The story of Kemble's management of Drury Lane, under the chief proprietorship of Sheridan, is the story of every one who had any transactions with that brilliant Scoundrel-fascination, speculation, delusion, and loss. Kemble succeeded King in the management, and began with a good company, and a fair opening for himself to the playing of important parts, in consequence of the retirement of one or two actors. He now played Romeo, Sciolto, Zanga, and several leading characters in comedy, in which, taking the average of the various criticisms, he does not appear to have thoroughly succeeded. A splendid revival of Macbeth, and that of Coriolanus, the leading character of which became identified with Kemble himself, whose physical and mental qualities suited it to per fection, were the leading features of his first season of management. Mrs. Siddons made a great success as Volumnia; and the result of the two great undertakings satisfactorily proved Kemble's fitness for his post. At the end of that first year, Mrs. Siddons, tired out by Sheridan's intolerable conduct-she was the only person whom he did not cheat courteously; to her he was rude-retired from the theatre. Sheridan boasted that they were so strong in comedy that they could do without her; there is no doubt public taste did turn toward comedy just then for a while; but the next season he made prodigious efforts, happily successful, to induce her to return. This season was made remarkable by the revival of Henry V. and the Tempest, and by Kemble's ridiculous performance of Don Juan, the most ill-judged attempt he ever made. In this year, too, 1791, Old Drury, having been formally condemned by the architects, was leveled to the ground; and the new theatre, which was to be the scene of such strange events, and to meet with such opportune destruction, was commenced. Mr. Fitzgerald describes the demise of the old house as the herald of the death-hour of a good school of acting, which was to disappear with the destruction of the walls within which an audience could see and hear. "With this old and classical structure," he says, "passed away a host of reverent associations. There Johnson, and Reynolds, and Goldsmith had sat and criticised; there Garrick, a

young man about town, had gone on as harlequin; there Woffington had captivated all by her Sir Harry; there, in the front row of the pit near the 'spikes,' had Churchill sat and taken notes for his Rosciad; there the greatest school of English actors had been formed, traditions of which, even at 'third' hand, now make the excellence of any acting that is at all respectable."

The relations between Sheridan and Kemble were very peculiar and embarrassing. Sheridan never dreamed of keeping his word if it suited his temporary convenience to violate it, and thus it became a sheer impossibility for Kemble to carry out the plans he arranged, and he found himself constantly involved in quarrels and disputes, highly derogatory to his superabundant personal dignity and high sense of honor.

Sheridan's keen humor was constantly tickled by the majestic, somewhat buckram solemnity of the tragedian, who never unbent, but whose temper was not sullen, and gave way before the blandishments of Brinsley. Kemble had the profoundest admiration for his clever friend. He knew nothing of politics, and scarcely ever looked into a newspaper, but any allusion to Sheridan was certain to make him break out in raptures over his hero. At the same time, the sense of the treatment he met with from the god of his idolatry threw him into an amusing conflict. "I know him thoroughly," he would say angrily, "all his amusing tricks and artifices;" and then he would threaten to join a political society, "The Friends of the People," and go there to expose him. The new theatre-which differed from the old in all points material for keeping up the drama as an art, and guarding it from the mere upholstery and spectacle of these degenerate days-was inaugurated by the performance of Macbeth. Even Mrs. Siddons was excited on the occasion, on which her powers were subjected to totally new conditions, and the reign of "sensation" may be said to have commenced. "I am told," she writes to Lady Harcourt, apropos of the preparations, "that the banquet is a thing to go and see of itself." Before this day, such a sentiment had never been heard, and Mr. Fitzgerald says, "this short and enthusiastic note positively contains an epitome of the decay of the stage." On this occasion, John Philip Kemble introduced his brother Charles to the audience.

He was an interesting young actor, destined to achieve reputation in certain parts, but had no greatness about him. Kemble then introduced the dreary pieces which we know generally, and inaccurately, as the German Drama, and which had a success which we, to whom their dull horrors and sickly sentimentality are altogether repulsive, find it difficult to understand. After a brief retirement, in disgust, Kemble again undertook the management, in 1800 -1801, and his own and his sister's troubles with Sheridan recommenced at once, to be terminated only by their final retirement in 1802, when Sheridan was so foolish as to make no exertion to satisfy their just demands. Charles and Stephen remained, but they were only ordinary stock actors. From that time a steady decay settled upon the theatre, which must have led to universal confusion and the ruin of all concerned. "Nothing," says Mr. Fitzgerald, "short of a grand conflagration could bring matters to a simple issue.”

