LAUD YE THE MONKS! BY WILLIAM JONES. LAUD ye the monks ! They were not men of a creed austere, Who frown'd on mirth, and forbade good cheer; Of their gay conceits and deep wassail; Laud ye the monks ! Many a blazon'd scroll doth prove The pains they took in their work of love; With scenes and deeds of a bygone age; Many a hallowing minster still Attests the marvels of olden skill! The broken shaft, or the altar razed, The mould'ring fane, where our sires have praised, Blessing the men who have pass'd away! Laud ye the monks! For they were friends of the poor and weak. Was the forfeit paid for his curbless mood:- Laud ye the monks ! Tranquil and sweet was monastic life, A home secure from the shafts of care! Many a heart with sorrow riven Would learn to dream of a shadeless heaven! And plenty smiled where the convent rose, The herald of love and deep repose; The only spot where the arts gave forth The hope of a glorious age to earth! OUTPOURINGS. BY D. CANTER. LIBATION THE THIRD. Private theatricals.-Mathews's enthusiasm.-Liston's sang froid.—Their playing together.-Mathews and Little Fanny.-First representation of "The Sleepwalker."-Mr. Oakley. His liberality.-His mystifying Thompson.-Kemble. -Incledon.-Sewing up the Governor.-Cooke's compelling Incledon to sing "The Storm."-Whimsical instance of the latter's jealousy of Braham.-Sheridan. His anomalies. - - The School for Scandal,”-Pizarro.-Elliston-His tact-His egotism-His skill as a Manager - His intemperance." George Barnwell." Harry Harris. His pugilism.-Murray: ludicrous Anecdote. I HAVE said Mathews was an enthusiast in his art. Boaden has happily seized on this characteristic. In his picture of "An Author reading his Piece in the Green Room," he has represented Mathews in the act of applauding what the rest of the performers listen to with professional indifference. I saw "this ruling passion" strongly developed one evening at the private theatricals in Tavistock Place. The play was "Measure for Measure;" Angelo, Mr. Oakley; Lucio, Mr. Britton; Isabella, Miss S. Booth, a charming little actress, then in her zenith. Mathews and Liston were both present. The latter looked on with a most lugubrious aspect, wishing himself, no doubt, anywhere else, as most professionals under similar circumstances would; but Mathews, he was all life-animation. I question if he did not enjoy the performance more than any other person. He took an interest in everything, entered heart and soul into the business of the evening, and invariably led the applause. Liston applauded too; -but Liston was a sly dog, a wicked wit. He possessed the faculty of laughing in his sleeve to perfection. Pardon me, dear Liston, should this meet your eye. But you were not always the grave, serious gentleman you now are. Oh! it was glorious, exquisite, to see these two highly-gifted sons of Momus in one of Hook's, or one of Kenny's farces. They rushed into their parts to their very fingers' ends. It was a labour of love, an intellectual gladiatorship, in which they luxuriated with a zest and an abandon inconceivable in these water-drinking days. This "keen encounter of their wits" elicited a thousand whimsical conceits, a thousand humorous unpremeditated sallies. Liston! dear Liston! it must be confessed you sometimes took strange liberties;-ah, but then it was you, you know, and we were always the gainers by it. Mathews was exceeding wrath at the liberties the press took with him. One day he met an American gentleman as he was driving in from Hampstead. "Dear me! is this you, Mr. Mathews ?" exclaimed the latter; "why, you 're the last person I expected to see!"-" Indeed! why so?"—"Because I've just read your death in the newspaper."- "What! those infernal penny-a-liners have been at me again, have they? I'll tell you how they do it. You don't understand these things. Want six lines for the end of this column,' shouts the compositor down his d―d trumpet. 