My dear friend-There is no person on earth, whom I would sooner serve than Ryan-but, by, I will whistle Falstaff for no man." Once that he had settled down comfortably at Bath, to enjoy the tittle-tattle of the visitors, and his wine, whist, and venison, all of which he could command through his income from a respectable annuity, Quin forgot his troubles and became one of the wits of the place. He loved to talk of the good things of the table, and he even invented what he styled his “ Siamese" soup*; indeed, he prated so incessantly about his gourmandizing that he probably got a worse reputation in that respect than he deserved. How widespread was the popular belief on the subject is shown by Smollett's saying in Humphrey Clinker that "Quin is a real voluptuary in the articles of eating and drinking; and so confirmed an epicure in the common acceptation of the term, that he cannot put up with ordinary fare." And Garrick in a prologue to Florizel and Perdita, spoken at Drury Lane in 1756, had a thought for Quin's weakness when he said: * It is told that Quin was so much bothered by importunate friends to divulge the recipe of this soup that, in revenge, he invited a number of them to dinner, promising to tell them of the ingredients before they departed. When it came time to leave the guests were horrified to discover that the liquid they had so much enjoyed, on the supposition that they were tasting the genuine "Siamese" decoction, had been seasoned with a pair of old shoes, chopped into mincemeat. "But should you call for Falstaff, where to find him, He's gone, nor left one cup of sack behind him. Sunk in his elbow chair, no more he 'll roam, No more with merry wags to Eastcheap come; He's gone-to jest, and laugh, and give his sack at home." The old fellow departed this life, with all its capons, turtle soup, and cheering liquors, early in the year 1766. A malignant fever carried him off; but the ruling passion was strong even in his last moments, and the day before his taking away he drank a bottle of claret—the worst thing that he could have done under the circumstances and expressed the hope that he should leave all the pleasures of life with becoming dignity. And so ended the career of one of the most striking personalities of the eighteenth century, in whom so many contradicting qualities struggled for mastery. As an actor stilted yet commanding and forceful, as a man bad tempered and sensual, but generous, honest, and witty-such was James Quin, on whose tomb might justly have been written: "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." S AN IRISH SHYLOCK. INCE the golden days of the old Globe Theatre the character of Shylock had been a favorite one for the English actor to test his mettle with, yet it remained for an Irishman to play the money-lender as none other had been able to do before him, and as few, if any, have done since. This Shylock, of whom the critical Pope said "This is the Jew That Shakespeare drew," was none other than Charles Macklin, who, though he played many different parts, is now best known to fame in connection with the Merchant of Venice. He was one of the most disagreeable personalities, as he was also one of the grandest actors, who ever trod the boards of an English theatre; boorish, quarrelsome, and coarse, with an unpleasant face, (whose lines were once irreverently spoken of as "cordage,") yet for all this a rough diamond of the first water, who sparkled ever so brilliantly on the stage, however unpolished he might seem amid less congenial surroundings. |