done, from even the possibility of a personal enemy. It is well for government to hold such language, but it would be criminal indeed to act upon the presumption that it was true. Forty years' experience have at least settled my own conviction upon this subject. The reader would be little likely to excuse me, if I omitted to notice during the theatrical season, the death of a gentleman to whom all English stages are under eternal obligation. George Steevens, the editor of Shakspeare, died on the 22d January, 1800, at his house on Hampstead Heath, in the 64th year of his age. Of his knowledge as an antiquarian, a critic, and a scholar, he has left his brief but expressive compositions, to speak for him, on pages from which they cannot be removed. I have already spoken, with the feeling which it excited, of a very unnecessary publication by Mr. Hayley, rendered even malicious, when it is considered, that in a place where there should enter nothing but the spirit of TRUTH, he had himself exhibited the following verses as the character of Mr. Steevens. I make not the least apology for their insertion in this place; they do proudly keep one over his grave, and are inimitable for nicety of discrimination, and, as I think, perfect resemblance. "Peace to these ashes! once the bright attire "How oft has pleasure in the social hour "Learning, as vast as mental power could seize, "This tomb may perish, but not so his name A few venial errors "set off his head," I affirm the above to be a just record of George Steevens. Yet this gentleman has been assailed with a perfect wantonness of abuse, and his censurers have forgotten the sanctuary afforded by the grave, to errors infinitely greater than his. The elements were in truth very strangely mingled in him. You heard frequently of sportive mischief, that provoked your anger and your laughter: you also heard of munificence, of tenderness and charity, that made the bosom swell, and filled the eyes with tears. For several successive years, I used to converse with Mr. Steevens, frequently three times during the week, and enjoyed, with very dear friends, his wisdom and his wit. He appeared to me to have made his morning walk from Hampstead, an equal exercise to his fancy and his frame; and many of the pleasantries with which he daily amused the town, were, no doubt, among the reveries of this "solitary walker." It was assuredly no slight misfortune to come under the lash of George Steevens; for he had so sure a tact in seizing upon the ludicrous points of a vain, a weak, or a false character, and his exhibitions were so neat and peculiar, and given in terms so provokingly apt, and so sure to be remembered, that a dozen words might have the effect of rendering their object, at least for years, ridiculous. He had not, perhaps, taken the most favourable view of our mixed and imperfect nature, and commonly received with suspicion the attentions which were paid to him from sincere regard. So absolutely had this feeling worked itself into a habit, that when, in the dangerous illness before his last, I walked out to Hampstead to see him, he asked with earnestness," whether I had really taken the trouble for that sole object." And upon my assuring him that such was positively the fact, the peculiar glance of distrust vanished from his countenance, and he became, though then far from well, as animated, as cordial, and even more communicative, than I had ever known him to be. I remember that, while we were enjoying the fine air from the heath together, he gave me a very interesting topography of his neighbourhood. The house he lived in had been one of public entertainment, known by the title, perhaps sign, of the Upper Flask; to which Addison and Steele, a century back, had resorted, and where, if the subjects of the Tatlers and Spectators were not conceived, the minds were certainly invigorated which produced that unparalleled series of periodical essays. A doubt was once started, however remarkable, whether Mr. Steevens, though he had chosen Shakspeare as the basis of his literary fame, had a sound and hearted preference for his genius. His opinion as to the character of Hamlet, that as to his Sonnets, replete as they are with the very language of his plays, and a variety of notes not very respectfully couched, will be adduced by those who advocate such a suspicion. The taste of Mr. Steevens may be reasonably deduced from his composition; and that is invariably marked by sarcasm and point. His genius led him to satire and to epigram. I am not likely to forget the peculiar animation with which he this day expatiated as to the powers of Dryden. "Were I," said he, "a young man, I would begin the study of English versification in the rhymed plays of Dryden." As I suppose I expressed some surprise at this singular declaration, he asked, "Where in the whole compass of our literature I could find any thing superior to the following passage in the second part of the Conquest of Grenada ?" He