The Palmy Days of Nance Oldfield | Page 7

most important occasion in all the eventful life of Oldfield.
She would win many a more popular triumph in days to come, but what
were all of them compared to the honour of having compelled the
writer to admit that he had blundered.
"Though this part of Leonora in itself was of so little value, that when
she got more into esteem it was one of the several she gave away to
inferior actresses; yet it was the first (as I have observed) that corrected
my judgment of her, and confirmed me in a strong belief that she could
not fail in very little time of being what she was afterwards allow'd to
be, the foremost ornament of our Theatre."
It takes but slight exercise of fancy to see inside the stuffy little theatre
of Bath, on that memorable summer afternoon, when "Sir Courtly
Nice"[A] is produced, with Cibber in the foppish title-rôle and the fair
unknown as Leonora, "Belguard's sister, in love with Farewell." Her fat,
peaceful, and phlegmatic Majesty, Anne Stuart, is in the royal box,
perhaps (although she is far from being a playgoer), and with her
retinue may be seen her dearest of friends, Sarah Churchill, now
Duchess of Marlborough, and the most brilliant political Amazon of
her time. How appropriate, by-the-way, that they should be together at
the comedy. The whole intimacy of the two, gentle Sovereign and fiery
subject, is nothing more or less than a curious play, wherein Anne takes
the rôle of Queen (unwillingly enough, poor thing, for she was born to
be bourgeoise) and the Duchess assumes the leading part. Unfortunate

"Mrs. Morley"![B] You have a weary time of it, trying to act up to
royalty when you would be so much happier as a middle-class
housewife, and, perhaps, you have never been more bored than you are
to-day in viewing "Sir Courtly Nice." Nor can the performance be as
delightful as it might otherwise prove to her of Marlborough; 'tis but a
few months since her son, the Marquis of Blandford, had ended in
small-pox a career which promised to carry on the greatness of his
house.
[Footnote A: "Sir Courtly Nice; or, It Cannot be," was from the pen of
John Crown. In dedicating it to the Duke of Ormond, as can be seen in
the original publication of the piece ("London, Printed by H.H. Jun. for
R. Bently, in Russell street, Covent Garden, and Jos. Hindmarsh, at the
Golden-Ball over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill,
MDCLXXXV"). The author says: "This comedy was Written by the
Sacred Command of our late Most Excellent King, of ever blessed and
beloved Memory (Charles II.). I had the great good fortune to please
Him often at his Court in my Masque, on the Stage in Tragedies and
Comedies, and so to advance myself in His good opinion; an Honour
may render a wiser Man than I vain; for I believe he had more equals in
extent of Dominion than of Understanding. The greatest pleasure he
had from the Stage was in Comedy, and he often Commanded me to
Write it, and lately gave me a Spanish Play called 'No' Puedeser Or, It
Cannot Be' out of which I took part o' the Name and design o' this."]
[Footnote B: It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that in the
private correspondence between Anne and the Duchess of Marlborough,
the former signed herself "Mrs. Morley," while her friend masqueraded
as "Mrs. Freeman."]
The comedy is about to begin as a common-looking person makes his
appearance in the box. He is a dull, heavy fellow, who suggests nothing
more strongly than a fondness for brown October ale and a good dinner
into the bargain. Anne turns towards him with as affectionate a glance
as she thinks it seeming to bestow in public. Is he not her husband,
George of Denmark, and the father of all those children whom she
never has succeeded in rearing to man's, or woman's, estate? He is a

faithful consort, too, which is saying not a little in the days when Royal
constancy, on the male side, is the rarest of jewels. George has vices, to
be sure, but they belong to the stomach rather than the heart--that obese
heart which, such as it is, the good Queen can call her own.
"Hath your Royal Highness ever seen this Cibber act?" asked the
Duchess, by way of making conversation. She never stands on
ceremony with soft-pated George, and does not wait to speak until she
is spoken to.
"Cibber--Cibber--who be Cibber?" queries the Prince, a beery look in
his eye, a foreign accent on his tongue.
"He's the son of the sculptor, Caius Gabriel Cibber, your Highness."
"I do not know--I do not know," mutters George drowsily. Then he
falls