"GAG."
The stage, like other professions, is in some sort to be considered as
a distinct nation, possessing manners, customs, a code, and, above
all, a language of its own. This, by the outside world, is designated
"slang;" just as in one country the tongue of another is vulgarly
described as gibberish. Now and then, however, a word escapes from the
peculiar vocabulary of the players, and secures the recognition and
acceptance of the general public. It may not be forthwith registered
in formal dictionaries, or sanctioned by the martinets of speech and
style; still, like a French sou or a Jersey halfpenny appearing
amongst our copper coins, it obtains a fair degree of currency and
circulation, with little question as to the legitimacy of the mint
from which it originally issued.
"Gag" is a word of this class. It belongs of right to the actors, but
of its age or derivation nothing can be ascertained, Modern
lexicography of the best repute does not acknowledge it, and for a
long time it remained unnoticed, even by the compilers of glossaries
of strange and cant terms. Thus, it is not to be found in "Grose's
Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue," published in 1796. This is
a coarse, but certainly a comprehensive work, and from its omitting to
register "gag," we may assume that the word had no ascertained
existence in Grose's time. In the "Slang Dictionary; or, The Vulgar
Words, Street Phrases, and 'Fast' Expressions of High and Low
Society," published in 1864, "gag" is duly included, and defined to
be "language introduced by an actor into his part." Long before this,
however, the word had issued from the stage-door, and its
signification had become a matter of general knowledge.
And even if the word be comparatively new, the thing it represents and
defines is certainly old enough, dating, probably, from the very birth
of the drama. So soon as the author began to write words for the
actors to deliver, so soon, be sure, did the comedians begin to
interpolate speech of their own contriving. For, as a rule, gag is the
privilege and the property of the comic performer. The tragedian does
not gag. He may require his part to be what is called "written up" for
him, and striking matter to be introduced into his scenes for his own
especial advantage, but he is generally confined to the delivery of
blank verse, and rhythmical utterances of that kind do not readily
afford opportunities for gag. There have been Macbeths who have
declined to expire upon the stage after the silent fashion prescribed
by Shakespeare, and have insisted upon declaiming the last dying
speech with which Garrick first enriched the character. But these are
actors of the past. If Shakespeare does not often appear upon the
modern stage, at any rate he is not presented in the disguised and
mutilated form which won applause in what are now viewed as the "palmy
days" of the drama. And the prepared speeches introduced by the
tragedians, however alien they may be to the dramatist's intentions,
and independent of his creations, are not properly to be considered as
gag.
It was in 1583, according to Howes' additions to Stow's "Chronicle,"
that Queen Elizabeth, at the request of Sir Francis Walsingham, and
with the advice of Mr. Edmond Tyllney, her Master of the Revels,
selected twelve performers out of some of the companies of her
nobility, to be her own dramatic servants, with the special title of
the Queen's Players. They duly took the oaths of office, and were
allowed wages and liveries as Grooms of the Chambers. Among these
actors were included Robert Wilson, described as gifted with "a quick,
delicate, refined, extemporal wit;" and Richard Tarleton, of "a
wondrous, plentiful, pleasant, extemporal wit." From this it would
almost seem that these comedians owed their fame and advancement to
their skill and inventiveness in the matter of gagging. No doubt these
early actors bore some relation to the jesters who were established
members of noble households, and of whom impromptu jokes and
witticisms were looked for upon all occasions. Moreover, at this time,
as Mr. Payne Collier judges, "extemporal plays," in the nature of the
Italian _Commedie al improviso_, were often presented upon the English
stage. The actors were merely furnished with a "plat," or plot of the
performance, and were required to fill in and complete the outline, as
their own ingenuity might suggest. Portions of the entertainments were
simply dumb show and pantomime, but it is clear that spoken dialogue
was also resorted to. In such cases the "extemporal wit," or gagging
of the comic actors, was indispensably necessary. The "comedians of
Ravenna," who were not "tied to any written device," but who,
nevertheless, had "certain grounds or principles of their own," are
mentioned in Whetstone's "Heptameron," 1582, and references to such
performers are also to be found in Kyd's "Spanish Tragedy," and Ben
Jonson's "Case is Altered." In "Antony and Cleopatra" occurs the
passage:
The quick comedians
Extemporally will stage us and present
Our Alexandrian revels.
