Tate, who was ignorant of this, replied, "that will do; that will do, so, pray, spare your ludicrous faces."

"THE CRADLE OF SECURITY," A MORALITY,

ACTED AT GLOUCESTER.

THE following extract from a book entitled, "Mount Tabor, or Private Exercises of a Penitent Sinner," by R. W. Esq. 1639, will give the reader a more accurate notion of the old moralities, than a long dissertation upon the subject.

"Upon a Stage-Play, which I saw when I was a Child.

"In the City of Gloucester, the manner is, (as I think it is in other like corporations,) that when players of interludes come to the town, they first attend the Mayor, to inform him what nobleman's servants they are, and so to get licence for their public playing and if the Mayor like the actors, or would shew respect to their Lord and master, he appoints them to play their first play before himself and the Aldermen and Common-Council of the City; and that is called the Mayor's Play, where every one that will, comes in without money, the Mayor giving the players a reward as he thinks fit to shew respect unto them. At such a play my father took me with him, and made me stand between his legs, as he sat upon one of the benches, where we saw and heard very well. The play was called "The Cradle of Security," wherein was personated a King, or some great prince, with his Courtiers, of several kinds, whereof three ladies were in special

grace with him ; and they keeping him in delight, and pleasures, drew him from his graver counsellors hearing of sermons and listening to good counsel and admonition, that, in the end, they got him to lie down in a cradle upon the stage, where these three ladies, joining in a sweet song, rocked him asleep, that he snorted again, and, in the mean time, closely conveyed under the cloaths wherewithall he was covered, a vizard, like a swine's snout, upon his face, with three chains fastened thereunto, the other end whereof being holden severally by those three ladies, who fell to singing again, and then discovered his face, that the spectators might see how they had transformed him going on with their singing.

"While all this was acting, there came forth out of another door, at the further end of the stage, two old men; the one in blue, with a serjeant at arms his mace on his shoulder, the other in red, with a drawn sword in his hand, and leaning with the other hand upon the other's shoulder; and so they went along, with a soft pace, round about by the skirt of the stage, till, at last, they came to the cradle, when all the Court was in the greatest jollity; and then the foremost old man with his mace struck a fearful blow upon the cradle, wherewith all the Courtiers with the three ladies and the vizard all vanished, and the desolate prince starting up barefaced, and finding himself thus sent for to judgment, made a lamentable complaint of his miserable case, and so was carried away by wicked spirits.

"This Prince did personate in the Moral the wicked of the world; the three ladies, Pride, Covetousness, and Luxury; two old men, the end of the world and the last judgment. This sight took such impression in me, that when I came to man's estate, it was as fresh in my memory, as if I had seen it newly acted."

MRS. DIDIER'S

FAREWELL ADDRESS.

Spoken at the Bath Theatre, Feb. 7, 1807. CAN none remember, nay, I know all must, When the great Siddons gave her reasons just, For quitting those whose approbation drew Her wond'rous merits, first, to public view? Three reasons, only, could that prop unfix, Whilst dame Didier, alas! has sixty-six; Look in my face, and there so plain appears Th' unerring mark of six-and-sixty years. My reasons are not little girls and boys, Their doating parents' anxious cares and joys; But twelve long months (of good deeds or of crimes),

Repeated over six-and-sixty times!

Though I might boast, that many a comic brother,

Had, of this theatre, long hail'd me-mother. Nay, whilst we've Garricks, infantile and raw, I may be termed this stage's-Grand-mamma.

Twice twenty years ago, my lot was castHere should my scenes of future life be past;

* This lady was daughter to a person of respectability, in Wales, and sister to Mr. Du Bellamy, of Covent Garden Theatre.

And 'tis with pride and gratitude, I own,
A happier fortune, few have ever known.

When first you saw me, by your partial aid,
The romping girls, pert chamber-maids, I play'd;
And oft, transform'd by elegant attire-
Begg'd you her court-bred Ladyship admire !
And that my vanity would not refuse
The highest efforts of the comic Muse-
Your Townlys, Teazles, Rosalinds so gay,
I had presumption, gentle friends, to play;
But ne'er did this ambition reach my heart,
I never squinted through a tragic part.

"Tis "long experience only, makes us sage;"— By that we find our level, on the stage; In homely parts, with simple nature's aims, Ashfield, and other rusticated dames, Aunt Heidelbergs, and matrons in brocades, Your Mal-a-props, and antiquated maids, My forte, I struck on-and with exultation, Your laugh I construed into approbation.

A few more years, should health continue still, This humble sphere, I yet, perhaps, might fill; But" blest retirement, friend to life's decline," Bids me my labours, and their fruits, resign;

Content with pittance, early toil has made,
The frugal savings of your generous aid.

Deem not my heart insensible, or cold,
That I no cambric handkerchief unfold;
With bosom throbbing, and with faultering
speech,

Your kind indulgence for this step beseech-
This face, I ne'er the form of woe could teach.
Nor do I think, with arrogance and pride,

That this, my place, can never be supplied!
I'm pleas'd to leave you thus-brim full of glee:
You must be pleas'd your bounty makes me free;
My worthy managers, whose gentle sway
Made forty winters one bright holiday,

Must too be pleas'd, that an old servant goes,
From anxious toiling, to her eve's repose;

And with her faithful mate can thus retire,
Where thrift has piled, and leisure trims the fire;
Where life's rude care no more may intervene,
To mar their studies, for another scene.

BARTON BOOTH, AND THE OXFORD MAN.

IN performing Othello, once, to a thin audience, this celebrated tragedian cast such a languor over several scenes in which he was concerned,