The Palmy Days of Nance Oldfield

rry hour," says Don Pedro to the blithe

"My mother cried; but then there was a

than Anne Oldfield, whose elegance of manner, charm of voice and action and loveliness of face would in time make her the most delightful comedienne of her day. Perhaps she found no instant welcome, this diminutive maiden who came smiling into existence laden with a message from the sunshine; her father was richer in ancestry than guineas,

"would have possessed a tolerable fortune, had not her father

teens, the toiler with the needle found her greatest recreation in reading Beaumont and Fletcher's plays. The modern young woman, be her station high or low, would take no pleasure in such a literary occupation, but in the days of Nance Oldfield to con the pages of Beaumont and Fletcher was considered a privilege rather than a duty. Then, again, the little seamstress had a soul above threads and thimbles; her heart was with the players, and we can imagine her running off some idle afternoon to peep slyly into Drury Lane Theatre, or perhaps walk over

. Voss was Anne's aunt. We adhere, however,

, and a general air of loving the world and its pleasures, despite a secret suspicion that a hard-hearted bailiff may be lying in wait around the corner. His flowing wig may seem a trifle old, the embroidery on his once resplendent vest look sadly tarnished, and the cloth of his skirted coat exhibit the unmistakable symptoms of age, but, for all that, Captain Farquhar stands forth an honourable, high-spirited gentleman. And gentleman George Farquhar is both by birth and bearing. Was h

t Soul of

t Wax, or mo

ive all hea

o Tyrant I

in your ea

d may to V

in his You

Age will ne

han the acting therein. For he has been on the stage, and precipitately retired therefrom after accidently wounding a fellow performer[A]. In the course of two or three years Farquhar will make a desperate attempt to be mercenary by marrying a girl whom he supposes to be wealthy; he will find out his mistake, and then, like the thoroughbred that he is, will go on cherishing her as though she had brought him a ton of rent-rolls. When he is dead and gone, Chetwood, the veteran prompter of Drury Lane, will tell us, quaintly enough, how "it was affirm'd, by some of his near Acquaintance, his unfortunate Marriage shortened his

pleasant duty it is to kill Vasquez, the Spanish general. This particular Guyomar forgot to change h

about "some husbands" more than Farquhar himself. One trembles to think, by t

rary, he is so charmed with what he hears that he makes some flimsy excuse to get into that room behind the bar whence the silvery voice proceeds. There he first meets Nance, surrounded by what audience we know not, and is struck dumb at the lovely fi

to which great speaking eyes and a mouth half pensive, half smiling, lent an air of rare distinction. These were the eyes which in after years Anne would half close in a roguish way, as when, for instance, she meditated a brilliant stroke as Lady Betty Modish, and then, opening them defiantly, would make them glisten with the spirit of twinkling

intruder by her "discourse and sprightly wit." That innate breeding, of which no amount of poverty could deprive her, came to the surface, to show that a woman of quality is none the worse for a surprise. Farquhar, bowing low with a grace that made his faded clothes seem the pink of fashion, poured forth a torrent of flowery compliments, which became all the stronger when he heard that the girl knew Beaumont and Fle

er of Drury Lane. When the enthusiastic Farquhar sounded the praises of Anne Oldfield the future Sir John quickly repaired to the sign of the Mitre, with which, no doubt, he was already familiar, and met the young enchantress of that historic little room behind the bar. The arrival of this second and more distinguished captain was evidently the signal for a family council. We can see them all-Nance, glowing with excitement, her Brahmin-like, aristocratic beauty heightened by a dash of natural colour, quite different from the rouge she might use later; Mrs. Voss, sleepy, comfortable, and well pleased; and Mrs. Oldfield,

e inestimable luxury of brushing up against Colley Cibber. This remarkable man, who would be in turn actor, manager, playwright, and a pret

Alinda in the 'Pilgrim' revis'd. This gentle character happily became that want of confidence which is inseparable from young beginners, who, without it, seldom arrive to any excellence. Notwithstanding, I own I was then so far deceiv'd in my opinion of

logy for the Life of

icing in an extraordinary diffidence. "Rather a cynical remark, isn't it?" the reader may ask. Well, perhap

apers as well. Any dramatic editor could tell a weary tale of the importunities of a progressive young lady who wants to enlighten an aching public at least six times a week as to the number of her dresses, the colour of her hair, and the attention of her admirer

some time incline my ear to any hope in her favour." "But public approbation," he tells us, "is the warm weather of a theatrical plant, which will soon bring it forward to whatever perfection nature has design'd it. However, Mrs. Oldfield (perhaps for want of fresh parts) seem'd to come but slowly forward 'till the year

he "Comparison Betw

e been at the great English spa that season, all anxious to get a glimpse of her plump majesty, who was staying there, and all willing enough to do anything except to test the waters or the baths from which the place first acquired fame. They were all there, the pretty maids and wrinkled matrons, the young rakes of twenty, ready for a frolic, and the old rakes of thirty too weary to do much more than go to the theatre and cry out, "Damme, this is a damn'd play." Then the children, who were always in the way, and the aged fa

s changed very little, for even then we hear of dashing specimens of the New Woman, in the persons of ladies who affected men's hats, feathers, coats, and perriwigs, to such an extent that our dear friend Addison will gently rebuke them during the reign of the Spectator. He

rsome head-dress mad

says of the Spa's morals[A]-"I found a sober, modest man was always looked upon by both sexes as a precise, unfashioned fellow of no life or spirit. It was ordinary for a man who had been drunk in good company, or.... to speak of it next day before women for whom he had the greatest respect. He was reproved, perhaps, with a blow of the fan, or an 'Oh, fy!' but the angry lady still preserved an apparent approbation in her countenance. He was c

tor, No. 154. Steel

eyc

ery talented vagabond, George Powell. Powell it was who liked his brandy not wisely but too well, and who made such passionate love on the stage that Sir John Vanbrugh used to wax nervous for the fate of the actresses. One great artiste was missing, however. Mrs. Verbruggen was ill in London, and that shining exponent of light comedy, who

