in nature." In April, 1667, he " saw pretty Nelly standing at her 
 lodgings' door in Drury-lane, in her smock sleeves and bodice, looking 
 upon one ; she seemed a mighty pretty creature. " In October, he went 
 into the " tireing-room" of the Kings House, and saw Nell dressing herself 
 . — Knipp was vrith her. "But Lord !" he cries, "to see how they were both 
 painted, would make a man mad, and did make me loathe them." "But 
 to see how Nell cursed for having so few people in the pit, was strange. " 
 In mad parts he finds her "beyond all imitation," but he finds fault with 
 her in tragedy, and more fault with her in modesty. ' ' Lord, her confidence !" 
 he exclaims, as she comes off the stage in boy's clothes, surrounded by men ; 
 whilst another time, he spies the jade Nell in an upper box, "a bold, 
 merry slut, who lay laughing there upon people.". — Ed. 
 
 ^ Thus spelt by Burnet in the edition of his " History of My Own Times" 
 before me. In the different portraits mentioned by Granger, she is thus 
 
Bleanor Gwynne. 23 
 
 a Court, continued to the end of the King's life in great favour, 
 and was maintained at a vast expense. The Duke of Bucking- 
 ham told me that when she was first brought to the King, she 
 asked only five hundred pounds a year, and the King refused 
 it. But when he told me this about four years after, he said 
 she had got of the King above sixty thousand pounds. She 
 acted all persons in so lively a manner, and was such a constant 
 diversion to the King, that even a new mistress could not drive 
 her away. But after all, he never treated her with the decencies 
 of a mistress.* — Burnet. 
 
 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. — Rochester. 
 
 Whilst we may safely reject as unfounded gossip many of the 
 stories associated with the name of Nell Gwynne, we cannot 
 refuse belief to the various proofs of kind-heartedness, liberality, 
 and — taking into consideration her subsequent power to do 
 harm — absolute goodness of a woman mingling (if we may 
 believe a passage in Pepys) from her earliest years m the most 
 depraved scenes of a most dissolute age. The life of Nell 
 Gwynne, from the time of her connexion with Charles II., 
 to that of her death, proved that error had been forced upon 
 her by circumstances, rather than indulged from choice.— 
 Douglas J^errold. 
 
 described : Madam Eleanora Gwynn ; Madam Eleanor Gwynn ; Madame 
 Ellen Gwynn ; Madam Ellen Gwin j Mrs. Ellen Gwynn. Moll Davies, 
 frequently mentioned by Pepys, was for some time Nell's rival with the 
 King. She was comedian in the Duke of York's Theatre. She had one 
 daughter by Charles named Mary, who took the surname of Tudor, and 
 was in 1687 married to the son of Sir Francis Ratcliffe, who became Earl 
 of Der\ventwater. When the King turned her off, he settled a pension upon 
 her of a thousand pounds a year. It is said that he fell in love with her on 
 hearing her sing the ballad of " My lodging is on the cold ground." — Ed. 
 
 1 That true gentleman, Eielyn, is bitter against "J Irs. Nellie, as they 
 called an impudent comedia'-i." See his " Memoirs." 
 
24 Eleanor Gwynne. 
 
 Nelly, who was called the " poor man's friend" was literally 
 a general favourite, and not undeservedly ; for bred as she had 
 been, as an orange-girl, amidst the haunts of dissipation, vice 
 was more her destiny than her blame. She was really a good- 
 hearted woman, and in the days of her prosperity showed her- 
 self grateful to her old friends, among whom she had the 
 honour of ranking Otway and Dryden. She was faithful to the 
 King, never pestered him about politics, and was never the 
 creature of Ministers. Once when Charles had ordered an ex- 
 travagant service of plate, as a present to the Duchess of 
 Portsmouth, from a jeweller in Cheapside, an immense crowd 
 collected about the shop, cursing the Duchess, and wishing 
 that the plate were melted and poured down her throat. But 
 they added, "What a pity it should not be bestowed on Madam 
 Ellen !" The mistaken tradition of Ellen Gwynne founding 
 Chelsea Hospital probably arose from her character of benevo- 
 lence, as well as from her frequently visiting Chelsea, where 
 her mother Uved many years, and where the old woman died, 
 in consequence of falling one day into the Thames, when look- 
 ing out of her window. What had made her top-heavy is not 
 recorded. — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 I have seen in my time at least fifty portraits of Nell G\vynne, 
 of all sizes and complexions, black, brown, and fair. It may 
 be well to inform the proprietors of these soi-disant Nell 
 Gwynnes, that the real Nell Gwynne (and we know but of one) 
 was a little, sprightly, fair-haired woman, with laughing blue 
 eyes ; round, but beautiful face, and a tumed-up nose. I have 
 met but with one portrait answering this description, and 
 having therefore some pretensions to authenticity. It is in the 
 possession of General Grosvenor, and is the original of the 
 well-known print by Thane. — New Monthly Magazine, 1826.' 
 
 She was low in stature, and what the French call mignonne and 
 piquante, well-formed, handsome, but red-haired, and rather 
 
 ' The "initiated" will not require to be told the reason of my copious 
 transcriptions from the early numbers of the New Monthly Magazine. But 
 there are others who might demand a reason ; to them I reply, that among 
 the contributors to that magazine during the years in which it will be found 
 quoted, were Theodore Hook, Thomas Hood, Judge Talfourd, HazUtt, 
 Charles Lamb, Poole, the author of "Paul Pry," O'Keefe, the "Stage 
 Veteran," Leigh Himt, Thomas Campbell, Cyras Redding, and many others 
 whose names are intimately associated with the dramatic literature of their 
 time.— Ed. 
 
Eleanor Gwynne. 25 
 
 emlonpohit; of the enjouk she was a complete mistress. Airy, 
 fantastic, and sprightly, she sang, danced, and was exactly made 
 for acting light, showy characters, filling them up, as far as they 
 went, most effectually. On the front of Bagnigge Wells, one 
 of her country houses, where she entertained the King with 
 concerts, there was a bust of her, and though it was wretchedly 
 executed, it confirmed the correctness of Lel/s pencil. She 
 had remarkably lively eyes, but so small they were almost in- 
 visible when she laughed ; and a foot, the least of any woman 
 in England. — The Manager's Note-Book. 
 
 Poor Nell Gwynne, in a quarrel with one of the Marshalls, 
 who reproached her with being the mistress of Lord Buck- 
 hurst, said she was mistress but of one man at a time, though 
 she had been brought up in a bad house, " to fill strong waters 
 to the gentlemen ■" whereas her rebuker, though a clergyman's 
 daughter, was the mistress of three. This celebrated actress, 
 who was as excellent in certain giddy parts of comedy as she 
 was inferior in tragedy, was small of person, but very pretty, 
 with a good-humoured face, and eyes that winked when she 
 laughed. She is the ancestress of the ducal family of St. 
 Albans, who are thought to have retained more of the look and 
 complexion of Charles II. than -any other of his descendants. 
 Beauclerc, Johnson's friend, was like him ; and the black com- 
 plexion is still in vigour. The King recommended her to his 
 brother with his last breath, begging him not. to let poor Nelly 
 starve. Burnet says she was first introduced to the King by Buck- 
 ingham to supplant the Duchess of Cleveland ; but others tell us 
 he first noticed her in consequence of a hat of the circumference ■ 
 of a coach-wheel, in which Dryden made her deliver a prologue, 
 as a set-off to an enormous hat of Pistol's at the other house, 
 and which convulsed the spectators with laughter. If Nelly 
 retained a habit of swearing, which was probably taught her 
 when a child (and it is clear enough from Pepys that she did), 
 the poets did not discourage her. One of her epilogues by 
 Dryden began in the following startling manner : — 
 
 " Hold, are you mad, you d — , confounded dog? 
 I am to rise and speak the epilogue !" 
 
 Leigh Hunt, " The Town." 
 
26 
 
 Thomas Britton. 
 
 1650-1714. 
 
 (The Musical Small-coal Man.) 
 
 It had always been a custom to entertain companies at 
 private houses with minstrelsy, but music in parts being now 
 brought to great perfection, concerts were set forward, to no 
 great effect however, till a man of the name of Britton, a most 
 singular instance of natural endowment, who attained to per- 
 fection in everything he studied, and who seems to have had a 
 most scientific mind, established, under very forbidding circum- 
 stances, a regular concert. This Britton, a small-coal man, in 
 an obscure part of the town, in a room without ornament or 
 accommodation, and more like a prison than a receptacle for 
 decent auditors, attracted all the fashion of the age, who 
 flocked regularly every week to taste a delight of which the 
 English were now so particularly fond that it was considered 
 as vulgar then not to have attended Britton's concert as it 
 would be now not to have heard Banti. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 The eccentric Thomas Britton, better known by the name of 
 tlie " Musical Small-coal Man," though living in an old and 
 ruinous house in Aylesbury-street, Clerkenwell, attracted as 
 polite an audience to his concerts as ever frequented the 
 opera. The ceiling of the room in which his concert was 
 held was so low that a tall man could scarcely stand erect 
 in it, the staircase was outside the house, and could scarcely 
 be ascended without crawling ; yet ladies of the first rank in 
 the kingdom forgot the difiiculty with which they ascended the 
 steps in the pleasure of Britton's concert, which was attended 
 by the most distinguished professors. Of the origin of 
 Britton's concert, we have an account \vritten by a near 
 neighbour of his, the facetious Ned Ward, the author of the 
 " London Spy," and many doggrel verses, who at tliat time 
 kept a pubhc-house m Clerkenwell. In one of his pubUcations, 
 entitled " Satirical Reflections on Clubs," he has bestowed a 
 whole chapter on the Small-coal man's club. He says, " The 
 club was first begun, or at least confirmed, by Sir ' Roger 
 L'Estrange, a very musical gentleman, who had a tolerable per- 
 fection on the bass viol." Ward further says, "that the 
 attachment of Sir Roger and other ingenious gentiemen, lovers 
 
William Mountford. 2 7 
 
 of the muses, to Britton, arose from the profound regard he 
 had in general to all manner of literature ; that the prudence 
 of his deportment to his betters procured him great respect ; 
 and that rAen of the greatest wit, as well as some of the highest 
 quality, honoured his musical society with their company." 
 Britton was indeed so much distinguished that when passing 
 along the streets in his blue linen frock, and with his sack of 
 small-coal on his back, he was frequently accosted with such 
 expressions as these : " There goes the famous small-coal man, 
 who is a lover of learning, a performer of music, and a com- 
 panion for gentlemen." — Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 William Mountford. ^ 
 1660-1692. 
 
 The characters supported by Mountford pertain almost 
 altogether to an obsolete theatrical repertory. He flourished 
 in days when the ranting tragedies of Nat Lee, the jinghng 
 plays of Dryden, the ribald comedies of Mrs. Behn, Etherege, 
 and others, held firm possession of the stage. In Mountford's 
 list of characters appears Macduff, played probably to the 
 Macbeth of Betterton ; but there is no evidence of his having 
 sustained any other Shaksperian part. His most important 
 ti-agic characters seem to have been Alexander and Castalio 
 in Otway's tragedy of the " Orphan." Gibber highly applauds 
 
 ' Mountford was murdered by Captain Hill. The actor used to play 
 Alexander to Mrs. Bracegirdle's Statira, which made Hill, who was Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle's unaccepted lover, jealous. The Captain and Lord Mohun 
 having failed to abduct Mrs. Bracegirdle, Hill swore he would be revenged 
 on Mountford. He met him in the street, and boxed the actor's ear. 
 Mountford, with an oath, demanded to know "what that was for?" Upon 
 this (according to Mountford's dying statement), Hill drew his sword and 
 ran it through the actor's body. Hill fled ; Lord Mohun, who was con- 
 cerned, was tried for his life, but acquitted on insufficient evidence. A full 
 account of this broil will be found in Leigh Hunt's "Town." 
 
 In the ' ' Records of a Stage Veteran" is the following: — ' ' It was remembered 
 by old actors as a tradition current sixty years ago, that the motive for the 
 murder of Mountford was not jealousy of Mrs. Bracegirdle's attachment to 
 him, but revenge for his having gained and betrayed the affections of a lady 
 of exceedingly high rank in this country, and that one of the children whom 
 Mrs. Mountford brought up as her own, was in fact the fruits of the amour 
 in question. That child was living in 1730, yet Gibber, who speaks at 
 length of Mountford, does not allude to it, " — Ed. 
 
28 Mrs. Anne Bracegirdle. 
 
 his Sparkish, in Wycherley's " Country Wife," as an evidence 
 of the variety of his genius. In this part he is said to have 
 entirely changed himself, and at once thrown off the man of 
 sense for the brisk, vain, rude, and lively coxcomb, the false, 
 flashy pretender to wit, and the dupe of his own sufficiency. 
 His excellence in Sir Courtly Nice, in Crowne's comedy of that 
 name, is reputed to have been still greater. — Dutto?i Cook. 
 
 Mountford has a very warm character given of him by those 
 who knew him. His person was very fine and his voice 
 melodious and winning. Steed used to compare him to Bany, 
 but considered him as a superior actor, for that he was equally 
 excellent when as the conqueror of the world he sued to 
 Statira for pardon, and when in Mirabel he gave additional 
 brilliancy to the bon-vwts of Congreve. He is said to have 
 had so much in him of the agreeable, that when he played Mrs. 
 Belin's' dissolute character of the Rover, it was remarked by 
 many, and particularly by Queen Mary, that it was dangerous 
 to see him act, he made vice so alluring. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Mr. William Mountford was accounted an excellent come- 
 dian ; and Mr. Wilks often confessed he was the glass he ever 
 adjusted himself by. — Chehvood. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Bracegirdle, 
 
 1663-1748. 
 
 It is a funny trait of the sword-wearers that they could extol 
 the virtue which they had ineffectually attempted to destroy. 
 We see this in the case of Mrs. Bracegirdle, that Diana of the 
 stage, before whom Congreve and Lord Lovelace, at the head 
 of a troop of bodkined fops, worshipped in vain. The noblest 
 of the troop, and it reckoned the Dukes of Devonshire and 
 Dorset, the Earl of Hahfax, and half a dozen delegates from 
 
 ^ Mrs. Belin, variously called Astrea (by Pope), Aphara (by Lantrbaine), 
 and Aphra (by her friends), and who died in 1689, was the writer of seven- 
 teen plays and several novels, on one of which Thomas Southerne founded 
 liis play (lamous in its age) of " Oroonoko." She was a woman of genius, 
 but in her morals and writings licentious beyond the privileges of descrip- 
 tion. This was the lady who in a dedication told Nell Gwynne, >hat "so 
 excellent and perfect a creature as yourself differs only from the divine 
 powers in this : llie offerings made to yuu ought to be worthy of you, whilst 
 they accept the will alone." — Ln. 
 
Mrs. Anne Bracegirdle. 29 
 
 each rank of the peerage amongst its members, were wont at 
 the cofifee-house and over a bottle, to extol the Gibraltar-like 
 virtue, if I may so speak, of this incomparable woman. 
 " Come," said Halifax, " you are always praising the virtue ; 
 why don't you reward the lady who will not sell it ? I propose' 
 a subscription, and there are two hundred guineas, pour en- 
 courager les autres." Four times that amount was raised, and 
 with it the nobles, with their swords in their hands, waited on 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle, who accepted their testimonial, as it was 
 intended, in honour of her virtue. What should we now think 
 
 if-; ? But this is a delicate matter, and I might make a 
 
 mistake. I will only add therefore, that had Mrs. Bracegirdle 
 been rewarded for her charity, the recompense would have 
 been at least as appropriate. For it is true of her, that when 
 the poor saw her they blessed her, and we may add, she richly 
 merited the well-earned benedictions. — Dr. Doran. 
 
 Her fascination was such that it was the fashion among the 
 gay and young to have a taste or- tendrc for Mrs. Bracegirdle. 
 From the important characters that were entrusted to her in 
 tragedy, it is presumed that she was a good tragic actress ;' but 
 Gibber does not say so ; and her chief charm seems to have 
 lain in the lighter drama. — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 She was of a lovely height, with dark brown hair and eye- 
 brows, black sparkling eyes, and a fresh, blushy complexion ; 
 and whenever she exerted herself, had an involuntary flushing 
 in her breast, neck, and face, having continually a cheerful 
 aspect, and a fine set of even white teeth : never making an 
 exit but that she left the audience in an imitation of her pleasant 
 countenance. — Aston. 
 
 She inspired the best authors to write for her ; and two of 
 them (Rowe and Congreve) when they gave her a lover in a 
 play, seemed palpably to plead their own passions and make 
 their private court to her in fictitious characters. — CoUey 
 Cibber. 
 
 It was said of her that in the crowded theatre she had as . 
 many lovers as she had male spectators. Yet no lover, how- t 
 ever rich, however high in rank, had prevailed on her to be his 
 mistress. Those who are acquainted with the parts which she 
 
 * Garrick used to say that he once heard her repeat some lines from 
 Shakspeare in a way that oinvinced him her reputation was wholly un- 
 deserved. — Ed. 
 
,o Mrs. Anne Bracegirdle. 
 
 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 dehcacy. She seems to have 
 been a cold, vain, interested coquette, who perfectly understood 
 how much the influence of her charms was increased by the 
 fame of a severity which cost her nothing, and who could 
 venture to flirt with a succession of admirers in the just confi- 
 dence that no flame which she might kindle in them would 
 thaw her own ice. — Macaulay. 
 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle seems to have been the first actress who 
 succeeded in estabHshing anything like a reputation for private 
 worth and propriety of conduct. Mrs. Bracegirdle's career,_ii 
 not wholly unimpeachable, presented an approximation to vir- 
 tuous living,' worthy, all the circumstances of her case_ being 
 considered, of very high praise. Gibber, who wrote in the 
 lady's lifetime, was her old friend and playfellow, and, it may 
 be supposed, was unlikely to give her needless offence, says, 
 somewhat reservedly, that she was not unguarded in her private 
 character. But he hastens to add that this discretion contri- 
 buted not a little to make her the darling of the theatre — for, 
 although she was a sort of universal passion, scarce an audience 
 that saw her being less than half of them her lovers, without a 
 suspected favourite among them, and although under the 
 highest temptation, her constancy in resisting them served but 
 to increase the number of her admirers. — Dutton Cook. 
 
 ' How an "approximation to virtuous living" can be worthy of liigh 
 praise is not readily seen. Degrees of virtue are surely inadmissible in a 
 female. Either a woman is virtuous or she is not. It is admitted that Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle was not virtuous. For what, tlien, was she deserving of liigh 
 praise? You may qualify your censure in proportion to awoman's behaviour 
 of immorality ; but you cannot surely praise her for any semblance of 
 decency with which she may choose to mask her immorality. Contemporary 
 testimony seems to point out Mrs. Bracegirdle as Congreve's mistress, and 
 the conjecture, if conjecture it be, seems strengthened by the poet's legacy 
 of, 200/. Bellchamber, in his edition of Gibber, considers her to have been 
 Congreve's mistress, and pronounces her intrigue vrith Mountford indispur 
 table. Macaulay, in his essays, strongly inclines to this opinion. In 
 Spence's Anecdotes, Dr. Young is made to say, " Congreve was very inti- 
 mate with Mrs. Bracegirdle, and lived in tlie same street, his house vei^ 
 near hers, until his acquaintance with the young Duchess of Marlborough. 
 /fe thai quitted that house." And Nicholas Rowe, in a copy of verses, 
 exhorts Lord Scarsdale to 
 
 "Publicly espouse the dame, 
 And say, confound the town. " — Ed. 
 
Benjamin Johnson. 31 
 
 Captain Hill, smitten with the charms of the beautiful Mrs. 
 B.ra.cegirdle, and anxious to marry her at all hazards, determined 
 to carry her ofif, and for this purpose hired a hackney-coach 
 witji six horses, and a half-dozen of soldiers to aid him in the 
 storm. The coach with a pair of horses (the four leaders being 
 in waiting elsewhere) took its station opposite my Lord Craven's 
 house in Drury Lane, by which door Mrs. Bracegirdle was to 
 pass on her way from the theatre. As she passed, in company 
 of her mamma and a friend, Mr. Page, the captain seized her 
 by the hand, the soldiers hustled Mr. Page, and attacked him 
 sword in hand, and Captain Hill and his noble friend (Lord 
 Mohun) endeavoured to force Madam Bracegirdle into the 
 coach. Mr. Page called for help; the population of Drury 
 Lane rose ; it was impossible to effect the capture ; and bidding 
 the soldiers go about their business and the coach to drive off. 
 Hill let go of his prey sulkily, and he waited for other opportu- 
 nities of revtTig&.-^Thackeray. 
 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle — a name that has always been mentioned 
 with great respect, both on account of her public merit and 
 her private virtues — ^rendered herself a valuable ornament to the 
 theatre and to society. She had many admirers, and authors, 
 when they have vied with each other in scenes of tenderness, 
 are said to have written them only to make their court to her. 
 As to her acting, both authors and performers courted the 
 assistance of her talepts, which were universal. She equally 
 delighted in melting tenderness and playful coquetry, in Statira 
 or Millamani, and even at an advanced age, when she played 
 Angelica in " Love for Love," for Betterton's benefit, she re- 
 tained all her powers of pleasing. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Benjamin Johnson. 
 
 1665-1742. 
 
 Benjamin Johnson, commonly called Ben Johnson, was bred 
 a painter, where his employment led him to paint under his 
 master the scenes for the stage ; but he took more pleasure in 
 hearing the actors rehearse than in his pencil or colours ; and 
 as he used to say in his merry mood, " Left the saint's occupa- 
 tion to take that of a sinner." He arrived to as great a perfection 
 in acting as his namesake did in poetry. He seemed to be 
 proud to wear that eminent poet's double name, being more 
 
22 Henry N orris. 
 
 particularly great in all that author's plays that were usually 
 performed— viz., JF^jj/ in the play of " Bartholomew Fair," Cm-. 
 baccio in the " Fox," Morose in the " Silent Woman," and Ana- 
 nias in the " PAc\vtm\%\.."—Chetwood. 
 
 Ben Johnson excelled greatly in all his namesake's comedies, 
 then frequently acted. He was of all comedians the chastest 
 and closest observer of nature. Johnson never seemed to 
 know that he was before an audience ; he drew his character 
 as the poet designed it. To form some idea of Johnson, the 
 reader must call to mind the simplicity of Weston. — T. Davies. 
 
 Henry N orris, i 
 
 1665-1734. 
 
 This natural comedian was born in Salisbury Court, near the 
 spot where the theatre was afterwards erected that went by the 
 
 nameofDorsetGarden Theatre Though a diminutive figure, 
 
 there were many parts that he excelled in — viz., Bariiaby Brittle 
 in the "Wanton Life," &c. I remember when Mr. Norris was 
 in his decline, Mr. Gibber senior made some alterations in the 
 play and performed the part himself; Mrs. Oldfield that oi Mrs. 
 Brittle. But she complained that she could not perform it 
 with that spirit with him as she did with little Norris, as she 
 called him. When I asked her the reason, she replied, " Cuck- 
 oldom did not sit so easy on Gibber's figure as it did upon that 
 of Norris, who seemed formed by nature to be one." The 
 mother of this little great comedian was one of the first women 
 that came on the stage as an actress ; for some time after the 
 restoration of King Chaiies II., young, smooth-faced men per- 
 formed the women's parts. That humorous monarch coming 
 before his usual time to Shakspeare's " Hamlet," sent tlie 
 facetious Earl of Rochester to know the reason of their delaj 
 who brought word back that " the queen was not quite shaved." 
 " Ods fish !" (his usual exclamation) " I beg her majesty's 
 pardon; we'll wait till her barber has done with her." .... Mr. 
 Norris spoke tragedy exceedingly knowing in the different 
 passions, though he never performed any part in the serious 
 cast; for notwithstanding his judgment, on the London theatres 
 
 ' He was known by the nickname of "Jubilee Dicky.' 
 
Norris — Hai-t. 33 
 
 his figure must have made tlie sentiments ridiculous. — Chei- 
 wood.'^ 
 
 Norris,' whose mother was the earliest English actress, must 
 have been, as well as Nokes, an actor like Weston. Uncon- 
 scious himself that he did anything more than utter, his audiences 
 were constantly in a roar. In all characters of inveterate sim- 
 plicity, he was exactly what he represented. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 [The following actors belong to this period. They were 
 all distinguished for their various excellences; but in com- 
 parison with others who were their contemporaries, such 
 few testimonies to their abilities have been transmitted, that 
 it has been thought best to group them in the following 
 order : — ] 
 
 Hart's first appearance was at the Red Bull Theatre in 
 1659. "The best compliment ever known to have been paid 
 lo Hart," says Leigh Hunt, "is an anecdote recorded of Bet- 
 terton. Betterton acted Alexander after Hart's time; and 
 ' being at a loss,' says Da vies, * to recover a particular emphasis 
 of that performer which gave a force to some interesting situa- 
 tion of the part, he applied for information to the players who 
 stood near him. At last one of the lowest of the company re- 
 peated the line exactly in Hart's key. Betterton thanked him 
 heartily, and put a piece of money into his hand, as a reward 
 for so acceptable a service.' Hart had the reputation of being 
 the first lover of Nell Gwynne, and one of the hundreds of the 
 
 ^ Chetwood was for many years prompter of Drury-lane. To his little 
 work on the stage, which is full of anecdote, besides containing many m- 
 teresting memoirs of actors of whom nothing would be otherwise known, 
 "all those," says Dibdin, "who have written on the subject of the stage 
 have been materially indebted. " — Ed. 
 
 * There was another Norris, an actor who died in 1776, and of whom, 
 or rather of whose widow, who became Mrs. Barry, the following singular 
 story is told : — "Twelve years after Norris's death, Mrs. Barry was acting 
 in the town in which he died the character of Calista in the ' Fair Peni- 
 tent.' In the last act of the tragedy, where Calista lays her hand upon 
 the skull, she was suddenly seized with an involuntary shuddering ; she 
 fainted, and was taken to her lodgings ; during the night her illness increased, 
 and on the following day, recovering her senses, she anxiously asked whence 
 the skull had been procured which had been used on the preceding night. 
 Upon inquiry, the sexton told her it was the skull of a Mr. Norris, an actor, 
 who was buried in the comer of the churchyard. It proved to be her hus- 
 band. The shock killed her ; she died six weeks afterwards." This storj 
 is given by Oxberry. — Ed. 
 
 D 
 
54 Sand ford — Nokes — Leigh. 
 
 Duchess of Cleveland." In Pepys's "Diary" the reader will 
 find frequent mention of Hart. 
 
 Michael Mohun (or Moone, as Pepys writes his name) 
 ''appears," we are told, to have excelled in the ferocious 
 parts of tragedy. Little is known of this actor, who was, how- 
 ever, held in great estimation by his contemporaries. 
 
 Sand FORD, according to Charles Dibdin, "is supposed to 
 have been the completest and most natural performer of a 
 villain that ever existed. One would think, had it been pos-^ 
 sible that Shakspeare, when he made King yohn excuse his 
 intention of perpetrating the death of Arthur, by his comments 
 on Hiiberfs face, by which he saw the assassin in his mind, had 
 Sandford in idea, for he was rather deformed, and had a most 
 forbidding countenance. The town, therefore, though the 
 private character of this actor was perfectly amiable, could not 
 endure him in any part in which there was the remotest simi- 
 litude to honour or fair dealing." 
 
 Nokes is described as an actor " of so plain and palpable a 
 simplicity, so perfectly his own, that he was as diverting in 
 his common speech as on the stage. It is told of him that a 
 nobleman hearing him relate to the performers behind the 
 .scenes a conversation that he had been witness of the day 
 before, asked if he was repeating a new part. Nokes, it is 
 said, was so perfectly original, that Estcourt, with all those 
 powers of mimickry for which he was so famous, could not 
 batch the, slightest glimpse of him." 
 
 John Leigh, who was bom in 1689, and died in 1726, is 
 praised as " having been fraught with humour of a luxuriant kind. 
 He was full of variety, and perfectly just to whatever character 
 he represented." Underhill, of whom Tom Davies has 
 written, " was something," says Dibdin, " between Nokes and 
 Leigh. He was true to nature in his acting both from adventi- 
 tious endowments and good sense. He performed those parts 
 which, though they are considered secondary in plays, require 
 very frequently more judgment than those which are called 
 principal." 
 
 Goodman, the comedian, who left the stage towards the close 
 of the seventeenth century, was originally a Cambridge student, 
 celebrated for his extravagance in dress, and for his being ex- 
 pelled for cutting and defacing the picture of the Duke of 
 Monmouth, Chancellor of the University. He took to the 
 stage, and was successful ; but his salary was not sufficient to 
 
Goodman. i c 
 
 enable him to dress as he liked, and consequently he " was 
 compelled," as he himself said, "to take the air." The light 
 comedian, when the play was over, mounted a horse, turned 
 highwayman, and was brought thereby so near to the gallows, 
 that it was only the sign-manual of James II. that saved his 
 neck. The famous Duchess of Cleveland — " my Duchess," as 
 Goodman used to call her — ought not to have left her handsome 
 favourite in such a mean condition. His condition was so 
 mean that he and a fellow comedian, named Griffin, lived in 
 one room, shared the same bed, and had but one shirt between 
 them. This they wore alternately. It happened that one of 
 them had to pay a visit to a lady, and wished to wear the shirt 
 out of his turn ; and this wish so enraged the other, that a 
 fierce battle ensued, which ended, like many other battles, in 
 the destruction of the prize contended for, and the mutual 
 damage of the combatants. — Dr. Doran. 
 
 He was one of the Alexanders of his time, but does not 
 appear to have been a great actor. He was a dashing, impu- 
 dent fellow, who boasted of his having taken " an airing" on 
 the road to recruit his purse.^ He was expelled from Cam- 
 bridge for cutting and defacing the portrait of the Duke of 
 Monmouth, Chancellor of the University, but not loyal 
 enough to his father to please Goodman. James II. pardoned 
 the loyal highwayman, which Goodman (in Gibber's hearing) 
 said, " was doing him so particular an honour, that no man 
 could wonder if his acknowledgment had carried 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 now no way to get home the life he was out, upon his 
 account, but by being under the same obligations to King 
 William." The meaning of this is understood to be that 
 Goodman offered to assassinate William, in consequence of his 
 having had a pardon from James ; but the plot not succeeding, 
 he turned king's evidence against James, in order to secure a 
 pardon from William. This " pretty fellow" was lately so easy 
 in his circumstances, owing it is supposed to the delicate 
 Cleveland, that he used to say he would never act Alexander 
 
 1 When Gibber was told, on tis salary being reduced, that he had even 
 then more than Goodman received, who was a better actor : " That may 
 be," said Gibber, "but you will please to recoUect that Goodman was 
 forced to go upon the highway for a livelihood. " — Ed, 
 
 D 1 
 
^6 Richard Estcourt. 
 
 the Great but when he was certain that his " Duchess" would 
 be in the box to see him. — Leigh Hunt} 
 
 [Among other actors of this period were Keen, Griffith, Brown 
 Cross, and Trefusis, all spoken of as respectable, and even 
 eminent in their different walks.] 
 
 Richard Estcourt 
 
 1668-1713. 
 
 Estcourt, the comedian — or mimic rather — for like most 
 players who devote themselves to mimickry, which is a kind of 
 caricature portrait-painting, his comedy, or general humour, 
 was inferior to it. He was, however, a man of wit as well as a 
 mimic ; and in spite of a talent which seldom renders men 
 favourites in private, was so much regarded that when the 
 Beefsteak Club was set up (which a late author says must not 
 Ije confounded with the Beefsteak Club held in Covent Garden 
 Theatre and the Lyceum"), Estcourt was appointed p?-om<editore, 
 or caterer, and presented, as a badge of distinction, with a 
 small gridiron of gold, which he wore about his neck fastened 
 to a green ribbon. He is said at one time to have been a 
 tavern-keeper, in which quality (unless it was in the other) 
 Parnell speaks of him in the beginning of one of his poems : — 
 
 " Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine, 
 A noble meal bespoke xis." 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 Gibber says, Estcourt was so amazing and extraordinary a 
 mimic, that no man nor woman, from the coquette to the privy 
 councillor, ever moved or spoke before him, that he would 
 not carry their voice, look, mien, and motion into another 
 company. But this, however, was the boundary of his merit ; 
 and though he is said to have written notes on the part of 
 
 ^ The reader will compare Hunt's account of Goochnan's "circum- 
 stances" with Dr. Doran's. — Ed. 
 
 ^ Lambert, the scene-painter, when preparing his designs for a panto- 
 mime or new spectacle, would often take his chop or tleak cooked on the 
 German stove rather tan quit his occupation for the >?i:perior accommoda- . 
 tion of a neighbouring tavern. Certain of his visitors, men of taste, struch 
 with the novftlty of the thing, perhaps, or tempted by the savoury dish, 
 took a knife and fork with Lambert, and enjoyed the treat. Hence the 
 origin of t)-« Beefstealc Club. — Wine and IValnuti, 
 
Richard Estcourt. 3 7 
 
 Falstaff, describing the true spirit of the humour, and the tone, 
 look, and gesture with which it ought to be delivered ; yet 
 .then he came on the stage there was a flatness and insipidity 
 in his acting that showed he could greatly conceive, but had 
 not the power to execute. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 The best man that I know of for heightening the revel-gaiety 
 of a company is Estcourt, whose jovial humour diffuses itself 
 from the highest person at an entertainment to the meanest 
 waiter.' Merry tales, accompanied with apt gestures and hvely 
 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 person he represents,- but 
 which, taking from the gravity of the character, adds to the 
 agreeableness of it. This pleasant fellow gives one some idea 
 of the ancient Pantomime, who is said to have given the 
 audience in dumb show an exact idea of any character or 
 passion, or an intelligible relation of any publick occurrence, 
 with no other expression than that of his looks and gestures. — 
 Sir Richard Steele. 
 
 Richard Estcourt, bom at Tewkesbury in 168S, and 
 educated in the Latin school there, stole from home at the age 
 of fifteen to join a travelling company of comedians at Wor- 
 cester, and, to avoid detection, made his first appearance in 
 women's clothes as Roxaiia, in " Alexander the Great." He 
 was discovered, however, pursued, brought home, carried to 
 London, and bound prentice to an apothecary in Hatton- 
 garden. He escaped again, wandered about England, went to 
 Ireland, and there obtained credit as an actor ; then returned 
 to London, and appeared at Drury-lane, where his skill as a 
 mimic enabled him to perform each part in the manner of the 
 actor who had obtained chief credit by it. His power of 
 mimickry made him very diverting in society ; and as he had 
 natural politeness with a sprightly wit, his company was sought 
 and paid for at the entertainments of the great. " Dick Est- 
 court" was a great favourite with the Duke of Marlborough, 
 and when men of wit and rank joined in establishing the Beef- 
 steak Club, they made Estcourt their providore, with a small 
 gold gridiron for badge, hung round his neck by a green ribbon. 
 
 1 Tie was the author of a comedy called "The Fair Example," and an 
 inteilude, "Prunella." — Ed. 
 
38 George Powell. 
 
 Estcourt was a writer for the stage, as well as an actor.— 
 Henry Morley. 
 
 Mr. Estcourt was the original Sergeant Kite, and every 
 night of performance entertained the audience with a variety 
 of litde catches and flights of humour,, that pleased all but 
 his critics. He was a great favourite with the late Duke 
 of Marlborough, whose fame he celebrated in several out-of- 
 the-way witty ballads. He was author of a comedy called 
 " The Wife's Excuse ; or. Cuckolds Make Themselves," and 
 acted at the Theatre Royal in the year 1706 ; but, as I have 
 been informed, with moderate success. Another litde piece 
 was produced by him called " Prunella," a burlesque upon the 
 Itahan operas then stole into fashion, too much supported by 
 the excellent voice and judgment of Mrs. Tofts.' — CJi-etwood' s 
 " Stage." 
 
 George Powell. 
 
 1669-1714. 
 
 He was a good actor, spoilt by intemperance, who came upon 
 the stage sometimes warm with Nantz brandy, and courted his 
 heroines so furiously that Sir John Vanbrugh said they were 
 almost in danger of being conquered on the spot. His last new 
 part of any note was, in \i\i. Fortius in Addison's "Cato." He 
 lived on for a few ^vretched months, lost to the public but much 
 sought by sheriffs' officers. — Henry Morley. 
 
 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 by this artifice. 
 — Addison^ 
 
 1 Mis. Tofts, a famous singer of her day, was the daughter of a person in 
 the family of Bishop Burnet. In 1709 she quitted the stage mad, but 
 recovered, and married Mr. Smith. Her madness, however, returned, 
 taking the form of identifying herself with the Royal heroines whom she 
 had personated. She died 1758. — Ed. 
 
 ^ To this is appended the following apologetic note :—" Having spoken 
 of Mr. Powell as sometimes raising himself applause from the ill taste Of 
 an audience, I must do him the justice to own that he is excellently fomied 
 for a tragedian, and, when he pleases, deserves the admiration of the best 
 judges. — The Spectator, No. 40. 
 
Mrs. Susannah Moiintford. 39 
 
 Powell, who was added to the company' soon after itp 
 union, felt an early ambition to perform capital parts; and 
 when Rich quarrelled with his actors, and Betterton had it in 
 his idea to leave him, with the utmost presumption PoweU 
 agreed to accept of his characters, some of which he took pos- 
 session of, and almost the whole of Mountford's.^ — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Mr. George Powell, a reputable actor with many excel- 
 lencies, gave out that he would perform the part of Sir John 
 Fahtaff in the manner of that very excellent English Roscius, 
 Mr. Betterton. He certainly hit his paanner and tone of voice; 
 yet to make the picture more like, he mimicked the infirmities 
 of distemper, old age, and the afflicting pains of the gout which 
 that great man was often seized with. — Chetivood's " History of 
 the Stage." 
 
 Mrs. Susannah Mountford. 
 
 1669-1701. 
 
 Mrs. Mountford during her last years became deranged, but 
 as her disorder was not outrageous, she was not placed under 
 any rigorous confinement, but was suffered to walk about her 
 house. One day, in a lucid interval, she asked what play was to 
 be performed that evening, and was told it was to be " Hamlet." 
 Whilst she was on the stage she had acted Ophelia with great 
 applause ; the recollection struck her, and with all that cunning 
 which is so frequently allied to insanity, she found means to 
 elude the care of her attendants, and got to the theatre, where, 
 concealing herself till the scene where Ophelia was to make her 
 appearance in her mad state, she pushed upon the stage before 
 the person appointed to play the character, and exhibited a 
 representation of it that astonished the performers as well as 
 the audience. She exhausted her vital powers in this effort, 
 was taken home, and died soon after. — Genest's "Account of the 
 English Stage." 
 
 Mrs. Mountford was a capital stage coquette, besides being 
 able to act male coxcombs and country dowdies. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Alelantha is as finished an impertinent as ever fluttered in a 
 
 ' i.e., the King's Company. — Ed. 
 
 ' There was another Powell, a contemporary of George Powell, who was a 
 deformed cripple, and who achieved some celebrity as a puppet-showman. 
 Steele has written of him in the Spectator.— 'Ed. 
 
40 Mrs. Stisannah Moimtford. 
 
 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 do some- 
 thing more than is necessary or commendable. And though I 
 doubt it will be a vain labour to offer you a just likeness of Mrs. 
 Mountford's action, yet the fantastic impression is still so 
 strong in my memory that I cannot help saying something, 
 "though 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 honourable lover. Here now, one would 
 think, she might naturally show a little of the sex's decent 
 reserve, though never so slightly covered. No, sir, not a tittle 
 of it ; modesty is the virtue of a poor-souled country gentle- 
 woman ; 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 latter might 
 not embarrass her attack, crack ! she scrambles it at once into 
 her palm, and pouns upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, 
 and motion ; dovm goes her dainty diving body to the ground, 
 as if she were sinking under the conscious load of her own 
 attractions ; then launches into a flood of fine language and 
 compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and 
 risings, like a swan upon waving water ; and to complete her 
 impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that she 
 will not give her lover leave to praise it ; silent assenting bows 
 and vain endeavours to speak are all the share of the conver- 
 sation he is admitted to : which at last he is relieved from by 
 her engagements to half a score visits, which she swims from him 
 to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling. — Colley Cibber. 
 It is supposed that no actress ever performed so variously as 
 Mrs. Mountford. She had every species of native humour at 
 command ; she was equally natural in characters of high and 
 low life, and would A\ilh the same ease and fidelity personate 
 an affected coquette in a drawing-room, and a dowdy in a 
 cottage ; to all which she added the talents of being a most 
 inimitable mimic, and is said to have played Baye^ in the 
 
 ' The name of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, demands cordial 
 
Robe-rt Wilks. 
 
 41 
 
 "Rehearsal," upon a particular occasion, probably a benefit 
 with more vaiisty than had ever been thrown into j.t before,— 
 C. Dibdin. 
 
 Robert Wilks. 
 
 1670-1732. 
 
 A man wlio, whatever were his abilities or skill as an 
 actor, deserves 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.' — Dr. Johnson. 
 
 mention by every writer on the stage. Whatever we may thinli of him as a 
 man — and as a man it would be difficult to spealc of him in terms sufficiently 
 condemnatory — high praise is due to him as a writer. He lived in an age 
 when plays were chietiy written in rhyme, which served as a vehicle for 
 foaming sentiments, clouded by hyperbole, the whole informed with a kind of 
 hydrophobaio madness. The dramas of Lee and Settle offer but a scanty 
 illustration of the general quality of the plays of that epoch, made up of 
 blatant couplets that emptily thundered through five long acts. To explode 
 an unnatural custom by ridiculing it, was Buckingham's design in the "Re- 
 hearsal," though in doing this the gratification of private dislike was a greater 
 stimulus than the wish to promote the public good. Settle's plays are more 
 meaningless than Crowne's, Howard's, and Dryden's ; yet Buckingham 
 would patronize Settle at the same time that he was ridiculing in the others 
 Settle's conspicuous defect. Still the " Rehearsal" did good ; for though 
 it did not immediately achieve its end, it cleared the way for reform. And 
 it is due to Buckingham to say that though his sentiments were largely 
 shared in even by those whom he attacked, he stood alone in his resolution 
 to effect a reformation in the drama. — Ed. 
 
 ^ Johnson, in this commendation, particularly refers to Wilks's treatment 
 of Savage. But Savage was not the only man who enjoyed Wilks's 
 bounty. "Smith," says Dibdin, "was designed for the Church; but 
 finding it impossible to become an orator from an impediment in his speech, 
 he was determined to turn his thoughts to some other profession, and upon 
 considering the matter eveiy way, at last thought physic the best choice he 
 could possibly make. To furnish himself with the means of prosecuting 
 liis studies, he wrote a play called ''The Captive Princess." It was 
 refused by the actors ; but Wilks, entering into the spirit of Smith's inten- 
 tion, offered him a benefit, which he rendered so profitable that it enabled 
 his friend to enter himself at Leyden, where he applied to the study of 
 physic so diligently that Dr. Boerhaave recommended him to tire Czarina, 
 who made hira one of the physicians of the Russian Court." — Hisioiy of the 
 Stage. Wilks was equally generous to Farquhar, the dramatist. Re- 
 duced to extreme indigence in his last days, Farquhar, from his death-bed, 
 sent Wilks the following letter: — "DearBob, — I have not anything to 
 leave thee to perpetuate my memory but two helpless girls ; look upon 
 them sometimes, and think of him who was to the last moment of his life 
 thine. G. Farquhar." Wilks at once set to work procuring benefits for 
 
42 Robert Wilks. 
 
 Wilks the actor was the greater ruler in matters of dress about 
 this time. He was exceedingly simple in his tastes ofif the 
 stage, but he was the best-dressed man upon it ; and what he 
 adopted was universally followed. An eminent cntic wntmg of 
 this actor in 1729, says, "Whatever he did on the stage, 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 breeding and 
 manner, everything told so strongly the involuntary 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 surprising, that person who could thus delight 
 an audience from the gaiety and sprightliness of his manner, I 
 met the next day in the street hobbling to a hackney-coach, 
 seemingly so enfeebled by age and infirmities that I could 
 scarcely believe him to be the same man." This splendid 
 dresser exercised charity in a questionably liberal manner. 
 He was a father to orphans, and left his widow with scarcely 
 enough to find herself in cotton gowns. — Dr. Doran. 
 
 In " Rule a Wife," the old stage critics delighted in the 
 Copper Captain ; it was the test for every comedian. It could 
 be worked on like a picture and new readings given. Here it 
 was admitted that Wilks was unrivalled. — Fitzgerald. 
 
 Wilks has a singular talent in representing the graces of 
 nature : Gibber the deformity in the affectation of them. 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 humour which is kept up in 
 the character of Wildair, and in the nice and delicate abuse of 
 understanding in that of Sir Novelty. Gibber 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 approach respectfully, to pity, to mourn, to love, 
 are the places wherein Wilks may be made to shine wth the 
 utmost beauty. To rally pleasantly, to scorn artfully, to flatter, 
 to ridicule, and neglect, are what Gibber would perform with 
 no less excellence. — Steele. 
 
 Wilks was an Irishman and had never dreamt of being an 
 actor, but had drudged on in the Secretary of State's ofSce, till 
 
 his friend's family. Mention is made, however, of one of Farquhar's daughters 
 being alive in 1764, and having to submit to drudgeiy for bread. — Ed. 
 
Colley adder. 43 
 
 some private persons gave a play gratis. This play was " Othello," 
 and Wilks acted the Moor, from which moment, though he was 
 conscious how many circumstances he had to struggle against, 
 he determined to quit his situation, by which his successor 
 acquired a fortune of fifty thousand pounds, and attach himself 
 wholly to the stage. With a view of getting at once into 
 fame he came to England, but being neglected for a con- 
 siderable time returned to Dublin, where, having gained 
 experience, he once more came to England, and an opportunity 
 being, now opened to him by Mountford's death of trying his 
 fortune, he began soon to be received by the public as a very 
 sensible if not a very excellent actor. Wilks seems to have 
 had many radical imperfections like Gibber, which he was 
 obliged to soften and conceal by various arts. These arts at 
 last became a standard, and have ever since been resorted to 
 by all those whose merits as actors have been derived from 
 information, understanding, and a strong comprehension of the 
 passions and their motives ; but to whom nature has denied 
 either passion, or voice, or some other of those prominent 
 requisites without which an actor with the best conception 
 must have to struggle against the stream. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Mr. Wilks's excellence in comedy was never once disputed, 
 but the best judges extol him for the different parts in tragedy, 
 as Hamlet, Castalio in the "Orphan," Ziphares in " Mithridates," 
 Edgar in " King Lear," Norfolk in the "Albion Queens," Percy 
 in " Anna Bullen," Earl of Essex, Shore, Macduff, Moneses in 
 " Tamerlane," Jaffier in " Venice Preserved," and a countless 
 catalogue of other parts in tragedy which he was allowed to 
 perform in their full perfection. He was not only perfect in 
 every part he acted, but in those that were concerned with him 
 in every scene, which often prevented mistakes. — Chetwood. 
 
 Colley Gibber, 
 
 1671-1757- 
 
 Colley Gibber, sir, was by no means a blockhead; but 
 by arrogating to himself too much, he was in danger of 
 losing that degree of estimation to which he was entitled. — 
 Dr. 'Johnson. 
 
 As for Gibber himself, taking from his conversation all that 
 he ought not to have said, he was a poor creature. I reraem- 
 
44 Colley Cibber. 
 
 ber when he brought me one of his Odes to have my opinion, 
 I could not hear such nonsense, and would not let him read it 
 to the end, so little respect had I for that great man (laughing). 
 —Ibid. 
 
 Macklin says. Nature formed Colley Cibber for a coxcomb ; 
 for though in many respects he was a sensible and observant 
 man, a good performer and a most excellent comic writer, yet 
 his predominant tendency was to be considered among the men 
 as a leader of fashion, among the women as a beau-garqon. 
 Hence he excelled in almost the whole range of hght fantastic 
 comic characters. His Lord Foppington was considered for 
 many years as a model for dress, and that hauteur and non- 
 chalance which distinguished the superior coxcombs of that 
 day. The picture of him in this character, with a stiff em- 
 broidered suit of clothes, loaded with the ornaments of rings, 
 muff, clouded cane, and snuffbox, exhibits a good lesson to 
 a modem beau of the versatility and frivolity of fashion. — 
 Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 Colley Cibber, to the reputation of an approved and success- 
 ful writer, added the higher character of a distinguished 
 dramatic writer. His merit in both capacities introduced him 
 to persons in high life, and made him free of all gay companies. 
 In his youth he was a man of great levity, and the constant 
 companion of our young noblemen and men of fashion in their 
 hours of dissipation ; Cibber diverted them with his odd sallies 
 of humour and odd vivacities. He had the good fortune, in 
 advanced life, to solace the cares of a great statesman, in his 
 relaxations from business ; Mr. Pelham loved a tete-d.-tete with 
 Colley Cibber. But an habitual love of play, and a riveted 
 attachment to pleasure, rendered him not so agreeable to 
 persons of a grave turn of mind. — T. Davies. 
 
 Colley Cibber, one of the earliest of the dramatic autobio- 
 graphers, is also one of the most amusing. He flourished in 
 wig and embroidery, player, poet, and manager, during the 
 Augustan age of Queen Anne, somewhat earlier and somewhat 
 later. A most egregious fop according to all accounts he was, 
 but a very pleasant one notwithstanding, as your fop of parts is 
 apt to be. Pope gained but little in the warfare he waged with 
 him, for this plain reason, that the great poet accuses his adver- 
 sary of dulness, which was not by any means one of his sins, 
 instead of selecting one of Uie numerous faults, such as pertness, 
 
Colley Cibber. 45 
 
 petulance, and presumption, of whicli he was really guilty. — 
 M. R. Mitford. 
 
 Colley Cibber was extremely haughty as a theatrical 
 manager,' and very insolent to dramatists. When he had 
 rejected a play, if the author desired him to point out 
 the particular parts of it which displeased him, he took 
 a pinch of snuff, and answered in general terms, " Sir, there 
 is nothing in it to coerce my passions." Fielding intro- 
 duces this expression into one of his plays, containing a 
 personal satire upon Colley and his son Theophilus.— (7^^r^« 
 Colman. 
 
 As to his person, he is straight and well-made ; of an open 
 countenance, even free from the conspicuous marks of old age. 
 Meet or follow hi>n, and no person would imagine he ever bore 
 
 ' The history of Drury Lane Theatre, with which the name of Colley 
 Cibber is intimately associated, may be briefly summarized thus : — 
 
 1663. On the 8th of April Killigrew opened the theatre which he had 
 built in Druiy-lane. 
 
 1668. Davenant died. Three years after a new house was opened in 
 Dorset-gardens, Salisbury-square, under the management of Lady Davenant, 
 Sir William's relict. It did not answer. 
 
 1672. Drury Lane was burnt. A few months after Killigrew's patent 
 was united to Davenant's patent. 
 
 1674. Drury Lane was rebuilt by Sir C. Wren. 
 
 1690. Alex. Davenant sold the patent that had been assigned to him in 
 1689 by Charles Davenant to Christopher Rich, a lawyer, who afterwards 
 took Sir Thomas Skipwith as a partner. 
 
 1694. Rich attempted to reduce the salaries of the actors. They seceded, 
 and acted in Tennis-court, Lincoln's-inn-fields. 
 
 1 707. Drury Lane was closed by order of the Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 1 7 10. Collier broke into Drury Lane, ejected Rich, and took possession. 
 
 171 1. Wilks, Doggett, and Cibber entered into partnership with 
 Collier. 
 
 1712. Doggett retired from, and Booth entered into, the partnership. 
 1 7 14. A life-patent granted to Sir R. Steele. Revoked in 17 19. 
 
 1 747. Garrick became a partner with Lacey. 
 
 1774. Lacey died, and Garrick became sole proprietor. 
 
 1776. Sheridan, Lindley, and Ford purchased Drury Lane from Garrick. 
 
 1783. A patent granted to the three proprietors for twenty-one years, 
 to commence Sept. 2, 1795- 
 
 1789. The Drury I^ne Theatre about to be takeu dcwn, the company 
 played at the King's Theatre, Haymarket. 
 
 1 794. The new Drury Lane Theatre opened. 
 
 1809. Destroyed by fire. The company played at the Lyceum, 
 
 1812. Urury Lane opened under the management of Arnold. 
 
46 Colley Cibbey. 
 
 the burden of above two-thirds of his yeaxs.—Chetwood's 
 " History of the Stage," 1749. 
 
 Colley Gibber wore the laurel with unblushing front for 
 twenty-seven years, from 1730. His annual birthday and new- 
 year's odes for all that time are treasured in the Gentleman's 
 Magazine. They are all so bad that his friends pretended he 
 had made them so on purpose. Dr. Johnson, however, asserted 
 from his personal knowledge of the man that he took great pains 
 with his lyrics, and thought them far superior to Pindar's. His 
 effusions are truly incomparable. Not only are they all bad, 
 but not one of them in twenty-seven years contains a good line. 
 Yet he was, happily for himself, more impenetrable to the gibes 
 of the wits than a buffalo to the stings of mosquitoes. Of the 
 numerous epigrams twanged at him, here is one from the London 
 Magazine for 1737 : — 
 
 " ON SEEING TOBACCO-PIPES LIT WITH ONE OF THE LAUREATE'S ODES. 
 
 " While the soft song that warbles George's praise 
 From pipe to pipe the living flame conveys ; 
 Critics, who long have scom'd, must now admire, 
 For who can say his ode now wants its fire ?" 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, 1848. 
 
 Gibber, though he wrote a good comedy, would appear by 
 some accounts of him to have been little more on the stage than 
 a mimic of past actors. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Garrick, when he made one laugh, was not always judicious, 
 though excellent. What idea did his Sir yohn Brute give of a 
 surly husband ? His Bayes was no less entertaining ; but it 
 was a Garreteer-bard. Old Gibber preserved the solemn cox- 
 comb ; and was the caricature of a great poet, as the part was 
 designed to be.— Walpole. 
 
 His treatise on the stage is inimitable. — Ihid. 
 
 Gibber, with a great stock of levity, vanity, and affectation, 
 had sense, and wit, and humour. — Warton. 
 
 Gibber was perhaps upon the whole a character of as singular 
 utility to the theatre as any that ever lived; for without any 
 extraordinary inherent genius, by judgment, by art, by inge- 
 nuity, and by perseverance, he became eminent as an actor, as 
 an author, and as a manager ; and I think it not difficult to pro- 
 nounce that, m the last capacity, Garrick modelled his conduct 
 
Thomas Doggett. \.y 
 
 upon Gibber's plan. Conscious of the impossibility of attain- 
 ing reputation as an author by bold and genuine traits of intui- 
 tive genius, he contented himself with keeping within the 
 modesty of nature, and what he lost on the side of fire and 
 spirit he by this means gained on the side of order and morality. 
 Thus, when the Anathema of Collier was fulminated against 
 those oaks, Dryden, Congreve, and the rest, Cibber kept him- 
 self as inoffensive and secure as that laurel with which he was 
 afterwards so harmlessly adorned. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Thomas Doggett. 
 .... — 1721. 
 
 When we come to characters directly comical, it is not to be 
 imagined what effect a well-regulated stage would have upon 
 men's manners. The craft of an usurer, the absurdity of a rich 
 fool, the awkward roughness of a fellow of half-courage, the un- 
 graceful mirth of a fellow of half-wit, might be for ever put out 
 of coimtenance by proper parts for Doggett. — Sir Richard Steele. 
 
 An excellent comic actor, who was for many years joint 
 manager with Wilks and Cibber .... and bequeathed the Coat 
 and Badge that are rowed for by Thames watermen every first 
 of August from London Bridge to Chelsea. — H. Morley. 
 
 Doggett, as we are informed from good and impartial autho- 
 rity, was the most original and strictest observer of nature of 
 all the actors then living. He was ridiculous without impro- 
 priety, he had a different look for every different kind of 
 humour ; and though he was an excellent mimic, he imitated 
 nothing but nature. In comic songs and dances he was admi- 
 rable ; and if the description of his performa.nce of Ben, in 
 " Love for Love," be correct, that part has certainly never been 
 performed since to any degree of perfection. He was a great 
 observer of nature, and particularly delighted in catching the 
 manners in low life, as Congreve is said to have gone to 
 Wapping to write Ben, Gay to Newgate to furnish his " Beggars' 
 Opera," or as Swift used to listen for hours to the low Irish ; 
 but with all this the acting of Doggett was so chaste, and his 
 manners in private life so well bred, that though he never chose 
 to be the actor anywhere but on the stage, yet his company was 
 warmly sought after by persons of rank and taste. — Dibdin. 
 
.Q^ jfohn Rich. 
 
 This truly great comedian was born in Castle-street, Dublin 
 \z. circumstance overlooked by the laureate, Gibber). He left 
 his occupation as an actor several years before his death, and 
 in his will bequeathed to Waterman Hall a sum for ever, suffi- 
 cient to buy a coat and silver badge, to be rowed for oil the 
 Thames by prentices every year that have fulfilled their in- 
 dentures. A humorous poet wrote the following lines on the 
 occasion on a glass window at Lambeth, on August ist, 1736 : 
 
 " Tom Doggett, the greatest 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 lonff, 
 Turn Doggett must still be the theme of their song. ' 
 
 Clidwood. 
 
 Doggett, the player, was a man of great humanity, as will 
 appear by this story : — His landlady's maid having taken an 
 opportunity to go into his chamber one afternoon and cut her 
 throat with one of his razors, of which an account being brought 
 to him behind the scenes the same night, Doggett -with great 
 concern and emotion cried out, " Zounds, I hope it was not 
 with my best razor." — R. Wewitzer. 
 
 John Rich. 
 
 1681-1761. 
 
 When Lun 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. — Garrick. 
 
 In gesticulations and humour our Rich appears to have been 
 a complete mimic ; his genius was entirely confined to panto- 
 mime, and he had the glory of introducing harlequin' on the 
 
 ' The parti-colourcd hero, with every part of his dress, has been dra\vu 
 out of the great wardrobe of antiquity ; he was a Roman Mime. Harle- 
 quin is described mth hi;j shaven head, rasis capitibus ; his sooty face, 
 fuhgine faciem obducti ; his flat, unshod feet, planipedes ; and his patched 
 coat of many colours, Mimi centutuulo. — See " Curiosities of Literature." 
 
yohn Rich. 4.9 
 
 English stage, which he played under the feigned name of Lun. 
 He could describe to the audience by his signs and gestures as 
 intelligibly as others could express by words. There is a large 
 caricature print of the triumph which Rich had obtained over 
 the severe muses of tragedy and comedy, which lasted too 
 long not to excite jealousy and opposition from the corps 
 dramatique. — I. D' Israeli. 
 
 The name of Rich should be dear to all pantomime goers ; 
 and the rows of little ones that line the front seats at Christ- 
 mas taught who their benefactor was. There were pantomimes, 
 indeed, before his day, so early as the year 1700; but it was 
 Rich, both as player and writer, who made that sort of piece 
 respectable. It was in 1717 that we find his name con- 
 spicuously associated with a Feerie, called " Harlequin Exe- 
 cuted !" He was a strange being and curious manager, but 
 beyond question the most vivacious and original of harlequins. 
 .... Rich from some affectation would not appear under 
 his own name, but was always set' down in the bills as " Mr. 
 Lun." He was not a little eccentric, and had a dialect of his 
 own, with an odd, blunt, Abernethy manner. — P. Fitzgerald. 
 
 The poor man's head, which was not naturally very clear, 
 had been disordered with superstition, and he laboured under 
 the tyranny of a wife and the terror of hell-fire at the same 
 time. — Smollett. 
 
 Mr. Rich was not only a very artful contriver of that kind of 
 stage entertainment called pantomime, but an admirable actor 
 of harlequin, the principal actor in it.' Nor can we boast of 
 
 ^ Colman, in his "Random R^ords," tells a good story of one John- 
 stone, a machinist, who was connected witli Old Crury during the time of 
 Sheridan. "He was celebrated," he says, "for his superior taste and 
 sliill in the construction of flying chariots, triumphal cars, palanquins, 
 banners, wooden children to be tossed over battlements, and straw 
 heroes and heroines to be hurled down a precipice ; he was further 
 famous for wiclcerwork lions, pasteboard swans, and all the sham 
 birds and beasts appertaining to a theatrical menagerie. He wished on a 
 certain occasion to spy the nakedness of the enemy's camp, and therefore 
 contrived to insinuate himself, with a. friend, into the two-shilling gallery, 
 to witness the right rehearsal of a pantomime at Covent Garden Theatre. 
 Among the attractions of this Christmas foolery a real elephant was intro- 
 duced ; and in due time the unwieldy brute came clumping down the 
 stage, making a prodigious figure in a procession. The friend who sat 
 close to Johnstone jogged his elbow, whispering, "This is a bitter bad job 
 for Di-ury. Why, the elephant's alive! — ^he'U carry all before him, and 
 
 E 
 
50 yohn Rich. 
 
 any one man who has, during the space of fifty years, 
 approached to his excellencies in that part. His gesticulation 
 was so perfectly expressive of his meaning, that every motion 
 of his hand or head, or any part of his body, was a kind of 
 dumb eloquence that was readily understood by the audience. 
 Mr. Garrick's action was not more perfectly adapted to his 
 characters than Mr. Rich's attitudes and movements to the 
 varied employment of the wooden sword magician. His 
 taking leave of Columbine in one or two of his pantomimes 
 was at once graceful and aflecting. — T. Davies. 
 
 As the late Mr. Rich, the celebrated Harlequin, was one even- 
 ing returning home from the playhouse, in a hackney-coach, he 
 ordered the coachman to drive him to the Sun, then a famous 
 tavern in Clare Market. Just as the coach passed one of the 
 windows of the tavern, Rich, who perceived it to be open, 
 dexterously threw himself out of the coach-window into the 
 room. The coachman, who saw nothing of this transaction, 
 drew up, descended from his box, opened the coach door, and 
 let down the step, then taking off his hat, he waited for some 
 time, expecting his fare to alight ; but at length, looking into the 
 coach, and seeing it empty, he bestowed a few hearty curses on 
 the rascal who had bilked him, remounted his box, turned about, 
 and was returning to his stand, when Rich, who had watched 
 his opportunity, threw himself into the coach, looked out, asked 
 the fellow where the devil he was driving, and desired him to 
 turn about. The coachman, almost petrified with fear, instantly 
 obeyed, and once more drove up to the door of the tavern. 
 Rich now got out, and after reproaching the fellow with 
 stupidity, tendered him his money. "No, God bless your 
 honour," said the coachman ; " my master has ordered me to 
 take no money to-night." "Pshaw!" said Rich; "your 
 master's a fool ; here's a shilling for yourself." " No, no," 
 said the coachman, who had by this time remounted his box, 
 " that wont do. I know you too well for all your shoes ; and 
 so, Mr. Devil, for once you're outwitted."—^ Thousand Notable 
 Thmgs. 1800. 
 
 Nobody in Harlequins beat Rich, Uie manager of this 
 
 beat you hollow. What d'ye think on't, eh ?" " Think on't 1" said Tohn- 
 stone, m a tone of the utmost contempt ; " I should be very sorry if I 
 couldn t make a much better elephant than that at any time '" 
 
John Rich. 51 
 
 theatre (Covent Garden).' His pantomimes and spectacles 
 produced a reaction against Garrick, when' nothing else could ; 
 and Covent Garden ever since has been reckoned the superior 
 house in that kind of merit — " the wit," as Mr. Ludlow Holt 
 calls it, " of goods and chattels."' — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 ' The name of Rich is associated with Covent Garden Theatre as that of 
 Cibber is with Dniry Lane. The following summary epitomizes the history 
 of that tlieatre ; — 
 
 1 732. John Rich and his company removed to Covent Garden from the 
 theatre in Lincohi's-inn-fields. 
 
 1761. John Rich died. His son-in-law, Beard, continued to^ play at 
 Covent Garden Theatre under Rich's patent. 
 
 1767. Beard sold his interest in tliehoilse for 60,000/. toCoIman, Harris, 
 Powell, and Rutherford. 
 
 1 79 1. The new Covent Garden Theatre opened, 
 
 1803. Kemble came into the maiiagement. 
 
 1808. It was destroyed by fire. The company removed to the King's 
 Theatre. 
 
 J Sqg. Rebuilt Vy Beazley and re-opened. The O. P. riots. 
 
 1812., Mrs. Siddons took her farewell benefit. 
 
 1 816. Macready's first appearance. 
 
 1818. H, Harris came into the management. 
 
 1823. Charles Kemble came into the management. 
 
 1 839. Madame Vestris came into the managemeiit. 
 
 1847. Opened for Italian Opera. 
 
 ^ A jumper or vaulter named Ireland, who was acting, about the com- 
 mencement of the present century, seems to have been of as remarkable 
 an agility as Rich. Here is a story of him : — Ireland, the vaulter, was 
 the most extraordinary natural jumper I ever saw, though I have seen 
 many who excelled him when aided by the spring-board and other arti- 
 ficial contrivances. I have walked with Ireland, and he has suddenly 
 left my arm, and with the mere impetus of a couple of paces, jumped over 
 a turnpike gate. His leaping over the bar opposite tbe Surrey Theatre, 
 when going home half tipsy, first attracted attention towards him. In 
 those days of practical joking he was foremost in frolic ; his animal spirits 
 were great, and he was vain and fond of display. One trick of his was, 
 if he saw a horse held in waiting for his rider, to stand beside it, as if 
 uncertain which way he should turn for a moment ; and when he saw the 
 rider coming out, to spring clean over the back of the horse, with a 
 ludicrous appearance of anxiety to get out of the gentleman's way. What 
 made this seem more singular was" that Ireland always walked off as if 
 he had performed no extraordinary feat at all, leaving those who had 
 beheld the jump doubting the evidence of their ovra spnses, and liable, ©f 
 course, to be doubly doubted if they narrated the occurrence. One of his 
 stage exhibitions was to throw a somersault over a waggon and €\^ 
 horses— over' a dozen grenadiers standing at present arms with fixed 
 bayonets. Sir Thomas Picton, a man of unquestionable courage, went to 
 witness this exhibition ; but when he saw the men placed he trembled 
 
 £ 2 
 
^2 yohn Rich. 
 
 Harlequin comes their chief! — See from afar 
 
 The hero seated in fantastic car ! 
 
 Wedded to novelty, his only arms 
 
 Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and char.TS. 
 
 On one side Folly sits, by some called Fun, 
 
 And on the other his arch-patron LuN. 
 
 Behind, for liberty athirst in vain, 
 
 Sense, helpless captive ! drags the galling chain. 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 The education of Rich, manager of Lincoln's Inn Fields 
 and Covent Garden Theatres, had been grossly neglected, con- 
 sequently, though he had a good understanding, his language 
 was vulgar and ungrammatical. He had contracted a strange 
 and rude habit of calhng everybody Mister, which gave rise to 
 an unmannerly bon-mot by Foote. Rich having called him 
 Mister several times, Foote grew warm, and asked him the 
 reason of his not calling him by his name. " Don't be angry," 
 said Rich ; " for I 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." — Ana. 
 
 Covent Garden Theatre continued till 1760 to be uninter- 
 ruptedly managed by Rich, who, it must be confessed, upon 
 his father's plan, though he was not the same nefarious cha- 
 racter, continued to keep himself up as a formidable rival to 
 the managers of Drury Lane. His own performance of 
 Harlequin, and the advantage he took of English inclination 
 (or foreign gew-gaws, now and then operated in his favour with 
 decided superiority. In the time of Fleetwood his pantomimes 
 were a great injury to his opponents, and though I do not find 
 he was ever splendidly off — indeed, he is described to have 
 been at one time so necessitated as to have taken a house 
 situated in three different counties to have avoided the impor- 
 tunity of the sheriffs' officers — yet he took care to satisfy to 
 the letter his performers, and all those with whom he made 
 engagements . — Dibdin . 
 
 like a leaf, and kept his head down while Ireland jumped ; nor did he 
 look up till he had first asked, "Has he dojie it?" When assured he 
 had, he said, " A battle's nothing to that." — Records of a Stage Veta-an. 
 
53 
 
 Mrs. Porter. 
 .... —1762. 
 
 Mrs. Porter was tall, fair, well-shaped, and easy and dignified 
 ill action. But she was not handsome, and her voice had a 
 small degree of tremor. Moreover, she imitated, or, rather, 
 faultily exceeded, Mrs. Barry in the habit of prolonging and 
 toning her pronunciation, sometimes to a degree verging upon 
 a chant; but whether it was that the public ear was at that 
 period accustomed to a demi-chant, or that she threw off the 
 defect in the heat of passion, it is certain that her general judg- 
 ment and genius, in the highest bursts of tragedy, inspired 
 enthusiasm in all around her, and that she was thought to be 
 alike mistress of the terrible and the tender. — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 I remember Mrs. Porter, to whom nature had been niggard 
 in voice and face, so great in many parts, as Lady Macbeth, 
 Alicia in " Jane Shore," Hermione in the " Distressed Mother," 
 and many parts of the kind, that her great action, eloquence 
 of look and gesture, moved astonishment; and yet I have 
 fieard her declare she left the action to the possession of the 
 sentiments in the part she performed. — Chetwood. 
 
 She excelled greatly in the terrible and the tender — the 
 great actor Booth speaking in raptures of her £elvidera—3.nd. 
 Dr. Johnson saying that in the vehemence of tragic acting he 
 had never seen her equal.' For many years she acted, 
 though absolutely a cripple, having had her hip-joint dis- 
 located by a fall from her chaise in an encounter with 
 a highwayman, whom she terrified into supplication by 
 the sight of a brace of pistols. Finding he had been 
 driven to desperation by want, she gave him ten guineas, 
 and afterwards raised sixty pounds by subscription for relief of 
 his family. In acting Elizabeth in the " Rival Queens " she 
 had to support herself on a crutched cane ; and after signing 
 Mary's death-warrant, she expressed her agitation by striking the 
 stage with her cane so violently as to draw bursts of applause. 
 At last she herself subsisted on charity; and Dr. Johnson, 
 who paid her a visit of benevolence some years before her 
 death, said she was then so wrinkled that a picture of old aga 
 
 1 "Mrs. Porter in the vehemence of rage, and Mrs. Clive in the spright- 
 liness of humour, I have never seen equalled." — Johnson. 
 
54 Barton Booth. 
 
 in the abstract might have been taken from her countenance.— 
 Blackwood's Magazine, 1834. 
 
 Mrs. Porter surpassed Garrick in passionate tragedy.— 
 Walple. 
 
 Barton Booth. 
 
 1681-1733. 
 
 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 chsxc.—^Fo^e. 
 
 Booth had great advantages from birth and education ; he 
 was a relation of the Earl of Warrington, and not far remote 
 from the title. He was a scholar, and a man of poetical fancy, 
 as his compositions in verse, which are far from mean, will 
 testify. His professional merit recommended him to Lord 
 Bolingbroke, who was so pleased with his company and con- 
 versation that he sent his chariot to the door of the theatre 
 every night to convey Booth, after the play was finished, to his 
 country seat. There was in his look an apparent goodness of 
 mind, which struck everybody that saw him. I have heard Mr. 
 Delane, the actor, say,^ that when he entered the Bedford coffee 
 house, at a time when it was frequented by men of fashion, he 
 attracted the eyes of everybody by the benevolence of his 
 aspect, the grandeur of his step, and the dignity of his whole 
 demeanour. To sum up his character, he was an actor of 
 genius, and an amiable man. — T. Davies. 
 
 Barton Booth was an actor of great talent. After Betterton's 
 death he was kept back by Wilks in favour of his friend Mills, 
 who was a very inferior actor to Booth. When Addison's 
 " Cato" was produced, the hero was offered to Gibber, who 
 refused it. It was then given to Mills, who declined acting it 
 on the ground of its being too old for him. It was then given 
 to Booth, who was so eminently successful in the representation 
 of the character, as to be universally allowed to be at the head 
 of his profession. His popularity was perhaps in some measure 
 assisted by the party feeling which the production of tlie play 
 had created.^ — The Manager's Note Book. 
 
 ' "The whole nation," says Johnson, "was at that time on fire with 
 faction. The Whigs applauded every line (in the play) in which liberty 
 
Barton Booth. 55 
 
 Having paused awhile beneath the sumptuous monument of 
 Garrick to ponder on his genius and his triumphs, let us 
 wander on to the humbler memorial of the scarcely less 
 celebrated actor, Barton Booth. He it was who, when he was 
 still a thoughtless boy at Westminster school — having his head 
 turned by the sensation which he created when acting in one 
 of Terence's plays — quitted the tutorship of Busby, of whom he 
 was the favourite pupil, and with apparently no other advan- 
 tages but melody of voice, and beauty and elegance of person, 
 became by industry and application the great actor, whose 
 exquisite delineations of human passions drew down upon him 
 the applause of millions in his life-time, and which, after his 
 death, procured him the honour of a burial-place in Poet's 
 Corner. — -Jesse's "London." 
 
 It is remarkable that Booth, who, in the very year Wilks 
 left Dublin for Drury Lane, left it also for Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 and who had in Ireland been a pretty free lover of the bottle, 
 was, some tSme after his arrival in London, so shocked at the 
 contempt and distress that Powell had plunged himself into by 
 the vice of hard drinking, that he instantly made a resolution, 
 which he never broke, of utterly abandoning that practice, and 
 to this circumstance there can. be no doubt but that the world 
 is indebted for so admirable an actor. — Charles Dibdin. 
 
 In connexion with Betterton's successor. Barton Booth, and 
 Caio, of which he was the original representative, there is a 
 story told, the application of which tended to place the stage 
 on a level with the pulpit. Booth and his gifted fellows went 
 down to Oxford to play Addison's famous tragedy before the 
 most learned audience in the world. After the third and last 
 performance was concluded, Dr. Sandridge, Dean of Carlisle, 
 addressed a letter to Barton, in which the writer remarked : "I 
 heartily wish all discourses from the pulpit were as instructive 
 and edifying, as pathetic and affecting, as that which the 
 audience were then entertained with from the stage." — Thea- 
 trical Anecd otes} _^_ 
 
 was mentioned, as a satire on the Tories, and the Tories echoed every clap 
 to show that the satire was unfelt. Tlie story of Bolingbroke is well 
 known. He called Booth to his box, and gave him fifty guineas for 
 defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator."— Zi/« 
 of AMison. " . , . . , 
 
 ' There is a story that one day, when Betterton called on Archbishop 
 Tillotson at Lambeth, the prelate asked him, " How it came about that 
 after he had made the most moving discourse that he could, was touched 
 
56 Airs. Elizabeth Barry. 
 
 He had a vast fund of understanding as well as good-nature, 
 and a persuasive elocution even in common discourse, that 
 would compel you to believe him against your judgment of 
 things. Notwithstanding his exuberance of fancy, he was 
 untainted in his morals. In his younger years 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 
 marred 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 condemned the 
 folly of drinking out of reason, and from one extreme fell I 
 think into the other too suddenly; for his appetite for food 
 had no abatement. I have often known Mrs. Booth, out of ex- 
 treme tenderness to him, order the table to be removed, for fear 
 of overcharging his stomach. His profound learning was extra- 
 ordinary. — Chetwood's " General History of the Stage." 
 
 He had a talent of discovering the passions where they lay 
 hid in some celebrated parts by the injudicious practice of 
 other actors ; when he had discovered, he soon grew able 
 to express them ; and his secret for attaining this great lesson 
 of the theatre was an adaptation of his looks to his voice, by 
 which artful imitation of nature, the variation in the sounds of 
 his words gave propriety to every change in his countenance. — 
 Aaron Hill. 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Barry. 
 
 1682-1733. 
 
 Mrs. Barry is said to have been a very elegant dresser ; but, 
 like most of her contemporaries, she was not a very correct one. 
 Thus in the " Unhappy Favourite " she played Queen Elizabeth, 
 and in the scene of the crowning, she wore the coronation 
 robes of James II.'s Queen ; and Ewell says she gave tlie 
 audience a strong idea of the first-named Queen. Anne of 
 Modena, with the exception of some small details, was dressed 
 as little like Elizabeth as Queen Victoria was dressed like 
 Anne. — Dr. L'oran. 
 
 deeply with it himself, and spoke it as feelingly as he was able, yet he 
 could never move people in the church near so much as the other did on 
 the stage." "That, answered Betterton, "is easily accounted for. It 
 is because you are only telling them a story and I am shovi-ing them facts." 
 
Mrs. Elizabetn Barry. 57 
 
 The fame to which Mrs. Barry arrived is a particular proof of 
 the difficulty there is of judging with certainty, from their first 
 trials, whether young people ever will make any great figure on 
 a theatre. There was, it seems, so little hope of her at her first 
 setting out, that she was at the end of the year discharged 
 the company. I take it for granted that the objection to Mrs. 
 Barry must have been a defective ear, or some unskilful dis- 
 sonance in her manner of pronouncing. — Colley Cibber} 
 
 She was the daughter of Edward Barry, a barrister, who got 
 the title of colonel, for having raised a regiment in the cause of 
 Charles I. His orphan daughter was born in 1682. She was 
 educated by the charity of Lady Davenant, a relation of the 
 poet of that name, and by his interest was brought upon the 
 boards in 1700. Her first effort was a failure. Two years after- 
 wards she reappeared in Otway's " Alcibiades," when her merit 
 obtained the thanks of the poet, and drew universal attention. 
 In 1707 the part of Monimia in the first representation of the 
 " Orphan " drew forth her power to still higher advantage ; and 
 two years afterwards her Belvidera in " Venice Preserved " ob- 
 tained for her the permanent appellation of the famous Madam 
 Barry. Her fame was not diminished by her appearing as the 
 original Isabella in Southerne's " Fatal Marriage ; " and she 
 enjoyed perhaps a higher character than any actress anterior to 
 Mrs. Siddons. — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 Mrs. Barry, always excellent, has in this tragedy excelled 
 herself, and gained a reputation beyond any woman I have 
 ever seen on a theatre. — Dry den, Preface to " Cleomenes." '' 
 
 With all her enchantment this fine creature was not hand- 
 
 ' She was mistress of the notorious Earl of Rochester, and to his 
 tuition, it was said, she owed many of the most conspicuous graces of her 
 acting. "Mrs. Barry," says Cibber, "in characters of greatness, had a 
 presence of elevated dignity ; her mien and motion superb and gracefully 
 majestic ; her voice full, clear, and strong, so that no violence of passion 
 could be too much for her ; and 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." 
 
 'i "Cleomenes," a tragedy, appeared in 1692. With this play the 
 Guardian connects the following story of Dryden : — As he came one 
 night out of the playhouse, a young " fop of fashion" accosted him with, 
 " Had I been left alone with a young beauty, I would not have spent my 
 time like your Spartan hero." "That, sir, is perhaps true," answered 
 l>ryden ; " but give me leave to tell you you are no hero." — Ed. 
 
58 Mrs. Oldfield. 
 
 some ; 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 middle-sized, had 
 darkish hair, hght eyes, and was indifferent plump. She had a 
 manner of drawing out her words, which suited her, but not 
 Mrs. Bradshaw and Mrs. Porter, her successors. In tragedy 
 she was solemn and august ; in comedy alert, easy, and genteel ; 
 pleasant in her face and manner, and filling the stage with a 
 variety of action. Yet she could not sing, nor dance ; no, not 
 even in a country dance. — Anthony Aston. 
 
 Mrs. Barry was a fine tragedian, both of the heroic and tender 
 cast. . Dryden pronounced her the best actress he had seen. 
 It is said she was a mistress of Lord Rochester's when young ; 
 that it was to her his love-letters were addressed, and that she 
 'owed her celebrity to his instructions. She was not handsome, 
 and her mouth was a little awry, but her countenance was very 
 expressive. This is the actress who, in the delirium of her last 
 moments, is said to have alluded in an extempore blank verse to 
 a manoeuvre played by Queen Anne's Ministry some time before: 
 " Ha, ha ! and so they make us lords by dozens !" 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 Mrs. Barry in characters of greatness is said to have been 
 graceful, noble, and dignified; that no violence of passion was 
 beyond the reach of her feeHngs, and that in the most melting 
 distress and tenderness she was exquisitely affecting. Thus she 
 was equally admirable in Cassandra, Cleopatra, Roxana, Mo- 
 ?iimia, or Belvidera. She was the first actress who was indulged 
 with a benefit-play, a favour for some time after given only as 
 a distinction of merit. — C. JDibdin. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield. 
 1683-1730. 
 
 Each look, each attitude, new grace displays, 
 Your voice and motion life and music raise. — Savaged 
 The ravishing perfections of this lady are so much the' ad- 
 miration of every eye and every ear, that they will remain fixed 
 
 ^ Savage had reason to speak well of Mrs. Oldfield, for she allowed 
 hvm an annuity during her life of 50/. Richard Savage, one of the most 
 curious characters in English literaiy history, was the son of the Countess 
 
Mrs. Oldfield. 59 
 
 in the memory of many when these light scenes' are forgotten. — 
 Fielding. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield had been a year in the' Theatre Royal "before 
 she' gave any tolerable hope of her being an actress,' so unlike 
 to all manner of propriety was her speaking.-^ C(?//^ Cibber. 
 
 She was talHsh in stature, beautiful in action and aspect, and 
 she always looked like one of those principal figures in the 
 finest paintings, 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 to hiss her, she made 
 him instantly hide his head and vanish, by a pausing look, and 
 her utterance of the words " poor creature ! " — -Ibid^ 
 
 of Macclesfield by tlie Earl Rivers ; and his birth gave his mother an ex- 
 cuse for obtaining a divorce from a man whom she hated. He was bom in 
 1696 in Fox Court, a low alley out of Holbom, whither his mother had 
 repaired, under the name .of Mrs. Smith, her features concealed in a mask 
 which, she wore throughout her confinement. Discovery was embarrassed 
 by a complication of witnesses ; the child was handed from one woman to 
 another, until, like a story bandied from mouth to mouth, it Seemed to lose 
 its paternity. The son of an earlj the child was apprenticed to a shoe- 
 maker ; but preferring- the pen to the awl, he betook himself eventually to 
 literature, after having by. an accident discovered his origin. He made 
 the acquaintance of Steele, who forriied a grand design to marry Savage tc 
 a natural daughter of his, on whom he meant to settle a thousand pounds. 
 How Savage, himself a natural son, might have relished the proposal of a 
 natural daughter for a wife cannot be guessed — a thousand pounds might 
 make even the author of the " Bastard" witness a chaim in illegitimacy. 
 But neither the natural daughter nor the thousand pounds was ever forth- 
 coming. Savage, mortified by the frequent disappointments that attended 
 Steele's promises, took an early opportunity to ■ lampoon his friend, and 
 his friend very properly cut him. He was as quick, however, at making 
 friends as he was at losing them. 'When he was near dying of starvation, 
 a subscription was raised for him, and he was despatched to 'Wales. He 
 pushed as far as Bristol, where he halted ; spent the money he had in 
 hand, wrote impudent letters for more, was arrested for debt, and lodged in 
 gaol, where he die^ July 31, 1743. — Ed. 
 
 ^ IPreface to " Love in Several Masques.'' 
 
 ^, According to Frederick Reynolds, ' ' Mrs. Oldfield was the actress 
 whose principal anxiety when dying concerned the arrangement of the 
 anbecoming dress of death." Pope's lines are well known : — 
 
 "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 liltlc red." — Ed. 
 
6o Mrs. Oldfield. 
 
 I imagine Anne Oldfield, though the description of her gives 
 us no idea of such majesty as Mrs. Siddons, to have been 
 otherwise the most beautiful woman that ever trod the British 
 stage. Even indifferent prints of her give us a conception of 
 those large, speaking eyes, which she half shut with so much 
 archness in comedy, and of the graceful featiures and spirited 
 mien that could put Hfe in tragedy, even into Thomson's 
 " Sophonisba."— T: Campbell. 
 
 She was the daughter of Captain Oldfield, and went to live 
 with her aunt, who kept the Mitre Tavern in St. James's Market. 
 Here we are told. Captain Farquhar, overhearing Miss Nancy 
 read a play behind the bar, was so struck " with the proper 
 emphasis and agreeable turn she gave to each character, that he 
 swore the girl was cut out for the stage. As she had always 
 expressed an inclination for that way of life, and a desire of 
 trying her fortune in it, her mother, on this encouragement, the 
 next time she saw Captain Vanbrugh (afterwards 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 
 dined there having been ' The Scornful Lady.' Captain Van- 
 brugh shortly after recommended her to Mr. Christopher Rich, 
 who took her into the house at the allowance of fifteen shillings 
 per week. However, her agreeable figure and sweetness of 
 voice soon gave her the preference, in the opinion of tlie whole 
 town, to all the young actresses of that time ; and the Duke of 
 Bedford in particular, being pleased to speak to Mr. Rich in 
 her favour, he instantly 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." The new actress had a silver voice, a beautiful face 
 and person, great good nature, sprightliness, and gi-ace, and 
 became the fine lady of the stage in the most agreeable sense 
 of the word. She also acted heroines of the sentimental order, 
 and had an original part in every play of Steele. — Ldgh Hunt, 
 " The Town:' 
 
 She always went to the house (i.e., the theatre) in the same 
 dress she had worn at dinner, in her visits to the houses of great 
 people ; for she was much caressed on account of her general 
 
Mrs. Oldfield. 6i 
 
 merit, and her connexion with Mr. Churchill, the Duke of 
 Marlborough's brother ; she used to go to the playhouse in a 
 chair, attended by two footmen ; she seldom spoke to any one 
 of the actors, and was allowed a sum of money to buy her own 
 clothes. — General Biographical Dictionary. 
 
 Had her birth placed her in a higher rank of life she had 
 certainly appeared in reality — what in this play {Lady Beiiy 
 Modish in the " Careless Husband ") she only excellently 
 acted — an agreeable gay woman of quality, a little too conscious 
 of her natural attraction.' Women of the first rank might have 
 borrowed some part of her behaviour without the least diminu- 
 tion of their sense of dignity. — Walpole. 
 
 I remember, in her full round of glory in comedy, she used to 
 slight tragedy. She would often say, " I hale to have a page 
 dragging my train about. Why do they not give Porter these 
 parts ? She can put on a better tragedy face than I can." 
 When " Mithridates " was revived, it was with much difficulty 
 she was prevailed upon to take the part ; but she performed it 
 to the utmost length of perfection, and after that she seemed 
 much better reconciled to tragedy. What a majestical dignity in 
 Cleopatra I and, indeed, in every part that required it. Such a 
 finished figure on the stage was never yet seen. Her excellent 
 clear voice of passion, her piercing, flaming eye, with manner 
 and action suiting, used to make me shrink with awe, and seemed 
 to put her monitor Horatio into a mouse-hole. — Chetwood. 
 
 The young actress had scarcely appeared on the stage, when 
 her wit and beauty captivated the heart of the handsome and 
 accomplished Arthur Maynwaring, by whom she had a son, 
 who bore the baptismal and surname of his father, and who 
 afterwards followed his mother to the grave as chief mourner. 
 Maynwaring dying in 17 12, of a cold caught by him in visiting 
 the Duchess of Marlborough, at St. Albans, Mrs. Oldfield 
 shortly afterwards placed herself under the protection of General 
 Charles Churchill, the son of an elder brother of the great 
 Duke of Marlborough : — 
 
 ' Swift is contemptuous enough in his mention of Mrs. Oldfield : — " I 
 was this morning at ten at the rehearsal of Mr. Addison'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, ''^ha.^snexX.l' "— Journal to Stella, 1 7 12-13. 
 
62 Thomas Elrington. 
 
 " None led through youth a gayer hfe than he, 
 Cheerful in converse, smart in repartee ; 
 Sweet was his nighfand joyful was his day, 
 He dined with Walpole and with Oldfield lay." 
 
 Sir C. Hanbury Williams. 
 
 By General Churchill she had also one son, who married 
 Lady Mary Walpole, a natural child of Sir Robert, for whom he 
 obtained the rank of an earl's daughter. Mrs. Oldfield died on 
 the 23rd of October, 1736, at the age of forty-seven. Her con- 
 temporaries considered her deserving of burial in Westminster 
 Abbey, and accordingly thither her body was borne through the 
 very street in which she had formerly lived a humble sempstress. 
 Her pall was not only supported by persons of distinction, but her 
 remains were suffered to lie in state in the Jerusalem Chamber. 
 Her grave is towards the west end of the south aisle of the Abbey, 
 between the monuments of Craggs and Congreve, near the 
 Consistory Court. — Jessis "London." 
 
 This actress seems to have possessed some portion of every 
 requisite that characterized the merit of the old school. Her 
 performance embraced every description of tragedy and comedy. 
 — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Thomas Elrington. 
 
 1688-1732. 
 
 This excellent actor was born in June 1688, in London. 
 His father having a numerous issue, put his son apprentice to 
 an upholder in Covent Garden, where I was first acquainted 
 with him. He was early addicted to the drama. I remember, 
 when he was an apprentice, we played in several private plays 
 together : when we were preparing to act " Sophonisba ; or, 
 Hannibal's Overthrow," after I had written out my part of 
 Massiva, I carried him the book of the play to study the part of 
 KingMasinissa; I found him finishing a velvet cushion, and gave 
 him the book. But alas ! before he could secrete it, his master, 
 a hot voluble Frenchman, came in upon us, and the book was 
 thrust under the velvet of the cushion. His master, as usual, 
 rated him for not working, with a " Morbleu ! why a you not 
 vark,^ Tom ?" and stood over him so long, that I saw with some 
 mortification the book irrecoverably stitched up in the cushion, 
 never to be retrieved till the cushion is worn to pieces. Poor 
 
Thomas Elrington, 63 
 
 Tom cast many a desponding look upon me when he was 
 finishing the fate of the play, while every stitch went to both 
 our hearts. His master observing our looks, turned to me, and 
 with words that broke their necks over each other for haste, 
 abused both of us. The most intelligible of his great number of 
 words, werey^ci Pudmges, and the like expressions of contempt. 
 But our play was gone for ever ! Another time we were so 
 bold as to attempt Shakspeare's " Hamlet," where our ap- 
 prentice Tom had the part of the Ghost, father to young Hamlet. 
 His armour was composed of pasteboard neatly painted. The 
 Frenchman had intelligence of what we were about, and to our 
 great surprise and mortification made one of our audience. 
 The Ghost in its first appearance is dumb to Horatio. While 
 these scenes passed the Frenchman only muttered between his 
 teeth, and we were in hopes his passion would subside ; but 
 when our Ghost began his first speech to Hamlet, " Mark me," 
 he replied, " Begar, me vil mark you presently I" and without 
 saying any more, beat our poor Ghost off the stage through the 
 street, while every stroke. on the pasteboard armour grieved the 
 auditors (because they did not pay for their seats) insomuch 
 that three or four ran after the Ghost and brought him back in 
 triumph, with the avenging Frenchman at his heels, who would 
 not be appeased till our Ghost promised him never to 
 commit the offence of acting again. A promise made like 
 many others, never intended to be kept. However, in the last 
 year of his time, his rigid master gave him a little more liberty, 
 and our young actor played different parts, till he was taken 
 notice of by Mr. Keene, an excellent player at that time. He 
 was introduced upon the stage in the part of Oroonoko, where 
 he met with a good reception in the year 171 r. The next 
 season he was invited over by Joseph Ashbury, Esq.; and in 
 the year 17 13, wedded the daughter of that worthy gentle- 
 man, by whom he had a numerous issue, particularly three 
 sons, who are now alive ; the eldest, Mr. Joseph Elrington, 
 who makes a considerable figure on the present theatre here ; 
 Mr. Richard Elrington, now of a country company in England ; 
 and Mr. Thomas Elrington, the youngest, first an ensign, 
 now a lieutenant in Colonel Flemming's regiment in Flanders. 
 Mr. Elrington the father, was a true copy of Mr. Verbruggen, 
 a very great actor in -tragedy and polite parts in comedy ; 
 but the former had an infinite fund of (what is called low) 
 
64 Charles Macklin. 
 
 iiumour upon the stage. I have seen him perform Don Chderic 
 in the " Fop's Fortune" with infinite pleasure ; he eiitered into 
 the true humour of the character, equal to the original, Mr. 
 William Penkethman. His voice was manly, strong, and 
 sweetly full-toned ; his figure tall, and well-proportioned. His 
 eldest son, Mr. Joseph Elrington, is most hke him in person 
 and countenance. This excellent player succeeded his father- 
 indaw, Joseph Ashbury, Esq., in the place of steward of the 
 King's Inns ; and the more to establish him in the kingdom, a 
 post was given him of fifty pounds a year in the Quit-rent 
 Office ; also gunner to the train of artillery, a gift of the Lord 
 Mountjoy, father to the present Earl of Blessington. which at 
 the death of that noble lord, he got permission to dispose of. 
 He was a gentleman of honour, humanity, and extensive good- 
 nature, of a facetious, well-mannered conversation, a little too 
 desirable for his health, from company of the best condition. 
 He was taken ill the very day he was consulting a plan for a 
 new theatre, after the form of that in Drury Lane,' London, 
 with an eminent builder of this city. He went home, where 
 his malady increased to a violent pleuritic fever, which never 
 left him (notwithstanding all the physician's art) till he expired, 
 July 22nd, 1732. — ChetwoocTs ^'■History of the Stage." 
 
 Charles Macklin, 
 
 1690-1797. 
 
 Macklin, who largely deals in half-form'd sounds, 
 Who wantonly transgresses nature's bounds. 
 Whose acting's hard, afi^ected, and constrain'd, 
 Whose features, as each other they disdained, 
 At variance set, inflexible and coarse, 
 Ne'er knew the workings of united force, 
 Ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid, 
 Nor show the mingled powers of light and shade ; 
 No longer for a thankless stage concern'd, 
 To worthier thoughts his mighty genius tum'd, 
 Harangued, gave lectures, made each simple elf 
 Almost as good a speaker as himself.' — Churchill. 
 
 ' He not only "harangued, gave lectures," but started a taveni and 
 offee-house in tlie Piazza, Covent Garden. He made a most ceremonioui 
 
Charles Macklin. 65 
 
 At this time Charles Mathews sought an interview with the 
 celebrated Charles Macklin, who had then attained a hundred 
 years and upwards. He had been recommended to recite to 
 him for the ]5urpose of gaining the veteran's opinion and 
 instructions; and going by appointment to the residence of 
 the aged man in Tavistock-row, he found him ready to receive 
 him. There was Macklin in his arm-chair; and when the door 
 opened, and the youth was announced, he did not attempt to 
 rise, nor indeed take any notice of the entrance of the stranger, 
 but remained with an arm on either elbow of the chair he sat 
 in, looking sour and severe at his expected pupil, who, hesi- 
 tating on the threshold, paused timidly, which occasioned the 
 centenary to call out, " Come nearer ! What do you stand 
 there for? You can't act in the gap of the door." The young 
 man approached. " Well," added Macklin, in a voice ill- 
 calculated to inspire confidence, " now let me hear you ; don't 
 be afraid." His crabbed austerity completely chilled the 
 aspirant's ardour ; however, mustering up all the confidence this 
 harsh reception had left him, he began to declaim according to 
 the approved rule of " speech-days." Macklin, sitting like a 
 stern judge waiting to pronounce sentence upon a criminal, 
 rather than to laud a hero, soon interrupted the speech with a 
 mock imitation of the novice's monotonous tones, barking out, 
 " Bow, wow, wow, wow !"^ — Life of Mathews. 
 
 A strange character — an Irishman of rough humour and 
 ability, a good fives player, and a very promising actor. His 
 appearance was very remarkable ; a coarse face, marked not 
 
 affair of his ordinary, bringing in the first dish himself, with a napkin 
 over his arm. The price of the dinner was three shillings, including wine. 
 When the repast was concluded the company adjourned to the "School of 
 Oratory."— Ed. 
 
 ' Macklin had many pupils, amongst whom was Moss, whose Jew in the 
 ' ' Merchant of Venice" was considered inferior only to Kean's. An odd 
 story is told of Moss. He was fond of a joke, and acting one night in a 
 translation of Moliere's " L'Arare" (The Miser), in rushing about the 
 stage distracted at the loss of his gold, he seized the wig from the head o£ 
 M. Nozay, the leader of the orchestra. The reception of Nozay's naked 
 head at the hands of the audience may be imagined. Colman avenged 
 Nozay by casting Moss for a contemptible character in a new piece. Moss 
 returned to the provinces. The old cry of "Play up, Nosey," it is said, 
 has its origin in Nozay, though I have seen it attributed to one Cervetto, 
 a violoncello player at Dnjry Lane in 1753, who was rtmarkable for iia 
 CTtraordinarily long nose. — Ed. 
 
 F 
 
66 Charles Macklin. 
 
 with " lines," but what a brother actor with rude wit had called 
 " cordage." He was struggling hard to get free of a very 
 pronounced brogue, and having come to the sta,ge with what 
 was to English ears an uncouth name, and to English mouths an 
 almost unpronounceable one, had changed it from M'Laughlin 
 
 to Mechlin, and later Macklin He was a most striking and 
 
 remarkable character, and one that stands out very distinctly 
 during the whole course of his long career, which stretched 
 over nearly ninety years. He was quarrelsome, overbearing, 
 even savage ; always, either in revolt or conflict, full of genius 
 and a spirit that carried him through a hundred misfortunes. — 
 P. Fitzgerald. 
 
 His mind was as rough and durable as his body. His 
 aspect and address confounded his inferiors, and his delight in 
 making others fear and admire him gave him an aversion for 
 the society of those who were his superiors. — Thomas Holcroft} 
 
 Macklin was celebrated in Shylock, and in some other 
 sarcastic parts, particularly that of Sir Archy in his comedy of 
 " Love k la Mode." We take him to have been one of those 
 actors whose performances are confined to the reflection 
 of their own personal peculiarities. The merits of Shuter, 
 Edwin, Quick, and others, who succeeded one another as 
 buffoons, were perhaps a good deal of this sort ; but pleasant 
 humours are rare and acceptable. Macklin was a clever 
 satirist in his writings, and embroiled himself, not so cleverly, 
 with a variety of his acquaintances. He foolishly attempted 
 \o run down Garrick ; and once, in a sudden quarrel, poked 
 out a man's eye with his stick, and killed him, for which 
 he narrowly escaped hanging. However, he was sorry for 
 it ; and he is spoken of by the stage historians as kind 
 in his private relations, and liberal of his purse. — Leigh 
 Hunt. 
 
 The great excellence of the veteran Macklin drew consider- 
 able audiences whenever he appeared at Covent Garden 
 Theatre, and he had been announced to perform Iiis nun 
 
 ■' " Holcroft had "been a riding-boy, a shoemaker, and an actor ere he 
 became a politician and an author. He was galled a bad actor because he 
 was not a noisy one ; but I believe old Harris had not brains enough to 
 understand him. Had he had sufficient practice, his Touchstone, Autolycus 
 &c., would have "been admirable; li? read thfsg eharactei-s iniirjit^bly , "-^ 
 
Charles Macklin. 67 
 
 ShylocJ^ on the loth of January, 1788, at the extraordinary 
 age of eighty-nine. I went there to compare his performance with 
 that of my friend Henderson, whose loss I even still regret ; and 
 with some anxiety, and much veneration, secured a station in the 
 pit, which none but the young should scuffle about, for it was 
 much contested. You first saw the foot of the actor, and thus 
 had his full expression and whole figure bearing upon your 
 
 eye Itwasalittle time before my introduction to Macklin; 
 
 and I would not, at that time, miss a repetition of his triumph 
 
 in the Jew Macklin got through the first act with spirit and 
 
 vigour, and except to a very verbal critic, without material 
 imperfection. In the second, he became confused, and sensi- 
 ble of his confusion. With his usual manliness, and waiting 
 for no admonition from others, he advanced to the front of the 
 stage, and with a solemnity in his manner that became 
 extremely touching, thus addressed his audience : — " Ladies 
 and gentlemen, within these few hours I have been seized with 
 a terror of mind I never in my life felt before ; it has totally 
 destroyed my corporeal as well as mental faculties. I must, 
 therefore, request your patience this night — a request which an 
 old man of eighty-nine years of age may hope is not unreason- 
 able. Should it be granted, unless my health is totally re- 
 estabUshed, you may depend upon it this will be the last night 
 of my ever appearing before you in so ridiculous a situation." 
 Thus dignified, even in his wreck, was that great man, whom 
 Pope had immortalized by a compliment, and whose humanity 
 Lord Mansfield had pronounced to be at least equal to his skill 
 as an actor. He recovered with the general applause of the 
 audience, and got through the play by great attention fron the 
 prompter and his assistant. — Boaden^ 
 
 ' On Macklin's Shylock Pope wrote the well-known couplet : 
 
 " This is the Jew 
 That Shakspeare drew." — Ed. 
 
 ' During the rehearsal of Macbeth by Macklin, when he was in the 
 seventy-fifth year of his age, he was so prolix, and tedious in the rehearsal 
 of his character, as well as in his instracticns to the other actore, that 
 Shuter exclaimed, "The case was very hard, for the time has been that 
 when the brains were out the man would die, and there an end." 
 Macklin, overhearing him, answered, "Ah, Ned, and the time was that 
 when liquor was in wit was out, but it is not so with thee." SJlUtef 
 rejoined, "Now, i)ow thou art a man again."— /Vrirj' Anecdotes, 
 
 F I 
 
68 Charles Macklin. 
 
 I did not meet with this great original till he was in the 
 winter of his life ; but I have heard some contemporaries assert 
 that to the manner he conjoined a considerable portion of the 
 matter of Dr. Johnson.' On the truth or falsehood of this 
 declaration, I cannot pronounce ; but of his Shylock, as I have 
 seen it various times, I can venture boldly to assert that for 
 identity of character from the first scene to the last, probably as 
 a perfoitnance it was never surpassed. — Frederick .Reynolds. 
 
 Macklin was tenacious, and very properly so, of the per- 
 formers throwing in words of their own. Lee Lewes one morn- 
 ing at Covent Garden, at the rehearsal of " Love a la Mode," in 
 which he played Squire Groom., said something which he 
 thought very smart. "Hoy! hoy!" said Macklin, "what's 
 that ?" " Oh," replied Lee Lewes, " 'tis only a little of my 
 nonsense." " Ay," replied Macklin, " but I think my nonsense 
 is rather better than yours, so keep to that if you please, sir." — 
 y. O'Xee/e.' 
 
 Macklin, whose writing was as harsh and as hard as his 
 conduct was rude and dogmatic, who, though he did not 
 produce many pieces, contrived to make one answer the 
 jHirpose of many, whose strange peculiarities made him a 
 torment to himself and to everybody else, was, however, a useful, 
 and sometimes a great actor, and very far from an inferior 
 author. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 ^ Rude he was, but generally witty with it. Once at a dinner party, 
 being rather the worse (or better) for wine, he suddenly turned and violently 
 clapped an Irish clergyman on the back. "Now, sir," he cried, "what 
 is your opinion of Terence's plays?" The clergyman, half confounded by 
 the blow, and the vehemence with which the question had been put, 
 answered, in a rich brogue, "What! do you mean his Latin edition?" 
 "Do you thmk," replied Macklin, giving him another hearty blow, "do 
 you think I meant his Irish edition ? and be d to you !" Ed. 
 
 '^ Macklin was particularly proud of this play. Once a country manager 
 produced it at his theatre, upon which, says O'Keefe, Macklin wrote him 
 word that if he did not withdraw it, "he would send him sheets of parch- 
 ment that would reach from Chancery-lane to the next gooseberiy-bush the 
 nearest verge of Yorkshire, to John O'Groat's house. The manager's 
 answer to Macklin ran thus :— " Your 'Love i la Mode," sir! I'm not 
 going to play >(72«- ' Love a la Mode.' I'll play my mvn ' Love a la Mode ' 
 I have twenty ' Love k la Modes.' I could write a ' Love a la Mode ' 
 every day m the week. I could write three hund.ed and sixty-six ' Love a 
 la Modes' in a year !" — Ed. 
 
69 
 
 John Evans. 
 1692-1734. 
 
 This person was an actor of very good repute in this kingdom,i 
 joined in the management with Mr. Thomas Elrington, Mr. 
 Thomas Griffith, &c. His person was inclinable to the gross, 
 therefore wanted deHcacy for the amiable parts ; he had an ex- 
 cellent harmonious voice, and just delivery, but a little too 
 indolent for much study or contemplation. In the last 
 year of the reign of Queen Anne, the company of Dublin 
 went down in the summer season to play at Cork. One 
 evening Mr. Evans was invited by some officers of a regiment, 
 then on duty in that city, to a tavern. Many healths were 
 proposed, and went round without reluctance ; when it came to 
 Mr. Evans's turn, he proposed the health of her Majesty 
 Queen Anne, which so much disgusted one of the company 
 (though clothed in the livery of his royal mistress), that he ran 
 downstairs and sent up a drawer to whisper to Mr. Evans, 
 who immediately put on his sword and went after him, without 
 taking the least notice to the company. He found his an- 
 tagonist in a room in the passage of the tavern, with the door 
 half open, who courageously made a thrust at Mr. Evans, which 
 he put by with his left hand ; at this, Mr. Evans drew, thrust 
 the door wide open, entered, and soon drove his opposer out 
 to the passage, where he disarmed the doughty hero, before the 
 company above stairs knew anything of the matter. The rest 
 of the military gentlemen expressed an abhorrence to the treat- 
 ment Mr. Evans received, and seemingly reconciled them on 
 the spot; but notwithstanding, when the company returned to 
 Dublin, the person who sent the challenge upstairs at Cork, 
 being then returned also, told his own story in such a manner 
 that several warm gentlemen of the army were made to believe 
 that Mr. Evans had affronted the whole body military ; and 
 when the poor supposed culprit came to his business of the 
 theatre, their clamour in the audience was so great that the 
 house was dismissed, and no play to be acted till Mr. Evans 
 had asked pubHc pardon upon the stage. His high spirit was 
 with great difficulty brought to submit, but at last he consented. 
 I remember the play was " The Rival Queens ; or, the Death 
 
 ' Ireland. 
 
•JO yames Quin. 
 
 of Alexander the Great," the part of Alexander to be played by 
 the delinquent. He came to ask pardon before the curtain. 
 When he addressed the audience, one Smart from the pit, cried 
 out, " Kneel, you rascal !" Evans then collected in himself, 
 replied in the same tone of voice, ".No, you rascal, I'll kneel 
 to none but God and my Queen !" a dangerous paroxysm at 
 such a crisis. However, as there were many worthy gentlemen 
 of the army who knew the whole affair, the new-raised clamour 
 ceased, and the play went through without any molestation, 
 and by degrees things returned to their proper channel. By 
 this we may see it is some danger for an actor to be in the 
 right. Three years after this affair, Mr. Evans went to the 
 theatre in Lincoln's-inn-fields, and in his journey back to 
 Ireland was taken ill of a fever at the town of Whitchurch 
 in Shropshire, from whence he was removed for better advice 
 to Chester, where he ended his progress of life, in the forty- 
 first year of his age, and was privately buried in the 
 cathedral, without monument, stone, or inscription. — Chet- 
 wood's "History of the Stage." 
 
 James Ouin. 
 
 1693-1766. 
 
 In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan. 
 He could not for a moment sink the man. 
 In whate'er 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 'twas Quin.' 
 
 Churchill. 
 Quin killed Bowen in 17 17. The former had declared that 
 Ben Jonson acted yacomo, in " The Libertine," better than 
 Bowen. The latter pursued Quin to a tavern, shut the door of 
 
 ^ The style of acting in Quin's day may be gathered from a curious 
 notice of Garrick's acting, quoted by Fitzgerald in his " Life of Garrick." 
 "Garrick's voice," it says, " \\'as neither whining, bellowing, nor 
 grumbling, but perfectly easy in its transitions, natural in its cadence, and 
 beautiful in its elocution. ... He never drops Ms character when he lias 
 finished a speech, by eilhcr loiiting conteiiipUwusly on an inferior pcrforiner, 
 unnecessary spilling, or suffering his eyes to wander Ihrongh the whole circle 
 of spectators." By what he did not do we are made to see what the othere 
 did.— Ed. 
 
James Quin. 71 
 
 the room in which he found him, placed his back against the 
 door, and threatened to pin Quin to the wainscot if he did not 
 immediately draw. Quin remonstrated, but drew, and kept on 
 the defensive ; whilst the impetuous Bowen pressed so upon his 
 adversary that he actually fell upon that adversary's sword and 
 died, after acknowledging his own rashness. Quin was tried 
 and acquitted.^ — Dr. Doran, " Table Traits" 
 
 .... I became a favourite with the Duke and Duchess of 
 Leeds, where I recollect often meeting the famous actor, Mr. 
 Quin, who taught me to speak Satan's speech to the sun in 
 " Paradise Lost." When they took me to see him act Cato, I 
 remember making him a formal courtesy, much to the Duchess's 
 amusement, perhaps to that of the player. — Piozzts " Memoirs." 
 
 Quin (as Sir George Beaumont told me) was once at a very 
 small dinner-party. The master of the house, pushing a deli- 
 cious pudding towards Quin, begged him to taste it. A gentle- 
 man had just before helped himself to an immense piece of it. 
 " Pray," said Quin, looking first at the gentleman's plate and 
 then at the dish, " which is the pudding ?" — S. Rogers's " Table 
 Talk." 
 
 Quin's position, long the established tragedian, and in com- 
 mand of the town, was cruelly affected by Garrick's success. 
 He was at once thrust down and deposed. There was fatal 
 truth in the hypothesis he threw out in his first burst of disgust, 
 " If this young fellow be right, then we have been all wrong." 
 He secretly believed that they were right, and therefore the 
 " young fellow" was wrong. But, alas ! the public were decid- 
 ing the question rapidly, and without any question of delicacy. 
 Such dethronements have been always carried out with the 
 rudeness of a coup d'etat. So sudden and mortifying a desertion 
 is always terribly incident to the actor's lot ; this was the third 
 time he had experienced this rude shock. On Booth's death 
 he had reigned supreme ; when suddenly arose Delane, and 
 
 ^ In the " Percy Anecdotes," that most amusing, if not always veracious 
 collection, I find this anecdote : — " The consummate epicurism and coarse 
 manners of Quin, the actor, often rendered him a veiy disagreeable guest. 
 Dining one day with the Duchess of Marlborough, her Grace, to his gi'eat 
 surprise, helped herself to the leanest part of a haunch of venison which 
 stood near her. ' What !' said Quin ; ' does your Grace eat no fat ?' 
 'Not of venison, sir.' 'Never, my Lady Duchess?' 'Never, I assure 
 you.' Too much aifected to restrain his genuine sentiments, the epicure 
 exclaimed, ' I like to dine with such fools.' " 
 
72 y antes Quin. 
 
 Quill found himself deserted. Again, Macklin's success had 
 brought a fresh abandonment. Yet there was a bluff honesty 
 about Quin — even to dignity — in the way in which he set him. 
 self to do battle for his throne ; when he found himself fairlj 
 beaten, he gave up the struggle, and, for a time at least, retired. 
 He had no animosity to his conqueror, and could later become 
 Ills warm friend. — Fiizgei-ald. 
 
 Mark one who tragical struts up and do^vn, 
 
 And rolh the words as Sisyphus his stone. 
 His labouring arms, unequal to the weight, 
 Heave like a porter's when at Billingsgate. 
 
 A Clear Stage and No Favour} 
 
 That tongue which set the table in a roar, 
 
 And charm'd the public ear, is heard no more : 
 
 Clos'd are those eyes, the harbinger of wit. 
 
 Which spake before the tongue what Shakspeare writ 
 
 Cold is that hand which, living, was stretch'd forth 
 
 At Friendship's call to succour modest worth. 
 
 Here lies James Quin. — Garrick. 
 
 Quin presented himself, upon the rising of the curtain, in a 
 green velvet coat embroidered down the seams, an enormous 
 full-bottom periwig, rolled stockings, and high-heeled, square- 
 toed shoes. With very little variation of cadence, and in a 
 deep, full tone, accompanied by a sawing kind of action, 
 whidi had more of the senate than of the stage in it, he rolled 
 out his heroics with an air of dignified indifference that seemed 
 to disdain the plaudits that were bestowed upon him. — R. 
 Cumberland. 
 
 To Mr. Quin's various excellencies in acting I have en- 
 deavoured to do equal justice ; and in general we have authority 
 to say, that to his various parts in comedy may be added no 
 mean list of dignified characters in tragedy, where sentiment 
 and gravity of action, and not passion, predominated. He 
 had so happy an ear for music, and was so famous for singing 
 with ease a common ballad or catch, that Gay was persuaded 
 to offer him the part of Macheath, in the " Beggars' Opera ;" but 
 
 after a short trial of his abilities, Quin gave it up Mr. Booth 
 
 gave ample testimony to his elocution ; for having seen him act 
 the part of the Duke, in " Measure for Measure," he declined 
 
 ' A s.itire on the contest between Quin and G.-irriclv. — Ed. 
 
y antes Quin. 73 
 
 reviving the play, and acting that character, though pressed to 
 it by Wilks and Gibber. Booth declared he would never, if 
 he could avoid it, hazard a comparison between himself and 
 Quin. — T. Davies.^ 
 
 Quin's Falstaffmnst have been glorious, and the tradition of 
 it places Quin very high, for it seems to be the most difficult of 
 all characters to sustain. Since Garrick there have been more 
 than one Richard, Hamlet, Romeo, Macbeth, and Lear; but 
 since Quin only one Falstajf (Henderson). Quin seemed born 
 to play it. He was convivial ; and when carrying the dead 
 Hotspur (Garrick) off the stage, he would say to him, " Where 
 shall we sup ?" He was satiric, and had much of Falstaffs wit ; 
 but in him it was the appendage of a noble nature. — C. R. Leslie. 
 
 Quin in Falstaff^zs, as excellent as Garrick in Lear. — H. 
 Walpole^ 
 
 ^ Davies gives an illustration of Quin's acting. " When Lothario gave 
 Horatio the challenge, instead of accepting it instantly, with the deter- 
 mined and unembarrassed bow of superior bravery, Quin made a long 
 pause, and dragged out the words : 
 
 ' I'll meet thee there ! ' 
 
 in such a manner as to make it appear absolutely ludicrous. He paused so 
 long Before he spoke, that somebody, it was said, called out from the gal- 
 lery, ' Why don t you tell the gentleman whether you'll meet him or not ?' " 
 ^ The opinions of Walpole are to be received with caution, for he is 
 never in earnest. His cynicism is ingenious, but his portraits are over- 
 charged with it. They are caricatures. The truth is, Walpole was a man 
 of weak parts, though of some wit. In his letters he exhibits a misan- 
 thropy not radically inherent, but very sedulously cultivated. Those 
 whom he admired he admired too ambitiously, so that while his readers 
 laugh over his wit, they are always haunted by a suspicion that they are 
 doing honour to some other man's intelligence. Besides being a laborious 
 cynic, Horace was a coxcomb and an egotist. His wit he imitated from 
 George Selwyn ; his learning he borrowed from the poet Gray. As a 
 critic he was contemptible enough. He sneered at Bishop Berkeley, a 
 man whom Atterbury pronounced an angel, and whom even the morose 
 and cynical Swift honoured for his genius ; he sneered at Johnson, whom 
 he called a gigantic pedant, brutal and dogmatic, without parts and with- 
 out learning ; he sneered at Boswell's biography, which has been pro- 
 nounced the best memoir that was ever written ; he sneered at Akenside, 
 whose poem "To Curio" Macaulay praises as exhibiting a power that in 
 time might have rivalled Dryden, and whose " Ode to Lord Huntingdon" 
 has passages nobler than anything to be found in Collins or Gray ; he 
 sneered at Thomson, whose "Seasons'' indicate a genius not inferior to 
 Wordsworth's in its , attentive admiration of nature, whilst the histoiy of 
 poetry in England exhibits nothing more exquisitely beautiful in descrip- 
 tion and melodious in language than the "Castle of Indolence." H« 
 
74 jfa/mes Quin. 
 
 With double force th' enlivened scene he wakes, 
 Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep 
 Each due decorum. Now the heart he shakes, 
 And now with well-urged sense th' enlighten'd judgment takes. 
 
 Thomson^ s " Castle of Indolence^ 
 
 Quin has hardly had justice rendered to his good works. 
 We are apt to think of this great player, who lived a good deal 
 according to the jolly fashion of his rather too jolly days, as a 
 mere imbiber of claret, and the most unctuous of Fahtaffs. 
 But in offices of charity, rendered with exquisite delicacy, Quin's 
 active life wears a very different aspect. How refined was the 
 manner in which he forced upon penniless Thomson a hundred 
 pounds ! It was a debt, he said, which he owed the poet for 
 the pleasure he had experienced in reading his poems ! What 
 generous humour in his reply to half-starved Winston (for 
 whom he had procured an engagement, and an outfit, to enable 
 him to enter on it with decency), who timidly asked, under the 
 impulse of hunger, what he should do for a little ready money 
 for the next few days. " Nay," exclaimed Quin, " if you're in 
 want of money, you must put your hand in your own pocket !" 
 And when Winston did so, after Quin had left, he found a lo/. 
 note, which Quin had placed there ! — Cornhill Magazine, 
 " The Saints of the Stage," 1867. 
 
 Qain, though he must have been an actor of greater understand- 
 ing and more mind than Macklin, was still in stilts, and proved 
 that though acting comprehends the whole of oratory, oratory 
 by no means comprehends the whole of acting. Greatness 
 and dignity Quin is universally allowed to have possessed ; for 
 a correct and commanding understanding, and a thorough and 
 discriminating power of expressing the sense of an author, I 
 have always understood he never had a superior. AVe are told, 
 and I do not dispute the truth of the assertion, that his manner 
 of utterance was so just, and had such a display of that feeling 
 which the sentiment he pronounced conveyed to his mind, that 
 he transferred an equal sensation of pleasure and conviction to 
 his auditors. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 It will perhaps be scarcely credited, yet it is most solemnly 
 
 sneered at Garrick, at Fielding, at Goldsmith ; he spoke contemptuously 
 of Dryden, of Waller, and of Milton. Gray he admired rather for his 
 literature than his poetry ; but he thought Mason a veiy fine poet, and 
 Hannah More superior to Goldsmith as a prose-writer. Ed. 
 
yam.es Quin. 75 
 
 true, that we have seen Mr. Quin, when at least sixty years old, 
 and of such corpulence as to weigh twenty stone, roll on for the 
 young Chamont, in " The Orphan," in a suit of clothes heavy 
 enough for Othello : a pair of stiff-topped white gloves, then 
 only worn by attendants on a funeral, an old-fashioned major- 
 wig, and black stockings ; yet odd as this external appearance 
 may seem, his performance was not one jot less so ; and with- 
 out exaggeration we may assert that there never was anything 
 so hke burlesque as the veteran's dronish apology for the 
 Juvenile solditr.-;— Dramatic Censor, vol. 2. 
 
 A single slip in the unlucky, but popular tragedy of " Cato,'' 
 cost a little Welsh actor his life. His name was Williams. 
 Playing Decius to Quin's Cato, at the Lincoln's Inn Fields 
 Theatre, in 17 18, he entered with — " Csesar sends health to 
 Cato ;" but he pronounced the last name affectedly, mincing it 
 into something like " Keeto." Quin, who gave a broad clas- 
 sical enunciation to the letter a in the word, was offended, and 
 instead of replying, 
 
 " Could he send it 
 To Cato's slaughter'd friends, it would be welcome, " 
 
 he exclaimed — " Would he had sent a better messenger." The 
 fiery little Welshman was bursting with rage ; and when Cato 
 resumed with, " Are not your orders to address the Senate ?" 
 he could hardly reply, " My business is with" — it would corae — 
 " ' Keeto.' " Ten times in the short scene he had to repeat the 
 name, and Quin nearly as often ; but the latter gave it a broad 
 sound, and delivered it with a significant look which almost 
 shook the little actor off his feet, and did shake all the sides of 
 the house with inextinguishable laughter. When they met in 
 the green-room, the Welshman, triply armed by having just 
 ground of complaint, assailed Quin for rendering him ridiculous 
 in the eyes of the audience. Quin said it was in their ears, 
 and would have laughed the matter off. But the soul of Wil- 
 liams would not stoop to such treatment, and after the play he 
 lay in wait for Quin under the Piazza as Cato passed that way 
 to take his punch. The older actor laughed as Williams drew 
 his sword, and bade Quin defend himself The latter would 
 have sustained defence with his cane, but the angry Welshman 
 thrust so fiercely that the other was fain to draw his rapier, 
 which speedily, but without malice or intention on the part of 
 the wielder, passed clear through the poor player's body. 
 Decius was stretched dead on the pavement, and Cato looked . 
 
76 Lacy Ryan. 
 
 on bewildered. Here was a man slain, and all for the mis- 
 pronunciation of a vowel ! The tragedy brought Quin to the 
 bar of the Old Bailey ; but the catastrophe was laid rather to 
 the fashion of wearing swords than to the drawing them with evil 
 purpose ; and Quin was freed from censure, but not from sad 
 memories. — Dramatic Anecdotes. 
 
 Lacy Ryan. 
 
 1694-1770. 
 
 The first part he was taken notice of in was that of Marcus xa 
 " Cato," which was first acted in 17 12. In the run of that 
 celebrated tragedy he was accidentally brought into a fray with 
 some of our Tritons on the Thames ; and in the scuffle a blow 
 on the nose was given him by one of these water-bullies, who 
 neither regard men nor manners. I remember the same 
 night, as he was brought on the bier after his supposed death in 
 the fourth act of " Cato," the blood from the real wound in the 
 face gushed out with violence ; that hurt had no other effect 
 than just turning his nose a little, though not to deformity, yet 
 some people imagined it gave a very small alteration to the tone 
 of his voice, though nothing disagreeable. He acquitted 
 himself in many capital parts, both in tragedy and comedy, to 
 the satisfaction of his auditors, and has ever been esteemed in 
 the first rank of actors. — Chetwood's '■'■History of the Stage." 
 
 From him succeeding Richards' took the cue. 
 And hence his style, if not the colour, drew. — Foofe. 
 
 He had, with some slight extravagance, excellent judgment, 
 
 sense, and feeling In scenes where comedy trenched upon 
 
 the domain of the sister muse, by the exhibition of profound 
 emotion, Ryan was veiy great ; and probably no actor has so 
 nearly resembled him in this respect as Mr. Robson, whose 
 origin is as modestly respectable as Ryan's was. I'hey who 
 can recollect Elliston, as he played, in his latter days, the genial 
 Hover, may have some idea of what Ryan was when he grew 
 old, in Captain Phcme — namely, defiant of age, and full of the 
 natural assumption of a spirit that seemed backed by the 
 
 '■ Garrick is said to have borrowed some of the ideas suggesf'-d by 
 Ryan's Richard III., and to have enlarged upon them. — Ed. 
 
Lacy Ryan. 77 
 
 strength which was not there, but which had a substitute in 
 irresistible good-will. — Dr. Doran. 
 
 Justice has scarcely been done to Ryan's merit. Garrick 
 once going with Woodward to see his Richard with a view of 
 being amused, owned that he was astonished at the genius and 
 power he saw struggling to make itself felt through the burden 
 of ill-training, uncouth gestures, and an ungraceful and slovenly 
 figure. He was generous enough to own that all the merit there 
 was in his own playing of Richard, he had drawn from studying 
 this less fortunate player. — P. Fitzgerald. 
 
 Mr. Ryan had enjoyed a kind of prescriptive claim to all the 
 lovers in tragedy and fine gentlemen in comedy, at the theatres 
 in Lincoln's-inn-fields and Covent-garden, for nearly thirty 
 years. In a conversation which I had with him some years 
 before his death, he told me that he began the trade of acting 
 when he was a boy of about sixteen or seventeen years of age ; 
 and that one of his first parts, which was suddenly put into his 
 hand, in the absence of a more experienced player, was Seyton, 
 an old officer in the tragedy of " Macbeth," when Betterton 
 acted the principal character. As Betterton had not seen Ryan 
 before he came on the stage, he was surprised at the sight of a 
 boy in a large full-bottom wig, such as our judges now wear on 
 the bench. However, by his looks he encouraged him to go 
 on with what he had to say ; and when the scene was over he 
 commended the actor, but reproved old Downs, the prompter, 
 for sending a child to him instead of a man advanced in years. 
 The first dawn of his good fortune was the distinction paid him 
 by Mr. Addison, who selected him from the tribe of young 
 actors to play the part of Marcus in " Cato." The author and 
 his friend Steele invited him to a tavern some time before 
 the play was acted, and instructed him in his part. The old 
 gentleman felt an honest pleasure in recollecting that early 
 mark of favour bestowed on him by men of such eminence. — 
 Thomas Davies. 
 
 Ryan is spoken of in terms of the warmest praise by his 
 biographer, who fancying himself obliged to write nevertheless 
 in the langiiage of candour, confesses, while he speaks of his 
 person and features as the model of symmetry and perfection, 
 that having first received a blow on the nose in one affray, 
 which turned it out of its place, and a brace of pistol-bullets in 
 his mouth in another, which broke his jaw, these accidents so 
 discomposed his voice that he became a most ridiculous object 
 
78 Thomas Walker. 
 
 rf imitation, but that he remained a very deserving stage 
 favourite to the last. It is universally acknowledged that he 
 was a very sensible man and a most respectable member of 
 society, and upon this account he was probably encouraged 
 greatly beyond his professional merit. Nobody seems to have 
 known this better than Quin, who, in the most friendly manner, 
 after he had retired from the stage, performed /w/rfa^ regularly 
 for his benefit once a year, till he himself took a hint from 
 nature and found that his deception would not do. In short, 
 in spite of whatever may be said by those who, from the best 
 intentions in the world, wish well to the reputation of Ryan, 
 he never could have ranked on the stage as an actor of first- 
 rate abilities. — C, Dibdin. 
 
 Thomas Walker. 
 1698-1744. 
 
 In the early part of his life, when he first appeared at Drury- 
 lane, he was taken notice of by Booth, who thought him 
 worthy of his countenance and instruction. He had from 
 nature great advantages of person and voice. His countenance 
 was manly and expressive, which may be seen in a mezzotinto 
 of him in the part of Macheath^ which is very like him. The 
 humour, ease, and gaiety he assumed in this character 
 established his own reputation, and was one great support 
 of the " Beggars' Opera." He knew no more of music than 
 barely singing in tune ; and indeed, his singing was supported 
 by his inimitable action, by his speaking to the eye, not 
 charming the ear. In several parts of tragedy Walker's 
 look, deportment, and action gave a distinguished glare to 
 tyrannic rage and uncommon force to the vehemence of 
 anger. — T. Davies. 
 
 Quin himself had so bad an opinion of the " Beggars' 
 Opera" that he refused the part of Captain Machcath, and 
 gave it to Walker, who acquired great celebrity by his grave 
 yet animated performance of iL-^Boswell. 
 
 Tom- Walker, the original Macheath, was the faiDous 
 MassineUo, the fisherman of Naples, in Tom D'Urfey's farce, 
 performed at the theatre, Lincoln's-inn-fields. Poor Walket 
 
 ' He was th? original Mafhe^h ^^ "Tl)e Beggars' Opera."— Ejp, 
 
Henry Giffard. 79 
 
 was a great humorist, a member of many convivial clubs, who 
 shortened his life by long drinking. — Wine and Walnuts? 
 
 In his youth he was a very promising actor. The part of 
 Charles in the " Nonjuror," gave him the first establishment as 
 an actor. The applause he gained from performing the part of 
 Macheath in the "Beggars' Opera" was fatal to him. He 
 followed Bacchus too ardently, insomuch that his credit was 
 often drowned upon the stage, and by degrees almost rendered 
 him useless.— CA«/w,?(7(/. 
 
 Henry Giffard. 
 1699-.... 
 
 This gentleman was descended from an ancient family, origi- 
 nally in Buckinghamshire. His father had a numerous issue, 
 he being the last of eight sons. He was born in London, in 
 1699.' In the year 17 16, he was made a clerk to the South 
 Sea Company, in which post he remained three years. But 
 having a strong propensity to the stage, he first appeared in 
 public on the theatre in Bath, in 1719, and, in two years' 
 probation, he made such progress that the manager of 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre invited him to join his company, 
 where he continued two years more. From thence he went to 
 try his fortune in Ireland, where his merit soon brought him 
 into the management. During his stay there, he married 
 the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lydal, persons that made 
 very good figures in the theatre. This gentlewoman died 
 in child-bed very young, leaving behind her one son, born 
 in his father's house on the North Strand, who is now an 
 actor in this kingdom. Some years after Mr. Giffard mar- 
 ried a second wife, who is now alive. She has an amiable 
 person, and is a well-esteemed actress, both in tragedy 
 and comedy ; born, if I am not misinformed by her mother, 
 the widow Lydal, in the year 171 1. Mr. Giffard and 
 spouse, if I mistake not, came over to England 1730, 
 where they supported a company of comedians, then 
 under the management of Mr. Odell, now deputy-licenser 
 
 'Leigh Hunt speaks of "Wine and Walnuts" as "an antiquarian 
 fiction, but not entirely such," Tlie book is full of aiW^sing a!(pe4Qtgs, but 
 jf^frated jn ^ dv?U, old-fi^sjiioiied style. — Ep, 
 
So yohn Thttrmond. 
 
 of plays under the Lord Chamberlain, his Grace the Duke of 
 Grafton. Mr. Odell, from not understanding the maiiagement 
 of a company (as, indeed, how should any one, that is not, in 
 some sort, brought up to that knowledge.?) soon left it to Mr. 
 Giffard, that did ; who, in the year 1733, caused to be built an 
 entire new, beautiful, convenient theatre, by the sanie architect 
 with that of Covent Garden; where dramatic pieces were 
 performed with the utmost elegance and propriety. Some 
 years after he was obliged to quit that theatre (I may say 
 by oppression), and occupied the vacant theatre in Lincoln's- 
 inn-fields. But his success did not answer his merit. From 
 Jhence he transplanted himself into the Theatre Royal in 
 Drury-lane. — Chetwood's " History of the Stage." 
 
 John Thurmond. 
 
 1700— 1749. 
 
 He was an actor of repute in this kingdom about thirty years 
 past, and stood in many capital parts, being then a sharer in 
 old Smock Alley Theatre with Mr. Thomas Elrington, &c. 
 To let you see how formerly even tragedy heroes were 
 now and then put to their shifts, I'll tell you a short 
 story that befel Mr. Thurmond. It was a custom, at that 
 time, for persons of the first rank and distinction to 
 give their birth-day suits to the most favoured actors. I 
 think Mr. Thurmond was honoured by General Ingoldsby 
 with his. But his finances being at the last tide of ebb, 
 the rich suit was put in buckle (a cant word for forty in 
 the hundred interest). One night, notice was given that the 
 general would be present with the Government at the play, and 
 all the performers on the stage were preparing to dress out in 
 the suits presented. The spouse of Johnny (as he was com- 
 monly called) tried all her arts to persuade Mr. Holdfast, the 
 pawnbroker (as it fell out, his real name) to let go the clothes 
 for that evening, to be returned when the play was over. But 
 all arguments were fruitless ; nothing but the ready, or a pledge 
 of full equal value. Such people would have despised a 
 Demosthenes, or a Cicero, with all their rhetorical flourishes, if 
 their oratorian gowns had been in pledge. Well ! what must 
 be done ? The whole family in confusion, and all at their 
 wit's end ; disgrace, with her glaring eyes and extended mouth. 
 
Dennis Delcone. 8 1 
 
 ready to devour. Fatal appearance ! At last Winny, the wife 
 (that is, Winnifrede), put on a composed countenance (but, alas ! 
 with a troubled heart) ; stepped to a neighbouring tavern, and 
 bespoke a very hot negus, to comfort Johnny in the great part 
 he was to perform that night, begging to liave the silver 
 tankard with the lid, because, as she said, a covering, and the 
 vehicle silver, would retain heat longer than any other metal. 
 The request was complied with, the negus carried to the play- 
 house piping hot — ^popped into a vile earthen mug — the 
 tankard Vargent travelled incog, under her apron (Hke the 
 Persian ladies veiled), popped into the pawnbroker's hands, in 
 exchange for the suit — put on, and played its pjiii. With the rest 
 of the wardrobe ; when its duty was over, earned back to 
 remain in its old depository — the tankard returned the right 
 road ; and, when the tide flowed with its lunar influence, the 
 stranded suit was wafted into safe harbour again, after paying a 
 little for dry docking, which was all the damages received. 
 Mr. Thurmond died in London, when he was one of the 
 company in Drury Lane Theatre ; a merry, good-natured 
 companion to the last. — Cheiwood's " History of the Stage." 
 
 Dennis Delane. 
 1700-1753. 
 
 Mr. Dennis Delane was a native of Ireland, descended from 
 an ancient family. He first appeared on the Dublin stage and 
 was very well received ; his person and excellent voice, joined 
 with his other merits, gained him the esteem he justly de- 
 served. However, he set out for London, where he was recom- 
 mended to the managers of Drury-lane, I think, in the year 
 1731 ; but their company being brimful, even to the running 
 over, the managers did not give him the encouragement that 
 the promise of his voice and person deserved. Mr. Gifiard 
 took hold of the occasion, and engaged him for his theatre in 
 Goodman's-fields, where he had a better opportunity of shining 
 without any rival ray. Mr. Quin, as I am informed (who can 
 distinguish merit from his own superior judgment), prevailed 
 upon him to leave that corner of the town, and act on the 
 same stage with him, Covent-garden. — CAetwood's " History of 
 ihe Stage." 
 
 Delane's person and voice were well adapted to the parts hfi 
 
 G 
 
82 Charles Hulet. 
 
 generally acted ; Alexander the Great was his most admired 
 and followed part, and his success in that character brought him 
 from Goodamn's-fields to the more critical audience of Covent- 
 garden. He had natural requisites which, with judgment and 
 assiduity, would have rendered him a favourite actor ; but his 
 attachment to the bottle prevented him from rising to any 
 degree of excellence. I think his chief merit was not generally 
 understood. His address and manner were easy and pohte ; 
 and he excelled more in the well-bred man, in a Bevil in the 
 " Conscious Lovers" and a Manly in^hz " Provoked Husband," 
 than in those parts which pushed him into notice. — T. Davies. 
 
 Charles Hulet. 
 
 1701-1736. 
 
 He was born in the year 1701, and was by his father put 
 prentice to a bookseller. By reading of plays in his master's 
 shop, he used to repeat speeches in the kitchen in the evening, 
 to the destruction of many a chair, which he substituted in the 
 room of real persons in his drama. One night, as he was 
 repeating the part of Alexajider with his wooden representative 
 of Clytus (an old elbow-chair), and coming to the speech where 
 the old general is to be killed, this young mock Alexander 
 snatched a poker instead of a javelin, and threw it with such 
 strength against poor Clytus that the chair was killed upon the 
 spot, and lay mangled on the floor. The death of Clytus 
 made a monstrous noise, which disturbed the master in the 
 parlour, who called out to know the reason ; and was answered 
 by the cook below, " Nothing, sir, but that Alexander has 
 killed Clytus^ His master, Mr. Edmund Curll, finding his 
 inclination so strong for the stage, agreed to let him try his 
 fortune there. He had a most extraordinary melodious voice, 
 strong and clear ; and in the part of Macheath in the " Beggars' 
 Opera " he was allowed to excel the original. Then he was an 
 excellent mimic, if excellency may be joined to mimickry. He 
 took a litde too much pride in the firmness of his voice ; for he 
 had an odd custom of stealing unperceived upon a person and 
 with a hem I in his ear, deafen him for some time widi the 
 strength and loudness of his voice. Yet this customary folly 
 (for folly it may be justly called) proved his fate ; for the last 
 hem / he gave broke a blood-vessel, which was the cause of his 
 
Theophilus Cibber. 83 
 
 death four-and-twenty hours after. He was a great benefactor 
 to the malt-tax, which, in my opinion, was the cause of that 
 mountain of flesh he was loaded with. — Chetwood. 
 
 Mr. Charles Hulet was endowed with great abiUties for a 
 player ; but laboured under the disadvantage of a person rather 
 too corpulent for the hero or the lover ; but his port well \)&- 
 caxae ITenry VIIL, Falstaff, &c., and many other- characters, 
 both tragedy and comedy, in which he would have been equally 
 excellent had his application and figure been proportionable to 
 his quahfications, which, had he duly cultivated, he would have 
 beco.me a very considerable performer. — Henry Giffard} 
 Hulet was a useful performer and a good singer. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Theophilus Cibber. 
 
 1703-1757- • 
 
 Though Mr. Theophilus Cibber had some degree of merit in 
 a variety of characters, and especially in brisk coxcombs, and 
 more particularly in extravagant parts, such as Pistol, yet he 
 generally mixed so much of false spirit and grimace in his 
 acting, that he often displeased the judicious spectator. — 
 T. Davies. 
 
 Theophilus Cibber, whose variegated and complicate history' 
 was as scandalous, and would have been as noticeable as that 
 of Savage, if he had been born with as much genius, who was 
 forward in all manner of theatrical schisms and got into 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 
 and did, all which is attributed by an author to his having been 
 bora on the day of the most memorable storm' ever known in 
 this kingdom, which happened November 26th, 1703, brought 
 
 ^ Henry Giffard was the manager of the theatre in Goodman's-fields, 
 where Garrick made his first appearance. See page 79. — ^Ed. 
 
