BENEFITS.
Philip Henslowe, who, late in the sixteenth century, was proprietor of
the old Rose Theatre, which stood a little west of the foot of London
Bridge, at Bankside, combined with his managerial duties the
occupation of pawnbroker, and was employed, moreover, as a kind of
commission agent, or middleman, between dramatic authors and actors.
It probably seemed as natural to the manager to engage in these
different employments as to require his players to "double" or
"treble" parts in plays possessed of an unusually long list of
_dramatis personæ_. He had married Agnes Woodward, a widow, whose
daughter, Joan, became the first wife of Edward Alleyn, the actor, the
founder of Dulwich College. Henslowe had been the servant of Mrs.
Woodward, and by his union with her he acquired considerable property.
Forthwith he constituted himself "a banker of the poor"--to use the
modern euphonious synonym for pawnbroker--and advanced money for all
needing it who were able to deposit with him plate, rings, jewels,
wearing apparel, or other chattels of value. The playwrights of the
time constantly obtained loans from him, not always that he might
secure their compositions for his theatre, but often to relieve their
immediate wants; and it is plain that he constantly availed himself of
their necessitous condition to effect bargains with them very
advantageous to his own interests. Robert Daborne, the dramatist, for
instance, appears to have been particularly impecunious, and he was,
moreover, afflicted with a pending lawsuit; the sums he obtained for
his plays from the manager were therefore very disproportionate and
uncertain. His letters to Henslowe are urgent in solicitations for
payment on account of work in hand; he was often obliged to send his
manuscripts piecemeal to the manager, and on one occasion supplied a
rough draft of the last scene of a play in order to obtain a few
shillings in advance. The amounts paid for new plays at this time were
very low. Before 1600 Henslowe never gave more than £8 for a play, but
after that date there was a considerable rise in prices. In 1613
Daborne received £20 for his tragedy of "Machiavell and the Devil." In
the same year, however, for another play, "The Bellman of London," he
was content to take £12 and "the overplus of the second day." He had
demanded £20 in the first instance, but being in great stress for
money, had reduced his terms, beseeching Henslowe "to forsake him not
in his extremity." Daborne's letters of entreaty indeed expose his
poverty in a most pathetic manner, while occasionally they betray
amusingly his vanity as an author. In one of his appeals to the
manager, he writes: "I did think I deserved as much money as Mr.
Massinger;" but this estimation of himself and his writings has not
been confirmed by later ages.
The "overplus of the second day" was probably, as a rule, not very
considerable, seeing that a payment of £20 down was regarded as a
higher rate of remuneration than £12 and "the overplus," whatever it
might produce, in addition. Daborne's needs, however, may have induced
him to prize unduly "the bird in the hand." Still his brother-authors
held similar views on the subject. They, too, disliked the overplus
system, while the managers as resolutely favoured it. So that, apart
from the consideration that poverty clings to certainty because it
cannot afford speculation, and that, to the literary character
especially, a present payment of a specified sum is always more
precious than possible undefined profits in the future, we may
conclude that the overplus system generally told to the advantage of
the managers. In the end the labourers had to yield to the
capitalists; indeed, they could make little stand against them.
Authors have never manifested much faculty for harmonious combination,
and a literary strike was no more conceivable then than now. In time a
chance of the overplus became hardly separable from the method of
paying dramatists. It was thought, perhaps, that better works would
be produced by the writers who were made in some sort dependent for
profit upon the success of their plays and partners in the ventures of
the managers. In such wise the loss sustained from the condemnation of
a play at its first representation would not fall solely upon the
manager; the author would at least be a fellow-sufferer. Gradually the
chance of the overplus was deferred from the second to the third
performance. The system no doubt varied according to the position of
the dramatist, who, if he were a successful writer, could make his own
terms, so far as the selection of the overplus night was concerned.
