. Of the infant Liston we find no events recorded before his fourth year, in which a severe attack of the measles bid fair to have robbed the rising generation of a fund of innocent entertainment. He had it of the confluent kind, as it is called, and the child's life was for a week or two despaired of. His recovery he always attributes (under heaven) to the humane interference of one Doctor Wilhelm Richter, a German empiric, who, in this extremity, prescribed a copious diet of Saur Kraut, which the child was observed to reach at with avidity, when other food repelled him; and from this change of diet his restoration was rapid and complete. We have often heard him mention the circumstance with gratitude; and it is not altogether surprising, that a relish for this kind of aliment, so abhorrent and harsh to common English palates, has accompanied him through life. When any of Mr. Liston's intimates invite him to supper, he never fails of finding, nearest to his knife and fork, a dish of Saur Kraut. At the age of nine we find our subject under the tuition of the Rev. Mr. Goodenough, (his father's health not permitting him probably to instruct him himself,) by whom he was inducted into a competent portion of Latin and Greek, till the death of Mr. Goodenough, in his 70th and Master Liston's 11th year, put a stop for the present to his classical We have heard our hero with emotions, which do his heart honour, describe the awful circumstances attending the decease of this worthy old gentleman. It seems they had been walking out together, master and pupil, 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 shaft had been lately sunk on a mining speculation, (then projecting, but abandoned soon after, as not an

progress.

371

swering the promised success, by Sir Ralph Shepperton, Knight, and member for the county.) The old clergyman leaning over, either with incaution, or sudden giddiness, (probably a mixture of both,) suddenly lost his footing, and, to use Mr. Liston's phrase, disappeared; and was doubtless broken into a thou sand pieces. The sound of his head, &c. dashing successively upon the projecting masses of the chasm, had such an effect ensued, and even for many years after upon the child, that a serious sickness his recovery he was not once seen so much as to smile. The joint deaths 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.

Her estate in Kent was spacious and well wooded; the house, one of those venerable old mansions which are so impressive in childhood, and so hardly forgotten in succeeding years. In the venerable solitudes of Charnwood, among thick shades of the oak and beech (this last his favourite tree,) the young Liston cultivated those contemplative habits which have never entirely deserted him in after-years. Here he was commonly in the summer months to be met with, with a book in his hand-not a play-book-meditating. Boyle's Reflections was at one time the darling volume, which in its turn was superseded by Young's Night Thoughts, which has continued its hold upon him through life. He carries it always about him; and it is 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.

We

On the death of Mrs. Sittingbourn, we find him received into the family of Mr. Willoughby, an eminent Turkey merchant, resident in Birchin-lane, London. In the three years which followed his removal to Birchin-lane, we find him making more than one voyage to the Levant, as chief factor of Mr. Willoughby, at the Porte. could easily fill our biography with the pleasant passages which we have heard im relate as having happened to him at Constantinople, such as his having been taken up on suspicion of a design of penetrating the seraglio, &c.; but, with the deepest convincement of this gentleman's own veracity, we think that some of the stories are of that whimsical, and others of that romantic

nature, which, however diverting, would be out of place in a narrative of this kind, which aims not only at strict truth, but at avoiding the very appearance of the contrary.

Upon a summer's excursion into Norfolk in 1801, the accidental sight of pretty Sally Parker, as she was called (then in the Norwich company,) diverted his inclinations at once from commerce, and he became, in the language of common-place biography, stage struck. Happy for the lovers of mirth was it, that our hero took this turn; he might else have been to this hour a plodding London merchant. We accordingly find him shortly after making his debut, as it is called, upon the Norwich boards, in the season of that year, being then in the 22d year of his age. Having a natural bent for tragedy, he chose the part of Pyrrhus in the Distressed Mother, to Sally Parker's Hermione. We find him afterwards as Barnwell, Altamont, Chamont, &c.; but, as if nature had designed him for the sock, an unavoidable infirmity absolutely incapacitated him for tragedy. His person, at this latter period of which I have been speaking, 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 studies, and amid the intense calling upon the feeling incident to tragic acting, came back upon him with tenfold vividness. In the midst of some most pathetic passage, the parting of Jaffier with his dying friend for instance, he would suddenly be surprised with a violent fit of 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 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 paralysing every effect. Even now, we are told, he cannot recite the favourite soliloquy in Hamlet, even in private, without immoderate bursts of laughter. However, what he had not force of reason sufficient to overcome, he had good sense enough to turn into