And Mr. Collier conjectures that when Polonius, speaking of the
players, informs Hamlet that, "for the law of writ and the liberty,
these are your only men," he is to be understood as commending their
excellence, both in written performances and in such as left them at
liberty to invent their own discourse.
But however intelligible and excusable its origin, it is certain that
by the time Shakespeare was writing, the "extemporal wit" of the
theatre had come to be a very grave nuisance. There is no need to set
forth here his memorable rebuke of the clowns who demonstrate their
"pitiful ambition" by speaking more than their parts warrant. It is to
be observed, however, that while this charge is levelled only at the
clowns, or comic performers, the faults of the serious players by no
means escape uncriticised. The same speech condemns alike the rant of
the tragedians and the gag of the comedians. Both are regarded as
unworthy means of winning the applause of the "groundlings" in one
case, and the laughter of "barren spectators" in the other. Sad to
say, Hamlet, in his character of reformer of stage abuses, failed to
effect much good. The vices of the Elizabethan theatre are extant, and
thriving in the Victorian. It is even to be feared that the
interpolations of the clowns have sometimes crept into and disfigured
the Shakespearean text, much to the puzzlement of the commentators.
Often as Hamlet's reforming speech has been recited, it has been
generally met and nullified by someone moving "the previous question."
At the same time, while there is an inclination to decry perhaps too
strenuously the condition of the modern stage, it is fair to credit it
with a measure of amendment in regard both to rant and gag. Of late
years rant has certainly declined in public favour, and the
"robustious perriwig-pated fellow" tearing a passion to tatters, to
very rags, is a less familiar spectacle upon our boards than formerly;
albeit, this statement is obviously open to the reply that the system
of "o'er doing Termagant," and "out-Heroding Herod" has ceased to
prevail, inasmuch as the tragedies and vehement plays, which gave it
opportunity and excuse, have vanished from the existing dramatic
repertory. And gag, except perhaps in relation to certain
interpolations, which are founded upon enduring, if absurd, histrionic
traditions, acknowledges stricter limitations than it once did. A
gagging Polonius, Dogberry, Gobbo, or Gravedigger could scarcely
expect much toleration from a modern audience; while it is true
enough, that these famous personages do not often present themselves
upon the scene in these times. As a rule, the gag of the present
period is to be found mainly in those more frivolous and ephemeral
entertainments, which are not much to be damnified by any excesses
with which the comedians may be chargeable.
There is no gainsaying that in all times gag has been indulgently
considered, and even encouraged by the majority of the audience.
Establishing relations of a most intimate kind with his audience, the
comic actor obtains from them absolute licence of speech and conduct.
He becomes their "spoiled child," his excesses are promptly applauded,
and even his offences against good taste are speedily pardoned.
Of early gagging comedians, one of the most noted appears to have been
Will Pinkethman, who flourished under William and Mary, and won
honourable mention from Sir Richard Steele, in "The Tatler." Cibber
describes Pinkethman as an imitator of Leigh, an earlier actor of
superior and more legitimate powers. Pinkethman's inclination for
"gamesome liberties" and "uncommon pleasantries" was of a most
extravagant kind. Davies says of him that he "was in such full
possession of the galleries that he would hold discourse with them for
several minutes." Nor could he be induced to amend his method of
performance. It was in vain the managers threatened to fine him for
his exuberances; he was too surely a public favourite to be severely
treated. At one time he came to a "whimsical agreement" with Wilks,
the actor, who suffered much from his playfellow's eccentricities,
that "whenever he was guilty of corresponding with the gods he should
receive on his back three smart strokes of Bob Wilks's cane." But even
this penalty, it would seem, Wilks was too good-natured to enforce. On
one occasion, however, as Davies relates, Pinkethman so persisted in
his gagging as to incur the displeasure of the audience. The comedy
was Farquhar's "Recruiting Officer;" Wilks played Captain Plume, and
Pinkethman one of the recruits. The captain enlisting him inquired his
name. Instead of giving the proper answer, Pinkethman replied: "Why,
don't you know my name, Bob? I thought every fool knew that." Wilks
angrily whispered to him the name of the recruit, Thomas Appleton.