 ^ His scampish character is sufficiently illustrated by his conduct towards 
 his wife {see Mrs. Cibber). His habits were extravagant, and much of his 
 life was passed in distress. He was drowned in crossing to Ireland. — Ed. 
 
 3 The storm, called "the great storm," one of the most terrible that 
 ever raged in England. The devastation on land was immense, and in the 
 harbours and on the coasts the loss in shipping and in lives was evea 
 
 G a 
 
84 Robert Wetherilt. 
 
 out, for we cannot say he wrote, six dramatic pieces.' — Charles 
 Dibdin. 
 
 Mr. Theophilus Gibber received his education at Winchester 
 School. His strong genius for the theatre brought him early 
 upon the stage, where he has appeared in full lustre in the 
 various branches of comedy ; and though he has performed 
 several parts in tragedy with success, in my imagination the 
 sock sits easier upon him than the buskin. — Chelwoods '■^ Hisivry 
 of the Sta^i^e." 
 
 Robert Wetherilt. 
 
 1708-1745. 
 
 This person- was bom at Stamford, in Lincolnshire, in the 
 year 1708, where his father and mother, belonging to a country 
 company, were then playing. He played, as he informed me, 
 the part of the Diche of York in " Richard HI.," before 
 he could speak plain ; eo that it may be said he was born an 
 actor. He came with his mother (who was a well-esteemed 
 actress at that time) to Drurydane a boy, where he showed his 
 rising genius, first in the part of Squire JiicAard in the " Pro- 
 voked Husband ;" from thence he went to the theatre in Good- 
 man's-fields, where he married the sister of Mr. Dennis Delane, 
 then of that theatre. In the year 1738, he came over into this 
 kingdom, and may be well remembered; his excellence, in 
 several parts of comedy, having not yet been outdone. I can- 
 not avoid mentioning a passage in the life of this truly good 
 comedian. While he and his family belonged to the Theatre 
 Royal in Dniry-lane, after the company had finished the season 
 of playing in London (which generally is at the end of May), he, 
 with his father and mother, went, for the summer season, to play 
 
 greater. — Haydn. This storm supplied Addison with Jus celebrated 
 simile of the Angel in his poem "The Campaign :" — 
 
 " So when an angel by divine command 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty land. 
 Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, 
 Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; 
 And pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perlorm. 
 Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm." — Ed. 
 
 "Tliey were "Henry VI.," "Tlie Lover," " Pattie and Teggy," "The 
 Harlot's Progress," "Romeo and Juliet," and the "Auction." Shak- 
 speare, Allan Ramsay, and Fielding were the authors "improved" by 
 CiL'ber in the above pieces. — Ed. 
 
Robert Wether ilt. 85 
 
 at several towns in Lincolnshire (the custom of many of both 
 established theatres). When the company were summoned to 
 meet in London at the usual time (the latter end of August) to 
 begin the winter-season, I received the following short letter : 
 
 "Grantham, August 2nd. 
 
 " Sir, — Mr. Wetherilt, and his wife, beg you will excuse them 
 to Mr. Wilks ; their son is at the point of death. They beg an 
 answer. Be pleased to direct to your humble servant R. 
 Stjkely, apothecary, in Grantham, Lincolnshire." 
 
 The meaning why I mention this letter is, that the son, tlie 
 very night this letter was wtitten, in all appearance, expired, was 
 stripped and washed, the bed taken away, and he laid stretched 
 on a mat, with a basin of salt (a common custom in England) 
 placed on his stomach, the inconsolable parents removed 
 to another house, the coffin brought to the son's chamber, and 
 the windows all open. About eiglit at night a person was sent 
 with a light to watch the corpse. When she opened the door, 
 the first object she perceived was poor Bob (as he was generally 
 called by his familiars) sitting up, with his teeth trembling in 
 his head (and well they might) with cold. The woman, in her 
 fright, dropped the candle, and screamed out, " The devil ! the 
 devil !" This fright alarmed another woman below, who ran 
 upstairs to see what was the matter. In the meantime Bob, 
 with much ado, had made a shift to get from the bed ; and, 
 taking up the candle, which lay upon the floor unextinguished, 
 was creeping to the door to call for assistance, as naked 
 as from the womb of his mother ; which the two women 
 perceiving, with joint voices repeated again, " A ghost ! a 
 ghost ! the devil ! the devil !" The master of the house, hear- 
 ing this uproar, ran himself to know the reason ; where poor 
 Bob, the supposed devil, and he, soon came to a right tmder- 
 standing. He was put into a warm bed, to the unspeakable joy 
 of his desponding parents, and in ten days after in London 
 (viva voce) told me the whole story of his death. This 
 accident, when real death paid him a visit, worked so strongly 
 upon his forlorn parents, that they would not let his corpse be 
 coffined till five days after he expired. Vain hope ! He died 
 in 1743, in the thirty-fifth year of his age. Both his parents 
 died soon after him. I am sorry to end this account with say- 
 ing, his company was so desirable, that he had many trials of 
 
86 Lavinia Fenton. 
 
 skill with his constitution. He was buried, in a very genteel 
 manner, in the round churchyard.— C%i?/?cw(fj- "History of the 
 Stage." 
 
 Lavinia Fenton (Duchess of Bolton). 
 1708-1760. 
 
 The person who acted FoHy (in the " Beggars' Opera'"), till 
 then obscure, became all at once the favourite of the town ; 
 her pictures were engraved and sold in great numbers ; her Hfe 
 written, books of letters and verses to her published, and 
 pamphlets made even of her sayings and jests. — Note to the 
 " Dunciad" 
 
 She was a very accomplished and most agreeable com- 
 panion ; had much wit, strong good sense, and a just taste in 
 poUte literature. Her person was agreeable and well made, 
 
 1 She was the original Polly in the "Beggars' Opera.'' Gay, the 
 author of the piece, had carried his play to Mr. Gibber at Druiy-Iane, 
 who rejected it ; he then took it to Mr. Rich, at the theatre in Lincoln's- 
 inn-fields, who had the wisdom to accept it. Its success was not antici- 
 pated. It was produced at the smallest cost for which it could be put 
 on the stage, and the part of Folly was assigned to Miss Fenton, 3 
 young woman of handsome person, but of no reputation, who had indeed 
 acted, not without success, the character of Cherry in the "Beaux' 
 Stratagem," but who was willing to come to Rich for a salary of fifteen 
 shillings a week. The Newgate pastoral, as Swift had called it, was the 
 greatest success the stage had ever seen. It made the fortune of many con- 
 nected with it ; it put a large sum into the pocket of Gay, and left Rich, 
 whom it had found poor, opulent. The success of the "Beggars' Opera" 
 so elated Gay that he wrote a second part, which he called " Polly ; but 
 the Chamberlain refused to license it. The truth was, the immoral tenden- 
 cies of the "Beggars' Opera" had been very seriously commented upon. 
 Swift, indeed, and others had commended it as a performance that placed 
 all kinds of vice in the strongest and most odious light ; but a numerous 
 party, led by Dr. Herring, Archbishop of Canterbury, pronounced it in 
 the highest degree injurious to public morals. It imparted, they said, to 
 vice a sentimental colouring which would increase its attractions, and 
 perplex or confound the speculations of such of the ignorant as might be 
 disposed to virtue. They also declared that it gave dignity to the character 
 of the great social pest of the day, the highwayman, and that it was calcu- 
 lated to increase the number of robbers by representing the hero with a 
 conscience, and by dismissing him without punishment. In most ages tlie 
 same causes produce the same consequences. In our own day the result 
 of the introduction of Jack Sheppard on the stage as a hero must 
 illustrate and confirm the objections of the opponents of the "Beggars' 
 Opera. " — Ed. 
 
Lavinia Fenton. Sy 
 
 though I think she could never be called a beauty. I have 
 had the pleasure of being at table with her, when her conver- 
 sation was much admired by the first characters of the age, 
 particularly by old Lord Bathurst and Lord Granville. — Z>r. 
 'yoseph Walton. 
 
 The famous Polly, Duchess of Bolton, is dead, having after 
 a life of merit relapsed into her Pollyhood. Two years ago, ill 
 at Tonbridge, she picked up an Irish surgeon. When she was 
 dying, this fellow sent for a lawyer to make her will ; but the 
 man finding who was to be her heir instead of her children, re- 
 fused to draw it. The Court of Chancery did furnish another 
 less scrupulous, and her three sons have but a thousand pounds 
 apiece, the surgeon nine thousand. — Horace Walpole. 
 
 The impression made by Miss Fenton in Polly, both by 
 her singing and acting, was most powerful. Her popularity 
 had reached its apex, and the manager, Mr. Rich, in order to 
 secure her future services, was induced .to increase his former 
 liberality ; and a second offer of double the amount of her pre- 
 vious salary presented to the young actress an income so 
 truly magnificent that she was dazzled into a prompt 
 acceptance of — thirty shillings a week ! . . . . The abilities of 
 Miss Fenton cannot be disputed ; the universal panegyrics of 
 the time, and the anxiety of the managers to monopolize her 
 services, assure us that no actress or singer could, at any 
 period of the drama, be more popular. Not a print-shop or 
 fan-shop but exhibited her handsome figure in her Polly's 
 costume, which possessed all the characteristic simplicity of the 
 modern Quakeress, without one meretricious ornament ; and 
 the stage presented her in this style of dress for sixty-three 
 consecutive representations of the same character, when the 
 theatre was crowded in every part by her admirers ; indeed, so 
 painfully was she importuned and pursued by her numerous 
 lovers, that it was deemed expedient that some confidential 
 friends should guard her nightly home, to prevent her being 
 hurt by the crowd or run away with. — Mrs. Charles Mathews. 
 
 Miss Fenton, the original Lucy Lockit of "The Beggars' 
 Opera," who was married to the Duke of Bolton, became after 
 her elevation so obnoxious to the lower orders about the place 
 of her residence, that they were with difficulty prevented from 
 dragging her out of her coffin. The cause of this extraordinary 
 antipathy is not exactly known.— iVm/ Monthly Magazine. 
 
88 
 
 Charlotte Cliarke.' 
 
 1710-1760. 
 
 Her maiden name was Gibber. She was put to school at 
 eight years old, and had an education more suitable to a boy 
 than a girl. As she grew up, she accordingly delighted in 
 masculine amusements — shooting, hunting, riding, &c. Hei 
 actions were not only mischievous, but frequently attended 
 with danger. This wildness, however, was checked in a 
 measure by her marriage, when very young, with Mr. Richard 
 Charke, an eminent performer on the violin ; but a disagree- 
 ment between the parties afterwards occasioned a separation. 
 Hereupon she applied herself to the stage, but as much from 
 inclination as necessity. Her first character was Mademoiselle, 
 in the " Provoked Wife ;" and from this she rose to Alicia, in 
 " Jane Shore," and Andromache, in the " Distressed Wife ■" in 
 all which she met with a favourable reception. She was then 
 engaged on a good salary at the Haymarket ; and after that at 
 Drury-lane. She now enjoyed a comfortable situation, and 
 was like to have made no inglorious figure in theatric life had 
 not her bad temper induced her to quarrel with Fleetwood, the 
 then manager, whom she not only left on a sudden without any 
 previous notice, but even vented her spleen against him in 
 public by a little dramatic farce, called " The Art of Manage^ 
 ment." She then commenced strolling actress, and returned to 
 London in 1755, when she published a "Narrative of her 
 Life," in which she says, that when she had thrown herself out 
 of employment, she set up as a grocer and oilwoman in Long- 
 acre, but was robbed and cheated by sharpers. She then 
 opened a puppet-show, which failed. Soon after the death of 
 Mr. Charke, she was arrested for a small sum, and procured 
 her discharge by a subscription among the " ladies" who kept 
 coffee-houses in and about Covent-garden. Disguising her 
 sex, she then became a performer among the lowest of actors, 
 and afterwards engaged with a noble gentleman as valet-de- 
 chambre. Slie also made and sold sausages for the support of 
 herself and child ; and this failing, became a waiter at the 
 
 f She was a younger daughter of CoUey Clbher. 
 
William Mynitt. 8g 
 
 King's Head Tavern in Marylebone. — Burst's " Biozrafihv of 
 Female Character," 1803. ^ jt . j 
 
 Mrs. Charke, whose memoirs in the annals of profligacy 
 make almost as conspicuous a figure as those of Theophilus 
 Cibber, her brother, who, a sort of English D'Eon,' amused her- 
 self m fencmg, shooting, riding races, currying horses, digging in 
 gardens, and playing upon the fiddle ; who was at different 
 times an actress, a grocer, an alehouse-keeper, a valet-de- 
 chambre, a sausage seller, and a puppet-showwoman ; one day 
 in affluence, the next in indigence ; now confined in a sponging- 
 house, presently released by a subscription of prostitutes ; in 
 short, one _ of those disgraces to the community that ought not 
 to be admitted into society, wrote three strange pieces, called 
 "The Carnival," the "Art of Management," and "Tit for 
 Tat."— C. Dibdin. 
 
 William Mynitt. 
 
 1710-1763. 
 
 This gentleman was born of a good family, at Weobly, in 
 Herefordshire, in the year 17 10, where he received a good 
 school education. He was sent to London very young to be 
 put into business, but his friends, or rather, relations (who 
 often prove our greatest enemies), neglecting his fortune, he 
 turned his thoughts to the drama. However, he had not the 
 vanity of most of the theatrical young heroes, who jump at 
 once into your Othello, Oroonoko, Hamlet, or, Captain Plume; 
 but wisely weighing his own talents, stepped into the part of 
 Polonius in " Hamlet," where he gained such applause, that he 
 resolved to put on the sock, with which he walked an easy 
 pace in the right road to perfection. His first trial of 
 skill was at the theatre in the Haymarket (commonly called the 
 French House), where he gave such strokes of judgment that 
 
 ^ Mademoiselle la Chevalier D'Eon du Beaumont, an extraordinary 
 woman, bom 1728, who was sent as a man by Louis XV. to the Court of 
 Russia to treat with the Empress Elizabeth for an alliance, and for her suc- 
 cessful negotiations was rewarded by a lieutenancy of dragoons. In 1759 
 she joined her regiment as captain, and was twice wounded at the engage- 
 ment of Ulthrop ; and at that of Ostervich she charged at the head of a 
 detachment of dragoons, and completely routed a strong battalion Prussen 
 de Rhes. She was subsequently appointed Minister Plenipotentiary to tli6 
 Court of London. — Ed. 
 
90 Thomas Davies. 
 
 alarmed his best antagonists. From his beginning encou- 
 ragement he was solicited to add a promising member to 
 the company of Bath, where there is a regular theatre, 
 and an audience as difficult to be pleased as that in 
 London, being generally persons of the highest rank that 
 frequent those diversions in the capital. He had the good 
 fortune to give satisfaction there, insomuch that several per- 
 sons of distinction and taste promised to recommend him to 
 one of the established theatres in London. But a company 
 that season setting out for Ireland, he was resolved to accom- 
 pany them, and cultivate his genius in this kingdom. His 
 knowledge in music is some addition to his merit, and in his 
 walk of acting he may keep pace with the best on both sides 
 the water. I never saw Mrs. Mynitt perform any part ; but as 
 she has an amiable person and excellent voice, I have taken it 
 upon trust that she is an agreeable actress both in tragedy and 
 comedy. But the bulk of the letters in the bills are the distin- 
 guished characteristics of merit. It puts me in memory of a 
 Mandarin I saw at Canton in China, who was lifted on a 
 throne of state to public view, while a dozen of his slaves that 
 bore him in triumph through the streets were covered with a 
 curtain, and no more of their persons seen but the regular 
 steps of their feet. — Chdwood's " History of the Stage." 
 
 Thomas Davies. 
 
 1710-1785. 
 
 With him came mighty Davies ; (on my life, 
 That Davies has a very pretty wife !') 
 Statesman all over, in plots famous grown. 
 He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone. 
 
 Churchill.' 
 
 He played Fainall in " The Way of the World," when Mr. 
 Taylor and many friends were present. He seemed "an old 
 
 ^ This pretty wife died in 1801, it is said, in a workhouse. 
 " Churchill's sarcasm drove poor Davies from the stage. Johnson very 
 justly blamed his folly in abandoning a profession by which he and his 
 wife earned five hundred pounds a year. " What a man is he who is to bs 
 driven from ths stage by a line!" he exclaimed. " Another line would 
 have driven him from his shop !" Mediocre as a writer, tenth-rate as an 
 
Thomas Davies. 91 
 
 formal-looking man, with a dull gravity in his acting and a 
 hollow rumbling in his voice." He made a speech, owning his 
 inability, but hoping his good- will would be accepted. He 
 seemed to decay gradually. — Fitzgerald. 
 
 Once an actor — now a conceited bookseller. — Garrick. 
 
 My predecessor, as an historian of the stage, Thomas Davies, 
 had failed in his business as a bookseller, and returning to his 
 very humble efforts as an actor for a single night, took a benefit 
 on the 27th (of May, 1778). He chose, "a stroke of un- 
 designed severity," the comedy of " The Way of the World," 
 and after a silence of fifteen years performed the part of Fainall. 
 Davies's countenance was Garrick's with all its fire quenched. 
 His expression was placid and genteel, and in my youth I used 
 to call in upou him, and enjoy his kind and communicative spirit, 
 in the small parlour, behind his shop in Russell-street, Covent- 
 garden. In his difficulties he obliged me with sundry books in 
 which his own name had been written. I hope even then I felt 
 that it increased their value. — Boadai. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Davies was a man of good understanding and 
 talent, with the advantage of a liberal education ; though some- 
 what pompous, he was an entertaining companion ; and his 
 literary performances have no inconsiderable share of merit. 
 He was a friendly and very hospitable man. Both he and his 
 wife (who has been celebrated for her beauty), though upon the 
 stage for many years, maintained an uniform decency of cha- 
 racter ; and Johnson esteemed them, and lived in as easy an 
 intimacy with them as with any family which he used to visit. 
 Mr. Davies recollected many of Johnson's sayings, and was one 
 of the best of the many imitators of his voice and manner while 
 relating them. — BoswdVs " Life of yohnson." 
 
 Sir, Davies has learning enough to give credit to a clergy- 
 man. — Dr. Johnson. 
 
 actor, of narrow parts and slight wit, Davies nevertheless somehow con- 
 trived to hold his own in the brilliant society in whose records we find his 
 name constantly recurring. Johnson patronized him, ate his dinners and 
 leered at his wife ; and what Johnson did and liked the others who formed 
 his set were bound to approve. The haughty Beauclerc, however, had 
 some difficulty in disguising his contempt for the little bookseller. Once 
 at a dinner-party Davies slapped Moody, the actor, on the back, in Appro- 
 bation of his argument. When Boswell mentioned this to Beauclerc, he 
 declared " that he could conceive nothing more humiliating than to be 
 slapped on the back by Tom Davies." — Ed. 
 
92 William Havard. 
 
 Davies, who was a better gossip than critic, though he affected 
 literature, was an actor himself of the mouthing order, if we are 
 to believe Churchill, and his criticisms show him enough inclined 
 to lean favourably to that side. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 William Havard. 
 
 1710-1778. 
 
 Havard 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 Euripides 
 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 Campbell. 
 
 Here Havard, all serene, in the same strains. 
 
 Loves, hates, and rages, triumphs and complains ; 
 
 His easy, vacant face proclaim'd a heart 
 
 Which could not feel emotions nor impart. — Churchill. 
 
 Not unaccomplish'd in the scenic art. 
 
 He grac'd the stage, and often reach'd the heart ; 
 
 From his own scenes he taught distress to flow, 
 
 And manly virtue wept for civil woe. 
 
 Malevolence and envy he ne'er knew, 
 
 He never felt their darts and never threw ; 
 
 With his best care he form'd into his plan 
 
 The moral duties of the social man. — Paul Whitehead.^ 
 
 ' " May I— can worse disgrace on manhood fall? — 
 
 Be born a Whitehead and baptized a V^uX.— Churchill. 
 He was bom 1710, and died 1774. "Paul Whitehead," says Lord 
 Dover, "a satirical poet of bad character, was the son of a tailor In 
 politics Whitehead was a follower of Bubb Dodington ; in private life he 
 w?„ "'^ i^'i'^"'^ ^"^ companion of the profligate Sir Francis Dashwood, 
 Wilkes, Churchill, &c., and, like them, was a iTiember of the ' Hell-fire 
 
William Havard. 03 
 
 He was a worthy, unobtrusive, harmless man, one of the 
 objects of Garnck's talent for mimicry, and that is all — 
 Boaden} 
 
 Havard the actor (better known from the urbanity of his 
 manners by the familiar name of Billy Havard) had the mis- 
 fortune to be married to a most notorious shrew and drunkard. 
 One day, dining at Garnck's, he was complaining of a violent 
 pam in his side. Mrs. Garrick offered to prescribe for him. 
 " No, no,"- said her husband, " that will not do, my dear ; Billy 
 has mistaken his disorder ; his great complaint lies in his rib." 
 — Theatrical Anecdotes. 
 
 Havard, a respectable writer and a reputable character, wrote 
 " Scanderbeg," founded upon Lillo's " Christian Hero," which 
 had little success. "King Charles I." did credit to the 
 author and the stage, but Lord Chesterfield's remark on it, in 
 his famous speech against the licensing act, was that it was of 
 too recent, too melancholy, and too solemn a nature to be 
 heard of anywhere but in the pulpit. " Regulus " had some 
 sterling merit, but it had but litde success. " The Elopement," 
 a mere farce, was acted only at his benefit. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Havard was one of Garrick's " old guard," and was always 
 faithful and true, and, when leaving the stage, had the unusual 
 grace to write his old master a grateful and kindly letter. He 
 was linked with the old days. Garrick had been truly kind, and 
 after his last benefit, made him a present of a horse. — Fitzgerald. 
 
 No performer of his assiduity deserved encouragement more 
 than he did. He acted a variety of characters, both in tragedy 
 and comedy, and was constantly before the eyes of a critical 
 audience. Such was the soundness of his judgment and so 
 respectable his character, that he never met with any marks of 
 displeasure from the public ; on the contrary, he was constantly 
 favoured with their countenance and approbation. — T. Davies. 
 
 ^ Of James Boaden, a weU-known dramatic critic, a writer says : — "His 
 plays are numerous, but we believe tliere is not one of them that keeps the 
 stage. Far more important are his dramatic memoirs. In them he has 
 left probably the best record that the world can now have of John 
 Kemble, Mre. Jordan, and Mrs. Siddons." He died, 1839, aged seventy- 
 seven. 
 
94 
 
 Mrs. Gibber. > 
 
 1710-1766. 
 
 Formed for the tragic scene to grace the stage, ■ 
 
 With rival excellence of love and rage, 
 
 Mistress of each soft art, with matchless skill 
 
 To turn and wind the passions as she will ; .'■ 
 
 To melt the heart with sympathetic woe, 
 
 Awake the sigh, and teach the tear to flow ; 
 
 To put on phrenzy's wild distracted glare. 
 
 And freeze the soul with horror and despair ; 
 
 With just desert enrolled in deathless fame. 
 
 Conscious of worth superior, Gibber came. — CMirchill. 
 
 Mrs. Gibber, I think, got more reputation than she deserved, 
 as she had a great sameness ; though her expression was un- 
 doubtedly very fine. — Dr. yohnson. 
 
 Gibber, with fascinating art. 
 Could wake the pulses of the heart. 
 
 Dr. Syntax's Tours. 
 
 When Mr. Whitehead's comedy of the " School for Lovers' 
 was read before the performers at Garrick's house, it was sug- 
 gested that the age of Celia (the character intended for Mrs. 
 Gibber), which was sixteen, would be better altered to two 01 
 three and twenty. Mrs. Gibber, who was then reading her part 
 with spectacles, said she liked the character better as it was, and 
 desired it might remain as it stood. She was then more than 
 fifty years old ; but the uncommon symmetry and exact pro- 
 portion in her form, with her singular vivacity, enabled her to 
 represent the character with all the juvenile appearance marked 
 by the author. — Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 Mrs. Gibber had very pathetic powers ; her features, though 
 not beautiful, were delicate, and very expressive ; but she 
 uniformly pitched her silver voice, so sweetly plaintive, in too 
 high a key to produce that endless variety of intonation with 
 which Mrs. Siddons declaims. — Miss Seward. 
 
 ^ Mrs. Gibber was sister to tlie celebrated Dr. Ame. Ame was bom in 
 1710. " He was a musician," says Leigli Hunt, " against his father's will, 
 and practised in the garret on a muffled spinet when the family had gone to 
 
Mrs. Cibber. 95 
 
 Mrs. Cibber, in a key high-pitched, but sweet withal, sung, 
 or rather recited, Rowe's harmonious strain something in the 
 manner of the improvisatore's. It was so extremely wanting in 
 contrast, that though it did not wound the ear, it wearied it ; 
 when she had once recited two or three speeches, I could 
 anticipate the manner of every succeeding one ; it was like a 
 long, old, legendary ballad of innumerable stanzas, every one of 
 which is sung to the same tune, eternally chiming in the ear 
 without variation or relief. — R. Cumberland. 
 
 Her features, figure, and singing, made her appear the best 
 Ophelia that ever appeared either before or since. — Tate 
 Wilkinson. 
 
 John Taylor told me that she strongly resembled Mrs. 
 Siddons in the, indescribable power of her eyes. When Garrick 
 heard of her death he exclaimed, " Then Tragedy is dead on 
 one side !" meaning female actors. — T. Campbell. 
 
 It was curious her face should resemble Garrick's so re- 
 markably that she might have passed as his sister.' Never 
 was there such tender, melting notes, such passion, such grief, 
 and in the true pathos of Otway she was at home and unap- 
 proachable. Yet her favourite " demi-chant," pitched rather 
 high, yet still keeping its musical sweetness, seemed to belong 
 to the conventionality of the old school ; and it is surprising 
 
 bed. He was sent to Eton, whicli was probably of use to him in confirming 
 his natural refinement, but nothing could hinder his devoting himself to 
 the art. It is said the old man had no suspicion of his advancement in it, 
 until, going to a concert one evening, he was astonished to see his son 
 exalted, bow in hand, as the leader. Seeing the praises bestowed on him, 
 he suffered him to become what nature designed him for." Hunt and Boaden 
 give him high praise as a musician. Churchill satirized him in some sharp 
 verses, beginning, — 
 
 ' ' Let Tommy Ame, with usual pomp of style, 
 Whose chief, whose only merit's to compile. 
 Who meanly pilfering here and there a bit, 
 Deals music out as Murphy deals out wit. 
 Publish proposals, " &c. 
 
 He died 1778.— Ed, 
 
 ' "In their person," says Davies, "they were both somewhat below the 
 middle size; he was, though short, well made ; she, though in her form not 
 graceful, and scarcely genteel, was by the elegance of her manner and sym- 
 metry of her features, rendered very genteel. From similarity of complexion, 
 size, and countenance, they would have been easily supposed to be brother 
 and sister." Cumberland bears out this statement. (See note to David 
 Garrick.)— Ed. 
 
96 Mrs. Cibber. 
 
 that, under Garrick's leaching and companionship, she should 
 have retained it. Her tenderness was natural, for it was said 
 that in pathetic parts she wept genuine tears, and that her 
 agitation turned her face pale even through the rouge. She 
 was not what is called a " fine woman," but she had that look 
 of interest and sympathy which is a superior charm. — P. Fitz- 
 gerald, " Life of Garrick." 
 
 Mrs. Susannah Maria Cibber was daughter to Mr. Ame, an 
 upholsterer, who lived in King-street, Covent-garden, and 
 was born much about the time the Indian Kings, mentioned by 
 the Spectator^ were lodged in her father's house. When very 
 young her voice was so melodious 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 per- 
 formed at the little theatre in the Haymarket. She certainly 
 made some considerable progress in music, and was occasionally 
 employed to sing at concerts. When she was mamed to 
 Theophilus Cibber, his father, Colley Cibber, 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 over- 
 heard 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. To what I have already said of Mrs. Gibber's inimi- 
 table power of acting, I have little more to add. Her great 
 excellence consisted in that simplicity which needed no orna- 
 ment ; in that sensibility 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. 
 
 ' In No. 50. Addison was the writer of the paper ; and Swift in his 
 "Journal" complains of Addison appropriating all his " under-hints. " The 
 four kings with queer names were Iroquois chiefs. They had been told 
 that the English were vassals of the French, and that our Saviour was bom 
 in France and crucified in England.— Ed. 
 
Mrs. adder. 07 
 
 The harmony of her voice was as powerful as the anhnation 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. — 
 Thomas Davies, ^'- Life of Garrick." 
 
 She captivated every ear by the sweetness and expression of 
 her voice in singing. — Dr. Burney. 
 
 She was more unfortunate than Mrs. Barry, the mistress of 
 Lord Rochester ; for she was the wife of Theophilus Gibber, who 
 
 sold her, and then brought an action against her seducer 
 
 He laid his damages at 5000/., and the jury awarded him two 
 hundred shillings.' It was the fashion in those days to chant, 
 to declaim in a sort of sing-song. The famous Barry " had a 
 manner of drawing out her words." Mrs. Barry imitated her 
 in the habit " of prolonging and timing her pronunciation ;" 
 and Mrs. Gibber excelled them all in that demi-chant to which 
 the public ear had become accustomed, and which we daresay 
 was very delightful, though in those of her contemporaries it 
 seemed to harmonize — ^heaven knows how ! — with Garrick's 
 acting. — Blackwood's Magazine, 1834. 
 
 Mrs. Gibber was a- most exquisite actress. In all characters 
 of tenderness and pathos, in which the workings of the feeling 
 mind call for the force of excessive sensibility, she was like 
 Garrick ; the character she represented — love, rage, resentment, 
 pity, disdain, and all those gradations of the various passions, 
 she greatly felt, and vigorously expressed. Her face, her figure, 
 and her manner, were irresistibly impressive, and her voice 
 was penetrating to admiration. Actresses may have had more 
 
 ' In 1730 was pro^luced "The Lover," written by "Mr. Theophilus 
 Gibber, Comedian." This play he dedicated to his wife in language which 
 might have been designed to conceal from the public — who then read the 
 last new play as we now read the last new novel — his real leelings towards 
 Mrs. Gibber. "Your tender terrors," says he, "wrought so visibly upon 
 the more generous part of the audience, that whatever life it (the play) has 
 to come, I shall judge it entirely owing to the pity that arose from your per- 
 sonal concern ; but your behaviour in the epilogue reached even the hearts 
 of enemies, and made them my involuntary friends for your sake. To whom 
 then could I with more justice dedicate this play than to her who has so 
 effectually protected it? and has now convinced me of what vast use to any 
 actor is a good character in private life, which I doubt not will be one 
 strong motive to your preserving of yours, as it ought to be to the menixmg 
 that of your sincerely Loving Husband." — Ed. 
 
 H 
 
98 Mrs. Clive. 
 
 majesty, more fire, but 1 believe that all the tragic characters, 
 truly feminine, greatly conceived, and highly written, had a 
 superior representative in Mrs. Gibber than in any other 
 actress. She was certainly not so happy in comedy ; but it 
 would be no bad comphment to the present day if there were 
 any actress who could perform it half so well. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Mrs. Clive. 
 
 1711-1785. 
 
 Miss Raster (Mrs. Clive) had a facetious turn of humour and 
 infinite spirits, with a voice and manner in singing songs of 
 pleasantry peculiar to herself Those talents Mr. Theo. 
 Gibber and I (we all at that time living together in one house) 
 thought a sufficient passport to the theatre. We recommended 
 her to the laureate (Golley Gibber), whose infallible judg- 
 ment soon found out her excellencies, and the moment he 
 heard her sing, put her down in the list of performers at 
 twenty shillings a week. But never any person of her age 
 flew to perfection with such rapidity. .... Her first appearance 
 was in the play of " Mithridates, King of Pontus," in Ismmes, 
 the page to Ziphares, in boy's clothes, where a song, proper to 
 the circumstances of the scene, was introduced, which she 
 performed with extraordinary applause. — ChetwoocTs "History 
 of the Stage." 
 
 Mrs. Glive was the best player I ever saw. — Dr. Johnson. 
 What Glive did best she did better than Garrick, but could 
 not do half so many things well. She was a better romp than 
 any I ever saw in nature. — Ibid. 
 
 It is your misfortune to bring the greatest genius for acting 
 on the stage at a time when the factions and divisions among 
 the players have conspired with the folly, injustice, and 
 barbarity of the town to finish the ruin of the stage, and 
 sacrifice our own native entertainments to a wanton affected 
 fondness for foreign music ; and when our nobility seem eagerly 
 to rival each other in distinguishing themselves in favour of 
 Italian theatres and in neglect of our own. However, the few 
 who have yet so much English taste and good nature left as 
 sometimes to visit that stage where you exert your great 
 abilities, never fail to receive you with the approbation 
 you deserve ; nay, you extort, by the force of your merit, the 
 
Mrs. Clive. 99 
 
 applause of those who are languishing for the return of Cuz- 
 zoni.' — H. Fielding. 
 
 First giggling, plotting chambermaids arrive, 
 
 Hoydens and romps led on by General Clive. 
 
 In spite of outward blemishes she shone. 
 
 For humour fam'd, and humour all her own. 
 
 Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod, 
 
 Nor sought the critic's praise, nor fear'd his rod. 
 
 Original in spirit and in ease. 
 
 She pleas'd by hiding all attempts to please. 
 
 No comic actress ever yet could raise 
 
 On humour's base more merit or more praise. — Churchill. 
 
 Mrs. Clive was a mixture of combustibles : she was pas^ 
 sionate, cross, vulgar, yet sensible, a very sensible woman, and 
 as a comic actress of genuine worth — indeed, indeed she was a 
 diamond of the first water. When her scene of the Fine Lady 
 came on, she was received with the usual expression of glad- 
 ness, on her approach, as so charming an actress truly deserved ; 
 and her song from the Italian Opera, where she was free with a 
 good ridiculous take-off of Signora Mingotti, was universally 
 encored, and she came off the stage much sweetened in temper 
 and manners from her first going on. " Ay," said she, in 
 triumph, " that artful devil (Garrick) could not hurt me with 
 the town, though he had struck my name out of the bill." 
 She laughed and joked about her late ill-humour as though she 
 could have kissed all around her, though that happiness was 
 not granted, but willingly excused. — Tate Wilkinson. 
 
 1 " The operas," says Mr. T. Wright, "had flourished equally with the 
 masquerades, and were looked upon with jealousy bythose who advocated the 
 dignity of the legitimate English stage. Singers and dancers from Italy, such 
 as Cuzzoni, and Faustina, and Farinelli, obtained large sums of money and 
 returned to build themselves palaces at home, while first-rate actors at Druiy 
 Lane or Lincoln's Inn Fields experienced a difficulty in obtaining respect- 
 able audiences." And yet low as seemed the fortunes of the Stage at that 
 period. Fielding had written in the Covent Garden Journal, when the opera 
 was in its fullest swing of success: " The stage at present promises a much 
 
 better provision than any of the professions The income of an actor 
 
 of any rank is from six to twelve hundred a year ; whereas that of two- 
 thirds of the gentlemen of the army is considerably under one hundred ; the 
 income of nine-tenths of the clergy is less than fifty pounds a year ; and the 
 profits of the law, to ninety-nine in the hundred, amount not to a single 
 shilling." 
 
 H 2 
 
loo M>5. ClivS. 
 
 Clive, like Shakspeare's toad, "ugly and venomous," but 
 with a jewel of liveliness and spirit in her head, a bustle and 
 animation, the established titular-chambermaid and hoyden, 
 which in our time might have privileged her to lose all 
 self-restraint and self-respect, and allow her to play any 
 trick or buffoonery. But with her it was all nature, and 
 the stage to her was a room at her own lodgings. — Fitz- 
 gerald. 
 
 Mrs. Clive when very young had a strong propensity to 
 acting. Her first theatrical engagement to Booth, Wilks, and 
 Gibber, in 1727, was principally owing to the goodness of her 
 voice, and to some proficiency which she had made in singing ; 
 nor till her merit as an actress showed itself in Nell, the 
 cobbler's wife,^ was she considered in any other light than as 
 one qualified to entertain the audience with a song between 
 the acts of a play, or to act some innocent country girl, such as 
 Phillida in " Damon and Phillida." An engraving of her in 
 that character is still to be seen in the print-shops. The comic 
 abilities of this actress have not been excelled, nor indeed 
 scarcely equalled, by any performer, male or female, these fifty 
 years ; she was so formed by nature to represent a variety of 
 lively, laughing, droll, humorous, affected, and absurd cha- 
 racters, that what Colley Gibber said of Nokes may with equal 
 truth be applied to her ; for Clive had such a stock of comic 
 force about her, that she, like Nokes, had little more to do 
 than to perfect herself in the words of a part and to leave 
 the rest to nature ; and if he, by the mere power of his 
 action, kept alive several comedies, which after his death 
 became obsolete, it may be justly said of her, that she created 
 several parts in plays of which the poet scarce furnished 
 an outline, and that many dramatic pieces are now lost to 
 the stage for want of her animating spirit to preserve them. — 
 ' T. Davies. 
 
 Clive, though she tried composition, had never mastered the 
 elements of language, and she spelt most audaciously. — 
 Boaden." 
 
 ' In "The Devil to Pay." 
 ' In a letter to the elder Colman she writes : " There is nothing to be 
 said on these MelancoUy occasions To a person of underetanding— fools 
 Can noifeel people of sense must and will and when they have Sank their 
 spirits till they are ill will find that nothing but submission can give any 
 Consolation to lueveitable missfortunes." — Ed. 
 
Mrs. Clive. loi 
 
 Here liv'd the laughter-loving dame — 
 
 A matchless actress, Clive her name ; 
 
 The Comic Muse with her retir'd, 
 
 And shed a tear when she expir'd. — H. Walpok^ 
 
 The jovial, ugly, witty, sensible actress, who by her bustle 
 and humour, is recorded to have saved the fifth act of the new 
 comedy endangered by want of sufficient rehearsal. — C. R. 
 Leslie. 
 
 The evening for the card-party at length arrived, and its 
 principal attraction was Mrs. Clive, the celebrated actress, who 
 having retired from the stage on a handsome competency, 
 rented a villa on the bank of the Thames, of Horace Walpole. 
 Owing to her amazing celebrity as a comic actress, and as during 
 her long theatrical career calumny itself had never aimed the 
 slightest arrow at her fame, honest Kitty Clive (for so she was 
 familiarly called) was much noticed in the neighbourhood. 
 Yet from her eccentric disposition, strange, eccentric temper, 
 and frank blunt manner, Mrs. Clive did not always go off with 
 quite so much ed&t in private as in public life, particularly if she 
 happened to be crossed by that touchstone of temper, gaming. 
 Quadrille was proposed, and all immediately took their stations. 
 I soon observed Mrs. Clive's countenance alternately redden and 
 turn pale. At last her Manille went, and with it the remnants 
 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 eyebrows were as white as those of an 
 Albiness, triumphantly and briskly demanded payment for the 
 two black aces. " Two black aces !" answered the enraged 
 toser, in a voice rendered almost unintelligible by passion ; 
 " here, take the money, though instead, I wish I could give 
 you two Mack eyes, you old white cat !" — Frederick Reynolds. 
 
 She was the favourite Nell of the stage in the " Devil to 
 Pay," and similar characters : and according to Garrick there 
 
 ^ To these lines, Peter Pindar, having Mrs. Jordan in mind, wrote the 
 following reply : — 
 
 " Truth and thy trumpet seem not to agree ; 
 Know Comedy is hearty — all alive — 
 The sprightly lass no more expir'd with Clive, 
 Than dame Humility will die with thee." — Ed. 
 
I02 Mrs. Prztchard. 
 
 was something of the devil to pay in all her stage life. She 
 might have been Macklin's sister for humour, judgment, and a 
 sturdiness of purpose amounting to violence, not unmixed with 
 generosity. The latter part of her life she spent m retirement 
 at Strawberry Hill, where she was a neighbour and friend to 
 Horace Walpole, whose effeminacy she helped to keep on the 
 alert. It always seems to us as if she had been the man of 
 the two and he the woman. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 She was the most dramatic, the veriest Thalia off the stage I 
 ever knew — only among friends, I should tell you, for in 
 company she was the complete gentlewoman, and deservedly 
 admitted on easy terms to the society of some of the first 
 ladies in the land. There was another, her friend Mistress 
 Hannah Pritchard— she too was on the same footing with 
 women of rank. Sir, the retiring of two such actresses in the 
 same year or thereabouts was a sad blow upon Garrick, and a 
 great loss to the lovers of the genuine drama at the same time ; 
 for certainly, as regards some of their leading characters, they 
 left a void which none could fill. — Wine and Walnuts. 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard. 
 
 1711-1768. 
 
 Oft have I, Pritchard, seen thy wondrous skill, 
 Confess'd thee great, but thought thee greater still, 
 That worth, which shone in scatter'd rays before. 
 Collected now, breaks forth mth double power. 
 The " Jealous Wife !'" on that thy trophies raise, 
 Inferior only to the author's praise. — Churchill. 
 
 Something of her Bartholomew Fair^ origin may be ti'aced in 
 
 ^ Written by the elder Colman. — Ed. 
 ^ The foUo\Ying account of Bartholomew Fair is abridged from the 
 description by Mark Lemon : — " Bartholomew Fair was granted to Rayere, 
 the King's Jester, by Heniy I. It was the principal cloth fair in England 
 at the time of Elizabeth. When the City obtained a share of the tolls, 
 the fair was proclaimed by the Lord Mayor at the entrance to Cloth Fair. 
 His lordship then called upon the keeper of Newgate, and had a cool 
 tankard of wine, nutmeg and sugar, and the custom only ceased on the 
 second mayoralty of Sir Matthew Wood. Lord Chancellor Rich bought 
 St. Bartholomew, and there had his town mansion, and all the tolls of tho 
 fair and the market which had pertained aforetime to the old Priory. Tha 
 
Mrs. Priichard. 103 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard's professional characteristics. She never rose to 
 the finest grades even of comedy, but was most famous in scolds 
 and viragoes. In tragedy, though she had a large imposing 
 figure, she waiited grace in her manner, and was too loud and 
 profuse in her expression of grief. Garrick told Tate Wilkinson 
 that she was apt to blubber her sorrows. — T. Campbell, " Lift 
 of Siddons." 
 
 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.- — Di\ jFohnson} 
 
 Is it possible, thought I, that Mrs. Pritchard, the greatest of 
 all the Lady Macbeths, should never have read the play? And 
 I concluded that the Doctor (Johnson) must have been misLn- 
 
 Bartlemy property passed to Elizabeth, heiress to Sir Walter Cope, of Ken- 
 sington. She is supposed to have originated Lady Holland's mob — a 
 riotous assemblage of the showmen and traders at Bartlemy, some five 
 thousand strong, which proclaimed in its own way that the fair was 
 opened. At Bartlemy Fair, principally at the George Inn yard. Smith- 
 field,- Heniy Fielding, one of the greatest of the great English prose- 
 writers, kept a theatrical booth for nine years. Drury Lane and the other 
 west-end theatres closed during the fair, and some of their best actors 
 played at Bartlemy. The fair died of inanition about 1849, after- giving 
 the City authorities a great deal of trouble." Of the character of the per- 
 formances at the booths the following "bill of the programme" may give 
 some idea ; — " At Crawly's booth, over against the Crown Tavern in 
 Smithfield, during the time of Bartholomew Fair, will be presented a little 
 opera, called ' The Old Creation of the World,' yet newly revived, with 
 the addition of NoaVs Flood ; also several fountains playing water duriiig 
 the time of the play. The last scene does represent Noah and his family 
 coming out of the ark mth all the beasts, two by two, and all the fowls of 
 the air seen in a prospect sitting upon trees ; Ukewise over the ark is seen 
 the risiilg sun, in a most glorious manner ; moreover a multitude of angels 
 will be seen, in a double rank, which presents a double prospect, one for 
 the sun, the other for a palace, where will be seen six angels ringing of bells. 
 Likewise machines descend from above, double and treble, w^th Dives 
 rising out of hell, and Lazarus seen in Abraham's bosom, besides several 
 figures dancing jigs, sarabands, and country dances, to the admiration of all 
 spectators; with the meriy conceits of 'Squire Punch' and 'Sir John 
 Spendall.' " This was performed in the reign of Queen Anne.— Ed. 
 
 1 In a conversation Johnson had with Mrs. Siddons, he said, " Pritchard 
 in common life was a vulgar idiot ; she would talk of her gownd ; but 
 when she appeared upon the stage seemed to be inspired by gentihty and 
 understanding." — Ed. 
 
I04 Mrs. Pritchard. 
 
 formed ; but I was afterwards assured by a gentleman, a friend 
 of Mrs. Pritchard's, that he had supped with her one night after 
 she had acted Lady Macbeth, and that she declared that she had 
 never perused the whole tragedy : I cannot believe \X..—Mrs. 
 Siddons. 
 
 The famous ghost scene (" Macbeth") was a great triumph 
 for Mrs. Pritchard. Her bye-play, her efforts to distract the 
 attention of the company from her husband's extravagances, 
 her assumed gaiety and courtesy, were not mere "points," 
 worked out by an ingenious and clever player, but true flashes 
 of genius, and intended by the poet. Great actresses have since 
 won applause by a heightening and repetition of these " points," 
 but it was Pritchard who led the way. — Fitzgerald. 
 
 She excelled in the Queen-mother of " Hamlet," Zara in the 
 " Mourning Bride," Merope, Creusa, and more especially 
 in Queen Katherine, the wife of Henry VIII. She gave to all 
 these parts importance by her action, as well as speaking ; her 
 few defects in tragedy proceeded from a too loud and profuse 
 expression of grief and want of grace in her manner; her 
 natural ease of deportment and grandeur of person generally 
 hid the defect of this last requisite from the common spectator. 
 Her great force in comedy lay in a middle path, between parts 
 of a superior life and those of humour in a lower class. 
 Gibber's Lady Townly, Lady Betty Modish, and Maria in the 
 "Nonjuror," she conceived accurately and acted pleasantly, 
 and with applause, but neither her person nor manner was suf- 
 ficiently elegant and graceful for the high-bred woman of fashion, 
 — T. Davies. 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard was before my time. She was, it seems, one 
 of those prodigies whom the stage inspires with elegance, taste, 
 and correctness, which she never had, or affected to despise, in 
 private life — a dangerous trick, if it be one, or a miraculous 
 change without an adequate cause. Faulty pronunciation has 
 adhered in my own time to many performers of both sexes and 
 of great excellence — and the knowledge has exceeded the prac- 
 tice. But vulgarity in utterance is itself a debasing thing, and 
 is but indifferently palliated by either the toilet or the dancing- 
 master. — Boadm. 
 
 We should entertain a very high opinion of Mrs. Pritchard, 
 even had she left us nothing but the face in her portraits. She 
 seems to have been a really great genius, equally capable of the 
 highest and lowest parts, The fault objected to her was, that 
 
Mrs. Pritchard. 105 
 
 her figure was not genteel ; and we can imagine tliis well enough 
 'n\ an actress who could pass from Lady Macbeth to Doll 
 Common. She seems to have thrown herself into the arms of 
 sincerity and passion, not perhaps the most refined, but as 
 tragic and comic as need be. — Leigh Himt. 
 
 Her comic vein had every charm to please, 
 'Twas Nature's dictates breath'd with Nature's ease. 
 Even when her powers sustained the tragic load, 
 Full, clear, and just th' harmonious accents flow'd. 
 And the big passions of her feeling heart 
 Burst freely forth, and shamed the tragic art. 
 Oft on the scene, with colours not her own. 
 She painted vice, and taught us what to shun. 
 One virtuous track her real life pursued, 
 That nobler part was uniformly good. 
 Each duty there ,to such perfection wrought, 
 That, if the precepts failed, th' example taught. 
 
 W. Whitehead} 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard was an actress of a different class (from Mrs. 
 Cibber) ; 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 favour. — R. Cumberland. 
 
 She was everywhere great, everywhere impressive, and every- 
 where feminine. — Charles Dibdin. 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard was an actress of more general abilities than 
 Mrs. Cibber. Mrs. Gibber's acting was delightful, Mrs. 
 Pritchard's commanding. One insinuated herself into the 
 heart, the other took possession of it. Nothing could be so 
 fortunate for the stage as this junction of separate talents. It 
 made acting like a picture, with grand breadths of light and 
 shade. We have seen the excellence of Mrs. Cibber ; that of 
 Mrs. Pritchard was unceasing variety. Lady Macbeth, the 
 Qiceen in " Hamlet," Clarinda, Estifania, Doll Common — in 
 
 ' William Whitehead was bom 1714. He wrote with small success for 
 the stage, but his poetry gained him (1757) the laureateship, Cibber being 
 dead. Among his dramatic works are " The School for Lovers," "Creusa,' 
 and " The Roman Father." Churchill abused him, of which the effect was, 
 that the managers refused to bring forward his dramas. Eight years after- 
 wards, however, he made u, present of a farce called "The Trip to Scot- 
 land," to Garrick, which was produced without his name. He died 1785, 
 aged seventy. — Ed, 
 
io6 yohn Beard. \ 
 
 short, every species of strong nature received from her a polish 
 and a perfection than which nothing could be more truly capti- 
 vating. Gibber's judicious remark, that the life of beauty is too 
 short to form a complete actress, proved so true in relation to 
 Mrs. Pritchard that she was seen to fresh admiration, till in 
 advanced age she retired with a fortune, to the great satisfaction 
 of her numerous admirers. — Ibid. 
 
 : John Beard. 
 
 1716— 1791. 
 
 A man universally beloved for his many amiable qualities. — 
 T. Davies. 
 
 Mr. Beard, celebrated for his vocal talents, being one of the 
 most popular singers that had appeared on the British stage. 
 He was son-in-law of Mr. Rich, manager of Covent Garden 
 Theatre, and for some years joint proprietor and acting 
 manager with that gentleman. — Wine and Walnuts. 
 
 Where tyrants rule, and slaves with joy obey, 
 
 Let slavish minstrels pour th' enervate lay : 
 
 To Britons far more noble pleasures spring 
 
 In native notes, while Beard and Vincent^ sing. — Churchill. 
 
 I consider Beard, taken altogether, as the best English 
 singer. He was one of those you might fairly try by Shakspeare's 
 speech to the actors. He did not mouth it, but his words 
 came trippingly from his tongue ; he did not out-Herod 
 Herod, but he begot a temperance that gave his exertions 
 smoothness ; he never outstepped the modesty of nature, nor 
 made the judicious grieve ; in short, he never did more than 
 was set down for him ; he never set on a quantity of barren spec- 
 tators to applaud while some necessary question of the song 
 stood still : he let his own discretion be his tutor, and held the 
 
 mirror up to nature He was very valuable as an actor. 
 
 In the " Jovial Crew," " Love in a Village," " Gomus," and 
 
 ' ' ' Mrs. Vincent, like Lowe, depended almost upon her voice, which was 
 feiy charming. In short, it was that trae English voice which has an 
 evenness, a fulness, a solidity, that one might analyze so as to show that 
 nothing Italian can have. She was deservedly a great favomite, and sung 
 songs of ease and sweetness with great delicacy." — Charles Dibdin. 
 
David Garrick. 107 
 
 " Artaxerxes," he gave proof of this in a degree scarcely inferior 
 to anybody. — Charles Dibdin. 
 
 The marriage of Beard the singer with a lady of the Waldegrave 
 family, though he was one of the most excellent of men, waslooked 
 upon as such a degradation, that they have contrived to omit the 
 circumstance in the peerage-books to this Any.—Leigh Hunt. 
 
 His name first appears in the Dramatis Pers. of Handel's 
 operas performed at Co vent Garden in 1736. Beard had his 
 musical education in the chapel royal under Bernard Gates. 
 He first became a great favourite of the town by his style 
 of singing Galliard's hunting song, "With Early Horn." His 
 voice was a rich tenor. Soon after Beard appeared on the 
 stage he married the Earl of Waldegrave's only daughter, with 
 whom he lived very happily during fourteen years, when she 
 died. His second wife was the daughter of Rich. Beard was 
 a highly esteemed character in private life. — Dictionary of 
 Musicians, 1824. 
 
 David Garrick.' 
 
 1716-1779. 
 
 I see him now in a dark blue coat, the button-holes bound 
 with gold, a small cocked hat laced with gold, his waistcoat 
 very open, and his countenance never at rest, and, indeed, 
 seldom his person ; for in the relaxation of the country he gave 
 
 ^ Mrs. Garrick died in 1822, and I have found the following notice of her 
 Jeath in a contemporaiy journal : — 
 
 " On the 1 6th of October, died at her house on the Adelphi Terrace, the 
 relict of the British Roscius, in her ninety-ninth year. _ Her maiden name 
 was Violetta, and she was a native of Vienna, where she was a dancer highly 
 admired. Mrs. Garrick was remarkably beautiful in her face and person, 
 and till her death she retained that erect deportment which she derived 
 from her original profession. She was married to Garrick in I749> and 
 sui-vived her husband forty-three years and upwards, he having died in 1779. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Garrick were a very happy couple, and enjoyed the highest 
 society in the kingdom, till the close of his life ; and it is remarkable, that 
 during the whole period of their marriage, whatever invitations they received, 
 or excursions they took, they never once slept asunder. By the death o£ 
 Mrs. Ganick, the library of the British Museum will be further enriched by 
 the addition of her husband's valuable collection of old English plays, besides 
 (vhich, the celebrated statue of Shakspeare, by Roubilliac (of which the one 
 over the fireplace in the rotunda of Dmry Lane Theatre is a cast) will 
 grace the hall of that national establishment. The chair, too, made from 
 Shakspeare's mulberry tree, will also, it is supposed, be there deposited. 
 
io8 David Garric/i. 
 
 way to all his natural volatility, and with my father ^ was 
 perfectly at ease ; sometimes sitting on a table, and then if he 
 saw my brother at a distance on the lawn, shooting off like an 
 arrow out of a bow in a spirited chase of them round the 
 garden. I remember, when my father having me in his hand, 
 met him on the common riding his pretty pony, his moving my 
 compassion by lamenting the misery of being summoned to 
 town in hot weather (I think August) to play before the King 
 of Denmark. I thought him sincere, and his case pitiable, till 
 my father assured me that he was in reality very well pleased, 
 and that what he groaned at as labour was an honour paid to his 
 talents. The natural expression of his countenance was far 
 from placidity. I confess I was afraid of him ; more so than I 
 was of Johnson, whom I knew not to be, nor could suppose he 
 ever would be thought to be, an extraordinary man. Garrick 
 had a frown, and spoke impetuously. — Miss Hawkins?' 
 
 Johnson : " Sir, it is wonderful how- little Garrick assumes 
 No, sir, Garrick fortunam reverenter habet. Consider, sir, 
 celebrated men such as you have mentioned have had their 
 applause at a distance ; but Garrick had it dashed in his face, 
 sounded in his ears, and went home every night with the 
 plaudits of a thousand in his cranium. Then, sir, Garrick did 
 T\ot find, but made his way to the tables, the levdes, and almost 
 the bedchambers of the great. Then, sir, Garrick had under 
 
 It is richly cars'ed, and would, if put up to auction, fetch an enormous 
 price ; as would, doubtless, many other articles of virtu, as having once 
 belonged to the ' best living commentator' on the works of the Bard of 
 Avon. Among these must not be forgotten four originals by Hogarth, of 
 the Election. Mrs. Garrick was interred in Westminster Abbey, close by 
 the remains of her husband, on the 25th of October. " 
 
 ^ Garrick's first appearance was at Goodman's Fields Theatre, in October, 
 1741. This theatre, according to Mr. Jesse, " was founded in 1729 by one 
 Thomas Odell, in spite of declamations from the pulpit and the opposition 
 of many grave and respectable citizens, who dreaded that their daughters 
 and servants might be contaminated by its close vicinity. Neither would 
 they seem to have been very wrong in their apprehensions, inasmuch as Sir 
 John Hawkins informs us that the new theatre was soon surrounded by a 
 ' halo of brothels. ' The clamour of the citizens for a time closed the 
 theatre in Goodman's Fields, but on the 20th of October, 1732, it was re- 
 opened by one Henry Giffard, an actor." Garrick's first appearance was as 
 Richard III. ' ' Such was his success, and with such rapidity did his 
 fame spread, that notwithstanding the distance of Goodman's Fields from 
 \ht fashionable part of London, the long space between Temple Bar and 
 Goodman's Fields is said to have been nightly blocked up by the carriages 
 of the 'nobility and gentry.'" — Jesse's "London." 
 
David Garrick. 109 
 
 him a nutoefous body of people: who, from fears of his power, 
 or hopes of his favour, or admiration of his talents, were con- 
 stantly submissive to him. And here is a man who has advanced 
 the dignity of his profession. Garrick has made a player a 
 higher character."' Scott : "And he is a very sprightly writer 
 too." Johnson: "Yes, sir ; and all this supported by great wealth 
 of his own acquisition. If all this had happened to me, I should 
 have had a couple of fellows with long poles walking before me, 
 to knock down everybody that stood in the way. Consider, if 
 all this had happened to Gibber or to Quin, they'd have jumped 
 over the moon. Yet Garrick speaks to us" (smiling). Bos- 
 well : " And Garrick is a very good man, a charitable man." 
 Johnson : " Sif, a liberal man. He has given away more 
 money than any man in England. There may be a little vanity 
 mixed ; but he has shown that money is not his first object." 
 Boswell : " Yet Foote used to say of him, that he walked out 
 with the intention to do a generous action, but turning the 
 corner of a street, he met the ghost of a halfpenny, which 
 frightened him."' Johnson : " Why, sir, that is very true, too ; 
 for I never knew a man of whom it could be said with less 
 certainty to-day what he will do to-morrow, than Garrick ; it 
 depends so much on his humour at the time." Scott : " I am 
 glad to hear of his liberality. He has been represented as 
 very saving." Johnson : " With his domestic saving we have 
 
 ' Johnson's assumed or veritable contempt for the dramatic profession 
 was continually bursting out. When mention was made of Garrick becoming 
 a member of the Literary Club, " If Garrick does apply, " said Johnson, 
 " I'll blackball him. Surely one ought to sit in a society like ours, 
 
 ' Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player.' " 
 
 "Sir," he once said when Garrick begged him to respect his feelings, 
 " Punch has no feelings." — Ed. 
 
 ' " There is a story of poor dear Garrick — whose attention to his money 
 stuff never forsook him — relating that when his last day was drawing to an 
 end, he begged a gentleman present to pay his club-forfeits ; ' And don't 
 let them cheat you,' he said, 'for there cannot be above nine, and they will 
 make out ten. ' " — Piozzi. 
 
 There was no end to Foote's jokes about Garrick's parsimony. "Car 
 rick," said Foote, " lately invited Hurd to dine with him in the Adelphi, 
 and after dinner, the evening being very warm, they walked up and dowr 
 in front of the house. As they passed and repassed the dining-room win- 
 dows, Garrick was in a perfect agony, for he saw that there was a thief in 
 one of the candles which was burning on one of the tables ; and yet Hurd 
 was a person of such consequence that he could not run away from him to 
 prevent the waste of his tallow. " — S, Eogers. 
 
no David Gar rick. 
 
 nothing to do. I remember drinking tea with him long ago, 
 when Peg Woffington made it, and he grumbled at her for 
 making it too strong. He had then begun to feel money in hij 
 purse, and did not know when he should have enough of it."-i 
 Life of Johnson. 
 
 Jack Bannister told me that one night he was behind the 
 scenes of the theatre when Garrick was playing Lear; and that 
 the tone in which Garrick uttered the words, " O fool, I shall 
 go mad !" absolutely thrilled him. — Rogers's " Table Talk." 
 
 If manly sense, if nature link'd with art ; 
 
 If thorough knowledge of the human heart ; 
 
 If powers of acting vast and unconfin'd ; 
 
 If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd ; 
 
 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. — Chitrchill. 
 
 That young man never had his equal as an actor, and he will 
 never have a rival.' — Alexander Pope} 
 
 To the most eloquent expression of the eye, to the hand- 
 writing of the passions on his features, to a sensibility which 
 tears to pieces the hearts of his auditors, to powers so unparal- 
 
 1 This was Pope's verdict on seeing Garrick. What Garrick felt on 
 seeing Pope he has himself told us : " When I was told that Pope was in 
 the house, I instantly felt a palpitation 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 viewing me with a serious and earnest atten- 
 tion. His look shot and thrilled like lightning through my fi-ame, and I 
 had some hesitation in proceeding from anxiety and from joy. As Rkhara 
 gradually blazed forth the house was in a roar of applause, and the con- 
 spiring hand of Pope shadowed me with laurels." Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 when a youth once saw Pope at an auction-room. He was, he told Malone, 
 " About four feet six inches high, very humpbacked and defonned : he 
 wore a black coat, and, according to the fashion of that time, had on a little 
 sword. He had a large and very fine eye, and a handsome nose : hif 
 mouth had those peculiar marks which are always found in the mouths oi 
 crooked persons, and the muscles which run across the cheek were so strongly 
 marked that they seemed like small cords." — Ed. 
 
David Garrick. 1 1 1 
 
 leled, he adds a judgment of the most exquisite accuracy, the 
 fruit of long experience and close observation, by which he pre- 
 serves every gradation and transition of the passions, keeping 
 all under the coritrol of a just dependence and natural 
 consistency. So naturally, indeed, do the ideas of the poet 
 seem to mix with his own, that he seemed himself to be 
 engaged in a succession of affecting situations, not giving 
 utterance to a speech, but to the instantaneous expression of 
 his feehngs, delivered in the most affecting tones of voice, and 
 with gestures that belong only to nature. It was a fiction as 
 delightful as fancy, and as touching as truth. A few nights 
 before I saw him in Adel Drugger; and had I not seen him 
 in both, I should have thought it as possible for Milton to have 
 written " Hudibras," and Butler " Paradise Lost," as for one 
 man to have played Hamlet and Drugger with such excel- 
 lence. — Hannah More, 1776.' 
 
 All the run is now after Garrick, a wine-merchant, 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. The Duke of Argyll says he is 
 superior to Betterton. — Horace Walpole, 1 742. 
 
 Did I tell you about Mr. Garrick, that the town are horn-mad 
 after ? There are a dozen dukes of a night at Goodman's Fields, 
 sometimes ; and yet I am stiff in the opposition. — Gray. 
 
 He never could stand still — he was a great fidget. — 
 George III. 
 
 You should see him. He is the completest little doll of a 
 figure — the prettiest little creature — Colley Cibher? 
 
 The Whitfield of the stage.— Qmi? 
 
 ^ Writing of Garrick's death Hannah More says : "I can never cease 
 to remember with affection and gratitude so warm, steady, and disinterested 
 a friend ; and I can most truly bear tliis testimony to his memory, that I 
 never witnessed in any family more decorum, propriety, and regularity than 
 in his ; where I never saw a card, or even met (except in one instance) a 
 person of his own profession at his table ; of which Mrs. Garrick, by her 
 elegance of taste, her correctness of manners, and very original turn of 
 humour, was the brightest ornament." — Ed. 
 
 2 Spoken, of course, contemptuously. Old Gibber had been made sourly 
 jealous of Garrick by Pope's praise. Besides, Garrick had totally eclipsed. 
 Gibber's son Theophilus — a man who had no other merit than the possession 
 of a great actress as a wife. — Ed. 
 
 » Quin's sarcasm will be understood by recollecting what Johnson said 
 
112 David Garrick. 
 
 Whenever Mr. Garrick chose to throw off dignity and acting, 
 and was not surrounded by business to perplex him, he had it 
 in his power to render himself a most pleasing, improving, and 
 delightful companion. — Tate Wilkinson. _ 
 
 " Mr. Murphy, sir, you knew Mr. Garrick ? " " 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 Q,q6.V'— Rogers's '' Table 
 Talk." 
 
 It is not for the qualities of his heart that this little parasite 
 is invited to the tables of dukes and lords, who hire extra- 
 ordinary cooks for his entertainment ; his avarice they see not, 
 his ingratitude they feel not, his hypocrisy accommodates itself 
 to their humours, and is of consequence pleasing ; but he is 
 chiefly courted for his buffoonery, and will be admitted into the 
 choicest parties for his talent of mimicking Punch and his wife 
 J oan . — Smollett. ' 
 
 Nobody but you and Pope ever knew how to preserve the 
 dignity of your respective employments. — Warburton to 
 Garrick. 
 
 Here lies David Garrick : describe me who can 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man. 
 As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line. 
 Yet with talents like these and an exceJletir 'leart, 
 This man had his failings — a dupe to ais art , 
 Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread. 
 And bespattered with rouge his own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting, 
 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 of Whitfield : "His popularity, sir, is chiefly owing to the peculiarity of 
 Ills manner. He would be followed by crowds were he to wear a nightcap 
 in the jjulpit, or were he to preach from a tree." — Ed. 
 
 ^ Long aftei-wards Smollett wrote, in his continuation of "Hume's 
 Histoi-y" : — " The exhibitions of the stage were improved to the most exqui- 
 site entertainment by the talents and management of Garrick, who greatly 
 surpassed all his predecessors of this, and perhaps every other nation in hia 
 genius for acting, in the sweetness and variety of his tones, the irresistible 
 magic of his eye, the fire and vivacity of his action, the elegance of attitude 
 aiid the whole pathos of expression."— Ed. 
 
David Garrick. 
 
 "3 
 
 The grace of action, the adapted mien- 
 Faithful as nature to the varied scene ; 
 Th' expressive glance — whose subtle comment draws 
 Entranc'd attention and a mute applause ; 
 Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught, 
 A sense in silence and a will in thought ; 
 Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone 
 Gives verse a music scarce confess'd its own. — Sheridan. 
 
 In the height of the public admiration for you, 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 Fivy, 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, endeavouring to beat your ideas into the heads of crea- 
 tures who had none of their own. I have seen you, with lamb- 
 like patience, endeavouring to make them comprehend you, 
 and I have seen you when that could not be done — I have 
 seen your lamb turned into a lion ; by this your great labour 
 and pains the public was entertained ; they thought they all 
 acted very fine ; they did not see you pull the wires. — Mrs. 
 Clive} 
 
 His eye was dark, but not characteristical of any passion but 
 the fierce and the lively. To friendship with man, or love 
 and friendship with woman, he never was disposed ; for love of 
 himself always forbid it. Envy was his torment ; ever dreading 
 merit in the lowest of his brethren, and pining at the applause 
 
 and fortune that their labours procured them He had a 
 
 hackneyed kind of metaphorical, theatrical, tinselled phraseology, 
 made out of rags and ends, quotations and imitations of Eng- 
 lish poets ; and, indeed, from the Greek and Latin authors as 
 often as his memory served him with the scraps and mottoes it 
 had quaintly picked up ; for he knew no book of antiquity, nor 
 indeed of modern note. Prior, L?. Fontaine, Swift's poetry, and a 
 few more of that kind excepted — these he constantly imitated, 
 plundered, disguised, and frittered in occasional prologues, 
 
 ' Smith, another actor under Garrick, long after that great man's death, 
 wrote : " I never can speak of him but with idolatry, and have ever looked 
 upon it as one of the greatest blessings of my life to have lived in the days 
 of Garrick."— Ed. 
 
 I 
 
1 1 4 David Garrick. 
 
 epilogues, and complimentary poems upon parrots, lap- 
 dogs, monkeys, birds, growing wits, patrons, and ladies.' — 
 Macklin. 
 
 Few men had such natural advantages to lead them to the stage. 
 The popular notion that he was " little " was one of the vulgar 
 
 topics of depreciation Hehadgreat and expressive play of 
 
 features.'' He was neatly and elegantly made ; handsome, with 
 a French grace, yet combined with perfect manliness. His 
 frame had a surprising flexibility and even elasticity, which put 
 all his limbs under the most perfect control ; there was an 
 elegant freedom in every motion, regulated by the nicest pro- 
 
 priety He was a gentleman by birth and training. His 
 
 features were wonderfully marked ; the eyebrows well-arched 
 ascending and descending with rapid play ; the mouth expressive 
 and bold ; and the wonderful eyes, bright, intelligent, and darting 
 fire. — Fitzgerald. 
 
 He was not so shining nor exuberant in his manner of dis- 
 coursing as his acquaintance Foote ; but he was more agreeable, 
 not only from his not overpowering the company with the 
 superiority and brilliancy of his wit, but by his moderation in 
 the use of those talents of which he was master. Foote was 
 not satisfied without subduing his guests ; Mr. Garrick confined 
 
 ^ Sour old Macklin is wrong. Nearly all Garrick's jeux-d" esprit are 
 good. Take his lines on Hill : — • 
 
 " In physic and farces his equal there scarce is; 
 His farces are physic, his physic a farce is." 
 Or the well-known couplet on Goldsmith : 
 
 " Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 
 Who wrote like an angel and talked like poor Poll." 
 
 Or his more elaborate summary of the poet's character called "Jupiter and 
 Mercury." It may be remembered too that Johnson highly praised 
 Garrick for the sprightliness and variety of his prologues aird epilogues, 
 whilst he pronounced him for conversation the best company in the world. 
 Foote's dislike of Garrick was equal to Macldin's. He mimicked, he 
 abused him whenever he could get a listener ; he borrowed his money and 
 repaid him in lampoons. He loved to amioy him to his face. " I am going 
 to bring out a new Roscius," he told him. Garrick was uneasy. "What ! 
 iealous of Punch !" cried Foote, which was the Roscius he meant. A lady' 
 r.sked Foote if his figures at the Haymarket were to be the size of life. 
 "No, madam," he answered, "about the size of Garrick." 
 
 ^ Mrs. Olive was one night seen standing at the wing, weeping and scold- 
 ing alternately at Garrick's acting. Angry at last at finding herself so 
 
 affected, she turned on her heel, crying, "p lUm, he could act a grid- 
 
 p-QuI' —1<D, ■■ 
 
David Garrick. 115 
 
 his power of conversing to the art of making every man pleased 
 with himself. — T. Davies. 
 
 The man who of all men that ever lived presents the 
 most perfect type of the actor. Quick in sympathy, vivid in 
 observation, with a body and mind so plastic that they could 
 take every mould, and give back the very form and pressure of 
 every fashion, passion, action ; delighted to give delight, and 
 spurred to every higher effort by the reflection of the effect pro- 
 duced on others — no matter whether his audience were the 
 crowd of an applauding theatre, a table full of nbolemen and 
 wits, a nursery group of children, or a solitary black boy in an 
 area ; of inordinate vanity — at once the most courteous, genial, 
 sore, and sensitive of men; full of kindliness yet ever quarrelling ; 
 scheming for applause even in the society of his most intimate 
 friends ; a clever writer, a wit, and the friend of wits, yet 
 capable of mutilating " Hamlet " and degrading the " Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream " into a ballet-opera. — Leslie's " Life of 
 Reynolds."^ 
 
 ^ A graphic account of Garrick lias been bequeathed to us by Cumber- 
 land. It is made thrice valuable by its other excellent portraits. The 
 play he witnessed was Rowe's "Fair Penitent." "Quin," he says, "pre- 
 sented himself upon the rising of the curtain in a green velvet coat 
 embroidered 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. It was so extremely wanting in con- 
 trast that though it did not wound the ear it wearied it ; when she had once 
 recited two or three speeches, I could anticipate the manner of every suc- 
 ceeding one — it was like a long legendary ballad of innumerable stanzas, 
 every one of which is sung to the same tune, eternally chiming to the ear 
 without variation or relief 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 favour. But when, after long and eager expectation, I 
 first beheld little Garrick, then young and light, and alive in every muscle 
 ^nd in every feature, come bounding on the stage, and pointing at the 
 frittol 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 destined to dispel 
 the barbarisms and bigotry of a tasteless age, too long attached to the pre- 
 judices of custoin, ari4 superstitiously devoted tQ the jllvisions pf imposing 
 4eelaroatiop, '' 
 
 \ % 
 
1 1 6 David Garrick. 
 
 No remark was ever more true than that Garrick " acted both 
 on and off the stage." He was a glutton in praise ; and after 
 gorging upon the applause of thundering audiences and judicious 
 critics, his unsatiated grovelling appetite hungered for the 
 admiration of a shoe-black or an infant ; he would steal a side- 
 long look at a duke's table, to ascertain whether he had made 
 a hit upon the buller and the footmen ; such was the littleness 
 of the great Roscius !....! have mentioned the uncommon 
 brilliancy of his eye, but he had the art of completely quenching 
 its fire ; as in his acting Sir Anthony Branville, a dramatic per- 
 sonage, who talks passionately with the greatest sang-froid, and 
 whose language, opposed to his temperature, breathes flame like 
 Hecla, in Iceland. In this part, I have been told, he made 
 the twin stars, which nature had stuck in his head, look as 
 dull as two coddled gooseberries. But his Deaf-vtan' s eye (of 
 which I once witnessed a specimen at Hampton) evinced his 
 minuteness of observation and gift of execution. There is an 
 expression in the eye of deaf persons (I mean of such as have 
 not lost all perception of sound) which, difficult as it may be to 
 exhibit in mimickry, it is still more difficult to define in writing : 
 it consists of a mixture of dulness and vivacity in the organs of 
 vision, indicating an anxiety to hear all, with a pretending to 
 hear more than is actually observed, and a disappointment in 
 having lost much ; an embarrassed look between intelligence 
 and something approaching to stupidity — all this he conveyed 
 admirably ; and if I could convey it in words one tithe as well, 
 I should have made myself more intelligible. — Cohttan's 
 "Random Records." 
 
 In Lear Garrick's very stick acted, Bannister said. The 
 scene with Cordelia and the physician, as Garrick played it, 
 was the most pathetic he ever saw on the stage. Garrick in- 
 structed Barry in Romeo; and afterwards, when Barry played 
 it in rivalry with him, he was obliged to alter his own manner, 
 ,notwithstanding which, he beat Barry. A lady (I forget her 
 name), who had performed yuliet with them both, said she 
 thought she must have jumped out of the balcony to Barry ; 
 and that she thought Garrick M-ould have jumped into the 
 balcony to her.' — Leslie's " AutobiograJ>hy." 
 
 ' Walpole is seldom more cynical than when he handles the name of 
 Garrick. "I think the pomp of Garrick's funeral perfectly ridiculous," he 
 writes; "it is confounding the immense space between pleasing talent? 
 
David Garrick. 1 1 7 
 
 Garrick has the reputation of improving the stage costume ; 
 but it was Macklin that did it. The late Mr. West, who was 
 the first (in his picture of the " Death of Wolfe") to omit the 
 absurdity of putting a piece of armour instead of a waistcoat 
 upon a general officer, told us that he himself once asked 
 Garrick why he did not reform the stage in that particular. 
 Garrick said, the spectators would not allow it — " ihey would 
 throw a bottle at his head." — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Of all persons near our own time, Garrick's name was re- 
 ceived with the greatest enthusiasm, who was proposed by J. 
 
 F . He presently superseded both Hogarth and Handel, 
 
 who had been talked of, but then it was on condition that he 
 should act in tragedy and comedy, in the play and the farce, 
 Lear and Wildair and Ahel Drugger. What a sight for sore 
 eyes that would be ! Who would not part with a year's income 
 at least, almost with a year of his natural life, to be present at 
 it P Besides, as he could not act alone, and recitations are un- 
 satisfactory things, what a troop he must bring with him — the 
 silver-tongued Barry, and Quin, and Shuter, and Weston, and 
 Mrs. Clive and Mrs. Pritchard, of whom I have heard my 
 father speak as so great a favourite when he was young ! This 
 would indeed be a revival of the dead, the restoring of art ; and 
 so much the more desirable, as such is the lurking scepticism 
 mingled with our overstrained admiration of past excellence, 
 that though we have the speeches of Burke, the portraits of 
 Reynolds, the writings of Goldsmith, and the conversation of 
 Johnson, to show what people could do at that period, and to 
 confirm the universal testimony to the merits of Garrick ; yet, 
 as it was before our time, we have our misgivings, as if he was 
 probably after all little better than a Bartlemy-fair actor, 
 dressed out to play Macbeth in a scarlet coat and laced cocked- 
 hat. For one, I should like to have seen and heard with my 
 own eyes and ears. Certainly, by all accounts, if any one 
 was ever moved by the true histrionic xstus, it was Garrick. 
 
 and national service. What distinctions remain for a patriot hero when 
 the most solemn have been showered on a player ?" He allows that he 
 was a real genius in his way, but he cannot believe "that acting, however 
 perfectly, what others have written is one of the most astonishing talents." 
 He praises him that he may the better censure. He pronounces his Kitely 
 and j?aKjf?- capital and perfect; but "in declamation I confess he never 
 charmed me, nor could he be a gentleman. His Ixird Townly and Lord 
 Hastings were mean." — Ed. 
 
1 1 8 David Garrick. 
 
 When he followed the Ghost in " Hamlet," he did not drop the 
 sword as most actors do behind the scenes, but kept the point 
 raised the whole way round, so fully was he possessed with the 
 idea, or so anxious not to lose sight of his part for a moment 
 
 Once at a splendid dinner party at Lord 's, they suddenly 
 
 missed Garrick, and could not imagine what was become of 
 him, till they were drawn to the window by the convulsive 
 screams and peals of laughter of a young negro-boy, who was 
 rolling on the ground in an ecstasy of delight to see Garrick 
 mimicking a turkey-cock in the courtyard, with his coat-tail 
 stuck out behind, and in a seeming flutter of feathered rage and 
 pride. ^ Of our party only two persons present had seen the 
 British Roscius ; and they seemed as willing as the rest to re- 
 new their acquaintance with their old favourite. — New Monthly 
 Magazine, 1826. 
 
 During my two years' residence in London I often saw Garrick. 
 The delight his acting gave me was one of the silken cords that 
 drew me to the theatre. I liked him best in Lear. His saying 
 in the bitterness of his acting, " I will do such things — what 
 they are I know not f and his sudden recollection of his own 
 want of power, were so pitiable as to touch the heart of every 
 spectator. The simplicity of his saying, " Be these tears wet ? — 
 yes, faith !" putting his finger to the cheek of Coi-delia, and then 
 looking at his finger, was exquisite. Indeed, he did not get his 
 fame for nothing. I saw him do Abel Driigger the same night ; 
 and his appalled look of terror where he drops the glass drew 
 as much applause from the audience as his Lear had done. — 
 aKeefe. 
 
 I saw Garrick act Othello that same night, in which I think 
 he was very unmeaningly dressed, and succeeded in no degree 
 of comparison with Quin, except in the scene where Lago gives 
 
 1 "Garrick," says Charles Dibdin, "would indulge some few friends — 
 but it was very rare — with what he used to call his rounds. This he did 
 by standing behind a chair, and conveying into his face every kind of pas- 
 sion, blending one into the other, and as it were shadowing them with a 
 prodigious number of gradations. At one moment you laughed, at another 
 you cried ; now he terrified you, and presently you conceived yourself 
 something horrible, he seemed so terrified at you. Afterwards he drew 
 his features into the appearance of such dignified wisdom that Minerva 
 might have been proud of the portrait ; and then — degrading, yet admi- 
 rable transition— he became a driveller. In short, his face was what he 
 obliged you to fancy it— age, youth, plenty, poverty, cveiTthino- it 
 tssumed." j a 
 
Henry Woodward. 1 1 9 
 
 him the first suspicion of Desdemona. He endeavoured 
 throughout to play and speak everything directly different from 
 Quin, and failed, I think, in most of his alterations. — George 
 Selwyn's " Correspondence."^ 
 
 Garrick at any time, on or off the stage, alone or in company, 
 about whatever study, occupation, or pursuit — ^in short, em- 
 ployed in any manner he might, was an actor, a complete actor, 
 and nothing but an actor ; exactly as Pope, during the whole 
 course of his life, was a poet, and nothing but a poet. — Charles 
 Dibdin. 
 
 Henry Woodward. 
 
 1717-1777. 
 
 He is a very thriving comedian and a very peaceable mimic, 
 for he never strikes first ; but if he receives the first blow, he 
 generally returns it with double the strength of his adversary. 
 He is an excellent Harlequin, and has what most of the motley 
 coat gentry want, an excellent head to his heels ; and if his 
 black mask should be thrown aside for a whole age (though 
 levity will hardly be so long obscured), yet as a just and pleas^ 
 ing actor in comedy he can never want encouragement any- 
 where, if theatres are in use. — Chetwood. 
 
 A speaking Harlequin made up of whim. 
 He twists, he twines, he tortures every limb, 
 
 ' In times not long since passed it was possible to make a reputation, 
 even superior to that which might attend literary genius, as a conversa- 
 tionist. Of brilliant talkers there is a long list, which, headed perhaps by 
 the name of Samuel Johnson, includes Jenyns, Luttrell, Mackintosh, 
 Beauclerc, Lord Melcombe, Colman, Curran, Foote, and even Lord 
 Sandwich, the notorious Jemmy Twitcher. Of these George Selwyn seems 
 the most distinguished. Horace Walpole is never weary of retailing his 
 smart sayings, and in London society "Selwyn's last" was handed round 
 as we might now hand round an excellent number of Punch. Selwyn was 
 born in 1719. His wit in early life choosing the channels of obscenity 
 and blasphemy, he was expelled in 1745 from Oxford. He became a mem- 
 ber of the famous Medmenham Abbey' Club, which was founded for the pur- 
 pose of enabling a select number of the gentlemen of the period to riot 
 in the most licentious, profane, and ribald conversation. In Parliament he 
 was distinguished for a happy faculty of dozing. In his tastes he was 
 addicted to gambling and to executions. He haunted the clubs to the last, 
 exciting roars of laughter by his jests, which he contrived to heighten by a 
 drowsy, demure way of uttering them. Wilberforce describes him in his 
 latter daj's as looking like the wax figure of a corpse. He died at a house 
 in Cleveland Row, January 25th, 1791. — Ed. 
 
I20 Henry Woodward. 
 
 Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art, 
 
 And leaves to sense the conquest of the heart 
 
 We laugh indeed, but on reflection's birth, ^ 
 
 We wonder at ouiselves and curse our mirth. — Chtirchul. 
 
 Since his time the part of Bobadil has never been justly 
 represented ; it may be said to have died with him. At a periotl 
 when correct costume was not cared for, he was ever careful 
 regarding the proprieties of dress ; and, more fortunate than 
 Ryan, he sustained the assaults of Time without letting the con- 
 sequent ravages be seen. Charles Mathews is in many respects 
 exactly what Woodward is said to have been ; but Woodward 
 could play a far wider range of characters. His scamps were 
 perfect for their cool impudence ; his modern fops for their 
 brazen impertinence ; his fops of earlier days for their elegant 
 rascality ; his everyday simpletons for their vulgar stolidity ; his 
 mock-brave heroes for their stupendous but ever-suspected 
 courage ; and his Shakspearian light characters for their tmly 
 Shakspearian spirit. He was gracefully shaped, and bore a 
 serious dignity of countenance, but he was no sooner before the 
 footlights than a ripple of funny emotion seemed to roll over 
 
 ' The "Rosciad," the most trenchant satire of modern times, vigorous 
 as " Macflecknoe," more galling than the *' Dunciad," appeared without its 
 author's name in 1761. In a few days it achieved a popularity that may be 
 paralleled by the ' ' Pickwick Papers. " Everybody read it ; everybody 
 quoted it. When the name of the author became known, the actors whom 
 he had attacked assumed their most tragical scowls and hoarsely talked of 
 vengeance. But Churchill, a big, sturdy Irishman, laughed at their threats. 
 He walked about Covent Garden with a cudgel under his ami, and repaired 
 to the coffee-houses frequented by the actors as if eager for a scuffle. Yates, 
 in the poet's presence, did indeed snatch a carving-knife and flourish it in 
 the air, but laid it down again on meeting Churchill's contemptuous gaze. 
 Foote wrote a lampoon against the " Clumsy Curate, " but suppressed it. 
 Arthur Murphy, more valiant, published an "Ode to the Naiads of Fleet 
 Ditch," of which the sole consequence was to prove himself even a 
 greater blockhead than Churchill had represented him. The "Rosciad" 
 was too indiscriminating in its abuse to effect a reformation ; but it achieved 
 for the author a reputation surpassing that of the most eminent of his con- 
 temporaries. Apologists for Churchill have not been wanting ; but little 
 can be adduced in his favour. He was ruffianly as a man; he was a drunkard 
 a spendthrift, and a sensualist of a vulgar type. As a clergyman his vices 
 only stand out in sharper relief. Certain passages in his poems have been 
 <luoted as illustrating a sound and honest nature ; but they no more prove 
 his possession of a single virtue than the pious declamations of Henley or a 
 Fleet parson proved him to have been inspired by a single sentiment of 
 Christianity. He died, 1764, aged thirty-three years. — Ed. 
 
Henry Woodward. 121 
 
 his face ; and this, with the tones of a capital stage voice, never 
 railed to arouse a laughter which was inextinguishable. — Dr. 
 Doran. 
 
 In the green-room Garrick trained the actors himself, teach- 
 ing them his own readings and inflections. These Woodward 
 appeared to adopt with much humility. But one morning 
 during the manager's absence, Woodward, in unusual spirits, 
 undertook to give his brethren a specimen of the way he meant 
 to deal with his part on the night in question, which was wholly 
 different from the one in which he had been so carefully in- 
 structed. During this performance Garrick arrived imperceived, 
 and listened quietly. The way in which he treated this little 
 bit of duplicity is excellent testimony to his fairness and good 
 humour. " Bravo, Harry !" he cried. " Upon my soul, bravo ! 
 Why, now, this is — no, no ! — I can't say this is quite my idea of 
 the thing. Yours is, after all, to be sure — rather — ha !" The 
 actor was a little confused, and said with true duplicity that he 
 meant to act the part according to the manager's views. " No, 
 no; by no means, Harry," said the other, warmly: "you 
 have actually clinched the matter. But why, dear HaiTy, 
 would you not communicate before ?" — P. Fitzgerald, " Life of 
 Garrick." 
 
 He was an actor who, for various abilities to delight an 
 audience in comic characters, had scarcely an equal. His 
 person was so regularly formed, and his look so serious and 
 composed, that an indifferent observer would have supposed 
 that his talents were adapted to characters of the serious cast : 
 to the real fine gentleman, to the man of graceful deportment 
 and elegant demeanour, rather than to the afifecter of gaiety, the 
 brisk fop, and pert coxcomb. But the moment he spoke on the 
 stage a certain ludicrous air laid hold of his features, and every 
 muscle of his face ranged itself on the side of levity. The very 
 tones of his voice inspired comic ideas ; and though he often 
 wished to act tragedy, he never could speak a line with propriety 
 that was serious. — T. Davies, "Life of Garrick." 
 
 Woodward, the best Petricchio, Copper Captain, Captain Flash, 
 and Bohadil of his day, had brisk and genuine if rather brassy 
 humour. In spite of his sense, and with the best intentions, 
 he never could utter a hne of tragedy. — Leslies "Life of 
 Reynolds" 
 
 In the comedy of " Twelfth Night," Woodward always sus- 
 tained Sir Andrew Agiiecheek with infinite drollery, assisted by 
 
122 Henry Woodward. 
 
 that expression of rueful dismay, which gave so i^ecuhar a zest 
 to his Marplot. In the latter character I have always under- 
 stood that he wore " this rue for a difference" between himself 
 and Garrick, who, it has been said, on high critical authority, 
 was not quite at home in Marplot. Great efforts were made in 
 the circle of his humble friends to force this performance to a 
 rivalry with Woodward, but the " son of whim" remained un- 
 shaken. His unappeasable curiosity, his slow comprehension, 
 and annihilation under the sense of his dilemmas, were so 
 diverting, that even the great master soon dropped the contest, 
 and left him the decided Marplot of the stage. In the year 
 1728, when the "Beggars' Opera" was acted by Lilliputians, 
 Harry Woodward performed the Beggar, — Mrs. Vincent, then 
 Miss Binks, being Macheath on that occasion ; so early did the 
 humour appear for indecent travesty in this piece, brought out 
 only the year before at Lincoln's Inn Fields. It was soon after 
 his study of these beggarly elements of his profession that he 
 became in due form Rich's apprentice, who taught him all that 
 he knew of pantomime, and Woodward had cultivated the arts 
 of writing, and was rather fond of controversy. I believe him 
 to have been commonly right — though the press is a public 
 medium of display which I should always exhort the actor most 
 strenuously to avoid. Woodward had been careful beyond the 
 measure of the comedian, and died in remarkably good circum- 
 stances. — Boaden, '■^ Life of Siddons." 
 
 Woodward, besides being so fine a comedian, was excellent 
 in Harlequin. In one of the pantomimes he had a scene in 
 which he acted as if eating different kinds of fruit. Soft music 
 was played : he came on, sat at a table (on which there was 
 placed nothing), and made pretence of taking up the stalk of a 
 bunch of currants. Then, holding high his hand, with the 
 points of finger and thumb compressed, he seemed to shake the 
 stalk, and to strip off the currants with his mouth. In like 
 manner he would appear to hold up a cherry by the stalk, and 
 after eating it, to spurt the stone from his lips. Eating a goose- 
 beiTy, paring an apple, sucking an orange or peach— all were 
 simulated in the same marvellous fashion. In short the 
 audience perfectly knew what fruit he seemed to be eatino- by 
 the highly ingenious deception of his acting. \\^oodward's 
 chief excellence lay in his attitudes, which he adapted to the 
 music, according to the vicissitudes demanded by the various 
 passions represented. Hence he was called the "attitude 
 
Margaret Wojfington. 123 
 
 Harlequin" There was always another Harlequin for jumping 
 through walls and windows, and such matters of routine. One 
 night, by some blunder, the two Harlequins met each other 
 full in the centre of the stage, which set the audience in a 
 clamour of laughter. — O'Keefe. 
 
 Woodward, though indifferently gifted by nature, except as to 
 his person, which was so complete that he could not throw 
 himself into an inelegant attitude, possessed such sound prin- 
 ciples of acting that he is for ever to be regretted. There arc 
 characters in real life which appear out of nature. These are 
 fair game for authors ; and, when they are well drawn, did we 
 not meet with performers of the admirable description of 
 Woodward, we should lose the pleasure of seeing such cha- 
 racters well acted. These characters are not general, but par- 
 ticular nature, and therefore it requires strong art and judgment 
 to delineate them. The great point is to steer between extrava- 
 gance and vapidity, a knowledge of effect completely understood ■ 
 by Woodward. — C. Dib'din. 
 
 Margaret Woffington. 
 
 1718-1760. 
 
 Since Margaret Woffington's day, now one hundred and four 
 years, there has never been a comic actress capable of sus- 
 taining such a character as Lady Macbeth before a London 
 audience. This, the most difficult of all Shakspearian parts, 
 was considered by the critics a first-rate performance ; and in 
 regard to her genius for comedy, Garrick, who was so popular 
 in Harry Wildair, gave up the part when Woffington appeared 
 in it. This extraordinary Irish actress was also celebrated for 
 her acting of Queen Katheriiie, Henry III., and Constance in 
 "King John." — W. Donaldson, "■'■Recollections." 
 
 In every sense of comic humour known. 
 In sprightly sallies wit was all thy own. 
 Whether you seem'd the cifs most humble wife, 
 Or shone in Towniys higher sphere of life. 
 Alike thy spirit knew each turn of wit. 
 And gave new force to all the poet writ. 
 Nor was thy worth to public scenes confin'd ; 
 Thou knewest the noblest feelings of the mind ; 
 
124 Margaret Woffington. 
 
 Thy ears were ever open to distress, 
 
 Thy ready hand was ever stretch'd to bless. 
 
 Hook."- 
 
 Mrs. Woffington, though pleasing to the eye, used to bark 
 out the " Fair Penitent" with most dissonant notes. — T. 
 Ca7?ipbeirs " Life of Siddons." 
 
 From her portraits we can see that this notorious lady was 
 not a bold, rosy-cheeked hoyden, as we might expect, but had 
 an almost demure, placid, and pensive cast of face. She wore 
 her hair without powder, and turned back behind the ear, 
 nearly always witli a cap carelessly thrown back, or a little 
 flat garden hat set negligently on, a la Nelly O'Brien. Cer- 
 tainly, a deeply interesting face, but with aUttle hint of foolish- 
 ness and air of lightness in all its calm, pale placidity. — P. Fitz- 
 gerald's " Life of Garrick." 
 
 Forgive her one female error, and it might fairly be said of 
 her, " that she was adorned with every virtue ; honour, truth, 
 benevolence, and charity were her distinguishing qualities." 
 Her conversation was in a style always pleasing, and often 
 instructive. She abounded in \nX. — A. Murphy. 
 
 She appeared for the first time in London at the theatre in 
 Covent Garden in 1738. Her choice of character excited the 
 curiosity of the public. Sir Harry Wildair acted by a woman 
 was a novelty. This gay, dissipated, good-humoured rake, she 
 represented with so much ease, elegance, and propriety of 
 deportment, that no male actor has since equalled her in that 
 p>art. She acquitted herself so much to the general satisfac- 
 tion that it became fashionable to see Mrs. Woffington per- 
 sonate Sir Harry Wildair. The managers soon found it to 
 their interest to announce her frequently for that favourite 
 character ; it proved a constant charm to fill their houses 
 t^^fr^nf f f"'- ^^^'^^'"g' I think, consisted in the representa- 
 tion of females in high rank and of dignified elec^ance whose 
 graces m deportment, as well as foibles, she ^der^tood ^d 
 displayed in a very lively and pleasing manner. '^''^'''X ft^ 
 actress did not confine herself to parts of superior decrance 
 she loved to wanton w th ignorance wh^n ^ l ^ ■ t.' 
 absurdity, and_to^Ia3^ti^^ 
 
 the India House. He died 1803.-IED fo'ty-two years a clerk in 
 
Margaret Woffington. 125 
 
 ness and vulgarity. Those who remember her Lady Pliant in 
 Congreve's " Double Dealer," will recollect with pleasure her 
 whimsical discovery of passion, and her awkwardly assumed 
 prudery. In Mrs. Day, in " The Committee," she made no 
 scruple to disguise her beautiful countenance by drawing on it 
 the lines of deformity and the wrinkles of old age ; and to put 
 on the tawdry habiliments and vulgar manners of an old hypo- 
 critical city vixen. — Thomas Davies. 
 
 When Woffington took up the part of Harry Wildair, she 
 did what she was not aware of — namely, that the audience per- 
 mitted the actress to purify the character, and enjoyed the 
 language from a woman which might have disgusted from a 
 man speaking before women — as I have heard spoiled children 
 commended for what would, a few years after, shut them out of 
 the room if they ventured so far. No, Mrs. Woffington, in 
 spite of Quin's joke, upon your supposing that " half the. house 
 took you for a man" — I am convinced that no creature there 
 supposed it for a moment ; it was the travesty seen throughout 
 that really constituted the charm of your performance, and ren- 
 dered it not only gay but innocent. — Boaden's "Life of 
 for dan." 
 
 In 1755 the celebrated Mrs. Woffington acted in the first 
 play I ever saw — Alicia, in " Jane Shore." I remember some 
 years after seeing her mother, whom she comfortably sup- 
 ported — a respectable-looking old lady, in her short black 
 velvet cloak, with deep rich fringe, a diamond ring, and small 
 agate snuff-box. She had nothing to mind but going the 
 rounds of the Catholic chapels, and chatting with her neigh- 
 bours. Mrs. Woffington, the actress, built and endowed a 
 number of almshouses at Teddington, Middlesex; and there 
 they are to this day. She is buried in the church, her name on 
 tlie tombstone.— ^(7.^« O'Keefe. 
 
 I have heard Quick (the actor) speak in raptures of Peg 
 Waffington (sic), though she must have been old when he saw 
 her. — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington was an actress of all work, but of greater 
 talents than the phrase generally implies. Davies says she 
 was the handsomest woman that ever appeared on the stage, 
 and that Garrick was at one time in doubt whether he should 
 not marry her. She was famous for performing in male attire. 
 .... She was the only woman admitted into one of the Beef- 
 steak clubs, and is said to have been president of it. — Leigh LLunt, 
 
126 Margaret Woffington. 
 
 She possessed captivating charms as a jovial, witty bottle 
 companion, but few remaining as a mere female. — Victor. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington had held Rosalind as her own for ten years, 
 when, on the 3rd of May, 1757, she put on the dress for the last 
 time. She was then at Covent Garden. Some prophetic 
 feeling of ill came over her as she struggled against a fainting 
 fit, while assuming the bridal dress in the last act. She had 
 never disappointed an audience in her life ; her indomitable 
 courage carried her on to the stage, and the audience might 
 have taken her to be as radiant in health and spirit as she 
 looked. She began the pretty saucy prologue with her old 
 saucy prettiness of manner ; but when she had said, " If I 
 were among you I would kiss as many of you as had beards 
 that pleased me," she paused, tried to articulate, but was 
 unable — had consciousness enough to know she was stricken, 
 and to manifest her terror at the catastrophe by a wild shriek, 
 as she tottered towards the stage door. On her way she fell, 
 paralyzed, into the arms of sympathizing comrades, who bore 
 her from the stage, to which she never returned. — Cornhill 
 Magazine, 1867. 
 
 There is much in vogue a Mrs. Woffington, a bad actress ; 
 but she has life. — Walpok, 1741. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington was an actress of a most extraordinary kind, 
 and in some parts must have been unrivalled. She had a bad 
 voice, but this seems to have been the only impediment to her 
 becoming superlatively excellent ; for though it is universally 
 allowed to have prevented her from interesting the passions in 
 so eminent a degree as either Mrs. Pritchard or Mrs. Gibber, 
 yet her superior beauty and grace, the industry with which she 
 cultivated her profession by observing the instructions of Gibber, 
 getting introduced to Mademoiselle Dumesnil, the attention she 
 paid to Garrick, and every other eligible opporttmity to 
 improve, which she seized with solicitude and avidity esta- 
 blished for her a solid and firm reputation. She is said in 
 CkoJ>atra, J^ane Shore, and Calisia, and all other parts which 
 require a form of commanding and majestic beauty, to have 
 interested her auditors to a degree of astonishment. ' She also 
 greatly excelled in comic characters, but I cannot think it an 
 addition to her fame, or to female delicacy, that the most 
 
 prominent of those characters was Sir Jlan-y Wildair C 
 
 Pibdin, 
 
 This agreeable actress, in the part of Sir Harry, coming intu 
 
Spranger Barry. 127 
 
 the green-room, said pleasantly, " In my conscience ! I believe 
 half the men in the house take me for one of their own sex." 
 Another actress replied, " It may be so ; but, in my conscience ! 
 the other half can convince them to the contrary." — Chetwood. 
 
 Spranger Barry. 
 
 1719-1777. 
 
 ' What man like Barry with such pains can err, 
 
 In elocution, action, character ? 
 What man could give, if Barry were not here. 
 Such well-applauded tenderness to Lear ? 
 Who else could speak so very, very fine, 
 That sense may kindly end with every line ? — Churchill. 
 
 Fox said that Barry's Romeo was superior to Garrick's.' — 
 S. Rogers's " Table Talk." 
 
 The splendid paintings and engravings extant of bygone 
 actors give the present generation an idea of how such gifted 
 sons of Thespis looked ; but how the finest of them all, the 
 beau-ideal of an Othello and Romeo — Barry — escaped the notice 
 of the artist, is inconceivable ; for we have not a likeness of 
 this elegant and accomplished actor in existence. — Donaldson! s 
 " Recollections." 
 
 This fascinating actor was making fresh progress every day 
 (1745). Playgoers and writers seem at a loss for words to de- 
 scribe the charm ; but setting all the portraits side by side — 
 Churchill's, Davies's, and many more — the features resolve 
 themselves in a noble and graceful figure, a face of calm manly 
 beauty, an expression of soft interest and tenderness, and a 
 touching and musical voice. These are gifts that would carry 
 any actor through, and most likely they carried him over the 
 mannerisms hinted at by the bitter Churchill, and the affectation 
 with which, the satirist unfairly says, " he conned his passions 
 
 ^ " It was nicely and accurately decided that Barry was superior in the 
 garden scene of the second act, and Garrick in the scene with the Friar ; 
 Barry, again, superior in the other garden scenes, and Garrick in the por- 
 trait of the Apothecary. Barry was also preferred 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 
 itterval Garrick, with that excellent good sense which distinguished eveiy 
 8Ct of llis, quietly droppsd the part out of his repertoire," — pitz^eroM, 
 
128 Spr anger Barry. 
 
 as he conned his part." The ladies were his warm patrons, 
 whom " he charmed by the soft melody of his love-complamts 
 and the noble ardour of his courtship." Lord Chestertie d also 
 admired his figure, but forecasted his sudden withdrawal from 
 the stage, carried off by some smitten rich widow. —P. Fitz- 
 gerald, " Life of Garrick." 
 
 Of all the tragic actors who have trod the English stage for 
 these last fifty years, Mr. Barry was unquestionably the most 
 pleasing. Since Booth and Wilks, no actor had shown the 
 public a just idea of the hero or the lover ; Barry gave dignity 
 to the one and passion to the other. In his person he was tall 
 without awkwardness ; in his countenance he was handsome 
 without effeminacy; in his uttering of passion, the language of 
 nature alone was communicated to the feelings of an audience. 
 If any player deserved the character of an unique, he certainly 
 had a just claim to it. Many of the principal characters in our 
 best plays must now be either suffered to lie dormant until 
 another genius like him shall rouse them into life and spirit, or 
 the public must be content to see them imperfectly represented. 
 — T. Davies, '' Life of Garrick." 
 
 On his last appearance, in 1776, he was so infirm that before 
 the curtain rose it was thought he could not support himself 
 through the play ; but in spite of decay he played jFqffier with 
 such a glow of love and tenderness, and such a heroic passion 
 as thrilled the theatre, and spread even to the actors on the 
 stage with him, though he was almost insensible when, after the 
 fall of the curtain, he was led back to the green-room. "There 
 was, we are told, in Barry's whole person such a noble air of 
 command, such elegance in his action, such regularity and ex- 
 pressiveness in his features, in his voice such resources of 
 melody, strength, and tenderness, that the greatest Parliamen- 
 tary orators used to study his acting for the charm of its stately 
 grace and the secret of its pathos.^— Z.-.-&V ^^ Life of Reynolds r 
 
 usual with the ol/man*, even whe^n he was v^tell ^1^.:^^-^^ "° ""^.^ 
 In his autobiography, F. Reynolds tells us hp «^ Pleased with an actor." 
 
 ind silk stockings, conspicuously displaying a pair of ^™,f ',' ''°^,! ^'■^^ches, 
 In .747, w. find Gilly Williams'wltin^g tS Ge^rfrsJl^-'l.. j ^^^ 
 
Spraugcr Barry. 129 
 
 I was once asked by S^jranger Barry (who knew my skill in 
 drawing) to make his face for Lear. I went to his dressing- 
 room' and used my camel-hair pencil and Indian ink with, as I 
 thought, a very venerable effect. When he came into the 
 green-room royally dressed, asking some of the performers how 
 he looked, Isaac Sparks, m his Lord Chief Joker way, remarked, 
 " As you belong to the London Beef-steak Club, O'Keefe has 
 made you peeping through a gridiron." Barry was so doubtful 
 of his own excellence, that he used to consult the old ex- 
 perienced stage carpenters, at rehearsals, to give him their 
 opinion how he acted such-and-such a passage ; but used to 
 call them aside for this purpose. This diffidence was more re- 
 markable in Barry, who was the finest actor in his walk that has 
 appeared on the English stage : Alexander, Romeo, yaffier ! — 
 John aKeefis " Recollections." 
 
 Barry was one of the old artificial school, who made his way 
 more by person than by genius. — Leigh Hunt. 
 Harmonious Barry ! with what varied art 
 His grief, rage, tenderness, assail'd the heart 1 
 Of plaintive Otway now no more the boast ! 
 And Shakspeare grieves for his Othello lost \—A. Murphy. 
 An actor of most extraordinary merit, which was confined, 
 however, to tragedy and serious parts in comedies. In some 
 respects it is questionable whether he did not excel every actor 
 on the stage. These were in scenes and situations full of tender 
 woe and domestic softness, to which his voice, which was mel- 
 lifluous to wonder, lent astonishing assistance. In scenes of 
 an opposite description he threw a majesty and a grandeur into 
 his acting which gave it a most noble degree of elevation. 
 These peculiar qualities, which he possessed in a very striking 
 degree, were greatly manifest in the tender conflicts of the 
 heart-wounded Othello and the haughty ravings of the high- 
 minded Bajazet; and they were exquisitely blended in the fond 
 yet kingly Alexander ; but certainly, beyond these requisites, 
 Barry's acting did not extend in any eminent degree.—- 
 C. Dihdin} 
 
 gratulate you on the near approach of Parliament, and figure you to 
 myself before a glass at your rehearsals. I must intimate to you not to 
 forget closing your 'periods with a significant strolce of the breast, and re- 
 commend Mr. Barry as a pattern, who I tlrinli pathetically excels in tliat 
 beauty." — Ed. 
 ■ The following curious letter, pretended to have been written by » 
 
 K 
 
I30 
 
 West Digges.* 
 
 1720-1786. 
 
 He had studied the antiquated style of acting ; and Davies, 
 in his "Dramatic Miscellanies," states him to have been 
 the nearest resemblance of Cardinal Wolsey he had ever seen 
 represented, if he had not sometimes been extravagant in 
 gesture and quaint in elocution. In short, he was a fine bit of 
 old stage buckram ; and Cato was therefore selected for his first 
 
 French officer, who was prisoner of war in Ireland in 1759, offers an illus- 
 tration of the Irish stage of that period : — 
 
 "I have been vid my friend, Mr. Moatlie, veri often at de Comedie, 
 vhere is dam high price ; two livres and more for de gallerie ; von half 
 carry you to de opera at de Parterre ; but, I am inform, dat de chef come- 
 dians trait demselve like de men of qualite, and de actrices have large 
 sallairie, vich make de grand price. Dey be juste as vid us, some good, 
 some baad. De principals are Messrs. Earrie, Voodvar, Mosope, Spaarke. 
 Barrie be de fine person, tall and veil made, and do veri veil in de tragedie, 
 when he no take too much pain how he valk, staand, or torn about ; dat 
 often spail all. Voodvar, when he do veil, is de inimitable ; but he chuse 
 to please de canaile too often, vich bring cle most nionie. Mosope be de 
 excellent for de tragedie, vich agree veil vid his phisonomie, person and 
 vaice. 'Tis pity, vat I am told, dat he vas taght by anoder at de first, 
 vich keep down his own genie. Spaaii^e be de camical dog, an make laaf 
 all de varld vid his grimace. Dey could no do vidout him. Dere be oder 
 comediens, who have deir merite. Dere is von Foote ; but I no like him, 
 for mimique de Frenchman. Dere is anoder, I forget his name, who 
 mimique nothing but one kettledrum, romble, romble, romble, toujours. 
 
 ** De vomen are all, vidout exceptions, dam ogly, vid ded eyes, for vant of 
 red on de cheeck, no brilliancy, no life 'tall, or concupiscence vatever ; but 
 in deir vay of playing (which be much vorse dan de French vay) von, too, 
 or tree, be very good actrices. Von madum Fizenrie, morbleu ! fright me 
 in von tragedie. 'Tis de Franch tragedie pot in Englis, de Andromache, 
 vich do vonderfuUy peint de power of love in voman's heart, in all de variete 
 of strange pashons dat come, von after t'oder, or all togeder, vhen she re- 
 solves on von man, and no oder for spouse. Mon dieu ! von time adore, 
 von time hate de poor man ; vill have him kill, because she love : den kill 
 de man dat kill dim, because she hate ! veri fine all ! but heven garde me 
 from de like love. In oder parts, madam Fizenrie do veil, but is beste in 
 von furie. Madame D'Ancere vid a leetle more red, would be veii lovely ; 
 and is justly de Belle Angloise, but no de Franche beaute ; and yet do most 
 gaillarde among dem. She please moch all de milors always, de meny 
 parts vel 'nough, an may have vat sallaire she please ; dat is, from de 
 maistre of de comedie as actrice. '' 
 
 ' " Digges's real name was West. He A\'as born in 1720, and «'as sup- 
 posed to be the natural son of a nobleman. He was in the army, which he 
 quitted for the stage, and made his first appearance as an actor at Dublin, 
 
TVesi Digges. 131 
 
 essay. He " discharged the character " in the same costume 
 as, it is to be supposed, was adopted by Booth, when the play 
 was originally acted ; that is, in a shape, as it was technically 
 termed, of the stififest order ; decorated with gilt leather upon a 
 black ground, with black stockings, black gloves, and a powdered 
 periwig. Foote had planted himself in the pit when Digges stalked 
 on before the public, thus formidably accoutred ; the malicious wag 
 waited till the customary round of applause had subsided, and 
 then ejaculated in a pretended undertone, " A Roman chimney- 
 sweeper on May-day /" The laughter which this produced in 
 the pit was enough to knock up a debutant, and it startled 
 the old stager personating the stoic of Utica. The sarcasm 
 was irresistibly funny ; but Foote deserved to be kicked out of 
 the house for his cruelty and his insolence in mingling with 
 the audience for the purpose of disconcerting a brother actor. — 
 George Caiman. 
 
 In my juvenile days some one gave me a note to Digges the 
 actor, that he might put me in to see the play. I was brought 
 through the dark lobbies and up and down many stairs and 
 windings to his dressing-room, where I found him preparing him- 
 self for his part that night of Young Nbrval. There were six 
 large wax candles burning before him, and two dressers in atten- 
 dance. I was struck with awe, almost to veneration. After suffer- 
 ing me for a sufficient time to stare at him with astonishment, he 
 said, " Take the child to the slips," and I was led through the 
 carpenter's gallery, the cloudlings and thunder-boxes, and placed 
 in a good seat, where I saw the play with great delight. Digges was 
 the best Macheath I ever saw in person, song and manner. — O'Keefe. 
 
 It gives me the greatest satisfaction to say that Digges was 
 the very absolute Caratach of Fletcher (" Bonduca"). The solid 
 bulk of his frame, his action, his voice, all marked him with 
 identity. I mean assuredly to honour him when I say that it 
 was quite equal to Kemble's Coriolanus in bold original con- 
 ception and corresponding fehcity of execution. — Boaden, '■^ Life 
 of Siddons." 
 
 in 1749' In 1764 he acted in Edinburgh under the name of Bellamy, which 
 cognomen he Ijorrowed from the celebrated Mrs. Bellamy, with wlaom he 
 was at that time living. He was here thrown into prison by his creditors, 
 whence he escaped ; and eloped with a merchant's wife, leaving Edinburgh 
 deeply involved in debt. In July, 1784, he was seized with paralysis while 
 rehearsing Pierre to Mrs...Siddons's Belvidera, on the Dublin stage. He was 
 removed from the theatre and never acted more." — Random Records, 
 
 K ^ 
 
Thomas Sheridan.' 
 
 1721-1788. 
 
 , .... In return I will t ;1I you of Sheridan, who at this instant 
 is playing Cato, and has ah-eady played Richai-d twice. He had 
 more company the second than the first night, and will make, 
 I beheve, a good figure on the whole, though his faults seem to 
 be very many ; some of natural deficience, and some of laborious 
 affectation. He has, I think, no power of assuming either 
 that dignity or elegance which some men, who have little of 
 either in common life, can exhibit on the stage. His voice 
 when strained is unpleasing, and when low is not always heard. 
 He seems to think too much on the audience, and turns his 
 face too often to the galleries. — Dr. Johnson!^ 
 
 His action's always strong, but sometimes such 
 
 That candour must declare he acts too much. 
 
 Why must impatience fall three paces back ? 
 
 Why paces three return to the attack ? 
 
 Why is the right leg too, forbid to stir, 
 
 Unless in motion semicircular ? 
 
 Why must the hero with the Nailor lie, 
 
 And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye? 
 
 In Royal John, with Philip angry grown, 
 
 I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down. 
 
 Inhuman tyrant ! was it not a shame 
 
 To fright a king so harmless and so tame ? 
 
 ' Father of Richard Brinsley. His Avife was a popular authoress ; a 
 woman amiable and accomplished, of whom Dr. Parr wrote : "She was 
 
 'juite celestial I — botli her virtues and her genius were highly esteemed. " 
 
 Ed. 
 
 ^ Johnson always professed great contempt for Sheridan. "He laughed 
 heartily," says Boswell, " when I mentioned to him a saying of his con- 
 cerning Mr. Thomas Sheridan, which Foote took a wicked pleasure to cir- 
 culate. ' Wliy, sir, Sheny is dull, naturally dull ; but it must have taken 
 liim a great deal of pains to become what we now see him. Such an excess 
 nf stupidity is not in nature.'— ' So,' said he, 'I allowed him all his own 
 tnerit.' He now added, ' Sheridan cannot bear me. I bring his declama- 
 tion to a point. I ask him a plain question, "What do you mean to 
 teach?" Besides, sir, what influence can Mr. Sheridan have upon the 
 language of this great countiy by his narrow exertions? Sir, it is buraine 
 a farthing candle at Dover to show light at "Calais.' " 
 
Thomas Sheridan. 133 
 
 But spite of all defects his glories rise. 
 
 And art, by judgraent form'd, with nature vies 
 
 Where he falls short 'tis nature's fault alone, 
 
 Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own. — Churchill. 
 
 He for many years presided over that theatre at Dublin, and 
 at Drury Lane; he in public estimation stood next to David Gar- 
 riclc. In the literary world he was distingushed by numerous and 
 useful writings on the pronunciation of the English language. 
 I'hrough some of his opinions ran a vein of singularity mingled 
 with the rich ore of genius. In his manners there was dignified 
 ease, in his spirit invincible firmness, and in his habits and 
 principles unsullied integrity. — Dr. Parr^ 
 
 Sheridan, an excellent actor, a man of strict honour, and a 
 perfect gentleman, who, during a life of great credit and public 
 utility, managed one of the theatres in Dublin, for the better 
 purpose of conducting that kind of undertaking, wrote one 
 dramatic piece, and altered three plays, the productions of other 
 authors. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 To this gentleman we owe the decency that has been long 
 wanting in the Hibernian stage, a difficulty no one person could 
 have surmounted but himself; aind though merit does not 
 always meet its proper reward, yet the seeds of flowers and 
 roots he had planted and sown in this theatrical garden, 
 flourish sweet and amiable, and like a master in the art, reward 
 follows his pains and judgment in culture. — Chetwood. 
 
 Poor Sherry has been acting mad, haranguing mad, teaching 
 mad, reading mad, managing mad. England soon found out 
 bis incapacity, the dissonance of his voice, the laboured quaint- 
 ness of his emphasis, the incessant flux of his speech, his general 
 appearance. He has been despised as an actor. His audiences 
 laughed him to scorn. — Macklin. 
 
 Neither in person nor voice had nature been very kind to 
 Mr. Sheridan ; but his judgment, his learning, and close appli- 
 cation to study, compensated in some degree for the want of 
 external advantages. His manner, though certainly not very 
 pleasing, was supposed to be his own, and not borrowed from 
 an imitation of other actors. He had besides, the advantage of 
 an excellent character in private life. — -T. Davies. 
 
 ^ Parr was a bad repetition of Johnson. He prefaced his speeches vnih 
 "Sir," and rounded liis colloquial phrases in a manner that to the ear 
 seemed good Johnsonese. But the metal was base; the remarks emitted no 
 
134 
 
 Samuel Foote. 
 
 1721—1777. 
 
 Boswell : " Foote has a great deal of humour." Johnson : 
 " Yes, sir." Boswell : " He has a singular talent for exhibiting 
 character." Johnson : " Sir, it is not a talent, it is a vice ; it 
 is what others abstain from. It is not comedy, which exhibits 
 the character of a species, as that of a miser gathered from 
 many misers ; it is farce, which exhibits individuals." Boswell : 
 "Did not he think of exhibiting you, sir?" Johnson: "Sir, 
 fear restrained him ; he knew I would have broken his bones. 
 I would have saved him the trouble of cutting off a leg ; I 
 would not have left him a leg to cut off."' Boswell : " Pray, 
 sir, is not Foote an infidel ?" Johnson : " I do not know, 
 sir, that the fellow is an infidel ; but if he be an infidel, he is 
 an infidel as a dog is an infidel ; that is to say, he has never 
 thought upon the subject." Boswell : " I suppose, sir, he 
 has thought superficially, and seized the first notions that 
 occurred to his mind." Johnson: "Why then, sir, still he is 
 like a dog that snatches the piece next him. Did you ever 
 observe that dogs have not the power of comparing ? A dog 
 will take a small bit of meat as readily as a large, when both 
 are before him." — Life of 'yohnson. 
 
 We have had frequen* occasions for observing how the pass- 
 ing events of the day were carried on the stage in comedies 
 
 ring. He had not a spark of Johnson's sagacity. Besides, he was a 
 better-tempered man. His simulated acerbity was laughable. In English 
 literature I know nothing more foolish than his convereation which many 
 years ago was published in the AWo Monthly Magazine by some little 
 Boswell under the title of Parriana. Sydney Smith has celebrated his 
 liteiary honesty ; this seems the only feature of his character that deserves 
 praise. — Ed. 
 
 1 "While upon a party of pleasure along with the Duke of York and 
 some other noblemen, Foote met with an accident both adverse and fortu- 
 nate. He was thrown from his horse and his leg broken, so that an ampu- 
 tation became necessaiy, which he endured with uncommon fortitude. In 
 consequence of this accident, the Duke obtained for him the patent of the 
 Hayraarket Theatre during life. Strange as it may appear, i\ith the aid 
 of a cork leg he performed his former characters with no less agility and 
 spirit than he had done before, and continued e.\hibiting his very laugh- 
 aljle pieces, with his more laughable performances, to the most crowded 
 houses. "- - Percy A nccdoUs. 
 
Samuel Foote. 135 
 
 and pantomimes, as objects of satiie. This species of farce was 
 brought to perfection by Foote, whose great talent was that of 
 mimicry, and who delighted his audience by the exact manner 
 in which he imitated the peculiarities and weaknesses of 
 individual contemporaries. He was in all respects the great 
 theatrical caricaturist of the age. The personality of the satire 
 was the grand characteristic of Foote's performances, and one 
 which rendered them dangerous to society, and certainly not 
 to be approved. , An affront to the actor was at any time 
 enough to cause the offender to be dragged before the world ; 
 and matter in itself of the most libellous description was 
 published without danger, under the fictitious name of a 
 character, the resemblance of which to the original was 
 sufficiently evident to the town. From such tribunals, neither 
 elevation in society nor respectability of character is a pro- 
 tection.' — Thomas Wright. 
 
 Fox told me that Lord William Bentinck once invited Foote 
 to meet him and some others at dinner in St. James's Street ; 
 and that they were rather angry at Lord William for having done 
 so, expecting that Foote would prove only a bore, and a check 
 on their conversation. " But," said Fox, " we soon found that 
 we were mistaken ; whatever we talked about — whether fox- 
 hunting, the turf, or any other subject — Foote instantly took 
 the lead, and delighted us d\\."— Rogers's " Table Talk."'' 
 
 By turns transform'd into all kinds of shapes, 
 
 Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and scrapes ; 
 
 ' " I found fault," says Boswell, "with Foote for indulging his talent of 
 ridicule at the expense of liis visitors, which I colloquially termed, making 
 fools of the company. " Johnson : ' ' Why, sir, when you go to see Foote, 
 you do not go to see a saint ; you go to see a man who will be entertained 
 at your house, and then bring you on a public stage ; who will entertain 
 you at his house for the very purpose of bringing you on a public stage. 
 .Sir, he does not make fools of his company ; they whom he exposes are 
 fools already ; he only brings them into action. " 
 
 ^ Rogers tells another story of Foote. "One day Foote was taken into 
 White's by a friend who wanted to write a note. Foote, standing in a 
 room among strangers, appeared to feel not quite at ease. Lord Carmar- 
 then, wishing to relieve his embarrassment, came up to speak to him ; but 
 himself feeling rather shy, he merely said, ' Mr. Foote, your handkerchief 
 is hanging out of your pocket ;' upon which Foote, looking suspiciously 
 round, and hurriedly thrusting the handkerchief back into his pocket, 
 replied, ' Thank you, my lord : you know the company better than 
 I do.'" 
 
136 Samzicl Foote. 
 
 N ow in the centre, now in van or rear, 
 
 The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer. 
 
 His strokes of humour and his bursts of sport 
 
 Are all contain'd in this one word, distort. 
 
 Doth a man stutter, look asquint, or halt ? 
 
 Mimics draw humour out of nature's fault ; 
 
 With personal defects their mirtli adorn. 
 
 And hang misfortunes out to public scorn. — Churchill. 
 
 Everything we hear of Foote is in keeping. Behind him, on 
 the Irish stage, he had left recollections of his harsh voice, his 
 wink, and the smile that fitted " one comer of his mouth." 
 The Irish players noted the theatrical selfishness with which he 
 would never " give or take," never once thinking of his fellows 
 when in presence of the audience, but trying to engross all 
 the applause and attention. Even in acting this spirit made 
 him always turn his full face to the audience, and never 
 address his brethren. There was something gratuitous even in 
 the manner of his buffoonery, as though he would have liked 
 to Jmow that it went home and annoyed the object of it. One 
 instance, not hitherto known, is very characteristic. He was 
 very pressing with the actor, Sheridan, to come to his theatre 
 and see a new piece, placed him in a conspicuous box, and in 
 the front row. He also got Sheridan's family to attend. The 
 actor's amazement and anger may be conceived when he found 
 that he had been brought to see a picture of himself, and that 
 all the audience recognised him and his known peculiarities in 
 Feter Primmer. — P. Fitzgerald. 
 
 Foote was by far a better scholar than Garrick ; and to this 
 superiority he added also a good taste, a warm imagination, a 
 strong turn for mimicry, and a constant fresh supply of extensive 
 occasional reading, from the best authors of all descriptions. 
 He could likewise supply all these advantages with great 
 readiness ; so that either with his pen, or in conversation, he 
 was never at a loss. — Cooke. 
 
 Mr. Foote, after he had successively presented his whimsical 
 exhibitions, under the title of " Giving Tea," at the unusual time 
 of twelve o'clock at noon, in the Httle theatre in the Hay- 
 market,' began to apply himself to the writing of farces, or 
 
 1 The little theatre in tlie Hayraarket was built in 1720 by Mr. Potter. 
 Occupied for some time during the summer months by virtue of licences 
 
Sam uel 2-'oote. 1 3 7 
 
 short comedies of two acts. These were some of his intro- 
 ductory pieces to many others more regular and permanent. 
 Before he obtained the royal patent for acting plays in the 
 theatre in the Haymarket, he frequently acted his pieces at 
 Drury I^ane, in the beginning of the winter. Sometimes he 
 ventured upon some important parts in old comedies, such as 
 Fondlewife in the " Old Bachelor," Sir Paul Pliant in the 
 '•' Double Dealer," and Ben in " Love for Love." His intimacy 
 with people of the first rank contributed to support him in his 
 feeble attempts upon the masterly characters of Congreve ; 
 and it will scarce be credited that for three nights the boxes 
 were crowded to see Foote blunder the part of Ben ; for his 
 acting bore no resemblance to nature and character. He was 
 even destitute of what no man could suppose him to want, 
 a proper confidence in his own abilities ; for sure his Ben was 
 as unentertaining a lump of insipidity as ever a patient audience 
 was presented with ; it was not even a lively mistake of 
 humour. In ' his Fondlewife he had luckily remembered that 
 great master of acting, Colley Gibber. In the course of the first 
 scene, he drew the attention of the audience, and merited 
 and gained much applause ; but, in the progress of the 
 part, he forgot his exemplar, and degenerated into buffoonery. 
 His Sir Paul Pliant was worse, if possible, than his Ben ; for 
 fear restrained him from being outrageous in the sailor ; but in 
 the knight he gave loose to the most ridiculous burlesque and 
 vilest grimace. However, the people laughed heartily, and 
 that he thought was a full approbation of his grotesque 
 performance. In short, Foote was a most despicable player in 
 almost all parts but those which he wrote for himself.^' 
 T. Davies. 
 
 By Foote's buffoonery and broad-faced merriment, private 
 friendship, public decency, and everything estimable among 
 men were trod under foot. — Sir yoshua Reynolds. 
 
 He was a very extraordinary man, and had talents which he 
 abused. He abounded in wit, humour, and sense, but he was 
 so fond of detraction and mimicry, that he might be properly 
 called a buffoon ; and they were a great blemish in his reputa- 
 
 from the Lord Chamberlain, it became in 1766 a theatre royal. The patent 
 was granted to Foote, who pulled it down and rebuilt it, opening it in the 
 following year. In 1777 Foote transferred it to the Elder Colman, who 
 was succeeded by his son George Colman in 1 794. It was once again 
 puUed down, and rebuilt as we now have it. — Ed. 
 
138 Samuel Foote. 
 
 tion, though he entertained you. He was generally civil to 
 your face and seldom put you out of humour with yourself ; 
 but you paid for his civility the moment you turned your back, 
 and were sure of being made ridiculous. He was not so 
 malignant as some I have known, but his excessive vanity led 
 him into satire and ridicule. He was vain of his classical 
 knowledge (which was but superficial) and of his family, and 
 used to boast of his numerous relations in the west of England.' 
 He was most extravagant and baubling, but not generous. He 
 delighted in buying rings, snuff-boxes, and toys, which were a 
 great expense to him ; and he lost money at play, and was a 
 dupe with all his parts. He loved wine and good living, and 
 was a mighty pretender to skill in cookery, though he did not 
 understand a table so well as he thought ; he affected to like 
 dishes and ragoilts, and could not bear to eat plain beef or 
 mutton, which showed he had a depraved appetite ; he 
 spared no expense in his dinners, and his wine was good. 
 He was very disgusting in his manner of eating, and not clean 
 in his person, but he was so pleasant and had such a flow of 
 
 spirits, that his faults and foibles were overlooked He 
 
 had a flat vulgar face, without expression ; but where a part was 
 strongly ridiculous he succeeded, for he always ran into farce ; 
 60 that I have often been surfeited with him on the stage, and 
 never wished to see him twice in the same character. — Gahagan^ 
 " Life of Siddons." 
 
 Foote's earliest notices of me were far from flattering ; but 
 though they had none of Goldsmith's tenderness, they had none 
 of Johnson's ferocity ; and when he accosted me with his usual 
 salutation of " Blow your nose, child," there was a whimsical 
 
 1 Foote's uncle, Captain Goodere, was hanged for the murder of his 
 brother, Sir J. Dinely Goodere, Bart. Cooke, the translator of Hesiod, 
 in introducing Foote into a club, said, "This is the nephew of the gen- 
 tleman who was lately hung in chains for murdering his brother." — Ed. 
 
 2 Gahaganwas the original o( Aircastle, in Foote's " Cozenei-s." Hishabit 
 of rambling in convei-sation is thus burlesqued by Foote: — "Aircastle: 
 Did I not tell you what Parson Pnniello said? I remember Mrs. Light- 
 foot was by — she had been brought to bed that day was a month of a very 
 fine boy — a bad birth ; for Dr. Seeton, who served his time with Luke 
 Lancet, of Guise's — there was also a talk about him and Nancy, the 
 daughter — she afterwards married Will Whitlow, another apprentice, who 
 had great expectations from an old uncle in the Grenades ; but he left all 
 
 to a distant relation, Kit Cable, a midshipman aboard the Torbay she was 
 
 lost coming home in the channel — the captain was taken up by a coaster 
 from Rye, loaded with cheese," &c. — Ed. 
 
Samuel Foote. 139 
 
 manner and a broad grin upon his features which always made 
 me laugh. The paradoxical celebrity he maintained upon the 
 stage was very singular ; — his satirical sketches were scarcely 
 dramas, and he could not be called a good legitimate performer. 
 Yet there is no Shakspeare or Roscius upon record who, like 
 Foote, supported a theatre for a series of years by his own 
 acting, in his own writings, and for ten years of the time upon 
 a wooden leg I This prop to his person I once saw standing 
 by his bedside, ready dressed in a handsome silk stocking, with 
 a polished shoe and gold buckle, awaiting the owner's getting.up. 
 It had a kind of tragi-comical appearance ; and I leave to 
 inveterate wags the ingenuity of punning upon a Foote in bed 
 and a leg out of it. — Colman^ "Random Records^ 
 
 Foote set out for the Continent, but died at an inn in Dover, 
 October 21st, 1777. In the church of St. Mary, in that town, 
 there is a monument to his memory ; and it has been generally 
 imagined that Foote was buried there. Such, however, is not 
 the fact. Mr. Jewell, at the representation of half the actors 
 and dramatists of the day, brought the body to London, in order 
 that it might be publicly interred in Westminster Abbey ; but 
 after he had taken this step, no funds were forthcoming, and he 
 buried his friend at his own expense in the cloisters. — Recol- 
 lections of Bannister. 
 
 Foote, of all men the most caustic, furnishes an anecdote 
 illustrative of his having been not wholly the compound of 
 cayenne and vitriol for which the world gave him credit. 
 He had regard probably but for a few ; but amoiig those few 
 was Weston the actor, a man of considerable ability in his 
 profession. Foote had his portrait painted, and on leaving 
 town for his journey to Dover in search of health — a journey 
 which was his last — he went into the room where the picture 
 hung, made a full stop before it, firmly fixed his eyes on the 
 countenance until the tears started into them, and then turning 
 away, exclaimed, " Poor Weston !" Then, as if in reproach of his 
 
 ' George Colman was bom in 1762. He was a prolific play- writer, and 
 it is said that he received for one of his plays a larger sum than was ever 
 before given for a dramatic performance : tliis was liis ' ' John Bull. " 
 His most popular pieces were, "Tlie Surrender of Calais," "The 
 Mountaineers, ."The Iron Chest" (taken from Godwin's novel of 
 "Caleb Williams"), "The Heir-at-Law," and the "Poor Gentleman." 
 He died in 1836, aged seventy-four. He was long manager of the Hay- 
 inarket Theatre. — Ed. 
 
140 Saimiel 1^'oote. 
 
 own seeming security, after a moment's meditation lie uttered, 
 " Poor AVeston ! — it will be- soon ' Poor Foote ! ' or the intel- 
 ligence of my spirits deceives me." It did not deceive him.^ 
 Blackwood's Magazine, 1841. 
 
 Foote's talents are generally admitted, though we think not 
 fully appreciated, for we believe him to be, after Molifere (and 
 not Io7igo intervallo), the greatest master of comic humour that 
 ever lived ; and he acted incomparably what he wrote inimitably. 
 — Quarterly Review} 
 
 Foote, as all of the old school know full well, could transform 
 himself into almost every remarkable character, from the court 
 
 1 Foote's wit is well illustrated by the following anecdotes : — One night, at 
 his friend Delaval's, one of the party would suddenly have fixed a quarrel 
 upon him for his indulgence of personal satire. ' ' Why, what would you 
 have?" exclaimed Foote, good-humouredly putting it aside. "Of course I take 
 all my friends off, but I use them no worse than myself. I take myself oS." 
 " Gadso !" cried the gentleman, " that I should like to see." Upon this, 
 Foote took his hat and left the room. — The Duke of Cumberland came one 
 night into the green-room. "Well, Foote, " said he, ' ' here I am, ready, as 
 usual, to swallow all your good things. " " Really, " replied Foote, "your 
 royal highness must have an excellent digestion, for you never bring up any 
 again." — "Why are you forever humming that air?" he asked a man. 
 " Because it haunts me?" "No wonder," said Foote; "you are for ever 
 murdering it. " — Much bored by a pompous physician at Bath, who con- 
 fided to him as a great secret that he had a mind to publish his own poems, 
 but had so many irons in the fire he really did not know well what to do. 
 ' ' Take my advice, doctor, " said Foote, ' ' and put your poems where yo:ir 
 irons are." — "There is a witty, satirical story of Foote," says Dr. Johnson. 
 "He had a small bust of Garrick placed upon his bureau. ' You may be 
 surprised,' said he, * that I allow him to be so near my gold ; but you will 
 obsei-ve he has no hands.' " — Garrick and Foote, lea\'ing a hotel, the latter 
 dropped a guinea. Impatient at not immediately finding it, " Where on 
 earth can it be gone to ?" he said. "Gone to the devil, I think," said 
 Garrick, who had sought for it everywhere. "Well said, David," cried 
 Foote ; "let you alone for making a guinea go further than anybody else. " — 
 Macklin's topic, one evening, at his tavern, was the employment of 
 memory in connexion with oratory. He took occasion to say that he had 
 brought his memory to such perfection that he could recite anything at 
 once hearing it. The lecture being concluded, Foote handed Macklin°the 
 following sentences, desiring he would read them once, and then repeat 
 them :— " So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf, to make an , 
 apple-pie ; and at the same time a great she-bear coming up the street, 
 pops its head into the shop. ' What ! no soap ?' So he died, and she 
 A'ery imprudently married the barber ; and there were present the 
 Picninnies, and the Joblillies, and the Garynlies, and the Grand Panjan- 
 drum himself, with the little round button at top ; and they all fell to 
 playing the game of catch-as-catch-can till the gunpo^xder ran out of the 
 heels of their boots." The laugh was not with Macklin. — Ed. 
 
Samuel Foote. 1 4 1 
 
 end of the town to Whitechapel. I mean those characters who 
 were distinguished by some siiper-ejninent qualities that fitted 
 them for his caricatura, in that age of humorists. His 
 imitation of French-broken-Enghsh, as I have heard my 
 uncle Zachary say, was very lively, not equal to Jemmy 
 Spiller's, but as good as Ned Shuter's upon the whole, being 
 rather more polite. But his Anglo-German was inimitable. 
 It is true he was apt to abuse this original faculty, and 
 sought, as his temper or his interest suited, to play off his 
 ridicule at the expense of friend and foe alike. — Witie and 
 Walnuts. 
 
 Mr. Foote was a man of wonderful abiUties, and the most 
 entertaining companion I have ever known. — Garrick. 
 
 Sure if ever one person possessed the talents of pleasing 
 more than another, Mr. Foote was the man. — Tate Wil- 
 kinson. 
 
 Foote, an admirable but a most mischievous writer, who 
 emulated Aristophanes with less genius and less feeling, who 
 seemed fondly to fancy that to torture individuals was the only 
 way to delight their fellow-creatures, measuring their pleasure 
 by his malignity, who knew no quality of satire but personality, 
 who would sacrifice his best friend for the gratification of tor- 
 menting him, and who, after all, was perpetually the cat's-paw to 
 his own vanity, created, among the fastidious, the sour, and the 
 heart-burnt, a sort of veneration for that exotic from Greece, 
 the middle comedy, which, greatly to the honour of the manly 
 and benevolent character of the English, may have a dwindling 
 and a rickety existence, but can never flourish to maturity in 
 this country. — C. Dibdiii. 
 
 Foote sent a copy of his farce, " The Minor,'' to the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury, requesting that if his friend should see 
 anything objectionable in it, he would strike it out or correct it. 
 The Archbishop returned it untouched, observing to a friend- 
 that he was sure Foote had only laid a trap for him, and that if 
 he had put his pen to the manuscript, Foote would have ad- 
 vertised the play as "corrected and prepared for the stage by 
 his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury." — Theatrical Anec- 
 dotes. 
 
142 
 
 Thomas Weston. 
 1727-1776. 
 
 Poor Weston ! Hurry was one of his last parts, and was 
 taken from real life. I need not tell those who remember this 
 genuine representer of nature, that in Hurry, as in all other 
 characters which he acted, he threw the audience into loud fits 
 of mirth, without discomposing a muscle of his features. 
 Weston has left no resemblance of his indefinable simplicity. — 
 T. Davies. 
 
 This actor has always been placed at the head of his class, 
 and had merely to sJiow himself to accomplish the full task of 
 the low comedian. Weston -was Abel Drugger himself; so that, 
 as of later days in the case of Emery, it might be almost ques- 
 tioned whether it were acting at all, since the man exerted pre- 
 cisely the same feeling in his profession and out of it. — Boaden. 
 
 Weston was another of nature's wonders. He seemed as if 
 he possessed neither idea nor conception, yet was he endowed 
 with so many chaste and felicitous gifts, that he uttered rather 
 than acted ; but it was such utterance that the most accomplished 
 acting never excelled. The French know nothing of such 
 actors as Shuter and Weston. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 One evening, when Weston was announced to play Scrub 
 and Garrick Archer, in the course of the day he sent to Mr. 
 Garrick, in a letter requesting a loan of money, as he was con- 
 tinually in the practice of doing, under the impression that he 
 was arrested. This Garrick at last discovered, and in conse- 
 quence refused sending at that time what Weston had requested ; 
 upon which the latter neglected going to the theatre at his 
 usual time ; and when the hour of performance arrived, Garrick 
 came forward and said as follows : — " Ladies and gentlemen, 
 Mr. Weston being- taken suddenly ill, he is not capable of ap- 
 pearing before you this evening; and therefore, if it meets 
 your approbation, I will perform the part of Scrub in his stead." 
 Weston being in the two-shilling gallery with a sham bailiff, 
 hallooed out, " I am here, and can't come ; I am arrested." 
 Upon which the audience sided with Weston, by insisting he 
 should play the part, which the manager was obliged to ac- 
 quiesce in, by paying the supposed debt, to the no small mor- 
 tification of David. — Spirit of t/ie Public Journals, 1825. 
 
H3 
 
 Edward Shuter. 
 
 1728-1776. 
 
