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Ti H E iwi - a rº - . ~ * * * * * *
THE NEW REPUBLIC. By W. H. MALLock.
THE NEW PAUL AND VIRGINIA. By W. H. MALLock.
Th; TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON. By E. Lynn
INTON.
OLD STORIES RE-TOLD. By WALTER THORNBURY.
PUNIANA. By the Hon. HUGH Rowley.
MORE PUNIANA. By the Hon. HUGH Rowley.
THOREAU : HIS LIFE AND AIMS. By H. A. PAGE.
BY STREAM AND SEA. By WILLIAM SENIOR.
JEUX D’ESPRIT. Collected and Edited by HENRY S. LEIGH.
GASTRONOMY AS A FINE ART. By BRILLAT-SAVARIN.
THE MUSES OF MAYFAIR. Edited by H. CHOLMonDELEY PENNELL.
PUCK ON PEGASUS. By H. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL.
ORIGINAL PLAYS by W. S. GILBERT. FIRST SERIES. Containing—
The Wicked World, Pygmalion and Galatea, Charity, The Princess,
The Palace of Truth, Trial by Jury.
ORIGINAL PLAYS by W. S. GILBERT. SEcono SERIES. Containing
—Broken Hearts, Engaged, Sweethearts, Dan'l Druce, Gretchen,
Tom Cobb, The Sorcerer, H.M.S. Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance.
CAROLS OF COCKAYNE. By HENRY S. LEIGH.
LITERARY FRIVOLITIES, FANCIES, FOLLIES, AND FROLICS.
By WILLIAM T. Dobson.
PENCIL AND PALETTE. By Robert KEMPT.
THE BOOK OF CLERICAL ANECDOTES. By JACOB LARwooD.
THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES DICKENS.
THE CUPBOARD PAPERS. By FIN-BEc.
QUIPS AND QUIDDITIES. Selected by W. DAven PORT ADAMs.
MELANCHOLY ANATOMISED : a Popular Abridgment of “Burton's
Anatomy of Melancholy.”
THE AGONY COLUMN OF “THE TIMES,” From 1800 to 1870.
Edited by ALICE CLAy.
PASTIMES AND PLAYERS. By RoberT MACGREGoR.
CURIOSITIES OF CRITICISM. By HENRY J. JENNINGs.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF HANDWRITING. By DoN FELIx DE
SALAMANCA.
LATTER-DAY LYRICS. Edited by W. DAVENPORT ADAMs.
BALZAC'S COMEDIE HUMAINE AND ITS AUTHOR. With Trans-
lations by II. II. WALKER. -
LEAVES FROM A NATURALIST’S NOTE-BOOK. By ANDREw
WILSON, F.R.S.E.
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. By OLIVER
WENDELL Holm Es. Illustrated by J. GoRDoN THOMSON.
POETICAL INGENUITIES AND ECCENTRICITIES. Collected
and Edited by WILLIAM T. Dobson.
FORENSIC A.NECDOTES ; or, Humour and Curiosities of the Law and
the Men of Law. By JAcoB LARwood.
*** Offer Volumes are in preparation.
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W.
THEATRICAL ANECDOTES
THEATRICAL ANECDOTES
OR
APUV AAV/D CUR/OSZZZZ,S
OF THE
PZA V, ZZZZ PZA VAZOOSE, AAWD THE PZA YEAES
By JACOB LARWOOD, gººd.
AUTHOR OF
“THE HISTORY OF SIGN BOARDS,” “CLERICAL ANEcDoTEs,” “Forensic
ANECDOTEs,” ETC.
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
I882
[A2/ rights zesezz/2d)
*
s • e º s
©

P R E F A C E .
IT has been observed that in books of theatrical anecdotes
there is probably more unscrupulousness and falsehood to
be found than in any other miscellanies. On the other
hand, it may be safely concluded that very few stories,
however absurd, relative to plays and players, are to be
pronounced absolutely incredible. They may have been
a little rouged or burnt-corked secundum arſem, but what
of that P Too great a regard for truth has taken the point
out of many a good story, and to weigh evidences con-
cerning the “flying words” of a theatrical anecdote is a
waste of critical acumen equal to the feat of breaking a
butterfly on the wheel.
THEATRICAL ANECDOTES.
CRANIOLOGY.
Fºl HERE was a low comedian, familiarly called Dick
#| Hoskins, who used to play in small country theatres in
the north of England, and who was a practical joker on
the stage. He played one night the Gravedigger at the Roch-
dale Theatre, to the Hamlet of a Mr. C–—, a most solemn and
mysterious tragedian of the cloak-and-dagger school. The
theatre was built on the site of an old dissenting chapel, in which
a preacher named Dr. Banks had formerly held forth, and in the
small graveyard attached to which Dr. Banks had been laid to
rest some twenty years before, his name being familiar yet among
the audience. After answering Hamlet’s question—“How long
will a man lie in the earth ere he rot?” Dick proceeded to
illustrate his answer by Yorick's skull, and taking it up, he said,
in the words of the text, “Now, here’s a skull that hath lain you
in the earth three and twenty years. Whose do you think it
was P’ “Nay, I know not,” replied Hamlet, in his sepulchral
tragedy-tone. “This skull, sir,” said Dick; “this skull, sir, was
Doctor Banks’s skull,” and he pronounced the last word like
Skool/. The house roared with laughter, whilst the victimized
tragedian stamped and fumed about the stage, exclaiming,
“Yorick's, sir; Yorick’s ” “No,” said Dick, coolly, when
the tumult had subsided, taking up another skull. “This is
B

2 THEA. TA’/CA1/, AAVEC/DO 7TE.S.
Yorick's skull, the king's jester; but tºother's Doctor Banks's,
as I ſold you.” This was too much. The incensed Hamlet
jumped prematurely into the grave, seized the (very) low
Comedian by the throat, and a most fearful contest ensued, in
which Dick succeeded at length in overpowering the tragedian,
whom he held down in the grave with one hand, while he
flourished “Doctor Banks’s skull” in triumph over his head
with the other.
IMPROVING SHAKESPEARE,
ñºſ R. GEOFFRY GALWAY was a hairdresser by trade and
!: an actor by profession, famous for playing little parts.
His best parts were the Murderer in Macbeth, the
Apothecary in Romeo and Jºelief, and the Player King in
Hamlet, upon his success in which he would plume himself
with as much pride as though he had performed the heroes
of the dramas. He had received his dramatic tuition under
that human curiosity immortalized in the pages of Bernard's
A'etrospections. On one occasion, when representing the Player
King, he stepped forward to repeat the lines—
“For us and for our trage-dy,
Here stooping to your clemen-cy,
We beg your hearing patient-ly.”
There he should have rested with Shakespeare, but genius was
On the wing, and he could not bring the eagle-bird to earth ; so
he continued—
“And if on this we may re-ly,
Why, we'll be with you by-and-by.”
At which Whiteley, the manager, who lay on the ground as
Hamlet, snarled out, loud enough to be heard by all the
audience –
“And if on pay-day you re-ly,
Take care I stop no Sala-ry
j
Thus justifying the rhyme by a very serious reason.

7TA/A2A TRICA/C AAVECDOT/2.S. 3
A SAVING FAITH.
:AMUEL SPRING, after having been head waiter at
White's, became box-keeper of Drury Lane Theatre, in
the reign of George IV. Like all such theatrical
appendages, he was a most devoted and loyal adherent to the
particular “ concern” to which he belonged. Spring placed an
almost religious reliance upon a high and Superintending care,
which especially protected the interest of his particular theatre.
But it was not enough that Drury Lane flourished ; Covent
Garden must be in ruins, or it was but half a victory gained.
One night he entered with unusual animation the green-room
of Drury, having just witnessed at the rival establishment the
condemnation of a new piece, and, addressing Mr. Wroughton,
the then acting manager, with a triumphant air and the sly,
habitual touch of his hat, said, in his tone of quaint humility,
“Beg pardon, sir. I come to tell you that Providence has been
very kind to us to-night at the Garden. New play, sir, guite
daytzzed, not even attempted to be given out, sir, for another
night ! Providence takes care of f/ie Zane, sir!”
º &:
TRACTION AND ATTRACTION.
iº UMMY ALLEN,” Edwin Forrest's costumer, and
i latterly keeper of a restaurant near the Bowery
Theatre, New York, was a great character. He had
a sublime Contempt for all English stars, and could never listen
to their praises with patience. One day John Povey met him,
with the announcement that an extraordinary attraction had
been engaged for the next season. “’Traction "rejoined Allen,
who was deaf and affected with a chronic catarrhº; “what sort
of 'traction ? Legs, I spose ; that’s the thig dow-a-days. The
bore you can hubbug the people the bedder.” “Legs . " said
John, rubbing his hands with Satisfaction ; “imagine not.


4. ZTAZAZA 7T/C/C-1 / 4 AVAECDOTE.S.
Better than that.” Then, speaking confidentially through his
hands, “We’ve secured Macready : * “Bah ” said Allen,
with contempt; “he's dobody—can't speak decet Egglish ; bere
bounteback, sir, bere bounteback;” and he took snuff fiercely.
“Well, mountebank or no mountebank,” replied Povey, “he's
sure to draw—a great card, sir.” “Ay,” growled Allen, with
importance, “can draw a carſ, eh? Bedder stick to his trade,
then—pay him much bedder ; ” and, with a conclusive thump of
his walking-stick, he turned away.
AN UNLICENSED HOUSE.
§ NE day while Charles Bannister was under examination
as a witness in the Court of King’s Bench, the Lord
Chief Justice retiring caused a temporary suspension of
the proceedings. One of the learned counsel, by way of
pleasantry, asked Charles for a song. “With all my heart,” he
answered, “if I can have an accompaniment.” The barrister
replied that they had no music there. “I wonder at that,” said
Bannister, “for you seem to have the band under your nose.”
COCK-BRAINED.
El N some town where George Frederick Cooke was per-
§ forming, he obtained a suit of clothes from a stage-
* struck tailor, who proposed that instead of receiving
money for his goods, he should be allowed to play Catesby to
Cooke's Richard. The tragedian was overjoyed at such an easy
mode of discharging the debt, and accepted the arrangement,
after having assured himself that the man knew the part. On
the evening of his début, the tailor spouted and stamped agree-
ably to the most Orthodox fashion, and elicited some applause.
For the tent scene, Catesby as well as Richard had screwed up
all their energies ; and when Richard started from his knees, at
the conclusion of the comments on the dream, exclaiming,



TAZAZA 7TA’ſ CA / AAVEC/DO 7TA.S. 5
“Who’s there?” the amateur, in his excitement, stammered out
his answer, and abruptly stuck in the middle of his phrase—
“'Tis I, my lord, the early village cock . . .” Cooke Surveyed
the stultified aspect of his officer for several seconds with a
Sardonic grin, as if enjoying his agony, and at length growled
out, in a very audible tone, “Why the devil don’t you crow,
then P”
A MODERN ABSALONI.
NSLEY, the tragedian, was a solemn, pompous actor of
the old School, with a sepulchral voice, a stiff, Stalking
gait, and who delighted in a full, flowing wig. One
evening, when he came on in the Dublin Theatre for his first
soliloquy in Richard III., a nail at the wing caught the bottom of
his majestic wig, and dismounting his hat, suspended the former
in the air. An Irish gallery know how to laugh, even in a
tragedy. Bensley caught his hat, as it fell, by a feather, and
replacing it on his nob “shorn off its beams,” advanced to the
front and commenced his soliloquy, amidst a volley of impor-
tunities to resume his wig : “Mr. Bensley, me darling, put on
your jasey | Bad luck to your politics—will you suffer a whig to
be hung : * etc. The tragedian, however, considering that such
an act would have compromised in some measure his dukely
dignity, continued his meditations in despite of their advice, and
Stalked off at the conclusion as he had stalked on. An underling
then made his appearance, and released the captured hair, with
which he exited in pursuit of Richard, to as loud a demonstra-
tion of approval as Richard himself.
A GLORIOUS MARTYR.
Ǻ UNDEN was a great actor, heart and Soul in his voca-
#| tion. He was particularly great in the character of
- Obadiah in the Commiſſee, or, the Homes: Thieves.
There is a scene in that piece wherein Teague plies the hypocrite


6 THAEA 7TR/CA/L AAVECDOTES.
Obadiah with wine, when it was customary to use a black quart
bottle, and to pour from its neck the contents down the throat
of the actor, in spite of his resistance and repeated declaration
of “No more, Mr. Teague.” One night Munden's struggles
against the readministration of the doses were found to be
unusually vigorous, and therefore more exciting to the adminis-
trator. Nevertheless, he gulped the liquid down at each
application of it, under which operation his contortions of face
were so extremely comical that even Johnstone, who played the
part of Teague, was convulsed at his brother comedian's extra-
drollery, and the audience absolutely screamed with laughter.
At length the scene ended, and Obadiah was borne off the stage
in the usual manner. The moment Munden found himself
out of sight and hearing of the audience, he sprang upon his
legs, and broke out into the most passionate exclamations of
disgust and anger; swearing that he had been poisoned, and
calling for a stomach-pump. Pressed by all around him for a
Solution of the mystery, he cried out in an agony of disgust,
pointing to the empty bottle still in Johnstone's hand, “Lamp-
oil, lamp-oil, every drop of it !” The property-man had mis-
taken a bottle half-filled with the rankest lamp-oil for the quart
bottle, in which usually some Sherry and water was employed to.
drench the luckless actor. When the sufferer had in some
degree recovered from the nausea caused by the accident,
Johnstone marvelled why Munden, after his first taste of the
liquor, should have allowed him to pour the whole of the
disgusting liquid down his throat. “My dear boy,” gasped
Munden, “I was about to do so, but there was such a glorious
roar in the house at the first face I made upon swallowing it,
that I hadn’t the heart to spoil the scene, by interrupting the
effect.”
THAEA TRICA/. A WAECDOTES. 7
PERSEVERANCE.
ſºjFTER George II. had ceased to visit the theatres,
㺠; Macklin's farce of Zove & Ma Mode having been acted
with much applause, he sent for the MS. He had it
read out to him by a sedate old Hanoverian gentleman, who,
being but little acquainted with English, spent eleven weeks in
puzzling out the author's words ; as for the meaning, they
probably never got at that.
A CRUEL HOAX.
#j|OPE, the actor, well known as a gourmand and for his
ń attachment to venison, received an invitation to dinner
from an old friend, accompanied by an apology for the
simplicity of the menu-a small turbot and a boiled edgebone of
beef. “The very thing of all others that I like l’exclaimed
Pope. He went, and ate till he could literally eat no longer, when
the word was given and a haunch of venison was brought in.
Pope saw the trap which had been laid for him ; but he was fairly
caught, and after trifling with a delicious slice, he laid down his
knife and fork, and gave way to a hysterical burst of tears,
exclaiming, “A friend of twenty years' standing, and to be
served in this manner | *
TIT FOR TAT.
Rºlf HILE Farquhar, the dramatist, was in Trinity College,
|AA}| Dublin, he sent to another student to borrow Burnet's
History of the A’eformation, but that gentleman sent
him word he never lent any book out of his chamber ; if, however,
he would come there he should make use of it as long as he liked.
A little while after, the owner of the book sent to borrow
Farquhar's bellows. The future dramatist returned him the



8 THEATR/CA/L AAVECDO 7"E.S.
compliment : “I never lend my bellows out of my own chamber,
but if the gentleman pleased to come there, he should make use
of them as long as he liked.”
“ROARING LIKE A SU CI&ING D OVE.”
;ILLY BATES at one time was at the head of a strolling
} company which occasionally visited Bristol, but when
a permanent theatre was opened in that city by Powell
and Holland, he enlisted in their company in an inferior capacity.
At the opening performance a tragedy was given, in which
Holland did a king at the head of his army, and Bates was
condemned to a messenger, who gave notice of the enemy's
approach. This character comprehended but one entrance and
five lines of diction ; but these five lines were precious, and
Bates, having a throat like a speaking-trumpet, rushed on at
rehearsal and roared them forth, taking at the same time a
stage-effective but rather indecorous sweep of the boards, from
the fourth wing to the footlights. “Mr. Bates,” said Holland,
with a stare of surprise, “you surely don't intend to deliver that
message in that manner at night?” “Yes, but I do, Mr. Hol-
land.” “You are too loud, sir!” “Loud, sir! not at all, sir;
'tis only energetic. I’ve got a bezież żo make as well as yozº,
A/7. Ho//azza.”
FRIENDLY ADVICE.
TRAGICAL actor of Covent Garden Theatre requested
Mr. Harris, the manager, for a renewal of his engage-
ment, at the same time requiring a high increase of
salary. Mr. Harris referred the actor to the following well.
known laconic epitaph :— w
“Lie still, if you are wise;
You'll go down if you rise.”



7A/A2.1 7'A’/CA / AAVEC/DO 7 A.S. 9.
“HE WOULD BE AN ACTOR.”
; : NE of the Žia zoſa of the elder Mathews was that his.
§ son should become a clergyman. He was even credited
" with a declaration that “not even a dog of his should set
feet upon the stage.” But young Charles declined the Church,
and avowed his intention to become an architect, for which pur-
pose he was articled for four years to Pugin, the architect.
After a while, however, the father recognized his son's histrionic
skill and capacity, and perceived the slenderness of his chances.
Of ever prospering as an architect. Being asked at that period
what he was going to do with his son, his answer was, “Why,
I mean him to drazy ſho?/ses, like his father.”
A COOK'S REVENGE.
§|RS. Jordan, having reasons of complaint against her Irish
º cook, one morning summoned the professor of gastro-
nomy to her presence, paid her a month's wages, and
discharged her. The cordon &/ei/ was offended at such an
unceremonious dismissal, and indignantly taking up a shilling,
and banging it on the table, exclaimed, “Arrah now, honey,
Sure and you think yourself mighty grand | But, look 'ee, with
this ſhirteener won’t I sit in the gallery, and won’t your royal
grace give me a curtsey, and grin and caper for me? and won't
I give your royal highness a howl and a hiss into the bargain P”
wº. POTENTIAL AUTHORSHIP.
J. B. GONDELIER, the printer in the Passage du Caire
at Paris, figures on the playbills as the author of four
pieces, without having written one single word in any
of them. On the evening of the first representation of one of
these pieces, Za /l/37% azz Ba/ ef /a, Aºſ/e & /a, Maison, he was .



... O TAZAZA 7TA’ſ CA / AAVAEC/DOTE.S.
taking his Zonche in the Café du Theatre du Vaudeville.
One of his friends asked him if he was one of the authors of
the new piece. “I don’t know yet,” was the answer. “I am
waiting for Théaulon, and have brought a thousand-franc note
to become one of the authors.” Théaulon was the real author,
and M. Gondelier merely wished to figure on the bills in order
to have his entrečs behind the scenes. This process of putting
One's name to plays written wholly or in part by others, in
English theatrical slang is called “devilling.”
QUIN'S SARCASM.
ñº INING one day at a party in Bath, Quin uttered some-
i | thing which caused a general delight. A nobleman
present, who was not remarkable for the brilliancy of
his ideas, exclaimed, “What a pity it is, Quin my boy, that
a clever fellow like you should be a player : " Quin fixed his
flashing eyes upon his interlocutor, and contemptuously replied,
“What would your lordship have me be P A lord P”
HER NEXT SITUATION.
ſº EORGE COLMAN’S severity as a censor of plays is well
º known, yet in his conversation he would frequently
make remarks which would not have passed muster in
a comedy. Elliston and Alfred Bunn once went to him, in the
hope of persuading him to remove some objections he had made
to part of a play, as bordering on the profane, but he was
immovable. “And now,” he said, rubbing his hands, after all.
arguments had been exhausted, “let us go into the next room
and have a glass of wine.” They did so, and in the course of
the conversation he inquired after his former partner in the
Haymarket Theatre. “His wife is dying, I fear,” said Elliston.
“Dying ! bless my soul, I’m sorry for that Let me see, if
A recollect rightly, she was his servant?” observed Colman.


TAZAZA TA’/ CA/C AAVE CADO 7/2.S. I I
“I have heard so,” responded the lessee. “Then I hope,” said
the censor, “she'll carry a good character to her neart ſlace / " .
SHORT, BUT SWEET.
ºilS Bannister was standing one night unobserved in the
W. Scenes, he heard some scene-shifters discuss the various
impersonations of Hamlet they had witnessed. One
admired Henderson, another Kemble, a third Kean, and each
commended his own favourite. At last one of them said, “You
may talk of Henderson, and Kemble, and Kean, and the rest
of them ; but Bannister's Hamlet for me, for he has always done
twenty minutes sooner than anybody clºse.”
“ PATIENCE.”
ſº HERE was a silk-mercer in the last century who had
º frequented Bury St. Edmund's fair many years, and was
remarkable for his imperturbable complacency ; his
patience surpassed Job’s. Lewey Owen, the actor, took a bet
that he would ruffle the worthy dealer’s temper. He walked to
the booth, and inquired for a particular silk. It did not suit him,
when shown, and he desired to see another. That was nearer
the colour, but a shade too light. A third, that was the right
colour, but of too fine a texture. A fourth, too coarse ; a medium
texture would suit. A fifth, no ; a sixth, a seventh, an eighth
were taken down, rolled out, and inspected—all rejected. Still
the mercer’s patience was as inexhaustible as his stock. Lewey
persevered. After looking over nearly every piece in the booth,
and heaping the counter, the chairs, every available place with
rolls of silk, paper, Strings, half unrolled pieces laying about in
chaotic confusion, Lewey at length pointed to a roll high up on
the topmost shelf, which he desired to have a look at. The
obliging mercer mounted a ladder, and with infinite difficulty
obtained it, naturally expecting from the trouble his customer



I 2 TAZAZA 7TA’/CA / AAVAEC/DO 7./2.S.
gave that he intended to purchase a good many yards. Having
placed it before Lewey, he unrolled it, at his request, to the very
end. When the roller made its appearance, Lewey took it in
his right hand like a truncheon, and flourishing it gravely about
his head, stuck it in his side. “Come,” he said, “that will do :
we’ve got it at last !” “What will do?” exclaimed the mercer,
with profound astonishment. “Why, you must know, sir,”
replied Lewey, “that I’m the principal tragedian in Mr. Griffith's
company; and having to perform Richard ſhe 7%árd to-night,
which you must be aware can never be played without a good.
truncheon, I didn’t see one in the stock to suit me, and have
come out to buy one. Pray, what’s the price of this f * The
mercer's virtue was of no longer being. He positively foamed
with rage, and, jumping over the counter, it is probable would
have broken the roller over Lewey's head, had he not tumbled
over his silks, which gave the actor time to make good his
escape. *
“TRIFLES THIN AS AIR.”
iº ADEMOISELLE SARAH BERNHARDT once made
4; an ascent in Giffard's captive balloon, and, inspired by
her journey, the enthusiastic artist wrote a book,
entitled /m/ressions d'une Chaise, illustrated by her fellow-
traveller in this ascent, the painter Clairin. Whether this book
be good, bad, or indifferent is neither here nor there, but the
jokes of the Parisians about her ascent were perhaps a little
overdone. The unkindest cut of all came, of course, from
a friend. “You are a lucky woman,” said Got to her ; “you can
mount into the balloon even whilst it is rising up in the air.”
“How is that, venerable dean P” inquired Sarah. “Why, don't
you know P” was the reply. “The administration has ordered
a winding staircase to be constructed, on purpose for you,
z0/z ſhºt ſhe caff/e l’’ *

ZTA/EA TRAC.4 Z. 4 AVECDO 7"E.S. I 3
SUDDEN FORGETFULNESS.
ſº S “Gentleman’ Johnstone was performing one night at
º | the Lyceum Theatre, the “gods” thought proper to call
for their favourite song, “The Sprig of Shillelah.”
Johnstone came forward, with his usual alacrity and good
Thumour, to comply with the wishes of the house; accordingly,
the band struck up, but Johnstone stood silent and apparently
confused. This scene was repeated three times over, still the
actor did not commence the song. At last he stepped forward,
and thus addressed the house: “Ladies and gentlemen, I have
sung this song so often that I have quite forgotten the first
line.” A universal roar of laughter ensued, and about two
hundred voices began at once to prompt the actor, who, seeing
escape impossible, thereupon sang with the usual applause.
MADAME CATALANI’S APPLES.
fººl ADAME CATALAN I having been engaged at Covent
%|| Garden Theatre, Mr. Harris, the manager, determined
that she should make her first appearance in The Free
A mights. The O. P. riots were at that time at their worst, and
the celebrated artist was informed that on the first night of her
appearance, she would probably be pelted with apples. “Ah,
mon Dieu, Sare!” she exclaimed, with the greatest earnestness
and naïveze, “I hope dey vil be roasſed /*
A DEAD HERO.
“[ſº] NE of the most ludicrous attempts to follow out the
§§§ stage directions of the author at the least possible
expense, that I ever had the ill-luck to witness,”
writes Macready, in his Reminiscences, “was at Kendal. The
corps dramatique arrived in the town too late for the rehearsal



14. THEATRICAL AAVECDOTES.
of Vºgănătes, and I had to undergo during the two first acts a
Succession of annoyances, in the Scenic deficiencies and in the
inaccuracies of the players. My unhappy temper was seriously
tried under the repeated mortifications I experienced ; but in the
third act, where Siccius Dentatus should be discovered on a bier,
with a company of Soldiers mourning over it, I saw the old man
who represented the Roman hero lying on the ground, and two
men standing near. This was too absurd the body having to
be borne off in sight of the audience. I positively refused to go.
on. “Oh pray, sir,’ urged the manager, ‘go on. The men have
rehearsed the scene, and you will find it all right.” In vain. I
represented that the men could not carry off the dead Roman.
“Oh yes, indeed, sir,’ reiterated the manager, “they perfectly
understand it.’ There was nothing for it but submission.
After some delay the scene was drawn up, and disclosed the .
trio as described. On I went, and uttered my lamentation over
the prostrate veteran ; but when I gave the order, ‘Take up the
dead body ; bear it to the camp,' to my agony and horror, the
two men, stooping down, put each an arm under the shoulder of
the dead Dentatus, raised him upon his feet—he preserving a
corpse-like rigidity, his eyes closed, and his head thrown back
—and arm-in-arm the trio marched off at the opposite side of
the stage, amid roars of laughter of the convulsed spectators.”
“ MY FACE IS MY FORTUNE.”
#|ISTON was a remarkably ugly man. Once he played
the character of the Elder Figaro in The 7 wo Figaros,
- and it fell to his lot to speak the tag of the piece which
included an adaptation of two well-known lines of Pope. The
audiences of those days had some slight acquaintance with
literature, though the opportunity of being erudite in music-hall
matters was denied them ; and when Liston came forward and
said—
“If to my share some human failings fall,"

THAEA 7TA’/CA / AAVEC/DO 7./2.S. I 5.
the house, ever recognisant of the actor's grotesqueness of
features, and knowing the second line of the quotation, burst
into roars of laughter that lasted Some minutes. Not a muscle of
his countenance did Liston move, not an attempt did he make
to go on, till perfect quiet was restored; and then he spoke, with
most correct intonation, gravely, and as if there was or could be
nothing comic in the application, the second line—
“Look in my face, and you'll forget them all.”
THE DEATH OF MOLIERE.
#|HE chief personage in one of Molière's best plays, Le
| Malade Imaginaire, is a hypochondriac who pretends to
be dead. On the fourth night of the performance of this,
piece, Molière represented that character, and consequently, in
one of the scenes, was obliged to act the part of a dead man.
“It has been said,” continues Bayle, from whom I take this
account, “that he expired during that part of his play where
he is told to make an end of his feint ; but he could neither
speak nor arise, for he was dead.” But it is said, in the Zife of
Molière's Wife, from whom Bayle quotes farther on, that this
sudden attack commenced in the part “when he speaks of
rhubarb and Senna, in the scene with the physicians; when,
blood pouring from his mouth, to the great terror of the spec-
tators and his friends, he was immediately carried home, when
he expired a few hours after.” On this occasion, the following
smart epitaph was written —
“Ci-git qui parut sur la scène
Le singe de la vie humaine ;
Qui n'aura jamais Son égal :
Qui voulant de la mortainsi que de la vie
IEtre 1'imitateur dans unc comedie,
Pour trop bien reussir y reussit fort mal;
Car la mort en étant ravie,
Trouva si belle la copie,
Qu'elle en fit un original.”

"I6 TAZAZ A 7TA’/CAA 4 AVA, CADO 7T/E.S.
HOW TO PREVENT A PANIC.
; HE facetious Joe Hall, the original Lockit in 77te Beg-
§ º gar’s Offera, in the year 1739, when the scene-room at
Covent Garden was on fire and the audience greatly
alarmed, was ordered by Rich, the manager, to run on the stage
and explain the matter, which honest Joe did in the following
extraordinary address :-‘‘Ladies and gentlemen, for heaven’s
sake, don’t be frightened ; don’t stir-keep your seats. The fire
is almost extinguished ; but if it was moſ, we have a reservoir of
one hundred hogsheads of water over your heads, that would
drown you all in a few minutes.”
A PRETTY COMPLIMENT.
'#'RºjAYDN, the composer, was a great admirer of the silver-
§§§ toned Mrs. Billington. When Sir Joshua Reynolds
showed him his celebrated picture of this lady, where
she is represented as St. Cecilia listening to the heavenly choir,
he observed, “It is a very fine likeness, but there is a strange
mistake in the picture. You have painted her listening to the
angels; you ought to have represented the angels listening to
./ze?".”
º SHYLOCKS DOG.
fººl N 1838 an actor at a small theatre in the Bull-ring, Bir-
§ mingham, tried a novel experiment to obtain a good house
for his benefit. Round the neck of his dog he tied a
label, with the words “Come and see, to-night ! Bow, wow !
Only sixpence.” This and the actor dressed in Shylock's gaber-
dine paraded the Streets, and certainly drew attention, if not a
full house.



TATA: A TRICA / .4 WAEC/DOT/E.S. 17
“HAMLET,” IN HAMBURG.
is N 1776 Shakespeare's Hamlet was played in German in
| Hamburg. The play was thus announced by Herr
Tegener: “Aſamleſſ, Prince of Denmark ; or, the Comedy
27, the Comedy,” which was followed by this note: “To-day the
Covenaisseur cries, to old and young, ‘Listen, listen to Hamlet’s
nervous thoughts. But all, all of you be attentive, so that you
lose nothing of their beauty by unbearable noise. (AVoža Bene.—
The three actors in the little comedy are extra players.) Madame
Gödel will to day, in the part of Ophelia, show the great effect
of which the art of acting is capable; and Herr Gödel will
excite enthusiasm by his masterly acting as Hamlet; the
director, in the difficult part of the Ghost, will also show himself
not unworthy the applause of a highly gracious audience. Oh,
excellent public, come and see . Then you will find what a
difference it makes when Aſaya/ef is played by real actors or by
bunglers, and when care is bestowed on dress and decora-
tions.” The Herr Director seems, however, to have been less
successful as the Ghost than he had anticipated, for we hear
that, owing to some defect in the machinery by which the Ghost
was to disappear, the director—a bullet-headed, fat little man—
remained suspended in mid-air, kicking, and vainly endeavour-
ing to descend into the “vasty deep,” amidst shouts of laughter
of the audience.
AMENITY.
#;"|OR many years there was a bitter feeling between Mack-
§ lin and Quin, and the latter occasionally made very bitter
remarks on his brother comedian. One of the most
ill-natured things perhaps Quin ever said of Macklin, and to his
face, was upon the following occasion. When Macklin brought
his tragedy of Henry VII., or, the A offish //??osſor on the stage,
C


I8. TAZZA T/C/C.4/. AAVAEC/DO ZTE.S.
Quin told him it would not succeed. The event turning out
pretty nearly as he had predicted, Quin said, “Well, sir, what
do you think of my judgment now P” “Why, I think,” says.
Macklin, “posterity will do me justice.” “I believe they will,
sir,” replied Quin; “for now your play is only damned, but
posterity will have the satisfaction to know that both play and
author met with the same fate.”
“HE WOULD [NOT IF HE COULD.”
CURIOUS circumstance occurred when Templeton was
singing Æ/vizzo to Mademoiselle Malibran’s A/zzzza.
Templeton one evening, observing that Malibran treated
him in a most unbecoming and rude manner, even while on the
stage, asked advice of the manager as to the line of conduct he
should pursue. He was advised to call upon the dºva, state his feel-
ings and ask if he had committed any offence that had incurred her
displeasure. He did so next morning, when her reply, between
an inclination to laugh and a disposition to be serious, was—“I
thought you wanted, sir, to kiss me.” At this moment, when
she was the idol of the people, when peers would have given
their coronets to press only the tips of her fingers, the Scottish
songster alone remained calm. “ Gude God,” he exclaimed, “is
that all ! Make your mind easy ; I would na kiss you for Ony
consideration ; ” and shaking hands, he left the house.
STAGE WHISPIERS.
Fºl RS. FANNY KEMBLE, in the journal of her tour in
#AW; ; America, gives an amusing account of a performance of
the last scene of Romeo and juliet, with the whispered
communications exchanged by the actors. Romeo, at the words
“ Quick, let me snatch thee to thy Romeo's arms,” pounced upon
his play-fellow, plucked her up in his arms, “like an uncomfort-
able bundle,” and staggered down the stage with her. Juliet


TAZEA TRICAZ AAVECDOTES. I 9
whispered, “Oh, you’ve got me up horridly That'll never do.
Let me down ; pray let me down " But Romeo proceeds, with
Shakespeare—
“There, breathe a vital spirit on thy lips,
And call thee back, my soul, to life and love . "
Juliet continues to whisper, “Pray put me down ; you'll certainly
throw me down if you don’t set me on the ground directly.” “In
the midst of “Cruel, cursed fate,’ his dagger fell out of its sheath.
I, embracing him tenderly, crammed it back again, because I
knew I should want it at the end.” The performance thus went
OT) –
‘‘A’omeo. Tear not my heartstrings thus !
They break they crack 1 Juliet Juliet !
[Dies.”
13y-play, in whispers :
“jºiſieſ (ſo corpse). Am I Smothering you ?
“Coºse. Not at all. But could you, do you think, be so kind
as to put my wig on again for me P It has fallen off.
“j”uſieſ (ſo com/se). I’m afraid I can’t ; but I’ll throw my
muslin veil over it. You’ve broken the phial, haven’t you.
“Corºse modded. - -
“Şulief (ſo com/se). Where's your dagger ?
“Cor/se (to 7uſieſ). 'Pon my soul, I don’t know.”
AN ILL-BE HAVED CORPSE.
jºjS Congreve's Mourning Bride was being represented one
| night at the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin, Mossop
acted Osmin, and a subordinate actor Selim. Selim,
stabbed by Osmin, should have remained dead on the stage; but,
seized with a fit of coughing, he unluckily put up his hand and
loosened his stock, which set the audience in a burst of laughter.
The scene over, the enraged Mossop railed at his underling for
daring to appear alive when he was dead ; to which the man

2O THEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES.
replied, that he must have choked had he not done as he did.
Mossop retorted, “Sir, you should choke a thousand times
rather than spoil my scene.” -
POLITE TOMMY HULL.
zºº OMMY " HULL, the acting manager of Covent
§ Garden, was always put forward to make announce-
- ments or apologies to the audience. In consequence
of these duties he had acquired a habit of framing all his
speeches in the precise style of his theatrical apologies. A
ludicrous circumstance happened during the time when mobs
nightly paraded the streets, on the occasion of Admiral Keppel's
acquittal of the charges brought against him by Sir Hugh
Palisser. Hull one night gave the mob in Martlett Court, Bow
Street, where he then resided, a barrel of porter, and moblike, as
soon as they had drank it, they began to break his windows in
order to get more. Mr. Hull addressed the crowd in precisely
the same urbane and gentlemanly tone and manner which he
always so naturally assumed on the stage. “Ladies and gentle-
men, I lament exceedingly to be under the necessity of offering
an apology this evening ; but I am obliged to state that all the
Strong beer has disappeared, and in this predicament, having
at a very short notice procured a cask of small, we hope to meet
with your usual indulgence.”
A VOICE FROM THE PIT.
ſºft|OODY early in life, before he went on the stage, had
išW4;| been to Jamaica, and worked his passage home as a
Sailor before the mast. One night, some time after he
had been engaged at Drury Lane, when he was acting Stephano
in the Tempest, a sailor in the front row of the pit got up, and,
standing upon the seat, hallowed out, “What cheer, Jack
Moody ; what cheer, messmate P’’ This unexpected address


TAZAZA 7'A' ſcA/L AAVAEC/DOTAE.S. 2 I
rather astonished the audience. Moody, however, stepped
forward, and, recognizing the man, called out, “Tom Hullet,
- keep your jawing tacks aboard ; don’t disturb the Crew and
passengers. When the show is over make sail for the stage door,
and we'll finish the evening over a bowl of punch ; but till then,
Tom, keep your locker shut.” When the play ended, Moody
was as good as his word, and adjourned with his former mess-
mate to the Black Jack, in Claremarket, where they spent a
jolly night over sundry bowls of arrack punch.
ID UMAS “ KEAN.”
#|HE elder Dumas has written much glorious nonsense,
| but his drama of Kean, ou Désordre et Génie ranks
among his wildest productions. The hero is Edmund
Kean, most erratic and most miserable of Mother Carey's
chickens ; and Dumas, with a truly Parisian disregard for exact
facts, makes Kean indeed a tragedy hero. He lays the scene of
the tragedian’s glory at Covent Garden instead of Drury Lane;
represents him a perfect Don Juan in the beau monde ; * exhibits
him as disputing the heart of the Countess Kefield, lady of the
Danish ambassador, with no less a personage than the Prince
of Wales, who—notwithstanding he is characterized as his
intimate friend—for interfering with his Royal Highnesses's
pleasurable pursuits, banishes him to America for one year.
Thither the incorrigible Kean carries off the richest of English
heiresses, yolept Miss Anna Danby : while in some intermediate
Scenes Kean is represented as challenging Lord Melville to
* The real Edmund's attachments to the fair sex were sufficiently
numerous, though not always of quite so disastrous a nature as that to the
wife of Alderman Cox. They all commenced with one love-letter; he had
a circular, in fact, which he despatched to the successive objects of his
affection. It may be added that Frederick Lemaitre was the original
“Edmund Kean,” and played the character, which was not unlike his own,
to perfection. Sarah Bernhardt, in 1868, impersonated “Anna Danby,”
the heroine of the play. -

22 TA/AEA TA2/CAA. AAVAEC/DOTAE.S.
mortal combat in a public-house ; as consenting to play Falstaff
for a brother actor's benefit ; as addressing the audience after
the fashion in which the king addresses his parliament, “My
lords and gentlemen; ” and, to crown all, Kean's servant brings
him a glass of eaſt sucré. Now, Kean respected “a bumper of
good liquor ’’ as much as any subject in his majesty’s dominions,
and the chances are that if his servant had brought him a glass
of eau sucré without adding thereto a considerable quantity of
came de zyże, Kean would have broken every bone in the varlet's
body.
A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.
zººl HE remarkable beauty of Sophia Baddeley had obtained
º | the early recognition of the public, and was long held
to be almost a matter of general interest. When, in
1771, Foote produced his comedy of The Maid of Bath,” at the
Haymarket, Mrs. Baddeley, by desire of the manager, occupied
a prominent position in a box near the stage. About the middle
of the play Foote, in the character of F/zztá, descanting upon the
charms of the heroine, advanced to the footlights and exclaimed,
“Not even the beauty of the nine Muses, nor even of the divine
Baddeley herself, who is sitting here *—pointing to her box—
“could exceed that of the Maid of Bath.” This extravagance is
said to have drawn extraordinary applause from all parts of the
house. The actor was encored, and even called upon to repeat
the words three times. The “divine Baddeley’ affected to be
confused ; she rose, and curtsied to the audience, and it was
nearly a quarter of an hour before she could sit down again, the
plaudits lasting so long. Her face was suffused with blushes,
which remained apparent the whole evening ; for Mrs. Baddeley
was not, we are assured, “according to the fashion of modern
beauties, made up by art—she never used any rouge but on the
* A play based on the romantic incidents of the marriage of Sheridan
with the beautiful Miss Linley. .


THEATRICAL AMECDOTEs. 23
stage.” Her beauty, however, Soon waned, her health gave way,
she became very lame, was reduced to poverty, and died in
Edinburgh, in 1786, the cost of her pauper's funeral being
defrayed by the Edinburgh theatrical Company.
IMſ PRISONMENT WITH HARD LABOUR.
#: WO days previous to the first performance of The Critic,
il Sheridan had not written the last act. Dr. Ford and
Mr. Linley, the joint proprietors of Drury Lane, began
to be nervous and fidgety, and especially King, who was not only
the stage-manager, but had to play a part in the piece. At last a
might rehearsal of The Critic was ordered, and Sheridan, having
dined with Linley, his brother-in-law, was prevailed upon to go
to the theatre. While they were on the stage, King whispered
to him that he had something particular to communicate, and
begged he would step into the greenroom. Sheridan went, and
there found a good fire, an armchair, and a table, with pens, ink,
and paper, besides two bottles of claret and a dish of anchovy
sandwiches. The moment he entered the room King left it, and
locked the door, whilst Linley and Ford came up and told the
author that, until he had finished the play, he would be kept
where he was. Sheridan took the 77tse in good part, finished
the wine, the sandwiches, and the play, and was amused at the
ingenuity of the contrivance.
AWFUL VISITORS.
Eºsi. FTER the dreadful accident at Sadler's Wells, in 1807,
wº during the run of Moſher Goose, when twenty-three
people were trodden to death, owing to a false alarm of
fire, Joe Grimaldi met with a singular adventure. On running
back to the theatre that night, he found the crowd of people
collected round it so dense as to render approach by the usual
path impossible. Filled with anxiety, and determined to ascer-


24. 7THE A 7TRICA L AAVECDOTES.
tain the real state of the case, he ran round to the opposite bank.
of the New River, plunged in, swam across, and, finding the
parlour window open and a light at the other end of the room,
threw up the sash and jumped in, Harlequin-fashion. What
was his horror, on looking round, to discover that there lay
stretched in the apartment no fewer than nine dead bodies :
These were the remains of nine human beings, lifeless and
scarcely yet cold, whom a few hours back he had been himself
exciting to shouts of laughter.
BIBLICAL CRITICISM.
fººl T the period when Mr. Morton was reader and “examiner
| of plays” to Drury Lane Theatre, a very popular author
sent an adaptation of Halevy’s opera of Za. Tentation
under the title of Temptation to Alfred Bunn, the manager.
He dispatched it to Morton, who, after examining it, returned
the MS. together with his opinion on its merits, in the following
humourous example of laconism : “Dear Bunn, By not lead-
ing you into Temptation, I shall deliver you from evil. Truly
yours.—T. M.”
A SUPERFIN E BULL.
; HE first night of The Strafford jubilee in Dublin, Robert
§§ Mahon had to sing the song of Shakespeare's Mulberry
Tree, composed by the elder Dibdin, commencing with
tlie words—
“Behold this fair goblet was carved from the tree
Which, oh my sweet Shakespeare, was planted by thee.”
He walked on, and began the song, holding in his hand a fine
cut-glass rummer. The public looked at this “fair” glass
“goblet” “carved from a tree” with much mirth, and soon
hisses commenced. When the play was over Mahon had the
folly to insist that he was right. “'Tis true,” he said, “the


THEA. TA’/CA/. A ZVA, CDO TAE.S. 25.
property-man did stand at the wing with a wooden cup in his
hand, which he wanted to thrust into mine ; but could I appear
before the audience with such a rascally vulgar thing in my
hands P No ; I insisted he should that instant go and fetch me-
an elegant glass rummer, and here it is.”
A GOD FROM THE CLOUIDS.
5|T is told of one Walls, who was the prompter of a Scottish.
theatre, and Occasionally appeared in minor parts, that
he once directed a maid-of-all-work, employed in the
wardrobe department of the theatre, to bring him a gill of whisky.
The night was wet, so the girl, not caring to go out, intrusted the
commission to a little boy who happened to be near. The play
was Ożhello, and Walls played the Duke. The scene of the
Senate was in course of preparation ; Brabantio had just stated—-
“My particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing a nature,
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,
And it is still itself.”
And the Duke, obedient to his cue, inquired—
“Why, what's the matter?”
when the little boy appeared upon the stage, bearing a pewter
measure, and exclaimed, “Please, sir, it’s just the whisky; and I
could na git ony at fourpence, so yer awn the landlord a penny;.
and he says it's time you was payin’ what’s doon i' the buik.”
The Senate broke up, amidst the uproarious laughter of the
house.
EMPEROR AND PLAYERS.
Nºlfi ILST Emperor Joseph II. was at Schoenbrunn, he had.
All a first-rate French Company performing there. They
Occupied apartments in the palace, and a plentiful table
was allotted them. One day, while they were drinking their
wine and abusing it, the Emperor passed by their dining-room,


26 TAZAZ. A 7TA’/CA/C AAVEC/DOTAE.S.
which opened into the imperial gardens. One of the gentle-
men, with the innate modesty SO peculiarly belonging to many
individuals of his nation and profession, jumped up from the
table with a glass of wine in his hand, followed his Majesty, and
exclaimed, “Sire, I have brought your Majesty some of the
thrash which is given us by your purveyor by way of wine.
We are all disgusted at this treatment, and beg to request your
Majesty to order something better, for it is absolutely impossible
to drink it. He says it is Burgundy; do taste it, sire, I am sure
you will admit it is not.” The Emperor, with great composure,
tasted the wine. “I think it excellent,” he said ; “at least, quite
good enough for me, though perhaps not sufficiently good for
you, and your companions. In France, I dare say, you will get
much better.” He therewith turned on his heel, and sending
for the grand chamberlain, ordered the whole coºs dramatique
to be discharged and expelled Vienna forthwith.
FOOTE'S OPINION ON GARRICK.
㺠OOTE had a low opinion of Garrick's literary abilities.
# He once received an anonymous letter, which pointed
out to him a certain French play as an excellent subject
for his theatre. The letter was well written, and contained
quotations which proved classical learning in the writer. Some-
body suggested that it had been penned by Garrick. “Oh no,”
replied the wit ; “it is not Garrick's style, and I will prove this
like Scrub. First, I am Sure it’s not Garrick's, because there is
Greek in it ; Secondly, I am sure it is not Garrick's, because
there is Latin in it ; and thirdly, I am sure it is not Garrick's,
because there is English in it.” -

TAZAZ.1 7TA’/CA1/2 AAVEC/DO ZTAZ.S. 27
AN OBSTINATE SKELETON.
Eºl T the first production of Blue Beard at Drury Lane, in
| 1798, when the wife-murderer was slain by Selim, a
most ludicrous scene took place. Whilst Blue Beard
disappeared under the stage a skeleton rose, which, when seen
by the audience, was to sink down again. But not one inch
would that skeleton move. Kelly, the composer of the piece,
who as Selim had just been killing Blue Beard, and whose
blood was still up, gallantly ran with his drawn Sabre, and
pummelled the skeleton's skull with all his might, vociferating
until it disappeared, loud enough to be heard by the whole
house, “Down you go, d-n you ! Why don’t you go down P”
The audience were in roars of laughter at this ridiculous scene,
but good-naturedly appear to have entered into the feelings of
an infuriated composer. -
REALISM.
fºll:ALISM is a very good thing in its way, but it can be
§§§ overdone, as appears from an instance in the Memoirs
of Iſland. Whilst that celebrated actor was engaged at
the theatre of Gotha, the stage-manager One Summer night took
a stroll with a friend, after the performance. It happened that they
were at the foot of an ancient village steeple, just as the clock struck
midnight. The play announced for the next day was Hazzaleſ,
and it struck them that the monotonous beating of the pendulum,
and the gmarring sound of the wheels before the hour strikes,
would make a very good and novel effect in the ghost scene.
Consequently, next morning the machinist received instructions
to imitate these Sounds in the scene on the battlements ; but it
was omitted to communicate this novelty to the actors. So when
the ghost stalked on the stage, a dismal and monotonous ticking
5egan to accompany the speeches. Hamlet Stared, the ghost


28 7A/A2A TRICA / AAVAZCZ)OTE.S.
looked uneasily round, Horatio and his friends sought for the
cause, the audience began to Smile. The machinist mean-
while steadily continued his exertions. The noise and the
laughter increased, and the voices of the actors were completely
drowned by this gigantic dead watch. On being spoken to, the
machinist was inflexible, and pleaded his instructions, beating
jealously all the time his two iron rods on a board. At last,
when in addition to this the wheels began to creak and crunch,
the ghost, unable to converse under Such trying circumstances,
returned whence he came, and the curtain fell, under Storms of
laughter and hisses. - .
ACTING OFF THE STAGE.
㺠HE return of Palmer, the actor, to Drury Lane, after his
tº secession to the Royalty, was a Subject of importance
to himself and to Sheridan, then manager of that
theatre. Palmer made quite a scene of it. After his profound
bow, he approached the author of 7.he School for Scandal with
an air of penitent humility, his head inclined, the white of his
eyes turned up, his hands clasped together, and his whole air
exactly that of Joseph Surface before Sir Peter Teazle. “My
dear Mr. Sheridan,” he begun, “if you could but know what I
feel at this moment—” Sheridan, with inimitable readiness,
stopped him. “Why, Jack, you forget ; I wrote zł.” Palmer, in
telling this story, added that the manager's wit cost him some-
thing. “For,” said he, “I made him add three pounds per week
to the salary I had before my desertion.”
CURSING DRAMAS.
|º]}^TER Miss Bateman had, some years ago, aroused
| enthusiasm in certain quarters by her accomplished
cursing in the drama of Leah, several pieces were
written for her, in which her part consisted almost exclusively of
curses. Thus she was, according to one dramatist, to ask a


THEA TRICA/. AAVECDOTE.S. 29
passer-by if he could kindly tell her the way to Regent Street ;
and when he smilingly replied, “You must take the first turning
to the right, and go straight on,” she was to answer, “Then may
all the curses of an outraged woman,” etc. With a good
“Square " Curse in every scene, it was estimated that the drama
must go better than Zeah, which only had one curse in it really
worth talking about.
SU CCESSFUL “ GAG.”
ăſăj OTIER, the famous comedian,” writes Mr. Dutton Cook,
§§ in his Booſé of the Play, “was playing the leading
part in a certain vaudeville, and was required, in the
course of the performance, to sit at the table of a cheap café, and
consume a bottle of beer. The beer was brought him by a mute
performer in the character of a waiter, charged with the simple
duty of drawing the cork from the bottle, and filling the glass of
the customer. Potier was struck with the man's neat perform-
ance of his task, and especially with a curious comical gravity
which distinguished his manner, and often bestowed upon the
humble actor an encouraging Smile or a nod of approval. The
man at length urged a request that he might, as he poured out
the beer, be permitted to say a few words. Potier sanctioned
the gag. It moved the laughter of the audience. Potier gagged
in reply, and there was more laughter. During Subsequent repre-
sentations the waiter was allowed further speeches, relieved by
the additional gag of Potier, until at the end of a week it was
found that an entirely new scene had been added to the vaude-
ville. Eventually the conversation between Potier and the
waiter—not a line of which had been written or contemplated
by the dramatist—became the chief attraction of the piece. It
was the triumph of gag. The Super, from this modest and
accidental beginning of his career as an actor, speedily rose to
be famous. He was afterwards known to the world as Arnal,
One of the most admirable of Parisian comic actors.”



3O THAEA TRICA / AAVAEC/DO 7/2.S.
“OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS.”
§|OT Only did boys anciently enact women's parts, but they
also played old men. Thus one Nathaniel Pavy, a boy
who died in his thirteenth year, after having acted for
three years, was so admirable a delineator of old men that
Ben Jonson elegantly says the Fates thoughſ him one, and,
therefore cut the thread of his life. Ben's elegy on the death of
this poor little fellow, for sweetness and tenderness, quite equals
Catullus’ complaint about Lydia's favourite sparrow :
“Weep with me all you that read
This little song ;
And know for whom a tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.
‘‘’Twas a child that did so thrive
In grace and feature,
That heaven and nature seemed to strive
Which own'd the creature.
“Years he numbered scarce thirteen,
When Fates turn'd cruel ;
Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel.
“And did act, what now we bemoan,
Old men so duly ;
AS Sooth the Parcae thought him one,
He play’d so truly,”
LIFE-STUDIES.
ăT is told of Mrs. Siddons, that one day as she was passing
in her carriage through St. Giles's, she saw two Irish
vixens fighting. The tragedian ordered her coachman
to stop, much to the amazement of the lady who was her com-
panion on the occasion. Mrs. Siddons attentively watched the


TA/AEA 7T/ē/ C 2-1/, AAVAEC/OOTAE.S. 3.
fight till its termination, when she told her servant to drive on. .
“You are astonished,” she said to her friend, “at my stopping
to witness a vulgar street-fight. But you must know I have
never been satisfied that I exactly had caught the true facial
expression for Lady Macbeth, when she talks of dashing out the
brains of her babe. Now, one of those women struck me as .
having exactly the expression required, and I am determined to
try it to-night, as I have to play the character.” She did, and
the effect electrified the audience.
LIKE CURETH LIKE.
à ſº ATERSON, a provincial actor of the last century, once-
§ pressed a brother actor for the repayment of a sum of
two shillings, long due. “Let a fellow alone,” was the
reply ; “I am sure to pay you ere long in some shape or other.”
Paterson answered good-humourously, “I shall be obliged to ,
you to let it be as much Zºe ſwo shi/ſings as you can.”
SWEET ID UCKS.
% ºLD Barry, the Dublin prompter, was an eccentric old'
§§§ humourist, who was on intimate terms with the most
easy, impudent, and familiar audience of that theatre,
and with the habitués of the shilling gallery. During the run
of 7'oma and jerry, which was played in Dublin some fifty or
more nights successively, Barry's originally white Russia duck
trousers, which he had continued to wear night after night,
began to assume a rather dusky shade, indicating their long
separation from soap and water. At last, when these long-
enduring pants made their appearance about the twentieth
night still encasing Barry’s legs, one of the habitués cried out
from the gallery, “Whist Barry, you divil | * “What do
you want, you blackguard P” said Barry, nothing moved by a
style of address to which he was accustomed. “Wait till I


32 4 ºf
7A/A2. A 7TA’/CA / AAVEC/DOTAE.S.
whisper you,” said the voice from above, whilst all were silent.
“When did your ducks take the water last !” The house was
uproarious, and the next night Barry's Russia-ducks were white
3.S S11OW.
QUIN'S APOLOGY.
ſº UIN was one day stopped in the street by a person he
§§§ had offended. “Mr. Quin,” said he, “I–I—I under-
stand, sir, you have been taking away my character | *
“What have I said, sir?” “You—you—you called me a
scoundrel, sir?” “Keep your character, sir,” said Quin, and
walked on. -
;
BANNISTER’S BALCONIES.
ſºlº N 1797 Bannister removed from Frith Street to No. 2,
* Gower Street. It will be observed that this house is the
only one in Gower Street which has balconies to the
drawing-room windows. These had been constructed by order
of Bannister, in violation, perhaps, to Some clause in the building
lease. The parish authorities, having no authority at all, came
to remonstrate, alleging that it was contrary to an Act of Parlia-
ment. Bannister dumbfounded the dignity of the churchwarden
by saying, “Sir, I have studied acts of plays, but I have never
meddled with Acts of Parliament.” The spiritual and temporal
Officer, for such is a churchwarden, retreated, and as the Duke
of Bedford, or his agent, never took up the important question,
the balconies remain even unto this day.
AN EYE TO BUSINESS.
§ R. THORNTON, the manager of a provincial troupe,
ºil skilfully combined the duties of actor and manager.
- It was his general practice to take the money at the
pit door, another actor officiating at the boxes. One evening,
whilst he was committing a dramatic homicide on Richard III.,




TAZA. A 7TA’ſ CA / A AWAEC/DO TAE.S.
~y
J.
3
the half-price was coming on. Thornton was never in the sub-
Jimest of his histrionic illusions, altogether so enveloped in
Shakespeare that he forgot himself. His vigilant eye was cocked
on the pit-entrance, to see that his substitute fulfilled his duties,
or that the unprincipled villagers did not confound their indivi-
duality and pass in a group. He had concluded the Soliloquy in
the tent scene, and rousing at the words of Catesby, repeated
the line, “Shadows, avaunt you threaten here in vain ' " when
he suddenly espied a swain stealing in unobserved. The interest
of Richard’s situation was instantly forgotten in his own, and
pointing at the offender, he exclaimed, “That man in the grey
coat came in without paying !” He then subjoined, with a
burst of truly rational triumph, “Richard is himself again.”
A SENSATIONAL THEATRE.
;|HE new theatre in Natchez,” says Sol Smith, the
| American comedian, Speaking about A.D. 1828, “was
situated at the extreme end of the main street and in
a graveyard. Two hundred yards of the street leading to it had
been cut through “this last receptacle of humanity, and every
day, in going to rehearsal, our sights were regaled with leg-bones
Sticking horizontally out of the earth ten or twelve feet above us,
the rain having gradually washed away the clay and left them
exposed. The dressing-rooms for the gentlemen were under
the stage, where the earth was excavated to make rooms.
Human bones were strewn about in every direction. The first
night the lamplighter, being a little ‘pushed' for time to get all
ready, seized upon a skull, and sticking two tallow candles
in the eye-sockets, I found my dressing-room thus lighted. In
digging the grave in Hameleſ, I experienced no difficulty in
finding bones and skulls “to play at loggats with.”
*

34. TA/A2. A 7T/ē/CA Z. AAVEC/DO 7TA.S.
A. HARMLIESS WEAPON.
§ISS O'NEIL, subsequently Lady Wrixon Becher, was
§§§ playing her famous Juliet at Belfast. In the final tomb-
Scene, the property-man had forgotten to place a dagger
for Juliet to stab herself when she finds her Romeo dead. What
was she to do? how to kill herself? She clenched her hand,
feigned to stab her fair bosom with an imaginary weapon, and
died with her lover. Such was the respect of the audience for
the great actress, that they took no notice of this anomaly until
the curtain fell. Then, and only then, the long pent-up laughter
burst from boxes, pit, and gallery.
MR. TOOLE'S GL.O.V.E.S.
Fºº CME of my critics,” observes Mr. Toole, “say that long-
§º fingered Berlin gloves play very many powerful parts
in my reſertoire, but I will let that pass. There must
be jealousy and envy in this wicked world. Many a good laugh
have I got out of a good long-fingered greengrocer's glove as a
muddled and puzzled waiter. But, bless you, it is not the glove
that gets the laugh, but the art that arranges the fingers into
comic attitudes. So long as the public laughs, I shall stick to
the gloves as long as they stick to me.”
BOY-ACTRESSES.
ſisi REVIOUS to the time when actresses were admitted on
§ the English stage, all the female characters were imper-
Sonated by boys and men, and to this the comparative
insignificance of Shakespeare's heroines, and many of their
peculiar characteristics, are frequently attributed. Such a boy-
actress is to be found among the theatrical company Hamlet
welcomes at Elsinore. “What, my lady and mistress l’’ says



THAEA 7TA’/CA/C A/VA2C/DO ZTE.S. 35
the young prince, “By’r Lady your ladyship is nearer to
heaven than when I saw you last, by the length, of a chożne.”
Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not
Cracked within the ring,” alluding to the Curious, unequal Sound
of a boy who attains the age of puberty. So in George Chap-
man’s Mask, The Gentleman Üsher, 1606, Sarpego apprises the
spectators—
“Women will ensue,
Which I must tell you true
No women are indeed ;
. But pages, made for need
To fill up women's places,
By virtue of their faces
And other hidden graces.”
The Puritans early took exception at the enormity of men
attired like women. Dr. Reynolds, of Queen's College, for
instance, was greatly shocked at the performance of a play at
Christ Church, and, in 1593, published The Overthrow of Stage
Plays. In this tedious invective he was especially severe upon
“The sin of boys wearing the dress and affecting the air of
women.” Tom Nash, in his Pierce Penniless, again, praises
the stage for not having, as they had abroad, women-actors—
courtezans he called them ; whilst the notorious Prynne, in his
Azsáriomaszia, cannot find words of abuse in sufficient quantity
to express his horror at the appearance of women on the stage.
After the death of Charles I., however, Prynne, disgusted with
the violence of the parliamentary party, recanted, and, in his
Defence of Stage Plays, proposed that women parts should be
taken by women, and maintained that men's putting on of
women’s apparel was not warranted by Scripture.
It may be that the invectives of the Puritans against boys in
woman's clothes helped to a change they would have regarded
as still more deplorable—the appearance of female performers.
At all events, we hear of a Mrs. Colman acting Ianthe in the
* A lady's high-heeled slipper.
36 ZTA/A. A 7T/ē/CA/L AAVE CADO 7TAE.S.
first part of Davenant's Siege of Rhodes, in 1656. Immediately
preceding the civil war, however, there were several male
performers who distinguished themselves in this line of acting.
Stephen Hammerton, who played at Blackfriars in the reign of
James and the first years of Charles I., was then dead ; he is
stated to have been “a most noted and beautiful woman-actor.”
But there still were Burt, Shatterell, Clunn, Mohun, Charles
Hart, and others. The latter was grandnephew of Shakespeare,
and grandson of the poet's sister Joan.* He was celebrated
for his impersonation of the Duchess in Shirley's tragedy of
The Cardºzza/. Burt distinguished himself at the Blackfriars
and Cockpit Theatres as Clariana in Zoºſe's Cruelty. In the
Duke of Buckingham's play of The Rehearsal, one Abraham
Ivory is mentioned, and the key to that work tells us that Ivory
had formerly been “a considerable actor of woman's parts, but
he afterwards stupified himself so far with drinking strong
waters that he was fit for nothing but to go errands, for which
and for mere charity the company allowed him a weekly
salary.” There was also one Alexander Goffe, “the woman-actor
at Blackfriars.” Of this man nothing is known but that, on the
occasion of the furtive performances which occasionally took
place at some distance from London, in the time of Oliver
Cromwell, he used to make himself known to the persons of
quality who patronized the plays, and give them notice of the
time when, and the place where, the next representation would
come off. At one of these performances, in 1655, Andrew
Pennycuick played the heroine of Davenport's King john.
The ordinance of 1647 closed the theatres for nearly fourteen
years; the boy-actors, with their elder confrères, took sides with-
the king, and several of them obtained commissions. Michael
Mohun became a captain, and, after the death of Charles I.,
served in Flanders, when he held the rank of major. Hart was
a lieutenant of horse in Prince Rupert's regiment, Burt a cornet
* The grandson of this player was alive at Stratford about the beginning
of this century.
TA/FA TRICA / AAVEC/DOTES’. 37
in the same, and Shatterell quartermaster. When the king had
“his own again,” the performers who, prior to the civil war,
had personated the heroines of the drama, were too mature both
in years and aspect to resume the tender office. As the pro-
logue which introduced the first actress observed—
“For, to speak truth, men act that are between
Forty and fifty, wenches of fifteen.” ”
And elsewhere—
“Doubting we should never play agen,
We have played all our women into men,"
It is, therefore, not impossible that the happy consummation
may have originated from necessity as much as choice ; but, as
the Supply of actresses could not all at once keep pace with the
demand, Some of the lady-players of the old dispensation re-
appeared for a while. It is thus that, after the Restoration, the
gratifying spectacle was witnessed of “Major * Mohun—this
title was always awarded him in the playbill—appearing as
Bellamante, one of the heroines of Shirley's tragedy of Love's
Crite/ºy. Yet at that time not less than thirty-five summers and
a few campaigns had passed over the gallant major's head.
This must have been a very unattractive exhibition, indeed,
and an unlimited fund of Öozzhomzie and good-humour was
requisite in the spectators to accept the imperfect illusion, and
to make abstraction of the square shoulders and baryton voice
of the martial heroine. -
The inequality of the supply to the demand will also explain
the phenomenon of the appearance of a new boy-actress. This
was Edward Kynaston, who had been a fellow-apprentice of
Betterton at Rhodes “ the bookseller's at Charing Cross, and
who could know nothing of the methods and artifices of per-
formance in use among the earlier boy-actresses. As he was the
last, so he was perhaps the best of all the epicene Stageplayers
* This Rhodes opened the first theatre after the death of Cromwell, the
Cockpit, Drury Lane. -
38 7A/EA 7/0/CAA. AAVECDOTES.
of the past. Downes, in his Roscius Anglicanus, describes him
as So complete a stage beauty, “that it has since been disput-
able among the judicious, whether any woman that succeeded
him so sensibly touched the audience as he.” The testimony
of the well-known Clerk of the Acts is not at variance with this.
In April, 1661, he records that he saw Kynaston in the S2/en/
Womazz in three different characters, “which he did all equally
well. First, as a poor woman in ordinary clothes ; then as a
rich lady in fine clothes, and in them was clearly the prettiest
woman in the whole house ; and lastly, as a man, and then like-
wise did appear the handsomest man in the house.” “ Kynaston
at that time was so beautiful a youth,” writes Colley Cibber,
“that the ladies of quality prided themselves in taking him with
them in their coaches to Hyde Park after the play, which in
those days they might have sufficient time to do, because plays
then used to begin at four o'clock, the hour that people of the
same rank now (1739) are going to dinner. Of this truth I had
the curiosity to inquire, and had it confirmed from his own
mouth in his advanced age ; and, indeed, to the last of him, his
handsomeness was so very little abated that even at past sixty
his teeth were all sound, white, and even as one would wish to
See in a reigning toast of twenty.”
An amusing though well-worn anecdote is related about
Kynaston in his adult age. One day that Charles II. arrived at
the theatre before his usual time, the play announced being
Aſama/ef, he found the dramafi's Zersona not ready to appear.
His Majesty, not choosing to have as much patience as his good
subjects, sent one of his attendants to learn the cause of the
delay. Knowing that the best excuse he could make to the
merry monarch would be the truth, the manager went to the
royal box, and plainly informed the king that the “queen was
not yet shaved.” “Odds fish 1 ° replied his Majesty, good-
humouredly, “then we’ll wait till her barber has done with her.”
The constant acting of female parts does not appear to have
in the least destroyed the energy, grandeur, and manliness of the
THEAT/º/CA/L AAVEC/DOTES. 39
style of these old actors. Hart's acting in male parts, in style and
character, resembled that of the late Macready. He was grave
and stately, and in characters where weight, power, and passion
were requested almost unsurpassed. Betterſon said he had
heard a courtier of the first rank remark, that Hart might teach
any king on earth how to comport himself. Of Kynaston,
Cibber asserts that he was “entirely master of real majesty in
Some of Shakespeare's parts, as in Hezzºy / V., where every
sentiment came from him as if it had been his own.” And
further on, “This true majesty Kynaston had so entire a com-
mand of, that when he whispered the plain words to Hotspur,
‘Send us your prisoners, or you’ll hear of it,” he conveyed a
Iuore terrible menace than the loudest intenperance of voice
could swell to.” -
A STORM IN A TEACUP.
à N the reign of Charles II., two beauties, Mrs. Barry and
Mrs. Boutel, performed the two rival queens in Nat
Lee's Alexander the Great. The two Stage queens
competed not merely for the same lover, but also in magnifi-
cence of rainment. A warm dispute about a veil arose behind
the scenes, which, by the partiality of the property-man, was
decided in favour of Mrs. Boutel. This offended the haughty
Roxana, and during the Course of the piece their rancour became
inflamed by the speeches they had to deliver. At last when
Statira, on hearing that the king approached, begs the Gods to
help her, Roxana,hastening the designed blow, plunged herdagger
with such force that, although the point was blunted, it made its
way through her rival’s stays and penetrated about half an inch
into the flesh. About a century later, in the reign of George II.,
Peg Woffington and Mrs. Bellamy had a quarrel in the same
play for somewhat similar reasons.

