this actor under his theatrical wing and sought to elevate
him above one far greater than either of them--Barton Booth. The fact
was that Wilks hid within his breast the troublesome, green-eyed
monster of jealousy; he feared the rising genius of Booth, and, now
that he was part manager of Drury Lane, probably took pains to keep
the rival as much as possible in the background. Unfortunately for
this plan of annihilation the screen provided in the commonplace
person of Mills proved entirely too flimsy to hide the coming man.
Barton Booth was in many ways an ideal actor, in that he was blessed
with the poetic imagination and scholarship to understand his roles
and the tragic power to play them. He had, furthermore, a voice of
marvellous resonance, an aristocratic bearing and a handsome face and
figure which were sure to attract attention, whether he appeared
upon the stage or amid the more genial confines of the Bedford
coffee-house.

It was to Booth, therefore, that Cato was finally assigned, the other
masculine parts being handed over to Cibber, Mills, Wilks, Powell,
Ryan, Bowman, and Keen. The latter was a popular actor of majestic
mould who used to play the King in "Hamlet" (a role too often left
to the mercies of third-rate mouthers) in a fashion which would
have justified the loyal and historic gentleman who preferred that
character to all others in the play. As already mentioned, Marcia was
to be acted by Oldfield, and to Mistress Porter, who usually revelled
in the delineation of high and mighty passions, was given gentle,
tearful Lucia, daughter to Lucius (Keen).

The rehearsals now went on apace, but evidently without much show of
enthusiasm. Addison assisted, probably dispirited and nervous but
outwardly unruffled, for he always presented a well-starched front to
the watching-world. Honest Dick Steele looked on, and in that frank,
ingenuous way he told his friends, with perhaps a suspicious flush
on his winsome face and a swimming gleam in his eyes, that he was
preparing to pack the theatre on the opening night in the interests of
worried Joe. Poor, good-hearted Dick! Then there was Parson Swift, who
sat behind the scenes with mild interest on his face and a sneer in
that ugly, gnarled heart of his. "We stood on the stage," he writes to
Stella, "and it was foolish enough to see the actors prompting every
moment, and the poet directing them, and the drab that acts Cato's
daughter (Mrs. Oldfield) out in the mids