goodbye; for in writing this humdrum little tale, I have been living much of my old life over again; I have been standing in the presence of things past, I have been dreaming of times that are gone from me, and this is what is making me so sad. For as I take up my pen regretfully to write the end of my story, I feel now so fully that I have but sketched that which I intended to paint in very glowing colours. I have not been doing justice to my subject.

I am sitting in a pretty sunny room in a quiet old country house; the evening is coming on, the sun is

sinking in the west, and the day will soon be gone. There is the flutter and chirping of birds that are going to rest; there is the heavy scent of half-closed flowers on the air. The cawing of rooks among distant trees comes slow and monotonous; and from below me, in the garden, the sound of children's voices is wafted up; and so it is that while I sit here writing, while I sit, and think, and listen, there is something telling me that those young voices which are rising from the garden of the world-those happy child voices are saying always, "Not yet, not here the end.

YET if the stage was now to lose its great light, the happy law of compensation was already providing that the perfect day should not go down in darkness. For in this closing season the great daughter of the Kemble family came to Drury-lane, and elegantly and correctly declaimed Portia. To think of the great actress in such a light part seems difficult. She was to be an exception to the precedent of great tragedians who have mostly established themselves and stormed success in a single night. But coming after Mrs. Clive, who, with execrable taste, turned the trial scene into a buffoonery by mimicking the manner and voice of Mr. Dunning the great lawyer, such classic correctness must have sounded tame. One of the common stock charges against Garrick has been that he was jealous of the rising powers of this fine actress, or that taking a sort of dislike to her, he kept her back. The reader will, I dare say, now be prepared after the fate of so many stock charges, which a little calm inquiry had scattered, to see this imputation dissipated like a cloud. It will be found, that so far from being kept back, she was almost unduly brought forward. Drury-lane was rich in actresses of the highest mark, and all "the capital parts" were in the lawful possession of such incomparable artists as Miss Younge, Mrs. Abington, and Mrs. Yates. It would be only fair that these tried auxiliaries who had served long-though perhaps not faithfully-should fairly claim to share in the glories of this closing season. Yet to Mrs. Siddons

was given Lady Anne in "Richard,' and out of the last nine nights, when all England, and even France, was rushing to see and hear the last of the famous actor, she was privileged to play on six with him, a great favour and indulgence to a novice, especially when we think what niceties there are in the adjustment of characters, and how jealous the possessors of " capital parts" can reasonably be.

Yet he was not to abdicate without knowing some of his old theatrical trouble; and it was certainly a little perverse that after so long a period of repose, and the perfect harmony that had reigned at Drury for so many years, a most disagreeable emeute should have signalized the last few months of his reign. It was a very curious and dramatic episode. A tall, gigantic, "bruising" clergyman, who could fight his way through a row at Ranelagh Gardens as desperately as he could through the columns of his own newspaper, and who, if either sinews or journal failed him, was ready to "go out" and get satisfaction with the pistol, had written his play, like so many other clergymen. So powerful and dangerous a character was, of course, likely to have some influence with Garrick; and his Morning Post, which even then took up the rôle it does at present, was too formidable an engine not to be respected. A more odious character than its reverend editor could not be conceived. As a friend wrote of him tenderly "he was constituted, both

in mind and body, for the army or navy rather than for the Church." And the same "hand" also said there was a sportive severity" in his writing which did not spare sex or condition, which brought him into unpleasant conflicts with the persons thus satirized. "But," said his friend, "he always manfully supported his character, and was wholly incapable of degrading concessions." And in this spirit, with "Mr. Denis O'Brien" for his second, he went "out" with Joey Richardson" in the Park, put a ball through that gentleman's arm, and distinguished himself in other encounters. Lord Lyttleton gave him a fine living, a good deal owing to Garrick's friendly instances. He stood to his friends loyally, through thick and thin, as the phrase is, and there was no such scrupulosity in the distribution of church patronage to make Garrick squeamish.†