 Shuter, who never cared a single pin 
 
 Whether he left out nonsense or put in ; 
 
 Who aim'd at wit, though levell'd in the dark, 
 
 The random arrow seldom hit iJie mark. — ChurdiilL 
 
 There was Shuter, whom it was said Mr. Garrick pronounced 
 the greatest comic genius he had ever seen. It struck one who 
 had seen him in his leading parts that a simplicity and a luxu- 
 rious humour were his. characteristics. Yet it must have been 
 disfigured by what is known to stage slang as gagging. — Fitz- 
 gerald. 
 
 A late comic actor of great merit, whose overflow of comic 
 vivacity often degenerated into buffoonery. — T. Davies. 
 
 Poor Ned was indeed the delight of the galleries. His 
 humour was broad and voluptuous, but never seemed richer 
 than conviviality produces : the bottle was the sun of his table, 
 and he neither had nor sought any higher inspiration. Yet he 
 was an enthusiast in his worship, and enthusiasm led him into 
 excess — unthinking levity commonly borders on vice. Shuter, 
 I have heard, added gaming to ebriety, and lost his money 
 commonly soon after his wits. The supplies would frequently 
 um low, and friends, however wanted, were not always at home. 
 On such occasions the irregular son of merriment is apt to trust 
 to the common refuge of the needy ; but he kept up his spirits 
 only to the forty-eighth year of his age, and then dropped into that 
 receptacle of humour, St. Paul's, Covent Garden. — Boaden} 
 
 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 gen- 
 tleman and himself) was stopped on the road by a single high- 
 wayman. The old gentleman, in order to save his own money. 
 
 ^ " When Woodward and Garrick and Ned Shuter and old Parsons," we 
 are told, "met at the same table, there was more hilarity, more quaint 
 and comical development of character, than ever was seen exhibited on the 
 stage. " Barry was another who told a story well ; though Garrick used to 
 say, " At an Irish story I will yield the palm to Spranger ; but I'll beat 
 him any day in every other walk." 
 
1 44 Edward Shuter. 
 
 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 ! Lud, sir, they 
 never trust me with any ; for nuncle here always pays for me, 
 turnpikes and all, your honour !" Upon which the highway- 
 man gave him a few curses for his stupidity, complimented the 
 old gendeman 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, pursued his journey with 
 great satisfaction and merriment, laughing heartily at his fellow- 
 traveller. — Theatrical Anecdotes. 
 
 The celebrated Ned Shuter delighted to exhibit his eccen- 
 tricities amongst the lowest company in St. Giles's, where he 
 has been known more than once to treat a dozen of the rabble 
 with drams and strong beer. His sober apology for such ab- 
 surdities was, that in his walk of the drama it was necessary 
 he should know life from the prince to the beggar, in order to 
 represent them as occasion might require. — Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 This gay spark, when a lad about twelve or fourteen years 
 old, was a livery servant to Lampe, composer for Covent 
 Garden Theatre. " Shuter was a special Pickle" says Dr. Bur- 
 ney, " who took off all the perfomiers. At this time Lampe was 
 with "a provincial company of players at Chester, among whom 
 was Jemmy Worsdale, the painter, celebrated for being the go- 
 between in the affair between Pope and Curll. Worsdale was 
 also an actor who was famed for singing Harry Carey's song of 
 ' Young Roger came Tapping at Dolly's Window.' Master Ned 
 took the liberty of mimicking his master in this, and hit him off 
 so much to the admiration of the wits, that it was with difficulty 
 he escaped broken bones.'" — Wine ajid Wahmts. 
 
 The origin of Shuter, the great comedian, is unknown ; one 
 Chapman, an actor and dramatist, who died at an advanced 
 
 y The following story may be given as a specimen of Shnter's wit. A 
 fnend overtaking hira one day in the street, said to him, "Why, Ned, 
 aren't you ashamed to walk the streets with twenty holes in )'Our stockings ? 
 Why don't you get them mended ?" " No, my friend," said Shuter, " I am 
 above it ; and if you have the pride of a gentleman, you will act like me, 
 and walk rather with twenty holes than have one darn." "How do you 
 ma];e that out ?" " Why," said Shn'r-:, "a hole is the accident of the day. 
 but a darn \% prenuditatai poverty,'' 
 
Edivard Shuier. 145 
 
 age in 1757, was the only person who professed to know any- 
 tliing of him. Shuter himself said, " I suppose I must have had 
 parents, but I never remember having ix\<iVid&."— Records of a 
 
 Veteran. 
 
 , Shuter, whose strong nature and irresistible humour were 
 highly and peculiarly diverting, must be ranked as a theatrical 
 wonder. Neither on the French nor on the English stage do 
 we find any one to whom we can compare him. His strong 
 conception, his laughable manner, his perpetual diversity, were 
 his own, and were displayed in a thousand various fo ms ; 
 always extraordinary, and yet always in nature. The extremes 
 of life were never so critically displayed as by Shuter. His per- 
 formance of the Miser and Master Stephen are incontrover- 
 tible proofs of this remark. Has any one seen him in Corhaccio, 
 and will he tell me that acting ever went beyond it ? When he 
 went out of his way, so the question was humour, could any- 
 thing be superior to Shuter ? I look upon him, as far as it 
 went, to have been one of the best burletta singers in the world. 
 Nothing on earth could have been superior to his Midas. His 
 great fault was indolence, but eccentric qualities will naturally 
 be accompanied by eccentric conduct. Thus we perceive in 
 his, acting great inequalities, but those parts of it that were 
 sterling were invaluably so. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Shuter, who was the fiddle of every company he went into, 
 had notwithstanding an aversion to be considered merely a 
 buffoon and a jester; for the fact is, Shuter uttered a great 
 many brilliant things, some of them far beyond the comprehen- 
 sion of those whose society he frequented. He happened to 
 dine in a promiscuous company who were on tiptoe in expec- 
 tation of hearing something witty from him ; or, in their own 
 words, that he would be comical. He began, in his own lan- 
 guage, " to twig them," and was determined not to open his 
 mouth. At length, the cloth having been removed, one of the 
 company could no longer bear to be tantalized, and chuckled 
 out, "Come, Mr. Shuter, when do you intend to begin to be 
 comical ?" " Gad !" said Shuter, " I forgot my fool's dress ; 
 however, I'll go and fetch it, if you will be my substitute until 
 my return." The man thought this very comical, and declared 
 he would. Shuter then took his hat and cane and went away, 
 and did not return at all. — Dibdin' s " Frqfessional Life." 
 
146 
 
 John Moody. 
 
 1728-1813. 
 
 Long from a nation' ever hardly used, 
 At random censured, wantonly abused. 
 Have Britons drawn their sport with partial view, 
 Form'd general notions from the rascal few ; 
 Condemn'd a people, as for vices kno\vn, 
 Which, from their country banish'd, seek our own. 
 Taught by thee. Moody, we now learn to raise 
 Mirth from their foibles — from their virtues praise. 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 There was a dry, sluggish determination about Moody that 
 rendered his Strap very efficient. His manner was peculiar, 
 but he was a valuable actor and most respectable man. — Boaden. 
 
 Mathews was one day invited to dine at the house of a 
 friend at Chiswick, where Moody, once a celebrated actor, was 
 to be of the party. Moody had long left the stage, and was 
 then a very old, but very fine remnant of what he had been. 
 During dinner he talked with great animation, brought back 
 his theatrical reminiscences, and, in short, exhibited no sign what- 
 ever of mental decay. Mathews exerted himself to amuse this 
 Nestor of the boards, and was honoured by the declaration 
 " that Garrick himself was not greater in what he did." At 
 length Moody was asked for a song ; he complied, singing in 
 strong though uneven tones the old Scottish " We're a' noddin," 
 which, however, he gave with a strong Irish accent. When he 
 had reached nearly the end of the second verse, he suddenly 
 stopped. All waited awhile, thinking that he was pausing to 
 revive his memory. At length his host gently said, " Mr. 
 Moody, I am afraid the words have escaped you." " Words, 
 sir ! what words ?" asked the old man, with a look of great 
 surprise. "The words of your song." "Song! what song, 
 sir?" "The rest of the song you have been so kind as to 
 favour us with — ' We're a' noddin,' of which you have sung one 
 verse." " Heaven bless you, sir !" said Moody, hastily, " I 
 have not sung a song these ten years, and shall never sing 
 again ; I am too old to sing, sir." " 'Well, but you have 
 -jeen singing, and very well, too." To this Moody, with agita- 
 
 ' Ireland. 
 
Ifeiiry Mossop. 147 
 
 tion and earnestness, replied, " No, no, sir \ I have not sung for 
 years. Singing is out of the question at my time of Hfe." All 
 looked at each other, and then at the old man, who exhibited 
 in his face and manner such an evident unconsciousness that it 
 was felt unfit to advert any further to the subject. This was 
 an affecting evidence of partial decay. — Life of Mathews. 
 
 The immovable features of Moody, who, afraid of o'erstep- 
 ping nature, sometimes stopped short of her. — Mrs. Mathews. 
 
 Among the traits of stupidity put to the account of actors, by 
 wliich droll unrehearsed effects have been produced on the 
 stage, there is none that is supposed to convey greater proof of 
 stupidity than that which distinguished the actor who originally 
 represented Lord Bitrghley in the " Critic." The names of 
 several players are mentioned, each as being the hero of this 
 story ; but the original Lord Bwrghley, 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 effect. 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 mis- 
 take beyond possibihty. Lord Burghley has nothing to say, 
 merely to sit awhile ; 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, 
 siook his — Dangle's — head, and went solemnly off. — Cornhill 
 Magazine, 1867. 
 
 Henry Mossop. 
 
 1729-1773- 
 
 With studied impropriety of speech 
 He soars beyond the hackney'd critic's reach ; 
 To epithets allots emphatic state, 
 Whilst principals, ungrac'd, like lacqueys wait. 
 In ways first trodden by himself excels, 
 And stands alone in undeclinables. _ 
 Conjunction, preposition, adverb join,_ 
 To stamp new vigour on the nervous line, 
 L 2 
 
148 Henry Mo s sop. 
 
 In monosyllables his thunders roll, 
 
 He, she, it, and, we, ye, they, fright the soul.' 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 His port was majestic and commanding, his voice strong 
 and articulate, and audible even in a whisper, and a fine, 
 speaking, dark hazel eye. — Tate Wilkinson. 
 
 Mr. Mossop was an actor of so established a reputation, and 
 of such eminent merit, that his history and misfortunes deserve 
 
 to be recorded Notwithstanding he was utterly void of grace 
 
 in deportment and dignity in action, that he was awkward in 
 his whole behaviour, and hard sometimes in his expression, I 
 observed that he was, in degree of stage excellence, the third 
 actor — a Garrick and a Barry only were his superiors ; in parts 
 of vehemence and rage he was almost unequalled, and in senti- 
 mental gravity, from the power of his voice, and the justness 
 of his conceptions, he was a very commanding speaker. It is 
 not to be wondered that Mossop wished to act the lover and 
 the hero. To aim at general excellence is laudable ; but re- 
 peated unsuccessful trials could not convince him that he was 
 
 utterly unfit for tenderness or joy, for gaiety and vivacity He 
 
 was always best where he could conceal by the disguise of age 
 or dress his shambling walk and his ungainly action.' — T. 
 Davies. 
 
 ' There has been preserved one of Mossop's parts, interlined with his 
 ideas as to how the sentences should be deKvered. It is an odd illustration 
 of the bad mechanic acting of the school of Quin. For instance, over the 
 sentence, 
 
 " This paper has undone me — 'tis the account 1" 
 
 Mossop writes, Vast throbs of feeling. Over 
 
 " Is there no way to cure this ? 
 
 No new device to beat this from his brains ?" 
 
 Face full to audience. Side look. Cunning, fretful, and musing. Smiling 
 inward. Over 
 
 " I have toucht the highest pinnacle of my greatness," 
 
 G tone, with feeling, but low. Clearly Mossop knew nothing of spontaneity 
 of acting ; of the enthusiasm that abandons all sense of identity, and is 
 
 prompted only by the immediate impulse of the moment. Ed, 
 
 ^ One of Henderson's imitations was a conversation between a nobleman 
 and Garrick, relative to the merits of Mossop's acting. The satire is two- 
 edged, as it not only represents Mossop as a noisy declaimer, whilst it calls 
 him a Bull, a Paviour, a Teapot, but it exhibits Garrick as a sycophant, 
 labounng against his own judgment, to agree with the nobleman —Ed 
 
He7iry Moiiop, 149 
 
 While Garrick's sun was verging to its decline, Mossop came 
 before the public with extraordinary promise. He had been 
 educated at the Irish University, and intended for the Church ; 
 but Garrick was his tempter. He had seen this memorable 
 actor on the Irish stage, and thenceforth determined" to be an 
 actor, or nothing. His first appearance was in Zanga. His 
 talents in that part surprised every one, and he was eminent at 
 once ; but with striking abilities he had the great drawback 
 of an irritable temper. He quarrelled with mankind, begin- 
 ning with the manager. He soon after left Ireland, and made 
 his first step on the London boards in " Richard III." His 
 style of acting seems strongly to have resembled that of Kean 
 in the present day — singularly vivid, subtle, and forcible, but 
 with the defects of abruptness of' delivery and irregularity of 
 performance. He had another grand imperfection — that of 
 believing that his talents were as unlimited as his ambition. 
 He grasped at all the leading characters without discrimination, 
 and of course played many of them without effect. Quitting 
 Drury Lane in high displeasure, he returned to Ireland. There 
 was but another step to ruin, and he took it without delay. 
 Inflamed with the mania of management, he declared " there 
 should be but one theatre in Ireland, and that he would be at 
 the head of it." A declaration of this kind was a declaration 
 of war with the theatrical world. Mossop found himself 
 wrapped in universal hostility. He began his career with 
 flying colours, disdained to listen to an offer of ] 000/. a year 
 to remain with Barry and Woodward, and rushed headlong 
 into ruin. After seven years of hopeless toil he became bank- 
 rupt, abandoned Ireland, and returned to England. His 
 health sank rapidly ; he roved about with a drooping counte- 
 nance and a worn-out frame, answering every inquiry for his 
 health by saying " that he was better," and every inquiry into 
 the state of his finances by saying " that he wanted nothing." 
 If his life had been prolonged, he would probably have lived a 
 lunatic; but he was suddenly found dead in his bed, with only 
 fourpence in his possession. — Blackwood's Magazine, 1841. 
 
 One night in the green-room, while Mossop stood talking to 
 some of the other performers, with his back to the fire, and 
 himself dressed in full puff as Cardinal Wolsey, with rich crim- 
 son satin robe, lace apron, and cardinal's hat, the call-boy, in 
 the course of his duty, came to the door, and after first looking 
 at tlie paper he had in his hand for the names he had to call, 
 
1 50 Henry Mossop. 
 
 said aloud, as was proper, "Mr. Mossop." — "Gone up the 
 chimney !" was the thoughtless answer of the great actor and 
 manager. " Glad of it, sir !" was the pert reply of the call-boy, 
 who went his way immediately. Mossop, with whom it was 
 at that time a point of strong expediency to maintain his dig 
 nity and keep on the stilts, was suddenly struck with confusion 
 at his imprudence. He turned away from the half-averted 
 looks of the vexed performers, and inwardly censured himself 
 for thus absurdly lowering his own importance. — O'Keefe. 
 
 Mossop was so correct and particular, that in the parts he 
 studied from (one of which I saw and heard) he had marked 
 in the margin even the expression of the face, the raising and 
 lowering of an eyebrow, and the projection of an under lip. 
 In his acting he had a certain distinct spot upon the stage for 
 almost every speech. One night, " Venice Preserved " being 
 the play, Knight, who was the Reinlwld, being rather imper- 
 fect, requested the prompter to take care and watch him. " I 
 will," said the prompter, " when you are at my side ; but when 
 you are O. P., I cannot be bawling to you across tlie stage." — 
 " Never mind that," replied Knight ; " that's my business." 
 All went on well until the scene of the meeting of the conspi- 
 rators, when Mossop (the Pierre), according to settled business, 
 had to cross over to the prompter's side. Accordingly he 
 would have advanced exactly to the spot ; but there stuck 
 Reinhold I Mossop in an under tone desired. him to get out of 
 his way. " I cannot, sir," he replied, still keeping his ear as 
 close as possible to the prompter and his book. This rather 
 heightened the fury of the embarrassed Pierre. After a few 
 ineffectual attempts to drive Knight from his post, Mossop 
 went on ; and never was the reproof against the conspirators, 
 particularly Reinhold, spoken by Mossop with more spirit and 
 bitterness than upon that night. — Ihid. 
 
 Mossop, from all I can collect, was a commanding but never 
 an agreeable actor. There are various wajs of convincing the 
 mind. We are convinced by subtlety, by plausibility, bv blan- 
 dishment, and by eloquence ; but we can also be convinced 
 by perseverance, by confidence, by earnestness, and even by 
 vehemence. These latter qualities seem to ha^-e been Mossop's 
 mode of convincing an audience with an admiration of him, 
 which, with all his pomp, his stiffness, his peculiarity, and his 
 affectation, he contrived to bring about. I have heard Mossop 
 praised for great and commanding powers in tragedy', such as 
 
Mrs. Hainilion. 151 
 
 no other actor ever possessed ; and it has been insisted that if 
 he was quaint and starched at times, he was at other times 
 grand and energetic, and indeed that his influence over the 
 feeUngs of his auditors was irresistible. The mind, however, 
 is not very fond of being threatened into pleasure ; nor are 
 those confessions very sincere that are effected by compulsion. 
 We cannot, therefore, reasonably acquiesce in the opinions of 
 either the admirers or disciples of Mossop. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 An iron-throated tragedian. He was a man of education^ 
 reared in Trinity College, Dublin, which had thus turned out 
 no less than four first-class tragedians ; gifted with a strong and 
 unmelodious declamation, and a physical strength that would 
 have carried him through such tremendous parts as Sir Giles or 
 Richard. But his action was singularly ungraceful, and in the 
 more level passages fell into the wearying monotony which was 
 the curse of old stage-declamation. — P. Fitzgerald. 
 
 The late Mr. Mossop always spoke in heroics. A cobbler 
 in Dublin who once brought him home his boots, refused to 
 leave them without the money. Mossop returned during the 
 time he was disputing, and looking sternly, exclaimed, " Tell 
 me, are you the noted cobbler I oft have heard of?" — " Yes," 
 says the fellow ; " and I think you are the diverting vagabond 
 I have often seen." — Wewiizer's " Dramatic Reminiscences." 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton. 
 
 1730-1788. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton belonged to Covent Garden Theatre in 3758. 
 This lady and Mrs. Bellamy had a violent altercation. The 
 latter's benefit being fixed on a night that happened to be Mrs. 
 Gibber's at the other house, she requested Mrs. Hamilton to let 
 her have her Monday, and take in exchange her Saturday ; 
 who, as her interest did not lie among the box people, and for 
 the credit sake of having the first benefit in the season, com- 
 plied. She accordingly fixed on " The Rival Queens /' and 
 notwithstanding it happened to be a wet afternoon, a great 
 concourse of people for the second gallery attended. As soon 
 as that part of the house was full, she disposed of the overflow 
 in the boxes and on the stage, wisely preferring their two 
 shillings apiece to empty benches. In the words of Mrs. Bel- 
 lamy, " The heat of the house occasioned the wet clothes of the 
 dripping audience to send forth odours not quite so sweet as 
 
152 Mrs. Hamilton. 
 
 those of Arabia." This lady having cast some reflections on 
 the vulgarity of Mrs. Hamilton's audience, the latter took the 
 following mode of revenge on the night of Mrs. Bellamy's 
 benefit: — The play which she had fixed on was the "Careless 
 Husband," thus cast : Sh- C. Easy, Mr. Ross ;' Lord Foppington, 
 Mr. Smith ; Lord Mordove, Mr. Ridout f Lady Easy, Mrs. 
 Elmy f Edgingj'MK. Nossister ; Lady Graveairs, Mrs. Hamilton. 
 With the entertainment of " Florizel and Perdita ;" Florizd, 
 Mr. Smith; Autolyms, Mr. Shuter; King, Mr. Ridout; 
 Shepherd, Mr. Sparks ;* Clown, Mr. Costello ; and Perdita, Mrs. 
 Bellamy. At half an hour after six, just before the play should 
 have begun, she sent Mrs. Bellamy word that she would not 
 perform the character of Lady Graveairs. It became necessary, 
 from so late a disappointment, to make an apology to the 
 audience for the delay that must ensue. Ross, who loved 
 mischief as well as he had done while at Westminster School, 
 and in which he had generally a share, as he had this evening, 
 by having stimulated Mrs. Hamilton to the refusal of her 
 services, enjoyed the storm, and consequently would not make 
 an apology. Smith was so agitated, it being the first time of 
 his attempting Lord Foppington, that he could not do it Poor 
 Lady Jktty Modish was therefore obliged to show her flounces 
 and furbelows before their time, in order to request the patience 
 of the audience until Mrs. Vincent could dress for the part 
 which Mrs. Hamilton was to have performed. Mrs. Bellamy's 
 petition was granted, as she herself relates, " widi repeated 
 plaudits, and with an assurance from Mr. Town and his associates 
 that they would revenge her cause." This they did tlie very 
 next night, when Mrs. Hamilton played Qiuen, in the " Spanish 
 
 David Ross, bora 1728, is described by Dibdin as a voluptuous man, 
 and particulai-ly a great eater ; therefore he had not the perseverance to 
 give the necessaiy attention to his profession, and thus he happened to be 
 admirable or insufferable in proportion as he was more or less plethoric. — 
 Ed. 
 
 ^ Ridout died in 1760. — Ed. 
 
 ' Her maiden name was Mors. Her qualifications for the stage, which 
 were considerable, were marred by a weak voice. She does not seem to 
 have been happy as a wife, to judge from a little note of Chetwood : 
 " Mr. Elmy, her husband, I know, was born at Norwich ; but where he is 
 now, I believe neither she nor I can tell." — Ed. 
 
 ■* There were two Mr. Sparks's — Luke and Isaac. Luke was dis- 
 Unguished by his amiability and his general usefulness ; Isaac lor his com- 
 inanding form and flow of humour. — Ed. 
 
A rthur M2irphy. 153 
 
 Fryar," and Mrs. Bellamy Elvira, for the benefit of Mr. Sparks. 
 The majesty of Spain then appeared in all the pomp of false 
 jewels. She was so remarkably fond of these gems, that Colley 
 Gibber compared her head to a furze-bush stuck round with 
 glow-worms, as her hair was extremely dark, and she had an 
 objection to wearing powder. Upon her entrance she was 
 saluted in a warmer manner than she wished, and was pre- 
 vented for some time from speaking by hisses. At length, on 
 the tumult ceasing, she advanced and addressed the audience 
 thus :— " Gemmen and ladies : I suppose as how you hiss me 
 because I did not play at Mrs. Bellamy's benefit. I would have 
 performed, but she said as how my audience stunk, and were 
 all tripe people." When the fair speechifier got thus far the pit 
 roared out, " Well said, Tripe !" a title which she retained unti; 
 she quitted the theatre. — Memoir of Mrs. Hamilton, 1803. 
 
 Arthur Murphy. 
 
 1730-1805. 
 
 As one with various disappointments sad, 
 Whom dulness only kept from being mad, 
 Apart from all the rest great Murphy came — 
 Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame. 
 What tho' the sons of nonsense hail him sire, 
 Auditor,, author, manager, and squire. 
 His restless soul's ambition stops not there — 
 To make his triumphs perfect, dub him player. 
 In person tall, a figure form'd to please. 
 If symmetry could charm, deprived of ease ; 
 When motionless he stands we all approve ; 
 What pity 'tis the thing was made to move ! . . . . 
 Still in extremes he knows no happy mean, 
 Or raving mad, or stupidly serene. 
 In cold-wrought scenes the lifeless actor flags ; 
 In passion, tears the passion into rags. 
 Can none remember ? Yes — I know all must — 
 When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust. 
 When o'er the stage he lolly's standard bore. 
 Whilst common-sense stood trembling at the door. 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 Murphy, in his early life, acted Othello, Archer, yafficr, and 
 
154 Arthiir Mtcrphy. 
 
 other parts at Covent Garden, where he was engaged for a 
 season or two ; but as his success was not great, he left the 
 stage for the bar, and in after hfe became a Commissioner of 
 Bankrupts. He made some remark on Lewis's acting that dis- 
 pleased the latter, who said, " Tell Mr. Murphy, if justice 
 instead of law had been consulted, he would not have gone 
 to the bar, but have been sent to it." " Murdering a Moor" 
 {i.e., Othello) was the crime imputed to him by I^ewis. — 
 Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 He lived upon potted stories, and made his way as Hannibal 
 did, by vinegar ; having begun by attacking people, especially 
 the players. — T. Davies. 
 
 Mr. Murphy was intended for business, has been a party 
 man, was an actor, a dramatic writer, and at length a barrister, 
 about which a great deal has been said ; but how any part of 
 it can, as fact, tell to his disadvantage is beyond the admission 
 of my capacity. All professions are honourable, if they are 
 honourably borne ; but the ipse dixits of Churchill have found 
 their low and dirty level ; and it would be well for the societies 
 of the Inns of Court if they never had admitted among them 
 men whose pursuits had been more dishonourable than those 
 who have followed the professiori of an actor. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 On the first night of any of his plays, if the slightest symptoms 
 of disapprobation were shown by the audience. Murphy always 
 left the house, and took a walk in Covent Garden Market ; 
 then, having composed himself, he would return to the theatre. 
 One thing ought to be rememlsered to Murphy's honour : an 
 actress with whom he had lived, bequeathed to him all her 
 property; but he gave up every farthing of it to her relations. — 
 Rogers. 
 
 A kind of " Bohemian,'' he was to be a player, a barrister, 
 and a hack writer for the booksellers ; to live freely, and 
 not very decorously, to jumble together circuit and the green- 
 room, the bar and the stage ; to write " opinions " and 
 successful plays. Almost within a few M-eeks he had appeared 
 on the stage at Drury Lane, and on the no less dramatic 
 boards of ^Vestminster Hall. Yet, with this curious unsteadi- 
 ness, he ended with respectability, and was offered high legal 
 office three times. — P. Ritzs^erald. 
 
155 
 
 William Smith. 
 
 1730. 
 
 Smith the genteel, the airy, and the smart. — Churchill. 
 
 All agree that he was one of the most elegant men of the 
 day. His acquirements were of no ordinary kind. He had 
 received a first-rate education, and had completed his studies 
 with rnuch credit to himself at Cambridge. He was admitted 
 into the highest circles of society, and was particularly re- 
 markable for the elegance of his manners. He had many of 
 those qualifications which enabled him to perform respectably 
 in tragedy ; but he never obtained anything like excellence in 
 that walk. In comedy, however, as the fine gentleman, his 
 powers were universally acknowledged. The graces of his 
 person, the elegance of his manners, and the dignity of his de- 
 portment, admirably qualified him for that character. The 
 style of the man moving in good society was essentially 
 different, it must be remembered, from what it is now. The 
 dress, the distinctions, the acquirements necessary, were so 
 unlike anytliing which we now see, that we can form but an 
 indifferent idea of the qualifications demanded for the accom- 
 plished actor in this walk. There was more stage effect then 
 even in private life ; the powdered hair, the folding hat, the 
 sword, the short breeches with buckles, the embroidered coat, 
 the ruffles, and all the accessories of dress, served to distinguish 
 the class ; dancing a minuet, fencing, and fashionable raillery 
 were among the indispensable accomplishments. To portray 
 upon the stage a man of the true school of gentility required 
 pretensions of no ordinary kind, and Smith possessed these in 
 ft singular degree, giving to Charles Surface all that finish for 
 which he was remarkable. He had acquired the distinction of 
 " Gentleman Smith " from his unvarying exhibition of an air of 
 distinction without any false assumption. He had made it an 
 indispensable article of agreement with managers that his face 
 was never to be blackened, and that he was never to be lowered 
 through a stage-door. He retired from the stage in 1787. — 
 " Life of Sheridan" Bokn's Edition. 
 
 Smith has been immortalized by Churchill as a gentlemanly 
 actor ; but his forte was comedy. His person was agreeable, 
 his countenance engaging, and his voice smooth and powerful 
 though monotonous. A potent physical personage he must 
 
156 William Smith. 
 
 have been, who could swim a league at sea, drink his bottle of 
 port, and after fatigue and conviviality, commit his part dis- 
 tinctly to memory. He was respectable in Richard III., and a 
 tolerable Hotspur. — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 Smith had been educated at college and lived in the best 
 society ; his correspondence with his great master (Garrick) is fre- 
 quently graced by quotations from Ovid and Virgil ; and Catullus 
 and Mrs. Hartley concur in reminding the manager of his own 
 attachment to Mrs. Woffington. He would often beg from Mr. 
 Garrick an hour's attention to his rehearsals; but I never 
 could see that he had profited from his teacher, for his tragedy 
 was uniformly hard and unvaried, whereas the very vital prin- 
 ciple of Roscius was point, and he could no more endure a 
 character set to one tune, than he could bear the slightest inat- 
 tention to the stage-business. Smith's heroes in tragedy all more 
 or less reminded you of Bajazet — it was the tyrant's vein that 
 he breathed. He looked upon tragedy as something abstract, 
 to which all character was to bend ; so that he had but one 
 manner for Richard and Hamlet. But his nerve and gentle- 
 manly bearing carried him through a world of emotion i^dthout 
 exciting a tear, and you were some way satisfied, though not 
 much " moved." In comedy, his manliness was the chief 
 feature, yet it was combined with pleasantry so perfectly well- 
 bred, that I am unable to name any other actors who have 
 approached him. — Boaden. 
 
 Smith, better known as " Gentleman Smith,'' married the 
 sister of Lord Sandwich ; for some time the union was con- 
 cealed, but an apt quotation of Charles Bannister elicited 
 the truth. Smith, who was very reserved, evaded the banter of 
 Foote upon tlie subject, when Charles exclaimed : 
 
 " Art thou not Romeo, and a Itlontague?' 
 
 Smith was proof against curiosity, but not against wit, and 
 acknowledged his marriage. " ^\'ell," said Bannister, " I am 
 rejoiced that you've got a Sandwich from the family, but if ever 
 you get a dinner from them, d — me ! " Charles proved himself 
 a prophet as well as a punster. — Records of a Sta^e Veteran. 
 
 He took the eye with a certain gaiety of person. He brouo'ht 
 with him no sombre recollections of tragedy. He had to ex- 
 piate the fault of having pleased beforehand in iofty declama- 
 tion. He had no sins of Ricliard or of Hamlet to atone for.— ^ 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
Thomas King. 1 5 7 
 
 Smith's industry being alive to his duty, he sought eveiy pos- 
 sible opportunity of improving by a correct study of the method 
 
 and manner of Garrick The public in consequence, 
 
 in their commendation of perfectness, industry, attention, and 
 gentlemanly demeanour, strongly applauded those particular 
 merits in this actor which he possessed, and passed by trifling 
 impediments, which could not be called faults, with the 
 candour due to warm devotion and active exertion. — C. 
 Dibdin. 
 
 Mr. Smith, from his first attempt in Theodosius in 1753 to 
 the present time, has by uniform good conduct supported him- 
 self in the general esteem of the people, whose favourite he 
 certainly is, and deserves to be ; for no man is more indefatigable 
 in the exertion of his talents in a great variety of characters 
 in tragedy and comedy. To examine his merit minutely would 
 be uncandid ; especially when in the aggregate it is very con- 
 siderable. I believe the best judges prefer his action in the sock 
 to that of the buskin. His Jackimo, in " Cymbeline," is easy, 
 spirited, and artful ; and he almost in Kitely makes us forget the 
 loss of Garrick. He is distinguished among the players by the 
 name of " Gentleman Smith." — T. Davies. 
 
 Thomas King. 
 
 1730-1805. 
 
 No one could deliver such dialogue as is found in Lord 
 Ogleby and in Sir Peter Teazle with greater point than Mr. 
 King. He excelled in a quiet sententious mode of expressing 
 feeling and sentiment. There was an epigrammatic style in 
 everything he uttered ; for although he could, when occasion 
 required, give rapid utterance to his thoughts, he seemed gene- 
 rally to dwell upon his words, and then make all the happy 
 points tersely and cleverly. His voice was musical, his action 
 slow, his countenance expressive of benignity, and yet of firm- 
 ness. He had the reputation of speaking prologues and ' 
 epilogues better than any actor of the day, rendering them, 
 when written with spirit, little dramas perfect in themselves. 
 His delivery in the couplet was in the true spirit of poetry ; 
 and, without any mixture of buffoonery or mimicry, he painted 
 the ludicrous and the gay with great feUcity and tact. — Life 
 rf Sheridan 
 
J 58 Thomas King. 
 
 Behind came King. Bred up in modest lore, 
 
 Bashful and young he sought Hibernia's shore ; 
 
 Hibernia famed, 'bove every other grace, 
 
 For matchless intrepidity of face. 
 
 From her his features caught the gen'rous flame, 
 
 And bid defiance to all sense of shame. 
 
 Tutor'd by her all rivals to surpass, 
 
 'Mongst Drury's sons he comes, and shines in brass. 
 
 Churchill. 
 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. — Lamb. 
 
 King had been a town actor for the amazing period of fifty- 
 four years. His first appearance was in Alworth, in the " New 
 Way to Pay Old Debts," on the 19th October, 1748. King 
 had more of Garrick's friendship than any other actor ever 
 enjoyed ; he was respectful, but never servile, before his great 
 master, who sent him his dress foil when he quitted the stage, as 
 the legacy of professional death. I saw him from the pit, and he 
 played the character (of Sir Peter Teazle) extremely well, and in 
 the language was quite perfect. King had a habit of repeating 
 without voice everything addressed to him by another actor, so 
 that he never remitted his attention to the business for a 
 moment. His lips were always employed, and he was pro- 
 bably master of the language of every scene he was engaged in. 
 His old men have been supplied with kindred and sometimes 
 equal power ; but his saucy valets have never been approached. 
 — Boaden. 
 
 It is difficult to liken King to any English actor. Those 
 who performed characters in his style at the time of Gibber 
 seem to have been followed by Yates, who, though he was, as 
 I have with pleasure observed, an admirable actor, had a 
 manner perfectly distinct. King is a performer who has thrown 
 novelty into old characters, consequence into new, and nature 
 into all. Indeed, his leading feature is integrity ; which quahty 
 having been invariably his guide during his whole public and 
 private conduct, he has most respectably endeared himself 
 to the world in general by a display of truth and nature from 
 the stage, and to a large circle of admiring friends, by an 
 exercise of benevolence, good humour, and every other social 
 virtue. — C. Dibdin. 
 
159 
 
 Mrs. Abington. 
 1731-1815. 
 
 She is below the thought of any honest man or woman ; she 
 is as silly as she is false and treacherous.' — Garrick. 
 
 No one could deliver a smart speech with such severity; 
 yet she could not touch the highest point of airy comedy. She 
 had been pitched out of the dregs of the town, and hved for 
 years as a tavern girl. It was infinitely to the credit of her 
 tact and esprit that she should have raised herself, and, like 
 Woffington, have learned refinement and accomplishments. 
 She could tell of the strange society in Dublin, where ladies of 
 first fashion were at her feet, imploring hints about their dress. 
 The " Abington cap " was in all the milhners' shops. Her 
 manner was bewitching. No one could play a fan so delight- 
 fully ; and it was noticed that she had some odd little tricks in 
 her acting, such as turning her wrist, and " seeming to stick a 
 pin at the side of her waist."" — P. Fitzgerald. 
 
 Mrs. Abington (the Original performer of Lady Teazle), in the 
 latter portion of her dramatic life, was tempted to throw aside 
 feminine grace and delicacy so far as to exhibit herself as 
 Scrub, in the " Beaux' Stratagem," for her (pecuniary) benefit — 
 a character which, it may be said, she acted but too well. Gro- 
 tesque portraits of her as this man-of-all-work are extant, and 
 which might pass for tolerable likenesses of our inimitable 
 Liston in the same character."" — Mrs. Charles Mathews. 
 
 '■ Garrick hated her. He never speaks of her without calhng her that 
 most worthless creature, or that worst of bad women. — Ed. 
 
 ^ Dr. Johnson was solicited by Mrs. Abington to attend her benefit. 
 He went. Boswell's inquisitiveness broke out — the word " good nature" 
 might have kept him quiet. "Why, sir, did you go to Mrs. Abington's 
 benefit? Did you see?" "No, sir." "Did you hear?" "No, sir." 
 "Why then, sir, did you go?" "Because, sir, she is a favourite with the 
 public ; and when the public cares a thousandth part for you that it does 
 for her, I will go to your benefit, too. " 
 
 ^ Peter Pindar thus alludes to this performance : — 
 
 " The courtly Abington's untoward star 
 Wanted her reputation much to mar, 
 And sink the lady to the washing-tub — ■ 
 So whisper'd, ' Mistress Abington, play SCRUB.' 
 To folly full as great some imp may lug her, 
 And bid her slink in Fitch and Abel Drugger." 
 
i6o Mrs. Abingion. 
 
 Her person is formed with great elegance, her address is 
 graceful, her looks animated and expressive. To the goodness 
 of her understanding, and the superiority of her taste, she is 
 indebted principally for her power of pleasing ; the tones of 
 her voice are not naturally charming to the ear, but her incom- 
 parable skill in modulation renders them perfectly agreeable. 
 Her articulation is so exact that every syllable she utters is 
 conveyed distinctly and even harmoniously. — T. Davies. 
 
 She, I think, took more entire possession of the stage than 
 any actress I have seen. There was, however, no assumption 
 in her dignity. She was a lawful and grateful sovereign, who 
 exerted her full power, and enjoyed her established preroga- 
 tives. The ladies of her day wore the hoop and its concomitant 
 train. The Spectator's exercise of the fan was really no play of 
 fancy. Shall I say that I have never seen it in a hand so dex- 
 terous as that of Mrs. Abington ? She was a woman of great 
 application : to speak as she did required more thought than 
 usually attends female study. Far the greater part of her sex 
 rely upon an intuition which seldom misleads them : such dis- 
 cernment as it gives becomes habitual, and is commonly 
 sufficient, or sufficient for common purposes. But common- 
 place was not the station of Abington. She was always beyond 
 the surface : untwisted all the chains which bind ideas to- 
 gether, and seized upon the exact cadence and emphasis by 
 which the point of the dialogue is enforced. Her voice was 
 of a high pitch, and not very powerful. Her management of 
 it alone made it an organ. Yet this was so perfect that we 
 sometimes converted the mere effect into a cause, and sup- 
 posed it was the sharpness of the tone that gave the sting 
 
 Pier deportment is not so easily described : more womanly 
 than Farren ; fuller, yet not heavy, like Younge,^ and far be- 
 yond even the conception of modern_ fine ladies, Mrs. Abington 
 remains in memory as a thing for chance to restore to us rather 
 than design, and revive our polite comedy at die same time. — 
 Boaden. 
 
 Mrs. Abington can never go beyond Lady Teazle, which is a 
 second-rate character. — Walpole. 
 
 With Mrs. Abington came a species of excellence which the 
 stage seems never before to have boasted in the same perfec- 
 tion. The higher parts in comedy had been performed chastely 
 
 ^ Afterwards Mrs. Pope. — En. 
 
Robert Baddeley. 1 6 1 
 
 and truly ; perhaps in these particulars more so than by this 
 actress. 'There was a peculiar goodness gleamed across the 
 levity of Mrs. Pritchard, and by what we can learn of Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle, who seems to have possessed the same captivating 
 sort of manner which distinguished Mrs. Abington, she was 
 in these characters natural and winning. But it remained for 
 her successor to add a degree of grace, fashion, and accom- 
 plishment to sprightliness, which was no sooner seen than it 
 
 was imitated in the politest circles In addition to the grace, 
 
 the ease, and the elegance with which Mrs. Abington personated 
 characters in high life, and aped politeness in chambermaids, 
 her taste for dress was novel and interesting. She was con- 
 sulted by ladies of the first distinction, not from caprice, as we 
 have frequently seen in other instances, but from a decided 
 conviction of her judgment in blending what was beautiful 
 with what was becoming. Indeed, dress took a sort of ton 
 from her fancy, and ladies both on the stage and off piqued 
 themselves with . decorating their persons with decency and 
 decorum. — Charles Dibdin. 
 
 Robert Baddeley. 
 
 1732-1794. 
 
 Mr. Baddeley, who died in 1794, is not less known for his 
 benevolence than for his comic talents. By his v/ill he left his 
 cottage at Hampton to the Theatrical Fund in trust that they 
 should elect four fund pensioners who might not object to live 
 sociably under the same roof ; and in order that the decayed 
 actors who should be chosen by the committee as tenants of 
 the house might not appear in the eyes of the neighbourhood 
 like dependents on charity, he left a sum to be distributed by 
 those tenants to the needy around them. He also left money 
 for erecting a small summer-house for them, which was to be 
 situated so as to command a view of the Temple of Shak- 
 speare erected by Mr. Garrick. The summer-house was to be 
 formed of part of the wood that belonged to Old Drury Lane 
 Theatre, the scene of Garrick's fame and excellence ; and the 
 tvood was bought on purpose for this object. He also be- 
 queathed the interest of 100/. Three per Cents, to be annually 
 expended in a Twelfth-cake, with wine and punch, to be distri- 
 buted in the green-room on Twelfth-night, to mal:e the future 
 
 M 
 
I (,2 Charles Holland. 
 
 sons and daughters of Thespis remember an old friend and 
 member of the profession. — The Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 The accommodating civility of Baddeley, than whom nobody 
 ever performed that particular foreigner, a Swiss, so well, as 
 Garrick perfectly well knew. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Baddeley, previous to his becoming a player, was a cook. 
 The first character he happened to appear in, it was necessary, 
 he should wear a sword. Foote, seeing him thus equipped, ' 
 immediately exclaimed, " Ha, Baddeley, I am heartily glad to 
 see you in the way of complete transmigration — you have turned 
 your spit into a sword already !" — R. Waviizer. 
 
 Charles Holland. 
 
 1733-1769- 
 
 Holland, to speak in familiar phrase, was what we call a 
 good-looking man ; he had an affectation of carrying his head 
 either stiffly erect, or leaning towards one shoulder, which gave 
 an awkwardness to his person, which was not otherwise ungen- 
 
 teel His ear was perfectly good, and he had a moderate 
 
 share of sensibility. By a constant attention to the voice, man- 
 ner, and action of Mr. Garrick, he did not displease when he re- 
 presented some of his most favourite characters : particularly 
 Hamlet, Chamoni, Hastings, and Tancred. In the last he mani- 
 fested an uncommon degree of spirit. — T. Davies. 
 
 Next Holland came. With truly tragic stalk 
 He creeps — he flies. A hero should not walk. 
 As if with Heaven he warred, his eager eyes 
 Planted their batteries against the skies ; 
 Attitude, action, air, pause, start, sigh, groan, 
 He borrow'd, and made use of as his own. 
 By fortune thrown on any other stage. 
 He might, perhaps, have pleas'd an easy age. 
 But now appears a copy, and no more. 
 Of something better we have seen before. 
 The actor who would build a solid fame 
 Must imitation's servile arts disclaim ; 
 
 Act frqm himself, on his own bottom stand ; 
 I hate e'en Garrick thus at second hand. 
 
 Churchill, 
 
Charles Holland. 163 
 
 So just thy action with thy part agrees, 
 
 Each feature does the office of a tongue ; 
 Such is thy native elegance and ease, 
 
 By thee the harsh Kne smoothly glides along. 
 At thy feign'd woe we're really distress'd, 
 
 At thy feign'd tears we let the real fall ; 
 By every judge of nature 'tis confess'd. 
 
 No single part is thine — thou'rt all in all. 
 
 Chatterton. ' 
 
 Holland was extremely different from Powell, both as an 
 actor and a man. Though his natural talents were not so 
 strong, yet he kept as respectable a situation, and through the 
 propriety of his conduct, his company was coveted by the wise 
 and the celebrated, while Powell's weakness led him into the 
 society of the vain and the frivolous. Holland had not, nor 
 had Powell received a very liberal education ; but his intellects 
 were of that strong, clear, and decided kind, they performed 
 for him the task of a tutor so well, that his decisions upon all 
 occasions were founded in sound judgment and critical expe- 
 rience. He was free, good-natured, cheerful, and generous; 
 
 ' Chatterton was bom at Bristol in 1752. At the first school he was 
 sent to he was listless and morose. His master thought him so unpromis- 
 ing a boy that he sent him back to his mother before his ignorance, which 
 even the cane failed to enlighten, should injure the pedagogue's reputation 
 as a teacher. At fifteen he was apprenticed to one Lambert, an attorney, 
 where he worked for twelve hours a day, dined with the servants, and 
 slept with the foot-boy. In 1769 he wrote Horace Walpole a letter, in 
 which he offered to fiirnish him with an account of some great painters and 
 engravers who had flourished in Bristol. In this letter were enclosed 
 some stanzas on the death of Richard I., as a specimen of some poems 
 which he had found in that city. Walpole submitted the verses to Gray, 
 who pronounced them forgeries, and they were returned. Chatterton was 
 not disheartened. The spacious arena of London was before him, and into 
 that amphitheatre he resolved to descend, and to contest for fame. In 
 April, 1770, he bade farewell to his mother, and started for the capital. 
 Before long he writes that his prospects are glorious. He composes songs, 
 essays, poetry, political pamphlets, rather scandalous addresses and squibs. 
 He had made up his mind to become as a writer more formidable than 
 Junius, and an instrument more obnoxious to power than Wilkes. Beck- 
 ford, Lord Mayor, patronized him, and his death seems to have dealt 
 Chatterton his first formidable blow. Disappointments thronged ; he 
 retired to meaner apartments, and fell into great want. He could not 
 return home ; his pride would not suffer him to face his sister and mother. 
 Broken-hearted, famished, mad, this great genius committed suicide, 1770, 
 aged eighteen. — Ed. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 -^i^-5'- Jefferson. 
 
 nor had lie an unkind wish to any human creature. He in- 
 dulged himself as much as any young man reasonably ought to 
 do ; yet with his purse and his heart ever open, though not 
 sprung from an opulent origin, which circumstance he had too 
 much sense to conceal, at the age, I believe, of thirty-three, he 
 left his family 6000/.' — C. Dibdin. _ 
 
 " Holland," said old Charles Mackhn, " I shall live longer 
 than Garrick, and if he will deposit 500/. in the hands of a 
 banker, I will deposit the same sum, and the longest liver shall 
 be entitled to the 1000/. You may tell him so from me." " No," 
 replied Holland, " I will not tell him so ; but I will take the 
 wager myself." " Not so," rejoined Shylock, " not %o—Sir, I 
 -will have the bmefit of his fears." — R. IVcwitzer. 
 
 Mrs. Jefferson. 
 
 1733-1776. 
 
 Britannic^ was represented by Mrs. Jefferson, the most 
 complete figure in beauty of countenance and symmetry of 
 form I ever beheld. This good woman (for she was as vir- 
 tuous as fair) was so unaffected and simple in her behaviour, that 
 she knew not her power of charming. Her beautiful figure and 
 majestic step in the character of Anna Btillai, drew the 
 admiration of all who saw her. She was very tall ; and, had 
 she been happy in abilities to act characters of consequence, 
 she would have been an excellent partner in tragedy for Mr. 
 Barry. In the vicissitudes of itinerant acting, she had often 
 been reduced, from the small number of players in the 
 company she belonged to, to disguise her lovely form, and 
 to assume parts very unsuitable to so delicate a creature. 
 When she was asked what characters she excelled in most, she 
 
 1 Holland and Powell were bosom friends. When Powell died, Holland 
 had a presentiment he should soon follow him. Dibdin says that the last 
 time he ever performed he was in high spirits, full of anecdote, all of which 
 contained some reference to Powell. He said that the first time he ever 
 saw Powell was at a spouting club, where they perfomied Poslhuvius and 
 lachimo together. These characters were also the first and the last they 
 personated together on the stage. " Wliat makes this matter singidar 
 ahnost beyond belief," says Dibdin, "was that he was then dressed fo« 
 lachimo, and he died a few days after. " 
 
 " In Mallet's masque of that name, produced in 1755. Ed. 
 
George Ann Bellamy. 165 
 
 innocently replied, " Old mm, in comedy :" meaning sucii parts 
 as Fondkwife in the " Old Bachelor," and Sir Jealous Traffic in 
 "The Busybody." She died suddenly at Plymouth as she 
 was looking at a game that was practising for the night's 
 representation. In the midst of a hearty laugh, she was seized 
 with a sudden pain, and expired in the arms of Mr. Moody, 
 who happened to stand by, and saved her from falling to the 
 ground. — T. Davies. 
 
 George Ann Bellamy. 
 
 i733'-i788. 
 
 Bellamy leaves nothing to be desired.— Z*/-. Johnson. 
 
 The charming George Ann Bellamy had procured from Paris 
 two gorgeous dresses wherein to enact Siatira in the " Rival 
 Queens." Roxana was played by Peg Woffington ; 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 well nigh stabbed 
 her at the side-scenes. Alexander and a posse of chiefs with 
 hard names were at hand, but the less brilliantly clad Roxana 
 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. "^ 
 
 Dr. Doran. 
 Mr. Quin, the comedian, in whose dramatic corps the 
 
 ' Chetwood dates her birth 1727 ; but as the biographical dictionaries 
 I have consulted agree in fixing it at 1733, I have adopted that year. — Ed. 
 
 ^ This story is told by Campbell, in his " Life of Mrs. Siddons," of Mis. 
 Boutwell. " She was," he says, " the original Statira of Lee's 'Alexander,' 
 imd acted the ' Rival Queens' successively with Mrs. Marshall and Mrs. 
 Barry. Once when playing with the latter of the ladies, she was in 
 danger of dying on the stage in earnest. Before the curtain drew up tlie 
 two Queens, Statira (Boutwell) and Roxana (Barry) had a real rivalship 
 about a lace veil, which was at last awarded to the former by the property- 
 man. This decision so enraged Roxana that she acted her part rather too 
 naturally, and in stabbing Statira sent her dagger, though it was a blunted 
 one, through Mrs. Boutwell's stays, about a quarter of an inch into the 
 flesh. " It is in this fashion that history is written. — Ed. 
 
1 66 George Ann Bellamy. 
 
 celebrated Mrs. Bellamy was then performing, once after the 
 rehearsal desired to speak with her in his dressing-room. As 
 he had always carefully avoided seeing her alone, she was not 
 a little surprised at so unexpected an invitation. Her appre- 
 hensions made her fear that she, by some means or other, had 
 offended the worthy man ; but her fears were not of long 
 duration, for as soon as she entered his room, he took her by 
 the hand, and with a smile of great benignity, thus addressed 
 her : — " My dear girl, you are vastly followed, I hear. Do not 
 let the love of finery, or any other inducement, prevail on you 
 to commit an indiscretion. Men, in general, are rascals. You 
 are young and engaging, and therefore ought to be doubly 
 cautious. If you want anything in my power, which money can 
 purchase, come to me and say, ' James Quin, give me such a 
 thing,' and my purse shall always beat your service." "The 
 tear of gratitude," says Mrs. B., in her " Memoirs," " stood 
 in my eye at this noble instance of generosity ; and his own 
 glistened with that of humanity and self-approbation." — Paxy 
 Anecdotes. 
 
 Then comes Bellamy, so " very beautiful," as she seemed to 
 young O'Keefe, " with her blue eyes, and very fair." " I often 
 saw her splendid state sedan-chair, with superb silver-lace 
 liveries, waiting for her at the door of Liffey Street Catholic 
 Chapel." — Life of Garrick. 
 
 I dwell for a moment on a last appearance which I witnessed — 
 namely, that of Mrs. Bellamy, who took her leave of the stage 
 May 24th, 1785. On this occasion Mrs. Yates, who had 
 retired from the profession, performed the part of the Duchess 
 of Braganza, and Miss Farren, the present Countess of Derby, 
 spoke an address, which concluded with the following couplet : 
 
 " But see, oppress'd with gratitude and tears, 
 To pay her duteous tribute she appears." 
 
 The curtain then ascended, and Mrs. Bellamy being discovered, 
 the whole house immediately arose to mark their favourable 
 inclinations towards her, and from anxiety to obtain a view of 
 this once celebrated actress, and, in consequence of the publi- 
 cation of her life, then celebrated authoress. She was seated 
 in an armchair, from which she in vain attempted to. rise, 
 so completely was she subdued by her feelings. She, however^ 
 succeeded in muttering a few words, expressive of her gratitude^ 
 and then sinking into her seat, the curtain dropped before her. 
 
3Irs. Crawford. 167 
 
 .... Mrs. Bellamy was not only a beautiful woman, but a most 
 accomplished actress. She was the successful rival of Mrs. 
 Nossiter, during the tedious "Romeo and Juliet" contest be- 
 tween Garrick and Barry. She also established Dodsley's play 
 of '_' Cleone," refused by Garrick ; . . . . and in the opinion of 
 Quin, Garrick, and other critical contemporaries, she surpassed 
 even Mrs. Woffington in conversational powers. — Frederick 
 Reynolds. 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy played Alicia in "Jane Shore," in presence 
 of the King of Denmark (who was then on a visit to George 
 III.), who, wearied with very fast living, was in a sound sleep 
 during one of her finest scenes. The angry lady had to 
 exclaim, " Oh, thou false lord !" and she drew near to the 
 slumbering monarch, and shouted it close to his ears with such 
 astounding effect that he started up, rubbed his eyes, became 
 conscious of what was going on, and how it had come about, 
 and remarked that he would not have such a woman for his 
 wife though she had no end of kingdoms for a dowry. — 
 Cornhill Magazine, 1863. 
 
 We can say of Mrs. Bellamy that she was natural, easy, 
 chaste, and impressive ; that as far as person, features, voice, 
 and conception went, none of which were by any means 
 of an inferior description, she highly pleased and never offended ; 
 but these commendations, respectable as they rank her, would 
 be cold and negative applied to Mrs. Gibber or Mrs. Pritchard, 
 who commanded attention, who seized the passions, and 
 modelled them at their will. But with all this deduction, the 
 public would be a good deal astonished to see such an actress 
 as Mrs. Bellamy at this moment, were Mrs. Siddons out of the 
 question. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 She has a most admirable improving genius : therefore it will 
 be no wonder if she soon reaches the top of perfection. She 
 has a liberal, open heart, to feel and ease the distresses of the 
 wretched. — Chetwood's " History of the Stage," 1749. 
 
 Mrs. Crawford.^ 
 
 1734-1801. 
 
 Though once most elegant in her deportment, she be- 
 came at last rough and coarse ; and her person had the ap- 
 
 ^ This actress was three times married. Her first husband was a Mr. 
 
i68 Mrs. Craihford. 
 
 pearance rather of an old man than cne of her o^v^ %<iX-—J. 
 Taylor. 
 
 Though even in her best days it appears that she was tott 
 vehement in action, and that she neglected to insinuate herself 
 into admiration from her ambition to create surprise, yet still 
 it is allowed that she could produce astonishment deep arid 
 thrilling. The effect of her question, as Lady Randolph in 
 " Douglas," to the peasant respecting the child, " Was he alive ?" 
 was perhaps never surpassed on the stage. Bannister told me 
 that it made rows of spectators start from their seats. — 
 Campbell} 
 
 She looked still a fine woman, though time, while it had 
 taken something from the elegance of her figure, had also 
 begun to leave its impression on her features. Her voice was 
 somewhat harsh, and what might be termed broken. In level 
 speaking it resembled the tone of passion in other speakers. It 
 was at no time agreeable to the ear ; but when thrown out by 
 the vehemence of her feeling, it had a transpiercing effect that 
 seemed absolutely to wither up the hearer — it was a flaming 
 arrow — it was the lightning of passion. Such was the effect of 
 her almost shriek to Old Nerval, " Was he alive f It was an 
 electric shock that drove the blood back from the surface sud- 
 denly to the heart, and made you cold and shuddering with 
 terror in the midst of a crowded theatre. — Boaden's "Life of 
 Kemble." 
 
 Mrs. Crawford I remember well: "a fine woman, a sweet 
 woman," doubtless she had been — nay, still was when I first 
 beheld her ; but a good actress she never could have been. — 
 Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 Mrs. Crawford acted from 1759 to 1797. She was the 
 daughter of an apothecary at Bath, and was of an amorous 
 temperament. Somebody or other jilted her, it is said, in her 
 seventeenth year, and the misfortune so deeply affected he; 
 that, in the vain attempt to reconcile herself to it by going tu 
 the theatre, she fell in love with an actor of tlie name cf 
 
 Dancer, her second the well-known actor, Spranger Barry, the third a 
 Mr. Crawford, who ill-treated her. She lies by the side of her second 
 husband in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. — Ed. 
 
 ^ Boadea says, speaking of Mrs. Siddons, that "perhaps the most 
 serious moment of her professional life was that in which she resolved to 
 contest CA'en that character (^Lady Randolph) with her rival, Mrs. CraW" 
 ford."— Ed. 
 
Tate Wilkvriion. 169 
 
 Dancer. Him of course the poor forsaken girl, who appeared 
 ia a consumption, married in spite of her physician and all her 
 high-born relations, who thought the connexion a disgrace to 
 the pestle and mortar. Mrs. Dancer soon became the star of the 
 Dublin Theatre, and a widow. She lost but little time in giving 
 her hand to the handsomest man on the stage, Spranger Barry, 
 ■then called the Irish Roscius and ' the silver-tongued. With 
 him she led a life of happiness and fame, and for many years, 
 under Garrick's management, was the delight of Drury Lane. 
 In 1777 Barry died, and she married a third husband, who was 
 a brute, as third husbands generally are, and broke her heart. 
 She was then no longer young — thoug-h not old — and domestic 
 distress cast such a damp over her genius, that frequently she 
 could only be said to ^valk through her parts. On the appear- 
 ance of Mrs. Siddons she came from Dublin to act at Covent 
 Garden ; but a faded beauty, some years on the wrong side of 
 forty, " paled her ineffectual fires" before the blaze of those re- 
 splendent chamas, and her genius showed like a dying lamp in 
 the meridian sun. — Blackwood's Magazine, 1834. 
 
 Mrs. Barry (Mrs. Crawford) had more of Garrick's merit in 
 tragedy, and was equal to quickness, passion, rage, and an ex- 
 position of all the terrible and turbulent passions. Common grief 
 was too tame for her expression. She knew not how to insi- 
 nuate herself into the heart — her mode was to seize it. Admi- 
 ration was not enough : she must beget astonishment. This 
 difficult effect, it must be confessed, her acting very often pro- 
 duced ; but it seldom happens that such bold and forcible 
 strokes of art are free from inequality. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Tate Wilkinson. 
 
 173.6-1803. 
 
 Mr. Wilkinson was indeed a polished gentleman in private 
 life ; and even as a manager his liberality was conspicuous. In 
 the course of the yearcertain removes occurred, such as a nine-mile 
 journey from Pomfret to Wakefield, which many of the actors 
 would walk, if the weather permitted, in summer. Tate, on such 
 occasions, preceded them in his carriage ; and on their arrival 
 at a certain point of the road he would invite them to an ex- 
 cellent dinner, which he had ordered ready for their refresh- 
 ment : and towards the whole of the performers, from the 
 
170 Tate Wilkmson. 
 
 highest to the lowest, on these occasions, in manner and con- 
 duct he would be a Chesterfield in all he said and did. — Life 
 of Mathews. 
 
 Tate had been a litde too merry in his youth, and was very 
 melancholy in old age. He had had a wandering mind, and a de- 
 crepit body ; and being manager of a theatre, a husband, and 
 a ratcatcher, he would speak in his wanderings "variety of 
 wretchedness ;" he would interweave, for instance, all at once 
 the subject of a new engagement at his theatre, the rats, a 
 veal-pie, Ganick and Mrs. Siddons, and Mrs. Tate and the 
 doctor. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 One of the most extraordinary mimics that ever lived. — 
 T. Campbell. 
 
 With not a single comic power endued, 
 The first a mere mere mimic's mimic stood. 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 One morning a letter was brought in at Southampton Street, 
 introducing a young man who wished to go on the stage. 
 Garrick received him kindly, listened to his declamation, which 
 was poor enough, and comforted the aspirant by telling him 
 that his shyness was a very good sign of success. This young 
 fellow had hung about the green-room in Covent Garden, and 
 for all this shyness was a pert, forward, impudent gamin, 
 whose precocious talents of mimicry had been overpraised by 
 friends. He offered to "take off" some of the well-known 
 actors, to show the manager his gifts. " Nay, now," said 
 Garrick, in his peculiar mixture of hesitation and repetition, 
 which made his " talk " a favourite subject of imitation. " Nay, 
 now, sir, you must take care of this ; for I used to call myself 
 the first at this business." But the young fellow knew the 
 manager's weak place. He began, leading off with Foote. The 
 likeness amused the manager immensely, and the performance 
 was repeated. " Hey, now ! now — what — all," went on JNIr. 
 Garrick. " How — really this — this — is — why, well, well, well, 
 do call on me on Monday, and you may depend on my doing 
 all I can for you." .... On the Monday the youth came again, 
 and was welcomed warmly. He was told that inquiries had 
 been made about his widowed mother, and that he was to be 
 put on the books at thirty shillings a week — a fortune indeed. 
 The youth's name was Tate Wilkinson, who has left behind a 
 very curious history of himself and other players, which is a 
 
T'ate Wilkinson. 171 
 
 mass of truth, blunders, and falsehoods — a mass, too, of mean- 
 ness, vanity, and egotism. — P. Fitzgerald. 
 
 The disjointed state of Wilkinson's memory gave rise to a 
 hundred anecdotes, which were rather what he might have said 
 than what he actually did say. Stories of this sort are generally 
 arranged in a manner too antithetical : this it was that detracted 
 from Mr. Mathews's admirable imitation of the veteran ma- 
 nager. The following sentences, verbatim et literatim, were 
 noted down as Tate uttered them : — " But if he (alluding to 
 
 Melvin) don't come to rehearsal, how can he rehearse ? 
 
 Nor was Hope's Warner what it might have been And a 
 
 very dull spring meeting it will be No letters from London, 
 
 and the farce is called at one, is it?. ... If ' Blacklock' runs 
 
 second even, Mr. E will be a large winner So call 
 
 Hope's scenes again.'' Imagine a pause between each para- 
 graph, such as occurs in the speech of a stutterer, and you have 
 an image of Tate. Well might Mathews say that he seemed 
 to have cut his words separately out of a dictionary, thrown 
 them loose into a sack, and shaken them forth again promiscu- 
 ously. — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 Tate Wilkinson was a humorist by nature, and a great deal 
 more of the humorist by art. Possessing some natural faculty 
 for imitation, his manners were a perpetual burlesque ; yet with 
 all this affected eccentricity, he had a perfect sense of his own 
 interest, had a subtle knowledge of mankind, managed his 
 theatre with considerable dexterity, and contrived to live hand- 
 somely on the profits of a pursuit which has probably produced 
 more broken fortunes than any employment on record. — 
 Blackwood's Magazine, 1839. 
 
 When Tate Wilkinson first appeared on the stage, he applied 
 himself principally to mimicry, which he succeeded so well in 
 as to meet with universal applause. Among the various cha- 
 racters he took off was Luke Sparks the player,' who felt it so 
 powerfully that he made a formal complaint to Mr. Garrick. 
 Garrick, who himself smarted under the lash of the mimic, 
 laughed it off, and said, " Come, come, Luke, you had better 
 take no notice of it ; consider, if you are mimicked, it is ingood 
 C07npany." "True," said Luke, very gravely, "but I have 
 known many a man ruined by keeping good company." — 
 Wewitzer. 
 
 * Luke Sparks was a well-known actor, equally good in tragedy and 
 
172 
 
 William Parsons. 
 
 1736-1795- 
 
 Paisoiis was born a comic actor : the tones of his voice, and 
 the muscles of his face proclaim it ; his humour is genuine and 
 pleasant ; nobody can forbear laughing either with him or at 
 him, whenever he opens his mouth. — T. Davies. 
 
 He was an actor of great merit, but he never appeared 
 to greater advantage than he did in the " Critic." He was the 
 original Sir Fretful Plagiary^ and from his delineation most of 
 our modern actors have borrowed their idea. A compliment 
 paid to his memory on the opening of the Haymarket Theatre 
 in the summer (after his death) was caught at by the audience 
 with loud expressions of their concurrence in the sentiment. A 
 prelude was written by Colman, entitled " New Hay at the 
 Old Market ;'' the audience was supposed to be made acquainted 
 with the wants of the concern, and a dialogue between Prompter 
 and Carpenter occurs, during which the following expressions 
 were used : — 
 
 " Carpenter : ' We want a new scaffold for the " Surrender of 
 Calais." ' 
 
 " Prompter : ' Ah, where shall we get such another hangman ? 
 Poor fellow, poor Parsons ! the old cause of our mirth is now 
 the cause of our melancholy ; he who so often made us forget 
 our cares, may well claim a sigh to his memory.' 
 
 " Carpenter : ' He' was one of the comicalest fellows I 
 ever see.' 
 
 "Prompter: 'Ay, and one of the honestest. Master Car- 
 penter. When an individual has combined private worth 
 with public talent, he quits the bustling scene of life with 
 twofold applause, and we doubly deplore his exit.' " 
 
 ^ The allusion here was to the play of the " Surrender of 
 Calais," in which Parsons performed the chief workman at 
 the gallows, erected for the patriots who were to be hung by 
 the decree of King Edward. The scene was an imitation o'f 
 the grave-diggers in "Hamlet." On an occasion when the 
 King (George III.) had commanded the play, Parsons, instead 
 
 comedy. Chetwood says, " He may be accounted a pereon in the highest 
 second-class." He died in 1767. — Ed. 
 
William Parsons. j 73 
 
 of yaying the words set down for liim, " So the king is coming ; 
 an the king like not my scaffold, I am no true man," gave 
 a new reading, which, as it was expressed with peculiar 
 humour, and a saucy assumption of independence, excited great 
 laughter, more especially from the monarch. Parsons exclaimed, 
 " An the king were here, and did not admire my scaffold 
 1 would say d — n it, he has no taste !" — Life of Sheridan. 
 
 I can hardly now convince myself that his place has been 
 supplied. He never could be tempted to quit the standard of 
 his master Garrick, and he passed as an heir-loom into the 
 possession of Sheridan. Let me bear witness to his rich and 
 singular power of telling a story. One of his best has been 
 versified by a very dear old friend, and called " Parsons, th& 
 Actor and the Lion," and it is done as well as a very humorous 
 pen can do it ; but the face of the actor must be wanting ; the 
 ■manner of him whose toe had touched a lion at the bed's foot ; 
 the shaggy mane ; the verification of the fact ; the agony of 
 suspense ; the knocks that might wake the savage to their 
 distraction ; all this should be seen and heard. — Boaden. 
 
 None who ever saw Parsons in " Volpone," in " The Con- 
 federacy," and in " The Village Lawyer," can forget his effective 
 mode of exclaiming, while representing the character of the 
 avaricious Corbaccio : 
 
 " Has lie made his will? 
 What has he given me ?" 
 
 Mbsca.^-'No, sir 
 
 Corbac. — "Nothing !— ha?" 
 
 And again, as the amorous old Money Trap : 
 
 "Eh ! how long will it be, Flippanta?" 
 And lastly, as the roguish Sheefface, when consulting the 
 la.wyer Scout : 
 
 " Let's try it t'other way." 
 
 His rivals, Edwin and Quick, undoubtedly possessed one great 
 advantage over him — that of singing. Yet, in spite of this 
 powerful aid to his competitors. Parsons, relying more on 
 mental than on vocal talents, maintained his ground, and for 
 year after year the original Sir Fretful Plagiary and Crabtree 
 contrived to make saccessful play against the original Lingo 
 and Peeping Tom, and what is still more to Parsons's credit, 
 against the original Tojiy Lumpkin and Lsaac. — F. Reynolds, 
 The discrimination of Parsons in " Parents and Guardians" 
 
174 William Powell. 
 
 was his own, and he went over this walk in a manner perfectly 
 original, which was the more admirable, coming as he did after 
 Yates ; besides, he had treasured up a great fund of know- 
 ledge, and was capable of speaking with taste and judgment to 
 every question concerning the arts, a congenial feeling with 
 those enlarged ideas which particularly belong to acting. — 
 C. Dibdin. 
 
 William Powell. 
 1736-1769. 
 
 Few actors have for these twenty years displayed such talents 
 for tragic passion as Powell. It is less to be admired that he did 
 not succeed in some parts than that he should come off 
 triumphantly in so many. Among his worst failings we may 
 reckon an inclination sometimes to rant and bluster, and 
 sometimes a propensity to whine and blubber. — Thomas 
 Davies. 
 
 I saw the great actor Powell make his first appearance on 
 the stage ; it was in Philaster at Drury Lane. He had 
 been apprentice to Sir Robert Lanbrook in the City. He had, 
 I thought, more power over the passions than any actor I ever 
 beheld. King spoke a kind of prologue to introduce him 
 to the audience. Powell died at Bristol, where they conferred 
 upon him great funeral honours. — John O'Keefe. 
 
 Mr. Powell, so eminent for his tragic powers, may be 
 literally said to have felt the ruUng passion strong in death. 
 When he was on his death-bed, and Mrs. Powell had left the 
 room, Mrs. Hannah More, who sat by his bedside, was alarmed 
 by observing his cheek suddenly assume a lively colour. He at 
 the same time threw himself into the proper attitude, and 
 exclaimed : 
 I " Is that a dagger that I see before me?" 
 
 A moment after this, as if sensible of his danger, he cried out. 
 " O God !" and instantly expired. — Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 Powell's acting was strong nature, luxuriant as a wilderness. 
 It had a thousand beauties and a thousand faults. He felt so 
 forcibly that in any impassioned scene tears came faster than 
 words, and frequently choked his utterance. If Garrick had 
 not gone to Italy, but had stayed at home and honestly taught 
 him, there is certainly no height of perfection in tragedy to 
 which such abihties could not have reached ; but he. hmTied 
 
Jlfrs. Yaies. 175 
 
 over so many characters for the short time he was on the 
 stage, that it was impossible, even had his understanding been 
 as great as his conception, for him to have digested any of 
 •■hem into anything like form. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 Mrs. Yates. 
 1737-1787- 
 
 Her countenance, with the beauty of the antique statue, had 
 also something of its monotony, and she was defective in 
 parts of tenderness. But it is confessed, even by her censurers, 
 that her fine person, haughty features, and powerful voice', 
 carried her well through rage and disdain, and that her declama- 
 tion was musical. Taylor himself told me that she was the 
 most commanding personage he had ever looked upon before 
 he saw Mrs. Siddons. She was a superb Medea; and Wilkinson 
 compares her Margaret of Anjou with Mrs. Siddons's Zara. 
 Davies says that she was an actress whose just elocution, warm 
 passion, and majestic deportment excited the admiration even 
 of foreigners, and fixed the affection and applause of her own 
 countrymen. — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 What I seem best to remember her in is Violante, in " The 
 Wonder ; " and though it is sixty years since I saw Garrick and 
 her in that play, I remember a great deal of it, as if it had 
 occurred yesterday. It is an admirable acting play, and the 
 two principal performers seemed to leave nothing to be desired. 
 What I recollect best of Mrs. Yates 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 inno- 
 cence, at length expresses a serious resentment. Felix had till 
 then indulged his angry feelings ; but finding at last that he had 
 gone too far, appHes himself with all a lover's arts 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 commencement to 
 its conclusion, was admirable. Her dignity was great and lofty, 
 and the effect highly enhanced by her beauty ; and when by 
 degrees she laid aside her frown — when her lips began to relax 
 towards a smile, while one cloud vanished after another, the 
 
1^6 Mrs. Yates. 
 
 spectator thought he had never seen anythifig 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 demeanour, it laid the whole audience, as well as the 
 lover, at her feet. — William Godwin} 
 
 Mrs. Yates was ever overstepping the modesty of nature to 
 produce stage effect. — A. M. Seward. 
 
 Might figure give a title unto fame, 
 What rival should with Yates dispute her claim? 
 But justice may not partial trophies raise. 
 Nor sink the actress in the woman's praise. 
 Still, hand in hand her words and actions go, 
 And the heart feels more than the features show. 
 For, 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. 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 Her great beauty, fine presence, and immature talent made a 
 deep impression ; and later, wisely listening to careful instruc- 
 tion, and furnished with opportunities by the illness of rivals, 
 she took her place as one of the grand actresses of -the century. 
 — F. Fitzgerald. 
 
 Too much stumping about and too much flumping about — 
 Mrs. Clive. 
 
 Mrs. Yates had but little expression to animate a form and 
 countenance almost as perfect as the model which she per- 
 petually brought to mind ; her voice too had a monotony in 
 perfect consent with her person ; as the latter was eminentiy 
 grand and beautiful, so the former was exquisitely harmonious. 
 But passion was now the great desideratum, and of this soul of 
 tragedy she had infinitely less than Miss Younge, tlien acting 
 
 ^ William Godwin, best remembered now by his novel of "Caleb Wil- 
 liams," on which the younger Clolman founded his bombastic melodrama, 
 " The Iron Chest." He was bom in 1756, and died in 1836. lie married 
 the celebrated Mary Wollstonecraft. His daughter was Mrs. Sliellev 
 Ilazlilt, in the " Spirit of the Age," has ably discriminated liis talents — 
 
Mrs. Yates. 177 
 
 with her at the same theatre. She repeated the Grecian 
 Daughter on the 28th of October (1782), as a sort of antici- 
 pation of the character then to be immediately acted by Mrs. 
 Siddons ; that performance having decidedly appropriated the 
 play to Drury Lane, Miss Younge and she acted on the 31st 
 Hermione and Andromache in the " Distressed Mother," and 
 then all their tragedy became strictly confined in the " Castle 
 of Andalusia " for some time. Mrs. Yates next acted Lady 
 Macbeth to the Macbeth of Henderson, and at that time passed 
 for the greatest that had been seen since Mrs. Pritchard. In 
 the sleeping scene, however, I- am satisfied that Miss Younge had 
 more speaking terrors, and in all but the commanding action 
 with the daggers, had more nature and more effect than her 
 beautiful rival. — Boaden's " Life of Siddons." 
 
 Mrs. Yates was a performer of extraordinary merit. If she 
 had a fault it was an emulation of the best French actresses, ' 
 which gave a declamatory air to her delivery, but in her it was 
 less a fault than it could have been in any other actress, because 
 her voice was so wonderfully well calculated for this part of 
 acting, that what would have appeared monotonous in any 
 other, was in her penetrating to admiration. In all the com- 
 plaints of suffering innocence, she was pathetically affecting ; 
 her melancholy and despondency excited generous pity, and 
 her grief was repaid with tire tear of commiseration. This hov/- 
 ever was not the boundary to her acting. In scenes of ani- 
 mated passion and haughty fierceness her manner was com- 
 manding and her expression majestic. She had all the grand 
 and noble requisites of tragedy in great perfection. If she 
 personated pride, she maintained it even in disappointment : if 
 greatness, she never lost sight of its dignity, however fallen. 
 Her merits were in the nature of those of Barry. Her queens 
 were full of elevation, and her lovers of strong sensibility ; but 
 here we must stop. Grandeur and tenderness comprised the 
 whole of her talents ; the intermediate passions had nothing to 
 do with them. They entirely consisted of the jiower to awe 
 her auditors into admiration or melt them into tears. — C". 
 Dibdin. 
 
178 
 
 William Bensley. 
 1738-1817. 
 
 Of all the actors who flourished in my time — a melancholy- 
 phrase if taken aright, reader — Bensley had most of the swell 
 of soul, was greatest in the delivery of heroic conceptions, the 
 emotions consequent upon the presentment of a great idea to 
 the fancy. He had the true poetical enthusiasm — the rarest 
 faculty among players. None that I remember possessed even 
 a portion of that fine madness which he threw out in Hotspuf's 
 famous rant about glory, or the transports of the Venetian 
 incendiary at the vision of the fired city. His voice had the 
 dissonance, and at times the inspiring effect of the trumpet. 
 His gait was uncouth and stiff, but no way embarrassed by 
 affectation ; and the thoroughbred gentleman was uppermost 
 in every movement. He seized the moment of passion with 
 greatest truth, like a faithful clock, never striking before the 
 time, never anticipating or leading you to anticipate. He was 
 totally destitute of trick and artifice. He seemed come upon 
 the stage to do the poet's message simply, and he did it with 
 as genuine fidelity as the nuncios in Homer deliver the errands 
 of the gods. — Charles Lamb} 
 
 He had to play Henry VI. in "Richard the Third." 
 After the monarch's death in the early part of the play, he had 
 to appear for a moment or two as his own ghost, in the fiftli 
 act. The spirits were at that time exhibited en bicste by a trap. 
 Now our Henry was invited out to supper, and being anxious 
 to get there early, and knowing that little more than his 
 shoulders would be seen by the public, he retained his black 
 velvet vest and bugles, but discarding the lower part of his 
 stage costume, he drew on a jaunty pair of new, tight, nankeen 
 pantaloons, to be as far dressed for his supper company as he 
 could. When he stood on the trap, he cautioned the men who 
 turned the crank not to raise him as high as usual, and of 
 course they promised to obey. But a wicked low comedian 
 was at hand, whose love of mischief prevailed over his judg- 
 ment, ai>d he suddenly applied himself with such goodwill to 
 
 I <if 
 
 ' Charles Lamb," says a writer, "awards to Bensley a meed of praise at 
 which the few who remember that sensible but stiff performer are enforced 
 to smile." — Quarterly Review, 1854, 
 
William Bens ley. 1 70 
 
 the winch, that he ran King Henry up right to a level with the 
 stage ; and moreover, gave his majesty such a jerk that he was 
 forced to step from the trap on to the boards to save himsell 
 from falling. The sight of the old Lancastrian monarch in a 
 costume of two such different periods — mediseval above, all 
 nankeen and novelty below — was destructive of all decorum 
 both before the stage and upon it. The audience emphatically 
 " spHt their sides," and as for the tyrant in the tent, he sat bolt 
 upright, and burst into such an insane roar that the real 
 Richard could not have looked more frantically hysterical had 
 the deceased Henry actually so visited him in the nankeen 
 spirit.'— ZJr. JDoran, " Table Traits." 
 
 Bensley delivered dialogue with a propriety of emphasis and 
 a nicety of discrimination that evinced a sound and com- 
 prehensive judgment ; but when we are told that his voice and 
 manner were well-suited to MalvoUo and to the Ghost in 
 " Hamlet," we are naturally prepared for what is added by his 
 most candid describers — that he showed a mind labouring 
 against natural defects. He had an ungainly solemnity of 
 action, and a nasal pronunciation. A good judge of acting 
 who remembers him, tells me, that in seeing him on the stage 
 his mind alternated between admiration of Bensley's sagacity as 
 an actor, and regret that one so unfitted by nature for acting 
 should have chosen it for his profession. — T. Campbell, " Life 
 of Siddons." 
 
 Bensley was a gentleman and a scholar. He used to glare 
 upon Kemble sometimes in the green-room with a savage glee 
 while repeating a caustic quotation from Horace. As a military 
 man he knew the "right-hand file" of any description of 
 troops. — Boaden, " Life of Lnchbald"'^ 
 
 Bensley had been in the army, and when ha thought proper 
 
 1 This joke is told by Hook {see the "Life of Hook," by R. H. 
 D. Barham), as having been played off on Murray by Jack Jolmstone. 
 Page 312-13. — Ed. 
 
 ''■ His first appearance was at Drury Lane in 1765, as Pierre, in "Venice 
 Preserved." One day, travelling in a hack post-chaise, he came in violent 
 collision with a lady on horseback, who was thrown. They took a fancy 
 to each other, and married. He left the stage in 1796, and was appointed 
 to the post of a barrack-master, for which he was probably fitted by having 
 served as lieutenant in the Marines. He had the luck, some years before his 
 death, to come into a large fortune, bequeathed to him by Sir William 
 Bensley, a Baronet, and an East Indian Director. He is spoken of as "a 
 perfect gentleman. " — Ed. 
 
 N 3 
 
i8o William Bensley. 
 
 to unbend from his dignified stateliness was prone to the re- 
 lation of his moving accidents by flood and field. AVhenever 
 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, &c. &c." C, 
 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 
 between 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 powers of my friend Mr. Bensley you all know, you all 
 appreciate" (loud plaudits, and Bensley, overcome by grati- 
 tude, fervently squeezing Bannister's hand) ; " but. Gentlemen 
 continued the relentless humorist, " 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 acknowledgments.) " He was a Captain in the — 
 
 regiment at Calcutta in . He was at in . 
 
 He led the forlorn hope at - — — in 17 — ." (Here B. enume- 
 rated 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 colours when 
 only eighteen months old — an instance of precocity, power, and 
 courage, unexampled in the history of the world." Poor 
 Bensley took this expose so much- to heart that he never after- 
 wards appeared -in the room. — Records of a Stafe Veteran, 
 1836. 
 
 I never laughed with Bensley but once, and then he re- 
 presented Ma/volio, in which I thought him perfection. 
 Bensley had been a soldier, yet his stage walk entirely re- 
 minded you of the " one, two, three, hop !" of the dancing- 
 master. This scientific progress of legs, in yellow stockings, 
 most villainously cross-gartered, with a horrible laugh of ugly 
 
 ^ He was a great egotist. Speaking of one of his own performances he 
 said, "My acting in that play will never be forgotten in Liverpool until 
 time iTins into eternity," 
 
Charles Bannister. 
 
 i«i 
 
 conceit to top the whole, rendered him Shakspeare's ATalvoUo 
 at all points. — Boadm^ "Life of Jordan." 
 
 Bensley, who always maintained an upper rank upon the 
 stage, both in tragedy and comedy, was respectable in all the 
 characters he undertook, in spite of a stalk and a stare — a 
 stiffness of manner and a nasal twang of utterance — which 
 prevented his being very popular in most of them ; but these 
 drawbacks were advantages to him in representing the buckram 
 nobility of Lord Mortimer in Miss Lee's play ; and for the 
 same reason his personation of Malvolio, the starched and 
 conceited steward in " Twelfth Night," was beyond all com- 
 petition. — George Colman, '■'■Random Records." 
 
 A country gentleman dropping asleep while Bensley was 
 repeating a long speech in his usual croaking voice, suddenly 
 started up, and cried out, " Hullo ! reach my blunderbuss this 
 instant; I thought I had shot that croaking devil yesterday." — 
 R. Wewitzer, 
 
 Charles Bannister. 
 
 1 738-1804. 
 
 Charles Bannister was a native of Gloucestershire. When 
 about fourteen his father obtained a good appointment in the 
 victualling office at Deptford, ard thither young Charles also 
 repaired. This was in the year ) 752. Garrick, then the star 
 of Drury, had left a memory of his greatness at the eastern end 
 of the metropolis. The flame that had burst forth in Goodman's 
 Fields reached across the river. The difficulty that distance 
 created inflamed curiosity ; and the youths of that day, inter- 
 dicted from late hours, were actually in a fever respecting the 
 Roscius. Spouting clubs were as plentiful as blackberries ; and 
 Charles, who had an excellent voice, was soon seen at divers 
 musical and theatrical meetings. In 1755-6 behold him acting 
 Richard, Romeo, &c., &c., in a barn between Deptford and 
 Greenwick. This came to the ears of his father, who took a 
 very summary mode of stopping his performances, by locking 
 
 1 Writing of Bensley's Old Norval Boaden says : " Pathos rendered his 
 voice ragged as well as repulsive ; and he never, as to his feet, either stood 
 or wallced with the character of age. His helpless action had a character ol 
 restrained vigour ; he implored pity in the noisy shout of defiance. His 
 understanding, liovirever, was of a superior kind, and it rendered him always 
 respectable, and sometimes nearly excellent." 
 
1 82 Charles Bannister. 
 
 poor Cliarles up, and taking all his clothes away. This treat- 
 ment could not endure for ever ; he got his clothes again, and 
 again returned to Deptford and the drama ; and at last went to 
 town, met an old theatrical agent at the Black Lion, in Clare 
 Court, and obtained an engagement at the Norwich Theatre, 
 "for all Mr. Garrick's business, at isj-. a week." All his 
 anxiety now was to conceal his vocal powers, for he dreaded 
 being asked to play operatic characters. Whilst at Norwich he 
 made many applications to the great powers in the metropolis, 
 but in vain ; and as ambition burned more dimly within him 
 he wooed and wedded; and in 1758 his eldest son John 
 Bannister was born. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bannister were 
 each of them favourites in the Norwich circuit. In society he 
 had unfolded his vocal and mimetic propensities. His powers 
 as a punster had also developed themselves ; his company was 
 courted, and his benefits were immense. And Charles Ban- 
 nister's boon companion was an intimate friend of Sam Foote ; 
 he named Bannister to the great man, who immediately sent 
 him an offer of 3/. per week. It Avas in May, 1762, that 
 Charles stood trembling beside John Palmer, the former dressed 
 for Will, the latter for Scamper, in the " Orators : " two charac- 
 ters less favourable to debutants can scarcely be conceived. 
 They are two Oxford scholars, who have come up to hear 
 Foote's lecture, and who amuse themselves, ere that begins, by 
 remarking upon the audience, and especially upon a young 
 lady (the love of one of them) who is in the gallery. All this 
 requires the steadiness of an old actor, and that sort of stand 
 mg that enables an established favourite safely to take liberties 
 with his auditors. Bannister's tremor was not at all reduced 
 by seeing Garrick and O'Brien (Gentleman O'Brien)' together 
 in the boxes. Neither of the new actors produced any extra- 
 ordinary effect, but they satisfied Foote, who immediately ^vrote 
 an additional scene, representing " The Robin Hood Society 
 
 1 O'Brien, as an actor, is highly spoken of both by Davies and Dibdin. 
 " The ease, elegance, and grace in his depoitment," says the latter, " Avere 
 peculiar, and his own ; and spite of his voice, which for light characters 
 was not by any means an impediment, in the representation of a great 
 variety of parts his acting was critically natural, his manner interestingly 
 impressive, and his deportment uncommonly attractive." He married into 
 Lord Inchiquin's family, and left the stage whilst still a young man. He 
 tvas the author of two performances adapted from the French of La Fo.it 
 and Ledaine. — Ed. 
 
Charles Bannister. 183 
 
 of Butcher Row." This was a meeting of tradesmen who 
 devoted certain evenings to poHtical and philosophical discus- 
 sions, others to spouting and singing. Foote's ridicule upon them 
 was very attractive. He supposed the subject of discussion to be, 
 " The Introduction of Usquebaugh instead of Porter ; tlie latter 
 Fluid being beneath the Dignity of Philosophers : " in this he 
 introduced his new actors in various characters, and made 
 Charles give his musical imitations ; but here the latter shone 
 more as a wit than a singer, for fright so completely took posses- 
 sion of him that he could not make sure of a single note in his 
 falsetto : this, as he was imitating Tenducci, was destruction. 
 It is to be observed that these performances took place in the 
 morning, and the habits of Charles did not make that a favour- 
 able period for his displays. Foote remarked upon his failure. 
 " I knew it would be so," said Charles ; " I am all right at night, 
 but neither /"nor my voice csxiget up in the morning." A joke 
 excused anything with Foote ; he tried Charles again and again. 
 Thus encoiiraged, he gave his powers fair play, and morning 
 after morning the great singers and musicians of the day were 
 observed to visit the Haymarket. Charles was now in the 
 high road to fortune ; in those days of ridottos and masque- 
 rades his services were continually required, nor was any 
 musical or convivial assemblage complete in his absence. At 
 dinners, public and private, amid the first circles, Charles 
 Bannister was as necessary as the wine ; the custom was then 
 not to hire a vocalist, as now, — a custom revolting and deroga- 
 tory, — ^but a singer was invited as a guest by perhaps half a- 
 dozen or a dozen different persons at as many different times : 
 these gentlemen then met together, and, making up a purse, 
 enclosed it in a snuff-box or some such trifle, sending it to the 
 vocalist, requesting his acceptance of it : this was courteous, 
 and though only payment in another shape, spared the feelings 
 it is now the custom to outrage. Bannister had thus the means 
 of amassing a fortune, but he, like Macheath, "kept too much 
 fine company." Suffering his partiahtyfor Palmer (his boyhood's 
 friend, who had acted in private with him, and who appeared 
 in London in the same piece and on the same night) to out- 
 weigh his prudence, he joined with him in the Royalty scheme. 
 On the 20th April, 1 787, that ill-fated establishment was opened. 
 Paper-war, informations, indictments were now rife. Palmer 
 was supported by the Marquis of C?jmarthen, and opposed 
 most virulently by Harris and Colman. One Justice Staples, 
 
1 84 Charles Bannister. 
 
 a low illiterate fellow, was persuaded to grant warrants against 
 the principal actors (Charles Bannister amid the number), and 
 committed them, to use his own language, as " willians, wag- 
 rants, and wagabones," for fourteen days to Bridewell. John 
 was present at the hearing, and implored Staples not to sign the 
 warrant against his father ; at this moment a violent thunder- 
 storm raged : " Let him sign it," said the intrepid Charles, " if 
 he dares, whilst he hears the voice of heaven thundering against 
 the deed." Staples did sign the warrant, but the parties were 
 ultimately admitted to baii. Palmer changed the nature of his 
 performances, producing a burletta called "Hero and Leander," 
 but all in vain ; and the scheme ended in debt and misery to 
 all engaged in it. The winter theatres refused to receive 
 Charles ; Colman shut the Haymarket against him, and he 
 returned to Norwich ; there, and throughout Norfolk, and 
 Suffolk, &c., he gave musical entertainments : whilst John was 
 unceasing in his endeavours to obtain his father's recall. He 
 at length succeeded, and Charles reappeared at the Haymarket : 
 the cheering and waving of hats and handkerchiefs (the whole 
 house rising) lasted many minutes. He retained his station as 
 a leading favourite with the public until his retirement in 1797. 
 After his retirement he took an annual benefit. That taken by 
 him in November, 1800, was patronized by Lord Nelson; 
 Lady Hamilton was present — the house was crowded to excess. 
 The veteran gave his imitations of Barr)'-, Woodward, Hull, 
 Aickin, Holland, Garrick, Foote, Vernon, and Champness : this 
 was his last appearance — he died in November 1804, and lies 
 buried in St. Martin's Church. — Abridged from " Recollections of 
 Bannister and his Family." 
 
 Charles Bannister had a fine voice, a fine taste, and a copious 
 recollection of traits and tones. His song became an imitation, 
 sometimes serious, oftener burlesque, of the principal singers 
 of the period. In both he was excellent. Garrick once took 
 Giordini, the famous violinist, to hear his imitations of Tenducci 
 and Champneyo. The violinist declared the imitation perfect ; 
 sarcastically remarking, however, that " it had one fault — the 
 voice of the mimic was better than that of the originals." He 
 was a capital wit, and always in difficulties. A pleasantry of 
 his told both. At the time when all the world were talking of 
 the death of Sir Theodosius Boughton in 1781, who was 
 poisoned by laurel-water, " Pooh," said Charies, " don't tell 
 me of vour laurel leaves. I fear none but a bay-leaf" (bailiff). 
 
Lee Lewes. 185 
 
 His wit was so redundant that he could afford to throw it away 
 on his son. But Jack was a seedling of the same stock, and 
 knew how to throw back the pleasantry fresh pointed. Once 
 when he had caused his father some slight irritation the 
 offence was marked by " Jack, I'll cut you off with a shil- 
 ling." " I wish, father," said Jack, " you would give it to 
 me now." His father, delighted at the kindred spirit, gave him 
 much more than he had asked.' — Blackwood's Magazine, 1839. 
 
 Old Bannister had voice enough, but he had not a particle of 
 science, and did wonders without it. — Boaden. 
 
 Bannister was in many respects superior to any singer that 
 perhaps ever lived. The body and volume of voice which he 
 possessed were only equalled by its sweetness and interest. 
 He had as much taste, as much playfulness, and as extensive 
 power as the most fashionable of those singers who think 
 singing totally consists in flexibility, and that a voice cannot 
 be exercised to perfection unless when it is flying to the bridge 
 of the fiddle, and sliding back again in chromatics. But Ban- 
 nister had too much sense to use this power, except when he 
 had an inclination to show how ridiculous it is. Thus in " 'I'he 
 Son-in-Law" he sung " Water Parted from the Sea" with as 
 much taste, as much sweetness, and as much variety as Ten- 
 ducci, at the same time that he introduced a degree of bur- 
 lesque into it that gave the blush to modern singing. — Charles 
 Dibdin, '■'■History of the Stage." 
 
 Lee Lewes. 
 
 1 740-1 803. 
 
 A comedian of the Woodward class, and like him an ex- 
 cellent ground harlequin. Forty years had beheld him on the 
 stage, and usually the victim of what was called the tyranny of 
 management. But this, like most other charges, has two sides. 
 One manager at least did not refuse him the use of his theatre, 
 for Mr. Harris allowed him a benefit at Covent Garden, with 
 such strength in his bill as he could assemble together. His 
 play on this occasion was " The Wonder," in which, for the last 
 time, he himself acted Lissardo, and he played it in the style 
 of his great master, and very divertingly. The benefit proved 
 
 * This stoi7 is comn.only told ol" Sheridan and his son Tom. — Ei). 
 
1 86 Lee Lewes. 
 
 e. very good one, but few indeed were the days it cheered ; for 
 poor Lee Lewes, after supping mth that entertaining man 
 Townsend, the mimic, and some other friends, was found dead 
 in his bed on the 23rd of July, 1803. — Boadai? 
 
 I was many years in friendship Avith Lewes ; his gaiety of 
 temper was perhaps congenial to my own. He was from boy- 
 hood a great favourite with the people of Dublin, Cork, and 
 Limerick. Being very happy in his manner of speaking an 
 epilogue called " Bucks, have at ye all," he was frequently 
 called upon for it whether he played that night or not. Tired 
 at last, he endeavoured to get out of his trammels. The 
 college students misconstrued this into obstinacy a,nd disrespect, 
 and threw the house into nightly tumult by insisting that he 
 should appear and speak it. His real friends pitied him, and 
 strove to rescue him from this unjust persecution; amongst 
 others, a Captain Jones, a companion of Lewes's, who from the 
 upper boxes used to gruff out, " No Bucks ! No Bucks !" 
 Lewes at last told them he would speak the epilogue any 
 certain number of nights they chose to name, but that number 
 out he would not speak it again, unless it were specified in 
 the play-bills. They persisted in their nightly demands, and 
 he then hstened to the proposals of the London managers. 
 Garrick offered him a trial part at Drury Lane ; and Mr. Harris 
 a certain engagement, and all the deceased Woodward's 
 characters at Covent Garden. He wisely chose the latter. 
 Lewes modelled his fine gentleman from the life. Being an 
 admirer of Mossop, and acting with him in his own boyhood, 
 he involuntarily caught much of TVIossop's manner in tragedy, 
 which brought him into some of the new tragedies in London ; 
 among others, he acted Percy in Mrs. Hannah More's play 
 of that name. — J. O'Keefe^ 
 
 ' Boaden calls him " always ^nilgar, and with a bad manner of uttei'ance." 
 See "The Life of Mrs. Siddons. "— Ed. 
 
 ^ The most brilliant of English dramatists. "His inventive powers,'' 
 says a writer, ' ' in the construction of odd phrases and quaint burdens for 
 songs, his extraordinary combinations of strange fancies, and the con- 
 trivance of a sort of significant gibberish, without meaning in itself, but 
 fashioned so as to convey the most accurate and -idvid idea of what he him- 
 self meant to express, are matters beyond the power of analysis ; yet his 
 farces are obsolete, and with the dramas of Foote lost to the stage and the 
 public, because the popular taste has become so refined that it shrinks from 
 broadness of humour and sharpness of wit into the safe refuge afforded by 
 prancing horses, flying horses, masked assassins, and simmering Jewesses.' 
 
187 
 
 Mrs. Pope.* 
 1 740-1 797. 
 
 I shall consider her as a daughter of Garrick's theatre, because 
 there she acquired all the resources of her arts, and they con- 
 stituted her the most general actress the stage had ever seen. 
 I can with perfect truth say that in tragedy, as well as comedy, 
 there were characters of which she was the most perfect re- 
 presentative. Had she possessed such a face as that of Mrs. 
 Siddons, there might have been more ; but then, some of her 
 sprightly comedy would have been awed down, and she might 
 on the whole have been less distinguished. In the days of Yates 
 and Barry, she established herself with unwearied diligence, and 
 though always weak in point of chest, endured a continuance 
 of exertion that was certainly too much for her strength. She 
 was the universal favourite of her profession, and in private 
 life affectionately honoured by all who were worthy of her 
 society. — Boaden. 
 
 In 1770 I first saw Miss Younge (afterwards Mrs. Pope); she 
 
 * The name of Mrs. Pope recalls that of Miss Pope, a famous actress of 
 the Garrick school, of whom I have succeeded in collecting only the fol- 
 lowing notices : — "She had a thin, poor voice, so that her rage wanted 
 force. Her look, to be sure, was very satisfactory, and the dropping of her 
 chin convulsive. " — Boaden. 
 
 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 any- 
 thing can be imagined. — Hazlitt. 
 
 With all the meny vigour of sixteen. 
 Among the merry troop conspicuous seen, 
 See liv«ly Pope advance in jig and trip, 
 Corinna, Cheri-y, Honeycomb, and Snip. 
 Not without art, and yet to nature trae, 
 She charms the town with humour ever new. 
 Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore 
 The fatal time when Clive shall be no more. 
 
 Churchill. 
 A gentlewoman ever, with Churchill's compliment still burnishing upon 
 her gay honeycomb lips. — C. Lamb. 
 
 The perfect gentlewoman as distinguished from the fine lady of 
 comedy. — Jbid. 
 
 She was an actress of the highest order for dry humoui one of those 
 who convey the most laughable things with a grave face. . . . She was 
 an admirable Mrs. Malaprop. — Z. Hunt. 
 
1 88 Mrs. Pope. 
 
 came over with Macklin to Dublin, and played both in tragedy 
 and comedy: she was universally admired and respected. 
 Her Lady Amaranth in my " Wild Oats " was excellent. Her 
 invariable method was to read over to me the parts I purposely 
 wrote for her, before she acted xix^ro-.—Jolm O'Keefe. 
 
 Miss Younge (afterwards Mrs. Pope) was above the ijiiddle 
 height, and altogether finely formed about the neck and 
 shoulders ; there was a roundness and precision in her speak- 
 ing, and her manner was commanding, and though her face 
 was not handsome, it was expressive. She was so very 
 successful in her first appearance that her salary was raised, 
 after a night or two of acting, to 3/., and at the end of the 
 season to 5/., unsolicited ! On the 8th of June 1776, Garrick 
 played Lear ; it was the last night but one of his appearing on 
 the stage ; the curtain fell in the usual way with his hand 
 locked in Miss Younge's, who played Cordelia. In that way 
 he led her into the green-room, and recollecting that his next 
 performance was to be his last, he said 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." " Then, sir," said 
 she, falling upon her knees, " pray give me a father's blessing." 
 Raising her up, he said, " God bless you !" and adding to the 
 performers (who had crowded round them) in a faltering and 
 affectionate tone, " God bless you all !" hurried out of the 
 room. Mrs. Pope used to relate this with great pleasure, but 
 seldom without shedding tears. — The Manager's Kote-Book. 
 
 In Half-moon Street, on the 15th of March, 1797, died the 
 charming comic actress, Mrs. Pope. After having performed at 
 Drury Lane for forty years, she retired from the stage into private 
 life with an unblemished character and an easy fortune. She is said 
 to have borne a strong resemblance to the beautiful Lady Sarah 
 Lennox, the goddess of George III.'s early idolatry. Many 
 years after the beauty of both ladies had been on the decline, 
 the King happened to attend the performance at Drury Lane 
 when Mrs. Pope was acting. The recollection of his youthful 
 love came back to his mind, and in a moment of melancholy 
 abstraction he is said to have observed to the Queen, " She is 
 like Lady Sarah still."— Jesse's ''London." 
 
 ^Vith this lady Garrick took most uncommon pains. It was 
 not, however, until after a variety of experiments vhat she gained 
 that hold of the public A\'hich she long and deservedly kept 
 It is needless to say what were her pai-ticular merits ; they are 
 
y antes Dodd. 1 89 
 
 too recently in the recollection of the public to be forgot. 
 They had to the last a spice of her preceptor, and even her 
 inanner of filling the stage gave a strong idea of stage conduct 
 in use five-and-thirty years ago. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 James Dodd. 
 1741-1796. 
 
 Dodd was the most perfect fopling ever placed upon the 
 stage ; he ^a.s the most exquisite coxcomb, the most ridiculous 
 chatterer ever seen ; he took his snuff, or applied the quint- 
 essence of roses to his nose with an air of complacent supe- 
 riority, such as won the hearts of all conversant with that style 
 of affectation. His walk upon the boards bespoke the sweet 
 effeminacy of the person ; the pink heels, the muslin of his 
 cravat and frills are dwelt upon by the amateurs of his day as 
 specimens of his understanding the range of his art. He 
 is spoken of as "the prince of pink heels, and the soul of 
 empty eminence." — Life of Sheridan?' 
 
 Dodd was a man of reading, and left at his death a choice 
 collection of old English literature. I should judge him to 
 have been a man of wit. I know one instance of an impromptu 
 which no length of study could have bettered. My merry friend, 
 Jem White, had seen him one evening in Agicecheek, and 
 recognising Dodd the next day in Fleet Street, was irresistibly 
 impelled to take off his hat, and salute him as the identical 
 knight of the preceding evening with a " Save you, Sir 
 Andrew." Dodd, not at all disconcerted at this unusual 
 address from a stranger, with a courteous, half-rebuking wave 
 pf the hand,' put him off with an "Away, Fool." — Charles 
 Lamb,'' 
 
 ' Boaden finds fault with Dodd: "He always bestowed the whole 
 teiiiousness of his author upon the audience ; whereas your judicious 
 player is alive to all the impressions he makes on the house, and cuts his 
 matter short before it is insupportable." 
 
 =^ In that charming essay of Lamb, " On Some of the Old Actors," there 
 occurs an exquisite description of Dodd's appearance in his old age : 
 " Taking my afternoon solace on a summer day upon the aforesaid terrace, 
 a comely, sad personage came towards me, whom, from his gi-ave air and 
 deportment, I judged to be one of the old Benchers of the Inn. He had a 
 serious, thoughtful forehead, and seemed to be in meditations of mortality ; 
 .... the face turning full upon me, strangely identified itself with that of 
 
I go jfames Dodd. 
 
 Mr. Dodd, the high, red-heeled stage-dandy of the old 
 school of comedy, was (like the generahty of actors of his day) 
 a very pompous man, and cherished no mean estimate of the 
 dignity of human nature, and especially of his professional 
 occupation. Indeed, he obviously piqued himself upon his 
 talents and quality as an actor, and considered his pubHc 
 reputation entided to as much respect as his private virtues. 
 In short, lie was proud of his profession, and valued the means 
 by which he existed almost as highly as he did existence itself. 
 Mr. Dodd's general demeanour and dignity of deportment off, 
 as well as on the stage, together with his rotund person, which 
 was ably supported upon two short, though well-formed legs, 
 always elegantly covered with silk stockings, and his feet with 
 Spanish leather shoes, secured by costly iDuckles — his hair 
 Men poicdre, the queue of which was folded curiously into a sort 
 of knocker which fell below the collar of, ofttimes, a scarlet 
 coat — the little man, in short, was a decided fop of his day, 
 both off and on the stage. — Mrs. C. Mathews. 
 
 If large theatres were of detriment to fine acting — a fact 
 which I for one do not question, since they have even demanded 
 extravagance in the three articles of action, expression, and 
 utterance — perhaps to no one comedian would they be more 
 fatal than to Dodd. This excellent actor had a weak voice, 
 but as he managed it on the stage of his great master (Garrick) 
 it was quite adequate to a cast of petit-maitres., a sort of thin 
 essences, whom a gale too violent, or a noise too obstreperous, 
 would seem to annihilate. Nor was he confined to the cox- 
 comb whose wit almost redeemed his effeminacy ; he was the 
 paragon representative of all fatuity, through all the comic 
 varieties, for they are no more, in the genus that Congreve and 
 his successors have struggled to impart to their copies. — 
 Boaden. 
 
 Dodd. Upon close inspection, I was nol mistaken. But could this sad, 
 thoughtful countenance be the same vacant face of folly which I had hailed 
 so often under circumstances of gaiety ; which I had never seen without a 
 smile, or recognised but as the usher of mirth ; that looked out so formally 
 flat in Foppiitglon ; so impotently busy in Backbite ; so blankly divested of 
 all meaning, or resolutely expressive of none in Acres, in Fribble, and a 
 thousand agreeable impertinences ? .... The remembrance of the 
 freedoms which I had taken with it came upon me with a reproach of 
 insult. I could have asked it pardon. I thought it looked upon me with 
 a sense of injury." 
 
y antes Dodd. 191 
 
 There was a gossiping anecdote told of Dodd, for the truth 
 of which I will not be answerable. He sojourned in lodgings 
 near the theatre with a chlre amie belonging to the company. 
 This perhaps he might have found to be a snug arrangement 
 in the summer months, if the tranquillity of the Ute-d^tete had 
 not been daily disturbed by discussing frivolous points, upon 
 which the fond pair very furiously diifered ; insomuch that the 
 gentleman was wont to enforce his arguments more by missile? 
 than by metaphors ; in short, he threw chairs, tables, and chim- 
 ney-piece crockery all about the room. In the heat of one ol 
 these domestic fracas, which happened at an early dinner upon a 
 shoulder of mutton, while Dodd clattered, and the chere amie 
 screamed, the landlord rushed upon the scene of action in 
 hopes, if he could not prevent a further breach of the peace, to 
 hinder their breaking more of his property. " How dare you, 
 mister," ejaculated Dodd, who was brandishing the shoulder of 
 mutton in his hand, " obtrude into our apartments while we are 
 rehearsing f'-^'-'-'K€a.faxsm% !" cried the enraged landlord, while 
 the broken bits of sham china were crunching under his feet, 
 " I could have sworn you were fighting."^" No, sir," said 
 Dodd ; " we were rehearsing the supper scene in ' Catherine 
 and Petruchio, or the Taming of a Shrew.' ^' — "Why, it does 
 look," observed his landlord, giving a glance round the room, 
 " as if you had been trying to tame a shrew, sure enough." 
 " Don't you know, fellow," asked Dodd, sternly, " that we are 
 advertised to act the parts this very night ?" — " Not I, truly," 
 returned the host. — " Then go downstairs, sir," cried the 
 comedian, "and read the biU of the play ; and read it every 
 morning, sir, to prevent your repeating this impertinence." 
 History records not whether the landlord read the playhouse 
 bill ; but it sets forth that he did not forget his own} — George 
 Colman. 
 
 Dodd's great merit was singularity; which, guided by a 
 perfect knowledge of his profession, rendered his exertions very 
 respectable.— C Dibdin. 
 
 ' It is also told of Dodd, who was fond of a long story, that bemg iiV 
 company one night, he began at twelve o'clocli to relate a journey he had 
 taken to Bath ; and at six o'clock in the morning he liad proceeded no 
 further tlian the Devizes I The company then rose to separate ; when Dodd, 
 who could not bear to be curtailed in his narrative, cried, "Don't go yet^ 
 Stay and bear it out, and upon my soul I'll make it entertaining." — Ed. 
 
V92 
 
 Mrs. Baddeley. 
 1742— 1780. 
 
 Her gaudy and fitful career reads like a troubled dream,' and 
 robbed the stage of a graceful actress. No stranger picture of 
 life can be conceived than her singular story ; her short and 
 showy course, across which flit royal dukes, infatuated lords, 
 rough and rude colonels, and the gradual fall and degradation, 
 when a footman winds up the procession. — Fitzgerald. 
 
 In opera she performed Clarissa, Folly, and Foseita, and 
 Imogen in the play of " Cymbeline,".in which her beautiful 
 countenance used to excite the greatest interest. Amongst 
 her peculiarities was an immoderate addiction to laudanum, 
 v/hich has the power of bestowing a momentary vivacity, sub- 
 siding into an oblivion of care, succeeded by a wretchedness 
 which itself alone can remove. It may reasonably be sup- 
 posed on the night of her benefit she sought the doubtful aid 
 in question, but it proved a treacherous ally. She was unfor- 
 
 1 Mrs. Baddeley lived in the days of masquerades. Two were flourish- 
 ing, one in Soho Square, under the management of a Mrs. Teresa Cornelys, 
 a German singer, and one in the Pantheon, in Oxford Street. The ex- 
 traordinary licentiousness of these assemblies it would be difficult to 
 describe in decent language. Courtezans mingled with the daughters of 
 peers ; and when, as it might happen, the attendance on some night was 
 not gi-eat, the newspapers would lament " to see such spirited exertions so 
 poorly rewarded, as scarcely one person of distinction, or one fille dejoie of 
 note, was present, to give a ton to the evening's entertainment." In 1778 
 Mrs. Cornelys failed ; her establishment in Soho, called Carlisle House, 
 was converted into a place for lectures, and the abandoned woman died in 
 Fleet Prison in a state of utter destitution in 1797. At the Pantheon, how- 
 ever, the masquerades continued to flourish ; growing more and more de- 
 graded in their character, it was at length resolved that no "doubtful" 
 persons should be admitted. A number of young men, members of the 
 aristocracy, had vowed that let who might be refused admission to the 
 Pantheon, Mrs. Baddeley should be let in. So many as fifty gentlemen 
 closed around her chair, and accompanied her in solemn procession to the 
 masquerade. The constables stationed at the portico refused to let her 
 pass ; whereupon the numerous escort drew their swords, and fought a 
 passage for her into the illuminated building. Plere, sword in hand, they com- 
 pelled the managers to come forward, and humbly apologise to Mrs. 
 Baddeley for the inconvenience to which their restrictions had subjected 
 her. Mrs. Abington, hearing of Mrs. Baddeley's triumphant entiy, fol- 
 lowed ; and with her admission the line which the Pantheon people had 
 endeavoured to draw between virtue and vice was irrecoverably erased. Ed. 
 
Mrs. Baddeley. 193 
 
 tunately lame at the time, and intoxicated to stupidity by the 
 fumes of the opiates she had swallowed. The worst of it was 
 that the habit riot being generally known, the stupefaction was 
 attributed to drunkenness, and a disgust taken which is seldom, 
 or rather never, quite removed. The sequel of this unfortu- 
 nate existence may be worth a second paragraph. She soon 
 became idle, disordered, unsteady, and of no value in the 
 theatre; dropped into neglect and contempt, and was plun- 
 dered of the little she had by one of those attached friends 
 which indolence is happy to find, and of which it is invariably 
 the prey. Mrs. Baddeley had at one time her carriage, and 
 every voluptuous enjoyment that a mere sensualist can enjoy ; 
 but her wealth mouldered away, insensibly and unaccountably, 
 and she died at Edinburgh shortly after, in the most squalid 
 poverty and disease, in a state of mental horror which perhaps 
 opium only is enabled to inflict upon us. To the last she was 
 supported by the charity of the profession, always awake to a 
 sister's claim, though on this occasion with the dreadful reflec- 
 tion that either as to herself or society, it would have been 
 better if her release had earlier arrived. — Boaden. 
 
 Mrs. Baddeley, more celebrated for her beauty and gallantry 
 than for her wit or professional skill. Her picture represents the 
 most voluptuous of faces, with large melting dark eyes and 
 full rosy lips. The beauty is caressing a cat ; the cat plays 
 with a tress of soft hair which has fallen over the white shoulder. 
 Cats were Mrs. Baddeley's favourite pets, and the one in her 
 picture is no doubt a portrait. — C, R. Leslie. 
 
 When Holland, the tragedian, was at the point of death, 
 Mrs. Baddeley wanted much to see him, declaring she could 
 not exist without taking leave of her dear Charles. The nurse 
 took every method to prevent her, but in vain. At last she 
 said, " Madam, he desires to be composed awhile, for he has 
 just taken the sacrament." "Has he, indeed?" repHed the 
 enamoured idiot ; " then I will wait till it has worked qff."^ — 
 Wewitzer. 
 
 She combined the powers of acting, speaking, and singing 
 in the same part ; her voice was not extensive, though very 
 pleasing; her manner was delicate, her conception of each 
 character was true, her beauty was fascinating; she displayed 
 
 • This story has its improbability diminished by Francis Grose, who ■n 
 his " Olio" gives it to one of the mistresses of the Earl of Harrington. — Et. 
 
 
 
194 Philip Astley. 
 
 a soft and gentle complacency whenever she received the 
 tokens of affection in a love scene, and her response was truly 
 dove-like ; her Juliet was never surpassed, nor was her Fanny 
 in " The Clandestine Marriage" ever equalled. — C. H. Wilson. 
 
 Philip Astley.^ 
 1742-1814. 
 
 Poor old Astley used to talk of a " krockudile wat stopped 
 Halexander's harmy, and when cut hopen, had a man in 
 harmour in its hintellects." He (Astley) had two or three 
 hard words that he invariably misapplied — "pestiferous" he 
 always substituted for "pusillanimous," and he was wont to 
 observe that he should be a ruined man, for his horses ate most 
 vociferously. — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 Phihp Astley, a celebrated horse-rider, who first exhibited 
 equestrian pantomimes, in which his son (who survived his 
 father but a short time) rode with great grace and agility. 
 Astley had at once theatres in Paris, London, and Dublin, and 
 migrated with his actors, biped and quadruped, from one to 
 the other. Both father and son were remarkably handsome, 
 the elder of large proportions but perfect symmetry. — J. W. 
 Croker. 
 
 Old Astley, when he first returned from France, was accosted 
 by a friend, who asked him if he had seen the French Prince 
 of Wales when he was in Paris. " Go," says he, " you igno- 
 ramus, there is no Prince of Wales in France ; he's the 
 Dolphin. Why, I mought have learnt him to ride if I would." 
 " Is the young prince like his father ?" " His father ! Lord 
 help your silly head! his father could never get that there 
 child ; his father's omnipotent." — H. IVewitzer. 
 
 ' Of Mrs. Astley, "a minor actress of much merit," "wife of the old 
 gentleman called Old Astley, "the " Veteran" says : " She had such luxuriant 
 hair that she could stand upright, and it covered her to her feet like a veil. 
 She was very proud of these flaxen locks ; and a slight accident by fire 
 having befallen them, she resolved ever after to play in a wig. She used, 
 therefore, to vrind this immense quantity of hair around her head, and put 
 over it a capacious caxon, the consequence of which was that her head 
 bore about the same proportion to the rest of her figure that a whale's skull 
 does to its body ; and as sh§ played most of the heroines, the reader may 
 jpdge the effect. " 
 
195 
 
 Anne Catley. 
 
 1745-1789. 
 
 There was in her personal character a good deal of the care- 
 less boldness of Woffington ; like her, too, she was extremely 
 handsome, and her eye and mouth had a peculiar expression 
 of archness. She aimed at the almost manly frankness of 
 speech, and acted as one superior to censure, when she raised 
 the wonder of prudery. Catley had an understanding too 
 sound to vindicate the indiscretions of her youth ; but her 
 follies did not long survive that period, and she amply atoned 
 in her maturity for the scandal she had excited formerly in 
 society. There was a graceful propriety in her domestic con- 
 cerns. She was never profuse, and could therefore be liberal 
 in all her arrangements. — Boaden, " Life of 'Jordan." 
 
 To those who have never heard Miss Catley I must, as my 
 manner is, try to give some notion of what was peculiar to 
 her. It was the singing of unequalled animal spirits ; it was 
 Mrs. Jordan's comedy carried into music — the something mm-e 
 that a duller soul cannot conceive, and a feeble nerve dare not 
 venture. Even at the close of her theatric life, when con- 
 sumptive and but the ghost of her former self, gasping even 
 for breath, and wasting heir little remaining vitality in her exer- 
 tion, she would make sometimes a successful attempt at one of 
 her former brilliant rushes of musical expression, and mingle a 
 pleasing astonishment along with the pain you were compelled 
 10 suffer. No other female singer ever gave the slightest 
 notion of her. She was bold, volatile, audacious. Saville 
 Carey I have heard sometimes touch her manner feebly in the 
 famous triumph of her hilarity, "Push about the Jorum." — Ibid. 
 " Life of Siddons." 
 
 The first time of my venturing into a theatre after my defeat. 
 Miss Catley, the celebrated singer, accosted me from a front 
 low in the lower boxes, loud enough, as I was many rows back, 
 to be heard by all and everybody. " So, O'Keefe, you had a 
 piece damned the other night. I'm glad of it. The devil 
 mend you for writing an opera without bringing me into it." 
 A few moments after Miss Catley had thus accosted me, Leoni 
 entered the box with a lady leaning on his arm. Miss Catley, 
 catching his eye, called out, " How do you do, Leoni ? I 
 hear you're married — is that your wife ? Bid her stand up till 
 
 a 
 
196 Mrs. Mattocks. 
 
 I see her." Leoni, abashed, whispered the lady, who, with 
 good-humoured compHance, stood up. Catley, after surveying 
 her a httle said, " Ha ! very well indeed. I like your choice." 
 The audience around us seemed more diverted with this scene 
 in the boxes than that on the stage, as Miss Catley and her 
 oddities were well known to all. She was one of the most 
 beautiful women I ever saw ; the expression of her eyes and 
 the smiles and dimples that played around her lips and cheeks 
 were enchanting. She was eccentric, but had an excellent 
 heart. She wore her hair plain over her forehead, in an even 
 line almost to her eyebrows. This set the fashion in Dublin, 
 and the word was with all the ladies to have their hair Catlefied. 
 —OKeefe. 
 
 This celebrated actress and singer was bom of poor parents, 
 her father being only a gentleman's coachman, and afterwards 
 the keeper of a public-house near Norwood, known by the 
 name of The Horns. At the age of fifteen she was bound 
 apprentice to Mr. Bates, a composer of some eminence. Her 
 first appearance in public was at Vauxhall, in 1762, and in the 
 same year she appeared at Covent Garden. She was at this 
 period remarkable for little more than the beauty of her person 
 and a diffidence in public, which she soon got rid of. She 
 was, to use the words of a diurnal writer, " the favourite of 
 Thalia, the favourite of the town, and the favourite of fortune." 
 She is said to have been married to General Lascelles, at whose 
 house near Brentford she died. — Eccentric Biography, 1803. 
 
 Mrs. Mattocks. 
 
 1745-1826. 
 
 Mrs. Mattocks has had no successor on the English -stage. 
 She was a highly accomplished actress, with a manner some- 
 what broad. Slie was the paragon representative of the 
 radically vulgar woman, of any or no fashion, of whatever con- 
 dition or age. The country Malkin, too, was taken to 
 " Lunnun" by her with her " stumping gait" and " idiot 
 goggle," so as to banish from her spectators the remotest 
 suspicion that she herself could be the refined and sensible 
 lady she was in private life. Her favouiite partners on the 
 stage were Quick and Lewis ; and exquisite merriment pro- 
 ceeded from their union. — Boaden. 
 
Mrs. Mattocks. 197 
 
 This distinguished actress of the old school of comedy 
 appears to- have been born about the year 1745- She was, as 
 it may be termed, a child of the stage. Her father, Mr. 
 Hallam, was at one period manager of Goodman's Fields 
 Theatre; her mother was related to Beard, the principal 
 singer of his time ; and a brother of hers, some years ago, 
 was the manager of a theatrical company in America. Her 
 father, in a dispute with Macklin, the celebrated Shylock, at a 
 rehearsal, received ■ so severe a wound in the eye from the 
 walking-stick of the ruffian — which, in fact, Macklin was — that 
 he died on the spot. Macklin was tried for the offence at the 
 Old Bailey, but acquitted, as it was deemed the effect of 
 sudden passion, not of t?ialice prepense. Receiving a superior 
 education. Miss Hallam voluntarily adopted the stage as a 
 pursuit, and came foi-ward with the reputation of high accom- 
 plishments. All her early appearances were in singing 
 characters : she was the first Louisa in the opera of the 
 " Duenna." Occasionally she attempted tragedy, but with 
 little success. In her performance of the second character in 
 Hook's tragedy of " Cyrus," she was completely thrown into 
 the background by the fine figure and admirable acting of 
 Mrs. Yates in Mandane^ the heroine of the piece. Study and 
 observation, however, induced her to attempt the sprightly 
 parts of low comedy, such as abigails, citizens' wives, &c. ; and 
 in these she succeeded to her wishes. The delicacy of her 
 person, the vivacity of her temper, and a distinguishing judg- 
 ment, all showed themselves to advantage in this walk, and 
 she rapidly became a universal favourite with the town. This 
 is no slight praise, when we consider that amongst her con- 
 temporaries were Mrs. Green (Sheridan's first Duenna), and 
 Mrs. Abington; and that, in the earlier part of her career, 
 even Mrs. Clive had not left the stage. Miss Hallam stood thus 
 high in the estimation of the public, when Mr. Mattocks, of 
 the same theatre, first paid his addresses to her. He was a 
 vocal performer of some consequence, and a respectable actor. 
 A mutual attachment appears to have ensued ; and, to avoid 
 the opposition of the lady's parents, the lovers took a trip to 
 France, and were married. The union, however, does not 
 appear to have been a very happy one : infidelities on both 
 sides led to an open rupture ; and, if we mistake not to a sepa- 
 ration. Notwithstanding this, when Mr. Mattocks, some years 
 afterwards, became manager of the Liverpool theatre, his 
 
1 98 Charles Dibdin. 
 
 wife performed there all the principal characters. The specu- 
 lation proving unfortunate, Mrs. Mattocks re-engaged herself 
 at Covent Garden Theatre, where, we believe, she held an 
 uninterrupted engagement as an actress of first-rate celebrity in 
 her walk, until her final retirement from the stage, now more 
 than twenty years ago. Hers was the most afiecting theatrical 
 leave-taking we ever witnessed. She had played, with all the 
 freshness and spirit of a woman in her prime, the part of 
 Flora, in " The Wonder," to Cooke's Don Felix. After the 
 play, she having changed her stage dress for the lady-like 
 attire of black silk, was led forward by Cooke in a suit of 
 black velvet, with weepers, &c. Her feelings enabled her to 
 utter only a few impressive words. There was scarcely a dry 
 eye in the house : she retired amidst the most heartfelt plaudits 
 of the theatre. Mrs. Mattocks possessed a good stage-face and 
 figure, and her broad stare, her formal deportment, her coarse 
 comic voice, and her high colouring, enabled her to give 
 peculiar efiect to the characters in which she excelled. In the 
 delivery of the ludicrous epilogues of the late Miles Peter 
 Andrews, which always required dashing spirit, and the imita- 
 tion of vulgar manners, she was eminently successful. She is 
 understood to have been a great favourite of her late Majesty 
 Queen Charlotte. She left one daughter, who married 
 Mr. Hewson, a barrister. That gentleman, unfortunately, 
 lived only a few years after the union. The portion which he 
 received with his wife was laid out in the purchase of one of 
 the City pleaderships ; the precaution of insuring Mr. Hewson's 
 Ufe was overlooked; and, upon his death, after holding the 
 appointment not more than a year or two, the purchase-money 
 was, in consequence, lost to his widosv. Mrs. Mattocks died 
 on the 25th of June, where she had long resided, at Ken- 
 sington. — New Monthly Magazine, 1826. 
 
 Charles Dibdin. 
 
 1745-1814. 
 
 In 1792 I saw Charles Dibdin's (senior) entertainment at the 
 Strand. It was most excellent. His manner of coming on the 
 stage was in most happy style. He ran on sprightly, and 
 with nearly a laughing face, like a friend who enters hastily to 
 impart some good news. Nor did he disappoint his audience ; 
 
Charles Dibdin. 199 
 
 he sung, and accompanied himself on an instrument which was 
 a concert in itself; he was, in fact, himself his own band. A 
 few lines of speaking happily introduced his admirable songSj 
 full of wit and character, and his peculiar mode of singing them 
 surpassed all I ever heard. Dibdin's music to the " Padlock," 
 the "Jubilee," the "Waterman," the " Quaker," &c., was most 
 successfully productive. — 'j/^ohn O'Keefe} 
 
 It has been said that his pathetic ballads were really from 
 the pen of Bickerstaff," who fled from England many years since, 
 but who had been a kind friend to Dibdin in his youth and 
 poverty. Dr. Kitchener, who was a warm admirer of Dibdin, 
 believed that two or three songs were Bickerstaff's ; but ad- 
 mitting, for argument's sake, thirty to have been his, enough 
 remain to prove Charles a first-rate Ipist in his peculiar style. 
 Poor Dibdin was very Mahomedan in his notions respecting 
 the other aex, and he generally gave feasts on the birthdays of 
 his Sultanas. When I knew him two feast-days per week must 
 have been about the average. He was a shrewd man, an 
 accurate, but not an acute observer, a good musician, had an 
 extensive voice, but almost wholly without tone : his style of 
 entertainment would not be endured now; it was too senti- 
 
 ' It was in Thompson's shop that the elder Dibdin, together with 
 Herbert Stopplear, planned the Patagonian Theatre — a scheme that 
 answered for a few seasons from its novelty, as nothing of the kind had 
 appeared in the metropolis from the beginning of the century, when the 
 celebrated Mr. Powell's puppets divided the attention of the public with the 
 regular theatres. Dibdin wrote little pieces for the Patagonian stage, 
 which was about six feet wide, composed the music, and assisted in re- 
 citing the parts which the puppets, not more than ten inches high, per- 
 formed. He also accompanied the singers and himself on a smooth- 
 toned organ. Stopplear, who also spoke for the puppets, painted the 
 scenes in conjunction with an artist of some merit. The " Padlock," which 
 had been performed at the Haymarket, one of the first efforts of Dibdin's 
 dramatic talent, was played by these mechanical dolls with great applause, 
 Dibdin being Mungo. The whole exhibition was skilfully managed in a 
 neat little theatre, with boxes, pit, and gallery, which held about two 
 hundred persons. — Wine and Walnuts. 
 
 1 Isaac Bickerstaff, the well-known author of " Love in a Village." He 
 fled the country on suspicion of a capital crime. Mrs. Piozzi, in her 
 anecdotes of Dr. Johnson, says: "When Mr. BickerstafFs flight coii- 
 firmed the report of his guilt, and Mr. Thrale said, in answer to Johnson's 
 astonishment, that he had long been a suspected man—' By those -vAo look 
 tlose to the ground dirt will be seen, sir,' was the lofty reply. 'I hope I 
 see things from a greater distance.' " — Ed. 
 
200 Richard Yates. 
 
 mental ; there never was a hearty laugh to be had out of him.— 
 Records of a Veteran. 
 
 Charles Dibdin, to whom the army, the navy, and the whole 
 nation were so deeply indebted for his Tyrteean strains, as well 
 as for his multifarious compositions calculated to inspire a love 
 of country and a zeal to protect it in a time of imminent danger, 
 exhibited a remarkable precocity of intellect. At sixteen years 
 of age he brought out an opera at Covent Garden Theatre, called 
 " The Shepherd's Wedding," written and composed by himself 
 Forty-six other dramas of various descriptions, with about a 
 dozen other literary productions, and several hundred songs, 
 many of which are the best in the English language, record the 
 talents of Mr. Dibdin, and the disgraceful neglect with which 
 he was treated by his ungrateful country ; for although he 
 enjoyed a pension from Government of 200/. a year for a few 
 years, yet, on a change of Administration, this was taken from 
 him, and the man who deserved a civic crown, was left 
 admired it is true, but neglected in his old age. — Ftrcy 
 Anecdotes. 
 
 He had about him that ccuhet of originality which is the 
 primary merit of a writer, whatever be his school ; to this must 
 also be added that Dibdin exercised a lyrical influence — ^made 
 an individual impression — by songs, such as Enghsh song- 
 writers have scarcely ever attained He began by imita- 
 ting the regular, conventional, feebly epigrammatic, insincerely 
 sentimental, eighteenth-century manner. Not till he was about 
 forty did he do justice to his true genius in the hearty, 
 humorous, and genuinely tender nautical songs on which his 
 real fame rests. — Cor nhill Magazine, i86o. 
 
 Richard Yates. 
 
 1745-1796- 
 
 An excellent comedian, one of Garrick's own school of 
 natural actors, and whose rule was, on receiving a new 
 part, to fix on some living person who was a little Uke it, 
 study him attentively, and thus gain vitality for it.— i*, 
 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 Lo ! Yates ! without tlie least finesse of art, 
 He gets applause. I wish he'd get his part. 
 
yohn Palmer, 201 
 
 When hot impatience is in full career 
 
 How vilely " Hark'e, Hark'e " grates the ear !' — Churchill. 
 
 Churchill had ridiculed the only fault, perhaps, which could 
 fairly be charged on this actor, which was an occasional defect 
 of memory. To hide this he would sometimes repeat a 
 sentence two or three times over ; and to show his courage, 
 after the poem was published, he took particular care to 
 reiterate the very words which Churchill had made the record 
 of his satire. — T. Davies. 
 
 Yates was one of those meritorious actors who added to chaste 
 nature becoming respectabihty. He had his hardnesses, and 
 those, who like Churchill, cavil in parcels, and are too acri- 
 monious to be candid, -may on this account condemn him in the 
 lump ;' but I should not despair of proving that Yates had 
 as good an understanding as Churchill, and that as an actor 
 he accompUshed his pubHc duty upon honester and more 
 respectable grounds than the other as an author. I know of 
 no French actor so good as Yates ; though had he been a 
 Frenchman, the Lisimons, Gerontes, and every species of 
 fathers and guardians characterized by humour and caprice 
 would have been exactly in his way. He had the best parts of 
 Boeneval, Dessesarts, and Bellecour. On the English stage he 
 resembled Underbill, but with considerable advantage. No 
 actor was ever more chaste, more uniform, more characteristic ; 
 and though, perhaps, sometimes he overshot those particular 
 spots which nature designed him to hit, yet upon the whole his 
 acting in an eminent degree was gratifying to the public and 
 exemplary to the stage. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 John Palmer. 
 
 1747-1798. 
 
 Palmer's Joseph Surface seems to have been perfectly un- 
 approachable by any competitor. So admirable a hypocrite 
 has never yet been seen : his manners, his deportment, his 
 address, combined to render him the very man he desired to 
 
 ^ Yates's memory in early life was bad ; it improved, oddly enough, 
 when most mien's memories become impaired. To give himself tiine to 
 recall his part he would address his interlocutor several times with a 
 " Hark ye, hark ye."— Ed. 
 
202 jfohn Palmer. 
 
 paint. His performance on the stage bore a very strong 
 similarity to that he was famous for in private life. He was 
 plausible, of pleasing address, of much politeness, and evenof 
 great grace. He was fond of pleasure, which he pursued with 
 so much avidity as to be generally very careless of his theatrical 
 duties ; but when he had committed some gross absurdity, or 
 had been, through neglect of his duties, on the verge of hear- 
 ing a loud shout of disapprobation, " he cast up his eyes with 
 an expression of astonishment, or cast them down as if in 
 penitent humility, drew out his eternal white handkerchief to 
 smother his errors, and bowed himself out of his scrapes."— 
 Life of Sheridan. 
 
 John Palmer, though an excellent actor, could not rise to a 
 due conception of Fahtaff's humour. He was heavy in it 
 throughout. — J. Taylor^ 1814. 
 
 Take him for all in all, he was the most unrivalled actor of 
 modern times. He could approach a lady, bow to her, and 
 seat himself gracefully in her presence. AVe have had dancing- 
 masters in great profusion since his time ; but such deportment 
 they have either not known or never taught. He walked the 
 stage in a manner peculiarly calculated to occupy it by his figure 
 and action, with a measured and rather lingering step.' — Boadm. 
 
 One afternoon Palmer, who inhabited a house in Kentish 
 Town, was naiUng up a grape-vine, and while so employed 
 was stung most severely in the eye by a wasp. The inflamma- 
 tion was so violent that his eye was closed by it. He sent off 
 an express to the theatre, and an apology was made for his 
 sudden indisposition. Upon hearing this, a gentleman of 
 pertinacious theatrical habits rose in the pit, and stated that 
 he was convinced this was one of Mr. Palmer's disgraceful 
 neglects of his audience. This incensed the audience, and 
 nothing would serve them but that Palmer must be sent for, 
 
 ^ A friend complimenting Palmer one day upon the ease of his address — 
 "No," said Jack, "I really don't give myself the credit of being so irre- 
 sistible as you have fancied me. There is, however, one thing in the way 
 of address which 1 think I am able to do. Whenever I am arrested, I 
 think I can always persuade the sherifTs officers to bail me." His in- 
 variable excuse for every omission of punctuality, for every n^lect of duty, 
 for every postponement of engagement, was his wife. With handkerchiel 
 in hand, he would sigh, " My best of friends, this is the most awful period 
 of my life. I cannot be with you, for my beloved wife, the partner of my 
 soi'rows and my joys, is just confined." Some one calculated that his wife 
 rendered him a happy father once in every two months. — Ed, 
 
yohn Palmer. 203 
 
 and after much remonstrance the manager himself — paint, 
 pumps, and all — set off in a carriage to Kentish Town, where 
 he found Palmer suffering much from the accident, and not 
 shamming. He explained the urgency of the case, popped 
 him into the glass coach, and carried him as he was to the 
 theatre, where, in a few minutes and in his deshabille, he made 
 his appearance before the audience, who, seeing Palmer walk 
 in apparently perfectly well, the light and the distance render- 
 ing the sting almost imperceptible, began to hiss and laugh, 
 and cheer the obstinate httle man in the pit for having brought 
 the culprit before them. Palmer advanced to the front of the 
 stage, and having assumed an imploring attitude, was at length 
 — not till after a heavy fire of orange-peel and other missiles- 
 permitted to explain. " Ladies and gentlemen," said Palmer. 
 " I am aware of the odd effect my appearance here may pro- 
 duce after the apology which has been made for my illness, 
 which I thought it hardly possible to describe by communica- 
 tion to the theatre." "iVJ' wonder I" "Shame/" "What's 
 the matter ?" " The fact is, ladies and gentlemen, my illness — • 
 was — all — -my eye !" — Cyrus Redding.^ 
 
 The elder Palmer (of stage-treading celebrity) commonly 
 played Sir Toby in those days ; but there is a solidity of wit 
 in the jests of that half Falstaff which he did not quite fill 
 out. He was as much too showy as Moody (who sometimes 
 took the part) was dry and sottish. In sock or buskin there 
 was an air of swaggering gentility about Jack Palmer. He 
 was a gentleman with a slight infusion of the footman. His 
 brother Bob,'' of recenter memory, who was his shadow in 
 
 1 The story goes of Palmer's end, that he dropped dead after speaking 
 the words, "There is another and a better world," from the "Stranger." 
 The words he did endeavour to articulate were, not as the above are, in the 
 second act, but in the fourth act : "I left them at a small town hard by." 
 Last words ought to be received with great caution. A characteristic 
 sentence may be pronounced by a man, and repeated as his " last words," 
 when in reality he did not die until long after they were spoken. The 
 awful significance claimed for " last words" can be imparted only by death 
 immediately following their delivery, as in the case of Paterson, who dropped 
 dead in Moody's arms, after repeating from "Measure for Measure" tlie 
 lines — 
 
 " Reason thus with life : 
 If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
 That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art." 
 
 • Of Robert Palmer, George Colman says, he was "unique in a 
 
204 yohn Palmer. 
 
 everything while he lived, and dwindled into less than a 
 shadow afterwards, was a gentlanan with a little stronger 
 infusion of the latter ingredient: that was all. It is amazing 
 how a little more or less makes a difference in these things. 
 When you saw Bobby in the Duk^s Servant you said, 
 " What a pity such a pretty fellow was only a servant." When 
 you saw Jack in Captain Absolute, you thought you could trace 
 his promotion to some lady of quality, who fancied the hand- 
 some fellow in his top-knot, and had bought him a commission. 
 There, Jack in Dick Atnlet was insuperable. — Charles Lamb. 
 
 "What is your opinion of Mr. Palmer's Shy lock f Macklin: 
 " Why, sir, my opinion is that Mr. Palmer played the character 
 of Shylock in one style. In this scene there was a sameness, in 
 that scene a sameness, and in every scene a sameness. It was 
 all same ! same ! same ! — no variation. He did not look the 
 character, nor laugh the character, nor speak the character of 
 Shakspeare's Jew. Indeed, sir, he did not hit the part, nor the 
 part hit him." — Kirkmati's "Life of Macklin." 
 
 The two Palmers were actors of great merit ; the only draw- 
 back on both was manner, which in the first was too refined, 
 and in the other too vulgar. — C. Dibdin. 
 
 His embarrassed circumstances caused him at one time to 
 live in his dressing-room in Drury Lane Theatre, and when the 
 Haymarket re-opened for the summer season, at which he was 
 engaged, the fear of arrest suggested the expedient of convey- 
 ing him with a cart full of scenery, in one of the cabinets used 
 in "The Prize," and in this manner he actually was removed 
 from one theatre to the other.' — Life of Matheuis. 
 
 few sketches of dramatic character, but he never attained the highest 
 walks." ^ 
 
 ' A similar story is told of William Phillips, a famous Harlequin, who 
 was, I believe, a contemporary of Garrick. He was arrested for a debt, 
 and lodged in a sponging-house ; here, having liberally treated the bailiff to 
 I Irink, he pretended that he had a dozen of wine ready packed at his house, 
 which he begged permission to send for, to drink while he was in 
 custody, offering to pay sixpence a bottle for the privilege. The bailiff 
 acceded to his request, and the wine was ordered to be brought. On a 
 porter presenting himself with the load, the turnkey called to his master 
 that the porter and hamper had come. " Very well," answered the bailiff; 
 •'then let nothing but the porter and hamper out." The porter acted his 
 part well : came heavily in with an empty hamper, and went lightly out 
 with Phillips on his back.— Ed. 
 
