M.
ANECDOTES OF MACKLIN,
THE IRISH COMEDIAN.
Macklin was exceedingly quick at a reply, especially in a dispute. One day Doctor Johnson was contending some dramatical question, and quoted a passage from a Greek poet in support of his opinion. “I don’t understand Greek though, Doctor,” said Macklin. “Sir,” said Johnson, pompously, “a man who undertakes to argue, should understand all languages.” “Oh, very well,” returned Macklin; “how will you answer this argument?” and immediately treated him to a long quotation in Irish.
One night, sitting at the back of the front boxes with a gentleman of his acquaintance, one of the underbred box-lobby loungers of the day stood up immediately before him, and being rather large in person, covered the sight of the stage from him. Every body expected that Macklin would have knocked the fellow down notwithstanding his size, but he managed the matter in another temper. Patting him gently on the shoulder with his cane, he respected of him with much apparent politeness, “that when he saw or heard any thing very entertaining on the stage, he would be pleased to turn round and let him and the gentleman beside him know of it; for you see, my dear sir,” added the veteran, “that at present we must totally depend upon you as a telegraph.” This had the desired effect, and the lounger walked off.
Talking of the caution necessary to be used in conversation amongst a mixed company, Macklin observed, “Sir, I have experienced to my cost that a man in any situation of life should never be off his guard. It is the fault of the Irish that they are too ready to ‘commit’ themselves. Now, this never happens with the Scotch:—a Scotchman is always on the look-out; he never lives a moment extempore, and that is one great reason why he is so successful in life as we see.”
Macklin was very intimate with Frank Hayman (at that time one of our best historical painters), and happening to call on him one morning soon after the death of the painter’s wife, with whom he (Frank) had lived but on indifferent terms, he found him wrangling with the undertaker about his high charge for the funeral expenses. Macklin listened to the altercation for some time; at last, going up to Hayman—“Come, come, Frank,” said he, “this bill is to be sure a little extravagant, but you should pay it, if it were only on account of the respect you owe your wife’s memory; for I am sure,” he added with the greatest gravity, “she would have paid twice as much for your burial with the greatest gladness, if she had had the opportunity.”
A notorious egotist one day in a large company, indirectly praising himself for a number of good qualities which it was well known he did not possess, asked Macklin the reason why he should have the singular propensity of interfering in the concerns of others for their benefit, when he so often met with unsuitable returns. “I could tell you, sir,” said Macklin. “Ah! well do, then, my good fellow; you are a man of some observation; and—I—a—should be glad of your—a—definition.” “Why, then, sir,” replied Macklin, “the cause is impudence—nothing but stark staring impudence!”
A gentleman at a public dinner asking him, rather inconsiderately, whether he remembered Mrs Barry the celebrated Irish actress, who died about the latter end of Queen Anne’s reign, he stared him in the face with considerable ferocity, and bawled out, “No, sir, nor Harry the Eighth neither!”
An Irish dignitary of the church, not remarkable for his veracity, complaining that a tradesman of his parish had called him a liar, Macklin asked what reply he had made him. “I told him,” said the bishop, “that a lie was among those things that I dared not commit.” “And why, doctor,” returned Macklin, with an indescribable sort of comic frown, “why did you give the rascal so erroneous a notion of your courage?”