MEMOIRS OF TATE WILKINSON.

THE preſent to Mr. Rich procured me an in⯑vitation to dine with him, which favour I did not accept, but paid my devoirs to him at his morn⯑ing levees.—My old maſter, Rich, one day ſaid to me, ‘"Muſter Williamſkin, you are much im⯑proved ſince I firſt began to larn you; I think I muſt engage you.—Name your terms."’ I then propoſed (on that hint) a plan for ſuch a [...]mber of nights rather than for the ſeaſon:—He inſtantly agreed, and Mr. Foote's Minor was fixed on for immediate preparation; nay, he deigned to deſire me to caſt the parts, I was in ſuch ſudden favour; as he ſaid, with truth, he knew nothing of Muſter Footy's farce. Mrs. Rich was a Methodiſt,—not that I mention it as a recommendation, or that ſhe was a better Chriſtian for bowing at the ſhrin [...] [4] of Nonſenſe and Hypocriſy.—Mr. Foote's laſh on Methodiſm at that time was ſeverely felt by that ſect; their compoſition is gloom, melancholy, en⯑vy, and ſpleen; cheerfulneſs is ſeldom obſerved to dawn on their countenances. Notwithſtand⯑ing their boaſted inſpirations, if Methodiſt preachers had a little reflection, what muſt they think of daring to pronounce every theatre the devil's houſe, and all the players the devil's children! I hope they are joking:—and though it may be joking, I am ſorry to ſay it is wicked. To make a complete actor requires more requiſites to uni⯑verſally excel than almoſt any other profeſſion whatever.

The amazing powers diſplayed by a Garrick, a Barry, a Mrs. Cibber, and a Siddons, and many others, is evidently the hand of God:—He alone could give the finiſh to ſuch intrinſic merit. And that the Almighty has intended them for that very work is evident; which, if not ſo produced, the world would have loſt ſeeing the higheſt pitch of admiration the human frame can aſpire to. To mention Shakſpeare only, proves more than all the before-mentioned perſons, as he is a hoſt, and ſtands unequalled, as a moral writer, in many points, as well the wonder of the world, as an uni⯑verſal genius.

[5] I do not wiſh to inſinuate that every Methodiſt is an hypocrite, but I mean that I think the greateſt part are really ſo:—So of the preachers, I believe, there are ſome in earneſt, though I fear the num⯑ber might be eaſily told. When perſons get to the height of a Whitfield and a Weſley's fame for acting, there is a pride as well as a duty in behav⯑ing well; and they both laboured hard: but I dare ſay neither of thoſe gentlemen ever refuſed a golden ticket for their ſeparate benefits any more than I ever did?—O yes, I actually did once refuſe five guineas at York! but I was modeſt and re⯑jected it; I expected it to be offered a ſecond time—It was not; what then? Why then I was diſappointed, and never will be ſo fooliſh again, if opportunity offers.—Let one of the tabernacle boaſt the ſame—they know better—and that a bird in hand is worth two in the buſh. But, O ye ſaints of your own creating! I will preach to you—Mark! Judge not of plays and players, leſt you be judged.

Thoſe who are the moſt cenſorious on the in⯑firmities of others, are uſually moſt notoriouſly guilty of far greater failings themſelves; and ſanc⯑tified Methodiſtical ſlander is, of all, the moſt ſe⯑vere, bitter, and cruel, and is ſo eaſily diſtinguiſh⯑ed, unleſs by the elect, that it is not worth while dwelling any longer upon it.

[6] In the comedy of the Hypocrite the Colonel ſays, he ſuppoſes they go to the play for the be⯑nefit of the brethren:—Cantwell anſwers, ‘"The charity covereth the ſin:"’—which was actually the caſe; for in the year 1757, as Shuter was bountiful to the tabernacle, Mr. Whitfield not only permitted, but adviſed his hearers to attend Shuter's benefit; but (a-la-mode theatre) for that night only.

A preacher at Hull was once in diſtreſs and im⯑priſoned; I actually ſent him a leg of mutton and turneps: previous to that I had been an atten⯑dant at his tabernacle; he entertained great hopes of my converſion, and I certainly confeſs to the being wicked enough to have been deemed a to⯑lerable Methodiſt. I had then quitted the old playhouſe in Lowgate for a new one in Finkle-ſtreet. That the principal performers of con⯑venticles love to follow the ſmell of a theatre is evident, by their particularly conſecrating thoſe un⯑hallowed ſhops, and thinking them enviable ſitu⯑ations to practiſe their own love-feaſts in—‘"Put out the light, and then—"’ So this Rev. Mr. Rutherford, formerly a London coachman, erected his pulpit on the ſpot where Brutus had been in his pulpit alſo:—the pit he converted into pews, and the ſtage and ſide boxes were appro⯑priated for the beaus and belles.—Here follows [7] (moſt truly copied) his letter to me, cauſed part⯑ly by the braſs rims not being come from York to Hull; for he told me over a bottle, to which he had no averſion, that he wanted a collection to purchaſe candleſticks, and I having left off uſing thoſe braſs rims, (when Mr. Garrick changed the mode of lighting the ſtage with ſix branches that uſed formerly to be let down at the end of every act, which required a nimble-fingered candle⯑ſnuffer) I promiſed my reverend father the Me⯑thodiſt I would light his tabernacle, aye, and per⯑formed it too.

At times I have heard good diſcourſes from Mr. Whitfield, delivered with energy, feeling, and pathos, but then he had been really and truly an actor on the ſtage in the early part of his life; and as he liked tragedy, and found that a pair of ſquint⯑ing eyes (as may be ſeen by his print) did not move the young ladies' tender hearts, but pro⯑duced laughter inſtead of tears, he d—d the ſtage, and ever after ſtuck to that text; but he often melted and ſqueezed to ſome purpoſe many a rich dowager, who felt the power of his feelings from their mutual ſympathy. The low ſtuff of the preachers in general is not worth repeating; but to ſhew I have not often attended without ſometimes being a good boy, I will begin with the ſecond beſt performer in that line I ever ſaw, and give his harangue verbatim; and tho' but frothy ſtuff, it is much better, and more like rea⯑ſon than the damnation ſo terribly thundered out, [9] [...]oo often in ſtage invective; ſo much ſo, that were they not hardened by the familiarity of their fire, brimſtone, and pitchforks, if it thundered I ſhould fear leſs if in a playhouſe than in the tabernacle, particularly if near the preacher.

Mr. Weſley about four years ago, in the fields at Leeds, for want of room for his congregation in his tabernacle, gave an account of himſelf by informing us, That when he was at college he was particularly fond of the devil's pops (or cards); and ſaid, that every Saturday he was one of a con⯑ſtant party at Whiſt, not only for the afternoon, but alſo for the evening; he then mentioned the names of ſeveral reſpectable gentlemen who were with him at college.—‘"But," continued he, "the latter part of my time there I became acquainted with the Lord, I uſed to hold communication with him. On my firſt acquaintance," ſaid Weſley, "I uſed to talk with the Lord once a week, then every day, from that to twice a day, till at laſt the intimacy ſo increaſed, that He appointed a meeting once in every four hours."’ He recollected, he ſaid, the laſt Saturday he ever played at cards, that the rubber at Whiſt was longer than he expected; and on obſerving the tediouſneſs of the game, he pulled out his watch, when to his ſhame he found it was ſome minutes paſt eight, which was beyond the [...]ime he had appointed to meet the Lord:—He [10] thought the devil had certainly tempted him to ſtay beyond his hour, he therefore ſuddenly gave his cards to a gentleman near him to finiſh the game, and went to the place appointed, beſeech⯑ing forgiv [...]neſs for his crime, and reſolved never to play with the devil's pops again. That reſolu⯑tion he had never broken; and what was more extraordinary, that his brother and ſiſter, though diſtant from Cambridge, experienced ſigns of grace on that ſame day, on that ſame hour, in the month of October. After the eaſy acquaintance he had made, the idea of which I think too ſolemn to declare and mention in the familiar manner thoſe ſelf-elected people do. What muſt have become of all the tribes before us for the laſt ſe⯑venteen hundred years but damnation? How un⯑ [...]tunate that Me [...]hodi [...]m did not ſtart up through a trap-door many centuries ago! What a hypo⯑critical led-by-the-noſe world it would then have been!

Mr. Weſley, after expatiating on the devil's pops, ſaid, ‘"Now, my dear friends! if you think there is no harm follows from playing at cards, why play at cards:—If you think, my dear bre⯑thren, there is no harm in hunting a poor little hare and depriving it of life, why you may go a⯑hunting without being guilty of ſin:—I do not ſay you will be d—d for that, provided in your [11] conſcience you do not think you are doing wrong.—If you think there is no harm in playing with the devil's books, or going to an aſſembly, where you ſhall ſtay till two or three o'clock in the morn⯑ing, and where they dance belly to belly and back to back, and put themſelves in the moſt unſeemly poſtures—why, if you think there is no harm in going to that aſſembly, you may go. I am told," continued Weſley, "you have a wicked playhouſe in Leeds—I do not ſay you will be d—d for going to ſee a play, if you think there is no harm in ſeeing a play. But now, my dear brethren, let me call you to a recollection of theſe trifling mat⯑ters: Though you have heard me repeat that I do not pronounce damnation on my hearers for play⯑ing with the devil's pops, or for killing a harmleſs hare and depriving it of life—though I have not ſaid the devil is with ſpreading arms expecting to receive you, but that you may go to an aſſembly, or even to the devil's houſe, without damnation; yet, my dear brethren, if inſtead of the devil's pops, the going a-hunting, or to the dancing aſ⯑ſembly, or to ſee a play, you can, like me, get ac⯑quainted and enter into converſation and inti⯑macy with the Lord, who will talk, who will hold converſe with you here on earth—how can you prefer ſuch vanities of this fooliſh world to [12] real bliſs in this and the world to come?"’—Here ends Mr. Weſley.

The Rev. Mr. Whitfied (the firſt actor in the Methodiſt walk) was of a contrary caſt entirely, and not without humour here and there. His dialect was very particular—Lurd inſtead of Lord, Gud inſtead of God—as, O Lurd Gud!

I remember a text of his was—May we all work the [...]arder.—‘"There was a poor woman, and ſhe was a long time before ſhe was converted: ſhe was three-ſcore years and ten—yes ſhe was;—ſhe was three-ſcore years and ten:—‘"Sir, (ſays ſhe to the good man that converted her) Sir, (ſays ſhe) I am three-ſcore years and ten, I have been a long time about it: but Sir, (ſays ſhe) I will work the harder;—yes, Sir, (ſays ſhe) I will work the harder!"’ And O! may you all like that dear good woman work the harder."’ Then followed a groan of applauſe; for he had, like Mr. Bayes, a ſelected number in his pit that underſtood their cues, and were ſure to applaud, and the reſt of the houſe followed of courſe. Then Whitfield, looking round the rails of his little deſk below—‘"What, you young ones! why you are ſome of you twelve, ſome fourteen, and ſome ſixteen years of age, yet you do not think of going to hell? What!" exclaim⯑ed Whitfield, "twelve and fourteen years of age, and not thinking of going to hell! O ye little [13] brats you!"’—and at that inſtant the old women groaned, and, like fell Charybdis, murmured hoarſe applauſe; and Whitfield ſhook his head, and growled in his white wig, exactly like my perform⯑ance of Squintum, as I actually practiſed it from the ſerious comical diſcourſe I am now relating. Whitfield then proceeded thus—

I leave the reader to judge on the good reaſon⯑ing of Methodiſm. I cannot help noticing for the honour of the ſtage, that Mr. Whitfield could not have betrayed himſelf into a better ſtory for its credit—his pointing out an intimacy between the Lord Archbiſhop of Canterbury and Mr. Bet⯑terton): And for the actor, he could not have gi⯑ven a more ſubſtantial and revered authority. And what a joke for Mr. Whitfield to pronounce damnation on players, when he certainly avowed in his own opinion, that Mr. Betterton was, what all the world ever acknowledged him to be, a ſcholar and gentleman of honour; and Mr. Whitfield gave the players reaſoning and exempli⯑fication, for his own mode of preaching. But hypocriſy, like the cloven foot, will ſometimes be eſpied.

Some of the wild preachers of this kind, often remind me of Antonio in the Merchant of Venice—

Bell's edition bears this note on theſe lines. A moſt excellent remark this; for daily experience proves, that ſome of the worſt characters breath⯑ing, ſeek ſhelter under ſcriptural texts; by the miſ⯑application or miſconſtruction of which, alſo, op⯑poſite ſects uncharitably conſign each other to eternal puniſhment.

As a ſtriking inſtance of good-will, charity, and mildneſs, being prevalent in the minds of Me⯑thodiſts, I inſert the following paragraph from Mr. Bowling's Leeds paper—

But now for my tabernacle at Covent-Garden, where myſelf and Mr. Rich were lately caſting the [16] comedy of the Minor, and which was the occaſion of my preaching. Mr. Rich and I were on ſuch ſudden terms of violent friendſhip, that he inſiſted I ſhould caſt the parts. I put down the Minor, Mr. Dyer;—Richard Wealthy, Mr. Sparks, &c. &c. &c.

The morning after, a note came from Mr. Sparks for Mr. Rich, to the following purport: ‘"Mr. Sparks's compliments to Mr. Rich, he is concerned at being obliged to return the part of Richard Wealthy; but as he is given to under⯑ſtand Mr. Wilkinſon is engaged, and is to ſuſtain the principal characters in the comedy, Mr. Sparks cannot [...]onſent by any means to perform or aſſiſt in any piece, for the advantage of a villain, who unprovoked has endeavoured to hurt him in his peace of mind, and injure his reputation, as an actor, with the public."’—When Mr. Rich gave me the note to read, it perplexed me much; but I immediately adverted to my very diſagreeable ſituation when at Drury-Lane, and that I had given up every idea of offending the actors of Covent-Garden: that by the artifice of Mr. Garrick and Mr. Foote I was forced on the ſtage at Drury-Lane, in 1758, againſt my own conſent: and requeſted Mr. Rich further to ob⯑ſerve, that when my own benefits happened at Drury-Lane, in 1758 and 1759, not any actor whatever had been offended by any imitations or [17] mimicry from me; that my ſole aim was levelled at Mr. Foote, for the ill-treatment I had received from him: and as a ſtronger proof, I referred to my conduct in Dublin the winter before, where I had not created a ſingle enemy by ſuch behavi⯑our; nor at my benefit the ſpring before at Drury-Lane, or offered any entertainment of the kind, either from the deſire of my friends, the public, or even to aſſiſt my own emolument on my late benefits in London, which it certainly muſt be acknowledged it would have done, and much to my advantage; but I readily leſſened my own pro⯑fits rather than incur enmity: I had in conſe⯑quence of that conſideration hoped, that I had cleared myſelf from all intentional injury to Mr. Sparks or other gentlemen. This fully proved to my own mind, for once in my life, the good policy of having laid by imitative talents, (Mr. Foote excepted) all that time: for had I kept publicly practiſing thoſe ſhining qualities, as I judged them, and though I was then certainly in great eſtima⯑tion (while under the trammels of Mr. Foote and Mr. Garrick); yet had I at the latter part of my time with him made too free with my bre⯑thren of the theatres, very likely I ſhould not have ſtood any chance of riſing again in London haſtily, or have been ever received at Covent-Garden theatre. Indeed I might have ſubſiſted on Mr. [18] Garrick's flaps of the ſhoulders of mutton, but, like poor J [...]rry Sneak, not have got a bit of the brown. My reaſons to Mr. Rich worked as palliatives in my behalf, and had much weight with him. He ſent for Sparks, and in his man⯑ner related to him what Mr. Williamſkin had ſaid: Sparks in a ſhort time was cool and pacified, and ſaid, On the whole it appeared perfectly clear that the young man was not ſo much to blame as he had ſuppoſed: that it was apparent Wilkinſon had not received any reward or gratuity for what he had done, from either of his maſters Foote or Garrick; but on the contrary they had been guilty of meanneſs and ingratitude: And Sparks concluded with not only his declared acceptance of the part, but offered every aſſiſtance to the re⯑hearſals to aid and bring the Minor forward: for its being levelled as a ſtroke at Foote, tickled Sparks, as gratifying his ancient grudge. Though Mr. Foote's acquaintance was univerſal, yet as all knew he ſpared neither friend nor foe, there could not be the leaſt reaſon to apprehend a ſhadow of re⯑ſentment from the audience by any attack of mi⯑micry played on Mr. Foote himſelf from any op⯑ponent, as Mr. Foote attacked every body, and, like Drawcanſir, might have ſaid to his friends—

[19] A moſt intimate friend of Mr. Foote's wrote to me the following lines, on my being diſpleaſed, and is a ſtrong likeneſs.—

Peace being ſettled, and myſelf one of the Co⯑vent-Garden company, Foote ſoon got intelligence from ſpies in our royal camp, of what was going forward: he was much enraged, and not having forgiven my freedoms with him at Dublin the winter before, he thought I purſued him like his evil ſpirit. And one morning when I was ſitting at the grand levee at Mr. Rich's, with my new friend Sparks in council of war, we were alarmed with a thundering rat-tat and ringing of the bell alſo, when a ſervant announced Mr. Foote was come to wait on Mr. Rich; and inſtead of being uſhered into the grand ſaloon, he had been ſhewn into the parlour.

Mr. Rich went down to Mr. Footſeye, as he called him, but the viſit was not accompanied by [20] a calm, for it was moſt violent, bluſtering, and boiſterous. Mr. Foote furiouſly exclaimed—‘"Damn it, you old hound! if you dare let Wil⯑kinſon, that pug noſed ſon of a b—h, take any liberty with me as to mimicry, I will bring you yourſelf, Rich, on the ſtage! If you want to en⯑gage that pug, black his face, and let him hand the tea-kettle in a pantomime; for damn the fel⯑low he is as ignorant as a whore's maid! And if he dares to appear in my characters, in the Minor, I will," ſaid Foote, "inſtantly produce your old ſtupid ridiculous ſelf, with your three cats, and your hound of a mimic altogether, next week at Drury-Lane, for the general diverſion of the pit, boxes, and galleries; and that will be paying you, you ſquinting old Hecate, too great a compli⯑ment!"’ And after a few ſarcaſms Foote haſtily departed, denouncing vengeance on him and his cats, and immediately Mr. Rich appeared with a moſt woeful countenance, and ſaid, ‘why Muſter Sparkiſh, Muſter Footſeye has been here, and he ſays if I let Muſter Williamſkin act his parts on the ſtage, Muſter Sparkiſh, he will write parts for me, my cats, and Muſter Williamſkin, and bring us all upon the ſtage; ſo we muſt not act [...]at we intended." "Why ſurely, Sir," ſaid Sparks, "you cannot be ſo weak as to let Mr. Foote's [...]apour⯑ing viſit frighten y u from your purpoſe, or inti⯑midate you from having a piece acted that may be [21] of ſervice to your theatre, and to the young g [...]n⯑tleman. Is it not truly ſtrange and laughable, that Mr. Foote, of all people, ſhould confeſs him⯑ſelf galled, and exert his wit againſt mimicry—he who has been for years an univerſal torturer and ſpoiler of private peace, from the licentious li⯑berties he has taken? Now, Mr. Rich," added Sparks, "let me intereſt myſelf in this matter, I augur ſucceſs; therefore let us of Covent-Gar⯑den-theatre, immediately rally our forces, take the field, let ſlip the dogs of war, and act the Minor in defiance of his own guards at Drury-Lane."’ Rich agreed, ſeemed pleaſed—but he was ſtill frightened of Foote, and I believe, dreaded an affront on his favourite cat more than on himſelf; all was ſettled to have the performance brought forward as ſoon as poſſible: for, as Sparks obſer⯑ved,—‘"advantage fed them fat while we delayed."’ Indeed the Minor was ready at Drury-Lane, and they meant not to loſe time; for Foote enter⯑tained not the leaſt doubt of victory.

We, from various obſtacles, could not get it de⯑cently on the ſtage in leſs than a fortnight, as other pieces were preparing, ſuch as Mr. Macklin's new comedy of the Married Libertine; his Love-a-la-Mode; and Mr. Beard and Miſs Brent, were rehearſing Dr. Arne's new opera of Thomas and Sally; which all conſidered, made it ſeem dif⯑ficult [22] to get our Minor produced. And on the end of the week that this matter had been ſettled, it was advertiſed on the Thurſday from Drury-Lane, and on the Saturday was paſted on every wall—The MINOR; and that favourite little comedy had been all the week puffed and paragraphed in every newſpaper by Mr. Foote. But unforeſeen events ſometimes do and undo what our utmoſt wiſdom and wiſhes cannot, as here was an extraordinary inſtance; for the bills were but a few hours ex⯑hibited to public view, when it ſo happened they were as haſtily plucked down as they had been vigilantly put up; it was on Saturday the 25th of October, 1760, when the ſudden death of our truly beloved and lamented monarch King George II. occaſioned, for three weeks, a ſuſpenſion of theatrical hoſtilities and diverſions of all kinds in the great city of London. And [...] [...]eriouſly wiſh (abſtracted from ſelf) ſome alleviation could be conſidered for a truly loyal ſet of [...]eople, the actors, on ſuch a melancholy occaſion: For though it is undeniable that every attention and grateful demeanour ſhould be indiſpenſibly obſerved on ſuch an awful ſtroke, and that a hoity t [...]ity following [...]f diverſions would be high⯑ly improper, and th [...]t every duty to ſuch ſo⯑lemn [...]ty is due, yet [...]t certainly falls cruelly on the poor player, I reverence and love my king, my [23] prince, and my country, as the moſt faithful ſub⯑ject in his majeſty's dominions; yet at ſuch really mournful times, the poor player, in a middling claſs, who ſtruts his life upon the ſtage, is certainly deſtitute of daily bread, becomes diſtreſſed, and abſolutely reduced to being a charity-dependent, where the weekly ſtipend had been merely an ex⯑iſtence; and too likely, if encumbered with a fa⯑mily, plunged into debt and future miſery. It may eaſily be credited that whenever ſuch a cala⯑mity happens, (and which in the courſe of nature muſt happen) many are not in poſſeſſion of a ſhil⯑ling; it is even a hardſhip to thoſe who poſſeſs eco⯑nomy, which ſome actors and actreſſes, to their great credit and good ſenſe do, as Mr. Robertſon, formerly of the York company, is an inſtance, and an honour as a man and actor to mention, and ſe⯑veral others whoſe incomes have been very con⯑fined.

Now, as a good ſubject, my ſtock was truly great on the ſudden ſurpriſe and loſs of my mo⯑narch, whoſe name I had prattled from child⯑hood—

My own ſituation at that time did not ſuffer, as tha [...] [...]od, I poſſeſſed every needful requiſite then [24] to render life happy and every way agreeable, ſo the theatre being cloſed for a few weeks was not any inconvenience to my particular ſelf; but the poor actor at ſuch a time muſt be rejoiced if the landlord is in good humour, and will cha [...]k up in⯑ſtead of receiving caſh; but then the day of retri⯑bution muſt and will appear in black and white—

It ſo happened and came to paſs, during that ſerious vacation, that the Minor was brought to maturity at Covent-Garden theatre; and what is more extraordinary, by the indefatigable attention and eagerneſs of Mr. Sparks—

When Drury-Lane again opened, the firſt Sa⯑turday they publiſhed the Minor, with Mr. Foote, &c. I poſted myſelf in the gallery. Mr. Foote was received, as uſual, with great eclat, by a moſt brilliant and crowded audience; that comedy being in as much vogue then, or more ſo, than any fa⯑vourite piece at the preſent day of 1790, (the run and rage of the School for Scandal, and Duenna, being now over.)—When the comedy was finiſhed I haſtened to Covent-Garden, and urged Mr. Rich to produce the Minor as ſoon as poſſible; when Mr. Dyer (who was to act the part of Sir George, and who was the particular intimate of [25] Sparks) judged it a political ſtroke to give out that [...]iece for the Monday following; and though the [...]lay before intended had been given out, we pre⯑ [...]ailed on Mr. Rich, and the Minor was announ⯑ [...]ed, as by particular deſire, for the Monday: Mr. Foote's characters of Shift, Smirk, Mrs. Cole, and the Epilogue, by Mr. Wilkinſon. It was not only honoured with an overflowing [...]heatre, but had a very great reception, and it had a conſiderable run; and in that puff I had the [...]dvantage, for Mr. Rich's new matters were not [...]eady for repreſentation, therefore I was the more wanted.—Mr. Foote ſhared the profits of his night's performance; for that reaſon, therefore, if Garrick had any thing ſtrong to advertiſe, or wiſhed to play himſelf, Mr. Foote was obliged to give way. On the ſecond night of my perform⯑ance, Mr. Rich at the end of the Minor brought an article for me to ſign, accompanied by Mr. Wood, his ſon-in-law, an attorney; the pur⯑port was, one hundred guineas for playing till the firſt of January, and a benefit when I choſe to ap⯑point it. It was a very genteel offer, as my be⯑nefit conſidered, made it of real conſequence to me, and of courſe the propoſal was by me accepted, ſigned, and ſealed. On the firſt night, in the per⯑ [...]ormance of Shift, I broke looſe into my imitative [26] qualities, which I had not practiſed (as to actors) in London for two years.

Moſſop had but the year before gone to Ireland; he was very peculiar, very popular, and well recollected: I was very like him indeed, and was obliged to repeat his ſpeeches of Zaphimri in the Orphan of China.

To prove what odd mortals we are as to our love and our hate, Sparks, who I related as formerly to have been my profeſſed enemy, was now turned to the other extreme, and was my hearty well-wiſher. On my leaving the ſtage as Shift, he took me faſt by the hand and wiſhed me joy, and burſt out into a violent fit of laughing:—Says I, ‘"Mr. Sparks, what are you laughing at?" "Why," replied he, "I am laughing at myſelf, Sir: for two years ago I was bloody angry at you for the carrying me into company where I was not; yet your imitation of Moſſop was ſo ſtrong, that I was irreſiſtibly plea⯑ſed whether I would or no: ſo I am laughing at my own abſurdity."’ Thoſe imitations having been bottled up by me ſo long had then double the effect, and made Shift a ſtar in the Minor.—My introduction in the character of Foote was truly Foote from top to toe; and as to Mr. Gar⯑rick I made no ſcruple, though I had him before me, as his curioſity had led him to ſee me, not expecting that I would take him, off, or he would [27] not have been ſo publicly ſurrounded, but have carefully avoided ſuch a queer ſituation. My imitations were never told either in bill or newſ⯑paper who they were deſigned for; but when⯑ever I was particularly lucky, the audience would repeat the name, as Sparks! Sparks! Barry! Barry! Nor was I a little pleaſed when repeating from Macbeth, ‘"Who can be wiſe, amazed, &c."’ I heard the audience echo from one to the other, ‘"O Garrick! Garrick!"’—O thought I, my ma⯑ſter, this is my day of triumph!—and from that night he never forgave or forgot his being ſo ſur⯑rounded in the front box, nor did he ever ſpeak to me again to the day of his death.

My Whitfield was beyond compare; his man⯑ner was then univerſally known.—Mr. Foote was ſtruck by ſtepping in by chance, and once hearing Whitfield; the mixture of whoſe ab⯑ſurdity, whim, conſequence, and extravagance, pleaſed his fancy and entertained him highly, as Whitfield that day was dealing out damnation, fire, and brimſtone as cheerfully as if they were ſo many bleſſings. What pity it is that our fears only, and not our reaſon, will bring conviction; but reaſon, handed by unaffected pure piety and religion, would be a day of woe to Methodiſm, and leſſen their audiences in many tabernacles, where they are certain to lament preaching to no⯑body, [28] though at the ſame time wedged to the outer doors, and on the Sunday exclaiming at the full crowded theatres, which have probably been almoſt deſerted. But Mr. Foote was only a ſpy at Whitfield's academy, while I had been a zea⯑lot for ſome ſeaſons before my encounter at Co⯑vent Garden with Mr. Foote. My attendance had been conſtant with my friend Shuter, and as he actually was one of the new-born, and paid large ſums to Whitfield, I was always permitted to ſtay with him, for he really was bewildered in his brain, more by wiſhing to acquire imaginary grace than by all his drinking: and whenever he was warm with the bottle, and with only a friend or two, like Maw-worm he could not mind his ſhop becauſe he thou [...]ht it a ſin, and wis;hed to go a preaching; for Shuter, like Maw-worm, believed he had had a call. I have gone with Shuter at ſix in the morning of a Sunday to Tottenham-Court-Road, then before ten to Mr. Weſley's in Long-Acre, at eleven again to Tottenham-Court-Road tabernacle, dined near Bedlam in Moorfields (a very proper place for us both) with a party of the Ho [...]y Ones, went at three to Mr. Weſley's theatre there, (the tabernacle [...] mean) from that to Whit⯑fie d's in Moorfields till eight, and then ſhut up to commune with the family-compact. Now with all this practice and attention, and with my [29] natural talents, I muſt have been a blockhead in⯑deed not to have gleaned ſome good things; (and doubtleſs Mr. Whitfield was at times a good preacher, and truly excellent.) I therefore re⯑ally exhibited and obtained a much ſtronger like⯑neſs as Dr. Squintum than Mr. Foote did. The week before my Covent-Garden exhibition I met my friend Shuter at the tabernacle; a great cool⯑neſs had continued for ſome time, as we had not ſpoke to, or even looked at each other ſince the breach between us in the year 1758; but as we were met together in a place of charity and for⯑giveneſs to all who ſubſcribed to the dictator, we became very ſociable, and before the concluſion of Whitfield's lecture were perfectly recon⯑ciled: We adjourned to the Roſe, and by three the next morning were ſworn friends, and conti⯑nued ſo till death called him away.— [...]ndeed he was above eleven years older than me, and would have been ſixty-three had he lived to this time. Ned Shuter was a lively, ſpirited, ſhrewd compa⯑nion; ſuperior natural whim and humour ſurely never inhabited a human breaſt, for what he ſaid and did was all his own, as it was with difficulty he could read the parts he had to play, and could not write at all; he had attained to SIGN an or⯑der, but no more: Nature could not have be⯑ſtowed her gifts to greater advantage than on [30] poor Ned, as what ſhe gave he made ſhine, not only conſpicuouſly but brilliantly, and that to the delight of all who knew him on or off the ſtage—he might be truly dubbed ‘"The Child of Na⯑ture:"’—He was no man's enemy but his own. Peace, reſt, and happineſs, I hope he now poſ⯑ſeſſes—for the poor, the friendleſs, and the ſtranger he often comforted; and when ſometimes reduced by his follies, he never could ſee a real object in miſery and reſiſt giving at leaſt half he was worth to his diſtreſſed fellow creature.

My popularity that year of the Minor was ſuch, that my acquaintance I might truly term univer⯑ſal. My benefit was the week before Chriſtmas, and was not only crowded, but honourably at⯑tended, which put my finances into a moſt reſpect⯑able accumulation, though my free living from place to place was very expenſive, and indeed ex⯑travagant:—Yet the reader is to obſerve my be⯑nefits in general were all free from any charges, and were what we on the ſtage term clear benefits; and my night being numerouſly attended in the middle of a winter ſeaſon in ſuch a metropolis as London cannot be judged a phaeno [...]enon.

That ſeaſon at Covent-Garden theatre, the day after acting the character of Mr. Foote in the in⯑trodu [...]tion to the Minor, I received an anony⯑mous letter, and recollected the ſame ſentiments [31] had been conveyed to me in the like manner three ſeaſons before after my benefit-night at Drury-Lane, on taking off Mr. Foote as himſelf, not as an actor on the ſtage. The contents were nearly as follows:—

Theſe two notes I often conſidered, as the re⯑mark was ſo juſt, (though I had not paid obe⯑dience to the firſt) and made me gueſs from that [32] time to the preſent that they proceeded from the ſecret good wiſhes and knowledge of Mr. Murphy, who was often on parties at Mr. Foote's, and knew what I meant when the public did not:—Whether it was to him I was obliged or no he beſt can tell; if he did, it may have eſcaped his me⯑mory, and he may not recollect ſo trivial a cir⯑cumſtance, as it did not relate to himſelf. Why I take the wiſdom to myſelf of thinking the let⯑ters came from Mr. Murphy (who had behaved very kindly to me) is, that in 1759, on my bene⯑fit night at Drury-Lane, as I was acting the cha⯑racter of Mr. Foote, he (Mr. Murphy) was ſit⯑ting in the orcheſtra; and as I grew elated with applauſe, and feeling to myſelf that all I did was right, I too often made uſe of a particular word, which Mr. Foote thoughtleſsly, and from cuſtom, often repeated laughingly in his own room in com⯑mon converſation; it was a word fooliſh and in⯑delicate, and by no means fit to be preſumptu⯑ouſly or ignorantly mentioned in a public theatre; and I had never thought as to the meaning, but was, I declare, moſt perfectly innocent of it; and from my rapid [...]ty of ſpeech the audience (luckily indeed for me) did not attend to it any more than myſ [...]lf:—And as Mr. Sher [...]dan's [...] the Critic ſays, ‘"The players never know when to have done with a good thing,"’ ſo did I often repeat [33] this unfit word before a moſt reſpectable audience. I ſaw Mr. Murphy in the orcheſtra enjoying my performance and applauding, which gave me double vigour; when on a ſudden he ſtarted up, and I loſt, from the ſituation full before me, him whom I had ſeen in ſuch high humour, therefore I feared ſomething was very wrong, but what I could not divine;—but I do ſuppoſe, what I ſaid ſo repeatedly had frightened him from his plea⯑ſant ſeat:—Luckily for me the loud laughter and applauſe drowned the ſenſes, or I might have ſeen more decampments, or myſelf have been ordered ſo to do: and I am certain, had I been at that time diſgraced I ſhould not have known for why. But all went off to my exceſs of joy; and when I ſaw Mr. Murphy ſome days after, he kindly ex⯑plained what had drove him from his place, as he declared he trembled for me, and gave me at the ſame time proper information ſufficient to rectify my error and improve my breeding, without need of Johnſon's Dictionary for further knowledge. This is a leſſon for all imitations to be confined entirely to the modes and manners only with which the audience are acquainted; for the pri⯑vate manners in life of Mr. Garrick, or Mr. Any⯑body, they are neither familiarized to, nor in the leaſt acquainted with, therefore fooliſh to add, by way of garniſh; as what might pleaſe in a private [34] circle with information, will naturally leſſen the merit of the mimicry or ſatire, inſtead of increa⯑ſing it with the public; and indeed it muſt be al⯑lowed as unmannerly as mean, and on no account worthy forgiveneſs, were it tolerated, to rehearſe private foibles, manners, and converſation, on a public ſtage.

My friendly reader, I fear, will be apt to ſhrink, and think I have been too liberal in praiſing and loading myſelf with encomiums re⯑lative to my applauſe and reputation in London in 1760, as a rival in point of mimicry, in the pub⯑lic eſtimation, when oppoſed to Mr. Foote; but I really aver and believe I have not exceeded the ſtrict bounds of truth. As to the exactitude of time and place I am perſuaded this olio will ſtand foremoſt of almoſt any produced; ſelf is generally partial, and I am obliged to be the herald of my own praiſes: for Shakſpeare ſays, ‘"If a man will not erect his own tomb-ſtone ere he dies, his memory ſhall liv [...] no longer than his knell rings, and his widow weeps.—How long is that? An hour in clamour, and a quarter in r [...]eum. And ſo much for praiſing myſelf, who I m [...]ſelf will bear witneſs am praiſe⯑worthy."’—Indeed I can mention ſeveral perſons ſtill living who can atteſt every particular, I am ſorry to ſay not ſo many as I could wiſh, as moſt of my ſincere friends and benefactors ar [...] now no more.

[35] As a true imitator I ſtood before Mr. Foote in the public eye; for though he drew characters ſtrongly, yet his manners in point of likeneſs were not ſtrictly juſt; beſides my partial friends of that time, who cannot now come when they are called, and, for all I know, may now be ſpirits in the vaſty deep, yet as theatrical and honour⯑able vouchers I ref [...]r to Mr. Macklin and Mr. Murphy, who will not, I truſt, deny they often told me I was in ſome particular imitations in⯑comparable, and I was too well bred then and now to contradict their favourable opinions, but verily think they were good judges, and ſpoke only the truth. Mr. Macklin has often acted by me as a particular kind friend, and to him I am in debt for many obligations of tender regard paid to my juvenile years, and ſince; and as I never made him any equal return, confeſs myſelf his obliged and grateful debtor. Mr. Murphy I have not the ſatisfaction or pleaſure to call an intimate, or even common acquaintance; my frequent laughs with him at that diſtant juncture of time were chiefly occaſioned by my often meeting him on parties at Mr. Foote's and at the New Exchange coffee⯑houſe; but Mr. Macklin and I have often met in Dublin, ſometimes in the ſame theatre, ſometimes in our different ſhips of war; and meet him where I would, I cannot but remember civilities, not only [36] to me, but to any friend I took in my hand to introduce to him.

With a full purſe, a ſtock of health, and plenty of good friends, my Covent-Garden engagement ended; after which I ſoiled till Paſſion-Week drew near—A week that occaſions the players ne⯑ver to forget it is a religious one, though their ſuperiors may not have the ſame feeling occaſion to rub up their memories: but every player and playereſs can recollect that week without a prompter.

Mr. Garrick, as I before obſerved, continued obdurate; but thank God I neither wanted his forgiveneſs nor his favours as a manager.

