“Home?” An actress at home? Does it not seem strange to apply the dear old English noun, so redolent of peace, and quiet, and privacy, to the feverish life of a mummer? We go, night after night, to see our favourite players shining ‘mid the fierce glare of the footlights, watch them approvingly as they pass from role to role, and finally begin to believe, like the egotists we are, that they have no existence apart from the one we are pleased to applaud. What fools some of us must be to think there is never a time when the paint and powder, the tinsel and eternal artifice of the stage–yea, even our own condescending admiration–pall on the jaded spirits of the poor player.
“How sparklingly is Miss Smith acting Lady Teazle to-night!” we say, elegantly pressing our hands together in token of august favour. We are entranced, and it follows, therefore, that the actress must be entranced likewise. Mayhap Miss Smith does not share the same ecstacy; perhaps, as she stands behind the screen in Joseph Surface’s rooms, Sir Peter’s wife is wishing that the comedy were ended and she were comfortably ensconced in her cosy little lodgings round the corner. She pictures that crackling wood fire, and her old terrier basking in the gentle heat, and the tea-urn hissing near by (or is it a cold bottle of beer in the portable refrigerator?) and in the background sweet good Mr. Smith, who does nothing but spend his lady’s salary. In that temple of domesticity there are no thoughts of rouge, or paint-pots, or of Richard Brinsley Sheridan–it is merely home. Dost thou always hurry back to so attractive a one, thou patronising theatre-goer?
Our Nance had a home to which she was glad enough to hurry back, like the aforesaid Miss Smith, after the play was over at Drury Lane. There was no husband there to await her, but a very devoted knight in the person of Mr. Arthur Maynwaring, who, though he gave not his name nor the ceremony of bell, book, and candle to the union, played the part of spouse to the fair charmer. The town looked with good-natured tolerance on the moral code, or the want thereof, of the frail one, just as other towns, in later days, have looked with equal benevolence upon the peccadillos of some petted favourite. The times were not of the straightlaced order and no one expected from an actress wonders of chastity or conventionality. Are we ourselves exacting where the Thespian is concerned?
[Illustration: ANNE OLDFIELD
By JONATHAN RICHARDSON]
Fashion’d alike by Nature and by Art To please, engage, and interest ev’ry heart. In public life, by all who saw, approv’d; In private life, by all who knew her, lov’d.
“Even her amours,” says Chetwood in treating of Mistress Oldfield, “seemed to lose that glare which appears round the persons of the failing fair; neither was it ever known that she troubled the repose of any lady’s lawful claim; and was far more constant than millions in the conjugal noose.” Being thus acquitted of predatory designs upon the peace of English wives, and having the further virtue of constancy, a host of Londoners, men and women, high and low alike, gazed with charitable eyes upon Nance’s private life. And she, dear girl, sinned on joyously.
Mr. Maynwaring, who helped Oldfield to break the spirit of one commandment, was a brilliant figure in the reign of Queen Anne, albeit, like other brilliant figures of that period, he has passed into the darkness of oblivion. A clever dabbler in literature, an honest politician–a politician with scruples was as rare in those days as he is now–and a man of honour who could drink as much as his friends, the volatile Arthur was, perhaps, best known as the most attractive talker of the famous Kit-Cat Club. The Kit-Cat Club! What a wealth of anecdote doth its name conjure up to the student of the past! ‘Twas in this famous organisation that noblemen and wits met on common ground, drank many a toast to the House of Hanover or to some reigning belle of London town, and exercised a patronising censorship over the world of letters. They were “the patriots that saved Briton,” says Horace Walpole, in referring to their anti-Jacobitism, and yet the most of them are forgotten.
If tradition is to be believed (and what siren is more comfortable to hearken unto than tradition?) these self-same patriots took their name of “Kit-Cats” from prosaic mutton pies. ‘Twould be horrible to think on this gastronomic derivation of the title were we not to remember, quite fortunately, that geese saved classic Rome. Why, therefore, should not the preservers of perfidious Albion suggest the aroma of a lamb pasty?
It seems that the Club had its first headquarters in Shire Lane, near Temple Bar, at the establishment of Christopher Cat, a pastrycook who helped to enliven the inner man by delicious meat pies dubbed “Kit-Cats.” Hence the name of that notable coterie of Whigs which included Addison and Dick Steele, Congreve and His Grace of Devonshire.[A]
[Footnote A: Our modern celebrated clubs are founded upon eating and drinking, which are points wherein most men agree, and in which the learned and illiterate, the dull and the airy, the philosopher and the buffoon, can all of them bear a part. The Kit-Cat itself is said to have taken its original from a mutton pie. The Beef-Steak and October clubs are neither of them averse to eating and drinking, if we may form a judgment of them from their respective titles.–ADDISON in the _Spectator_.]
Maynwaring came of good English stock, and in early life showed the results of his relationship to the aristocratic house of Cholmondeley by supporting the lost cause of James II. So fervent an admirer was he of that apology for royalty that he took up the pen, if not the sword, in his behalf, and steeped the mightier weapon with satirical ink when he wrote a pamphlet entitled “The King of Hearts.” Rumour paid to the young author an unintentional compliment by insisting that the brochure came from the great Mr. Dryden, but that genius denied the soft impeachment while gracefully praising the unknown writer.
This pursuit of Jacobitism was varied by the study of law–a study “sometimes relieved with a temporary application to music and poetry”–and when the disconsolate Arthur had lost his father, and thereby gained 800 pounds a year, he drowned his sorrows by an almost exclusive devotion to “society and pleasantry.” We are told[A] that on the ratification of the Peace of Ryswick he went to Paris, where he was exceedingly well received in consequence of the numerous introductory letters which had been furnished him from various quarters. He there contracted an intimacy with Boileau,–
“Whose rash envy would allow
No strain that shamed his country’s creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth, monotony in wire.”
[Footnote A: “Memoirs of the Celebrated Persons comprising the Kit-Cat Club.”]
“The French poet invited Maynwaring to his country seat, where he behaved to him in a very hospitable manner, and frequently conversed with him respecting the merits of our English poets, of whom, however, he affected to know but little, and for whom he pretended to care still less. Monsieur de la Fontaine was also at times one of their company, and always spoke in very respectful terms of the poetry of the sister nation. Boileau’s pretending to be ignorant of Dryden ‘argued himself unknown’; but, perhaps, another reason may be assigned why the French writers found it convenient to know as little as possible of their English contemporary, who in many of his admirable prefaces and dedications has taken some trouble to explain the frivolity of the French poets, their tiresome _petit maitre-ship_, and all the finessing and trick with which they endeavour to make amends to their readers for positive deficiency of genius.”
After playing the _dilettante_ in France, Maynwaring returned home, and in time became a staunch Whig, a Government official, and, later on, a Member of Parliament. The cause of the Pretender knew him no more, and in future this brilliant gentleman would be one of the greatest friends of that stupid Hanoverian family which waited drowsily, across the sea, for the death of Anne.
But what counted all the glamour of public life compared to the possession of Nance Oldfield and an honoured seat at the festive board of the Kit-Cat Club? Love and conviviality, youth and wit, carried the day, and through the influence of these seductive companions handsome Arthur failed to achieve greatness as a statesman. But when it came to waging political warfare against sour Swift, or to assisting Dick Steele with the “Tatler,” or–better still–toasting some fair one at the Club,[A] this _bon viveur_ was in his finest mood.
[Footnote A: The (Kit-Cat) club originated in the hospitality of Jacob Tonson, the bookseller, who, once a week, was host at the house in Shire Lane to a gathering of writers. In an occasional poem on the Kit-Cat club, attributed to Sir Richard Blackmore, Jacob is read backwards into Bocaj, and we are told:
“One Night in Seven at this convenient seat Indulgent Bocaj did the Muses treat;
Their Drink was gen’rous Wine and Kit-Cat’s Pyes their Meat. Hence did th’ Assembly’s Title first arise, And Kit-Cat Wits spring first from Kit-Cat’s Pyes.”
About the year 1700 this gathering of wits produced a club in which the great Whig chiefs were associated with foremost Whig writers, Tonson being secretary. It was as much literary as political, and its “toasting glasses,” each inscribed with lines to a reigning beauty, caused Arbuthnot to derive its value from “its pell mell pack of toasts.”
Of old Cats and young Kits.
Tonson built a room for the Club at Barn Elms to which each member gave his portrait by Sir Godfrey Kneller, who was himself a member. The pictures were on a new-sized canvas adopted to the height of the walls, whence the name “Kit-Cat” came to be applied generally to three-quarter length portraits.–HENRY MORLEY’S Notes on the _Spectator_.]
It is to be supposed that at some time or other the health of Mistress Oldfield was drunk by the Kit-Cats, whose custom of honouring womankind in this bibulous way may have given rise to Pope’s plaintive query:
“Say why are beauties prais’d and honoured most, The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast? Why deck’d with all that land and sea afford, Why Angels call’d, and angel-like adored?”
And if the actress was thus deified or spiritualised, who drained his glass more fervently than did Arthur Maynwaring? For whatever may have been the faults of this dashing Whig, he had the courage of his sins, and took up his abode with Anne in the full light of day, as though a marriage ceremony were a bagatelle not worth the recollecting. The world was forgiving, to be sure, nor is it probable that either one of this easily-mated pair suffered any loss of public esteem by the union. Dukes–nay, even Duchesses–were glad to meet Nance, and Royalty allowed her to bask in the sunshine of its gracious approval. “She was to be seen on the terrace at Windsor, walking with the consorts of dukes, and with countesses, and wives of English barons, and the whole gay group might be heard calling one another by their Christian names.”
No wonder that the women of fashion, none of them saints, loved Oldfield and winked at the elasticity of her moral ethics. The dear creature was so bright in conversation, so full of _espieglerie_, and, still more important, she looked so charming in her succession of handsome toilettes, that she could be ever sure of a cordial welcome. “Flavia,” as Steele calls her, “is ever well-dressed, and always the genteelest woman you meet, but the make of her mind very much contributes to the ornament of her body. She has the greatest simplicity of manners of any of her sex. This makes everything look native about her, and her clothes are so exactly fitted, that they appear, as it were, part of her person. Every one that sees her knows her to be of quality; but her distinction is owing to her manner, and not to her habit. Her beauty is full of attraction, but not of allurement. There is such a composure in her looks, and propriety in her dress, that you would think it impossible she should change the garb you one day see her in, for anything so becoming until you next day see her in another. There is no mystery in this, but that however she is apparelled, she is herself the same: for there is so immediate a relation between our thoughts and gestures that a woman must think well to look well.”
* * * * *
Here, verily, was an actress who could set the town wild by the beauty and exquisite taste of her costumes, and who was conscientious enough, nevertheless, to keep the millinery phase of her art modestly in the background. You, ladies, who depend for theatrical success upon the elegance of your gowns, and fondly believe that fairness of face and litheness of figure will atone for a thousand dramatic sins, take pattern by the industry of Oldfield. It will be a much better pattern than those over which you are accustomed to worry your pretty heads. The enterprising dressmakers who go to the play to get inspiration for new clothes may cease to worship you, but think of the other sort of inspiration which you will give to lovers of the drama! Then shall there be no more announcements to the effect that, “Miss Lighthead will act Lady Macbeth in ten Parisian gowns made by Worth,” or that when she treats us to the death of Marguerite Gautier (the aforesaid Mdlle. Gautier dying, as everybody knows, in actual poverty) “Miss Lighthead will wear diamonds representing one hundred thousand dollars.”
