MEMOIRS OF TATE WILKINSON.

BREVITY is the ſoul of WIT.—I am ſorry for my own ſake, as well as for thoſe who have the patience and good nature to peruſe this motley work, to obſerve, that it will be dreadfully deficient in both theſe material articles.—However, that the reader may not be kept in ſuſpenſe, and then com⯑plain that the mountain, after a tedious labour, has at length brought forth only a mouſe, I will, without further ceremony, proceed.

I, Tate Wilkinſon, whoſe various ſtage adven⯑tures and ſparrings have been permitted, and fa⯑voured with acceptance, more or leſs, in almoſt every principal theatre in the three kingdoms, as Drury-Lane, Covent-Garden, Hay-Market,—Smock-Alley and Crow-Street, Dublin,—Bath, Edinburgh, Portſmouth, Wincheſter, Maidſtone, [2] Birmingham, Cheſter, Briſtol, Norwich, York, Shrewſbury, Richmond in Surry, Exeter, Glaſ⯑gow, Newcaſtle, Leeds, Lynn, Pontefract, Hali⯑fax, Doncaſter, Hull, Wakefield, &c.—am the ſon of the late Rev. Dr. John Wilkinſon, who was educated at St. Bees in Cumberland, and finiſhed his ſtudies at the univerſity of Oxford, and who ſuffer⯑ed tranſportation under the well remembered Mar⯑riage Act in 1755. He was his Majeſty's chaplain of the Savoy, alſo chaplain to his late Royal High⯑neſs Frederic Prince of Wales, rector of Coyty in the county of Glamorgan, and ſtipendary-curate of Wiſe in the county of Kent.—The late Lord Galway, with whom he was particularly acquaint⯑ed, preſented him with a gift, which yielded a right to open plaiſter-pits in the honour of Pontefract: The original grant was to Robert Monkton, late of Hoderoyde, in the county of York, father to the aforeſaid Lord Galway: The right from the Duchy-office was in 1740.—Thoſe plaiſter-pits were ſold to a Mr. Jenkinſon, near Ferrybridge; but how they turned out it never lay in my way to get information.—Grace Wilkinſon, his wife, was daughter of William Tate, Eſq who was for many years one of the aldermen of the city of Carliſle, and often choſen mayor of that ancient corporation; for above forty years patent ſearcher of his Majeſty's cuſtoms there and at the port of [3] Whitehaven—a gentleman of undoubted loyalty. The ſaid Grace Wilkinſon, when ſhe intermarried with the Rev. John Wilkinſon, brought him two thouſand pounds, at that time judged a very gen⯑teel fortune.—Dr. Wilkinſon's affairs having been for many years greatly embarraſſed, not only hers, but all his own acquiſitions were entirely exhauſted to ſatisfy the demands of his own cre⯑ditors, and thoſe of others, for whom he had be⯑come indiſcreetly engaged.

I, Tate Wilkinſon, (ſon to the ſaid John and Grace) was born October 27, 1739; and, by my father's ſentence of tranſportation, was likely to have been irretrievably ruined. I was at that cri⯑tical period at the age of ſeventeen—not brought up to any buſineſs or profeſſion—of a very indif⯑ferent conſtitution—and neither mother nor ſon had the leaſt independency.

Previous to this unfortunate event, my father and mother had been connected with the moſt leading families, and were univerſally acquainted in London; the conſequence (moſt fortunately for myſelf, as will appear hereafter,) was, that from the intercourſe of viſiting they formed intimate connexions with ſeveral leading perſons of the kingdom of Ireland, which was the foundation of the happieſt future conſequences to me, as will, in the narrative, be verified.—Several of theſe fa⯑milies [4] every year reſorted to London, where they ever found hoſpitality, and a cheerful welcome, at our manſion in the Savoy.—Amongſt our various viſitors were Lord and Lady Forbes, from the ſiſter kingdom. They were ſo attached to my father and mother, as to be almoſt inſeparable: That intimacy ſubſiſted on ſo ſtrong a baſis, and formed ſo firm a friendſhip, that they uſed to call me their own boy Tate, and their dear George's only particular friend. They promiſed to fix me genteelly in life; and were certain, if George lived to be Earl of Granard, Tate would be well provided for.—Airy caſtles too often gain belief and dependence, when of a ſudden they diſappear, and wake the deluded dreamer from his tranſitory viſion, and in lieu preſent a true mirror, in which he views his actual ſtate.—Not that I mean theſe promiſes in all probability would not have been performed, but the wheel of Fate is ſo un⯑certain, perplexing, and various, as evinces the truth of Shakſpeare,—We all know what we are; but know not what we may be.

This intimacy with the Forbes' family was carried on more like a modern novel than a com⯑mon acquaintance. Young George Forbes was born April 2, 1740:—I was not permitted to wear breeches until the ſame day appointed for George, the 2d of April, 1745. Lady Forbes, [5] notwithſtanding title and great expectations in life, was not without many of her days being embit⯑tered:—Her heart and mind were ſoftened by the too often experiencing humiliating events, diſap⯑pointments, and afflictions. She was related to Lord Bleſſington and Lady Tyrawley, and was niece to Lady Granard, and bred up under her care. Her eldeſt ſon, young Lord Forbes, as he ripened into manhood, by frequent intercourſe with his lovely relation, ſoon became a willing ſlave to the irreſiſtible qualities of his captivating couſin: She gave him grace for grace, and love for love, yielded to his entreaties, and they were privately married—

truſting, as many young couples do, when the irre⯑vocable knot was tied, that ſubmiſſion and in⯑treaty, with a promiſe of forgiveneſs,—This once, and I will do ſo no more: But age, on theſe oc⯑caſions, is either ſoon ſoftened, or, like the ever⯑laſting flint, is hard and obdurate; and, in that inſtance, was ſo to ſuch a degree, as rendered ſupplication, tears, and remonſtrance, only incen⯑tives to increaſe inſtead of leſſening the vengeance denounced.—That ſteeled character, on that occa⯑ſion, was exemplified in the ſevereſt degree, and [6] executed with a Roman ſtrictneſs—For the Earl of Granard not only baniſhed his ſon, Lord Forbes, from his preſence for ever, but, on the cruel ſuppoſition that Lady Granard had con⯑nived at the match, he, in the moſt ſtern and ſudden manner, ſeparated himſelf from her La⯑dyſhip, and never after ſaw or ſpoke to her; all m [...]diation of families, no matter of what rank, were vain:—In this he was fixed, and acted as re⯑ſolutely as our ſtage Count of Narbonne.

Lady Granard, to prove her diſapprobation of the match, and to regain the affections of her Lord, inſtead of conſolation and comfort to her niece, Lady Forbes, in her then calamitous ſitu⯑ation, vowed never to behold her more; and in this determination ſhe was as reſolute as a Ro⯑man matron, and proved ſhe poſſeſſed as ſteeled a mind as her inexorable Lord.—In one point only the female breaſt gave way to natural feeling:—Young George ſhe ſaw, cheriſhed, and adored; and often had him, while young, at her houſe in Argyle Buildings, near Soho-ſquare:—But the grandfather never yielded to the ties of affinity;—he lived chiefly retired, at his own ſeat of Caſtle Forbes in Ireland.

Lord Forbes was generally with his regiment at Gibraltar, or with the regiment on its return to Ireland:—He had a houſe in Stephen's-Green, [7] Dublin, and occaſionally made a ſecret excurſion to England to viſit his wife and ſon, who chiefly reſided at her houſe in Richmond Buildings, Dean-ſtreet, Soho. The ſon was, at or before ſeven years old, put to a Mr. Black's boarding⯑ſchool at Chiſwick, where I was often taken as a viſitor.—When turned of eleven, her Ladyſhip and ſon received orders to repair to Dublin: On this occaſion her Ladyſhip took with her a carpet for her drawing-room, eſteemed beautiful, the work of my mother, and I dare ſay it is in the fa⯑mily to this day, with ſeveral elegant worked ſkreens, in tent ſtitch, executed by the ſame good ingenious hand.

About the age of thirteen he was brought back to England to finiſh his education, and then to be placed in his Majeſty's Guards. Our meeting, on his arrival in England, as may be imagined, was very joyous; he was placed under the care of a Mr. Gibſon, a rigid Scotchman, alſo under the eye of his uncle Admiral Forbes. He was ſoon ſent to Harrow-ſchool; I was eager to follow him, and in another year that wiſh was accompliſhed; of which a particular account will occur in the Theatrical Hiſtory, and it will claim a ſhort attention.

But of the young hero I am now ſpeaking, when about ſixteen he was in poſſeſſion of his Majeſty's colours, and often on guard at the [8] Savoy; he grew very diſſipated, while under the direction of a Mr. Durel, (when not on duty) at his academy in King's-ſtreet, Golden-ſquare; but as he could not be kept within bounds, Lady Forbes, from the accounts tranſmitted to Ireland, being greatly alarmed, and fearful he ſhould incur the diſpleaſure of his father, intreated his Lord⯑ſhip to grant her, the inſpection and guardianſhip of her ſon in London, till he grew nearer a proper time of life to be truſted to the care of himſelf; this point was ſettled, and an houſe once more taken in the old ſpot, Richmond Buildings.

At firſt all ſeemed to promiſe fair, and a Mrs. Wilſon, who had for many years been companion to Lady Forbes, (a ſiſter of Mrs. Kelly, wife of honeſt old Cornelius Kelly, now living in Dub⯑lin,) was the perſon appointed to hint any private diſpleaſure to our young Captain. The fond mo⯑ther ſeemed intoxicated with the proſpect of hap⯑pineſs before her delighted imagination; but of a ſudden, on the non-appearance of George for a few days, ſhe experienced the moſt alarming anxiety, which, after fruitleſs enquiries, was at laſt cleared up by a young couple from Gretna Green im⯑ploring her bleſſing. Her fortitude forſook her, and her exclamations of grief, ſurpriſe, and terror, for the conſequences with Lord Forbes, and the dread of every horrid indignation from the old [9] Earl, overwhelmed her with the moſt poignant diſtreſs; for ſhe well foreſaw that every ill that fa⯑tally occurred, would be attributed to her needleſs aſſumption of reſiding in London—and, inſtead of preventing, would be accuſed of encouraging her ſon in every falſe ſtep. Nor had ſhe preſence of mind, nor fortitude ſufficient at the firſt ſhock, to enquire who this daughter was; but as ſoon as Reaſon could reſume its ſeat, dreading an increaſ⯑ing tale of woe, yet obliged to require information; which being truly given, mitigated her uneaſineſs, and was moſt happily relieved on being pleaſingly informed he had married a daughter of Sir Nicholas Baily, tho' her expectations of fortune, on enquiring, were but ſmall: She proved a young lady of promiſe, fit to adorn any exalted ſtation in life. Matters were ill received in Ireland; but by degrees his Lord⯑ſhip became better reconciled than could be ex⯑pected.—By this amiable young lady, the family were bleſſed with the preſent Earl of Granard, now in Dublin, 1789, but ſhe ſoon after fell into a decay, and, like a lily drooping, died. It was during this part of their hiſtory the reader will ſuppoſe, when I hereafter ſpeak of Lady Forbes, (that young gentleman's mother) that I received ſuch favours when firſt acting in London.

Soon after the death of that amiable young lady, the Earl of Granard died, but not before [10] he was reconciled at the laſt to his ſon and grand⯑ſon, then become Lord Forbes, and his father of courſe the Earl of Granard. The young Lord married a lady of quality in London: Soon after his ſecond marriage he became Earl of Granard, but from modern faſhions was ſeparated from his Lady—He went to Ireland, his mother went with him; but, being then in poſſeſſion of all his wiſhes in point of rank and fortune, I am truly grieved to add, he grew diſſipated, and of courſe ſo very rapidly involved, as inevitably loſt him all con⯑ſequence and eſteem amongſt thoſe where his rank entitled him to every reſpect and increaſe of popularity and dignity. To cloſe my account of a gentleman ſo much my ſuperior, and for whom I had the ſtrongeſt attachments, and every reaſon to expect friendſhip and laſting regard, if promiſes and profeſſions may be ſuppoſed to allow a claim, added to the intercourſe of many years, I will finiſh this portrait, by mentioning when I was laſt in Dublin, in 1772, he was conſtantly with me by ten o'clock in a morning, and I often paſſed the evening with him, at his houſe in Myrion-ſtreet, near Myrion-ſquare. But, three nights before my return to England, my company, on Thurſday June 4, was particularly deſired to meet Mr. Lee, attorney at law, on urgent buſineſs. It was our laſt meeting: The mighty buſineſs was to be a witneſs [11] to his will, which he, Mr. Lee (now living in Dublin) drew up—No not even a ring to his me⯑mory—nor at my benefit, which was on the 28th of May, did he ſo much as take a box or even a box ticket—but was there in perſon.—So much for friendſhip!—ſo much for dependence!—But I muſt not omit, that whenever I paid my reſpects in Myrion-ſtreet, there was plenty—nay, even a profuſion of half pints of Claret, Burgundy, &c. Had he regarded himſelf more, I might perhaps, have profited by our ſtrong intimacy, imbibed from childhood.

Let this be a leſſon to place as much as poſſible our chief dependence on ourſelves, ra⯑ther than rely on ideal hopes or promiſes from ſuperiors.—How did I retire home to my lodging that evening, is a natural queſtion?—Why, good reader, whoever thou art, I aſſure you not unhap⯑pily—I reflected, that had the Earl felt for his own welfare, he would in all probability have re⯑tained ſome portion of feeling and humanity for his old—his intimate friend;—and, when reclined on my pillow, found myſelf at that moment poſ⯑ſeſſed of every ſupply for my wants, with health and ſpirits to ſupport thoſe wants; I felt myſelf comparatively the greateſt man of the two. He did not live many years after the Spring 1772. The young Lady Granard, (of whom I have not [12] the leaſt knowledge) I believe, is married in Ire⯑land—The Lady Dowager Granard, was ever my ſtaunch friend; ſhe retired to England, and died, within theſe few years, at her villa ſome miles from London.

The preſent Lord Granard, I am told, bears his bluſhing honours thick upon him; pray God he may have no froſt to nip them, but reſtore his family laurels to their priſtine health and vigour, and with many years enjoy that felicity long want⯑ing to his predeceſſors.—He is ſpoke of in the warmeſt terms by all that know him, as a diſtin⯑guiſhed nobleman and a finiſhed gentleman—I never ſaw him, but feel an attachment from my knowledge of, and favours conferred by his family in a courſe of years.

This little hiſtory, I hope, will not be found tireſome to the reader, particularly if peruſed by a native of Ireland; and flatter myſelf it will paſs without cenſure: for, beſides being authentic, I mean, as I purſue my hiſtorical journal, to mix various anecdotes and occurrences, without ma⯑king it merely a languid ſtage repetition; ſeveral little traits of the ſame complexion and degree will be introduced, which I hope the reader will honour me with patience to endure, as they will in ſome meaſure prove relieving, explanatory, en⯑tertaining, and, indeed, are abſolutely neceſſary as a key to the whole.

[13] But to return to my Savoy hiſtory:—Added to the noble family lately recurred to, were Mr. and Mrs. William Chaigneau, from Dublin. He was agent to moſt of the regiments on the Iriſh eſtabliſhment, a gentleman univerſally known, and whoſe memory is greatly reſpected: He wrote, for his amuſement, the novel in two volumes called Jack Connor.

Mrs. Chaigneau was a lady who attracted the good opinion of every one: They had only one daughter, whom they termed their Darling Peggy: This lovely pledge they could not part with on their excurſions from Ireland to England; indeed, ſo careful were they,—‘"They permitted not the winds of heaven to viſit her face too roughly."’

Mrs. Teague, Mrs. Chaigneau's ſiſter, an in⯑timate of my mother's, honoured me by ſtanding as my godmother at my baptiſm; and in the chit chat and want of matter for converſation, when all were convened a few years after at the friendly fire-ſide, they propoſed a wedding between Maſter Tate Wilkinſon and Miſs Peggy Chaigneau. This was agreed to, and my father actually per⯑formed the ceremony; and we were afterwards jokingly called man and wife. I believe I might be, at this mock marriage, ſix or ſeven—young Peggy about five or ſix. But to the laſting grief of Mr. and Mrs. Chaigneau they loſt the idol of [14] their heart in two or three years afterwards, and I was left a diſconſolate young widower. I men⯑tion this childiſh incident as it leads to more ſerious matter, hereafter, in this journal of ‘"events and momentous hiſtory."’

Alderman Forbes and his Lady—the well known ancient Cornelius Kelly and his wife—and many others made up a convivial Iriſh party at our cheer⯑ful board. My father being more attentive to the pleaſures, than the cares of the world, I was ſome⯑times at a boarding-ſchool, ſometimes not; per⯑haps ſix months in the year at Chelſea with a Mr. Bellas in Church-lane there; the other ſix at home; the next ſix months at Mr. Tempeſt's near Wandſworth; then again at home, particularly if the winter was ſevere. Some time afterwards I had tutors at home; then I went to Harrow School; but that I ſhall hereafter have occaſion to mention, as introductory to ſomething hiſtorical and whim⯑ſical.

It will here eaſily be perceived I was a great pet, which too often produces ignorance and ſtupidity, and ends in misfortunes; in ſhort, the beſt part of my little education may be chiefly attributed to the cares and obſervations of a truly ſenſible, worthy, affectionate, and amiable mother, whoſe conduct was ſuch, as not only to attract, but pre⯑ſerve the eſteem of all who knew her; nor is her [15] name ever mentioned to this hour, by any perſon who retains the leaſt recollection of her, but it is followed by the ſigh of affection and true regard; and this equally from ſuperiors or inferiors.

My idle hours, however, were not beſtowed on marbles, cricket, or mixing with intimates of my own age and complexion;—for, except my friend George Forbes, I had but few play⯑mates—For, lo! a prayer-book was ever in my hand—the whole day was employed in read⯑ing exhortations, and every part of the church⯑ſervice: So great a proficient was I in repeating it, that I was often invited to many families to read prayers. This early ſerious turn, gave riſe to the particular notice of Mrs. Townſend, wife of Mr. Richard Townſend, who lived at the cor⯑ner of Durham-yard, near the weſt end of the ſince built Adelphi. This lady was remarkable for exemplary piety, accompanied with cheerful⯑neſs and good humour; from which occurred many acts of charity and benevolence. My fa⯑ther had ſuch attraction as a preacher, that ſhe would not have miſſed the Savoy-church on a Sunday on any account; no ſlight indiſpoſition could keep her away; though, from a bad ſtate of health, the Savoy-church was the only place ſhe viſited, unleſs on ſome particular occaſion not to be diſpenſed with.—This good old lady was [16] own ſiſter to the late Jonas Hanway; a gentle⯑man univerſally known and eſteemed for his many benevolent acts. With this ſaid ſiſter, Mr. Jonas Hanway [...]ived many years: He had been a friend of my father's, continued his good will to me, and was indefatigable in the Spring 1769 in removing the objections ſtarted by Lord Sondes, in regard to my obtaining acts of Parliament for the York and Hull patents: For, unleſs Mr. Jonas Hanway's influence and perſeverance had prevailed on his Lordſhip to withdraw his oppoſition (which at that time, from his ſituation and conſe⯑quence in the Houſe, had great weight), it would have prevented, in all probability, my having ac⯑quired the honour and credit of either. Captain Hanway, the brother of Jonas, was married by my father to Miſs Stowe, the then reigning toaſt of Newark-upon-Trent.

Beſides the Townſends' conſtant attendance to their religious duties at the Savoy, amongſt my father's pious admirers as a preacher, I remember Mrs. Graham, late Mrs. Yates, never miſſed her pew near the pulpit. Mr. Yates, now living, was a frequent attendant, and can and will teſtify that Dr. Wilkinſon's manner of reading and preach⯑ing commanded reſpect and admiration. His diſ⯑courſes were excellent, his voice clear, ſtrong, and ſonorous, and his perſon graceful and handſome. [17] The few remaining perſons who knew him then will now verify what I advance; for though only reſident ſix weeks at Wakefield, and that not leſs than forty-five years ago, yet his man⯑ner of preaching, and forcible oratory, &c. had ſuch ſtrong effects, as to be well recollected at that place to this hour; and was often mentioned by the late Sir Michael Pilkington, who was at that time his intimate.

I being forcibly ſtruck with my father's man⯑ner in the ſeveral church ſervices, was never eaſy unleſs I had an old ſurplice thrown over my ſhoulders, and my whole delight was in praying▪ preaching, burials, &c. I was generally locked up in a room, ſuppoſing it a church; and in a large chair, the bottom taken out, went through the morning or evening ſervice as it happened to occur in the courſe of the day; then replacing the chair bottom, and throwing off the old ſurplice of my father's that had juſt before occupied my ſhoulders, I mounted and leaned over the back of the ſaid chair, and with mighty authority pro⯑ceeded with the ſermon; ſeveral of which diſ⯑courſes were my father's.

My father was much pleaſed with this preaching turn, and on his hearing from Mrs. Townſend, my mother, and ſeveral others, how remarkably well I read prayers, and by all univerſally allow⯑ed [18] to be the father's own ſon in voice, manner, energy, &c. he pronounced Tate would make a great figure, if brought up to the church.

As it occurs to me this moment, ſo I am cer⯑tain it will to my reader, who will aſk, How could you, Mr. Tate, ſo audibly go on with this practice of preaching and praying a-loud under the ſame roof with your father, and without his knowledge? That is eaſily anſwered:—For know, good Sir, or Madam, the houſe we then occupied was large enough for three modern ones; old double ſtone ſtair-caſes; and were truly the apart⯑ments of King John of France^*, when he was priſoner in England: So I had always apart⯑ments which I called my own, and they were in conſequence appropriated to my religious rites.

My father, on the intelligence he had received of my pious inclinations, importuned me to read prayers, the litany, &c. by way of ſample, to cor⯑roborate what he had heard from Mrs. Townſ⯑end, my mother, and others. I cheerfully com⯑plied; and on hearing me he much approved, and ſaid he judged my ſeeing plays might aid my ſtrong inclination, as well as contribute and aſſiſt me in the mode of public ſpeaking. Now, reader, don't ſuppoſe this fond father and mo⯑ther [19] were wicked play-goers;—I do not remember ever hearing of their being at three plays in their whole lives. Moſt probably, had that been the caſe, a playhouſe would have been familiarized to my ear: Not that I mean to convey they had a diſlike to plays; indeed, quite the reverſe: But my father's affairs were generally in an embarraſſed ſtate, and my mother's pocket too much deranged to allow money for ſuch an entertainment; con⯑ſequently, tho' ſhe admired and approved of a good play, ſhe was contented with the reading in⯑ſtead of ſeeing it: However they both wiſhed to have Tate ſee a play. But having been, when five years old, with my father at a puppet-ſhew at Bartholemew-Fair, which I thought a play, I there ſaw a ſea fight, and a moſt terrible battle, which determined me never to ſee one again;—therefore all propoſals to go to the Theatre were in vain.

When about eight years old, chance threw a Mr. Page in my way. He was then Houſe-keeper of Covent-Garden Theatre, known at that time only by, ‘"Which houſe do you go to this evening—the New Houſe, or the Old?"’ (Drury Lane.) Mr. Page wiſhed for ſome place then in the power of Lord Cholmondley, with whom my father was intimate; and to ingratiate himſelf the more, (finding neither Dr. Wilkinſon nor his wife viſited [20] either old or new houſe) he obſerved it was a pity Maſter Tate ſhould not enjoy the diverſions of the theatre.—When I heard this converſation, I felt an inconceivable objection, and dreaded the being forced into ſo terrible a place. My mother obſerved, that Tate would think of prayers only, and could not be perſuaded to ſet his foot in a theatre; but, on after-reflection, they obſerved at what an eaſy rate, from the civility of Mr. Page, this entertainment could be procured, they determined to conquer my obſtinacy by force. So, after my repeated refuſals, my reverend dad at laſt grew really angry, and inſiſted on my going there, with this conditional ſalvo, that if I was not pleaſed, he pledged his honour he would never urge me to ſee another. I, choked with grief, aſſented to this cruelty, as I really thought it was; and when from the Savoy I had with ſlow ſteps arrived at Southampton-ſtreet, I grew ſulky, and the ſervant to whom I was intruſted had actually to drag me to Covent-Garden Theatre. On ſeeing Mr. Page, the man being in livery, Maſter Tate could not be let into the boxes or pit: this I eſteemed a lucky circumſtance to fa⯑vour my return; indeed had I been left to myſelf, ſoon would I have ſaluted the Savoy ſteps; but the man wiſhing to ſee the play, during this new ſtarted difficulty kept me faſt as his priſoner, I was [21] conveyed with him, and ſafely ſtowed in the upper gallery: inſtead of receiving pleaſure, ſighs and ſobs employed my time in this terrible place. Neither the noble theatre, nor the muſic had any charms for me: the whiſtling of the gods, and other noiſes of the gallery, only added to my diſ⯑guſt and terror. The play, I well remember, was the Buſy Body, with Mr. Foote's Tea—But, O reader! of what materials are we com⯑poſed!—ſcarcely had the firſt act finiſhed before I imagined I was in the elyſium I had been praying for; the charms of the church, which the day be⯑fore were ſo attractive and ſublime, were diſſolved—

The theatre from that time baniſhed all my ſervent piety, and my whole thoughts were oc⯑cupied with the faſcinating charms of the play⯑houſe, actors, and actreſſes. My father—(O wicked man! ſays one of the mock ſaints) was pleaſed with the change, and ſaid he was ſure it would be the means of making me a better preacher: I now reverſed my late tabernacle—and employed my evenings in lighting pieces of candle, dreſſing in any fantaſtical attire, and re⯑peated, as well as I could recollect, parts in plays I had ſeen; which that Spring were nine in num⯑ber. From early in January to March, I took [22] great care to viſit Mr. Page every morning for play bills; and was a conſtant attendant by per⯑miſſion, at the morning rehearſals. In March I was ſent to Mr. Tempeſt's ſchool near Wandſ⯑worth, where a nephew and two ſons of Mr. Page's were placed; and I ſaw no more plays till the Winter following.

At the time I have now mentioned ſeeing plays at Covent-Garden Theatre, Mr. Quin had re⯑tired to Bath, from whence he wrote the follow⯑ing laconic note, in November, 1747:

Which note was as laconically anſwered:

Every actor of conſequence was engaged by Mr. Garrick for Drury-Lane, except the Mr. Quin juſt mentioned: This was Garrick's firſt year a [...] manager. At Covent Garden▪ in the mont [...] of February, they only acted three times in the week, and frequently diſmiſſed; and were in truth a wretched company, and low in public eſtimation. Mr. Foote's Tea, which he had given as an en⯑tertainment at Covent-Garden Theatre in Fe⯑bruary 1748, he had firſt acted in 1746, at the [23] Hay Market; it was then called The Diverſions of the Morning, attended with great good for⯑tune, and every ſucceſs his moſt ſanguine wiſhes could ſuggeſt; but this being noticed by the Patentees of Drury-Lane and Covent-Garden, as an entertainment ſtarted in defiance of the ſevere act about that time paſſed, when Lord Cheſterfield had obſerved in the Houſe of Lords, ‘"How cruel it was to lay a tax on ſo ſcarce a commodity as wit."—"Wit," continues Lord Cheſterfield, "is a ſort of property of thoſe that have it, and too often the only property they have to depend on.—It is, indeed, but a precari⯑ous dependence.—Thank God! we, my Lords, have a dependence of another kind."’

Mr. Foote had in this moment not only alarmed the treaſury of the royal theatres; but, from his mimicry, had rouſed the indignation and reſent⯑ment of all the performers. Application was made in conſequence to the Lord Chamberlain, who ſent to the juſtices of that diſtrict, and the new raiſed troops were put to flight, by a ſuperior force of conſtables entering the theatre in terrible array! The audience was diſmiſſed,—and the laughing Ariſtophanes left leaning towards Mel⯑pomene, in doleful ſoliloquy.

After many days anxiety from ſuffering this diſ⯑grace, a lucky thought occurred to him:—Being [24] certain of the good will of the Town, he advertiſed ‘"Mr. Foote's compliments to his friends and the public, deſiring them to drink Tea at the Little Theatre at the Hay-Market, every morning, at the play-houſe prices."’—The joke ſucceeded—the houſe was crowded—and he advanced before the curtain—being privately aſſured of protection, (his friends having been previouſly convened and informed of his intention) and ſaid—That while the Tea was preparing, as he was then training ſome young actors for the ſtage, he would, with their permiſſion, proceed with his inſtructions. This manoeuvre was highly reliſhed; and it be⯑came the univerſal faſhion every noon to drink a diſh of Mr. Foote's Tea; and, for two or three years, he termed pieces of imitation giving of Tea. And thence aroſe the puzzle which often hap⯑pened to myſelf (ſome years after) on my giving Tea; and it frequently ſtarted difficulties and chagrin to a country audience.

The run of this morning's diverſion occaſioned the actors one and all to exclaim they ſhould be ruined by his mimicry; therefore Mr. Foote very pleaſantly ſaid, Since that was the caſe, it was his duty to provide a ſituation for each lady and gentleman, ſo circumſtanced; and that, inſtead of murdering blank verſe, and aſſuming the characters of Kings and Queens, Lords and Ladies, [25] for which their abilities were far from being ſuitable, he would place them where their talents and behaviour could with more propriety be employed:

Mr. QUIN,—from his ſonorous voice and weighty manner he appointed—a Watchman:
AS THUS;‘"Paſt twelve o'clock, and a cloudy morning."’

Mr. DELANE—was ſuppoſed to have but one eye, therefore he fixed him as—a Beggar Man in St. Paul's Church-yard: ‘"Would you beſtow your pity on a poor blind man."’

Mr. RYAN,—whoſe voice for oddity and ſhrill⯑neſs was remarkable,—a Razor Grinder: ‘"Razors to grind, ſciſſars to grind, penknives to grind."’

Mrs. WOFFINGTON,—though beautiful to a degree had a moſt unpleaſant ſqueaking pipe,—an Orange Woman to the Playhouſe: ‘"Would you have ſome oranges,—have ſome orange chips, ladies and gentlemen,—would you have ſome nonpareils,—would you have a bill of the play?"’

[26]Mr. WOODWARD,—he was puzzled to find any trade he was fit for, therefore ſpoke the fol⯑lowing ſpeech, in his voice and manner, from Sir Fopling Flutter.‘"Wherever I go, there goes a gentleman—upon my life a gentleman, and when you have ſaid a gentleman, why, O! [here Foote dropt Woodward's voice and manner] you have ſaid more than is true."’

He was alſo very ſevere on GARRICK, who was apt to heſitate, (in his dying ſcenes in particular) as in the character of Lothario—‘—"adorns my fall, and chea—chea—chea—chea—chea—chears my heart in dy—dy—dying."’

Foote's Tea, remembered by me ſo well from that time, when I became advanced in life made it ſeem ſtrange that almoſt every perſon two hun⯑dred miles from the metropolis was not as well ac⯑quainted with it as myſelf, who had lived in Lon⯑don, without conſidering my long reſidence there had ſtamped a ſtronger remembrance on me than on three parts out of four of the reſt of the inha⯑bitants of that city.

To elucidate this matter I need only inſtance Mr. Foote's pieces even of modern date, moſt of [27] them ſtrongly pointed, animated, and bold in the drawing, not deſtitute of great wit in the com⯑poſition, and pleaſing to a degree in the repreſen⯑tation,—yet being local, and at the ſame time merely drawn for reflections on the follies of the day, their merit and claim to ſupport cannot pre⯑vent their poſting to oblivion; while, for years to come, we ſhall behold pieces of inferior merit, only aided by flimſy inſipid mediocrity, proceed with dulneſs, and make their exit with a natural decay. Elizabeth Canning, Mary Squires the gipſey, and Miſs Blandy, were ſuch univerſal topics in 1752, that you would have ſuppoſed it the buſineſs of mankind, to talk only of them; yet now, in 1790, aſk a young man of twenty-five or thirty a queſtion relative to theſe extraordinary perſonages, and he will be puzzled to anſwer, and will ſay—‘"What mean you by enquiring?—I do not underſtand you."’—The following lines from Mr. Foote's prologue of 1753 will prove how occurences are remembered or for⯑gotten.

And ſtrange to add, that Noſey, from the uſe of being loudly called for in 1753, is ſtill retained by the galleries, particularly at preſent in the York circuit; where, without compliment, the leader is a man of great profeſſional merit, but has a noſe as much too long as the manager's is too ſhort!

The Tea of mine for two or three years after I firſt went on the ſtage, I judged would be an en⯑creaſe of laſting ſucceſs, although the ſeaſon 1747, when Mr. Foote was at Covent-Garden giving his Tea, proved, that though a blazing comet two years before, all attraction was over, the wonder had ceaſed, and no longer brought griſt [29] to his mill. Now, let the tide be ever ſo ſtrong, yet thoſe ladies or gentlemen, whether favoured by Melpomene or Thalia, if they flatter themſelves with thinking like Alonzo—

will find themſelves deceived, and will fail in two points, unleſs they attend to prudence and oeco⯑nomy, and by thoſe means ſecure an independence, which will greatly add to the continuance of faſhion beyond its natural flirtation. And as a weak conſtitution is often prolonged by ſtrict at⯑tention to preſervatives;—ſo the performer who is ſecure in purſe may look big and frighten the folks with a threat of—‘"I will leave the ſtage."’—Beſides what a happineſs it is to have a reſerve againſt—

In the early part of the winter 1748 I was brought from Wandſworth to keep my birth-day on the 27th of October, and again after Chriſt⯑mas to ſee two plays; then again at Whitſuntide to ſee Mrs. Woffington in Sir Harry Wildair, and Apollo and Daphne—and Harlequin get into a quart bottle, being the year of the Bottle Conjuror. I complained of great ſeverity indeed, as my father and mother had been ſo cruel as to keep me nine months out of the twelve at ſchool.

This ſeaſon was much ſuperior to the former one [30] at Covent-Garden, as Mr. Quin returned from his Bath retirement,—Mr. Delane and Mr. Luke Sparks from Drury-Lane—alſo Mrs. Woffing⯑ton;—and, from Dublin, Mrs. Ward and Mifs Bellamy, who made her firſt appearance in Belvi⯑dera.—The following bill will give an idea of the company.

[32] When in town, every morning, by Mr. Page's permiſſion, I attended the rehearſal: There the deſire to become an actor at only ten years of age appeared very conſpicuous, and will fully prove and clear an error conceived by Mr. Churchill, (who was afterwards convinced to the contrary) that Mr. Foote inſtructed me in the art of imita⯑tion; which was neither truth, nor within the bounds of poſſibility: My frequent morning's admittance at the theatre, for two years, intoxica⯑ted my brain, and when I returned from that (to me) moſt luxurious treat, my mind was ſolely employed with acting and ſtudying plays, particu⯑larly thoſe I had ſeen and which had made the deepeſt impreſſion. I formed a mad idea thus early that I was certainly a manager of a theatre; and when locked up in a room, I there ſuppoſed myſelf, by turns, the different perſons I had obſerved. This rehearſing frenzy increaſed to ſuch a degree that at laſt I fitted up a room in a theatrical manner; as a proof I have now ſeveral hundred of my play⯑bills, in full-ſized paper, wrote in red and black, and could at this inſtant as eaſily tell what plays, farces, and pantomimes were performed at my theatre in the Savoy, with a knowledge of all the performers, whether married, ſingle, old, or young, and what they played, as if all the viſion had been realized—The bills I have often produ⯑ced, [33] not as a proof of my ſenſe, but inſanity, or theatrical influenza.

The rehearſals that year were very regular at Covent-Garden. The ſcenes for Volpone, Hen⯑ry IV. and their ſtock plays, (for, at that houſe, they ſeldom acted new ones or revived old ones) were regularly changed—and all was awful ſilence.—Mr. Quin was ſole monarch, and had a manner moſt terrible to the under performers, car⯑penters, &c.; if he ſpied me within two yards of the wings—‘"Get away, boy!"’—and ſtruck his cane with ſuch violence as made me tremble.

