"The boxes still the brighter circles were;
Triumphant toasts received their homage there."
At other times, there were less friendly and admiring gatherings; and epilogues laudatory of Eugene and Marlborough filled the house with friends and foes of those illustrious men, and furnished reasons for very unreasonable conflicts. A flourish of the pen, too, in the Tatler or Spectator, could send half the town to fight for vacant benches; and it was remarked that there was scarcely a comedian of merit who had not been recommended to the public in the former journal. But to see these, there often only thronged
"Poets free o' th' house, and beaux who never pay."
These non-paying beaux were as troublesome to players as to audience. In vain were they warned off the stage, where, indeed, half-a-guinea could always find admission for them, even after the managers had decreed that the way should be barred, though Potosi itself were offered for a bribe. In 1721, half-a-dozen tipsy beaux, with one among them of the degree of an Earl, who was wont to be tipsy for a week together, raised a riot, to avenge an affront, in the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. His lordship crossed the stage, while Macbeth and his lady were upon it, to speak to a boon companion, who was lolling at the opposite wing. There, too, stood Rich, the manager, who told the peer that, after such an act of indecorum, he should never be admitted behind the scenes again. The Earl looked up, and, steadying himself, administered to Rich a smart slap on the face, which Rich returned with interest. Swords flashed forth in a minute from half-a-dozen scabbards, whose laced and lordly owners solemnly decreed that Rich must die. But Quin, and Ryan, and Walker, rushed to the rescue, with their own weapons naked in their hands. With aid of some other members of the company, they, made front, charged the coxcombs, and drove them headlong out at the stage door and into the kennel. The beaux waxed wroth; but executing a great strategic movement, they stormed the front of the house, and rushing into the boxes, they cut and thrust right and left, broke the sconces, slashed the hangings, and were proceeding to do further mischief,—"fire the house!" was ever a favourite threat with these bullies—when doughty Quin, and a body of constables and watchmen, flung themselves on the rioters, and carried all they caught before the magistrates, by whom they were committed for trial. Ultimately, the affair was compromised; but there is evidence that the actors were intimidated, inasmuch as they issued a declaration that they would "desist from acting till proper care be taken to prevent the like disorders for the future." The house was closed for nearly a week; and, to prevent such outrages in future, the angry King, who took an interest in theatrical matters, ordered that a guard should attend during the performances at either house. This was the origin of the attendance of soldiers,—a custom which ceased at the patent theatres only a few years since.[57]
In the sight of an exceedingly "free" people, the guard was an insult, which the mob, and not the beaux, resented. It was a popular pastime to pelt them, till the terrors of the Prison-Gate House terminated the folly. The mob, indeed, loved a riot quite as dearly as the "quality," and were especially ungallant to the aspiring young ladies on the stage. West's tragedy of "Hecuba" entirely failed at Drury Lane, in 1726, through the Vandalism of the galleries, who, as capricious as my lords below, hissed the "young actresses" from beginning to end; and yet those "young actresses" were Mrs. Cibber, and other "darlings" of the town.
Colley Cibber once pleaded the gracious presence of a prince in order to win propriety of conduct from an audience; at other times, the more gracious presence of a poet won respect. This was the case on that hot night in June 1730,[58] when "George Barnwell" was first played at Drury Lane. The audience had supplied themselves with the old ballad on the subject of that famous apprentice lad,—intending to make ludicrous contrast between the story there and that in the tragedy; but Pope was present, serious and attentive, and the rough critics, taking their cue from him, followed his example; at least, they threw away their ballads, took out their handkerchiefs, and wept over the fate of the wicked lad, so admirably played by that prince of scamps, Theophilus Cibber. Such a warning did he hold out to evildoers, that influential people of quality and reflecting city merchants used occasionally, for years, to "command" the playing of this tragedy, as wholesome instruction for apprentices in particular, and a wicked young public, generally.
Among the influential part of the audience, may be numbered the ladies. It was at their particular request that the part of Bookish, in Fielding's "Old Man taught Wisdom," was omitted after the first night, on account of some rude sentiments, touching the superiority of man over woman,—or of Bookish over Lucy! Considering how women, and audiences generally, were roughly handled in prologues and epilogues, the deference otherwise paid to the latter seems singular. For instance: the company at the Haymarket, in 1735, announced that they would "continue to act on Tuesdays and Fridays, as long as they shall deserve the favour of the town." The most exacting portion of the audience, however, was to be found in the footmen. From the earliest times, they had been famous for their "roaring;" and Dryden speaks of them as a nuisance, than which there was no greater, except "their unpaying masters." These masters had small chance of hearing the play, unless their lacqueys gave permission. The plan of opening the upper gallery to these fellows, gratis, in 1697, was an aggravation rather than a palliative of the evil; but the privilege, although at various times suspended, was not finally abolished till about 1780. As many as three hundred of the party-coloured tribe have been known to unite, armed, in support of the privilege which they invariably abused. Of authors present at the condemnation of their own pieces, and of the philosophy, or lack of it, with which they bore their calamity, I shall have to speak presently; but I am tempted to notice here, as illustrations of the audience side of the theatre, the appearance of dramatists in state, witnessing the triumphs of their pieces. When the "Conscious Lovers" was first played at Drury Lane, in 1722, Steele sat in what was called Burton's box,—an enclosed part in the centre of the first gallery, where places were kept at pit prices. From this lofty elevation, Steele enjoyed the success of a piece which respected decency throughout, and he awarded approval to all the actors concerned, except Griffin, who played Cimberton. Fielding laughed at this novel comedy, as being "as good as a sermon;" and later writers have ridiculed the author for preferring to show what manners ought to be, rather than what they are; but Steele's play—a leetle dull though it be—was creditable to him, and a benefit to the stage.
Political application of passages in plays was frequently and eagerly made by the audiences of those days,—though Walpole records an incident of lack of observation in this respect, as well as of readiness. When his father, Sir Robert, was threatened with impeachment, in 1742, Horace ridiculed the want of frankness on the part of the ministry. "The minds of the people grow much more candid," he says; "at first, they made one of the actors at Drury Lane repeat some applicable lines at the end of 'Henry IV.;' but, last Monday, when his royal highness (the Prince of Wales) had purposely bespoken 'The Unhappy Favourite,' for Mrs. Porter's benefit, they never once applied the most glaring passages; as, where they read the indictment against Robert, Earl of Essex, &c. &c."
We have seen kings at the play in presence of their people; and poets were often there, receiving as warm welcome as kings. When Thomson's "Agamemnon" was first played, Pope was present, and he was received, we are told by Johnson, "with a general clap." This shows how familiar London audiences were with their great men, and that the same men must often have exhibited themselves to the same audiences;—the Londoners being then the great playgoers. On the same night, the author of the drama was himself seated, not near Pope, but in the centre of the gallery, surrounded by some friends. There, as soon as Mrs. Cibber and Mrs. Furnival entered and spoke, he began to accompany them, by audible declamation, which his friends had some difficulty in checking. Johnson, when "Irene" was played, was more dignified and more calm. He sat forward in a conspicuous side box, solemnly dressed for the occasion, his wig new curled, a bright scarlet waistcoat—gold laced, purchased for the nonce,—and a tranquil, majestic look about him, which the pit frequently contemplated with approval. The poet was being judged by the people. But poet and people were there to heed the players; and let us now follow their example.