205 
 
 John Henderson, 
 1747-1785. 
 
 Henderson was a truly great actor ; his Hamlet s.txA. his Fahtaff 
 were equally good. He was a very fine reader too ; in his 
 comic readings superior, of course, to Mrs. Siddons ; his yohn 
 Gilpin was marvellous.' — S. Rogers. 
 
 I have seen many Falstaffs, but none that thoroughly satisfied 
 me. Henderson's was the most entertaining, but his tones in 
 general were more like an old woman than an old man ; and 
 he laughed too much, though, indeed, that practice may suc- 
 cpssfully draw the laugh of an audience. — y. Taylor, 1814. 
 
 He was a fine actor, with no great personal advantages, 
 indeed, but he was the soul of feeling and intelligence. — Mrs. 
 Siddons : Campbell's " Life." 
 
 The power of Henderson as an actor was analytic. He was 
 not contented with the mere light of common meaning ; he 
 showed it you through a prism, and reflected all the delicate 
 and minghng hues that enter into the composition of any ray 
 of human character. Besides, he had a voice so flexible that 
 his tones conveyed all that his meaning would insinuate. — 
 Boaden. 
 
 Professor Dugald Stewart, who knew Henderson, told me 
 that his power of memory was the most astonishing he had 
 ever met with. In the philosopher's presence he took up a 
 newspaper, and after reading it once, repeated such a portion 
 of it as to Mr. Stewart seemed marvellous. When he expressed 
 
 ^ When Kemble played Sir Giles Overreach, he was so anxious to repre- 
 sent the part as Henderson had represented it that he wrote to Mrs. Inch- 
 laid, who had acted Lady AUworth to Henderson's Sir Giles, to know 
 "what kind of a hat does Mr. Henderson wear? What kind of wig, of 
 ;ravat, of ruffles, of clothes, of stockings ; with or without embroidered 
 clocks, square or round-toed shoes ? I shall be uneasy if I have not an 
 idea of his dress, even to the shape of his buckles, and what rings he 
 wears on his hands. Moroseness and cruelty seem the groundwork of this 
 monstrous figure ; but I am at a loss to know whether in copying it I 
 should draw the lines that express his courtesy to Lord Lovel with an 
 exaggerated or mere natural strength ? Will you take the pains to inform 
 me in what particular points Mr. Henderson chiefly excelled, and in what 
 manner he executed them ?" Mrs. Inchbald's answer is unfortunately lost. 
 ~Ed. 
 
2o6 yohn Henderson. 
 
 his surprise, Henderson modestly replied, " If you had been, 
 like me, obliged to depend, during many years, for your daily 
 bread on getting words by heart, you would not be so much 
 astonished at habit having produced this facility." — Thomas 
 Campbell. 
 
 I have seen the great Henderson, who has something, and 
 is nothing — he might be made to figure among the puppets of 
 these times. His Don J^ohn is a comic Cato, and his Hamlet 
 a mixture of tragedy, comedy, 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 
 London audience at Christmas — he is a dramatic phe- 
 nomenon, and his friends, but more particularly Cumberland, 
 has (have) ruined him ; he has a manner of paving when he 
 would be emphatic, that is ridiculous, and must be changed, 
 or he would not be suffered at the Bedford Coffee-house. — 
 David Gar rick, 1775.' 
 
 The elder Colman objected to the style in which Henderson 
 sometimes dressed himself, and condemned his costume in 
 Shylock as too shabby. Foote said of him, that "he 
 would not do ;" and Garrick's contempt of him amounted 
 to personal enmity. All this seems to confirm the idea that 
 he was not so extraordinary a man as his friends represented. 
 —Gait? 
 
 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 persona 
 when he was expressing happiness at meeting. With these 
 adventitious faults, he had to contend against physical draw- 
 backs : his eye wanted expression, and his figure was not 
 well put together. My father was anxious to start ■ him in 
 
 ^ In a letter from Bath, Ganick wrote :— " ' The Inflexible Captain' 
 has been played here with success ; Hendei-son played Regulus, and you 
 would have wished him bunged up with his nails before the end of the 
 third act." 
 
 ^ John Gait was bom at Irvine, Ayrshire, 1779. He was a voluminous 
 writer, his chief works being " Laurie Tod" (a novel), a " Life of Byron," 
 his " Autobiography," " The Annals of the Parish," and the " Lives of the 
 Players." Byron praised him as a man of strong sense and of great 
 experience. Sir Wftlter Scott warmly admired his novels. He died, 1 8^0. 
 aged sixty.— Ed, > *« 
 
yohn Henderson. 207 
 
 characters whose dress might either help or completely hide 
 personal 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 Denmark's " inky cloak" 
 and " suit of solemn black," were of great service. I know 
 not whether i^a/j/o^ immediately 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 management the actor's talents soon made sufficient way 
 to battle such ill-natured remarks as might have been expected 
 upon symmetry ; and the audience was prepared to admit, 
 when he came to the lovers and heroes, that 
 
 " Before such merit all objections fly.'' 
 
 George Cohnan, '■'■Random Records.^' 
 
 George III., like his eldest son and grandfather, pre- 
 ferred comedy to tragedy. George IV. could not bear " the 
 harrowing of the heart" that Kean's Othello gave him. A 
 new comedy of Cumberland attracted his Majesty George III. 
 and Queen Charlotte to Covent Garden about 1778; it 
 was entitled " The Mysterious Husband," and Henderson 
 acted the hero. It proved to be one of the serio-comic dramas 
 then in vogue ; and in the last scene the principal character 
 dies. Henderson's delineation was perfection. His Majesty's 
 attention was riveted to the stage; but he at length ex- 
 claimed, " Charlotte, don't look — it's too much to bear !" The 
 play, by Royal desire, was never repeated. Henderson's 
 countenance was of the same order as Macready's — flat, but 
 capable of great variety of expression. His imitations of his 
 contemporaries might justly have been termed impersonations 
 or identifications — the look, tone, carriage, expression, even 
 the thoughts in extemporaneous dialogue, were those of the 
 individual he represented. Henderson, though not an 
 imitator, was in the school of Garrick ; John Kemble in that 
 of Barry, or rather of Quin j for Barry was only a graceful' 
 disciple of the Quin school of oratory. — Records of a Stage 
 Yeteran. 
 
208 
 
 William Lewis.* 
 1748-1811. 
 
 Mr. Lewis had rather a spare habit of body, but seemed 
 always in possession of even florid health. His figure from his 
 deportment might be deemed even elegant in the scenes of 
 comic luxuriance ; when he exceeded all the common bounds 
 set to human action he never was vulgar, no — not for an 
 instant. AVhere all the manners are diverting, it is difficult to 
 sketch any in very bold relief; but he had one peculiarity 
 •which was the richest in effect that can be imagined, and was 
 always an addition to the character springing from himself. It 
 might be called an attempt to take advantage of the lingering 
 sparks of gallantry in the aunt or the mother of sixty, or the 
 ancient maiden whom he had to win, to carry the purposes of 
 those for whom he was interested. He seemed to throw the lady 
 by degrees off her guard, until at length his whole artillery of 
 assault was applied to storm the struggling resistance ; and the 
 Mattockses and the Davenports of his attention sometimes com- 
 plained of the perpetual motion of his chair, which compelled 
 them to a ludicrous retreat, and kept the spectator in a roar of 
 laughter. In short, whether sitting or standing, he was never 
 for a moment at rest — his figure continued to exhibit a series of 
 undulating lines, which indicated a self-complacency that never 
 tired, and the sparkling humour of his countenance was a signal 
 hung out for enjoyment, that it would have been treason 
 against human happiness to refuse to obey. — Boadai. 
 
 How much this matchless ge7itlemanly comedian was re- 
 spected in private life is evident, as on the day succeeding 
 the violent epileptic attack which he experienced during the 
 
 ' We read that the " youth of Lewis, with all its sparkling captivations, 
 was not undistinguished by the sex. Among his foreign admirers he had 
 the honour to number the celebrated Gabrielli. On her arrival in this 
 country she paid a. visit to Covent Garden Theatre, and was powerfully 
 struck by the grace of Lewis. As an Italian singer is usually little dis- 
 posed to refuse herself any attainable object of her wishes, she resolved 
 to send off love's ambassador with the frank declaration of her passion, 
 and a gracious command to Mercutio to visit her immediately. Rauzzini, 
 however, changed the arrangement by apprising the Gabrielli that the 
 habits of this country did not allow of such rapid movements, even in 
 matters of the first taste. She reluctantly yielded to his experience." 
 
William Lewis. 209 
 
 rehearsal of " Delays and Blunders," among many other high 
 personages who kindly called at his house to make inquiries 
 concerning his health, were his present Majesty, and his Royal 
 Highness the Duke of York. Thus truly should desert be 
 crowned. — F. Reynolds. 
 
 Lewis is rapidly whirling away from the recollection of the 
 present generation. He blended the gracefulness of Barry 
 with the energy of Garrick, and superadded to these acquire- 
 ments his own unceasing activity and amazing rapidity both of 
 utterance and motion. In his early days he had been a 
 tragedian, and retained enough of his superior powers to 
 deliver sentiment gracefully ; but his great qualification was 
 of nature's giving— his animal spirits. No greyhound ever 
 bounded, no kitten ever gambolled, no jay ever chattered 
 (sing, neither the bird nor man in question ever covld) with 
 more apparent recklessness of mirth than Lewis acted. All 
 was sunshine with him : he jumped over the stage properties as 
 if his leap-frog days had just commenced ; danced the hay with 
 chairs, tables, and settees, and a shade never was upon his face, 
 except that of the descending green curtain at the end of the 
 comedy. — Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 One of the most delightful performers of his class, and 
 famous to the last for his iii vincible airiness and juvenility. 
 Mr. Lewis displayed a combination rarely to be found in 
 acting, that of the fop and the real gentleman. With a voice, 
 a manner, and a person all equally graceful and light, and 
 features at once whimsical and genteel, he played on the top of 
 his profession like a plume. He was the Mercutio of the age, 
 in every sense of the word mercurial. His airy, breathless 
 voice, thrown to the audience before he appeared, was the 
 signal of his winged animal spirits ; and when he gave a glance 
 of his eye, or touched his fingers at another's ribs, it was the 
 v&xy punctum saliens of playfulness and innuendo. We saw him 
 take leave of the public a man of sixty-five, looking not more 
 than half the age, in the character of the Copper Captaiii, and 
 heard him say in a voice broken by emotion that " For the 
 space of thirty years he had not once incurred their dis- 
 pleasure." — Leigh Hunt, " The TotvnT 
 
210 
 
 John Quick. 
 1 748-1 83 1. 
 
 He is a pleasant little fellow, and barring that he plays rrt^ 
 business I wish his stay with us was much longer. He has not 
 an atom of improper consequence in his composition. — Charles 
 Mathews. 
 
 Little Quick (the retired Dioclesian of Islington), with his 
 squeak like a Bart'lemew fiddle. — Ibid. 
 
 Many who never saw the original Vortex (" Cure for the 
 Heartache") and the great Silky on the stage, may yet remember 
 old Quick the octogenarian, with his blue coat and basket- 
 buttons, his snow-white waistcoat, black knee-breeches, silk 
 stockings, shoes and buckles, the latter being on the Sabbath 
 both at knee and instep of diamonds — or paste. Quick was 
 a great favourite with George III. ; but his acting went out of 
 fashion when a more intellectual school appeared. Munden 
 knew little, but Quick knew less ; noise and extravagance were 
 with him substituted for nature and humour. There is a print 
 often in the old picture shops, of Humphreys and Mendoza 
 sparring, and a queer angular exhibition it is. What that is to 
 the modern art of pugilism, Quick's style of acting was to 
 Dowton's ; the latter rounded off the square comers of Quick's 
 old men, and brought them nearer if not quite to the standard 
 of truth and nature. Quick quitted the stage in disgust ; when 
 he left it he was as capable as he had been for the twenty 
 years previous, and twenty years afterwards he remained as 
 capable as when he left. He drank freely, sometimes six or 
 seven glasses of rum and water in the evening after dining; 
 and he had in his old age a fancy for all the old houses about 
 his retreat (Pentonville). Quick loved to sit and talk of 
 Garrick and Goldsmith, and what the dramatist said to him 
 (Quick) when he enacted Tony Lumpkin on the first night of 
 the production of " She Stoops to Conquer." One of Quick's 
 laments was the non-observance of a promise implied to liim 
 by George III. In the early part of that monarch's reign. Quick 
 was walking in the park with his infant daughter, when the 
 King, escorted by his Horseguards, came through ; the child, 
 alarmed at the noise and the appearance of the military, ran 
 from her father, and attempting to get through the rails got 
 
yohn Qttick. 2 1 1 
 
 fastened between them. Her screams and her father's en- 
 deavours to extricate her, attracted the notice of his Majesty; 
 the carriage was stopped, and the actor presently heard an ex- 
 clamation, " Quick ! Quick ! Quick ! what's the matter ?— head 
 through the rails— bad that — very bad — gently, gently. Quick !" 
 Whether in consequence of this advice or not, the child's caput 
 was extracted, and she stood weeping and curtseying 
 before her sovereign. " Good girl — don't cry, don't cry — be a 
 good girl, and you shall be a maid of honour when you are 
 old enough." So saying his Majesty returned to his carriage. 
 This, which was a mere passing word to appease a crying 
 child. Quick treasured as a sacred promise, and to his latest 
 hour regretted that he had never had an opportunity of getting 
 King George alone, in which case, he said, " she would have 
 been maid of honour, and I whatever his Majesty pleased to 
 make me." Quick was one of the vainest of a vain race. He 
 believed in no living actor but himself. The dead he lauded 
 indiscriminately (except Foote, of whom he equally disliked to 
 speak or hear), and the mere mention of the name of a new 
 performer playing one of his original characters would make 
 him silent for the evening. Quick's great parts were Isaac, 
 Tony Lumpkin, Spado (" Castle of Andalusia") ; Lapoche 
 (" Fontainebleau") ; and Sir Christopher Curry (" Inkle and 
 Yarico"). The part that first brought him into notice was 
 £eau Mordecai, in which he appeared as far back as the year 
 1770. — Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 The favourite comedian of his late Majesty was Mr. Quick, 
 an actor of very great and peculiar merits, and a most diligent 
 and faithful servant of the public. — Boaden. 
 
 Quick, the comedian, one day passing through Broken Row, 
 Moorfields, was seized upon by a touter of a furniture shop, 
 who without ceremony pulled him in and began puffing off his 
 chairs and tables. Quick being old and infirm made but little 
 resistance, but asked the man if he were master of the shop ? 
 " No, sir," said the touter, " but I will fetch him immediately." 
 The man returned with his master, to whom he put the same 
 question, " Are you the master of the shop ?" " Yes, sir ; 
 what can I do for you?" "Only," repUed Quick, "just to 
 hold your man a minute while I go out." — Ana. 
 
 The celebrated comedian John Quick resided in Hornsey 
 Row, subsequently Will's Row, Islington. He was bom in 1 748, 
 and left his father, a brewer in Whitechapel, when only fourteen 
 
 F 2 
 
2 12 Ralph Wewitzer. 
 
 years of age, to become an actor. He commenced his career at 
 Fulham, where he performed the character of AUamont in the 
 " Fair Penitent," which he personified so much to the satisfac- 
 tion of the manager, that he desired his wife to set down 
 young Quick a whole share, which at the close of the farce 
 amounted to three shillings. In the counties of Kent and 
 Surrey he acted with great success, and before he was eighteen 
 performed Hamlet, Romeo, Richard, George Barnwell, Jaffier, 
 Tancred, and many other characters in the higher walks of 
 tragedy. In a few years he sufficiently distinguished himself 
 as an actor of such versatile talents that he was engaged by 
 Foote at the Haymarket Theatre in 1769, where he became 
 a great favourite with George III., who, when visiting the 
 theatre, always expected Quick to appear in a prominent 
 character. He was the original Tony Lumpkin, Acres, and 
 Isaac Mendoza, and after his appearance in these characters, he 
 stood before the public as the Listen of the day. Mr. Quick 
 may be considered one of the last of the Garrick school. In 
 1798 he quitted the stage, after thirty-six years of its toils, and 
 with the exception of a few nights at the Lyceum after the de- 
 struction of Covent Garden Theatre, did not act again. He 
 retired with 10,000/. Up to the last day of his life he was in 
 the habit of joining a respectable company which frequented 
 the King's Head, opposite Islington Church, by whom he was 
 recognised as president. — Memoir of John Quick, 1832. 
 
 Ralph Wewitzer.^ 
 
 1749-1825. 
 
 _ At obscure lodgings in Wild Passage, Drury Lane, under 
 circumstances of peculiar distress, died Wewitzer the actor. He 
 died indebted to his landlady 14/., the payment of which she 
 never urged during his illness ; but after death, hearing that 
 he had relations, she determined on having her money, or at 
 least the value of it. A handsome coffin was provided, in 
 which the remains of the unfortunate actor were deposited, 
 
 ' Wewitzer as an actor is well spolcen of by O'Keefe. "Wewitzer '' 
 he says, who "performed one of these warriors, came out with a kind of 
 grand extempore declaration, as if it was the original language of some of 
 the islands. W'^witzer did this piece of pomposo wonderfiilly well." 
 
Ralph Wewitzer, 213 
 
 and every arrangement made for the funeral, when the land- 
 lady made her demand, and a man was placed in possession. 
 Information was forwarded to one of his relations, and ulti- 
 mately the body was taken from the coffin and conveyed in a 
 shell to interment. He was a native of London, where he was 
 brought up as a jeweller, which business he exchanged at an 
 early period for the honours of an actor's hfe. Having got 
 some experience in his new professional course, he at length 
 made his debut at Covent Garden Theatre, as Ralph, in the 
 opera of " The Maid of the Mill," which character he sustained 
 for the benefit of his sister, who, about the year 1785 was held 
 in some estimation both as an actress and singer. It may be 
 observed, as something of a singularity, that his Christian name 
 happened to be the same as that allotted to his character in 
 the piece. Wewitzer's exertions were crowned with success, 
 and indicated so much promise of utility in his profession that 
 he was engaged by the house, where he soon distinguished 
 himself in the representation of Jews and Frenchmen. He 
 next repaired to DubHn for a short time, under the manage- 
 ment of Ryder, and on his return he resumed his situation at 
 Covent Garden : here he remained till, unfortunately, he was 
 induced to undertake the management of the Royalty Theatre ; 
 but, on the failure of that concern, he became a member of 
 the Drury Lane company, with which he continued to perform 
 till the close of his theatrical career. He played at the Hay- 
 market Theatre for several seasons ; and he is also said to 
 have been the inventor of some pantomimes. He had, speak- 
 ing of him as an individual, no indifferent share of companion- 
 able qualities ; for at one time, by happy turns and a cordial 
 vein of humour, he managed to keep the table in a roar. He 
 died quite calmly at the advanced age of seventy-six, and was 
 in his latter years an annuitant on the Covent Garden Theatrical 
 Fund. — Neiv Monthly Magazitie, 1825. 
 
 The late R. Wewitzer sent the following letter to Mr. W. 
 West, the popular comedian of the Haymarket Theatre, who 
 had promised to give Ralph the copy of an address recited by 
 the wife of the latter gentleman at Drury Lane Theatre, on the 
 death of George III., together with two others spoken on the 
 same occasion. Mr. West having neglected his promise re- 
 ceived the following epistle : — 
 
 " Young West, 
 You'd best 
 
214 yohn Edwin. 
 
 Send me 
 Odes three, 
 Printed or writ, sir, 
 To yours, Wewitzer." 
 
 Mr. Wewitzer being asked how old he was, gravely replied, 
 " I do not remember indeed when I was born." 
 
 One of the performers being absent and no intelligence to be 
 obtained where he was, the prompter said that he must be 
 fined. " Ay," cries Wewitzer, " but before he \s fined he must 
 he. found." 
 
 Two of the doorkeepers were tossing a halfpenny for a pot 
 of beer, when one of them called for a head, whenlo ! it was a 
 tail. "Ah," said Wewitzer, who was at his elbow, "you 
 always want a head." 
 
 One of the scene-shifters having vexed Mr. Wewitzer, Mr. 
 W. raised his foot and kicked him. The man, highly provoked, 
 declared that in all his life he was never kicked before. " Very 
 possibly," said W. ; " but I daresay you have been kicked 
 behind." — Theatrical Anecdotes? 
 
 John Edwin, 
 
 1750-1790. 
 
 _ There are sufficient documents of his being the best burletta 
 singer that ever had been, or perhaps ever will be ; and of his 
 obligations to O'Keefe, and of O'Keefe's to him, through the 
 superiority of author and actor. What has not yet been 
 obsen^ed of him is, that nature in gifting him with the vis 
 comica, had dealt towards him differently from low comedians in 
 general; for she had enabled him to look irresistibly funny, 
 with a very agreeable if not handsome set of features ; and 
 while he sung in a style which produced roars of laughter, 
 there was a nielody in some of the upper tones of his voice 
 that was beautiful. There was no medium in his performance 
 of the various characters allotted to him; he was either 
 excellent or execrable ; and it might be said of his acting, as my 
 father in one of his farces makes a gourmand remark upon 
 Shakspeare's writing, " it was Hke turtle; the lean of it might 
 
 1 Much has been said of Wewitzer's wit. The reader will be able to 
 judge of its quality by the above.— Ed. 
 
yohn Edwin. 215 
 
 perhaps be worse than the lean of any other meat ; but there 
 was a quantity of green fat about it which was delicious." — ■ 
 George Colman. 
 
 Many performers before and since the days of Edwin have 
 acquired the power, by private winks, irrelevant buffoonery, and 
 dialogueto make their fellow-players laugh, and thus confound 
 the audience and mar the scene. Edwin, disdaining this 
 confined and distracting system, established a sort of entre nous- 
 ship with the audience, and made them his confidents ; and 
 though wrong in his principle, yet so neatly and skilfully did he 
 execute it, that instead of injuring the business of the stage he 
 frequently enriched it — the only possible excuse for "your 
 clown speaking more than is set down for him." — F. Reynolds. 
 
 Edwin told me that his method was when he got a new part 
 to study to turn it about and about, as an artist drawing from a 
 bust, in order to find the points which might give him most 
 power over his audience. The part of Tipple in the " Flitch ot 
 Bacon "first introduced him to pubHc favour. — O'Keefe. 
 
 Edwin was one of the most extraordinary actors of low 
 comedy that the stage had ever possessed. Henderson — at 
 least, a competent evidence — declared that in dumb action, a 
 very difficult art of the drama, he had never seen him equalled. 
 In Sir Hugh Evans, when preparing for the duel, he had seen 
 him keep the house in an ecstasy of merriment for many 
 minutes together, without speaking a single word. Edwin was 
 another of the theatrical examples which, with competence and 
 enjoyment within their grasp, prefer living in discomfort and 
 dying in beggary. He enfeebled his powers by excess of 
 brandy, until he died degraded, and worn with disease. Yet 
 his powers were originally so strong that even his excesses 
 could scarcely impair his popularity. To the last he was an 
 universal favourite ; and when he died, men looked round the 
 stage, in doubt where they were to find a successor. — Black- 
 wood's Magazine, 1839. 
 
 Alas, poor Edwin ! I knew him intimately. He was a choice 
 actor, and a pleasant club companion. His career was short 
 and brilliant; it was a firework — a sort of squib — ^bright, 
 dazzling, sputtering, and off with a pop. — J^ohn Bannister. 
 
 Edwin's Tipple (in the " Fhtch of Bacon ") was an exquisite 
 treat. Had he but imitated the habit which christened him, he 
 might long have continued the most diverting creature that the 
 modem stage has known. — Boaden. 
 
2 1 6 Henry Johnston. 
 
 Our ancestors, down to a time as late as our grandfathers, 
 certainly tolerated liberties taken with an audience by actors 
 with a leniency that is more surprising, as the manners of the 
 time were ruder and the customs of a very ruffianly character. 
 There are still individuals living who may have seen Edwin. 
 At the close of his career, Edwin was playing Bowkit in the 
 " Son-in-Law " at the Haymarket. In the scene where Cranky 
 declines to accept him as a son-in-law on account of his ugliness, 
 Edwin uttered the word " ugly ?" in a tone of surprise, and then 
 advancing to the lamps, said with great coolness and infinite 
 impudence, " Now I submit to the decision of an enlightened 
 British public which is the ugliest fellow of the three — I, old 
 Cranky, or that gentlerhan in the front row of the balcony box ?" 
 The gentleman became the object, not of general pity, but of 
 general and loud derision, and he retreated hastily from the 
 humiliating consequences of the actor's impertinence.- — Corn- 
 hill Magazine, 1867. 
 
 Henry Johnston. 
 
 Circa 1750. 
 
 Henry Johnston was born in Edinburgh, and had for his 
 godfather the celebrated Lord Erskine,' who took charge of 
 his education, after whom he was called, Henry Erskine 
 Johnston. At this period the tragedy of " Douglas" was very 
 popular ; and as Johnston had decided on making the stage 
 his profession, he selected Young Nerval as his maiden 
 attempt in his native city. His youthful appearance, being 
 scarcely eighteen, graceful form, and handsome, expressive 
 countenance, won for him the universal approbation of his 
 
 ' Of Erskine, Lord Cockburn, in his "Life of Jeffrey,'' says :— " A tall 
 and rather slender figure, a face sparkling with vivacity, and a general 
 suffusion of elegance, gave him a striking and pleasing appearance. He 
 was nearly the same in private as in public ; the presence of only a few- 
 friends never diminishing his animation, nor that of the largest audience 
 his naturalness. No boisterousness ever vulgarized, no effort ever encum- 
 bered his aerial gaiety. Though imposing no restraint upon himself, but 
 always yielding fresh to the radiant spirit within him, his humour was 
 rendered delightful by its gentleness and safety. Too good-natured for 
 .arcasm when he was compelled to expose, there was such an obvious 
 absence of all desire to give pain, that the very person against whom his 
 laughing darts were directed generally thought the wound? compensated by 
 the mirth and the humanity of the cuts." 
 
Henry yohnston. 217 
 
 countrymen. Previous to this the noble shepherd was dressed 
 in the trews and Scotch jacket ; but when Johnston appeared 
 in full Highland costume, in kilt, breastplate, shield, claymore, 
 and bonnet, the whole house rose, and such a reception was 
 never witnessed within the walls of a provincial theatre 
 before. The reverend author, Mr. Home,' was present ; and 
 at the conclusion of the tragedy, publicly pronounced Johnston 
 the beau ideal of his conception. There can be no doubt ot 
 this, as all who have attempted this beautifully drawn 
 character have egregiously failed in producing the effects 
 which Johnston brought forth. — W. Donaldson. 
 
 As a melodramatist he was of much consequence. As 
 Young Norval, Johnston had long been admired in the 
 country of Home. In spectacle he was first-rate. — Boaden. 
 
 Harry Johnston, who used to be " the biggest boy in the 
 world," had an odd style of imitating persons' manner, gait, 
 and gesture, without attempting their voices. No one who had 
 not seen him do it could imagine anything so ludicrous as his 
 representation of how the principal actors would play 
 Harlequin. The fervent lightness of Lewis ; the elephantic 
 ponderosity of Cooke ; and the solemn saltatory efforts of 
 Kemble, were irresistible ; he generally ended this display by 
 a jump d, la Ellar. On one occasion, when a knot of actors 
 and their friends were dining at Greenwich, in the house 
 looking into the Park, he gave this performance, and con- 
 cluded by a lion's leap out of the window, which, as they 
 were in the parlour, was only four or five feet from the ground. 
 The laugh, the song, and the bottle went round, and in 
 another hour the party adjourned upstairs to the first floor, as 
 the numbers having increased, we should have been confined 
 below. Some of our recent visitors were anxious to hear 
 Johnston's imitations again. Harry complied, and set every- 
 body screaming at his pantomimical portraits of Holman, Suett, 
 Pope, &c. Elated with the hilarity of his hearers, he wound 
 up as before in the style of a veritable pantomimist, and, for- 
 
 ijohn Home, the author of "Douglas," was bom in 1724. In the 
 rebellion of 174S, being in the Royal army, he was taken prisoner at 
 the battle of Falkirk. He escaped, and in 1750 was ordained minister of 
 Athelstaneford, in East Lothian. On the production of " Douglas," finding 
 the Presbytery greatly incensed at a minister writing for the stage, he 
 resigned his living. He died in 1808. — Ep. 
 
2 1 8 yack Johnstone. 
 
 getting where he was, jumped through the window, and 
 of course fell full sixteen feet into the Park. Providentially no 
 bones were broken ; but poor Harry received a shock that none 
 but a strong constitution could ever have recovered. — Records 
 of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 Jack Johnstone. 
 
 1750-1828. 
 
 Of all the popular men in London Jack Johnstone was more 
 courted and favoured than any other, not only on account of 
 his nationality, but in consequence of his unapproachable 
 talent in either the Irish gentleman or the peasant. His rich 
 and dehcious singing, and his agreeable and social manners, 
 gained the hearts of gentle and simple in his native city. 
 There have been many excellent actors in the low Irishman, 
 but there has been only 07ie comedian that could delineate the 
 refined Irish gentleman, and enter into the genuine unsophis- 
 ticated humour of a son of the Emerald Isle with equal talent. 
 — Walter Donaldson. 
 
 John Johnstone, in whom the Irish character was certainly 
 somewhat refined, but who taught our dramatists quite enough 
 for their use — namely, all that was pleasant. • Rock and others 
 rendered it vulgar ; whereas Johnstone made it sparkle with 
 humour, and in either blunder or mischance, anger or jest, 
 uniformly delightful. — Boaden. 
 
 Jack Johnstone was very proud of his patrician acquain- 
 tances ; and as the Prince of Wales was partial to his Irish 
 ballads, he was a constant member of the jovial societies of the 
 year 1790 and thereabouts. Suett inflated poor Johnstone 
 with the hyperbolical praises that he vowed the Prince had 
 lavished on his singing ; whilst he amused Johnstone's asso- 
 ciates with very different accounts. Johnstone had one note 
 (E in Alt), which he took very clearly in his falsetto. It was 
 his delight to dwell on that tone an unconscionable time ; so 
 much so, that Suett told Erskine that the Prince once coming 
 into his box whilst Johnstone was at his favourite exercise, 
 turned to his friend and said, " I verily believe he has held 
 that note ever since we were here last" — the Prince having 
 been, the week previous, according to Suett, driven out of the 
 theatre by " Paddy's protracted howl." — Records of a Stage 
 Veteran. 
 
yack Johnstons 2 1 9 
 
 He was born at Tipperary, the son of 'a small but respect- 
 able farmer, having a large family. At the early age of 
 eighteen he enlisted into a regiment of Irish dragoons, then 
 stationed at Clonmel, commanded by Colonel Brown. Being 
 smitten with the charms of a neighbouring farmer's daughter, 
 Johnstone used to scale the barrack wall after his comrades had 
 retired to their quarters, for the purpose of serenading his 
 mistress, having a remarkably sweet and flexible voice. He 
 always returned, however, and was ready at parade the follow- 
 ing morning. He was much esteemed throughout the regiment 
 for a, native lively turn of mind and peculiarly companionable 
 qualities. Two of his comrades (who had found out the 
 secret of his nocturnal visitations) scaled the wall after him, 
 and discovered him on his knee singing a plaintive Irish ditty 
 beneath the window of his inamorata. They returned to 
 quarters instanter, and were quickly followed by Johnstone. 
 The sergeant of the company to which he belonged eventually 
 became acquainted with the circumstance, but never apprized 
 the Colonel of the fact. Shortly after Colonel Brown had a 
 party of particular friends dining with him, whom he was most 
 anxious to entertain. He inquired what soldier throughout 
 the regiment had the best voice, and the palm of merit was 
 awarded by the sergeant-major to Johnstone. The Colonel 
 sent for him, and he attended the summons, overwhelmed with 
 apprehension that his absence from quarters had reached his 
 commander's ears. He was soon relieved, however, on this 
 point, and attended the party at the time appointed. The 
 first song he sung was a hunting one, which obtained much 
 applause, although he laboured under extreme trepidation. 
 The Colonel said that he had heard he excelled in Irish 
 melodies, and bade Johnstone sing one of his ' favourite love 
 songs. His embarrassment increased at this order, but after 
 taking some refreshment, he sang the identical ditty with which 
 he had so often serenaded his mistress in such a style of 
 pathos, feeling, and taste, as perfectly enraptured his auditors. 
 Having completely regained his self-possession, he delighted 
 the company with several other songs, all which received un- 
 qualified approbation. The next day Colonel Brown sent for 
 him and sounded his inclination for the stage. Johnstone ex- 
 pressed his wishes favourably on the point, but hinted the 
 extreme improbability of his success from want of experience 
 and musical knowledge. The Colonel overcame his objections, 
 
220 Jack yohnstone. 
 
 and granted him his discharge, with a highly recommendatory 
 letter to his particular friend Mr. Ryder, then manager of the 
 Dublin theatre, who engaged Johnstone at two guineas a week 
 for three years, which, after his first appearance in Lionel, was 
 immediately raised to four (a high salary at that time in 
 Dublin). His fame as a vocalist gathered like a snowball, 
 and he performed the whole range of young singing lovers with 
 pre-eminent eclat. Our hero next formed a matrimonial alhance 
 with a Miss Poitier, daughter of Colonel Poitier, who had then 
 the command of the military depot at Kilmainham gaol. This 
 lady being highly accomplished, and possessing a profound 
 knowledge of music, imparted to her husband the arcana of 
 the science, and made him a finished singer. Macklin, having 
 the highest opinion of Johnstone's talent, advised him to try 
 the metropolitan boards, wrote a letter to Mr. Thomas Harris, 
 of Covent Garden, who, on the arrival of Johnstone and his 
 wife, immediately engaged them for three years, at a weekly 
 salary of 14/., 16/., and 18/. Johnstone made his first appear- 
 ance in London the 3rd of October, 1783, in his old character 
 of Lionel, and made a complete hit — fully sustaining the ten 
 years' reputation he had acquired on the Dublin stage. After 
 remaining several years at Covent Garden, and finding his 
 voice not improving with time, he formed the admirable policy 
 of taking to Irish parts, which were then but very inadequately 
 filled. His success was beyond example — his native humour, 
 rich brogue, and fine voice for Irish ditties carried all before 
 him. In fact, he was the only actor who could personate 
 with the utmost effect both the patrician and plebeian Irishman. 
 He next performed at the Haymarket, being one of those who 
 remonstrated with the proprietors of Covent Garden in 1801 
 against their new regulations. In 1803 he visited his friends 
 in Dublin, where, martial law being then in force, on account 
 of Emmett's rebellion, the company performed in the day-time. 
 On his return to London his wife died, and he afterwards 
 married Miss Boulton, the daughter of a wine-merchant, by 
 whom he had Mrs. Wallack, who with her children succeed 
 to the bulk of his large property. In the records of the stage 
 no actor ever approached Johnstone in Irish characters. Sir 
 Lucius O^Trigger, Callagkan O'Brallaghan, Major O'Flaherty, 
 Teague, Tully (the Irish gardener), and Dennis Brulgriiddery, 
 were portrayed by him in the most exquisite colours. In 
 fact, they stood alone for felicity of nature and original merit. 
 
Mrs. Hartley. 221 
 
 Mr. Johnstone's remains were interred in a vault under the 
 church of St. Paul, Covent Garden, near the eastern angle oi 
 the church. — New Monthly Magazine, 1829. 
 
 In 1803 Jack Johnstone, afterwards so well known as Irish 
 Johnstone, added to the attractions of the Drury Lane com- 
 pany. Twenty years before, when a very young man, he had 
 appeared on the stage in London, and having a fine voice was 
 a promising performer of opera. The talent by which he was 
 to be distinguished seems to have been utterly concealed from 
 himself How it came to be discovered he used thus to tell : 
 " He was one morning in the green-room when Macklin came 
 in ; the actors crowded round him. Fixing his eyes on John- 
 stone, he bid him come to breakfast next morning. On going 
 he found the old man with the manuscript of 'Love k la 
 Mode' in his hand. ' Read that, sir,' says he, marking out the 
 part of Sir Callaghan O Brallaghan. When the reader ex- 
 pressed his admiration, ' You shall play it, sir,' said the author. 
 Johnstone made many excuses, but was forced to give way. His 
 Irish talent was developed by success, and in it he was un- 
 rivalled to the end of his days." — Blackwood's Magazine, 1839. 
 
 Mrs. Hartley. 
 1751-1824. 
 
 A finer creature I never isaw. Her make is perfect. — 
 Garrick. 
 
 She is a very good figure, with a handsome, small face, and 
 very much freckled ; her hair red, and her neck and shoulders 
 well turned. There is no harmony in her voice; but when 
 forced (which she never fails to do on the least occasion) is 
 loud and strong, but an inarticulate gabble. She is ignorant 
 and stubborn. She talks lusciously, and has a slovenly good 
 nature about her that renders her prodigiously vulgar. — Moody. 
 
 The most severe satirist who bestows one look on Mrs. 
 Hartley must be instantly disarmed, and turn all his censure to 
 panegyric. The calm and lovely innocence of Lady Touchwood 
 could by nobody be so happily represented as by this actress, 
 who is celebrated for her artless exhibition of the distress of the 
 unhappy Shore and the beautiful Elfrida. — T. Davies. 
 
 She was tall and striking in her figure, and had golden hair. 
 It was for this woman that Smith, of Drury Lane, at his 
 
2 22 Mrs. Hartley. 
 
 maturity, made a fool of himself— deserted his wife, with the 
 greatest respect for her all the time, and like a green boy, 
 would have given up the whole world, as he tol'l Garrick, 
 "rather than desert his Rose." — Boaden? 
 
 Her lovely face, and lithe, tall, deHcate figure, haa rapidly won 
 for her the leading place at Covent Garden in such parts of tender 
 tragedy as jFane Shore, and the puKng heroines of Murphy's 
 Ahuma and Mason's Elfrida. She was no actress, but her 
 beauty for a time (as Moody had prophesied) stood her in 
 stead of genius. She had that golden auburn hair which the 
 early Italian painters loved, and those blonde colours which 
 have always, I think, exercised most power of witchery on 
 men. She sat to Sir Joshua very soon after her first success. 
 When he paid her a compliment on her beauty, she turned it 
 laughingly off : " Nay, my face may be well enough for shape, 
 but sure 'tis as freckled as a toad's belly." — Leslies "Life of 
 Reynolds." 
 
 She is one of the most beautiful women I ever saw, and the 
 finest figure, but has not a good voice. — frames Northcote. 
 
 Lately, at Woolwich, aged seventy-three, the once beautiful 
 and admired actress, Mrs. Hartley. She was a contemporary 
 wiih Garrick, and we believe the only one that remained, ex- 
 cepting Mr. Quick and Mrs. Mattocks, who are still alive. 
 Her extreme beauty, and the truth and nature of her acting, 
 attracted universal admiration, and caused her to rank the 
 highest, as a female, in her profession, previous to the appear- 
 ance of Mrs. Siddons. Mr. Hull had written his tragedy 
 of " Henry II., or Fair Rosamond," several years pre- 
 vious to its production, and despaired of obtaining a proper 
 representative for the character of Rosamond until the above 
 lady appeared. Mason, the poet, also ivrote his well-known 
 tragedy of " Elfrida," that she might personify tire principal 
 character. " Elfrida" has always been admired as a beautiful 
 poem, but is not calculated for stage effect ; it was nevertheless 
 at that time supported, and even rendered highly attractive, by 
 
 ' " The author could not have wished a more perfect form and face than 
 this lady displayed upon the stage. When I look back and around me for 
 anything to reflect her to those who have never seen her, I am obliged to 
 say that the exquisite portrait by Sir Joshua did not do her entire justice, 
 and that at last we must refer to the images of ripened beauty and modest 
 dignity with which the perhaps flattering portraits of her poets delighted to 
 exhibit the person of the Virgin Queen." — Boaden. 
 
Miss Linley. 223 
 
 the person and talents of Mrs. Hartley. She was a very 
 favourite subject of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and appears as the 
 beautiful female in a number of his most celebrated pictures. 
 Two in particular are professed portraits of her, called " Mrs. 
 Hardey as yane Shore;' and " Mrs. Hartley as a Bacchante." 
 A fine study for the former was recently sold at the celebrated 
 sale of the Marchioness of Thbmond's pictures, at Christie's. 
 She died in_ easy circumstances, her merits during her public 
 services having procured her a comfortable independence. — 
 New Monthly Magazine, 1824. 
 
 Miss Linleyi (Mrs. Sheridan.) 
 
 1754-1792. 
 
 Among those who sang, not only at the oratorios at Bath, but 
 who had gained a high reputation in all musical circles, was 
 Miss Linley, the daughter of the eminent composer, upon whom 
 nature seemed to have lavished her richest treasures, and art to 
 have nobly seconded her. Miss Linley was beyond a doubt 
 one of the most accomplished and most beautiful women ever 
 seen. — Life of Sheridan, Bohn's Edition. 
 
 To see her as she stood singing beside me at the pianoforte 
 was like looking into the face of an angel. — jfackson of 
 Exeter?' 
 
 There has seldom perhaps existed a finer combination of all 
 those qualities that attract both eye and heart than this 
 
 ' She married Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The story of their courtship 
 is a romance too ■worn to be re-told. After Sheridan had married her, he 
 would not let her sing in public "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 ques- 
 tioned whether the young gentleman, who had not a shilling in the world, 
 but was blest with very uncommon talents, was not foolishly delicate or 
 foolishly proud, and his father truly rational without being mean. John-- 
 son, 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 gentle- 
 man be disgraced by having his wife singing publicly for hire ? No, sir, 
 there can be no doubt here.' " 
 
 " William Jackson, invariably called Jackson of Exeter, was born in that 
 city in 1 730. He was the composer of several beautiful canzonets and 
 sonatas, and the author of a treatise " On the Present State of Musici" 
 He died 1804. — Ed. 
 
224. Miss Linley. 
 
 accomplished and lovely person exhibited. To judge by ivhat 
 we hear it was impossible to see her without admiration, or 
 know her without love ; and a late Bishop used to say that 
 *' she seemed to him the connecting link between woman and 
 angel." The devotedness of affection, too, with which she was 
 regarded, not only by her own father and sisters, but by all her 
 husband's family, showed that her fascination was of that 
 best kind which, like charity, " begins at home ;" and that 
 v/hile her beauty and music enchanted the world, she had 
 charms more intrinsic and lasting for those who came nearer to 
 her. — Thomas Moore. 
 
 Hers was truly " a voice as of the cherub choir,'' and she 
 tvas always ready to sing without any pressing. She sung here 
 a great deal, and to my infinite delight ; but what had a 
 peculiar charm was, that she used to take my daughter, then a 
 child, on her lap, and sing a number of childish songs with such 
 a playfulness of manner, and such a sweetness of look and 
 voice as was quite enchanting. — Rogers's " Correspondence." 
 
 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 admiration for Eliza Ann Linley. 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. 
 Lovers and wooers flocked about her ; Richard Walter Long, 
 the Wiltshire miser, laid his thousands at her feet. Even 
 Foote, when he took the story of Miss Linley's rejection of that 
 sordid old hunks as the subject of his " Maid at 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, grave dons and young gentlemen 
 commoners were alike subdued. In London, 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 favourite Handel. — Lesliis "Life of Reynolds ^ 
 
 I own I prefer Mrs. Sheridan before Miss Harrop, and indeed 
 before any singer I ever heard, even to this moment ; but this 
 
Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 225 
 
 is no ill compliment to Miss Harrop, because charming 
 and exquisite as they were, her talents were confined to 
 concert singing. The talents of Mrs. Sheridan, had the 
 experiment been made, would have been found to have been 
 universal ; but the public was not so far to be obliged. Those 
 who have never heard Mrs. Sheridan can be no more able to 
 conceive the force and effect of her merit than I can be 
 capable of describing it. I can easily make it understood that. 
 if she was possessed of every perfection and free from every 
 fault as a singer, she must have been superior to every other 
 but this is theory : the practical part of the argument cannot 
 be felt but by those who were fortunate enough to hear her, 
 who, if they have any recollection, and will take the trouble to 
 repeat Milton's passage, uttered by Comus immediately after he 
 has heard the lady sing "Sweet Echo," they will find their 
 sensations were at that time delighted equal to that description, 
 for indeed "she took the prisoned soul and lapped it in 
 elysium." — Charles Dibdiiis "History of the Stage," 
 
 Mrs. Siddons. 
 1755-1831. 
 
 Of actors Cooke was the most natural, Kemble the mofft 
 Supernatural, Kean the medium between the two. But Mrs. 
 Siddons was worth them all put together. — Byron. 
 
 Mrs. Siddons in her visit to me behaved with great propriety 
 and modesty, and left nothing behind her to be censured or 
 despised. Neither praise nor money, the two powerful corrupters 
 of mankind, seem to have depraved her. — Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Is it not worth something to have seen Mrs. Siddons in her 
 days of magnificence — Mrs. Siddons, who has lent to the very 
 syllables of her name an elevation and a charm so strong that no 
 effort of mind could now effect their separation — so strong, that 
 none who saw her in the splendour of her meridian ever 
 Dronounced that name without a tone and a manner more 
 softened and raised than their habitual discourse ? She some- 
 times gave vitality to a line which stamped it for ever, while all 
 surrounding recollections have faded away. I remember her 
 saying to a servant who had betrayed her, in some play no 
 longer acted — 
 
 " There's gold for thee ; but see my face no more." 
 Q 
 
2 26 Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 I am sorry that this is the moment in which she comes most 
 strongly on my recollection. I wish it had been in one of 
 Shakspeare's plays ; but so it is. There is no giving an 
 adequate impression of the might, the majesty of grace she 
 possessed, nor of the effect on a young heart of the deep and 
 mysterious tones of her voice. Kemble as Coriolanus, when 
 she was Volumnia, equalled the highest hopes of acting. — 
 Mrs. R. Trench, '■''Remains" 1822. 
 
 After she left the stage Mrs. Siddons, from the want of 
 excitement, was never happy. When I was sitting with her of 
 an afternoon she would say, " Oh dear ! this is the time I used 
 to be thinking of going to the theatre ; first came the pleasure 
 of dressing for my part, and then the pleasure of acting it ; but 
 that is all over now." When a grand public dinner was given 
 to John Kemble on his quitting the stage, Mrs. Siddons said to 
 me, " Well, perhaps in the next world women will be more 
 valued than they are in this." She alluded to the comparatively 
 little sensation which had been produced by her own retirement 
 from the boards, and doubtless she was a far, far greater 
 performer than John Kemble. Combe^ recollected having seen 
 Mrs. Siddons, when a very young woman, standing by the side 
 of her father's stage, and knocking a pair of snuffers against a 
 candlestick, to imitate the sound of a windmill, during the 
 representation of some Harlequin piece. ^ — S. Rogers, '' Table 
 Talk." 
 
 ' Combe, the author of " Dr. Syntax."— Ed. 
 ° One night, when Mrs. Siddons had occasion to drain " the poisoned 
 cup," a ruffian bawled out, to the overthrow of all order in the rest of the 
 house, "That's right, Molly ; soop it up, ma lass." Once during her en- 
 gagement, the evening being hot, Mrs. Siddons was tempted by a torturing 
 thirst to avail herself of the only relief to be obtained at the moment. 
 Her dresser, therefore, despatched a boy in great haste to " fetch a pint of 
 beer for Mrs. Siddons. " Meanwhile the play proceeded, and on the boy's 
 return with the frothed pitcher, he looked about for the person who had 
 sent him on his errand, and not seeing her, inquired, "Where is Mrs. 
 Siddons ?" The scene-shifter whom he questioned, pointing his finger to 
 the stage, where she was performing the sleeping-scene of Lady Macbeth, 
 replied, "There she is.' To the horror of the performers, the boy 
 promptly walked on to the stage close up to Mrs. Siddons, and with a total 
 unconsciousness of any impropriety, presented the porter ! Her distress 
 may be imagined ; she waved the boy away in her gi-and manner several 
 times without effect. At last the people behind tJie scenes, by dint of 
 beckoning, stamping, &c., succeeded in getting him off with the beer, 
 while the audience were in an uproar of laughter, which the dignity of tlie 
 actress was unable to quell for several minutes. — Life of Mathews. 
 
Mrs. Siddons. 227 
 
 If you ask me, 'What is a queen ? I should say. Mrs. Siddons. 
 — Tate Wilkinson. 
 
 1 have some reason to believe that Mrs. Siddons was 
 addicted to drollery. As a proof of this she was very fond in 
 private society of singing with tristful countenance the 
 burlesque song called " Billy Taylor ;" and I will venture the 
 assertion from many evidences that both Mrs. Siddons and 
 Mr. John Kemble had & bias, I may say a great leaning, towards 
 comedy. Mr. Kemble, everybody knows, harboured an intention 
 {z, serious intention I may call it) of performing FalstaffnaV long 
 before his retirement, and rehearsed it several times. Happily 
 for his reputation the idea was abandoned. — Mrs. C. Mathews. 
 
 She was an actress who never had had an equal, nor would 
 ever have a superior. — Henderson} 
 
 I remember her coming down the stage in the triumphal 
 entry of her son Coriolanus, when her dumb-show drew plaudits 
 that shook the house. She came alone, marching and beating 
 time to the music ; rolling (if that be not too strong a term to 
 describe her motion) from side to side, swelling with the 
 triumph of her son. Such was the intoxication of joy which 
 flashed from her eye, and lit up her whole face, that the effect 
 was irresistible. She seemed to me to reap all the glory of that 
 procession to herself I could not take my eye from her. 
 Coriolanus, banner, and pageant, all went for nothing to me 
 after she had left her place. — C. Young} 
 
 ' The actor.— Ed. 
 ^ Mr. Young, the actor, related to me an instance of her power in the 
 part of Mrs. Beverley over his own feelings. He was acting Beverley with 
 her on the Edinburgh stage, and they had proceeded as far as the fourtli 
 scene in the fifth act, when Beverley has swallov/ed the poison, and when 
 Bates comes in and says to the dying sufferer, " Jarvis found you quanelling 
 with Lawson in the streets last night." Mrs. Beverlev s,3.ys, "No, I am 
 sure he did not," to which Jarvis replies, " Or if I did?" meaning, it may 
 be supposed, to add, " the fault was not with my master ;" but the moment 
 he utters the words "Or if I did?" M7-s. Beverley exclaims, " 'Tis false, 
 old man ! They had no quarrel — there was no cause for quarrel!" In 
 uttering this Mrs. Siddons caught hold of Jarvis, and gave the exclamation 
 with such piercing grief, that Mr. Young said his throat swelled, and his 
 atterance was choked. He stood unable to speak the few words wfhich as 
 Bevei-ley he ought immediately to have delivered. The pause lasted long 
 enough to make the prompter several times repeat Beverley's speech, till 
 Mrs. Siddons, coming up to her fellow actor, put the tips of her fingers on 
 his shoulder, and said, in a low voicej "Mr. Young, recollect yourself" — 
 CampbeWs ' ' Life of Siddons. " 
 
 Q a 
 
2 28 Mrs. Siddom. 
 
 Her performance was a school for oratory ; I had studiedher 
 cadences and intonation, and to the harmony of her periods 
 and pronunciation I am indebted for my best displays.— 
 Lord Erskine. 
 
 Her lofty beauty, her graceful walk and gesture, and her 
 potent elocution, were endowments which at the first sight 
 marked her supremacy on the stage. But it was not the 
 classical propriety of a speech, nor the grandeur or pathos of a 
 scene ; it was no individual or insulated beauty that we 
 exclusively admired. These received their full portion of 
 applause, and to many individuals might seem to exhaust the 
 theme of her praise. But it was the high judgment which 
 watched over all these quahfications, the equally vigilant 
 sympathy which threw itself into the assumed character ; it was 
 her sustained understanding of her part, her self-devotion to it, 
 and her abstraction from everything else, and no casual bursts 
 of effect, that riveted the experienced spectator's admiration. — 
 Thomas Campbell} 
 
 The enthusiasm she excited had something idolatrous 
 about it; we can conceive nothing grander. She embodied, 
 to our imaginations, the fables of mythology of the heroic and 
 deified mortals of elder time. She was not less than a goddess 
 or a prophetess inspired by the gods. Power was seated on 
 her brow ; passion radiated from her breast as from a shrine ; 
 she was Tragedy personified. — Hazlitt. 
 
 ' Her farewell performance was given on the 29th of June, 1812. The 
 play was " Macbeth." The crowd was immense. At the sleep-walking 
 scene the excitement was so great that the audience stood on the benches, 
 nnd demanded that the performance should end with that scene. The cur- 
 tain was then dropped for twenty minutes. When it rose, Mrs. Siddons was 
 discovered at a table dressed in white. She came foi"ward, amidst a perfect 
 thunderstorm of applause, which endured many moments. Silence being 
 obtained, she recited an address, towards the conclusion of which, it is 
 said, she exhibited deep emotion. The closing lines were : — 
 
 " Judges and friends, to whom the magic strain 
 Of nature's feeling never spoke in vain, 
 Perhaps your hearts, when yeare have glided by, 
 And past emotions wake a fleeting sigh, 
 May think on her whose lips have poured so long 
 The charmed sorrows of your Shakspeare's song ; 
 On her who, parting to return no more, 
 Is now the mourner she but seemed before : 
 Herself subdu'd, resigns the melting spell, 
 
 And breathes, with swelling heart, her long, her last Farewell." 
 
Mrs. Siddotts. 229 
 
 She is a woman ot excellent character, and therefore I am 
 glad she is thus patronized, since Mrs. Abington and so many 
 frail fair ones have been thus noticed by the great. She 
 behaved with great propriety, very calm, modest, quiet, and 
 unaffected. She has a very fine countenance, and her eyes 
 look both intelligent and soft. She has, however, a steadiness 
 in her manner and deportment by no means engaging. Mrs. 
 Thrale said, "Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all wor- 
 shipping ! However, we shall soon gild it." — Miss Burney. 
 
 Mrs. Siddons seemed always to throw herself on nature as a 
 guide, and follow instantaneously what she suggested. — R. B. 
 Hay don} 
 
 There never perhaps was a better stage figure than Mrs. 
 Siddons. Hei height is above the middle size, but not at all in- 
 clined to the embonpoint; there is, notwithstanding, nothing sharp 
 or angular in the frame ; there is sufficient muscle to bestow a 
 roundness upon the limbs, and her attitudes are, therefore, 
 distinguished equally by energy and grace. The symmetry of 
 her person is exact and captivating; her face is peculiarly 
 happy, the features being finely formed, though strong, and 
 never for an instant seeming overcharged, like the Italian faces, 
 nor coarse and unfeminine, under whatever impulse. On the 
 contrary, it is so thoroughly harmonized when quiescent, and 
 so expressive when impassioned, that most people think her 
 more beautiful than she is. So great, too, is the flexibility of 
 her countenance, that the rapid transitions of passion are given 
 with a variety and effect that never tire upon the eye. Her 
 voice is naturally plaintive, and a tender melancholy in her 
 level speaking denotes a being devoted to tragedy ; yet this 
 seemingly settled quality of voice becomes at will sonorous or 
 piercing, overwhelms with rage, or in its wild shriek absolutely 
 harrows up the soul. Her sorrow, too, is never childish ; her 
 /amentation has a dignity which belongs, I think, to no other 
 woman; it claims your respect along with your tears. — 
 ^oaden^ 1782. 
 
 1 Haydon found fault with her Lady Macbeth. "I fancied that Mrs. 
 Siddons acted with very httle force i)i the scene where she comes out, whew 
 Macbeth is in Duncan's chamber, and says, ' That which hath made them 
 drunk has made ?«« bold.' She ought to liave been in a lilaze. .... I 
 will not go again to see any of Shakspeare's plays ; you always associate 
 the characters with the actors." — Ilaydan's '^Autobiography." 
 
 ' Mr. Siddons, her husband, is represented as an actor of S''?*^ versa- 
 
230 Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 In the acting of Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble I re- 
 member particularly (perhaps because it was somewhat un- 
 expected) the grace with which they could descend from the 
 stateliness of tragedy to the easy manner of famiHar life. The 
 scene in which Mrs. Siddons, as Volumnia, sat sewing with 
 Virgilia, and the subsequent scene with Valeria; and in 
 " Hamlet," the manner in which John Kemble gave the con- 
 versations with the players, were beautiful instances of this. 
 These passages are not comic ; but both brother and sister, 
 in giving them, indicated the perfection of genteel comedy. 
 Perhaps it is the highest praise of such acting to say that it 
 was truly Shakspearian, and made one feel, still more than in 
 reading the plays, the value of such scenes. In the " Winter's 
 Tale," also, the bye-play of Leontes with the child of Mamillius, 
 while he was jealously watching Hermione and Polixenes, was 
 marked by John Kemble with the same fine taste ; and the 
 manner in which Mrs. Siddons, as Lady Macbeth, dismissed the 
 guests from the banquet-scene has often been noticed among 
 the minor beauties of her acting. After her retirement 
 from the stage, she was fond of adverting to her theatrical 
 career f and in a conversation on this subject she said to my 
 friend Newton, " T was an honest actress, and at all times in all 
 things endeavoured to do my best." — Leslie's "Autobiography." 
 
 No tragic actress, I believe, ever had such absolute dominion 
 over her audience as Mrs. Siddons ; nor were her audiences 
 common and indiscriminating, for in addition to a splendid 
 
 tility, capable of acting through the whole range of Hamlet to Harlequin. 
 He was, says Boaden, "when I knew him first, in the prime of life, a 
 fair and very handsome man, sedate and graceful in his manners." Mrs. 
 Siddons had a son, Henry Siddons, who became an actor. He is described 
 as being deficient for the stage * ' in his voice, fonii, and face. " The force 
 of deficiency could hardly go further. The Stranger was the only character 
 he personated with any degree of success. He married Miss Murray, an 
 actress, by all accounts, of real genius. " Above all the actresses of that 
 time, " says an enthusiastic writer, "her demeanour was distinguished by 
 that charm which sometimes has imparted power even to mediocrity, but 
 which, when joined, as it was in her case, with the finest faculties, adds a 
 perpetual power to genius, and ensures its resistless triumph. Mrs. Henry 
 Siddons was in all things the perfect lady. " 
 
 ^ "John Kemble's most familiar table-talk often flowed into blank verse, 
 and so indeed did his sister's. Scott, who was a capital mimic, often 
 repeated her tragical exclamation to a footboy during a dinner at Ashe- 
 »tiel :— 
 
 " ' You've brought me water, boy — I asked for beer I' " — Lockhart. 
 
Mrs. Siddons. 231 
 
 display of the principal rank and fashion of the period, I have 
 frequently seen in the orchestra Burke, Windham, and Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds — all testifying an equal admiration of her 
 commanding talents. The late Mr. Harris used to say that 
 he had more cause to praise and admire her than Sheridan 
 himself; for she brought as full houses to Covent Garden as to 
 Drury Lane, though the former paid her no salary. The fact 
 was, that on Mrs. Siddons's nights Mr. Harris (being sure of 
 an overflow from Drury Lane) only put up his weakest bills, 
 reserving the strongest for his off nights; thus probably, at the 
 end of the week, the average amount of the receipts was in 
 his isNO-ax.-^Frederick Reynolds, "Autobiography." 
 
 On before us tottered, rather than walked, a very pretty, delicate, 
 fragile-looking creature, dressed in a most unbecoming manner 
 in a faded salmon-coloured sack and coat, and uncertain 
 whereabouts to fix either her eyes or her feet. She spoke in a 
 broken, tremulous tone ; and at the close of her sentences 
 her words generally lapsed into a horrid whisper, that was 
 absolutely inaudible. After her first exit, the buzzing com- 
 ment went round the pit generally. She certainly is very 
 pretty ; but then how awkward ! and what a shocking dresser !— 
 Critique on her First Appearance. 
 
 We trust that we have too much good sense to attempt paint- 
 ing a picture of Sarah Siddons. In her youth it is said she 
 was beautiful, even lovely, and won men's hearts as Rosalind. 
 But beauty is a fading flower ; it faded from her face ere one 
 wrinkle had touched that fixed paleness which seldom was 
 tinged with any colour, even in the whirlwind of passion. 
 Light came and. went across those finest features at the coming 
 or going of each feeling and* thought ; but faint was the change 
 of hue ever visible on that glorious marble. It was the mag- 
 nificent countenance of an animated statue, in the stillness of 
 its idealized beauty instinct with all the emotions of our 
 mortal life. Idealized beauty ! Did we not say that beauty 
 had faded from her face ? Yes, but it was overspread with a 
 kindred expression, for which we withhold the name only 
 because it seemed more divine, inspiring awe that over- 
 powered while it mingled with delight, more than regal— say 
 rather, immortal. Such an image surely had never before 
 trod, nor ever again will tread, the enchanted floor. In all 
 stateliest shows of waking woe she dwindled the stateliest into 
 insignificance; her majesty made others mean; in her sun- 
 
232 Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 like light all stars " paled their ineffectual fires." But none 
 knew the troubled grandeur of guilt till they saw her in Lady 
 Macbeth, walking in her sleep, and as she wrung her hands, 
 striving in vain to wash from her the engrained murder, " Not 
 all the perfumes of Arabia could sweeten this little hand !" 
 The whisper came as from the hollow grave; and more 
 hideously haunted than ever was the hollow grave, seemed 
 then to be the cell of her heart ! Shakspeare's self had learned 
 something then from a sight of Siddons.^^(7/^« Wilson. 
 
 Lord Lansdowne mentioned Mrs. Siddons saying one day, 
 when looking over the statues at Lansdowne House, that the 
 first thing that suggested to her the mode of expressing inten- 
 sity of feeling was the position of some of the Egyptian 
 statues, with the arms close down by the side, and the hands 
 clenched. This implied a more intellectual feeling as to 
 her art than I have ever given Mrs. Siddons credit for. — 
 T. Moore? 
 
 When Mrs. Siddons, in her spectacles and mob-cap, read 
 " Macbeth" or " King John," it was one of the grandest 
 dramatic achievements that could be imagined, with the least 
 possible admixture of the theatrical element. Mrs. Siddons 
 could lay no claim to versatility ; it was not in her nature ; she 
 was without mobility of mind, countenance, or manner. — 
 Fanny Kemble. 
 
 Mrs. Siddons continues (1782) to be the mode, and to be 
 modest and sensible. She declines great dinners, and says her 
 business and the cares of her family take up her whole time. 
 When Lord Carlisle carried her the tribute-money from 
 
 ^ " Had a good deal of conversation with Siddons, and was for the first 
 time in my life interested by her off the stage. She talked of the loss of 
 friends, and mentioned herself as having lost twenty-six friends in the 
 course of the last six years. It is something to have had so many. 
 Among other reasons for her regret at leaving the stage was that she always 
 found in it a vent for her private sorrows, which enabled her to bear them 
 better ; and often she has got credit for the truth and feeling of her acting 
 when she was doing nothing more than relieving her own heart of its 
 grief. This I have no doubt is true, and there is something particularly 
 touching in it. Rogers has told me that she often complained to him of 
 the great ennui she has felt since she quitted her profession. When sitting 
 drearily alone, she has remembered what a moment of excitement it used 
 to be when she was in all the preparation of her toilette to meet a crowded 
 house, and exercise all the sovereignty of her talents over them." — Moor^s 
 "Diary," 1828. 
 
Mrs. Siddons. 233 
 
 Brookes's, he said she was not maniere enough. " I suppose 
 she was graceful ?" said my niece, Lady Maria. Mrs. Siddons 
 was desired to play Medea and Lady Macbeth. "No," she 
 replied ; "she did not look on them as female characters." She 
 was questioned about her transactions with Garrick. She said, 
 " He did nothing but put her out ; that he told her she moved 
 her right hand when it should have been her left. In short," 
 said she, " I found I must not shade the tip of his nose." 
 Mr. Crauford, too, asked me if I did not think her the best 
 actress I ever saw. I said, " By no means ; we old folks were 
 apt to be prejudiced in favour of our first impressions." She is 
 a good figure ; handsome enough, though neither nose nor 
 chin according to the Greek standard, beyond which both 
 advance a good deal. Her hair is either red, or she has no 
 objection to its being thought so, and had used red powder. 
 Her voice is clear and good ; but I thought she did not vary 
 its modulations enough, nor even approach enough to the 
 familiar ; but this may come when more habituated to the awe 
 of the audience of the capital. Her action is proper, but with 
 little variety ; when without motion her arms are not genteel. — 
 Walpole, 1782. 
 
 In support of my theory of the mute eloquence of gait and 
 movement, Charles Young was wont to speak in terms of 
 almost wanton admiration of a bold point he saw Mrs. Siddons 
 once make. In the second scene of the second act of 
 " Coriolanus," an ovation in honour of the victor was introduced. 
 No fewer than two hundred and forty persons marched in 
 stately procession across the stage. In this procession Mrs. 
 Siddons had to walk. Had she been content to follow in the 
 beaten track of those who had gone before her she would have 
 marched across the stage with the solemn, stately, almost 
 funereal step conventional. But at the time — as she often did — 
 she forgot her identity ; she was no longer Sarah Siddons, tied 
 down to the directions of the prompter's book : she broke 
 through old traditions ; she recollected that she was Volumnia, 
 the proud mother of a proud son, and conquering hero. So 
 that, instead of dropping each foot at equi-distance in cadence 
 subservient to the orchestra, deaf to the guidance of her 
 woman's ear, but sensitive to the throbbings of her haughty 
 mother's heart, with flashing eye and proudest smile, and head 
 erect, and hands pressed firmly on her bosom, as if to repress 
 by manual force its triumphant swellings, she towered above 
 
234 George Frederick Cooke. 
 
 all around her, and almost reeled across the stage, hervery 
 soul, as it were, dilating and rioting in its exultations, until her 
 action lost all grace, and yet became so true to nature, so 
 picturesque and so descriptive, that pit and gallery sprang to 
 their feet electrified by the transcendent execution of the con- 
 ception. — Life of Charles Mayne Young. 
 
 This actress, like a resistless torrent, has borne down all 
 before her. Her merit, which is certainly very extensive in 
 tragic characters, seems to have swallowed up all remembrance 
 of past and present performers ; but as I would not sacrifice 
 the living to the dead, neither would I break down the statues 
 of the honourable deceased to place their successors on their 
 pedestals. The fervour of the public is laudable ; I -wish it 
 may be lasting, but I hope without that ingratitude to their old 
 servants, which will make their passion for Mrs. Siddons less 
 valuable, as it will convey a warning to her that a new face 
 may possibly erase the impression which she has so anxiously 
 studied to form, and so happily made. — Davies. 
 
 We think of Mrs. Siddons now not only as the greatest 
 tragic actress of whom there is any trace in living memory, 
 but as a splendid exception to the rules of nature — an artist 
 above her art; one who not only surpassed all others in degree, 
 but excelled them in kind; which certainly is not the feeling 
 of those who have seen Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Yates, and others, 
 who divided the throne with her in the beginning of her 
 career. — Talfourd. 
 
 George Frederick Cooke. 
 1756-1812. 
 
 There is an American life of G. F. Cooke, Scurra, deceased, 
 lately pubHshed. Such a book ! — I believe since " Drunken 
 Barnaby's Journal," nothing like it has drenched the press. All 
 green-room and tap-room, drams and the drama — brandy, 
 whisky-punch, and latterly, toddy, overflow every page. Two 
 things are rather marvellous : first, that a man should live so 
 long drunk, and next that he should have found a sober 
 biographer. — Byron} 
 
 George Frederick Cooke was once invited by a builder or 
 
 1 Byron thought him the most natural of actors. — Ed, 
 
George Frederick Cooke. 235 
 
 architect of one of the theatres — Elmerton, as I think. He 
 went ; and Elmerton being at a loss whom to invite, pitched 
 upon Brandon the box-keeper, to meet him. All went on 
 pretty well until midnight, when George Frederick getting very- 
 drunk, his host began to be tired of his company. George 
 took the hint, and his host lighted him downstairs; when 
 Cooke, laying hold of both his ears, shouted, " Have I, George 
 Frederick Cooke, degraded myself by dining with bricklayers 
 to meet box-keepers !" tripped up his heels, and left him 
 sprawling in darkness. — Charles Lamb. 
 
 On one occasion when Cooke fell under the merited rebuke 
 of a crowded house by a repeated instance of gross intem- 
 perance, having vainly tried to recollect the beginning of 
 Richard's first soliloquy, he tottered forward with a cunning yet 
 maudlin intent to divert the indignation expressed into a false 
 channel ; and laying his hand impressively on his chest to 
 insinuate that illness was the only cause of his failure, with up- 
 turned eyes supplicating all the sympathy of his audience, he 
 hiccuped out the unlucky words, " My old complaint!" which 
 was applied so aptly, that a simultaneous burst of derisive 
 laughter followed " the weak invention," and renewed hisses at 
 length dismissed him from the stage for the night' — Mrs. C. 
 Mathews. 
 
 Few actors were more popular in -their day than George 
 Frederick Cooke, whose very errors excited an additional 
 interest to behold him in his favourite characters. Mr. Cooke 
 was an instance of the advantage of an actor undergoing stage 
 discipline in the country before he assumes the highest walk of 
 the drama on the metropolitan boards. He played in London, 
 was unnoticed, and then went the round of the country 
 theatres. Twenty years afterwards he returned to town, a 
 theatrical star of the first magnitude. Mr. Cooke used to say 
 that the highest compliment he ever received on the stage was 
 at York, wlien he portrayed the base duplicity of lago, that he 
 
 ^ Cooke seems to have pretty often taken very extraordinary liberties 
 mth his audiences. Acting once at Liverpool, he -vvas hissed for being so 
 far drunk as to render his declamation unintelligible. He turned savagely 
 upon the people. " What ! do you hiss me ! — hiss George Frederick 
 Cooke 1 you contemptible money-getters ! You shall never again have the 
 honour of hissing me ! Farewell ! /" banish you." After a moment's 
 pause, he added, in his deepest tones, " There is not a brick in your dirty 
 town htt what is cemented by the blood of a negro I" — Ep. 
 
236 George Frederick Cooke. 
 
 was hissed amid cries of " What a villain !" Cooke's lago 
 was always considered an unrivalled performance. — Percy 
 Anecdotes. 
 
 His figure and face are much more adapted to the villain 
 than the lover. His countenance, particularly when dressed 
 for Richard, is somewhat like Kemble's, the nose and chin 
 being very prominent features, but the face is not so long; 
 He has a finely marked eye, and upon the whole, I think, 
 a very fine face. His voice is extremely powerful, and he has 
 one of the clearest rants I ever heard. The most striking fault 
 in his figure is his arms, which are remarkably short and 
 ill-proportioned to the rest of his body, and in his walk this 
 gives him a very ungraceful appearance. He is one of the 
 most intelligent men and agreeable companions I ever met 
 with, and I think myself extremely fortunate in getting into the 
 same house with him. — Charles Mathews. 
 
 Cooke has brought a mine of wealth to Covent Garden. 
 He is a curious actor ; often great, often surprising, with some 
 whimsical defects that act as a foil to his excellencies. — John 
 Litchfield. 
 
 Cooke performed J^alstafi^ like an old lurching sharper. He 
 was shrewd and sarcastic, but wanted easy flowing humour. — 
 J. Taylor.^ 
 
 To Covent Garden Cooke was an accession of great value : 
 he was a Shylock, an lago, a Kitely, a Sir Archy, and a Sir 
 Pertinax. He was formed for the sarcastic ; like Macklin, his 
 features and his utterance were only harmonious in discord. 
 He was an admirable Sir Giles Overreach, a character in which 
 Massinger is very close indeed to the power of Shakspeare. I 
 forget whether he played Luke in that author's " City Madam ;" 
 but the hard, insolent irony of that masterpiece would have sat 
 upon him without a sign of effort. Our drama does not afford 
 many specimens of the kind I mean. It was not sturdy or 
 unceremonious virtue that Cooke excelled in; the sarcasm 
 must be malignant to suit him perfectly. He was an 
 Apemantus, not a Kent. — Boadeti. 
 
 > John Taylor was the son of the Chevalier Taylor, a man notorious in 
 his day as a travelling quack. Taylor was a journalist and dramatic 
 author. His "Monsieur Tonson" is still remembered for its humour. 
 His first wife and Mrs. Stephen ICemble were sisters. Through this he 
 lived on terms of intimacy with the Kemble family. He was for a long 
 time proprietor of the Sun newspaper. He died 1832. — Ed. 
 
Georg6 Frederick Cooke. 237 
 
 The best Richard since Garrick, and who has not been 
 surpassed even by Edmund Kean. Cooke had seen Gairick, 
 and this was no doubt much to his advantage. I thought 
 Edmund Kean inferior to him in Lear, but in Sir Giki 
 Overreach superior, particularly in the last scene. I was told 
 by Bannister that Cooke's Falstaffy^ss. much below Henderson's, 
 but it certainly was much above any other Falstaff I ever, 
 saw; and \i\^ MacSycophant z.n6^ MacSarcasm ^?xe. perfection. 
 I think of him always with particular interest, not only as one 
 of the very few really great tragic actors I have seen, but as the 
 cause of my coming to England. I dined once in company 
 with him at the fish-house on the banks of the Schuylkill, with 
 a club of gentlemen, who in the summer months resorted there 
 to fish. Cooke's manners when sober were perfect, and I came 
 away before he got drunk. ^ — Leslie, " Autobiography" 
 
 On the night that the King commanded this comedy, he 
 asked Mr. Harris whether it were true that Cooke intended to 
 "^^x^oxm. \h& King of Denmark. The manager replying in the 
 affirmative, his Majesty hastened away, observing, " Won't do, 
 won't do. Lord Thurlow might as well play Hamlet." The 
 King was right, and the Prince failed in toto. When Cooke 
 once performed this part in Ireland, he sharpened his sword in 
 the green-room, saying, " I and Mr. Laertes will to-night in 
 reality settle our little disputes," which alarming threat reaching 
 the menaced actor's ears, at the commencement of the fencing 
 match the son of Polonius, seizing Hamlet with both hands by 
 the collar, threw him on his back, and triumphantly put his 
 knee on him. — F. Reynolds. 
 
 When the tragedian was intoxicated he was overbearing, 
 noisy, and insufferably egotistical, asking questions and 
 answering them himself, thus: — "Who am I, sir? George 
 Frederick Cooke, sir. What am I, sir ? The tragedian : not 
 Black Jack, sir." Cooke married a Miss Daniells. Influenced 
 by jealousy he locked her up in a garret, and in a drunken fit, 
 forgetting everything, absented himself from home; his lady 
 
 ^ "In early life he was apprenticed to a printer, but his attention tc 
 theatricals so absorbed his mind that his master soon had his indentures 
 cancelled. He then tried the navy, with no better success. After ths 
 usual probation he became a star at the larger provincial theatres, and was 
 at length engaged at Dublin for three years. There his fame travelled to 
 London and in October, 1800, he made his appearance at Covent Garden." 
 —Meinoit. 
 
238 George Frederick Cooke. 
 
 was in danger of starvation — no one was in the house but the 
 prisoner — her cries at length were heard in the street, and by 
 means of a ladder she was released. She was -(vise enough not 
 to incur the danger a second time, and obtained a divorce. At 
 certain times Cooke was as mad as any inmate of Bedlam or 
 St. Luke's. In one of his quarrels a common soldier declined 
 fighting with him because he (C.) was rich, and the persons 
 present would, he affirmed, favour him. " Look ye here, sir," 
 said Cooke, " all I possess in the world is here, 350/.," and he 
 thrust the bank notes into the fire, and held the- poker upon 
 them until they were consumed. " Now I am a beggar, sir ; 
 will you fight me now ?" — Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 I saw Kemble play Sir Giles Overreach (the Richard III. of 
 middling life) last night ; but he came not within a hundred 
 miles of Cooke, whose terrible visage, and short, abrupt, and 
 savage utterance, gave a reality almost to that extraordinary 
 scene in which he boasts of his own successful villainy to 
 a nobleman of worth and honour, of whose alliance he is 
 ambitious. Cooke somehow contrived to impress upon the 
 audience the idea of such a monster of enormity as had learnt 
 to pique himself even upon his own atrocious character. But 
 Kemble was too handsome, too plausible, and too smooth. — 
 Sir W. Scott. 
 
 Among the Covent Garden actors must not be forgotten 
 Cooke, who came out there in Richard III. For some time he 
 was the greatest performer of this and a few other characters. 
 He was a new kind of Macklin, and like him excelled in 
 Shylock and Sir Archy MacSarcasm ; a confined actor, and 
 a wayward man, but highly impressive in what he could do. 
 His artful villains have been found fault with for looking too 
 artful and villainous ; but men of that stamp are apt to look so. 
 The art of hiding is a considerable one ; but habit will betray it 
 after all, and stand foremost in the countenance. They who 
 think otherwise are only too dull to see it. Besides, Cooke 
 had generally to represent bold-faced, aspiring art, and to hug 
 himself in its triumph. This he did with such a gloating 
 countenance, as if villainy was pure luxury in him, and with 
 such a soft inward retreating of his voice — a wrapping up of 
 himself, as it were, in velvet — so different from his ordinary 
 rough way, that sometimes one could almost have wished to 
 abuse him. — Leish Hunt, 
 
239 
 
 John Philip Kemble. 
 
 1757-1823. 
 
 _ Died, near Lausanne, on the 26th of February, J. P. Kemble, 
 Esq., in his sixty-sixth year. On the 24th it appears he rose 
 well, and went to an adjoining room to speak to Mrs. Kemble, 
 and then returning to his room was observed to totter in his 
 gait. Mrs. Kemble noticed this and assisted him to his chair, 
 but getting worse Dr. Schole was sent for, who found him in 
 the position described, but already altered and exhibiting very 
 unfavourable symptoms — his left side had suffered a decided 
 attack, and he could with difficulty articulate. He seemed ex- 
 tremely anxious to spare the feelings of Mrs. Kemble. Dr. 
 Schole, with the assistance of his old attached servant, George, 
 helped him to his bed, and in the act of conducting him there, a 
 second attack took place, so suddenly that his clothes were 
 obliged to be cut asunder, in order that he might the more 
 speedily be let blood. But nature was fast exhausting ; nor 
 could he ever make use of his speech after a few words which 
 he had uttered on Dr. Schole's arrival. He, however, 
 assented or dissented by signs of the head until within two 
 hours of his complete extinction. His last intelligible words 
 were " George, George." In fine, a third attack, on Wednes- 
 day the 26th, just forty-eight hours after the first, proved fatal : 
 though to a stranger he might appear to Buffer, it is the opinion 
 of the doctor that he was long insensible to the acute feelings 
 of pain. He had imagined that the climate of Italy would 
 prove beneficial to his health ; but having arrived in Rome three 
 months before under unfavourable circumstances of the season, 
 he became worse and worse, so that the English physician, Dr. 
 Clarke, hurried him away to return to Lausanne, where he had 
 been comparatively well. His occupations were his books and 
 his garden — the latter was his predilection ; it was resorted to 
 by him with the first rays of the sun, and kept in a state of 
 cultivation rarely to be surpassed. He was the eldest son of 
 Mr. Roger Kemble, and was born in 1757, at Prescot, in Lan- 
 cashire. He received the first part of his education at the Roman 
 Cathohc seminaryat SedgeleyPark,in Staffordshire, and was after- 
 wards sent to the University of Douay to be qualified for one of 
 the learned professions. Here he soon became distinguished 
 for that talent for elocution which afterwards raised him to 
 
240 John Philip Kemble. 
 
 such eminence. Having finished his academical studies he 
 returned to England, and, preferring the stage to either of the 
 professions for which he had been intended, he performed at 
 Liverpool, York, and Edinburgh. While at York, Mr. Kemble 
 introduced a new species of entertainment, consisting of reci- 
 tations of some of the Odes of Mason, Collins, and Gray ; the 
 tales of Le Fevre and Maria, from Sterne ; and other popular 
 pieces in prose and verse. In these he was particularly suc- 
 cessful, and they contributed to increase his reputation. In 
 Edinburgh he delivered a lecture of his own composition, on 
 Sacred and Profane Oratory, which, from the talent and sound 
 criticism it displayed, gained him the reputation of refined 
 taste among men of letters. He afterwards performed for 
 two years with flattering success in Dublin. Mr. Kemble made 
 his first appearance in London, at Drury Lane Theatre, in the 
 character of Hamlet, September 30th, 1783. His reception 
 was most encouraging, but he had not an opportunity of fully 
 developing his powers till the retirement of Mr. Smith, in 1788, 
 who had been in possession of almost all the principal 
 parts both in tragedy and comedy. On the secession of Mr. 
 King, Mr. Kemble became manager of Drury Lane Theatre, 
 which office he filled till 1796. Shortly afterwards he resumed 
 the management, and held it till the conclusion of the season 
 1800-1. In 1802 Mr. Kemble visited the Continent, for the 
 purpose of introducing to the British stage whatever he might 
 find worthy of adoption in foreign theatres. He spent a twelve- 
 month at Paris and Madrid, where he was honoured with that 
 marked consideration which his eminent talents merited. On 
 his return he purchased a sixth part of the property of Covent 
 Garden Patent, and became manager of that theatre, which 
 situation he filled till a season or two before his retirement 
 During his management in London Mr. Kemble revived seve- 
 ral pieces of merit, and adapted many of our immortal bard's 
 productions to the taste of modern times. He was also the 
 author of " Belisarius," a tragedy which was acted at Hull in 
 1778, but never printed; the " Female Officer," a farce, acted 
 at York in 1779, not printed; " O ! It's Impossible !" (altered 
 from the " Comedy of Errors"), a comedy performed at York, 
 1780, this was also never printed ; the " Pannel," a farce taken. 
 from Bickerstaff's " 'Tis Well it's no Worse;" "The Farm 
 House," a comedy; " Love in Many Masks," a comedy; " Lo- 
 doiska," a musical romance; "Celadon and Florimel," a 
 
jfohn Philip Kemble. 241 
 
 comedy, which has not been printed. Mr. Kemble also pub- 
 lished, about the year 1780, a small collection of verses, under 
 the title of '_' Fugitive Pieces." They were juvenile productions, 
 and it is said that the very day after their publication he was 
 so discontented with them when in print that he destroyed every 
 copy he could procure ; some few, however, escaped the general 
 immolation, and one of them, at a sale a few years since, fetched 
 3/. SJ-. Of Mr. Kemble, as an actor, most have been able to 
 form their own estimate. In private life he was a scholar and 
 a gentleman. — Memoir at the time of his Death. 
 
 The most supernatural of actors. — Byron} 
 
 This great actor, and amiable and accomplished man, left 
 the stage in 1816, and died the 26th of February, 1823, at 
 Lausanne. In his own day he had no competitor in any walk 
 of tragedy; and those (of whom I knew several) who re- 
 membered Barry, Mossop, Henderson, and Garrick, admitted 
 that in characters of high tragic dignity, such as Hamlet, 
 Coriolanus, Alexander, Cato, he excelled all his predecessors 
 almost as much as his sister did all actresses in the female 
 characters of the same heroic class. I never saw any that 
 approached to either. She, it is agreed, was never excelled, 
 and he by Garrick alone, and by Garrick only in his universality. 
 In such characters as I have mentioned, those who had seen 
 both preferred Kemble, .whose countenance and figure were 
 both suited to those parts. — -J. W. Croker, '■'■ BoswelF s Johnsoii." 
 
 Kemble was unpopular with all but the aristocratic portion 
 of his audience, to whom exclusively he was accused of paying 
 court. He is said to have been proud and authoritative in 
 his bearing towards others, and to have given disgust by the 
 affectation which was exhibited in his manners, language, and 
 even in his acting. An amusing instance of this was shown 
 in the obstinacy with which he contended that the word acht 
 should be pronounced as it is written, aitche, and in the 
 pertinacity with which he held himself to that pronunciation. — 
 Thomas Wright, " Caricature History." 
 
 Is it not also much to recollect Kemble, when he too was 
 after the high Roman fashion, and the last of the Romans ? 
 Some persons begin now to praise him_ for his classical and 
 
 ■• " Was not lago perfection ?" wrote Byron, " particularly the last look. 
 I was close to him, and never saw an English countenance half so expre* 
 live." — Life of Byron. 
 
 K 
 
242 John Philip Kemble. 
 
 erudite performance of certain characters, as though he had 
 been denied the power of touching the tenderer sympathies 
 of our natures ; but who has seen him in the Stranger or 
 Fenruddock and not shed tears from the deepest sources? 
 His tenderly putting away the son of his treacherous friend, 
 and inconstant, but unhappy mistress, examining his counte- 
 nance, and then exclaiming, in a voice which developed a 
 thousand mysterious feelings, " You are very like your mother," 
 was sufficient to stamp his excellence in the pathetic line of 
 acting. But in this respect Mrs. Siddons was a disadvantage 
 to him. I enter into no comparison between their merits ; but 
 it would have been fair to remember that the sorrows of a 
 woman formed to be admired and revered are in general more 
 touching, more softening, than those of a warrior, a philosopher, 
 or a statesman. I always saw him with pain descend to the 
 ■Stranger. It was like the genius in the Arabian tale going 
 into the vase. First, it seemed so unlikely he should meet 
 with such an affront, and this injured the probability of the 
 piece ; and next, the Stranger is really never dignified, and one is 
 always in pain for him, poor gentleman ! — Mrs. R. Trench, 
 1822, '■'■Remains." 
 
 No man could deliver brilliant dialogue — the dialogue of 
 Congreve or of Wycherly — because none understood it half so 
 well as John Kemble. His Valentine, in " Love for Love," 
 was, to my recollection, faultless. He flagged sometimes in 
 the intervals of tragic passion ; he would slumber over the 
 level parts of an heroic character ; his Macbeth has been known 
 to nod. But he always seemed to me to be particularly alive 
 to pointed and witty dialogue. The relaxing levities of 
 tragedy have not been touched by any since him. The playful 
 court-bred spirit in which he condescended to the players in 
 Hamlet, the sportive relief which he threw into the darker 
 shades of Richard, disappeared with him. He had his sluggish 
 moods, his torpors, but they were the halting-stones and 
 resting-places of his tragedy, politic savings and fetches of the 
 breath, husbandry of the lungs, where nature pointed him to 
 
 be an economist, rather, I think, than errors of judgment 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 The daughter of a nobleman is said to have discovered a 
 strong passion for Mr. Kemble, which induced the father to 
 send to him, and after stating the circumstance, he observed 
 that effectual means were taken to prevent an union between 
 
John Philip Kemble. 243 
 
 Mr. Kemble and his daughter, should they mutually wish it. 
 He then proposed to Mr. Kemble that if he would relieve 
 him from the duty of being a sentinel over his daughter by 
 marrying some other lady, he would present him with 4000/. ; 
 but that it must be done within a fortnight. Mr. Kemble con- 
 sented, and married Mrs. Brereton ; but it is said the noble lord 
 did not keep his promise, and that Mr. Kemble never received 
 a shilling from him. — Life of Kemble, 1828. 
 
 John Kemble was often very amusing when he had had a 
 good deal of wine. He and two friends were returning to 
 town in an open carriage from the Priory (Lord Abercom's), 
 where they had dined ; and as they were waiting for change at 
 a toll-gate, Kemble, to the amazement of the toll-keeper, called 
 out in the tone of Rolla^ " We seek no change ; and least of 
 all such change as he would bring us !" When Kemble was 
 living at Lausanne, he used to feel rather jealous of Mont 
 Blanc j he disliked to hear people always asking, " How does 
 Mont Blanc look this morning?" — 6'. Rogers's " Table Talk." 
 
 Fair as some classic dome. 
 
 Robust and richly graced, 
 Your Kemble's spirit was the home 
 
 Of Genius and of Taste — 
 
 Taste like the silent dial's power, 
 That when supernal light is given. 
 
 Can measure inspiration's hour. 
 And tell its height in heaven. 
 
 At Once ennobled and correct. 
 
 His mind surveyed the tragic page, 
 
 And what the Actor could effect. 
 The Scholar could presage.'' 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 •"Sheridan's translation of the 'Death of RoUa,'" wrote Mrs. 
 Trench, "under the name of ' Pizarro,' has brought him 5000/. per week 
 for five weeks; The sentiments of loyalty uttered by Rolla are supposed 
 to have had so good an effect, that on the Duke of Queensberry's asking 
 why the stocks had fallen, a stockjobber replied, ' Because at Drury Lane 
 they had left off acting ' Pizarro.' " — Memoirs. 
 
 ' Not always. He once designed to -play Macheath in the "Beggars' 
 Opera," a part about as much suited for him as Isaac Mendoza in the 
 "Duenna," and it is notorious he played Charles Surface m the "School 
 for Scandal" against the advice of eveiy one competent to advise, until 
 
 R 2 
 
244 John Philip Kemble. 
 
 When Kemble was appointed stage-manager of Drury Lane, 
 his fine classical taste and judgment saw at once the ridiculous 
 costume handed down from the days of Shakspeare and 
 Garrick— such as a stiff-skirted coat for Othello, breeches, 
 waistcoat, black face, white full-bottomed wig, and three- 
 cocked hat. He accordingly searched the engravings and 
 paintings of former ages, and had the historical drama dressed 
 in the proper costume of its period. This great benefit to the 
 legitimate works of the country must be ascribed to John 
 Kemble, and to no other.' — Donaldsoiis ^'■Recollections." 
 
 The theatre opened for the after-season on Monday, May 25 
 (1795), with "Hamlet" and the "Village Lawyer;" Hamlet 
 Mr. Kemble, his first appearance these six years ; and if twenty 
 guineas had been offered for a ticket or a place in the boxes, 
 it could not have been purchased. In all my life I never saw 
 people more anxious to get into a theatre. Every avenue was 
 crowded at an early hour ; and after the theatre was filled, I 
 may safely assert many hundreds went away. Kemble's re- 
 ception was quite rapturous ; every one seemed delighted — 
 those who had seen him, at the return of their former favourite, 
 and those who had not seen him, at his figure and appearance. 
 The applause was continued to six or seven peals. Being out 
 of the play, I went in front, and never had so great a treat. 
 His Hamlet certainly must be ranked as one of his best parts. 
 In the scene with Rosmcrantz and Guildenstern, after the play, 
 it is customary with other actors, when performing that 
 character, to address themselves entirely to Guildenstern — 
 " Can you play upon this pipe ?" But Kemble, after speaking 
 to him, and " entreating," turns to Rosencrantz — "CanjwMf 
 when standing between them, and alternately surveying them 
 with scorn, he addresses them : " How poor a thing," &c. 
 This, however trifling the alteration may appear, has a much 
 
 laughed out of it by being asked, " Mr. Kemble, you have long given us 
 Charles's martyrdo7fi ; when shall we have his restoration ?" — Ed. 
 
 ^ In Garrick's time Macbeth wore a suit of black silk, with silk stockings 
 and shoes, buckles at the knees and feet, a full-bottomed wig, and a sword. 
 The anomaly, however, seems to disappear, when we read that in 1770 a 
 well-dressed gentleman wore a mixed silk coat, pink satin waistcoat,' 
 breeches covered with silver net, white silk stockings with pink clocks, 
 pink satin shoes and pearl buckles, high hair, well powdered and stuffed 
 with pearl pins, and a mushroom-coloured stock covered with point lace. 
 —Ed, 
 
John Philip Kemble. 245 
 
 better effect than addressing only one, as it disposes the three 
 figures better. — Charles Mathews. 
 
 In January, 1777, they drank tea and supped at Mrs. 
 Siddons's; there Mrs. Inchbald first saw her brother, Mr. 
 Kemble, who seems to have been pleased with his new 
 
 acquaintances He was now in his twentieth year, his 
 
 countenance remarkably striking, his figure, though muscular, 
 slender; he greatly exceeded the usual measure of learning 
 among young men, was very domestic in his habits, and fond 
 
 of a friendly fireside Mrs. Inchbald seems to have paid 
 
 him the homage of a very particular study as a character out of 
 the common road, and consequently in some danger of losing 
 his way ; for as to the powers of his genius, perhaps they 
 needed the brilliant success of his sister to warm them to their 
 full expansion, and prepare the public for a style of acting some- 
 what scholastic and systematic. — Boadetis "Life of Inchbald." 
 
 Kemble came into a part with a stately dignity, as if he 
 disdained to listen to nature, however she might whisper, until 
 he had examined and weighed the value of her counsel. — 
 B. R. Haydon. 
 
 I hke him equally well with Cooke, but I think it is hardly 
 right to draw a comparison between them, as the line of 
 characters they each excel in is quite different. Kemble could 
 not play Sir Pertinax like Cooke, nor could the latter play 
 Pierre or Coriolanus like Kemble. — C. R. Leslie. 
 
 Of Kemble I must say that in several characters, particularly 
 in those of the Roman and the Misanthrope, he was un- 
 questionably the finest actor I ever saw, and off the- stage his 
 unaffected simplicity of manner rendered him most pleasing 
 and entertaining. One instance of this simplicity I well 
 remember. Meeting him at a dinner in the city, not long 
 after he had performed Charles in the " School for Scandal," 
 when our flattering host, asserting that this character had been 
 lost to the stage since the days of Smith, added that Kemble's 
 perfonnance of it should be considered as Charleys Restoration, 
 to this a less complimentary guest replied, in an undertone, that 
 in his opinion this performance should rather be considered as 
 Charles's Martyrdom. Our witty critic, however, did not speak 
 so low but that the great tragedian heard him ; when, to our sur- 
 prise and amusement, instead of manifesting indignation, he 
 smiled and said, " Well now, that gentleman is not altogether 
 singular in his opinion. A few months ago, having taken a glass 
 
i^e John Philip Kemble. 
 
 too much, I inadvertently quarrelled with a gentleman in the 
 street. This gentleman called on me the foUowmg mornmg 
 for an explanation. ' Sir,' said I, ' when I commit an error, 1 
 am always ready to atone for it ; and if you^ will only name 
 any reasonable reparation in my power — ' ' Sir,' interrupted the 
 gentleman, 'at once I meet your proposal, and name one. 
 Solemnly promise, in the presence of this my friend, that you 
 will never play Charles Surface again, and I am perfectly 
 satisfied.' Well, I did promise, not from nervosity, as you may 
 suppose, gentlemen ; but because, though Sheridan was 
 pleased to say that he liked me in the part, I certainly did not 
 like myself in it ; no, no more than that gentleman who has 
 just done me the favour to call it Charles's Martyrdom."— F. 
 Jieynolds. 
 
 Mr. Kemble did not, like his sister, burst on the town in the 
 full maturity of his powers. He was a gentleman and a 
 scholar, with signal advantages of person, and with almost 
 equal defects of voice, who determined to become a noble 
 actor, and who succeeded by infinite perseverance and care, 
 assisted doubtless by the reputation and the influence of Mrs. 
 Siddons. He formed a high standard in his o\vn mind, and 
 gradually rose to its level. At his very last, in all characters 
 which were within the scope of his physical capacity, he played 
 his best, and that best seemed absolute perfection. His 
 career, therefore, may be reviewed with that calm and in- 
 creasing pleasure, with which we contemplate the progressive 
 advances of art; instead of the feverish admiration and dis- 
 appointment which are alternately excited by the history of 
 those who have played from impulse in the first vigour of 
 youth, and in after-days have been compelled languidly to 
 retrace the vestiges of their early genius. At first he had but a 
 limited choice of characters ; he was opposed by Henderson, 
 to whom he was then unequal, and rivalled by Smith, who held 
 possession of the chief parts in tragedy as well as comedy till 
 he left the stage. For a long time, Holman and even Pope 
 divided public favour with him ; but the seeds of greatness 
 were deeply implanted in his nature, and the determination to 
 cultivate and mature them. Even after he became manager 
 and obtained an uneasy and invidious power, there were not 
 wanting accidents to retard his progress. Cooke, in spite of his 
 imprudences, perhaps by the aid of some of tliem, beat him on 
 his stage in the estimation of the vulgar ; Master Betty obscured 
 
John Philip Kemble. 247 
 
 him for a season; and the O. P.* disturbance, ungenerously 
 begun by the people, and imprudently resisted by the managers, 
 set him in painful opposition to the town, and fretted the 
 haughty spirit which it could not subdue. But resolution 
 prevailed ; he went on calmly studying the principles of his 
 art, and succeeded at last in presenting the stateliest pictures of 
 
 ' Covent Garden Theatre was burned on September 19th, 1808, and was 
 now in rapid progress of rebuilding. Its re-opening led to the most ex- 
 traordinary theatrical riots that this country ever witnessed. Immediately 
 after the destniction of the theatre Kemble solicited a subscription to re- 
 build it, which was speedily filled up, the Duke of Northumberland con- 
 tributing ten thousand pounds. The first stone of the new building was 
 laid by the Prince of Wales on the last day of the year 1808, and it was 
 completed with such rapidity that on the i8th of September, 1809, it was 
 opened with " Macbeth," Kemble himself appearing in the character of 
 Macbeth. In the new arrangement a row of private boxes formed the 
 third tier under the gallery. The furniture of each box and of the adjoin- 
 ing room was to be according to the taste of the several occupants. To 
 make these extraordinary accommodations for the great the comforts of the 
 rest of the audience were considerably diminished. To crown all, the 
 theatre opened with an increase of the prices, the pit being raised Irom 
 3J. 6rf. to 6^. , and the boxes from 6s. to ys. The manager said that this 
 was necessary to cover the great expense of rebuilding the theatre ; but 
 the public declared that the old prices were sufficient, and that the new 
 ones were a mere exaction to enable Kemble to pay enormous salarie,s to 
 foreigners like Madame Catalani (who had been engaged at 150/. a week 
 to perfonn two nights only). On the first night of representation, which 
 was Monday, the curtain drew up to a crowded theatre, and the audience 
 seemed to be lost in admiration at the beauty of the decorations until 
 Kemble made his appearance on the stage. A faint attempt at applause 
 got up by his own friends was in an instant drowned by an overpowering 
 noise of groans, hisses, yells, which drove him from the stage. Mrs. 
 Siddons then came forward, but met with no better reception. Kemble 
 had declared he would not give in to the popular clamour, but the next 
 night and the nights following it was continued with greater fury. On 
 Wednesday night the manager came forward to address the audience, and 
 attempted to make a justification of his conduct, which was not accepted. 
 On Friday he presented himself again, and proposed that the decision of 
 the dispute should be put to a committee composed of the Governor of the 
 Bank of England, the Attorney-General, and others. On Saturday night 
 this was agreed to, and the theatre was shut up until the decision was 
 obtained, the obnoxious Catalani having in the meantime agreed to cancel 
 her engagement. On the Wednesday following the theatre was re-opened, 
 but the report of the committee being of a very unsatisfactory kind, the 
 uproar became greater than ever. The manager is said to have hired a 
 great number of boxers, and on the Friday night following, the various 
 fights in the pit gave it the appearance of a boxing-school. During this 
 period everything distinguished by the epithet O. P. {old prices) became 
 fashionable. There was an O. P. Dance. Finding it utterly impossible 
 
248 John Philip Kembk. 
 
 Roman greatness, and giving the most appropriate expression 
 to philosophic thought, that it had entered into modem imagi- 
 nation to conceive.^ — New Monthly Magazine, 1825. 
 
 Kemble has no deshabille talent, if I may coin the phrase. 
 Away from the lamps he was a mere private gentleman, and to 
 most persons must have appeared an exceedingly dull one. 
 His mind was not obtuse, but his extreme slowness gave him 
 all the appearance of obtusity. In allusion to his asthma, he 
 was wont to say that no one else of his family knew the misery 
 of " drawing on their own chest, and finding the cheque dis- 
 honoured." Kemble and Henderson were both subject at 
 times to profound melancholy ; Kean gave way to despondency, 
 but that his habits sufficiently accounted for; with his two 
 great predecessors the feeling seemed to be "a part of them 
 and of their natures." — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 He seems to me always to play best those characters in 
 which there is a predominating tinge of some over-mastering 
 passion, or acquired habit of acting and speaking, colouring the 
 whole man. The patrician pride of Coriolanus, the stoicism of 
 Brutus and Cato, the rapid and hurried vehemence oi Hotspur, 
 mark the class of characters I mean. But he fails where a 
 ready and pliable yielding to the events and passions of life 
 
 to appease the rioters in any other way, Kemble gave in to them. A 
 public dinner was held, at which no less than five hundred people attended, 
 and Kemble came in person to make an apology for his conduct. After 
 dinner there was a crowded theatre, and amid considerable uproar a humble 
 apology was accepted from the manager. After their demands had been 
 complied with, a large placard was unfurled, containing the words, "We 
 are satisfied." Thus ended this extraordinary contest. — Wrighfs " Carica- 
 ture History," Abridged. 
 
 ^ Emery, Cooke, and Incledon were once overheard speaking of Kemble. 
 A fragment of their conversation is preserved : 
 
 " Emmy. ' He has no natur ; not a bit. But then he never wur the 
 feyther of a child, and that accounts for it. ' 
 
 "Cooke. ' With the voice of an emasculated French horn, and the face of 
 an itinerant Israelite, he would compete with me, sir ; me — George 
 Frederick Cooke 1 Wanted me to play Horatio to his Hamlet, sir ! Let 
 him play Sir Pertinax, that's all. I would like to hear him attempt the 
 dialect' 
 
 "Incledon. 'Attempt ! The fact is, my dear boys, he'd attempt any- 
 thing.' Here Incledon illustrated some of Kemble's attempts in a way 
 the reader must imagine, and wound it up by saying, 'and, lastly, he 
 
 actually attempted to sing, d me, in the presence of the national 
 
 smger of England, Charles Incledon ; d me i'" 
 
John Philip Kemble. 249 
 
 makes what may be termed a more natural personage. Accord- 
 ingly, I think his Macbeth, Lear, and especially his Richard, 
 inferior in spirit and truth. In Hamlet the natural fixed 
 melancholy of tlie prince places him within Kemble's range ; 
 yet many delicate and sudden turns of passion slip through his 
 fingers. He is a lordly vessel, goodly and magnificent when 
 going large before the wind, but wanting the facility to go " ready 
 about" so that he is sometimes among the breakers before he 
 can wear ship. Yet we lose in him an excellent critic, an 
 accomplished scholar, and one who graced our forlorn drama 
 with what little it has left of good sense and gentiemanlike 
 feeling. — Sir W. Scott. 
 
 Kemble was a cultivated man, but a poor creature when he 
 put pen to paper, or otherwise had to bring out anything of 
 mind. — T. Moore?- 
 
 I went as I promised to see the new Hamlet, whose provincial 
 fame had excited your curiosity as well as mine. There has 
 not been such a first appearance since yours ; yet nature, 
 though she has been bountiful to him in figure and features, 
 has denied him a voice. Now and then he was as deliberate 
 in his delivery as if he had been reading prayers, and had 
 waited for the responses. He is a very handsome man, almost 
 tall, and almost large, with features of a sensible, but fixed and 
 tragic cast. His action is graceful, though somewhat formal — 
 which you will find it hard to believe, yet it is true. Very 
 careful study appears in all he says and all he does ; but there 
 is more singularity and ingenuity than simplicity and fire. 
 Upon the whole he strikes me rather as a finished French 
 performer than as a varied and vigorous English actor. — 
 Richard Sharp, to Henderson, the Actor, 1785. 
 
 ' " One night, when John Kemble was performing at some country theatre 
 one of his most favourite parts, he was much interrupted, from time to time, 
 by the squalling of a young child in one of the galleries. At length, 
 angered by this rival performance, Kemble walked with solemn step to the 
 front of the stage, and addressing the audience in his most tragic tones, said, 
 'Ladies and Gentlemen, unless the play is stopped, the child cannot 
 possibly go on.' The effect on the audience of this earnest interference in 
 favour of the child may be conceived." — T. Moore. 
 
250 
 
 Stephen Kemble.* 
 
 1758-1822. 
 
 The countenance of Mr. Stephen Kemble was certainly hand- 
 some, though not dark, hke that of his, elder brother. But 
 his figure was encumbered with flesh ; there was nothing of the 
 heroic in his proportion. But had he personated Achilles, and 
 shouted at the door of his tent, he had equally struck a terror 
 through the army, and probably the whole city of Troy. He 
 appeared on the 24th of September, 1783, at Covent Garden 
 Theatre, in the character of Othello, and thus by blacking his 
 face parted with his- only agreeable distinction. But he had 
 nothing of the noble and discriminating character of his 
 family — at least, it did not enter into his acting. He was a 
 man of sense, and even of some literary attainments ; but his 
 declamation was coarse and noisy, and his vehement passion 
 was too ungovernable for sympathy. — Boaden. 
 
 Stephen Kemble, who died in Durham, conducted the 
 Sunderland circuit for years, and was also manager of the 
 Glasgow Theatre. His Falstaff was an attraction ; for this 
 gross character he could act without stuffing. There were 
 others, too, he appeared in, such as Othello and Hamlet. An 
 
 ^ Of Mrs. Stephen Kemble, a writer in BlacJnvoo(Vs Magazine, 1832, 
 said : — " There were few more delightful actresses in her day. In speaking 
 she had a clear silver voice, ' most musical, most melancholy * {though 
 she was not a little of a vixen, and in pure spite once almost bit a piece 
 out of the shoulder of Henry Johnston, in Young Noma!, while bending 
 over * my beautiful, my brave, ' in the maternal character of Lady Ran- 
 dolph), and she sung with the sweetest pathos. From many fair eyes now 
 shut have we seen her Ophelia draw tears in the mad scene, and she was 
 a delicious yuliet, and an altogether incomparable Yarico. Not so lovely 
 as the fair O'Neill, nor so romantic, for she had borne children ; but her 
 eyes had far more of that unconsciously alluring expression of innocence 
 and voluptuousness which must have shown throiigh the long fringes of 
 the large lamping orbs [sic] of the fond Italian girl who at fourteen was a 
 bride, and but for that fatal sleeping drauglit, ere fifteen would have been 
 a mother. In Catherine, again, we have more than once been delighted 
 to see her play the devil. To her it was not every man, we can assure 
 you, that was able to be a Petriichio. In all the parts she played she was 
 impassioned ; and all good judges who remember her will agree with us 
 in thinking that she was an actress, not only of talent but of genius." Her 
 maiden name was Satchell. Boaden is entliusiastic in her praise. See 
 "Life of Siddons," pp. 214, 215, vol. i. — Ed. 
 
Stephen Kemble. 251 
 
 engraving is still in existence of Stephen Kemble in the Prince oj 
 Denmark, in an old-fashioned black coat, breeches, vest, shoes, 
 buckles, and a large flowing auburn wig. I am not in possession 
 of his costume for Othello, but should imagine from this that he 
 dressed the noble Moor much as Garrick was in the habit of 
 doing — coat, breeches, and a white judge's wig. He selected 
 white as it matched his complexion. What ideas they had of 
 costume in those days! In 1815, in Scotland, I have seen 
 Macbeth dressed in an officer's red coat, sash, blue pants, Hessian 
 boots, and a cocked hat. Stephen Kemble personated 
 Othello one night in the Glasgow Theatre, and a circumstance 
 occurred in the last scene which turned the tragedy into a 
 comedy. When the bed of Desdemona was arranged, the 
 property man, being a new hand, and in eager anxiety to have 
 everything right and proper, fit for a chambre accouche, placed 
 something under the bed which is always dispensed with. The 
 curtain drew up and Kemble entered, speaking the soliloquy, 
 " My soul, it is the cause, it is the cause !" A tittering took place, 
 and then a laugh. Stephen Kemble stopped, looked around, 
 and perceiving the cause of the hilarity, rushed off the stage, 
 seized the unlucky property man by the neck as he would lago, 
 and roared out, " Villain ! villain !" The terrified wretch cried, 
 " Oh, sir, pardon me ! I assure you I couldn't get the loan of a 
 white one anywhere." — '^Recollections of an Actor," Donaldson. 
 
 Stephen Kemble was born immediately after the conclusion 
 of the performance of Shakspeare's "Henry VIH.," in a small 
 temporary theatre at Kingstown, Herefordshire, his mother 
 having enacted Anna Sullen that night ; and Stephen was 
 ushered into existence at the very period when, according to 
 the play, the Princess Elizabeth is supposed to be born.' 
 Stephen married Miss Satchell, and their son Harry followed 
 the dramatic fortunes of his father, for Mrs. S. Kemble 
 was confined within two hours of her having performed Yarico 
 at the Haymarket Theatre. Mr. Stephen Kemble, whose 
 obesity unfitted him for the stage, was an actor of great talent, 
 and an amiable man. On one occasion he offended Incledon, 
 who having exhausted his memory for some tangible cause for 
 
 1 This is as good as the Militia Captain, who exclaimed : " Talk of 
 coincidences ! Why, sir, on the very day that Napoleon escaped from St. 
 Helena I marched at the head of my regiment to Wormwood Scrubs 1 '— 
 Ed. 
 
252 Stephen Kemble. 
 
 reprehension, at last said, " In fact, no good can be expected 
 of a fat fellow who — neva- was shaved in his life /" Stephen had 
 no beard. — Records of a Veteraii. 
 
 Stephen Kemble has a soul under that load of fat, which 
 soul will ooze out ; but John's is barred up by his ribs, a 
 prisoner to his prudence. — Edmund Keaii. 
 
 Stop — we had forgotten Stephen the Fat, who used to play 
 Falstaff. He had a fine face of his own, but that boundless 
 belly spoiled everything. Yet we have seen him enact Hamlet 
 for his own benefit. 
 
 " Oh that this too, too sohd flesh would melt. 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!" 
 
 was a wish that, if granted, had drowned the pit. Had he been 
 a slim youth, he had been a capital actor, and could have 
 played well Ranger or Young Norval. For Stephen Kemble 
 was a man of excellent talents, and taste too ; and we have a 
 volume of his poems, presented to ourselves one evening after 
 the play in the Shades at Whitehaven, in which there is con- 
 siderable powers of language, and no deficiency either of 
 feeling or of fancy. He had humour if not -wit, and was a 
 pleasant companion and worthy man. He was among the 
 best of our provincial managers. — John Wilson. 
 
 In talking about Stephen Kemble, whose sole qualification 
 for acting Falstaff was his being able to do it mthout stuffing, 
 Luttrell' said, " The most difficult character I know to act 
 without stuffing is a fillet of veal ! I have seen it attempted, 
 but it failed." — Moore's '■'Diary" 1824. 
 
 One of the great Histrionic Dynasty, Stephen Kemble, has 
 lately amused the town by his performance of Falstaff. He 
 exhibited the humours of the jovial knight with skill enough to 
 make the audience laugh. But he was perhaps the first actor 
 who ever played the fat knight to the life. His remarkable 
 corpulence qualified him to play the character without stuffing. 
 The good humour of his visage was fully equalled by the pro- 
 
 ' Henry Luttrell was a well-known wit, a regular habitui of Holland 
 House, and popular as a talker, in days when the power of conversing 
 well could confer fame. Lady Blessington probably paid him a just com- 
 pliment when she said, " The conversation of Mr. Luttrell makes me think, 
 while that of many others only amuses me." He died in 1S51, in the 
 eighty-first year of his age. He printed several performances, but nothing 
 survives him. — Ed. 
 
Richard Suett. 253 
 
 tuberance of his stomach ; and if the '' totiis in se teres atque 
 rotundus" of Horace, is the poet's definition of a good man, 
 the actor rose to the summit of human virtue. The best 
 prologue since the days of Garrick ushered in this singular 
 performance : — 
 
 " A Falstaff here to-night by nature made, 
 Lends to your favourite bard his ponderous aid. 
 No man in bucliram he ; no stuffing gear — 
 No featherbed, nor e'en a pillow here ! 
 But all good honest flesh and blood and bone, 
 And weighing, more or less, some thirty stone. 
 Upon the northem coast by chance we caught him. 
 And hither in a broad-wheei'd waggon brought him ; 
 For in a chaise the varlet ne'er could enter. 
 And no mail-coach on such a fare would venture. 
 Blest with unwieldiness, at least his size 
 Will favour find in eveiy critic's eyes. 
 And should his humours and his mimic art 
 Bear due proportion to his outer part, 
 As once 'twas said of Macklin in the Jew, 
 ' This is the very Falstaff Shakspeare drew. ' " 
 
 Recollections of a Lover of Society} 
 
 Richard Suett. 
 
 1758-1805. 
 
 Shakspeare foresaw him when he framed his fools and 
 jesters. They have all the true Suett stamp — a loose and 
 shambling gait, a slippery tongue — this last the ready midwife 
 to a without-pain-delivered jest — in words light as air, venting 
 
 ' The following brief notice of his death appeared in a contemporary 
 paper : — 
 
 "At the Grove, near Durham, died George Stephen Kemble, Esq., 
 after a, short illness, aged sixty-five. The name which he bore was no 
 ordinaiy one, and it buoyed him up when his merit as an actor would 
 have availed him but little. His professional character is too well known 
 to require observation. The last time he appeared on the stage was for the 
 benefit of a part of his family, on the 20th of last month, when he per- 
 formed Sir Christopher Curry in ' Inkle and Yarico.' He was then 
 apparently in his usual state of health, but in a few days afterwards he was 
 attacked by inflammation of the bowels, which disorder terminated his 
 mortal existence on Wgdnesday afternoon, about four o'clock. In private 
 life he was a social, lively companion. " 
 
254 Richard Suett. 
 
 truths deep as the centre ; with idlest rhymes tagging conceit 
 when busiest ; singing with Lear in the tempest, or Sir Toby 
 at the buttery-hatch. — Charles Lamb. 
 
 He was a person, when living, much liked by his theatrical 
 brethren. — Mrs. C. Mathews. 
 
 They had both,* then very young men, been invited to 
 attend the funeral of the "poor player" (Suett), and were 
 placed in the same coach with Jack Bannister and Palmer. 
 The latter sat wrapped up in angry and indignant silence at 
 the tricks which the two younger mourners (who, by the way, 
 had known but little of Suett) were playing ; but Bannister, 
 though much affected, nevertheless could not refrain from 
 occasionally laughing in the midst of his grief, while the tears 
 were actually running from his eyes. At length, on the pro- 
 cession reaching Fleet Street, on its way to St. Paul's church- 
 yard, where Suett lies buried, Mr. Whittle, commonly called 
 " Jemmy Whittle," of the firm of Laurie and Whittle, stationers, 
 came to the door of his shop to see the remains of his old 
 friend pass to their place of rest. An obstruction in the road 
 
 at this moment caused a short delay ; when C called out, 
 
 in the exact voice and manner of the dead man : " Aha ! 
 Jemmy ; oh, law ! how do ? Oh, dear ! going to be buried ! 
 Oh, law ! oh, lawk ! oh, dear !"' The astonished stationer 
 rushed back to his house shocked, surprised, and possibly not 
 a little alarmed at the sound of the familiar tones. It was a 
 little singular that at the conclusion of the ceremony, as the 
 benediction fell from the lips of the clergynaan, a grinning 
 urchin, perched on a tombstone close by the iron rails, began 
 vigorously to clap his hands. So practical a compliance with 
 the plaudiie at the actor's grave struck the whole company. 
 The boy, however, on being questioned and taken to task for 
 his irreverence, blubbered out, " La, sir, there was only them 
 two dogs outside as wanted to fight, and was afeard to 
 
 ' Namely, Charles Mathews and a friend, a Captain C , renowned 
 
 for his imitation of Suett. — Ed. 
 
 ^ " He was known, like Puck, by his note, Ha, ha ! sometimes deepening 
 to ffo, ho, ho ! with an irresistible accession, derived, perhaps remotely, 
 from his ecclesiastical education, foreign to his prototype of O La! 
 Thousands of hearts yet respond to the chuckling La ! of Dicky Suett, 
 brought back to their remembrance by the faithful transcript of his friend 
 Mathews's mimicry. The ' force of nature could no further go. ' He drolled 
 upon the stock of these two syllables richer than the cuckoo." — C. Lamb. 
 
Richard Suett. 255 
 
 begin, so I just did it to set 'em on X\V.t:'—Barham's " Life of 
 Hook. ■' ■' 
 
 Few comedians have ever afforded more amusement than 
 Suett. I cannot say that he was strongly characteristic but 
 he was diverting to every description of undie^nce.—Boade'n. 
 
 The actors of the bygone day had a characteristic humour ; 
 the public then thought more of their sayings, cared less for 
 their domgs. Men would rather record in my time the bright 
 things or the merry stories that Suett uttered, than deHght in 
 expatiating on his love of the lasses or the bottle. It was 
 impossible to remain for any length of time angry with him ; 
 he had about him an unconsciousness of offending that dis- 
 armed you. It is not generally known that Dicky, in a comic 
 part, nearly "damned" " Pizarro" the first night; but so it 
 was. The part was ill-written, and its introduction ill-timed ; 
 and most furiously did the public hiss it. Sheridan was dis- 
 tracted ; and Dicky, with the utmost gravity, said : " This 
 comes of putting me into a German drama. You know, si'-, 
 
 ^ The lives_ of most of our humorists exhibit but little room for merri- 
 ment. You in vain seek for those pauses of distress which might ehable 
 the humorist to pass his jolce and utter his laugh. Wliat Hood said of 
 himself, that his whole life was wasted in spitting puns and blood, seems 
 true in a more or less severe sense of those who have made us laugh. In 
 reading the life of Hook, you are pained to remark how much laughter is 
 to be got out of his career of complicated misery — his career of debt, 
 poverty, imprisonment, and penury. It is like looking at the face of a 
 clown from whose eyes the broad painted smile cannot rob the hunger and 
 the anguish. It is easy to charge such a man as Hook with being the 
 author of his own misfortunes. He should have practised economy ; he 
 should have been regardful of his own interests. The truth is, he should 
 not have been bom with the nature that made it impossible for its flowers 
 to blow but in the sunshine of pleasure. Remove from Hook that copious 
 wit, that fertile fancy, that fervid brain, and you would have left him pro- 
 bably as sturdy and steady an economist, as faithful and vigilant a watch- 
 man of his own interests, as any merchant tailor or city magnate who ever 
 piled a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds upon the boastful basis of a 
 half-crown. For Hook it is impossible to claim genius. He was gifted 
 with no great qualities. But what he wanted in value he made up in 
 quantity. His mind was a garden in which bloomed a very great variety 
 of plants, which had sprung, independent of culture, from a soil radically 
 rich and generous. He must necessarily be injured in his reputation in the 
 eyes of posterity, for he is remembered best by that which must be injurious 
 lo his dignity as a man of letters. Had he brought the same labour of 
 judgment which he expended on his practical jokes to bear upon any one 
 of his numerous powers, he might, perhaps, have achieved the highest dis- 
 tinction in literature.— Ed. 
 
256 jfoseph Munden. 
 
 I know nothing of German." Poor Suett had no wit, but an 
 infinitude of humour. Parsons used to say that Suett walked 
 [ike z. camel-leotard^ — Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 The very personification of weak whimsicaHty, with a laugh 
 like a peal of giggles. Mathews gives him to the life. — 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Joseph Munden. 
 
 1758-1832. 
 
 There is one face of Farley, one face of Knight, one (but 
 what a one it is !) of Liston ; but Munden has none that you 
 can properly pin down and call his. When you think he has 
 exhausted his battery of looks in unaccountable warfare with 
 your gravity, suddenly he sprouts out an entirely new set of 
 features, like Hydra. He is not one, but legion ; not so much 
 a comedian as a company. If his name could be multiplied 
 like his countenance, it would fill a playbill. He, and he alone, 
 literally makes faces; applied to any other person, the phrase 
 is a mere figure, denoting certain modifications of the human 
 countenance. Out of some invisible wardrobe he dips for 
 faces, as his friend Suett used for wigs; and fetches them out 
 as easily. I should not be surprised to see him some 
 day put out the head of a river-horse, or come forth a 
 
 ' Suett could tell a capital story. The foUovving he would relate inimi- 
 tably ; — Among Astley's equestrians were many Jews, who, when they 
 accompanied him to the provinces, left their families behind them. A Mr. 
 Cohen thus left a wife and large family whilst he was figuring away at 
 Liverpool. In about six weeks time Mrs. Cohen wrote a lamentable 
 history of the family afflictions, commencing at the veiy top of a sheet of 
 foolscap, and covering over three sides and a half with details of the 
 numerous wants of Lypey, Rachel, Israel, &c. This manuscript was trans- 
 mitted to Colien through Mr. Villiers, the London agent. Shortly after 
 Mrs. Cohen called upon the agent, and said, ' ' Look ye here ; see vat a 
 villin it is, Mr. Villis." "My name is Villiers," says the agent. "I 
 knows it is, but I says Villis for short. See vat a villin it is— here's the 
 answer ;" saying which she produced a large sheet of paper, on the centre 
 of which was simply written, " Write me no more nunsinc" (nonsense). 
 Another stoiy of Suett's was of a landlady of his, who was a great lover 
 of gin. He would overhear her say, " Betty, go and get a quartern loaf 
 and half a quartern of gin." Off started Betty ; she was soon recalled. 
 " Betty, make it half a quartern loaf and a quartern of gin." Betty started 
 again, again to be recaJled. "Betty, on second thoughts, you may as 
 well make it all gin." 
 
yoseph Munden. 257 
 
 pewit, or lapwing, some feathered metamorphosis. — Charla 
 Lamb. 
 
 Mr. Munden was a great actor, and unlike the generality of 
 " low comedians" (that is, the representatives of broad comedy 
 and farce), was really fond of acting — 3. rare instance in that 
 line of the drama. Liston, Mathews, and many others, after 
 their early furor subsided, became reluctant and dejected 
 promoters of the public mirth. Mr. Munden, however, unlike 
 these, was an actor /»- se, and might be said to have heart and 
 soul in his vocation. Although it was beHeved that, for many 
 years past. Mammon led him on, still it is certain, independent 
 of any other guide than his own fancy, he followed his art con 
 amore. Every playgoer of his time must have seen Mr. 
 Munden perform Obadiah in " The Committee, or Honest 
 Thieves" (if not, they are now to be pitied) ; and who of those 
 has not a recollection also of the incomparable Johnstone 
 (Irish Johnstone) in Teague, picturesquely draped in his blanket, 
 and pouring forth his exquisite humour and meUifluous brogue 
 in equal measure ? — Mrs. C. Mathews, " Tea-TaUe Talk." 
 
 A little while previous to Munden's retirement his health 
 was precarious, and Elliston agreed, in consequence, to give 
 Munden 10/. per night, instead of a settled weekly salary. The 
 number of nights not being specified, the lessee only called 
 upon the veteran's services when he imperatively required 
 them. This, as Munden recovered, was wormwood to him. 
 However, the time of retribution arrived. His Majesty bespoke 
 a play and farce ; Elliston omitted Munden's name, because 
 the house would assuredly be full to the ceiling, and employ- 
 ing Munden would be throwing 10/. away. But in the 
 green-room a notice was affixed, desiring all the company to 
 "attend to sing the National Anthem." This was enough: 
 Munden joined the group, and on the strength of the mana- 
 gerial notice, claimed and received his 10/. that night. — 
 Records of a Stage Vetei-an.^ 
 
 1 Munden had an unpleasant way of discouraging, if not of extinguishing, 
 the flame of amhntion in the youthful dramatic author's breast. During a 
 green-room reading of a comedy he would sit making hideous faces, and 
 when the three or five acts were concluded, plaintively remark, "My 
 precious eyes, sir, but where's the comedy?" 
 
 Cherry once formed the scheme of taking a company to Calcutta. The 
 .terms talked of were in keeping with the land of silver fountains and 
 golden sands. A lac of rupees was olifered to the "walking gentle- 
 s' 
 
25^ ' Joseph Mundmt. 
 
 Munden was one night playing with Jack Jolmstone in 
 " The Committee ;" in that scene where "reagiie pUes Ohadiah 
 with liquor from a black bottle, Johnstone, who played Tcague, 
 was surprised to remark the extraordinary grimaces Munden 
 made over the draughts he gulped down. So irresistibly 
 comical, indeed, were Munden's grimaces, that not only did 
 the audience shriek with laughter, but Johnstone was almost 
 too convulsed to proceed. When the scene was over, Obadiah, 
 as usual, was borne off the stage ; but no sooner was he out of 
 sight of the audience than he commenced bellowing for a 
 stomach-pump. " I'm a dead man !" he shouted. " I'm 
 poisoned ! Where's the villain that filled that bottle ?" And 
 then in an agony of disgust, pointing to the empty bottle, still 
 in Johnstone's hand, he cried, ^'■Lamp-oil! lamp-oil ! ewexy 
 drop of it." It was true : the property-man had mistaken a 
 bottle containing lamp-oil for one half filled with sherry and 
 water. When Munden had in some measure recovered, 
 Johnstone naturally asked him why he should, after the first 
 taste, have allowed him to pour the whole of the filthy stuff 
 down his throat, when the shghtest hint would have prevented 
 it. Munden's reply, in gasps, was as follows : — " My dear 
 boy, I was about to do so ; but there was such a glorious roar 
 at the first face I made upon swallowing it, that I hadn't the 
 heart to spoil the scene by interrupting the effect, though I 
 thought I should die every time you poured the accursed stuff 
 down my throat." 
 
 Munden used to wheedle Moncrieflf out of a comic song for 
 his benefit. " Dang it, my boy," he would cry, "you're a lad 
 after my own soul, sir. I knew O'Keefe, sir, and George 
 Colman, sir, and every one of them, sir, in their best days ; 
 but by the Lord Harry, sir, none of 'em could write me off a 
 song like you, sir." Moncrieff, at last, grew tired of being paid 
 in this coin ; and when Joe came as usual for his annual song, 
 the dramatist hinted, with great delicacy, that a pecuniary 
 
 man.'' " What is a lac of rupees ?" asked the actor to whom Cheny made 
 the proposal. " Do you know what a lack of money is ?" asked Munden. 
 "Yes." "Well, a lac of rupees means exactly the same thing." 
 
 Munden had a foolish way of boasting of his ignorance. " I never read 
 any book but a play," said this son of a poulterer ; "no play but one in 
 which I myself acted, and no portion of that play but my own scenes." 
 When this was told to Charles Lamb, he said, " I knew Munden well, and 
 / believe him. " — Ed. 
 
yoseph Mnnden. 259 
 
 recompense would be more grateful to his feelings. Miinden 
 suddenly remembered a pressing engagement, and vanished. 
 
 Soon after Munden retired from the stage, an admirer met 
 him in Covent Garden. It was a wet day, and each of the 
 gentlemen carried an umbrella. The admirer's was an ex- 
 pensive silk ; Joe's an old gingham. " So you have left the 
 stage for ever, sir ?" " Yes, sir, yes ; I am getting old, you .see, 
 and the gout, sir, the gout" "Ah, we shall never see your 
 like again. Poloniui, and 'yemmy yumps, Old Dornton, 
 Crack, and a dozen 6thers, in whose company I have passed 
 many a happy hour, have all left the world with you. I wish 
 you'd give me some trifle by way of memorial, Munden." 
 "Trifle, sir?" " Ay, any little thing by way of keepsake." 
 
 " Faith, sir, I've got nothing that^ " " Oh, search your 
 
 pockets." "There are so many thieves about, that — but 
 hold ! suppose, sir — egad ! suppose we exchange umbrellas !" 
 — Theatrical Anecdotes. . 
 
 He was the son of a poultei-er in Brook's Market, Leather 
 Lane, Holborn, and was born in the early part of ,1758; his 
 father died when he was young, and at the age of twelve young 
 Joe was placed in an apothecary's shop ; but becoming tired of 
 physic, he turned his attention to the law. From an attorney's 
 office he descended to a law-stationer's shop, and becaine 
 what is termed a "hackney writer ;"' to one of the fraternity in 
 Chancery Lane he was ultimately apprenticed. , He was at 
 this time a great admirer of Garrick, whose powers he well re- 
 membered, and used to dilate upon; this gave him the first 
 desire for the stage. He was for some time a clerk in the 
 office of the town-clerk of Liverpool ; but his first regular 
 engagement on the boards was as the representative of old men 
 at Leatherhead. He had the actor's customary provincial 
 round at the theatres, and soon became a partner in the 
 Sheffield Theatre. On December and, 1790, a few nights after 
 Incledon's appearance, Munden made his bow to the Covent 
 Garden audience as Sir Francis Gripe, in the " Busybody," 
 and yemmy yumps in the " Farmer." He was the origmal 
 representative of Old Rapid, Caustic, Lamrillo (m "Two 
 Strings to your Bow"), Nipperkin, Sir Abel Handy, and 0[d 
 Dornton, besides a host not now remembered. In 1813, in 
 consequence of a quarrel respecting the amount of his salary, 
 he joined the Drury Lane Company, making his first appear- 
 ance there in Sir Abel Handy. Here he remained until the 
 
 s a 
 
26o JoscpJi Munden. 
 
 31st of May, 1824, when he took his farewell of the public in 
 the character of Sir Robert Bramble, in the " Poor Gentleman." 
 He was an excellent comic actor, and in some of his parts un- 
 rivalled. In private hfe he was generally esteemed by a very 
 numerous circle of acquaintance, not more on account of his 
 convivial qualities than for others more substantial. — Memoir 
 of J'oseph Shepherd Munden, 1832. 
 
 Mr. Munden was by far the greatest comedian we ever saw ; 
 his vein of humour was the richest and most peculiar; his 
 range of character the most extensive ; his discrimination the 
 most exact and happy, and his finishing the most elaborate and 
 complete. He received great advantages from nature, and 
 improved them to the utmost by vigilant observation and 
 laborious stud)'. His power of face was most extraordinary ; 
 for he had no singularity of feature — no lucky squint or 
 mechanical grin ; but the features which, when at rest, befitted 
 well the sedate merchant, or baronet, of the old school, assumed 
 at his will the strangest and the most fantastic forms. This 
 almost creative faculty was associated with another power of an 
 opposite kind ; the capability of imparting to every variety of 
 form a substance and apparent durability as if it were carved 
 out of a rock. His action had no less body than flavour. 
 In the wildest parts of farce he every minute put forth 
 some living fantasy of his own, some new arrangement 
 of features, creations among which Momus would have hesi- 
 tated long which he should choose for his own proper use, as 
 embodying most general traits of comic feehng. Any one 
 of these hundred faces might sers'e as the model of a mask 
 for the old Greek comedy, and looked as immovable while 
 it lasted. And yet this marvellous power of spreading out 
 before the eye the products of a rich comic imagination — this 
 working out of breathing farces, which Aristophanes would have 
 been pleased to gaze on, was set down as vulgar grimace by 
 those who fancy the perfection of one excellence imphes the 
 absence of all others ; and who will not be persuaded, even by. 
 their senses, that the same man can be Nippa'kin and Dornion ! 
 Although Mr. Munden's humour and his flexibihty of 
 countenance were the gifts which chiefly distinguished him from 
 others, he shared largely in that pathos which belongs in a 
 greater or less degree to all true comedians. It is natural that 
 a strong relish for the ludicrous should be accompanied by a 
 genuine pathos, as both arise from q\iick sensibility to the 
 
Elizabeth Farren. 261 
 
 peculiarities of our fellow-men, and the joys and sorrows by 
 which they are affected. Those who are endowed with such 
 qualities too often presume upon their strength, and rely on 
 the individual effects which they can produce in their happiest 
 moods. But Mr. Munden had a higher sense of the value of 
 his art than to leave his success to accident, or to rest con- 
 tented with doing something to make an audience laugh or 
 weep without reference to the precise nature of the conception 
 which he professed to embody. He studied his parts, in the 
 best sense of the term, and with as careful and minute attention 
 as though he were the driest and most mechanical of actors. 
 When he had fully mastered the outUnes of a part, he cast into 
 it just so much of his resources of humour or of feeling as was 
 necessary to give it genial life, and to discriminate its finest 
 shades, and never enough to destroy its individuality, or melt 
 down its distinctive features. In nothing did he more delight- 
 fully exhibit his skill than in the little sprinklings of humour 
 which he threw into his sedater parts, endearing and fami- 
 liarizing them to us, yet never allowing us to abate a jot of the 
 respect or sympathy which they were intended to awaken. — 
 T. N. Talfourd. 
 
 Elizabeth Farren (Countess of Derby). 
 1759-1829. 
 
 Her figure is considerably above the middle height, and is 
 of that slight texture which allows the use of full and flowing 
 drapery. Her face, though not regularly beautiful, is animated 
 and prepossessing ; her eye, which is blue and penetrating, is 
 a powerful feature when she chooses to employ it on the public, 
 and either flashes with spirit or melts with softness, as its 
 mistress decides on the expression she wishes to convey. Her 
 voice we never thought to possess much sweetness, but it is 
 refined and feminine ; and her smiles fascinate the heart as 
 her form delights the eye. In short, a more complete exhibi- 
 tion of graces and accomplishments never presented itself for 
 admiration before the view of an audience.' — New Monthly 
 Afagazine, 1829. 
 
 ' Mrs. Inchbald used to tell the following stoiy of Miss Farren :— "To 
 have fixed the degrees and shades of female virtue possessed at this time 
 by the actresses of the Haymarket Theatre would have been employment 
 
262 Elizabeth Farren. 
 
 On the 7th of April, 1797, she took her final leave of the 
 stage in the above-named, character {Lady Teazle) before a 
 fashionable and crowded audience at Drury Lane Theatre. It 
 was remarked that Miss Farren had never perforrned with 
 greater animation and better spirits than on this occasion ; nor, 
 until the play drew near to the close, was the least alteration 
 observable ; her manner then visibly changed — indeed she 
 became unable to conceal how deeply she was afiected. Her 
 concluding words (for such they proved) which conveyed Lady 
 Teazle's valedictory address to Lady Sneerwell, the latter portion 
 of which might seem applicable to her present situation, were 
 delivered by Miss Farren falteringly. " Let me also request. 
 Lady Sneerwell, that you will make my respects to the scanda- 
 lous college of which you are a member, and inform them that 
 Lady Teazle, licentiate, begs leave to return the diploma they 
 granted her, as she leaves off practice and kills characters no 
 longer." A passionate burst of tears here revealed the sensi- 
 bility of the speaker ; while a stunning burst of a more cheering 
 though not less feeling nature, from the audience, followed, 
 and no more of the play was listened to. — Mrs. C. Mathems} 
 
 for an able cisui&t. One evening, about half an hour before the curtain 
 was drawn up, some accident having happened in the dressing-room of 
 one of the actresses, a woman of known intrigue, she ran in haste to the 
 dressing-room of Mrs. Wells, to finish the business of her toilet. Mrs. 
 Wells, who was the mistress of the well-known Captain Topham, shocked 
 at the intrusion of a reprobated woman who had a worse character than 
 herself, quitted her own room and ran to Miss Farren's, crying, 'Wliat 
 would Captain Topham say if I were to remain in such company ?' No 
 sooner had she entered the room, to which as an asylum she had fled, 
 than Miss Farren flew out of the door, repeating, ' What would Lord 
 Derby say if I should be seen in such company ?' " — Ed. 
 
 ^ Boaden cynically tells the rest of the stoiy : — " Instead of the usual 
 rhymes at the end of the play, the whole of the dramatis personcs remain- 
 ing in then- stations, Mr. Wroughton advanced and addressed to the 
 audience the following personalities as to Miss Farren, for them to ratify 
 if they approved them : — 
 
 " ' But, ah ! this night adieu the mournful mien, 
 
 When Mirth's, loved favourite quits the mimic scene ! 
 
 [Looking towards Miss Farren, who stood supported 
 by King and Miss Miller.] 
 Startled Thalia would assent refuse. 
 But Truth and Virtue sued and won the Muse.' 
 
 I cannot but think this too strongly, however truly, put, the lady being 
 li^'iself present. He then spoke tier acknowledgments, which she decliiiea 
 
Elizabeth Farren. 263 
 
 Whilst Mrs. Siddons might be said thus to struggle to keep 
 up with her own the fame of English tragedy, the other muse 
 was about to suffer a loss which thirty years have scarcely 
 shown a tendency to replace. I mean the elevation of Miss 
 Parren to a coronet by her marriage with the Earl of Derby, 
 in the year 1797. Perhaps I do not refer effects to causes in- 
 adequate to their production when I say that this theatrical 
 demise absolutely produced the degeneracy of comedy into farce. 
 The lady of our Congreves lost that court-like refinement in 
 manners, that polished propriety in speech — the coarser parts 
 in comedy were forced forward without a balance, without 
 contrast — cultivated life on the stage became insipid as soon 
 as its representative was without the necessary charms. — ^ 
 Boaden. 
 
 -Miss Farren, then in her teens, made her debut (1777) as 
 Miss Hardcaske, in Goldsmith's comedy of " She Stoops to 
 Conquer," — as appears by Mr. Winston's note. She con- 
 quered so much subsequently in the superior walk of comedy 
 that she might have stooped in resuming this character, although 
 it is worthy the acceptance of an actress of great abihty. She 
 came most opportunely to prevent a chasm which would have 
 been greatly lamented ; and to personate modern females of 
 fashion when the retirement of the Abington, with the vielkcour, 
 was approaching. To dilate upon the history of the lovely 
 and accompHshed Miss Farren would be very superfluous ; no 
 person ever has more successfully performed the elegant levities 
 of Lady Townly upon the stage, or more happily practised the 
 amiable virtues oi Lady Grace\x\ the highest circles of society.— 
 George Cohnan. 
 
