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,