they had talked to her, she came away satisfied it was true. To be sure, the man had a fever, and this vision may have been the beginning of it. But if the message to the woman, and their behaviour upon it were true, as related, there was something supernatural. That rests upon his word, and there it remains." Oh, Doctor Johnson, Doctor Johnson, what, after all, did it matter what a delirious waiter saw, or did not see? Poor drunken Parson Ford, too, who himself so often saw double!

In the Bedford Coffee House, in the Piazza, there have been as many bottles cracked by clever men as in any tavern in London. Garrick, Quin, Foote, and Murphy were especial habitués at this convenient spot, and in 1754 Bonnell Thornton describes the house as every night crowded with men of parts. He says, "Jokes and bon-mots are echoed from box to box; every branch of literature is critically examined, and the merit of every production of the press or performance of the theatre weighed and determined." Conversation had not yet become a lost art. In 1765, Murphy, writing to Garrick, whose life he afterwards wrote, draws a fine sketch of the tavern bully and duellist of those days.

"Tiger Roach, who used to bully at the Bedford Coffee House, is set up by Wilkes's friends for Brentford, to burlesque Luttrell and his pretensions. I own I do not know a more ridiculous circumstance than to be a joint candidate with the Tiger. O'Brien used to take him off very pleasantly, and perhaps you may, from his representation, have some idea of this important wight. He used to sit with a half-starved look, a black patch upon his cheek, pale with the idea of murder, or with rank cowardice, a quivering lip, and a downcast eye. In that manner he used

to sit at a table all alone, and his soliloquy, interrupted now and then with faint attempts to throw off a little saliva, was to the following effect: Hut! hut! a mercer's 'prentice with a bag-wig; d-n me, if I would not skiver a dozen of them like larks! Hut! hut! I don't understand such airs! How do you do, Pat? Hut! hut! Odd's blood-Larry, I'm glad to

see

you; -'prentices! a fine thing, indeed! Hut! hut! how do you, Dominick? What's here to do?' These were the meditations of this agreeable youth. From one of these reveries he started up one night, when I was there, called a Mr. Bagnall out of the room, and most heroically stabbed him in the dark,

the other having no weapon to defend himself with. In this career the Tiger persisted, till at length a Mr. Lennard brandished a whip over his head, and stood in a menacing attitude, commanding him to ask pardon directly. The Tiger shrank from the danger, and with a faint voice pronounced, Hut, hut! what signifies it between you and me? Well, well! I ask your pardon.' 'Speak louder, sir; I don't hear a word you say,' and, indeed, he was so very tall that it seemed as if the sound, sent feebly from below, could not ascend to such a height. This is the hero who is to figure at Brentford."

The Piazza in the old time was the scene of many rencontres, and in the days when swords were worn, blood was not unfrequently spilt upon its stones. Shenstone describes, in 1744, a gang of pickpockets armed with cutlasses, waiting here at dark and attacking persons coming out of the playhouse. That jolly bon-vivant, Quin, fought two duels here, one with a secondrate Welsh actor, named Williams, and another with that clever scoundrel, Theophilus Cibber. Williams, indignant with Quin for ridiculing him on the stage for calling Cato, Keeto, laid wait for him in the Piazza. Quin, contemptuous, yet unwilling to decline a fight, drew his sword and soon stretched Williams dead at his feet. Cibber also quarrelled with Quin, who had denounced him for neglecting a beautiful and injured wife. They fought in the Piazza, when Quin and Cibber slashed and cut each other across the arms and fingers till they were parted.

NOTHING CARES.

AY, nothing cares: the buds peep out
Through the glory of waving grasses;
The lime-tree flings its passionate breath
To the light wind as it passes.
The roses cluster, crimson and white,
In affluent glow and bloom;

The sunshine lends its careless light
To the cradle and the tomb.

The wild birds sing mid the wedding chimes,
Or the mourners' sobbing prayers;
The seasons keep their stated time,
Life passes; nothing cares.