Mrs. Woffington had that year left David Gar⯑rick for more reaſons than one:—Firſt, ſhe had (before he proved a falſe ſwain) lived with the charming Garrick, who wrote a favourite ſong called Lovely Peggy—

She was mortified at his marriage, for ſhe loſt the reigning ſway ſhe expected to have had in ſha⯑ring the cares of monarchy.—Mrs. Pritchard's diviſion of characters hurt her; and Mrs. Clive, who was ſuperior to fear, was a conſtant thorn. So much has been ſaid of Mrs. Woffington, that it is needleſs to mention her Lady Townly, Lady Betty, &c.—An elegant figure in breeches—ſhe looked and acted Sir Harry Wildair with ſuch ſpi⯑rit [34] and deportment, that ſhe gave flat contradic⯑tion to what Farquhar aſſerted,—That when Wilks died, Sir Harry Wildair might go to the Jubilee;—and yet ſo far has his prophecy been fully verified, no male performer, even Garrick or Woodward, ſuc⯑ceeded, but all have failed in that part; ſhe repeated it with never ceaſing applauſe for ſeveral years. Her ex [...]ellence, when at Drury-Lane, occaſioned the following joke, which I do not give as new, but hope it will bear the repeating.

Dame Clive and that lady were ever at variance: Mrs. Woffington coming into the green-room, after a favourite ſcene in Sir Harry, in high ſpirits, exultingly ſaid to Mrs Clive—She had got ſo much applauſe, that, by the living God! ſhe believed one half of the audience took her for a man.—‘"O!"—ſays Clive, archly—"do not be uneaſy, as you are ſatisfied the other half know the con⯑trary"’

The early part of this ſeaſon I had been at a correct rehearſal of the Careleſs Huſband—Lord Foppington, Mr Cibber; Sir Charles Eaſy, Mr. Ryan; Lord Morelove, Mr. Delane; Lady Eaſy, Mrs. Ward; Lady Graveairs, Mrs. Hale; Edging, Mrs. Ridout; Lady Betty Modiſh, Mrs. Woffington;—after which I haſtened home to repeat what I could recollect. My mother obſer⯑ving me ſo particular, ſtood at the room door to liſten, as ſhe thought ſhe heard a talking, and [35] hearing me pronounce in a ſtrange voice—‘"My Lord Foppington give me my ſnuff-box."’—She, after dinner, deſired to know what I was talk⯑ing of when ſhut up by myſelf? I was rather perplexed, and ſaid—I had fancied all that day I was ſometimes Mr. Cibber, but oftener Mrs. Woffington, as ſhe had acted Lady Betty delight⯑fully. On this ſhe ſent for the play, and I ſtudied different parts of it, and alſo the firſt ſcene of Sir John and Lady Brute, which I had ſeen that win⯑ter: I was then, I believe, very like Mr. Quin and Mrs. Woffington; nay, am certain I was, as I can repeat the ſame at this inſtant in like manner; a proof what force firſt impreſſions make in the days of our youth.

This ſoon produced (when I was viſiting abroad, or when we had company at home) an intreaty for Maſter Tate to act Mr. Quin and Mrs. Wof⯑fington: The applauſe of the company added fuel to the flame.—Drury-Lane Theatre I did not ſee till the ſeaſon 1750, and, ſtrange to tell! did not wiſh to go there, ſo ſtrongly was I attached to ſweet Covent-Garden;—and a ſomething like hal⯑lowed ground, to this moment, occaſions reve⯑rence and awe for the ſteps and avenues of that theatre. A full houſe at Covent-Garden, then, was pleaſing intelligence:—The preference and ſucceſs [...]f Garrick and Drury-Lane I could not reliſh.— [36] This employment I purſued with unremitting ſla⯑very, even to the prejudice of health.

In September 1749, I had an ague and fever, which could not be conquered, but kept me con⯑fined all the winter, except being permitted to ſee three plays: Lady Jane Grey was one, and to this moment I recollect Quin, ſaying in Gardiner, ‘"I hold no ſpeech with hereticks and traitors."’

September 1750 was the remarkable year Barry and Cibber joined forces with Quin and Woffing⯑ton at Covent-Garden, as alſo Macklin. On ſee⯑ing Mr. Barry and Mrs. Cibber, leſſened in my opi⯑nion the merit I had alone allowed to my firſt fa⯑vorites, Mr. Quin and Mrs. Woffington. The run of Romeo and Juliet was that ſeaſon, when the famous controverſy happened between the two houſes on account of this play, and which commenced at both Theatres on Friday the 28th of September. The following is an exact bill of the Covent-Garden play.

[38] The firſt play I ſaw at Drury-Lane was that year;—it was the Mourning Bride—Oſmyn, Mr. Garrick; Zara, Mrs. Pritchard; Almeria, Miſs Bellamy.—Garrick was not in my ſecret opinion ſo enchanting as Barry—Miſs Bellamy very infe⯑rior indeed to Mrs. Cibber—but Mrs. Pritchard's Zara ſtruck me with admiration. The farce was Lethe; in which the characters were ſo inimitably performed by Woodward, Yates, Shuter, Blakes, Miſs Minors, and Mrs. Clive, that I felt actually angry at myſelf for being ſo pleaſed with the performers of the Old Houſe, when in a comparative view with my favorites of the New. I mention this, as an inſtance of the force of obſtinate and headſtrong par⯑tiality, whether we are young or old; and am ſorry to obſerve, that conviction or reaſon, will not conquer our prejudices as we grow old, any more than prevail over the ſentiments of waxen youth.

The Winter of 1750, I ſaw ſeveral plays; and for fear of being tainted with the prevailing powers of Drury-Lane, entered not that faſhion⯑able p [...]ace of reſort. The end of the ſeaſon Mr. Quin left the ſtage; the opening play in the Sep⯑tember following, (1751) was the Recruiting Of⯑ficer, at Covent-Garden; Mrs. Woffington's name was inſerted for Sylvia, but on ſome ſudden [39] diſagreement ſhe went off for Ireland, and a Mrs. Vincent performed the part.

In October 1751, was Mr. Moſſop's and Mr. Roſs's firſt appearance at Drury-Lane, in the characters of Richard and young Bevil. I paſſed my time as the preceding ſeaſon, only with this difference, that I attended both Theatres; they cloſed as uſual.—In the Autumn, what I had ar⯑dently wiſhed for, two years before, came to paſs; as my being ſent to Harrow School was put into real practice, by my coming to the age of thir⯑teen, the enſuing 7th of Nov. 1752, (being the year of the New Style). This, when at a diſtance, I thought pleaſing, but for a Manager a Critic, to be ſent to ſchool, was a ſtroke of real grief and horror; my pride prevented me from owning the truth, for I had ſometime before petitioned for this indulgence, therefore would not let my vera⯑city or reſolution be called in queſtion.—So, O woeful day! to Harrow School I was conveyed by my mother; where, on ſeeing my friend George Forbes, I endeavoured to compoſe myſelf, and ſubmit to ſlavery. He introduced me to the Duke of Gordon, and his brother, Lord Adam Gordon; alſo at that ſchool, (which was then ſecond only to Eaton in this kingdom,) were Lord Downe, Sir John Ruſſiate, and the Capt. Dives's, to whom I have been much obliged. But [40] inſtead of the place becoming more eaſy by habit, the manager roſe ſtrongly in my heated imagina⯑tion:—Studying a play was the employment of a man, but going to ſchool, the God of Idleneſs convinced me was intolerable;—I therefore re⯑ſolved on a retreat, not doubting but if I related to my mother, that I had ſeen three boys whipt, ſhe would relent and receive me home again, and ſoften all reſentment from my father, who hu⯑moured me to a greater degree than ſhe did her⯑ſelf; but when he was in a paſſion, which thank God was but ſeldom, it was dreadful! To exe⯑cute with wiſdom and diſcretion, ſuch a dangerous undertaking, the good, the unfortunate Andrée uſed not more precaution.—I waited for a public holiday, and loading my pockets with oranges and gingerbread the night before, got up at ſix in the morning, and proceeded down Harrow-Hill; unfortunately, not being accuſtomed to the road, I turned to the right, and every now and then looked up to ſpy if any one was purſuing me, ſo ſtrong is guilt.—

Having walked for ſome time, I read on a ſtone ‘"One mile to Partington,"’ or ſome ſuch name; I was alarmed, and haſtened back to my old [41] ground, the bottom of the hill: If I looked be⯑hind, and ſaw a man on horſeback, I was ſure he was in purſuit of me. I ſoon reached the fifth mile-ſtone, where ſome men were at work on the roads; here I was again puzzled, by a ſeparation of two broad carriage-ways, and fearing a ſecond blunder, ſaid, ‘"Pray, good men, which is the road to London?" "Why," ſays one of them—"to the left; but I am afraid, young gentleman, you have run away from ſchool?"—"No indeed," ſays I, and to convince him he was wrong, took the only me⯑thod to prove him quite in the right, by imme⯑diately taking to my heels. The men laughed, a [...]d cried, "Catch him,—ſtop him."’—I was tru⯑ly a frightened hare. After ſtumbling, running, &c. at laſt I was obliged from ſickneſs and great fatigue to ſtop; but, finding no purſuers, in about ten minutes I continued my journey, and got ſafe into London: When advanced beyond the pur⯑lieus, I ſtopped at a coffee-houſe, and breakfaſt⯑ed. One danger being over, I now began, when hunger was ſatisfied, to feel other qualms, which were the approach of home: I walked very ſlow, and got to the Savoy, juſt as the bell was ringing for prayers; I ſauntered till it ceaſed, well knowing that my father was then ſecure, and for fear of miſtake took a peep to be certain that he read the prayers. That point being ſettled to my ſa⯑tisfaction, [42] I rapped at the door, and ſoon with perfect eaſe, aſked my mother how ſhe did.—Her ſurpriſe was great—all my relation of cruel⯑ties, and whipping the little boys would not avail; ſhe expoſtulated on the great expence of the en⯑trance to the maſters, as Dr. Thackerey, Mr. Prior, &c.—ſaid ſhe would ſoften the matter as well as ſhe could—but back I muſt go—I was ordered to retire; and on ſo doing, my reflections were by no means the moſt pleaſant. When com⯑manded into the preſence of my father, I was conditionally pardoned; but after a bit of dinner, for which I had not the leaſt appetite, a chaiſe was ordered, and a ſervant ſent with me, who was to ſtop the carriage at the bottom of Harrow Hill, in order if poſſible, that my difgrace of running away might be a ſecret. This I was obliged to ſubmit to, and I arrived at the fatal ſpot, like a culprit prepared for execution; but when I came to the borders of the village, I ſoon heard the warhoop of Indians, and perceived almoſt the whole ſchool aſſembled, and ready to tar and fea⯑ther me for my flight.

From many tokens of intelligence and ſearching enquiries, I was ſoon diſcovered to have been more than merely out of bounds. I therefore like a poor deſerter, wanted no more than hand⯑cuffs, to make my appearance and contrition truly [43] in character, when, like a god, my friend George Forbes appeared, (who was held in great reſpect and eſteem) drew me from my diſagreeable ſituation, and under his arm conveyed me ſafe to Mr. Reeves's (the writing maſter) houſe, where I was boarded, and delivered me from the hands of the Philiſtines. Mr. and Mrs. Reeves were of a a genteel turn; and what do you think, good rea⯑der, better than that,—they were critics, and fond of plays; and what was better ſtill, Mrs. Reeves's ſiſter (then on a viſit) was play and romance mad; but at this time of diſtreſs, I was not acquainted with thoſe delightful circumſtances; however they were kind, not auſtere upon my diſgrace; and Mr. Reeves interfered to prevent the deſerter's corporal puniſhment; but the adventure reached the ear of Admiral Forbes, who fearing my bad example might have an ill effect on his newphew, over whom he judged I had great influence, which might occaſion his taking a trip over to Dublin, to ſee his mamma, inſiſted on my being made an example of terror, by way of prevention.

Dr. Thackerey, was as benign and humane a man, as ever was placed at the head of ſuch an unruly community as a public ſchool; but the Reverend Prior, loved to lift his arm up for the awful flogging, better than Fielding's Parſon Thwackum, and judged himſelf robbed of his [44] rights, when he was prevented from putting in force his love of torture; he was in truth a de⯑ſpicable, ſevere, and diſagreeable tyrant: But on the hint being given, while he went out of the great ſchool-room, I believe I might be ſpeaking a little too loud, when the head ſcholar ordered me to ſtand before the throne, and am ſorry to ſay, except from my friend George Forbes, I perceived univerſal exultation; for the lad that runs away is looked on like the cowardly ſoldier who retires on the day of battle: Soon entered Governor Prior, who with exulting features, ordered me to be prepared and brought immediately to the block, and, to ſtrike terror, deſired attention to his ſkill on the occaſion; and as what muſt be, muſt [...]e, I patiently reſigned to my cruel fate. He ne⯑ver acted the barbarian better—

This proved in fact a moſt lucky adventure—as misfortunes paſt prove ſtories of delight; for, when ſchool was over, I was generally ſaluted and applauded for my heroiſm, and from that time was on good terms with all the ſcholars. My boarding-houſe became every day more ſa⯑tisfactory; [45] for my fond mother, to keep me eaſy under my bondage, after ſuch a life of indulgence as I had been accuſtomed to, was even near in her family expences, and denied herſelf what was ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary, in order to ſend Tate luxuries, ſuch as tea, ſugar, nice chickens, bottles of wine, pound cake, &c. with the play-bills of the week: thoſe preſents I gave to Mrs. Reeves, which occaſioned an intimacy, and my ſitting up to ſupper; this brought on ſtage converſation, and from that I was aſked, whenever they had com⯑pany, to act plays. So conſidering myſelf as a ma⯑nager in diſtreſs, the time paſſed tolerably pleaſant till December. We had only one diſpute, which was Mr. Reeves's pronouncing Garrick not only the beſt actor, but what was more intolerable, the beſt Romeo; to which I muſt have yielded, had not the wife declared entirely on my ſide of the argument, and wondered her huſband could make ſuch a compariſon—the ſiſter avowed the ſame; and they both agreed that Barry was a charming man, and made love like an angel, to which I aſſented and ſignificantly ſaid, It was not worth contending; for it really was not every one that ſaw a play who was a perfect judge of acting.

It may not be improper to obſerve how neceſſa⯑ry it is to make every one a wellwiſher, inſtead of an enemy:—Friends are happy circumſtances; [46] they are the foundation-ſtone of human greatneſs, from the higheſt to the loweſt;—civility is worth the preſerving, for if offended, a Star and Garter may find himſelf hurt by the rudeneſs of a black⯑guard: Therefore as many friends as poſſible it is our intereſt to procure, provided they can be gained without deſcending to meanneſs.—A few inſignificant enemies are not amiſs, they rouſe the ſpirits to action and vigour; while the kindneſs of friends and ſelf-love are ſo far from improving the mental faculties, that they only act on the underſtanding as laudanum, and all real genius is lulled into lethargy and ſluggiſhneſs.

From my civility to Mrs. Reeves's ſiſter, I was not only made of ſome little conſequence at Harrow; but the ſequel will prove it led to an important part of my future life.

While at Mr. Reeves's, a theatrical fête was to be given before the Chriſtmas holidays in the great ſchool-room, as the cuſtom had been for ſome years to act three nights before that period, to which all the families from Stanmore and the adjacent villages were invited; the room was very commodious for ſuch a purpoſe. Shapes were borrowed from Mr. Rich, who, it ſeems, always obliged the ſchool on ſuch occaſions. Dr. Thackerey (the good governor) fixed on the Roman Father for the leading ſcholars to enact. [47] The firſt night the play was preſented I was an auditor, but Mrs. Reeves and her ſiſter were ſtung to the quick; their pride was hurt to think their favourite boarder, and ſuch a promiſing actor, had not a chance for fame, and a ſhare of the ap⯑plauſe at this public time.

Mrs. Reeves's ſiſter felt herſelf ſo unhappy on this trivial matter, that ſhe waited on Dr. Thac⯑kerey with me in her hand, and requeſted I might reh [...]arſe Lord and Lady Townly, which the Doctor good-naturedly aſſented to; and I inſtantly performed Lord Townly, a-la-mode Barry—Lady Townly, a-la-mode Woffington, which actually broke through the buckram of the college and the Doctor's accuſtomed ſolemnity, and he and his good woman laughed very heartily; for though he never ſaw more than three or four plays in a year, and that during the Chriſtmas receſs, the tranſition of voice and manner from Barry to Woffington, pleaſed the Doctor ſo much, that he actually ſent for his eldeſt ſon Frederick, and de⯑ſired him to ſtudy the firſt ſcene of Lord Townly, and ordered it to precede the Roman Father the next play-night; to which Mr. Frederick like a good ſon acquieſced, promiſed to be perfect, bowed, retired, and kept his word. Mrs. Reeves's ſiſter and I re⯑turned in triumph, and, after congratulations of ſucceſs on our embaſſy, much conſultation was ne⯑ceſſary [48] for the equipment and the attire of Lady Townly, as if a matter of the utmoſt importance. What they could not furniſh me with, was bor⯑rowed from their connexions in the neighbour⯑hood, and with infinite pains attended to the manner and taſte they were to ſhew on the entree of the new performer.

After, not leſs than three hours in the equip⯑ment, a chair (which I wonder at in ſo ſmall a place) was to be hired, to convey me to Harrow-Theatre, and not I aſſure you without ſome emo⯑tion: not that my firſt acting ſeemed diſtreſſing, nor was it particular my playing Lady Townly, as two young gentlemen of family perſonated Horatia, and Valeria; and as to dreſs, my Engliſh attire as much ſurpaſſed the Roman ladies on this occaſion, as Mrs. Bellamy's new Paris-dreſs is aſſerted by her to have outſhone Mrs. Woffing⯑ton's, when they acted the Rival Queens: How⯑ever not having in reality played before any num⯑ber of perſons fit to be termed an audience, it gave me a tremor natural to all young actors. My performance was ſo much ſuperior, and ſo in⯑finitely more like a theatrical one, than that of the young gentlemen who acted in the Roman Father, that I bore away the palm, notwithſtand⯑ing Publius was repreſented by a Lord! Nor is it to be wondered at, as they played only from an [49] eſtabliſhed cuſtom of the ſchool; therefore merely judged it a pleaſing relief, as by ſo doing for ten or twelve days they relinquiſhed the dryer ſtudies of Greek and Latin; but no more likely to make a figure as actors, without the poſſeſſion of the God, than thoſe young perſons were, who are related to have acted with Garrick when he was a child at Litchfield; for they, as his play-mates, performed merely from civility and compliance to his will, whilſt we may venture to pronounce his whole ſoul was in agitation.

The effect of my Lady Townly was ſurpriſing indeed; ſo much ſo, that every one of the audience ſpoke to me with marks of attention, and an univerſal requeſt was made the next night, (the laſt of playing) that I would not only oblige them with Lady Townly, but ſome other part, to try my ſkill in contraſt—for they were pleaſed to add, that every one was delighted; and thoſe phraſes are not to be wondered at as the ſpeeches of pa⯑rents and neighbours at a ſchool play. I do not imagine any one night of real ſucceſs, when even attended with the pe [...]unia, ever gave me more ex⯑quiſite pleaſure;—joy without meaſure to feel my⯑ſelf, on ſuch a public occaſion, the firſt mark of attention, as a theatrical performer, at a place of ſuch conſequence as Harrow School.

The requeſt of the additional performance the [50] enſuing play-night, (which had my ſecret and eager wiſhes of compliance) Dr. Thackerey not only aſſented to, but gave his approbation. I, being attached to Mr. Barry's acting, fixed on the garden-ſcene in Romeo and Juliet to pre⯑cede the Roman Father, and Lady Townly after the play. But here a difficulty ſtarted, which was no leſs than the want of a Juliet; for though Mr. Frederick Thackerey had con⯑ſented to be Lord Townly, he would not ſub⯑mit to be my Juliet. This occaſioned a demur; but Sir John Ruſſiate, on hearing of the obſtacle, removed all inconvenience, by obligingly offering himſelf for Juliet, and this mighty matter was immediately concluded, and as ſpeedily put into practice; but as I did not ſuppoſe a man of quali⯑ty could be ſo good a performer as myſelf, I therefore, manager-like, taught Sir John ſome of Mrs. Cibber's ſtriking manner in the particular paſſages,—which did not a little add to my ſelf-opinion. The third night finiſhed to the extent of my ambition—I looked, talked, walked, and felt myſelf a great actor.—Such Things Were! Such Things Are! and Such Things may be yet to come, as muſt decide whether my play of life will end with, All in the Right, or All in the Wrong? If All in the Right, I ſhall then conclude like Panglos, ‘"That All has been for the Beſt."’

[51] On my return to ſupper at Mr. Reeves's, they were as proud and pleaſed as if their own ſon had met with the ſame approbation. Indeed my thanks were due to them;—for this little eſteem which I acquired at the ſchool, &c. certainly was owing not only to their thought, but they had even gone lengths beyond their ſituation in accom⯑pliſhing a matter that required ſome degree of difficulty and addreſs. Every one who turns over theſe leaves will reflect how fortunate it was for me to be boarded with a family that would con⯑deſcend to humour me; had I been placed in a moroſe boarding-houſe, bred up as I had been, [...]or rather not bred at all) I muſt have led the life of a ſulky Negro ſlave—But better things, thank God, were in ſtore.

I cannot quit Harrow for the Chriſtmas receſs without recollecting that my ſtage ſucceſs, as I then termed it, at that place, occaſioned ſerious reflections from the wiſe directors: For my exhibition (from the peculiarity of what I attempted) was the ground⯑work of public converſation in the circle of Harrow critics; it was therefore judged truly neceſſary to con⯑vene a cabinet council, which was directly ſummoned, where it was agreed on mature deliberation, nemine [...]tradicente, not in future to have any more plays [...]cted by the young gentlemen at Harrow School: The annual cuſtom was therefore aboliſhed, and I [52] am told that law has been ſtrictly adhered to from that time to this, as they feared it might get the appellation of (and an idle report be circulated in the world, that it was) a ſchool for breeding up actors in lieu of ſcholars. Though without doubt, ſince that period, private plays having been ſo very faſhionable, many changes of opinion muſt have occurred for the improvement of that little ſtate ſince my happy acting there in Dec. 1752—but I judge, had the ancient cuſtom been revived and tolerated, the newſpapers or ſome chance intelligence would have before this fully informed me. Adieu to Harrow-Hill, and hey for the Chriſtmas holidays, Savoy, and Plays!

I was received at home, as uſual, with fondneſs and partiality even to a fault: If aſked a queſtion relative to the progreſs I had made in my learning, I quickly anſwered it with relating the fine play we had performed, and that was ſufficient; but more ſo, when I aſſured them, I was the leading actor; and father and mother were ſo pleaſed they determined Tate ſhould not be diſappointed of his darling amuſement. I viſited as ſoon as poſ⯑ſible my favourite palaces of Drury-Lane and Covent-Garden, and if money was ever ſo ſhor [...] at home, it was raiſed by ſome means, no matte [...] how difficult.

I particularly recollect ſeeing on Saturday th 30th of December, the Siege of Damaſcus-Phocyas, [53] Barry; Eumenes, Ryan; Caled, Sparks; Abudah, Ridout; Eudocia, Mrs. Cibber; with the dances of Il Paſtore and Il Morlaco, by Sig⯑nor Maraneſi, and Signora Bugiani, two excellent dancers;—by the bye the dances at that time were greatly ſupported, very different from what they are at the Theatres now.—Cooke and Hilliard, both in a firſt degree, were added to the Maraneſi and the Bugiani. The entertainment was Apollo and Daphne, by command of his Royal Highneſs Frederick Prince of Wales, who ſeldom went to Drury-Lane; what were the reaſons to have oc⯑caſioned a diſguſt I cannot give, or even gueſs at—Had it been out of compliment to old Quin, who had the inſtruction of his preſent Ma⯑jeſty in his youth, it might in ſome meaſure have accounted for it; as Quin often exclaimed, on be⯑ing told that his Majeſty delivered his maiden ſpeech with gracefulneſs and preciſion—‘"Ay, I knew it would be ſo—for I taught the boy to ſpeak."’ But in 1753 that cauſe had ceaſed, as Quin had retired in the ſpring 1751 to Bath, and quitted the ſtage, but the Prince's partiality con⯑tinued.

On Monday, January 9, 1753, Mr. Smith made his firſt entr [...]e in the character of Theodoſius, or the Force of Love—Varanes, Barry; Athenaïs, Mrs. Cibber: it was repeated the Tueſday, Wed⯑neſday [54] and Thurſday following. Mr. Smith's firſt benefit was on Saturday, April 7, 1753, the Siege of Damaſcus.

When the drum beat for marching orders to the camp at Harrow, I feigned ſickneſs very well; and by continuing at home I was at the height of bliſs. Mr. and Mrs. Reeves were, on account of their civilities to me at Harrow, conſtant viſitors at my father's during the receſs. Mr. Wier, gen⯑tleman to Sir Francis Delaval, was ſmitten with my friend Mrs. Reeves's ſiſter, the Laſs of the Hill; and Dr. Wilkinſon was appointed to per⯑form the holy rites.—I was father on the oc⯑caſion, and gave her away.—I remember it was a cheerful evening with us all; and a genteel ſupper was ordered by Sir Francis Delaval, and ſo ended the marriage with the uſual ceremony.

My attention to the ſtage was truly unremitting—it was my day—my life;—and it is not to be won⯑dered at that my imitations, when really produced on the ſtage, were thought ſuperior to Mr. Gar⯑rick's or Mr. Foote's: For thoſe particular actors and actreſſes, whoſe manner and voice I ſo ſtrongly preſented to the public, were taken on the trueſt ground, that of feeling myſelf at the time the perſon I imitated, and not exaggerated into buf⯑foonery;—and this was my work, my toil, my conſtant practice for ſome years before I played in [55] London. My mode was, that as ideal manager, I appointed myſelf to act Lord Townly. Now, ex⯑cept Lady Townly, Lady Grace, and Mr. Manly (for I played all the parts) had each a different voice and manner, it did not pleaſe the buildings of my fancy unleſs that I had performers ſup⯑poſed to be under my command, as thus:

Going out ſo ſoon after dinner Madam?

Lard! my Lord, what can I poſſibly do at home?

Yes, Madam, in rather turning myſelf out of doors than her.

Don't you think that would be going too far?

I don't know but it might, Madam—for in ſtrict juſtice I think ſhe ought rather to go than I, &c.

A ſtranger on thoſe occaſions to have been at the door would have thought that four or five perſons were gathered together, and were rehearſing a play. I had ſo habituated myſelf to this fluctuation of voice, and to move and change my features to thoſe of the actors and actreſſes I judged myſelf perſonating, that from impulſive en⯑thuſiaſm, (for I cannot think of another word) I felt, as if each individual I ſpoke and acted like were at that inſtant under the reſtrictions and re⯑verence [56] due to a real audience of the moſt col⯑lected and faſhionable conſequence; and

When this thought is ſupported by an applaud⯑ing audience, it becomes more truly reliſhed than an auditor or reader can ſuppoſe: For the beſt ac⯑tor that ever trode the ſtage, as Betterton, Booth, Wilks, Cibber, Quin, Garrick, Barry, or Kemble, if not ſupported by encouragement, would ſtill have remained himſelf—not the character he repre⯑ſented, unleſs happily thrown off his guard by the ſmiles and applauſe of the public; which be⯑ſtowed, ‘"On ſilken wings ſublime he cuts the air,"’ and is in reality the monarch he then repre⯑ſents. The ſame aid, the ſame comfort, makes the comedian, as well as the tragedian, but not in ſo great a degree, as circumſtances differ wide⯑ly—a ſmile only will cheer a drooping comedian, but the [...]ame ſmile is immediate death to the tra⯑gic hero.

At the end of the ſeaſon, May 1753, Mrs. Cibber left Covent-Garden, and Barry loſt his Juliet, but ſ [...]on provided himſelf another—A Miſs Noſſiter made her firſt appearance in that character, on Wedneſday the 10th of October▪ [57] Miſs Bellamy returned to Covent-Garden; but her firſt appearance was very different from what ſhe relates in her memoirs.

I will put a ſtop for the preſent to Theatrical Anecdotes, as well as of my family and ſelf and muſt here intreat leave to introduce a little hiſtory of

LADY CORNWALLIS'S FATHER

a year before its real date, that it may not inter⯑vene too much with that part of my life, which on reflection, from that hour to my laſt, will be truly intereſting to my feelings; and I doubt not, but it will claim and obtain the tear of pity. Amongſt the variety of our acquaintance and viſitors, my mother's moſt conſtant intimate was a Mrs. Jones, wife of Captain James Jones, of his Majeſty's third regiment of guards, who lived in the houſe allotted for the ſuperintendant officer in the Savoy-Square, and not above two hundred yards from ou [...] dwelling. As a private family hiſtory, this tale might be thought intruding, tireſome, and impertinent; but when I announce Capt. James Jones as the father of the late Lady Cornwallis, I hope I ſhall be permitted to proceed, and be honour⯑ed with attention; nor will his Lordſhip, I truſt, be offended with any matter I ſhall here inſert; for I pronounce that it is the pen of Truth which writes this relation of all my various and hiſtorical [58] events, and I would rather burn the book than let it be ſtained with ſlander. What I here reſpect⯑fully, and with diffidence relate, I aſſure myſelf his Lordſhip will not—cannot be offended at, but th [...] contrary—

At the time I give this ſhort detail of change and chances in Life's [...]ickle dance, I muſt notice I have been for many years thrown ſo diſtant from my ancient friends and patrons, and my viſits of late, when in London, were ſo limited that I know not whether Mrs. Jones (mother-in-law to Lord Cornwallis) is living or dead. How⯑ever if that good Lady is now in our earthly re⯑gion, I take the liberty to mention that the ma⯑terial part, ſuch as the grand change in Captain Jones's latter fortune, I had from her own lips, or rather my mother was honoured with the relation.

Captain Jones was of a moſt accompliſhed turn of mind, to which was added every requiſite to conſtitute the true gentleman—a ſtrong under⯑ſtanding, wit, vivacity, and generoſity; his perſon well made, ſmart, elegant, but not handſome. I cannot aſcertain Capt. Jones and his Lady's mode and manners better than by referring the reader [...]o Fielding's "Capt. Booth and his Amelia." [59] I could ſuppoſe Mrs. Jones the Amelia in every reſpect, and have my doubts whether Fielding did not take exact meaſure, and actually founded that novel on his knowledge of thoſe two per⯑ſons—Nay, I could almoſt ſwear it, for I never can believe that Captain Jones and his Lady would have been ſo very complaiſant as to have ſtudied their very foibles, and ruſh into ſcenes of diſtreſs, merely to imitate characters drawn by a noveliſt.

To theſe worthy perſons the world was obli⯑ged for a ſon and daughter.—The ſon, Mr. James Jones, is ſtill living near Whitehaven, his eſtate being in that part of the kingdom: Miſs Jones, the daughter, was, when a child, of a remarkably quick genius, and poſſeſſed a theatrical turn; at eight years old could repeat all the ſpeeches of Juliet with the utmoſt preciſion, and her father's judgment and attention made her quite correct. But Dame Fortune will have her frolics, and like a naughty woman, makes no ſcruple of introducing her daughter, Miſs, on every occaſion—Nay, ſo abandoned is ſhe, that ſhe forces her into the worſt as well as the beſt company; and what is truly lamentable, no living mortal will ever hear of her death, for the wicked jade will live and triumph, while the world is a world; and ſhe too often from her whims, by being an univerſal [60] plague, obliged Captain Jones to make the verge of the Court his moſt frequented walks—and of courſe, being often weary in body and mind in ſuch walks of recreation and the reflections on this noon lounge, he would frequently ſit down in a reverie on one of the benches in St. James's Park. Mrs. Chance (not her daughter) met him one morning, and ſuggeſted his reſting himſelf on the ſame bench with General Skelton, who was then an entire ſtranger to him, of an ill tempered moroſe turn, like old Rueful in the Natural Son. This happened often, and by theſe interviews and chit chat they of courſe became mutually ac⯑quainted as Park-frequenters, to create an appetite for dinner, but no more; for the General never once aſked him to his houſe, or formed any fur⯑ther intercourſe. In the variety of ups and downs which Capt. Jones's ſpirit and humour occaſioned, that hydra-headed monſter Gaming, the origin of moſt human ills, precipitately urged him to the brink of ruin. His affairs grew ſo embarraſſed, that he found it neceſſary to have a ſecret retire⯑ment, about eight miles from the metropolis, near Mortlake upon the Thames; and by art and diſguiſe he found means to ſee his family: Some time elapſed, when after a long abſence he was obliged to appear at St. James's;—being in a hurry to reach that place of royal protection, fearing [61] every inſtant a rude fiſted bailiff, he was poſting with the eyes of Argus to get within the ſacred verge, when he was ſuddenly called on by an audible voice, which he took to be that of an ac⯑quaintance. He did not wiſh to be near, therefore made the beſt of his way, the other continuing in full ſpeed after our Captain; fear did not add wings on this occaſion, for he looked on this fa⯑tal demon as one that would ſo far prove a de⯑vil, as to plunge him into ruin and irretrieveable diſtreſs. Finding it impoſſible to gain the wiſhed for aſylum, he determined to face his enemy, and wheeled about as in a poſture of defence.—This ſhort pauſe ſoon brought the parties to a ſtate of parley. Jones, on looking ſtedfaſtly on his ſuppoſed enemy, knew him to be a gentleman of the law and of reputation, therefore ſaid, ‘"What is the rea⯑ſon, Sir, you hazard my reſentment, by treating me in this rude and contemptible manner?"—"Why," ſays the lawyer, "damn it, Jemmy! what are you afraid of?—I am Mr. Brown the [...]ttorney, and have had the pleaſure of knowing you for ſome time."—"True," ſaid the Cap⯑tain, "but you are not at preſent one of the moſt pleaſant acquaintance I could wiſh to meet in my preſent circumſtances."’

"Dear Jones, you never were in a greater error, for before we part I will make [62] you confeſs I am not only equal, but ſuperior to any friend you ever had in your life."

"Indeed!"

"I will prove my aſſertion; there⯑fore without apprehenſion or ſurpriſe let you and I adjourn to the next tavern, and the myſtery ſhall be made perfectly clear."

The reader cannot doubt but on this mixture of alarm, doubt, fear, and apprehenſion, Jones's heart beat as quickly from curioſity as it had within a ſhort ſpace done with fear: In ſilence they entered the firſt houſe of public invitation that offered;—having procured a room, &c. after three or four hems, ſtirring the fire, and the lawyer gueſſing at the other's eagerneſs, he for once in his life omitted the law's delay, and pro⯑ceeded to buſineſs.

"My dear Sir, to eaſe your ſuſpenſe and bring the extraordinary cauſe of our meeting to that concluſion which tends to promote the ſucceſs and happineſs of your life, there is an unknown friend, anxious for your proſperity and for the welfare of your worthy wife and family; therefore let me know the amount that will make your affairs eaſy, and I have authority to aſſure you it ſhall be immediately done."

"I declare, Sir,—(here his features brightened)—it is a ſurpriſing as well as unexpected [63] propoſal; but as I have dipt into fatal debts of honour, which I cannot as a gentleman ſcreen, I fear when they are known, I ſhall forfeit all the noble intentions of my concealed patron."

"Fear not even that, for your patron's ſcrutinizing eye has made him well acquainted with every part of your miſconduct, as well as your nobler and deſerving qualities, and the latter in his judgment weighs ſo much ſuperior, as to kick the beam with your errors; and I feel the happineſs at this inſtant to have it in my power to convince you that you may be free from all ter⯑ror or inconvenience during life."

"Good God! who can this paragon of friendſhip be!—or am I in a dream!"

