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would set his foot on the stage unless Joe were instantly dismissed. Joe was accordingly sent off, but nothing downhearted, he instantly joined a company of strollers at Greenwich, where he acted and danced for some time; but tiring soon, he lampooned them all and came to London.

'Joe had not forgotten that Hart had been the cause of his dismissal, and resolved to be revenged; accordingly, as he was one day walking in the street, he met a parson of an odd, simple appearance, whom he accosted in a friendly manner, as if they had been formerly acquainted, although he had never seen him before, and they adjourned together to a tavern, where the parson informed Joe that he had been chaplain to the ship Monke, but was then in lack of employment. Joe expressed great satisfaction at hearing the news, as it was in his power to help him to a place of sixty pounds a year, bed, board, and washing, besides gifts at Christmas and Easter, only for officiating one hour in the four-and-twenty, from nine to ten o'clock in the forenoon. The marine priest was delighted, and, returning his warmest thanks, entreated Joe to inform him of the particulars. Upon which Joe told him that his name was Haynes, that he was one of the patentees of Drury Lane theatre, and that he would make him chaplain to the playhouse.

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Against to-morrow, said Joe, "I would have you provide yourself with a bell, and there is half-a-crown to buy one; and at nine o'clock go to the playhouse and ring your bell and call them all to prayers, saying, in an audible voice, 'Players, come to prayers! players, come to prayers.' This you must do, lest they mistake you for the dustman, both bells being so much alike. But there is one that I particularly desire you to take care of; on the third door on the left lives one Mr. Hart. That gentleman, whether he be delirious or frantic, or whether he be possessed of some notions of atheism, if you mention prayers, will laugh at you, perhaps swear, curse, and abuse you. If it proceed from the first, the poor unhappy gentleman ought to be pitied; but if from the latter, he shall quit the house, for I will never suffer such wickedness in any playhouse where I am concerned; and do, my good Sir, let it be your earnest endeavour to find out the cause, and by your ghostly exhortations to remove the effects,such weeds must not be permitted to grow in a vineyard where you are the gardener; abuse you must expect, but your reward will be great gain go to his house and oblige him to come along with you to prayers." 'Being thus advised, the parson, after a parting cup, withdrew and bought the bell.

Next morning, according to orders, his reverence went to the theatre, ringing his bell, and calling aloud," Players, come to prayers! players, come to prayers!" Finding Hart's door open, he went in bawling," Players, come to prayers." Hart came down in a violent passion, and demanded to know why he was so disturbed.

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The parson replied, "Players, come to prayers!"

Hart, seeing no help, bridled his passion, and said, "that he wondered how a gentleman of his gown and seeming sense, could make himself so ridiculous." The parson looked at him with an eye of doubt, then rang his bell again, and bawled to the pitch of his voice, "Players, come to prayers!" Hart, in desperation, now began to swear; but the other informed him "I have been told of your cursing and swearing and atheistical blasphemies; but, nevertheless, I will do my duty," and accordingly laid hands on Hart to drag him away, bawling, "Players, come to prayers!"

At this new absurdity, Hart began to suspect that his reverence was mad, or that some trick was played upon him, and asked him to walk into his room, when, after they had drunk a cup of sack together, the parson told the whole story of his engagement. The poor man was soon undeceived; the story, taking wings, reached the ears of King Charles, who was so mightily pleased with the joke, that he sent for Joe, and had him reinstated in the theatre.'-vol. i. pp. 33-36.

This was not all. A scene followed that would have cut a capital figure in the part of Bob Acres. The son of the deceived parson, who was reputed to be a dangerous swordsman, and conducted himself in consequence as a swaggering bully, declared that he must have satisfaction for the insult which Haynes had offered to his father. Meeting Joe in the street, they came to high words, and adjourned to a tavern to end the dispute. Before they fell to fighting, Joe required a few minutes to say his prayers, for which purpose he adjourned to an adjacent room, where, in language sufficiently loud to be heard by his opponent, he fervently besought forgiveness for having killed seventeen men in different duels, and for being just about to add another to that formidable number. The parson's son was perfectly satisfied, and took to his heels without further ceremony.

Joe, in his most eccentric course, next figured as Signor Salmatius, (a mountebank, according to his own report, celebrated all over Europe,) and proceeded into the country, attended by a numerous retinue of tumblers and dancers. His adventures in this new capacity are of the most ludicrous description, as, indeed, are all those in which he is subsequently concerned, he being at one time obliged to enlist as a soldier, now resuming the sock, now figuring as a dancer, in which quality we find him at Florence, teaching the Grand Duke's family; now acting the great count once more, and that, too, under the auspices of the Pope at Rome, who had his portrait painted. Returning to England, he next became successively an attorney, a puritan, and a quaker, and, finally, died as an actor.

