FOOTNOTES:
[91] This is a specimen of one of the greatest difficulties in the revision of Dr. Doran. He frequently writes of a play as being damned, which really was played for a few nights with no great success. In the present case, "Elfrid" was played five times.
[92] The comedy was entitled "Squire Brainless, or, Trick upon Trick." Neither of these pieces was the ghastly failure Dr. Doran implies.
[93] Acted six times.
POPE AND DR. GARTH.
[CHAPTER XV.]
UNION, STRENGTH, PROSPERITY.
Naturally and justifiably jubilant is Colley Cibber when giving the history of the united companies. That union led to a prosperity of twenty years, though the union itself did not last so long. We now find houses crowded beyond anything known to that generation; and that not so much from surpassing excellence on the part of the actors, as from their zeal, industry, and the willingness with which they worked together. This success doubled the salaries of the comedians, and "in the twenty years, while we were our own directors," says Colley, with honest pride, "we never had a creditor that had occasion to come twice for his bill; every Monday morning discharged us of all demands, before we took a shilling for our own use."
These halcyon days had, no doubt, their little passing clouds; some prejudices and jealousies would arise among the leaders, as excellence began to manifest itself from below; but these, as Cibber remarks, with a lofty philosophy, were "frailties, which societies of a higher consideration, while they are composed of men, will never be entirely free from." Cibber and his fellows deserved to prosper. Although they enjoyed a monopoly they did not abuse it; and £1500 profit to each of the three managers, in one year, the greatest sum ever yet so realised on the English stage, showed what might be done, without the aid of "those barbarous entertainments," of acrobats and similar personages, for which the dignified Cibber had the most profound and wholesome horror.
While the management was in the hands of Cibber, Wilks, and Dogget, the good temper of the first was imperturbable. He yielded, or seemed to yield, to the hot hastiness of Wilks, and lent himself to the captious waywardness of Dogget. However impracticable the latter was, Cibber always left a way open to reconciliation. In the very bitterest of their feuds, "I never failed to give him my hat and 'your servant,' whenever I met him, neither of which he would ever return for above a year after; but I still persisted in my usual salutation, without observing whether it was civilly received or not." Dogget would sit sullen and silent, at the same table with Cibber, at Will's—the young gentlemen of the town loitering about the room, to listen to the critics, or look at the actors—and Cibber would treat the old player with deference, till the latter was graciously pleased to be softened, and ask for a pinch from Colley's box, in token of reconciliation.
Almost the only word approaching to complaint advanced by Cibber refers to public criticism. The newspapers, and especially Mist's Journal, he says, "took upon them very often to censure our management, with the same freedom and severity as if we had been so many ministers of state." This is thoroughly Cibberian in humour and expression. For these critics, however, Colley had a supreme contempt. Wilks and Booth, who succeeded Dogget, were more sensitive, and would fain have made reply; but Cibber remarked that the noise made by the critics was a sign of the ability and success of the management. If we were insignificant, said he, and played only to empty houses, these fellows would be silent.
When the fashion of patronising the folly of pantomimes came in, Cibber reluctantly produced one at Drury Lane, but only "as crutches to the plays." In the regular drama itself, it seemed immaterial to him what he acted, so that the piece was well supported; and accordingly when the "Orphan" was revived, and the town had just been falsely told that Cibber was dead, "I quietly stole myself," he says, "into the part of the Chaplain, which I had not been seen in for many years before;" and as the audience received him with delight, Colley was satisfied and triumphant.
In the first season the poets were less successful than the players; Johnson's "Wife's Relief,"[94] and Mrs. Centlivre's "Perplexed Lovers," were failures. But the lady fell with some éclat. The epilogue produced more sensation than the play. Prince Eugene was then in England, and to Mrs. Oldfield were entrusted lines complimentary to the military talents of the Prince, and his brother in arms, the Duke of Marlborough. Political feuds were then so embittered, that the managers were afraid to allow the epilogue to be spoken; but on the second night, they fortified themselves by the Chamberlain's licence, and brave Mistress Oldfield delivered it, in spite of menacing letters addressed to her. The piece fell; but the authoress printed it, with a tribute of rhymed homage to the prince, who acknowledged the same by sending her a handsome and heavy gold snuff-box, with this inscription:—"The present of his Highness Prince Eugene of Savoy to Susanna Centlivre." Those heavy boxes—some of them furnished with a tube and spring for shooting the snuff up the nose, were then in fashion, and prince could hardly give more fitting present to poetess than a snuff-box, for which—
"Distant climes their various arts employ,
To adorn and to complete the modish toy.
