Cave Underhill was another member of Davenant's Company. He was not a man for a lady to fall in love with; but in 1668 Davenant pronounced him the truest comedian of his troop. He was on the stage from 1661 to 1710, and during that time the town saw no such Gravedigger in "Hamlet" as this tall, fat, broad-faced, flat-nosed, wide-mouthed, thick-lipped, rough-voiced, awkwardly-active low comedian. So modest was he also that he never understood his own popularity, and the house was convulsed with his solemn Don Quixote and his stupid Lolpoop in "The Squire of Alsatia" without Cave's being able to account for it.[33]
In the stolid, the booby, the dully malicious, the bluntly vivacious, the perverse humour, combining wit with ill-nature, Underhill was the chief of the actors of the half century during which he kept the stage. Cibber avers thus much, and adds that he had not seen Cave's equal in Sir Sampson Legend in Congreve's "Love for Love." A year before the old actor ceased to linger on the stage he had once made light with laughter, a benefit was awarded him, viz., on the 3d of June 1709.[34] The patronage of the public was previously bespoken by Mr. Bickerstaffe, in the Tatler, whose father had known "honest Cave Underhill" when he was a boy. The Tatler praises the old comedian for the natural style of his acting, in which he avoided all exaggeration, and never added a word to his author's text, a vice with the younger actors of the time.
On this occasion Underhill played his old part of the Gravedigger, professedly because he was fit for no other. His judgment was not ill founded, if Cibber's testimony be true that he was really worn and disabled, and excited pity rather than laughter. The old man died a pensioner of the theatre whose proprietors he had helped to enrich, with the reputation of having, under the pseudonym of Elephant Smith, composed a mock funeral sermon on Titus Oates; and with the further repute of being an ultra-Tory, addicted in coffee-houses to drink the Duke of York's health more heartily than that of his brother, the King.
With rare exchange of actors, and exclusive right of representing particular pieces, the two theatres continued in opposition to each other until the two companies were formed into one in the year 1682. Meanwhile, fire destroyed the old edifice of the King's Company, in Drury Lane, in January 1672, and till Wren's new theatre was ready for them in 1674, the unhoused troop played occasionally at Dorset Gardens,[35] or at Lincoln's Inn Fields, as opportunity offered. On the occasion of opening the new house, contemporary accounts state that the prices of admission were raised: to the boxes, from 2s. 6d. to 4s.; pit, from 1s. 6d. to 2s. 6d.; the first gallery, from 1s. to 1s. 6d.; and the upper gallery, from 6d. to 1s. Pepys, however, on the 19th October 1667, paid 4s. for admittance to the upper boxes, if his record be true.[36] Down to the year 1682, the King's Company lost several old and able actors, and acquired only Powell, Griffin, and Beeston. George Powell was the son of an obscure actor. His own brilliancy was marred by his devotion to jollity, and this devotion became the more profound as George saw himself surpassed by steadier actors, one of whom, Wilks, in his disappointment, he challenged to single combat, and, in the cool air of "next morning," was sorry for his folly. Idleness made him defer learning his parts till the last moment; his memory often failed him at the most important crisis of the play; and the public displeasure fell heavily and constantly on this clever but reckless actor. The Tatler calls him the "haughty George Powell," when referring to his appearance in Falstaff for his benefit, in April 1712. "The haughty George Powell hopes all the good-natured part of the town will favour him whom they applauded in Alexander, Timon, Lear, and Orestes, with their company this night, when he hazards all his heroic glory in the humbler condition of honest Jack Falstaff." Valuable aid, like the above, he obtained from the Spectator also, with useful admonition to boot, from which he did not care to profit; and he fell into such degradation that his example was a wholesome terror to young actors willing to follow it, but fearful of the consequences. During his career, from 1687 to 1714, in which year he died, he originated about forty new parts, and in some of them, such as Brisk, in the "Double Dealer;" Aboan, in "Oroonoko;" the gallant, gay Lothario; Lord Morelove, in the "Careless Husband;" and Portius, in "Cato," he has rarely been equalled. On the first night of the "Relapse," in which he played Worthy, he was so fired by his libations, that Mrs. Rogers, as Amanda, was frightened out of her wits by his tempestuous love-making. Powell's literary contributions to the drama were such as a man of his quality was likely to make,—chiefly plagiarisms awkwardly appropriated.