Early in March I was favoured with a letter from my good friend Mrs. Strode at Portſmouth, informing me, that a world of people were ex⯑pected there, as a grand expedition was preparing againſt the French, and the number of officers and ſubalterns both of army and navy would be incredible ju [...]t before [...]aſter: that there were no plays going forward, nor any diverſions whatever; and if I could but hit on any entertainment, it would turn out lucrative to me, and be received as a compliment to the town, and all my friends and acquaintance. I made proper inquiries on re⯑ceiving this pleaſing intelligence, and heard every thing Mrs. Strode had mentioned in a manner ſo [37] friendly ſoon confirmed. Now the love of mo⯑ney, added to the allurement of wandering, ſeemed to me irreſiſtible; I knew nothing could be done there in Paſſion-Week, though I might prepare for the enſuing holidays, but did not conceive how to manage and contrive without an able aſ⯑ſiſtant. Mrs. Strode, at my requeſt, procured the theatre againſt my arrival; but one auxiliary at leaſt became indiſpenſably neceſſary.—I men⯑tioned the matter to my laughing whimſical friend Joſeph Auſtin, who liked a frolic as well as my⯑ſelf; I therefore did not heſitate a moment as to whom I ſhould impart my perplexity: To him I related my new-fangled ſcheme and want of aſſiſt⯑ance, alſo laid before him the glaring temptations of army-officers, &c. and propoſed terms of agree⯑ment. Without a pauſe our wiſe heads ſettled it immediately; and that we might be more ſure of attractive merit, Joſeph clapped in his lady as a third performer (a very pretty woman) into the chaiſe, and on Palm Sunday we ſat down to ſup⯑per at Portſmouth: We found the playhouſe as the company of comedians had left it, a mere wreck: They had torn away all traces of its for⯑mer ſelf—all little ornaments of what it ought to have been—having removed all the wings and [...]agged ſcenery for their more remote theatres, [38] with Juliet's tomb and balcony, even Deſde⯑mona's bed

And conveyed in their baggage-cart at Portſ⯑mouth to their fortreſs at Plymouth, themſelves having a long and heavy winter march: and in⯑deed I fear the greateſt part of that theatrical army were obliged on the expedition to uſe their legs inſtead of carriages to obtain ſafe footing at their diſtant Devo [...]ſhire encampment; which proves the truth of the old proverb—One half the world knows not how the other half live.

My friend Joſeph and I had a moſt whimſical en⯑tertaining week; I am ſure he never can forget it, as it conſiſted of oddity and ma [...]y freakiſh occurren⯑ces. From ten till two at noon we were buſily employed with plaiſtering paper on laths for our wings, and filling up the back part of the ſtage with ſomething like what we term a flat ſcene; indeed we had a carpenter, but Joſeph and Tate were the principal workmen. Before the week was expired our playhouſe was prepared for the receiving a moſt ſplendid audience, with which we were honoured; even our ſtage was crowded and produced the beſt back flat ſcene I ever ſaw, [39] which well paid us for our induſtry. We were not only gratified with the great houſe being lu⯑crative and faſhionable, but we were ſtill more flat⯑tered and pleaſed by a deſire of a ſecond night, and with the aſſurance of good ſupport; for my own part I had been ſo fettered and confined while articled by Mr. Garrick, that I was rejoiced at being what I liked to be, and ever will be if I can, FREE as air; that by choice ſhall ever be my motto; therefore the ſecond night was palat⯑able and quite agreeable to me. But here a diffi⯑culty aroſe: I had engaged to perform for my friend Shuter's benefit on Thurſday, March 26, and that promiſe, without breach of word, ho⯑nour, or friendſhip, was eaſy and practicable, as time would juſt allow it, and not any to ſpare; but my trepanned friend Joſeph, on this ſmuggled expedition, was likely to be tried for offences at the grand court of Drury by Judge Garrick, a ſevere judge, who would demand his bond, as Joſeph had actually engaged to play the Wedneſ⯑day night, March 25, a new part wrote by Mrs. Clive for her own benefit; who at writing was (as may with juſtice be equally ſaid of myſelf) a dead good one. However he was very happy, and temptation lay before him:—So fell Adam—So fell Joſeph, though he has not the leaſt relation⯑ſhip [40] to Joſeph the Baſhful:—Notwithſtanding his perilous ſituation he yielded to entreaty, though he foreſaw and dreaded the inevitable ſtorm. We performed much the ſame kind of jumbled incohe⯑rent entertainment as we had done on the firſt night. We had a full houſe on the Tueſday, and ſoon after ſupper that night my friend Joſeph Auſtin ſet off with his lady for London, and left me be⯑hind to ſettle all bills, &c. for our private and public expenditure. My friend got to London in a whole ſkin, but too late for his part; and in⯑deed he had been ſo laden the week before with ſtate affairs upon his head and ſhoulders, that had he been there a day ſooner I do not ſuppoſe he had ſtudied ſufficiently to have known a ſentence.—The lamentable conſequence to Mrs. Bayes (or rather Dame Clive) was her being obliged to ſub⯑mit to change her new farce, or have an apology made for the part to be read—which I underſtood was kindly undertaken by Mr. Packer, but am not certain. However the piece was unfortu⯑nately d—d, and the dreadful doom of it ſhe attributed entirely to the neglective and audacious behaviour of that impudent Auſtin; it enraged that truly comical lady (on the ſtage only) to the higheſt pitch of fury; not Ceres with her torch ſet the fields of corn on fire with more eager fan⯑taſtic fury than ſhe would have at that inſtant [41] ſacrificed even the high-prieſt of the [...]ynagogue, Garrick himſelf, could ſhe have dragged him to her altar of revenge; but ‘"ſuch divinity ſur⯑rounds a king"’ that he eſcaped her vengeance by a ſecure and ſpeedy retreat; and if truth may be ſpoken, I am inclined to think on this matter he was more indebted to flight than his divinityſhip for ſafety: as be it known, though our monarch Garrick uſed to be lordly and managerial over great and ſmall, yet Dame Clive (like the Welch) was never ſubdued—indeed the great little man dreaded her. As an inſtance—I remember one night, while I had the honour to appertain to Drury-Lane theatre, Lethe was to be acted by deſire of ſeveral perſons of diſtinction: The bill run thus: A dramatic ſatire called Lethe—The new character of Lord Chalkſtone by Mr. Garrick; and not any other performers mentioned, not even Woodward's or Yates's—Mrs. Clive's part was the Fine Lady.—There were ſeveral actors of me⯑rit in the piece, but whether it had been printed in that manner by deſign or accident I know not, as play-bills publiſhed daily muſt be liable to er⯑rors, even though Mr. Kemble was the manager. Madam Clive at noon came to the theatre and furiouſly rung the alarm bell: for her name being omitted was an offence ſhe conſtrued ſo heinous, that nothing but vengeance, and blood! blood! [42] Iago was the word! and it was no more ſtrange than true that Garrick ever feared to meet that female ſpirit. Perhaps Mr. Croſs the prompter might think Garrick's name was all-ſufficient; but her not ſeeing in the bill ‘"The Fine Lady by Mrs. Clive,"’ was ſo unpardonable an offence, that could ſhe have got near him, and he had been ſevere in his replies, I dare ſay ſhe would have deranged King David's wig and dreſs as adorned for Lord Chalkſtone, which would have diſconcerted him much. Mrs. Clive was a mix⯑ture of combuſtibles—ſhe was paſſionate, croſs, vulgar, yet ſenſible, and a very generous woman, and as a comic actreſs, of genuine worth—indeed, indeed, ſhe was a diamond of the firſt water.—When her ſcene of the Fine Lady came on, ſhe was received with the uſual expreſſion of gladneſs on her approach, as ſo charming an actreſs truly deſerved; and her ſong from the Italian Opera, where ſhe was free with a good ridiculous imita⯑tion of Signora Mingotti, who was the darling favourite at the King's Theatre, and admired by all the amat [...]urs,—ſhe was univerſally encored, and came off the ſtage much ſweetened in tem⯑per and manners from her firſt going on.—‘"Aye," ſays ſhe in triumph, "that artful devil could not hurt me with the Town, though he had [43] ſtruck my name out of the bills."’ She laughed and joked about her late ill-humour as if ſhe could have kiſſed all around her, though that happineſs was not granted, but was willingly excuſed; and what added to her applauſe was her inward joy, triumph, and ſatisfaction, in finding the little great man was afraid to meet her, and which was of all conſolations the greateſt; not our brave Rodney could feel more pride or glory on the French Admiral de Graſſe delivering up his ſword to him, than Madam Clive did in the idea of her ſubduing Garrick. The valiant Boadicia never hurled her ſpear with more furor than Clive, that Amazonian Thaleſtris of Drury-Lane theatre, purſued that great general, Garrick, whenever he offended her; indeed the whole green-room dread⯑ed her frowns. She was the original, and quite at home when in the Cobler's Wife in the Devil to Pay, and always proved that Poor Nell had a great ſoul; indeed, to thoſe who approached her door in miſery, ſhe ſupplied their wants, and gave at once without pride or oſtentation. Mr. Gar⯑rick alluded to Mrs. Clive in Nell, and Mrs. Pritchard in the Queen in Hamlet, when he wrote and ſpoke the following lines the ſeaſon that Barry, Cibber, Quin, and Woffington, united forces at Covent-Garden—

So Madam Clive, of whom I have been ſpeaking ſo long, when her farce was d—d, as ſhe could nor ſtart that Fox Auſtin from his hiding-place, at laſt found Mr. Garrick her darling prey, whoſe curioſity had led him back to take a peep at the field of battle, after beholding her farce and its fatal overthrow, and had exultingly fat ſmiling at the tumult, and enjoying the ſtorm, which grati⯑fied his ſpleen; and indeed her works, I believe, were truly indifferent, and would not have cut a much better figure in print than my own; with this difference, ſhe profeſſed ability, I profeſs quite the contrary, cry quarter, and ſue for mer⯑cy: Clive, like the good houſewife, who ſees a rat in the trap in the morning taken, no ſooner eſpied him than ſhe faſtened; and the furious poeteſs bitterly and vehemently harangued her manager as abetting and aiding in a plot to ſink her works to oblivion, by being privy to Auſtin's having eloped, and thereby deſtroying her fame. The manager proteſted his innocence, nay acted great [...]ge, denouncing ſevere and unheard-of puniſh⯑ments on Auſtin; for certainly my friend Joſeph being abſent from his royal duty, and in a time of [45] war was not to be defended; and what added to his crime in Mr. Garrick's eye was, that he had been with that infernal exotic, Wilkinſon, to whom he never granted abſolution. He d—d Wilkinſon, he d—d Foote, and ſaid, ‘"Lacey, I ſay, ecod we will have no more exotics at the theatre!"’ and concluded with a determination to diſcard Auſtin, for he was at that time really an⯑gry and offended with him, and much diſapproved of his intimacy with me, as his jealous fearful temper ſuggeſted Auſtin (who was in full confi⯑dence with him) might give information now and then of ‘"The forbidden ſecrets of his priſon⯑houſe:"’ He at length pacified Clive, convinced her he was not concerned in the plot, and hoped to [...]ee Auſtin afflicted with tortures for what ſhe had ſuffered that night from his neglect, to which ſhe attributed her favourite offspring being ſtrang⯑led in the birth. Mr. Garrick even ſoothed her into tolerable temper, by aſſuring her that her [...]arce was one of the moſt entertaining and beſt written pieces that had been produced for years; her own acting had charmed him, and he was mortified to think her misfortune in its diſgrace was entirely [...]wing to the unparalleled bad behaviour of Auſtin. Poor Joe was obliged to face his Maſter Garrick in a few days, and I believe received from him a very ſevere lecture, attended (I conjecture) with [46] a ſmarting fine: he was alſo for ſome time ba⯑niſhed the court of Drury, and his Majeſty o [...] Denmark's pre [...]ence; but luckily for cunning Jo⯑ſeph Mr. Garrick had interwoven his theatrical ſchemes and buſineſs ſo much with him, that Garrick found he could not, without inconceive⯑able inconvenience, conduct his multiplicity of af⯑fairs without Joſeph's tranſacting the ſecret ſer⯑vices in the cabinet, for Croſs was grown old, ſu⯑perannuated, and unfit for his office as prompter, &c.; and on weighing the ſcales with Auſtin in one and his darling Intereſt with the Rupture in the other, he found the balance was againſt himſelf; he therefore with quick and wonted generoſity graciouſly reſtored Auſtin to favour at court, and reinſtated him in all his honours and moveables of which he had been diſpoſſeſſed:—For two years he was really a ſlave to him; nothing was right unleſs Auſtin was conſulted; and, by way of amends, he would often honour him by publicly walking with him arm in arm, chatting, laughing, &c. with a ſmall bribe for the day, and a large promiſe for the morrow; and I believe I may pronounce to a certainty, he never in all his life made Mr. Auſtin a genteel preſent or recompence for his trouble. I have mentioned this on gueſs, and if I am wrong in my aſſertion ſhall be happy to retract; for I would not advance a falſehood fo [...] [47] any advantage whatever, and Mr. Auſtin can eaſily in any newſpaper contradict what I have aſ⯑ſerted, and inform us of Mr. Garrick's generoſity. Mr. Auſtin is an inſtance of one who ſome time glow⯑ed under the ſunſhine-beams of court favour; yet with all his dependence on the great man in hopes of independence, he never could obtain his wiſhes and expectations; for, like the Miſer, Joſeph wanted to ‘"to touch ſomething real,"’ but was only paid (as Ramilie) with forgiveneſs of all that had paſſed.

At length wearied out, Mr. Auſtin was under the neceſſity of leaving his friends and country, and ſeeking a refuge and aſylum in Old Ireland: He never more returned to his old maſter Gar⯑rick.

Notwithſtanding Mr. Garrick's oddities, I al⯑ways did and ſhall reverence, reſpect, and eſteem him as the greateſt actor the Britiſh ſtage has ever known, from its firſt eſtabliſhment to the preſent day: but in other points I have only given the picture as it ſhould be, from the life, with all its ſpots, blemiſhes, and beauties; ſo my conſcience may reſt: as certainly, if my narrative reſpecting his treatment of myſelf be true, there remains no call of any trait of Mr. Garrick from my pen but juſtice.

In Dublin my old acquaintance Auſtin and I often met, and ſince that time as late manager of the [48] Newcaſtle theatre; but he has retired with eaſe an [...] plenty—an enviable ſtate! Whenever we do mee [...] and want matter for converſation, we need but re⯑collect Portſmouth, Mr. Garrick, Mrs. Clive, and others—and, as Lady Townly ſays, ‘"We can make the prettieſt ſherbet; aye, and without too much lemon:"’ and to conclude with her lady⯑ſhip's words (as to Auſtin and myſelf) ‘"I be⯑lieve in my ſoul it will laſt as long as we live."’

Mr. Garrick, though attached to ſubordination, was kept in order and decorum himſelf by our preſent ingenious writer, Counſellor Murphy; that gentleman could teaze his ſoul, and gall his gizzard whenever he pleaſed or judged himſelf wronged. Mr. Macklin my maſter Garrick did not much love, though formerly they were on a friendly footing, but the Drury palace gates againſt his irony were faſt cloſed. When Barbaroſſa (wrote by the late Dr. Brown) was produced, Garrick the firſt night entered after the fourth act in a glittering ſilver-ſpangled tiſſue ſhape; when Mrs. Clive, inſtead of court adulation, cried out, ‘"O my God! room! room! make room for the royal lamp-lighter!"’—which rudeneſs diſconcert⯑ed him much for the remaining part of the even⯑ing; and certainly it was too free, and not well timed, as he was tremblingly alive all over on the firſt night of a new part in a new play; and it [49] [...]ertainly is a ſerious matter in London, and a ſervice of danger.

Before I arrived in town from Portſmouth for Shuter's benefit, Mr. Arthur (manager of the Bath company) came to that town on the plan of building a new theatre there, as the inhabitants much wiſhed for a better and more regular com⯑pany of performers. Mr. Arthur waited on me, wiſhed me joy on the ſucceſs of my two nights public impromptu at Portſmouth; and as his friends, who had encouraged his new undertaking, wiſhed to ſee me there again the enſuing ſummer, he hoped it would turn out mutually agreeable and lucrative to himſelf and me;—the matter was ſettled and agreed between us. He then made another propoſal for my playing ten nights that ſpring ſeaſon at Bath, with a clear benefit—that was alſo agreed on, and I left Portſmouth and got to London on Wedneſday night, March 25, 1760, and on Thurſday gave Tea, as I had pro⯑ [...]iſed, for my friend Shuter's benefit; and I may with great truth affirm with wonderful applauſe: The approbation intoxicated me ſo much, that the night following, being in company with Shu⯑ter and Ballard the treaſurer, I conſented to pour water on the leaves for his benefit early in May, though I had engaged for Bath, and knew I was [...]o incur the expence from thence to London and [50] back again; but my deſire for applauſe increaſed my thirſt: it went down ſo deliciouſly, that I was glad to cover that as an obligation, which in fact I was pleaſed to be requeſted to do, and thought no price I could pay equal to public ap⯑probation. I did not then ſo well know the fickle changes of Fortune as well as life—Would I were young again!—But let it go—A fooliſh figure! farewell it.

I arrived at Bath well, and without the leaſt fa⯑tigue; the next day I paid my reſpects to Mr. Arthur, alſo to Mr. Ridout, with a thouſand compliments from Mr. Rich, who was unhappy at his ill-declining health calling him there, and obliging him to quit Covent-Garden theatre; to which place he never more returned. He was the only man in whom Mr. Rich placed any con⯑fidence, or whoſe advice he would liſten to. Mr. Ridout being prime miniſter, he was of courſe be⯑ſpattered with plenty of abuſe; but he, like me and Benedick, cared not for a ſatire or an epi⯑gram:—for if a man will let himſelf be beaten with brains, he ſhall wear nothing handſome about him.

Ridout was extremely glad to ſee me at Bath, and when my benefit was advertiſed he ſent me a letter deſiring three box tickets, and begged my acceptance of the incloſed three guineas, with his [51] beſt wiſhes and thanks for having ſo honourably kept my promiſe in 1758, not to meddle with his man⯑ner of acting any night of my imitations at either of the London theatres. The three guineas was meant, it is true, as a dcuceur, and I had ſome t [...]tle to accept the caſh and not return it; for I c [...]rtainly had deprived myſelf of a credit as to the imitation; and I pin my faith more on Mr. Mack⯑lin's opinion than on my own merit: for Mr. Macklin when I laſt ſaw him declared I had taken ſuch exact meaſure of Mr. Ridout, that my like⯑neſs of him was my maſter-piece. At Bath he died:—When I ſaw him there he appeared in a weak languid ſtate, not in immediate danger—

I ſo fly-like (Mr. Aircaſtle myſelf) from one point to another, that I can apologize, but cannot help being incoherent.

Bath was then certainly a pleaſing ſpot:—Now I am told, and it is well known, that city has in⯑creaſed at an incredible rate of elegance, to the aſtoniſhment and admiration of all Europe. In that city Mr. Keaſberry treated me with my firſt dinner, and I was particularly lucky by unexpect⯑edly meeting with an unthough-of bleſſing; for in a few hours after my name had been publiſhed o [...] Richard the Third, I was ſurpriſed with the [52] agreeable pleaſure of receiving cards from my ever dear remembered friends and patrons Mr. and Mrs. Chaigneau and Mrs. Forbes, and ſome others from Ireland—a moſt happy intelligence in⯑deed for me, abſtracted from intereſt. Bath was at that time, and ſtill continues, a place of con⯑ſtant, faſhionable, and friendly reſort of perſons of quality and fortune from the kingdom of Ireland: It was in truth a fortunate circumſtance, as they immediately introduced me not only to a genteel but faſhionable reſort of friends, who were of the utmoſt ſervice in fixing my reputation as a public performer amongſt all the circle of their acquaint⯑ance, beſides the certain allowed credit, convenience, and ſelf-ſatisfaction on my Bath onſet as an actor, to have ſuch eligible and eſteemed places to dine at, and be received as a particular friend and viſitant at Mr. Chaigneau's in Gay-ſtreet, and Mrs. Forbes's in Queen-ſquare, &c. I played a variety of characters there, and it would be tedious and fulſome to repeat the favours I received; every perſon I knew conſulted to make me happy. My benefit was on Monday, April 27, 1761—Confe⯑deracy the play, with Tea and the farce of the Guardian—I acted Mrs. Amlet, and the Guar⯑dian, with Tea; and in the courſe of my playing I acted Richard, Lear, Hamlet, and Shylock—parts in the Minor, Cadwallader, Petruchio, &c. [53] My benefit was honoured with ſo great a demand for places, that the whole pit was laid into the boxes, a circumſtance which had not been often in⯑ſtanced. A large party, with the late Lord Clive, were that night contented with places in the pit: Indeed a theatre is ſuch a ſtrange place, that the ſeat which is faſhionable one night is horrid ano⯑ther; for ſometimes if only the firſt rows of the ſide-boxes are taken the cry is, ‘"Not a place to be had in the boxes; every ſeat is let!"’ The front-boxes, if Mrs. Siddons acts, are called good places, and acknowledged (as they truly are) to be the beſt ſeats in the houſe for ſeeing a play; but on any night, if not wiſhing to be at the the⯑atre, and yet wanting an excuſe to ſtay away, the cry is, ‘"It is horrid—it is a bore.—Who can ſit in the front-boxes? thoſe giblet pies!’

When my nights with Mr. Arthur were ex⯑pired I had engaged to perform Lady Pentweazle and Cadwallader for his benefit on Monday, May 4; but Mr. Ballard the Covent-Garden treaſurer, (with Shuter's ſummons) advertiſed me in the London papers according to my promiſe, there⯑ [...]ore I could not be excuſed, being ſo indiſpenſably under an honourable contract to make my ap⯑pearance in London, and was obliged to quit Bath on Saturday, May 2, and took poſt-chaiſe for the [...]urpoſe. On Sunday noon I unexpectedly met a [54] party of friends at Hounſlow, where I ſpent a cheerful day, and got ſafe to London in the even⯑ing, and was ready to fulfil my duty and promiſed faith on Monday night. Before I left Bath I had agreed to return the Thurſday following, May the 7th, to perform for the benefit of Mr. Keaſ⯑berry.

The Monday night I was in London I had not leiſure to ſee any friend whatev [...]r, but was pleaſing myſelf with the thoughts of what vaſt and uncom⯑mon appl [...]uſe I ſhould be favoured with the next night: for my honey-draught on Shuter's benefit had bee [...] a great inducement for my incurring the expence of ſuch a poſt journey. I have often heard Mr. Foote declare, that the change of weather had an effect upon the tempers of the audiences; and alſo to a certainty it acted differently with the performers as to their ſpirits, &c. The truth of theſe o [...]ſervations I cannot take upon me to deter⯑mine, but leave it to the doctors and wiſer heads; Every frequenter of a theatre muſt have at times been inſenſibly led to obſerve, that with the ſame actors, in the ſame piece, and in the ſame theatre, the reception, whether it was the weather, the audience, or their own dulneſs, has been widely oppoſite. If the audience is not in humour, the performer, let him go on in his beſt ſpirits, will flag; but on the contrary, if the [55] audience is in great good humour, and the players flat and inſipid, they will catch the fire like elec⯑tricity; and though the performers went on the ſtage even in bad health and ſpirits, they will be transformed and all alert, forget their illneſs, be new vigoured, become what each wiſhes to per⯑ſonate in the aſſumed character—

So I on the day of Ballard's benefit, like Mrs. Heidleburgh, longed for the rencounter, and was as uſual well received; and I was determined to get applauſe by giving much more in quantity than what I had done for Shuter's benefit—an ig⯑norant zeal, that, like Shakſpeare's Dogberry, had it been ten times more, I would have beſtow⯑ed all my tediouſneſs on their Worſhips. But alas! alas! before I had gone half a ſtage with my [...]ic lecture my numerous auditory appeared to be ſleepy and tired. Now, whether it was as Mr. [...] had obſerved the weather, the drowſineſs [...]f the audience, or from what other chain of [...] I cannot tell; but I rather believe it was [...] [...]ing to a jumble of bad materials, with a dou⯑ [...] e quantity of my own inſipidity intermixed. One [...]cumſtance I re [...]ember perfectly, which was, I [56] thought it would never have been over without Supernatural Aid, or a ghoſt to tell me ſo—and I am certain my hearers thought ſo too. But as it is often ſaid, ‘"It is a long lane that has no turning,"’ ſo at laſt the concluſion did come, and two or three friends at the lower end of the hall gave a hand or two, the upper part of the building I be⯑lieve gave a different kind of token; therefore I did not take the vantage of thoſe few at the lower end, and ſtay to cry, ‘"Thanks, gentle citizens and friends, &c."’ but even then took off and made my exit.

Ballard's benefit was compoſed of all ſorts of the lower order of people from every diſtant quar⯑ [...]er of London, the greateſt part of whom perhaps did not ſee three plays in a year, and my imita⯑tions were as little underſtood by the red-cloaked ladies in the front-boxes as when I gave Tea at Norwich; in fact it was as Hamlet ſays, ‘"Caviare to the multitude."’ So I (poor Pilgarlick) had treated myſelf with a poſt-chaiſe jaunt of one hundred miles from Bath to London, and to re⯑turn back; and all for a bill which my vanity had drawn upon the bank of Folly, the which had no ſtability, and was not fit to be truſted, as it was proteſted and returned back on my hands to my own ſhame and diſgrace: This is true—but not [57] without a good leſſon for young people's improve⯑ment and future obſervation—and I conſoled my⯑ſelf with never in future playing at hazard for the chance of applauſe only, without the pecunia, where there were ſuch odds againſt me. I re⯑turned to Bath, and was on the ſtage on Thurſday, May 7, on Mr. Keaſberry's night, and when there, had plenty of Spaw-water, very eaſily purchaſed, to quench my thirſt for applauſe, when I wanted more than I deſerved:—Not but the longing deſire of applauſe is a good incentive to excite ſpirit and emu⯑lation in every young performer; for without am⯑bition few would encounter ſuch various and al⯑moſt inſurmountable difficulties as attend a theatre. I remember Miſs Noſſiter's ſaying in the green⯑room, that all of the theatrical profeſſion ſhould be bleſſed with more than common philoſophy: That we ſhould poſſeſs that ſaid serenity I agree to be a right obſervation, but am far from thinking we are in any great degree honoured with its attendanc [...] as a conſtant companion; in general we have ſome⯑thing like an equivalent, and that is great ſpirits, which glides over little misfortunes, evil tongues, and diſappointments, eaſier than with mankind in general; and good ſpirits create eaſe and happi⯑neſs, and, like death and the dice, levels all diſtinc⯑tions—

While at Bath I was ſolicited to perform for al⯑moſt every benefit; I moſt willingly complied, and [...]ted away moſt furiouſly without fee or re⯑ward, ſo was in no danger of ſuffering on the va⯑g [...] [...].

The two laſt plays were Hamlet and Richard the Third: the firſt for the benefit of Mr. Wil⯑liames, (termed the Ancient Carpenter) on Friday, June 5, 1761; and the laſt, for Mr. Wooley the painter, Monday, June 8.—The farce was Hob in the Will, in which Mr. Wooley appeared in the character of Hob.

The reaſon for my being ſo particular as to the days, months, and years, on trifles not worth doubting is, that it helps as a reference to the profeſſed plan with which I ſet out, and to make good my aſſertions with thoſe now living, who might think it worth while either to corroborate or contradict my relation of facts with the ſtricteſt obſervance of time and place.

From thence I lounged at Wincheſter until the new theatre at Portſmouth (building under Mr. Arthur's inſpection) was ready for the reception of the Bath Company, at that time under his di⯑rection, where I reſorted according to beat of [59] drum and marching orders on the 1ſt of July; but when I ſaw the deſolate ſtate of the building, I judged it impracticable for its wide extended walls to have a play enacted that good year of our Lord: However Arthur was indefatigable; ſlow, and ſure; and in ſo ſhort a time as Monday, July 20, Hamlet was announced for opening our new theatre, with the farce of the Contrivances—Hamlet, Mr. Wilkinſon; Polonius, Mr. Arthur; Ho [...]atia, Mr. Keaſberry; the Queen, Mrs. Lee.

Mrs. Lee was wife to the late Mr. Lee, and mother to the preſent Miſs Lees of Bath: One wrote the pleaſant comedy of the Chapter of Ac⯑cidents; and the other that entertaining and well-drawn romance of the Receſs. Mr Lee was well known in London as an actor of merit at Drury-Lane and Covent-Garden, alſo as manager and performer at Edinburgh and Bath. But ſome diſpute had happened about a year before I was at Bath between Mr. Lee and Mr. Palmer, (the Bath proprietor) which not being amicably ſettled, Mr. Lee withdrew; but ſhe very ſenſibly (not hav⯑ing given any cauſe for complaint) deſired to be retained.

Our new grand theatre at noon, on the 20th of July, had not the leaſt appearance of being fit to be opened that night, either before or behind the curtain—the whole company were of that [60] opinion: But great men will overcome obſtacles, and the wonder-working incomparable Arthur deſpiſed difficulties. At twelve o'clock at noon there was not one ſeat in the pit, but he actually contrived to get it finiſhed by ſeven. Not any rehearſal was poſſible, as the ſtage was up to one's waiſt in ſhavings. The populace were eager to ſee the new playhouſe, new company, and the firſt acted play; but on traverſing the ſtreets from four till ſeven, and no admittance, they became very noiſy, the ſailors particularly unruly; when into the ſtreet popped our old croſs commander in chief, Admiral Arthur—not like his advertiſed character of Polonius, but more reſembling one of the witches in Macbeth; for he had on an old round flapped hat, a woman's checked apron, with a large broom in his hand, and his face as begrimed and greasy as a barn-acting Othello in the Dog-days: He harangued the multitude, high and low, and humbly beſeeched their patience while himſelf and the hard-laboured carpenters aſſiſted in ſweep⯑ing the ſhavings out of the pit and gallery: He received a good hooting with a laugh, and retired to make his words good by deeds, and Hecate⯑like he ſweated and ſwept moſt violently, till the word without was given, as their impatience was beyond bounds; the doors were burſt open, the witch and her ſtick were thrown down and rolled [61] over and over; the broom had no other charms or ſpells than to aſſiſt the cripple to hobble out and eſcape with all poſſible expedition; there were no perſons ready, or offices fixed to take the money, ſo each ſailor and his laſs, or his companion and others ſeated themſelves in ſuch places as ſuited their fancies. But Arthur to ſhew his humble⯑neſs acted as a wary and careful manager; for, without putting off his apron, as ſoon as the houſe had filled and all were a little quiet and ſeated, in the midſt of a cloud of duſt he doffed his old brown hat, and went profoundly round the theatre to collect in it from every part what he could either by threats or civility obtain: ſome did pay, others did not, and ſome only what they pleaſed; nor would he have ſtirred till twelve at night whilſt he beheld the glimpſe of another dropping ſhil⯑ling to have paid for their forcibly-obtained foot⯑ing. When he had finiſhed that difficult job he retired to what was abſolutely requiſite, ſoap and ſand, and in about an hour more (the hour of nine) we proceeded on with our ſolemnity. Mr. Arthur was transformed—a long old periwig and a ſumptuous ſuit of clothes gracing his perſon for Polonius (a part which he had often performed in London, and acted truly well); but the lamps and candles having been loaded with the immen⯑ſity of our kindred duſt from Hecate, (the ma⯑nager's [62] outrageous ſweepings) had occaſioned ſuch a miſt and violent heat on the audience-part of the theatre, on the ſtage, behind the ſcenes, and had diſperſed ſuch an univerſal melancholy gloom as I never can forget:—every one of the perfor⯑mers, and the well-warmed (nay I may ſay nearly parched) ſpectators became reflectors of burning [...]eat to each other, and were almoſt literally ſ [...]orched on that night's dangerous undertaking. For my own part I judged I ſhould make my exit as a great man, being no leſs a perſonage than the Prince of Denmark; and recollecting the old wo⯑men's adage, that a man muſt ſwallow a peck of duſt [...]r [...] he dies, I concluded my time was come, as I [...]y my own ſuggeſtion fancied I muſt that night have g [...]ped that [...]ata [...] quantity:—however it is evident I ſurvived that ſuffocation. In three or four nights after, our little theatre was really an ele⯑gant, well-approved, and faſhionable place of re⯑ſort; far different from what the families of Portſmouth had ever then experienced in point of grandeur, comfort, or regularity; or as a reſpect⯑able company of comedi [...]ns.

Indeed I do not ſuppoſe Mr. Arthur would have opened the theatre in this ſtrange, inconvenient, and contemptu [...]us condition, but from a particular circumſtance, which was, that the 20th of July [...]d on to the Portſmouth annual mart; a week of [63] general reſort for all ſorts of people that aſſembled yearly to purchaſe toys, ribands, flippets, &c. therefore had he loſt that advantage, he would have miſſed the capital prize in his theatrical lot⯑tery. It was ſtill the time not only of hoſtility with France, but an honourable, ſucceſsful, and as glorious a war as any the Britiſh annals can boaſt;—though as to war at Portſmouth the creed of the inhabitants is eaſily underſtood by the words of Kate Matchlock in the Funeral, who ſays, ‘"O rare news! we are going to have a war, and a war's a war, no matter whether abroad or at home."’—So in fact war is the only manufactory of Portſmouth and Plymouth:—And of courſe that war continuing added much to our good for⯑tune, and was the happy work of more lucky [...]hances. We were ſoon oppoſed by the old Ply⯑mouth company of comedians at the old theatre, the ragged regiment I have ſo often mentioned; but their theatre was ſo dirty, their conduct ſo ir⯑regular, that they were generally viewed as a vul⯑gar dram-drinking ſet when compared to our de⯑cent demeanour and truly creditable appearance; therefore we were honourably termed the quality company: Our houſe had many advantages, not only as to elegance, but was more commodious and cool; with good wardrobe, ſcenery, &c.

[64] My night was on Monday, September 26, and was greatly attended; as a proof I believe it was the beſt in our whole ſucceſsful ſeaſon. Tamer⯑lane with the Upholſterer.—I acted Bajazet, the firſt ſcene of Sir Archy, Bucks have at ye All, with Pamphlet and Razor.

Our campaign ended without any particular oc⯑currences on Monday, October 19, 1761, with Henry VIII. and the Coronation: It was acted two nights after the benefits were over. Wol⯑ [...]ey, Wilkinſon; Gardiner, Arthur; Cranmer, Keaſberry; Henry, Stephens the button-maker (once famous as Othello in London); Anna Bullen, Miſs Reynolds, late Mrs. Saunders, who acted the Country Girl when it was altered at Mr. Garrick's deſire ſome years ago by Mr. Bicker⯑ſtaff; Queen Katherine, Mrs. Baker.

Mrs. Baker was a woman of ſtrong underſtand⯑ing, aided by a good and highly finiſhed education, wonderful natural abilities, and an actreſs of great capacity, and ſhe had performed three or four parts at Covent-Garden, where they could not de⯑ny ſhe poſſeſſed much merit; her features were very good, but her figure was ſhort, clumſey, and againſt her in many parts, which otherwiſe ſhe was well calculated for. If a line had been drawn of competitorſhip, the firſt of that or the preſent day would have ſhrunk in the debate as to com⯑prehenſion [65] and real underſtanding, and yielded to her courteſey. Uſe is of greater importance than the London or any other audience are aware of.—Mrs. Pritchard was a ſtriking inſtance, who, with a large figure, was eſteemed the beſt Roſalind, though Mrs. Woffington, the beautiful, was her opponent.—Prejudice for ſome time pre⯑vailed much againſt Mrs. Baker at York, where ſhe acted during the races in Auguſt 1768, and one winter 1769; but at the latter part of the ſea⯑ſon ſhe ſurmounted thoſe prejudices. At Edin⯑burgh, where ſhe reſided ſome years, ſhe was in univerſal eſteem as an actreſs: but on a quarrel with Mr. Digges (for her temper was ſoon ruffled, and ſhe was too apt to ruſh into the different ex⯑ [...]remes of love and hate) ſhe haſtily quitted the ſtage, and there undertook the difficult taſk of teaching the Engliſh pronunciation; for which ſhe was not only capable but thoroughly qualified: In ſo doing ſhe received great promiſes, (and what was better) great emoluments, all which increaſed inſtead of being diminiſhed. She was received as a gueſt of knowledge and entertaining liv [...]ly con⯑verſation at the firſt tables in Edinburgh, which honours, at that city, would never without talents have been conferred. Her laſt performance at Portſmouth was in Queen Katherine.

The coronation to Henry VIII. had double effect [66] from being well timed; his preſent Majeſty King George III. having been crowned on Tueſday, Sept. 22. On that day moſt of the Hampſhire world aſſembled; for thoſe that could not be in London flocked to Portſmouth, and there beheld at noon a glorious ſight indeed; ſeveral of our nobleſt ſhips of war dreſſed in their colours, all the officers of their ſeparate denominations decked out in their full uniforms, and every perſon, both high and low, in their holiday clothes:—whilſt all the cannon from the ramparts and ſhipping, as alſo [...]rom the caſtle on South-Sea Common, were echoing and re echoing reſounding thunder, with ſuch a delightful confuſion of noiſe, (as Sir Cal⯑laghan O Brallaghan ſays) that I can no more attempt to give an account of it than to tell the ſtars in the ſky. That heavenly ſight was greatly heightened by the additional illumination of Apollo, who had mounted his fiery ſteeds, and the ſun beamed moſt brilliantly, and hai [...]ed one of the moſt auſpicious and ſplendid days that ever bleſſed our nation. Almoſt every reader knows that the pro⯑ſpect from the ramparts at Portſmouth to the Iſle of W [...]ght is one of the moſt delightful in the king⯑dom. The coronation being the general topic added not a little to curioſity and attraction for our Henry VIII. on that evening; and the play was highly approved by a full audience.

