THE MIMIC WORLD
We have seen that Oldfield affected to despise tragedy, and was wont
to suggest Mistress Porter as a lady better suited than herself to the
purposes of train-bearing. And as the present chapter will be devoted
to a few of Nance's contemporaries let us linger, if only for an
instant, over the imposing memory of one whom cynical Horace Walpole
thought even finer than Garrick in certain scenes of passion. This
"ornament to human nature," as a biographer warmly called the Porter,
played her first childish part in a Lord Mayor's pageant during
the reign of James II., appearing as the Genius of Britain, and
incidentally falling under the august notice of another genius of
Britain, the great Mr. Betterton. That worthy man regarded the little
girl with prophetic eyes, saw in her a wealth of undeveloped talent,
and was soon instructing the chit in the mysteries of dramatic art.
Sometimes the actress-in-miniature revolted, poor mite ("she should
have been in the nursery, the minx," says some practical reader) and
then noble Thomas would give vent to an awful threat. She must speak
and act as she was directed, or else--horrible thought--the child
should be thrown into the basket of an orange-girl and buried under
one of the vine leaves which hid the luscious fruit! And with
that punishment hanging over her, the novice went on learning and
originating, until one day London woke up to find a new tragedienne
within its boundaries.
[Illustration: Mr. Mills, Mrs. Porter, Mr. Cibber.]
'Twas a tragedienne, be it added, who possessed no wonderful charm
of person. She was pleasing in figure and bearing, but her voice was
naturally harsh, her features did not shine forth loveliness, and when
the scene wherein she walked called neither for vehemence of feeling,
nor melting tenderness, her elocution became a monotonous cadence.[A]
Yet in moments of dramatic excitement, or in places where the deep
note of pathos had to be sounded, Porter played with a distinction
that either thrilled the spectator or reduced him to the verge of
tears. She threw cadence and monotony to the four winds of heaven,
or rather to the four corners of the stage, and spoke with the
earnestness of one inspired.
[Footnote A: Mrs. Porter was tall, fair, well-shaped, and easy and
dignified in action. But she was not handsome, and her voice had a
small degree of tremor. Moreover, she imitated, or, rather, faultily
exceeded, Mrs. Barry in the habit of prolonging and toning her
pronunciation, sometimes to a degree verging upon a chant; but
whether it was that the public ear was at that period accustomed to a
demi-chant, or that she threw off the defect in the heat of passion,
it is certain that her general judgment and genius, in the highest
bursts of tragedy, inspired enthusiasm in all around her, and that
she was thought to be alike mistress of the terrible and the
tender.--THOMAS CAMPBELL.]
As Queen Catherine Mrs. Porter was all mournful grace and dignity, as
Lady Macbeth she breathed of battle, murder and sudden death, and in
the rôle of Belvidera she showed yet another phase of her incomparable
art. "I remember Mrs. Porter, to whom nature had been so niggard in
voice and face, so great in many parts, as Lady Macbeth, Alicia in
'Jane Shore,' Hermione in the 'Distressed Mother,' and many parts of
the kind, that her great action, eloquence of look and gesture, moved
astonishment; and yet I have heard her declare she left the action
to the possession of the sentiments in the part she performed." Thus
wrote Chetwood, whose good fortune it was to see Oldfield, and Porter,
and a host of other famous players, not forgetting, in later days, the
wonderful Garrick himself.