"Thomas Appleton?" he cried aloud. "No, no, my name's Will
Pinkethman!" Then, addressing himself to the gallery, he said: "Hark
ye, friends; you know my name up there, don't you?" "Yes, Master
Pinkey," was the answer, "we know your name well enough." The house
was now in an uproar. At first the audience enjoyed the folly of
Pinkethman, and the distressed air of Wilks; but soon the joke grew
tiresome, and hisses became distinctly audible. By assuming as
melancholy an expression as he could, and exclaiming with a strong
nasal twang: "Odds, I fear I'm wrong," Pinkethman was enabled to
restore the good-humour of his patrons. It would seem that on other
occasions he was compelled to make some similar apology for his
misdemeanours. "I have often thought," Cibber writes, "that a good
deal of the favour he met with was owing to this seeming humble way of
waiving all pretences to merit, but what the town would please to
allow him." A satiric poem, called "The Players," published in 1733,
contains the following reference to Pinkethman:
Quit not your theme to win the gaping rout,
Nor aim at Pinkey's leer with "S'death, I'm out!"
An arch dull rogue, who lets the business cool,
To show how nicely he can play the fool,
Who with buffoonery his dulness clokes,
Deserves a cat-o'-nine-tails for his jokes.
At this time, Pinkethman had been dead some years, and it is explained
in a note, that no "invidious reflection upon his memory" was
intended, but merely a caution to others, who, less gifted, should
presume to imitate conduct which had not escaped censure even in his
case. With all his irregularities, Pinkethman was accounted a
serviceable actor, and was often entrusted with characters of real
importance, such as Dr. Caius, Feeble, Abel Drugger, Beau Clincher,
Humphrey Gubbin, and Jerry Blackacre.
But an actor who outdid even Pinkethman in impertinence of speech was
John Edwin, a comedian who enjoyed great popularity late in the last
century. A contemporary critic describes him "as one of those
extraordinary productions that would do immortal honour to the sock,
if his extravasations of whim could be kept within bounds, and if the
comicality of his vein could be restrained by good taste." Reynolds,
the dramatist, relates that on one occasion he was sitting in the
front row of the balcony-box at the Haymarket, during the performance
of O'Keeffe's farce of "The Son-in-Law," Parsons being the Cranky and
Edwin the Bowkitt of the night. In the scene of Cranky's refusal to
bestow his daughter upon Bowkitt, on the ground of his being such an
ugly fellow, Edwin coolly advanced to the foot-lights, and said:
"Ugly! Now I submit, to the decision of an enlightened British public,
which is the ugliest fellow of us three; I, old Cranky, or that
gentleman in the front row of the balcony-box?" Here he pointed to
Reynolds, who hastened to abandon his position. Parsons was
exceedingly angry at the interruption, but the audience appear to have
tolerated, and even enjoyed the gag. As Reynolds himself leniently
writes: "Many performers before and since the days of Edwin have
acquired the power, by private winks, irrelevant buffoonery and
dialogue, to make their fellow-players laugh, and thus confound the
audience and mar the scene; Edwin, disdaining this confined and
distracting system, established a sort of entre-nous-ship (if I may
venture to use the expression) with the audience, and made them his
confidants; and though wrong in his principle, yet so neatly and
skilfully did he execute it, that instead of injuring the business of
the stage, he frequently enriched it."
Edwin seems, indeed, to have been an actor of some genius,
notwithstanding his "extravasations of whim," and an habitual
intemperance, which probably hastened the close of his professional
career--for the man was a shameless sot. "I have often seen him,"
writes Boaden, "brought to the stage-door, senseless and motionless,
lying at the bottom of a coach." Yet, if he could but be made to
assume his stage-clothes, and pushed towards the lamps, he would rub
his eyes for a moment, and then consciousness and extraordinary humour
returned to him together, and his acting suffered in no way from the
excesses which had overwhelmed him. Eccentricity was his forte, and it
was usually found necessary to have characters expressly written for
him; but there can be no doubt that he was very highly esteemed by the
playgoers of his time, who viewed his loss to the stage as quite
irreparable.