Term it a dream;—and though a ve⯑ry pleaſing one, you ſhall wake to the reality.—But now let me inform you—that General Skelton has done you this favour."

"General Skelton!—Why, except my chance meetings and converſations in the Park, I have little or no acquaintance with him."

"However it is true."

"Let me fly this inſtant to the General, to expreſs my rapture, acknowledgments, and gratitude!"

Not ſo faſt, Captain;—the General will never ſpeak to you again."

"Good God! this is more incompre⯑henſible than all the reſt."

"Not at all ſtrange, as he died laſt night."

"Laſt night! It is a romance!—an A⯑rabian tale!"

"Ay, or a Mother Shipton's pro⯑phecy; and it needs not only your credibility, but more—all the fortitude, reaſon, and philoſophy you can ſummon to your aid, for you muſt of neceſſity comply with, not a requeſt only, but a demand."

"I hope, after this act of unexpected ge⯑neroſity, no tie is annexed to expect any compliance that may be a diſgrace, and oblige me to refuſe the benevolence he has honoured me with?"

"Of that you muſt be the judge; and to be plain, he had taken a great diſlike to the name of Jones, and has ordered you to change it."

"If that be all, I will conſent to be called any name he may have pleaſed to appoint, or that may have ſtruck his fancy—but as Jones is my real name I muſt be obliged in all tranſactions to retain it ſtill."

"Even that may be ſettled without dif⯑ficulty, as acts of parliament can remove greater obſtacles; and as you have borne the firſt ſurpriſe like a ſoldier, know, my dear friend, I made his will, and have for ſome time known the General's ſecret intentions and with ſincere pleaſure con⯑gratulate [65] you on being truly and bona ſide, left ſole heir to all his ample poſſeſſions, only in re⯑turn (as he had not a ſon) that you by authority reſign the name of Jones for Skelton."

Here the joy, the rapture of our captain may be imagined much eaſier than expreſſed, yet what follows will too fully prove how tranſitory are all human events, and the extraordinary fact plead, with the feeling heart, a ſufficient excuſe for my inſertion of it.

Jones immediately, with his good genius the honeſt attorney, haſtened to Mrs. Jones, and after the forms of neceſſary preparation informed her of the glad tidings.—The fortunate Captain and his Lady went with Brown to view the New Palace in Henrietta Street; from which place her impa⯑tience made her elope to ſee her friend Mrs. Wil⯑kinſon in Little Bedford-Street, to inform her of theſe wonderful and delightful particulars.

Miſs Chudleigh, (the late Ducheſs of Kingſton) at that time a toaſt in the faſhionable circles, and who abſolutely appeared as a naked Venus at a maſquerade given ſome years ſince at Somerſet⯑houſe, was a near relation of General Skelton's: Being apprized of his death, ſhe immediately or⯑dered her carriage, and entered the houſe—ſecure in her ſanguine expectations that not only part, but the whole of his eſtates were left at her will and diſpoſal. When the time came for the u⯑ſual [66] form of opening the will, and Jones was pro⯑nounced ſole executor, the diſappointment of Miſs Chudleigh burſt out in terms exceeding all bounds of delicacy—Her rage was exceſſive—(and indeed few would be found who would rejoice at the good fortune of another when oppoſed to their own loſs of election; in ſhort, unleſs being too violent from extreme of paſſion, her feelings muſt be allowed as the reſult of Nature)—ſhe iro⯑nically declared the General was an old fool, and in his dotage; and that Jones and his wife were impudent, low upſtarts, beneath her notice,—returned to her coach with a ſcornful quality toſs, and was drove furiouſly home to ſigh, fume, and fret at leiſure.—This was the exit of that ambiti⯑ous, haughty dame.

Here with pleaſure we behold, after the ſtorms of adverſity, a ſerene ſky, and this accompliſhed amiable couple ſurrounded with every proſpect of unbounded happineſs; and promiſed addition of joys, even as their days did grow, with a ſon and daughter poſſeſſed of every endowment to make their mutual felicity complete.

The houſe in Henrietta-Street, (after the ſolemn and reſpectful interment of General Skelton) was ſoon new decked; they remained there till the ſummer had made ſome approach, it was then judged neceſſary on account of buſineſs, pleaſure, and inclination, to viſit his eſtates, left by the [67] General, in Cumberland. The ſon was at ſchool, and the Captain, his Lady, and daughter, ſet off with that kind of ſelf-ſatisfaction, which ſuch a journey would naturally inſpire; they ſafely arrived, and for about three weeks ſeemed not only in an enchanted ſpot, but a paradiſe; and, O delightful! that paradiſe their own. Unfortunately the Cap⯑tain wilfully, and againſt the perſuaſion of his friends, would be let down to view a lead-mine, from which indeed he did return, but was in⯑ſtantaneouſly ſeized with a diſorder of the moſt malignant and fatal kind, which in a few days baffled all ſkill, and he died in the arms of as ſenſible and endearing a wife as ever bleſſed a huſ⯑band, or honoured the world. Her feelings on this occaſion were poignant indeed; but by degrees her ſtrength of mind roſe ſuperior to her grief—her loſs was great and irrevocable! Fate had ſigned the warrant, and the dreadful ſtroke had been ſuſtained. She curbed the ſudden throbs and impulſe of her heart—Nature had claimed her rights, and ſhe had been obeyed. Mrs. Jones reflected, that though ſhe had loſt her huſ⯑band, her protector; yet not many months be⯑fore had this melancholy event happened in her book of fate, ſhe had been left deſtitute, without friends, or means of ſupport; and that a ſon and daughter, who would now attain rank and affluence, would then have been obliged to ſubmit for their [68] exiſtence to means below their birth, talents, and education.

Mrs. Jones's firſt cares were employed in the further improvement of her daughter's education, adding every accompliſhment of art, to thoſe bleſ⯑ſings Nature had beſtowed, with a profuſe and bountiful hand on her darling child; a few years completed the pleaſing taſk, when the mother in⯑troduced her bewitching and attractive daughter under her matron [...]ing into the more elegant and poliſhed ſcenes of life. Mrs. Jones was of a moſt lively and entertaining diſpoſition; when once more returned to mix with the world, ſhe was willingly viſited by the gay, the good, and the great: amongſt her round of acquaintance was the brave, the preſent Lord Cornwallis. He ſoon felt an impreſſion not to be effaced, by the fre⯑quent converſations he had the happineſs to enjoy with the lovely Miſs Jones; nor was the young Lady leſs pleaſed with the great attention his Lordſhip honoured her with. His Lordſhip made propoſals, which the mother's good ſenſe approv⯑ed, and her daughter's inclination and duty obeyed. Their ſouls were congenial—

The match ſoon took place to the joy and credit of all parties. Never did wedded felicity promiſe more laſting happineſs—

When lo! the dreadful, the unfortunate war with America appeared! and to her Ladyſhip in⯑deed a view of horror. His Lordſhip, though all the lover and affectionate huſband, would not ſuf⯑fer his honour to forget that he was a ſoldier, and eager to hazard blood and life for his king and country, he entreated not to be an idle ſpectator in the time of danger, if his ſervices could be ren⯑dered acceptable, which was immediately granted; and his Majeſty conferred particular command and honors on his Lordſhip—whoſe regiment was or⯑dered into immediate ſervice. Lady Cornwallis, ſtruck deep with grief, urged every plea that affec⯑tion, reaſon, intreaty, and endearment, could ſug⯑geſt to win his Lordſhip from his purpoſe; but there he proved inexorable—he was indeed a Hector, but ſhe could not ſuſtain the difficult firm⯑neſs of an Andromache. She even ventured to try her influence over an high perſonage, a near relation of his Lordſhip's^*, who moved with her heart-felt affliction, begged her to be comforted, with every aſſurance to accompliſh if practicable, [70] Lord Cornwallis's continued reſidence in England. This exalted perſon waited on the King, and painted her Ladyſhip's agony in ſuch terms, that his Majeſty could not refuſe a requeſt to ſuch an inconteſtible proof of connubial love, and relin⯑quiſhed his intentions of Lord Cornwallis's going to America. Her Ladyſhip now felt ſecure of all her wiſhes; but how vain, how unſubſtantial is human bliſs!—for the inſtant he heard an item of what was done, and the ſource from whence it ſprung, [...]e flew like lightning to the throne, judged his honor, duty, was at ſtake, and his fame would be for ever tarniſhed, ſhould he ſuffer ſuch a weak womaniſh motive, (however affectionate) to over balance ſuperior duty. His Majeſty was convinced of the propriety and nobleneſs of his ſentiments, and therefore his command was con⯑tinued—to America he went.—As to the hour of ſeperation, turn your light inward—eye, behold, and picture!—he relied on her Ladyſhip's ſtrength of mind and pride for his honour to re⯑concile her poignancy of ſorrow.

But love, almighty love, reigned in her diſtract⯑ed boſom!—With horror ſhe ſunk beneath the weight of grief!—her eager heart follow⯑ed her other ſelf—o'er leaped its bounds—and, beckoned by the attending ſpirit, her ſoul depart⯑ed to the angels ſure, and left her precious image deeply engraven in his Lordſhip's heart!

[71] Here let me pauſe, and with truth declare, I could not relate this tragical event of the lady, by me ſo well remembered, without paying the tri⯑bute of a tear to her lovely and virtuous memory. Here ariſes an awful and an uſeful leſſon for reflec⯑tion, as it evinces that no rank whatever is exempt from misfortunes—The gilded carriage too often carries a heavy mind within.—Where we have feared death, we have borne life away! and where we would be ſafe, we periſh!

Since I wrote the foregoing hiſtory, I have been honoured with a letter from James Jones Skel⯑ton, Eſq of Pap Caſtle, near Cockermouth, in Cumberland, ſon to the Capt. Jones before men⯑tioned.—I conjecture Pap Caſtle to have been the [...]eat of good old General Skelton.

The ſeaſon at Covent-Garden in 1753, cloſed on Saturday, May the 26th, with Romeo and Juliet; the laſt time Mrs. Cibber ever performed with her firſt Romeo, Mr. Barry, as ſhe engaged at Drury Lane the ſeaſon following: When Mr. Barry tutored and introduced Miſs Noſſiter, Wedneſday, Oct. 10th, as before mentioned, in the character of Juliet, to the public, ſhe was moſt favourably received. His occaſional prologue that night con⯑ [...]ained the following compliment to Mrs. Cibber:

That ſeaſon produced an ornament of pri⯑vate and public worth, Mrs. Gregory (now Fitz⯑henry): She firſt appeared on the 19th of Ja⯑nuary 1754, in the Princeſs Hermione; which character ſhe repeated ſeveral nights. Miſs Bel⯑lamy, alſo returned that year from Drury-Lane, and made her debut in Athenaïs.—In that Win⯑ter was the famous Dublin Riot. Saturday, Fe⯑bruary 2, 1754, Mr. Sheridan was dethroned. Mr. Barry, with Miſs Noſſiter, and Mrs. Gre⯑gory went to Ireland, in October, 1754.—Mr. Murphy acted Othello, Friday, October 18, 1754, at Covent-Garden, being his firſt appear⯑ance on any ſtage. Mrs. Woffington, and Mr. Sheridan were alſo engaged from Ireland, at Co⯑vent-Garden.—Mr. Sheridan retired in the Spring, and Barry returned to his old ſituation at that theatre, and continued there till the end of May, 1758.—Mr. Murphy deſerted to Drury-Lane in 1755.—Mr. Moſſop went that ſeaſon to Ireland. Mr. Holland became a candidate for public favour, October 13, the ſame year; and the great riot, on account of the French Dan⯑cers, was on Saturday the 8th of November, 1755. The bill from the peculiar circumſtances which it occaſioned I here inſert.

[74] In 1756 Mr. Sheridan reſumed his throne, after an abdication of two years, and continued till the end of the ſeaſon, June, 1758.

Theſe little anecdotes of the theatres I have merely given a place, to fill up the chaſm of my life from Chriſtmas 1752; nor would I have offered theſe notes here, as I intend a regular account of the ſucceſs of every performer, their ſeaſons, &c. in a publication that will not only contain much information, but be of real ſervice to every young candidate for the ſock or buſkin, whether lady or gentleman, with the terms, advantages, and diſ⯑advantages, of all the principal play-houſes, and circuits in the three kingdoms, and the particulars of my own theatres, from my commencing ma⯑nager to the preſent date; but without any idea of another ſubſcription: therefore this little ſketch is only done by way of ſupply for my ſameneſs of life till November 1756, being entirely at home.

In 1755, my father began the dreadful experi⯑ment of exerting his ſuppoſed rights as miniſter o [...] the Savoy; and my conſtant attendance at th [...] theatres was aided by a pocket full of money▪ for ſoon after the fatal Marriage Act (as I ma [...] truly term it) took place; my father judged h [...] had a right to grant licences as uſual; and that i was a privilege annexed to the Savoy, as bein extra-parochial. Thoſe marriages brought in [75] profuſion of caſh,—and inſtead of thinking of a rainy day, all was rat, tat, tat, at the ſtreet-door, and a variety of company.—Mr. Fox's popularity was then arrived at ſuch an height, from the op⯑poſition he made to the Marriage Act, that his chariot was dragged along the ſtreets by the po⯑pulace for ſeveral days together—I have known as much crowding to hear my father preach a condemned ſermon, as to get admittance on a faſhionable night into a theatre.

The famous Doctor Killigrew, who had been many years miniſter of the Savoy, and all my father's predeceſſors had ever retained the power and right of granting licences for marrying from their own authority; and being extra-parochial, my father judged himſelf ſecure, and not within the reach of that ſevere act. The temple of Hy⯑men being ſo ſeaſonably opened for the relief of diſtreſſed lovers, marriage begot marriage;—Eaſter Day was crowded from eight till twelve—So many pairs were for the indiſſoluble knot be⯑ing tied, that he might have made a fortune had he been bleſſed with patience and prudence, and been contented with publiſhing the bans of mar⯑riage only. Many perſons came on a Sunday out of curioſity to hear ſuch a long liſt of ſpinſters an⯑nounced; all females of ſpirit engaging for the public good. The Pariſian dames were not leſs [76] fearleſs on their late march to Verſailles. Had he ſtuck to the bans only, he had puzzled the mi⯑niſter who framed the act.

And—‘"Wiſely and ſlow; they ſtumble that run faſt,"’ might have been my father's motto. Debts, that had been the plague of our houſe were now almoſt unknown; and I muſt ſay in juſtice to Government, from my own knowledge, he had hints of the terrible conſequences that would cer⯑tainly enſue, and they wiſhed him to drop a prac⯑tice that muſt inevitably end in unavoidable ruin; he ſuppoſed thoſe hints proceeded from their fears of his undoubted right, and that was the real cauſe of their lenity, without keeping in mind, that had it been ſo,—‘"Might will overcome Right."’—So it proved, for the laws were put into immediate execution.

There was then, and I ſuppoſe there is ſtill, a regular walk over the leads at the Savoy, through the kitchen of the priſon to a private door into the chapel, where the condemned deſerters were taken to hear ſervice the Sunday before they were to be ſhot; and that road he took for the purpoſe of evading the King's meſſengers, ſuppoſed to be at times on the watch. One fatal Sunday morning a ſudden alarm came that the officers were in the church.—A general panic enſued in our little fa⯑mily—My father ſent word he was ſuddenly taken [77] ill—nay, actually wanted me to read prayers in the clerk's deſk; and fearing that a forcible at⯑tack would be made on our territories, from the the ſaid gentlemen not meeting him in the church, he went down the garden to a gate that op [...]ned on the banks of the Thames; the tide happened to be low—his perſon unluckily was weighty, and he was aged about fifty-four—the ſte [...]s were old—his foot ſlipped, and he fell very [...]eavily againſt ſome logs of wood, ſuch as are fre⯑quently ſeen floating on that river. He recover⯑ed himſelf, and kept cloſe to the ſhore, which [...]as very muddy and not public, till he got to Somerſet-ſtairs, and there he immediately took a boat, and by one manoeuvre or another got into Kent. For had he been ſeized, he muſt not only have ſuffered immediate confinement, but our marriage temple would inevitably have been at an end; therefore, in Kent he engaged one Mr. Grierſon, a clergyman, to perform the marriages, as his curate; but the licences he granted himſelf, thinking that Mr. Grierſon could not ſuffer for what he in his authority, as miniſter of the Savoy, was to be reſponſible for; but he was again in error. I muſt here take occaſion to obſerve, that thoſe marriages were not privately conducted as through fear, but quite the contrary; for my fa⯑ther publickly advertiſed his authority for ſo doing.

[78] Mr. Vernon, of Drury-Lane Theatre, was at that time married by Mr. Grierſon, to Miſs Poitier of the ſame ſtage, and this circumſtance has occaſioned a thouſand ill founded ſtories.—We all know, ſtories beget ſtories; but then we make 'em, and when made we tell 'em.

Mr. Vernon was baniſhed the ſtage by the au⯑dience in London as an informer, in Septem⯑ber 1756. The fact was ſimply this—Mr. David Garrick ever loved to be meddling; and though the Marriage Act concerned him not half ſo much as—whether the Emperor of Morocco's Sultana was the daughter of an Iriſh oyſter wo⯑man or not;—yet ſtill he would be buſy.—Mr. George Garrick, attorney at law, his brother, had wedded a daughter of Mr. Carrington's, the King's meſſenger, and lived at Somerſet Houſe▪ on hearing of Mr. Vernon's being married, he (Mr. George Garrick) judged it a glorious op⯑portunity to prove his vigilance, and Mr. Carring⯑ton's diligence in the ſervice of Government; therefore they ſummoned Mr. Vernon to appear, and to give King David a ſatisfactory account of his marriage, as to the where and the when. For as to the tale of Vernon's being immediately after marriage tired of his Lady, it is merely a fictitious ſtory.

[79] Infidelity was ſo demonſtrative on both ſides, that the archbiſhop's licence would have had very l [...]tle force in tying faſter the marriage nooſe.—The lady liked a variety of huſbands, and the gentleman a plurality of wives. They frequently changed their mates, till at laſt in Dublin, he became acquainted with Miſs Macartney, who was well-bred, ſenſible, and handſome. She fixed the rambling rover, and with that amiable woman he lived happily, till death robbed the pub⯑lic of one, at leaſt, of the moſt pleaſing ſingers the ſtage or Vauxhall could ever boaſt of.—He had a great advantage added to his taſte and ex⯑preſſion as a ſinger, as he poſſeſſed (what ſeldom accompanies vocal performers) ſtrong abilities as an actor, which, aided by a pleaſing perſon gave united force to his performances on every occa⯑ſion. Mr. Vernon's aſſertion as to his being really married at the Savoy to Miſs Poitier, Mr. David Garrick affected not to believe; but aſked, who married them—if it was Doctor Wilkinſon? Mr. Vernon, replied, ‘"No,—the clergyman's name was Grierſon."’—Mr. David Garrick ſtill ſeemed not convinced, but inſiſted on ſeeing the certificate, which Mr. Vernon immediately ob⯑tained from Mr. Grierſon, and gave it to Mr. David Garrick, who delivered it to Mr. Carring⯑ton; and Mr. Grierſon was, in conſequence, for⯑ced [80] out of his lodgings in open day, and com⯑mitted to Newgate, tried, and condemned to tranſportation for fourteen years.—Mr. Vernon was ſubpoened to the trial, and was obliged to ap⯑pear when called on. Mr. Grierſon had a iarge family in great want of ſubſiſtence—had no liv⯑ing, and nothing but the name of a poor cler⯑gyman for his ſupport. In circumſtances ſo de⯑ſperate, he was glad to lay hold of any decent means for their ſupport; and if the worſt came to the worſt, and the law ſhould make a clergy⯑man's joining people in wedlock a crime, which for ages had been a ceremony held in the firſt eſtimation in the minds of men, why he would reconcile himſelf to the conſequence, well know⯑ing that whatever land he ſhould be thrown upon it could not be worſe than this. After he was ſentenced a ſubſcription was raiſed; but I have been informed he died on the voyage—his family were with him; but my knowledge of him was ſo trifling, never having ſeen him except in thoſe few months, that he was engaged as the marrying clergyman at the Savoy, that it is not likely I ſhould be fully acquainted with particulars relative to that unfortunate clergyman.

My father in the intervening ſpace, ſupplied by Grierſon, had ſo arranged his matters, as in his opinion would carry all before the wind; it [81] was not four weeks before he returned home. Mr. Brooks was his attorney, and the Reverend Mr. Brooks, brother to the attorney, who lately died at Norwich, was my father's curate for the pub⯑lic duties of the church. He was huſband to Mrs. Brooks the authoreſs who favoured the world with Roſina, Marian, &c. A perpetual round of company went on, but the family ſtrong⯑purſe was waining into a ſudden decay with feaſt⯑ing the counſellors and lawyers who were to ſup⯑port his cauſe; and one and all aſſured him, over the flowing bowl, that victory was certain—but the event of war no mortal knows. Mr. Brooks being my father's officiate, an acquaintance with his family naturally occurred. Mrs. Brooks was his ſecond wife—her mind was good, but her per⯑ſon much the contrary—ſhe then had a literary turn, and her agreeable, ſenſible remarks, obſer⯑vations, and inſtructions, were given with affabili⯑ty, and proved to me of great advantage.

At her houſe I frequently met with Mr. Quin, who was uſing his intereſt with Mr. Rich to pro⯑duce Mrs. Brooks's Tragedy of Virginia, which was very properly rejected, as it was not only a very poor play, but one on the ſame ſubject, by Crofts at Drury-Lane, and another by Moncrief at Covent-Garden, had been performed in 1753 [82] and 1754, and neither of them attended with ſucceſs; but Crofts's was by much the beſt.

Mrs. Woffington and Mrs. Elmy were alſo her viſitors. Mrs. Elmy knowing my inclination for the ſtage, corrected many of my faults; her underſtanding was allowed by all to be very ex⯑tenſive. She is ſtill living, and now muſt be greatly in the vale of years; and I beg leave to aſſure her, that whereſoever ſhe dwells, I have not forgot her leſſons on pronunciation, manners, and characters. Nor can her merit in Octavia, Lady Grace, or Mrs. Marwood, be ever erazed from my mind. Mrs. Cholmondley, ſiſter to Mrs. Woffington, was often there; but hearing I had dared at that time to imitate Mrs. Woffing⯑ton, Mrs. Brooks never had influence to get me into any degree of favour with either of thoſe ladies. I twice or thrice viſited Mrs. Woffing⯑ton, in York-buildings, with Dr. and Mrs. Brooks, but it was a forced civility in compliance to them.

Mrs. Woffington had conceived a diſguſt not to be removed, and it was rooted even to hatred, as will hereafter appear. It muſt be obſerved, that thirty years ago, mimicking of the performers had not been attempted at the theatres, except by Mr. Garrick, and that when he was at Goodman's Fields, and by Mr. Foote at the Hay-Market. For [83] when Mr. Foote acted at Covent-Garden, he left out that part of his performance, and the Hay-Market was the ſpot for him to be the hero of each tale, and where he ſhone in a conſpicuous light to every advantage. His mimickry at Covent-Gar⯑den, conſiſted of a whimſical teaching of ſtage pupils, the Puppets—the Chevalier Taylor and a Doctor Heberden, two very public characters, and well known by every body.

I was the firſt that ever gave an entertainment of that kind at Drury-Lane or Covent-Garden Theatres; ſince which, it has been ſo often well and ill attempted, that though the actors and actreſſes naturally do not approve of the practice, nor admire the talents of ſuch an exhibitor, yet it does not by any means create the ſpleen and unhappineſs it did formerly; for the frequent ex⯑ertion of ſuch comic powers certainly have taken off that edge, which thirty years ago was judged moſt cutting, and not to be endured. The pecu⯑liarities of Mr. Delane, an actor of the firſt rank, were ſo ſeverely pointed out by Mr. Garrick, in the character of Bayes, that it is ſaid to have ac⯑tually occaſioned Mr. Delane's flying to the bottle for relief to his hurt mind; he continued to uſe it with ſuch exceſs that he never was himſelf again.

Mr. Delane is mentioned as a gentleman of fa⯑mily in Ireland, of liberal education, and great qualifications for the ſtage.

Mr. Garrick at the ſollicitation of his friends—remonſtrances of the actors, (without whoſe aſſiſt⯑ance he could not live, for what avails a general without an army,) and from full conviction his own merit required not ſuch aid as mimickry, as it was merely a trifling feather in his cap of fame; he, for once in his life did a generous action, and gave up what he no longer wanted.

But to return again to my father, who was at home fairing moſt ſumptuouſly every day on the gleanings of the marriage harveſt, but with very little attention or anxiety paid to the evil hour; and I was in my glory, full of feaſting, company, perſonating a hero at night in my own play-houſe, or viſiting one of the theatres, and ſometimes both. If I did reflect, it was very briefly—I argued thus, that if the worſt ſhould happen, I could be a great a [...]or in time, and did not doubt but that I ſhould be a manager in reality—

My father having perſiſted in the purſuit of his [85] golden viſion, and being of an intrepid ſpirit, and, as he thought, ſecure of victory on the day of trial. The week previous to it, in July 1756, he viſited ſeveral of his friends, and on the Sunday evening, attended by two or three of his intimates, took an affectionate leave of my mother and myſelf, and delivered himſelf up at Newgate, as he had given notice, that he was ready to abide trial the next ſeſſions, which was to begin on the Mon⯑day following; and on the Friday in the ſame week came on his dreadful day—a dreadful day indeed was it to my diſconſolate mother, whoſe features indicated a mind replete with woe. The trial of my father was not a ſcene for me to be preſent at; but I remember to have heard he urged, in his defence, that he, ‘"had been purſued with unrelenting vengeance."’

As he was chaplain to his Majeſty, had they been determined on no other act of ſeverity, they certainly for his hoſtile demeanor in defiance of Government, would have taken his place of chap⯑lain from him. However it is too well known, whatever he might think as to his rights and privile⯑ges, that the court found him guilty of the offence; and it is as well known, that though the public at large wiſhed him well, and deteſted the act in force, yet moſt of his reaſonable friends thought he would at laſt ſuffer the conſequences announced [86] by law, by which he was ſentenced to fourteen years tranſportation.

This was a ſtroke he moſt ſeverely felt, for it ſtruck at his affections, his pride, and his falſe de⯑pendence, which was the moſt mortifying of all: for the condolence of what we ſuffer from conſe⯑quent effects and cauſes, clears in ſome degree the rugged paths of Misfortune; but what our own wiſdom fails in, when in oppoſition to the opinion of wiſer heads, makes the diſappointment terribly mortifying—and diſtreſſing indeed!—The general or admiral, who on a great undertaking does not prove victor, however able in judgment and valour, ſeldom or ever eſcapes cenſure. My father therefore fell an unfortunate victim to the memorable Marriage Act. His purſe was drained to the laſt for the purchaſe of being promiſe-crammed by the alluring and flattering hopes given him by the gentlemen of the law.

It now became an act of neceſſity for the pub⯑lic and his friends to be ſtretched to the extent of their humanity, to equip and ſupport him as a gentleman for his voyage to America. His con⯑nections were conſiderable, conſequently his re⯑commendations were ſuch, as would doubtleſs have placed him in a light of admiration as a man of the goſpel, had he arrived and lived in that country. His qualifications as a ſcholar, and as [87] an orator, with the extraordinary law that had occaſioned his removal there, muſt in all probabi⯑lity have made amends for his ſufferings, and [...]ave raiſed him to the higheſt eſtimation. It was after ſome conſultation determined, as ſoon as he was well and happily ſituated in America, that my mother and myſelf ſhould go after him.

The following petition, which I now preſent to the reader from his own hand writing, was deli⯑vered by my mother herſelf to his Majeſty King George the Second, but without effect or notice. The Secretary of State would not aſſiſt—Petitions were hackneyed then as now, and deemed trouble⯑ſome intruſions on the time of a politician.

It is ſeldom the fortified breaſt-work of the Mi⯑niſter is the friend of Affliction, and where pale Poverty is the ſupplicant, I fear too often his heart is callous and proof againſt every attack, that may [...]e attempted by the feeble efforts of Mercy or Charity; therefore to trace entrance there for a needle's point to pierce its feelings is barely poſ⯑ſible.

The time for his departure was early in March 1757, and the laſt meeting between father, mo⯑ther, and ſon, was, in that moſt dreadful of all places, Newgate! We who had for ſo many years moved in a different ſphere, and who were more than commonly united—a deſcription of it [90] muſt here be omitted; but if the ſenſible feeling mind will take a ſhort pauſe, and honour the aſhes of the dead with a moment's reflection, and a tear of pity, it will be only paying a tribute due to humanity and mercy; and from whence ideas will flow in painting the reſult of ſuch a tra⯑gical, affecting ſcene, as imagination will eaſily deſcribe much ſtronger than any words can poſ⯑ſibly expreſs. For Apelles, when he placed his hero in an agony of grief, caſt a mantle over his face, thereby indicating that ſtrong paſſions were more naturally ſupplied from the glow of ideas, than from the pencil of the artiſt, however fine or excellent.

My dear, benevolent, indulgent, gracious, and loving parent, farewell! May your laſt bleſſing procure me, at leaſt, a ſmall portion of your wiſhes for my ſhort remains of life.

My father, with every comfortable neceſſary as a gentleman—all his valuables, clothes, his writ⯑ings, his bureau, caſh, with recommendatory letters, &c. ſet ſail for America; but was previ⯑ouſly obliged to pay thirty pounds, as a perquiſite for freedom—a tax on misfortune—as a tribute to the hungry commanders of ſuch veſſels. But it ſeemed as if the Almighty arm had purpoſely in⯑terfered, to prevent the diſgrace of any one of his Holy Servants here on earth landing as a baniſh⯑ed [91] criminal in a foreign clime, for only perform⯑ing that ceremony, inſtituted in his Holy Writ, as a ſacred band of unity between thoſe whom inclination had led to his ſacred altar, therein obeying the impulſe of nature, ordained and ſanc⯑t [...]ed by GOD himſelf.

When they reached the Downs, they could not proceed, the winds would not permit them; from thence we received a letter containing an account of my father being but very indifferent, as the gout had made a ſevere attack in his ſto⯑mach; a complaint with which he was every year more or leſs afflicted in that dangerous ſeat of its reſidence. They were driven by ſtreſs of wea⯑ther into Plymouth, where his enemy, the gout, aſſiſted by the ſeverity of the elements, ſeized this dreadful opportunity to league with Death, and v [...]olently aſſaulted a mind and body, already l [...]ded with anguiſh, affection, and affliction, and by finding himſelf bereft of that aſſiſtance and tenderneſs from thoſe he ſighed for, but ſighed in [...]in [...]—the mercileſs invaders proved too mighty for his fortitude—the noble cordage cracked and broke! Grim Death ſat triumphant over his con⯑quered manes!

Then my father's ſoul might ſmilingly exult after all his ſufferings here on earth, and as [...] to his God, rejoicingly cry out ‘"O Death! [92] where is thy ſting?—O Grave! where is thy victory?’

Before the end of this tragical ſtory, I muſt relate that the Captain of the veſſel had my fa⯑ther privately interred at Plymouth, from whence, as fatality ſeemed to pervade the whole myſterious event, on the Captain's returning to his ſhip, his boat was overſet by a rough ſea, the crew were ſaved, but the Captain periſhed.

When the Marriage Act took place in 1754, the Duchy of the Savoy certainly was in a lawleſs ſtate, as acts of parliament have paſſed within theſe fif⯑teen years to put it under the power of Govern⯑ment. I recollect ſeveral inſtances—two will ex⯑plain as well as five hundred. From the Savoy⯑ſteps in the Strand, on to Duchy-Lane, which is the laſt turning before you come to Somerſet-Houſe, down to the water-ſide, and next the water on to Somerſet-ſtairs, (that uſed to be for water⯑men) is all the Savoy precincts. I remember that a Mr. Wood, a timber-merchant, purchaſed the houſe next door to ours, near the Savoy water⯑gate, and placed in it one Pugh, who belonged to [93] Covent-Garden Theatre, to take care of it, but Wood neglecting at the time to put furniture into the premiſes; when he (Wood) wanted his houſe, Pugh not only refuſed, but kept poſſeſſion of it for himſelf, and Wood could not get any remedy at law. The reaſon I do ſuppoſe was, that no ori⯑ginal right could be proved by him. Pugh after living in this houſe for ſome years, ſold it to one Meredith, a Welchman; and Taffy well know⯑ing how to turn the penny, even ſtripped the lead off the roof of the houſe, which he afterwards covered with boards, and [...]arred them over. The lead I believe was the property of Government, for it reached over that, a part of my father's houſe, and ſome of the Savoy priſon.

A man whoſe name was Waller, kept a public houſe near the Savoy-ſquare; he heard of a houſe being empty next the Savoy water-gate, where Mrs. Porter, a celebrated actreſs in Cibber's time had lived. The houſe had been left, and ſtripped of all the furniture.—Breaking a lock was a ſer⯑vice of danger; therefore this Waller, who kept the ſuttling-houſe near the barracks, with a ladder fixed againſt it from a lighter, mounted and got in with eaſe at the old balcony, and by the ſame means in the might, conveyed chairs, &c. into the houſe; took off the lock on the inſide, and became ſo dexterous thereby, as to be firm [...]y eſtabliſhed in [94] the poſſeſſion of it.—For while furniture was in the houſe, and that furniture his, the houſe was alſo his property as long as he dwelt in it, or had his goods there—Such was the unruly ſtate of the Savoy.

Waller was ſtill more lucky—for one Burdet, a very rich old German, I dare ſay near eighty years of age, who walked the ſtreets in rags, and was a picture of miſery equal to Otway's Witch, for ‘"his eyes with burning rheum were ſcald and red, and went about picking up dry ſticks and mumbling"’—would not allow himſelf the ne⯑ceſſaries of life—was filthy in every ſenſe of the word. This man purchaſed for a very trifling ſum of money this ſame houſe of Waller, and which the old man expected to ſell for a good round ſum, in compariſon to what he had given; but firſt, he had placed in it a broken bedſtead, [...] chair, &c. More luxuries he needed not, as th [...] cold earth was often his bed, and water his draugh [...] of refreſhment.

He had been miſſing for ſeveral days; at la [...] Waller was the lucky man to obtain the houſ [...] once more, for, after repeated rappings at the door he burſt it open, and found this old unaccountabl [...] character, this poor, good, miſerable, extraordinar [...] being, (for tho' he grudged himſelf food and ra [...] ⯑ment, yet he [...]ad a heart open to another's miſery I have known him do great acts of kindneſs for m [...] [95] father) laying dead, and by appearance had been ſo for ſome days, and in all probability for want of common cheer and a little aſſiſtance. Now Waller was ſo lucky by this accident, as again to become the poſſeſſor, and the houſe ſince that time (about 1751) went gradually down from tenant to tenant, according to the Savoy law; and was burnt to the ground the very week before I went to London, in the ſummer 1785.—The houſe above it, which I mentioned before, as having fallen into the hands of one Meredith, ſuffered by the conflagra⯑tion. All the large ſhops in the Strand, from the Surry ſteps to Somerſet-gate, were all ſold or ta⯑ken by ſurprize, time out of mind. Any old perſon in that diſtrict will confirm what I relate as the words of truth, though they may ſeem bordering on the marvellous.

The melancholy account of my father's death was ſoon conveyed to us, and was ſubmitted to with reſignation; then to think of means for ſub⯑ſiſtence for my afflicted mother and myſelf. No reſtoration of the effects, which my father died poſſeſſed off, could ever be had. As the follow⯑ing lines in a letter ſome time after from my mo⯑ther, (ſo long as January, 1768) will elucidate—

‘"Hearing the veſſel was returned from Ame⯑rica—I ſent Mr. Philips, a clerk of your fa⯑ther's, to the Captain of the ſhip, who was [96] aſtoniſhed at the demand upon him for effects, which he plainly demonſtrated to be left in Maryland.—This enquiry coſt me ten ſhillings and ſixpence.—All I can now do is to get a let⯑ter conveyed to the merchants abroad to un⯑dertake a reſtitution."’