Unlike several of her ilk, Mistress Porter could play the heroine off
the stage as well as on. She lived at Heywoodhill, near Hendon, and
used to wend her way homeward every night, at the conclusion of the
play, in a one-horse chaise. The roads were dangerous, and highwaymen
lurked in the neighbourhood, but the actress put her faith in
Providence--and a brace of pistols which she always carried. The
pistols came very nicely to her rescue one evening when a robber
waylaid the chaise and put to the traveller the conventional question
as to whether she most valued her money or her life. Nothing daunted
by the impertinence of this ethical query, Mrs. Porter pointed one of
the weapons at the intruder, and he, so goes the story, gracefully
surrendered, for the reason that he was himself without firearms. The
man made the best of the situation, however, by assuring the occupant
of the vehicle that he was "no common thief," and had been driven to
his present course by the wants of a starving family. He told her,
at the same time, where he lived, and urged his distresses with such
earnestness, that she spared him all the money in her purse, which was
about ten guineas.[A]
[Footnote A: Bellchambers' "Memoirs." This episode happened in the
summer of 1731.]
Thereupon the highwayman departed, and Mrs. Porter whipped up her
horse. In her excitement she must have used the lash too freely, for
the animal started to run, the chaise was overturned, and the actress
dislocated her thigh bone. When she had in part recovered from the
accident, the victim made up a purse of sixty pounds, subscribed
among her friends, and sent it to the poverty-stricken family of the
desperado. How Nance would have laughed at the story had she been at
the theatre to hear it told. But there was no more merriment for
this daughter of smiles; she was lying cold and still amid the stony
grandeur of Westminster Abbey.
Poor Porter outlived Oldfield for more than thirty years and, having
also outlived an annuity settled upon herself, spent her declining
days in what polite writers call straightened circumstances. One of
the closing scenes of her career shows us a meeting between this
veteran of the stage and Dr. Johnson, who could allow his kindness
of heart and sense of generosity to overcome his hatred of things
theatrical. It is easy to imagine the whole interview: the shrunken
face of the Porter beaming all over with an appreciation of the honour
paid her, and the Doctor full of benevolence and patronising courtesy,
even to the extent of drinking cheap tea without a grumble. After the
philosopher takes his leave he will likewise take with him a vivid
memory of the beldam's many wrinkles--so many, indeed, that "a
picture of old age in the abstract might have been taken from her
countenance."[A]
[Footnote A: Dr. Johnson was pleased to avow that "Mrs. Porter in the
vehemence of rage, and Mrs. Clive in the sprightliness of humour, he
had never seen equalled."]
Of a different calibre was Lacy Ryan, an ill-trained genius who could
shine pretty well in both tragedy and comedy and from whom, according
to Foote,
"... succeeding Richards took the cue,
And hence his style, if not the colour, drew."[A]
[Footnote A: Justice has scarcely been done to Ryan's merit. Garrick,
on going with Woodward to see his Richard with a view of being amused,
owned that he was astonished at the genius and power he saw struggling
to make itself felt through the burden of ill-training, uncouth
gestures, and an ungraceful and slovenly figure. He was generous
enough to own that all the merit there was in his own playing of
Richard he had drawn from studying this less fortunate player.--PERCY
FITZGERALD.]
Like Mrs. Porter, Ryan was a youthful disciple of Betterton, and was
brought to the notice of Roscius in a curious fashion. One day, when
Lacy had just begun, as a boy of sixteen or seventeen, to court the
dramatic muses, he was cast for the rôle of Seyton, the old officer
who attends on Macbeth, and was, no doubt, charmed with the
assignment. To wait upon Macbeth, in however humble a capacity, was
in itself no mean honour, and when the aforesaid Macbeth would be
Betterton himself, the importance of the task was re-doubled.
That afternoon Ryan came on the stage in all the glory of a
full-bottomed wig (imagine playing Shakespeare these days with
full-bottomed wigs) and a smiling young face, being very much pleased
with himself and the world in general. To Betterton, who had expected
to see in Seyton a henchman of mature years, and who up to this moment
had been unconscious of Lacy's existence, the appearance of the boy
came as a shock. Had the witches of the tragedy been turned into
beautiful children he could not have been more surprised. However, he
gave the new Seyton an encouraging look, and the stripling played the
part in a way to earn the approbation of the great actor. After the
performance was over, Betterton scolded old Downes, the prompter, for
"sending a child to him instead of a man advanced in years."
