This was too much for the audience to bear—“their visible muscles unmasterly grew,” and the champions were mutually discomposed.
Richmond. “What the devil are they laughing at?”
Richard. “At you to be sure, ‘in conquering Richard.’”
Here another burst of merriment broke from the spectators, and Triptolemus, turning his head, to check, with a high tragedy look, their ill timed mirth, beheld, to his horror and dismay, the inveterate gardener standing upon the front bench of the pit, waving his arms like the sails of a windmill, and who no sooner caught a full view of his countenance than he roared out, “I’m blest if it bea’nt he that I turned up wi’ my pitch fork out of the muck heap!”
“All’s over!” exclaimed Richard, and gave up the ghost, with his back turned to the audience, which created a fresh peal of laughter, groans and hisses. Richmond, shocked at the un-Cesarian position of the monarch, strove to obtain silence, while he spoke the tag, by turning him over with his face to the footlights—which he did with his foot, placing Richard’s nose within half an inch of the burning oil, who grinned his disapprobation of such usage, till the audience shrieked with mirth.
“Ring down the curtain, for God’s sake!” shrieked the manager.
“Stop till I’ve spoken the tag!” cried Richmond.
“Ring down for the sake of my nose,” bawled the corpse. Ting a ring ting! went the prompter’s bell, and down fell the curtain, leaving one half of Richard’s body in view of the laughter-weeping spectators, which was at last dragged by the heels from their sight by the indignant Richmond, vowing, he never would again act with so diabolical a Richard.
This story, which amused me exceedingly, was during the recital often interrupted by my hearty bursts of laughter, and beguiled the time admirably, until we arrived at a miserable place called New Inn, where we refreshed ourselves with a glass of ale, and proceeded on our journey.
Branching off from the Oswestry road, to the right, we pursued our way to Wittington, beguiling the time with anecdote and song, light hearts and heels carrying us along the road like things of air. Nothing worthy of notice took place until we reached the village of Wittington, and there the first objects that attracted our mutual attention, were two brick houses, perfectly plain in their exterior, upon the front of the first of which was written, in prodigious characters, Search the Scriptures, and upon the second, Remember thou keep holy the Sabbath day, with underneath, Morrison’s pills sold here.