Hinges with close-wrought joints from Paris come,
Pictures dear bought from Venice and from Rome.
Some think the part too small of modish sand,
Which at a niggard pinch they can command.
Nor can their fingers for that task suffice,
Their nose too greedy, not their hand too nice,
To such a height with these is fashion grown,
They feed their very nostrils with a spoon."
So sang the Rev. Samuel Wesley, in his somewhat indelicate satire on snuff, addressed to his sister, Keziah. Mrs. Centlivre's box probably figured at Drury Lane, and in very good company, with other boxes carried by ladies; for, says the poet—
"They can enchant the fair to such degree,
Scarce more admired could French romances be,
Scarce scandal more beloved or darling flattery;
Whether to th' India House they take their way,
Loiter i' the Park, or at the toilet stay,
Whether at church they shine, or sparkle at the play."
The great night of this season was that in which Philips' version of Racine's "Andromaque" was played,—the 17th of March, 1712. Of the "Distressed Mother," the following was the original cast:—Orestes, Powell; Pyrrhus, Booth; Pylades, Mills; Andromache, Mrs. Oldfield; Hermione, Mrs. Porter. The English piece is even duller than the French one; but there is great scope in it for good declamatory actors, and Booth especially led the town on this night to see in him the undoubted successor of Betterton.
All that could be done to render success assured, was done on this occasion, not only by the poet, but by his friends. Before the tragedy was acted, the Spectator informed the public that a masterpiece was about to be represented. On the first night, there was a packed audience of hearty supporters. During the run of the play,[95] the Spectator related the effect the tender tale had had on Sir Roger de Coverley.
We learn from Addison, in the puff preliminary, that at the reading of the "Distressed Mother," by one of the actors,—the players, who listened, were moved to tears, and that the reader, in his turn, was so overcome by his emotions, "that he was frequently obliged to lay down the book, and pause, to recover himself and give vent to the humanity which rose in him at some irresistible touches of the imagined sorrow." On the first night of its being played, the performance was said to be "at the desire of several ladies of quality." Sir Roger de Coverley, with Will Honeycombe and Captain Sentry, backed by two or three old servants,—the Captain wearing the sword he had wielded at Steinkirk, are described as being in the pit, early—four o'clock—before the house was full and the candles were lighted. There was access then for the public for a couple of hours before the curtain rose. The Knight thought the King of France could not strut it more imposingly than Booth in Pyrrhus. He found the plot so ingeniously complicated, that he could not guess how it would end, or what would become of Pyrrhus. His sympathies oscillated between the ladies, with a word of smart censure now and then for either; calling Andromache a perverse widow, and anon, Hermione "a notable young baggage." Turgid as this English adaptation now seems,—to Addison, its simplicity was one of its great merits. "Why!" says Sir Roger, "there is not a single sentence in the play that I don't know the meaning of!" It was listened to with a "very remarkable silence and stillness," broken only by the applause; and a compliment is paid to Mills who played Pylades, in the remark, "though he speaks but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them."
The epilogue, spoken by Mrs. Oldfield, and undoing all the soft emotions wrought by the tragedy, was repeated twice, for several consecutive nights. The audience could not have enough of it, and long years after, they called for it, whenever the piece was revived. Budgell was the reputed author, but Tonson printed it, with Addison's name as the writer. The latter, however, ordered that of Budgell to be restored, "that it might add weight to the solicitation which he was then making for a place."
Thus Ambrose Philips showed that he could write something more vigorous than the Pastorals, which had given him a name while at the University. He took higher rank among the wits at Button's Coffee-house, and had no reason to fear the censure or ridicule of men like Henry Carey, who fastened upon him the name of Namby Pamby. Success made the author not less solemn, but more pompous. He wore the sword, which he could boldly use, although his foes called him Quaker Philips—with an air; and the successful author of a new tragedy could become arrogant enough to hang a rod up at Button's, and threaten Pope with a degrading application of it, for having expressed contempt of the authors Pastorals.[96]
Whatever may be thought of this, Rowe and Philips were the first authors of the last century who wrote tragedies which have been played in our own times. But a greater than either was rising; for Addison was giving the last touches to "Cato;" and he, with Steele and others, was imparting his views and ideas on the subject to favourite actors over tavern dinners.
