with the theatre—neither with business nor
with literature; and whenever he had an
opportunity, he let his inclinations assert
themselves. After a time they developed in the old,
old way of men and heroes, whatever the
special professional bent; and he fell in love, as
might have been expected. His charmer, to
use the cant word of his day, was the new Irish
actress, Margaret, or, as she was generally
called, Peg Woffington—the dashing Sir Harry
Wildair of the period. And she fell in love
with him in return, much to the disgust of
another aspirant, Sir Hanbury Williams, who,
as the manner then was, besieged her heart by
verse, writing the gay and popular song,
"Lovely Peggy," as his claim to her gratitude
and consideration.

With such proclivities and such associations
the end of Garrick's career as a wine-merchant
was certain. In 1741, the little theatre in
Goodman's Fields brought out a small pantomime,
called Harlequin Student, with Yates as
Harlequin. One night poor Harlequin was
too ill to appear—failing just as the piece was
beginning; and "the gay and sprightly young
wine-merchant secretly agreed with the manager
that he should take his place." The world did
not know of the exchange at the time, and it
was only long after that it became public; but
this was literally his first appearance,
unimportant as were both occasion and result.

Soon after this, Giffard and Dunstall went
with a troupe to Ipswich. Among the actors
was a débutant of the name of Lyddal, who
made his first appearance as Aboan, the black
lieutenant of Oroonoko. He was received very
warmly, the Ipswich public recognising stuff of
rather uncommon quality in the beginner.
After Aboan he played Chamont in the Orphan;
passing on to other characters as he gained
confidence and footing; soon taking Mrs.
Woffington's own particular character of Sir Harry
Wildair, as much her creation at that time as
Lord Dundreary is Mr. Sothern's in the
present day. He made a hit, his success being
due, perhaps, to the rattling, dashing part itself;
for it was afterwards counted as one of his
failures; and then, flushed with his provincial
triumphs, Lyddal applied for an engagement to
Rich and Fleetwood, the managers of the two
greater houses. His offer was declined. Ipswich
credentials were all very well, but Ipswich
prestige would not carry the metropolis; and "a
small, well-made young man, of genteel appearance,
seemed scarcely the stuff for a tragedian
of the first class." Still he was resolved.
Genius such as his could not, indeed, be gainsaid.
Lyddal was Garrick, and Garrick had to
feign a little before his solemn brother Peter.
The struggle between family affection and
strong personal inclination threw him into deep
dejection of spirits, and finally brought on an
illness. But he made his preparations all the
same, and went on his appointed way securely,
if not serenely.

Suddenly, in the year 1741, on a certain
morning in October, Mr. Peter Garrick
received two letters—one from Dr. Swinfen, a
family friend and physician, who knew and
attended the Johnson and Garrick families; the
other from his brother, Mr. David Garrick.
"Both were to the same effect, and both
contained the fatal piece of news, broken to the
shocked Peter with every sort of excuse and
appeal to brotherly affection and personal interest.
The step had been taken, 'the Rubicon
crossed;' on the night before (October 19th),
Mr. David Garrick had appeared before a London
audience, at Goodman's Fields Theatre, with
the most astounding success." He came out
as "crook-back'd Richard," and, as Mr. Swinfen
testifies to his friend Mr. Peter Garrick, "with
the most general applause." There was no
question now as to the future, and the world
had gained what the wine trade had lost.

As yet, though, Garrick played without his
name—only as "a gentleman who never
appeared on any stage"—which was more telling
theatrically than correct, with Harlequin and the
black lieutenant of Oroonoco at Ipswich in the
background; but he made quite as much sensation,
anonymous, as if he had had one of the best-
known patronymics in the world. On the 2nd
of November, Pope, though he was then sickly
and failing, and had long ago given up theatres,
came to see the new actor. He said of him,
"That young man never had his equal, and
will never have a rival;" and came again and
again to see him, young, anonymous as he
was. On the 2nd of December, the night of his
benefit, the veil was raised, and the town learnt
the name of its latest wonder. Mr. Garrick, it
was announced, the gentleman who had played
King Richard, would now appear in the Fair
Penitent, which was to be given gratis; for
Goodman's Fields Theatre had no licence for
acting plays, and therefore could take no
money, save for the concert which was the
ostensible entertainment. The reality, the
play, which was performed between the two
parts of the concert, was advertised as
gratis, and thus, by a transparent fiction,
escaped the stringency of the well-known
Licensing Act. For this benefit the prices were
raised a shilling, the pit and boxes being four
shillings—equal to about seven-and-sixpence of
our time—while the gallery was one-and-sixpence.
The servants were required to be in
their mistresses' places by three o'clock, to
keep them till the fine ladies themselves came
at six or seven. All this testified to the furore
which the young actor had created.

Newton, the future bishop, at present only
tutor in Lord Carpenter's family, was one of
Garrick's fast friends and staunch admirers.
The great Mrs. Porter, the retired actress, said
"The youth was a born actor, and knew more
at his first appearance than others after twenty
years' training." Ladies of quality made up
parties to see this "neat and genteel" young
man, playing at a small theatre miles away from
every fashionable place of resort; and then
envy and detraction—inevitable shadows of
success—followed close upon the heels of his