Which application ended in fruitleſs and addi⯑tional expence.—

Yet in this deſtitute, forlorn, and miſerable ſtate was ſhe left to ſupport and maintain, not on⯑ly herſelf, but me. It was in the time of the war with France.—Captain Jones immediately offered to procure me a commiſſion in the army—Lord Forbes the ſame; but my own wiſe head led to higher views—no leſs than Monarchy itſelf. In ſhort the ſtage was my throne of adulation; I therefore rejected their offers, which to my mo⯑ther gave a heart felt pang; as we were really re⯑duced to live by the ſale of ſuch articles of re⯑maining luxury as could produce ſubſiſtence, and which enabled us to continue an appearance fit to be received at thoſe tables we were invited to; and here let me remark, that a Lord may dine in a dingy dreſs, and it is genteel, faſhionable, and elegant; but let the needy man ſet down to table, and a Lord by chance ſhould come into the room, the maſter and miſtreſs of the ceremony do not know how to help or look at the poor gueſt, for [97] fear of diſgracing themſelves, yet at the ſame time wiſh to convey an idea to every one preſent that they are amiable and beneficent; and that really they have put themſelves out of their way in order to ſupport the pauper by giving him a meal.

My mother's friends were capable and willing to afford every ſupport to enable her to keep up a decent appearance, both at home and abroad, by a reſpectable aſſiſtance; which, when ſo beſtowed, will ever gladden the oppreſſed mind; but not when offered as a ſupercilious gift—as who ſhould ſay, ‘"I am Sir Oracle!"—"How good I am!"’

Theſe kindneſſes, aſſiſted by our falſe, crippled friend, Hope, who leads aſtray the old, the young▪ the gay, the lively, the rich, and the poor with her deluſions, lulled us for a while into a ſtupid le⯑thargy. At length we were ſuddenly arouſed, by its being ſeriouſly pointed out by Mr. Jonas Han⯑way and others, that they could not help being angry that a lad between ſeventeen and eighteen, not bred to any buſineſs, and whoſe education had been ſhamefully neglected, ſhould by his having been accuſtomed to indulge his own ſelf-will and pleaſure, refuſe to receive a commiſſion; eſpe⯑cially [98] as I ought to have rejoiced, and have been ready to have accepted of a genteel competency, inſtead of idly preferring hanging on a mother for ſubſiſtence, who was herſelf dependent on others for her ſupport. Theſe hints to a young ſelf-con⯑ceited mind, are always received by ſuch unfor⯑tunate pets, as the effects of inſolent authority and impertinence.

As I had not then actually experienced the rod of affliction or neceſſity, I did not, or would not perceive the rapid ſtrides I was taking for my de⯑ſtruction. There are many ſituations, ſuch as Conway Sands, Lincoln Marſh, &c. where, on a ſummer's eve it may be pleaſant to walk and view the proſpects round; but if thoughtleſsly the pro⯑per time for returning is neglected—what had the minute before appeared pleaſing and delightful is ſurrounded with water—ingulfed and ſwallow⯑ed up: reflection then comes too late.—This is exemplified by a paſſage in King John:

From my then ſituation may youths take a leſſon, and

Though I had not ſeemingly attended to Mr. [99] Jonas Hanway's authoritative lecture and remon⯑ſtrance; yet conviction inwardly and ſullenly told me, that ſomething muſt be done. The ſtage, my thoughts had not forgot, though I dared not avow my inclination for it, fearing my patrons and mother would not prefer my being a player to that of an officer; and what I dreaded ſtill more, was my hearing a mean opinion delivered of my education, and want of capability as a ſervant of the muſes. However, unknown to them, I pluck⯑ed up courage, and waited on Mr. Rich, and af⯑ter rehearſing ſeveral ſpeeches from Richard III. he behaved very familiarly, and deſired me to hear HIM act Richard III. and, his acting over, I was without loſs of time enrolled on the liſt of his pupils. After ſome time he taught me a trum⯑pery ſpeech, for to make my appearance as one of the three Ambaſſadors in the Humourous Lieutenant; but after the honour of attending his levees, having free admiſſion behind the ſcenes, and receiving a few leſſons from him, he, [...] my aſtoniſhment, declared I was incapable of becoming an actor. But whether the fault lay in the preceptor, or in the ſtupidity of the pupil, is difficult to determine; but ſo it was—and my on⯑ly conſolation was conſtantly attending behind the ſcenes, where I by mere accident grew familiarly [100] acquainted with Mr. Shuter, the only one who took the leaſt notice of me.

I lived on hopes, however, that Mr. Rich would ere long perceive my genius, which I aſſured my⯑ſelf was beyond compare; and ſoon after, on my repeating the firſt ſpeech of Richard III. one morn⯑ing in the exact tone and manner of old Rich, he ſeemed delighted, and I judged all would ſoon terminate in the accompliſhment of my wiſhes; but the following odd accident fruſtrated all my hopes, and I innocently incurred the fixed diſ⯑pleaſure of Mr. Rich—My ideal opinion of great⯑neſs ouzed away, and what ſenſe I had formerly poſſeſſed was now returning, with a melancholy proſpect before me;—even that of exiſtence ſtared at me with an aſpect that ſtruck with every mor⯑tifying and humiliating ſenſation. This total over⯑throw to all my expectations, was occaſioned by Mrs. [...]offington. The cauſe was as follows:—One day my old friend Captain Forbes had in⯑vited me to dine with him at the Bedford Arms, and after a choice dinner, with plenty of good wine, &c. the Captain ſaid, ‘"Tate, we will go to the play; (and added) that he wiſhed to go be⯑hind the ſcenes:"’ But as I went there only on ſufferance, I told him it was not in my power to oblige him.—‘"If ſo" (ſaid my friend George) we will not ſeparate; for I will treat you to the boxes."’ [101] Being jolly with the bottle, I aſſented, and when arrived at the theatre, I could not prevail on him to ſit any where but in the ſtage-box. He was in full guard regimentals—myſelf by no means dreſ⯑ſed fit to appear as his companion; but as he per⯑ſiſted, and led the way—I followed, and in the front of his Majeſty's ſtage-box we were ſeated; and no more ſtrange than true, the lower ſides ex⯑hibited a beggarly account of empty boxes, and only a few perſons were ſcattered in the front ones; not an extraordinary circumſtance to re⯑late then of an unfaſhionable night at Covent-Garden Theatre. The play was The Con [...]e⯑deracy.

Being in ſuch a conſpicuous ſituation, the eyes of the performers from behind the ſcenes were inſtantaneouſly attracted, on beholding a poor young lad—a mere dependent—(ſkulking nightly behind the curtain) placed in a ſtage box—they were, therefore, aſtoniſhed at my audacity in uſurp⯑ing and poſſeſſing ſuch a particular ſeat of diſtinc⯑tion—and a creature, too, that was deſtitute, and ſoliciting for bread; they naturally concluded I had gained admittance by an order, and taken ſuch a place by way of ignorant and impudent bravado, the which deſerved chaſtiſement,—they ſent and ſpoke to Mr. Rich, and it was agreed, that Wilkinſon ſhould be inſtantly ordered from [102] his improper ſituation. A meſſenger was ſent to put this mandate from Mr. Rich in full force—the box-keeper came to me; and Captain Forbes warm with his wine, and the inſult offered to his friend, ſoon convinced the official meſſenger of his miſtake, and the box-keeper was ſent back to aſſure Mr. Rich, that Mr. Wilkinſon was ſeated there by proper authority; as Captain Forbes, who was well known by being a conſtant box attendant at their theatre, had paid ten ſhillings for admit⯑tance. This I was well informed, cauſed a general green-room laugh of contempt, at the expence of the poor poverty-ſtruck gentleman in the ſtage box: But unfortunately Mrs. Woffington, who acted Clariſſa, having been frequently told that I was remarkable for taking her off, (as the phraſe was, and is) came cloſe to the ſtage-box, finiſhing her ſpeech with ſuch a ſarcaſtic ſneer at me, as actually made me draw back.—My unfortunate ſtar ſure was then predominant, for at that mo⯑ment a woman of the town, in the balcony above where I was ſeated, repeated ſome words in a re⯑markable ſhrill tone, which occaſioned a general laugh; like electricity it caught Mrs. Woffington's ear, whoſe voice was far from being enchanting; on perceiving the pipe ſqueek on her right hand, and being conſcious of the inſult ſhe had then gi⯑ven apparently to me, it ſtruck her comprehenſion [103] ſo forcibly, that ſhe immediately concluded I had given the retort upon her in that open and auda⯑cious manner, to render her acting and tone ridi⯑culous to the audience, as returning contempt for her deviliſh ſneer. She again turned and darted her lovely eyes, tho' aſſiſted by the furies, which made me look confounded and ſheepiſh; all which only ſerved to confirm my condemnation. When the ſcene was finiſhed, and ſhe had reached the green-room—ſhe related my inſolence in ſuch terms, as rendered me a ſubject of abuſe, con⯑tempt, and hatred, with all the company; but of that circumſtance I was quite ignorant:—at the inſtant I had, it is true, obſerved, to my mortifica⯑tion, Mrs. Woffington looked angry, but could not divine the real cauſe.

The noon following, when I attended Mr. Rich's levee, I was kept in waiting a conſiderable time; but as that was, and is the too common fate of diſtreſſed dependence—Patience was my friend and companion;—at laſt Mrs. Woffington paſſed through the room, where I was thus humi⯑liated, and without a word, curtſey, or bow of her head, proceeded on to her ſedan, from which ſhe as haughtily returned, and advancing towards me with queen-like ſteps, and viewing me moſt con⯑tem [...]uouſly, ſaid,—‘"Mr. Wilkinſon, I have made a viſit this morning to Mr. Rich, to com⯑mand [104] and to inſiſt on his not giving you any en⯑gagement whatever—no, not of the moſt menial kind in the theatre.—Merit you have none—cha⯑rity you deſerve not,—for if you did my purſe ſhould give you a dinner—your impudence to me laſt night, where you had with ſuch aſſurance placed yourſelf, is one proof of your ignorance; added to that, I heard you echo my voice when I was acting, and I ſincerely hope in whatever bam you are ſuffered as an unworthy ſtroller, that you will fully experience the ſame contempt you dar⯑ed laſt night to offer me."’ With a flounce and enraged features, without waiting or permitting me to reply, ſhe darted once more into her chair. I really was ſo aſtoniſhed, frightened, and bewil⯑dered, that I knew not how to act or think, but was relieved from longer ſuſpenſe and tedious waiting by a meſſage from Rich, intimating that he could not ſee me at his levee, either that day or in future, or liſten to any engagement what⯑ever; for my behaviour was too groſs and rude to be juſtified, and I muſt immediately depart; but the perſon added, I might continue the liberty of the ſcenes during the ſeaſon, with this proviſo, that I ſhould not on any account, take the free⯑dom to ſpeak to Mr. Rich.—I wiſhed not, nor had the power to make an anſwer.

Proviſions were ſhort at home—my good mo⯑ther's [105] poverty increaſed:—One good advantage this diſtreſs produced was, that what I ſhould have devoured that day, with my noddle full of vanity, was reſerved for the next—my ſtomach be⯑ing quite ſatisfied with grief, ſhame, and vexation; poverty purſuing my ſteps. My mother of courſe execrated Rich and Woffington—wept over her darling boy, and flew to that Refuge, which ſhe of⯑ten declared always afforded her ſupport, and had never forſaken her, even when ſinking under the greateſt affliction; and that Refuge was a con⯑ſtant addreſs to the Deity, and a truſt in his Divine mercy. However I would not give up the play that night, nor in a pet reſign my permiſſion of being behind the ſcenes; but the theatre was no longer that earthly paradiſe I had formed, for the miſt was removed, and I ſaw actors, actreſſes, and myſelf in a different mirror, which convinced me what we all really were.

When I went into the green-room, an univer⯑ſal laugh of contempt enſu [...]d—Woffington, the queen bee of the hive, was there—I had diſturb⯑ed and offended her Majeſty; and therefore all her faithful ſervants, bee-like, joined to ſting me, except Mr. Shuter, who ſaw my diſtreſs and good naturedly took me by the hand—led me to his dreſſing-room, and deſired me not to be caſt down; but obſerved I muſt not enter the green-room [106] again, as they were one and all determined on my baniſhment. In ſuch a ſituation, it will naturally be conceived I had a claim to pity and ſome little protection, and that players muſt of courſe be the moſt cruel of all people.

But I muſt in juſtice clear them from that im⯑putation, as they are in general benevolent, and always ready to relieve the unfortunate; but I had in their opinion, then, forfeited all title to com⯑miſeration and aſſiſtance; as they felt themſelves much hurt with the conſtant accounts they heard of my rendering moſt of the leaders in their profeſſion ridiculous by my freedom of mimicry, and the open and audacious affront which they believed and aſſured themſelves I had given to Mrs. Wof⯑fington; which could not be removed or palliated. Mrs. Woffington being generous, familiar, and friendly to the comedians, it was not ſurpriſing that they ſhould obey her mandate, which, added to their own ſuppoſed wrongs, agreed with their inclinations; therefore, as a common cauſe, they all concluded ſuch treatment to me, was only in⯑flicting ſtrict juſtice on an ignorant, pretending upſtart.

I own I often at that time practiſed this ſaid ta⯑lent, and had frequently ſet the table in a roar, but that without any deſign or intention of injury to any one. The fact lies plainly here—we can all laugh [107] at each other's foibles and peculiarities; but think our own are not perceived, or if perceived, ſhould be overlooked.—If to do, were as eaſy as to ſay, what ought to be done, and ſuch a mode was adopted, adieu all murdering of reputations, and private peace, that gorgeous meal for Malig⯑nity. I confeſs, as a joker, to have been free, but never ſtabbed in the dark; and I do alſo profeſs, I kindly ſet down my own ſatire as harmleſs, and [...]rom my heart moſt nobly and truly have forgiven injuries, but fear I, ſhall never bring myſelf to eſteem thoſe who ignorantly and wickedly have preſented me in colours moſt diſguſtful, and that in a point wherein they were ſo bewildered and egregiouſly miſtaken, that the true foundation of the ſtory, ſo far from ſhame or diſgrace, had honour and real humanity for its ſupporters. At my laſt moments, if able to articulate, I ſhall not, even in the agony of death, deviate from this ſolemn oath and awful aſſeveration. I have not inſerted this on my own account; but as incumbent on myſelf to c [...]ear the aſperſed, the unfortunate, and miſerable; and I could wiſh my avowal recorded in the gol⯑den letters of truth over my grave. Where no⯑thing—no nothing, can touch me further!

It is too often demonſtrative, and much to be lamented, that perſons of diſtinguiſhed rank and pride, can forget their true dignity, and, inſtigated [108] by the appetite for ſcandal, yield and mingle with the vulgar herd, and on a bare ſuppoſition meanly ſtoop to throw poiſoned arrows on the defenceleſs; who, if they themſelves at that moment were re⯑minded of the crimes and miſdemeanors of their own families, would ſhudder and ſhrink appalled.—Go, bid them laugh at that!

Verily we all can ken many of ſuch deſcription; but as they are numerous, there is not any occa⯑ſion for any one to put on the cap—unleſs it fits. He who cannot riſe ſuperior to calumny may be a good man, but never a contented one. I will quit this intruſive matter, and calmly obſerve to anonymous vipers—‘"Malice ſcorned, puts out itſelf;—but, argued, gives a kind of credit to a falſe accuſation."’

But I muſt return to Mrs. Woffington, and be her theatrical herald and faithful chronologer. She ever had a train of admirers; ſhe poſſeſſed wit, vivacity, &c. but never permitted her love of plea⯑ſure and conviviality, to occaſion the leaſt defect in her duty to the public as a performer. Six nights in the week has been often her appointed lot for playing without murmuring; ſhe was ever ready at the call of the audience; and though in the poſſeſſion of all the firſt line of characters, yet ſhe never thought it improper or a degradation of her [109] conſequence, to conſtantly play the Queen in Ham⯑let, Lady Ann in Richard III. and Lady Percy in Henry IV. Parts which are mentioned as inſults in the country, if offered to a lady of conſequence.

Read this, ye heroes and heroines!—She alſo cheerfully acted Hermione, or Andromache; Lady Pliant, or Lady Touchwood; Lady Sadlife, or Lady Dainty; Angelica, or Mrs. Frail; and ſeveral others alternately, as beſt ſuited the intereſt of her manager.

At nine years old, I became acquainted with Mrs. Barrington of Covent-Garden Theatre, by being at the ſame ſchool at Wandſworth with Mr. T. Hale, her ſon by her firſt huſband, Mr. Hale the actor. I had for ſome years been kindly received by her, and annually at the time of her benefit, traverſed from St. Paul's to Weſtminſter to diſpoſe of tic⯑kets, which canvaſs generally proved productive; but now the child of ſorrow, and having incurred the hatred of Mrs. Woffington, to whom Mrs. Barrington was a cloſe intimate, even to adulation, ſhe withdrew her courtly ſmile, glance, or nod, from poor Tate, who ſhe was once proud of ac⯑knowledging.

One evening, ſome few weeks after my late mentioned diſgrace, Mrs. Woffington was acting Lady Dainty, in the Double Gallant—Mrs. Bar⯑rington, [110] Sylvia; Mrs. Vincent, Clarinda. I ventu⯑red after much heſitation, to ſay to Mrs. Barring⯑ton, I thought Mrs. Woffington looked beautiful—Mrs. Barrington toſſed up her head and ſaid, That was no news, as ſhe looked ſo every night; at which ſhe and Mrs. Vincent laughed:—this oc⯑caſioned Mrs. Woffington to turn her head, and condeſcendingly aſk, What they were ſmiling at? Mrs. Barrington replied, that the young man was ſaying, that Lady Dainty looked beautiful that night, and added, ſhe had told him, there needed not that information, as ſhe always looked ſo.—Mrs. Woffington viewing me diſdainfully, cried, Poor Creature!—O God! ſays I, what ſhall I do for bread!—I had better exhibit in a barn, but am not ſure if I can even get that ſituation.—My only com⯑fort was my acquaintance with the facetious Ned Shuter; it grew ſoon to a ſtrong friendſhip, for he took me to all his parties, and that made my time glide more pleaſantly. I mentioned his kind⯑neſs to my confidant Captain Forbes; and alſo in⯑formed him what excellent company Shuter was—He ſaid he looked upon his civility ſhewn to me as an obligation to himſelf. He was then appointed on the command of the Savoy Guard, and he de⯑ſired▪ I would conſtantly be with him, and preſent a general invitation to Mr. Shuter; the compli⯑ment Shuter ſeemed highly pleaſed with, accepted [111] of the favour offered him, and went with me there very often.

We had many pleaſant parties; Captain Forbes and Shuter grew very intimate. Shuter's talents were wonderfully ſhrewd, quick, ſenſible, and to a degree highly entertaining.—He was no man's enemy but his own. One evening over our bottle Shuter told me, that his benefit was to be on the 28th of March, and he would get up (never per⯑formed at Covent-Garden) the farce of Lethe, and would play Mr. Garrick's character of Lord Chalkſtone; and I ſhould repreſent the Fine Gen⯑tleman, a difficult part for any actor, and at that time playing by Woodward at Drury-Lane, who was in his zenith, and was certainly the moſt im⯑proper character for me of any in the whole round of the drama. But moſt young actors think if it be a principal one, the buſineſs is done; for it is a rule fixed in the theatrical corps, that parts make the actor—not the actor the parts. They will alſo urge, that managers can always by ſuch partial means and ſubterfuge create as many great per⯑formers as they pleaſe; but a very little reflection would evidently contradict it, to the mortification of moſt of them; becauſe at that rate, the loſs of a grand actor or actreſs could always be ſupplied by the managers: ſo, if their doctrine be true, the favourites of the public ſhould not at any place [112] trifle with the manager, as according to that ſup⯑poſition, the performer may fooliſhly and wan⯑tonly quit a good ſituation, and the manager from his own creative quality, as the carpenter of genius, could mould and chiſel any block to ſupply ſuch a loſs; but true genius will ſhew itſelf in the flighteſt character. Nor did Shakeſpear ever write a Weſtmoreland or Northumberland, without ſtrict attention to their true quality. Now and then actors, nay, even the ladies, miſtake their ta⯑talents; nor was Mr. Garrick exempt, who acted Lord Townly and Sir Harry Wildair, Othello, Lord Foppington, Pierre, &c. all unfit for him, and they were judged ſo by the Town.—Mr. Moſſop, the Weſt Indian; Mr. Ryan, Varanes; Mrs. Cibber, Lady Townly and Lady Brute; Mr. Barry, Richard; Mrs. Clive, Zara; Quin, Cha⯑mont and Young Bevil, and all this by their own choice; therefore, if ſuch perſons of judgment and experience were led away by their performing characters unfit for them, it is not to be won⯑dered at that I, young and inexperienced, ſhould attempt the Fine Gentleman.

However, advertiſed for it I was; and away went Shuter and myſelf to Monmouth Street, where for two guineas, I was equipped with the loan of a heavy, rich, glaring, ſpangled, embroidered velvet ſuit of clothes, and in this full dreſs, fit for the King [113] in Hamlet, with my hair in papers, did I advance with timid ſteps, through crowds of people; for Shuter's popularity had brought the whole Lon⯑don world. A large amphitheatre was built on the ſtage, numbers were lying on the ground; and only one entrance on each ſide to get on the ſtage, and that was with great difficulty obtained; however at laſt I was produced on the centre of Covent-Garden boards as a performer—and, O grief of griefs! as a Fine Gentleman!—A great number of my late father's friends were aſſem⯑bled. The prepoſſeſſion in favour of his ſuffer⯑ings—the public clamour, and pity of the audi⯑ence on my known deſtitute ſituation, gained me ſuch a reception as might have miſled a wiſer head than mine; as audiences every where, but at Lon⯑don in particular, are ever conſiderate and en⯑couraging to a young performer. I do not mean to inſinuate here that I poſſeſſed the Promethean heat, but it gave me courage to proceed; for it was a perpetual applauſe. I endeavoured to copy Woodward, but with aukwardneſs, and having no knowledge of the ſtage, &c. it certainly was a dreadful performance; not, but that ſome of my friends thought, from the great approbation that was given, and having no opinion of their own, I had done wonders.

I was ſo highly ſatisfied with myſelf, that as ſoon [114] as the ſcene was over, and not having patience to wait till I was ſummoned with the other characters by Mercury at the end of the farce, I took a chair to Mrs. Townſend's, where my mother was ſit⯑ting, and entered amongſt the aſtoniſhed circle of old ladies aſſembled together—all glittering with my fine dreſs, and quite elevated with the ap⯑plauſe and my own conceit, myſelf being the har⯑binger of the joyful news. The partial mother ſeeing her ſon ſo fine, and fully perſuaded he had acted well, could not reſtrain the gliſtening tear, no doubt prognoſticating in her mind, that ſhe beheld in her offspring a ſecond Garrick—My ig⯑norance was ſo great that I had intended alſo to have obliged the town with the Frenchman, in the ſame farce, but was luckily perſuaded from it, for if that had really happened, it muſt not only have deprived me of that happy night, but have made it one of horror, and irretrievable damna⯑tion.

Friday, April the 19th, was fixed for the bene⯑fit of Mr. Bencraft, and Mr. Coſtollo, at Covent-Garden; the play was Alexander, and the part of Alexander, by Mr. Barry; they applied to me for to ſtudy Don Quixote in England, and I readily agreed to it; but thanks for once to my ſtupidity, I was under the neceſſity of giving it up, as I could not by any means drive the words into my [115] pate, and if I had, it muſt have proved an unfor⯑tunate attempt; therefore that Quixote ſcheme being abandoned, Lethe was again ſubſtituted, and they requeſted of me to act the Fine Gentle⯑man, which I conſented to; not but that I in⯑wardly thought my Alexander would have done as much for their intereſt as Mr. Barry's. How⯑ever as that was not their opinion, why, hey for the river Styx once more! and I ſurely that night needed a draught of Lethean waters to forget my cares.

A dreſs was to ſeek; for Bencraft and Coſtollo would not pay ſo extravagantly as Shuter had, for the hire of the grand velvet ſuit; therefore the wardrobe of the theatre was to furniſh me: but all the decent modern clothes were appropriated to the principal actors; and on inſpecting the grand repoſitory, Mr. Whitfield the wardrobe-keeper, produced a very ſhort old ſuit of clothes, with a black velvet ground, and broad gold flowers, as dingy as the twenty four letters on a piece of gild⯑ed gingerbread—this apparel had not been brought t [...]li [...]t ſince the firſt year Garrick played Lothario, at that theatre in 1746; when Quin acted Horatio, which was the laſt character that he performed, in the laſt week of May 1751, as an engaged actor, though he played twice after that his favourite character of Falſtaff, for his friend Ryan's benefits, 1 [...]52 and 1753.

[116] The ſuit being Garrick's, I with eagerneſs ſnatched at it. Bedecked in that ſable array, for the modern Fine Gentleman, and to make that appearance complete, I added an old red ſurtout, trimmed with a dirty white fur, and a deep ſkinned cape of the ſame hue, honoured by old Giffard, I was informed, at Lincoln's Inn-Fields theatre, to exhibit King Lear in. This grand dreſs, with an old ſtock muff, uſed for the Gentleman Uſher in the Rehearſal, my hair in papers, as on my firſt curious exhibition, gave the tout enſemble to my all accompliſhed figure; that, when quite equipt, had it not been for the whimſical contradiction of my large paper curls, Lord Chalkſtone's motley Ne⯑phew of delicate notions might have paſſed in a barn for a ſtrolling Sciolto. No ſooner had I made my entrée, than an involuntary fit of laughter ſeized the whole houſe from below to above, and from above to below, for ſuch a contraſt to the name or idea of a Fine Gentleman ſure never was till then beheld; the prepoſterous figure was heightened in abſurdity, by Woodward's appear⯑ing every week in that character with infinite cre⯑dit. His acting was aſſiſted by every elegance that whim, dreſs, fancy, judgment and faſhion could beſtow; whilſt poor Pilgarli [...]k choſe to finiſh the curious appearance, by quitting Woodward's manner entirely, and ſpoke in my own voice, [117] which is naturally deep; ſo that my tones were drowned with the exceſſive laughter, and when I made my exit as the Fine Gentleman, whether the peals of mirth or the univerſal hiſſes were the ſtrongeſt, ſeemed difficult to diſtinguiſh. I would not appear again at the concluſion of the piece, but flew to Shuter's dreſſing-room to tear of my pomp and know myſelf, but wanted not a ſedan to convey me as before to Mrs. Townſend's. The next day's reflection preſented freſh difficul⯑ties and approaching ruin.

Unfit for the ſtage, what could I do? My mo⯑ther's exiſtence was procured by the ſale or pawn⯑ing every trifle that could raiſe a few ſhillings; and ſhe trembling to view the darkened proſpect when the laſt reſources were expended, compelled me to wait on Mr. Rich once more, and ſolicit him to retain me on any trifling ſalary for the enſuing year; but I received a ſhort and peremptory ‘"NO! You are unfit for the ſtage, Muſter Whittington, and I won't larn you—you may go, Muſter Whit⯑tington;"’ and he ſtroked his favourite cat.

Summer did not promiſe me better than the winter had done; for with my bad reception I could not get a recommendation or a probability of any engagement whatever, even in the country. Monday, May 17, 1757, As You Like It, was acted at Covent-Garden, for the benefit of Mr. [118] Anderſon, Mr. Wignel, and a Mad. Gondou. I was ſtanding near the wing as Mrs. Woffington in Roſalind, and Mrs. Vincent in Celia, were go⯑ing on the ſtage in the firſt act. Mrs. Woffington ironically ſaid ſhe was glad to have that op⯑portunity of congratulating me on my ſtage ſucceſs; and did not doubt, but ſuch merit would inſure me an engagement the following winter? I bowed but made her no anſwer—I knew her diſlike to me, and was humiliated ſufficiently, and needed not any ſlight to ſink me lower. For then, and not till then, ad⯑verſity had taught me to know myſelf. She went through Roſalind for four acts without my per⯑ceiving ſhe was in the leaſt diſordered, but in the fifth ſhe complained of great indiſpoſition. I of⯑fered her my arm, the which ſhe graciouſly ac⯑cepted; I thought ſhe looked ſoftened in her be⯑haviour, and had leſs of the hauteur. When ſhe came off at the quick change of dreſs, ſhe again complained of being ill; but got accoutred and returned to finiſh the part, and pronounced in the epilogue ſpeech, ‘"If it be true that good wine needs no buſh—it is as true that a good play needs no epilogue," &c. &c.’—But, when arrived at—‘"If I were among you I would kiſs as many of you as had beards that pleaſed me."’—her voice broke, ſhe faultered, endeavoured to go on, but could not proceed—then in a voice of [119] tremor ſcreamed, O God! O God! tottered to the ſtage door ſpeechleſs, where ſhe was caught. The audience of courſe applauded till ſhe was [...]ut of ſight, and then ſunk into awful looks of aſtoniſhment, both young and old, before and be⯑hind the curtain, to ſee one of the moſt handſome women of the age, a favourite principal actreſs, and who had for ſeveral ſeaſons given high enter⯑tainment, ſtruck ſo ſuddenly by the hand of death in ſuch a ſituation of time and place, and in her prime of life, being then about forty-four. She was given over that night, and for ſeveral days; but ſo far recovered as to linger till near the year 176 [...], but exiſted as a mere ſkeleton; ſans teeth, ſans eyes, ſans taſte, ſans every thing.—Vain is Beauty's gaud y flower!

She died in rich circumſtances. Colonel Caeſar of the guards, was by agreement to have received all her poſſeſſions, it having been ſettled between the Colonel and Mrs. Woffington, that which of the two, was the ſurvivor ſhould inherit all that the other poſſeſſed; and this was ſigned by a will by each party. But the generous Colonel was deceived; for ſhe ſecretly made an after will, while her Colonel was engaged out at a dinner, and left every article whatever to her ſiſter, Mrs. Chol⯑mondeley. I don't believe, even the ſhilling was bequeathed him; and her ſiſter not chuſing to omit, or let any infringement prevent her from faith⯑fully [120] executing the will of the dead, demanded all Mrs. Woffington's paraphernalia from Mrs. Bar⯑rington, with whom all her ſtage jewels were lef [...] in truſt, and from their long acquaintance ſhe ex⯑pected to enjoy them in their full luſtre, with [...] good legacy added to cheer her woe on the occa⯑ſion; but to her great ſurpriſe, mortification, and diſappointment, the whole, even to the minuteſt article was demanded, and Mrs. Barrington was unwillingly compelled to reſign her crown, her co⯑ronet, and all the marks of royal diſtinction, be⯑longing to the late Queen Margaret.

This profuſion of ſtage pomp and grandeur, the moſt rich and elegant of the kind, and all of them ſet in ſilver, in the hands of an actreſs, was a pro⯑perty of great conſequence, looked moſt ſplendid, and would have deſcended from Queen to Queen, from Phoedra to Cleopatra, from Hermione to the Grecian Daughter in due tragical will-pro⯑greſſion; but in the hands of a lady of faſhion, only a few of them could with propriety be worn, and as what profit could ariſe from the ſale of them, muſt be indeed contemptible, I wonder ſhe had not the pleaſure of making a genteel gift to an old friend and acquaintance of her ſiſter's, particu⯑larly as Mrs. Cholmondeley was ſecure of all the real jewels, &c.

Having ſo often mentioned Mrs. Woffington, I [121] naturally apprehend many perſons who have not had the pleaſure of ſeeing her, would like a ſhort deſcription of that celebrated actreſs; and hav⯑ing related ſo many particulars concerning that lady, and pronounced authoritatively how much I was thought a ſtrong caricature of her ſtage man⯑ner, it might be judged that I could give ſome ideas as to a ſimilitude; which indeed I can with the ſtrongeſt traits, and at the ſame time compli⯑ment the preſent age on their poſſeſſing an actreſs, in a firſt poliſhed character, in the arch and attractive Miſs Farren. Such parts as Lady Townly, Maria, Millamant, &c. now re⯑preſented by her, were formerly thought Mrs. Woffington's beſt line of acting. Miſs Farren is to a certainty very like Mrs. Woffington in ſome points, and enchantingly ſuperior in others: Miſs Farren, as to every intrinſic quality, may bid the world look on, ſcrutinize, and envy; while on the oppoſite ſide, we are compelled to place com⯑paratively Mrs. Woffington, (who alſo had her ſhare of praiſe-worthy qualities) yet a veil will be ſometimes neceſſary to ſhade the frailties too often prevalent over the human diſpoſition.

[122]

[123] So undoubtedly Miſs Farren ſeizes the wreath of Fame with ſecurity, as ſhe adds to her perfec⯑tions, in the Scale of Merit, virtue, modeſty, reve⯑rence to a parent, and every other endearing qua⯑lity; therefore with propriety and for the credit of the Drama, let me hurl my cap and cry— ‘Long live THE FARREN.’

So my dear, agreeable Miſs Farren, for the preſent adieu—and now let me inform the reader, that on the night of Mrs. Woffington's fatal illneſs, Mr. Wignell, an under actor at Covent-Garden, was enliſting troops to form a party at Maidſtone in Kent, where it was ſaid there had not been a com⯑pany of comedians for ſome years; and that one from London would of courſe do wonders. I aſked Mrs. Barrington to intercede for me, but ſhe refuſed any interference; I therefore waited on Mr. Wignell, who told me, he was erecting a wooden booth at Maidſtone, and that Mr. and Mrs. Barrington, who uſually went to Briſtol, were diſappointed that year on account of ſome diſpute with the mayor, and he ſhould find in them (his couſins) a tower of ſtrength.

Mr. Barrington, was not a very good comedian; but yet was in low Iriſhmen, (Mr. Moody indeed excepted) the beſt I ever ſaw—ſuch as the Teagues, in the Committee, Twin Rivals, &c. but would have been a bad Major O'Flaharty, as he was in [124] fact a very indifferent Sir Callaghan. Miſs Hal⯑lam was to be there, niece to Mrs. Barrington, and had been bred under her with the utmoſt care and reared to be an accompliſhed actreſs, as the reader will allow, when I announce that Miſs Hallam is the preſent Mrs. Mattocks; for whom I have, and ſhall ever retain the higheſt re⯑gard; and am indebted to both Mr. and Mrs. Mattocks, for repeated acts of kindneſs and friend⯑ſhip.

I was, from the emergency of Mr. Wignell's company not being filled, to my delight accepted as a ſharer, and enrolled one of their common⯑wealth. The performers collected for this Ken⯑tiſh expedition were—Mr. Wignell, Mr. Barring⯑ton, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Smith, Mr. Haughton, Mr. Clough, Mr. Jones, Mr. Wilkinſon, Mr. Buck, Mr. Caſtle;—Mrs. Barrington, Miſs Mor⯑riſon (now Mrs. Hull), Miſs Bradſhaw, Mrs. Roberts, Mrs. Wignell, Mrs. Haughton, and Miſs Hallam.

I got home, and judged that I had for once done ſomething like a tranſaction of buſineſs; and alſo found I had the intereſt of a great friend of my mother's, who I have the honour at this day to call a relation, and to whom I am and have been greatly obliged;—the Lady's name was Wardale, ſhe lived at Carliſle. To thoſe who [125] knew her, I need not add praiſe; thoſe who did not, may regret that they had not the pleaſure of being acquainted with ſuch an agreeable, ſenſible, well bred woman.