then, from memory, recited in his silver voice, and giving the full harmony of every line, the satirical exclamation of Lyndaraxa, in the second scene of the third act. "O, how unequally in me were join'd A creeping fortune, with a soaring mind! O lottery of fate! where still the wise Draw blanks of fortune, and the fools the prize! Yet dull Religion teaches us content. But when we ask it where that blessing dwells, It points to pedant colleges and cells; There shows it rude, and in a homely dress, And that proud WANT mistakes for happiness." Mr. Kemble, upon my quoting it to him, said it was a noble specimen of the peculiar force of Dryden. But as I am not going, at least on this occasion, to give a full detail of my observation of Mr. Steevens, I here take leave of a character too various to be easily drawn, too important to be slightly handled; at once a lesson and a problem. I may, however, indulge a wish, that he should retain the proud distinction of being, perhaps, the best editor of Shakspeare; and that, differing toto cœlo as they did on many points, Mr. Steevens should not entirely merge into Mr. Malone; and, if the practice continue, at last sink, in the accumulating stream of illustration by which the margin of Shakspeare is in danger to be overflowed. I could really desire to be permitted to replace him in the modest limits of his own FIFTEEN volumes; with a few improvements as to disposition merely; and the very slender accession indeed of certain amendments of the text, and explanations which, on the whole, appear to be more felicitous even than his own. The Haymarket Theatre was now, in its turn, to be given up to the foul fiend. Accordingly, on the 2d of July, the pantomimical drama of Obi, or Three-fingered Jack, the maimed hero, Proh pudor! by that elegant actor, Charles Kemble, was performed before a most crowded, brilliant, and judicious audience. The additions thus made to the vulgar tongue were of great value. We became acquainted with the Obi woman, with Tuckey, and Jenkannoo, Quashee and Quashee's wife; and the region of Foote and the Colmans was shifted into that of Sadler's Wells, or Astley's, or the Circus. But on the 16th Charles Kemble redeemed the credit of the theatre, by his very clever play called the Point of Honour, which was in the first place extremely interesting, and in the second, exceedingly well acted, by himself as well as others. It was a maiden production. The manager of this theatre now assumed, I have no sort of doubt with the royal sanction, the names of Arthur Griffenhoofe, Jun. which, if my friend, Sir George Naylor, can examine for laughter, he may probably find duly enregistered in the College of Arms;-if he do not prefer seeing and enjoying the Review, or the Wags of Windsor; for which he need not wait long, while Caleb Fawcett, I beg his pardon, Quotem, is in existence. For John Lump, it is with sincere regret that I announce, from alarming symptoms of late, my despair of the perfect recovery of that Yorkshire Bumpkin. 3 F CHAP. XIV. Season of 1800-1801.-Kemble desirous to purchase, reussumes the management.-Mrs. Montagu.-Kemble's remark.--That lady's wisdom.-Dr. Moncey.-Marbles.Condescension.--Cato in Lybia. The soldiers.-Blanchard. Mrs. S. Kemble.-Virginia.-George Cooke at Covent Garden.-Characterised.-His Richard criticised. - Compared with Kemble.-Life, by Reynolds.—Antonio fails-Cooke's Kitely.-Mr. Kemble's Lear-Letters.King John-Poor Gentleman.-Cymbeline.-Deaf and Dumb.-La Perouse.--Cooke's Sir Giles.--Adelmorn.—Cooke's conduct. THE winter season of 1800-1801 commenced about the usual time; Drury Lane Theatre once more under the management of Mr. Kemble. He returned to this unthankful office with some idea of still closer connexion with that house. Sheridan had thrown out hints that upon a proper consideration. he should be willing to dispose of a part of the property, and Mr. Kemble conceived that if he were himself in possession of a FOURTH of the concern, and by the steady assertion of a right, could restrain Mr. Sheridan from his intromissions, or, perhaps, buy him out altogether, the theatre might flourish once more under him, as it had done under Mr. Garrick, and his career close, as he wished it to do, by his being patentee of Drury Lane play-house. Should the reader feel astonishment at the improvidence of his entering into such a scene of pitiful disgraces and endless embarrassments, I then tell him from Mr. Kemble's own mouth, that the theatre, fair treated, was a profitable concern; this was a fact." he said, "about which he could not be mistaken, as all the accounts during his former management had in course been inspected by him, and were accurately known to him." But he was sensible of the necessity of a very entire reform; and as he was always an object of real or figned dread to the whole generation of fattening reptiles about such a concern, so his return to the management was attended by the usual obsequiousness and the usual hy |