The particular fascination of Mrs. Siddons’s acting in those early days was its simplicity and pathos, which, united with remarkable beauty and power of expression, gained the hearts of all rustic audiences. Her talent, however, seems to have been singularly immature, considering the continual practice she had enjoyed, almost from her cradle, in stage affairs. Rachel reached the summit of her power at seventeen, Mrs. Siddons not until she was thirty. She herself confesses later, in the account she gives of her first reading of Macbeth: “Being then only twenty years of age, I believed, as many others do believe, that little more was necessary than to get the words into my head; for the necessity of discrimination, and the development of character, at that time of my life, had scarcely entered into my imagination.”
The power of drawing tears, however, was already hers, and rumours of the charm and beauty of the young actress had been wafted to London, reaching even the ears of the great Garrick himself. Mrs. Siddons tells us, in her Autograph Recollections: “Mr. King, by order of Mr. Garrick, who had heard some account of me from the Aylesbury family, came to Cheltenham to see me in the Fair Penitent. I knew neither Mr. King nor his purpose at the time.” Neither did she know of the second emissary whom Garrick sent, the Rev. Henry Bate, who in 1781 took the name of Dudley, and was afterwards made a canon and a baronet; a bruising, muscular clergyman of the old school, who fought duels one moment and wrote “slashing” articles on every subject, “human and divine,” the next. He was well known as a theatrical censor and critic of considerable acumen. We know him by Gainsborough’s portrait, standing in a garden with his dog. It is said that a political opponent remarked that the man wanted “execution” and the dog “hanging.” We find Garrick continually sending him on theatrical errands. We give the letters he wrote about Mrs. Siddons very nearly in their entirety, on account of their characteristic quaint humour and shrewd power of observation; and also because they to a certain degree exonerate Garrick from some of the charges brought against him by Mrs. Siddons:—
My Dear Friend,
After combatting the various difficulties of one of the cussidest cross-roads in this kingdom, we arrived safe at Cheltenham on Thursday last, and saw the theatrical heroine of that place in the character of Rosalind. Though I beheld her from the side wing of the stage (a barn about three yards over), and consequently under almost every disadvantage, I own she made so strong an impression upon me, that I think she cannot fail to be a valuable acquisition to Drury Lane. Her figure must be remarkably fine, although marred for the present. Her face (if I could judge from where I saw it) is one of the most strikingly beautiful for stage effect that I ever beheld, but I shall surprise you more when I assure you that these are nothing to her action and general stage deportment, which are remarkably pleasing and characteristic; in short, I know no woman who marks the different passages and transitions with so much variety, and at the same time propriety of expression. In the latter humbug scene with Orlando previous to her revealing herself, she did more with it than anyone I ever saw, not even your divine Mrs. Barry excepted. It is necessary after this panegyric, however, to inform you that her voice struck me at first as rather dissonant, and I fancy, from the private conversation I had with her, that in impassioned scenes it must be somewhat grating; however, as I found it wear away as the business became more interesting, I am inclined to think it only an error of affectation, which may be corrected, if not totally removed. She informed me she has been upon the stage from her cradle. This, though it surprised me, gave me the highest opinion of her judgment, to find she had contracted no strolling habits, which have so often been the bane of many a theatrical genius. She will most certainly be of great use to you, at all events, on account of the great number of characters she plays, all of which, I will venture to assert, she fills with propriety, though I have yet seen her but in one. She is, as you have been informed, a very good breeches figure, and plays in Widow Brady, I am informed, admirably. I should not wonder, from her ease, figure, and manner, if she made the proudest she of either house tremble in genteel comedy—nay, beware yourself, Great Little Man, for she plays Hamlet to the satisfaction of the Worcestershire critics.
The moment the play was over I wrote a note to her husband (who is a damned rascally player, though seemingly a very civil fellow) requesting an interview with him and his wife, intimating at the same time the nature of my business. You will not blame me for making this forced march in your favour, as I learnt that some of the Covent Garden Mohawks were intrenched near the place and intended carrying her by surprise. At the conclusion of the farce they waited upon me, and, after I had opened my commission, she expressed herself happy at the opportunity of being brought out under your eye, but declined proposing any terms, leaving it entirely with you to reward her as you thought proper.
You will perceive that at present she has all that diffidence usually the first attendant on merit; how soon the force of Drury Lane examples, added to the rising vanity of a stage heroine, may transform her, I cannot say. It happens very luckily that the company comes to Worcester for the race week, when I shall take every opportunity of seeing her, and if I find the least reason to alter my opinion (perhaps too hastily formed), you shall immediately have my recantation. My wife, whose judgment in theatrical matters I have a high opinion of, joins with me in these sentiments respecting her merit. I should have wrote to you before, but no post went out from anywhere near here but this night’s.
I shall expect to hear from you by return of the post, as Siddons will call upon me to know whether you look upon her as engaged. My wife joins me in respects to Mrs. Garrick and yourself. I remain, my dear Sir (after writing a damned jargon, I suppose, of unintelligible stuff in haste),
Ever yours most truly,
H. Bate.
Worcester, 12th August, 1775.