Mr. Harris of Covent Garden was the exact opposite of Sheridan, punctual in his payments, and honorable in his dealing. Through his old friend, Mrs. Inchbald, and aided by Mr. Heathcote, who lent him a large sum of money, Kemble negotiated with Mr. Harris the purchase of a sixth share in the great "house," where he became stage-manager, deriving an income from Covent Garden of two thousand five hundred pounds a year, and mustering a strong party of Kembles under his direction. Then he went abroad, and was "overwhelmed with distinction by the English in Paris, the great Talma doing the honors of the beautiful city to the "Le Kain of England," but not admiring him too cordially. In 1802, old Roger Kemble died, and in John Philip's letter to his brother on the occasion there is heartfelt grief and pathos and no touch of the pedantry which generally disfigured his style, and contrasted unfavorably with his sister's vigorous and unaffected prose.

On his return to Covent Garden, Kemble, or "Black Jack," as they called him, was found to have greatly developed his "gift" of drinking, and it is fact that this, his only moral defect, helped to soften much of the prejudice caused by his austere manners. In 1803, he made his appearance in Hamlet; and three days later, his sister played Isabella, just as they had done at Drury Lane. This season was

marked by the absurd and contemptible episode of the "Young Roscius," a discreditable folly not matched in the history of the stage. The Kembles could well afford to smile at it, and wait until it had passed by; but it is even now provoking to stage historians to have to record that an enthusiasm exceeding what was excited by Garrick or Siddons was caused by Master Betty, a boy of thirteen, and that his twentyeight nights' playing brought Sheridan nearly twenty thousand pounds receipts.

On the 8th September, 1808, the season commenced with Macbeth, and on the 20th, the great theatre was burned to ashes. The loss of property was immense, twenty lives were sacrificed, and the insurances were for only fifty thousand pounds. The actresses' jewels, the performers' valuable wardrobes, Handel's organ, the wines of the Beefsteak Club, opera scores of Handel, Arne, and others, original manuscripts of plays, made the loss most disastrous. For Kemble it was a terrible blow. He had to begin the world after thirty years' hard work. But the deserving actor found true friends. The Duke of Northumberland offered him a loan of ten thousand pounds on his simple bond; and a few weeks later, when the first stone of the new theatre was laid, canceled the bond, and made him a present of the whole sum. In less than eight months, the new building, destined also to be destroyed by fire half a century later, was completed, and while it was being built, Drury Lane was burned down; a disastrous finale which very conveniently concluded Sheridan's financial connection with the theatre, and is associated with one of his most famous impromptus faits à loisir.

The story of the O. P. Riots, which ensued on the opening of the new theatre, is too well known to need repetition. The only person not involved in the disgrace of these proceedings was Kemble. In 1812, Mrs. Siddons retired. Her brother led her off the scene of her splendid triumphs, and then withdrew from the stage for a while. He had many warnings that his own time of supremacy was to be short. He was a sufferer from severe gout, and a rival was uprising. Edmund Kean had made his appearance, and the town, familiar with Kemble's cultivated elocution for thirty years, was carried away by the young actor's novelty, force, and fire. There was danger from another quarter. Young was

attracting notice; and when he played Cassius to Kemble's Brutus, there were those who said he was the better actor of the two. That such things should be, were stabs for the decaying great player. The prosperity of the theatre began to decline; and at length Kemble, though he might have counted on making a good income for some five years longer, decided that he would not linger, as his sister had done. "Twere well that 'twere done quickly." In 1817, he took leave of his Scotch friends, giving a round of farewell performances in Edinburgh. He played Coriolanus splendidly, but appropriately selected Macbeth for his final performance. The scene has been finely described by Sir

Walter Scott. The 23d June, 1817, was fixed for his last appearance on the stage of his own theatre. He had given a long and grand series of farewell performances, and took his leave in his fine character of Coriolanus.

For six years, he and his wife lived abroad, very happy, and universally respected. On the 20th February, 1823, he died, quite unexpectedly, and deeply regretted. His wife survived him for twentytwo years. He was a great actor, and an eminently respectable man. It would be well for the stage and the public if, in both respects, there were more adherence to the tradition of John Philip Kemble.

