added to one of his bulky volumes, a defence of himself, as rough and violent as had been the attack, and in which he replied to an unfortunate expression of Douglas's, who had said that he dared not show his face at various houses, and "had not ventured of late to visit the lady and gentleman mentioned,"adding that "the lady's principles, and religion are well known." Bower did not let this pass. "Now that foreigners," he said, "may not think that I dare not show my face at the house of any real gentleman or real lady, I beg to inform them who this gentleman and lady are. The gentleman, then, is Mr. Garrick, an actor who now acts upon the stage. The lady is his wife, Mrs. Garrick, alias Violetti, who within these few years danced upon the stage. To do them justice, they are both eminent in their way. The lady (though no Roscius) is as "well-known and admired" for her dancing as the gentleman is for his acting, and they are, in that sense, par nobile. That I dare not show my face in that house is true; nor dare I show it in any other house, the mistress whereof is a Papist (whose religion and principles are well-known), and consequently bound, if in the least acquainted with me, to contribute her quota to the common stock of scandal, and not only to betray, but misrepresent, if required, private conversation."* This was certainly unchivalrous, and the sex, at least, of one of the parties might have shielded her from such treatment. It touched Garrick to the quick, always sensitive on the score of his social position; but proved to be a fatal, as well as an ungallant proceeding, for Doctor Bower.

Bower, vol. v., Appendix, p. 168.

Lyttleton had held by him firmly, and when some letters of his, opening negotiations with the Jesuits, were produced, joined with Walpole in pronouncing them forgeries. But on the publication of this attack, Lyttleton's first step was to send word to Garrick, repudiating all protection or encouragement, of its author. Garrick had felt the attack acutely, and wrote back gratefully. His Lordship's delicacy, he was sure, must have been shocked to have seen the illiberal way in which Mrs. Garrick was mentioned. She had very innocently told the conversation she had had with Bower, without the least intention of having it published, or of adding to his shame. "Nor would she, though a Papist (as he calls her) vary a tittle from that or any other truth, though commanded by the Pope and his whole conclave of cardinals. He calls out for Protestant testimony, and he shall have it; and I flatter myself that it will have its weight, though it comes from a player. The world must determine which is most to be credited: he who, though upon the stage, has retained a sense of honour, veracity, and religion; or he who, though bred to one Church and converted to another, seems to have lost them all in his passage between both." But Mr. Garrick's next idea was not so dignified. He proposed to revenge himself, by bringing his enemy upon the stage. He had always thought him even a richer character than Molière's Tartuffe. This would be the retort pleasant, he thought. Such a weakness may be justified by his indignation at the attack on his unoffending wife, for he himself was tolerably accustomed to such onslaughts. Still the retaliation he meditated was more in Foote's fashion, and it certainly would not

have served him with his friends, or with the public. Happily, Lyttleton took this view, and warmly dissuaded him from so unbecoming a step.*

Thus it would seem, that no one's life was so checquered, or to know such a wholesome discipline, in the way of correction. If he was exalted, there was not long afterwards an unpleasant chastisement. Yet under such alternations, he preserved a mind surprisingly "even;"-never lost his head a moment, from praise, flattery, or success; and never sank into depression. He was presently to be more sorely tried.

Mr. Garrick showed Davies, Lyttleton's reply, "comprised in very polite and condescending terms." Davies at the same time insinuates as the motive for abandoning this step, "that it might be attended with some little uneasiness to himself."

CHAPTER VIII.

STAGE REFORM.

1762.

"THE TWO Gentlemen of Verona" was the new revival for the new season; and, indeed, the theatre was already suffering from the superior attraction at the other house. English opera, and the charming voice of Miss Brent, had been thinning the boxes and benches of Drury Lane, and Young Meadows and Rosetta were more followed than Hamlet or Estifania. Then were heard, for the first time, the cheerful, pastoral, simple melodies, "We all love a pretty girl under the rose,' "When I have my dog and my gun:" and English opera was a distinct school, not a mere "rechauffe" of Italian and French models. In vain Garrick made attempts in the same direction, engaging a "Master Norris," with other pupils of his friend Arne. The receipts began to fall off, and his own attraction to fail mysteriously. And from that time he began to think seriously of an important step, -either of complete retirement, while he could do so without loss, or, at least, of a temporary withdrawal from the vexations which were gathering thick about him. For this was the most fretted period of his life.

During the recess Garrick and his partner determined to carry out some new theatrical arrangements which they had long meditated. No one could

prove that there was "stinginess" in anything that concerned their management: the performers were paid liberally, and the scenery and dresses were always handsome. It was, of course, the fashion to hold him up as niggardly and "shabby" in what concerned his theatre, as well as in his private life. Only a few years before, he had decorated and rearranged the house, yet he was now busy with fresh alterations, which amounted to an entire remodelling of the theatre. Under liberal management the number of performers had increased to one hundred, and the charges of the night "before the curtain rose "had mounted up from sixty to ninety pounds a night. This was a serious deduction from the profits; and though prices had been increased, as we have seen, on particular occasions, still the margin was not a little precarious.

He was also determined to seize the opportunity to strike boldly at another abuse-the practice of crowding the stage on benefit nights, when actors had their "building on the stage," an amphitheatre crowded with select friends, and with those who could not find room in the boxes. The absurdities this very familiar custom gave rise to, may be conceived; its worst result was, that it kept the door open for admission behind the scenes, on other nights, and brought about irregularities, which made it hopeless to keep strict discipline on the stage. But there were enormous difficulties in the way of reform. Sheridan, indeed, succeeded in Dublin, but at the fatal cost of riot, of the utter sack of the theatre, and of his own ruin. There were yet greater dangers in the way at Drury Lane. The young bloods and men of the first fashion would resent being driven from the coulisses,