There is not much to say about the domesticity of Nance and Arthur Maynwaring. How could there be? The lady kept house for her lord and master with grace and modesty (if it seems not paradoxical to mention modesty in this alliance), and it is safe to believe that more than one member of the Kit-Cat Club often tasted a bit of beef and pudding, and sipped a glass of port, at the table of the happy pair. Congreve, the particular friend and _protege_ of the host, must have dined more than once with brilliant Nance, regaling his plump being with the joy of food and drink, and wondering, perhaps, how any one could prefer the hostess to his particular _chere-amie_, Anne Bracegirdle. And Oldfield, of what did she think as she gazed into the rounded face of Mr. Congreve, or listened to the merry wit of her devoted liege? Did the ghost of poor, dead Farquhar ever arise before her, the reminder of a day when love was younger and passion stronger? Let us ask no impertinent questions.
What with acting, and supping, and an easy conscience, Mistress Oldfield gaily trod the primrose path of dalliance, and Cupid hovered near, albeit there was no law to chain him to the scene. But one day he took to his wings and flew away, after witnessing the untimely death (November 1712) of Mr. Maynwaring. The latter made his exit with the assistance of three physicians, and Nance was near to smooth the departure.[A] Then came the funeral, and after that Mrs. Mayn–Mrs. Oldfield dried her lovely eyes (did she not have enough weeping to do when she played in tragedy?), and began once more to think upon the joys of existence.
[Footnote A: He died at St. Albans, November 13, 1712, of a consumption, and was attended in his last illness by Doctors Garth, Radcliffe and Blackmore. In his will he appointed Mrs. Oldfield, the celebrated actress, his executrix, with whom he had lived for several years, and by whom he had a son, named Arthur Maynwaring. His estate was equally divided between this child, its mother and his sister.–“Memoirs of the Celebrated Persons Comprising the Kit-Kat Club.”]
When General Churchill, a nephew of the great Duke of Marlborough, suggested to the disconsolate widow-by-brevet that she should share his home, the proposal was accepted, and the actress entered for a second time into a free-and-easy compact, and for a second time remained faithful thereto until her new admirer went the way of Mr. Maynwaring. It was even rumoured–scandalous gossip!–that the two were married; and one day the Princess of Wales, afterwards Queen Caroline, asked the “incomparable sweet girl,” who was attending a royal levee, whether such were indeed the case. “So it is said, may it please your Royal Highness,” diplomatically replied Nance, “but we have not owned it yet.”
To Churchill our unsteady heroine presented one son, and it was through the marriage of the latter that the swift-running blood of Oldfield now courses through the veins of the first Earl of Cadogan’s descendants.[A] This son and the one who bore the name of Maynwaring were the only two children credited, or discredited, to the actress, but there appears to have been a mysterious daughter, a Miss Dye Bertie, who became, as Mrs. Delany tells us, “the pink of fashion in the _beau monde_, and married a nobleman.” It would not be wise, however, to peer too closely into the dim vista of the past. The picture might prove unpleasant.
[Footnote A: Her son, Colonel Churchill, once, unconsciously, saved Sir Robert Walpole from assassination, through the latter riding home from the House in the Colonel’s chariot instead of alone in his own. Unstable Churchill married a natural daughter of Sir Robert, and their daughter Mary married, in 1777, Charles Sloane, first Earl of Cadogan…. When Churchill and his wife were travelling in France, a Frenchman, knowing he was connected with poets or players, asked him if he was Churchill the famous poet. “I am not,” said Mrs. Oldfield’s son. “Ma foi!” rejoined the polite Frenchman, “so much the worse for you.”–DR. DORAN.]
Surely we may have charity for Oldfield, when she dispensed the same virtue to those around her. Towards none did she show it more sweetly than to that disreputable fraud and alleged man of genius, Richard Savage. In his own feverish day Dick Savage cut a literary swath more wide than enviable, but when he is viewed from the unsympathetic light of the present he seems merely a clever vagabond. Yet Dr. Johnson, who could be so stern towards some of his contemporaries, condescended to love the aforesaid vagabond, in a ponderous, elephantine way, and deified him by writing the life of the ingrate, or an apology therefor. Savage had, once upon a time, led the youthful Johnson more than a few feet away from the path of rectitude, but the philosopher forgave, without forgetting, the wiles of the tempter, and treated him with a generosity by no means deserved. In the years of his prosperity–and the remembrance did him credit–Johnson could never forget that Savage and himself had been poor together, and had often wandered through London with hardly a penny to show between them.
* * * * *
“It is melancholy to reflect,” says Boswell, “that Johnson and Savage were sometimes in such extreme indigence that they could not pay for a lodging; so that they have wandered together whole nights in the streets. Yet in these almost incredible scenes of distress, we may suppose that Savage mentioned many of the anecdotes with which Johnson afterwards enriched the life of this unhappy companion, and those of other poets.
“He told Sir Joshua Reynolds, that one night in particular, when Savage and he walked round St. James’s Square for want of a lodging, they were not at all depressed by their situation; but in high spirits and brimful of patriotism, traversed the square for several hours, inveighed against the Minister, and resolved they would _stand by their country_.”
* * * * *
The claim of Savage that he was the illegitimate son of the Countess of Macclesfield–a claim which he was always asserting to the point of coarseness–seems to have been the stock-in-trade of this vagabond’s life. There never was proof that the relationship which he thus flaunted really existed; for, although the conduct of the Countess[A] was unpardonable, the poet could never show that he had been the mysterious infant which had this lady for its mother and Lord Rivers for an unnatural father. The child disappeared, and nothing more was ever known of its existence.
[Footnote A: Anne Mason, wife of Charles Gerrard, first Earl of Macclesfield, was divorced from that nobleman by an Act of Parliament. Another earl, Richard Savage, Lord Rivers, was the co-respondent. This was the same Countess of Macclesfield who subsequently married Cibber’s friend, Colonel Brett.]
But Savage discovered, or affected to discover, that he was the missing one, and from that moment made the Countess miserable by his importunities for recognition and money, more particularly for the latter. “It was to no purpose,” records Dr. Johnson, “that he frequently solicited her to admit him to see her; she avoided him with the most vigilant precaution, and ordered him to be excluded from her house, by whomsoever he might be introduced, and what reason soever he might give for entering it.” And the Doctor, who had an abiding and very misplaced confidence in the fellow, adds plaintively: “Savage was at the same time so touched with the discovery of his real mother that it was his frequent practice to walk in the dark evenings for several hours before her door in hopes of seeing her as she might come by accident to the window, or cross her apartment with a candle in her hand.”
“Touched with the discovery,” forsooth! ‘Twas a species of blackmail cloaked in the guise of filial sentiment.
This talented blackguard was wont to pray for alms from Mistress Oldfield; and that dear charitable creature (are not most actresses dear, charitable creatures?) would often waste her practical sympathy upon him. She despised the man, but, with that generosity so characteristic of her craft, was ever ready to relieve his necessities.[A] Well, well, how the glitter from a few guineas can envelop the fragile doner in a golden light, and throw over her faults the soft glow of forgiveness.
[Footnote A: In this (Johnson’s) “Life of Savage” ’tis related that Mrs. Oldfield was very fond of Mr. Savage’s conversation, and allowed him an annuity during her life of L50. These facts are equally ill-grounded; there was no foundation for them. That Savage’s misfortunes pleaded for pity, and had the desired effect on Mrs. Oldfield’s compassion, is certain; but she so much disliked the man, and disapproved his conduct, that she never admitted him to her conversation, nor suffered him to enter her house. She indeed often relieved him with such donations as spoke her generous disposition. But this was on the solicitation of friends, who frequently set his calamities before her in the most piteous light; and, from a principle of humanity, she became not a little instrumental in saving his life.–CIBBER’S “Lives of the Poets.”]
Savage himself once turned player, and no one must have been more amused thereat than the Oldfield. It happened during the summer of 1723, when the poet, who was in his customary state of (theatrical) destitution, determined to replenish his shabby purse by bringing out a tragedy. While this play, “The Tragedy of Sir Thomas Overbury,”[A] was in rehearsal at Drury Lane, Colley Cibber kept the author in clothes, and the Laureate’s son Theophilus, then a very young man, studied the part of Somerset. The principal actors were not in London just then, it being the off season, when the younger players strutted across the classic boards of the house, and Savage determined himself to enact Sir Thomas. He did so with melancholy results; even Johnson admits the failure of so presumptuous a leap before the footlights, “for neither his voice, look, nor gesture were such as were expected on the stage; and he was so much ashamed of having been reduced to appear as a player, that he always blotted out his name from the list when a copy of his tragedy was to be shown to his friends.”[B]
[Footnote A: Savage, with his usual bad taste, published this tragedy as the work of “Richard Savage, _son of the late Earl Rivers_.”]
[Footnote B: In the publication of his performance he was more successful, for the rays of genius that glimmered in it, that glimmered through all the mists which poverty and Cibber had been able to spread over it, procured him the notice and esteem of many persons eminent for their rank, their virtue, and their wit. Of this play, acted, printed, and dedicated, the accumulated profits arose to an hundred pounds, which he thought at that time a very large sum, having been never master of so much before. In the “Dedication,” for which he received ten guineas, there is nothing remarkable. The preface contains a very liberal enconium on the blooming excellence of Mr. Theophilus Cibber, which Mr. Savage could not in the latter part of his life see his friends about to read without snatching the play out of their hands.–DR. JOHNSON.]
What a sublime hypocrite our Richard was, to be sure. That he felt so keenly the disgrace (?) of “having been reduced to appear as a player” was, no doubt, a sentiment intended for the exclusive ear of the great lexicographer, whose prejudice against the stage and its followers was strong to the point of absurdity. Despite the qualms of the poet over exposing his sacred self to the gaze of an audience he had no sensitiveness in receiving the money of an actress, and he was willing enough to have her aid in another direction.
That aid was cheerfully given once upon a time when Savage came dangerously near the scaffold. This prince of scamps and wanderer among the beery precincts of pot-houses happened to stroll one night, accompanied by two choice spirits (and himself full of spirits) into a disreputable coffee-house near Charing Cross. The three men rudely pushed their way into a parlour where some other roisterers were drinking; the intrusion was naturally resented, and as each and every one of the party chanced to be better filled with wine than with politeness, a brawl was the consequence. Swords were drawn and Savage killed a Mr. Sinclair, after which drunken act he cut the head of a barmaid who tried to hold him. Then more swearing, shrieking and sword-thrusting, a cry for soldiers, a flight from the coffee-house, and an almost instant arrest. A pretty picture, was it not?
When Savage was put on trial for his life, he pleaded that the killing of Sinclair was done in self-defence, and his acquittal would probably have followed but for the shrewdness of the prosecution. This prosecution was conducted by Francis Page, whose severity Pope immortalised in the lines:
“Slander or poison dread from Delia’s rage Hard-words or hanging–if your judge be Page.”
Page surely understood human nature, or that portion of it appertaining to the average jurymen, and he disposed of Mr. Savage’s defence by one well-directed blow when he said to the good men and true: “Gentlemen of the jury, you are to consider that Mr. Savage is a very great man, a much greater man than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; that he wears very fine clothes, much finer clothes than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; that he has abundance of money in his pocket, much more money than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; but, gentlemen of the jury, is it not a very hard case, gentlemen of the jury, that Mr. Savage should therefore kill you, or me, gentlemen of the jury.”
