Biographia Hibernica/Spranger Barry

by Richard Ryan

SPRANGER BARRY.

This celebrated actor, who so equally divided the laurel with the immortal Garrick, was born on the 20th November, 1719, in the parish of St. Warburgh, Dublin. He was the son of an eminent silversmith of that city, prosperous in trade, and possessing good family connections, who bred this his eldest son to the business; but an early intercourse with the theatres (of which there were two at that period in Dublin) with the solicitation of a remarkably handsome and finely-proportioned person, melodious and powerful voice, and pleasing address, quickly obliterated every idea relative to business, which the attendance behind the counter between two and three years, might have enabled him to acquire, and he commenced actor in, the year 1744, making his first appearance in the arduous character of Othello.

It has been observed, with some truth, that most first appearances discover more of inclination than real genius. The case was, however, different with Mr. Barry, for he, like our celebrated Roscius, nearly gained the summit of perfection at his outset, and (if we credit the accounts of some of the best theatrical judges of that day) gave evident marks that he required nothing but stage practice to place him at the head of his profession. The summer of 1744 he played in Cork, and acquired fresh fame; and here it was first suggested to him, by his chief patron, Dr. (afterwards Sir) Edward Barry, to visit England, as the soil most congenial to great abilities and superior talent. However, prior to his making this attempt, he returned to Dublin, and joined the company of that year, which stands remarkable in the annals of Irish theatricals, for the finest collection of excellence that ever was known at any one period. Our readers will best judge of this themselves, when they are informed, that the imperishable names of Garrick, Barry, Sheridan, Quin, Woffington, and Cibber, stood first upon the list; and that there was scarce a play that these performers did not change parts, in a praise-worthy contention for rival powers. The public, it is to be regretted, paid a dear price for this mental luxury, as the constant and excessive fulness of the house brought on innumerable colds and fevers, besides dislocations and other odd kind of accidents in abundance, which, terminating in the deaths of many individuals, the saying became common, that Miss ——— died of a Quin fever, but Mr. ——— of a Barry fever.

In 1746, Mr. Barry arrived in England, and was engaged at Drury Lane, and, the next year the patent falling into the hands of Messrs. Garrick and Lacy, Mr. Barry took the lead as the principal performer of that house, and here it was that Mr. Garrick and he frequently appeared in the same characters, and divided the applause of admiring audiences; however, Barry, after a short period, feeling an inferiority arising from the joint power exerted against him as actor and manager, quitted Drury Lane, and headed the forces of Covent Garden. Here his gigantic powers had full play, and here he entered the lists of competition against a man, who, till now, had thrown all his competitors at an immeasurable distance. They played all their principal characters against each other with various success, Garrick being allowed to be the best Richard, and Barry the finest Othello; and remained opposing each other till the summer of 1758, when Barry, in conjunction with Woodward of Covent Garden, undertook a journey to the sister kingdom, where they built two elegant and commodious theatres, one in Crow street, Dublin, and the other in Cork; and, as joint managers, exerted their respective abilities, assisted by a very respectable company, part of which they brought with them from England. Unfortunately, however, after giving their scheme a fair trial for some years, on account of the expenses of the building, the great salaries, the increase of performers, and the uncertainty of their nightly receipts, they both found, that far from benefiting themselves by the exchange, they had altered their situations lamentably for the worse. Woodward was the first to discover the error into which they had fallen; and he immediately made the best bargain he could with Barry, to be paid his share in annuities, and, bidding adieu to Ireland, rejoined the corps from which he had deserted; and in a very laughable prologue (which is still well remembered, and is to be found in print,) restored himself once more to the favour of the public.

Barry staid but a few seasons behind him, for, in 1766, both he and Mrs. Barry played at the Opera House in the Haymarket, under Mr. Foot's management. Here it was Mrs. Barry^[1] made her first appearance before a London audience. The character she chose was Desdemona, in which, though there is little for a performer to shew forth in, yet in this she shewed such judgment, tenderness, and expression, that Garrick, who was then in the pit, declared her an actress gifted with superior talent; and, as a proof that he was serious in his assertion, he very soon after engaged Mr. Barry and herself at a very considerable salary, and by that act he shewed his wisdom and judgment, for she afterwards fulfilled his prediction to the very letter, by unquestionably establishing herself the first actress on the British stage.

