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publications of a similar stamp, its rivals, his enchanted customers fairly hanging on his lips, subdued to their authoritative sentence! So have I seen a gentleman in comedy acting the shopman. So Lovelace sold his gloves in King Street. I admired the histrionic art by which he contrived to carry clean away every notion of disgrace from the occupation he had so generously submitted to; and from that hour I judged him, with no after-repentance, to be a person with whom it would be a felicity to be more acquainted.
To descant upon his merits as a comedian would be superfluous. With his blended private and professional habits alone I have to do, that harmonious fusion of the manners of the player into those of every-day life which brought the stage boards into streets and dining-parlors, and kept up the play when the play was ended. "I like Wrench," a friend was saying to him one day, "because he is the same natural, easy creature on the stage that he is off." 'My case exactly," retorted Elliston, with a charming forgetfulness that the converse of a proposition does not always lead to the same conclusion: "I am the same person off the stage that I am on. The inference, at first sight, seems identical; but examine it a little, and it confesses only that the one
performer was never, and the other always, acting.
And in truth this was the charm of Elliston's private deportment. You had a spirited performance always going on before your eyes, with nothing to pay. As where a monarch takes up his casual abode for a night, the poorest hovel which he honors by his sleeping in it becomes ipso facto, for that time, a palace; so wherever Elliston walked, sat, or stood still, there was the theatre. He carried about with him his pit, boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable playhouse at corners of streets, and in the marketplaces. Upon flintiest pavements he trod the boards still; and if his theme chanced to be passionate, the green-baize carpet of tragedy spontaneously rose beneath his feet. Now this was hearty, and showed a love for his art. So Apelles always painted, in thought. So G. D. always poetizes. I hate a lukewarm artist. I have known actors and some of them of Elliston's own stamp - who shall have agreeably been amusing you, in the part of a rake or a coxcomb, through the two or three hours of their dramatic existence; but no sooner does the curtain fall with its leaden clatter but a spirit of lead seems to seize on all their faculties. They emerge sour, morose persons, intolerable to their families, servants, etc. Another
shall have been expanding your heart with generous deeds and sentiments, till it even beats with yearnings of universal sympathy ; you absolutely long to go home and do some good action. The play seems tedious till you can get fairly out of the house, and realize your laudable intentions. At length the final bell rings, and this cordial representative of all that is amiable in human breasts steps forth, a miser. Elliston was more of a piece. Did he play Ranger, and did Ranger fill the general bosom of the town with satisfaction, why should he not be Ranger, and diffuse the same cordial satisfaction among his private circles? With his temperament, his animal spirits, his good-nature, his follies perchance, could he do better than identify himself with his impersonation? Are we to like a pleasant rake or coxcomb on the stage, and give ourselves airs of aversion for the identical character presented to us in actual life? or what would the performer have gained by divesting himself of the impersonation? Could the man Elliston have been essentially different from his part, even if he had avoided to reflect to us studiously, in private circles, the airy briskness, the forwardness, and scapegoat trickeries of his prototype?
"But there is something not natural in this everlasting acting; we want the real man."
Are you quite sure that it is not the man himself, whom you cannot or will not see, under some adventitious trappings, which, nevertheless, sit not at all inconsistently upon him? What if it is the nature of some men to be highly artificial? The fault is least reprehensible in players. Cibber was his own Foppington, with almost as much wit as Vanbrugh could add to it.
it is Ben
"My conceit of his person Jonson speaking of Lord Baconincreased towards him by his place or honors. But I have and do reverence him for the greatness that was only proper to himself; in that he seemed to me ever one of the greatest men that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed that Heaven would give him strength; for greatness he could not want."
The quality here commended was scarcely less conspicuous in the subject of these idle reminiscences than in my Lord Verulam. Those who have imagined that an unexpected elevation to the direction of a great London theatre affected the consequence of Elliston, or at all changed his nature, knew not the essential greatness of the man whom they disparage. It was my fortune to encounter him near St. Dunstan's Church (which, with its punctual giants, is now no more than dust and a shadow), on the morning of his
election to that high office. Grasping my hand with a look of significance, he only uttered, "Have you heard the news-??? Then, with another look following up the blow, he subjoined, "I am the future manager of Drury Lane Theatre. Breathless as he saw me, he stayed not for congratulation or reply, but mutely stalked away, leaving me to chew upon his new-blown dignities at leisure. In fact, nothing could be said to it. Expressive silence alone could muse his praise. This was in his great style. But was he less great (be witness, O ye Powers of Equanimity that supported in the ruins of Carthage the consular exile, and more recently transmuted for a more illustrious exile the barren constableship of Elba into an image of imperial France) when, in melancholy after-years, again, much nearer the same spot, I met him, when that sceptre had been wrested from his hand, and his dominion was curtailed to the petty managership, and partproprietorship, of the small Olympic, his Elba? He still played nightly upon the boards of Drury, but in parts, alas! allotted to him, not magnificently distributed by him. Waiving his great loss as nothing, and magnificently sinking the sense of fallen material grandeur in the more liberal resentment of depreciations done to his more lofty intellectual pretensions," Have you heard" (his custom