 At the early age of fourteen, her first appearance was at the 
 Haymarket Theatre, then under the management of the elder 
 Colman, in the character of Miss JTardcastie, in Goldsmith's 
 comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer." That season produced 
 at the same time Henderson and Edwin. In the winter of that 
 year Miss Farren went to Liverpool, where she appeared in 
 Eosetta, a character afterwards repeated in London with great 
 success. But the part which at once established her fame as 
 
 doing for herself, and then the Countess-elect advanced, and curtsied to' 
 -hs rizhL to the left, and the front, as is usual upon occasions of high 
 stage ceremonial." Boaden fixes the 8th of April as the day of her retire- 
 ment, — Ed. 
 
264 Elizabeth Farren. 
 
 an actress was Lady Townly, which we owe to the inimitable 
 Parsons, who, with infinite difficulty, prevailed upon her to try 
 it for his benefit. The whole house was enraptured with her 
 performance, and Miss Farren was engaged on that night for 
 both the winter theatres, and played alternately at Drury Lane 
 and Covent Garden the first characters in tragedy as well as 
 comedy. On the secession of Mrs. Abington from Drury Lane, 
 Miss Farren succeeded to all her principal parts, and at that 
 theatre she remained until her marriage with Earl Derby. She 
 was the Oldfield of her day. It was well said of her by an 
 eminent critic, that in her performances Miss Farren never de- 
 viated from the walk for which art as well as nature designed her ; 
 that were we to collect every idea which has been suggested to 
 us by books, or has been the result of our own observations on 
 life, assisted by all that the imagination could conceive of a 
 woman of fashion, we should find every idea realized and every 
 conception embodied in the person and acting of Miss Farren. 
 She continued to occupy the highest fame in genteel comedy 
 to the end of her theatrical career. Miss Farren's last per- 
 formances were : — March 30th, 1797, Violante; April ist, Maria, 
 in " The Citizen ;" 3rd, Estifania; 4th, Susan, in " The Follies 
 of a Day ;" 6th, Bizarre, in " The Inconstant ;" and finally on 
 the Z'Ca. Lady Teazle. — Memoir of Elizabeth, Countess of Derby, 
 1829.' 
 
 Miss Farren is as excellent as Mrs. Oldfield, because she has 
 lived with the best style of men in England. — H. Wal^ 
 
 ' Writing of "The School for Scandal" in Miss Farren's day, Lamb 
 says : "No piece was perhaps ever so completely cast in all its parts as this 
 manager's comedy. Miss Farren had succeeded to Mrs. Abington in Lady 
 Teazle, and Smith, the original Charles, had retired when I first saw it. 
 The rest of the characters, with very slight exceptions, remained. I re- 
 member it was then the fashion to cry down John Kemble, who took the 
 part of Charles after Smith ; but, I thought, very unjustly. The original 
 cast of this comedy, as it was acted in 1777, stood as follows : — Sir Peter 
 Teazle, King ; Sir Oliver Surface, Yates ; Sir Harry Bumper, Gawdry ; 
 Sir Benjamin Backbite, Dodd ; Joseph Surface, J. Palmer ; Charles Sur- 
 face, Smith ; Snake, Packer ; Crahtree, Parsons ; Rowley, Aickin ; Moses, 
 Baddeley ; Trip, Lamash ; Lady Teazle, Mrs. Abington ; Lady Sneerwell, 
 Miss Sherry J Mrs. Candour, Miss Pope; Maria, Miss P. Hopkins." 
 
265 
 
 Mrs. Davenport 
 1759-1843.' 
 
 On the 24th of September, 1794, Mrs Davenport, an actresg 
 of infinite merit, made her first appearance at Covent Garden 
 Theatre, in which she acted six-and-thirty years. She came to 
 London as a substitute for Miss Webb ; but the substitute, hke 
 the soldier so called in the militia, was infinitely more fit for 
 the duty than the overgrown original had ever been. She had 
 a very acute perv^eption of comic humour, and a strength and 
 earnestness that always carried the dialogue home. Her debut 
 was m the Mrs. Hardcastle of " Sho Stoops to Conquer." Quick, 
 among our actors, seemed her natural counterpart. I believe 
 this lady, in her long professional career, gave less trouble than 
 had ever been remarked, to either manager, actor, or author — 
 she loved her business, and did it well and cheerfully. — Boadsn. 
 
 Next to Fawcett's closing night, came that of Mrs. Daven- 
 port, who on this occasion took her first, her last, her only 
 benefit, and made her final curtsey to a most elegant and 
 crowded house. Remembering how much she has enlivened our 
 merrier moments, we rather wish that she had taken leave of 
 us in some stirring comedy than in a tragedy of such engrossmg 
 interest as " Romeo and Juliet," where her part of the nurse 
 rather frets and irritates us, as interfering with the deep passion, 
 and as surrounding J^uliet with images of impurity. We 
 would rather think of her as Mrs. Heidelberg, or Mrs. Mcda- 
 
 ^ In assigning dates to the various actors I have been struck by the 
 numerous instances of longevity that have occurred in theatrical life. Take 
 the following as samples : — Wilkes lived 88 years, Quin 73, Garrick 65, 
 Mrs. Clive 75, Beard 75, Rich 70, Macklin 107, Betterton 75, Mrs. 
 Siddons 77, Quick 80, CoUey Gibber 86, King 78, Cumberland 79, 
 Dibdin 74, Hull 76, Murphy 78, Yates 97, Bannister 77, G. Bartley 74, 
 Miss Bartley 64, Mrs. Bracegirdle, 85, Braham 79, Dowton 88, Farren 
 85, Mrs. Garrick 98, Mrs. Glover 68, Harley 72, Incledon 69, Jack John- 
 stone 78, Keeley 75, Liston 69, A. Pope 73, J. Russell 79, Mrs. Sparkes 
 83, Lee Sugg 85, W. Vining 78, H. J. Wallack 78, Mrs. Wallack 90, 
 James Wallack 73, and many more. Of <*hese a greater number were before 
 the public until within a few years, and in numerous instances within a few 
 months, of their death. In our own day this rule of longevity — for rule 
 it absolutely seems— is illustrated in those veterans, Buckstone, whose first 
 appearance in I,ondon was in 1823 ; Benjamin Webster, 1818 ; Compton, 
 1837; Walter Lacy, 1838.— 7ED. 
 
266 Jack Bannister. 
 
 prop, speaking with her prodigious emphasis that commentaiy 
 on the she-dragon " He means me, sir !" or as the respectable 
 hostess in " Husbands and Wives'" unconsciously making the 
 oddest arrangements for the accommodation of her guests ; or 
 as fifty other fine and furious old ladies whose looks she has 
 engraved on our memories; Her address was short and sen- 
 sible ; she alluded to her infirmities lightly ; and took her leave 
 amidst the heartiest wishes of the house for her comfort in her 
 age. In many respects she was worthy of imitation; she 
 took every part allotted to her, did her best with all, and 
 adhered steadily to one establishment instead of creating a 
 transitory interest, or seeking a higher salary by changing. So 
 she took root at Covent Garden ; and now she is gone will be 
 missed and mourned more perhaps than actors of higher pre- 
 tension, who have been agreeable vagrants at many theatres 
 without gaining a settlement in any. — Talfourd. 
 
 Jack Bannister. 
 1760-1836. 
 
 Jack Bannister, in the beginning of this century, paid 
 Nottingham a starring visit ; and having heard Robertson sing 
 " Beggars and Ballad Singers," that celebrated comedian re^ 
 quested a copy, as at this time it was not in type. Robertson 
 readily obliged him. The following season at Drury Lane, 
 Bannister sang Robertson's song; and what words could 
 describe Jemmy's surprise when he beheld the words and music 
 of " Beggars and Ballad Singers " published, and Bannister's 
 name inserted as the author ? He could get no redress, 
 although he agitated in the affair.' — W. Donaldson. 
 
 Bannister was certainly not the chief of convulsively droll 
 actors ; but he was, to my humble taste, something better — one 
 who made you forget that you were looking at a play. He was 
 pure hilarity, and plain EngHsh nature. Without a trait of 
 grimace on his comely countenance, he always came in as if he 
 had been breathing the fresh air of the country ; and he was 
 more than an actor, by seething to be no actor at all, but a 
 
 ^ Robertson was manager of the Stamford Theatre. He wns himself 
 the author of the song which Bannister appropriated. — En. 
 
jfack Bannister. 267 
 
 gloriously pleasant fellow, helping you to enjoy a joke '— 
 T. Campbell. 
 
 He began his own stage career in tragedy, and played the 
 hero in Voltaire's " Mahomet." Garrick, who had trained him 
 to the part, met him the next day, after he had acquired some 
 applause in "Mahomet," and asked him, with his usual 
 abundance of gestures, and eh, ehs, what character he wished 
 to play next. "Why," said Bannister, "I was thinking of 
 Oroonoko."^ " Eh," said David, staring at Bannister, who was 
 at that_ time very thin, "you will look as much like Oroonoko 
 as a chimney-sweeper in consumption." Bannister told me that 
 at these words of Garrick his knees slackened, and he had 
 ?,lmost sunk down on the pavement. At another interview he 
 ventured to tell the, English Roscius that he had some thoughts 
 of attempting comedy. "Eh, eh!" said Garrick, "why, no, 
 don't think of that, you naay humbug. the town some time 
 longer as a tragedian ; but comedy is a serious thing, so don't 
 try.it yet." .Bannister however attempted comedy, and his 
 Don Wkiskerandos^ (as he himself says) laughed his tragedy out 
 cf fashion. ■'—/i^zV/. 
 
 Bannister is in many parts a judicious actor, as well as an 
 agreeable singer of such songs as please an Epghsh audience. — 
 T. Davies. 
 
 From my first knowledge of Bannister to the present hour, 
 he made his prudence a guard over his festivity; and though no 
 man was ever more solicited iii social life, his amusements 
 neither disturbed his business nor deranged his circumstances ; 
 he could always dispense the liberal aid which he did not need, 
 and never drew on himself, in a single instance that I can 
 remember, tlie displeasure of the public. Being his con- 
 temporary through no trivial series of years, I remember him in 
 
 ^Mathews wrote to his wife from Stratford, " Bannister went (to the 
 house where Shalcspeare was bora) after dinner for the third time in one 
 day, threw himself upon the bed in wliich the dear lying old 'woman swears 
 Shakspeare was born — iiay, shows the chair he was nursed in. But Jack 
 threw himself in his dranken raptures on the bed, and nearly smothered 
 two children, who were asleep till his raptures awoke them." — Ed. 
 ^ By Thomas Southerne. 
 ' A character in Sheridan's " Critic." 
 
 * Bannister used to tell the stoiy thus : — " Iwas a student of painting in 
 the Royal Academy when I was introduced to Mr. Garrick, under whose 
 superior genius the British stage then flourished beyond all former example. 
 One morning I was shown iiito his dressing-room when he was before the 
 
2b8 yack Bannister. 
 
 tragedy, and am not sorry that he put off the buskin early in 
 his career. The genius of John Bannister met with a congenial 
 author in Mr. Prince Hoare, who may, perhaps, as a farce 
 writer, be said to have best suited his talents. But this palm 
 is powerfully contested by very able men. Yet whatever contest 
 may exist among the writers of farce, there is none whatever, 
 where Bannister is concerned, among the performers. I have 
 seen no actor at all near him where he was fully himself. — 
 Boadm. 
 
 September 30th, 1826. — Met Bannister by accident in 
 Chenies Street, Bedford Square. His face was as fresh, his eye 
 as keen, and his voice as musical as ever. I had not seen 
 him for years. He held out his hand just as he used to do on 
 the stage, with the same frank, native truth. As he spoke, the 
 tones of his favourite Walter^ pierced my heart. It was 
 
 glass preparing to shave : a white nightcap covered his forehead, his chin 
 and cheeks were covered with soap-suds, a razor-cloth was placed upon his 
 left shoulder, and he turned and smoothed the shining blade with so much 
 dexterity that I longed for a beard to imitate his incomparable method of 
 handling the razor. 
 
 " ' Eh ! well — what ! young man — so— eh? You are still for the stage? 
 Well, now what character do you — should you like to — eh ?' 
 
 " ' I should like to attempt Hamlet, sir?' 
 
 " ' Eh ! what, Hamlet the Dane? Zounds ! that's a bold — a Have 
 
 you studied the part?' 'I have, sir.' 'Well, don't mind my shaving. 
 Speak your speech — the speech to the Ghost ;'\ can hear you. Coipe, 
 let's have a roll and a tumble.' After a few hums and haws, and a disposing 
 of my hair so that it might stand on end, ' like quills upon the fretful 
 porcupine, ' I supposed my father's ghost before me, armed cap-h-pie, and 
 off I started. I concluded with the usual, 
 
 ' Say, why is this ? wherefore ? what should we do ?' 
 
 but still continued in my attitude, expecting the praise due to an exhibition 
 which I was booby enough to fancy was only to be equalled by himself. 
 But to my eternal mortification, he turned quick upon me, brandished tlie 
 razor in his hand, and thrusting his half-shaved face close up to mine, he 
 made such horrible mouths at me that I thought he was seized with 
 insanity, and I showed more natural symptoms of being frightened at him 
 than at my father's ghost. ' Angels and ministers ! yaw ! yaw ! yaw I 
 maw !' However, I soon perceived my vanity by his ridicule. He 
 finished shaving, put on his wig, and with a smile of good nature he took 
 me by the hand. ' Come,' said he, 'young gentleman — eh, let us see now 
 what we can do. ' He spoke the speech — how he spoke it those who have 
 heard him never can forget. 'There,' said he, 'young gentleman; and 
 when you try that speech again, give it more passion and less mouth.' "— 
 Ed. 
 
 » In " Tlie Babes of the Wood." 
 
yack Bannister. 269 
 
 extraordinary the effect " Bannister,'' said I, " your voice 
 recalls my early days." — " Ah," said he, " I had some touches, 
 had I not ?" He told me a story of Lord Egremont. Bannister 
 bought at Sir Joshua's sale the Virgin and Child. He sent 
 it to a sale at a room for 250/. Lord E. told the seller 
 he would give 200. It was agreed to. Lord Egremont 
 afterwards said to Bailey, " I have bought Reynolds's Virgin 
 and Child." "Ah," said Bailey, "it was Bannister's picture. 
 You gave 250/." He said nothing, but the same day wrote 
 to Bannister he was ashamed to have offered less, and sent him 
 a cheque for the 50/. owing. I said to Bannister, as Napoleon 
 said to Talma, "We are talking history; I shall put this 
 down." — "Shall ye though?" said he, as his face flushed. 
 " That I will," said I ; and he hobbled off with a sort of 
 wriggling enjoyment. His acting was delightful ; and his 
 tones to-day accounted for his fame. They were as a man's, 
 something like Mrs. Jordan's as a woman. — B. R. Haydon. 
 
 After his long-established celebrity as a comedian, and the 
 regret felt by lovers of the drama on his retirement from the 
 stage, it is curious to recur to his earliest days in the Hay- 
 market Theatre ; when he was frequently tied to a sword, and 
 rammed into a full-dress coat, to represent Lord Falbridge 
 in "The English Merchant," and other deadly lively characters, 
 little above those which are called, in stage language, 
 " walking gentlemen." There was a very persevering, sky- 
 coloured suit of laced clothes, which was always lugged out of 
 the Haymarket wardrobe for him upon such occasions ; and 
 Jack Bannister, in his light blue and silver, with a sword by his 
 side, was, to all play-goers of that time, as infallible a token of 
 a clever young actor in a wrong part, as deep mourning is a sign of 
 a death in a family. But in the course of some nights, when he 
 was thus misplaced, he often performed some other character 
 effective in itself, and rendered more so by his own powers. — 
 George Colman. 
 
 Bannister was remarkably handsome, even as an old man ; 
 his dark eyes still full of animation, were more striking from tlie 
 contrast with his white hair. His nature was a thoroughly 
 genial one. "When I first attracted notice on the stage," he 
 said, " I was told of such-and-such people who were my 
 enemies ; but I never would listen to. such reports, for I v/as 
 determined to go through life without enemies; xaA. 1 hav 
 done so " He said to Constable, "They say it is my wife ^^ll^ 
 
270 yack Bannister. 
 
 has taken care of my money, and made me comfortable in my 
 old age ; and so she has ; but I think I deserve a little of the 
 credit, for I let her." — C. R. Leslie, "■ Aidohiography" 
 
 Of another comic favourite who entered the lists with this 
 celebrated trio (i.e. Parsons, Quick, and Edwin), and nobly 
 supported the fight, I have before spoken — to Bannister jiiiiicir, 
 I allude. But I must not forget here to add that he possessed 
 what they "upon the adverse faction" wanted, strong Serio- 
 comic power ; and that his personation of the character of a 
 sailor was certainly superior to that of any other actor on the 
 stage. I do not allude to our modern trap-clapping sailors ; 
 impostors in a blue jacket and trousers, who vociferate a 
 certain number of slang nautical phrases ; who, with their 
 elbows bang their tobacco-boxes, put quids in their mouths, 
 pull up their trousers, and, -boasting of " Britannia's wooden 
 walls," and " Albion's matchless glory,'' swagger up to the 
 lamps, exclaiming, " There's a sailor for you !" No, I allude to 
 the genuine Jack Tar, particularly Congreve's Ben; in that 
 legitimate sailor, Bannister was inimitable.' Indeed the love- 
 scene between him and Miss Frue, when this latter part was 
 acted by Mrs. Jordan, was probably never surpassed in rich 
 natural comedy. — F. Reynolds. 
 
 About 1808 he was persuaded to give an entertainment by 
 himself, and accordingly employed the talent of George 
 Colman and others to prepare him one, which he subsequently 
 delivered at the Freemasons' Tavern, the London, and various 
 other places in town, and in all the principal provincial cities. 
 In it he gave a mimetic representation of his first audience with 
 Garrick ; this Quick and Whitbread declared " was not imitation 
 but identity." Bannister's Budget differed essentially from 
 Mathews's "At Home;" the former being a blending of 
 serious and cordic stories, the latter, if we except " Mallet " 
 
 ^ "For what is Sen — the pleasant sailor wljich Bannister gives us — but 
 **, piece of satire — a creation of Congreve's fancy — a dreamy combination 
 of all the accidents of a sailor's , character, liis contempt of mortey, his 
 credulity to women, with that necessaiy estrangement from home ? . . . . 
 We never think the worse of Ben for it, or feel it as a stain upon his 
 character. But when an actor comes, and instead of the delightful phantom 
 — the creature dear to half belief — which Bannister exhibited, displays 
 before our eyes a downright concretion of a Wapping sailor .... we 
 want him turned out. We feel that his tnie place is not behind the curtain, 
 but in the first or second galleiy."— C Lamb, 
 
Alexander Pope. 271 
 
 and the " Yorkshire Gambler," exclusively comic. Mathews 
 was by many degrees the greater mimic, but Bannister was the 
 pleasanter fellow ; Mathews made you laugh more, bnt he 
 altogether satisfied you less. Pubhc taste underwent a great 
 change between 1808 and 1830. Mathews's jokes would not 
 have been taken in the former year, and Bannister's Budget 
 would be " flat, stale, and unprofitable " now. — Recollections oj 
 .BamtisUr. 
 
 Alex9.nder Pope. 
 
 1762-1835. 
 
 Pope had a handsome face, good person, genteel figure, and 
 graceful action ; his voice possessed a firmness, and in the softer 
 tones called the soul-moving Barry to the recollection of his 
 he;irers. But his countenance was scarcely sufficiently ex- 
 pressive to give full effect to the passions of grief, joy, or 
 disdain. — The Manager's Note-Book} 
 
 Pope was a great gourmand f he carried his inclination that 
 way so far as occasionally to make himself unpopular even to 
 the extent of losing several worthy friends. Kean, Pope, and 
 Catalani were one day invited to dine with Jones, the Dublin 
 manager, at his house, a mile or two from Dublin, with some 
 of the first people. It was not long after dinner when Pope 
 asked Kean what time he had ordered the carriage ? Kean re- 
 plied, at eleven. At Pope's request it was sent for directly, 
 and they departed. As they were returning, Kean asked Pope 
 
 ^ His first wife was Miss Younge [see Mrs. Pope). His second wife was 
 a Miss Campion. Slie was bom 1777, and died 1803. She was an excel- 
 lent actress, and was for some time the heroine of the Dublin stage. She 
 is described as possessing a slender but finely-proportioned figure, a face of 
 sweetness and interest, with large expressive eyes. Charles Mathews, who 
 saw her perform in Dublin, wrote, " There are few such actresses to be 
 met with. She possesses a very beautiful face, extremely elegant figure, 
 and delightful voice, added to every advantage of nature in mental qualifi- 
 cations, and every accomplishment of education. " — Ed. 
 
 ^ Pope's love of good living was the occasion of much waggery on the 
 part of his friends. He used to say that he knew of but one crime that 
 man could commit, and that was peppering a rump-steak. On Incledon's 
 return from America, Pope asked him how they "fed" there. " Im- 
 mortally,"- replied Incledon. "The very poetry of eating and drinking, 
 my dear Pope, in all things but one — they take no oil to their salads. " 
 "No oil to their salads !" cried the tragedian, recoiling. " W/iy did -itic 
 make peace with them P' 
 
2 72 Mrs. Dora Jordan. 
 
 why he was in such a hurry to come away . " AVhy, did yon 
 not observe what occurred at dinner?" "No!" "No; did 
 you not see what that monster Catalani did ?" " Not I," said 
 Kean. "Why, sir," exclaimed Pope, "she cut a fricandeau 
 with a knife !" " Yes," said Kean, " I did see that ; but what 
 of it?" "What of it?" cried Pope; "why, she ought to have 
 used a spoon ; and I will never again sit down with the woman 
 till she has learned how to help a fricandeau." — Pope was 
 invited to Earl's Court to see a collection of pictures. It 
 being his first visit, he was, at the dinner, placed on the right 
 hand of the host ; and on the covers being removed a fine 
 turbot made its appearance before him. Pope could not 
 restrain himself, and rising from his chair with his knife in his 
 hand, cried, " D — your cook, sir ! she ought to be discharged ; 
 she has spoilt a fine Torbay turbot by smothering it witii 
 horse-radish ;" and proceeded forthwith tc scrape the whole 
 of it off with his knife. This was his first and last invitation.— 
 Popeiana^ 
 
 Mrs. Dora Jordan.^ 
 
 1762-1816. 
 
 Those who have only seen Mrs. Jordan within the last ten or 
 fifteen years can have no adequate notion of her performances of 
 
 ^ Ap-opos of Pope's love of eating may be mentioned the diet of a few 
 well-ltnown actors generally and during performance. Kean, we are told, 
 took beef-tea for breakfast, and preferred a rump-steak to any other dinner. 
 Macready used to eat the lean of mutton chops only when he acted, and 
 subsequently almost entirely adopted a vegetable diet. Braham sang on 
 bottled porter, Mrs. Wood upon draught porter, Incledon on Madeira. 
 Wrench and Harley acted through a long performance mthout refreshment. 
 Oxberry drank quantities of tea, Henderson gum arable and sherry, Kean, 
 Emeiy, and Reeve cold brandy-and-water, Lewis mulled wine (and 
 oysters'), William Smith coffee, Mrs. Jordan calf's-foot jelly dissolved in 
 wann sheriy. Miss Catley linseed tea and Madeira. G. F. Cooke drank 
 everything ; John Kemble took opium. A boiled egg supported Hemy 
 n ussell through the most arduous entertainment ever given by one man. — 
 
 '' Mrs. Jordan was the mistress of the Duke of Clarence. Her maiden 
 
 name in the significant sense of maidenhood — was Miss Bland. This, 
 
 when she went on the stage, she changed to Miss Francis. Before long, 
 however, her mother wrote to request another change, and she took that 
 of Mrs. Jordan. The Mrs. was prefixed, we are told, to keep "frivolous 
 suitors at bay." Old Tate Wilkinson claimed the honour of re-naming 
 
Mrs. Dora Jordan. 
 
 Jo 
 
 such partsas Oj^helia ; Helena ill " All's Well that Ends Well ;" 
 and Viola in this play. Her voice had latterly acquired a coarse- 
 ness which suited well enough with her Nells and Hoydens ; but 
 in those days it sank, with her steady melting eye, into the heart, 
 Her joyous parts — in which her memory now chiefly lives — in 
 her youth were outdone by her plaintive ones. There- is no 
 givmg an account how she delivered the disguised story of her 
 
 love for Orsino She used no rhetoric in her passion ; 
 
 or it was nature's own rhetoric, most legitimate then, when it 
 seemed altogether without rule or law. — Charles Lamb. 
 
 A charming, cordial actress, on the homely side of the 
 agreeable, with a delightful voice. — Leigh Hunt 
 
 Went to the play with Hobhouse. Mrs. Jordan super- 
 lative in Hoyden, and Jones well enough in Foppington. What 
 plays ! what wit ! — hdas, Congreve and Vanbrugh, are you only 
 comedy ? — Byron. 
 
 Mathews was frequently invited to the house of this 
 fascinating actress, and visited her on several occasions of 
 domestic interest. He always accepted her invitations when 
 he could, and became strongly attached to her society. He 
 used to say that her fine, joy-inspiring tones, and her natural 
 and pecuhar manner of speaking, always carried a warmth to 
 his heart which no other voice ever conveyed, and seemed to 
 do him good. She was indeed an extraordinary and exquisite 
 being, as distinct from any other being in the world as she 
 was superior to all her contemporaries in her particular line of 
 acting. — Life of Matheius. 
 
 Here alone, I believe, in her whole professional career, Mrs. 
 Siddons found a rival who beat her out of a single character. 
 The rival Rosalind was Mrs. Jordan ; but those who best 
 remember Mrs. Jordan will be the least surprised at her 
 
 her. " You have crossed the water, my dear,'' he said to her, " so I'll 
 call you Jordan ! And by the memory of Sam !" he adds, ' ' if she didn't 
 take my joke in earnest, and call herself Mrs. Jordan ever since." Her 
 first appearance in London was in 17851 at Drury Lane, as Peggy in the 
 " Country Girl." Her success was immediate ; her salary was doubled, 
 and she'was allowed two benefits. She was the mother of ten children by 
 the Duke, who, on separating from her, caused a yearly allowance of 4400/. 
 to be settled on her, with the provision that if she returned to the stage the 
 care of the Duke's four daughters, together with 1500/. a year, should 
 revert to him. She returned to the stage, and the children and the money 
 were surrendered to the Duke. — Ed. 
 
 r 
 
2 74 Mrs. Dora Jordan. 
 
 defeating her great contemporary in this one instance. Mrs, 
 Jordan was perhaps a Httle too much of the romp in some 
 touches of the part ; but altogether she had the naivete of it to 
 a degree that Shakspeare himself, if he had been a living 
 spectator, would have gone behind the scenes to have saluted 
 her for her success in it. — T. Campbell, "Life of Siddons." 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds was quite enchanted with a being who, 
 like Jordan, ran upon the stage as a. piay-gronnd, and laughed 
 from sincere wildness of delight. He said, " she vastly ex- 
 ceeded everything that he had seen, and really was what 
 others only affected to be," The friend to whom he thus 
 expressed himself had but just arrived in town, and, struck 
 by his enthusiasm, said to him, " What, sir ! greater than 
 your friend, Mrs. Abington ?" " Yes, sir," said Sir Joshua, 
 "greater than Mrs. Abington, wherever she challenges com- 
 parison." "Well," rejoined his friend, "at all events you 
 must not forget the more extended range of Mrs. Abington — 
 her fine lady."- "I do not forget the fine lady of Mrs. 
 Abington; it is never to be forgotten — I spoke of the two 
 actresses where they challenged comparison. But as to more 
 extensive range, I dp - not know that you can make out your 
 point; for opposed to these fashionable ladies, you have the 
 fashionable men of Mrs, Jorda.n,. and ,thp women who would 
 pass for men, whether Wildairs ox Hypqlitas in comedy, and 
 tiie tender and exquisite Viola of Shakspeare, where she com- 
 bines feeling with sportive effect, and does as much by the 
 music of her melancholy as the music of her laugh."— Zy^ of 
 Mrs. y^ordan. 
 
 It was not as an actress, but as herself, that she charmed 
 every, one. Nature had formed her in her most prodigal 
 humour ; and when nature is in the humour to make a woman 
 all that is delightful she does it most effectually. Her face, her 
 tones, her manner, were irresistible ; her smile had the effect 
 of sunshine, and her laugh did one good to hear it ; her voice 
 was eloquence itself — it seemed as if her heart were always at 
 her mouth. She was all gaiety, openness, and good nature ; 
 she rioted in her fine animal spirits, and gave more pleasure 
 than any other actress, because she had the greatest spirit of 
 enjoyment in herself — Hazlitt, " Criticisms." 
 
 Mrs. Jordan, more than any English actress, seems to have 
 " bewitched" the public. There was an irresistible joyousness 
 about- hci look, her laugh, her voice— a mixture of enjoy- 
 
Mrs. Dora Jordan. 275 
 
 ment and sympathy, as if she was full of pleasure in what she 
 was doing, and of delight in feeling that pleasure shared by 
 others, which was quite independent of beauty, grace, or 
 intellect. It must have been gal5 and wormwood to the jealous 
 and domineering temper of Mrs. Abington to see the throne 
 she had held so long and so despotically usurped by this raw 
 young actress-of-all-work from the York circuit, who dressed 
 carelessly, moved as the whim prompted her, thought nothing 
 of cadences or points, and, in short, was as completely the 
 ideal of natural charm as Mrs. Abington of artificial. — C. R. 
 Leslie, " Life of Reynolds. 
 
 Mrs. Jordan, when making up a quarrel with a lover, was 
 touching beyond description. — B. R. Haydon, " Autobio- 
 graphy." 
 
 Her sphere of observation had for the most part been in the 
 country, and the " Country Girl," therefore, became her own in 
 its innocence or its wantonness, its moodiness in restraint, or 
 its elastic movement when free. Her imagination teemed with 
 the notions of such a being, and the gestures with which what 
 she said were accompanied, spoke a language infinitely more 
 expressive than words — the latter could give no more than the 
 meaning of her mind, the former interpreted for the whole being. 
 She did not rise to the point where comedy attains the dignity 
 of. moral satire, but humour was her own in all its boundless 
 diversity. She had no reserve whatever of modest shyness to 
 prevent her from giving the fullest effects to the flights of her 
 fancy. She drove everything home to the mark, and the 
 visible enjoyment of her own power added sensibly to its 
 effect upon others. Of her beautiful compact figure she had 
 the most captivating use — its spring, its wild activity, its quick- 
 ness of turn. She made a grand deposit of her tucker, and her 
 bosom concealed everything but its own charms. The re- 
 dundant curls of her hair, half showing and half concealing the 
 archness of her physiognomy, added to a playfulness which 
 even as she advanced in life could not seem otherwise than 
 natural and delightful. — Boadais " Life of Siddons." 
 
 I went a short time ago to see Mrs. Jordan in " As You 
 Like It," and was quite as much pleased with her as I ex- 
 pected ; indeed, more so, for I had been taught to expect an 
 immensely fat woman, and she is but moderately so. Her face 
 is still very fine ; no print that I ever saw of her is much like. 
 Her performance of iP(7ja/««^ was, in my mind, perfect; though 
 
 T a 
 
2 76 yoseph George Holman. 
 
 I am convinced the character, from its nature, did not call forth 
 half Mrs. Jordan's powers. — Lesliis " AutobiograJ>hy," 1813. 
 
 Joseph George Holman. 
 1764-1817. 
 
 Joseph George Holman was a native of London, and 
 intended for the church; but in 1784 he made his dibut aX 
 Covent Garden Theatre. He afterwards went to America, 
 and became manager of Charlestown Theatre. Among his 
 dramatic productions are the " Votary of Wealth," a comedy, 
 "Red Cross Knights," "Abroad and at Home," &c. His 
 death was remarkable and melancholy, taking place, together 
 with his second wife, two days after their marriage, by the 
 yellow fever. — Universal Biography. 
 
 All the actors of that day, both in the street and on the 
 stage, Holman surpassed in majestic bearing and deportment. 
 The London critics acknowledged his Lord Townly, in the 
 " Provoked Husband," the perfection of the nobleman of the 
 days of Chesterfield. He was quite unlike an actor in the 
 dignified lord, and was the thing itself .... Many De 
 Valmont^ I have witnessed in fifty-four years, but have never 
 seen the equal of this accomplished English actor. — Donaldson. 
 
 Holman having been annoyed by some anonymous criti- 
 cism, wrote, on a pane of glass at the Booth Hall Inn, 
 Gloucester : 
 
 " My life is Kite the glass I mark, at best, 
 Shining, but brittle ; easily impressed ; 
 The missile of a wanton, .unseen foe 
 Can smash a glass or actor at a blow. — J. G. H." 
 
 Miles Andrews," who was travelling with him, wrote under it 
 before they left : 
 
 " Your life like to this glass ! Not so, my lad ; 
 
 This has reflection, which you never had. — M. P. A." 
 
 Records of a Veteran. 
 
 When Reynolds and Holman were both in the first dawn of 
 
 1 In "The Foundling of the Forest." 
 ' "Andrews was so wretched a writer that his new plays in London, like 
 his powder-mills at Dartford, were particularly hazardous affairs, and in 
 great danger of going off with a sudden violent explosion." — Caiman. 
 
William Dow ton. 277 
 
 their reputation, the latter wrote to Reynolds from some of the 
 provinces to say, that he had heard Mackhn had seen him one 
 night in "Werter" (a play of Reynolds's), and had expressed 
 himself highly delighted with the performance. " If you 
 should meet him," continued Holman, "pray tell him how 
 much flattered I feel, &c. &c., and how proud I shall be to 
 continue to merit," &c. &c. Reynolds accordingly took the 
 first opportunity to address Macklin, when he met him ; but he 
 had not gone far with " his friend Holman's" rapturous acknow- 
 ledgments when Macklin, interrupting him, said, " Stop, stop, 
 sir ! before you go any further, have the goodness to tell me 
 who are you, and who is the fellow you're talking of ?" — T. 
 Moore. 
 
 Holman, with the bright gUttering teeth in Lothario, and the 
 deep pavior's sighs in Romeo, the joUiest person (" our son is 
 fat") of any Hamlet I have yet seen, with the most laudable 
 attempts (for a personable man) at looking melancholy. — C. 
 Lamb. 
 
 William Dowton. 
 1764-1851. 
 
 Mr. Dowton might have reminded one very often of the 
 fabled fountain of antiquity, whose water, it was said, bubbled 
 as if boiling, yet never ran over, but always fell back again 
 perfectly cool upon itself — Mrs. C. Mathews^ 
 
 Dowton's face, manner, and delivery, were so truly in keep- 
 ing with nature, that an auditor could hardly imagine he was 
 looking on anything but the thing itself, so wonderfully Dowton 
 conceived and executed the most difficult character. During 
 his stay at Southampton he played Sir Anthony Absolute, Sir 
 Peter Teazle, Sir David Dunder, and Sir John Falstaff, in 
 " Henry the Fourth." It has ever been said that the dehnea- 
 tion of the fat knight is a sure test of an actor's talents. Since 
 the days of Henderson, the manager Maxfield, who had seen 
 
 ' " Dowton,'' wrote Mathews to his wife, from Stratford-on-Avon, 
 " kicked up a great dust in the house where Shakspeare was bom. The 
 old woman who shows it remembered him well. He must have been 
 delirious ; he desired to be left alone : — ' There, go ; I cannot have wit- 
 nesses ; I shall cry ; and so — eh ? what, the divine Billy was bom here, eh ? 
 The pride of all nature has been in this room I I must kneel — leave me 1 
 I don't like people to see me ciy.' " "~ 
 
 
278 Benjamin Charles Incledon. 
 
 that great man, declared he had never witnessed any one that 
 in the slightest degree approached Dowton in Sir yohn. — W, 
 Donaldson. 
 
 In acting he was of a very different school (from Parsons), 
 the chastest, and therefore the best. He was not disposed, 
 like Munden, to resort to occasional grimace, but made his 
 aim legitimately at character in the drama, and filled up any 
 perfect outline from an author with all the vitality that could 
 be expected from the consummate artist. Among his other 
 excellencies, he is a great master of dialect, and preserves it 
 without the slightest mixture even in the vehemence of passion, 
 when any mode assumed by the tongue is in most danger of 
 being lost in the personal feeling of the actor. As to utility in 
 the theatre, he was nearer to King than to Parsons ; and sen- 
 sible speaking made the great charm of his comedy, wA'Ca. a 
 kindly paternal warmth that glowed through the oddities of 
 exterior whim. — Boaden. 
 
 Dowton's passionate old men are pronounced faultless : they 
 are so ; nothing can be more true to nature, for it is Dowton's 
 nature. I have seen Dowton, annoyed at dinner, snatch his 
 wig off his head and fling it into the fire. There is scarcely 
 any extravagance of manner that he has portrayed in Sir 
 Anthony^ Restive, or Oldboy, that I have not noticed in him in 
 private life. I have seen him deprived of speech by irritation. — 
 Records of a Veteran. 
 
 Benjamin Charles Incledon. 
 1764-1826. 
 
 Incledon was notoriously a vain man, an egotist in the most 
 liberal and extended sense of the word. In pronouncing his 
 own name he believed he described all that was admirable in 
 human nature. He called himself the "English Ballad- 
 singer" — a distinction he would not have exchanged for the 
 highest in the realm of talent. — Mrs. C. Mathews. 
 
 Incledon was an original, and a general favourite among his 
 brother actors. He was ever ready with a witty expression, 
 and was rarely indeed seen out of humour. The elder 
 Mathews gave a first-rate imitation of Incledon ; and although 
 the great mimic's face was totally unlike the national singer's, 
 
Benjamin Charles Incledon. 2 79 
 
 yet it was difficult to tell, when seen together, which was Incle- 
 don and which was Mathews.' — W. Donaldson. 
 
 The tuneful favourite of your youthful days, 
 Rear'd by your smiles and nurtur'd by your praise; 
 Whom you proclaim'd from competition free, 
 Unrivall'd in his native minstrelsy. — Dowton. 
 
 It is a pity I cannot put upon paper the singular gabblings, 
 of that _ actor ; the lax and sailor-like twisty of mind with which 
 everything hung upon him, and his profane pieties in quoting 
 the Bible, for which and swearing, he seemed to have an equal 
 reverence. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 He is one of the. worstJooking men I ever saw; and has, 
 indeed, completely the face and figure of a low sailor. He is 
 likewise a wretched actor, and always appears on the stage 
 with that kind of awkward stiffness that arises from a man 
 being in better company than he is accustomed to. He is, 
 however, a very charming singer, and has the most manly and 
 at the same time most agreeable voice I ever heard. He was, 
 I am told,, in reality a common sailor originally. I have also 
 heard that he has other talents than that of singing, and can 
 eat and drink more at a meal than any other man. — C. R. 
 Leslie's " Autobiography" 18 13.'' 
 
 ^ Mathews has recorded his opinions of Incledon : — " Incledon has 
 cleared a vast deal of money ; he has fifteen guineas each niglit, and a 
 benefit in each- place, two of which have been very great; and I do not 
 doubt that will be the case with the third here. I heartily wish it, for I am 
 convinced he is a very good-hearted fellow. Whatever ill-natured people 
 may say of his ignorance or vanity, I think he has sense enough to con- 
 duct himself like a gentleman, and infinitely less vanity than could be ex- 
 pected from a man who had not the advantage of a good education or 
 polite introductipn to the world. I haye been very intimate with him 
 since he has been here, and from his conduct in general I should say he 
 was as generous as a prince ; and never ashamed to mention his former 
 situation when at sea, or when in strolling company at half-a-guinea per 
 week. This is but very seldom the case when men are raised from low 
 situations. " — Ed. 
 
 ° " His energy was great, his sensibility scarcely less, and but for the 
 Yulgarity of his manner, he was qualified to take, and would have taken, a 
 very high place. His pronunciation was thick, and affected by something 
 like a lisp, which proceeded from a roll of his too large tongue, when he 
 prepared for a. forcible passage, or was embarrassed by the word. In this 
 way, too, he used to jump to his falsetto by octaves, for the tone (it was 
 that pf a rich flute) was so widely different from his natural voice, there 
 could be no jimctiou. ■ His singing was at once natural and national. The 
 
2 So Beitjamin Chai hs Incledon. 
 
 At Worcester, February 4, died Mr. Incledon, who possessed 
 at once the most powerful and most melodious voice of 
 modern times, and who stood unrivalled in his style of singing 
 such songs as " The Storm," " Black-eyed Susan," &c. He 
 was born in Cornwall. His voice, at a very early period, ex- 
 cited admiration ; and when only eight years old he was 
 articled to the celebrated Jackson of Exeter, and under his 
 tuition he became a little idol in all the concerts and musical 
 parties about the neighbourhood. At the expiration of six or 
 seven years (1779), a truant disposition induced him to entei 
 on board the Formidable. He went to the West Indies, and in 
 the course of the two years that he continued in the navy he was 
 in several engagements. Under the patronage of Lord Mul- 
 grave, Admiral Pigot, and other naval officers, who gave him 
 letters of introduction to Mr. Colman, he, after his return to 
 England in 1792, endeavoured, but without success, to obtain 
 an engagement for the Haymarket Theatre. Disappointed 
 there, he joined Collins's company at Southampton, came out 
 as Alphonso in the " Castle of Andalusia," and was received 
 with the most flattering admiration. About a year afterwards, 
 the fame of his abilities having reached Bath, he was engaged 
 by the managers of that city. There, however, he was 
 for some time regarded as little better than a chorus-singer ; 
 but, fortunately, the penetration of the musical amateurs soon 
 discovered his value. Rauzzini, the conductor of the concerts, 
 took him under his care, and gave him the best instructions a 
 pupil could receive. He sang at the concerts at Bath and 
 Bristol with great applause ; was engaged at Vauxhall in the 
 summer, where his success was still more flattering ; and 
 Rauzzini's patronage speedily raised him from obscurity into 
 universal estimation. He was a great favourite at the noble- 
 men's Catch Club in Bath, which he assisted in establishing 
 
 hunting song, the sea song, and the ballad, given with English force ani 
 English feeling, may be said to have expired with Incledon. He was tlid 
 manliest of singers." Thus writes one who had often heard Incledon. 
 He adds, however, " It is impossible to imagine anything more con- 
 ceited or more coarse than Incledon in private life, as well as on the 
 stage. There is an anecdote in common circulation which combines these 
 two qualities to demonstration. Some of his theatrical companions were 
 one day discussing the qualities necessary to the performance of Macheath, 
 when Incledon thus spoke : — ' A man should be a gentleman, G — 
 
 d me, to play Macheath ; he should be a man of education (another 
 
 oath), he should have fine manners (a still stronger) ; in short (with a most 
 blasphemous adjuration), he must be Charles Incledon 1' " 
 
Benjamin Charles Incledon. 281 
 
 and Dr. Harrington, the most eminent physician theie, was his 
 particular friend. Remaining under Rauzzini six or seven 
 years, he received a complete musical education, and became 
 the first English singer on the stage. As a tenor, Mr. Incle- 
 don's voice was not always agreeable to the ear, but in com- 
 pass itwas equal to any piece of music; the falsetto part was 
 extensive and sweet beyond, conception, and the bass was 
 better than could be reasonably expected in one gifted so 
 liberally in other respects, In the song of " My bonny, bonny 
 Bet, sweet blossom," he particularly charmed with his falsetto, 
 and he was frequently obliged to sing that air three times — 
 never less than twice — in the course of an evening. After a 
 few years, however, he practised more in the tenor or middle 
 part of his voice, and used the falsetto less than in the earlier 
 part of his career. Mr. Incledon made his debut as Dermot in 
 " The Poor Soldier," at Covent Garden Theatre, in October, 
 1790. He had for some time to labour against the prejudice of 
 having been a Vauxhall singer ; and as his histrionic talents 
 were of a very humble stamp, it was long before he could 
 obtain possession of any first-rate characters. His occasional 
 performance, however, of Captain Macheath, Young Meadows, 
 &c., was so masterly, it proved him to be fully competent to 
 take the lead in all operas. Ultimately his powers were duly 
 appreciated by the managers and by the public. For many sea- 
 sons Mr. Incledon sang with great edat at the oratorios in 
 Lent ; frequently he visited Ireland, where no singer, not even 
 Mrs. Billington, was ever more caressed. Of late years — some- 
 what neglected, perhaps, for newer favourites in the metropolis 
 — his engagements were chiefly of a provincial nature. Styling 
 himself " The Wandering Melodist," he was accustomed to 
 give a vocal entertainment of his own. A paralytic aifection, 
 in the course of a few weeks, led to the termination of his 
 existence. He had been married three times, and has a son' 
 engaged in agricultural pursuits, now, or recently, living in the 
 neighbourhood of Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk. — New Monthly 
 Magazine, 1826. 
 
 During the O.P. war, whilst a terrific tumult was raging in front 
 
 ^ This son appeared at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1829, as Young Meadows 
 in " Love in a Village." A critic, noticing his performance, says : — 
 ' ' Although bearing no comparison with his father, this gentleman has 
 honest claims to be fostered for his own sal<e — a tenor voice of singular 
 sweetness, though of moderate compass, a fine intonation, and modest, 
 frank, and unaffected manneis." 
 
28a Benjamin Charles Incledon. 
 
 of the house, the management in their dilemma popped upon 
 Incledon, as " an everybody's favourite," to go on and pacify 
 them. " I, my dear boy," replied Charles ; "/attempt to stop 
 that riot ! I might as well bolt a door with a boiled carrot !" 
 — Wishing to give a stranger an idea of a liian who was ex- 
 tremely thin, he said, " His leg now is a capital leg to clean a 
 flute with." — His quotations from Scripture were always aptly, 
 sometimes awfully used ; but occasionally he made them con- 
 vey bitter sarcasm. He had been starring at a large provincial 
 town, and his share of the receipts certainly appeared very 
 inadequate to what might have been expected from the houses. 
 The manager protested all was correct ; Incledon bowed, and 
 after a moment muttered, '■'■Now BaralDbas was a robber." — • 
 Incledon was not very learned, but affected to be much more 
 ignorant than he really was. Conversation once turning upon 
 poetry, and the " Canterbury Tales" being quoted, one of the 
 arguers asked Charley if he was partial to Chaucer. " Am I 
 partial to chaw, sir? By the Holy Paul, that entirely depends 
 
 upon what it is ; but if you mean tobacco, d me, I am 
 
 not !" — Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 A singer whose marvellous sweetness of voice and forcible 
 simpKcity of style can never be forgotten by those who once 
 heard him. — Blackwood's Magazine, 1839. 
 
 Cooke was one evening very merry at a tavern, when Incle- 
 don, coming in, was requested by the tragic hero to sing " The 
 Storm," but it being late he refused, and retired to bed. Irri- 
 tated at this, Cooke determined to be revenged, and after 
 musing for a few minutes, asked the masters a.nd waiters if they 
 knew the man who had just been sitting in the same box with 
 him. They replied, it was Mr. Incledon. " No such thing," 
 exclaimed Cooke ; " 'tis some vile impostor, for he has stolen 
 my watch and notes, and I insist for an officer being sent for, 
 that we may search him. Remonstrance was fruitless, so at 
 length the guardian of the night was summoned, and they all 
 ascended to Incledon's chamber, with Cooke at their head. 
 Charley, roused from his first sleep, asked what they wanted. 
 Cooke insisted that he was the man who had the Notes, at 
 the same time observing, " If 'tis really Incledon he can sing 
 ' The Storm.' I^et him do so, and I shall be convinced of my 
 error." Incledon now perceiving the' drift of the joke, without 
 further preface, addressing himself to Cooke, struck up 
 " Cease, Rude Boreas," and having gone through the ditty, 
 
Charles Dignum. , 283 
 
 the party left him once more to his repose. — Theatrical 
 Anecdotes. , 
 
 His vocal endowments were certainly considerable : he 
 had a voice of uncommon power, both in the natural and 
 falsetto. The former was from A to G — a compass of 
 about fourteen notes ; the latter he could use from D to 
 E or F, or about ten notes. His natural voice was full and 
 open, neither partaking of the reed nor the string, and sent 
 forth without the smallest artifice ; and such was its ductility, 
 that when he sang pianissimo, it retained its original quality. 
 His falsetto was rich, sweet, and brilliant, but totally unlike the 
 other. He took it without preparation, according to circum- 
 stances, either about D, E, or F, or ascending an octave, 
 which was his most frequent custom, he could use it with 
 facility, and execute in it ornaments of a certain class with 
 volubility and sweetness. His shake was good, and his into- 
 nation much more correct than is common to singers so imper- 
 fectly educated. — Dictionary of Musicians. 
 
 Charles Dignum. 
 
 1765-1827. 
 
 A quick transition from summer to winter was easy to him 
 who knew no middle season of spring and fall. As soon, 
 therefore, as Vauxhall Gardens closed their rural gates, Drury 
 Lane Theatre opened wide — very wide — its dignified portals to 
 admit Diggy's ample form ; for there, time out of mind, he was 
 found the stock representative of the gallant Captain Lightly, 
 a character which he performed annually to Mrs. Jordan's 
 romp for nearly a quarter of a century, and of which, by 
 prescriptive right, he retained possession for many a year after 
 the secession of that inimitable actress. Who that had even 
 once seen Dignum in the amatory soldier could forget him ? 
 With what a full-blown martial air would he present himself, as 
 lounging about the streets, though morning, in a captain's fuD- 
 dress regimentals of his day! .... How judiciously would 
 Diggy in a subsequent scene, act the part of bottle-holder to 
 the delicate Miss Tomboy, during her pugilistic experiments 
 upon her grocer cousin ! — his warrior head, pomatumed a,nd 
 powdered, resembHng a seedling cauliflower, and agreeing 
 in shape, though not in colour, with his well-rounded face ; his 
 
284 Charles Digmim. 
 
 figure bedight in scarlet coat, with yellow facings ; white 
 dimity, double-breasted, and lapelled waistcoat ; red sash, 
 pendant over his white kerseymeres, the ends dangling un- 
 equally above his well-mangled silk stockings of a bluish hue ; 
 with paste knee and shoe buckles, low quartered pumps, and a 
 very large three-cornered cocked hat, gilt-buttoned and looped, 
 with a towering red-and-white feather swagging over one 
 shoulder — ^presenting altogether " a combination and a form, 
 indeed, where every (gallery) god did seem to set his seal to 
 give assurance of" — an officer and a gentleman ! (Dignum was 
 essentially that, or less than that he was nothing.)' — Mrs. C 
 Mathews. 
 
 Dignum made his debut at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1784, in 
 the character of Young Meadows, in the comic opera of "Love 
 in a Village." His figure was, indeed, rather unfavourable for 
 the part he represented, but his voice was so clear and full- 
 toned, and his manner of singing so judicious, that he was 
 received with the warmest applause. He then appeared in 
 Cymon, and again experienced the most flattering approbation. 
 His voice was a fine tenor. Amongst other characters, those 
 of Hawthorn and Giles particularly suited him, and he was 
 superior in them to every other actor since the days of Beard. — ■ 
 Dictionary of Musicians. 
 
 In a common room his voice, it must be confessed, is 
 musical and pleasant ; and while he sits in a chair after a good 
 dinner (which he is said to be very fond of) he seems to feel no 
 embarrassment. He has been used to sitting on a tailor's 
 shop-board for many years, therefore the habit of sitting is as 
 familiar to him as to the grand signior ; when Dignum walks 
 down the stage his motion is hke to that of an empty butt, set 
 upon one end in a hurry, which, ere it settles to a standstill, 
 makes many strange, unwieldy motions ; and when it rests has 
 nothing to boast of but its void rotundity. It must be allowed 
 that he has music about him ; but as an actor I know not 
 whether he is so likely to excel. — C. H. Wilson. 
 
 ^ Dignum was a tailor before he turned vocalist. He and Moses Kean 
 (uncle of Edmund Kean), who had also been a tailor, were one day 
 together when Charles Bannister passed with a friend. ' ' I never see 
 those two fellows together," said Bannister, "without thinking of one of 
 Shakspeare's plays." " And which is that?" asked the friend. "Measure 
 fyr Measure," answered Bannister. — Ed. 
 
285 
 
 John Richardson. 
 
 1766-1836. 
 
 It was when this generation of showmen had passed away 
 that Richardson made his bow at Smithfield. His stage and 
 theatrical fittings were at first of a very rude character. The 
 first floor of a pubHc-house was turned into a theatre, and the 
 platform or parade, which was fitted up outside the window, 
 formed an arch over the stalls of the sellers of gingerbread nuts 
 and fried fish, which stood below. The audience had to reach 
 the theatre by nieans of a ladder, communicating from the 
 platform to the fair. Twenty-one times a day were the unlucky 
 performers called upon to go through their parts. The 
 audiences were not very fastidious, and as long as they 
 had a broad-sword combat and a ghost, the actors were at 
 liberty to play all sorts of tricks with the drama. The length of 
 the performance was indeed usually regulated by the number of 
 people waiting to enter the show. When it was thought that 
 there was a sufficient quantity of visitors outside to form 
 another_ audience, some one would be sent in to inquire in a 
 loud voice if John Audley was there. This was a signal to the 
 actors to cut the part short ; and to abridge a performance is 
 very commonly called to " John Audley " it. This trick was 
 first practised by Shuter at his booth in 1759. Whatever may 
 have been the cause, it is certain that at first, curses, loud, 
 deep, and comprehensive as that of Ernulphus, were heard 
 from Richardson's retreating patrons ; but it was not long 
 before he installed himself in popular favour. The per- 
 formances of Bartlemy were repeated at Edmonton and other 
 places, and at the end of the year our showman found himself 
 the possessor of a good sum of money. With this he built 
 himself two or three caravans (" carrywans " was his pro- 
 nunciation) in which he could convey his company and 
 properties from one place to another. .... His show became 
 one of the principal features of many of the fairs of the 
 kingdom — Bartlemy and Greenwich being his head-quarters — 
 but it was not until after many years, and many hardships, that 
 he was enabled to give his show that appearance of splendour 
 which we were accustomed to associate with it in our younger 
 days. — Cornhill Magazine, 1865. 
 
286 Samuel Rtissell. 
 
 We were once introduced to the celebrated Muster Ricliard- 
 son, and were presented with a free admission to his " theater as 
 one of the purfession." The drama was called the "Wandering 
 Outlaw, or the Hour of Retribution," concluding with the 
 " Death of Orsina, and the appearance of the Accusing 
 Spirit." We did not enjoy it very much, as the rain came 
 through the canvas and the principal tragedian and the ghost 
 had the influenza. Richardson claimed to have had under his 
 management the elder Kean, Wallack, Barnes, the favourite 
 pantaloon, and other celebrities. He had a fine appreciation 
 of genius, that Muster Richards£in, and left a gentleman of the 
 fair — the original Mazeppa at Astley's — a handsome legacy 
 because he was a bold speaker. — Mark Lemon. 
 
 This person, who is the last of the real race of itinerant 
 dramatic showmen, amassed a fortune by unwearied industry ; 
 for upwards of forty years he has reigned supreme in Smithfield 
 and other fairs. It happened some years since, at the time of 
 the fair at St. Albans, that a dreadful fire occurred ; Richard- 
 son and his company did their utmost to extinguish it, and 
 their services were considered valuable. Some time afterwards 
 a subscription was raised for the uninsured sufferers ; a plain- 
 looking man, in a rusty black coat, red waistcoat, corduroy 
 inexpressibles, and worsted stockings, entered the committee- 
 room, and gave in his subscription — loo/. "What name shall 
 we say, sir?" asked the astonished clerk. " Richardson., the 
 penny showman^' was the proud reply. — Records of a Stag< 
 Veteran, 1836. 
 
 Samuel Russell. 
 
 1766-1845. 
 
 Mr. Russell was the prince of oral hoaxers. His natural 
 voice and expression of face favoured any desire which he 
 conceived, of persuading his victims of his own belief of what- 
 ever he wished them to believe. His calm, dispassionate, and 
 persuasive manner and tones never failed to produce whatever 
 was his object — no matter upon whom he practised, his end 
 was always attained. Mr. Russell's waggeries were continually 
 in progress in the green-room, and he had the skill to adapt 
 them to diverse subjects, according to his fancy; and with an 
 absolute dominion over himself, he could scarcely fail to rule 
 those upon whom he exercised his power ; his quiet and 
 
jfoseph Bartleman. 287 
 
 seemingly unconscious mind, the guileless expression of his 
 face arid voice, his ready smile, his words and demeanour, were 
 so apparently candid, while carrying on his jokes, and the 
 impassibility of, his features so entire, his temper so impertur- 
 bable, that those combined characteristics gained him from 
 Mr. Mathews the fitting sobriquet oi "ijis Innocence." — 
 Mrs. C. Mathews.. ' . , 
 
 Russell, -wtl^o- is best known as Jerry Sneak Russell, is the 
 oldest exhibitor now extant (1835)— that is tosay, he appeared 
 in some capacity full sixty y^ars since (exceeding Bannister by 
 two years). , At the, time of Russell's .(/^fe^, however, he was 
 only seven or eight years, old." He performed at Coachmakers' 
 Hall, gave a series of songs, recitations, &c., and was much 
 followed. When Breslaw, the emperor of all the, conjurors, 
 started through the provinces with his ■ ambidexteral displays, 
 )ae engaged little Sam Russell, and: little Mjss Ramanzini, (afterr 
 wards! Mrs. Bland, then nine years old),, tO; accompany him, , These 
 juvenile , performers prpyed veiryi attractive, and , received a 
 .lucrative, offer at .the openipg of ,the Circus (now the Surrey) 
 under, the managem^ftt of old Charles Dibdin, ,of Sans Souci 
 .celebrity, in 1 779, or J780. , There Russgll spqke the opening 
 address, and there rerhained until 
 
 ' " Hegrew hobbady-hoyish." 
 
 About thciyear 1785 he launched into the drama, and ten years 
 afterwards appeared at Drury Lane in Charles Surface and 
 Dribbie.— Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 Joseph Bartleman. 
 
 1767-1821. 
 
 The character of . Bartleman's intellect and voice was in 
 diametrical opposition to both the theory aiid the practice. He 
 was of a spirited and gay temperament, and his voice was strictly 
 a isaritone. He had a compass of more than two octaves, and 
 the toiie was as penetrating as that of a violoncello, from which 
 instrument perhaps he caught it, for it bore more resemblance 
 to the clear, vibrating, yet stringy effect of Lindley's bass than 
 anytliing else. Bartleman, too, was himself a violoncello player, 
 \ifhich adds force to the opinion. His performance gave to 
 bass-singing a totally new air. He enlivened and exalted its 
 
288 Joseph Bartleman. 
 
 expression, and, by his energy of manner, improved the inert 
 and sluggish ponderosity of heavy sound with vivacity and 
 meaning. He Hghtened, improved, and enlarged the sphere 
 of the bass. The drawback upon Bartleman's singing was his 
 vocalization. He had embraced a theory that the perfection 
 of tone was its general uniformity— its homogeneity. To this 
 intent he rounded the pronunciation of his vowels, thus making 
 they into thoy, die into doy, &c. This swelling and sonorous 
 system of enunciation, for system it was, corrupted the purity 
 and infected the whole manner with a pomposity that was very 
 like the affectation of a superiority not absolutely certain of its 
 claims.' — " The Progress of Music" Anon., 1833. 
 
 This gentleman, who for many years stood unrivalled in his 
 profession as a bass-singer, died on the 14th of April, at his 
 house in Berners Street, in the fifty-fourth year of his age, after 
 a long-protracted and painful illness. Those who have heard 
 Mr. Bartleman in the finest songs of Handel, Purcell, and 
 other ancient composers, can well appreciate the loss the musical 
 profession will sustain by the death of such a man. To a fine- 
 toned, melodious voice, he added the most correct judgment , 
 and refined taste, with an expression peculiar to himself. — 
 Memoir, 1821. 
 
 Though delicate in person and constitution, and often ill, 
 Bartleman was lively and spirited to a remarkable degree. It 
 ■ used to puzzle me to find out when or how he learned ; and 
 indeed, I have heard Dr. Cooke say, " Those boys of mine 
 learn of one another more than from me." Of his early 
 superiority he was as little vain as if it had consisted in spinning 
 
 a top Success never altered him — applause never 
 
 elevated him ; and he died, I am confident, as he lived, beloved 
 beyond the usual degree of love bestowed on those whose 
 excellence " has no companion." — Miss Hawkins. 
 
 ^ Bartleman was made sensible of this defect. A newspaper critic in a 
 provincial town where he had sung pointed out his peculiarity. Bartleman 
 called upon him for an explanation. A meeting was appointed, and a 
 musical clergyman attended as umpire. The piano was opened. "Now," 
 said the critic, turning to a duet in Haydn's "Creation," "listen to this 
 passage." He sang it. "I do not like it," said Bartleman. "It is too 
 thin and meagre — the tone is not sufficiently of one kind." Upon this the 
 critic sang the passage in Bartleman's exact tone and manner. He had 
 not got beyond the first few bars when tlie artist seized him by the arm. 
 "Stop, sir ; I see it, but you have made me miserable for life, for I snail 
 never correct it." — En. 
 
289 
 
 Andrew Cherry. 
 1769-1812. 
 
 Cherry's ynv is one of the finest pieces of acting I ever saw. 
 I think it very superior to Bannister, who certainly played it well, 
 but neither spoke the dialect nor looked the character so well 
 as Cherry. He is an extremely little man, I think less than 
 Quick, with a droll face. He is one of the most humorous 
 men in the world oif the stage, and a very good actor on it. — 
 Charles Mathews} 
 
 The 2Sth of the month showed us a substitute for King in 
 that very clever actor, Cherry, who appeared in Sir Benjamin 
 Dove, in " The Brothers ;" and, as a master in his profession, 
 he acted also Lazarillo, in " Two Strings to Your Bow." He 
 not only filled the cast, in a great measure, of King, but 
 seemed equally fitted to that of Dodd, and could go nearly 
 to the breadth of Munden, little as he was. Cherry was a 
 native of Limerick, contemporary with Mrs. Jordan, and his 
 father was a bookseller. — Boaden. 
 
 Andrew Cherry, author of the " Soldier's Daughter," " Two 
 Strings to Your Bow," was a comedian of great talent, but of 
 peculiar humour. He made his debut as Sir Benjamin Dove, 
 in Cumberland's neglected comedy of " The Brothers ;" but 
 Munden, Quick, Dowton, Suett, Bannister, Fawcett, T. 
 Knight, Emery, were all established favourites ; and the next 
 season brought Collins, who died early, but who was a 
 very powerful actor, and Mathews -into the field. Against 
 such a phalanx of performers poor little Cherry could not hope 
 for great success. Under the circumstances, his success was 
 really extraordinary, but it did not satisfy his ambition. — The 
 Early Days of Edmund Kean. 
 
 Andrew Cherry, the author of the " Soldier's Daughter," and 
 several other dramatic pieces, made his first debut as an actor 
 in a strolhng company, which exhibited at the little town of 
 Naas, about fourteen miles from Dubhn. His first character 
 
 ' Writing later, Mathews says : " Cherry's merit is by no means confined : 
 his old men are uncommonly rich, and his country boys are the most 
 simple and humorous of any I have seen after Blanchard ; indeed, in any 
 line of comedy he is a charming actor. He is a very excellent judge of 
 dressing, and has capital clothes, and the best wigs I ever saw."— Ed. 
 
290 John Fawcett. 
 
 was Colonel Fcignwcll, in "A Bold Stroke for a Wife" — an 
 arduous task for a boy of seventeen ; but he obtained great 
 applause, and the manager of this sharing company, after 
 passing many encomiums on his exertions, presented him with 
 tenpence-halfpenny, as his dividend of the profits of the night's 
 performance. Young Cherry now launched out into a most 
 extensive range of characters, and during the ten months he 
 was with this manager he acted almost all the principal 
 characters in tragedy, comedy, and farce ; and yet, notwith- 
 standing his exertions, he suffered all the vicissitudes and 
 distress incident to such a precarious mode of life. He was 
 frequently without the means of common subsistence, and 
 sometimes unable to buy the very candles by which he should 
 study the numerous characters that were assigned him. — 
 Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 John Fawcett. 
 1769-1837. 
 
 He was one of our few remaining actors who have striven 
 successfully to individualize their performances, instead of con- 
 sidering them as mere opportunities to display certain energies, 
 or to make certain faces and hits. His style was essentially 
 hard, yet he managed, by art and care, to bend it so as to 
 discriminate the varieties of character which he attempted. 
 He had not the facility or richness of Munden, nor the antique 
 elegance of Farren — he could not play grotesque parts like the 
 first, nor elderly beaux like the last ; but in representations of 
 bluff honesty and rude maiily feehng, he had no rival. His 
 performances were eminently English ; few performers, indeed, 
 have spoken our language so purely, and none have repre- 
 sented so well those manly feelings of which we are habitually 
 proud. Of the perforaianees to which he himself alluded in 
 his parting address — Caleb Qiwtem, jFob Thornhury, Dr. 
 Pangloss, Sir Mark Chace, and Captain CoJ>J>, I greatly prefer 
 tlie two last, each of which seems .to me, in its way, absolutely 
 perfect. Besides these, I recollect his admirable acting of the 
 Farmer, in the original " Maid and the Magpie :" staid form, 
 almost crabbed, till the poor girl is taken to prison, then break- 
 ing out with unexpected energy of defence, which (when all 
 seemed vain) was succeeded by a sad patience irresistibly 
 touching. — Talfourd. 
 
Mrs. Bitlington. 291 
 
 A great, original, masterly comedian, always natural, and 
 extremely powerful. — Boaden. 
 
 Mrs. Billington. 
 1770-1818. 
 
 I heard excellent music last night, and the last public notes 
 of the sweetest singer I have ever heard, or probably ever 
 shall hear — I mean, combined with so much power — for I 
 have heard many moderately strong voices still sweeter, accord- 
 ing to the usual equalization of heaven's gifts. Mrs. Billington 
 professedly sang for the last time ; but as I saw Mara's resur- 
 rection about six different times in ten years, I am not without 
 hope of hearing her again. Her last Italian air was that 
 which Tarchi taught me, " Sarah's Lamentation ;" it was 
 marked MS., and every one is wishing for it. — Mrs. Trench^ 
 rSii. 
 
 Of all the female singers that England ever produced, no 
 one ever obtained, or perhaps deserved, such celebrity as 
 Mrs. Billington.'' Her transcendent talents were not only the 
 boast of the country, but the whole of Europe did their 
 homage, and wherever she went she was honoured and 
 caressed. — Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 In my judgment the most accomplished of all English 
 sing ers . — Boadm. 
 
 The full-length of Mrs. Billington as Saint Cecilia, with a 
 choir of angels fluttering around and making music to her 
 voice, is now in New York, in the gallery of Colonel Lennox. 
 This sweet singer, against the wish of her father, the famous 
 hautboy of the Italian Opera orchestra, had changed her 
 maiden name of Weichsell at fifteen for that of her husband, 
 Billington, one of the Drury Lane band ; and after a year's 
 strolling in Ireland, had made her debut in Rosetta in February, 
 1786, at once dazzling the town with the brilliancy of her 
 
 ^ Mother of Richard Chenevix Trench, Archbishop of Dublin, a.- highly 
 accomplished and exquisitely beautiful woman. — Ed. 
 
 ^ Her maiden name was Elizabeth Weichsell. Her father was a native 
 of Freyburg, in Saxony. Her mother was a Miss Frederica Weirman, 
 who performed for a few nights, in 1764, at Govent Garden, and did not 
 appear again. Her voice was powerful, and resembled the tone of a 
 clarionet. She died 1786.— Ed. 
 
 U 2 
 
292 Mrs. Bitlington. 
 
 vocalization and the flush of her youthful beauty, which even 
 at this early age was of the full and luscious order. — C. R. 
 Leslie. 
 
 Mrs. Billington, then in the meridian of her beauty and 
 talent, was the heroine of the opera. Edwin, who in the 
 second act was to have assumed the disguise of a young Tartar 
 prince, being unable, from sudden illness, to change his dress, 
 actually wooed the beautiful Mrs. BilUngton in tattered armour 
 and flannel. But our misfortunes did not stop here; for 
 during Mrs. Billington's bravura in the last act, Mr. Billington, 
 her husband, who was seated in the orchestra, conceiving that 
 the trumpeter did not accompany her with sufficient force, 
 frequently called to him, in a subdued tone, "Louder, lov.der !" 
 The leader of the band being of a similar opinion to Mr. 
 Billington, repeated the same command so often that at length 
 the indignant German, in an agony of passion and exhaustion, 
 threw down his trumpet, and turning towards the audience 
 \'iolently exclaimed — " It is very easy to cry louder ! louder ! 
 but, by gar! vere is de vind?" This unfortunate interrogatory 
 showed us where there was an abundance ; and a breeze 
 ensued which nearly at once upset my little bark. — Frederick 
 Reyttolds. 
 
 By nature Mrs. Billington was largely gifted. Her voice was of 
 that peculiar briUiancy in tone that has obtained the appellation 
 oi fluty, for with the richness ond fulness of that instrument it 
 liad a birdlike lightness and brilliancy, whilst its compass 
 upward was all but unlimited. Shield' composed a song for 
 her that went up to G in altissimo — a height, we believe, never 
 reached before or since. Her intonation was so correct that 
 she was hardly ever known to sing out of tune. Her execution 
 v.'as perfect, and her fancy suggested more than her good taste 
 
 ^ William Shield was born 1754* His father was an eminent singing- 
 master. At the age of six Shield is said to have been able to perform 
 Corelli's fifth work. His father dying, the choice was offered him of 
 becoming a sailor, a boat-builder, or a barber. He drose boat-building. 
 Closely as he was kept to work, he found leisure to prosecute his favourite 
 study with such success as ultimately determined him in its adoption as a 
 piofession. His talents soon bringing him into notice, Harris, manager of 
 Covent Garden Theatre, engaged him as bandmaster and composer to the 
 house. Among numerous compositions of his are "The Wolf," "The 
 Thorn,'- " O, Bring Me Wine," "The Post Captain," "Old Towler," 
 "Village Maids," "The Heaving of the Lead," &c. He died Januai? 
 25, 1829.— Ed. 
 
Mrs. Billington. 293 
 
 would allow her to introduce, for the age of " fiddle-singing," 
 IS it has been contemptuously termed, was only then about to 
 commence. She, however, embellished every song she sang, 
 changing the passages, and introduced more extensively the 
 expression of ornament. ^ But with all this power, imaginative 
 and vocal, she nevertheless retained a chastity in her manner of 
 executing Purcell and Handel, which made her the idol of the 
 ancients. For her, it is known, the practice of harmonizing 
 airs was first commenced. Carter's beautiful and pathetic 
 " Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang with me," was the most popular, 
 and it certainly was an exquisite treat to hear such a voice 
 descanting above the accompanying vocal harmony of Har- 
 rison, Knyvett, and Bartleman. — The Progress of Music, 1833. 
 
 Her face was beautiful and expressive, her figure graceful ; 
 her voice possessed a peculiar sweetness of tone, and was of 
 great extent, but wanted what Dr. Burney would call calibre. 
 The most scientific songs she executed with bewitching taste 
 and affecting pathos ; and though her voice was not over- 
 powerful, it possessed great variety and a most perfect shake. — 
 The Manager's Note JBook^ 
 
 Haydn, the musician, was an enthusiastic admirer of the 
 late Mrs. Billington ; and one day calling on Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, he found her sitting for her portrait to that cele- 
 brated painter. This was Sir Joshua's famous singer, in which 
 Mrs. Billington is represented in the character of St. Cecilia, 
 listening to the celestial music. Haydn, having looked for 
 some moments attentively at the portrait, said, " It is very 
 like — a very fine likeness ; but there is a strange mistake." 
 " What is that ?" said Sir Joshua, hastily. Haydn answered, 
 " You have painted her listening to the angels ; you ought to 
 have represented the angels listening to her." Mrs. Bilhngton 
 was so much charmed by this compliment, that she sprang 
 from her seat, and threw her fair arms around Haydn's neck. — 
 Theatrical Anecdotes. 
 
 ^ In Miss Berry's "Journal," Napoleon is to be found saying that "Vous 
 avez una bien belle voix, c'est Madame Billington," and that he heard her 
 in Italy. — Ed. 
 
294 
 
 Mrs. Mountain. 
 177 1— 1840. 
 
 This charming songstress and no less charming woman is 
 still living and in good health (1835). Her maiden name was 
 Wilkinson, and some of her family were celebrated as wire 
 and rope dancers. She was engaged by Tate Wilkinson (no 
 relative) at York, as a substitute for Mrs. Jordan when that 
 lady made her metropolitan essay (1785). About five or six 
 years prior to this she (then a child) appeared at the Circus 
 with Mrs. Bland, Russell, Mrs. C. Kemble, Mrs. Wybrow, and 
 other children, in a piece by old Dibdin, called " The Board- 
 ing School, or Breaking Up." This performance was ren- 
 dered by the great talent of the children so effective that the 
 patent proprietors interfered, and the juvenile company 
 narrowly escaped a gaol. As she commenced, so she con- 
 cluded her career with an engagement at the Surrey, where she 
 played with Incledon a few nights before she left the stage. 
 About twenty years since, or upwards, she gave an entertain- 
 ment by herself, which was very profitable, in the provinces. 
 She married Mr. Mountain, the well-known leader. As they 
 had no family the would-be wits of the day made the name 
 subservient to some ridiculous puns, which I need not resus- 
 citate. — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 Mrs. Mountain has convinced us that during her two or 
 three years' recess from the London theatres she has not been 
 idle ; for on her first appearance last season at Drury Lane 
 she burst upon us like a new character, by having made such 
 wonderful advancement in her profession. She always appeared 
 to the town as a very interesting singer, a good actress, and a 
 pretty woman ; but now it must be allowed that this lady ranks 
 amongst the first-rate on the stage, when considered as a vocal 
 performer, and has arrived almost at the very summit of her 
 profession in the orchestra of an oratorio. — C. H. Wilson. 
 
 Robert William Elliston. 
 
 r 7 74-1 83 1. 
 
 I can conceive nothing better than .... Elliston in gentle- 
 Plan's comedy, and in some parts of tragedy. — Byron. 
 
Robert William Ellis ton. 295 
 
 He was a most delightful companion, and it might have 
 been said of him in homely phrase, with more point than of ' 
 most people, that in conversation "he was as good as a' 
 comedy," aye, and one of the very best comedies, too. I' 
 remember few people who carried their professional charm 
 more entirely into their private life. Mr. Elliston in manner 
 was like that of many other actors : a distinct person behind 
 the scenes and in society — i.e., in and out of a theatre. In the 
 former position, it always seemed to me that he felt it neces- 
 sary to put " an antic disposition, on," especially when he 
 became a manager, in order to cope with the oddity and variety 
 of characters and tempers he then encountered ; but at these 
 times I am fully persuaded that, like Hamlet, he was only mad 
 "North-north-west."^ — Mrs. C. Mathews. 
 
 Elliston was ill-adapted for tragedy. Although possessing a 
 highly-intelligent face, his limbs were not Apollo-shaped, nor 
 could he boast the height and majesty of Holman. He was 
 quite original, and could bid defiance to either Cooke or 
 Kemble in a certain number of characters. His voice was of 
 a superior quality, of great compass, and capable' of any into- 
 nation ; his face noble, and his height about five feet ten. — ; W. 
 Donaldson, "Recollections." 
 
 " I found the crown hanging on a bush," said an English 
 usurper ; " I picked the Surrey from the gutter," exclaimed 
 the equally regal Robert William ElHston, who was, in truth, a 
 raagnifico of the first order — a hound of the first breed : his 
 successors are " petty larceny " potentates — trundle-tails. 
 
 ' EUiston's peculiarity seems to have been a love of coming forward, 
 IDlacing his hand on his heart, and addressing the audience on every pre- 
 text. One season he had become so popular at the Haymarket that he 
 was obliged to take his benefit at the Opera House. The crowd was so 
 immense that on the doors being opened it swept past the check-takers 
 and filled the theatre. Elliston, of course, came forward, pointed out the 
 loss he must sustain if the audience did not pay, and sent a number of 
 men among them with pewter plates to collect the unpaid dues. When the 
 curtain drew up, the stage was found blocked with another audience, ten 
 file deep. The people in front hissed this violation, amid shouts of " Off, 
 off!" Again Elliston came forward, his hand on his heart, his mouth 
 wreathed with smiles. He said that as Madame Bouti, a foreigner, had 
 been suffered on one occasion to fill her stage with friends, he trusted 
 that the same indulgence would be extended to a Briton. The appeal 
 was irresistible, and the people behind as w^lJ as in front cheered. He 
 cleared 600/. by this benefit. — Ed. 
 
296 Robert William Ellis ton. 
 
 Robert William lived in open war with usurers, and did not 
 combine the arduous duties of a manager with the anxious 
 employment of a bill-discounter ; he paid, but he never took, 
 thirty per cent. ; he looked a sheriff's officer into dust, and 
 would have expired with virtuous horror at an exchange of 
 monetary courtesies with his opposite neighbour of Charlotte 
 Street, the baihff for Surrey. The people of St. George's Fields 
 should raise a monument to EUiston for the Fahtaff that he 
 brought among them. Nor before nor since have they of the 
 Surrey beheld aught worthy of the knight's shoe-leather. On 
 his second appearance in the part at Drury Lane, EUiston fell 
 down in speechless intoxication ; but he fell, only to rise at the 
 Surrey.' Elliston's Falstaff ! What a combination 6f the wit, 
 the humorist, the sensual feeder, the worldly philosopher, and 
 the gaitleman ! At once his manner redeemed the taste of 
 Prince Hal — in a moment his tones, his look, and carriage 
 convinced you that he could on occasion rise above the mere 
 bolter of capons and swallower of sherries ; he proved, what 
 every other Falstaff has failed in, or, rather, what they never 
 attempted, considering it no part of the character — that he 
 could be a courtier. The Falstaff oi other actors is the mere 
 cookshop Falstaff- — the Falstaff of EUiston might, if he pleased, 
 have attended levees. We fear that few, very few, critics 
 crossed the bridge to see the fat knight, which, it is our faith, 
 was the highest triumph of EUiston as an actor, inasmuch as it 
 combined, heightened, and enriched all the qualities which he 
 
 ' " When EUiston took the Surrey the last time, a furious play-bill warfare 
 raged between liim and his theatre, and Mr. Davidge and the Coburg. In 
 the course of it Mr. Davidge had occasion to send a message to ElUston 
 respecting some private transaction. ' I come from Mr. Davidge, of the 
 Coburg Theatre, ' said the messenger. EUiston heard him most impertur- 
 bably, and repeated the words, ' Davidge — Coburg Theatre — Coburg— I 
 
 don't remember ' 'Sir,' said the messenger, 'Mr. Davidge, here, 
 
 of the Coburg, close by.' 'It may be all as you say,' said EUiston, 
 solemnly ; ' I'll take your word, young man ; I suppose there is such a 
 theatre as the Coburg, and such a man as the Davidge ; but this is the 
 first time I ever heard the name of either.' And striding off, left 
 the astonished messenger to recover his amazement as he might." — 
 Ellistoniana. It is of the Coburg Theatre, reno\\'ned in its day for its 
 blood-and-murder dramas, that the following story is told : — " On one 
 occasion the scenes stuck in the grooves, and the gods were much offended 
 at beholding the halves of a house with an interstice of a yard or so 
 between them. At length a sweep called out, ' Ve don't expert no 
 good grammar here, but, hang it, you miglU close the scenes.' " — Ed. 
 
Robert William Ellis ton. 297 
 
 severally displayed in other parts. We shall never forget his 
 look, attitude, and voice when narrating the famous Gadshill fight. 
 As he proceeded, detailing his prowess, like a true liar, he be- 
 :ame a convert to his own falsehood, and his frame dilated, 
 and his voice deepened and rolled with his imaginary triumphs', 
 and for the time he stood, in his own conviction, the breathing 
 Hector of his own lie. Nothing could be more exquisite- 
 no expression could more perfectly catch the subtle spirit of 
 Shakspeare than the glance of EUiston— his flushed face, 
 quivering with conquest, and his whole mountain of a body 
 big with the hero, as he cried, " Thou knowest my old ward ; 
 here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buck- 
 ram let drive at me !" Of a piece with this was his rallying 
 under the exposure of the Prince ; and when asked by Hal, 
 " What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now 
 find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?" — 
 gathering himself up, fairly melting his face with a smile, and 
 his eye glowing like a carbuncle, Elliston fulmined rather than 
 spoke, " By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye !" 
 Poor Elliston ! he sleeps in lead in St. John's Church, and the 
 Surrey is governed by Mr. Davidge. — JVew Monthly Magazine, 
 1836. 
 
 Elliston, who certainly imitated John Palmer in his manner 
 ofT the stage, had an affected morality of demeanour which ill 
 accorded with his real life. In his youth this was peculiarly 
 the case. Charles Incledon said, " There was a capital parson 
 spoiled the day Elliston turned player." The style of 
 hypocrisy in which the great comedian indulged resembled 
 that of his stage manner when A was to be deceived in the 
 presence of B. Thus Elliston always appeared to be cajoling 
 one set for, the sake of amusing another, rather than for any- 
 thing to be gained by the process. When at school the boys 
 called him the " young crocodile," for he had tears of contrition 
 ready at the shortest notice. His love-adventures were numerous, 
 and he was not very fortunate or tasteful in the selection of his 
 dulcineas. Among others, when he was scarcely eighteen, was 
 a tavern-keeper's dame at Wapping. One day, whilst in earnest 
 conversation with the lady, an alarm was given, and as it was 
 necessary to conceal Robert William, he was placed in a 
 hasped chest. There was Elliston, while the lady ran to the 
 bar. Five minutes passed ; still the noise continued — nay, 
 increased. He tried to raise the lid, but she had prudently (?) 
 
298 Robert William Elliston. 
 
 fastened it. He listened : the confusion in the house became 
 ipore evident. He could hear persons running to and fro. 
 Some calamity had occurred. What? He too soon guessed, 
 for he heard the dripping of water and the cry of " Fire !" All 
 considerations but those of personal safety vanished; he sought 
 with all his might to extricate himself — in vain ; frightful recol- 
 lections of being buried alive flashed across his memory ; but 
 to be at once buried and burnt was too much, and his struggles 
 were renewed until he sank back helpless and exhausted. " At 
 last" (I quote his own words) " I had nothing for it but 
 patience and prayer." " Prayer !" I ejaculated, " under the 
 circumstances that brought you there, should have been' 
 preceded by repentance." "Sir," he replied, "I did 
 not pray directly for myself, but that those who were en- 
 deavouring to subdue the fire might be induced to take care of 
 the furniture!' The fire, which was only trifling, was at length 
 quenched. Elliston's flame underwent the same process, for 
 on the lady releasing him he wended homewards, and never 
 again incurred a similar danger in the same premises. — Records 
 of a Stage Veteran. 
 
 Of the great comedian, Robert William Elliston, who acted 
 quite as much off the stage as he did on it, a thousand pleasant 
 anecdotes might be recorded. Giving at all times a free vent 
 to the sly humour, the good-natured satire, and keen enjoy- 
 ment of a joke that were natural to him, his whim, eccentricity, 
 readiness, and talent, gave to many of the adventures in which 
 he was engaged an air of comedy, farce, or extravaganza, 
 sufficiently dramatic, rendering them quite as amusing as one 
 half of the entertainments now produced on tlie stage. Though 
 the greater part of the anecdotes related of Elliston had their 
 birth when he was " full of the god," it must not be inferred 
 that he was naturally or habitually a drunkard. He was cer- 
 tainly, in some measure, a hon vivant and fond of his glass ; 
 but he required good fellowship to make the bottle pass to his 
 mind. His great delight was to be rex convivii — to indulge in 
 the song, the speech, and the sentiment ; the joke, the tale, 
 the anecdote. Elliston had a great opinion of his own 
 oratorical powers, and imagined himself eminently qualified for 
 the Senate. Having a keen eye to the Treasury Bench, he 
 always had a strong idea that he should shine as a legislator, 
 and seriously thought of becoming an M.P., in a parliamentary 
 sense as well as in a theatrical one. No actor ever possessed 
 
Robert William Ellis ton. 299 
 
 a greater command over an audience than did Elliston. Foi 
 this he was indebted, among other things, for the general 
 favour in which he was held by the public — a prepossessing 
 person, winning voice, great good-nature, admirable presence 
 of mind, and, if it must be said, extreme effrontery. — W. Ti 
 Moncrieff. 
 
 Kenny told me that Charles Lamb, sitting down once to 
 play whist with Elliston, whose hands were very dirty, said, after 
 looking at them for some time, "Well, Elliston, if dirt was 
 trumps, what a hand you would have !" — Thomas Moore. 
 
 In green-rooms impervious to mortal eye, the Muse beholds 
 thee wielding posthumous empire. Thin ghosts oi figurantes 
 (never plump on earth) circle thee endlessly, and still their song 
 is, Fye on endless phantasy. Magnificent were thy cap7'iccios on 
 this globe of earth, Robert William Elliston ! for as yet we 
 know not thy new name in heaven. It irks rtie to think that, 
 stript of thy regalities, thou shouldst ferry over, a poor forked 
 shade, in crazy Stygian wherry. Methinks I hear the old 
 boatman, paddling by the weedy wharf, with raucid voice 
 bawling " Sculls, Sculls !" to which, with waving hand and 
 majestic action, thou deignest no reply other than in two curt 
 syllables, "No; oars!" — C. Lamb. 
 
 What do some of the diurnal critics mean by their cant about 
 " a certain age " aSid " the hand of time ?" It is they who have 
 grown old, not he, and they would shift the weight of years . to 
 his gaiety from their own wnnkled wisdom. Have they seen 
 him in Ranger, " with wine in his head and money in his 
 purse," finely running his career of frolic, redeeming libertinism 
 by a flow of animal spirits which makes it seem mere jesting, 
 bringing back the " good old times " when the gaieties of youth 
 and the infirmities of age were not visited with the penalties of 
 felon baseness, and dancing, drinking, and making love and fun 
 as if the world contained no treadmill? Let them go and see 
 him in Young Absolute, playing off Acres on Falkland, with the 
 roguish eye and inward chuckle ; or disporting with Falstaff s.^ 
 Prince Hal, worthy to mate with " the great sublime" of jovial 
 wits; or changing, swift as "meditation," or as lylathews, 
 "from grave to gay, from lively to severe," fromidiotcy to 
 college thoughtfulness, and again to mercurial want of thought 
 in "Three and the Deuce"— and then let them assert, if they 
 dare, that he is grown older ! If there were a little falling off 
 in rapidity and force, surely it were better to enjoy the exertions 
 
300 Edward Knight. 
 
 of a performer who has gone onward with ourselves, and who 
 Lalf awakens a thousand recollections of old joy, than to call 
 for a stranger with nothing but youth on his side, who has no 
 root in our experiences or affections, and who will attempt to 
 confound our recollections with some new reading, and puzzle 
 the faith of our childhood. But there is no falling off; our 
 actor is as gay as if he had not Drury Lane to answer for, and 
 as full of glee and hope as he was at five-and-twenty. The 
 occasional want of continuity in his elocution, which nature 
 meant a blemish, really gives effect to his happiest passages, 
 when his glee comes out like champagne, after a short pull at 
 the cork, bright, sparkling, and as full of body as of life 
 and flavour. In gallantry there is no one who approaches 
 him — he addresses a woman with a mingled ardour and 
 respect of which no other actor has a conception, and puts 
 more of love into his flirtation with a street acquaintance, than 
 many an actor has been able to infuse into his representations 
 of the amatory heroes of tragedy. Long — very long — may 
 full audiences foster his good spirits, and may he give impulse 
 to theirs ! — T. N. Talfourd. 
 
 Edward Knight. 
 
 1774-1826. 
 
 He was born at Birmingham in 1774, and was intended by 
 his friends for an artist ; but having at an early period a 
 penchant for the stage, on the death of the person to whom he 
 was articled, made his first appearance at Newcastle-under-Line, 
 as Hob^ in the farce of " Hob in the Well ;" but so astounding 
 was his reception that it quite disconcerted him, and, unable 
 to go on with the character, he ran off the stage, and it was 
 performed by another. His ardour was for some time checked 
 by this mishap, and he resumed the pencil for another year, 
 but the ruling passion was strong. He ventured in a more 
 obscure place, Raither, in North Wales, again played Hob, and 
 was successful. Afrer strolling about some time, he was 
 engaged 'by Mr. Nunns, of the Stafford company. In that 
 town he married a daughter of Mr. Clewes, a wine merchant. 
 His next step to fame was owing merely to the whim of some 
 merrily disposed wag, who was willing to raise a laugh at his 
 expense. One night at Uttoxeter, after having raved through 
 
Edward Knight, 30 1 
 
 tlie parts of Arno, Silvester Daggerwmd, and Lingo, he was 
 agreeably surprised by a note requesting his attendance at the 
 inn adjoining the theatre, and intimating that he would receive 
 information for the improvement of his theatrical pursuits. 
 Everything, of course, was neglected for this important inter- 
 view. He tiew to the inn on the wings of speed, and was 
 immediately shown into a room, where he was very cordially 
 received by an unknown but grave-looking gentleman, whose 
 inflexible steadiness of face could not give the least suspicion 
 of a jest. After the usual compliments of that day, the stranger 
 very politely assured him that he had received much pleasure 
 from his performances, and was determined to put him into a 
 situation where his talents might be shown to advantage. Mr. 
 Knight stammered forth his gratitude, and had all ears open 
 for the reception of this important benefit. The stranger pro- 
 ceeded to inform him that his name was Phillips, and that he 
 was well known to Mr. Tate Wilkinson, the manager of the 
 York Theatre. " Now, sir," he added, " you have only to 
 make use of my name, which I fully authorize you to do, and 
 you may rely upon being well receiv3d. Say that I have seen 
 you on the stage, and declared my satisfaction at your per- 
 formance." Mr. Knight was, of course, much delighted, and 
 expressed, in the most lively terms, his sense of this important 
 obligation. The next morning he wrote a very polite letter to 
 Mr. Wilkinson, making the tender of his services, and not in 
 the least doubting their acceptance, for the name of his new 
 ally formed the most prominent feature in the letter. In a 
 short time, a very laconic epistle came from the York manager, 
 that at once overthrew his splendid expectations. It v/as to 
 this effect : — " Sir, I am not acquainted with any Mr. Phillips, 
 except a rigid Quaker, and he is the last man in the world to 
 recommend an actor to my theatre. I don't want you. Tate 
 Wilkinson." This was certainly a mortifying repulse. His 
 air-formed schemes at once melted into nothing; and the 
 failure was so much the more painful as it was totally un- 
 expected. In the bitterness of his anger, he wrote a second 
 letter to the manager : — " Sir, I should as soon think of applying 
 to a Methodist parson to preach for my benefit, as to a Quaker 
 to recommend me to Mr. Wilkinson. I don't want to come. 
 E. Knight." This letter was too much in Mr. Wilkinson's 
 own peculiar style to meet with an unfavourable reception. 
 Notliing, however, resulted from it at the time. A whole year 
 
302 Edward Knight. 
 
 ^rolled on with the Stafford company, at the end of which Mr. 
 Knight was agreeably surprised by a second letter from his 
 former corresporident. In brevity and elegance it was in no 
 wise inferior to his former epistle, but the matter of it sounded 
 much more sweetly to our hero's ears. The following is, to 
 thebest of our knowledge, a Hteral transcript : — " Mr. Methodist 
 Parson, I have a living that produces twenty-five shillings per 
 week. Will you hold forth ? Tate Wilkinson." This sudden 
 change was not altogether owing to the preceding correspon-. 
 dence, but in part to the secession of Mathews, who had been 
 engaged at the Haymarket. He lost a beloved wife at the 
 early age of twenty-four, who left him burdened with the care 
 of a small family. He had been married five years. He was 
 united secondly, in 1807, to Miss Susan Smith, sister of Mrs. 
 Bartley, the then heroine of the York stage. At York seven 
 years passed away without any other material occurrence, when 
 he received proposals from Mr. Wroiighton, at that time stage- 
 manager of Drury Lane, which, of course, were eagerly accepted. 
 On the destruction of Drury Lane Theatre by fire, many of the 
 principal performers considered themselves as released from 
 their treaties, and em-barked in other adventures. Mr. Knight 
 was one of the few that had abilities to profit by this opportunity. 
 On October the 14th, 1809, he made his first appearance at 
 the Lyceum as Timothy Quaint, in the " Soldier's Daughter," 
 and Robin Roughhead, in " Fortune's Frolic." He was 
 equally successful ia Jerry Blossom, Sim, Spado, Trip, &c., and 
 continued a favourite till illness compelled him to retire. His 
 powers as a comic actor were certainly considerable. There 
 was an odd quickness and a certain droll play about 
 every muscle in his face, that fully prepared the audience for 
 the jest that was to follow. His Sim, in " Wild Oats," may be 
 termed the most chaste and natural performance on the stage. 
 On one occasion, in the exercise of his profession, Knight had 
 
 , a very narrow escape with his life. On the evening of 
 February 17 th, 18 16, when performing with Miss Kelly, in the 
 farce of '• Modern Antiques," a maniac named Barnett fired a 
 pistol at the lady, which had nearly given him his quietus. His 
 remains were removed to a vault in Pancras New Church, on 
 the 27th of February, when, among the mourners, were Mr. 
 EUiston, Dr. Pearson, Mr. Carpue, Mr. G. Soane, &c., &c.— 
 New Monthly Magazine, 1826. 
 
303 
 
 Robert Bradbury. ., 
 
 , 1774-1831. . • 
 
 Bradbury commenced life in his native town, -Manchester,, as 
 a carpenter, got engaged at the theatre as scene-shifter, with 
 Riley, the author of the ■'* Itinerant." A clown falling sicl; 
 during, the run of the pantomime, brought the young carpenter 
 forward, and Bradbury very soon appeared before a London 
 audience at the Surrey, and became the great buffo after 
 Griraaldi. Bradbury is mentioned in the " Life of Grimaldi." 
 It says : "He was ' engaged at the Wells to fill Joey's place in 
 the pantomime during his absence in the' country on a trial." 
 In the interim.. Bradbury so gained on the good folks 
 of Clerkenwell, that when the renowned Joey returned, the 
 managers told him' it would > be a dangerous experiment to 
 make any change, and thought it would be as well to let 
 Bradbury finish the season. V Then," exclaimed Grimaldi, " I 
 am ruined." — Recollections of an Actor. 
 
 John Braham.^ 
 
 1774-1856. .' 1 
 
 Braham's performance of ytphthds Lamentation is one of 
 the finest pieces of tragic singing in our time, and combines 
 every excellency music can possess. — Mrs. Trench, ,1814. 
 
 IHr;, Mathews had known Mr. Braham in the autumn of 
 1803, at Liverpool, arid it followed that he gave a perfect 
 imitation of him both in private and public life. Of this 
 Mr. Braham heard, and with all the liberality of good sense 
 
 ^ "I remember Braham," says a writer in the year 1831, "nearly half a cen- 
 tury. He came out at the Royalty Theatre the year Kean was bom. He was 
 never called or known as Abraham in my recollection. His name appeared 
 in the bills thus — 'Master Braham, piipil of Mr. Leoni.' A pantomime 
 called 'Hobson's Choice' was presented there in 1787, in which young 
 Braham sang. He was very little noticed, and attracted no attention 
 for years after. I fancy he must have been about fourteen, but if so he 
 was small for his age. Mrs. Gibbs was the star there ; she was then a fine- 
 grown girl, scarcely sixteen. Mrs. C. Kemble (then Miss Decamp), Mrs. 
 Bland (then Miss'Romanzini), and Samuel Russell (the "Jerry Sneak"), were 
 all mere children at this time, and were just becoming knovra to the public 
 Of aU these persons Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs. C. Kemble attracted and retained 
 attfiution most for some years, Braham certainly least." 
 
304 yohn Braham. 
 
 and conscious talent, lie good-humouredly pressed my husband 
 to show him — ^what not more than one man in twenty is 
 acquainted with — himself. In vain did he solicit ; when one 
 day dining together at a large party, after much importunity of 
 the kind to Braham No. 2, it was discovered that Braham 
 No. I had stolen a march upon his host and hostess ; in fact, 
 he had disappeared during the dessert, and it was said had left 
 the house. After this fact was ascertained, it was urged that in 
 the absence of the great original, Mr. Mathews could do no 
 less than represent him, for the consolation of his bereaved 
 friends ; and under such circumstances he at length yielded, 
 and Mr. Braham's absence was fully compensated for the time 
 by the imitator, and Mr. Braham even favoured the company 
 with one of his most popular songs. When the general 
 enjoyment was at its height, two ladies, between whom Mr. 
 Braham had sat at dinner, seemed as if suddenly discomposed, 
 when a figure rose slowly from under the table, and in tones 
 which seemed uttered as if intended in illustration of the recent 
 mimicry pronounced " Very well, Mathews ! exceedingly like 
 indeed ; nay, perfect, if I know myself," and the Braham stood 
 confessed. — Life of Alathews. 
 
 In no part of his art is Braham more distinguished than in 
 the use of the falsetto ; his success in this respect, indeed, 
 forms an era in singing. When in the zenith of his powers, 
 from a facility of taking up the falsetto on two or three notes of 
 his compass at pleasure, he had so completely assimilated the 
 natural and falsetto at their junction, that it was impossible to 
 discover where he took it, though a peculiar tone in the 
 highest notes was clearly perceptible. Before his time the 
 junction had always been very clumsily conducted by English 
 singers. Johnstone, who had a fine falsetto, managed it so ill, 
 that he obtained, from the abruptness of his transitions, the 
 cognomen of " Bubble and Squeak." Braham could proceed 
 with the utmost rapidity and correctness through the whole of 
 his compass, by semi-tones, without the hearer being able to 
 ascertain where the falsetto commenced. — Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 I remember Braham in his prime. His voice was a tenor of 
 the purest quality, of extraordinary power, and of singular 
 sweetness. It ranged from La below the lines to the upper Si. 
 With it he at times produced a sensation beyond the power of 
 description. He was without a rival ; but he called into being 
 a hort of imitators, most of whom were nearly as vulgar as-they 
 
yohn Brakam, 305 
 
 were incapable. Nothing can be conceived more superb than 
 Braham's singing of " Comfort ye, my people." I remember 
 hearing him in the "Messiah" at York Cathedral in 1833. 
 How his exquisite notes rose above the swell of the orchestra 
 and the organ ! His execution was marvellous : his articulation 
 perfect. His father's name was Abraham ; and as he was 
 short and stout his neighbours nicknamed him " Punch." The 
 title clung ; and always after he was spoken of as " Abe 
 Punch." Braham's education when a boy was utterly neglected. 
 He now and then made a few shillings by singing in the choir 
 of the great synagogue; and there his voice attracted the 
 attention of one of the brothers Goldsmid, then a very opulent 
 family. On the conclusion of the service young Abraham was 
 requested to call on Abraham Goldsmid. Repairing to 
 Lernan Street, Goodman's Fields (in 1793 this being the 
 aristocratic quartier of the Jews) he was introduced by Gold- 
 smid to Leoni Lee, a clever musician. By Lee young 
 Abraham was instructed in the rudiments of music and singing; 
 and two years after he made his appearance at the Garrick 
 Theatre' under the name of Braham. His success was prompt 
 and decisive. I recollect an anecdote of Braham. He was 
 performing in a pasticcio with Mrs. Crouch, Mrs. Bland, Kelly, 
 and Jack Bannister. The scene represented the interior of an 
 old country inn. (Enter Braham with a bundle slung to a 
 stick on his shoulder) : " I have been traversing this desolate 
 country for days with no friend to cheer me, (Sits.) I am 
 weary — yet no rest, no food, scarcely life — oh ! heaven, pity 
 me. Shall I ever realize my hopes ? (Knocks on the table.) 
 What ho, there, house ! (Knocks again.) Will no one come ?" 
 (Enter Landlord). " I beg pardon, sir, but — (starts) — I know 
 
 ^ " This Thespian nook is in Leman Street, and has, we believe, descended 
 tlirough all the tribes of Israel. On its first opening the proprietor of the 
 Pavilion — trembling for his monopoly of absurdity and horror — tried every 
 means to destroy it. The surrounding public, hovjfever, supported the new- 
 theatre, and after many stniggles with the bench, money is now — at least, 
 when it is offered — ' taken at the doors.' There is one gorgeous incident 
 connected with the theatre : Mr. Braham received thirty pounds for sing- 
 ing two or three songs. Many of the pieces produced at the Pavilion and 
 
 Garrick are from the pen of a person named , who may be seen, 
 
 in his hours not employed in composition, on the pavements of White- 
 chapel, with a green shade over his face, and j. placard on his breast, 
 soliciting the charity of tlie passengers for ' the successful author of a hun' 
 dred dranias.' " — New Monthly Magazine, i8'56. 
 
 X 
 
3o6 jfohn Brakatn, 
 
 that face (aside). What can I do for you, sir ? Shall it be 
 supper ?" Braham : " Gracious heaven ! 'tis he — the voice — 
 the look-^— the (with calmness) — yes, I want food." Landlord : 
 " Tell me what brings one so young as thou appearest to be 
 through this dangerous forest ?" Braham : " I will. For days, 
 for months, oh ! for years, I have been in search of my father." 
 Landlord: "Your father!" Braham: "Yes! my father. 
 'Tis strange — but that voice — that look — that figure — tell 
 me — that you are my father." Landlord: "No, I tell thee 
 no; Lam not thy father." Braham: "Heaven protect me! 
 Who, tell me, vs'ho is my father?" Scarcely had Braham 
 put this question when a little Jew stood up in an excited 
 manner in the midst of a densely crowded pit and exclaimed, 
 "I knowed yer farder well. His name was Abey Punch!" 
 The performance was suspended for some minutes in the roars 
 of laughter that followed this revelation. — Henry Russell. 
 
 Braham's voice is a tenor, enlarged in compass by a falsetto, 
 and its whole range of really useful and' good notes extends 
 from' A in the bass to E in alto — a scale of twenty notes. The 
 tone, when not forced, approached the very best sounds of a 
 clarionet, beautifully played — less reedy, though perhaps 
 always a little lowered by that defect. It was so perfectly even 
 and equal, and he possessed so thorough a command over it, 
 that he could produce any given quantity or quality upon any 
 part of it at pleasure ; while, if he ran through his whole 
 compass by semi-tones, it was impossible to point out at what 
 precise interval he took or relinquished the falsetto, though the 
 peculiar quality of that voice when he rose high, was sufficiently 
 perceptible. But to this faculty (the true portamento of Italian 
 vocalization) he also added the power of colouring the tone 
 according to the passion : he could increase or attenuate its 
 volume, not merely making it louder or softer, but by a 
 distinctly different expression of tone, so to speak. Braliam 
 has had few competitors — no rival. The nearest approach to 
 rivalry was , in the person of Mr. Sapio. — The Progress of 
 Music. 
 
 Whoever has heard Braham sing the first line of " Waft her, 
 angels, through the skies" (from "Jephthah"), and recollects such 
 first line separately and apart from the rest of the song, will 
 have heard the perfection of his tone, and will probably admit 
 that he can produce sounds breathing hope, adoration, and 
 fervent piety, — sounds most touching and full of beauty. 
 
yohn Braham. ,307 
 
 Whoever has heard him in the recitative preceding this air, 
 " Deeper and deeper still/' will have listened to as extra- 
 ordinary changes of tone, expressing remorse, hesitation, the 
 deepest anguish and despair, awe, heart-rending yet firm and 
 resolute obedience to Divine power. In the order of musical 
 effects it ranks with the finest effects of Mrs. Siddons in the 
 drama.' — Quarterly Musical Magazine: 
 
 Braham was born in Rotherhithe, in 1759.'' His father was a 
 Portuguese Jew, and was old at the time of young Braham's 
 birth. He went abroad, and died there soon after. Leoni, who 
 took Braham in 1783 or 1784, exercised over him not only the 
 control of a teacher, but that of a parent. After the failure of 
 Palmer's Royalty scheme Leoni went to Jamaica, taking 
 Braham with him. In 1797 Leoni died there, and his pupil 
 returned to England, and shordy afterwards assumed that 
 station in the musical world which he has held indisputably 
 ever since. With regard to the name having been altered in 
 the playbills from Abraham — which, it has been asserted, was 
 really his appellation — this appears very improbable, as it 
 would have been likely to give offence to many patrons of the 
 Royalty Theatre, who were principally Jews. Besides, from 
 the opening of that theatre to the time of its destruction, two 
 or more performers of that persuasion have invariably formed 
 members of the company. Among them were included Mrs. 
 Bland, Isaacs, the bass-singer, Sloman, Mrs. Wallack (sen.), 
 Delpini, and Leoni himself, Kean's reputed father and uncle, 
 and a variety of other persons, who were engaged there 
 because their persuasion was a favourable circumstance in the 
 way of attracting their brethren. — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 The first time Weber* heard Braham, he said to a friend, 
 " This is the greatest singer in Europe." He was then singing 
 in the " Freischiitz." — Anecdotes of Braham. 
 
 ^ Braham was conversing with a friend concerning the merciless way in 
 which he had been criticized, who dsfended his critics on the ground of 
 his having assumed all styles. "Do you mean to say," asked- Braham, 
 " that I should have been a better singer had my practice been less multi- 
 farious?" "I do." Braham sank a few moments into a reverie, then 
 suddenly exclaimed, "I never had an audience that could appreciate me; 
 give me such an audience, and then see how I'll sing." — Ed. i 
 
 " A mistake. Braham was bom in 1774. 
 
 ' Carl Maria von Weber was bom in a small town in Holstein in 1786-7. 
 His early musical education was conducted by Henschkel. He subse- 
 quently took lessons from the brother of Haydn. His earliest performances 
 
 X 2 
 
300 John Braham. 
 
 He is a beast of an actor, though an angel of a singer. — Sir 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 Braham was not merely a scientific vocalist, he was a 
 scientific musician. No man understood better, or more 
 thoroughly appreciated in others, purity of style, yet no man 
 oftener violated the canons of good taste. For this reason I 
 cannot call him a legitimate singer. I have heard him sing the 
 best sacred music at the house of friends, whom he knew to 
 be refined and fastidious musicians, and then his rendering of 
 Handel has been glorious, and worthy of his theme. I have 
 heard him at an oratorio at the theatre the very next night 
 sing the same airs to a miscellaneous audience, and so overlay 
 the original composition with florid interpolations as entirely 
 to distract the listener's attention from the solemnity and 
 simplicity of the theme. This violation of propriety was 
 attributable to the fact of his having observed that a display 
 of flexible vocalization always brought down thunder from the 
 gods in the gallery; and therefore he was tempted by the 
 greed of claptrap applause to sacrifice his own convictions of 
 propriety to , the demands of the vulgar and unenlightened.— 
 Rev. J. Young, '' Life of C. M. Young." 
 
 There is a fine scorn in his face, which nature meant to be 
 of Christians. The Hebrew spirit is strong in him in spite of 
 his proselytism. He cannot conquer the Shibboleth : how it 
 breaks out when he sings, "The children of Israel passed 
 through the Red Sea !" The auditors for the moment are as 
 Egyptians to him, and he rides over our necks in triumph. 
 The foundation of his, vocal excellence is sense. — C. Lamb. 
 
 were published in 1798. His opera of "The Girl of the Wood," com- 
 posed when he was fourteen years old, was performed to applauding 
 audiences in Vienna, Prague, and St. Petersburg. This opera was after- 
 wards published under the title of "Silvana." His opera of "Abu 
 Hassan" was composed in i8io. In 1813 he was appointed Director of 
 the Opera at Prague, whence he was called to Dresden in 1816, where he 
 occupied the post of Maestro di Cappella to the King of Saxony. His cele- 
 brated " Freischiitz" was produced at Berlin in 1822. The publication of 
 this opera at once elevated Von Weber to the rank of one of the first com- 
 posers in Gennany, and, with the exception of the " Zauberflbte, " no perfor- 
 mance ever became so instantaneously popular. This opera first led to his 
 invitation to England, and to compose an opera for the English stage. He 
 died in 1826 at the house of Sir George Smart in Great Portland Street 
 He was buried in the Catholic Chapel at Moorfields. — Ed. 
 
309 ••; 
 
 Charles Kemble, 
 
 1775-1854. 
 
 Though not heroic in his person, nor subtle in his art, too 
 much frequently upon the strain, and rather pleasing than 
 great, yet with no mean share of his family advantages ; born 
 for the stage, and naturally studious, he might be fairly set 
 next to his brother (John), at whatever distance. It was 
 always to be remarked that he never imitated him either in the 
 tone or cadence of speech ; and in the action or display of the 
 person, he went upon a principle much less refined and 
 picturesque. — Boaden, " Life of 'jfordan."'^ 
 
 I thought the Faulconbridge of Charles Kemble as perfect as 
 the Coriolanus of his brother John. Nature, as well as art, 
 had admirably adapted the brothers for these two characters. 
 Charles, then young, possessed a heroic face and figure ; and 
 the spirit he threw into the reputed son of Cceur de Lion, as 
 he played the character, was too natural not to be his own. — 
 Leslie, " Autobiography." 
 
 Mr. Charles Kemble's absence from the theatre, by what- 
 ever cause occasioned, makes a lamentable chasm in the 
 scenic art. Were he not personally gifted as he is, it would 
 be a sad thing to lose the last of the Kembles from Covent 
 Garden — to look in vain for the living and vigorous repre- 
 sentative of that truly noble house which has laid on us all a 
 great debt of gratitude, and with which he seemed still to connect 
 us. John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons had not quite left this their 
 proper seat while he remained there, for we had associated 
 him with them in their most signal triumphs, to which he lent 
 all the grace and vigour of youth, which were theirs no longer. 
 But it is not only on this account that we bitterly regret his 
 secession, for he was endowed with rich and various faculties, 
 which can be found in no one else in the same perfection and 
 harmony. Where now shall we seek the high Roman fashion 
 of look, and gesture, and attitude ? Where shall old chivalry 
 retain her living image, and high thoughts, " seated in a heart of 
 courtesy," have adequate expression? Where shall the in- 
 dignant honesty of a young patriot spirit "show fiery off ?" 
 
 * In the " Life of Siddons," Boaden awards him high praise. 
 
3IO Charles Kemble, 
 
 Whither shall we look for gentlemanly mirth, for gallant ease, 
 ''or delicate raillery, and gay, glittering enterprise? — Ldgh 
 Hunt. 
 
 Charles Kemble is not so fine a man as John, and we 
 cannot choose but call him rather clumsy, especially about the 
 ankles ; but then he has a noble, natural air, and has studied 
 successfully the art or the science of manner, demeanour, 
 carriage, so as to make the most of his figure, which is cast in 
 almost Herculean mould. His face, though far inferior in 
 heroic expression to John's, is yet noble ; and he has a voice 
 mellow and manly, and of much compass, though incapable of 
 those pathetic and profound tones which, in spite of his 
 asthma, used to issue forth from that broad chest of his, when 
 " Black Jack was in power to-night," in volume that surprised 
 those who had heard him only on more common occasions, or 
 when he was indisposed to make, or incapable of making his 
 highest efforts. For many years Charles, though always a 
 favourite with a London audience, could justly be said to be 
 but a second-rate actor, even in his best characters ; and in his 
 worst he was hardly a third-rate one. But the acting of all the 
 Kembles is of slow growth. About twenty years ago, when 
 Charles could not have been much under forty, his acting 
 brightened up into a brilliancy, and expanded into a breadth 
 of manner that showed he was about to enter on a new era. 
 He did so ; and, ere long, in some characters had no equal 
 among his contemporaries, and we suspect few, if any, superiors 
 among his predecessors. — Blackwood' s Magazine., 1832.' 
 
 The great beauty of all my father's performances, but par- 
 ticularly of Hamlet, is a wonderful accuracy in the detail of the 
 -.haracter which he represents — an accuracy which modulates the 
 
 ^ The same writer, speaking of Mrs. Charles Kemble, nee Miss Decamp, 
 says ; — " But we remember us of a delightful, dark- eyed, dark-haired 
 girl, whose motion was itself music ere her voice ^^"as heard, and the 
 glance of her gleaming eyes, ere yet her lips were severed, itself sijeech. 
 In all melodramatic representations, in that exquisite species of historical 
 narrative, pantomime, where face, frame, and limbs have all to be eloquent, 
 and to tell tales of passion beyond the power of mere airy words ; in the 
 dance that is seen to be the language of the exhilarated heart, when it 
 seeks to communicate, to cherish, or to expend its joy in movements of the 
 animal frame, not merely quickened by the spirit, but seemingly themselves 
 spiritualized— in all this, who was once comparable in her sparkling girl- 
 hood to that dangerous yet imwicked witch, the charm-and-spell bearing 
 enchantress, Decamp ?" 
 
Charles Kemhle 311 
 
 emphasis of every word, the nature of every gesture, the ex- 
 pression of every look, and which renders the whole a most 
 laborious and minute study, toilsome in the conception 
 and acquirement, and most toilsome in the execution. My 
 father possesses certain physical defects — a faintness of colour- 
 ing in the face and eye, a weakness of voice ; and the cor- 
 responding intellectual deficiencies — a want of intensity, vigour, 
 and concentrating power. Those circumstances have led him 
 (probably unconsciously) to give his attention and study to the 
 finer and more fleeting shades of character, the more graceful 
 and delicate manifestatioijs of feeling, the ■ exquisite variety of 
 all. minor parts, the classic keeping of a highly wrought whole ; 
 to all these, poHshed and refined tastes, an acute sense of the 
 beauty of harmonious proportions, and a native grace, gentle- 
 ness, and refinement of mind and manner, have been his 
 prompters ; but they cannot inspire those startling and tre- 
 mendous bursts of passion which belong to the highest walks 
 of tragedy, and to which he never gave their fullest expression. 
 I fancy my aunt Siddons united the excellencies of both these 
 
 styles I have a;cted Ophelia three times with my father, 
 
 and each time, in that beautiful scene where his madness and 
 his love gush forth together like a torrent swollen with storms, 
 that bears a thousand blossoms on its troubled waters, I have 
 experienced such deep emotion as hardly to be able to speak. 
 The exquisite tenderness of his voice, the wild compassion and 
 forlorn pity of his looks, bestowing that on others which, above 
 all pthers, he most needed ; the melancholy restlessness, the 
 bitter self-scorning ; every shadow of expression and intonation 
 was so full of all the mingled anguish that the human heart is 
 capable of enduring, that my eyes scarce fixed on his ere they 
 filled with tears ; and long before the scene was over, the 
 letters and jewel-cases I was tendering to him were wet with 
 them. The hardness of professed actors and actresses is some- 
 thing amazing. After this part, I could not but recall the 
 various Ophelias , I have seen, and . commend them for the 
 astonishing absence of everything like feeling which they 
 exhibited. Oh, it made my heart sore to act it! — Fanny 
 Kemble. 
 
312 
 
 Charles Mathews. 
 
 1775-1835- 
 
 The late Mr. Mathews, a man of genius in his way, an 
 imitator of mind as well as manner, and a worthy contributor to 
 the wit which he collected from friends and kindred, was 
 a disburser of much admirable " acute nonsense," which it is a 
 pity not to preserve.' What could be better than his Scotch- 
 woman ? or his foreigners ? or the gentleman who " with 
 infinite promptitude of mind, cut off the lion's head ? " or the 
 Englishman who after contemplating Mount Vesuvius, and 
 comparing it with its fame (and himself), exclaimed, snapping 
 his fingers at it, " You're a humbug !" — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 A comic world in one. — Boaden. 
 
 Hook's next production was the farce of " Catch Him Who 
 Can," brought out at the Haymarket (1806), the music supplied 
 as in the former case by his father. It was written for the 
 purpose of bringing into juxtaposition the peculiar . talents 
 of Liston and Mathews, the plot turning on the escape of a 
 supposed murderer. So admirable, indeed, was the rapidity 
 with which Mathews, as the nobleman's servant, assumed some 
 
 ^ James Smith, one of the authors of the " Rejected Addresses," gives a 
 curious illustration of a higher faculty in Mathews than the mimetic : — " I 
 never met Coleridge but once, and that was under Mathews' roof. The poet 
 then lived (where indeed he died) at Mr. Oilman's, at Highgate. Some of the 
 party — Hook, T. Hill, and (I think) Poole and myself — had already 
 assembled. It was a winter's day : the snow began to fall, and doubts 
 arising as to the possibility of Mrs. Oilman's making her way under such 
 circumstances, Mathews, with his inimitable talents of entering into the 
 mind as well as the manner of others, walked up and down the drawing- 
 room, and began to imitate Coleridge by anticipation, somewhat as 
 follows : — ' My dear Mr. Mathews, such was the inveteracy of the angry 
 element in its fleecy descent, that to encounter it was barely possible to Mr. 
 Oilman and myself For one of the softer sex the affair was altogether 
 impracticable. Mrs. Oilman, after making several efforts, was obliged to 
 desist, and Mr. Oilman and I have therefore made our appearance without 
 her.' Scarcely had we ceased to laugh at this exhibition when the gate- 
 liell rung, and— as the demon of imitation would have it — the two men 
 made their appearance, and Coleridge began, 'My dear Mr. Mathews, such 
 
 was the inveteracy of the element,' &c and concluded almost in the 
 
 langu.ige of the benevolent banker who had just discounted his oration. 
 You may imagine the effect this produced upon our risible organs, which 
 we with difficulty restrained." 
 
Charles Mathews. 3 1 3 
 
 six or seven dififerent disguises, and so complete his personation, 
 particularly of Mr. Pennyman (a favourite character of the 
 actor's off the stage, and then first introduced to the public), 
 that the audience on the first night, fairly taken in, failed to 
 recognise his identity, and received him with perfect silence. 
 The applause was of course rapturous on the discovery of the 
 deception. — Barham^s "Life of Hook." 
 
 My nurse assured me that I was a long, thin, skewer of a 
 child ; of a restless, fidgety temperament, and by no means 
 regular features — quite the contrary. The agreeable twist of 
 my would-be features was occasioned by a species of hysteric 
 fits to which I was subject in infancy, one of which distorted 
 my mouth • and eyebrows to such a degree as to render me 
 almost hideous for a time ; though my partial nurse declared 
 " my eyes made "up for all, they were so bright and lively." Be 
 this as it may, certain it is that after the recovery from this 
 attack, folks laughed the moment they saw me, and said, " Bless 
 the little dear ! it's not a beauty, to be sure ; but what a funny 
 face it has !" The " ofif-side " of my mouth, as a coachman 
 would say, took such an affection for my ear, that it seemed to 
 make a perpetual struggle to form a closer communication with 
 it ; and one eyebrow became fixed as a rusty weathercock, 
 while the other propped up an inch apparently beyond its 
 proper position. The effects remain to this day, though 
 moderated.^ — Charles Mathews. 
 
 The infinite variety of his transformations will be best shown 
 by a brief description of the characters he personated. On the 
 rising of the curtain he entered as Multiple, a strolling actor in 
 great agitation at being refused an engagement by Velinspeck, a 
 country manager, who, it appears, had expressed doubts of his 
 talents, and particularly of his versatility. In a short soliloquy 
 he announced his determination to convince this insulting 
 manager of the grossness of his error, and departed to make 
 the requisite preparations. We are next introduced to Mr. 
 Velinspeck, who gives a ludicrous detail of the disasters which 
 had befallen the various members of his company, and the 
 straits to which he is in consequence reduced. His complaints 
 are interrupted by a knocking at the d6or, and Mathews enters 
 disguised as Matthew Stuffy, an applicant for a situation as 
 prompter, for which he says he is peculiarly qualified by that 
 affection of the eyes commonly called squinting, which enables 
 him to keep one eye on the performers, and the other on the 
 
314 Charles Mathews. 
 
 book at the same time. This Stuffy is one of the richest bits of 
 humour we ever witnessed ; his endless eulogies upon the state 
 of things " in the late immortal Mr. Garrick's time " are highly 
 ludicrous. The prompter now departs, but is immediately 
 succeeded by a French tragedian, who proposes to Velinspeck an 
 entertainment of recitation and singing. This character is 
 intended for a portrait of Talma, and the resemblance must be 
 instantly felt and acknowledged by all who are acquainted with 
 the peculiarities of that Roscius of the French stage. It is 
 always received with clamorous applause by those who have 
 seer. Talma, for its fidehty. The command of countenance 
 which Mathews here displays is wonderful ; never was anything 
 more completely French than the face he assumes, and never 
 was any character dressed more to the life. Next enters Rohin 
 Scrawkey, a runaway apprentice, smit with the desire of 
 " cleaving the general ear with horrid speech." After a 
 ludicrous colloquy between him and the manager, he expresses 
 his apprehension of being pursued by his master, and. takes 
 refuge in a room on the first floor, which is open to the 
 audience. He here quickly changes his dress, slips down the 
 back stairs, and in the lapse of two minutes enters again as 
 Andrew M^Sillergrip, a Scotch pawnbroker in search of his 
 runaway apprentice, the aforesaid Robin Scrawkey, whom he 
 pursues upstairs, and is heard to assail him with blows and 
 violent abuse. He again alters his dress, and re-appears 
 immediately as Mrs. M'' Siller grip, who expresses great fears of 
 an attack upon her honour by the manager, and joins the 
 imaginary party upstairs. The skill of Mathews in carrying on 
 a conversation between three persons is here exercised with 
 most astonishing effect. Finally, he enters as a fat Coachman 
 out of patience at waiting for three worthies, whom he has 
 engaged to convey to Dover ; and presently, to the utmost 
 astonishment and confusion of the manager, convinces him that 
 the whole of the characters who have appeared before him have 
 been personated by the identical comedian whose talents 
 he had just before estimated so lightly. — Contemporary 
 Paper} 
 
 He seems to have continuous chords in his mind that vibrate 
 to those in the minds of others, as he gives not only the looks, 
 
 ' I have transcribed this critique that the reader of this book may foitn 
 some idea of the extraordinary talent exhibited by the great comedian. — Ed, 
 
Charles Mathews. 315 
 
 tones, and manners of the persons he personifies, but their very 
 trains of thinking, and the expressions they indulge in.— Zord 
 Byron. - '■ . . • 
 
 It was evident that Mathews was to be looked info as well as 
 (if, Perplexingly various were the shapes, he assumed in the 
 course of any single evening's performance,; but however 
 perfect his successive portraitures, the entertaining links of 
 introduction and connexion evidenced the intrinsic man. — 
 Wightwick, in Fraser' s Magazine, \%-^T,. . 
 
 The public is only aware of his genius — I and his intimate 
 friends know also his private worth ; and if I may mix up one 
 of his private good qualities with, his public talents, I can assert 
 that I never knew a man morC; scrupulously but unaffectedly 
 honourable and honest . in all his theatrical dealings with me, 
 and his engagements ■ with me were merely verbal. — George 
 Colman.^ 
 
 There was but one Charles Mathews in the world — there 
 never can.be such another ! Mimics, buffoons, jesters, wags, and 
 even admirable comedians we shall never want ; but what are the 
 best of them compared to him ? — Horace Smith?' 
 
 His acting was not like that of even the best of his con- 
 temporaries, a mere representation of some striking peculiarities 
 of character, but it was a, complete, and perfect identification. — 
 J^oshua Barnes. ' . 
 
 Poor Mathews ! he was a man of harmless eccentricities, 
 and of the strangest anomalies. Amid the many things that 
 he believed, or affected'to believe, one was, that "no man ever 
 caught a fish by rod and line." " No, no," he would exclaim, 
 
 J^ In a letter from one of Mathews's correspondents, dated 1824, occurs 
 the foUowhig hiteresting passage :— " I have met at the house of the father 
 of my worthy colleague, John Hamilton Reynolds, an odd, quaint being, 
 byname Thomas Hood. He appears to be too modest to /?/ a pun ; but 
 when it is effected it is capital. On better acquaintance (though he is the 
 most shy cock I ever encountered) I think I perceive under his disguise one 
 of the shrewdest wags of this age. I predict that before your present 
 authors are worn bare he will be your man." 
 
 ^ Mathews, whose powers in conversation, and whose flow of anecdote in 
 private life transcended his public efforts, told a variety of tales of the Kings- 
 wood colliers, in one of which he represented an old collier looking for 
 some of the implements of his trade, exclaiming,. "Jan, what's thee mother 
 done with the new coal-sacks?" "Made pillow-cases on 'em," replied the 
 son. " Confound her ;iro«rf heart !" rejoins the coUier; "why coukln't she 
 take tould ones V— Records of a Veteran. 
 
3 1 6 Ckancs Mathews. 
 
 " a net might deceive anything, but fishes are not such cursed 
 fools as not to know that cat-gut and wire isn't good for 'em !" 
 He had an intense, an unceasing love of approbation, and this 
 led him occasionally obtrusively to occupy the attention of the 
 company he was in. I once af ttially heard him sing fourteen 
 comic songs (those strange mixtures of melody and mimicry 
 which were created by, Hved, and died with him) in one 
 evening. He implicitly believed in his own tragic powers ; he 
 felt he had the mind to conceive, and — as far as enunciation 
 alone went — the power to execute ; he did not see that his 
 appearance, his gesture, and his eternal restlessness, all partook 
 of the ludicrous. He was a little prone to speech-making at 
 public meetings, and was on the tenterhooks to bring forth 
 some witticisms that should " set the table in a roar ;" his ex- 
 temporaneous jokes, however, were seldom good. He had no 
 eye for painting ; the most miserable daubs were foisted on 
 him, and as he affected a taste, he was continually the victim 
 of print and picture dealers. He could not bear (few can) to 
 have the genuineness of any original painting or curiosity in 
 his collection impugned. A celebrated upholsterer going 
 through Mathews's gallery, was called upon to admire the 
 cassolette (sent to Garrick with the freedom of Stratford, and 
 purchased by Mathews at an enormous price), made of the 
 Shakspeare mulberry tree. The gentleman in question, who 
 was a connoisseur in wood, declared that the material was of 
 walnut, not of mulberry. Mathews grew livid with anger, his 
 rage was really awful ; and this trivial circumstance (for the 
 man of furniture persisted) wholly estranged the parties. He 
 had what might be termed a kriack at music, but he was not a 
 musician ; he played the violin with taste (his original tutor was 
 Mr. Charles Cummins, Professor of Music, Leeds, who when a 
 boy was, with his father, Mr. Cummins, the Yorkshire Kemble, 
 in all the towns of the northern circuit, where Mathews was 
 then low comedian) ; could play a little on the piano and 
 organ, and was fond of attempting any instrument that came 
 in his way. His industry in his art, and in all that in any way, 
 however remotely, appertained to it, had no parallel ; he was 
 studying fresh characters to the day of his death. — Records of a 
 Veteran, 1835.^ 
 
 ' The Rev. Julian Young, in his Diary appended to his veiy brief 
 Memoir of his father, speaks frequently of Mathews. " He certainly was 
 
Charles Mathews. 3 1 7 
 
 Mathews, " whose eye begets occasion for his wit," once told 
 me of his going a day's journey with an asthmatic passenger, 
 not dangerously ill, although muffled up in a nightcap and 
 flannels, who never attempted to utter except when the stage 
 stopped at an inn ; but at every house of call, where the waiter 
 came to the coach door with the usual " please to light, 
 gemmen !" the gasping invalid breathed out to him, as well as 
 he could, " Butter-milk r The pen can produce no effect from 
 so simple an incident, but Mathews, with one touch of his 
 extraordinary talent, can give you the very man — can present 
 him to your eyes and ears, stuck up in the comer of a coach, 
 and butter-milking it to the very life. It is one of those 
 portraits (with the addition of vocal resemblance) which you 
 would swear must be like, although you never saw the original — 
 humorous as a sketch by Hogarth, chaste as a picture by 
 Wilkie. — George Colman} 
 
 unique," he says, "in his way, and full of incongruities. I never knew any 
 man so alive to the eccentricities of others who was so dead to his own. I 
 never knew a man who made the world laugh so much, who laughed 
 so seldom himself. I never knew a man who, when in society, could make 
 the dullest merry, so melancholy out of it. I have seen him grind his teeth 
 and assume a look of anguish when a haunch of venison has been carved ' 
 unskilfully in his presence. I have seen him, though in high feather and 
 high talk when in a sunny chamber, if transferred to a badly-lighted room, 
 withdraw into a comer and sit by himself in moody silence. He was 
 strangely impressionable to externals. I have known him refuse permis- 
 sion to a Royal Duke to see over his picture-gallery on Highgate Hill, be- 
 cause the day of his call was cloudy." Other eccentricities are enume- 
 rated, and the whole closes with a just eulogy on his private worth. 
 
 ^ Theodore Hook was perhaps the only man of his day who beat 
 Mathews as a practical joker. Such a genius for contriving mischief there 
 never was. He would carry a highlander from a tobacconist's shop, after 
 dark, and stagger with it towards a cab in which he would deposit the 
 painted figure, giving the cabman the address, perhaps, of some influential per- 
 son, and bidding him drive carefully as the gentleman inside was a nobleman 
 slightly intoxicated. Once finding himself in a cab without money to 
 discharge the hire, he had himself driven to a doctor's. On his arrival he 
 rung the bell furiously, and finding the doctor at home, entreated him with 
 a pale and concerned face to carry his instraments at once to such-and- 
 such an address, as there was a lady lying there whose life might now, 
 whilst he spoke, be leaving her. There was a cab at the door ; would the 
 doctor jump in ? The doctor did jump in, and was driven to the residence 
 of a very decorous spinster, who had no sooner learned his mission, than she 
 made at him with her nails and drove him into the street. The doctor 
 very sullenly returned to his house ; nor could he get rid of the cabman 
 till he had paid him the full fare he had demanded with many menaces and 
 
3 1 8 Charles Mathews. 
 
 Dined with James Ballantyne, and metR. Cadell and my old 
 friend Mathews the comedian, with his son, now grownup a 
 clever lad, who makes songs in the style of James Smith or 
 Colman, and sings them with spirit. There have been odd 
 associations attending my two last meetings with Mathews. 
 The last time I saw him he dined with me in company with 
 poor Sir Alexander Boswell, who was killed within a week. 
 The time before was in 1815. Poor Byron lunched with us at 
 Long's. I never saw Byron so full of fun, frolic, wit, and 
 whim ; he was as playful as a kitten. Well, I never saw him 
 again. So this man of mirth, with his merry meetings, has 
 brought me no luck. I should like better that he should 
 throw in his talent of mimicry and humour into the present 
 current tone of the company, than that he should be required 
 to give this, that, and t'other bit, selected from his public 
 recitations. They are good, certainly — excellent; but then 
 you must laugh, and that is always severe to me. — Sir W. 
 Scott. 
 
 He's the tallest man in the world, and the funniest. He 
 has no regular mouth, but speaks from a little hole in his 
 cheek. — William Lewis}- 
 
 Few public characters have been more, free than Mr. 
 Mathews frotn stain or blackening shade. . His faults were not 
 
 some' oaths. — ^Some ordinary ha'bits of his were to hang pieces of meat on 
 thebell-handles of suburban villas, in the evening, so that during -the' night 
 every stray dog that happened to pass would give a tug ; by this means the 
 bell would be set ringing five times an hour to tlie consternation of the 
 family, who, with candles in hand, might in vain search the garden, or peep 
 into the road for the cause. He would cut signboards in half, and affix the 
 odd pieces to each other, so that the signboard owners next day would have 
 the pleasure of witnessing their various occupations interpreted by the most 
 ridiculous announcements in the world. He would stitch his friend's clothes 
 up in such a fashion that when, on the following morning, the friend got 
 into them, the conclusion that he would at once jump to was that he had 
 from some extraordinary and unaccountable catise become feai-fiilly swelled 
 during the night — a conclusion which Hook wouldt take care to confirm 
 by expressing his great concern" 'at bis friend^fi appearance, and entreating 
 him to be allowed to call a doctor. — Edj ■' 
 
 1 The comedian's idea of Mathews' height was an error generally shared 
 by all who saw him. Mathews' height was five feet ten inches ; but his 
 slimness m ide him pass for a giant. Tate Wilkinson called him a may 
 pole and pronounced him too tall for low comedy. "You're too thin, 
 sir," said he, " for anything but the Apothecary in ' Romeo and Juliet,'" 
 and added, " that he- had never seen anybody so thin to be alive." 
 
Charles Mathews. 3 1 9 
 
 vices, but foibles ; the chief, perhaps the only serious one, was 
 an occasional and not unfrequent fretfulness or irritability, 
 which was the more remarkable from its contrast with his 
 usual good temper and high spirits. It was, we believe, a 
 nervous defect arising from a naturally delicate constitution, 
 weakened by successive accidents, and may probably have 
 checked his success as an actor, by causing a hurry and un- 
 easiness in those performances in which he felt at all insecure 
 of the sympathy of his _ audience. Thus he often seemed to 
 want, especially in the rnore regular drama, the ease, and, as it 
 it is called, the hplomb, which .never failed him in his own 
 peculiar performances — ^his " At Homes." He had always an 
 ambition to he thought a great comedian,.,and a repugnance, to 
 the reputation of a mimic ;' and this made him restless and 
 uncomfortable in the winter theatres; where his talents as an 
 actor, though certainly considerable, did not, place him quite 
 in the foremost line of comedy. , But this annoyance was un- 
 reasonable ; his competitors were the most powerful artists, 
 and if he was not so great a comic actor as the one or the other 
 of these, he had a vein of comic invention which none of them 
 approached.' , Mimicry was not its essence, but simply one of 
 its means. Its essence was the perception and appropriation 
 of what was comic in actual, nature, not only in her manners, 
 which are 1 the materials of the mimic, but in her characters, 
 which are. the proper subjects of the dramatist. Such a talent 
 seems to us to take-its place not only above that of the mere 
 mimic, but above that of the mere actor, however excellent in 
 his art, and to vindicate its place in the same compartment 
 with the writers of our broader comedy. — Quarterly Revieiv, 
 1839- 
 
 ^ In Coleridge's autobiography is preserved a remark wliicli Mathews 
 mighft have heard the poet utter : " Tlie talent for mimicry seems strongest 
 where the human race are most degraded. The poor, naked, half-human 
 savages of New Holland were found excellent mimics ; and in civilized 
 society minds of the very lowest stamp alone satirize by copying." — 
 Biog. Lit., vol. i. Yet our greatest actors have been admirable mimics — 
 Garrick, Foote, ICemble, Henderson, Emery, Munden, &c. Of these 
 Garrick and Foote publicly performed imitations designed to satirize. — Ed. 
 
320 
 
 Miss Mellon (Duchess of St. Albans.) 
 
 1775-1837- 
 
 There might be often seen Han-iet Mellon,^ then a youthful, 
 shm, and beautiful creature ; she would come all joy and 
 simplicity for a day's recreation. How merry and happy she 
 was ! perhaps happier than when splendour hedged her in 
 from the enjoyment of simple pleasures, the love of which I 
 believe to have been inherent in her nature. I see her now, 
 returning from a tumble in a neighbouring pond, in the middle 
 of which her horse had unexpectedly chosen to drink. How 
 unaffectedly she protested, when dragged out, that she did not 
 care for the accident, and walked home, though with difficulty, 
 across the common, with her muslin garments saturated with 
 muddy water, and her beautiful hair dripping down her back ! 
 How we laughed while we afterwards dragged off the wet 
 clothes from her fine form ! Then again, what peals of merri- 
 ment 0.ttended her reappearance in the borrowed ill-fitting 
 dress that had been cast upon her, and the uncouth turban that 
 bound her straightened hair ! — Life of Chm-les Mathews. 
 
 The public do not generally know that Coutts was not the 
 first banker who had distinguished this young actress. When 
 she was in Stanton's company, Mr. Wright, a banker at 
 Stafford, showed her great attention ; and it was creditable as 
 well as valuable, for his wife and daughters concurred in pro- 
 tecting her. It was there that the member, Sheridan,' saw her. 
 
 1 She was twice married : first to Mr. Coutts, the banker, and then to 
 the Duke of St. Albans. She made her appeai-ance at Covent Garden on 
 the 31st of January, 179S, as Lydia Languish, in the " Rivals." — Ed. 
 