But of the comedians it may be said, that they not only "gag"
themselves, but they are the cause of "gagging" in others. Their
interpolations are regarded as heirlooms in the Thespian family. It is
the comic actor's constant plea, when charged with adding to some
famous part, that he has only been true to the traditions of previous
performers. One of the most notable instances of established gag is
the burlesque sermon introduced by Mawworm, in the last scene of "The
Hypocrite." This was originated by Mathews, who first undertook the
part at the Lyceum in 1809, and who designed a caricature of an
extravagant preacher of the Whitfield school, known as Daddy Berridge,
whose strange discourses at the Tabernacle in the Tottenham Court Road
had grievously afflicted the actor in his youth. Mawworm's sermon met
with extraordinary success; on some occasions it was even encored, and
the comedy has never since been presented without this supreme effort
of gag. Liston borrowed the address from Mathews, and gained for it so
great an amount of fame, that the real contriver of the interpolation
had reason to complain of being deprived of such credit as was due to
him in the matter. The sermon is certainly irresistibly comical, and a
fair outgrowth of the character of Mawworm; at the same time it must
be observed that Mawworm is himself an excrescence upon the comedy,
having no existence in Cibber's "Non-Juror," upon which "The
Hypocrite" is founded, or in "Tartuffe," from whence Cibber derived
the subject of his play.
In the same way the additions made by the actors to certain of
Sheridan's comedies--such as Moses's redundant iterations of "I'll
take my oath of that!" in "The School for Scandal," and Acres's
misquotation of Sir Lucius's handwriting: "To prevent the trouble that
might arise from our both undressing the same lady," in "The Rivals,"
are gags of such long standing, that they may date almost from the
first production of those works. Sheridan himself supervised the
rehearsals, and took great pains to perfect the representation; but,
with other dramatists, he probably found himself much at the mercy of
the players. He even withheld publication of "The School for Scandal,"
in order to prevent inadequate performance of the comedy; but this
precaution was attended with the worst results. The stage long
suffered from the variety of defective copies of the work that
obtained circulation. The late Mr. John Bernard, the actor, in his
amusing "Retrospections of the Stage," has confessed that, tempted by
an addition of ten shillings a-week to his salary, he undertook to
compile, in a week, an edition of "The School for Scandal" for the
Exeter Theatre, upon the express understanding that the manuscript
should be destroyed at the end of the season. Bernard had three parts
in his possession, for upon various occasions he had appeared as Sir
Peter, as Charles, and as Sir Benjamin. Two members of the Exeter
company were acquainted with the speeches of Old Rowley, Lady Teazle,
and Mrs. Candour, while actors at a distance, upon his request, sent
him by post the parts of Joseph and Sir Oliver. With these materials,
assisted by his general knowledge of the play, obtained from his
having appeared many times in authentic versions of it, the compiler
prepared a fictitious and piratical edition of "The School for
Scandal," which fully served the purpose of the manager, and drew good
houses for the remainder of the season.
Altogether, while few writers have done so much for the stage as
Sheridan, few have met with less reverent treatment at the hands of
the actors. "The Critic" has long been known in the theatre as a
"gag-piece;" that is, a play which the performers consider themselves
entitled to treat with the most merciless licence. In this respect
"The Critic" has followed the fate of an earlier work to which it owes
much of its origin--"The Rehearsal," by the Duke of Buckingham. It is
curious how completely Sheridan's own satire has escaped its due
application. "This is always the way at the theatre," says Puff; "give
these fellows a good thing and they never know when to have done with
it." "The Critic" is not very often played nowadays; but every
occasion of its revival is disfigured by the freedoms and buffoonery
of its representatives. Modern costume is usually worn by Mr. Puff and
his friends; and the anachronism has its excuse, perhaps, in the fact
that the satire of the dramatist is as sound and relevant now as it
was in the last century. And some modification of the original text
might be reasonably permitted. For instance, the reference by name to
the long-since departed actors, King, Dodd, and Palmer, and the once
famous scene-painter, Mr. De Loutherbourg, must necessarily now escape
the comprehension of a general audience. But the idiotic
interpolations, and the gross tomfoolery the actors occasionally
permit themselves in the later scenes of the play, should not be
tolerated by the audience upon any plea or pretext whatever.
One kind of gag is attributable to failure of memory or deficiency of
study on the part of the player. "I haven't got my words; I must gag
it," is a confession not unfrequently to be overheard in the theatre.