This anecdote seems to show that the art of "make-up" had not reached
perfection in those times, for a few well-put strokes of the pencil
should have destroyed the juvenile aspect of Seyton. It must not be
supposed, nevertheless, that the decoration of the face was unknown,
and an entry in Pepys' delightful diary proves that "make-up" of a
certain kind flourished at the Restoration. "To the King's house,"
says Pepys, "and there going in met with Knipp, and she took us up
into the tireing-rooms;[A] and to the women's shift, where Nell
(Gwyne) was dressing herself, and was all unready, and is very pretty,
prettier than I thought. (Imagine the gloating eyes of the old
hypocrite.) And into the scene-room, and there sat down, and she gave
us fruit: and here I read the questions to Knipp, while she answered
me, through all her part of 'Flora's Figarys,' which was acted to-day.
But, Lord! to see how they were both painted, would make a man mad,
and did make me loath them: and what base company of men comes among
them; and how loudly they talk! And how poor the men are in clothes,
and yet what a show they make on the stage by candle-light, is very
observable. But to see how Nell cursed, for having so few people in
the pit, was strange," _et cetera_.[B]
[Footnote A: Mrs. Knipp was an actress belonging to the King's Company
and Mr. Pepys had for her a timid admiration.]
[Footnote B: In his notes to Cibber's "Apology," Lowe suggests the
plausible theory that young actors playing "juveniles" did not use
any "make-up" or paint, but went on the stage with their natural
complexion. He instances this paragraph from Cibber: "The first thing
that enters into the head of a young actor is that of being a heroe:
In this ambition I was soon snubb'd by the insufficiency of my voice;
to which might be added an uniform'd meagre person (tho' then not
ill-made) with a dismal pale complexion."]
To leave the merry days of Charles II, and wander back to those of
Queen Anne, it may be said that Ryan made his first success as the
Marcus in the original production of "Cato." It was a success rather
added to than otherwise by an adventure of which this actor was the
unfortunate victim. "In the run of that celebrated tragedy," writes
Chetwood, "he was accidently brought into a fray with some of our
Tritons on the Thames; and, in the scuffle, a blow on the nose was
given him by one of these water-bullies, who neither regard men or
manners. I remember, the same night, as he was brought on the bier,
after his suppos'd death in the fourth act of 'Cato,' the blood, from
the real wound in the face, gush'd out with violence; that hurt had
no other effect than just turning his nose a little, tho' not to
deformity; yet some people imagine it gave a very small alteration to
the tone of his voice, tho' nothing disagreeable." And a very good
advertisement it was, no doubt.
In later years another much-discussed accident befell Mr. Ryan. As he
was going home from the theatre one night, the actor was attacked by a
footpad, and received in his face two bullets which broke a portion of
his jaw. "By the help of a lamp [again is the quotation from Chetwood]
the robber knew Mr. Ryan, as I have been inform'd, begg'd his pardon
for his mistake, and ran off. Of this hurt, too, he recover'd, after a
long illness, and play'd with success, as before, without any seeming
alteration of voice or face. His Royal Highness, upon this accident
(was it the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II?) sent him a
handsome present; and others, of the nobility, copy'd the laudable
example of the second illustrious person in the three kingdoms."
This was Lacy Ryan, who in his time played many different parts, among
them Iago, Hamlet, Macduff, Captain Plume, and Orestes. He was not in
any sense of the word a great actor, but he well adorned the station
of theatrical life in which it had pleased heaven to place him, and
strutted his lengthy hour upon the stage with much satisfaction to
his companions and the public. Even when Ryan had to kill a bully in
self-defence (it was a fellow named Kelly, who loved to haunt the
coffee-houses, pick quarrels with peaceable citizens, and then half
murder them), the world looked on approvingly, and averred that the
player had acted with his usual conscientiousness.