Whereupon the defendant began to make a speech in his own behalf, but his flow of eloquence was quenched by the judge, and the jury soon found Savage as well as Gregory, one of his companions in the drunken broil, to be guilty of murder. Many influences were now brought to bear on Queen Caroline, consort of George II., to secure a pardon for the rascal, but that good lady was for a time obdurate. She had heard a few choice stories anent the man, and among them, one which Dr. Johnson glosses over in this way: “Mr. Savage, when he had discovered his birth, had an incessant desire to speak to his mother, who always avoided him in public, and refused him admission into her house. One evening walking, as it was his custom, in the street that she inhabited, he saw the door of her house by accident open, he entered it, and, finding no person in the passage to hinder him, went upstairs to salute her. She discovered him before he entered her chamber, alarmed the family with the most distressful outcries, and when she had by her screams gathered them about her, ordered them to drive out of the house that villain who had forced himself in upon her and endeavoured to murder her. Savage, who had attempted with the most submissive tenderness to soften her rage, hearing her utter so detestable an accusation, thought it prudent to retire.”
Thus the Queen refused to interfere until the Countess of Hertford pleaded the cause of the imprisoned poet. In the meantime Mistress Oldfield interceded with the mighty Robert Walpole, and the result of all this wire-pulling was that Savage received the king’s pardon,[A] being thus left free to continue the persecution of his alleged mother, to beg from friends and strangers alike, and to follow a mode of life which scandalised even his kindly biographer. And when Oldfield, the latchets of whose shoes he was not worthy to tie, played her last part and passed away from the earthly stage, Richard wore mourning for her, as for a mother, “but did not celebrate her in elegies;[B] because he knew that too great profusion of praise would only have revived those faults which his natural equity did not allow him to think less because they were committed by one who favoured him; but of which, though his virtue would not endeavour to palliate them, his gratitude would not suffer him to prolong the memory or diffuse the censure.”
[Footnote A: March 1728. It is cheerful to know that Mr. Gregory also escaped hanging. It was contended during the trial, and afterwards, that the testimony against both these defendants was more damning than the facts warranted.]
[Footnote B: Nevertheless Savage did write a poem in Oldfield’s honour, although he did not sign his virtuous name thereto. The verses are quoted by Chetwood. _Vide_ Chapter XI.]
Poor, crusty Samuel! what rot you could write now and then, and how you did hate players and their craft. But may not the bewildered reader ask how the aphorisms of the doctor and the disreputable affairs of Savage concern that home life of Nance to which the chapter is presumably consecrated? In answer the writer can only cry “Peccavi,” and, having done so, will sin boldly again by giving one more anecdote. The story concerns Savage, but Steele is the hero of it, and as winsome Dick is always welcome, we may take leave of the other Dick in a pleasant way.
Savage was once desired by Sir Richard (says Johnson), with an air of the utmost importance, to come very early to his house the next morning. Mr. Savage came as he had promised, found the chariot at the door, and Sir Richard waiting for him and ready to go out. What was intended, and whither they were to go, Savage could not conjecture, and was not willing to inquire; but immediately seated himself with Sir Richard. The coachman was ordered to drive, and they hurried with the utmost expedition to Hyde Park Corner, where they stopped at a petty tavern and retired to a private room. Sir Richard then informed him that he intended to publish a pamphlet, and that he had desired him to come thither that he might write for him. He soon sat down to the work. Sir Richard dictated, and Savage wrote, till the dinner that had been ordered was put upon the table. Savage was surprised at the meanness of the entertainment, and after some hesitation ventured to ask for wine, which Sir Richard, not without reluctance, ordered to be brought. They then finished their dinner, and proceeded in their pamphlet, which they concluded in the afternoon.
Mr. Savage then imagined his task over, and expected that Sir Richard would call for the reckoning and return home; but his expectations deceived him, for Sir Richard told him that he was without money, and that the pamphlet must be sold before the dinner could be paid for; and Savage was therefore obliged to go and offer their new production to sale for two guineas, which with some difficulty he obtained. Sir Richard then returned home, having retired that day only to avoid his creditors, and composed the pamphlet only to discharge his reckoning.
Savage also told Johnson another merry tale of careless Dick. “Sir Richard Steele having one day invited to his house a great number of persons of the first quality, they were surprised at the number of liveries which surrounded the table; and after dinner, when wine and mirth had set them free from the observation of a rigid ceremony, one of them inquired of Sir Richard how such an expensive train of domestics could be consistent with his fortune. Sir Richard very frankly confessed that they were fellows of whom he would very willingly be rid. And being then asked why he did not discharge them, declared that they were bailiffs, who had introduced themselves with an execution, and whom, since he could not send them away, he had thought it convenient to embellish with liveries, that they might do him credit while they stayed. His friends were diverted with the expedient, and by paying the debt discharged their attendants, having obliged Sir Richard to promise that they should never again find him graced with a retinue of the same kind.”
These little pleasantries are echoes of the halcyon days when Steele thought Savage a very fine fellow, made him an allowance and even proposed to become the poet’s father-in-law. But the recipient of all this favour was caddish enough to ridicule his patron, a kind friend mentioned the fact to Sir Richard, and the knight shut his doors on the ingrate. Let us, likewise, give the fellow his _conge_.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MIMIC WORLD
We have seen that Oldfield affected to despise tragedy, and was wont to suggest Mistress Porter as a lady better suited than herself to the purposes of train-bearing. And as the present chapter will be devoted to a few of Nance’s contemporaries let us linger, if only for an instant, over the imposing memory of one whom cynical Horace Walpole thought even finer than Garrick in certain scenes of passion. This “ornament to human nature,” as a biographer warmly called the Porter, played her first childish part in a Lord Mayor’s pageant during the reign of James II., appearing as the Genius of Britain, and incidentally falling under the august notice of another genius of Britain, the great Mr. Betterton. That worthy man regarded the little girl with prophetic eyes, saw in her a wealth of undeveloped talent, and was soon instructing the chit in the mysteries of dramatic art. Sometimes the actress-in-miniature revolted, poor mite (“she should have been in the nursery, the minx,” says some practical reader) and then noble Thomas would give vent to an awful threat. She must speak and act as she was directed, or else–horrible thought–the child should be thrown into the basket of an orange-girl and buried under one of the vine leaves which hid the luscious fruit! And with that punishment hanging over her, the novice went on learning and originating, until one day London woke up to find a new tragedienne within its boundaries.
[Illustration: Mr. Mills, Mrs. Porter, Mr. Cibber.]
‘Twas a tragedienne, be it added, who possessed no wonderful charm of person. She was pleasing in figure and bearing, but her voice was naturally harsh, her features did not shine forth loveliness, and when the scene wherein she walked called neither for vehemence of feeling, nor melting tenderness, her elocution became a monotonous cadence.[A] Yet in moments of dramatic excitement, or in places where the deep note of pathos had to be sounded, Porter played with a distinction that either thrilled the spectator or reduced him to the verge of tears. She threw cadence and monotony to the four winds of heaven, or rather to the four corners of the stage, and spoke with the earnestness of one inspired.
[Footnote A: Mrs. Porter was tall, fair, well-shaped, and easy and dignified in action. But she was not handsome, and her voice had a small degree of tremor. Moreover, she imitated, or, rather, faultily exceeded, Mrs. Barry in the habit of prolonging and toning her pronunciation, sometimes to a degree verging upon a chant; but whether it was that the public ear was at that period accustomed to a demi-chant, or that she threw off the defect in the heat of passion, it is certain that her general judgment and genius, in the highest bursts of tragedy, inspired enthusiasm in all around her, and that she was thought to be alike mistress of the terrible and the tender.–THOMAS CAMPBELL.]
As Queen Catherine Mrs. Porter was all mournful grace and dignity, as Lady Macbeth she breathed of battle, murder and sudden death, and in the role of Belvidera she showed yet another phase of her incomparable art. “I remember Mrs. Porter, to whom nature had been so niggard in voice and face, so great in many parts, as Lady Macbeth, Alicia in ‘Jane Shore,’ Hermione in the ‘Distressed Mother,’ and many parts of the kind, that her great action, eloquence of look and gesture, moved astonishment; and yet I have heard her declare she left the action to the possession of the sentiments in the part she performed.” Thus wrote Chetwood, whose good fortune it was to see Oldfield, and Porter, and a host of other famous players, not forgetting, in later days, the wonderful Garrick himself.
Unlike several of her ilk, Mistress Porter could play the heroine off the stage as well as on. She lived at Heywoodhill, near Hendon, and used to wend her way homeward every night, at the conclusion of the play, in a one-horse chaise. The roads were dangerous, and highwaymen lurked in the neighbourhood, but the actress put her faith in Providence–and a brace of pistols which she always carried. The pistols came very nicely to her rescue one evening when a robber waylaid the chaise and put to the traveller the conventional question as to whether she most valued her money or her life. Nothing daunted by the impertinence of this ethical query, Mrs. Porter pointed one of the weapons at the intruder, and he, so goes the story, gracefully surrendered, for the reason that he was himself without firearms. The man made the best of the situation, however, by assuring the occupant of the vehicle that he was “no common thief,” and had been driven to his present course by the wants of a starving family. He told her, at the same time, where he lived, and urged his distresses with such earnestness, that she spared him all the money in her purse, which was about ten guineas.[A]
[Footnote A: Bellchambers’ “Memoirs.” This episode happened in the summer of 1731.]
Thereupon the highwayman departed, and Mrs. Porter whipped up her horse. In her excitement she must have used the lash too freely, for the animal started to run, the chaise was overturned, and the actress dislocated her thigh bone. When she had in part recovered from the accident, the victim made up a purse of sixty pounds, subscribed among her friends, and sent it to the poverty-stricken family of the desperado. How Nance would have laughed at the story had she been at the theatre to hear it told. But there was no more merriment for this daughter of smiles; she was lying cold and still amid the stony grandeur of Westminster Abbey.
Poor Porter outlived Oldfield for more than thirty years and, having also outlived an annuity settled upon herself, spent her declining days in what polite writers call straightened circumstances. One of the closing scenes of her career shows us a meeting between this veteran of the stage and Dr. Johnson, who could allow his kindness of heart and sense of generosity to overcome his hatred of things theatrical. It is easy to imagine the whole interview: the shrunken face of the Porter beaming all over with an appreciation of the honour paid her, and the Doctor full of benevolence and patronising courtesy, even to the extent of drinking cheap tea without a grumble. After the philosopher takes his leave he will likewise take with him a vivid memory of the beldam’s many wrinkles–so many, indeed, that “a picture of old age in the abstract might have been taken from her countenance.”[A]
[Footnote A: Dr. Johnson was pleased to avow that “Mrs. Porter in the vehemence of rage, and Mrs. Clive in the sprightliness of humour, he had never seen equalled.”]
Of a different calibre was Lacy Ryan, an ill-trained genius who could shine pretty well in both tragedy and comedy and from whom, according to Foote,
“… succeeding Richards took the cue, And hence his style, if not the colour, drew.”[A]
[Footnote A: Justice has scarcely been done to Ryan’s merit. Garrick, on going with Woodward to see his Richard with a view of being amused, owned that he was astonished at the genius and power he saw struggling to make itself felt through the burden of ill-training, uncouth gestures, and an ungraceful and slovenly figure. He was generous enough to own that all the merit there was in his own playing of Richard he had drawn from studying this less fortunate player.–PERCY FITZGERALD.]
