The Player

About this time, Mr. Charles Stagg, of the Williamsburgh theatre in
Virginia, sent by the Horn of Plenty, bound for London, a long letter to
an ancient comrade and player of small parts at Drury Lane. A few days
later, young Mr. Lee, writing by the Golden Lucy to an agreeable rake of
his acquaintance, burst into a five-page panegyric upon the Arpasia, the
Belvidera, the Monimia, who had so marvelously dawned upon the colonial
horizon. The recipient of this communication, being a frequenter of
Button's, and chancing one day to crack a bottle there with Mr. Colley
Cibber, drew from his pocket and read to that gentleman the eulogy of
Darden's Audrey, with the remark that the writer was an Oxford man and
must know whereof he wrote.

Cibber borrowed the letter, and the next day, in the company of Wilks and
a bottle of Burgundy, compared it with that of Mr. Charles Stagg,--the
latter's correspondent having also brought the matter to the great man's
notice.

"She might offset that pretty jade Fenton at the Fields, eh, Bob?" said
Cibber. "They're of an age. If the town took to her"-"If her Belvidera made one pretty fellow weep, why not another?" added Wilks. "Here--where is't he says that, when she went out, for many moments
the pit was silent as the grave--and that then the applause was deep--not
shrill--and very long? 'Gad, if 'tis a Barry come again, and we could lay
hands on her, the house would be made!"