OUTPOURINGS.

BY D. CANTER.

LIBATION THE FOURTH.

Harris's spirited management. List of débutantes and corps dramatique. Charles Kemble.-Jones.- Emery. - Blanchard, &c.-Laughable mistakes by Mrs. Davenport and Mrs. Gibbs - Mrs. Jordan-Her mysterious end.-Journey to Dublin.- Narrow escape. Hamilton Rowan. State of the Dublin Theatre.-W. Farren.-Miss Walstein.-Miss O'Neill, &c.-Kean's first appearance.-Humours of the Gallery.-Tom Moore. - Fly not yet.-Amateur theatricals.-Fish Shamble Street.-Cork. - Miss Smithson.-The Master of the Ceremonies,-Trick played him.-Sir Andrew Agnew, — Return to town. -Peter Coxe-His dinners-Jokes. Reminiscences of Garrick, Henderson, Wilkes, &c.-Oliver, Pyne, &c.- Peter's ruling passion.-Extraordinary instance of it.

HARRIS managed Covent Garden with great spirit. In one season (1813-14), Terry, Conway, F. Vining, Mrs. Faucit, Miss Rennell, Miss Mathews, and Miss Stephens were added to the company. These performers were all débutantes, and all successful, particularly Miss Stephens, whose Mandane attracted immensely. Ears never drank sweeter sounds than the staccato notes of this syren. In addition to these, the company boasted the two Kembles, Young, Mrs. Siddons, and Mrs. Powell, in tragedy; Sinclair and Incledon in opera; Grimaldi and Ellar in pantomime; while in comedy the list presented such a phalanx of talent as, perhaps, were never before marshalled on the boards of any single theatre. Besides Mathews and Liston, a host in themselves, there was Fawcett, Farley, C. Kemble, Blanchard, Jones, Simmons, Emery, Mrs. Davenport, Mrs. Gibbs, Mrs. C. Kemble, Miss Bolton, and little Booth. Fawcett was stage-manager, Farley got up the melodrames and pantomimes, and Ware led in the orchestra.

Charles Kemble is a remarkable instance of what perseverance may effect. In the early part of his career he seldom presented himself before an audience without incurring its displeasure. A voice naturally thin, combined with a gawky person and constitutional indolence, which even in his best days he sometimes found himself unable to contend against, opposed such obstacles to his success, that most men would have abandoned the profession in despair. But Kemble was made of "sterner stuff." The word impossible was not in his vocabulary. Like Sheridan, he felt the mens divinior within, and resolved it should come out, and come out it did. No doubt, family influence contributed much to this result, and time still more. The former afforded him facilities that no other actor in similar circumstances could have enjoyed,-the latter made him the handsomest man of his day. More expressive or more finely-chiseled features than Charles Kemble's were perhaps never seen; and, though his figure was faulty in some respects, the tout-ensemble was graceful and spirited beyond that of any other performer, with the single exception of his brother John's. Still, let an actor's interest or an actor's person be what it will, he must eventually stand by his talents, or fall into insignificance for the want of them; and, when we consider the nature of the triumph

which Kemble achieved, too much praise can hardly be accorded him. Perhaps in Cassio, Orlando, Macduff, Romeo, Guido, and Mark Anthony, Charles Kemble has never been excelled. In Benedick, Falconbridge, and Prince Hal, I question if he has ever been equalled. These three parts, combining naïveté and humour with generous impulses and a gallant demeanour, precisely suited Kemble. His sudden assumption of dignity in Prince Hal, when Poins becomes too familiar, and his manner of giving "I never thought I should live to be married!" in Benedick, must be fresh in the memory of those who were fortunate enough to see Charles Kemble in these characters. In Don John, too, I preferred him to Elliston, but thought him inferior to that actor in the Doricourts, and modern fine gentlemen of genteel comedy. Apropos of Don John, a copy of "The Chances," as originally written, now lies before me. It would be difficult to instance a more clever or more indecent production; yet maids, wives, and widows once sat out this play. O tempora! 0—But the less we say

of mores the better.