'Will a murder do?' bawls a penny-a-liner. No!' Then kill Mathews!' So I'm killed! Ha, ha! must be a cursed coward to die so many deaths, eh? Good morning!" tastes Mathews frequently dined in Tavistock Place. A congeniality of for both were devoted Shaksperians-led to an intimacy between Mr. Oakley and our great monologist, which only terminated with the death of the latter. Like Pope, Mathews was extremely partial to little Fanny, whose naïve surprise at his ventriloquism highly amused him. Placing Fanny on one knee, his handkerchief twisted up into a doll occupying the other, Mathews would throw his voice into the latter, to the great astonishment of the child, who, after staring at the doll, and then at Mathews, would exclaim, "Why, it don't talk, does it?" Mr. Oakley, with a large party, occupied one of the stage boxes, the first night Mathews played Somnio,* in which he afterwards became so popular. Gradually approaching the box in the course of his imitations, he suddenly turned to his friend, and fixing his eye on him, exclaimed, from "The Jealous Wife," "Oh, Mr. Oakley! is that you?" The latter's confusion may be imagined. Perhaps no individual is more to be envied than an English gentleman, of cultivated mind, domestic habits, high moral feeling, and refined tastes, whose position exempts him from the necessity of conforming to fashionable observances, yet leaves him at liberty to select his own associates, and indulge in pursuits most congenial to his inclinations. In all respects my friend Oakley was this enviable individual. He dedicated his leisure hours wholly to his family, his ease, literature, and the society of a few friends distinguished chiefly for their talents and acquirements. He was a munificent patron, considering his means. When "All the Talents" deprived the elder Dibdin of his pension, Mr. Oakley set a subscription on foot for the relief of this veteran vocalist, heading it with a donation of one hundred pounds. Mr. Oakley not only possessed a strong feeling for the arts, but was no contemptible artist himself. A picture by Thompson, which that artist considered his masterpiece, hung over the mantelpiece in Mr. Oakley's dining-room. One evening, as these gentlemen sat over their Falernian, Mr. Oakley, to Thompson's great astonishment, began abusing this performance. Why, what's the matter with it?" said the artist, starting up, and throwing the light on the picture. "Oh, I'm dissatisfied with it altogether," replied Mr. Oakley. "That arm there's out of drawing; those shadows are too opaque; and as for the colouring-" "Well!" interrupted Thompson, with great energy, "if that arm's out of drawing, Mr. Oakley, I'm ! The shadows too, if anything, are too transparent; and here-only look, only look! Why, my good sir! what the devil would you have? why, the colouring looks as fresh as if it had been put on only ten days ago!" "Yes, that's about the time," said Mr. Oakley, sipping his wine. "What do you mean ?" inquired the astonished artist. In "The Sleep-walker." The Literary Gazette of Saturday, April the 27th, 1844, contains a notice of "this gentleman of the good old English school," who died at his house in Sloane Street, on the 19th of that month. Mr. Oakley was a member of the Athenæum, and many years auditor of Drury Lane. "Simply, that you've been praising a copy by myself all this time!" Mr. Oakley had a mortal aversion to every species of affectation or dandyism. One evening he was examining one of Erat's new harps, at a friend's, when a compound of these obnoxious qualities lounging up, drawled out, "A fine harp that-a- an Erard-a, I perceive!""No-a," replied Mr. Oakley, adopting his drawl, "that's an Erat-a!" This gentleman is author of "Selections from Shakspeare," which he dedicated to Mrs. Siddons, of whom, and her brother John, he was an enthusiastic admirer. This latter's convivial propensities are well known. He enjoyed the reputation of being able to carry off a greater quantity of wine than any of his contemporaries, which excited Incledon's jealousy so much, that he invited the tragedian to dinner, for the purpose of deciding which was the better man. "We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart!" exclaimed Incledon, as soon as the cloth was removed. Accordingly burgundy was the word for eight whole hours by Shrewsbury clock. Day dawned, cocks crew: still the representative of Macbeth scorned to cry "Hold! enough!" The vocalist became anxious. Strong internal evidence convinced him he could not sustain the contest much longer. "Half-pint bumpers!" he vociferated wildly. "Lay on, Macduff!” cried John, heroically, holding out his tumbler, which he had no sooner drained than he fell under the table. "Be-e-e-low!" sang Incledon, in triumph; then seizing one of the candles, he staggered off, exclaiming, "Sewed up the