At the close of this season, was finished the brief career of an actor, who was generally considered to possess rare talents, but who was variously judged of by such competent judicial authority as Steele and Cibber. I allude to Richard Estcourt. His London career as a player lasted little more than half a dozen years, during which he distinguished himself by creating Serjeant Kite and Sir Francis Gripe. Downes asserts that he was a born actor. Steele mournfully says, "If I were to speak of merit neglected, misapplied, or misunderstood, might I not say that Estcourt has a great capacity? but it is not the interest of those who bear a figure on the stage that his talents were understood. It is their business to impose upon him what cannot become him, or keep out of his hands anything in which he could shine." Chetwood alludes to his habit of interpolating jokes and catches of his own, which raised a laugh among the general public, but which made critics frown. Cibber has been accused of being unjust to him, but Colley's judgment seems to be rendered with his usual fairness, lucidity, and skill.
"This man," says Cibber in his Apology, "was so amazing and extraordinary a mimic, that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy-counsellor, ever moved or spoke before him, but he could carry their voice, look, mien, and motion, instantly into another company. I have heard him make long harangues and form various arguments, even in the manner of thinking, of an eminent pleader at the bar, with every the least article and singularity of his utterance so perfectly imitated that he was the very alter ipse, scarce to be distinguished from his original. Yet more, I have seen upon the margin of the written part of Falstaff, which he acted, his own notes and observations upon almost every speech of it, describing the true spirit of the humour, and with what tone of voice, with what look or gesture, each of them ought to be delivered. Yet in his execution upon the stage, he seemed to have lost all those just ideas he had formed of it, and almost through the character he laboured under a heavy load of flatness. In a word, with all his skill in mimicry, and knowledge of what ought to be done, he never upon the stage could bring it truly into practice, but was, upon the whole, a languid, unaffecting actor."
His Kite, however, is said to have been full of lively, dashing, natural humour. Off the stage, Estcourt's society was eagerly sought for, and he was to be met in the best company, where, on festive nights, he recited, gave his imitations, and was not too proud to pocket his guerdon. The old Duke of Marlborough gladly held fellowship with Estcourt, and as the latter occasionally got guerdon out of the Duke, he must have been a great and very affecting actor indeed. It was probably his spirit of good fellowship which induced him to leave the stage (in 1711) for another calling. This change was sufficiently important for the Spectator to notice, with a fine bit of raillery, too:—"Estcourt has lain in, at the Bumper, Covent Garden, neat, natural wines, to be sold wholesale, as well as retail, by his old servant, trusty Anthony (Aston). As Estcourt is a person altogether unknowing in the wine trade, it cannot but be doubted that he will deliver the wine in the same natural purity that he receives it from the merchants," &c.
On the foundation of the "Beef Steak Club," Estcourt was appointed Providore; and in the exercise of this office to the chief wits and leading men of the nation, he wore a small gold gridiron, suspended round his neck by a green silk riband. Dr. King alludes to the company, their qualities, and the dignity of the ex-actor, in his Art of Cookery:
"He that of honour, wit, and mirth partakes,
May be a fit companion o'er beef steaks.
His name may be to future times unrolled,
In Estcourt's book, whose gridiron's made of gold."
Estcourt died in 1712, and was buried in the "yard" of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. Near him lie Kynaston and Wycherley, Susanna Centlivre, Wilks, Macklin, and other once vivacious stage celebrities of later times.
I have already had to notice, and shall have to do so again, the despotic power exercised by the Lord Chamberlain over theatrical affairs. One of the most remarkable instances presents itself this year, in connection with the Opera House, indeed, but still illustrative of my subject. John Hughes, who will subsequently appear as a dramatic author, of purer pretensions, had written the words for the composer of "Calypso and Telemachus." A crowd of the "quality," connoisseurs and amateurs, had attended the rehearsal, with which they were so satisfied that a subscription was formed to support the performance of the opera. This aroused the jealousy of the Italian company then in London, who appealed for protection to the Duke of Shrewsbury, the then Chamberlain.