4O 7A7/2. A 7TA’/CA / AAVAEC/DO 7/2.S.
IN CHARACTER.
Nºi; OT a bad joke was uttered by Madame Vestris to Arnold,
§: who told her that a ci-devazzi tailor had applied to him
* for an engagement at the English opera house. “You
had better bring him out as Zazafa/oom,” said the beauty,
laughing.
A PHEN OMEN ON.
iº ADEMOISELLE MARS, the celebrated tragedian of
\%; the Théatre Français, long remained young in voice,
figure, movement, action, and expression. In the days
of passports, being about to make a foreign starring tour, she
was asked what age should be inserted. Her answer was “forty-
one ; ” her son, who accompanied her, being asked what was his,
replied, “Just one year older than my mother.” This lady held
with a grip of iron to the girlish parts she had played for forty
years, and never discovered that in some parts youth is better
than experience. In her mellow age somebody spoke about her
playing Juliet in her youth. “ Theſe I could look, but not play
the part,” she said ; “now I can boſſ/, //ay and Zooſé Žá.” But the
public were not altogether of this opinion, and one night some
gallant Frenchman threw a wreath of immortelles upon the
stage at her feet, by way of a delicate hint. It was on this or
on a similar occasion that the poor old actress came in Self-
defence to the footlights, exclaiming, “Gentlemen, Mademoiselle
Maria”—her part in the play—“is but seventeen years old ;
Mademoiselle Mars, alas, is seventy 1 °
A FEMALE BO HEMIAN.
ăl OLLEY CIBBER had one daughter, a beauty, who
§ married Richard Charke, an eminent violin-player, but
the pair soon parted company. On the death of her
husband, to protect herself from creditors, she gave a small sum




TA/AEA 7TWC/CA / AAVAEC/DOTA.S. 4;
to an old fish-hawker who had a stall in the Fleet-market, to
marry her in the precincts of the Fleet. She obtained a certifi-
cate of the marriage and quitted the man. He was poor, old,
and little better than an idiot, and it would have been madness
to trouble him for the debts of his wife.
Though Mrs. Charke acted with some success in the Hay-
market and Drury Lane Theatres, she is far more remarkable
for her Strange adventures and Bohemian existence. She was a
sort of English Chevalier d'Eon, delighted in going about
dressed in male attire, for which she insinuated that there were
mysterious reasons. She also amused herself in fencing, shoot-
ing, riding races, grooming horses, digging in gardens, and
playing upon the fiddle. Mrs. Charke was everything by turn
and nothing long : a strolling actress, a grocer and oil/zazz in
Longacre, a gentleman’s 7/tale servant, a waiter at the Kingshead
Tavern, Marylebone ; she kept a puppet-show in James Street,
Haymarket, again was a sausage-seller, a public-house keeper
in Drury Lane, employed in Russel's puppet-show in Brewer
Street, and once more keeping a public-house in Islington. One
day in affluence, the next in indigence ; now confined in a spong-
ing-house, presently released by a subscription of prostitutes.
In her old age she wrote a novel. At that time she lived in
most squalid poverty, in a thatched hovel, surrounded by the
Sweepings of the Metropolis, on the outskirts of Islington. In
that place her death occurred on the 6th of April, 1760.
“OH, THE WOEING OF IT.”
§§ TEPHEN KEMBLE, the brother of John, was so stout
sº that he could play Falstaff without “stuffing.” He was
no genius, though he played Falstaff and Lear tolerably,
and also Richard the Third. In the latter play he once involved
himself in an unforcseen dilemma. Having knelt to Lady Anne
to declare his love, he found himself fixed to the floor by dint of
his own gravitation. In this difficulty he was compelled to lay

42 TAZAZA 7TA’ſ CA / AAVAEC/DO 7TAZ.S.
aside the tyrant, and sue to his victim for help. “Help me up,
help me up !” he exclaimed in tones painfully energetic; and it
became the Christian duty of the offended Lady Anne to set her
Crooked-backed lover on his legs again.
A DISINTERESTED MANAGER.
;|ATE WILKINSON had sundry peculiar habits. During
his career as manager of the York Theatre, if any
member of his company had obstinately refused to
listen to his advice on any particular point of acting, he would
mount some night into the gallery and hiss him most strenuously,
an expedient which presently brought the trifier to his senses.
On One Occasion, being more than usually indignant at some
very slovenly exhibition on the stage, his hiss was remarkably
audible. The delinquent actor seemed, however, to have
friends around him, for on a cry of “Turn him out !” poor
Wilkinson was unceremoniously handed down from his own
gallery and ejected into the street. Notwithstanding this mis-
adventure, he afterwards still maintained this useful and very
disinterested experiment.
&
BIRDS OF A FIEATHER.
jºiT the time Moody and Sankey were starring it at Exeter
i Hall, a well-known West End pawnbroker happened
to inquire the way to the Hall from J. W. Anson, who
was returning from Ransomc. The Comedian, recognizing
the “banker of the poor,” informed him where the meeting
was held, adding that the revivalists would be delighted to salute
in him one of their colleagues. The astonished pawnbroker
objected that he thought his interlocutor made a mistake, and
took him for some other person. “Oh no,” replied Anson ;
“are you not one of those who look after the unredeemed 2*


TAZAZ A TA’/CA/C AAVA. CZOO ZTA.S. 43
LOVE'S LABOUR (NOT) LOST.
Fºl N the cemetery of Lille, in Flanders, there is a black
à marble monument, surrounded with yew trees, bearing
the simple inscription— -
^
“A FRANCHOME.
UNE AMIE A PASSÉ PAR LA.”
The story of this monument is pathetic. Franchome was
the name of a youth of nineteen, brother of a musician, in the
orchestra of the Comic Opera, in Paris. The youth, having seen
IMademoiselle Déjazet in some of her most bewitching parts,
fell desperately in love with the celebrated actress, and asked
her in marriage. Mademoiselle Déjazet could only offer him
her friendship, and the romantic youth returned to his native
city, where, unable to forget his love, he soon after committed
suicide. Three years after this unfortunate catastrophe Déjazet
had an engagement in Lille, and knowing the sad end of her
unhappy adorer, her first visit was to the cemetery, where she
inquired for his grave. The sight of it broke her heart. It was
a simple wooden cross, half hidden by weeds, the inscription
almost effaced by rain and sunshine. “Does nobody look after
this poor tomb P” she inquired from the gravedigger who
accompanied her. “Nobody,” was the reply. Déjazet at once
Ordered a handsome monument to be erected, yew trees to be
planted ; and when the stone-cutter entrusted with the labour
inquired what inscription he was to cut on the monument, she
tore a leaf from her pocket-book and wrote on it the two lines
given above, simply recording that a friend had visited the
lone tomb.

44 7TAIAEA TA’/CAA. AAVEC/DO 7'E.S.
GRANDILOQUENCE.
YOUNG actor named Hamblin made his first appearance
in the character of Hamlet, under the management of
Elliston, at Drury Lane, one night that the actor
appointed for the evening had disappointed the public. After
the performance, the magnificent manager called the neophite
into the greenroom, and addressed him to this effect: “Young
man, you have not only pleased the public, but you have pleased
z/te, and, as a slight token of my regard and good wishes, I beg
your acceptance of a small piece of plate ' " It was beyond
any question a zery small piece of plate, for it was a silver tooth-
pick.
THE COA’/º (WS /) /º/, /CTV.
WAG, seeing a parcel lying on the table in the entrance-
hall of a theatre, one end of which, from its having
travelled to town by the side of some game, was Smeared
with blood, observed, “That parcel contains a manuscript
tragedy; ” and on being asked how he knew, replied, “Because
the fiftſ, acá is peeping out at one corner of it.”
UNASKED SUPERS.
Nº|HEN John Bernard was manager of the theatre at
| Guernsey, Sir Sydney Smith happening one day to lie
with his ship off the island, promised to attend a per-
formance. The house on this occasion was filled with the
navy; the officers occupied a box, whilst the pit was entirely
taken up by the crew and marines, over whom a tall boatswain
presided, to “look arter” their manners and expressions. To
gratify their tastes the musical farce of The Purse was given,
which contained a Sailor, Will Steady. Bernard himself



TAZAZ A 7TA’/CA / A NAEC/DO ZTAE.S. 45
enacted this hero, and on concluding the first stanza of the
famous drinking song, “Tol de riddle, dol de rido,” gave the
toast to his messmates on the stage, “The King ! with three
cheers.” The tall boatswain in the pit, conceiving this to be
equally addressed to himself and companions, sung out, “Ay,
ay, Sir,” and clapping his whistle to his lips, brought all the tars
on their legs with an ear-splitting hurrah. At the end of the
second stanza, the toast was “The Duke of Clarence and the
Navy | * The boatswain piped, and the hurrahing again ensued
with equal enthusiasm. Concluding the third stanza, Bernard,
in accordance with the injunctions of the book, hesitated awhile,
and asked his brother tars on the stage whom he should give
next, when the tall boatswain leaned over the stage-rail, and
replied, “Sir Sydney Smith, to be sure.” There was no help
for it; the whistle went to work with a will, and the shouting
was ten times more uproarious than ever.
IMPROVING THE LIKEN ESS.
#|HE first night of Macklin's Zºrize-born /rishman in
Dublin, an eccentric gentleman, who had just come to
a great fortune, Sat with a large party in a stage-box.
When Massink came on, as Pat Fitz-Mongrel, in the rout-scene,
this gentleman in the boxes cried out, “Why, that’s me ! but
what sort of rascally coat is that they’ve dressed me in 2 Here,
I’ll dress you !” With that he stood up, took off his own rich
gold-laced coat, and flung it on the stage. Massink took it up
Smiling, stepped to the wing, put it on, and then returned to the
stage. This play had a great Success in Dublin, but was
condemned in London, which caused Macklin to say that he
had neglected “the geography of humour.”

46 ZTA/A. A 7TA2/CA/L AAVEC/DOTE.S.
THE NATIONAL ANTHEM IN ITALIAN.
iº ADAME CATALANI could neither speak nor read
§§§ English, yet occasionally when George III. honoured
Drury Lane with his presence, she had to sing one or
more stanzas of “God save the King.” In order to render the
national hymn pronounceable for the Italian tongue of the
diva, it was penned out for her in this form, which must have
given the songstress a great idea of the mellifluence and majesty
of our language :-
“Oh Lord avar God arais,
Scaetter is ennemais
And meche tem föl ;
Confaund tear politichs
Frosstre tear nevise trichs,
On George avar opes ui fichs,
God Seve te kin.”
A CHANGE OF NAME.
ñº HILST Harris was manager of Covent Garden, a singer
*\}) of the name of Bowden made his appearance in Robin
Aſood, a part originally taken by Charles Bannister.
Bannister was present at the performance, and a person sitting
next to him, vehemently applauded Bowden. Between the acts
he had the bad taste to say to Bannister, “Ay, ay, sir, Bowden
is the true Robin Hood, the only Robin Hood.” To which
Bannister replied, “Sir, he may be Robin Hood this year, but
next season he will be ‘robbin’ Harris.”
A. DOT.J.B.L.E DESIDEMON A.
jº N the first night when Cooper performed at Louisville,
ji United States, the fame of the great tragedian had
drawn a crowded audience, and among the rest a young
country lass, whom—not knowing her real name—we will call



TA/AEA 7TA’/CA1/, A/VAZC/DO TAE.S. 47
Peggy. Peggy had never before seen the inside of a play-house.
She entered at the time Othello was making his defence before
the Duke and senate. The young girl was permitted to walk,
unobserved, down the lobby until she arrived at the stage-box,
which she entered. Staring a moment about her as if doubting
whether she was in her proper place, she cast her eyes on the
stage, and observed several chairs unoccupied. It appeared to
her that the people on the stage seemed more at their ease than
those among whom she was standing, and withal much more
Sociable. Just at that moment Othello, as fate would have it,
looking in the direction of the place where she stood, exclaimed,
“There comes the lady.” The senators half rose in expectation
of seeing the “gentle Desdemona,” when lo the maiden from
the Country Stepped from the box plump on the stage, and
advanced towards the expectant Moor. It is impossible to give
any idea of the confusion that followed : the audience clapped
and cheered, the Duke and the Senators forgot their dignity,
Othello joined in the general mirth. The blushing girl was
ready to sink with consternation, until Some compassionate Soul
helped her out of her unpleasant situation. It was agreed by
all present, that no lady ever made her debút on any stage with
more 6claſſ than Miss Peggy.
THEATRICALS AND GASTRONOMY.
ñºl ELLY, in his ſeminiscences, gives an amusing picture
| of Tate Wilkinson. That eccentric manager of Drury
Lane had a Small appetite, but was a great epi-
cure, and had taken it into his head that Kelly was an
authority in culinary art. When he had taken a few glasses of
Madeira, he would mix his conversation about theatricals and
eatables together in a manner at once ludicrous and incompre-
hensible. “I was sitting with him one night,” says Kelly, “in
high spirits after supper, and we spoke of Barry, the actor.
‘Sir,’ said he, “Barry, sir, was as much superior to Garrick in

48 77/7A. Al T/C/C+/- 1.V.ECDOT/E.S.
Romeo as St. Paul's is to a Methodist chapel—not but that I
think that if lobster sauce is not well made, a turbot isn’t eat-
able, let it be ever so firm. There was Mrs. Barry; Mrs. Barry
was very fine and very majestic in Zenobia ; Barry in the same
play was very good—not but that wild rabbits are better than
tame ones. Though Mrs. Barry was so great in her day, yet
Mrs. Siddons—stewed and smothered with onions, either of
them are delicióus.’ And on he went in that manner to the end
of the chapter, until he talked himself asleep.”
THE VIPER AND THE FILE.
Rºl HEN Thomas Sheridan was manager of Smock Alley
Theatre, Dublin, he was told one day that a gentleman
wished to speak to him ; a stranger entered, seemingly
much agitated. “My dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I have a
thousand pardons to ask you, and hope for your forgiveness l’’
“Sir,” said Sheridan, “I have not the pleasure of knowing you.
What is the nature of the offence given me?” “Oh, sir, the
irreparable injuries I have done to your professional reputation | *
“Indeed but how 2° “Oh, sir, by my persisting in writing
you down in a much-read popular publication ”—mentioning the
title—“I am sure I must have hurt your mind most exceed-
ingly.” “Hurt my mind . This is the first knowledge I ever
had of the circumstance. And as to injuring my personal repu-
tation—here ! bring the box-book”—calling at the door ; the
box-keeper brought the book—“There, sir, look,” continued
Sheridan, “I play this night, and, as you See, every box is taken
by persons of the first rank and consequence in Dublin ; there-
fore, pray comfort yourself, as to having hurt either my mind or
my reputation.”

TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/C AAVEC/DO 7TAZ.S. 49
“HOME, SWEET HOME.”
ſº HIS popular song occurs in the opera Clari, written by
John Howard Payne, an American actor and manager,
- dramatist and critic. The opera was first represented
at Drury Lane in 1813, and made the fortune of every one con-
nected with it, except the author. It gained for Maria Tree,
eldest sister of Charles Kean, a wealthy husband ; and filled the
house and treasury of Charles Kean, the manager. It was
estimated in 1853 that IOO,000 copies of the song had been Sold
by the original publishers, whose profits two years after it was
issued are said to have amounted to 2000 guineas. The author
only received £30 for the whole opera. In 1832 Payne returned
to America, and on the 29th of November received, at the Park
Theatre, New York, the first complimentary benefit ever given
by the citizens of that city. The receipts amounted to 42OO
dollars. Payne was appointed consul to Tunis in 1841, and
died there, April Ioth, 1852, aged fifty-nine.
A PROPHECY.
5. ONGREVE'S brilliant comedy, The Way of the World,
# was damned offhand on the first night. The author
came forward at the close, and coolly asked the audience,
“Is it your intention to damn this play P’’ “Yes | yes! Off!
off * was the answer of the pit. “Then I can tell you,” he
rejoined, “that this play of mine will be a living play when you
shall be all dead and damned.” So far as we know, his
prophecy proved true. The Way of the World continued one
of the stock-pieces for more than a century.


5O TA/AEA 7TA’/CA/C AAVE C/DO 7/2.S.
THE SWORD IN THE PLAY-HOUSE.
à N December, 1702, a duel took place on the very stage of
Drury Lane Theatre, between Mr. Goodyear and Beau
Fielding, the well-known “Fribble” of that day. At a
representation of The Scornful Zady for the benefit of Mrs. Old-
field, many persons of distinction were behind the scenes.
Among others Beau Fielding came, and being always mighty
ambitious to show his fine figure, he very closely pressed for-
ward against Some gentlemen, among whom was one Mr. Ful-
wood, a barrister of Gray's Inn, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Oldfield's. Fulwood, being quick-tempered, told Fielding not to
push him so rudely, upon which the beau laid his hand upon his
Sword. Fulwood drew instantly, and, apparently without any
further ado, plunged his sword “twelve inches” (so says Curl,
my authority for this occurrence) into Fielding's abdomen. This
put the audience into great consternation, and Mr. Fulwood was
with much entreaty persuaded to leave the place, which at length
he did, “out of respect for Mrs. Oldfield.” After this gallant feat
Fulwood repaired to Lincoln's Inn Theatre, where he went into
the pit, and in a very few minutes cast his eyes upon one
Captain Cusack, whom he owed an old grudge, . Having “his
hand in " after the occurrence at Drury Lane, he there and then
demanded satisfaction of Cusack. The Captain without the
least hesitation obeyed the summons. They went into Lincoln's
Inn Fields, and set to in good earnest. In less than half an
hour word was brought into the house that Mr. Fulwood had
been killed on the spot, and that Captain Cusack had made
good his escape. Here we have a pleasing picture of manners
in the now so-much admired time of Good Queen. Anne ! More
sensational things than this even have been seen in the play-
house. Langbaine the critic, writing in the time of Charles II.,
declares that he “once saw a real tragedy in the pit of Drury
Lane Theatre, where Mr. Scrope received a mortal wound from

7A7A. A 7TA’/CA/C AAVAEC/DOTE.S. 5 I
Sir. T. Armstrong, and died presently, after being removed to a
house opposite the theatre.”
A. KIND TURN.
%;EORGE BARTLEY was a sensible, unaffected actor,
§§§ without any pretension to genius, but thoroughly
dependable to the extent of his talent. When he first
joined the Covent Garden Company, Fawcett was stage-
manager, and in possession, of course, of all the best parts. One
day he sent for Bartley, and said, “George, I’m going to give
you a chance. Hamlet is put up for next week, and you shall
play the ‘First Gravedigger.’ I’ve plenty to do, and it is but fair
to give you a turn.” Bartley expressed his gratitude. Fawcett
shook hands with him and walked away, muttering to himself,
but loud enough for Bartley to hear him, “There's a wind at
night comes up that cursed grave-trap enough to cut one's
vitals out !”
ASTRONOMICAL STUDIES.
#NR. HERSCHEL, the astronomer, at one time was
# organist at the Octagon Chapel at Bath, and played an
instrument in the orchestra of the theatre, whilst he
occupied his leisure time with astronomical studies. One
summer Mrs. Baddeley came down to Bath for a few nights,
and, at the first rehearsal, when she walked in as Polly in the
Beggar's Opera, Herschel, who had never seen her before, was
so overpowered with her beauty that he dropped his fiddlestick
and stared at her. When this was mentioned in the green-
room, Edwin remarked, “Well, that was nothing strange ; he
was star-gazing.”


52 THEAT/C/CA/. A WAEC/DOTES.
GARRICKS OPINION OF BIRMINGHAM.
żº ARRICK was on a visit at Hagley, Lord Lyttelton's seat,
|\º when news came that a company of players were about
to perform at Birmingham. “They will hear you are
in the neighbourhood,” said his lordship to Garrick, “and will
ask you to write an address to the Birmingham audience.”
“Suppose then,” replied Garrick, “I begin thus :-
‘Ye sons of iron, copper, brass, and steel,
Who have not heads to think, nor hearts to feel—
“Oh ” exclaimed Lord Lyttelton, “if you begin thus, they'll
hiss the players off the stage and pull the house down.” “My
lord,” answered Garrick, “what is the use of an address if it
does not come home to the business and bosomas of the
audience P”
j ñ,
KEEP TO THE LAST.
ãºl OTTEREL, or Jemmy Fotterel, as he was more fami-
j| liarly called, was a great favourite with the Dublin
gallery audience, and in private life notorious for his
gambling propensities, which always kept him shabby and
penniless. One of the terms used in Jemmy's favourite game
of hazard, when the person has lost his right of throwing, is
“Pass the box.” One evening Jemmy had the King in Hameleſſ
to play, owing to another actor's indisposition, and though a low
comedian and apparently the most unfit man to assume the
buskin, a stern necessity has no master. Jemmy, however, like
many other comedians, had no mean opinion of his tragic
powers, and resolved to electrify the audience. He took the
trouble of studying that difficult speech of the King’s which is
generally omitted, and when the moment came, walked forward,
commencing to utter it with the slow enunciation and ponderous
gravity of Kemble. The audience were taken by surprise, and


THEA TRICA/L AAVECDOTAES. 53
were silent ; but a man in the gallery, who knew something of
Jemmy and his habits, and had always been accustomed to see
him in farce, grew uneasy at this dull exhibition, and when he
saw the actor actually going to kneel down, he could not restrain
his discontent, and roared out, “Oh, bother Jemmy Fotterel,
pass the box, pass the box.”
HIS FAVOU RITE SONG.
tº R. CUSSANS was the son of an opulent West Indian
§§§ merchant, and, though a gentleman of property, he was
a considerable actor. He played frequently at Sadler's
Wells, where he was much celebrated in the character song
of “Oh poor Robinson Crusoe.” In this song he had as
many encores as he pleased ; and on a certain evening, having
Sang it three or four times, the curtain drew up for another part
of the entertainment, when, to the astonishment and delight of
the Sadler's Wells auditory, Cussans started up from the very
centre of the shilling gallery, vigorously singing his favourite
Song. Nor would his admirers suffer the drama to proceed till
he had again Sung it twice from the same spot. -
A GENTLE REPROOF.
a-
|LLISTON was one of those who consider no behaviour
# towards the other sex worthy the term civility which
falls short of a positive declaration of love. He used
to relate a smart rebuke he once received in a stage-coach.
Addressing a fair fellow-traveller in language somewhat savour-
ing of “Young Wilding,” and perceiving the lady less enraptured
at his advances than he expected, he made a sort of apology,
and concluded by hoping that he had not exceeded “the bounds
of decorum.” “Perhaps not, sir,” replied she ; “but your limits
of decorum are so extremely uncertain, that you may possibly
lose your way in the excursion.” -


54 THEA TR/CA/L A VAECDOTES.
THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS.
sitting in the front row of the balcony-box at the Hay-
market Theatre, during the performance of the Son-in-
Law, in the scene of the equivoque between Cranky and Bowkit,
when the former, after making objections to the other’s offer to
marry his daughter, observes, “Besides, you are such an ugly
fellow !” “Ugly l’’ repeated Edwin, who played Bowkit, “ugly l’’
Then coolly advancing towards the footlights, he exclaimed,
“Now, I submit to the decision of an enlightened British public,
which is the ugliest fellow of the three, I, old Cranky, or ’’—
pointing to Reynolds—“that gentleman in the front row of the
balcony-box.” Reynolds, seeing himself the object of scrutiny
and pointing fingers, hastily fled, amidst the roars of the aforesaid
enlightened British public.
THE OPERATION OF A JOKE.
;IOHN KEMBLE was slow at catching a joke. One night
#ºl Parsons told a rich comic story at which all laughed.
Kemble alone preserved a fixed, grave, classical counte-
nance ; but when Dodd afterwards sang a pathetic ballad, which
excited general interest, Kemble, in the middle of it, burst into
an odd fit of laughter, and in a tone tremulous from excessive
gaiety, exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but I have
just taken Parson’s joke—ha, ha! and it is really—very good l’’
AN INSANE OPHELIA.
ſºft RS. MONTFORD, the widow of the actor Montford
ji murdered by Captain Hill, had an annuity of £300 a
year settled on her by Lord Berkeley, on condition that
she never should remarry. Booth, the actor, asked her in
marriage, but though she loved him she loved her annuity



ZT///. A 7TM’/CA1/, AAVECDOTA.S. 55
better, and refused him. Thereupon Booth married her friend
Miss Santlow, a celebrated dancer and tolerable comedian, the
favourite of Secretary Craggs. This marriage so shocked Mrs.
Montford that she gave way to despair, which soon deprived
her of her Senses. In this condition she was brought to
London, in order that the best advice might be procured. As
she was not outrageous, even in the most violent paroxysm of
her disorder, she was not placed under any rigorous confine-
ment, and allowed to go about the house. One day, during a
lucid interval, she asked her attendant what play was to be per-
formed that evening, and was told it was A/a://e/eſ. In this
tragedy, whilst on the stage, she had ever been received with
rapture as Ophelia. The recollection struck her, and with that
cunning which is often associate with insanity, she eluded the
care of her keepers, and hurried to the theatre, where she con-
cealed herself until the scene in which Ophelia enters in her
insane state. She then pushed on to the stage, before the lady
who had performed the previous part of the character could
come up, and exhibited a more perfect rendering of madness
than the utmost exertions of mimic art could effect. She was, in
truth, Ophelia herself, to the amazement of the performers, and
the astonishment of the audience. Nature having made this last
effort, her vital powers failed her. On going off she exclaimed,
“It is all over !” She was immediately conveyed back to her
late place of security, where a few days after,
“Like a lily drooping, she bowed her head and died."
SOUPAE GA2A.S.S.A.
RºonSIEUR VERON, director of the Académie Royale de
AW; 3 Musique at Paris, visited this country in 1837 for the
purpose of engaging Fanny and Herminie Elssler. He
gave them a splendid dinner at the Clarendon, and when the
dessert was put upon the table, the centre-piece was a large salver
with jewelry, for each of the sisters to select one trinket from,

56 THEATR/CAZ ANZCDOTES.
of a given value, in addition to the theatrical engagement he
offered them. It was not only an elegant, but a very politic
mode of arranging business, for while they would have otherwise
been disputing upon a question of a few hundred francs, a bauble
or two of not half the value decided it at once. Véron's astonish-
ment, however, at the bill for this dinner was a treat, not at
its general amount—which, considering the splendour of the
“spread " for sixteen guests, was very reasonable, being under
A 40—but at an item of £8 8s. for Soup ! He could not under-
stand that the usual charge of half a guinea a head, when turtle
is put on the table, was anything short of imposition, averring,
with an ambiguous smile, that £88s. would nearly purchase all
the Soup in Paris.
SUDIDEN DEATH.
Žišā|HARLES L. UNDERNER was the leader of the
orchestra at the Trimble Opera House, Albany, United
States. On January 3, 1869, he entered the musicians’
room as usual, and seeing a looking-glass broken, exclaimed,
“Ah! somebody is going to die I hope it is not I.” In less
than half an hour afterwards he was seen, while leading the band,
to drop his head. He was taken from his seat and found to be
dead,
KEMBLE'S SOLEMNITY.
P. KEMBLE exhibited an almost regal solemnity—an
exalted oddity which was most amusing, and which
never forsook him for a moment under any circum-
stances. The contrast between his genuine seriousness and the
grotesque situations in which he sometimes found himself is
exceedingly diverting. Murray, the Edinburgh manager, told


.7A/AEA 7TA’/CA / AAVEC/DOTES’. 57
Moore that when Kemble was playing Coriolanus in “Old
Reekie,” a raw actor forgot his part at the passage—
“For that he . . .
Has envied against the people, seeking means
To pluck away their power."
And, after staring at Kemble, substituted “And that he is always.
going about the streets, making every one uncomfortable !”
After the play the fellow apologized ; but the great tragedian.
looked at him with ineffable scorn, and merely ejaculated the
uncomplimentary monosyllable, “Beast !” -
A BLACK DRAUGHT.
㺠NE evening,” says Mrs. Mowath, the American actress,
§§ “when I was playing Juliet, the property-man forgot the
* bottle containing the sleeping-potion for the fair girl
of Verona. The omission was only discovered at the moment
the vial was needed. Some bottle must be found for the Friar,
or he cannot utter the solemn charge with which he confides
the drug to the perplexed scion of the Capulets. The property-
man, confused at discovering his own neglect, and fearful of the
fine to which it would subject him, caught up the first Small
bottle at hand and gave it to the Friar. The vial was the
prompter's, and contained ink. When Juliet snatched the fatal
potion from the Friar's hand, he whispered something in an
undertone. I caught the words ‘so, take care,’ but was too
absorbed in my part to comprehend the warning. Juliet returns
home, meets her parents, retires to her chamber, dismisses her
nurse, and finally drinks the potion. At the words, “Romeo,
this I drink to thee ' ' I placed the bottle to my lips, and
unsuspiciously swallowed down the inky draught ! The dark
stains upon my hands and lips might have been mistaken for
the quick working of the poison, for the audience remained
ignorant of the mishap, which I myself only half comprehended.

58 TAZ /2.4 TA’/C24 / 4 AVAEC/DOT/E.S.
When the scene closed the prompter rushed up to me, exclaim-
ing, ‘Good gracious ! you have been drinking from my bottle of
ink I could not resist the temptation of quoting the remark
of the dying wit under similiar circumstances. ‘Let me swallow
a sheet of blotting-paper.’”
CRITICISM DEFEATED.
ſº NE of the happiest retorts ever made upon a critical
§§§ assailant by a badgered manager, was that given by Mr.
Edward Henry to the self-sufficient representative of an
obscure weekly in Manchester. Mr. Henry was at that time the
manager of the Queen’s Theatre, and on one occasion Byron's
Old Soldiers was produced by a travelling company. The piece
did not please our critic at all. As soon as the act-drop had
descended he pounced upon Mr. Henry, vented his noble indig-
nation, swore that he would tear the piece to tatters, annihilate
its author, etc., etc. “All right,” answered the manager, with the
most imperturbable coolness; “we change the bill on Friday,
and your paper does not appear till Saturday. Fire away, my
PNEU MATICS.
§|N one occasion when Mrs. Billington was singing a passage
with an obligato for the trumpet, her husband, who was
the Conductor, thought the trumpeter might play louder,
and so repeatedly urged the musician that at last the Teutonic
exclaimed, “Louter louter eh? Mein Gott, vere is de vint
to come from ?”
A PRO LIFIC GENIUS.
fººl COUNTRY manager once took upon himself to bring out
D Macklin’s Zove & Ża Mode at his theatre. Macklin
wrote to him that if he attempted to do so, he would
send him sheets of parchment that would reach from Chancery





TAZAZA TRICA/L A1AWECDOTE.S. 59
Lane to the next gooseberry-bush, the nearest verge of Yorkshire
to John O'Groat's house. The manager's answer to Macklin
ran thus : “Your Love & la Mode, sir! I’m not going to play
your Zove & Ża Mode, I have twenty Zove & Zoº Modes. I could
write a Zove & Ma Mode every day in the week ; I could write
three hundred and sixty-six Zoºſe à la Modes in a year.”
MARS AND NAPOLE O N.
;|HE celebrated Mademoiselle Mars was a great admirer
} of Napoleon I., and after the emperor's return to
France in 1815, she constantly wore the Napoleonic
violet on some part of her dress. One of her admirers observed,
“I do not wonder at it ; the emperor has always considered
Mars as the first of the gods.” “Yes,” she replied; “and Mars
regards the emperor as the first of mortals.” M. Papillon de
Ferté, Superintendent of the theatres, said to her, in a tone at
Once gentle and gallant, “ Charming rose, when will you cease
to be a violet P " “When the butterfly (Žapillon) becomes an
eagle !” was the punning reply. It may be added that the
admiration was mutual. Frédéric Lemaitre relates, in his
Solºvenirs, that when the troops defiled before the emperor,
on his return from Elba, Mademoiselle Mars was present to
witness this grand spectacle. She was perceived by the emperor,
who had taken his stand under the Pavillon de l'Horloge. An
aide-de-camp was at once despatched to the fragedienzie, and
when she approached, Napoleon shook her by the hand, and
made her take a seat among the ladies of his court.
COOKE’S TO E-BONE.
zº EORGE FREDERICK COOKE drank himself to death
ºù in New York, and was buried there. When Edmund
Kean some years after visited America, he caused the
body to be taken up and removed to another place, where he



6o TAZAZA 7TR/CA/L AAVECDOTAE.S.
erected a monument over it. In the transition from the old
grave to the new, Kean abstracted one of the toe-bones
of the great actor, which he preserved as a relic and brought
back with him to England. On his return the Drury Lane
company went to meet him at Barnet, in order to grace his
entry into the metropolis. Elliston led the procession, the other
actors followed according to rank. On encountering Kean, they
were about to welcome him, when he stopped them. “Before
you say a word, my merry men,” said he, with a serious air,
“behold ! Fall down and kiss this relic | This is the toe-bone
of the greatest Creature that ever walked the earth—of George
Frederick Cooke. Come, down with you all, and kiss the
bone.” The little black relic, not unlike a tobacco-stopper, was
produced. Elliston, between doubt and reverence, fell upon his
knees and kissed it. Stout Stephen Kemble dropped down with
difficulty; then another came, and another, and actor after actor
followed, from the beginning to the end of the line, till all had
performed the ceremony. -
The ridiculous relic was preserved for many years by Kean
with the greatest reverence, until one day Mrs. Kean, in a
moment of passion, flung it from the window into a dry well in the
Duke of Portland's garden, where it probably still lies up to this
present writing. Kean never knew the culprit, but after a long
search, he gravely and sadly observed to his wife, “Mary, your
Son has lost his fortune. In possessing Cooke's toe-bone he was
worth AIO,OOO ; now he is a beggar.”
MY LORD MAYOR'S DUCKS.
HATEVER opinions Tate Wilkinson, the eccentric
manager of Drury Lane Theatre, may have entertained
of Michael Kelly’s abilities, it is certain that he took it
into his head that Kelly’s skill in the culinary art was great. He
hardly ever discussed any subjects but those of cooking and
eating with him. At one time when he was making an agree-
§§ *
. ... is §
§§3)

TAZAZA 7TA’/C21/, AAVEC/DOTA.S. 6I
ment with Kelly, the latter wanted twenty guineas more than
Wilkinson was willing to give. At length the manager exclaimed,
“Well, young Apicius, twenty guineas shall not part us—you
shall have it your own way; but confess now honestly, didn't
you think the ducks were over-roasted yesterday at my Lord
Mayor’s P”
THE YOUTH OF A GENIUS.
Fºl OMBE, the author of Doctor Syntax’s Tours, told
Samuel Rogers, the poet, that “he recollected having
seen Mrs. Siddons when a very young woman, standing
by the side of her father's stage and knocking a pair of snuffers
against a candlestick, to imitate the Sound of a windmill, during
the representation of some Harlequinade.” Who dreamt then
that that candlestick-rapping little girl would in after years
prove such a spirit-wrapper, and that her candlestick-scene in
Macbeth would one day knock so terribly at many throbbing
hearts, as she muttered in her tortured sleep “to bed to bed
to bed P” -
A MODERN DIO GENES.
*: OWERBY had, by sundry applications of too much
fºll “spiritual comfort,” incurred the severest displeasure of
the Manchester public, which they marked in a signal
manner by keeping away from the theatre on his benefit night.
Just as the curtain was about to rise, Sowerby went up into the
gallery, carrying a lantern at the end of a pitchfork, and
stumbling over the only two individuals there seated, viz. the fruit-
woman and her boy, he exclaimed, “Don’t be alarmed, my
worthy people, I am Come upon the errand of Diogenes, but with
this difference in our pursuit—that he went about the world
looking for an honest man, and I am looking in vain for any
Iman at all.”


62 7A/A2. A 7TA’/CA/. A WAECDOTAE.S.
BEEF AND PICKHL ES.
|URING Dr. Arne’s residence at Thames Ditton, he
received a visit from Garrick, paid chiefly with the view of
hearing Miss Brent, whose musical taste the Doctor had
cultivated with uncommon pains, and on whose talent he justly set
a high value. Garrick readily acquiesced in her superior merit,
but at the same time told Arne, that all his geese were swans.
“Tommy,” he said, “you should consider that music is at best
but pickle to my roast beef.” “By——, Davy,” replied the Doctor,
“your beef shall be well pickled, before I have done.” Miss
Brent accordingly made her first appearance at Covent Garden
in the Beggar's Ożera, which ran with such success during the
whole season, that the Drury Lane house was nearly deserted,
except on those nights when Garrick himself appeared. Roscius
had to work SO hard all that winter, that he was obliged to make
a journey to Italy in order to recruit his health ; and at his
return he thought it advisable to pickle his beef after Dr. Arne's
fashion, by engaging Miss Wright as the only rival who could
be opposed to Miss Brent with success.
*
A PART FOR THE WHOLE.
fº UZANNE LAGIER was a good actress, but extremely
§º stout. She was one night enacting a part in a melo-
drama with Taillade, the original Pierre of 7 he 7%to
O7%hazas, and this actor had at one moment to carry her faint-
ing off the stage. He tried with all his might to lift the “fleshy"
heroine, but although she helped her little comrade by standing
on tip-toe in the usual manner, he was unable to move her an
inch. At this juncture one of the deities cried from the gallery,
“Take what you can, and come back for the rest.”


7A/ZA TRICAZ AAZCZ)OTES. 63
“AVE TOUCH AE2 PAS 21 ZA ſº Z/NE.”
rºl IR RICHARD FANSHAW translated, in 1671, Men-
tº doza's play, Querer ſºro soſo Querer, under the title of
To Love for Love's sa/e. The original was a Spanish
Court-play, in which the characters, males, giants and all, were
played by ladies of the highest order of grandeeship. Appended
to the drama, the length of which may be judged from its having
taken nine days in the representation, is a poetical account of
the fire which broke out in the theatre on one of the nights of
its acting, when the whole dramafi's ſersozia were nearly burnt,
because the common people out of “base fear,” and the nobles
Out of “pure respect,” could not think of laying hands on the
“great donnas,” till the young king broke the charm of etiquette
by Snatching up the queen, and bore her through the flames
upon his back; the grandees, dilatory AEneases, followed his
example, and each saved one Anchises-fashion, till the whole
courtly company were got off in tolerable safety.
LOVE AND COMIEDY.
s]T appears from Reid’s “Biographia Dramatica; or, The
Companion to the Play-house,” that up to 1810 there
were 243 plays in the English language, the title of
which commenced with “Love” or “Lover.” This is as it should
be. The elder Dumas once said that in a comedy there is
always a question of love and matrimony; the problem is to be
worked out, whether to marry or not to marry. Will he marry
her P Will she marry him P Those are the questions the
interested playgoer has to ask himself when he goes to See a
comedy. Somebody is on the brink of marriage, there you have
the first act; in the second, an incident takes place which pre-
vents marriage; a new method of bringing about the happy


64 7A/AEA 7TA2/CAA. AAV/CC/DO 7TP.S.
conclusion is exhibited in the third act ; an obstacle arises in the
fourth, which is removed ; and, as everything must have an end,
the fifth act terminates the play with connubial bliss all round.
BLINID AND SEEIN G.
ſºl HARLES S. PORTER was the leading actor at the Old
# South Street Theatre in Philadelphia, in his younger
days. On one occasion, the play being The Blind Boy,
he was obliged to apologize to the audience for the young man
who was to have played the Blind Boy, and another was called
upon to read the part. His first appearance was on a bridge,
where he was seen threading his way, with a cane in one hand
and the play-book in the other. Whilst his eyes were riveted
on the book, his cane was busily engaged in feeling his way.
This was too ludicrous, and poor Edmund, the blind boy, had
no sympathy from the audience that night. As good a sight
was witnessed in London in 1668, when Kynaston, disabled by
a Caning received from Sir Charles Sedley's bravos, was unable
to appear in The Hedress. Beeston had to take his part and
read it. He caused considerable amusement to the pit by
having for that purpose to use a candle, in a scene supposed to
be acted in pitch-dark.
CASUISTRY.
|Nº|HEN G. F. Cooke was playing in Liverpool, the managers
| found great difficulty in keeping him sober. After
repeated transgressions he solemnly promised “not to
cause any more trouble, as he had given over drinking in a great
measure.” In the evening of the day upon which this promise
was made, Cooke was not to be found when wanted for Sir
Pertinax MacSycophant. The audience grew impatient, the
manager stormed, and after a long search discovered him at a
pot-house near the theatre, drinking with great composure and


TA/AFA 7TA’/C4 / .4A EC/DOTE.S. 65
perseverance out of a Small glass. On the irritated manager
upbraiding Cooke with breach of his solemn promise, the
incorrigible player answered with the most provoking coolness,
“I certainly made that promise, and I have kept it; I have given
over drinking in a great measure,” and he held the small glass
tip triumphantly.
THE TITILLATING DUST.
#|HE following advertisement is a curious instance of the
E shifts theatrical managers had recourse to, at a time
when the licensed houses alone were allowed to
perform “stage entertainments.” It was inserted in the papers
in 1756, when Theophilus Cibber appeared at the Richmond
Theatre :-
“CIBBER AND Co., snuff merchants, sell at their warehouse
on Richmond Hill most excellent cephalic snuff, which, taken in
moderate quantities, in the evening especially, will not fail to
raise the spirits, clear the brain, throw off all ill humours, dispel
the spleen, enliven the imagination, exhilarate the mind, give
joy to the heart, and greatly invigorate and improve the
understanding. Mr. Cibber has also opened at the aforesaid
warehouse, late called the Theatre, on the Hill, an histrionic
academy for the instruction of young persons of genius in the
art of acting, and proposes, for the better improvement of such
pupils, and frequently with his assistance, to give public re-
hearsals without hire, gain, or reward.”
Snuff was sold in very small quantities at the various
entrances, and for the money thus paid the purchaser obtained
gratis admission to the hall. It may be added that it was at
this theatre that Charles Dibdin, the song-writer, is said to have
made his début as an actor, in 1762.

66 ZTA/AEA 7T/P/CA1/, AAV / C /).O 7./2.S.
FEE LIN G 77. STUDY.
§ UINTILIAN mentions having seen actors, after per-
forming pathetic characters, weep for a time on laying
aside their mask, and go home in tears. A still more
remarkable anecdote of the manners of the ancient tragedians is
transmitted to us. A tragedian, in the play of Electra, actually
brought on the stage the urn containing the ashes of his own
son, as an additional excitement in his scenic effects. Modern
actors prefer to remain perfectly cool and collected. Mrs.
Siddons, after rushing off the stage in apparently the most
excruciating anguish, in Belvidera or Mrs. Beverley, was accus-
tomed to walk quietly to the greenroom, thrusting up her nose
enormous quantities of snuff, in perfect composure. After
commending Kelly's acting in 7%e Deserter, she gravely added,
“But, Kelly, you ſee/ too much ; if you feel so strongly, you will
never make an actor.” Mounet Sully, of the Comédie Française,
is an instance of an actor who plays by feeling, and as his
feelings change from day to day, he rarely plays the same part
twice alike. This is a sure sign of imperfect art, for thus a part
cannot be worked out in all its details. When M. Emile Augier
gave that artist the leading part in }ean de Thommeray, he
found this acting from impulses a great drawback. “Great
heavens !” Cried the exasperated author, at last, “try to have a
little less genius and a little more talent.”
A HIGHWAY WOMAN.
ñº RS. CHARKE, the eccentric daughter of Colley Cibber,
ji had long lived on unpleasant terms with her father, by
whom she was treated with just severity for her total dis-
regard of all Social duties and common decorum. Being one
day greatly irritated by the dramatist’s refusal to honour her
drafts, she equipped herself after the style of a “gentleman of the


TAZAZA 7TA’/CAA. AAVEC/DOTAE.S. 67
road,” and hiring a suitable horse, actually waylaid her father in
Epping Forest, by stopping his chariot, presenting her pistol,
and desiring him to deliver. The affrighted Colley parted with
his money, observing, “Young man, young man this is a Sorry
trade ; take heed in time.” “And so I would,” replied his
daughter, “but I’ve a wicked old hunks of a father, who rolls in
money and mistresses, yet denies me a guinea, and has had the
impudence to make so worthy a gentleman as you answer for it.”
ILLUSTRATING A PROVERB.
%;ºn one of the pantomime nights at the Surrey, when
gº § #| Elliston was manager, the harlequin, in jumping through
a window, fell with considerable violence on the other
side of the scene, owing to the neglect of the carpenter in not
having placed the wadded bedding to receive him. The un-
happy pantomimist uttered a tremendous Cry, but was not
materially injured. When Elliston was apprised of the circum-
stance, he observed, “Ay, there was much cry and little wool.”
SIGNS OF A BREWING STORM.
à Wº; HEN Ducrow was at the head of Astley's, it was his custom
º to purchase a new hat the last day of rehearsing a new
piece. He would craftily call attention to its gloss,
shape, fit, etc., enlarging at the same time upon its cost. When he
came to his grand effects, and anything went wrong, he would
deliberately give his hat a crushing blow, and cry, “There goes
7s. 6d. Try again.” They generally did it better the second
time. Failing in another effect, he would take off his hat, and,
rubbing it furiously the wrong way, growl, “There goes I 5s., darn
it ! Try again.” But when the climax came, and did not succeed
to his satisfaction, he would dash the unfortunate hat down, and,
vigorously trampling on it, yell out, “There goes one guinea. Try
again, and do it, or, darn ye, I’ll Smash the lot l” And they did
try, and generally did it well.



68 T/IEA TRICA L 4 NECDOTE.S.
TO O LITERAL.
fºll N Settle's play, 77 e Conquest of China åy the 7"artars,
§§ Jevon, an actor of the time of Charles II., acted a
Chinese prince and commander of the Chinese army.
Being vanquished by the Tartars, he was to fall upon the point
of his sword and kill himself, rather than be made a prisoner by
the enemy. Jevon, instead of falling on the point of his sword,
laid it in the scabbard at length upon the ground, and fell upon
it, saying, “Now I am dead,” which put the author in such a fret
(says the prompter Downes, on whose authority rests this story),
that it made him speak treble instead of double. Jevon’s answer
was, “Did you not bid me fall upon my sword P.”
KEAN’S EFFECTIVE ACTING.
#|HE Surprising energy of Kean's acting may be judged by
ºf the effect of his impersonation of Sir Giles Marrall, in
Massinger's Wew Way to Pay Old Debts. In 1816,
Kean acted that part in his best style, and the conclusion seemed
so terribly real that it threw ladies in the side-boxes into
hysterics, and Lord Byron himself into a “convulsion fit.”
Mrs. Glover, a leading actress of long experience, at the dying
speech, fainted outright on the stage ; Mrs. Horn staggered to
a chair, and wept aloud at the appalling scene ; and Munden,
who sustained Marrall in a manner worthy of his leader, stood
so transfixed with astonishment and terror, that he was taken
off the stage by the armpits, his legs trailing, and his eyes fixed
with a species of fascination on Kean's darkened and convulsed
COUllntellan Ce.


TA/AA TA2/C.4 / AAVEC/DOTA.S. 69
A CLERICAL ACTOR.
à N the year 1768, a gentleman in holy Orders presented
himself upon the Dublin Stage as Scrub, in Farquhar's
play, The Beauv' Słraſſageſ/l. On that occasion
Walker wrote to Garrick : “We have a parson to appear as
Scrub, with Mr. Mossop as Archer ; such an extraordinary
metamorphosis will no doubt excite curiosity. The town cannot
now complain that they have had no novelty; this is perhaps
the greatest the stage ever knew—though it is thought the
canonical gentleman will be so scandalized as to influence a
party against him ; but however it happens, it will bring one
great house at least, perhaps Several, and if we can but escape
civil, we do not much mind ecclesiastical, censure. Excom-
munication is not half so terrible to our state as an execution.”
RICHELIEU IN A PASSION.
㺠DWIN FORREST was once playing an engagement at
Pittsburg. Dressed for the character of Richelieu, he
was in the act of going on the stage in the first Scene,
when he discovered that the sleeve of the dress he wore was
either too short or drawn up. He called to his dresser, and told
him to pull the sleeve down. The man commenced pulling the
robe instead of the undersleeve, when Forrest, in a loud voice,
exclaimed, “Hell and fury what are you about? The under-
sleeve, you fool | * Being near the first entrance his voice was
heard in front, and a round of applause followed, the audience
imagining it part of the play. “What are they applauding "
inquired Forrest. The prompter readily replied, “Your first
speech, sir, off the stage.”


yo ZTA/A. A 7TA’/CA / AAVEC/DO 7TA.S.
REACTIONARY.
;|ANHOVE, Talma's father-in-law, was a very mediocre
ñº actor who played stage kings. Stationary in the
midst of the revolution introduced by his son-in-law in
theatrical costume, his wonder and remarks were the amuse-
ment of the greenroom. When, in the name of progress, he
was compelled to discard the velvet coat and the lengthy em-
broidered satin waistcoat in which he was wont to impersonate
Agamemnon, he exclaimed, “What a beau-tiful progress
There is not even a side-pocket in your Greek costume to
put the key of one’s box in °
SUPERIOR NONSENSE.
§|ACKLIN objected very strongly to performers throwing
jº; in words of their own. Lee Lewis one morning, at the
rehearsal of Zove & la Mode, in which he played Squire
Groom, added some gag which he thought very smart. “Hoy
Hoy 1 ° said Macklin. “What's that?” “Oh,” replied Lewis,
“’tis only a little of my nonsense. “Ay,” retorted Macklin;
“but I think my nonsense is rather better than yours, so keep
to f/a/, if you please, sir.”
OUR MERCURIAL NEIGHBO URS.
Žº N the evening of the second entry of the allied armies
tº º into Paris, the popular melodrama Za Pie Voleuse was
being acted at the Porte Saint Martin. There was one
thousand eight hundred francs in the house, which at that time
was considered a handsome receipt. During the performance
the doors were closed, because the rumbling noise of the cannon
rolling over the stones interrupted the interest of the dialogue,
and it rendered impossible the sympathetic attention of the



THAEA TRICA / AAVEC/DOTE.S. 7 I
audience. Disgusted at this elasticity of the Parisian public, a
French writer, who recorded the fact, added, “I take pleasure
in hoping that we may never again be subjected to the same
trial, and that, in any case, we may bear it in a more dignified
fashion.” How Paris bore it when the terrible event occurred
again, is too well known to be retold.
A PLACE IN A BOX.
*: OL SMITH, the American actor and manager, had a
} funny story to tell of what happened through his
inordinate craving for the theatre. Under the protection
of a couple of boys, Sons of Supers, he used to steal in by the
back door, but after these boys were gone this became more
difficult. Having been turned out once or twice, he crept in one
night unperceived, hid himself in a large box, which he found
in the carpenter's gallery, and closed the lid. For more than an
hour he lay concealed, waiting for the curtain to go up. When
it did, he was delighted to find that, by lifting the cover of the
box, he could see all that was going on below. The play was
Aichard III., and all went well till the second act, when he
heard four or five men making their way directly to his hiding-
place. He had barely time to close the lid, when they took up
the box, and, profanely remarking on its great weight, proceeded
to take “King Henry’s coffin’ downstairs. Upon the stage
they went, followed by Lady Anne and the troop of mourners.
She lamented loudly, and Sol perspired in secret. Through all
the famous courting-Scene he managed to keep quiet, but as the
live Corpse was carried “to Whitefriars,” and upstairs again,
the awkward Supers turned and tumbled and tipped the coffined
majesty so that they hurt him severely, and he cried out. The
passage was dark, the bearers were frightened, and, dropping
their precious burden, gave poor Sol a chance to slip out of his
coffin and into the Street. The intelligent auxiliaries were
certain there was a ghost in the box; and Smith, with a keen

72 7/7/7' 21 7"R/CA/L AATA2CDO 7./2.S.
appreciation of the necessity for a dramatic ending of this story,
solemnly asserted that the four supers never entered the play-
house again, but immediately joined the Church, and one of
them became a famous preacher, whose special hobby was
the sin of theatre-going, against which he assured his hearers
he had, when a young man, a most mysterious and supernatural
warning.
AN EPISCO PAL PLAY.
tº RS. SIDDONS once played in Miss Burney’s tragedy
| E/vira. This play, owing to the presence of no less
than f/iree bishops among the dramafi's Zºersona",
caused much merriment. At that time bishop, a Compound of
hot claret, sugar, and spices, was in high esteem, and when
jolly fellows met at a tavern, the first order to the waiter was to
“bring in the bishop.” Unacquainted with this fact, Miss Burney
made her King exclaim, “Bring in the Bishop,” and the Summons
filled the audience with as much hilarity as if they had partaken
of the exhilarating beverage. They continued in the best
possible humour throughout the piece. The dying scene made
them still more jocose, when a passing Stranger proposed to
carry the expiring heroine to the other side of a hedge. This
hedge, though remote from any dwelling, nevertheless proved a
very comfortable retreat, for in a few minutes afterwards the
dying lady was brought from behind it on an elegant couch, and
after dying was removed once more behind the hedge. The
solemn accents of Siddons herself were unavailing against this
Iudicrous circumstance, and she was carried off on her couch
amidst roars of mirth.

T///? A 7T/ē/C.1/, AAVAEC/DO 7/2.S. • 73.
PAPER OR GOLD P
#|HE French public occasionally are very sensitive. In
I837 F. Lemaitre, in one of his favourite parts—that of
the needy adventurer, Robert Macaire—took a dirty paper
from his pocket, from which he offered his stage-friend Bertrand
a pinch of snuff. The public hissed him for this. Lemaitre knew
his audience, threw the paper away, and produced a golden
Snuff-box, from which he offered a second pinch to Bertrand.
Thereupon the public applauded. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said
Frédéric, addressing himself to the pit. “The bit of paper was
better; it was more in keeping with the character. You ought
to hiss the golden snuff-box.”
PLEASANT REMINDERS.
iOHN Palmer, “Plausible Jack Palmer,” the original
Joseph Surface, was excellent in characters of liveliness
- and impudence, the bucks, bloods, and saucy footmen of
the past. His grand presence and lofty airs contrasted some-
what with the humbleness of his origin. He was thought to be
too forgetful that his father had been doorkeeper and bill-sticker
to Drury Lane Theatre ; at any rate, his professional brethren
took care to remind him of the fact. On one occasion he entered
the greenroom wearing a valuable pair of diamond kneebuckles,
the gift, it was alleged, of an admiring lady of quality. “Palmer,
I perceive, deals in diamonds,” observed William Parsons, the
inimitable “Mr. Crabtree * of that day. “Yes,” said Bannister;
“but I can well remember the time when he dealt only in Żasſe.”
Thereupon Parsons whispered to Palmer, “Why don't you sſicſ:
him to the wall, Jack º’’


74 “ T///7.4 ZTA’/CA / AAVAEC/DO 7/2.S.
A. W. 41 TTEAWDA WT.
#|OHN KEMBLE once went to Dicky Peake's house half
#| Cocked, at half-past nine in the evening. Sheridan, he
said, had appointed to meet him there, and he would not
neglect being in time for the world. Peake sat him down to wine
with Dunn the treasurer. The three got exceedingly drunk, and
all fell asleep, Kemble Occupying the carpet. The tragedian was
the first to wake. He arose and opened the window-shutter, and,
dazzled by the morning Sunlight, roused his two companions, and,
their watches being all run out, wondered as to the time of day.
They soon heard eight strike. “Eight !” exclaimed Kemble.
“This is too provoking of Sheridan ; he is always late in keeping
his appointments. I don’t suppose he will come at all now. If
he should, tell him, my dear Dick, how long I waited for him | *
Therewith exit John Kemble.
FOLLOW YOUR LEADER.
#ºl REDERIC LEMAITRE relates, in his Souvenirs, that
one evening as he was playing Georges to Madame
Dorval’s Amelia, in The Gambler (Trente Azis one Za
Vie d’un jouezer), the lady's lace bonnet caught fire by touching
the flame of one of the candles on the writing-table, in the scene
when Amelia signs the document by which she makes over her
jointure. Lemaitre, quick as thought, without saying a word,
tore the bonnet off her head, and crushing it to extinguish
the flames, put it into his pocket. The action was so sudden
that Madame Dorval herself had no idea what it meant ; it had
#3een observed, however, by many of the spectators, who rewarded
Lemaitre’s presence of mind with a round of applause. Among
those who had seen this necessary by-play there was a provincial
actor, who, not having observed that the bonnet was in flames,
thought it was some original “effect” of the great actor, and


THEA TRICAZ AAVECDOTES. 75
hearing the hearty applause, muttered to himself, “I must
remember that.” When, soon after, he was called to play the
same part at a provincial theatre, he did not forget the interesting
episode, and at the moment when Amelia was about to sign the
fatal document, he wrenched off her bonnet and put it into his
pocket. The audience was astonished, began to whisper, thought
it was a case of sudden madness ; whilst the actor, not hearing
any applause, muttered, “The blockheads ! they don’t under-
stand it.” After the play, one of his friends complimented him
on the remarkable manner in which he had played the character
of Georges de Germany. “But,” said he, “what on earth did
you mean by tearing off Amelia's bonnet P” “What l” was the
reply, “Don’t you know f That is one of the great effects of
Frédéric Lemaitre.”
THE BITTER CLJP.
§§§ ORMERLY there stood a small private theatre, the Sans
|##| Souci, in Leicester Street, on the site now occupied
by Russell and Hampton's furniture warehouse. Here
an old actor of the name of Southey, brother of the Laureate, had
consented one evening to play old Hardcastle, in She Stoofs to
Conquer. His conditions were five shillings remuneration, and the
special stipulation that the tankard, which Diggory brings on,
should be filled according to his own prescription. In accordance
with this agreement, a “ Cup" of egg-wine and Spice was prepared,
regardless of expense, at the Leicester Hotel opposite, and sent
over in a handsome silver tankard. But, alas ! “between the cup
and the lip there is many a slip.” When Diggory brought it on
and placed it in the hands of Southey, who was to have the first
pull at it, his gaze of horror, when he lifted the lid, spoke for
itself. The poor man let the lid fall on the empty tankark, and
fairly wept. The carpenters, through whose hands the cup had
passed, smelling the warm, spiced beverage, had been unable to
resist the temptation, and, passing it from hand to hand, had
drunk every drop of the precious liquor. -

76 THEATRICAL AAECDOTES.
A ID UTCH MIRACLE PLAY.
§§§ HETHER “based on fact,” or a flight of the imagination,
§ the following description of the stage arrangements of
a Dutch miracle play occurs in Chetwood's Genera/
Aſāsāory of the Sſage. I omit some of the details, as too graphic
and “unfit for publication.” “The heavy Dutch have plays in
their own language, but they are generally planned on the Old
Testament. I had a description of one given me from an
English spectator. It was the story of Abraham Sacrificing his
Son Isaac. But Abraham was armcd with a gun, instead of a
Sacrificing knife. The angel, to prevent the gun from firing,
Sprinkled Some water on the priming in a manner not fit to be
described. The ram in the brake, which was represented by
boughs of laurel, was a plump, fat Dutchman, with fair brow-
Spread antlers on his head, fixed artificially ; and all the
decorations were of a piece.” If such were the appliances of
the Dutch stage in the first half of the eighteenth century, the
Hollanders may be said to have progressed with giant Strides
—witness the Dutch performance at the Imperial Theatre, in
I88O.
KNOVW THYSELF.
tº ECRETARY CRAGGS, when very young, in Company
cº with some of his friends, went, with ICstcourt, to Sir
Godfrey Kneller's, and whispered to him that a gentle-
man present was able to give such a representation of many
among his most powerful patrons as would occasion the greatest
surprise. Estcourt accordingly, at the artist's desire, mimicked
Lords Somers, Halifax, Godolphin, and others, so perfectly that
Kneller was delighted, and laughed heartily at the impersonations.
Craggs gave a signal as concerted, and Estcourt immediately
mimicked Sir Godfrey himself, who cried out, in a transport of


TAZAZ.41 TA’/CA / 24 AVA. CDO / A.S. 77
ungovernable conviction, “Nay, there you are out, man By
G—, that is not me !” Richard Steele, in the Taſſler, August 6,
1709, adverts to Estcourt’s surprising powers of personal imita-
tion, under the name of Tom Mirror. Colley Cibber says of the
same, “This man was so amazing and extraordinary a mimic,
that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy coun-
cillor, ever moved or spoke before him but he could carry their
voice, look, mien, and motion, instantly into another company.”
THE FIRST ACTRESSES.
;: ORYAT, in his Crudźies, published in 16II, tells us that
#| he saw female performers at Vienna, adding that he had
heard that females had acted on the stage in London.
Beyond this vague allusion, nothing is known of these per-
formances. It is certain, however, that in 1629 actresses made
their public appearance in London, in the persons of some
French women, belonging to a French company which visited
the metropolis in that year. The Puritanical, stage-hating
Prynne boiled over with indignation at such an indecorous
innovation ; and even some years afterwards, when he published
his Histriomasſia, almost choked himself with the utterance of
invectives at these unfortunate predecessors of Sarah Bernhardt.
In a marginal note to the above work, he writes : “Some French
women, or monsters rather, in Michaelmass term, 1629, at-
tempted to act a French play, at the playhouse in Blackfriars—
an impudent, shameful, unwomanish, graceless, if not more than
wh h attempt.” The novelty did not take, and the opinion
of the general public coincided with that of the self-appointed
Censor, as appears from the following Curious passage in a letter,
dated November 8, 1629, addressed by one Thomas Brande
(possibly the owner of the Globe Theatre), probably to Bishop
Laud, now in the Lambeth Library :— -
“Furthermore, you should know that last day certain
vagrant French players, who had been expelled from their own

78 7TAZA. A 7TA2/CA / AAVAEC/DO 7T/2.S.
country, and those women, did attempt, thereby giving just
offence to all virtuous and well-disposed persons in this town, to
act a certain lascivious and unchaste comedy, in the French
tongue, at the Blackfriars. Glad I am to say, they were hissed,
hooted, and pippin-pelted from the stage, so as I do not think
they will be ready to try the same again.”
The ill-reception of the French ladies did not deter them
from renewing the attempt. A fortnight afterwards, on Novem-
ber 22, they appeared for one day at the Red Bull. The
reception appears Once more to have been too warm. More than
three weeks elapsed before they ventured a third time to face
an English audience, when, on the afternoon of December 14,
1629, they gave a representation at the Fortune playhouse. Sir
Henry Herbert, Master of the Revels, magnanimously abated
them one pound from the usual two pounds fee to which he was
entitled for permitting them to perform. In a memorandum
subjoined to the entry of one pound for allowing them to play
at the Fortune, he adds, “I should have had another piece
(i.e. pound), but in respect of their ill fortune, I was content to
bestow a piece back.”
The next French company which visited London early
in the Spring of 1635, appears to have comprised no actresses,
and the innovation was probably but little imitated on the
English stage before the Restoration. It is clear that it was
considered open to grave doubts, even by persons who were
warm friends of the theatre. At the same time, it should be re-
membered that in the masks at court, ladies constantly took
part as performers; as when, in 1632, the queen and her ladies
acted in a pastoral, 7%e She/herd's Paradise, at Whitehall.
That actresses began to be seen more and more on the stage
of the time of Charles I., would appear from a passage in Brome's
The Court Beggar, v. 2 (1632), “The boy is a pretty actor, and
his mother can play her part. Women-actors now grow in
request, sir.”
These, however, appear to have been sporadic cases, But on
7TA/FA 7T/C/CA/. A WAEC/OO 7/2.S. 79
Saturday, the 8th of December, 1660, an English actress appeared
on the stage of the Vere Street Theatre, Clare Market, and from
that time the custom was established ; boy-actresses fell into
the background, and ere long disappeared. The lady played
Desdemona, and a certain Thomas Jordan, an actor and the
author of various poetical pieces, provided for delivery upon this
occasion a “Prologue to introduce the first woman that came
to act on the stage, in the tragedy called 7%e Moor of Venice.”
“I come, unknown to any of the rest,
To tell the news. I saw the lady drest—
The woman plays to-day. Mistake me not :
No man in gown, or page in petticoat ;
A woman to my knowledge, yet I can't,
If I should die, make affidavit on't.
Do you not twitter, gentlemen P I know
You will be censuring ; do it fairly, though.
'Tis possible a virtuous woman may
Abhor all sorts of looseness, and yet play—
Play on the stage, where all eyes are upon her.
Shall we count that a crime France counts an honour P
In other kingdoms husbands safely trust 'em,
The difference lies only in the custom ;
And let it be our custom, I advise,
I’m sure this custom's better than th' excise,
And may procure us custom. Hearts of flint
Will melt in passion when a woman's in't.
But, gentlemen, you that as judges sit
In the star-chamber of the house—the pit,
Have modest thoughts of her ; pray do not run
To give her visits when the play is done,
With ‘Damme, your most humble servant, lady,’
She knows these things as well as you, it may be ;
Not a bit there, dear gallants, she doth know
Her own deserts—and your temptations too.
But to the point. In this reforming age,
We have intents to civilize the stage. - *
Our women are defective, and so sized • .
You'd think they were some of the Guard disguised.
For, to speak truth, men act that are between
Forty and fifty, wenches of fifteen ;
$o TAZAZ.1 ZTA’/C21/L AAV/EC/DO 7T/E.S.
With bone so large, and nerve so incompliant,
When you call “Desdemona,” enter giant.
We shall purge every thing that is unclean,
Lascivious, Scurrilous, impious, or obscene ;
And when we've put all things in this fair way,
Barebones himself may come to see the play.”
Who this Desdemona really was is still an open question.
The gossiping Pepys is silent on the subject, there being no
entry in his Diary on that day.” Betterton, in his History of
Zhe English Stage, says that a Mrs. Norris (who subsequently
became the mother of “Jubilee Dickey * Norris) was “the first
woman who ever appeared on the stage.” But this statement is
questioned, and Mrs. Ann Marshall, “leading lady” of Killi-
grew's troupe; a Mrs. Hughes, a member of the Same Company ;
Mrs. Betterton, then known as Mrs. Saunderson ; and a Mrs.
Coleman, mentioned by Pepys as a “pleasant, jolly woman,” all
have been brought forward as the first female Desdemona. On
the whole, Mrs. Hughes seems to have the support of more pro-
babilities than any of the other ladies. Very little is known
concerning this lady—who is not once remembered by Pepys—
except a few parts she played, and that she was taken from the
stage by Prince Rupert. He bought for her, at a cost of £20,000,
the once magnificent seat of Sir Nicholas Crispe, near Hammer-
smith, better known at a later date as Brandenburg House, and
the residence of the unfortunate Queen Caroline. By the prince
Mrs. Hughes had a daughter, who after her father was named
Ruperta, and married to Lieutenant-General Howe. She sur-
vived her husband, and died at Somerset House in 1740.
Grammont's Memoirs is almost the only work from which any
information may be gleaned concerning Mrs. Hughes. She is
there described as an impertinent gipsy, and accused of pride.
The king, we are told, was “greatly pleased " with Prince
Rupert’s entanglement with the actress, for which “great re-
* On January 3, 1661, Pepys says: “To the theatre, where was acted
Peggars' Bush, it being very well done ; and here, for the first time, I saw
a woman come upon the Stage.”
THAEA TRICA / 4 AVAECOOTES. 8I
joicings” were made at the then fashionable Tunbridge. “No-
body,” says Grammont, “was bold enough to make it the subject
of Satire, though the same constraint was not observed with other
ridiculous personages.” Upon the temper of the prince she
appears to have had a beneficial influence, for she is stated to have
“brought down and greatly subdued his natural fierceness. . . .
From this time adieu alembics, crucibles, furnaces, and all the
black furniture of the forges; a complete farewell to all mathe-
matical instruments and chemical speculations : sweet powders
and essences were now the only ingredients that occupied any
Share of his intention.”
As might have been expected, female performers soon be-
came highly popular, and some plays were represented entirely
by women, as they had previously been by men. Such was The
Parson's Wedding, a comedy by Killigrew, which was wholly
performed by females, although there were seven male and only
six female characters in the piece, exclusive of servants.”
AN ENTH USIASTIC PLAYGOER.
Fºl HEN The Dramatist was being represented at Covent
| Garden, Frederick Reynolds, the author of that comedy,
- then a Templar, treated the porter of the Temple to a
seat in the gallery. The next morning Reynolds asked him
how he had enjoyed himself. “Pretty well, as for that,” re-
plied the man ; “but, you see, your honour has forgotten to pay
me.” “What l’exclaimed Reynolds ; “I gave you a shilling last
night.” “Faith, now, you are right,” Murphy rejoined, “and
indeed, I paid it at the door of that winding gallery. But that’s
not my maning. It's the Žorterage, sir! Arrah, the porterage—
all the way from here to Covent Garden and back ; and for
that, and the trouble, and the great loss of time, I think your
* Pepys' Diary, October 11, 1664: “Luellin tells me what an obscene,
loose play this Parson's Wedding is, acted by nothing but women, at the
King's House.”
‘C