Like Mrs. Porter, Ryan was a youthful disciple of Betterton, and was brought to the notice of Roscius in a curious fashion. One day, when Lacy had just begun, as a boy of sixteen or seventeen, to court the dramatic muses, he was cast for the role of Seyton, the old officer who attends on Macbeth, and was, no doubt, charmed with the assignment. To wait upon Macbeth, in however humble a capacity, was in itself no mean honour, and when the aforesaid Macbeth would be Betterton himself, the importance of the task was re-doubled.
That afternoon Ryan came on the stage in all the glory of a full-bottomed wig (imagine playing Shakespeare these days with full-bottomed wigs) and a smiling young face, being very much pleased with himself and the world in general. To Betterton, who had expected to see in Seyton a henchman of mature years, and who up to this moment had been unconscious of Lacy’s existence, the appearance of the boy came as a shock. Had the witches of the tragedy been turned into beautiful children he could not have been more surprised. However, he gave the new Seyton an encouraging look, and the stripling played the part in a way to earn the approbation of the great actor. After the performance was over, Betterton scolded old Downes, the prompter, for “sending a child to him instead of a man advanced in years.”
This anecdote seems to show that the art of “make-up” had not reached perfection in those times, for a few well-put strokes of the pencil should have destroyed the juvenile aspect of Seyton. It must not be supposed, nevertheless, that the decoration of the face was unknown, and an entry in Pepys’ delightful diary proves that “make-up” of a certain kind flourished at the Restoration. “To the King’s house,” says Pepys, “and there going in met with Knipp, and she took us up into the tireing-rooms;[A] and to the women’s shift, where Nell (Gwyne) was dressing herself, and was all unready, and is very pretty, prettier than I thought. (Imagine the gloating eyes of the old hypocrite.) And into the scene-room, and there sat down, and she gave us fruit: and here I read the questions to Knipp, while she answered me, through all her part of ‘Flora’s Figarys,’ which was acted to-day. But, Lord! to see how they were both painted, would make a man mad, and did make me loath them: and what base company of men comes among them; and how loudly they talk! And how poor the men are in clothes, and yet what a show they make on the stage by candle-light, is very observable. But to see how Nell cursed, for having so few people in the pit, was strange,” _et cetera_.[B]
[Footnote A: Mrs. Knipp was an actress belonging to the King’s Company and Mr. Pepys had for her a timid admiration.]
[Footnote B: In his notes to Cibber’s “Apology,” Lowe suggests the plausible theory that young actors playing “juveniles” did not use any “make-up” or paint, but went on the stage with their natural complexion. He instances this paragraph from Cibber: “The first thing that enters into the head of a young actor is that of being a heroe: In this ambition I was soon snubb’d by the insufficiency of my voice; to which might be added an uniform’d meagre person (tho’ then not ill-made) with a dismal pale complexion.”]
To leave the merry days of Charles II, and wander back to those of Queen Anne, it may be said that Ryan made his first success as the Marcus in the original production of “Cato.” It was a success rather added to than otherwise by an adventure of which this actor was the unfortunate victim. “In the run of that celebrated tragedy,” writes Chetwood, “he was accidently brought into a fray with some of our Tritons on the Thames; and, in the scuffle, a blow on the nose was given him by one of these water-bullies, who neither regard men or manners. I remember, the same night, as he was brought on the bier, after his suppos’d death in the fourth act of ‘Cato,’ the blood, from the real wound in the face, gush’d out with violence; that hurt had no other effect than just turning his nose a little, tho’ not to deformity; yet some people imagine it gave a very small alteration to the tone of his voice, tho’ nothing disagreeable.” And a very good advertisement it was, no doubt.
In later years another much-discussed accident befell Mr. Ryan. As he was going home from the theatre one night, the actor was attacked by a footpad, and received in his face two bullets which broke a portion of his jaw. “By the help of a lamp [again is the quotation from Chetwood] the robber knew Mr. Ryan, as I have been inform’d, begg’d his pardon for his mistake, and ran off. Of this hurt, too, he recover’d, after a long illness, and play’d with success, as before, without any seeming alteration of voice or face. His Royal Highness, upon this accident (was it the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II?) sent him a handsome present; and others, of the nobility, copy’d the laudable example of the second illustrious person in the three kingdoms.”
This was Lacy Ryan, who in his time played many different parts, among them Iago, Hamlet, Macduff, Captain Plume, and Orestes. He was not in any sense of the word a great actor, but he well adorned the station of theatrical life in which it had pleased heaven to place him, and strutted his lengthy hour upon the stage with much satisfaction to his companions and the public. Even when Ryan had to kill a bully in self-defence (it was a fellow named Kelly, who loved to haunt the coffee-houses, pick quarrels with peaceable citizens, and then half murder them), the world looked on approvingly, and averred that the player had acted with his usual conscientiousness.
Another contemporary of Nance was Benjamin Johnson,[A] who achieved curiously enough some of his greatest successes in the plays of his namesake, the other Ben Jonson. He began life as a scene painter, but afterwards turned his attention to the front, rather than the back, of the stage–or, as he would humorously explain, “left the saint’s occupation to take that of a sinner.” Johnson seems to have been a man of the world, and he saw a good deal of life, even though he never passed through the rough-and-tumble adventures of Lacy Ryan. When he was born (1665) Betterton dominated the boards; when he died (1742) Garrick had become the talk of London; and it is probable that in his latter years Ben could tell many a story of interesting experiences.
[Footnote A: Ben Johnson excelled greatly in all his namesake’s comedies, then frequently acted. He was of all comedians the chastest and closest observer of nature. Johnson never seemed to know that he was before an audience; he drew his character as the poet designed it.–DAVIES.]
There was one story, at least, that this actor used to relate with much unction after a visit which he once paid to Dublin. The hero of the affair was an Irishman, named Baker, who relieved the monotony of his work as a master pavior by acting Sir John Falstaff and other parts. When he was in the streets, overseeing the labours of his men, this pavior-artist usually rehearsed one of his characters, muttering the lines, gesticulating, and almost forgetting that he was without the sacred walls of a theatre. The workmen soon got accustomed to these out-of-door performances, and everything proceeded with the utmost smoothness, until one exciting day when Baker chanced to be alone with two new paviors. These recruits (countrymen from Cheshire) were much alarmed at a sudden change in the demeanour of their master, whose eyes began to roll and lips to move under the pressure of some strange emotion. Baker was merely rehearsing Falstaff; but the two men made up their little minds that he had lost his head, and they felt quite sure that their employer was a dangerous lunatic, when he gave them a piercing glance, and cried:
“Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt: there’s honour for you! here’s no vanity! I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead out of me!”
“Wauns! I’se blunt enough to take care of you, I’se warrant you,” shouted one of the workmen, who had now recovered what he presumed to be his wits, and thereupon he and his companion laid violent hands on Baker. A crowd soon gathered, and despite the indignant cries of the master-pavior, who declared he was never more sane, this son of Thespis was tied hand and foot, and carried home in triumph with a howling mob for attendants. That ended Mr. Baker’s rehearsal for the nonce; and it is to be presumed that, when next he essayed the lusty Sir John, he made sure of an appreciative audience.
It is a seductive occupation to delve into the lives of these bygone players, and there is always temptation to tarry long and lovingly amid such chequered careers. But, like poor Joe, of Dickens, we must keep moving on, and so leave Johnson and Baker for another actor who waits to strut across the stage of these “Palmy Days.” Thomas Elrington is the new-comer; the same Elrington who sought to outshine the tragic Barton Booth, without possessing either the genius or the scholarship of that noble son of Melpomene. As a boy, Thomas was apprenticed by an impecunious father to an upholsterer in Covent Garden, but he cared more for the theatre than for his trade, and was, no doubt, regarded by his employer as a future candidate for the gallows.
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“I remember when he was an apprentice,” relates Chetwood, “we play’d in several private plays; when we were preparing to act ‘Sophonisba, or Hannibal’s Overthrow,’ after I had wrote out my part of Massiva I carried him the book of the play to study the part of King Masinissa. I found him finishing a velvet cushion, and gave him the book: but alas! before he could secrete it, his master (a hot, voluble Frenchman), came in upon us, and the book was thrust under the velvet of the cushion. His master, as usual, rated him for not working, with a ‘Morbleu! why a you not vark, Tom?’ and stood over him so long that I saw, with some mortification, the book irrecoverably stitch’d up in the cushion never to be retriev’d till the cushion is worn to pieces. Poor Tom cast many a desponding look upon me when he was finishing the fate of the play, while every stitch went to both our hearts.
“His master observing our looks, turn’d to me, and with words that broke their necks over each other for haste, abused both of us. The most intelligible of his great number of words were Jack Pudenges, and the like expressions of contempt. But our play was gone for ever.
“Another time,” continues the biographer, “we were so bold to attempt Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet,’ where our ‘prentice Tom had the part of the Ghost, father to young Hamlet. His armour was composed of pasteboard, neatly painted. The Frenchman had intelligence of what we were about, and to our great surprise and mortification, made one of our audience. The Ghost in its first appearance is dumb to Horatio. While these scenes past, the Frenchman only muttered between his teeth, and we were in hopes his passion would subside; but when our Ghost began his first speech to Hamlet, ‘Mark me,’ he replied, ‘Begar, me vil marke you presently!’ and, without saying any more, beat our poor Ghost off the stage through the street, while every stroke on the pasteboard armour grieved the auditors (because they did not pay for their seats), insomuch that three or four ran after the Ghost, and brought him back in triumph, with the avenging Frenchman at his heels, who would not be appeas’d till our Ghost promised him never to commit the offence of acting again. A promise made, like many others, never to be kept.”
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Elrington ultimately became a favourite player with Dublin audiences, and then contested with Booth in the latter’s own ground of London. He never equalled the classic Barton, yet made a success in tragedy, and was once asked (1728-9) to join the forces of Drury Lane for a term of years. He told the managers that he could not think of permanently leaving Ireland, where he was so well rewarded for his services, and added, “There is not a gentleman’s house there to which I am not a welcome visitor,” which shows that an actor can be a snob, like the worst of us.
When Elrington died, two years after the taking off of Oldfield, his epitaph was written in these flattering lines:–
“Thou best of actors here interr’d,
No more thy charming voice is heard, This grave thy corse contains:
Thy better part, which us’d to move Our admiration, and our Love,
Has fled its sad remains.
“Tho’ there’s no monumental brass,
Thy sacred relicks to encase,
Thou wondrous man of art!
A lover of the muse divine,
O! Elrington, shall be thy shrine, And carve thee in his heart.”
One of Elrington’s friends and artistic associates happened to be John Evans, a player possessed of talent, fatness, and indolence. As adventures seem to be in order in this chapter, let us recall two which occurred to this gentleman at a time when he was in high favour with the Irish. The first episode, making a warlike prologue to the second, had for its scene a tavern in the good city of Cork, where Evans had been invited to sup by some officers stationed in the neighbourhood. Jack responded gladly to the hospitable suggestion; the gathering proved a great success, the wine was circulated generously, and many toasts were offered. When the actor was called upon for a sentiment, he proposed the health of his gracious sovereign, Anne, whereat all in the company were pleased with the exception of one disloyal redcoat. Whether the latter had within him the contrariness which cometh with too liberal dalliance with the flowing bowl, or whether he chanced to be a Jacobite, further deponent sayeth not, but it is at least certain that the officer was not pleased at the honour paid to the Queen whose uniform he was willing to wear. So Mr. Malcontent leaves the room, and then sends up word to poor, inoffensive Jack, that he will be delighted to see that worthy below stairs; whereupon Jack quietly steals away and finds his would-be antagonist lurking behind a half-opened door. The soldier makes a lunge with his sword at the player, who succeeds in disarming the coward, and there the matter apparently stops.