This Mrs. Wardale, anxious for my ſituation and welfare, had prevailed on the Honourable Miſs Foley, ſiſter to Lord Foley, to aſk the fa⯑vour of a letter of recommendation from her inti⯑mate friend, Lord Mansfield, to Mr. Garrick; which his Lordſhip immediately complied with: ſo with thoſe credentials I was to proceed on a vi⯑ſit the next day, and which I aſſure the reader ſeemed to me to require more than common for⯑titude. I marched up and down Southampton ſtreet three or four times before I dared rap at this great man's door, as fearing inſtant diſmiſ⯑ſion might follow; or what appeared to me al⯑moſt as dreadful, if graciouſly admitted, how I ſhould be able to walk, move, or ſpeak before him. However the rap was at laſt given, and the deed was done paſt all retreating.—‘"Is Mr. Gar⯑rick at home?"—"Yes."’—Then delivering the letter from Miſs Foley, with an encloſed one from Lord Mansfield, and after waiting in a parlour for about ten minutes, I was ordered to approach. Mr. Garrick glanced his ſcrutinizing eye firſt at me, then at the letter, and ſo alternately; at laſt—‘"Well, Sir—Hey!—What, now you are a ſtage [126] candidate? Well, Sir, let me have a taſte of your quality."’—I, diſtilled almoſt to jelly with my fear, attempted a ſpeech from Richard, and ano⯑ther from Eſſex; which he encouraged, by ob⯑ſerving, I was ſo much frightened, that he could not form any judgment of my abilities; but aſ⯑ſured me, it was not a bad omen, as fear was by no means a ſign of want of merit, but often the contrary. We then chatted for a few minutes, and I felt myſelf more eaſy, and requeſted leave to repeat a few ſpeeches in imitation of the then principal ſtage repreſentatives. ‘"Nay—now," ſays Garrick, "Sir, you muſt take care of this, for I uſed to call myſelf the firſt at this buſineſs."’—I luckily began with an imitation of Foote. It is difficult here to determine whether Garrick hated or feared Foote the moſt; ſometimes one, ſometimes the other was predominant; but from the attention of a few minutes, his looks bright⯑ened—the glow of his countenance transfuſed to mine, and he eagerly deſired a repetition of the ſame ſpeech. I was animated—forgot Garrick was preſent, and ſpoke at perfect eaſe.—‘"Hey, now! Now—what—all"—ſays Garrick, "How—really this—this—is—(with his uſual heſitation and re⯑petition of words)—Why—well—well—Do call on me again on Monday at eleven, and you may depend upon every aſſiſtance in my power. I will [127] ſee my brother manager, Mr. Lacey, to-day and let you know the reſult.’

I now really thought Fortune had done with tormenting me. Honoured not only with the ap⯑probation, but friendſhip of that great man, I was elated into a degree of rapture I had not experienced for a long time; and in truth I fancied that, ſhould the infallible Pope Garrick quit the ſtage, either by death, choice, or accident, I ſhould in a few ſeaſons be able to ſupply the vacant chair: So light is vanity! I did not walk, but flew to my lodgings, where my poor anxious mother ſat trembling for the event—the noiſe I made in run⯑ning up the ſtairs, and my countenance on enter⯑ing the room, denoted in full evidence, that ſhe was to receive good—not bad news. On my re⯑lating to her Mr. Garrick's kind behaviour, and his aſſurance of ſerving me, ſhe concluded her ſon Tate's fortune was made: She bleſſed Gar⯑rick! ſhe bleſſed me! and we were both for that day perfectly happy. Something may be ſaid in ſavour of my belief at that time, as I was unac⯑quainted with managers, actors, theatres, and the world: Not that I mean to inſinuate that every manager is a devil—I know the contrary: That managers are men, and have their faults, and ſometimes act wrong, is natural, and a ſpice of the devil in the compoſition is abſolutely neceſſary, or [128] what would become of a manager at times, when ſurrounded by agitated fiends.

Mine and my mother's dinner that day (the 25th of May) was moſt luxuriant; and I can affirm that neither his Majeſty nor any of his ſubjects dined with better appetite or greater hap⯑pineſs—not even my old friend Mrs. Bellamy ^*; who deſcribes, as ſhe ſat on the bottom ſtep of Weſtminſter Bridge, where ſhe remained for ſeve⯑ral minutes watching the gently ſwelling tide, and blaming its tardy approach; but thinking better of it, ſhe changed her cold ſituation and choſe to return home, where ſhe found her maid to her great ſurpriſe had provided a good ſupper, and de⯑clares that, even in the moſt elevated ſituation, ſhe ever was in, and when her table has been ſpread with dainties, that ſhe never made a more pleaſing meal. So

Shakſpeare remarks, ‘"If the man go to the water and drown himſelf, it is will he, nill he, he goes; mark you that; but if the water come to him, and drown him, he drowns not himſelf."’

On the Monday, I negligently ſlid up South⯑ampton-ſtreet, not with the tottering attendant fear of the preceeding week. I was ſpruced out, [129] knocked at the door with a degree of aſſurance, was inſtantly admitted, and not only found Mr. Gar⯑rick alone, but as ſoon as he ſaw me, he expreſſed a wiſh of impatience for my promiſed viſit; ſaid he had heard a moſt favourable account of my mother, of whom he had made an enquiry, and [...]hould be glad for the ſake of ſo deſerving a wo⯑man to aſſiſt me to the utmoſt of his power.—This was a cordial to my heart; and I believe it may be made a certain obſervation, that whenever young or old wait on a ſuperior as a dependent character he or ſhe is anxiouſly tremulous, until ſatisfied whether the grant can be obtained or not. But now all appeared to me in a happy train.—Mr. Garrick ſaid, ‘"Young Gentleman, I have ſeen Mr. Lacey, and we have determined to put you on the books at thirty ſhillings per week the enſuing ſeaſon.—I will think of ſome line of characters for you to perform on the ſtage—my time is ſhort, and not at my diſpoſal this morn⯑ing as I muſt be at▪ Hampton to dinner; therefore, as I am on the wing, do oblige me with a re⯑petition of what you recited laſt Saturday.’—I readily complied, and executed it with ſpirit.—From the imitation of Foote I proceeded with great alacrity to ſeveral others; and when I came to thoſe of Mr. Barry and Mrs. Woffington, as Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, I was obliged to [130] ſtop, he ſeemed ſo truly entertained. I thought it very comical, and that the joke might not be loſt, I laughed too; but on the merriment ceaſing, I perceived a concealed third laugher—the Lady Teazle behind the ſcreen, which greatly puzzled me; when on a ſudden, a green cloth double door flew open, which I found led to a little breakfaſt parlour, and diſcovered a moſt elegant lady—no leſs a perſonage than Mrs. Garrick, who had it ſeems been purpoſely poſted there for her ſecret opinion of my imitations of Foote; as Mr. Garrrick always affected to pay great compliment to her judgment and opinion, and I really believe not all acted complaiſance, but founded on real eſteem—But like his brethren mortals had his frailties.

Mrs. Garrick apologized for her rudeneſs and intruſion—confeſſed ſhe had taken poſſeſſion of that ſnug ſpot unobſerved, at the deſire of Mr. Garrick, as from his account of my imitations on the Saturday, ſhe expected to be much gratified; but when ſhe heard the tones of Mrs. Woffing⯑ton, the ridicule was ſo ſtrongly pointed, that it was not in her power to reſtrain from laughter, by the pleaſure and great ſatisfaction ſhe had receiv⯑ed. If it had happened otherwiſe Mrs. Mouſe would not have appeared, but kept ſnug in her hole.—Perhaps female prejudice here might ope⯑rate [131] in my favour, as Mr. Garrick had previous to his marriage with Madam Violette, paid his devoirs to Mrs. Woffington.

Before I took my leave, I acquainted our Ro⯑ [...]cius with my intention relative to Maidſtone, which he approved, and ſaid practice would ac⯑quire me freedom and eaſe on the ſtage—it was what he had done previous to his public appear⯑ance in London: But the chief leſſon he would give to a young man, trying his fortune on the ſtage, was ſobriety; and above all—in a great cha⯑racter, or in an inferior one, however trifling it might be, always to be perfect: For that, he ob⯑ſerved, was the ground-work for excellence in every walk of the drama; and by attention to the author, a novice would ſoon find from the feel⯑ings of his audience his natural bent, as without being maſter of the words, no actor could com⯑prehend or execute the character, or ſo far forget himſelf as to aſſume the being another perſon, whether a king or a cobbler. Actors, he ſaid, often miſtook their talents by following their in⯑clinations in lieu of their real genius; but, if al⯑ways perfect, a lucky hit might ſet them right, and perhaps in the very characters they expected to fail in. Here ended Garrick's leſſon; I made my bow and departed, not doubting but when the autumn approached I ſhould read my name [132] in the news-papers, and (as the Apprentice ſays) ſtuck in large capitals, ‘The part of OTHELLO, by a Young Gentleman.’

In a week my expedition to Maidſtone com⯑menced. My mother with much difficulty equip⯑ped me with five guineas; Capt. Forbes gave me a flaming purple ſatin waiſtcoat, profuſely trimmed with ſilver, ſuch was the faſhion of thoſe times, which I reſerved for Sundays and viſiting days.

I ſtepped into the Graveſend boat, and for one ſhilling, ſailed with a fair wind, and arrived at the end of my voyage ſafe, (but ſick) and from Graveſend a ſtage-coach conveyed me to Cha⯑them, and the next day in a chaiſe I arrived at Maidſtone. It ſeemed to me a very long journey, for going once with my father to Sheerneſs, when about the age of fourteen, (on ſome election bu⯑ſineſs for a Mr. Taffe of Ireland) was my extent of travelling; and Richmond, Hampton Court, and Greenwich, what I called going into the country; and Cockney-like, thought my being once with Captain Forbes to Windſor, a tedi⯑ous journey. The country about Maidſtone ſeemed delightful, but now it is almoſt paſt my remembrance.

Mr. Garrick had, unknown to me, ſpoke to [133] Miſs Bradſhaw, then of his theatre, (but now no more) to keep me as much as poſſible under pet⯑ticoat government, and to be one of her party at tea, cards, &c. and to obſerve how I went on, and to ſend him minute information. In con⯑ſequence of his requeſt, I was admitted, like P [...] ⯑tulant or Witwoud, into the female club, on firſt ſubſcribing the proper allotment ſtated for tea, coffee, ſugar, &c. The quartette conſiſted of Mrs. Bradſhaw, Mrs. Roberts, Miſs Morriſon, and myſelf. This brought on not only an acquaint⯑ance, but a laſting friendſhip, and high eſteem be⯑tween Mrs. Hull and me. If riches immenſe could be added to her other good qualities, my praiſe here would not be neglected, but read with plea⯑ſure. The latter part of the ſeaſon brought Mr. Hull; ſhe introduced me to that gentleman, and with whom good fellowſhip and good will has from that time, and ever will, I hope, remain between us.

Were I to expatiate on the kindneſſes I have experienced from Mr. and Mrs. Hull, I ſhould make ſuch a digreſſion as might not be excuſed, and therefore will conclude with thanks, and truly wiſhing them every happineſs and proſperity.

We opened at Maidſtone with the Beaux Stratagem.—Archer, Mr. Wignell; Aimwell, Mr. Wilkinſon; Foigard, Mr. Barrington; Dorinda, [134] Mrs. Barrington; Mrs. Sullen, Miſs Morriſon.—Not more than five pounds in the houſe; I was much frightened, very imperfect, and more alarm⯑ed than when I firſt ſported my figure in the Fine Gentleman; the play (except as to myſelf) was got through decently. The little motley troop from London certainly deſerved more attention and encouragement than was beſtowed.

Mrs. Barrington had an excellent wardrobe of her own; and being the intimate of Mrs. Wof⯑fington, had the entire treaſure of her tragedy jewels, which at that time Mrs. Barrington eyed as her own property, by having nine parts of the law in her favour—poſſeſſion. Her royal train ſhould alone have been ſufficient to have allured the country Bumpkins. Added to the tragedy dia⯑monds, Mr. and Mrs. Barrington amazed the eyes and ears of the little ſtreets with a very handſome one-horſe chair, and every noon took a genteel airing; they were well-bred, ſenſible, and behaved properly to every body there; living with oeconomy and every decency, which could cauſe them to be eſteemed and reſpected, and were a credit to their profeſſion. Our houſes were ſhockingly attended, though even I, was the Ro⯑meo, Barnwell, Shore, Oreſtes, and the Douglas. In Douglas, (without a joke) I was very well re⯑ceived; but not even my Oreſtes, nor Mrs. Bar⯑rington's [135] Andromache, could attract a ſufficient audience. Thoſe who attended we were obliged to diſmiſs from our booth. The conſequence was great grumbling, great poverty, and infinite uneaſineſs—ſome weeks not ſharing ſix ſhillings; and what was as bad—Wignell, my manager, acted Lord Townly, and made me perform a Conſtable, a Drawer, &c. which much offended my dignity, an error moſt young actors and ac⯑treſſes are apt to fall into. If the performers do not approve of the parts allotted them, they will againſt obſervation, decency, and common ſenſe, ever take pains to be ridiculous, rude, and abſurd, by which behaviour they are certain every judici⯑ous thinking ſpectator, beſtows the cenſure on them which ſuch conduct deſerves—be it in a village, a barn, or theatre.

A performer will never convert an audience to the belief, of finding him worthy of being truſted with a thouſand lines, if he does not ſpeak ſix with great care, attention and propriety. What leads actors in ſome meaſure into this unfortunate and ill-conceived practice for their future welfare, is liſtening to idle, diſſipated companions, who too often are termed their friends, and encourage them in ſuch behaviour, while they are laughing on the ſtage, becauſe they do not know three lines of their damned parts, as they term them; and [136] inſtead of joining the hiſs for reformation to make them know themſelves and feel the inſult they have given the audience, applaud them for it, and are the occaſion of leading the performers next day into what Colley Cibber juſtly remarks, ‘"A jolly negligence of rehearſals, and teach them to become dupes to their own folly."’ Players ſhould one and all, weekly repeat Shakſpeare's advice: He is the great maſterly explanator—his ſingle, ſhort leſſon, conveys the whole art, and ſays more to the purpoſe, than any laborious writer could cram into the largeſt folio.

Mr. Quin, by proper conception of character, made his firſt impreſſion on the public by his re⯑ſpectful manner, when acting the Lieutenant of the Tower: But had Mr. Quin treated it with contempt, (as I did the Conſtable) he might have miſſed the happy tide of Fortune, and continued in obſcurity to the loſs of his own future fame; and the public would never have ſeen him as that excellent actor he ever after remained.

Mr. Quin had wit, generoſity, and a ſtrong un⯑derſtanding, and by never forgetting his own dig⯑nity, he was never forgot by others: He obtained the reſpect and eſteem of all; his death was as much lamented by all ranks at Bath, where he reſided, as if the firſt man of quality there had de⯑parted this life, and poſſeſſed of the ſame good [137] talents and qualities.—Doctor Muſhett, now in York, will teſtify my aſſertion relative to Mr. Quin, as he attended him to the laſt, and was for years intimately acquainted with him.

I have had the pleaſure of hearing and ſeeing that gentleman within theſe few years, (at Gene⯑ral St. Leger's) introduce Mr. Quin's character in ſuch a manner as to be a ſtriking portrait of that celebrated man. A demonſtrative proof that however the illiberal, the ignorant, the malevo⯑lent, the envious, and the enthuſiaſt, the conceited, or the vain may treat ſtage profeſſors, yet, where talents are graced with virtues, the actor will be acceptable at any table. It is galling to remark, but it is a truth, that it is the actor which diſ⯑graces the ſtage, and not the ſtage the actor; and the vulgar, not knowing how to diſtinguiſh, in⯑diſcriminately throw the good and the bad in the ſame dirty reſervoir of diſgrace: To prove th [...] aſſertion true, many actreſſes by the help of natu⯑ral genius only, (the gift of God himſelf) have arrived at the ſummit of fame and faſhion—as Mrs. Oldfield, Bracegirdle, Cibber, Woffington, B [...]ilamy, Crawford, &c. But if perſons of rank and fortune could offer ſuch reſpect to ſtage ta⯑lents only, what difference muſt they think and [...]eel, when paying that polite tribute where ſuperi⯑or talents, adorned by virtue, are combined in th [...] [138] name of SIDDONS: her example as a wife and mother, the greateſt need not bluſh to follow; and thoſe, who from misfortune labour in a degraded and middling line, may be proud to admire and imitate.

Mrs. Siddons's private worth deſerves regard; the credit of the ſtage may always wiſh it to be preſerved, and never ſtruck from its annals. Mrs. Cibber is the only actreſs my remembrance can compare with Mrs. Siddons; and Mrs. Cibber in five or ſix parts might be, if on the boards, and in equal bloom, able to occaſion the odds; but it would be a conteſt of a confined nature; as Mrs. Siddons's Lady Macbeth, Zara in the Mourn⯑ing Bride, &c. were characters Mrs. Cibber could not have attempted with any degree of com⯑pariſon; and Mrs. Siddons, in a theatrical lottery, would certainly obtain fifteen prizes out of twenty. No bad compliment to Mrs. Siddons: for if her predeceſſors are to be conſidered by her admirers as people who knew nothing of the mat⯑ter, her praiſe muſt be leſs on a comparative ſtruggle for victory. Certainly, where diſdain, contempt, pride, or indignation are to be expreſſed, it may ſafely be affirmed ſhe there ſtands unri⯑valled, and is herſelf alone. In one paſſage ſhe always reminds me of Mrs. Cibber in voice, manner, and features, where in Iſabella ſhe pro⯑nounces—‘[139]"Now I defy you!—now I laugh at you, ye tyrants! murderers!"’

I do not mean to inſinuate Mrs. Siddons has [...]ot foibles or faults—I can only ſay, if ſhe has, I am not acquainted with them. ‘"But," ſays [...]ll-nature, "I am ſure ſhe does ſo and ſo:"’—And why ſo much pains, anxiety, and labour to inſinuate that Mrs. Siddons is not a [...]l perfection? Let th [...] accuſers take the ſame pa [...]ns to look at their own faults, and pluck the beam from their own eye, and then fairly make the compariſon; and let them ever keep in mind,

I will conclude Mrs. Siddons's panegyric with this wiſh, that every lady on the ſtage may follow her example in private life; and with pro⯑per emulation endeavour to ſurpaſs or equal her in her public character.

Having taken the liberty to be ſo free with my opinion as to the ſeveral ſtage favorites; and having [...]entioned Mrs. Cibber only as competitor, with Mrs. Siddons, I cannot but in juſtice and grati⯑t [...]de, alſo with ſhame recollect I had forgot Mrs. Yates's merit, not to mention her attractive p [...]rſon. Her Margaret of Anjou ſtands as much u [...]rivalled as does Mrs. Siddons's Zara; her Epi⯑logue to that play muſt not be forgot, nor her ele⯑gance and various excellencies; or Mrs. Craw⯑ford's [140] fifth act of Lady Randolph. I fancy my⯑ſelf jogged by ſome Old Critic—‘"O for ſhame! not to recollect Mrs. Pritchard?"’ Indeed I do—her manner and perſon were clumſy, her face not delicate, but open and agreeable; yet with that large figure, ſhe in comedy, nay, even in the Fine Ladies, threw all competitors at a diſtance. Her Lady Betty Modiſh, Mrs. Sullen, Maria, and Beatrice, were wonderful; and her Clarinda, was ſo eaſy, ſo natural, ſo ſpirited, and vivacio [...], that in the third act, her comic powers were ſuch as to caſt all other actreſſes at ſo great a diſtance, as made the beautiful Woffington ſhrink under her ſuperior and combined excellence. In tragedy, Lady Macbeth was by much her beſt part—and good acting it was; but ſhe was not ſo finely col⯑lected throughout as Mrs. Siddons is in that cha⯑racter. Mr. Garrick aſſured me he did not approve of her tragedy; for her ſcenes of grief were tire⯑ſomely blubbering; in no part more remarkably ſo, than in the laſt ſcene of Volumnia in Corio⯑lanus. I had forgot to mention Mrs. Cibber, (though very indifferent indeed) as a comic ac⯑treſs, but, to which ſhe fooliſhly gave the prefer⯑ence. She ſpoke an epilogue equal, if not ſupe⯑rior to any lady, I remember.

To ſay thoſe Ladies had merit, is the true com⯑pliment to thoſe of the preſent day; for what mo⯑dern [141] performers inſinuate, that the late actors did [...]t underſtand the art of playing, is paying them⯑ſelves a very bad compliment: As I obſerved be⯑ [...]ore, if Mrs. Cibber had been comparatively an indifferent actreſs, where is the wonder that Mrs. Siddons ſhould be ſuperior. I urge, it is Mrs. Cibber's great excellence raiſes Mrs. Siddons's reputation.

Indeed, were ſnarlers to advance, that muſic, [...]peras, theatres, ſingers, and ſplendid ſcenery to plays in the preſent aera, were not on a par with the magnificence of the year 1750, then indeed all credit might with propriety be rendered doubtful, and the names of Barry, Cibber, or even a Gar⯑rick's reputation, would require caution and con⯑ſideration as to the belief.

Moſt undoubtedly the improvements are won⯑derful, but beyond the mark of profit; for ma⯑nagers were thirty years ago gentlemen of more than ideal property; but now in all the three king⯑doms produce me an independent one: I wiſh there were many contradictions to this aſſertion, and myſelf included in the number.

I have made ſuch a digreſſion on ſtage matters, that I have left myſelf acting the Conſtable, &c. far behind like the priſoner at large, ſo muſt return to Maidſtone duty, where the buſineſs was ſo bad, that we were obliged to begin the benefits, in hopes [142] that what our good acting could not produce, ye [...] regard for individuals would ſoften their hearts and fill the houſe.—I had the Diſtreſſed Mother; the amount only three pounds!—my profit on the expences being deducted, was actually one ſhilling and ſixpence, and two pieces of candle—a diſmal banquet for Prince Oreſtes.—I was reduced to two ſhillings, conſequently under the neceſſity of aſking leave of abſence, (like a boy at ſchool) for not being a Conſtable on the Monday, and I would return on the Wedneſday; which being granted, I reſolved on a long walk, (being then much more convenient than the ſtage-coach) to Graveſend, from thence in the Graveſend boat, arrived in London, and drained three guineas more from my affectionate mother:—Neceſſity has no law. Thus repleniſhed I returned back, and got to Maidſtone on Tueſday night.

I had not expoſed my poverty to the troop, if I had, they were neither able nor willing to have re⯑lieved me—avowed poverty would have lowered me immediately; and my five guineas when I firſt went to Maidſtone, had enabled me to appear in a genteel decent manner. On this my firſt tour, I was graſping for great parts, but from timidity, and not having time to be per⯑fect, my proſpect was not the moſt favourable—Miſs Bradſhaw's ſecret account, (a toad eater, [143] the ſpawn of Adulation,) did not lead Mr. Gar⯑rick to any favourable expectations. A curious letter of my own to Mr. Garrick, blotted, badly ſpelt, and very incoherent, confirmed his then growing ill opinion of me; and he had declared from the Maidſtone accounts, which he relied on, that nothing could be done with me. Wilkin⯑ſon was a ſtupid lad, and he had, for once, deceiv⯑ed his judgment on a ſudden ſurpriſe.

The buſineſs grew worſe and worſe—benefits in⯑ſtead of improving▪ or giving hopes of an ap⯑proaching harveſt, overſhadowed us with clouds and darkneſs. We were all poor and ſulky—nei⯑ther to be led nor drove.

The manager, by paying his bills, &c. and be⯑ing what they termed a good ſtroller; who un⯑derſtood well the art of application and ſolicita⯑tion, was certain of a good benefit. Mr. and Mrs. Barrington from their dignity, carriage, and divers marks of diſtinction, alſo expected the ſame, nay, ſeemed aſſured of it. Now we, the ſaid ſoldiers and our laſſes, did not approve of this determined diſtinction intended by the inhabitants of Maidſtone, to feed the rich and let us poor be the marks for Scorn to point its ſlowly moving finger at. The conſequence was a conſpiracy—which ſoon burſt out and flamed into an open rebel⯑lion; [144] a memorial of diſſentients was ſigned and preſented, ‘"That as the playhouſe in the Star Yard, Maidſtone, was ſo ill attended, and as there were ſo many ſufferers, they could not—would not proceed, or act any more in that Booth for the emolument of two or three perſons. As to continue a fortnight longer would plunge all in the utmoſt penury and want."’ Alluded to numerous inconveniencies; therefore, unleſs they were mutual gainers, they would not undergo difficulties and diſtreſs for the advantage of the Trio▪ and themſelves in want of means for existence. This was immediately aſſented to, ſigned and ſealed by the manager, and Mr. and Mrs. Barrington, or a revolt the next day was de⯑termined. This demand cannot be juſtified on honeſt grounds; becauſe, had any one of us, four weeks before that, been bleſſed with a crowded houſe, that one would have judged it a robbery to have been compelled by the reſt who had failed to have ſhared the profit amongſt them: however if poverty is a plea for an act of injuſtice, that point we could prove and ſwear to with ſafe con⯑ſciences—As we thought Wignell and the Bar⯑ringtons getting ſuch an amazing ſum as nineteen or twenty pounds was too luxurious a proſpect, while we were in ſo barren and dreary a ſtate. The reſult was, that with the aſſize week and the two [145] benefits equally divided, matters cloſed with ſuch brilliancy, that on my return to London I was enabled to reſtore two guineas back to my mother, in part of payment, for the three ſhe had obtained for me with difficulty; and it was a double gift, as the received it from that welcome viſitor her ſon.

Early in September 1757, Drury-Lane opened, and I attended, as being then enrolled on the royal liſt of his Majeſty's company of comedians. Mr. Garrick acted early in October—his ſecond character was Romeo, and without having looked or ſpoke to me, or even affording me an opportu⯑nity of addreſſing him when I ſaw him. On the rehearſal of Romeo and Juliet, I was ſummoned on the ſtage by Croſs the prompter, who ſaid he had orders from Mr. Garrick that I ſhould wait as a Torch Bearer in the laſt act, and alſo as a Waiting Gentleman in every play. On which Mr. Garrick advanced, and, before the company, ſaid aloud, ‘"This, Sir, is my command—and if not complied with I ſhall take your coat off and do the buſineſs myſelf; and you, Sir, will immedi⯑ately be diſmiſſed my theatre."’ There certain⯑ly was a ſeverity in this; for though I ſtood aſto⯑niſhed, grieved, and petrified at this ſudden ap⯑pointment, I had not refuſed; and therefore the pointed manner in which he ſpoke was tyranny, in a degree I never then had ſeen exerciſed with⯑out [146] provocation. I cannot but at the preſent moment think this unprovoked behaviour, in my then ſituation, was cruelty to the extreme. What ſecret pique he had for ſuch ſudden treat⯑ment I never could learn; but he really made me truly miſerable—and if he aimed at that as an act to gratify ambition, he accompliſhed his purpoſe.

The theatre being for the firſt month open⯑ed three nights in a week, my ſalary was only fifteen ſhillings as play-houſe pay, and when got to four nights, merely twenty ſhillings; but that pittance was too material an object for me to think of relinquiſhing. I waited (as it is termed) in the Mourning Bride—the Funeral Proceſſion in Romeo and Juliet—Macbeth, and twice rode a hobby horſe in the Field of Battle, when Gar⯑rick acted Bayes. Early in the ſeaſon Mr. Foote was to play Cadwallader, in the Author▪ which farce had been produced the winter before, and acted with great ſucceſs. Foote was to perform ſix nights, then go to Dublin, and return in Ja⯑nuary and revive the ſame farce again.—Th [...] Author was at that time ſo faſhionable, tha Becky—my dear Becky, was a conſtant phra [...] from all ranks of people both high and low, [...] they walked the ſtreets of London. I have ev [...] been ſuppoſed a pupil of Mr. Foote's—the fo [...] ⯑ [...]wing [147] circumſtance will prove the contrary; for on my word of honour, I had never ſeen Mr. Foote till that very ſeaſon, behind the ſcenes, ex⯑c [...]pt as a performer on the ſtage;—had I met him [...]n the ſtreet, or ſeen him in a room, I do not be⯑ [...]e [...]e I ſhould have known him. The laſt week of Mr. Foote's playing in Drury-Lane, previous [...]o his intended trip to Ireland, he was accidentally with Garrick, after his performance of Kitely, as was Mr. Holland and others. The converſation, [...]s I was informed, by chance turned on imita⯑ [...]on.—Garrick ſaid, ‘"Egad, Foote! there is a young fellow engaged with me, who I really think is ſuperior to either of us at mimicry.—I uſed to think myſelf well at it, but I actually g [...]ve him the preference: He has tried to reſemble me, but that will not do; though Mrs. Garrick ſa [...]s, ſhe is ſure he will be like me."’—‘"Damn [...]t" ſays Foote, "I ſhould like to hear him."’ Holland, with Garrick's approbation, came imme⯑ [...]ately to inquire for me. I was ſoon found a the green-room, and eſcorted to th [...] [...]a⯑ [...]ager's cabinet, aſſuring me that Mr. Garrick [...]anted to ſee me on particular buſineſs. My [...]art panted with fear, doubt, and hope, on this [...]expected ſummons; after an awkward entrance [...]d a ſilence of a few minutes, my ſuſpenſe was [...]ed, by Mr. Garrick very good naturedly ſay⯑ing, [148] that he had ſpoke well of me to Mr. Foote, and deſired I would ſatisfy that gentleman with a taſte of my quality, ſuch as firſt ſtruck my fancy; adding, that he expected I would do my beſt in order to convince his good friend, Mr. Foote, that his aſſertions of my merit were not exagge⯑rated. I complied, and (as the phraſe is) took off ſ [...]veral performers—Barry, Sparks, Woſſington, Ridout, Sheridan, &c.—received high encomi⯑ums and thanks—made my bow and retired from the auguſt aſſembly. Mr. O—n, now living, not then on the ſtage, can teſtify all theſe par⯑ti [...]ulars.

The next day my friend, Mr. O—n, who was intimate with Foote, waited on me with tha [...] gentleman's compliments, intimating, that he wa [...] going to Dublin for a few weeks in five or ſi [...] days time.—He had obſerved, Mr. Garrick though [...] me only fit f [...]r his Hobby Horſe in the Rehearſal and if I [...]iſhed to be releaſed from ſuch tyranny he would be glad of my company to Ireland [...] his own [...] and he would fix me on gen⯑teel [...]erms with Mr. Sheridan—that I ſhould ap⯑pear in Othello, and he would act Iago. Th [...] was a cheering cordial elixir to my droopi [...] ſpirits, and to my ſtill more drooping pocket. turned over in my mind ſeveral of the Iriſh f [...] ⯑milies (mentioned in the early part of this work [149] [...]d that was one inducement—another was, my ſituation might be bettered, but it could not be worſe; and on a ſhort reflection, I deſired my re⯑ [...]pe [...]tful compliments (with my mother's appro⯑ [...]on) to Mr. Foote, and was apprehenſive I [...]ight incur Mr. Garrick's diſpleaſure; and if I ſh [...]uld be ſo unfortunate as not to meet with a fa⯑ [...]urable reception in Ireland, I ſhould in conſe⯑quence thereof be greatly involved on my return to England, if I ſhould be expelled from Drurv⯑ [...]ane theatre; for though the pittance I then re⯑ [...]ed was ſmall, yet trifling as it was, it was my only ſupport; but if Mr. Foote could obtain Mr. Garrick's permiſſion, I would gladly embrace the offer, begging that Mr. O—n, on the deliver⯑ing my meſſage would not omit my ſenſe of Mr. Foote's kindneſs and good opinion. Mr. O—n und [...]rtook this embaſſy moſt cheerfully, and ex⯑ [...]c [...]t [...]d [...]t with friendſhip and punctuality. Mr. [...] [...]te, without loſs of time, waited on Mr. Gar⯑rick t [...]at very day, and acquainted him with what ha [...] pa [...]ſ [...]d, and obtained my leave of abſence for [...] weeks.

On the evening I met my Maſter Garrick at [...] th [...]atre, who conſirmed the above treaty, and [...] he was glad of an opportunity to ſerve me, [...] h [...]ped it would turn out advant [...]geous; but [...]s it was probable as well as poſſible the expedi⯑tion [150] might fail, and I might not meet with ſuc⯑ceſs, he had from his motives of tenderneſs fo [...] me, conſulted with Mr. Lacey, his brother ma⯑nager, and that I might not want an aſylum, [...]n caſe of failure and diſappointments, he had or⯑dered an article to be drawn up for two years from that day, the 20th of October, to the end of the ſeaſon 1759.

The managers giving me their conſent for an abſence of ſix weeks with Mr. Foote, I dared not object to the propoſal; and indeed thought his reaſons friendly, and afforded a proſpect of bread for two years, by which time I hoped that warmer days might come. The article of courſe was prepared and ſigned. My equipment was poorly provided—my old black was my only ſuit, a ſmall pair of bags eaſily contained my wardrobe. My mother dreaded this long voyage, and being uſed to vexation and croſſes—experience made her give me but little hopes from Iriſh hoſpitality, or the appearance of a ſhabby diſtreſſed lad, ſoli⯑citing favours—

From lodging, livelihood, and ſupport, al [...] that my mother could ſpare to give me to ſup⯑ply my empty purſe with was ſix ſhillings; bu [...] luckily Mrs. Wardale, the lady of Carliſle, be⯑fore-mentioned, hearing of my journey, an [...] [151] knowing mine and my mother's inability, pre⯑ſented me with two guineas. I took leave of my affe [...]tionate parent—met Mr. Foote at the Bed⯑ [...]rd Arms, and in one hour after, ſet off with [...]im in a poſt chaiſe, and his ſervant on horſe⯑b [...]k: We only travelled that night to his little [...]ttage at Elſtree, in Hertfordſhire. Two days a [...]ter that, we dined at Kitty Keney's, at Weſt Cheſter, and the following day went with Captain Bonfoy, who was then commander of the Royal Yacht for Park-Gate, as the Captain ſaid he would ſail that afternoon:—here we were detained [...]th ſe [...]eral perſons of faſhion, who had been impatiently attending on the caprice of the wind. Mr. Hill, an elderly gentleman, Lord Macartney, Mr. Leeſon, now Lord Milltown, and ſeveral others; we all went on board, but all returned as the wind continued obſtinate. We all meſſed to⯑gether; for Foote's company, as he was well ac⯑q [...]ainted with each, was the only treat that truly dreary place Park-Gate could afford. Our pa⯑tien [...]e being exhauſted, it was unanimouſly agreed, that we ſhould proceed to Holyhead; horſes were hired—this was early in November, and was not pleaſing to me, who had never rode twenty miles on horſeback in my life; however there was no alternative, as I was become a depend⯑ent traveller, and muſt ſubmit to follow: I though [...] [152] we were all to have ſet off together—they went at ſeven o'clock in the morning, requeſting Foote's company at each houſe they ſtopped at; but Foote and myſelf remained behind, and on my aſking him the reaſon of his delay? he anſwered, that it was a rule of his, and worth my obſerva⯑tion—that whenever he met with perſons of diſtinction and fortune on the road, travelling to ſmall inns, (as was, and is the caſe on the Welch roads) he made it a rule always to be half a day behind or before them; as, with all their politeneſs, they expected the beſt accommo⯑dations, or if they were ſo kind as to offer you a preference, you could not in policy or good man⯑ners accept ſuch an offer; therefore you never could on ſuch a journey be well ſuited or attended, unleſs by being the ſtage, at leaſt, before or after them; and if going to another inn, the landlady of the neglected houſe would pique herſelf on her behaviour, to convince her gueſts they had paid the compliment of preference not to her only, but for their own comfort and advantage.