82 THAEA 7/0/CA / AAVEC/DOTAE.S.
honour yourself will allow I cannot ax you a farthing short of
another two shillings.” .
A “BOB ACRES.”
jºiT the time when England went in constant fears of a
| landing of Napoleon's armies, George Colman, among
many thousands of his countrymen, was called upon to
serve in the militia. A form was forwarded him, containing
Imany inquiries, one of which ran as follows:–“ State your
reasons for declining to serve.” The wit complied with this
injunction by writing in the place left open for the explanation
of his want of patriotism—“Old, lame; and a coward.”
A SLIDING SCALE.
; HERE was one Hambleton, a good bass singer in his
#| time, who lived to a great age, and latterly played old
men in provincial theatres. One day, when travelling
On the top of a stage-coach, it was overturned, and he rolled down
a steep bank into a ditch below. His fellow-travellers, who had
landed on the roadside, thought him dangerously wounded, if not
killed. They descended the slope in great haste, but their fear
Subsided when they found him lying on his back, running the
gamut. Coming to the lowest note, he exclaimed, “I thank God
my G is all right !” Fear gave way to laughter, and the vocalist
was lifted out of the mud by light hearts and willing hands.
NOT SU CH FOOLS.
ºft| R. Gilbert, the dramatist, once heard that his Tria/ by
§§§ jury, renamed and slightly altered, was being given at
a certain hall; and not liking to be swindled, he called
upon the manager. The author opened proceedings by in-
quiring whether the hall was not let for amateur theatricals,



THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES. 83
sometimes. It was certainly, any evening, if not already
engaged, and the manager inquired what his visitor proposed
to play. “Well, there’s a piece called Trial by Žuzy. I was
thinking of that,” the visitor replied. “And a very good piece
too,” the manager kindly assured him ; “sure to take.” “I
know who could play the principal parts very well,” Mr. Gilbert
said, “but I was doubtful about the chorus. Could you help me
in this, do you think?” “I think I could—in fact, I'm sure of it;
you need not trouble about a chorus that knows the music,” the
manager replied. “Thank you ; you are very kind,” Mr. Gilbert
gently answered ; “but,” he continued, “by the way, are there
not some charges—fees—of some kind to be paid for the right
of playing pieces of this sort P I fancy I have heard something
to that effect.” Then the manager grew very confidential indeed.
He looked sly; he even winked ; and he said, “Never you
mind about that. I don’t. Why, we play the very piece you’re
talking about every night; only we don’t call it Trial by }ury.
We ain’t such fools. Gilbert and Sullivan don't know anything
about it, and ain’t likely to. You leave it to me, and you’ll be
all right !” It was now Mr. Gilbert's turn, and he quietly
replied, “I think you’ve made a slight mistake in my name.
I am Mr. W. S. Gilbert, and I had heard that you were good
enough to play my piece without mentioning it ; So I came to
see.” Mr. Gilbert declares that the man shrank visibly. From
a huge creature six feet high he seemed to descend to the
dimensions of a child in petticoats; but Mr. Gilbert mercifully
spared him, for the sake of the fun he had afforded. --
ANOTHER BROTHER OF OPHELIA.
fºLAYS O'Keeffe, in his Recollections : “In my youth I often
saw Glover on the stage. He was a Surgeon, and a good
writer in the London periodical papers. When he was
in Cork, a man was hanged for sheep-stealing, whom Glover
smuggled into a field, and by surgical skill restored to life, though

84 THEATRICAL ANECDOTES.
the culprit had hung the full time prescribed by the law. A few
nights after, Glover being on the stage acting Polonius, the
revived sheep-stealer, full of whiskey, broke into the pit and in a
loud voice called out to Glover, “Mr. Glover, you know you are
my second father ; you brought me to life, and Sure you have to
support me now, for I have no money of my own. You have
been the means of bringing me back into the world, sir; so,
by the piper of Blessington, you are bound to maintain me.”
The sheriff was present at the time, but appeared not to hear
the appeal; and, on the fellow persisting in his outcries, he,
through a piece of clemency, slipped out of the theatre. The
crowd at length forced the man away, telling him that if the
sheriff found him alive, it was his duty to hang him over again.
A COMEDY IN NEWGATE.
㺠HE day after the unfortunate Dr. Dodd had been con-
§§l victed of the offence for which he was Subsequently
executed, he wrote a note to Woodfall, the printer of
the Morning Chronicle, requesting an immediate interview.
The latter at once complied with the request, and, on being
ushered into the doctor's presence, commenced sympathizing
with him about his unfortunate position. Dodd interrupted him
with apparent composure, and informed the publisher that in
his earlier days he had been a lover of the stage. “I sketched
out a comedy,” he said, “based upon the character of Sir Roger
de Coverley in the Sãectator. This piece I finished since my
zesidence in Newgate, and if you be so good as to revise it, and
give me your interest with the manager of one of the theatres, I
shall feel much obliged to you.” Woodfall complied with the
doctor's request, and corresponded with him on the subject of
this play until the week before the doctor's execution. The
comedy was placed in the hands of Harris, then manager of
Drury Lane, but was never acted or published. Nor was this
the only play written by Dr. Dodd. Whilst he was an under-

7TP/A2A TRACA/C AAVEC/DOTAES. 85
graduate at Cambridge, he had produced a tragedy called The
Syracuszan, but, like his last work, it was still-born, and never
appeared before the public. It had been sold in 1750 to Watts,
the printer; but in the next year, on the author's taking orders,
he withdrew the copy from the hands of the managers, and
returned the money the printer had advanced. It was founded
on a fictitious story, and was intended to be performed with
chorusses. - -
A D OUBLE STAR.
#. ICHARD WINSTONE spoke his farewell address on
º his benefit night at the theatre in King Street, Bristol,
on the 11th of June, 1784. He was then about eighty
years of age, and so afflicted with deafness that it was impos-
sible for him to “catch the word” from the prompter at the side
of the stage. To assist him, therefore, in the delivery of his fare-
well address, one of the performers, provided with a copy of the
address, was stationed behind the veteran actor, and instructed
to keep moving forward and backward with him, following him
in all his movements like his shadow. The whimsicality of this
“star,” with his satellite moving in the same orbit, may be
imagined.
PLAYBILL CURIOSITIES.
#. EVALARD, after having for some time played the part
§ of tyrants and brigands in the Ambigu Theatre, became
manager of a provincial company. The bills he issued
in that capacity were sometimes remarkable. One night a
sensational melodrama was represented, in which there occurred
the bombardment of a town, when a person in the pit was
slightly injured by a piece of wadding. The next day Revalard,
afraid that this accident might have a disagreeable influence on
the receipts, added to the playbills : “The ladies and gentlemen


36 THEATRICAL AMECDoTEs.
who intend to honour us this evening with their presence, are
informed that henceforth the bombardment will only take place
at the point of the bayonet.” On another occasion he gave
several representations in small towns, which were very scantily
attended. The day before the company took its departure, he
concluded his playbill in these words: “The company of M.
Revalard, deeply touched by the warm and cordial reception
they have daily met with from the public of this city, has the
honour to inform its patrons that, instead of leaving next
Saturday, as was notified yesterday, he and his companions will
leave this city to-morrow at six o'clock.”
HEAD AND FOOTE.
Fºl OOTE'S natural and ready wit, was mixed with an
unpleasant dash of unsparing maliciousness. When
one of his friends, on a certain occasion, only quoted in
jest some trifling circumstance about a “game” leg, Foote, who
had a wooden leg, maliciously replied, “Pray, sir, make no
allusion to my weakest part. Did I ever attack your head P’’
B L IND PERFORMERS.
s] N 1744 a performance took place at Drury Lane, in behalf
of Dr. Clancy. Deprived of sight in 1734, which
rendered him incapable of following his profession as a
physician, this gentleman amused himself with writing two or
three plays, which were acted at Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin.
Patronage at last procured him a benefit in London. In
allusion to his infirmity, the playbill was headed with the line
from Milton—
“The day returns, but not to me returns."
The play was CEdiffus, and the part of the blind prophet
Tiresias was undertaken by Dr. Clancy. “As this,” observed


T///? A 7TA’/CAH / 4 AVEC/DOT/E.S. 87
the advertisements, “will be the first instance of any person
labouring under SO heavy a deprivation performing on the stage,
the novelty as well as the unhappiness of his case will engage
the favour and protection of a British audience.” This painful
performance attracted a very numerous audience, proving the
fact that an appetite for “the sensational " was not altogether
unknown among the playgoers of the last century. Dr. Clancy’s
performance does not appear to have been particularly striking,
nor was it repeated. His case, however, ultimately moved the
pity of George II., who granted him for life an annual pension of
£40, from the privy purse.
About the year 1792, one Briscoe, the manager of a Stafford-
shire company of comedians, was struck with blindness. His
theatrical labours had not been very successful, when he could
See, but he still fancied he could act, notwithstanding his
affliction. He announced to the public that, although being
stone blind, he would play Tamerlane on one night and
Oroonoko on the next. On the first occasion Mr. Briscoe had a
Crowded audience, on the next night the house was too small to
contain his admirers. All the world now flocked to see the blind
actor, who was far more indebted to the loss of his eyes than to
all the foresight of his former days.
NAPOLEON DISBAND ING H IS ARMY.
§ºn the first night of Little Red Riding Hood at the
§§§ Olympic Pavilion in Wych Street, December 21, 1818,
everything failed; not a scene could be induced to close
or to open properly, and the curtain fell amidst a storm of dis-
approbation. Elliston, the proprietor, was fuming, and sent
round an order to the prompter that not one of the Carpenters,
scene-shifters, or property-men were to leave the theatre till he
had spoken to them. As soon as the house was cleared, the
curtain was raised, and all the culprits assembled on the stage
in front of the scene, representing the interior of a Cottage,

88 TA/A2. A 7TA2/CA/L AAVAEC/DO 7TA.S.
having a door in one half and a latticed window in the other.
The Napoleon of managers took up his position in the centre,
with his back to the footlights, harangued his army in the most
grandiloquent language, expatiated on the enormity of their
offence, their ingratitude to the men whose bread they were
eating, the disgrace they had brought upon the theatre, the cruel
injury they had brought on Mr. Planché, the young and promising
author of the play. Then, pointing in the most tragical attitude
to his wife and daughters, who remained in a private box, bade
them look upon the family they had ruined ; and, burying his face
in his handkerchief, to stifle his sobs, passed slowly through the
door in the scene, leaving his auditors silent, abashed and some
what affected, yet rather relieved by being let off with a lecture.
The next minute the casement in the other flat was thrown
violently open, and thrusting out his head, his face Scarlet with
fury, he roared out, “I discharge you all!” No words can convey
an idea of the glorious absurdity of this ludicrous scene.
MISPLACED PITY.
#|OLLEY CIBBER being one day in the green-room, and
Observing his son Theophilus to enter, dressed in a
black satin coat and breeches, with white satin facings,
and a waistcoat trimmed with silver frogs, he inquired of him
what character he performed that night. To which the young
man, who had then attained his fiftieth year, replied, “None, sir.”
Struck with the oddity of his son's appearance, the father, having
taken a pinch of snuff with a very solemn air, such as would
have become Sir Novelty Fashion, then asked what made him
appear in so singular a dress. “Taste, sir; taste,” answered the
son, with his usual airy pertness. Upon which the sire, now
highly exasperated at the absurdity and impudence of his son,
exclaimed, “Then I pity you!” “Don’t pity me, sir,” replied
Theophilus, turning upon his heel with the utmost effrontery;
“pity my tailor.” Theo, it must be remembered, never paid for
anything he had obtained on credit. -

7"HEAT/C/CA/C AAVECOOTES. 89
HIS WEAK POINT.
§HARLES DIGNUM, the singer and comedian, was the
#| Soul of good humour, but he had one foible—he was
desirous of being thought very intelligent, and that people
should attribute his frequent fits of vacuity to profound mental
abstraction. He was thus in the habit, in the greenroom and
elsewhere, of placing his finger to his forehead, in the manner
Lawrence Stern is represented in his portrait, and pretending to
be unconscious of what was passing around him. Some one
observing Dignum in his usual meditative posture, called
Sheridan's attention to it. “Look at Dignum ; he is thinking
again.” “No,” replied Sheridan ; “he thinks he thinks.”
URSA MAJOR.
iº HILIP LEWIS had been an actor of considerable
eminence in his day at Dublin and Edinburgh. In his
old age, it was a source of misery to him to remember
how many men whom he considered his inferiors had become
metropolitan favourites. As he used openly to complain about
this misfortune, few of his former acquaintances chose to associate
with him. Mr. and Mrs. Webb, of Covent Garden Theatre,
however, who had been among his early companions, invited him.
one Sunday to dinner in their cottage somewhere on the banks
of the Thames. Lewis was on his good behaviour, and was
unusually good tempered throughout the day. After dinner,
Webb produced a bottle of excellent Madeira, filled Lewis's glass,
and asked his opinion of it. The veteran put the glass to his
lips, Smacked them, looked at Webb for an instant, and burst out
in tears. Distressed at this sight, the worthy host exclaimed,
“My dear Philip, what can be the cause of this distress?” “The
cause,” blubbered Lewis; “why, to think, Dicky, that such a
blockhead as you should have your country house, and be


&O TAZ /2 24 7/2/CA/, AAWECDOTE.S.
able to drink this Madeira, when I am forced to live in an
attic, and thank my nephew for scraps : *
PURITANICAL HIERRINGS.
; HE following curious fact is related in Walter Donald-
son’s ſeco//ec/?oves of azt Actor, as having happened early
in the present century —“A circumstance in Moss’s
career as a manager happened in Whitehaven. He opened the
theatre with Some degree of success ; but in less than a week—
on a Saturday night—MOSS and his troupe were conveyed to the
lock-up. There they remained all Sunday, in durance vile.
On Monday morning they were taken before the magistrates,
and a most novel charge was brought against them. An
inhabitant of the town, called respectable and rational, came
forward in Open Court to denounce the actors as a curse to
society in general, but to Whitehaven in particular. This wise-
acre declared, ‘Before the theatre opened there was an immense
take of herrings, but since the players entered the town they
have all fled, and the fishermen are now suffering. This mis-
fortune he ascribed entirely to the actors, who always bring a
'curse wherever they appear.’ The magistrates looked over their
books, and consulted the man that generally knows something—
the town clerk. They then found nothing could be done in the
business but to shut up the theatre, and to send the sons of the
“wicked one’ away. This is no romance, but an actual fact.”
“THINK OF MY FEELINGS.”
Rºl HEN Stephen Kemble was playing at Taunton, he came
*. to rehearsal one morning without his coat. The
manager inquired the cause of this strange appearance.
“Sir” said Kemble, “the landlord of the house where I was
reading the paper, charged me double for my ale. I told him
he had cheated me, and would not pay him. He seized me, and



THEATRIC.1/ 1 NECDOTES. 9 I
pulled off my coat ; so, rather than submit to his extortion, I
came away without it.” “But, Mr. Kemble,” said the manager,
“walk through the streets without your coat . * “But, Mr.
|Hughes,” said Stephen, “pay sixpence for my ale !” “But your
coat, Mr. Kemble : * “Curse my coat, sir; think of my feelings | *
The story got wind, and Kemble’s words became for a time a
saying in the west of England, where, whenever a man deter-
mined to set appearances at nought, he would invariably exclaim,
“Oh curse my coat; think of my feelings | *
D IAAION D CUTS DIAMOND.
United States, was anything but “Square,” and generally
managed to cheat everybody. On the last night
of the season, the printer, Henry D. Stone, held a claim of 125
dollars against the theatre. There was a great rush on that night
to see Edwin Forrest play Metamora, and the regular ticket-office
was besieged. By a standing arrangement the printer had the
privilege of giving written passes, which were charged to his
account. Knowing that it was only by sharp practice that the
“artful dodger,” as Fuller was called, could be made to settle,
Stone had a lot of passes prepared, and opened an opposition
ticket-office next door to the theatre, in a confectionary store.
The news spread among the crowd that tickets could be had
there, and a large number were speedily sold. The next
morning, instead of the manager owing the printer, the printer
owed the manager just seventy-five cents.
HARD WORK.
yº N Saturday, April 19, 1817, Junius Brutus Booth played
§§il Sir Edward Mortimer in three different towns. At
II a.m., he played at Cirencester ; at 4 p.m., in
Gloucester; and at 8 p.m., in Cheltenham. For this arduous
achievement he received about £30.


92 THEATA’ſ CA / A AWAEC/DO 7'E.S.
UNSOOTABLE COMPANY.
jLACK coats are de rigueur at the Italian operas, and
3| predominate in the stalls of all the West End theatres;
but a coat may be ever so black, and yet objectionable.
Witness the following touching appeal to Elliston, at the time
when he was lessee and manager of the Surrey Theatre, the
authenticity of which is vouched for by his biographer —
“August Ioth, 1827.
“SIR,--I really must beg to call your attention to a most
abominable nuisance which exists in your house, and which is,
in a great measure, the cause of minor theatres not holding the
rank they should amongst playhouses. I mean the admission
of sweeps into the theatre in the very dress in which they climb
chimneys. This not only incommodes ladies and gentlemen by
the obnoxious odour arising from their attire, but these sweeps
take up twice the room of other people, because the ladies, in
particular, object to their clothes being soiled by such unpleasant
neighbours. I have, with my wife, been in the habit of visit-
ing the Surrey Theatre, and on three occasions we have been
annoyed by these sweeps. People will not go, sir, where sweeps
are ; and you will find, Sooner or later, these gentlemen will have
the whole theatre to themselves, unless an alteration be made.
I own, at Some theatres the managers are too particular in
dress. Those days are past, and the public have a right to go
to theatrical entertainments in their morning Costumes; but this
ought not to include the sweeps. It is not a week ago since a
young lady, in a nice white gown, sat down on the very spot
which a nasty sweep had just quitted, and when she got up the
sight was most horrible, for she was a very heavy lady and had
laughed a good deal during the performance ; but it was no
laughing matter to her when she got home. I hope I have said
quite enough, and am your
“WELL-WISHER.
“R. W. Elliston, Esq.”

TAZA. A 7TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DO TAE.S. 93
HEARTIHILESS JOKE.
...]N 1809 Drury Lane was destroyed by fire. Sheridan, its
§§ then proprietor, at the time of the conflagration was at
the House of Commons, which voted an immediate
adjournment when the disastrous news arrived, though Sheridan
himself protested against such an interruption of public business
on account of his own or any private interests. He went thither,
however, in all haste, and, whilst seeing his property in
flames, sat down with his friend Barry in a coffee-house oppo-
site, to discuss a bottle of port, coolly remarking, in answer to
some friendly expostulation, that “it was hard if a man could not
drink a glass of wine by his own fire.”
TRANSITORY GLORY.
; OLLEY CIBBER relates, that on one occasion a young
# i gentleman, who, like Bayes in 77te Rehearsal, “only
wrote for fame and reputation,” got a comedy of his
placed on the boards. On the second day of his Muse's public
triumph, he marched, in a stately full-bottomed periwig, into the
lobby of the house, leading a lady of condition by the hand,
Raising his voice to the true pitch of the Sir Fopling Flutter
sound, he called out, “Hey, box-keeper, where is my Lady Such-
a-one's servant?” the man having been sent to keep a place for
her ladyship, in those benighted days when reserved seats were
not. Judge of the dismay of the young poet, when John Trott,
the box-keeper, calmly replied, “Sir, we have dismissed. There
was not company enough to pay for the candles.” -
THE WORST PUNISHMENT.
ſº AYLOR, when proprietor of the Haymarket Opera-house
§§ was once dining with some friends, when the subject of
capital punishments was started, during the discussion
of which he remained in a reverie. A gentleman at table



94. 7///ZA ZT/º/CAA. AAVAEC/DO ZTAE.S.
strongly advocated the abolition of capital punishment in alf
cases. “What would you inflict, then, on a criminal of the worst.
kind f* asked another. “By —— ” said Taylor, starting up,
“make him manager of the opera-house. If he deserved a worse
punishment, he must be a devil incarnate.”
PLAY AND EARN EST.
gº|HE following anecdote is related by Mr. Robert Lloyd :—
§§| “When I was engaged as a utility gentleman at Greenock
Some years ago, an incident occurred which the actors in
it may remember. The piece was 7%e Anchor of Hope. Towards
the end of the Second act, a band of Smugglers attack a captain.
An old Jew pedlar appears opportunely on the scene, and helps
to knock the Smugglers down. This is all very well for the
actors, when they know what is coming ; but, alas ! on this
occasion they did not. It happened that the Channel Fleet at
the time lay moored at Greenock, and the Sailors were enjoying
themselves in the town. On this especial occasion, the Somc-
what nautical name of the piece seeming to have struck their
fancy, the gallery and pit were full of them. When the time
came for the captain to be assaulted, there were suddenly to be
seen sailors finding their way from the gallery to the pit, and
thence on to the stage, others from the pit following suit. In-
dignant at seeing a captain subjected to ill usage, they knocked
every smuggler down ; and, not content with that, put their feet
on the poor utilities' chests, daring them to move, amid the
excitement of the whole house. It was only with difficulty that .
Mr. Calhaem, who acted the Jew pedlar, when the act-drop came
down, could convince the gallant tars that it was “only acting.’”

7A//.4 7TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DO THES’. 95
“LOVE'S LAST SHIFT.”
§ O let you See,” says Chetwood, in his amusing old-
fashioned style, “how formerly even tragedy heroes.
were now and then put to their shifts, I’ll tell you a
short story that befell Mr. Thurmond, one of the Drury Lane.
company. It was the custom, at that time, for persons of the
first rank and distinction to give their birthday suits to the most
favoured actors. I think Mr. Thurmond was honoured by
General Ingoldsby with his ; but his finances being at the lowest
tide of ebb, the rich suit was put “in buckle” (i. e. in pawn).
One night notice was given that the General would be present
with the Government at the play, and all the performers on the
stage were prepared to dress out in the suits presented. The
spouse of Johnny Thurmond tried all her arts to persuade Mr.
Holdfast, the pawnbroker (as it fell out, his real name), to let go.
the clothes for that evening, to be returned when the play was over.
But all arguments were fruitless ; nothing but the ready, or a
pledge of fully equal value. Well, what must be done P The
whole family in confusion and at their wits' end. At last Winny,
the wife, put on a composed countenance, though with a troubled.
heart, stepped to a neighbouring tavern, and ordered a very hot
negus to comfort Johnny in the great part he was to perform:
that night—begging to have the silver tankard with the lid,
because, as she said, “a cover and the vehicle silver would retain.
heat longer than any other metal.” The request was complied
with ; the negus carried to the play-house piping hot, popped into
a vile, earthen mug ; the silver tankard travelled incognito under
her apron, popped into the pawnbroker’s hands in exchange for
the suit, which was put on and played its part with the rest of
the wardrobe. When its duty was over, it was carried back to
remain in its former depository, the tankard to its owner; and
when the tide flowed with its lunar influence, the stranded suit
was wafted into safe harbour again, after paying a little for dry
docking, which was all the damage received.”

96 TA/A.4 7/2/CA/L AAVECDO 7/2.S.
RATHER DISTRAIT.
ſº ALKING one day with a brother dramatist, Mr. Bayle
iAA' | Bernard, in Regent’s Quadrant, Sheridan Knowles was
accosted by a gentleman in these terms: “You’re a
pretty fellow, Knowles After fixing your own day and hour to
dine with us, you never make your appearance, and from that time
to this not a word have we heard from you !” “I could not help
it, upon my honour,” replied Knowles; “and I’ve been so busy
ever since, I haven’t had a moment to write or call. How are
you all at home P” “Oh, quite well, thank you. But, come now,
will you name another day, and keep your word P” “I will—
sure I will.” “Well, what day P Shall we say Thursday next f *
“Thursday 2 Yes, by all means—Thursday be it.” “At six P”
“At six. I’ll be there punctually. My love to 'em all.” “Thank
ye. Remember, now—six, next Thursday.” “All right, my dear
fellow ; I’ll be with you.” The friend departed, and Sheridan,
relinking his arm with that of Bayle Bernard, said, “Who’s
that chap P” not having the least idea of the name or residence
of the man he had promised to dine with on the following
Thursday, or the interesting “family at home,” to whom he had
sent his love.
ANTI-SEMITICISM OF CHARLES MATHEWS.
zººl HE late Charles Mathews, one evening in his youth, after
§§ playing the part of the Jew Mordeana in Macklin's
Zove & Za Mode, in Dublin, was invited to supper by
G. F. Cooke in his rooms. After Supper whiskey punch was
introduced, and Cooke paid his respects to this pleasing beverage
so assiduously, that at last he became outrageously drunk, and
smashed everything in his room because the landlady would not
let him have any more punch. Mathews tried to make his
escape, when Cooke dragged him to the window, and called for


TAZAZA TRICA/. A WAECDOTE.S. 97
the watch. A watchman, who had been attracted already by
the noise, asked the cause of the disturbance, when, to the horror
of his struggling guest, Cooke exclaimed, “I give this man in
charge ; he has committed a capital offence—he has committed
a murder.” Mathews protested violently. “Yes,” continued
Cooke, “to my certain knowledge he has been this night guilty of
a Cruel, atrocious murder in cold blood. He has most barbarously
murdered an inoffensive Jew gentleman of the name of Mor-
deana, and I charge him with it, in the name of Macklin, author
of Loze d la Mode.” . At this moment Mathews managed to
make his escape, and bolted down the stairs, Cooke throwing the
Candlesticks after him, with the words, “Well, if you wil/go, you
sha’n’t Say I sent you to bed without a light.” It took some time
to convince honest Dogberry that no “inoffensive Jew gentle-
man" had been killed and murdered.
YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE,
jº. ICKERSTAFF, a comedian, whose benefit Steele, as
§ #º being his relation, in the third number of the 7 aſſer
good-naturedly recommended to the public, enjoyed
a weekly salary of £4. In an economical moment, Cibber re-
trenched one-half of it. The impoverished actor at once called
on his manager, represented the largeness of his family, and con-
cluded by flatly informing him that, as he could not subsist upon
the narrow allowance to which he had reduced him, he felt
compelled to call the author of his distress to account, for that
he would rather perish by the Sword than die of starvation.
The affrighted Cibber, considering discretion the better part
of valour, referred the incensed actor to the next Saturday for
answer, when Bickerstaff found his stipend restored to its usual
amount.

98 7A/AA TRACA / AAVECDOTAE.S.
MOONSTRUCK.
jºjS an instance of the enormities inflicted upon the
t ; manager of a theatre by candidates for stage honours,
Alfred Bunn, manager of Drury Lane, mentions the
following : “A tragedy of nearly six hundred Žages, written
by an author totally unknown, and likely ever to remain so, was
sent by one particular friend of mine, and strongly recommended
by three others. It commenced with a moonlight scene, and
in the opening soliloquy thereof the hero, gazing on the un-
clouded glory of Diana, accused her, despite her beauty and
alleged chastity, of intriguing—with whom P With the Mazz 27.
£he Moozz.”
UTILITY WITH A. VENGEAN CE.
; HOMAS KING, the original Sir Peter Teazle in the
§§ immortal School for Scandal, used to relate : “I re-
member that when I had been but a short time On the
Stage, I performed one night King Richard, Sang two comic
Songs, played in an interlude, danced a hornpipe, spoke a pro-
logue, and was afterwards harlequin, in a sharing company, and
after all this fatigue my share came to threepence and three
pieces of Candle.” A biographer adds that King on the same
Occasion had journeyed from Beaconsfield, in Bucks, to London,
and back again, in order that he might obtain certain “pro-
perties "essential, as he considered, to his appearance as King
Richard.
DRESS CLOTHES IND IS PENSABLE.
CAPITAL story is told of Mr. Hollingshead's method
of dealing with people who make impudent requests for
- gratuitous admission to his theatres. A so-called
“gentleman * wrote to the manager of the Gaiety some time ago



THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. 99
to Say that, as people in evening dress gave a tone to the house,
the writer and a friend would be glad to go to the Gaiety, and
would promise to appear in evening dress and white ties, if Mr.
Hollingshead would give them a couple of seats. Mr. Hollings-
head was good enough to send them a couple of admissions—
to the upper gallery—dress clothes indispensable.
NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTES.
㺠HE father of Sir Watkin William Wynn, being fond of
§§ theatricals, erected a theatre at his seat at Wynnstay,
and employed Austin, of the Chester Theatre, to assist
him in the cares of management. A play was selected, the parts
allotted, and a rehearsal called. “Clear the stage,” said the
amateur manager, “ and call Lord A–––.” “His lordship's
gone shooting,” a servant answered. “Call Sir B. C––.”
“He’s gone a-fishing, Sir Watkin.” “Request Lady D–– to
come.” “Her ladyship has just gone for a drive.” “Who the
devil would be a manager ?” cried Sir Watkin, impatiently.
“Not I, if I had your lordship's money,” retorted the Chester
manager.
HONEY AND WAX.
iº RS. HONEY, a beautiful actress in the first quarter of
§§§ this century, possessed that most uncomfortable ad-
junct, a jealous husband. Rumours were current that
he occasionally laid hands on her, when Othello was particularly.
strong within him. On this presumption, the witty James
Smith, one of the authors of the “Rejected Addresses,” made
the following epigram —
“This pair in matrimony
GO most unequal snacks ;
He gets all the Honey,
And she gets all the Whacks ''


Ioo THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES.
:
:
:
:
º
PROFESSIONAL JEALOUSY.
㺠ju RING the performances of some distinguished
| amateurs in behalf of the projected Guild of Literature
and Art,” says Mr. Buckstone, “my dresser, named
Parsons, was employed to superintend the costumes and the
dressing of the various characters to be represented. Wishing
:
to know how they had acquitted themselves, the following
dialogue took place : ‘Well, Parsons, how did the amateurs
get on P’ ‘Never see such a set of muffs in my life.’ ‘What
do you mean P Are you aware who and what the gentlemen
were 2–great authors, artists, barristers, and others eminent in
literature and science.’ ‘ I don’t care for that,” said Parsons ;
“they were all regular muffs.” “What do you mean?’ ‘Mean
why, they couldn't button moſhing.’”
PATERNAL PRIDE.
§§ OUNG VESTRIS, now best known as the husband of
# the celebrated lady of that name, had learnt dancing
from his father, the ballet-master of the Haymarket
Opera House. On some nobleman remarking to the latter that
his son was a better dancer than he, old Vestris replied, “Very
true, my lord ; but my son had a better master than I had.”
ſºlº
5 º
B º
sº
º º
3' sº
THE DAY OF RF ST.
jT the time when David Morris was proprietor of the Hay-
§ market Theatre, the position of stage-manager was held
by Tom Dibdin, one of the sons of the celebrated nautical
poet, and himself the author of many popular dramatic pieces.
Mr. Dibdin had engaged to write a comedy for the Haymarket,
and some weeks having elapsed without its being forthcoming,
Morris stopped him one day as he was passing through the box



THEATRICAZ ANECDoTES. IOI
office. “Mr. Dibdin . How about that comedy you promised
me?” “My dear sir, what opportunity have I for writing P I
am on the stage all day, from ten or eleven in the morning till four
in the afternoon ; run home to my dinner, and back again to see
the curtain up, and remain till it finally falls, long after midnight.
I never have any time for composition.” “No time ! Then
what do you do on Sundays **
ALL TRUTH NEEDS NOT BE TOLD.
#|T a rehearsal of the beautiful quartet in the second act of
Pietro / Premita, Madame Camporese, in the character
of Agia, had to sing//? mazºca Za voce. When she uttered
these words, Madame Ronzi de Begnis, in a whisper not too
gentle for Camporese to overhear it, observed, “E vero.” This
remark produced a retort courteous, somewhat more than verging
on the limits of decorum : it was said even that the sound of a
box on the ear was repeated by the echoes of Old Drury.
A PERFERVID ADMIR.E.R.
CURIOUS occurrence happened at the first representa-
tion of Słażra, in Paris, in 1679. Pradon, the author of
the piece, was present, muffled in his cloak ; he had
taken a seat in the pit, in order to witness the fate of his work.
Hisses were heard during the first scenes, which increased as the
play progressed. Pradon could not stand it, and was about to
protest, when a friend whispered, “Don’t make yourself known ;
hiss like the rest.” The author, for want of better advice,
followed his friend’s recommendation. Unfortunately, a mous-
quetaire seated by his side admired the play, and, annoyed by the
loud hisses of his neighbour, he rudely pushed him, exclaiming,
“Why do you hiss, sir? This is an excellent piece, and the
author is a man of good position.” Pradon, annoyed at the
guardsman's rudeness, told him to mind his own business, and


I O2 7TA/AA 7TA’/CA/C AAVEC/DO 7./2.S.
that he would hiss as much as he liked. Off went his hat and
wig, which the mousquetaire flung on the stage, in return for
which insolence Pradon boxed his ears. Thereupon the enraged
mousquetaire drew his sword and belaboured the dramatist with
the flat of it to his heart’s content, after which Pradon, beaten
but happy, left the house, and adjourned to an apothecary’s to
have his wheals and stripes seen to.
COMPARISONS ARE ODIOUS.
sº HEN M. Favar was appointed first ballet-master of
#AA$| Drury Lane Theatre, Soderini, one of the violin players,
went on the stage after the first rehearsal, and said to
him, “Allow me, my dear sir, to introduce myself to you. You
are the dearest friend I have on earth ; let me thank you a
thousand times for the happiness you have conferred on me by
coming amongst us. Command me in any way, for whatever I
do for you, I can never sufficiently repay you.” The ballet-master,
who had never seen or heard of Soderini before, was astonished.
“Pray, sir,” said he, “to what peculiar piece of good fortune may
I attribute the compliments and professions you favour me with ?”
“To your unparalleled ugliness, my dear sir,” replied Soderini;
“for before your arrival, I was considered the ugliest man in
Great Britain.”
WISE AS THE SERPENT.
#. N Marmontel's tragedy of Cleopatra, represented in the
§§| last century in the Théâtre Français, when the Egyptian
queen was about to commit felony-de-se, she held in
her hands a mechanical asp of Cunning workmanship devised
by Vaucanson, the ingenious mechanician. This venomous
reptile reared its head, and, before plunging its apparent fangs
into the arm of the actress, gave a shrill hiss. A spectator
hereupon arose, and left the house, with the simple but expressive
remark, “I am of the same opinion as the asp.”


7THEA 7TR/CA/L AAVEC/DO 7 AES. IO3
T3ARTERING SEATS.
tº RS. BAKER was an eccentric notoriety in her theatrical
ſºil circuit. This lady manager never allowed but one pay-
place for box, pit, and gallery, and but one cash-taker,
namely, herself. She was always to be seen in Żrożria Žersona
at her station from the opening to the closing of the doors. No
“reasonable offer" was refused by her, and at the lag-end
of an evening performance, the little vagabonds who hovered
about the entrance, children of tender age, would sometimes
tender threepence, sometimes fourpence, to be admitted to the
closing scenes of the entertainments, which small remuneration
the lady, provided she was in good humour, would graciously
accept. Nay, not unfrequently would she deign to Smile upon
other proffers than the current coin of this realm, from these little
Stage-Struck vagrants, such as a penknife, a pair of scissors, a
nut-cracker, or any such tangible and useful article. By this
system she became a sort of unlicensed pawnbroker, for such
articles were generally deposited for seats in the gallery, redeem-
able, however, without interest, at the earliest convenience of the
pledger. A pet dove was once offered by a little girl, anxious
for admission to the gallery on any usurious terms, and was
accepted on the agreement that the bird was to be redeemed
the next morning before its breakfast-àme at pit price.
A TIMELY RESCU E.
zººl HE experienced actor is prepared for all accidents, cool
upon all occasions, equal to every emergency. Some
five and twenty years ago a sensational drama was
played at the Gaieté Theatre, in Paris, entitled Le Fils de la
Mºtif. The chief attraction in this piece was a naval engagement
between a pirate brig and two small boats. During the first
performance of this effective scene, brilliantly illuminated by


IO4 THEA TRICA 7. A WEC/DOTES.
electric light, a ludicrous accident almost totally spoiled the
whole effect. One of the fifty supers who worked the stormy
undulations of the ocean, managed to push his head through the
canvas waves. For the sake of coolness, he had divested him-
Self of his upper garment, and there he stood, head and bust in
the brilliant light, exposed to the full view of the spectators.
Fechter, who represented the pirate captain, and commanded
on board the brig, did not lose his presence of mind, but
immediately called out, “A man overboard " Aided by the
crew, the amazed super was hauled on board, amid the applause
of the gratified spectators, who fancied that this rescue from a
watery grave formed part of the play.
A QUEEN OF FASHION.
;Nº|RIGINALLY known as “Nosegay Nan”—a flower-girl
sºil in the Mall, St. James's Park, and a ballad singer at
tavern doors—Fanny Barton, in 1735, made her déðzá
in Theophilus Cibber's company, at the Haymarket Theatre, as
Miranda in The Busy Body. In 1759 she married her music-
master, and then became Mrs. Abington. The union, however,
was not a happy one, and ere long husband and wife parted
company not to meet again. Step by step Mrs. Abington
ascended to the head of her profession, and when a few years
after her début she appeared in Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin,
she at once was declared the Queen of Fashion. “Even so
carly,” says Chetwood, the historian of the Irish stage, “did she
discern a taste in dress and a talent to lead the ſon, that several
of the ladies' most fashionable ornaments were distinguished by
her name, and the Abington cap became the prevailing rage of
the day.” Five years later she took all the leading characters in
comedy at Drury Lane, where for eighteen years she delighted
the town with her ladies of fashion and grand coquettes—Lady
Townley, Lady Betty Modish, Lydia Languish, Lady Teazle,
and such like fluttering embodiments of fashion and frivolity.

7TA/AEA 7T/P/CA/L AAVEC/DOTES. IO5
Her pay was £12 a week, besides {60 a year for her wardrobe,
and a benefit night. All her spare time was occupied in running
about London to give advice to aristocratic ladies on the all-
important subject of dress and new fashions. She was consulted
like a doctor, and feed in a most liberal manner. No marriage,
drawing-room, masquerade, or entertainment took place but Mrs.
Abington's assistance was requested, in order to regulate dress
and decoration. In this manner alone she made over £2OOO a
year. Her attire on and off the stage was always perfection, and
much studied and copied. In this she displayed more than art:
it was true genius ; and as the disciples of Pythagoras imposed
silence on all cavillers by the words, “The master has said it,” so
it was sufficient in London to say, “It is like Mrs. Abington's,”
to stop the mouth of grumbling husbands and fathers. Mrs.
Abington has been not less than four times portrayed by Sir
Joshua Reynolds—in the character of Roxalana in The Szeſław,
of Miss Prue in Zove for Zove, of Lady Teazle in The School
for Scandal, and as the “Comic Muse.” This once celebrated,
beauty outlived her popularity. She died in 1815, “the world
forgetting, by the world forgot.”
WAR AND SONG.
#|MPRESS CATHERINE of Russia, being desirous of
º | engaging Catarina Gabrielli, the celebrated Italian
vocalist, for the Imperial Theatre at St. Petersburg, sent
an agent to Milan to inquire from the dºva what would be her
terms. “Fifteen hundred pounds Sterling per annum, besides a
house and private carriage.” The Empress's agent remonstrated
with her on the unreasonableness of So enormous a salary, as-
suring her that it was the pay of a Field-Marshal. “Very well,”
objected the diva, “then Her Majesty had better make her
Field-Marshals sing.” -


{O6 7TA/AEA 7TA2/CA/L AAVEC/DOTES.
A SPARE DIET.
§|ESSRS. J. PAIN and Bouilly, two French playwrights,
Aft| produced, by joint authorship, some pleasing pieces, the
best of which was Fanchon /a: Vie//euse, which was a
great success. This was followed by many other productions of
the same authors, which, however, were not near so good ; the
public thereupon remarked that “Fanchon m'eſt £as tant maigri,
si jamais el/e me se ſº mourrie guá de Pain ef de Bouiſ/y.”
THE GALLOWS-BUILDIER.
El N 1792, Colman's Surrender of Calais was produced
§ at the Haymarket, in which a scene occurs between two
carpenters who had to build the gallows upon which the
unhappy patriots were to be executed. Parsons played the chief
workman, in which character he had to say, “So the king is
coming ; an the king like not my scaffold I am no true man.”
One night, when George III. was present, the humorous player
gave the passage a different turn. Advancing very near the royal
box, he exclaimed, “An the king were here, and did not admire
my scaffold, I would say, ‘D–– him he has no taste.” This
innovation, accompanied with his usual grimace and horizontal
protrusion of his leg, produced an irresistible effect. The king
burst into a fit of laughter, and was among the foremost to
applaud and the last to desist.
A DEATHE EID MARRIAGE,
㺠HE witty George Farquhar's last play, The Beazza.”
jj Stratagem, was begun, finished, and acted in the space
of six weeks ; when he was almost dying—and, in fact,
he expired, before the run of his comedy was over. Wilkes, the
comedian, often used to visit him in his last days, and once told



TAZAZA 7TA’/CA / AAVAECDOTES. Io?
him that Mrs. Oldfield thought he had dealt too freely with the
character of Mrs. Sullen in the play, in giving her to Archer,
without a proper divorce. “To solve that question,” replied the
dying wit, “I’ll get a real divorce, marry her myself, and give
her my bond she shall be a real widow in less than a week.”
SUID DEN MAD NESS.
#|HEN Thomas Sheridan was at his zenith in Dublin, a
* * tragic actor named Layfield was also held in high
estimation. His distinguished parts were Ventidius,
Iago, Cassius, Syphax, and Apamantus. One night, doing Iago
to Sheridan's Othello, Layfield came out with—
“Oh, my Lord I beware of jealousy;
It is a green-eyed lobster.”
After this the play could proceed no further. Layfield was at
that moment struck with incurable madness, and died some-
what in the manner of Nat Lee, the tragic poet. The above
“green-eyed lobster’ was the first instance poor Layfield gave
of this dreadful visitation.
A MUSIC LESSON.
ãºl T the period the ancient ballad of “The Old English
%\| Gentleman" burst on the world, two publishers laid
claim to the copyright as authors of the accompaniment.
The case was tried in the Court of King's Bench, before Lord
Denman, who acted as judge. Tom Cooke, the vocalist, was
subpoenaed as a witness for one of the parties, and Sir James
Scarlett was retained as counsel. In the course of the trial, Sir
James elicited the following evidence —
Sir James. Now, Mr. Cooke, you say the melodies are the
same, but different P
Cooke. I said the notes in the two copies were alike, but with
a different accent. *


IO8 7TA/AEA 7TP/CA/. A WAEC/DO ZTAE.S.
Săr Şames. What is a musical accent P
Cooke. When I explain anything in music I charge a guinea.
a lesson. (Loud laughter in court.)
Săr Şames (rather ruffled). Never mind your terms. I ask
you what is a musical accent P Can you see it
Cooſée. No.
Săr Şames. Can you feel it 2
Cooſée. A musician can.
Săr Şames. Now, sir, don’t beat about the bush, but tell his
lordship and the jury, who are supposed to know nothing about
it, the meaning of what you call an accent.
Cooſée. The accent in music is a stress laid on a particular
note, as you would lay a stress on a particular word, for the
purpose of being better understood. If I were to say, “You are
an ass,” the accent would rest on ass; but were I to say, “You
are an ass,” it would rest on you, Sir James. (Zeiterated shouts
of laughter by the whole courſ, in which ſhe judge and bench
joined.)
When silence was obtained, Lord Denman addressed the
crest-fallen counsel : “Are you satisfied, Sir James P’ Sir
James had become scarleſ, blushing like the rose, very unlike
his brethren in general. And, considering the tenor of Cooke's
evidence not in accordance with the harmony of his feelings,
being instrumental in leading him up to ridicule, Sir James, in
rather a coſt-s/?réto style, told the witty Thomas Cooke to go
down, who retired amidst screams of laughter and applause.
SARAH BERNHARDT, FIRST OLD WOMAN.
El N September, 1876, it was proposed to produce Rome
Vaincue at the Théâtre Français. There is an old
man and an old woman in that piece, and the question
arose who was to impersonate the old woman. Not every
actress is willing to abdicate her charms for a whole night.
Sarah Bernhardt, however, was ready to hide her youth and

THE A 7TR/CAA. A NECDOTES. IO9
beauty under burnt-cork wrinkles and a white flaxen wig. She
appeared as Posthumia, a blind old crone, wrinkled as a pippin
in May. Mounet Sully impersonated an aged Gaul. Both
were splendid, and acted their part to perfection. The success
was immense ; the public was fascinated, and the admiration of
the talented actress nearly degenerated into sheer idolatry.
THE CORONET AMONG THE ACTRESSES.
É|NEASY lies the head that wears a crown,” writes our
à great dramatist, and there is not an actress that does
not know the line. They do not seem to apply it to
the coronet, however, for not a few actresses have been willing .
to exchange the sock or buskin for the troubles attending upon
greatness. Witness the following list –
LAVINIA FENTON made her first appearance at the Hay-
market Theatre in 1726, as Monimia, in Otway's tragedy of
The O2%ham, being then eighteen years of age. In 1728, 7%e
Beggars’ Offera was first produced at Lincoln's Inn Fields,
when she played Polly Peachum, at a salary of 30s, a week.
The next year she retired from the stage under the protection of
the Duke of Bolton, who promised her the Succession to his wife.
It was not till three and twenty years after that the duke could
and did redeem his engagement. Lavinia died in 1760, aged 52.
HARRIET MELLON was the daughter of a poor strolling
actress, and made her first appearance as Lydia Languish, in
Sheridan's comedy of 7%e Rêva/s, January 31, 1795. On
January 8, 1815, she married Mr. Coutts, the Opulent banker,
then a widower of two months’ standing. He died in 1822,
leaving her an income of over £70,000 a year. On the I6th of
June, 1827, she married the Duke of St. Albans, then in the
twenty-seventh year of his age. The duke died in 1849, the
duchess on August 6th, 1857.
ANASTASIA ROBINSON made her first appearance on January
27, 1714, in the opera Creso, before which time she had sung at

I IO THEATRICAL ANECD07 E.S.
concerts in York Buildings, and at her own house in Golden
Square. The Earl of Peterborough, the hero of the expedition
in Spain, in 1724 took her from the stage, and married her
Secretly, and, though the marriage was not made public for many
years, she received the best company at Peterborough House,
Fulham, and Bevis Mount, Southampton. The Earl died in
I735, aged 75. The countess survived him till 1750.
ELIZABETH FARRAN made her first appearance at the Hay-
market, as Miss Hardcastle in She Szoo/s fo Conguez, in 1777.
A platonic affection, it is said, long existed between the Earl of
Derby and this actress. When she played in The School for
Scandal, his lordship sometimes crept up to her behind the
screen, to the great amusement of the audience, who used to hope
that it would fall a little too soon. Miss Farran during this
/iaisozz moved in the best Society, and had to wait a score of
years for the death of the countess. In less than three weeks
after this event happened her marriage with the earl was
arranged, an indecent haste that did not augur well for the
happiness of the future. She quitted the stage, and on April 8,
1797, became Countess of Derby. She died in 1829, her brilliant
marriage having ended in prosy fashion by divorce.
LOUISA BRUNTON made her first appearance at Covent
Garden Theatre, as Lady Townley in the comedy of the Pro-
voked Husband, on the 5th of October, 1803. She retired from
the stage on May 26, 1808, when she married the Earl of Craven,
and died, in the 78th year of her age, September 3, 1860.
MARIA FOOTE made her first appearance at Covent Garden
Theatre, as Amanthis, in Mrs. Inchbald’s comedy of 7%e Châ/d of
AWałure, in June, 1814. On the 7th of April, 1831, when she was
about thirty-five, she became Countess of Harrington. Before
that happy consummation she had “loved not wisely, but too
well,” and had two children by Colonel Berkeley. Nor was the
earl her only suitor. During the years which she devoted to
make the colonel happy, she had constant offers of marriage
from wealthy suitors. One of these—Joseph Hayne, Esq., of
THEATR/CA/L AAVECDOTES. - III
Burderop Park, Wilts—was accepted ; but having changed his
mind, he was mulcted in A.3000 for breach of promise. Well
might she sing, in the character of Phoebe in Rosina— .
“There's fifty young men have told me fine tales,
- And call'd me the fairest she.”
The countess died in 1867. -
KATHERINE STEPHENS made her first appearance at Covent
Garden Theatre, as Mandane in Dr. Arne’s opera Arſaarerates,
in September, 1813. Twenty-five years after, Kitty, being then
forty-five, married the Earl of Essex, who was 83. She died
in February, 1882, at the age of 88, having been a widow for
forty-three years.
MARY BOLTON made her first appearance as Polly Peachum,
October 8th, 1806. She married Edward, Lord Thurlow, in
1813. He was nephew to the first Lord Thurlow, the judge,
and was well known for some poems, not devoid of merit.
ELIZABETH O’NEILL, born in 1791, made her first appearance
at Covent Garden Theatre, as Juliet, on the 6th of October, 1814.
She retired from the stage, and married William Wrixon Becher,
Esq., on the 18th of December, 1819. On the death of his uncle
Mr. Becher succeeded to the baronetcy, and his wife became
Lady Wrixon Becher. She died about 1875. Miss O’Neill
and her relations, it is well known, suggested to Thackeray the
Fotheringays and Captain Costigan.
LOUISA MoRDAUNT, born in 1812, made her first curtsy to
a London audience at Drury Lane, on October 16, 1829, as the
Widow Cheerly in The Soldier's Daughter. Her first marriage
took place in 1831 ; her husband, Captain John Alexander
Nisbeth, of the Life Guards, died shortly after, killed by an
accident with a buggy. On the I Sth of October, 1844, she
married Sir William Boothby, Bart., and was left a second time
a widow in 1845. Being but slenderly provided for, she returned
to the Stage.
MISS ROBINSON, not the famous “Perdita,” early in this cen-
tury married Sir Charles Felix Smith, of the Royal Engineers.
f ſ 2 TAZAZA TA2/CA/C A/VEC/DO TAES’.
Finally, MISS SAUNDERS, a provincial actress, some five and
twenty years ago married Sir William Don, a Scotch baronet,
who had taken to the stage as a profession.
Among actresses who have married younger Sons, we find, in
modern times— - -
SUSANNAH PATON, who made her first curtsy to a London
public at the Haymarket Theatre, August 3, 1822, as Susannah
in The Marriage of Figaro. In 1824 she married Lord William
Pitt Lennox, a younger son of the Duke of Richmond. Divorced
at her own suit, she subsequently became the wife of Wood, the
singer, and died in 1864.
CAMILLE DUBOIS married, in 1877, the Hon. Wyndham
Edward Campbell Stanhope, brother of the present Earl of
Harrington.
A CAND ID CONFESSION.
; HE tenor Gabrielli, brother of the great female singer of
that name, once appeared at the Teatro Argentini, in
Rome. Before he had got through a dozen bars of his
first song the critics began to hiss and hoot, and very deservedly,
for he was execrable. Gabrielli thereupon came forward, and
addressed the audience in these words –“You fancy you are
mortifying me by hooting me ; you are grossly deceived. On the
contrary, I applaud your judgment, for I solemnly declare to
you that I never appeared on any stage without receiving the
same treatment, and Sometimes much worse !” This appeal,
though it produced a momentary laugh, could not procure a
second appearance for the poor fellow.
A PROTEST.
ńN the 23rd of January, 1793, a play was represented in
§º Wiſ ſº Paris, entitled Zumouriez & Breate//es, written by a
notorious lady of doubtful character, Olympia de Gouges.
At the conclusion, when, according to French custom, the


TA/AA TR/CA/C A/VECOOTES. I 13
audience inquired the name of the author, an elderly female with
a shaggy, towzy head, surmounted by a bonnet put on awry,
leant over one of the boxes. “Gentlemen,” she exclaimed,
“you desire to know the author: it is I, Olympia de Gouges.
You have hissed my piece, not because it was bad, but because
it was infamously played.” This sally was received with roars
of derisive laughter, and when Olympia protested, the uproar
became so outrageous, that she had to fly. At the second repre-
sentation, the pit thought proper to interrupt the performance.
A “tree of liberty” had been inaugurated in the first Scene, and
in a moment a number of men made their way on to the stage,
and commenced dancing the Carmagnole round the “property”
tree with the same enthusiasm which characterized such
patriotic performances in the streets of Paris.
PlUBLIC DISCRIMINATION.
#|ACK BANNISTER, happening to be at Manchester, by
il way of amusement asked the manager of the theatre to
advertise him under a feigned name for some small part
in a comedy, announcing at the same time that between the
play and the farce, the gentleman would “attempt a scene in
The Children in the Wood, after the manner of the celebrated
Mr. John Bannister, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.”
Bannister acted his part in the play, and passed unnoticed ; at
the conclusion the curtain again rose for the imitation. On
walked the mimic in Suitable costume, as perfect a Walter as
ever was seen, and went through the scene selected for the
purpose after his best manner. But the interruptions were many,
for scarcely had he spoken three lines, when he was saluted by
a most distinct hiss. This was soon followed by cries of “Off!
off trash —hiss, hiss I’’ announcing to the poor country
“presumer” that he had entirely failed. In fact, he was com-
pletely condemned. He ventured to address the audience, but
no, they would not hear him. They were thoroughly disgusted
I

II.4. THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES.
at the attempt at imitation, which a journal the next morning
declared “the vilest that had ever been offered to the public.”
THEATRICAL CRITICISM.
NEW comedy,” says Reynolds in his Zife and Times,
“written by one of my particular friends, was put into
rehearsal. On the very evening that it was to be
produced, meeting a late leading critic of the day as he was going
out of town, and asking him to speak good-naturedly of my
friend’s play, he kindly told me that I might write myself the
theatrical Criticism for the following morning’s newspaper, but to
be sure to confine my praise within rational bounds. Speeding
post-haste with this good news to my friend, the author, he quietly
heard my communication, and then replied, “Pooh You
write the account of my piece I shall write it myself.” He
was as good as his word; and Sending his precious morceazz to
the printer in my name, it was, according to the previous direction
of the great critic and editor, inserted verbatim. The following
morning I was not a little astonished when I read that “The first
four acts of the comedy of the previous evening were not inferior
in point of plot, incident, language, and character to the greatest
efforts of Beaumont and Fletcher and other old dramatists,’ and
‘that the last act might probably be considered one of the finest
on the stage.’”
THE DEAR DEPARTED.
ſºft ACKLIN was very intimate with Frank Hayman, the
§§§ historical painter, and happening to call upon him one
morning, soon after the death of the painter's wife (with
whom the latter had lived on but indifferent terms), he found him
wrangling with the undertaker about the extravagance of the
funeral expenses. Macklin listened to the altercation for some
time; at last, going up to Hayman, he observed with great gravity


THEA TRICA / AAVECDOTE.S. II 5
“Come, come, Frank; though the bill is a little extravagant,
pay it in respect to the memory of your poor wife ; for I am sure
she would have done twice as much for you, had she had the
same opportunity.”
STAGE OATHS.
sºft|E have the testimony of Uncle Toby that the officers in
: | the army before Dunkerque “swore terribly,” for which
there was, no doubt, some reason in their minds. A
similar bad practice appears to have obtained a hundred years
before on the stage, for in 1606 it was thought necessary to refrain
tle use of big words in plays. An Act (3 Jas. I. c. 21) was framed
“to prevent the profane use of the Holy Name of God, or of Christ
Jesus, or of the Holy Ghost, of the Trinity, in any play, on a
penalty of £IO.”
A. STROLLING LUMINARY.
|HE old theatre at Jacobs Well, Bristol, was situated a
# quarter of a mile from the city; and as there were no
lamps in that quarter in the last century, the walk home
in the dark, through a dirty road and a long, dreary rope-walk,
was the reverse of exhilarating. This caused the periodical
appearance of the moon to be hailed with general satisfaction,
and the performer whose benefit happened to fall when that
luminary was in the sky, took care to insert at the foot of the bill
that it would be “a moonlight night.” A Cunning old fox, named
Richard Winstone, bethought himself of a manner to make the
full moon on the night of his benefit a cause of special attraction,
and communicated the expected appearance of the luminous orb
in the following words:– “And on this night Madame Cynthia
will appear in her utmost splendour.” Few of the Bristol public
thought of consulting Lempriere's Classica! Zºeffortary, the
majority jumped to the conclusion that Madame Cynthia was some


I IG THEA. TA’/CA/C AAVAEC/DO 7TA.S.
French or Italian performer whom old Winstone had prevailed
upon to take a part in his benefit. The house was crowded to
Suffocation, and at the end of each act all eyes were directed to-
wards the stage-door from which madame was expected to make
her entry. When the play ended, and even the hope that the illus-
trious foreigner was reserved to dance or sing at the end of the
performance could no longer be entertained, the manager was
vociferously called upon to explain why he had presumed to insert
in his bill of fare the name of a performer whom he did not pro-
duce. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the old stager, after
making his best bow to the house, “although Madame Cynthia
does not think fit to appear on these boards, she will cheerfully
lend you her assistance to get safely home; and I once more beg
leave to congratulate you on its being a ſine moon/ight might.”
STUFFED.
#. OPE the Comedian’s besetting sin was gastronomy.
§§| Amongst the many anecdotes related of him is a curious
equivogue which he occasioned at Drury Lane Theatre.
The Suspicious Husband was in rehearsal, in which Pope had
gone through the character of Strickland; but the actor who had
to sustain the part of his servant Tester “being Suddenly taken
ill,” an understrapper was called on to fulfil his duties. This
unhappy wight, being puzzled about the costume he had to wear,
accosted Pope just as he was passing off the wing, on his way
home to dinner. “Pray, sir,” said he, with nervous abruptness,
“how is it to be dressed ?” Pope, whose thoughts were running
on the turkey awaiting him, replied as abruptly, “Stuffed,
to be sure; stuffed, by all means.” On the evening of the play's
representation, when “all ladies and gentlemen concerned" met
in the green-room, ready to go on for their respective parts, in
walks the Tester of the night, as complete a Falstaff in livery as
could possibly have been accomplished. The shrieks of the
assembled party can well be imagined. “In the name of all

7A/AA TA’/CA/L AAVECDOTES. 1 17
that’s wonderful, what is this P” was the universal demand.
“Why why I Mr. Pope said it should be stuffed, and I can
assure you I have had trouble enough to get it all in,” replied the
terrified votary of the Thespian art.
JULIET’S FALL.
LAUGHABLE occurrence took place in the theatre at
Wigan, when the present century was in its teens.
The juvenile leading lady, a good actress—a very
pretty woman by the way, and a young mother—was cast to play
Juliet in Romeo and juliet. Her baby had been placed in her
dressing-room for Security, and in order that it should be near
its mother. But just before the balcony Scene the young tyrant
became unruly and impossible to control. What was to be
done P A mother’s tact hit upon the true Soothing syrup ; She
nestled the infant to her breast, and from that moment the
young villain became silent as a mouse. Juliet, being called,
hastily mounted the Supposed balcony, throwing a lace Scarf Over
her shoulders, which concealed the little suckling ; and leaning
over the balcony, with her other arm pensively placed upon her
cheek, she looked the picture of innocence and beauty. The Scene
opened and went glowingly. But, alas ! Juliet has to appear
and disappear three times, and in her effort to do so gracefully,
and yet conceal the baby, she stumbled against the iron brace
that supported the frail structure. Down fell the front of the
balcony, and, lo the love-lorn maid was discovered with a baby
at her breast, seated on a tub, and at her foot, accidentally placed
there by the thirsty carpenter, was a quart pot of beer. The
Said carpenter was discovered on all-fours, steadying with his
back the rickety structure above. Shrieks of laughter from all
parts of the house greeted the tableau, and of the play no more
was heard that night.
i

II8 THEATRICAZ AAVEC/DOTAE.S.
:
SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
ãºl HERIDAN KNOWLES was the most eccentric of men
§). One day he said to Abbot, with whom he had been
acting somewhere in the country, “My dear fellow, I’m
off to-morrow. Can I take any letters for you?” postage being
very expensive in those days. “You’re very kind,” answered
Abbot; “but where are you going to ?” “I haven’t made up
my mind,” was the startling reply. On another occasion, seeing
O. Smith, the popular melodramatic actor, on the opposite side
of the Strand, Knowles rushed across the road, seized him by
the hand, and inquired eagerly after his health. Smith, who only
knew him by sight, said, “I think, Mr. Knowles, you are
mistaken ; I am O. Smith.” “My dear fellow,” cried Knowles,
“I beg you ten thousand pardons ; I took you for your namesake,
T. P. Cooke | ?”
A THEATRICAL MRS. PARTINGTON.
;|RADON, a very inferior rival of Racine, possessed
jś neither genius nor education. The Prince de Conti,
meeting him after the first representation of his tragedy
Tamer/an, observed, “Why, Pradon, you have transported in
your play a town from Asia to Europe.” “I humbly beg your
Royal Highness's pardon,” said the dramatist, “but I must con-
fess I don’t understand anything about chronology.”
MARRIAGES MADE IN HEAVEN.
;|N Bannister's Memoirs a curious fact is related con-
| #| cerning the marriage of John Kemble. One of the
daughters of Lord North, the statesman, had fallen in
love with the graceful and showy actor merely from seeing him
on the stage. Kemble was sent for by the father, and, to his



TAZAZA TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DOTES. II9
astonishment, acquainted with the circumstance. The noble
lord told him further that it was in Kemble's power to do him a
great favour, relieving him effectually from all apprehension of
the young lady’s further indulging her fancy, by marrying any
one else for whom he might have an attachment, in which case
his lordship promised the actor’s wife a dower of £5000. Kemble
immediately proposed to Miss Brereton, daughter of Hopkins, the
Drury Lane prompter, a pretty actress in the company, and the
marriage took place without delay. Upon this happy event the
afflicted and magnanimous father recovered his spirits instantly,
but lost his memory. When Kemble applied for the promised
thousands, my lord declared that he had no recollection what-
ever of the contract further than some general conversation on
such matters, adding that if he was to pay £5000 for every
whim of his daughter's, he would soon be a poor man. It is
believed that Kemble never got a shilling from this sensitive
nobleman, and that for the rest of his life he attached a new
value to the vulgar etiquette of signing and Sealing beforehand,
even with the most plausible of mankind. It must be added,
however, that Kemble, on seeing this story in print, declared it
to be “a lie.”
COURT AND COURTESY.
; HE following is a pleasant glimpse of theatrical life in the
j;| time of “the Merry Monarch.” It is from the Sãetches
and AVožes of old Downes, bookkeeper, otherwise
prompter, of Davenant's Theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. “The
Su//en. Lowers (a play by Shadwell) was a wonderful success,
being acted twelve days together, when our company were
commanded to Dover, in May, 1670, the king, with all his
court, meeting his sister, the Duchess of Orleans, there. This
comedy and Sir Solomon Single pleased Madam the Duchess
and the whole company extremely. The French court wore then
excessive short, laced coats, some scarlet, some blue, with broad

I 20 7A/EA 7/8/CA/. AAVAEC/DOTES',
waist-belts. Mr. Nokes having at that time one shorter than
the French fashion to act Sir Arthur Addle in, the Duke of
Monmouth gave him his sword and belt from his side, and
buckled it on himself, on purpose to ape the French. Mr.
Nokes looked more like a dressed-up ape than a Sir Arthur,
which, upon his first entrance on the stage, put the king and
court to an excessive laughter, at which the French looked very
chagrined to see themselves aped by such a buffoon as Sir
Arthur. Mr. Nokes kept the duke's sword to his dying day.”
SLIPS OF THE TONGUE.
Fºl R. LEATHES, in his entertaining volume Azt Actor
§§§ Abroad, gives some amusing instances of what is
called “getting the tongue into a knot.” “I Once
heard,” he says, “a very famous tragedian, when playing Claude
Melnotte in The Zady of Zyons, speak of the box given to his
‘grand-grand-great mother ' ' I have twice heard that common
and ridiculous mistake made by a utility man in Richard the
Thård, ‘Stand back, my lord, and let the parson cough,’
instead of ‘the coffin pass.’ It is not difficult to make a nervous
performer misplace a word ; it is easy and unkind. I once
Chaffed a lady who was going to play the player Queen in
A/a/2/eſ, and was nervous, into saying—
} } }
“Nor earth to me give heaven, nor food light.
THE FIRST PLAY IN AMERICA.
N the 5th of September, 1752, the first play performed in
America by a regular company of comedians was
represented to a delighted audience at Williamsburg,
the capital of Virginia. The piece was the Merchant of Venice,
and it was followed by Garrick’s farce of Zethe. Thus Shake-
Speare had the first place in time as in merit as the dramatist of
Yºº
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TA/A2. A 7TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DOTAE.S. 121
the western world, and Garrick the honour of attending upon
his master. Zethe was then new even in London, and a
favourite afterpiece. William Hallam, who had failed, in 1750,
as manager in Goodman's Fields, London, was the person who
had enlisted the corps dramaſſigue for a visit to the “western
wilderness.” His brother, Lewis Hallam, was appointed
manager, and William, who stayed at home, was to be “viceroy
over him " according to Trinculo's division of offices. The
apostles who were to propagate the drama in America were
twelve in number, and twenty-four plays and their attendant
farces had been cast and put in study before leaving England.
The reason that the company went to Virginia, in preference to
the other American provinces, was because the first settlers in
that state were of the established English Church, and more
liberally disposed towards the drama than all other sects.
Hallam, upon application to the Governor, obtained permission
to erect or fit up a building for a theatre, and a long house in
the suburbs of Williamsburg was metamorphosed into pit,
boxes, gallery, and stage. It was situated so near the woods,
that the manager could stand within the door and shoot pigeons
for his dinner, which he more than once did.
A PROVOST'S INTERVENTION.
jºN instance of accidental recognition occurred in Scotland,
$ in 1793, which was not a little curious. Mrs. Cross, of
Covent Garden Theatre, was in that year acting in
Glasgow. On one occasion, the Provost being present, the
lady had no Sooner made her appearance on the stage, than the
agitated functionary exclaimed, “Stop—stop the play ! I
would speak to that woman.” Great was the consternation
throughout the auditory at this occurrence, and the curtain
being immediately lowered, the perturbed Provost made his
way at once into the actresses' dressing-room. After a few
hurried words, he discovered her to be his own wife, from whom

I22. T///ZA 7TA’/CA/. AAVEC/DOTES.
he had been separated for nearly twenty years. Each had
Supposed the other dead | The magistrate, hereupon, bore off
the lady to his house, and the next evening she took her place
in the boxes, where she was quite as much a heroine as when
Sustaining the woes of Calista on the stage.
TWO ROMEOS.
| LADY of fashion being asked her opinion of the
Romeo of Garrick and of Barry, said, “When I saw
Garrick, if I had been his Juliet, I should have wished
him to leap up into the balcony to me; but when I saw Barry,
I should have been inclined to jump down to him.”
PAINFU L COINCIDENCE,
#. IMS REEVES, the great tenor, before he became a
jº singer, was playing “little business,” and occasionally
Tº “singing walking gentleman,” at a salary of 35s, a week,
in the Newcastle-upon-Tyne troupe. One evening he was
playing the Squire in the pantomime of Old Mother Goose, and
at the very moment when he was walking off the stage, singing—
“My wife is dead, there let her lie,
She's at rest, and so am I,’”
A man tapped him hurriedly on the shoulder, and whispered,
“You must come home directly ; Mrs. Reeves is dead.” He
hurried home, and ſound it was but too true.
THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION.
fººd OHN ASHLEY, who at one time conducted the
§§ oratorios at Covent Garden, was a great lover of money.
The keys of his strong box had much more harmony for
him than the keys of the piano. Just before the performance



2TA/FA 7/0/CA/L AAVEC/DO 7"E.S. T 23
of one of the Oratorios, Ashley was suddenly seized by a fit of
epilepsy, and fell down, as though stricken with death, in the
green-room of the theatre. Medical aid was speedily procured,
but for a considerable time it was doubtful whether or not the
attack was fatal. The patient, however, was so far restored as
to regain consciousness of things around him, when, earnestly
Clasping the hands of a friend who bent over him, he exclaimed,
“In the name of Heaven, tell me what sort of a house it is P’’
A PARALLEL TO A PARABLE.
iº N the time when Thomas Sheridan was manager of the
Dublin Theatre, a fashion prevailed amongst the dessals
diz Zazzier-ladies of that city of benefiting distinguished
players by the lady patroness attending in person early at the
entrance of her box in the theatre, and receiving her company,
as in her own drawing-room, who paid their respects to her
before taking their places. Frequent jealousies arose among the
leaders of fashion concerning the éc/aſſ on their respective nights.
In the year 1758, a rich brewer's wife, ambitious of trying her
strength in a higher sphere, was rash enough to take a patronizing
lead for the benefit of some actor. She issued her cards accord-
ingly in the fashionable world for a special night, and took her
place early in the theatre for the general reception. To her great
mortification, however, and no less of the poor beneficiary, her
levée had but a gloomy appearance. Seated in solitary grandeur
at the door of her box, she had little interruption to her own
meditation, for no company arrived. She was in a high state
of anger and nervous irritation, when at last the box-keeper, ad-
vancing with an aspect of encouragement, observed, “Your
ladyship's gallery is excellent ; your ladyship's gallery looks
charming !” In the course of five minutes the man returned,
contentedly rubbing his hands, and bowing, “Your ladyship's
pit is improving ; we don’t despair of your ladyship's pit.”
By this time the curtain was up for the comedy. Maddened

124 7A/AA TA’/CA/. A WAECDOTAE.S.
with rage, the lady now took her seat on her crimson chair in a
side box, with an agreeable view of the whole dress circle per-
fectly empty, some twenty forlorn individuals in the pit, but “her
ladyship's gallery excellent.” Her state was positively volcanic.
At the close of the first act, the box-keeper again advanced,
observing, “Your ladyship's gallery is really tremendous—posi-
tively overwhelming ; we can’t contain them.” “Send them
here,” ejaculated the lady, gasping with fury. “Send them here, if
there are five hundred, and let the expenses be mine.” The order
was at once obeyed, and a body of ragamuffins was admitted,
which, if quantity did not supply the absence of quality, was
most satisfactory. The house was now a bumper. The benefit
thus turned out a good one, but the lady patroness withdrew
from that hour as a leader of fashion.
A NEW SPECIES OF RATA NY.
;|HE late Désiré, of the Bouffes Parisiens, had a friend
$º passionately fond of flowers and rare plants, and who
considered himself a great judge of them. One day
Désiré buried a dead rat in a flower-pot, and, allowing the tail to
remain above the earth, tied it up to a training Stick. He sent
this pot to his friend as a very rare specimen of a cactus. After
many days of great care and constant watering, which such a
valuable exotic required, the victim of Désiré's pleasantry began
to think that something might be amiss with the root of the
plant. He pulled the prodigy from the pot, and—sme/# a raſ.
A G|HASTLY DRIVE.
RATHER singular occurrence once happened to Mrs.
Bland, a celebrated ballad songstress, the delight of our
grandparents. She had ordered a hackney coach to be
in readiness at the door of Drury Lane Theatre to convey her
home at the close of the evening's entertainment. In she got,


7TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/C A/VAZCZOO 7TAZ.S. I25
but after some time perceived that the vehicle was proceeding in
the contrary direction to the place of her residence. She pulled
the check-string, but to no purpose ; the driver heeded not.
After a while, thoroughly terrified, she lowered the glass, and
shouted for help ; but the hackney at that moment was in some
shady part of London, and her cries only were answered by
derisive jokes. The passers-by fancied that the young lady was
merely in company of too lively a companion. At length, however,
some charitable Soul Stopped the horses, and it was then dis-
covered that the poor driver—Sat dead upon his box.
A PERTURBED GHOST.
§ºjS Dowton one evening was playing the ghost in Hamlet,
Wºl he was lowered by means of the trap in the stage,
his face being turned towards the audience. Elliston
and De Camp, who were concealed below, had provided them-
selves with canes, and whilst Dowton slowly descended to solemn
music, they sharply and rapidly belaboured the thinly clad calves
of his legs. Poor Dowton, whose duty it was to look as calm and
dignified as a ghost usually does, could scarcely refrain from
shouting. Choking with rage, he at length reached the lower
regions under the stage, and looked round for his torturers.
Elliston and De Camp had, of course, in time decayn/ed. Just,
then Holland, dressed for some part in the highest finish of
fashion, issued from one of the rooms. The enraged Dowton,
taking him for the offender, seized a mop immersed in dirty
water, and, thrusting it in his face, utterly ruined ruffles, point-
lace, and every particular of his elaborate attire. In vain
Holland protested his innocence, and implored for mercy. His
cries only whetted the appetite of the other's revenge ; again and
again the saturated mop was at work on his finery.
Somewhat cooled by this retaliation, Dowton at last left his
victim ; but by this time the prompter’s bell had announced the
commencement of the piece in which Holland was to appear.

