actor. He referred always to what he had seen, and cited the manner in which past celebrities would deliver particular passages. Among dramatic poets his preference ran rather to Otway, Rowe, &c., than to Shakespeare, and in after life I had in consequence the difficult task of unlearning much that was impressed on me in my boyish days. Among players his models of excellence in their particular walks were Macklin and Henderson, the theatrical Titans to whose remote grandeur he looked back with confident veneration. He held in high esteem Kemble, and even Pope and Holman, with whom he was contemporary; but Macklin and Henderson, who had been the admiration of his early youth, held the foremost rank in his estimation. He had acted the part of Horatio in the Dublin Theatre three times in one week with three different Hamlets-Holman, Kemble, and Henderson-and with all the personal advantages of the two former, he regarded Henderson as immeasurably their superior. A criticism in one of the papers of the day distinguished the three: Holman as Hamlet; Kemble, Prince Hamlet; and Henderson, Hamlet Prince of Denmark. His career was short, but from the testimony of those who witnessed his performances, he must have been a worthy successor of Garrick, and indisputably pre-eminent in the characters of Hamlet, Iago, Falstaff, Shylock, Benedict, &c.

Macklin, whose personation of Shylock to its true reading had elicited the impromptu of Pope, "This is the Jew that Shakespeare drew," was my father's theatrical oracle. His portrait hung over the fireplace of our little dining-room with the inscription, "Charles Macklin, aged 98." In some of his visits to Dublin he had instructed my father in the part of Egerton in his comedy of the 'Man of the World;' and on the occasion of his last benefit there he sent for his pupil from Waterford (where my father was playing) to act Egerton.

It was said of him that at nineteen he could not read. It is however certain that he was servant, similar to what at Oxford is called a "scout," at Trinity College, Dublin. The custom was for these servants to wait in the courts of the college in attendance on the calls of the students. To every shout of "Boy!" the scout, first in turn, replied, "What number?" and on its announcement went up to the room denoted, for his

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orders. After Macklin by his persevering industry had gained a name as author and actor in one of his engagements at the Dublin Theatre, some unruly young men caused a disturbance, when Macklin in very proper terms rebuked them for their indecent behaviour. The audience applauded, but one of the rioters, thinking to put him down by reference to his early low condition, with contemptuous bitterness shouted out "Boy!" Poor Macklin for a moment lost his presence of mind, but recollecting himself, modestly stepped forward, and with manly complacency responded, "What number?" It is unnecessary to add that the plaudits of the house fully avenged him on the brutality of his insulters.

His manner was generally harsh, as indeed was his countenance. So much so that on some one speaking to Quin of the "strong lines" of Macklin's face, he cut short his remarks with, "The lines of his face, sir? You mean the cordage." My father has described to me his mode of speaking to the players at rehearsal. There was good advice, though conveyed in his gruff voice and imperious tone. "Look at me, sir, look at me! Keep your eye fixed on me when I am speaking to you! Attention is always fixed; if you take your eye from me you rob the audience of my effects, and you rob me of their applause!"-a precept I never forgot, and to which I have been much indebted.

After he had left the stage, which the utter loss of memory compelled him to do, my father paid him a visit in London, and his account of it gave curious evidence of an inveterate prejudice surviving the decay of physical and intellectual power. The old man, with lack-lustre eye, was sitting in his arm-chair unconscious of any one being present, till Mrs. Macklin addressed him. "My dear, here is Mr. Macready come to see you." "Who?" said Macklin. "Mr. Macready, my dear." "Ha! who is he?" "Mr. Macready, you know, who went to Dublin to act for your benefit." "Ha! my benefit? what was it? what did he act?" "I acted Egerton, sir," said my father, "in your own play." "Ha! my play? what was it ?" "The Man of the World,' sir." "Ha, 'Man of the World!' Devilish good title! Who wrote it?" "You did, sir." "Did I? Well! What was it about ?" "Why, sir, there was a Scotchman ""Ah d--n them!" My father finding it

useless to prolong this last interview with his old preceptor,

took his leave.

The weeks between Christmas and Midsummer dragged their slow length along, and a miserable period it was. My poor father, in frequent apprehension of arrest, was from time to time obliged to absent himself and to study modes of concealment whilst taking measures (at that time necessary, from the state of the law) to make himself a dealer in goods, in order to pass through the Court of Bankruptcy. By the kind aid of friends he was enabled eventually to accomplish this; in the meanwhile his release from the Manchester Theatre was obtained by the sacrifice of all the valuable property he had placed in it, and an additional £1000 paid by his securities, my grandfather and uncle.

