_Dic mihi_, _si fias tu leo_, _qualis eris_?
MART., xii. 93.
Were you a lion, how would you behave?
There is nothing that of late years has afforded matter of greater
amusement to the town than Signior Nicolini's combat with a lion in the
Haymarket, which has been very often exhibited to the general
satisfaction of most of the nobility and gentry in the kingdom of Great
Britain. Upon the first rumour of this intended combat, it was
confidently affirmed, and is still believed, by many in both galleries,
that there would be a tame lion sent from the tower every opera night in
order to be killed by Hydaspes. This report, though altogether
groundless, so universally prevailed in the upper regions of the
playhouse, that some of the most refined politicians in those parts of
the audience gave it out in whisper that the lion was a cousin-german of
the tiger who made his appearance in King William's days, and that the
stage would be supplied with lions at the public expense during the whole
session. Many likewise were the conjectures of the treatment which this
lion was to meet with from the hands of Signior Nicolini: some supposed
that he was to subdue him in recitativo, as Orpheus used to serve the
wild beasts in his time, and afterwards to knock him on the head; some
fancied that the lion would not pretend to lay his paws upon the hero, by
reason of the received opinion that a lion will not hurt a virgin:
several who pretended to have seen the opera in Italy, had informed their
friends that the lion was to act a part in High Dutch, and roar twice or
thrice to a thorough bass before he fell at the feet of Hydaspes. To
clear up a matter that was so variously reported, I have made it my
business to examine whether this pretended lion is really the savage he
appears to be, or only a counterfeit.
But before I communicate my discoveries, I must acquaint the reader that
upon my walking behind the scenes last winter, as I was thinking on
something else, I accidentally jostled against a monstrous animal that
extremely startled me, and, upon my nearer survey of it, appeared to be a
lion rampant. The lion, seeing me very much surprised, told me, in a
gentle voice, that I might come by him if I pleased; "for," says he, "I
do not intend to hurt anybody." I thanked him very kindly and passed by
him, and in a little time after saw him leap upon the stage and act his
part with very great applause. It has been observed by several that the
lion has changed his manner of acting twice or thrice since his first
appearance, which will not seem strange when I acquaint my reader that
the lion has been changed upon the audience three several times. The
first lion was a candle-snuffer, who, being a fellow of a testy, choleric
temper, overdid his part, and would not suffer himself to be killed so
easily as he ought to have done: besides, it was observed of him, that he
grew more surly every time he came out of the lion, and having dropped
some words in ordinary conversation, as if he had not fought his best,
and that he suffered himself to be thrown upon his back in the scuffle,
and that he would wrestle with Mr. Nicolini for what he pleased, out of
his lion's skin, it was thought proper to discard him: and it is verily
believed to this day, that, had he been brought upon the stage another
time, he would certainly have done mischief. Besides, it was objected
against the first lion, that he reared himself so high upon his hinder
paws, and walked in so erect a posture, that he looked more like an old
man than a lion.
The second lion was a tailor by trade, who belonged to the playhouse, and
had the character of a mild and peaceable man in his profession. If the
former was too furious, this was too sheepish for his part; inasmuch
that, after a short modest walk upon the stage, he would fall at the
first touch of Hydaspes, without grappling with him, and giving him an
opportunity of showing his variety of Italian trips. It is said, indeed,
that he once gave him a rip in his flesh-colour doublet: but this was
only to make work for himself in his private character of a tailor. I
must not omit that it was this second lion who treated me with so much
humanity behind the scenes.
The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, a country gentleman, who
does it for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. He
says very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he does not act for gain;
that he indulges an innocent pleasure in it, and that it is better to
pass away an evening in this manner than in gaming and drinking: but at
the same time says, with a very agreeable raillery upon himself, that if
his name should be known, the ill-natured world might call him "the ass
in the lion's skin." This gentleman's temper is made out of such a happy
mixture of the mild and the choleric, that he outdoes both his
predecessors, and has drawn together greater audiences than have been
known in the memory of man.
I must not conclude my narrative without taking notice of a groundless
report that has been raised to a gentleman's disadvantage, of whom I must
declare myself an admirer; namely, that Signior Nicolini and the lion
have been seen sitting peaceably by one another, and smoking a pipe
together behind the scenes; by which their common enemies would insinuate
that it is but a sham combat which they represent upon the stage: but
upon inquiry I find, that if any such correspondence has passed between
them, it was not till the combat was over, when the lion was to be looked
upon as dead according to the received rules of the drama. Besides, this
is what is practised every day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is more
usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have been tearing each other
to pieces in the court, embracing one another as soon as they are out of
it.
I would not be thought in any part of this relation to reflect upon
Signior Nicolini, who, in acting this part, only complies with the
wretched taste of his audience: he knows very well that the lion has many
more admirers than himself; as they say of the famous equestrian statue
on the Pont-Neuf at Paris, that more people go to see the horse than the
king who sits upon it. On the contrary, it gives me a just indignation
to see a person whose action gives new majesty to kings, resolution to
heroes, and softness to lovers, thus sinking from the greatness of his
behaviour, and degraded into the character of the London Prentice. I
have often wished that our tragedians would copy after this great master
in action. Could they make the same use of their arms and legs, and
inform their faces with as significant looks and passions, how glorious
would an English tragedy appear with that action which is capable of
giving a dignity to the forced thoughts, cold conceits, and unnatural
expressions of an Italian opera! In the meantime, I have related this
combat of the lion to show what are at present the reigning
entertainments of the politer part of Great Britain.
Audiences have often been reproached by writers for the coarseness of
their taste; but our present grievance does not seem to be the want of a
good taste, but of common sense.