Liston in Tragedy.

Liston as "Paul Pry."

Play-goers of the present century narrate the early seriousness of Liston, the comedian, and his subsequent turn for tragedy; which may have suggested the apocryphal biography of the actor stated to be by Charles Lamb,[41]whence the following is abridged:—

Liston was lineally descended from Johan de L'Estonne,who came over with the Norman William, and had lands awarded him at Lupton Magna, in Kent. The more immediate ancestors of Mr. Liston were Puritans, and his father, Habakkuk, was an Anabaptist minister. At the age of nine, young Liston was placed under the tuition of the Rev. Mr. Goodenough, whose decease was attended with these awful circumstances. It seems that the old gentleman and his pupil had been walking out together, in a fine sunset, to the distance of three-quarters of a mile west of Lupton, when a sudden curiosity took Mr. Goodenough to look down upon a chasm, where a mining shaft had been lately sunk, but soon after abandoned. The old clergyman, leaning over, either with incaution or sudden giddiness (probably a mixture of both), instantly lost his footing, and, to use Mr. Liston's phrase, disappeared, and was doubtless broken into a thousand pieces. The sound of his head &c., dashing successively upon the projecting masses of the chasm had such an effect upon the youth Liston, that a serious sickness ensued, and even for many years after his recovery, he was not once seen so much as to smile.

The joint death of both his parents, which happened not many months after this disastrous accident, and were probably (one or both of them) accelerated by it, threw our youth upon the protection of his maternal great-aunt, Mrs. Sittingbourn, whom he loved almost to reverence. To the influence of her early counsels and manners he always attributed the firmness with which, in maturer years, thrown upon a way of life commonly not the best adapted to gravity and self-retirement, he was able to maintain a serious character, untinctured with the levities incident to his profession. Ann Sittingbourn (her portrait was painted by Hudson) was stately, stiff, and tall, with a cast of features strikingly resembling those of Liston. Her estate in Kent was spacious and well-wooded; and here, in the venerable solitudes of Charnwood, amid thick shades of the oak and beech (the last his favourite tree), Liston cultivated those contemplativehabits which never entirely deserted him in after-years. Here he was commonly in summer months to be met, book in hand—not a play book—meditating. Boyle'sReflectionswas at one time his darling volume; this, in its turn, was superseded by Young'sNight Thoughts, which continued its hold upon him throughout life. He carried it always about him; and it was no uncommon thing for him to be seen, in the refreshing intervals of his occupation, leaning against a side-scene, in a sort of Herbert-of-Cherbury posture, turning over a pocket edition of his favourite author.

The premature death of Mrs. Sittingbourn, occasioned by incautiously burning a pot of charcoal in her sleeping-chamber, left Liston, in his nineteenth year, nearly without resources. That the stage at all should have presented itself as an eligible scope for his talents, and in particular, that he should have chosen a line so foreign to what appears to have been his turn of mind, admits of explanation.

At Charnwood, then, we behold him thoughtful, grave, ascetic. From his cradle averse to flesh-meats and strong drink; abstemious even beyond the genius of the place; and almost in spite of the remonstrances of his great-aunt, who, though strict, was not rigid, water was his habitual drink, and his food little beyond the mast and beech-nuts of his favourite groves. It is a medical fact, that this kind of diet, however favourable to the contemplative powers of the primitive hermits, &c., is but ill adapted to the less robust minds and bodies of a later generation. Hypochondria almost constantly ensues, and young Liston was subject to sights and had visions. Those arid beech-nuts, distilled by a complexion naturally adust, mounted into a brain, already prepared to kindle by long seclusion and the fervour of strict Calvinistic notions. In the glooms of Charnwood he was assailed by illusions, similar in kind to those which are related of the famous Anthony of Padua. Wild antic faces would ever and anon protrude themselves upon hissensorium.Whether he shut his eyes or kept them open, the same illusion operated. The darker and more profound were his cogitations, the droller and more whimsical became the apparitions. They buzzed about him, thick as flies, flapping at him, floating at him, hooting in his ear; yet with such comic appendages, that what at first was his bane, became at length his solace; and he desired no better society than that of his merry phantasmata. We shall presently find in what way this remarkable phenomenon influenced his future destiny.

On the death of Mrs. Sittingbourn, Liston was received into the family of Mr. Willoughby, an eminent Turkey merchant, in Birchin Lane. He was treated more like a son than a clerk, though he was nominally but the latter. Different avocations, change of scene, with alternation of business and recreation, appear to have weaned him in a short time from the hypochondriacal affections which had beset him at Charnwood. Within the next three years we find him making more than one voyage to the Levant, as chief factor for Mr. Willoughby at the Porte: he used to relate pleasant passages of his having been taken up on a suspicion of a design of penetrating the seraglio, &c.; but some of these are whimsical, and others of a romantic nature.