Before the close of the theatre Mr. John Fawcett, an excellent comic actor, a man very much respected, and an old friend of my father, came down to fufil engagements with him at the Manchester and Newcastle Theatres. During his performances at Manchester he was our guest, and in discoursing on the subject of my adoption of the player's profession, he most kindly urged the advisability of my seeing the first actors of the day, of my learning to fence from the best masters; and very kindly gave me an invitation to spend some weeks at his house in London for this purpose. At the close of his Manchester engagement I travelled with him to Newcastle-on-Tyne, where he acted during the raceweek, and where I was commissioned by my father to overlook the course of affairs during a short summer season, in fact to be the deputed manager. It was here I received the following letter from my relative and friend, William Birch:

"DEAR SIR,

"To W. C. MACREADY, ESQ., Newcastle-on-Tyne.

Rugby, August 6th, 1809. "Having seen in the papers your father's address to the Manchester audience on his relinquishing that theatre, I cannot refrain from writing to express my sincere concern, and to add that any act of friendship as far as lies in my power shall gladly be executed. In the first place, I beg you to accept this letter as a receipt in full for my demands upon you, and for all the bills* which I sent in on yours and your brother's account; and I am glad it is

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at all in my power to relieve Mr. Macready from that burden, I wish also to know whether I or any of my brothers could be of service to your younger brother in any mode, or to your sisters. Whatever your father may point out I will endeavour to the utmost of my power to accomplish. Your friend Jeston called here last week, and surprised me with the account of your being manager of a theatre, for which your age seemed not yet sufficient; but your desire to assist your father, which I find from Jeston was the reason of your adopting your present profession, gives you power, which I ardently hope will bring you the rewards of success, and I esteem your character highly for exerting yourself in one of the first of all virtues, filial affection. I beg you will communicate to your father, with my kindest regards, my wish to be in some degree serviceable to him and to his family, and if I knew where to direct to him, I would address him; and shall be most happy to hear from him, explaining his views with respect to you and the rest of the family. My wife unites with me in sincere regards. William has sailed again to India. Mary is tolerably well.

"Believe me, dear Sir,

"Yours very truly,

"WM. BIRCH."

I remained here about two months, not deriving much advantage, though some experience, from the society of some of the players, and falling desperately in love with one of the actresses -no improbable consequence of the unguarded situation of a boy of sixteen. The theatre being closed, I went on a most tearful journey ("I had left my dear Phillis behind ") to meet, after the sale of our house-furniture, my father at Birmingham, where the greatest sympathy was shown with his misfortunes. The manager of the theatre there took advantage of the public feeling, and made an engagement with him for a few nights' performances, which were extremely well attended; but the night of his benefit was one that returned a receipt never before known there. Not only was every place occupied, but very many sent presents, and from one club a purse was made by every member paying a guinea for his ticket. This happy circumstance placing him in present funds, he left Birmingham, accompanied by me, on his route to Leicester. Here we parted for a time, he remaining to conduct the affairs of the theatre, and I taking the coach to London to pay my visit to my father's friend, Mr. Fawcett. My reception was most friendly, though the recollection has not escaped me of the awkwardness and loneliness I felt for the first time among strangers, who in their frank hospitality soon ceased to be so.

I reached London, September 1809, the day after the opening

of the New Covent Garden Theatre, which, to the wonder of the time, had been built in a year from the date of the destruction of the old one. My father's command that, from the danger of becoming an imitator, I should not see John Kemble act, proved unnecessary; for the O.P. riots, which nightly drowned the voices of the players, prevented his and Mrs. Siddons' appearance. A little disturbance had been anti

cipated on account of the prices being raised from six shillings to seven shillings in the boxes, and from three shillings to four shillings in the pit; but the proprietors of the theatre too confidently relied on the beauty and splendour of the edifice reconciling the public to the advance. The spirit of resistance was, however, persevering and indomitable. After three or four weeks the tumult became so far lulled that the three first acts of each performance were listened to by the scanty audiences. that attended; but at half-price the well organised opposition rushing in, began the O.P. dance on the benches of the pit, and not one syllable more was to be heard. The scenes presented by the acting audience, and the "hubbub wild" that deafened the ear, baffle description. Some of the leading pugilists of the day were franked into the boxes, to champion the cause of the proprietors where the mêlée might be thickest. Horns, catcalls, and all imaginable discordant sounds were mingled in the vast uproar. I was a frequent visitor, my name being put upon the free-list, and had the satisfaction of seeing Cooke, Young, C. Kemble, Murden, Fawcett, Emery, Liston, and other firstrate performers, for three acts each night, but soon grew tired of the eternal din, that became one same barbarian yell. This continued for some months, until the menaced ruin of the establishment induced the proprietors to come to an agreement with the self-installed representatives of the public, and a pacification was ratified on terms of mutual concession. Seven shillings for the boxes were conceded by the insurgents, and three-and-sixpence was yielded to them as the price of admission to the pit. The Drury Lane Company meanwhile, who had been burned out of their theatre, profited largely by this interruption of the Covent Garden performances, having opened the Lyceum, which was nightly filled by those who wished to see plays acted. I was a frequent auditor, my business being to see as much good acting as I could. Elliston had taken the