Mr. Bernard, in his “Retrospections of the Stage,” makes humorous mention of a provincial manager of the last century who was always referred to as “Pentland and his wig,” from his persistent adherence to an ancient peruke, which, as he declared, had once belonged to Colley Cibber.  The wig was of the pattern worn on state occasions by the Lord Chief Justice of England, a structure of horsehair, that descended to the shoulders in dense lappels.  Pentland, who had been fifty years a manager, was much bent with infirmity, and afflicted with gout in all his members, still was wont to appear as the juvenile heroes of the drama.  But in his every part, whether Hamlet or Don Felix, Othello or Lord Townley, he invariably assumed this formidable wig.  Altogether his aspect and performance must have been of an extraordinary kind.  He played Plume, the lively hero of Farquhar’s “Recruiting Officer,” dressed in an old suit of regimentals, and wearing above his famous wig a prodigious cocked hat.  The rising of the curtain discovered him seated in an easy-chair with his lower limbs swathed in flannels.  He was, indeed, unable to walk, or even to stand, and throughout the performance had to be wheeled on and off the stage.  Surely light comedy was never seen under such disadvantageous conditions.  He endeavoured to compensate for his want of locomotive power by taking snuff with great frequency, and waving energetically in the air a large and soiled pocket-handkerchief.  This Pentland, indeed, appears to have been a curious example of the strolling manager of the old school.  His company consisted but of some half-dozen performers, including himself, his wife, and his daughter.  He journeyed from town to town on a donkey, the faithful companion of all his wanderings, with his gouty legs resting upon the panniers, into which were packed the wardrobe and scenic embellishments of his theatre.  On these occasions he always wore his best light-comedy suit of brown and gold, his inevitable wig, and a little three-cornered hat cocked on one side, “giving the septuagenarian an air of gaiety that well accorded with his known attachment to the rakes and heroes of the drama; one hand was knuckled in his side—­his favourite position—­and the other raised a pinch of snuff to his nose; and as he passed along he nodded and bowed to all about him, and seemed greatly pleased with the attention he excited.”  His company followed the manager on foot.  Yet for many years Mr. Pentland was the sole purveyor of theatrical entertainments to several English counties, and did not shrink from presenting to his audiences the most important works in the dramatic repertory.

When, in 1817, Edmund Kean played Eustache de Saint Pierre in the play of “The Surrender of Calais,” he designed to impress the town powerfully by the help of a wig made after the pattern of Count Ugolino’s.  “I’ll frighten the audience with it,” said he; but, as it happened, the audience declined to be frightened.  On the contrary, when the actor appeared upon the scene he was only partially recognised by the spectators.  Some persons even inquired:  “Who is that fellow?” None cried:  “God bless him!” The wig, in short, was not appreciated, for all it was of elaborate construction, and stood up, bristling with its gray hairs like a chevaux de frise.  The tragedian very soon gave up the part in disgust.