We will now bring him over the seas again, and suppose him in the counting-house in Birchin Lane, his factorage satisfactory, and all going on so smoothly that we may expect to find Mr. Liston at last an opulent merchant upon 'Change. But see the turns of destiny. Upon a summer's excursion into Norfolk, in the year 1801, the accidental sight of pretty Sally Parker, as she was then called (then in the Norwich company), diverted his inclinations at once from commerce, and he became stage-struck. Happily for the lovers of mirth was it that he took this turn. Shortly after, he made hisdébuton the Norwich boards, in his twenty-second year. Having a natural bent to tragedy, he chose the part of Pyrrhus in theDistressed Mother, to SallyParker's Hermione. We find him afterwards as George Barnwell, Altamont, Chamont, &c.; but, as if nature had destined him to the sock, an unavoidable infirmity absolutely incapacitated him for tragedy. His person at this latter period was graceful and even commanding, his countenance set to gravity; he had the power of arresting the attention of an audience at first sight almost beyond any other tragic actor. But he could not hold it. To understand this obstacle, we must go back a few years to those appalling reveries at Charnwood. Those illusions, which had vanished before the dissipation of a less recluse life and more free society, now in his solitary tragic studies, and amid the intense call upon feeling incident to tragic acting, came back upon him with tenfold vividness. In the midst of some most pathetic passages—the parting of Jaffier with his dying friend, for instance—he would suddenly be surprised with a fit of violent horse-laughter. While the spectators were all sobbing before him with emotion, suddenly one of those grotesque faces would peep out upon him, and he could not resist the impulse. A timely excuse once or twice served his purpose, but no audience could be expected to bear repeatedly this violation of the continuity of feeling. He describes them (the illusions) as so many demons haunting him, and paralyzing every effort: it is said that he could not recite the famous soliloquy inHamlet, even in private, without immoderate fits of laughter. However, what he had not force of reason sufficient to overcome, he had good sense enough to turn into emolument, and determined to make a commodity of his distemper. He prudently exchanged the buskin for the sock, and the illusions instantly ceased, or, if they occurred for a short season, by this very co-operation added a zest to his comic vein; some of his most catching faces being (as he expressed it), little more than transcripts and copies of those extraordinary phantasmata.

We have now drawn Liston to the period when he wasabout to make his first appearance in the metropolis, as it is narrated in a clever paper in theLondon MagazineJanuary, 1824. This is not referred to in the sketch of Liston's career, written a few days after his death, March 22nd, 1846, by his son-in-law, George Herbert Rodwell, the musical composer, and published in theIllustrated London News, March 28th. There we are told that Liston was born in 1776; that his father lived in Norris Street, Haymarket, and that young John was educated at Dr. Barrow's Soho School, and subsequently became second master in Archbishop Tenison's school. Rodwell relates that early in his theatrical life, Liston went, for cheapness, by sea to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and was beaten about by adverse winds for a fortnight; provisions ran so short that Liston was reduced to his last inch of dry cheese. At Newcastle, through the above delay, he was roughly received by Stephen Kemble, the manager, sitting in awful state in the centre of the stage, directing a rehearsal. Kemble eyed him several times before he spoke; at last he growled out, "Well, young man, you are come." Mr. Liston bowed. "Then now you may go back again! You have broken your engagement by being too late."—"It's very easy tosaygo back," replied Liston, with one of his peculiar looks, "but here I am, and here I must stay, for I have not a farthing left in the world." Kemble relented, and Liston remained at Newcastle until he came to London for good.

The firstcomicpart he performed was Diggory, inShe Stoops to Conquer. He took a great fancy to the character, and kept secret his intentions as to the manner he meant to play it in, and the style of dress he should wear. When he came on, so original was his whole conception of the thing, that not an actor on the stage could speak for laughing. When he came off, Mr. Kemble said:—"Young man, it strikes me you have mistaken yourforte: there's something comic about you."—"I've not mistaken myforte," replied Liston, "but you never before allowed me to try; I don'tthink myself I was made for the heavy Barons!" He first appeared in London, as Sheepface, in theVillage Lawyer, June 10th, 1805. "That Mr. Liston did really imagine he could be a tragic actor," says Rodwell, "is partly borne out by his actually having attempted Octavian, in theMountaineers, May 17th, 1809."

