muffins
and so many eggs,' the new Romeo started for the playhouse, and that
very day bills were posted to the effect that 'a Gentleman of Fashion
would make his first appearance on February 9 in a role of Shakespeare.'
All the lower boxes were immediately secured by Lady Belmore and other
lights of Bath. 'Butlers and Abigails,' it is said, 'were commanded by
their mistresses to take their stand in the centre of the pit and give
Mr. Coates a capital, hearty clapping.' Indeed, throughout the week that
elapsed before the premiere, no pains were spared in assuring a great
success. Miss Tylney Long showed some interest in the arrangements.
Gossip spoke of her as a likely bride.

The night came. Fashion, Virtue, and Intellect thronged the house.
Nothing could have been more cordial than the temper of the gallery.
All were eager to applaud the new Romeo. Presently, when the varlets of
Verona had brawled, there stepped into the square--what!--a mountebank,
a monstrosity. Hurrah died upon every lip. The house was thunderstruck.
Whose legs were in those scarlet pantaloons? Whose face grinned over
that bolster-cravat, and under that Charles II. wig and opera-hat? From
whose shoulders hung that spangled sky-blue cloak? Was this bedizened
scarecrow the Amateur of Fashion, for sight of whom they had paid their
shillings? At length a voice from the gallery cried, 'Good evening, Mr.
Coates,' and, as the Antiguan--for he it was--bowed low, the theatre was
filled with yells of merriment. Only the people in the boxes were still
silent, staring coldly at the protege who had played them so odious a
prank. Lady Belmore rose and called for her chariot. Her example was
followed by several ladies of rank. The rest sat spellbound, and of
their number was Miss Tylney Long, at whose rigid face many glasses
were, of course, directed. Meanwhile the play proceeded. Those lines
that were not drowned in laughter Mr. Coates spoke in the most foolish
and extravagant manner. He cut little capers at odd moments. He laid his
hand on his heart and bowed, now to this, now to that part of the house,
always with a grin. In the balcony-scene he produced a snuff-box, and,
after taking a pinch, offered it to the bewildered Juliet. Coming down
to the footlights, he laid it on the cushion of the stage-box and begged
the inmates to refresh themselves, and to 'pass the golden trifle on.'
The performance, so obviously grotesque, was just the kind of thing to
please t