Our joy cannot soften the keen grey skies,
Or the sting of the glittering frost;

Our cry cannot sadden the spring's sweet sighs,
On the merry breezes tossed;

Our woe does not cloud the summer's flush,
As it gladdens o'er land and lea;

Our triumph sinks down when the autumn hush,
Claims its grave tranquillity.

Oh, never a touch of sympathy,
Great Nature's magic wears.

We strive, and stumble, and moan, and die:
Life passes; nothing cares.

Oh, love them, while our days are bright, Beauty, and life, and flowers.

Let them give our summer added light,
Let them bless our few bright hours,
And when the certain shadows creep,
Over the path we go,

Let us turn away from it all, and weep,
And bear, as we may, our woe;
Asking no comfort from outward things,
That but jar and mock our prayers,
For a bitter truth experience brings,
We die; and nothing cares.

"GOOSE."

THE bird which saved the Capitol has ruined many a play. "Goose," "to be goosed," "to get the big-bird," signifies to be hissed, says the Slang Dictionary. This theatrical cant term is of ancient date. In the induction to Marston's comedy of What You Will, 1607, it is asked if the poet's resolve shall be "struck through with the blirt of a goose breath ?" Shakespeare makes no mention of goose in this sense, but he refers now and then to hissing as the play-goers' method of indicating disapproval. "Mistress Page, remember you your cue," says Ford's wife in the Merry Wives of Windsor. "I warrant thee," replies Mistress Page, "if I do not act it, hiss me!" In the Roman theatres, it is well known that the spectators pronounced judgment upon the efforts of the gladiators and combatants of the arena by silently turning their thumbs up or down, decreeing death in the one case and life in the other. Hissing, however, even at this time, was the usual method of condemning the public speaker of distasteful opinions. In one of Cicero's letters there is record of the orator Hortensius, "who attained old age without once incurring the disgrace of being hissed." The prologues of Ben Jonson and Beaumont and Fletcher frequently deprecate the hissing of the audience.

But theatrical censure, not content with imitating the goose, condescended to borrow from another of the inferior animalsthe cat. Addison devoted one of his papers in the Spectator to a Dissertation upon Catcalls. In order to make himself master of his subject, he professed to have purchased one of these instruments, though not without great difficulty, "being informed at two or three toy-shops that the players had lately bought them all up." He found that antiquaries were much divided in opinion as to the origin of the catcall. A fellow of the Royal Society had concluded, from the simplicity of its make

and the uniformity of its sound, that it was older than any of the inventions of Jubal. "He observes very well, that musical instruments took their first rise from the notes of birds and other melodious animals, 'and what,' says he, 'was more natural than for the first ages of mankind to imitate the voice of a cat, that lived under the same roof with them?' He added, that the cat had contributed more to harmony than any other animal; as we are not only beholden to her for this wind instrument, but for our string music in general." The essayist, however, is disposed to hold that the catcall is originally a piece of English music. "Its resemblance to the voice of some of our British songsters, as well as the use of it, which is peculiar to our na tion, confirms me in this opinion." He mentions that the catcall has quite a contrary effect to the martial instruments then in use; and instead of stimulating courage and heroism, sinks the spirits, shakes the nerves, curdles the blood, and inspires despair and consternation at a surprising rate. "The catcall has struck a damp into generals, and frightened heroes off the stage. At the first sound of it I have seen a crowned head tremble, and a princess fall into fits." He concludes with mention of an ingenious artist who teaches to play on it by book, and to express by it the whole art of dramatic criticism. "He has his bass and his treble catcall: the former for tragedy, the latter for comedy; only in tragi-comedies they may both play together in concert. He has a particular squeak to denote the violation of each of the unities, and has different sounds to show whether he aims at the poet or the player," &c.