His rude personalities in his paper had made him hosts of enemies, and he was now actively venturing on the incautious step of bringing out a play at Drury-lane. A man of the world must have seen that this was but an invitation to all his enemies to come and revenge themselves. But vanity, and above all vanity born of the stage, will overpower shrewdness. His play was called "The Blackamoor," and caused dreadful scenes of confusion, which continued for four nights. One man got behind the scenes with an open knife in his hand, pursuing one of the people of the house, and threatening to cut his liver out!" The ringleader was a certain Roper. Dreadful battles took place, and Woodfall, another editor, was nearly murdered.

แ

* John Taylor.

and then reproached her with her behaviour. She made a kind of apology, which he accepted in this way: sincerely agree with Montaigne, that the smallest token of sorrow from a lady ought to melt the hardest heart, and bring it to that state of feeling she is pleased to give it. If Mrs. Abington has inadvertently mentioned me as the author of the characters in question, I trust in her justice she will not suffer any false impression of me to remain among her friends." What could be more moderate or more delicate in its reproof?

The man who had used his reputation and the influence his high theatrical position gave him, to obtain favours and promotion for his friends was to receive a fresh hurt before his retirement. What little gratitude such kindness could secure! Some time before he had secured the promotion of a navy officer, a Captain Thompson, and it would seem had besides given him the usual assistance of a loan. This officer had written a piece for the stage, which was brought out at Covent Garden. With a meanness not usually found in his profession, and smarting under the sense of failure, he published in the London Packet (near 1776) a most unmanly attack upon Garrick, under the title of "The Elephant of Drury-lane,” in which he charged the manager with conspiring to destroy his play. Mr. Bate was so indignant at this ingratitude that he published a reply, in which he told very plainly the navy captain's obligations to Mr. Garrick. This Captain Thompson, and his friend Mr. Crawford, chose to fasten on Mr. Garrick, and came to the Adelphi to charge him with the authorship. Garrick was so hurt that he got Bate to make an affidavit acknowledging the entire authorship, and affirming that Garrick had never seen or inspired a word of it, and that the obligations he had learned from Thompson's own friends. Rather humiliated the officer apologized abjectly. "To the last period of my life I

will own my gratitude to you." But Garrick, in a case like this, when he had been "hurt" never gave way, and, deeply wounded, he replied to him in these words : As I never satirized my friend, so I never can forget any unprovoked satire from one I once called my friend. It is impossible that Captain Thompson and I can ever look upon each other but with pain, though for different reasons. Therefore, the less we see each other the better." The officer had said that what raised his suspicions was the similarity of expressions to a passage in an old letter of his to Garrick. "Can Mr. Thompson imagine," said the other, "that the man he has known and tried so long could be guilty of so much baseness as to give up a private letter for ridicule? Be assured, sir, that I have as totally forgotten what you may have written to me from every part of the world, as I will endeavour to forget that such a person as the writer and his unkindness ever existed." A most dignified, just, and manly reproof.

Abington, too, was harassing him with attorneys' letters, altercations about her benefit night, and finally, after securing his promise to play for her benefit, announced that she meant to retire from the stage. The spite in this intention was apparent, which was to distract the attention of the town from the greater retirement now at hand. How bitterly he felt her behaviour may be conceived from his marginal remark: "The above is a true copy of the letter of that worst of bad women, Mrs. Abington, about her leaving the stage.

