merits being given to the great actor, and all the feebleness to the dramatist, there was the fairest probability that the quarrel would have become inveterate. But Garrick, with all his frivolity, was a man of sense, and the wound was healed. In later years, George Colman, (jun.,) thought it worth his while to enter into a long detail, claiming the authorship for his father. But the combatants and their seconds had been long swept out of the field; and no one took the trouble to renew the war. It is surely evidence enough that Garrick did not write the part of Lord Ogleby, the most original part in the play, to say that Garrick positively refused to perform it. If it had been his own, this he certainly never would have done. But let us hear the facetious George himself. He gives a curious frag

ment:

"In respect to the report of Garrick's having written the entire character of Lord Ogleby, my father once told me that it was not true; and that, as an instance to the contrary, he (my father) wrote the whole of Ogleby's first scene. He also informed me that one of Garrick's greatest merits in this work, and it is a very great one, was planning the incidents in the last act; the alarm of the families through the means of Mrs Heidelberg and Miss Sterling; and bringing forward the various characters from their beds to produce an explanation and the catastrophe. I regret that, when my father imparted this, I did not make further enquiry; but I was then a moonish youth,' and troubled my head little or nothing about the matter. He always talked, however, of the play as a joint production." The Clandestine Marriage was professedly suggested by Hogarth's prints.

Col

Theatrical propensities must be very powerful things; for, when once adopted, they seem never to be shaken off, except in prison or the grave. man, who apparently had lost one for tune by adopting the life of a dramatist, now lost another by adopting that of a manager. General Pulteney had offered him a seat in parliament, and to provide amply for him, " if he would quit his theatrical connexions of all kinds; he wholly disapproving of Colman's taking any part in the purchase of the patent of Covent Garden theatre." This was a singularly un

lucky transaction; but it had only the fate that naturally follows the self-willed; for the General soon after died, and as there was no son in the family, Colman might, and would have inherited the whole; but he was now left but £400 a-year by the will. The estates and ready money were distributed among remote branches of the family, the chief part going to the husband of the General's niece, Mr Johnstone, who took the name of Pulteney. Some idea of the magnitude of the property may be formed from the single fact, that it comprehended the reversionary grant of all the ground in Arlington Street, and all Piccadilly, from that street to Hyde Park Corner; in the whole forty acres, all built on, and at the expiration of the leases, calculated at £100,000 a-year! But Colman was at last a manager.

How any man in possession of his senses will ever become the manager of a theatre, is one of those problems which we shall never attempt to solve. In nine instances out of ten, ending in the ruin of all the parties concerned, its whole course is generally oneof quarrel. Colman's management commenced with an open battle, which proceeded to the length of four pamphlets, and a challenge from Harris. Then came old Macklin, from Dublin, to embroil the fray. He had brought with him a farce, which failed instantly. A Chancery suit had by this time grown up, among the other thorns and thistles of the management. Macklin plunged into it with the spirit of one to whom litigation was his natural element, and actually himself answered all the bills in Chancery.

Actors are curious people. Smith, better known as "Gentleman Smith," from his subsequently performing such characters as Charles Surface, &c., made it an indispensable condition in his engagements that his face should "never be blackened," nor was he ever to be "lowered down a trap," as the first might disguise his beauty, and the next might endanger the elegance of his legs.

On the first night of Macklin's performance of Shylock, the crowd in the upper gallery pressing on, a man ran with such rash haste down the seats, that he fell over the edge, and coming on one of the chandeliers, carried it down with him, a circumstance which broke his fall, but destroyed the chan

delier; the man was much hurt, but recovered at the hospital. In Rich's time, a similar accident happened, but the poor fellow had a broken limb, and recovered with difficulty. Rich, in compensation, gave him the freedom of the pit for life, adding, “ provided he would never think of coming into it in that manner again." In 1773, Goldsmith's She Stoops to Conquer was produced. It had lain for some time at the theatre, and Colman had pronounced "that it could not possibly succeed." Such is the wisdom of the wise. It succeeded prodigiously. Johnson roared with laughter at its performance, and all England followed his example. The Doctor was sententious and oracular in his judgment"Sir, there is no comedy for many years that has so exhilarated an audience-none that has so much answered the great end of comedy, that of making an audience merry!" During the performance, Goldsmith was wandering in the streets, to be out of the sound of the horrors of condemnation!

