The stage-wig is sometimes liable to unfortunate accidents.  In the turbulent scenes of tragedy, when the catastrophe is reached, and the hero, mortally stricken, falls upon the stage heavily and rigidly, in accordance with the ruling of immemorial tradition, the wig, like an unskilful rider upon a restive steed, is apt to become unseated.  Many a defunct Romeo has been constrained to return to life for a moment in order that he might entreat Juliet, in a whisper, just as her own suicide is imminent, to contrive, if possible, a readjustment of his wig, which, in the throes of his demise, had parted from his head, or, at least, to fling her veil over him, and so conceal his mischance from public observation.  To Mr. Bensley, the tragedian, so much admired by Charles Lamb, and so little by any other critic, a curious accident is said to have happened.  He was playing Richard III. in an Irish theatre; the curtain had risen, and he was advancing to the foot-lights to deliver his opening soliloquy, when an unlucky nail in the side wing caught a curl of his full-flowing majestic wig and dragged it from his head.  He was a pedantic, solemn actor, with a sepulchral voice and a stiff stalking gait.  Anthony Pasquin has recorded a derisive description of his histrionic method: 

With three minuet steps in all parts he advances,
Then retires three more, strokes his chin, prates and prances,
With a port as majestic as Astley’s horse dances.

* * * * *

Should we judge of this man by his visage and note,
We’d imagine a rookery built in his throat,
Whose caws were immixed with his vocal recitals,
While others stole downwards and fed on his vitals.

Still there can be no doubt that he played with extreme conscientiousness, and was fully impressed with a sense of his professional responsibilities.  The loss of his wig must have occasioned him acute distress.  For a moment he hesitated.  What was he to do?  Should he forget that he was Richard?  Should he remember that he was only Mr. Bensley?  He resolved to ignore the accident, to abandon his wig.  Shorn of his locks, he delivered his speech in his most impressive manner.  Of course he had to endure many interruptions.  An Irish audience is rarely forbearing—­has a very quick perception of the ludicrous.  The jeering and ironic cheering that arose must have gravely tried the tragedian.  “Mr. Bensley, darling, put on your jasey!” cried the gallery.  “Bad luck to your politics!  Will you suffer a Whig to be hung?” But the actor did not flinch.  His exit was as dignified and commanding as had been his entrance.  He did not even condescend to notice his wig as he passed it, depending from its nail like a scarecrow.  One of the attendants of the stage was sent on to remove it, the duty being accomplished amidst the most boisterous laughter and applause of the whole house.