Shortly after Christmas began that wonderful series of performances in which he gave the round of all his best characters, each for the last time. The rush and excitement for places during this wonderful season was not equalled even during the early Goodman's-fields era. The highest persons in the land were begging for boxes and places. Lord and Lady North, the Duke of Portland, and a host of fine people came and were crushed, and went away enchanted. Lady Colebrooke offered

an extra sum for places, for she was desirous that her children should see Mr. Garrick and talk of that night fifty years after. Wither, a faithful admirer and actor, was coming a long journey from Dublin to see his idol, and a greater compliment still, the charming Madame Necker, the heroine of Gibbons' early love, came over from Paris specially. Sir Gray Cooper grew actually offended because he could not get into the theatre so often as he wished. He had moved the Theatrical Fund Bill in the House, and thought Mr. Garrick should remember that obligation. Yet he hears that a certain Mons. Necker and a Dean of Derry have boxes every night. boxes every night." Very wittily he says there was a sort of ministerial promise" given, accompanied by a gentle squeeze of the hand and a measured smile of consent". -a very happy description of the ambiguity of such engagements.

But Garrick never forgot what was owing to his dignity. He wrote a letter stiffly, and showed he was somewhat hurt at this charge. "When have I been inattentive to your and Lady Cooper's commands? The last box I procured for you has caused much mischief to your humble servant. My likings and attachments to my friends will, I hope, be remembered when my fool's-cap and bells will be forgotten"-a very remarkable and sincere declaration. The other was truly penitent, and wrote to him to say that if, in the eagerness to enjoy the pleasure of seeing Garrick, anything petulant had escaped him, he begged his pardon most sincerely. This shows how excited the world had grown about this festival, as it might be called. What a procession of characters-his best and finest-made yet finer by the special character of the occasion, and his natural determination to excel himself. Hamlet, Lear, Richard, and Lusignan, and Kitely were the graver characters he chose. Archer, Abel Drugger, Sir John Brute, Benedict, Leon, and Don Felix was the more varied round selected for comedy. It is, indeed, wonderful to see from this where his real strength had gradually developed. Most of

these characters were played from two to three times each. Archer was played but once, on May 7th, Sir John Brute four times. The lively actresses all played with him, and played their best. It needed all this excitement to carry him through; for he was suffering acutely. Gout, stone, sore throat," he wrote, "yet I am in spirits." Hannah More, up from Bristol, could hardly trust herself to speak of the effect produced on her. "I pity those who have not seen him. Posterity will never be able to form the slightest idea of his perfections. The more I see him, the more I admire. I have seen him within these three weeks take leave of Benedict, Sir John Brute, Kitely, Abel Drugger, Archer, and Leon. It seems to me as if I was assisting at the obsequies of the different poets. I feel almost as much pain as pleasure." There was, indeed, a pathos about the whole. He seemed to be in a sort of whirl; and of the present situation of my affairs," he said, "the last hours of my theatrical life, and my preparing for another;" and he adds, "Just going to perform Benedict for the last time," which was on May the 9th. Was it at all surprising that he should feel nervous on those trying occasions? Friends did not help him much. Stevens pressed him hard to give the genuine text of "Lear" as a novelty; but he could not trust himself to unlearn. Even in the morning when going over some slight alteration, he was quite distressed and confused. After the play was over, a little scene took place in the green-room. Miss Younge, whose frowardness had given him much trouble, was to be Cordelia, and he there took leave of her, calling her "his daughter," and with a hearty wish that all his stage blessing would be fulfilled. The actress, affected by this kindness, said to him,

"Sir, if you would indeed give me your blessing," which Garrick did in a very solemn way."

"Richard" was kept for the end appropriately. I gained my fame in "Richard" and I mean to close with it. He accordingly ordered a superb new dress. When this came home, he, with a little want of judgment, said he would play "Lear" in his "new 'Richard' dress." His friends remonstrated, but he persisted. And yet from "Richard" he almost shrank. "I dread the fight," he said to his friend Cradock," and the fall. I am afterwards in agonies."+

On June the 5th "Richard" was given in presence of the King and Queen.‡ Old and dear friends were crowding up and rallying about. Sir George Young came away from that night, and saying, "the evening of your day may be sweet and composed, is the sincere wish of your old and affectionate friend." "John Beard" got him at this favourable moment to make a request for him to Sir George Hay. "You are grown formal in your old age, my dear friend," said Sir George. "Kiss the blooming wrinkles of my ancient love for my sake, and believe me always yours and hers." On the eighth "King Lear was given, with Miss Younge as Cordelia; and then came round the fatal closing 10th of June, which was the last night for Roscius.