[67] I muſt not omit before I quit Hampſhire to mention, that early in Auguſt 1761, Mr. Lee had hired a banditti ſet of actors to perform at Win⯑cheſter every Saturday for a few weeks, a camp being there, but far inferior to the encampment I before deſcribed the preceding year; but I agreed on ſuch nights to accompany Mrs. Lee, he paying the carriage for two days, the Saturday and Sun⯑day, and to have a clear benefit; which engage⯑ment he punctually fulfilled, but we differed about ſome trifle and did not part friends. Mr. Lee was very fond of teaching to act, with which he amuſed himſelf from Saturday to Saturday with almoſt as thin a company as Gibbet's in the Beaux Stratagem—I am ſure it did not double it.—The ſalaries the reader may be ſure were poor, as Win⯑cheſter with the little camp could not afford great expences ſo as to procure Mr. Lee a living, and the additional charges of my going there with Mrs. Lee; yet Mr. Lee being known as an actor of merit, the officers were pleaſed and obliged to him for their Saturday's lounge, and made it a point to do all in their power to ſupport him.—Mr. Lee would not lead off the firſt play—I be⯑lieve he was really afraid, his ſpirits being daſhed, as whoſe would not; like Falſtaff, who ſays, ‘"If I be not aſhamed of my ſoldiers, I am a ſouſed gu [...] ⯑ [...]et."’

[68] The firſt play was on Saturday, Auguſt 8, 1761. There was not any thing appeared to Lee to be ſo practicable as my doing the parts in the Minor, ſo the Minor was fixed on without any other en⯑tertainment whatever; and it was acted from ne⯑ceſſity in a very mutilated ſtate, as it was impoſſi⯑ble the people Mr. Lee had ſo ſuddenly and with difficulty collected could be perfect in the interme⯑diate ſcenes where I was not concerned: However a very genteel houſe appeared of Mr. Lee's pa⯑trons, and I was well received as their old favourite acquaintance, having been there a whole campaign the year before with the Bath company; ſo from conſideration to Mr. Lee and myſelf, they went away in perfect good humour, profeſſed them⯑ſelves pleaſed and ſatisfied with their ſhort enter⯑tainment.

Auguſt 15, we acted the Fair Penitent: Mr. Lee had amuſed himſelf with drilling his troops, and the play had one great claim to being well received, as it was very perfect. Lothario, Mr. Lee; Horatio, Mr. Wilkinſon; Lavinia, Mrs. Burden, who had acted Charlotte in Love A-la-Mode at Covent-Garden, and the lady I have ſo often mentioned as the infernal limb; Caliſta by Mrs. Lee. The farce was Lethe—The Old Man and Lord Chalkſtone, Mr. Wilkinſon; French⯑man, Mr. Lee.

[69] Auguſt 22, Jane Shore. Shore Mr. Lee; Ha⯑ſtings, Mr. Wilkinſon:—With a ſcene from Taſte as the entertainment; Lady Pentweazle, Mr. Wilkinſon.

Auguſt 29, The Way to Keep Him. Love⯑more Mr. Lee; Bucks have at ye All, Mr. Wil⯑kinſon: With the farce of the Author: Mr. Cad⯑wallader, Mr. Wilkinſon.

September 5, (By deſire of Lady Harriet Con⯑yers) The Provoked Wife: Sir John Brute, Mr. Lee; and for the farce Mr. Wilkinſon will give Tea.

September 12, (my laſt night) Romeo and Ju⯑liet: Romeo, Mr. Wilkinſon; Mercutio, Mr. Lee. With Bucks have at ye All, and the fa⯑vourite ſcene of Sir Archy Mac Sarca [...]m from Love A-la-Mode—to a very noble audience, which may be eaſily accounted for, not only as a reward for the trouble I had undergone of performing, added to the journies, but from my eſtabliſhed acquaintance with the gentlemen of the army, as well as with the particular inhabitants of Win⯑cheſter the preceding year. After the hard duty I had ſuſtained of marching and counter marching from ſtage to ſtage, and the buſineſs univerſally heavy on me at Portſmouth garriſon, no wonder if I wiſhed to indulge a few weeks autumn repoſe, with that beſt good phyſician my mother, who [70] was certainly not only my trueſt but moſt agree⯑able friend. After a few days r [...]ſt I viſited my old maſter Mr. Rich, who had ſome weeks be⯑fore ordered Mr. Ballard the treaſurer to write me a letter of invitation, and that I was ex⯑pected by his manager to be in London by the 20th of September, the opening time of the Lon⯑don theatres, with an offer of 6l. per week, and to be ready in the character of Bayes, and to ſign an article for three years, benefits included in the propoſal. My engagement with Mr. Arthur, rendered a compliance (with honour or any degree of honeſty) impoſſible. My non-attendance much offended Mr. Rich, as he thought (and very juſtly) he had made me a very genteel and comfortable offer; but after I had two or three times attended his mornings levee, we became as good friends as ever. He even condeſcended to requeſt a favour, which was, that I would make my firſt appear⯑ance in a farce, which he told me ſecretly in con⯑fidence, was of his own writing; and I have reaſon to believe it was, and that it will not be eagerly contradicted or claimed on account of its be⯑queathed honours to poſterity. It was called the Spirit of Contradiction. He ſaid, if I would but act the part of the Gardener from his larning, it would make my fortune, provided I would im⯑plicitly yield to his inſtructions. I had by that [71] [...] grown ſo familiarized to Mr. Rich's oddities, that I unfeignedly held him in great regard and eſteem, and in the true ſenſe of the word, believe he was a worthy and reſpectable gentleman; for tho' I well remembered he pronounced a very unfavour⯑able opinion of me ſome years before when I was really diſtreſſed, yet in our after ſerious acquaint⯑ance I often experienced many acts of kindneſs, good wiſhes, and cordiality, which fully made me amends, and my former ſeeming ill luck had made me often read the book called Experience. Too [...]ten neglected in all ſtages of life, for the preven⯑tion of errors which lead to misfortunes.

When I ſpoke of the Gardener for Mr. Shuter (who was the Edwin of the time) inſtead of myſelf, he took his ſnuff, ſtroaked his cat, and ſaid, ‘"If I give it Muſter Shuttleworth he will not let me teach him, and he is ſo idle: I want it perfect Muſter Williamſkin; but I will larn you Muſter, if you will play the part from my tuition.’

We were one noon, hard at work with the part of the Gardener, when Mr. Younger the prompter abruptly came into the room on urgent and imme⯑diate ſtage ſtate-affairs, Rich perceiving him, turned haſtily about, and in a rage ſaid, ‘"Get away Muſter Youngmore, I am teaching Muſter Whittington to act."’ If queſtioned why I have ſpoken of Mr. Rich ſo reſpectfully, yet draw ſuch a caricature? I an⯑ſwer, [72] my obligations to him at firſt were not thoſe of a good kind, that I altered my opinion, by having notions ſuperior to prejudice, and as a true drawing of character, without giving tints of theſe oddities, ſtrangers would have no true notion of Mr. Rich's real manner and per⯑ſonal oddities: And I wiſh every writer, good or bad, never dealt in more ſatire or intention of doing harm than my inſignificant ſelf. Indeed Mr. Rich's peculiarities are not here obſerved as a no⯑velty, for his beſt friends then, and thoſe who now remain cannot but ſay the relation is not more whimſical than true.

When I had undergone ſix days leſſons, and repeated the Gardener line by line, and to the beſt my ear could conduct me, Mr. Rich ſaid, ‘"No engagement with his larning me, unleſs confirmed by an article ſigned for three years."’ Now I had been ſo weary of Mr. Garrick's ty⯑ranny, and above all loved to ramble, and was ſo habituated to get money and be my own maſter, that I could not by any means reliſh the leaſt idea of bondage; for being at liberty (excluſive of the profit) ſeemed doubly pleaſant and alluring. So in ſhort, after a pauſe, with heſitation, and finding I could not gulp down an article, I frankly told him my diſpoſition; but that I was notwithſtand⯑ing at his command, on his profered terms for [73] ten weeks only; whereat my old maſter grew angry, I turned ſullen, and our interview con⯑cluded as follows:—

His aſtoniſhment and anſwer I ſhall never forget, though his prophecy was not in reſpect to myſelf verified, yet I have reaſon to fear ſome adventurers [74] poſſeſſed of too much faith in promiſes, woefully experienced real diſappointment.

The day before the fracas happened, I had re⯑ceived a letter of preſſing invitation from Mr. Moſſop, then manager of Smock-Alley theatre in Dublin. That unexpected treaty could not have been brought about after Moſſop's declared aver⯑ſion, had it not been for the willing interference of Counſellor Barrett. That gentleman had a [75] ſtrong partiality for Mr. Moſſop, as a friend and an actor; they had been bred I underſtood at college together, which laſting intimacy induced Mr. Barrett to be ever ready to contribute to⯑wards conciliation and acts of kindneſs; for the which, I doubt he ſuffered very conſiderably (tho' willingly) by frequently encroaching on his own ſubſtantial finances to the generouſly aſſiſting Moſ⯑ſop with material ſums at times when bewildered, and plunged in his fatal airy ſcheme of being an oppoſing manager, which too frequently occa⯑ſioned various occurrences and diſaſters at different periods; for which generous benevolence, I fear the friendly hearted Counſellor never had a chance or poſſibility of being reimburſed: however he was affluent, and did not want money, but the [...]iſtreſſed actor unhappily did. I relate this from conjecture only, never having been on a footing of intimacy with Mr. Barrett to enable me to vouch for its authenticity, though infinitely obliged to him in Ireland, in 176 [...], for many civilities which I am ever pleaſed to acknowledge; likewiſe his being inſtrumental to the bringing me and Mr. Moſſop on terms of amity once more in 1762: but that governour of reſtleſs players was not by any means bleſſed with a tythe of Mr. Barry's pleaſing abilities as an actor, or generous qualities as a man or manager. Mr. Barry had certainly [76] a moſt enchanting faſcination beyond the ge⯑neral lot of mankind; as a proof, it was ſeldom either creditor or enemy left Barry in an ill humour, however in other reſpects diſſatisfied or diſappointed. Mr. Moſſop was overloaded with a quantity of combuſtibles, conſiſting of pride, inſolence, arro⯑gance and gall. I reviewed the difference as to the reſpective managers; but Moſſop's offer claimed a priority of preference, as being the firſt, and that offer was liberal. The reader will think it ſtrange that Moſſop ſhould have any engage⯑ment with me after his declarations; but he judged (I ſuppoſe) it was better policy to keep ſuch a miſchievous monkey in his own theatre, where he might play his tricks at the expence of the enemy, than ſuffer pug to be at the oppoſite one, and be let looſe upon himſelf. He wrote me word I might depend on every friendſhip in his power, to render his theatre agreeable; and in⯑ſinuated, that after his generous perſentation he truſted I would not deal ſo unlike a gentleman when I arrived in Dublin, as to enter or liſten to any terms whatever as to engaging with Barry and Woodward, which I aſſented to. On my ar⯑rival Mr. Moſſop and I ſoon ſettled all prelimina⯑ries, it was early in January and a few days after Chriſtmas holidays. My firſt appearance was in the play of the Minor, (which two years before [77] had been damned as a farce): it would have been hazardous; but its being inſinuated and advertiſed with a pompous account of the amazing run and ſucceſs it had met with at all the three theatres in London, not omitting to mention conſiderable alterations, which by ſo doing obtained a verdict in favour of ſeeing and hearing it acted. And as Mr. Foote has been mentioned to have obſerved the difference of weather, humours, and various accidents that make for and againſt to render it impoſſible to account for the uncertain changes in theatrical events, ſo the Minor was acted to a very fine houſe, received with univerſal applauſe, and continued to be performed twice a-week to good houſes.

My imitation of Mrs. Bellamy (in Shift), with the Introduction, the Puppets, and a Mock Bur⯑letta Imitation, &c. were of great ſervice. The Minor was well ſupported, as may be perceived by the following caſt.—I acted Mr. Foote's cha⯑racters; the Minor, Mr. Jefferſon; Mr. Wealthy, Mr. Sowden; Sir William, Mr. Baddely; Loader, Mr. Ryder:—Lucy, Mrs. Kelf. In that theatre I met with my agreeable friend, Mrs. Abington, in high eſtimation; ſhe did not ſee her old friend Tate with a new face. She had grown weary of being connected with Barry and Mrs. Dan⯑cer, as the latter could not reliſh the triumph of [78] Miſs Notable, nor could Miſs Notable patiently ſubmit to the inſolence and affected ſuperiority of Mrs. Conqueſt. My agreeable acquaintance Mrs. Kelf, now Mrs. Egerton, with her mother and ſiſter, were at Moſſop's theatre; and if this book falls into her hands, ſhe will laugh very heartily on recollecting the many happy days, and whim⯑ſical adventures which occurred that winter in dear Dublin. Whenever I remember the happineſs I there experienced, and the numerous obligations I received in that city, I ſigh and languiſh for another peep, ere I depart to meet my many good friends of great Britain and Ireland which have gone before me, to that country from whoſe bourne no traveller returns.

Mr. Moſſop and myſelf, for the firſt three weeks, were on the moſt intimate footing. I dined twice with him at Dr. Wilſon's apartments in Trinity College; he was a ſtaunch friend of Moſſop's. (I believe the Smock-ally theatre was Dr. Wil⯑ſon's property.) Theſe dinners, I ſurmiſed, were intended to induce me, by their mutual rhetoric and perſuaſion, to attack Barry and Woodward; but that I declined from policy. For I propheti⯑cally judged it moſt likely that this ſudden apparent friendſhip would not be of very long duration, as I knew in his heart he hated me: ſo the founda⯑tion which I depended on his good will was very [79] [...]ak and frivolous; and when he wanted to be quit of me, I ſhould have ſhut Barry's doors againſt my ſweet ſelf. However I propoſed, over our claret, to take great pains with Woodward's favourite character of the Barber, and he might advertiſe my name for it in the manner of the original, which ſeemed to pleaſe Moſſop much; a plain proof how we reliſh ſatire againſt others, and how little we allow for it againſt ourſelves: It was immediately brought forward.

The next day after being with Mr. Moſſop, I waited on the attractive Abington, and importuned her aſſiſtance in Termagant, which ſhe good na⯑turedly complied with. She was at that juncture of time in her full bloom and prime of life: ſhe has had her day—Miſs Farren now has her day; and ſhe, I hope, will live like the French beauty Madam Ninon de l'Enclos, who captivated her ſon by her charms when ſhe was at the age of ſeventy.

I told Mrs. Abington I ſhould revive the Jealous Wife for my night, if ſhe would favour me with playing Mrs. Oakley, ſhe conſented to ſtudy it againſt the 22d of February. Indeed ſhe, that winter, as well as in 1760, paid me great civi⯑lities, and I never received a favour in my life that I was not grateful for, and ever ready and proud to acknowledge. It was ſurpriſing that ſo truly good a comedy ſhould have been in print [80] two winters, and not brought forward properly at either of the Dublin theatres. We acted the Author three or four nights, and it was com⯑manded by their Graces the Duke and Ducheſs of Northumberland; his Grace was at that time the Lord Lieutenant. The Upholſterer was often repeated, and I was eſteemed ſo very like Wood⯑ward in the part, by my having ſo exactly copied his manner and dreſs, that I do not believe Col⯑ley Cibber's relation of his likeneſs of Dogget in Fondlewi [...]e was in truth beyond my exact repre⯑ſentation of Woodward in the Barber. Lady Pentweazle alſo helped to make out my twelve nights, with the repeating the ſucceſsful comedy of the Jealous Wife, in which I acted Mr. Oak⯑ley. That year, early in March 1762, both the tragedy candidates Barry and Moſſop, had fixed on performing Othello on the ſame Monday, for their benefit play. Moſſop relying on his novelty, Barry on his long-eſtabliſhed reputation; the par⯑tiſans prepared for battle, bets ran high and furious as in the preſent days for pugiliſm. Moſſop's holder of the ſtakes was the Counteſs of Brandon, heavy in demeanour, but alert in apprehenſion. Her l [...]dyſhip ſolicited his Grace the Duke of Nor⯑thumberland, to command Moſſop's night, to which he generouſly aſſented; but wiſely con⯑trived to occaſion a ceſſation of hoſtilities between [81] [...]he two combatants, by promiſing to Barry, that provided he would poſtpone his night to the Tueſ⯑day, he would alſo command that evening's en⯑tertainment, by which means the town would be kept in good humour, the particular friends of each reſt ſatisfied, and, his Grace alſo added, he ſhould (by ſuch attention and compliance from Mr. Barry) not be deprived the pleaſure of ſeeing him in his favourite character of Othello, which always afforded him the higheſt ſatisfaction.—Barry of courſe complied, and was not inwardly diſpleaſed that the critics (without a diviſion) would have ſuch an immediate opportunity to compare notes on the ſkill and ſuperiority of the declared opponents. On this remarkable occaſion each houſe was equally thronged, though Barry's on the Tueſday was the greateſt receipt, as Crow-ſtreet, was capable of containing more than Smock⯑alley; otherwiſe party zeal added to curioſity, raiſed auditors in ſuch ſuper-abundance as would have filled Drury-Lane and Covent-Garden theatres. As to victory, Barry's Othello was ſo meritorious as to make Moſſop's viewed at a diſtance only; he was as much ſuperior in the va⯑liant Moor, as Moſſop would have been to Barry in Richard or Zanga. I ſat the evening of Moſſop's benefit in an upper box, where a lady, who ſat next me, exclaimed on Moſſop's firſt appearance, with [82] an archneſs and humour peculiar to that nation, ‘"O! faith Moſſop has got two eyes in his belly?"’ This ſhrewd remark was occaſioned by his wearing a heavy emboſſed ſhape, (fit for Brutus or Cato) a dragon's face on the breaſt, with two large gla⯑ring red ſtones for the eyes, his face and wig being black, conveyed exactly what the lady had ſo iro⯑nically expreſſed. Mr. Barry, though maſterly that night of controverſy, had frequently ſhewn himſelf to more advantage, merely owing to his then taking too great pains in his favourite and much eſteemed part; which proves, that lucky ac⯑cidents fortunately combined with nature will per⯑chance ſtrike out more beauties for an artiſt than all the moſt determined force of premeditation.

Mr. Moſſop that year had an Italian opera com⯑pany, which was of infinite ſervice to him, but aſtoniſhingly hurt his own conſequence: for what with parties and other diverſions of routs, aſſem⯑blies, concerts, &c. with which Dublin in the winter abounds, and oppoſed by the forces of Woodward and Barry (for they ſtill maintained their faſhion and good report) the great box nights were chiefly confined to thoſe of the bur⯑lettas. That agreeable ſinger and actreſs Signora De Amicé was the principal, and was almoſt ado⯑red; ſhe after that greatly ſucceeded at the opera houſe in London, as the firſt ſerious woman ſinger.

[83] Theſe Italian comic operas were all the rage, and were ſupported at the following prices:—boxes, pit, and lattices, 5s. 5d.—middle gallery, 2s. 2d.—upper gallery, 1s. 1d. Dublin was then torn to pieces by the perpetual application for one theatre or the other; it was reduced quite to a party matter. The Counteſs of Brandon would not be ſeen at Crow-ſtreet upon any account, but attended conſtantly at her dear Moſſop's. Barry, I believe had at leaſt converted the ladies two to one in his favour. Barry's making love, when on the ſtage, left tender impreſſions; but yet this play-begging at laſt grew troubleſome, and ended with fatal circumſtances, of which an exact ac⯑count has before been given.

Moſſop, when he had a good houſe, inſtead of endeavouring to extricate himſelf in any degree from his multiplicity of difficulties, grew deſperate, and inſtead of paying either his tradeſmen or per⯑formers, flew to the gay circles, where he was gladly admitted; and in order to mend his bro⯑ken fortune by the chance of a die or the turn up of a card, of which I believe he was ignorant, and unacquainted with the neceſſary arts to ſucceed. He has often left the theatre with a hundred gui⯑neas in his pocket, and returned home with an aching head and heart; but his guineas, with debts of honour, were all left behind. The Coun⯑teſs [84] of Brandon ſerved him greatly it is true; but often the money ſhe occaſioned being paid at the theatre returned to her own coffers. This was the univerſal opinion of Dublin, and is all I can alledge in that caſe as to its authenticity; and, as to Moſſop's poverty, there needs no evidence for that unfortunate reality.

This conduct, and a train of evils attendant thereon, ſoon preyed upon his health, involved his talents with himſelf, and gave bitter ſours to that temper which was, in its natural ſource, far from being one of the beſt. An inſtance of the poverty his performers were reduced to in 1764 I will, with permiſſion, relate.

The Diſtreſſed Mother was to be acted—Oreſtes, Mr. Moſſop; Andromache, by Mrs. Burden (whom I have ſo often mentioned.) The ſalaries had not been paid for ſeveral weeks, and ſhe was in true character as the diſtreſſed woman. With infinite difficulty ſhe forced acceſs to the General Moſſop; for it was hard to accompliſh admittance on account of many inconvenient reaſons, unleſs on a Sunday, and on that grand levee-day performers and tradeſmen were too menial to be admitted. But with the force of a heroine, who dauntleſs ſurmounts all barriers and tyrants at will, ſo Mrs. Burden burſt into the ‘"inmoſt receſs of his pri⯑ſon houſe,"’ and when arrived at the royal hall, ſhe was as determined to preſerve character—for [85] at the awful voice of Moſſop ſhe, Andromache-like, was proſtrate at the feet of her royal maſter, and uttered forth in tragic tones, ‘"O! Sir, for God's ſake aſſiſt me, I have not bread to eat, I am actually ſtarving, and ſhall be turned out into the ſtreets."’

My benefit that year, Feb. 22, 1762, was as uſual, very great indeed, it could not be better. My play (as before related) was the Jealous Wife.—Oakley (with a prologue of Garrick's) Mr. Wil⯑kinſon; Major Oakley, Mr. Baddely; Lord Trin⯑ket, Mr. Jefferſon; Charles, Mr. Reed; Ruſſet, Mr. Heaphy; Sir Harry, Mr. Ryder; Capt. O'Cut⯑ter, Mr. Sparks:—Lady Freelove, Miſs Kennedy; Harriet, Miſs Macartney; Mrs. Oakley, Mrs. [86] Abington: With Tea, Bucks have at ye All, and the farce of the Country Houſe.

My engagement with Moſſop being expired, I intended ſoon leaving my old favourite ſpot, which was now become a home; but was detained by Mrs. Abington's requeſting I would ſtay and aſſiſt her in a ſcene of fun and humour for her benefit night, which ſhe had complied with at the re⯑queſt of her really good benefactor Lord Miltown. Mrs. Abington, had often entertained ſeveral gen⯑teel parties with ſome droll ſtories of a good gen⯑tlewoman ſhe named Mrs. Fuz. I had been on parties with Lord Miltown and Lord Clambrazil, when in high ſpirits and good humour, and had di⯑verted myſelf and the company with ſtories and anecdotes, of my dear, favourite, old lady, Mrs. White, of whom the reader muſt by this time have formed ſome idea, by referring back to what I have before related of my darling old gen⯑tlewoman's ſingularities.

Mrs. Abington had promiſed Lord Miltown ſhe would produce herſelf as Mrs. Fuz, and ſhe would prevail on her friend Wilkinſon to do the ſame, as Mrs. Jenkins (alias Mrs. White); which information his Lordſhip made known to all fa⯑milies of diſtinction in Dublin: but the peer did not reflect, that thoſe ſtories told by myſelf [...] Mrs. Abington, over the convivial table gave a kind of explanatory key to the ſtrange characters [87] and Sir Francis Delaval and Mr. Foote knew the mother and the daughters, as well as myſelf; but on a ſtage where few of the audience were ac⯑quainted either with the character that Mrs. Abington or I repreſented, the joke was as dif⯑ficult to find out as Mr. Bayes's laughing violent⯑ly at his own Prince Volſcius, where the joke lay in the boots.—Her play was Rule a Wife—Leon, Mr. Moſſop; Copper Captain, Mr. Brown:—Eſtifania, Mrs. Abington. Between the play and farce, an interlude called Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Fuz. Mrs. Jenkins, Mr. Wilkinſon; Mrs. Fuz, Mrs. Abington. Before the night came, we often entertained ourſelves with extempore rehearſals, and conceived ourſelves eaſy, perfect, and entertaining. Mrs. Jenkins was dreſſed before the play concluded. Mrs. Abington, after an epilogue of ſhrewd turn, and ſpoke with great point, retired to dreſs as Mrs. Fuz; our dreſſes had been before well conſidered.—It was a crowded houſe; part of the pit laid into the boxes. Mrs. Abington had ordered an excellent ſupper, ſuperbly lighted, &c. and had wrote a little intro⯑ductory dialogue-ſcene in the ſtreet between two gentlemen, giving a deſcription of a party they were that night invited to, and where two extra⯑ordinary characters were aſked for the entertain⯑mentof the lady's gueſts, at whoſe houſe the ren⯑dezvous was appointed; but each perſon was en⯑joined [88] to lay their fingers on their lips, and not to laugh on any account whatever, but to pay every mark of attention and approbation, in order that the two ladies might with more unlimited free⯑dom diſplay their different abſurdities. After the dialogue was finiſhed, the ſcene was drawn up, and diſcovered ſeveral well-dreſſed ladies and gentle⯑men at ſupper:—Miſs Ambroſe was ſitting at my elbow as the daughter of Mrs. Jenkins, who intended bringing her on the ſtage:—Mrs. Fuz was ſeated at one front corner of a long ſupper table, and I was at the other: Mrs. Kelf was at the head as lady of the ceremonies, which was the only good part, for there were the ſervants with wine, and ſhe diſplayed on the occaſion her being miſtreſs of a good knife and fork. On being diſcovered, and looking ſcornfully at each other, our two figures had for ſome time a fine effect; loud fits of laugh⯑ter ſucceeded, and from theſe great expectations were formed.

Mrs. Fuz then deſired Mrs. Jenkins to begin—Mrs. Jenkins deſired Mrs. Fuz would do the ſame—and we found ourſelves in an aukward ſituation: But after a few efforts the two ladies entered into a hobbling ſhort converſation, which was received very well, from the eager opinion that ſomething better would follow, for the audience were all eyes and ears; but we ſoon flagged: Mrs. Fuz aſked for a glaſs of wine—ſays Mrs. Jenkins, upond my ſould [89] and I will have a glaſs of wind too. Then Mrs. Fuz ſaid, when ſhe was firſt married her two breaſteſes were ſo large, you might have carried a plate of ſalt upon them:—That did not do, and the Abington began to feel it a ſervice of danger, perplexity, and diſgrace.—Mrs. Jenkins called to her daughter to act Juliet, and obſerve her man⯑ner, and to ſtick herſelf upon the ſtage as if ſhe was chilled and ſtabbed throfout: But as ſhe kneeled down to act Juliet, the ſtrange old lady, Mrs. Fuz, got up, gave her a kick, ran away, and abandoned Mrs. Jenkins to the mercy of the audience; I was well aware of what might be expected, and therefore loſt no time, but aroſe and ran after her, crying out, ‘"Mrs. Fuz! Mrs. Fuz!"’—The audience began to ſmoke the joke, and by their tokens of anger gave the neceſſary hint to the ſtaring ladies and gentlemen on the ſtage, that a retreat would not be imprudent if they regarded their ſafety; ſo they ran away alſo, which cauſed a laugh; for it was evident when Mrs. Abington and I had eloped, they were ignorant what to do, not knowing but that we meant to return, for they were only deſired to [...]tay on till we finiſhed, which the performers could not conceive would be ſo abruptly as we made it, but expected us to come back and make a con⯑cluſion to our characters.

[90] I hope Mrs. Abington has not forgot this, but will laugh at it as I do; though it was truly auk⯑ward at the time, and it really drew Lord Mil⯑town into diſgrace, for he had ſaid ſo much in fa⯑vour of the promiſed ſcene, that it had been the converſation of the preceding week.

When the curtain dropped, which was with loud marks of cenſure, the ladies univerſally aroſe, and, by way of joke, laughed and courteſied to each other, ſaying, ‘"Your ſervant, Mrs. Jen⯑kins; your ſervant, Mrs. Fuz!’—which I dare ſay vexed his Lordſhip much, not only for his own and the diſappointment of the audience, but more ſo, as any failure of Mrs. Abington's was morti⯑fying to him; for he was then, and I am told is now a moſt violently attached and true patron and well-wiſher of hers. Mrs. Abington, in her epilogue after Eſtifania, had ſpoke ſome lines very ſarcaſtically aimed at Mr. Woodward; who, to ſpeak truth, deſerved it at her hands: they were very ſevere, and her being ſo great a favourite, and delivering them moſt excellently in Woodward's manner, ſtung him to the quick. Indeed he was ſo much irritated by her arch exhibition, that it put a ſtop to my intended ſail for England, and was the occaſion of an intimacy between hi [...] and me; as till then it had ſo happened that I had never met with, ſpoke to, or hardly ſeen Mr. Woodward, [91] [...]ut in his profeſſion on the ſtage. He directed my old acquaintance, Joſeph Auſtin, to call on me, with an invitation to ſupper the Sunday night fol⯑ [...]owing my great performance, united with Mrs. [...]bington's, which I could not refuſe, as I had [...]n impulſe, I may add, to be acquainted with a gentleman of ſuch merit as an actor, and a worthy and valuable character as a man.

Mr. Auſtin introduced me on the Sunday evening, and ſuppoſing ſ [...]cr [...]ts of ſtate we [...]e no [...] to be di⯑ [...]ulged, left us to a roaſt fowl and mince-pies, with the help of two bottles of claret to grow wiſe [...]nd intimate; for with an Engliſhman the ſecond bottle is abſolutely neceſſary for thoſe purpoſes, though I know by long experience not ſo ſalutary for the health. Mr. Woodward paid me the compliment of ſaying he wiſhed to be on a foot⯑ [...]ng of intimacy; hoped I would become his real friendly acquaintance, and make his table my own while I remained in Dublin, when at lei⯑ſure or not particularly engaged; and further ſaid, at that time he kept not any company, for the manner of living in Dublin was too free—Mrs. Woodward was on her dying bed, and a friend in that ſituation would be his only comfort, pleaſure, and ſatisfaction, to paſs away a dreary hour.

From that night we formed an acquaint⯑ance, and he offered me twenty guineas for play⯑ing [92] four nights, and a clear one for my benefit. I urged with truth that I feared a ſecond benefit would fail, eſpecially as I had been honoured with ſo many great ones, and that my friends in parti⯑cular would not like it, (which was really the caſe). Woodward urged in pall [...]ation, that was his rea⯑ſon for offering me twenty guineas, and he would not adviſe me to trouble or think of my friends attendance, ſo lately called on, but inform them I did not exp [...]ct th [...]ir app [...]arance again on that oc⯑caſion: and added, as you are on the ſpot you had better continue five or ſix weeks; and if the receipt is but indifferent, it will be taking ſo much without trouble: This ſeemed feaſible—I liked Dublin—and as it ſuited my inclination, and was practicable, I conſented; and I believe we had a third bottle as a ſigning the contract. Wood⯑ward, I muſt obſerve, was a ſober man to a degree, not fond of parties, but liked to chat with a friend; and over a bottle he would often ſtretch a point. I was enliſted once more in the ſame re⯑giment with Joſeph Auſtin:—The firſt night I played (there was a very fine houſe) Kitely, in Every Man in his Humour; which character, from ſome cauſe or another, had been wanting from the two ſeaſons of Moſſop's departure; Bo⯑badil, by the only Bobadil of preſent memory, Mr. Woodward; and with Buck in the Engliſh⯑m [...]n [93] returned ſrom Paris, &c. made out the four nights, but not within the time I was engaged: As his wife's death kept him ſome weeks off the ſtage, and greatly retarded my intended expedition, and by that ſerious intervention drove my bene⯑fit till the 25th of May.—The play was The Tender Huſband; or, The Accompliſhed [...]ools:—Numps, Mr. Woodward; Sir Harry Gubbin, Mr. Wilkinſon; Ca [...]tain Clerimont, Mr. Dexter; Biddy Tipkin, Mrs. Dancer.—With a paltry piece of ſtuff I called The Auction; wherein I was the Auctioneer: My friend Joſeph, always ready to aſſiſt, acted a part called Lady Toothleſs:—In which interlude we gave a ſpeci⯑men of the French Harlequin Comedy, with what [...]it Maſter Tate and Maſter Joſeph could beſtow on their good-natured audience, not much to our credit; but we eſcaped to the full as well as Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Fuz.—The Farce was Thomas and Sally: I acted Dorcas as an Italian, and really with good reception and ſucceſs; my broken Eng⯑liſh and imitation of foreign manners were ſo pre⯑ſerved within proper bounds, as I may pronounce of myſelf was tolerable, and at the finiſh ſpoke the exact words, and in the manner of Signora De Amice, the greatly followed Italian ſinger of that ſeaſon at Smock-Alley theatre, which had a catch of quick applauſe and laughing approbation.

[94] ‘"Me am ſorry, me am extremely ſorry me can⯑not ſpeak better Englis:—Me return my ſincere tanks for dis grat a favor:—Me vould viſh bettar, much bettar vords to expreſs my gratitude."’

The evening finiſhed with great laughter, but the ſum total I received was only 28l. ſome odd ſh [...]l⯑lings. I muſt not forget a particular circumſtance which happened that very night at the concluſion of the Tender Huſband; al [...] had gone on ſmoothly till the end of the comedy, when on a ſudden even Woodward was planet ſtruck—not one could pro⯑ceed—the audience hiſſed—Woodward croſſed the ſtage to me, and authoritatively chid me for not ſpeaking the tag: I ſaid he was wrong, and diſ⯑claimed any knowledge of a line more in my part. I ſpoke to Mr. Dexter—Mr. Dexter to Mrs. Dan⯑cer (now Mrs. Crawford), and with diſgrace the curtain dropped: and after each perſon looking on the other, like ſearching for one's knee-buckle in a hurry, which at the ſame time is often where it ſhould be; ſo we, on inſpection, found the laſt ſpeech and tag belonged to Mr. Dexter, who was a very perfect actor in general. But the ſame misfortune has been known in London to have happened: for when it comes to the tag, as we call it, of a well-known play, we at rehearſals, like careleſs people at church, begin to move off before the bleſſing is pronounced; and from [95] that omiſſion in the morning it begets inattention, and we fall into the pool of diſgrace at night: So when the book was produced, it told in glaring letters that Mr. Dexter was the defaulter. Now, ſays the reader, where was the prompter? Why, my good Sir, or Madam, when players come to what we call a ſtand-ſtill, they are then dumb-founded, ſtupid animals, and cannot ſay bo.—We are not always the wiſeſt of mankind, nor yet quite ſo ignorant and vulgar, as we are ſometimes honoured by the kind eſtimation of too many: and be it obſerved and remembered, that accidents will happen in the beſt governed families.

Another odd theatrical adventure happened at [...]hat very time: Mr. King, who was as great an eſtabliſhed favourite as I ever remember in Dub⯑ [...]in, (not even Woodward excepted) not having been in Ireland from the ſpring 1759 till that of 1762, Mr. Garrick had given him leave three or four weeks before Drury-Lane cloſed, hoping he would have obtained fine gleanings in the month of Ma [...], by viſiting his Dublin friends and ad⯑mirers after an abſence of three years. Great ex⯑pectations were formed, yet the attraction failed, and on his benefit in particular, which was the Monday after mine; for an influenza had ſeized men, women, and children: I never was worſe with any illneſs than at that time. Auſtin and I [96] were in the middle gallery on his benefit night, when I do not believe there were twelve perſons there beſides, nor much more than 14l. in the houſe, even though Mr. King played Bayes in the Rehearſal, and had to change his dreſs between two or three of the acts, for he ſpoke Bucks have at ye All! and acted in Mr. Garrick's Interlude of the Farmer's Return from London, and had his abilities, aſſiſted by a very good company, as may be ſeen in the bill of the Jealous Wife.

Mr. King's good ſenſe will not be angry at this recital, for it is an inſtance of the power of faſhion, more or leſs, in every place: But when Mr. King, a few ſeaſons after, returned, the people were not ſo unwitted; for on his being advertiſed to appear in Lord Ogleby, it was with the utmoſt difficulty a ſeat could be obtained, not only for his firſt night, but ſeveral ſucceeding ones; all ran in crowds to ſee their old favourite Tom King every time he performed, though a very bad ſet of players to aſ⯑ſiſt him.

Dublin is remarkable for doing a great deal for the actor, or nothing; and if one particular part by a performer happens to pleaſe their fancies and judgment, once a week to the end of the ſea⯑ſon it will fill the houſe. The winter 1788, in November and December, he performed with as high ſpirits and more profit than on any [97] preceding he ever made there; and was ſo careſſed and eſteemed by every one, that they were not con⯑tented when his firſt engagement was finiſhed with the manager, and therefore he agreed for twelve nights more after Chriſtmas, which was equally beneficial with the firſt: and the Iriſh hoſpitality was ſuch, that it is well he got away with ſafety; for wherever they eſteem, they are apt to endanger the healths of their gueſts with acts of kindneſs. He then went to Scotland and performed four nights at Glaſgow, (which run in regular pro⯑greſſion, Tueſday, Wedneſday, Thurſday, and Friday) and each night to an overflowing houſe. On the Saturday he travelled forty-four miles from Glaſgow to Edinburgh, where at ſix o'clock there was not a ſeat to be had in any part of the theatre, an [...] at ſeven o'clock he was on the ſtage re⯑ceiving the warmeſt welcome from an audience, pleaſed to ſee not only ſo excellent an actor, but a gentleman whoſe own natural good qualities were ſuperior (or at leaſt muſt be allowed equal) to his abilities as the player.