I 26 TA/AE A*/TA’ACA / AAVAEC/DO 7TA.S.
What was to be done P The drama was proceeding ; it was
impossible for him to present himself in the condition to which
he had been reduced. All was confusion worse confounded.
An apology for the sudden indisposition of Mr. Holland was
made, and the public informed that Mr. De Camp had “kindly
undertaken to go on for the part.”
TWO ACCIDENTS.
§§l T one time there were two actors of the name of Palmer
|%"| –John Palmer, nicknamed “Plausible Jack,” and an-
tºr other, Isaac Palmer, who, being less celebrated than his
namesake, was styled in the play-bills Mr. I. Palmer. A day or
two after the sudden death of “Plausible Jack” on the Liverpool
stage, an actor, on leaving the green-room after a rehearsal,
meeting a friend in the Street, was asked if there was any news
in the theatrical world. “Yes,” was the reply, “most melancholy
news : John Palmer is dead, and another Palmer has had an
eye knocked out.” It may be proper to add that the initial “ I”
to the name of Palmer the Second had been immediately
omitted in the play-bills on the death of his namesake, because
he was then the only Mr. Palmer.
A DEED OF DREADFUL NOTE.
#. AUL BEDFORD, among many good anecdotes in his
§§| A’eminiscences, has the following:—On one of his
provincial tours with manager Yates, the répertoire in-
cluded a farce, entitled Deeds of Dreadful Moſe. A dummy was
used in this piece ; it was called “the victim,” and, being life-
size, used to travel with the troupe deposited in a capacious bag,
which entirely hid it from the vulgar gaze. On leaving New-
castle for York, in the hurry of packing the bag was mislaid,
and the only remedy was to put “the victim * into a potato-
sack, which just reached to the neck of the figure, leaving the



THAEA 7T/º/CA/. A /VAEC/DOTAE.S. I 27
head exposed to view. In that state it was deposited in the
luggage van with the rest of the theatrical belongings. The
company had to change trains at North Allerton, and as
the York train was about to start, it was discovered that
the “victim " was missing. Tom Lyon at once rushed to the
luggage van, and recovered the lost one. He threw the sack
across his manly shoulders, and trotted along the platform, to
the great disgust of all the passengers, who thought he carried a
dead body; for the head of the “victim’ hung on Lyon's back,
and at every step the agile bearer took, it wobbled up and
down in a ghastly manner. Arrived at York, the actors took up
their abode at the Royal Hotel, and soon were quietly sitting
down to their dinner, when a waiter entered in consternation,
and whispered that a police inspector wanted to see the gentle-
men who had just arrived. The myrmidon of the law made his
appearance, and informed them that it was his painful duty to
arrest them all as a gang of body-snatchers, a party of police
being in waiting outside for that purpose. Roars of laughter
greeted this communication ; the victim in the sack was
introduced to the police, and the character of the company
redeemed. The inspector left, highly amused, and making all
Sorts of apologies ; but the affair was rumoured through the
Cathedral town, and the victim became the most attractive star
of the whole party.
ALL THE DIFFERENCE.
CERTAIN actor was playing Richard Žhe 7%ird at
Wells. Disapprobation of his performance was soon
manifested in very palpable hisses, and by the end of
the third act the endemic pervaded the whole audience. The
acting certainly was bad, but the ill-nature of the audience was
worse. Suddenly the poor, persecuted player, dropping his
character, advanced to the front of the stage, and thus ad-
dressed his judges : “Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Kean is

I 28 7TA/AEA T/º/CA1/, AAVEC/DO 7TP.S.
playing this part in London, at a salary of £30 per night. I
receive but I 5s. a week ; and if it isn’t good enough for the
money, may the Lord above give you a better humanity.” This
well-timed reproof, delivered with much point and feeling, won
instantly all hearts to his favour.
A FAI, LING STAR.
El N 1823, Barnard, an actor in the Drury Lane company
essayed a benefit at the Croydon Theatre, on which
occasion Elliston volunteered his services. Elliston
had taken up his quarters at the Crown Inn, and the ac-
commodation at the theatre being but indifferent, he equipped
himself at his inn for the part he had to play. The approach
to the theatre was by a rough and dirty lane ; six o'clock was at
hand, and no conveyance could be obtained ; it rained, more-
over, steadily. Elliston, dressed for Belcour in The West
Indian, was presently to appear on the stage. There was no
choice ; throwing over his shoulders a thick woollen blanket, he
got the ostler to be his beast of burden. Jumping on the man's
shoulders, his whitney tightly round him, Elliston turned his
“conveyance” up the lane, and, holding an umbrella over the
two heads, commenced his journey to the playhouse. The
exhibition was sufficiently grotesque : Belcour’s silk Stockings
peeping from beneath the dirty blanket, his head surmounted
by a huge cocked hat, could not fail to excite the native merri-
ment of the country bumpkins who were loitering about the
place; but Elliston felt that he was in for it, and would have
run the gauntlet gallantly. Joe, the Ostler, less patient, and
additionally roused by a projectile, which hit him full in the face,
deliberately flopped our hero into the mud, and Scampered after
the retreating rioters. Poor Belcour was now up to his ankles
in the mud, and the moisture having Sucked off one of his shoes
in the attempt to escape, the result might have been fatal to
The West Indian, had he not been rescued by one more humane

THEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES. 129
than his fellows, and carried on to the theatre, where he at last
was safely deposited. -
THE STATUE OF PYGMALION.
SHE conduct of Mademoiselle Raucourt, the once cele-
brated tragedian, of the Théâtre Français, was so in-
decorous, that the otherwise rather indulgent audiences
of that day could not overlook her vagaries. In 1774, she had
incurred public disapprobation to such an extent, that she was
hissed the whole time she was impersonating Hermione in
Racine's Andromague, a part in which she had once been pro-
nounced insurpassable, and which she acted then as well as
ever. A curious incident procured her once more the favour
of the public. It was of the same nature as that which ob-
tained for Phryne of old the verdict of the Heliasts' tribunal.
Rousseau's Pygma/ion was to be produced, and, in order to
justify the sculptor's mad passion for his work, a very ex-
quisite statue was requisite. No greater perfection of female
forms could be found than Mademoiselle Raucourt presented,
and that lady had, moreover, no objection on the Score of
delicacy against the somewhat Zéger costume in which she had
to appear. The effect she produced on the spectators when the
curtain rose may be better imagined than described. There
stood the matchless beauty, robed in little else but her innocence,
and a ray of light as fierce as ever beat on a throne. La Harpe
exclaimed, in his squeaking voice, that it was the head of Venus
with the limbs of Dian. Many were the poets who sang her
charms. Dorat proclaimed her more beautiful than Dido, but
less chaste than Penelope. He might have added less thrifty also,
for Raucourt, lavish as were the sums squandered upon her, was
always over head and ears in debt. At last she had to fly from
Paris to escape from her creditors. This occurrence gave the
name to a new bonnet, to which there was no back, and which
looked like a basket without a bottom. Now, as everybody
K.
&ºº
º #:
ãº
º
* *


I 30 THEATRICAL ANECDOTES.
knows, Zamier žercé is synonymous for a person deeply in debt,
and so the new-fashioned backless bonnet came to be called /a:
Aºazécole??,
ABOUT BILL-STICKING.
ãº, HERE was an old lady named Wall, who had been an
§
º º
actress in a Subordinate situation for many seasons in
the Haymarket Theatre, and for whom George Colman,
from early associations, had a kind consideration. In due time
the old lady died. Somebody from the theatre went to break
the intelligence to Colman, who, on hearing it, inquired “whether
there had been any bills stuck up P” The messenger replied in
the negative, and ventured to ask Mr. Colman why he had put
that question. Colman answered, “They generally paste bills on
a dead wall, don’t they P”
ROMAN CITIZENS.
fºLWIN FORREST’S legs were a theme of great admira-
tion to the world at large, and of no little pride to
himself. As he was playing Virginius in Baltimore,
Forrest, in the costume of the Roman General, was standing at
the wings, with his usual scornful Smile, gazing at the actors and
supernumeraries standing on the stage. The lower limbs of the
actors, for the most part being plentifully padded, presented a
respectable appearance; but the poor supers, being, as is usually
the case in American theatres, mere overgrown boys, and having
no pads, their limbs were ridiculous, and the tights with which
they were covered being “a world too wide for their shrunk
shanks,” their appearance roused the ire of Mr. Forrest. The
manager passing at the time, Forrest called his attention to the
supers, and said, “Mr. Ford, for heaven’s sake, what are
those P’’ “Those,” replied the manager, “are Roman citizens, Mr.
Forrest.” “Roman citizens !” exclaimed Forrest. “Ye gods:


THEA. TA’/CA/L AAVECOO 7TES. I 3 I
did Romans have legs like those 2 * The air of utter disgust
attending the words was indescribable, and Forrest stalked on
the stage as if he could devour the Roman citizens, bony as they
Were,
ANN OLD FIELD.
gºl HE position occupied by Mrs. Oldfield in society may be
§§ ranked among the most curious phenomena in the social
history of the eighteenth century. Many actresses have
played quite as well and better, many have lived purer lives, yet
none have made their way into Vanity Fair with the same
success as Mrs. Oldfield. Although leading a by no means
irreproachable life, this comedian, “in the tea-cup days” of Queen
Anne and the first two Georges, was invited to the houses of
ladies of fashion as much distinguished for spotless reputation as
for elevated rank. Her irregularities seem merely to have been
considered “pretty Fanny's ways.” Even the royal family did
not disdain to see Mrs. Oldfield at their levees, and George II.,
when Prince of Wales, took pleasure in conversing with her.
She was to be seen on the terrace of Windsor Castle, walking
with duchesses and countesses and the wives of English barons.
The whole gay troupe might be heard calling one another by
their Christian names, and treated the pet actress on the most
intimate terms of equality.
For many years Mrs. Oldfield lived with Arthur Mainwaring,
the friend of Marlborough and Godolphin. After Mainwaring's
death, in 1712, the Hon. Brigadier Churchill became her pro-
tector. “I hear you and the general are married,” said Queen
Caroline to her one day. “Madame,” she replied, “the general
keeps his own secrets.” Mrs. Oldfield died at her house in
Grosvenor Street, on the 23rd of October, 1730. On the next day
she lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, Westminster, and,
perhaps in anticipation of this “last appearance in public,” had
ordered the funeral attire satirized by Pope—

I32 7A/EA 7/v/CA/. A WAEC/DO 7TES.
“Odious ! in woollen 'twould a saint provoke
Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke.
No 1 let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face.
One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead;
And, Betty, give this cheek a little red.”
“As the nicety of dress was her delight when living,” says
Egerton, her biographer, “she was as nicely dressed after her
decease, being by Mrs. Saunders' (a friend and fellow-actress)
direction thus laid in her coffin : she had on a very fine Brussels
lace head, a Holland shift, with tucker and double ruffles of the
Same lace, a pair of new kid gloves, and her body wrapped up in
a winding sheet.” Late in the same night she was interred in
Westminster Abbey, the supporters of her pall being the Lords
Delawar and Harvey, Mr. Cary, Mr. Hedges of Finchley, Mr.
Donnington, and Captain Elliot. Her tomb is at the west-end
of the South aisle, near the monuments of Secretary Craggs and
of Congreve, adjoining which is the room in which the Consis-
tory or Spiritual Court used to sit. As both these gentlemen,
as well as Oldfield, had been noted for amours not recognized by
the Church, a withing is said to have pencilled the following
ungrammatical epigram on the actress's tomb :-
“If penance in the Bishop's Court be feared,
Congreve and Craggs and Oldfield will be scared
To find that at the Resurrection Day,
They've all so near the Consistory lay.” *
Mrs. Oldfield had one son by Mainwaring and one by General
Churchill. The latter, Colonel Churchill, married a natural
daughter of the Earl of Orford, and their daughter married,
in 1777, Charles Sloane, first Earl of Cadogan. Their two
daughters married two brothers of the Duke of Wellington, so
that Lord Cowley, late ambassador at Paris, and Lord
Alfred Paget are the great great grand-children of Ann Oldfield.
In the Cadogan family the Oldfield blood was increased by the
marriage of Henry, Ann's grandson, in 1836, with his cousin
Mary, daughter of Gerald and Emily Wellesley.
THEA TR/CA/L AAVECDOTES. 133
LEMAITRE'S FREAKS.
§ RÉDíRIC LEMAITRE was a singularly gifted actor,
but afflicted with a certain something offensive to good
taste. A note of vulgarity was observable in the man,
partly owing to his daring animal spirits, but still more to an
innate vulgarity of nature. He was a great favourite of the
audiences of the Porte St. Martin, but, like a spoiled child, too
often he abused their favour. Once he made a bet that he
would take his wig off on the stage. He did so, and nothing
was said. This success emboldened him ; a second time he
took oſſ Ilis head-gear, and wiped his forehead with it. Still
no notice was taken of this singularity. Surprised at So much
magnanimity, Lemaitre took it off a third time, and used it as a
handkerchief. Then a terrible storm arose ; a chorus of groans,
hisses, the usual hurricanes of theatrical disapprobation, and the
insulted audience roaring for the actor to make apologies. He
resisted, the play was interrupted ; and, in accordance with
French modes of doing, the offending actor was sent to jail, where
he remained for thirty-nine days, to do penance for his disgraceful
jest. After that his peace with the public was soon made ; his
remedy was efficacious, he played if possible better than ever. A
score of circumstances of this kind may be found in Lemaitre's
life. Once, in the drama of Card://ac, he actually flung his wig
to the pit. This breach of good manners was also punished
with imprisonment.
DOCTOR KENT.
ſº OHN KEMBLE used to relate many whimsical anecdotes
§ of provincial actors whom he knew in the early part of
his life. He once “forgathered" with an actor who,
being about to perform the character of Kent in źng Zear, had
dressed himself like a doctor, with a large grizzly wig, having a


I 34 7A/ASA 7'A’ſ CA / AAVAEC/DO 7"A.S.
walking-stick which he held up to his nose, and a box under his
arm. Being asked why he dressed the Earl of Kent in that
manner, he replied, “People mistake the character. He was not
an earl ; he was a doctor. Does not Kent say, when the king
draws his sword on him for speaking in favour of Cordelia,
“Do kill thy Žhysician, Lear; and when the king tells him
to take his hated ‘ frunk from his dominions,’ and Kent says,
‘Now to new climes my old trunk I'll bear, what could he
mean but his medicine chest to practice in another country?” This
notion, in Whinstone’s Fong/ish Dramatic Poets, is attributed
to Hall, who was a famous actor of Queen Anne's time, and the
original Lockit in the Beggar’s Ożera.
ACTING WITH SPIRIT.
iº URST was an actor quite of the ordinary stamp, and
§§§ finding his salary not adequate to support the rank to
which he aspired, he became a brandy merchant.
While he was performing one of the characters in The A’ehearsal
soon after he had assumed this business, Garrick, who in repre-
senting Bayes generally introduced some opportune or personal
joke, thus addressed Hurst, “Sir,” said he, “you are an actor
and, I understand, a brandy merchant. Now, sir, let me advise
you to put less spirit in your liquor and more in your acting, and
you will preserve the health of your friends, and the approbation
of the public.” This sally was well received, and, as Garrick
intended, augmented the number of Hurst’s customers.
A TEMU LEN'T PRAY.
SINGULAR occurrence took place at the Theatre Royal,
Drury Lane, in 1693. A comedy entitled The Wary
Widow, or Sir AVoisy Parrot, written by Henry Higden,
was produced. “It was condemned on its first representation
owing to the extraordinary circumstance that the author had


TAZAZ A 7TR/CA/C A/VAZCZOO 7/2.S. 135
introduced so much drinking of punch into his play, that the
performers got drunk during the acting of it, and were unable to
go through their parts. On which account, and the treatment
the audience gave them by hisses and catcalls, the house was
obliged to be dismissed at the end of the third act.” So says
Reid’s Biograffhäa Dramatica. Higden's comedy was subse-
quently printed, and is now a scarce book, but there is a copy
in the British Museum. The play, which is by no means bad,
is ushered in by several complimentary verses, some of them by
the well-known Tom Brown, and a prologue by Sir Charles
Sedley. In the lengthy preface by the author, though he is suffi-
ciently out of humour, no mention is made of the above untoward
circumstance. The fall of the piece is solely attributed to
malevolence. “The theatre was by faction transformed into a
bear-garden, hissing, mimicking, ridiculing, and catcalling ; the
actors could not support themselves against so strong a current.”
The Bacchanalian scenes in the play were not above the ordinary.
In the second act, “ colour’d water, prepared to look as wine,”
plays a part ; and one of the scenes in the third act is laid at the
Rose Tavern, Covent Garden. There a vigorous drinking bout
took place, at the end of which the stage direction has “Sir Noisy
lets fall his glass and sinks in the chair.” In this scene
the punch probably was too strong, and led to the catastrophe.
HOW TO GET A PLAY ACTED.
sºl{HEN Mallet had finished his tragedy of E/vāra, he cast
iá'A' | about in what manner he could best prevail upon
Garrick to put it on the stage. He knew that his
two former plays, Eurydice and Britannia, had been no great
success; manoeuvring, therefore, was necessary. One day he
called upon Garrick, with Elvira in his pocket. After some
conversation, Garrick inquired on what studies Mallet was
engaged just then. “Why, 'pon my word,” replied he, “I am
eternally fatigued with preparing and arranging materials for the

136 THEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES.
life of the great Duke of Marlborough. All my days and nights
are occupied in that bright and interesting period of the British
annals. But, hark you, my friend, do you know that I have
found a pretty snug niche in it for you?” “Heh how’s that?
A niche for me !” exclaimed Garrick, delighted, “How on earth
could you bring me into the history of John Churchill, Duke of
Marlborough P” “That’s my business, my dear friend,” was the
answer ; “but I tell you I have done it.” “Well, faith, Mallet,”
rejoined David, “you have the art of surprising your friends in
the most unexpected and polite manner. But why won't you,
now, who are so well qualified, write something for the stage. You
should really. Zºe??ozze fuzs—ha ! ..you know ; for I am sure the
theatre is a mere matter of diversion, of pleasure to you.”
“Why, faith,” rejoined Mallet, “to tell you the truth, I have,
whenever I could rob the duke of an hour or so, employed
myself in adapting Lamotte's Zhez de Castro to the English stage,
and here it is.” The manager embraced AE/v7ra with rapture,
and brought it out with all expedition. “. .
A SMALL AUDIENCE.
§§§ EIILE Stephen Kemble was manager of a theatre at
AA.) Portsmouth, which was only open twice or thrice a
week, a sailor applied to him on one of the nights when
there was no performance, entreating him to open that evening.
He was informed that as the town had not been apprised on the
occasion, the manager could not risk the expense. “What will
it cost,” inquired the sailor, “to open the house to-night? for
to-morrow I leave the country, and God knows if I shall eversee
a play again.” Kemble told him that it would be five guineas(ſ).
“Well,” said Jack, “I will give it upon this condition, that you
will let nobody into the house but myself.” He was then asked
what play he would choose, and fixed upon Richard III. The
house was immediately lighted, the rest of the performers
attended, and Jack took his station in the front row of the pit.

THAEA 7/0/CA/L AAVAEC/DOTAES, I37
The play was performed throughout ; the sailor was very atten-
tive, sometimes laughing and applauding, but frequently on the
2004-0% lest some other auditor might intrude. After the
conclusion, he retired perfectly satisfied, and cordially thanked
the manager for his ready compliance.
A GHASTI.Y STUDY.
sºl HEN the Cato-Street conspirators were to be executed,
#AA' | Kean sat up all night in a room opposite the debtor's
door of the Old Bailey to catch a full view of the pro-
ceedings. The next morning he watched the sickening perform-
ance with the greatest attention, and as he was going on the
stage in the evening, to act in a part in which he had to die, he
observed, “I mean to die like Thistlewood to-night ; I’ll imitate
every muscle of that man’s countenance.”
“SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.”
#|ANDENHOFF, in his Dramatic Reminiscences, gives a
*AW.6 bit of a conversation between Mrs. Glover, Mrs. Orger,
and Mrs. Humby, which, for epigrammatic ſinesse, would
figure well in Sheridan's witty comedy. The ladies were dis-
cussing the marriage between Madame Vestris and Charles
Mathews. “They say,” remarked Mrs. Humby, with a quaint
air of assumed simplicity, “that before accepting him, Vestris
made a full confession of all the indiscretions of her life. What
touching confidence | * “What needless trouble !” said Mrs.
Orger. “What a wonderful memory !” exclaimed Mrs. Glover,
capping the exclamations of her sisters triumphantly.


I 38 7A/EA TRICA/L AAVECDOTES.
FEMALE DUELLISTS.
ſº N former times, when duels were the order of the day in
i France, the actresses occasionally showed themselves
quite as pugnacious as the sterner sex. In 1649,
Mademoiselle Beaupré, one of the first women who appeared on
the Parisian stage, Considering herself insulted by a sister
comedian, Catherine des Urlis of the Palais Royal, sent her a
challenge. The pair fought with stage swords behind the
scenes; Catherine received a wound in the neck, and would
have been killed by her infuriated antagonist had they not been
parted. -
A few years later Mademoiselle Maupin, a singer of the
Parisian stage and a notorious adventuress, the heroine of one
of Theophile Gauthier’s novels, had nearly as many duels as
Paul de Cassagnac. In one of her encounters she faced three
men, and came off victorious. On another occasion, Dumesnil,
an opera singer, having insulted her, she sent him a challenge.
The singer declined the honour, whereupon La Maupin, assuming
male attire, lay in wait for him in the Place des Victoires, and
on his refusing to draw, Soundly caned him.”
In the last century a meeting was appointed between two
rival ladies of the Opera in Paris, Mademoiselle Beaumesnil, a
singer, and Mademoiselle Theodore, a celebrated dancer. With
great propriety, the ladies had chosen the Porte Mail/of as the
arena of their fight. They arrived at the trysting-place, attired
in riding habits, accompanied by their seconds, four in number,
* This latter mode of avenging an insult, the reader will remember, was
also adopted by Lydia Thompson, on the body of an American critic who
had spoken disparagingly of the “B. B. B.” or Blonde Troupe. Another
celebrity in this line was the mother of Avonia and Melinda Jones, two well-
known American actresses, who was known in the West as “the man flogger,”
from having cowhided more actors and editors than any other representative
of the weaker sex, -

TAZAFA TRICA/. AAVEC/DOTE.S. I39
all members of the same theatrical company. The weapons
this time were pistols; but just as the ladies had measured their
ground, Rey, the thorough bass singer, made his appearance as
the Deus ear Machima. His presence and his eloquence being
unable to allay the fierce passions of the amazons, the Con-
siderate bass singer bethought himself to lay the pistols on the
wet grass. The consequence was that when the inexorable
beauties fired at each other, the primings being wet, both hung
fire. No supply of powder had apparently been brought to re-
load the weapons, and the scene ended, stage fashion, with
embraces all round.
In 1820, two female dancers, quarrelling in the greenroom
about the gold collar of a dog presented to them by a Swedish
Count, determined to settle the question at once. They adjourned
behind the Scenes, and had a vigorous set to with Swords.
Fortunately, the weapons used were those employed for stage
duels, and harmlessly blunted, so that the combatants could prog
each other to their hearts' content without a drop of their
precious blood being spilt.
A CHEMICAL JOKE.
;|AYLOR, the dramatist, was as inveterate a punster as
§§| Theodore Hook. Going into the greenroom of the
Haymarket Theatre on one occasion, he was requested
by Colman, the manager, to subscribe a small sum to a distressed
chemist, who had lived in Panton Street, and was well known to
the theatrical company. “A broken chemist, is he P” said
Taylor. “Well, there's half-a-crown for the eahawszed receiver.”
THE GREAT THIRSTLAND.
5. HE two first operas of Michael Balfe—Zhe Siege of
| Rochelſe and The Maid of Artois—were produced at
Drury Lane in 1835–6. The gifted and ill-ſated Madame
Malibran sustained the principal part in The AZaid of Artois a


I4O TAZAZA TA’/CA/L AAVAEC/DOTAE.S.
few months before her premature death. In Bunn's History of
the Stage we are told an amusing anecdote of the famous vocalist
in this character. She was supposed in the last act to be perish-
ing with thirst in the desert ; the scene was long and exhausting,
the lady in delicate health. She therefore proposed to Bunn that
he should somehow convey a pint of porter to her in the desert,
promising him in that case an encore to the finale. “So,” says
Bunn, “I arranged that behind the pile of drifted sand, on which
She sinks exhausted, a small aperture should be made in the
Stage, and through that aperture a pewter pint of porter was
conveyed to the parched lips of this rare child of song, which so
revived her, after the terrible exertion of the scene, that she
electrified the audience, and had strength to repeat the finale.”
LOGICAL.
fººl N one of Dryden's plays there was a line which the
º actress endeavoured to speak in as moving and affecting
a tone as she could—
“My wound is great, because it is so small.”
Then she paused, and looked very distressed. The Duke of
Buckingham, who was in one of the boxes, rose immediately
from his seat, and added in a loud tone, parodying the manner
of the actress— -
“Then 'twould be greater, were it none at all,”
which had such an effect on the audience, who before were not
very well pleased with the play, that they hissed the poor
woman off the stage, and the piece fell. -

7THAEA 7/2/CA/. AAVEC/DO 7TA.S. I4 I
HIS LAST JOKE.
#.LLISTON, within a few hours of his death, objected to
lſº take some medicine, and, in order to induce him to do
So, he was told he should have some brandy and water
afterwards. A faint Smile stole over his face, and the old roguish
light gleamed for a moment in his glazing eye, as he murmured,
“Bribery and corruption.” They were almost the last intelli-
gible words he uttered.
LISTON'S PUFF.
§|HE following advertisement from Liston, the comic actor,
appeared in the newspapers in June, 1817, on the
approach of his benefit. It is a good satire on shop-
keepers' puffing –
“A/r. Lisſoſz žo ſhe Édiſor.
“Sir, my benefit takes place this evening, at Covent Garden
Theatre, and, I doubt not, will be splendidly attended. Several
parties in the first circle of fashion were made, the moment it
was announced. I shall perform Fogrum in 7%e Slave, and
Leporello in 7%e Zööeräme, and in the delineations of those
arduous characters I shall display much feeling and discrimi-
nation, together with great taste in my dresses and elegance
in my manner. The audience will be delighted with my
exertions, and testify by rapturous applause, their most decided
approbation.
“When we consider, in addition to my professional merits,
the loveliness of my person and fascinations of my face,” which
are only equalled by the amiability of my private character,
* The reader will remember that Liston was as ugly as sin is said to be.
“There is one face of Farley, one face of Knight, one—but what a one it
is l—of Liston,” says Charles Lamb.


I42 TAZAZ A 7TR/CA/C AAVEC/DOTAE.S.
having never ‘pinched my children, nor kicked my wife out of
bed,’ there is no doubt but this puff will not be inserted in vain.
“I am, sir, your obedient servant,
“J. LISTON.
“jºezae Io, 1817.”
OPPORTUNE ADVICE.
s' N 1713 a troupe of strolling actors were murdering Cato
one night at Windsor. The ancient Roman senators
met with little respect from the audience, and poor
King Juba was so truly an object of ridicule, that when, hearing
Marcia's confession of love for him, he cried out in a transport
of joy, “What do I hear?” Lord Malpas, wilfully mistaking the
inquiry, answered from the pit, “Upon my word, sir, I don’t
know. I think you had better be gone.” This opportune advice
put an end to the play.
FORTUNATE POOR.
CERTAIN member of what Kitty Clive emphatically
used to call the “damaged quality,” in other words a
scion of a noble French family, déc/assé through mis-
conduct, took it into his head to make Mademoiselle Dejazet
pay “smart money.” For this purpose he assailed the celebrated
actress in a vile newspaper, but which was extensively read in all
the minor cafés of the Boulevard. Though far above such foul
attacks, Dejazet was annoyed at these proceedings, and applied
personally at the office of the paper in question. This was
what the damaged one desired. He now changed his tactics,
protested that he had only resorted to the traducements as a
means to obtain an interview with the charming actress, and,
after some preliminaries, ended in offering her his hand and
heart. Dejazet declined the honour, when the lovesick Swain
exclaimed, “Take compassion ; do me the charity of one kiss,


THEATRICA / AAVECDOTES, 143
at least.” “AWom flas, non Zas,” replied the actress, “jaz mes
Żauvres.”
MAYVEzº.
IGNUM, was once impersonating one of the dumb
º nobles in Shakespeare's Henry the Eighth. On hearing
the words in praise of Cardinal Wolsey's learning,
“Witness those twins, Ipswich and Oxford,” colleges which the
Cardinal had founded, Dignum whispered to his brother nobles on
the stage, that he never knew the cardinal had been married,
and asked if the twins were his illegitimate offspring.
THE DO G-STAR.
ſºlº N 1803 Reynolds, the dramatist, produced a musical after-
#| piece in Drury Lane, entitled The Caravan; or, the
AXriver and his /20g. There was some pretty music in
it. It had a great run, and brought much money to the treasury,
but the chief attraction of the piece was a dog called Carlo.
One day Sheridan went to see the performance of this wonderful
dog. As he entered the greenroom, Dignum, who played the
principal part in the piece, said to him, with a woebegone
countenance, “Sir, there is no guarding against illness; it is truly
lamentable to stop the run of a successful piece like this, but
really— ” “Really what?” cried Sheridan, interrupting him.
“I am so unwell,” continued Dignum, “that I cannot go on
longer than to-night.” “You !” exclaimed Sheridan. “My
good fellow, you terrified me ; I thought you were going to say
the dog was taken ill.” -

I 44 7TAZAZA TA’/CA/. AAVEC/DOTE.S.
POLITE TO THE END.
; HE late Signor Giulini, being much applauded in the
§§ Trovatore one night as Manrico, quitted the dungeon in
which he was confined, came forward to the public,
bowed, and then, not to cheat the executioner, went calmly back
to prison to meet his fate.
AN ECCENTRIC ACTRESS,
CURIOUS type of an actress occurs in Tate Wilkinson's
Wandering Pałezzfee, an amusing though very oddly
written book. On Tuesday, March 20, 1794, Tate
made the acquaintance of an extraordinary “stage princess”
named Hannah Brand. He describes her as “very sensible, but
too learned,” and asserts that she considered that the only bar to
her success was the envy of the Kembles and Mrs. Siddons.
“She values herself on not holding up her train, as her constant
use of large drawing-rooms, and a frequent habit of brilliant
assemblies,” she said, “prevent such trifles ever to occur as
necessary.” Fielding's works she thought not worth reading ;
the Latin authors, “in their original purity of language,” were this
tremendous lady's Only relaxation. “No sensible person ever
sat to see a farce ; it is only a loss of time and degrading to taste,”
she observed. Her mode of expressing herself would be thought
exaggerated in a comedy. When Wilkinson inquired what play
she would prefer to have acted for her benefit, she replied,
“Why, sir, should I strike the anvil of my brain when there is
nothing to hammer out?” She sent Wilkinson one morning a
note somewhat incorrectly penned, which the waggish manager
pointed out to her. Hannah, “puffing out her chest with infinite
majesty,” answered, “Mr. Wil-kin-son, had I wrote that note to
Mrs. Wil-kin-Son, I had peradventure not been so precisely exact
as to grammatical points; but when I consider that I was
º-ººr ºf º
º
º
º
º §3.
º º
ºº: º


TA/FAZTA’/CAA. AAVECDOTAES, I45
addressing a classical gentleman, I judged it obviously necessary
to be careful of any unguarded slip. If you would attentively
peruse the note, you will quickly perceive that the line alluded to
was appertaining to the //ural, not the singular number.” Wil-
kinson burst out laughing, and assured her that the gods had made
him neither learned nor classical. “Well,” said Hannah, “it is
wonderful not to converse with the ancients—the Italian, French,
Latin, Greek authors, all which I can read, perfectly understand,
and Speak fluently.” Immediately after this, she pronounced a
word without being able to say whether it was Greek or Latin,
and quoted a line in each language to ascertain to which, it
belonged. Nor was she much more definite in her English, for
She would say on the stage testate for estate, and archangcl.,
and make hundreds of errors of that description.
Her theatrical dresses were elegant, but all their effect was
lost, because the classic dame wore old-fashioned stays, up to her
throat, at a time when low-bodied dresses were all the rage.
“Hannah Brand,” says Wilkinson, “would not unveil her
charms even to the chaste Diana ; therefore she, with well-
bound bone, forbade all access. Troy was not more impregnable
within its walls, bulwarks, and gates of brass than was the fear-
less Hannah.” Her first appearance as the gay Lady Townly
“ met with rude remarks of disgustful behaviour, and that from
ladies.” Her presence at the playhouse as a spectator in a box
was thus described : “She was accoutred in an old-fashioned
jacket with deep flaps, with a tremendous long bosom-frill, over
which the right hand was extended, and in this fixed attitude she
continued, pensively superior, from the beginning of the evening’s
entertainment to the finale.” She never went to the theatre or
returned home otherwise than in a chair, so afraid was she of the
insulter—man. Her dresses always were very good, her linen of
the finest quality, all was rich enough for the royal drawing-room ;
but they were of eccentric fashions, and either in the Street,
or the room, she wanted only a spear and a shield to have awed
the wondering beholders with her grand and portly bcaring.
T,
I46 THEATR/CAA. AAVEC/DOTES.
Hannah Brand finally gravitated into her real vocation, and
ended her days as the mistress of a “respectable seminary for
French education ” at Norwich. -
IN CLED ON’S “VAMPING.”
iſºl NCLED ON had always a very bad memory for “study,”
and, to use a theatrical term, could never “vamp,”
which means that an actor substitutes his own words
when the author's are forgotten. One night, whilst playing a
lover, in the midst of a passionate address to his mistress he
“stuck.” In vain the lady hemm’d and ha'd, the prompter
whispered, his agitation only increased. All came to a standstill
till Incledon suddenly observed to the lady that love having
taken away his language, perhaps she would permit him to
express what he felt in a favourite air. He then broke into
“Black-eyed Susan,” and whilst singing one verse recollected
the author. A thunder of applause greeted this effusion, after
which Incledon proceeded with spirit in his part as written in
the book. Incledon availed himself so often of this resource
that it became a remark in the greenroom, whenever he was
heard singing on the stage, “Is he singing the music, or
recollecting the words P” -
A WELL-SPREAD BOARD.
§|AST winter, when the sandwich-men of the Royalty
Theatre used to perambulate the streets of London with
a Mephistophelian red cap and feather, and a red-hot
poker in their hands, to announce the play of P/ufo, a well-known
actor, walking one morning with a friend down the Strand, came
upon this melancholy String of human beings. “I pity those
poor beggars,” the friend said, “ dressed up like that, and con-
demned to trudge the streets all day for eighteenpence.”
“Eighteenpence and their board,” the actor replied,


7THEA TRICA/. AAVECDOTES. I47
“AND THEREBY HANGS A TAIL.”
ſºft|RS. INCHBALD, a very pleasing actress, a most
§§§ agreeable woman, and a charming writer, waited one
morning with a new play on Mr. Harris, the chief
proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre. That gentleman, not
accustomed to find the virtue of some of his fair performers
impregnable, Suddenly became violently enamoured of the hand-
some authoress, and Signified his devotion in a rather rough
fashion. Those were the days when queues were worn, and
Mrs. Inchbald Seizing the inflammable manager by his caudal
appendage with one hand, with the other hand lustily rang the
bell, till assistance appeared. Ever afterwards, when speaking
of this love rendoſt/re, she used whimsically to stammer out,
with that peculiar impediment in her speech, “How f-ortunate.
for me he did not wi-ear a w-ig.” To which apparently just
remark, a certain punning brother dramatist one day replied,
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Inchbald ; had your aggressor worn
a tie-wºg, you would have been wholly saved from his amorous
attacks, because *
“Love, light as air, at sight of human #yes
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.”
|ECCENTRIC SPEECH.
iº R. BLISSETT, the Bath comedian, like many other
§§§ children of Thespis, was an oddity in private as well as
in public life. Among other whimsicalities he had
framed for his own use a brief number of original words, well
known and understood by the accustomed ear of his intimates.
Though those words were few, one serving many purposes, they
were mixed up with Mr. Blissett’s general phraseology and em-
ployed in every affair of life, whether serious or comic. After a
long life spent in Bath, Blissett, in 1803, was tempted by Colman


148 THEA TRICA / AAVECDOTE.S.
to appear at the Haymarket, to take the lengthy part of Vigil in
Zove Zazaghs aſ Zocksmiths. Visions of dreary days of study and
waste of midnight oil flitted fearfully before Blissett’s imagination,
and he at once resolved to decline the honour. Walking delibe-
rately up to the table where Colman sat, and looking into his
merry face with his own as serious as nature would allow it to
appear, he thus intended to express his meaning : “Mr. Colman,
your farce is excellent, and the part you have assigned me is a
very good one ; but, at my time of life, I had no intention of
coming up to London to study new characters, and I would
rather resign my engagement than attempt to force such a
number of lengths º into my head, which would rob me both of
my rest and health.” This is what Blissett meanſ to say, but
Owing to his inveterate habit of using a phraseology of his own,
he delivered himself as follows –“Your farce, Mr. Colman, is
a real Áaž%iffs, but I am too old a Foogle to set about such an
Żytnámezzºgoog/azm, good as it is ; and I would give up my en-
gagement sooner than innimo//idazo over an immiſſa????s, which
would keep me fooz/ing day and night, and rob me of my rest
for a fortnight to come.” -
Colman, quite mystified, turned round to Elliston for a
Solution to his old friend's jargon, which was freely translated,
and the weighty matter transferred to younger, though not abler,
heads.
PEACE OR WAR.
ñ|URING the performance of a play not calculated to
i add greatly to the treasury of the proprietors, Reynolds,
its author, entered the theatre with a friend, who, per-
ceiving a very thin audience, delicately accounted for it by
observing that the badness of the house must be owing to the
war. “No,” replied the author, shaking his head ; “I suspect it
is rather owing to the Zºece.”
* A length is forty-two lines, cues included,

7TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/L AAVAEC/XO TES. , I49
' A THEATRICAL 7TO OVA’ ZOAE ATO/CCAE.
㺠ARLEY on one occasion acted an important part at
##| Covent Garden and also at the Haymarket on the
same night, the two plays being the first pieces at both
houses. At Covent Garden the curtain rose at 6.30, at the
Haymarket at 7 o'clock. At the former, he was cast into one of
Macbeth's witches; and at the latter, in the part of Sir Philip
Modelove, in A Bold Strože for a Wife. Having gone through
the mystery of the first scene at Covent Garden, Farley reached
the Haymarket in time to equip himself for the baronet, who
does not make his appearance until the Second act of the play.
This act concluded, Farley returned to the witchery at Covent
Garden, which being perpetrated, he again mounted his broom,
and sped through the air a second time to the Haymarket, where
he reappeared as Sir Philip Modelove, who does not make his
second entry until the fifth act of the comedy.
The dovetailing of this remarkable night's performance was
accomplished by means of a hackney coach, furnished with a
dresser, the necessary habiliments, and a pair of candles. The
metamorphose from the witch to the old beau, and vice versä,
was accomplished during the journey from one theatre to the
other, the blinds being drawn up. As bad luck would have it, in
one of these journeys the hackney in turning the corner of
Whitcomb Street was upset, and actor, dresser, candles, and the
rest were deposited into the highway. Notwithstanding this
misadventure, Farley reached Covent Garden still in time, by
means of another coach.
LITERARY PROPERTY.
jºl MONG other occasional trifles to which Sheridan con-
| descended for the advantage of Drury Lane, when he
was proprietor of that theatre, was the pantomime
Robinsom Crusoe, of which he is understood to have been the



I5O THEA TRICA/C AAVEC/DOTES.
author. There was a practical joke in this pantomime—where
in pulling off a man’s boot, the leg was pulled off with it—which
drollery Delpini, the famous clown, laid claim to as his own, and
publicly complained of Sheridan's having stolen it from him.
Sheridan said it was claimed as literary property “Żn assume
/Je/Zºmi,” alluding to the famous edition of the classics.
*
PUFF A LA FRANÇAISE.
fºLALF a century ago, when Mademoiselle Georges, the
§§§ great tragedian of the Théâtre Français, was starring it
in the provinces, the manager of the theatre at Angers
sent round the following circular to the chief patrons of the
drama in that district :—
“Mademoiselle Georges, the first tragedian of France, and
of the two theatres of the capital, having condescended to
consent to appear on the stage to which I endeavour to draw
the honourable public, I venture to hope that you will deign to
encourage my efforts by a tribute of admiration in favour of the
most beautiful woman in Europe, such a woman as has not her
equal, in all the pomp of her brilliancy—the pupil of Talma and
of Mademoiselle Raucourt, and, above all, of beneficent and
generous nature. In coming to see Mademoiselle Georges, you
will see at once Nature, Talma, and Raucourt. In the first part
of Semiramis she will appear with one hundred thousand
crowns’ worth of diamonds ; all the ornaments which she wears
in that tragedy are real precious Stones.”
A STAGE VETERA.N.
EN 1720, Peg Fryer gave a representation on the stage of
Lincoln's Inn Fields. She was then aged eighty-five,
and, according to the playbills, had never acted since
the days of Charles II. The programme promised entertain-
ments of dancing by Mrs. Fryer, particularly The “Bashful


7TAZAZ. A 7TRYCA/C A/VAZCZOO 7TÉ.S. I5 I
Maid" and the “Irish Trot,” but when the moment of dancing
came she affected to be utterly exhausted. She made her
obeisance to the audience, and was about to retire, when the
orchestra struck up the “Irish Trot,” and the lively old woman
danced her promised jig with the nimbleness and vivacity of
five and twenty, laughing at the surprise of the audience, and
receiving unbounded applause. After this final adieu from the
stage she kept a tavern and ordinary in Tottenham Court Road,
and we are told that her house was continually thronged
with company, who went out of curiosity to converse with
this extraordinary old woman.
A SOPORIFIC.
ãº, OOTE was envious of Colman the elder's success at the
i Haymarket; he could not bear to see anybody succeed
but himself. One morning he came hopping upon the
stage, during the rehearsal of The Sãanish Barber. The per-
formers were busy in a Scene of that now forgotten piece when
one servant is under the influence of a sleeping draught, and
another of a sneezing-powder. “Well,” said Foote drily to
Colman, “how do you go on?” “Pretty well,” was the answer ;
“but I can’t teach one of those fellows to gape as he ought to
do.” “Can't you?” exclaimed Foote, “read him your last comedy,
The Man of Business, and he'll yawn for a month.”
HIGH-HANDED DISAPPROVAL.
;RâNE night in March, 1733, a curious affair occurred at the
##NUAE. Haymarket Theatre. On that occasion a pantomime
was represented entitled Zove Runs al/ Dangers.
Among the jokes uttered, one of the actors made a hint at Sir
Robert Walpole's intended Excise Act. Sir Robert happened to
be present, and at the end demanded of the prompter if the
words were in the book. Being assured they were not, he went


I 52 THEATR/CAA. AAVAECDOTES.
behind the scenes and gave the actor a sound thrashing. Fancy
Mr. Gladstone making a descent on the stage of Drury Lane,
and giving, say, Mr. Arthur Roberts a beating !
A LOST II, L.USION.
RºPIEN MACKLIN attempted his last return to the stage,
ÅA.Ş. with the weight of a century on his shoulders, he
walked about the stage during rehearsal, flapping rather
ostentatiously his original part of Shylock, which was covered
with a bill of his first performance of that character in Ireland.
The lady who played Nerissa was at that time courted by
Frank Aiken, who, by means of a good wig, sound teeth, and a
slim figure, contrived to sink nearly twenty years of his age
without suspicion. On Macklin's bill Frank's name appeared
for Bassanio, and Mrs. ——, reading Macklin's precious relic of
antiquity, naturally fixed her eyes on her lover's name. Then
glancing at the date of the bill, some five and thirty years back,
exclaimed, with a mixture of surprise and disbelief, “Mr. Aiken,
Mr. Macklin P February the 8th, 1745—not Mr. Francis Aiken?”
Macklin comprehended her. Glaring with his large eyes, he gave
a savagely exulting chuckle, and replied, “Yes, Marm; that’s your
Frank | *
NO SEATS.
iº R. JOHNSON, bear as he was, could be polite when he
%| liked. In the last year of his life, he sent Windham to
Mrs. Siddons, to beg that she would do him the honour
of taking tea with him at Bolt Court. Such compliments are
always welcome to the artist, and the tragedian, with her brother
and Windham, repaired up the narrow stairs to the doctor's
apartments. All the chairs in the room were littered with books
and papers, so that Mrs. Siddons was kept standing a few
moments. Dr. Johnson's tact furnished him with a compliment


TA/FA 7TA’/CAM, AAWEC/DO 7TA.S. I 53
that seems almost elegant. “Madam,” said he, gallantly, “you
who so often océasion a want of seats to other people will the
more readily excuse the want of one yourself.” Johnson's
admiration was rewarded with a chair always ready for him at
the wing of the stage, he being at that time too deaf to hear her
in the pit or boxes.
ORIGIN OF “ PAUL PRY.”
;IT has often been repeated that Paul Pry was drawn from
§§ a familiar figure of the time, the eccentric Tom Hill,
editor of the Dramatic Mirror. Mr. John Poole, the
author of the delightful comedy, expressly contradicted this, in a
little biographical sketch of himself which he addressed to one
of the magazines of the period. “The idea of the character of
Paul Pry was suggested,” he says, “by the following anecdote,
related to me several years ago by a beloved friend —” An idle
old lady, living in a narrow street, had passed so much of her
time in watching the affairs of her neighbours, that she at length
knew the sound of each particular knocker within hearing, and
could tell to which house it belonged. It happened that she
fell ill, and was for several days confined to her bed. Unable to
observe in person what was going on outs e, she stationed her
maid at the window, as her substitute fº6. performance of
that task. But Betty soon grew weary C e Occupation ; she
became careless in her reports, impatie'ſ. and tetchy when
reprimanded for her negligence. “Betty, what are you thinking
about 2 Don't you hear a double knock at No. 9 2 Who is it?”
“The first-floor lodger, ma'am.” “Betty Betty I declare I
must give you warning ! Why don’t you tell me what that knock
is at No. 24 P”—“Why, Lord, ma'am, it is only the baker with
pies.” “Pies / Betty 2 What can they want with pies at No. 24?
They had pies yesterday !’” Of this very point I have availed
myself. Let me add that Paul Pry was never intended as the
representative of any one individual, but of a class. Like the


I 54. 7"HEA 7TA’MCA/. AAVEC/DO 7"A.S.
melancholy of Jacques, he ‘is compounded of many simples;’
and I could mention five or six who were unconscious contri-
butors to the character. That it should have been so often,
though erroneously, supposed to have been drawn after some
particular person is perhaps complimentary to the general truth
of the delineation. With respect to the play generally, I may say
that it is original ; it is original in structure, plot, character, and
dialogue—such as they are. The only imitation I am aware of
is to be found in part of the business in which Mrs. Subtle is
engaged : whilst writing those scenes, I had strongly in my
recollection Collin d’Harleville's Vienza: Cóżóaffaire. But even
the little I have adopted is considerably altered and modified, by
the necessity of adapting it to the exigencies of a different plot.”
PREMEDITATED JOKES.
㺠ORMERLY it was the custom for some actors, at the end
of the first piece, to give out the performance of the
following evening. It was a too often repeated trick of
Liston to have his joke on that occasion. No sooner had the
man who was to communicate the name of the play for the
ensuing day, uttered the words “Ladies and gentlemen, to-
morrow evening this comedy will be repeated,” or “the play of
Aſa/2/ef will be performed,” than Liston would walk on from
the opposite side, the actor giving out the play, start back
as if taken by surprise, and exclaim, “Prodigious !” “My con-
science tº “York, you’re wanted,” or any other phrase which
during the evening had occurred in his part. This of course
would cause a laugh from the Supposed victim of the jest, but
it was not generally known that the whole affair was premedi-
tated and got up in the greenroom.

THAEA TRICA / AAVECDO 7/2.S. 155
A SHORT PART,
tº HEN Sheridan's Glorious First of jume was produced,
ÅA. Storace and Kelly gave it some new songs, but the
music was chiefly old. Kelly was to represent the
character of Frederick, and as he was much employed in
composing the music, he begged Sheridan, who wrote a good
many of the speeches for it, to make as short a part for him and
with as little speaking in it as possible. Sheridan assured him
he would. In the scene in which Kelly came on to sing a song,
“When in War on the Ocean We meet the Proud Foe,” there was
a cottage in the distance, at which—the stage-direction said—
Frederick was to look earnestly for a minute or two, and the
line he then had to speak was this : “There stands my Louisa's
cottage ; she must be either in it or out of it.” The song began
immediately, and not another word was there in the whole part.
This sublime and solitary speech produced a loud laugh from
the audience.
AIDING AND ABETTING A SUICIDE.
tº RS. DANCER, the tragedian, was shortsighted. One
§§§ night, at Crow Street Theatre, acting Calista in The
Aºazr Penitemſ, as she was about to stab herself she
dropped the dagger. The faithful attendant endeavoured to
push it towards her with her foot, but, this failing, was obliged to
pick it up, and very civilly handed it to her mistress, to put an
end to herself—a somewhat awkward effect, as it took away the
probability of the scene, yet completed the necessary catastrophe.


J56 THEATR/CA/, AAVEC/DOTAES,
A DUET WITH A GOAT.
#, VERYBODY has heard the “Baa baa glou glou,” duet
in the Mascotte, but it has fallen to the share of few
playgoers to hear a duet between a man and a goat.
An instance of such a performance is related, in Belton’s Remi-
miscences, to have taken place circa 1835. Usher, a well-known
clown at that time, announced a great entertainment in a field,
when a pig, a gown, and a guinea were to be raffled for, with
ground and lofty tumbling, Comic Songs, tight-rope dancing by
Miss Usher (afterwards Mrs. Alfred Wigan), to conclude with a
duet between Mr. Usher, the clown, and a goat. And the way it
was effected was thus : a rude kind of piano was brought forward,
then the goat was introduced on his hind legs by Usher, and,
after some ludicrous tricks, he was led to the piano. The clown
then imparted some advice to the quadruped concerning due
regard to the notes, the band struck up the then popular ballad
of AVo, and Usher began as if playing. “When you was a young
one, and wanted some wittles, oh, what did you say to me?”
The goat replied, “ſaa/, /’ and so the duet went on, until, mount-
ing cresendo, it actually reached a Scream. The way the goat
was induced to sing would not have met with the approbation of
the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. A wire
had been passed round his tail, and was pulled by Usher, hard
and harder, until the poor goat actually Screamed with agony.
This caused peals of laughter, and the whole entertainment was
Ø, Sll CCCSS.
DICKENS AND THE STAGE.
s]T is recorded in Forster's Zife of Dickens that when the
amiable novelist was about twenty years old, he applied
to Mr. Bartlett, the then manager of Covent Garden,
for an engagement at that theatre, and that a day was fixed for


7A/ACA 7/0/CA/ AAVECDO 7/.S. 157
him to make trial of his powers. When the day came, Dickens
was laid up with a bad cold, and could not appear; his trial was
therefore postponed to the next season. In the mean time, he
had made himself famous by his pen, and so he took to literature
instead. That he would have made his mark on the stage there
can be little doubt, for his amateur acting in later years was of the
highest Order. Still, we cannot call that a “bad cold" to which
We owe Zºcłºwzcá, Aïck/eóy, O//ver Zºsſ, and the rest of his
immortal works.
INTERNAL WAR IN AN ELEPHANT,
is N 1862, the pantomime AHarlequin Blue Beard was
§ iſ produced at Drury Lane Theatre. The hero of the
piece, in the character of a pasha, rode in procession on
a large elephant. This specimen of natural history had not
been borrowed from the Zoological Gardens, but issued from
that wonderful laboratory—the stage machinist's workshop. The
body was of basketwork, the legs canvas, the feet and head
modelled, the tusks wood, the trunk and tail wirework—all
covered with painted canvas. To give this creature life and
motion, a man was placed in each of the legs. On one occasion
the internal structure of the near hind leg had been drinking,
and entered his leg in a very quarrelsome disposition, talking of
fighting the off fore leg for Some affront. The march com-
menced; the elephant moved, but evidently badly lame in the
near hind leg, which dragged along in a shaky and sleepy
manner. In vain did the other legs remonstrate, the near hind
leg would not stir. In an unfortunate moment of over-zealous-
ness, off hind leg kicks the irritable near hind, which retaliates,
and is heard to swear from his cavernous inclosure that “he’ll
punch his blooming 'ead.” Fore legs join in the fray, and a
general kicking ensues. Blue Beard’s position on the undulating
mass was anything but pleasant, and ends in a fall. Wild yells of
laughter from the audience greet the catastrophe, in the midst of

158 TAWEA 7TA’/CA / AAVECDO 7'E.S.
which the elephant topples over, and the four legs conglomerate
in a free fight. Here was burlesque with a vengeance It could
go no further, so the manager wisely discharged the legs, and in
the future substituted a palanquin for the elephant.
DAMNING THE PUBLIC.
MRS. MONTAGUE, in the last century, had been cast
to play the Queen in a version of Henry the Second,
which was put up for a fellow-actress's benefit at Hull.
With most unprofessional disobligingness, Mrs. Montague refused
to study the part; and when the night came proposed to read it.
This the audience would not have, and, in spite of her grand
tragedy airs, called to her to go off the stage. Whereupon the
angry lady elegantly exclaimed, as she threw her book which
she was not allowed to use into the pit, “Well, then, curse you
all !” and made her way off the stage. Two years afterwards,
she offered the insulted public her apologies, and was forgiven—
as a lady ought to be when she says that she is sorry for her
faults, but it was certainly carrying the privileges of her sex to
their fullest extent. -
“THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR.”
#T is told of “Old Barry,” formerly prompter in the Dublin
# Theatre, that he was usually very inattentive, and did
not at all follow the piece. One night an actor “stuck,”
and looked anxiously towards Barry at the wing for the “word.”
Barry was of course engaged in some other business at the time :
his thoughts were far away, and he took not the slightest notice
of the appeal. The actor at last called out in despair, “Barry,
give me the word, will you ?” To which Barry, with the imper-
turbability of a prompter and the exquisite unconsciousness of
an Irishman, replied, loud enough for the audience to hear,
“What word, my boy P” and, coolly wetting his thumb, began
turning over the leaves to get up with the unfortunate defaulter.




THEA TRICA/. AAVECDOTAES, I59
THE MISERIES OF A THRONE.
§ LLISTON, in his younger days, once took Buxton in his
circuit. The theatre there, at that time, was one of
those wretched little buildings resembling nearly the
Globe of Shakespeare's days, open to the sky, and devoid of
every theatrical appointment. The play acted was Tobin's
F/oneymoon, in which he took his favourite part of the Duke of
Aranza. All went on amazingly well, considering the circum-
stances, until the scene with the “mock Duke’’ in the fourth
act. Here Jacques is discovered sitting in a large armchair,
which, to give it dignity, had been covered over with an old
curtain. On rising from his seat, the hilt of the Duke's sword
most inopportunely got entangled in one of the sundry holes of
the loose coverlid, which, on the actor walking towards the front
of the stage, “like a wounded snake dragged its slow length
along.” This certainly provoked something more than a smile ;
but it so happened that the chair in question had been borrowed
for the occasion from a neighbouring inn, and being originally
fashioned for the incidental purposes of the sick-room, its
available conversion was so palpably disclosed to the whole
body of spectators, that the people absolutely screamed with
merriment—in fact, they laughed for a whole week afterwards.
THE TWO DROMIOS.
àHEN Foote was acting in Dublin, he introduced into
one of his pieces, called The Orators, the character of
George Faulkner, the well-known printer, whose manner
and dress he so closely imitated that the poor fellow could not
appear in public without meeting with scoffs and jeers from the
boys in the streets. Enraged at the ridicule thus brought upon
him, Faulkner one evening treated to the seats of the gods all
the devils of his printing-office, for the express purpose of their


I6O THAEA TRICA/. AAVEC7)OTES.
hissing and hooting Foote off the stage. Faulkner placed
himself in the pit, to enjoy the actor's degradation, but when
the objectionable scene came on, the unfortunate printer was
exceedingly chagrined to find that, so far from a groan or a hiss
being heard, his gallery friends joined in the general laughter.
The next morning he arraigned his inky conclave, inveighed
against them for having neglected his injunctions ; and, on
demanding the reason of their treachery, was lacerated ten times
deeper by the simplicity of their answer. “Arrah, master,” said
the spokesman, “do we not know you? 'Twas your own Sweet
self was on the stage, and shower light upon us if we go to the
playhouse to hiss our worthy master.” Failing in this experi-
ment, Faulkner commenced an action against Foote, and got a
verdict of damages to the tune of £300. This drove Foote
back to England, where he resumed his mimicry, and consoled
himself by humorously taking off the lawyers on his trial, and
the judges who had condemned him.
EATING ON THE STAGE.
CIRCUMSTANCE not generally known is communi-
cated by Kelly, on the occasion of his taking a part in
the farce A House to be Sold. “There was a supper
scene,” he says, “in which I was obliged to eat part of a fowl.
Bannister told me at rehearsal—what I then would hardly believe
—that it was very difficult to eat and swallow food on the stage.
But, strange as it may appear, I found it a fact, for I could not
get down a morsel. My embarrassment was a great source of
fun to Bannister and Suett, who were both gifted with the
accomodating talent of stage-feeding: whoever saw poor Suett
as the Lawyer in AVo Song, AVo Szóżer, tucking in his boiled
leg of lamb, or in The Siege of Belgrade, will be little disposed
to question my testimony to this fact.”

7"HEATR/CAZ AAVEC7) () 7"F.S. If I
PATRIOTISM.
ÉN Italian gentleman at Paris, the firmest article of whose
º Creed was that none but Italians could possibly sing
well, refused to admit that Mademoiselle Nillson,
whom he had never heard, could be at all equal to the singers
of Italy. With great difficulty, he was induced to hear her.
After listening for five minutes, he rose to depart. “But do
stay,” said his friend ; “you will be convinced presently.” “I
know it,” said the Italian, “ and therefore I go.”
HER DYING SPEECH.
#|HE public once took exception at Mrs. Farrel’s im-
: ; personation of Zaira, the heroine of 7%e Mourning Bride,
especially in the dying scene. The moribund thereupon
rose from the spot chosen to give up her breath, and, advancing
towards the foot-lights, said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am
very Sorry to have incurred your displeasure, but, having ac-
cepted the part only to oblige a friend, I hope you will kindly
excuse me.” After this little dying speech, she returned to the
spot, assumed once more a recumbent position, finished dying,
and the attendants covered her with a black veil.
GAPIN G. WONDER.
§|ERVETTO, the violoncello-player, who formed part of
#| Garrick's orchestra, once ventured to yawn noiselessly
* but portentously while the great actor was delivering
one of his most pathetic passages. The house gave way to
laughter. After the play, Garrick lectured the musician on the
rudeness of his behaviour; but his wrath was appeased by
Cervetto’s absurd excuse, that he invariably yawned when he
felt “the greatest rapture,” and to this emotion the passage So
admirably delivered by his manager had justified him in
- M



I62 THEATA’/CA/L AAVAEC/DO 7/2.S.
yielding. Garrick accepted the explanation, perhaps rather on
account of its originality than of its truthfulness.
STAR-D UST.
ºft|ISS FARRAN, in 1797, exchanged the buskin for a
§§§ countess’ coronet, by marrying the Earl of Derby. It is
Said that Lord Derby, Subsequently to the marriage,
applied in the greenroom to Sheridan for the arrears of Lady
Derby’s salary, averring that he would not leave the room until
it was paid. “My dear lord,” said Sheridan, “this is too bad.
You have taken from us the brightest star in our little world, and
now you quarrel with us for a little dust which she has left
behind her.”
“GOOSE,” OR “TO CALL AZOR.”
irº ISSING, in English stage-language called “goose,” is
§§ described by French actors as Appeler Azor, to “call
the dog Azor.” The origin of this cant term is as
follows:–Between 1733 and 1736, there was an inferior tragedian
attached to the Théâtre Français named Achille Fleury. The
public did not relish him, and could bear him still less, because
in those days Quinault Dufresne graced the boards. Fleury's
father was a soldier in the guard; he, moreover, kept a tavern,
and fondly believed in his son's genius. Annoyed at the re-
ception Achille daily met at his entrance on the stage, the old
soldier resolved to put a stop to what he considered a spiteful
combination. With this laudable intention, he one evening
donned his uniform, went to the theatre, accompanied by his
dog—a splendid animal named Tarquinius—which he held by
a string, and sat down behind the scenes. That evening
Achille appeared in I//ligenia in Azelis, and was received by the
public in their usual manner. The actor, accustomed to this
treatment, calmly played on ; but the father jumped to his feet,


THEA 7/0/CAI, AAWECDOTES. I63
burning with rage. He completely forgot the dog, and the
faithful animal, seeing his young master, immediately ran up to
him, wagging his tail, licking his hands, and, in his canine
fashion, expressed his joy at their unexpected meeting. The
Spectators, Still more incensed at Fleury on account of this
breach of etiquette, hissed twice as much ; and father Fleury's
rage reached such a pitch that he drew his sword, when
Gaussin, a leading comedian, held him back, smilingly ob-
Serving, “My dear sir, they see your dog ; don’t you perceive,
it is Tarquinius they are calling.” The poor man was willing to
believe this, especially when his son, to get rid of the dog,
called to his sire, at the top of his voice, “Whistle, father ; do
whistle.” Thus “hissing ” came to be named “to call Tar-
quinius ; ” but this dog-name in course of time being considered
too classical, Azor, a favourite name of the French poodle, was
substituted for the appellation of the proud Roman king.”
A TRAGEDY QUEEN.
Nº|HEN the eccentric actress and dramatist, Hannah Brand,
| brought out her tragedy of Agmunda, in 1794, she was
so jealous of this invaluable treasure being purloined
that she would not suffer the manuscript to remain in the
prompter's hands. She wrote out a copy herself, entirely
omitting her own part, as a safeguard against literary pirates.
Finding, at the end of one act, that an altar requisite in
the drama, was too far back, she exclaimed, “If the theatre
were to fall in one momentous crash, I would not begin
* This anecdote loses much of its point in English, as people do not
“hiss” to call a dog, the French verb sifter being used in both these senses.
Another Parisian circumlocution for “hissing ” is iſ y a des àossus, “there
are hunchbacks.” This phrase arose when the play Zes Aven/ures de
Mayezzº, which related the misfortunes of a hunchback, was condemned by
the public. The author of the piece was behind the scenes, and exclaimed,
“I expected as much ; it is a cabal. There are at least a dozen hunchbacks
in the house, who haye come on purpose to damn my piece.”

I64 TAZAZA TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DOTAE.S.
unless that altar was brought more to the front l” At the end of
the fourth act, she told the prompter, with the most dignified
solemnity, that she would not proceed “unless he first assured
her that she might depend upon two flourishes of the trumpets,
previous to her entrance.” Ag/zzenda, under the title Humiades,
or 7%e Siege of Belgrade, had been acted in 1792 at the
Haymarket, by the Drury Lane company, without success.
Miss Brand altered the piece, omitting Huniades, the principal
character. Under its new name, Agmazzada, it was condemned
at the Haymarket in 1794.
SWEARING ON SHAKESPEARE,
sºilHEN Woodward was manager of Crow Street Theatre,
§| Dublin, the mob one morning beset the Parliament
House, in order to prevent the members from passing
an unpopular bill. Such of the Senators as were Supposed to
belong to the court party were treated with the grossest insults,
and some of the ringleaders, thinking it necessary to make the
representatives swear that they would not pass the bill, sur-
rounded Mr. Woodward's door, opposite the Parliament House,
in College Green, and called repeatedly upon his family to
throw them a Bible out of the window. Mrs. Woodward was
greatly alarmed at the request, as it happened at that time that
she had no such book in her possession. In the midst of her
agitation, her husband, with great presence of mind, Snatched
up a folio edition of Shakespeare, which, tossing out of the
dining-room window, he told the insurgents they were welcome
to. Upon this they gave him three cheers, and the ignorant
rabble administered their oath to several of the Irish members
of the House of Commons upon the works of our immortal
bard.