I performed this journey on horſeback better than I expected, and was truly ſtruck with won⯑der on paſſing the ſtupendous mountains of Pen⯑manmeaur and Penmenbough. Indeed Penman⯑meaur then, not only from its aſtoniſhing height, but from its perilous and immediate drop into the [153] roaring deep, gave every idea of horror which the P [...]ets pen could deſcribe. It is not ſo tremend⯑ous now, for though that mountain ſtill [...] its lofty head above the clouds, yet a [...] read is at preſent cut for a carriage, which [...] 1757 was not; and inſtead of falling from the pr [...]pi [...]e into the deep, if your horſe ſtumbled, t [...]re is a friendly wall to ſecure you from ſuch [...] danger.—Holyhead in Wales, is about [...]ty-two miles from Weſt Cheſter; there we [...]e detained again ſome days, and ſtrange but true, the high living with the perſons at that place, and a ſevere cold, had kept me ill in bed moſt p [...]t of that day; the wind changed, but it changed to a violent ſtorm—

And at nine at night, all dark and diſmal, did we roll in the boat belonging to the Pacquet, over waves moſt dreary to behold; for the white⯑n [...]ſs of the breakers ſhone double from the darkneſs of the night. When handed into the pacquet, I aſked for a bed; but they were all ſe⯑cured, not even one for Mr. Foote—as plenty of caſh from the great people, had made that requeſt [...]poſſible to be complied with. The cabin was [...]edged like the black-hole at Calcutta. The [...]multuous moving of the ſhip ſoon made my [154] inquiries after a bed of down quite needleſs, for I ſunk on the boards, where my poverty bags were my only pillow, and there I lay toſſed in the moſt convulſive ſickneſs that can be imagined. I have ſeen many ſuffer by this ſea malady, but ne⯑ver I verily think, ſuch an object of commiſera⯑tion as myſelf: The ſtorm increaſed, but the wind was fair for Ireland—as to death, I was ſo truly ſick, that I was very indifferent whether I ſunk or ſwam. Mr. Foote was tolerably well, and walking moſt of the night from place to place.

Thank God, we arrived ſafe in Dublin Bay about twelve o'clock, and by one was taken in a Dunlarey hoy to Dublin Quay; a coach conveyed us to a tavern in College-Green, where we were regaled; I ſay we, though I continued very ſick and much out of order: Indeed my ſtomach was ever inflated, and diſturbed with a bilious complaint, which may be called hereditary; and that added to my irregular mode of living, and neglect of healthful exerciſe, ſhould make me thankful it has not yet entirely overthrown me. In about an hour Mr. Foote went to the lodgings pro⯑vided for him, and left me to take care of myſelf. I inquired for a hotel, and was directed to one on Eſſex Quay, to which place I took coach; where, overpowered with illneſs, ſickneſs, and fa⯑tigue, I went to bed and lay till Monday noon, [155] but in a comfortleſs ſtate. I rung the bell for breakfaſt, but it did not afford relief; and about four o'clock in the afternoon, crawled to the houſe I remembered to have left the day before in Col⯑lege-Green, where I had ſome ſoup, chicken, and wine, and after ſitting full two hours, fancied myſelf better, owing to the momentary ſpirits the wine had given me. Paying for my repaſt, I in⯑quired of the waiter where Mrs. Chaigneau [...]ved? he replied, juſt over the way: This was agreeable intelligence, as indeed that was the [...]amily, the reader I hope will kindly recollect, I ſo particularly mentioned in the firſt part of my hiſtory—Then my fluttering heart hoped welcome to the poor, the orphan, and the ſtran⯑ger; next the apprehenſion of a rebuff occurred, but diſtreſs of ſituation puſhed me on, and to the houſe, as directed, I went.—When I advanced with trembling and tottering ſteps to the corner palace, and enquiring if Mrs. Chaigneau was at home? I was anſwered with an affirmative—I de⯑ſired the ſervant to acquaint his miſtreſs, that a perſon from England requeſted to ſpeak with her, and after waiting a few minutes (which my im⯑patience doubled) a thin looking lady entered the room, but I could not recollect a feature, or any likeneſs to reſemble the form I expected to [...]ehold; but ſuppoſed time, or illneſs might have [156] made heavy inroads on the brittle frame—with the utmoſt agitation, I preſumed to inquire, if her name was Chaigneau? The lady anſwered—Yes. I then ventured to pronounce, Madam, I flatter myſelf you recollect me when you was in England; my name is Wilkinſon, ſon of the late Doctor Wilkinſon of the Savoy. She anſwered, indeed, Sir, you are miſtaken. This was a thunder ſtroke, as my fears interpreted it a wilful diſclaiming of her knowledge of me; but I was after a pauſe re⯑lieved by her looking ſerious and repeating to her⯑ſelf— [...] ilkinſon! Wilkinſon!—and ſuddenly ſaid, O, young gentleman! I beg your pardon; believe I can now clear up this miſtake, in which we both are at preſent involved—I have often heard your father and mother mentioned in terms of the higheſt regard by my brother and ſiſter Chaig⯑neau—You, as a ſtranger, have made a miſtake as to the houſe; I am married to Mr. John Chaig⯑neau, brother to Mr. William Chaigneau, and to whoſe houſe you have been wrongly directed—they live in Abbey-Street. I not knowing the way, ſhe requeſted her ſervant might call a coach for me, which was inſtantly done (as there was then, and always is a ſtand of coaches in Col⯑lege-Green). I took my leave—apologized for the trouble I had given, was drove to Abbey Street, and on my road over Eſſex Bridge was [157] va [...]tly pleaſed at ſeeing the number of lamps, ſedan chairs, carriages, hackney coaches, foot⯑men with flambeaux, &c. as it appeared to re⯑ſemble another London. When arrived at Ab⯑bey Street, and the awful rap was given, I was, not only from frequent misfortunes and diſap⯑pointments all flutter, but found myſelf not well; yet I gave myſelf the comfort to attribute it to [...]ancied illneſs, proceeding from anxiety, diſtreſs, and unaccuſtomed fatigue; and therefore hoped [...]t would go off. The firſt anſwer to my in⯑quiry at Mr. William Chaigneau's door from the ſervant was, that he could not tell whether either his maſter or miſtreſs were at home or not, but woul [...] go and ſee; he ſoon returned with an anſwer more potent than the firſt. That they were both at home, and what was more fortu⯑nate, they were without company. I had no ſooner entered the room where they were ſitting, then—then what?—why to proceed requires the beſt of novel pens to preſent, fulfil, and do ſervice to the ſeene that followed. This generous Mr. William Chaigneau and wife, were on the liſt of the few inſtances, where

Their pleaſures were the ſame—their affections were the ſame. Their inſtantaneous recollection [158] of me—the great intimacy between the families—my father's death and calamities being ſo lately public, and now refreſhed to their memory, re⯑vived the idea of their own diſtreſs, from the loſs of their darling child, the infant-marriage between me and that daughter, my preſent aſ⯑ſured, unfortunate, helpleſs, ſituation, with a look of deſponding hope dependent on their feelings, all collected ruſhed on their alternate ſudden thoughts with ſuch quick tranſitions, as made them all combined too mighty for Mrs. Chaig⯑neau's tender ſpirits; indeed ſo powerfully, that the fictitious diſtreſs of Lady Randolph on the ſtage, was by no means equal to her poignant ſenſe of my miſery and ſituation; and it was actually ſometime before ſhe could recover herſelf with any degree of compoſure to inquire what had brought me there, or what could be done to ſerve me. Mr. Chaigneau was alſo greatly agitated; but not to ſo extravagant a degree as my good benefactreſs, as ſhe afterwards proved to the ut⯑moſt extent. After a little compoſure, and my full relation of what had happened to my mother and myſelf, ſince the fatal marriage act paſ⯑ſed, a comfortable ſupper was ſet on the table. After which pleaſing ceremony, they aſſured me, that every exertion in their power, and all their friends and connexions, I might as much depend [159] upon as if the welfare of their own ſon, was the perſon, whoſe intereſt they were to plead for.

During a ſhort interval I felt elated beyond my⯑ſelf, the tranſition was ſo wonderful; but alas! how fleeting are human joys as to pain, hope, or ſorrow: For ſoon after this pleaſing unforeſeen ſenſation of rapture, I ſuddenly ſunk into an heavy [...]everiſh languor, not in my power to uphold. Mrs. Chaigneau exclaimed, ‘"My God! Tate is ill!"’ Her words were prophetic—I wiſhed and tried to ſhake it off, but all in vain;—diſorder and de⯑ [...]rium grew too powerful, my head felt dreadfully deranged. My real friends, in every ſenſe of the word, were alarmed; Mrs. Chaigneau declared the co [...]ld not permit me by any means to return to the hotel, in ſuch a ſtate of apparent illneſs as I then ſeemed to labour under: They ſent to the next door, engaged a comfortable lodging for me, and provided me with hock-wine, whey, and [...]ch accommodations as they thought imme⯑ [...]iately neceſſary. The enſuing day, inſtead of finding myſelf relieved, I was ſeized moſt danger⯑o [...]ſly by an outrageous miliary fever. I had, [...]rom their wonderful attention and regard, the attendance of one of the firſt phyſicians then in Dublin, (Doctor Lucas) and their own apothe⯑ [...]ary, with a conſtant careful nurſe. Mrs. Chaig⯑neau preferred waiting on Tate to the luxury o [...] [160] company. She, and her couſin Mrs. Carty, dur⯑ing the day were ſeldom from my bedſide. A ſtranger to have ſeen Mrs. Chaigneau weeping over me, muſt have ſuppoſed it her own dying ſon ſhe was lamenting: I have often heard her repeat, that except the death of her dearly beloved daughter, ſhe never ſuffered ſuch diſtreſs, and ſaid it awakened ſo ſtrongly the remembrance of the ſudden loſs of her only child (ever by her to be lamented) that it excited her feelings beyond the power of reſtraining them, and recollection brought freſh to her memory her long intimacy with my worthy mother; and knowing her life of almoſt perpetual ſorrow, by affliction heaped on affliction, and viewing in every light my helpleſs ſituation, theſe all conjoined was too much for her ſpirits to ſupport.

In that outrageous fever did I continue, and in a truly lamentable ſtate, with a complication of diſtraction and agony for near three weeks; bli⯑ſters on my ancles, and every phyſical torture to increaſe my miſeries. Mr. Chaigneau often uſed to joke and ſay, what an expenſive gueſt I was to him for his old hock; the quantity I drank in whey, by his account, was incredible. However Providence, aiding my youth, brought me once more into the world; and here I muſt not omit my ſincere and grateful acknowledgments to God. [161] For, good reader, will you believe it, that all this time of my ſevere ſuffering, notwithſtanding Mr. Foote muſt have heard I had left the hotel and [...]ern with evident marks of indiſpoſition, he ne⯑ [...]er once (to the diſgrace of Chriſtianity be it aſſert⯑ed▪) made inquiry whether I was living or dead; or if living, whether I had decent neceſſaries: [...]d with regret I am obliged to relate that, had I [...] left dependent on his care, though ſuch an [...] [...]ect of compaſſion, I had never from the dictates of his feelings or pity, his honeſty, or honour, [...] to give this relation of my illneſs; and I [...]ould have remained for him, truly deſtitute, [...]ng no mother or friend that he knew of in I [...]eland [...]o cloſe my eyes; but God raiſed me friends, therefore I have indeed reaſon to rejoice and praiſe my Maker.

Before I was able to go abroad, or even to leave my apartment, I ſent my compliments to Mr. [...]ote, to acquaint him where I was; for Mr. and Mrs. Chaigneau were ſo offended at ſuch brutality of behaviour towards me, that neither of them [...]ad [...]ven him any intelligence concerning me. [...]r. Foote on my information, waited on Mr. [...]ig [...]eau, and by way of apology, ſaid he could [...] ſ [...]e me for three or four days for fear of [...]ching the infection from the fever—profeſſed [...]imſelf anxious to ſupply my wants, which he [162] was informed was at that time quite unneceſſary. After that he waited on me as my moſt anxious friend—and in about three weeks I recovered ſo faſt, by the help of my good nurſes, that I dined every day with my preſerving angels at the next door; was attended every noon with jellies, &c. and what was more extraordinary, had my chariot every morning at the door to take my daily a [...]r⯑ing.—O gemini! a coach!

And indeed it was as ſudden and unexpected a metamorphoſe, as that of the Cobbler's Wife in the Devil to Pay.

As ſoon as I was able to be taken by my pa⯑trons a viſiting, an elegant ſuit of clothes was pro⯑vided for me, that I might be a credit, and not by my thread-bare appearance diſgrace either my friends or myſelf. Mr. and Mrs. Chaigneau in⯑troduced me to all their acquaintance; nor could they be pleaſed more, than by any act of kindneſs that was beſtowed on me. Their connections were particularly numerous, Mr. William Chaig⯑neau being principal agent to moſt of the regiments on the Iriſh eſtabliſhment, and was conſequently univerſally known, and likewiſe reſpected.

All the families in Ireland, with whom my fa⯑ther and mother had formerly been intimate in [163] London, proved by innumerable acts of genero⯑ [...]ty and true zeal for my welfare, that friendſhip i [...] ſometimes more than a name. Their deeds and actions to me, gave full evidence of their par⯑t [...]lity, nor do I in this account deceive the reader with the ſmalleſt particle that is erroneous, for there are thoſe that are living, who can atteſt it [...]inutely: Yet, were I now to land in this ſaid Dublin where I was thirty-two years ago univer⯑ [...]ly acquainted, the theatres excepted, I do [...]t know one houſe I could with propriety ap⯑proach!—Such quick and certain havock does that ſaid voracious monſter Death make with mankind. On my viſiting abroad, I was ſoon in⯑ [...]ed to Lord Forbes's in Stephen's Green, alſo to the Kellys, Alderman and Mrs. Forbes, Ache⯑ſons, Callages, John Chaigneau's, Coates's, Ha⯑miltons, &c. and received particular favours from thoſe perſons, as well as from Lord Clambraſil, Lo [...]d Bellamont, Lord Milltown, Mr. Hill, Miſs Knoxes, &c. &c. At each of the above families, in the full meaning of the word, I had a home, and I never received a cool look unleſs for ſtaying away, though a favour may be beſtowed with an ill gra [...]e; and I will beg leave here to give an inſtance. Lord Forbes I had been uſed to ſee frequently in London, even from the time of my wearing [...]ro [...]ks; and I am certain his invitations in Dublin [164] were intended moſt friendly, and his will was ever to ſerve me; but one day on dining with his Lordſhip, when ſeveral perſons of quality were invited—the bottle, our ſun of the table, after dinner moved quickly round, and as the wine circulated, not feeling any reſtraint, and his Lord⯑ſhip not being a [...]ranger to me, I very heartily ſm [...]cked my lips, and ſaid, ‘"O my Lord, this is excellent wine!"’ On which he pauſed, and look⯑ing f [...]ll at me, (by which means he drew the at⯑tention of the whole company) ſaid, with a ſatiri⯑cal ſmile, ‘"Pray, Tate, what, or who has made you a judge of wine? Never give your judge⯑ment in company as to wine; for in a young man like you it is not becoming or proper."’ This effectually ſilenced me; nay, it did worſe than that, for it made me feel my inferiority, and I [...]as abaſhed and unhappy till releaſed that even⯑ing from the company of the great, and which two hours before had greatly ela [...]ed me. Nor do I think it excuſable in any rank whatever, by any ſpeech or look, to leſſen the gueſt in [...]ted in the preſence of others; for bread and cheeſe at home is preferable, though the dependent's din⯑ner may be termed an honour—From ſuch ho⯑nour, with ſ [...]ch behaviour, heaven defend me!—That Lord [...]orbes had a more than common right to give his free ſentiments to me, is cer⯑t [...]in, [165] and beyond doubt meant it well, is as cer⯑tain; but time and place in many things make [...]ch material difference, as the ſame actions ſuit not all men alike: for had his Lordſhip privately r [...]primanded me it would have been an obligation; but in the manner he did it—I to this moment [...]ink it was cruel and ill bred. It made ſuch an i [...]preſſion that, notwithſtanding after that I had a general invitation from him, which I could not [...]r [...]m duty and policy avoid accepting yet I always w [...]hed the hour of viſiting his Lordſhip was over.

This leads me to a like anecdote, which ſuddenly and impulſively burſts on my recollection: A [...]ſt eſ [...]eemed gentleman in the ſpacious county of York, whoſe poliſhed underſtanding and manners were univerſally acknowledged and admired, even to the extent of popularity in the great world, [...]me few years ſince deſired to patroniſe a pla [...]. I ſent my treaſurer with the catalogue (as is uſual on ſuch occaſions to any leading perſon); but on looking over the liſt of tragedies, comedies, and [...]rc [...]s, he declared he could not determine, and deſired Mr. Wilkinſon would attend him and his party after dinner, at the inn where he then for a few days reſided. Which mandate I obey⯑ [...]; and without being arrogant, in my idea, [...]s his Majeſty's patentee) undoubtedly ex⯑p [...]ted being favoured with fitting at the cheerful [166] board, and holding ſome chit chat, relative to the play and farce that he intended to ſanction. In⯑ſtead of ſuch uſual, and indeed common civility, after waiting a conſiderable time in the bar, I was at length uſhered into the room where the com⯑pany had dined, when Sir — —, beckoned me to approach him at the upper end of the table, where I impertinently expected to have ſat down; but neither found a vacancy, or the waiter even ordered to produce me a chair. Sir — — diſcourſed relative to the play—then of York city; graciouſly obſerved I had acted Bayes, ſo as to merit his approbation; and to heighten the compliment remarked, he was no judge, as he ſeldom viſited the theatre, either in London or elſewhere. At length he conde⯑ſcendingly aſked me to drink a glaſs of wine, which I begged to decline; but he requeſted a worthy and reſpectable gentleman, (now living) to give a glaſs, the which he handed as if I had been a common porter waiting for a meſſage: For I actually ſtood all the while at the backs of their chairs. I was moſt truly happy to depart, and from that day loſt all anxiety or ray of incli⯑nation to pay my devoirs, or wait on that great man, who was then termed the Grandiſon of the age.

I would attribute this to want of thought at the time; but I do not ſee how that could be the [167] c [...]ſe for ſo long a ſpace, where ſenſe and good breeding were by all allowed to be the characte⯑riſtic qualities of that gentleman. I am aware, I [...]hall be blamed by particular perſons for men⯑tioning the above; but in order to diſarm unfair anger—five minutes pauſe, and a little allowance may ſave my condemnation. If I reſtrained my⯑ [...]e [...]f from relating little matters, which have pleaſed [...]r vexed me—I ſhould by ſuch a rule, be depriv⯑ [...] of the liberty of expreſſing my thoughts when [...]erently affected. I dare ſay, although it is a [...]ct which I have related, it will be argued it night have been omitted? I ſubſcribe to that [...]pinion; but then let every feeling mind con⯑ [...]d [...]r, that if I am allowed the freedom to expreſs my being hurt by a perſon of quality in Ireland, a [...]d to whom I was ſo greatly obliged, I cer⯑t [...]inly, have a right to mention the other in [...]ngland: for, unleſs reſpect due to his rank and character, obligations I had none; and in con⯑ [...]uſion it was only a ſpeck upon Ermine.

But his preſent Grace the Duke of Norfolk's be⯑ [...]a [...]iour to me is as great a contraſt. I could fill a [...]olume with encomiums, but that would offend [...]m—and he is ſo univerſally known and beloved, that what I could ſay would be only ſuperfluous.

[168] His Grace of Norfolk is plain in his attire, poſ⯑ſeſſes wit, accompanied with infinite underſtand⯑ing, that leads his natural temper, which is gra⯑cious and condeſcending, in his manner friendly and honourable, and is ever endeavouring to pro⯑mote the cheerfulneſs and happineſs of others▪ Yet let not that eaſy manner betray Ignorance into the error of being too familiar; for though his Grace's ſtrong ſenſe and good nature may ſmile and pardon, yet that perſon will find himſelf egre⯑giouſly wrong who ſuppoſes that the firſt of his Majeſty's ſubjects in the kingdom of Great Britain ever forgets he is the Duke of Norfolk: Therefore let inferiors, out of regard to them⯑ſelves, bridle their familiarity, and always remem⯑ber, that every deference is juſtly due.

Permit my Lord Duke to ſink his own rank, to render himſelf ſtill more agreeable, and beſtow heartfelt joy at the ſprightly board; but, Ignorance [...] beware of too much encroachment, leſt ſuch im⯑policy incur his ſecret contempt, and, like Mac⯑beth's vaul [...]ing ambition, you o'erleap yourſelf, and fall on the other ſide. To thoſe who are honoured with the acquaintance of his Grace of Norfolk, or to thoſe who are ſtrangers, I would pourtray my ideas of that nobleman in the words of Home: That,

But having carried myſelf into Yorkſhire, as I l [...]e travelling let me now return to my ſtation in Dublin. Near Chriſtmas I began to think of making my appearance on the ſtag [...]—Mr. Chaig⯑neau invited Mr. Sheridan the manager, Mr. Victor, and Mr. Foote to dinner. Mr. Foote's [...]me of acting drew near an expiration; he had played Cadwallader, in particular, with great ſuc⯑ [...]e [...], Lord Foppington, Sir Paul Plyant, Bayes, F [...]ndlewife, Buck, &c. He ſaid to Mr. Chaig⯑ [...]u, at dinner, that he thought it neceſſary for Mr. Wilkinſon to make his appearance on the Dublin ſtage before he departed, all joined in the [...]me opinion. Mr. Chaigneau wiſhed me to ſee the theatre; Mr. Victor was to dine with him the next day in a family-way, and to take me t [...]re—Mr. Sheridan was all politeneſs. The firſt [...] [...]aw was in the lattices with Mr. Victor, which [...] are what is called in London, the [...] the play was the Recruiting Officer—Mr. [...] firſt appearance in that kingdom, in the [...]a [...]ter of Captain Plume; he has ſince given [...]rſal ſatisfaction, both as manager and actor [...] Ireland, and his merit is now well known and [170] confirmed in England. Foote acted Brazen; Iſaac Sparks, Kite; Sylvia, by a Miſs Kennedy, who ſoon retired well provided for by the genero⯑ſity of Mr. L. Gardener.

It was appointed for me to appear the Monday following in Mr. Foote's Tea, in the character o [...] a pupil, under Mr. Puzzle, the ſuppoſed directo [...] of a rehearſal.—Mr. Puzzle, by Mr. Foote. H [...] ſent me a part called Bounce, but which I begged as the time was ſo ſhort, to decline; and, as I did no attend any rehearſal, it was agreed that I ſhoul [...] appear as Mr. Wilkinſon (his pupil) when calle [...] upon, and repeat juſt what I could ſelect to pleaſ [...] myſelf—not any regular character.

When the night came, Lord Forbes, Mr Chaigneau, and all my friends, went to encourag and ſupport me, and engaged all they knew [...]o the ſame purpoſe. One lucky circumſtance wa [...] my not being known as a performer, therefore had their wiſhes and pity in a high degree—bu great fear of my not being able to ſucceed. Th ſtory of my diſtreſſed ſituation—the blazoned mar⯑riage-act—my being a young gentleman—my ill⯑neſs, &c. &c. were become topics of public conver⯑ſation: As to intelligence, requeſted by critics fro [...] the players relative to myſelf, they neither did n [...] could pronounce, with knowledge, either good [...] ill. But I will rather ſuppoſe five out of ſix ſpo [...] [171] [...] my diſadvantage, from the too general depra⯑ [...]ty of human nature; as perſons liſten to ſatire [...]ther than praiſe: It is more deſcriptive, diſplays [...]e tripping tongue, and ſuits converſation much [...]etter; it gives energy to the informant, and [...] ears to the languid.—The bill ran thus: ‘After the PLAY
Mr. FOOTE will give TEA.
Mr. PUZZLE (the Inſtructor) Mr. FOOTE.
Firſt PUPIL, by a YOUNG GENTLEMAN,
(Who never appeared on any Stage before.)’ By eight in the evening I was in full dreſs behind the ſcenes; I had never been there before; the company were all ſtrangers to me. I not know⯑ing how to enter into converſation with the per⯑ [...]ormers, and being announced as a pupil of Mr. Foote's, I did not receive any civility from them; [...]or, if I was a blockhead, I was not worth their [...]o [...]ce; and if an impudent imitator or mimic of [...]heir profeſſion, bred by Mr. Foote in the ſame [...]rthy art, I was, in their opinions, a deſpicable [...]tr [...]der. I could conceive all this, and certain⯑ [...] my ſituation on this critical night was not to be [...] as their ſentiments, though not avowed, [...]re the reſult of nature. I, on [...]eflection, ſoon [...]w weary of my ſo [...]itary ſeat in the green⯑room; [172] alone in a crowd; and between the play and farce looked through a hole in the curtain, and beheld an awful pleaſing ſight—a crowded, ſplendid audience—ſuch as might ſtrike the boldeſt with diſmay.

The farce began, and Mr. Foote gained great applauſe, and roars of laughter ſucceeded. In the ſecond act my time of trial drew near; in about ten minutes I was called—‘"Mr. Wilkinſon! Mr. Wilkinſon!"’—Had I obeyed a natural im⯑pulſe, I was really ſo alarmed that I ſhould have run away. But honour pricked me on—there was no alternative—my brain was a chaos; but on I went, and muſt have made a very ſheepiſh, timid appearance, as from fear, late illneſs, and apprehenſion, I trembled like a frighted clown in a pantomime: which Foote perceiving, good na⯑turedly took me by the hand and led me for⯑ [...]ard; when the burſt of applauſe was wonderful, and apparently that of kindneſs and true benevo⯑lence; but it could not inſtantly remove my ti⯑midity; and I had no prompter to truſt to, as all [...]ep [...]n [...]ed on myſelf.

Foote p [...]rceiving I was not fit for action, ſaid to his two friends on the ſtage (ſeated like Smith and Johnſon in the Rehearſal) ‘"This young gentleman is merely a novice on the ſtage; he has not yet been properly drilled. But come, my [173] young friend, walk acroſs the ſtage; breath [...] yourſelf, and ſhew your figure."’ I did ſo; the walk encouraged me, and another loud applauſe [...]cceeded. I felt a glow, which ſeemed to ſay, ‘"What have you to fear! Now, or never.—This is the night that either makes you or undoes [...] quite."’ And on the applauſe being repeated, [...] to myſelf, that is as loud as any I have heard [...] to Mr. Garrick; I muſtered up [...] and began with Mr. Luke Sparks of Lon⯑ [...] (brother to Iſaac Sparks, then in Dublin) in t [...]e character of Capulet: Moſt of the gen⯑t [...]men in the boxes knew all the London p [...]ayers, and no play in London was ſo familiar t [...]e [...] as Romeo and Juliet: They were univer⯑ſal [...]y ſtruck with the forcible manner of the ſpeak⯑ing, and the ſtriking reſemblance of the features; a particular excellence in my mode of mimicry. A gentleman cried out, ‘"Sparks of London! Sparks of London!"’ The applauſe reſounded, [...]n to my aſtoniſhment; and the audience were equally amazed, as they found ſomething, where t [...]ey in fact expected nothing. Next ſpeech was their favourite Barry in Alexander; univerſally known, and as univerſally felt. I now found my⯑ſelf vaſtly elated and clever: Fear was vaniſhed, and joy and pleaſure ſucceeded; a proof what ba⯑ [...]met [...]rs we are! how ſoon elated, and how ſoon [174] depreſſed!—When quite at eaſe, I began with Mrs. Woffington in Lady Macbeth, and Barry in Macbeth. The laughter (which is the ſtrongeſt applauſe on a comic occaſion) was ſo loud and in⯑ceſſant, that I could not proceed: This was a mi⯑nute of luxury; I was then in the region of bliſs; I was encored; yet that lady had declared in London, on hearing I was to go with Foote to Ireland,—‘"Take me off! a puppy!—If he dare attempt it, by the living G—d he will be ſtoned to death."’ Here the lady was miſtaken; for, on re⯑peating the part, the ſecond applauſe was ſtronger than the preceding. A ſudden thought oc⯑curred; I felt all hardy—all alert—all nerve—and immediately advanced ſix ſteps; and, before I ſpoke, I received the full teſtimony of "true imi⯑tation!" My maſter, as he was called, ſat on the ſtage at the ſame time; I repeated twelve or fourteen lines of the very prologue he had ſpoke that night (being called for) to the Author, and he had almoſt every night repeated: I before Mr. Foote preſented his other ſelf; the audience from repetition were as perfect as I was; his manner, his voice, his oddities, I ſo exactly hit, that the pleaſure, the glee it gave, may eaſily be conceived, to ſee and hear the mimic mimicked, and it really gave me a complete victory over Mr. Foote; for the ſuddenneſs of the action tripped up his [175] [...]dacity ſo much, that he, with all his effrontery, ſat fooliſh, wiſhing to appear equally pleaſed with the audience, but knew not how to play that dif⯑ficult part: he was unprepared; the ſurpriſe and ſatisfaction was ſuch, that, without any conclu⯑ [...]on, the curtain was obliged to drop with re⯑ [...]terated burſts of applauſe. They are remarkable in Dublin, when pleaſed, to continue applauding [...]ill the curtain falls, often not ſuffering the play to finiſh. This was a compliment frequently paid to Mr. Sheridan.

Foote once ſaid to that gentleman, very ſeriouſly, ‘"My dear Sheridan, I wiſh you would relieve yourſelf of a great deal of labour and trouble!"’

‘"In what manner?" ſays Sheridan, "do in⯑form me, and I ſhall be obliged to you."’

‘"Why," ſays Foote, "inſtead of Richard the Third, act King Henry in that tragedy."’

‘"Good God, Mr. Foote! why ſhould I relin⯑quiſh Richard, where you are a witneſs I get ſuch univerſal applauſe?—Give me your reaſon."’

‘"O!" ſays Foote, "the beſt reaſon in the world; for if you will perform Henry inſtead of Richard, the play will finiſh in the firſt act, and the players may all go home in good time to ſupper."’

When the farce, called Tea, was concluded, I had great congratulations paid ſeriouſly and ironi⯑cally. Mr. Foote affected to be vaſtly pleaſed, [176] but in truth it was merely affectation, ſo diffe⯑rently do we feel for ourſelves when ridicule is pointed at us; but he ſaid, it was perfectly well judged to make free with him, yet he did not think it very like himſelf, for it certainly was my worſt imitation, but he rejoiced at my good fortune. In truth, Mr. Foote got the caſ [...], not me; what I did was for him, as he acted on ſhares; and the fuller the houſe, the greater was his profit. He was piqued and chagrined▪ but as he had kept within no bounds himſelf, and made free with all characters whatever, ſtage, pul⯑pit, bar, public and private peculiarities, benefac⯑tors, patrons, friends as well as foes, he could not, with any degree of ſenſe, appear diſpleaſed, or cenſure me for what I had done, but kept his re⯑ſentment locked up for a more proper and conve⯑nient opportunity, as he conſidered the repetition of himſelf, in my imitations, was to his advan⯑tage, by the evident partiality the public had ſhewn me; he made himſelf, therefore, tolerably eaſy, and may be truly ſaid to have pocketted the affront.

The converſation the next day, particularly of all my eager partial friends, was an univerſal cry of ‘"Foote outdone! Foote outdone! the pupil the maſter!"’ and this was greatly aſſiſted by their agreeable diſappointment; for I do not believe any one of them, however warm they might have [177] been in their wiſhes for my welfare, but trembled for the event; they felt unhappy leſt I ſhould make a deſpicable attempt, and be univerſally diſ⯑approved; and then reflected within themſelves, ‘"Good Heaven! what is to become of this poor youth? what can he do for a ſubſiſtence?"’ After my performance, from the ſucceſs I had met with, I could neither eat, drink, or ſleep, that night; pleaſant dreams I needed not; my waking thoughts were ſo much ſuperior.

The Tea was acted in regular ſucceſſion ſeveral nights, nay, it was commanded by the Duke and Ducheſs of Bedford; his Grace was at that time Lord Lieutenant.

The Rehearſal was repeated, in which I per⯑formed the Princeſs Chloris. Being well dreſſed, [...]y likeneſs and ſerious acting alamode Woffing⯑ton, procured me great applauſe, though in ſo [...] a part. Let it be here conſidered that the [...]itation was univerſally felt above and below, as Mrs. Woffington lad played three years in [...] her ſalary not leſs than 800l. per ſeaſon, and [...] benefits. She was alſo very conſpicuous at [...]he head of the court party, with which ſhe had certainly no buſineſs to interfere; but, as Scrub [...] ‘"It muſt be a plot, becauſe there was a wo⯑man in it;"’ and that party increaſed the heat of [...]he patriots, and in the end, though it made her [178] more public, it all ended in the deſtruction of the theatre, and the baniſhment of the manager, who relied on ſomething better, and ſecretly expected from courtiers' promiſes that his greatneſs would riſe from his deſtruction.—But plays (without his own learning) might have taught him better.—Alas▪ who wants not teaching?

Mrs Woffington being ſo well known to all ranks and degrees, was of infinite aſſiſtance to me as an imitator. After the firſt night of my per⯑formance, Mr. Sheridan appointed me a ſalary of three guineas per week, and requeſted, with my approbation, (which was readily obtained) that Mr. Foote would write to Mr. Garrick to grant permiſſion for my continuance in Dublin till the end of February. Foote was oblige [...] to go to England with all ſpeed, as he had ſtaid beyond his time; but I was left behind, waiting for Mr. Garrick's anſwer to Mr. Sheridan's requeſt, but which ſoon arrived, and granted the petition re⯑queſted by Mr. Foote.

Before January expired, I played Cadwallader, ſpoke the prologue, and acted Othello with much applauſe and credit to myſelf, the latter was certainly a very bold attempt; for, by the bye, Barry had performed that, his favourite cha⯑racter, repeatedly two winters before, Mr. King performed Iago, and Miſs G. Philips (Mrs. Jor⯑dan's mother) Deſdemona. Here it would be [179] unjuſt and ungrateful in me not to reflect with pleaſure on the great civilities and kindneſſes which I received from Mr. and Mrs. King in that early ſtage of life. There are different kinds of memories; a good memory, a bad memory, and a convenient memory. What I am going to re⯑ [...]elate requires a bad memory, as not proper to be retained; but I inſert it to pleaſe myſelf; and be⯑ing a ſweet ſtory, will with it refreſh the memory of my friend Mr. King.

This ſaid Mr. Thomas King had ſet his heart on well preparing a new pantomime, in order to give his manager (Mr. Sheridan) a lift, and it was advertiſed for the Thurſday, but it was not fit for preparation on the Wedneſday. It was called the Whim, or Harlequin Villager. As Mr. King is, and ever was, indefatigable, he was de⯑termined to be at the theatre the whole Wedneſ⯑day night, that he might be a ſpur to induſtry, and obſerve, that the painters, carpenters, &c. were ſtrictly at their duty; and to make the time paſs more pleaſantly in his dreary manſion, (for a large theatre certainly is ſo, when only lighted with three or four pieces of candle, and being a ſpot where murders of various kinds are weekly committed, and where ghoſts undoubtedly are known to ſtalk) he therefore, to cheer his ſpirits, deſired Mrs. King and myſelf to be with him [180] in the green-room; we agreed, but I made it conditional, which was, provided we had ſome⯑thing to eat as well as to drink, as mutton-chops or beef-ſteaks. He aſſented, and Mrs. King agreed to cook them, and I was to aſſiſt her. About ten o'clock, wine, rum, and oranges, en⯑tered the room, and the mutton-chops, properly ſprinkled with pepper and ſalt, were placed in or⯑der on the well-rubbed gridiron, which a ſer⯑vant ſet cloſe to the fender, waiting for further orders. I complained of cold, and the only ſeat in the green-room was, as uſual, benched round, and immoveable. Chairs were called for—two were immediately brought—I anſwered for pro⯑curing a third for myſelf—and recollecting Mrs. Fitzhenry's dreſſing apartment was adjoining to the green-room, where I had ſeen an elbow⯑chair, and Mrs. Fitzhenry as Hermione ſitting in her royal robes, I went in the dark, ſeized the chair by the elbows, but when I brought it near the fire-ſide, by a ſudden jerk off flew the bot⯑tom, and, O ye powers! by the violence of the ſhock, the regalia, the treaſures of Queen Eliza⯑beth and Cleopatra ruſhed like a golden tide over our mutton-chops and bright gridiron. Reader, turn the leaf and gueſs the reſt, or do not gueſs at all, juſt which ſuits your fancy. However, for one hour it cured all complaints of cold or hun⯑ger. While we retired, the ſervants of the the⯑atre [181] had the diſagreeable trouble to aſſiſt to put the room in order, which indeed required ſome patience and care to accompliſh. When the ſtable was cleanſed, eating was out of the queſtion; we had an excellent bowl of punch, which proved ſalutary, palatable, and reſtored us to harmony, and we paſſed two or three very cheerful friendly hours.