The conveyance of a catcall to the theatre evidences a predisposition to uproarious censure. Hissing may be, in the nature of impromptu criticism, suddenly provoked by something held to be offensive in the representation; but a play-goer could scarcely have armed himself with a catcall without a desire and an intention of performing upon his instrument in any case. Of old, audiences would seem to have delighted in disturbance upon very light grounds. Theatrical rioting was of common occurrence. The rioters were in some sort a disciplined body, and proceeded systematically. Their plan of action had been previously agreed upon. It was a rule that the ladies should be politely handed out of the theatre before the commencement of any violent acts of hostility; and this dis

appearance of the ladies from among the audience was always viewed by the management as rather an alarming hint of what might be expected. Then wine was sent for into the pit, the candles were thrown down, and the gentlemen drew their swords. They prepared to climb over the partitions of the orchestra and to carry the stage by assault. Now and then they made havoc of the decorations of the house, and cut and slashed the curtains, hangings, and scenery. At Drury Lane, in 1740, when a riot took place in consequence of the non-appearance of Madame Chateauneuf, a favourite French dancer, a noble marquis deliberately proposed that the theatre should be fired, and a pile of rubbish was forthwith heaped upon the stage in order to carry into effect this atrocious suggestion. At the Haymarket Theatre, in 1749, the audience enraged at the famous Bottle Conjuror hoax, were incited by the Culloden Duke of Cumberland to pull down the house! The royal prince stood up in his box waving his drawn sword, which some one, however, ventured to wrest from his grasp. The interior fittings of the theatre were completely destroyed; the furniture and hangings being carried into the street and made a bonfire of, the curtain surmounting the flaming heap like a gigantic flag. A riot at the Lincoln's Inn Fields, in 1721, led to George the First's order that in future a guard should attend the performances. This was the origin of the custom that long prevailed of stationing sentries on either side of the proscenium during representations at the patent theatres. Of late years the guards have been relegated to the outside of the buildings. On the occasion of state visits of royalty to the theatre, however-although these are now, perhaps, to be counted among things of the past-Beefeaters upon the stage form an impressive part of the

ceremonial.

Theatrical rioting has greatly declined in violence, as well it might, since the O. P. saturnalia of disturbance, which lasted some sixty-six nights at Covent Garden Theatre in 1809. Swords were no longer worn, but the rioters made free use of their fists, called in professional pugilists as their allies, and, in addition to catcalls, armed themselves with bells, post-horns, whistles, and watchmen's rattles. The O. P. riots may be said to have abolished the catcall, but they established goose." Captures of the rioters were occasionally made by Brandon, the courageous box-office keeper,

66

and they were charged at Bow-street police court with persistent hissing, with noisily crying "Silence!" and with unnatural coughing." The charges were not proceeded with, but one of the accused, Mr. Clifford, a barrister, brought an action against Brandon for false imprisonment. In this case the Court of King's Bench decided that, although the audience in a public theatre have a right to express the feelings excited at the moment by the performance, and in this manner to applaud or hiss any piece which is represented, or any performer; yet if a number of persons, having come to the theatre with a predetermined purpose of interrupting the performance, for this end make a great noise so as to render the actors inaudible, though without offering personal violence or doing injury to the house, they are in law guilty of a riot. Serjeant Best, the counsel for the plaintiff, urged that, as play and players might be hissed, managers should be liable to their share; they should be controlled by public opinion; Garrick and others had yielded cheerfully to the jurisdiction of the pit without a thought of appealing to Westminster Hall. "Bells and rattles," added the serjeant, "may be new to the pit; but catcalls, which are equally stunning, are as old as the English drama." Apparently, however, the catcall, its claim to antiquity notwithstanding, was not favourably viewed by the court. In summing up, Chief Justice Mansfield observed: "I cannot tell on what grounds many people think they have a right, at a theatre, to make such a prodigious noise as to prevent others hearing what is going forward on the stage. Theatres are not absolute necessaries of life, and any person may stay away who does not approve of the manner in which they are managed. If the prices of admission are unreasonable, the evil will cure itself. People will not go, and the proprietors will be ruined, unless they lower their demand. If the proprietors have acted contrary to the conditions of the patent, the patent itself may be set aside by a writ of scire facias in the Court of Chancery." To the great majority of play-goers it probably occurred that hissing was a simpler and more summary remedy of their grievances and relief to their feelings than any the Court of Chancery was likely to afford. In due time, however, came free trade in the drama and the abolition of the special privileges and monopolies too long enjoyed by the patent theatres.

cored.

