Protestant printer engaged to issue the programmes gratis,—the Anglican clergyman lent the church candlesticks,—his clerk volunteered to attend to the lights,—a Jewish gentleman distributed the tickets of admission,—in fact the whole story reads like a parallel to the story in 'Evenings at Home,' written to prove the assertion that there are points on which all men can agree. One is reminded of the Churchman lying on the pavement in a fit, and of the good Quaker lady holding her smelling-bottle to his nose, whilst a Roman Catholic runs for a doctor, and a Baptist takes care of the children.
By the time that the appointed evening arrived all accessories had been provided, excepting, indeed, new clothes for the poor performer. Some amount of magnanimity was certainly required to face a well-dressed audience in the plight to which he was reduced. His frock hung from his knees in rags and tatters,—his black breeches were patched in different colours. "My stockings," he says, "thanks to my own care, cut a tolerable figure; but of my shoes, which were good when I left Italy, little more remained than the upper leathers." Add to this, that his hands and face were tanned to the colour of a native; but his "more than three months' beard," which was then supposed to aid in the general disfigurement, would now excite no observation, beards being not only of almost universal adoption, but specially worn by the Benedictine monks of New Norcia since they found that the natives respected them the more for not shaving. "In fact," he says, "my appearance excited both laughter and compassion." Neither could the applause which accompanied his endeavours to please the audience banish,