It is similarly told of Rossini, that, his Barber of Seville having failed, through an imperfect rehearsal, on the first night, he sat in his lodging on the second in terror. About the time of its conclusion, his terror was augmented by the noise of a crowd in the street. He threw himself under his bed.

The chamber was soon full of people, and he was dragged out. They had come from the theatre to carry him before the audience, who would not separate until they gave their plaudits to the maestro.

He was borne along in triumph to the stage, and overwhelmed with acelamation; he had made the finest mo der opera in the world! Goldsmith's genius was unquestionable; but, unfortunately, his follies were equally So. After seeing fortune more than once within his reach, he was too indolent to seize it; he sank into vexation of heart; from vexation of heart into poverty; and from poverty into disease, and died at forty-five; but two years after having produced the most successful comedy of his time, and with a brilliant theatrical career before him.

The stage is not merely a strange place in itself, but it seems to communicate a portion of its eccentricity to

He

all, however remotely connected with it. Old Macklin has been mentioned as clever, and yet he was as eccentric as any octogenarian could be. had a son not less eccentric than his father. This son Macklin intended for the law, but his propensity was for the theatre. To save him from the hazards of the profession, against which old experience had fully warned himself, Macklin obtained a cadetship for him in India, after having gone to considerable expense in giving him a good classical education, teach ing him some of the Indian languages, and fixing him in the establishment at Woolwich, where he distinguished himself by mathematical knowledge. His eccentricity eventually destroyed his prospects. As an instance, he had a quarrel with an officer, which produced a challenge. When the parties came to the ground, Macklin appeared in a loose great-coat, which covered him from head to heel, and which, as the matter proceeded, he threw off, and stood perfectly naked. Of course, he was remonstrated with for this extraordinary appearance, and his equally extraordinary answer was-" Šir, I will tell you my reason with great candour, in order that you may do the same if you like. Most of the wounds which prove mortal in India, arise from some part of the woollen or linen which a man generally carries about him, being forced in along with the ball. Now, to avoid this, I am determined to fight naked, and you may do the same." On this the seconds, probably taking him for a madman, interfered, gave their opinions on the indecency of fighting naked, and carried both parties from the ground.

But performances of this order were not likely to be overlooked by the authorities, and Macklin was at length sent home. His father, however vexed at this termination of his prospects, attempted again to support him; but he was incorrigible. His irregularities produced disease, which finished in a lock-jaw, and he died.

Macklin's letters to this unfortunate man, contain some advice which it would be good for any one to observe. "There is no quality," says one of those letters, "which commands more respect than integrity, none more freedom and independence than economy. These

are all that I have with industry to depend upon; and should you make them the rules of your conduct, you must be happy, as without them you never can. Let me repeat this doctrine to you, that he who depends upon continued industry and integrity, depends upon patrons of the most exalted kind. They more than supply the place of birth and ancestry, or even of royal patronage. They are the creatures of fortune and fame, the founders of families, and never can disappoint or desert you."

George Colman, junior, a much better known and much livelier man than his father, came early into society. The celebrated Johnson Club was then in full glow, and at his father's table he sat down with Burke, Garrick, Beauclerk, Reynolds, Foote, Gibbon, the Wartons, and several others of nearly equal distinction, with the Doctor crowning all. Colman says that this club was rated too high, or rather that society rated itself too low; for so pusillanimous in that day were educated persons in general, that they submitted to the domination of a selfchosen few, who in their turn had a despot over themselves; for while the club intimidated the town, Johnson awed the club. In one instance, when Sheridan was beginning to be a little known in the world, though before his first dramatic productions; he dined in company with Johnson and several of the club, when the doctor advanced one of his dogmas, tantamount to saying that black is white. Sheridan gave a plump negative to the doctor's affirmation, and argued against it manfully, with all the eagerness of youth. The party trembled for him, and, shrugging up their shoulders, seemed to say, "Poor young man, clever but ruined. He is rousing the lion, and it will soon be all over with him." The lion, however, was in one of his generous moods; though galled, he was not revengeful. He took his defeat, for defeated he was, in good part, and Sheridan escaped annihilation. "What times," says George, fairly enough, "when a young genius could be reputation-crushed and that genius Sheridan-by entering into discussion with a literary dictator!" However, those things are pretty much at an end now. The Republic of Letters is on a republican footing, and the man who presumed to set himself up as a dictator, would be only laughed

at. Johnson's powers would be acknowledged at all times, but his authority no longer. He would probably be paraded from dinner to dinner, for the amusement of his conversation, but society would revolt against his judgment. The whole spirit of society is changed. Conversation is no longer the sharp encounter of our wits, disputation is vulgar, and triumph is offensive. Whatever were the merits of Johnson, his manners would now be intolerable, his humour would not atone for his rudeness; he would be left to a circle of sycophants, and rapidly sink into a mere subject of the Boswells and the booksellers.