or

emolument, and determined to make a commodity of his temper. He prudently exchanged the buskin for the sock, and the illusions instantly ceased, or, if they occurred for a short season, by their very co-operation added a zest to his comic vein; some of the most catching faces being (as he expresses it) little more than transcripts and copies of those extraordinary phantasmata. We have now drawn out our hero's existence to the period when he was about to meet for the first time the sympathies of a London audience. The particulars of his success since have been too much before our eyes to render a circumstantial detail of them expedient. We shall only mention that Mr. Willoughby, his resentments having had time to subside, is at present one of the fastest friends of his old renegado factor; and that Mr. Liston's hopes of Miss Parker vanishing along with his unsuccessful suit to Melpomene, in the autumn of 1811 he married his present lady, by whom he has been blessed with one son, Philip; and two daughters, Ann, and Augustina.

PARLOUR NOSEGAYS.

3. If you marry an only daughter, lay your account with being under the espionage of her waiting-maids, and with seeing her frequently petted and peevish.

4. If you mean really to be a domestic man, never marry an ugly woman, even though she have the wealth of Plutus and the virtues of an angel.

5. If you married as a man, and your wife elopes, let her go, and thank God: if you married as a merchant, bring a crim. con. action, pocket the damages, if you can get them, and thank the devil.

6. If your wife be seized with a violent fit of kindness, be very careful what promises you make while it lasts.

7. She who pronounces "obey" most audibly before the parson, will be most audible in making you obey afterwards. 8. "Every woman is at heart a rake."-A lie.

9. A married woman commonly falls in love with a man as unlike her husband as is possible; but a widow very often marries a man extremely bling the defunct. The reason is ob

vious.

"resem

10. If you find your home uncomfortable, do not try to make it betterthat is not your province: go out and get -merry every night for a week; be sure to be in good humour when you come home; and, before the week is over, it I will be either better or worse.

11. The public endearments of newmarried people are disgusting. The man -who indulgences in them is not only guilty of indecency, but of rank folly; for what wise man counts his coin in the presence of those who, for aught he knows, may be thieves!

12. If your wife be jealous, be sure to romp with every lady you meet when in her company; but never use any familiarity with a female of a rank lower than your own. The former may remove her fears; the latter must increase

them.

13. If you would live happily, always whistle or laugh while your wife is scolding.

14. If she get into a fury, take yourself off without trying to pacify her; a man who exposes himself to a storm is sure of being pelted, while the storm is never the shorter nor the less severc.

15. Never offend the ears of your wife by a coarse or indelicate expression; the fairest mirror is stained by a passing breath.

16. Never marry a female for her money. If you are in want of a cool thousand or two, borrow it of the Jews, at the total per cent. rather than embark your happiness on so precarious a bark.

17. Give your lady a loving salute after reading these maxims to her.

CHRONOLOGY FOR THE YEAR 1824.

JUNE.

373

Death of Oxberry, the comedian. 11. Mr. Brougham struck over the back with a cane, by a person named Gourlay, in the lobby of the House of Commons, who was taken into custody.

Colonel Strutt thrown from his horse in the Park. Princess Augusta, who had observed the accident, immediately lends the Colonel the use of her carriage, and walks home on foot.

14. The House pass a Bill, Reversing the Attainder of the following Peerages, of the Barons of Stafford, Earldom of Mar, Viscountship of Kenmure, of Strathallan, and Barony of Nairn. Mr. Bruce complains in the House that he is not restored to the Peerage of Burleigh.

15. Sir James Macintosh presents a petition from the merchants of London, praying for the recognition of the independence of South America.

races.