Incledon, the singer, who had been in early life a sailor before the
mast, in the royal navy, was notorious for his frequent loss of memory
upon the stage. In his time the word "vamp" seems to have prevailed as
the synonym of gag. A contemporary critic writes of him: "He could
never vamp, to use a theatrical technical which implies the
substitution of your own words and ideas when the author's are
forgotten. Vamping requires some tact, if not talent; and Incledon's
former occupation had imparted to his manners that genuine salt-water
simplicity to which the artifices of acting were insurmountable
difficulties." Incledon had, however, a never-failing resource when
difficulty of this kind occurred to him, and loss of memory, and
therefore of speech, interrupted his performances. He forthwith
commenced a verse of one of his most popular ballads! The amazement of
his fellow-actors at this proceeding was, on its first adoption, very
great indeed. "The truth is, I forgot my part, sir," Incledon frankly
explained to the perplexed manager, "and I could not catch the cue. I
assure you, sir, that my agitation was so great, that I was compelled
to introduce a verse of 'Black-eyed Susan,' in order to gain time and
recover myself." Long afterwards, when the occupants of the green-room
could hear Incledon's exquisite voice upon the stage, they were wont
to ask each other, laughingly: "Is he singing his music, or is he
merely recollecting his words?"
That excellent comedian, the late Drinkwater Meadows, used to relate a
curious gagging experience of his early life as a strolling player. It
was at Warwick, during the race week. He was to play Henry Moreland,
in "The Heir-at-Law," a part he had never previously performed, and of
which, indeed, he knew little or nothing. There was no rehearsal, the
company was "on pleasure bound," and desired to attend the races with
the rest of Warwickshire. No book of the play was obtainable. A study
of the prompt-book had been promised; but the prompter was not to be
found; he was probably at the races, and his book with him. The
representative of Henry Moreland could only consult with the actor who
was to play Steadfast--for upon Steadfast's co-operation Moreland's
scenes chiefly depend. "Don't bother about it," said Steadfast. "Never
mind the book. I'll come down early to the house, and as we're not
wanted till the third act we can easily go over our scenes quietly
together before we go on. We shall be all right, never fear. It's a
race-night; the house will be full and noisy. Little of the play will
be heard, and we need not be over and above particular as to the syls"
(syllables).
But Steadfast came down to the theatre very late, instead of early,
and troubled with a thickness of speech and an unsteadiness of gait
that closely resembled the symptoms of intoxication. "Sober!" he said,
in reply to some insinuation of his comrade, "I'm sober as a judge.
I've been running to get here in time, and that's agitated me. I
shall be all right when I'm on. Take care of yourself, and don't fret
about me."
The curtain was up, and they had to face the foot-lights. Moreland
waited for Steadfast to begin. Steadfast was gazing vacantly about
him, silent save for irrepressible hiccups. The audience grew
impatient, hisses became audible, and an apple or two was hurled upon
the stage. Moreland, who had gathered something of the subject of the
scene, found it absolutely necessary to say something, and began to
gag:
"Well, Steadfast" (_aside to him_, "Stand still, can't you?"), "here
we are in England, nay, more, in London, its metropolis, where
industry flourishes and idleness is punished." (A pause for thought
and reply; with little result.) "Proud London, what wealth!" (Another
pause, and a hiccup from Steadfast.) "What constant bustle, what
activity in thy streets!" (No remark could be extracted from
Steadfast. It was necessary to proceed.) "And now, Steadfast, my
inestimable friend, that I may find my father and my Caroline well and
happy, is the dearest, the sole aspiration of my heart!" Steadfast
stared and staggered, then suddenly exclaiming gutturally, "Amen!"
reeled from the stage, quickly followed by Henry Moreland, amid the
derision and hisses of the spectators. "Treat you cruelly!" said
Steadfast, incoherently in the wings. "Nothing of the sort. You quite
confounded me with your correctness. You told me you didn't know your
words, and I'll be hanged if you were not 'letter perfect.' It went
off capitally, my dear boy, so now let's go over our next scene." But
the manager deemed it advisable to omit from the play all further
reference to Moreland and Steadfast.
To performers who gag either wantonly, or by reason of imperfect
recollection of their parts, few things are more distressing than a
knowledge that someone among the audience is in possession of a book
of the play to be represented. Even the conscientious and
thoroughly-prepared actor is apt to be disconcerted when he hears the
flutter of leaves being turned over in the theatre, and discovers that
his speeches are being followed, line for line and word for word, by
critics armed with the author's text. On such occasions his memory is
much inclined to play him false, and a sudden nervousness will often
mar his best efforts. But, to the gagging player, a sense that his
sins and failings are in this way liable to strict note and discovery,
is grievously depressing. Some years ago a strolling company visited
Andover, and courageously undertook to represent an admired comedy,
with which they could boast but the very faintest acquaintance.
