Catalogues of the great actor's faults were bandied
from mouth to mouth, and one or two really
clever men barbed the arrows that were shot
at the proud and inflexible manager. Any
fool can shoot the arrow, but it takes clever
malice to shape the arrow-head and to poison
the barb. Kemble was no genius, the ingrates
shouted over their wine and grog; he was
artificial, formal, slow, self-conscious, self-approving.
He was always throwing himself into
Roman statues. There was no spontaneity,
ardour, or generous impulse. His Sir Giles
Overreach was tame and insipid, his King
John studied, his Hamlet severe and inflexible,
his Macbeth iron-bound, his Richard the Third
deliberate, his Brutus dry. Faithless herd,
they chose to forget the grand dignity of his
Cato, the dark rancour of his Pierre, the
intense despair of his Stranger, the dignified
melancholy of his Penruddock, the heroic
fervour of his Rolla, the inspired energy of his
Coriolanus—in a word, his energetic and elaborate
art, his unrivalled concentration and
intensity. Actors are often vain. Kemble was
proud as Coriolanus. Surely no proud man
was ever so cruelly tortured by butterfly wits
and mosquito critics. For once industrious,
these satirists, with the malice of Red Indians,
collected into one bantering dialogue all John
Philip's oddities and obstinacies of pronunciation.
The terrible list included the following
eccentricities, acquired from superficial studies
in old books, cognate languages, and etymology.

First and foremost, aitches for aches, marchant
for merchant, innocint for innocent, conschince
for conscience, varchue for virtue, furse for
fierce, bird for beard, the for thy, ojus for odious,
hijus for hideous, perfijus for perfidious, maircy
for mercy, airth for earth, quellity for quality,
sentimint for sentiment, etairnally for eternally.

The conspiracy grew so fast that Kemble's
friends began to believe that Sheridan and the
rival house (three hundred thousand pounds and
more in debt) were at the bottom of it. The
fanatics had been accused of burning down the
theatre. The Jacobins were now supposed to
be urging forward the attack on aristocratic
rights and proprietors' privileges. "A plague
on both your houses," thought the quiet play-
goers, who only wanted to be allowed to
tranquilly enjoy Fawcett's chatter, Liston's wonderful
unctuous face, Munden's inimitable grimaces,
and Dowton's full-blown irritability. Hot and
fast as the lava on Pompeii fell showers of
epigrams, such as the following:

   KEMBLE, LEAVE THE PIT ALONE.
Air— " Polly put the Kettle on."
   Johnny, leave the pit alone,
   Let 'em crack their wit alone,
   Can't you let 'em sit alone,
                 Let 'em sing O.P.?
   Why, with lawyers fagging 'em,
   Up to Bow-street dragging 'em,
   Brandon* aims at gagging 'em,
            More the blockhead he!
   Johnny, leave the pit alone,
   Let 'em crack their wit alone,
   Can't you let 'em sit alone,
              Let 'em sing O. P.?

          O. P. AND M. T.
Submit, stubborn Kemble, submit, do, I pray,
   Thy int'rest alone sure might tempt thee;
For know, if for ever O. P.'s done away,
   Thy playhouse will always be M. T.
* The box-keeper.

Some of the wittiest and readiest men of the
day wasted their time in fabricating these stinging
crackers. Busy in ridicule of poor Kemble's
habitual cough and small voice, the town even
forgot for a time the gallant retreat from
Corunna, and the miserable and disastrous
Walcheren expedition.

The third night the riot grew more systematic;
the rioters had now organised themselves. The
moment the curtain rose on the witches and the
foul night, the hissing, whistling, and cat-calling
broke out in a perfect hurricane. People in
the boxes screamed in trumpets and roared
through bugles. The performers took it calmly,
feeling the storm must rage itself out. "They
did not," says a contemporary newspaper,
"seem to feel in the slightest degree disconcerted
or offended, but rather, indeed, relieved,
as there was no necessity for speaking.
Occasionally different persons among the audience
addressed them, with the assurance that there
was no intention to offer them any offence;
and this we were happy to hear, particularly
with respect to the ladies, some of whom,
upon their entrance, exhibited signs of timidity.
So little did the performers feel it necessary
to attend to dialogue or ordinary forms,
that the whole of the performance, both
play and farce, had terminated by half-after
nine o'clock. Throughout the night every box
on the first and second tier presented placards
of

" 'Old prices.' 'Opposition—persevere and
you must succeed.'  'John Bull against John
Kemble.'  'No foreigners to tax us; we have
taxes enough already,' " &c. &c.

Soon after the farce concluded, Mr. Kemble,
in consequence of reiterated calls for the
manager, made his appearance upon the stage,
and, after some uproar, obtained a hearing. He
said that he came forward to assure the audience
of the anxious solicitude of the proprietors to
accommodate themselves to their wishes, which
declaration was received with applause; but
when he added the following sentence, "Ladies
and gentlemen, I wait here to know what you
want," the hissing was universal, mixed with
cries of "What ridiculous and insulting affectation."
The house, indeed, became stormily
indignant, and Mr. Kemble felt it convenient to
retire. The audience was then addressed by two
gentlemen—a Mr. Leigh and a Mr. Smyth, a
barrister—then Mr. Kemble again appeared,
and attempted to justify the new prices. He
retired amidst hissing and some slight applause.
The latter, however, soon subsided, and after
about an hour spent in venting their discontent,