WE wonder at the marvelous devices in the animal and vegetable world for preventing any thing being carried to an extreme. Even pain has its limits. But we often fail to see that there is the same beneficent arrangement in the moral world. Take, for instance this fact-that a common hatred, or dislike, or fear, forms one of the strongest bonds of liking and attachment. This great law has helped to preserve the balance of power; has saved the existence of states; and, even in private life, has prevented hatreds and dislikes going into universal disruption.

So strong is the feeling produced by community of dislike, that, though it may be a ludicrous thing to state, it is nevertheless true, if a person began by disliking two other persons, he might eventually become attached to both of them, by perceiving and sympathizing with their dislike of each other.

In history, the effect of this law has been manifest. In the early part of the sixteenth century, the perpetual combinations, caused by dislike and fear amongst the great powers of Europe, gave a large opportunity for civilization to develop itself, effectually preventing the predominance of any one power, which predominance would have been a great evil for the world.

Thus we may see how such an untoward element in human life as hatred, or dislike,

is made to conform eventually to the highest and best purposes. And thus it is that hatreds unavoidably flow into combinations of affection, regard, and conjoint action.

Disproportion, some say, is the cause of the keenest misery in the world; for instance, the disproportion between the powers, capacities, and aspirations of man and his circumstances - especially as regards his physical wants.

The power of speech given to man seems to be disproportionate to his other qualifications. It seems as if man, to have that power, should be a better creature than he is. Now contemplate a family quarrel in which you are a disengaged bystander-all the persons engaged in the quarrel coming and telling you their respective grievances. You can not fail to notice how each one has embittered by some injudicious remark, or injurious epithet, the original cause of quarrel; and thus has made a general reconciliation much more difficult. You rise from the contemplation of this quarrel, saying, "These people really ought never to have been trusted with the power of speech, so bad is the use which they have made of it, by unkind sarcasms, injurious epithets, and unwarrantable innuendoes. All their communications ought to have been made, not in speech, but by barking, like dogs; and

then the quarrel might easily have been brought to a happy conclusion. Their power of speech is quite disproportionate to their other, and much smaller gifts, of rationality, charity, and tolerance."

Lavater says "that you never know a man until you have divided an inheritance with him." I would also say that you never know a man until you have got into a scrape with him, and can see whether he is willing to take his fair share of the blame. Men are hardly ever so ungenerous as when they have been colleagues in some affair which has turned out to be unfortu

nate.

Most persons show great favoritism in their likings and dislikings of moral qualities. They have their pet virtues, and there are vices which they especially abhor. It would be but a shallow explanation of this fact to say, with Butler, that men

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Compound for sins they are inclined to, By damning those they have no mind to." The cause of this kind of favoritism lies much deeper than that. I own that I think with him, who says that cruelty and jealousy are the vices which he delights most to inveigh against. They seem to be the deepest and the most lasting. Mere sensuality, or even falsehood, would vanish away in a new state of existence; but cruelty and jealousy seem to be ingrained in a man who has these vices at all. Milton has shown much judgment, as it appears to me, in making jealousy the cause of rebellion amongst the fallen angels.

Moreover, jealousy is such a stupid, illogical passion. Somebody likes you better than me, therefore I am to hate you. Thus jealousy reasons, but seems to forget one of the most obvious facts in human life, namely, that one is liked by any person, accordingly as one presents a likeable appearance to that person. Nothing can prevent the operation of this natural law. It is no good your urging that you are the father, mother, brother, sister, husband, or lover, of the person by whom you wish to be supremely loved. If you are not lovable to him, or her all argument, all exhortation, all passion, is thrown away, which is intended to produce love. You can force the outward show, but not the inward feeling. A jealous person will exclaim, "Why don't you confide in me?" The real answer is, "You are not a person

to be confided in ;" and all claims for confidence come to nothing when confronted with that important fact. Jealousy is, therefore, the peculiar vice of stupid people.

This

In domestic rule, esteem is more potent than indulgence, or even than forbearance. When boys or girls go wrong, a very frequent cause is that they are not esteemed at home, or fancy they are not. This esteem must be genuine; it can not be pretended or counterfeited. Hence, in a governing person there are few qualities so valuable as readiness to appreciate merits, or ingenuity in discovering them, especially the latter. In every large family, or small circle of friends, there is generally some very difficult person to understand. person is often exceedingly troublesome, and, to use a common expression, very "trying." His or her merits (for he or she is sure to have some) have not been found out. Find them out and appreciate them: a great deal of the trouble of dealing with that person will be removed. The value of imagination, in domestic government, is very great. If we could have statistics on the subject, we should find, I think, that the children of unimaginative people are particularly prone to go wrong.

