s, became what is sometimes called "religious,"
and had thoughts of going into the Church, and giving up the play-house.
He confided to my mother, who was his mother's intimate friend, and of
whom he was very fond, his conscientious scruples, which she in no wise
combated; though she probably thought more moderation in going to the
theater, and a little more self-control when there, might not, in any
event, be undesirable changes in his practice, whether his taking holy
orders cut him off entirely from what was then his principal pleasure,
or not. One night, when the venerable Prebend of St. Paul's, her old
friend, Dr. Hughes, was in her box with her, witnessing my performance
(which my mother never failed to attend), she pointed out G----,
_scrimmaging_ about, as usual, in his wonted place in the pit, and said,
"There is a poor lad who is terribly disturbed in his own mind about the
very thing he is doing at this moment. He is thinking of going into the
Church, and more than half believes that he ought to give up coming to
the play." "That depends, I should say," replied dear old Dr. Hughes,
"upon his own conviction in the matter, and nothing else; meantime, pray
give him my compliments, and tell him _I_ have enjoyed the performance
to-night extremely."

Mr. Abbot was in truth not a bad actor, though a perfectly uninteresting
one in tragedy; he had a good figure, face, and voice, the carriage and
appearance of a well-bred person, and, in what is called genteel comedy,
precisely the air and manner which it is most difficult to assume, that
of a gentleman. He had been in the army, and had left it for the stage,
where his performances were always respectable, though seldom anything
more. Wanting passion and expression in tragedy, he naturally resorted
to vehemence to supply their place, and was exaggerated and violent from
the absence of all dramatic feeling and imagination. Moreover, in
moments of powerful emotion he was apt to become unsteady on his legs,
and always filled me with terror lest in some of his headlong runs and
rushes about the stage he should lose his balance and fall; as indeed he
once did, to my unspeakable distress, in the play of "The Grecian
Daughter," in which he enacted my husband, Phocion, and flying to
embrace me, after a period of painful and eventful separation, he
completely overbalanced himself, and swinging round with me in his arms,
we both came to the ground together. "Oh, Mr. Abbot!" was a