In the Grecian Daughter they shone with unrivalled lustre, the feeble and affecting part of Evander being well adapted to the venerable figure and fine pathos of this declining great actor, and the filial piety and towering spirit of the Grecian daughter could not have been more happily displayed in all their force than by Mrs. Barry.

Many characters could be mentioned, in which they swayed, at pleasure, the feelings of their audience, and bade sighs and tears alternate rise and flow. Amongst others, Jaffier and Belvidera, in Venice Preserved; but none can be named with Essex and Rutland, in Jones's play of the Earl of Essex; in the celebrated scene in which the ring is mentioned, they fairly "drowned the stage in tears." And we have heard many a theatric veteran acknowledge, that although he had considered himself stage-hardened, and as immoveable as the bench that he sat upon, that he could not help shedding tears at this memorable scene.

Little remains now to be said of Mr. Barry, than that about the year 1774, he quitted Drury Lane for Covent Garden, and, on signing articles, precured a considerable addition to his income. But an hereditary gout (which occasionally attacked him from his earliest days) rendered his performances not only unfrequent but imperfect; yet it is but justice to the memory of this luminary of the histrionic art, to declare, that even in this exhausted state of his powers, bowed down with infirmity, and cramped with aches, like the great Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage, he gave his audience an affecting picture of what he once was. His voice, which, to the last period of his theatric life, retained its melodious cadences, and his conception of the poet, being as bold and vigorous as heretofore.

He quitted this earthly stage at the age of fifty-seven, slain by his ancient enemy, the gout, on the 10th of January, 1777, at his house in Norfolk street in the Strand, and was interred privately in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.

Barry was the easiest man in the world to live with as a companion and friend. He had a gift of pleasing in conversation beyond most men, owing more to the manner than the matter. To those who are conversant with the domestic management of actors, it will create no surprise to find that Barry did not confine himself within the limits of his income, which, from the first, was very considerable. One of his greatest pleasures consisted in giving splendid and sumptuous entertainments; and it is recorded of him, that no man did the honours of the table with more gentlemanly ease and politeness.

Mr. Pelham, who was highly delighted with his style of acting, once invited himself to sup with him, but the profusion of elegant dishes, with the choicest and dearest wines which Barry provided for him, so displeased the statesman, that he never gave him another opportunity of exposing his want of judgment.

This gentleman, besides the splendour of his dramatic talents, possessed, in a very eminent degree, the fascinating powers of polite address and persuasive insinuation. At no period of its history could the Dublin stage boast so powerful a combination of talents as when under the direction of Mr. Barry: and although the salaries of the very best actors in that day bore no sort of comparison to that of very inferior talents in this, yet his receipts were frequently inadequate to his expenditures, and he was, in consequence of that and his style of living, constantly embarrassed. He had, of course, a crowded levy of importunate claimants; but no man ever possessed more eminently the power of soothing, that "horrible monster, hated of gods and men"—a dun. For though most of them were sent empty away, none departed with an aching heart; for he adorned his impunctualities with such witching politeness, and so many satisfactory reasons, and cherished hopes with such encouraging prospects, as reconciled disappointments, and silenced the most rude and determined importunacy. Numberless are the instances related of his management in this respect. One or two specimens may serve to illustrate his talents.

His stage tailor at Dublin had agreed, in order to secure to himself all the profits of his contract, to furnish materials as well as workmanship; but the manager, in process of time, had got so deeply into his books, as to expose him to much embarrassment from his own creditors. Unwilling to offend so good a customer, the man had worn out all patience in the humilities of civil request and pressing remonstrance. At last, he was determined to put on a bold face, and become quite gruff and sturdy in his demands. But the moment he came into the manager's presence, his resolution failed him, for he was assailed by such powers of bows, and smiles, and kind inquiries after his family, such pressing invitations to sit in the handsomest chair, take a glass of wine, partake a family dinner, or spend a Sunday at the manager's villa; and all that he intended to say, in urging his claim, was so completely anticipated by apologies and feasible excuses for non-payment, that he could not find courage to pronounce the object of his visit. And if he betrayed any symptoms of a disposition to reply or remonstrate, the discourse was so agreeably turned in an instant, that he could not venture to urge a disagreeable topic, and he retired under an escort of the manager in person to the stairs' head. Descended to the hall, under a shower of kind expressions, was ushered to the door by a brace of liveried footmen, rung up for the very purpose.

