by a considerable bequest in her will; but, on accompanying Mrs. K. to the theatre to see Kean perform Luke, she was so appalled by the cold-blooded villany of the character, that, attributing the skill of the actor to the actual possession of the fiendlike attributes, her regard was turned into suspicion and distrust.  She left London the next day, and dying soon afterwards, it appeared that she had altered her testamentary disposition of her property, which had once been made in Kean’s favour, and bequeathed the sum originally destined for him to a distant relative, of whom she knew nothing but by name.

Mimic Reclaimed.—­In the beginning of the last century, a comedian of the name of Griffin, celebrated for his talents as a mimic, was employed by a comic author to imitate the personal peculiarities of the celebrated Dr. Woodward, whom he intended to be introduced in a comedy as Dr. Fossil.  The mimic, dressed as a countryman, waited on the doctor with a long catalogue of complaints with which he said his wife was afflicted.  The physician heard with amazement diseases and pains of the most opposite nature, repeated and redoubled on the wretched patient.  The actor having thus detained the doctor until he thought himself completely master of his errand, presented him with a guinea as his fee.  “Put up thy money, poor fellow,” cried the doctor, “thou hast need of all thy cash, and all thy patience, too, with such a bundle of diseases tied to thy back.”  The mimic returned to his employer, who was in raptures at his success, until he told him that he would sooner die than prostitute his talents to render such genuine humanity food for diversion.

Senesino and Farinelli, when in England together, being engaged at different theatres on the same night, had not an opportunity of hearing each other, till, by one of those sudden revolutions which frequently happen, yet are always unexpected, they were both employed to sing on the same stage.  Senesino had the part of a furious tyrant to represent and Farinelli that of an unfortunate hero in chains; but in the course of the very first song, the latter so softened the heart of the enraged tyrant, that Senesino, forgetting his assumed character, ran to Farinelli and embraced him.

Weeping at a Play.—­It is a prevailing folly to be ashamed to shed a tear at any part of a tragedy, however affecting.  “The reason,” says the Spectator, “is, that persons think it makes them look ridiculous, by betraying the weakness of their nature.  But why may not nature show itself in tragedy, as well as in comedy or farce?  We see persons not ashamed to laugh loudly at the humour of a Falstaff,—­or the tricks of a harlequin; and why should not the tear be equally allowed to flow for the misfortunes of a Juliet, or the forlornness of an Ophelia?” Sir Richard Steele records on this subject a saying of Mr. Wilks the actor, as just as it was polite.  Being told in the green-room that there was a general in the boxes weeping for Juliana, he observed with a smile, “And I warrant you, sir, he’ll fight ne’er the worse for that.”