When Liston first appeared on the stage is not accurately known. The following early note from a manager of the time is undated:—"Sir, your not favouring Me with an answrRelative to the I-dea of the Cast, I, at random (tho' very ill), Scratch'd Out, Makes it Necessary for Me to have your Opinion, in Order to Prevent Aney Mistake.—I am, Sir, with every Good Wish, yours, &c.,"

"Tate Wilkinson."

When Liston first came to London, he generally wore a pea-green coat, and was everywhere accompanied by an ugly little pug-dog. This pug-dog, like his master, soon made himself a favourite, go where he would, and seemed exceedingly proud that he could make almost as many laugh as could his master. The pug-dog acted as Mr. Liston'savant-courier, always trotting on before, to announce his friend and master. The frequenters of the Orange Coffee-house, Cockspur Street, where Liston resided, used to say, laughing, "Oh, Liston will be here in a moment, for here is his beautiful pug."

Latterly he went little into society. His attention to his religious duties was always marked by devout sincerity; his knowledge of the Scriptures was very extensive.

Edmund Kean as Richard the Third.

Many years ago, there appeared in theNew Monthly Magazinethe following account of Kean's early days:—"I saw young Edmund Carey (Kean) first in April, 1796. I am particularly positive both to month and year, because I met Mrs. Carey and the boys (Darnleywas the other reputed son by another father; this actor was for manyyears at Astley's Amphitheatre, and is now living) on the morning of the day on which Ireland's pretended Shakesperian drama was performed. Edmund was always little, slight, but not young-looking; I should say he was thenten years of age! The following September he played Tom Thumb at Bartholomew Fair at a public-house; his mother played Queen Dollalolla; he had a good voice, and was a pretty boy, but unquestionably more like aJewthan a Christianchild. Old Richardson, the showman, engaged him then and subsequently, and is living to vouch for the fact, as far as eyesight goes, that in 1796, Kean looked more like a child oftenortwelvethan ofsixyears. This of course puts an end to thepossibilityof his having been born in the year 1790. I cannot vouch as to the truth of the oft-repeated story of the dance of devils inMacbeth, and his rejoinder to John Kemble, who found fault with him, that 'he (Kean) had never appeared in tragedy before;' but if it did occur, it must have been in 1794; for Garrick's Drury was pulled down to be rebuilt in 1791, and the new theatre commenced dramatic performances withMacbeth. Many novelties of arrangement were attempted, the dance in question among the rest. Charles Kemble made his first appearance as Malcolm that very night, and the audience laughed very heartily when he exclaimed, 'Oh! by whom?' on hearing the account of his father's murder. Charles Kemble was then said to be eighteen; I think he was more. If Kean was one of the dancing devils, he could have been onlythree years and five months old; that is, taking his own account of being born in November, 1790.

"Kean broke his leg when a boy, riding an act of horsemanship at Bartholomew Fair; and he was often, towards the years 1802, 3, 4, and 5, about different parts of the country, spouting, riding, or rope-dancing. The last time I saw him, previous to his 'great hit,' was at Sadler's Wells; he was in front to see Belzoni (afterwards known as the great traveller), who gave a pantomimic performance (suchas Ducrow since attempted) illustrative of the passions of Lebrun; Belzoni was superior to anything I ever beheld, and I am not solitary in that opinion. Ella, the harlequin, and Belzoni were together at the old Royalty Theatre; and Belzoni's brother was also there. The great and enterprising traveller was retained as aposturerat 2l.per week!"

About 1800, at the Rolls Rooms, Chancery Lane, young Kean, then described as "the infant prodigy, Master Carey," gave readings, and read the whole of Shakspeare'sMerchant of Venice. All who knew Kean intimately as a boy, declared that he was then a splendid actor, and that many of his effects, at the age of fourteen, were quite as startling as any of his more mature performances. Byron, who was then much in theatrical society, says, "Kean began by acting Richard the Third, when quite a boy, and gave all the promise of what he afterwards became."

