arrival there, and I do not recollect what were her characters. My attention was given to the revival of Shakespeare's 'King Richard II.'; a play of the performance of which there is no record since Shakespeare's time, with due omissions. I had prepared it for representation, and it was produced with all the scenic effect that the limits of the theatre would admit of. It was a complete success, and proved the attraction of the season; but though applauded in the acting, it has not kept the stage; and it has often excited the wonder of Shakespearean critics, that it should have lain so long neglected and still should enjoy so little popularity. The passion of its language and the beauty of its poetry (considered apart from effect in representation) have dazzled its readers, and blinded them to the absence of any marked idiosyncrasy in the persons of the drama, and to the want of strong purpose in any of them. Not one does anything to cause a result. All seem floated along on the tides of circumstance. Nothing has its source in premeditation. Richard's acts are those of idle, almost childish, levity, wanton caprice, or unreflecting injustice. He is alternately confidently boastful and pusillanimously despondent. His extravagant persuasions of kingly inviolability, and of heavenly interposition in his behalf, meet with no response in the sympathies of an audience. His grief is that of a spoiled, passionate boy; but the language in which it is expressed is in the loftiest strain of poetry and passion. Bolingbroke, by the concurrence of events beyond his calculation, is raised to the throne. We perceive character in him in his own description of himself in the First Part of King Henry IV.,' but in his entrances and exits through this play there is nothing to distinguish him so by York's touching picture of the degraded Richard's humiliating entry into London our feelings are more deeply interested than by all the fretful wailings, reproaches, and denunciations, eloquent and earnest as they are, of the deposed King. York is a good, easy man, yielding to every impulse, bending to every breeze that blows. Aumerle is a courtier and conspirator, unmarked by any peculiarity of concerted plan or urgent motive. In all the greater plays of Shakespeare purpose and will, the general foundations of character, are the engines which set action at work. In 'King Richard II.' we look for these in vain. Macbeth, Othello, Iago, Hamlet, Richard III., &c., both think and do; but Richard II., Bolingbroke, York, and the rest, though they talk so well, do little else than talk, nor can all the charm of composition redeem, in a dramatic point of view, the weakness resulting from this accident in a play's construction. In none of his personations did the late Edmund Kean display more masterly elocution than in the third act of 'Richard II.;' but the admiration he excited could not maintain a place for the work in the list of acting plays among the favourite dramas of Shakespeare.

My other new characters this season were Dorax in an adaptation by Reynolds of Dryden's 'Don Sebastian,' Oroonoko in Southern's affecting tragedy of that name, King Richard III.,

1811-12.

Anecdotes of G. F. Cooke..

51

and Mark Antony in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra.' My attempt in Richard was received with approbation, though my figure was unsuited to the part; an objection I have always felt, even when borne along by the fervent applause of the audience. A humped-backed tall man is not in nature, and I felt myself contradicting in my appearance the words Shakespeare had given me to speak-an interference with that persuasion of reality under which, to be master of his audience, every actor should endeavour to bring himself. My aim in the study and presentation of a character has been always identical with that of the German actor Schroeder, who, in reply to the encomiums of his admirers on some particular passage or scene, would impatiently exclaim, "Ai-je bien joué le rôle? Ai-je été le personnage?

My remembrance, too, of George Frederic Cooke, whose peculiarities added so much to the effect of his performance, served to detract from my confidence in assuming the crooked-back tyrant. Cooke's varieties of tone seemed limited to a loud harsh croak descending to the lowest audible murmur; but there was such significance in each inflexion, look, and gesture, and such impressive earnestness in his whole bearing, that he compelled your attention and interest. He was the Richard of his day; and in Shylock, Iago, Sir Archy Macsarcasm, and Sir Pertinax Macsycophant, he defied competition. His popularity far excelled that of Kemble; but he became the very slave of intemperance, remaining at times for days together in a state of debauch. His habits of inebriety subjected him frequently to the signal disapprobation of his audience, upon whom he would sometimes retort with more vehemence than delicacy. It is reported of him, that on one occasion, when a young officer in the stage-box made himself conspicuous in interrupting the play, Cooke went close up to him, and in his distinctly audible pianissimo addressed him: "D-n you, sir! You are an ensign? Sir, the King (God bless him) can make any fool an officer, but it is only the great God Almighty that can make an actor!" At another time, in Liverpool, when scarcely able to go through his part, the audience most justly manifested their indignation; he stopped, and addressed to them this insolent affront: "Your applause or your disapproval arc indifferent to me: there's not one brick upon another in your town that is not cemented with a fellow-creature's blood!" alluding to the African Slave Trade, then principally carried on in Liverpool ships.