Sir John Denham, in the prologue to his tragedy, "The Sophy," acted at
Blackfriars about 1642, speaks of the second _or_ third day's overplus
as belonging to the poet:
Gentlemen, if you dislike the play,
Pray make no words on't till the second day
Or third be passed.
After the Restoration it became a settled practice that what was then
called "the author's night" should be the third performance of his
play; and the dramatist in time received further profit from
subsequent representations.
Then grant 'em generous terms who dare to write,
Since now that seems as dangerous as to fight;
If we must yield yet ere the day be fixt,
Let us hold out the third, and, if we may, the sixth.
_Prologue, "The Twin Rivals," Farquhar, produced 1702._
"In Dryden's time," writes Dr. Johnson, explaining that with all his
diligence in play-writing the poet could not greatly improve his
fortune,[2] "the drama was very far from that universal approbation
which it has now obtained. The playhouse was abhorred by the Puritans,
and avoided by those who desired the character of seriousness or
decency. A grave lawyer would have debased his dignity, and a young
trader would have impaired his credit by appearing in those mansions
of dissolute licentiousness. The profits of the theatre, when so many
classes of the people were deducted from the audience, were not
great, and the poet had, for a long time, but a single night. The
first that had two nights was Southern; and the first that had three
was Rowe. There were, indeed, in those days, arts of improving a
poet's profit, which Dryden forbore to practise; but a play seldom
produced him more than a hundred pounds by the accumulated gain of the
third night, the dedication, and the copy."
[2] He had, it was alleged, entered into a contract to furnish
four plays in each year.
These "arts of improving a poet's profit" consisted in the canvassing
his friends and patrons, distributing tickets, and soliciting favour
in all quarters. By his address in these matters, Southern's tragedy,
"The Spartan Dame," produced him £500; indeed, he is said to have
profited more by his writings for the stage than any of his
contemporaries. Malone states that Addison was the first to abandon
the undignified custom of appealing personally to the public for
support. But it has been pointed out that this is an error. Addison
gave the profits of "Cato" to the managers, and was not required
therefore to appeal on his own behalf to the public. Goldsmith's
"Good-natured Man," it may be noted, was played ten consecutive
nights, and the third, sixth, and ninth performances were advertised
as "appropriated to the author." These three nights produced him £400,
and he received £100 more from Griffin, the publisher, for the
publication of the play--the entire receipts being immediately, with
characteristic promptness, spent in the purchase of the lease of his
chambers in Brick Court, Middle Temple, and in handsome furniture,
consisting of "Wilton carpets, blue moreen mahogany sofas, blue moreen
curtains, chairs corresponding, chimney-glasses, Pembroke and card
tables, and tasteful book-shelves." According to Malone, one hundred
guineas remained for many years, dating from 1726, the standard price
paid by the publishers for a new play.
In addition to these "authors' nights," performances were occasionally
given for the benefit of an author suffering from adverse
circumstances. Thus, in 1733, a performance was organised at the
Haymarket Theatre for the benefit of Mr. Dennis, the critic and
dramatist. "The Provoked Husband" was represented, and Pope so far
laid aside his resentment against his old antagonist as to supply a
prologue for the occasion. Nevertheless, it was noticed that the poet
had not been able to resist the temptation of covertly sneering at the
superannuated author, and certain of the lines in the prologue were
found susceptible of a satirical application. Happily, poor Dennis,
protected by his vanity or the decay of his intelligence, perceived
nothing of this. Indeed, the poor old critic survived the benefit but
twenty days, dying in the seventy-seventh year of his age. Other
benefit performances on behalf of distressed men of letters, or their
families, have frequently been given, even in quite recent times; but
these are not to be confounded with the "authors' nights," as they
were originally understood. "Authors' nights," strictly so called,
have disappeared of late years. Modern dramatists are content to make
private arrangements in regard to their works with the managers, and
do not now publicly advance their personal claims upon the general
consideration. They may profit by an "overplus," or be paid by the
length of a "run" of their plays, or may sell them out-right at once
for a stipulated sum. The public have no knowledge of, and no concern
in, the conditions of their method of transacting business. But from
the old overplus system of the Elizabethan stage resulted those
special performances called "benefits," still known to the modern
playgoer, though now connected in his mind almost altogether with
actors, and in no degree with authors. Nevertheless, it was for
authors that benefits were originally instituted, in opposition, as we
have seen, to their wishes, and solely to suit the convenience and
forward the interests of managers such as Mr. Henslowe.