Mr. Bunn, when Lessee of Drury Lane Theatre, experienced the following odd circumstance, which he describes, as curious as any that has been or can be recited:—On reaching the theatre on Tuesday evening, March 12th, 1839, he found on his desk a very small brown paper parcel, addressed "To A. Bunn, Esq.," looking very dirty, and very suspicious, and weighing wherewithal sufficiently heavy as to increase such suspicion. The town had at that moment been partly astonished and partly amused by "Madame Vestris's Infernal Machine," and the narrow escape the person had who first opened it. Having no desire for any similar experiment, Mr. Bunn hesitated in unfolding this mysterious packet, more particularly when his messenger described the dingy-looking fellow that left it at the stage-door, with an injunction that it was "to be delivered into Mr. Bunn's own hands." However, overcoming any apprehensions of gunpowder, and setting whatever of the combustibleit might contain to the amount of a mere squib, he sent for his under-treasurer, and in his presence opened some half-dozen pieces of paper, each tightly bound by some half-dozen pieces of string, and inside the last he found:—

"I began to think," says Bunn, "that this was the contribution of some eccentric supporter of Drury Lane, anxious to reward its manager's exertions, yet, with a rooted modesty, anxious to conceal his name; but such an occurrence was so totally without precedent, that I gave up that conjecture in utter hopelessness. Then I bethought me of more than one performer who had literally robbed me to such an extent; and pondered over the probability of this being a return thereof, arising out of a touch of conscience; but as what little consciences most of themhavegot are very seldom touched, I abandoned that surmise with even a greater degree of despair than I first of all entertained it.Bywhom was it sent, orforwhom was it sent, I am totally unable to tell; it was added to the general receipt of the exchequer, for the benefit of all those having any claim on it, though the chances are it was forwarded for my own individual advantage. The donor is hereby thanked, be he or she whoever he or she may; and I can only say, if many more had made their appearance, the disasters of Drury Lane Theatre would have been obviated or provided against. Now, is not a manager's life an odd life, and are not the people he has to deal with a very odd set of people? and if he should do odd things, can no excuse be found for him by your pickers and stealers, and evil speakers, and liars,and slanderers? I can only say, if there is none, there should be."

Among the droll stories told by Mr. Bunn, in his caustic book,The Stage, is this:—In 1824, when the question of erecting a monument to Shakespeare, in his native town, was agitated by Mr. Mathews and Mr. Bunn, the King (George IV.) took a lively interest in the matter, and, considering that the leading people of both the patent theatres should be consulted, directed Sir Charles Long, Sir George Beaumont, and Sir Francis Freeling to ascertain Mr. Elliston's sentiments on the subject. As soon as these distinguished individuals (who had come direct from, and were going direct back to the Palace) had delivered themselves of their mission, Elliston replied, "Very well, gentlemen, leave the papers with me, andI will talk over the business withhis Majesty."

When the Rev. Mr. Venables was at St. Petersburg, in 1834, he received the following narrative of a strange and startling incident at a masquerade in the above capital:—At Christmas, 1834, a ball was given at a house at St. Petersburg, and candles were placed in the windows of the house, as a well-understood signal that masks might enter without special invitation. Several masks arrived in the course of the evening, stayed but a short time, as is usual, and departed.

At length a party entered dressed as Chinese, and bearing on a palanquin a person whom they called their chief, saying that it was his fête-day. They set him down very respectfully in the middle of the room, and commenced dancing what they called their national dance around him. When this was concluded, they separated and mingled with the general company, speaking French fluently (the universal language at a Russian masquerade), and making themselvesextremely agreeable. After awhile they began gradually to disappear unnoticed, slipping out of the room one or two at a time. At last they were all gone, but their chief still remained sitting motionless in dignified silence in his palanquin in the middle of the room. The ball began to thin, and the attention of those who remained was wholly drawn to the silent figure of the Chinese mask.

The master of the house at length went up to him, and told him that his companions were all gone; politely begging him at the same time to take off his mask, that he and his guests might know to whom they were indebted for all the pleasure which the exhibition had afforded them. The Chinaman, however, gave no reply by word or sign, and a feeling of uneasy curiosity gradually drew around him by the guests who remained in the ball-room. He still took no notice of all that was passing around him, and the master of the house at length, with his own hand, took off the mask, and discovered to the horrified by-standers the face of a corpse.

The police were immediately sent for, and on a surgical examination of the body, it appeared to be that of a man who had been strangled a few hours before. Nothing could be discovered, either at the time or afterwards, which could lead to the identifying of the dead man, or to the discovery of the actors in this extraordinary scene, and no clue has ever been obtained. It was found on inquiry that they arrived at the house where they deposited the dead body in a handsome equipage with masked servants.

This horrible story was stated to Mr. Venables, by General Bontourlin, to be a well-known and undoubted fact. The body was never identified, but was supposed to be that of the victim of a murder arising out of a gambling transaction. The acuteness of the police would seem to have been at fault; or, more probably, the proper use of the proper amount of roubles suppressed inconvenient discoveries.