On his return home from these visits, his wife, who was of the Xantippean school, failed not to lecture him severely, as a noodle and a ninny, who had not the courage to demand and insist upon his right as a man; asseverating, that "if she had the management of the affair, she would soon have the money, in spite of the manager's palavering." The husband acknowledged his weakness, and said he should cheerfully resign the business to her care, but predicted, that, with all her fierceness, she would be conquered also.

The good lady chose a morning for her purpose; advanced against the manager, attired in all her finery, and armed with all her ferocity and eloquence, reached Barry's hall door, where her presence was announced by a thundering sonata on the knocker. The footman, guessing the nature of her errand, and anticipating a storm, from the fury of her countenance, said his master was not at home. Just at this moment, however, the voice of Mr. Barry was heard on the staircase, calling to one of his servants, and betrayed the official fib of the lacquey. "There," said the sphynx, "I knew you were telling me a lie; he is at home, and I must see him directly;" and immediately ran up the stairs. Mr. Barry, who had seen her before, kenned, at a glance, the object of her mission, and met her at the stairs' head, with a smile of ineffable kindness, welcomed her to his house, took her politely by both hands; led her into the drawing-room (frowning like a bear), made a thousand kind inquiries about her good, kind husband, and her dear little children; shewed her his pictures; consulted her judgment as to the likeness of his own portrait; lamented her fatigue in walking so far in so cold a morning; rang up his servants; ordered fresh coffee and chocolate; would hear no excuse, but insisted that she should take some refreshment, after so long a ramble. The table was spread with elegancies: preserved fruits, honey-combs, liqueurs, and cordials, courted her palate to fruition, and a large glass of excellent cherry-brandy, pressed on her with persuasive kindness, banished from her countenance all the stern array of the morning, and attuned her heart to such kindness, that all debts were forgotten, and all demands rendered quite impossible. The lady, overwhelmed with politeness, was about to depart, but Mr. Barry could not suffer this in an ordinary way, nor leave his victory incomplete. He insisted on giving her a set-down at her house, in his own carriage. He backed his request with another small glass of cherry-brandy, to fortify her stomach against the cold air. The carriage was ordered, and, after a circuit of three miles through the principal streets of the metropolis, he set the lady down at her own door, with the kindest expressions of politeness and respect, and the highest opinion of his person and character.

The husband, who awaited with eagerness the return of his wife, drily asked, "Well, my dear, I suppose you have got the money?" But the lady, finding in her own failure an ample excuse for the former weakness of her husband, fairly owned herself vanquished, and said that it was impossible to offend so sweet a gentleman, by dunning him for money

The other instance was in the case of an eminent mercer, named Grogan, to whom the manager owed a large sum for the finery of his tragedy queens and fashionable personages of the drama. He was admitted to be not only an accomplished miser, but one of the most persevering and inexorable duns in Europe. But his importunacy with the manager having failed in Dublin, he followed him to London, with no other purpose than to elicit the amount of his debt by the combined forces of entreaty and menace. Defeated in his first approaches by the usual influence of Barry's urbanity, he rallied again, and, during the month he continued in London, renewed his attempts by a dozen advances to the charge, but with the like success. Mr. Barry's irresistible politeness, the cordial suavity of his manners, his hospitable invitations to dinner, his solicitude to procure for his good friend tickets for admission to all the places of public amusement, and his positive determination to accommodate him on those occasions with the use of his own carriage and servants, rendered it quite impossible for Mr. Grogan even so much as once to mention the subject of his debt, and he returned to Dublin to tell the story of his utter defeat by so consummate a master in the science of finesse.

We intended here to have closed this article, but cannot resist the inclination of inserting the following well-written criticism, published in a pamphlet, entitled "Effusions to the Theatrical Memory of Mr. Barry."