*

may be surprising in a conversation, and yet be lost when brought to the theatre.... But where the elocution is r

and her first husband, handsome Will Mountfor

*

odern comedians, so called, are nothing less than mim

hing in all the airs and vain graces of a fine lady, a merit that few actresses care for. In a play of D'Urfey's, now forgotten, called the 'Western Lass,' which part she acted, she transformed her whole being, body, shape, voice, language, look, and features, into almost another animal, with a strong Devonshire dialect, a broad, laughing voice, a poking head, round shoulders, an unconceiving eye, and the most bediz'ning, dowdy dress that ever cover'd the untrain'd limbs of a Joan Trot. To have seen her here you would have thought it impossible the same creature could ever have been recover

she made no scruple to disguise her beautiful countenance by drawing on it the lines of deformity and the wri

back to Mistress Oldfield, whom we have a ve

rse, to be disposed of, yet so earnest was the female scramble for them, that only one of them fell to the share of M

e combat, and a bevy of feminine vultures of no particular pretension, anxiously waiting to dispose of her histrionic remains! Think of it, ye managers who have to subdue the passions and limit the ex

e frankly confesses that even he could

*

cerned in with Sir Courtly, which I then acted. However, we ran them over with a mutual inadvertency of one another. I seem'd careless, as concluding that any assistance I could give her would be to little or no purpose; and she mutter'd out her words in a sort of mifty manner at my low opinion of her. But when the play came to be acted, she had j

*

has spelled occasion with a big O. Well he might, for it was, perhaps, the most important occasion in all the eventful life of Oldfield. She would win ma

way to inferior actresses; yet it was the first (as I have observed) that corrected my judgment of her, and confirmed me in a strong b

nds, Sarah Churchill, now Duchess of Marlborough, and the most brilliant political Amazon of her time. How appropriate, by-the-way, that they should be together at the comedy. The whole intimacy of the two, gentle Sovereign and fiery subject, is nothing more or less than a curious play, wherein Anne takes the r?le of Queen (unwillingly enough, poor thing, for she was born to be bourgeoise) and the Duchess assumes the leading part. Unfortunate "Mrs. Morley"

ll, MDCLXXXV"). The author says: "This comedy was Written by the Sacred Command of our late Most Excellent King, of ever blessed and beloved Memory (Charles II.). I had the great good fortune to please Him often at his Court in my Masque, on the Stage in Tragedies and Comedies, and so to advance myself in His good opinion; an Honour may

e correspondence between Anne and the Duchess of Marlborough, the former si

s affectionate a glance as she thinks it seeming to bestow in public. Is he not her husband, George of Denmark, and the father of all those children whom she never has succeeded in rearing to man's, or woman's, estate? He is a faithful consort, too, which

ss, by way of making conversation. She never stands on ceremony with

ies the Prince, a beery look in his

culptor, Caius Gabriel

and snores so deeply that Manager Rich, who has been in the front of the house, pokes h

play has begun, and some member of the company, we kno

armes, by which

en's brightest an

upon Earth b

like ours ha

ce such Royal

, and found in

orrow and con

ext the envy

tion: COL

"Sir Novelty Fashion

rugh's play of "The

ng

. GRISONI, the propert

ajesty James II. and his consort, Marie Beatrice of Modena, but the opening lines are admirably

original prologue, had it been r

he stage. Leonora has a dragon of a brother who would compel her to marry that pink of empty propriety, Sir Courtly, but she rebels against the admirer sel

s, with chains and torments," Leonora tells Viol

A New

or rather an old Devil

an ol

ere's no Fie

People sin, than the Devil will let 'em

Who

f my own bl

drop of it these twenty years; the Devil of envy

ous charm and the melody of that marvellous voice, is so fascinating, that the house is suddenly caught in some entrancing spell. Oldfield has burst upon it in all the sudden glory of a newly unfolded flower, and murmurs of admiration and surprise are heard on every side. More than this, Queen Ann

laborate of toilets, with the assistance of a bevy of vocalists, does not exert the attraction to be found in the presence of Oldfield.

ine hands, a mou

With fin

s that live by their wits. Men of quality are above wit. 'Tis true, for our diversi

. How th

ite like a gentlem

[A] nor does the audience take the usual relish in that touch-and-go rubbish of a

les all Yellow

es shall pro

ind of ele

e Elephant

one shall h

mminy, whee

ny, Jimmi

e lovely ma

w-waw that ru

rly Ind

o absolut

hast o

iny, Gommin

mminy, Gomm

erformances in this reign

miny," with its elephants, its jaw-waw, and its pearly Indian Sea. As she sits in the green-room, smiling in girlish triumph while she looks around at the beaux and players who crowd about her, anxious to worship the rising star, her eloquent glance falls on Ge

nd, my dea

Loves and w

find, we

hange the f

l not con

d, my dear