Certainly in Shakespeare's time the actors knew nothing of benefits.
They obtained the best price they could for their services, and the
risk of profit or loss upon the performance was wholly the affair of
the manager. Indeed, it was long after the time when the chance of an
overplus had become systematised as a means of paying authors, that it
occurred to anyone that actors might also be remunerated in a similar
way. In olden days the actor's profession was not favourably regarded
by the general public; his social position was particularly insecure;
he was looked upon as of close kin to the rogue and the vagabond, and
with degrading possibilities in connection with the stocks and
whipping-post never wholly remote from his professional career. An
Elizabethan player, presuming to submit his personal claims and merits
to the consideration of the audience, with a view to his own
individual profit, apart from the general company of which he was a
member and the manager whom he served, would probably have been deemed
guilty of a most unpardonable impertinence. Gradually, however, the
status of the actor improved; people began to concede that he was not
necessarily or invariably a mountebank, and that certain of the
qualities and dignities of an art might attach now and then to his
achievements. The famous Mrs. Barry was, according to Cibber, "the
first person whose merit was distinguished by the indulgence of having
an annual benefit play, which was granted to her alone," he proceeds,
"if I mistake not, first in King James II.'s time, and which became
not common to others until the division of the company, after the
death of King William's Queen Mary." However, in the preceding reign,
in the year 1681, it appears by an agreement made between Davenant,
Betterton, and others, that Charles Hart and Edward Kynaston were to
be paid "five shillings apiece for every day there shall be any
tragedies or comedies or other representations at the Duke's Theatre,
in Salisbury Court, or wherever the company shall act during the
respective lives of the said Charles Hart and Edward Kynaston,
excepting the days the young men or young women play for their own
profit only." Benefits would certainly seem to be here referred to,
unless we are to understand the performances to be of a commonwealth
kind, carried on by the players at their own risk, and independently
of the managers. Still, to King James's admiring patronage of Mrs.
Barry, the benefit system, as it is at present known to us, has been
generally ascribed; and clearly the monarch's memory deserves to be
cherished on this account by our players. He can ill afford to forego
the smallest claim to esteem, and undoubtedly he entertained a
friendly regard for the stage and its professors. Indeed, the Stuarts
generally were well disposed towards the arts, and a decidedly
playgoing family.
For some years, however, actors' benefits did not extend beyond the
case of Mrs. Barry. But in 1695 the patentees of the theatres were so
unfortunately situated that they could not satisfy the claims of their
actors, and were compelled to pay them "half in good words and half in
ready money." Under these circumstances certain of the players
compounded for the arrears of salary due to them by taking the risk of
benefit performances. After a season or two these benefits were found
to be so advantageous to the actors that they were expressly
stipulated for in their agreements with the managers. On the other
hand, the managers, jealous of the advantages secured in this wise by
the players, took care to charge very fully for the expenses of the
house, which were of course deducted from the gross receipts of the
benefit-night, and further sought to levy a percentage upon the
profits obtained by the actors. In 1702 the ordinary charge for house
expenses, on the occasion of a benefit at Drury Lane, was about £34.
