Nurse, and in rushing to her appointment at the Friar's cell, her whole soul was in the utterance of the words, "Hie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell." The desperate alternative to which the command of Capulet that she should marry Paris reduced her, transformed the gentle girl at once into a heroine, and the distracting contention of her fears and resolution rose to a frantic climax of passion, abruptly closed by her exclamation, "Romeo! I come! This do I drink to thee!" Through my whole experience hers was the only representation of Juliet I have seen, and as the curtain fell, I left my seat in the orchestra with the words of Iachimo in my mind, "All of her, that is out of door, most rich! . . . She is alone the Arabian bird."

1815.

ENGAGEMENT AT GLASGOW.

99

CHAPTER VI.

1815.-Engagement at Glasgow-At Dublin-Humours and character of the Dublin audiences-Their peculiarities and attachment to old favourites -Bath-Profit to be made by an actor out of a bad house-Importance of study-Mentevole-Kitely-Pierre-Duke Aranza-The Twiss familyOffers from Drury Lane and Covent Garden theatres-Meeting with brother at Weymouth-Officers at Bath-Mrs. Piozzi-Difficulties of the actor's art-Amateur actors-Performing with "Romeo Coates" at Bath-Leontes -Doricourt-Don Felix.

AFTER one night's performance at Bristol I made my journey to Glasgow by way of Newcastle, where I spent a day or two with my family. At Glasgow I repeated my principal characters to good receipts; but with Kean's first engagement in Scotland announced over my head at greatly advanced prices, in which he was to be paid £100 per night, it was not to be expected that the young country actor should fare as well as if the field had been open. The produce of my engagement was however very satisfactory, putting a very handsome sum in my pocket. A trifling occurrence, to be remembered in after-life, fell out on the night of my benefit. A pretty little girl, about nine years of age, was sent on at a very short notice to act the part of one of the children in Dimond's pleasant farce, 'The Hunter of the Alps.' She was imperfect in the words she had to speak, having had no time to learn them; not being aware of this, I scolded her on coming off the stage for her neglect, which I was afterwards sorry for, as it cost her many tears. In later life this incident was recalled to me in a very unexpected manner. From Glasgow my route to Dublin was by Port Patrick, the little haven of a dreary rock-bound coast, where I was detained in a miserable inn a whole day, wind-bound. The next morning

the master of the packet announced his intention to try the passage, though the wind was strong and almost ahead. The little vessel was "warped" out of the harbour, a boat having taken out a cable and fastened it to a buoy outside, up to which, with a windlass, we were hauled, the master observing to me, as the sail was being spread, "if that cable had given way, nothing could have saved us from being dashed to pieces on the rocks." By dint of many tacks we reached Donaghadee in a few hours, but on the passage I got into conversation with a young man of the name of Conroy, who informed me that he had reached Port Patrick by the same packet on his way to visit a friend in Glasgow College, that he had lost his luggage and his purse, and must now return to Dublin, as well as he could, to obtain a fresh supply. I offered him the assistance of my purse, and we proceeded together to Belfast, and thence to Dublin, I having accommodated him with linen and £6 odd in cash, which was to be repaid immediately. The linen was returned, but of cash and Conroy I never heard more. My Dublin engagement, in which I repeated several times my most favourite characters, that of Luke being the most popular, added to my reputation and materially improved my finances. 'Richard II.' was produced for my benefit, and as usual applauded, but did not attract. I made some agreeable acquaintances here, among whom I remember with peculiar pleasure the genial kind Joseph Atkinson, Moore's most intimate friend. At his house, with others of more note, I met the Dean of Ferns, who enjoyed the reputation of being the only man that could sit out through the whole night the Duke of Richmond, when Lord Lieutenant, over whisky-punch. From Lord Castlecoote I received much attention, and found a very warm friend in a humorous resemblance of Falstaff rejoicing in the name of Mick Doyle, who had been on the stage, and subsequently at the head of the Customs, from which he had retired with a good property and a good pension. It required some effort to preserve our grave looks when he used to lament over his condition. "There's poor old Mrs. Doyle! she's an excellent woman, a very good creature; but she's of no earthly use to me. If God Almighty would be good enough to take her to Himself, it would be much better for both of us."