Griffin was an inferior actor to Powell; but he was a wiser and a better man. He belonged to that class of actors whom "society" welcomed with alacrity. He was, moreover, of the class which had served in the field as well as on the stage, and when "Captain Griffin" died in Queen Anne's reign, the stage lost a respectable actor, and society a clever and a worthy member.
The accessions to the Duke's Company were of more importance than those to the company of the Theatre Royal. In 1672, the two poets, Lee and Otway, tempted fortune on the stage: Lee, in one or two parts, such as the Captain of the Watch, in Payne's "Fatal Jealousy," and Duncan, in "Macbeth;" Otway as the King, in Mrs. Behn's "Forced Marriage." They both failed. Lee, one of the most beautiful of readers, lost his voice through nervousness; Otway, audacious enough at the coffee-houses, lost his confidence. There were eight other actors of the period whose success was unquestionable and well deserved. Little Bowman, who between this period and 1739, the year of his death, never failed to appear when his name was in the bills. He was a noted bell-ringer, had sung songs to Charles II., and, when "father of the stage," he exacted applause from the second George. Cademan was another of the company. Like Betterton and Cartwright, he had learnt the mystery of the book-trade before he appeared as a player. He was driven from the latter vocation through an accident. Engaged in a fencing-scene with Harris, in "The Man's the Master," he was severely wounded by his adversary's foil, in the hand and eye, and he lost power not only of action but of speech. For nearly forty years the company assigned him a modest pension; and between the benevolence of his brethren and the small profits of his publishing, his life was rendered tolerable, if not altogether happy.
His comrade, Jevon, an ex-dancing master, was one of the hilarious actors. He was the original Jobson in his own little comedy, "A Devil of a Wife," which has been altered into the farce of "The Devil to Pay." He took great liberties with authors and audience. He made Settle half mad and the house ecstatic, when having, as Lycurgus, Prince of China, to "fall on his sword," he placed it flat on the stage, and falling over it, "died," according to the direction of the acting copy.[37] He took as great liberties at the coffee-house. "You are wiping your dirty boots with my clean napkin," said an offended waiter to him. "Never mind, boy," was the reply; "I'm not proud—it will do for me!" The dust of this jester lies in Hampstead churchyard.
Longer known was Anthony Lee or Leigh, that industrious and mirthful player, who, in the score of years he was before the public—from 1672 to 1692—originated above thrice that number of characters. His masterpiece was Dryden's Spanish Friar, Dominique. How he looked in that once famous part, may be seen by any one who can gain access to Knowle, where his portrait, painted for the Earl of Dorset, still hangs—and all but speaks. But we may see how Leigh looked by another portrait, painted in words, by Cibber. "In the canting, grave hypocrisy, of the Spanish Friar, Leigh stretched the veil of piety so thinly over him, that in every look, word, and motion, you saw a palpable, wicked slyness shine throughout it. Here he kept his vivacity demurely confined, till the pretended duty of his function demanded it: and then he exerted it with a choleric, sacerdotal insolence. I have never yet seen any one that has filled them" (the scenes of broad jests) "with half the truth and spirit of Leigh. I do not doubt but the poet's knowledge of Leigh's genius helped him to many a pleasant stroke of nature, which, without that knowledge, never might have entered into his conception." Leigh had the art of making pieces—dull to the reader, side-splitting mirth to an audience. In such pieces he and Nokes kept up the ball between them; but with the players perished also the plays.