 ^ Mrs. Wilson has written of this meeting with Sheridan : — Sheridan 
 had written to desire that Miss Mellon would call on him. "With 
 admirable coolness he told her that a young actress having seceded from 
 his company, Miss Mellon had always been kept ' in his mind,' as he had 
 fonnerly said, and had now a chance of taking the absent lady's place, and 
 as a specimen of her declamation, he requested her to read the scenes of 
 I.ydia Languish and Mrs. Malaprop aloud from his own play of ' The 
 Rivals.' She felt greatly frightened, and answered, with the naive un- 
 affected manner which she retained through life, ' I dai-e not, sir, for my 
 life ! I would rather read it to all England. Suppose, sir, you did me the 
 honour of reading it to me ?' There was something so unassuming and 
 child-like in the way she made this daring request that the manager 
 entered into the oddity of the matter, and read nearly the whole play to 
 
Miss Mellon. 321 
 
 and conceived he might strengthen himseli abroad and at home by 
 giving her an immediate engagement at Drury Lane. She was 
 certainly above mediocrity as an actress, " though I used to 
 think too careless to do all that she might have done. Her 
 figure was elegant in those days, and there was rather a comic 
 expression in her countenance. Had Jordan never appeared 
 she might have reached the first rank and been contented with 
 her station in the theatre. Few, in any kind of miscarriage, 
 have received such ample consolation. Chance itself once 
 contributed a prize of 10,000/. to this minion of Fortune's 
 frolic. I think there seems to have been a good deal of 
 sagacity in her conduct ; she saw her object with that single- 
 ness which .is necessary to all great success, and made her very 
 disposition itself a herald to her elevation. I never thought 
 lier one of those who 
 
 " Plan secret good, and bltish to find it fame.'' 
 
 But a little ostentation may be pardoned in our imperfect 
 virtue. — Boaden. 
 
 Miss Mellon was one evening standing near the green-room 
 fire, and while waiting for the play to begin she was humming 
 some popular dance, and just tracing the steps unconsciously. 
 She was roused by the voice of Miss Farren, whispering, " You 
 happy girl ; I would give worlds to be like you." Poor Miss 
 Mellon, recollecting her thirty-shilling salary, thought she was 
 ridiculed by " a lady with thirty guineas a week, who was to 
 marry a lord;" and she replied with some slight vexation, " that 
 there certainly must be a vast deal to be envied in her position 
 by one who commanded what she pleased !" Pressing her hand 
 kindly. Miss Farren's eyes became full of tears, as she replied, 
 " I cannot command such a light heart as prompted your little 
 song." — Mrs. Wilson's " Life of the Duchess of St. Albans." 
 
 Mrs. Coutts, with the Duke of St. Albans and Lady Charlotte 
 Beauclerk, called to take leave of us. When at Abbotsford, 
 his suit throve but coldly. She made me, I believe, a con- 
 fidant in sincerity. She had refused him twice, and decidedly : 
 he was merely on the footing of friendship. I urged it was 
 
 his delighted young auditor. She became so identified witli the drama thai 
 she forgot all dread of the author, and on his request she read the scenes 
 of Lydia and her Aunt with so much spirit that Mr. Sheridan ' applauded 
 repeatedly,' told her she could play either character, and gave her au 
 engagement." 
 
 V 
 
322" Jo Jin Lis ton. 
 
 akin to love. She allowed she might marry the Duke, only she 
 had at present not the least intention that way. It is the fashion 
 to attend Mrs. Coutts's parties, and to abuse her. I have 
 always found her a kind, friendly woman, vidthout either affecta- 
 tion or insolence in the display of her wealth ; most willing to 
 do good if the means be shown her. She can be very enter- 
 taining too, and she speaks without scruple of her stage life. 
 So much wealth can hardly be enjoyed without ostentation. — 
 Sir W. Scott} 
 
 John Liston.^ 
 1776— 1846. 
 
 There is one face of Farley, one face of Knight, one (but 
 what a one it is I) of Liston. — C. Lamb. 
 
 It is a curious fact that the greater portion of our best come- 
 dians made, by their own choice, their dramatic entree upon 
 tragedy stilts. Among these maybe numbered Munden, Lewis, 
 Bannister, Elliston, Jones, Dowton, Bartley, Wrench, and last, 
 but " not least in our dear love," the exquisite Liston. — Mrs. 
 C. Mathews. 
 
 ^ Lockhart, in his " Life of Scott," devotes several pages to an accoimt 
 of a visit paid to Sir Walter by the Duchess, who was then Mrs. Coutts. 
 She arrived at Abbotsford with a train of three carriages, each drawn by 
 four horses. Her retinue consisted of her fiiture lord, the Duke of St. 
 Albans, one of his Grace's sisters, a sort of "lady in waiting," two 
 physicians, ' ' and, besides other menials of eveiy grade, two bed-chamber 
 women for Mrs. Coutts' own person, she requiring to have this article also 
 in duplicate, because in her widowed condition she was fearful of ghosts." 
 There were already assembled at Abbotsford several ladies of high rank, 
 who, witnessing this ostentation on the part of an actress who, when a girl, 
 had been chased from her home by a vulgar virago of a motlier, took it 
 into their heads to snub her. The good-natured Sir Walter, pained at the 
 conduct of his noble guests, took the youngest and prettiest of them aside, 
 and lectured her on her manners. The beautiful peeress thanked him for 
 treating her as his daughter ; and one by one the other ladies being made 
 to run the gauntlet of Sir Walter's rebukes, Mrs. Coutts was speedily set 
 at ease. The narrative is curious as a typical illustration of the sen- 
 timents with which the society to which Harriet Mellon claimed to belong 
 regarded her. — Ed. 
 
 '^ Liston, as well as G. F. Cooke, seemed privileged to take what liber- 
 ties he liked with his audience. Barham tells an anecdote of Hook, who, 
 in conjunction with Liston, played the following trick off on some country 
 friends of his :— A young gentleman, the son of a baronet, wished to 
 escort his affiancie to a London theatre. Hook procured them two dress- 
 ■ circle seats. When the curtain rose, Liston (who had been primed by 
 
yohn Lis ton. 323 
 
 The great peculiarity of Liston's manner, on and off the stage, 
 is its gravity. What he says is less remarkable than the way 
 in which he says it. A fellow-performer, who adds to the de- 
 fect of stuttering a love of telling long and tedious stories, 
 was speaking of some person who had gone abroad, and en- 
 deavouring to recollect the place : " He has gone to — to — let's 
 see ; it wasn't Pennsylvania — no, no — ." " Perhaps, sir," said 
 Liston, without moving a muscle, " perhaps it was Penton- 
 ville." — On another occasion, a performer, at the close of the 
 season, gave Mr. Liston the gratuitous information that he was 
 going to Plymouth. " I have a friend there,", said Liston ; 
 "and perhaps you'll do me the favour to take z.bag of salt- 
 water to him from me." — Records of a Stage Veteran, 1826.^ 
 
 Liston is exquisite in his line : Edwin was equally so. The 
 rich humour df these two eminent artists is distinct. That of 
 the departed comedian was peculiar to himself, and (as the 
 living actor now singeth) " vice varsay ;" but I know not how 
 I can better express my opinion of both than by stating that I 
 admire Liston now as I admired Edwin formerly ; and, that 
 when Edwin was, and Liston is in his element, I have no con- 
 ception of a greater comic treat than the performance of either. 
 — George Colman. 
 
 He is the best quiet comedian that we remember. This style, 
 we admit, is not regarded as his forte by the world, nor per- 
 haps altogether by himself, for nothing moves the populace 
 
 Hook) appeared i his first words were greeted with laughter ; he paused, 
 looked round him with an offended air, and approaching the footlights, ex- 
 claimed, melodramatically, " I don't understand this conduct, ladies and 
 gentlemen. I am not accustomed to be laughed at. I can't imagine what 
 
 you can see ridiculous in me. Why, I declare, there's Harry B , too, 
 
 And his cousin, Martha J ," pointing full at the country couple; "what 
 
 business have they to come here and laugh at me, I should like to know ? 
 I'll go and tell his father, and hear what he thinks of it. " The audience 
 to a man turned and stared at the unfortunate pair, who, probably imagin- 
 ing they were in a madhouse, scrambled from their seats and rushed from 
 the house, amid peals of laughter. — En. 
 
 1 He was a great punster. Once whilst at Plymouth, a youthful mid- 
 shipman swaggered into the theatre flourishing his dirk. "Why don't 
 you attend to the announcement at the bottom of the bills," said Liston to 
 the doorkeeper. " Can'tyouread — ' Children in arms not admitted.' " — He 
 once asked Mathews to play for his benefit. Mathews having to act else- 
 where, fexcused himself by saying, " He would if he could, but he couldn't 
 split himself in halves." "I don't know that," said Liston: "I have 
 often seen you play in two pieces." 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 yohn Lis ton. 
 
 but buffooneries, and the actor must have peculiar strength of 
 mind who does not barter his judgment for huzzas. But a 
 hundred others can equal Liston in setting the rabble in a roar. 
 His exclusive province is calm drollery — the laugh which he 
 excites without exhibiting, and the easy pungency with which the 
 sarcasm is shot, apparently without taking aim at any one. — 
 Blackwood's Magazine, 1840. 
 
 Give Liston the ghost of a character, he invested its thin- 
 ness in corporeal substance : or, to choose another illustration, 
 an outline of figure was all that was wanting to his art ; he in- 
 fused- into it the richness of his own comic imagination, in aid 
 of irresistible features, and completed the work designed by 
 another hand. — Boadeii. 
 
 Mr. Liston, long promised, has at last appeared, and has 
 played in his most felicitous style. He stands more on his 
 dignity than he did at his old quarters : he does not use the 
 same freedoms to the audience or the performers into which 
 he was apt to deviate ; and accordingly, his acting gives more 
 unmingled satisfaction than usual. His humour is, in itself, of 
 so rich and abundant a cast, that it is best when most chastened 
 and confined within the strictest boundaries — when it is not 
 lavished on questionable irregularities, but seems always ready 
 to overflow and scarcely to be " constrained by mastery." He 
 played Young Master Laimcelot, in the " Merchant of Venice," to 
 Mr. Kean's Shy lock ; and the play, as acted by them, afforded one 
 of the richest combinations of talent recently seen. — Talfourd. 
 
 John Liston, a very popular actor of low comedy, whose 
 natural humour and peculiar drolleries afforded many a rich 
 treat to the playgoers of London, was born in St. Anne's 
 parish, Soho, and in the early period of his life was engaged in 
 the uninviting employment of a teacher in a day-school. For- 
 saking the thraldom of a schoohroom and fancying he possessed 
 the necessary requisites for the stage, he formed an acquain- 
 tance with, and often exhibited as an amateur performer on the 
 same boards as the late Charles Mathews, both of whom at 
 first mistook their forte, and strutted forth as heroes in tragedy. 
 Having made sundry provincial trips, he was at length seen at 
 Newcastle by Mr. C. Kemble, who recommended him to Mr. 
 Colman, and he appeared in 1805 before a London audience 
 at the Haymarket. He also obtained an engagement at 
 Covent Garden, where he remained, increasing in public favour 
 till 1823, when ElHston having offered him 40/. a week, he 
 
Charles Mayne Young. 325 
 
 transferred his services to Drury Lane, and continued there till 
 1831, but the enormous salary of loo/. a week tempted him to 
 enlist under the banners of Madame Vestris at the Olympic 
 Theatre, where he performed six seasons, and may be gaid to 
 have closed his theatrical career. He died rich. — Memoir 0/ 
 jl^ohn Liston. 
 
 Charles Mayne Young. 
 
 1777-1856. 
 
 Those who can recollect Young's Hamlet must admit that it 
 has never been excelled since his day, and I question if it has 
 ever been equalled. — W. Donaldson. 
 
 He was certainly at once the next best actor to Kemble — a 
 man of reading and reflection, with a graceful person, expres- 
 sive countenance, and fine sonorous voice. — Boaden. 
 
 He stands certainly next to Kemble in tragedy. — C. R. 
 Leslie. 
 
 He is a mannerist as well as Kean— a mannerist in a more 
 graceful and polished style — and so far he has unquestionably 
 the advantage. But the great question is — What is he besides 
 this ? In our judgment there is not the least comparison in all 
 that most touches, elevates, and subdues — in all those parts 
 where manner is forgotten ; and " one touch of nature makes 
 the whole world kin." Mr. Young's art, though far above 
 Kean's, is as much below that of Kemble. It is not only less 
 majestical, but has not the same poetical proportion and har- 
 mony. His mode of treading the stage is firm, intelligent, and 
 decisive ; but his action, noble in itself, is not only redundant, 
 but out of keeping. He gives us a picturesque accompaniment 
 to a mere meditation ; to what is calmly passing in his own mind, 
 or to a description of a past event, the same sweep of arm 
 or violent clasping of hands, which he would use when in 
 actual struggle with present and visible agencies. Thus, while 
 in some degree he raises words into things, he also half melts 
 down actions into words. He too often plays the orator in his 
 soliloquies, and the philosopher in his passionate encounters. 
 His voice is most musical in passages of continuous melan- 
 choly — most potent in energetic declamation ; but has very 
 little sweet gradation in its tones. It flows along in a full, deep, 
 rapid stream, or winds plaintively on through all the course of 
 philosophic thought ; but it has no undercurrents — no eddies 
 
326 Charles Mayne Ymmg, 
 
 of playful tenderness. He is altogether most excellent where 
 one single feeling has to be developed — where one point is to 
 be perpefually insisted on — where one leading idea governs the 
 whole character. In a part of mournful beauty he is perfectly 
 delicious — the very personification of a melodious sigh. Again, 
 in a proud soldierly character, or an indignant patriot, where 
 there is one firm purpose, he plays in a fiery spirit entirely his 
 own. And, in a piece where the declamation abounds in 
 images of pomp and luxury, he displays a rich Oriental manner 
 which no one can rival. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 I had never seen Young act ! Every one about me told me he 
 could not hold a farthing rushlight to me ; but he can ! He is an 
 actor ; and though I flatter myself that he could not act Othello 
 as I do, yet what chance should I have in lago after him, with 
 his personal advantages and his d — musical voice ? I don't 
 believe he could play J^affier as well as I can ; but fancy me in 
 Pierre after him ! I tell you what. Young is not only an actor 
 such as I did not dream him to have been, but he is a gentle- 
 man ! — Edmund Kean. 
 
 In figure, stature, and deportment. Young had the advantage 
 over Kean, for he had height which Kean had not ; and 
 though Young's limbs were not particularly well moulded, he 
 moved them gracefully; and his head, "and throat, and bust 
 were classically moulded. He trod the boards with freedom. 
 His countenance was equally well adapted for the expression 
 of pathos or of pride : thus in such parts as Hamlet, Beverley, The 
 Stranger, Daran, Pierre, Zanga, and Cassius, he looked the 
 men he represented. His voice was full-bodied, rich, power- 
 ful, and capable of every variety of modulation, and therefore, 
 in declamatory power, he was greatly superior to Kean and 
 Kemble too. — Rev. y. Young, " Life of C. Young." ' 
 
 His performance of Hamlet, if it be not fully equal to 
 Shakspeare's design, is an elegant and striking piece of acting, 
 and has a degree of popularity which justified its repetition! 
 In the frenzy and sorrows of Lear, and in the knavery of 
 Shylock, his powers are perhaps less in their element. He is 
 excellent in parts where there is no great undulation of feeling, 
 where one single passion is to be wrought out by repeated 
 efforts, each rising above the other in power and eiffect ; where 
 graceful aiid energetic action will supply the defects of an in- 
 flexible countenance, and sonorous declamation will render 
 nice gradation of tone and delicacy of inflection needless, 
 
yohn Emery. 327 
 
 There are characters in which he is unrivalled and almost per- 
 fect : his Pierre, if not so lofty, is more natural and soldierly 
 even than Kemble's ; his Chamont is full of brotherly pride, 
 noble impetuosity, and heroic scorn ; and his yaques is " most 
 musical, most melancholy," attuned to the very tempera- 
 ment of the gentle wood-walks among which he muses. There 
 are some peculiar parts in comedy, too, which he gives with 
 singular truth — as a testy philanthropist, or an eccentric hu- 
 morist, with a vein of kindness beneath his oddities. Charac-^ 
 ters of this description will in his hands become almost as vivid 
 as in those of Terry, while he will lend to them a degree of 
 refinement, and sometimes impart to them a tinge of poetical 
 and romantic colouring, which that admirable actor cannot 
 bestow. — New Monthly Magazine, 1822. 
 
 John Emery. 
 
 1777-1822. 
 
 Emery, like Liston, possessed those qualities which indicate 
 the first-rate artist — pathos and humour ; and never since 
 Emery's death has Dandie Dinmont, Tyke, or Giles, been 
 brought out in such bold and original relief — W. Donaldson., 
 
 Emery, though not literally born in Yorkshire, was bred 
 there. Few men were so highly accomplished as this comedian. 
 He was an excellent musician, and played the violin at twelve 
 years of age in the orchestra ; he was a fine draughtsman, and 
 painted in oil with the skill of an artist. Perhaps no man was 
 ever so completely successful as Emery , in the Yorkshire 
 character ; it appeared through life to have been " meat and 
 drink to him to see a clown." He was so perfect a represen- 
 tative of the loutish amning of the three Ridings, that it was 
 difficult to believe that he had, or could' have any personal or 
 mental qualities to discriminate the man from the actor. To 
 say truth, he delighted to exhibit " the knowing lad," and he 
 
 ^ A notable delineation of Emeiy was Tyke, in "The School of Reform." 
 Acting this once, a sailor in the pit was so enraged at Tyke's duplicity 
 that but for his messmates he would have jumped on the stage, and 
 soundly thrashed Emeiy. At the scene in the fourth act, when Tyke finds 
 the olcl man, whose purse he takes, to be his fatlier, and exclaims, " What ! 
 rol) my own feyther !" the sailor, unable to contain himself, roared, in a 
 passion, " Yes, you vagabond ; you'd rob a church !" — Ed. 
 
328 yohn Emery, 
 
 had a fund of stories, which he told in the green-room of the 
 theatre, and at table where he dined, some of which have 
 surely never been equalled for exactness. — Boaden. 
 
 His style was as much his own, and his excellence in it as 
 far removed from approach, as that of any actor we have ever 
 seen. His faculty of portraying stupidity enlivened by one 
 single ray of acuteness ; of exhibiting stout and stony profligacy ; 
 of hitting off to the life provincial knaveries and peculiarities, 
 would at any time have rendered him popular. But not for 
 his perfection in these representations did we chiefly admire 
 him living, or desire to remember him now he is gone. His 
 forte lay in showing the might of human passion and affection, 
 not only unaided by circumstance, but attended by everything 
 which could tend to associate them with the ludicrous or the 
 vulgar. The parts in which he displayed this prodigious power 
 were as far as possible removed from the elegant and romantic ; 
 and his own stout frame, and broad, iron countenance did not 
 give him any extrinsic aid to refine or exalt them. But in 
 spite of all these obstacles, the energy of passion or the 
 strength of agony was triumphant. Every muscle was strained 
 to bursting, every fibre informed with sense and feeling, every 
 quiver of the lip and involuntary motion of the hands spoke 
 the might of that emotion which he was more than counterfeit- 
 ing; and all little provincialisms, all traits of vulgarity, were 
 forgotten in wonder and sympathy. A small portion of his 
 feeling and energy, infused into a person of graceful figure and 
 
 refined taste, would make a popular tragedian Among 
 
 the classical heroes of the stage he was a kind of AntKus, earth- 
 born, yet gigantic. His Tyke was the grandest specimen of 
 the rude sublime ; his Giles, in the " Miller's ■ Man," was 
 almost as intense, and the whole conception of a loftier cast — 
 Talfourd. 
 
 He was born at Sunderland, Durham, on the 22nd of 
 December, 1777, and was educated at Ecclesfield, in the West 
 Riding of Yorkshire, where he doubtless acquired that know- 
 ledge of the dialect which obtained for him so much celebrity. 
 He may be said to have been born an actor, both his parents 
 having followed that occupation with some degree of provincial 
 fame. His father designed him for the orchestra, but, aspiring 
 to the honours of the stage, he laid aside the fiddle for the 
 notes of dramatic applause, which he obtained on his first ap- 
 pearance in Crazy ("Peeping Tom") at the Brighton Tl eatre. 
 
yohn Emery. 329 
 
 Fie afterwards joined the York Company, under the eccentric 
 'I'ate Wilkinson, who spoke of him, as Mathews states, as " a 
 great actor ;" which opinion was confirmed by a London 
 audience on his first appearance at Covent Garden Theatre in 
 the year 1798, on which occasion he selected the very opposite 
 characters of Frank Oakland, in " A Cure for the Heartache," 
 and Lovegold, in the farce of " The Miser," in both of which 
 parts he obtained great applause. To enumerate the many 
 characters he has since so ably sustained would be superfluous, 
 though it may not, perhaps, be deemed impertinent to point out 
 the variety of his histrionic powers. In the arch, unsophisti- 
 cated son of nature, he was excellent ; in the stupid dolt he 
 was equally so ; and in old men, in their various shades, he has 
 been allowed to have been no mean proficient. In parts 
 designedly written for him he had no competitor, and Tyke 
 (" School of Reform"), and Giles (" Miller's Man"), in parts of 
 which his acting was truly terrific and appalling, will long, we 
 fear, want representatives. Besides his histrionic powers, 
 Emery was otherwise highly gifted by nature. He was an ex- 
 cellent musician, playing finely on the violin — a taste for 
 poetizing (if v/e may be pardoned the expression), as his 
 numerous songs will testify ; an artist of no ordinary talent- — 
 his drawings of coast-scenery particularly, being much admired, 
 and when offered for sale fetcliing high prices. He died at his 
 house in Hyde Street, Bloomsbury, London, July 25th, aged 
 forty-five years. He had been for some time indisposed, 
 and died from a thorough decay of nature. — Memoir, 1822. 
 
 Nothing could be more earnest or true than the manner of 
 Mr. Emery ; this told excellently in his Tyke, and characters of 
 a tragic cast. But when he carried the same rigid exclusive- 
 ness of attention to the stage business, and wilful blunders and 
 oblivion of everything before the curtain into his comedy, it 
 produced a harsh and dissonant effect. He was out of keeping 
 with the rest of the dramatis personce. There was as little 
 link between him and them as betwixt himself and the 
 audience. — Charles Lamb. 
 
330 
 
 Montague Talbot. 
 
 1778-1831. 
 
 First Talbot comes — the first indeed— 
 
 But fated never to succeed 
 
 In the discerning eyes of those 
 
 Who form their taste on Kemble's nose 
 
 And deem that genius a dead loss is 
 
 Without dark brows and long proboscis. 
 
 Talbot certainly must despair 
 
 To rival Kemble's sombrous stare, 
 
 Or reach that quintessence of charms 
 
 With which black Roscius folds his arms 
 
 A trifling air and stripling form, 
 
 Ill-fitted to the tragic storm ; 
 
 A baby face, that sometimes shows 
 
 Alike in transports and in woes, 
 
 Will ne'er peraiit him to resemble 
 
 Or soar the tragic flights of Kemble ; 
 
 Yet in some scenes together placed. 
 
 With greater feeling, equal taste. 
 
 From a judicious audience draws 
 
 As much and as deserved applause. 
 
 But whatsoe'er his tragic claim, 
 
 He reigns o'er comedy supreme — 
 
 By art and nature chastely fit 
 
 To play the gentleman or wit ; 
 
 Not Harris's nor Colman's boards. 
 
 Not all that Drury Lane affords, 
 
 Can paint the rakish Charles so well, 
 
 Or give such life to Mirabel ; 
 
 Or show for light and airy sport 
 
 So exquisite a Dorkourt. — Crofton Croker. 
 
 Montague Talbot was the light comedian of Dublin. His 
 line of characters was the elegant and refined gentleman of the 
 old school. Talbot was a distinct actor from Lewis, who 
 excelled in another range. ^Vith such rare qualities Talbot 
 could not get a position in London. Both of the great houses 
 were barred against him, and finding metropolitan renown was 
 out of his reach, he determined to remain in a land that appre- 
 
Mofttague Talbot. 331 
 
 elated his abilities ; and in 1809 the Belfast Theatre came under 
 his sway, where for a number of years he ruled the destinies 
 of the drama with credit and honour. — Walter Donaldson. 
 
 Henry Ireland had been an early associate and friend of 
 Montague Talbot. They resided vis-d,-vis,'\n chambers on the 
 ground floor, in a narrow court in the Temple when youths. 
 They had but one heart, one mind; all between them was 
 candour and confidence. It happened, however, that all at 
 once Talbot found his friend reserved in his manner and secluded 
 in his habits. The suddenness of the change was remarkable. 
 It was evident that Ireland had some secret and absorbing 
 occupation ; and whenever Talbot attempted to enter his friend's 
 chamber, he found the door locked, and always had to wait a 
 few minutes before he obtained admission. He then observed 
 that Ireland's desk was closed and all papers hidden — a new 
 custom. At first Talbot rallied Ireland upon his unwonted 
 reserve, then reproached him for it. All was alike in vain : 
 Ireland seemed resolved that he should not penetrate the " heart 
 of his mystery," and Talbot's curiosity was upon the rack. 
 One morning, the day being warm, Ireland had opened the 
 window of his den, and placing himself before it at his desk, 
 with the door locked, he was so situated as to be able to 
 discern an interloper. Thus it seemed impossible that a sur- 
 prise could happen. Talbot withdrew from his own desk — also 
 at the window — for some time, in order to lull suspicion in 
 Ireland's mind, and afterwards crept out of his door upon his 
 hands and knees, till he arrived under the window, where his 
 unconscious friend sat in fancied security. Talbot then raised 
 himself slowly and quietly, and when he had attained the 
 window-sill, dexterously darted up and pounced upon Ireland's 
 papers Thus caught, poor Ireland made a merit of com- 
 municating what he could no longer withhold, and ingenuously 
 owned his Shakspeare forgeries to his friend, before public detec- 
 tion, in a no less determined manner, compelled him to make 
 his confessions to the world. From this moment Talbot saw 
 the progress of his clever imposition, although he did not assist 
 in it.' — Life of Mathews. 
 
 1 Ireland was sixteen years of age when he forged a series of jDapers 
 whicli he ascribed to Shalcspeare. The papers wer submitted to a number 
 of literary persons, among whom were Dr. Parr, James Boswell, Herbert 
 Croft, Pye (poet laureate), and Valpy, who wrote the ioUowing certificate • 
 "We, whose names are hereunto subscribed, have, in the presence and 
 
332 Richard fones. 
 
 Talbot was an admirable young Mirabel and the like ; he was 
 so learned in the art of the toilet, that he not only /fl/«&^ with 
 a camel's-hair brush his moustache and whiskers upon his lip 
 and cheeks, but also painted in sepia and Indian ink curls upon 
 his forehead, and this so admirably that the deception could 
 not be detected even in the orchestra. — Records of a Stage 
 Veteran, 
 
 Richard Jones. 
 
 1778-1851. 
 
 Who is this ? all boots and breeches, 
 Cravat and cape, and spurs and switches, 
 Grins and grimaces, shrugs and capers, 
 With affectation, spleen, and vapours ? 
 Oh, Mr. Richard Jones, your humble— 
 Prithee give o'er to mouth and mumble : 
 Stand still, speak plain, and let us hear 
 What was intended for the ear. 
 In faith, without the timely aid 
 Of bills, no part you ever played— 
 Hob, Handy, Shuffleton, or Rover, 
 Sharper, stroller, lounger, lover, 
 Could, amid your madcap pother. 
 Ever distinguish from each other. 
 'Tis true that Lewis jumps and prates, 
 And mumbles and extravagates ; 
 And it equally as true is 
 That, Mr. Jones, you are not Lewis. 
 If, Jones, to your ears my caustic lays 
 May seem too niggard of their praise, 
 Perhaps it's true, and shall I own 
 They seem not so to you alone ? 
 And fear'd I not to turn a brain 
 Already too volatile and vain, 
 
 by the favour of Mr. Ireland, inspected the Shakspeare papers, and are 
 convinced of their authenticity." He afterwards wrote a ti-agedy, which 
 he called "Vortigern and Rowena," the composition referred to in the 
 text. This was also believed to be Shakspeare's, and was produced at 
 Drury Lane Theatre. The fraud was detected by Malone. Irel.and 
 afterwards published a book which he called his " Confessions.'" — Ed. 
 
Mrs. Glover. 333 
 
 I'd say, " It equally as true is 
 
 That, Mr. Jones, you maybe Lewis.'" — C. Croker. 
 
 In 1809 Richard Jones made his dtbut at Covent Garden, 
 in Macklin's comedy of " Love k la Mode," as Sguire Groom. 
 Lewis attended behind the scenes to witness his proteg'is first 
 attempt. When the cue was given for his entrance, Jones 
 became transfixed with fear, and instead of giving the " view 
 halloo," was struck dumb. Lewis, perceiving the dilemma of 
 the new actor, roared, " Yoicks ! yoicks !" The audience hearing 
 those well-known sounds, exclaimed, "A second Lewis!" 
 Slapping Jones on the back, Lewis told him to go in and win. 
 Jones, lacking courage, dashed on the stage amid the most 
 deafening plaudits ; and as he paced about in his jockey-dress 
 — thus showing off his slim, tall, and well-formed person — ■ 
 minutes absolutely elapsed before he could utter a word for the 
 applause. His success was most complete, and Jones remained 
 in London as the true successor of Lewis as long as the legi- 
 timate drama had a home. — RecoUectmis of an Actor. 
 
 Mrs. Glover, 
 
 1781-1850. 
 
 On my arrival in London, in June, 1822, I was enlisted to 
 fill a role in the tragedy of, " Hamlet," at the Lyceum Theatre. 
 Mrs. Glover assumed the part of the Prince of Denmark^ and 
 announced this extraordinary attempt as an attraction on her 
 benefit-night. This highly-gifted actress was not disappointed, 
 for the theatre was filled in every part. Her noble figure, 
 handsome and expressive face, rich and powerful voice, all 
 contributed to rivet the attention of the elite assembled on this 
 occasion; while continued bursts of applause greeted her 
 finished elocution as she delivered the soliloquies so well 
 known to her delighted auditors. In the stage-box were 
 seated Edmund Kean, Michael Kelly, Munden, and the Hon . 
 Douglas Kinnaird. At the end of the first act Kean came 
 
 ^ A series of these verses was published in Dublin at the commencement, 
 I believe, of the present century. They were obviously suggested by the 
 "Rosciad," though to what degree they approach that vigorous satire the 
 specimen quoted will enable the reader to judge. They were widely read 
 at the time of their publication. — Ed. 
 
334 Tom Cooke. 
 
 behind the scenes and shook Mrs. Glover, not by one, but by 
 both hands, and exclaimed, " Excellent ! excellent !" The 
 splendid actress, snailing, cried, " Away, you flatterer ! you come 
 in mockery to scorn and scoff at our solemnity 1" — Walter 
 Donaldson. 
 
 The coincidences of life are many, and often singular. At- 
 the very time that Mrs. Abington was evincing to us what her 
 powers had been by what they still were, Mr. Harris displayed 
 in the person of Miss Betterton, from the Bath Theatre, the 
 only actress who even in the slightest degree resembled her. 
 Then, however, she was considered as a tragedian, which 
 naturally she was not, and acted Elwina to the Percy of Miss 
 More. She was an early proficient in the studies of her pro- 
 fession, and possessed a sound and critical understanding. 
 This young lady is now (1833) Mrs. Glover, the ablest actress 
 in existence. — Boaden. 
 
 This lady has not a tragic voice, and very far from a tragic 
 face. She was dressed well, however, and is a commanding 
 figure, though monstrously fat. — R. C. Leslie, 18 13. 
 
 Tom Cooke. 
 
 1781-1848. 
 
 The name of Tom Cooke, so long renowned at Old Drury 
 as vocalist, leader, director, and composer, is not yet forgotten. 
 This versatile musical genius commenced his career as a boy in 
 the orchestra of the Dublin Theatre. Ere he reached manhood 
 he was promoted to the rank of leader; 1803 brought him 
 before the public as a composer ; this was in consequence of 
 the non-arrival of \iit finale to the first act of Colman's operatic 
 farce of " Love Laughs at Locksmiths," just produced at the 
 Haymarket. Having no electric telegraphs, steamboats, or 
 railways in those times, London and Dublin occupied days in 
 regard to communication. As the case was urgent, Tom 
 Cooke undertook to furnish a finale; and when the original 
 arrived, although the work of a veteran, Michael Kelly, yet 
 the composition of the juvenile musician, Cooke, was declared 
 the superior, and was ever afterwards retained as part and parcel 
 of the opera. In 181 2 Tom Cooke announced himself, on his 
 benefit night, for the Seraskier, in Storace's opera of " The Siege 
 of Belgrade." This attempt took the town by surprise ; for 
 
Miss Louisa Brunion. 
 
 OJO 
 
 although Braham, two years previous, created s. furore in the 
 character, Cooke, by his masterly science, electrified the 
 audience at the falling of the curtain. — Donaldson. 
 
 Tom Cooke is certainly the most facetious of fiddlers, and is 
 the only person at present (1833) connected with theatres who 
 smacks of the olden days of quips and cranks. Some of his 
 conundrums are most amusing absurdities ; for instance. 
 " Which is the best shop to get a fiddle at ?" asked a pupil. 
 " A chemist's," said he, " because, if you buy a drug there, 
 they'll always give you a vial in !" Once, while rehearsing a 
 song, Braham said to Cooke, who was leading, " I drop my 
 voice there at night" (intimating that he wished the accom- 
 paniment more piano). " You drop your voice, do you?" said 
 Cooke. " I should like to be by and pick it vc^." ^Records of a 
 Stage Veteran. 
 
 It may be asserted, without any chance of contradiction, 
 that no living musician has a greater knowledge than T. Cooke 
 of the various musical instruments now in use, on nine of which 
 he perforaied solos for his benefit in one night, at Drury Lane 
 Theatre, about four years ago, and for all of which he writes 
 with much facility. — Dictionary of Musicians. 
 
 Miss Louisa Brunton (Countess of Craven). 
 
 1782. 
 
 Miss Louisa Bmnton, daughter of a respected gentleman 
 for many years proprietor of the Norwich Theatre, was not, we 
 believe, originally intended for the stage; although her un- 
 common graces of person, exceeding loveliness of countenance, 
 with many polite acquirements, eminently qualified her for a 
 profession where extraordinary beauty and form of face are 
 deemed essential. Miss Brunton made her first appearance on 
 the stage at Covent Garden Theatre on the asth of October, 
 1803, in the character of Lady Townly, in the "Provoked 
 Husband," which, novice as she was, she sustained with 
 superior elegance and judgment. Miss Brunton next appeared 
 in Beatrice, in which representation she confirmed the favour- 
 able opinion previously formed of her powers. Thence- 
 forward, keeping the even tenor of her way, she for four suc- 
 ceeding seasons sustained a variety of characters in tragedy as 
 well as in comedy, in either of which she proved an acknow- 
 
33^ Miss Biffin. 
 
 ledged ornament. At the above-mentioned period we had the 
 pleasure of meeting Miss Brunton in familiar society, at the 
 table of our early and esteemed friends, Mr. and Mrs. Litchfield, 
 
 when she was — 
 
 " Adorned 
 With all tliat heaven and earth could give 
 To make her amiable." 
 
 Miss Brunton was one of the personally gifted few upon whose 
 beauty there were no dissentients. It was of that serene, 
 unexacting quality which engages even female hearts; her 
 youthful vivacity was so femininely gentle, so tempered by 
 delicate discretion, and she was withal so outwardly unconscious 
 of her surpassing loveliness, that envy itself must have been 
 pleased to acknowledge it. The Earl of Craven's devotion, early in 
 its beginning and publicly understood, silenced and put to flight 
 many incipient aspirants to the heart and hand of this favourite 
 of nature. Briefly, for little remains to be told, Miss Brunton, 
 at the beginning of December, i8o7,with characteristic modesty, 
 made her final curtsey on the stage without the formality of 
 leave-taking, and on the 30th of the same month, as the pub- 
 lic journals announced, " Miss Brunton, of Covent Garden 
 Theatre, was married to the Earl of Craven, at seven in the 
 evening, at Craven House, and the following day the happy 
 pair set off to Coombe Abbey." The earl was in his thirty- 
 seventh year, the bride in her twenty-fifth. — Mrs. C. Mathews. 
 
 Miss Biffin. 
 1784-1850. 
 
 A most accomplished person, who having been bom without 
 legs or arms, contrived to paint miniatures and cut watch-papers 
 with her nose ; the above feats I have seen her with mine own 
 eyes perform at Croydon, where she was fairest of the fair. I 
 can illustrate this account by an anecdote, equally true, which 
 can be vouched for. Miss Biffin before her marriage — for 
 married she is — if alive and even if dead, was taken to Covent 
 Garden Theatre early in the evening before the performance 
 began by the gentleman to whom she was afterwards united. 
 He having some other engagement, deposited his fair charge 
 in the corner of the back seat of one of the upper front boxes, 
 whereupon, aided by long drapery, such as children in arms 
 
Mrs. Bar thy. 337 
 
 wear, and a large shawl, she sat unmoved as immovable. 
 The engagement, however, of her beau proved longer than the 
 performance of the theatre. The audience retired, the lights 
 were extinguished, and still Miss Biffin remained. The box- 
 keeper ventured to suggest that as all the company were out, 
 and most of the lights were out too, it was necessary she should 
 retire. Unwilling to discover her misfortune, and not at all 
 knowing how far she might trust the boxkeeper, she expressed 
 great uneasiness that her friend had not arrived, as promised. 
 " We can't wait here for your friend. Miss — you really must go," 
 was the only reply she obtained. At length Mr. Brandon, then 
 housekeeper and boxkeeper, hearing the discussion, came to the 
 spot, and insinuated the absolute necessity of Miss Biffin's 
 departure, hinting something extremely ungallant about a con- 
 stable. " Sir," said Miss Biffin, " I would give the world to go, 
 but I cannot go without my friend." " You can't have any 
 friend here to-night, ma'am," said Mr. Brandon, " for the doors 
 are shut." "What shall I do, sir?" said the lady. "If you 
 will give me your arm, ma'am, I'll see you safe down to the stage- 
 door, where you can send for a coach." " Arm, sir," said the 
 lady, " I wish I could ; but I've got no arms." " Dear me !" 
 said the box, book, and housekeeper, " how very odd ! How- 
 ever, ma'am, if you will get on your legs — " " I have not go* 
 any legs, sir." Mr. Brandon grew deadly pale, the boxkeepe: 
 felt faint. Just at that moment Miss Biffin's friend arrived vi& 
 the stage-door. He, perfectly alive to all the little peculiarities 
 of his beloved, settled the affair in a moment by bundling her 
 up, lifting her from her seat, and carrying her off upon his 
 shoulders as a butcher's boy would transport a fillet of veal in his 
 tray. — Horace Smith. 
 
 Mrs. Bartley. 
 
 1785-1850. 
 
 The female portion of the staff of the theatre* had at its 
 head an actress second only to Mrs. Siddons, and this was Miss 
 Smith, afterwards Mrs. Bartley. Her Lady Macbeth, Constance, 
 and Queen Katherine^trt powerful embodiments, and I question 
 if they have ever since been so finely portrayed. Miss Smith 
 was formed by nature for the higher walk of her profession. 
 
 1 Crow Street Theatre, Dublin. 
 
338 Charles Mackay. 
 
 She had a noble and expressive face, full, strong, and melodious 
 voice, capable of any intonation, and an original conception of 
 her author. — Donaldson. 
 
 Mrs. Bartley was a fine tragic actress, and the only one to 
 succeed Mrs. Siddons. She was playing with much success her 
 parts, when suddenly came a bright star. Miss O'Neill, and 
 immediately took the lead, and Mrs. Bartley was as a first 
 tragic actress extinguished. Her husband took her off the 
 stage, and they went to America, where they made a good deal 
 of money. Poor Mrs. Bartley was for many years paralyzed, 
 and suffered great pain ; her mind was very much weakened 
 too. It was only the constant kind attention and care she 
 received that prolonged her life, and made it comparatively 
 happy. I remember Mr. Lane, the celebrated artist and lithe, 
 grapher, and an intimate friend of the Bartleys, telling us one 
 day he had just been calling in Wobum Square to inquire after 
 Mrs. Bartley, and heard this droll Malaprop from the maid- 
 servant who opened the door, " My mistress is a little better 
 to-day, sir. Master has used an imprecation (embrocation) that 
 made her tingle all over." — Recollections of John Adolphus. 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 1786-1857. 
 
 A very rich and peculiar treat has been afforded to the 
 frequenters of Drury Lane Theatre by the performances of Mr. 
 Mackay, the celebrated representative of the choicest comic 
 characters in the Scottish romances. It is asserted that he has 
 received the testimony of the great novelist (Scott) himself to 
 the spirit and fidelity of these impersonations. This gentleman 
 first appeared as Bailie Nicol Jarvie, in the delicious opera of 
 "Rob Roy." In this character he succeeded completely in 
 making his audience feel that they now for the first time saw 
 the idea of the novelist embodied on the scene. Other actors 
 are " sophisticate ;" he was " the thing itself." It seemed that 
 not a step, a look, or a tone could have been changed without 
 taking something from the verisimihtude of the portrait. Not 
 only did he reahze the professional traits, the national characte- 
 ristics, and the individual peculiarities of the weaver and 
 magistrate of Glasgow, but he brought out delicately and finely 
 that vein of romance which runs through almost all the 
 
William Farren. 33-9 
 
 creations of the author. Mr. Mackay's acting more resembles 
 our idea of the comedians of the last age than anything- else we 
 have seen ; it is more quiet, more entirely fitted to the part, and 
 derives less aid from mere personal peculiarities than that of any 
 of our London humorists. — Talfourd, 1829. 
 
 Taking him in the single character of Bailie Nicol Jarvie I 
 am not sure I ever saw anything in my life possessing so 
 much truth and comic effect at the same time. He is com- 
 pletely the personage of the drama, the purse-proud conse- 
 quential magistrate, humane and irritable in the same moment, 
 and the true Scotsman in every turn of thought and action. — 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Although Mr. Mackay found in the Waverley dramas his 
 principal stock of characters, there were many other plays in 
 which he performed. He delineated with rare success some of 
 the more comic personages of the legitimate drama ; and in a 
 wide range of parts — embracing such characters as Eolamo, in 
 "Clari," Old Bornton, m the "Road to Ruin," &c.— he ex- 
 hibited a power and pathos which many an audience has been 
 compelled to acknowledge. Even in his later years, and long 
 after he had established his fame as a first-rate comedian, he 
 was found making a " first appearance " in a new part. — Feter 
 Pater son. 
 
 William Farren. 
 
 1786-1861. 
 
 For Shylock, though out of his usual line, Mr. Farren has a 
 great desire, and frequently plays it for his benefit. He is 
 not very portly now, but when he enacted Shylock at 
 Birmingham he was certainly one of Pharaoh's lean kine. 
 The performance went pretty smoothly until Shylock says — 
 
 " The pound of flesh that I demand is mine ; 
 'Tis dearly bouglit, and I will have it. " 
 
 when a fellow in the gallery called out, "Oh! let old 
 Skinny have the pound of flesh ; you can see he wants it 
 !bad enough." — Records of a Stage Veteran. 
 • Mr. Farren has made a bold attempt to disprove the 
 .assertions of the critics, as to the narrpv/ness of his sphere, 
 by playing several of Mr. Terry's and Mr. Dowton's cha- 
 .racters. As he is a man of sense and observation, he cap 
 
 z 8 
 
340 William Far r en. 
 
 never play anything foolishly, and is far too discreet to make 
 a direct failure ; but he has not succeeded in giving pleasure, 
 except in those parts which are peculiarly and exclusively his 
 own. His acting is not the result of a naturaland vigorous 
 capacity and aptitude, but of wonderful ingenuity and skill. 
 He is a young man who plays old parts, whose great art 
 consists in disguising his voice, his shape, and his features ; 
 affecting in the full vigour of life the decrepitude and powerless 
 passions and vanities of age ; and succeeding in proportion as 
 he is unlike himself, and as he reverses all his own hearty and 
 pleasurable sympathies. His success in this way is undoubtedly 
 curious ; and when, as in Lord Ogleby, he engrafts on this 
 assumption of age and decay, singular delicacy of manner, and 
 aristocratic generosity of feeling, and mingles an undying 
 vivacity and pride with the appearance of physical weakness, 
 the portraiture which he gives is no less agreeable than singular. 
 But this talent is obviously limited to a small compass ; it is 
 not like a potent sympathy which readily seizes on every 
 variety of emotion, and happily impregnates every imitation of 
 humanity with appropriate warmth and passion. Mr. Farren's 
 Admiral Franklyn is only a testy old man, and his Dr. Cant- 
 well is totally without the unction absolutely necessary to the 
 success of a meek and saintly hypocrite. Perhaps he could 
 represent a fiery enthusiast, whose " outward tenement," broken 
 and decayed, shows the genuine fury within, because ' the 
 character would bear an essential resemblance to the miser, 
 which he played with strange force, like an animated mummy. 
 But, for the religionist of this world, whom Dowton so 
 completely pictures, he is totally unfit. He would not even 
 impose on old Lady ILambert, or obtain admission into 
 Mawworm's pulpit. In Lord Ogleby, however, he makes 
 amends for all. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 An ingenious and elegant actor of elderly gentlemen ; but 
 dry, hard, ungenial. — Talfourd. 
 
 On Monday evening (July 21st, 1855) Mr. Farren took 
 leave of the public at the Haymarket TheaU-e, the scene of all 
 his later triumphs, supported by his friends and many veterans 
 of the profession, after having acted once more, and for the 
 last time, a short scene from the " Clandestine Marriage." 
 Every leading living actor seems to have been anxious to do 
 something on the occasion, and by performing fragments room 
 'was made for the loving help of a great many ; even a corner 
 
Edmund Kean. 341 
 
 was made for Mr. Albert Smith, who sang one of his songs. 
 The unrestrained cordiality with which "Farewell" was said by the 
 public to one of the most finished actors by whom the stage 
 has been adorned during the present century, could not fail to 
 excite emotion even in bystanders, and how much more in the 
 person of the artist towards whom all that warm feeling was 
 expressed. Mr. Farren was unable to speak his own good-bye ; 
 all had to be felt, and there was nothing to be said. — 
 H. Mor ley's " 'journal of a London Playgoer." 
 
 John Pritt Harley, 
 1786-1858. 
 
 His sire was a draper, and he himself is said to have been 
 initiated into the mysteries of staymaking, and to have tried 
 those of physic and the law, ere he settled down to comic 
 acting and delighting the town. — Dr. Doran. 
 
 As to Fawcett,' Harley is not only like, but the same thing ; 
 as though the veteran had been driven back upon his early days 
 with all the confidence and vigour of his maturity anticipated. 
 Whether at a distant time Harley may ever equal his predecessor 
 in characters of advanced life and rustic, or, at any rate, not 
 refined feeling, remains a question. His buoyancy is everything 
 at present. — Boaden, 1831. 
 
 Edmund Kean. 
 1787-1833. 
 
 Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By Jove, he is a 
 .soul ! Life, nature, truth, without exaggeration or diminution. 
 Kemble's Hamlet is perfect; but Hamlet is not nature. 
 Richard is a man ; and Kean is Richard. — Byron. 
 
 You did me the honour to ask what I thought of Kean. I 
 saw him but once, and imperfectly, being shut up, like a mouse 
 in a telescope, in one of the wretched private boxes, which 
 favour more of self-denial, penance, and privation, than any 
 
 ' Boaden speaks of Fawcett as "a great, original, masterly comedian ; 
 always natural and extremely powerful." To what degree Harley realized 
 Boaden's conjectures we most of us know. — Ed. 
 
342 Edimmd Kean. 
 
 ■iiews of pride or pleasure Yet he delighted me in 
 
 Richard III. He carries one's views backwards and forwards 
 as to the character, instead of confining them, like other actors, 
 within the limits of the present hour ; and he gives a breadth 
 of colouring to his part that strongly excites the imagination. 
 He showed me that Richard possessed a mine of humour and 
 pleasantry, with all the grace of high breeding grafted on 
 strong and brilliant intellect. He gave probability to the 
 drama by throwing this favourable light on the character, 
 particularly in the scene with Lady Anne; and he made it more 
 consistent with the varied lot of " poor humanity." He 
 reminded me constantly of Bonaparte — that restless quickness, 
 that Catiline inquietude, that fearful somewhat resembling the 
 impatience of a lion in his cage. Though I am not a lover of 
 the drama (will you despise me for the avowal?) I could 
 willingly have heard him repeat his part that same evening. — ■ 
 Mrs. R. Trench:^ 1813. 
 
 Mrs. Dimond offers me a place in her box to-night, whence 
 will be seen Massinger's horrible Sir Giles Overreach, played 
 by Mr. Kean. If he can stretch that hideous character as he 
 does others, quite beyond all the authors meant or wished, 
 it will shock us too much for endurance, though in these days 
 people do require mustard to everything. — Mrs. Piozzi^ 
 
 From the days of David Garrick, Kean was the only actor 
 
 ' Elsewhere Mrs. Trench says : " I took my boys to see ' Macbeth' 
 last night, but found that, though they read Shakspeare, they did not 
 j-eadily catch the language of the scene. They understood Kean well : his 
 tones are so natural ; but the raised voice and declamatory style in which most 
 others pronounce tragedy, render it, I see, nearly unintelligible to children. 
 I was astonished by Kean's talents in all that follows the murder, highly as 
 I before thought of them. I suppose remorse never was more finely ex- 
 pressed, and I quitted the house with more admiration of him, and even 
 of Shakspeare, than ever I had felt before." 
 
 ^ Mrs. Piozzi died in 1S21, in her eighty-second year. Whoever has 
 heard of Dr. Johnson has heard of Mrs. Piozzi. She may be said to have 
 been the last of the immortal circle of wits, poets, and paintei-s, who live 
 for ever in Boswell's book. Those who knew her at Bath, where she 
 died, describe her manners in her extreme old age as highly polished and 
 graceful. " Her fine mental faculties," says the Bath paper that chronicled 
 her death, "remained wholly unimpaired. Pier memory was uncommonly 
 retentive on all subjects, enriched by apt quotations, in which she was most 
 ''^PPy> ^ii'l her letters and conversation to the last had the same racy spirit 
 that made her the animating principle and ornament of the distinguished 
 society she moved in at the more early portion of her life." — Ed. 
 
Edmund Kean. 343 
 
 Aat flevef allowed a London manager to place his name in the 
 bills for a secondary character. Even Garrick himself, when 
 an engaged performer, had to personate inferior parts. — 
 Donaldson. 
 
 It is impossible to form a higher conception of Richard III. 
 than that given by Kean : never was character represented by 
 greater distinctness and precision, and perfectly articulated in 
 every part. If Kean did not succeed in concentrating all the 
 lines of the character, he gave a vigour and relief to the part 
 which we have never seen surpassed. He was more refined 
 than Cooke ; bolder and more original than Kemble. The 
 scene with Lady Anne was an admirable specimen of bold and 
 smiling duplicity. Wily adulation was firmly marked by his 
 eye, and he appeared like the first tempter in the garden, 
 Kean's attitude in leaning against the pillar was one of the 
 most graceful and striking positions ever witnessed. It would 
 serve a Titian, Raphael, or Salvator Rosa as a model. The 
 transition from the fiercest passion to the most familiar tone, 
 was a quality which Kean possessed over every other actor 
 that ever appeared. Many attempted this style, and all have 
 most egregiously failed. — Hazlitt. 
 
 He exhibited humanity as it is, in all its aspects, varieties, 
 and conflicts of passion. Hence his supreme ascendancy over 
 the feelings of his audience — the hearts of thousands beating as 
 one man's beneath his faithful and marvellous portraitures of 
 emotions, affections, and infirmities of a nature common to 
 all. — Anon. 
 
 Kean, with all his powers, I think, failed in the part of Lear 
 as a whole. — T. Campbell. 
 
 Kean, a much greater actor than Cooke, fell below probably 
 nis own expectation in Macbeth; in the natural he was little accus- 
 tomed to fail; it was in the supernatural demands of the character 
 that he sunk under the burden ; where mere physical force, and 
 very admirable invention too, were yet insufficient to maintain 
 him. Upon the pinnacle of that temple the head became un- 
 certain and the body weak. — Boadeti. 
 
 Kean had flashes of power equal to Garrick ; but he could not 
 sustain a character throughout as Garrick did. — J^. Bannister. 
 
 I never saw finer acting than Kean's Othello, not even 
 excepting any performance of Mrs. Siddons. His finest 
 passages were those most deeply pathetic. — Leslie's " Auto- 
 biography!' 
 
344 Edmund Kean. 
 
 We were very near the stage, where I could enjoy and 
 appreciate Kean's acting. He has the disadvantage of a small 
 person, but with an amazing power of expression in his face. 
 He is less noble and dignified than Kemble, but I think his 
 genius is as great in his way. Every word he utters is full of 
 power, and I know not whether he most excels in the terrific 
 or in the tender and pathetic. His face, though not handsome, 
 is picturesque, and the manner in which he wore his hair was 
 peculiarly so. — Ibid. 1816. 
 
 During the height of the Kean mania, one of our young 
 
 Westminster Hall orators dining with Kean at Lord 's, told 
 
 this histrionic phenomenon, among other compliments of a 
 similar stamp, that he had never seen acting until the pre- 
 ceding evening. " Indeed !" said Kean ; " why you must have 
 seen others, sir, I should conceive, in Richard III." " I have 
 seen," replied the barrister, " both Cooke and Kemble ; but 
 they must excuse me, Mr. Kean, if I should turn from them, 
 and frankly say to you, with Hamlet, ' Here's metal more 
 attractive.' " Kean felt highly flattered. The conversation 
 then turning on a curious law-suit, Kean, after a pause, asked 
 the barrister if he had ever visited the Exeter Theatre. " Very 
 rarely indeed," was the reply, " though, by-the-bye, now I 
 recollect, during the last assizes, I dropped in towards the 
 conclusion of "Richard III." RicAmond was in the hands of a very 
 promising young fellow ; but such a Richard ! — such a harsh, 
 croaking, barn brawler ! I forget his name, but — " " I'll tell it 
 you," interrupted the Drury Lane hero, rising and tapping the 
 great lawyer over the shoulder : " I'll tell it you — Kean." 
 — F. Reynolds. 
 
 Kean had never yet I believe disappointed a London 
 audience but on one occasion. He had gone to dine somewhere 
 about ten miles from town with some players. Temptation 
 and the bottle were too strong for him ; he outstayed his time, 
 got drunk, and lost all recollection of Shakspeare, Shylock, and 
 Drury Lane. His friends, frightened at the indiscretion they 
 had caused, despatched Kean's servant with his empty chariot, 
 and a well-framed story that the horses had been frightened, 
 that the carriage had been upset, and the tragedian's shoulder 
 dislocated. This story was repeated from the stage by the 
 manager ; and the rising indignation of the audience was 
 instantly calmed down mto commiseration and regret. The 
 following morning Kean was shocked and bewildered at dis- 
 
Edmund Kean. 345 
 
 covering the truth of his situation. But how must his embar- 
 lassment have been increased on learning that several gentlemen 
 had already arrived from town to make anxious inquiries after 
 him? Luckily his old associates, the actors, had, with great pre- 
 sence of mind and practised efifrontery, carried on the deception 
 of the preceding night. The village apothecary lent himself to it, 
 and with a grave countenance confirmed the report ; and Kean 
 was obliged to become a party, nolens volens, to the hoax. His 
 chamber was accordingly darkened, his face whitened, and his 
 shoulder bandaged. No one discovered the cheat ; and to 
 crown it completely, he appeared in an incredibly short time 
 on the boards of old Drury again, the public being carefully in- 
 formed that his respect and gratitude towards them urged 
 him to risk the exertion, and to go through his arduous parts 
 with his arm in a sling ! — T. C. Grattan} 
 
 Kean was unquestionably a man of genius : neither his 
 physical deficiencies, nor his utter want of general education, 
 nor the vulgar tricks which he had brought from his original 
 ■\yalk of harlequin and punchinello, prevented him from reaching 
 a splendid excellence of passionate vigour in some four or five 
 of the best parts in our tragic drama. Beyond this elevated 
 but very narrow range he was at best a secondary player. In 
 Shy lock, Richard III., Othello, in Sir Giles Overreach and in 
 Zanga he was great. In Macbeth, Hamlet, Wolsey, Lear, Brutus, 
 Coriolanus, King John, &c. &c., he never approached within 
 any measurable distance of the learned, philosophical, and 
 majestic Kemble; and Avhere both rivals wanted the support of 
 Shakespere, the failure of the younger was still more con- 
 
 ' " On his return from America, he presented, " says Mr. Grattan, ' ' a mix- 
 ture of subdued fierceness, unsatisfied triumph, and suppressed debauchery. 
 He had in a great measure recovered his place before the public, but he had 
 lost all the respectability of private life. He lived in the Humniums Hotel, 
 Covent Garden ; his wife occupied obscure lodgings in Westminster, and 
 was, as well as his son, quite at variance with him. His health had been 
 greatly shattered during his American campaign — chiefly, I believe, from 
 his mental sufferings. He told me he had been mad at Montreal or 
 Quebec for several days, and related an incident which proved it — namely, 
 his having mounted a fiery horse, dressed in the full costume of the Huron 
 tribe of Indians, of which he had been elected a chief, and after joining 
 them in their village or camp, haranguing them, parading them, and no 
 doubt amusing them much being carried back by some pursuing friends to 
 the place from whence he came, and treated for a considerable time as, 
 a. lunatic." — My Acquaintance with the late Edmund Kean, 1833. 
 
346 Edimmd Kean, 
 
 spicuous. In several characters, particularly in lago, he always 
 appeared, to us inferior to Mr. Young ; in many more, including 
 Romeo and Hamlet, to Mr. Charles Kemble ; and it seems to 
 be a matter of admitted doubt whether in two even of his best 
 performances he was, on the whole, superior to Cooke. In 
 comedy he was detestable.' — Quarterly Rmew, 1835. 
 
 During the Christmas vacation, Thomas Young was in the 
 habit of giving frequent dinners to his friends and acquaintances, 
 at which his son Charles was allowed to appear as soon as 
 dessert was put upon the table. On one of these occasions, .... 
 as Charles was descending the stairs to the dining-room, in his 
 smartest clothes, he saw a slatternly woman seated on one of 
 the chairs in the hall, with a boy standing by her side, dressed 
 in fantastic garb, with the blackest and most penetrating eyes 
 he had ever beheld in human head. His first impression was 
 that the two were strolling gipsies from Bartholomew Fair who 
 had come for medical advice. He was soon undeceived ; for 
 he had no sooner taken his place by his father's side, and heard 
 the servant whisper their presence in the hall, than, to his 
 surprise, the master, instead of manifesting displeasure, smirked 
 and smil»d, and with an air of self-complacent patronage, 
 desired uis butler to "bring in the boy." On his entry he was 
 taken by the hand, patted on the head, and requested to favour 
 the company with a specimen of his histrionic ability. With a 
 self-possession marvellous in one so young he stood forth, 
 knitted his brow, hunched up one shoulder-blade, and with 
 sardonic grin and husky voice spouted forth Gloster's opening 
 soliloquy in " Richard III." He then recited selections from 
 some of our minor poets, both grave and gay, danced a horn- 
 pipe, sang songs, both comic and pathetic, and for fully an hour 
 displayed such versatility as to elicit vociferous applause from 
 his auditors, and substantial evidence of its sincerity by a shower 
 of crown pieces and shillings. The door was no sooner closed 
 
 ' In tlie course of the season of 1814 Kean played sixty-eight nights. 
 The total amount of money received at Druiy Lane Theatre on these nights 
 was 32,642/. 12s. bd. When he came to the theatre the receipts averaged 
 212/. per night. During his nights the general average was 509/. gj. The 
 largest receipt on the presentation of Shylock was 531/. 2s. ; of Richard 
 III., 655/. 13J. ; of Hamlet, 660/. ; of lago, 573/. ; of Othello, 673/. The 
 number of persons who visited the theatre during these sixty-eight nights 
 was 166,742. The result of the calculations is that the theatre cleared by 
 his services alone during these nights upwards of 2o,ocxd/. 
 
Edmund Kean. 347 
 
 than everybody present desired to know the naine of the youthful 
 prodigy.. . . . The host replied that " this was not the first time 
 he had had him to amuse his friends : that he knew nothing of 
 the lad's history or antecedents, but that his name was Edmund 
 Kean." — Life of C. M. Young. 
 
 Monday, 28, 1814. — I went with Lady Conyngham to the 
 play to see Kean for the first time.. It was " Richard III." It 
 pleased me, but I was not enthusiastic. His expression of the 
 passions is natural and strong, but I do not like his declamation; 
 his voice, naturally not agreeable, becomes monotonous. Thurs- 
 day, 31st. — Went in the Duke of Devonshire's box to see Kean 
 in Hamlet. I must confess I am disappointed in his talent. 
 To my mind he is without grace and without elevation of mind, 
 because he never seems to rise with the poet in those sublime 
 passages which abound in " Hamlet," and of what is called 
 recitation of verse he understands nothing. — Miss Berry's^ 
 journal. 
 
 The most celebrated tragedian of our time died at Richmond 
 on May isth, 1833.^ He was born, we believe, on the 17th of 
 March, 1788, and nearly as soon as he could walk he appeared 
 as a boy actor on the stage, and went through all the difficulties 
 and dangers of a young player's life. At Drury Lane Theatre, 
 when Kemble was in t\vt height of his glory, the obscure child, 
 the unknown heir-apparent to the tragic throne, was used in 
 processions, &c. Subsequently, at the Haymarket, he delivered 
 messages and performed in small parts, with no advantage to 
 himself, the company, or the audience ; and he was remarkable 
 for the silence and shyness with which he took his seat in the 
 green-room, his eye alotie " discoursing most eloquent music." 
 Through various country theatres he passed with various success. 
 
 ^ Miss Beny, a quaint old lady, who died in 1852, aged about ninety. 
 She was the intimate friend of Horace Walpole, and imbibed from him the 
 sharp garruhty and Anglo-Gallican idiom that characterize and perhaps 
 deform her Memoirs. — Ed. 
 
 " His name was Edmund Carey. In " The Early Days of Edmund 
 Kean," it is said : " His parentage was continually questioned by himseir, 
 and he frequently, to many persons who were not particularly in his confi- 
 dence, affirmed his belief to be that Mrs. Carey was not his mother, but 
 that he owed his existence to a lady who through life assumed the title of 
 his aunt. That lady was, nearly sixty years since, under the protection of 
 the Duke of Norfolk, and was introduced by him to Garrick, who gave her 
 an introduction to the managers of Drury, where she appeared soon after 
 the death of the British Roscius." 
 
348 Edfimnd Kean. 
 
 until he joined the Exeter company. Here he attracted the 
 admiration of Dr. Drury, a gentleman of taste and influence ; 
 and through his interference, Mr. Arnold, on the part of the 
 Committee of Drury Lane Theatre, went to Dorchester, for the 
 express purpose of seeing Kean act. The result of the interview 
 was an engagement; and in January, 18 14, he appeared on the 
 boards of Drury.' Of all his provincial audiences, we believe 
 that the good people of Exeter were most alive to his trans- 
 cendent merit, while the inhabitants of Guernsey have dis- 
 tinguished themselves by disrelishing his acting, and literally 
 
 ' " Some one or two years after his metropolitan debut he was engaged in 
 
 the circuit of Mr. J C . His success was immense, and he received 
 
 nightly half the receipts of the house. The average exceeded 50/. per 
 night. Kean's share was brought to him each night after the play by Mr. 
 
 J C , to whom, however, nothing could induce him to speak one 
 
 word ; but with a doggedness that appeared premeditated, when the well- 
 known knock came to the door of his dressing-room, he always said aloud 
 to his servant, ' See what that man wants.' Years rolled on, and time, 
 which generally strengthens our attachments and weakens our asperities, 
 
 brought Mr, J C and Kean in contact, about 1827, when the once 
 
 flourishing manager, stricken by sorrow and by years, was feeling the pangs 
 of poverty his own exertions could no longer avert. His theatre had 
 passed into other hands, and as an actor his services were not re- 
 quired. Kean came into a town where Mr. C • was sojourning, and 
 
 he applied to the tragedian to play one night for his benefit. Kean con- 
 sented ; the night was fixed for the one after Kean's engagement. Some 
 nights previous to its occurrence he, with some of the actors of the com- 
 pany, met at a tavern in the town. The room was a public one, where 
 the comedians and many of the patrons of the theatre occasionally 
 assembled. There, on the occasion in question, was Mr. C — - — . The j^t 
 went round, not unaccompanied with the bowl, of course ; and the ci-dcvant 
 manager, thinking all former ill-feeling buried, rose, made a speech allusive 
 to Kean's generosity, and acquainted the company that Kean, having 
 known him in his prosperity, had consented to play gratuitously for his 
 benefit. This was received with loud acclamations, amid which Kean rose 
 (and those who were present are as little likely to forget the expression of 
 his countenance at that moment as in any of his dramatic triumphs) and 
 said : ' Don't let us misunderstand one another. I am bound to you by no 
 ties of former acquaintance. I don't play for you because you were once 
 my manager, or a manager. If ever a man deserved his destiny it is you. . 
 If ever there was a family of tyrants, it is yours. I do not play for you 
 from former friendship, but I play for you because you are a fallen man.' 
 Tlie effect was electrical ; but the person to whom it was addressed 
 pocketed the affront and the receipts of the night in question, which were 
 very great. Kean explained his conduct thus — I believe I may say 
 
 exactly in these words : ' I am sorry that to I forgot myself ; but wliei) 
 
 me and mine were starving, that fellow refused to let a subscription for me 
 be entertained in the theatre.' " — Recollections of Kean. 
 
h amtind Kean. 349 
 
 driving him from their stage. Guernsey should have had a 
 Claremont or a Cresvrell made on a scale low enough for its 
 intellect. Kean's first appearance at Drury Lane on the 26th 
 of January, 181 4, in Shylock, in the disastrous — we were almost 
 about to say, the most disastrous days of Drury — we shall not 
 easily forget ! The house was empty of nearly all but critics, 
 and those who came in with oranges or orders ; and the listless- 
 ness of the small spiritless audience at the first night of a new 
 Shylock, was the " languor which is not repose." There came 
 on a small man, with an Italian face and fatal eye, which struck 
 all. Attention soon ripened into enthusiasm ; and never, per- 
 haps, did Kean play with such startling effect as on this night 
 to the surprised few ! His voice was harsh, his style new, his 
 action abrupt and angular; but there was the decision, the 
 inspiration of genius in the look, the tone, the bearing; the 
 hard unbending Jew was before us in the full vigour of his 
 malignity; the injuries upon him and upon his tribe saddened 
 in his eyes, but through them you could trace the dark spirit of 
 revenge, glaring in fearful, imperishable fury. That night was 
 the starting-post on the great course upon which he was destined 
 to run his splendid race ! " No one as an actor," says an 
 eloquent writer in the Athenaum, " ever had the ball so com- 
 pletely at his foot as Kean had; nay, the ball at his foot 
 waited not for the impelling touch — like the fairy clue which 
 ran before the steps of Fortunatus, leading him to happiness 
 and fame — it speeded before him ; but the inveterate whims of 
 genius lured him into every bye-path of passion and pleasures 
 and hurried him on — 
 
 ' from flower to flower, 
 A wearied chase — a wasted hour !' 
 
 Frank in his nature, impetuous in his soul, he knew no calm- 
 ness of object or enjoyment; 'aut Caesar aut nullus' was his 
 motto — he must either fly or burrow! and he never disguised 
 his vices or his virtues. With the genius to have been more 
 than a Garrick in his art, he had the follies and passions at 
 times to reduce him almost beneath a Cooke in his habits. He 
 could, at Drury Lane, electrify a Byron, and chill the blood at 
 his heart with the fearful energies of his wondrous genius ; and, 
 quitting the peers, he could, on the same evening, delight the 
 spirits of the lower house with his brilliant, dashing gaieties 
 and acted songs. Those who have seen his third act c/ 
 
3 5 o Edmund Kean. 
 
 ' Othello ' must ever tremble in their memories, and those who 
 have heard him redU ' Black-eyed Susan ' to the pathos of his 
 own music, sadden still ; such passion and such pathos are not 
 easily borne at the moment or unremembered afterwards." — 
 New Monthly Magazine, xZ'Xii. 
 
 One part he plays in all respects as finely as on his first 
 appearance — Shylock; and, indeed, it struck me when I saw it 
 the other night (1831) as more harmonious and entire than it 
 was years ago, and sufficiently fervid and intense in all its 
 passages. I used to think the trial scene in the fourth act 
 languid compared with the rest of the performance, but now it 
 seems quite worthy of all that precedes it; and the close- 
 where generally no effect has been produced — is marked by a 
 mild and pecuhar beauty. His look is that of a man who 
 asserts his claim to suffer as one of a race of sufferers ; and 
 when he turns his sorrowful face in silence to the frothy cox- 
 comb who rails at him, we feel the immeasurable superiority 
 of one who finds in the very excess of his misery his kindred 
 with a tribe oppressed for ages to the insect boaster of the day. 
 His Sir Giles is not so terrible as it was when it sent Lord 
 Byron into hysterics and made Mrs. Glover tremble ; but it is 
 sustained by a quiet consciousness of power and superiority to 
 principle or fear, and the deficiency of physical force in the last 
 scene is supplied with consummate skill. His Othello, which, 
 as once played, was equal to anything perhaps ever presented 
 on the stage, had been altered greatly for the worse before his 
 physical power abated : the once noble tide of passion which 
 " knew no retiring off, but kept right on," was chequered and 
 broken, and tearful, sometimes hysterical affection, was sub- 
 stituted for the solemn repose of despair. It is still very fine 
 in parts, but it does not hold its former relative position even 
 to his other performances ; and those who saw it in his early 
 days, and who can never assuredly forget it, would do well to 
 abstain from seeing it now. But of all Mr. Kean's parts, that 
 which any one who desires to retain an unclouded admiration 
 of his powers should most sedulously avoid, is Richard. For 
 myself, I never thought this, though from circumstances one of 
 his most popular performances, altogether worthy of him, 
 though it had many brilliant hits, and was nobly redeemed b^ 
 the fighting at the end ; and now the last act, where all should 
 be bustle, fire, and fury, is painfully and pitiably feeble. He 
 whispers when he should shout, creeps and totters about the 
 
Edm imd Kean. 351 
 
 stage when he should spring or rush forward, and is even 
 palpably assisted by his adversary to fight or fall. Yet his last 
 look at Richmond as he stands is fearful •} as if the agony of 
 death gave him power to menace his conqueror with the ghostly 
 terrors of the world into which the murderous tyrant is entering. 
 — Talfourd. 
 
 From the January of 18 14 to that of 1833 Edmund Kean 
 was the star of the British stage, and what may be reckoned as 
 most noticeable in this nation of shopkeepers, that his in- 
 dividual talents drew more, and for the exertion of those 
 talents he himself received more than any three performers that 
 co-existed with him. His books show a sum nearly averaging 
 10,000/. a year for eighteen years. How with his active life so vast 
 a sum could have been expended — for he never gambled — is 
 one of the things that those who knew him best can never cease 
 to wonder at. He had some silly habits of display — such as 
 travelling on all occasions in a carriage-and-four, but his house- 
 hold expenses were always on a moderate scale. .Yet a few 
 days before his death he was in danger of an arrest for a sum 
 not exceeding 100/. — Recollections of Kean. 
 
 Kean was, in acting, what Wilson was on canvas : he depended 
 on striking, and cared not how coarsely his colours were laid 
 on if the effect was produced. — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 Kean was an extraordinary actor and an extraordinary man. 
 Without any advantages of education, and perhaps with all the 
 disadvantages that could beset a birth and youth of poverty 
 and desertion — for he seems never to have known who his 
 father was, and even his mother's identity was doubtful— he yet 
 
 ^ Kean was notoriously a passionate-tempered man. One night he went 
 to hear Fuller, a mimic, give representations of the leading actors, includ- 
 ing Kean. The tragedian frequently- rapped his applause during the per- 
 fonjiance ; but when Fuller came to the imitation of Kean, he paused. 
 Kean looked approval, and Fuller commenced. In a few moments Kean 
 threw a glass of wine in his face ; there was a fight, after which Kean, by 
 way of apology, said, " That if he thought he was such a wretch as Fuller 
 represented him he would hang himself. " — He acted at Birmingham once, 
 where his benefit was a total failure. The play was Massinger's "New 
 Way to Pay Old Debts." Allusion is made to the marriage of a lady : 
 Kean suddenly exclaimed, "Take her, sir, and the Birmingham audience 
 into the bargain." — The editor of a Cheltenham journal severely criticized 
 him, Kean played Silvester Dagge?-ivoori for his benefit, and performed thj 
 part with a horsewhip in his hand, saying, aloud, ' ' I keep this little instru- 
 ment to pvmish cheating aldermen and lying editors."— Ed. 
 
352 Edmund Kean. 
 
 struggled through difficulties that might have destroyed a mind 
 of less energy, until he struggled with triumphant success. 
 With no recommendation of person — a low and meagre figure, 
 a Jewish physiognomy, and a stifled and husky voice — he 
 seemed to be excluded by nature from all chance of personating 
 tragedy; the grim expression of his countenance and the sullen 
 sound of his voice prohibited comedy; yet at his first step on the 
 London stage he was acknowledged to be the founder of a new- 
 school, to give new meaning to some of the highest characters 
 of Shakspeare ; to refresh the feelings and change the worship 
 of those who had for a quarter of a century bowed down to the 
 supremacy of the Kembles ; and finally to pour a new and most 
 welcome flood of wealth into the long-exhausted treasury of the 
 theatre. Thiswonderwas worked bythetrueoperatorof all earthly 
 wonders— energy. The Kemble school was magnificent and 
 majestic. Kean was his school alone, for it had neither founder 
 nor follower but himself, and its spirit was vividness, poignancy, 
 and intensity. — -Blackwood's Magazine, 1840. 
 
 Kean possesses particular physical qualifications : an eye Hke 
 an orb of light, a voice exquisitely touching and melodious in 
 its tenderness, and in the harsh dissonance of vehement passion 
 terribly true : to these he adds the intellectual ones of vigour, 
 intensity, amazing power of concentrating effect — these give 
 him an entire mastery over his audience in all striking, sudden, 
 impassioned passages, in fulfilling which he has contented him- 
 self, leaving unheeded what he could not compass — the unity of 
 conception, the refinement of detail, and evenness of execution. 
 — Fanny Kemble} 
 
 ^ In a note to this passage Miss Kemble (Mrs. Butler) says : — "Kean is 
 gone, and with him are gone Othello, Shylock, and Richard. I have hved 
 among those whose theatrical creed would not permit them to acknowledge 
 him as a great actor ; but they must be bigoted indeed who would deny 
 that he was a great genius— a man of most original and striking 
 powers, careless of art, perhaps because he did not need it, but possessing 
 those rare gifts of nature without which art is as a dead body. Who that 
 ever heard will ever forget the beauty, the unutterable tenderness of his 
 reply to Desdemona's entreaties for Cassio — ' Let him come when he will ; 
 I can deny thee nothing ;' the deep despondency of his 'Oh, now farewell;' 
 the miserable anguish of his ' Oh, Desdemoha, away, away ! ' Who that 
 ever saw will ever forget the fascination of his dying eyes in Richard, when 
 deprived of his sword ; the wondrous power of his look seemed yet to 
 avert the uplifted arm of Richmond. If he was irregular and unartisi- 
 like in his performance, so is Niagara compared with the waterworks of 
 Versailles. " 
 
353 
 
 Daniel Terry.* 
 
 1789-1829. 
 
 lie was intended by his parents for an architect, for which 
 purpose they placed him under Mr. S. Wyatt, with whom he 
 remained five years ; but having very early imbibed a strong 
 liking for the profession of an actor, he abandoned that pursuit. 
 His first dramatic essay is stated to have been Heartwell, in 
 the farce of " The Prize," a part affording but little scope for 
 the display of histrionic talent. In 1803, he was staying at 
 Sheffield, and embraced that opportunity of playing Tressel, 
 in "Richard III.," Cromwell, in "Henry VIII.," and a 
 few other minor parts, experimentally; but, whether dis- 
 
 ' Terry was once the somewhat unwilling participant of one of Theodore 
 Hook's most audacious frolics. Hook, when hungry, and when without 
 the money or the opportunity to procure a dinner, very often imitated the 
 example of Goldsmith's loose friend, and forced himself upon strangers. 
 Terry and Hook walking one day up a street near Soho Square, were 
 suddenly brought to by a strong smell of dinner. Hook solicitously eyed 
 the house ; he was hungry, and he looked at Terry. Terry expressed his 
 envy of those who were to enjoy the venison, whereupon Hook offered to 
 make Terry a bet that he would dine at that house, "and," added he, " if 
 you will call for me here at ten o'clock, I will give you a faithful account of 
 mine host's cheer. " Saying this he briskly rapped at the door. Terry, 
 with a shrug of wonder, walked away. Hook on being admitted was at 
 once conducted to the drawing-room, which was half full of people, and 
 had set a good portion of the company grinning before the host noticed 
 him. So very comical indeed was Hook that in a. short time he had 
 circled himself with a number of appreciative listeners, through which the 
 host found it difficult to make his way. Explanations ensued. Hook pro- 
 tested he had mistaken the house — offered his humble apologies — begged 
 permission to withdraw. The host would not hear of this, and after much 
 entreaty, in which most of the guests joined. Hook was prevailed upon to 
 remain. At the dinner-table his jokes kept the company in shouts of 
 laughter, the host grew too faint with memment to dispense the hospitali- 
 ties of the table, the ladies ogled the good-looking stranger, and the guests 
 spoke together in their eagerness to drink wine with him. In the draw- 
 ing-room Hook seated himself at the piano, and burst into one of his ex- 
 tempore songs. Presently ten o'clock struck, and in walked Terry. 
 Hardly had he entered when Hook, looking towards the host, Eing, .1;. a 
 farewell and explanatory verse : 
 
 ' ' I am veiy much pleased with your fare, 
 Your cellai-'s as prime as your cook ; 
 My friend's Mr. Terry, the player, 
 And I'm Mr. Theodore Hook." — Ed. 
 A A 
 
354 Daniel Terry. 
 
 appointed in his expectations of eminent success, or from some 
 other cause, he again returned to his original pursuit, which he 
 finally quitted in 1805, and entered himself as a volunteer in 
 the corps dramatigue of Mr. Stephen Kemble, then performing 
 in some of the principal towns in the north of England. With 
 this company he remained, until its dissolution in August 1806, 
 and gained in it considerable experience as an actor, by a 
 year and a half's very varifed and laborious practice. From 
 hence Mr. Terry went to Liverpool, where he made slow but 
 sure steps in public favour, and continued there until November, 
 1809, when he was engaged by Mr. Henry Siddons to lead the 
 business at Edinburgh, on the secession of Mr. Meggott 
 Whilst there he made the acquaintance of Mr. Ballantyne, the 
 celebrated publisher, and was by him introduced to Sir Walter 
 Scott, who ever afterwards remained with him on the most 
 intimate and friendly footing. In the summer of 1812, he was 
 induced by the offer of an engagement at the Haymarket 
 Theatre to take leave of his friends and the stage at Edinburgh, 
 to court, what is ever the ultimatum of an actor's ambition, the 
 favourable testimony of a London audience. He consequently 
 made his first appearance in London on the Haymarket boards, 
 on the 20th May, 1812, in the character oi Lord Ogleby, in the 
 " Clandestine Marriage," and was favourably received. He 
 continued during this and the next season to play in succes- 
 sion a variety of old and new parts, with undiminished success. 
 At the expiration of the second season he joined the Covent 
 Garden company, where he continued until some disagreement 
 about remuneration induced him to go over to the rival 
 establishment, then under the management of EUiston. Here 
 he remained until 1825, when, in conjunction with Mr. Yates, 
 he purchased the Adelphi "Theatre ; and this is one of the 
 occasions alluded to, that Sir Walter proved himself " a friend 
 indeed," becoming, it is said, his security for the payment of 
 his part of the purchase-money. This speculation was looked 
 upon as a good one, and this theatre continued to thrive for 
 two seasons under their joint management. About this time 
 unpleasant rumours of pecuniary embarrassments on the part 
 of Mr. Terry (totally unconnected with Mr. Yates or the 
 theatre, and, indeed, incurred previous to their partnership), 
 began to attract so much public notice, as to render a dissolu- 
 tion of their partnership necessary. This was accomplished, 
 and Mr. Terry compounded in a handsome dividend with his 
 
Daniel Terry. 355 
 
 creditors. It is with great reluctance that this subject is at all 
 alluded to, but the circumstances are so recent, and were so 
 much the topic of public conversation at the time, that they 
 could hardly escape being adverted to, more especially as they 
 are thought to have occasioned, or at least hastened, that event 
 which it has been our melancholy duty to record. Mr. Terry's 
 shattered nerves sank under the many painful trials to which 
 his unfortunate circumstances subjected him ; he was unable to 
 rally and combat with adversity. After the settlement of his 
 affairs, he was re-engaged at Drury Lane Theatre, and appeared 
 there in the characters of Sir Peter Teazle and Peter Simpson, on 
 the opening night of the last season. On this occasion his acting 
 evinced a considerable falling off of his accustomed powers ; 
 his limbs seemed palsied and his memory imperfect. He 
 relinquished his engagement from ill-health, and after lingering 
 some time, expired. As an actor, Mr. Terry, though by no 
 means versatile, was in no character which he ever undertook 
 otherwise than respectable. \tv Peter Simpson, Admiral Frank- 
 land, Mr. Litigant, the Green Man, and many other parts, he 
 may be almost said to have been unique ; and though he may 
 have left some better actors, in particular parts, behind him, 
 there aire none who will give more general satisfaction. Whilst 
 in Edinburgh he was married to Miss Nasmyth, a daughter 
 or sister of the celebrated portrait-painter of that name. By 
 this lady he has. left some children, who, it is said, have recently 
 come into some property. — New Monthly Magazine, 1829. 
 
 He had received a good education, and been regularly 
 trained as an architect, but abandoned that profession at an 
 early period of life for the stage, and was now (18 10) beginning 
 to attract attention as a valuable and efficient actor. Scott had 
 many opportunities of appreciating his many excellent and 
 agreeable qualities. He had the maimers and feelings of a 
 gentleman. Like John Kemble he was deeply skilled in the 
 old hterature of the drama, and he rivalled Scott's own 
 
 enthusiasm for the antiquities of vertu His small hvely 
 
 features had acquired, before I knew him, a truly ludicrous cast 
 of Scott's graver expression ; he had taught his tiny eyebrow 
 the very trick of the poet's meditative frown ; and to crown 
 all, he so affected his tone and accent that, though a native of 
 Bath, a stranger could hardly have doubted he must be a 
 Scotchman.— Z^'iT^/w^A 
 
 A A 3 ^ ' 
 
356 
 
 Miss Fanny Kelly. 
 1790. 
 
 In the roundness of her limbs, the ease and grace of her 
 motions, and the entire absence of anything sharp or angular 
 in her form, she resembles Miss O'Neill, like whom she is 
 formed to succeed best in the representation of characters 
 where passion and suffering have taken possession of the soul ; 
 where the will is passive ; and a fair form is agitated by 
 emotions which display " the irresistible might of weakness." 
 Her voice has more compass than Miss O'Neill's ; its lower 
 tones are almost as ripe and mellow, and her upper notes, 
 which she sends forth in the playful passages, have an angelical 
 clearness and sweetness, which remind us of the singing of 
 Miss Stephens. Her action, though it has never the triumphant 
 character which her predecessor sometimes assumed, is free, 
 unembarrassed, and natural. But these excellencies are trivial 
 compared to that fine conception of the fervour and the 
 delicacy of the part which she manifests, and which enables 
 her to identify herself, not only with its more prominent 
 features, but its smallest varieties — its " lightest words." There 
 is nothing sentimental or reflective in her acting ; her mind 
 never seems to have leisure for reverting to itself ; her heart is 
 evidently too busy to allow of opportunity for thought. She 
 remembers that the emotions of a life are to be crowded into a 
 few short hours^that the first dawning of love in an innocent 
 bosom, its full maturity and strength, its power of anticipating 
 time, of developing the loftiest energies in one who was but 
 lately a child, of defying the pale appearances of death, and, 
 finally, embracing death with gladness — and all the cor- 
 respondent excitement of the intellect and the fancy, which 
 suddenly bloom forth in the warmth of the affections — form 
 part of that wonderful creation which it is her aim to embody. 
 — Hazlitt, 182 1. 
 
 Went to see Miss Kelly in yuliet. Very bad ; but (as it 
 seems) good enough for the public, who are delighted with 
 her. — T. Moore. 
 
 Frances Maria Kelly, an actress and singer of high repute, 
 was born at Brighton on the 15th of December, 1790. Her 
 father was an officer in the army, and brother to Michael 
 
yohn Vandenhoff. 357 
 
 Kelly, under whom she studied music and singing. She made 
 her first appearance on the boards of a theatre at a very early 
 age, as a member of the chorus at Drury Lane. Her debut 
 as an actress was at Glasgow, in 1807. In 1808 she was a 
 member of Mr. Colman's company, at the Haymarket. Sub- 
 sequently at the English Opera House, under Mr. Arnold's 
 management. She earned many laurels as a singer, succeeding 
 to several of the characters which had been filled by the 
 eminent vocahst, Madame Storace. From the English Opera 
 House she went to Drury Lane. Whilst performing at that 
 theatre, she was fired at by a lunatic in the pit, when a scene 
 of extraordinary excitement ensued. The man was sub- 
 sequently tried for the murderous attempt, but acquitted on 
 the ground of insanity. A similar attempt upon her life was 
 afterwards made at Dublin, fortunately with no greater success. 
 Miss Kelly was an actress of great versatility and talent. She 
 was successful in the comedy parts filled by Mrs. Jordan, and 
 still more in domestic melodrama. She built the small theatre 
 in Dean Street, Soho, but derived little emolument from her 
 enterprise. — E. Walford. 
 
 John Vandenhoff. 
 1790-1861. 
 
 His conduct is not disrespectful to the audience, nor dis- 
 reputable to himself ; he excites attention, but he does not exact 
 It ; though his judgment is sound, he submits it with deference ; 
 he never appears solicitous to investigate a sentence, but goes 
 at once to the sentiment it enforces, His business is not to 
 methodize words, but to express passions ; he is never per- 
 tinacious, pedantic, or critical ; he neither whines nor declaims ; 
 he acts. What he utters seems to be without study ; it seems 
 to be extemporaneous words arising from the situation con- 
 ceived at the time upon the spot. Thus his acting can be no 
 other than nature, and thus he excites no cavil upon the 
 meaning of epithets, no creation of opinions, no dereliction of 
 understanding. His power is over the heart. He never 
 inflates tragedy into bombast, nor degrades comedy into 
 buffoonery. — A. Barnes. 
 
 The daring effort of Vandenhoff — one of the most adven- 
 turous within the range of tragedy — if not attended with 
 
358 yoJiii Vandenkoff. 
 
 brilliant success, sufficiently acquitted him of the charge cf 
 presumption. His general conception of the character 
 {Richard III.) was just; and though few of the minuter traits 
 were original, they were often marked by much nicety of touch, 
 and brought out with felicitous skill. The pervading life and 
 fire of the part — the vein of jocularity and triumphant con- 
 sciousness of power, were indeed wanting ; and without these, 
 no performance of Richard can, as a whole, take any elevated 
 or permanent station in our memories. Yet there was an ease 
 in the conversational passages and occasional bursts of energy 
 in the passionate, which redeemed the actor from anything ap- 
 proaching to disgrace. The manner in which he dashed from 
 his couch in the tent-scene, striking about his sword in half- 
 awakened agony and terror, was really picturesque and fearful, 
 ■ — Literary Gazette. 
 
 This gentleman's theatrical history has been a singular one ; 
 I believe he, hke John Kemble, was originally intended for the 
 Catholic Church. I remember seeing him (Vandenhoff) for the 
 first time, in the company of Lee, the Taunton manager, at 
 that town. He was then, I suppose, just of age ; acted Achmet 
 and Nerval, and, I think, lago and Othello. He then impressed 
 me with the notion of his possessing a mature judgment, but 
 lacking energy. He afterwards went to Bath, where he was 
 not very successful, and from thence to Liverpool, where, in a 
 short time, he became the idol of all classes; came to 
 London, and was but coldly received ; returned to Lancashire, 
 and regained his provincial celebrity, and ultimately came 
 again to town as a leading tragedian. It is fatal to an actor's 
 greatness that he should have been a favourite for any number 
 of years in any one province. All our metropolitan actors who 
 attained great fame were rather birds of passage in their early 
 days : take for instances, Garrick, Kemble, Cooke, Kean, Hen- 
 derson, Mathews, Munden, Dowton, &c. The idols of 
 particular provincial towns have attained a respectable station 
 in London, seldom more : for instance. Miss Jarman, Miss 
 Huddart, Mr. Balls, Mr. Egerton, &c. There are some ex- 
 ceptions to this rule, but they are rare. — Records of a 
 Veteran. 
 
359 
 
 James Wallack. 
 1791-1864. 
 
 Mr. Wallack has evidently formed himself on the model of 
 Kemble, and has succeeded in copying much of his dignity of 
 movement and majesty of action. Had we never Seen that 
 noblest Roman- of all, we should have been exceedingly struck 
 by Wallack's gestures and attitudes. He fails, however, to 
 exhibit any of those intense recurrences to nature with which 
 Kemble was wont to surprise the heart in the midst of 
 the most rigid of his personations of character. He has, 
 indeed, little of fervid enthusiasm or touching pathos. — Tal- 
 fourd. 
 
 Wallack was to act in the " Rent Day." .... I cried most bitterly 
 during the whole piece ; for as in the very first scene Wallack 
 asks his wife if she will go with him to America, and she replies, 
 " What ! leave the farm ?" I set off from thence and ceased no 
 more. Wallack played admirably; I had never seen him before, 
 and was greatly delighted with his acting. I thought him 
 handsome of a rustic kind, the very thing for the part he played-" 
 a fine English yeoman. — Fanny Kemble. 
 
 Miss O'Neill (Lady Becher). 
 1791. 
 
 Miss O'Neill is said to be more natural than Mrs. Siddons 
 was, but to gain no more by it than waxwork does by being a 
 closer representation of nature than the Apollo Belvedere. 
 Very few discriminate sufficiently in the arts between the merit 
 of an exact representation and an ennobled one ; and people are 
 not fair enough in general to allow that something must be 
 sacrificed of fidelity in order to reach that elevated imitation 
 which alone gives strong and repeated pleasure. — Mrs. R. 
 Trench, 18 14. 
 
 I wanted to see Miss O'Neill. She is a charming creature 
 without doubt, and charms, as it should seem, without intending 
 it, calling in no aid from dress or air, or studied elegance, such 
 as in old days one expected to find in a public professor or 
 dramatic recitation ; but like Dryden's Cleopatra — 
 
360 Miss O'Neill. 
 
 " She casts a look so languishingly sweet, 
 As if, secure of all beholders' hearts, 
 Neglecting, she can take them." 
 
 Comparing such an actress with Mrs. Siddons is like holding 
 up a pearl of nice purity, and asking you if it is not superior to 
 a brilliant of the first weight and water. — Mrs. Piozzi} 
 
 Miss O'Neill made her debut at the Theatre Royal, Crow 
 Street, in 181 1, in "The Soldier's Daughter" as the Widow 
 Cheerly. This young actress, for she was only nineteen years of 
 age, succeeded two staid actresses of great ability; and no 
 matter whether as Volumnia, Constance, Juliet, or Lady Teazle, 
 she proved that Ireland had not lost her prestige since the days 
 of Woffington. Miss O'Neill left Dublin in 1815, and made 
 her first appearance at Covent Garden in Juliet, and never in 
 the metropolis was such an impression made by any actress. — 
 W. Donaldson. 
 
 Miss O'Neill, I never saw, having made and kept a deter- 
 mination to see nothing which should disturb or divide my 
 recollection of Siddons. — Byron. 
 
 On the first night of her appearance at Covent Garden, she 
 established a fame by far exceeding that oia7iy actress before her, 
 although possessing the advantages of high provincial celebrity, 
 years of experience, and family interest. Miss O'Neill is truly 
 original, and previous to her tmree on the London boards, 
 never witnessed any of the great people. Her figure is of the 
 finest model, her features beautiful, yet full of expression, dis- 
 playing at once purity of mind and loveliness of countenance. 
 Her demeanour is graceful and modest, her voice melody itself 
 in all its tones, and with the exception of the greatest actress of 
 her day, the celebrated and original Lady Ra7idolph — Mrs. 
 Crawford — Miss O'Neill is the only actress with that genuine 
 feeling that is capable of melting her audience to tears. In 
 her hand the handkerchief is not hoisted as the only signal of 
 distress. Her pauses are always judicious and impressive ; her 
 attitudes appropriate and effective, either in regard to ease or 
 dignity. She indulges in no sudden starts, no straining after 
 
 ' " Our ladies are all in hysterics, our gentlemen's hands quite blistered 
 with clapping, and her stage companions worn to a thread with standing 
 up like chains in a children's country dance, while she alone commands 
 the attention of such audiences as Bath never witnessed. The boxkeepers 
 said last night that the numbers Kean drew after him were nothing to it." 
 — Piozii, 18 1 8. 
 
Miss ONeill. 361 
 
 effect, no wringing of hands, nor screaming at the top of her 
 voice ; no casting her eyes around the boxes searching for 
 applause, or addressing her discourse to the lustre or the gods 
 in the upper region; no whining or pining, moaning or groaning, 
 roaring or bellowing. — Anon} 
 
 I have seen Miss O'Neill twice, and as times go, that is worth 
 something. You have no doubt heard so much about her that 
 anything I can say will come " tardy off," yet I'll tell you what 
 I think of her. She is an actress of strong and well-directed 
 sense and powerful feeling ; her voice is good, particularly in 
 its undertones, and without effort, or affectation, or anything 
 like the common stage style of speaking; it is modulated 
 entirely by the thought or feeling she has to express. The 
 same may be said of her countenance, and nearly as much of 
 her action. This, though always correct and graceful to a 
 certain degree, is sometimes excessive ; as, for instance, in her 
 soHloquy with the phial as Juliet. She is not a mere maker of 
 detached points, a strong marker of individual passages ; she 
 does not point a word into something that sounds like an 
 epigram, and which, by dazzling you for a moment, leaves you 
 in doubt whether it be right or wrong ; but her excellence con- 
 sists in exhibiting a regular, unbroken, and consistent character, 
 from which she never departs for the purpose of bringing down 
 a huzza. She cannot be compared with Mrs. Siddons at pre- 
 sent, but she is much nearer to her in excellence than any of 
 the others are to Miss O'Neill. — y. Pooled 1814. 
 
 I saw her in the' north of Ireland in Cowslip, and even in 
 that was much struck with her. I recommended her to Jones 
 in Dublin, and ultimately to Henry Harris. I think very highly 
 of her comedy. The idea of her copying from Kean is de- 
 licious ; that is a genuine bit of Keanism. — Charles Mathews} 
 
 * Quoted in Donaldson's " Recollections of an Actor." 
 •■i The author of " Paul Pry."— ED. 
 ' Miss O'Neill's father was the manager of a small strolling company 
 in Ireland. He was an eccentric of the first water. If any member of his 
 company disappointed him, O'Neill had one speech — " Confusion burst his 
 skull, a blackguard ! What will I do ? Here, give me a greatcoat, and I'll 
 double his part with my own." The greatcoat was the universal panacea, 
 whatever the general costume of the play might be. If the Ghost in 
 ' ' Hamlet" complained to Mr. O'Neill of the lack of annour in the ward- 
 robe, the manager would shrug up his shoulders, and after a pause exclaim, 
 " Oh, bother ! sure if ye'll put on a greatcoat ye'll do very well." Matters 
 of much greater moment he inet with the same indifference. Once pro- 
 
362 Miss O'Neill. 
 
 Miss O'Neill owes everything to extreme sensibility. She 
 gives herself up entirely to the impression of circumstances ; 
 is borne along the tide of passion and absorbed in her suffer- 
 ings ; she realizes all that is suggested by the progress of the 
 story, and answers the utmost expectation of the beholder. 
 She does not lift the imagination out of itself. Every nerve is 
 strained, her frame is convulsed, her breath suspended, her 
 forehead knit together, fate encloses her round and seizes on his 
 struggling victim. Nothing can be more natural and affecting 
 than her whole conception of those parts in which she has 
 appeared. — Boadm} 
 
 This young lady, in addition to a very pleasing person and a 
 good voice, possessed, no doubt, a considerable portion of 
 feeling, but which, in my opinion, was of too boisterous and 
 vehement a nature. In this judgment, however, I was again 
 in the minority, for by the verdict of the million Miss O'Neill 
 was pronounced a younger and a better Mrs. Siddons. — F. 
 Reynolds. 
 
 Of John Kemble as a man, Talma always spoke in terms of 
 affection, of unqualified respect for and admiration of him as 
 an actor. He entertained a high opinion too of points in 
 Kean's acting. But his praises of Miss O'Neill were boundless. 
 Certainly the French stage could produce nothing at all com- 
 parable with her for sensibility, tenderness, and pathos; it 
 possessed nothing so exquisitely feminine. The phrase currently 
 attributed to him respecting that accomplished actress, that 
 
 ceeding by a barge along a small river, the captain and O'Neill quarrelled, 
 and in the scuffle O'Neill was knocked overboard. He swam to shore, 
 and called out, " Confusion burst your soul ! I suppose you thought I 
 couldn't swim." A knot of novices once joined Mr. O'Neill, and having 
 played some time without receiving their pay, they resolved to take pro- 
 ceedings against him. He met the charge with a counter-claim against 
 them for a considerable sum due to him by them for spoiling all the plays 
 and farces they appeared in. To avoid the exposi they abandoned the 
 claim. 
 
 1 Mrs. Grant of Laggan (as she is styled by her son) speaks of Miss 
 O'Neill in her 207th letter: — "Your gifted countrywoman. Miss O'Neill, 
 has been delighting us all by her powers. I saw her play Mrs. Haller, 
 
 which she did admirably. The house was much crowded I never 
 
 saw such an all-alive creature, or one whose feelings are so youthfully keen. 
 Miss O'Neill lodges near us, and having known a little of Maiy, she has 
 called here with her brother and sister. She is admirable on the stage, and 
 most respectable at all times. The intelligent composure and elegant sim- 
 plicity of her manners please me exceedingly." — 181S. 
 
William Henry West Betty. 363 
 
 " she had tears in her voice," he might have applied to her, but 
 it was not his own : it had been used as the afifected com- 
 pliment to Mademoiselle Duchesnois for years before.' — Recol- 
 lections of Talma. 
 
 Miss O'Neill is in society what she is on the stage — gentle, 
 pleasing, and interesting. — Miss Berry's "Journal." 
 
 William Henry West Betty. 
 1792. 
 
 The " Betty-Boy'' was undoubtedly a child of precocious and 
 marvellous power to imbibe dramatic instruction, and to 
 repeat it faithfully. He was withal handsome in face, and 
 graceful in figure, and altogether an engaging and surprising 
 youth. — Mrs. C. Mathews?' 
 
 Sir, my opinion of that young gentleman's talents will never 
 transpire during my life. I have written my convictions down : 
 they have been attested by competent witnesses, and sealed 
 and deposited in the iron safe at my banker's, to be drawn 
 forth and opened, with other important documents, at my 
 death. The world will then know what Mr. Elliston thought 
 of Master Betty. — Elliston!' 
 
 While young Betty was in all his glory, I went with Fox and 
 Mrs. Fox, after dining with them in Arlington Street, to see 
 him act Hamlet; and, during the play-scene. Fox, to my 
 infinite surprise, said, "This is finer than Garrick." — Samuel 
 Rogers. 
 
 Northcote then spoke of the boy, as he always called him. 
 He asked if I had ever seen him actj and I said, yes, 
 and was one of his admirers. He answered, " Oh, yes, if 
 was such a beautiful effusion of natural sensibility ; and then 
 that graceful play of the limbs in youth gave such an ad- 
 vantage over every one about him." Humphreys, the artist. 
 
 ^ It was, according to Thackeray, applied to Rubini. See his "English 
 Humorists. " — Ed. 
 
 ^ Miss Mudie was another infant phenomenon of that period. John 
 Kemble was once asked whether she was really the child she was said to 
 be. In his solemn tone of jesting he answered, " Child I Why, sir, when 
 I was a very young actor in the York company, that little creature kept an 
 inn at Tadcaster, and had a large family of children." 
 
 3 This was EUiston's invariable mysterious reply when questioned as to 
 his opinion of Betty. — Ed. 
 
364 William Henry West Betty. 
 
 said, " He had never seen the little Apollo off the pedestal 
 before." — Hazliifs " Conversations with Norihcote" 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm which 
 he excited — it seemed an epidemic mania ; at the doors of the 
 theatre where he was to perform for the evening, the people 
 crowded as early as one o'clock ; and when the hour of 
 admittance came the rush was so dreadful, that numbers were 
 nightly injured by the pres;u:e. One hundred pounds a night 
 was now given to Young Betty ; and he soon quitted the stage 
 with a large fortune, accumulated at a period in life when 
 other boys are only on the point of entering a public school. — 
 Percy Anecdotes. 
 
 The popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not 
 even the elements of a good actor, was an hallucination in the 
 public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history. It 
 enabled managers to give him sums for his childish ranting 
 that were never accorded to the acting of a Garrick or a 
 Siddons. His bust was stuck up in marble by the best 
 sculptors ; he was painted by Opie and Northcote ; and the 
 verses that were poured out upon him were in a style of 
 idolatrous adulation. Actors and actresses of merit were 
 obhged to appear on the stage with this minion, and even to 
 affect the general taste for him, in order to avoid giving 
 offence. — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 I hate sW. prodigies — partly, I fancy, because I have no faith 
 in them. Under this prejudice I saw his first performance, 
 and was so disgusted by a monotony, a preaching-like tone, 
 that I gave up my place at the end of the third act, and walked 
 behind the scenes, where myriads of critics were gathered, to 
 listen to their remarks. Here some vociferated that Garrick 
 was returned to the stage ; whilst others whispered, " The 
 Bottle Conjuror" is come again. But as all that is said for him 
 is in a/i?z^(/voice, and all against him in a low one, praise must go 
 forth, and criticism be scarcely heard. Indeed, on returning to 
 my seat, in the fifth act, I found he had great spirit, great fire 
 in the impassioned scenes, which gave variety to his tones, and 
 made me say, " This is a clever boy ;" and had I never seen 
 boys act, I might have thought him extraordinary. — Afrs. 
 Jnchbald} 
 
 ' Mrs. Inchbald, tliougli she commenced her career as an actress, is too 
 completely identified with literature to find a place among actors. She was 
 
William Henry West Betty. 365 
 
 Dressed as a slave, in white linen pantaloons, a short, close 
 russet jacket trimmed with sable, and a turban hat or cap, at 
 command of the tyrant on came the desire of all eyes. Master 
 William Henry West Betty. With the sagacity of an old 
 stager, I walked quietly into the house at the end of the first 
 act, made my way into the lobby of the first circle, planted 
 myself at the back of one of the boxes outside, and saw him 
 make his bow, and never stirred till the curtain fell at the end 
 of the play. I had a good glass, and saw him perfectly. He 
 was a fair, pleasing youth, well formed, and remarkably 
 graceful. The first thing that struck me was, that it was 
 passion for the profession that had made him an actor. He 
 was doing what he loved to do, and was putting his whole 
 force into it. The next thing that I felt was, that he had 
 amazing docility, and great aptitude at catching what he was 
 taught ; he could convey passions which he had never felt, nor 
 seen in operation but upon the stage ; grace, energy, fire, 
 vehemence, were his own ; the understanding was of a maturer 
 brain. He seemed, however, to think all he said ; and had he 
 been taught to pronounce with accuracy, there was nothing 
 beyond his obvious requisites for the profession. — Boaden.} 
 
 Betty had some fantastic notions in dress, which he indulged 
 despite the remonstrances of his friends. One summer he 
 sported a pair of indescribables made of children's map- 
 pocket-handkerchiefs. Our readers may see the sort of things 
 we mean — maps of London and its environs, &c. — marked 
 up at haberdashers at a penny apiece. A gentleman suggested 
 to the late young Roscius the singularity of such garments. 
 " My good sir," replied Betty, "you don't perceive the con- 
 venience and utiUty they are of ; for instance, as I am driving 
 I may become doubtful as to my route ; under the gig-apron 
 there I have all the information I want upon my thigh." This 
 Betty called his map-ography. — Records of a Veteran. 
 
 born in 1 753. She was the intimate friend of the Kembles, and the pro- 
 tegee of the younger Colman, who produced some of her early dramas. She 
 is best known as the author of " The Simple Story." Boaden has written 
 her life, and has made it perhaps the most uninteresting memoir that was 
 ever penned. She died 1821, aged sixty-eight. — -Ed. 
 
 * His first appearance at Covent Garden, where Boaden saw him, was 
 December i, 1804. As early as one o'clock the people began to pour into 
 the Piazzas and fill Bow Street. In the house was a large body of con- 
 stables, and outside a strong detachment of the Guards. Thousands 
 
366 
 
 William Charles Macready. 
 
 1793- 
 
 Macready's performance in Tell (in Knowles' "William 
 Tell") is always first-rate. No actor ever affected me more 
 than Macready did in some scenes of that play. — S. 
 Rogers. 
 
 Macready was educated for the Church; but it was owing to 
 Mrs. Siddons's suggestion that he embraced the stage. When 
 the elder Macready was away at Newcastle his son was home 
 for the holidays, and Mrs. Siddons was at that time on a 
 starring visit to the North. The leading actor of the theatre 
 not suiting the Queen of Tragedy, she requested the manager 
 to allow his son to undertake the part of Biron in " Isabella," 
 The anxious father was shocked at the request, and replied with 
 dignity that he intended his son for the Church. " The 
 Church !" exclaimed the great actress ; " have you any interest 
 — any patron ?" " None whatever," answered Macready senior. 
 "Well, then, your son will live and die a curate on 50/. or 70/. 
 a year ; but if successful, the stage \vill bring a thousand a 
 year." The wily manager took the hint ; allowed William to 
 appear, and from that period he got advanced till, in 181 7, he 
 burst on a London public, where a fortune has crowned his 
 efforts. This anecdote I had from the father of Brinley 
 Richards, the composer.' — Donaldson. 
 
 pressed forward when the doors opened, and the house being immediately 
 filled, the crowd made ineffectual efforts to press back. The shrieks and 
 screams of the choking, trampled people were terrible. Fights for places 
 grew ; the constables were beaten back ; the boxes were invaded ; the pit- 
 way being narrow, many went round to the box-office, paid box-prices, and 
 passed from the boxes into the pit. The heat was so fearful that men all 
 but lifeless were lifted up and dragged through the boxes into the lobbies 
 which had windows. This young Roscius is said to have drawn an average 
 of 650/. a night to Druiy Lane as Young Norval. At first he was paid 
 ifil. a night, but in three nights this was raised to 100/. — Ed. 
 
 ^ Richardson, the old showman, was always very proud of having num- 
 bered Edmund Kean among his company. When Macready's name had 
 become well known, Richardson was asked if he had ever seen him. 
 "No, muster," he answered, "I knows nothing about him; in fact, he's 
 some wagabone as nobody knows — one of them chaps as ain't had any 
 eddication for the thing, He never was with me, as Edmund Kean and 
 them riglars was. '^^Et). 
 
William Charles Macready. 367 
 
 ■\Vlien Mr. Macready was a very young man, he adapted and 
 compiled a drama from Walter Scott's " Rokeby," and played 
 the character of Bertram Risitigham in it himself. It must be 
 one or two and twenty years since I saw him in this at Newcastle- 
 upon-Tyne (his father being manager of the theatre). The 
 impression he then made on me I now vividly remember. 
 The manner in which he executed the task of selecting portions 
 of the poem and imitating Scott's style in the connecting lines, 
 essentially necessary to form it into dialogue, impressed me 
 with an opinion of Mr. M.'s literary powers. — Records of a 
 Stage Veteran, 1836. ,, 
 
 By the force of his own genius he has been step by step 
 overcoming the reluctant prejudices of the critics. He has 
 played Pierre, King John, Hastings, and the Stranger ; and last 
 and finest of all, Werner, in Lord B)Ton's play, adapted by him- 
 self to the stage. His Pierre was occasionally too familiar, and 
 now and then too loud ; but it had beauties of the highest 
 order, of which I chiefly remember his passionate taunt of the 
 gang of conspirators, and his sijent reproach to Jaffier by 
 holding up his manacled hands, and looking upon the poor traitor 
 with steadfast sorrow. In King John Xherz is a want of the 
 amenity with which Kemble reconciled the weak and odious 
 monarch to the nature which his actions outraged and his weak- 
 ness degraded ; and some of the more declamatory speeches were 
 given with a hurry which scarcely permitted them to be under- 
 stood ; but the scene where he suggests to Hubert the murder 
 of Arthur, and that of his own death, were more masterly ; the 
 last, as a representation of death by poison, true, forcible, and 
 terrific, yet without anything to disgust, is an extraordinary 
 triumph of art. His Hastings is only striking in one scene — 
 that where he is doomed to die, and utters forgiveness to his 
 betrayer. Of his old parts none has been so perfect as the 
 Stranger. Every look and tone is that of a man who fancies 
 he hates mankind because his heart is overflowing with love 
 which cannot be satisfied. Werner is represented by Mr. 
 Macready as a man proud, voluptuous, and, above all, weak — • 
 craving after the return of his fatherly love with more anxiety 
 from his sense of inability to repose on his own character and 
 resources, and vainly lavishing his fondness on a son whose 
 stern, simple, unrelenting nature repels all his advances with 
 diijdain. There is slender hint of this conception in the text ; 
 but it is made out by the actor, so that it must stand dis- 
 
36 S William Charles Macready. 
 
 tinct and alone in the memories of all who may see it. — 
 Talfourd} 
 
 Kean had a thorough contempt for Macready's acting ; and 
 the latter, affecting to be indignant at the mode in which Mr. 
 Kean had conducted himself (in always keeping a step or two 
 behind him, whereby the spectator had a full view of the one 
 performer's countenance, and only a side view of the other), 
 bounced into my room, and at first vowed he would play with 
 him no more. He finally wound up by saying, " And pray, 
 what is the — ^next p — lay you ex — pect me to appear in with 
 that low — man." I replied that I would send him word. I 
 went up into Kean's dressing-room, where I found him scraping 
 the colour off his face, and sustaining the operation by copious 
 draughts of cold brandy-and-water. On my asking him what 
 play he would next appear in with Macready, he ejaculated, 
 
 " How the should I know what the fellow play-s in !" — 
 
 Alfred Bunn, '■'The Stage;' 6-<r.' 
 
 His first appearance in London was a decided hit ; but the 
 establishment of his fame and position on the London stage 
 with such competitors as Kemble, Kean, and Young, was a 
 long and arduous struggle, and for nearly ten years it had to be 
 maintained before he could be said to be a great tragedian, worthy 
 of representing the great Shakspearian tragic characters. The 
 
 ' Talfourd was bom 1795. His father was a brewer at Reading. At 
 the age of eighteen he was sent to London to study law under Chitty, the 
 pleader. He was called to the bar in 1821. In early life he was a 
 voluminous contributor to the periodical literature of his day. JLater he 
 produced three dramas, of whicli "Ion" (1836) was the most esteemed. 
 In 1849 he was appointed one of the Judges of the Court of Common 
 Pleas. He was a man of unquestionable ability, reaching distinction in 
 eveiy walk he pursued — the law, the senate, the drama ; for his virtues, 
 his genial sympathies, and his uniform character, loved by his friends and 
 esteemed by all who knew him. — Ed. 
 
 ''■ Elliston's opinion of Macready, according to Alfred Bunn (about whom, 
 if the reader desire information, he may turn to the early numbers of Punch) 
 was not more flattering than Kean's. "Elliston," says Bunn, "had the 
 proper worship for true genius, but the proper contempt for pseudo 
 genius ; and he never gave better proof of his discernment than one evening 
 when on entering the gi-een-room, he was accosted in the most supercilious 
 manner by a performer (Macready) dressed for the character of Rob Roy 
 (a part which the histrio thought derogatory to his reputation, though it was 
 the making of it) with, ' Pray, Mr. Elliston, when do we act Shakspearc'' 
 and he pithily replied to this very magnificent three-tailed Bashaw, ' Wltn 
 you can /' " 
 
William Charles Macready. 369 
 
 highest place in tragedy was held for nearly a quarter of a 
 century by Mr. Macready. This eminent actor studied for his 
 profession, and considered that to be a great actor it was 
 advisable for him to become a good scholar, an accomplished 
 gentleman, a well-ordered man, with a well-regulated mind and 
 finely cultivated taste. — Dr. Madden' s " Life of Lady Bkss- 
 ington." 
 
 His successful impersonation of Richard III., and his 
 masterly delineation of Virginius, at once determined his 
 position as an actor of the first class — second to none. All the 
 parts in which I ever saw him, such as Orestes, Mirandola, 
 William Tell, Rob Roy, and Claude Melnotte, he certainly had 
 made his own. He was a man of more reading and cultivation 
 than Young ; and while the latter amused himself in the 
 hunting-field or the drawing-rooms of his aristocratic patrons, 
 the former gave himself heart and soul to the study of his art, 
 and greatly improved his powers by intellectual friction with 
 such minds as those of Bulwer, Forster, Dickens, Knowles, 
 and Albany Fonblanque. Moreover, he was what is 
 called an original actor. — Rev. ^. Young, "Life of C. M. 
 Young." 
 
 I was at a dinner-party when Harley the actor told a good 
 story of Macready in America. "He was rehearsing Hamlet with 
 a man who, in playing Guildenstern, continually (as bad actors 
 are apt to do) pressed too near him. Remonstrances had no 
 effect, and at length he came so very close that Macready said, 
 " What, sir, you would not shake hands with Hamlet, would 
 you?" " I don't know," said the other; " I do with my own 
 President." — Recollections of John Adolphus. 
 
 Farewell, Macready, since to-night we part : 
 Full-handed thunders often have confest 
 Thy power well-used to move the public breast. 
 
 We thank thee with one voice, and from the heart 
 
 Farewell, Macready, since this night we part. 
 
 Go take thine honours home ; rank with the best ; 
 Garrick, and statelier Kemble, and the rest, 
 
 Who made a nation purer thro' their art 
 
 Thine is it that the drama did not die, 
 Nor flicker down to brainless pantomime. 
 And those gilt gauds men-children swarm to see, 
 
 Farewell, Macready; moral, grave, sublime, 
 
370 Miss Stephens. 
 
 Our Shakspeare's bland and universal eye 
 
 Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred years on thee. 
 
 Alfred Tennysoii. 
 
 At a rehearsal of the banquet-scene in " Macbeth,'' Xhz First 
 Murderer, in spite of Macready's adjurations, persisted in walk- 
 ing down to the centre of the stage, and thereby entirely hiding 
 Macbeth from the audience. The tragedian impatiently called 
 for a carpenter, a brass-headed nail, and a hammer. The 
 carpenter came. " Do you see that plank there. Drive the 
 nail into that spot." It was done. " Now, you sir" (this to 
 the Murderer), " look at that nail. Come down to that spot, not 
 an inch further — and wait there till I come." Mr. Utility did as 
 he was desired, and Macready's mind was easy. Night came, 
 and with it the banquet-scene. The First Murderer enters, 
 walks down the stage, stops suddenly, then turns round and 
 round, apparently looking for something he had dropped. 
 The audience began to titter. Macready stalks to the man's 
 side : " In heaven's name, what are you about ?" " Sure," 
 exclaims the Murderer, " ain't I looking for that blessed nail of 
 yours 1" — Chambers. 
 
 Miss Stephens^ (Countess of Essex). 
 
 1794. 
 
 Miss Stephens began her career early, but did not come pro- 
 rr.inently forward till about 18 12. She commenced her 
 musical education under Lanza, who proceeded to form her 
 voice with care, but also with the slow progression of the Itahan 
 
 * In 1821 api3eared Miss Wilson, who bid fair at the onset of her career 
 to rival Miss Stephens. The following notice of her peiformance will 
 illustrate the enthusiasm with which she was greeted : — " She first per- 
 formed yi?««rffl«? in the noble opera of " Artaxerxes, " on Thursday, the 
 1 8th of January, a day which, on this account, will long be distinguished in 
 the annals of music. Her voice is of great compass — more complete per- 
 haps in the higher than in the lower notes — but admirable throughout the 
 whole of its range. It has not that body and depth of sweetness which 
 Miss Stephens pours forth in so rich and sustained a tide, but more of trick- 
 some delicacy than hers. We have heard no one except Catalani who could 
 ascend with so graceful an ease into the highest heaven of sound, and sport 
 and revel at will in its liquid elements. The theatre, crowded to the roof, 
 welcomed her with tremendous acclamations ; which evidently confusei 
 her at first, though her tremors did not prevent tlie audience from dis- 
 
Miss Stephens. 371 
 
 uicthod. Subsequently she became the pupil of Welsh, who 
 applied himself industriously to the task of fitting her for the 
 stage, and of bringing her out. Her round, full, rich, lovely voice, 
 her natural manner, her simple style, deformed by no sort of 
 affectation, immediately won upon the public ; and both in the 
 orchestra, the church, and the theatre, she became uni- 
 versally admired. No female singer, perhaps, ever built so 
 true an English style on Italian rudiments. Her ballad singing 
 was perfection. There was also high beauty and no slight, 
 poUsh in her concert and oratorio singing, and though the 
 manner was anything but impassioned, it was sensible and 
 graceful. Her purity rendered her performance the very 
 model of what our nation terms " chaste singing." — The 
 Progress of Music. 
 
 Miss Stephens is not at the head of a class ; but to my 
 feelings entirely unlike all other singers. It was sixteen years 
 last Twelfth-night since I heard her last, when the cur- 
 tain of Covent Garden drew up on the opening scene of 
 " Love in a Village," and discovered her sitting with Miss 
 Matthews among the honeysuckles and roses to send forth a 
 stream of such delicious sound as I had nevex fancied pro- 
 ceeding from human lips. Since then how many lady-singers 
 have flourished and faded and been forgotten ! Others there 
 may be with a greater compass of voice, which I doubt not, 
 or profounder musical science, as I am credibly informed, 
 but never any one with tones so breathing of all womanly 
 sweetness, and an absence of manner so irresistible. Except 
 that Miss Stephens has become somewhat thinner in person, 
 and th^t her voice is diminished in volume, I find no difference 
 between her earlier and her present self. On the stage she 
 
 covering extraordinary capabilities even in the charming duet of "Fail 
 Aurora," with which the piece opens. Her "Fly, soft Ideas," gave full 
 proof of her science and taste, as well as voice ; and her " Monster away," 
 was admirably acted as well as sung. She was best, however, where the 
 composer is best ; for her execution of " If e'er the ciiirI tyrant Love" was 
 the most delicious of the whole. The "Soldier Tired," however, was hel 
 greatest effort, and a greater of any kind we never witnessed. We usually 
 consider this as a vulgar composition ; but, amidst its most difficult passages, 
 she contrived to introduce infinite delicacies, which made the heart quivei 
 with strange delight, and rendered the bravura almost as beautiful as it is 
 amazing. 'JL'he most wonderful exertions of Kean and Miss O'Neill never 
 smote with more electric force on the audience, or drew from it more 
 rapturous expressions of welcome." 
 
 B B2 
 
372 Robert Keeley. 
 
 looks no older, nor has her style acquired a particle of vulgarity 
 or coarseness ; but the same unaffected simplicity, the same 
 quiet pathos, the same graceful tenderness which enchanted 
 me in the beginning of 1814, remain unharmed in 1830. Her 
 Polly is only too interesting : it is so modest, affectionate, 
 and feminine, that it turns the burlesque and the satire to 
 "favour and to prettiness." — Talfourd, 1830. 
 
 With a voice of the loveliest kind — for that is the epithet 
 that best describes the analogy between the visual sensation of 
 beauty of form, feature, and complexion, and the filling up of 
 the sister sense of hearing by her full, round, pure, rich, and 
 satiating tones — "a sacred and homefelt delight," that belonged 
 perhaps to her alone, and was in perfect accordance with 
 English notions and English sensibilities, was experienced by 
 the hearer. No one ever gratified the general public more 
 than Miss Stephens, because she was natural, chaste, and 
 faultless, thougli she aspired not to move the heart by those 
 violences which constitute the excesses, and for that very 
 reason the fascination of the voluptuousness of Italian art. — 
 On Giving an Opera to the English, 1834. 
 
 This most enchanting singer made her first appearance in the 
 old, sweet part oi Polly, in the "Beggars' Opera," and we thought 
 never sang so well. The beautiful repose of her acting, the 
 irresistible way in which she condescends to beseech support 
 when she might extort reluctant wonder, and the graceful 
 awkwardness and naivete of her manner, more captivating than 
 the most finished elegance, complete the charm of her singing. 
 The pathos of her " Can Love be controlled by advice?" and 
 " Oh, ponder well," the mingled science and sentiment of 
 " Cease your funning," and the fine, bird-like triumph of " He 
 so pleased me," are like nothing else to be heard on the stage, 
 and leave all competition far behind. — Lei^h Hunt. 
 
 Robert Keeley. 
 
 1 794-1 869. 
 
 Chelmsford is decidedly the most theatrical town in England. 
 Keeley was once unfortunate enough to go thither as a star ; the 
 first night he acted to a select few, the second night the 
 numbers were scantier than before, and on the third and last 
 niglit, the auditors were few and far between. The last piece 
 
Lttcitis y7inius BriUus Booth. 373 
 
 was " The Hundred-Pound Note," in which Keeley played the 
 conundrum-making Billy Black. In the last scene he advanced 
 to the lights, and said, "I've one more, and this is a good un. 
 ' Why is the Chelmsford Theatre like a half-moon ? D'ye give 
 it up ? Because it's never full T " — Records of a Stage Velcran. 
 
 This actor is the most genuine comedian who has made his 
 appearance for years. His performances are finely executed 
 little bits of the good old school of acting. In the farce of "The 
 Duel," he plays a cockney tailor to the life, and almost rivals 
 the famous J^erry Sneak of Russell. He shows all that can be 
 done within the compass of his parts, and never attempts to go 
 beyond them — a very rare excellence in comedians of these 
 days. — Talfourd. 
 
 It would be difficult to name an actor, from the stage past or 
 present, whose comic efforts are so natural and unstrained as 
 those of Mr. Keeley. His touch is so easy that under it 
 extravagance itself loses the air of unreality. He never 
 grimaces, he never winks at the audience, he never takes any- 
 body but himself into his confidence, yet what a never-tiring 
 figure of fun he is ! — how unconscious he seems of the laughter 
 he provokes ! — and what a solidity he appears to give to the most 
 trivial expressions ! — H. Morley. 
 
 Lucius Junius Brutus Booth. 
 
 1796-1852. 
 
 In 18 1 7 a trial was offered to Booth at Covent Garden, 
 where he made his debut in Richard III. At the end of the 
 tragedy there was a doubt whether it was a success or not ; 
 and the manager being out of town, those acting as deputies 
 had no power to treat with the actor. In this dilemma over- 
 tures were made to Booth to essay his abilities at Drury Lane 
 in the part of lago. This offer was accepted, and he made his 
 appearance in the tragedy of " Othello " to a densely filled 
 theatre. Kean was the Moor; but at the commencement 
 strangers were in doubt who was Kean or Who was Booth, 
 there was such a similarity between the rivals. But as the 
 tragedy progressed to the third act all doubt fled, and Kean 
 displayed such acting as not only electrified the young, but the 
 oldest critics pronounced it beyond all precedent. Booth dis- 
 covered that he had made a false move in placing himself in 
 
374 Lucius yiinius Bruhcs Bootii. 
 
 collision with the man he imitated, and the day after his trial 
 at old Drury, he signed articles to return to Covent Garden for 
 three years. He proved an attraction at the national theatre ; 
 and when Lear was revived, his performance of the aged king 
 met with universal approbation. As a proof that Booth was 
 an actor of unquestionable talent in Lear, he had Charles 
 Kemble as Edgar, and Macready as Edmund, and still threw 
 both into the shade. At the end of his engagement, finding he 
 was incapable of equalling Kean, he set sail for America. — 
 Recollections of an Actor. 
 
 Mr. Booth, who some years ago emerged from the lowest 
 class of actors into short notoriety, has visited again the boards 
 of this theatre, apparently in the hope of supplying the place of 
 Mr. Kean, whom he is by many supposed to resemble. If he 
 left his Transatlantic retreat with this expectation, we fear he has 
 been bitterly disappointed, for his engagement was limited to 
 three nights, and its success was not such as to command an 
 extension of its term. His likeness to Kean consists chiefly in 
 defects of person and voice ; for while we are obliged to deny 
 him any large participation in the intensity and occasional 
 delicacies of that ill-used person, we fully acquit him of the 
 servile imitation with which he has been charged. Mr. Booth 
 is unquestionably a clever man, and might, notwithstanding the 
 absence of dignified figure and flexibility of countenance, have 
 become a first-rate actor, if circumstances had not contributed 
 to spoil him. There is nothing more decidedly calculated to 
 prevent a young man of talent from becoming a true artist than 
 the excitement produced by premature elevation and hostility, 
 which at once give him an overweening notion of his present 
 acquirements, and render him impatient of just and friendly 
 criticism. We are sorry for Mr. Booth, who might have been 
 a good, but is now only a provoking actor. When you have 
 waited through whole acts for a gleam of sense and feeling 
 in vain, and have wondered at the uncouthness of his manner 
 and the poverty of his style, he will break out like one inspired, 
 and play a scene with masterly intelligence and vigour. The 
 three parts which he acted, Junius Brutus, Richard, and Othello, 
 were generally tame or declamatory ; and yet in each there 
 were passages of great merit — the parting with Titus in the first, 
 which was at once dignified and pathetic ; the tent scene in the 
 second, which was highly picturesque and impassioned ; and 
 the chief scene in the third act of the last, in which the work- 
 
yohn Henry Alexander. 375 
 
 ings of suspicion and the returns of love were discriminated 
 with judgment and portrayed with energy — these snatches ol 
 excellence, while they raise an actor far above contempt, can 
 never ensure him a high place on the London boards ; not 
 ought they, for surely the first audience in Europe have a 
 right to expect that those who ask for their approbation should 
 take some pains to deserve it. — New Monthly Magazine, 1826. 
 
 John Henry Alexander. 
 
 1796-1851. 
 
 John Henry Alexander was born at Dunbar in July, 1796, 
 of obscure but respectable parents. His boyhood was 
 distinguished by the same resolute and persevering qualities 
 that characterized his riper years. Early exhibiting great 
 powers of memory, possessing a good voice and a handsome 
 person, he was finally, after many amateur performances, 
 launched upon the stage under the auspices of the celebrated 
 Harry Johnstone, and made his first appearance as a legitimate 
 member of the profession at Ayr. His personal advantages 
 and great industry soon made him a favourite, and after a short 
 but successful season he was engaged for the Queen's Theatre 
 at Glasgow, then under the management of the elder Macready, 
 father of the present eminent tragedian of that name. From 
 thence he proceeded to Newcastle, where he had an opportunity 
 of performing with the celebrated Mrs. Jordan. His reputation 
 attracted at this time the attention of Mr. W. H. Murray, of 
 Edinburgh, with whom he shortly after contracted an engage- 
 ment. Mr. Alexander was only twenty years of age when he 
 •Oecame a member of the theatrical company at Edinburgh. 
 The characters in which he excelled at that time were Dandie 
 Dinmont in " Guy Mannering," and RatcUffe in " The Heart of 
 Midlothian." His powerful mind, free from the cares of 
 management, enabled him to perform an extensive range of 
 characters with great ability, but what contributed as much as 
 any other element to his success, was an excellent taste in 
 dress, and invariable correctness in reading. In the year 1822 
 Mr. Alexander commenced his character as a Glasgow manager 
 in Dunlop Street. During the following seven years he carried 
 on, through every kind of opposition, not only the Glasgow 
 house, but also the provincial theatres at Carhsle and Dumfries, 
 
2 76 Miss Maria Foote. 
 
 along with the Adelphi at Edinburgh. In 1829 he became the 
 possessor of the patent for Glasgow, built a magnificent theatre, 
 and continued from that period until within a few months of 
 his death a course of profitable management, which enabled 
 him to leave his family in a position of comparative afHuence.— 
 Peter Paterson, 1864, 
 
 Miss Maria Foote (Countess of Harrington). 
 1798-1867. 
 
 There is no female on the stage who is capable of filling her 
 proper line of character with so much grace, propriety, and 
 nature. At her first appearance she manifested a desire of 
 stepping into a bolder line of comedy than that which she had 
 before adorned, and played Letitia Hardy in the " Belle's 
 Stratagem." She performed the character very well, and 
 gave more of Miss Hardy than her warmest admirers 
 ventured to anticipate. She has not, however, animation, 
 humour, or versatility sufficient to hit off in triumphant style 
 the wayward fair, who is first to disgust her lover by the 
 affectation of folly, and then to captivate him in disguise by 
 her wit and voice. In truth she can do neither, for she 
 cannot be awkward or vulgar even if she would, and though 
 she might captivate any man at a single interview, she would 
 hardly succeed in a mask. Yet nothing could be more 
 charming than her naivete in the scene where she ought to 
 play the fool ; her movements were grace itself, and her 
 song beginning " Where are you going, my pretty maid ?" 
 was given with an arch simplicity entirely her own. The line, 
 " My face is my fortune, sir, she said," which was warbled out 
 with a very pretty consciousness, has, in all the representations 
 of the past, been hailed with applause of Avhich the meaning 
 cannot be mistaken. — Talfoiird. 
 
 We can scarcely believe that the beautiful vision has passed 
 away from our sight for ever. Will she no more ding so 
 tenderly about Virginius, the living image of all that is daughterly 
 and gentle ? Shall we not see her again bend silently before 
 the accusations of Gtiido, like a fair flower stooping beneath 
 the rough blast, with which contention would be vain ? Is 
 comedy entirely to lose the most delicate and gracefid of its 
 iiandmaidens, and tragedy the loveliest of its sufferers? If so, 
 
Pmtl Bedford. 377 
 
 she takes with her the best of our partuig greetings on the 
 journey of hfe, as her beauty has shone in on the v/eariness of 
 ours. By retiring she at least gains a duration of youth and 
 loveHness in the minds of those who have seen her, lasting as 
 their memory. In return for those images of pure and innocent 
 beauty with which she has enriched our imaginations, we wish 
 her all the good which should attend one of nature's choicest 
 favourites. — H. Smith. 
 
 Tyrone Power. 
 1798-1841. 
 
 The walking gentleman of Drury Lane, Barnard, having 
 been lodged in the King's Bench, on suspicion of debt, two 
 candidates stood forward for his situation in the theatre; 
 and these were Tyrone Power and a young tragic hero, 
 Hamblin. Although the salary for the position was only 3/. 
 per week, and the characters trifling, yet Power was rejected 
 and Hamblin accepted. This was in 18 18. Sixteen years 
 after this, Tyrone commanded at the Haymarket the highest 
 salary ever given to a comedian, 150/. per week. — W. 
 Donaldson. 
 
 This actor, if not the richest, is to my taste the most agree- 
 able of stage Irishmen. He does not surfeit us with a 
 musical brogue as Johnstone did, but buzzes about the verge 
 of vulgarity and skims the surface of impudence with a light 
 wing and a. decent consideration for fastidious nerves. — ■ 
 Talfotird. 
 
 Paul Bedford. 
 1798-1869. 
 
 There is a fine rollicking heartiness in the man's style and 
 manner that warms the heart. His voice seems better suited 
 for a bachelor's party than the stage ; it seems too convivial, 
 too social, for that dramatic decorousness which forbids a man 
 to be himself ; yet the traditions that garnish it make it choice 
 enough ; I approve its hints of days when the powdered wig 
 was still to be seen, when stockings and buckles were not 
 below the dignity of man, when broad faces beamed on you a 
 moist salutation of port wine, and the air was melodious with 
 
3/8 Paul Bedfo rd. 
 
 sturdy English songs, and healthy with sturdy English words. — 
 Albert Smith. 
 
 Mr. Bedford is a sound comedian and a good singer. His 
 face is a mobile mask ; he can fill its lines with unexpressed 
 laughter or smooth it into mirth-provoking gravity. He 
 respects the traditions of Beard and Vernon by limiting the 
 use of his arms whilst singing, but though he imparts no 
 burlesque to his humorous utterances by his arms and shoulders, 
 he exhibits no stiffness. He belongs to an order of actors who 
 always command attention and esteem, who never disappoint 
 by failure if they never surprise by unexpected excellence, and 
 who, by their uniformity, bid fairer for the popular applause 
 than performers with greater genius, on whom expectation 
 builds a structure of idealisms which disappointment often 
 sways and sometimes tumbles. — New Monthly Magazine. 
 
 Mr. Bedford shows clearly how much natural expression 
 must invariably triumph over acquired taste. Bedford is a 
 good musician and not a bad actor ; he is really possessed of 
 a voice, not however, of the first-rate. — The Nic-Nac. 
 
 His " I believe you, my boy !" never failed to produce a 
 laugh; but it was a stock joke, which is a wit's worst subter- 
 fuge. Yet to speak of Paul Bedford is to speak only the 
 language of respect and praise. Living through so long a 
 period his experiences of actors and the stage must be. more 
 various and more instructive than those of any existing actor : 
 it is to be hoped that he will find leisure to embody them in a 
 volume, and we may safely promise him as many readers for 
 his memoirs as he has had spectators of his impersonations. 
 He made his first appearance in Bickerstaff's opera of " Love 
 in a Village," in November, 1824 ; he has therefore been nearly 
 half a century before the pubUc. The changes the stage has 
 witnessed during this period are great. He has outlived those 
 hearty old days when English wit could command the applause 
 of English understandings, when acting was a primary con- 
 sideration in the business of a theatre, and when the scenic 
 decoration was designed to illustrate the genius of the player, 
 instead of being illustrated by his genius. He could tell of 
 many triumphs v/on by genuine if by old-fashioned art; he 
 could show how the reputation of an actor was almost in every 
 case proportioned to his deserts; and how, in the teeth of 
 obvious incompetence, the friendly hoaixling, the gigantic play- 
 bill, was powerless to draw the actor from the obscurity of 
 
Miss Smithson. 379 
 
 mediocrity. He has descended the hill of life hand- in-hand 
 with the drama, and in his old age may experience a kind of 
 melancholy fellow-feeling with the decrepitude of that art, of 
 which, in his generation, he was among the most vigorous and 
 hearty of the disciples. — The Modern Drama, 1862. 
 
 Mrs. Sloman. 
 
 1799-1858. 
 
 Mrs. Sloman, a daughter of Mr. Dowton, the comedian, 
 who has acted Belvidera and Mrs. Haller decidedly better 
 than any one since Miss O'Neill. This is exactly her line — 
 the range of parts between the Imogens and Juliets, and the 
 Volumnias and the Lady Macbeths ; she has not youth and 
 freshness for the first, nor dignity for the last ; and if she 
 attempts either she will utterly fail. But in her own proper 
 sphere she is an effective, and in a great measure a genuine 
 actress. If now and then there were not a little mannerism, a 
 touch of the swelling artificial school which spoils eveiything, 
 she would completely triumph over the hearts of her spectators. 
 In tones of exquisite tenderness, in gently heaved sighs, and in 
 relieving tears, she almost equals her predecessor, though she 
 can never give similar gratification because she wants the 
 beauty of person, the grace beyond the reach of art, and the 
 triumphant energy which distinguished that most woinanly of 
 women. Since Miss O'Neill's departure we have never heard 
 from female lips a line as thrillingly affecting as her appeal to 
 Jaffier, " Don't, prithee, don't in poverty forsake me !" — or 
 witnessed so admirable a gradation of penitence and love, as 
 her last scene in the " Stranger." If she can but avoid drawl- 
 ing monotony on the one hand and physical violence on the 
 other, she will secure an entire command of all parts of con- 
 jugal devotion and feminine sorrow. — Talfourd, 1824. 
 
 Miss Smithson (Madame Berlioz.) 
 
 1800. 
 
 The fate of the English drama in Paris hung now on an 
 actress that for six years at Drury Lane was kept entirely in the 
 background. This was Miss Smithson, who was brought from 
 
380 Miss Sviithson. 
 
 Ireland with the hope that she would prove a second Miss 
 O'Neill. Alas ! they might as well have hoped for a second 
 Kean. Yet JVIiss Smithson was superior to the position in 
 which she was placed at Drury Lane. She was neither more 
 nor less than the " walking lady." But when she appeared at 
 Paris she was found to possess qualities that are seldom visible 
 in the walking lady. She had fire, a splendid voice, a tall and 
 noble person ; and after Liston's failure, Miss Smithson's 
 " Jane Shore " was a success, and ran twenty-five nights, putting 
 more money in the manager's pocket than Kean, Macready, 
 Miss Foote, or Charles Kemble. " Jane Shore " was followed 
 by " Romeo and Juliet." Miss Smithson's Juliet was equally 
 as attractive, for she became quite the rage with the Parisians. — 
 Donaldson 's ' '■RecolledioJis. ' ' 
 
 Up to the moment when the effect is to be produced she is 
 tame and feeble ; but at that moment she starts into energy of 
 voice and manner with the utmost promptitude and decision, 
 flings into the words the whole soul of an impassioned woman, 
 seems attired in sudden brightness, and absolutely dazzles the 
 imagination by her brilliant rapidity of action and picturesque 
 variety of attitudes. Then her voice, scarcely audible before, 
 becomes at once strong and tremulous with passion, her eyes, 
 lately bent on the ground, flash with indignant fire, and the 
 pretty awkwardness of her carriage gives way to postures which 
 are eloquent and which flash on us as the boldest which 
 enthusiasm can justify. She seems to have two voices — almost 
 two natures, her acting is one long paradox ; yet its excellence 
 (as real excellence must do) a thousand times outweighs its 
 deficiencies. Its explanation seems to us to be this: that the actress, 
 endowed with fine capacities for her art, had formed an un- 
 fortunate style of recitation, by which they were obscured and 
 beneath which they were frozen ; that her feelings and her 
 powers have been roused from their protracted slumber by the 
 excitement of Parisian applause and the calls of the higher 
 station she was required to occupy ; but that the influence of 
 habit, though broken, is still so far unsubdued as to prevail yet, 
 except where the immediate exigencies of the situation, and the 
 passion awakened by them, overmaster it, and returns again 
 when the tumultuous emotion subsides. ^ — H. Smith. 
 