But the end was not yet. When Evans went to Dublin, he found that his late challenger was circulating a lie, which made it appear that the comedian had in somewise affronted the whole British Army. No sooner did Jack put his face upon the stage than a great clamour arose, and it was decreed by the bullies among the audience (of whom there are ever a few in every house), that no play should be presented until the culprit had publicly begged pardon for a sin which he never committed. The play was “The Rival Queens,” the part assigned to Evans that of Alexander, but ’twas some time before this Alexander could be induced to crave the forgiveness of the excitable Dublinites. Finally he yielded to expediency, and, coming forward to the centre of the stage, expressed his contrition. At this, a puppy in the pit cried out “Kneel, you rascal!” and Evans, now thoroughly exasperated, tartly answered: “No, you rascal! I’ll kneel to none but God, and my Queen.” Then the performance began.[A]
[Footnote A: “As there were many worthy gentlemen of the army who knew the whole affair, the new rais’d clamour ceas’d, and the play went through without any molestation, and, by degrees, things return’d to their proper channel By this we may see, it is some danger for an actor to be in the right.”–CHETWOOD.]
How Chetwood bubbles over with a stream of ever-flowing anecdote. Much that he gives us in his “General History of the Stage” is only gossip, yet what is there more fascinating than tittle-tattle about players? The gossip of the drawing-room is merely inane, or else scandalous; but shift the scene to the theatre, and a story no longer bores; it is consecrated by the sacrament of interest. Is any apology necessary, therefore, if the quotation marks be again brought into requisition. This time the anecdote is of Thomas Griffith, an excellent comedian, and a harmless poet.
“After his commencing actor, he contracted a friendship with Mr. Wilks; which chain remained unbroke till the death of that excellent comedian. Tho’ Mr. Griffith was very young, Mr. Wilks took him with him to London (from Dublin), and had him entered for that season at a small salary. The ‘Indian Emperor’ being ordered on a sudden to be played, the part of Pizarro, a Spaniard, was wanting, which Mr. Griffith procured, with some difficulty. Mr. Betterton being a little indisposed, would not venture out to rehearsal, for fear of increasing his indisposition, to the disappointment of the audience, who had not seen our young stripling rehearse. But, when he came ready, at the entrance, his ears were pierced with a voice not familiar to him. He cast his eyes upon the stage, where he beheld the diminutive Pizarro, with a truncheon as long as himself (his own words.)
“He steps up to Downs, the prompter, and cry’d, ‘Zounds, Downs, what sucking scaramouch have you sent on there?’ ‘Sir,’ replied Downs, ‘He’s good enough for a Spaniard; the part is small.’ Betterton return’d, ‘If he had made his eyebrows his whiskers, and each whisker a line, the part would have been two lines too much for such a monkey in buskins.’
“Poor Griffith stood on the stage, near the door, and heard every syllable of the short dialogue, and by his fears knew who was meant by it; but, happy for him, he had no more to speak that scene. When the first act was over (by the advice of Downs) he went to make his excuse with–‘Indeed, Sir, I had not taken the part, but there was only I alone out of the play.’ ‘I! I!’ reply’d Betterton, with a smile, ‘Thou art but the tittle of an I.’ Griffith seeing him in no ill humour told him, ‘Indians ought to be the best figures on the stage, as nature had made them.’ ‘Very like,’ reply’d Betterton, ‘but it would be a double death to an Indian cobbler to be conquer’d by such a weazle of a Spaniard as thou art. And, after this night, let me never see a truncheon in thy hand again, unless to stir the fire.’ … He took his advice, laid aside the buskin, and stuck to the sock, in which he made a figure equal to most of his contemporaries.
“Our genius flutters with the plumes of youth, But observation wings to steddy truth.”
No one can resist telling another story, this time of fat Charles Hulet, whose abilities were only equalled by his corpulence. Having been apprenticed to a bookseller, he straightway proceeded to take a violent interest in the drama, and would often while away the evenings by spouting Shakespeare and other authors. In lieu of a company to support him young Hulet would designate each chair in the kitchen to represent one of the characters in the play he was reciting. “One night, as he was repeating the part of Alexander, with his wooden representative of Clytus (an old elbow-chair), and coming to the speech where the old General is to be kill’d, this young mock Alexander snatch’d a poker instead of a javelin, and threw it with such strength against poor Clytus, that the chair was kill’d upon the spot, and lay mangled on the floor. The death of Clytus made a monstrous noise, which disturbed the master in the parlour, who called out to know the reason; and was answered by the cook below, ‘Nothing, sir, but that Alexander has kill’d Clytus.'”
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In latter days Hulet took great pride in the sonorous tones of his voice, and loved nothing more dearly than to steal up behind a man and startle the unsuspecting one by giving a very loud “Hem.” It was a “Hem,” however, which helped to make the actor’s winding-sheet, for one fine day he repeated the trick, burst a blood-vessel, and died within twenty-four hours.
Heaven bless all these merry vagabonds! We may not always wish to follow in their footsteps, but we like to keep near them and pry into their careless, happy lives. When the Bohemians enter a pot-house we are too virtuous, presumably, to go in likewise, but we stand without, to get a tempting whiff of hot negus and a snatch of some genial jest or tuneful song. Then, if our players stray, perchance, into the gloomy precincts of a pawn-shop, are we not quite prepared to steal up to the window and discover what tribute is being paid to mine uncle? And so, speaking of pot-houses, and negus, and pawn-shops, let us end our extracts from the invaluable Chetwood with this unconventional reminiscence of another player, Mr. John Thurmond. It was a 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 Ingolsby with his. But his finances being at the last tide of ebb, the rich suit was put in buckle (a cant word for forty in the hundred interest). One night, notice was given that the General would be present with the Government at the play, and all the performers on the stage were preparing to dress out in the suits presented. The spouse of Johnny (as he was commonly called) try’d all her arts to persuade Mr. Holdfast, the pawnbroker (as it fell out, his real name) to let go the cloaths for that evening, to be returned when the play was over. But all arguments were fruitless; nothing but the Ready, or a pledge of full equal value. Such people would have despised a Demosthenes, or a Cicero, with all their rhetorical flourishes, if their oratorian gowns had been in pledge. Well! what must be done? The whole family in confusion and all at their wits-end; disgrace, with her glaring eyes and extended mouth, ready to devour. Fatal appearance!
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“At last Winny, the wife (that is, Winnifrede), put on a compos’d countenance (but, alas! with a troubled heart); stepp’d to a neighbouring tavern, and bespoke a very hot negus, to comfort Johnny in the great part he was to perform that night, begging to have the silver tankard with the lid, because, as she said, ‘a covering, and the vehicle silver, would retain heat longer than any other metal,’ The request was comply’d with, the negus carry’d to the playhouse piping hot, popp’d into a vile earthen mug–the tankard _l’argent_ travelled _incog_. under her apron (like the Persian ladies veil’d), popp’d into the pawnbroker’s hands, in exchange for the suit–put on and play’d its part, with the rest of the wardrobe; when its duty was over, carried back to remain in its old depository; the tankard return’d the right road; and, when the tide flowed with its lunar influence, the stranded suit was wafted into safe harbour again, after paying a little for ‘dry docking,’ which was all the damage received.”
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And Mr. Chetwood adds:
“Thus woman’s wit (tho’ some account it evil) With artful wiles can overreach the Devil.”
Among such as these, good, bad and indifferent, moral and otherwise, did Mistress Oldfield pass what hours she consecrated to the theatre. In the early years, when merely a poor, struggling postulant before the altar of fame, the girl must have been more or less intimate with her dramatic associates, but as time went on and Nance blazed into a star of the first magnitude, the old feeling of fellowship may have become weakened. Not that the actress was in any sense snobbish; rather let it be said that the circumstances of her celebrity proved quite enough, in the course of human affairs, to separate her from the other players. Indeed, one of her biographers relates that Oldfield always went in state to Drury Lane, accompanied by two footmen, and that she seldom spoke to any one of the actors.[A]
[Footnote A: She always went to the house (_i.e._, the theatre) in the same dress she had worn at dinner in her visits to the houses of great people; for she was much caressed on account of her general merit, and her connection with Mr. Churchill. She used to go to the playhouse in a chair, attended by two footmen; she seldom spoke to any one of the actors, and was allowed a sum of money to buy her own clothes.–“General Biographical Dictionary.”]
Nance may have made her entry into the green-room amid royal auspices, but who can for a second believe that “she seldom spoke to any one of the actors”? There was in her composition too much of sunshine to warrant any such belief, and then we know that behind the scenes she was ever affable and friendly. If she did not brook familiarity which comes of contempt, and if she moved about among her companions with dignity, then so much the better.
Of Nance’s sweetness of temper and sterling common-sense, Cibber has left us an attractive memory. It seems that when the Drury Lane management determined to revive “The Provoked Wife” of Sir John Vanbrugh (January 1726), Colley suggested that Wilks should take a rest during the run of the piece, and allow Barton Booth to play the lover, Constant. The idea did not meet with Wilks’ approval; “down dropt his brow, and fur’d were his features”; and the green-room became the scene of a violent spat between Cibber and himself, with Mrs. Oldfield and other members of the company as excited listeners. Finally the author of the “Apology” said: “Are you not every day complaining of your being over-labour’d? And now, upon the first offering to ease you, you fly into a passion, and pretend to make that a greater grievance than t’other: But, Sir, if your being in or out of the play is a hardship, you shall impose it upon yourself: The part is in your hand, and to us it is a matter of indifference now whether you take it or leave it.”
[Illustration: SIR JOHN VANBRUGH By Sir GODFREY KNELLER]
Upon this Mr. Wilks “threw down the part upon the table, crossed his arms, and sate knocking his heel upon the floor, as seeming to threaten most when he said least.” Hereupon Booth generously yielded up the much disputed Constant to his rival with the remark that “for his part, he saw no such great matter in acting every day; for he believed it the wholsomest exercise in the world; it kept the spirits in motion, and always gave him a good stomach”–and the elegant Barton, be it remembered, was a great eater.
* * * * *
“Here,” says Cibber, “I observed Mrs. Oldfield began to titter behind her fan. But Wilks being more intent upon what Booth had said, reply’d, every one could best feel for himself, but he did not pretend to the strength of a pack-horse; therefore if Mrs. Oldfield would chuse anybody else to play with her, he should be very glad to be excus’d. This throwing the negative upon Mrs. Oldfield was, indeed, a sure way to save himself; which I could not help taking notice of, by saying it was making but an ill compliment to the company to suppose there was but one man in it fit to play an ordinary part with her.
“Here Mrs. Oldfield got up, and turning me half round to come forward, said with her usual frankness, ‘Pooh! you are all a parcel of fools, to make such a rout about nothing!’ Rightly judging that the person most out of humour would not be more displeased at her calling us all by the same name. As she knew, too, the best way of ending the debate would be to help the weak, she said, she hop’d Mr. Wilks would not so far mind what had past as to refuse his acting the part with her; for tho’ it might not be so good as he had been us’d to, yet she believed those who had bespoke the play would expect to have it done to the best advantage, and it would make but an odd story abroad if it were known there had been any difficulty in that point among ourselves. To conclude, Wilks had the part.”