Owing to the influenza having confined me for [...]ome few days, and not having any engagement confirmed either in Ireland or England to call me [...]rom Dublin, I did not depart, though my engage⯑ment finiſhed on the 25th of May. Wiſhing for [...] little country air, I requeſted my friend Auſtin [98] to dine with me at one of thoſe pleaſant villages with which Dublin is romantically and delight⯑fully ſurrounded. At our return, on entering the metropolis, I accidentally caſt my eyes on the plaiſtered-up play-bill, and, to my infinite ſurpriſe, read ‘"The Orphan: Caſtalio, Mr. Barry, &c. and between the play and farce Mr. Wilkinſon will give TEA: After which, Mr. Macklin's Love A-la-Mode."’ I thought it very ſtrange, unpre⯑cedented, and rude behaviour, my nights being expired, and my time delayed, that Mr. Barry or Mr. Woodward ſhould improperly advertiſe me for what I was not then prepared for at their terri⯑tories, and that done by one or both without a line or meſſage. I felt myſelf angry and hurt, and declared I would not attend the theatre, but Mr. Auſtin perſwaded me much not to abide by that reſolution: He urged, that the managers had acted rather cavalierly, but judged it much more adviſable to avoid offending my friends or the public, or even the managers; we might meet again: it was always better to be on terms with thoſe leaders in power; and he did not doubt but they meant to pay me ſome compliment. To this friendly admonition and advice I not only at⯑tentively liſtened, but obeyed its dictates, went to my lodgings, dreſſed and prepared to give ſome jumbled performance at the playhouſe: when there, [99] I complained of the ill behaviour, which the graces of Barry ſoon made eaſy, and prevented me from permitting rage to fire my boſom. When the Orphan finiſhed, and Barry had, as the un⯑happy huſband of Monimia, departed to the ima⯑ginary ſhades, I in a few minutes informed Mr. Carmichael the prompter, that I was ready to give the whole houſe Tea, tho' without cups and ſau⯑cers; but juſt when the curtain was drawing up, the ſaid Carmichael came in a violent hurry and told me he came with peremptory orders from Mr. Barry, that I muſt not on any pretext whatever attempt to proceed with my part of the entertain⯑ment for the evening until the end of Love A-la-Mode, and that Mr. Macklin inſiſted on that in⯑junction being complied w [...]th.

Mr. Macklin was ever tenacious of his favourite of [...]spring, and he judged, I do conjecture, that any delay or laugh immediately after the tragedy from the audience might in ſome ſmall degree take off the reliſh when Love A-la-Mode began. However I perſiſted, that if I obliged Mr. Barry with doing what he had not the leaſt right to com⯑ [...]and or expect, I would, unleſs I was then per⯑mitted to perform, inſtantly quit the theatre: To that declaration Barry did not pay much atten⯑tion; and as he was ever intimidated by Mr. Macklin, and tremblingly alive and fearful of his [100] deſertion to Moſſop, the mortal opponent of Crow-ſtreet citadel, of courſe neither my petition nor re⯑monſtrance could prevail; and I, as obſtinate as either, not only left the royal army under the command of the maſter revellers, but, inſtead of going home, retired to Mr. Acheſon's, a private and worthy family in Trinity-lane, where I was aſſured not any purſuers would ever dream of find⯑ing me; or indeed if they had, I ſhould not have returned.

After inquiring as to the termination of the evening at the playhouſe, I was informed that all went on ſmoothly; the piece received the tribute due to its merit, and Macklin, Barry, Woodward, and Meſſink a repetition of approbation which their reſpective merits had ſo frequently obtained: Not one of the three leading perſonages had caſt a thought on Wilkinſon, nor did they ſuppoſe he would be called for; or if he was, that a ſlight apology from the manager of Mr. Tate's departure would ſettle all matters amicablv.

But the event proved much to the con⯑trary; for when the farce finiſhed, and the au⯑dience were judged to be departing, on peeping through the curtain a few minutes after their ſuppoſed exeunt omnes, they were all eſpied in dread array, and as regularly ſeated as they had been viewed the hour preceding; and on neither [101] preparatory muſic giving the elevating ſound, nor Mr. W. making his expected appearance, from a murmur a violent clamour enſued, when ſpeedily Mr. Barry ſtepped forward and informed the large aſſemblage the whole matter; that Mr. W. it was true had been there, but for what reaſon Mr. B. could not divine Mr. W. had as unexpectedly as ſud⯑denly eloped: however, that would not in the ſmalleſt degree pacify them; they judged their rights infringed, and their authority much impoſed upon, inſiſted on my being ſent for, and ſaid they would ſit patiently till I attended and fulfilled my duty—but all the meſſengers' ſearch was fruitleſs—and, indeed, had it been otherwiſe, and they had found me in my hiding-place, I ſhould not have returned to have endured the wrathful reſentments and diſgrace I certainly had not deſerved and muſt have ſuffered, but, ſnail-like, would have pulled in my horns, and kept ſnug and ſecure within my ſhell. For the manager certainly, (as I was not en⯑gaged then to him) had not the right or the power to act as he did; and I, forewarned of the diſpleaſure I had incurred, had prudently deter⯑mined I would not venture my ſweet ſelf again in their field of battle that year of our Lord. On their patience being exhauſted, and Mr. Barry's aſſurance of the various means taken to recover the loſt ſheep, the whole blame fell (as was likely) [102] upon poor Tate, and the departing gueſts, one and all, pronounced great puniſhment on my de⯑voted head whenever it next popped before them; and declared to the manager they would not miſ [...] any opportunity to treat me with a diſh of their tea in lieu of my own. All this vexatious, unlucky matter, with various ill-natured and increaſing ad⯑ditions, the next day or two much perplexed and diſtreſſed me, the more ſo as I was not without vi⯑ſitors, who in general condemned my conduct, nor would yield to my being in the right, even admit⯑ting the other party to have been ever ſo wrong:—For they obſerved, as my engagement was finiſh⯑ed, I could effectually have prevented any futur [...] miſtake of the kind; and even if what I intended to preſent to the public had loſt ſome trifling ap⯑plauſe, or had not been reliſhed by the audience, it was not to be balanced againſt the almoſt cer⯑tainty of offending many, if not all of thoſe [...] whom I had been ſo conſtantly obliged; and in⯑deed it muſt be granted, though I was favoure [...] with many partial friends, I ſhould with delibera⯑tion on the other hand have conſidered that I wa [...] not without numerous enemies—many deſervedl [...] ſo—who would aſſuredly rejoice at ſuch an ope [...] opportunity of relating it greatly to my diſadvan⯑tage. Now, as to who was moſt in the wrong, m [...] different readers muſt determine. Not that I e [...] ⯑caped [103] entirely without puniſhment, as in the year 1 [...]4 I experienced an unexpected and whimſical [...]ta [...]ation, which will be truly related in its pro⯑per time and place in this ſalmagundi diſh of all [...]orts prepared by Mr. Garrick's exotic. The im⯑portant ſubject very ſoon ceaſed, and was put a ſtop to by the ſudden appearance of Mrs. Pritchard from London, who never had been in Ireland, and was engaged on large terms to perform a few nights with Mr. Barry: Her long eſtabliſhed fame, her excellent private character, and univerſally ac⯑knowledged worth, gave riſe to wonderful expec⯑tation. Notwithſtanding ſuch a combination of good promiſe, and that ſhe made her firſt appear⯑ance in one of her favourite and beſt eſteemed ch [...]racters, that of Lady Macbeth, in which ſhe wa [...] perfectly ſuited as to the figure, manner, voice, [...]x [...]ution, and judgment, yet the experiment was [...]ed at too late a ſeaſon of her life; ſhe never drew a ſecond crowded houſe—the bloom was off the peach; and in general (but in Dublin more par⯑ [...]ularly) an accompliſhed beauty only can be al⯑m [...]ſt aſſured of victory; ſhe with merit may ſlay hearts at will, and, like Bobadil, call twenty into the field of love, kill them; twenty more, kill them too: nay more, in Ireland, a new-born Ve⯑nu like Mrs. Sullen, may ſay, ‘"O! a fine wo⯑man may do any thing in Dublin!—O my con⯑ſcience! [104] ſhe may raiſe an army of twenty thouſand men!"’

But I will leave the worthy ancient lady, Mrs. Pritchard, and attend on myſelf; who, after the late fracas at Crow-Street Theatre, left the Grecians early in June 1762; and when at Che⯑ſter was induced to lounge there about eight days, and formed an acquaintance with Mr. Daniel Smith and Mrs. Smith, of the White Lion Inn: He was one of the moſt ſpirited, friendly, and en⯑tertaining characters I ever met with; hundreds are judges of the individual I am ſpeaking of.—Like other men that have merit he had envious enemies, but they were ſo overbalanced by friends and great and deſerved ſucceſs, that ſuch oppoſers [...]ade the following line applicable to him.

He was, on my firſt intimacy, in his prime of life, of an intrepid manly diſpoſition, ſtrong and happy in health, attended with great livelineſs; not a gen⯑tleman of Cheſter, or the county, but liked Dan Smith as a companion.—To him I owe ſeveral ac⯑qu [...]intances at Cheſter, whom I reflect on with pleaſu [...]e, as well as the many happy days I have had there, for Smith's houſe was at all times my home: not that I accepted his favours without a return. His and my intimates were Roger [...]ilberham, Eſq Mr. Farrington, Mr. Fiſher Tench, Mr. [105] Orme, &c. I was ſo delighted with the firſt ci⯑ [...]ties which I experienced from Mr. and Mrs. Smith, that it was actually with the utmoſt regret I could leave them:—however, buſineſs muſt be adhered to, and after a mutual promiſe of a con⯑ [...]ance of friendſhip ſo agreeably begun, I took my leave, and determined on going to Birming⯑ham, where I had never been, and where my good friends, Mr. Hull and Mr. Younger were as ma⯑nagers for the ſummer ſeaſon. I took a poſt⯑chaiſe, and on the ſecond day arrived there to din⯑ner:—It was quite a new ſcene to me.—The company had acted three or four weeks, and I in⯑tended my viſit to Mr. Hull for ſeven or eight days only. Miſs Morriſon, Mr. Moody, and ſe⯑veral performers from London, with whom I was well acquainted, were there:—they wiſhed for my continuance, provided I would accept the terms of the company, which was a ſhare and a benefit: to that I conſented. I was not engaged at any other place, and it was particularly agreeable to my own inclination.

On the 28th of June, Alexander was acted:—To which was added, The Minor.—I performed the uſual characters.

The following paragraph Mr. Hull put to the bottom of the bill:—

My mother's letter to me at Birmingham.

Wedneſday the 25th of Auguſt, The Rehearſal—the firſt time I ever acted Bayes.

The company was ſummoned by Mr. Yates to Preſton on account of the jubilee, which is kept there with great feſtivity, and celebrated every twenty-one years:—he had engaged ſeveral principal Lon⯑don performers. I returned back to Cheſter, be⯑ing eager to ſee my friend Smith and family, and other new acquaintance at that place; but I made my journey thither a pleaſant round, and took Pre⯑ſton in my way: I met Mr. Sowden coming from Ireland on the road, and he turned back and wer [...] [109] with me to the Jubilee, and then to ſtay with me a few days at Cheſter. At Preſton we found very bad accommodations, very dear, very dirty, and much crowded. The proceſſion was tolerable, but not worth the trouble or expence of a jour⯑ney to ſee it; indeed I was very glad on the ſe⯑cond day to perſuade Mr. Sowden to quit Preſton for Cheſter, for it was all confuſion and mire, ex⯑cept the main ſtreet, which I recollect is ſpacious and handſome, but it was the crowd and incon⯑veniency that made us glad to depart; and we went from thence to Liverpool, where I had ne⯑ver before been; and after one day's view we croſſed in the Eaſt Ferry to Cheſhire, where we ordered a poſt-chaiſe, and got in good time to dinner at Cheſter.

Mr. Sowden's intimacy with me began the win⯑ter before at Mr. Moſſop's theatre, where he was a ſub-manager at that time. He was a ſenſible ſhrewd bred man, looked on in general as remark⯑ably inſincere; not that I ever met with any thing from him in any reſpect, but the oppoſite conduct. I once went with him from Dublin to Wicklow (a pleaſant ride) to receive ſome rents there: He was very entertaining, and a great epicure: He was poſſeſſed of an ample fortune, the conſequence of being a good economiſt, and well knowing how to lend his money to great advantage, yet not [110] without good ſecurity: He made himſelf generally pleaſing, as he never contradicted any body, or diſ⯑liked any thing at another perſon's table, but al⯑ways approved. If a gentleman had ſaid, ‘"Sowden, that cabbage-leaf thoſe ſtrawberries are on is a fine leaf?"’ he would have ſworn a loud oath, that the cabbage-leaf not only was a handſome cabbage-leaf, but, by G—d! the handſomeſt cabbage-leaf that ever grew. He was father to Mrs. Jackſon at Edinburgh, and I believe ſhe only came in for an inconſiderable part of his fortune; but of that Mrs. Jackſon is the only competent and proper judge; and I ſincerely hope my conjecture may be quite wrong for her ſake.

From Cheſter I went to London, where I had not paid my dutiful reſpects for ſeveral months, and there had a welcome not to be ſuſpected. From thence, for a few nights, I paid a viſit on the eve of the peace being ſettled between France and England, to my brandy company of the old thea⯑tre at Portſmouth; the Bath commander had left that place for his regular winter quarters: ſhips of war were ſailing daily into the harbour to be paid off, conſequently money was plenty, and the theatre well filled. I had not viſited my friends for a full year, I was therefore a kind of novelty, beſides having attained a ſupply of new characters. The 20th of October, 1762, I acted Lear, alſo [111] Bayes, &c. and finiſhed with a crowded benefit and well-pleaſed theatre. I have often wiſhed once more to walk thoſe ramparts, and take a re⯑troſpect of my juvenile part of life, ſo frequently employed on that ſpot where I was then ſo highly gratified with friends, pleaſure, and credit; when⯑ever opportunity offers, I will indulge myſelf for a few days with that trip. From Portſmouth I returned by the road through Saliſbury to Bath, where I expected without doubt an engagement; but there my vanity or my hopes, call it which you will, were fruſtrated as to the theatre. Mr. Ar⯑thur thought I aſked too much, and I, that he of⯑fered too little; in conſequence thereof Mr. Simpſon of the great rooms obliged me with them to exhibit in; and actually I had, to a jum⯑bed, ill-conducted medley, at 3s. per ticket, not leſs than 60l. and I was at very little expence, Mr. Fleming leading gratis; in ſhort, the night was univerſally faſhionable, and every body was willing to ſerve me, which eaſily accounts for any ſucceſs of that kind however wonderful it may appear. It actually had ſuch general ſanction, that the theatre was ſo deſerted as to be obliged to be diſ⯑miſſed for the want of an audience on that even⯑ing; an inſtance perhaps never before or ſince there, within living memory. I had a ſecond night on Thurſday, Dec. 16, and very genteely [112] attended, 35l.; it was much better conducted and approved, and would have been more lucrative had my firſt been more properly conſidered.

From thence I went to Briſtol, where I had never before been, and on Tueſday, February 1ſt, I had a moſt brilliant and crowded audience, at the aſſembly room, in Princeſs-ſtreet. Mr. Flem⯑ing aſſiſted me again as leader, and gave his Qua⯑ker's Sermon on his violin; for which he was much admired and applauded, and was truly a worthy man, and univerſally eſteemed; he was father to the Miſs Flemings now of Bath. I re⯑turned the compliment in a ſmall degree by once performing for his benefit at William Wiltſhire's rooms on the 28th November, 1764, at Bath; but he aſſiſted me twice there, and twice at Briſtol.

I was much obliged to the ladies and gentlemen at Briſtol for their general patronage, and their kindneſſes ſhewn me on thoſe nights, as except Mr. Church at the White Lion, Broad-ſtreet, Briſtol, I did not know even the names of three people in that opulent city, my whole time there was entirely confined to Mr. and Mrs. Church. They behaved with great kindneſs to me, as I was very ill under their care in a fever near three weeks.

On my recovery, from thence I returned by Bath to London, for a few days recreation, and then ſet off on an invitation I had received from Mr. Ivory, manager of the Norwich theatre; ſo there was another new trip. Mr. Hurſt (whom I had known in Ireland) was appointed the di⯑recting manager, and I believe was the occaſion of the offer. Mr. Hurſt I had often met in my ad⯑venturing [114] (as Garrick termed it) and his beha⯑viour at Norwich was kind and attentive to a de⯑gree both as to my profit, when my benefit was to be fixed, and in every other particular. In return I really underwent infinite labour; for he worked me not as an horſe of blood; but as an horſe for burthens, I even now ſink at the very thought of how I drudged and toiled in that theatrical Nor⯑wich mine.

On Monday, February 29, 1763, I played Othello; on Saturday, March 5, the Minor. Mr. Banniſter, ſenr. was there, and took his firſt ideas of mimicry from ſeeing me play thoſe parts in the Minor, Cadwallader, and other of Mr. Foote's pieces. My playing in the Minor drew repeated and increaſing good houſes. This may appear as a ſtretch; but Mr. Dodd was there, to whoſe ſervices I have been much obliged at York: he was a reigning favourite at that time, and I call on him to vouch, that tho' the city of Norwich is not the moſt theatrical town in the kingdom, yet that audience to any piece that is well received will bear a more repeated acting of it than any other town of the ſize whatever. I think the Padlock was acted twenty-five nights the firſt ſeaſon; now, that to be accompliſhed from its production there with only four plays, or but three in a-week, I look upon to be equal to fifty times in London. [115] Norwich ſeaſon was then five months. I acted Bayes four play nights progreſſively—Saturday, March 12, Monday 14, Tueſday 15, and Thurſ⯑day 17. The Rehearſal was much liked, though not calculated for any audience ‘"to pit, box, and gallery it"’ out of the meridian of London, Dublin, Edinburgh, Bath, or York. Prince Volſ [...]ius, was acted by Mr. Dodd, and the pre⯑ſent clever Mr. Banniſter played the grave ſenten⯑tious Mr. Smith; the Gentleman Uſher, Mr. Weſton, who had not then acted in London (and was not in any degree of eminence as a come⯑dian.) I do not believe, take it for all in all, that Norwich ever had a better company than that identical ſeaſon; Mr. Chalmers was there as a comic actor, and I fear I ſpeak truth when I ſay, I verily believe he was a greater favourite than Weſton; he was father to Mr. Chalmers with me at York ſome ſeaſons, a young man of merit and a very good harlequin.

I will here mention that an adventure of mine, related by Mrs. Bellamy in her ſixth volume, re⯑lative to Mr. Chalmers the comedian, of Norwich, paſſing for Wilkinſon, the York manager, is no more than ſtrictly true, however vague, romantic, and improbable it may appear to a ſtranger. I have been often taxed as to its authenticity; but the following perſons are ſtill inhabiting this earthly [116] globe, and muſt remember the tranſaction men⯑tioned—Sir John Sinclair, Mr. Woods, Mr. Bland, Mr. Moſs, Mr. Dea [...]h, Mr. Beynon, Mrs. Webb, Mr. and Mrs. Charteris, Mrs. Inchbald, and others, were all then at Glaſgow, and ſub⯑ſcribed to aſſiſt the ſtrange Mr. Chalmers at that time. The day I met my friend Socia Wilkin⯑ſon, at Hollytown, was on Saturday the 16th of April, 1774. But as that matter is not in the leaſt re⯑lative to my adventures at Norwich, and leſt I ſhould ſtray until I am bewildered, I will get back to that town, and inform the reader, that after being cor⯑dially and partially received in ſeveral principal characters, my benefit night there was fixed on Monday, April 11, 1763. I had been lucky to a degree in having the honour to pleaſe the inhabi⯑tants of Norwich, and almoſt every part repeated again; alſo the farces were approved, and Bucks have at ye All, there was no end to. I played at my benefit, King Lear, and promiſed to treat all the ladies and gentlemen with TEA, which was ſeriouſly taken by the people in general as a con⯑tract they expected would be fulfilled: it was thought very expenſive, and would be attended with much difficulty and trouble; but Mr. Wil⯑kinſon was vaſtly genteel, but then how would he be able to find cups and ſaucers for ſuch a quantity of people? Why, to be ſure, the quality folks [117] were to be ſerved firſt, then a freſh waſhing of the [...] to be humbly preſented to Tom, Mary, Darby, and Joan, in the galleries. What I am d [...]cribing is more ſerious than will be ſuppoſed [...]red [...]ble, and however unlikely, though it is the [...] it is not the only inſtance of the kind w [...]th which my readers ſhall hereafter be made ac⯑quainted. I have the pleaſure to ſay I was my⯑ [...]e [...]f much pleaſed at the very great compliment pa [...]d me; as at the uſual prices from that time to the preſent there has not (I have been given to underſtand) been ten ſuch crowded houſes ſeen at Norwich in the tedious round of twenty-ſeven years. In ſhort, the town was in a mob at three o'clock in the afternoon, to ſecure a firſt ſeat if poſſible to ſee Mr. Wilkinſon and drink a Diſh of Tea with him. The interlude given that night as Tea, was the ſame kind of mixed entertainment, conſiſting chiefly of the imitations of thoſe actors, and the ſame materials which had been ſo greatly received in London, Dublin, &c. and with which the reader has been peſtered from the firſt volume of this complex—what d'ye call it—ſomething—nothing of a book; for the work will certainly be allowed originality, and that no ſuch hurlo-thrumbo production as to information of jumbled matter and anecdotes ever before appear⯑ed! What is more extraordinary than the ſtrange [118] miſtake which aroſe in the peoples' ideas, ſhould not only have been taken as ſeriouſly offenſive at Nor⯑wich then, but it actually laid the foundation for fabricating a thouſand ſtories, and Fame increaſing as ſhe goes, told the tale with wonderful additions to the children of that time, and remembered by thoſe young ones who then could not liſp; yet they can now relate what their daddies told them of me, (Wilkinſon) who promiſed to give all the town Tea, and behaved ſo ill, he would not keep his promiſe, but made a joke of it.

It was ſoon after my departure circulated, and even put at length into the newſpapers (which muſt be true) that I was obliged to ſecure my perſonal ſafety by flight, that I ordered a poſt chaiſe with four horſes, took all the money which had been received that night into a large ſilk handkerchief, without waiting to count if all was right, and got out of Norwich with all expedition, leſt I ſhould have been torn in pieces by the enraged multitude; and when I arrived in London, they ſaid Wilkin⯑ſon laughed at the Norwich flats, and an hundred ridiculous falſehoods of that kind were propagated, and handed carefully down by that generation and piouſly tranſmitted to their children. Now the [119] plain matter of fact was no more than by not ſa⯑tisfying them really with the eager expected Tea, the thirſt for which was ſo great that I verily be⯑lieve had Mr. Garrick been King Lear they would have thought the play had been too long; but when they found no Tea, they did not reliſh what I was doing as the way by any means to make them amends for the inſult they ſuppoſed I had wilfully given to their underſtandings; but what was more, my likeneſs of Mr. Barry, Mr. Sparks, or any of the London performers was Greek to them; and it was natural for them not to admire what they could not by any means comprehend. The difference of audiences in ſuch like circumſtances is amazing. A farce, if it poſſeſſes true humour, in London will be greatly reliſhed and applauded: [...] the country very poſſibly the ſame (even de⯑cently acted) ſhall be termed vile, low, vulgar, and indelicate. The Love for Love of Congreve, the Trip to Scarborough, the Way of the World, the Confederacy, and others, are in London attended to as plays of wit and merit, (witneſs their conſtant repetition) but in the country not permitted, or if permitted to appear, not upon any account faſhionable, which is juſt as bad.

The ſame unlucky reception of my Tea at Norwich, would happen to the ableſt imitator in London, ſuppoſing he gave the ſtrongeſt likeneſſes [120] of the Edinburgh and York actors; a London audience ſo tried would feel not only chagrined and diſappointed, but would give ſuch tokens of reſent⯑ment and anger, as would far exceed that of the enraged Norwichers. My farce that night helped to confirm my diſgrace; for out of London certainly no one was ſo very likely to diſpleaſe as Mr. Foote's Orators, not only quite obſolete but local: let any perſon now take it up of the age of twenty⯑five, and it will puzzle the beſt head to find out or comprehend how at that time, even in London, an audience could poſſibly be entertained by it, however well acted. The porter-club, the laſt ſcene of the farce, gave it a complete overthrow, though aſſiſted by Mr. Weſton; their patience was quite exhauſted, and I could barely make a finiſh. I dare ſay no lady can feel this account more forcibly than Mrs. Wells; for without being on the ſpo [...] to judge as a witneſs, and though ſurrounded by many friends, and even the royal ſupport of ma⯑jeſty, ſhe found, I dare gueſs, a material differenc [...] between giving her imitations of Mrs. Siddon [...] and Mrs. Crawford at Covent-Garden theatre than before the beſt collected audience at Chelten⯑ham.

As Peter Paragraph in the Orators that night I only recollect a few nonſenſical lines of Mr Foote's, not printed, which he always ſpoke and occaſioned a laugh. The character was draw [...] [121] as a likeneſs of Mr. Alderman George Faulkner, an eminent printer, well known in Dublin, for which performance he ſued Mr. Foote, and caſt him for damages.

When Foote wrote the part he had two legs, but Mr. Faulkner had but one: Foote afterwards ſu [...]tained the ſame loſs; myſelf too nearly expe⯑rienced the ſame painful and dreadful misfortune: Thank God, not quite ſo unfortunate. When I was before the judge in the court of juſtice, as ſ [...]bpoened on trial, I related the following addi⯑ [...]onal lines as Peter Paragraph.

Peter Par. An't pleaſe your worſhip, Mrs. Pa⯑ragraph was as beautiful a woman, and of as good a family as any in all Ireland—her ſiſter too is a perdigius agreeable woman—ſhe has perhaps one of the fineſt necks of any lady in all Dublin. I encountered her one morning upon the middle of the ſtairs—my hand fell accidentally upon her boſom, and I proteſt and vow, pleaſe your wor⯑ [...]hip, it gave me ſuch a thrill, I felt it at the bottom of my dead limb.

Second Story as PETER PARAGRAPH.

Peter Par. My wife Mrs. Paragraph, was a per⯑ [...]gi [...] agreeable woman. As we were returning to Ireland, in October, in the year 1739-40, during the autumnal equinox, a violent ſtorm aroſe, I [122] went down into the cabin unto her, and ſaid Mrs. Paragraph, my dear, anſwer me one queſtion—Sink or ſwim, have you been untrue unto my bed? Says that dear woman (by way of reply) My dear,—ſink or ſwim, that ſecret ſhall go along with me.—O! ſhe was a perdigius valuable woman!—you might have truſted her with any thing.

At thoſe little jokes I was applauded in Peter Para⯑graph; but as to the ſtories circulated, and believed about my running away from conviction of inten⯑tional affront from myſelf, they were too ridiculous to tell, and more ſo to be credited; what added to the idea of deſigned inſult that night was at the con⯑cluſion of my Tea, I gave a Medley which Mr. Garrick himſelf had wrote for Mr. Beard, and given to me; he deſigned it firſt as a compliment to Mr. Beard for his Ranelagh benefit, but after that he altered it for the playhouſe.

The lines taken as rude, were the very harm⯑leſs ones that follow, to a common tune—

Their being in an ill humour, and my ſinging thoſe lines in the medley very gravely, (as I judged a very good joke) they abſolutely took ſeriouſly, and occaſioned all the buſtle and nonſenſe here re⯑lated, and in reſentment they echoed back—hum, hum, hum; and it was agreed, nem. con. that I in⯑tentionally laughed at them.

To ſpeak my thoughts on the matter, I per⯑ceived myſelf much injured by ſuch ill-ſuſpicions and miſconſtructions on all I had done; and I really had fatigued myſelf more that night, hoping to pleaſe, than almoſt any one I ever performed before or ſince; as it was too much even for a ſtronger conſtitution than mine.

As I remained on the ſpot, inſtead of quitting Norwich, my very extraordinary departure from which I ſhall immediately give an account of, that muſt ſatisfy all who believe or diſbelieve to the con⯑trary.

During my reſidence there my mother gave me [...]e following account of her ILLNESS, by which [...]t will be perceived, as a ſon, I did not neglect that precious friend.

Theſe ſhort letters, it is true, have no particu⯑lar connection with the work; but the contents flowed [...]rom a pen of ſuch true worth as will ren⯑der them far from unacceptable to every worthy mind, whether depreſ [...]ed or exalted, as ‘"Nature ſpeaks with moſt miraculous organs."’

My benefit was Monday, April 11;—and on Wedneſday the 13th of April I acted [...] ouglas: I alſo ſpoke Bucks have at ye All, and performed the uſual parts in the Minor. Sufficient duty for one night, well or indifferently manoeuvered: for [127] I was threatened with ſtrong marks of reſentment, and they were in reality very angry; ſo I was pre⯑pared for, and expected it. Yet I was ſuch a fa⯑vourite, that when I made my appearance their good-nature got the better of their diſguſt, and I was aſtoniſhed at receiving my uſual good wel⯑come; not a ſingle mark of diſapprobation. Thurſ⯑day the 14th I played Mrs. Amlet, and, for the firſt time, Hartop in the Knights; Sir Gregory Gazette, Mr. Weſton; Tim, Mr. Dodd. On Saturday the 16th was advertiſed my laſt night of playing: I ſpoke Bucks, and repeated Hartop: The come⯑dy I was not concerned in—it was Rule a wife and Have a Wife, acted purpoſely to introduce Mr. [...]arry Kennedy; and was the only night the ma⯑nager, Mr. Ivory, had left (as manager): the regu⯑lar courſe of bene [...]its beginning the Monday fol⯑lowing.

Two offences more in the courſe of the week I was informed I had committed, but indeed very innocently. It was at that time not only the cu⯑ſtom there (and a horrid cuſtom it certainly was), but alſo at York, Hull, &c. &c. for the performer, whether man or woman, to attend the playbill⯑man round the town, knock humbly at every door honoured with or without a rapper, and ſupinely and obediently ſtop at every ſhop and ſtall to leave a playbill, and requeſt the favour of Mr. and [128] Mrs. Griſkin's company at the benefit. Th [...] heroine (if unmarried) was equally reſponſible fo [...] ſteering her ſteps—no matter whether the Juliet the Cleopatra, the Lady Townly, or the Quee [...] Elizabeth: no dignity of any kind allowed fo ſuch an omiſſion, without being conſtrued a viola⯑tion of duty; that ſevere law of cuſtom then i [...] force muſt be complied with, or looked on as a [...] infringement of rules and reſpect, and would incu cenſure, with the appellation of pride, impudenc [...] inſolence, and want of reverence: no matter ho [...] ſevere the weather, if froſt, ſnow, rain, or hai Jane Shore and the proud Lady Macbeth we [...] expected equally to pay the ſame homage. If th Lady Turtle Dove was bleſſed with a loving mat [...] her attendance was diſpenſed with, but not othe [...] wiſe on any pretext whatever; in that caſe th honour devolved on the huſband. Theſe law (thank God) I had not been accuſtomed to: an having a plentiful well-ſupplied pocket had [...] need to comply, or trouble myſelf to uſe ſuch practice; which I da [...]e ſay ſuperior minds to [...] own have, from the dictates of prudence and n [...] ceſſity, againſt their will too often complied wit [...] and the produce of my houſe proved ſuch degr [...] ⯑ding rules were better broke than kept for the cr [...] ⯑dit of the actors. And bleſſed be the times to ſ [...] what I relate had better not have been mentione [129] but be buried and forgot: But there are thoſe who can vouch to the inglorious and diſgraceful truth, and I can boaſt as being one of the firſt who re⯑lieved my brethren in the country from ſuch ſlavery.

Another cuſtom was, after the play the perfor⯑mer was to return thanks, and if married, both huſband and wife to appear. Mr. Frodſham once at York ſpoke a comic epilogue on his benefit night, and actually carried his wife (now living) on and off the ſtage on his back, to comply with the expected homage:—on particular occaſions four or five children to make up weight, courteſying and bowing in frocks, had a wonderful effect, as the audience in general, and the ladies in parti⯑cular, prided themſelves upon beſtowing their bounty on ſuch a pains-taking man, or ſuch a pains-taking couple as they proved themſelves to be. Tho' I had heard ſo much of thoſe cuſtoms, yet I was honourably received after all my alledged ILL-BEHAVIOUR at Norwich, as uſual, with much pleaſantry and good humour. The laſt night of my acting there I made as polite an acknowledgement as lay in my power, and meant what I ſaid, that I really thought myſelf, as a ſtranger at Norwich, particularly honoured and obliged; which coming unexpectedly was received with double effect, and I was diſmiſſed with great glory and marks of ap⯑probation; [130] and the audience were not a little pleaſed that I confeſſed myſelf indebted to them for the favours they had conferred on me.

Now, after ſuch particulars, it is really aſtoniſh⯑ing how ſuch falſehoods to the contrary could be propagated and believed from that time 1763, and never cleared up till 1787, when I was laſt at Norwich, and will be much more ſo by this faith⯑ful account. Another ſtrange cuſtom they had at Norwich, and if aboliſhed it has not been many years, which was for a drummer and a trumpeter (not the King's) in every ſtreet to proclaim in an audible voice, having been aſſiſted by his ſhrill notes to ſummons each garreteer, without which ceremony the gods would not ſubmit to deſcend from their heights into the ſtreets to inquire what play was to be acted, nor aſcend into the gallery.

A cuſtom of this kind prevailed ſo far with a Mr. Herbert's Lincolnſhire company in the time of our revered, well-remembered, and beloved Marquis of Granby, that when at Grantham the players determined to omit the uſual ceremony of the drum, wiſhing to grow more polite; and by obſtinate perſeverance, Lady Jane Gray, Mary Queen of Scots, King Henry the Eighth, the King of France, nay even Cardinal Wolſey had no command, attraction, or power over the popu⯑lace when they loſt their accuſtomed and ſo much [131] loved ſound of the drum and trumpet. The la⯑dies were obſtinate, tho' they could not by all their arts, or by all their charms, obtain a livelihood; and their heroiſm was ſo great, that they preferred death, honourable death, rather than ſubmit to ſlaviſh terms. The Marquis of Granby ſent for the manager of the troop, and ſaid to him, ‘"Mr. Manager, I like a play; I like a player; and ſhall be glad to ſerve you:—But, my good friend, why are you all ſo ſuddenly offended at and averſe to the noble ſound of a drum?—I like it," ſaid the Marquis, "and all the inhabitants like it: Put my name on your play-bill, provided you drum, but not otherwiſe. Try the effect on to-morrow night; [...] then you are as thinly attended as you have [...]a ely been, ſhut up your playhouſe at once; but [...] it ſucceeds, drum away."’ The manager com⯑municated this edict to the princes, princeſſes, peers and peereſſes; and not only they, but even the [...]mbitious ſtep-mother, gave up all ſelf-conſidera⯑tion for the public weal; and it was after ſome de⯑bate voted nem. con. in favour of the drum: they deigned to try Lord Granby's ſuggeſtion, and to their pleaſing aſtoniſhment their little theatre was brim-full on the ſound of the drum and Lord Granby's name; after which night they row-di⯑ [...]dow'd away, had a very ſucceſsful ſeaſon, [...] drank flowing bowls to the health of the [132] noble Marquis. They left Grantham in great credit, without being drummed out of town, tho' accompanied by their friend the drummer; and I am told the cuſtom is continued at Grantham to this day. This is a ſtrong proof how difficult it is to ſurmount prejudices, whether in religion, politics, or even ſo trivial a matter as the ſound of a drum; for rumour has fewer tongues than ſhe has ears.

But, my good reader, obſerve, I have not yet in my Hiſtory got from Norwich:—if you will kindly look back to Mr. Kennedy's acting Leon the laſt night I played there in 1763, I muſt faith⯑fully inform you, that after all my quarrels, &c. with Mr. Foote, however contradictory to my re⯑ſolves and Mr. Foote's repeated declarations, he had ſecretly ſent Kennedy to Norwich as an am⯑baſſadour with credentials, neither more nor leſs than not only to preſent articles of peace, but fo [...] re-uniting our forces, and to engage Weſton fo [...] the enſuing ſummer at the Haymarket. Mr. Ken⯑nedy was commiſſioned to aſſure me, that Mr Foote was much concerned for the miſunder⯑ſtandings and miſtakes which had ſubſiſted be⯑tween us for no leſs than five years; that h [...] wiſhed Mr. Kennedy, as an acquaintance an [...] friend of both, would inform me I might depen [...] upon his being ſerious and honourable in mean⯑ing [133] an engagement, which he hoped would prove laſting and advantageous to both; that in many pieces, dividing the parts, would be better for each of us; for however clever he might flatter himſelf to be from his own opinion and the par⯑tiality of the public, he was convinced one perſon perpetually before the audience, be he ever ſo ex⯑cellent and meritorious, had not ſo great an ad⯑vantage as by a little ſpace ere he was ſeen again: (a certain good remark for me then, and many young performers now, to remember). His letter added, that he had wrote a part purpoſely for me in a new farce called The Mayor of Garratt, which [...] ſhould cut out, unleſs I would conſent to per⯑form it;—alſo a diviſion between us in Tragedy A-la-Mode, and that I ſhould play Hartop in the Knights, and he would act Sir Gregory, &c.—He aſked what I deſired for every night, not only when I acted, but every one that his theatre in the Haymarket was opened; and that I might take my benefit at three weeks notice whenever I pleaſed in his ſeaſon, and be allowed to revive or act on that night what I thought proper, and that it ſhould be clear of all expences whatever; and con⯑cluded with aſſuring me, he ſhould not only be heartily and ſincerely glad to ſee me as a perfor⯑mer, but as his particular friend; that his houſe and table ſhould be always at my ſervice, if I [134] would do him the favour to make it my home whenever not better engaged.—This was a change! and it was flattering, profitable, and re⯑putable.—I inſtantly made propoſals, which were immediately agreed to, by a letter that reached me on my arrival at York, and the firſt week in June I was to attend the Haymarket theatre.

