“Thou best of actors here interr’d,
  No more thy charming voice is heard,
  This grave thy corse contains: 
  Thy better part, which us’d to move
  Our admiration, and our Love,
  Has fled its sad remains.

  “Tho’ there’s no monumental brass,
  Thy sacred relicks to encase,
  Thou wondrous man of art! 
  A lover of the muse divine,
  O!  Elrington, shall be thy shrine,
  And carve thee in his heart.”

One of Elrington’s friends and artistic associates happened to be John Evans, a player possessed of talent, fatness, and indolence.  As adventures seem to be in order in this chapter, let us recall two which occurred to this gentleman at a time when he was in high favour with the Irish.  The first episode, making a warlike prologue to the second, had for its scene a tavern in the good city of Cork, where Evans had been invited to sup by some officers stationed in the neighbourhood.  Jack responded gladly to the hospitable suggestion; the gathering proved a great success, the wine was circulated generously, and many toasts were offered.  When the actor was called upon for a sentiment, he proposed the health of his gracious sovereign, Anne, whereat all in the company were pleased with the exception of one disloyal redcoat.  Whether the latter had within him the contrariness which cometh with too liberal dalliance with the flowing bowl, or whether he chanced to be a Jacobite, further deponent sayeth not, but it is at least certain that the officer was not pleased at the honour paid to the Queen whose uniform he was willing to wear.  So Mr. Malcontent leaves the room, and then sends up word to poor, inoffensive Jack, that he will be delighted to see that worthy below stairs; whereupon Jack quietly steals away and finds his would-be antagonist lurking behind a half-opened door.  The soldier makes a lunge with his sword at the player, who succeeds in disarming the coward, and there the matter apparently stops.

But the end was not yet.  When Evans went to Dublin, he found that his late challenger was circulating a lie, which made it appear that the comedian had in somewise affronted the whole British Army.  No sooner did Jack put his face upon the stage than a great clamour arose, and it was decreed by the bullies among the audience (of whom there are ever a few in every house), that no play should be presented until the culprit had publicly begged pardon for a sin which he never committed.  The play was “The Rival Queens,” the part assigned to Evans that of Alexander, but ’twas some time before this Alexander could be induced to crave the forgiveness of the excitable Dublinites.  Finally he yielded to expediency, and, coming forward to the centre of the stage, expressed his contrition.  At this, a puppy in the pit cried out “Kneel, you rascal!” and Evans, now thoroughly exasperated, tartly answered:  “No, you rascal!  I’ll kneel to none but God, and my Queen.”  Then the performance began.[A]