Puslapio vaizdai
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became on a sudden the fomenter and leader of a tumultuous riot. His associate in the plot was -; I forget his name; he was

a haberdasher in Cheapside. This man had found means, some two or three years before, to wriggle himself into favour with Mr. Garrick. On what their intimacy was founded, no man could tell, except that the haberdasher had a glib tongue, and was every way qualified to fetch and carry such tales as he knew Garrick loved to hear. He was, in fact, one of those whom Shakspeare calls smiling pick-thanks and whisperers of news. Fitzpatrick had the pen of an elegant writer, and, knowing Garrick well, he was able to point his malevolence at the vulnerable parts. He published a number of essays in The Craftsman, all calculated to alarm the quick sensibility of the manager. On those occasions the haberdasher was sure to pay Garrick a visit, with seeming friendship, and, after condoling with him, he went to his favourite author with a number of hints for farther malice. At length, however, Garrick found, that his small-ware friend had been, during all their intimacy, practising delusions; and, being capable of such duplicity, he never cared how much the deluded was tormented by his sinister practices. He was at length fully detected, and Garrick dismissed him from his train with as little ceremony as he would discharge an under actor. This man, in a fit of resentment, acquired a degree of honesty, for he was from that time an open enemy. He lackeyed after Mr. Fitzpatrick, and was proud to attend him in the pit on the night of the riot. The terms of the new doctrine, professed by the discontented party, were carefully circulated in newspapers and handbills, importing, that half-price should be taken on every night throughout the season, except the run of a new pantomime. And thus, according to these critics, Harlequin was to frisk, and frolic, and leap over the heads of the best writers of the age. To inforce this rule, the band of playhouse legislators went, by compact, in crowds to the theatre, and took possession of the pit, and sent their hirelings to the galleries. As soon as the curtain was drawn up, a violent uproar resounded from all quarters. Garrick came forth to appease the tumult, but in vain. An orator stood up in the pit, and, after stating his imperious demand, insisted on an immediate answer. The manager attempted to discuss the question, but was told, that he must immediately comply-yes or no was all they wanted. That not being done, the noise broke out with increasing fury; Garrick was driven off the stage; and the play was not suffered to proceed.

"On the following night, the malevoli returned to the charge. They called aloud for Garrick. As soon as he appeared, Mr. Fitzpatrick, to the astonishment of all his acquaintance, stood up, and put a laconic question- Will you, or will you not, allow admittance at half-price after the third act of every piece, except a new pantomime, during its run in the first winter?' Garrick had settled his measures. Being overruled by the advice of Mr. Lacy, his partner, Garrick replied in the politest manner, and the rioters, carried their point.

"An anecdote relating to Mr. Moody, who was a most natural and excellent comic actor, must not be omitted. During the disturbance on the preceding night, he saw a man setting fire to the scenes, and, immediately seizing him by the hand, was so happy as to hinder that horrid design from being carried into execution. This was a material service, even to the enraged party, who might have been involved in a capital offence; but in the opinion of John Bull it was a crime, for which they required an apology. Moody was hotly called for: he did not hesitate; conscious of his good intentions in the part he had acted, he made his appearance on the stage. His judges in the pit ordered him to ask pardon: to this imperious command, he answered with great presence of mind— 'Gentlemen, if by hindering the house from being burnt to the ground, and saving many of your lives, I have given you cause of displeasure, I ask your pardon.' This was deemed an aggravation, and the furious legislators commanded him to ask pardon on his knees; Down on your knees was the universal cry. Mr. Moody felt the indignity, and, with the spirit of a man, told them, 'Gentlemen, I will not degrade myself so low, even in your opinion: by such an act, I should be an abject wretch, unfit ever to appear before you again.' He spoke these words with firmness, and, having made his bow, walked off the stage. Garrick received him with open arms: he applauded him for his due sense of honour. The riot did not subside, until the manager went on, and, being ordered to dismiss Moody for his insolence, he gave his word that Moody, though a most useful actor, should not perform any part on his stage, as long as he remained under their displeasure. He then retired, and, once more embracing Moody, assured him that his salary should be regularly continued.

"In this manner the tumult was appeased, and the play was acted without further interruption. On the following night the confede

rates, flushed with victory, were determined to reap fresh laurels at Covent-garden theatre. They assembled accordingly, and, before the play began called with vociferation for Mr. Beard, then one of the patentees. That gentleman obeyed their command; and, being required to submit to the terms imposed on the other house, his answer was that the opera of Artaxerxes, which was to be presented that very night, was prepared with great expense, and he therefore could not comply with so unreasonable a demand. A dreadful riot was the consequence; benches, girandoles, and scenes, were laid in ruin. Mr. Beard was properly advised to seek redress in due course of law, and, accordingly, he on the next day sued out the chief justice's warrant against the ringleaders of the fray. Mr. Fitzpatrick and the haberdasher were taken into custody, and conducted to lord Mansfield's house in Bloomsbury square. His lordship heard Beard's deposition, and being acquainted with all the circumstances of the case, he turned to Mr. Fitzpatrick, saying to him, 'you, sir, look like a gentleman; I am astonished to see a person of your appearance involved in such a breach of the peace.' He then went on in that dignified manner, which was peculiar to him, representing to the culprits the nature of the crime, with which they were charged. He told them, that if a life had been lost in the fray, the law would pronounce them both guilty of murder. He soon perceived that his eloquence made a due impression, and then told the prisoners, that, on their giving a solemn promise that they would never again be guilty of the like offence, he would recommend pacific measures to Mr. Beard. That gentleman acceded to his lordship's advice, and agreed to drop the prosecution. All playhouse disturbances were, in this manner, brought to a conclusion. Covent-garden was left at liberty to proceed on the old system, while Garrick, the great patron of the drama, was obliged to submit to the law of the conquerors."