His face was only expressive of the sterner emotions, of which a whimsical evidence was afforded one evening, when, something the worse for wine or spirits he had drunk, he volunteered to exhibit to a young man sitting opposite to him the various passions of the human heart in the successive changes of his countenance. Accordingly, having fixed his features, he triumphantly asked his admirer, "Now, sir, what passion is that?" The young gentleman with complacent confidence replied, "That is revenge, Mr. Cooke." "You lie, sir; it's love!" was Cooke's abrupt rejoinder. But, when

in possession of himself, his manners were most pleasing and his address most gentlemanly. Two of my schoolfellows, Henry and William Hanmer, sons of Sir Thomas Hanmer, in returning from the holidays to Rugby, supped one evening with my father after the play, in which Cooke had been acting. Cooke was of the party. Henry Hanmer, then a young man, subsequently a Colonel in the Guards, was quite charmed with his mild and agreeable manners and his interesting conversation. As of many others, it used to be said of him, that he was no one's enemy but his own; a shallow compliment, flattering the easiness of his disposition at the expense of more solid and indispensable qualities.

The part of Mark Antony was announced for my own "benefit," and signalised by an extraordinary occurrence. The partiality that was invariably manifested towards me in Newcastle, where I was to my latest appearance spoken of as William Macready or Mr. William, never failed to display itself on the occasion of my "benefit nights." Every place in the boxes had been taken some days before; and from the demand for tickets, an overflowing house was, as usual, looked for. But on the morning of the day, the box-keeper, with a very rueful countenance, came up to our lodgings at some distance from the theatre, to inform my father that in the night there had been affixed on the box-entrance door a paper with doggrel rhymes, to the effect that I had "shamefully misused and even kicked” (!) a Miss Sulivan, a very pretty girl, an actress in the theatre, who was that night to perform Cleopatra. Although it was not an unfrequent practice of country actresses to endeavour to advance their interests by representing themselves as ill-used by the manager, and creating a party feeling against him, I think she was perfectly innocent of any participation in this attempt to damage me in public opinion. My attentions at that time were addressed more pointedly to another frequenter of the green-room than to her, and this could have been the only ground of dissatisfaction, if any existed; for the "manager's son was of no little consideration in the limits of a green-room circle. The paper had attracted crowds before it had been removed, and the excitement was as great in the town as if the theatre had been blown up; but the general feeling was one of indignation at the calumny and the dastardly means adopted to circulate it. When informed of it, I determined not to hold conversation of any kind, nor to exchange one word with Miss Sulivan until I appeared with her on the stage at night. Friends, and persons not known before, thronged to the box-office in the morning to express their abhorrence of this infamous libel, and many stopped me in the street to testify the friendly sentiment toward me that pervaded the town on the subject. So monstrous an accusation, and its base intention, naturally agitated me; but in the consciousness of freedom from all violation of gentleman-like deportment towards the actresses my mind was clear, and resolved on the course to pursue. The night came; every "hole and corner," to use the common phrase, was

1813-14.

Answer to a Libel.

53

filled long before the curtain rose. Upon my entrance with Cleopatra, Miss Sulivan, in my hand, the applause and shouting were deafening. When silence was obtained, I went forward, and addressing the audience, observed that, indebted to them as I was for many proofs of their favour, I was more obliged to them for the confidence in me they showed that night, than for all their previous indulgence; and, alluding to "the paper," stated that I had designedly not spoken to Miss Sulivan since I had heard of it, but that I would now request her to answer before them to some questions. "Have I ever been guilty of any injustice of any kind to you since you have been in the theatre?" Her answer, "No, sir," was received with shouts. "Have I ever behaved to you in

an ungentlemanlike manner?" "No, sir." Loud shouts repeated. "It is unnecessary to ask, but to satisfy the writer of the anonymous libel, have I ever kicked you?" Her answer of “Oh, no, sir!” was given amid the hearty exclamations and laughter of the excited crowds of box, pit, and gallery, and the play proceeded, but with little effect; for Antony, the voluptuary and doting spoilt child of fortune, was not within the compass of a tyro as I then was. This was the first attempt I had to encounter of this sort of stabbing in the dark. I lament to add, I became more familiarised to it as my experience extended; the object of my assailant was nothing less than my ruin; in one instance my life was aimed at, but that was not in England.

