caldron, again young and vigorous. Garrick's
thrift had been cruelly ridiculed by Foote and
other heartless wits as the basest stinginess. His
last public act, however, was a work of charity.
He had always been a generous rival and a kind
manager. He now wished to enforce on a thoughtless
and somewhat reckless race the necessity
of providing for the poor stragglers from the
ranks, and for the defeated and beaten down in
life's long and tough battle. A fund for old
and infirm actors had been incorporated at Drury
Lane by his exertions; he had also provided
an annual benefit to help forward the charity.
He now announced that the profits of his last
night were to go to this admirable fund. His
prologue on this occasion was admirably neat,
full of humour, and contained many happy
allusions to the motley contrasts of theatrical
life:

A vet'ran see! whose last act on the stage
Intreats your smiles for sickness and for age;
Their cause I plead; plead it in heart and mind ,
A fellow-feeling makes one wond'rous kind!
Might we but hope your zeal would not be less,
When I am gone, to patronise distress,
That hope obtain'd the wish'd-for end secures,
To soothe their cares, who oft have lighten'd yours.

Shall the great heroes of celestial line,
Who drank full bowls of Greek and Roman wine,
Cæsar and Brutus, Agamemnon, Hector,
Nay, Jove himself, who here has quaff'd his nectar!
Shall they, who govern'd fortune, cringe and court
her,
Thirst in their age, and call in vain for porter?
Like Belisarius, tax the pitying street,
With "date obolum," to all they meet?
Shan't I, who oft have drench'd my hands in gore,
Stabb'd many, poison'd some, beheaded more,
Who numbers slew in battle on this plain,
Shan't I, the slayer, try to feed the slain?
Brother to all, with equal love I view
The men who slew me, and the men I slew:
I must, I will, this happy project seize,
That those, too old and weak, may live with ease.

Suppose the babes I smother'd in the tow'r,
By chance or sickness, lose their acting power;
Shall they, once princes, worse than all be served?
In childhood murder'd, and, when murder'd, starved?
Matrons half ravish'd, for your recreation,
In age should never want some consolation:
Can I, young Hamlet once, to nature lost,
Behold, O horrible! my father's ghost,
With grizzly beard, pale cheek, stalk up and down,
And he, the royal Dane, want half-a-crown?
Forbid it, ladies; gentlemen, forbid it;
Give joy to age, and let 'em say—you did it.

To you,* ye gods! I make my last appeal;
You have a right to judge, as well as feel.
Will your high wisdom to our scheme incline,
That kings, queens, heroes, gods, and ghosts, may
dine?
Olympus shakes!—that omen all secures;
May ev'ry joy you give be tenfold yours.

* To the upper gallery.

Tuning himself by this playful and happily
written prologue to his painful task, Garrick
delivered it gaily, and with the true point and
sparkle, and then went through his part of Don
Felix with great humour and assumed vivacity.

Now came the awful moment that was to
extinguish at once the sunshine of thirty years of
public favour. He had now to close down over
his own head the lid of his own coffin. The
pleasure, pride, and hope of his life had been his
success upon that stage upon which he was now
about to turn his reluctant back. He had had
the good sense to feel that verse would be too
restricting a vehicle for his feelings of sorrow,
and with his fine sensitive countenance quivering
with unfeigned emotion, he advanced and
addressed the audience in these simple but
touching words:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,—It has been customary
with persons under my circumstances to
address you in a farewell epilogue. I had the
same intention, and turned my thoughts that
way; but I found myself then as incapable of
writing such an epilogue, as I should be now of
speaking it. The jingle of rhyme and the
language of fiction would but ill suit my present
feelings. This is to me a very awful moment:
it is no less than parting for ever with those
from whom I have received the greatest kindness,
and upon the spot where that kindness
and your favours were enjoyed. [Here his
voice failed him; he paused, till a gush of tears
relieved him.] Whatever may be the changes
of my future life, the deepest impression of your
kindness will always remain here—here, in my
heart, fixed and unalterable. I will very readily
agree to my successors having more skill and
ability for their station than I have had; but I
defy them all to take more uninterrupted pains
for your favour, or to be more truly sensible of
it, than is your grateful humble servant."

Having uttered these sentiments, he bowed
respectfully to all parts of the house, and at a
slow pace, and with much hesitation, withdrew
for ever from the presence of the town.

The audience felt what it was losing, and was
reluctant to part—parting is such sweet sorrow.
They felt, as Dr. Browne had written, that this
great genius had dignified the stage, had
"restored it to the fulness of its ancient splendour,
and with a variety of powers beyond example
established nature—Shakespeare and himself."
The gaiety of the nation, as Johnson said, was
eclipsed by his exit. Men were seeing and
hearing, for the last time, what Smollett had
praised:

"The sweetness and variety of tones, the
irresistible magic of his eye, the fire and vivacity
of his action, the elegance of attitudes, and the
whole pathos of expression."

Every face in the theatre was clouded with
grief, tears were bursting from many eyes and
rolling down many cheeks. The sorrow was
electric, and spread from heart to heart. The
cry of "Farewell" resounded from box to box,
and seat to seat, till it became a mighty agitated
clamour like the moan of a troubled ocean. A
sun had gone down after a day of changeless
lustre; the end of the theatrical world seemed
come.

Garrick soon after signed the deeds for the
sale of half his patent to Sheridan, Ford, and