Of a different, less varied, but more romantic description is the biography of Robert Wilks, in whose character we perceive many traces of high feeling and generosity. He commenced his career with a clandestine marriage, and for some years laboured on the Irish stage at a miserable pittance. There he became acquainted with the well-known George Farquhar, whose dramatic productions form, by their wit and pleasantry, so striking a contrast to the miseries of his life. Wilks, upon coming to England, joined the Drury-lane company under Betterton, and performed with great eclat, Roebuck, in Love and a Bottle, written by Farquhar, Palamede, in Marriage à la Mode, and Sir Harry Wildham, in The Trip to the Jubilee-a character which bis friend drew purposely for him. He was so attentive to the study of his parts, that he is said not to have misplaced so much as an article in any one

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of them during a period of forty years. He is highly praised by Sir Richard Steele, and by Davies, in his Dramatic Miscellanies. His Castalio was particularly admired. It is said of him, that in delicacy of address to ladies, he surpassed the best actors of his own time. In Hamlet, also, he displayed great power. He became joint manager of the Haymarket theatre, and also of Drurylane, in which office he is said to have performed many acts of the most generous kindness. One of these, of which the ill-starred Farquhar was the object, is worth transcribing. It is necessary to premise that Farquhar, in the vain expectation of receiving higher preferment from the Duke of Ormond, had just reduced himself to ruin by the sale of his commission, as a lieutenant, which he had held for several years in the Earl of Orrery's regiment.

Wilks endeavoured to cheer him, by representing that the Earl was a man of so much honour, that he would not show or even harbour in his breast any resentment upon that account, especially as the fault, if any had been committed, ought to be laid at the door of the Duke of Ormond. He then gave him his best advice in his kindest manner, and said there was but one way left for him to pursue, viz. "Write a play, and it shall be got up with all imaginable expedition."

"Write!" cried Farquhar, starting from his chair," is it possible that a man can write common sense who is heartless and has not one shilling in his pocket?"

"Come, come, George," replied Wilks, "banish melancholy, draw your drama, and bring the sketch with you to-morrow, for I expect you to dine with me. But as an empty pocket may cramp your genius, I desire you to accept my mite," and he presented him with twenty guineas.

When Wilks was gone, Farquhar retired to his study, and drew up the plot of The Beaux' Stratagem, which he delivered to Wilks next day, and the design being approved, he was desired to proceed and not to lose a day with the composition. This comedy, which is one of the best extant, was begun, finished, and acted in the space of six weeks; but too late, with all that haste, for the advantage of the author. On the third night, which was for his benefit, Farquhar died of a broken heart.'vol. i. pp. 64, 65.

We subjoin one or two more anecdotes, which will place the character of Wilks in an interesting and honourable point of view.

'Another anecdote of a different kind shewed that the good-nature and liberality of Wilks was not confined to objects of compassion or of friendship. He originated the proposal, by which a benefit was granted to assist the parish of St. Martin-in-the-Fields to rebuild their church; and the splendid Corinthian fabric that has been so long one of the principal ornaments of the metropolis, still stands a monument of dramatic munificence. There is something singularly ridiculous in making the playhouse a coadjutor of the church. It is subversive of all our established notions-accustomed to say with De Foe,

"Where'er the Lord erects a house of prayer,
The Devil's sure to build a chapel near.'

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But we must go no farther, for in this case, and even in these days of decadence, we fear it must be said,

"It will be found, upon examination,

That Satan has the largest congregation;"

for whether the preachers are in fault, or the players more attractive, certainly St. Martin's-in-the-Fields cannot boast of being too greatly frequented.

Among other of the many instances of Wilks's kindheartedness, we should not forget his liberality to the wretched Savage. The life and miseries of that unhappy poet are too well known to be related here, especially as I shall have occasion, in his own life, to speak both of the extraordinary source from which they arose, and the remarkable circumstances by which they were distinguished. In the shifts for shelter, to which this ill-fated man was reduced, he was sometimes obliged to take a dog's bed among the scenes of the playhouse. When Wilks was made acquainted with this, and the many hardships he had undergone, he went to the reputed mother of Savage, and so represented his desolate state to her, that she was moved to give him sixty guineas: at the same time, she assured Wilks that Savage was not, indeed, her son; that he was palmed upon her for the child which she had put out to nurse, and that she could never acknowledge him as hers; but as this is a point which Dr. Johnson, in his celebrated life of Savage, has disingenuously slurred over, we shall, in the proper place, treat of that particular more at large.

