riginal text
might be reasonably permitted. For instance, the reference by name to
the long-since departed actors, King, Dodd, and Palmer, and the once
famous scene-painter, Mr. De Loutherbourg, must necessarily now escape
the comprehension of a general audience. But the idiotic
interpolations, and the gross tomfoolery the actors occasionally
permit themselves in the later scenes of the play, should not be
tolerated by the audience upon any plea or pretext whatever.

One kind of gag is attributable to failure of memory or deficiency of
study on the part of the player. "I haven't got my words; I must gag
it," is a confession not unfrequently to be overheard in the theatre.
Incledon, the singer, who had been in early life a sailor before the
mast, in the royal navy, was notorious for his frequent loss of memory
upon the stage. In his time the word "vamp" seems to have prevailed as
the synonym of gag. A contemporary critic writes of him: "He could
never vamp, to use a theatrical technical which implies the
substitution of your own words and ideas when the author's are
forgotten. Vamping requires some tact, if not talent; and Incledon's
former occupation had imparted to his manners that genuine salt-water
simplicity to which the artifices of acting were insurmountable
difficulties." Incledon had, however, a never-failing resource when
difficulty of this kind occurred to him, and loss of memory, and
therefore of speech, interrupted his performances. He forthwith
commenced a verse of one of his most popular ballads! The amazement of
his fellow-actors at this proceeding was, on its first adoption, very
great indeed. "The truth is, I forgot my part, sir," Incledon frankly
explained to the perplexed manager, "and I could not catch the cue. I
assure you, sir, that my agitation was so great, that I was compelled
to introduce a verse of 'Black-eyed Susan,' in order to gain time and
recover myself." Long afterwards, when the occupants of the green-room
could hear Incledon's exquisite voice upon the stage, they were wont
to ask each other, laughingly: "Is he singing his music, or is he
merely recollecting his words?"

That excellent comedian, the late Drinkwater Meadows, used to relate a
curious gagging experience of his early life as a strolling player. It
was at Warwick, during the race week. He was to play Henry Moreland,
in "The Heir-at-Law," a part he had never previously performed, and of
which, indeed, he knew little or noth