Another contemporary of Nance was Benjamin Johnson,[A] who achieved
curiously enough some of his greatest successes in the plays of his
namesake, the other Ben Jonson. He began life as a scene painter, but
afterwards turned his attention to the front, rather than the back,
of the stage--or, as he would humorously explain, "left the saint's
occupation to take that of a sinner." Johnson seems to have been a man
of the world, and he saw a good deal of life, even though he never
passed through the rough-and-tumble adventures of Lacy Ryan. When he
was born (1665) Betterton dominated the boards; when he died (1742)
Garrick had become the talk of London; and it is probable that in his
latter years Ben could tell many a story of interesting experiences.
[Footnote A: Ben Johnson excelled greatly in all his namesake's
comedies, then frequently acted. He was of all comedians the chastest
and closest observer of nature. Johnson never seemed to know that he
was before an audience; he drew his character as the poet designed
it.--DAVIES.]
There was one story, at least, that this actor used to relate with
much unction after a visit which he once paid to Dublin. The hero of
the affair was an Irishman, named Baker, who relieved the monotony
of his work as a master pavior by acting Sir John Falstaff and other
parts. When he was in the streets, overseeing the labours of his men,
this pavior-artist usually rehearsed one of his characters, muttering
the lines, gesticulating, and almost forgetting that he was without
the sacred walls of a theatre. The workmen soon got accustomed to
these out-of-door performances, and everything proceeded with the
utmost smoothness, until one exciting day when Baker chanced to be
alone with two new paviors. These recruits (countrymen from Cheshire)
were much alarmed at a sudden change in the demeanour of their master,
whose eyes began to roll and lips to move under the pressure of some
strange emotion. Baker was merely rehearsing Falstaff; but the two men
made up their little minds that he had lost his head, and they felt
quite sure that their employer was a dangerous lunatic, when he gave
them a piercing glance, and cried:
"Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt: there's honour for you! here's
no vanity! I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead
out of me!"
"Wauns! I'se blunt enough to take care of you, I'se warrant you,"
shouted one of the workmen, who had now recovered what he presumed to
be his wits, and thereupon he and his companion laid violent hands on
Baker. A crowd soon gathered, and despite the indignant cries of
the master-pavior, who declared he was never more sane, this son of
Thespis was tied hand and foot, and carried home in triumph with a
howling mob for attendants. That ended Mr. Baker's rehearsal for the
nonce; and it is to be presumed that, when next he essayed the lusty
Sir John, he made sure of an appreciative audience.
It is a seductive occupation to delve into the lives of these bygone
players, and there is always temptation to tarry long and lovingly
amid such chequered careers. But, like poor Joe, of Dickens, we must
keep moving on, and so leave Johnson and Baker for another actor
who waits to strut across the stage of these "Palmy Days." Thomas
Elrington is the new-comer; the same Elrington who sought to outshine
the tragic Barton Booth, without possessing either the genius or the
scholarship of that noble son of Melpomene. As a boy, Thomas was
apprenticed by an impecunious father to an upholsterer in Covent
Garden, but he cared more for the theatre than for his trade, and
was, no doubt, regarded by his employer as a future candidate for the
gallows.
* * * * *
"I remember when he was an apprentice," relates Chetwood, "we play'd
in several private plays; when we were preparing to act 'Sophonisba,
or Hannibal's Overthrow,' after I had wrote out my part of Massiva I
carried him the book of the play to study the part of King Masinissa.
I found him finishing a velvet cushion, and gave him the book:
but alas! before he could secrete it, his master (a hot, voluble
Frenchman), came in upon us, and the book was thrust under the velvet
of the cushion. His master, as usual, rated him for not working, with
a 'Morbleu! why a you not vark, Tom?' and stood over him so long that
I saw, with some mortification, the book irrecoverably stitch'd up in
the cushion never to be retriev'd till the cushion is worn to pieces.