The second Mrs. Wilks having followed her predecessor, Wilks married again; and even in his third marriage he was as much ruled by affection, and as disinterested, as in the former two. The lady was a gentlewoman in Westminster, whose narrow circumstances compelled her to work with her needle, to support herself and family. Wilks having bought some holland for shirts, desired one of his acquaintance to get them made by a good sempstress, and it happened that they were given to this respectable person. When half a dozen were finished, they were delivered to Wilks, who was so well pleased with the niceness of the work, that he requested the gentlewoman might herself bring the remainder to his lodgings. This she did, and from that day he looked upon her as the only woman that could then make him happy; and, accordingly, he courted her in the most honourable manner.

A little time after their marriage, one of his acquaintance asked what could induce him, who had realized a plentiful fortune, to marry a woman who had none? The reply of Wilks was characteristic. "Sir, as Providence has been pleased to bless me with a competency sufficient to maintain myself and a family, could I do better than take to my arms one who wanted such a blessing? I assure you, that as love was the only motive that prompted me to marry the gentlewoman who is now my wife, the unhappy circumstances she was in shall not in the least diminish, but rather serve to increase my affection to her; and I am fully convinced, that as our love is reciprocal, there will be no room for complaint on either side. I shall look upon her children as my own; they shall not want anything that is necessary or convenient for them, nor am I under any apprehension of their not discharging a filial duty to me, since they have been educated in the best and most virtuous principles.” —vol. i. pp. 65-67.

The too celebrated Nell Gwin, obtains as an actress, a small niche in Mr. Galt's gallery. She is followed by William Mountfort,

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for aiding in whose murder, the reader will perhaps recollect that Lord Mohun, of duelling memory, was tried by the House of Lords and acquitted;-by Samuel Sandford, once admired for his representation of robbers and murderers; Mrs. Elizabeth Barry, famous for her performance of Monimia and Belvidera, but more so for her licentiousness;-Mrs. Anne Oldfield, of whom Pope has sung

Engaging Oldfield! who with grace and ease
Could join the arts to ruin and to please:

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Richard Savage, who is too universally known to detain us;Mrs. Centlivre, and Colley Cibber, to whom the same observation applies, and by Dogget, Booth, and George Farquhar.

Although the name of Quin is oftener heard of than that of almost any actor who has preceded or followed him, yet, as Mr. Galt properly remarks, there is no good life of him extant. It was therefore a matter of some difficulty and labour to collect from a variety of sources, the numerous and curious facts which constitute his biography in this collection. Contrary to the commonly received impression, Mr. Galt has ascertained that Quin was neither born in Ireland, nor of an Irish family. He was descended from an ancient English family of that name, and was born on the 24th of February, 1693, in King-street, Covent-garden. Some time before his birth his father had been settled as a barrister in Dublin, of which capital, his grandfather, Mark Quin, had been Lord Mayor in 1676, and in which he received the principal part of his education. Being destined for the bar, he came in due time to London, took chambers in the Temple, and studied "Coke on Littleton," with the usual success of volatile minds. Upon the death of his father he had scarcely any means of support, and his talents strongly directing him towards the stage, he obtained an engagement at Drury Lane, in August, 1717, where he continued to act for some time in characters of no sort of importance, until, by an accident, fortunate for him, the tragedy of Tamerlane was ordered to be revived by the Lord Chamberlain, and the actor who performed Bajazet, happening to be taken ill, Quin was appointed to read the part. This difficult task he executed with so much success, that the following night he made himself perfect master of it, and acquired considerable reputation by his appearance in it. It was however in Falstaff, which he undertook in 1720, that Quin laid the foundation of his fame. The following year is a sort of epoch in theatrical annals, as being the first in which that very unseemly practice in a free country, the attendance of soldiers as guards at the doors of the principal theatres, was established. The circumstances that gave rise to it are so ludicrously contemptible, that one wonders at the continuance of the usage.

The next year, 1721, of Quin's performance, is remarkable in dramatic history, as the first in which soldiers appeared as guards in the theatre: an useless pageant, and an event which may be ascribed to the occasional want of common sense, for which the English Government has been of old

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