"I was too young," says Chetwood, "to view her first dawn on the stage, but yet had the infinite satisfaction of her meridian lustre, a glow of charms not to be beheld but with a trembling eye! which held her influence till set in night." Of Nance's tendency to escape tragic plays the same writer tells us: "When 'Mithridates' was revived, it was with much difficulty she was prevail'd upon to take the part; but she perform'd it to the utmost length of perfection, and, after that, she seem'd much better reconcil'd to tragedy. What a majestical dignity in Cleopatra! and, indeed, in every part that required it: Such a finish'd figure on the stage, was never yet seen. In 'Calista, the Fair Penitent,' she was inimitable, in the third act, with Horatio, when she tears the letter with "'To atoms, thus! Thus let me tear the vile detested falsehood, The wicked lying evidence of shame!' "Her excellent clear voice of passion, with manner and action suiting, us'd to make me shrink with awe, and seem'd to put her monitor Horatio into a mousehole. I almost gave him up for a troublesome puppy; and though Mr. Booth play'd the part of Lothario, I could hardly lug him up to the importance of triumphing over such a finish'd piece of perfection, that seemed to be too much dignified to lose her virtue." * * * * * Perhaps the reader may think that this chapter, like several others, is (as the theatre-goer said of "Hamlet") too "deuced full of quotation." Yet what can give a better picture of old stage life than these quaint and often eloquent records of the past? Pray be lenient, therefore, thou kindly critic, if the most faded books of the theatrical library are taken down from the dusty shelf, and a few of the neglected pages are printed once again. As these very books seem all the better in their dingy bindings, so do the old ideas, the odd conceits, the stories that charmed dead generations, take on a keener zest when clothed in the formal language of other days. If we want to get that formal language in all its glory, let us bring from the library a copy of some early eighteenth-century tragedy. Shall we close our eyes and choose one at random? Well, what have we? The "Tamerlane" of our friend Nicholas Rowe, in which is set forth the story of the generous Emperor of Tartary, the "very glass and fashion of all conquerors." The play is prefaced by a fulsome "Epistle Dedicatory," addressed to the sacred person of the "Right Honourable William, Lord Marquis of Harrington," and showing, almost pathetically, how frequently the literary workers of Queen Anne's "golden age" were wont to beg the influence of some powerful patron. The dedication seems absolutely grovelling when viewed from the present standards, but Mr. Rowe and his friends saw therein nothing more remarkable than respectful homage to one of the world's great men. The republic of letters was then an empty name.[A]