This Duke was the Charles Talbot, in whose house it had been decided that William of Orange should be invited to England, and who, corresponding with James after William was on the throne, had been discovered, and forgiven. He had been loved, it is said, by Queen Mary and the Duchess of Marlborough; but this able, gentle, wayward, and one-eyed statesman, was at this present time the husband of an Italian lady, and on this fact, albeit she was not a dulcis uxor, the Italian singers founded their hopes. As the lady's brother was hanged at Tyburn, half a dozen years later, for murdering his servant, Shrewsbury had no great cause, ultimately, to be proud of the connexion. Nevertheless, it served the purpose of the foreign vocalists, it would seem, as the Chamberlain protected their interests, and issued an order for the suppression of the subscription, adding, that the doors must be opened at the lowest playhouse prices, or not at all. Even under this discouragement the opera was played with success, and was subsequently revived, with good effect, at Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Romantic drama, light, bustling comedy, with less vice and not much less wit than of old, and the severest classical tragedy, challenged the favour of the town in the Drury Lane season of 1712-13. Severe tragedy won the wreath from its competitors.
First on the list was fat Charles Johnson, who was even a more frequent lounger at Button's than Ambrose Philips, and who had a play ready for representation every year and a half. It is a curious fact, that his "Successful Pirate," a sort of melodrama, in five acts, the scene in Madagascar, and the action made up of fighting and wooing, aroused the ire of the virtuous Dennis. This censor wrote to the Lord Chamberlain, complaining that in such a piece as the above the stage was prostituted, villainy encouraged, and the theatre disgraced; that same theatre where, a few nights previously, had been acted the "Old Batchelor," and the "Committee," which some people, like Sir Roger, considered a "good Church of England comedy." The piece, however, made no impression; nor was much greater effected by that learned proctor, Taverner's "French Advocates,"[97] nor by the farcical "Humours of the Army," which the ex-soldier Charles Shadwell had partly constructed out of his own military reminiscences, as he sat at his desk in the Revenue Office at Dublin.
Equally indifferent were the public to a comedy called the "Wife of Bath," written by a young man who had been a mercer's apprentice in the Strand, and who was now house-steward and man of business to the widowed Duchess of Monmouth at her residence, no longer in the mansion on the south side of Soho Square, about to be turned into auction rooms, but in fresh, pure, rustic, Hedge Lane, which now, as Whitcombe Street, lacks all freshness, purity, and rusticity. The young man's name was Gay; but it was not on this occasion that he was to make it famous.
In stern tragedy, the "Heroic Daughter," founded on Corneille's "Cid," wrung no tears,[98] and "Cinna's Conspiracy" raised no emotions. The sole success of the season in this line was Addison's "Cato," first played on the 14th of April, 1713; thus cast: Cato, Booth; Syphax, Cibber; Juba, Wilks; Portius, Powell; Sempronius, Mills; Marcus, Ryan; Decius, Boman; Lucius, Keen; Marcia, Mrs. Oldfield; Lucia, Mrs. Porter.
Of the success of this tragedy, a compound of transcendent beauties and absurdity, I shall speak, when treating of Booth, apart. It established that actor as the great master of his art, and it brought into notice young Ryan, the intelligent son of an Irish tailor, a good actor, and a true gentleman. "Cato" had the good fortune to be represented by a band of superior actors, who had been enlightened by the instruction of Addison, and stimulated, at rehearsals, by the sarcasm of Swift. Factions united in applause; purses—not bouquets—were presented to the chief actor, and the Cato night was long one of the traditions about which old players loved to entertain all listeners.
While thus new glories were rising, old ones were fading away or dying out. Long-nosed Tom Durfey was poor enough to be grateful for a benefit given in his behalf, the proceeds of which furnished him with a fresh supply of sack, and strengthened him to new attempt at song. About the same time died the last of the actors of the Cromwellian times, Will Peer, one who was qualified by nature to play the Apothecary in "Romeo and Juliet," and by intelligence to deliver with well-feigned humility the players' prologue to the play in "Hamlet," but whom old age, good living, and success rendered too fat for the first and too jolly for the second.