The value of the principle that I had laid down as a primary

1815.

DUBLIN AUDIENCES.

101

duty in my art, viz. always to be in earnest, was enforced upon me still more strongly by my experience before a Dublin audience. Their attention arrested and their feelings once excited, the actor enjoyed in their glowing sympathy the full triumph of his art. The national character might be read with tolerable correctness in their theatre. Keenly sensitive to the commanding truth of the poet's or the player's passion, they would as often find resource in their own humour from their dulness or inefficiency. It would not unfrequently happen that the humour of the gallery would prove the ruler of the hour, disturbing the more sedate of the spectators and utterly discomposing the player; until, checked by perhaps some energetic declamation or sobered by some touch of nature, they would surrender themselves to the potent influence of the scene, and beneath its charm no assembly could watch more intently, with more discriminating taste, or more lavish applause, " the dream of passion" passing before them. The anecdotes are numerous that have been current of the Dublin galleries' waggeries. I remember on one occasion acting the character of Pierre in 'Venice Preserved.' My friend Jaffier displayed a rotundity of person that might have agreed with the simile to which he likened himself, of a "full ear of corn," but certainly showed. no appearance of being "withered in the ripening." As if in accordance with this obesity, his delivery was drawling and his deportment heavy. In the scene prepared for the execution of Pierre, after he had struck me and himself with his dagger, and gasping out the few spirited words of the defiant conspirator, I had closed my part with the cordial plaudits of the audience, a long and rather drowsy dying speech of my poor friend Jaffier was "dragging its slow length along," when one of the gallery, in a tone of great impatience, called out very loudly, "Ah! now, die at once;" to which another from the other side immediately replied, "Be quiet, you blackguard," then turned with a patronising tone to the lingering Jaffier, "Take your time!"

There was one peculiarity to which this audience clung, in Grattan's phrase, "with desperate fidelity." Their attachment to old stationary favourites was maintained with an ardour and persistency that repelled the interference of their better judgment; and from dates lost in the memory of play

goers, "old" Fullam, Williams, Johnson, and Talbot, four mediocre performers, held undisputed pre-eminence in their partial opinions above the best London comedians. Even Miss O'Neill did not displace Miss Walstein as their favourite tragic actress, though they allowed her the palm of superiority in comedy, the Irish Widow being considered as one of her most celebrated personations. Of course I speak of the notions that were rife at that time. From Dublin to Liverpool our passage in the sailing packet was a very good one, twenty-two hours, whence I hurried on to act in the race week at Newcastle-on-Tyne, where I was again at home and among old friends. Cheverille, in Holcroft's comedy of The Deserted Daughter,' and Shakespeare's King Henry V. were the only new characters I attempted there, but neither elicited any particular demonstration of approval, and indeed deserved none; for having barely mastered the text of each, all effect was left to chance, as I found by subsequent diligent study in making Henry one of my most popular assumptions.

My summer, spent in company with my sisters, was divided between professional engagements at Carlisle, Dumfries, and Berwick-upon-Tweed, and some holiday weeks in my old favourite retreat of Holy Island, from whence we made excursions to Bamborough Castle, Wark, Norham, &c., or frequently dined and drank tea among the rocks or sandy hills of the island under a little tent that I had constructed to supply the want of a bathing-house,-days of enjoyment that I have never ceased to reckon among the pleasures of the past. It was with regret I parted from them, but ill-blood made my leave-taking of my father much more to be sorrowed for. In matters of business he would take refuge in outbreaks of temper, and the issue would be an abrupt separation. As I review our differences I cannot honestly prefer excuses in his favour, but in making more allowances for him I should have been in all respects wiser; the more I had yielded, the more I should have had reason to have been satisfied with myself.

During a short engagement at Greenock, which added little to my stock, the tidings came of the victory of Waterloo, and several anxious days were passed before the published list of killed and wounded gave me assurance of my dear brother's safety. All the officers of his company had been put hors de