In Colman's management, he pro posed bringing forward the "Beggar's Opera." On this the magistrates wrote him a letter, requesting him not to perform it," as, in their opinion, it most undoubtedly increased the number of thieves." Colman replied, that he must consult his brother managers before withdrawing it: “but for his part, he could not help differing in opinion with the magistrates; thinking that the theatre was one of the very few houses in the neighbourhood that did not contribute to increase the number of thieves." The point of this retort was not qualified to increase his popularity with the Bow Street magistrates.

Colman, after seven years of management, sold his share in Covent Garden theatre, and retired for a while to Bath.

The Bath theatre, in the last century, appears to have been prolific in powerful actors. While Garrick's sun was verging to its decline, Mossop came before the public with extraordinary promise. He had been educated at the Irish University, and intended for the church; but Garrick was his tempter. He had seen this memorable actor on the Irish stage, and thenceforth determined to be an actor or nothing. A succession of the chief performers of the London stage going over to Ireland, confirmed his taste for that hazardous profession; and at length, in spite of all remonstrance, he commenced player. His first appearance was in Zanga. His talents in that part surprised every one, and he was eminent at once; but, with striking abilities, he had the great drawback of an irritable temper. He quarrelled with mankind, begin

ning with the manager. He soon after left Ireland, and made his first step on the London boards in Richard the Third, and again succeeded in a remarkable degree. His style of acting seems to have strongly resembled that of Kean in our day, singularly vivid, subtle, and forcible; but with the defects of abruptness of delivery, and irregularity of performance. He had another grand imperfection-that of believing that his talents were as unlimited as his ambition. He grasped at all the leading characters without discrimination, and, of course, played many of them without effect. His consciousness of occasional failure, only induced him to grasp at more, and with less power. At length, quitting Drury-Lane in high displeasure, he returned to Ireland. was but another step to ruin, and he took it without delay. Inflamed with the mania of management, he declared, "that there should be but one theatre in Ireland, and that he would be at the head of it."

There

A declaration of this kind was a declaration of war with the theatrical world-a very dangerous world to war with; and Mossop found himself wrapped in universal hostility. He began his career with flying colours; disdained to listen to the offer of a salary of £1000 a-year to remain with Barry and Woodward; and rushed headlong into ruin. He struggled long; but after seven years of hopeless toil he became bankrupt, abandoned Ireland, and returned to England, once more on his own hands. But he now came a broken man in mind and body. He still retained his haughtiness. On being urged to apply to Garrick for an engagement, he replied, "that Garrick knew very well that he was in London." But Garrick saw no reason why the manager should stoop first; and Mossop was left uncalled for. He was now painfully taught the evil of a harsh temper. An application was made to the manager of Covent-Garden for an engagement; but Mrs Barry was the chief actress there, and she positively refused to play on the same boards with Mossop-" she and her husband having been too unceasingly tormented by him in his rival theatre in Ireland, to render any association possible. This condition of things could not last long; his health sank rapidly; he

roved about, with a drooping countenance and a worn-out frame, answering every enquiry for his health, by saying, "that he was better;" and every enquiry into the state of his finances, by saying, "that he wanted nothing." If his life had been prolonged, he would probably have lived a lunatic; but he was suddenly found dead in his bed, with only fourpence in his possession!

Events like those are so frequent in the history of the stage, that they have lost the power of astonishing any one; yet their warning against the indulgence of an arrogant temper, and a harsh tongue, is of importance to all. Here we have the instance of a man of great talents dying a beggar in the most popular and perhaps the most lucrative of all pursuits; for certainly there are few others, in which an individual beginning without a shilling spent on his education, or his entrance into a profession; or a shilling of capital; on the strength of talents alone may rise into immediate opulence. Mossop's ability had placed him, by a single effort, in the foremost rank of the stage; and yet, at the end of a few years, this man of genius is found a dying pauper, with all his worldly possession not amounting to the purchase of a day's meal.