"Barry looked the lover better than any body; for he had the finest person, and smiles became him: nor did he act it worse than he looked it, for he had the greatest melody in his voice, and a most pleasing insinuation in his address. To excite pity by exhibitions of grief and affliction, is one of the most arduous tasks of a tragedian: 'Is it not monstrous (says Hamlet) that this player here, should, in a fiction, in a dream of passion, so force his soul to his conceit, that, from his workings all his visage warmed; tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, a broken voice, and his whole function suiting with forms to his conceit?" These were Barry's excellencies, and in these he stood unrivalled. His mien and countenance were so expressive of grief, that, before he spoke, we were disposed to pity; but then his broken throb so wrung our soul with grief, that we were obliged to relieve ourselves by tears^[2]. In Macbeth, Barry was truly great, particularly in the dagger-scene: his pronunciation of the words, 'There's no such thing.' were inimitably fine; he spoke them as if he felt them. In his performance of Lear, he gave considerable marks of his judgment, by throwing a very strong and affecting cast of tenderness into his character: he never lost sight of the father; but in all his rage, even in the midst of his severest curses, you saw that his heart, heavily injured as he was, and provoked to the last excess of fury, still owned the offenders for his children. His figure was so happily disguised, that you lost the man in the actor, and had no other idea in his first appearance, than that of a very graceful, venerable, kingly, old man: but it was not in his person alone he supported the character; his whole action was of a piece: and the breaks in his voice, which were uncommonly beautiful, seemed the effect of real, not counterfeited sorrow.

"The advantage which he had from his person, the variety of his voice, and its particular aptitude to express the differing tones which sorrow, pity, or rage naturally produce, were of such service to him in this character, that he could not fail of pleasing; and his manner of playing Lear appeared perfectly consistent with the whole meaning of the poet. If any performer was ever born for one particular part, Barry was for Othello. There is a length of periods, and an extravagance of passion in this part, not to be found in any other for so many successive scenes, to which Barry appeared peculiarly suitable: with equal happiness he exhibited the hero, the lover, and the distracted husband. He rose, through all the passions, to the utmost extent of critical imagination, yet still appeared to leave an unexhausted fund of expression behind. In the characters of Anthony, Varanes, and in every other, indeed, in which the lover is painted with the most forcible colouring, we shall not look upon his like again^[3]

"I can hardly conceive that any performer of antiquity could have excelled the action of Barry in the part of Othello. The wonderful agony in which he appeared when he examined the circumstance of the handkerchief; the mixture of love that intruded upon his mind, upon the innocent answers which Desdemona makes, betrayed in his gesture a variety and vicissitude of passions sufficient to admonish any man to be afraid of his own heart, and strongly convince him, that by the admission of jealousy into it, he will stab it with the worst of daggers. Whoever reads in his closet this admirable scene, will find that he cannot, except he has as warm an imagination as Shakspeare himself, perceive any but dry, incoherent, and broken sentences; a reader who has seen Barry act it, observes, that there could not have been a word added; that longer speeches would have been unnatural, nay, impossible, in Othello's situation."