Jones played Don Frederick in Reynold's version of this play with consummate tact, marking with great accuracy the graver shades which distinguish this agreeable rake from his more mercurial companion. This actor was deservedly a favourite. Light, easy, bustling, vivacious, with the neatest leg and the neatest figure in the world, Jones made the best fop and the best rattle of his time. With what precision he pitched out his points! How exhilarating was his laugh! how animated his countenance! He resembled a case of choice sillery, whose sparkling poppings beguiled us of the heartache, without giving us the headache. Ay, and would again-only he has better and graver things to employ him. Jones's delineation of a fop was not confined to the drawl and the lorgnette. He mingled vivacity with his affectation, nor did he ever lose sight of the gentleman in his superciliousness. In the Flutters, Diddlers, and fops from the counter, I think Wrench excelled him. After butterflying it for thirty years as a light comedian,

"His next employment guess."

You cannot? Well, are you designed for holy orders, sir? Do you wish to acquit yourself with credit? Would you favourably impress your congregation? You would. Then go to Richard Jones; let him teach you how to read the Liturgy. You cannot do better, Tractarian or anti-Tractarian-no matter. You will equally profit by his instructions.

There was Emery, too! What an admirable actor was Emery! The stage boasted nothing finer, more original, or more true to nature, than the Tyke of this performer. In parts it was terrific-I had almost said, sublime. But Emery not only portrayed the operation of the stronger passions in rough uneducated natures with uncommon power and effect, but displayed equal felicity in the delineation of the low cunning, trickery, self-conceit, and peculiar kind of humour which more or less form the substratum of such natures, and are chiefly observable among the retainers of the stud, the betting-post, and the prize-ring. Emery's Gibbet in "The Beaux Stratagem" embodied many of these characteristics superadded to superior pretensions and an assumption of gentility. The highwaymen of Farquhar's time were incomparably superior to the low ruffians who rob and maltreat

the traveller in these degenerate days. They occupied that position in the social scale now so worthily filled by first-class swindlers, and the cream of the swell-mob. They associated with gentlemen, were sometimes gentlemen themselves, but always affected to be so. Emery's performance of this anomalous character was extremely whimsical and diverting. His jauntee air-his bullying swagger-his nods and winks to invite confidence-his affected scrupulousness as to his company-his continual apprehension of being identified,-the bold, unblushing blackguardism of his character predominating over the whole, formed, with the single exception of Mathews's Jack Sheppard, the most ludicrous specimen of the confraternity the stage has ever produced. In simple rustics, or where a stolid expression of countenance was indispensable, Emery was not so happy. There was a latent intelligence, a lurking devil in his eye, which contradicted his words, and weakened, if it did not altogether mar, his performance. In parts of this description he was inferior to both Knight and Oxberry. Emery's Caliban has been much carped at; but by what standard are we to judge an actor in a part so entirely the creation of the author's brain? It has been objected that Emery's delineation of this nondescript was not poetical. But how is the performer to engraft the graces of poetry on such a stem? The attempt would be hazardous, to say the least of it Conceptions may arise in the closet the reader would be puzzled to embody, and tones haunt his imagination, which, if uttered, would entail ridicule on the speaker. Be this as it may, Emery's Caliban, with all its imputed faults, proved, like his Pan in "Midas," beyond the efforts of any of his contemporaries; though in senile characters, with the exception of Broadcast, Mouchestache, and a few others, he was hard and laboured. Emery was born in Yorkshire, and had been accustomed, in Tate Wilkinson's company, to play rustics in the broadest patois of his native province. He selected a part of this description for his début at the Haymarket; but his dialect at rehearsal proved so unintelligible, that Colman told him he might as well speak so much Greek to his audience; so he was obliged to modify it. In what is called Repose or the Recitative of Acting, I think Emery excelled all actors, past or present. "Proper words in proper places" appears to have been his motto. This admirable artist always managed to let the sense of what he uttered strike the ear at the precise moment it produced most effect.

