One evening an inferior actor, of the name of Williams, came to him on the stage, in the character of the Roman messenger, who says 'Cæsar sends health to Cato;' but he unfortunately pronounced the latter Keeto, which so affronted Quin, that, instead of giving the reply of the author, he said, Would he had sent a better messenger.' This so greatly incensed Williams, that, when the scene was over, he followed Quin into the green-room, complaining of the injury he had sustained in being made contemptible to the audience, and thereby hurt in his profession, and concluding by demanding satisfaction. Quin, instead of either apologizing for the affront, or accepting the challenge, made himself merry with the other's passion; a treatment that increased it to a degree of frenzy, so that, watching under the Piazza of Covent Garden as Quin was returning to his lodgings, he drew upon him, and the assailed, in defending himself, ran the unfortunate Williams through the body, which killed him upon the spot. Quin immediately surrendered himself to the laws of his country, and under the circumstances here described, which were proved on his trial, we must agree with the jury, which found him guilty of manslaughter only. It is not a little extraordinary. that the subject of our narrative was engaged, both previously and subsequently to the above transaction, in personal rencounters with his brother actors, notwithstanding his goodness of heart and friendly disposition made him generally bcloved. The first affair alluded to was between himself and a performer of the name of Bowen, and terminated fatally to the latter. Upon this occasion Quin likewise had been found guilty of manslaugh ter. It appears that, on the 17th of April, 1718, about four or five o'clock in the afternoon, Mr.Bowen and Mr. Quin met accidentally at the Fleece Tavern, in Cornhill. They drank together in a friendly manner, and jested with each other for some time, until at length the conversation turned upon their performances on the stage. Bowen said that Quin had acted Tamerlane in a loose sort of a manner; and Quin, in reply, observed that his opponent had no occasion to value himself on his performance, since Mr. Johnson, who had but seldom acted it, represented Jacomo, in The Libertine,' as well as he who had acted it often. These observations, probably, irritated them both, and the conversation changed, but to another subject not better calculated to produce good humourthe honesty of each party. In the course of the altercation Bowen asserted that he was as honest a man as any in the world, which occasioned a story about his political tenets to be introduced by Quin; and, both parties being warm, a wager was laid on the subject, which was determined in favour of Quin, on his relating that Bowen sometimes drank the health of the Duke of Ormond, and sometimes refused it; at the same time asking the referee how he could be as honest a man as any in the world, who acted upon two different principles. The gentleman nominated as umpire then told Mr. Bowen, that, if he insisted upon his claim to be as honest a man as any in the world, he must give it against him. Here the dispute seemed to have ended, nothing in the rest of the conversation indicating any remains of resentment in either party. Soon afterwards, however, Mr. Bowen arose, threw down some money for his reckoning, and left the company. In about a quarter of an hour Mr. Quin was called out by a porter sent by Bowen, and both Quin and Bowen went together, first to the Swan Tavern, and then to the Pope's Head Tavern, where a rencounter took place, and Bowen received a wound, of which he died on the 20th of April following. In the course of the evidence it was sworn that Bowen, after he had received the wound, declared that he had had justice done him; that there had been nothing but fair play; and that, if he died, he freely forgave his antagonist. On this evidence Quin was, on the 10th of July, found guilty of manslaughter only, and soon after returned to his employment on the stage. The last act of personal hostility in which our hero was engaged was with no less a person than the celebrated Theophilus Cibber, who at that period, owing to some disgraceful circumstances respecting his conduct to his wife, was not held in the most respectable light. Quin's sarcasm on him was too gross to be here inserted: the circumstances of the duel we relate in the words of one of the periodical writers of the times: 6 'About seven o'clock a duel was fought in the Piazza, Covent Garden, between Mr. Quin and Mr. Cibber; the former pulling the latter out of the Bedford coffeehouse, to answer for some words he had used in a letter to Mr. Fleetwood, relating to his refusing to act a part in King Lear' for Mr. Quin's benefit on Thursday se'n night. Mr. Cibber was slightly wounded in the arm, and Mr. Quin wounded in his fingers. After each had their wounds dressed, they came into the Bedford coffee-house and abused one another; but the company prevented farther mischief.' We are unwilling to dismiss this subject, though some may think it already spun to too great a length, without noticing the progression of the rivalship between Quin and Garrick. Like counsel at the bar, they were professionally violent enemies, but, the cause once decided, as great friends. After opposing each other many seasons, at different houses, they were engaged at the same theatre, and the tragedy of the Fair Penitent' announced for representation-the part of Horatio by Mr. Quin, and Lothario by Mr. Garrick. To see these great rival candidates for public fame on the boards together drew that night an overflowing house. The play began; the audience were big with expectation; and, when the heroes met, neither could utter a syllable. The house resounded with applause, while the opponents could only view each other with inward dread. After a long pause, occupied in plaudits from the spectators, they tremblingly began; but soon the contest rose to a pitch which, perhaps, has seldom since been witnessed. During our hero's last illness, at Bath, he took bark in such large quantities, that it occasioned perpetual and intolerable thirst; and, conscious that he should soon die, after having endeavoured to make his peace with the Almighty, he determined to pass his few short days in as much ease as possible. He left off all medicine, and for a little time recovered something of his wonted spirits. A few days before he died, he drank a bottle of claret ; but, finding his end now very near, he said, 'I wish the last tragic scene was over, and I hope I shall go through it with becoming dignity.' He lingered very little longer and died with resignation to the Divine will, greatly regretted, on the 21st. of January, 1766, in the 73d year of his age, after having had his full share of the vicissitudes. of lifeand, upon the