What made Mr. Foote ſo very generous, open, and explicit, was, that he judged it would be lu⯑crative to him if he complied as to terms.

So it plainly appears that a war of five years was amicably and honourably concluded, with a peace not inglorious, but equitably adjuſted for the advantage of both parties, and from that time not any bickerings or breach of treaties happened between us to the time of his death, in the au⯑tumn ſeaſon 1777.—Peace to his manes! His entertaining qualities and univerſality of execu⯑tive and aſtoniſhing genius are too well known, eſtabliſhed, and acknowledged, to need any eulo⯑giums from my weak abilities. He was not with⯑out virtues, though he had thoſe foibles and faults to which human nature is too ſubject.—So Foote farewell—

From Norwich I took a trip to York, where I had never been, and entered into a treaty with Mr. [135] Baker for ſix nights. Mr. Baker was the gentle⯑man I named as manager of the York theatre, with whom I had previouſly formed an intimate acquaintance, as before-mentioned, at Mrs. Wier's, in the autumn 1758.

As my Norwich engagement finiſhed on Sunday April the 16th, I intended quitting that place on the Monday morning following; but as I had grown rich, I at that time was wonderfully prudent, and determined on a ſaving ſcheme: So I gave up all idea of travelling ſo far as York, and lol⯑ling all the way in a poſt-chaiſe. Therefore the only prudent method was to go in the Monday morning's coach as far as Newmarket, but I could not be permitted to take a place for half way, unleſs they were left empty for want of London paſſen⯑gers; which was and is, I believe, ſtill the conſtant cuſtom. I was called up early on the Monday morning to be ready for the coach; but judge my diſappointment and chagrin, when on my approach I found it chuck-full, as is often ſaid at the the⯑atre. What was to be done? A poſt-chaiſe I could not think of, on account of the charge:—There was no time allowed for conſideration, as [...]ll was prepared and ready at the Maid's Head for inſtant procedure. I determined to leave Norwich moſt triumphantly, and at an eaſy expence—two points not always in the power of us mortals—by [136] exalting myſelf on the coach-box; a ſituation [...] was as unfit for as the undertaking to ride o [...] horſes at the Royal Grove:—But previouſly I had petitioned, reaſoned, urged, and intreated, but all to no effect; I could not make any impreſſion on the obdurate ſouls, who, proud and ſulky, kept eaſy and firm poſſeſſion of their ſeats, and hardly deigned to anſwer when I requeſted per⯑miſſion to be ſqueezed in, but could not ſoften their hard hearts: and under the roſe be it ſpoken, no hearts are harder than thoſe of travellers in ſtage coaches, diligences, &c. and not without ſome reaſon; for if not guarded by hearts of ſteel, it would, with the conjoined intereſt of inn-keepers and poſt-boys, be a perpetual tax upon our good⯑natures, our convenience, and our pockets, as we ſhould pay for what we did not poſſeſs. However, the inſide paſſengers on that occaſion called aloud on Mr. Whip to drive on; ſo my trunks, &c. were left in the baſket, and I was hoiſted on the coach-box as the only alternative: but on the firſt movement of the vehicle, if it had not been for the arm of the coachman, I ſhould have been inſtantly under the wheels in the ſtreet, as I had not the leaſt notion how to keep my ſeat [...] therefore the enraged travellers were under the ne⯑ceſſity of once more being detained till I was re⯑lieved by the help of the hoſtler and ſervants o [...] [137] the inn, who were there and full ready to aſſiſt: I was received into their arms from the coach-box, and chucked into the baſket as a place of more ſafety, though not of eaſe or comfort, where I ſuffered moſt ſeverely from the jolting, particularly over the ſtones; it was moſt truly dreadful, and made me ſuffer almoſt equal to the ſea-ſickneſs I had experienced on board the pacquet in a ſtorm: however, as I had lived well at Norwich, the coach emetic did me no harm.

The ſtage coaches then were not hung on ſprings as they are at preſent, nor were the roads near ſo good:—The coach was then double the time in performing the journey. We arrived at New⯑market, where, though I produced myſelf as an outſide paſſenger, I was permitted the honour of being treated at table as an inſide gueſt; for they all knew me and pitied my ſituation, but naturally preferred my ſuffering ſome torment, rather than being miſerably ſtowed themſelves by cramming the vehicle as if loaded with Norwich turkies at Chriſtmas, and that merely to accommodate a ſtranger. We of the coach all ſupped together, ſeparated for bed, wiſhed each other a good night, with pleaſant and ſafe journies to our different de⯑ſtinations; they to London, myſelf to croſs the country till I got to the great North road.—On inquiry I was informed a ſtage croſſed from [138] either Ipſwich or Bury (I forget which) the next day about twelve, which I determined to wait for; and I conceived it a matter of pleaſing intelli⯑gence, for it had a delightful convenience as to the hour of its coming, as it allowed me a long time to reſt before it arrived. After I had break⯑faſted on Tueſday the coach ſtopped, and from out of it, to my infinite mortification, came no leſs than ſix paſſengers; therefore I thought of no⯑thing but ringing the bell and having immediate recourſe to the agreeable though expenſive poſt⯑chaiſe; but on inquiry one of the perſons had only taken a place to Newmarket, in order to be in readineſs for the next Norwich coach to London. So after an hour's baiting for the gueſts and horſes, we took poſſeſſion of the vehicle, pro⯑ceeded ſlowly, and arrived about three o'clock at Cambridge; where finding not any other carriage croſſed on to the North road, I ſat myſelf down at the inn (a very indifferent one) and ordered whatever was ready to be produced for my imme⯑diate dinner.

While I was regaling over my pigeon pye, &c. a very decent elderly looking kind of man, a farmer, made his appearance, ſeemingly communicative and intelligent, I aſked him queſtions relative to the diſtance from Stamford, and what places were [139] beſt worth ſeeing at Cambridge. This formed an intimate chat; and he accepted part of my bottle of port. When I thought of ordering my chaiſe a [...]ter a little walk to view the gardens and build⯑ings of the place in a curſory manner, and taking my leave of the farmer, who had been very atten⯑t [...]ve to my ſtory, and relating to him my manner of travelling from Norwich to Cambridge, he ſaid after carefully viewing me, that he kept a travel⯑ing weekly cart, which he came with from Stam⯑ford: He was not fond of truſting ſtrangers, as appearances often were wrong; but, if inſtead of the expence of a poſt-chaiſe, I would accept his horſe at a moderate price, and go that night to Huntington, the poor beaſt was at my ſervice for the journey, and he would himſelf with my lug⯑ [...]ge go in his cart, which his man would conduct. [...] reliſhed the ſcheme mightily, and judged I was [...]ndertaking a Quixote exploit by my attempt⯑ [...]g to ride a horſe ſixteen miles. This great [...]atter was that afternoon put in practice, and I [...]t off on my Roſinante and achieved my ex⯑ [...]loit by actually going the ſixteen miles with⯑ [...]t any danger whatever, and fancied myſelf a [...]mplete horſeman; but muſt obſerve, what [...]th the delay in point of time, the ſtopping all [...]ght at Huntington, &c. my ſcheme of oeco⯑ [...]my was only viſionary, for the etceteras would [140] have been more comfortable and actually l [...] expenſive, than the laborious and mean plan [...] in my wiſdom had entered upon. The carrie [...] however honoured me ſo far with his good opinion firſt ſecuring my luggage, that he went off at ſi [...] in the morning for Stamford, and left me and th [...] horſe to take our leiſure, having firſt very kindl [...] invited me to dine with him at Stamford. Whe [...] I got there I called to ſee him, and he really ex⯑pected me as his gueſt; but that I avoided, ſent [...] porter for my luggage, thanked the carrier, and once more became the gentleman at one of the principal inns, waiting for the York coach, with ſtrict orders at night to be called up at five for th [...] purpoſe of ſecuri g a place; but after loungin [...] my lonely day at Stamford, and being ſummoned to be in readineſs for the coach, here my unfor⯑tunate ſtars again purſued me; for lo the coac [...] was full, with three officers and three inſignifi⯑cants. In that bewildered and perplexed ſtate wha was to be done? Why, give a ſtrong proof of per⯑ſeverance, and in defiance of danger, and like [...] great little ſoul (for ſurely it was a meanneſs) onc [...] more throw myſelf into the arms of my old frien [...] the baſket. It was very ſharp, windy, cold, diſagree⯑able weather, and the jolting over the ſtones i [...] every country town in that captive ſtate might b [...] deemed truly dreadful, both as to pain and fatigu [...] [141] The officers, who in general are polite, friendly, entertaining, and agreeable, ſoon recognized me, and profeſſed being hurt at my diſagreeable ſitua⯑tion, but their feelings were not ſo exquiſite and humane, but that laughter evidently was victorious on the occaſion; to me jumbling through Gran⯑tham was terrible, and equalled to my fancy that o [...] Algerine ſlavery: yet though I appeared to my⯑ſelf like a vagabond paſſing by act of parliament from pariſh to pariſh, and felt great cold without, I had ſome amends by being admitted as one of their own party at every ſtage, within, or where [...]y refreſhments were taken, which was ſome [...]eviation to my ſorrows, though not ſatisfactory; [...]or thoſe ſorrows, (as too often is the caſe) were of my own bringing on; as fooliſh indiſcretions often give a ſtrong colour to appearances that ſerve to corroborate as facts, which originate every one of them perhaps from a trivial and undeſigned chance that tumbles blunder upon blunder till it forms a ſomething, which if properly known would end [...] ke the air-blown bubble of the day.

So was I rightly puniſhed in my journey to York, by undergoing ſhame, fatigue, and the ha⯑zard of my health, while I poſſeſſed a plenty to have prevented any one of thoſe vexations; for I ſuf⯑f [...]r [...]d myſ [...]lf to be hoiſted from my dog-kennel [...]r two days, ſtage after ſtage: but as under the [142] greateſt afflictions ſometimes a gleam of hope will ariſe, though ſoon again to vaniſh, ſo in this jour⯑ney on the firſt night, the three officers at ſupper agreed to take a chai [...]e at Ferrybridge, and quit the York road for that of Boroughbridge, and proceed on to Scotland. This gave me great ſpirits as it inſured me an inſide place, for my fir [...]t entrance into the city of York; where rather than arrive baſketted, I would have entered trium⯑phantly in my carriage to breakfaſt the next day; but all my hopes were fruſtrated by a change of their intentions, and on they would go to York as their places were taken. So far the reader may ſuppoſe I am not adhering to truth, when I men⯑tion we were two days in going from Stamford to York; but in the year 1763, the roads were ſo bad at particular ſeaſons of the year, that they were for want of proper forming almoſt impaſſa⯑ble; and it has been known in the winter to have been eight or ten days journey from York to Lon⯑don. At that time it was not ſo familiar as it now is for ladies and gentlemen to fly like air⯑balloons, from the fartheſt points of eaſt and weſt, and from north to ſouth. For a lady now thinks not of hardſhip but of pleaſure, when ſhe equips herſelf en militaire for a voyage to the Eaſt Indies, either with a huſband or for a huſband. There is not at preſent half the preparation to quit York⯑ſhire [143] for a few weeks and trip to Paris, as there was ſixty years ago, to go only from York to Lon⯑don. Cibber's John Moody gives an excellent deſcription of that matter. Fathers and mothers, then, made their wills ere they ſet forward; and t [...]e leaving a darling pet ſon either at York or London, to learn politeneſs, education, and good manners, not forgetting the faſhions, were matters required more than common fortitude. In ſhort, two hundred miles, in this enlightened age, is no more conſidered as a journey, than formerly to dine at Windſor from London was; which could hardly be done with the aſſiſtance of four horſes, and a moon-light morning.

The old ſaying at London, amongſt ſervants, was, ‘"I wiſh you were at York!" which the en⯑ [...]ged female cook now has changed for, "I wiſh you were at Jamaica!"’ Scotland was then ima⯑gined by the Cockney as a dreary place, diſtance almoſt as the Weſt Indies: now an agreeable party may with the utmoſt eaſe dine early in the week in Groſvenor-Square, and without diſcompo⯑ [...]ure ſet down at table on Saturday or Sunday in the New-Town of Edinburgh.—So did I at⯑ [...]ain the journey in the baſket in ſevere weather, and jolting till the coach ſtopped at Ferrybridge, wh [...]n to my joy and great comfort the officers [...]ok chaiſe, and I got into (as I at that moment [144] thought) the moſt elegant, delightful carriage I ever ſtepped into in my life. I arrived ſafe at York, and ſupped with Mr. Baker. That worthy man received me like a parent, would not ſuffer me to be at an inn or hire a lodging, but yielded up his own convenience of bed-chamber for a very in⯑convenient ſituation in point of compariſon; and unleſs I ordered what I liked for dinner the family might have been ſtarved, the old gentle⯑man was ſo very attentive and earneſt to make it pleaſant to his young gueſt.

Saturday, April 23, 1763, Romeo and Juliet, with the Frenchified Lady never in Paris, was plaiſtered on the walls, for the benefit of Mr. Buck. This year was the firſt Spring Meet⯑ing that ever had been attempted at York. It did ſomething as to reſort of company, but the year after it ſunk entirely, and was not again re⯑vived till within a few years back; at preſent it ſeems to promiſe a laſting eſtabliſhment.

My firſt appearance was on Saturday, April the 30th, in the Minor, which was acted after Richard III.; and on Tueſday, May the 3d, for the ſecond time, after the Buſy Body—Marplot, Mr. Frodſham: I was well received by a very genteel houſe. The ladies of York, without any compliment, have a grace, a manner, a de⯑corum, not often met with out of the Metropolis [145] (B [...]th excepted); for York certainly boaſts a pre⯑eminence, when the boxes on public weeks are crowded, that dazzles the eyes of a ſtranger; and no wonder, for as London and Bath culls the choi⯑ceſt beauties from the three kingdoms, ſo does ancient York city at times, allure them from Hull, [...]eeds, Doncaſter, Wakefield, Pontefract, and every part of that noble, ſpacious and rich county. And I am free to declare, that the ladies of York (in [...]y judgment) never ſhew themſelves to ſuch ad⯑vantage as when they fill the boxes of the York theatre; and for the ſake of a perſon that ſhall be [...]meleſs, I ſhould be happy in having the honour o [...] ſeeing it ſo graced and enlivened much oftener [...]han it is.

My next appearance was in Cadwallader—Mrs. Cadwallader, by Miſs Philips, my old acquaint⯑ [...]nce in Dublin, in 1758. Miſs Philips was when [...] firſt acted at York in great eſteem with many [...]nteel perſons; and ſhe was ſo kind as to aſſure [...] her acquaintance that I was no impoſtor, but [...]e true Don Philip, ſhe having played for Mr. Wilkinſon's benefit in Dublin, when the pit and [...]oxes were thrown together. If that favourable [...]ormation was not of real ſervice, it was meant [...]ell, and could do no harm; but indeed I may [...]irm it deſerves even now an acknowledgement for [146] her good report, though ſhe hears it not, nor ſees [...] not. She meant well—who can do more?

Miſs Warnford was then at York, who was kind of patroneſs to her; and I believe to her fa [...] account of me to that lady, I muſt ſet down my ſelf a conſiderable debtor to Miſs Philips. Mi [...] Warnford has been many years married to M [...] Sitwell, a gentleman of large fortune, whoſe whoſe in⯑tegrity and good qualities are ſo generally know [...] as to render any panegyrick impertinent; but th ever conſtant and benevolent acts of friendſhip have experienced from Mr. and Mrs. Sitwel would ſink me into ingratitude did I not thus pre⯑ſent my ſmall tribute to their worth, and ſincerel aſſure them how much I eſteem myſelf honoure and obliged.

My third character was Bayes, in the Rehearſa which was judged a ſervice of danger, Mr. Frod⯑ſham, being eſteemed capital in the part; but the [...] opinion was wrong, for I had been ſo familiarize to that kind of playing, and was ſo much bett [...] ſtage acquainted, that I obtained a complete vi [...] ⯑tory in ſpight of partiality, which in general obſtinate; yet muſt be allowed often praiſe-wo [...] ⯑thy. Indeed Mr. Frodſham was totally un [...] for that character, and his friends as well as th reſt of the audience would have found that ou had not five out of ſix ſubſcribed to whatever [...] [147] did was quite right, without even conſulting their own judgments. I repeated the Minor, on Sa⯑turday; and on Wedneſday the 11th of May, I acted King Lear, and Frodſham, Edgar; in the mad ſcenes he was the beſt I have ſeen, though I remember poor Reddiſh whilſt I am relating it. My Lear was greatly received as it did not inter⯑fere with their darling Frodſham, and both being a the ſame play gave much ſatisfaction.

Saturday, May 14, the Fair Penitent—Hora⯑to, Mr. Wilkinſon; Lothario, Mr. Frodſham; and the Minor.—Tueſday, May 17, 1763, the [...]aſon finiſhed for my benefit, with the Jealous Wife, and Duke and no Duke.—I acted Oakley and Trappolin; but depended on the [...]cceſs of my never failing Tea as to attrac⯑ [...]on.—I was favoured with a crowded audi⯑ [...]nce, both before and behind the curtain; for [...]e ſtage was filled with gentlemen^*; but my [...]ea ſcalded their mouths, and though they were [...]t ready to ſet the hue and cry after me, as at Norwich, yet they grumbled much, and the next day I heard of nothing but what a ſhame it was [...] have made Mr. Wilkinſon ſo fine a benefit, and [...] return he only laughed at and inſulted them [...] hum, hum, hum. In ſhort, it was evident in [148] the opinion of every body, I only ſneered at the York audience, and that it was little better than picking their pockets, and a great deal more and worſe; for ſlander is told readily, and ſwallowed glibly—

This was certainly irkſome, but patience ever was my badge, and what I had done deſerved praiſe, though they had not done me juſtice; for as I had gained laurels by my endeavours, and dint of hard labour, for which though I own I got mo⯑ney, and in that material point was well ſatisfied, yet all my glories withered, and every wreath was torn from my brow; ſo, inſtead of a triumpha [...] exit, mine was certainly a degraded one: how⯑ever [...]y pocket was full, my health was good, and my ſpirits were great, and not aided, but rathe [...] leſſened by too much of the grape; therefore [...] fig for care!

[...]fter my northern expedition I had twelve o [...] fourteen days to ſpare for relaxation, ſo I pockete [...] my affronts, and proceeded to ſee my frien [...] [149] Daniel Smith, at Cheſter, where I drank the health of all my York friends, not in Tea, but over a bottle (perhaps two or three) of claret, with Mr. Wilberham, and ſeveral others of that place, and a very happy viſit it was to me, though not without fatigue; for what we generally term plea⯑ſ [...]re, by a miſtaken uſe of the idea is perverted too [...]ten to the contrary effect, by not letting reaſon give [...]t its boundaries: however I recollected buſi⯑neſs muſt be attended to, as without the means I well knew pleaſure and friends would be very diſ⯑tant; for independence creates complacency, and eagerneſs to pleaſe, which dependance in a few days deſtroys. So I veered about like the wea⯑ther-cock, from weſt to ſouth, to viſit once more my native home, old London city, ‘"where every one is witty, and all the ſtreets are paved with gold,"’ and to renew my acquaintance with my [...] old intimate Mr. Foote, whom I had not ſpoke to for ſome years.

When I arrived at my lodgings, I need not repeat the anxious mother was not only rejoiced, but [...]m ſt ſpeechleſs to ſee her ſon, after an abſence of ſeveral months, and the more ſo on account of her late illneſs, before [...]elated by letters to Nor⯑ [...]ich, &c. After a few days ſolace on my own ſpot of birth, parentage, and education, I paid my [...]evo [...]rs to the manager at the Hay-Market theatre, [150] where I found Mr. Foote earneſtly employed in [...] work of training his militia company to prepar [...] for a ſummer campaign. He ſoon eſpied me i [...] the orcheſtre, where I had obſervingly placed my ſelf; the Rehearſal was ſoon finiſhed, I mounte [...] the ſtage, and after a moſt friendly greeting, to th aſtoniſhment of every one, the moſt amazin coalition of intimacy made its wonderful appear⯑ance, and equalled any change politics had ever pre⯑ſented to view. The troop was mute, glad, b [...] more ſurpriſed when the carriage was ordere [...] and Mr. Foote inſiſted on my dining with hi [...] that day, as a large party of the firſt perſons we [...] to be at his table. I did not expect ſuch civility but it may eaſily be ſuppoſed I could not reſiſ It alſo ſeemed to augur an intention of goo will at leaſt; and if not, a good dinner, goo company, and Mr. Foote at the head of the tabl [...] few perſons even of rank would have diſliked; b [...] ⯑ſides it placed me not only on a footing of ſuper ority, but prevented any ſuſpi [...]ion in myſelf, [...] to ill-treatment from Mr. Foote, of which I h [...] not entirely diveſted my mind. He was th [...] preparing his Mayor of Garratt, in which piece [...] ha [...] wrote a pa [...]t, he informed me, that was fact abſtracted from the piece, and that he coul [...] with or without it. It was impoſſible for himſ [...] [...]o do it; for with a falſe belly for his intend [...] [151] Major Sturgeon, and to undreſs for Matthew Mug, it was not practicable. The pa [...]t was en⯑t [...]ed Peter Primmer, intended as a ſtroke of ſa⯑ [...]e levelled at Mr. Sheridan, ſenr. who about that time had buſied himſelf much with delivering [...] ures on oratory, and propoſing a plan for the e [...] iſhment of an academy, for the teaching of p [...]p [...] s the true art of public ſpeaking.

Mr. Foote mentioned our appearing together in the piece of the Minor: for ſaid he, the public w [...]l be better pleaſed with having both than one; and added, however partial the town might be to him as author and actor combined, yet the ſame perſon being perpetually in ſight is cloying; and in [...]eed I have often thought that admirable cha⯑racter of Othello, would be better for the actor if not ſo inceſſantly in ſight; more pity and leſs fatigue to the performer would have been the con⯑ſequence, had Shakeſpear ſo contrived; but his writings are ſo noble, wonderful, and natural, that I do not approve of the liberty I have taken, but will remove my remark more ſtrongly upon my favourite character of Zanga; which is finely drawn, and a charming part for the actor, but is much hurt by his beginning and ending almoſt every act of the play; and though it muſt be granted the poetry is fine, yet as it owes its beauties to the production of art, not that of [152] nature, it makes the Revenge a heavy, laborious, tireſome play, though Alonzo, Carlos, Zanga, and Leonora, are all good parts for the performers; Zanga particularly ſo.

Well, I muſt return to Mr. Foote, with whom I dined, and it was agreed, the Minor ſhould be the opening piece, early in June 1763: Shift and Squintum, Mr. Wilkinſon;—Mrs. Cole and Smirk, Mr. Foote;—with the new farce of the Mayor of Garratt. My Shift, with the imita⯑tions, was extravagantly well received, and was re⯑peated ſeveral nights.—The Mayor of Garratt had great ſucceſs, and a run of almoſt every night in the ſeaſon; it met with ſome oppoſition, which in general only gives a whet to the appetite of thoſe who chuſe to approve and ſupport.

Peter Primmer, I dreſſed with an old tye-wig, like the Barber's in the Upholſterer, a long band neckcloth, a large rod in my right hand, and a Scotch plaid night gown, and had ſix boys with primmers and rods, and ſix girls with horn⯑books, as my attendants in proceſſion, as the candidate for being choſen Mayor of Garratt. My likeneſs was ſtrong, and it was well taken; and as a ſchoolmaſter at Garratt near Wandſ⯑worth, the dreſs was ridiculous, and not totally improper; but as a reſemblance of Mr. Sheridan, [153] who always appeared at his lecture, and every where as a gentleman my being too comical de⯑ſtroyed the effect; therefore it was judged much better to anſwer the purpoſe intended, to dreſs it in black, and a bag-wig, &c. That alteration gave the people a ſtrong conception of him they knew; whereas the ridiculous wig and gown de⯑ſtroyed every part of the imitation by the abſurd appearance. The part I have entirely forgot, and only remember it concluded with my ſpeaking the following verſes, as an ode from the old horn⯑pipe ſong of Nancy Dawſon.

The above ſong ſpoken ſeriouſly, with exact tone and manner, had an admirable force on the [...]bility of the well-pleaſed audience.

[154] Mentioning my mock ode, as Peter Primmer will not let me omit, what at preſent gives me great pleaſure, from the lately ſeeing and hearing Mrs. ESTEN recite that excellent compoſition, Collins's Ode on the Paſſions.—But as her ſtage performances cannot with the leaſt degree of propriety be here inſerted to accord with my propoſed plan; and as the actors and actreſſes o [...] the York theatre, will make an appearance in print hereafter, with their regular progreſſion, alſ [...] the London, and other performers, &c. &c. [...] will, by way of a Sandwich, halt for a few minute [...] refreſhment, and preſent the reader with our Yor [...] Woodfall's opinion, relative to the high promiſ [...] to the public at large, from that Lady's pleaſing and extenſive abilities. After an Eulogium o [...] her repreſentation of Monimia and Roſalind, h [...] ſays—

Mr. Foote all that ſeaſon continued everv act of civility in his power; his table was my conſtant reſort (when not engaged) either at South End, [157] or at his lodgings in town; for the Hay-Market theatre, then, was on a ſmaller ſcale, and the [...] houſe in Suffolk-ſtreet, did not apper⯑ta n as now to the theatre. I ſuppoſed he judged [...] intereſt to be on terms, and I was ſuperior to any ill treatment, being in fact the richeſt man of the two: I was getting money perpe⯑tually, did not owe a ſhilling, and was in poſſeſ⯑ſſi [...]n of ſome hundreds, therefore was an indepen⯑dent gentleman. Mr. Foote now and then got a great deal of money, which was ſoon expended; [...]e theatre only by permiſſion from the Lord Chamberlain during pleaſure, and he owed many hu [...]dreds; nay, even at laſt, I am afraid, I relate a truth when I affirm, his funeral was at Mr Jew⯑e [...] expence; for notwithſtanding his income from Mr. Colman was not leſs than ſixteen hun⯑dred a-year, beſides profits on the nights he acted, yet, have been informed he had not effects by [...] means equal to th [...] payment of his debts. It ſh [...]ks me to have related an account of ſo many [...] ſtruck geniuſſes of birth and talents, that have [...] a [...]acrifice to grinning poverty, and incurred [...]ect and ignominy with great incomes. Pray [...] to allot me a more fortunate finale, be its [...]ment appointed for a longer or a ſhort [...]r date. But to proceed with a more particular account [...]our Haymarket ſeſſions.—I gained ground with [158] the audience weekly:—my benefit was fixed o [...] the 20th of Auguſt, on which night I revived th [...] Rehearſal, and acted Bayes—the houſe overflowe [...] from every part—no ſuch receipt the whole ſea⯑ſon. Mr. Garrick was in Italy, and had not act⯑ed Bayes for ſome years.—My imitation o [...] Holland in the following lines—

had ſuch a ſudden effect, that Mr. Churchill wh [...] ſat in a balcony with the late Lucy Cooper, afte [...] laughing to a very violent degree, moſt vociferouſly encored the ſpeech, which was echoed by th [...] whole voice of the theatre, and complied with by me of courſe with great pleaſure. Mr. Churchi [...] ſaid, that he was convinced I was not a mi⯑mic's mimic, for the imitations were palpabl [...] my own.—He alſo encored my mock hornpipe which was a reſemblance of the manner of ſtage dancing. The whole play went off with univer⯑ſal ſatisfaction, and I was highly delighted. Mr Foote that night was not pleaſed, but rather cha⯑grined at my good fortune:—theſe things wil happen, and ſtage minds in general are ſooner irri⯑tated and hurt than any other ſet of peoples'; bu a theatre is the temple of Vanity, and Van [...]ty an [...] Envy are its conſtant reſidents.

[159] The farce on my benefit was the Mayor of Garratt, in which Mr. Foote of courſe played his Major Sturgeon.

Mr. Mendez, a Jew and an appraiſer in Bow⯑ſtreet, was the treaſurer that ſeaſon: On his bene⯑fit he requeſted me to repeat the character of Bayes, which entreaty I granted:—he had a full houſe, and the comedy received additional credit. I had very near been deprived of the play, as Mr. Foote's theatre at that time merely conſiſted of a [...]w trumpery ſcenes, no wardrobe but ſuch as was hired from Mr. Barber's in Monmouth-ſtreet: and as to ſtage properties, they were leſs known there than in the moſt diſtant ruſtic com⯑ [...]any that ſcoured the country round. I was quite out of favour at Drury-Lane, ſo had no [...]opes of aſſiſtance from that quarter: but Mrs. Rich, on application being made to her, ſupplied me with thunder, lightning, earth, moon, and ſun; alſo ſent to my aid a full troop of horſe: they had been well trained, were very quiet, and of a great a [...]e; were never turbulent, tho' ſometimes trou⯑b [...]e [...] with headſtrong wanton riders. It was a cuſtom for the gentleman and his lady, who were proprietors of the Haymarket theatre, to reſerve a [...]x for themſelves, of which they kept the key. I ſent a card the week of my benefit requeſting the favour of that box, as all the others were diſpoſed [160] of: A very rude refuſal was ſent back; at which time Mr. Ruſ [...]ini, now of Pall-Mall, and ſome gentlemen were with me, and complaining of not being able to procure anv box whatever. On my receiving an uncivil anſwer, I ſaid, ‘"Damn this Mrs. Proprietor! it would ſerve her ill-natured ſpleen right to break open the door and fill the box."’ The hint was no ſooner given than ſeri⯑ouſly taken and put into practice; for as ſoon as the doors were opened a large party paid, and find⯑ing every place was taken, except the [...]roprietor's, which the box-keeper aſſured them could not be opened on any pretext whatever, they unanimouſly burſt the old lock and filled the whole box, nor had the turnk [...]y of the Receſs rhetoric ſufficient to have [...]he leaſt effect, for expoſtulation did not ſig⯑nify; ſo they remained ſole maſters, and ſat in tri⯑umph till near ſeven, when the play was going to begin; at whi [...]h inſtant up came a limb of the law, no leſs a perſonage than Mr. George Gar⯑rick, eſcorting the Lady Proprietreſs with a large party gratis, who ſum [...]oned the garriſon to ſur⯑render and be treated as priſoners of war; but they we [...]e as obſtinate as urks, and determined to defend the citad [...]l ſword in hand. The Lady Proprietreſs was aſtoniſhed at the rudeneſs com⯑mitted and inſiſted on her privileged right; then tried angry and ſoothing words; but neither her [161] perſuaſive eloquence nor the authority of Mr. George Garrick, aided by John Doe and Richard R [...] of Weſtminſter-Hall, with all their united proweſs, could by any means avail The poſſeſ⯑ſers of the inſide works defended their intrench⯑ment from any breach, and they only in exultation [...]aug [...]ed, and told Geo. Garrick if himſelf and party would pay a crown per head they ſhould be admitted, not otherwiſe. It cannot be imagined that it was an ea [...] matter to extract coin from a law [...]er's pocket, conſequently the La [...]y, George Garrick, a [...]d party, finding it ineffectual by ſtaying in the box paſſage, retreated in diſgrace, but denounced vengeance on Wi [...]kinſon. For my own part [...] chuckled at the adventure, not ſo much for the trifling pe [...]uniary advantage I had [...]ained, but at that time I ſhould [...]ave diſliked the curious Garrick's party gratis over my head more than any other. Next day the enraged lady waited on Mr. Foote (who loved miſ [...]hief and deſpiſed his landlady), where ſhe gave an ample ſcope to her anger, and repeated her wr [...]ngs: but Mr. Foote told her it was impoſ⯑ [...]e to prevent what had happened; as to the [...]proper conduct reſpecting the box, he could o [...]y ſay he was ſorry for her diſappointment; and [...]s to [...]r. Wilkinſon's rudeneſs he wiſhed to ex⯑c [...]ſe it, but he had not ſufficient authority to whip [...] for his fault, and there the matter reſted, [162] ending evidently to my advantage; for I muſt men⯑tion that the year following the lady herſelf ſent permiſſion for me to let her box to any particular friend of mine, if the boxes were ſo taken as to make ſuch permiſſion neceſſary on my benefit night.

Early in September (as is cuſtomary), on the ap⯑proach of the royal theatres opening, we finiſhed our ſummer's campaign, which ended gloriouſly, not a little aided by the aſſiſtance of our militia Major Sturgeon.

The night of my departure, when I went to re⯑ceive my bleſſing and take leave of my mother, ſhe had ſunk her ſpirits ſo low with the ſtrong prognoſtic of her departing from this life, that ſhe had been obliged to retire to bed; and her feelings were ſo affectionately ſtrong, ſhe could only em⯑brace, kiſs, and bedew me with her tears, and inarticulately ſay, ‘"O Tate! my dear ſon! I ſhall never ſee you more."’ Her words were in⯑deed truly prophetic, and from that awful and di⯑ſtreſſing moment—I will relieve my reader and myſelf from the ſenſation which muſt occur—I departed heavily, but got into the carriage and proceeded immediately for proud Salop, known better by the title of Shrewſbury.

Mr. Whitley was manager of that company, and a man well known as an extraordinary cha⯑racter [163] of oddity and rudeneſs in his traffic with actors and actreſſes for his imaginary dominions, which domains were here to-day and gone to⯑morrow. At that place the facetious, the witty, the generous, the good Chace Price, of revered memory to all who knew him, was appointed commander of the Shropſhire militia, which had not been embodied (as I was informed) during the whole war which had then providentially ceaſed) ti l the month of Oct. 1763, owing to ſome diſpute and diſguſt with the inhabitants of that county, who had univerſally judged their young men ill-uſed, as they had ſome years before this mentioned period thought themſelves highly injured by go⯑vernment, as they had raiſed a regiment for home defence, truſting on that pledge of honour which was broke in a cruel manner, as they were march⯑ed off to the ſea coaſt, were there ſurpriſed, forced on board tranſports, and ſent to the Indies, and all ſpoken of as creditable farmers ſons.—That obſtacle, as the ſtories of the day went, was given as the reaſon why the Shropſhire regiment had not been raiſed in common with thoſe of the other counties, and all theſe difficulties had not been overcome till October 1763. Shrewſbury, to all who know that ſpot, I need not ſay is ſur⯑rounded by a moſt pleaſing country:—Captain [164] Plume ſpeaks well of it in the Recruiting Office [...] and the Raven [...]n or Tavern therein mentione [...] I believe to this day is the favourite and faſhion able houſe of reſort. I acted in that town wit [...] Mr. Whitley's company ſix or ſeven nights for clear benefit, which was my firſt point for ſtriking at, and it proved very lucrative; but I ever work⯑ed like a horſe at a mill to deſerve my engage⯑ment, whether in town or country. My benefi was appointed, at my deſire, on Monday, Octo⯑ber 3. That day I beg the reader will notice wa [...] the firſt day of the militia's aſſembling, and wha was really extraordinary, happened on the annua fair for cattle at Shrewſbury; and it is no mor [...] ſtrange than true that they were to aſſemble it the market-place. The [...]louds approved it not, for it was as dreadful and r [...]iny a morning as eve [...] poured upon the earth; the pavement rattled with the burſts of heavy rain and hail, accompanied with thunder and lightning. The officers judged i [...] prudent to file off, and the young cackling recruits from inſtinct followed at the very time the oxen, cows, ſheep, horſes, &c. were muſtering for the fair, and w [...]th the variety of collected captains, ſer [...]eants, country bumpkins, &c. it occaſioned an uncommon tumult, noiſe, and diſtreſs to thoſe concerned without doors, but to the ſpectators who were ſo happy as to poſſeſs a warm room with [165] a good caſement, it afforded a very whimſical morning's view, from the apparent ridiculous diſ⯑treſs of the various parties interwoven of men and beaſts, &c. as the oxen ran helter ſkelter amidſt the ſoldiers, populace, &c.—My benefit bill of that night was nearly as follows:

The laſt night, Monday, October 3, 1763, The Rehearſal: Bayes, Mr. Wilkinſon. End of the play, by particular deſire, the principal ſcene [...]ro [...] the new farce called The Mayor of Garratt; [...]e character of Major Sturgeon (of the Weſt⯑ [...]inſter militia) by Mr. Wilkinſon: alſo a ſcene fr [...]m the Orators; Peter Paragraph, by Mr. Wil⯑kinſon; with the farce of the Citizen: Young Phil⯑pot, Mr. Wilkinſon.—Surely I gave them enough f [...]r t [...]eir money, whatever it might want in quality. The houſe was crowded in every part, particularly [...] ſ [...]age, by gentlemen for want of room in the front of the houſe: The officers of the new militia were all there, and at their head the ever-entertaining [...]ha [...]e Price, whom I r joiced to ſee: he had ſent [...]e a compliment at noon (being my benefit); [...]d wa [...] between the acts in great ſpirits, chatting [...] [...]e and others. At the end of the comedy [...] the Rehe [...]rſal he [...]eſired to wiſh Mr. Bayes g [...]d night, as he found himſelf much fatigued [...] his journey, and expected a ſevere bout the [...]ext day with the bottle at the meſs where he [166] was preſident; he ſaid he would get a good night's reſt, having travelled from London to Shrewſbury without going to bed. On his departure I re⯑tired to dreſ [...] f [...]r the [...]ew part of Major Sturgeon; (the reader will obſerve that farce was not then in p [...]in [...].) On my appearance behind the ſcenes as the Major, I thought the countenances of ſeveral of the officers did not augur a pleaſing effect to my intended performance; but not ſuppoſing any violent anger could poſſibly ariſe without a ſuffi⯑cient cau [...]e, hoped I ſhould be made ample amends, by the ſmiling faces and laughing cheeks in front of the theatre. But the new commanders not having been at that ju [...]ture in London, when Mr Foote's Mayor of Garratt was acting, they knew nothing [...] its faſhionable ton there, or if they did, would not allow that as a ſuffici⯑ent plea for them as men of valour, why they ſhould not reſent an injurious affront, from what they looked on as an unjuſtifiable and intentional inſult; they therefore one and all preſſed ſo hard and cloſe together at the firſt wing where I was to make my entrance, as to prevent the poſſibility of gaining admittance on the ſtage; and had not Roger the Bumpkin, ſervant to the Juſtice, Sir Jacob Jollup, cryed out on the ſtage, ‘"Pray ye gentlemen, pray ye, let Major Fiſh come to viſit [167] my maſter,"’ they actually would not have ſuf⯑fered me to paſs; but from conſcious ſhame, and the hiſſing of the audience, I was at laſt (but not without much difficulty) permitted to enter; and I verily believe had they not ſo pointedly marked their indignation, the bulk of the hearers would have paſſed the ſecret over as incompre⯑henſible; but ſuch a remarkable and violent contempt offered to me was eaſily perceived by them, and once conceived their ideas ſwiftly com⯑municated like gunpowder, when I came to the paſſage where Major Sturgeon relates to the Ju⯑ſtice—

Now reader, conſider, that however outré and ridiculous this ſpeech from fancy was formed, by the author Mr. Foote, the whole circumſtance [168] had in ſimilarity happened that very day in every ludicrous point; and in conſequence, the offend⯑ed party ſwore, that particular paſſage muſt be th [...] offspring of my own brain, and done as an im⯑pudent and intentional diſgrace to them; and when the tumult of laughter from the audienc [...] allowed permiſſion for me to proceed with—‘"The Major's horſe took fright, away he ſcoure [...] over the heath. That gallant commande [...] ſtuck both his ſpurs into the flank, and fo [...] ſome time held by his mane; but in croſſin [...] a ditch, the horſe reared up his head, gave th [...] Major a dowſe in the chops, and threw tha [...] gallant commander into a ditch near the Pow⯑der Mills."’