TAZAZA 7/0/CAZ AAVAEC/DO 7 A.S. I65
BORROWED LIGHTS.
WHIMSICAL accident occurred one night when Richard
Winstone acted the character of the crooked-backed
tyrant in Shakespeare's ſºchard the 7%zrd, at the Jacob's
Well Theatre, at Bristol. The stage at that time was lighted
with tallow candles, stuck round four hoops, suspended from the
roof by ropes. In the fifth act, when Richard rushes on the
stage exclaiming, “A horse, a horse ! my kingdom for a horse !”
Winstone flourished his sword so valiantly over his head, that
the weapon coming in contact with the rope by which one of the
hoops of candles was suspended, cut it through, and the blazing
circle fell round the neck of Richard and lodged there, greatly
to his discomfiture and to the amusement of the audience. The
amazed Catesby of the evening, instead of helping his royal
master to a horse, had enough to do to extricate him from this
unexpected crown of glory.
º Ç
INDEFINITELY POSTPONED.
#|LLISTON had the proper worship for true genius, the
proper contempt for pseudo-genius, and he perhaps
never gave a better proof of his discernment than one
evening when, on entering the greenroom, he was accosted in
the most supercilious manner by a performer dressed for the
character of Rob Roy, a part the histrio thought derogatory to
his reputation, with “Pray, Mr. Elliston, when do we act Shake-
speare?” The manager pithily replied, “When you can.”
COLLABORATION.
;IO-OPERATION in the production of vaudevilles is one of
# the institutions of the stage in Paris. Two, three, four
authors clubbing their wit and puns together, is quite
an ordinary thing ; such combinations may be seen on the play-



I66 ZTAZAZA 7TA2/CA/L AAVAEC/DOTAZ.S.
bills any day. But sometimes the collaboration assumes almost
the character of a limited liabilities company. Thus the short-
lived Théâtre des Troubadours, about half a century ago,
produced a vaudeville of one act, Mozeszeizz de Biêvre out
/'F's???, at which eleven authors collaborated, yet it was no
illustration of its title. The names of the guilty ones were com-
municated to the public in a couplet, Sung or recited by the
manager. All of them were men of mark in the walks of
literature, and Some of them in course of time became academi-
cians, others deputies, dramatists, poets. The same society, with
the addition of two new members, produced another piece,
entitled Christoff/ie Morin, one Que je sui's faché d’étre riche ;
and the names of the two new members, as well as the retirement
of one of the former collaborators, was duly announced to the
public in a song—
“Citoyens, les auteurs de Christophe Morin
Ont pour Bièvre deja mis l'oeuvre à la main ;
Ajoutez à leurs noms, sur les noms déja lus,
Alexandre de moins, Léger, Mautort de plus."
But how to “add a name less” (afouſſeg A/earazed, e de 7/zoázas)
the public were not informed.
In 181 I, when Laujon, a playwright and member of the
poetical “Caveau,” died, his brother poets thought fit to embalm
his memory in a vaudeville, with the title Zazaſon de 7 efozer &
Pancien Caveau. All the members of the said “Caveau,” to the
number of twenty-four, contributed to the construction of this
comedy in one act. More recently, on the 12th of July, 1853, the
Théâtre des Délassements produced Les moleńons de Panzerge,
the joint work of eight and twenty authors, including Paul de
Kock, Dumanoir, Henry Monnier, Samson of the Théâtre
Français, and Potier the comedian. But the greatest mass of
collaborating genius was brought to bear upon a revue-vaudeville
in one act, entitled La Tour de Babel. This child of many
fathers was produced at the Théâtre des Variétés, on the 24th of
June, 1834, and could boast not less than thirty-six authors,
THEA 7/0/CA/L AAVEC/DO 7'E.S. 167
among whom were many celebrities. Adolphe Adam, the com-
positor, had contributed the music for some of the songs; and the
couplets, jokes, puns, and witticisms had been hatched in the
brains of Dumas, Annicet Bourgeois, Dumanoir, Dennery, and
many other tip-top dramatists of the day, whose names are less
familiar on this side of the Channel. -
NO SHAMMING.
fºLAMUEL SANDFORD usually played the parts of stage-
º villain, for, being of a low stature and slightly hunch-
backed, he was scarcely fit to enact amiable characters.
Once a new play was brought upon the stage, in which Sandford
happened to perform the part of an honest statesman. The pit,
after they had sat three or four acts in quiet expectation that the
well-dissembled honesty of Sandford—for such they thought it—
would soon be discovered, at last, finding out that nothing of the
kind did happen, and that Sandford remained an honest man to
the end of the play, condemned the piece, as if the author had
imposed upon them the most incredible absurdity. A passage
in the 7 aſſer, February 16, 1709, concerning this excellent
actor, gives a Curious view of the scenes represented in those days :
“When poor Sandford was upon the stage, I have seen him groan-
ing upon a wheel ; stuck with daggers; impaled alive ; calling
his executioners, with a dying voice, cruel dogs and villains;–and
all this to please his judicious spectators, who were wonderfully
delighted with seeing a man in torment so well acted.”
A STAR SNU FFED.
ſºl ERTINI, the manager of the theatre of Brescia, was
55 once compelled to engage a star, which the nobility of
the place insisted upon should appear. This expensive
Juminary never performed anywhere without stipulating beyond
his salary all his travelling expenses, and having during his stay


I68 THAEA 7/0/CA/. AAVAECDOTAES,
apartments for himself and a table provided for six persons. In
pursuance of Such an engagement, he arrived at Brescia, and
invited three friends to dine with him. They came, and the great
man Ordered his servants to let the manager know that he was
ready for dinner, and desired it might be served. The servant
returned and said that there was no dinner prepared. The infuri-
ated performer went to the manager, and inquired why his dinner
had not been prepared in proper time. “Sir” was the answer,
“you gave no orders about providing dinners.” “How, sir!”
exclaimed the star. “Is it not set down in my articles, that you
are to provide a table for six persons P” “Undoubtedly, sir, such
is my agreement; and if you will walk into the dining-room, you
will see I have fulfilled it to the letter. There is your fable, sir, and
a handsomer piece of furniture, I flatter myself, you never saw.”
No arguments could persuade the manager. “I know nothing
about dinner,” he said. “The words of the agreement are, that I
am to provide a fable for sia: Žersons, and I have even gone
beyond my bargain, for this one will seat eighſ. As he was
ready to try the issue in a court of law, the star had to submit,
Or to pay a forfeit. He chose the former alternative.
OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS.
%;Nº|NE day, just before the Christmas Tale made its appear-
G # ance, Garrick went into the painting-room, and, seeing
as he imagined a prodigious quantity of gold strewn
about the floor, began to abuse the man who was grinding the
colours, and afterwards to bawl out lustily for French the Scene-
painter. The artist, seeing Roscius in a great fury, asked what
was the matter. “The matter, sir! why, zounds, Mr. Thing,
don't you—bless my soul —see that the ground is all strewn with
gold P” French replied that it was Dutch metal, rubbed off in
gilding the scene, and not worth twopence. “Well,” rejoined
Garrick, “twopence and pray, why the devil should I lose
twopence P Do you consider what twopence a day comes to,

TA/FA TRZCA / AAVECDO 7"Z.S. I69
Sir?” “Well, sir, it is nothing out of your pocket,” objected
French. “Yes, sir; but—a—your—you—are a damned curious.
sort of a-hey ! how is it nothing out of my pocket?” “Why,
you know, sir, I have to find these things out of my salary.”
“Oh-a—hey—your salary 1” rejoined Garrick, “why, a then,
demme if I care twopence about it.”
A MURDERO US PIECE.
§ N a play of Morand, the dramatist, entitled Megara,
nearly all the characters were slain, only one survived.
At the end of the piece the sole survivor was called
before the Curtain by the audience, to furnish a true return of
all the casualties.
“TAKEN FROM LIFE.”
§|ORAND, author of Z'Es/rif de ZXivorce, was present at
ji the first representation of that play. The pit loudly
expressing disapprobation at the extravagance and
improbability of Some traits in the principal characters, he
exclaimed, “Gentlemen, I hear it remarked that the principal
characters in my play are exaggerated. Allow me to assure
you that they are taken from life, and that I have toned them
down considerably in order to present them on the stage.” This
led to questions, and the fact of the author's unhappy life with
his wife and mother-in-law were then elicited. When the same
piece was announced for the next evening, somebody in the pit
called out, “With M. Morand’s compliment.” This so incensed
the dramatist that he flung his hat into the pit, exclaiming,
“Whoever it is that wants to see Morand, can see him on
returning this hat.” The poet was arrested for this unbecoming
behaviour, and forbidden to enter a playhouse for two months.


A 70 TA/A. A 7TA’/CA / AAVEC/DO 7T/E.S.
“ PERSONAL.”
; OME particulars concerning Ned Shuter's birth having
§ been incorrectly stated in the Theatrical Biography,
Shuter sent the following protest :-
“Ned Shuter to the Printer, greeting : Whereas in a quotation
from a book entitled Theatrical Biography there is a circum-
stantial account of my family, I beg, for the credit of your book,
and to avoid an imposition upon the public, in a matter which
So much concerns them to be acquainted with, that you will
correct a mistake the writer of those memoirs has made. For
whereas the said writer does, with great confidence, assert that
my father was a chairman, and my mother sold oysters, and
that I, Ned Shuter, was born in a cellar; now, though I will
acknowledge that my father was a chairman, though I have no
objection to own that my mother sold oysters in the winter and
cucumbers in the summer, yet I do solemnly aver that I was
.7loſſ born in a cellar, but in a front room, up two pair of stairs, at
one Mr. Merit's, an eminent chimney sweeper's, in Vine Street,
St. Giles's. Having thus discharged my conscience by rectifying
any mistakes the public might fall into on so important a subject,
I remain, with much gratitude, their obedient servant,
“ NED SHUTER,”
UPHILL WORK.
El HARLES MATHEWS used to tell a good story in
# support of the truth of the remark anent a Scotchman,
a joke, and a surgical operation. When “starring ” in
Edinburgh, his landlord, who seldom attended any other public
meeting save the “kirk,” asked Mathews if he would oblige him
with “a pass for the playhoose.” This favour being readily
granted, the “guid mon” donned his cheerful black suit, and
witnessed Mathews's two great performances, Sir Charles


THEATRICAZ A VECDOTES. I7 I
Coldstream in Used Už, and Plumper in Coo/ as a Cucumber,
both downright “side-splitters.” Meeting his landlord on the
stairs as he proceeded to his own room after the performance,
Mathews was cordially greeted by that gentleman, of whom he
then inquired how he had enjoyed the entertainment. “Aweel.”
said the Northerner, “it pleased me vara much, ye ken, and I
conseeder you played unco’ naturally; but, heigh, mon, I’d a hard
matter to keep fräe laughing.”
MADAME CELESTE.
; HE late Madame Celeste made her first appearance at
#| Drury Lane in the ballet of Za Bayadère in 1830. This
lady may fairly be ranked among the wonders of her
age, for it was only in October, 1874, that she took her farewell
of the stage, in the part of the Indian huntress Miami in Buck-
stone's drama of 7%e Green Bushes, with all the vigour and pathos
and much of the freshness of her youth. During those four and
forty years, generations of great actresses had arisen, Shone as
stars for a score of years, and passed away into oblivion,
marriage, or death. But Celeste still survived and flourished—
half a century after her début, bidding defiance alike to old time
and new fashions, as if warranted, like Tennyson’s “brook,” to
“go on for ever.” This once highly popular actress expired in
Paris, on February 12th, 1882.
MARKS OF LOVE.
ſº ERE is a pleasant enfre/i/ef from Chetwood’s short
| biography of Wilks, the comedian : “There was an
actress for whom Wilks conceived so ardent an
attachment that he fell ill, until she promised to favour his
addresses. But such violent attachments have too often but
violent endings. The lover Soon cooled, but they had still to
act together in tender characters, such as Jaffier and Belvidera


172 THEA TRYCA/C AAVEC/DOTE.S.
in Venice Preserved, when the lady took the opportunity of
leaving on his face visible marks of her jealous resentment.
This, however painful to him, was sport to the audience.”
THE DEPTH OF CONSECRATION.
Rºl HEN Molière died, the Archbishop of Paris would
'A' | not allow his body to be buried in consecrated ground.
Louis XIV., being informed of this, sent for Archbishop
Harlay, and expostulated with him, but the prelate remained
inflexible. The king, finding him unwilling to comply with his
wishes, inquired how many feet deep the holy ground reached.
“About eight feet, I should say,” replied his eminence, taken by
surprise. “Well, then,” exclaimed the king, “since I cannot
remove your scruples, let the grave be made twelve feet deep,
that is four feet below your consecrated ground, and let him be
buried there.” The archbishop was obliged to give in. Such
the legend. The historical fact is, that on its being shown that
Molière had received the sacrament on the preceding Easter,
the archbishop was pleased to permit that the glory of France
should be inhumed but without any pomp, with two priests only,
and without any church Solemnities.
VALUABLE NOTES.
ğTORACE when a boy was studying music under his
} father, who once gave him a bravura song of Bastardini
to copy. The boy was astonished that fifty guineas.
should be paid for singing a song. He counted the notes in it,
and calculated the amount of each note at 4s. IOd. He valued
one of the divisions running up and down at £13 IIs. It was
a whimsical thing for a boy to do, but perfectly in character ;
his passion for calculation was beyond all belief.


TAZAZA TA’/CA / AAVAEC/DO ZTAE.S. 173
MAKING SURE,
..] HE night when Counsellor MacNally’s Robin Hood was
# brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, a young Irish
friend of the composer, on his first visit to London,
was seated in the second row in the boxes. In the front row
were two gentlemen, who at the close of the first act warmly
commended “Mrs. Cowley’ as the composer of the opera. On
hearing this, the Irishman got up, and, tapping one of them on
the shoulder, said, “Sir, yozz say that this Opera was written by
Mrs. Cowley ; now / Say it was not. This opera was written by
Leonard MacNally, Esq., Barrister-at-Law, of No. 5, Pump
Court, in the Temple. Do you take my word for it, sir?”
“Most certainly,” replied the astonished gentleman ; “and I feel
very much obliged to you for the information.” At the end of
the second act, the Irishman got up and again accosted the same
gentleman. “Sir,” said he, “upon your honour as a gentleman,
are you in your own mind perfectly satisfied that Leonard
MacNally, Esq., Barrister-at-Law, etc., etc., has actually written
this opera, and not Mrs. Cowley P” “Most perfectly persuaded
of it, sir,” replied the other, bowing. “Then, sir,” replied the
Irishman, bowing, “I wish you good night.” But just as he was
leaving the box, he turned to the gentleman whom he had been
addressing, and said, “Pray, sir, permit me to ask, is your friend
here convinced that this opera was written by Leonard
MacNally, Esq., etc., etc.?” “Decidedly, sir,” was the reply;
“we are both fully convinced of the correctness of your state-
ment.” “Oh, then, if that is the case, I have nothing more to
say,” observed the Hibernian, “except that if you had not both
assured me you were so, neither of you would be sitting quite so
easy on your seats as you do now.” After this observation he
withdrew, and did not return again to the box.


I 74 TAZZA 7T/º/CAML AAVECOO 7/2.S.
THE PARSON'S NIGHTCAP.
iº R. GEORGE HARVEST, minister of Thames Ditton,
Aği was a great character. One evening, Lady Onslow
took him to the theatre, to see Garrick play some
favourite character. In order that he might hear and see well,
her ladyship procured front seats in the boxes. Harvest,
knowing he was to sleep in town, brought his nightcap in his
pocket. It was a striped woollen one, and had been worn since
it was last washed for at least half a year. As Harvest pulled out
his handkerchief the cap came out with it, and fell into the pit.
The person on whom it fell tossed it from him, the next did the
same, and the casque-à-mêche was for Some time tossed all over
the pit. At last, Harvest, afraid of losing his property, rose up,
and after hemming two or three times to clear his pipes, made
the following address:—“Gentlemen, when you have sufficiently
amused yourself with that cap, please to restore it to me, who
am its rightful owner,” at the same time bowing to the pit, and
placing his right hand on his breast. A gentleman, Struck with
his appeal, handed up the cap on the end of a walking-Stick, like
the head of a traitor stuck on the point of a lance, and the
rightful owner, after shaking it, gravely returned it into the
capacious pocket of his coat.
* REVENONS X WOS MOUTOMS.”
zººl HIS well-worn quotation is taken from the old French
# play, L'Avocaä Pazhelin, the oldest extant play in the
French language, and still one of the stock-pieces of the
Comédie Française. The titular part of maître Pathelin,
whenever the piece is played at that theatre, is very properly
taken by M. Got, the oldest associate of the Français. This
amusing comedy was written some time in the fifteenth century.
The name of the author is uncertain: Some attribute it to François



THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. I75
Villon, others, with more probability, to Pierre Blanchet. Satu-
rated in situation and language with Gallic Salt, it was the most
popular farce of the century, and doubtless received additions.
on all sides. Both Molière and La Fontaine admired its frank
gaiety. But after their death comedy stiffened, and the frantic
farce was metamorphosed into a mild three-act comedy by Brueys.
and Palaprat, which held the stage for nearly two centuries, till
1872, when Mr. Edouard Fournier brought out a revision of the
original text, far more easy and idiomatic than the washed-out
comedy whose usurpation it ended.
The popularity of the old farce did not limit itself to France.
It was imitated by Reuchlin in Germany, soon after its
appearance, and one of its most annusing scenes is to be found
in the Town/ey Mysłeries. In the last century, it served as a
basis for 7%e V2//age Zawyer, a two-act farce, brought out by
Garrick at Drury Lane Theatre, with a rather more lasting
Success than most of Garrick's productions obtained. It was
played by Mr. Jeffreson in New York within the last twenty
years. A perversion of The Village Zawyer, under the name of
The Mutton Trial, is frequently represented on the other side of
the Atlantic in so-called Ethiopian SÄetches.
The phrase “Revenons à nos moutons ° is introduced in the
Original piece on the occasion of a woollendraper pleading
against his shepherd, concerning some sheep the latter had
stolen from him. The draper continually digresses from the
point, to speak about a piece of cloth of which his antagonist's
attorney had likewise robbed him. From these digressions he
is constantly recalled by the judge, with the words “Revenons
à nos moutons.”
176 TAZAZ A 7TA’/CAA. AAVE CADO TAE.S.
STAGE AND AUDIENCE.
zººl HE late Mrs. Rousby, playing one night at the Queen's
# Theatre—now the Universities Co-operative Store in
Long Acre, was greatly annoyed by some talkers in a
private box. The actress stopped twice in the middle of a
speech, as a hint for the occupants of the box, but finding they
did not take it, Mrs. Rousby at last came to the foot-lights in a
rage, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, when those persons in
: the third box from the stage have finished their conversation, I
will go on with my part.” A roar of applause followed, in the
midst of which the offenders quitted the theatre. In a like
manner, John Kemble, when excruciated in one of his great parts
by the perpetual Squealing of a baby, advanced to the foot-
lights and observed, in his most tragic tones, “Ladies and
Gentlemen, unless the play is stopped, that poor child cannot
possibly go on.”
“BY ORDER.”
|º] ERR SCHRöDER, a performer of great ability and an
|####| ardent lover of Shakespeare, in 1776 brought Ożhello
in German on the stage at Hamburg. It was not a
success, however; the close of the tragedy was so much objected
to, that the Hamburg senate commanded the déºtoitemzemż to be
altered, and ordered that Othello should end happily. It was
found that the murder of the unhappy Desdemona worked the
audience up to such a pitch of excitement, that ladies fainted by
the score, and had to be carried out of the theatre.
A BEARDED POLLY.
ălăl ORMERLY, the Beggar’s Offera was sometimes travestied,
the men's parts being played by women, and vice versä.
The first time that Mazzanti, a celebrated Soprano singer,
went to an opera in London, the performance happened to be




ZTA/A2A TA’/CA/C A/VAECDO 7TA.S. 177
the above travesty at the Haymarket Theatre, which he mistook
for the opera-house opposite. The part of Polly upon that
occasion was represented by the elder Bannister, who gave her
tender airs with all the power of his deep, sonorous, bass voice.
The Italian’s astonishment and horror were unspeakable, when
he saw the part of a young woman acted by an old man ; for he
had not been informed, nor did he even guess at the time, that he
was witnessing a burlesque. On the contrary, he thought that it
had been so intended by the author, and was always so acted.
A few nights after, he was invited to see the tragedy of Isabel/a
at Drury Lane. “No, no,” said he, “I will not go to your
theatres, to see heroines acted by old bass singers with beards.”
Nor could he for a long time be prevailed upon to attend any of
Our theatrical exhibitions, in consequence of his early disgust.
T//ZA’C/E AND CAA’ 7T/E.
ſº OUGLAS JERROLD, being a very nervous man,
# usually suffered torments of apprehension on the first
representation of any of his pieces. A brother dramatist
—remarkable for his successful specimens of “fair adaptation” or
imitation from the French—on one such occasion sought to rally
the trembling scribe by stating that he himself never felt any
nervousness on the first production of his own pieces. “Oh, my
boy,” said Douglas, “but then you are always so sure of success
Your pieces have all been tried before.”
A VIESTED RIGHT.
ãºjR. FISHER, an eminent violin-player in his day,
ºf married a daughter of the famous William Powell,
and, in right of his wife, had a sixteenth share of the
Covent Garden Theatre. Coming one evening into the green-
room, he observed that an actress had torn her petticoat, which
formed part of the stage property, for which offence he soundly
N


178 7:HEATRICAZ ANECD07ES.
abused her. The actress, unaquainted with Fisher's authority,
asked him what right he had to speak to her in that manner.
To which he answered, with great pomposity, “All the right in
the world, madam. I have to look after my property; for
know, madam, the sixteenth part of the petticoat you have
destroyed belongs to me, and is mine to all intents and purposes,
madam | *
A GO ET /ø/2_X //EU.S.
ſºlº N 1824, when the question of erecting a monument
§ to Shakespeare in his native town was discussed,
George IV. took a lively interest in the matter.
Considering that the leading people in both the patent theatres
should be consulted, he directed Sir Charles Long, Sir George
-Beaumont, and Sir Francis Freeling to ascertain Elliston's
sentiments on the subject. As soon as these distinguished
individuals—who had come direct from, and were returning to,
the palace—had delivered themselves of their mission, Elliston
loftily replied, “Very well, gentlemen ; leave the papers with
me, and I will fa/AE over the business with his Majesty.”
ABSENT ON LEAVE.
yº UIN was once at an auction of pictures, when old General
§§§ Guise came into the room. “There's General Guise,”
c said somebody to Quin; “how very ill he looks | *
“Guise, sir!” says Quin; “you're mistaken. He has been dead
these two years.” “Nay, but,” says the other, “believe your
eyes : there he is.” At this Quin put on his spectacles, and,
after viewing him from head to foot for some time, exclaimed,
“Why, yes, sir, I’m right enough. He has been dead these two
years, ’tis quite evident, and has now only gotten a day-rule to
See the pictures.”


TAZAZA 7TA’/CA / AAVEC/DOTA.S. 179
MEMORY WORN OUT.
jHE Beggar's Offera had a run such as never had been
witnessed before in London, or perhaps in the world.
“Nothing stopped its progress through the course of
a whole season,” says a theatrical writer, in the beginning of the
present century, admiringly. We have seen other phenomena
of that kind, but it was wonderful for those days. When
Walker, the original Macheath, was performing his part on the
seventy-second night, he happened to be a little imperfect, which
Rich observing, called out to him on his return from the stage,
“Holloa, mister, I think your memory ought to be pretty good
by this time.” “And so it is,” said Walker; “but, zounds ! sir,
my memory cannot last for ever.”
AN UN EXPECTED ADMIRER.
ſº T a representation of King Zear, whilst Garrick, in the
% At last act, was melting in tears over the dead body of
Cordelia, his face all at once assumed an expression of
merriment quite foreign to the part he was playing. At the
same time, Edgar and the officers were seen to make unsuccess-
ful attempts to repress laughter; even Cordelia reopened her
eyes, and burst out in an uncontrollable fit of merriment. The
audience thought that all of them had gone mad. Was—
“This the promised end?
Or image of that horror?” -
But soon the innocent cause of this merry conclusion became
apparent. On the front seat of the pit sat a stout butcher,
accompanied by his bulldog. Leaning far back in his seat, the
man had placed the dog between his legs, and the animal, seeing
the bustle on the boards, stood erect on his hind legs, leaning his
paws on the railing which divided the stage from the pit. It


I8O THEATRICAZ ANZCDOTES.
was a very hot evening, and the butcher, in order to wipe his
head, had taken off his wig and placed it on the head of his
bulldog. In this posture, and with this attire, the dog stood
looking earnestly and fixedly at the actors, and had caught
Garrick’s eye. The scene proved so irresistible, that Lear
forgot his sorrows and laughed outright ; and, instead of ending
with a dead march, the tragedy concluded with roars of
merriment.
NO DECEPTION.
fºLIERE was a scene in the comedy Tragaldabas, in which
§§| Frédéric Lemaitre had to drink a bottle of champagne :
but, as dramatic companies can scarcely afford to treat
their members nightly to a bottle of Aï, it was customary to Sub-
stitute some other sparkling beverage. One evening, Lemaitre put
the glass to his lips, and, making a horrible grimace, exclaimed,
“Call the manager; tell him I want to speak to him.” General
commotion, in the midst of which the manager makes his appear-
ance. “Come forward,” said Frédéric, gravely. “What do you
mean by this untimely hoax, sir? Do you think I feel inclined
to be your accomplice in deceiving the public P” “Z/”
exclaimed the dumbfounded manager. “Yote, Sir ; Vozº.” Then
turning to the pit, Frédéric added, “Gentlemen, you think
that I am drinking champagne, but it is nothing of the kind ; it
is simply Seltzer water " The public, amused at the actor's
impudence, loudly cheered and applauded his sally ; whilst the
manager exclaimed, “It is a mistake, Mr. Frédéric—a pure
mistake, on my honour. You shall have a bottle of champagne
directly.” And whilst waiting for his real champagne, Frédéric
whiled the time away by making a speech to the pit, concerning
Seltzer water and the general want of honesty in managers.
*

7TA/AEA 7TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DOTAE.S. I8I
SWORD AND GOWN.
§§ MONG the portraits of queens of the theatre painted by
| Sir Joshua Reynolds is that of Mrs. Baddeley, an
actress more celebrated for her beauty and gallantry
than for her wit and professional skill. Her picture represents
the most voluptuous of faces, with large, melting dark eyes and
full, rosy lips. The beauty is caressing a cat; the cat plays with
a tress of soft hair which has fallen over the white shoulder.
In 1772, when the Pantheon in Oxford Street was opened, it
was whispered that the managers had determined to exclude all
“women of slight character.” The young bloods of the period,
Lord Palmerston, Lord Carlisle, Lord March, and Sir Charles
Bunbury, were, however, no partisans of the Pantheon Catos.
They vowed that, whoever was excluded from the Pantheon,
Sophia Baddeley should be let in. Twenty gentlemen, headed
by Mr. Hanger (afterwards Lord Coleraine) and Mr. Conway,
son of the Earl of Hertford, met at Almack's, and bound them-
Selves to escort her and stand by her chair. When she was
Set down under the portico—the same we still see, for it escaped
the fire of 1792—her escort had swelled to nearly fifty gentlemen.
The constables allowed Mrs. Baddeley’s companion, a Mrs.
Steele, to pass ; but when she herself followed, they crossed
their staves, and civilly but resolutely said their orders were
to admit no players. On this the gallant escort drew, compelled
the constables to give way at the sword's point, and, raising their
chivalrous blades, protected Mrs. Baddeley as she passed
proudly into the rotunda, blazing with lights, and Surrounded
between its ranges of pillars with all the gods and goddesses of
the Olympus. But the difficulty was not yet at an end. The
enraged gentlemen refused to sheath their swords, or to allow
the music to proceed, till the managers came forward and humbly
apologized to Mrs. Baddeley and her escort. It is related by
Mrs. Baddeley’s biographer, that when the managers had

I82 . THEATR/CAZ ANECDOTES.
apologized, the Duchess of Argyle and the Duchess of Ancaster
stepped forward and expressed the pleasure it gave them to
receive such an ornament to their assembly as Mrs. Baddeley.
A few days later, an advertisement appeared in the morning
papers, Stating, that “as it was not convenient for ladies always
to carry the certificate of their marriages about them, the
Subscribers were resolved, in opposition to the managers, to
protect the ladies to whom they gave their tickets.”
A LONG JOURNEY.
|º]ARRICK was accused of being parsimonious, and
|. §§ throughout his life a certain thriftiness which charac-
" terized him was made the subject of much joking.
One day, when he and Foote were leaving their usual haunt,
the Bedford Coffee-house, in Covent Garden, Foote dropped a
guinea, and exclaimed, as he looked for it, “Why, where on
earth has it gone to ?” “Gone to the devil l’ replied Garrick,
continuing the search. “Well said, David I’’ was the quick and
Smart reply of Foote; “let you alone for making a guinea go
further than any one else in the world.”
A CONVERTED BEAU.
ſºlº N 1703, Tunbridge WalAs, or, 7%e Yeoman of Kent,
§§ written by Thomas Baker, the son of a London attorney,
was acted at Drury Lane. It is stated in Baker’s Bio-
graphia Pramatica, that the character of Maiden in this play
was the origin of all the Beau Fribbles, Mizens, and the rest of
the effeminate beau-species which have figured in so many
subsequent plays. This character was said to have been drawn
without exaggeration from the author's former self, as a
warning to other beaus, after he had felt the wickedness of his
ways. There is a curious spice of the “Old Adam ” in the
pleasure with which this picture of his former weaknesses was


THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. 183
drawn, and placed before the public in a form by no means
unattractive to the eyes of those it was to convert.
|Bl] SKIN OR SOCK.
ńOHNNY M*CREE, an eccentric, good-humoured Scotch-
© man, once applied to Garrick to introduce a production
of his on the stage. Johnny had four acts of a tragedy
ready, but was dissuaded by Garrick from finishing it, the
comedian telling him that his talent did not lie in that way.
So Johnny abandoned his tragedy, and Set about writing a
comedy. When this was finished, he showed it to Garrick, who
found it, if possible, even more exceptionable than his first
attempt, and of course could not be pursuaded to bring it
forward on the stage. This surprised poor Johnny, who feelingly
remonstrated, “Nae, now, David, did na you tell me that my
talents did na lie in tragedy ?” “Yes,” replied Garrick; “but I
did not tell you that they lay in comedy.” “Then,” exclaimed
Johnny, justly puzzled, “gin they dinna lie there, then where the
deil doo they lie, mon P”
A’/CAE/A2.SS/2 OAR/L/G/2.
Fºl HEN Macklin was in Dublin, on One of his theatrical
#AA' | trips, Reddish, a vain, conceited fellow belonging to
the same company, and who gave himself out for a
gentleman of easy fortune, was playing a character where, in
reading a book, it was necessary on the approach of another
person to throw it aside. Reddish, however, threw the book into
a rivulet, supposed to be at the bottom of the garden. On a
gentleman asking Macklin, “Is it usual for actors to throw
away their books thus P’ “Why no, sir,” replied Macklin, “not
for an actor; but a gentleman of easy fortune can afford it.”


184 TAZAZA 7T/C/CA / AAVAEC/DO 7/.S.
A SLIPPERY CUSTOMER.
ºS Dicky Suett was entering the stage door at Covent
§ Garden Theatre, one pouring wet night, he was tapped
on the shoulder by a dun, who had been laying in wait
for him, saying, “I believe your name is Suett, sir?” “Oh no!”
replied Dicky, escaping from the clutches of his aggressor; “I’m
dº?//ºg.” Dripping happened to be the name of another actor
in the same company.
CONJUGAL LOVE.
ºf NCLED ON and Mathews were travelling on the outside
§ of a stage-coach, soon after the death of Incledon's
first wife, to whom he had been very much attached.
A very consumptive-looking man was also a passenger, and
Incledon’s heart was touched by the sickly look of the poor
fellow. He entered into conversation with him, inquired about
his health, and learned that he was going home to his friends to
be nursed. When the Coach reached its destination, Incledon
addressed the invalid for the last time, and said, “My good
man, we’re going to leave you. It's my opinion, my poor fellow,
that you’re àespoke, you’re now, I take it, as good as ready money
to the undertaker. In fact, you’re 600%ed, so there is a seven-
shilling piece for you ; and when you go to heaven, and see my
dear sainted Jane, pray tell her you saw me, and that I’m
well.” The invalid stared, took the money with a humble bow,
but made no reply to this extraordinary address, which he
doubtless supposed to come from a lunatic.
A FOND WISH.
ſº MR. FAULKNER had been engaged at the Haymarket
| Theatre from a provincial theatre, and appeared in a
tragedy without producing any sensation ; in fact,
Colman, the then manager, was disappointed with this new
acquisition, who had to deliver the following line, which he spoke



THEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES. I85.
in a cadaveral, nasal tone :-‘Ah ! where is my honour now P’’
Colman, who was behind the Scenes, took a leisurely pinch of
Snuff, and muttered, “I wish your honour was back at New-
Castle again, with all my heart.”
“ Z.Z.S. ATO OVA’AAA’/ZS ZOAX SCAA/AV.”
jº NE day when Elliston, then manager of the Manchester
i. Theatre, was in London, beating up recruits, he
happened to meet the American Roscius, John Howard
Payne, an old friend. “My dear fellow, come down to us,” said
Elliston ; “see us ! hear us ! mark us ! observe—a—how we do.
the thing at our good theatre at Manchester. Ha! ha : *
Payne promised he would run down, but protested against
playing, as he had forgotten all his old parts. The morning
after his arrival, Payne went to the rehearsal of Richard the
Third. Elliston at that time, among other sins, used to murder
the third Richard. That morning, however, being busy, as he
said, he invited Payne to rehearse for him. “Perhaps you will
f/ay Richard, too,” he added, in his chuckling tone of comedy.
But this Payne assured him was totally out of the question.
With much prompting, the American got through the part, and,
at the conclusion, seeing Elliston at his elbow, he observed, “You
perceive how utterly ridiculous it would have been, had I
accepted your invitation to play the part.” Elliston assumed a
look of horrible amazement. “My dear fellow, are you in earnest?
I am sure you are not. You are all over the town by this time
in large letters: “For this night only the part of Richard by the
celebrated American Roscius, Mr. John Howard Payne.’ You.
must play for us to night.” There was no help for it. Payne
had to study all day, and at night gave as much of the part
as he could recollect. When he could not recollect, he
spouted “something like Shakespeare.” The audience seemed
to consider this “vamping ” better than the original, for Payne
roared it twice as loud as the legitimate text, and it elicited,
thunders of applause.

386 7 HEA 7TR/CA/. AAVECDOTES.
A PROFESSIONAL EPITAPH.
ſº HOMAS JACKSON, of the Norwich company, lies
jº buried in the churchyard of St. Peter's Mancroff,
Norwich, with the following curious epitaph inscribed
on his tombstone:—“Sacred to the Memory of Thomas Jackson,
Comedian, who was engaged December 21, 1741, Zo Álay a
comic cast of characters in this great žheatre, the World, for many
of which he was fromżed by nature to excel. The season being
ended, his benefit over, the charges all paid, and his account
closed, he made his exit in the ZYagedy of “Death,” on the 17th
of March, 1798, in the full assurance of being called once more
to rehearsa/, when he hopes to find his forfeifs all cleared, his
cast of Żarfs bettered, and his situation made agreeable by Him
who paid the great s/ocł-debt for the love He bore to Žeſſor/lers
in general.”
BLACK ON WHITE.
sº HEN Colman the younger's affairs with the Haymarket
AA}| Theatre were in great embarrassment, some one
lamented that he could not be relieved from ultimate
responsibility by a bankruptcy, he not being a trader. “You
are mistaken,” said the witty author; “I am a paper-stainer.”
FUEL.
;S it because money keeps the pot boiling that an actor's
tº º salary in French is called ſett, and in English coa/?
- Let philologists decide. Like most theatrical cant
terms, it is of old standing—witness the following pun made by
James Spiller, the famous comedian. It was at a time when the
public gave but very little encouragement to the Lincoln's Inn
Theatre, in consequence of which the proprietor was frequently



THAEA 7/r/CA / AAVEC/DOTAES. 187
unable to pay his actors. One Saturday morning when they met
as usual at rehearsal, with hopes of receiving at least some part
of their pay, Bullock, a brother comedian, said to Spiller, with a
sorrowful countenance, “Faith, Jimmy, there is no coa/ again
this morning.” “Why,” replied Spiller, “if there is no coal, we'll
have to burn Wood,” which was the name of the manager.
A DELICATE HINT.
§APTAIN HARWOOD, the manager of the Dundalk
# Theatre, was a navy officer on half pay. A gentleman
living in the suburbs of Drogheda used frequently to
invite him to dine. Christmas being near, this gentleman
considered a good dinner on the day that comes but once a year
would be desirable, and accordingly he told his friend, the
manager, that he would present to the company a quarter of an
ox. “I suppose,” said he, “they can eat?” “Yes, by my
faith,” replied Harwood, “they can eat, indeed ; but it would do
your heart good to see them drink.” -
A FALSE ALARM.
㺠HEN the dramatic version of Sue's Mysteries of Paris
had its run at the Porte Saint Martin, at Paris, the
close of the last act was one evening unceremoniously
cut short by the sudden fall of the curtain. The audience
stared at each other, suggested the probability of an accident
behind the scenes, or even of fire, and ended by shouting with
one accord for the stage-manager. Scarcely had that func-
tionary appeared and made his three customary bows, when he
was assailed by cries from all parts of the house, loudly
demanding an explanation. “Gentlemen,” he commenced.
“Is the fire out?” interrupted one of the deities. “A”/až-7/2”
inquired the manager, utterly taken aback by the question.
“The fire the fire | Is it extinguished P” anxiously asked


I88 THEA. TA’/CA/. ANECDOTES.
a hundred voices. “Gentlemen, there is no fire that I know of.
I was about to say that the curtain had been inadvertently let
down half a minute too soon, and that Mr. Frédéric Lemaitre’
(who played Jacques Ferrand, the wicked notary) “was con-
Sequently prevented from having the honour of exclaiming, as
he has done every evening since the first performance of the
piece, “Mon Dieu, A Moza Z)iew / / Moza Z)iew ///’” With these
words, uttered with the most perfect gravity, and a conscientious
attempt to imitate the actor's tone, the worthy stage-manager
made his parting bow, and retired amid uncontrollable bursts of
laughter—a dénoue/temſ to the lugubrious drama certainly never
contemplated by its author.
TO O TO OTLE.
§§ ū HEN Mrs. Bellamy played in the Dublin Theatre, she
#AA}| became such a favourite with the public that she was
*...* * * * * greeted with the most endearing expressions. These
she accepted graciously, until one of her admirers, Mr. St.
Leger, was so carried away by his admiration, that he kissed
her as she passed him on quitting the stage. The offended
actress gave him such a box on the ear, that it tingled for
the rest of the night. Lord Chesterfield rose in his box to
applaud her; and at the end of the act, Major Macartney was
sent by the viceroy to insist upon Mr. St. Leger making a
public apology.
SALTS AND SENNA.
rºl R. VANDENHOFF relates, in his amusing Dramatic
§§§ Reminiscences, that rehearsing one day the play of
Aſamleſſ at a Small theatre in Lancashire, a Polonius,
in the second act, after telling him that the actors were arrived,
proceeded to describe them in this manner:
“The best actors in the world, my lord, for tragedy, comedy,


TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/. AAVAEC/DOTES. 189
history, pastoral, pastorical comical, historical pastoral, Scene
individable, or poem unlimited. Plazeżus is too heavy, and Se?!??&
is too ſight.” Polonius was very indignant when Mr. Vandenhoff
mildly suggested the incorrectness of the reading, and inquired
from him, if Shakespeare had not rather written : “Seneca can-
zlot àe zoo heavy, nor P/autus too light.” “Oh, fudge | * replied
he ; “I know what senna is, as well as you ; as for Plautus, I
don’t know what that is, nor I don’t care. But I have spoken it
so for twenty-five years, and I ain't a-going to change it now.”
Accordingly at night, when he came to the passage, he walked
deliberately up to Hamlet, looked him full in the face, and, in
a very emphatic tone, said—
“Plautus is too heavy, and senna is too light.”
“I could only wish him a good dose of it,” says Mr. Vanden-
hoff, “by way of clearing his thick head. But it passed with
the audience ; apparently no one noticed. Perhaps he had read
it so to them for twenty odd years, and they were used to it ;
who knows P”
THE RULING PASSION.
Rºl HEN Macready was performing in Mobile, U.S.A., in
AWA Wº 1844, his manner at rehearsal displeased one of the
actors, a native American of the pure western type.
This person, who was cast for the part of Claudius in Hamleſſ,
resolved to “pay off” the Britisher for many supposed offences,
and thus he carried out his purpose. When in the last scene
Hamlet stabbed the usurper, he reeled forward, and after a most
spasmodic finish, he stretched himself out precisely in the place
Hamlet required for his own death. Macready, much annoyed,
whispered, “Die ſurther up the stage, sir.” The monarch
lay insensible. Upon which, in a louder voice, Hamlet growled
again, “Die further up the stage, sir.” Hereon the Claudius,
sitting up, observed, “I b'leeve I’m King here, and I’ll die where
I please : * The tragedy concluded shortly after that.

I90 THEA TRICA L AAVECDOTES.
“GAMMER GUIRTON'S NEED LE.”
㺠R. JOHN STILL, a Vice-Chancellor of the University of
㺠Cambridge and Bishop of Bath and Wells, was the
author of the above play. It is impossible to settle the
date of the first appearance of this comedy with accuracy.
Malone was of opinion, and with reason, that it was acted
at Christ's College, Cambridge, in 1566, when Still was in his
twenty-third year. The story of this play, which is written
in metre and extends into five regular acts, is very silly. The
whole plot relates merely to the loss of a needle, with which
an old woman was mending a countryman’s breeches; this
needle is afterwards found by its incommodating the person
upon whose apparel it had been employed. The characters
are all rustics with the exception of Diccon the Bedlam (i.e.
Dick the Fool), Dr. Rab, and the Bailey. The dialogue is usually
in the broadest provincial dialect. Now and then it has flashes
of humour, but of the coarsest kind ; whilst some points which
are pleasant in the outset, are rendered absurd by being carried
to extremes. Thus the description of Hodge, trying to light
a candle by the cat’s eyes in the dark, and endeavouring to blow
them into a flame, is laughable enough, until he is made to give
the alarm of fire, because the animal ran away into the hayloft.
This was just beyond the bound, though still a pleasant exagge-
ration. The best thing in it, however, is the drinking-song which
opens the second act.
Dr. Still afterwards became Rector of Hadleigh, in the
county of Suffolk, and was appointed Bishop of Bath and Wells
in 1607. In December, I 592, when he was at the head of the
University of Cambridge, he received a command from London,
that a comedy in English should be got up there for the amuse-
ment of the queen, as, in consequence of the prevalence of the
plague, her own actors could not play before her at Christmas. A
request was made by Dr. Still and six other learned gentlemen

7A/ASA 7TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DOTES. I9 I
that the play should be in Latin, as “more beseeming the
students ;” and, though it is not known what play was produced
on this occasion, there is reason to suppose that the request
was granted.
IRISH PUFFING.
;3|EMBLE and Lewis, happening to be in Dublin at the
§ same time, were both engaged by the manager of the
theatre in Smock Alley for one night's performance, in
Leon and the Copper Captain. The announcement of their
appearance was coupled with the following delectable passage :-
“They never performed together in the same piece, and in all
human Żroðaðīlāy they never will again. This evening is, the
summit of the manager's câmaa. He has constantly gone
higher and higher in his endeavours to delight the public,
beyond this it is not in 7mature to go.”
MACKLIN AND SHUTER.
jū RING the rehearsal of Macbeth by Macklin, when he
| was in the seventy-fifth year of his age, he was so
prolix and tedious in his own part, as well as in his
instructions to the other actors, that Shuter exclaimed, “the
case was very hard, for the time has been, that when the brains
were out the man would die, and there an end.” Macklin,
overhearing him, good naturedly replied, “Ah, Ned ; and the
time was, that when liquor was in wit was out, but it is not so
with thee.” Shuter rejoined, in the words of Shakespeare,
“Now, now thou art a man again.”
A THEATRICAL LEGEND.
gºl WO of the greatest French painters, Ingres and Gérôme,
§§ have depicted a scene representing Louis XIV, break-
fasting with Molière. The great comedian was an
hereditary valet-de-chambre of the king, and according to the



I92 7A/A2A 7TP/CA/C A/VAZCZOO 7TA.S.
legend, some of the other valets objected to his company on
account of his being an actor. To rebuke them, the king one
morning ordered in a repast always kept ready during the
night against his royal hunger, and commanding Molière to sit
down, his Majesty himself helped him to the wing of a chicken,
in the presence of the discomforted courtiers. This pretty story
does not occur in any of the thousand and one memoirs
and collections of letters of that period. Saint Simon declares
distinctly that, except in the army, the king never ate with any
man, not even with the princes of the blood, excepting only at
the feasts he gave at their weddings. Such a remarkable fact,
therefore, as his Majesty’s inviting a valeſ-de-chamóre, dramatist
and actor, to his table would have been far too great an event to
be passed by in silence. It was first made public in 1823, in the
Memoirs of Madame Campan, who asserted that she had it from
her father, who heard it from an old physician-in-ordinary to
Louis XIV. But, in the absence of all further corroboration, the
second-hand authority of an anonymous physician can go for
nothing, and the whole affair may be dismissed as a legend.
A BAD CON SCIENCE.
ºl HE production of Poole's comedy of The Patrician and
# the Parvem, at Drury Lane, gave rise to a humorous
equivoque. The worthy author was at that time in
difficulties, as many persons have been before and after him. At
a particular moment, in a particular scene, a horn had to be blown,
and the player in the orchestra, not exactly “suiting the action
to the word,” was ordered to be in attendance at the end of the
last rehearsal to settle the point. As Poole was crossing the
stage, he saw dodging about a man more than six feet high,
wrapped up in a thick, Shaggy “upper benjamin,” with his chin
sunk into the folds of a Belcher handkerchief, his hat cocked on
one side, and each of his hands dipped into their respective side
coat-pockets. His eyes at once caught the fellow's look, and his

7A/EA T/C/CA/. A WAEC/DO 7"A.S. I93
J
ear took alarm at hearing him say to a diminutive and familiar
little wag, the call-boy, “Can you tell me if Mr. Poole is any-
where about here ** The author shot off like an arrow, and
had nearly reached the door, when the skirts of his coat were
pulled by the call-boy, who vociferated, “Don’t you be afraid, sir;
it's only the feller as blows the horn, vants to know ven it’s to
come in.”
BLISSET'S READING,
ſº NE night when Blisset was having his benefit at Bath, he
§§§ was playing Rueful in The Natural Son. At the
" moment he was, in that character, about to make the
disclosure of his birth, a party of ladies and gentlemen entered
one of the boxes, and commenced talking so loudly that the
actors could no longer be heard. Blisset stared at them for an
instant, indignantly and disconcerted ; then taking Blushenly,
his interlocutor, by the arm, he said, “Come along, you can’t
hear me here, and I’ll tell you all about it in the next room; ”
with which he went off, and gave vent to his vexation.
A W UAVGUAE /.A.O.N.A.M.
ăſă]OX, the Brighton manager, was a very odd character. He
: was a kind of Ca/eff Queoſema in real life. He could
combine twenty occupations, without being clever in
one—a pretty general characteristic of country managers in
those days. He was actor, fiddler, painter, machinist, and tailor,
besides check-taker and bill-sticker on occasions. But he
prided himself more especially on his talents as a painter, had
executed all his own scenery, and accomplished in person the
embellishment of the house. Sheridan was down at Brighton
One summer, and Fox, desirous of showing him some civility,
took him all over the theatre and exhibited its beauties.
“There, Mr. Sheridan,” said he, “I constructed this stage, I
O


I94. TAZAZA 7TR/CA/L AAVEC/DOTAE.S.
built and painted those boxes, and I painted all those scenes.”
“Did you, indeed P’’ said Sheridan, surveying them rapidly.
“Well, I should not have known you were a Fox by your brush.”
T) IAGNOSTICS.
;IOHN EDWIN, the actor, frequently disobeyed the
injunction which the King of Denmark lays down
to the queen, “Gertrude, do not drink.” When in
his cups, he used to forget all about his engagements, and
a brother actor had to apologize for the defaulter's absence.
One evening, Lewis went forward with the usual formula—that
it was with the greatest regret that he had to inform the house
Mr. Edwin was prevented from appearing that evening, in
Consequence of a sudden indisposition. “Gradua/indisposition,
you mean, Mr. Lewis,” corrected a wit in the pit; “for I saw him
ten minutes ago, getting drunk in the Piazza Coffee-house.”
A THIMBLE EMEUTE.
ſºlº N 1805, Dowton, an actor of Covent Garden Theatre,
§§ chose for his benefit Foote's burlesque, The Tailors; 0?,
a Tragedy for Warm Weather, in which the fraternity
of the thimble were not treated with the respect their importance
in all ages appears to have enjoyed. Like the footmen some
years before, on the representation of High Zife Below Stairs,
they resolved to vindicate the dignity of their order. An angry
battalion of tailors occupied—as well they might—the dress-boxes,
another operative line threaded the pit, whilst not a few were
prepared for backing the suit in the galleries. Dowton had
advertised The Tailors, but they were resolved on Measure for
Measure. Being well assured that the first blow is half the
battle, Dowton, on his appearance, was assailed by no less a
missile than a pair of tremendous shears, large enough to cut
the thread of his existence had they touched him. This pretty


THEA TR/CAM, A WEC/DOTES. I95
Strong demonstration of hostility caused the immediate inter-
ference of the constables, and in three minutes the uproar was at
its best. The tailors, it is true, were three to one, but recollect-
ing how many go to a man, it is not surprising they were soon
Overpowered. Some of the ringleaders, or foremen, were handed
over to Mr. Aaron Graham, the chief police magistrate; but that
gentleman being one of the committee of management at Drury
Lane Theatre, the whole party were sent about their business,
with the exception of the desperate little mechanic who had
thrown the shears. -
NOTHING I, IRE LEATHER.
sº ICTORIEN SARD OU, before he obtained fame and
Ayº wealth, lived at a shoemaker's in the Faubourg St.
Dénis, where he earned his living by carrying and
stowing away huge rolls of leather and other merchandise
belonging to the owner of the shop. There seemed to be
“nothing like leather ” at that time for the hapless dramatist,
inasmuch as another kindly Crispin, who dwelt in the Rue de
la Seine, supplied him for ten years with boots on credit,
having such a prophetic belief in his genius that he never
troubled him for the money. Needless almost to add that the
custom is still continued, though on rather more ready-money
principles than in days of yore ; and when the old bootmaker
visits the successful playwright, at his chateau at Marly, he
slaps his thighs, and exclaims, “Ah ! if you had not been
properly shod, you would never have arrived at fortune, for how
could you have walked from theatre to theatre with your first
plays?” -
JUDGING BY APPEARANCES.
jº NDREW JACKSON ALLEN, better known as “Dummy
§§ Allen,” a subordinate New York actor, was very deaf.
This infirmity rendered him very annoying to those
with whom he played, who not unfrequently took an unkind


I96 THAEA 7TR/CAA. AAVECDOTES.
revenge on his misfortune by misleading him with an inaudible
movement of the lips during the performance, to which he
thought he must reply, his speeches being often very ma/-à-
Żroftos. On one occasion, when an actor's lips seemed moving
beyond the cue, by which he was to reply, Allen exclaimed aloud,
“What is all this P Are you going to do all the talking? Stop, or
I’ll go off the stage.” The audience roared with laughter.
CAUTIOUS APPROVAL.
ºRS. SIDDONS' first reception in Edinburgh, on May
§§§ 22, 1784, in Belvidera, was very cool. “I own,” she
says, “I was surprised, and not a little mortified, at
that profound silence, which was a contrast to the burst of
applause I had been accustomed to hear in London. Not a
hand moved to the end of the scene.” She felt as if she had
been speaking to stones. At last she gathered herself up for
one passage, and threw all her powers into it; then paused, and
looked steadily at the audience, when in the hushed silence
a voice was heard, exclaiming, “Come, that’s no’ bad l’ This
produced roars of laughter, and the wished-for burst of
applause.
SLEEPIN G. PARTNERS.
sº a wººl º MAZERE receives a certain share in the profits of the
§§§, opera Le Serment, ou les Faua Monmayeurs, every
time that piece is represented, and yet he has not
written one note of the music, nor one word of the text. His
share in the work was simply that he once told Scribe, the play-
wright, the anecdote of the Marshal Turenne and the coiners,
which forms the subject of this piece, adding that “something
might be done for the stage with it.” Scribe replied, “I have
heard the anecdote before, but I have never thought of that.
We will see, however.” No more was said about it, but a long


ZTA/AEA 7/0/CA/. A WAEC/DO 7T/E.S. I97
time after, the opera Ze Serment was produced. As Soon
as M. Mazère heard that the rehearsals were proceeding, he
wrote to Scribe: “I claim my share of collaboration in the opera
now under rehearsal, but I will not be named. I have taken
no part in the composition of the piece in question, but I might
have done so, for I told you the anecdote which forms the
Subject,” etc. He obtained what he asked, and, moreover, the
opera is always announced on the bills as the work of “M.
Scribe et * * *.” Surely delicacy can go no further. In a
similar manner, Scribe himself used to receive a certain share
every time the Favorifa was played, to which, however, he had
Contributed nothing, the libretto having been written by
Alphonse Royer. It was a compensation because Donizetti,
after entrusting him with the libretto of Ze Duc d’Alòe, had
taken back the score to make use of it in the Favorifa,
A HAND SOME OF FER.
; HE following is told by John Bernard, in his Refros/ec-
ºjši tāons of the Stage, and as the story relates to his own
wife, we must believe it to be true. When the troupe
to which he belonged was at Plymouth, “Mrs. Bernard on her
benefit night received an unexpected compliment. We were
playing The Chances, in which my wife enacted the Second
Constantia, and when, repeating the Soliloquy upon her escape
from Antonio, she exclaimed, “Well, I’m glad I’ve got rid of that
old fellow, however; and now, if any handsome young man would
take a fancy to me and make me an honest woman, I'd make
him the best wife in the universe,” a middy in the slips, who had
never seen a play before, and took a deep interest in the scene,
immediately started up, and ieaning over the box, in a manner
which made him conspicuous to the whole house, Clapped his
hands and cried out, “I’ll have you, ma’am I’ll have you,
demne if I don’t I have three years' pay to receive, besides
prize-money.”

198 7A/FA 7TW/CA/. A WAEC/DOTAES,
DEATHS ON THE STAGE.
5|N the annals of the stage there are a few instances
iſ of performers who expired whilst performing some
actors part. What makes these sudden deaths still
more striking, is the fact that in Some instances the last words
they uttered had some reference to the uncertainty of life.
The first instance on record is that of one Paterson, an actor
long attached to the Norwich company. This gentleman,
in October, 1752, was performing the Duke in Measure for
Measure, which he played in a masterly style. Moody was
the Claudio, and in the third act, when the Duke, disguised as
the Friar, was preparing Claudio for execution next morning,
Paterson had no sooner spoken these words—
‘‘Reason thus with life :
If I do loose thee, I do loose a thing
That none but fools would keep ; a breath thou art,”
than he dropped in Moody’s arms, and died instantly. He was
interred at Bury St. Edmunds, and on his tombstone his last
words, as above, are engraved.
A gentleman of the name of Bond, with a number of friends,
got up Voltaire's Zaïre, translated into English, at the music-
room in Villiers Street, York Buildings, Strand, and chose the
part of Lusignan for himself. His acting was considered
marvellous, and he so far yielded himself up to the force and
impetuosity of his imagination, that on the discovery of his
daughter he fainted away. The house rung with applause, but
finding that he continued a long time in that situation, the
audience began to be uneasy and apprehensive. The represen-
tatives of Chatillon and Nerestan placed him on a chair. He then
faintly spoke, extended his arms to embrace his children, who
were present among the audience, raised his eyes to heaven, and
closed them for ever.
John Palmer, familiarly known as “Plausible Jack Palmer.”

7A/EA TRICAZ AAVECDOTES. I99
an excellent general actor who opened the Royalty Theatre at
the East end of London, terminated his life on the
Liverpool stage in 1798. On the morning of the day on which
he was to have performed Z'he Stranger, he received the
distressing intelligence of the death of his second son. The
play in consequence of this was deferred, and he in vain
endeavoured to calm the agitation of his mind. When, a few
days afterwards, the performance took place, its success was
so marked that a second representation was called for, which
took place on August 2, 1793. In the fourth act, Baron Steinfort
obtains an interview with the “ Stranger,” whom he discovers to
be his old friend. He prevails on him to relate the cause of his
seclusion from the world. In this relation Palmer was visibly
much agitated, and at the moment when he mentioned his wife
and children, the memory of his own loss rushed no doubt upon
him, and after some vain attempts to speak, he fell lifeless on the
stage. The audience supposed for the moment that his fall was
nothing more than a studied addition to the part, but on seeing
him carried away from the stage, the truth dawned upon them.
Medical assistance was at Once procured, but every means of
resuscitation proved unavailing : death had been instantaneous.
In June, 1817, when the tragedy of Żame Shore was performed
at the Leeds Theatre, Cummings, a veteran actor who had held
an elevated rank on the stage for nearly half a century, played
the part of Dumont. He had just repeated the benedictory
words— *
“Be witness for me, ye celestial hosts.
Such mercy and such pardon as my Soul
Accords to thee, and begs of heaven to show thee,
May such befall me at my latest hour,”
when he fell down on the stage and instantly expired. For some
time Cummings had laboured under that alarming malady
designated by the name of Ossification of the heart ; and to this
circumstance, added to the strength of his feelings in the minic
Scene, his death is to be attributed.
2OO 7A/EA 7/º/CA/. AAVECDOTES.
The latest instance on record of sudden death before the
foot-lights is that of Mr. Jordans, a respectable, painstaking actor.
His appalling end, less than ten years ago, is too well remembered
to bear repetition.
THE THREE COMMAND MENTS.
Fºil LFRED BUNN, formerly manager of Drury Lane
§ Theatre, was delivering a lecture on “the Drama,” in
the New Hall, Leicester, many years since, before
a crowded audience, when the following anecdote elicited much
applause. He said, “A wealthy old gentleman, who had
a great veneration for the works of Shakespeare, had erected in
the centre of his library a costly cabinet for the exclusive
reception of what he believed to be one of the first copies of
the immortal poet’s work ever printed. Outside this cabinet
were three brass plates, with the following inscriptions:—“To
authors : Thou shalt not steal ; ’ ‘To critics: Thou shalt not bear
false witness ; ’ ‘To actors : Thou shalt do no murder.’”
PROFESSIONAL JEALOUSY.
㺠HE Pantheon Theatre was burned on January 14, 1792.
# Sheridan, then manager of Drury Lane, and Michael
Kelly, the stage manager, were looking at the con-
flagration. Sheridan remarked that the flames were reaching
the top of the building, and that it did not seem possible
that they could be extinguished. An Irish fireman standing
by, overhearing Sheridan make this remark, whispered to him,
“For the love of heaven, Mr. Sheridan, don’t be unasy, sir!
By the powers, it will soon be down ; Sure, they won’t have a
blessed drop of water in five minutes.” Pat said this in the
natural warmth of heart, for he imagined that the ruin of the
rival theatre could not but be gratifying to the proprietor of
Drury Lane,


THEAT/ē/CA/, AAWAECDOT/2.S. 2OI
A RESUSCITATION.
āşâl N Rowe's play of The Fair Pemářemž a curious scene was
; once witnessed. The “haughty, gallant, gay Lothario,”
after having been slain at the end of the fourth act by
Altamont, lies dead, raised on a bier, covered with black by
the property-man, and his face whitened by the barber. But,
as Lothario does not come to life again, the part of corpse is
usually taken by a double, which in general is the actor's
dresser. The original Lothario was George Powell, a clever
actor, admired by Steele and Addison, but a riotous, rollicking,
quarrelsome fellow. On the occasion in question, Warren,
Powell's dresser, had claimed the right of lying in state by
proxy for his master, and of performing the dead part of
Lothario to the best advantage, though Powell was ignorant of
the matter. The fifth act began, and through the “soft music”
which accompanied it, Powell, impatient to go home, was heard
behind the scenes angrily calling for Warren, at that moment
employed in the doleful duty of personating his master's corpse.
The unfortunate dresser, extended on the bier, heard Lothario
storming, yet for Some time dramatic propriety overcame his
fear. Trembling he lay, anxiously waiting for the curtain to
descend. At length he could sustain it no longer, for he heard
Powell vowing that he would “break every bone in his skin’
if he did not come instantly, and the dresser knew that his
master was a man likely to keep such a promise. So without
a word of reply he jumped off, with all his sables about him,
which unfortunately being tied fast to the handles of the bier,
dragged that furniture of woe after him. The audience
burst out in laughter, which frightened poor Warren so much
that, with the bier at his tail, he threw down Calista (Mrs.
Barry), and overwhelmed her with the table, lamp, book, skull,
and other bones, and fled from the stage as fast as his charnel-
house trappings would allow him. Thus for once the sombre

2O2 TA/AA TA2/CA / AAVAEC/DO 7TA.S.
tragedy of The Pair Penitent was permitted a mirthful
conclusion.
ADAM AND EVE.
à MONG the many operatic libretti sent in to the celebrated
French composer, Adam, at different periods of his
professional career, in the hope that their perusal
might inspire him with a burning desire to set them to music,
was one—the work of a youthful poet unknown to fame—
bearing the attractive title of Æve. Having looked over the
text, which proved to be utterly devoid of literary or dramatic
merit, Adam promptly forwarded it to the author, with the
following happily turned note:–
“VERY MUCH HONOURED SIR,--To my lively regret, I find
it quite impossible to avail myself of the accompanying
libretto, with an offer of which your great goodness has
prompted you to favour me. For, believe me, should Adam
allow himself to be tempted by this particular Eve, the
public would most assuredly undertake, with surprising
spontaneity, the part of the Serpent—at least, as far as hissing
is concerned. Disastrous precedent warns us against a
revival of so sinister a combination ; wherefore I hasten to
return your remarkable production, with every assurance of
my perfect consideration.—ADAM.”
“A NIEW WAY TO PAY OLD DIEDTS.”
fºlk, ROBERT MITCHELL, who supplied Sheridan
# with coals, had a heavy demand against him, long
outstanding, and for which he was determined not
to wait any longer. He went to Sheridan's house, accused
him of having treated him shamefully, and Swore he would not
leave the house without his money. As the amount was several
hundreds, and Sheridan had not as many shillings, compliance


7///EA 7/2/CA/, AAWAEC/DO 7TA.S. 2O3
was more easily demanded than obtained. Sheridan made most
eloquent appeals, and finally asked “if half would do to-day,
and a bill for the remainder.” “Not a farthing less than my
whole bill, Mr. Sheridan,” was the reply ; “as I said before,
I dare not show my face at home without it.” After a pause,
and apparently much moved, the dramatist replied, “Then,
would to heaven I could assist you ! I cannot—but ’’ (and here
he took a deep dip into his pocket), “one thing I can, I will,
I Ought to do. There’’ (taking Mitchell’s hand, shaking it, and
putting something in it) “there—never let it be said that while
Sheridan had a guinea in his pocket, he refused it to his friend
Bob Mitchell.” Sheridan heaved with emotion, Mitchell stood
aghast for a minute or two ; then carefully tucked up the guinea
in a corner of his leather breeches pocket, forgot his wrongs,
and with the affectionate Boð ringing in his ears, he bolted out
of the house, and to the latest hour of his life was fond of
displaying “the last guinea his friend. Sheridan had in the
world !” This is perhaps the greatest feat Sheridan ever did,
except when he softened an attorney.
EAD COMPANY.
ñº OMAN, an actor of the Bettertonian school, in his youth
j was famous for his voice. One night he was appointed
to sing Some part in a concert at Nell Gwynn's apart-
ments. Only the king, the Duke of York, and a few courtiers
of the highest rank were present at this entertainment. Boman
sang his best, and when the performance was concluded, Charles
expressed himself highly pleased, and warmly praised the
musicians. “Then, sir,” said Nell Gwynne, “to show you don’t
speak like a courtier, I hope you will make the performers a
handsome present.” The king replied that he had no money
about him, and asked his brother if he had any. To which the
duke replied, “I believe, sir, not above a guinea or two.” Upon
which Nelly, turning laughingly to the other gentlemen, and

2O4. 7A/FA TR/CA / AAVEC/DO 7'E.S.
making use of the king's favourite expletion, observed, “Odds
fish what company am I got into ”
CHRISTIAN DUTIES.
ºlN the last century a French actor named Béjart, having
#| inherited a fortune, bought what is called in France a
ferre Seigneuria/e, corresponding more or less to our
manor. The first Sunday after he had taken up his abode in
the chateau, he went to church. It was the curate's duty to
offer prayers for the new lord of the manor, but here a
difficulty arose, for all players were excommunicated by the
Church. There was no help for it, however, and the mode in
which the curate fulfilled his task was as follows:– “My dear
brethren,” he said, “let us pray for the conversion of M. Béjart,
a sinner, comedian, and lord of this manor.”
MATHEws: DžBU7.
*śl N I835, Charles Mathews the second made his first bow
§ to a London public at the Olympic, then under the
management of Madame Vestris, as George Rattleton
in 7%e Hum/backed Zover, after little more than a fortnight's
preparation. This was followed by a little piece, written for the
occasion by Leman Rede, 7%e Old and ſhe Young Stager.
Liston, who, it was said, had delayed his own farewell to the
stage that he might introduce the son of his old friend to the
public, took the part of the Old Stager ; young Mathews played
Tom Topple the Tiger, and showed himself the true son of his
father—a chip of the old block. The dialogue was of the
punning kind then much in vogue ; the hits, many and good,
were conveyed in stage-coach phraseology, with an occasional
sprinkle of St. Giles's Greek, but applicable to the stage that
goes without wheels, past and present. All that bore reference
to the sun which had forever Set, and that which had just risen,


THEA TRACA / A NASC/DOTAES, 2O5
was eagerly seized by the audience and applauded to the echo.
Liston spoke a serious poetic address very beautifully, and in
the tag of the piece drew tears. “Tim,” he said, “let me give
you some advice. You are entering a new line of life, a stranger
to the road. I know it well. It has its errors and its accidents,
but you reach the inn at last ; and, I believe, there's not one
here need be asked twice to remember the coachman.” Here
Liston was enthusiastically cheered. He then led Mathews
forward, and proceeded thus: “Passengers, we leave you here.
As he carries on the stage, be his guard. He's my boy, and if
he don’t always handle the whip like an old hand, make allow-
ances, for the sa/e of his father.” 4.
A PLEDGE OF FIRIEND SHIP.
§'; ATHEWS was always well dressed, and carried a hand-
§§§ some umbrella. Munden was miserly, generally meanly
dressed, and carried an old gingham “Paul Pry.” After
Munden had left the stage, Mathews met him one day in
Covent Garden. “Ah, Munden,” said Mathews, “you must let
me have Something of yours as a remembrance.” “Certainly,
my boy,” replied Munden ; “we’ll exchange umbrellas.”
Mathews was so taken aback, that Munden quietly walked
off with his new umbrella.
SOMETHING IN THAT,
;PIERE was some humour in the retort of a country actor
jº of the name of Knipe to the famous Barry, who was
impatient of the incompetency of the players engaged
with him, “Do not speak your speech, sir, in that drawling
way,” said Barry, in his energetic manner. “Look at me, sir!
speak it in this way, ‘To ransom home revolted Mortimer ' '
that is the way to speak it, sir.” To which the actor imme-
diately replied, “I know that, sir, that is the way; but you’ll


2O6 THEATRICAL AMECDozes.
please to remember you get £100 a week for speaking it in your
way, and I only get thirty shillings for mine. Give me 4,100, and
I’ll speak it in your way; but I’m not going to do for thirty
shillings what you get paid £100 for.”
STAGE FEVERS.
§ANLEY, in his Wonders of the Ziffſe World, has a
curious anecdote of a singular epidemic which about the
year 200 B.C. prevailed in the present province of
Roumelia. “In the reign of Lysimachus, king of Thrace,” says
he, “the people were infected by a strange disease. First, a
violent and burning fever seized them. Upon the seventh day
after, they bled at the nose very copiously, or others of them fell
into an exceeding sweat. But a ridiculous affection was left
upon their minds, for they all fell to acting of fragedy, thunder-
ing out iambics, especially the Andromeda of Euripides and the
part of Perseus therein, so that the city was full of pallid, attenu-
ated actors. This dotage lasted till the winter, when the sharp
frost put an end to it. The secret of the malady was this :
Archilaus, a famous tragedian, had in the Summer represented
Andromeda, and while in the theatre the people were first seized
with fever, and thus the representations of the stage got
dominion over their senses.” In modern times, about 1744,
when Garrick was playing in Dublin, a fever broke out which
was called the Garrick fever. Some eighty years later a
complimentary fever broke out in Edinburgh, when Mrs. Siddons
was playing there. Sceptical doctors, however, attributed it to
the heat from over-crowding at her performances.
SINGLE PART ACTORS.
à N the Guardžan, Steele has given an amusing account
of one William Peer, an actor who took his degree with
Betterton, Kynaston, and Harris, whose memory has
been preserved by playing only one part, But this single part


