A Shakspearian.
A week's journal of a strolling player.
Monday. We opened the house with the tragedy of the distressed mother; I played Orestes. Our dresses and scenery rather out of repair, which gave some gentleman occasion to remark; that it would have been more apropos, had we advertised the play by the title of the distressed family.
Tuesday. Played George Barnwell. Part of the audience wanted me hanged: Afterwards did the watchman, and the bailiff in the Apprentice.—Shared thirteen pence three farthings.
Wednesday. Played Jachimo in Cymbeline. My arms almost broken by being put into too small a chest. The farce the Register-office—played Gulwell.—Shared one shilling.
Thursday. Doubled the Ghost and Rosencrantz in Hamlet, and afterwards played Mogs in the Devil of a Duke. A gentleman affronted me by saying I was the devil of a conjuror. Shared one shilling and six pence, and for the first time took my two bits of candles.
Friday. I played Macduff, and two or three other parts in Macbeth, one of the witches being drunk, we were obliged to make shift with two. The farce Miss in her teens: I was Fribble; and the house barber having gone off in a pet, because I could not pay him his week's bill, I was obliged to go on without my hair being dressed.—Shared ten pence and a candle.
Saturday. The Orphan. The manager had taken Castalio himself, and insisted on my playing Acasto. An ignorant country fellow introduced it only to support Acasto in the third act, stands on the stage, when I asked "where are all my friends?" answered, "sir, they are at the George over a mug of ale." We afterwards had the Padlock without music. I played Mungo and never felt any thing half so much as the favourite air, "I wish to my heart me was dead."