The season of 1762-3 was the last in which Mr. Garrick could be said to have acted in the regular course of his profession. From this time he declined performing any new characters; and, finding his health impaired, he determined, by the advice of his physicians, to relax a little from the usual routine of care and fatigue. Towards the close of 1763, he quitted London for Italy. He had long meditated a journey to the continent; and it may well be supposed, that the several disagreeable occurrences which attended the last year of his management had contributed to quicken his resolution of

leaving for a time his native country. His own and Mrs. Garrick's health were not so firm as their friends and the public wished. The baths of Padua were celebrated for their healing power in certain disorders, and pronounced efficacious in Mrs. Garrick's case. Exercise, amusement, and change of air, were what he seemed principally to want. To a mind active and inquisitive, such as Mr. Garrick's, the knowledge of foreign customs would afford instruction as well as entertainment. The theatres on the continent, with their multifarious exhibitions, might, in all probability, furnish him with proper materials to enrich his own dominions on his return home. His inclination to travel might gain additional strength from two other motives very incidental to the human breast the desire of increasing his importance, by not being so often seen; and convincing the public, that the success and splendor of the stage depended solely on himself. He set out for Dover, in his way to Calais, the 15th of September, 1763, accompanied by Mrs. Garrick, who, from the day of her marriage till the death of her husband, had never been separated from him for twenty-four hours.

To supply his place at the theatre during his absence, Mr. Garrick engaged a young gentleman of the name of Powell, who had been a clerk in the house of sir Robert Ladbroke, but had received theatrical instructions from our Roscius in the preceding summer, and whose success, sanguine as he was, exceeded even his own expectation. To Mr. Colman, who at that time was on terms of the strictest intimacy with Mr. Garrick, the young candidate for histrionic fame was introduced; and to favour his introduction to the public, that gentleman kindly undertook to alter Beaumont and Fletcher's play called Philaster, for his first appearance; which was at Drury-lane, on the 8th of October, 1763. His performance on this night convinced the audience of his great talents for the profession that he had assumed; and he was so much admired in the part of Philaster, that the play brought twenty crowded houses in the course of the season; during which, from the reputation he gained in several first rate characters, though Mr. Garrick was absent, the receipts were greater than had been known for many years before. At the conclusion of the first winter, as Powell's salary, by agreement, amounted to no more than fifty shillings a week, the managers made him a present of one hundred guineas; VOL. IV.

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and some time after, when his confidence and acquaintance with the stage enabled him to display his talents in their full force, his weekly allowance was increased to 12/

Mr. Garrick occupied, or rather amused himself, till the month of April 1765, in travelling through the principal parts of Europe: and was at every place received in the most honourable and cordial manner, by the great as well as by men of letters, each vying with the other in showing respect to the greatest dramatic character of the age. While he stayed at Paris, he amused himself with reading Fontaine's fables; which pleased him so much, that he was induced to attempt an imitation of them. He accordingly wrote one, called The Sick Monkey; which he transmitted over to a friend, to be ready for publication immediately on his arrival. It accordingly made its appearance in two or three days after, with the following motto:" Thursday afternoon David Garrick, Esq. arrived at his house in Southampton-street, Covent-garden. Public Advertiser, April 27, 1765." And he had the pleasure of hearing the sentiments of his friends upon it; many of whom mistook it for a satire upon him, and accordingly expressed themselves in very warm terms on the occasion.

Immediately on his arrival he resumed the management of the theatre, and introduced some improvements which had been suggested by his observations on the conduct of the foreign stages. From the list of his works, it will be seen that he had not been idle while abroad. He produced the next season several new pieces, and in the beginning of 1766 the excellent comedy of The Clandestine Marriage, written in concert with Mr. Colman. He also, at the request of the king, appeared again on the stage; and on that occasion spoke a new prologue, replete with those strokes of humor in which, in that species of composition, he manifested a superiority over all his contemporaries.

The year 1769 formed a principal epoch in the life of Garrick: we allude, of course, to the celebration of a Jubilee at Stratfordupon-Avon, 6th, 7th, and 8th of September, in honour of Shakspeare; a ceremony which very much engaged the public attention, although it was treated by some as a compliment due to the great writer whose memory was intended to be honoured by it, and by others, particularly by Foote, as a subject worthy of ridicule. "A jubilee," said that wicked wit, " as it has lately appeared, is a pub

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