umph; but in the Stranger, which he performed for his benefit, he could not approach Kemble's pre-eminence. The managers of Covent Garden gave him this benefit free of all expenses, and the receipts were £560.

During this period he seems by an effort of will to have reformed, or at least to have modified his former vicious habits. But at the close of the London season he went "starring" in the provinces, and, returning to his old haunts and his old bad companions, fell back into dissipation and degradation. When on the opening night of his second season he was advertised to appear as Richard, he was playing at Newcastle with "a small undisciplined set," to use his own words. The house was crowded, and the audience made a great disturbance when Lewis, the acting manager; was compelled to announce to them that Cooke had not arrived. Considerable excitement had been aroused on the occasion by the fact that Kemble, entering the lists with his rival, had announced the same play at Drury Lane.

And not until five weeks afterwards did George Frederick make his appearance. How that interim was passed may be surmised. But after some clamor upon his first entrance, and an apologetic speech on his part, in which there was not one word of truth, the audience forgave him and applauded his acting as enthusiastically as ever. Although his conduct had already diminished his attractiveness, Harris, the manager, after giving him a second free benefit, the receipts of which, however, fell to £409, re-engaged him for another three years at £14 a week; a miserable salary after all, for a man of his abilities. His waning popularity rose again with his representation of Sir Pertinax Macsycophant in Macklin's Man of the World.'

"Macklin," says Mrs. Inchbald," performed Sir Pertinax himself, and so excellently that it was imagined he could never be surpassed by any other representative of the Scotch politician. Cooke, his successor, has proved the falsity of this conjecture. Macklin performed Sir Pertinax most excellently; but Cooke performs Sir Pertinax with talents as pre-eminent as Macklin displayed above all others in the character of Shylock."

I subjoin some extracts from one of

Leigh Hunt's criticisms upon his acting in this part:

"You may see all the faults and all the beauties of Cooke in this single character. If Cooke bows it is with a face that says, 'What a fool you are to be deceived with this fawning!' If he looks friendly it is with a smile that says, 'I will make use of you, and you may go to the devil. A simple rustic might feel all his affections warmed at his countenance, and exclaim, 'What a purehearted old gentleman!' but a fine observer would descry under the glowing exterior, and a heart without warmth. The sarcasm of nothing but professions without meaning, Cooke is at all times most bitter, but in this character its acerbity is tempered with no respect either for its object or for himself. His tone is outrageously smooth and deep; and when it finds its softest level, its under monotony is so full of what is called hugging one's self, and is accompanied with such a dragged smile and viciousness of leer, that he seems enjoyment of malice. It is in thus acting that as if he had lost his voice through the mere in characters of the most apparent labor, as well as in a total neglect of study, this excellent actor surpasses all his contemporaries. His principal faults are confined to his person, for they consist in a monotonous gesture, and a very awkward gait. His shrinking rise of the shoulders, however, may give an idea of that contracted watchfulness with which a mean hypocrite retires into himself. His general air, indeed, his sarcastic cast of countenance, with its close wideness of smile and its hooked nose, and his utter want of study, joined to the villainous characters he represents, are occasionally sufficient to make some people almost fall out with the actor."

To this criticism Dunlap adds the following observations, which add some additional touches to this fine picture of Cooke's style of acting:

least such study as is necessary to create ex"The neglect of study in Mr. Cooke, at

cellence in other men, is a curious fact in his history; and one of the most extraordinary traits in the character of this extraordinary man is that ability which he possessed of seizing the perfect image of the person he would represent; and identifying it with his own feelings, so as to express every emotion designed by the author, as if that emotion was his own. And all this as if by intuition, for nobody knew of his studying, except in that hasty and desultory manner which his journal at times indicates. But his perception was uncommonly quick, and his earlier observations of men and their passions, must have been uncommonly accurate. .. Cooke, when he improved his own playing by what he had seen excellent in other players, did not imitate those players, but only seized what he saw natural in them, and made it his own in his own manner."

It was in this neglect of study, after

he rose to eminence, for which no genius could compensate, that Cooke was so far inferior to his great successor, Kean, who, with all his faults, was an indefatigable student, and rendered the elder actor's failure in all the subtler parts of tragedy, such as Hamlet, so apparent.