Benjamin Webster. 
 
 1800. 
 
 This gentleman has, hi his own graphic way, told his own 
 story. How at the early age of nineteen he had the misfortune 
 to many a widow with a ready-made family, which was like 
 going into the battle of life with a millstone round his neck. 
 Our hero, anxious for employment, went about everywhere 
 searching for an engagement, but it was ill to find. He could 
 not go to a great distance for want of money, and, alas ! he 
 had but little to pawn. He walked to all the neighbouring 
 towns where the shadow of a company was, but returned sadder 
 than he went. Day by day he got deeper into debt. One day 
 a- ray of light crossed his dark path. But his own narrative of 
 the circumstance is so graphic, that he must be allowed to tell 
 it in his own language. " I had heard that Mr. Beverley, of 
 the Tottenham Street Theatre — now called the Queen's — the 
 father of that great scenic artist who now wields the brush 
 where dear Clarkson Stanfield once held sway, was about to 
 open the Croydon Theatre for a brief season. I apphed to 
 liim for walking gentleman. ' Full.' For little business and 
 utility. ' Full.' For harlequin and dancing. ' Didn't do pan- 
 tomime or ballet ; besides, didn't like male dancers ; their legs 
 didn't draw.' For the orchestra. ' Well,' said he, in his peculiar 
 manner, and with a strong expression which need not be repeated. 
 ' why, just now you were a walking gentleman !' ' So I am, sir ; 
 but I have had a musical education, and necessity sometimes 
 compels me to turn it to account' 'Well, what's your instru. 
 ment ?' ' Violin, tenor violoncello, double bass, and double 
 drums.' ' Well, by Nero !' — he played the fiddle, you know— 
 'here, Harry' (calling his son), ' bring the double — no, I mean a 
 violin — out of the orchestra.' Harry came with the instrument, 
 and I was requested to give a taste of my quality. I began 
 Tartini's ' Devil's solo,' and had not gone far when the old gen- 
 tleman said that would do, and engaged me as his leader at a 
 guinea a week. Had a storm of gold fallen on me it could not 
 have delighted Semele more than me. I felt myself plucked 
 out of the slough of despond. I had others to support, board 
 myself, and to get out of debt. I resolved to walk to Croydon, 
 ten miles every day, to rehearsal, and back to Shoreditch on 
 
J 
 
 82 Beuj'amin Webster. 
 
 twopence a day — one pennyworth of oatmeal and one penny- 
 worth of milk— and I did it for six weeks, Sundays excepted, 
 when I indulged in the luxury of shin of beef and ox-cheek. 
 The gentlemen in the gallery pelted the orchestra with mutton 
 pies. At first indignation was uppermost, but on reflection we 
 made a virtue of necessity, and collecting the fragments of the 
 not very light pastry, ate them under the stage, and, whatever 
 they were made of, considered them ambrosia. At the end ot 
 the sixth week I had so pleased Mr. Beverley and his son 
 Harry, that I was asked to give a specimen of my terpsichoreaii 
 abilities in a sailor's hornpipe. I essayed the task, buoyed up 
 with hope, dashed on the stage, got through the double-shufile, 
 the toe and heel, though feeling faint ; but at last, despite every 
 effort, I broke down through sheer exhaustion, consequent upon 
 a near approach to starvation, and the curtain dropped on me 
 and my hopes, and I burst into an agony of tears. However, 
 this mourning was soon turned into joy, for Mr. Beverley 
 behaved like a father to me, and engaged me as walking genfle- 
 man and harlequin for his London theatre, where I made my 
 first appearance as Henry Morland in the ' Heir-at-Law,' which, 
 to avoid legal proceedings, he called ' The Lord's Warming Pan.' 
 From the Tottenham Street Theatre I went to the English 
 Opera, now the Lyceum ; from there to Drury Lane, thence to 
 the Haymarket ; from there to Covent Garden, the Olympic, the 
 Adelphi — and here I am, such as I am." — Peter Pater son. 
 
 His first appearance on the stage took place at Warwick, 
 whence in 1825 he was ti-ansfeiTed to a metropolitan theatre. 
 His readiness in assuming at the briefest notice the part of 
 Pompey for the late Mr. Harley, in " Measure for Measure," gave 
 the public their first opportunity of estimating the full scope of 
 his histrionic powers, and firmly established his claim to rank 
 among the good actors of the day. Having assumed the 
 management of the Haymarket in 1837, the period of his 
 lesseeship was marked by a liberal patronage of native dramatic 
 talent, Bulwer .Lytton, Knowles, Jerrold, having all been 
 engaged in writing original works for production at his theatre, 
 where at the same time Macready, Wallack, Strickland, Farren, 
 Mathews, Miss Faucit, Mrs. Nesbit, Miss Glover, and Mrs. 
 Sterling appeared. No less a sum than 2000/. was annually paid 
 by Mr. Webster for the copyright of British plays ; on one 
 occasion, indeed, he offered 500/. for a prize comedy. — Edward 
 Walford. 
 
PVeii- — Dance — ^akewell. 383 
 
 [The following actresses belong to this period or thereabouts. 
 I annex to their- names the remarks passed on them by 
 various contemporaries, with the dates to which the 
 criticisms belong.] 
 
 182 1. Mrs. West.—" This lady is not far from being a de- 
 lightful actress. She has power to melt us into the sweetest 
 tears, by exhibiting the loveliest and most heroic qualities of 
 women. But she injures the effect of her acting by a mono- 
 tonous swell of voice, which, when she would be most im- 
 pressive, borders on the vulgar. Her grief bears too much 
 emphasis. She will strive in vain to storm the heart, but she 
 may touch it irresistibly by quiet gentleness whenever she 
 pleases." 
 
 1821. Miss Dance. — " Her personal charms are cast in the 
 mould of severe beauty. She is rather ' more than cominon 
 tall,' slender, yet beautifully formed, with dark hair, deeply black 
 eyes, and features scarcely Grecian, but finely rounded off — a 
 cast of face which might be too majestic for her frame, were it 
 not pervaded by a soft expression which gives it a sweet and 
 melancholy charm. She is evidently a lady in the highest 
 sense of the term — intelligent, unaffected, and graceful. Her 
 usual style of speaking is, however, founded in mistake. It 
 too often approaches a kind of doleful recitative, which is not 
 only unpleasing but diminishes the effect of those expressions 
 of emotion which are true and natural. Her attitudes are 
 singularly beautiful ; but they do not appear sufficiently in- 
 spired by the feeling, and are excellent rather as -separate 
 pictures than as silentl)^ telling of ' that within which passeth 
 show.' " 
 
 1821. Miss Bakewell. — "Her figure is elegant, her face 
 expressive, and her whole demeanour bespeaks an intelligent 
 and cultivated mind, and an acquaintance with society in its 
 most respectable circles. There was a great propriety in all 
 she did, and occasional touches of real sensibility, especially in 
 the last scene (of ' The Stranger') ; but the part does not 
 enable us to judge of the extent of her energies." 
 
 1821. Miss Blake. — " A charming singer and an intelligent 
 actress. Her voice, clear and firm, but not extraordinary in its 
 upper notes, has some lower tones of a depth and ricliKess 
 v/hich rarely belong to a female voice, and which yet are 
 entirely feminine. When she reaches these, she reminds us of 
 
384 Forde — Chester — Lacy — Kelly. 
 
 that noble, heart-touching singer, Miss Rennell, who died when 
 she was scarcely nineteen, but whose simply pathetic strains 
 have left many solemn images and pensive thoughts, ' deposited 
 on the silent shore ' of our memories. Miss Blake's Captain 
 Macheath is the prettiest make-believe imaginable — not the 
 character, which would be intolerable ; but a lady's free sketch 
 of it, in which the outline is preserved, but all attempts at 
 likeness in the more revolting parts is gracefully resigned. 
 There is the playfulness without the vice, the brilliancy of wit 
 without the sting ; and all the intrigues, darings, and perils of 
 the highwayman turned to 'favour and to prettiness.' In- 
 dependent of her singing, she has more sense than half the 
 tragic actresses v/ho come out in first-rate characters." 
 
 1822. Miss Forde. — "She is possessed of a fine person, 
 and a voice of more power than sweetness. There are traces 
 of high excellence in her style, but as yet it is immature." 
 
 1822. Miss Chester. — " It must at once strike all who see 
 her, that she is peculiarly adapted by nature to represent the 
 heroines of comedy. She is in the bloom of youth, yet fully 
 formed, which is indispensable to the realization of our ideas 
 of those commanding, triumphant, brilliant, wayward creatures 
 who rule absolute over drawing-room coteries. Her voice is 
 not so good, and she sometimes strains it -by too violent exer- 
 tions, especially in her performances of Mrs. Oakley. Her 
 chief fault, next to the want of due gradation, is a certain exube- 
 rance of manner, which she cannot yet afford, as she has not a 
 store of real vivacity to correspond with, and give life and 
 meaning to her action." 
 
 1 82 2. Miss Lacy. — "She is in person tall and elegantly 
 'brmed, with lovely and flexible, but not striking features. 
 Her movements are easy ; her action singular, unembarrassed, 
 and graceful ; and her taste so good that in the most violent 
 paroxysms of passion no tone or look escapes her which may 
 not become the lady and the woman. Her voice in level 
 dialogue is soft and clear, but when elevated it is liable to 
 prove rather harsh." She was afterwards Mrs. Lovell. 
 
 1823. Mns Lydia Kelly. — " She has all the material for an 
 excellent ac ress — a fine stage figure, an expressive countenance, 
 great animal spirits, and evident love of her profession but 
 she still wants the refinement of tone and grace of movement 
 and action which time and study may give." Miss Kelly v. as 
 a younger sister of tlie famous Miss F. H. Kelly. 
 
yuhn Bccldwin Bucksione. 385 
 
 1823. Mrs. Ogilvie. — "She is endowed with personal and 
 intellectual qualities which will enable her to fill the highest 
 parts of the tragic drama with respectabiUty, and even to cast 
 some new lustre over them. Her face has something of a 
 Siddonian cast. Her figure is sufficiently mature, and her 
 voice is mellow and strong. The choice of her appearance in 
 Queen Katherine was a noble token of her ambition — ^braving 
 even the recollection of Mrs. Siddons." 
 
 John Baldwin Buckstone. 
 1802. 
 
 He was bom near London in 1 862 ; he was originally intended 
 for the navy, but his naval taste being checked, he was articled 
 in a solicitor's office ; at the age of nineteen, however, he 
 embraced the stage, making his first appearance on the boards 
 at Wokingham, Berks, where his services were required at 
 half-an-hour's notice, owing to the absence of the comedian of 
 a travelling company, to play the part of Gabriel, in the 
 " Children of the Wood." His dtbut on this occasion was such 
 as to give great promise of success in what is generally known 
 as low comedy. Mr. Buckstone next engaged himself to a 
 friend who had recently become lessee of the Faversham, 
 Folkestone, and Hastings Theatres, and for three years en- 
 countered the chequered fortunes of a country actor's life. 
 During this period he became acquainted with the late Edmund 
 Kean, to whose encouragement he probably owed no small 
 amount of his success. In 1824 Mr. T. Dibdin resigned the 
 management of the Surrey Theatre, and his successor, Mr. 
 Burroughs, engaged the services of Mr. Buckstone, who made 
 his first appearance before a metropolitan audience as Peter 
 Smirk, in the "Armistice." His success soon obtained for him 
 
 other engagements of a hke kind Mr. Buckstone is always 
 
 the acknowledged Tony Lumpkvi, Bob Acres, Sir Andrew 
 Aguecheck, Master Sletider, Touchstone, Mawworm, Frank 
 Oatland, Scrub, Sim, Marplot, and indeed he plays near all the 
 low-comedy characters of the English drama. — E. Walford. 
 
 Mr. Buckstone has talents, Mr. Buckstone has humour, Mr. 
 Buckstone has much waggishness, but Mr. Buckstone has no 
 refinement. A double entendre lurks in each eye ; his smirk is 
 X hint of an unclean presence. The pit is always on the grin 
 
 c c 
 
386 Mrs. Wood. 
 
 before him ; but the boxes, whilst they applaud, are troubled 
 lest the wag that sets them in a roar should commit himself. 
 His voice is in perfect keeping with his person : it. suggests a 
 distillation ; it seems to lazily flow from a mind charged with 
 fat thoughts and unctuous conceits. He has the true low-comedy 
 air in his walk and gesture ; his face looks dry and red with 
 long roasting before the footlights. He is the son of Mirth 
 and Vulgarity. His mind is a machine which manufactures 
 afresh the stuff it is fed on ; what is wholesome and plain is 
 reproduced in a new form, with a different colouring and an 
 original aroma. The downright speaking of the old dramatists 
 can never offend or shock when spoken by refined lips ; but to 
 such downright speaking Mr. Buckstone takes care to impart a 
 meaning of his own, and makes plain speech a sort of intel- 
 lectual perspective for the satyr who leers with dewy eyes 
 upon the spectator, and whilst he forces him to laugh, compels 
 him to despise the occasion of his merriment. — The Modern 
 Drama, 1862. 
 
 Mrs. Wood. 
 1802-1864. 
 
 Miss Patori was, we believe, one of those extraordinary 
 children,' who surprise as prodigies but who rarely fulfil the 
 promise of infancy. She has, however, realized the best hopes 
 
 ' Amongst other " extraordinary musical children" of that time, Clara 
 Fisher and Master Burke were perhaps the most celebrated. A writer, 
 speaking of Miss Fisher, says: "She evidently understands and relishes 
 her author, enters into her part with her whole soul, and displays in every 
 scene not only acuteness of intellect, but a temperament in unison with the 
 profession of her choice. When we look at her we can scarcely believe 
 that she is not of the proper age and size for the characters she personates, 
 but almost fancy that the other actors and the stage itself are out of pro- 
 portion. She rather makes them look gigantic than appears herself to be 
 a pigmy. Her bests parts are Little Pickle and the Country Girl, in ' The 
 Actress of All Work ;' and in both of these there is a quick intelligence, 
 a bounding hilarity of voice and manner, and a prodigality of animal 
 spirits which remind us of Mrs. Jordan more than anything we have seen 
 since the death of that most deliglitful woman. It is impossible to look 
 on this wonderful little being without something of a painful interest, con- 
 sidering the casualties always incident on the early development of genius." 
 Master Burke was a violin player of great brilliancy and precision. " Hu> 
 acting," says a writer, " was extraordinaiy ; for though a child may be 
 taught to mouth out Young Nerval or Cato's soliloquy witli effect, it re- 
 quires an extraordinary aptitude and quickness to enable hun to play such 
 
Mrs. Wood. 387 
 
 of her early admirers ; and after singing with kldl, for some 
 time past at concerts, has appeared on the stage, which is a 
 fitter sphere for the display of her powers, because she pos- 
 sesses considerable merits as an actress. In person she is rather 
 tall, her face is not inexpressive, and- her figure is decidedly 
 graceful. Her voice is not of any extraordinary quality or 
 compass, but its tones are mellow and full, and she has acquired 
 entire command of her organ. She has evidently been very 
 well instructed, and has profited to the utmost by the advantages 
 offered by her master. Her shake is singularly perfect, and in 
 the small turns and graces of her art she is, perhaps, without a 
 superior. By playing the delightful parts of Rosina in " The 
 Barber of Seville," and Susanna in " Figaro," she has brought 
 her pretensions fairly to the test, and has shown that as a 
 singer she can enter fully into the spirit of Rossini and Mozart, 
 and that she is able to relish and to embody the vivacity and 
 grace of elegant comedy. — New Monthly Magazine, 1822. 
 
 Miss Baton was born in Edinburgh, 1802. Infinitely mort 
 fortunate than a large majority of our English singers, this lady 
 enjoyed the advantage of careful instruction even in her infancy. 
 Her father, who was one of the masters in the high school in 
 the Scottish capital, appears to have possessed in an eminent 
 degree the faculty of discerning the natural bent of his 
 daughter's taste. He determined on the serious cultivation of 
 her abilities, and so successful was Miss Baton's application, 
 that it has beeii said she coniposed several songs, which were 
 published, when she was only five years of age. After such 
 promise, her musical studies were naturally persevered in, and 
 when she had attained her eighth year several public concerts 
 were given in her name, which were attended by numerous 
 audiences, and her performances on the piano and harp were 
 also as much approved of as were her vocal exertions. Shortly 
 after this time Miss Baton appeared at the Nobility's Concerts 
 in London, and met with so much encouragement that she 
 subsequently had an annual concert of her own ; the last of 
 which was, we believe, strongly supported by several of the 
 
 a part as the Irish Tutor. This Master Burke did in a highly amusing 
 style, to which a rich native brogue contributed not a little. Children .ire 
 imitative beings, and almost by nature mimics ; but the ease, the vivacity, 
 and the correctness of Master Burke betoken a dramatic instinct which can 
 scarcely be mistaken." 
 
 CCS 
 
388 Miss M. Tree. 
 
 Scottish nobility, also by Count Platoff. Flattering, however, 
 as were her prospects as a singer, her frequent appearance in 
 public necessarily prevented her from pursuing such other 
 studies as her parents were anxious she should follow ; her 
 health also was somewhat impaired. She accordingly, at the 
 recommendation of her father, retired from public performances 
 for the space of six years, the greater part of which time was 
 spent in the completion of her education and the further 
 cultivation of her musical abilities. In the latter part of 1821 
 or the commencement of 1822, she again became known to the 
 public by her re-appearance at various concerts. During the 
 season of the Haymarket Theatre for 1822, she made her first 
 appearance as a theatrical singer, in the character of Susanna, 
 in the " Marriage of Figaro." She afterwards played Rosina in 
 the " Barber of Seville," and Polly in the " Beggars' Opera," 
 with deserved applause. She then entered into an engagement 
 with the managers of Covent Garden Theatre for, we believe, 
 four years, and made her debut at that theatre in the character of 
 Polly. Some doubts had been entertained as to the power o[ 
 her voice for a large theatre, but the experiment removed all 
 fears on that account, and she not only concluded the character 
 triumphantly, but repeated it with applause. — Dictioitary oj 
 Musicians, 1824. 
 
 Miss M. Tree (Mrs. Bradshaw). 
 
 1802-1862. 
 
 Miss Maria Tree's excellence was of that gentle and unob- 
 trusive kind which affords small scope for true criticism, but 
 which, because there is very little really to be said about it, 
 tempts the more to extravagant and unmeaning praise. It was 
 the fashion to talk of her as a Shakspearian actress, and to 
 describe her Viola, her J^ulia, her Ophelia, and her Rosalind, 
 as realizing the poet's fancies. The truth was, that she looked 
 interesting, spoke the verse in an unaffected tone, and did not 
 spoil any idea which the spectator had cherished ; but in these 
 characters her merit, except so far as it lay in her figure and 
 voice, was chiefly negative. She had not vivacity, passion, or 
 humour to do full justice to the best of Mrs. Jordan's parts, 
 but she had a natural elegance of manner which that most 
 cordial actress wanted, and a vein of feeling true, though not 
 
Miss M. Tree. 389 
 
 intense, which made her charming in parts like Clari, where a 
 more powerful actress would have been disagreeably good. As 
 an English singer she ranked, next in popularity to Miss 
 Stephens, and in some few pieces, as " Bid me discourse," and 
 " Home, sweet home," confessedly excelled her. — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 We are most happy to record the re-appearance of Miss 
 M. Tree, after the long and severe illness which she has 
 endured, and which we were afraid would incapacitate her for 
 public exertion. She came forward first in the character of 
 Viola in " Twelfth Night ;" and never was that delicious part 
 more deliciously acted. The very delicacy of her appearance, 
 which seemed to render the expression of deep feeling too 
 much for her frame, gave an additional interest and reality to 
 her personification of the love-stricken maiden of Shakspeare. 
 She gave to the part all that ethereal colouring which the 
 poet's " sweet and cunning hand" has so tenderly laid on it, 
 and which is so rarely felt amidst the glare of the stage. Her 
 Viola was the true ideal of the poet's thought, as that thought 
 may be felt in the choicest solitude. Never were Shakspeare's 
 words more finely given than the speech to Olivia, beginning 
 "Make me a willow cabin at thy gate," was recited by her; 
 Mrs. Jordan might have imparted to it more depth of joyous 
 fervour, but scarcely so much delicacy and crispness. He" 
 mirth too is the most graceful and maidenly which we can 
 imagine. Her rich cordial voice broke on us like the revival 
 of an old spell in her songs, which she gave with all her wonted 
 feeling and precision, until she came to the last, when her 
 emotions became too strong for her frame, and an apology was 
 made for its omission. She has since warbled Diana Vernon, 
 in which there is no room for acting, charmingly, and both 
 sung and acted tTichanim^y Rosina, in " The Barber of Seville." 
 There never was a more perfect representation of feminine 
 vivacity — not amounting to the brilliant spirits of a leader of 
 fashion, a Millamant, or Lady Townly, — but flowing from the 
 light-heartedness of an intelligent and gentle girl. — Talfourd, 
 1821. 
 
 Besides possessing great merits as an actress, she must be 
 considered as being in the very first rank of our female vocalists. 
 Her voice is a mezzo soprano, the tones of which, especially the 
 lower ones, are peculiarly rich and attractive. Her powers of 
 execution are considerable, though always considered within 
 the bounds of good taste, and indeed we know of no public 
 
390 Charles yames Mathews. 
 
 singer who is so justly gaining ground in the public esti- 
 mation. — Dictionary of Musicians, 1824. 
 
 Charles James Mathews. 
 ' 1803. 
 
 His various representations certainly were as original and 
 skilful as those of his father himself, and he possessed the 
 same extempore power of varying them. Perhaps had he 
 adopted his present profession at that early age,' he might have 
 followed successfully in his father's track, but he was too long 
 allowed to contemplate the excellence which he despaired of 
 attaining, and of which he feared to be thought a servile copier. 
 He continued to resist every temptation to try his fortune on 
 the stage, although he had several offers, and was more than 
 once applied to, to become an actor at the French theatre. 
 After years of persuasion, of praise, and encouragement to make 
 the trial, overruling circumstances at once determined the 
 point, and Charles appeared upon the Olympic stage. — Mrs. C. 
 Mathews. 
 
 Mr. Charles Mathews, who was received on his first appear- 
 ance upon the stage with a burst of affectionate welcome that 
 said more for his father's fame than a monument in Westminster 
 Abbey can do, has been securely establishing himself in the 
 good opinion of all, and creating hopes as strong as the wishes 
 that accompany them are cordial. He requires, we think, no- 
 thing but experience. There are symptoms of his noviciate 
 about his acting it is true ; but then he evidently possesses that 
 which cannot be taught, and has only to learn how best to give 
 effect to it. He has a quick, Mathews-like apprehensiveness 
 of the whimsicalities of character, much variety and plasticity 
 of expression, rich natural humour, easy manners, and seem- 
 ing liveliness of disposition. He has qualities which when 
 matured and cultivated will render the whole walk of eccentric 
 comedy his own domain, and he has accomplishnsents also that 
 
 ^ He was destined by his parents for the Church; but when he was old 
 enough to comprehend his own sympathies he chose the profession of 
 architect. His first appearance as a regular actor (he had before played in 
 amateur performances) was in 1835, when he appeared as George Rattleton, in 
 "The Humpbacked Lover." — Ed. 
 
Charles J antes Mathews. 391 
 
 may enable him to compass the class of " genteeler" characters, 
 as well as those of broad humour. — New Monthly Magazine, 1836. 
 
 Charles Mathews has more graceful ease, more untiring 
 vivacity, more general comprehension than the very finest of 
 the Parisians. For ninety-five nights he has held a hushed 
 theatre in the most complete subjection to his magic art, and ' 
 was as fresh and forcible on the last night of the course as at 
 its beginning. Yet never once does he raise his voice above 
 drawing-room pitch : no reliance has he on silver shoe-buckles 
 or slashed doublets ; he wears the same coat and other habili- 
 ments in which he breakfasts at home or dines with a friend. 
 Never once does he point an epigram with a grimace, or even 
 emphasize a sentiment with a shrug of his shoulders. The 
 marvel is how the effect is created, for there is no outward 
 sign of effort or intention. That the effect is there is manifest 
 from pit to gallery ; and yet there stands a quiet, placid, calm- 
 eyed, pleasant-mannered, meek-voiced, bald-headed, gentle- 
 manly stockbroker, with respectable brass-buttoned blue coat 
 and grey trousers, such as is to be seen on any day of the 
 week pursuing his way from St. John's Wood or Brompton,' 
 and at first sight as unfit for theatrical representation as the 
 contents of his ledger for the material of an epic poeni.-— 
 Blackwood' s Magazine, 1852. 
 
 Without one half of the estimable qualities which Charles 
 possesses, his talents, various, brilliant, and amusing as they 
 are, always render him a guest too agreeable to every society to 
 be resigned without real regret, as he is found to enliven and 
 be the charm of every circle in which he moves ; but when one 
 knows, as I do, that those talents, delightful as they are, con- 
 stitute his least merit — that to those he unites the kindest 
 heart, the most ingenuous nature, the best principles, and 
 unvarying good temper, and perhaps what endears him still 
 more to me, a delicacy of sentiment almost feminine, it is im- 
 possible not to feel sad and sorrowful at giving him up even to 
 a mother whose happiness he forms. — Lady Blessingtot^ to Mrs. 
 Mathews, 1823. 
 
 ^ The character of Mr. Affable Hawk. 
 ' Margaret Power, Countess of Blessington, was bom in the county 
 of Waterford in 1789. She was celebrated for her writings at a period 
 when the rhymes of Miss Landon were preferred to the poetry of Keats ; 
 but of these writings hardly her ' ' Conversations with Lord Byron" survive. 
 Flattering notices of her novels may be met with in the pages of the old 
 
392 Mrs. Warner. 
 
 A merrier man, within the limits of becoming mirth, it would 
 be difficult to find. He was an admirable mimic, had a mar- 
 vellous facility in catching peculiarities of manners. . . . But with 
 all his comic talents, love of fun and frolic, ludicrous fancies 
 and overflowing gaiety of heart, he never ceased to be a gentle- 
 man, and to act and feel like a man well-bred, well-disposed, 
 and well-principled. — Dr. Madden, 1855. 
 
 Mrs. Warner. 
 
 1804-1854. 
 
 One of the most distinguished and respected of our actresses, 
 who has for years maintained her family by her exertions, was 
 the other day subjected to the distress of appearing, through 
 her husband, in the Insolvent Debtors' Court. It appeared 
 that for some time she had been afflicted by the growth of a 
 most painful disease, in spite of which, while strength re- 
 mained, she laboured actively in her profession. Compelled 
 at last to desist, the pains of poverty might not have been felt 
 less sharply than the pains of sickness, had not friends been at 
 hand to deprive them of their sting. The proceedings in 
 the Debtors' Court disclosed only truths that come home to us 
 all. They told us that an intellectual and high-spirited woman 
 had supported herself and her children by laborious exertion 
 in the highest department of dramatic art — that by the rapid 
 growth of a terrible disease she had been checked in her 
 career — ^and that this deprived her of the means of fulfilling 
 the moderate and reasonable engagements formed in days of 
 health. All that it told us more than that, was of the human 
 sympathies awakened by the case. We cannot say of such a 
 reverse that it suggests charity — using the word in its cold 
 modern sense — ^but it arouses sympathies, and it enables those 
 who stand about to claim a privilege of ministering by kind 
 offices to a most sacred grief. Kind offices, thus done in 
 secret, have, through the investigation in the Insolvent Court, 
 been forced into publicity. We should not speak of them if 
 we had not been made to see that there was one gentle hand 
 
 reviews, but they seem to have been written rather as tributes due to the 
 beautiful woman, the genial hostess, and the cordial friend, than to the 
 author and the wit. She died in 1849. — Ed. 
 
Ellen Tree. 393 
 
 among those ready to smooth the pillow of the sinking actress, 
 which Englishmen are always proud to recognise, and never 
 yet have found stretched out for any evil work. Not only 
 have fellow artists gathered around Mrs. Warner, but some 
 others, who, as the world knows, are never absent when 
 a kind word is to be said or a kindly act done, and by accident 
 the Queen's name slipped into the narrative. Among other 
 indications of the great respect in which the sick lady is held, it 
 appeared that her Majesty had not been content with simply sub- 
 scribing towards the support required by Mrs. Warner's family, 
 now that its prop fails, but that, having learnt the importance 
 of carriage exercise to the patient, with a woman's delicacy, at 
 once found the kindest way to render service by herself hiring 
 a carriage, which she has caused, and causes still to be placed 
 daily at Mrs. Warner's disposal. Her Majesty makes few state 
 visits to the theatres : chance has disclosed, however, how 
 the actor's art may be more surely honoured by a courtesy 
 more womanly, and quite as royal. — Henry Morley, 1853. 
 
 Ellen Tree (Mrs. Charles Kean). 
 1805. 
 
 Mrs. Charles Kean, better known by her maiden name of 
 Ellen Tree, is a native of the south of Ireland, and was born 
 in December, 1805. She first appeared in public at Covent 
 Garden Theatre as Olivia, in " Twelfth Night," performed for 
 
 the benefit of her sister Miss Ellen Tree next acted in 
 
 Edinburgh and Bath, obtaining subsequently an engagement 
 at Drury Lane Theatre, her first part being Violante,m'-''T\\s. 
 Wonder." In 1829 she transferred her services to Covent 
 Garden, and appeared in her first tragic part, in Miss Kemble's 
 play of " Francis I." Her success induced her, on the 
 occasion of her benefit, to assume the part of Romeo to the 
 
 Juliet of Miss Kemble In 1842 she married Mr. C. 
 
 Kean. — E. Walford. 
 
 She has not the vocal power of Miss M. Tree, nor that 
 peculiar crispness of tone and delicacy of style which enabled 
 her almost to hint how the women of Shakspeare should be 
 played, but she is much handsomer, and is better adapted 
 both by figure and manner to represent the heroines of comedy. 
 It has been her misfortune to appear at the commencement oi 
 
394 Samuel Phelps. 
 
 the season when the company was incomplete, and when there 
 was occasion for her services in a greater range of parts than 
 she is as yet prepared to fill. She has played successively 
 Violante, Letitia Hardy, Rosalie Somers, Albina Mandevilk, 
 Lady Teazle, and yane Shore, risking fearful odds in every 
 trial, and, of course, with unequal success, but exhibiting in all 
 good sense, feeling, and taste. Of these we think her Albina 
 Mandeville — which is an excellent picture of the hoyden 
 softened by the lady — the best, and her Lady Teazle con- 
 siderably the worst. Her Jane Shore, graceful, unpresuming, 
 and feeble, gave no reason to believe that tragedy will ever ba 
 lier forte, but afforded assurance that she will beautifully 
 express the milder sorrows of the sentimental drama. — 
 Talfourd, 1826. 
 
 Samuel Phelps. 
 1806. 
 
 Such a piece of acting as Mr. Phelps' presentment of James' 
 is rarely seen on the stage. His command of the Scotch dialect 
 is wonderful in an Englishman : his walk, his look, his 
 attitude, are as palpable indications of character as the language 
 he employs. There is not a turn of his mouth or a leer of his 
 eye that is not in harmony with the general design. His 
 pride, terror, abasement, doubt, triumph, and final despair, are 
 all given with a marvellous versatility, which yet never trenches 
 on the identity of the actor's creation ; but touches are here 
 and there added, some to soften, some to darken, till the 
 whole is like a Dutch picture, lalDoriously minute in all its 
 details, and perfect as a finished whole. As an exhibition of 
 how one great performer can vivify a whole play, in spite of all 
 drawbacks, we pronounce the acting of Mr. Phelps in some 
 respects without a parallel on the modern stage. In the good 
 old comedy of the " Man of the World" he is no less remark- 
 able in his delineation of Sir Pertinax Macsycophant. His 
 power over the Scotch accent is the same, and it is only a less 
 powerful performance from the character itself being less 
 diversified and the tragic element being altogether omitted. — 
 Blackwood' s Magazine, 1852. 
 
 Mr. Phelps has of late years been the personator of about 
 
 ' James VI. 
 
Thomas Rice. 395 
 
 thirty of the characters of Shakspeare. Greatmen or small, heroes 
 or cowards, sages or simpletons, sensual or spiritual men, he 
 has taken all as characters that Shakspeare painted, studied 
 them minutely, and embodied each in what he thinks to be a 
 true Shakspearian form. Boitotn the Weaver, Brutus, Fahtaff, 
 Macbeth, Christopher Sly, are characters assumed by the same 
 man, not to display some special power in the actor, but the 
 range of power in the poet to whose illustration he devotes 
 himself. Good tragedian as he is, I suppose that it is in a 
 sort of comedy, vaguely to be defined as dry and intellectual, 
 but in his hands always most diverting, that Mr. Phelps finds 
 the bent of his genius as an actor to be the most favoured. Thus 
 in Malvolio he would appear to have a part pretty exactly suited 
 to his humour, none the less so because there is perhaps no 
 character in which he is himself lost sight of so completely — 
 substance vanishes, and shadow lives. Other Malvolios, seen 
 by the playgoers of this generation, have been more fantastical, 
 and caused more laughter — although this one (of Phelps) 
 causes much — but the impression made by them has been less 
 deep. Few who have seen, or may see, at Sadler's Wells the 
 Spanish-looking steward of Countess Olivia, and laughed at 
 the rise and fall of his ch&teau en Espagne, will forget him 
 speedily. Like a quaint portrait, in which there are master- 
 strokes, his figure may dwell in the mind for years. — H. 
 Morley. 
 
 The leading characteristics of Mr. Phelps's acting are a 
 careful regard to the antiquarian requirements of the part, a 
 scrupulous adherence to tlie meaning of the author, and a fine 
 elocution. He is hardly less distinguished as a comedian than 
 as a tragedian, and his rendering of the part of Bottom, in the 
 " Midsummer's Night's Dream," is entitled to high encomium. 
 —E. Walford. 
 
 Thomas Rice, 
 
 1808-1860. 
 
 A few years ago Thomas D. Rice, now the famous negro 
 comedian, was an actor in a western American theatre, and 
 though he did some things cleverly, he was particularly remark- 
 able for nothing but being the best-dressed man in the com- 
 pany. An original piece was got up in which Rice was per- 
 suaded to do the character of a negro, much against his will. 
 
39^ Thomas Rice. 
 
 He consented only under the stipulation that he should have 
 permission to introduce a negro song of his own. Rice was 
 fond of riding, and frequently visited a stable in town where 
 there was a very droll negro ostler, who used to dance gro- 
 tesquely and sing old fragments of a song about one Jim Crow. 
 Very little difficulty was found in transforming the ostler into a 
 tutor, and in half an hour Rice was master of the symphony, 
 melody, and all the steps, words, and drollery of the famous 
 Jim Crow. The evening for the debut of the new play came 
 on, and never did Kemble or Talma study more intensely over 
 the effect of costume than did Rice in dressing for his negro 
 part on this occasion. He had easily contrived to throw 
 together a few verses with witty local allusions, and to heighten 
 the extravagance of the dance to its greatest extent of grotesque 
 absurdity. The play commenced, and went on, dragging 
 heavily and lamely, Rice himself failing to stir up the drowsy 
 audience with his clumsily-written negro part, until the third 
 act, when the song came in ; bitter condemnation was lowering 
 ominously over the piece, and the actors had already pronounced 
 it a dead failure, when the hitherto silent and gloomy green- 
 room was startled by a tumultuous round of cheers breaking 
 out suddenly "in front." " What can that be ?" said the manager, 
 pricking up his ears. Another verse of the song was sung, with 
 the extravagant dancing accompaniment, and the house shook 
 with still more violent applause. "What is that?" said the 
 manager : " who's on the stage ?" " Rice is singing a negro 
 song," was the reply. " Oh, that's it, is it?" said the manager, 
 who was a stickler for the " legitimate," and concluded that an 
 audience which could applaud such a thing would be just as 
 likely to hiss it the next moment. But the new song continued 
 to call down expressions of pleasure that could not by any 
 msans be mistaken, and at its conclusion the manager bounced 
 out of the green-room and down to L. S., to listen to 
 the loudest encore he ever heard in his theatre. The play 
 was announced again, but after two or three lepresentations it 
 was discovered that the song was all the audience wanted,, and 
 so yiin Crow emerged triumphant from the ashes of a damned 
 play to delight Europe and America. — Theatrical Anecdotes. 
 
397 
 
 Walter Lacy. 
 
 1809. 
 
 I commenced my country work in the chill capital of Scot- 
 land, as a tyro under the mighty Murray, at the old Theatre 
 Royal, Edinburgh. My first performance was as the Count 
 Montalban in " The Honeymoon." I next entered upon such 
 dull " walking-gentleman" work as Captain Thornton, and the 
 Squire in the " Rent Day," enlivening my labour by such 
 exciting sport as offering my hand to the principal danseuse, 
 who declined me with thanks, being already engaged to a pro- 
 vincial low comedian, who, in after times, played Sir Harry to 
 my Lord Duke, in London — a circumstance that strongly 
 recalled my passion for his pretty-footed fairy wife. Hard 
 work, at a guinea a week, under Alexander in Glasgow, left me 
 no time for sighing, except over the appalling study averaging 
 500 lines a day, and looo for Sundays, when my daily oatmeal 
 was varied by a chop or a small steak. I was to open in 
 Horatio, and Captain Manly in " Honest Thieves /' but Alex- 
 ander said,. " You see, Mr. Lacy, the man Phelps has not arrived 
 from Dublin, and if you will study Laertes, you'll find him 
 better than Hamlet at half-price." Mr. Vandenhoff instrjcted 
 me in the fencing. My salary was advanced on the following 
 season, half-a-crown. For this I was supposed to sing tenor ; 
 but the truth was, Alexander sang at the wing, and I made 
 faces on the stage. I remember on the morning of rehearsal, 
 when the cue was given for the duet, " Though you leave me 
 now in sorrow," the London " star" who played Diana Vernon, 
 exclaimed, looking at me, " Are you not going to rehearse, sir ?" 
 to which Alexander replied with a grin, " You'll find him in his 
 place at night, ma'am." I was heartily glad, when, on the recom- 
 mendation of Mr. Power, who praised my Tom Shujffleton, I came 
 away to cheerful Chester, via Liverpool, and studied the part of 
 Sir Thomas CVz^f^rrf, reclining on a green bank, on the Racecourse, 
 betting half-crowns with a companion on the strength of thirty 
 shillings a week salary. I played three years in Liverpool and 
 Manchester, and generally in four light pieces ; in the latter 
 city on the Saturdays of the Liverpool seasons. I sometimes 
 /emained behind to play George Barnwell, and Lord Hastings 
 in " Jane Shore" the same night ; or Blue Beard, mounted on 
 the great elephant Rajah from the Zoological Gardens. The 
 
398 Walter Lacy. 
 
 part that placed me in a position as a light comedian was 
 Cheveril in "The Steward," altered from Holcroft's " De- 
 serted Daughters." My chief work in London was at the 
 Princess's, where, in Mr. Maddox's time, I often played twenty- 
 four parts a week, such as the Gamin in " The Angel of the 
 Attic," Charles Paragon in " The Little Devil," Alfred High- 
 flyer, and Bouncem the " Ojibbeway Indians." On one occasion 
 a laughable incident occurred. A party of Ojibbeways in the 
 pit-box became suddenly so excited at witnessing my scalping 
 Oxberry, as the "ring-tailed roarer of the backwoods," that 
 uttering a war-whoop, they prepared to make a rush for the 
 stage, but seeing me take the low comedian's wig off only, 
 they all burst into peal after peal of laughter. With Charles 
 Kean, I started a team of three — i.e., Rouble (original) in the 
 " Prima Donna," Chateau Renaud in the " Corsican Brothers," 
 and Alfred Highflyer in a " Roland for an Oliver," and ran 
 them three months. These were brilliantly contrasted charac- 
 ters, affording splendid opportunity for an artist to establish 
 himself. Of such an opportunity the severity of my early train- 
 ing, and the various experience of my career, enabled me to 
 take full advantage. The author was to have ridden the middle 
 horse, but owing to a difference with the management, my 
 name was put in the cast at three days' notice. Fortunately 
 I remembered being in a theatre in Paris in Louis Philippe's 
 time (where I observed Dion Boucicault in a side box), when a 
 man entered the parterre with hair and beard black as night, 
 the hair cut close to the skull. I at once said to myself, " If 
 ever I play a Frenchman, that shall be the head." It was odd 
 that author, actor, and model should come together ! I ordered 
 the wig ; wrote to Angelo, who, with prompt kindness came up 
 from Brighton to his chambers in Curzon Street, where, after 
 we had discussed a brief luncheon, we took off our coats, and 
 in two hours I was able to master the combat with rapiers. After 
 the first act of the " Prima Donna," Charles Kean came to my 
 dressing-room to congratulate me on my " make-up" and act- 
 ing in Rouble; and at the conclusion of the " Corsican Brothers" 
 I was cheered by the whole house. The manager and mana- 
 geress were delighted, and Mr. Bayle Bernard came on the stage 
 with the late Douglas Jerrold to compliment me on the " origi- 
 nality and finish of my acting." Next morning, Chai'les 
 Mathews and Madame Vestris called me to their carriage in 
 the middle of Regent Street, and heartily congratulated me, 
 
Waltei' Lacy. 399 
 
 Charles Mathews saying, " If that isn't a Frenchman, I don't 
 know what is." My make-up hit the house, and was the key- 
 note of the new rendering of the part. I returned to the 
 Princess's Theatre after this to play Chateaic Raiaud, when Mr. 
 Vining produced " The Corsican Brothers" at the command 
 of the Prince of Wales, and about the same time I played, with 
 Charles Mathews and Sothern, in a morning performance at 
 the Haymarket before the Prince and Princess of Wales, my 
 old part of Alfred Highflyer. I engaged for two years at the 
 St. James's Theatre, acting Charles Surface eighty nights ; after 
 which I played in a piece of Mr. Boucicault's, " After Dark," 
 for a couple of hundred nights, as BeUingham, a man about 
 town, and two special engagements for Mercutio at the 
 Lyceum. My last engagement was at the Globe Theatre, 
 playing Pepinelli in ■" Marco Spada," and Citizen Sangfroid 
 in " Delicate Ground." I have now no immediate prospect 
 beyond my pupils and classes at the Royal Academy of Music, 
 where I have been for some years Professor of Elocution. — 
 Walter Lacy^ 
 
 Charles Kemble's Hamlet was fine in conception, but in- 
 ferior in execution to his brother's. But his Mercutio I In 
 that he spoke, walked, looked, fought, and died like a gen- 
 tleman, as Walter Lacy does, his worthy successor, but not 
 imitator in this part. — Dr. Dor an. 
 
 Mr. Walter Lacy has great breadth and mellowness of man- 
 ner, a strong relish and deep feeling for character. — Douglas 
 yerrold. 
 
 Mr. Walter Lacy's Don Salluste is as perfect a piece of stage 
 representation of the cold-blooded, self-possessed demon of the 
 scene, as the imagination of the spectators, wrought up to the 
 highest pitch by the vivid portraiture of Victor Hugo, can con- 
 ceive. The rigid muscle, the fixed eye, the calm, hollow 
 voice, the imperturbable face, and the withering sneer, em- 
 bodied all the salient points of the fiend who plots a scene 
 of vengeance distinguished amongst dramatic scenes for its 
 heartless atrocity. Mr. Lacy never for a moment loses sight 
 of his object ; his soul is in it — you see it in the turn of his 
 eye, the curl of his lip, the movement of his hands, and in that 
 
 ^ From a characteristic letter to the Editor. The eminent actor enhances 
 the value of his communication by sanctioning its appearance in print. — 
 Ed. 
 
400 Miss Fanny Kemdle. 
 
 pitiless voice which runs to the heart like a bolt of ice. — 
 R. Bell. 
 
 Our most accomplished living representative of elegant 
 comedy. — Desmond Ryan. 
 
 The Touchstone of Mr. Lacy is a very good performance, 
 quaint, sagacious, and fantastic, without being at all over- 
 strained. We have seen Touchstones who were much coarser, 
 but very few who were so natural. — Bayle Bernard. 
 
 Miss Fanny Kemble (Mrs. Butler). 
 1811. 
 
 In the announcement that on the opening night (of Covent 
 Garden Theatre, 1829) Miss Fanny Kemble would present 
 herself as jf^ulief, that her mother would reappear in the part of 
 Lady Capulet, and that her father would embody for the first 
 time that delightful creation Mercutio, there was abundant 
 interest to ensure a full, respectable, and excited audience. 
 The first act did not close till all fears of Miss Kemble 's success 
 had been dispelled ; the looks of every spectator conveyed that 
 he was electrified by the influence of new-tried genius, and was 
 collecting emotions in silence, as he watched its development, 
 to swell its triumph with fresh acclamations. For our own part, 
 the illusion that she was Shakspeare's own Juliet came so 
 speedily upon us as to suspend the power of specific criticism. 
 We compared her with all the great actresses we had seen, and 
 it is singular that Mrs. Jordan was the one she brought back to 
 our memory. Her head is nobly formed and admirably placed 
 on her shoulders, her brow is expansive and shaded by very 
 dark hair, her eyes are full of a gifted soul, and her features are 
 significant of intellect to a very extraordinary degree. Though 
 scarcely reaching the middle height, she is finely proportioned, 
 and she moves with such dignity and decision that it is only on 
 recollection that we discover she is not tall. In boldness and 
 dignity she unquestionably approaches more nearly to Mrs. 
 Siddons than any actress of our time excepting Pasta. — New 
 Mo7ithly Magazine, 1829. 
 
 Emerging suddenly, not from the gloom but the shade, this 
 
 gifted young creature came forth at a time at once trying and 
 
 propitious, and gratulating acclaim arose when first " her fulgent 
 
 head, star-bright, appeared." She showed on her first night that 
 
 he was worthy of her lineage, and the fine features of her 
 
Miss Fanny Kemdle. 401 
 
 intellectual countenance silently spoke her relationship to the 
 Siddons. She established herself at once by the unanimous 
 consent of the best judges, as well as by the award of 
 the public, in the highest order. — Blackwood's Magazine, 
 1832. 
 
 Has Miss Kemble, or has she not, in tragedy, genius ? Her 
 attitudes, her whole personal demeanour, are beautiful. They 
 are uniformly appropriate to the character and the situation, 
 and in exquisite appropriateness lies beauty. But not only are 
 Miss Kemble's attitudes — I use that term to express her entire 
 action — her appearance, her apparition, beautiful, th^y are also 
 classical — that is to say, the spirit of art breathes in and over 
 the spirit of nature ; and thus she often stands before our eyes 
 with all the glowing warmth of a living woman, inspired by some 
 strong passion of love or hate, idealized into a speaking statue, 
 in which the " divine rage " is tempered and subdued down to 
 the equable and permanent level of legitimate emotion. Miss 
 Kemble is a girl of genius, and well entitled to stand — not 
 assuredly on the pedestal side by side with the Siddons, with 
 their heads at the same altitude, and shining in the same lustrous 
 line of Immortals — but on a humbler seat along with the inspired, 
 from which no living actress may displace her, but which she 
 herself will leave ere long, rising surely and not slowly from 
 one place of honour to another, till in the consummation of her 
 skill and in the maturity of her powers she shall place herself 
 at last — listen all ye men to me, a prophet — I will not dare to 
 say how near or how far belov\r the Siddons, for she — be it 
 known to all men — is unapproachable in her sphere ; but in the 
 same constellation, consisting of not many stars, but those how 
 bright ! of which Sarah will ever be the central light. — Professor 
 Wilson's " Nodes Ambrosiana," No. 5 [. 
 
 June 17th, 1830. — Went last night to theatre, and saw Miss 
 Fanny Kemble's Isabella, which was a most creditable per- 
 formance. It has much of the genius of Mrs. Siddons, her 
 aunt. She wants her beautiful countenance, her fine form, and 
 her matchless dignity of step and manner. On the other hand, 
 Miss Kemble has very expressive though not regular features, 
 and, what is worth it all, great energy mingled with and chastened 
 by correct taste. — Sir W. Scott. 
 
 Fanny K.'s acting clever, but not touching, at least to me. 
 Was unmoved enough during the pathetic parts to look around 
 Ihe house, and saw but few (indeed, «<?) symptoms of weeping, 
 
 D D 
 
402 Charles Kean. 
 
 One lady was using a handkerchief most plentifully, but I found 
 it was for a cold in the head. — T. Moore. 
 
 Charles Kean. 
 1811-1868. 
 
 His zeal for his profession, amounting almost to enthusiasm, 
 has led him to prove that the theatre can be made not a mere 
 vehicle for frivolous amusement, or what is worse, dissipation ; 
 but that it may be created into a gigantic instrument of educa- 
 tion for the instruction of the young, and edification as well as 
 instruction of those of maturer age. — Speech of the Duke of 
 Newcastle. 
 
 We have to look to Mr. Kean as one who has laboured in a 
 noble and holy cause, in endeavouring to dissociate the noble 
 pursuits of the drama from elements that could be thought to 
 partake of moral and social contamination. — W. E. Gladstone. 
 
 Mr. Charles Kean when once playing Richard at New 
 Orleans, observed, as he was seated on the throne, and the cur- 
 tain was rising, that his noble peers wore their hats or caps in 
 his presence. With his truncheon to his lips he contrived a 
 stage whisper, which said, " Take off your hats ; you are in the 
 presence of your king." " And what of that ?" roared high- 
 reaching Buckingham, looking round at the audience, and 
 smacking his own cap tighter on his circumspect head ; " what 
 of that ? I guess we know nothing of kings in this country." 
 The citizens of New Orleans were in raptures, and the king 
 sat corrected. — Dr. Doran. 
 
 Here is a gentleman who has thriven far beyond his deserts, 
 who by a series of lucky accidents and skilful manoeuvres has 
 risen to a most prominent position, and whom the world may 
 generally, Iherefore, be disposed to accept as a type of actors 
 of the higher Order. Not content witli the fame and fortune 
 which have not always fallen tb the lot even of unquestionable 
 histrionic genius, he thrusts himself on the public through the 
 agency of one of his own officials, and by his mouth proclaims 
 himself and his wife as the most gifted beings who have ever 
 
 adorned the British stage But he has overshot the mark. 
 
 He has written his own condemnation. The dexterous manager 
 and the conceited egotist will henceforth eclipse the clever 
 actor. .... A nature so self engrossed, and an intellect so 
 
Albert Smith. 403 
 
 narrow as are liere represented, could never expand to the pro- 
 portions of an Oihdlo or a Macbeth, or grasp the wide domain 
 of poetic beauty which is enclosed in a " Midsummer Night's 
 Dream" or the "Tempest." — Fraser's Magazine, 1859. 
 
 Mr. Kean has great merits, quick appreciation, sound intelli- 
 gence, and occasionally a burst of something which, if it is not 
 genius, is describable by no other word. But he is certainly 
 mistaken in relying so much on the resources of the cosiiimier 
 and the painter. — Blackwood's Magazine, 1852. 
 
 His claim to originality is not founded on the gorgeousness 
 of the spectacle which he has placed before the footlights ; . . . . 
 he claims the praise of historical accuracy. It will be remem- 
 bered how, in the playbill of his " Macbeth" — a curiosity in its 
 way — ^he cited the authority of Diodorus Siculus, Pliny, Strabo, 
 Xiphilin, Snorre, Du Cange, and the Eyrbiggia Saga (not bad for 
 a playbill, the Eyrbiggia Saga !) This magnifying of historical 
 truth, this drifting from the open and trackless sea of fiction to 
 the terra firma and unalterable landmarks of fact — a strong ten- 
 dency to reahsm, is the chief characteristic of Mr. Kean's 
 management And it is observable not merely in his mode of 
 placing a dramg, upon the stage, but in his own style of acting. 
 —Ibid., 1856. 
 
 Albert Smith. 
 
 1816-1860. 
 
 Albert Smith's Ascent of Mont Blanc is the best specimen 
 of a class of entertainments that are now very popular — perhaps 
 the most popular of all, and which when further and duly 
 developed promise to rival the present theatres. Mr. Albert 
 Smith goes to Mont Blanc, returns, gets Mr. Beverley to paint 
 the scenes through which he travelled, and enlivens those 
 scenes by the description and impersonation of what he saw 
 and heard. We have no doubt that Mr. Smith's entertainment 
 is far more amusing, far more intellectual, and ten thousand 
 times more artistic than anything of the kind which England 
 could furnish in tlae thirteenth or fourteenth century; and he will 
 not resent the comparison if we say that he reminds us of the holy 
 palmers and pilgrims who, in tljose crusading centuries, returned 
 from Palestine, and with the aid of rude pictures — " the City of 
 Jerusalem, with towers and pinnacles — Old Tobye's House — a 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 Albert Smith. 
 
 Fyrmament with a fyry cloud and a double cloud " — attempted 
 in miracle plays and mysteries to convey an idea of the scenes 
 they themselves had witnessed in the Holy Land. — Blackwood's 
 Magazine, 1856. 
 
 A man of considerable comic talent, a humorist, an excellent 
 mimic, quick of perception and comprehension, apt to see things 
 in a ludicrous light, sprightly and animated in conversation, as 
 a writer possessing much facility in composition ; but he was 
 known also as a kind-heartedperson, an excellent son and brother, 
 possessing sterling qualities seldom found in those who pass 
 in society for humorists and jest-makers. — Lady Blessiyigton. 
 
 Whether in society or on the summit of Mont Blanc, in a 
 monster balloon, the columns of Punch, or in the company 
 of the " Marchioness of Brinvilliers," " Christopher Tadpole," 
 or of "A Gent About Town,'" Mr. Albert Smith is equally 
 amusing. He is the son of a general medical practitioner at 
 Chertsey, and was intended for the medical profession. He 
 studied medicine in London and in Paris, and abandoned his 
 profession about 1838 for that of literature. He was one of 
 the original contributors to Punch, and for some time one - 
 of its principal managers. Easier circumstances, and less 
 necessity to struggle with the world in very early life, might 
 perhaps have given his talents a better chance to ripen and 
 turn to a good account, and have afforded them a higher direc- 
 tion. — Dr. Madden. 
 
 Mr. Smith has great ability, a good ready sense of fun, 
 abundant power as a mimic, wiUingness to spare no personal 
 exertion on the perfecting of his entertainment, and a great 
 deal of the most serviceable tact. He tells his stories, always 
 with good taste, obtruding none of his jokes, good or bad, but 
 leaving all to find their friends out for themselves. He breaks 
 off every song and every story a full minute before there is any 
 possibility of any one beginning to think that it is tedious. 
 And he continues to fill two hours and a-half with an entertain- 
 ment during which he is incessantly before his audience, some- 
 times grave, but chiefly provoking mirth, without leaving at the 
 end the recollection of one ill-humoured word, or of a syllable 
 that could be construed into undue egotism or impertinence. — 
 H. Morlcy. 
 
 ' Albert Smith's imitation of Dickens in his novels was painful enough. 
 The great novelist hardly relished the admiration of his disciple — at least. 
 
405 
 
 Henry Russell. 
 
 1816. 
 
 It is not as a singer that Russell will be spoken of by pos- 
 terity. It is as a song-writer that his great reputation has been 
 achieved ; and, as conspicuous among the greatest song-writers 
 of Great Britain, he will be remembered and written of. Of 
 Russell can be said what cannot be said of any other English 
 composer, Dibdin not excepted : that'of his innumerable com- 
 positions — several hundreds, I believe — a fuller measure than 
 half keeps a permanent hold upon the memories of Englishmen. 
 Many of his melodies, undisguised by awkward modifications, 
 are being sung on all sides under other names. But there are 
 certain strong and impressive songs of his which even the music- 
 hall composer has not been able to summon impudence enough 
 to touch, and which stand forth conspicuously among the most 
 glorious and inspiriting melodies ever penned. Take " Cheer 
 Boys, Cheer!" "A Life on the Ocean Wave!" "There's a 
 Good Time Coming, Boys !" "Britannia, the Pride of the Ocean," 
 '■The Ivy Green," "Woodman, Spare that Tree," — take, in 
 short, the most popular songs you know- — ten to one if the best 
 of them are not Russell's. How much English music is in- 
 debted to Russell will be told by some future historian of the 
 art ; he will see that he took the very highest view of song- 
 writing, that he properly estimated its capacities as a vehicle, 
 whilst he illustrated those capacities by his genius, when he 
 produced compositions which at once sweeten whilst they 
 inspire — which ennoble whilst they impel — which suggest the 
 highest ends whilst they urge their achievement. By music 
 Russell accelerated and perhaps confirmed the strong re- 
 pugnance to slavery in the United States — by music he helped 
 forward the great movement of emigration from this country — 
 by music he preached hope, patience, endurance, to the toiling 
 classes — to those who had been addressed hitherto too largely 
 
 so expressed. When Henry Russell was in the height of his popularity, i 
 person named Henry Smith went about the country, giving out that he 
 was the composer of "Cheer, Boys, Cheer," "I'm Afloat," &c. Mr. 
 Russell was complaining of this to Mr. Dickens one night at the Lyceum 
 Theatre, when Dickens exclaimed, " Never mind, Russell ; every man 
 has his Smith." 
 
4o6 Henry Russell. 
 
 from the Senate, the Justice seat, and the House of Correction. 
 We are now in an epoch of sentimental music ; we may choose 
 between maudhn tunes set to nerveless verse and the vulgar 
 catches of the music tavern. This epoch will pass, like every- 
 thing else passes that is uncommonly bad, though the taint 
 may linger a little after. The traditional English love of what 
 is true and healthy in art will reassert itself, and foremost 
 among those to whom a sweet and wholesome taste will turn as 
 the most honest and most melodious of expositors by song of the 
 national character, will-be Henry Russell. — Dramatic Memoirs. 
 
 Mr. Russell is one of the comparatively small number of 
 musicians who have looked upon their art as the twin-sister of 
 poetry, and have cultivated it accordingly. This tendency 
 appears to have guided him in the direction of his studies, and 
 led to all the productions of his genius. His earliest instruc- 
 tions were received from a sound English musician, Mr. P. 
 King, the celebrated glee-composer, and his subsequent studies 
 were pursued in Italy. It was in the vocal school of Italy that 
 he acquired the gift, so general among the singers of that 
 nation, and so rare among ours, of that clear and emphatic 
 elocution which contributes so much to the impressive effect of 
 
 his performance The main source of his success is to 
 
 be found in his songs. He has a manly intellect as well as a 
 poetical spirit, and despises the namby-pamby verses which 
 
 serve as food for the musicians of the day His powers 
 
 as a singer are akin to his qualities as a composer. They are 
 founded on a masculine intellect and a pure taste. He is 
 gifted by nature with a fine voice — rich, mellow, and sufficiently 
 flexible for every purpose of execution. But he never makes 
 a display of its strength or its sweetness. He uses it as the 
 organ with which he discourses " eloquent music," as the means 
 whereby he heightens the expression of beautiful and affecting 
 poetry. This is the secret of Russell's great success as a singerj 
 He sings to the mind and to the heart, as well as to the ear of 
 his audience. — Hogarth. 
 
 His songs will live for ever.' — yerroHs Shilling Magazine. 
 
 ' It is due to an amiable man and a graceful poet to say that the words of 
 some of the most popular of Mr. Russell's songs are the compositions of 
 Dr. Charles Mackay. — Ed. 
 
407 
 
 Mrs. Stirling. 
 
 1816.' 
 
 Mrs. Stirling, the most charming and finished comedian of 
 our time, was born in 1816, in Queen Street, May Fair, the 
 daughter of a Captain Hehl. She was sent at an early age to 
 a convent in France, from which however she would derive but 
 an imperfect education, as she was young when she was with- 
 drawn. Having determined upon the stage as a profession she 
 applied for occupation to the manager of a small East-end 
 theatre (probably the Coburg), and^ here she made her first 
 appearance in public under the pseudonym of " Miss Fanny 
 Clifton." Her next appearance was at the Pavilion as Zephyrina 
 in "The Lady and the Devil," where she met Mr. Edward 
 Stirling, whom she married. In company with her husband 
 Mrs. Stirling made a long provincial tour, was everywhere wel- 
 comed for her refined conceptions and cordial graces, and 
 established her reputation as a worthy disciple of a famous old 
 school of acting, of whose excellence we may guess the strength 
 from her own impersonations. From the provinces she brought 
 to London a well-earned and valuable reputation ; and to London 
 sheseems from that date more or less to have restricted her genius. 
 Mrs. Stirling has performed in a very great number of modern 
 pieces, most of which are forgotten, but to nearly all of which 
 she imparted success during their production "by her acting. 
 But her great excellence undoubtedly lies in old comedy. 
 Since the days of Miss Pope it may jje questioned whether 
 Mrs. Candour has ever found a more admirable representative 
 than Mrs. Stirling. Particular commendation has been passed 
 on her delivery of the sentence "She likewise hinted that a 
 certain widow, in the next street, had got rid of the dropsy, and 
 recovered her shape in a most surprising manner," which she 
 would render mercilessly effective by pausing at the word 
 dropsy, and then proceeding with the remainder of the sen- 
 tence as if it were rather unimportant, by which its full signifi- 
 cance is developed. — Dramatic Memoirs. 
 
 ' Oxberry, who also gives 1833 as the date of her fii-st appearance at the 
 Coburg. Mr. West, probably a better authority, says her first appearance 
 was in the ballet at the Surrey in 1827. — Ed. 
 
4o8 Charlotte Satmders Cushman. 
 
 No living actress can approach her in comedy. Unless we 
 except a somewhat inelegant walk, she combines every qualifi- 
 cation to produce a matchless embodiment of the piquant, the 
 high-bred, the witty heroines of the old drama. Her voice is 
 soft and pleasing, capable at once of sweetness and acerbity ; 
 her face is essentially womanly, tender, gentle, refined ; her 
 vigorous understanding knows how to give point to the wit of 
 her author, pathos to his melancholy, emphasis to his satire, 
 and illumination to his obscurity. — The Modern Drama, 1862, 
 
 Charlotte Saunders Cushman. 
 
 Charlotte Saunders Cushmaft, the eldest of the five children 
 of the late Mr. Cushman, of Massachusetts (a gentleman 
 descended from one of the Pilgrim Fathers), was born at 
 Boston, United States, about the year 1818. She first came 
 out as a public singer, in the character of the Countess in 
 " The Marriage of Figaro," at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, 
 in April 1835. Having earned the highest popularity in her native 
 country, she came to England in 1845, between which year 
 and her return to America in 1849 she gained an equal share 
 of professional laurels at the Princess's and Haymarket 
 Theatres. Since that date she has rarely acted, but divides 
 her residence between London and Rome, having secured an 
 ample independence. — E. Walford. 
 
 Miss Cushman's melodramatic Meg Aierrilies has quite as 
 indisputably the attributes of genius about it as any piece of 
 poetry or tragedy could have. Such is her power over the 
 intention and feeling of the part that the mere words of it 
 become a secondary matter. It is the figure, the gait, the 
 look, the gesture, the tone, by which she puts beauty and 
 passion into language the most indifferent When these mere 
 artifices are continued through a series of scenes, a certain 
 strain becomes apparent, and the effect is not wholly agreeable. 
 Nevertheless, it is something to see what the unassisted re- 
 sources of acting may achieve with the mere idea of a fine 
 part, stripped of fine language, unclothed, as it were, in words. 
 The human tenderness blending with that Eastern picturesque- 
 ness of gesture, the refined sentiment breaking out (jom 
 
Helen Fmicit. 409 
 
 beneath that heavy feebleness and clumsiness of rude old age, 
 are wonderfully startling. — Henry Morley. 
 
 Helen Faucit ' (Lady Theodore Martin). 
 
 1820. 
 
 Then, suddenly — oh heavens ! what a revelation of beauty ! 
 — forth stepped, walking in brightness, the most faultless of 
 Grecian marbles, Miss Helen Faucit, as Antigone. What per- 
 fection of Athenian sculpture ! — the noble figure, the lovely 
 arms, the fluent drapery ! What an unveiling of the ideal 
 statuesque ! Is it Hebe ? Is it Aurora ? Is it a goddess 
 that moves before us ? Perfect she is in form ; perfect in 
 attitude : 
 
 " Beautiful exceedingly, 
 Like a ladye from a far countrie !" 
 
 It flattered one's patriotic feelings to see this noble young 
 countrywoman realizing so exquisitely, and restoring to 
 our imagination the noblest of Grecian girls \—De Qtiincey, 
 1845. 
 
 In the sleep-walking scene (in " Macbeth") she crowned the 
 performances of the night. To witness it is worth a thousand 
 \iomilies against murder. There was in it such a frightful 
 reality of horror, such terrible revelations of remorse, such un- 
 repenting struggles to wash away, not the blood from the hands, 
 
 * This lady is frequently confounded by theatrical biographers with a 
 sister many years her senior, who was known to the stage as " Miss Faucit." 
 Miss Faucit appeared at Drury Lane about the year 1830, and occupied a 
 leading position at Drury Lane Theatre for several years as the repre- 
 sentative of those romantic dramas then in vogue, and in which Miss 
 Ellen Tree, then in America, had earned a high reputation. Miss 
 Faucit's first appearance at Drury Lane was as Ophelia, a character never 
 acted by her younger sister, Helen, in London. Talfourd, writing of Miss 
 Faucit's performance of this character, says: "She has considerable 
 fascination of person, a charming voice for level speaking, and a manner 
 full of grace and sweetness ; and in picturing the musical distraction of the 
 love-lorn girl ( Ophelia) displayed a fine conception of Shakspearian pathos 
 and delicacy." Miss Faucit acted at Covent Garden during Madame 
 Vestris's management of that theatre. She was well known and greatly 
 admired in the leading characters of tragedy and comedy at the Theatres 
 Royal in Dublin, Edinburgh, Manchester, &c. At Liverpool she married 
 Mr. W. H. Bland, went with him to America in 1S45, and died at Boston 
 iu 1847. — Ed. 
 
410 * Helen Fancit. 
 
 but the blood from the soul, as made me shudder from head to 
 foot, and my very hair to stand up on my head. Heavens ! 
 how the deadly agonies of crime are portrayed by the smart- 
 ing and parched mouth that told of the burning tortures within ! 
 And the expression of her eyes — it was fearful ; and when you 
 looked upon those corpse-like hands, now telling their uncon- 
 scious tale of crime, and thought of their previous energy in 
 urging on its preparation, you could not help looking fearfully 
 for a moment into your own heart, and thanking God that you 
 were free from the remorse of murder. This scene is, indeed, 
 beyond criticism, and above it. — William Carleton, 1846. 
 
 Some few weeks ago we beheld the same young performer, 
 who, the very evening before, had shaken us with the passionate 
 indignation, melted and thrilled us with the awfully beauti- 
 ful despair of Constance of Breiagne, in that stately historic play, 
 infuse into the part of Rosalind all the tender though lively 
 grace which the poet has made its principal attribute and most 
 exquisite attraction — breathing the soul of elegance, wit, and 
 feeling through that noble forest pastoral. Reflecting upon 
 this we said to ourselves, Truly there is something in female 
 genius and female energy — something worthy of Shakspeare — 
 worthy to be cherished with the holiest of all sacred feelings, 
 
 that of affectionate veneration Hers is the singular 
 
 fortune to have added to her true Shakspearian honours 
 the glory of reviving to our very senses the noblest dramatic 
 heroines of ancient Greece — not the corrupt antique of 
 the French, nor the mock antique of any other modern 
 school — but the genuine creations of a Sophocles and an 
 Euripides. Yet well might she do so. The noblest woman- 
 hood is essentially the same in every age. It revealed itself to 
 the soul of Sophocles as to that of Shakspeare. And verily, 
 the men and women of old Greece, to whose " nature" her 
 dramatists " held up the mirror," were not framed of marble — 
 as a certain sort of critics among us seem to suppose — but of 
 sensitive, imaginative, and impassioned, as well as intellectual 
 and heroic flesh and blood. The Grecian fire inspired the 
 Grecian grace ! An Antigone is elder sister to an Imogen. — 
 George Fletcher, " Studies of Shakspeare." 
 
 Like all true artists, this lady manifestly works from within 
 outwards. Whatever character she assumes has a truth and 
 unity which could be produced in no other way. Consider her, 
 for example, in " As You Like It." It is clear that slie has 
 
Huleii Faucit. 411 
 
 entered into the sciul of Rosalind, nor realized that alone, but 
 all the life of the M'oman, and her surroundings as well. Rosa- 
 lind's words, therefore, sparkle upon her lips as if they were 
 the offspring of the moment, or deepen into tenderness as if 
 her very Orlando were thrilling her heart with tones that are 
 but faint echoes of her own emotion. All she says and does 
 seems to grow out of the situation, as if it were seen and heard 
 for the first time. She takes us into Arden with her, and 
 makes us feel, with the other free foresters of this glorious 
 woodland, what a charm of sunshine and grace that clear, 
 
 buoyant spirit diffused among its melancholy boughs 
 
 Her characters seem to be to her living things, ever fresh, ever 
 full of interest, and on which her imagination is ever at work. 
 They must mingle with her life, even as the thick-coming 
 fancies of the poet mingle with his. As, therefore, her rare 
 womanly nature deepens and expands, so do they take a deeper 
 tone, and become interfused with a more accomplished grace. 
 All the difficulties of her art having also been overcome, she 
 moves free and unfettered, giving effect to what she designs 
 with the assured certainty of powers obedient to her will. We 
 know that art the most exquisite must go to produce such re- 
 sults, just as it has done to produce the colours of Correggio or 
 the expression of Raphael ; but it is not of the art we think 
 while she is before us, but of the perfect picture of an ideal 
 woman. — TJie Arl Journal, January, 1867. 
 
 Miss Helen Faucit's impersonations are nature itself; but 
 they are nature as it appears to the poet's eye — nature in its 
 finest and most beautiful aspect. She possesses in an eminent 
 degree the physical requisites for her art — a person graceful and 
 dignified — a voice supremely fascinating in its " most silver 
 flow," yet equal to the expression of the most commanding 
 passion — a face gifted peculiarly with that " t>est part of beauty, 
 which a picture cannot express, no, nor the first sight of the life" — 
 a face wonderful indeed in the magic and variety of its ex- 
 pression. Along with these she possesses a complete command 
 of all the resources which intelligence gathers from experience, 
 and an obvious familiarity with the treasures of art, which has 
 strengthened and exalted strong natural perceptions of the 
 graceful and beautiful in form and motion. But greater than 
 all these is the spirit by which they are vivified and swayed ; 
 the lofty impulses, the commanding powers of thought and feel- 
 ing, the inspired energy, the pure taste, the exquisite ladyhood 
 
4 1 2 Helen Faucit. 
 
 of nature, which are conspicuous in all Miss Faucit's persona- 
 tions, yuliet, Rosalind, the Lady Constance, Portia, Lady 
 Macbeth, " divine Imogen," Beatrice, all crowd upon our fancy ; 
 and after them Paidine, a character made more by Miss Faucit 
 than by the author; ytdia, Belvidera, Nina Sforza, and the Lady 
 Mabel, that exquisite portraiture of all that could fascinate in 
 womanly grace or move in womanly suffering. To have seen 
 Miss Faucit in these characters is to have seen a whole world 
 of poetry revealed, of which the most enthusiastic and intelli- 
 gent study of their authors could have helped us to no idea. 
 Where the author has furnished but a barren outline she pours 
 into it the strength and radiance of her own spirit, and a noble 
 picture glows before us. Nor is this true only in the case of 
 inferior parts. In deahng with Shakspeare this great actress 
 rises to the full measure of her strength. Her performances are 
 revelations of the great master-poet's subtlest powers. When 
 we have once seen them, there is a light evermore upon his 
 page which, but for the magic of this great commentator, 
 would never have been there for us. . . . It is, we know, a bold 
 thing to say, yet believing, we must say it, that the genius is 
 akin to Shakspeare's that can so thoroughly realize his con- 
 ceptions as Miss Helen Faucit does, clothing with very life the 
 creatures of his imagination, and not one or two of these alone, 
 but many — all various, and for the most part opposite in 
 kind. — Dublin Univei'sity Magazine, 1846. 
 
 If powers of the very highest order united to fascinating 
 beauty, and the most lofty conceptions of the dignity and moral 
 objects of her art, could have aiTested the degradation of the 
 stage. Miss Helen Faucit would have done so. But this highly- 
 gifted actress arose in the decline of the drama, and even her 
 genius was unequal to the task of supporting it in the days of 
 corrupted taste. She is a combination of Mrs. Siddons and 
 Miss O'Neill ; with the majestic air and lofty thoughts of the 
 former, and as gi'eat pathetic power, not less winning grace, 
 but far greater variety than the latter. Flexibility of power is 
 her great characteristic, versatility her distinguishing feature. 
 Like Garrick, she excels equally in tragedy or elegant comedy : 
 it is hard to say whether her Rosalind is the more charming or 
 her L,ady Teazle the more fascinating, her Belvidera the more 
 moving or her Jtdiet the more heart-rending. Dark raven 
 locks, a fine figure, and singularly expressive countenance, be- 
 stow on her all the advantages which, in addition to the highest 
 
Helen Faticit. 413 
 
 mental gifts, beauty never ceases to confer on woman ; and a 
 disposition marked by deep feeling, alternately lively and 
 serious, sportive and mournful, playful and contemplative, gives 
 her that command of the expression of different emotions and 
 that versatility of power which constitute her great and un- 
 equalled charm. She has the highest conception of the dignity 
 and moral capabilities of her art, and by the uniform chasteness 
 and delicacy of her performances does the utmost to uphold it 
 in its native purity ; but it is all in vain. Her lot was cast in 
 the days of the decline of taste, and notwithstanding her great 
 genius and celebrity, she is unable to arrest it. She has risen 
 to the very highest rank in her profession, but that profession 
 in Great Britain is on the verge of extinction. — Sir A. Alison. 
 
 Beloved, whose life is with mine own entwined — 
 
 In whom, while yet thou wert my dream, I viewed, 
 
 Warm with the life of breathing womanhood, 
 
 What Shakspeare's visionary eye divined : 
 
 Pure Imogen, high-hearted Rosalind, 
 
 Kindling with sunshine all the dusk green wood ; 
 
 Or changing with the poet's changing mood, 
 
 Juliet, and Constance of the queenly mind ; 
 
 I give this book to thee, whose daily life 
 
 With that full pulse of noblest feeling glows, 
 
 Which lent its spell to thy so potent art ; 
 
 To thee whose every act, my own true wife. 
 
 The grace serene and heavenward spirit shows 
 
 That rooted Beatrice in Dante's heart.^ — Theodore Martin. 
 
 Milverton : " If there is anything in the world that I think I 
 know well it is Macbeth; I knew it when I was six years old, for 
 my mother used to spend hour after hour, and day after day, 
 in teaching it to me, and making me play it with her ; but when 
 I came to see a great actress in Lady Macbeth's part — Helen 
 Faucit — new lights burst in upon me, and I saw what a deHcate 
 and refined fiend Lady Macbeth could be.'" — Elksmere: 
 
 1 Dedication to Mr. Martin's graceful translation of the Vita Nuova of 
 Dante. 
 
 ^ The editor agrees with Milverton. Miss Faucit's acting needs no such 
 foil as the grotesque gambollings of many of our modern performers would 
 supply, to impart the sharp and peifect development it possesses. Her 
 acting is great, and it is great in the sense that prohibits discrimination, 
 because it is a superb embodiment of many remarkable conditions. They 
 
414 Frederick Robson. 
 
 " Yes, I know, Milverton, that is a theoiy of yours that Za(fy 
 Macbeth is her best part ; but I differ from you, and think 
 that Rosalind is her greatest triumph. Now I will tell you 
 what I think is one of that lady's greatest merits as an ac- 
 tress. It is that she is not always quite the same. Of course 
 her main conception of the part does not much vary ; but there 
 will be particular touches — new felicities — evolved in each 
 representation. She gives me the notion of one to whom her 
 part is always fresh, because, like the characters of all persons 
 who are good for anything, it is, in fact, an inexhaustible sub- 
 ject of study." — Sir Arthur: "Well, now, I like her best in 
 the 'Lady of Lyons.' She it was who made the Fauline." — 
 " Eealtnah," by Arthur Helps. 
 
 Frederick Robson. 
 
 1821-1864. 
 
 In his bursts of passion, in his vehement soliloquies, in the 
 soul-harrowing force of his simulated invective, he is said to 
 resemble Edmund Kean ; but how are you to judge of an actor 
 who in his comic moments certainly approaches the image we 
 have formed to ourselves of Munden, and Dowton, and Ban- 
 nister, and Suett ? To say that he is a genius and the prince 
 of eccentrics is perhaps the only way to cut the Gordian knot 
 of criticism in his instance. Let me add, in conclusion, that 
 Robson off the stage is one of the mildest, modestest, most 
 unassuming of men. I remember a dozen years since, and 
 when I was personally unacquainted with him, writing in some 
 London newspaper an eulogistic criticism on some of his per- 
 
 are, indeed, as inseparable as tlie hues of the kaleidoscope, of which it is the 
 combination that produces the brilliant effect. There are few performances 
 more celebrated than her Rosalind ; and there have been few performances 
 since the days of Siddons more remarkable than her Lady Macbeth. From 
 her performance of Lady Macbeth the writer carried away an impression that 
 is never likely to be subdued, though another Siddons should arise. The 
 regality of her air, ever topping the vicissitudes of her emotion ; her "ligges- 
 tion of passion, more impressive than its full expression ; the abandon- 
 ment of her actions to her words ; her queenly, though baleful gaze ; her 
 domination over the conscience of her guilty partner ; the fiery decisiveness 
 of her adjurations — lent to the play such a significance as was given to 
 Hermiont in the eyes of Leonta, when the wondrous shape, " masterly 
 done, with the very life warm on her lips," took being, and moved. — Ed. 
 
Fi'edericii Robson. 415 
 
 formances. ■ I learned from friends that he had read the 
 article, and had expressed himself , as deeply grateful to me for 
 it. I just knew him by sight ; but for months afterwards, if I 
 met him in the street, he used to blush crimson, and made as 
 sudden a retreat around the nearest corner as possible. He 
 said afterwards that he hadn't the courage to thank me. I 
 brought him to bay at last, and came to know him very well, 
 and then I discovered how the nervousness, the bashfulness, . 
 the mauvaise honte, which made him so shy and retiring in 
 private, stood him in wonderful stead on the stage. The 
 nervous man became the fretful and capricious tyrant of mock 
 tragedy ; the bashful man warmed at the footlights with passion 
 and power. The manner which was in society a drawback and 
 a defect became in the pursuit of his art a charm and an 
 excellence. — G. A. Sala. 
 
 His- career as an actor has been, very short but very remark- 
 able. He was born at Margate, in 1821, and at one time 
 threatened to become one of those unnatural productions — an 
 infant prodigy. When very young he had several opportunities 
 of seeing Edmund Kean, before that great actor took his fare- 
 well benefit in 1830. He caught the most striking mannerisms 
 of the tragedian, and succeeded in reproducing them with far 
 more than the average skill of a precocious child with dramatic 
 instincts.' .... When Mr. Alfred Wigan gave up the 
 Olympic" in 1857, the house was taken by Mr. Robson, Mr. 
 
 ' I may fill the hiatus by saying that he was apprenticed to a copper- 
 plate engraver, whom he deserte'd for the stage. Having made his appear- 
 ance as an' amateur performer in London, he became a strolling actor, 
 appearing at Whitstable, Uxbridge, Glasgow, and other places, finally 
 returning to London, where he acted for five years in a minor theatre. 
 He then went an Irish tour, and in 1853 was engaged by Farren at the 
 Olympic. His real name was Thomas Robson Brownhill. — Ed. 
 
 •^ " The Olympic Theatre was' built in 1805-6 by old Astley, the stage 
 being made of the timbers of the ViUe de Paris, a French man-of-war cap- 
 tured some years before. In, 181 1 EUiston bought the theatre, then a 
 pavilion, for 3150/. and an annuity of 100/. to Astley, which he lived 
 but two ■ years to enjoy. Elliston's success was equal to that enjoyed 
 by Madame Vestris whilst he himself acted there ; but when he was 
 absent the attraction failed. Capt. Barlow, OxbeiTy, and many others 
 became lessees for a short period ; but no speculator succeeded, and the 
 house was purchased by Mr. Scott, the present proprietor, for 4600/., ■icb- 
 ject to 100/. per annum ground rent. Opening it with his own compaiiy, 
 and not proving profitable, he let it to a variety of persons, none of whom 
 found it answer their pui-poses, until Madame Vestris took it in 1830, at a 
 
41 6 Frederick Robson. 
 
 Emden, and Mr. Bentinck, and for several years the ne™ 
 management prospered. Mr. Robson was the chief attraction, 
 and he created a number of parts, such as Daddy Hardacre, 
 Pawkins in " Retained for the Defence," and the old man in 
 the " Porter's Knot," which will probably die with him. The 
 terrible force of the first, the rich overflowing humour of the 
 second, and the homely pathos of the third impersonation will 
 • long be remembered. His Wormwood in the " Lottery Ticket" 
 and " Boots at the Swan" were equally good. In everything 
 Mr. Robson did, with very few exceptions, there was evidence 
 of a deep study of life and an instinctive knowledge of human 
 nature. Mr. Robson always thought for himself, and copied 
 no traditional stage models. He was not Hke Liston or 
 Munden, nor any of the great actors of a past time. He stood 
 alone on a peculiar piece of ground — half-way between tragedy 
 and comedy. No actor who ever trod the boards has given 
 rise to more discussion as to his half-hidden capabilities. 
 Many think that, in spite of his small though neat figure, he 
 could have scaled the highest heights of tragedy ; others think 
 that he was a mere farce actor, and little more. Our own 
 impression is that he wanted nothing but confidence to do 
 anything which fire, impulse, and true genius can do. — Qiioted 
 in Jloiten's "Memoir." 
 
 With Robson every tone is true, every look is nature. It is 
 in the jumble and juxtaposition of details that his burlesque 
 consists — in suddenly passing from the extreme of anger or fear 
 to the extreme of humorous ease — in suddenly relapsing into 
 humorous slang in mid-volley of the most passionate speech, 
 and all with She most marvellous flexibility of voice and feature. 
 Presto ! fas!s;r than we can follow him he has changed from 
 grave to gay, from lively to severe. The Yellow Dwarf -was 
 prol -ably his greatest effort, although Prince Richcraft is not far 
 behind. It has a mad scene which is equal to anything he 
 ever personated. — Blackwood's Magazine, 1856. 
 
 No one can have witnessed the performance of Mr. F. Rob- 
 son at the Olympic Theatre without being struck with the narrow- 
 
 rent of 1000/. per annum, and I'aised the establishment to the first rank as 
 a place of fashionable amusement. The receipts nma are seldom less than 
 100/. per night. On one occasion in the winter of 1824 the curtain went 
 up there to nineteen shillings, and fell at midnight to 3/. 10s." — Record! of 
 a Sla^e Veteran. This theatre was destroyed by fire in 1849, and rebuild' 
 in the following year. 
 
Dion Boucicatdt. 4 1 7 
 
 ness of the bounds bf;tween sport and earnest. His farce lias 
 a pathetic depth, a grave earnestness, that touch at one and 
 the same moment the sources of tears and of laughter. He is 
 partly Liston and partly Kean. With less than a cubit added 
 to his stature, Mr. Robson would be the first Shakspearian actor 
 of the day. It is unfortunate both for himself and the specta- 
 tors that his physical qualifications are not in better accordance 
 with his dramatic genius. He lacks presence only to make 
 Kean in Shylock, or Macready in Virginius and Lear.— 
 Quarterly Review, 1854. 
 
 Mr. Robson's great quality is the downright earnestness by 
 which he makes others feel what he very evidently feels himself. 
 He has defects of voice and person of the gravest kind, but 
 some part of that which made " Pritchard genteel, and Garrick 
 six feet high," has descended to him. The sort of character 
 in which he is likely to excel may always lie within the nar- 
 rowest range ; but by the strength and intensity he puts into it, 
 he will never fail to attract an audience. He wants finish, re- 
 finement, relief — fifty things which will come with experience 
 and study, if he has a proper regard for his caUing and for him- 
 self ; but already, with none of these things, he is a genuine actor, 
 and every one feels it. — H.Morley, "J'ournal of a Playgoer," 1853. 
 
 Dion Boucicault. 
 
 Dion Boucicault, youngest son of the late S. S. Boucicault, of 
 Dublin, was born in that city December 26th, 1822, and was 
 educated under his guardian. Dr. Lardner, and at the London 
 University. He commenced his career as a dramatic author 
 in March, 1841, with the production of that popular play, 
 " London Assurance," at Covent Garden Theatre. Mr. Bouci- 
 cault is the author of about 140 theatrical pieces. — E. Waif or d. ' 
 
 Mr. Boucicault has had a long career, and is perhaps a speci- 
 men often given of the well-trained professional dramatist, 
 perfectly skilled in foreign as well as home traditions, and a 
 master of all known stage devices and effects. All through his 
 career he had his finger on the very pulse of the pit, and has 
 nicely followed every change in its beatings. His earliest pieces 
 reflect the tone of the good old school of character, and his 
 comedy of " London Assurance," with its extraordinary vivacity, 
 
4i8 Dion Boitcicault. 
 
 its unflagging character, its Dazzle, and Lady Gay Spanker^ 
 which, in the cant phrase, act themselves, will never be dropped 
 out of the list of acting plays. Yet a single fact in connexion 
 with this play should have warned existing actors of the hope- 
 less incapacity into which they have drifted. Not long since a 
 performance of "London Assurance" was given, into which 
 was combined, for some charitable benefit, the strength and 
 flower of evei-y company in London. The list of names repre- 
 sented all the acknowledged chiefs in the respective walks. 
 Yet the failure was disastrous — more disastrous from the mere 
 pretension. The actors* seemed not at home in such old- 
 fashioned parts : their line was the imitation of extreme eccen- 
 tricities ; they had lost the famous old art of getting within the 
 mere rind of a character, possessing themselves by study of the 
 key-note, the leading principle, which would, without effort, 
 supply the true illustrative accompaniments of voice, gesture, 
 and oddity. Practising himself, and improving his cunning by 
 skilful French adaptations of powerful pieces, made, like 
 " Janet's Pride," with wonderful skill, Mr, Boucicault turned to 
 domestic melodrama, and produced the charming " Colleen 
 Pawn," one of the few legitimate successes of the last twenty 
 years. There is a tone and flavour about this piece infinitely 
 characteristic, touching, and national ; and though dealing with 
 "low" life, and the humour of "low" life, the feeling that 
 remains is one of perfect refinement. Much is, of course, 
 owing to Gerald Griffin, on whose story the play is founded, 
 but the whole is really treated in an original manner. Here, 
 too, is introduced, and with the most perfect legitimacy, 
 that remarkable "sensation scene," as it was called, of the 
 water-cave, — brought in without violence, following naturally in 
 the situation which required it, and therefore increasing the 
 attraction of the play. After some more attempts of this gmre, 
 tlie author changed his hand, and began producing that class of 
 pieces to which " The Streets of London," " Lost at Sea," 
 " After Dark," and " The Long Strike" belong. These seem to 
 have for model the old Porte St. Martin pieces, but without 
 the romance and passion which gave life to so many of those 
 really admirable productions. The taste of the town now re- 
 quiring great scenic tours deforce, and the theatres competing 
 with each other in the attraction of objects from outside which 
 seemed to defy reproduction on the stage, it was necessary that 
 the writer should, like Mr. Crummies' dramatist, construct his 
 
Charles Fechier. 419 
 
 piece in the interest of "the pump and washing-tubs," or 
 kindred objects. Hence the panorama of fires, underground 
 railways, music halls, steamboat piers, dry arches, and such 
 things. The characters are meant to be " London characters," 
 or rather figures, and the plots of the kind which Miss Braddon 
 has made so popular. Lost and found wills, forgers, scheming 
 Jews, bigamy, suicides, crafty scheming men who stick at 
 nothing — in short, mechanical figures and incidents are the 
 elements. It must be conceded that the pieces are done 
 as skilfully as possible, and are really interesting. — Percy 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 Charles Fechter.^ 
 
 1823. 
 
 I think his Hamlet one of the very best, and his Othello one 
 of the very worst, I have ever seen ; and I have seen all the 
 good actors and many of the bad actors, from Kean° down- 
 wards. On leaving the theatre after " Hamlet," I felt once more 
 what a great play it was, with all its faults, and they are gross 
 and numerous." On leaving the theatre after Othello, I felt as 
 
 ^ Though a foreigner, Mr. Fechter is so far naturalized as to demand a 
 place among English actors. — Ed. 
 
 2 Which Kean?— Ed. 
 
 ' This was the sort of criticism which eighty or a hundred years before 
 had probably inclined Garrick to cut up this play, " with its gross and 
 numerous faults," and present it to his audiences in a mutilated shape. 
 Garrick's version of "Hamlet" was found by Boaden in John Kemble's 
 library. He says : " Garrick cut out the voyage to England, and the exe- 
 cution of Rosencrantz and Guildenstem, vi^ho had made love to the employ- 
 went, and marshalled his way to knavery," Nor was this all. For he cut 
 out "the funeral of Ophelia, y^K'&v all the wisdom of the prince and the 
 jocularity of the grave-diggers." The concluding scenes were thus, con- 
 densed: "Hamlet is made to burst in upon the King and Court, when 
 Laei-tes reproaches him with his father's and sister's death. The exaspera- 
 tion of both is at its height, when the King interposes and declares that 
 liis wrath at Hamlefs rebellious spirit in not departing for England sl»all 
 fall heavy. ' Then feel you mine ! says Hamlet, and stabs him." Whenever 
 Garrick altered the situations, he substituted his own or somebody else's 
 language for Shakspeare's. British prejudice, liowever, inclined to the 
 "real thing." Garrick, though disappointed, was proud of his alterations 
 of the play, and wrote to Sir William Comey, in 1773, that though his pro- 
 ducing " Hamlet" with alterations was the most imprudent thing he ever 
 did, yet "he had sworn that he would not leave the stase until he haj 
 rescued that noble play from all the rubbish of the fifth act.' —Ed. 
 
 £ E a 
 
420 Charles Fechter. 
 
 if my old admiration for this supreme masterpiece of the art 
 liad been an exaggeration ; all the faults of the play stood out 
 so glaringly — all its beauties were so dimmed and distorted by 
 the acting of every one concerned. It was necessary to recur 
 to Shakspeare's pages to recover the old feeling. Reflecting on 
 the contrast offered by these two performances, it seemed to me 
 that a good lesson on the philosophy of acting was to be read 
 there. Two cardinal points were illustrated by it : first, the 
 very general confusion which exists in men's minds respecting 
 naturalism and idealism in art ; secondly, the essential limi- 
 tation of an actor's sphere as determined by his personality. 
 Both in Hamlet SLiid OlAe/lo Fechtei attempts to be natural, and 
 keeps as far away as possible from the conventional declama- 
 tory style which is by many mistaken for idealism only because 
 it is unlike reality. His physique enabled him to represent 
 Hamlet, and his naturalism was artistic. His physique wholly 
 incapacitated him from representing Othello ; and his naturalism, 
 being mainly determined by his personality, became utter feeble- 
 ness. I do not mean that the whole cause of his failure rests 
 with his physical incapacity, for his intellectual conception of 
 the part is as false as it is feeble ; but he might have had a 
 wrong conception of the part, and yet have been ten times 
 more effective had nature endowed him with a physique of 
 more weight and intensity. — Blackwood's Magazine, 1861. 
 
 The proof that it really is what is excellent, and not what is 
 adventitious, which creates the triumph of Fechter in Hamlet, is 
 seen in the supreme ineffectiveness of Othello. In " King Bias " 
 and " The Corsican Brothers " he was recognised as an excellent 
 actor — not by any means a great actor, very far from that, but 
 one who, in the present condition of the stage, was considered 
 a decided acquisition. He then played Hamlet, and gave a 
 new and charming representation to a part in which no actor 
 has been known to fail : and the uncritical concluded that he 
 was a great actor. But when he came to a part like Othello, 
 which calls upon the greatest capabilities of an actor, the public 
 then remembered he was a foreigner, and discovered that he 
 was not a tragedian.' — Cor nhill Magazine, 1863. 
 
 1 Writing of one of M. Fechter's perfomiances, Mre. Fanny Kemble 
 Si.ys: " The representation of ' The Duke's Motto, '^^ith all its resources of 
 Bccnic effect, is a striking and interesting theatrical entertainment, with 
 
y. L. Toole. 421 
 
 In melodrama Mr. Fechter acts effectively and without ex 
 Iravagance. He suits action to word with a nicety not usual 
 upon the English stage, and without obtrusion of his art where 
 he is most superficial. — H. Morky. 
 
 He was educated to some extent as a sculptor, but his in- 
 clinations were towards the stage. He made his ddbut at the 
 Salle MoKfere in " Le Mari de la Veuve," spent some weeks at 
 the Conservatory, and enrolled himself in a troupe about to 
 make the round of Italy. On his return he applied himself to 
 sculpture, which has continued to be the occupation of his 
 leisure. He appeared at Berlin in 1846. His first success on 
 the French stage was zs, Duval \-a. " La Dame aux Camdlias." — 
 E Walford. 
 
 J. L. Toole. 
 1831. 
 
 Should an author give him a line admitting of a doubli 
 entendre, how delicately he handles it ! He shows us that an 
 honest, hearty laugh can be obtained by genuine humour, and 
 he never risks the chance of offending the majority of his 
 audience by pandering to the taste of the " unskilful " few. 
 He shows us that ribaldry is not wit, and coarseness no 
 necessary adjunct to the " low" comedian. Though somewhat 
 different in style from Robson, he is equally an artiste. To say 
 that Toole is as thorough a droll as the late Mr. Wright was 
 would be untrue. That Toole is to some extent a disciple of 
 Wright's school cannot be denied, but look what he made of 
 one scene in " The Willow Copse." Originally the vehicle for 
 humour of the broadest kind, it was converted by this actor 
 into an artistic bit of genuine feeling, which the situation 
 perfectly warranted, and which was quite in keeping with the 
 character. In Wright's parts generally (that of " Domestic 
 Economy," for example) he labours under the disadvantage of 
 comparison with the more humorous actor who was the original ; 
 still, although there is the temptation to imitate, he often 
 manages by careful study to invest such characters with a 
 natural drollery of his own, though they may not be so highly 
 
 hardly an admixture of that which is truly dramatic." This discrimination 
 might be (as doubtless it was intended) happily applied to the chief actrl 
 in that melodrama. — Ed. 
 
422 7- L. Toole. 
 
 coloured ; as a rule, however, he is generally more efifective in 
 those parts he has himself created, or those in which the vis 
 contica is mixed with a dash of true feeling, as Caleb Plumtner, 
 and, more recently, Michonnet, in " Adrienne Lecouvreur," in 
 both of which he " made up," as the technical phrase runs, so 
 artistically — ^which is essential to the actor's success. Characters 
 opposed to the broader school of acting, and at variance with 
 buffoonery, are those most calculated to enhance his reputation ; 
 in these he is always seen with greater pleasure, as being worthier 
 of his talents. Of all his farce parts, surely the fussy old gentle- 
 man in "The Census" is one of the best. Let us not forget 
 the admirable bit of fooling, as Mr. Dovebody, in that very worst 
 of bad farces yclept " A Shilling Day at the Great Exhibition ;" 
 nor should we pass over without a word of commendation his 
 very artistic performance in " The Dead Heart," as Brutus 
 Toupet, " the terror of Kings ;" nor Podgers, in the clever sketch 
 by Mr. HoUingshead entitled " The Birthplace of Podgers," 
 which exactly suited the actor's peculiar humour, and in which 
 he was so successful in " creating a part ;" nor Tom Dibbles, in 
 " Good for Nothing," the character in which he made his first 
 appearance at the New Adelphi, on the occasion of that theatre 
 opening as " The New Adelphi ;" nor — but why enumerate 
 further, to show " at a glance" what he can do, unless we refer 
 to those numerous burlesques in which he has exhibited so 
 much originality ? But, after all, the true test of the ability of 
 a comedian (not necessarily very "low") is to see him in 
 Shakspeare, and, if he comes well out of that ordeal, he is at 
 once raised to a far higher standard of excellence. It may be 
 noted that Mr. Wright did not attempt -Shakspeare ; Robson 
 might have done so, but if he has, it has not been since he 
 has attained his present position. Buckstone (and it is much 
 to be regretted) is now either Maddison Morton or a Yankee 
 in a three-act farce. Toole has appeared as the First Grave- 
 digger, which he performed during Charles Dillon's management 
 at the Lyceum, and which at once stamped him as a 
 "legitimate" actor. He had previously played this part, as 
 well as that of Touchstoiie, in his first engagement at Dublin. 
 It is universally admitted that Compton is our first Shakspearian 
 clown, and (not overlooking the respective merits of Messrs. 
 Lewis Ball and H. Widdicombe) to Toole, possibly, might be 
 awarded the second place, if the opportunity offered. This is 
 the highest praise that can possibly be given to this popular 
 
y^. L. Toole. 423 
 
 actor, who is so deservedly esteemed by his professional and 
 private friends, and who is ever foremost in the cause of charity by 
 " admirable fooling," artistically conceived and kindly directed. 
 It may be added that he is still a young man, being bom in 
 1 83 1, within the limits of the famed St. Mary- Axe, and he is the 
 younger son of the once celebrated toastmaster. Although it 
 is perhaps unnecessary to chronicle, in this place, early events 
 in our friend's career, it may be mentioned that he was formerly 
 a member of the City Histrionic Club, when his talent was 
 particularly apparent in that famous impersonation of the 
 lamented John Emery, Robert Tyke, in the " School of Reform." 
 Among the literary celebrities who witnessed his performances 
 at the time he was associated with the above-mentioned club 
 was Charles Dickens, and it was in no small degree attributable 
 to that author's advice and encouragement that Toole became 
 an actor, having previously occupied a position, for a brief 
 period, in a wine-merchant's counting-house in the City, but it 
 is needless to say that he did not find himself adapted for such 
 a post. His entertainment entitled " Toole at Home : a Touch 
 at the Times," a vehicle for many clever sketches and imitations, 
 was given by him at the Southwark, Hackney, Walworth, and 
 Beaumont Institutions ; and it was at the Haymarket Theatre, 
 on the 22nd of July, 1852, or rather on the 23rd of that month, 
 that he made his first essay as an actor, the occasion being the 
 benefit of the stage-manager, Mr. Frederick Webster, when it 
 was usual to give an evening's entertainment of extraordinary 
 length, and the audience might have fairly complained of the 
 quantity of dishes, though they had no reason to find fault with 
 the quality of the feast. For instance — first came the 
 " Merchant of Venice," in four acts ; then a concert ; and next 
 the comedy, in three acts, of " Mind your Own Business," with 
 the entire strength of the Haymarket Company ; followed by 
 " Keeley Worried by Buckstone ;" and at nearer one o'clock 
 than twelve, Toole, as Simmons, in " The Spitalfields Weaver," 
 must have made his first acquaintance with the London stage 
 as a regular actor. It was the last piece played, and con- 
 sequently hardly fair to the young debutant; but let us remark, 
 in conclusion, " Better {Toole) late than never." — Anon^ 
 
 ' For this notice I am indebted to the courtesy of a correspondent. — Ed. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 [The Editor has reserved for this Appendix notices on various 
 actors about whom sufficient information could not be 
 collected to justify their insertion in the body of the work. 
 He has also inserted here a number of theatrical anecdotes, 
 collected during the progress of the work, together with 
 various particulars relating to actors, which came to hand 
 too late for their insertion in the proper place.] 
 
 Samuel Reddish. 
 
 Reddish, who died at York in 1785, married Mrs. Canning, 
 the mother of the statesman and orator, George Canning. 
 Geneste hints a doubt of the marriage by affirming that " Mrs. 
 Canning had at one time such a friendship for Mr. Reddish, 
 that she assumed his name." But Robert Bell, in his life of 
 George Canning, declares that her marriage " rests on an 
 authority which properly closes all discussion on the subject." 
 Reddish appears to have been an indifferent actor. He is 
 described as possessing 
 
 " A figure clumsy, and a vulgar face, 
 Devoid of spirit as of pleasing grace ; 
 Action unmeaning, often misapplied, 
 Blessed with no perfect attribute of pride. " 
 
 In the Life of Henderson it is said that Reddish, on liis way 
 to the theatre, had the step of an idiot, his eye wandering, and 
 whole countenance vacant. He was congratulated on his being 
 able to play, and he ansv/ered, " Yes, sir ; and in the garden 
 scene I shall astonish you !" He could not be persuaded but 
 that he was going to play Romeo, and he continued reciting it 
 the whole vt'ay. At last he was pushed on the stage, the per- 
 fonners fully convinced that he would begin with a speech of 
 Borneo, but the moment he came in sight of the audience his 
 recollection returned, and he went through the real part he 
 
Appendix. 425 
 
 had to perform (Posthumus) " much better," says Ireland, 
 " than I have ever seen him !" Yet, on returning to the green- 
 room, Jiom'eo again re-entered his head, and the delusion con- 
 tinued until he returned to the business of the play. " After 
 passing through a variety of disgraceful escapades," says Bell, 
 _" he became diseased in his brain, appeared for the last time 
 in 1779 as Posthumus, was thrown upon the Fund for support, 
 and lingered out the remnant of his wretched Hfe as a maniac in 
 the York Asylum." 
 
 Shuter. 
 
 Parsons, who was an exquisite actor, would pay this tribute 
 to Shuter : " Ah, to see Corbaccio (' The Fox') acted to perfec- 
 tion, you should have seen Shuter. The public are pleased to 
 think that I act that part well, but his acting was as far superior 
 to mine as Mount Vesuvius is to a rushlight." 
 
 _ Shuter was a man of much wit. A person observing him look 
 with a sort of vacant stare, asked him if he had bottled his eyes. 
 " Yes," answered Shuter, " and the next thing I do will be to 
 cork my eyebrows " 
 
 When very young, Shuter was potboy at a public-house in 
 the neighbourhood of Covent Garden. A gentleman came in 
 late one evening, and, after taking some refreshment, sent Shuter 
 to call a hackney-coach for him. On reaching home, the gen- 
 tleman missed his pocket-book, and suspecting he had left it 
 in the coach, the number of which he did not know, he 
 hastened the next morning to the house from which it had 
 been ordered, and inquired of Shuter if he knew the number 
 of the. coach. Poor Shuter could neither read nor write, and 
 was totally unacquainted with numerals ; but he knew the 
 signs by which his master scored the pots and pints which 
 Avere drunk at his house, and these were, fortunately, suffi- 
 cient to express the number of the coach ; he therefore readily 
 replied to the gentleman's inquiry by saying " Two pots and 
 a pint" (111). This, to the gentleman, was unintelligible till 
 the landlord explained its meaning. The coachman was 
 summoned, and the gentleman recovered his pocket-book. 
 This acuteness of the boy so pleased the gentleman that he 
 immediately placed him in a school, and became his patron 
 througli life. 
 
426 Appendix, 
 
 Michael Kelly's Reminiscences, 
 
 Edmund Kean. — Before the piece " Cymon" was brought 
 out, I had a number of children brought me, that I might 
 choose a Cupid. One struck me, with a fine pair of black eyes, 
 who seemed by his looks and little features to be most anxious 
 to be chosen as the representative of the God of Love. I chose 
 him ; and little then did I imagine that my little Cupid would 
 eventually become a great actor. The then little urchin was 
 neither more nor less than Edmund Kean. 
 
 Thomas King. — I was standing behind the scenes in 
 Crow Street one night, and I saw him (King) for once rather 
 put out of temper. Theplay was "The School for Scandal." He 
 was at the side wing, waiting to go on the stage as Sir Peter 
 Teazle. At the stage-door was seated an immensely fat woman, 
 the widow of Ryder, the celebrated Irish actor, who had been 
 the original Sir Peter Teazle, in Dublin, in the summer of 1777. 
 The lusty dame, looking at King, who was standing close to 
 her, holloaed out, with an implacable brogue and the lungs of 
 a stentor, " Arrah, agra ! there was but one Sir Peter Teazle in 
 the world, and he is now in heaven, -and more is the pity. 
 Ah, Tom Ryder ! Tom Ryder ! look down upon Sir Peter 
 Teazle here, your dirty representative !" and after this com- 
 plimentary harangue the wretched lady began to howl most 
 piteously, to the great annoyance of all behind the scenes, but 
 most particularly to that of King, who appeared really dis- 
 concerted. However, the widow was removed, tranquilhty was 
 restored, the cloud dispersed, and King acted with his usual 
 excellence. 
 
 Benslev. — On May 6th, 1796, Mr. Bensley — whom I am 
 proud to have called my friend — took leave of the stage, on 
 bis own benefit night, in the character of Evander, in " The 
 Grecian Daughter." He was a good actor and a perfect gen- 
 tleman. In his younger days he had been in the army, and I 
 was told had been at the Havannah. I have seen him often, 
 with great pleasure, act Prospero, lago, and Pierre. His 
 Malvolio was considered a fine performance. He had a 
 manner of roUing his eyes when speaking, and a habit, when- 
 ever he entered the green-room, of stirring the fire with great 
 ceremony, secundum artem, in which habit I was in the habit of 
 
Appendix. 427 
 
 imitating him. He caught me once in the very fact, and joined 
 heartily in the laugh against himself. 
 
 Miss F. H. Kelly. — Mr. Sheridan called upon me one day 
 and said, " Last night I was at Brookes's. Charles Fox came 
 there with Lord Robert Spencer; they had both been at 
 Drury Lane to see ' King John.' " I asked him if he was 
 pleasedwith the performance. He replied that he was, par- 
 ticularly with Mrs. Siddons. " But," he added, "there was a 
 little girl, who acted Prince Arthur, with whom I was greatly 
 struck, her speaking was so perfectly natural. Take my word 
 for it, Sheridan, that girl in time will be at the head of her 
 profession." Mr. Sheridan at that period did not know that 
 Miss Kelly was a relation of mine ; but upon this favour- 
 able report went to see her, and told me that he perfectly 
 agreed with Mr. Fox, and further said that he should like 
 to read the character oiMonimia, in " The Orphan," to her ; he 
 was convinced she would act it admirably. 
 
 G. F. Cooke. — No man, when sober, was better conducted, 
 or had more affability of behaviour, blended with sound sense 
 and good manners, than Cooke. He had a fine memory, and 
 was extremely well informed. I asked him, when he was 
 acting at Brighton one day, to dine with me and Mrs. Crouch, 
 and we were delighted with' his conversation and gentleman- 
 like deportment. He took his wine cheerfully, and as he was 
 going away I urged him to have another bottle. His reply 
 was, " Not one drop more ; I have taken as much as I ought 
 to take. I have passed a delightful evening, and should I 
 drink any more wine, I might prove a disagreeable companion ; 
 therefore, good night ;" and away he went. 
 
 Wroughton. — He was a most intimate friend of Bannister — 
 they were scarcely ever to be seen asunder. I used to nick- 
 name them " Orestes and Pylades." Wroughton was for many 
 years sta^e-manager of Drury Lane Theatre, and had also been 
 for a number of years proprietor of Sadler's Wells, and was 
 supposed to have made a great deal of money by that place of 
 amusement. Wroughton was a sterling, sound, sensible per- 
 former ; he never gave offence as an actor, and in many parts 
 was truly good. 
 
 Tate Wilkinson. — Wilkinson was one of the most eccentric 
 men I ever met with. One of his whims was to hide chocolate 
 drops and other sweetmeats in different holes and corners of 
 his house, his great pleasure consisting in finding them, as if by 
 
428 Appendix. 
 
 accident, some days after. When he had taken a few glasses 
 of old Madeira, of which he was very fond, he would mix his 
 conversation about theatricals and eatables together in a 
 manner at once ludicrous and incomprehensible. 
 
 SuETT. — I remember well, after poor Suett's death, Kemble, 
 in lamenting the event, said to me, " My dear Mick, Fenruddeck 
 has lost a powerful ally in Suett. Sir, I have acted the part 
 with many Weasels, and good ones too, but none of them 
 could work up my passions to the pitch Suett did. He had a 
 comical, impertinent way of thrusting his head into my face, 
 which called forth all my irritable sensations j the efiect upon 
 me was in-esistible." 
 
 Miss Pope. 
 
 (See page 187.) 
 
 When I first saw Miss Pope she was performing Mrs. Candour 
 in the "School for Scandal." Her fellow-labourers in the 
 theatric vineyard were Miss Farren as Lady Teazle, and King 
 as Sir Peter; Parsons and Dodd performed Crabiree and Back- 
 bite; Baddeley personated Moses; Smith, Charles; and John 
 Palmer, 'jfoseph. Here was a galaxy which the dramatic hemi- 
 sphere will not again present in one night. I have heard 
 people wonder why the good actors in our days will not pull 
 together in one piece, as they did when the " School for 
 Scandal" first came out : meaning, I presume, as they habitually 
 did at that period. I take the liberty to doubt the fact. If 
 the " School for Scandal" had been brought to the theatre by 
 " some starved hackney sonneteer " or me. Parsons would not 
 have acted Crabtree, and Dodd would have " fined " rather 
 than perform Backbite. I even doubt whether Baddeley would 
 have taken to the Jew. Miss Pope would have unquestionably 
 demurred about Mrs. Candour. Not that those parts are bad 
 ■ ones in themselves, but there is too great an interval between 
 the first and last appearance of the " scandalous club." They 
 get out of sight, and consequently out of the mind of the 
 audience. Moreover (which is an inexpiable sin in the per- 
 ception of a player), there are better parts in the play. Why, 
 then, it may be asked, did those eminent performers act these 
 characters ? I answer, because the play was written by a 
 manager. When, many years afterwards. Miss Pope attended 
 the rehearsal of Frederick Reynolds's play, " The Will," I beheld 
 her (for the first and last time I ever witnessed it) a little out 
 
Appendix. 429 
 
 cf humour. " Oh, Mr. Reynolds," exclaimed the lady, turning 
 over the leaves of her manuscript, " this is a very bad part." 
 " Very, ma'am," was the answer ; " but bad as it is, I can't 
 make it better." Now, be it remembered that Reynolds was 
 not a manager, and, moreover, that he was not a regular writer 
 for Drury Lane Theatre. His movements thither were eccen- 
 tric. " The Will," " Cheap Living," and " The Caravan," were 
 the only wares he ever carried to that market. This may 
 account for the lady's petulance, and may perhaps excuse it 
 
 Nicknames are often given at hazard. Miss Pope's private 
 alias, in certain theatrical circles, was Mrs. Candour ; origi- 
 nating partly from her playing that part, and partly from her 
 readiness to undertake the defence of any person who happened 
 to be run down. I owe it to truth to declare my conviction 
 that, in adopting that course, not a particle of irony or sarcasm 
 was mingled with her encomiums. I never heard her speak 
 ill of any human being. This, in a theatre, where '.here is so 
 much ill, and so many people disposed to speak of it, is 
 surely no faint praise. I have sometimes been even exas- 
 perated by her benevolence. In cases of the most open 
 delinquency, I could never entice her into indignation. " I 
 adore my profession," I have heard her say more than once. 
 She might, therefore, think it policy, at all events, to uphold 
 the professors, in the same way as the sex uphold each other 
 in the article of marriage. You never can prevail upon female A 
 to admit that female B has become an old maid from want of 
 offers. It is constantly a matter of choice. She has bad 
 health : she was attached to a young man who died at Mon- 
 mouth : she is devoted to her sister's children : or she wont 
 quit her father. Anything rather than the fact. 
 
 I saw Miss Pope for the second time in the year 1790, in 
 the character of Flippanta, in Sir John Vanbrugh's licentious 
 comedy, " The Confederacy." Miss Farren was the City wife, 
 Clarissa ; Moody, the husband j John Palmer, the Dick Amlet ; 
 John Bannister, the roguish servant Brisk ; and Mrs. Jordan, 
 the Corinna. The last-mentioned part was formerly, however, 
 personated by Miss Pope : witness the encomium of Churchill 
 in the Rosciad : 
 
 " With all the native vigour of sixteen, 
 Among the merry troop conspicuous seen, 
 See lively Pope advance in jig and trip, 
 Corirma, Cherry, Honeycomb, and .Snip. 
 
43© Appendix. 
 
 Not without art, but yet to nature true, 
 She charms the town with humour just yet new, 
 Cheer'd by her promise we the less deplore 
 The fatal time when Clive shall be no more." 
 
 This poem was published in the year i76i;_and when "the 
 fatal time " which it prognosticated had arrived, Miss Pope 
 wrote poor Kitty Clive's epitaph. It may be seen on a mural 
 tablet in Twickenham churchyard, commencing as follows ; 
 
 " Clive's blameless life this tablet shall proclaim.'' 
 
 " She was one of my earliest and best friends," said Miss 
 Pope ; " I usually spent a month with her during the summer 
 recess, at her cottage adjoining to Horace Walpole's villa at 
 Strawberry Hill. One fine morning I set off in the Twicken- 
 ham passage-boat to pay her a visit. When- we came to Vaux- 
 hall I took out a book and began to read." " Oh, ma'am," said 
 one of the watermen, " I hoped we were to have the pleasure 
 of hearing you talk." " I took the hint,"added the benevolent 
 lady, " and put up my book." She asked me if I remembered 
 Horace Walpole. I could only say, as Pope said of Dryden, 
 " Virgilium tantum vidi." The only time I ever beheld him 
 was when I went, about the year 1793, in Undy's passage-boat 
 to Twickenham. He was standing upon the lawn in front of 
 his house. " He could be very pleasant," said Miss Pope; "he 
 often came to drink tea with us at Mrs. Clive's cottage ; and 
 he could be very unpleasant." " In what way?" said I. " Oh, 
 very snarling and sarcastic," was the answer. 
 
 When young people look at old people, they find a great 
 difficulty in imagining that the latter were formerly as 
 young as themselves. When I first became acquainted with 
 the lady in question — namely, about the year 1807 — she had 
 passed her grand climacteric, and was consequently gifted with 
 a bulky person and a duplicity of chin. " Is it possible," said 
 I to myself, " that this old woman could ever have verified 
 Churchill's assertion, ' Native vigour of sixteen ?' Ridiculous !" 
 And yet the matter is mathematically a fact ; nay more. Miss 
 Pope was once in love ! I had the "soft corifession" from her 
 own lips ; and as I was not sworn to secrecy, and the lady has 
 long since joined the Capulets, the reader shall have it too. 
 
 The scene of the acknowledgment lay in Miss Pope's back 
 drawing-room, at her house in Great Queen Street, Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields, situate within two doors of the Freemasons' Tavern, 
 
Appendix, 431 
 
 whether on the north side or the south I will not aver, not 
 having a map of London before me with the points of the 
 compass annexed. All I can say is, that it was on the Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields side of the tavern. She had then lived there for a 
 period of forty years. The room was hung round with portraits 
 of people who had been gathered to their fathers half a century 
 before. " Who is this, madam ?" said I, pointing to a three- 
 quarters as large as life. " That is the celebrated Mrs. Old- 
 field," answered Miss Pope. I stood up to look at that once 
 high-prized beauty, and repeated from Pope's " Imitation of 
 Horace's Second Satire" (I firmly believe the imitation to be 
 his, though he denied it) : 
 
 " The tribe of templars, players, apothecaries, 
 Pimps, poets, wits, Lord Fannys, Lady Marys, 
 And all the court in tears, and half the town 
 Lament dear charming Oldfield dead and gone. 
 Engaging Oldfield ! who with grace and ease 
 Could join the arts to ruin and to please." 
 
 "Ah, well! we must not believe all that Pope said of her," 
 answered the companion of Kitty Clive. " See what a fine 
 marked tragic brow she has ! I myself believe she was a very 
 good woman." " And who is that little child upon whose head 
 her right hand rests ?" inquired I. " Did you never see," 
 answered the lady, " a very old man walking about town named 
 General Churchill?" " I have." "Well, that child is he!" 
 Here was another surprise to my then juvenile imagination. 
 General Churchill, aged eighty, once a little boy in petticoats ! 
 Miracles will never cease ! In the hurry of business I quite 
 omitted to ask Miss Pope how " a very good woman" named 
 Oldfield, could have a son named Churchill. Over the sofa 
 hung an engraved likeness of a gentleman whose ponderous 
 quantum of hair was buckled up behind like the tails of my old 
 maiden aunt Leonora's coach-horses. " That is Baron Newn- 
 ham, the present Earl of Harcourt," said the owner of the 
 mansion. I bowed acquiescence. " And pray who is this ?" 
 said I, turning to a portly gentleman in pearl-coloured dittos, 
 with a laced cocked-hat under his arm. " Oh, that," said the 
 lady, in a hesitating sort of a flurry, " that is Mr. Holland." I 
 thought it rather odd that Holland should be the only Mister 
 of the party, and I said to myself, as Gibbet said when he heard 
 that Aimwell had gone to church, " that looks suspicious." 
 The stomach-pump was not then invented, but I nevertheless 
 
432 Appeitdix. 
 
 gradually obtained the contents of the old lady's heart upon the 
 subject of the said Holland; who, as the reader will find on 
 consulting Tom Davies's " Life of Garrick," was an actor of 
 celebrity in his day. The ugly curly-pated lapdog having been 
 now silenced by several flirts from a scented cambric handker- 
 chief, Miss Pope confessed her early love and her early disap- 
 pointment. " Mr. Holland and myself," said the fair sexage- 
 narian, " were mutually attached. I had reason to expect that 
 he would soon make me an offer of his hand. Mr. Garrick — 
 (Jure was a second Mister, but this proceeded from the posthu- 
 mous awe inspired by the shade of a manager and sole proprie- 
 tor) — Mr. Garrick warned me of his levities and his gallantries, 
 but I had read that a reformed rake makes the best husband, 
 and I hoped that I should find it to be so. One day I went to 
 visit Mrs. Clive in the Richmond coach. The coach stopped 
 to bait at Mortlake, when whom should I see pass me rapidly 
 in a post-chaise but Mr. Holland, in company with a lady ! I 
 could not discern who the lady was, but I felt a pang of 
 jealousy which kept me silent for the rest of the journey. I 
 got out of the coach at the King's Head, near the present 
 bridge, and, with my httle wicker basket in my hand, I set off 
 to walk along Twickenham meadows to Strawberry Hill. When 
 I came opposite the Eel-pie Island, I saw the same parties in a 
 boat together, and I then discovered that Mr. Holland's com- 
 panion was the notorious Mrs. Baddeley. He looked confused 
 when he saw me, and tried to row across to the Richmond side, 
 but the weeds prevented him. I met him on the Tuesday 
 morning following at a rehearsal. He had done wrong, and he 
 knew it, but he tried to veil his degradation by an air of 
 hauteur. I was as proud as he, and from that time we never 
 exchanged a word. He afterwards made love to this, that, and 
 t'other woman, but I have reason to know that he never was 
 really happy." Here the old lady wiped away a tear, which the 
 remembrance of what happened forty years before had caused 
 to trickle down her cheek. 
 
 I cannot despatch this fickle Mr. Holland without relating an 
 anecdote in which he was posthumously concerned. I sat in 
 the pit of Drury Lane Theatre one evening about twenty years 
 ago, when one of Shakspeare's historical plays was performed, 
 embracing " all the strength of the house," accompanied by the 
 usual portion of its weakness. Two worthies sat within earshot 
 of me, between whom an exchange of playbills produced a 
 
Appendix. 433 
 
 temporary intimacy. They conversed to the following effect : — 
 " Do you often come here, sir ?" " Yes, sir, now and then. I 
 see by this bill that almost all their actors are engaged." 
 " Yes, sir." " Actors live to a great age, sir." " Yes, sir, some 
 of them." " Now here, sir," said the first speaker, " here, sir, 
 is Holland : he was an actor, sir, in Garrick's time, and yet we 
 have him in the bill for to-night." " True, sir," answered the 
 second speaker, " and here is another of the Garrick school — ■' 
 Mr. Powell : he's in the bill, too : he must be no chicken by 
 this time." I thought at the moment of proving to both 
 speakers, as Partridge says, " that this Mr. Jones was not that 
 Mr. Jones," and that of the two Garrick contemporaries whom 
 they had named, the one, if living, would be now ninety-six 
 years of age, and the other a hundred and four. But I left 
 them in the thick of their error. People in the pit of Drury 
 Lane " conceive better than they combine." 
 
 The Widow Racket in Mrs. Cowley's "Belle's Stratagem'" 
 was one of Miss Pope's best parts. It is difficult to describe 
 action in words. Miss Pope's usual manner of exhibiting 
 piquant carelessness consisted in tossing her head from right to 
 left, and striking the palm of each hand with the back of its 
 fellow, at the same moment casting her eyes upward with an 
 air of nonchalance. Miss Mellon, who came after her, came 
 nearest to her in this manner ; but still it was haud passibus 
 mquis. One morning, on turning the comer of Great Queen 
 Street, with the intention of making a visit, I beheld the car- 
 riage of Lord Harcourt (his lordship's official vehicle as Master 
 of the Horse to the Queen) standing at the door. The chariot 
 was blood-red, the horses were coal-black, and the coachman 
 and footman were in a complete armour of gold lace. Ven- 
 turing in was out of the question ; so I passed the door, and 
 loitered in front of a broker's shop about seven doors nearer to 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields, and close abutting upon the chapel. I 
 had plenty of time, before the departure of the noble Master 
 of the Horse, to make a mental inventory of the contents of 
 the shop. A counting-house stool stood in front of me, with 
 the wadding making a partial exit through an aperture in its 
 morocco covering ; an oaken chest of drawers, highly wrought 
 and inlaid with ivory, with a rusty key in the folding-door, gave 
 token of former grandeur. 
 
 " Oh, couldst thou speak, 
 As in Dodona once thy kindred trees," 
 F F 
 
434 Appendix. 
 
 thought I, thou mightest give me some curious anecdotes of 
 what passed in Old Burlington Street a century ago. A lady 
 in blue velvet, guiltless of neckerchief, with a red rose in her 
 hand, was half hid by a rickety wash-hand stand; a lapdog 
 painted in crayons was ill guarded by a starred and splintered 
 pane of glass ; and a crazy mirror in a frame of dingy white 
 and gold, multiplied and distorted my visage as I moved 
 around for a more accurate view of what the back of the shop 
 contained. In a few minutes I peeped forth from my hiding- 
 place. The royal carriage was in the act of departing, and I 
 knocked at the door. I walked upstairs, and on entering the 
 drawing-room I found Miss Pope still in the attitude of grace- 
 ful deference in which his lordship had left her. Her hands 
 were crossed upon her stomacher, and her eyes were modestly 
 bent towards the earth. She still felt the influence of the 
 patrician deity, although he had corporeally ceased to fill the 
 vacant blue-damask arm-chair which fronted her on the oppo- 
 site side of the fire-place. 
 
 I attended the last appearance of this estimable woman in 
 public. It was on the 26th of May, 1808; the character was 
 Deborah Dowlas in the " Heir-at-Law." A week before, she 
 had talked with me about the manner in which she should 
 dress the character, and I answered in black bombazeen. 
 Miss Pope stared ; but I proved to her that not only Deborah 
 Dowlas \)\A all the rest of the dramatis personce ought, properly 
 speaking, to assume suits of sable. " Attend," said I, while 
 her sister Susan counted them up on her fingers. " All the 
 Dowlases should wear black as relatives of the deceased Lord 
 Duberly. Henry Moreland should do the same as his son ; 
 and Steadfast as a friend of the family. Clerical custom 
 requires Doctor Pangloss to be attired in black. Caroline 
 Dormer has recently lost her father, and so have Zekiel and 
 Cicely Homespun ; Caroline Dormer's first servant, Kenrick, 
 added I, must of course do as his mistress does : and this 
 makes up the whole of the party." Susan, who was a matter- 
 of-fact personage, thought me right, but Miss Pope, notwith- 
 standing, was not "fondly overcome" by my argument, but 
 dressed Deborah Dowlas as her predecessors had done. This 
 leave-taking was in character and in rhyme, both of which I 
 thought objectionable. The character, Audrey, that of a 
 female fool, should, at all events, not have been assumed. 
 The last line of the farewell address still dwells in my memory. 
 
Appendix. 435 
 
 " And now poor Audrey bids you all farewell." The example 
 of Miss Pope's friend and patron, Garrick, in a similar situation, 
 might have taught her better. He expressed himself as 
 follows : — "The jingle of rhyme and the language of fiction 
 would but ill suit my present feelings. This is to me a very 
 awful moment ; it is no less than parting for ever with those 
 from whom I have received the greatest kindness and favours, 
 and upon the spot where that kindness and those favours were 
 enjoyed." This was as it should be. 
 
 Miss Pope ended her days in a house in Newman Street. I 
 felt grieved when she quitted Queen Street, and so, I believe, 
 did she. The pictures had in a measure grown to the walls ; 
 and though the mansion was rather too near to the Free- 
 masons' Tavern, whence, on a summer evening, when windows 
 are perforce kept open, the sounds of " Prosperity to the Deaf 
 and Dumb Charity" sent forth a corresponding clatter of glasses 
 which made everybody in Miss Pope's back drawing-room, for 
 the moment, fit objects of that benevolent institution, still, a 
 residence of forty years and upwards is not to be parted from 
 without regret. 
 
 Miss Pope gave an evening party at her new residence 
 about a twelvemonth after her retreat from the stage, at which, 
 I remember, the late Mr. Justice Grose was present, as well as 
 a great number of other highly respectable persons of either 
 sex; many of them, as I then learned, from the purlieus of St 
 James's Palace. Here I beheld her in society for the last time. 
 She shortly afterwards was attacked by a stupor of the brain, 
 and this once lively and amiable woman, who had entertained 
 me repeatedly with anecdotes of people of note in her earlier 
 days, sat quietly and calmly in her arm-chair by the fireside, 
 patting the head of her poodle dog, and smiling at what passed 
 in conversation, without being at all conscious of the meaning 
 of what was uttered. At her death I promised to myself to 
 write her character in one of the public journals, and at her 
 funeral I vowed to myself to write her epitaph. But, as 
 Doctor Johnson says, " the promises of authors are like the 
 vows of lovers." 
 
 Upon a candid review of my pursuits and feelings at the 
 period above described, it appears to me that I was a much 
 happier man then than I now am. Upon recollection I find 
 that about that time Lewis, the comedian, let me, by antici- 
 pation, into the cause of this. We were walking homeward 
 
 F F 2 
 
436 Appendix. 
 
 from the Keep-the-line Club, then held at the British 
 Coffee-house. Lewis asked me my age, and I answered 
 "thirty." "Stick to that, my dear boy," said the veteran, 
 "and you will do. I myself was thirty once. I was fool 
 enough to let it go by, and I have regretted it ever since." 
 — -James Smith} 
 
 Records of a Stage Veteran, 
 
 Incledon. — Incledon's love of profane jokes was notorious ; 
 from his early education (as a Cathedral boy) he derived an 
 extensive acquaintance with the Scriptures, and his quotations 
 were the ebullitions of a heedless, not a heretic nature. He 
 was conversing once with a Scotch gentleman who traced his 
 ancestors back to a period anterior to the Christian era. " By 
 the holy Paul," said Charles, " you'll tell me next that your 
 ancestors were in the ark with Noah !" " I've no preceese 
 eveedence o' the fac," replied the Scotchman, " but I've a 
 shrewd conjecture that they were." Incledon, who was never 
 at a loss, replied, " They were in the ark with Noah, were 
 
 they ? Now, sir, to show you the superiority of my family, 
 
 at that time, by ■ , they had a boat of their own." 
 
 Borrowers. — When Messrs. H and W n were pro- 
 vincial actors, their treasury ran low. H addressed the 
 
 following note to his friend : — 
 
 " Dear W., — Lend me a couple of shillings until Saturday, 
 
 and oblige Yours, . 
 
 " P.S. — On second thoughts, make it three." 
 
 To this epistle he received the following reply : — 
 
 " Dear Jack, — I have only one shiUing myself, or would 
 
 oblige. Yours, . 
 
 " On second thoughts, I must change that for dinner.'' 
 
 Strange Sights. — I have seen Wilkinson play Macbeth; 
 Mathews, Othello; Wrench, George Barnwell; Buckstone, 
 lago; Rayner, Penruddock ; little Knight, Gossamer ; Clare- 
 mont, Richard; lLs.Ae.y, Shylock ; TJision, Romeo and Ocfavian; 
 Reeve, Othello; G. F. Cooke, Mercutio ; John Kemble, 
 Archer ; Kean, Clown in a pantomime ; and Young, Shaccabac 
 
 ' "Memoirs, Letters, &c., of the late James Smith," edited hy his 
 brother, Horace Smith, Esq. 1S40. 
 
Appendix. 43 7 
 
 in "Blue Beard ■" Tom Moore, the poet, playing Peeping Tom ; 
 and Kenny, the dramatist, Delaval. 
 
 Graves of Genius. — Mrs. Jordan sleeps at St. Cloud ; 
 Astleys (father and son), in the Cemetery of Pfere la Chaise ; 
 John Edwin (the Listen and Mathews combined of his day), at 
 St. Paul's, Covent Garden ; Kemble (John), at Lausanne ; 
 Suett, in the ground of St. Paul's Cathedral ; Kean (without a 
 stone to mark the spot), in Richmond churchyard ; EUiston, in 
 St. John's Church, Waterloo Road ; old Johanna, at Bathwick 
 (old) churchyard ; Macklin lies under the chancel of St. Paul's, 
 Covsnt Garden, in which churchyard his once boon com- 
 panion Tom King rests ; Tom D'Urfey,' in St. James's, facing 
 the gate in Jermyn-street ; Joe Miller, in the ground in 
 Portugal Street ; John Palmer (the yoseph Surface), at Wootton, 
 near Liverpool ; Quin, at the Abbey Church, Bath ; Wilks, 
 near Macklin, not far from the grave of Wycherly^ in the 
 church of St. Paul, Covent Garden, where, nearly a century 
 and a-half since, Joe Haynes was consigned to earth. 
 
 Elliston and a Country Actor. — EUiston coming down 
 for a single night to act at Birmingham (then his own theatre), 
 scarcely knew a member of his own company. The play was 
 " The Wonder," and the representative of Colonel Briton wa.s 
 wofuUy imperfect. Elliston reprimanded him harshly. To the 
 manager's great astonishment, the actor retorted with a torrent 
 of abuse, and the assurance that if Elliston added another word 
 he would kick him into the pit ! Those who casually knew the 
 then lessee of Drury might imagine that he discharged the 
 
 actor on the spot. No such thing ; he rushed to B , then 
 
 stage-manager, and asked who the performer was'. " Mr. 
 
 A ." " A great man — a very great man, sir," said Elliston. 
 
 " He threatened to kick me, the lessee of Drury Lane : such a 
 man as that must go to London, sir ; he mustn't waste his 
 energies here." He there and then engaged the actor for 
 Drury Lane Theatre. 
 
 Kelly and Pope. — Pope, who came out in London in 
 1784, and was then about twenty-seven years old, was very 
 solicitous, towards the latter part of his life, of being reputed 
 much younger than he really was — a desire that Mick Kelly 
 thought proper on all occasions to thwart. One morning 
 
 * Thomas D'Urfey, a comic dramatist, died Febmary, 1723. — Ed. 
 
438 Appendix. 
 
 Pope called, and Kelly put into his hands a letter with the 
 Dublin post-mark, addressed to Pope, "To the care of M. 
 Kelly, Esq." After many thanks, Pope opened and read the 
 effusion, which was from an unknown correspondent, begging 
 a favour for his grandson, reminding Pope how often he (P.) 
 in Dublin had patted the writer on the head, and praised his 
 aptitude as a scholar, &c. &c., and concluding with the follow- 
 ing paragraph : — " I am now eighty years of age, and do hope 
 that the friend and patron of my boyhood will not desert me or 
 mine in my declining years." Nothing but Kelly's good 
 dinners could ever have tempted Pope to forgive this. 
 
 Jew Davis.' — Mr. Davis, celebrated as a singer, had not an 
 equal reputation as an actor ; however, he engaged at a certain 
 theatre as low comedian, and the character he made his debut 
 in was the Gravedigger in " Hamlet." Mr. Davis's style was 
 not peculiarly Shakspearian, and one or two hints from the 
 stage-manager at rehearsal were not taken with the spirit of 
 suavity in which they were offered. The whisper went round 
 that this would be an "oyster part" — i.e., the actor open 
 and close the same night ; and Davis, it appears, determined 
 to turn the laugh at least against his manager. He had been 
 told, when the funeral procession was about to enter, " to 
 open the churchyard gate with his spade, and remain during 
 the scene in the background," the stage-manager enforcing his 
 direction with " that's the stock-business, Mr. Davis." The 
 scene was over, the procession entering, but no Davis at the 
 gate : the gravedigger had very quietly laid himself down in 
 the grave; to all remonstrances he coolly replied, " This is my 
 
 business, ' Mr. ," and the scene was at last concluded 
 
 by clapping the coffin of the dead Ophelia on the carcase of 
 the quick gravedigger. 
 
 SowERBY.^' — Sowerby, whose mind was always in a ferment, 
 made frequently most ludicrous mistakes, and as they were 
 done during moments of abstraction, he remained wholly 
 unconscious of the cause that had probably convulsed his 
 auditors. In the " Iron Chest," Sir Edward says, Act iii. scene 
 last)— 
 
 " Sir Edw. You may have noticed in my library a chest ? 
 
 \At v)kich Wilford starts, when Sir Edward proceeds. 
 You see he changes at the word, 
 Wilford. And well I may 1" 
 
 ' Davis died in 1824. • Sowerby died in 1814. 
 
Appendix. 439 
 
 Sowerby, whose thoughts were far away, transposed the pro- 
 minent words in the first line thus : — 
 
 " You may have noticed in my chest a library !" 
 
 At which Wilford was seized with an irrepressible fit of 
 laughter. Mr. Sowerby, however, either did not, or would not, 
 notice it, but went on — 
 
 " You see he changes at the word." 
 
 But when Wilford exclaimed — 
 
 " And well I may !" 
 
 the auditors appeared so perfectly to agree with him, that 
 their laughter awakened Mr. Sowerby to "a sense of his 
 situation." 
 
 Actors and Actresses. 
 
 W. Bond (died 1735). — An actoi: named Bond, being de- 
 lighted with the " Zaire " of Voltaire, employed a poet of 
 reputation to translate it into English. He then endeavoured, 
 but fruitlessly, to get it acted at Drury Lane. Upon this, he 
 resolved to represent it privately among his friends, and chose 
 the part of Lusignan for himself. It was performed in a con- 
 cert-room in York Buildings. Neither pains nor expense were 
 spared to render the performance respectable, and the as- 
 sembly was numerous and elegant. Bond's acting excited, by 
 its excellence, universal admiration : so passionately did he 
 identify himself with the character, that on the discovery of his 
 daughter he fainted. Here the applause was redoubled, but 
 finding his swoon prolonged, the audience grew uneasy. With 
 some difficulty he was placed in his chair, when he faintly 
 spoke, extended his arms to receive his children, raised his 
 eyes to heaven, and died. 
 
 John Cooper (bom 1770). — Mr. Cooper is in person of 
 the middle size ; his features are not strongly expressive of any 
 particular character ; there is more softness and playfulness 
 than spirit or energy about them ; yet with artful management 
 they may suit either tragedy or comedy — naturally inclinable 
 perhaps to the latter. His voice is in tone pleasing, capable 
 of more modulation than he seems to know how to give it ; 
 firm and extensive in tlie upper division, in the lower musical 
 and articulate. — Monthly Mirror, 179s- 
 
440 Appendix. 
 
 Mrs. Green (died 1791). — Mrs. Green had hmnoiir even 
 to drollery. She had something of Shuter and something of 
 her father. These were not exactly the talents of Miss 
 Pope ; who, however, though perfectly unaffected herself, 
 exceeded Mrs. Green in assuming finesse and affectation. — 
 Dibdin. 
 
 Mrs. Martyr (died 1807). — Mrs. Martyr was once a very 
 great favourite, but never a very great actress or very great 
 singer. When she was most admired was when she was much 
 younger, for then she was a pretty woman, and she bears the 
 vestiges of beauty about her to this day. She had always a 
 strong, shrill, and powerful voice, but never arrived at any 
 eminence as a singer. There is a kind of hicky-hocky she often 
 makes use of at the top of her voice which renders it ludicrous. 
 Catley had much of this effect, but she had a better voice than 
 Mrs. Martyr, and she carried herself through her characters 
 by eccentricity ; yet she never played any character well 
 except Juno in the " Golden Pippin," or Euphrosyne in 
 " Comus." There seemed to be a natural hilarity in her com- 
 position which made those characters sit well upon her, and 
 she was always received by the audience in them with un- 
 common applause. Mrs. Martyr saw perhaps what kind of 
 effect was produced by Catley's adopting that kind of acting 
 and singing, and fell into the same manner, most likely from 
 her affection to the style, and has in some measure succeeded, 
 but is by no means so truly ridiculous as Catley was. — C. H. 
 Wilson, 1801. 
 