& THEA. TA’/CA/. AAVEC/DOTES. 2O7
was such a ??ce de résistance in his career, that it sufficed to
establish his solid fame. The character was that of the actor in
Aamlet, No One could like him repeat the lines—
‘‘For us and for our tragedy
Here Stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently.”
“His whole action in life,” says the essayist, “depended on his
Speaking these three lines, which he did better than any man
else in the world.” -
On one occasion when Elliston acted The Three Singers, the
person who was to have played the part of Renaud was taken
Suddenly ill, during the very representation of the piece. Ward,
the leader of the band, laying down his fiddle, volunteered to
finish the character. This offer being received by the public
with rounds of applause, he jumped on the stage, and went
through the business with admirable art. Owing to his success
On this remarkable occasion, Ward determined to hang up his
fiddle and turn actor. He made several attempts in other
characters, but signally failed in them all. Renaud, however,
Stuck to him like a plaster. g •
A very similar occurrence took place once at Covent Garden
Theatre. Braham was taken ill during the first act of The
Cabinet, when Woodham, a trumpeter in the orchestra, took up
the part of Orlando, and went through it with remarkable effect.
He also, on this success, turned his attention to the stage, but
failed in all subsequent attempts.
THE AUTHOR AND THE MANAGER.
; HE “iron tongue of midnight” had tolled twelve as
Elliston was stepping into his carriage from the stage
door of Drury Lane Theatre, when a stranger Suddenly
Sprang forward from an obscure corner of the hall, and, present-
ing his card, demanded an instant audience from the fleeting
manager. “I am the author,” the stranger said, “ of a tragedy,

2O8 7TA/A2A TA’/CA / Al AVECDO 7"E.S.
John Sobieski, forwarded many months ago to this theatre. I
have called, sir, fourteen times at this door, and——” “Just step
into my carriage, and we will talk the matter over,” replied
Elliston. The author obeyed; Elliston followed, and the
carriage drove on, but not a word was spoken. Within twenty
minutes it drew up in Hadlow Street, Burton Crescent, at the
residence of James Wallack, where Elliston begged to be excused
for a short time. Out stepped the manager, leaving Sočeská
tenant of the vehicle. The fact was, Elliston was engaged to Sup
with Wallack, and during that agreeable occupation forgot all
about his friend in the coach. About three o'clock in the morn-
ing the manager took his departure, after the best manner he
was able. Some faint recollection of John Soózesłł now
dawned upon his mind, and not feeling in a mood for discussion,
Elliston desired his coachman to take his seat inside vis-à-vis
the patient Pole, and, mounting the box, gathered up the reins
and drove home. What passed between John the coachman
and John the Pole, deponent sayeth not ; but in due time, when
the party reached Elliston's stables, the gallant manager gravely
descended from the box and walked home. In the forenoon of
that same day the enraged dramatist received his missing tragedy,
accompanied by a penitent letter and a free admission to Drury
Lane for the Season.
- A STAGE STORM.
§ HUNDER on the stage was formerly produced by rolling
cannon-balls. In his prologue to Every Man in his
Humour, Ben Jonson promises that
“No nimble squib is seen to make afeard
The gentlewoman ; nor rolled bullet heald
To say it thunders.”
Dr. Reynardson, in 1713, in his poem of The Stage, noticing the
incongruous articles to be seen in the dressing-room of the
theatre, mentions—

7/7/2A 7/8/CA/. AAV/SC/DOTES. 209
“Hard by a quart of bottled lightning lies;
A bowl of double use and monstrous size,
Now rolls on high and rumbles in its speed,
Now drowns the weaker crack of mustard seed ;
So the true thunder,” etc.
In the first quarter of the present century, one Lee, manager of
the Edinburgh Theatre, with a view to improving the thunder of
his stage, ventured to return to the ancient system of represent-
ing a storm. His enterprise was attended with results at
Once ludicrous and disastrous. He fastened ledges here and
there along the back of his stage, and obtaining a number of
nine-pound cannon-balls, placed these in a wheelbarrow, which
a carpenter was instructed to wheel to and fro over the ledges.
The play was Zear. The jolting of the heavy barrow, as it was
trundled along its uneven path over the hollow stage, and the
rumbling and reverberations thus produced, counterfeited most
effectually the tempest in the third act. Unfortunately, however,
while the King was braving in the front of the scene “the pitiless
Storm * raging at the back, the carpenter missed his footing,
tripped over one of the ledges, and fell down, wheelbarrow,
cannon-balls, and all. The stage slanting forward as usual, the
cannon-balls came rolling rapidly and noisily down towards the
front, gathering force as they advanced ; and overcoming the
feeble resistance offered by the scene, struck it down, passed
over its prostrate form, and made their way towards the foot-
lights and the fiddlers, amidst the amusement and wonder of the
audience, and the amazement and alarm of the Lear of that night.
As the nine-pounders advanced towards him, and rolled about
in all directions, he was compelled to display an activity in
avoiding them singularly inappropriate to the age and condition
of the character he was personating. He was even said to
resemble a dancer achieving the terpsichorean feat known as the
egg hornpipe. Presently, too, the musicians became alarmed
for the safety of themselves and their instruments, and deemed
it advisable to scale the spiked partition which divided them
P
2 IO TA/AEA 7TP/CA/. A WAEC/DOTAES,
from the pit; for the cannon-balls were upon them, Smashing
the lamps, and thundering into the orchestra. Meantime,
exposed to the full gaze of the house, lay prone beside his empty
barrow the carpenter, the innocent invoker of the storm he had
been unable to allay or direct, not at all hurt, but exceedingly
frightened and bewildered. After this unlucky experiment, the
manager abandoned his wheelbarrow and cannon-balls, and
reverted to more received methods of producing stage storms,
MATHEWS AND METAL.
* HARLES MATHEWS, while performing at the Lyceum
# in a little comedy entitled My Heart's Idol, was so
unfortunate as to receive a wound in the hand while
fighting a duel with Mr. George Vining, who impersonated one
of the characters in the same play. It was Mathews’ mis-
fortune to have been obliged, twice in his life, to compose with
his creditors, and in allusion to these misadventures and the
above accident the following epigram went the round of the
papers —
“Poor Charley's misfortune the public deplore.
Metallic advances he never could stand ;
The #77, always slipped through his fingers before,
And now the stee/ goes through the middle of his hand.”
STALLS ANI) PIT.
is N the early years of the Restoration, the pit was a
§ favourite place with the “young gallants.” Pepys re-
cords his sitting there with the Duke of Buckingham,
Lord Buckhurst, Sir Charles Sedley, and Etheredge the poet
and play-writer. But a few years later, the same chronicler ob-
serves anent the pit in the Duke of York's playhouse : “Here
a mighty company of citizens, 'prentices, and others ; and it
makes me observe, that when I first began to be able to bestow


7A//EA 7/0/CA/. A WECDOTES. 2 II
a play on myself, I do not remember that I saw so many by half
of the ordinary 'prentices and mean people in the pit at two
shillings and sixpence a piece as now.” Before this tide of
vulgarity, the fashion retired to the boxes, and for many years
the whole ground-floor of the house was left in undisturbed
possession of the “groundlings.” In course of time, however,
true lovers of the stage began to venture the contact with “the
sinful sixpenny mechanics,” as the public of the pit are called in
an old play. The journal of the Right Honourable William
Windham, at one time Colonial Secretary, tells us of his frequent
visits to the pit of Covent Garden, where, on One occasion, he
records that he “sat by Miss Kemble, Steevens, Mrs. Burke, and
Miss Palmer.” At Mrs. Siddons' representations, Boaden de-
scribes the seven first rows of the pit as crowded with “ladies
and gentlemen of the first fashion.” Hazlit and Charles Lamb
were both faithful patrons of the pit, and so were most of the
critics and literary gentlemen of that day.
It was not till 1829 that stalls were introduced, the opera-
house in the Haymarket taking the lead in this movement.
Dissatisfaction was openly expressed by the habitués of the pit,
when the best seats were thus taken away from them. But
although the overture was hissed—the opera being Rossini’s
Ponna del Zago—no serious disturbance took place, and the
audience either paid the increased price or was content to sit
on the back seats. The example of the opera manager was
presently followed by all other theatrical establishments, and
high-priced stalls became the rule everywhere. The intro-
duction of Stalls has brought another advantage ; for, once
retained, they are reserved during the whole evening. Such
was not the case in former days : those who retained seats in
the dress circle were obliged to occupy them before the first act,
or they were forfeited.
2 I 2 TA/FA 7/ē/CA/, A WEC/DO 7/.S.
RESTLESS ZEAL,
#NAVID MORRIS, at one time proprietor of the Hay-
| market Theatre, was a great character, and prided him-
self especially on his managerial abilities. Faithfully
fulfilling all his own obligations, he expected, justly enough,
equal rectitude on the part of others. Observing one morning,
at the rehearsal of Some music, that one of the band was
quiescent, he lent over from the pit, in which he was standing,
and touched him on the shoulder. “Why are you not playing,
sir?” “I have twelve bars rest, sir,” answered the musician.
“Rest don’t talk to me about rest, sir! Don't you get
your salary, sir? I pay you to play, and not to rest, Sir Rest
when you've done your work, and not in the middle of it.”
SARAH BERN HARD T’S DRESSES.
jºl LTHOUGH it must be admitted that this celebrated
§ actress is dressed more gorgeously than the lilies, who
are said to have surpassed Solomon's wardrobe, yet this
splendid attire is not altogether from choice. Not many years
ago, Mesdames Bernhardt, Fargueil, and Desclées made public
protest against the ſièces à robes, in which they were required
to dress like empresses, at their own expense. They traced the
ruinous custom to the period when the Imperial Court was at
Compiègne, and when the actresses “invited " to play to the
august company there, were required, by the inexorable rule of
the court, to obey the Sumptuary laws which regulated costume.
Every lady was invited for three days ; each day she was to
wear three different dresses, and no dress was to be worn a
second time. Count Bacciochi, the grand chamberlain, kept a
sharp eye on the ladies of the drama. Histrionic queens and
countesses were bound to be attired as genuinely as the historical
dignitaries themselves. The story they represented might be


7TA/AA TRICA /. A WAEC/DO 7TES. 213
a romance, the outward and visible signs were to be all reality.
The awful grand chamberlain is said even once to have refused
to admit an actress to the court stage at Compiègne, for the
Crime of wearing mock pearls when she was playing the part of
a duchess. Owing to these regulations, the ladies had to be
possessed of very extensive wardrobes, and as the same dresses
were not permitted to be seen a second time at Compiègne, they
wore them on the stage of the Théâtre Français. Thus the eye
of the public became accustomed to a luxury, which has ended
in becoming a necessity.
ADJOURNED FOR A BALLET.
§§§ E are wont to see the House of Commons annually
iáº) adjourned for the Derby day, but it will scarcely be
believed in our day that that august senate once
adjourned in order that the Žazres conscript; might be present
at the benefit of a dancer at the Haymarket Theatre. Such,
however, was the case, as will be seen by the following extract
of a letter from Horace Walpole to Mr. Mason, dated February
I9, 1781. “They have put off the second reading of Burke's
Bill because Wednesday was a fast day, and Thursday Vestris’
benefit. Religion has had its day, and the French dancer his.”
The abovenamed Vestris was he who in his meridian French
called himself /e Džou de la Danse.” In London he carried all
before him, but at Paris he had a young and powerful rival in
Duport, whence the French pun, “Vestris a fait naufrage en
approchant Du port. His son was also a popular dancer, but
is better known to posterity as the happy man who gave his
name to Bartolozzi's pretty daughter, the notorious Madame
Vestris.
* “There are only two great men in the world,” he used to say, “I
and the King of Prussia,” i.e. Frederick the Great.

2I4. 7A/A2.4 7/º/CA/ AAVEC/DOTAES.
AN INSANE HAM LE'I'.
§§ AMUEL RED DISH – Horse Reddish Foote called him
㺠—the second husband of Mrs. Canning, the mother
of the eminent statesman, George Canning, dis-
tinguished himself in some of Shakespeare's characters, but
ended his days in a lunatic asylum. His insanity arose from
an unlucky occurrence at Covent Garden Theatre on the first
night of his engagement. He appeared in the part of Hamlet,
and in the fencing scene between him and Laertes, Whitfield,
who performed the latter character, made so clumsy a lunge
that he struck off the bag-wig of Hamlet, and exposed his
bald pate to the laughter of the audience. “In conversing
with him in Bedlam,” says Mr. Taylor, the correspondent of
the Sun newspaper, in his ſecords, “I soothed him by
telling him that I was present at the scene, and that, though
the accident had a visible effect, the audience knew the fault
was wholly to be ascribed to the awkwardness of his competitor.
The mortification, however, made so strong an impression on
his mind that he never appeared on the stage again, and,
I heard, ended his days in the asylum at York.”
REMBLE A COMIC.
;|OHN KEMBLE certainly believed that he possessed
§§ comic talents, and, as far as a strong sense of humour
and a disposition to enjoy jocularity could tend to
excite such a suspicion, he might yield to this self-deception.
George Colman, being asked his opinion of Kemble's Don
Felix, replied that it displayed “too much of the Don, and too
little of the Felix.” Reynolds describes Kemble, at a supper-
party, contributing a jovial hunting-Song to the entertainment,
sung with extraordinary gravity, and introduced by the remark
that it was a favourite with one of the first comic singers of the


THEA TR/CAA. AAVEC/DOTES’. i 2 I 5
day, Mrs. Siddons. He had no voice, so the performance must
Ihave been a curious one.
AN ACTOR HANGED.
fºll H ! ye who think the actor's life is passed in idleness
§ and dissipation, hear this truthful confession, and
blush that you should ever malign a profession that
in the heavy criminal calendar is unknown. AWo actor yet
was ever hanged/ What other profession, trade, or even
creed, can say this P’ So writes Mr. Belton, with amiable
enthusiasm, in his entertaining Æeminiscences. It is a pity
to disturb so kindly a conviction, but verifas Ārevaleóźſ.
There are one or two examples of actors who have fully deserved
hanging, and there is at least one instance of a comedian
who, in this respect, obtained his deserts. Mathew Coppinger,
an actor of the end of the seventeenth century, was a man of
considerable abilities. He was the author of a volume of
“A”oems, Songs, and /love-verses, ºfton Several Occasions,”
1682, which he dedicated to the Duchess of Portsmouth ; but all
that can be said of them is that they are exactly what might
have been written by such a man to such a woman. Coppinger
one night, after personating a mock judge on the stage, took
the road in the character of a real highwayman. The con-
sequence was, that a few days afterwards the unfortunate
actor found himself before a real judge, receiving the terrible
sentence of death. The town was filled with pity and dismay ;
for a paltry watch and seven pounds in money, the amusing
Coppinger was to lose his witty life Petitions poured in from
every quarter, expressing much the same Sentiments as those of
ancient Pistol :
‘‘Let gallows gape for dog ; let man go free,
And let not hemp his windpipe Suffocate.”

2 I6 7T///ZA 7TA’/CA/C AAVAEC/OO ZTE.S.
I3ut in vain. In due course, Mat made his final bow at Tyburn.
A stave of an old ballad tells us that -
“Mat did not go dead, like a sluggard in bed,
But boldly in his shoes died of a noose,
That he found under Tyburn tree.”
A POPULAR MAYOR.
ºùù RING the management of Thomas Sheridan in Dublin
#| there was an actor named Sparks, who was famous for
* his Lord Mayors in Zeichard the 7%ird and 7%e Beggar's
Aus/. On one. Occasion he had to recite some blank verses, but
being too indolent to learn them by heart, he turned them into
drollery. Sheridan, who was the Richard of the night, objecting
to jokes being mixed in his serious Scenes, addressed Sparks the
next morning in these words: “Mr. Sparks, you are an
excellent comedian ; in most of the parts you undertake you are
unriyalled. But, sir, I hope you will pardon me for what I have
done ; I have taken the liberty to set down Mr. Pakenham for
the Lord Mayor in to-morrow’s bills. You know, my dear sir,
that the extraordinary good humour your very appearance
throws the whole audience into, without any sinister design in
you, so totally disconcerts the gravity and proper attention that
should attach to So interesting a scene of the play, wherein you
are concerned, that my feelings are discomposed for the whole
evening after.” “Very well,” replied Sparks, “mighty well, Mr.
Sheridan ; I thank you, sir, for many holidays I am likely to
enjoy during this Suspension from my civic office.” No sooner,
however, at the next performance, did the new Lord Mayor
make his appearance than the gallery began to shout, “off off l’
accompanied with volleys of potatoes and other missiles, and
Richard had to promise that the Lord Mayor should be rein-
stalled. “Psha Psha : * said Sparks, when Sheridan with
many apologies once more solicited his presence; “my dear
sir, you did me no injury at all ; but I was Sure you would never
have a big loaf till I was chosen your Lord Mayor again.”

THEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES. 217
SHAKESPEARE AND THE STAR-SPANGLED
BANNER, -
#: HOMAS ALTHORPE COOPER, at one time a success-
j; ful London actor, when “starring ” in America, in 1802,
was very imperfect in the text of some of the parts he
acted. As, for instance, in Offee//o, when he had to use these
words: “Yet I will not scar that whiter skin than Snow, and
smooth as monumental alabaster,” he substituted : “I will not Scar
that beauteous form, as white as snow and hard as monumental
alabaster.” An actor of the name of Higgins, not to be outdone
by the Britisher, on one occasion playing the Duke to Cooper's
Moor, having to say, “Take up this tangled matter at the best,”
actually substituted, “Take up the star-Spangled banner in the
West.” This is an actual fact. Higgins was a member of the
old South Street Theatre Company. His extraordinary inter-
pretation of the language of Shakespeare in the end was the
cause of his leaving the theatre, when he took to selling lottery
tickets and policies.
SENSATIONAL.
tº HE murder of Mr. Weare, at Watford, by Thurtell, on the
§§ 24th of October, 1823, startled all England by its almost
unparalleled savageness. The incidents were drama-
tized and presented at the Surrey Theatre on the 17th of
November, pending the trial of the ill-fated Thurtell. A vehicle
was brought on the boards described as “the identical gig in
which Weare was at the time murdered.” Threatened with a -
Criminal information the managers withdrew the piece after a few
nights’ representation. .


2 I 8 TA/AEA TRICA /. A WAECDOTES.
A SUDDEN CALL.
B. PARSONS, a very bad actor, who sometimes played
tragedy, was converted at Louisville, U.S., by a cele-
brated evangelist, named John N. Maffit. The actor
was playing an engagement at the Louisville Theatre, and, if
we may believe the report of the affair, the building was crowded
to excess to witness his performance of Othello. Just before
the curtain was to rise, the manager appeared and announced
that there could be no performance that evening owing to the
surprising conversion of the principal actor, who declined to act
any longer, although “billed ” and bound to do so. This
statement was received with indignation, and several young
fellows ran into Maffit's meeting, calling loudly for “Othello
Othello 'º' The preacher stopped his sermon, and the actor, who
was present, walked into the centre of the church, and in the
most emphatic manner possible exclaimed, “Othello's occupa-
tion's gone.” He then began his first exhortation, saying that a
change had come over the spirit of his dream ; that he had
fretted his brief hour upon the stage, and henceforth would
frequent only the house of prayer and the temple of Zion ; that
he had left the sock and buskin for the sword and helmet of
righteousness, and that instead of fighting Shakespeare's mimic
battles any longer, he should hereafter fight only under the
banner of the cross, and closed by exhorting his old friends to
remain with him, and leave the playhouse to become the abode
of the bats. Parsons was duly admitted to the Methodist Church,
became a class preacher, and was licensed to hold forth. He
was in great demand for a time, but he preached no better than
he acted, and afterwards resumed his old profession, changing
from one to the other occasionally, but finally dying a preacher
in 1871.

THEATRICAL ANECDoTEs. 219
MISS OR MISTRESS.
àºjRIOR to the reign of Charles II. both married and
§§§ unmarried women were called Mistress. But in the
º reign of the Merry Monarch a fashion arose to abbreviate
the word to designate the ladies of the stage. In Richard
Flecknoe’s “Epigrams of all sorts,” published in 1669, there is
one “To Mis. Davies on her Excellent Dancing.”
&
ºf S
º
“Dcar Mig., delight of all the nobler sort,
Pride of the stage and darling of the Court,” etc.
Bvelyn's notice of this word is prior to the above instance, and
he adds an unpleasant qualification. Under the 9th January,
1662, he has, “I saw acted the third part of 7%e Siege of Æhodes.
In this acted ye faire and famous comedian call'd Roxalana, from
ye part she perform'd ; and I think it was ye last, she being taken
to be ye Earle of Oxford’s misse, as at this time they began to
call lewd women.” Unmarried ladies not on the stage continued
to be described as Mrs. long after this time. Pope, in his letters
about 1719, mentions Mrs. Lepel and Mrs. Bellenden, maids of
honour. The examples are innumerable, but perhaps the latest
instance of this practice is the Duchess of Queensbury, address-
ing Patty Blount, in 1756, as “Mrs. Blount,” though no doubt
Patty was by that time certainly entitled to what may be
called “brevet rank.”
A RED INDIAN ACTOR.
;|OWARDS the close of his second visit to America]...dmund
§ Kean made a tour through the northern parts of the
States and visited Canada. There he fell in with the
Red Indians, and was chosen a chief of the tribe. “Some
time after,” writes Dr. Francis in his “Old New York,” I
received at a late hour of the evening a call to wait upon an Indian


22O THEATRICAL ANECDOTES.
Chief named Alantenaida. I repaired to the hotel and was con-
ducted upstairs to the folding-doors of the hall. I entered, aided
by the feeble light of the moon, but at the remote end I soon
perceived something like a forest of evergreens lighted up by
the rays of many lamps, in the midst of which on a throne sat
the chief in great state. A more terrific warrior I never beheld.
Full dressed, with skins tagged loosely about his person, a broad
collar of bearskin over his shoulders, his leggings with many
Stripes garnished with porcupine quills, his mocassins decorated
with beads, his head decked with the war eagle's plumes, behind
which flowed massive black locks of dishevelled horsehair,
golden-coloured rings pendant from the nose and ears, Streaks
of yellow paint over the face, massive red daubings about the
eyes, with various lines in streaks about the forehead. A broad
belt surrounded his waist, with tomahawk; his arms, with shining
bracelets, stretched out with bow and arrow as if ready for a
mark. He descended from his throne and rapidly approached
me. . . . It was Kean. The Hurons had honoured him with
admission into their tribe, and he could not now determine
whether to seek his final earthly abode with them for real
happiness, or return to London, and add to his fame by perform-
ing the Son of the Forest. He was wrought up to the highest
pitch of enthusiasm at the Indian honour he had received, and
declared that even “Old Drury had never conferred so proud a
distinction on him as he had received from the Hurons.” The
next year, 1827, Colley Grattan, when his tragedy, Ben AWazir, the
Saracent, was to be presented, visited Kean one morning at the
Hummums Hotel. He found him sitting up in his bed, a buffalo
skin wrapped around him, a huge hairy cap decked with many-
coloured feathers on his head, a scalping knife in his belt, and a
tomahawk in his hand. A tumbler of white wine negus stood at
the bedside; two shabby looking heroes stood by with similar
potations within their reach, and a portrait painter was placed
before an easel at the window, taking the likeness of the renowned
Alantenaida, the name in which the chief most sincerely rejoiced.
THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. 22i
A REVIVAL OF MACBETH.
iº ALF a century ago an actor named Klanert recruited a
| theatrical company, and gave some representations at
Richmond, Surrey. An actor of small parts at Covent
Garden, Klanert, on his own stage, became a genius of grand
proportions, in his own opinion. Always letter-perfect himself,
he imagined every one else ought to be so. On one occasion
Edward Stirling was very imperfect when playing Malcolm to
Klanert's Macbeth. He stuck in the speech— -
“My Thanes and kinsmen
Henceforth be . . . be . . .”
“Go on, sir,” said the dead tyrant lying at his feet. Stirling
tried in vain to raise his Thanes and kinsmen to peerages.
“Wi// you go on P” hissed the irate deceased. “I cannot,” was
the whispered reply. Up jumps the dead king, saying, “Then
I’ll speak for you, sir.
“‘Henceforth be earls ;
So thanks to all at once, and to each one
Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.’”
And calmly lying down, he died again, loudly applauded and
laughed at. The following Saturday, Stirling and Klanert parted
company.
AN ECHO IN THE PIT.
###|N 1734 Voltaire brought out Adelaide du Guescăn,
# This drama had been performed before under the title
of Adelaide, and having but a mediocre success on
either of these occasions, it was afterwards produced under the
title of Duc de Foiaſ. One of the characters in this play was
called Coucy, to whom another addresses the question, “Es-tu
content, Coucy P” A man in the pit immediately gave the


222 THEA 7TRYCA/. A WAECDOTES.
answer, “ Coussi, coussi l’” This is a provincial admission
derived from the Italian “cosi, cosi,” which signifies so, so ; an
expression particularly well adapted for the occasion, because in
the Italian burlesques represented at that time in Paris, it was
frequently used by Harlequin. .
A. WAN DERING SPIRIT.
zººl HE following anecdote may have been composed in cool
| blood, or it may be “based on fact,” much “made up,”
corked and rouged secºndºn arſeme. But it is an
amusing legend in any case, and may be found in Angelo's
A’emāniscences, who had it from Bannister. An Irish manager,
who was a great Snuff taker, and remarkably absent, played the
character of King Henry in Richard III., at his own theatre, in
one of the provincial towns in Ireland. In the tent scene the
ghost of King Henry takes precedence of the other ghosts, in
his address to Richard, who is sleeping on the couch. The Irish
ghost, who was certainly the plumpest ghost that ever waddled on
the stage, was with great difficulty forced half-way up the trap,
and appeared as the fat shadow of King Henry, whom he had
murdered in the first act. He began—
“Oh thou, whose unrelenting thoughts
Not all the hideous terrors of thy guilt can shake,
Whose conscience with thy body ever sleeps—sleep on 1
Now shall thy own devouring conscience gnaw thy heart,” etc.
After this solemn address, the ghost remains some time without
speaking. Seized with one of his fits of absence, the manager-
ghost, interested in the receipts of the house, took this oppor-
tunity of counting the persons who composed the audience.
Taking his Snuff-box from his waistcoat pocket, totally forgetting
the part he was representing, and absorbed in Snuff and arith-
metic, he said with inward satisfaction : “Sixteen pounds two
in the boxes; three pounds ten in the pit ; gallery, seventeen

THEA TRICA / AAVECOOTES. 223
thirteens !” The prompter at this moment perceiving the spirit
had quitted the flesh, bellowed out the words of the author,
“The morning's dawn,” sir, “the morning's dawn has summoned
me away; Richard, awake, to guilty minds a terrible example.”
Seeing that the manager merely put up his snuff-box, uncon-
Scious of all, the prompter pulled his bell, and the fat ghost sank
through the trap much quicker than the carpenter could wind
him up,
VA [N TO EV II.S.
ſº BOUT the year 1766, when old Crawford was manager
| of Covent Garden Theatre, a dancer named Le
Grand Perrot was engaged as first dancer and ballet-
master. After a long and expensive preparation, the ballet
Or//ezes was announced, and in the scene where the matchless
singer visits the lower regions, a number of devils had to appear.
At the first performance, a general dissatisfaction arose among
the female devils ; all refused to dance in the worsted flame-
coloured stockings provided for them, claiming silk ones, which
showed the comely shape of their limbs to better advantage.
Old Crawford persisted to oppose their demands, but the devils
were equally resolute, and the audience was kept waiting, until
the manager gave in and sent for silk stockings, upon which the
audience were gratified with one of the most splendid ballets
seen in London up to that time.
LAST APPEARANCE OF PEG WOFFINGTON,
§ HIS charming actress had held Shakespeare’s “Rosalind”
as her own for ten years, when, on the 3rd of May, 1757,
she put on the dress for the last time. She was then at
Covent Garden. . Some prophetic feeling of ill came over her
as she struggled against a fainting fit, while assuming the bridal
dress in the last act. She had never disappointed an audience


224. 7TA/AEA 7TR/CA/. A WEC/DOTE.S.
in her life; her indomitable courage carried her on to the stage,
and the spectators might have taken her to be as radiant in
health and spirit as she looked. She began the pretty saucy
prologue, with her old saucy prettiness of manner; but when
she had said, “If I were among you, I would kiss as many of
you as had beards that pleased me,” She paused, tried to arti-
culate, but was unable. She had consciousness enough to know
she was stricken, and to manifest her terror at the catastrophe
by a wild shriek, as she tottered towards the stage door. On
her way she fell paralysed into the arms of sympathising com-
rades, who bore her from the stage, to which she never returned,
COMPOSURE,
ſº. N the last century, there was an actor named Legrand,
3. | attached to the Théâtre Français. Though he was not
a very bad player, the pit was in the habit of hissing
him, more in order to provoke the funny speeches he used to
deliver on Such occasions, than as an angry protest against his
shortcomings. Legrand always remained perfectly calm, and
generally responded with a joke. As he was a very plain looking
man, he was especially hissed when impersonating some hero of
tragedy. On one occasion he exclaimed, “Gentlemen, it would
really be much easier for you to get accustomed to my face, than
for me to change it.” On another occasion, Racine's Phèdre was
given, and all the performers who appeared in the two first acts
were received with hisses. After the curtain fell on the second
act, Legrand came forward to avert a still greater outburst.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I have heard your disapprobations, and
I am sorry that my comrades have incurred them. But what
will you say when you know that it is I who am going to im-
personate Theseus P” Again, one day that the best actors of the
company were at Versailles, to play before the king, the residue
played Andronicus, followed by a new after-piece, The False
Widow. The tragedy was received with roars of laughter, to

7TA/A2A TRICA / AAVEC/DOTE.S. 225
evoke which, Legrand, as Paleologus, had contributed his share.
Between the two pieces, when he came to announce the play
for the next day, he said, “Gentlemen, to-morrow we shall have
the honour to represent The Gamesfer and The Grumbler, and
allow me to hope that the little piece we are going to act now,
will make you laugh as much as our tragedy has done.”
REVOLVING ACTORS.
fºLO late as 1780,” says Lee Lewes, in his Memoirs, “I
§º saw the play of The Recruiting Officer performed upon
the open camp ground at Tenpenny Common, in Essex,
by the order of the late Earl of Orford, for the amusement
of himself, the Earl of Rochford, and the officers and privates.
of the Norfolk Militia, which Lord Orford commanded. His
lordship, being afflicted with the gout, was led round the airy
theatre on a pony, by a careful servant. The ridiculous distress
of the actors was truly amusing ; as his lordship, by his circular
progression, obliged them in good manners and profound
respect to their patrons, to wheel about continually, to show him
a full front,” . -
“THE DYING GLADIATOR.”
yº N the 29th of September, 1860, The Zasz Days of Pompeii.
łº was performed in the Gayty Theatre, Albany, U.S.,
when a very amusing incident occurred. It was in
the amphitheatre Scene in the third act, where a grand
gladiatorial combat is fought in the presence of the emperor.
Lydon had already slain one or two competitors, and their
bodies had been carried from the Stage. Enter Niger, the last
and most formidable contestant. He was personated by C. B.
Bishop, a man who weighed at least seventeen stone. Bishop
was an adept at fencing, and the cutting and slashing were
terrific, till at last, according to the business of the play, Lydon,
Q


226 TAZAZA 7/0/CA/. AAVECDO 7/.S.
himself mortally wounded, despatches Niger, who falls heavily
on the stage. The emperor then cries out to his guards, “Bear
hence the body ” The guards, four puny supers, awkward in
manner and slim in the legs, advance to the big, prostrate form
of Niger, and attempt to execute the mandate of the mighty
monarch. They tug away, but cannot budge him an inch. After
repeated efforts, they call, aside, for assistance, while the fat sides
of Bishop shake with inward emotion. It so happened that
nearly the whole force of the establishment was so disposed that
no one, save the call-boy and the man at the curtain, was left to
respond. The audience began to see the situation and burst
into a roar. But the fun reached its climax when the colossal
gladiator, dead as he was, got tired of waiting for a decent
funeral, and compromised the matter by raising himself on all
fours, and thus creeping off behind the scenes. Talk about a
Screaming farce; you might have heard the audience five miles
Off.
SHUTER’S IMPROMPTU,
gº HUTER, the comedian, was so great a favourite with
the audience that he could say anything he liked to
them. One night there was a great and continued
noise in the gallery, and general cries of “Throw him over !
Throw him out !” which interrupted the play for some time.
Shuter walked forward with great gravity, signifying by gesture
that he wished to speak. The cries immediately changed to
“Hear him Hear him.” A profound silence followed, when
Shuter addressed the gallery as follows:–
“My good friends, how do you mean to end this pother?
Does he come this way, or does he go t'other P
You must determine : Let him go or stay,
Or we must give you nightcaps, not the play.”

THEATRICAL ANECDOTES, 227
TAKING IT EASY.
Nº|HEN Ross was manager of the Edinburgh Theatre, he
Once, through indolence, Suffered a stocking weaver to
attempt the part of Hastings in }ame Shore. The
young man, who spoke the part in broad Scotch, no sooner had
heard the hisses which greeted his performance, than he ran off
the stage, went to the dressing-room, threw off his theatrical
attire, and ran home as fast as he could. A messenger was
immediately dispatched to Ross, who lived on the Castlehill, to
desire him to come at once, and finish the part, which he had
often played. Rather than quit his bottle he sent word to the
prompter to cut out all Hastings' part, and begin with the
following act. This was done, and passed almost unperceived.
THE LION'S SHARE.
jEMMY WHITE, the manager of a very primitive theatre
i in Nottingham, towards the end of the last century, was
famous for his eccentricity. He played all the best parts
in everything, as managers pretty generally do. When he
enacted Othello, or Zanga in 7%e Revenge, or Mungo in The
Padlock, he uniformly coloured himself black from head to foot.
This, he said, gave him a better idea of what a black man
should be and feel. Jemmy dressed for his characters at home,
walked through the streets to the theatre perfectly unconcerned,
and, owing to the frequency of the sight, little noticed. It was a
sharing company, and the following was Mr. White's manner of
payment on Saturday nights at his treasury, where the assembled
players were anxiously waiting. “There's so much for me, for
acting and management,” he would say, counting money.
“Then there’s so much for rent, oil, and candles. Then there's
so much for scenery and dresses—a trifle for wear and tear.
Then there's so much left for you. Take it, divide it annong


228 THEATRICAL AMECDOTES.
yourselves—mind, all fair—and thank God you’ve got it. Good
night !” And thereupon the treasury closed, too frequently on
the poor players' aching hearts for their miserable pittance after
So much labour,
WALTER MONTCOMERY'S DEATH.
sº ALTER MONTGOMERY, the Žrotegé of Charles Kean,
i\A; the companion of Dickens, Douglas Jerrold, and Mark
Lemon, was one of the handsomest men of his time.
The circumstances attending his death are somewhat romantic.
Whilst he was performing in America, a Mrs. Taylor fell
desperately in love with him. This lady, under the name of
Winetta Montague, had been one of the prettiest danseuses of
the Boston Theatre, and at the age of sixteen married Mr.
Arnold Taylor, a wealthy merchant of that city. She fled from
her husband, and followed the brilliant and gifted Montgomery
to Europe. Sailing in the same steamer with him, she told him
her love but not her history, and the pair were married on their
arrival in England in 1871. Four days after the wedding
Montgomery ascertained that his newly made wife was a
bigamist, and then he himself pleaded guilty to the soft impeach-
ment of having also a wife and child living. Violent recrimina-
tions were the consequence of these discoveries, in the midst of
which a pistol-shot was heard. People rushed into the room and
found Montgomery dying, but whether he was murdered or a
suicide is a question which has never been elicited. His wife, or
rather Mrs. Taylor, attended his funeral, wearing her bridal
wreath of orange ſlower, which she scattered in his grave. She
returned to America and to the stage, describing herself as “from
Drury Lane,” and acted Hamlet dressed in Montgomery's
clothes. After a series of discreditable adventures, she died,
in great poverty, at New York, in 1877.

THEA TR/CA/. AAVECDOTES. 229
MINUTENESS OF DETAIL.
I872 the comedy Saratoga, known to the London play-
goers as Brighton, was performed at Albany, U.S.
The arrangements were perfect and complete in every
respect. The scenery and models were designed from sketches
taken on the spot ; the great dining-room at the Congress Hall
was represented, even to the monograms on the china, the
Congress spring was reproduced, and if it would have in the
least added to the effect, genuine Saratoga water would have
been dipped from it. Americans delight in these realistic
touches. When Walter Montgomery played As you /i/Ée it, in
America, he was supported by Jem Mace, the pugilist, in the
character of Charles the Wrestler.
TRAGIC BljSINESS.
#;|T is reported by Plutarch of the famous and wealthy
player, Aesopus, that on one occasion he entered so
completely into the part he was impersonating, that,
whilst he was representing Atreus deliberating on the revenge
of Thyestes, he smote one of the slaves who was hastily crossing
the stage and laid him dead at his feet. But a more harrowing
occurrence is said to have happened when a religious drama,
The Passion of our Saviour, was acted in Sweden, in 1513.
Lengis, the actor, had to pierce the side of the person on the
cross, in the crucifixion scene, and in his enthusiasm he plunged
his lance into him and killed him. The dead actor fell from
the cross and fatally injured the Virgin Mary. The king,
John II., shocked at such brutality, slew Lengis with his
scimitar; when the audience, enraged at the death of their
favourite actor, wound up this true tragedy by cutting off the
head of his Majesty. This sequence of manslaughter puts one
in mind of the concatenation of events attending the old
woman's taking a pig to market. -



23O THEA 7/0/CA/L AAWEC7).O 7"A.S.
SAINTED ACTORS.
; HE stage cannot be considered badly represented in
jº “the glorious army of Saints and Martyrs,” for
according to Baronius, the best authority on that
subject, there are not less than three players among the rank
and file of martyrs, besides one sainted actress. This person
used to be “leading lady” on the stage of Antiochia, and did
other less creditable things besides. She was known among
play-goers as Margarita, on account of the profusion of pearls
with which she used to deck her pretty person. At some period
of her sinful life, she was taken in hand by Nonnus, bishop of
Odessa, and this eloquent churchman managed to convince
her of the wickedness of her ways. She was converted to
Christianity, and was baptized with the name of Pelagia, in
allusion to the Sea of troubled waters in which she had so long
fished with success. Renouncing the stage, its pomps and
vanities, she distributed her property among the poor, assumed
the garb of a male hermit, and ended her days as such on the
Mount of Olives, in A.D. 45 I. In due time she was canonized,
being honoured in the Church on the 8th of October. The
actors were not quite So successful and never rose higher
than the rank of martyrs. Genesius was a player in the
time of the emperor Diocletian. He proclaimed his conversion to
Christianity publicly on the stage, a piece of “gag” which so
displeased the emperor, that he rewarded him with martyrdom,
in A.D. 303. The incident of his confessing his faith on the
stage has furnished the French dramatist, Rotrou, with the
subject of a tragedy. A few years later, another actor, Ardaleon,
was struck with the truth of Christianity whilst acting in a farce
in which he ridiculed the Christians and their religion. For
this he was martyred on the 18th of May, A.D. 310. Finally, in
the reign of Julian the apostate, an actor named Porphyrius
pretended to be a convert to Christianity in order that he might

TA/EA TRICAZ AAVECDOTES. 23 I
study the Christians and better be able to ridicule them on the
stage. With that purpose he allowed himself to be baptized,
but the holy water drove the arch-enemy out of him, and though
“he came to scoff, he remained to pray.” Julian was so incensed
at this apostasy that he ordered him to be beheaded on the
17th of October, 362. Since that time no more names of
players have been inscribed on the rolls of the hagiologists.
TO O Oluj TSPOKEN.
3|HE eccentric Francis Blisset was encored one evening
| in a comic song at Bristol, which he did not choose to
repeat. Mr. C. Taylor, a member of the company, was
sent to apologise, but nothing would do with the Bristolians
but the song. Blisset Swore he would not sing the Song again,
and told Taylor to say so. Taylor made every excuse he
could invent, and being driven to the last extremity, said, “In
fact, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Blisset says,”—“That he will
be d–d if he does,” interrupted Blisset, popping out his head,
adorned with an immense wig, at the prompter's door, in
whose chair he had seated himself, to urge Taylor to Comply.
A great uproar ensued, which was not easily quelled, nor
could Blisset appear in Bristol for near two years.
THE SO BER REALITY.
㺠RS. SIDDONS relates, after the first representation of
\%| Macbeth, “while standing up before my glass, and taking
off my mantle, a diverting circumstance occurred, to
chase away the feelings of this anxious night; for while I was
repeating and endeavouring to call to mind the appropriate
tone and action of the following words, “Here's the Smell of
blood still ” my dresser innocently exclaimed, “Dear me,
ma'am, how very hysterical you are to-night ; I protest and
vow, ma'am, it was not blood, but rose pink and water ; for
I saw the property-man mix it up with my own eyes.”


232 THEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES.
SHAKESPEARE ON THE BEN CH.
DWIN FORREST, the famous American actor, in his
younger days was what the Americans call “one of
the boys,” and rather given to midnight merriment.
As a consequence of one of these frolics, he on one occasion
found quarters in the lock-up. Next morning he was brought
before Squire John O. Cole, who discharged the actor, but just
as he was leaving the office, the justice struck an attitude, and
addressing Forrest in the words of Othello, exclaimed :
“What's the matter
That you unlace your reputation thus,
And spend your rich opinion for the name
Of a night brawler? Give me answer to it !”
This rebuke, so apt and timely, no doubt did the young man
more good than a half-hour's Sermon or ten days in jail.
“ GOOSE.”
; HE technical phrase of “treating an actor with goose,”
was understood at a very early period of our stage
history. Marston, in the introduction to his What
You Like, 1607, says, “Monsieur Snuff, Monsieur Mew, and
Cavaliere Blirt, are three of the most to be feared auditors,”
and farther on he asks if the poet's resolve shall be “struck
through with the blirt of a goose's breath.” The allusion to
Monsieur Snuff, it may be observed, relates to the inconveniences
the actors experienced from the consummation of the
“titillating dust,” by persons seated on the stage. Monsieur
Mew is a circumlocution for “catcalls.”


THEA. TRYCA/C AAVEC/DOTES.
2
3
3
SHERIDAN’S SELF-IDEFENCE.
Fºl HERIDAN'S indolence was hardly to be credited. In
śl the affair and duel between Mathews and himself at
Bath, respecting Miss Linley, through the influence of
his antagonist with certain newspapers, Sheridan's character
was much injured by gross misrepresentations. He was strongly
urged by a friend to defend himself against these attacks :
“They are not yet sufficiently strong,” said he, “for me to Crush
them, but from the rapid progress they are making, they will be
very soon.” “Then why not,” said his friend, “do that your-
self: abuse yourself, and then answer it.” “A happy thought,”
said Sheridan ; “I’ll do it.” He instantly sat down and wrote a
letter abusing himself most cruelly. To his great delight, this
appeared the following day in the paper. The abuse was now
“Sufficiently strong,” but such was Sheridan's indolence, he
could never find time to make the reply.
TROBABLY NOT.
tº N Colman's time a certain aspirant for Thespian honours
made his début at the Haymarket Theatre, in the
character of Octavian in 7%e Mozzzzzazzeeezºs. It was
discovered very early in the performance that he had under-
taken a task for which he was unqualified. Colman was in the
greenroom and growing fidgety. When the new performer
came to the line
“I shall weep soon, and then I shall be better,”
“I’ll be d–d if you will,” said Colman, “ though you cry your
eyes out !”


2
3
4.
THEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES.
KEAN’S FIRST APPEARANCE,
㺠DMUND KEAN was a remarkably pretty child, on
#| account of which Michael Kelly engaged him at the
age of three, to represent Cupid in the opera of Cymon.
Michael’s style in relating this is incomparably more curious
than the anecdote itself, and, if the latter part of this Ziffle
paragraph be true, Edmund's gratitude must have commenced
at the very tender age of three. “Before the piece was brought
out, I had a number of children brought me, that I might choose
a Cupid. One struck me, with a fine pair of black eyes, who
seemed, by his looks and /ø///e gestures, most anxious to be
chosen as the little god of love. I chose him, and /ă//e did
I then imagine that my little Cupid would eventually become a
great actor. The then /záž!e urchin was neither more nor less
than—Edmund Kean. He has ſoften told me that he, ever after
this ſeriod, felt a regard for me, from the circumstances of my
having preferred him to the other children. I consider may
having been the means of introducing this great genius to the
stage (!!!) one of my most pleasurable recollections.”
Y ORICK’S SR U LL,
HORSE stealer, named Fontaine, alias Lovett, being
confined in Louisville jail, and unable to pay a lawyer,
Junius Brutus Booth sent him one and defrayed the
expenses. Notwithstanding the efforts made in his behalf
Lovett was sentenced to be hanged. He bequeathed his head
to Booth, with the request that “he would use it on the stage
when playing Hamlet, and think when he held it in his hands of
the gratitude his kindness had awakened.” The skull was sent
to Booth’s residence while he was absent from the city, and his
wife immediately returned it to the doctor to whom it had been
entrusted for preparation and delivery. In 1857, the doctor who


THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES. 235
had retained the skull, sent it to Edwin Booth, the son of
Junius, who on several occasions used it in the graveyard scene
in Azazzalez, and finally had it buried.
TRADE ASSISTANCE.
; HERE was a curious troupe at Northampton in 1827 :
iſ all the players but two were members of the same
family, rejoicing in the name of Jackman. This gifted
family wrote their own plays, acted the best parts, delivered the
bills, painted the scenery; in fact, did everything and the rest.
Jackman Żëre played principal characters, and was a great
favourite with the followers of St. Crispin, who form a con-
siderable portion of the population of Northampton. One night
the play was, very appropriately, }obson and Well, the principal
Characters of which are a cobbler and his wife. There is a scene
in this comedy when Jobson beats his turbulent wife with his
shoemaker's strap, an “effect” always approvingly applauded by
the gods. On the night in question, cobbler Jobson had
forgotten his strap, and Nell's tongue was going nineteen to
the dozen. The situation was embarrassing, but an observant
Cordwainer in the gallery came to the rescue : “Here, Master
Jackman,” he called out, throwing his strap on the stage,
“take mine, and lather her well with it.”
“THAT IS THE QUESTION.”
jARON, the elder, bred up under the eye of Molière, was
Hº an actor of extraordinary talent, and a dramatist of no
mean quality. Being well paid, he lived in grand style
and was something more than vain. His coachman and lackey
having been one day ill-treated by the servants of the Marquis
de Biron, he was determined to demand justice. Having met
the Marquis, Baron preferred his complaint : “Monseigneur,”
said he, “vos gens ont battu les miens; je vous en demande


236 THEATRICAZ AMECD07ES.
justice.” The marquis, nettled at the familiarity of vos gems and
des madens, answered him drily : “Mon pauvre Baron, que veux-tu
quijºy fasse Pourquoi as-tu des gens P’’
A COMICAL JURY.
yº UR theatre was the scene of a terrible affair last night,”
ſº jº wrote Mr. Buckstone in 1859, whilst acting in Mobile,
* U.S., “the murder of one of the performers, a Mr.
Ewing, who was acting with us in My Old Woman the part of
Cardinal Girouette. After the first act, a Miss Hamblin, who
was performing Victor, the page, in the same piece, went into
the dressing-room and stabbed the young man to the heart.
Of course, we were obliged to dismiss the audience. A singular
circumstance in connection with this occurrence is, that the
woman was cleared by a jury, who were charged that “he might
have died from a disease of the heart, with which he was afflicted,
if he had not been stabbed.”
KEAN'S VILLAIN.Y.
;RâN the 25th of May, 1811, Edmund Kean signalised his
i first London benefit by a fine representation of his old
character of Luke in Sir John Burgess's alteration of
Massinger's City Madam, under a form entitled, A'iches; or, the
Wife and Brother. The soliloquy in the last act, in which the
actor marked with fine and perfect gradations the increasing.
delirium of Luke in the contemplation of his ill-gotten wealth,
was one of the most powerful effects ever witnessed on the stage.
An old lady admired Kean's acting in Othello so much that she
made no secret of her intention to bequeath him a large sum of
money; but she was so appalled by the cold-blooded villainy and
demoniacal ferocity of Luke, that, attributing the skill of the
actor to the inherent possession of the fiendish attributes he so
consummately embodied, her regard gave place to suspicion and




THAEA 7TR/CA/. A WAEC/DO 7"F.S. 237
distrust. In consequence of this, it was found upon her death,
which took place shortly afterwards, that the sum originally in-
tended for the actor, had been left to a distant relation, of whom
She knew nothing but the name.
A PROVIDENT MANAG.E.R.
FºEE LEWES, the harlequin, joined Whiteley’s company
§§ of strolling actors in 1760. Concerning this manager
he relates the following anecdote. Like most “travelling
companies,” Whiteley's was a “sharing” concern, and it was
customary in such societies 'to distribute the dividend as soon
as the farce was concluded. On one occasion, whilst performing
in Doncaster, the sharing had been very indifferent for several
nights. However, a “bespoke play ” filled the house one night,
and eighteen shillings fell to the share of each performer. To
one man, named Andrews, a poor sickly object, Whiteley gave
only nine shillings. Andrews protested that no stoppage could
be made from his pay, for he did not owe Whiteley anything.
“True, my dear,” replied the careful manager, “but you will
very soon ; you are in a bad State of health. Look at him,
gentlemen ; he wants to leave us without warning. You see he
is in a consumption. Where did you get it Not in my
healthy company, but in the skin and bone troupe you came
from. You’ll die in a fortnight, my dear; and as we must bury
you, I have stopped nine shillings towards your coffin.”
A SNOW-BOUND EAGLE. .
j P. KEMBLE, whilst manager under Sheridan, frequently
. Smarted at the fashion in which his authority was set at
defiance, by which others below him were encouraged to
do the same. One night he arrived, charged with his grievances,
at one of the little supper-parties Mrs. Crouch used to give after
the play was over. He expected to meet Sheridan there, and was


238 7THE A 7TA’/CA/, A WAECDOTE.S.
not disappointed. At Supper, Kemble looked unutterable things
at Sheridan, occasionally emitted “a humming sound like
that of a bee,” and groaned in spirit, inwardly. A considerable
time elapsed, and frequent repetitions of the same sound oc-
curred. At last, “like a pillar of state,” slowly uprose Kemble,
and in these words addressed the astonished proprietor : “I am
an eagle, whose wings have been bound down by frosts and
Snows, but now I shake my pinions, and cleave into the genial
air unto which I am born.” He then deliberately resumed his
seat. There was something irresistibly ridiculous in this fashion
of announcing a resignation, but Sheridan, with all the art of
which he was master, soothed him, and the pair parted in
perfect harmony. This scene might be accepted as an ex-
aggeration, had it not been recorded by an eye-witness and
intimate friend, Mr. Boaden.
THE STRENGTH OF IMAGINATION.
fºlT William's coffee-house, Bow-street, there was a public
| dinner on the Saturday, early in this century, when
usually one of the leading actors of the day took the chair.
Incledon, being president one day, found great fault with the port
wine ; and though, by his order, it was repeatedly changed for
a better sort, he continued dissatisfied, at the same time boast-
ing what very fine wine he had in his cellar, bin No. 2, bran-
dishing in his hand his “nectar key,” as he called it. Munden,
who sat next to him, adroitly managed, whilst Incledon was
singing, to purloin the key from the singer's pocket. Leaving
the room, he forwarded it to Mrs. Incledon, with a message to
deliver to the bearer six bottles of the old port, bin No. 2. When
the man returned, Mat Williams, the landlord, who was in the
secret, brought up one of the bottles himself, and said he hoped
the company would find it better, but that he had only six
bottles of that wine. Incledon still persisted that it was worse
than any of the former. This joke continued till the last bottle

THAEA 7/2/CA/, AAVEC/DOTES', 239
Imade its appearance, when a bumper was drunk to the president
as donor of the last half dozen, more to his astonishment than
delight, as may be imagined.
TO “PLAY 2, AND “TO BE.”
fºll OWARDS the end of his professional career, Edwin
§§§ Forrest was taking supper late one night with an old
friend, who remarked to him, “Mr. Forrest, I never in
my life saw you play Lear so well as you did to-night.” Where-
upon the veteran, rising slowly and laboriously from his chair,
and stretching himself to his full height, replied, “Play Lear !
What do you mean, sir? I don’t play Lear. I play Hamlet,
Richard, Shylock, Virginius, if you please ; but, by Jupiter, Sir, I
am Lear !” At first sight such a remark looks like a joke. Yet
nothing is more true ; a great actor actually is for the time being
the character he represents. “Whenever,” says Mrs. Siddons,
“I was called upon to personate the character of Constance, I
never, from the beginning of the play to the end of my part
in it, once suffered my dressing-room door to be closed, in order
that my attention might be constantly fixed on those distressing
events which, by this means, I could plainly hear going on upon
the stage, the terrible effects of which progress were to be re-
presented by me. Moreover, I never omitted to place myself,
with Arthur in my hand, to hear the march, when, upon the re-
conciliation of England and France, they enter the gates of
Angiers to ratify the contract of marriage between the Dauphin
and the Lady Blanche ; because the sickening sounds of that
march would usually cause the bitter tears of rage, disappoint-
ment, betrayed confidence, baffled ambition, and, above all, the
agonizing feelings of maternal affection to gush into my eyes.
. . . If the character of the unfortunate queen ever were, or ever
shall be portrayed, with its appropriate and solemn energy, it
must be then, and then only, when the power I have so much
insisted on, co-operating with a high degree of enthusiasm,


240 TAZAZA 7TA’ACA/. A WAEC/OO 7"A.S.
shall have transfused the mind of the actress into the Žerson and
situation of the august and afflicted.”
CIBBER'S FIRST APPEARANCE,
jº OLLEY CIBBER made his first appearance on the stage
Čš in a very subordinate part. After waiting impatiently
for the prompter's notice, he, by good fortune, obtained
the honour of carrying a message in some play to Betterton, one
of the managers and one of the principal actors of that day.
Arrived in the presence of the public Master Colley was soterrified
that the scene was somewhat spoiled by him. On coming off
Betterton asked angrily who the young fellow was that made such
a fool of himself? The prompter replied “Master Colley.”
“Then forfeit him,” rejoined Betterton. “Why, sir,” said the
prompter, “he has no salary.” “No P” said the old man, “In
that case put him down ten shillings a week and forfeit him
five.” To this good-natured adjustment of rewards and punish-
ments, Cibber owed the first money he received from the
dramatic treasury.
COO KE'S IMPUDENCE,
gºl EORGE FREDERICK COOKE'S popularity at one
§ time far exceeded that of Kemble ; but he became the
very slave of intemperance, remaining at times for days
together “on the drink.” His habits of inebriety subjected him
frequently to the signal disapprobation of his audience, upon
whom he would sometimes retort with more vehemence than
delicacy. On one occasion in Liverpool, when he was scarcely
able to go through his part, the audience most justly manifested
their indignation ; he stopped, and addressed to them these
insolent words: “How dare you hiss me, George Frederick
Cooke, you contemptible money-grubbers. Your applause or
your disapproval are utterly indifferent to me; but you shall never


THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. 24f
again have the honour of hissing me. Farewell, I banish you.”
Then, after a pause, with increasing passion and lofty contempt,
“There is not one brick in your dirty town, but what is cemented
with a fellow creature's blood,” alluding to the African slave-
trade then chiefly carried on in Liverpool ships. Strange to Say
this violent address so impressed the audience that the impudent
Orator was allowed to make his exit in peace. -
HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS.
Wºl CTORS were first known as “His Majesty's Servants” in
†º 1605, up to which period they had been styled “The
Servants of the Lord Chamberlain.” As his Majesty's
Servants they were entitled to wear, and did wear, the royal
livery of scarlet. The last actor who wore it was Baddeley,
who gave the annual Twelfth Night cake to the greenroom of
Drury Lane, and who created the part of “Moses” in the
Schoo! for Scanda/. A portrait of Baddeley; in his red waistcoat,
used to be seen in poor old Paddy Green's collection at Evans's.
AN ACTOR-APOTHECAR,
㺠LLISTON, being at one time on a starring tour in the
%| provinces, observed that at Cheltenham, then in full
renown as a watering-place, and generally crowded
with invalids, there was not one good chemist. He at once
espied the way to make a fortune, and having purchased a large
Supply of drugs in Apothecar's Hall, opened a grand medicinal
emporium, thinking no doubt that a knowledge of pharmacy
would come by inspiration. He was, however, soon compelled
to abandon this brilliant scheme, for it became evident that
unless he could combine the business of an undertaker with that
of a chemist, there was little prospect of his making a rapid
fortune. About the same time that this began to dawn in
Elliston's mind, there arose some unpleasant murmurs con-
R


242 7THEA. TA’/CA/C AAVECDOTES.
cerning coroner's' inquests on some of his late customers, in
consequence of which the promising chemist thought it advisable
to throw over AEsculapius in favour of Thespis.
THERO WORSHIP.
ſº. DLLE, DEJAZET was a great admirer of Napoleon, and
had impersonated him in the play of Bonaparſe at
Brienne. One evening Volnys, a brother actor, entered
the greenroom with a newspaper in his hand, and evident signs
of emotion in his features. “What is the matter?” inquired
Dejazet. Volnys read aloud a paragraph containing the informa-
tion that Maria Louise, the wife of Napoleon I., had remarried.
Dejazet would not believe it, took the paper, and having been
convinced by reading the news herself, she exclaimed, “What
a shame ! . . . After having been Caesar's wife . . . . Had I
only once had the honour to touch the hand of that great man,
I would never after in my life have washed my hands any more.”
When we consider that this applied to those small white hands
of which Mademoiselle Dejazet was so proud, we may be certain
that this asseveration was a particularly intense expression of
admiration for her hero.
TRUTHFUL Act.ING.
tº T is said that one night when Garrick was performing
; Macbeth, and the murderer entered the banquet scene,
Garrick looked at him with such an expressive counte-
nance, and uttered in such an expressive manner, “There's
blood upon thy face,” that the actor forgot his part and rubbed
his face saying, “Is there P’ instead of “”Tis Banquo's then,”
thinking, as he afterwards acknowledged, that his nose was
bleeding.


THEA TRICAZ AAVECDO 7"ZS. 243
' A DILATORY AUTHOR.
sº E are told in the memoirs of Sheridan that his translation
#AA} of The Death of Rolla, under the title of Pizarro,
brought him £25,000 in five weeks. The production of
this drama was a curious instance of Sheridan's inveterate habit
of procrastination. On the first night's performance, at the
time the house was overflowing, all that was written of the play
was actually rehearsing, and, incredible as it may appear, until
the end of the fourth act, neither Mrs. Siddons, nor Charles
Kemble, nor Barrymore, had all their speeches for the fifth !
Sheridan was upstairs in the prompter’s room, where he was
writing the last part of the play, while the earlier parts were
acting. Every ten minutes he brought down, into the greenroom,
as much of the dialogue as he had done piecemeal, abusing
himself and his negligence, and making a thousand winning and
Soothing apologies, for having kept the performers So long in
Such painful suspense.
LIGHT OR HEAVY.
sº HEN Sir Charles Sedley's comedy of Bellamira was
iMA'ſ performed the roof of the theatre fell in, by which,
however, few people were hurt, except the author. This
occasioned Sir Fleetwood Shepherd to say, “There was so
much fire in the play, that it blew up the poet, house and all.”
“No,” replied the good-natured author, “the play was so heavy,
that it broke down the house, and buried the poor poet in his
Own rubbish.”
WHEN THE WINE IS IN, THE wit Is OUT.
gº HE following note in Chetwood's General History of the
jº Stage affords an amusing picture of the Bohemian
manners of a certain class of actors in a former period:—
“William Phillips, the founder of the Capel Street Theatre,




244 - THEATRICAL ANECDOTES.
Dublin, played with applause in a few low comic parts, but his
great talent lay in mimics and harlequins. Being once arrested
for debt in London, he first called for liquor in abundance,
and treated all about him, to the no small joy of the bailiff.
Phillips made him believe that he had six dozen of wine
packed up which he would send for, to drink in the Spunging-
house, on payment of sixpence per bottle cork-money. The
bailiff listened to the proposal with pleasure, and willingly went to
order the wine to be sent. Accordingly, the following day a sturdy
porter arrived, bent double under his heavy load. The turnkey
told his master that the porter had brought a large hamper.
“Very well,’ was the answer ; ‘then let nothing but the porter
and the hamper out.” The porter performed his part very well;
he came heavily in with an empty hamper, and walked lightly out
with Phillips on his back, Harlequin was dishampered at an
alehouse near the waterside, crossed the Thames, and made
his way to Dublin, where soon after he became a shareholder
in Smock Alley Theatre. The project of his escape had been
contrived long before he was taken, and when concerting his
Scheme with the porter, though he was a Welshman by birth,
he made the following taurine speech to his accomplice —‘Strike
me plump,'—his usual oath—“if you are not as Secret as the
start aſ ſtoonday, I’ll &rož/ you and eat you alive, you dog l’”
TA/AE AE AEGGAR'S OPAEACA IN FRENCH.
ſººl DAM HALLAM, an actor in Rich's company, translated
ſº The Begga?’s Offera into French, and carried it to Paris,
in hopes of procuring a representation of it on the
Trench stage, but the manager would not consent, unless he
agreed that the hero of the piece should be hanged. Hallam,
from respect for the memory of Gay, would not suffer the piece
to be altered. It is related by Davies, in his //zsce//anges,
that this translation was Subsequently represented at the Hay-
market, with Some Success, *

7//EA TRICAI, AAVECDOTES, 245
CRYING AND CRYING,
fººl ED SHUTER used to give the cries of London on his
§§§ annual benefit at the theatre. The day before one of
these benefits, he followed through several streets a man
whose cry of “Silver eels” was very peculiar, but who on that
occasion was unaccountably silent. At last Shuter stopped him,
told him he was Ned Shuter, and that he had followed him
for half an hour in hopes to hear his usual cry. “Why, Master
Shuter,” replied the poor man, “my wife died this morning,
and I can’t cry.”
EFFRONTERY.
ăș,0IN had considerable ascendancy over the audience, and
§§ occasionally took great liberties with them. Taylor
relates, in his ſecords, that on One occasion when
Quin was performing the part of Zanga, and a drunken man
disturbed the pit, he came forward, saying, “ Turn that fellow
out, or by — I won't go on.” The man was accordingly turned
out, and Quin resumed his part. This anecdote seems almost
impossible, yet Taylor asserts that he had it from trustworthy
authority.
THE FIRST LONDON THEATRE.
;|HE very first theatre ever built in London, stood in
Shoreditch, for the previous playhouses had been
merely temporary contrivances erected in the yards of
the large inns, such as the Cross Keys, the Bull, the Pope's
Head, etc. The earliest reference to this building, which was
called The Theatre, is in an old book printed in 1576, and runs
as follows :--
“Those who go to Paris Garden, Bell Savage, or Zhe 77tea/re,



246 THEA 7TP/CAA. AAVECOOTES.
to behold bear-baiting, interludes, or fence-play, must not account
of any pleasant spectacle unless first they pay one penny at the
gate, another at the entry of the scaffold, and a third for a quiet
Standing.” This house, probably, was only a rude wooden
erection, though it is noticed in a sermon preached at Paul's
Cross, in 1578, as “the gorgeous playing place erected in the
Fields.” It stood in or near Holywell Lane, on the site of Holy-
well Priory, a Benedictine nunnery of St. John the Baptist.
In 1598 this playhouse was taken down, and the timber
of it was used for enlarging the Globe Theatre, on the Bankside.
Hard by stood another early theatre, the Curtain, the site of
which is still marked by Curtain Road.
In the days of Elizabeth and James, the players of distinction
from “The Theatre” and “The Curtain,” as well as those from
the Blackfriars Theatre and Shakespeare's Globe, were fond of
residing in this parish. Perhaps there is no church in London
so intimately connected at any time with the stage as old St.
Leonard’s, Shoreditch. The parish register of that church,
within a period of sixty years, records the interment of the
following celebrated actors:–Richard Tarlton, the famous low
comic and clown of Queen Elizabeth’s time, I 528 ; James
Burbage, I 596; and his more celebrated son Richard, 1619, the
friend and companion of Shakespeare; Gabriel Spenser, the
player, who fell, in 1589, in a duel with Ben Jonson; William Sly
and Richard Cowley, two original performers in Shakespeare's
plays; Fortunatus Greene, the unfortunate offspring of Robert
. Greene, the poet and player, I593. Another original performer
in Shakespeare's plays, who lived in Holywell Street, was
Nicholas Wilkinson, alias Tooley, whose name is recorded in
gilt letters on the north side of the altar as a yearly benefactor of
A6 ros., which sum is still distributed in bread annually to the
poor inhabitants of the parish to whom it was bequeathed.
7./#/FA 7/0/CA/, AAWEC/DO 7 A.S. 247
RETALIATION.
zººl HERE was dignity in J. R. Kemble's rebuke to an
#| aristocratic play-writer, the Hon. Mr. St. John, who had
written one of the innumerable Mary Queeze of Scots
plays, and had an interview with the manager in the greenroom,
when his play was refused. High words followed. “You are a
person I cannot call out,” said St. John contemptuously. “But
you are a person I can turn out,” was the ready reply, “ and
you shall leave this place at once.” The offender had the good
sense to return and offer his apologies. -
GOODS THE “GODS” PROVIDED.
PROPOS of the bombardment of Sarah Bernhardt at
Odessa with a handful of pickled cucumbers, some one
recently asked Laferrière whether it was true that in
the good old days the “gods” at Montmartre used to pelt the
actors with apples, Crusts, Bologna sausages, etc. “Ay, my
dear old boy,” he replied ; “and I mind me that many a time
and oft we swallowed the insult with a certain pleasure l’
A MODERN ORPHEUS.
ſº. T is related of Charles Bannister, that when returning
§ to town from Epsom in a gig, accompanied by a friend,
* they found themselves penniless when they arrived at
Kensington-gate, where the turnpike-man would not let them
pass without paying the toll. Bannister, however, offered to
sing him a song, and immediately struck up the “Tempest of
War.” His voice was heard afar, and “ Bannister | Bannister l’’
was the cry. The gate was soon thronged, and he was loudly
encored by the voters returning from Brentford. He complied
with the request, and the turnpike-man declared him to be a



248 T}//EA 7/0/CA/, AAWAEC/DOTAES,
“noble fellow,” and that he would pay fifty tolls for him at any
gate.
LOVERS OF LITERATURE.
;|HARLES PORTER and James Hacket, two American
§ actors, in their salad days made a theatrical tour. At
New Brunswick they announced an entertainment
consisting of readings and recitations, when on the first night
the rising of the curtain was some time delayed, owing to the
non-arrival of Porter. The audience showed signs of impatience,
to allay which it became necessary that an apology should be
made. Hacket, being unable to make a decent speech, was com-
pelled to engage the services of the call-boy, a genuine specimen
of that class, to make the necessary apology. He was told to
say, “That in consequence of the non-arrival of Mr. Porter,
Mr. Hacket would instead recite for them Young Norval’s
speech on the Grampian Hills.” The call-boy, delighted at an
opportunity to appear on the stage in any character, and paying
little or no attention to what was told him, stepped boldly before
the curtain. With the sound of the words just heard buzzing in
his brain, he thus addressed the audience : “Ladies and
gentlemen, Mr. Porter has not yet come.” A pause. “Mr.
Porter not being come, Mr. Hacket will appear as a steed and
give you some novels, and account for himself being on the
Campshire Hills.” This communication was received with
delight, and when Hacket appeared, he was hailed with deafening
applause. Some looked for the fiery steed, others for the novels.
Hackct commenced, “My name is Norval—” Some fellow
shouted out, “D–n your name.” “On the Grampian Hills my
father feeds his flock.” Here another voice yelled out, “Never
mind your sheep, give us the novels.” The cry became general,
“The books the books : * Hacket rushed off the stage, to find
his friends in convulsive laughter. Porter, however, at that
moment arrived, and “the books” were Soon forgotten.

