straw, like the folk of the Round Table, a re-action would immediately take place, and people would be found to denounce the idol as a thing of clay, even in the very teeth of his idolators. Things went on differently then, and the Cockneys had it all to themselves. Creatures whom the most paltry of the two-pennies of London would not now admit as gratis contributors, then directed the taste of " the town." They went about trim, crisp, and jaunty, weaving chaplets of laurel, and venting sonnets on one another. You heard a sugh at every corner about fine gusto, and virtu, and keeping, and those down-looking Greeks, of whom, by the way, they could not spell the names, far less read them, if written in their native characters. Poor devils! When we look back at their happy state, our heart is sometimes" wae" within us on reflecting that it was we who marred their Elysium-a feeling which, however, fades in an instant all away when we recollect that they used the power they possessed to insult merit-to outrage decency-to vilify religion-to puff meanness-and to beslaver all that was venerable and glorious in the land. These were Kean's patrons-they pronounced him a second Garrick, and the town bent in prostrate reverence before the fetid breath of the oracle. Under the auspices of this gang, Kean went on and prospered. He soon entertains us with an account of a most asinine speech he made, at the most asinine ceremony of presenting him with a gold cup, which was delivered to him by Palmer. And in a page or so afterwards, he gets so delighted with his oratory, that he again favours us with another most brilliant harangue, delivered by him at the opening of the Wolf Club, of which he was the appropriate grand-master. Its design was to howl down, as its name implies, everybody who had any chance of rivalling the quack actor, who got them together, though Kean here seems to insinuate that they were merely a drunken set of soakers, who met to make themselves" comfortable," p. 130. He was at last obliged to knock it up. The opening sentence of the speech is too good. Conceive such a man as Kean beginning an oration thus: "GENTLEMEN! (there was not one in the room, except a few gentlemen of the press)-Gentlemen and brothers! "If we look to tradition, OUR arts and sciences, OUR laws and governments in embryo were uncertain, disputable, and vague." This is a deep discovery. "To accomplish perfection in any degree, (there being of course various degrees of perfection,) has been, and will remain, the work of ages and constant perseverance. "I am THEREFORE aware of the difficulties we have to encounter in bringing our little society," &c. &c. &c. What an Argal! Arts, sciences, laws, governments, ages, and tradition, lugged in by the head and shoulders, to preface the formation of a drunken club! The force of bathos could no farther go. He He went in 1818 to France-dined with Talma-and got a snuff-box from some French players-all of which important events are duly dated. It is from circumstances of this kind, that we conclude it must be an autobiography, for surely no man alive would take the trouble of finding out, that, on the 15th of July, 1818, Kean dined with Talma, or would care a pinch of snuff whether, on the day afore-mentioned, he had gone supperless to bed. After this, we have him acting in Howard Payne's most stupid of all stupid plays, Brutus, very much to his own contentment. tells us, that the leading feature of his acting was dignity, "dignity approaching to the sublime, and downright simple energy." This is too audacious. Kean act Brutus with dignity! Howard Payne write a play in which anybody could act with dignity! Author and actor were worthy of one another. We wish somebody would tell Kean what George Coleman said of his fine and original way of mispronouncing the word "prisoner," in the passage which extorted all the approbation from the Cockney critics. We doubt if he would try it again. We next slur over his indefensible conduct to poor Jenny Porter, and her play of Switzerland-as also his behaviour to Bucke's Italians. He owns he had the worse of the latter controversy; but defends his letter in answer to Bucke, by saying that it was written under angry feelings. He must have been not angry with Bucke only, but with the language of the country, for it was full of words mis spelt from beginning to end-just such a fine composition as he some time after had the folly to write to John Bull, and which Bull, with malicious mirth, printed verbatim as it came from the pen of the writer. Good old Sir John Sinclair after this makes his appearance, with the silly epistle which he wrote on the occasion of some foolish people of our modern Athens having clubbed their shillings to buy Kean a sword. It was an unjustifiable and cruel proceeding, after all; for the sword being unfortunately too large for Kean's body, he appeared, whenever he was tied to it, like a poor cockchaffer transfixed by a huge corking-pin. Sir John favours his correspondent with some remarks on swords, and on the history of Macbeth, very pleasant to read, and quite germane to the matter. The sword, he tells him, is of the true Highland make, whence we conclude that the Celtic Society was at the bottom of the business, for it is quite fit for them. It is adorned, moreover, "with some of the most valuable stones that Scotland produces." We flatter