"Quin," he remembers, "presented himself upon the rising of the curtain in a green velvet coat embroidered down the seams, an enormous full-bottom periwig, rolled stockings, and high-heeled, square-toed shoes; with very little variation of cadence, and in deep, full tones, accompanied by a sawing kind of motion which had more of the Senate than the stage in it, he rolled out his heroics with an air of dignified indifference that seemed to disdain the plaudits bestowed on him. Mrs. Cibber, in a key high-pitched, but sweet withal, sung, or rather recitatived Rowe's harmonious strain, somewhat in the manner of the improvisatore's. Mrs. Pritchard was an actress of a different cast, had more nature, and of course more change of tone, and variety both of action and expression. In my opinion the comparison was decidedly in her favor.

But when, after long and eager expectation, I first beheld little Garrick, then young and light, and alive in every muscle and in every feature, come bounding on the stage, and pointing at the wittol Altamont (Ryan) and heavy-paced Horatio (Quin), Heavens, what a transition! It seemed as if a whole century had been stepped over in the changing of a single scene -old things were done away, and a new order at once brought forward, light and luminous, and clearly destined to dispel the barbarisms and bigotry of a tasteless age, too long attached to the prejudices of custom, and superstitiously devoted to the illusions of imposing declamation."

CHAPTER XII.

G

THE PALMY DAYS OF GARRICK.

ARRICK proved so great a magnet at Covent Garden that Lacy, of the now almost deserted Drury Lane, had the good sense to take the figurative bull by the horns, by trying to catch the hero for his own house. The result was a series of negotiations ending in the purchase, by the actor, of a half interest in the patent of the latter theatre, for the sum of £8000. Thus he became co-partner with Lacy in the enterprise, and the strangest part of the whole transaction was the indifference, nay, actual pleasure, with which Rich, of Covent Garden, regarded the loss of his most important performer. Davies explains this singular philosophy when he says: "It was imagined by those who knew his [Rich's] humor best, that he would have been better pleased to see his great comedians show away to empty benches, that he might have had an opportunity to mortify their pride, by bringing out a new pantomime, and drawing the town after his raree-show. Often he would take a peep at the house through the curtain, and as often, from disappointment and disgust, arising from the view of a full audience,

break out into the following expression: "What, are you there? Well, much good may it do you !'"'

Mr. Rich had so firm a belief in the efficacy of pantomime and of his own talents therein, that he looked upon the "legitimate" as something of an impertinence, at least when he was obliged to give it house-room. "Though he might have easily fixed Mr. Garrick in his service long before he had bargained for a share of Drury Lane patent, he gave himself no concern, when he was told of a matter so fatal to his own interest; he rather seemed to consider it as a release from a disagreeable engagement, and consoled himself with mimicking the great actor. It was a ridiculous sight to see the old man upon his knees repeating Lear's curse to his daughter, after Garrick's manner, as he termed it; while some of the players who stood round him gave him loud applause; and others, though they were obliged to join in the general approbation, heartily pitied his folly and despised his ignorance." And so good-day to you, intelligent Mr. Rich, and stifle any after regrets you may experience with the comforting thought that your artistic perceptions are quite as deep as those of the average manager.

While Rich extracted entertainment from his caricature of Garrick the latter quickly gathered a goodly company about him, including the tragic Mistress Pritchard and the engaging Mrs. Cibber, and re-opened Drury Lane in September, 1747, with the Merchant of Venice. Garrick himself spoke a prologue written by

his friend, Dr. Johnson, who, for all his much vaunted hatred of the stage, could, on occasion, stand sponsor for it very gracefully. In these verses, which were long cherished as among the classics of modern literature, the sage of Grub Street, briefly but cleverly described the transitions of the drama from the time

“When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose ;
Each change of many-color'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new;'

until coming down to his own time the poet says, truly enough, if a bit pompously:

"The stage but echoes back the public voice;
The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give;

For we that live to please, must please to live,”

and in conclusion he calls upon the crowded and brilliant audience to

bid the reign commence

Of rescu'd Nature and reviving Sense;

To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show,
For useful mirth, and salutary woe,

Bid scenic virtue form the rising age,

And truth diffuse her radiance from the stage."

There was one joyous woman there that happy night, probably as the Portia, who could "diffuse her radiance from the stage as few actresses have done before or since, and whose plastic art seemed almost equally suited to "useful mirth" or "salutary woe." This was brilliant Peg Woffington, she of the lovely pensive face, squeaky voice, and imperious yet charming spirit,

who could shine in anything from gloomy Lady Macbeth to the rakish Sir Harry Wildair, and whose attractions, if her contemporaries can be believed, suggest a glorified mixture of Bracegirdle, Oldfield, and Ellen Terry. This bright particular star in Garrick's constellation, who might have been a great tragedienne had she not proved so wonderful in comedy, was the daughter of an Irish laundress, and though she could act the woman of quality as if "to the manner born" a few of her Dublin admirers remembered how, as a girl, she sold salad and water-cresses on the streets. After the death of her father, a bricklayer, Peg's mother opened a huckster's shop on Ormond Quay, in the Irish capital, and the daughter, already pretty and attractive, fell in with a rope dancer named Madame Violante, to whom she was apprenticed, so to speak, as a promising pupil.

Soon Woffington is dancing in the Violante's booth, and playing in a juvenile performance of the Beggar's Opera, and when only seventeen she appears on the Dublin stage. She tries the gentle Ophelia, and actually succeeds in the role, playing a number of other parts and giving nothing more welcome than an essentially piquante, feminine impersonation of the masculine Wildair. It was in this character that she would subsequently eclipse even Garrick and be the innocent cause of a proposal of marriage from an infatuated young lady, who would mistake Sir Harry for a man. So at least goes the romance, and why care to doubt it?