This year the fair was visited again by the Prince of Wales, of which incident an account appeared many years afterwards in the ‘New European Magazine.’ The shows were all in full blast and the crowd at its thickest, when, says the narrator, “the multitude behind was impelled violently forwards; a broad blaze of red light, issuing from a score of flambeaux, streamed into the air; several voices were loudly shouting, ‘room there for Prince George! Make way for the Prince!’ and there was that long sweep heard to pass over the ground which indicates the approach of a grand and ceremonious train. Presently the pressure became much greater, the voices louder, the light stronger, and as the train came onward, it might be seen that it consisted, firstly, of a party of the yeomen of the guard, clearing the way; then several more of them bearing flambeaux, and flanking the procession; while in the midst of all appeared a tall, fair, and handsome young man, having something of a plump foreign visage, seemingly about four and thirty, dressed in a ruby-coloured frock-coat, very richly guarded with gold lace, and having his long flowing hair curiously curled over his forehead and at the sides, and finished with a very large bag and courtly queue behind. The air of dignity with which he walked, the blue ribbon and star and garter with which he was decorated, the small three-cornered silk court hat which he wore, whilst all around him were uncovered; the numerous suite, as well of gentlemen as of guards, which marshalled him along, the obsequious attention of a short stout person, who, by his flourishing manner seemed to be a player,—all these particulars indicated that the amiable Frederick, Prince of Wales, was visiting Bartholomew Fair by torch-light, and that Manager Rich was introducing his royal guest to all the entertainments of the place.
“However strange this circumstance may appear to the present generation, yet it is nevertheless strictly true; for about 1740, when the drolls in Smithfield were extended to three weeks and a month, it was not considered as derogatory to persons of the first rank and fashion to partake in the broad humour and theatrical amusements of the place. It should also be remembered, that many an eminent performer of the last century unfolded his abilities in a booth; and that it was once considered as an important and excellent preparation to their treading the boards of a theatre royal.”
The narrator then proceeds to describe the duties of the leading actor in a Bartholomew Fair theatre, from which account there is some deduction to be made for the errors and exaggerations of a person writing long after the times which he undertakes to describe, and who was not very careful in his researches, as the statement that the fair then lasted three weeks or a month sufficiently attests. The picture which he gives was evidently drawn from his knowledge of the Richardsonian era, which he endeavoured to make fit into the Bartholomew Fair experiences of the very different showmen of the reign of George II.
“I will,” he says, assuming the character of an actor of the period he describes, “as we say, take you behind the scenes. First, then, an actor must sleep in the pit, and wake early to throw fresh sawdust into the boxes; he must shake out the dresses, and wind up the motion-jacks; he must teach the dull ones how to act, rout up the idlers from the straw, and redeem those that happen to get into the watch-house. Then, sir, when the fair begins, he should sometimes walk about the stage grandly, and show his dress; sometimes he should dance with his fellows; sometimes he should sing; sometimes he should blow the trumpet; sometimes he should laugh and joke with the crowd, and give them a kind of a touch-and-go speech, which keeps them merry, and makes them come in. Then, sir, he should sometimes cover his state robe with a great coat, and go into the crowd, and shout opposite his own booth, like a stranger who is struck with its magnificence: by the way, sir, that’s a good trick,—I never knew it fail to make an audience; and then he has only to steal away, mount his stage, and strut, and dance, and sing, and trumpet, and roar over again.”
Griffin and Harper drop out of the list of showmen at the London fairs in this year. Griffin appeared at Drury Lane for the last time on the 12th of February, and died soon afterwards, with the character of a worthy man and an excellent actor. He made his first appearance at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, as Sterling in The Perplexed Lovers, in 1714. Harper, the jolly, facetious low comedian, suffered an attack of paralysis towards the close of 1739, and, though he survived till 1742, he never appeared again on the stage.
In the following year, Hippisley and Chapman presented A Devil of a Duke; and Hallam relied for success upon Fair Rosamond. Lee and Woodward, whose booth stood opposite the hospital gate, produced Darius, King of Persia, “with the comical humours of Sir Andrew Aguecheek at the siege of Babylon.” Anachronisms of this kind were common at theatrical booths in those days, when comic Englishmen of one type or another were constantly introduced, without regard to the scene or the period of the drama to be represented. Audiences were not sufficiently educated to be critical in such matters, and managers could plead the example of Shakspeare, who was then esteemed a greater authority than he is considered to be at the present day. Yates made his first appearance as a showman this year, in partnership with Turbutt, who set up a booth opposite the King’s Head, and produced a pantomime called Thamas Kouli Khan, founded on recent news from the East. An epilogue, in the character of a drunken English sailor, was spoken by Yates, of whom Churchill wrote,—
“In characters of low and vulgar mould,
Where nature’s coarsest features we behold
Where, destitute of every decent grace,
Unmanner’d jests are blurted in your face;
There Yates with justice strict attention draws,
Acts truly from himself, and gains applause.”
There was a second and smaller booth in the name of Hallam, in which tumbling and rope-dancing were performed; but whether belonging to the actor or to another showman of the same name is uncertain. Fawkes and Pinchbeck exhibited the latter’s model of the Siege of Carthagena, with which a comic dramatic performance was combined.
The office of Master of the Revels was held at this time by Heidegger, a native of Zurich, who was also manager of the Italian Opera. He was one of the most singular characters of the time, and as remarkable for his personal ugliness as for the eccentricity of his manners. The profanity of his language was less notable in that age than his candour. Supping on one occasion with a party of gentlemen of rank, the comparative ingenuity of different nations became the theme of conversation, when the first place was claimed by Heidegger for his compatriots.
“I am myself a proof of what I assert,” said he. “I was born a Swiss, and came to England without a farthing, where I have found means to gain five thousand a year and to spend it. Now, I defy the most able Englishman to go to Switzerland and either to gain that income, or to spend it there.”