Poor Tom cast many a desponding look upon me when he was finishing the
fate of the play, while every stitch went to both our hearts.
"His master observing our looks, turn'd to me, and with words that
broke their necks over each other for haste, abused both of us. The
most intelligible of his great number of words were Jack Pudenges, and
the like expressions of contempt. But our play was gone for ever.
"Another time," continues the biographer, "we were so bold to attempt
Shakespeare's 'Hamlet,' where our 'prentice Tom had the part of the
Ghost, father to young Hamlet. His armour was composed of pasteboard,
neatly painted. The Frenchman had intelligence of what we were about,
and to our great surprise and mortification, made one of our audience.
The Ghost in its first appearance is dumb to Horatio. While these
scenes past, the Frenchman only muttered between his teeth, and we
were in hopes his passion would subside; but when our Ghost began his
first speech to Hamlet, 'Mark me,' he replied, 'Begar, me vil marke
you presently!' and, without saying any more, beat our poor Ghost off
the stage through the street, while every stroke on the pasteboard
armour grieved the auditors (because they did not pay for their
seats), insomuch that three or four ran after the Ghost, and brought
him back in triumph, with the avenging Frenchman at his heels, who
would not be appeas'd till our Ghost promised him never to commit the
offence of acting again. A promise made, like many others, never to be
kept."
* * * * *
Elrington ultimately became a favourite player with Dublin audiences,
and then contested with Booth in the latter's own ground of London. He
never equalled the classic Barton, yet made a success in tragedy, and
was once asked (1728-9) to join the forces of Drury Lane for a term
of years. He told the managers that he could not think of permanently
leaving Ireland, where he was so well rewarded for his services, and
added, "There is not a gentleman's house there to which I am not a
welcome visitor," which shows that an actor can be a snob, like the
worst of us.
When Elrington died, two years after the taking off of Oldfield, his
epitaph was written in these flattering lines:--
"Thou best of actors here interr'd,
No more thy charming voice is heard,
This grave thy corse contains:
Thy better part, which us'd to move
Our admiration, and our Love,
Has fled its sad remains.
"Tho' there's no monumental brass,
Thy sacred relicks to encase,
Thou wondrous man of art!
A lover of the muse divine,
O! Elrington, shall be thy shrine,
And carve thee in his heart."
One of Elrington's friends and artistic associates happened to be
John Evans, a player possessed of talent, fatness, and indolence. As
adventures seem to be in order in this chapter, let us recall two
which occurred to this gentleman at a time when he was in high favour
with the Irish. The first episode, making a warlike prologue to the
second, had for its scene a tavern in the good city of Cork, where
Evans had been invited to sup by some officers stationed in the
neighbourhood. Jack responded gladly to the hospitable suggestion; the
gathering proved a great success, the wine was circulated generously,
and many toasts were offered. When the actor was called upon for a
sentiment, he proposed the health of his gracious sovereign, Anne,
whereat all in the company were pleased with the exception of one
disloyal redcoat. Whether the latter had within him the contrariness
which cometh with too liberal dalliance with the flowing bowl, or
whether he chanced to be a Jacobite, further deponent sayeth not, but
it is at least certain that the officer was not pleased at the honour
paid to the Queen whose uniform he was willing to wear. So Mr.
Malcontent leaves the room, and then sends up word to poor,
inoffensive Jack, that he will be delighted to see that worthy below
stairs; whereupon Jack quietly steals away and finds his would-be
antagonist lurking behind a half-opened door. The soldier makes a
lunge with his sword at the player, who succeeds in disarming the
coward, and there the matter apparently stops.
But the end was not yet. When Evans went to Dublin, he found that his
late challenger was circulating a lie, which made it appear that the
comedian had in somewise affronted the whole British Army. No sooner
did Jack put his face upon the stage than a great clamour arose, and
it was decreed by the bullies among the audience (of whom there are
ever a few in every house), that no play should be presented until the
culprit had publicly begged pardon for a sin which he never committed.