In the season of 1713-14, Booth was associated in the licence which Wilks, Cibber, and Dogget held at the Queen's pleasure. Dogget withdrew on a pecuniary arrangement, agreed upon after some litigation, and the theatre was in the hands of the other three eminent actors. The old pieces of this season were admirably cast; of the new pieces which were failures it is not necessary to speak, but of two which have been played with success from that time down to the last year, some notice is required. I allude to Rowe's "Jane Shore," and Mrs. Centlivre's "Wonder." The tragedy was written after the poet had ceased to be Under-Secretary to the Duke of Queensberry, and after he had studied Spanish, in hopes of a foreign appointment through Halifax, who, according to the story, only congratulated him on being able to read Don Quixote in the original! "Jane Shore" was brought out, February 2, 1714. Hastings, Booth; Dumont, Wilks; Glo'ster, Cibber; Jane Shore, Mrs. Oldfield; Alicia, Mrs. Porter. A greater contrast to "Cato" could not have been devised than this domestic tragedy, wherein all the unities are violated, the language is familiar, and the chief incidents the starving of a repentant wife, and the generosity of an exceedingly forgiving husband. The audience, which was stirred by the patriotism of "Cato," was moved to delicious tears by the sufferings and sorrow of Jane Shore, whose character Rowe has elevated in order to secure for her the suffrages of his hearers. The character was a triumph for Mrs. Oldfield, who had been trained to a beautiful reading of her part by Rowe himself, who was unequalled as a reader by any poet save Lee; and "Jane Shore," as a success, ranked only next to "Cato." The third, sixth, and tenth nights were for the author's benefit. On the first two the boxes and pit "were laid together," admission half-a-guinea; the third benefit was "at common prices."
Much expectation had been raised by this piece, and it was realised to the utmost. It was otherwise with the "Wonder," from which little was expected, but much success ensued.[99] The sinning wife and moaning husband of the tragedy were the lively lady and the quick-tempered lover of this comedy. The Violante of Mrs. Oldfield and the Don Felix of Wilks were talked of in every coffee-house. The wits about the door, and the young poets in the back room at the new house set up by Button, talked as vivaciously about it as their rivals at Tom's, on the opposite side of the way; and every prophecy they made of the success of the comedy in times to come, does credit to them as soothsayers.
The death of Queen Anne, on the 1st of August 1714, cannot be said to have prematurely closed the summer season of this year. However, the actors mourned for a month, and then a portion of them played joyously enough, for a while, in Pinkethman's booth, at Southwark Fair.
At this period the stage lost a lady who was as dear to it as Queen Anne, namely, Mrs. Bradshaw. Her departure, however, was caused by marriage, not by death; and the gentleman who carried her off, instead of being a rollicking gallant, or a worthless peer, was a staid, solemn, worthy antiquary, Martin Folkes, who rather surprised the town by wedding young Mistress Bradshaw. The lady had been on the stage about eighteen years; she had trodden it from early childhood, and always with unblemished reputation. She had her reward in an excellent, sensible, and wealthy husband, to whom her exemplary and prudent conduct endeared her; and the happiness of this couple was well established. Probably, when Martin was away on Friday evenings, at the Young Devil Tavern, where the members of the Society of Antiquaries met, upon "pain of forfeiture of sixpence," Mrs. Folkes sat quietly at home, thinking without sadness of the bygone times when she won applause as the originator of the characters of Corinna, in the "Conspirator,"[100] Sylvia, in the "Double Gallant," and Arabella Zeal, in the "Fair Quaker." In other respects, Mistress Bradshaw is one of the happy, honest women who have no history.