T. P. Cooke in "Black-Eyed Susan."

During the Christmas of 1810 or 1811, Mr. T. P. Cooke was a member of the Theatre Royal, Dublin, which could boast of a company including the names of Miss O'Neil, afterwards Lady Beecher, then in her teens; Miss Walstein,Messrs. Conway, Farren, and others of histrionic fame. Sir Walter Scott'sLady of the Lakehad been published on the 10th of May, 1810, and the critics of the day had pronounced it to be "the most interesting, romantic, picturesque, and graceful" of the author's poems. Managers were anxious to produce a version of theLady of the Lakeupon the stage, and no one was more prompt in bringing one forward than the lessee of the Theatre Royal, Dublin. The cast was powerful. Misses O'Neil and Walstein were the representatives of the chieftain's daughter, Ellen Douglas, and the crazed and captive lowland maid, Blanche of Devon; Malcolm Græme was well acted; Conway looked the Knight of Snowdon, James Fitzjames, to the life; and T. P. Cooke appeared to the greatest advantage as Roderick Vick Alpine Roderick Dhu. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the scenery; and the drama created a furore among the warm-hearted Emeralders. As the manager acted upon the principle of not "keeping more cats than could kill mice," the services of some of his dramatic performers were pressed into afterpieces; and, as the pantomime ofHarlequin and Mother Goosehad made a great sensation in London, it was brought out in the capital of the sister isle—T. P. Cooke doffing his picturesque Highland costume for that of Squire Bugle, afterwards Clown. No one that had seen the noble bearing of Vick Alpine in the mountain pass, exclaiming:—

"These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;And, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu,"

would have recognized the same being when equipped in the loose hunting-dress of the Squire or the grotesque garb of the Clown. The pantomime went off well, and, although T. P. Cooke wanted the fun of Grimaldi, he, by the aid of youth and great agility, bustled through the part most satisfactorily.

At the termination of the performance, which had been honoured by the presence of the Lord-Lieutenant, Charles,fourth Duke of Richmond, the Duchess, and her then young and numerous family, the Duke was persuaded by two of his sons, Lords William and Frederick—then Westminster boys—to go behind the scenes to look at the wonderful goose. The manager, wax-candles in hand, after the most approved manner of receiving illustrious guests, conducted the Duke, his two sons, and a young daughter to the stage and green-room, and the pantomimic tricks were duly displayed by the attentive property-man, who explained to the young noblemen the mysteries of the world behind the curtain: how the transformation-scene was managed; how the sprites descended and ascended through the "traps;" how the nimble Harlequin, the active Clown, and the "slippered Pantaloon" were caught in blankets after their wonderful leaps through clock-dials, shop-windows, picture-frames, and looking-glasses; how the smallest of boys was introduced into a sham goose's skin; how a few daubs of paint, some gold and silver leaf, and green tinsel, produced the splendid fairy scene; how some spangles sewn on a coarse parti-coloured suit made Harlequin appear glittering like gold; how a white calico garb, with a few quaint red and blue devices, some chalk and red paint, could change the "human face divine" to that of a mask. After inspecting everything worthy of note behind the scenes, the Duke and his family proceeded to their carriage, when, at the entrance to the green-room, they met the Clown, who had remained behind to arrange some stage-business with the Harlequin. "I forget his name," said the Duke, who, although he patronized the drama, did not take especial interest in the performance. "Cooke," responded the manager. "I congratulate you, Mr. Cooke," said his Grace. "I've seen Grimaldi in the part, and am delighted with your performance." Cooke bowed his acknowledgments. "Pray," continued the Lord-Lieutenant, "is Mr. T. P. Cooke, who looked so well and acted Roderick Vick Alpine with such spirit, any relation of yours?"—"A very near one," respondedthe actor. "He stands before you; for, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu!" The Duke smiled, shook hands with him, declaring he had never witnessed such a wonderful metamorphose.

Miss Fanny Kemble, in her clever record of her experiences in the United States, relates the following, which occurred in one of her provincial engagements. The play wasRomeo and Juliet. "My Romeo," says Miss Kemble, "had gotten on a pair of trunk-breeches, which looked as if he had borrowed them of some worthy Dutchman a hundred years ago. Had he worn them in New York, I could have understood it as a compliment to the ancestry of that good city; but here to adopt such a costume inRomeowas perfectly unaccountable. They were of a most unhappy choice of colour, too—dull, heavy-looking blue cloth, and offensive crimson satin, all bepuckered, and beplaited, and bepuffed, till the young man looked like a magical figure growing out of a monstrous, strange-coloured melon, beneath which descended his unfortunate legs, thrust into a pair of red slippers, for all the world like Grimaldi's legs en costume forClown. The play went off pretty smoothly, except that they broke one man's collar-bone and nearly dislocated a woman's shoulder, by flinging the scenery about. My bed was not made in time, and when the scene drew, half-a-dozen carpenters, in patched trousers and tattered shirt-sleeves, were discovered smoothing down my pillows and adjusting my draperies. The last scene is too good not to be given verbatim:—

"Romeo.Rise, rise, my Juliet,And from this cave of death, this house of horror,Quick let me snatch thee to thy Romeo's arms."