The play was "The Rival Queens," the part assigned to Evans that of
Alexander, but 'twas some time before this Alexander could be induced
to crave the forgiveness of the excitable Dublinites. Finally he
yielded to expediency, and, coming forward to the centre of the stage,
expressed his contrition. At this, a puppy in the pit cried out
"Kneel, you rascal!" and Evans, now thoroughly exasperated, tartly
answered: "No, you rascal! I'll kneel to none but God, and my Queen."
Then the performance began.[A]
[Footnote A: "As there were many worthy gentlemen of the army who knew
the whole affair, the new rais'd clamour ceas'd, and the play went
through without any molestation, and, by degrees, things return'd to
their proper channel By this we may see, it is some danger for an
actor to be in the right."--CHETWOOD.]
How Chetwood bubbles over with a stream of ever-flowing anecdote. Much
that he gives us in his "General History of the Stage" is only gossip,
yet what is there more fascinating than tittle-tattle about players?
The gossip of the drawing-room is merely inane, or else scandalous;
but shift the scene to the theatre, and a story no longer bores; it is
consecrated by the sacrament of interest. Is any apology necessary,
therefore, if the quotation marks be again brought into requisition.
This time the anecdote is of Thomas Griffith, an excellent comedian,
and a harmless poet.
"After his commencing actor, he contracted a friendship with Mr.
Wilks; which chain remained unbroke till the death of that excellent
comedian. Tho' Mr. Griffith was very young, Mr. Wilks took him with
him to London (from Dublin), and had him entered for that season at
a small salary. The 'Indian Emperor' being ordered on a sudden to
be played, the part of Pizarro, a Spaniard, was wanting, which Mr.
Griffith procured, with some difficulty. Mr. Betterton being a little
indisposed, would not venture out to rehearsal, for fear of increasing
his indisposition, to the disappointment of the audience, who had not
seen our young stripling rehearse. But, when he came ready, at the
entrance, his ears were pierced with a voice not familiar to him. He
cast his eyes upon the stage, where he beheld the diminutive Pizarro,
with a truncheon as long as himself (his own words.)
"He steps up to Downs, the prompter, and cry'd, 'Zounds, Downs, what
sucking scaramouch have you sent on there?' 'Sir,' replied Downs,
'He's good enough for a Spaniard; the part is small.' Betterton
return'd, 'If he had made his eyebrows his whiskers, and each whisker
a line, the part would have been two lines too much for such a monkey
in buskins.'
"Poor Griffith stood on the stage, near the door, and heard every
syllable of the short dialogue, and by his fears knew who was meant by
it; but, happy for him, he had no more to speak that scene. When the
first act was over (by the advice of Downs) he went to make his excuse
with--'Indeed, Sir, I had not taken the part, but there was only I
alone out of the play.' 'I! I!' reply'd Betterton, with a smile, 'Thou
art but the tittle of an I.' Griffith seeing him in no ill humour told
him, 'Indians ought to be the best figures on the stage, as nature had
made them.' 'Very like,' reply'd Betterton, 'but it would be a double
death to an Indian cobbler to be conquer'd by such a weazle of a
Spaniard as thou art. And, after this night, let me never see a
truncheon in thy hand again, unless to stir the fire.' ... He took his
advice, laid aside the buskin, and stuck to the sock, in which he made
a figure equal to most of his contemporaries.
"Our genius flutters with the plumes of youth,
But observation wings to steddy truth."
