As now performed at the
METROPOLITAN MINOR THEATRES.
EMBELLISHED WITH A FINE ENGRAVING.
LONDON:
JOHN CUMBERLAND, 2, CUMBERLAND TERRACE,
CAMDEN NEW TOWN.
REMARKS.
Ambrose Gwinett.
Hypercriticism has presumed to find fault with this drama, which a better taste has denominated “the serious domestic historical,” because, forsooth, it smacks of the Old Bailey!—and, when justification has been pleaded by citing George Barnwell, we have received the retort courteous, in the story of the witling who affected to wear glasses because Pope was near-sighted. But a much better plea may be urged than the example of a bard so moderately gifted as Lillo! “The Ravens of Orleans,” “Dog of Montargis,” “Family of Anglade,” and numerous other public favourites, speak daggers to such hypercriticism.—Ambrose Gwinett is a strange tale and a true one; and a tale both strange and true what playwright can afford to let slip through his fingers? A murder or so may be prudently relinquished, for the season will come round again; but he cannot expect to see a man hanged and resuscitated for his especial accommodation every day in the week.
Ambrose Gwinett favoured the world with his autobiography at a period when autobiography was a rarity. He is unquestionably the only historian who has written his life after being gibbetted—drawn and quartered we leave to the autobiographers and dramatists of another generation! Egotism under such extraordinary circumstances may surely be pardoned; and if honest Ambrose dwell somewhat complacently on certain events of deep interest and wonder, he may plead a much better excuse than our modern autobiographers, who invent much and reveal little but a tedious catalogue of fictions and vanities; a charge that applies not to the startling narrative of the poor sweeper of the once insignificant village of Charing.
The story, which occurred in the reign of Queen Anne, is simple and well told. Ambrose had a tale to tell—(what autobiographer would not be half hanged to be entitled to tell a similar one?)—passing strange and pitiful; therefore, like a skilful dramatist, who depends solely on his plot, he affected no pomp of speech: of tropes and figures he knew nothing; but he knew full well that he had been hanged without a trope, and his figure brought to life again!
“I was born,” says he, “of respectable parents in the city of Canterbury, where my father dealt in slops. He had but two children, a daughter and myself; and, having given me a school education, at the age of sixteen he bound me apprentice to Mr. George Roberts, an attorney in the same town, with whom I stayed four years and three quarters, to his great content and my own satisfaction.