Here he pounced upon me, plucked me up in his armslike an uncomfortable bundle, and staggered down the stage with me.

"Juliet(aside). Oh! you've got me up horribly! That'll never do. Do let me down, pray let me down.Romeo.There, breathe a vital spirit on thy lips,And call thee back, my soul, to life and love.Juliet(aside). Pray put me down; you'll certainly throw me down, if you don't set me on the ground directly."

"Juliet(aside). Oh! you've got me up horribly! That'll never do. Do let me down, pray let me down.

Romeo.There, breathe a vital spirit on thy lips,And call thee back, my soul, to life and love.

Juliet(aside). Pray put me down; you'll certainly throw me down, if you don't set me on the ground directly."

In the midst of "Cruel, cursed fate," his dagger fell out of his dress; I, embracing him tenderly, crammed it back again, because I knew I should want it again in the end.

"Romeo.Tear not our heart-strings thus!They crack! they break! Juliet! Juliet![Dies.]Juliet(toCorpse). Am I smothering you?Corpse(toJuliet). Not at all. Could you be so kind, do you think, as to put my wig on again for me? It has fallen off.Juliet(toCorpse). I'm afraid I can't; but I'll throw my muslin veil over it. You've broken the phial, haven't you?[Corpsenodded.]Juliet(toCorpse). Where's your dagger?Corpse(toJuliet). 'Pon my soul, I don't know."

"Romeo.Tear not our heart-strings thus!They crack! they break! Juliet! Juliet!

[Dies.]

Juliet(toCorpse). Am I smothering you?

Corpse(toJuliet). Not at all. Could you be so kind, do you think, as to put my wig on again for me? It has fallen off.

Juliet(toCorpse). I'm afraid I can't; but I'll throw my muslin veil over it. You've broken the phial, haven't you?

[Corpsenodded.]

Juliet(toCorpse). Where's your dagger?

Corpse(toJuliet). 'Pon my soul, I don't know."

At the thirty-fourth Anniversary of the Shakspeare Club, at Stratford-on-Avon, on April 23rd, 1858, the President, Mr. Buckstone, of the Haymarket Theatre, related, with much humour, the following interesting account of the above Shakspearian Club:—

"On emerging from boyhood, and while yet a young actor, I was one of the first members of a Shakspearian club, calledThe Mulberries. It was not then a very prominent one, as its meetings were held at a certain house of entertainment in Vinegar Yard, Drury Lane. The club assembled there once a week; they dined together on Shakespeare's birthday; and in the mulberry season there was another dinner and a mulberry feast, at which thechairman sat enthroned under a canopy of mulberry branches, with the fruit on them; Shakspearian songs were sung; members read original papers or poems relating only to Shakspeare; and as many artists belonged to this club, they exhibited sketches of some event connected with our poet's life; and some had the honour of submitting a paper to be read, called 'Shakespeare's Drinking-bout,' an imaginary story, illustrating the traditionary event, when the chivalry of Stratford went forth to carouse with

"Piping Pebworth, dancing Marston,Haunted Hilborough, hungry Grafton,Dudging Exhall, papist Wicksford,Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bidford."

All these papers and pictures were collected together in a book, calledMulberry Leaves; and you will believe me, that in spite of our lowly place of meeting, the club was not intellectually insignificant, when amongst its members, then in their youth, were Douglas Jerrold, Laman Blanchard, the Landseers (Charles and Thomas), Frank Stone, Cattermole, Robert Keeley, Kenny Meadows, and subsequently, though at another and more important place of meeting, Macready, Talfourd (the judge), Charles Dickens, John Forster, and many other celebrities. You will very naturally wish to know what became of this club. Death thinned the number of its members; important pursuits in life took some one way and some another; and, after twenty years of much enjoyment, the club ceased to exist, and theMulberry Leavesdisappeared, no one ever knew whither.

