"The representation of Ireland's tragedy took place on Saturday, April 2, 1796. Being one of those who were fortunate in gaining admittance and a seat on the second row in the pit, I am anxious, while my life is spared, to state what I saw and heard on this memorable occasion. The crowd and the rush for admittance were almost unprecedented. I do not think that twenty females were in the pit, such was the eagerness of gentlemen to gain admittance. Mr. Ireland's father, I remember, sat in the front box on the lower tier, with some friends around him. His son was behind the scenes. There was little or no disapprobation apparently shown by the audience until the commencement of the fifth act, when Mr. Kemble, it was probable, thought the deception had gone on long enough." Such, I think, was Ireland's own opinion; for in his _Confessions_, published in 1805, I find the following account of the disapproval of the audience given by himself. "The conduct of Mr. Kemble was too obvious to the whole audience to need much comment. I must, however, remark, that the particular line on which Mr. Kemble laid such a peculiar stress was, in my humble opinion, the _watchword_ agreed upon by the Malone faction for the general howl. The speech alluded to ran as follows; the line in italics being that so particularly noticed by Mr. Kemble:-- "'Time was, alas! I needed not this spur. But here's a secret and a stinging thorn, That wounds my troubled nerves. O Conscience! Conscience! When thou didst cry, I strove to stop thy mouth, By boldly thrusting on thee dire Ambition: Then did I think myself, indeed, a god! But I was sore deceived; for as I pass'd, And traversed in proud triumph the Basse-court, There I saw death, clad in most hideous colours: A sight it was, that did appal my soul; Yea, curdled thick this mass of blood within me. Full fifty breathless bodies struck my sight; And some, with gaping mouths, did seem to mock me; While others, smiling in cold death itself, Scoffingly bade me look on that, which soon Would wrench from off my brow this sacred crown, And make me, too, a subject like themselves: Subject! to whom? To thee, O sovereign Death! Who hast for thy domain this world immense: Churchyards and charnel-houses are thy haunts, And hospitals thy sumptuous palaces; And, when thou wouldst be merry, thou dost choose The gaudy chamber of a dying king. O! then thou dost ope wide thy bony jaws, And, with rude laughter and fantastic tricks, Thou clapp'st thy rattling fingers to thy sides: _And when this solemn mockery is o'er_, With icy hand thou tak'st him by the feet, And upward so; till thou dost reach the heart, And wrap him in the cloak of 'lasting night.'