Of the nature of the amusements in Forcer’s time we have a curious account in a communication made to the _European Magazine_ by a gentleman who received it from Macklin, the actor, whom he met at Sadler’s Wells towards the close of his life. ‘Sir,’ said the veteran comedian, ‘I remember the time when the price of admission here was threepence, except a few places scuttled off at the sides of the stage at sixpence, and which were usually reserved for people of fashion, who occasionally came to see the fun. Here we smoked and drank porter and rum-and-water as much as we could pay for, and every man had his doxy that liked; and, although we had a mixture of very odd company,—for I believe it was a good deal the baiting-place of thieves and highwaymen,—there was little or no rioting.’ During the period between Rosamond’s management and the conversion of the place into a theatre for dramas of the kind for which the Adelphi and the Coburg became famous at a later day, the entertainments at Sadler’s Wells consisted of pantomimes and musical interludes. In Forcer’s time, according to the account said to have been given by Macklin, they consisted of ‘hornpipes and ballad singing, with a kind of pantomime-ballet, and some lofty tumbling; and all done by daylight, with four or five exhibitions every day. The proprietors had always a fellow on the outside of the booth to calculate how many people were collected for a second exhibition; and when he thought there were enough, he came to the back of the upper seats, and cried out, “Is Hiram Fisteman here?” That was the cant word agreed upon between the parties to know the state of the people without: upon which they concluded the entertainment with a song, dismissed the audience, and prepared for a second representation.’ Joseph Clark, the posturer, was one of the wonders of London during the reigns of James II. and William III., obtaining mention even in the Transactions of the Philosophical Society, as having ‘such an absolute command of all his muscles and joints that he could disjoint almost his whole body.’ His exhibitions do not seem, however, to have been of a pleasing character, consisting chiefly in the imitation of every kind of human deformity. He could produce at will, and in a moment, without padding, the semblance of a Quasimodo or a Tichborne Claimant, his ‘fair round belly, with good capon lined,’ shift his temporary hump from one side to the other, project either hip, and twist his limbs into every conceivable complication. He could change his form so much as to defy a tailor to measure him, and imposed so completely on Molins, a famous surgeon of that time, as to be regarded by him as an incurable cripple. His portrait in Tempest’s collection shows him shouldering his leg, an antic which is imitated by a monkey.