Verily, Oldfield was a gentlewoman.
CHAPTER IX
“GRIEF A LA MODE”
“UNDERTAKER [_To his men_]. Well, come you that are to be mourners in this house, put on your sad looks, and walk by me that I may sort you. Ha, you! a little more upon the dismal; [_forming their countenances_] this fellow has a good mortal look–place him near the corpse: that wainscot face must be o’ top of the stairs; that fellow’s almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some strange misery) at the entrance to the hall. So–but I’ll fix you all myself. Let’s have no laughing now on any provocation. [_Makes faces_.] Look yonder, that hale, well-looking puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man’s service, and shew you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week, to be sorrowful? and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are.
“_Enter a_ BOY.
“BOY. Sir, the grave-digger of St. Timothy’s in the Fields would speak with you.
“UNDERTAKER. Let him come in.
“_Enter_ GRAVE-DIGGER.
“GRAVE-DIGGER. I carried home to your house the shroud the gentleman was buried in last night; I could not get his ring off very easilly, therefore I brought you the finger and all; and, sir, the sexton gives his service to you, and desires to know whether you’d have any bodies removed or not: if not, he’ll let them be in their graves a week longer.
“UNDERTAKER. Give him my service; I can’t tell readilly: but our friend, Dr. Passeport, with the powder, has promised me six or seven funerals this week.”
* * * * *
These extracts are not from the manuscript of a modern farce-comedy,[A] but belong to Steele’s play of “The Funeral, or Grief a la Mode.” If they have about them all the air of _fin-de-siecle_ wit, so much the more eloquently do they testify to the freshness of Dick’s satire. Freshness, satire, and death! Surely the three ingredients seem unmixable; yet when poured into the crucible of Steele’s genius they resulted in a crystal that sparkled delightfully amid the lights of a theatre–a crystal which might still shed brilliancy if some enterprising manager would exhibit it to a jaded public.
[Footnote A: In “A Milk White Flag,” a good specimen of “up-to-date” farce, Mr. Hoyt dallies entertainingly and discreetly with the blithesome topics of undertakers, corpses, and widows.]
In “The Funeral” the author impaled, with many a merciless slash of the pen, the hypocrisy and vulgar flummery that characterised the whole gruesome ceremony of conducting to its earthly resting-place the body of a well-to-do sinner. For the average Englishman loved a funeral and all its ghastly accompaniments as passionately as though he had Irish blood in his veins, and often insisted upon investing the burial of his friends with the mockery, rather than the sincerity, of woe.
Grief thus became a pleasure, and it was a pleasure, be it added, which was not taken too sadly. (Pardon the paradox.) The spirits of the deceased’s many admirers had to be raised, and the enlivening process was set in motion by means of numerous libations, not of tea, but of lusty wine. When the wife of mine host of the “Crown and Sceptre” left this world of cooking and drinking, the women who crowded to the good lady’s funeral had to drown their sorrows in a tun of red port,[A] and it is evident that at the burial of men the grief of the mourners required an equal amount of quenching. Indeed, the most absurd expenditures and preparations were made for what should be the simplest of ceremonies, and the result oftentimes proved garish in the extreme. As an example of the display in this direction, John Ashton quotes from the _Daily Courant_ a report of the obsequies of Sir William Pritchard, sometime Lord Mayor of London. After a vast deal of pomp wasted in St. Albans and other places upon the unappreciative and inanimate Pritchard, the remains reached the country seat of the deceased, in the county of Buckingham. “Where, after the body had been set out, with all ceremony befitting his degree, for near two hours, ’twas carried to the church adjacent in this order, viz., 2 conductors with long staves, 6 men in long cloaks two and two, the standard, 18 men in cloaks as before, servants to the deceas’d two and two, divines, the minister of the parish and the preacher, the helm and crest, sword and target, gauntlets and spurs, born by an officer of Arms, both in their rich coats of Her Majesty’s Arms enbroider’d; the body, between 6 persons of the Arms of Christ’s Hospital, St. Bartholomew’s, Merchant Taylors Company, City of London, empaled coat and single coat; the chief mourner and his four assistants, followed by the relations of the defunct, &c.”[B] In this aggregation of grandeur the mere bagatelle in the shape of a corpse seems almost completely overshadowed, and it is thus comforting to reflect that the latter finally had interment in a “handsome large vault, in the isle on the north side of the church, betwixt 7 and 8 of the clock that evening.” The dear departed, or grief for his memory, frequently played but too small a role in all these trappings of despondency, and the insignificance of the deceased might only be likened to the secondary position of a man at his own wedding. It was all fuss and mortuary feathers, mourning rings and mulled wine in the one case, just as in the other it is entirely a show of bride and blushes, flounces and femininity. [Footnote A: In writing of the customs connected with old-time English funerals, Misson says: “The relations and chief mourners are in a chamber apart, with their more intimate friends; and the rest of the guests are dispersed in several rooms about the house. When they are ready to set out, they nail up the coffin, and a servant presents the company with sprigs of rosemary: Every one takes a sprig and carries it in his hand till the body is put into the grave, at which time they all throw their sprigs in after it. Before they set out, and after they return, it is usual to present the guests with something to drink, either red or white wine, boil’d with sugar and cinnamon, or some such liquor. Butler, the keeper of a tavern, told me there was a tun of red port drank at his wife’s burial, besides mull’d white wine. Note, no men ever go to women’s burials, nor the women to the men’s; so that there were none but women at the drinking of Butler’s wine. Such women in England will hold it out with the men, when they have a bottle before them, as well as upon t’other occasion, and tattle infinitely better than they.”]
[Footnote B: The will of Benjamin Dod, a Roman Catholic citizen of London (died 1714) runs in part as follows: “I desire four and twenty persons to be at my burial … to every of which four and twenty persons … I give a pair of white gloves, a ring of ten shillings value, a bottle of wine at my funeral, and half a crown to be spent at their return that night; to drink my soul’s health, then on her Journey for Purification in order to Eternal Rest. I appoint the room, where my corpse shall lie, to be hung with black, and four and twenty wax candles to be burning; on my coffin to be affixed a cross and this inscription, _Jesus Hominum Salvator_. I also appoint my corpse to be carried in a herse drawn with six white horses, with white feathers, and followed by six coaches, with six horses to each coach, to carry the four and twenty persons…. Item, I give to forty of my particular acquaintance, not at my funeral, to every one of them a gold ring of ten shillings value…. As for mourning, I leave that to my executors hereafter nam’d; and I do not desire them to give any to whom I shall leave a legacy…. I will have no Presbyterian, Moderate Low Churchmen, or Occasional Conformists, to be at or have anything to do with my funeral. I die in the Faith of the True Catholic Church. I desire to have a tomb stone over me, with a Latin inscription, and a lamp, or six wax candles, to burn seven days and nights thereon.”–_Vide_ ASHTON.]
Was it any wonder that when Dick Steele, aetat twenty-six, an officer of Fusiliers, and a merry vagabond, wanted to redeem his reputation by writing a rollicking comedy, his thoughts turned to the satirising of the British undertaker? For the young man must prove to the town that he was not the hypocrite several of his kind friends had dubbed him. The fact was, that he had been virtuous enough to write a pious work entitled, “The Christian Hero,” which he afterwards published, but as he had not grown sufficiently master of himself to live up to its golden precepts (nay, rather did he continue to spend his evenings in the taverns), the author came in for many a taunt and sneer. Why did he not practice what he preached? was the sarcastic query of his intimates.
Yet there was no thought of cant in what the soldier had done. His design in issuing the “Christian Hero” was, as he explained in after years, “principally to fix upon his own mind a strong impression of virtue and religion, in opposition to a stronger propensity towards unwarrantable pleasures.” This secret admiration was too weak; he therefore printed the book with his name, in hopes that a standing testimony against himself, and the eyes of the world (that is to say, of his acquaintances) upon him in a new light, would make him ashamed of understanding and seeming to feel what was virtuous, and living so contrary to life.
But the man was weak where the author was willing, and thus gay Richard went on “living so contrary a life” with true Celtic perversity, and made of himself anything but a Christian Hero. Rather was he a jolly Pagan, with a passion for his wine and his coffee-house, and a kindly, merry word even for those who twitted him upon his inconsistency. It was plain, therefore, that he must be some other sort of hero, and so he evolved the brilliant satire of “The Funeral,” to “enliven his character, and repel the sarcasms of those who abused him for his declarations relative to religion.”
[Illustration: SIR RICHARD STEELE
By Sir GODFREY KNELLER]
In the twinkling of an eye Steele became the spoiled darling of the day. The comedy, which was produced at Drury Lane in 1702, was the talk of the enthusiastic town, and the playwright arose from his beer-mugs, his wine-flagons, and his contemplation of ideal Christianity, to find himself famous. He had opened a new vein of satire, and a vein moreover which upheld virtue and laughed to scorn hypocrisy and vice. That was a moral which the dramatists of his epoch seldom taught.[A] And so the people crowded to the theatre, applauded the sentiment of the play, guffawed at the keen wit of the dialogue, and swore that this young rascal Steele was the prince of bright fellows. Then they went home–and revelled, as before, in the funerals of their friends.
[Footnote A: The “Funeral” is the merriest and most perfect of Steele’s comedies. The characters are strongly marked, the wit genial, and not indecent. Steele was among the first who set about reforming the licentiousness of the old comedy. His satire in the “Funeral” is not against virtue, but vice and silliness.–DR. DORAN.]
What of this remarkable comedy? Its story turned upon the marriage of the elderly Lord Brumpton to a designing young minx who estranges the nobleman from his son, Lord Hardy, the gentlemanly, poverty-stricken leading man of the piece. When Brumpton has a cataleptic fit, and is apparently dead as a doornail, the spouse confides his body to the undertaker with feelings of serene pleasure. But let the lines of the play, or a portion thereof, unfold the situation.
The scene is at Lord Brumpton’s house; the nobleman has just been pronounced defunct, and Sable, the undertaker, has arrived. The latter, who is being bantered by two of the characters, Mr. Campley and Cabinet, is evidently a bit of a philosopher, albeit an uncanny one, for he says:
* * * * *
“There are very few in the whole world that live to themselves, but sacrifice their bosom-bliss to enjoy a vain show and appearance of prosperity in the eyes of others; and there is often nothing more inwardly distressed than a young bride in her glittering retinue, or deeply joyful than a young widow in her weeds and black train; of both which the lady of this house may be an instance, for she has been the one, and is, I’ll be sworn, the other.
“CABINET. You talk, Mr. Sable, most learnedly.
“SABLE. I have the deepest learning, sir, experience; remember your widow cousin, that married last month.
“CABINET. Ay, but how you’d you imagine she was in all that grief an hypocrite! Could all those shrieks, those swoonings, that rising falling bosom, be constrained? You’re uncharitable, Sable, to believe it. What colour, what reason had you for it?
“SABLE. First, Sir, her carriage in her concerns with me, for I never yet could meet with a sorrowful relict but was herself enough to make a hard bargain with me. Yet I must confess they have frequent interruptions of grief and sorrow when they read my bill; but as for her, nothing she resolv’d, that look’d bright or joyous, should after her love’s death approach her. All her servants that were not coal-black must turn out; a fair complexion made her eyes and heart ake, she’d none but downright jet, and to exceed all example, she hir’d my mourning furniture by the year, and in case of my mortality, ty’d my son to the same article; so in six weeks time ran away with a young fellow.”