1. This lady, whose maiden name was Street, was a native of Bath, and the daughter of an eminent apothecary in that city, who, unwisely preferring temporary gratification to the future prospects of his family, gave into all the extravagant expenses of that fashionable place; so that, although his practice was extensive, it was always balanced by his expenditure. Mrs. Barry, from her childhood, amidst several promising qualifications, expressed a warm and decided preference for theatrical amusements; which, joined to a figure pleasingly feminine, great sweetness of temper, and the fashionable station she filled, made her, as she grew up, an object of general attachment. When she was arrived at the age of seventeen, she was particularly noticed by a young gentleman of large fortune, and the brother of a noble lord, who was then resident at Bath. From seeing her casually in the Rooms, he was struck with her manners, &c. and he contrived to drink tea with her at a third person's house. Here her conversation established what her charms had begun; and, after a few visits to the house, he formally asked permission of the father to become his son-in-law. So advantageous an offer was readily embraced by all parties: the parent was flattered with the idea of noble connections; and the daughter with being blessed with the object of her affections. Whilst things were in this train of maturation, an unexpected letter arrived, informing the lover of the death of an uncle in Town, which required his immediate attendance. He obeyed unwillingly (of course), after having pledged his adoration for his instant return; but the pernicious air of London (like the human touch to the sensitive leaf) soon dissipated his vows, and banished for ever from his memory all his protestations; whilst the amiable object of them, after waiting two months, in expectation of hearing from him, had nothing but sighs, tears, and painful recollections to comfort her. The chagrin she was thrown into on the ill-fated termination of this love adventure, so visibly impaired her health, that it was thought advisable, by her physicians, to go into the country. A near relation, in Yorkshire, made an offer of his house, which was accepted; and, as individuals sometimes rise from one extreme to another, she entered at first with fictitious gaiety into every species of amusement, till, by degrees she caught the sprightliness of the place, and perfectly recovered her usual flow of spirits. Amongst the amusements of the county, the Yorkshire playhouse, which was only distant a few miles from where she resided, was not of course overlooked. There it was she first beheld Mr Dancer, and married him shortly after at Bath; but, as her relations would not suffer her to indulge her theatrical passion in that city, she went, in the summer season, to Portsmouth. The following winter they went to York, where they solicited an engagement, and obtained it; and she became the favourite actress there until Sept. 1758, when they turned their thoughts towards Ireland. Messrs. Barry and Woodward having opened Crow street theatre, they readily got engagements on genteel salaries, Mrs. Dancer had played in York before several genteel audiences, and it was then thought by the best provincial judges, that she would one day become a great acquisition to the stage. Her first appearance in Dublin confirmed this opinion; and she every night proved she was in want of nothing but experience. There was a dancer on the Dublin stage, who, from the intimacy he had with our heroine and her husband, proposed taking an excursion into the country with the former and another lady for a few days, to which the husband consented. She had been away but the second day, when it was hinted to the husband by some malicious person, that they went off together; and he, believing it, instantly pursued them, and at a little village, about twenty miles from town, got intelligence that they were at the principal inn. Here he lost sight of his prudence, and, rushing into the house like a madman, demanded his wife; who, with the other lady and gentleman, were drinking tea in the dining-room; and, alarmed at his threats, threw herself for protection on the gentleman, who imprudently locked her up with himself in a bed-chamber adjoining. The husband assailed the door, and threatened destruction to the parties; whilst the other as resolutely defended the pass. However, the door was at length broke open; but, whether from beholding the partner of his heart in distress, or the fears of receiving the contents of a pistol which his antagonist held in opposition to his, be peaceably conducted her out of the room, placed her in a post-chaise, and drove to town. This anecdote (with a little embellishment) fed, for a while, half the Dublin tea-tables with scandal. All the caricature painters were at work; and every newspaper and magazine produced a fresh pun or epigram. On the night after her arrival in Dublin she played Sylvia, in the Recruiting Officer where Melissa's salutation to her, on her first appearance, is "Welcome to town, cousin Sylvia;" the house instantly caught the aptness of the allusion, and bestowed on it the applause usually given on those occasions. Soon after this event her husband died, and left her in the possession of every thing but money: she had youth, beauty, and great theatrical talent. Nor were the gallant world insensible of them, as she had many suitors in her train; all of whom she rejected, for the Irish Roscius (Mr. Barry) had secured her heart; and, like a second Stella, she drank the delicious poison of love by the vehicle of tuition. From this period we find her rising to the very top of her profession. Her alliance to the manager secured her all the first-rate parts; and she likewise received so much instruction from him in private rehearsals, that, in a short time, she added all his tire to her own softness. In 1766 Mr. Barry, finding the Irish theatres not answer his expectations, rented them on advantageous terms, to Mr. Mossop; and, with Mrs. Barry, arrived in London, where (as has been stated) she made her début in Desdemona, and afterwards performed the parts of Belyidera, Rutland, and Monimia, in tragedy; and Lady Townley, Beatrice, and Rosalind, in comedy. Her first appearance, after Mr. Barry's death, was in Lady Randolph, when she spoke an occasional address, said to be written by Mr. Garrick; she likewise continued to maintain her former pre-eminence; and was supposed to have accumulated such a fortune as might have rendered her independent; but her improvident marriage with Mr. Crawford quickly dissipated her former savings. She performed soon after this event in Dublin; but frequently with such indifference, that she could only be said to have walked through her characters.

   Her husband, in virtue of his conjugal office, became also acting proprietor and manager, not only of the lady but of the theatre, which last did not thrive under his auspices. His civil list was constantly in arrear; his ministers, from the first-rates down to the scene-shifters, murmured for lack of salaries; his purveyors out of doors relinquished their contracts and withheld supplies. Retrenchment became the order of the day, and pervaded all departments; and, to mend matters, he struck out a system of economicks, in the banquetting scenes, never before heard of in the annals of mock-festivity. The stage-suppers were supplied, not by the cook and wine-merchant, but the property-man; the viands were composed of timber and pasteboard painted in character; and small beer and tinctured water substituted the cheering juice of the grape. The musicians deserted the orchestra; and, in short, the whole system of food and payment were rapidly hastening to a state of as "unreal mockery" as any of the fables of the tragic muse.