Fawcett likewise excelled in the pathetic, in a somewhat higher range of character. His Rivers, Rolamo, Job Thornberry, and Cornflower, were impressive performances, though by no means equal in intensity and power to the Tyke of Emery. Fawcett was the best gabbling humourist of his day. In such characters as Pangloss, Caleb Quotem, and Ollapod (expressly written for him by Colman), he surpassed even Mathews. His style was hard, and his features, though not devoid of comic expression, rigid. He played Sterling and Hardcastle incomparably, but failed in Sir Peter Teazle and Sir Francis Wronghead. This actor was an especial favourite with George III., who, at one period, frequently went to the theatre to enjoy Fawcett's eccentricities, and laugh at his comic songs, which he sang with much humour and spirit. Though harsh and curt in manner, Fawcett made an excellent manager. If he lacked the courtesy of Elliston, his word could always be depended on. He never flattered, and he never

deceived.

Then there was Blanchard-sterling and toothsome; Simmonsformal and quaint. Immortal Joey! whose satires beat Juvenal's; little Booth in Pickle; Mrs. C. Kemble in Lucy; Gibbs in Cowslip; and glorious Davenport, who, though she ground her emphasis overmuch, bustled through the Duennas and Mother Heidelbergs with incomparable spirit. One night, in "The Clandestine Marriage," she rushed in, exclaiming, Oh, dear! I met a candle with a man in its hand!" The roar occasioned by this mistake had scarce subsided, when it was renewed by Mrs. Gibbs's saying, "There, I've locked the key, and put the door into my pocket." Incledon is said to have made a lapsus still more ludicrous in Macheath, which it would be contra bonos mores to relate.

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In April, 1814, circumstances called me to Dublin. Previous to my departure, I saw Mrs. Jordan play for the first and last time. The part was Hoyden-one of the principal stepping-stones to her former fame, but which then, alas! only served to show how busy time-must we add, sorrow?—had been with this remarkable woman. She still retained sufficient powers to evidence how justly her reputation had been won. The speaking eye-the deep, full tones-the ringing laugh-the daring self-abandonment,-all bespoke her style of the richest and the raciest, and that in her zenith she must have far, far excelled any actress who succeeded her. I witnessed her performance with a profound melancholy. To me there was no mirth in her laughter-nothing cheering in her smile; for I felt she must be sad at heart, and wondered, as I do now, how any possible contingency could have driven a princess de facto, if not de jure, with a numerous and flourishing offspring, into a position at once so pitiable and degrading. Boaden, in his Life of this ill-fated woman, has played the tunny-fish, and instead of elucidating, has involved this mystery in deeper gloom.

My journey to Holyhead proved a perpetual triumph. I left London in the mail which bore the joyful intelligence of the occupation of Paris by the Allies. The coach was decorated with laurel; the populace cheered us when we started. We set every town, village, hamlet we passed through in an uproar. Wherever we changed horses, the people were ready to shake our hands off. At Birmingham we narrowly escaped being dragged to the inn. The coachmen and guards were kept in a constant state of intoxication, which nearly proved fatal to us. In going through the Vale of Llangollen, where the road skirts a high precipice overhanging the Dee, the coachman, overpowered by the ale he had been forced to swallow, fell from the box. The horses, left to themselves, dragged the coach within a few inches of the precipice. Fortunately it was moonlight, and a colonel of artillery, who happened to be sitting with the guard, discovered the danger in time to seize the reins, and alter the course of the leaders, or coach, passengers, horses, all must have been precipitated into the Dee.

I was exceedingly struck with the romantic beauties of Llangollen and the wilder scenery about Capel Currig. The inn at this latter place is celebrated for an adventure which befel the late Hamilton Rowan, which with the reader's permission, I will narrate.

HAMILTON ROWAN AND THE WATCH.

Hamilton Rowan, on his way to Holyhead, stopped to dine at the