Governor, by-!" But there is "in the lowest depths a lower still." Incledon was no match for Cooke. One night these two worthies, after performing at the Richmond Theatre, returned to the Castle Hotel to sup. One two boomed from the old church tower. Incledon rose to retire. "Sit ye down, man! sit ye down, Charley!" said Cooke; "we 'll have another bottle." : "No, no, not to-night, my dear fellow; not to-night," persisted Ineledon "it's late. Besides, I've to sing before the King, and the Queen, you know, to-morrow night at Covent Garden The-a-torr, and I must be careful of my voice." "Phoo! phoo! sit ye down, man; sit ye down- another bottle." No, no, not to-night; not to-night, my dear boy. I tell you I've to sing before the King, and the Queen, and all the maids of honourr, and 66 Well, sing me The Storm;' sing me The Storm' before you go, my bully boy!" urged Cooke, who dreaded being left alone. No, no, not to-night; not to-night. I really "You shall, though; you shall sing me 'The Storm' before morning, Charley!" said Cooke; and Incledon retired. He had not been asleep long when he was seized by two constables. "What d'ye mean, ye rascals?" cried Incledon, struggling. "You'd better come quietly, Muster Smith," said the Constable. en-chef, giving him a shake. "Muster Smith!" Ay, you see we knows you, so it 's no use your kicking up a bobbery. Bless you! we knows all about that bit of business on the green yonder, when you and your pals there robbed that 'ere poor 'oman of her bundle, and-" "Robbed! pals! bundle!" iterated the astonished vocalist: "why, I'm Charles Incledon-Charles Incledon, THE NATIVE MELODIST, ye rascals! I've to sing before the King, and the Queen, and all the maids of honour, to-morrow night at Covent Garden The-a-torr !-ay, by! 'sus! so I'll trouble you to take your knuckles out of my throat, and not spoil my voice by your violence." "I tell you that gammon won't pass with me!" cried the Constable, clutching him still tighter; so come along; put on your toggery this instant, or -” "I tell you I'm Charles Incledon !" persisted the enraged vocalist. "There's my friend Cooke; the great George Frederick; he's now in the house; we 'll call him, and —” "Muster Cooke! why, that's the gen'elman as informed against you. Howsommever, if you 're Charles Incledon, you know, you can sing "The Storm." The word storm recalled Incledon from the stupor Cooke's perfidy had thrown him into. "Sing 'The Storm'!" repeated he indignantly; "here! stand aside, ye rascals; give me room, and I'll soon show you whether I can sing The Storm' or not." And clearing his pipes, Incledon went through this celebrated ditty in his best style, at the conclusion of which Cooke thrust his head from behind the curtain, and saying, "I told you you should sing me 'THE STORM' before morning, Charley," left him to his repose. Incledon might well be careful of his voice-the finest that an English singer ever boasted of, particularly in the lower notes. Nevertheless, in spite of an occasional flatness, Braham surpassed Incledon, or perhaps any other vocalist our stage has ever produced. His superior science, taste, spirit, feeling, and more than all, expression, placednay, wonderful to say, still places him, after a lapse of more than sixty years, at the head of the English school. A strong jealousy subsisted between these two singers. The very sight of his more popular rival was wormwood to Incledon. One morning this latter and Power were breakfasting with Strut at Brighton, when Braham dropped in. Incledon sat sullenly discussing his prawns and bohea; and when breakfast was over, took Power's arm, and led him down to the beach. Here they walked in silence, until Incledon, suddenly disengaging his arm, uplifted his hands over the waters, and peeled forth, "The Lord Jehovah!" at the full extent of his magnificent voice. "There!" exclaimed he, triumphantly, "let the little Jew-boy do that!" And omit we, in this our catalogue of convivialists, immortal Brinsley, who to the graces of Anacreon united the eloquence of Marcus Tullius, with the voluptuousness of Petronius, and the improvidence of Alcibiades? Bacchus-Momus-Mercury forbid! What a compound! what an anomaly! We feel at a loss which to wonder at most, Sheridan's talents or his indolence, his procrastination or his energies; the recklessness with which he plunged into difficulties, or VOL. XVIII. D |