No one can resist telling another story, this time of fat Charles
Hulet, whose abilities were only equalled by his corpulence. Having
been apprenticed to a bookseller, he straightway proceeded to take a
violent interest in the drama, and would often while away the evenings
by spouting Shakespeare and other authors. In lieu of a company to
support him young Hulet would designate each chair in the kitchen to
represent one of the characters in the play he was reciting. "One
night, as he was repeating the part of Alexander, with his wooden
representative of Clytus (an old elbow-chair), and coming to the
speech where the old General is to be kill'd, this young mock
Alexander snatch'd a poker instead of a javelin, and threw it with
such strength against poor Clytus, that the chair was kill'd upon
the spot, and lay mangled on the floor. The death of Clytus made a
monstrous noise, which disturbed the master in the parlour, who called
out to know the reason; and was answered by the cook below, 'Nothing,
sir, but that Alexander has kill'd Clytus.'"
* * * * *
In latter days Hulet took great pride in the sonorous tones of his
voice, and loved nothing more dearly than to steal up behind a man and
startle the unsuspecting one by giving a very loud "Hem." It was a
"Hem," however, which helped to make the actor's winding-sheet, for
one fine day he repeated the trick, burst a blood-vessel, and died
within twenty-four hours.
Heaven bless all these merry vagabonds! We may not always wish to
follow in their footsteps, but we like to keep near them and pry into
their careless, happy lives. When the Bohemians enter a pot-house we
are too virtuous, presumably, to go in likewise, but we stand without,
to get a tempting whiff of hot negus and a snatch of some genial jest
or tuneful song. Then, if our players stray, perchance, into the
gloomy precincts of a pawn-shop, are we not quite prepared to steal up
to the window and discover what tribute is being paid to mine uncle?
And so, speaking of pot-houses, and negus, and pawn-shops, let us end
our extracts from the invaluable Chetwood with this unconventional
reminiscence of another player, Mr. John Thurmond. It was a custom at
that time for persons of the first rank and distinction to give their
birthday suits to the most favoured actors. I think Mr. Thurmond was
honoured by General Ingolsby with his. But his finances being at the
last tide of ebb, the rich suit was put in buckle (a cant word for
forty in the hundred interest). One night, notice was given that the
General would be present with the Government at the play, and all
the performers on the stage were preparing to dress out in the suits
presented. The spouse of Johnny (as he was commonly called) try'd all
her arts to persuade Mr. Holdfast, the pawnbroker (as it fell out, his
real name) to let go the cloaths for that evening, to be returned when
the play was over. But all arguments were fruitless; nothing but
the Ready, or a pledge of full equal value. Such people would have
despised a Demosthenes, or a Cicero, with all their rhetorical
flourishes, if their oratorian gowns had been in pledge. Well! what
must be done? The whole family in confusion and all at their wits-end;
disgrace, with her glaring eyes and extended mouth, ready to devour.
Fatal appearance!
* * * * *
"At last Winny, the wife (that is, Winnifrede), put on a compos'd
countenance (but, alas! with a troubled heart); stepp'd to a
neighbouring tavern, and bespoke a very hot negus, to comfort Johnny
in the great part he was to perform that night, begging to have the
silver tankard with the lid, because, as she said, 'a covering, and
the vehicle silver, would retain heat longer than any other metal,'
The request was comply'd with, the negus carry'd to the playhouse
piping hot, popp'd into a vile earthen mug--the tankard _l'argent_
travelled _incog_. under her apron (like the Persian ladies veil'd),
popp'd into the pawnbroker's hands, in exchange for the suit--put on
and play'd its part, with the rest of the wardrobe; when its duty
was over, carried back to remain in its old depository; the tankard
return'd the right road; and, when the tide flowed with its lunar
influence, the stranded suit was wafted into safe harbour again, after
paying a little for 'dry docking,' which was all the damage received."
* * * * *
And Mr. Chetwood adds:
"Thus woman's wit (tho' some account it evil)
With artful wiles can overreach the Devil."
Among such as these, good, bad and indifferent, moral and otherwise,
did Mistress Oldfield pass what hours she consecrated to the theatre.
