Wilks the actor was the great ruler in matters of dress about this time. He was exceedingly simple in his tastes off the stage, but he was the best-dressed man upon it; and what he adopted was universally followed. An eminent critic, writing of this actor in 1729, says:—“Whatever he did on the stage, let it be ever so trifling,—whether it consisted in putting on his gloves, or taking out his watch, lolling on his cane, or taking snuff,—every movement was marked by such an ease of breeding and manner, everything told so strongly the involuntary motion of a gentleman, that it was impossible to consider the character he represented in any other light than that of reality; but what was still more surprising, that person who could thus delight an audience from the gaiety and sprightliness of his manner, I met the next day in the street hobbling to a hackney coach, seemingly so enfeebled by age and infirmities, that I could scarcely believe him to be the same man.” This splendid dresser exercised charity in a questionably liberal manner. He was a father to orphans, and left his widow with scarcely enough to find herself in cotton gowns. Our provincial theatres exhibit some strange anomalies with regard to costume, and there the sons and daughters of today have middle-aged sires wearing the costume of the time of George I. But the most singular anomaly in dress ever encountered by my experience was at a small theatre in Ireland, not very far from Sligo. The entertainment consisted of ‘Venice Preserved,’ and the balcony scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ The Venetian ladies and gentlemen were attired in every possible variety of costume; yet not one of them wore a dress that could have been distinguished at any period as being once worn by any people, civilized or savage. Jaffier and Pierre however presented the greatest singularity, for they were not only indescribably decked, but they had but one pair of buskin boots between them; and accordingly, when it was necessary for both to be in presence of the audience, each stood at the side-scene with a single leg protruded into sight and duly booted! When a soliloquy was to be delivered, the actor came forward, as easy in his buskins as though they belonged to himself, and were not enjoyed by a partner, _à la_ Box and Cox. Nor was this all. The appointments of the entire house were of the same character. The roof was of tiles, the seats in the pit were of potato-sacks and sacks of potatoes; and never did I laugh so much at a tragedy as when a torrent of rain fell upon audience and actors, and Juliet went through the balcony scene in a dirty bed-gown, and under a cotton umbrella.