The officers were incenſed to ſuch a degre [...] that they left the theatre in dudgeon, vowing ven⯑geance. When I was undreſſed, and prepared to g [...] to my own lodgings, I had information that a ſer⯑jeant with five or ſix ſoldiers were in waiting wit [...] orders, not only to beat unmercifully, but [...] duck poor Major Sturgeon in the river: ſo in⯑ſtead of being lighted home, I acted as ſervan [...] after all my [...]atigue, and lighted others. I got t a houſe where Mrs. Price and a Mrs. Lewis live [...] and ordered the account of the houſe to be brough [...] there and ſettled. Mr. Littlehale, a friend [...] mine, well known at Shrewſbury, was there. H [...] [169] [...]as alſo intimate with Chace Price, Sir Francis De [...]aval, &c. Dame Price (my tragedy queen [...]t Portſmouth, in 1757) eſcorted us upſtairs, the kitchen had an entrance on each ſide of the [...]ouſe. She had undertaken as my old acquaint⯑ [...]nce to look well to my playhouſe doors, and [...]ith an obſervant eye mind, all was honour [...]ight, where that tempting ſituation of tak⯑ [...]g money was tranſacted, that eſſential article for real kings, queens, generals, fine gentlemen, [...]nd fine ladies; for be it known, there is as much [...]iety and ſuſpicion on a benefit night out of London, and it is looked on as neceſſary to be [...]s well guarded as the Bank of England, when [...]reatened with conflagration and a riot. Any gentleman who holds half an hour's noon-con⯑ [...]erſation with an actor in the country, muſt have [...]ſerved the following remarks and anſwers— [...]e houſe on ſuch a night was not well counted.—Su [...]h a night the houſe was not well gathered.—The [...]ecks were not right.—One of the door-keepers was [...] to let up ſeveral without taking any money.— [...]nother door-keeper took ſix ſhillings; but returned [...] to prove his honeſty.

Theſe ſayings are often without foundation, but I am afraid at times are known to be too true. So Mrs. Price's inſpection into the deeds of the [...]oor-keepers, with thinking eyes, was truly ne⯑ceſſary; [170] but Mr. Littlehale and I, had not regale [...] an hour before every window below ſtairs were ſud⯑denly broke. The militia officers, at the head o ſome myrmidons, ruſhed into the houſe, and fu⯑riouſly demanded Wilkinſon; being aſſured [...] neither lodged or viſited there, they retired eager⯑ly through the oppoſite door of the kitchen i [...] determined ſearch of their deſtined prey, having been at my lodgings firſt. However on their de⯑parture, I had that great reſtorative elixir, thoſe golden drops, as Major O'Flaherty ſays, which healed all my grievances; for out of an old crazy tin, and ſome wooden boxes, I poured a plenti⯑ful libation of gold and ſilver coin, the produce of Mexico and Peru, which preſented as charm⯑ing a lava as can be conceived, for a quantum ſuf⯑ [...]cit will make black WHITE; FAIR, foul; wrong, RIGHT; baſe, NOBLE; OLD, young; and a coward, VALIANT.

After my incredible fatigues and a comfortable bowl, I got ſafely to reſt, and late the next day at⯑tended my good friend Chace Price: He declared he ſaw me with the utmoſt regret and chagrin, la⯑mented his early departure from the theatre, a [...] had he ſtaid he would have effectually put a ſtop to ſuch brutiſh outrage; hoped I would think no more of it: If I imagined, he ſaid, that the of⯑ficers beſpeaking a play with his name at th [...] head would be of ſervice, he would exert all hi [...] [171] intereſt. I told him the accidental affray the night before dwelt on my mind with very diſ⯑agreeable reflections, as the conſequence might [...]a [...]e proved dangerous: As to the play the next night, I deſired it might be underſtood I had no advantage from it, nor would I receive any; but as it would certainly ſerve the company, I ac⯑ [...]pted it ſo far as a compliment, and my ſervi⯑ [...]es that evening he might command. He re⯑ [...]hed, ‘"he was obliged to me,"’ and ordered the [...]layers to perform the Recruiting Officer, as the [...]ene lay at Shrewſbury, and deſired I would re⯑peat Young Philpot in the Citizen: He appointed [...]urſday inſtead of Wedneſday; as on the Wed⯑ [...]e [...]day, he had a veniſon dinner, and devoted [...]he day to his friends, amongſt which number [...]he honoured me, and inſiſted on my dining with [...] at the Raven on that occaſion. I made my compliments in return, and aſſured him I would [...]end his ſummons with infinite pleaſure. I was [...]n that day a little after my time, a fault I have be [...]n often told of; but on his left hand, at the [...]pper end of the table, the head ſeat had been [...] reſerved for me, and the apparent inti⯑ [...]y and re [...]pect he honoured me with, made the [...] ſtare and think they were in the wrong [...]r, by the contempt they wiſhed to have ſhewn [172] the player. The dinner was good; the wine was good; but Chace Price was ſuperior to both. Mirth went round, enjoying the feaſt of friendſhip, and the flow of ſoul. Singing was mentioned; Chace Price ſaid humourouſly he muſt firſt have a rehearſal; for as his friend Wilkinſon was going to leave Shrewſbury in a few days, without one he ſhould be imperfect and forget his part, and begged the favour of me to repeat his favourite ſcene from the new farce of the Mayor of Gar⯑ratt, and if I would act the Major, he was certain he could recollect Sir Jacob Jollup, as he had ſeen it that ſummer in London ſo often; which was ſtrictly true. His memory was excellent, and he was frequently at Foote's, and was the only man of true wit I ever heard Foote allow to be ſo, or laugh with and liſten to with pleaſure; nay, Foote actually praiſed Chace Price behind his ba [...]k.

Well, we acted the ſcene, which was highly reliſhed. The good humoured intention was ſmoaked, and it ended with an afternoon, and evening all in perpetual harmony; animoſity or diſc [...]rd was no more thought of. I believe the R—H—, then in the militia, is the gen⯑tle [...]n, who of late years has changed red for [...] and has [...]een enliſting recruits for another [...]o ld as an eminent orator, ſince his altering [173] his theatrical attendance for that of the taber⯑nacle. Whether he has been the ſaving of many poor ſouls or the contrary, will be one day determined.—Methodiſts are numerous, there⯑fore there will be no want of witneſſes. God bleſs and forgive that ſect ſay I; but fear they will not be ſo charitable as ever to return me the com⯑p [...]ment, as I never obſerved humanity in their [...]eed.

The officers came to the play on the Thurſday; I dined once more at the Raven, and on the Sa⯑t [...]rday left Shrewſbury, for my favourite old city of Cheſter, where I made a ſtay of fourteen days. I had received preſſing invitations from Mr. Barr [...]; and at the expiration of my Cheſter viſit, [...]at off for Holyhead, once more to viſit dear Dub⯑ [...]n. The day before I went was my birth day, November the 7th, 1763; and that very day I re⯑ceived the following ſhort letter from my beloved parent.

[174] I flattered myſelf, though it was an illneſs per⯑haps very ſevere at the time, yet it might ſoon a⯑mend; but God ordained it otherwiſe—in whoſe preſence, I doubt not, ſhe at this moment ſtands, pleading for his mercies on her ſon below.

I ſet off from Cheſter, and journeyed through Wales, and from thence got once more to Ire⯑ [...]and; but previouſly had taken a benefit night at the Exchange-Hall, Cheſter, which was numerouſly attended. I muſt remark an odd circumſtance re⯑lating to my ſucceſs at Cheſter:—I acted twic [...] there at the theatre and never had a good benefit; but at the rooms, dependent only on myſelf, I re⯑ceived on one occaſion upwards of 40l. Not tha [...] I ever attended Cheſter with a view for emolu⯑ment of any kind whatever, but being frequently at that place, did occaſionally, as opportunity of⯑f [...]red, try the experiment, as I went to and fro ſ [...] frequently.

Barry gave me a ſum and my benefit, to be clea [...] of all expences, when I choſe to take it, ſo the [...] needed [...]ittle invitation to induce me to viſit m [...] good Dublin friends.—And I ſhou'd now rej [...]i [...] cou [...]d I change that diſagreeable part of convey⯑ance th [...]ther, the ſea voyage; but indeed I ſhoul [...] be m [...]king ſo many excurſions to Ireland, was t [...]a obſt [...]e re [...]oved, that I ſhould be ruined wi [...] poſt-chaiſe hire; ſo I muſt be contented like [...]an⯑gl [...]s, [175] and perſuade myſelf all is for the beſt. I [...]e [...]t o [...]er in a dreadful ſtorm; they talked of [...] the horſes throats; I really thought they [...] [...]a [...]e kicked the ſhip's ſides into the ſea: [...]w [...]er the voyage was with difficulty accom⯑ [...] [...]ed, and when on ſhore my gratitude and dan⯑ [...]l [...] w [...]re too ſoon forgot. When I was well [...] I waited on the attractive Mr. Barry, with [...] was ſoon ſettled, for his manners were [...] My firſt appearance was fixed on for Bo [...]s, which was to be as ſoon as the play could [...] got ready. In the courſe of the firſt week, [...]a [...]ng an idle morning, I judged it would be pl [...]a [...]ant, reſpectful, and right, to ſtretch a walk to [...] my old friend Mr. Macklin, who then lived [...] part of Drumcindra-Lane, the very [...] of Dublin, and almoſt in the cou [...]try; [...] perhaps that ſtreet at this time is ſituated [...] [...] middle of Dublin, as the village of Mary⯑ [...]ne is in the city of Weſtminſter. After my [...] at the door, a lazy ſervant at length opened [...] (Servants in general there are by no means ſo [...]ert as in England)—I inquired if Mr. Mack⯑ [...] was at home? He anſwered, ‘"No, Sir, indeed [...] not."’ I left a card and my compliments, ‘▪Mr. Wilkinſon from England,"’ but had not one [...]any yards on my return before the ſaſh of [176] the dining-room window was thrown ſwiftly up and Mr. Macklin, in his red night-cap, loudly cried out, ‘"Wilkinſon! Wilkinſon! I am at home I am at home! come back, I want to ſee you."’ I returned on the ſudden invitation, the door wa opened, and up ſtairs I mounted, was eſcorte [...] [...]to the dining-room, where I had no ſooner en⯑t [...]ed than inſtead of Mr. Macklin ſolus as I ex⯑pected, behind the door (which opened inward ſtood Mr. Moſſop erect, with a ſword by his ſid [...] and in full dreſs. After the uſual ſalutations an obſervations on the weather, and how all went o in [...]ngland, &c. Mr. Moſſop ſaid grandly, he wa very happy in having that opportunity of meetin me, as he wanted to mention ſuch propoſals f [...] his theatre for the ſeaſon as he was certain mu meet with my approbation, for they would pro [...] to me moſt eligible, agreeable, and highly profitabl [...] Mr. Macklin urged the matter as his advice f [...] the good of us both, and ſaid he was willing, [...] his part, to contribute all in his power to add the propoſed union, and for the general goo Mr. Macklin was at that time engaged with M Moſſop. I was ſo circumſtanced as impelled [...] to declare myſelf obliged to Mr. Moſſop for [...] offer, but was under the neceſſity honeſtly to [...] him it was then too late. I had come over Dublin not poſitively engaged it was true: I [...] [177] received in England letters from Mr. Jefferſon firſt, then from Mr. Barry while at Cheſter, but had not entered into actual agreement till three days previous to that preſent one; ſo that I had ſi [...]ned and ſealed, and the matter was irrevokeable. Mr. Macklin pauſed, looked diſappointed and ſor⯑ry.—Moſſop breathed hard, rolled his eyes, and ſ [...]uſ [...]ed the air; ſpoke not, looked not, ſmiled in⯑dignant, and with reſentment put his hand on his ſword; his eyes looked terror; all was ſunk in ſ [...]len [...]e I judged it very improper haſtily to de⯑part, and he ſeemed determined not to move and lea [...]e me with Mr. Macklin. I was really in a puzzling ſituation, being actually engaged with company at four o'clock at the worthy Corne [...]us Kelly's in Capel-ſtreet, who was then beloved and known by every body, and I believe is yet living, and muſt be a ſurpriſing age. However, I ſat at Macklin's till five, when looking ſuddenly at my watch I ſeemed much ſurpriſed at the time having paſſed ſo ſwiftly; that I had ſtrangely and rudely forgot myſelf, as I was an hour beyond the time of my engagement in Capel-ſtreet, and made my bow of departure; when Mr. Moſſop roſe up ſud⯑denly and ſaid, ‘"Sir, I wiſh to attend you."’ On croſſing the channels, which were remarkably dirty, he offered me his hand very politely, then ſuddenly walked on for the ſpace of five or ſix [178] minutes, when after a tragic ejaculation he ſtop⯑ped and ſaid, ‘"Sir! Mr. Wil—kin—ſon! how do you dare to live, Sir?"—"Why, Sir, I do not think it ſtrange my daring, but liking to live, ha⯑ving ſu [...]h pl [...]nti [...]l [...]ables where I am daily made welcome in [...]ublin with ſuch a number of re⯑ [...]pe [...]table friend [...]."—"Sir," ſaid Moſſop, " [...]ou are going to play in Crow-ſtreet theatre with Barry, Sir,—and, Sir, I will run you through the bo—dy, Sir, if you take the liberty to attempt my manner by any mimicry on the ſtage. You muſt promiſe me, Sir, on your honour you will not dare [...] attempt [...]t: If you break that promiſe, Sir, you c [...]nnot live; and you, Mr. Wil—kin—ſon, muſt [...]e—as you muſt meſt me the next day, and I ſhall [...]il you, Sir."’—I told him it was impoſſible to co [...]ply with that his mandate, as his threats wou [...]d of courſe from neceſſity and policy have a contrary effect than w [...]at he expected, as by en⯑treaty he would have been more likely to have [...]ied his point: for if it once came to be known [...]ow he had worked upon my fears, there would [...]ot be [...] carpenter or dreſſer in the Dublin theatre o [...]t wo [...]ld kick me; and as I eſteemed Mr. Moſ⯑ [...]p as a gentleman and as an actor of the firſ [...] [...]minence on any ſtage, if he inſiſted on the diſ⯑pate being ſeriouſly terminated, it would be my ultimate w [...]ſh, my o [...]i [...]m, to have an af [...]air [...] [179] honour with him in preference to any other gen⯑tleman whatever, on account of his theatrical con⯑ſequence; as if I was fortunate it would deter many from being impudent, and if I fell in battle it muſt be with eclat, as it would be by the hand of ſo celebrated a tragedian. The coolneſs and ſerious manner, blended with ironical humour, with which I delivered that ſpeech to Moſſop, ab⯑ſolutely ſtaggered him with ſurpriſe, as inſtead of the crouching he expected there was an apparent calmneſs, ſteadineſs, and determination in what I ſa [...]d. At laſt he ſpoke the following words: ‘"You dare not take me off, Sir; or if you do, dare not to take me off more than a little; if you [...]o [...]ore, Sir, you ſhall die."’—He then inſtantly [...]parted as majeſtic as the ghoſt of Julius Caeſar. I very ſwiftly poſted and wiſhed for wings to ar⯑rive at Capel-ſtreet, where I was in good Engliſh and Iriſh well lectured, without any opportunity for a long time of making any defence; but when breathing-time allowed a poſſibility for me, the culprit, to make any vindication, and requeſting a [...]r trial and a benevolent jury, and relying on the laws of the country for an honourable and juſt ex⯑amination, though at that time under ſevere con⯑demnation; yet truſting I might be indulged [...] a candid hearing in my own juſtification, [...] [...]as not only liſtened to, but moſt honourably [180] acquitted, and with great approbation; for Moſ⯑ſop's pride was ſo well known that they enjoyed his mortification; and, bleſſed be God, my vera⯑city was ſo well believed, that though the dinner was ſpoiled, (a material circumſtance againſt me, and to the feelings of each craving ſtomach) we had a moſt remarkable cheerful day. When the evening grew late, Mrs. Wilſon, a ſiſter of Mrs. Kelly's, who lived as a companion from her child⯑hood with the late Dowager Lady Granard, ſaid to me, ‘"Come, Tate, you have been uncommon good company to day; I will not have either chair or coach, for I want you as my guard from Capel-ſtreet to Stephen's Green;"’ which is near the di⯑ſtance from St. Clement's church to Soho-ſquare in London. We ſet off on our parade, as ſhe ſeemed determined to walk, it being moon-light, and the ſtreets alſo well lamped, though a coach or chair was as eaſy to command as in any par [...] of London. She often halted as if not well, an [...] ſaid ſhe had ſomething to tell me: I urged he [...] often to inform me what had ſo apparently af⯑fected her? ſhe anſwered ſhe would ſatisfy my in⯑quiries if I would firſt eſcort her to Lord Forbes' in Stephen's Green. I perceived her as walkin [...] up Dawſon-ſtreet particularly agitated, and whe [...] croſſing the walk of Stephen's Green (the S [...] James's Park of Dublin for Promenade) ſhe com⯑plained [181] of being ill, and begged to ſit down on one of the benches, which I complied with; and after much apparent ſorrow ſhe ſaid, ‘"My dear Tate, faith you have been ſo lively and entertain⯑ing this day, and made ſo many of my friends happy to ſee you in ſuch great ſpirits, you muſt have noticed ſurely every perſon's care and kind attention to you as more than common, though they are your ſincere and good well-wiſhers; and not being by any means willing to diſturb the pleaſant party at my ſiſter's, I put on a pleaſing countenance with an aching hear of ſorrow, there⯑fore the lot of conveying ill news is reſerved for me."’ She then burſt into tears and ſaid, ‘"My dear Tate, I have received a letter from your mother's dear⯑eſt well-wiſher, Lady Forbes, truly lamenting the loſs of her agreeable intimate friend and old ac⯑quaintance, your dear and revered mother, with whom ſhe has known many happy days. Her Ladyſhip deſired me to aſſure you, Tate, that every attendance a perſon of the higheſt rank could have required had not been wanting to relieve, aid, and ſupport her tottering impaired ſtate of health."’—Her Ladyſhip had added, that ſhe would herſelf have been at the expence of ſending for me, but that my mother had thanked Lady Forbes for the [...]avour, and ſaid, as my ſeeing her agonies could only afflict her ſon, and would add to her own [182] pangs, without anſwering any purpoſe, ſhe eſteem⯑ed it as a bleſſing from God that Tate was at a diſtance inſtead of being preſent; at the ſame time imploring every benediction on her ſon's head from the Almighty, and declaring that her off⯑ſpring had behaved nobly in his allowance for her comforts of life; and to add to his expences, or imbitter his mind with ſorrow, would prevent that peaceful exit to God, which ſhe did not dread, but approached with reverence and hope; awfully re⯑lying on his all-gracious mercies, and ſhe felt con⯑ſolation in her quitting this earthly abode of ſor⯑row: That I was then under the patronage of my Dublin wonderfully good friends, and that ſhe in her ſon's proſperity had INHERITED the utmoſt wiſhes and buildings of her fancy. Lady Forbes honoured me ſo far as to take every care of the funeral, &c. herſelf. My mother requeſted, if it might be granted without any extraordinary ex⯑pence, to be laid in the vault of the Savoy Cha⯑pel, where my father had ſo many years been a miniſter; but the Rev. Mr. Wilmot, then my father's ſucceſſor, refuſed the grant, unleſs the expenſive fees were complied with, which my good mother had prohibited being acquieſced with on any account, as ſhe thought her huſband, who had ſo long been miniſter, and a grace and honour to the pulpit as a preacher, her having an elder ſon [183] and two daughters in that vault, humanity, cha⯑rity, pity, and religion, might have granted a wife and mother, of moſt amiable and virtuous cha⯑racter in every true ſenſe of the word, ſuch a boon: but to the ſhame of the miniſter, Chriſtianity, and common feeling, it was denied; and ſhe was decently, and truly mournfully attended by reſpectable perſons, and ſuch true friends as were not aſhamed to pay a tribute to a woman of as good qualities as ever exalted or honoured Hu⯑man Nature.—Were it poſſible a religious and amiable mind could procure happineſs for another in this world, my mother's true prayers and pe⯑titions preſented at the High Throne of Mercy in my behalf would at this time, with the Almigh⯑ty's will, have made me one of the moſt bleſſed men in this life:—But we ſhould work ourſelves and not truſt to the labour of others; as the beſt find that ‘"ſtrait is the gate and narrow is the path which leads to Heaven."’

Mrs. Wilſon alſo delivered me a paper incloſed fr [...]m Lady Forbes, wrote by my mother to the following effect, which I, replete with grief, thruſt into my pocket, being full of diſtreſs and agitation, f [...]r Nature will be [...]ature; but her letters to me at [...]orwich, my laſt farewel, the epiſtle to Cheſter, [...] had in ſome meaſure prepared me for an event expected, though not ſo ſuddenly; but when [184] choaked with agony at my laſt ſeeing her in Lon⯑don, ſhe had, ſpirit-like, awfully informed me ſhe ſhould never behold me more; ſo that altogether they had certainly been preparatives for the greateſt loſs that can be known, that of an indulgent and good parent. As a ſon I can repeat with truth that I was dutiful and reſpectful; but when children ſlight an affectionate father or mother, they not only give a ſtab to the parent, but open a ſluice in their own hearts for the admittance of every iron corroſive and melancholy quality, the which will to a certainty one day or other ſoften what was hard and obdurate, and make them truly re⯑flect with Shakſpeare—

Indeed misfortune ſeldom pays a viſit alone, but is too often attended by a crowded proceſſion of ills and vexations, which anſwers one good purpoſe, as it prepares the mind for ſubmiſſion and a pro⯑per reſignation to quit a life, which otherwiſe with health, attended by the gaudy pleaſures of the world, Nature tugs and makes us unwillingly give up.

I retired home to Mr. Chaigneau's houſe in Abbey-ſtreet, where I then was till I ſuited myſel [...] with a lodging to my mind, Mr. and Mrs. Chaig⯑neau [158] being that winter at Bath. I could not reſt, but run over the many good acts my mother had done, and the many ſufferings ſhe had undergone; but feeling that truly happy and glowing ſenſation, the inſpiration of the Almighty, that told me I had acted dutifully and right by having ſupplied her wants, and that her laſt years were by her con⯑feſſedly years of happineſs and content, it recon⯑ciled me to myſelf; and when the morning gave a ſufficient light, I earneſtly looked over the paper encloſed to me by Lady Forbes in my mother's hand-writing, great part of it is here inſerted:

[187] That day I kept cloſely at home; but as ſoon a [...] I was mournfully equipped, and could appear w [...]t [...] decency, I went abroad. After what had paſ [...]ed with Mr. Moſſop, Mr. Jefferſon inſiſted on my not appearing in the ſtreets without a ſword, which I complied with. Thoſe who know me will [...]augh when they figure to themſelves Wil⯑k nſon in a black ſcratch wig parading Dublin [...]treets with a glaring ſilver-hilted ſword:—To tho [...]e who do not recollect or know me, I refer to Mrs. Bellamy's deſcription in her 6th volume.—She ſays,

Well ſaid, Mrs. Bellamy, THAT I read much more palatably than the unaſked opinion of Mr. Stephen Kemble, who honoured me with the fol⯑lowing from Exeter:

I ſhould have imagined Mr. Kemble's lette [...] meant rudely, but that it contained matter of im⯑portance to him and me, being no leſs than th [...] foundation for a treaty that was afterwards nego⯑tiating [189] ſeriouſly for all my theatrical property; but that gentleman not approving what I aſked, and myſelf not reliſhing by any means the ſums he offered, the matter dropped after a few weeks conſideration. Mrs. Wilkinſon has ſeen, luckily for me, with my eyes, not Mr. Kemble's, which undoubtedly is a bleſſing to herſelf.

Digreſſion is ſo natural to my diſpoſition, it is in vain for me to attempt correcting it, ſo little are we acquainted with our own peculiarities. I had not known a wandering imagination poſſeſſed me in ſo ſtrong a degree, had not Mr. Robertſon, late of the York company, (in high eſtimation as a worthy, well-educated, ſenſible man, and was a moſt excellent comedian) frequently warned me of it in my memoirs. So a ſtranger need only take up Mr. Foote's comedy of the Cozeners, and in Mr. Aircaſtle, as drawn by that gentleman, he will find a ſtrong trait of Tate Wilkinſon.—The following lines of Mr. Aircaſtle's are a ſpeci⯑men, and I often have recourſe to that comedy for a peep at my own ſingularities.

When the gloom of the melancholy event, and my natural reveries had ſubſided, I went eagerly to work in preparing the Rehearſal, and myſelf in Bayes. [...]hen I [...]irſt acted it at Crow-ſtreet, I gave a likeneſs of Moſſop in the lines of—‘"So boar and ſow when any ſtorm is nigh, &c."’—which being well executed of courſe had good ef⯑fect.

In act the third, where I was correcting an ac⯑tor, I hit off ſome words and directions pointedly [191] in the manner of my friend Mr. Macklin, not ſup⯑poſing but he would laugh at it, as he had often encouraged me to proceed with my miſchievous tricks, and I uſed to entertain him with ſuch mat⯑ter:—It was immediately noticed and well taken. The next day Mr Barry ſent for me to give me information that Mr. Macklin, armed [...] à pè on horſeback, had called on him, and ad⯑dr [...]ſed him in the following words:—‘"Sir, I h [...]ar Wilkinſon took ſome liberty with my man⯑ner of acting laſt night on your theatre: I do not tr [...]uble myſelf about the boy, for every affront or j [...]e paſſed on your ſtage I ſhall look upon as au⯑thoriſed by you; and if ſuch a practice is again re⯑peated or attempted, I ſhall ſeriouſly expect you to anſwer for it."’ Barry aſſured him he might depend on Mr. Wilkinſon's being informed of his com⯑ [...]aint, and might reſt ſatisfied no repetition of the [...]rt ſhould be again exhibited. On which Mr. Macklin remounted his roſinante, and like Don Quixote, having killed his puppet giant, he re⯑t [...]rned in triumph. Mr. Barry informed me he had p [...]wned his honour as ſurety I would not be a n [...]ughty boy a ſecond time. ‘"Now, my dear Wi [...]ki [...]ſon," added Barry, ſmiling, "I beg you wi l b [...] obſervant, and let me really depend on your [...]t drawing me into a ſcrape, particularly as I [...] to you I think Macklin will come to church [192] again;"’ which the next ſeaſon actually happened, as he once more acted his Sir Archy to Barry's Sir Callaghan, which was excellent. I re-aſſured Mr. Barry he need not urge ſeriouſly what was my wiſh to comply with, as for Mr. Macklin I re⯑tained the higheſt regard, and he had ever been kind and improving me by his advice and obſer⯑vations: and I really believe had Mr. Macklin been preſent he would have laughed inſtead of be⯑ing offended; but Fame, increaſing as ſhe goes, had formed the trifle I had done, ere it reached Mr. Macklin, into a ſtory perhaps as ridiculous as falſe, and probably formed to the ſize of enormity, and there that matter reſted.

But with Mr. Moſſop I really had no mercy; and though he was confeſſedly an actor of merit and wonderful powers, the moſt melodious clear voice I ever heard, take it for all in all, yet his manner was ſo peculiar, that I fear as I got fame at his expence, I rather decreaſed than in⯑creaſed his; as it certainly led ſeveral enthuſiaſtic admirers to diſtinguiſh foibles and oddities not be⯑fore ſo diſcernible. I really did expect, in conſe⯑quence of the great freedoms I had taken, Mr. Moſſop would certainly have called me to an ac⯑count, and daily apprehended I ſhould have a meſſage or viſit.

[193] Mr. Jefferſon, now at Exeter, who loved a little miſchief, ſaid to him one day, ‘"Sir, I was laſt night at Crow-ſtreet, where Wilkinſon, in Tra⯑gedy A-la-Mode and in Bayes, had taken very great liberties indeed; and added, that the audi⯑ence were ill-natured enough to be highly enter⯑tained;"’ on which Moſſop ſnuffed the air, put his hand on his ſword, and turning upon his heel, replied, ‘"Yes, Sir, but he only takes me off a [...]t—tle,"’ and made his angry departure. After which Jefferſon never again renewed the ſubject, but was aſtoniſhed, after his repeated and open threats of vengeance, he had not acted more con⯑ſ [...]tently: And after the ſaid Mr. Jefferſon's tell⯑ing me that circumſtance, I never heard more of Mr. Moſſop's ſword, piſtol, or anger.

I played a great number of nights with Mr. Barry that ſeaſon, and had a lucrative ſecond en⯑gagement, as my firſt finiſhed December 19. I acted repeatedly Wolſey, Oakly, Tragedy A-la- [...]ode, Cadwallader, Bayes, &c.—And when Mr. Sheridan that winter, who had not been ſeen from the time of his baniſhment, occaſioned by Barry's and Woodward's oppoſition, his long abſence, and a general reſpect being paid him, gave ſucceſs to Barry, and a ſevere blow to Moſſop, as he had then loſt every tragic ſupport, Mrs. Fitzhenry having returned once more to Crow-ſtreet, and [194] Mrs. Abington was engaged in London. Moſ⯑ſop's only ſupport was Mr. Macklin's Shylock, Love A-la-Mode, &c.; and Miſs Catley, who then occaſioned much converſation and faſhion, gave the old Beggar's Opera a new run, and allured ſeveral audiences; Macklin acted Peachum. But Mr. Sheridan, not having performed in Dub⯑lin from his deſertion in 1758 till late in the year 1763, made him not only, from grateful and ho⯑nourable feelings well received (for the well⯑known injuries he had ſuſtained as a gentleman, and more ſo from malevolent party and prejudice, as the darling actor of the hearts in general of that metropolis:—Not that I ſhould have voted or aſſigned the chair of Roſcius (to ſpeak can⯑didly) in favour of Mr. Sheridan againſt Barry or Moſſ [...]p, particularly not againſt the for⯑mer—Mr. Sheridan drew ſeveral overflowing houſes:—He acted Hamlet, his eſtabliſhed parti⯑cular character, for his benefit by the univerſal deſire of his friends, and he actually ſent a card to me requeſting I would obl [...]ge him by ſtudying the Apprentice (which I had never played) for his night, which I agreed to with pleaſure, as I ever held Mr. Sheridan reſpectable; and indeed the conſequence turned out an obligation to myſelf, as my performing that character (though immedi⯑ately after the mer [...]t of the juſtly admired Wood⯑ward) [195] was not only much reliſhed, but perpetually called for, and in London the enſuing ſeaſon did wonders for me, and might be termed my chef d'oeuvre there. Mr. Moſſop I did not neglect when I was in my apprenticeſhip:—And, ſtrange to tell—but men are men, the beſt ſometimes for⯑get—Mr. Sheridan came to return me thanks for the favour, and to wiſh me joy of my applauſe, and rejoicingly told me all his friends were parti⯑cularly pleaſed, and himſelf had been highly en⯑tertained with my ſtrong likeneſs of Mr. Moſſop. Here is a ſtriking inſtance of Human Nature; for if the reader will but turn his memory round to my firſt winter in Ireland, he will recollect how more than pointedly auſtere Mr. Sheridan was againſt mimicry and me, with his particular ſeverity on jokes and freedoms of that nature.

My benefit was on Monday, December 19, 1763.—The Mourning Bride: Oſmyn, by Mr. Barry; the King, by Mr. Wilkinſon; Zara, by Mrs. Fitzhenry; Almeria, by Mrs. Dancer:—With, by particular deſire, The Prodigal's Return, [...]n the manner of the original; Tragedy A-la-Mode; alſo Fielding's Pleaſures of the Town, or he Puppet Shew.—The bills paſſed Mr. Bar⯑y's ordeal, and naturally may be ſuppoſed to have een quartered upon three parts of the Dublin in⯑abitants, beſides all my boxes being taken by my [196] friends and the public, and the great call for tickets made them more univerſally diſperſed. This, if you are a theatrical reader, I beg you will notice was the very winter Woodward had broke his con⯑nection as manager with Barry, and had ſpoken his prologue, of the Prodigal returned at London, and had been received with open arms, at his for⯑mer reſidence of Elyſium. That Prologue, if I had properly conſidered, certainly was a dange⯑rous and wanton undertaking, and therefore ſhould have required thought, as it indubitably might have drawn me into a predicament which, if taken of⯑fenſively, might to a certainty have turned out ſo ſerious, that all my friends combined, could not have extricated me from the bad conſequences, as offence is ſooner conceived than forgiven; and too many people like being offended to gratify, by ſuch opportunity, their darling ſpleen and ill-na⯑ture: and even acquaintances are liable to ſway with the opinion of the multitude to prove thei [...] impartiality; which often makes luke-warm friend [...] the moſt dangerous of enemies that can be con⯑ceived, as their deſertion is made ſubſervient b [...] artful inſinuations to become uſeful for baſe pur⯑poſes.

About five days before my benefit, Mr. Barr [...] called on me in great perturbation, and ſaid, Mr Woodward had informed him by letter, that i [...] [197] London, on looking over the Dublin Journal, he to his aſtoniſhment had ſeen his Prodigal prologue advertiſed to be ſpoken by Mr. Wilkinſon, and in his manner:—That he expected and requeſted to have that part of the bill expunged, as it might greatly injure him, and he alſo judged it a ſervice of danger to Mr. Wilkinſon:—He made a point of it the more as he intended (he added) to per⯑form a few nights in the ſpring on his own ſtage in Crow-ſtreet, and he feared Mr. Wilkinſon's whim might have a perilous tendency. I felt the force of truth, and not meaning injury, ſhould have been unhappy to have occaſioned any. My bills were immediately altered, and what Mr. Wood⯑ward had ſurmiſed to be offenſive was directly ta⯑ken out; and its not being in the future bills, great or ſmall I never thought more of what I con⯑ [...]idered merely as a trifling matter.