In the early years, when merely a poor, struggling postulant before
the altar of fame, the girl must have been more or less intimate with
her dramatic associates, but as time went on and Nance blazed into a
star of the first magnitude, the old feeling of fellowship may have
become weakened. Not that the actress was in any sense snobbish;
rather let it be said that the circumstances of her celebrity proved
quite enough, in the course of human affairs, to separate her from the
other players. Indeed, one of her biographers relates that Oldfield
always went in state to Drury Lane, accompanied by two footmen, and
that she seldom spoke to any one of the actors.[A]
[Footnote A: She always went to the house (_i.e._, the theatre) in the
same dress she had worn at dinner in her visits to the houses of great
people; for she was much caressed on account of her general merit, and
her connection with Mr. Churchill. She used to go to the playhouse in
a chair, attended by two footmen; she seldom spoke to any one of
the actors, and was allowed a sum of money to buy her own
clothes.--"General Biographical Dictionary."]
Nance may have made her entry into the green-room amid royal auspices,
but who can for a second believe that "she seldom spoke to any one
of the actors"? There was in her composition too much of sunshine to
warrant any such belief, and then we know that behind the scenes she
was ever affable and friendly. If she did not brook familiarity which
comes of contempt, and if she moved about among her companions with
dignity, then so much the better.
Of Nance's sweetness of temper and sterling common-sense, Cibber
has left us an attractive memory. It seems that when the Drury Lane
management determined to revive "The Provoked Wife" of Sir John
Vanbrugh (January 1726), Colley suggested that Wilks should take a
rest during the run of the piece, and allow Barton Booth to play the
lover, Constant. The idea did not meet with Wilks' approval; "down
dropt his brow, and fur'd were his features"; and the green-room
became the scene of a violent spat between Cibber and himself, with
Mrs. Oldfield and other members of the company as excited listeners.
Finally the author of the "Apology" said: "Are you not every day
complaining of your being over-labour'd? And now, upon the first
offering to ease you, you fly into a passion, and pretend to make that
a greater grievance than t'other: But, Sir, if your being in or out of
the play is a hardship, you shall impose it upon yourself: The part is
in your hand, and to us it is a matter of indifference now whether you
take it or leave it."
[Illustration: SIR JOHN VANBRUGH By Sir GODFREY KNELLER]
Upon this Mr. Wilks "threw down the part upon the table, crossed
his arms, and sate knocking his heel upon the floor, as seeming to
threaten most when he said least." Hereupon Booth generously yielded
up the much disputed Constant to his rival with the remark that "for
his part, he saw no such great matter in acting every day; for he
believed it the wholsomest exercise in the world; it kept the spirits
in motion, and always gave him a good stomach"--and the elegant
Barton, be it remembered, was a great eater.
* * * * *
"Here," says Cibber, "I observed Mrs. Oldfield began to titter behind
her fan. But Wilks being more intent upon what Booth had said,
reply'd, every one could best feel for himself, but he did not pretend
to the strength of a pack-horse; therefore if Mrs. Oldfield would
chuse anybody else to play with her, he should be very glad to be
excus'd. This throwing the negative upon Mrs. Oldfield was, indeed, a
sure way to save himself; which I could not help taking notice of, by
saying it was making but an ill compliment to the company to suppose
there was but one man in it fit to play an ordinary part with her.
"Here Mrs. Oldfield got up, and turning me half round to come forward,
said with her usual frankness, 'Pooh! you are all a parcel of fools,
to make such a rout about nothing!' Rightly judging that the person
most out of humour would not be more displeased at her calling us all
by the same name. As she knew, too, the best way of ending the debate
would be to help the weak, she said, she hop'd Mr. Wilks would not so
far mind what had past as to refuse his acting the part with her; for
tho' it might not be so good as he had been us'd to, yet she believed
those who had bespoke the play would expect to have it done to the
best advantage, and it would make but an odd story abroad if it were
known there had been any difficulty in that point among ourselves. To
conclude, Wilks had the part."
Verily, Oldfield was a gentlewoman.