* * * * *
And so on (with a cynicism of which, of course, no modern “funeral director” would be guilty–out loud), until the undertaker’s men come on the scene.
* * * * *
“Where in the name of goodness have you all been?” asks SABLE. “Have you brought the sawdust and tar for embalming? Have you the hangings and the sixpenny nails, and my lord’s coat of arms?”
“SERVANT. Yes, sir, and had come sooner, but I went to the herald’s for a coat for Alderman Gathergrease that died last night–he has promised to invent one against to-morrow.”
“SABLE. Ah! pox take some of our cits, the first thing after their death is to take care of their birth–let him bear a pair of stockings, he is the first of his family that ever wore one…. And you, Mr. Blockhead, I warrant you have not call’d at Mr. Pestle’s the apothecary: will that fellow never pay me? I stand bound for all the poison in that starving murderer’s shop: he serves me just as Dr. Quibus did, who promised to write a treatise against water-gruel, a healthy slop that has done me more injury than all the Faculty: look you now, you are all upon the sneer, let me have none but downright stupid countenances. I’ve a good mind to turn you all off, and take people out of the playhouse; but hang them, they are as ignorant of their parts as you are of yours…. Ye stupid rogues, whom I have picked out of the rubbish of mankind, and fed for your eminent worthlessness, attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff and immutable to all sense of noise, mirth or laughter. [_Makes mouths at them as they pass by him to bring them to a constant countenance_.] So, they are pretty well–pretty well.”
[_Exit_.
* * * * *
When the stage is clear Lord Brumpton and his servant Trusty enter. The former has wakened from his cataleptic trance, as the faithful Trusty watched beside him, and is horrified to learn of Lady Brumpton’s lack of grief. But hush; he will conceal himself, for here comes my lady, accompanied by her woman and confidant, Mistress Tattleaid.
* * * * *
“_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ TATTLEAID, _meeting and running to each other_.
“WIDOW. Oh, Tattleaid, his and our hour has come!
“TAT. I always said by his church yard cough, you’d bury him, and still you were impatient.
“WIDOW. Nay, thou hast ever been my comfort, my confident, my friend, and my servant; and now I’ll reward thy pains; for tho’ I scorn the whole sex of fellows I’ll give them hopes for thy sake; every smile, every frown, every gesture, humour, caprice and whimsy of mine shall be gold to thee, girl; thou shalt feel all the sweets and wealth of being a fine rich widow’s woman. Oh! how my head runs my first year out, and jumps to all the joys of widowhood! If thirteen months hence a friend should haul one to a play one has a mind to see,[A] what pleasure t’will be when my Lady Brumpton’s footman called (who kept a place for that very purpose) to make a sudden insurrection of fine wigs in the pit and side-boxes. Then, with a pretty sorrow in one’s face, and a willing blush for being stared at, one ventures to look round, and bow to one of one’s own quality. Thus [_very directly_] to a snug pretending fellow of no fortune. Thus [_as scarce seeing him_] to one that writes lampoons. Thus [_fearfully_] to one who really loves. Thus [_looking down_] to one woman-acquaintance, from box to box, thus [_with looks differently familiar_], and when one has done one’s part, observe the actors do theirs, but with my mind fixed not on those I look at, but those that look at me. Then the serenades–the lovers! [A query–if the theatres were patronised only by those who looked solely at the stage, what would be the size of the audiences?]
[Footnote A: A well-regulated widow kept herself at home for six weeks after the death of her husband, and denied herself the theatre and other public amusements for a twelvemonth.]
“TAT. Oh, madam, you make my heart bound within me: I’ll warrant you, madam, I’ll manage them all; and indeed, madam, the men are really very silly creatures, ’tis no such hard matter–they rulers! they governors! I warrant you indeed.
“WIDOW. Ay, Tattleaid, they imagine themselves mighty things, but government founded on force only, is a brutal power–we rule them by their affections, which blinds them into belief that they rule us, or at least are in the government with us. But in this nation our power is absolute; thus, thus, we sway–[_playing her fan_]. A fan is both the standard and the flag of England. I laugh to see men go on our errands, strut in great offices, live in cares, hazards and scandals, to come home and be fools to us in brags of their dispatches, negotiations, and their wisdoms–as my good dear deceas’d use to entertain me; which I, to relieve myself from, would lisp some silly request, pat him on the face. He shakes his head at my pretty folly, calls me simpleton; gives me a jewel, then goes to bed so wise, so satisfied, and so deceived.”
* * * * *
This pleasant conversation Lord Brumpton overhears, as he does also the inmost secrets of his lawyer, Puzzle. The latter gentleman, who has studied hard to cheat his good-natured employer, and succeeded, is a daringly drawn satire on the pettifogging attorney of the period.[A] Note the following words of wisdom, _apropos_ to the drawing of wills, which Mr. Puzzle addresses to his nephew.
[Footnote A: Of the attorney of Queen Anne’s day Ward wrote: “He’s an Amphibious Monster, that partakes of two Natures, and those contrary; He’s a great Lover both of Peace and Enmity; and has no sooner set People together by the Ears, but is Soliciting the Law to make an end of the Difference. His Learning is commonly as little as his Honesty; and his Conscience much larger than his Green Bag. Catch him in what Company soever, you will always hear him stating of Cases, or telling what notice my Lord Chancellor took of him, when he beg’d leave to supply the deficiency of his Counsel. He always talks with as great assurance as if he understood what he only pretends to know: And always wears a Band, and in that lies his Gravity and Wisdom. He concerns himself with no Justice but the Justice of a Cause: and for making an unconscionable Bill he outdoes a Taylor.”]
“PUZZLE. As for legacies, they are good or not, as I please; for let me tell you, a man must take pen, ink and paper, sit down by an old fellow, and pretend to take directions, but a true lawyer never makes any man’s will but his own; and as the priest of old among us got near the dying man, and gave all to the Church, so now the lawyer gives all to the law.
“CLERK. Ay, sir, but priests then cheated the nation by doing their offices in an unknown language.
“PUZZLE. True, but ours is a way much surer; for we cheat in no language at all, but loll in our own coaches, eloquent in gibberish, and learned in jingle. Pull out the parchment [_referring to the will of_ LORD BRUMPTON], there’s the deed; I made it as long as I could. Well, I hope to see the day when the indenture shall be the exact measure of the land that passes by it; for ’tis a discouragement to the gown, that every ignorant rogue of an heir should in a word or two understand his father’s meaning, and hold ten acres of land by half-an-acre of parchment. Nay, I hope to see the time when that there is indeed some progress made in, shall be wholly affected; and by the improvement of the noble art of tautology, every Inn in Holborn an Inn of Court. Let others think of logic, rhetoric, and I know not what impertinence, but mind thou tautology. What’s the first excellence in a lawyer? Tautology. What’s the second? Tautology. What’s the third? Tautology; as an old pleader said of action.”
* * * * *
Who shall say that the tautological sentiments of Mr. Puzzle are not still inculcated? Nay, the whole play furnishes a capital instance of the truism that the world changes but little, and, furthermore, that the mould of nigh two centuries cannot spoil the wit of sparkling Steele. Ah, Dick! Dick! you may have been a sorry dog, with your toasts and your taverns, yet ’tis a thousand pities that a few dramatists of to-day cannot drink inspiration from the same cups.
To continue our cheerful journey with this unusual “Funeral,” we soon find ourselves introduced to Lord Hardy, the unjustly discarded son of Brumpton. Hardy is a high-spirited, honest man of quality, a trifle out at elbows just now, owing to the stoppage of financial supplies from the paternal mansion. His straits are oft severe, and it is fortunate that he has in Trim a faithful servant who knows so well how to keep the duns at bay. “Why, friend, says I [Trim is describing to Hardy his method of dealing with his lordship’s creditors], how often must I tell you my lord is not stirring. His lordship has not slept well, you must come some other time; your lordship will send for him when you are at leisure to look upon money affairs; or if they are so saucy, so impertinent as to press a man of your quality for their own, there are canes, there’s Bridewel, there’s the stocks for your ordinary tradesmen; but to an haughty, thriving Covent Garden mercer, silk or laceman, your lordship gives your most humble service to him, hopes his wife is well; you have letters to write, or you would see him yourself, but you desire he would be with you punctually on such a day, that is to say, the day after you are gone out of town, Which shows very plainly that Trim could have earned large wages had he lived in the nineteenth century. These ‘Palmy Days’ are not long enough, however, to permit the introduction of all the characters, nor the outlining of the entire story, with its brisk love-interest. But this bit of dialogue, which occurs after Sable has discovered the much-alive Lord Brumpton, is too good to be ignored:
“SABLE. Why, my lord, you can’t in conscience put me off so; I must do according to my orders, cut you up, and embalm you, except you’ll come down a little deeper than you talk of; you don’t consider the charges I have been at already.
“LORD BRUMPTON. Charges! for what?
“SABLE. First, twenty guineas to my lady’s woman for notice of your death (a fee I’ve before now known the widow herself go halves in), but no matter for that–in the next place, ten pounds for watching you all your long fit of sickness last winter–
“LORD BRUMPTON. Watching me? Why I had none but my own servants by turns!
“SABLE. I mean attending to give notice of your death. I had all your long fit of sickness, last winter, at half a crown a day, a fellow waiting at your gate to bring me intelligence, but you unfortunately recovered, and I lost all my obliging pains for your service.
“LORD BRUMPTON. Ha! ha! ha! Sable, thou’rt a very impudent fellow. Half a crown a day to attend my decease, and dost thou reckon it to me?”
“SABLE…. I have a book at home, which I call my doomsday-book, where I have every man of quality’s age and distemper in town, and know when you should drop. Nay, my lord, if you had reflected upon your mortality half so much as poor I have for you, you would not desire to return to life thus–in short, I cannot keep this a secret, under the whole money I am to have for burying you.”
* * * * *
Of course Lady Brumpton is discomfited and disgraced at the end of the play, and, of course, Lord Brumpton is reconciled to his son–for Steele took care that virtue should be rewarded and the moral code otherwise preserved. As to her ladyship, who has proved a very entertaining sort of villain, we shall take leave of her in one of the best scenes of the comedy:
“WIDOW. _[Reading the names of the visitors who have called to leave their condolences]_ Mrs. Frances and Mrs. Winnifred Glebe, who are they?”
“TATTLEAID. They are the country great fortunes, have been out of town this whole year; they are those whom your ladyship said upon being very well-born took upon them to be very ill-bred.”
“WIDOW. Did I say so? Really I think it was apt enough; now I remember them. Lady Wrinkle–oh, that smug old woman! there is no enduring her affectation of youth; but I plague her; I always ask whether her daughter in Wiltshire has a grandchild yet or not. Lady Worth–I can’t bear her company; [_aside_] she has so much of that virtue in her heart which I have in mouth only. Mrs. After-day–Oh, that’s she that was the great beauty, the mighty toast about town, that’s just come out of the small-pox; she is horribly pitted they say; I long to see her, and plague her with my condolence…. But you are sure these other ladies suspect not in the least that I know of their coming?
“TAT. No, dear madam, they are to ask for me.
“WIDOW. I hear a coach. [_Exit_ TATTLEAID.] I have now an exquisite pleasure in the thought of surpassing my Lady Sly, who pretends to have out-grieved the whole town for her husband. They are certainly coming. Oh, no! here let me–thus let me sit and think. [_Widow on her couch; while she is raving, as to herself_, TATTLEAID _softly introduces the ladies_.] Wretched, disconsolate, as I am!… Alas! alas! Oh! oh! I swoon! I expire! [_Faints_.