Some pleasantries of the elder Colman, and the well-known James Boswell, enliven the narrative. At the Literary Club, Colman happening to say that Johnson, on his return from the Hebrides, was willing to believe in the "second sight," Boswell said, “He is willing to believe! I do believe"-adding, with that ludicrous humility which was so characteristic of the man-" the evidence is enough for me, though not for his great mind; what will not fill a quart bottle will fill a pint bottle." Then keenly, we have no doubt contemptuously, Colman advised him "to cork it up," an advice which Boswell was one of the last men in the world to take.

Wilkes, in his mayoralty, affected to join the citizen with the patrician, and the mansion-house witnessed some peculiarly showy entertainments. Boswell, at one of those, seeing Colman looking for his place at the table, made room for him, and said, " See what it is to have a Scotsman for your

friend at Wilkes's table." A foreign waiter happening to pass by soon after, Boswell asked him something in German. "Ah!" said Colman, "I thought I was at the mansionhouse; but this is more like St James', for here are nothing but Germans and Scots."

A gay letter from Garrick passes his criticism on the men and things of the hour; he writes from Bath :

"I despair of seeing you here, so that I must be at the parade with the folks here, whose conversation lies as heavy on my mind, as the hot rolls and devilments at breakfast do upon my stomach. I have seen the great Henderson, who has something, and is nothing. He might be made to figure among the puppets of these times. His Don John is a comic Cato, and his Hamlet a mixture of tragedy, comedy, pastoral, farce, and nonsense. However, though my wife is outrageous, I am in the secret, and see sparks of fire which may be blown into a flame, to warm even a London audience at Christmas. He is a dramatic phænomenon, and his friends, especially Cumberland, have ruined him. He has a manner of paving when he would be emphatical, that is ridiculous, and must be changed, or he would not be suffered at the Bedford Coffee-house."

In 1775, the curious incident occur. red, of a Lord Chief Justice laying down the law of hissing in theatres. Five individuals had been convicted of a determination to hiss down old Macklin, and ultimately drive him from the stage. The law proceedings had gone on for two years, and at length the defendants were brought up to receive judgment. Lord Mansfield was the judge; he recommended an arbitration, to prevent further expenses; and finally Macklin proposed that the defendants should pay his costs, and take L.300 worth of tickets for various benefits. Lord Mansfield applauded his generosity, and told him that, acknowledging his abilities as an actor, he had never acted better in his life than on that day. He also further observed, "that the right of hissing and applauding in a theatre was an unalterable right; but that there was a wide distinction between expressing the natural sensations of the mind as they arose from what was seen and heard, and executing a preconcerted

design, not only to hiss an actor when he was playing a part, but to drive him from the theatre and produce his utter ruin."

Even in the life of wits, heartless as they are presumed to be, there are sometimes touches of feeling. Foote, of all men the most caustic, furnishes an anecdote illustrative of his having been not wholly the compound of cayenne and vitriol for which the world gave him credit. He had regards probably but for few; but among those few was Weston the actor, a man of considerable ability in his profession. Foote had his portrait painted, and on leaving town for his journey to Dover in search of health-a journey which was his last

he went into the room where the picture hung, made a full stop before it, firmly fixed his eyes on the countenance until the tears started into them, and then turning away, exclaimed, “Poor Weston!" Then, as if in reproach of his own seeming security, after a moment's meditation he uttered,"Poor Weston!-it will be soon Poor Foote!' or the intelligence of my spirits deceives me." It did not deceive him.

There is a striking recollection of Johnson and Gibbon in the memoir of the younger, Colman, written with more than his usual study, and not unlike a reflection of the style of both. He observes, that "Gibbon was a curious contrast to the Doctor. On the day when he first met them at table, which was at his father's house, Johnson was in his suit of rusty brown, an old yellow wig, and black worsted stockings; while Gibbon, who sat opposite to him, was in a suit of flowered velvet, with a bag and sword." Each had his measured phraseology: but Johnson's was grand, Gibbon's elegant-the stateliness of the former, however, being sometimes pedantic, and the polish of the latter occasionally finical:—“ Johnson marched to kettledrums and trumpets, Gibbon moved to flutes and hautboys;-Johnson hewed passages through the Alps, Gibbon levelled walks through parks and gardens." This is rather pompous for George Colman, but he evidently leans to the courtly urbanity of the historian:"Mauled as I had been by Johnson," (who before dinner had treated him as a troublesome child,) "Gibbon