That night, December 23, (though I had been honoured with many good ones) notwithſtanding Mr. and Mrs. Chaigneau were abſent, was [...]he beſt I ever had in Dublin, the receipt being 1801. The laſt muſic was called about the uſual time, [...]nd was playing to that bumper of a houſe, which finiſhed, and the curtain riſing to melting notes; and as Mrs. Dancer was impatiently expecting her uſual plaudits from every hand, ſtick, and voice, the contrary burſt forth with moſt horrid din and [198] vociferation, and to her aſtoniſhment the univerſal cry was—‘"Off! off!—Wilkinſon! Wilk [...]nſon! Woodward's prologue,"’ &c. Mrs. Dancer at⯑tempted to courteſy and ſpeak, but all in vain; ſhe was compelled to retire, full of grief, rage, ſhame, anger, and vexation:—For my part I was dreſſed all trim for his Majeſty, and thinking to command as a king and not be commanded. [...] was petriſied like Lord Ogleby, and almoſt diſtil⯑led to jelly by my fears: Barry ſummoned me in high rage, and the audience continued all the while in tumult. Mrs. Dancer flew into a violent paſſion for what ſhe had ſuſtained on my account. Barr [...] ſaid, he was certain I had wilfully occ [...]ſioned the riot, and planted perſons to call for the prologue. I replied, on my honour, that I had ſtrictly obey⯑ed his commands, and from the moment he had mentioned my not doing it I never more gave the fatal prologue a thought; and urged, what was truth, that my very dreſs for the king of Portugal made my aſſertions evident: therefore Mr. Glover (late Dr. Glover, in Fleet-ſtreet) who was then engaged as an actor, with Mr. Barry's directions went for⯑ward, and after much bowing, intreating, &c. was at length ſuffered to inf [...]rm them that Mr. Wil⯑kinſon was then dreſſed for the King, and actually was not prepared for the prologue, it having been judged improper in the higheſt degree, and [199] purpoſely omitted, not only in the bills of the day, but for the whole week paſt^*: There⯑ [...]ore Mr. Barry and Mr. Wilkinſon reſpect⯑fully hoped the omiſſion would be pardoned, ap⯑proved, and excuſed. The anſwer was not only univerſal, but as if one determined voice—‘"No! no! no!—No play! no play! No benefit unleſs he ſpeaks the prologue."’ Barry began then to be [...]eriouſly alarmed, as it bore the marks of deter⯑mination not to be trifled with; he alledged, ſo ſituated, Mr. Woodward himſelf could not be an⯑gry when properly informed, and ſaid, ‘"Well, Wi [...]kinſon, I do not blame you—I ſee evidently it is a formed party of angry enemies againſt Wood⯑ward, ſo ſpeak the prologue as well as you can."’ Mr. Glover then informed the audience I would [...]peak the prologue, and endeavour to recollect it againſt the finiſh of the play, but ‘"No, no!" was the cry and anſwer—"The prologue now, or no play."’ I felt myſelf in a ſituation very alarming: I had no alternative; and really not having attended to the prologue after giving up every idea of it, to recol⯑lect what I had conned over was very difficult, having never ſpoke it, nor having t [...]e [...]eaſt imagi⯑nation of its ever being ſuch a ſerious matter of contention.—Once more Mr. Glover was deputed, and underwent a peal of groans and hiſſes; but [200] being again permitted to be heard, he ſaid, if they would honour Mr. [...]ilkinſon with the indul⯑gence of a few minutes to change his dreſs and collect himſelf, he would exert his abilities, and ſpeak the prologue as well as he was capable. The theatre refounded approbation, and ‘"Yes, yes—bravo! bravo!"’—I do not think in any dramatic occurrence I ever was ſo truly overpowered: I took a half pint of Madeira, and that aſſiſtance, before I thought of the prologue, actually inſpired me to repeat theſe lines:—

The above alluſion was conceited, but I w [...] young, and the whim ſtruck my fancy. The id [...] of conſequence I had agreeably placed myſelf i [...] by that repetition, however ſtrutting and fantaſti⯑cal, aided by the good heartening Madeira, tune my mind to ſome degree of compoſure: I ſtripp [...] with alacrity, and put on an old grey frock, a pa [...] of blue boot ſtockings, my ſcratch wig, &c. an [201] quickly transformed myſelf; and thus equipped, with hat in hand, advanced to take the field: but however, quick as I had been, the patience of the audience were tired, and ſuſpecting more impo⯑ſition, as they termed it, let me know they were all there; and I naturally conceived they had not entirely forgot my ſlip mentioned in 1762, when they promiſed retaliation, which perhaps might have conſpired to render the ſaid mentioned pro⯑logue conſidered as a matter of more moment than otherwiſe it would have been: However, I was certainly the unlucky Buſy Body. The muſic played, and the bell at laſt was rung: They were ſoon all ſeated, and ſilence loudly proclaimed. Be it obſerved, that Mr. Woodward, when he ſpoke that prologue firſt at Covent Garden, after an ab⯑ſence of a few years, popped his head on the ſtage from the door, drew himſelf haſtily away as if aſhamed of being ſuch a prodigal ſon as to leave his good friends and not know when he was well. He next crept on by the curtain, peeping, and then hiding his face again till he attained the centre of the ſtage, which was wittingly conceived, and had a happy effect. So on my approach that night I practiſed the ſame manoeuvre, but as in imitation of Woodward, and not owing to my own bright thought: The audience on my firſt approach, and drawing back as above de⯑ſcribed, [202] half hiſſed—half applauded: but o [...] my ſecond and third advance, a-la-mode Wood⯑ward, the approbation aroſe to a degree equal al⯑moſt to Woodward's reception at Covent Garden; for they apprehended all my acted modeſty was a natural impromptu, and a tacit confeſſion of ſhame for keeping them ſo long waiting, and having meant artfully to deprive them of that part of the evening's entertainment, they were determined to hear, and all in compliance to the baſhaw order of the manager: however, my pardon was fully proclaimed long before I ſpoke, by peals of laugh⯑ter and applauſe, and I felt very differently from the hour before that pleaſing altered ſituation; and what is no more ſtrange than true, they with infinite good humour approved almoſt every line of the prologue, as if it had been calculated to compliment the Dublin audience, inſtead of the con⯑trary; and I may venture to ſay Mr. Woodward was certainly to blame when he wrote and ſpoke it:—

For though he might be right in ſound judgment to return to London, he could eaſily have ſtudied means to have paid court, and obtained pardon and ſupport on his going back to the ſtation where he had formerly been for many years an eſta⯑bliſhed favourite, without inconſiderately and un⯑gratefully [203] throwing re [...]ections on thoſe who had ever reſpected his worth as a man, and his merit as an actor of eminence. His view in quitting London was gain, as was his returning; and he was like to ſtand the hazard of that die, he himſelf had purpoſely thrown. As I have ſaid ſo much rela⯑tive to the prologue, I will here inſert it, and I hope not with impropriety.

I thought all that prologue buſineſs well over and was to play Cardinal Wolſey ſhortly after—Queen Catherine, Mrs. Fitzhenry; (as Mr. Foote had ſent Barry over the new farce of the Mayo [...] of Garratt it occaſioned me a ſecond engagemen [...] with him for ten nights more). On my entranc [...] as the Cardinal, to my aſtoniſhment there was a [...] univerſal cry for Woodward's prologue, nor would they let me or the play proceed till I advanced an [...] ſaid, ‘"Gentlemen, as ſoon as I am dead I wil [...] certainly ſpeak it."’ The oddity of my Iriſh blun⯑der ſet them into a laugh, and all was right til [...] the play was over, then it was not forgot, but fo [...] fear I ſhould give them the ſlip was loudly calle [...] for.

[205] In a few days the Mayor of Garratt was ready, which, with puffing and extracts from the Lon⯑don papers, brought a crowded houſe. I was equipped exactly in Mr. Foote's manner for Ma⯑jor Sturgeon, and pleaſed myſelf with the effect my figure would have on my firſt entrance as the Major; for the piece being quite new, was a fea⯑ther in my cap, and I was in high ſpirits on the occaſion; but notwithſtanding the novelty and expectation of much entertainment from the new farce, no ſooner was the curtain drawn up than that curſed unfortunate and tormenting prologue was again called for by every bod [...], and ‘"Wilkinſon!—Prologue! prologue! Wilkinſon!"’ reſounded from every part of the theatre.—A perſon not acquainted with the ſtage may perhaps not think this any parti⯑cular hardſhip, but an actor will feel [...]t to be, as I myſelf found it, really a piece of ill fortune, and very diſtreſſing. Let any brother comedian ſup⯑poſe himſelf well-dreſſed for a remarkable cha⯑racter dependent partly on that dreſs, and that the firſt night too of a new comedy, in which he ex⯑pected fame and profit, and one half the effect de⯑pending on his firſt appearance.—But this pro⯑logue they would have—I refuſed—but was obliged to go on and plead:—All arguing was in vain; and what was worſe, in that prologue I was to [...]omplain of want and penury, &c. and ſhould [206] have been in a very indifferent dreſs; yet they wiſhed me to ſpeak it with a ſtuffed belly, roſy cheeks, and in a great pair of French boots: No remonſtrances would avail—I urged my boots as an excuſe, but they only laughed aloud and ſaid, ‘"Never mind, Major, ſpeak it in your boots."’—I thought ſome planet had unwitted men—I was obliged to ſubmit, and was ſo far in character (as the Prodiga) that I felt more inclined to cry than laugh. After that diſagreeable ceremony the farce proceeded on, was highly received, and acted ſix or ſeven nights, but never without their fa⯑vourite prologue, let me have acted what I would; nay, had I played Lady Townly or Juliet, I am certain I muſt have ſpoke it. However, cuſtom reconciles many diſagreeable things in life, which at firſt appear not only diſguſtful but painful; ſo this prologue, by uſe, I at length repeated perfect⯑ly eaſy, let me be dreſſed as I would; and as ‘"what muſt be, muſt be,"’ I was prepared for the ſummons. Barry wiſhed me to continue, as he urged I was much more eſtabliſhed there, as a per⯑former, than at any other period; and that favour from the public at large without being in the leaſt dependent on my particular friends: yet things happen ſo contradictory, that it muſt appear ſtrange to ſay, that the trifling prologue had ſo teized me, it was the only time I ever quitted Dublin with⯑o [...]t [207] regret, and at the very period I loved that place [...]he moſt. At the end of January 1764, I left that city, and took my route the north road by Drogheda, Newry, Carrickfergus, and Belfaſt, to Donogadee.

But before I take leave of the prologue buſineſs entirely, I muſt beg permiſſion to give the ſequel and cataſtrophe to it, and I hope I ſhall be forgiven for my tautology and tediouſneſs reſpecting it.

Mr. Woodward went over to Ireland late in the ſpring ſeaſon 1764:—he was advertiſed to play; and, to ſecure his former footing, his firſt appearance was announced for a public charity be⯑nefit; when a rumour was whiſpered, and of courſe ſoon circulated, about Mr. Woodward's prodigal prologue, ſpoken in London at Covent Garden theatre, and ſo often repeated by Wilkin⯑ſon to the audience in Dublin during the winter months of playing. It may be readily conje [...] ⯑tured that fooliſh buſineſs was not a little puſhed forwards by the oppoſite intereſts connected with the Moſſopian theatre; and actors can, in ſpite of nature, now and then give a lift to irritation and ſpleen in public taverns, &c. particularly if things are not agreeable to themſelves at the time. Not but there are as worthy and ſuperior minds of both ſexes to be found in a theatre as in any other ſet of people whatever: but when we judge in gene⯑ral [208] of mankind, wo be to the ſafety of thoſe who truſt their ſecurity, in the ſtate of reliance, on hu⯑manity, honour, and good-nature:—though it is ſaid charity covereth a multitude of ſins, yet Woodward's coat of mail and merit on this occa⯑ſion would not avail; it was not only penetrable ſtuff, but furiouſly threatened with aſſaſſination on all ſides, as they judged it a flimſy pretext to hide or conceal a conſcientiouſneſs of his fault, and a groſs affront to the city of Dublin at large.

The playing for a charity for his firſt appear⯑ance, was a poor ſubterfuge, and made bad worſe, as they all knew his real view and intent was pro⯑fit; they therefore termed that a paltry evaſion, and a tacit confeſſion of guilt and fear, and on the day of his intended performance, the ſaid prologue was actually printed as ſpoken by the grateful Henry Woodward; therefore all the lines they had noted when I ſpoke it, they locked ſafe in the volumes of their brains, and ſuch as they took to be offen⯑ſive and affrontive were marked in the freſh print⯑ed ones in Italics—here potatoes, another line tur⯑nips, and at laſt baniſhed from thoſe boards.—The matter wore ſo ſerious an aſpect, that Mr. Wood⯑ward and his friends thought it prudent and adviſe⯑able for him to decline playing there that night, or any other; on that he ſpeedily retreated, not making his appearance even in the ſtreets for fear of being [209] inſulted, nor did he ever viſit Ireland to play again.

I am vexed at relating this, becauſe it was oc⯑caſioned by a fooliſh wantonneſs on my part, at⯑tended with perplexity and vexation to myſelf, and followed with ſuch ſerious conſequences to Mr. Woodward, as never could have entered my head.—It hurt me the more, as I really regarded him much:—it occaſioned a great coolneſs and ironical diſtance between us for an interval, which was natural and unavoidable: But reflection and time made us reconciled, and reſtored us not only to our former acquaintance, but to a much ſtron⯑ger intimacy than before, and a ſincere friendſhip which truly continued till that moment which ſepa⯑rates king and people, huſband and wife, father and ſon—and all the world.

Mr. Woodward was a gentleman of true worth, and not undeſerving the ſigh of any perſon, how⯑ever exalted, as he undoubtedly was an honour⯑able member of ſociety, and an actor, while within memory, whoſe merits cannot, muſt not, be forgot⯑ten: His Marplot, Bobadil, and Flaſh, will be for years enrolled in ſtage hiſtory.

I now muſt travel to Donogadee, and from thence to Edinburgh; but I was obliged to con⯑tinue three or four days, the wind not anſwering directly for Scottiſh ſteerage—the diſtance I gueſs [210] is nearly the ſame as between Dover and Calai [...], or perhaps rather more; packets appointed by Government have now rendered that paſſage more commodious and ſa [...]e, and traverſe to and fro in regular courſe, which affords great temptations to ladies and gentlemen not fond of a ſea voyage. When I unluckily adventured over in the depth of winter, it was in a ſtorm, accompanied by ſnow with all its horrid attendants, and in an open wher⯑ry; no ſhelter whatever from the inclemency of weather; the ſailors all drunk; twenty pigs and ſows, with horſes, and a methodiſt preacher: Whether he or the poſſeſſed [...]wine raiſed the tempeſt I cannot determine—I rather ſuppoſe the Fates. However, we ruſhed on the rocks on the oppoſite ſhore, which is remarkably rugged, with a force that ſeemed to me aſtoniſhing: they ſaid it was the uſual manner of landing at Port Patrick! In⯑deed, though I was ſix hours, the paſſage in ge⯑neral I believe is performed in leſs time, and I am informed is rendered pleaſant and convenient for the weary traveller; and beſides theſe allure⯑ments, its ſhortneſs and an almoſt certainty of ſafety, an accident being ſeldom heard of: but mine was an inſtance to encourage wayfarers to paſs that way, as then conveniences were never thought of:—The wherry in the ſtorm almoſt guided itſelf—a drunken crew—no ſhelter from [211] th [...] ſeverity of climate—yet the actor, the preacher, the ſailors, the ſows and pigs, horſes, &c. all ar⯑rived ſafe on the Scotch ſhore. If the eſcape was owing to the particular good qualities of the med⯑ley groupe, I fear the drunken ſailors would have the ſuperior claim allowed to them, as they undiſguiſed expoſed their unthinking folly, while it was poſſible the methodiſt and the dramatic were both actors: had a Jew been in the boat he would probably have imputed the ſtorm to th [...] herd of ſwine.

I do confeſs, without aſking belief, I was glad of a ſupper in an hut called an inn, and to get a night's reſt there; that ſaid hut is now transformed to a decent place of reception for ſtrangers. There was not at that period a tolerable road, or any re⯑gular track for near forty miles, nor any mode of travelling but on little ſtarved horſes and a wild guide to Glaſgow; now there are poſt-chaiſes.—However, I accompliſhed my journey on horſe⯑back in two days, the firſt night to Aire, the ſecond to Glaſgow; it rained heavily, and was accompa⯑nied with hail, ſnow, and every concomitant ſe⯑vere weather could give: I felt much for the guide who carried my luggage, but he appeared perfect⯑ly contented, whilſt I ſeemed ready to give up the ghoſt; but the beholding the ſpires of the noble [212] [...]ity of Glaſgow recruited my almoſt exhauſted ſpirits, till by dint of labour I at laſt, about ten at night, arrived in that truly elegant built city:—It was far ſuperior to Edinburgh, and has greatly improved; but in point of rapid gran⯑deur in building and improvement [...] Edinburgh has given Glaſgow a Somerſet ſurpriſe, ſo as to baffle all compariſon, and now ſtands foremoſt as one of the moſt beautiful corporate towns in Eu⯑rope.

I was truly ill when I go [...] to the Bull Inn, and actually from fatigue extended myſelf on the car⯑pet before the fire; but good wine, good ſupper, good bed, good every thing, made me feel in hea⯑ven. Next day I took a poſt-chaiſe, and in the even⯑ing reached Edinburgh, and ſtopped at an inn in the Graſs Market, very indifferent indeed in every reſpect as to accommodation or neatneſs, which gave me a bad opinion of the capital city of Scot⯑land.

Edinburgh is romantically and pleaſantly ſitua⯑ted; indeed more ſo than can be imagined or deſcribed; nor has even Bath, or any other town or city within my knowledge, made ſuch rapid ſtrides towards improvement as the new town of Edinburgh. The new ſtreets, hotels, ſuperb ſquares, &c. are aſtoniſhing; but, added to all thoſe ele⯑gancies, in the winter ſeaſon the town is well lighted throughout. Thi [...] deſcription will make [213] a narrow-minded Cockney ſtare who thinks green peas were never ſeen in Scotland, and ſuppoſes all the inhabitants live on barley-broth, haggaſs, and crowdy, and has confirmed his notions by ſur⯑miſing Edinburgh to be a dirty, mean place; but if he will travel and take a peep, it will open his eyes, and make him confeſs with ſurpriſe, aſto⯑niſhment, and conviction, that it with juſtice lays claim to being placed in a ſtation that evinces ſu⯑periority, and demands a rank as a city of emi⯑nence, admiration, conſequence, and diſtinction: In point of elegance and ſpirit, there is no ſuch city in the kingdom of Great Britain, except London and Bath. But, reader, obſerve, Edin⯑burgh was not in the ſtate I have been endeavour⯑ing to deſcribe when I firſt arrived there in Feb: 1764: It was then merely confined to the old town, and deſtitute of many of thoſe elegancies it now poſſeſſes—to a degree of luxury and extrava⯑gance in every reſpect. On my ſetting down at Edinburgh I neither had engagement nor acquain⯑tance with any perſon whatever, theatrical or otherwiſe, but had gone there at hap hazard, and removed myſelf four hundred miles from London into a ſtrange country, and took that wonderful circumbendibus to North Britain uninvited, mere⯑ly from my own whim and inclination:—but on inquiry was highly pleaſed to find my old friend [214] Mrs. Bellamy was there, with whom I had not only dined at Mr. Calcraft's, when ſhe lived in Parliament-ſtreet, but had been on an intimacy for years by ſeeing her conſtantly as a viſitor at Lady Tyrawley's, at Somerſet-Houſe, near the Savoy, who regarded Mrs: Bellamy much as a ſuppoſed natural daughter of Lord Tyrawley's, though his Lordſhip had proved a falſe mate to his wedded lady; who, though a woman of high ſenſe and breeding could not boaſt of any perſonal attraction, as ſhe was ſhort-ſighted, ſquinted, and was in her perſon rather bordering on the extra⯑vagance of caricature, but was friendly, generous, ſenſible, and humane, and ever honoured my fa⯑ther and mother as a conſtant kind companion and good neighbour. She poſſeſſed more of Cib⯑ber's Lady Dainty in reſpect to cats, dogs, and monkeys, than any other that ever came within the ſcope of my diſcernment. Indeed her apart⯑ments at Somerſet-Houſe were truly diſagreeable to enter, and when in not without ſome danger or apprehenſion at leaſt from the variety of ani⯑mals, as there were looſe monkeys and a file of yelping dogs to paſs before one could get to the room and then to a chair; and an affront to any one of thoſe favourites was truly ſo to her lady⯑ſhip, and not to be forgiven:—there were neve [...] [215] [...]s than three or four monkeys dreſſed in regi⯑mentals, or as fine ladies and gentlemen.—But no pen, however able, can poſſibly exaggerate her propenſity to this tribe, as if ſelected againſt a ſe⯑cond flood. On Mrs. Bellamy's knowing me ſo long by meetings at Lady Tyrawley's, &c. I was no ſooner announced in Scotland than moſt friendly received, and a general inſiſted invitation to make a home of her houſe and Mr. Bellamy's (alias Digges), at Bonnington, during my ſtay in Edinburgh: It is a pleaſant village ſituated little more than a mile from the town, but now I dare ſay nearly connected by the additional ſtreets and buildings. Mr. Digges was certainly the moſt polite gentleman in the world to his ladies, and not chooſing to have Mrs. Digges's name in the bills, (for living together in Scotland conſti⯑tutes a marriage while in that kingdom) he moſt graciouſly exchanged his name of Digges for Bel⯑lamy; alſo, let that lady perform whatever charac⯑ter ſhe would, ſhe was always placed at the head of the bill; as for inſtance:—This day Romeo and Juliet: Juliet, Mrs. Bellamy; Romeo, Mr. Bellamy.—On being introduced into the green [...]oom I met with little neat Mrs. Mozeen, my Portſmouth Deſdemona, 1758, who by the name of Edwards had been bred carefully up, and in⯑troduced [216] to the London audience by Mrs. Clive, who was ſo partial to her adoption, that ſhe for the firſt time gave up Polly, which ſhe would not do to Mrs. Cibber, and acted Lucy, (which was beyond compare) on producing her own taught Polly: but Mrs. Mozeen's powers were weak, and ſhe fell by taſting the apple like her mother eve, and the chaſte, the comical, the enraged Clive diſcarded her, and reſumed Polly herſelf, and let her pupil down the wind to prey on Fortune.

Mrs. Mozeen, whom I believe I have mention⯑ed as being a favourite actreſs at Portſmouth in 1758, was at Edinburgh 1764, under the wings of a long tall Northumberland manager of Edin⯑burgh, whoſe name was Dowſon, cojointly with a Mr. Bates. Edinburgh Dowſon had, like a true lovyer, ſacrificed all his buſineſs and good ſitua⯑tion at Newcaſtle to proſtrate himſelf with offer⯑ings of incenſe and gaudy mock trappings of falſe ſilver and gold lace at the feet of his theatrical princeſs, which at laſt ended in his wilful ruin.—This was in the time of the old theatre in Can⯑nongate, long before the preſent new one (or even the New Town) was either built or thought on.—Mrs. Mozeen had a plurality of lovers, and alwa [...]s put me in mind of Shakeſpear's lines:—

And ſo it was with that lady; for at the leaſt ſudden joke ſhe bluſhed to ſuch a degree as to give the beholder pain for an offence not meant or in⯑tended.

A Miſs Wordly alſo was there, whom Mrs. Bellamy has mentioned in her apology as being termed the Goddeſs of Nonſenſe, as a compliment to her being remarkably the contrary: But there my friend Bellamy forgot herſelf, as indeed ſhe often tripped with her memory, for Miſs Wordly was called the Goddeſs of Nonſenſe by acting that part for my benefit in a farce of Fielding's, entitled, The Pleaſures of the Town, and was ſo chriſtened by Mr. Aickin, who was then in Edinburgh, in high and deſerved eſtimation, and with whom I had the ſatisfaction of many, many happy days, or ra⯑ther evenings, (not omitting our Scotch pint of claret, and neither of us averſe to Madeira—to the latt [...]r I then and now give the preference,) parti⯑cularly recollecting one hour's laugh with him on my nearly breaking my neck by a fall into the coal cellar. I could have propheſied he would, from his ſpirited manner then, have been more fortunate, if properly ſupported, on his firſt onſet in London in an animated and lively line; but it [218] may be better as it is, for he is now playing what he might at this time have had to ſtudy; as years will creep (which neither Aickin nor Wilkinſon can prevent); therefore it makes his preſent time the more eaſy and pleaſant, and ‘"All is well that ends well,"’ is a good motto for us ſtage players.

The third day of my being in Edinburgh I had a card of invitation from Mr. Dowſon and Mr. David Bates, managers, to ſup with them at a ta⯑vern: I was entertained very reſpectfully; and in the courſe of caſual converſation Mr. Dowſon (who was the monied manager juſt then) aſked me what terms I required for eight or ten nights! ſaid, they could not afford any thing extravagant, as I had come uninvited (which ſhould never be done) and at the very prime part of the ſeaſon when they wanted not any foreign aid: Beſides, Mr Dowſon ſaid, (and with truth) Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy were towers of ſtrength. I eaſily ſur⯑miſed by that converſation they meant to be very courtier-like and civil, but wanted not any en⯑gangement that was likely to coſt them any thing. I found I had undertaken an expenſive tedious journey, merely on ſpeculation, and condemned myſelf as having acted wrong in ſo doing, and really thought I might as well have been lucra⯑tively paid at that time by Mr. Barry, who had had me at his bedſide requeſting me to ſtay a [219] month longer in Dublin, even though I had been made to ſpeak Woodward's prologue againſt the grain; for Mr. Barry then wanted every aſſiſtance, he being confined by a rheumatiſm few perſons experienced equally painful as himſelf. The Scotch managers and I parted very civilly, but no hint of terms for an engagement on either ſide:—The day following at dinner with Mr. Digges, or Mr. Bellamy—which ever appellation the reader likes beſt,—I informed him and his lady what had paſſed, and that it had determined me to quit Scotland immediately. Mrs. Bel⯑lamy replied, that what the managers had told me was the exact ſtate of facts as they then ſtood: ‘"And," ſaid ſhe, "as Mr. Bellamy and myſelf are concerned in the profits in one inte⯑reſt; and as we ſettle all the plays, we do not want you Mr. Wilkinſon, as it is evident you have thrown yourſelf into their power if you play at all; and if not, you have no alternative but to de⯑part and make better uſe of your time, as you cer⯑tainly can; for Bates and Dowſon undoubtedly think as you are on the ſpot you will not neglect any decent engagement. But, my friend Tate," continued ſhe, "you are ſure I wiſh you well from my long knowledge of you; and if you will for once depend on my advice, and ſtay over Sa⯑turday or Monday next, a wonderful change may [220] happen in the movements of the theatrical ma⯑chine that will aſtoniſh Bates and Dowſon, and you may command your own terms; at preſent they are ſure they can do without you, but Sun⯑day next will cauſe a contrary opinion." I was much ſurpriſed, and begged Mrs. Bellamy to be explicit. "Why," ſaid ſhe, "Tate, I will prove myſelf explicit and honourable to you, as I can rely on your ſecrecy:—There is a law in force in Scotland, that if any perſon whatever is in debt, and known to be quitting the kingdom, they can arreſt, even on a Sunday, on oath being firſt made. Mr. Digges is much involved here, and is ſo unfortunately circumſtanced at this juncture that he cannot poſſibly continue longer, without loſs of liberty.—On Saturday night Mr. Digges will, on ſome pretext, get all the caſh he can from Mr. Still the treaſurer:—Dowſon is not deſtitute of property, and muſt pay the actors:—Mr. Digges will by Sunday night be ſe⯑cretly and ſecurely conveyed out of their reach, and ſafe on the other ſide the Tweed, in Old England:—On Monday Bates and Dowſon will be in the utmoſt conſternation, and their only re⯑lief will be that of requeſting your aſſiſtance."’—The event turned out exactly as Mrs. Bella⯑my's ſecret advice had painted; and on the pro⯑phecied Monday they were obliged to offer me [221] unaſked, two clear benefits, who a week before would not have given one without the charges being duly paid into their coffers inſtead of my purſe.

The Minor was firſt reſolved on; next the Mayor of Garratt; both were quite new.—Mrs. Cole was rather thought improper, alſo Dr. Squin⯑tum, as touching on matters there judged too ſe⯑rious:—but I was very faſhionable, and all was right; but Major Sturgeon was the favourite.—I acted in various plays and farces, from Richard, Bayes, &c. to the Lyar; in ſhort I played many good parts, and was received with candour and much approbation. Mrs. Bellamy had two be⯑nefits, and both much honoured in the compli⯑ments they paid her on thoſe nights.—Her firſt was the Funeral:—I acted Trim; Mrs. Bellamy, Lady Brumpton; Campley, Mr. Aickin.—Her ſecond night was the Orphan of China: Zamti, Mr. Wilkinſon; [...]tan, Mr. Aickin; Mandane, Mrs. Bellamy: Hamet was to have been acted by Mr. Collins, who has given the public at Lon⯑don, and elſewhere, much entertainment by his Bruſh; he was taken ill, and the part was obliged to be ſubſtituted by Mr. Creſwick's good-natu⯑redly reading that character. The accident not only hurt the play but Mr. Collins, as Mrs. Bel⯑lamy, in an acrimonious apology and manner, re⯑preſented [222] to the audience that Mr. Collins pur⯑poſely diſtreſſed the repreſentation, and in plain terms told them nought but malevolence and ill⯑behaviour was the true cauſe of the diſappoint⯑ment. I have no reaſon to imagine her accuſa⯑tion was truly or ill-founded, but that was the colour ſhe gave it; and becauſe frequent illneſs, ſudden and laſting, we are all ſubject to.

I was ſoon well acquainted with ſeveral leading gentlemen, particularly with Mr. Nicholſon Swetart, who was then univerſally known, and as well re⯑membered from London to Edinburgh, and at every public place of reſort, as any worthy ſpirited gentleman can be, and in conſequence reſpected in the three kingdoms:—He poſſeſſed liberality and that goodneſs of heart (above all to be recorded) which many may envy, but few, very few, can equal, and felt the dramatic furor in a degree, like Mr. Vapid, not to be ſurpaſſed; which I men⯑tion as no diſhonour to himſelf as an admirer of Shakſpe [...]re and Garrick, but to his own fame as a mind full of liberality and underſtanding, and pay only a juſt tribute in ſuch declaration.

My days and hours at that period were very happily engaged, and always, when not with com⯑pany, was certain of an agreeable party with Mrs. Bellamy. My obligations at Edinburgh were extended beyond mediocrity, and in the courſe of [223] my repeated viſits to that city exceed the limits of expreſſing a proper acknowledgment.

My firſt benefit there, was on the 14th of March, 176 [...]:—The Way to keep him; Tragedy A-la-Mode; Bucks have at ye All; with Duke and no Duke: Lovemore, Trapolin, &c. by Mr. Wil⯑kinſon; Widow Belmour, Mrs. Bellamy.

My ſecond (the laſt night of the ſeaſon) I act⯑ed King Lear, and had the farce of the Pleaſures of the Town, aided by Miſs Wordly's Goddeſs of Nonſenſe. I was not only ſatisfied, but even delighted with my expedition to Canny Edinburgh; and indeed, from my frequent viſits to that place, has occurred the moſt enviable and pleaſing conſequences, which on reflection muſt ever be delightful to my memory; ſuch as renewing my acquaintance there, which repaid my journies with every agreeable advantage, an increaſe of friends, a kind reception, great and honourable benefits freely attended to, with many high-be⯑ſtowed compliments, which has left behind an in⯑delible mark of gratitude on my heart that no filer or artiſt can ever deface, only the ſlow and ſure hand of Time that moulders even matters of mag⯑nitude to aſhes and duſt.

The Edinburgh ſeaſon ended: Mrs. Bellamy wiſhed me to proceed on an expedition then form⯑ing for a new theatre at Glaſgow juſt finiſhed, [224] but I at that time was in a bad ſtate of health and therefore declined it; as, added to indiſpoſition, I wiſhed once more to review my London apart⯑ments, which I had not had the opportunity of ſeeing from the time of my mother's death, and where all the furniture, clothes, &c. were ſafely and honourably ſecured by the undoubted care and regard of Mrs. Alcock in Little Bedford⯑ſtreet in the Strand, and of courſe I had ſome matters of buſineſs to ſettle: Indeed I grew worſe and worſe in health, and, on leaving Edinburgh, by ſlow ſtages, like Cardinal Wolſey, (chooſing a great compariſon) expected juſt to reach London and die in earneſt on my late mother's bed.

Mrs. Bellamy and the company had ſet off for the weſt of Scotland, Glaſgow—I ſet off South for my deſtined home, but intended to halt at my good friend's, Mr. Baker of the York theatre.—I was ſo very ill, that five or ſix days were neceſ⯑ſary, even with difficulty, to accompliſh the jour⯑ney. When the afflictive tour was achieved, I at noon found that good old gentleman buſy with bricks and mortar, and in his high glory, giving di⯑rections to workmen who were erecting part of a new theatre at York, at a great, and his ſole ex⯑pence: It was intended to be (as it now actually is) on a much more capacious ſcale than the old one, though nearly on the ſame ſpot, as h [...] was then [225] finiſhing the tail of the new, while the players were employed in the head of the old. Mr. Ba⯑ker laughed on ſeeing me, and exulted on valuing himſelf the younger man in point of compariſon, I was ſo emaciated; which, joking a-part, he was ſeriouſly ſorry to behold.

That night was the firſt benefit a Mr. and Mrs. Powell had at York—The Merchant of Venice; in which Mr. Powell acted Gratiano, and Mrs. Powell, Portia.—Mr. Powell was a York man—Mrs. Powell a woman of a good and reſpectable family in Warwickſhire. Mr. Baker requeſted me much to rouſe my ſpirits and play a few nights. As I ever was ready to graſp at a benefit and be touching the caſh, to prevent running out, and did not diſlike the fatigue of playing: I conſented, and on Saturday, April 28, fixed on Othello for my opening character:—It was to have been for the benefit of Mrs. Quin. I was daily abuſed at York for attempting Mr. Frodſham's part of Othello. When the day came, I was after din⯑ner taken ſo dreadfully ill, that I never expected to play more. Mr. Frodſham was not to be found to ſupply my place, and the audience were obliged to be diſmiſſed; and as the world is too fond of any tale that feeds its appetite for ſcandal, however groſs, abſurd, and even impoſſible, ſo in that inſtance did I ſuffer moſt inhumanly by the falſehoods [226] propagated, reliſhed, and believed, without a trait of truth to lead to the matter. Firſt, it was aſ⯑ſerted I was afraid to appear, conſcious of my ha⯑ving picked their pockets at York on my Tea benefit the year before; next, that Mr. Baker and I had drank half pints of rum and wine till we were ſo int [...]xicated, that both were carried to bed ſpeech⯑leſs; nay, the matter was carried ſo far, that I had a letter of condolance from Mr. Foote la⯑menting and reproaching me for having been drove from the York ſtage for attempting to play when ſo infamouſly drunk that I could neither ſpeak nor ſtand. So theſe different tales of ſcandal were all ſent piping hot north, ſouth, eaſt, and weſt, and the ſimple matter of fact was neither more nor leſs than my being truly and dangerouſly ill So, in⯑ſtead of pity, I heard of nothing but reproach, ſpite, unmerited abuſe, and malevolence. But as we who live to pleaſe muſt pleaſe to live—I conſoled myſelf when I heard ſuch rabble-like opinion with the idea of Coriolanus—

At preſent I have the honour to know a few ſe⯑lect friends, good and capable to ſerve myſelf and family, and to make us happy; and that is a con⯑ſolation [227] every one cannot boaſt—And every re⯑flective mind ſhould obſerve, that acrimonious and corroſive diſpoſitions are ſuch, that, having in them⯑ſelves no ſhare in Nature's bounties, conſequently they feel no pity towards ſuch as have them.

On the Monday at York, 1764, though my illneſs was very little abated, in ſpite of abuſe, and in ſpite of prudence, (having naturally at times a touch of the head-ſtrong) I perſiſted in being an⯑nounced for Major Sturgeon on the Tueſday, May 1, 1764. Several perſons called at Mr. Ba⯑ker's deſiring me not to play, for I ſhould cer⯑tainly be inſulted; urging alſo, that my ſtate of health made it wrong to attempt it: However, on that ſaid appointed Tueſday, I preſented myſelf in Major Sturgeon, when on my entrance the wrongs the audience had ſuſtained (as they termed it) by their patience and forbearance the year before, and ſuch inſolence added to drunkenneſs none but ſuch good tempers would have permitted, there⯑fore an univerſal hiſs, with two or three uncivil oranges burſt at once on my devoted head. I was ſuperior to making an apology, or offering an explanation, when ſo unjuſtifiably and cruelly treated: So I marched and counter-marched as the Major, though ſcarcely able to bear the weight of my boots, and was hiſſed throughout that act, and [228] at my exit received every mark of diſgrace.—What I got for my labour the next day was, that I need not think of playing Major Sturgeon after Mr. Achurch, as he performed it ſo much better; and they wondered, as I acted at York again, I did not aſk pardon for my inſults to that public.

It is no more ſtrange than true, though all this vexed and truly mortified me, yet it rouſed my ſpirits in part from that languor my bad ſtate of health had thrown me into, as I really did not expect I ſhould have remained long in this world, but ſoon ſhut out day-light.

The Spring Meeting was for the ſecond trial that year, on May the 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th—I acted on Saturday the 5th, Bajazet, and the Orators, for Old Tenoe's benefit: Very little approbation, nor many marks of the contrary;—their ſtony hearts began to relent and ſoften, and my love of acting, though il [...]l, was very different to my preſent feelings, for I am now truly grown weary and old with ſervice, though more weary than old and incapable.—I was ſo weak at that time, that at the end of each play I fainted repeatedly from ſickneſs and lack of ſtrength, yet would not give it up, but kept acting away.

In the May Meeting I performed Oakley, and the Apprentice, which in Dublin had pleaſed ſo much; but I was unfortunately at York much [229] diſapproved—I was ſhocking after Frodſham in Dick.

May 9,—Kitely, and Cadwallader in the Au⯑thor.—That night I was received into favour:—Several gentlemen deſired I would play the Major once more, and they would ſupport me in it:—I was well received as the Major.

May 10,—The Author was repeated, and I ſeemed reſtored to their grace—If applauſe was to fix opinion on that matter.

My Major Sturgeon gained ſuch ground the ſecond time, May 11, and ſo contrary from my firſt night's impreſſion, that the late Colonel Thornton, then commander of the York militia, beſpoke my play, but particularly deſired the Mayor of Garratt. The Colonel requeſted I would paſs an hour with him on that occaſion over a bottle at Howard's (now Ringroſe's) a few days before my benefit; and the York rea⯑der will allow me to be weak in body, as I could not crawl ſo far without a chair, though in the month of May on a fine day, and the diſtance a few yards only.

On Tueſday was my benefit, by deſire of Col. Thornton.—The Funeral, with the Mayor of Garratt, &c.—and I was, contrary to my expec⯑tations, favoured with great boxes and a very gen⯑teel houſe, though not crammed as the year be⯑before: [230] the receipt was 50 l. I parted with re⯑ſpect, and was on a much better footing with the public on my departure than the year before, when I left York, after a more ſuperabundant benefit. The viciſſitudes of life are ſtrange, and ſometimes misfortunes paſt are ſtories of delight.