The restraint he had put upon his inclinations during the first two years of his London engagement soon gave way: one night, in his third season, he came upon the stage in an evident state of intoxication, pleaded indisposition as an apology, attempted to play, was hissed, and, unable to proceed, was obliged to retire. After this we find too indisposed to act" frequently entered in his diary of provincial tours. How little, spite of his talents, he was estimated in private life, is evident from the fact that we find no mention in that record of any person of standing seeking his society or inviting him to their houses; an omission so complete it would be impossible to find in the career of any other distinguished actor, the society of such being usually eagerly sought after. With each succeeding season his irregularities became more frequent. But at his next appearance he was always ready with a plausible address to the outraged public -he had been confined to his bed "by a violent disorder-" whatever acts of imprudence he "may have" committed in this instance his conduct was unimpeachable; and a good-natured audience was ever ready to condone his past offences and applaud his new efforts to amuse them. Yet, for all this, such conduct told heavily upon his attractiveness, since the announcement was never any guarantee of his appearance. One night he came on the stage as Sir Archy Macsarcasm, with Johnstone, who was playing Sir Callaghan. There was a dead pause. Then Johnstone, advancing to the footlights said, with a strong brogue, "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Cooke says he can't spake." After a shout of laughter at this real Irish bull, the curtain fell amidst a shower of hisses. At another time, after making a few ineffectual attempts to speak the dialogue, Cooke came forward, pressed his hand upon his chest, and, with a most pitiable face, stammered out, "Ladies and gentlemen-my old complaint-my old complaint." The humor of the naïve confession, although not intended as such,

was irresistible, but the roar of laughter was quickly succeeded by loud sounds of indignation.

In the season of 1803-4, Kemble and Mrs. Siddons came to Covent Garden. Kemble played Richmond to Cooke's Richard, Old Norval to his Glenalvon, Rolla to his Pizarro, Jaffier to his Pierre, Antonio to his Shylock, Henry IV. to his Falstaff, while Mrs. Siddons sustained the heroines of these plays. Such a cast had not been seen since the days of Garrick; but the infant phenomenon, Master Betty, could draw more by his parotted pipings at the other house than this splendid array of talent.

In the season of 1807-8, he did not appear until March. He had been passing the interim in Appleby Gaol, where his creditors had placed him. For, in spite of the large sums he had made by his London benefits and provincial engagements, he was overwhelmed with debt. His extravagance and reckless waste were terrible. One night he went into a low public-house in Manchester with the proceeds, amounting to nearly four hundred pounds, of his engagement in that town in his pocket. Some fellows began abusing the King and the Constitution. Cooke, who was a strong loyalist, entered into a dispute, and challenged one of the men to determine the controversy by an appeal to fists. The fellow replied that he took the liberty of abusing him because he was rich and knew him to be a poor man. "Do I?" cried Cooke, I'll show you that. There-look!" and he pulled a roll of banknotes out of his pocket and thrust them into the fire.

There, that's all I have in the world; now I am as poor as you, and now come on !"

His opening part upon his return from durance vile was Sir Pertinax, and the Mirror,' noticing the performance,

says:

"The many rumors of his sufferance by his spirits, and by bailiffs, of 'disastrous chances, of moving accidents by flood, of hairbreadth 'scapes, of being taken by the insolent foe, and his redemption thence,' seemed to have had such an effect upon the audience, that they appeared the more to love him for the dangers he had passed,' and with not three but six rounds of applause greeted his return. Such a house had not been seen since the little hour of little Betty.''

"

From an entry in his diary under date

of the 30th of January, 1809, in which he complains of losing £3 6s. 8d. "by order of the State, this being the martyrdom of King Charles the First" (on which day the theatres were then closed), his salary must have been raised to £20 a week. But he was sinking more rapidly than ever in public estimation. Jourpals depreciated his acting, compared it unfavorably with far inferior players, and made him besides a butt to shoot their frequently dull and coarse witticisms upon. His last season in London (1809-10) culminated his degradation. More than once he came upon the stage only to be led off incapable of speech. The management could not depend on him from one hour to another. Even when he was comparatively sober a sudden caprice would determine him not to play, and from some place where he was not likeiy to be found, he would send word he should not act that evening. At others, after he had been given up in the theatre, and another, perhaps Kemble himself, was about to step on the stage for the part, he would appear suddenly at the wing dressed for the character. After each of his escapades there was a humble apology to be made to the audience, until indignation gave way to contempt. The 5th of June, 1810, when he played Falstaff, one of his finest parts, in the first part of Henry IV., was his last appearance upon the London stage. Thence he went to Liverpool, always one of his strongholds. One night, however, being attacked with his old complaint," the audience angrily demanded an apology. "Apology from me! from George Frederick Cooke!" he cried. "Take it from this remark: There's not a brick in your infernal town which is not cemented by the blood of some slave." Cooper, the American actor, was in the town at the time, and offered him an engagement for America at £25 a week. He was still bound, however, to Harris, the Covent Garden manager. But Cooper, who knew he would be a splendid speculation in New York, was determined to have him, and after much manoeuvring contrived to carry him off out of some vile Liverpool slum while in a state of intoxication, and got him on board a ship bound for America, where he landed in the November of the same year.