After the failure of his luckless farce, Mr. H., Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, "A hundred hisses (hang the word! I write it like kisses-how different!), a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand claps. The former come more directly from the heart." The reception of the little play had been of a disastrous kind, and Lamb, sitting in the front row of the pit, is said to have joined in condemning his own work, and to have hissed and hooted as loudly as any of his neighbours. "I had many fears; the subject was not substantial enough. John Bull must have solider fare than a letter. We are pretty stout about it; have had plenty of condoling friends; but, after all, we had rather it should have succeeded. You will see the prologue in most of the morning papers. It was received with such shouts as I never witnessed to a prologue. It was attempted to be enThe quantity of friends we had in the house-my brother and I being in public offices, &c.—was astonishing, but they yielded at last to a few hisses." Mr. H. could probably in no case have achieved any great success, but it may be that its failure was precipitated by the indiscreet cordiality of its author's "quantity of friends." They were too eager to express approbation, and distributed their applause injudiciously. The pace at which they started could not be sustained. As Monsieur Auguste, the famous chef des claqueurs at the Paris Opera House, explained to Doctor Véron, the manager, il ne fallait pas trop chauffer le premier acte; qu'on devait, au contraire, réserver son courage et ses forces pour enlever le dernier acte et le dénoûment." He admitted that he should not hesitate to award three rounds of applause to a song in the last act, to which, if it had occurred earlier in the representation, he should have given one round only. Lamb's friends knew nothing of this sound theory of systematised applause. They expended their ammunition at the commencement of the struggle, and when they were, so to say, out of range. It was one of Monsieur Auguste's principles of action that public opinion should never be outraged or affronted; it might be led and encouraged, but there should be no attempt to drive it. "Above all things, respect the public," he said to his subordinates. Nothing so much stimulates the disapprobation of the unbiassed as extravagant applause. Reaction certainly ensues; men begin to hiss by way of self-assertion, and out of self-respect. They resent an attempt to coerce their

opinion, and to compel a favourable verdict in spite of themselves. The attempt to encore the prologue to Mr. H. was most unwise. It was a strong prologue, but the play was weak. The former might have been left to the good sense of the general public; it was the latter that especially demanded the watchful support of the author's friends. The infirm need crutches, not the robust. The playbills announced, "The new farce of Mr. H., performed for the first time last night, was received by an overflowing audience with universal applause, and will be repeated for the second time to-morrow." Such are playbills. Mr. H. never that morrow saw. "Tis with drawn, and there's an end of it," wrote Lamb to Wordsworth.

Hissing is no doubt a dreadful sound-a word of fear unpleasing to the ear of both playwright and player. For there is no revoking, no arguing down, no remedying a hiss; it has simply to be endured. Playgoers have a giant's strength in this respect; but it must be said for them, that, of late years at any rate, they have rarely used it tyrannously, like a giant. Of all the dramatists, perhaps Fielding treated hissing with the greatest indifference. In 1743, his comedy of the Wedding Day was produced. Garrick had in vain implored him to suppress a scene which he urged would cer tainly endanger the success of the piece. "If the scene is not a good one, let them find it out," said Fielding. As had been foreseen an uproar ensued in the theatre. The actor hastened to the green room, where the author was cheering his spirits with a bottle of champagne. Surveying Garrick's rueful countenance, Fielding inquired, "What's the matter? Are they hissing me now?" "Yes, the very passage I wanted you to retrench. I knew it wouldn't do. And they've so horribly frightened me I shall not be right again the whole night." "Oh," cried the author, "I did not give them credit for it. So they have found it out, have they ?" Upon the failure of his farce of Eurydice, he produced an occasional piece entitled Eurydice Hissed, in which Mrs. Charke, the daughter of Colley Cibber, sustained the part of Pillage, a dramatic author. Pillage is about to produce a new play, and one of his friends volunteers to "clap every good thing till 1 bring the house down." "That won't do.' Pillage sagaciously replies; "the town of its own accord will applaud what they like: you must stand by me when they dislike. I don't desire any of you to clap unless

Second Gentleman. Ha! damned! A few short moments past I came

From the pit door and heard a loud applause.