While at York I received a letter from Mrs. Bellamy, congratulating me on my good fortune in not going with the company to Glaſgow; for after the firſt night of performance the metho⯑diſts had burſt in and wilfully ſet fire to the theatre, which conflagration had conſumed every part of the ſtage, with all her wardrobe and wearing ap⯑parel, except what was on her back; and that the wardrobe of the theatre had ſuſtained the ſame fate. I was ſo far conſoled by the accident, find⯑ing myſelf two hundred and forty miles nearer London than I ſhould have been at Glaſgow, as to return thanks for my lucky eſcape; and rejoiced to find, though I was at York and had got into the frying-pan, I had jumped away from the fire.—Theſe are Mrs. Bellamy's words:—

I left York, but inſtead of attending to my health, and proceeding, as I ought to have done, to London, I took as good a round-about way to the ſouth as poſſible, by croſſing to the weſt: I by ſlow ſtages ſet off for Mancheſter, where the fatigue of two days and a half in getting thither [233] had overpowered me ſo much, that inſtead of ſleep I paſſed the night in agonies. I, however, crawled into the coach that went to Warrington in the morning, and from thence took poſt-chaiſe to Frodſham, a village in Cheſhire (where Frod⯑ſham the York actor was born), and from thence got once more to Dan Smith's at Cheſter:—Whitley's company was there, and that manager invited me to play four nights, and to give me the fifth: I could not reſiſt the temptation; and began with no leſs a difficult character than Richard the Third; the very rehearſal of which occaſioned my repeatedly fainting: However, I armed myſelf with no leſs than a bottle of Madeira, and went through beyond expectation at night. I acted Shylock, &c. but never got to bed after playing without one or more fainting fits. Mr. Wilbra⯑ham intreated I would deſiſt, but I urged as I had gone through ſo much gratis, I would finiſh at all hazards, though I knew my life was at ſtake.—Mr. Didier a comedian (now fixed at Bath) was then at Cheſter—a friendly agreeable gentleman.

On Friday the 22d of June, 1764, I finiſhed with my benefit, and acted Othello, and Cad⯑wallader in the Author; and after all the wilful dangerous labour I underwent, the receipt of the houſe was only 14l.—All my acquaintance ſaid I was rightly ſerved, being in a ſtate ſo very unfit [234] for ſuch an undertaking. I there received a letter from Mr. Foote, who was aſtoniſhed I neglected the Haymarket, and the ſeaſon ſo far advanced, not informing him my reaſons for not being in London at the expected ſeaſon; and more ſur⯑priſed to hear, by accident, that I was well he ſuppoſed, as the Cheſter paper had given him a clue to find where I was. I then informed him I would in a few days be with him, but feared I could neither aſſiſt him nor myſelf by appearing on the ſtage, I was ſo very incapable from ſevere ſick⯑neſs. In two or three days following I took a place at Cheſter in a coach that at that time went through Birmingham—I bid adieu to Mr. Smith and Mr. Wilberham, neither of whom I ever expected to ſee again; inſtead of that they are gone long ſince to reſt, and I am ſtill in this world living to relate their deaths.—But to keep up one's ſpirits and hope for the beſt, is not a bad preſcription in ſickneſs or in health; and it is to my aſtoniſhment, with grateful acknowledgments to Almighty God for his bleſſings, that here I am in tolerable health, not yet having ſwallowed the allotment of duſt, to which I am to return.

In the coach were ſeated Madame Capdeville, (a principal dancer) with her mother: the daugh⯑ter had been for years a firſt dancer at Covent Garden theatre, but then returning from Ireland: [235] I was very much indiſpoſed and diſcompoſed with the journey, but both my fellow travellers were very kind and attentive to me. At broad noon⯑day the ladies deſired the coachman to ſtop, and having the door opened out they went in full diſ⯑play, and with the moſt perfect compoſure per⯑formed a deed without a name in the middle of the road; but as it was ſummer, and duſty, the roads wanted watering: The John Bull of a coachman bluſhed and hung down his head; and ill as I was I could not refrain from the oddity of the whole groupe, being conſidered as viewing and not viewing the whimſical tranſaction—I need not add thoſe females were French, not Engliſh ladies. When the coach towards evening ſtop⯑ped at Caſtle Bromage, I thought, while the la⯑dies were drinking tea, I would attempt to walk a mile and let the coach overtake me; and in caſe of being enfeebled, as the evening was ſe⯑rene, could ſtop at ſome ſtile or door till I could be relieved by the attending vehicle. I dragged myſelf on for near a mile, or perhaps more, when I halted, expecting ſuccour from the arrival of the carriage every minute, then endeavoured ſlow⯑ly to proceed for fear of growing chilly; then I waited, then I walked, and that diſagreeable pre⯑dicament I ſuſtained till all my patience was turn⯑ed to the contrary extreme; and, tottering like [236] Jane Shore in the laſt act, was reduced to rea [...] pain and uneaſineſs. It was ſome time before on the road I could meet a friendly cottage to give me information or a comfortable reſting-place; for, by the quick approach of night, my anxiety greatly increaſed: the firſt hut I ſaw I implored a hearing, and related my diſmal ſtory of waiting for the coach, &c. and on reciting my ditty, and explaining my diſtreſſed ſituation, the good old woman of the cottage exclaimed—‘"O! good Sir, you are ſadly beſide your own ſen, for you are now on London coach road; coach is right weel at Brumugum ere this; ſo you mun croſs coun⯑try like; you look perilous bad lſe ſure, and God ſend you well at Brumugum."’ I then inquired, with aching heart, how far Birmingham was from thence? She ſaid, ‘"Why a mun not mair than three or four miles like, only croſs country like."’ Now three or four computed miles by ſuch gueſſers generally turns out double the ground they mention, and to the ſtranger is treble:—He is perplexed at every turning, by not know⯑ing whether he is right or wrong, and that was my ſituation, beſides my ſufferings from pain when I attempted to undertake to walk and explore my way to Birmingham:—and this ſitu⯑ation, ſo horrid, was all occaſioned by my having committed a blunder a child would have been [237] whipped for, the want of common obſervation at the diviſion of the road, and the remedy very eaſy; for with patience and money in my purſe the firſt countryman for a ſhilling or ſo would have gone to the Welch Harp at Caſtle Bromage and ordered a poſt-chaiſe; and beſides my illneſs, all my luggage was in the coach, with caſh, clothes, &c. which, without reſting a night, proceeded di⯑rectly for London.—However, in ſpite of pru⯑dence or ability, I determined on this walk to Bir⯑mingham with all my imperfections on my head. While the night was making quick approach to darkneſs, off I ſet and croſſed from place to place, ſometimes with intelligence, then not any to be had: I had boots on, and when I had conquered three or four miles, to add ſtill to my misfortune and miſery, my knee-buckle got looſe, dropped down my boot, and imperceptibly worked itſelf to the bottom, and at laſt got under the ſole of my foot, which occaſioned not only uneaſineſs, but very excruciating pain, to a degree not to be endured, and no poſſibility of relieving my an⯑guiſh; and it frequently ſhifted in the walking, which cauſed increaſing and variety of torments: I actually ſhould have abandoned myſelf to de⯑ſpair, and to the firſt dry ditch for my night's lodging (which then muſt have finiſhed me); but fortunately caſting up my eyes through the [238] gloomy duſk, I with a moſt pleaſing ſenſation be⯑held the ſteeple of the new church at Birmingham, which I recollected with rapture; it gave a faint gleam of hope, and like a drowning man and the ſtraw, ſo did I in idea feed my hopes with the luxury of a feather-bed and a negus by twelve o'clock:—I was, however, as may naturally be ſup⯑poſed, much farther off my ſtation than I ima⯑gined;—but while there is life there are hopes. I could never have accompliſhed that event had not the perſpiration I underwent been ſo undeſcri⯑bably violent, that I dared not ſtop a moment to ſuffer the winds of heaven to viſit my face too roughly; and at the ſame time, though over⯑powered with weakneſs, I felt myſelf breathe eaſier, and the fever and hectic heat not ſo ſtrong as it uſually hung upon me. By twelve o'clock, thank God, I accompliſhed my ſurpriſing under⯑taking, which had given me more pain, anxiety, trouble, and danger than ever the famous Powell encountered on his walks from London to York and back again. I ſoon after my arrival at Mr. Barber's, the Swan, got a ſtrong Madeira negus, and on inquiring was much pleaſed, and obliged to Madame Capdeville, who had kindly taken care to have all my luggage left ſafely under the protection of Mr. Barber; for her head, aided by the obſervation of the coachman, had ſuggeſted [239] how my unfortunate blunder had happened, which prevented my having much trouble and inquiries: What had helped the matter was my having been a conſtant friend to Mr. Barber, the ſeaſon I have before-mentioned, being at Birmingham under the command of my friend Mr. Hull in 1762.

I was weak the next day and could not get out of bed, but no fever, and the perſpiration ſtill continued immoderately. After three or four days I found myſelf recovering, and wiſhing to be in London, whether to live or die, I ordered a poſt-chaiſe, and in two days and a half got there, without being too much hurried, and received be⯑nefit by making the ſtages eaſy and ſuitable as I [...]ound my ſpirits. I went to my own apart⯑ [...]ents, and there got under good direction, and [...]or once in my life kept regular hours, uſed mo⯑derate exerciſe, and in a ſhort time was ſo ſur⯑priſingly improved in health as to wiſh being again on the boards, and produced my ſkeleton figure to Mr. Foote: he was aſtoniſhed, and ex⯑preſſed himſelf much hurt at ſeeing me ſo ill, but ſeemed impatient for me to begin at his theatre.—Settling terms took but little time:—he was not mean, but acted generouſly: I was not unreaſon⯑able, for what I aſked he immediately granted:—Indeed my terms might be better, as I pleaded ap⯑parent ill health, and not wiſhing to play.

[240] The old diſh of the Minor was in July ap⯑pointed for my firſt onſet, which Mr. Foote had not acted, but had deferred, (in the interim won⯑dering at my delay):—and the Minor not having been acted at either theatre from September 1763 till that time, gave it a degree of novelty. I was received that year as an old eſtabliſhed favourite of the town. The Haymarket ſtage was as eaſy as the York ſtage was when I had the uſe of my legs, and where I might be ſaid of late years to have been truly at home.

Tragedy A-la-Mode was revived for Mr. Foote and myſelf to appear in: Mr. Project, Mr. Foote; the tragedy part all by me, and was often repeated with equal and uncommon applauſe. I increaſed highly in public favour, not only from the indul⯑gent partiality of the audience, which in general accompanies ſuch performers as they honour with their good and golden opinion, but I was then particularly induſtrious, and acting was my only reſource for pleaſure:—My ſevere illneſs had alarmed me ſo much, that I lived ſtrictly regular. I was more collected, a material article for young or old actors to obſerve and follow; for though a man be uſed to wine and good dinners, and be perfectly clear and ſober in his room, yet the leaſt flurry or miſtake on the ſtage ſets that dinner and wine into a fume, and makes the brain feel de⯑ranged [241] and confuſed; and no actor can be a good timeiſt on the ſtage unleſs he keeps himſelf cool and collected, and in good ſpirits of the pureſt kind, not beholden to the aſſiſtance of the grape: ‘"O thou invincible ſpirit of wine! if thou haſt no name to be known by, let us call thee Devil.—To be now a ſenſible man, and by and by a fool, and preſently a beaſt—Every inordinate cup is un⯑bleſſed, and the ingredient is a devil."’—The true refreſhment of the performer ſhould be from the fanning gales excited from the pleaſure of the audience, while the actor in return feels his heart glowing with rapture and gratitude.

My health improved daily, and by acting with Mr. Foote I had ſeldom more ſtage exerciſe than what was of ſervice to me. The Apprentice was alſo revived, which I acted very often to a crowded theatre.—It was commanded by the Duke of York as a firſt piece, which occaſioned the only little diſpute that in the Haymarket theatre ever occurred between Mr. Foote and myſelf. His Royal Highneſs commanded it as a firſt piece, as he urged ſome very particular en⯑gagement.—Mr. Foote appointed the Minor as the after piece, and I remonſtrated and indeed re⯑ [...]uſed playing Shift, enforcing that as a [...]l my imita⯑t [...]ons were ſo diſperſed in the Apprentice I could not leave out in the character of Shift what I had [242] accuſtomed the audience to ſee; and if I did per⯑form the ſame, the repetition of ſuch mimicry, in⯑ſtead of being pleaſing, would be offenſive. Mr. Foote ſeemed much diſpleaſed, and even diſguſted, but yielded to my argument, and on that occaſion played Shift himſelf; there was no more diſpute about it, or was it ever mentioned again.

We had one little ſparring-bout in the ſpring of 1771, which Mr. Woodward ſoon reconciled. I had acted (by having ſecretly obtained a pur⯑loined copy) his farce of the Devil upon Two Sticks; and after having committed the fault, and well knowing he would quickly hear of my of⯑fence, I, by way of preventing his anger, informed him of my invaſion on his property, thinking he would conſtrue it as a very good joke; but on the contrary he was really much irritated, and by re⯑turn of poſt favoured me with the few following whimſical lines.

Mr. Foote's ſly indignation, inſinuated in the above, obliged me to have recourſe to my friend Woodward's interference, which in a little time after procured me the following, with the olive⯑branch from the Devil upon Two Sticks; and as they are both originals imagine they will be deem⯑ed worth peruſal.

Mr. Foote and I, after that time, were on th [...] moſt perfect terms of intimacy, as the followin [...] will evidence amongſt a number I have now b [...] me from that gentleman and man of true wi [...] humour, and genius.

[246] In 1764, to my part of the Apprentice in London, when acted as the after-piece, I was ever honour⯑ed with the continuance of the audience on ac⯑count of the four laſt lines, to which I never had leſs than four plaudits; for my imitations were not only good, but well planned for effect—and much depends on that: One ſpeech in a parody of different writing, would ſuit for the mimicry of one particular perſon, which, to imitate another, would ſeem all diſcordant, and out of time and place.—The laſt lines to the Apprentice were as follows, to which are affixed the names for thoſe who knew the actors of thoſe days, to judge how far they were applicable, or the contrary.

The regular marking each actor's features and manners in thoſe lines gave great effect, and ob⯑tained much approbation.

Mr. Weſton was of great aſſiſtance in that farce by his inimitable acting of Simon.

I requeſted Mrs. Rich, on my benefit, to ho⯑nour me once more with letting me ride her hob-by-horſes, and give them a ſummer's airing, as they had not been rubbed down for a twelve⯑month, [247] which ſhe kindly granted me, and I acted Bayes by univerſal deſire, and to a houſe much more crowded than the year before.—That truly excellent actor, Mr. Parſons, was then at Mr. Foote's theatre, and I think will remember my aſſertion to be, not a chimera of the brain, but a fact.

From a love of caſh I performed five Saturdays for the ſixth to be clear, at the old theatre on Richmond Hill: Mr. Foote lent me his dreſſes, and my benefit was on Saturday, Auguſt 20, 1764, and was honoured with the ſanction of the Duke of York. Lady Peterſham and a large party were there, and I was favoured with a brilliant appear⯑ance: Moſt of the little pit was laid into the boxes. The farce of the Citizen I had as a play, and I acted Young Philpot; Old Philpot, Mr. Weſton; with Tragedy A-la-Mode.

Mr. Foote's ſeaſon ended the middle of Sep⯑tember.—I ſold all my furniture, china, &c. which was very good, though not of the neweſt faſhion, being that of my honoured father's and mother's, originally at the old Savoy reſidence; but as I had loſt my revered good parent, I had not any occaſion for conſtant apartments being kept in London at Mr. Alcock's, who is a moſt worthy man, and enjoying eaſe and affluence from the ſweet gathered fruits of induſtry. That buſineſs [248] of ſale being concluded I ſet off for Liverpool, where I wa [...] an entire ſtranger, but had heard money, not graſs, grew in the ſtreets: There I offered my Tea to ſale, but they were better judges of traffic than to purchaſe from one they thought no better of than a hawker or a pedler; and I no more than a deſtitute pedler at that time, who had a licence to diſtribute my wares, the inhabitants of Liverpool prov [...]d to me cautious and wary: I hired what was called the Bucks-Room; and there I expected a numerous attendance from curioſity; but truth compels me to relate 14l. was the firſt night's re⯑ceipt, October the 5th, and the other on October the 8th, 16l.; and they were attended ſo ill, that my own caſh, not that of the Liverpool bank, ſecured me a carriage to Birmingham, where I cannot boaſt of ſuperior attraction, the beſt re⯑ceipt being only 13l. From thence I returned from the ſouthward to old Weſt Cheſter, and at that ancient city had an elegant and crowded ap⯑pearance.—Very ſtrange, that when I relied on myſelf alone I was well attended by my Cheſter friends, as before obſerved. From that place I went to Briſtol, where I had a brilliant room; there I received a letter of invitation, forwarded to me from Mr. Jefferſon.

On November 28, 1764, I performed for my friend Mr. Fleming's benefit at Bath, who had [249] [...]he week preceding favoured me with his aſſiſtance on my night at the Briſtol aſſembly-rooms.

Early in December, 1764, I ſet off for Exeter, where Mr. Jefferſon, my old friend and acquaint⯑ance in Dublin and London, was then become the manager, and every thing promiſed moſt flat⯑teringly that he would ſoon make a fortune: But the ſubſtance is often changed for a ſhadow, nor are managers' gains ſo eaſily amaſſed as the public can gather it for them. His invitation had double allurement—firſt, novelty, which was ever prevalent; and next, to ſee ſo pleaſant and friend⯑ly a man as he had ever proved to me—I joined him and his new troop—Mr. Jefferſon was at that time endeavouring (not without encourage⯑ment) to bring that theatre into a regular and eſtabliſhed reputation—He had engaged Mr. Red⯑diſh, and many other good performers: Mrs. Jef⯑ferſon, his firſt wife, was then living; ſhe had one of the beſt diſpoſitions that ever harboured in a human breaſt; and, more extraordinary, joined to that meekneſs, ſhe was one of the moſt elegant women ever beheld. The city of Exeter had till that time, for ſome years, been under the manage⯑ment (in theatrical matters) of the old Portſmouth and Plymouth company of comedians, of whom I have made ſo much mention from the year [250] 1758—but all that ſet, by the practice of morning drams from alehouſe to alehouſe, beſides every hour being employed in large libations with their friends, as they termed them, had, as by univerſal agreement, one would ſuppoſe, almoſt all of them made their final exit to another world,

Which ſhould be here marked to the general claſs of actors, as a light-houſe to mariners in bad wea⯑ther, to all morning ſtage-drinking town or coun⯑try performers as a ſlow but ſure poiſon, a danger⯑ous cuſtom eaſily attained, but once admitted as a habit, very, very difficult to quit, and the conclu⯑ſion certain ruin.

It will be here ſcornfully, and perhaps too juſtly remarked, by unforgiving zealots, what ſtrange diſſipated creatures low players are! but let them re⯑collect that every profeſſion has its degrees and ſin⯑gularities; and I think it as ſtrange a trait when I ob⯑ſerve a proud prieſt (beyond a Wolſey) burſting with Moſſopian pride, and will certainly ſmile when informed he has been holding forth on meekneſs [251] of ſpirit and charity to all men.—Nor ſhould a preacher's changing his opinion, after having been a conſtant attendant at the theatre and a profeſſed admirer of the drama, warp my judgment, be⯑cauſe he, from lucrative visws, has altered his way of thinking, as we all do at different periods, according to our ſtate of health, our humour, or our time of life. When I picture pretenders meeting under the cloak of outſide purity, I marvel (like Lady Brumpton) how one can accoſt the other with a grave face: Methinks they [...]hould laugh out like two fortune-tellers, or two opponent lawyers that know each other for cheats. The great and good in all ages have been pro⯑tectors of the Muſes, and they will out-balance any characters that can be ſet in oppoſition: And I muſt beg permiſſion to advance, that no diver⯑ſion ever was deviſed which is ſo truly calculated to inſtruct while it entertains; and it is no argu⯑ment againſt the ſtage to affirm, that the morals of ſome of its profeſſors have been tainted by it; for the evil and perverſe inclination will extract malignity from a Howard, a Hanway, or a Maſon. Let us aſk the moſt rigid:—Did never the man of intrigue firſt become acquainted at church with her whoſe unſuſpecting innocence he has ſacrificed [...]o his paſſions?—Bid me not drink becauſe Alex⯑ander was poiſoned, nor ſuffer any fire in my [252] houſe becauſe London was burned; the reaſons in defence of theſe remonſtrances would be of the ſame force againſt the theatre.—‘"O but," ſays one of the ſanctified, "a young lady dropped down dead ſome years ago in the Hull theatre.—Poor thing! the Devil found her on his own ground."’—And pray, Mr. Good Man Pure, name any place where Mr. Death ever did or does pay any ceremony?

The dreadful earthquake at Liſbon, which hap⯑pened at the time of high maſs, was on a Sun⯑day noon—one half of the lives loſt on that occa⯑ſion were at their duty, though taken unprepared to that undiſcovered country that puzzles our will.

Beſides, the whole body of actors ſhould not be condemned becauſe a few are unconvertible; ſince, by the ſame rule, we may freely abuſe the ſtate, the clergy, the army, and every ſet of peo⯑ple, until one offers itſelf to our view which has never been diſgraced by a member.—This I be⯑lieve is not in being.

To have filled the theatre (had it been poſſible) with profeſſed methodiſts (the drama's declared enemies) they would have involuntarily wept at Mr. Garrick's Lear, and have laughed inceſſantly at his Abel Drugger. The ſtrict ſects, who are [253] bleſſed with ſuperiority of virtue, ſhould make al⯑lowances, from their own ſuperfluity of goodneſs, for the thoughtleſs ſallies of men of genius and quick paſſions, who are too liable to fall into miſ⯑takes; many inconſiderate minds have been too ea⯑ſily led into error, and have thereby forfeited their country, friends, and liberty, and by the neceſſary laws have been ſubject to the moſt ignominious as well as heart-felt ſufferings; yet after reflection, aided by judgment and ſelf-correction, and full conviction of their folly, have providentially been bleſſed with affluence and proſperity.—So the poor player, who ſtruts his life upon the ſtage, is too often drove thereto from acts of indiſcretion, and ſeeks refuge in the theatre as his derni [...]r reſort.—If unſucceſsful he turns again abandoned, and from intoxication becomes indifferent as to what he does, either in regard to his life, his death, or his reputation:—but if bleſſed with genius, and the ſeeds of induſtry and attention, and alſo happily foſtered and nouriſhed by the good and affluent, his mind expands, and the child of folly on the ſtage becomes in reality new born, proves a ſhining ornament to the theatre, and an example wo [...]thy of imitation to his newly-adopted profeſſion, con⯑ſequently a praiſe-worthy character, and a credit to univerſal ſociety.—An honeſt man's the nobleſt work of God.

[254] At the time of my expedition to Exeter there exiſt⯑ed at that place a moſt eccentric genius and very par⯑ticular character, Mr. Andrew Brice, a printer.—He was to a degree remarkable in manner, figure, and a thouſand peculiarities that cannot be de⯑ſcribed, but had accumulated by art, genius, and lucky circumſtances, an independent fortune:—George Faulkener, of Dublin, was by no means ſuch an extraordinary being; beſides, Mr. Faul⯑kener, as a man of benevolent and good qualities, muſt ever be revered; but in the compariſon of goodneſs the rueful Andrew Brice ſhould not be mentioned.—Alluding to Andrew Brice gives me authority, from Mr. King himſelf, to inſert the following.

When Mr. Garrick wrote the character of Lord Ogleby, it was before he went to Italy; but on his return, and once more engaging with the fatigues of his theatre, he relinquiſhed all thoughts of acting that part, telling Mr. King, for his rea⯑ſons, that he found his ſtate of health not equal to ſuſtain the run of a new play; and that if he himſelf ſhould play Lord Ogleby, it would lead into applications from authors to requeſt his per⯑forming in their pieces; to prevent which, he had come to a determination not to ſtudy any new character whatever, and deſired Mr. King would do the part—Mr. King begged to decline—Mr. [255] Garrick read it to that gentleman—The part he ſtill refuſed even to the fourth time, and deſired the part of Bruſh inſtead of Lord Ogleby.—Mr. Garrick ſtill continued preſſing, and Mr. King, fearing Mr. Garrick ſhould think him more ob⯑ſtinate than right, took the part to conſider of it, and by paying cloſe attention when locked up in his ſtudy, he accidentally repeated a few paſſages in a tremulous voice, which recurred to his ear as ſomething ſimilar to the ſound of old Andrew Brice's of Exeter:—He tried again and again, and found he had hit upon the very man as a natural and true picture to repreſent Lord Ogleby. Mr. King went to Mr. Garrick and privately rehearſed a ſcene—Garrick was all aſtoniſhed, and thun⯑dered out, ‘"By G—d, King, if you can but ſu⯑ſtain that fictitious manner and voice throughout, it will be one of the greateſt performances that ever adorned a Britiſh theatre."’ Mr. Garrick's prophecy was verified, as Mr. King's manner of producing that character before the public was then, and is to this day, one of the moſt capital and highly-finiſhed pieces of acting with which any audience ever was treated, and will never be forgotten while a trait of Mr. King can be re⯑membered. But, alas! the actor's fame, how⯑ever great, cannot be recollected many years be⯑yond [256] the time he lived: for, ah me! as Garrick obſerved—

Andrew Brice, in figure and tremulous manner, was exactly what Mr. King appears to be in Lord Ogleby; and I could have forgiven Brice had he painted like his Lordſhip: for he had ſo much of the lily in his complexion, that he looked (tho' one of the neateſt) the moſt corpſe-like Manda⯑rine figure I ever beheld in the various productions of Human Nature.

When I acted Bayes at Exeter, and ſpoke a ſpeech or two in his manner, it ſtruck the whole audience like electricity.—Mr. Jefferſon, who per⯑formed Johnſon, was ſo taken by the ſurpriſe, that [...]e could not proceed for laughter.—He is now at Exeter, and will, I am certain, recollect and cor⯑roborate that circumſtance. My benefit, even at this diſtant time, demands my acknowledgement, it was ſo numerouſly attended. I ever think of Exeter with pleaſure; the country that ſurrounds that city is beautiful, and the air eſteemed more [257] ſcrene and ſalubrious than almoſt any other part of the kingdom.—As a proof it is judged ſo, I have known families, who have been in bad health, ordered by Yorkſhire phyſicians to winter the ſe⯑vere months at Exeter, as the Montpelier of Great Britain:—Good eating abounds there, and the market produces an uncommon variety of articles, all in the higheſt perfection:—I was there in the winter, and in January the face of the country looked well, and produced a verdure not uſual at that inclement ſeaſon in other parts of England. I went from thence for two days with Mr. Jeffer⯑ſon to Plymouth; at the dock I met my old ac⯑quaintance Captain Scot of Cheſter—the ſituation ſeemed ſtriking, but I had not leiſure, nor was it a time of the year to judge of the proſpect of Mount Edgcumbe, &c. to any fair advantage:—I took a peep at the theatre, though on a Sunday; it appeared very decent: Good theatres were not then ſo plenty in any county as at preſent; the flat ſcenes I remember moved on a principle I never ſaw either before or ſince; they puſhed up and down a groove in one ſtraight frame like [...] window⯑ſaſh, which muſt be a good plan, a [...] [...]hey, ſo worked, muſt be always ſteady, and the canvas not wrinkled as when on rollers:—One inconve⯑nience muſt attend it—a great height in the build⯑ing is required; and another, they muſt always [258] gather duſt and dirt, which will conſequently ef⯑face the painting.—One good effect however oc⯑curs, no idler, performer, or other, could move the ſcene and produce the head of Peeping Tom while an act was conducting of the utmoſt conſe⯑quence. A trifling accident of that kind once diſ⯑concerted me much—the audience hiſſed the per⯑ſon ſo peeping, which diſgrace I took to myſelf, but had it ſoon pleaſingly explained.—That fault ſhould be more avoided by the performers than it is.

Before I finiſhed at Exeter I had the moſt preſ⯑ing invitations repeatedly from Meſſ. Dowſon and Bates at Edinburgh, intimating they could not go on without my immediate aſſiſtance—A pretty little trip the end of January from Exeter to Edinburgh!—However preliminaries were ſoon ſettled, and Mr. Jefferſon had behaved friendly, generouſly, politely, and attentively. I left him with my beſt wiſhes and proceeded to London, where I reſted only two or three days, and then poſted down for the north, ſtopped one day with Mr. Baker at York, ſaw the new theatre—broke down near Dur⯑ham—t [...] chaiſe was ſo ſhattered with the cruſh I was obliged to wait on the road till another could be procured; I myſelf was aſleep and not hurt, though I confeſs a little alarmed. Mr. Dowſon was purpoſely come to Newcaſtle to treat me from thence poſt to Edinburgh; we only continued one [259] day. We got ſafe to the capital of Scotland.—The firſt night on the road thither we lay at Old Camus, which houſe I believe is now eraſed—from what cauſe I know not—it was ſaid to be haunted; and though I am not ſuperſtitious as to ſuch idle dreams and fictions of the brain, yet I muſt declare ſuch a noiſe I never heard in my life as during the night at that place. We reached Edinburgh the firſt week in February 1765: The theatre had ſuſtained the loſs of Mr. Digges and Mrs. Bellamy; the only true ſupport was Mr. Aickin: There was, it is true, a Mr. Stamper, who had been a great favourite, but he was grown quite inebriated, and that from morning drinking: The company was much the ſame, except Mr. Stam⯑per, Mr. Creſwick, a Mr. Parker and Mrs. Pye from Ireland; alſo Mr. and Mrs. M'George. We went on tolerably till Richard the Third was acted—a character at Edinburgh I was always particularly well received in, and with more than common applauſe; but during the ſummer ſeſſions in 1764 Mr. Sheridan had engaged for a certain number of nights, and on one of thoſe nights had acted Richard, at which time the want of a young gentleman or lady to ſupply the part of Prince Ed⯑ward, rendered it impracticable to have the play acted, unleſs Mrs. Mozeen, whoſe figure was neat and youthful, though bordering at that time on [260] the vale of years, would quit petticoat hopes, in Lady Anne, of royal coronation, and aſſume the young monarch in expectation of the ſame honours. But in the winter Mrs. Wheeler's daughters, who promiſed remarkably well on the ſtage, ſupplied the childrens' parts very ably Mrs. Mozeen expected her Lady Anne as her [...]ock part, and no ſuppoſition could be well⯑grounded for Mrs. M'George's taking offence at it; for though ſhe had played Lady Anne with Mr. Sheridan in the ſummer ſeaſon, ſhe muſt have known it was neceſſity and good-nature in Mrs. Mozeen to have reſigned Lady Anne for Prince Edward on a matter of emergency: which ob⯑ſtacle being removed, and the children provided for the royal ſtock, ſhe had double claim to former rights But on the night Richard was acted, in the ſcene where Mrs. Mozeen in Lady Anne made her appearance, a general uproar enſued, aye even to the pelting of the lady; the collegians, one and all, having formed a ſevere party at the malevolent miſrepreſentations inſtigated by Mr. and Mrs. M'George, whoſe wrongs were related with dou⯑ble force to the town, as being cruelly deprived o [...] Lady Anne, a character in which ſhe had been re⯑ceived with ſo much praiſe-worthy applauſe.—Mrs. M'George in [...]ended to have produced ano⯑ther Lady Anne to the wondering audience to la⯑ [...]ent [261] a huſband, but Manager Dowſon having been alarmed by authenticated intelligence that miſchief was brewing, barricaded the entrances, and kept them double guarded by door-keepers, to prevent Roxana with her dagger from gaining ad⯑mittance behind the ſcenes, and thereby wound⯑ing the boſom of his beloved Statira. It was an hour before the uproar ceaſed; but Mrs. Mozeen evinced, if ſhe had a little body ſhe had a great ſoul.

The audience were very attentive, and honoured me much that evening in every ſcene, except where Lady Anne made her appearance, and then marks of rage, indignation, and contempt enſued.—The riot did not ſubſide with that night, but laſted above a fortnight, and was carried to ſuch ex⯑tremes, that not any ladies viſited the theatre from apprehenſion of diſturbances and outrage. Ma⯑nager Dowſon, who paid adoration to his beloved Statira, even equal to the poet's fancy, levelled all his fury on her deſperate foe, Mrs. M'George, by an immediate diſmiſſion, which ſtroke of ſudden impolicy at that juncture only ſerved to enrage the more. Dowſon, ſtill faithful to his faithleſs mi⯑ſtreſs, rather than Mrs. M'George's party ſhould have reigned triumphant, I verily believe would have taken a torch at noon and ſet our famed Per⯑ſepolis on fire; but the Fates did what the ma⯑nager could not, for though the collegians gave [262] ammunition and all manual aſſiſtance in Mrs. M'George's defence, yet they did not (or could not) afford to offer their purſes; therefore, as proviſions grew ſcanty, that tragic queen thought it more prudent and better generalſhip to retreat than be ſtarved by attacking a fortreſs ſhe found determined on obſtinate defence, and which per⯑ſeverance ſtood very little chance of ſubduing; nor would ſhe truſt to the chance of war, which ſeem⯑ed to threaten inſtant famine; and though ſhe had proved her ability to raiſe diſcord, ſhe plainly found ſhe could not in her diſtreſſed ſtate raiſe the neceſſary ſupplies: for if Dowſon could not pay his regiment with notes from the bank of Air, he could find remaining reſources, and draw from Newcaſtle; but the M'George's forces, tho' few, from deſertions, had, to their ſurpriſe, only the bank of air to rely on, ſo off ſhe and her ſpouſe went; and ſoon after her departure, the cauſe of diſpute being removed, Time's lenient hand ſpread over mutual faults, our theatrical wounds were healed, and peace and harmony once more re⯑ſtored us to our priſtine health and vigour.—This is no more, in the relation of our ſtage battle at Edinburgh, than a ſtrict matter of fact, and can be atteſted by a gentleman of well-known worth and veracity, Mr. Garenciers, now of York, who was at that time a ſtudent at Edinburgh college.

[263] Treating on the ſubject of rio [...]s occaſions my proceeding with a few anecdotes.

I remember in the winter of 1751 that that was the ſeaſon Mrs. Cibber was firſt attacked with her ſ [...]omach complaint, and Barry, the divine Barry! either had, or pretended he had, frequent ſore throats and hoarſeneſſes: The comedies in which Mrs. Woffington was principal, were generally brought forward on theſe ſickneſſes of the trage⯑dians; and at the bottom of the bill, in which ſhe alone ſtood capital, were generally announced the united names of Quin, Barry, and Cibber; of this ſhe conſtantly complained, and at laſt declared that the next time it happened ſhe would not play.—Shortly after Jane Shore was announced, Mrs. Cibber was ill, and the play changed late in the day, but I cannot ſay to what.—The next day the Conſtant Couple was put up: Sir Harry Wildair, Mrs. Woffington; with the great names at the bottom of the bill—Woffington kept her word; ſent a meſſage at five o'clock ſhe was ill, and po⯑ſitively refuſed to play—they were obliged to ſub⯑ſtitute the Miſer; Lovegold, Mr. Macklin. By this time the public began to murmur at their frequent diſappointments, and took it into their heads that Mr. Rich, the manager, was very ill uſed by his company, and determined on the next indiſpoſition they would interfere and reſent for [264] him. Preciſely at this time Woffington made her refuſal, and on her next appearance in Lady Jane Grey the whole weight of their reſentment fell on her—whoever is living and ſaw her that night will own they never beheld any figure half ſo beautiful ſince—her anger gave a glow to her complexion, and even added luſtre to her charming eyes; they treated her very rudely, bade her aſk pardon, and threw orange peels: She behaved with great re⯑ſolution, and treated their rudeneſs with glorious contempt; ſhe left the ſtage, was called for, and with infinite perſuaſion was prevailed on to return. However, ſhe did, walked forward, and told them ſhe was there ready and willing to perform her character if they choſe to permit her; that the de⯑ciſion was theirs, on or off, juſt as they pleaſed, a matter of indifference to her.—The ons had it, and all went ſmoothly afterwards, though ſhe al⯑ways perſiſted in believing that the party was ori⯑ginally formed by Mr. Rich's family and particu⯑lar friends, ſome of whom ſhe did not ſcruple to name, though I believe ſhe always acquitted him of any knowledge of it.

It is often mentioned in the country that a ma⯑nager ſhould prevent every riot—that a manager ſhould be ready to anſwer on any frivolous occa⯑ſion—were that to be really ſubmitted to, how could Mr. Garrick dared to have had a palace at [265] Hampton Court for his chief reſidence, or Mr. Harris live at Knightſbridge conſtantly, or be part of the ſeaſon at Bath, entruſting the care of the theatre and anſwers to the public in caſe of un⯑foreſeen particular diſturbances to Mr. Kemble, Mr. Lewis, or the principal actor then on the ſpot, if danger or misfortune threatened?—Theſe ſuppo⯑ſitions in the country leads to incendiary epiſtles. But how can ſuch daemons, pretended friends, or ſecret enemies, be anſwered either as to their ill-will or affected good wiſhes, equally immaterial and not availing? as, be the contents right or wrong, true or falſe, good or bad, it would be ri⯑diculous and really loſs of time to anſwer what is avowedly fabricated by nobody. I had in conſe⯑quence thereof formed a reſolution in future never to read any one of the kind, and had in fact car⯑ried the reſolve into practice; but accident only broke the determination, for one morning laſt York races, on opening a letter and not perceiv⯑ing any name, I threw it on the table, which Mrs. W. peruſed, and haſtily declared I had an eſtate le [...]t me. I inſtantly took up Mr. Anony⯑mous, and read the following lines:

I on inquiry was ſoon informed by a moſt reſpectable family in Eſſex, that the executors had been from ſuch letters greatly plagued and tor⯑mented by different applications, and that one perſon had actually travelled ſome hundred miles, with great fatigue, trouble, perplexity, and ex⯑pence, to attain the Suſſex eſtate, but was ſoon after his arrival convinced it was all a bubble.