7A/FA T/P/CA/, AAVECOO 7/2.S. 249
READING MADE EASY.
is N the Season of 1784 The Zord of the Manor was substi-
| tuted for the play which had been announced. Miss
Farren was ill, and Mr. John Palmer could not be found.
Miss Collett read for the former, and Mr. R. Palmer for his
brother. The play had never been published, and they were
obliged to use the manuscript copy. Miss Collett and Mr.
Palmer, each with a candle in hand, passed the manuscript from
one to the other, as their turn came. At one moment Palmer
came to a passage so blotted and interlined that he could not
proceed. The audience hissed violently, upon which Palmer
came forward and requested the book might be examined by
any gentleman in the pit, to see if the fault could be attributed
to him. The gentleman who examined it declared it was
illegible. The audience loudly applauded, and, the book being
returned, permission was granted to pass over illegible passages,
AN OBSTINATE COUGH.
ſºft OHN KEMBLE, once playing Macbeth when he suffered
§ from a violent cold, was compelled actually to cough
after his decease. When Bannister was informed of
this circumstance, he said, “Poor fellow, it must be a church-
Jard cough.”
A USEFUL PROMPTER,
%;N3LD Mrs. Baker, the manageress, was an excellent woman,
º | but totally uneducated. Her company, a small one,
played many parts doubled. Gardner, the leading actor,
stage-manager, and prompter, playing Hamlet one night, forgot
the words in some passage. Mrs. Baker on this Occasion acted
as prompter in his place, and the helpless actor imploringly



250 THAEA 7/P/CA/, A/V/ºCDOTES,
whispered to her, “The word, the word.” “What word,
Jack?” calmly inquired Mrs. Baker. “I can’t go on,” was the
hurried reply. “Come off, then,” answered the provoking
female prompter. “The text, woman ; the text,” ejaculated the
tragedian in an agony. “You fool, what’s a text to do with
playhouses P” exclaimed Mrs. Baker, angrily. “Here's the
book; take what you want;” and she hurled the play at him,
A N ON PLUSSED AIDE
NºHENEVER a letter is to be read aloud on the stage, it is
º duly copied out, so as to save the actor who has to read
it the trouble of study. Gober, who long appeared in the
French theatres as Napoleon I., in all the pieces in which the
career of the conqueror from Toulon to St. Helena was depicted,
On one occasion having received an important despatch from an
aide-de-camp, was to read it to the assembled staff. The part of
aide-de-camp was taken by an inveterate and merciless practical
joker named Gautier, who, knowing Caesar to be incapable of
“vamping,” substituted a sheet of blank paper for the written
despatch. The moment came. The aide hurried in and
presented the despatch. The emperor opened the paper,
perceived the joke, frowned, knit his mighty brow, and, with a
gesture of command, handed the despatch to Gautier, saying,
“Read the despatch to the staff, Colonel, while I look at the
map !” The aide paused, became flustered, broke down, and
was roundly hissed.
LINKED SWEETNESS.
is N a former page a dozen actresses have been grouped
# together who have married into the peerage and
baronetage. The male sex does not make anything
like so good a show in the matrimonial line, for, under correction,
I can only bring to four the Sum total of happy actors who have


THEA 7/2/CA/. AAVECDOTES. 25 I
been allowed to take to their bosom a wife drafted from the ranks
of the peerage or the baronetage. It is humiliating for our sex,
but the fact seems irrefutable : the actor is not so irresistible in
the eyes of the so-called “softer’ sex, as the actress is to the
heart of what is described as the sterner part of mankind.
BARTON BOOTH, the tragedian, in 1704, married Frances,
the daughter of Sir William Barkham, Bart., of an ancient
family in the county of Norfolk, now extinct. His wife died
without issue in 17 II. Booth was a Westminster boy, and had
studied under the famous Doctor Bushby. He was an excellent
classical scholar, and has translated some of Horace's odes in
a tasteful manner. After the death of his first wife, Booth
married Miss Santley, an actress and danceress, which mar-
riage so annoyed Mrs. Mountford that she lost her reason.
Booth died in 1733, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
In 1746, WILLIAM O'BRIEN, a comedian of Drury Lane,
married Lady Susannah Sarah Louisa Fox Strangeways, eldest
daughter of the Earl of Ilchester. He left the stage, and the
happy pair soon after were despatched to America, where they
obtained a grant of land in Ohio. Seven years later they re-
turned to England, and O’Brien became a mediocre playwright.
He died in 1813, Lady Susannah in 1825. This marriage
caused a great flutter in Vanity Fair, and various details con-
nected with it are chronicled in Walpole's Correspondence.
O’Brien was the son of a fencing master in Dublin.
WILLIAM PARSONs, the original Crabtree in 7%e Schoo!
for Scandal, married, in 1787, Dorothy, one of the three
daughters of the Hon. James Stewart, brother to the Earl of
Galloway. The young lady had run away from a convent at
Lisle, and accidentally meeting Parsons, an utter Stranger to
her, in the streets of London, implored his aid. A friendship
then sprang up, and after a while Parsons offered his hand and
heart. He was then a staid, asthmatic gentleman of Over fifty,
but possessed of considerable property. -
In later times, a Marchioness (query Countess 2) of Antrim
252 TZ/ZA TR/CAM, A WEC/DOTES.
was united to a Mr. Phelps, of Drury Lane, but not the late
tragedian of that name,
ALTILOQUENCE.
Fºl HE morning after Covent Garden Theatre was burnt,
§§§ Mr. Boaden called on the Kemble family to offer his
sympathy. He gives a curious picture of the ruined
family, especially of the great John, who, in one of his mysterious
moods, stood before a glass shaving himself, and presently
burst into a sort of inflated speech : “Yes, it has perished—that
magnificent theatre . It is gone, with all its treasures of every
description”—which he proceeded to enumerate with the minute-
ness of an auctioneer, in their order of importance—“That
library, which contained all those immortal works of our
countrymen, etc. That wardrobe, etc. Scenery, the triumph of
art. . . . . Of all this vast treasure nothing now remains but the
arms of England over the entrance of the theatre, and the Æomazz
eagle standing solidary in the market-place /* When later, on
this melancholy occasion, Lord Mountjoy came in and spoke
of the public sympathy and gratitude Kemble was destined to
receive, the actor interrupted him in the same lofty strain :
“Gratitude, my lord | Christ was crucified, De Witt was
assassinated ; so much for the world and the people * :
AN ABITATION.
§§|N actor in De Camp's company had the unfortunate habit
#Aºl of dropping his /'s. Being cast for Schampt in The
Woodman's Hitſ, the dialogue in the last act ran thus,
“I see a house yonder,” to which the other assents. On the
present occasion, Schampt said, “I see a mouse.” His brother
comedian, relishing the fun of the thing, exclaimed, “No, it
ain’t ; its only a 717tſ.”


7"HAZA TRICA/. A WAECDOTES, 253
FRIENDLY ADVICE.
Wº N Miss O'Neil's first representation of Juliet in the
§§§ capital of Ireland, the following ludicrous circumstance
occurred —The balcony in the garden scene was
particularly low ; Conway, the Romeo of the night, was un-
commonly tall, and, in delivering the lines—
“Oh that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek,”
laid his hand upon the balcony. A fellow in the gallery im-
mediately interrupted him. “Get out with your blarney,” he
said ; “why don't you touch her, then, and not be preaching
Parson Saxe there P”
UN COMFORTABLE “SUPER.”
* N Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, on the site now
occupied by Messrs. Copeland and Spode's chinaware
repository, stood the Duke's Theatre, opened in the
reign of Charles II. Nightingale, in the tenth volume of the
Peazzfies of Æng/and and Wales, gives the following strange
account of the last performance in this house, in 1737 —“The
shutting up of this structure has been whimsically accounted for
by vulgar tradition. Upon a representation of Harlequizz and
Pr. Æaustus, when a tribe of demons necessary for the piece
were assembled, a Supernumerary devil was observed, who, not
approving of going out in a complaisant manner at the door, to
show a deviſ’s tricó, flew up to the ceiling, made his way through
the tiling, and tore away one fourth of the house. This circum-
stance so affrighted the manager, that the proprietor had not the
courage to open the house ever afterwards.” The origin of this
story is the following —In one of Rich's first pantomimes, per-
haps The Sorcerer, a dance of infernals was exhibited. They


254 THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES.
were represented in black and red, with fiery eyes and snaky
locks, and decked out with every appendage of horror. Among
them there appeared suddenly an additional goblin : they were
twelve in number, but this made the thirteenth, and from his
more terrific dress he seemed to be the chief fiend. His com-
panions grew alarmed—they knew he did not belong to them ;
a general panic succeeded, and the whole group fled different
ways, Some to their dressing-rooms, others through the streets
to their homes. The confusion of the audience is scarcely to
be imagined ; the reality of the Supernatural appearance was
So thoroughly believed, that no official explanation could
entirely do away with the idea. Jackson, the chronicler of the
Scotch stage, who relates this story, had it from Rich himself,
who told it in the presence of Bencraft, the contriver if not the
actor of it. The joke was an old one. There is a popular
legend that Alleyn, the Elizabethan actor, was one day perform-
ing a demon with six others in one of Shakespeare's (!) pieces.
In the midst of the play, he was surprised by the appearance of
another devil, and this so worked on his fancy that he made a
vow to build a hospital. To this prank of one of Alleyn's com-
panions, Dulwich hospital, we are told, owes its origin.
CAN IN E SAGACITY.
; HE following anecdote related by Mrs. Garrick, concern-
# ing her little dog Biddy, gives a curious proof of the
attention with which the canine species watch the pro-
ceedings of their masters:–“One evening, after Mr. Garrick
and I were seated in our box at Drury Lane Theatre, he said,
‘Surely there is something wrong on the stage, and added,
that he would go and see what it was. Shortly after this, when
the curtain was drawn up, I saw a person come forward to speak
a new prologue, in the dress of a country bumpkin, whose
features seemed new to me. Whilst I was wondering who it
could possibly be, I felt my little dog's tail wag, for he was

7A/AA TRICA / AAVECDOTAE.S. 255
seated in my lap, his usual place at the theatre, looking towards
the stage. “Aha l' said I, ‘what I do you know him 2 is it
your master P Then you have seen him practice his part at
home.’”
A NEW ENDING TO HAMLET.
sº ISS HENRIETTA HODSON tells an excellent story
àº; about the manner in which she once, when in her teens,
assisted in killing and murdering Hamleſſ. The troupe
was a strolling company, under the management of Mrs. Glover;
and the theatre a railway arch, without scenery, in a small town
in Scotland. For Miss Hodson's benefit Hamlet was given, the
&énéſiciaire having to impersonate Ophelia, and in the last act
Osric. As no Ophelia can be mad in anything but a white
dress, and Miss Hodson was not possessed of such an article, a
tablecloth over a white petticoat was made to do duty for the
dress in the mad scene ; and by means of a sword-belt buckled
round the waist, this same garment might be transformed into a
tunic for Osric. Unfortunately, when all was settled Hamlet
had one of those sudden indispositions to which the children of
Thespis are so frequently subject. In this emergency, Hamlet’s
landlord—a tall, rawboned Scotchman, who knew the part—
volunteered to impersonate the Prince of Denmark. Among
jokes of the audience, who recognized the volunteer Hamlet,
all went off pretty well. But alas ! when Osric was fighting the
duel with Hamlet, the treacherous belt gave way, and all at once
the young prince stood before the audience in the drapery of
the mad Ophelia. After this it was impossible to finish the
piece, and to conciliate the audience a Scotch reel, in which all
the members of the company took part, was substituted for the
tragic termination penned by Shakespeare. The reel was a
perfect success, and was even encored.

256 THEA 7"R/CA/L AAVEC/DOTES’.
DERO GATORY.
jº N the night of the celebration of the Shakespeare Jubilee
§§§ a supper was given to all the performers. At the head
of the table sat the mighty Kemble family; at the foot,
Messrs. Simmons and the asterisks of the drama. To be in
keeping with this classification, the upper tables groaned beneath
the bottles of champagne, Bucellas, Madeira, sherry, etc.; whilst
the lower ones supported exhilarating but humble bowls of rum
punch. On this Faucit Saville remarked with much wit and
poignancy, “That it was a degradation to the regular drama
to introduce Patzich on such an occasion.”
SURGICAL OPERATIONS.
Å Wº HEN Kean first played Sir Giles Overreach, he made as
iàº) great an impression on his fellow-actors as on the
** audience, and they agreed to present him with a silver
cup. For this purpose a subscription was set on foot in the
greenroom, and in less than an hour £170 was raised, to which
Lord Byron, then a member of the committee of management,
contributed twenty-five guineas. When Oxberry, the Justice
Greedy of the play, and in whom the measure had its origin,
applied to Munden, who played Marrall, the latter replied,
with his peculiar manner, “I have no objection to your cuffſºng
Kean, but I’ll be d––d if you &/eed me.”
THEATRICAL DESPATCHES,
;|ARRICK was fond of exhibiting his skill as a writer of
§ sharp letters, and at one time or another engaged in
- angry correspondence with every member of his com-
pany, from the highest to the lowest. A man of the name of
Stone, who was frequently employed by him to get recruits for



THEA 7/º/CA/. A WAEC/DOTES. 257
the “supers,” had hired a fellow to perform the character of the
Bishop of Winchester in Shakespeare's Henry the Æighth. On
the night of the performance, Stone sent a note to Garrick in
these words : -
SIR,-the Bishop of Winchester is getting drunk at the
Cat and Fiddle, and swears he will not play to-night. I am
yours, etc.—W. STONE.”
To this Garrick replied—
“Stone, the bishop may go to the devil. I do not know
a greater rascal, except yourself—D. G.”
Some time after, Stone wrote as follows:–
“SIR,--Mr. Lacy turned me out of the lobby yesterday.
I Only asked for my two guineas for the last bishop, and he
Said I should not have one farthing. I cannot live upon air.
I have a few “Cupids' you may have cheap, as they belong
to a poor journeyman shoemaker I drink with now and then.
I am, etc.—W. STONE.”
Answer: “Stone, you are the best fellow in the world.
Bring the cupids to the theatre to-morrow ; if they are under
six and well made, you shall have a guinea a-piece for them.
If you can get me two good “ murderers,” I will pay you
handsomely ; particularly the spouting fellow who keeps the
apple-stall on Tower Hill—the villainous cut of his face is just
the thing. Pick me up an “alderman” or two for Richard, if
you can ; and I have no objection to treat with you for a comely,
portly “mayor.”—D. G.
AN ECCENTRIC ACTOR,
㺠UNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH was born in London in 1796,
# but passed the whole of his theatrical life in America,
where he was unrivalled for nearly a quarter of
a century. As a tragedian, Cooke and Kean have only surpassed
him ; Charles Kemble and Macready, compared to him, were
considered only “plodding, wire-drawing critics.” Booth was
S

258 THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES. Jº
not above playing the Smallest parts, and it is related of him
that once in Baltimore, during Charles Kean's engagement, he
appeared as the Second Actor in the play scene in Hamleſſ.
In this part he had only six lines to recite. This doggrel,
usually made particularly atrocious by the way in which it is
rendered by some supernumerary, was recited with such effect
that the audience rose ent masse and cheered him to the echo.
Booth’s eccentricities bordered on insanity ; a large volume
would scarcely contain all the stories told of him. At the
very outset of his career in America, he actually earnestly
applied for the position of lighthouse-keeper at Cape Hatteras,
at a salary of three hundred dollars a year, and would have taken
it but for the interference of some theatrical manager. In 1822, he
bought a farm in a most secluded spot, twenty-five miles from
Baltimore, to which he constantly resorted. No trees were
allowed to be cut down, and all animal life, even to black
snakes, was held religiously sacred. The Rev. James F.
Clarke, in the September Atlantic for 1861, relates a most
Singular story of the great tragedian calling upon him twenty
years previous, and requesting him to assist at a burial. The
corpse proved to be a bushel of dead pigeons, which Booth had
picked up in the fields, the birds having been shot whilst large
flocks passed over the neighbourhood. The eccentric actor
actually had a coffin made for them, hired a hearse and mourn-
ing coach, bought a piece of ground for the interment, and went
through the solemnity of a funeral, to testify, as he said, against
the wanton destruction of animal life.
All forms of religion and all temples of devotion were sacred
to him, and in passing churches he never failed to reverently
bare his head. He worshipped at many shrines, and even had
a great admiration for the Koran, which he read assiduously.
Days sacred to colour, Ore, and mctals were religiously observed
by him. In the synagogues he was known as a Jew, because
he conversed with the rabbis, and joined their worship in the
Hebrew tongue. He read the Talmud, and strictly adhered
THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. 259
to many of its laws. Roman Catholic priests aver that he was of
their persuasion, by his knowledge of the mysteries of their faith.
Once while playing Richard at the Park Theatre, this
lunatic, sword in hand, chased the Richmond of the evening
out by the back door of the theatre into the street. Another
time, while playing Othello, he bore down so heavily with the
pillow on the Desdemona, that she was in danger of her life, and
was only rescued from Suffocation by the other actors, who
rushed upon the stage to save her. In Charleston, after
playing Othello one night, he went to his hotel, where he had
rooms with Tom Flynn, a brother actor. Assuming that Flynn
was Iago, he began to rehearse the famous passage “Villain,
be sure thou prove,” with such terrible vehemence that Flynn
in self-defence grasped the poker, and struck Booth over the
nose, breaking it, and thus marring his noble countenance for
ever. Such is one of the improbable versions of this accident,
which happened in 1837. Miss Rosalie Booth, however, in the
biography of her father, says, “The rumours of this melancholy
event are so numerous and contradictory, that we never could
form a definite conclusion in regard to the occurrence.”
SOMETHING IN A NAME.
gº NE night, in the Dublin Theatre, the play was Hamleſſ.
§: That character was sustained by a gentleman named
Butler, and the part of Horatio by Mr. H. Cooke.
The “boys” in the gallery were full of their fun during the
whole play, being especially facetious upon the Player King,
and any of the subordinates whose tenuity of leg or peculiarity
of voice gave a handle for a satirical jest or a rude witticism.
On the fall of the curtain there arose a general shouting and
hurrahing, in which the name “Butler Butler P’ was frequently
heard. After some minutes of increasing uproar, the actor
so called presented himself, and acknowledged the doubtful
compliment. A voice from above then gave a fresh hint, by

26o 7A/FA 7TR/CAZ AAVEC/DO 7"A.S.
Calling out, “We’ve had the Butler, boys, now let's have the
Cooſée.” The idea was Snatched at instantly, and nothing could
quell the riotous vociferations for “Cooke Cooke l’” that
Succeeded, but the reappearance before the curtain of the
actor who had played Horatio.
JAVIVAEAV/ AOA 7TUM.
ºAMES COBB, the author of the excellent farce Wo Song,
§§ zºo Suffer, was once strolling out with a friend a few
miles from town, when a sudden storm of thunder and
rain compelled them to take shelter in a roadside public-house.
They called for some port wine, which was brought, when Cobb's
companion complained that it was very bad. “Ah ! don’t
grumble,” said Cobb ; “you know, any Žorž in a storm is
acceptable.”
FAMILY JARS.
㺠OOTE being in company one evening with two dignitaries
jº of the Church, the conversation chanced to turn on some
tº ſº. polemical points in divinity, and the two Churchmen,
with considerable warmth, took different sides of the argument.
During the clerical combat, Foote took no other part in the
dispute than that of “bottle-holder,” filling their glasses, in
order to enable nature to Sustain the unusual exertion. At last
one of them turned to Foote, and begged that he would take
part in the discussion, as he could sometimes be as argumenta-
tive as he could be witty. “Not I,” replied Foote; “I make
it a rule never to meddle in family affairs.”
COMPARISONS.
; HE younger Crébillon always made it a point of decrying
§§ the dramatic works of his father. “How, now,” said a
friend one day, “shall you, who have produced nothing
but fairy tales and other frivolous rhapsodies, pretend to criticize



THEA 7/º/CA / 4 AVEC/DO 7"E.S. 261
a man who was an honour to the age he lived in ; who has
produced so many grand tragedies P” “Well,” replied young
Crébillon, “and which of his works is it you admire so much P’’
“It would be difficult,” was the answer, “to say which is his
best Work, but it is easy to see that you are his worst.” Wits
jump. In a like manner the elder Dumas was wont to declare
that his drama, Antony, and his son were his two best works.
THE LESSER OF TWO EVILS.
ºHEN Macklin was acting at the Crow Street Theatre,
Dublin, he was on the Saturday morning frequently told
that “the treasurer was out of the way, that he was ill,”
cto. Macklin was Soon tired of these excuses, and peremptorily
demanded his money. Barry, the manager, now found that he
must make a new tack, and told the comedian that, “as he lived
two miles out of town, the taking with him of So large a sum as
£30 every Saturday night would endanger him to be robbed,” and
therefore he had better let his money lie in the treasury. Macklin
heard this with one of his usual Sarcastic grins, and, pulling a
large knife out of his pocket, cxclaimed, “Look’ee here, Sir,
here is my remedy against thieves. The man who attempts to
rob me, shall have this steel in his belly first. No, no No
robberies | * “Well, but, my dear sir,” replied Barry, “consider,
determined as you are, you are but one man, and these fellows
go in gangs, so that your knife will be nothing against numbers.”
“Very true, sir. But, allowing all this to be true, I have still but
a chance of being robbed on the highway; whereas, in the other
case, my dear Barry’—looking him full in the face—“ yout
Áſtow there is a certainty of my being robbed in Zozwal, therefore
I’ll choose the least risk. Pay me my money, or, by G–d, I’m
no longer your actor.”

262 TA/EA 7/0/CA/. AAVEC/DOTES.
PARSON'S H U N.
;|HE Comics of the old school frequently took most un-
ºjº warrantable liberties, and abused the good nature of the
audience. Parsons, in particular, was an incorrigible
offender in this way. . When on the stage with Palmer and
Aitken, he used to make it a point to make them laugh.
Michael Kelly once, whilst enjoying a dish of fried tripe with
Parsons at an eating-house, opposite the stage-door of Drury
Lane Theatre, took him to task for this misplaced jocularity,
adding that he would never laugh on the stage Out of his
part. A few nights after, the two were acting together in 77te
AJocłor and A/offlecary, and Kelly was to sing a Song. Just as
the orchestra had pitched the key, Parsons called out to the
leader, “Stop ! stop l’ and putting his head into Kelly’s face,
whilst kicking up his heels—a favourite action of his—he drove
him from one end of the stage to the other, crying out all the
time, “I’ll be hanged if you shall have any more fried tripe—no
more fried tripe, no more fried tripe l’—completely pushing
Kelly off the stage. Kelly could not resist laughter, and even
the audience joined. Thereupon Parsons took Kelly by the
hand, saying, “I think you must own, my serious lad, that I have
conquered ; ” and leading him back to the spot from whence he
had driven him, looking down to the orchestra, said, “Now, sirs,
begin,” so that Kelly might have his song.
SMALL ODIDS,
: HERIDAN never gave Monk Lewis any of the profits of
§). The Castle Søectre. One day Lewis, being in company
with him, said, “Sheridan, I will make you a large bet.”
Sheridan, who was always ready to make a wager, however
inconvenient he might find it to pay if he lost, asked eagerly,
“What bet?” “All the profits of my Castle S/ec/re,” replied


7/7/2A 7TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DOTAE.S. 263
Lewis. “I will tell you what,” said Sheridan, matchless at
repartee, “I will make you a very small one—what it is worth.”
The fact is, though The Castle Spectre had a great run, it was a
silly piece. -
A CAT-A-STROPHE,
㺠NE of the most sensational scenes in Victor Neszler's
# opera, The Ratcatcher of Hameln, is that representing
the exodus of rodents from Hameln, brought about by
the tuneful spells of Singuf the Charmer. Whilst this fantastic
personage is singing his incantation, thousands upon thousands
of rats invade the stage, emerging from doors and windows of
the houses composing the “set,” from crevices in walls, and from
holes in the ground. In the leading houses of Germany, no
pains or expense were spared in order to impart a realistic
character to this rat-episode. So excellently managed was this
particular effect at the Dresden Opera House, that upon the
occasion of the Ataſcaächer's first performance in that theatre,
the property rats fairly took in the worthy old cat, perpetually
retained upon the strength of the establishment in consideration
of her long and valuable services. This conscientious creature,
whilst watching the stage “business” with placid interest from
her favourite corner behind one of the wings, suddenly perceived
what she believed to be a host of her natural foes in the very act
of committing an audacious trespass within the sacred limits of
her territorial jurisdiction. With a piercing mew of indignation
she straightway bounded upon the stage, and, to the delight of
the audience, furiously attacked the legion of “counterfeit
presentments” that occupied the boards. . No sooner, however,
had actual contact with the property rats enlightened her
respecting their fictitious nature than she majestically retired.
In obedience to an enthusiastic recall, she was brought on a few
minutes later in the arms of a super, to receive the tribute of
applause her spirited conduct had so richly earned.

264 & THEA TRICA/L AAVECDOTAE.S.
DAYS AND MONTHS.
fºll N 1767 Voltaire produced his drama Zes Scy//les, a work
of considerable merit. It did not “take,” however, at
the first representation. Like many of Voltaire's plays,
it was written in a hurry, and the author had to take it back, to
correct and alter it. This fact was recorded in One of the
public prints of the period in the following paragraph —“We
understand that Mr. Voltaire has sent the actors a tragedy,
entitled Zes Scythes, and informed them, at the same time, that
he wrote it in twelve days. The actors, to be even with him,
have returned it, with a humble request that he will take twelve.
months to correct it.”
/*ALA CA - A VAZ /) SOSAAV.
discovered,” writes Mr. T. F. Dillon Croker, in his
“Jottings on Jerrold,” in the AEra A/manac, “on
looking over Mr. Cooke's correspondence, a letter
from my father, bearing no date, but which, I believe, was
written in 1853, in which my father says, “I am much obliged,
and so will be my son, for your recollection of us in the shape
of an order for the Princess's ; and I, who never go to a theatre,
actually made a pilgrimage with him the other evening to see
Black-eyed Susan, and I have seldom been more pleased. As
for a woman who sat next to me, she blubbered like a child,
and in the last scene was quite audible in the house—“Oh,
will they hang him, will they hang him P”’ I may remark, eſ:
Żarenthèse, that the reply of Gnatbrain, when William says,
‘What do you think we found in the shark P’ is usually, ‘What?
His innards P’ though the author leaves William to finish his
yarn without interruption, and to say, ‘We found all the watches
and 'bacca-boxes as had been lost for the last ten years, an
admiral’s cocked hat, and three pilot telescopes.’ Some


TA/AA TA"/CA/. A WAEC/DO TAZ.S. 265
latitude is, however, given to Gnatbrain. I remember hearing
Mr. Toole say, when T. P. Cooke played William during
a farewell engagement, ‘I can’t say what you found in the
shark—I know what you didn’t find in him.’ “What's that?’
said William. “Why, another T. P. Cooke l’ During the
round of applause which followed the impromptu, Toole .
whispered, ‘Give it me back; reply that you don't care to
be made a Toole of,’ which was accordingly the retort of Mr.
Cooke. Again, when the drama was played at the time of the
farewell dinner given to Macready, Buckstone, who was the
Gnatbrain, is reported to have suggested that the great tragedian’s
farewell speech was found in St. Domingo Billy. ‘No,' said
Cooke, shaking his head. ‘Ah,” observed Buckstone, ‘I thought
he couldn’t have swallowed that l’ My friend Mr. E. L.
Blanchard has reminded me of a humorous incident said to
have occurred during a representation of Black-eyed Susan at
Liverpool, in 1858. The jury, carried away by the cunning of
the scene, when asked for their verdict, ‘ Guilty or not guilty f'
at once exclaimed, ‘Not guilty;’ upon which the Admiral
observed, softo voce, ‘Gentlemen, you know the piece cannot
proceed unless you reconsider your verdict,’ which was
accordingly reversed, and thus prevented a lame and impotent
conclusion.”
A.N. UNINVITED GUEST.
; HE first Garrick club, called the School of Garrick, was
§§ formed by a few actors, contemporaries of the British
Roscius, who dined together during the theatrical
winter season once a month. One night, in the beginning of
this century, when Moody, the aged comedian, was in the
chair, a waiter came in to tell Henry Johnstone that a gentleman
wished to speak to him in the next room. In a few minutes
there was a great noise and bustle, and Johnstone was heard to
say in a loud tone, “Sir, you cannot go into the room where

266 7TAZAZA 7TP/CAA. AAVEC/DOT/E.S.
the club is—none but members are on any account admitted ;
such are our rules.” “Talk not to me of your rules,” said the
Stranger; “I insist upon being admitted.” And after a long
controversy of “I will go” and “You shan’t,” the door was
burst open, and both contending parties came tumbling in.
The Stranger, an uncommonly ill-favoured person, coolly took
his place at the table, commenced a rhapsodic speech about his
admiration of the club, that he could not resist the temptation
of joining it, and ended by filling himself a glass and drinking
“To our better acquaintance.” Moody, with great Solemnity,
requested him to withdraw, as no one could have a seat at that
table unless he was a member. The stranger, who seemed
somewhat elevated, replied, “I don’t care for your rules ; talk
not to me of your regulations. I want to become a member,
and won’t stir an inch : * “Then,” cried the infuriated Moody,
“old as I am, I will take upon myself to turn you out.” With
that he jumped up, and took hold of the stranger, who resisted
valiantly. All was confusion, and poor Moody was getting black
in the face, when the stranger threw off his wig, spectacles,
and false nose, and before them stood Charles Mathews the
elder, a member of the club. So well had the mimic played
his part that nobody except Johnstone, his accomplice in the
plot, had suspected him.
SERIO-COMICALITY.
; UMBERLAND, the dramatist, had an inveterate
dislike to Sheridan, which, considering the abuse
Sheridan had heaped upon him in 7%e Critic, was
not surprising. When The School for Scanda! came out,
Cumberland's children prevailed upon their father to take them
to see it. They had the stage-box, the father was seated behind
them, and every time the children laughed at what was going
on on the stage, he pinched them, and said, “What are you
laughing at, my dear little folks You should not laugh, my


TA/AA 7TA’/CA/. AAVEC/DOTAE.S. 267
angels ; there is nothing to laugh at ; ” and then, in an under-
tone, “Keep still, you little dunces.” Sheridan, having been
told of this, said, “It was very ungrateful in Cumberland, to
have been displeased with his poor children for laughing at
//ly comedy, for I went the other night to see his fragedy, and
laughed at it from beginning to end.”
NEW READ IN G.
ń N a certain garrison town theatre, Žu/Zus Cæsar was to
be represented with considerable splendour. Super-
numeraries, of course, were necessary to impersonate
the Roman plebs, and some score of “Connaught Rangers.”—
the regiment at that time stationed in the town—were drilled
into sympathizing citizens, and nightly clamoured for the
production of Caesar's will. The gallant soldiers shouted “The
testament the testament l’ with emphasis and discretion in
the right place during three successive enactments ; after
which Julius rested “i' th' capitol.” Just before the company
left, the Roman hero was “bespoke” by a classical patron of
the drama for reslaughter. Having been so lately performed,
it was deemed unnecessary to rehearse the tragedy, and its
Scenic illustration proceeded with due solemnity to the eventful
moment of Antony's oration. At their well-remembered “cue,”
the practised Romanized Hibernians cried loudly for “The
testament l” but superior duties having unfortunately claimed
the attendance of divers members of the original mob, several
of their uninitiated substitutes—instructed only to do as their
companions did, and make a “row’—upon hearing their brother
Romans shout for “the testament,” determined not to be
outdone in religious zeal, and roared long and lustily, “The
Bible the Bible ! the Bible ”

268 THEA 7/8/CAA. AAVECDOTES.
WAITING.
is N 1825 Kean was engaged for nine nights at Cork, during
; which period he represented his best characters to
almost empty houses. On the night of his benefit,
however, owing partly to the entertainments, which were well
calculated to “force a house,” and partly to individual exertion,
a numerous audience assembled. In Sy/wester Daggerwood, he
made several oblique allusions to the neglect he had experienced,
but “one hit” was most “palpable.” When the manager's
servant in that play announced his master's exit, and Fustian
complained of having in vain waited two hours for an audience
with him, Kean replied, with peculiar emphasis, “O Lord
you have no cause of complaint. I have been måne mights waif-
Žng here for an audience, and have seen nobody.” This marked
rejoinder was received with enthusiastic applause.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
sº HILE Joseph Jefferson was once playing Rip Van
#AA'ſ Winkle at Chicago, he went to the theatre very much
exhausted by a long day’s fishing on the lake. As the
curtain rose on the third act, it disclosed the white-haired Rip
still deep in his twenty years' nap. Five, ten, twenty minutes
passed and he did not waken. The audience began to get
impatient and the prompter uneasy. The great actor doubtless
knew what he was about, but this was carrying the realistic
business too far. The fact was that all this time Jefferson was
really sleeping the sleep of the just, or rather of the fisherman
who had sat eight hours in the sun. Finally the gallery became
uproarious, and one of the “gods” wanted to know if there was
going to be “nineteen years more of this snooze business . "
At this point Jefferson began to snore. This decided the
prompter, who opened a small trap beneath the stage, and
began to prod Rip from below. The fagged comedian fumbled
in his pocket for an imaginary railway ticket, and muttered


7A/EA 7/ē/CAZ AAVECOO 7'E.S. 269
drowsily, “Going right through, 'dictor.” At this entirely new
reading the audience was transfixed with amazement, when all
at once Jefferson sat up with a loud shriek, evidently in agony.
The exasperated prompter had “jabbed” him with a pin. The
play went on after that—with a rush.
AN UN COUTH SENATOR.
WºlyIONG the insolent frolics perpetrated by the buffoon
i Joe Haines, the following will help us to a view of
theatrical manners in his days. One night, when the
tragedy of Caſi/ine's Cons/iracy was being performed, which
required a great number of Roman senators on the stage, Hart,
then leader of the company, ordered Joe to dress for one of the
“potent, grave, and reverend seigniors,” although Joe, whose
salary was then fifty shillings per week, was above such parts.
The comic, vexed at the slight Hart put upon him, determined
to be revenged. He put on a Scaramouch dress, a large, full ruff,
moustaches from ear to ear, and a fool’s cap on his head. Thus
accoutred, with a pipe in his mouth, and a little three-legged
stool in his hand, Joe followed Hart on the stage, sat himself
down behind him, and commenced Smoking his pipe, making
grimaces, and pointing to the actor. This comical figure put the
whole house in an uproar, some laughing, some clapping their
hands, others holloaing. Hart was one of those players whom
nothing could disconcert ; had a scene fallen behind him, he
would not have looked back. He continued to play as if nothing
had happened, wondering, however, at the unusual merriment of
the house, now thinking that there was somebody in the house
exciting this mirth, again having an uncomfortable apprehension
that there was something amiss in his dress. At last, happening
to turn himself towards the scenes, he discovered Joe in the
aforesaid posture. This was too much even for the imperturb-
able tragedian, who immediately left the stage, Swearing that he
would never set his foot on it again unless Joe was immediately
discharged, which was done stayuſe Zede.


270 TAZAA TA’/CA / AAVECOOTES.
*
A FACE OF THUNDER.
ăABLACHE had the extraordinary talent of representing
jš a thunder-storm, simply by facial expression. First,
gloom gradually overspread his countenance ; it ap-
peared to deepen into actual darkness, and a terrific frown
indicated the angry lowering of the tempest. The lightning Com-
menced by winks of the eyes, and twisting and twitchings of the
muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of
the mouth, which wonderfully recalled the forked flashes that
Seem to rends the sky, the notion of thunder being conveyed by
the Shaking of his head. By degrees the lightning became less
vivid, the frown relaxed, the gloom departed, and a broad Smile
illuminating his expansive face, gave the impression that the
Sun had broken through the clouds, and the storm was over.
ACTOR AND GENT LEMAN.
ºl.HOMAS SHERIDAN, manager of the Crow Street
# Theatre in Dublin, once had to give evidence at a trial
in the Exchequer Court, in that city. The leading
counsel frequently urged the evidence of “so very respectable a
gentleman as Mr. Sheridan,” who came there to support his
client’s cause. The barrister employed on the other side, laying
hold of his learned brother's repeatedly terming Sheridan a
“gentleman,” commenced his harangue with illiberal remarks,
concluding, “My learned brother calls a stage-player, an actor
in tragedies and comedies, a gentleman / ‘Tell it not in Gath,
publish it not in the Streets of Askelon,' that a common
player should in a high Court of justice be termed a gent/eſ/laſt A
I have heard of gentlemen soldiers, gentlemen sailors ; but, I
must confess, I never before now heard of or saw a gent/eſ/laſt
//ayer.” Sheridan repressed his indignation, and, turning to the
calumniator of his profession with a placid Smile and his hand


THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES. 271
laid gracefully on his bosom, simply said, “I hope, sir, you See
one now,” accompanied by a courtly bow.
THE CLERGY AND THE PLAYHOUSE.
sºl HEN Mrs. Siddons made her first appearance in Edin-
§§§ burgh, in 1784, the General Assembly of the Scottish
Church was obliged to adjourn its sittings at an early
hour, to enable its reverend members to attend the theatre and
witness the performance of the great tragic actress. Here was
a change from the days when the production of Horne's tragedy
of Douglas had excited a ferment in the Scottish Church which
has become historical.
FRIGID FARCES.
; HE crew of the American ship engaged in the Grinnell
# expedition in search of Franklin, performed a farce on
the 14th of February, 1851, in the Arctic regions. The
outside temperature on that evening, was –36°; in the “house,”
it was — 25° behind the scenes, and – 20° in the audience depart- .
ment. The farce was called 7%e Mysſeries and Miseries of
AVew York. One of the sailors had to enact the part of a
damsel with bare arms; and when a cold flat-iron, part of the
properties, touched his skin, the sensation was like that of burn-
ing with a hot iron. But this was not the most arduous of their
dramatic exploits. A week later, on Washington's birthday,
there was another performance. The ship's thermometer out-
side was at – 46°; inside, the audience and actors, by aid of lungs,
lamps, and hangings, got it as high as — 30°, only 62° below freezing
point, probably the lowest atmospheric record of a theatrical
representation. It was a strange thing altogether. The con-
densation was so excessive, that the audience could scarcely See
the performers; they walked in a cloud of steam. Any extra
vehemence of delivery was accompanied by volumes of vapour.



272 7A/ASA 7TR/CA/L AAVEC/DO 7TA.S.
Their hands steamed. When an excited Thespian took off his
coat, it steamed like a dish of hot potatoes.
CONTRACTORS FOR SUCCESS.
;: HOUGH the French, as a rule, do not read Shakespeare,
#| still they unwittingly agree with the truth of at least
one remark of “the divine William’s,” viz. that “there
is something in a name.” Generally, it is not the fault of the
Frenchman, if he does not give as fine a name to everything
connected with himself as can possibly be applied to it. Thus
the gallant band of hirelings who thunder forth applause in the
theatres distinguishes itself by the heroic name of “Romans;”
their chief, in a plain unvarnished definition, is described “chief
of clapping” (chef de clayue), but preferably he styles himself by,
a circumlocution, a “contractor for success.” With such a title,
a man cannot but respect himself and feel his worth. The
following characteristic letter, written to Mdlle. Rachel by a suc-
cess-contractor when the celebrated tragedian had expressed dis-
satisfaction with the exertions of the clapping fraternity, throws
some light on the position the chef de Cſague considers him-
self to hold :— -
“MADEMOISELLE,--I cannot remain under the obloquy of a
reproach from lips such as yours ! The following is an authentic
statement of what really took place :—At the first representation,
I led the attack in person no less than thirty-three times. We
had three acclamations, four hilarities, two thrilling movements,
four renewals of applause, and two indefinite explosions. In
fact, to such an extent did we carry our applause that the
occupants of the stalls were scandalized, and cried out, ‘Turn
them out !” My men were positively overcome with fatigue,
and intimated to me that they could not again go through Such
an evening. Seeing such to be the case, I applied for the
manuscript, and after having profoundly studied the piece, I was
obliged to make up my mind, for the Second representation, to

7A/AEA 7/2/CA/C AAVEC/DO 7/2.S. 273
certain curtailments in the service of my men. I, however,
applied them only to MM. *—here follow the names—“and, if
the temporary office which I hold affords me the opportunity, I
will make them ample amends. In such a situation as that
which I have just depicted, I have only to request you to believe
firmly in my profound admiration and respectful zeal; and I
Venture to entreat you to have some consideration for the
difficulties which environ me. I am, Mademoiselle,” etc.
A FALSE ALARM.
R ; HEN the Spanish Armada was hovering on the English
AA}| coast, a company of strolling actors were performing a
piece called Sampson in a booth at Penryn. The enemy,
having silently landed a body of men, were making their way to
Surprise the town, when fortunately at that instant the players
let Sampson loose on the Philistines. The sounds of drums,
trumpets, shouts, and firing of ordnance created Such a
tremendous hubbub that the Spaniards fancied the whole town,
with Beelzebub at their back, were pouring down upon them,
and immediately turning tail, Scampered off to their ships.
This anecdote may perhaps have suggested the amusing incident
in Tom Jones, where the drum of the puppet-show so terrified
poor Partridge, that he fancied the Pretender, Jenny Cameron,
and all the Scotch rebels were at hand, and that his dying hour
WaS CO1116,
OBITUARY NOTICE.
à N The Friendly Writer and Register of Tºuth, a quaker
# weekly paper edited by Ruth Collins, under date Sep-
tember 25, 1732, the death of Robert Wilks, the trage-
dian, is announced in these words: “Died this week, Master
A'obert Włłs, of the Irish Nation. He was one that showed
great Behaviour of Body, and spake many quaint Words of
T


274. TAZAZA 7TA’ACA/C A/VAZCZOO 7T/E.S.
Vanity upon a Stage of Wood, before People who delight in
vain Babbling; and they are now greatly troubled at his Loss.
For, say they, where shall we find his Fellow, to yield Delight
into Our Ears, and unto our Hearts, in the doleful Evenings of
the Winter. Those that were of his Company also mourn, and
Say, Our neighbouring Brethren will rejoyce, as hoping to be
Gainers by his Departure.” -
ABOU'I' PANTOM IM ES.
#|HE pantomime was introduced into England by Rich,
j; the manager of Covent Garden Theatre. The first
entertainment of this kind was produced in 1717, at the
theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. It was called Harlequizz
Sorcerer, and is described as “A species of dramatic composition
Consisting of two parts, one serious and the other comic. By
the help of gay scenes, fine dresses, grand dances, appropriate
music, and other decorations, Rich exhibited a story taken from
Ovid’s Metamorſ/loses. Between the acts of this serious
representation he interwove a comic fable, consisting chiefly of
the courtship of Harlequin and Columbine, with a variety of
Surprising adventures and tricks, produced by the Imagic wand
of Harlequin, such as the sudden transformations of palaces and
temples to huts and cottages, of men and women into wheel-
barrows and jointstools, of trees into houses, colonnades to beds
of tulips, and mechanics’ shops into serpents and Ostriches.”
The fertility of Rich's invention in devising entertainments was
extraordinary : of all the pantomimes which he produced be-
tween 1717 and 1761, scarcely one was a failure.
The “comic openings” of the modern pantomime had no place
in these old pantomimes; no allusions to passing events or the
follies of the day were introduced in them. It was only Some
fifty years ago that that change came about. Leigh Hunt
writing in 1831, complained that pantomimes were not what they
had been, and that the opening, which “used to form merely a

TAZAZA 7TP/CA/. A WAEC/DOTES. 275
brief excuse for putting the harlequinade in motion,” had come
to be a considerable part of the performance. Gradually, also,
Harlequin lost his importance and fell into the background,
before the inimitable clown impersonated by Joe Grimaldi. It
was this great artist who designed the eccentric costume still
worn by clowns, which originally was the same as that of the
Pierrot of the masked ball. Harlequin at first wore the loosely
fitting, parti-coloured jacket and trousers familiar in biscuit and
china paintings of the last century. In 1800, James Byrne, the
father of the late Mr. Oscar Byrne, appeared as Harlequin in
the pantomime of AZar/equin Azizuleſ, or, The Magic of Moſta,
at Drury Lane. His attire in that character is described as
“a white silk shape fitting without a wrinkle, into the which the
coloured silk patches were woven, the whole being profusely
covered with Spangles, and representing a very Sparkling
appearance.” This innovation took the stage by storm, and
ere long became the costume of all harlequins all over the
world.
Ol JT-HEROD IN G. HEROD.
#. DWARD RAVENSCROFT, a writer, or rather compiler,
% of plays in the reign of Charles II. and his two
successors, wrote a drama entitled Zºlas Azadzºozlichés,
or, The ſtaffe of Zavižnia, in which he largely borrowed from
Shakespeare. Instead of diminishing any of the horrors of the
original, he seized every opportunity of adding to them—witness
the following speech by the Moor, after the empress Tomara has
stabbed her child —
“She has outdone me, even in mine own art
Outdone ºne in murder killed her own child !
Give it me. . . . /'ll eat it.”

276 TAZAZA TA’/CA / AAVECDOTE.S.
A TALKATIVE CORPSE.
Fºl()NY LEE, a player in King Charles II.'s reign, having
# a violent cold, could not forbear coughing as he lay
- dead upon the stage, having been killed in a tragedy.
This occasioned a great deal of noise and laughter in the house.
Tony waggishly lifted up his head, and, addressing the audience,
said, “This makes good what my poor mother used to tell me;
for she would often say that I should cough in my grave, because
I used to drink with my porridge.” This set the house in such
good humour, that it produced a thundering round of applause,
and made every one pardon the Solecism he had committed.
CITY FREEDOM.
|ITTLE Edward Knight, passing the evening among
; some friends in the City, was requested. In his turn
to favour the company with a song. He politely
declined it, alleging that he was so indifferent a performer that
any attempt of his would rather weary than entertain. One of
the company, however, insisted that Knight had a good voice, and
said that he had frequently had the pleasure of hearing him sing
at the Drury Lane Theatre. “That may be,” replied the witty
comedian ; “but, as I am not a freeman, I have no voice in the
City.”
A GOOD REASON.
ºARRY was in no part so eminent as in Romeo. At the
jº time when he attracted the town to Covent Garden by
his admirable delineation of the character, Garrick
found it absolutely necessary to perform himself as Romeo at
Drury Lane, in order to obtain at least some share in the
attention of the public, and to divert into his own Coffers a



THEATR/CAZ ANECDOTES. 277
driblet of the stream of gold which was rolling into the treasury
of the rival house. Garrick, however, wanted the physical
advantages of Barry, and, great as he was, would perhaps have
Willingly avoided such a competition. This, at least, seems to
have been the prevailing opinion ; for, in the garden scene, when
Juliet exclaims, “O Romeo, Romeo wherefore art thou
Romeo?” an auditor in the pit archly gave the explanation of
this fact by replying, “Because Barry has gone to the other
house,”
THE COMB IN THE THEATRE.
zººl HE beaux of the period of Charles II. and William III.
ºf flaunted in costly periwigs, “more elaborately curled
than a lady's head dressed for the ball.” This magni-
ficent headgear was treated with loving care, and so much was
it the fashion to attend to the proper twist of the curls that it
was customary for the beaux, while Standing in the pit, con-
versing with the ladies in the boxes, gracefully to comb the
silken curls of their fair periwig. The comb was lightly held
between finger and thumb, the other fingers elegantly bent, so as
to show off to advantage the diamond ring on the little finger
and the precious lace ruffles on the wrist. An old play tells us
that, on the appearance of a masked lady—it was the fashion
then for ladies to wear vizard-masks—in the pit, -
“Straight every man who thinks himself a wit
Perks up, and managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face.”
Wig combs, made of the most beautiful tortoiseshell, and fanci-
fully engraved with flowers and birds, sometimes inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, or with their owner's name or crest painted on
them, were carried in a shagreen case in One of the side
pockets, SO as to have them always ready at hand.

278 TAZAZA 7TR/CA/, AAVEC/DOTE.S.
A.N. UNH IN GED ARMY.
; HE London correspondent of a New York paper told the
| following story to Booth of the time when the American
actor and Irving played together years ago:-“Irving
tells me that he played with you at Manchester when you were
in England on your first visit. The piece he remembers best
was Richard III. The manager of the theatre was “Richmond,”
and he had given himself a splendid new set of armour, and had
provided the best the theatre afforded for his army. He was
popular with the public in front, and did not mean to have his
position unduly interfered with by the star in Richard. He
interpolated the prayer scene, the invocation to the god of battles,
from A/enzy V. While Richard’s army was clothed in the most
ordinary costumes, Richmond's was ablaze, partially in new
armour and in old armour cleaned up and polished. When the
manager came on, the extraordinary display of magnificently
appointed men was loudly applauded. Everything went as he
could wish, till at last came the invocation to the god of battles.
Down on his knees went Richmond; his army tried to follow
suit. The property-men had not oiled or greased the joints of
their armour. Upon going to kneel, they fell into all kinds of
comic attitudes, one or two fell upon their faces, all of them
looked ridiculous. The stiff joints of the armour would not
work. The audience Screamed with laughter. A more absurd
stage-picture was never seen. The invocation over, the army
attempted to rise. This was a still more awkward-looking busi-
ness than trying to kneel. The men on their faces could not get
up again. Those who did get up made far more to-do about it
than Rip van Winkle after his long sleep, so admirably repre-
sented by Jefferson. Richmond went off, amid shouts of
laughter and chaff from the gallery. Apart from any question
of ability, Richard had the best of that arrangement.”

7 'AAA 7/8/CAA. AAVECOOTES. 279
A. THIEF-CATCHER ON THE STAGE.
a N 1849, Vidocq, the famous French thief-catcher, gave
; some theatrical representations in London. He per-
formed in a drama in five acts, jºie d’AEscars, in which
there was a rich crop of burglaries, robberies by violence and
with false keys, and incidents of cracksmen’s and policemen’s
craft pitted against each other. In one of his “Soirées d’ſºnifa-
tion,” he represented an Italian quack. When the performance
was over, and Vidocq had retired to change his costume for his
next appearance, one of the spectators began to make remarks
about the impersonations, observing that he could do the same
things just as well. Others took the part of the performer, and
the discussion was taking a quarrelsome turn, when all at Once
the discontented spectator became deadly pale, and fell down,
vomiting blood. It was thought that the unfortunate man had
ruptured a blood-vessel, and people called for a doctor, when
the invalid declared coolly that he did not want one, for nothing
was the matter with him. It was Vidocq again in another
character. This anecdote is related by Charles Maurice, the
theatrical critic of the journal des Z)&aſs, in his Håsfoſſre
Anecdoſiſ/m/e, who adds that “John Bull” applauded this tasteful
performance & outrance,
THEATRICAL PROFITS AND EXPENSES.
ºlN a roll of the churchwardens of Bassingborn, in Cam-
bridgeshire, is an account of the expenses and receipts
for acting the play of Sá. George, in that parish, on the
feast of St. Margaret, I 5 II. The company collected upwards of
A4 in twenty-seven neighbouring parishes for getting up the
play. They disbursed about £2 in the representation. These
disbursements were—to four minstrels or waits of Cambridge,
for three days, 5s. 6d. ; to the players, in bread and ale, 3s. 2d.;


28O THEATRICAZ ANECD07ES.
to the “garnement” man for “garnements” and properties, 20s.;
to John Hobard, brotherhood-priest, for the playbook, 2s. 8d.;
for hire of the croft or field in which the play was exhibited, Is...;
for property-making or furniture, Is. 4d.; for fish and bread,
and Setting up the stages, 4d.; for painting three phantoms and
four tormentors (i.e. devils). . . . The rest was expended for a
feast on the occasion, for which were provided “four chickens
for the gentlemen, 4d.”
This note proves that the theatrical term “property” is of
respectable antiquity. What the “properties” were in this
instance cannot be ascertained ; but in a mystery, founded on
the story of Tobit, exhibited at Lincoln in 1563, there occurs
among the properties—hell-mouth, with a nether chap ; Sarah's
chamber ; a great idol with a club ; the city of Jerusalem, with
towers and pinnacles ; the city of Rages, with towers and
pinnacles ; the city of Nineveh ; the king's palace of Nineveh ;
old Toby's house ; a firmament with a fiery cloud, etc.
THE TWO GRAVEDIGGERS,
ă.]T was formerly customary to make the gravedigger in
à Hamlet a comic character, and all sorts of tricks were
effected for that purpose. Among other comicalities, it
was held sacred that he should wear an indefinite number of
waistcoats. Paul Bedford, in his Zºe/227tzscences, relates how he
acted once at Nottingham. Edward Wright was the first grave-
digger, Paul the second. The first gravedigger prepared him-
self to take the town by storm, by having incased his person
within a dozen waistcoats of all sorts of shapes and patterns.
When about to commence the operation of digging the grave for
the fair Ophelia, the chief began to unwind by taking off waist-
coat after waistcoat, which caused uproarious laughter among the
audience. But as the chief digger relieved himself of one waist-
coat, Paul, the boy digger, incased himself in the cast off vests;
which increased the Salvos of laughter, for, as number one

7THEA TRICA/, AAVEC/DOTES. 28I
became thinner, number two grew fatter and fatter. Wright, see-
ing himself outdone, kept on the remainder of the waistcoats,
and commenced digging Ophelia's grave.
BRUTUS’S APOSTROPHE,
is N 1850, Junius Brutus Booth performed the principal part
i in John Howard Payne's tragedy of Brutus, his son
Edwin supporting him as Titus. In the Solemn inter-
view where the Roman consul is condemning his recreant son
to an ignominious death, his countenance pourtrayed an agony
of suffering, and tears streamed from his eyes, as he gathered the
head of his offending boy to his bosom. The audience was
breathless, but the silence was suddenly interrupted by an
exclamation from a drunken man in the gallery. Booth, still
enwrapt in the character he was impersonating with such truthful
earnestness, raised his eyes, and, fixing them upon the man with
a steady gaze, exclaimed Sternly, “Beware! I am the headsman
—I am the executioner.” The singular effect thus produced was
shown in the continued hushed silence of the audience, which at
last burst forth in rapturous applause.
CALLS F3 EFORE THE CURTAIN.
Sedaine and Grétry's comic opera Gui//au/ze Te// in
Paris, was recalled. He declined to show himself, and
the people in the pit were so incensed at this slight that they
tore the curtain. At that time already calls before the curtain
were so common in Paris that the papers, commenting on this
affair, observed, “To be called before the curtain is no longer
an honour. It has been abused to such an extent, both with
actors and with authors.” Macready relates, in his Reminiscences,
that the practice of “calling on ” the principal actor was first
introduced at Covent Garden Theatre, on the occasion of his


282 7A/EA 7TR/CA / AAVEC/DOTES,
first performance of the character of Richard III., on October
I9, 1819. This custom was not introduced at the Italian
Opera in London till 1824, when Rossini was director and
composer to the King's Theatre, and his wife, Madame Colbran
ROSSini, Ž77/ta dozeſta, with Mesdames Pasta and Catalani, for a
limited number of nights. Parke, the oboe-player, in his
Musica/Memoirs, relates as a novelty that after the performance
of IZAZazzazz.co Áer /a, Mizsäca, “Madame Catalani was called for,
when she again presented herself, making her obeisance, amidst
waving of handkerchiefs and tumultuous applause.” Madame
Pasta also, after playing Desdemona, “ had a call when the
curtain fell, and was brought back to receive the reward due to
her distinguished talents.” The thing appears to have been
Overdone, however, for not more than two seasons later, Parke,
in reference to Pasta's performance of Desdemona, observes,
“At the end of the opera, by desire of the audience, she came
forward once more to receive that reward which is becoming so
common Zhał ż wiſ/shortly cease to be a mark of dāsānction.”
It was in 1836 that the composer of an opera was for the first
time called before the curtain in this country. In that year the
opera of Woltzfahad was produced at the English Opera
House, now the Lyceum Theatre. The late Mr. Loder, the son
of the leader of the orchestra at Bath, was the composer of this
work, which was a great success. “The silly practice of calling
for a favourite actor at the end of a play,” writes the Athentatiſt
of that week, “was upon this occasion for the first time
extended to a composer, and Mr. E. J. Loder was produced
upon the stage to make his bow. As the chance portion of the
audience could not possibly be aware that a gentleman so little
known in London was present, it would have betrayed less of
the secrets of the prison house if this bit of nonsense had not
been concerted by injudicious and overzealous friends. The turn
of successful authors will, we suppose, come next, and therefore
such of them as are not actors had better take a few lessons in
bowing over the lamps, and be ready. We know Some half
7A7A2A 7TP/CA/C AAVAEC/DO 7"A.S. 283
dozen whom this process would cause to shake in their shoes
more vehemently than even the already accumulated anxieties
of a first night.”
The turn of successful authors did come, though history has
omitted to record the name of the favourite dramatist to whom
the honour of “bowing over the footlights” was first accorded.
In France, Voltaire was the first author called before the
curtain, after the first representation of Meroffe, the second was
Marmontel, after the production of his ZXionyse.
OLD MORTALITY.
fºLACKLIN'S last attempt on the stage was Shylock, which
§§§ in former days had been his greatest success. He came
dressed for the character into the greenroom, where all
the actors were assembled. Looking round, he said, “What! is
there a play to-night?” All were astonished, and no one
answered. He repeated, “Is there a play to-night P” Portia
remarked, “Why, sir, what is the matter? The Merchant of
Venice, you know.” “And who is Shylock P” asked Macklin.
“Why, you, sir; you are Shylock.” “Ah !” said he, “am I ?”
and sat down in silence. Every one was much concerned and
alarmed. However, the curtain rose, the play began, and he
got through the part, every now and then going to the side
of the stage, lifting up his hair with One hand and putting his
ear down to the prompter, who gave him the word. He then
walked to the centre of the stage, and repeated the words
tolerably well. This occurred often through the play, but some-
times he said to the prompter, “Eh, what is it? what do you
Say P” The play was got through, and then Macklin came for-
ward, with a wish to address the house, but he could only utter
in a tremulous voice, “My age, my age l’ This was Macklin’s
last appearance. He died at his house in Covent Garden, the
right-hand corner of Tavistock Court, and was buried in St.
Paul’s, Covent Garden, where an inscription to his memory may

284 7.///ZA T/º/CA/. A WAEC/DOTAES.
be read on the south wall. “Though many persons, at the time
of his death, had been applied to in order to ascertain the period
of his birth,” says J. T. Smith, in Moſ/ekens and his Times,
“Nobody had been able to fix it with certainty. Just as the
Coffin was being lowered into the vault, a letter, containing a
copy of the register of his birth, was put into the hands of the
chief mourner, who immediately took out his penknife and
Scratched IO7 on the coffin-plate, where the actor's age had been
left in blank.”
REAL TRAGEDY.
ãº; OMIE time in 1880, if newspaper reports may be trusted,
§ § %
a madman armed with a hatchet made his way on to
the Stage of the Teatro del Circo, at Madrid. After
slaying one of the attendants who attempted to seize him, the
inconvenient Supernumerary swung the hatchet about his head
with such desperation that the municipal authorities dared not
approach him. A Squad of Soldiers were at length called in,
and these, under the instruction of their officer, fired at the
madman with blank cartridge, in the hope of frightening him
into surrender. Failing in this effort, they loaded with ball and
fired once more. This time they were successful, and the
intruder, his antics all over, lay upon the stage a Corpse, with
three bullets in his head and body. So soon as it was known
that the man was dead, the audience returned to the places they
had quitted in terror, and the performances were resumed at
the point at which they had been interrupted by this little
episode. - -
AN OBSTINATE ADMIRER.
F. COOKE, when in his cups, was what is vulgarly
described as “an ugly customer.” One evening he was
very merry at a tavern, when Incledon came in. Cooke
requested him to sing “The Storm,” but, as it was late, Incledon


TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/L AAVEC/DO TAE.S. 285
refused, and Soon after went to bed. Irritated at this refusal,
Cooke was determined to have his revenge, and after musing
for a few minutes, asked the waiter if he knew the man who had
just been sitting in the same box with him. He replied that it
was Mr. Incledon. “No such thing,” exclaimed Cooke; “’tis
some vile impostor . He has stolen my watch, and I insist on an
officer being sent for, that we may search him.” Remonstrance
was fruitless, SO at length the guardian of the night was
summoned, and they all ascended to Incledon’s chamber, with
Cooke at their head. Incledon, roused from his first sleep,
asked what they wanted. Cooke insisted that he was the man
who had picked his pocket, at the same time observing, “If it
is really Incledon, he can sing ‘The Storm ; ’ let him do so,
and I shall be convinced of my error.” Incledon now per-
ceived the drift of the joke, and without further protest struck
up, “Cease, rude Boreas.” Cooke, having heard the desired
ditty, left him once more to his repose.
CHARLES THE SECOND’S WIG.
i. HORTLY after the demise of Mr. Rawle, one of
§§ } George III.'s accoutrement makers, and the friend of
Captain Grose, the antiquary, a Sale of his effects took
place. Among other historical Curiosities, there was a large black
wig, with long flowing curls, which was stated to have been
worn by King Charles II. Suett, the actor, a great collector of
wigs, was a bidder for this curiosity, and to prove to the company
that it would suit him better than any of his opponents, he put
it upon his head. Thus dignified, he went on with his biddings,
which were accompanied by remarks sometimes sarcastically
Serious, at others ludicrously comic. The company, however,
though highly amused, thought it ungenerous to prolong the
biddings, and therefore one and all declared that it ought to be
knocked down to Suett, which accordingly was done. Suett

286 TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/. AAVEC/DO 7TP.S.
continued to act in this wig for many years in Tom Thumb and
other pieces, till, unfortunately, it was burnt when the theatre at
Birmingham was destroyed by fire.
IDEMONSTRATIVE APPRECIATION.
;HARLES MATHEWS, it appears, was wont to com-
#| plain of the undemonstrative habits of American
audiences, apropos of which fact Mrs. Fields tells a
characteristic anecdote. Her husband's acquaintance with
Mr. Charles Mathews must have begun with Mathews's first
visit to America, for he used to relate an anecdote of him long
before the visit of 1871. Mr. Fields had enjoyed Mathews's
playing sincerely; it seemed to him perfect of its kind.
“Mathews,” he exclaimed, when they met, “I enjoyed your per-
formance beyond expression l’” “Ah ! that is just it,” said
Mathews, “ you don’t express anything. How can your people
expect to get the best out of an actor, if they don’t Speak
or try to tell him so They will never know what we can do.
It is impossible to give one’s best under such circumstances.”
The elder Mathews was of the same opinion. At Plymouth,
during one of his entertainments, a gentleman close to him
presented such a melancholy face, that Mathews could not
stand it. Advancing to where the depressed one Sat, he
addressed him thus : “I beg your pardon, sir, but if you don’t
laugh I cannot go on.” This was received by the audience with
such roars, that the unconsciously offending gentleman through-
out the rest of the evening laughed louder than anybody else.
Liston found applause of whatever kind so absolutely
necessary to him, that he declared he liked to see even a small
dog wag his tail in approbation of his exertions. The play-
goers of York were at one time so lukewarm in their reception
of popular players that, at the instance of Woodward, Tate
Wilkinson, the manager, called on the chief patrons of the
theatre, and informed them that the actor was so mortified by

7A/EA T/º/CA/C AAVEC/DO 7"A.S. 287
their coolness that he could not play nearly so well in York
as in London, Edinburgh, or Dublin. The York audience
benefited by the remonstrance, and on Woodward's next
appearance, greatly to his delight, awarded him extraordinary
applause. -
THE TWO QUEENS.
ºRS. PORTER, a celebrated actress in the time of Colley
§§§ Cibber, was one night performing Queen Elizabeth
in the tragedy of The AEarl of Æssex, before Queen
Anne. The queen happening to drop her fan on the stage,
Mrs. Porter, with great dignity, and in the full spirit of the
character she was representing, immediately addressed one of
the performers, and with a majestic air, said, “Take up our
sister's fan.” The audience received this sally with great
applause, and the queen affably smiled ; but the actress, the
moment she had uttered the words, was ready to sink with
confusion.
FOOTE'S IMPERTINENCIES,
# OOTE had little regard for the feelings of others; he
i spared neither friend nor foe. If he thought of a witty
thing that would create laughter, he said or did it. Once
he met by accident an inferior person in the street very like Dr.
Arne, the celebrated musical composer, who when full dressed
was sometimes rather a grotesque figure. Foote contrived not
only to obtain some old clothes of the doctor’s, but likewise One
of his cast-off wigs, and introduced the man on the stage to
bring in music books, as an attendant on the commissary.
The house was all astonishment, and many began even to doubt
of the absolute identity. The doctor, of course, was horribly
annoyed ; but Foote made money by his impertinency, which
was all he cared for. Soon after he proceeded so far as to


288 THEATRICAZ ANECDOTES.
order wooden figures to be made for a puppet show, of which
Dr. Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith were to be the leading
characters. Goldsmith affected to laugh, though he was known
to speak seriously about the matter to his friends. But the
great leviathan of literature was so incensed at the report, as
to purchase an immense oak cudgel, which he carried with him
to the shop of Tom Davies the bookseller, where Foote
frequently called, and being there asked for what purpose it was
intended, he sternly replied, “ For the castigation of vice upon
the stage.” This threat having been immediately conveyed to
Foote, as it was meant to be, the comedian, it is stated, was
really intimidated, and the scheme as to them was given up,
though other well-known characters continued to be victimized.
SECOND NATURE.
§ HE gods do not bestow such a face as Mrs. Siddons's on
§ the stage more than once in a century,” says Sydney
Smith. “I knew her well, and she had the good
taste to laugh at my jokes. She was an excellent person, but
she was not remarkable out of her profession, and never got out
of tragedy even in common life. She used to staff her potatoes;
and said, ‘Boy, give me a knife l’ as she would have said on
the stage, ‘Give me the dagger l’ Many pleasant stories were
current at the time about Mrs. Siddons's stately fashion and
tragic tone, heard in shops and at dinner-tables. Such was her
question to the draper : ‘Will it wash P’ as though she were
speaking to Macbeth about the dreadful bloodstains; her blank
verse to the Scotch provost, ‘Beef cannot be too salt for me, my
lord ' ' and to an attendant at the dinner-table, ‘I asked for
porter, boy, and you brought me beer.’” -

THEATRICAI. A NECDOTES, 289
A SHAKESPEARE AN ECD OTE,
#|HE following anecdote concerning Shakespeare occurs in
Harleian MS. 5353, a diary, under date March 13, 16OI :
—“Upon a time when Burbadge played Richard III.,
there was a citizen grew so far in liking with him, that before
she went from the play she appointed him to come that evening
unto her, by the name of Richard III. Shakespeare, overhear-
ing their conclusion, went before, and was entertained before
Burbadge came. The message being brought that Richard III.
was at the door, Shakespeare caused answer to be made, that
William the Conqueror was before Richard III.” It was not
uncommon at that time for ladies of a certain class to go and Sup
with the actors. Thus, in Middleton's Mad World, my Masters
(Act. v. sc. 2), the city madam tells Sir Bounteous, “O’ my troth,
an I were not married, I could find in my heart to fall in love
with that player, now, and send for him to a supper.”
CHILD’S PLAY.
žº RIGINALLY there was a child's character in the play of
§§§ O/ºver Twist, that of Little Dick, the sickly pauper-boy,
who takes a tearful farewell of Oliver when the latter
runs away from the baby farmer. Some thirty years ago, when
the play was acted at the Green Street Theatre, Albany, U.S.,
Howard, the manager, dressed his little daughter Cordelia,
four years old, as Dick, and placed her as a “dummy” behind
the paling for Oliver to talk to. But when, at the rehearsal, the
mother, who impersonated Oliver, went through the Scene, the
little thing responded just in the proper place, “Good-bye ; come
again.” The parents thereupon thought they would teach her
the proper lines, which was done accordingly. Night came,
the baby’s chubby face was skilfully painted to represent con-
sumption, and, duly clad in her brother's suit, with a Small Spade
U



290 TAZAZA 7TA’ſCA1/, AAVAEC/DO ZTE.S.
in her hand, she made her appearance on the stage. On came
the fugitive Oliver, while Cordelia, according to direction, dug
vigorously at the pile of earth dumped in a corner. “I’m
running away, Dick,” said Oliver. “Lunning away, is you?”
replied the little thing ; then, with a full perception of the
character, but with the most self-possessed oblivion of the written
words, the child gave in her own language the sense of the
scene. “I’ll come back and see you some day, Dick,” said
Oliver. “It yon’t be no use, Olly dear,” sobbed the baby actress.
“When oo tum back, I yon’t be digging 'ittle graves; I'll be all
dead an’ in a ’ittle grave by myself.” This in a voice trembling
with feigned emotion, yet clear as a bell, and distinctly heard by
every person in the building. Actors and actresses were alike
affected; Oliver broke down, naturally enough, but Cordelia's re-
putation and her parents’ fortunes were made from that very night,
FRIENDLY ADVICE.
FºllAUBOURG, who was remarkably ugly, performed the
Éll title rôle in Racine's Mithridate. When Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur, in the character of Monimia, addressed to
him the words “My lord, you changed countenance,” a
pitiless wag in the pit exclaimed, “Let him, let him he can’t
change for the worse.”
AN INTERPOLATION.
ãTEPHEN KEMBLE had none of the stateliness of his
§º more famous brother John ; on the contrary, he was
distinguished by a certain pleasant eccentricity. At the
Dublin Theatre one night, when he was playing Shylock, he was
put out by the constant interruptions of a drunken man in the
gallery. He silenced him at last by a ready interpolation.
“ Until thou canst rail the seal off this bond, thou, and that
moisy fellow 7% there, but offend'st thy lungs.” This funny


7TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/. A WAEC/DO 7./2.S. 29I
rebuke so pleased the neighbours of the noisy individual, that
they contrived to keep him quiet for the rest of the night,
MANAGERIAL ELOQUENCE.
#|LLISTON was unhappily gifted with a turn for speech-
* | * * making, which led him, like so many of his brethren, to
turn the stage into a rostrum, from which he could
communicate his grievances and opinions to the public on every
occasion. His biographer, Raymond, has preserved many speci-
mens of his eloquence, among which the following is deliciously
“ Ellistonian.” One evening, too many persons having been
admitted to the gallery of the Surrey Theatre, over which he
then “reigned,” occasioned much altercation, and totally
prevented the performers from being heard. Elliston came
forward as usual, and thus addressed the audience : “Ladies
and gentlemen | I take the liberty of addressing you. It is of
rare occurrence that I deem it necessary to place myself in
juxtaposition with you. (Woise in the gallery.) When I said
juxtaposition, I meant vis-à-vis. (Increased moise.) When I
uttered the words vis-à-vis, I meant contactability. Now, let me
tell you that vis-à-vis—it is a French term—and contactability,
which is a truly English term, very nearly assimilate to each
other. (The disturbance above redoubled.) Gentlemen gentle-
men I am really ashamed of your conduct. It is unlike a
Surrey audience. Are you aware that I have in this establish-
ment most efficient peace-officers at my immediate disposal P
Peace-officers, gentlemen, mean persons necessary in time of
war. One word more. If that tall gentleman in the car-
penter's cap will sit down º-pointing to the pit—“the little girl
behind him, in red ribbons—you, my love, I mean—will be able
to see the entertainment.” This oration produced the desired
effect, and Elliston, after bowing most respectfully, as he always
did when he had made an impudent speech, retired to spend
his afternoon.