In Garrick's time the charge rose to £64, and was afterwards advanced
considerably. Still the actors had special sources of profit. Their
admirers and patrons were not content to pay merely the ordinary
prices of admission, but bought their tickets at advanced rates, and
often sent presents of money in addition. Thus Betterton--whose
salary, by-the-bye, was only £4 per week--took a benefit in 1709, when
he received £76 for two-thirds of the receipts upon the ordinary
scale--one-third being deducted by the manager for expenses--and a
further sum of £450 for the extra payments and presents of his
friends. The boxes and pit were "laid together," as it was called, and
half-a-guinea was charged for admission. "One lady gave him ten
guineas, some two, and most one guinea. Further, he delivered tickets
for more persons than the boxes, pit, and stage could hold, and it was
thought that he cleared £450 at least over and above the £76."
Certainly the great actor enjoyed on this occasion of his benefit what
is popularly known as "a bumper."[3]
[3] Macready, on the occasion of his taking a benefit,
invariably refused to receive any payment in excess of the
ordinary charges for admission to the theatre, and was wont,
with a polite note of thanks, to return the balance to those
who, as he judged, had overpaid him for their tickets.
The system of actors' benefits having thus become thoroughly
established, was soon extended and made applicable to other purposes,
for the most part of a charitable kind. Thus, in 1711, a benefit
performance was given in aid of Mrs. Betterton, the widow of the late
famous tragedian, who had herself been an actress, but had for some
time ceased to appear on the stage owing to age and other infirmities.
The "Tatler," after an account of Betterton's funeral, describes
feelingly the situation of his widow: "The mention I have here made of
Mr. Betterton, for whom I had, as long as I have known anything, a
very great esteem and gratitude, for the pleasure he gave me, can do
him no good; but it may possibly be of service to the unhappy woman he
has left behind him, to have it known that this great tragedian was
never in a scene half so moving as the circumstances of his affairs
created at his departure. His wife, after a cohabitation of forty
years in the strictest amity, has long pined away with a sense of his
decay, as well in his person as in his little fortune; and in
proportion to that she has herself decayed both in health and reason.
Her husband's death, added to her age and infirmities, would certainly
have terminated her life, but that the greatness of her distress has
been her relief by her present deprivation of her senses. This absence
of her reason is her best defence against age, sorrow, poverty, and
sickness."[4] Indeed, Steele constantly testifies his fondness for the
theatre and kindly feeling towards the players, by calling attention
to the benefit performances, and bespeaking the public favour for
them, adding much curious mention and humorous criticism of the
comedians who were especially the objects of his admiration--Pinkethman,
Bullock, Underbill, Dogget, and others.
[4] The "Tatler," No. 167, May 4, 1710.
Other benefits, however, less urgently laid claim to the goodwill of
the public. At the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, in the year 1726,
a performance was announced "for the benefit of an author whose play
is deferred till next season." How far the efforts of this anonymous
gentleman to raise money upon a sort of contingent reversion of
literary distinction were encouraged by the playgoers, or whether his
play ever really saw the light of the stage-lamps, can hardly now be
discovered. By-and-by performances are given on behalf of objects
wholly unconnected with players or playwrights. In 1742 a
representation was advertised, "For the entertainment of the Grand
Master of the Ancient and Honourable Society of Free and Accepted
Masons--for the benefit of a brother who has had great misfortunes." A
season or two later there was a benefit at Drury Lane "for a gentleman
under misfortunes," when Othello was played by an anonymous actor,
afterwards to be known to fame as Mr. Samuel Foote. In subsequent
years benefits were given "for the sufferers by a late fire;" on
behalf of the soldiers who had fought against the Pretender in the
year '45; for "Mrs. Elizabeth Forster, the granddaughter of Milton,
and his only surviving descendant,"[5] when "Comus" was performed, and
a new prologue, written by Dr. Johnson, was spoken by Garrick; for
"the Lying-in Hospital in Brownlow Street;" while in the success of
the production of Dr. Young's tragedy of "The Brothers," played at
Drury Lane in 1753, the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel was
directly concerned--the author having announced that the profits would
be given in aid of that charity. Nevertheless, the receipts
disappointed expectation; whereupon the author generously, out of his
own resources, made up the sum of £1000. A special epilogue was
written for the occasion by Mallet at Garrick's request; but this was
so coarsely worded, and so broadly delivered by Mrs. Clive, that Dr.