 Neale. — Neale was a sort of grotesque actor, whose peculiar 
 talent was suited only to some very peculiar characters, in 
 which he was sure to excel everybody else. Mr. Garrick, when 
 he was under some difficulty how to distribute a part, used to 
 say, " Come, I will give it to Neale, for I am sure he will make 
 more of it than anybody can." 
 
 Sandford. — Sandford is supposed to have been the com- 
 pletest and most natural perfonner of a villain that ever existed. 
 The public identified him with the infamous characters he 
 personated, and could not endure him in any part in which 
 there was the remotest hint of integrity. In a new play, an 
 author had allotted Sandford a character full of rectitude. The 
 audience, who bad been accustomed to see Sandford in parts 
 of a contrary cast, imagined that all this honesty was put on, 
 and therefore applauded the author for his art and manage- 
 
Appendix. 44 1 
 
 ment in having drawn the character of a villain in such dis- 
 simulating colours as would give great novelty and force to the 
 denouetnent. But when they came to find that no friend had 
 been betrayed, no ruin plotted, no destruction accomplished, 
 but, on the contrary, that Sandford turned out as honest a man 
 at last as at first, they fairly damned the play as an imposition 
 upon their understandings. — Dibdin. 
 
 Anna Selina Storage (died 1824). — This excellent actress 
 and theatrical singer was a pupil of Sacchini. Her eminence 
 commenced about the year 1780, at the Opera at Florence, 
 whence she was invited to Vienna by the Emperor in 1784, a 
 - salary being assigned to her of near 500/. per annum. She 
 quitted Vienna after the Carnival of 1787, when she came to 
 London, and in a short time ranked among the favourite comic 
 performers and singers of our stage. She died near London 
 about 1 814. — Ed. 
 
 Miss Taylor (Mrs. Walter Lacy). — " Miss Taylor," says the 
 Theatrical y^ournal oi i?> 2,0, "has taken the town by surprise. 
 Without the usual preliminary flourishes, she has burst upon 
 us with a natural freshness and power that must at once secure 
 her fame, and prove of signal advantage to the house (Covent 
 Garden) which has been so fortunate as to engage her. If we 
 speak of Miss Taylor as a singing actress, she is immeasurably 
 beyond anything we have on our own stage (for we do not call 
 Miss Kelly a singer). Miss Taylor's acting was throughout 
 the effect of impulse ; all her attitudes rational and noble, without 
 being studied, her voice varying with the different passions 
 which agitate her.'' Her next part was HosaHnd, which re- 
 mained a favourite with the town during her long career. This 
 performance earned her the friendship and admiration of Jack 
 Bannister, who begged Mr. Bartley to bring Miss Taylor to his 
 box, when he reminded her that his admiration of her acting 
 was rendered the more significant by his keen recollection of 
 Mrs. Jordan's Rosalind. Miss Taylor's next original part was 
 Helen in " The Hunchback," a performance which was unani- 
 mously pronounced exquisite and unsurpassable. The author 
 in his preface says, " Miss Taylor has laid me under deep obli- 
 gations. With all her heart, and soul, and talent, she advocated 
 my disputed pretensions to the favour of Thalia, and— may I be 
 permitted to say — established them." On one occasion, 
 Sheridian Knowles, who played the Hunchback, admired a rose 
 in Miss Taylor's bosom. After the play she sent the flower to 
 
442 Appendix. 
 
 him. In reply, he sent her the following lines, written on a piece 
 of a letter : — 
 
 " I take the flower, a flower more precious gives : 
 
 This withers in the cherishing — but that, 
 
 Embosom'd, still more gorgeous rich will grow. 
 
 So may it ! hue and sweet, ten thousand sweets 
 
 And hues ! to bless eternally the owner. " 
 
 j Yl'o Helen, from her Gi-ateful Hunchback. 12 June, \%->fl. 
 
 When, in later days, Covent Garden was about to close, a piece 
 by Douglas Jerrold was proposed to be read on the morrow, 
 but the morrow proving a Friday, Jerrold protested no piece of 
 his should be either read or acted on that day. " Nell Gwynne" 
 (the piece in question) was therefore read on the Saturday, and 
 renewed the fortune of the theatre. Miss Taylor played 
 Nell Gwynne, and both in the song " Buy my Oranges," and at 
 the end of the epilogue, was heartily applauded. She was also 
 the original heroine in Jerrold's " Housekeeper." Miss Taylor 
 played leading comedy, tragedy, and Vestris-business at Covent 
 Garden, Drury Lane, or the Haymarket for twenty years, of 
 which during the last twelve she acted as Mrs. Walter Lacy, 
 shining especially in Shakspearian women. When Vestris pro- 
 duced " Hamlet," the piece was delayed for a fortnight owing 
 to Mrs. Lacy's indisposition, Madame Vestris stating by way of 
 apology that as she had gone to great expense in mounting 
 the play, she would not present it without the best Ophelia 
 she could procure. — Walter Lacy. 
 
 Lady THURL0w(Mis3 Bolton; died 1830). — The first public 
 appearance of Miss Mary Catherine Bolton, who in 1813 mar- 
 ried Lord Thurlow, was at the Hanover Square Rooms (1806), 
 where she sang. She was then drafted by Harris to Covent 
 Garden, and took the character of Folly in "The Beggars' 
 Opera." She is described as having a delicate figure, blonde 
 in her complexion, with yellow hair. She died of consumption 
 in 1830. 
 
 Vernon (died 1782). — Vernon was a good musician, and the 
 best acting singer we ever had, if he may have been allowed 
 the name of a singer, for it was little more than speaking musi- 
 cally, and acting with good effect. He was a compact figure, 
 trod the stage elegantly, and always looked _ like a gentleman. 
 He studied seriously in his closet, was in love with such parts 
 as deserved affection ; he made use of no mummery or subter- 
 fuge, but he presented them to the world in their natural form 
 
Appendix. 44 3 
 
 and shape ; nor did he ever disgrace the actor by resorting to 
 contortion, or mutilate the language of the author by running 
 away from his text and introducing (what is too commonly 
 done upon the stage at present) any nonsensical ribaldry of his 
 own. 
 
 Wroughton (died 1822). — Of those gentlemen who owe 
 their success more to industry than genius, this gentleman is 
 perhaps the first. He possesses none of those natural advantages 
 called requisites, the want of which has deterred so many from 
 the pursuit of the stage as a profession : his person being in- 
 elegantly formed, his voice inharmonious and confined, his fece 
 rotund and insipid, and his features void both of flexibifity and 
 expression — he has, nevertheless, contrived to make his way in 
 the theatre, in spite of the deficiencies of nature and the opposi- 
 tion of management, where he has long held a situation of very 
 enviable pre-eminence. — Monthly Mirror, 1795. 
 
 ANECDOTES. 
 
 Griffiths. 
 (Died 1741.) 
 
 When Griffiths became an actor, he contracted a friendship 
 with Mr. Wilks. Though Griffiths was very young, Wilks took 
 him with him to London, and had him entered that season for 
 a small salary. " The Indian Emperor" being ordered on a 
 sudden to be played, the part of Pizarro, a Spaniard, was 
 wanting, which Griffiths procured. Mr. Betterton being a Httle 
 indisposed, would not venture out to rehearsal for fear of in- 
 creasing his indisposition, to the disappointment of the audience, 
 who had not seen our young stripling rehearse. But when he 
 came ready at the entrance, his ears were pierced with a voice 
 not famiUar to him. He cast his eyes upon the stage, where 
 he beheld a diminutive Pizarro, with a truncheon as long as 
 himself. Betterton thereon steps up to Downes, the prompter, 
 and cried, " Zounds, Downes ! what sucking Scaramouch have 
 you sent us here ?" " Sir," rephes Downes, " he's good enough 
 for a Spaniard ; the part is small." Betterton returned, " If he 
 had made his eyebrows his whiskers, and each whisker a Hne, 
 the part would have been two lines too much for such a monkey 
 
444 Appendix. 
 
 in buskins." Poor Griffiths stood on the stage near the door, 
 and heard every syllable of the short dialogue, and by his fears 
 knew who was meant by it, but, happily for him, he had no 
 more to speak in that scene. When the first act was over, by 
 the advice of Downes he went to make his excuse, with — • 
 " Indeed, sir, I had not taken the part but that I was alone out 
 of the play !" " I, I !" replied Betterton with a smile ; " thou 
 art but the tittle of an i." Griffiths seeing him in no ill-humour, 
 told him Indians ought to be the best figures on the stage, as 
 nature had made them. " Very like," rephed Betterton, "but 
 it would be double death to an Indian cobbler to be conquered 
 by such a weasel of a Spaniard as thou art ! and after this night 
 let me never see a truncheon in thine hand again, unless to stir 
 the fire !" Griffiths took Betterton's advice — laid aside the buskin 
 and stuck to the sock, in which he made a figure equal to most 
 of his contemporaries. — Chetwood. 
 
 Mil ward. 
 
 (Died 1 741.) 
 
 Milward when young was apprenticed to an apothecary near 
 the Strand. He was once ordered by his master to carry his 
 prescriptions to a gentleman and lady ill of different maladies 
 at the same time ; the labels were wrongly directed, but he did 
 not discover his mistake till the next day, when he carried other 
 medicines to the same persons, and by his judgment in the 
 operation soon found out his mistake. He was greatly terrified, 
 but for fear of worse he let fall the phial he had in his hand, as 
 by accident, ran back to his master, and told him what had 
 been done. The master ordered more proper doses, the patients 
 recovered, and all was well. 
 
 Love. 
 
 When Love appeared at Drury Lane in the character of 
 Falstaff, being a man of some genius, he used to puff constantly 
 in the newspapers upon his excellency in the part, all whicl\ 
 however, availed but little, as he never could bring a full house. 
 One Bignell, sitting with a few of the players at the Black Lion, 
 had filled a pipe, the funnel of which was stopped, and after 
 several attempts to light it he threw it down in a passion, 
 saying, " Egad, gentlemen, I'm like your new Falstaff; I have 
 
Appendix. 445 
 
 been puffing and puffing this long while past, but all to no pur- 
 pose, for I am not able to draw." 
 
 Quin. 
 
 It was Quin's custom to act Falslajf for his old friend Lacy 
 Ryan's benefit every year, and this practice he continued till the 
 loss of his teeth rendered his speech inarticulate ; he then 
 swore he would never whistle Falstaff, and to make up for the 
 loss of his annual performance he made his friend a present of 
 five hundred pounds. 
 
 A tragedy was written by one Brown, called " The Fatal Re- 
 tirement." It was deservedly damned. This the author im- 
 puted to Quin, who refused to act in it. In revenge, he pro- 
 cured the constant attendance of some friends at the theatre, 
 who, when Quin came forward in other parts, hissed him. At 
 length, to put a stop to their harassing impudence, he one 
 evening told the audience that he had read a play called " Fatal 
 Retirement" before it was performed, and given the author 
 his sincere opinion that it was the very worst play he ever read 
 in his life, and for that reason had refused to act in it. This 
 avowal confounded his annoyers, who from that night ceased to 
 trouble hira. 
 
 Trefusis. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Trefusis was the original Trapland in " Love for 
 Love," and a well-esteemed low comedian, and was famous for 
 dancing an awkward country clown. He was an experienced 
 angler. As he was fishing by the LifFey side, some friends of 
 his were going in a boat, in order to embark for England. Joe, 
 seeing them, called to them to take him in, that he might see 
 them safe on board. He gave his fishing-rod to a friend on 
 shore to take care of till his return ; but Joe, it seems, was 
 prevailed on by his companions to make the journey to Lon- 
 don with them, with his fishing clothes upon his back, not a 
 second shirt, and but seven shillings in his pocket. His com- 
 panions left him at London, and Mr. Wilks found him gazing 
 at the dial in the square at Covent Garden. He hardly knew 
 him at first (as Mr. Wilks told me) but by his particular gait, 
 which was beyond imitation. When he asked him how he 
 came there, and in that pickle : " Huni ! ha ! why, faith, Bobby," 
 
446 Appendix. 
 
 replied Joe, "I only came from Dublin to see what it was 
 o'clock at Covent Garden." However, Mr. Wilks new-clothed 
 him, supplied him with money, and sent him back. — Chet- 
 wood. 
 
 Joe was so inimitable in dancing the clown that General 
 Ingoldsby sent him five guineas from the box where he sat. Joe 
 dressed himself next day, and went to the Castle to return 
 thanks. The general was hard to be persuaded that it was 
 the same person, but Joe soon convinced him by saying " I's 
 the very mon, an't please your Excellency," and at the same 
 time twirling his hat as he did in the dance, with his consum- 
 mate foolish face and scrape. " Nay, now I am convinced," 
 exclaimed the general, laughing, " and thou shalt not show 
 such a face for nothing here." So he gave Joe five guineas 
 more, which so well pleased him that he paid his compliments 
 in his awkward, clownish manner, and, as Shakspeare says, 
 " set the table in a roar." 
 
 Garrick. 
 
 Garrick, on his return from the Continent, prepared an 
 address to the audience, which he delivered previous to the 
 play he first appeared in. When he came upon the stage, he 
 was welcomed with three loud plaudits, finishing with a huzza. 
 As soon as this unprecedented applause had a little subsided, 
 he used every art of which he was so completely master to lull 
 the tumult into a profound silence, and just as all was hushed 
 to death, and anxious expectation sat oneveryface, old Cervetto, 
 who was better known by the name of " Nosey," anticipated 
 the very first line of the address by — aw — a tremendous yawn. 
 A convulsion of laughter ensued, and it was some minutes 
 before the wished-for silence could be again restored. That, 
 however, obtained, Garrick delivered his address in that happy, 
 irresistible manner in which he was almost sure to captivate 
 his audience, and retired with applause such as was never better 
 given nor better deserved. But the matter did not rest here. 
 The moment he came off the stage he flew like lightning to 
 the music-room, where, collaring astonished Nosey, he began to 
 abuse him pretty vociferously. 
 
 " Wha — ^why — you old scoundrel — ^you must be the most in- 
 fernal " 
 
Appendix. 447 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Garrick !" burst out Nosey, "vat is the matter- 
 vat I haf do — oh Got, vat is it ?" 
 
 " The matter ! why you old, damned, eternal, senseless idiot 
 — ^with no more brains than your infernal bass-viol — ^just at the 
 — a — very moment I had played with the audience, tickled 
 them like a trout, and brought them to the most accommodat- 
 ing silence — so pat to my purpose— so perfect — that it was, as 
 one may say, a companion for Milton's visible darkness " 
 
 " Inteed, Mr. Garrick, it vas no darkness." 
 
 " Darkness ! stupid fool ! But how should a man of my 
 reading make himself understood by — a — a — answer me, was 
 not the -whole house, pit, box, gallery, very still ?" 
 
 "Yes sir, indeet; still as a mouse." 
 
 " Well then, just at that very moment, did you not, with your 
 infernal jaws extended wide enough to swallow a sixpenny 
 loaf — yaw ? Oh, I wish you had never shut your damned jaws 
 again !" 
 
 " Sare, Mr. Garrick — only if you please hear me von vord. 
 It is alvay the vay — it is indeed, Mr. Garrick — alvay the vay 
 I go when I haf the greatest rapture, Mr. Garrick." 
 
 The little great man's anger instantly cooled. The cunning 
 readiness of this Italian flattery operated exactly contrary to 
 the last line of an epigram — " The honey was tasted and the 
 sting forgot" — and it not only procured Nosey's pardon, but 
 forced a declaration from his patron that he ought to be for- 
 given for the wit of the defence. — Dibdin. 
 
 Whilst Garrick' was one night perfonriing the part oi Hamlet, 
 and when he was arrived at one of the most affecting scenes in 
 that tragedy — the audience all mute attention — ^when even a 
 pin might have been heard falling to the ground — all at once, 
 to the astonishment of the spectators, Garrick was seen to burst 
 out into a violent fit of laughter, and run suddenly off the stage : 
 in a moment all the players followed his example. The audience, 
 amazed at the strangeness of his conduct, cast their eyes around 
 every corner of the house, when they immediately discovered 
 the cause of Garrick's merriment. A jolly round-faced butcher 
 was seated in the front row of the pit, wiping his bald pate, 
 from which the sweat flowed in copious streams : his sagacious 
 mastiff, no doubt eager to enjoy, as well as his master, the ad- 
 mirable performance of the prince of tragi«^ians, had placed his 
 fore-feet upon the front rail of the orcheb-tta, and was looking 
 eagerly upon the stage, his grhve phiz dignified by his master's 
 
44^ Appendix. 
 
 full-bottomed wig. The audience found it impossible to retain 
 their gravity at this ludicrous sight ; the loudest peals of 
 laughter burst from the pit, the boxes, and the galleries ; and 
 it was a great while ere the performers could again resume 
 that gravity necessary for performing a tragedy so deeply 
 interesting. 
 
 Garrick had one evening quitted Mrs. Garrick in her box at 
 Drury Lane Theatre, saying, as he often did, " I shall be back 
 in a few minutes." A prologue was spoken ; Mrs. Garrick was 
 in full sight of the speaker, but thought him to be a stranger 
 till her little dog, who was with her, called her attention by 
 showing signs of great joy, and not until then she knew it to be 
 Mr. Garrick who was speaking. 
 
 Tom Cooke. 
 
 When Stephen Kemble was manager of the theatre at 
 Durham, news of one of Nelson's victories reached the city, and 
 an order was issued for a general illumination. The tragedy of 
 " George Barnwell" had been announced for that night's per- 
 formance, but Kemble, guessing the scanty audience he would 
 have to play before, asked Cooke to take his place as Old 
 Barnwell. Cooke, remarkable for his thick lisp, begged to be 
 excused, affirming the difficulty he found in committing a part 
 to memory in a short time. Stephen, however, insisted, point- 
 ing out that the character needed no study at all, Old Barnwell 
 not being on the stage ten minutes together. " Here," said 
 he, " here's the book ; you can manage to get a line or two 
 into your head to speak as you enter, and read the rest, for 
 Old Barnwell is supposed to be reading — in fact, just enough 
 to give George an opportunity of killing you ; then you must 
 add a few words when you die — say anything, for there will be 
 few people in the house to hear you." Cooke, with great re- 
 luctance, consented. At the proper time he stalked on, book 
 in hand, spoke the words required, and was stabbed; but 
 in falling, the book unluckily fell with him, and wanting 
 words, the murdered man could see no alternative but to die 
 and make no sign. Meanwhile, George Barnwell, who sup- 
 ported him, growing impatient, whispered him to say 
 "anything," as Kemble had suggested; on which, Cooke, 
 taking off his little three-cornered hat, and tossing it in the air, 
 snouted in his deepest bass and thickest lisp. Nelson for ei'er 1 
 
Appendix. 449 
 
 Not Garrick's or Siddons's finest stroke ever produced a louder 
 roar of applause than these words ; and amid the uproar Cooke 
 died satisfactorily. 
 
 Mrs. Powell. 
 
 After Boaden had read his "Aureliaand Miranda" in the 
 green-room of Drury Lane Theatre, he observed he knew 
 nothing so terrible as reading apiece before a critical audience. 
 " I know one thing much more terrible," said Mrs. Powell. 
 " What can that be?" asked Boaden. " To be obliged to sif 
 and hear it." 
 
 Townshend, 
 
 Townshend, of Covent Garden Theatre, being once appointed 
 to a part in a pantomime in which he was to ascend in a cloud 
 while singing, exclaimed : " It may be a flight of the poet's, 
 but curse me if it shall be a flight of mine." 
 
 Vernon. 
 
 On one of the first nights of the opera of " Cymon," at 
 Drury Lane, a dissatisfied critic, when Mr. Vernon began the 
 last air in the fourth act, 
 
 " Tom from me 1 torn irom me ! which way did they take her?" 
 
 immediately sang in the exact time of the air, to the astonish- 
 ment of the audience, 
 
 " Why, towards Long Acre, towards Long Acre !" 
 
 Vernon was for the moment stunned ; but recovering himself, 
 he sang in rejoinder, 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! did they so ? then I'll overtake her ! I'll soon overtake her !" 
 und precipitately ran off amid the plaudits of the whole house. 
 
 Astley. 
 
 When Harris was getting up a pantomime at Covent Garden, 
 application was made to old Astley for the loan of some horses. 
 When he had correctly understood the nature of the request, 
 after a variety of incongruous and unintelligible exclamations, 
 occasioned by his indignation lest his horses should be dis- 
 
 G G 
 
450 Appendix. 
 
 graced by appearing on the stage, he vociferated, " Here's your 
 works ! want my horses to manoeuvre upon Common Garden 
 stage. Why, damme, 'tis scandalous magnesia. Sir, will Mr. 
 Harris lend me Mrs. Siddons to sing in my amphitheatre?" 
 
 Mongozzi. 
 
 One of the singular slips cited in connexion with the French 
 stage was made by Mongozzi, an actor of the old Varidt^s. 
 The farce to be performed was called " The Piece without an 
 A" (" Pifece sans A"). The author had written it without once 
 using that letter — a feat which presents numerous difficulties in 
 French, similar to that which has now and then been attempted 
 and accomplished in English of writing a song without a sibi- 
 lant, or without the letter s — which is, after all, something more 
 difficult than dancing a hornpipe in fetters. To see the French 
 piece a considerable number of spectators had assembled ; the 
 audience did not expect a play of any merit, but they were 
 curious to find how one of any length could be carried on 
 without any use of what is in constant use in French phrases, 
 the letter a. At the rising of the curtain, Duval and Mongozzi 
 entered from different sides of the stage, and the latter, on see- 
 ing the former, greeted him with "Ah, monsieur, vous voilk !" 
 While the house broke into a roar of laughter, Mongozzi was 
 corrected by the prompter, and he recommenced more cor- 
 rectly with " Eh, monsieur, vous voici !" Certainly, in a piece 
 which boasted of having no a in it, the actor sUpped droUy when 
 he exclaimed, "Ah, sir, here you aie !" instead of " Eh, sir, you 
 here, then?" 
 
 Actors' Memories. 
 
 Very few actors have bad memories. Not long since, in the 
 suddenly discovered absence of an actress, in a farce — tlie cur- 
 tain was just about to rise — a young lady who had never played 
 the part was asked to "go on," and she readily consented. 
 She took the book in her hand, learnt a few Unes at the wings, 
 carried them with her on to the stage, learned a few more as 
 she went to the back, busying herself apparently with what was 
 on the chimneypiece, and came down to the front with what 
 her memory gathered. The audience were unaware of the feat 
 which was being performed, and it was accomplished with only 
 one poc slip. 
 
Appendix. 45 1 
 
 "Vivat Rex." 
 
 In the early period of the EngUsh drama it was customary 
 for the actors, at the end of a piece, to pray for the King and 
 Queen. This prayer made part of the epilogue, and hence the 
 addition of Vivat Rex to the playbills of most ages but our 
 own. 
 
 Delane. 
 
 Delane, an actor of great merit, and a valuable member of 
 society, had two peculiarities upon the stage which Garrick 
 took off, and rendered him so ridiculous that he was constantly 
 laughed at. Having generous though weak feelings, Mr. 
 Delane took to drinking, and in reality broke his heart. 
 
 Kemble and Lewis. 
 
 Kemble and Lewis chancing to be at Dublin at the same time, 
 were both engaged by the manager for one night's performance 
 in " Leon " arid " The Copper Captain." Their announcement 
 was coupled with the following odd passage: — "They never 
 performed together in the same piece, and in all human proba- 
 bility they never will again. This evening is the summit of the 
 manager's climax. He has constantly gone higher and higher 
 in his efforts to delight the public ; beyond this it is not in 
 nature to go." 
 
 Drama in America. 
 
 The first drama performed in Boston was in 1750. The 
 novelty made such a crowd and so much disturbance, that the 
 Legislature passed a law prohibiting theatrical entertainments, as 
 tending to unnecessary expense, the increase of impiety, a 
 contempt for religion. 
 
 Foote. 
 
 When Macklin gave lectures on the drama, Foote being one 
 evening present, talking and laughing very loud just before the 
 lecture began, Macklin, offended, called out rather pettishly, 
 " Sir, you seem to be very merry there ; but do you know what 
 I am going to say now?" "No, sir," said Foote; "pray do 
 
 VOU?" 
 
 G G a 
 
452 Appendix. 
 
 Foote was once walking in Paris with a conceited Frenchman, 
 who had been boasting his country's superiority over England. 
 Coming to the Seine, he pointed to it, saying, " Now, as to a 
 river, you have nothing like this in London." To which Foote 
 replied : " We had just such another lately (alluding to the 
 Fleet-ditch), but we have filled it up, not having any use 
 for it." 
 
 When some one was lamenting Foote's unlucky fate in being 
 kicked in Dublin, Johnson said he was glad of it. " He is 
 rising in the world," added he ; " when he was in England, no 
 one thought him worth kicking." 
 
 Foote, Garrick, and Johnson once went together to Bedlam. 
 Johnson, who was much affected at the sight of so much human 
 misery, withdrew to a cornerto meditate, where he threw him- 
 self into so many strange attitudes, and drew his face into such 
 odd shapes, that Foote whispered Garrick to know " how they 
 should contrive to get him out." 
 
 Catalani. 
 
 When Catalani visited Hamburg, Schevenke, the chief 
 musician there, criticized her somewhat severely. She answered 
 by abusing him roundly, saying, "When God has given to a 
 mortal such marvellous talent as I possess, people ought to 
 applaud and honour it as a miracle, and it is a sin to depre- 
 ciate such a gift from heaven." 
 
 Penkethman.^ 
 
 D'Urfey, the lyric poet, stuttered extremely when in a 
 passion, though he could speak an oration, read a scene in a 
 play, or sing any of his own songs or dialogues without the 
 least hesitation. He came one morning to the rehearsal a little 
 disturbed about a pending benefit play, and asked in a passion, 
 "W, w, w, where, w, w, was Mr. W, Wilks?" Penkethman 
 answered, " H, he, d, d, didn't, kn, kn, know." But the 
 choleric poet broke his head for his joke ; and it was with 
 great difliculty tlie bard was appeased. 
 
 ' Died 1740. 
 
Appendix. 45 3 
 
 Wignell. 
 
 Wignell, who was an under actor, was remarkable for making 
 tragedy comic, and comedy tragic, and was, in consequence, 
 a wonderful favourite with the clodhoppers in the country. 
 Fishing one day in a place in the country, some labourers came 
 by who could not but admire the pompous dexterity With which 
 he played with his prey. " There, there !" said one. " Let un 
 aloane," said another ; " if a do but fish as well as a do act, he 
 >vunna leave a fish i' th' milldam." 
 
 When Sheridan reproduced " Cato," it had been the custom 
 for many years to omit Pope's fine prologue. Wignell, who 
 acttd. Fortius, on the curtain rising, commenced the play at 
 once with — 
 
 " The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, 
 And heavily in clouds," &c. 
 
 But he was interrupted with cries for the prologue. Wignell, 
 renowned for his imperturbability, paused a moment, and then 
 turning his face from Marcus, whom he was addressing, to the 
 audience, said in as lofty a tone and solemn a measure a-i 
 if he were reciting Hnes in his speech — 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, there has not been 
 A prologue spoken to this play for years — 
 
 and then to Marcus, " the great, the important day," and 
 so on. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield's vanity is illustrated by her wish that she 
 should be well dressed in her coffin. Accordingly, " as the 
 nicety of dress was her delight when living, she was as nicely 
 dressed after her decease, being, by Mrs. Saunders's direction, 
 thus laid in her coffin : she had on a very fine Brussels lace 
 head ; a Holland shift, with tucker, and double ruffles of the 
 same lace ; a pair of new kid gloves ; and her body wrapped up in 
 a winding-sheet." 
 
 Charles Kemble. 
 
 Charles Kemble, when he was once playing Shy lock, instead 
 of asking "Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?" overturned the 
 text by exclaiming, " Shall I lay surgery upon my poll?" 
 
454 Appendix. 
 
 Holland and Powell. 
 
 When Mrs. Griffiths' " Platonic Wife" was produced, before 
 the first act was over it was seen to be a dead failure. At the 
 end of the third act the peirformers grew more impatient .tl^ai^ 
 the' audience •; and at last Holland and Powell, thrusting their 
 heads out from opposite sides of the stage, when the " drop" 
 was down, earnestly entreated the spectators to prevent the 
 heavy performance from going any further, by damning it then 
 and theire. 
 
 Queer Interruption. 
 
 A well-known aqtress, pla3dng at Bath in the character of 
 Mrs. Beverley, had by her powers hushed the house into the 
 deepest possible stillness, when a little Jew, starting up, cried 
 out fiercely, " My Got ! who was dat shpit in my eye ?" 
 
 Licensing Act 
 
 This Act was passed in 1736. A piece entitled " The Golden 
 Rump" was presented to Mr. Gififard, then manager of 
 Goodman's Fields Theatre, by a stranger. Looking over the 
 play, Giffard perceived it to be charged with scurrilous abuse 
 of the Parliament and the King. He submitted it to Sir 
 Robert Walpole, then Premier, who, commending his loyalty, 
 purchased the MS. ; and when objection was made to the 
 Act, read portions of the play to the House with such effect as 
 to get the Bill passed without opposition. The whole was, no 
 doubt, a contrivance on the part of the minister, " The Golden 
 Rump" being probably written by Giffard himself, or some 
 person hired for the purpose by Walpole. 
 
 " Polly Peachum." 
 
 This character, the heroine of " The Beggars' Opera," has 
 led to the peerage three of its representatives — i.e., Miss 
 Fenton (Duchess of Bolton), Miss Bolton (Lady Thurlow), and 
 Miss Stephens (Countess of Essex). 
 
Appendix. 455 
 
 Listen. 
 
 Shortly after Liston had made a popular hit in Fielding's 
 " Tom Thumb," at the Haymarket Theatre, he dined one day 
 in the City ; after the dessert, and before the ladies had left 
 the room, the whole party arose, and the tables, chairs, &c., 
 were set back, and the guests left standing, in order, as the 
 host explained, " to make room for Mr. Liston to favour the 
 company, before the children went to bed, with Lord Grizzles 
 dancing song." As may be supposed, Liston danced off a.'i soon 
 as he was able from the house of his polite friend, never to 
 return. 
 
 Stephen Kemble. 
 
 Mr. Kemble, in 181 9, wrote the following acknowledgment 
 of a present : — 
 
 " To MY Dear Friend Kean, on his Presenting me with a 
 Gold Snuff-box. 
 
 " Thy gift, my friend, I value, not the ore ; 
 Nor yet the artist's masterly design. 
 But truth and talent love I ten times more, 
 And these rare qualities I know are thine. 
 
 " Stephen George Kemble. 
 " Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 
 " May 19, 1819." 
 
 Freedom of the Theatre. 
 
 From the Gentleman's Magazine: — "Tuesday, 6th February, 
 ly^p. — At Covent Garden Theatre one John Somerford 
 tumbled from the upper gallery into the pit, being ten yards, 
 without receiving any hurt. When the play was over, he told 
 Mr. Rich that he had made himself free of the gallery, and 
 hoped he should have the liberty of going into it when he 
 pleased. To which Mr. Rich consented, provided he never 
 again came out of it in the same abrupt manner." 
 
 Rich. 
 
 Rich, the inventor of pantomimes, felt and avowed for what 
 is called the regular drama the most supreme contempt ; and 
 
456 Appendix. 
 
 :his he carried so far tliat he was sometimes heard to say, after 
 looking through the hole in the green curtain, and seeing a 
 crowded house assembled to witness the performance of a 
 tragedy, " What ! you are there, you fools, are you ? Well, 
 much good may it do you." 
 
 Epilogue. 
 
 Valeria, daughter to Maximin, having killed herself for the 
 love of Porphyrins, in " Tyrannic Love," when she was to be 
 carried off by the bearers, strikes one of them a box on the 
 ear, and speaks to him thus : — 
 
 " Hold ! are you mad? you damned confounded dog, 
 I am to rise and speak the epilogue." 
 
 Abraham Ivory. 
 
 In old plays we come across names of actors of whom no trace 
 beyond such mention remains. But sometimes some bygone 
 chronicler devotes a line or two to a player ; and often the 
 brief sentence is as pregnant as an exhaustive biography. 
 Here is a case in point. In " The Rehearsal," at the end of 
 the first act, the ist Flayer says : — 
 
 " Sir, Mr. Ivory is not come yet, but he'll be here presently ; he's but 
 two doors oiif." 
 
 Turning to the Key to " The Rehearsal," we find : " Abraham 
 Ivory had formerly been a considerable actor of women's 
 parts ; but afterwards stupefied himself so far with drinking 
 strong waters, that before the first acting of this farce he was fit 
 for nothing but to go of errands ; for which, and mere charity, 
 the company allowed him a weekly salary." 
 
 Mrs. Reeve. 
 
 The only hint of personal indiscretion ascribed to Dryden 
 is that of having eaten tarts with Mrs. Reeve, the actress, in 
 the Mulberry Gardens, which, if true, amounts to nothing, but 
 which, trivial as it is, must be regarded as apocryphal To eat 
 tarts with an actress did not necessarily involve any grave de- 
 linquency in a poet who was writing for the theatre ; yet upon 
 this slight foundation — for I have not been able to discover 
 
Appendix. 457 
 
 that it rests upon any other— a suspicion has been raised that 
 Mrs. Reeve was his mistress. By way, however, of miti- 
 gating the odmm of this unwarrantable imputation, it is added, 
 that after his marriage Dryden renounced all such association. 
 But his relations with Mrs. Reeve— if he ever had any— must 
 have been formed after his marriage, as a reference to dates 
 ■will show ; so that the supposititious scandal, as it has been 
 transmitted to us, conveys its own refutation.— if. Bell. 
 
 Macklin. 
 
 Garrick and Macklin frequently rode out together, and often 
 baited at some of the public-houses on the Richmond road. 
 Upon these occasions, whenever they came to a turnpike, or to 
 settle the account of the luncheon, Garrick either had changed 
 his breeches that morning and was without money, or else 
 used to produce a 36^. piece, which made it difficult to change. 
 Upon these occasions Macklin, to use his own phrase, stood 
 " Captain Flashman" — that is, paid the charge. This went on 
 for some time, when Macklin, finding that Garrick never took 
 his turn of paying the expenses, or repaying those he had 
 advanced for him, challenged him one day for a debt he owed 
 him, and then pulled out a long slip of paper, in which the several 
 disbursements were entered according to date, place, and com- 
 pany; "and which, sir," said the veteran, "amounted to 
 between thirty and forty shillings. The little fellow at first 
 seemed surprised, and then would have turned it into a joke ; 
 but I was serious, sir, and he paid me the money ; and after 
 that "fit jogged on upon our own separate accounts." — Cooke. 
 
 Fielding. 
 
 Mr. Garrick once gave a dinner at his lodgings to Harry 
 Fielding, Macklin, Howard, Mrs. Gibber, &c. &c. ; and vails 
 to servants being much then the fashion, Macklin and most of 
 the company gave Garrick's man (David, a Welshman) some- 
 thing at parting — some a shilling, some half-a-crown, &c. — 
 while Fielding very formally slipped a piece of paper in his hand, 
 with something folded in the inside. When the company were 
 all gone, David seeming to be in high glee, Garrick asked him 
 how much he got. " I can't tell you yet, sir," said Davy ; 
 
45 B Appendix. 
 
 "here is half-a-crown from Mrs. Gibber, Got bless her; here is 
 a shilling from Mr. Macklin ; here is two from Mr. Howard,-&c^ ; 
 and here is something more from the poet, Gotpless his merry 
 heart." By this time Davy had unfolded the paper, when, to 
 his great astonishment, he saw it contained no more than one 
 penny ! Garrick felt nettled at this, and next day 'spoke to Fielding 
 about the impropriety of jesting with -a servant. "Jesting!" 
 said Fielding with a seeming surprise ; " So far from it, that I 
 meant to do the fellow a real piece of service, for had I given 
 him a shilling or half-a-crown I knew you would have taken it 
 from him, but by giving him only a ;penny he had a chance of 
 calling it his own." — Cooke. 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 So little did the players know of Shakspeare's text before 
 the time of Garrick, that Quin, after he had seen Garrick in the 
 character of Macbeth, asked him where he got such strange and 
 out-of-the-way expressions as 
 
 " The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon : 
 Where got'st thou that goose-look ?" 
 
 This play, in particular, was grossly interpolated by Davenant, 
 and held the stage from 1665 to 1744. Davenant not think- 
 ing the tragedy had ghosts enough, introduced the ghost of 
 Duncan, and tacked On such rhymes as these : — 
 
 Macbeth {solus). 
 
 " She does from Duncan's death to sickness grieve, 
 And shall from Malcolm's death her heart receive ; 
 When by a viper bitten, nothing's good 
 To cure the venom but a viper's blood." 
 
 Roxana.^ 
 
 The Earl of Oxford fell in love with a handsome, graceful 
 actress belonging to the Duke's Theatre, who performed to 
 perfection, particularly, the part of Roxana in a very fashionable 
 
 •^ This person has been supposed, both by Grammont and Thomas 
 Davies, to have been Anne Marshall, a celebrated actress, about whom, 
 and her sister Beck, Pepys has much to say in his "Diary." Lord Bray- 
 brooke, hovi^ever, justly points out that whilst Pepys invariably calls the 
 Marshalls by their proper name, he speaks of Lord Oxford's mistress as 
 ' ' the first or old' Roxalana, who had quitted the staee. " 
 
Appendix. 459 
 
 new play ; insomuch that she ever after retained that name. 
 This creature being both very virtuous and very modest, or, if 
 you please, wonderfully obstinate, proudly rejected the presents 
 and addresses of the Earl of Oxford. The resistance inflamed 
 his passion ; he had recourse to invective, and even spells, but 
 all in vain. This disappointment had such an effect upon him 
 that he could neither eat ' nor drink. This did not signify to 
 him ; but his passion at length became so violent that he could 
 neither play nor smoke. ■' In- this extremity Love had recourse 
 to Hymen. The Earl of Oxford, one of the first peers of the 
 realm, is, you know, a very handsome man ; he is of the Order 
 of the Garter, which greatly ^adds to an air naturally noble. In 
 short, from his -oiitward ' appearance - you would really ..suppose 
 he was possessed of some sense, but as soon as you heat 
 him speak you are perfectly convinced to the contrary. This 
 passionate lover presented her with a promise of marriage in 
 due form, signed with his own hand. She would not, however, 
 rely upon this ; but the next day she thought there could be 
 no danger when the Earl himself came to her lodgings, attended 
 by a clergyman and another man for a witness. The marriage 
 was accordingly solemnized with all due ceremonies in the 
 presence of one of her fellow-players, who attended as a witness 
 on her part. You will suppose, perhaps, that the new Countess 
 had nothing to do but to appear at Court according to her rank, 
 and to display the Earl's arms upon her carriage. This was 
 far from being the case. When examination was made con- 
 cerning the marriage, it was found to be a mere deception ; it 
 appeared that the pretended priest was one of my lord's 
 trumpeters, and the witness his kettle-drummer. The parson 
 and his companion never appeared after the ceremony was 
 over, and as for the other witness,-he endeavoured to persuade 
 her that the Sultana Roxana might have supposed, in some part 
 or other of a play, that she was married. It was all to no 
 purpose that the poor creature claimed the protection of the 
 laws of God and man, both which were violated and abused, as 
 well as herself, by this infamous imposition. In vain did she 
 throw herself at the King's feet to demand justice ; she had 
 only to rise up again without redress \ and happy might she 
 think herself to receive an annuity of one thousand crowns, and 
 to resume the name of Roxana instead of Countess of Oxford. — 
 Count Grammonfs Memoirs, 
 
460 Appendix. 
 
 Bullock and Penkethman. 
 
 Mr. William Bullock and Mr. William Penkethman are of 
 the same age, profession, and sex. They both distinguish 
 themselves in a very particular manner under the discipline of 
 the crab-tree, with this only difference, that Mr. Bullock has the 
 more agreeable squall, and Mr. Penkethman the more graceful 
 shrug. Penkethman devours cold chick with great applause ; 
 Bullock's talent lies chiefly in asparagus. Penkethman is very 
 dexterous at conveying himself under a table ; Bullock is no less 
 active at jumping over a stick. Mr. Penkethman has a great deal 
 of money; but Mr. Bullock is the taller man. — Sir R. Steele. 
 
 Munden's Story. 
 
 " When I was very young, and looking still younger, I per- 
 formed the part of Old Philpot in "The Citizen" to a re- 
 spectable audience at Brighton, with great success ; and it 
 chanced on the next evening, being disengaged from any 
 professional duty, I was introduced by the gentleman who 
 principally patronized me, as Mr. Munden, into a club-room 
 full of company. On hearing my name announced, a nice, 
 snug-looking, good-humoured personage laid down his pipe, 
 and taking up his glass, said : ' Here is to your health, young 
 sir, and \.a your father's health. I saw him perform last night, 
 and a very nice, clever old gentleman he is.' " 
 
 G. A. Stevens. 
 
 When Stevens was a first actor in the Norwich company he 
 performed the part of Horatio in "The Fair Penitent." The 
 
 Calista was a Mrs. B , who had been long the celebrated 
 
 heroine in tragedy, and the lady in high life in comedy. Mrs. 
 
 B , in her decline, sacrificed too often to the intoxicatinggod. 
 
 In proportion as the action of the play advanced towards a 
 conclusion, by endeavouring to raise her spirits with a cheerful 
 glass, she became totally unfit to represent the character. In 
 her last scene of Calista, it was so long before she died that 
 Stevens, after giving her several hints, cried out, " Why don't 
 you die, you fool ?" She retorted, as loud as she could, " You 
 robbed the British mail, you dog !" This spirited dialogue so 
 
Appendix, 461 
 
 much amused the audience that much clapping ensued. The 
 manager seeing no end to the merry business, dropped the 
 curtain. 
 
 John Palmer. 
 
 The celebrated actor, John Palmer, whose father was a bill-' 
 sticker, and who had occasionally followed the same humble 
 occupation himself, being one evening strutting in the green- 
 room in a pair of glittering buckles, a bystander remarked that 
 they really resembled diamonds. "Sir," said Palmer, with 
 some warmth, " I would have you know I never wear anything 
 but diamonds !" " I ask your pardon," replied the other j " I 
 remember the time when you wore nothing hMt paste." The 
 laugh was much heightened by Bannister exclaiming, " Jack, 
 why don't you stick him against the wallV 
 
 Lee Lewes. 
 
 Lee Lewes shooting on a field, the proprietor attacked him 
 violently. " I allow no person," said he, " to kill game on my 
 manor but myself; and I'll shoot you if you come here again." 
 " What !" said Lewes, " I suppose you mean to make game of 
 me?" 
 
 Macklin. 
 
 Macklin, sitting one night at the back of the front boxes 
 »vith a friend, a man stood up immediately before him, and his 
 person being rather large, intercepted a sight of the stage. 
 Macklin took fire at this, but managing his passion with more 
 temper than usual, patted the individual on the shoulder with 
 his cane, and gently requested him, " when anything entertain- , 
 ing occurred upon the stage, to let him and his friend be 
 apprised of it ; for you see, my dear sir," said he, " that at 
 present we must totally depend upon your kindness." 
 
 t 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs.i 
 
 A strange blunder was once made by Mrs. Gibbs, of Covent 
 Garden, in the part of Miss Sterling in " The Clandestine 
 
 » Died 1783. 
 
46 2 Appendix. 
 
 Marriage.'' When speaking of the conduct of Betty, who had 
 locked the door of Miss Fanny's room, and walked away with 
 the key, Mrs. Gibbs said, " She has locked the key, and car- 
 ried away the door in her pocket." 
 
 Mrs. Davenport. 
 
 A similar blunder was once made by Mrs. Davenport, as 
 Mrs. Heidelberg, who substituted for the original dialogue, " I 
 protest there's a candle coming along the gallery with a man in 
 his handl" 
 
 Miss Pope. 
 
 Miss Pope was rallied one evening by a certain actress, more 
 noted for her gallantries than her professional talents, on the 
 largeness of her shape ; on which she observed, " I can onlv 
 wish it, madam, as slender as your reputation." 
 
 Barrymore.^ 
 
 Barrymore happening to come late to the theatre, and having 
 to dress for his part, was driven to the last moment, when, to 
 heighten his perplexity, the key of his drawers was missing. 
 " Dash it," said he, " I must have swallowed it." " Never 
 mind," said Jack Bannister, " if you have, it will serve to open 
 your chest." 
 
 Dignum, 
 
 When " Henry VIII." was in rehearsal at Dmry Lane 
 Theatre, and John Kemble, who then acted Cromwell, in 
 extolling the merits of Wolsey, came to this passage — 
 
 " Ever witness for him 
 Those twins of learning that he raised in you, 
 Ipswich and Oxford !" — 
 
 Dignum, who stood by, exclaimed, "Hang me if I knew that 
 Cardinal Wolsey was married before !" 
 
 ' First appearance, 1782. 
 
Appendix. 4.63 
 
 Mundcn. 
 
 Munden, when confined to his bed and unable to put his 
 feet to the ground, being told by a friend that his dignified in. 
 disposition was the laugh Of the green-room, replied, " Though 
 I Iov€ to laugh and make others laugh, yet I would inuch 
 rather they would make me a standing joke." 
 
 Kemble. 
 
 John Kemble, who was so mintitely observant of the great 
 dramatic canon, " suit the action to the word," that he would 
 study before a glass the proper position of a finger even, seeing 
 an actor hold down his head on his pronouncing " O heaven !" 
 and hold it ufi on pronouncing " O earth !" said, " That fellow 
 has committed a solecism with his head." 
 
 ■-' Quin. 
 
 Quin was asked once what he thought of turtle-eating. " By 
 Heaven !" he said, " it is a thousand pities that on such an 
 occasion a man has not a stomach as long as the cable of a 
 first-rate man-of-war, and every inch palate." 
 
 Mrs. Salmon. 
 
 This lady was in her day a greater favourite than even Cata- 
 lani. When the latter was at Bath, a lady applied for a ticket 
 for one of the concerts to Vallabrique, not knowing he was 
 Catalani's husband. 'Vallabrique told. her. that Catalani's at- 
 tractions were so great that he feared he could not procure her 
 a ticket. " Oh," said the lady, " I don't care about Catalani ; 
 I want to hear Mrs. Salmon." 
 
 Effects of Confusion. 
 
 An actor, levelling his halberd to prevent Richard from im- 
 peding the progress oi Henry's funeral, instead of saying " My 
 lord, stand back and let the coffin pass," cried, in his hurry and 
 confusion, " My lord, stand back and let the parson co'-igh." 
 
464 Appendix. 
 
 Cherry. 
 
 Andrew Cherry, having received an offer of an engagement 
 from a manager who had not behaved altogether well to him, 
 sent him word that "he had been bit by him once, and 
 he was resolved that he should not make two bites of A. 
 Cherry." 
 
 Rich. 
 
 Garrick once asked John Rich, the manager of Covent 
 Garden, how much he thought his theatre would hold. " I 
 could tell you to a shilling," said Rich, " if you would play 
 Richard in it" 
 
 Handel. 
 
 Great writers and poets have not always been distinguished 
 for their musical ear. Pope declared that " Handel's finest 
 performances gave him no more pleasure than the airs^ of a 
 common ballad-singer." Neither Johnson, Scott, nor Byron had 
 the least ear for music. 
 
 Elliston's Conceit. 
 
 " When you draw your parallels of great actors," said Ellis- 
 ton, addressing Moncrieff, whom he had requested to become 
 his biographer, "you will not fail to recollect that Garrick 
 could not sing — I can. That Lewis could not act tragedy — I 
 can. That Mossop could not play comedy — I can. That 
 Kean never wrote a drama — I have. Do not forget these 
 things, sir, but in mentioning my name you cannot help asso- 
 ciating with my name all that is memorable in the age in which 
 I flourished." 
 
 John Heywood, the Jester. 
 
 He seems to have been a man of great wit and pleasantry, 
 and very well calculated to innovate, as he did, upon the mys- 
 teries and moralities. He was the friend and favourite of 
 many eminent men in his time, particularly of Sir Thomas 
 More, who introduced him to the Princess Maiy. She, taking 
 a fancy to his lively wit, presented him to the King, Henry VIII., 
 whose jester he became. He was a bigoted Roman Catliolic ; 
 
Appendix. 465 
 
 and it is told of him that during the martyrdoms at Smithfield 
 he would entertain Queen Mary by narrating droll stories to 
 lighten the gloom her bloody acts shadowed her with. When 
 Elizabeth came to the throne, he hastened from the country, 
 fearing that his hypocrisy might be detected. He died at 
 Mechlin about 1565, the year after Shakspeare was born. 
 He wrote the following plays : — 
 
 _ I. " A Play between John the Husband, Tyb the Wife, and 
 Sir Johan the Priest." 
 
 2. " A Mery Play between the Pardoner and the Friar, the 
 Curate and Neighbour Plat." 
 
 3. " A Play called the four P's ; being a new and a very 
 merry Interlude between a Palmer, a Pardoner, a Poticary, 
 and a Pedlar." 
 
 4. " A Play of Genteelness and Nobility." 
 
 5. "A Play of Love." 
 
 6. "A Play of the Weather."— ZJzMw. 
 
 Heidegger. 
 
 Heidegger, Master of the Revels in King George I.'s reign, 
 was famous for his singular ugliness. The following trick was 
 once played off on him. The Duke of Montague, having in- 
 vited him to a tavern, made him drunk, and when he was 
 asleep had a mould of his face taken, from which was made a 
 mask, and the Duke provided a man of the same stature to 
 personate Heidegger at the next masquerade, when the King, 
 who was apprised of the plot, was to be present. On his 
 Majesty's entrance, Heidegger as usual bade the band strike up 
 " God save the King." But no sooner was his back turned 
 than the impostor bade them play " Over the water to Charley." 
 The company were thunderstruck, and Heidegger ran to set the 
 matter to rights, swearing that the band were drunk or mad, 
 and ordered them most peremptorily to recommence " God 
 save the King." The moment he retired, the false Heidegger 
 commanded " Over the water to Charley" again. The band 
 thought the master mad, but durst not disobey. This went on, 
 to the delight of the King and his courtiers, till, after the band 
 had been kicked out of the orchestra, and their commanding 
 officer driven half frantic, the counterfeit presentment stepped 
 forward and assured the King that he was the true Heidegger, 
 and that the other was only the devil in his likeness. The two 
 
 H H 
 
466 Appendix. 
 
 men were now confronted. The King pretended to incline to- 
 wards the pretensions of the false Heidegger, until the Duke of 
 Montague, in pity to the poor tormented fellow, who was now 
 stark inad with vexation, made the impostor unmask, and the 
 joke was laughed off; but not until Heidegger had obtained a 
 promise that the mask should be melted down iu his presence. 
 
 Wewitzer. 
 
 It is discreditable to the memory of Mrs. Coutts, afterwards 
 the Duchess of St. Albans, that when Wewitzer the actor, who 
 had been of great use to her during the courtship of Mr. Coutts^ 
 was in want, she turned a deaf ear to his application for relief, 
 and allowed him to die almost of starvation in a garret. Some 
 conception of this lady's fortune may be gathered when it is 
 known that she left to the Baroness Burdett-Coutts her fortune, 
 which it is said amounted in cash to 1,800,000/. 
 
 Listen. 
 
 The following advertisement from Listen appeared in the 
 newspapers in June, 1817, on the approach of his benefit: — 
 '■'■Mr. Liston to the Editor. — Sir, — My benefit takes place this 
 evening at Covent Garden Theatre, and I doubt not will be 
 splendidly attended. Several parties in the first circle of 
 fashion were made the moment it was announced. I shall 
 perform Fogrun in ' The Slave,' and Leporello in ' The Liber- 
 tine ;' and in the delineation of those arduous characters I 
 shall display much feeling and discrimination, together with 
 great taste in my dresses and elegance in my manners. The 
 audience will be delighted with my exertions, and testify by 
 rapturous applause their most decided approbation. When we 
 consider, in addition to my professional merits, the loveliness 
 of my person zxiA. fascination of my face, which are only equalled 
 by the amiability of my professional character, having never 
 pinched my children, nor kicked my wife out of bed, there is 
 no doubt but this puff will not be inserted in vain, I am, sir, 
 your obedient servant, J, Liston." 
 
Appendix. 467 
 
 Colley Gibber. 
 
 This player, who was often deficient in his part from making 
 too free with the bottle, was one evening sustaining a character 
 m a Roman tragedy. When he came to this passage, " I was 
 then in Rome," his memory failed him, and after several 
 meffectual attempts to recover the passage, and' receiving no 
 assistance from the prompter, he started aside, and seizing the 
 fellow by the collar, fairly dragged him forward, and pinching 
 his ear, exclaimed, " Hang you, you scoundrel, what was I 
 doing in Rome ? Why don't you tell me ?" 
 
 On Mrs. Abington. 
 
 (By Horace Walpole.) 
 
 Scarce had our tears forgot to flow, 
 
 By Garrick's loss inspired, 
 When Fame, to mortalize the blow, 
 
 Said Abington's retired. 
 
 Sad with the news, Thalia moum'd ; 
 
 The Graces joined her train ; 
 And nought but sighs for sighs return'd, 
 
 Were heard at Drury Lane. 
 
 But see — 'tis false ! in Nature's style 
 
 She comes, by Fancy dress'd ; 
 Again gives Comedy her smile. 
 
 And Fashion all her taste. 
 
 Tarleton. 
 
 Tarleton having run up a score at an alehouse in Sandwich, 
 made a servant-boy accuse him as a seminary priest, and so 
 contrived that the officers of justice, when they came in search 
 of hini, found him on his knees crossing himself These vigi- 
 lant ministers of justice, fancying they should make a 
 good thing of this discovery, paid his reckoning and conveyed 
 him to London ; but when he came before Fleetwood, the 
 R,ecorder, who knew him, and recognised in this trick one 
 of the well-known exploits of TarletoHj he not only discharged 
 him, but eeurteously entertained him in return for his witi 
 
 H H a 
 
4^8 Appendix. 
 
 Theatrical Riot. 
 
 In 1749 the following advertisement appeared in the 
 papers : — 
 
 " 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 common walking-cane 
 from any of the spectators, and thereon he plays the music of 
 every instrument now in use, and likewise sings to surprising 
 perfection. Secondly, 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 habits (if agreeable to them), and the per- 
 former (if desired) will inform them who they are. 
 
 Stage, 7j. dd. Boxes, 5^-. Pit, 3^. Gallery, 2s. 
 To begin half-an-hour after six o'clock." 
 A great crowd assembled, and sat patiently till nearly seven 
 o'clock, when, finding no performance to commence, they pro- 
 ceeded to raise their cat-calls. On this a person came forward 
 who promised the audience their money should be returned if 
 the performer did not appear. A man shouted out that if they 
 would come again the next night, at doubled prices, the con- 
 juror would go into a pint bottle. A candle was thrown on the 
 stage, which was the signal for a row. In the rush to escape 
 among the more peaceable, the Duke of Cumberland lost his 
 diamond-hilted sword, on which a cry was raised that " Billy 
 the Butcher had lost his knife." Boxes and benches were 
 then torn up, the curtains and scenes torn down, and an im- 
 mense bonfire made of them opposite the theatre entrance. 
 Next day the manager wrote a letter to the papers complaining 
 of the loss of his property, and protesting that he was the dupe 
 of an impostor. Samuel Foote is said to have been the wag 
 on this occasion. 
 
 Settle. 
 
 Elkanah Settle, who was educated at Trinity College, Oxford, 
 and who was at one time the rival of Dryden, having great lords 
 
Appendix. 469 
 
 for his patrons, and great ladies for his readers, was in the last 
 years of his life so reduced as to appear as a performer at a 
 booth in Bartholomew Fair, and in a farce called " St. George 
 of England," acted a dragon enclosed in a case of green leather 
 of his own invention. Yet his " Empress of Morocco," per- 
 formed at the Duke's Theatre, Dorset Gardens, met with a gi'eat 
 success, was acted at court by peers and peeresses, excited the 
 bitterest envy of Dryden, Crowne, and Shadwell, was defended 
 by the Duke of Buckingham and others, and was, I believe, 
 the first play " adorned with sculptures." He died in a work- 
 house. I have read, though I cannot quote my authority, that 
 at one time his way of picking up a living was by writing 
 elegies, with which he would wander about the streets, and 
 wherever he saw a funeral at a door, would enter and endeavour 
 to dispose of his elegiac doggrel to the mourners. 
 
 William Jackson. 
 
 Of William Jackson, who died in 1803, aged 73, Churchill 
 has bequeathed us the following character : 
 
 " Next Jackson came : — Observe that settled glare, 
 That better speaks a puppet tlian a player : 
 List to that voice ! did ever discord hear 
 Sounds so well fitted to her untuned ear ? 
 When to enforce some very tender part 
 The right hand sleeps by instinct on the heart ; 
 His soul, of every other thought bereft. 
 Is anxious only where to place the left. 
 He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse — 
 To soothe his weeping mother turns and bows. 
 Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill 
 Of moving gracefully, or standing still; 
 One leg, as if suspicious of his brother, 
 Desirous seems to run away from t'other." 
 
 George Anne Bellamy. 
 
 The career of this celebrated actress and beautiful woman is 
 singularly romantic, and should find a place in these pages. 
 She was the daughter of a woman of the name of Seal, by Lord 
 Tyrawley, and was born in 1773. She was put out to nurse 
 till she was two years old, and at the age of four was placed in 
 a convent at Boulogne. On her return to England she was 
 received by her father and introduced to his circle ; and on his 
 
4^70 Appendix. 
 
 being ordered abroad, be committed her to the care of a lady, 
 with strict injunctions that she should not see her mother. She, 
 however, disobeyed his lordship's request, and he renounced 
 her. Soon after. Rich of Covent Garden, having heard her 
 recite some passages in " Othello," offered her an engagement, 
 and she made her first appearance as Monimia. Quin and the 
 rest of the company treated her at the rehearsal with contempt, 
 but her performance in the evening was much applauded ; and 
 Quin, as an apology for his misapprehension of her powers, 
 offered her his sincere congratulations. She speedily achieved 
 a reputation and made the acquaintance of people of high rank, 
 among whom was Lord Byron, an ancestor of the poet, who 
 made overtures to her which she indignantly rejected. Byron, 
 enraged at her refusal, concerted a plot to. carry her off He 
 procured a noble earl to call upon her in Southampton Street, 
 
 who informed her that a Miss B , an intimate friend of hers, 
 
 was waiting for her in a coach, and wished to speak with her ; 
 but on going to the coach door, without hat or gloves, she was 
 suddenly hoisted into it by his lordship and carried off. The 
 coach stopped at the top of North Audley Street, at that period 
 a lonely district ; here she was compelled to alight and enter a 
 house. The earl went away, but presently returned, accom- 
 panied by her own brother, to whom she flew for protection, 
 but who repulsed her so violently that she fell to the ground 
 insensible. On regaining consciousness she found herself 
 attended by an old woman, who told her that her brother had 
 well thrashed the earl for his conduct, and that he had with- 
 drawn, vowing never again to see his sister, whom he believed 
 had consented to the elopement. The vvoman added that he 
 had threatened the earl with a prosecution, which had so 
 alarmed his lordship that he had given orders for her instant 
 removal. After various adventures she was engaged by Sheridan, 
 in 1745, to accompany him as a theatrical recruit to Ireland, 
 where she remained for two seasons, when she eloped with a 
 Mr. Meatham, whom she left later on for a Mr. Calcraft. Him 
 too she deserted for Digges the player, who married her, but 
 whom she subsequently discovered to have had a wife living. 
 Meanwhile her debts pressed heavily upon her, and to avert 
 the arrests with which she was perpetually threatened, she took 
 the name of Nash. Her next lover was Woodward, the harle- 
 quin, who on his death left her 7000/., the whole of which, ex- 
 cepting 59/., she lost through a lawsuit. She took leave of the 
 
Appendix. 47 1 
 
 stage in 1784, and died i6tli February, 1788. Slie printed in 
 1785 an apology for her life, of which the looseness hardly 
 qualifies the interest. Her veracity, however, is to be suspected. 
 
 Theophilus Cibber. 
 
 The annals of scoundrelism exhibit no worse illustration than 
 t.io behavioiir of this infamous person to iiis wife, the famous 
 Mrs. Cibber. His extravagance had plunged him into difficul- 
 ties ; and in order to raise money he introduced a gentleman 
 for whom he professed the greatest regard, to the embraces of 
 iiis wife, and then commenced proceedings against them, laying 
 the damages at 5000/. The jury found for the plaintiff, and 
 gave him — some say a farthing, but I believe ten pounds 
 damages. 
 
 Damned by a Line. 
 
 Dr. Parr used to tell the following story ; — A Mr. Greethead 
 wrote a tragedy which he called "The Regent." It came out 
 whilst the great question of the Regency was pending, and so hotly 
 debated by Pitt and Fox. Of course people flocked to see a 
 play with such a name, thinking, no doubt, it related to the great 
 party question of the day. But it was a Spanish story, and had 
 nothing to do with the Regency ; and everybody was disap- 
 pointed. Mrs. Siddons, by her excellent acting, kept it up for 
 some nights, but it was only a faint, languishing state of exis- 
 tence. At last some wags in the pit set up a laugh at some 
 ridiculous passage in the dialogue, and then it sank for ever. 
 Somebody asks one of the personages where he had left the 
 king, and is answered thus : — 
 
 " Within his tent, surrounded by z. friend 
 Or tivo, he sits and mocks at fortune." 
 
 Now, if the word had been attended, all would have been well ; 
 but the idea of a man surrounded by a friend or two was most 
 egregiously absurd. 
 
 Miss O'Neill. 
 
 A finely-chiselled Grecian countenance, dark glossy hair, a 
 skin smooth as monumental marble, and beautiful figure, gave 
 her every advantage which genius could covet for awakening 
 emotion ; but to these were added the very mental qualities 
 
472 Appendix. 
 
 \Yi:ich v/ere fitted to bring them forth ia full lustra, She was 
 not majestic and queen-like, like Mrs. Siddons — nor stately and 
 imposing, like Kemble ; she was neither the tragedy queen nor 
 tlie impassioned sultana. The tender woman was her real 
 character, and there she never was surpassed. She had not the 
 winning playfulness which allures to love, nor the fascinating 
 coquetry which confirms it ; but none ever possessed in a higher 
 degree the bewitching tenderness which affection, when once 
 thoroughly awakened, evinces in its moments of unreserve — or 
 tlie heartrending pathos with which its crosses and sufferings in 
 this world are portrayed. In the last scenes of jfuliet, Belvi- 
 dera, and Dcsdemona, nothing could exceed the delicacy, power, 
 and pathos of her performance. She was too young for Queen 
 Catherine — too innocent for Lady Macbeth ; but in Mrs. Haller 
 her powers, aided by her beauty, shone forth in the highest per- 
 fection ; and when she appeared on the boards of Covent 
 Garden in that character with John Kemble, whose older aspect 
 and bent figure so well suited her deserted husband as the 
 Stranger, a spectacle was exhibited such as no one ever saw 
 before, as no one will ever see again, and which did not leave 
 a dry eye in the whole audience. — Sir A. Alison. 
 
 Perdita (Mrs. Robinson). 
 
 For this lady, celebrated in her day for her beauty, her 
 singing, and her amours, room must be made in a work treating 
 of actors. Her maiden name was Darby. Her father had been 
 a captain in the Russian navy. At fifteen she married Mr. 
 Robinson, who shortly after their union got into the hands of 
 the bailiffs. It is said Mrs. Robinson passed fifteen months 
 with her husband in prison, during which time she had recourse 
 to her pen in the hope of earning money. As a last resource 
 from absolute penury, she turned her attention to the stage, and 
 procured an engagement at Drury Lane Theatre. The Prince 
 of Wales having seen her in the character of Pa-dita, fell in love 
 with her, and in return for her favours settled 500/. a year on 
 her, Avith 200/. on her daughter, for life. She then fell in love 
 with a person who squandered her money, and whom she one 
 night pursued in the dead of winter in a coach with the windows 
 open, by which she lost the use of her limbs, and could never 
 afterwards stand or walk. In Miss Hawkins's " Memoirs" a 
 graphic account is given of this woman. " She was," she says, 
 
Appendix. 473 
 
 "unquestionably very beautiful, but more so in the face than in 
 the figure ; and as she proceeded in her course she acquired a 
 remarkable facility in adapting her deportment to her dress. 
 When she was to be seen daily in St. James's Street or Pall 
 Mall, even in her chariot, the variation was striking. To-day 
 she was s. paysanne, with her straw hat tied at the back of her 
 head, looking as if too new to what she passed to know what 
 she looked at. Yesterday, perhaps, she had been the dressed 
 belle of Hyde Park, trimmed, powdered, patched, painted to 
 the utmost power of rouge and white lead ; to-morrow she 
 would be the cravated Amazon of the riding-house ; but be she 
 what she might, the hats of the fashionable promenaders swept 
 the ground as she passed. But in her outset ' the style' was a 
 high phaeton, in which she was driven by the favoured of the 
 day. Three candidates and her husband were outriders : and 
 this in the face of the congregations turning out of places of 
 
 worship About the year 1778 she appeared on the 
 
 stage, and gained from the character in which she charmed the 
 name of Perdita. She then started in one of the new streets of 
 Marylebone, and was in her altitude. Afterwards, when a 
 little in the wane, she resided under protection in Berkeley 
 Square, and appeared to guests as mistress of the house as well 
 as of its master. Her manners and conversation were said by 
 
 those invited to want refinement I saw her on one 
 
 day handed to her outrageously extravagant vis-d-vis by a man 
 whom she pursued with a doting passion ; all was still externally 
 brilliant : she was fine and fashionable, and the men of the day 
 in Bond Street still pirouetted as her carriage passed them : the 
 next day the vehicle was reclaimed by the maker ; the Adonis 
 whom she courted fled her : she followed — all to no purpose. 
 
 She then took up a new life in London, became literary 
 
 What was the next glimpse ? On a table in one of the waiting- 
 rooms of the Opera .House was seated a woman of fashionable 
 appearance, still beautiful, ' but not in the bloom of beauty's 
 pride / she was not noticed except by the eye of pity. In a 
 few minutes two liveried servants came to her, and they took 
 from their pockets long white sleeves, which they drew on their 
 arms ; they then lifted her up and conveyed her to her carriage 
 — it was the then helpless, paralytic Ferdita" She died on the 
 26th of December, 1800. 
 
4 74 Appendix. 
 
 Shiel and Young. 
 
 Shiel, the dramatist, an Irishman, one day being present at 
 a rehearsal where Charles Young was playing the hero, intend- 
 ing to give peculiar effect to a situation, cried out, " Here, Mr. 
 Young, you must draw your sword, and find you have not 
 got one 1" 
 
 Salaries of Actors. 
 
 A writer, in 1840, commenting on the state of the drama, 
 asserts that the first blow to the destruction of the great 
 theatres has been the extraordinary increase in the demands 
 of all kinds of actors ; and to illustrate the injustice of the 
 salaries then given, gives the following statistics of the pay- 
 ments made to actors of a preceding generation : — Munden, 
 Fawcett, Quick, Edwin, Jack Johnstone, and their class, re- 
 ceived 14/. a week; William Lewis, a superb comedian, 20/. 
 a week; Mathews, in 181 2, wrote, "Now to my offer, which I 
 think stupendous and magnificent, 1 7/. per week ; John Kemble, 
 36/. a week; Miss O'Neill, after achieving a good provincial 
 reputation, received 15/. at Covent Garden, and nevermore 
 than 25/. ; Cooke was paid 20/. a week; Mrs. Jordan, 31/. loj-. 
 a week ; Dowton, 12/., and never more than 20/. a week ; Miss 
 Stephens, 20/. a week. All these actors were first-rate. But 
 looking down the list we find Macready, in 1839, receiving 
 25/. a night; Power (1840), 120/. a week! Farren, at the 
 same period, 40/. a week. Listen, who began at 17/. a week, 
 ended by receiving 20/. a night ; and Miss Ellen Tree, " cer- 
 tainly a pretty and popular actress, was engaged by the Dniry 
 Lane manager, when lessee of both theatres, to play at both 
 for 15/. a week. She then went to America, returned after two 
 seasons, and even after this rustication she comes, demands, 
 and even actually obtains 25/. a night!" The same writer 
 says that, were it not for these heavy demands upon the 
 treasury of the management, the dramatic author would re- 
 ceive larger sums for his plays ; and instances the money paid 
 to authors in the days of Kemble and Suett by quoting 
 Colman, who received 1000/. for "John Bull;" Morton, 1000/. 
 for " Town and Country ;" Mrs. Inchbald, 800/. for " Wives 
 as they Were ;" and Reynolds for two works in one season 
 ('The Blind Bargain' and " Out of Place"), 1000/. 
 
Appendix. 475 
 
 Charles Dibdin. 
 
 Dibdin once gave a musical entertainment at Torbay, and 
 called the rooms in which it was given " Sans-Souci," wliich 
 gave occasion to the following verses : — 
 
 " What more conviction need there be 
 That Dibdin's plan will do ? 
 Since now we see him sans-souci 
 Who late was sans six-sous. " 
 
 Charles Mathews. 
 
 Mathews once arrived at a forlorn country inn, and, address- 
 ing a melancholy waiter, inquired if he could have a chicken 
 and asparagus? The melancholy waiter shook his head. 
 " Can I have a duck, then ?" " No, sir." " Have you any 
 mutton chops ?" " Not one, sir." " Then as you have nothing 
 to eat, bring me something to drink. Have you any spirits?" 
 "Sir," replied the man, with a deep sigh, "we are out of 
 spirits." "Then, in heaven's name, what have you got in the 
 house ?" " Sorry to say, sir, nothing but an execution." 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs, Cibber. 
 
 " I remember," says Miss Hawkins, " old Lady Lucy 
 Meyrick's being prevailed on — perhaps not less with reluctance 
 than George III. and his Queen — to see a tragedy, for the 
 sake of seeing Mrs. Siddons. We were curious to see what 
 impression had been made on her mind by that which so 
 forcibly impressed that of the public. She acknowledged the 
 execution of the character very fine, yet not to be com- 
 pared with what she remembered of former actors. In short," 
 she concluded, " I must say that, compared with Mrs. 
 Pritchard and Mrs. Cibber, Mrs. Siddons's grief is the grief of 
 a cheesemonger's wife !" 
 
 Edmund Kean and his Son. 
 
 The elder Kean on one occasion consented to appear at the 
 Glasgow Theatre for his son's benefit. The play chosen was 
 Howard Payne's tragedy of " Brutus," in which Kean took the 
 
47^ Appendix. 
 
 part of Brutus, and Charles Kean that of Titus. The house 
 was filled to overflowing, and the receipts were nearly 300/. 
 Charles Kean's biographer, Cole, says : " The stirring interest 
 of the play, combined with the natural acting of the father and 
 son, completely subdued the audience. They sat suffused in 
 tears during the last pathetic interview, until Brutus, over- 
 powered by his emotions, falls on the neck of Titus, exclaiming, 
 in a burst of agony, " Embrace thy wretched father !" when 
 they broke forth into prolonged peals of approbation. Edmund 
 Kean then whispered in his son's ear, " Charlie, we are doing 
 the trick 1" 
 
 David Ross.^ 
 
 I find the following anecdote in Pelham's " Chronicles of 
 Crime :" — " A gentleman, much dejected in his looks, called 
 one day on Ross, when stricken with years, and told him that 
 his father, a wealthy citizen in London, lay at the point of 
 death, and begged that he might see him, or he would not die 
 in peace of mind. Curious as this request appeared from a 
 stranger, and in such extremity, the actor hesitated ; but being 
 much pressed by his visitor, he agreed to accompany him. 
 Arrived at the house of the sick man, Mr. Ross was announced 
 and soon admitted ; but observing the family to retire, and 
 being left alone with the patient, his wonder was again 
 aroused. The dying penitent, now three score years and ten, 
 casting his languid eyes upon Ross, said, " Can it be you 
 who raised my fortune — who saved my life? Then were you 
 young like myself — ay, and amiable, amid the direst mis- 
 fortunes." Here nature, in a struggle with death, became 
 overpowered ; and as the sick man's head fell upon his pillow, 
 he faintly ejaculated, " O, Barnwell ! Barnwell !" We may 
 conceive the astonishment of the pla}'er, whom age had long 
 incapacitated from representing the unfortunate London 
 apprentice. The feeble man, renewing his efforts to gratify a 
 dying desire, again opened his eyes and continued : — " Mr. 
 Ross, some forty years ago, like George Barnwell, I wronged 
 my master to supply the unbounded extravagance of a 
 Millwood. I took her to see your performance, which so 
 shocked me that I silently vowed to break the connexion then 
 
 ' Born, 1728; died, 179a 
 
Appendix. 477 
 
 by ray side, and return to the path of virtue. I kept my reso- 
 lution, and replaced the money I had stolen before my villany 
 was detected. I bore up against the upbraidings of my 
 deluder, and found a Maria in my master^s daughter. We 
 married. I soon succeeded to my master's business, and the 
 young man who brought you here was the first pledge of our 
 love. I have more children, or I would have shown my gra- 
 titude by a larger sum than I have bequeathed you ; but take 
 a thousand pounds affixed to your name." At the dying man's 
 signal, old Ross left the room overwhelmed by his feelings. 
 
 Thomas Sheridan and the Gunnings. 
 
 The following anecdote, doubly interesting in that it concerns 
 the well-known actor, Thomas Sheridan, and the two celebrated 
 beauties, is given in the " Diary of a Lady of Quality :" — 
 " Mrs. Gunning consulted Sheridan as to what she should do 
 with her two beautiful but penniless daughters. He recom- 
 mended that they should be presented at the Castle. Here a 
 great difficulty occurred — by what possible means were they 
 to procure court dresses ? This Sheridan obviated. He was 
 at the time manager of the Dublin Theatre, and offered them 
 a loan of the stage dresses of Lady Macbeth and J^uliet. In 
 these they appeared most lovely ; and Sheridan, after having 
 attended the toilet, claimed a salute from each as his reward. 
 Very soon after this a most diabolical scheme was formed by 
 some unprincipled young men : they invited M.-s. Gunning and 
 her two daughters to dinner, and infused strong narcotics into 
 the wine, intending to take, advantage of the intoxication 
 which must ensue to carry off the two young women. For- 
 tunately, Sheridan discovered their base designs, and arrived 
 just in time to rescue the ladies. He lived to see one of these 
 girls Duchess of Argyll, and the other Countess of Coventry ; 
 and, it is melancholy to add, lived to see his application for 
 admission to their parties rejected." 
 
 Henry Russell. 
 
 Mr. Henry Russell, the accomplished composer of some of 
 the most stirring melodies in English music, was born, we 
 believe, about the year 181 5. At an early age he exhibited a 
 decided taste for the profession he subsequently adorned, which, 
 
478 Appendix. 
 
 being lemarked, induced his friends to send him to Italy, where, 
 under the direction of the maestro Rossini, he completed his 
 musical education. Returning to this country, he married, 
 about the year 1836, Miss Lloyd, a granddaughter of the well- 
 known Birmingham banker. He shortly after embarked with 
 his young wife for America, where he commenced a series of 
 entertainments. The novelty of these performances, coupled 
 with the impressive, brilliant, and original songs introduced 
 into them, and the great mimetic powers of the performer, con- 
 spicuously exhibited in his delineations of the Yankee, French, 
 Italian, and Negro characters, speedily achieved a great repu- 
 tation fdr Mr. Russell in the United States. On his return to 
 England he found that the echo of his fame had preceded him. 
 He met everywhere with the most enthusiastic reception, 
 and the announcement of his name, whether in London or in 
 the provinces, was sufficient to crowd the theatres. Such was 
 the popularity of his songs that they superseded for the time the 
 best known compositions of his predecessors. Since then he 
 has pursued his successful career throughout the three king- 
 doms, earning on all sides the approbation of the judicious and 
 the esteem of the wise, as a performer whose genius has always 
 been sincerely directed in the interests of truth, morality, and 
 religion. In the selection of the words of his songs, many of 
 which are written by our esteemed countryman, Mr. Charles 
 Mackay, Mr. Russell has shown considerable judgment ; in 
 them he has always kept particularly the working classes in 
 view — preaching in melodies wholesome maxims and wise 
 truths ; stirring hope by his " Good Time Coming, Boys !" 
 repressing vice — the vices of drinking [and gaming — by the 
 tragical inspirations of " The Dream of the Reveller," and 
 " The Gambler's Wife ;" animating patriotism by his immortal 
 " Britannia, the Pride of the Ocean ;" and awakening the best 
 feelings of the heart by such homely, soothing lyrics as " Wood- 
 man, Spare that Tree," " The Old Arm Chair," and by a host of 
 other songs which recur at once to the memory at the mention 
 of the name of Henry Russell. — The Modern Drama. 
 
 Singing once on behalf of a charity in the North of England, 
 Mr. Russell struck up the chorus of his popular song, "There's 
 a Good Time Coming, Boys 1" whereupon a thin, hungry man, 
 suddenly rising, called out, "Mr. Roussell, can yer fix the toime?" 
 Contretemps of this kind belong to the experiences of mosC 
 performers. " The Gambler's Wife" was a great favourite with 
 
Appendix. 479 
 
 Mr. Russell's audiences. The story is simple. It tells of a 
 woman who lies dying, with her baby at her breast, by the 
 extinct embers in the grate ; the husband is away at the gaming- 
 tables. On his return he finds his wife and child dead. Mr. 
 Russell had got to the most affecting portion of this song, and 
 had worked the audience into the deepest silence, vvhen a bony, 
 red-faced woman, jumping up, shouted out, " Wouldn't I have 
 fetched him home !" When such things happen before the 
 scenes, the performer is at least secure in knowing that it is the 
 audience who are in the wrong. But it is otherwise when the 
 incident occurs behind the scenes. Mr. Russell's delivery of 
 " The Maniac " always worked . a spell, upon his listeners ; yet 
 once, in singing this song, a drunken fellow who was at work 
 on the top of the panorama missed his footing, fell on the 
 stage, and rolled unharmed to the footlights, amid a scene 
 of dismay and merriment no singing could control. The 
 manipulation of the panorama, too, was sometimes trouble- 
 some. On more than one occasion Mr. Russell has stood, 
 with his back to the scene (as was his custom), pointing out to 
 an attentive audience the solemn and splendid effect of the 
 Falls of Niagara, when, had he looked at the picture he was 
 describing, he would have observed it to represent the interior 
 of a log-hut or negroes dancing in a plantation. — Jbid. 
 
 Ennobled Actresses. 
 
 In the "Remains" of James Smith, published in 1840, are 
 found some amusing verses on the marriages of the actresses of 
 his day who wedded noblemen or men of good position. Of 
 Miss iarren, who married the Earl of Derby, he says : 
 
 " Fan-en, Thalia's dear delight, 
 Can I forget the fatal night 
 
 Of grief unstained by fiction 
 (Even now the recollection damps), 
 When Wroughton led thee to the lamps, 
 
 In graceful valediction ?" 
 
 He next celebrates Miss Brunton, who married the Earl of 
 
 0)Tr\ven ' 
 
 " The Derby prize by Hymen -vioia. 
 
 Again the god made bold to run 
 
 Beneath Thalia's steerage ; 
 Sent forth a second Earl to woo, 
 And captivating Brunton, too, 
 
 Exalted to the peerage." 
 
480 Appendix. 
 
 Then follows Miss Searle, a good dancer and pantomime 
 actress, who married Mr. Heathcote, a fashionable man of his 
 day. He then turns to Miss Bolton : 
 
 " Thrice vanquished thus, on Thespian soil 
 Heart-whole from Cupid's toil 
 
 I caught a fleeting furlough : 
 Gay's Newgate Opera charmed me then ; 
 But Polly sa.r\g her requiem when 
 
 Fair Bolton turned to Thurlow." 
 
 Of Miss O'Neill : 
 
 " Those wounds some substitute might heal. 
 But what bold mortal bade O'Neill 
 
 Renounce her tragic station? 
 
 Stunned like a skater by a fall, 
 I saw with unconcern Hughes Ball 
 
 Elope with Mercandotte. " 
 
 Mercandotte was a beautiful Spanish danseuse, who married 
 Mr. Ball, a man of large fortune, who was commonly known as 
 " Golden Ball." The last stanza, written by another hand, 
 moiims Miss Stephens' marriage : 
 
 " Last of this dear, delightful list, 
 Most followed, wondered at, and missed 
 
 In Hymen's odds and evens : 
 Old Essex caged our nightingale, 
 And finished thy theatric tale, 
 
 Enchanting Kitty Stephens." 
 
 Charles Dibdin on the Actors. 
 
 If the merit of Shakspeare and his contemporaries main- 
 tained at least eight theatres at a time, there clearly must have 
 Deen a deplorable deficiency in the dramatic productions at the 
 Restoration, when two theatres at a time made so indifferent a 
 shift to get on that, in order to give strength to their perfor- 
 mances, they united, and thus all the dramatic merit of the 
 kingdom was concentrated in one company. The steps that led 
 to this union it will now be necessary to trace. Under the 
 patent granted to Killigrew, the actors were denominated tl"e 
 King's servants, and performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury 
 Lane. Sir William Davenant's company were called the Duke's 
 company, and they performed first at Lincoln's Inn Fields, and 
 afterwards at the Duke's Theatre, in Dorset Gardens, About 
 
Appendix. 48 1 
 
 ten of the King's company were on his Majesty's household 
 establishment. They were allowed scarlet cloth and lace for 
 their uniform, and were styled by the Lord Chamberlain Gentle- 
 men of the Grand Chamber. This distinction does not, how- 
 ever, appear to have been extended to the Duke's company. 
 Both were greatly respected and caressed at court. Of so much 
 consequence were they considered, and of such import to the 
 state appeared their establishment, that whenever there were any 
 disputes, either the King or the Duke in person condescended 
 to decide on them. 
 
 Davenant, finding his company weaken in the public estima- 
 tion, introduced what was then and is at this moment the disgrace 
 and reproach of the theatre. Operas and masques took the place 
 of tragedies and comedies, and to Psyche and Circe yielded 
 Cleopatra and Rosalind. 
 
 Before Sir William died he began the theatre in Dorset 
 Gardens, but did not live to see it finished. It was opened in 
 November, 1671, and in the following January, Drury Lane, 
 belonging to the King's company, was burnt down. It was 
 rebuilt and opened on the 26th of March, 1674. 
 
 " Dorset Gardens, by means of show and parade, obtained a 
 complete victory over Drury Lane, nature, and common sense. 
 This induced the King's company, who were severely galled at 
 such unmerited preference, to attempt at many expedients to 
 revenge themselves ; and among the rest, authors were employed 
 to parody and turn into ridicule the spectacles of the other house. 
 It has by some of the writers on the stage been mentioned that 
 Betterton belonged to the King's company; and when Sir 
 William Davenant produced scenes, that he went over to France 
 to procure others more splendid. The fact is, Betterton went 
 to France at the express command of the King, to try, by a 
 review of the French theatre, to add every possible improvemenl 
 to the Enghsh ; so that those scenes and decorations which 
 were really after the fire of London, improved the Duke's Theatra 
 so materially that it greatly contributed to the downfall of their 
 opponents. Though the performers at KiUigrew's Theatre had 
 been acknowledged on the whole as the best, they about this 
 time dwindled considerably. Some had quitted the sUge, 
 some had died, and the remainder were old and infirm. It 
 was at this favourable moment that Betterton, full of anxiety to 
 provide comfortably for his comrades, proposed to unite the 
 theatres, which un'on was at length effected. They now per 
 
 I I 
 
482 Appendix. 
 
 formed by the title of the King's servants, under Sir William 
 Davenant's patent. 
 
 " When the two theatres were established at the Restoration, 
 the King's company were supported, as principal performers, by 
 Hart, Moliun, Burt, Winterton, Lacy, Cartwright, and Clun, to 
 whom in a short time were added Haines, Griffin, Goodman, 
 and some others. The principal women were Mrs. Corry, Mrs. 
 Marshall, Mrs. Knapp, and afterwards Mrs. Boutel and Mrs. 
 Eleanor Gwyime. The Duke's company consisted of Betterton, 
 Sheppy, Kynaston, Nokes, Moseley, and Floyd, who had all 
 performed under Rhodes. Shortly afterwards they were rein- 
 forced by Price, Richards, and Blacden, and again by Smith, 
 Sandford, Metbourne, and others. The actresses were Mrs. 
 Davenport, Mrs. Saunders (whom Betterton married), Mrs. 
 Davies, and Mrs. Long, besides Mrs. Gibbs, Mrs. Norris, Mrs. 
 Holden, and Mrs. Jennings. 
 
 " Many of these actors, if we are to believe the most dis- 
 passionate and rational accounts of them, were not mere 
 auricular imitators, not mannerists, not copies of this or that 
 particular whim, fancy, deportment, voice, or manner, but judges 
 of nature through all her various workings, and close observers 
 of all the passions that move and actuate the mind of man. 
 Nay, more, they were all perfect and complete masters in those 
 different styles of acting in which they chose to display their 
 several abilities. These actors were the flower of that company 
 which united in 1684, at which time Hart, who also was an 
 excellent actor, had left the stage. Mohun was dead, and 
 several others were either dead or had retired. Goodman, 
 Clark, and many more might be spoken of with gi eat propriety ; 
 for it is a remarkable thing — which, by the way, I never saw since 
 I have known the stage but in the time of Garrick — that let the 
 situations be principal or subordinate, it was their study to be 
 respectable. The underlings felt like apprentices at a trade of 
 which every one hoped in time to become a master. They 
 thought it the height of absurdity to expect to arrive at perfec- 
 tion till it could be gradually attained ; they considered it as a 
 building in the air and ornamenting the structure before they 
 had lain the foundation." 
 
 [In 1 690 the united companies in Drury Lane were "convulsed 
 with intestine broils." The profits of the theatre were divided 
 into twenty shares, ten of which went to the ten proprietors, the 
 other ten to the actors. The proprietors proved hard task- 
 
Appendix. 483 
 
 masters ; tliey quarrelled with the actors, who, Setting subscrip- 
 tions on foot, built a theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields which they 
 opened in April, 1695, with Congreve's " Love for Love." The 
 success of the new theatre was splendid and protracted ; and by 
 the time the public curiosity had divided itself between the old 
 theatre and the new, a fresh school of performers, headed by 
 Gibber, may be said to have come in. Of these the greatest were 
 Wilks, Booth, Doggett, Estcourt, Norris, Keen, Milward, and 
 Griffith. Speaking of these actors generally, Dibdin pronounces 
 them as men who suppKed the genuine requisites of their art by 
 sound judgment and strong discernment.] 
 _ " The dearth of great excellence in acting from Gibber's seces- 
 sion to the time of Gamck's approach gave me but little 
 opportunity of going into that subject, and I now take it up 
 merely to join the chain together, so that the reader's view of the 
 comparative merit of actors may be collected and undisturbed. 
 Many of the actors and actresses ranked respectably, but that 
 was all. Among these were, as we have seen, Keen, Milward 
 the elder and younger. Mills, Johnson, Bowman, Thurmond, 
 Walker, Wright, Bullock, and Mrs. Bullock and others, most of 
 whom were brought forward to England from Ashbury's nursery 
 in Ireland, which certainly promoted very materially the interest 
 of the stage. The public, however, were obliged to be content 
 with these and a few more till the time of Fleetwood, when the 
 later shoots from Ashbury's stock began to emancipate and 
 .expand in English soil. 
 
 " F'rom this time the English stage began to know, among many 
 others, Macklin, Quin, Ryan, Delane, Hulet, and afterwards 
 Sheridan, Digges, Sparks, Barry, Mossop, and Woodward among 
 the men, and Mrs. Bellamy, Mrs. Glive, and Mrs. Woffington 
 among the women ; besides Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Gibber, 
 and a large addition of names somewhat respectable, though less 
 eminent than those I have mentioned. 
 
 " It seems to be evident that acting, having fallen off from the 
 death of Booth and the secession of Gibber, never regained its 
 natural tone till the public saw a perfect model for imitation in 
 Garrick. Macklin was surely a turgid, heavy actor, with 
 neither real dignity in tragedy nor native humour in comedy. 
 Quin was still in stilts, and proved that though acting com- 
 prehends the whole of oratory, oratory by no means com- 
 prehends the whole of acting. Ryan was a very sensible 
 man, and a most respectable member of society, and upon 
 
 I I 2 
 
484 Appendix. 
 
 this account he was probably encouraged greatly beyond his 
 
 professional merit 
 
 " I come now to consider when acting was in its greatest 
 prosperity, and I think it will not be difficult to prove that 
 moment to have been at the time of Gan-ick, and, upon the 
 whole, after his return from Italy. His great example had been 
 long operating on the minds of others, and when practice had 
 grown into maturity, every point of excellence appears to have 
 been attained. We are told that Betterton was taught by 
 Taylor, Booth by Betterton, and Quin by Booth. Garrick, 
 however, seems only to have been taught by nature ; and in 
 spite of all we can gather of the extraordinary merits of 
 Shakspeare's contemporary actors, of those afterwards undei 
 Betterton, and onward to the end of Gibber's management, there 
 does not appear a demonstrative reason to suppose that acting 
 reached its consummation till the appearance of Garrick." 
 
INDEX. 
 
 ABINGTON, Mrs., 159; Gar- 
 ■'"*■ rick's dislike of, 159 ; her 
 
 acting, 160 ; her Lady Teazle, 
 
 1 60 
 Account of Moody, 149 
 Acting, odd style of, 70 ; Quin's, 
 
 73 ; Holcroft's, 66, n. 
 Actors, Shakspearian, 4, «. ; con- 
 dition of in 1760, 99, «. 
 
 ,, Conversation of, 248 
 
 ,, Longevity of, 265 
 Actress, First, 11, «. 
 Addison, Joseph, 15, 38 ; life of 
 
 quoted, 55 
 Addressing Audiences, 295 
 Adolphus, John, 369 
 Aguei-heek, Sir A., Woodward's, 
 
 121 ; Dodd's, 189 
 Alexander, J. H., Memoir of, 
 
 375. 376 
 
 Alicia, Mrs. Porter's, 53 
 
 Alison, Sir A., 413 
 
 Alleyne, E., 2 ; his fortune, 3 ; 
 his charities, 3 
 
 America, Kean in, 345 
 
 Ana, 52, 68, loi, 131, 136, 142, 144, 
 14s. 147. 150. 164, 171, 179, 191, 
 202, 211, 214, 226, 237, 243, 249, 
 251, 254, 256, 257, 258, 261, 267, 
 271, 273, 277, 282, 284, 288, 29s, 
 296, 301, 304 
 
 Antigone, Miss Faucit's, 409 
 
 Ame, Dr., 94, 95 
 
 Art Journal, The, 411 
 
 Ashbury, J., 19 
 
 ASTLEY, Philip, 194; his vulgarity, 
 194 
 
 Astley, Mrs., 194 
 
 Aston, Ant., 15, 29, 58 
 
 "DADDELEY, R., 161; his legacy, 
 161; Foote's joke on, 162 
 
 Baddeley, Sophia, 192 ; her beauty, 
 193; her acting and voice, 193, 
 194 
 
 Bakewell, Miss, 383 
 
 Bannister, J., no; his actin£^ 
 266 ; his description, 269 
 
 Bannister, C, 181 ; memoir of, 
 182, 183, 184, 185 
 
 Barry, Mrs., 12, 17 ; elegant 
 dresser, 56 ; her acting, 57 ; ac- 
 count of her life, 57 ; her descrip- 
 tion, 58 ; connexion with Lord 
 Rochester, 58 
 
 Barry, Spranger, 127 ; his Romeo, 
 127 ; his description, 127 ; Davies' 
 opinion of, 128 ; his last appear- 
 ance, 128 ; his Othello, 128 
 
 Bartleman, J., his singing, 287 ; 
 his vicious habit, 288 
 
 Bartley, Mrs., 337 ; her acting, 
 
 338 
 
 Bartholomew Fair, Account of, 
 102 
 
 Barnes, Joshua, 315 
 
 Bayes, in " The Rehearsal," 40 
 
 Beard, John, 106 ; the best Eng- 
 lish singer, 106 ; his marriage, 
 107 
 
 Beau, a crushed, 59 
 
 Beauty, Kynaston's, 9 ; Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle's, 29 ; Mrs. Gwynue's, 24, 
 
 25 
 Beckford, Lord Mayor, 163 
 Bedford, Paul, 377 ; a hearty 
 
 actor, 378 
 Becher, Lady (see Miss O'Neill) 
 Beefsteak Club, the, 36 
 
486 
 
 Index. 
 
 "Beggars' Opera," 78 ; account of, 
 86 
 
 Behn, Mrs., 28 
 
 Bell, Robert, 400 
 
 Bellamy, G. A., 165 ; her quarrel 
 with Mrs. Woffington, 165 ; 
 Quin's behaviour to, 166 ; last 
 appearance, 167 ; George III. 
 and, 167 ; her goodness, 167 
 
 Belvidera, Mrs. Barry's, 58 
 
 Benefit-play, the first, 58 
 
 Bensley, W., 178 ; his acting, 178 ; 
 joke on, 179 ; his solemnity, 
 179 ; Bannister and, 180 ; as 
 Malvolio, 181 ; a croaker, 181 
 
 Bernard, Bayle, 400 
 
 Beriy, Miss, 293, 347 
 
 Betterton, Mrs., 12 
 
 Betterton, Thomas, 13 ; his per- 
 son, 15 ; parts created by, 18 ; 
 anecdote of, 55 
 
 Betty, Master, 363 ; Elliston and 
 Fox's opinion of) 363 ; North- 
 cote's opinion of, 363 ; his acting, 
 364 ; his oddities, 365 ; his first 
 appearance, and salary, 365, 366 
 
 BcRierky, Mrs., Mrs. Siddons's, 
 227 
 
 Bickerstaif, Isaac, 199 
 
 Biffin, Miss, 336; curious anecdote 
 
 of. 336, 337 
 BiLLiNGTON, Mrs., her singing, 
 291 ; Reynolds's portrait of, 291 ; 
 her beauty, 293 ; Haydn and, 
 
 293 
 
 Blac/twood's Magazine, 46, 54, 97> 
 140, 149 
 
 Blake, Miss, 383 
 
 Boaden, James, 67, 91, 100, 173, 
 186, 196, 217, 250, 291 
 
 Blessington, Lady, 391 
 
 Bolton, Duchess of {see Miss Fen- 
 ton) 
 
 Bolton, Miss (see Lady Thurlow) 
 
 Bond, William, 439 
 
 Booth, Barton, his attractiveness, 
 54 ; his Caio, 54 ; anecdote 
 of, 55 ; his marriage with Miss 
 Santlow, 56 ; his gluttony, 56; his 
 particular genius, 56 
 
 Booth, L. J. B., 373 ; contest with 
 Kean, 374 ; his acting, 374, 375 
 
 Boswell, James, 78, 9! 
 
 Boucicault, Dion, 417 
 
 Boutwell, Miss, 165 
 
 Bowen, Mr., 70 
 
 Bkacigirdle, Mrs., 17, 28; Car- 
 lick s opinion of, 29, n. ; her 
 virtue, 30, n. 
 
 Bradbury, R., 303 
 
 Bradshaw, Mrs., 58 
 
 Braham, John, his singing, 303 ; 
 use oi falsetto, 304; anecdote c', 
 305 ; memoir of, 307 ; his acti'a;^, 
 308 
 
 Brunton, Miss, 335 ; memoir of, 
 
 335. 335 
 Britton, Tom, 26 
 Buckingham, Duke of, 40 
 " Bucks have at ye, all," 186 
 BucKSTONE, Mr., 385 
 Bunn, Alfred, 36S 
 Burbage, R., 4 
 Burke, Master, 386 
 Burnett, Bp., 23 
 Burial, Suett's, 254 
 Burney, Dr., 97, 144 
 
 ,, Miss, 229 
 Butler, Mrs. (see Fanny Kemble) 
 Byron, Lord, 225, 234, 273 
 
 (^AMPBELL, T., 13, 24, 29, 53, 
 
 '^ 57, 60, 72, 103, 170, 206, 243, 
 267, 274 
 
 Campion, Miss {Mrs. Pope), 271 
 
 Canning, Mrs., 425 
 
 Captain Plmne, Ryan's, 76 
 
 Carleton, William, 410 
 
 Carry, Dr., 8 
 
 Cassandra, Mi's. Barry's, 58 
 
 Catley, Anne, 195 ; her appear- 
 ance, 195 ; her singing, 195 ; her 
 eccentric behaviour, 196 ; memoir 
 of, 195 
 
 '= Cato," 54 
 
 Chambers, 370 
 
 CiiARKE, Charlotte, 88 
 
 " Charles I.," tragedy of, 92 
 
 Chatterton, Thomas, 163 
 
 Cherry, Andrew, 289 ; his y^rc, 
 289 ; memoir of, 289 ; his poverlv, 
 290 
 
 Chetwood's " History of the Stage," 
 
index. 
 
 4^7 
 
 6, 20, 28, 32, 33 ; connexion 
 with Diury 'Lane, 33, »., 38, 39, 
 43. 46, 53. 56,.6i, 64, 70, 76, 79, 
 80, 81, 98, 127, 133 
 
 " Chronicles," SirR. Baker's, 2, 4 
 
 Churchill, Charles, 52, 64, 70, 90, 
 92, 99, 102, no, 133, 146, 162, 
 170, 176 
 
 Churchill, General, 62 
 
 CiBEER, Colley, 12, 16, 29, 40, 43 ; 
 his conversation, 44 ; his acting, 
 44 ; as a manager, 45 ; his person, 
 45 ; his poetry, 45, 57, 59, in 
 
 ClDBER, Theo., 83 ; his acting, 83; 
 his character, 83 
 
 ClBBER, Mrs., 94 ; her sameness, 
 94 ; her description, 94 ; her 
 Ophelia, 95 ; her likeness to Gar- 
 rick, 95 ; memoir of, 96 
 
 " Clear Stage and no Favour," 72 
 
 "Cleomenea," Dryden's, 57 
 
 Cleopatra, Mrs. Barry's, 58 ; Mrs. 
 Oldfield's, 6i 
 
 CuvE, Mrs., 98 ; first appearance, 
 98 ; her acting, 99 ; her humour, 
 100; her temper, 101, 113 ; her 
 opinion of Mrs. Yates, 1 76 
 
 Clown, superiority of Tarleton's, 2 
 
 "Coat and Badge," Doggett's, 47 
 
 Collier, Payne, 4 
 
 Colman, George, 45, 49 ; notice of, 
 139, 191, 263, 269 
 
 Combe, the poet, 226 
 
 Concerts, 26 
 
 Conversation, Burbage's, 4 
 
 Conversationists, brilliant, 119 
 
 Cook, Dutton, 28, 30 
 
 Cook, Tom, 334, 448 
 
 Cooke, G. F., 234 ; his career, 235 ; 
 his figure, &c., 236 ; his Richard, 
 237 ; his insolence, 237 
 
 Cooke, translator of " Hesiod," 136 
 
 Cooper, John, 439 
 
 Corbaccio, Parsons', 173 
 
 Correspondence, Rogers's, 224 
 
 Comelys, Madame, 192, n. 
 
 Costume, Stage, 244 
 
 Coutts, Mr., the banker, 320 
 
 Covent Garden Theatre, 5 1 
 
 Cox, Robert, 5 
 
 Crabtree, the original, 1 73 
 
 Craven, Countess of f^see Miss Brunton) 
 
 Craven, Earl of, 336 
 
 Crawford, Mrs., 167; appearance 
 in old age, 168 ; her Lady Ran- 
 dolph, 168 ; account of her life, 
 168, 169; her acting, 169 
 
 Criticisms, value of Dibdin's, 19, n. 
 
 Croker, J. W., 194, 241 
 ,, Crofton, 330, 331 
 
 Cumberland, Richard, 72, 95 
 
 Curious performance, 103, n. 
 
 CuSHMAN, Miss Charlotte, 408, 
 409 
 
 Cuzzoni, the singer, 99 
 
 "r)ANCE, Miss, 383 
 
 Dancer, Mrs. {see Mrs. Cravif- 
 ford) 
 
 Davenant, Sir W. , 1 1 
 
 Davenport, Mrs., 265; first ap- 
 pearance, 265 
 
 Davies, Moll, 23, «. 
 
 Davies, Thomas, 3, 4, 32, 44, 50, 
 54, 73. 77. 78, 82, 83 ; his acting, 
 90 ; his description, 91, 97, 100, 
 125, 133, 162, 172, 221, 234, 267 
 
 Davis, "Jew," 438 
 
 Deaths on the stage, 203 
 
 Defective ear, Mrs. Barry's, 57 
 
 De Quincey, 409 
 
 D'Eon, Chevalier, 89 
 
 Delane, Dennis, 8l ; account of. 
 Si ; his acting, 82 
 
 Derby, Countess of {see Miss Farren) 
 
 Diary, Pepys', 7, 9, 12, 13, 22, ». 
 ,, Moore's, 252 
 
 DiBDiN, Charles, 2, 3, 7, 8, 11, 13, 
 19, 26, 28, 31, 33, 37,39.41.43. 
 47. 52. 55. 58, 62, 68, 74, 78, 83, 
 84, 89, 98, 133, 162, 169; notice 
 of, 198 ; his entertainment, 199 ; 
 his songs, 199, 200 ; his poverty, 
 200 
 
 Dickens, Charles, 404 
 
 " Dictionary of Musicians," 283, 284 
 
 DiGGES, West, 130 ; his Cardinal 
 Wolsey, 130 ; Foote's joke on, 
 131; his Macheath, 131; his 
 Caraicuh, 131 
 
 DiGNUM, C, 283 ; his acting, 2S3, 
 284 ; memoir of, 284 ; his paren- 
 tage, 284 
 
488 
 
 Index. 
 
 D'Israeli, Isaac, I, 6, 14, 49 
 DoDD, J., 189; a perfect fop, 189; 
 
 his wit, 189 ; his acting, 190 
 DoGGETT, T., 47; his birth, 48; 
 
 his humanity, 48 
 Donaldson, W., 123, 127, 217, 218, 
 
 244, 266 
 Doran, Dr., 29, 35, 42, 56, 71, 77, 
 
 121, 179, 341, 402 
 DoWTON, W., 277 ; his Falstaff, 
 
 278 ; his acting, 278; his temper, 
 
 278 
 Dramatic anecdotes, 2, 76 
 ,, censor, 75 
 
 ,, Miscellanies, Davies's, 130 
 Dress, S. Barry's, 128 
 Drolls, Cox's, 5 
 Drury Lane Theatre, 45 
 Dryden, John, 57 
 Dublin tjnivei-sity Magazine, 412 
 Duke of Cumberland and Foote, 140 
 
 ,, of Clarence, 272 
 
 ,, of Newcastle, 402 
 Dulwich college, 3 
 "Dunciad," the, 86 
 
 ""PARLY Days of Edmund 
 -'-' Kean,"289 
 
 " Eccentric Biography," 196 
 
 Edwin, J., 214 ; burletta singer, 
 214 ; his licence with the audience, 
 215 ; his acting, 215 
 
 Elizabeth, Mrs. Porter's, 53 
 
 Elliston, R. "W., his Falstaff, 290, 
 291 ; his amours, 291 ; a gentle- 
 man, 294 ; a good companion, 
 295 ; his figure, 295 ; his gene- 
 ral conduct, 298 ; his perennial 
 youth, 299 
 
 Elmy, Mrs., 152 
 
 Elrington, T., 62; anecdote of, 
 63 ; description of, 64 
 
 Ellington, Joseph, 63, 64 
 ,, Richard, 63 
 
 Emery, J., 327 ; his Tyke, 327 ; 
 his Yorkshiremen, 328 ; memoir 
 of, 329 ; want of keeping, 329 
 
 Entertainment, Dibdin's, 199 
 
 „ C. Mathews', 313, 314 
 
 Epicurism, Quin's, 71, n. 
 
 Erskine, Lord, 216, 228 
 
 EsTCOURT, R., 36 ; his mimicry, 
 
 37 ; his plays, 38 
 Evans, John, 69 ; his high spirit, 80 
 Evelyn's " Memoirs," 23 
 
 "PALSTAFF," Quin's, 73; 
 ■^ Henderson's, 205 
 
 Farquhar, G., 41 
 
 Farewell performance, Mrs. Sid- 
 dons's, 228 
 
 Farren, Miss, 166 ; her appear- 
 ance, 261 ; her farewell, 262 
 
 Farren, W., 339 
 
 Faucit, Miss, 409 ; memoir of, 
 
 409, n. 
 
 Faucit, Helen, 409 ; her Antigone, 
 409 ; her Lady Macbetk, 409, 413; 
 her acting, 410 ; her Constance of 
 Bretagne, 410 ; her artistic genius, 
 
 410, 41 1 ; her command over the 
 resources of her art, 411 ; her 
 beauty, 412 ; Mr. Martin's sonnet 
 to, 413 ; Mr. Arthur Helps on, 
 
 413. 414 
 
 Fawcett, John, his acting, 290 ; a 
 great comedian, 291 
 
 Fechter, C, 419 
 
 Fenton, Lavinia, 86 ; her Polly, 87 
 
 Fielding, Henry, 59, 99 
 
 Fine lady, Mrs. Mountford's, 40 
 
 First appearance, Mrs. Siddons's, 
 231 
 
 Fisher, Clara, 386 
 
 Fitzgerald, Percy, 42, 49, 66, 72, 
 77, 100, 171, 200, 419 
 
 Flecknoe, 4 
 
 Fletcher, George, 4x0; his "Studies 
 of Shakspeare," 410 
 
 Fondlewife, Foote's, 137 ; Mrs. Jef- 
 ferson's, 165 
 
 Fools, 2, n. 
 
 Foote, Maria, 376 ; her acting, 
 376, 377 
 
 Foote, Samuel, 76, 114 ; his 
 humour, 134; his infidelity, 134; 
 a caricaturist, 135 ; good com- 
 pany, 135 ; his wit, 135, 140 ; his 
 scholarship, 136; his acting, 137; 
 his habits, 138 ; Cooke's introduc- 
 tion of, 138 ; his wooden leg, 
 139 ; his death and burial, 139 ; 
 
Index. 
 
 489 
 
 his presentiment of death, 139 ; 
 great master of comic humour, 
 140 ; his mimicry, 141 ; Foote 
 and the archbishop, 141, 183 
 
 GABRIELLI, 208 
 Gahagan, original ^iVfOj/Zi?, 138 
 Gait, John, 206 
 
 Garrick, David, 48, 72, 91 ; his 
 description, 107 ; his charitable- 
 ness, 109 ; his parsimony, 109 ; 
 his Lear, 1 10 ; his emotions before 
 Pope, no ; his Hamlet and Abel 
 Di-ugger, III; Gibber's jealousy 
 of. III ; a pleasing companion, 
 112; Murphy's opinion of, 112 ; 
 Smollett on, 112; Warburton on, 
 112; his learning, 113 ; his face 
 and person, 114; liSsjeux d' esprit, 
 114; Mrs. Olive on his acting, 
 114 ; a true actor, 115 ; Cumber- 
 land's description of, 113 ; his 
 deaf man, 116; Walpole's con- 
 tempt for, 1 1 7 ; his general genius, 
 118; Hs, Othello, 118; a thorough 
 actor, 119; Bannister's interview 
 with, 267 
 
 Garrick, Mrs., account of her death, 
 107, n. 
 
 " General Biographical Dictionary,'' 
 61 
 
 Generosity, Quin's, 74, 78 
 
 Genest's Account of the English 
 Stage, 39 
 
 George III., 111 
 
 GiFFARD, Henry, 79, 83 
 
 Gladstone, W. E., 402 
 
 Glover, Mrs., 333 ; as Hamlet, 
 333 ; the ablest actress, 334 ; her 
 stoutness, 334 
 
 Godwin, William, 176 
 
 Goodman, 34 ; a highwayman, 35 
 
 Goodman's Fields Theatre, 108, 305 
 
 Grant, Mrs., 362 
 
 Grattan, T. €., 345 
 
 Grave, Mrs. Oldfield's, 62 
 ■ Graves of actors, 437 
 
 Gray, the poet, 1 1 1 
 
 Green, Mrs., 440 
 
 Griffiths, anecdote of, 443 
 
 Grose, Francis, i 
 
 GWYNNE, E., 22 ; her indiscretion, 
 23 ; her benevolence, 24 ; her 
 portraits, 24 ; anecdote of, 25 
 
 ■pJACKNEY-COACHMAN and 
 ^^ Rich, 50 
 Haydn, 293 
 Haines, Joseph, 21 
 Hallam, Miss (see Mattocks) 
 Hamilton, Mrs., her vulgarity, 
 
 151, 152 ; memoir of, 153 
 Hamlet, Betterton's, 14, 16 ; C. 
 
 Kemble's, 310 ; Young's, 326 
 Harlequin, 48 
 Harley, J. P., 341 
 Harrington, Countess of {see Miss 
 
 Foote) 
 Harrop, Miss, 225 
 Hart, 21, 33 ; Betterton's com- 
 I pHment to, 33 
 Hartley, Mrs, 221 ; her great 
 beauty, 221, 222 ; memoir of, 223 
 Howard, W., 92; as an author, 
 
 93 ; his acting, 93 
 Hawkins, Miss, 108, 288 
 Haydon, B. R., 229, 269 
 Haymarket Theatre, 136 
 Hazlitt, W., 187, 228, 274 
 Henderson, J., 205 ; his reading, 
 205 ; his acting, 205 ; Garrick's 
 ■opinion of, 205 ; his memory, 
 206 ; bad stage manners, 207 ; 
 effect ofhis acting on George HI., 
 207, 227 
 Hermione, Mrs. Porter's, S3 
 Hey wood, T., 6 
 Hill, Aaron, 56 
 Hogarth, George, 406 
 Holcroft, T., 66 
 
 Holland, Charles, 162; his ap- 
 pearance, 162 ; his acting, 163 
 Holland and Macklin, 164 
 HOLMAN, J. G., memoir of, 276; 
 majestic air of, 276; Macklm 
 and, 277 ; his Lothario, 277 
 Home, John, 217 
 Hood, Thomas, 315 
 Hook, Theodore, 255, 317 
 Hoole, John, 124 
 Hotspur, Bensley's, 178 
 HuLET, Charles, 82 
 
490 
 
 index. 
 
 Hull, M>., 222 
 
 Hunt, Leigh, 36, 39, 58, 66, 92, 
 
 102, 170, 238, 273, 279 
 Hurst's "Biographies," 89 
 
 " TAGO," Cooke's, 236 ; Kem- 
 ^ ble's, 241 
 
 "lanthe," 13, n. 
 
 Illiteracy, Mrs. Clive's, 100, n. 
 
 Inchbald, Mrs., memoir of, 364 
 
 Incledon, B. C, his vanity, 278 ; 
 his vulgar appearance, 279 ; me- 
 moir of, 28.0, 281 ; his humour, 
 282 ; his singing, 282 ; Cooke 
 and, 282 ; his voice, 283 
 
 Incledon, young, 281 ' 
 
 Infidelity, Foote's, 134 
 
 Ireland, W. H., 331 
 ,, the vaulter, 51 
 
 Irishmen, Jack Johnstone's, 226 
 
 JACKSON of Exeter, 223 
 Jc'-ffi^^t Young's, 326 
 
 Jefferson, Mrs., her extraordinary 
 beauty, 164 
 
 Jerrold, Douglas, 23, 399 
 
 Jesse's "London," 16, «., 55, l88 
 
 Jews, Astley's, 256 
 
 Johnson, B., 31 ; his parts, 32 
 
 Johnson, Dr., 14, 41, 43, 53, 91, 
 98, 103, 132, 134, 225 
 
 Johnston, H., 216; first appear- 
 ance, 216; his acting, 217; 
 curious accident, 217, 218 
 
 Johnstone, J., 218 ; his Irishmen, 
 218 ; Suett and, 218 ; memoir of, 
 219, 220 ; first occasion of acting 
 Irishmen, 221 
 
 Johnstone, the machinist, 49 
 
 Jokes, T. Hook's, 317 
 
 Jones, R., 332 ; lines on, 332 ; 
 first appearance, 333 
 
 Jonson, Ben, 3 
 
 Jordan, Mrs., 272 ; liaison with 
 the Duke of Clarence, 272 ; her 
 acting, 273 ; how she acquired 
 her name, 273 ; Sir J. Reynolds 
 on, 274 ; her appearance and 
 figiu'e, 275 
 
 Joseph Surface, Palmer's, 20 j 
 
 "Journal of " London Playgoer," 
 341 
 
 TZ" EAN, Edmund, 252 ; his 
 Richard, 341 ; his acting, 341, 
 342, 343, 344, 352 ; anecdotes 
 of, 344. 345 ; as a chUd, 346 ; 
 memoir . of, 347 ; anecdote of, 
 348 ; his Shylock, 349 ; his in- 
 come and exti'avagance, 35 1 ; 
 Fanny Kemble's opinion of, 352 
 
 Kean, Charles, 402 ; Gladstone 
 on, 402 ; his character, 403 ; his 
 acting, 404 
 
 Kean, Mrs. C. {see Ellen Tree) 
 
 Keely, Robert, 372 ; a genuine 
 comedian, 373 
 
 Kelly, F., her description, 356; 
 her Juliet, 356 ; memoir of, 357 
 
 Kelly, Lydia, 384 
 
 ,, Michael, his Reminiscences, 
 426, 427, 428 
 
 Kemble, John, 205, 239 ; memoir 
 of, 239 ; his unpopularity, 241 ; 
 his Stranger, 242 ; brilliant de- 
 livery, 242 ; his marriage, 243 ; 
 an entertaining companion, 243 ; 
 wrong choice of parts, 243 ; Cor- 
 rection of costume, 244 ; Cooke 
 and, 245 ; his acting, 245 ; ac- 
 count of his perfonnances, 246, 
 247 ; the O. P. riots, 247 ; his 
 dulness, 248 ; Scott's opinion of, 
 249 ; a poor writer, 249 ; his 
 description, 249 ; anecdote of his 
 humour, 249 
 
 Ke.mble, Charles, 309 ; his acting, 
 309 ; his figure and appearance, 
 310; his daughter's opinion of his 
 acting, 311 
 
 Kemble, Mrs. C, 310 
 
 Kemble, Stephen, 250 ; his fatness, 
 250; his Othello, 251 ; his hu- 
 mour, 252 ; his Falstaff, 253 
 
 Kemble, Mrs. Stephen, 250 
 
 Kemble, Frances, 232, 311 ; her 
 first appearance, 400 ; her de- 
 scription, 400 ; John Wilson'? 
 opinion of, 401 ; Scott's, 401 ; 
 Thomas Moore's, 402 
 
 Keen, W., 36 
 
 "Keeto," 7S 
 
Index. 
 
 491 
 
 KiLLlGREW, T.; 7; his mode of 
 seeing plays, 9, «. 
 
 King, Thomas, 157 ; his declama- 
 tion, 157 ; his acting, 158 
 
 Kirkman, F., 5 
 
 ,, ' 's Life of Macklin, 204 
 
 Knight, Edward, 300 ; memoir of, 
 300, 301, 302 
 
 Knipp, Mrs., 9, n. 
 
 Kyn ASTON, E., 9 ; Gibber's ac- 
 count of, 10 
 
 T ACEY, John, 11; his plays, ii, 
 ^-' 12 
 
 Lacy, Miss, 384 
 
 Lacy, "Walter, 397 ; memoir of, 
 
 397. 398, 399 ; his Mercutio, 399 ; 
 
 his Don Salluste, 399 ; his Touch- 
 stone, 400 
 Lacy, Mrs. Walter (see Miss 
 
 Taylor) 
 Lady Betty Modish, Mrs. Oldfield's, 
 
 6r 
 Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Porter's, 53 ; 
 
 Miss Helen Faucit's, 410, 413 
 Lamb, Charles, 156, 178, 204, 242, 
 
 254. 273, 277, 299 
 Lambert, the scene painter, 36 
 Landlady, Suett's, 256 
 Langbaine, Gerard, 12 
 Leg, Foote's broken, 134 
 Leigh, J., 34 
 Lemon, Mark, 286 
 Leoni, 195, 305 
 
 Leslie, C. R., 73, loi, 193, 245 
 Letter, a Frenchman's, 130 
 Lewes, Lee, 185 ; a harlequin, 186 ;" 
 
 his treatment in Ireland, 186 
 Lewis, W., 208 ; his description, 
 208 ; his acting, 209 ; his Mercutio, 
 209 
 L'Estrange, Sir R., 26 
 Liberties taken by actors, 22, n. 
 "Life of Lady Blessington, " 369 
 "LifeofDuchessofSt. Albans," 320 
 "Life of Siddons," 122, 124, 131, 
 
 168, 177, 19s 
 " Life of Garrick, *' 124 
 "Life of Jordan," 125, 195 
 "Life of Mathews," 147, 17°, 304 
 "Life of Sheridan," 157, 202 
 
 "Life ofKemble," 168 
 
 " Lileof Inchbald," 179 
 
 " Lite of Reynolds," 224 
 
 " Life ot C. M. Young," 234, 369 
 
 " Life of Theodore Hook," 255 
 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre; 16, n. 
 
 Lingo, the original, 173 
 
 LiNLEY, Miss, 223 ; her beauty, 
 
 223 ; her voice, 224 ; memoir of, 
 
 224 
 LiSTON, J., 322 ; his face, 322 ; his 
 
 gravity, 323 ; his puns, 323 ; his 
 
 acting, 324 ; memoir of, .324, 325 
 Litchfield, John, 236 
 Litei-ary Gazette, 358 
 Liverpool, G. F. Cooke at, 235 
 Lpckhart, 355 
 London Magazine, 46 
 Lord Ogleby, Farren's, 341 
 Love, Mr., anecdote of, 444 
 " Love in several Masques," 59 
 " Love a- la-mode," 68 
 " Lover, The," T. Gibber's, 97 
 Lun (j-ff John Rich) 
 Luttrell, Henry, 252 
 
 TV/TACAULAY, Lord, 30 
 
 Macready, W. G., 366 ; his 
 
 acting, 367 
 Mackay, G., 338 
 Macklin, G., 64, 114, 133 
 Magazine, Blacltwood' s, 16, 169, 
 
 171, 185, 403 
 Magazine, Frasei-^s, 315, 403 
 Magazine, Cornhill, 3, 19, 74. 126, 
 
 Magazine, New Monthly, 24, ».-, 87, 
 1 18, 198, 302 
 
 MahoHo, Bensley's, 180 
 
 Manager's Note-book, 25,54, 188, 293 
 
 Margaretof Anjou, Mrs. Yates's, 175 
 
 Marking the stage, 150 
 
 Marplot, Woodward's, 122 
 
 Marriages, Mrs. Crawford's, 1 67 
 
 Married life, Cooke's, 237 
 
 Martin, Theodore, 413 
 
 Martyr, Mrs., 440 
 
 Masquerades, 192 
 
 Mathews, C, 312 ; his infancy, 
 313 ; account of his performance, 
 313 ; his acting, 315 ; hiseccentu- 
 
492 
 
 Index. 
 
 cities, 316 ; power of nan-ation, 
 317 ; deceptive stature, 318 ; dis- 
 like of being thought a mimic, 319 
 
 Mathews, C. J., 390 ; his early 
 genius, 390 ; first appearance, 
 390 ; his Mr. Affable Hawk, 391 ; 
 his good qualities, 391, 392 
 
 Mathews, Mrs., 65, 87, 147, 190 
 
 Mattocks, Mrs., 196 ; her acting, 
 196 ; memoir of, 197, 198 
 
 Mainwaring, Arthur, 61 
 
 Medea, Mrs. Yates's, 175 
 
 Mellon, Miss, 320 ; her beauty in 
 her youth, 320 ; her marriages, 320; 
 her acting, 321; Miss Farren and, 
 321; her visit to Abbotsford, 322 
 
 Memory, Yates's bad, 20I 
 
 Middleton, 4 
 
 Milward, anecdote of, 444 
 
 Mimic, extraordinary, 36 
 
 Mitford, M. R., 45 
 
 " Mithridates," Mrs. Oldfieldin, 61 
 
 Modern Drama, the, 379, 386 
 
 Mohun, Lord, 31 
 
 Mohun, Michael, 34 
 
 Moncrieff, W, T., 299 
 
 Monthly Mirror, 439 
 
 Moody, John, 146, 221 
 
 Moore, Thomas, 224, 232, 249, 299 
 
 More, Hannah, iii 
 
 Morley, H., 38, 47 
 
 Moss, Mr., 65 
 
 Mossop, H., 147 
 
 MouNTFORD, W., 27 ; his murder, 
 27 ; characters played, 27, 28 ; his 
 acting, 28 
 
 Mountford, Mrs., 39 
 
 Mountain, Mrs., 294 ; memoir of, 
 294 ; her acting, 294 
 
 Mudie, Miss, 363 
 
 MuNDEN, Joseph, 256 ; his face, 
 256 ; his acting, 257 ; his con- 
 trivance of payment, 257 ; his dose 
 >jf lamp-oil, 258 ; his memento 
 mori, 259 ; memoir of, 259, 260 ; 
 estimate of his genius, 260, 261 
 
 Murphy, Arthur, 124, 129 ; 
 Churchill on, 153 ; his acting, 154; 
 his various occupations, 154 ; his 
 humanity, 154 
 
 Mynitt, William, 89 
 
 Mynitt, Mrs,, 90 
 
 " TSJARCISSA," Pope's, 59, n. 
 
 ^^ Nash, Tom, 11, n. 
 Neale, 440 
 
 Nicol Jaruie, Mackay's, 338 
 "Nic-Nac," the, 378 
 " Noctes Ambrosianse," 401 
 Nokes, 34 
 
 NoRRis, Henry, 32 
 Norris, Mr., singular anecdote of, 
 
 33' ^■ 
 Northcote, James, 222, 363 
 
 r~)'BRIEN, "Gentleman," 182 
 
 ^-' Ogilvie, Mrs., 385 
 
 O'ICeefe, J., 68, 118, 123, 125, 129, 
 174 ; notice of, 186 
 
 Old Nerval, Bensle/s, 181, «. 
 
 Oldfield, Mrs., 32; her beauty, 
 59 ; her vanity, 59 ; account of 
 her life, 60 ; her behaviour, 61 ; 
 her acting, 61 ; liaisons, 62 
 
 Oldys, W., I 
 
 " Olio," Grose's, I 
 
 Olympic Theatre, 415 
 
 "On giving an opera to the Eng- 
 lish," 372 
 
 O'Neill, Mr., 36 1 
 
 O'Neill, Miss, 359 ; her natural- 
 ness, 359 ; her debut, 360 ; her 
 acting, 361 ; her sensibility, 362 ; 
 Talma's opinion of, 363 
 
 Opera, the, 99 
 
 O. P. riots, 247 
 
 Orthography of G^^'yime's name, 
 22, n. 
 
 Othello, Betterton's, 14 
 
 pARR, Dr., 133 
 -*• Parsons, William, 172 ; his 
 impertinence, 1 73 ; his acting, 
 
 173. 174 
 Paton [see Mrs. Wood) 
 Palmer, J., 201 ; his acting, 202 
 
 ,, R., 201 
 Parnell, the poet, 36 
 Paterson, Peter, 339, 376 
 Peeping Totn, the original, 1 73 
 Penkethman, W., 64 , 
 Percy Anecdotes, 9, 27, 44, O7, 7;, 
 
 144, 162, 174, 304 
 Phelps, S., 394 ; his James VI., 
 
Index. 
 
 493 
 
 394; Ills Sir Pertinax Macsyco- 
 fhant, 394 ; his acting and nu- 
 merous embodiments, 395 
 
 Philaster, Powell's, 174 
 
 Phillips, W., 204 
 
 "Pierce Pennilesse," 11, «. 
 
 Piozzi, Madame, 71 ; death of, 342, 
 360 
 
 " Pizarro," 243 
 
 Plagiary, Sir Fretful, the original, 
 172 
 
 " Play up. Nosey !" 65 
 
 Plan of study, Mossop's, 148 
 
 Poole, J., 361 
 
 Pope, Miss, 187, 428, 429, 430, 
 
 431. 432 
 
 Pope, A., 271 ; a goui-mand, 272 
 
 Pope, A. (the poet), 54, no 
 
 Pope, Mrs., 187 ; her diligence, 
 187 ; her description and me- 
 moir, 188 
 
 Popeiana, 272 
 
 Porter, Mrs., 52 ; her acting, 52 
 
 Portugal Street Theatre, 16 
 
 Powell, G., 38 
 
 Powell, the Showman, 39 
 
 Powell, William, a great trage- 
 dian, 1 74 ; his singular death, 
 174; his acting, 174, 175 
 
 Power, Tyrone, 377 
 
 Pritchard, Mrs., 102; her Bar- 
 tholomew-fair origin, 103 ; her 
 ignorance, 103 ; her Lady Mac- 
 beth, 104 ; her acting, 104 ; her 
 naturalness, 105 
 
 " Progress of Music, The," 288, 306 
 
 Professional Life, Dibdin's, 145 
 
 " QUARTERLY MUSICAL 
 
 \i MAGAZINE," 307 
 Quarterly Review, 140, 319 
 Queen Victoria and Mrs.Wamer, 393 
 Quick, John, 210 ; description of, 
 210 ; his dream of honour, 211 ; 
 his humour, 211 ; memoir of, 212 
 QuiN, James, 70 ; kills Bowen, 71 ; 
 his rudeness, 71 ; his stage-dress, 
 72 ; his acting, 72, 73 ; his benevo- 
 lence, 74; kills Williams, 75, III; 
 his behaviour to Mrs. Bellamy, 
 16S 
 
 "DANDGLPH, Mrs. Crawford's 
 
 ■^^ Lady, 168 
 
 "Random Records," 40, 116, \-ia. 
 
 i8i ^ 
 
 Raster, Miss {see Mrs. Clive) 
 Rauzzini, 208 
 
 "Realmah," Mr. Helps's, 414 
 "Recordsof a Veteran," 27, «., 52, 
 66, 125, 145, 168, 171, 180, 218, 
 238, 252, 298 
 "Recollections of Bannister,'' 139, 
 
 183, 184, 185, 271 
 "Recollections of an Actor," 251, 
 
 303 
 " Recollections of a Lover of So- 
 ciety," 253 
 "Recollections of Kean,'' 348, 351 
 Red Bull Theatre, I, 5 
 Redding, Cyrus, 203 
 Reddish, S., 425 
 "Regulus," Howard's, 93 
 Reminiscences, Wewitzer's, 151 
 Residence, Garrick's, 170 
 Reynolds, F., 59, 68, 209, 215, 
 
 231, 246, 292 
 Reynolds, Sir J., Life of, 115, 121, 
 
 137. 167 
 Rice, T. D., 395 ; his song of 
 
 "Jump Jim Crow," 396 
 Rich, John, 48 ; his affectation, 49 ; 
 his pantomimes, 50 ; his igno- 
 rance, 52 
 Richardson, John, 285 ; account 
 of his show, 285 ; anecdote of 
 his liberality, 286 
 Ridout, Mr., 152 
 Robinson, Mrs., 472 
 RoBSON, F., his passion and power, 
 414; his modesty, 415 ; his me- 
 moir, 415 ; his naturalness, 416 
 Rochester, Lord, 23, 57 
 Rogers, S., 71, 205 
 Rosalind, Miss Faucit's, 418 
 "Rosciad, The," 120 (for quotations 
 
 ste Churchill) 
 Ross, David, 152 
 " Rowena," forgery of, 332 
 Roxana, Mrs. Barry's, 58 
 Royalty Theatre, 307 
 Russell, Henry, 306 ; his songs, 
 
 405 
 Russell, Samuel, a good hoaxer. 
 
494 
 
 Index. 
 
 286 ; his Jerry Sneak, 2S7 ; con- 
 nexion witli Charles Dibdin, 287 
 
 Ryan, Lacy, 76; YiSs, Riehard III,, 
 76 ; Betterton and Ryan, 77 ; an 
 inferior actor, 78 
 
 Ryan, Desmond, 400 
 
 CALA, G. A., 41S 
 
 '~' Sandford, 34, 440 
 
 Sandridge, Dr., 55 
 
 Santlow, Miss (afterwards Mrs. 
 
 Booth), 56 
 Saunderson {see Mrs. Betterton) 
 Savage, Richard, 41 ; account of, 59 
 ' ' Scanderbeg, " Havard's play of, 
 
 93 
 
 " School for Lovers, 94. 
 
 " School of Oratory," Macklin's, 65 
 
 Scott, Sir W., 238, 249, 401 
 
 Selwyn, George, 119 
 
 Servility, Moody's, 146 
 
 Seward, Miss, 94, 176 
 
 Shakspeare's House, 267, 277 
 
 Sharp, R., 249 
 
 Sheepface, Parsons', 173 
 
 Sheridan, Mrs. [see Miss Linley) 
 Mrs., 132 
 T., 132 
 R. B., 113, 173, 223 
 
 Shield, William, 292 
 
 Shuter, E., 143 ; his acting, 143 ; 
 a good joke, 144 ; his love of low 
 company, 144 ; his mimicry, 144 ; 
 his origin, 144 ; anecdotes of, 425 
 
 Shylock, Macklin's, 66 
 
 Siddons, Mrs., 231 
 
 SipDONS, Mrs., 103, 104; her be- 
 haviour, 225 ; her power in trifles, 
 226; her professional regrets, 226; 
 anecdotes of, 226 ; love of drol- 
 lery, 227 ; in Coriolanus, 227 ; 
 Charles Young and, 227 ; her 
 ..performance a school ,for oratory, 
 228 ; her grandeur, 228 ; farewell 
 performance, 228 ; her beauty, 
 229, 231 ; her figure, 329; her 
 Lady Macbeth, 229 ; her Vo- 
 lumnia, 2301 her. -first appear- 
 ance, 23 1 ; her intellectual feeling, 
 232 ; the greatest tragic actress, 
 234 
 
 Siddons, Henry, 231 
 
 " Siege of Belgrade," 335 
 
 Sir Giles Overreach, Henderson's. 
 
 205 
 Sloman, Mrs., 379 
 Smith, Albert, 403, 404 
 Smith, William, 113 ; his acting, 
 
 I55> 156 > 1^'s marriage, 156 ; his 
 
 general behaviour, 157 
 Smith, James, 312, 436 
 
 „ Horace, 315 
 
 ,, Henry, 404 
 Smithson, Miss, 379 ; her acting, 
 
 380 
 Smollett, Tobias, 49, 112 
 "•Sophonisba," Thomson's, 60 
 Southampton, Earl of, 4 
 Sowerby, 438 
 Sparks, Luke, 152, 171 
 Sparks, Isaac, 152 
 Spiritof the Public Journals, 142 
 St. Albans, Duchess of (see Miss 
 
 Mellon) 
 Stage, History of the, 6 
 Stage at the Restoration; 10, ». 
 Steed, Dibdin's friend, 19, n. 
 Steele, Sir R., 37, 42, 47 
 Stephens, Miss, 370; her beauty, 
 
 371 ; her exquisite singing, 371, 
 
 372 
 Stirling, Mrs., memoir of, 407 ; 
 
 her acting, 408 
 Storace, Madame, 441 
 Storm, The Great, 83 
 Story-teller, a good, 143 
 SuETT, R., 253; his burial, 254; 
 
 his humour, 255 ; his laugh, 256 
 Swift, Dr., 61 
 " Syntax, Dr.," 94 
 
 'TABLE-TALIC, Rogers's, H2, 
 -*- 135, "226 
 Talbot, Montague, 330 ; connexion 
 
 with W. H. Ireland, 331 
 Talfourd, Justice, 234, 261, 266, 
 
 300 
 Talma, the actor, 363 
 Tarleton, R., I 
 Tavern, Macklin's, 64, n. 
 Taylor,, Miss (Mrs. W. Lacy), 4|i, 
 
 443 
 
Index. 
 
 495 
 
 Taylor, J., i68, 202, 205 
 
 ,, Chevalier, 236 
 "Tea-Table Talk," Mrs. Mathews', 
 
 257 ■ • 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, 370 
 
 Terry, Daniel, 353 ; memoir of, 
 353 ; his intimacy with Theodore 
 Hook, 353 ; with Sir Walter 
 Scott, 354 ; his marriage, 355 ; 
 his imitation of Scott, 355 
 
 Thackeray, Mr., 31 
 
 Theatre, Patagonian, 199 
 
 Theatrical anecdotes, $5, 93, 141, 
 
 144, 396 
 Thomson, James, 74 
 Thurlow, Lady, 442 
 Thurmond, John, 80 
 Tillotson, Archbishop, 55 
 Tofts, Mrs., account of, 38 
 Toole, J. L., 421, 422 ; memoir 
 
 of, 423 
 Town, Hunt's, 16, 17, 25, 60 
 Tree, Ellen, 393, 394 
 Tree, Maria, 388 ; her acting, 388 ; 
 
 her singing, 389 
 Trefusis, anecdote of, 445 
 Trench, Mrs., 226, 242, 291 
 "Tu-Quoque," Green's, 6, n. 
 Tyke, Emery's, 327 
 
 T JNDERHILL, 34 
 
 ■yANBRUGH, Sir John, 60 
 ' Vandenhofp, John, 357 ; his 
 acting, 357 ; his Richard III., 
 358 ; notice on, 358 
 
 Verbruggen, Mr., 63 
 
 Vernon, 442 
 
 Vestris, Madame, 51 
 
 Victor, Mr., 126 
 
 Vincent, Mrs., the singer, 106, «. 
 
 Violante, Mrs. Yates's, 175 
 
 Vita Nuova, Theodore Martin's de- 
 dication of, 413 
 
 ryALFORt), E., 357 
 ' ' Walker, Thomas, 78 ; his 
 acting, 78 ; a drunkard, 79 
 
 WallacK, James, 359 ; imitator of 
 Kemble, 359 
 
 Walpole, Horace, 46, 54, 61, 73 ; 
 liis superficiality, 73, «., 87, loi, 
 III, 126, 233, 264 
 
 Walton, Dr. Joseph, 87 
 
 Warner, Mrs., 392 
 
 Warton, Thomas, 46 
 
 •Webber, C. M., 307 
 
 Webster, Benjamin, memoir of,- 
 381, 382 
 
 Weichsell, Miss {see Mrs. Billing- 
 ton) 
 
 West, Mrs., 383 
 ,, (j^^Digges) 
 
 Weston, T., his Hurry, \i,-2. ; his 
 genius, I42 
 
 Wetherilt, Robert, 84 
 
 Wewitzer, R., 22 ; memoir of, 
 212, 213 ; his poverty, 213 ; spe- 
 cimens of his wit, 214 
 
 White's Club, Foote at, 13S 
 
 Whitehead, Paul, 92 
 
 ,, William, 105 
 
 Whitfield, U2 
 
 WiLKS, R., 14, K., 41 ; his dress, 
 42 ; his acting, 42 ; account of his 
 life, 43 ; his parts, 43 
 
 Wilkinson, Tate, 95, 99, 112, 141, 
 148; a gentleman, 169; his mi- 
 micry, 170 ; introduction to Gar- 
 rick, 1 70 ; his chaotic speech, 171 ; 
 his acting, 171, 227 
 
 Williams, Gilly, 128 
 
 ,, SirC. Hanbury, 62 
 
 Wilson, C. H., 184 
 „ John, 232, 252 
 ,, Miss, 370 
 
 "Wine and Walnuts," 36, 79, 102, 
 106, 141 
 
 Woffington, Margaret, 123 ; her 
 Lady Macbeth, 123 ; her Fair 
 Penitent, 124 ; her appearance, 
 124; her virtues, 124; first 
 appearance, 124 ; her Lady 
 Pliant, 125 ; her Harry Wild- 
 air, 125 ; her mother, 125 , 
 last appeai'ance, 126 ; Walpole's 
 opinion of, 126 ; anecdote of, 
 127 
 
 Wolcot, Dr., loi 
 
 "Wonder, The," 1 73 
 
496 
 
 Index. 
 
 Wood, Mrs. , 386 ; her voice, 386 ; 
 memoir of, 387, 388 
 
 Woodward, II., 119 ; \i\s, Bohadil, 
 120 ; his acting, 121 ; his panto- 
 mime, 122 ; his elegance, 123 
 
 Wright, Thomas, 99, 135, 241 
 
 Wroughton, 427, 443 
 
 yATES, R., 200; his acting, 
 '- 201 
 
 Yates, Mrs., t66 ; her teaaty 
 171; • her Violante, I7S.,I7&! {'^' 
 IctinV 176 ; Mrs. Clive's opmion 
 of, 176 -her want of expression, 
 
 Young' Charles, 227; his HamleK 
 325 ; his mannerism, 325 ! Kean s 
 opinion of, 326 ; estimate of his 
 powers, 327 
 
 Young, Miss {sue Mrs. Pope) 
 
 THE END. 
 
 ^7976 1388970 
 
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