whole, conferred credit upon his profession. As Quin declined the stage, the friendship between him and Garrick increased. Whenever the former, after his retirement to Bath, paid a short visit to London, Garrick's house was his home. When death had deprived the world of that fund of amusement and delight which they had experienced from Quin's performances, the English Roscius, to perpetuate his me mory, and to hand to posterity a other skilful artists, to be con. cerned in an iron manufactory, took Powis with him when he was only eight years of age. They had not been long here before the father-in-law received a letter, advising him of the death of his wife; on which he left the boy to the care of an Englishman, and came to London in order to settle his affairs, but soon returned to Normandy. The scheme in which they had embarked failing, they came back to England, and the man, marrying a second wife, took a shop in Chancery Lane, London, and sent young Powis to school, where he made such progress, that a little time gave hope of his becoming a good Latin scholar. But he had not been long at school before his father-in-law took him home, to instruct him in his own business; and hence his misfortunes appear to have arisen; for such was his attachment to literature, that, when he was sent of an errand, he constantly loitered away his time reading at the stall of some bookseller, When he had been about four years with his father, two lads of his acquaintance persuaded him to take a stroll into the country, and they wandered through the villages adjacent to London for about a week, in a condition almost starving, sometimes begging food to relieve the extremities of hunger, and finally compelled by distress to return to town. The father-in-law of Powis received him kindly, forgave his fault, and he continued about a year longer with him; but, having read a number of plays, he had imbibed such romantic notions as disqualified him for business. Inspired with an idea of going on the stage, he offered his services to Mr. Rich, then manager of Covent Garden Theatre; but, having repeated some parts of the tragedy of Julius Caesar, Rich told him he was disqualified for the stage, and advised him to attend to his trade. Soon after this Powis a second time quitted his father-in-law, and rambled through the country some days; but returning on a Sunday, in the absence of the family, he broke open a chest, and, taking out his best clothes, again decamped. Nothing being missed except the boy's clothes, it was easily judged who must be the thief; wherefore the father-in-law went with a constable in search of the youth, whom he took before a magistrate, in the hope of making him sensible of his folly. The justice threatening to com. mit him unless he made a proper submission, he promised to go home and do so; but, dropping his fatherin-law in the street, he went to an acquaintance, to whom he communicated his situation, and asked his advice how to act. His friend advised him to go home, and discharge his duty; but this not suiting his inclination, and it being now the time of Bartholomew Fair, he engaged with one Miller to act a part in a farce exhibited at Smithfield. His next adventure was the going to Dorking, in Surrey, with one Dutton, a strolling player, by whom he was taught to expect great things; but Dutton, having previously affronted the inhabitants, met with no encouragement; on which they proceeded to Horsham, in Sussex, where they were equally unsuccessful. Powis now slept in a hay-loft, near the kitchen of an inn, and, being almost starved, he used to get in at the window and steal the vic tuals while the family were in bed. He likewise stole a new pair of shoes belonging to the landlord; but the latter, soon discovering the thief, took the shoes from him, and gave him an old pair instead. About this time Dutton took Powis's clothes from him, and gave him others that were little better than rags. Having left this town, they put up at an inn, where the landlord obliged the company to sleep in the hay-loft, admitting none but the manager to come within the house. At night Powis crept into the kitchen, devoured the remains of a cold pie, and stole a pair of boots and a pair of stockings, with which he retreated into the hay-loft. He continued to steal provisions several nights, till the landlord and Dutton watched, with loaded guns, in expectation of the thief, who, how ever, came not that night. Powis, having obtained a few halfpence by one of his petty thefts, stole out from the hay-loft to drink at a public house; but the other landlord, being there, knew the boots to be his; on which our unfortunate adventurer hastily retreated to his loft, where he expected to lie secure; but the landlord, Dutton, and others, following him, seized him, and took him into the kitchen for examination. He readily confessed that he had stolen the victuals; on which he was delivered into the custody of two countrymen to guard him till the next day, when it was proposed to take him before a magistrate. The family having retired to bed, Powis pretended to fall fast asleep; on which one of his guards said, How the poor fellow rests, not withstanding his misfortunes;' to which the other said, 'Let me sleep an hour, and then I will watch while you sleep.' In a few minutes both the men were asleep; on which Powis, thinking to escape, attempted to put on the boots; but, making some noise, the landlord heard him, and, coming down stairs, Powis affected to slumber as before. The landlord awakened the guardians, and bade them take more care of their prisoner; which having pro. mised to do, they soon fell asleep again. Our adventurer now took the boots in his hand, and, getting out of the inn-yard, ran with the utmost expedition till he got out of the town, and then drawing on the boots, he proceeded on his journey to London. However, he missed his way, and, getting on a common, knew not how to proceed; but going into a cow-house, in which was a quantity of flax, he lay down to rest. In the morning the owner of the flax found him, and inquiring what business he had there, Powis said that, being intoxicated, he had lost his way: on which the other directed him into the right road, and our hero hastened forward, in the apprehension of being pursued. Towards evening he arrived near Dorking, but did not enter the town till it was nearly dark. As he was going through the street he heard a door open; and, turning round, a woman, who had a candle in her hand, called him; and, on his demanding what she wanted, she said to another woman, Sure enough it is he.' This woman, who had washed the players' linen, said that two men had been in pursuit of him; and that his best way would be to avoid the high road, and get to London some other way with all possible expedition. Powis immediately took this advice, and, quitting the turnpike. |