Young took offence, and would not suffer the lines to be printed with
his play.
[5] The lady is said to have been so little acquainted with
diversion or gaiety, that she did not know what was intended
when a benefit was offered her. Praiseworthy efforts were made
in her interest, but the performance only produced £130.
Among the curiosities of benefits may be recorded a performance that
took place at Drury Lane in 1744 on behalf of Dr. Clancy, the author
of one or two plays, who published his memoirs in Dublin in 1750. Dr.
Clancy was blind, and the playbill was headed with the line from
Milton, "The day returns, but not to me returns." The play was
"Oedipus," and the part of Tiresias, the blind prophet, was undertaken
by Dr. Clancy. The advertisements expressed a hope that "as this will
be the first instance of any person labouring under so heavy a
deprivation performing on the stage, the novelty as well as the
unhappiness of his case will engage the favour and protection of a
British audience." The performance, which must certainly have been of
a painful kind, attracted a very numerous audience: and the fact may
be regarded as proof that an appetite for what is now designated "the
sensational" was not wholly unknown to the playgoers of the last
century. It does not appear that Dr. Clancy's representation of the
blind prophet was repeated, nor is it stated that as an histrionic
effort it was particularly distinguished. It was enough perhaps that
the part was played by a man who was really blind, instead of by one
merely simulating blindness. Ultimately Dr. Clancy's case moved the
pity of George II., and he was awarded during his life a pension of
£40 a year from the privy purse.
Other authors have from time to time appeared on the stage to speak
prologues, or to sustain complete characters; for instance, Tom
Durfey, Otway, Farquhar, Savage, Murphy, and, to jump to later days,
Sheridan Knowles. Their appearances, however, cannot be simply
connected with benefits. In many cases they, no doubt, contemplated
the adoption of the stage as a profession, though, as a rule, it must
be said success was denied them in such respect. They played on their
benefit-nights, of course, but their performances were not limited to
those occasions.
It is not to be supposed that a benefit could be taken by an actor,
or, at an earlier date, by an author, without his incurring much
trouble in regard to preliminary arrangements. The mere issue of a
list of entertainments, however attractive, was by no means
sufficient. He was required to call at the houses of his patrons and
friends, personally to solicit their support on the occasion, and to
pay his respects to them. Any failure of attention on his part in this
matter he was bound to make the subject of public explanation and
apology. It must be remembered that the playgoers of a century ago
were rather a family than a people. They were limited in number,
returned to the theatre night after night, naturally demanding that
constant change of programme which so distinguished the old stage, and
has been so completely omitted from modern theatrical arrangements,
and were almost personally known to the actors. This, of course, only
refers to the visitors to the pit and boxes; the galleries were always
presumed to be occupied by footmen and apprentices, and persons of no
consideration whatever, while stalls were not yet in existence.
Strangers from the country were few--those from foreign parts fewer
still. The theatre was regarded, as it were, from a household point of
view; was in some sort supplementary to a man's home, and he therefore
considered himself entitled to be heard and to take a personal
interest in regard to its concerns and proceedings. Necessarily this
feeling diminished as London grew in size and the audience increased
in numbers, and finally became impossible. An actor knew at last his
admirers only in the mass; while they lost inevitably all individual
and private interest in his success. But long after the London
players had ceased to make calls and to solicit patronage for their
benefits, the practice still obtained in the provinces, and could on
no account be abandoned. Thus, in early life, when a member of the
country company of which her father, Roger Kemble, was manager, the
great Mrs. Siddons has been seen, as a contemporary writer describes,
"walking up and down both sides of a street in a provincial town,
dressed in a red woollen cloak, such as was formerly worn by menial
servants, and knocking at each door to deliver the playbill of her
benefit." And to come to a later instance, the reader may bear in mind
that before that ornament of Mr. Crummles's company, Miss Snevellici,
took her benefit or "bespeak" at the Portsmouth Theatre, she, in
company with Nicholas Nickleby, and, for propriety's sake, the Infant
Phenomenon, canvassed her patrons in the town, and sold tickets to Mr.
and Mrs. Curdle, Mrs. Borum, and others.