Third Gentleman. 'Tis true at first the pit seemed greatly pleased,

And loud applauses through the benches rung;
But as the plot began to open more

(A shallow plot) the claps less frequent grew,
Till by degrees a gentle hiss arose;
This by a catcall from the gallery

Was quickly seconded: then followed claps ;
And 'twixt long claps and hisses did succeed
A stern contention; victory being dubious.
So hangs the conscience, doubtful to determine
When honesty pleads here, and there a bribe.

Surely no dramatist ever jested more over his own discomfiture. In publishing Eurydice he described it as a farce, as it was d-d at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.' This was a following of Ben Jonson's example, who, publishing his New Inn, makes mention of it as a comedy never acted, but most negligently played by some the king's servants, and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others the king's subjects, 1629; and now, at last, set at liberty to the readers, his majesty's servants and subjects, to be judged of, 1631."

46

There is something pathetic in the way Southerne, the veteran dramatist, in 1726, bore the condemnation of his comedy of Money the Mistress, at the Lincoln's-Inn Fields Theatre. The audience hissed unmercifully. Rich, the manager, asked the old man, as he stood in the wings, "if he heard what they were doing?" "No, sir," said Southerne, calmly, "I'm very deaf." On the first representation of She Stoops to Conquer, a solitary hiss was heard during the fifth act at the improbability of Mrs. Hardcastle, in her own garden, supposing herself forty miles off on Crackskull Common. "What's that?" cried Goldsmith, not a little alarmed at the sound. 'Psha! doctor," replied Colman, "don't be afraid of a squib when we have been sitting these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder." Goldsmith is said never to have forgiven Colman his ill-timed pleasantry. The hiss seems to have been really a solitary and exceptional one. It was ascribed

by one journal to Cumberland, by another to Hugh Kelly, and by a third, in a parody on Ossian, to Macpherson, who was known to be hostilely inclined towards Johnson and all his friends. The disapprobation excited by the capital scene of the bailiffs in Goldsmith's earlier comedy, The Goodnatured Man, had been of a more general and alarming kind, however, and was only appeased by the omission of this portion of the work. Goldsmith suffered exquisite distress. Before his friends, at the club in Gerrard-street, he exerted him greatly to hide the fact of his discomfiture; chatted gaily and noisily, and even sang his favourite comic song with which he was wont to oblige the company only on special occasions. But alone with Johnson he fairly broke down, confessed the anguish of his heart, burst into tears, and swore he would never write more. The condemnation incurred by The Rivals on its first performance led to its being withdrawn for revision and amendment. In his preface to the published play Sheridan wrote: "I see reason why an author should not regard a first night's audience as a candid and judicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at his last rehearsal. If he can dispense with flattery, he is sure at least of sincerity, and even though the annotation be rude, he may rely upon the justness of the comment.' This is calm and complacent enough, but he proceeds with some warmth: "As for the little puny critics who scatter their peevish strictures in private circles, and scribble at every author who has the eminence of being unconnected with them, as they are usually spleen-swoln from a vain idea of increasing their consequence, there will always be found a petulance and illiberality in their remarks, which should place them as far beneath the notice of a gentleman, as their original dulness had sunk them from the level of the most unsuccessful author." This reads like an extract from the School for Scandal.

no

In truth hissing is very hard to endure. Lamb treated the misfortunes of Mr. H. as lightly as he could, yet it is plain he took his failure much to heart. In his letter signed Semel-Damnatus, upon Hissing at the Theatres, he is alternately merry and sad over his defeat as a dramatist. "Is it not a pity," he asks, "that the sweet human voice which was given man to speak with, to sing with, to whisper tones of love in, to express compliance, to convey favour, or to grant a suit-that voice, which

a