The loss of his wig must have
occasioned him acute distress. For a moment he hesitated. What was he
to do? Should he forget that he was Richard? Should he remember that
he was only Mr. Bensley? He resolved to ignore the accident, to
abandon his wig. Shorn of his locks, he delivered his speech in his
most impressive manner. Of course he had to endure many interruptions.
An Irish audience is rarely forbearing--has a very quick perception of
the ludicrous. The jeering and ironic cheering that arose must have
gravely tried the tragedian. "Mr. Bensley, darling, put on your
jasey!" cried the gallery. "Bad luck to your politics! Will you suffer
a Whig to be hung?" But the actor did not flinch. His exit was as
dignified and commanding as had been his entrance. He did not even
condescend to notice his wig as he passed it, depending from its nail
like a scarecrow. One of the attendants of the stage was sent on to
remove it, the duty being accomplished amidst the most boisterous
laughter and applause of the whole house.
Mr. Bernard, in his "Retrospections of the Stage," makes humorous
mention of a provincial manager of the last century who was always
referred to as "Pentland and his wig," from his persistent adherence
to an ancient peruke, which, as he declared, had once belonged to
Colley Cibber.
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