In pursuance of this principle, we find a notice in the bill for Mr.
Bickerstaff's benefit, at Drury Lane, in May, 1723: "Bickerstaff being
confined to his bed by his lameness, and his wife lying now dead, has
nobody to wait on the quality and his friends for him, but hopes
they'll favour him with their appearance." And when, just before Mr.
Ryan's benefit at Covent Garden in 1735, he had been attacked by a
footpad and seriously injured--several of his teeth having been shot
out, and his face and jawbone much shattered--he addressed a letter in
_The Daily Post_ to his friends, in which he stated the uncertainty of
his being ever able to appear on the stage again, and expressed his
hopes "that they would excuse his not making a personal application to
them." So again, on the occasion of Mr. Chapman's benefit, in 1739,
there appears in the playbill an announcement: "N.B.--I being in
danger of losing one of my eyes, and advised to keep it from the air,
therefore stir not out to attend my business at the theatre. On this
melancholy occasion I hope my friends will be so indulgent as to send
for tickets to my house, the corner of Bow Street, Covent Garden,
which favour will be gratefully acknowledged by their obedient, humble
servant, THOMAS CHAPMAN." The excuses set forth in these announcements
appear to be very sufficient, and no doubt were so regarded by the
patrons in each case, while at the same time they demonstrate the
conduct required ordinarily of persons anxious for public support on
the occasion of their benefits. Excuses of a lighter kind, however,
seem frequently to have been held adequate by the players. Mr.
Sheridan, the actor, notifies in 1745 that, "as his benefit was not
appointed till last Friday, he humbly hopes that such ladies and
gentlemen as he shall omit to wait on will impute it rather to a want
of time than to a want of respect and knowledge of his duty." And Mr.
Yates, who about the same time had migrated from the West-end stage to
the humbler theatre in Goodman's Fields, and announced Fielding's
"Miser" for his benefit--"the part of Lovegold to be attempted by Mr.
Yates after the manner of the late Mr. Griffin"--apologises "for not
waiting on ladies and gentlemen, as he is not acquainted with that
part of the town." Whether this somewhat lofty plea of ignorance of
their neighbourhood, however, affected unfavourably the actor's claims
upon the denizens of Goodman's Fields, cannot now be ascertained. In
time notices of this kind disappeared altogether from the playbills.
At the present day an actor, of course, does his best to conciliate
patronage, and in his own immediate circle of friends some little
canvassing probably takes place to promote the sale of tickets; but
these matters are arranged privately, and the general public is
relieved from the calls of actors and their personal appeals for
support. Indeed, the old system is now in a great degree reversed, and
the actor's place of abode is often stated in his advertisements in
order that the public may call upon him to obtain tickets for his
benefit, if they prefer that course to purchasing them in the usual
way at the box-office of the theatre. In the case of actresses this
plan has often been found efficacious in diminishing the exuberant
ardour of certain youthful supporters of the stage, by enabling them
to discover that the fair performer who had peculiarly stirred their
dramatic sympathies, was hardly seen to such advantage by daylight, in
the seclusion of her private dwelling, as when under the glare of gas,
with distance lending enchantment to rouge and pearl-powder, and
casting an accommodating veil over divers physical deficiencies and
unavoidable deteriorations.