Early in February I received the following let⯑ter from my mother; it may not be thought wor⯑thy attention to readers in general, but every pa⯑rent will be pleaſed with the genuine language of Nature. I ſhall therefore occaſionally introduce a few letters as they occurred from a pattern of [...]arental goodneſs.

It had not at this time been uſual to have plays acted on Saturday nights, as they never had turned out beneficial or faſhionable, though put into practice, when Woodward and Barry opened at Crow-ſtreet, and from uſe ſoon became as good a night as any other for the manager, but not I believe to this day as a benefit.—The prevalence of cuſtom is aſtroniſhing—a Lady in London will go to a known bad opera on the Saturday, and though ſhe profeſſes being an amateur in muſic will not go on the Tueſday, though a good opera, becauſe it is Tueſday. A Lady will go to the theatre at Edinburgh, Bath, and York, though to the moſt indifferent play, and as indifferently [184] acted, on the Saturday, becauſe it is Saturday; yet the beſt acted comedy ſhall be offered to the pu⯑blic, at either of thoſe three theatres, on any other night, and be totally neglected, unleſs it is hinted that the night is to be faſhionable, which alters the caſe. At Hull, the houſe would not even be a decent one, to whatever play might be perform⯑ed, if it was a Saturday, unleſs the faſhion. At Doncaſter and Wakefield, there is not any material diſtinction as to nights.

I am led to theſe obſervations, by recollecting, when in Dublin, on this my firſt excurſion, I judged it neceſſary, early in February, to wait upon Mr. Sheridan, in order to appoint a night for my benefit, which had been ſtipulated to be in that month, in conſequence of my continuing with him. Mr. Sheridan obſerved, that my be⯑ing a young man and a ſtranger, it could never anſwer for me, to venture on the expences of the theatre, the charge being forty pounds (but at preſent, ſixty or ſeventy pounds per night). But he had an expedient to ſerve me more effectually, which was, to permit me the privilege of diſpo⯑ſing of tickets, dividing the ſum taken for thoſe tickets between us; and he would himſelf play, and ſecure its being ſerviceable to me. In fa [...]t, this ſecret ſervice of his playing, he thought would make my ſtrenuous friends pour in tickets, and he [185] [...]ap great advantage by them; and by his play⯑ing, (a great favour on a benefit) make himſelf appear in an advantageous light, and as generous, humane, and full of pity.—His throne again [...] the neceſſity of a ſecond abdication from [...]he towering walls of Crow-Street, in terrorem [...]ly rearing their lofty heads in ſtately [...].

To this act of liberality I objected, and with [...]re degree of ſpirit, abided by my expreſs en⯑gagement, though verbal, and referred him to the [...] of my friends. He now plainly perceived [...] would make him appear in a mercenary and [...]o [...]n light, therefore he gave up the point; but [...] the ſame time obſerved, Mr. Wilkinſon I can⯑not g [...]e you a night in February, unleſs you will [...]ake a Saturday; and to this propoſal, from neceſ⯑ſity. I conſented. That article being ſettled, he complained that I was not ſtudied in farce parts, to b [...] of ſervice to him, (which indeed was true); and further obſerved, that inſtead of the perform⯑ers, whom I had taken the liberty to bring into company where they were not, he judged it would [...]ave a better effect, if I would exhibit the [...] of the performers where they actually were, [...] introduce imitations of ſuch as were at that very time acting in Dublin. I obſerved to him, that I had not had leiſure to have paid a ſufficient [186] attention to that company, as objects for imitation; it could not be the work of a week, or a month; beſides, were I capable, if I ſhould take that free⯑dom, they would moſt likely not only inſult me, but make it a plea to refuſe acting for my benefit. That argument ſeemed with Mr. Sheridan, to have but little weight; he perſiſted angrily. I then in⯑timated, that if I complied, I hoped he would not have any objection to my uſing his name, and that I did not do it of my own accord, but had his ex⯑preſs command for that purpoſe; and further urged, Surely, Sir, will they not think it unkind of the manager, that he ſhould order a ſatirical performance on them, which they muſt feel and term a cruelty in their governor to inflict? Mr. Sheridan ſeemed much vexed; ſaid, that what he had aſked me to do, was to get me ap⯑plauſe, and to ſerve me—not himſelf; but he ſhould by no means conſent to my expoſing the peculiarities of his actors and actreſſes, under the ſanction of his deſire and approbation; he wiſhed it to come before the audience as a ſudden ſur⯑priſe, and as my own voluntary act, and after that had been done, he would have taken care to have had it ſo called for by the audience, as to prevent a poſſibility of the performers' anger, being of weight ſufficient to prevent its repetition; and the more it vexed the actors and actreſſes, the greater [187] reliſh it would give the audience; that I believe was too true.

However, I continued my objection, but at laſt (like a fool in the knowledge of mankind and the human heart) a lucky bright thought, as I judged [...]r▪ occurred to me; and I ſaid, my good Mr. Sheridan, I have hit upon the very thing to eſta⯑bliſh myſelf as a favourite with you, and the town. He ſeemed all impatience to know what it could be. My dear Sir, a thought has juſt entered my pate, which I think will draw money, and be of infinite ſervice to myſelf. What is it! What is it! ſays Sheridan, with the utmoſt eagerneſs.—Why, Sir, ſays I, your rank in the theatre, and a gentleman ſo well known in Dublin, on and off the ſtage, muſt naturally occaſion any ſtriking imi⯑tation of yourſelf, to have a wonderful effect. I have paid great attention to your whole mode of acting, not only ſince I have been in Dublin; but two years before, when you played the whole ſea⯑ſon at Covent-Garden theatre; and do actually think, I can do a great deal on your ſtage with you alone, without interfering with any other actor's manner whatever.

Hogarth's pencil could not teſtify more aſtoniſh⯑ment—he turned pale and red alternately—his lips quivered.—I inſtantaneouſly perceived I was in the wrong box; it was ſome time before he could [188] ſpeak—he took a candle from off the table, and ſhewing me the room door—when at laſt his words found utterance—ſaid, he never was ſo inſulted, What! to be taken off by a buffoon upon his own ſtage! And as to mimicry, what is it? Why, a proceeding which he never could countenance; that he even deſpiſed Garrick and Foote, for hav⯑ing introduced ſo mean an art; and he then very politely deſired me to walk down ſtairs. This was truly on the ſecond, not the firſt floor, it be⯑ing more convenient for his communication with the theatre, from that part of his dwelling houſe. I was obliged to march, and really felt petrified with my bright thought, which had turned out ſo contrary from what I had ignorant⯑ly expected. Mr. Sheridan held the candle for me only till I got to the firſt landing, and then haſtily removed it, grumbling and ſqueaking to himſelf, and leaving me to feel my way in the dark, down a pair and a half of ſteep ſtairs▪ and to gueſs my road in hopes of finding the ſtreet door.

Mr. Sheridan's voice was deep, and as oppoſitely ſharp; and I ſhould not have diſliked then to have put in practice what I propoſed, had he given leave; for I was really perfect and ready. To a reader, this may appear inſipid, but any perſon who can well recollect Mr. Sheridan's manner, [189] [...]ould be entertained to hear me in the proper vein relate it, as much depends on that; for there is a great deal in being in ſpirits.

After that fracas he neither permitted me to play; or ſpoke to me during my ſtay in Ireland, [...]ny own night excepted). I fixed on Jane Shore and Tom Thumb, for my play and farce, on the night allotted me, Saturday, February 25, 1 [...]58.

Mr. Chaigneau himſelf waited on Mrs. Fitz⯑henry to requeſt her powerful aſſiſtance in Alicia, to which requeſt ſhe kindly aſſented. Haſt⯑ings, by Mr. Wilkinſon; Shore, by Mr. Dexter;—Jane Shore, by Miſs Philips; Alicia, by Mrs. Fitzhenry; Queen Dollalolla, by Mr. Wilkinſon; H [...]neamunca, by Miſs G. Philips.

At the bottom of the bill, tickets were to be had of Mr. Wilkinſon, at his houſe in Big Strand Street; for be it known, that in three or four weeks after my recovering from my illneſs, when in Abbey-Street, my good cheer, round of friends, and company, occaſioned me to keep very late [...]uts The then Biſhop of Lantaff lodged dur⯑ing the winter, on the floor under mine; the [...] I made on coming home, and the added rumbling when got into my own apartment, with [...]d acting, ſinging, &c. made the Biſhop's lodging very uncomfortable to him. He ſent for [190] the landlord and informed him, my rehearſing in the day, and the greater noiſe I made at night, rendered him ſo uneaſy, that he was under the ne⯑ceſſity of inſiſting on the young actor's inſtantly quitting the lodgings, or he would; for, he really had tried his patience to the utmoſt, and could no longer ſubmit to it. The landlord, per force, waited on his next door neighbours (Mr. and Mrs. Chaigneau) and informed them in full of this unfortunate alledgement of his Grace, and humbly hoped they would not be offended at his not continuing Mr. Wilkinſon as a lodger, as he could not permit it without ſuſtaining the loſs of his good and generous Biſhop. Mr. and Mrs. Chaigneau laughed very heartily at the complaint, agreed in opinion with the landlord, allowed that he and the Biſhop were both right, the latter hav⯑ing juſt cauſe for his ſtated objections. At dinner at my good home, where I actually was the king of the table, Mrs. Chaigneau with an aſſumed anger (a humour peculiar to the Iriſh only)—‘"My God, Tate, I am mighty angry with you; and faith you do not mind me!—I can tell you, [...]illy Chaigneau is angry with you too—Upon my conſcience, I do not think you care whether we are or not? but come my dear Tate, I will not make you uneaſy—we are both joking."’ So after explaining the landlord's viſit, with an ex⯑ [...]aordinary [191] bottle for me and the good Mr. Wil⯑liam Chaigneau; and paſſing a happy afternoon with them and three or four intimates, I concurred [...]n thinking it right to ſettle about my diſgraceful departure from my lodgings and neighbourhood; when Mrs. Chaigneau's bright thought (far ſupe⯑r or to mine with Mr. Sheridan) was, firſt to ſave Tate's money, and next not to inconveni⯑ence themſelves. She ſaid, ‘"If you will not diſcre⯑dit our houſe as you have the Biſhop's, we have one in Big Strand Street, not let this winter; and there is a man and a woman ſervant live in it— [...] is decently furniſhed, and it is kept well aired— [...]ur own houſe which we live in, you know is your eating houſe; we look on you as our ſon—you cannot want any thing but tea for breakfaſt, [...]d ſuch trifles. This is Friday, I will ſend im⯑mediately all neceſſaries, ſuch as ſheets, table linen, &c. &c. and all ſhall be comfortable by to-mor⯑ [...] night: Quit your lodging, and do not by any means fail in leaving a reſpectful card to the Bi⯑ſhop, as I am certain you have been very trouble⯑ſome to him, or he would not have alledged ſuch complaints againſt you; for, he declares he is not angry, but you are a plague to him."’

Theſe orders I obeyed—called at MY HOUSE the ſound of which pleaſed me much) on Satur⯑day noon, and was highly delighted, and told the [192] ſervant pompouſly, I ſhould not be at home till late, as I was engaged to dinner and for the even⯑ing, at Mr. George Hamilton's in Henry Street, with a large party. We dined at five; obſerve reader, that the cuſtom of dining in Dublin was and is much later than in London; very few, if any perſon or perſons in eſtabliſhed trade there, ever dine till three o'clock, but in general at four. I kept my appointment at Mr. Hamilton's, and a happy day and evening I had; I got home about three o'clock in the morning; proud and ſa⯑tisfied was I when conveyed in a chair to my new manſion, where all ſeemed to be conducted with the utmoſt care, and made comfortable for my reception.

A merry day, and plenty of good things, had prepared me for ſleep. The dining-room was ſpacious, the bed-chamber large, the bed excel⯑lent, and I laid myſelf down, expecting a delicious repoſe, to repair the fatigues of luxury: To relate what follows may ſeem ſuperfluous. I need not add, with a mind at eaſe, I ſoon had the bleſſing of a ſound ſleep; which to prince or peaſant is moſt delicious. ‘"Well," ſays techy Impatience, "ſleep and be d—d! What's that to me?"’ Why, my waſpiſh friend, if you in any one point ſmatter of antipathy, here beſtow your pity on me; I aſk it as a charitable boon to my ſufferings, tho' [193] it is poſſible you may laugh at me, and I beg you will make ſome little allowance for what you do not feel; but if you do ſmatter of the like ſenſa⯑tion, I am certain of your bounty. I can be aſtoniſhed how any man, woman, or child, can faint at ſeeing a cat, becauſe a cat I am partial to, and like as a companion; another will faint at the ſmell of cheeſe; a lady will ſhudder at a leg of mutton not being cut to pleaſe her; and a thouſand inſtances might be given of the weakneſs of human nature in ſuch trifling matters: Yet they are in truth terrible to the perſons who labour under the like unhappy prejudices, and too often laughed at by the obſervers, which is cruelty in the extreme: for how can I reconcile to myſelf, in conſcience, the being pleaſed with the terrors of [...] ther on ſeeing a cat, where I feel no uneaſineſs, but, on the contrary, pleaſure? And yet I ſhould be very angry indeed at any one's laughing at my horror, if a rat was near me: Yet ſo compoſed are we all at what does not affect ourſelves, that it is [...] lamentable truth to ſay (and we muſt all be ſenſible) that theſe things are unavoidably ſo.

That theſe unfortunate prejudices ſhould be [...]en [...]ed in their progreſs, is an indiſpenſable duty and leſſon, which, it is true, ought to be inculcated for our own ſakes, and the repoſe of others. That antipathies are dreadful, I think I can warrant, [194] prove, and explain: For a ſword or piſtol at my breaſt I do not think would prove ſo great an alarm to me, as a rat would in my pocket or bed▪ my diſtreſs on ſuch an accidental misfortune would be attended, not only with agonizing ſenſations▪ but, I verily believe, immediate danger.

To prove that fear is the reſult of nature, I will obſerve, that by my living on the banks o [...] the Thames in London for many years, rats were as familiar as kittens to my ſight; nay, more ſo, for where I ſaw one cat I muſt have ſeen twenty rats, at low water, about the logs of wood, lighters, &c. On a fine day they ſwarmed, and towards evening it was their grand rendezvous. My mother had the ſame prejudice. I have heard her mention repeatedly, that when ſhe was near her time with me, one day, when dreſſed to dine out with company, being near the top of the ſtairs, a rat paſſed ſuddenly between her legs, which alarm cauſed her immediately to fall from the top to the bottom; and, inſtead of viſiting, was put to bed extremely ill, and judged to b [...] in imminent danger: Whether that might b [...] the original cauſe to ground theſe fears in me, I cannot decide; but am certain I am ſo.

To return to my houſe in Big-Strand-Street, where I left myſelf faſt aſleep, and thank God▪ that ſleep continued till within an hour of day⯑light; [195] but that hour ſeemed to me the longeſt and moſt painful I had ever experienced, (the fever and bliſters on my ancles not forgot); indeed we generally feel our preſent woes as the worſt. I was waked by a lump falling on my breaſt: My firſt conjecture was, that a thief was in the room, and had placed his hand there. I then thought, by no more moving, it might be a cat; which re⯑f [...]ection was of great comfort and conſolation; and next, like Richard the Third, concluded it was but a dream, and poſſeſſed heroiſm ſufficient to ſtart myſelf up in the bed, and, like our ſtage Harry the Eighth, to cry out Hough! hough!—which act of va⯑lour was no ſooner performed than I was immedi⯑ately ſaluted with the ſqueaking of vermin, and their running up and down the curtains, and over the [...]d, and under the bed. I, diſtilled almoſt to [...]ly with my fears, lay covered over head and ears, not daring to call for aſſiſtance, or feel for t [...]e ſtring of the bell, or even to move a limb.—The rats, I am convinced, muſt have made that [...]oom their conſtant nightly reſidence, not having been uſed, I ſuppoſe, for above twelve months. On my ſuddenly calling out and ſtriking the bed, thoſe devils, by ſuch an unexpected alarm of dan⯑ger, muſt have been almoſt as much terrified for their preſervation as I was for mine: For had they (as I have been told they will) made an at⯑tack, [196] they would ſoon have conquered me, their petrified foe. What reſiſtance immediate danger might have enabled me to perform I know not; but as I feel at this moment on the relation, I am certain the bribe muſt be enormous that could prevail on me to touch a living rat.

When day-light had befriended me, and the gentry had retired to thei [...] ſecret apartments, I found the bell, and couragiouſly rung and called for the ſervants. At laſt a lazy dirty figure made his appearance, to whom I related my woeful tale, but did not find it made any im⯑preſſion, or called forth the falling tear of pity for all my nightly ſufferings; and when the dingy Wowſki (his wife) made her entree, and had heard the particulars from her darling Trudge, they both laughed, and thought it a very good joke; the duſky lady only uttered, ‘"O! faith I wiſh I had been with theſe varmant cratures; by my ſhoul I would have made ſport for them by cutting them pace male."’ However, though it was Sun⯑day, I got the upholſterer, where I had lodged in Abbey-ſtreet, to oblige me with a man to take the bed down, and ſearch even the ticken, to ſee if any rats had taken refuge where a flea might have ſecurity or lodging. I had all the apparatus moved into the dining-room, and a large cat from Mrs. Chaigneau's was ſent to be as a guard. [197] All holes and crannies whatever were ſtopped; and, as a proof of my politeneſs to the [...]nhabitants, I never, even at noon-day, entered that fatal chamber without a previous knocking.

This childiſh ſtory will be condemned by all, [...]xcept ſuch as unfortunately are liable to ſuch un⯑ [...]onquerable averſions;—nor would I here have [...]nſerted it, but from one motive—to engage, as [...]r as poſſible, ſome pity and allowance from thoſe who are ſo happy as not to be liable to ſuch di [...]agreeable ſenſations, however trifling they may [...] thought; for if a dungeon was my lot, my firſt idea would be the rat-holes.

I have frequently heard of a pet cat, but never yet of a pet rat:—I once conquered prejudice ſo [...]ar as to have familiarized myſel [...] to a pet ſquirrel, which certainl [...] bears ſome reſemblance, though it is paying the frolickſome ſquirrel a ſhabby com⯑p [...]ment. A pet m [...]uſe has at times been hap⯑p [...] cheriſhed in a lady's pocket, but never ſo particul [...]rly deſcribed or authenticated for its [...]r [...]en [...]ly and uncommon attachments, as by the [198] renowned General Baron Trenck, in his late Pruſſian Romance, printed within theſe three years, and univerſally read.—So now farewell to rats and mice, and ſuch ſmall deer,—and I hope for ever. Antipathies are as unconquerable as unanſwerable: John Bull loves beef and pudding, the Frenchman ſoup, the Dutchman butter, the Scotchman hag⯑geſs, the Iriſhman potatoes, the Welchman leeks and kid, the Italian macaroni, and a [...]urk (what we find poiſon) laudanum.—It would unavoid⯑ably occaſion inconceivable trouble to invite a gueſt of every tribe and nation to one table, and poſſibly contrive the means to provide a [...]avourite diſh for every ſeparate viſitant's palate; for there are as par⯑ticular and fixed averſions to our eatables as to diffe⯑rent ſpeci [...]s:—I like cheeſe, yet the friend at [...]y el⯑bow perhaps ſtrong in conſtitution, and naturally robuſt and ſpirited) might faint at its being pro⯑duced on the t [...]ble. I can a [...]er that cream ſauce to a turkey, with all my precaution and determi⯑nation, to a certainty ſp [...]i [...]s my dinner:—It is a feaſt that takes away my ſtomach.

As I was lately ſpeaking of my Strand-ſtreet ſ [...]tuation▪ I will proceed with giving information that the approaching 25th of [...]ebruar [...] ſeemed to pro [...]iſe being moſt proſperous, fro [...] the ex [...]rtions of Mr. Chaigneau, Lord Forbes, and my long liſt of more than common friends; my boxes [199] were rapidly taken, and, for want of places in that circle, no leſs than ſeven rows of the pit were ad⯑ded and railed in at box prices, which are the [...]ame as in London; indeed more, as every ſhil⯑ling goes in Ireland as thirteen pence. Mr. Chaigneau paid me forty guineas for tickets: the [...]hole receipt of the houſe (not then ſo large as it w [...]s made by Moſſop after that time) was 154l. [...]d an overflow from every part of the theatre: Gold tickets to a conſiderable amount, not only f [...]om my friends and ſome perſons of diſtinction, but particularly from the gentlemen of the army, over whom Mr. Chaigneau's ſituation as principal agent gave him great ſway, and he paid perſonal [...]ſits eve [...]y where for the purpoſe of ſerving me.

Jane Shore has been already ſtated as the play on this memorable night, but I have omitted the mentioning my own performance at that period: Lord Haſtings, I believe, was not much graced or honoured by my aſſuming his chamberlainſhip, together with his ſtar and garter, which did not receive from me any additional luſtre that could be poſſibly handed down to his ſucceſſors with ho⯑nour. However, I cannot blame my manager for not being well dreſſed; the wardrobe it is true was not equal to equip a number of perſons of faſhion fit to appear at court on a royal birth⯑day: But with the manager's conſent, and Mr. [200] Dexter's approbation, I wore Mr. Dexter's grand ſuit for particular occaſions, which was a new blue ſatin, richly trimmed with ſilver, look⯑ed very elegant, and what was better, fitted me exactly.

Mr. Dexter was the gentleman who appeared at Drury-Lane in 1752 in Oroonoko with more than common expectation of great ſucceſs, and was in 1758 noted as a leading actor in the he⯑roes and fine gentlemen on Smock-Alley ſtage. I muſt ſay in juſtice to myſelf, that I was perfect to the line, if not to the letter, conſequently the play went ſmoothly on, and I obtained applauſe of courſe from ſo numerous a ſet of friends. Mrs. Fitzhenry, in Alicia, gave (as was uſual) great ſa⯑tisfaction, as I did to an extravagant degree when magnificently arrayed for Queen Dollalolla in Tom Thumb, which obtained a continued roar, as I played it as Woffington; and I certainly may be allowed to ſay, the ſteadineſs and earneſtneſs of the imitation was at leaſt equal to any modern profeſſor's attempt.

The rapid ſtep from my late illneſs, extreme po⯑verty, and friendleſs ſituation, had taken ſuch a turn, that with my coach, table-acquaintance, preſents, and great benefit I thought my fortune made, and early in March, with true felt gratitude, not from [201] that day, week, or month, but never effaced to the preſent moment, now including above thirty-two years, I took leave of my good friends, in poſſeſſion of two valuable gifts, health and wealth.—Indeed to the wonderful care of theſe good and undeſcribable perſons can I only attribute my exiſt⯑ence, and alſo my wealth, as from that time, till encumbered with the cares of my preſent unpro⯑miſing and perplexed ſtate, I never knew, in the courſe of ſeveral years, the want of caſh; which ſtate of happineſs my after frequent viſits to Dub⯑ [...]n made me, as a young man, in a kind of inde⯑pendence.

Early in life I envied theatrical monarchy, and like moſt things, when obtained, I ſoon experien⯑ced (like the wiſeſt man) ‘"That all was and is vanity and vexation of ſpirit;"’ and as Gay ſays,

With now 130l. in that pocket, which a very few months before contained only two guineas (and which I then termed a treaſure)—but good God! what a change!—like a ten thouſand pound prize to a cobbler, the contraſt nearly the ſame, [202] only with this difference, the cobbler might have been in health and happy, but I had been ill, very ill, and a poverty-ſtruck youth—I ſailed from Ireland with a fair wind, attended by the waft of numberleſs good wiſhes for my ſafe arrival in Old England.

At Cheſter I met young Mr. Bagnal, (a gentle⯑man of family in Ireland) and as I was become a man of fortune, we travelled poſt, like gentlemen, and arrived ſafe in the metropolis. I felt my [...]elf in ſtep, air, and mind, a very different per [...]on from what I was when I left London.

Soon after my arrival I took leave of Mr. Bag⯑nal, and preſented myſelf with as much duty as pleaſure to my dear mother, as every ſon ſhould and ought to do, and am certain the return was overpaid by her. Her joy, ſurpriſe, and a thou⯑ſand etceteras which may be ſuppoſed; and only affectionate and good mothers can feel ſuch hea⯑venly ſenſations: I do not ſpeak from ſuppoſition, but can aver that though there was, is, and ever will be good parents, yet mine was really ſprung from the tree called the Nonpareil; and I can with truth boaſt I poſſeſſed one truly praiſe-wor⯑thy quality, and that was, being one of the beſt ſons, not from any merit as a duty from myſelf due to my mother, but becauſe I loved and re⯑vered her worth, and converſed with my true [203] friend. And what might be termed coldly that of duty, did not create the ground-work only of my eſteem, for all I did ſprung ſolely from ſelf-love, as making her happy was my inclination, pleaſure, and delight; nor do I mean by theſe proteſtations to convey merit in any extraordinary degree to myſelf, for had ſhe not been a ſenſible and an en⯑dearing mother, I doubt whether my good beha⯑viour had been conſpicuous beyond mediocrity. The giving to her an account of my riches, and my friends in Ireland was a feaſt; and my pro⯑ducing the 130l. bill was a dazzling ſight indeed, though only in black and white letters.

Soon after my arrival I paid a viſit to Mr. Gar⯑rick, who wiſhed me joy, though not in a joy⯑ful manner. I gave him an account of my bene⯑fit, &c. and thanked him for his leave of abſence. The ſecond Saturday after my being in London, as I had ſtaid in Ireland by permiſſion only, I went to the treaſurer's office for my weekly ſti⯑pend of thirty ſhillings, as ſtipulated in my article, but which at that time would only have been twenty ſhillings, as the ſeaſon of Lent was not expired.

On my aſking for my ſalary, Mr. Pritchard, firſt treaſurer, and Mr. Wood, ſub-treaſurer, in⯑formed me, that as they had not received any or⯑ders from Mr. Garrick or Mr. Lacey, they dared [204] not pay me, and I could not, as they apprehended, have any right to it, but would inquire what they were to do when they ſaw either of the ma⯑nagers. I argued my right of payment was un⯑doubtable by my article, but of courſe was obliged to depart as I came, neither richer nor poorer.

A few days after I met Mr. Garrick in Bridge⯑ſtreet, who, on ſeeing me, inſtantly, with upbraid⯑ing and ſevere terms, accoſted me for my being ſo audacious (as he termed it) to call at his office for money. He added, (in a ſupercilious manner) that I had met with a little accidental ſuc⯑ceſs in Ireland, a circumſtance that never could happen again; and he had from motives of cha⯑rity obtained me a retreat to ſecure me from want of bread, and I repaid his kindneſs with impudent aſſurance and ingratitude. This ſudden attack really alarmed me, as I had ſtill formed great hopes for my future ſucceſs on Mr. Garrick's power and friendſhip from what he had ſo often profeſſed, though not yet put into practice. In my defence I urged, (with the aid of truth) that I had only been abſent upon furlow, and by his permiſſion had only continued on the ſame granted authority, not having preſumed to ſtay in Dublin, though a ſevere and dangerous illneſs had intervened; but under the ſanction of that grant, and having an article for that and the fol⯑lowing [205] year, I eſteemed myſelf much obliged to him. But inwardly preſuming on my right of ar⯑ticle, I could not in word, manner, or obedience, in duty to myſelf, give up a point I had ſo far en⯑gaged in with that great monarch, but perſiſted, that on my return to London, and his theatre, I was every way entitled to my ſalary.

He auſterely anſwered, had I returned (as he ex⯑expected I ſhould) in great diſtreſs, his own good⯑neſs and feelings would have allowed me the ſa⯑lary; but as I aſſerted a falſehood, and was not in want, my inſolence deſerved puniſhment, for there was not any ſuch agreement ſubſiſting between us. I, all ſecurity, and full of open conviction againſt him, in the face of day not only aſſer⯑ted my right, but haſtily produced my bond, which was worded thus on the back, ‘"Articles of agreement between David Garrick and James Lacey, Eſquires, and Tate Wilkinſon, Gentleman, for two years, from October 24, 1757."’ Here I concluded myſelf quite ſure, and of courſe felt as elate as any plaintiff on the gaining a verdict in his favour. When after a look of diſdain and a ſneer of ineffable contempt, Mr. Garrick ſaid, ‘"Thou fooliſh pert boy, go home to thy Mamma, ſhe can read though you cannot; [...]ook carefully over the contents of your article and you will there find, that on the inſide it does [206] not commence till September 1758."’ I of courſe had no occaſion to ejaculate, ‘"O upright Judge!"’ but hung down my head and ſneaked home to my mother, when to both our aſtoniſhments it was really and truly as Mr. Garrick had ſaid. This ſhews how careful people ſhould be to read every thing before they ſign; and never to truſt the ſeeming generoſity and good nature of others. The contents of the inſide of this great and mighty article did not take place till the September fol⯑lowing, 1758. How he could think it worth his notice to treat ſo inſignificant an object, as he termed me ſome months before, in ſo mean, ſo art⯑ful, and ſo ungentlemanlike a manner, I from that time to this could never deviſe, unleſs through fear of my talents as an imitator, he held me in a contemptuous light; yet ſtill, ever watchful and careful in regard to himſelf, he might perhaps think me worth retaining for a trifling ſalary, as an exotic for his hot-houſe (for he always uſed to term me his exotic); therefore he choſe to [...]ock me up like a wild beaſt, to prevent my diſtract⯑ing his repoſe or his conſequence. Thus with⯑out ſalary was I obliged to remain, and have re⯑courſe to my philoſophy, and ſit down contented; but being a man of fortune as I then thought my⯑ſelf, I went on a viſit to a new ſpot, the faſhionable city of Bath, to drink the waters, having had an [207] invitation from my friend Mr. Hull. My intima⯑cy with that gentleman and Miſs Morriſon, now Mrs. Hull, was fixed from our firſt acquaintance the ſummer before at Maidſtone; from that time to the preſent, I have ever been favoured with their ſtudy to oblige and ſerve me, which I have never yet had it in my power to return according to my wiſhes. This acknowledgment I offer as a debt of honour; and though not ſubſtantial, my gratitude and good opinion could not let ſlip this opportu⯑nity of paying a tributary compliment, to the me⯑rit of thoſe particular and worthy friends.

My firſt appearance at Bath, was on Monday the 8th of May, 1758, for Miſs Morriſon's bene⯑fit. Othello, Mr. Wilkinſon, from the theatre⯑royal, Dublin; alſo, Mr. Wilkinſon will treat Mr. Foote with a Diſh of his own Tea. I was kindly received, Mr. Quin was at the play; the imita⯑tions were well received; but from my not being known on the ſtage, and not having had the ſanc⯑tion of a London audience, the applauſe was very different from what I had been honoured with in Dublin, and what I afterwards gained at Bath, when I had become more uſed to the ſtage by a variety of playing, and the praiſes and applauſe of London had wreathed my brow with that all powerful phraſe termed the faſhion: ſo prevalent [208] is that word, that even the Siddons and the Jor⯑dan bow to its ſhrine. But a fickle jade is Faſhion; and the firſt actreſs that thinks ſhe is ſecure, will at times find Mrs. Faſhion a ſhallow and inconſtant friend.

I gave Tea for Mr. Hull, on Wedneſday the 10th of May; and acted Eſſex (for the firſt time), with Cadwallader in the farce of the Author, for Miſs Ibbott. In the interim, the families of the Townſends and the Hanways in London, were all well-wiſhers for my mother's and my welfare, and were ever deviſing ways and means to advance and eſtabliſh my future ſucceſs; their tables, when I was in London, were my conſtant welcome places of reſort. While I was figuring away at Bath for my own diverſion from May, without any engage⯑ment, till September following at Drury-Lane, they were deliberating for my real proſperity much more than I could myſelf. The Townſends had at that very juncture Major Strode and his lady, from Portſmouth, at their houſe on a viſit: Major Strode was the firſt in command at the Portſ⯑mouth garriſon; at the ſame time there were a Mrs. Arnold and Miſs Arnolds her daughters, from Portſmouth, alſo on a viſit in London; they were diſtant relations to the Hanways. My mother who was a frequent and a welcome viſitor, and in⯑deed a deſirable gueſt, being at dinner at the [209] Townſends on a grand gala day, and where the above ladies and gentlemen were preſent, the good old lady Mrs. Townſend, with her genuine marks of benevolence and kindneſs, deſired a glaſs round to the health of her young friend and pupil for prayers, Tate Wilkinſon, which was of courſe immediately aſſented to, and complied with ac⯑cording to her wiſh. This gave my truly good mother an opportunity to inform the worthy cir⯑cle, that after all the afflictions and misfortunes that had unremittingly purſued her through life, ſhe was, ſhe thanked the great Being, bleſſed with a ſon who made it his ſtudy to ſupport her and to beſtow every aſſiſtance in his power to render her latter days comfortable and eaſy. They all agreed that being ſo good a ſon as my mother had deſcribed, I deſerved every praiſe and every encouragement.—Mr. Jonas Hanway confirmed what my mother had related, and they all joined in wiſhes for my ſucceſs, and a continuance of re⯑gard and duty being paid to her allowed worth. After a ſhort ſilence, Mrs. Strode broke out in the following exclamation—‘"Good God! Mr. Hanway, a thought ſtrikes me ſwift as lightning, whereby we can with pleaſure and eaſe to our⯑ſelves be of infinite ſervice to Tate"’—My mother of courſe bowed and gave eager attention, as did e [...]ery one at the hoſpitable table. Mrs. Strode [210] proceeded with obſerving, it was then a time of war between France and England, May 1758, and we have at Portſmouth, added ſhe, a glorious fleet for the honour of Old England and the terror of France, in conſequence of which ou [...] little garriſon town is full of ſoldiers and ſailors, and all with plenty of money in their pockets, which they cannot bear the thoughts of keeping there—as ſailors in particular are never careful for the morrow;—we have every year at Portſ⯑mouth a company of players, who travel alſo to Plymouth and Exeter: A Mr. Kennedy, an el⯑derly man, is the manager of the company, and he always makes Portſmouth his ſummer place of reſidence; the Major, herſelf, and family, ſhould return there in a few days, and when arrived at home would ſend for the manager, and then make a point of her friend and old acquaintance Mrs. Wilkinſon's ſon being engaged for the ſummer ſeaſon; ſhe alſo added, her houſe ſhould be my ordinary, and from her intimacy with Mrs. Wil⯑kinſon and her friend Mrs. Townſend, ſhe would introduce Tate to all her acquaintance; and f [...]at⯑tered herſelf ſhe could anſwer that his jaunt to Portſmouth, by her contrivance and management, ſhould be profitable and pleaſant, with every rea⯑ſon for his ſatisfaction, and none to occaſion regret. The party aſſembled added every aſſurance of pa⯑tronage [211] and ſupport to the theatre, and had no ap⯑prehenſions, that my friends and merit could do ſo well as in Dublin, but they ſhould prove a ſample at Portſmouth, in a comparative view, likewiſe to b [...]aſt of. This was no ſooner ſaid than done by Mrs. Strode.