If the age of Queen Anne was not quite so fully the golden age of authors as it has been supposed to be, it was still remarkable for a patronage of literature hitherto unparalleled. Addison, Congreve, Gay, Ambrose Philips, Rowe, were among the dramatic authors who, with men of much humbler pretensions, held public offices, were patronised by the great, or lived at their ease. With the death of this Queen, the patent or licence, held by Wilks, Cibber, Booth, and Dogget, died also. In the new licence, Steele, who, since we last met with him at the play had endured variety of fortune, was made a partner. He had married that second wife whom he treated so politely in his little failures of allegiance. He had established the Tatler, co-operated in the Spectator, had begun and terminated the Guardian, and had started the Englishman. He had served the Duke of Marlborough in and out of office, and had been elected M.P. for Stockbridge, after nobly resigning his Commissionership of Stamps, and his pension as "servant to the late Prince George of Denmark." He had been expelled the House for writing what the House called seditious pamphlets, and had then returned to literature, and now to occupation as a manager. From the new government, under the new king, by whom he was soon after knighted, Steele had influence enough to ultimately obtain a patent, in the names of himself, Booth, Wilks, and Cibber, which protected them from some small tyrannies with which they were occasionally visited by the officials in the Lord Chamberlain's office.
The season of 1714-15 was not especially remarkable, save for this, that the great actors who were patentees frequently played small parts, in order to give young actors a chance. It was not given, however, to every young actor; for, on the 20th of April, 1715, when Rowe's "Lady Jane Grey" was produced (Dudley, Booth; Lady Jane, Mrs. Oldfield), the very insignificant part of the Lieutenant of the Tower was played by a new actor from Ireland,—one James Quin, who was destined to equal Booth in some parts, and to be surpassed in some, by an actor yet at school,—David Garrick.
Charles Johnson was, of course, ready with a comedy, stolen from various sources,—"Country Lasses." Gay, who had returned from Hanover with the third Earl of Clarendon, whose secretary he had become, after leaving the service of the Duchess of Monmouth, produced his hilarious burlesque of old and modern tragedies,—the "What d'ye call It?" The satire of this piece was so fine, that deaf gentlemen who saw the tragic action and could not hear the words, and the new sovereign and court who heard the words but could not understand their sense, were put into great perplexity; while the honest galleries, reached by the solemn sounds, and taking manner for matter, were affected to such tears as they could shed, at the most farcical and high-sounding similes. It was only after awhile that the joke was comprehended, and that the "What d'ye call It?" was seen to be a capital burlesque of "Venice Preserved." The very Templars, who of course comprehended it all, from the first, and went to hiss the piece, for the honour of Otway, could not do so, for laughing; and this only perplexed the more the matter-of-fact people, not so apt to discover a joke.[101]
Rowe's "Lady Jane" did not prove so attractive as "Jane Shore." There were only innocence and calamity wherewith to move the audience; no guilt; no profound intrigue. But there is much force in some of the scenes. The very variety of the latter, indeed, was alleged against the author, as a defect, by the many slaves of the unity of time and place. It was objected to Rowe, that in his violation of the unities he went beyond other offenders,—not only changing the scene with the acts, but varying it within the acts. For this, however, he had good authority in older and better dramatists. "To change the scene, as is done by Rowe, in the middle of an act, is to add more acts to the play; since an act is so much of the business as is transacted without interruption. Rowe, by this licence, easily extricates himself from difficulties, as in 'Lady Jane Grey,' when we have been terrified by all the dreadful pomp of public execution, and are wondering how the heroine or poet will proceed; no sooner has Jane pronounced some prophetic rhymes than—pass and be gone—the scene closes, and Pembroke and Gardiner are turned out upon the stage." The critic wished to stay and witness a "public execution," not satisfied with the pathos of the speech uttered by Jane, and which, for tenderness, sets the scene in fine contrast with that of the quarrelling and reconciliation between Pembroke and Guilford. Rowe's Jane Grey interests the heart more fully than Jane Shore or Calista: but the last two ladies have a touch of boldness about them, in which the first, from her very innocence, is wanting; and audiences are, therefore, more excited by the loudly-proclaimed wrongs of the women who have gone astray than by the tender protests of the victim who suffers for the crimes of others.
George Powell ended his seven and twentieth season this year, at the close of which he died. For the old actor gone, a young actress appeared,—Mrs. Horton, "one of the most beautiful women that ever trod the stage." She had been a "stroller," ranting tragedy in barns and country towns, and playing Cupid, in a booth at suburban fairs. The attention of managers was directed towards her; and Booth, after seeing her act in Southwark, engaged her for Drury Lane, where her presence was more agreeable to the public than particularly pleasant to dear Mrs. Oldfield.