From Mr. Blanchard Jerrold's Life of his Father we learn that William Elton, the Shakspearian actor, was a member of the Mulberries, as were also William Godwin, and Edward Chatfield the artist. The contributions fell into Mr. Elton's hands, and are now in the possession of his family. Theleaveswere to have been published; but the club dead, it was nobody's business to see them through the press, and to this hour they remain in manuscript. Of the club itself it issaid: "Respectability killed it. Sumptuous quarters were sought; Shakspeare was to be admired in a most elegant manner—to be edited specially for the club by the author ofThe Book of Etiquette. But the new atmosphere had not the vigour of the old, and so, after a long struggle, all the Mulberries fell from the old tree, and now it is a green memory only to a few old members. Douglas Jerrold always turned fondly to these Shakspearian days, and he loved to sing the old song he wrote for the Mulberries, in that soft, sweet voice which all his friends remember:

"And thus our moral foodDoth Shakspeare leaven still,Enriching all the good.And less'ning all the ill;—Thus, by his bounty, shedLike balm from angel's wing,Though winter scathe our head,Our spirits dance with spring."

This unfortunate person was the youngest child of Colley Cibber, and married a singer named Charke: there seems to have been a touch of insanity, certainly there was no power of self-control, in this poor woman. From her childhood she had been wild, wayward, and rebellious; self-taught, as a boy might be, and with nothing feminine in her character or pursuits. With self-assertion, too, she was weak enough to be won by a knave with a sweet voice, whose cruel treatment drove his intractable wife to the stage, where she failed to profit by her fine opportunities. Mrs. Charke loved to play male characters; and of the many, that of Plume was her favourite. At the Haymarket Theatre, in 1745, she played Captain Macheath, and other masculine parts, before she attempted to pass herself off upon the world, or hide herself from it, as a man.

Dr. Doran, in his amusing book,Their Majesties'Servants, writing of the year 1757, that of Colley Cibber's death says: "While the body of the poet Laureate was being carried to Westminster Abbey, there was up away in a hut in then desolate Clerkenwell, and starving, Colley's only daughter, Charlotte Charke. Seven-and-twenty yearsbefore, she had just come upon the stage, after a stormy girlhood; and she had a mania for appearing in male characters on, and in male attire off, the stage. By some terrible offence she forfeited the recognition of her father, who was otherwise of a benevolent disposition; and friendless, she fought a series of battles with the world, and came off in all more and more damaged. She starved with strollers, failed as a grocer in Long Acre, became bankrupt as a puppet-show proprietor in James Street, Haymarket; re-married, became a widow a second time, was plunged into deeper ruin, thrown into prison for debt, and released only by the subscriptions of the lowest, but not least charitable, sisterhood of Drury Lane. Assuming male attire, she hung about the theatres for casual hire, went on tramp with itinerants, hungered daily, and was weekly cheated, but yet kept up such an appearance that an heiress fell in love with her, who was reduced to despair when Charlotte Charke revealed her story and abandoned the place. Her next post was that of a valet to an Irish Lord; forfeiting which she and her child became sausage-makers, but could not obtain a living; and then Charlotte Charke cried, 'Coming, coming, sir,' as a waiter at the King's Head Tavern, Marylebone. Thence she was drawn by an offer to make her manager of a company of strolling players, with whom she enjoyed more appetite than means to appease it. She endured sharp distress again and again; but was relieved by an uncle, who furnished her with funds, with which she opened a tavern in Drury Lane, where, after a brief career of success, she again became bankrupt. To the regular stage she once more returned, under her brother, Theophilus, at the Haymarket: but the Lord Chamberlain closed the house, and Charlotte Charke took to working the wires of Russell's famous puppets in the Great Room, still existing in Brewer Street. There was a gleam of good fortune for her, but it soon faded away; and then for nine wretched years this clever but most wretched of womenstruggled frantically for bare existence, amongst the most wretched of strollers, with whom she endured unmitigated misery. And yet, Cibber's erring and hapless daughter contrived to reach London, where, in 1755, she published her remarkable autobiography, the details of which make the heart ache, in spite of the small sympathy of the reader for this half-mad creature. On the profits of this book, she was enabled to open, aslandlord, a tavern at Islington; but of course, ruin ensued; and in a hut, amid the cinder-heaps and worse refuse, in the desolate fields, she found a refuge, and even wrote a novel on a pair of bellows in her lap, by way of desk. Here she lived with a squalid hand-maiden, a cat, dog, magpie, and monkey. Humbled, disconsolate, abandoned, she readily accepted from a publisher who visited her 10l.for her manuscript. This was at the close of the year 1755, and I do not meet with her again till 1759, two years after her father's death, when she played Marplot inThe Busy Body, for her own benefit at the Haymarket, with this advertisement: 'As I am entirely dependent on chance for a subsistence, and desirous of getting into business, I humbly hope the town will favour me on the occasion, which, added to the rest of their indulgences, will be ever gratefully acknowledged by their truly obliged and obedient servant, Charlotte Charke.' She died on the 6th of April, 1760."