   In this state of things an Opera was announced; the entertainments to conclude with the farce of "High Life below Stairs." The harmonies of the first were entirely vocal, for the fiddlers and other minstrels refused to be instrumental to the entertainment of the night. In the farce, the supper scene was supplied from the pantry of the property-man; and all the wines of Philip the butler,"from bumble Port to imperial Tokay," were drawn from the pump or the beer-cask. My Lord Duke complained to Sir Harry, that the champagne and burgundy tasted confoundedly strong of the water; and the Baronet, in turn, deplored the hardness of the wooden pheasants, and the toughness of the pasteboard pies. In the mock minuet, between Sir Harry and Mrs. Kitty, the Baronet observed, "this was the first time he had the honour of dancing at a ball without music; but he would sing the air."

   The gods in the upper gallery took the hint, and called out to the stage company to retreat a little, and they would supply the music. This was done, and in a minute was commenced a concert woful and detrimental, to the great terror of the audience, and the discomfiture of the manager for such a thunder-storm of benches, bottles, chandeliers, and other missiles, covered the stage, that the remainder of the afterpiece was adjourned sine die, and the theatre closed for several weeks.

   On Mrs. Siddons' engagement at the rival theatre, she was roused by emulation, and played Belvidera, Isabella, &c. against that lady. The critics, however, were divided in their opinions; in general the competition was thought very unequal, for Mrs. Siddons was then in the zenith, and Mrs. Crawford in the nadir of her powers. It is but justice to her memory to add, that she was universally acknowledged superior to her rival in the pathetic, and inferior to her in the terrific. Her last appearance in London was at Covent Garden theatre in 1797; but the unrelenting hand of time had destroyed those powers that fascinated so many audiences, and she quitted the stage for ever.

   Her situation in the close of life, although retired, was by no mean obscure; as, since her return to London, she had resided in the house of a relative, a most amiable and respectable lady (her husband, a man eminent in the medical line), in Queen Street, Westminster, who rendered her every attention the nearest connection could have afforded. A few days previous to the last moments of this great actress, she requested her remains to be deposited near those of Mr. Barry, and in as private a manner as possible. Her last wish was strictly attended to, for, after being placed in a leaden coffin, they were conveyed to Westminster Abbey in a hearse decorated with all the mournful ornaments usual upon such occasions. A coach likewise attended, containing the clergyman, physician, apothecary, and her executor, the only surviving son of her brother, the late W. Street, Esq. of Bath.

   Thus was obscured for ever one of the brightest planets in the theatric hemisphere; and thus died a woman who united talent with virtue, and the most shining abilities to the most extensive goodness of heart.

   It would be a difficult task to mention any station in existence which presents so many strange vicissitudes as that of an actress, who frequently experiences in real life all the varieties of situation which her profession calls upon her to exhibit on the stage; and it often lamentably happens, that, at the close of her career, her woes are not fictitious. The youthful days of this individual were illumined by the sunshine of universal admiration. Lovely herself, both in face and figure, she could not fail to excite the love of others. A few years of professional exertion placed her on the pinnacle of theatric fame, both as a disciple of Thalia and Melpomene; and her bright bark was floating with the tide that "leadeth on to fortune," when an unfortunate marriage blasted all her hopes, and clouded a prospect seemingly destined remain to bright for ever.

   It is, however, to be hoped that the judicious and candid, whilst contemplating with delight upon the pleasure her almost unrivalled talents have afforded them, will bury in oblivion those failings to which human nature is ever liable.

2. Of this we have eminent instances in Essex, Jaffier, and Lear; and almost every character he played.
3. The celebrated Tom Davies speaking, among other characters, of Barry's Alexander, says, "The vanquisher of Asia never appeared to more advantage in representation, I believe, than in the person of Spranger Barry. He looked, moved, and acted the hero and the lover in a manner so superior and elevated that he charmed every audience that saw him, and gave new life and vigour to a play which had not been seen since the death of Delany. His address to his favourite queen was soft and elegant, and his love ardently passionate. In the scene with Clytus, in his rage he was terrible; and in his penitence and remorse excessive. In his last distracting agony, his delirious laugh was wild and frantic; and his dying groan affecting."—Dramatic Miscellanies, vol. iii.