292 7///ZA 7/0/CA/. A WAECOO 7"A.S.
MATHEWS ON THE BENCH.
#|HE elder Mathews was one day standing among the
§§ crowd in a Court of Assize, where Judge Alan Park was
presiding. His lordship, perceiving the witty comedian,
sent a message down to him, requesting him to come and take
a seat on the bench. Mathews obeyed, and the judge was
courteously attentive to him. Not long after, Mathews was the
guest of his old friend Mr. Rolls, at whose house in Monmouth-
shire the judge had previously been staying. The actor asked
if his lordship had alluded to him. “Yes,” said Mr. Rolls, who
proceeded to relate how Judge Park had been startled at seeing
in court “a fellow ’’ who was in the habit of imitating on the stage
the voice and manners of the judges, adding that the presence
of Mathews so troubled him that he invited the mimic to sit
near him, and behaved so kindly that he hoped the actor, out of
simple gratitude, would not include him in his legal portraits in
comedy or farce.
THEATRICAL NURSERIES.
ăl T was formerly not uncommon to have plays acted by
§ children. In 1378, the children of St. Paul’s School
presented a petition to Richard II., praying him to
prohibit some inexpert persons from representing The History
of Zhe Old Testament, as the said children had been at great
expense in order to represent this play publicly at Christmas.
The children of St. Paul’s continued acting till some time prior
to 1591, when their performances, which took place in the sing-
ing-room, were suppressed. About 1600, however, they played
again, and in }ack Drum’s Enterfainment, published in 1601,
the following allusion to them occurs :—
“I saw the children of Powles last night,
And, troth, they pleased me pretty, pretty well.
The apes in time will do it handsomely,”
%


7A/FA TRICA / AAVECDOTES. 293
In 1603, the children of the chapel of Queen Elizabeth came
to the crown, and were then called Children of her Majesty’s
Revels. Order was given that they were to be brought up for
the purpose of exhibiting “plays and shows " before the queen,
and they were authorized to perform at Blackfriars or any other
convenient place. This infantine company performed many of
Lillo's, Shakespeare's, and Ben Jonson's plays, and there is no
doubt that they were that “eyry of children, little eyases that
cry out on the top of question ” mentioned in Hamlet, and of
whose popularity Shakespeare naturally complains.
In Charles II.'s time there seem to have been two distinct
seminaries where children were educated for the profession of
the stage. One of these stood in Golden Lane, Barbican,
and is described in Pennant's Mondon, as a row of low houses
of singular construction, and, according to the inscription under-
neath an old print in his possession, had been a nursery for the
children of Henry VIII. The same author states that this build-
ing was also used as a playhouse in the reign of Elizabeth and
James I. This establishment was ridiculed by Dryden in his
AZac F/ec/toe :
“Near there a Nursery erects its head,
Where queens are form'd and future heroes bred,
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy ;
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear.”
In the play of the Æehearsal, Bayes is made to declare that he
will only write for the Nursery, and “mump the proud players”
of the regular theatres. Langbaine, the critic, writing in the reign
of William III., also tells us that he had seen Chapman's Revenge
for Honour, acted many years ago at the Nursery, in Barbican.
The other Nursery stood in Hatton Garden. We learn from
the Shakespeare's Society’s papers that a patent was granted
by Charles II., on the 3rd of March, 1664, to Colonel William
294 THEATRICAL AMECDOTES.
Legge, groom of the bed-chamber, giving him the privilege of
instituting a Nursery for young actors, but no locality is fixed in
the instrument. Perhaps this was the Nursery mentioned by
Thomas Killigrew in his diary. -
Pepys occasionally mentions the Nursery, without specifying
either of these two establishments. On the 24th of February,
I668, the gossiping Clerk of the Acts writes: “To the Nursery,
where none of us ever were before. The house is better and the
music better than we looked for, and the acting not much worse,
because I expected as bad as could be ; and I was not much
mistaken, for it was so. Here was good company by us, who
did make mighty sport at the folly of the acting, which I could
not refrain from sometimes, though I was sorry for it.” They
paid two shillings each at the door, and the money-taker cheated
them with adroitness and coolness out of one shilling, Pepys
tells us with high glee. It may be added that Joe Haynes, the
famous comic actor, was originally a pupil of this establishment.
Pepys commends him as “a capital dancer and an understanding
fellow.” He was then of the king's playhouse.
The idea of a training school for young actors was Subse-
quently revived by Garrick, who organized an “infant school of
actors,” where children, from their earliest years, were to be
trained for the stage and instructed in the histrionic art. The
plan made some progress, if it was unattended by important
results. In December, 1756, Garrick produced at Drury Lane his
farce of Láſ/iffuſſ, founded upon the first book of Gulliver’s Travels.
“The piece,” says Murphy, “was acted by boys and girls, all
tutored by the manager, and the parents of not less than a
hundred were most liberally rewarded.” He adds that the
author had, further, a moral object in view : he hoped that “at
the sight of such diminutive creatures adopting the follies of real
life, the fashionable world would learn to lower their pride, and
the dignity of vice would be lost.” It is not to be believed,
however, that Garrick laid much stress upon the didactic quality
of the production, Zi//ºut was excellently represented by the
THEA TR/CA/. AAVECDOTES. 295
children, we are told, and was frequently repeated. Yet only two
of the young pupils of Garrick's seminary became afterwards
known to fame, and took rank among the mature members of the
company. Cautherley, whom the world considered a son of
Garrick's, acquired some favour at a later date, in George
Barnwell and suchlike parts; also Miss Jane Pope, whose suc-
cessful career upon the stage commenced thus early, and did not
terminate till the year 1808.
A CURIOUS TELIC.
ãRANCIS BLISSETT, the Bath actor, was quite an
eccentric, but his eccentricities.were harmless. William
Dimond and he originally tramped unto the city of Bath
together, and by the time they had reached it they were nearly
barefooted. When Dimond, in after days, had become the
director of the theatre, and Blissett himself was in prosperous
circumstances, the latter invited his manager to a little, enter-
tainment at his lodgings, and in the course of the evening
observed that this was the anniversary of their entering Bath
together. “And now, friend, I’ll introduce you to a couple of old
acquaintances.” Saying this, he produced a pair of old shoes,
literally worn through. “See, here they are,” cried he, “the
only friends I had at that time, save yourself. They bore me
Safely here, and I shall keep them till I die. I could almost
wish to be buried in those shoes.”
TOOTE'S SENTIMENT,
ººl F Foote ever had a serious regard for any one, it was for
§§ Holland; yet, after his friend's funeral, he violated all
decency concerning him. Holland was the son of a
loaker at Hampton, and on the stage was a close imitator of
Garrick, who had such a respect for him that he played “the
ghost” to his “Hamlet,” merely to serve him at his benefit.


296 THEA TRICA L AAVECDOTES.
Holland died rather young, and Foote attended as one of the
mourners. He was really grieved, and his eyes were swollen
with tears ; yet, when an acquaintance said to him in the
evening, “So, Foote, you have been attending the funeral of
your dear friend Holland?” the latter smilingly replied, “Yes,
we have shoved the little baker into his last oven.”
A D OUBTFUL COMPLIMENT.
§ R. TERNAN, a good actor and an estimable man about
§§§ half a century ago, on one occasion played Jaffir, in
the now shelved drama of Veznice Preserved, and also
a character in the pantômime on the same evening, in Some
town in the north. The next morning, as he was walking down
the High Street, he was accosted by one of the shopkeepers.
“Oh, Mr. Ternan, I was delighted with your play last night !”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Ternan, rubbing his
hands with Satisfaction. “And, pray, which portion did you
like best?” “Why, the way in which you swallowed that
bucket of water, and the manner in which you writhed and
wriggled when they pumped it up again from your stomach
couldn’t be equalled.” “There is a sort of compliment,” wrote
Douglas Jerrold in one of his comedies, “which comes upon a
Iman like a cannon-ball,” of which certainly this might be con-
sidered an example. It was an occurrence in the pantomime
the shopkeeper had most admired, not the character of Jaffir,
which was one of Ternan’s favourite parts.
<
THE VOICE OF MERCY.
; HARLOTTE CUSHMAN, the American actress, when
§ starring it in the old country, played for some nights in
Dublin. She gives some anecdotes about the Irish in
her Zife Zeffers and Memories, among which the following.
One night a sudden disturbance occurred among the gods, and


THEA 7/0/CA/C AAVAEC/DO 7/2.S. 297
could not be easily quieted. Of course the pit took the matter
in hand : much wit was bandied about, up and down, and, as in
old pagan times, a victim was demanded. “Throw him over !
throw him over !” resounded from all sides. Suddenly, in a lull
of the confusion, a delicate female voice was heard exclaiming,
in dulcet tones, “Oh no, don't throw him over; Kill him where
/he 25.”
INAT PROPRIATE.
§§OR the following Charles Dibdin is responsible. In his
| Complete History of the AEnglish Stage, he casts a
glance at the Sacred dramas anciently performed in
Spain, and remarks, “We have gone yet but a little way towards
this on our stage. In action we have, to be sure, now and then
introduced Noah's ark, Solomon’s Temple, Heaven, Hell, and
other similar objects ; and held up Moses, Aaron, and David as
freemasons. But in Our Oratorios we come on pretty well. The
Messia/, The Redemiſſion, and such familiar titles, by way of
companions to The Tarantula, and The Cabineſſ of Monkeys, are
sported against all the blind walls in town. I remember in one
of these sacred dramas, as they are facetiously called, which had
for its title The Ascenszoºn, that in the moment our Saviour is
supposed gradually to disappear, ‘to Soft music, the Orchestra
in a most lively style struck up ‘Deil take the Wars that
hurried Willy from me.’ This charming production was
performed but once.”
FOR THE MERIDIAN OF CAPPADO CIA,
;|HOMAS CORNEILLE'S drama Zaodicea did not
jº succeed so well as his former plays had done, at which
the author could not help expressing his astonishment.
“Why,” said he to a friend, “the scene lies in Cappadocia, and
I am sure I have pictured the manner of that people to the


298 THAEA TRICA V. AAVEC/DOTE.S.
life.” “That is the reason, perhaps,” replied the friend, “why
it is not relished in France. I’ll tell you what to do, Send it to
Cappadocia to be performed.” -
SLEEPING LIKE A HUMMING-TOP.
sº HEN Bath still basked in the noontide of fashion, a
A}| Captain Stanley was a constant visitor there. The
captain, from the rotundity of his figure and the roseate
blush of his nose, bore the convivial nickname of the “Bath
Bacchus.” He was a habitué of the theatre, but, however great
his gratification or sympathy, he could not at all times command
his senses, and would fall asleep—a fact which was soon
obvious to the whole of the audience, by the melody which the
captain performed with his nose. One evening, the play being
Shakespeare's Twelfth Might, when Orsino said—
“That strain again —it had a dying fall :
Oh, it came o'er my ear like the Sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets.”
the captain replied with such a shrill blast to this invitation
that he disconcerted the actor, and plunged the house in a
convulsion of merriment.
A SECONT)-HAND LEG OF MIUTTON.
|º] PILLER, passing one day through Rag Fair, a noted
㺠quarter for the sale of second-hand articles, cheapened
a leg of mutton, for which the butcher asked him two
shillings. “No,” said the comic, “I can’t afford to give you
two shillings for a second-hand leg of mutton, when I can buy a
new one in Clare market for half a crown.”


THAEA TRICA /. A WECDOTES. 299
THE LIGHT FANTASTIC TOE.
#|EGRAND PERROT was a celebrated dancer, who
§º figured for some time as ballet master in Covent
"Garden during the latter end of the last century. His
pride, presumption, and obstinacy were phenomenal. At a
ballet in Vienna he only chose to appear in the last act, and
when the emperor sent him a request to appear earlier in the
performance, he answered the aide-camp, “that men of talent
never made themselves too cheap.” The emperor instantly
left the theatre, followed by the court. Perrot, on being informed
of this, stepped forward and thus addressed his com/s-de-baſ/eff :
“My children, now we will dance for our own pleasure, not
for that of the emperor.” Strange as it may appear, the
emperor forgave the insult, and when Perrot's engagement
was finished, sent him a golden snuff-box, with his portrait
set in brilliants. Perrot was under the hands of his hair-
dresser when the present was delivered to him. He took it
in a careless manner, looked at it, then broke the glass over
the miniature with his thumb, and gave the box to his hair-
dresser, saying, “That is the way I dispose of baubles sent
to me by men I do not think worthy of my friendship.” The
moment after he was in his post-chaise, and was just able to
make his escape from the imperial dominions, being closely
pursued by a detachment of hussars sent in pursuit of the
insolent fugitive.
IILL TO PLEASE.
F. COOKE once playing Shylock when intoxicated
was much hissed ; two nights after, he was advertised
for Richard, but did not appear at all. On his next
performance, he was received with much disapprobation, when
he turned to Claremont, and said, “On Monday I was drunk,


3OO THEA. TR/CA / AAVEC/DOT/E.S.
but appeared, and they didn't like that. On Wednesday I
was drunk, so I didn't appear, and they don't like that. What
the devil would they have 2"
A LUCKY FALL.
†º URING George Colman the Elder's management, a
gallery visitor, in his eagerness to obtain a front seat,
fell into the pit. The poor fellow broke his leg, and
was conveyed instantly to a neighbouring surgeon's, when the
broken limb was set. Colman humanely supported him during
his illness, and, when recovered, sent him a small present. The
man waited on the manager to express his gratitude. Colman
received him with great good nature, and presented him with
a free ticket for life to the pit, saying, “I give you this, on
condition that you promise never to enter the pit again in the
Same manner as you did the last time.”
THE SORROWS OF A MANAGER.
§ HE fag end of the season of a metropolitan theatre is
# not the most pleasing period of the year for a manager.
Ducrow once from the bottom of his wounded heart
gave the following graphic discription of it, which for choice,
high-coloured language equals Zola :—“I don’t know how you
find it,” he complained to a brother manager, “but as soon
as I once announce the last few nights of the season, the beggars
begin to show their hairs. I went into the theatre th' other
night, and seeing a prime little roasting pig on a nice white
napkin in the hall, I told 'em to take it up to Mrs. D.
The fellow said it warn’t for me—’twas for Mr. Roberts, who's
the chap as orders the corn, and I’m the chap as pays for it ;
so he gets the pig, and I don’t. Then those — carpenters sneak
in of a morning, with their hands in their breeches pockets,
doubled up as if they had got the cholera ; and at night they


7A/AFA 7TR/CA/. A WAEC/DOTAE.S. 3OI
march out as upright as grenadiers, 'cause every one on 'em
has got a deal plank at his back, up his coat. Then the
Supernumeraries carry out each a lump of coal in his hat, and,
going round the corner, club their priggings together, and make
the best part of a chaldron of it. As to the riders, they come
into rehearsal gallows-grand, 'cause they have had all the
SČ2.SO1]. 2. precious deal better salary than they were worth ;
and at night they come in gallows-drunk, from having had a
good dinner for once in their lives, and, forgetting that they
may want to come back another year, they are as saucy
as a bit of Billingsgate.”
WHO SHOT COCK ROBIN ?
HUMOROUS circumstance was connected with one
of the first representations of Guillaume Te// at
Drury Lane. During the rehearsals, Braham proved
so indifferent a toxophilite in the celebrated trial to which Tell
is subjected, that at the representation the arrow had to be
discharged by a skilful hand behind the scenes, Braham
covering the party, and receiving the approbation due to
another. On one occasion the shaft accidentally missed the
apple, and Braham, finding the audience disposed to a titter,
threw them in a loud roar by advancing to the foot-lights and
saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, it wasn’t I who shot at the
apple.”
AN EXPEDITIOUS PLAYWRIGHT,
ă O dramatist, certainly, has ever produced so many
# theatrical pieces of one kind and another as Lopez
de Vega. His dramatic works form twenty-six volumes,
exclusive of four hundred religious plays. What is still more
surprising, we have his own authority for the fact that his
printed works formed the least part of his productions. Accord-


3O2 TA/FA 7TA’/CA 7. AAVAEC/DOTES.
ing to accurate computation, this author is calculated to have
penned 22,316,000 verses, and so extraordinary was the quick-
ness of his fancy, that his usual time of writing a play was
twenty-four hours : some of his comedies he completed in less
than four hours. No wonder that he accumulated competence
by his pen, and was able to leave a sum of 150,000 ducats.
who's To Go?
ſº. T Sadlers Wells Theatre one evening during Mr. Phelps's
| management, the house was very full and very noisy,
and there was every appearance of the performance
going off in a dumb show. Just before the time for the curtain
to go up, there were loud cries from the gallery of “Phelps
Phelps ' " After a little delay, the green baize was drawn back,
and Mr. Phelps, dressed for his part, came forward. Advancing
to the foot-lights with folded arms, and looking up to the gallery
very firmly, he called out, “What is it you want P” “Too full
too full !” shouted a dozen voices. “Well,” answered Phelps,
“why don’t some of you go out P” This seemed to take the
gods by surprise, for there was no response. Mr. Phelps there-
upon retired, the curtain went up, and no more was heard of
“too full.”
MR. DIDIDI, ER'S SONG.
Nº|HEN Lord William Lennox was on his father's staff at
FA Wł Włº Quebec, amateur theatricals were got up in that
garrison, the play being Kennedy’s comedy of Æaising
Žhe Wºld. Lord William acted Jeremy Diddler, and in that
character was desirous of giving the Song of “My Beautiful
Maid,” which ought to be introduced at the opening scene of
the second act. Unfortunately, his lordship could not turn a
tune ; but one of the amateurs, Mr. Tolfrey, who acted Hard-
castle, was a splendid singer, and it was agreed that he should


THAEA 7TA’/CA/, A WAECDOT.E.S. 3O3
sing the Song in question. For this purpose, the Supper-table
was placed quite at the back of the stage, and Lord William’s
“double * was to sing through a slit made in the scenes behind
which he was standing. All went off well. Lord William
moved his mouth as if he was singing. He was rapturously
applauded, and even encored. Thinking that Jerry’s voice was
still in waiting, the company at the Supper-table joined, Saying,
“Bravo, Mr. Diddler pray sing that Song again.” Jeremy
bowed, placed himself in a singing attitude, and waited for the
first note ; but no notes were forthcoming. Mr. Tolfrey, after
finishing his song, had retired. Nothing was left for Jeremy
but to apologize to the audience. So, approaching the foot-lights,
he thanked the public for the applause, begging them to excuse
his not repeating the song, as he had “lost his voice,” and then
returned to his seat. Whilst he was still acknowledging the
“bravos,” he found to his surprise that his voice had returned.
Tolfrey had been summoned, and began the Song again.
Although a little flustered at this unexpected recovery, Lord
William soon gained his presence of mind, opened his mouth,
and successfully carried out the deception.
“A TIME FOR SORROW.”
iº RS. HANNAH BRAND, the eccentric actress, wrote
§§§ a tragedy, Agmunda, in 1794, which was acted the
last night of the season and condemned off hand. At
one of its rehearsals at the Haymarket Theatre, when she
acted the principal part, she made a pause of considerable
length. When the whole company was “in amazement lost,”
Hannah turned majestically round, and, in blank-verse tone,
observed to the prompter, “Observe, Mr. Warren, I have
stopped thus long that you may remember at night, all this
/ength of time I shall be weeping.”


3O4. THEA. Tſ’/CA/. A WAECDO 7"F.S.
QUAINT APPEAL.
àº; INTON, a musician belonging to the orchestra of
Covent Garden Theatre, was murdered in the begin-
ning of this century by footpads, who were afterwards
discovered and executed. A play was given for the benefit
of his widow and children, on which occasion the following
quaint appeal appeared in the Morning Herald, on the day
preceding the performance —
“THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.
“For the Beneft of Mrs. Zinſſon, etc.
“‘The widow,” said Charity, whispering me in the ear,
‘must have your mite. Wait upon her with a guinea, and
purchase a box-ticket.’
“‘You may have one for five shillings,' observed Avarice,
pulling me by the sleeve.
“My hand was in my pocket, and the guinea, which was
between Iny ſinger and thumb, slipped out.
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘she shall have my five shillings.”
“‘ Good heavens !’ exclaimed Justice, ‘what are you about?
Five shillings | If you pay but five shillings for going into
the theatre, then you get value received for your money.’
“‘And I shall owe him no thanks,’ added Charity, laying
her hand upon my heart, and leading me on the way to the
widow’s house.
“Taking the knocker in my left hand, my whole frame
trembled. Looking round, I saw Avarice turn the corner of
the street, and I found all the money in my pocket grasped in
my hand.
“‘Is your mother at home, my dear?” said I to a child, who
conducted me into a parlour.
“‘Yes,’ answered the infant; ‘ but my father has not been
at home for a great while. That is his harpsichord, and that
is his violin : he used to play on them for me.’

TAZAZA 7TA’/CA/C AAVEC/DOTE.S. 3O5
“‘Shall I play you a tune, my boy P’ said I. -
“‘No, sir,’ answered the boy, “my mother will not let them
be touched ; for since my father went abroad, music makes her
cry, and then we all cry.”
“I looked at the violin—it was unstrung.
“I touched the harpsichord—it was out of tune.
“Had the lyre of Orpheus sounded in my ear, it could
not have insinuated to my heart thrills of sensibility equal to
what I felt, -
“It was the spirit in unison with the flesh.
“‘I hear my mother on the stairs,’ said the boy.
“I shook him by the hand. ‘Give her this, my lad,” said I,
and left the house, -
“It rained. I called a coach, drove to a coffee-house, but,
not having a farthing in my pocket, borrowed a shilling at
the bar.”
SARAH BERN HARDT’S THOTO,
:ARAH BERNHARDT, suffering one day from what on
§º the Continent is called “the spleen,” attired herself in a
shroud, and, with her hair undone, laid down in her
famous coffin, an elegant piece of cabinet-work made of black
ebony, and comfortably padded with white satin. She closed
her eyes, opened her mouth, and requested an aristocratic friend
to play a Mäserere on the organ. Not content with this, she
caused a number of tapers to be lit, and sent for her bosom
friend, Louise Abbema. This celebrated artist was requested
to assume the garb of a nun, and to kneel beside the coffin as in
prayer, whilst in the background Sarah's servants were grouped,
Some praying, others in attitudes of despair. Liebert, the
photographer, was then ordered to call with his apparatus, and
to take a photograph of the scene, which was so ghastly that
when young Maurice, Sarah's son, happened to enter unex-
pectedly, he fell forthwith in a swoon. This anecdote is related
X

306 7 HEATRICAZ AAVECDOTES.
in one of the last numbers of the “Melee Mus?/ Zeitung,”
which paper vouches for the truth as derived from one of its
most trustworthy Paris correspondents,
UN CALLED FOR.
āşş URING forty years the sallies of Frédéric Lemaitre
lºi were a common topic of conversation in the caſts of
the Boulevard du Temple. Like many of his colleagues,
he had an insatiable Craving for applause. In 1847, at one of
the last representations of his famous Robert Macaire, contrary
to his expectation, he was not called before the curtain at the end
of the piece. Greatly disappointed, he ordered the curtain to be
drawn, and, after making his bow to the public, inquired if
M. Auguste was not there. M. Auguste did not answer,
and the audience looked astonished. “Is Mr. Antoine here,
perhaps ?” inquired the imperturbable comedian. Receiving no
answer, he continued, “Well, gentlemen, it is evident that I
have been imposed upon by the chief and the deputy chief
of the cſagite. I paid them forty francs this morning, to be
called before the curtain, and neither of them is here. You
See, gentlemen, I have been done.” Roars of laughter and a .
volley of applause rewarded the actor for his impudence.
TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING.
sºl HEN Incledon was engaged at the Bath Theatre, he one
gº day went to Frome with some friends, where after a
merry dinner they went to the theatre, where they
pretty well filled the boxes. Recognizing some acquaintance
among the actors, Incledon went behind the scenes, and directly
after volunteered a song. This was a high treat to the pit and
gallery, but his friends in the boxes were bent on fun. They


7A/A. A 7TA’/CA1/, AAVAEC/DOT/E.S. 3O7
encored him twice, and brought him on the stage for the fourth
time. He now perceived their intention, and, making a low bow,
addressed them as follows:—“Gentlemen, I sang this song for
the first time to please my friends behind the scene, the second
to please the public, the third to please yourselves; but if I
sing it again, may I be——” stopping as if to meditate a terrific
oath. “What?” shouted a dozen voices. “Why, I’ll whisper
you, gentlemen, when I come round.” And with these words
he returned to the boxes.
A POCKETFUL OF WIT.
#OLMAN the elder and Harris had a quarrel at Covent
; Garden Theatre one day, when Billy Bates was
Standing by. Colman, disdaining a war of words,
walked out of the house ; and Harris, bouncing about the stage,
exclaimed, “A little impudent rascal I’d a good mind to
double him up and put him in my pocket.” “Then,” observed
Bates, “you’d have more wit in your pocket than you ever had
in your head, a great deal.” *
A PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY.
iº AAV/AVE, a comedy taken from Richardson’s “Pamela,”
£º was put upon the French stage by Voltaire, and was a
great success. The poet Piron pretended not to like it—
perhaps did not like it, for Heaven knows it is dull enough.
He told Voltaire so, who asked why he did not hiss it. “It
was impossible,” replied Piron ; “a man cannot hiss and yawn
at the same time.” - *


3O8 THEA TR/CA/L A1/WAEC/DOTES.
* -
ENGLISH PLAYERS IN PARIS,
HE first English dramatic company which appeared in
: Paris during the present century, was under the
Imanagement of Penley. They made their débazz on
July 30, 1822, at the Porte St. Martin Theatre, with Ożhe//o.
But the Parisian public at that time was as much excited
against the English, as the London public had been against
Some Supposed French, but in reality Swiss, dancers, who
appeared in a ballet entitled The Chinese Festival, in the reign
of George III. The interruptions, the jokes, the abuse levelled
at Barlow, an actor of considerable talent, completely stopped
the piece. The Moor was treated with greater indignity in
Paris than of yore in Venice ; he was obliged to address “the
In lost potent, grave, and reverend seigniors” in dumb show.
Towards the third act the noise became unbearable. Boxing
matches took place in various parts of the pit; the stage was
invaded, and the actors, unable to maintain the unequal conflict,
beat a retreat. It is surprising that a second attempt should
have been made, yet such was the case. The Schoo/ for
Scanda/, given on the following night, was not better received.
All sorts of projectiles—potatoes, eggs, coppers, and clay pipes—
were thrown at the unfortunate actors. Miss Gaskill was well-
nigh blinded by one of the weighty copper two-penny pieces
then in use, thrown at her by a gallant Gaul with such force
that she fainted. A squad of gendarmes was then drawn up on
the stage. They were assailed with broken seats and benchcs,
whilst a man took a drum from the orchestra and beat the
charge. The audience prepared to storm the stage, when the
officer commanded his men to prime and load, threatening to
fire should the tumult continue. This brought the rioters to
their senses, but the play was discontinued, and the company
left the unhospitable capital of civilization.
Five years elapsed before another English company ventured

7THAEA 7TA’/CA/. AAVEC/DOT/2.S. 3O9
across the Channel to try its fortunes. It was under the
management of Abbott, and comprised some of the greatest
actors of the day—Charles Kemble, Edmund Kean, and
Macready. Among the actresses were the beautiful Harriet
Smithson, who eventually became the wife of Hector Berlioz,
the celebrated composer, and Maria Foote. This lady, who in
London was little appreciated, and, on account of her Irish
accent, generally condemned to “walking ladies,” became after
crossing the water at once a star of the first magnitude. They
performed at the Salle Favart. Among the plays acted were
The ſºva/s, Fortune's Frolics, She Stoofs to Congzzer, and Zove,
Mazw, and Physic. In October, 1827, this company acted at the
Odeon Macbeth, Vane Shore, and The Stranger. Their last night
was July 25, 1828. The elder Dumas records the immense im-
pression made on him by this first sight of real passions, moving
men of flesh and blood. It opened beyond him new ranges of
vision, and contributed in a great measure to the triumph of the
new romantic over the old unreal, pedantic, classic School of
drama. -
The third English company visited Paris in 1846, but it was
not more successful than the one which went over during the
Exhibition of 1855. Charles Mathews made two appearances in
the French capital. He went over in 1863, and acted at the
Variétés in Z'Azeglais Tºmide, a French play adapted by himself
from Cooſ as a Cazczężſzóer. His success was so great that he
returned two years later to play /. Home/ne Blasé, taken from
Used Už. Four years later, in August, 1867, Mr. Sothern, as
Lord Dundreary, drew fair houses for twenty consecutive nights
in the same theatre.
GARRICK EXTINGUISHED.
ź.ARRICK was once on a visit at Mr. Rigby’s seat, Mistley
ºº: Hall, Essex, when Dr. Gough formed one of the party.
Observing the potent appetite of the learned doctor,
Garrick indulged in some unbecoming jests on the Occasion, to

3IO 7A/FA 7TW/CA/. A WAEC/DO 7/.S.
the great amusement of some of the company. When the laugh
had subsided, the butt of Garrick's wit thus addressed the
party : “Gentlemen, you must doubtless suppose, from the
extreme familiarity with which Mr. Garrick thought fit to treat
me, that I am an acquaintance of his ; but I can assure you
that, till I met him here, I never saw him but once before, and
then I paid five shillings for the sight.” No more jokes from
Mr. Garrick that night,
A COLLISION WITH A COMET,
ſº ISS SARAH BOOTH, the golden-haired beauty (she
§§§ wore a wig), rehearsing Priscilla Tomboy to Mr. Heath-
Cote, a provincial actor and play-writer, took great pains
to instruct him in the business and tricks she intended to
introduce. When she had concluded, Heathcote calmly said,
“Miss Booth, I feel much obliged by the trouble you have taken,
but I am sure I shall not be able to remember above half what
you’ve told me.” Once more with exemplary patience the star
repeated the sitting on the chairs, the making of cat’s cradles,
etc., but at night poor Heathcote forgot it all. Either to fill up
the scene or from the influence of anger, Miss Booth gave the
forgetful actor a sounding box on the ear. “These London
actresses won’t do for me,” subsequently remarked Heathcote.
“I may be stage-struck or moon-struck, but I’ll never be $7ar-
struck again.”
AN UN EXPECTED ARRIVAL,
gººd N Friday, December 24, 1814, The Stranger was per-
§§§ formed for the benefit of Charles Kemble. During the
fourth act, Mrs. Cruse, who performed Mrs. Haller,
appeared much agitated. The audience attributed it to the
pathetic nature of the character, and applauded her highly.
When, however, the bell rang for the fifth act, they were


7TA/AEA 7T/º/CA/C A/VAZCZOO 7TES. 3 II
informed that Mrs. Cruse was very seriously indisposed, and the
Character was finished by another actress. In the interim,
Mrs. Cruse was delivered of a child in the ladies' dressing-room,
Only the night before, she had played Juliet.
THE TEMPTER.
ãºly LEY relates, in his voluminous Memoirs of a Strolling
Actor, that as manager Hall was strutting one night at
Taunton through the part of Castalio, an apple-woman
happened to come to the theatre for the first time of her life to
hawk her wares. One of the company, Jonathan Davis, a wag,
directed her attention to the unfortunate manager, “who, he
was sure,” he said, “wanted some fruit, and was at that moment
beckoning her to him.” The apple-woman readily believed it,
and just as Castalio was closing his grand Soliloquy about the
fall of mankind—
“To his temptations lewdly she inclin'd,
And for a paltry apple. . . .”
she walked on the stage, and, dropping a curtsey, said, “Do you
want any apples, sir?” The disconcerted manager ran off,
threatening vengeance; but the audience derived more amuse-
ment from this ludicrous circumstance than any acting could
have afforded.
A GERMAN DESIDEMIONA.
jºN one occasion Edwin Forrest was playing an engage-
Śēji ment out West. The company was limited in numbers,
and the leading actress, a lady of German extraction, had
In Ot as yet entirely mastered the English language ; nor had she
the least idea of the characters, particularly those of Shakespeare,
in which she appeared. On the occasion of Forrest's playing
Othello, this lady, of course, took Desdemona. Forrest’s descrip-
tion of this performance, as frequently told when he was “in the


3 I2 THEA TR/CAI, AAVECDOTES.
humour,” was rich beyond expression, exaggerated to a certain
extent, yet, he said, the main features were strictly true. In the
scene where she is called upon to corroborate Othello's story of
love, and his whole course of wooing, when the father says—
“Come hither, gentle mistress.
Do you perceive in all this noble company
Where most you owe obedience?”
she interpreted Shakespeare thus :
“My noble fader, I do see here many peoples:
You are my fader, I owe you much duty,
Mine life, and education, and all dese things.
But dare is mine husband, dat black man ;
I likes him de most, I prefers him to all de time. Ha! hal"
So saying, she made a rush at the Moor, and nearly upset him ;
she clung to him, uttering “ha 1 ha / " The audience was
delighted, for the actress was a great favourite,
A REFRACTORY AUDIENCE.
RāN the 12th of April, 1819, the tragedy The Italians, by
# Charles Bucke—a piece damned off hand on the first
night—was placed upon the boards for the second and
last time. The galleries were all but deserted, the boxes and
dress-circle in as sorry a condition, and the pit about half-full of
people, who appeared to have come to enjoy an anticipated
“row.” The management, dispirited by the inauspicious aspect
of affairs, brought the play to an abrupt termination with the
third act. The groundlings declared that, having paid their
money, they were determined to see the piece throughout.
Thereupon Stephen Kemble released the hose from its privacy,
carried it up into the gallery, and deluged the refractory play-
goers with copious streams of water. Another moment, and a
number of umbrellas were put up by way of protection, and the
picture presented by the rushing water, the flapping umbrellas,
and the noisy cries and gesticulations of the audience was most

THAEA 7TA’/CA/. AAVAEC/DO 7 A.S. 3I 3.
comical. More reasonable means eventually prevailed, and the
Solitary and dripping few turned their backs to the stage,
.* TIME OUT OF JOINT,”
#Tº HE naif anachronisms of the old plays are sometimes
A tº ºr ºf a most amusing. In Candlemas Day, or, The K7///mg of
the Children of Israel, written in 1512, the soldiers
swear by Mahound or Mahomet; Herod’s messenger is named
Watkin, and the knights are directed to walk about the stage,
while Mary and the Infant are conveyed into Eygpt. There is
another play treating the same subject, The Massacre of the
Aſo'y Innocents, which forms part of a sacred drama represented
by the English fathers at the famous Council of Constance, in
1417. . Here a buffoon of Herod's court is introduced, who
desires of his lord to be dubbed a knight, that he may be
qualified “to go on the adventure” of killing the children of
Bethlehem. This tragical business was represented on the
stage. The good women of Bethlehem gave the knight-errant
a warm reception with their distaffs, which they broke over his
head, called him a coward and a disgrace to chivalry, and Sent
him home to Herod with much ignominy.
WONDERFUL TRANSFORMATIONS.
º;OWARDS the end of the seventeenth century, an English
ºjº traveller and critic witnessed some transformations on
the stage in Italy, which showed an ingenuity and
magnificence which our most gorgeous performances have
never surpassed, even in the present day. In his comparison
between the French and Italian music, he relates that at the
Teatro Capranica, in Rome, there was the ghost of a woman
surrounded by guards. This phantom, extending her arms and
unfolding her clothes, was, with one motion, transformed into a
perfect palace, with its front, its wings, body, and courtyard.


3I4. 7A//5A 7T/º/CA/, A WAEC/DO TAES,
The guards, striking their halberts on the stage, were immedi-
ately turned into so many waterworks, cascades, and trees, that
formed a charming garden before the palace. At the same
theatre was given the interior of hell, in the opera of Werone
Zºſamfe. Here part of the stage opened, and discovered a
Scene underneath representing several caves full of infernal
Spirits, that flew about, discharging fire and Smoke ; on another
side, the river of Lethe and Charon’s boat. On the shore of
this river a prodigious monster appeared, whose mouth, opening
to the great horror of the spectators, covered the front wings
of the remaining part of the stage. Within his jaws was dis-
Covered a throne of fire on which Pluto sat, surrounded by
a multitude of snakes. After a while the monster expanding its
wings, began to move slowly towards the audience. Under its
body appeared a great multitude of devils, who formed them-
selves into a ballet, and, their dancing finished, disappeared
one after the other into the floor. All at once the gigantic
monster was transformed into an innumerable quantity of large
white butterflies, which flew all over the pit, so low that some of
them touched the hats of the spectators, till at length they dis-
appeared. During this occurrence, which sufficiently employed
the eyes of the spectators, the stage was refitted, and the Scene
changed into a beautiful garden, with which the third act
commenced. We do not wonder, when the author adds that
“ numbers of strangers came from a distance to see this per-
formance.”
A SENSATIONAL PIECE.
Fºl EORGE DUVAL relates, in his Souvenirs de la Terreur,
|: | that when Saint Fargeau, the Deputy, had been
murdered in January, 1793, a splendid funeral was
organized in honour of this victim of royalist vengeance, and his
daughter was adopted by the Convention. “Moreover, in order
to bestow every kind of homage on this martyr of liberty, a

7"HEA 7/2/CA/. A WAEC/DOTES. 3I5
ballad was composed, in which his assassination was sung to the
tune of the Canticle of St. Roch. The murder was also made
the subject of an opera represented on the stage of the Théâtre
Italien. There I had the pleasure of hearing the impersonator
of the victim warble songs, duets, and solos, the chorus being
formed by a score of assassins, whom the composer of this
comżcal opera had brought together to slay the theatrical
Deputy. Their costumes and faces were enough to make one
shudder,”
WITCHERY.
#º URING the production of Faust in the Albany Theatre,
#| U.S., in 1872, Lottie Angus, a very pretty super, had a
narrow escape. It was in the temptation Scene, where
a beautiful witch appears, clad in—well, there was a little gauze
floating about her person, and she had tiny rose-Satin slippers
on. This reminiscence of St. Anthony was attended with a
display of fireworks, and the diaphanous drapery of the fair
tempter caught fire. For a moment the audience were treated
to a sensation not on the bills, but the Faust of the evening was
equal to the situation, Comprehending the danger, with one
Sweep of his long arm he tore the burning drapery from the
frightened girl, and she sprang behind the scenes, apparently
unharmed and certainly—undressed. The next night she was
not so fortunate. Contrary to the order of the manager, fire-
works were again used. Her drapery again caught fire, and
this time it was said she was very severely burned.
RIVAL THUNDER,
sº HILST KEAN was manager of the Princess's, Mr.
tº Boucicault produced a drama entitled The Vampire.
The opening scene represented the highest regions of
the Alps by moonlight, whilst a storm of thunder and lightning


316 .7///EA 7TA’/CA/C AAVAEC/DOTAE.S.
was raging. The Vampire (Boucicault) was seen lying dead on a
mountain-peak, and as the ray of the moon touches his body he
returns to life. The thunder-claps were produced at given
signals by the carpenter up in the flies. One night in the height
of the Season, a tremendous clap startled the audience, and
interrupted the Vampire in the middle of a speech. “Very well,
Mr. Davids,” said he, looking up at the flies, in a voice to be
heard by the thunderer, but not by the audience ; “ you are
making more mistakes. That clap of thunder came in the
wrong place.” Davids, bawling to the monster, replied, “No
fault of mine, sir ; it wasn’t my thunder. Thunder’s real out of
doors; perhaps you can stop it there.”
RESERVED SEATS.
#. ESERVED seats were unknown till 1829. Up to the end
§§§ of the eighteenth century, people who wished to secure
a good place had no alternative but to come hours before
the play commenced, or to send somebody to take a seat for
them, and keep it by the simple but effectual plan of sitting in
it. This primitive custom was, no doubt, of old standing. It is .
alluded to by Pepys who occasionally used to engage a street
boy to occupy a seat for him till he came. But families who
were in possession of livery servants sent these in order to secure
places. In the prologue to Cartell's tragic-comedy of Arviragus,
1672, Dryden writes, begging the public to support rather the
English than the French performers, who were then visiting
London—
“And therefore, messieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacqueys early to preserve your place.”
In 1732, when Covent Garden opened, the bill set out—“All
persons who want places are desired to send to the stage-door
(the passage from Bow Street leading to it), where attendance
will be given, and places kept for the following nights as usual.”

THEAT/C/CA / 21 NFC/DOTES. 317
Here was improvement. Seats could be taken beforehand ;
but when once taken, had to be occupied from the commencement
of the play. This little suited the taste of the leaders of fashion,
for it was “ton” to come late and enter the house with consider-
able bustle and noise. In Fielding's farce, Miss Zucy in Town,
I742, when the country-bred lady inquires of Mrs. Tawdrey
about the manners of the fine London ladies at the playhouse,
she is answered, “Why, if they can they take a stage-box
where they let the footman sit for the first two acts, to show his
livery.” So it continued in Garrick's time, when the following
advertisement appeared at the bottom of each playbill on any
benefit of consequence :—“Part of the pit will be railed into the
boxes, and, for the better accommodation of the ladies, the stage
will be formed into an amphitheatre where servants will be
allowed to keep places.” And when, in 1744, Garrick took his
benefit at Drury Lane, the play, Hayeſei, was to begin at six,
and in the bills of the day ladies were requested “to send
their servants by three o'clocá.
Such a practice would now be considered an intolerable
nuisance ; but people in those days were less squeamish, and
appear to have thought nothing of sitting for an act or two cheek
by jowl with a lacquey, or even with a street Arab such as
Pepys was wont to recruit for the purpose. And the conduct of
these “placemen " appears frequently to have been most
objectionable. In the Weekly Register for March 25, 1732, it
is remarked, “The theatre should be esteemed the centre
of politeness and good manners, yet numbers of footmen every
evening loll over the boxes, while they keep places for their
masters, with their hats on, play over their airs, take snuff, laugh
aloud, adjust their cock's-combs, or hold dialogues with their
brethren from one side of the house to the other.”
“Placekeepers,” however, could not assert the right to a seat
for their employers beyond the end of the first act. If by that
time the rightful owner for the night had not made his appear-
ance, the proxy had to evacuate the seat, and make room for
3.18 7TAZAZ Al ZT/C/CA/C AAVEC/DO ZTAZ.S.
his betters. Hence curious mistakes sometimes arose. Angelo
relates, in his ſeeminiscences, how the Duke of Norfolk Onc
night went to Drury Lane Theatre, accompanied by the editor of
a certain paper, and took seats in the front rows of the boxes.
Neither having what Angelo calls “the exterior garb of people
of condition,” a gentleman behind at the commencement of the
second act, tapped the duke on the shoulder, and told him that
it was time to decamp, he being desirous of having the front
Seat. º
Towards the end of the last century seats could be booked
beforehand, but still on condition of occupation before the end
of the first act, after which the right was forfeited. An amusing
instance of the difficulties playgoers had to face in those days
is told, by Miss Seward, who, wishing to hear Mrs. Siddons, in
1782, could not get seats : “A gentleman of Mr. Barugh's train
accidentally popped us, before the play began, into places a man
was keeping in the fifth row of the front boxes, on our promise
of retiring if they were claimed before the first act was over,
after which we should, by the rule of the house, have a right to
keep them. Our stars fought for us, the act was over, the box-
keeper retired with a shilling reward for not bustling us, and in
a second the people who had taken the places claimed them.
Vain was their claim ; our beaux asserted our right to keep
them, and keep them we did.”
LEAR’S MOP-ING.
§§T one time Macready opened at Nottingham with Áºng
Mear. The property-man received his plot for the play
in the usual manner, a map—perhaps rather anachronis-
tically—being required among the many articles for Lear to
divide his kingdom by. The property-man, whose education
had been somewhat neglected, read /loff for ſnaff. At the
proper time, Macready, in full state on his throne, calls for his
map, when a “super” noble gravely entered and, kneeling down,

T}//EA 7TA’/CA/L AAVAEC/OO 7TE.S. 3 IQ
presented the aged king with a bran-new white Curly mop.
The astounded tragedian rushed off the stage, under immense
laughter, dragging the unfortunate nobleman and his mop with
him, whilst actors and audience were wild with delight.
THE PANTOMIME AT THE ANTIPODES.
ºOME years since, during the run of the pantomime at the
} Theatre Royal, Melbourne, the clown, a native of
Victoria, took his benefit. The public on this occasion
were regaled with a grand procession, in which the benéficiaire
was drawn across the stage “by a magnificent team ”—So Said
the advertisement—of twenty-four tom cats. The effect certainly
was comical, for one poor tom would pull one way, and one
another, and the triumphant march played by the orchestra was
almost drowned by the terrific caterwauling of the Thomas Cats.
A long rope had been fastened to the triumphal car, in which
the clown was seated ; to this rope the unfortunate cats were
attached, and the end of it carried to the other side of the stage.
Thus toms, car, and clown were hauled across, to the delight of
the laughter-Shrieking audience.
A SUCCESSFUL PLAY.
j|ELLOY'S mediocre drama, Ze Siège de Calais, had an
§§§ extraordinary success, owing to its being the first
purely historical French play. With great art and
management, the dramatist had contrived to make not only the
times which he pourtrayed resemble the times in which he
wrote, but the personages also were portraits of living celebrities.
The Marshal de Brissac was aimed at in one of the principal
characters of this piece, and was delighted with the distinction.
One evening, meeting Brizard, the actor who impersonated this
part, he exclaimed, “Brizard, if you should happen to be ill some
night, just make your comrades let me know, and I’ll play your


32O TATEA TRICA / AAVECDOTAE.S.
part.” Concerning this play, it may be added that during its
successful run De Belloy was almost nightly called before the
curtain, when the whole house received him with deafening cries
of “Long live the king and M. de Belloy.” The Siege of
Calais was performed in every town throughout France. The
inhabitants of Calais presented the author with a gold box, and
placed his portrait in the Hotel de Ville; the military voted him
their thanks, from the generals down to the rank and file; and
the celebrated Count d'Estaing caused the drama to be printed
at St. Domingo, and distributed gratis through all the French
West Indian Islands. Yet, after all these freaks of French
patriotism, this once famous play is now utterly forgotten and
sent to limbo.
VALUA13LE ASSISTANCE,
ſº NDREW JACKSON ALLEN, a subordinate actor who
i travelled with Edwin Forrest on his professional tour as
his “costumer,” possessed a patent for the manufacture
of gold and silver leather, much used upon stage costume. On
one occasion, at some festival given to Forrest, Allen was present,
and becoming very loquacious, the great tragedian said, “Come,
come, Allen, you had better ge home and attend to your silver
leather.” At this remark “the great American costumer,” as he
styled himself, rose up indignant, and, banging his hat upon his
head, stammered out, “B–B–what ud your Bacbeth or Richard
be bidout by silber leather.” An impediment in Allen's speech,
and liis indignant manner, rendered this reply irresistible.
A LESSON,
; HE late Mr. Sothern, when starring in the country, was
§§§ invited by the officers of some garrison to dine at their
mess. After dinner, they requested that he should give
them his famous drunken scene from David Gazºzºicó. As they



THAEA TRICA / .4/VECOOTES. 32I
would accept no excuses, Sothern at last consented, and gave
the scene faithfully, at the same time conveying a well-deserved
lesson. At the close of the scene, the actor, according to stage
directions, on leaving drags down a curtain. On this occasion
Sothern, affecting to be carried away by his impersonation,
caught hold of the tablecloth, and with one vigorous jerk swept
off plates, glasses, bottles, and decanters in one collective ruin.
“LARGE AS LIFE AND TWICE AS NATURAL.”
fºlloHNSTONE, the machinist, who flourished at Old Drury
ÉÉ in the reign of Sheridan, was celebrated for his superior
skill and taste in the construction of wickerwork lions,
pasteboard Swans, and all the sham birds and beasts appertaining
to a theatrical menagerie. He wished on a certain occasion to
spy the nakedness of the enemy's camp, and for that purpose
insinuated himself with a friend into the two-shilling gallery, to
witness the night rehearsal of a pantomime at Covent Garden.
Among the attractions of the Christmas foolery a real elephant
was introduced, making a prodigious figure in the procession.
“This is a bitter bad job for Old Drury,” said the friend. “Why,
the elephant's alive, he'll carry all before him, and beat you
hollow.” “N onsense,” replied Johnstone, in a tone of the
utmost contempt. “I should be very sorry if I couldn’t make a
much better elephant than that at any time.”
“BEAT THE IRON whilST IT IS HOT.”
ſºil WTOVV, one of the elder Dumas's earlier pieces, had a
| success which, to use a suggestive theatrical phrase,
“brought the house down.” The story, however, is
simply absurd. The author knew how audacious it was, and
how important to its success was the leaving as little time as
possible to the playgoer for sober second thought. At the first
performance, when the curtain fell on the fourth act, there was
Y


322 TAZAZA 7TR/CA / AAVECDOTES.
great enthusiasm. Dumas sprang upon the stage, and shouted
to the carpenters, “A hundred francs for you if you get the
curtain up before the applause ceases " By this presence of
mind, he succeeded in Springing his very ticklish fifth act upon
the audience while they were still excited over the fourth.
WHICH IS WHICH P
jº N actor of the name of Bass was the manager of a pro-
§ vincial theatre in England, on the boards of which
- Edmund Kean once appeared for a few nights.
During his brief engagement Othello was performed three or
four times, the part of the Moor and his ancient being alter-
nately taken by the great tragedian and the manager. One
evening they had been dining together, and the bottle had
been passed too freely. They got through the play, however,
without their condition being discovered by the audience, until
they came to the scene in the third act, in which Othello seizes
Iago by the throat, and delivers the speech beginning “Villain,
be sure thou prove,” etc. Kean, who on this occasion was the
Othello, as he spoke, grasped Iago so fiercely that, being some-
what unsteady on his legs, the ancient fell, dragging his dusky
chief down with him. This accident confused them both, and
when they regained their feet, Kean, instead of waiting for Bass
to continue the dialogue, himself uttered the exclamation, “Is
it come to this P’ which properly belongs to Iago. Bass, who
was “letter perfect” in either part, took the cue, and went on
with that of Othello. For a moment or two, the audience were
not a little puzzled by this interchange of characters; but as
soon as the real facts of the case dawned upon them, they
appreciated to the full the absurdity of the situation, and the
remainder of the scene—usually listened to in breathless silence
—was greeted with frequent peals of laughter. Both actors
were alike surprised and disgusted at the merriment they caused.
Kean, in particular, was in a towering rage. Anger in some

THEA. TRYCA/. A WEC/DO 7"E.S. 323
measure sobered him. Still, he had no suspicion of the blunder
he had been guilty of, and when he quitted the stage, he made
his way hastily to the greenroom. As he entered the apartment,
however, the reflection of his dark visage and Moorish garments
in a mirror Over the mantelpiece, caught his eye, and turning to
his fellow actor, he abruptly exclaimed, “By heaven, Bass, I’m
Othello 1 ° “Of course you are,” was the response. “Then why
the deuce did you assume my character P” was the angry query.
“Because you, in the first instance, took mine ; and, being as
drunk as you were, I simply followed your lead.” Kean was
about to make a furious rejoinder, when suddenly, the humorous
side of the incident striking him, the heavy frown which had
gathered on his brow relaxed, and bursting into a hearty fit of
laughter, he said, “Well, after all, I believe it was as much my
fault as yours. But I fancy we shall find the people in front in no
very appreciative temper during the remainder of the evening.”
In this, however, Kean was mistaken. When he next appeared
upon the stage, the magnificence of his acting—he being now
upon his mettle—quickly quelled all manifestations of merriment,
and during the remainder of the play he never once relaxed
his hold upon the audience.
I N D E X.
A.
Abitation, an, 252
About billsticking, 130
About pantomimes, 274
Absent on leave, 178
Acting off the stage, 28
Acting with spirit, 134
Actor and apothecary, 241
Actor and gentleman, 270
Actor hanged, an, 215
Adam and Eve, 202
Adjourned for a ballet, 2.13
Aiding and abetting suicide, 155
All the difference, 127
All truth need not be told, IoI
Altiloquence, 252
Amenity, 17
Ann Oldfield, 131
Another brother of Ophelia, 83
Anti-semitism of Charles Mathews, 96
Astronomical studies, 51
Author and manager, 207
Awful guests, 23
B.
Bad company, 203
Bad conscience, 192
Bannister's balconies, 32
Bartering seats, Io9
Bearded Polly, 176
Beat the iron whilst it is hot, 321
Beef and pickles, 62
Beggar's Opera, the, in French, 244
Biblical criticism, 24
Birds of a feather, 42
Bitter cup, the, 75
Black draught, a, 57
Black-eyed Susan, 264
Black or white, 186
Blind and seeing, 64
Blind performers, 86
Blisset's reading, 193
Bob Acres, a, 32
Borrowed lights, 165
Boy actresses, 34
Brutus's apostrophe, 28;
Buskin or sock, 183
By order, 176
C
Calls before the curtain, 28
Candid confession, 112
Canine sagacity, 254
Casuistry, 64
Catastrophe, a, 263.
Cautious approval, 196
Change of name, a, 46
Charles II.'s wig, 285
Chemical joke, a, 139
Child's play, 289
Christian duties, 204
Cibber's first appearance, 24o
City freedom, 276
Clergy and playhouse, 271
Clerical actor, a, 69
Cockbrained, 4
Collaboration, 165
Collision with a comet, 3ro
Comb, the, in the theatre, 278
Comedy, a, in Newgate, 84
Comical jury, a, 236
Comparisons, 26o
Comparisons are odious, Ioz
Composure, 224
Conjugal love, 184
Contractors for success, 272
Converted beau, a, 182
Cooke's impudence, 240
toe-bone, 59
Cook's revenge, a, 9
Coronet, the, among the actresses, Io9
Corºzas Delzcáz, the, 44
Court and courtesy, 119
Craniology, I
Criticism defeated, 58
Cruel hoax, 7
Crying and crying, 245
Curious relics, 295
Cursing dramas, 28
AVD Aº X. 325
D
Damning the public, 158
Day of rest, the, roo
Days and months, 264
Dead hero, a, 13
Dear departed, the, 114
Death of Molière, the, 15
Deathbed marriage, a, Ioč
Deaths on the stage, 198
TXeed of dreadful note, a, 126
Delicate hint, a, 187
Demonstrative appreciation, 286
Depth of consecration, the, 172
T)erogatory, 256
Diagnostics, 194
Diamond cuts diamond, 91
Dickens and the stage, 156
Dilatory author, 243
T)isinterested manager, a, 42
Doctor Kent, 133
Dogstar, the, 143
Double Desdemona, a, 46
T}ouble star, a, 8
Doubtful compliment, a, 296
Dress clothes indispensable, 98
Duet with a goat, a, 156
Dumas's ‘‘Kean,” 21
Dutch miracle play, a, 76
Dying gladiator, the, 225
E.
Eating on the stage, 16o
Eccentric actor, an, 257
— actress, an, 144
speech, an, 147
Echo in the pit, an, 221
Effrontery, 245
Ago et rex zazezes, 178
Emperor and the players, the, 25
Bzz attezzalazzè, 74
English players in Paris, 308
Enthusiastic playgoer, an, 81
Expeditious playwright, an, 301
Aºr exague leozzemz, 193,
Eye to business, an, 32
F
Face of thunder, a, 270
Falling star, a, 128
False alarm, a, 187
Family jars, .26o
Feeling z. study, 66
Female Bohemian, a, 4o
duellists, 138
First actresses, the, 77
— London theatre, the, 245
— play in America, 120
Follow your leader, 74
Fond wish, a, 184
Foote's impertinences, 287
— opinion on Garrick, 26
—— sentiment, 295
For the meridian of Cappadocia; 297
Fortunate poor, 142
Fourberies de Scaffin, les, 185
Friendly advice, 8
Frigid farces, 271
Fuel, 186
G
Gallows-builder, the, roë
Gammer Gurton's Needle, 190
Caping wonder, 161
Garrick extinguished, 309
Garrick's opinion of Birmingham, 52
Gentle reproof, 53
German Desdemona, a, 311
Ghastly drive, a, 124
— study, a, 137
Gifts the gods sent, 247
Glorious martyr, a, 5
God from the clouds, a, 25
Good reason, a, 276
Goose, 232
, or to call Azor, 162
Grandiloquence, 44
Great thirstland, the, 139
H
Hamlet in Hamburgh, 17
Handsome offer, a, 197
Hard work, 91
Harmless weapon, a, 34
Head and Foote, 86
Heart(h)less joke, 93
He would be an actor,
[not] if he could, 18
Hero worship, 242
Highhanded disapproval, I51
Highway woman, a, 6
His dying speech; 161
favourite song, 53
— last joke, 141
— Majesty’s servants, 24x
— weak point, 89
Home, sweet home, 49
Honey and wax, 99
How to get a play acted, 135
— —— prevent a panic, 16
I
Ill-behaved corpse, an, 19
Ill to please, 299
326
INDEX.
Illustrating a proverb, 67
Imprisonment with hard labour, 23
Improving Shakespeare, 2
the likeness, 45 -
Inappropriate, 297
In character, 40
Incledon's vamping, 146
Indefinitely postponed, 165
Insane Hamlet, an, 214
Ophelia, an, 54
Internal war in an elephant, 157
Interpolation, 290
Inzezz? Zorzzzzzz, 26o
Irish puſſing, 191
j
Judging by appearances, 195
Judgment of Paris, the, 54
Juliet's fall, 117
K.
Kean's effective acting, 68
– first appearance, 234
— villainy, 236
Keep to the last, 52
Eemble a comic, 214
Kemble’s solemnity, 56
Kind turn, a, 51
Know thyself, 76
Large as life, 321
Hear's moping, 318
Lemaître's freaks, 133
Tesser, the, of two evils, 261
Lesson, a, 320
Life-studies, 3o
Light fantastic toe, the, 299
Light or heavy, 243
Like cureth like, 31
Linked sweetness, 250
H_ion's share, the, 227
liston's puff, I41
Literary property, 149
Logical, 14o
Long journey, a, 182
Lost illusion, a, 152
Love and comedy, 63
Lovers of literature, 248
Love's labour (not) lost, 43
Ilove's last shift, 95
Hucky fall, a, 300
M
Macklin and Shuter, 191
Madame Catalani's apples, 13
Madame Celeste, 171
Making sure, 173
Managerial eloquence, 291
Marks of love, 171
Marriages made in heaven, 118
Mars and Napoleon, 59
Mathews and metal, 210
— on the bench, 292
Mathews's déðzzá, 204
Memory worn out, 179
Minute details, 229
Miseries, the, of a throne, 159
Misplaced pity, 88
Miss U1 uisli ess, 219
Modern Absalom, a, 5
— Diogenes, a, 61
Orpheus, a, 247
Momentous question, the, 122
Moonstruck, 98
Mr. Diddler's song, 302
Toole's gloves, 34
Murderous piece, à, 169
Music lesson, a, Io'ſ
My face is my fortune, 14
My lord mayor's ducks, 60
N
AWałzeté, 143
Napoleon disbanding his army, 87
National anthem, the, in Italian, 46
AWe touchez Żas & Åa reinze, 63
New ending to Hamlet, 255
reading, 267
— species of ratany, 124
way to pay old debts, 202
Next situation, her, Io
No accounting for tastes, 99
No deception, 18o
Nonplussed aide, a, 250
No seats, 152
— shamming, 167
Nothing like deather, 195
Not such fools, 82
Ç)
Obituary notice, 273
Obstinate admirer, an, 284
— cough, an, 249
— skeleton, an, 27
Oh, the woeing of it, 41
Oil on troubled waters, 168
Old heads and young hearts, 30
mortality, 283
Operation of a joke, the, 54
Opportune advice, I42
Origin of Paul Pry. I 53
Our mercurial neighbours, 7o
Out-heroding Herod, 275
ANADEX. 327
P
Painful coincidence, a, 122
Pantomime, the, at the Antipodes, 319
Parallel to a parable, a, 123
Parson’s nightcap, the, 174
Parsons’s fun, 262
Part for the whole, a, 62
Paternal pride, Ioo
Patience, I I
Patriotism, 161
Peace or war, 148
Peg Woffington's last appearance, 223
Perfervid admirer, a, Ior
Perseverance, 7
Personal, 17o
Perturbed ghost, a, 125
Phenomenon, a, 4o
Physical impossibility, a, 307
Place, a, in a box, 71
Play and earnest, 94
Playbill curiosities, 85
Pledge of friendship, a, 205
Pneumatics, 58
Pocketful, a, of wit, 307
Polite Tommy Hull, 20
to the end, 144
Popular mayor, a, 216
Potential authorship, 9
Premeditated jokes, t 54
Pretty compliment, a, 16
Probably not, 233
Professional beauty, a, 22
epitaph, a, 186
jealousy, roo
Prolific genius, 58 .
Prophecy, a, 49
Protest, a, 112
Provident manager, a, 237
Provost's intervention, the, for
Public discrimination, II3
P24/7 & la françazse, 15o
Puritanical herrings, go
Q
Quaint appeal, 304
Queen of fashion, a, IoA
Quin's apology, 32
Sarcasm, Io
R
Rather distrait, 96
Reactionary, 70
Reading made easy, 249
Realism, 27
Real tragedy, 284
Red Indian actor, a, 219
Refractory audience, a, 312
Reserved seats, 316
Restless zeal, 212
Resuscitation, 201
Retaliation, 247
A'ezeſzowes & Żeos 712ozeßozes, 174
Revival of Macbeth, 22I
Richelieu in a passion, 69
A ichesse oblige, 183
Rip van Winkle, 268
Rival thunder, 315
Roaring like a sucking dove, 8
Ruling passion, the, 189
S
Sainted actors, 230
Salts and senna, 188
Sarah Bernhardt's dresses, 212
—— —— first old woman, Io9
—— photo, 305
School for scandal, a, 137
Second-hand leg of mutton, a, 298
Second nature, 288
Sensational, 217
pleCe, a, 3I4
theatre, a, 33
Seriocomicality, 266
Shakespeare and the star-spangled
banner, 217
— anecdote, a, 289
on the bench, 232
Sheridan Knowles, 118
Sheridan's self-defence, 233
Short but Sweet, LL
Short part, a, 155
Shuter's impromptu, 226
Shylock's dog, 16
Signs of a brewing storm, 67
Single-part actors, 206
Sleeping like a humming-top, 298
partners, 196
Sliding scale, a, 82
Slippery customer, a, 184
Slips of the tongue, 120
Small audience, a, 136.
odds, 262
‘Snowbound eagle, a, 237
Sober reality, the, 231
Something in a name, 259
— — that, 205
Soporific, a, 151
Sorrows of a manager, the, 3oo
Sozz/e grasse, 55
Spare diet, Ioff
Stage and audience, 176
fevers, 206
oaths, 115
—— storm, a, 208
veteran, a, I5o
— whispers, 18
328
JAV/O E.X.
Stalls and pit, 2xo
Star-dust, 162
Star snuffed, a, 167
Statue of Pygmalion, the, 129
Storm in a teacup, a, 39
Strength of imagination, the, 238
Strolling luminary, a, 115
Stuffed, 116
Successful gag, 29
— play, a, 319
Sudden call, a, 218
death, 56
forgetfulness, 13
Superfine bull, a, 21
Superior nonsense, 7o
Surgical operations, 256
Swearing on Shakespeare, 164
Sweet ducks, 31
Sword and gown, 181
Sword, the, in the play-house, 5o
T
Taken from life, 169
Taking it easy, 227
Talkative corpse, a, 276
Tempter, the, 311
Temulent play, a, 134
That’s the question, 235
Theatrical criticism, II.4
despatches, 256
legend, a, 191
— Mrs. Partington, Ir8
— nurseries, 292
— profits and expenses, 279
tomer de force, a, I49
Theatricals and gastronomy, 47
Thereby hangs a tail, 147
Thief-catcher, a, on the stage, 279
Thimble emeute, a 194
Think of my feelings, go
Though lost to sight, 158
Three commandments, 200
Tierce and carte, 177
Time for sorrow, a, 303
Timely rescue, Io9
Time out of joint, 313
Tit for tat, 7
Titillating dust, the, 65
Too literal, 68
Too much of a good thing, 307
outspoken, 231
— tootle, 188
To play and to be, 239
Traction and attraction, 3
Trade assistance, 235
Tragedy queen, a, 163
Tragic business, 229
Transitory glory, 93
Trifles thin as air, 12
Truthful acting, 242
Two accidents, 126
— Dromios, the, 159
gravediggers, the, 28o
— queens, the, 287
— Romeos, 122
U
Unasked supers, 44
Uncalled for, 306
Uncomfortable super, an, 253
Uncouth senator, an, 269
Unexpected admirer, an, 179
arrival, 3Io
Unhinged army, an, 278
Uninvited guest, an, 265
Unlicensed house, an, 4
Unsootable company, 92
Uphill work, 17o
Ursa Major, 89
Useful prompter, a, 249
Utility with a vengeance, 98
V
Vain devils, 223
Valuable assistance, 320
notes, 172
Wested right, a, 177
Viper, the, and the file, 48
Voice from the pit, a, 20
—, the, of mercy, 296
W
Waiting, 268
Walter Montgomery's death, 228
Wandering spirit, a, 222
War and song, IoS
Well-spread board, a, 146
When the wine is in, etc., 243
Who shot Cock Robin? 3or
Who's to go? 302
Wise as the serpent, ro2
Witchery, 315
Wonderful transformations, 313
Worst punishment, the, 93
Y
Yorick's skull, 234 .
Your money or your life, 97
Youth of a genius, the, 61
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