ourselves that that is a touch redolent of the north side of the Tweed. It is good to be merry and wise. None of your outlandish diamonds, therefore, which cost siller, when we can get our own canny cairngorms for nothing. The inscription on the sword is worthy of them that gave, and him who received. We copy it as it appears in this authentic tome, p. 136. This sword was presented ΤΟ EDMUND KEAN, ESQ. The King of Scotland. What it means is beyond our capacity. Next follow his adventures in America, briefly related for good reasons; and the whole is wound up by a good deal of puffing, on some of his freaks of ostentatious generosity. Some insolent language of his to a tavernkeeper in Portsmouth, comes in for its share of applause, but the story is simply this: When Kean was a strolling player, he asked this man for half-a-pint of porter; and Boniface would not give it to him until he paid the penny beforehand-such was the shabby appearance of the poor fellow. We think the man was quite right, as every one ought to take care of his property. Afterwards, when Mr Kean was rich, this landlord, as landlords will do, came bowing and scraping to him, and Kean remembering the indignity of having been refused tick for a penny, made a most indignant speech, and left the house. He knit his brow, he says, most awfully, and among much other stuff, he announced himself as "The same Edmund Kean that I was fifteen years ago, when you insulted me. Look at me again, sir. What alteration beyond that of dress do you discover in me? Am I a better man than I was then ?" &c. &c. Heaven help us! Here is nonsense in all its altitudes! To be sure, he was not a better man-very possibly he might have been a worse man-but he was decidedly richer-better on 'Change. The landlord, when he saw poor Mr Kean, was afraid of his money, and refused him credit-when he saw rich Mr Kean, he looked to a good stiff bill-and that made all the differKean never was so besotted as when he imagined the compliment paid to his purse was paid to his per ence. son. "On Kean's acting," continues he, we decline offering any criticism; he is beyond it." Quite beyond it indeed-but there are two kinds of beyonds, above and below. A worse actor never trod the stage-we mean, pretending to enact such characters as he has taken on himself to murder. Here ends the auto-biography. We go no farther, having nothing to do with Kean except to expose quackery, puffing, and humbug. He is going down very fast, and we flatter ourselves that this Life of his, though intended for a different purpose, will freshen his way a trifle down the ladder of popularity. FUTURE PROSPECTS OF THE WORLD. SPIRIT of Concord! shall it still be thine While seasons hold their course, and heaves the main, No! heavenly light dispels the shapeless gloom, See from the fetter'd hands the shackles fall, As Herod's heart to Mariamne turn'd,2 While o'er the rolling earth, and heaving main, Lo! Friendship gazes with prophetic eye, "Behold," she says, "what clouds of dreary shade, To wither all its charms, the scene pervade; Beneath a chilling breeze, a frowning sky, "With cypress coronal, and robes whose dye She wreathes her mystic fetters on the mind; Degrades celestial Reason from her throne, Chains Fancy's feet, and makes all sway her own: 'Twas she, amid Dahomey's groves of blood," That edged the brand, and loosed the purple flood; 'Twas she, 'mid Brama's wilds of awful gloom,4 That gave the widow'd wretch a living tomb; 'Twas she, that o'er the necks of erring love, The wheels of Juggernaut triumphant drove; 'Twas she that sent the banner'd cross afar, Whose mandate kindled Palestine to war, That bow'd the crest of Turkey's haughty lord, That drench'd in Moslem blood the Christian sword," That gave-ah! record of eternal shame !— A Ridley to the stake, a Cranmer to the flame!! "And yonder, see, within a trackless maze, The dreadful power that Pyrrho worshipp'd strays; Like midnight skiff without a magnet, tost, Dubious of wreck, yet certain to be lost; Dim is the mist-attired horizon round, Gulfs yawn before her-yet no hope is found, No sign like that, which, pointing Israel's way, Forbade the weak to sink, the bold to stray: She looks beneath-there is no prospect, save A wakeless sleep, and everlasting grave, Across whose precincts, in unhallow'd bloom, The nightshade waves its canopy of gloom; She casts her glance above her, to descry A chance-created heaven-a godless sky, And wavering Fancy wanders to explore, In helmless bark, a sea without a shore; While Silence, like a guardian, grasps the key That opes the portals of futurity! ""Tis night; and lo! from yon beleaguer'd wall, Shatter'd with shot, and tottering to its fall, Burst shrieks and shouts, that pierce the shuddering ear There, where red Murder walks his hourly round, "See o'er the earth, with waste and woe replete, Lithe Flattery crouching at Corruption's feet; Ambition mounting by the neck of Sin; And Wisdom's small voice drown'd by Folly's din. From the sharp winds, and night's descending storm : Looks on his half-fed family in pain; And Beggary, with her orphans at her back, Climbs slowly on up Virtue's rocky track, Turns from Temptation's paths, whose sweets invite, 'Mid Nature's craving wants, her longing sight; Expects not human aid, and to the skies Trusts only for the help which man denies! "No longer gaze in anguish and affright |