It may be noticed as a curious fact, that a real belief in unreal merits will serve the purpose. An illustration of this is afforded in a work of fiction. In “David Copperfield" my aunt's belief in Mr. Dick's sagacity saves that poor man, and properly saves him, from becoming the inmate of a madhouse.

There have been a great many books written about old age; but to my mind they are for the most part eminently un satisfactory. It is rather an offensive word to use, especially considering the greatness of the writers who have treated the subject, but their lucubrations seem to me to be twaddly. They dilate upon the comforts of old age; and what they say applies scarcely to any body, for where is the old man who admits to himself that he is old? Indeed, an old man often feels that he is younger than when he was what is called young.

The world exclaims (that is the young world) how can men whose expectation of life is, according to the calculations of an insurance office, only five years at the most, commit themselves to a policy which

will need generations to be carried out in all its fullness? and how can they undertake undertakings of which they can not expect to see the budding, much less the fruitage? But all history denies the validity of this remark. Several of the greatest things in art, in science, in literature, in arms, and in policy, have been done, or begun, by old men.

The poets and other writers of fiction have been much truer to real life in this matter, than the essayists and the moralists. Most of these writers have depicted fiery old men who have shown the utmost resolve at the latest periods of life. Moreover, both in history and in fiction, men have been described and depicted commencing vast undertakings, and putting the seal to an arduous course of policy, when laboring under mortal sickness, which is surely an equivalent to old age. For fellness of purpose commend me to an old man. Perhaps the causes of this fellness are that he has outlived sentiment; has acquired a great distrust of the world; and, therefore, is not to be diverted from his purpose by any minor considerations.

Again, both the physical and the mental powers of old men are greatly underrated by the young and the middle-aged. It is true, perhaps, that they can not see as well; can not ride as well; can not find their way across the country as well as younger men. But how little these small disqualifications have to do with the great events of life! Judgment is almost always strengthened by increase of years. Resolution is as often increased as diminished. And, to meet the main delusion which besets the minds of the young when talking of the old, it may be observed that men, even in extreme old age, are as fond of the world, care as much for the world, and even take more interest in the future of the world, than the very young man who sees the world opening before him, and thinks that he is to do great things in it.

If I am right in what I have said above, the moral to be drawn is, that you rob a State of some of its most precious materials for thought and action when you place a bar, by reason of age, against the employ ment of old men even in those situations and those commands which some people fancy can only be well filled or wisely undertaken by those who are comparatively

young.

It may appear, at first thought, that the word "worldly" should convey much reproach, and be a very unwelcome epithet even to the most worldly people. The word is terribly significant. When it is applied to man or woman, it does not merely mean that he or she desires advancement in the world; but it implies a base compliance with the world, and indicates the worst of cowardice. You know that when many persons condemn you, the worldly man or woman, if ever so much called your friend, is sure to go with the majority. Nay, more; it indicates that the person possessed by the world has no higher aspirations than those which are worldly, and has abjured his individuality. According to the deeper meaning of the word, a person may be intensely worldly who lives quite out of the throng. There have been worldly monks and nuns, and even worldly saints; while, on the other hand, there have been persons living in the full current of what is called the world, who have been most unworldly. The original meaning of the word "world," as taken from the Scriptures, means "this order of things;" and mankind is so great, at least in aspiration, that the meanestminded person does not quite like that it should be said of him that he goes entirely with this order of things. Happily there is much less of worldliness than is generally supposed. Very often, behind apparent worldliness, there is an element of unselfishness, and even of romance, which entirely contradicts the supposed worldliness. For example, the great satirist of modern times has satirized worldliness in the heads of families—a worldliness which is often nothing more than devotion to the interests, real or supposed, of children. Again, when the worldliness is directed even to self-advancement, it often has a touch of romance in it, and does not imply all the baseness which would belong to any one who really believed in the world, and was content to subject himself entirely to "this order of things." There is a great difference between loving the honors and rewards of the world, and using the world to gain these things, and being really worldly.

The world is imposed upon by action. This may be seen in many ways. For instance, what has been called a "masterly inactivity" does not yet gain its just credit.