Scarcely an actor, indeed, knew a syllable of his part. It was agreed
that gag must be the order of the night, and that the performance must
be "got through" anyhow. But the manager, eyeing and counting his
house through the usual peephole in the curtain, perceived a gentleman
in the boxes holding in his hands a printed copy of the play. The
alarm of the company became extreme. A panic afflicted them, and their
powers of gag were paralysed. They refused to confront the
foot-lights. The audience grew impatient; the fiddlers were weary of
repeating their tunes. Still the curtain did not rise. At length the
manager presented himself with a doleful apologetic face. "Owing to an
unfortunate accident," he said, "the company had left behind them the
prompt-book of the play. The performance they had announced could not,
therefore, be presented; unless," and here the speech was especially
pointed to the gentleman in the boxes, "anyone among the audience, by
a happy chance, happened to have brought to the theatre a copy of the
comedy." The gentleman rose and said his book was much at the service
of the manager, and it was accordingly handed to him. The players
forthwith recovered their spirits; exposure of their deficiencies was
no longer possible; and the performance passed off to the satisfaction
of all concerned.
It has been suggested that gag is leniently, and even favourably
considered by audiences; and it should be added that dramatists often
connive at the interpolations of the theatre. For popular actors
characters are prepared in outline, as it were, with full room for the
embellishments to be added in representation. "Only tell me the
situations; never mind about the 'cackle,'" an established comedian
will observe to his author: "I'll 'fill it out,'" or "I shall be able
to 'jerk it in,' and make something of the part." It is to be feared,
indeed, that gag has secured a hold upon the stage, such as neither
time nor teaching can loosen. More than a century ago, in the
epilogue as supplied to Murphy's comedy, Garrick wrote:
Ye actors who act what our writers have writ,
Pray stick to your parts and spare your own wit;
For when with your own you unbridle your tongue,
I'll hold ten to one you are "all in the wrong!"
But this, with other cautioning of like effect, has availed but
little. The really popular actor gains a height above the reach of
censure. He has secured a verdict that is scarcely to be impeached or
influenced by exceptional criticism. Still it may be worth while to
urge upon him the importance of moderation, not so much for his own
art's sake--on that head over-indulgence may have made him
obdurate--but in regard to his playfellows of inferior standing. He is
their exemplar; his sins are their excuses; and the licence of one
thus vitiates the general system of representation.
The French stage is far more hedged round with restrictions than is
our own, and cultivates histrionic art with more scrupulous care. In
its better works gag is not tolerated, although free range is accorded
it in productions of the opera bouffe and vaudeville class. Here the
wildest liberty prevails, and the gagging actor is recognised as
exercising his privileges and his wit within lawful bounds. The
Parisian theatres may, indeed, be divided into the establishments
wherein gag is applauded, and those wherein it is abominated. By way
of a concluding note upon the subject, let an authentic story of
successful French gag be briefly narrated.
Potier, the famous comedian, was playing the leading part in a certain
vaudeville, and was required, in the course of the performance, to sit
at the table of a cheap café and consume a bottle of beer. The beer
was brought him by a _figurant_, or mute performer, in the character
of a waiter, charged with the simple duty of drawing the cork from the
bottle and filling the glass of the customer. Potier was struck with
the man's neat performance of his task, and especially with a curious
comical gravity which distinguished his manner, and often bestowed
upon the humble actor an encouraging smile or a nod of approval. The
man at length urged a request that he might, as he poured out the
beer, be permitted to say a few words. Potier sanctioned the gag. It
moved the laughter of the audience. Potier gagged in reply: and there
was more laughter. During later representations the waiter was allowed
further speeches, relieved by the additional gag of Potier, until at
the end of a week it was found that an entirely new scene had been
added to the vaudeville, and eventually the conversation between
Potier and the _garçon_--not a line of which had been invented or
contemplated by the dramatist--became the chief attraction of the
piece. It was the triumph of gag. The _figurant_, from this modest and
accidental beginning of his career as an actor, speedily rose to be
famous. He was afterwards known to the world as ARNAL, one of the most
admirable of Parisian _farçeurs_.