Charlotte Charke. After Boitard.

She "is said to have once given imitations of her father on the stage; to have presented a pistol at, and robbed him on the highway, and to have smeared his face with a pair of soles out of her own basket."

Captain Gronow relates that Mr. Bradshaw, M.P. for Canterbury, "fell in love" with Maria Tree: hearing that the lady had taken a place in the Birmingham mail, he booked the rest for himself in the name of Tomkins, andresolved to make the most of the opportunity afforded him. Unfortunately, his luggage and Miss Tree went by one mail, while Mr. Bradshaw through a mistake travelled by another. On arriving at Birmingham early in the morning, he left the coach and stepped into the hotel, determined to remain there, and go to the theatre on the following evening. He went to bed and slept late the following day; and on waking he remembered that his trunk with all his money had gone on to Manchester, and that he was without the means of paying his way. Seeing the Bank of Birmingham opposite the hotel, he went over and explained his position to one of the partners, giving his own banker's address in London, and showing letters addressed to him as Mr. Bradshaw. Upon this he was told that with such credentials he might have a loan; and the banker said he would write the necessary letter and cheque, and send the money over to him at the hotel. Mr. Bradshaw, pleased with this kind attention, sat himself down comfortably to breakfast in the coffee-room. According to promise, the cashier made his appearance at the hotel, and asked the waiter for Mr. Bradshaw. "No such gentleman here," was the reply.—"Oh, yes, he came by the London mail."—"No, sir; no one came but Mr. Tomkins, who was booked as inside passenger to Manchester." The cashier was dissatisfied; but the waiter added, "Sir, you can look through the window of the coffee-room door, and see the gentleman yourself." On doing so he beheld the Mr. Tomkins,aliasMr. Bradshaw, and immediately returned to the Bank, telling what he himself had heard and seen. The banker went over to the hotel, had a consultation with the landlord, and it was determined that a watch should be placed upon the suspicious person who had two names and no luggage, and who was booked to Manchester but had stopped at Birmingham. The landlord summoned boots—a little lame fellow of most ludicrous appearance—and pointing to the gentleman in the coffee-room, told him his duty for the day was to follow him wherever he went,and never to lose sight of him; but above all to take care that he did not get away. Boots nodded assent, and immediately mounted guard. Mr. Bradshaw having taken his breakfast and read the papers, looked at his watch and sallied forth to see something of the goodly town of Birmingham. He was much surprised at observing a little odd-looking man surveying him most attentively, and watching his every movement; stopping whenever he stopped, and evidently taking a deep interest in all he did. At last, observing that he was the object of this incessantespionnage, and finding that he had a shilling left in his pocket, he hailed one of the coaches that ran short distances in those days when omnibuses were not. This, however, did not suit little Boots, who went up to him and insisted that he must not leave the town. Mr. Bradshaw's indignation was naturally excessive, and he immediately returned to the hotel, where he found a constable ready to take him before the mayor as an impostor and swindler. He was compelled to appear before his worship and had the mortification of being told that unless he could give some explanation he must be content with a night's lodging in a house of detention. Mr. Bradshaw had no alternative but to send to the fair charmer of his heart to identify him; which she most readily did as soon as rehearsal was over. Explanations were then entered into; but he was forced to give the reason of his being in Birmingham, which of course made a due impression on the lady's heart, and led to that happy result of their interviews—a marriage which resulted in the enjoyment of mutual happiness for many years.

A curious instance of this occurred many years ago, at the termination of the tragedy ofRichard the Third. Mr. Elliston was enacting the part ofRichmond; and having, during the evening, disobeyed the injunction which theKing of Denmark lays down to the Queen, "Gertrude, do not drink," he accosted Mr. Powell, who was personatingLord Stanley(for the safety of whose sonRichmondis naturally anxious),THUS, on his entry, after the issue of the battle:—

Elliston (asRichmond). Your son, George Stanley, is he dead?

Powell (asLord Stanley). He is, my Lord, andsafe in Leicester town!

Elliston (asRichmond). I mean—ah!—is he missing?

Powell (asLord Stanley). He is, my Lord, andsafe in Leicester town!!

And it is but justice to the memory of this punctilious veteran, to say that he would have made the same reply to any question which could, at that particular moment, have been put to him.

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