Don Felix was the gay and classic character selected. The tremendous crowd that filled the theatre from floor to ceiling, were to be recreated with a last glimpse of true comedy, the like of which it may be suspected no one has seen since. From this choice it may be suspected that the image of himself that he wished to linger on playgoer's mind, was of the tempered gaiety and airy sprightliness where his real strength lay.

What a night for Drury Lane!

It was

What a night for the actor-now, at the end of his nearly forty years' service. There was not here any of the affectation and sham sentiment that sometimes prevails on such departures, too long delayed. As his eyes wandered round the house, which house must have seemed to him a sea of friends' faces and of friends' eyes. There were strangers and foreigners present.*

Even the foreigners were struck by the mournful character of the scene; which brought to him the early days -the triumph of the little theatre at Goodman's-fields. He thought himself that he played with even more spirit than he had ever done before. When Mrs. Centlivre's wit was done, and the curtain had shut out that Don Felix for ever, then came a moment of suspense and even awe. He came forward very slowly. Behind the stage was filled with groups of the players eager not to lose a point of this almost solemn situation. The sides became crowded with others. Not a sound was heard. There was a pause. No wonder he said afterwards that it was an awful moment, and that he seemed to have lost not merely his voice, but the use of his limbs. His face was seen to work as he tried to speak, and with an effort. It had been the custom, he said, on such occasions to address friends in a farewell epilogue. He had intended following the practice, but when he came to attempt it, found himself quite as unequal to the writing of it as he now would be to its delivery. The jingle of rhyme and the language of fiction would but ill suit his present feelings. The moment was an awful one for him, now parting for ever from those who had lavished on him such favours and kindness; and upon the very spot where all these favours were received. Here he was quite overcome, and could not go on from his tears. Recovering himself he merely added, that he should never forget their goodness, and though his successors might have more ability, they could not surpass the pains he had taken to win support, or the gratitude he felt. On this he retired slowly, and with a lingering longing. The shouts of applause from that brilliant

amphitheatre. were broken by sobs and tears. The wonderful eyes still brilliant, were turned wistfully again and again to that sea of sympathetic faces, one of the most brilliant_audiences perhaps that ever sat in Drury Lane,and at last tore himself from their view. An awful moment for him, as he said. Their emotion was as plain to him as his was to them. Though an afterpiece was to follow, they would not suffer it to be played, nor could the actors find spirit to perform it, after the affecting bit of tragedy that they had witnessed. When the curtain descended on that fatal 16th of June, it indeed shut out the greatest of English actors.

But among the familiar attractions of Hampton must be counted Mr. Garrick's great dog "Dragon," which was well known everywhere. He had even travelled up to town, and, like his master, had made his appearance on the stage at Drury Lane, being led out by the droll Weston, who spoke an epilogue, addressed to himself. The audience were infinitely delighted with the unconscious acting of the great dog, who seemed quite at home in their presence, and looked up with great good humour in the face of this droll actor, who was addressing him. There was near being a riot on a succeeding_night when this epilogue was withdrawn, and the dog had to be sent for. This familiarity was scarcely consistent with the dignity of Drury Lane, and was nearly as bad as that boxing of Hunt and dancing of Mahomet which he had once, through Johnson's mouth, denounced so scornfully later Miss Hannah More addressed this dog far more elegantly, and appropriately; and her very pleasing ode to Dragon was copied and recopied, and had at last to be printed to gratify admirers. The occasion was Garrick's Farewell to the Stage, and the compliments are just, without any adulation :—

"O Dragon! change with me thy fate,
To me give up thy place and state,
And I will give thee mine.

I left to think and thou to feed
My mind enlarged; thy body freed,
How blest my lot and thine!