66

He was the first great English actor who crossed the Atlantic, and Dunlap, himself an American, says:

London actor should be removed to America, "It appeared as impossible that the great

as that St. Paul's Cathedral should have been transported across the ocean. Englishmen in New York swore roundly it could not be. It was some other performer of the same name-it was even insinuated that the whole thing was an imposition."

Dunlap, describing his first introduction to him, continues:

"The neatness of his dress, his sober suit of grey, his powdered grey hairs, and suavity tric being whose weaknesses had been the of address, gave no indication of the eccentheme of the English fugitive publications; nor could the strictest examination detect any of those marks by which the votaries of intemperance, falsely called pleasure, are so universally stigmatized."

He goes on to relate that Price, the American manager, on opening the door of the room where he was informed that Cooke awaited him, upon seeing a man so different to what he imagined the eccentric, depraved Cooke to be, shut the door, and told the servants he had been directed to the wrong apartment.

He appeared on the 21st of November as Richard. The excitement was enormous, the crush was unprecedented, hundreds were unable to gain admission, such a house had never before been seen in America. His reception was splendid.

I

"His appearance," continues Dunlap," was picturesque and proudly noble; his head elevated, his step firm, his eye beaming fire. saw no vestige of the venerable, grey-haired old gentlemen I had been introduced to at the coffee-house; and the utmost effort of my imagination could not have reconciled the figure I now saw, with that of imbecility and intemperance."

He was sober, played with all his old greatness, and his success was enormous. His other celebrated parts followed, the houses, spite of snowstorms, which would on any other occasion, says his biographer, have rendered the theatre "a heartless void," were nightly crammed. In seventeen nights there were taken $21,578. But alas, he quickly fell into his old vices. The night of his benefit he appeared as Cato, without having once refreshed his memory by reading the part, and intoxicated as well; he uttered a string of incoherences, but

scarcely one word of Addison's. This escapade was followed by others, and the old life of riot and excess recommenced; the old story of disappointed audiences, of disappearances for days together, until he was found penniless in some squalid den in the vilest purlieus of the city.

The second city of the States he visited was Boston, where he was also enthusiastically received. Thence he returned to New York, but his evil habits, his wild extravagancies, and, above all, his insolence to the people, had, even during his brief first visit, destroyed his popularity. He had a hatred of republican institutions, and never lost an opportunity of displaying it. A gentleman mentioning that his family were amongst the first settlers in Maryland, Cooke demanded if he had kept the family jewels "I mean the chains and handcuffs," he added. Hearing the President was coming to see him act, he said, “What! I, George Frederick Cooke, who have played before the majesty of Britain, play before your Yankee president! I'll not play before him. It is degradation enough to play before rebels, but I'll not go on for the amusement of a king of rebels, the contemptible king of Yankee-doodles." He asserted that when a youth he had been in the army during the American rebellion. Upon the heights of Brooklyn being pointed out to him, he exclaimed: "That's the spot we marched up; the rebels retreated; we charged; they fled; we mounted the hill. I carried the colors of the 5th; my father carried them before me; my son now carries them. I led-Washington was in the rear of the rebels. I pressed forward, when at this. moment Howe cried 'Halt!' But for that, sir, I should have carried the position, and there would have been an end of the rebellion."

One night he was lamenting over his cups that he had no children, but shortly afterwards filled up a bumper and proposed the health of his eldest son, a captain in the 5th. "What is his name?" inquired one of his companions. "What is my name, sir? George Frederick Cooke." A little time afterwards he proposed the health of his second son. And what is his name?" was again the query. "What should it be, sir, but George Frederick Cooke?" That same

night, being very intoxicated, he was put into a coach by his host, who bore him company; and all the way along he abused the country. The coachman driving a little recklessly, the gentleman put his head out of window and cautioned him. "What, sir," cried. Cooke, "do you pretend to direct my servant? Get out of my coach. Stop, coachman." "Drive on," commanded his companion. "Do you dare order my coachman ? Get out, or this fist shall -" "Sit still, sir, or I'll blow your brains out!" was the quiet reply. For a moment Cooke sat still, petrified with astonishment; then began: "Has George Frederick Cooke come to this infernal country to be treated thus? Shall it be told in England? Well, sir, if you will not get out, I will." And out he got and sat down on the roadside. He threatened that on his return to England he would publish such a satirical picture of the country and of its inhabitants as had never been seen or heard of in any other part of the world.