All theſe wonderful and agreeable particulars it may be ſuppoſed were by the next poſt tranſ⯑mitted to me at Bath, with all the joy and heart⯑felt ſatisfaction and partiality of a fond mother. I returned on the wing to her in London, and got equipped with what I thought neceſſary for a [...]ung gentleman, not omitting a laced ſuit of [...]thes, which in thoſe days were all the faſhion, and a rich gold laced Kevenhuller hat; and waited with impatience for my return of the Portſmouth l [...]ttery ticket, which proved no blank but a prize: for Mrs. Strode and the Arnolds finiſhed the bu⯑ſineſs they had undertaken; not like that of the law's delay, for on their arrival at home, it was no ſooner mentioned than accompliſhed; as when the theatrical troop arrived, the manager was ſum⯑moned to attend them, and he was commanded, n [...]t intreated, under peril of their authority and the ſevere law in force, to comply with Mrs. Strode's mandate: for that company of players did not want or approve of interlopers, either to act the characters they poſſeſſed, or to give any [212] encouragement to ſtrangers; fearing, if they did grant permiſſion, they might lead the inclination or the town into temptation, and create an appetite for the London actors during their vacation: for many London performers at ſuch a critical time, would not have diſliked ſuch a pleaſant trip (it be⯑ing only ſeventy-two miles from the great city) for health and profit—and they would have been re⯑freſhed with delightful ſea breezes; and the Lon⯑doners, once admitted, would have diminiſhed the fame as well as the profit of the Devonſhire and and Hampſhire candidates of the ſock and buſkin, who baſked in the ſunſhine of wealth at Plymouth and Portſmouth during the glorious war, ſo called by the poor players, like Mr. Cumberland's Jew, who ſays, ‘"The plague is a bleſſed circumſtance;"’ and both for the ſame motive—ſelf-intereſt. It was agreed, I was to have a ſhare (as there was no diſtinction of emolument from Romeo to the Apo⯑thecary, all received an equal portion), likewiſe a clear benefit whenever I choſe to appoint; and was to act from Friday the 9th of June, 1758, until Auguſt the 14th, as often as called upon by the manager. My being repreſented to him as a gen⯑tleman whom a large party of people of faſhion were determined to ſupport, and not being ſuf⯑ficiently eſtabliſhed as a performer to cauſe any grounds for jealouſy in point of fame, prevented [213] any oppoſition from the company to hinder the manager's compliance with the offer propoſed for the noviciate; therefore as it conveyed an idea of aiding their intereſts, and a refuſal would have occaſioned much diſpleaſure, the preliminaries were agreed to; and Mrs. Strode wrote to Mr. Jonas Hanway an account of her ſucceſs, and ſummoned me immediately to Portſmouth. I re⯑ceived a letter of invitation couched in genteel terms from the manager; and on this expected and wiſhed-for intelligence, I ſet off with eager cu⯑rioſity for the new ſcene of pleaſure; and what ren⯑dered it more enchanting to my youthful mind, was a corrobroation of ſuch happy events ſudden⯑ [...] ſpringing up and ſnatching me from the brink of hopeleſs poverty and deſpair, and all within the [...]pace of ſeven months; and, as in a dream or en⯑chantment, was known and engaged in not only a polite circle of acquaintance, but welcomed and [...]eceived with ſuch flattering aſpect from every be⯑nign and friendly countenance, that a ſtranger to have entered the room would really have ſuppoſed I had been a perſon of conſequence in an enviable [...]rcle. Happy, happy minds, that ſhed ſuch ſun⯑ [...]hine and genial rays on the ſons and daughters of affliction! And as happy are thoſe young ladies and gentlemen who are favoured with ſuch rays from ſuperiors as to make them obſervant of not [214] only manners, but of what is really good. Youth of both ſexes, when treated ſo kindly, are too apt to attribute it as a compliment to their own ſelf ſuperiority, inſtead of truly feeling where the gra⯑titude is juſtly due. Indeed I have ſeen ſo much of ſupercilious behaviour on granting a favour, and ſo many inſtances of affectation and ſelf-ſuffi⯑ciency on receiving, that I truly think and believe it would have been a difficult matter for one poſ⯑ſeſſed of real genius to diſtinguiſh on which ſide lay the greateſt abſurdity.

I arrived ſafe at the garriſon, but not without inquiries at each gate and drawbridge for my name, and what was my buſineſs, as the road from Hillſey Barracks to Portſmouth, is a conti⯑nued chain of drawbridges, &c. I had not been houſed three hours in this well guarded town, when a Capt. Chambers, brother to Sir Charles Chambers, an old friend and intimate of my father's, and well acquainted with Captain James Jones (formerly mentioned), of the Foot-Guards, and a Captain Scott of Cheſter, with three or four other officers, came, not only to wel⯑come me, but Capt. Chambers, as my late father's friend, in the name of all his brother officers, gave me an invitation to conſtantly dine and ſup with them at their meſs: I of courſe accepted of it, and made a decent acknowledgment for the fa⯑vour [215] conferred; but my heart felt much more man my tongue could expreſs. In ſhort, from the introduction of the Strodes, the Arnolds, and the officers, (my father having been univerſally known, and I may add, beloved by the gentle⯑men of the army), I had ſuch a general acquaint⯑ance, that there actually were few houſes in Portſ⯑mouth but where I was received on the ſame foot⯑ing as when in Dublin; and from my univerſal intimacy, the ſtreets ſeemed to become a part of my own fancied property.

On Friday, June the 9th, I appeared in Othello, which part I had founded, as Mr. Hitchcock ob⯑ſerves in his hiſtory of the Iriſh Stage, on the manner, &c. I had obſerved and caught from Mr. Barry; and alſo gave Tea. The theatre was crowded to a degree; and had my perform⯑ance, been bad inſtead of tolerable, it would have been attended with applauſe (the Tea of courſe was received with much approbation): but I was fond of undertaking too much at one time, either to ſerve my reputation as an actor, or to the preſervation of my health as a man, for my conſtitution was never one of the ſtrongeſt, being racked at times from my youth to this day with a dreadful bilious complaint; and an irre⯑gular life has encouraged that enemy every week to convince me of its pitileſs power, which [216] puſhes my feeble ſteps downward, before my time, from the pinnacle of fifty. I muſt re⯑mark, that as my reception was ſecure from my friends being preſent, I ſhould have conſulted my own eaſe, and have had patience to have ſtudied better for my own advantage, by giving more ſatis⯑faction to the audience and leſs trouble to my⯑ſelf; but young performers have an idea of ſtrik⯑ing the obſervers with their various powers, which is a wrong and dangerous experiment. For in⯑ſtance, it would have been more prudent for me to have acted Othello only, as a teſt of my abilities, and reſerved my Tea to another night, for the re⯑freſhment of my acquaintance.

When I look over and recollect ſome of the nights-work I have gone through on the ſtage, to my infinite fatigue, it is wonderful I am exiſting to relate the particulars; the ſtudy, the labour, and the bad hours I have ever kept conſidered. Indeed at this inſtant I feel my ſtomach painful, which makes the obſervation occur, that perhaps could I provide a better leg in exchange for my broken one, I ſhould not be ſurpriſed, if in high ſpirits the following week, I was to laugh at my own reflections and gravity: So true is Lord Che⯑ſterfield's remarks on our courage and our fears, with every other ſenſation according to our habit of health, cuſtom, and exerciſe. From the ſame [217] [...]ought I imagine, ariſes the ſaying aſcribed by our ſoldiers of the Americans, ‘"They did not [...]l bold on ſuch a day."’ However from my [...]rſt ſtage ſucceſs, I certainly was bit by a theatri⯑cal tarantula, for my appetite for acting was inſa⯑ [...]ble. Illneſs (unleſs verv ſevere) never was a reſtraint; for if able to crawl out of bed, I have [...]ten gone to the theatre much diſordered, and if m [...] performance has been received with applauſe, [...]ave returned home recovered and perfe [...]tly well: On the contrary, I do not know a more mortify⯑ing or diſagreeable ſituation, than to act to a poor [...] indiſpoſed in health, and to be only in⯑ [...]fferently received; yet theſe unpleaſing circum⯑ [...]tances have happened to every performer, from the [...]i [...]heſt to loweſt at particular times—it is the un⯑a [...]idable lot of human li [...]e in all its ſtages. If an a [...]t [...]r or actreſs be really [...]l thoſe who are well [...]uld lend every aſſiſtance in their power on ſuch a [...] emergency to ſerve the royal till, and pre [...]erve the audience in temper. Not any thing ſours a con [...]regated aſſemblage of perſons ſo much as fre⯑c [...]e [...]t apologies; nay, the manager is often blamed [...]m the pettiſhneſs of the audience, becauſe the [...]erf [...]rmer is ſick; and I am ſorry to ſay▪ I be [...]ieve [...] on ſuch ſudden diſappointments, is of⯑ [...] ref [...]ed, not ſo much from ill nature in the diſ⯑p [...]ſit [...]n of the actor or actre [...]s, as fear in the [218] player, of not being well received by the perſons aſſembled together; and beſides yielding to a falſe pride and fancied ſelf-importance in the one ſo fixed on, to ſupply the place of the ſick performer, which indeed might often be prevented if the au⯑dience would good naturedly ſupport the actor or actreſs, who in ſuch a predicament undertakes the part, however inferior his or her ſituation may be in a theatre; and they may by ſuch kind aſſiſtance draw forth ſparks of future greatneſs, which may have been obſcured by not having had an oppor⯑tunity of diſplaying them, and of receiving the ſanction of the public.

But let me, crab-like, get back to Portſmouth, from which place I had not any right to have ſtrayed. But I fancy myſelf in theſe remarks and incidents as if I was ſpeaking to ſome particular friend, and if I cannot obtain great lenity, pray, in compaſſion to yourſelf, good reader, as well as to me, cloſe and drop the book; for I neither poſſeſs wit or talents, nor profeſs any ſuch gifts as to fur⯑niſh me with hopes of entertaining any one as a writer; indeed I never had an idea, or at⯑tempted any thing of the kind. So I ſtand like Hope, wiſhing patience to be granted to every reader, ſprinkled with a few grains of good hu⯑mour. If any one aſk, Why I now take this li⯑berty? I will honeſtly and frankly own, that con⯑finement [219] occaſioned by a broken limb, has made the year very tedious, weariſome, and heavy; there⯑fore I ſit and recall paſt joys and misfortunes to mv mind, and as I know they are various, I think they may pleaſe both friends and enemies for any hour that may hang heavy on their hands; and though time is allowed as precious, yet the wiſe people ſometimes throw an hour away, not to be bought back again at any price. Next, I value myſelf on the authenticity of what I relate and p [...]edge my truth and honour, for the whole be⯑ing a recitation of ſtrict matters of fact only. Mrs. Bellamy averred the ſame, but ſhe took ſuch pains to be untrue in her accounts, that it could not be the effect of a bad memory, as ſhe hints; but, on the contrary, labour and ſtudy to dreſs things ſo widely different from what they really were. I would have ſet her right then, and ſhe mentions it in her ſixth volume; but ſhe there acknowledges ſhe is a bad chronologiſt.

From what I have mentioned of my Portſmouth viſit, it may be eaſily conjectured I was naturally not a little vain of my pleaſant ſituation. I played an extenſive liſt of characters, and it would ſeem incredible if not accounted for by my long regu⯑ [...]ar ſtudy and practice as a lad, when mock-mana⯑ [...]r. Some I acted with merit, and can truly ſay, all with applauſe; ſuch is the happineſs of [220] being ſecure of the good will of ſuperiors, and obtaining a general kind opinion. Nay, am cer⯑tain at that time, my youth and inexperience gained me ſuch a partia [...]ity from the families I was intimately acquainted with, that they really fancied, as I was a favourite among them, that I was clever, where indeed I was not, and when glaringly wrong or imperfect, would readily frame an excuſe for me, even againſt my own convic⯑tion of error.

During my reſidence here, I wiſhed for a nearer view of the Iſle of Wight; for it had a [221] tempting and beautiful effect from Portſmouth ramparts. The Bath company were there at that time, with them I had nearly engaged my⯑ſelf on the late trip to Bath, had not Mrs. Strode's lucky thought intervened, and put a ſtop to the buſineſs, and a fortunate preventative it wa [...]. That, and another eſcape of the ſame kind ſome years after, makes it always recur to my mind as the peculiar care of Providence. Indeed the Portſmouth engagement was a lucky golden drop of Madam Fortune's in every reſpect.

The Bath comedians were induced to the Iſle of Wight by the ſelf ſame bait, that at one time or the other ſeduces all mankind, that is the love of lucre; and which great miniſters, as well as great players ever have in view. The Bath com⯑pany hearing from the clatter and the din of arms throughout the kingdom, that an encampment of conſequence was to be eſtabliſhed for the ſummer, and the ladies of that theatre, ſhort legged and thick legged, having a prediliction in favour of the knapſack, all voted to pack up their tatters and follow the drum to the Iſle of Wight. Nor are theatrical ladies ſingular in that particular; indeed there needs no ghoſt to inform the world that females of all degrees, to uſe a common ex⯑preſſion, ſet their caps at a red coat.

Their theatrical Bath majeſties therefore ordered [222] a baggage waggon, well loaded with armour, foils, truncheons, ſpears, daggers, and all the implements of war were carefully packed up in caſe of danger, to repel the French in their flat-bottomed boats, as well as to prove to the regiments, how ably the female warriors were prepared to face the ene⯑my. The waggon was intruſted not only with all the theatrical wardrobe, but with all their own private geer, and that ſeriouſly ſpeaking was a property of real value, conſiſting of linen, clothes, jewels, regalia, &c. to repreſent kings and queens of France and England, Spain, Portugal, &c. alſo emperours and empreſſes, that never were or ever will be; all theſe treaſures and neceſſaries were ſafely ſtowed, not forgetting the bones ap⯑pertaining to Hamlet, Caliſta, &c. Their all was intruſted to the protection of a rude booriſh Wiltſhire waggoner, thunder and lightning not omitted, but left to the care of the ſtage-keeper, who undertook, and ſaid, ‘"He was perfectly competent from conſtant practice, to conduct and guide ſuch troubleſome and dangerous elements."’

Thunder and lightning, attended by a wonderful eclipſe, ſeldom pleaſes even on the ſtage, except in the Duke of Buckingham's Rehearſal, where it always raiſes a laugh inſtead of a ſtorm. But lo! the whole was deſtroyed by f [...]re the firſt night of the waggon's journey on Saliſbury plain; this is [223] not more ſtrange than true, Mr. Keaſberry, now manager of the Bath theatre, can teſtify the fact. It was not occaſioned by the elements above, nor yet by the ſtage thunder and lightning, but by the waggoner's inattention, and not endeavouring to ſave any part of the goods, when the machine had taken fire; and conſequently as no water or any aſſiſtance was to be had, all the property, to a conſiderable amount, was conſumed.

The diſtreſſed and harraſſed troops muſtered at Newport, where Queen Ibbot verified her favourite Shakſpeare's words—

They prepared as well as they poſſibly could to open their ſmall theatre, in the little town of New⯑port; for, then the players argument was too mournful to admit much talk.

There were four or five regiments, if not more, encamped there; the gentlemen of the army are in general theatrical and generous, and theſe qua⯑lities never were more neceſſary than after that un⯑ [...]ortunate fire. The gentlemen expreſſed an uni⯑verſal deſire to make a compenſation for their diſtreſs, and indeed it might be reckoned incum⯑bent on them ſo to have promiſed and acted, as due to a debt of honour, to make good their loſſes, [224] which happened in conſequence of their deſire to give theſe gentlemen enterta [...]nment, who were ſo cooped up from their uſual round of diverſions; and certainly ſo eſtabliſhed a company as thoſe of the Bath theatre, to undertake ſo hazardous and ſo long a journey, had a right to expect ſupport and reſpect. I went to pay my devoirs to them, by taking a boat with only one man to row me acroſs the arm of the ſea which ſeperates Hampſhire from that charming romantic ſpot, the Iſle of Wight. The afternoon was fine and ſerene; I ſtayed with them two days, and was highly ſatisfied with its rural beauties, but on my return the ſea ran very high, and the wind blew a hurricane, which alarmed me ſo much, that I was really rejoiced when I got into [...]ortſmouth; and was greatly ſur⯑priſed when ſeveral gentlemen of the navy told me, it was a very dangerous expedition, and what not [...]ne of them would have attempted, except on neceſſity and duty, but not on any means by way of a frolick.

‘"As one woe treads upon another's heels,"’ as Shakſpeare obſerves, ſo did another misfortune happen to my good friends Mr. Keaſberry and Mr. Griffith; for they had ſcarcely got their neceſſary repairs after the dreadful conflagration, when as Mrs. Inchbald's epilogue expreſſes, ‘"Down came an order to ſuſpend the ball;"’ or in plain Engliſh, [225] they had been there but a very ſhort time, when orders came for the whole camp to break up and march for Cowes, and immediately embark on bo [...]rd the ſhipping prepared for them at St. Helens, and ſail on a ſecret expedition againſt the French; and as the town of Newport could not without the aſſiſtance of the army, provide [...]or, or by any means ſupport the Bath company; ſo the players packed up their little all and ſailed for [...]outhamp⯑ton, and from thence repaired to Reading in Berkſhire, where they continued till the ſeaſon for the u [...]ual opening of the [...]ath theatre.

My benefit at Portſmouth, was [...]n Monday the 24th of July, the [...]rovoked Huſband, with Tea, and the part of Cadwallader; not [...]ing under full pri [...]e, and by deſire the gallery and pit all made one price. A great houſe was of courſe expected. Indeed that ſeaſon, I do not remember there was a bad one; tnerefore no need of the traveller's ta⯑lent to make it a wonder, that mine was a great one.

But will not the reader ſtare at ſuch a piece of uncommon luck to happen, and to come on a ſudden burſt? for the command of the army was conducted ſo well, and ſo ſecretly, that we had not a notion or even a whiſper of the kind of any ſuch expectations on the Wedneſday; [226] but on the Friday and Saturday the town was crowded with officers, &c.—This occaſioned a great houſe on the Saturday July 22, not an uſual night of playing; and on Sunday his Royal High⯑neſs the Duke of York arrived, and honoured me with his company at the play on the Monday, where he favoured me with much notice; and, as the ſaying is, the whole world was there, all at Wilkinſon's benefit. Whoever remembers that expedition planned againſt Cherbourgh will know this account tallies to the day and the hour. The theatre and ſtage were ſo crowded, that it was difficult to perform. Part of the regiment of his Majeſty's guards, with naval officers, and thoſe of ſeveral regiments, and ſtrangers innumer⯑able, with the marines, &c. all combined could eaſily have filled a London theatre.

The magnificent and powerful fleet, added to every other brilliancy, made the whole a glo⯑rious ſight; not that any ſhip pleaſed me more, however gaudily dreſſed at Spithead, than our theatrical frigate, ſo nobly adorned on my be⯑nefit night; and to mark my ſingular good luck, in three days they were all embarked; the wind was fair, and away they ſailed, for the glory of Old England.

My Tea the night of my benefit was of great [227] ſervice not only there but was remembered and related as a matter of merit in the little village called London.

Colonel Caeſar, of the guards (Mrs. Woffing⯑ton's defender and protector) was at the play, and ſaw and felt the force of my imitation of that lady.

I was introduced to ſeveral gentlemen, with whom afterwards I was very intimate.—It was at that time my acquaintance firſt commenced with the late General St. Leger, which continued till the year of his death; he honoured me with being my particularly attached and intimate friend, as all my Yorkſhire acquaintance can teſtify. The laſt dinner he had at his own houſe at Park-Hill, I was with him by particular invitation, as alſo Capt. Smelt, who accompanied him to Dublin, where death ſnatched away my friend and patron. With the truly accompliſhed nephew of General St. Leger an intimacy I cannot boaſt, but can ex⯑ultingly mention the honour of many favours and acts of kindneſs—not paid to my own deſerts, but by a compliment which originated from his cer⯑tain knowledge that his uncle, the late General St. Leger, was not only my patron, but honoured me with his friendſhip.—One of the bleſſings I long for (during my ſhort remainder of life) is, that I may ſee that gentleman ſituated in rank [228] and affluence equal to the Prince's friend, and his own moſt ſanguine expectations, accompanied with many years to enjoy that proſperity with health, ſpirits, and increaſing happineſs; let my ſituation be what it will, I ſhall always rejoice at never- [...]ading la [...]rels circling the brows of Co⯑lonel St. Leger.

Colonel Thornton, of the Yorkſhire Blues, was alſo on the Cherbourg expedition, and wit [...] whom I could boaſt the honour of continued friendſhip in London, till I loſt him as I did my General, for death ſweeps all. Colonel Thornton was one of the moſt lively tavern friends I ever knew.

After the combined circumſtances of luck at Portſmouth I returned with a full pocket, all elated, to London, not having in the leaſt a con⯑temptible opinion of my own abilities. Succeſs makes people vain, and in truth, without a touch of vanity, ‘"little worthy would be re [...]olved or done."’

Without a ſpice of this ſaid vanity performers would not have courage to ſuſtain the ſhock and proceed—For at the beſt the ſtage has its bitters mingled with its ſweets, which cannot be known till taſted and experienced, for ſurely no other pro⯑feſſion can be ſo fi [...]kle and precarious: Indeed I know of no compariſon compatible, but a [229] ſimilitude to the moſt ſplendid ſituation in this world, which is the court: For notwithſtanding the jump of difference and the ſeeming imperti⯑nence of the aſſertion, it is certain that the ins and outs of courts, with many etceteras, leave no doubt of the reſemblance being ſtriking, ſtrong, and appoſite.

My time in London, till the houſe opened in September 1758, being only three weeks, was very pleaſant, and I was [...]hiefly employed in re⯑lating my Portſmouth adventures, with a deſcrip⯑tion of guns and drums, and the wonders I had ſeen performed by the army and navy: I had all the great names as familiar in my mouth as houſe⯑hold words. When by reflection my conceit was a little cooled, I waited on my maſter Garrick once more, in a frock trimmed with gold-lace, which made him dart his eyes through my weak brain. My firſt words after my ſalutation were, ‘"Sir, what am I to make my firſt appearance in, and when?"’—for now I was not ſo timid and afraid of this lord of lords and ruler of princes, as I was the year before when I acted as his groom, and rode his hobby-horſe. He was on this eaſy que⯑ſtion ſo full of hum—s and ha—s, and hey, why, now, y s, they, now really I think—that find⯑ing nothing could come from nothing, I very ſoon obliged him by retiring, as I was certain he wiſh⯑ed [230] my abſence: and having pleaſed my youthful vanity, by not having preſented myſelf before him in ſuch poverty▪ſtruck habilaments as I formerly had done, I may be allowed at that time to pro⯑nounce my conduct excuſeable, as it was boyiſh, for I was not nineteen till the 7th of November following.—Indeed he told me that day, as he often had done, that he hated exotics, and I was one:—But in a few days he ſent me Prince Vol⯑ſcius in the Rehearſal, which I reliſhed very well, as I thought the run of the verſe and the ſitua⯑tion would fit in a ſtriking manner for me to ex⯑hibit a likeneſs of Barry, and that I could make it have a ſudden and entertaining effect on the au⯑dience; but Garrick certainly was in hopes I would return it, as not thinking it of conſequence, and afford him an opportunity for anger, which would have kept me at a diſtance, and prevented my daring to be troubleſome.

On the morning the play of the Rehearſal was called, I was convinced the above conjecture of mine was right. ‘"Why, hey, now Wilkinſon," ſays Garrick—"Hey, now, what, hey—a—I think now that you—Why, Croſs—now, now, here, you, you, have ſent this part now to this lad; I muſt not truſt him with this▪ Volſcius; you know I muſt have ſome ſteady perſon to de⯑pend on—Packer, now, hey, Packer—for if [231] Wilkinſon does it he will be at ſome of his d—d tricks and be taking off, or ſome d—d thing or ano⯑ther—Do, Croſs, take the part back from Wilkin⯑ſon, and I will think of ſomething elſe for him."’

Volſcius was of courſe taken from me, and I retired amidſt the ſneers and laughter of his Ma⯑jeſty's company of comedians, with Garrick ſay⯑ing to them all, ‘"Did you ever now ſee ſuch a d—d exotic? he would have deſtroyed my whole play of the Rehearſal and be d—d to him."’—Here my greatneſs received a ſtab, tho' not deſervedly, as it muſt be granted my ambition had not been inſolent when contented with Prince Volſcius for a firſt appearance as Mr. Somebody on a London ſtage; and what a falling off was it to have ſuch contempt thrown upon the Portſ⯑mouth Roſcius!—Indeed I was not ordered to wait in plays as in the preceding ſeaſon, but was quite unemployed, yet I received my weekly ſtipend of thirty ſhillings regularly.

Early in October I met Lord Robert Manners, who was croſſing James-ſtreet, Covent Garden, and whom I had forgot to mention as one of our party at Park-Gate and Holyhead on my journey the year before to Ireland. In Dublin he was very kind to me, and whenever we met, in the park or in the ſtreet, he always ſtopped or walked with me for eight or ten minutes chat.

[232] When I ſolicited Lord Harcourt, ſome few years ago, to intercede with his Majeſty for a re⯑newal of my York and Hull patents, I was high⯑ly favoured by my fellow traveller, Lord Robert Manners, for the permiſſion he gave me of his name to Lord Harcourt: He ſaw me twice in his [...]itting-room below ſtairs in Groſvenor-ſquare; he declared he could chat, but he could not write; he was a picture of reverence and decay, for he had dignity to the laſt, but death ſeemed entirely to have full and faſt hold; he aſſured me he ſaw no viſitors, therefore this permiſſion was the more kind; he complained of excruciating agony, and in a very ſhort time after, that worthy, friendly, brave ſ [...]ldier, and nobleman departed this life.

On Lord Robert Manners ſtopping to ſpeak to me in James-ſtreet, after one of our uſual chats, he wiſhed my ſucceſs in London might equal that of Dublin, and we parted; but he had no ſoon [...]r left me than, as I was purſuing my walk, a ſtrong voice iſſued from a [...]ining-room window with great vehemence, calling out—‘"Wilkinſon! Wilkinſon! Wilkinſon!'’—I looked round, and ſoon ſpied my Maſter Foote, as he was termed.—His having treated me ſo very inhu⯑manly during my illneſs in Ireland, and not ha⯑ving heard he was then engaged at Drury Lane, had determined me, from the time he quitted [233] Dublin, never to trouble myſelf as to any future intimacy or acquaintance with him; but life's chapter of accidents is ſo various, and hangs by ſuch nice threads, that there is no directing, being directed, or adviſed for the beſt. It would cer⯑tainly have appeared very rude not to have com⯑plied with ſo ſmiling and earneſt a ſummons, and after ten minutes converſation all my ſlights and wrongs were forgot and forgiven; and ſure if ever one perſon poſſeſſed the talents of pleaſing more than another, Mr. Foote was certainly the man. I can aver in all my obſervations that I never met with his equal. Mr. Garrick, whom I have dined and ſupped with, was far inferior to him in wit or repartee, as indeed were perſons of rank and degree; for Nature beſtows not all her graces on the great or the opulent. Mr. Foote was not confined to any particular topic; he was equal in all; religion, law, politics, manners of this or any age, and the ſtage of courſe. Indeed a poliſhed ſtranger would find it rare to meet with ſo many agreeable qualities for the conviviality of any company ſo combined as in a ſociety with Mr. Foote. This is not the tribute of flattery to his memory, but a piece of juſtice my own impartia⯑lity demands; for it would be deſpicable indeed to point out his foibles, and not be ready to at⯑teſt his good qualities. As a wit he is too well [234] remembered, and far beyond my abilities to de⯑ſcribe. As a blemiſh to his entertaining and im⯑proving qualities I muſt, as a relater of truth re⯑mark, that all theſe ſhining talents did not dazzle or anſwer the eager expectation, unleſs he him⯑ſelf was the ſole object of every directed eye; for if a man of genius (I will ſuppoſe a Murphy or a Henderſon) had ſlipt in a good ſtory, or had given any entertaining information, and thereby gained the approbation and merit of the flowing ſouls, Foote not only immediately felt leſſened, but could not eaſily recover his chagrin and jealouſy; and the inſtant the gueſt had taken his leave and departed, he could not help expreſſing himſelf with great contempt, and aſking the perſon or perſons re⯑maining if they had ever heard ſuch d—d non⯑ſence as that man had been uttering? and added expreſſions of wonder why the hounds at table ſhould be entertained with ſuch abſurdity. But, indeed, to give the juſt picture, I muſt add, as a true hiſtorian—had the company left him in the beſt humour, thoſe very ſpirits were only reſerved for the expoſure of each perſon's failure or parti⯑cular manner, and which moſt people, more or leſs, have, as a certain appendage tagged to human nature: nor did that happen in a leſs but even in a ſtronger degree to himſelf; for his own peculi⯑arities were more extravagant than any perſon's [235] whoſe gait, or geſture, or hiſtory he might chooſe to record or divert himſelf with; and if not given immediate credit for what he aſſerted againſt the abſentee, he would vigorouſly fly to his happy reſerve of never-failing fiction, which was veiled under ſuch an appearance of truth, aided by wi [...], humour, and great vivacity, that he generally made converts, who, from irreſiſtible impulſe, obeyed his laughing mandates. It was policy to defer, as long as poſſible, quitting the room where he was monarch, as it was certain, the inſtant of any one's exit, without loſs of time, to be ſerved up, raw or roaſted, to the next comer, and that without mercy, although the perſon had on the hour of his adieu conferred on Mr. Foote an obligation of the utmoſt neceſſary ſervice: This idea cannot be better exemplified than by Mr. Murphy in his excellent and entertaining comedy of Know your own Mind.—The ſpeech runs thus:

My trait of Mr. Foote is true; and I think I may aſſert, when Mr. Murphy wrote that line, he wrote it as if Foote had at that inſtant been at his elbow.

Mr. Foote poſſeſſed, with all theſe foibles, mingled excellencies, generoſity, and humanity; but vaſt [236] oſtentation was annexed to them. His table was open— [...]e loved company at that table, and if they pronounced his wine had a ſuperior flavour, you could not have drank too much, or could he him⯑ſelf [...]ave been gratified till he had produced his cla [...]t of the beſt vintage.

[...]ow Garrick was always on a fidget, eager for [...] [...]tion and adulation, and when he thought [...] free and adored, woul [...] prattle ſuch ſtuff [...]s [...]ould diſgrace a child of eight years old in converſation with its admiring and doting grand⯑mamma. His heſitation and never giving a direct anſwer, aroſe from two cauſe [...]—affe [...]tation, and a fear of being led into promiſes which he never meant to perform; and therefore ‘"By—nay—why—now if you will not—why I cannot ſay but I may ſettle that matter, and as I ſhall ſee you on Tue [...]day, why then—Hev! you know that—But Mrs. Garrick is waiting—and you now—I ſay n [...]w—hey—now Tueſday You will remem⯑ber [...]ueſ [...]ay?"’—As to money he ſeldom w [...]en walking the ſtreets had any, therefore could only lament his inability to give to a diſtreſſed ſupplicant; but if greatly touched—‘"Why Holland," or any other perſon that was with him, "Cannot you now advance half-a-crown, and be d—d to you?"’ which if Holland did, was a very good joke, and for fear of ſpoiling the jeſt, he never paid Holland [237] again. As to his vulgar vein of humour, which really deſerves no other epithet, when I was to per⯑form the part of Bajazet, I ſhall in time and place take the liberty to relate one ſtrong proof, though I confeſs I think it too groſs to mention, and therefore it requires an apology, and if it falls in⯑to a fair lady's hand, I give a long warning, no leſs than twelve months, and requeſt ſhe will take Sir Clement Flint's advice in the Heireſs, and ſkip over the leaf. I would wiſh to avoid mean⯑neſs, abuſe, or falſehood, and give an exact and candid trait of Mr. Garrick and Mr. Foote, with their ſhades; but by no means to obſcure their lights and good qualities, and hope I ſhall prove my words on the examination of the ſum total, and that my readers will ſay, my accounts are gi⯑ven in like a juſt ſteward, and with thoſe gentle⯑men and myſelf, the reckoning ſhall be fairly ba⯑lanced.

I muſt beg pardon, for having left Mr. Foote ſo long a time waiting in his dining-room in James-ſtreet; he eagerly repeated his aſtoniſh⯑ment at not having ſeen or ever heard from me, he was quite anxious to know what I had been doi [...]g ſince he laſt ſaw me in Ireland, and what and when I was to appear at Drury-Lane? not having a doubt of my ſucceſs, let the chara [...]er be what it would! He had the repeated pleaſure of [238] meeting with his friend Colonel Thornton, ſince his return from the late expedition againſt Cher⯑bourgh, who told him, that he was acquainted with me at Portſmouth, and had been much en⯑tertained with my performances at that theatre. Mr. Foote inſiſted on my ſtaying dinner, which invitation I could not refuſe; after dinner, and while the glaſs was circulating, he intimated a wiſh I would make my firſt appearance at Drury-Lane, as his pupil, in a farce he had newly furbiſhed up, and titled the Diverſions of the Morning; and ad⯑ded, ‘"You muſt Wilkinſon plainly ſee and be con⯑vinced that dirty hound Garrick, does not mean to do you any ſervice or wiſh you ſucceſs; but on the contrary he is a ſecret enemy, and if he can pre⯑vent your doing well be aſſured he will. I know his heart ſo well, that if you give me per⯑miſſion to aſk for your firſt attempt on his ſtage, and to be in my piece, the hound will refuſe the moment I mention it; and though his little ſoul would rejoice to act Richard III. in the Dog Days, before the hoteſt kitchen fire for a ſop in the pan; yet I know his mean ſoul ſo perfectly, that if on his refuſal, I with a grave face tell him, I have his figure exactly made and dreſſed as a puppet in my cloſet, ready for public admiration; the fellow will not only conſent to your acting, but what is more extraordinary, his abject fears will [239] lend me money, if I ſhould ſay I want it."’ This I muſt own ſeems a ſevere picture, but the traits are from the life, and a true delineation of cha⯑racter; from which a perſon who had not been acquainted with Mr. Garrick, might be led to ſup⯑poſe he was a weak man, but it was far from be⯑ing really the caſe; for his underſtanding and quickneſs of comprehenſion with fire and vivacity, were infinite; yet at repartee, Foote having the advantage, he ſunk in compariſon; but his real penetration far exceeded Mr. Foote's; and his great caution had brought on the ‘"Hey—now—what," &c.’

But reader, I ſhall be in a better humour with him by and bye, and he with me, where of courſe I ſhall think he appears to more advantage; how⯑ever that baſk of ſunſhine did not laſt, but changed like April, and was inconſtant as the wind. Foote never was in awe of Garrick, but ever treated him with the moſt cutting ſatire, and well knew the way to profit from Garrick, was by always acting on his fears. Mr. Murphy uſed frequent⯑ly to treat Garrick in the ſame manner, if he ex⯑pected to obtain juſtice, when connected on mat⯑ters of theatrical buſineſs; and indeed Mr. Mur⯑phy continued a teaſer to the Roſcius till the year of his death, whenever he met him in com⯑pany. If I have uttered a falſehood, I beg Mr. [240] Murphy will correct me, whom I have not ſeen ſince February 1778, at which time he conferred an obligation, and related a whimſical ſtory of their meeting in a mixed company, where Mrs. Garrick and Miſs Moore, the authoreſs, were of the party. However ſtrange it may appear, tho' Garrick made avarice his idol; yet fear was ſo predominant to preſerve his fame, ſo all alive, that his own ſhadow, if he thought it obſcured his greatneſs, would be ſufficient to alarm and diſtu [...] his night's repoſe.

With very little thought I aſſented to Mr. Foote's propoſal, which I juſt now mentioned, of playing in his farce; and verily believe if I had not, that I never ſhould have had an opportunity of appearing on Drury-Lane ſtage, unleſs in ſome part totally unfit for me, when Mr. Garrick would have ſaid and publiſhed he had really out of cha⯑rity done all he could to ſerve me, but found it was impoſſible to make any thing to the purpoſe of ſuch a blockhead; I ſhould then have been diſcarded, and what would have been more fatal, Pope Garrick's denouncing damnation would of courſe have rendered all my ſtruggling for fame in vain; for as Sancho ſays, ‘"Give a dog an ill name and hang him."’