“SECOND LADY. Pray, Mrs. Tattleaid, bring something that is cordial to her. [_Exit_ TATTLEAID.
“THIRD LADY. Indeed, madam, you should have patience; his lordship was old. To die is but going before in a journey we must all take.
_Enter_ TATTLEAID, _loaded with bottles_; THIRD LADY _takes a bottle from her and drinks_.
“FOURTH LADY. Lord, how my Lady Fleer drinks! I have heard, indeed, but never could believe it of her. [_Drinks also_.
“FIRST LADY. [_Whispers_.] But, madam, don’t you hear what the town says of the jilt, Flirt, the men liked so much in the Park? Hark ye–was seen with him in a hackney coach.
“SECOND LADY. Impudent flirt, to be found out!
“THIRD LADY. But I speak it only to you.
“FOURTH LADY. [_Whispers next woman_.] Nor I, but to no one.
“FIFTH LADY. [_Whispers the_ WIDOW.] I can’t believe it; nay, I always thought it, madam.
“WIDOW. Sure, ’tis impossible the demure, prim thing. Sure all the world is hypocrisy Well, I thank my stars, whatsoever sufferings I have, I have none in reputation. I wonder at the men; I could never think her handsome. She has really a good shape and complexion but no mein; and no woman has the use of her beauty without mein. Her charms are dumb, they want utterance. But whither does distraction lead me to talk of charms?
“FIRST LADY. Charms, a chit’s, a girl’s charms! Come, let us widows be true to ourselves, keep our countenances and our characters, and a fig for the maids.
“SECOND LADY. Ay, since they will set up for our knowledge, why should not we for their ignorance?
“THIRD LADY. But, madam, o’ Sunday morning at church, I curtsied to you and looked at a great fuss in a glaring light dress, next pew. That strong, masculine thing is a knight’s wife, pretends to all the tenderness in the world, and would fain put the unwieldly upon us for the soft, the languid. She has of a sudden left her dairy, and sets up for a fine town lady; calls her maid Cisly, her woman speaks to her by her surname of Mrs. Cherryfist, and her great foot-boy of nineteen, big enough for a trooper, is stripped into a laced coat, now Mr. Page forsooth.
“FOURTH LADY. Oh, I have seen her. Well, I heartily pity some people for their wealth; they might have been unknown else–you would die, madam, to see her and her equipage: I thought her horses were ashamed of their finery; they dragged on, as if they were all at plough, and a great bashful-look’d booby behind grasp’d the coach, as if he had never held one.
“FIFTH LADY. Alas! some people think there is nothing but being fine to be genteel; but the high prance of the horses, and the brisk insolence of the servants in an equipage of quality are inimitable.
“FIRST LADY. Now you talk of an equipage, I envy this lady the beauty she will appear in a mourning coach, it will so become her complexion; I confess I myself mourned for two years for no other reason. Take up that hood there. Oh, that fair face with a veil! [_They take up her hood_.
“WIDOW. Fie, fie, ladies. But I have been told, indeed, black does become–
“SECOND LADY. Well, I’ll take the liberty to speak it, there is young Nutbrain has long had (I’ll be sworn) a passion for this lady; but I’ll tell you one thing I fear she’ll dislike, that is, he is younger than she is.
“THIRD LADY. No, that’s no exception; but I’ll tell you one, he is younger than his brother.
“WIDOW. Talk not of such affairs. Who could love such an unhappy relict as I am? But, dear madam, what grounds have you for that idle story?
“FOURTH LADY. Why he toasts you and trembles where you are spoke of. It must be a match.
“WIDOW. Nay, nay, you rally, you rally; but I know you mean it kindly.
“FIRST LADY. I swear we do.
[TATTLEAID _whispers the_ WIDOW.
“WIDOW. But I must beseech you, ladies, since you have been so compassionate as to visit and accompany my sorrow, to give me the only comfort I can now know, to see my friends cheerful, and to honour an entertainment Tattleaid has prepared within for you. If I can find strength enough I’ll attend you; but I wish you would excuse me, for I have no relish of food or joy, but will try to get a bit down in my own chamber.
“FIRST LADY. There is no pleasure without you.
“WIDOW. But, madam, I must beg of your ladyship not to be so importune to my fresh calamity as to mention Nutbrain any more. I am sure there is nothing in it. In love with me, quotha!”
[WIDOW _is led away. Exeunt_ LADIES.
Thus runs the comedy, trippingly as the tongue of a gay _raconteur_. Sometimes the scenes are exaggerated, sometimes the characters may be overdrawn, but the satire is true, and the wit is of the best. Take, for instance, the picture reproduced above. Are not its colours–albeit bold and merciless–tinged with the redeeming hue of naturalness? And of you, fair daughters of Eve (if any of you condescend to read these pages), let the author ask one impertinent little question: Is there not something in the conversation of Dick Steele’s First Lady, or his Second Lady, or all the other Ladies, which suggests the charity and intellectuality that doth hedge in an afternoon tea?
CHAPTER X
THE BARTON BOOTHS
“Sweet are the charms of her I love, More fragrant than the damask rose;
Soft as the down of turtle-dove,
Gentle as winds when zephyr blows; Refreshing as descending rains,
On sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains.”
Thus rhapsodised the great Barton Booth, who could write harmless poetry when the cares of acting did not press too hard upon him. In this case the verses were addressed to the object of his passion, a lady who seems to have been, at first, a trifle parsimonious in her smiles; for, in another song intended for the same siren, the lover asks:
“Can then a look create a thought
Which time can ne’er remove?
Yes, foolish heart, again thou’rt caught, Again thou bleed’st for Love.
“She sees the conquest of her eyes,
Nor heals the wounds she gave;
She smiles when’er my blushes rise, And, sighing, shuns her Slave.
“Then, Swain, be bold! and still adore her Still the flying fair pursue:
Love, and friendship, still implore her, Pleading night and day for you.”
[Illustration: BARTON BOOTH]
Who was this “flying fair” that the swain pursued with such despairing fervour? Nance Oldfield? Nay, there was no romance there, for while Booth could make the most exquisite stage love to the actress, he never carried that love beyond the mimic world. Rather was it the lovely Mistress Santlow, that dancing bit of sunshine, who turned the heads of many an amorous spectator, and had enough of the temptress about her to lead a mighty warrior from the path of domestic constancy, and bring a Secretary of State almost to the verge of matrimony.[A] She seemed the apotheosis of grace, did this merry, moving Hester, and when she forsook the art she so delightfully adorned, and took to the “legitimate,” there were not a few among her admirers who regretted the change. “They mourned,” says Dr. Doran, “as if Terpsichore herself had been on earth to charm mankind, and had gone never to return. They remembered, longed for, and now longed in vain for that sight which used to set a whole audience half distraught with delight, when in the very ecstacy of her dance, Santlow contrived to loosen her clustering auburn hair, and letting it fall about such a neck and shoulders as Praxiteles could more readily imagine than imitate, danced on, the locks flying in the air, and half-a-dozen hearts at the end of every one of them.”
[Footnote A: The Duke of Marlborough and Secretary Craggs respectively.]
At the end of one of those locks was the throbbing heart of Barton Booth, which he had completely lost in watching the auburn hair and the poetic movements of the _coryphee:_
“But now the flying fingers strike the lyre, The sprightly notes the nymph inspire.
She whirls around! she bounds! she springs! As if Jove’s messenger had lent her wings.
“Such were her lovely limbs, so flushed her charming face So round her neck! her eyes so fair!
So rose her swelling chest! so flow’d her amber hair! While her swift feet outstript the wind, And left the enamor’d God of Day behind.”
Certes, Booth was in love when he wrote this eulogy.
But however sprightly and deftly did this charmer pirouette, she could not deny herself the luxury of appearing as a regular actress. Her first venture in this direction was as the Eunuch of “Valentinian,” wherein she donned boy’s attire, and was much more successful in masculine garb than have been not a few better artists. From this part to that of Dorcas Zeal in Shadwell’s play, “The Fair Quaker of Deal,”[A] was but a step, and a step, be it said, which for the moment consoled the public for her desertion from the ballet. According to Cibber, Santlow was the happiest incident in the fortune of the play, and the Laureate tells us that she was “then in the full bloom of what beauty she might pretend to.”[B] He adds that “before this she had only been admired as the most excellent dancer, which perhaps might not a little contribute to the favourable reception she now met with as an actress in this character which so happily suited her figure and capacity: the gentle softness of her voice, the composed innocence of her aspect, the modesty of her dress, the reserv’d deceny of her gesture, and the simplicity of the sentiments that naturally fell from her, made her seem the amiable maid she represented. In a word, not the enthusiastick Maid of Orleans was more serviceable of old to the French army when the English had distressed them, than this fair Quaker was at the head of that dramatick attempt upon which the support of their weak society depended.”
[Footnote A: Produced at Drury Lane in February, 1710.]
[Footnote B: It might appear from this remark of Colley’s that the Santlow was not over handsome. Yet if a picture taken from life does not belie her the dancer was most fair to look upon.]
This “weak society” was the new company recruited by William Collier for Drury Lane Theatre, and wherein could be found, in addition to the light-limbed Hester, such players as her adoring swain, Barton Booth, Theophilus Keen, George Powell, Francis Leigh, Mrs. Bradshaw and Mrs. Knight. Colley was at that time (1710) in opposition to Drury, his interest lying with the Hay market management, and it is very evident that the success of the “Fair Quaker”–a success made in face of the counter attraction furnished by the long trial of Dr. Sacheverel–went sorely against the grain with him.[A] The fact was that things at the Hay market were not flourishing, and the prosperity enjoyed by the Drury Lane comedy–and the Sacheverel show–seemed tantalising to bear.
[Footnote A: Shadwell evidently had Cibber in mind when he wrote in the preface to the “Fair Quaker of Deal”: “This play was written about three years since, and put into the hands of a famous comedian belonging to the Haymarket Playhouse, who took care to beat down the value of it so much as to offer the author to alter it fit to appear on the stage, on condition he might have half the profits of the third day; that is as much as to say, that it may pass for one of his, according to custom. The author not agreeing to this reasonable proposal, it lay in his hands till the beginning of this winter, when Mr. Booth read it, and liked it, and persuaded the author that, with a little alteration, it would please the town.”]
Even in after years Colley grew bitter in thinking of the “Fair Quaker,” and could not help indulging in a dig at its expense when he came to write the “Apology.” He likewise paid his satirical compliments to the new-fangled Italian opera which was given at the Haymarket during the season of 1709-10, on the days when the regular dramatic company did not appear. The opera had already proved a drawing attraction, but at the time here mentioned the popular interest in the performances had fallen off, and the dear and ever fickle public, of high and low degree, prefered either Drury Lane or the trial of Sacheverel to the artistic delights of music and the drama at the rival house. And so Cibber plaintively sighs.
“The truth is, that this kind of entertainment [opera] being so entirely sensual, it had no possibility of getting the better of our reason but by its novelty; and that novelty could never be supported but by an annual change of the best voices, which, like the finest flowers, bloom but for a season, and when that is over are only dead nosegays. From this natural cause we have seen within these two years even Farinelli singing to an audience of five and thirty pounds, and yet, if common fame may be credited, the same voice, so neglected in one country, has in another had charms sufficient to make that crown sit easy on the head of a Monarch, which the jealousy of politicians