The King attends Ascot Heath

16. Sir William Curtis entertains the British merchants at Cadiz on board his yacht, lying in that harbour.

17. Mr. Graham, accompanied by Captain Dufoy, makes another ascent in his balloon.

Seventy-six Bills this day received the Royal Assent. Among them were the Spitalfields Acts Repeal Bill, the restored Peerages Bill, and the Salt Tax Repeal Bill.

is. The head of Sir Thomas More, who was, executed by order of the tyrant Henry VIII. discovered in a box at St. Dunstan's Church, Canterbury.

19. John Hunt fined 1001. and to give securities for his good behaviour, for having published in "The Liberal," a poem reflecting on Geo. III.

The Lord Mayor discontinues the custom of causing a number of citizens, who are unwilling to serve, to be chosen Sheriffs, and on their refusal subjected to fines.

21. The Houses of Lords and Commons pass a Bill relieving the hereditary Earl Marshal of England (the Duke of Norfolk) from the necessity of taking the oath of supremacy.

28. Dinner given in London to Gen. San Martin, Commander of the South American Patriot Army.

25. Parliament prorogued by his Majesty in person.

Mr. Gourlay released, in consequence of the Prorogation of Parliament. He is shortly after again taken into custody, and committed by the Magistrates of Bow-street to the House of Correction, as a dangerous person of unsound mind.

(July in our next.).

A VIEW OF THE PRINCIPAL ACTORS IN THE TIME OF GARRICK.

HENDERSON.

J

"ON the 25th of November, I am to record the death of Mr, Henderson, who, after a seeming recovery from a fever, died of some spasmodic action upon the brain, utterly unapprehended by his medical attendants. He had not completed the 39th year of his age, and yet had long been a perfect master of his art, the range of which he carried to an extent that seems hopeless to succeeding actors. 'I will not,' said Mr. Kemble once to me, speak of Henderson's Falstaff; every body can say how rich and voluptuous it was: but I will say, that his Shylock was the greatest effort that I ever witnessed on the stage." I remember it in its principal scenes, and I have no doubt whatever that it fully merited so high a praise; but I respect fully insinuate, that Macklin, in the trial scene, was superior to him and all men. Yet it may be proper here to say, that in many of his characters, Hender son's superiority may be disputed; but that his performance of Falstaff was as much above all competition, as the character itself transcends all that was ever thought comic in man. The cause of this pre-eminence was purely mental he understood it better in its diversity of powers-his imagination was con

genial: the images seemed coined in the brain of the actor; they sparkled in his eye, before the tongue supplied them with language. I saw him act the character in the second part of Henry IV., where it is more metaphysical, and consequently less powerful. He could not supply the want of active dilemmas, such as exhilarate the Falstaff of the first part, but it was equally perfect in conception and execution. I have already described his Falstaff at Windsor, which completed this astonishing creation of the poet. I have borne with many invasions on this peculiar domain of Henderson. It has in truth been an ungracious task to most of his successors; they seem all to have doubted their right of possession; to have considered themselves tenants only upon sufferance; and thus it was with King, and Palmer, and Stephen Kemble, and Ryder, and a whole tedious chapter of fat knights, who have roared and chuckled at the slightest possible expense of thought; and, laughing much themselves, in their turns, perhaps, 'set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too. Peace to all such!' It was the strong sense of Henderson's excellence in Falstaff that made me miserable whenever Mr. Kemble announced his intention of assuming the character. He was not naturally a comedian, nor a man of wit. He might have given a fine reading of the text, but the soul of the knight would have been wanting. A Falstaff, only endured out of respect for the actor's other merits, is, at any period of life, prejudicial to his fame. He could afford to leave the stage without aiming at the praise of universality, and I sincerely rejoice that he did so.

HIS INTERMENT.

"Henderson had died in good circumstances, and it was determined to bury him in the Abbey. Every respect, that could be paid to a good man and an excellent artist, was paid on this occasion; his remains were followed to the grave by his nearest friends; and his brother actors, from both theatres, saw the final honor bestowed, (perhaps the greatest he ever received,) the placing him between Dr. Johnson and David Garrick. For many years I occasionally enjoyed the sad luxury of musing over his grave, and in my memory reviving the splendid triumphs of his genius. But though he was always presented to my fancy surrounded by a group of charac ters, the creation of Shakspeare, yet at no great distance were strongly seen the whole family of Shandy, and the mingled