"The Yankee-doodles were certainly a milder race then than now, or George Frederick's career would have been speedily cut short by bullet or bowie-knife. But as the last anecdote indicates, rash valor was not among his failings. Indeed, he was always ready to retreat before the consequences of his insolence. One day he had a hot dispute with a bullying fellow in company with some others, and assailed him with the most abusive language. The fellow showed fight; Cooke cooled down. Then one of his companions took up the quarrel, and ejected his opponent. There was a row and a scuffle on the stairs. Cooke retired to his bedroom; and called his servant. "Sam, it's very late; help me off with my clothes; I'll go to bed." Just then one of the party from below came running up, and finding the tragedian already half undressed exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Cooke! why are you here, while Price is fighting that rascal for you?" "Where is the scoundrel?" cried Cooke, fiercely. "Sam, why are you so slow? Give me my boots. Where is the scoundrel? My coat, Sam. Where is the blackguard?" But the scrimmage was over long before Cooke was ready to take part in it. Some of his American friends generously entered

into the humor of his Pistol-like bravery, and challenged him. "You must apologise or fight," said one of these, after the actor had been as usual railing against the country. "I will not apologise, young gentleman," he answered loftily; "I will fight you. But if I fight you I shall shoot you. I am the best shot in Europe. If you insist upon it I will shoot you. I would not willingly shed blood." But it may be doubted whether Cooke did not see through the quiz, for the whole routine of the duel was carried through; the pistols, loaded only with powder, were discharged; the antagonist, pretending to be shot, fell, and the actor, cutting the sleeve of his coat, made believe he was wounded in the shoulder.

At Philadelphia his success almost equalled that of New York. In sixteen nights the receipts were $17,360. his return to Boston

Upon

"Such was the rage," says Dunlap, "for seeing Cooke, that though it was the depth of winter, and excessively cold, the box office has been surrounded from three o'clock in the morning until the time of opening, which was

ten.

From the time of his landing in America his health began to fail, and on several occasions he was incapacitated from appearing through real indisposition. A constitution of iron alone could have withstood such years of debauchery, but it gave way at last. On the 31st of July, 1812, while playing Sir Giles Overreach at Boston, he was taken for death, but lingered till the following September, when he died. He was preparing at the time to return to England, Harris having written to him to come back to Covent Garden. "John Bull," says the letter, "is as fond of you as ever, and would be most happy to see his favorite again." We could have no better proof of Cooke's great abilities than such an offer after all his disgraceful escapades. There is not in the whole history of the stage a career more pitiable than this, not one for the errors of which we can plead so few excuses.

But not even after the grave closed over him had George Frederick, at least in body, ended his eccentric career. I will conclude this article with two extraordinary anecdotes of the post mortem period; the first is given on the authority of Dr.

Doran, the second on that of Mr. Procter (Barry Cornwall in his 'Life of Edmund Kean').

After his death the doctors not only opened his body to discover the cause, but one, Dr. Francis, took possession of his head for phrenological purposes, and kept the skull in his surgery. One night 'Hamlet' was performed at the 'Park ;' at the last moment the property man found he had no skull, and hastened to the doctor's to borrow one. The one lent was Cooke's. It was returned that night, but next evening at a meeting of the Cooper Club, the circumstance being known to several there, a desire was expressed to examine the head of the great tragedian, which was again produced for the investigation of Daniel Webster, Henry Wheaton, and other celebrities. Anecdote number one. Now for number two.

This

Kean was a great admirer of Cooke, and when he was in New York visited his grave. Finding it without a memorial stone, he had the body taken up, removed to another place, and a handsome monument placed over it. In the transition from one grave to another he contrived to abstract one of the toe-bones, and this he brought back with him to London as a precious relic. Upon his arrival in England Elliston and several of the Drury Lane company went as far as Barnet to meet him. When he arrived at the hotel where they were, to breakfast, he stopped all their greetings with, "Before you say a word, Behold! Fall down and kiss this relic! is the toe-bone of the greatest creature that ever walked the earth of George Frederick Cooke. Come, down with you all and kiss the bone!" Elliston, to humor him, dropped upon his knees and kissed the relic, and the others followed his example. Arriving home Kean's first words to his wife were, “I have brought Charles a fortune. I have something that the directors of the British Museum would give ten thousand pounds for; but they shan't have it. the toe-bone of the greatest man that ever lived-George Frederick Cooke. Now, observe; I put this on the mantelpiece; but let no one dare to touch it. You may all look at it—at a distance, but be sure no one presumes to handle it." Here it lay for months an object of pride

Here it is,