the story, gracefully surrendered, for the reason that he was himself without firearms.  The man made the best of the situation, however, by assuring the occupant of the vehicle that he was “no common thief,” and had been driven to his present course by the wants of a starving family.  He told her, at the same time, where he lived, and urged his distresses with such earnestness, that she spared him all the money in her purse, which was about ten guineas.[A]

[Footnote A:  Bellchambers’ “Memoirs.”  This episode happened in the summer of 1731.]

Thereupon the highwayman departed, and Mrs. Porter whipped up her horse.  In her excitement she must have used the lash too freely, for the animal started to run, the chaise was overturned, and the actress dislocated her thigh bone.  When she had in part recovered from the accident, the victim made up a purse of sixty pounds, subscribed among her friends, and sent it to the poverty-stricken family of the desperado.  How Nance would have laughed at the story had she been at the theatre to hear it told.  But there was no more merriment for this daughter of smiles; she was lying cold and still amid the stony grandeur of Westminster Abbey.

Poor Porter outlived Oldfield for more than thirty years and, having also outlived an annuity settled upon herself, spent her declining days in what polite writers call straightened circumstances.  One of the closing scenes of her career shows us a meeting between this veteran of the stage and Dr. Johnson, who could allow his kindness of heart and sense of generosity to overcome his hatred of things theatrical.  It is easy to imagine the whole interview:  the shrunken face of the Porter beaming all over with an appreciation of the honour paid her, and the Doctor full of benevolence and patronising courtesy, even to the extent of drinking cheap tea without a grumble.  After the philosopher takes his leave he will likewise take with him a vivid memory of the beldam’s many wrinkles—­so many, indeed, that “a picture of old age in the abstract might have been taken from her countenance."[A]

[Footnote A:  Dr. Johnson was pleased to avow that “Mrs. Porter in the vehemence of rage, and Mrs. Clive in the sprightliness of humour, he had never seen equalled.”]

Of a different calibre was Lacy Ryan, an ill-trained genius who could shine pretty well in both tragedy and comedy and from whom, according to Foote,

  “... succeeding Richards took the cue,
  And hence his style, if not the colour, drew."[A]

[Footnote A:  Justice has scarcely been done to Ryan’s merit.  Garrick, on going with Woodward to see his Richard with a view of being amused, owned that he was astonished at the genius and power he saw struggling to make itself felt through the burden of ill-training, uncouth gestures, and an ungraceful and slovenly figure.  He was generous enough to own that all the merit there was in his own playing of Richard he had drawn from studying this less fortunate player.—­PERCY FITZGERALD.]