As benefits became common, and they were relegated to the close of the
season, when the general appetite for theatrical entertainments may be
presumed to be tolerably satiated, the actors found it very necessary
to put forward performances of an unusual kind to attract patronage
and stimulate the curiosity of the public. It was understood that on
these occasions criticism was suspended, and great licence was
permissible. A benefit came to be a kind of dramatic carnival. Any and
everything was held to be lawful, and efforts of an experimental kind
were almost demanded--certainly excused under the circumstances. The
player who usually appeared wearing the buskin now assumed the sock,
and the established comedian ventured upon a flight into the regions
of tragedy. Novelty of some sort was indispensable, and the audience,
if they might not wholly approve, were yet expected to forbear
condemning. The comic actors especially availed themselves of their
privileges, and on the strength of their popularity--the comedian
always establishing more intimate and friendly relations between
himself and his audience than are permitted to the tragedian--indulged
in very strange vagaries. Mr. Spiller, on the occasion of his benefit
at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields in 1720, issued an
advertisement: "Whereas I, James Spiller, of Gloucestershire, having
received an invitation from Hildebrand Bullock, of Liquorpond Street,
London, to exercise the usual weapons of the noble science of defence,
will not fail to meet this bold invader, desiring a full stage, blunt
weapons, and from him much favour." At another time the same actor
announced his benefit in a kind of mock electioneering address,
requesting the vote and interest of the public on the ground of his
being "a person well affected to the establishment of the theatre." To
recite an epilogue while seated on the back of an ass was a favourite
expedient of the comedians of the early Georgian period, while the
introduction of comic songs and mimicry--such as the scene of "The
Drunken Man," and the song of "The Four-and-Twenty Stock-Jobbers,"
which Mr. Harper performed on his benefit-night in 1720--was found to
be a very attractive measure. Authors who were on friendly terms with
the actors, or had reason to be grateful to them, frequently gave them
short pieces or wrote special epilogues for their benefits. Sheridan's
farce, "St. Patrick's Day, or the Scheming Lieutenant," was a present
to Clinch, the actor, and first produced on his benefit-night in 1775.
Goldsmith felt himself so obliged to Quick and Lee Lewes, who had been
the original Tony Lumpkin and Young Marlow in "She Stoops to
Conquer," that for the one he adapted a farce from Sedley's
translation of "Le Grondeur," and supplied the other with an
occasional epilogue, written in his pleasantest manner. When Shuter
selected "The Good-natured Man" for his benefit, the gratified author,
in a fit of extravagant kindness, sent the actor ten guineas--possibly
the last he had at the time--for a box ticket.
On the occasion of his first benefit in London, Garrick furnished his
patrons with a remarkable proof of his versatility, for he represented
extreme age in "King Lear," and extreme youth in the comedy of "The
Schoolboy." At his second benefit he again contrasted his efforts in
tragedy and comedy by appearing as Hastings in "Jane Shore," and Sharp
in the farce of "The Lying Valet." Kean, for his benefit, danced as
harlequin, gave imitations of contemporary performers, and sang the
song of "Tom Tug" after the manner of Mr. Incledon. Other actors of
very inferior capacity made similar experiments, the fact that the
performance was "for a benefit," and "for one night only," being
esteemed in every case a sufficient justification of any eccentricity.
It would be hopeless to attempt any detailed account of the many
strange deeds done for the sake of benefits. Actresses have encroached
upon the repertory of their male playfellows, as when Mrs. Woffington
appeared as Lothario, Mrs. Abington as Scrub, Mrs. Siddons as Hamlet,
and when portly Mrs. Webb attempted the character of Falstaff. Actors
have laid hands on characters which usually were deemed the exclusive
property of the actresses--as when Mr. Dowton resigned his favourite
part of Sir Anthony Absolute and donned the guise of Mrs. Malaprop.
The Kembles have sought to make their solemn airs and sepulchral tones
available in the reckless scenes and hilarious utterances of
farce--and exuberant comedians of the Keeley and Liston pattern have
ventured to tincture with whimsicality the woes of tragedy. To draw a
crowded house and bring money to the treasury was the only aim.
Benefits, in fact, followed the argument of the old drinking
song--merriment at all costs to-night, and sobriety, somehow, on the
morrow--until the benefit season came round again, and then--_da
capo!_