CHAPTER IV.

1813-1814.-First appearance as Hamlet in Glasgow-Further new partsPower of rapid study-Sinclair-Mrs. Bishop-Dumfries-Acting with Betty-Newcastle-Criticism on Betty's acting- Separation from fatherBrother enters the army as a volunteer private-Reconciliation with fatherComes of age-Risks of a player's life-Charles Kemble and his wifeAdaptation of 'Marmion '-Barnard Castle, Raby, Rokeby-Adaptation of Scott's Rokeby '-Father builds new theatre at Carlisle-Holiday at Holy Island-Escape from a quicksand-Performance to an audience of three persons at Berwick on night of general illumination-Young and EmeryA wonderful effort of memory-Miss O'Neill's appearance at Covent Garden -Remarkable accident at Newcastle-Engagement at Bath.

THE Glasgow and Dumfries theatres were now to be let, and my father decided on trying his fortune with them. From Newcastle, therefore, he transferred his company to Glasgow. The opening night presented a very fair attendance, but on my father's remark to one of the old servants of the theatre, that the house was very good, Aye, but," he replied, "it will be better when "-after a pause"his honour there, I believe, comes out;" and his prediction was fulfilled in an improved appearance of pit, box, and gallery, to the

tragedy of 'Hamlet,' in which I made my first bow before a Glasgow audience. That audience I remember with peculiar satisfaction-the knots of regular play-goers, that used to club together in the two corners of the pit, and with their murmurs of approval every now and then encouraged the young actor with the belief that they gave their thoughts to what was going on before them, were calculated to give confidence to his attempts, and made him feel that what he did was examined and scrutinised by a deliberate judgment.

In the course of this summer season I repeated the various characters of my list, adding to them Captain Plume in Farquhar's 'Recruiting Officer,' a part I entered into with peculiar zest; Tangent in Morton's Way to get Married;' Lovemore in 'The Way to keep Him;' Dovicourt in Mrs. Cowley's 'Belle's Stratagem ;' Puff in Sheridan's 'Critic;' Young Marlow in 'She Stoops to Conquer;' and Mark Antony in Julius Cæsar.' In this splendid theatre, which was the largest out of the metropolis, I derived benefit from the necessity I was under of more careful study and practice, and the improvement I made was perceptible to me.

On one occasion I had to task my powers of memory. The new play by Morton, called ‘Education,' had been commenced with the usual parade of a novelty; and the part of Count Villars, a French refugee, acted by Charles Young in London, had been cast to one of the best of my father's company, an actor of some talent of the name of Grant. He had read his part at every rehearsal, and held it in his hand on the morning of the play; but before the rehearsal ended, he disappeared, and sent word to the theatre that he was too ill to act that night. The dismay was great, and there was much perplexity as to the measures to be adopted. I was sent for by my father to decide on the change to be made; but as this in theatres is regarded as the last resource and always prejudicial, I asked for the book and determined, if I could not perfect myself in the words of the part, to read it, rather than allow the play to be changed. It was two o'clock in the day. I ran through the scenes in rehearsal, and, going home, shut myself up to work at my task. An explanation was given to the audience of the reason of the change, and I had the satisfaction of getting through my undertaking without missing one single word in the acting of the part. At a very short notice, not to stop the production of the romance of Aladdin,' I undertook in it the part of the magician, previously cast to Grant, and, making something of a character of it, added to the effect of the piece.

In the course of the season an engagement was made with Sinclair, and Mrs. Bishop, who was accompanied by her husband, the eminent composer, afterwards Sir Henry Bishop. Sinclair had made a successful début in London, and gained some popularity in the song of "Pray, Goody, please to moderate the rancour of your tongue," in the burletta of Midas,' which he was obliged nightly to sing three times at the call of the audience. He was rather a