in a final separation but for the happy incident recorded in the chapter called Rowing down the River Moselle. The party had rowed down the river, talking as usual of many things: It was just at this point of the conversation that we pulled in nearer to the land, as Walter had made signs that he wished now to get into the boat. It was a weedy rushy part of the river that we entered. Fixer saw a rat or some other creature, which he was wild to get at. Ellesmere excited him to do so, and the dog sprang out of the boat. In a minute or two Fixer became entangled in the weeds, and seemed to be in danger of sinking. Ellesmere, without thinking what he was about, made a hasty effort to save the dog, seized hold of him, but lost his own balance and fell out of the boat. In another moment Mildred gave me the end of her shawl to hold, which she had wound round herself, and sprang out too. The sensible diplomatist lost no time in throwing his weighty person to the other side of the boat. The two boatmen did the same. But for this move, the boat would, in all probability, have capsized, and we should all have been lost. Mildred was successful in clutching hold of Ellesmere; and Milverton and I managed to haul them close to the boat and to pull them in. Ellesmere had not relinquished hold of Fixer. All this happened, as such accidents do, in almost less time than it takes to describe them. And now came another dripping creature splashing into the boat; for Master Walter, who can swim like a duck, had plunged in directly he saw the accident, but too late to be of any assistance. Things are now all right; and Ellesmere next day announces to his friends that Mildred and he are engaged. Two chapters, on Government and Despotism respectivelythe latter, perhaps from the nature of the subject and its exhaustive treatment, the most valuable essay in the volumes-give us the last thoughts of the Friends abroad then we have a pleasant picture of them all in Milverton's farm-yard, under a great sycamore, discoursing cheerfully of country cares. The closing chapter of the book is on The Need for Tolerance. contains a host of thoughts which we should be glad to extract; but we must be content with a wise saying of Milverton's : It For a man who has been rigidly good to be supremely tolerant, would require an amount of insight which seems to belong only to the greatest genius. For we hardly sympathize with that which we have not in some measure experienced; and the great thing, after all, which makes us tolerant of the errors of other men, is the feeling that under like circumstances we should have ourselves erred in like manner; or, at all events, the being able to see the error in such a light as to feel that there is that within ourselves which enables us at least to understand how men should in such a way have erred. The sins on which we are most severe are those concerning which our feeling is, that we cannot conceive how any man could possibly have done them. And probably such would be the feeling of a rigidly good man concerning every sin. So we part, for the present, from our Friends, not without the hope of again meeting them. We have been listening to the conversation of living men; and, in parting, we feel the regret that we should feel in quitting a kind friend's house after a pleasant visit, not, perhaps, to be renewed for many a day. And this is a changing world. We have been breathing the old atmosphere, and listening to the old voices talking in the old way. We have had new thought and new truth, but presented in the fashion we have known and enjoyed for years. Happily we can repeat our visit as often as we please, without the fear of worrying or wearying; for we may open the book at will. And we shall hope for new visits likewise. Milverton will be as earnest and more hopeful, Ellesmere will retain all that is good, and that which is provoking will now be softened down. No doubt by this time they are married. Where have they gone? The continent is unsettled, and they have often already been there. Perhaps they have gone to Scotland? No doubt they have. And perhaps before the leaves are sere we may find them out among the sea lochs of the beautiful Frith of Clyde, or under the shadow of Ben Nevis. A. K. H. B. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.* MR. CHARLES KEAN has Not been a very successful man. Thrown suddenly upon the world without a shilling, and with a name which was quite as likely to injure as to advance him in his profession, he quickly earned an independent name and fortune for himself. less happy in love, he secured a wife in whom, according to Mr. Cole, are concentrated every grace and attraction which can endear a woman to her husband. He is the admired of thousands as the greatest tragedian of the day. The newspapers-noble triumph!—are at his feet-at least, according to the same infallible authority, the high and independent portion of the press' is so. He has enjoyed for a reasonable term of years the unlimited despotism of managership, without paying in ruin the penalty at which this luxury is usually purchased. He has been praised and flattered and petted as it falls to the lot of few men to be, and he obviously enjoys praise, flattery, and petting with a zest even beyond that of ordinary human frailty. When his admirers wish to entertain him, the steam of adulation is not served up at a dinner-dinner is a vile phrase -but at a public banquet,' and peers and cabinet ministers contend for the honour of assisting as the ministering priests. The noblemen and gentlemen, educated at Eton,' who project the feast, exclusive as in ordinary circumstances they certainly would be, waive their prejudices in favour of their brother Etonian, and graciously considering that the right of acknowledging Mr. Kean's services belongs to the nation at large,' are content to share an indifferent dinner and cruel wine with some five hundred inferior worshippers of the histrionic idol. Nor is this all. A testimonial worthy of genius so distinguished still awaits him. To precipitate this would be unworthy of the far-sighted policy by which Mr. Kean's merits have for many years been so skil fully kept before the public. When a man has been 'banqueted,' he is very apt to be forgotten, and, like Cremorne after the fireworks have been let off, to settle into darkness and indifference. Therefore is the subscription list for the Kean Testimonial' to be kept open until the 1st of May, 1860; and pleasing as it is to be assured by Mr. Cole of the fact that the amount already exceeds £1000, it is doubly gratifying to learn from that acute prophet that this sum will in all probability be doubled before the above-named date.' Testimonials are sometimes good investments; it may be worth while to ensure the fulfilment of the prophecy. Such triumphs as these might be enough, one would think, even for a great actor. Most great actors have been happy with much less. They have taken their well-won honours humbly and gracefully, and shuffled off this mortal coil, leaving their name and fame to the grateful remembrances of the public, or the recording pen of some neutral admirer. To proclaim their own genius and virtues in the marketplace, however matchless these might in their own estimation have been, has not hitherto been considered quite the right thing for actors to do, any more than for other people. Mr. Charles Kean thinks otherwise. The public must not only admire him in their own way, they must also be taught how and why to admire him in his. They must learn from himself how supreme he is in all the phases of his art; how he has triumphed over cabal and prejudice and opposition; how Garrick, and Kemble, and Young, and Edmund Kean, and Macready, all very good in their degree and for their time, must kick the beam when weighed against himself. By himself also must they be told how dutiful a son, how admirable a husband, how priceless a friend, how bountiful a benefactor, the great restorer of Shakspeare' The Life and Theatrical Times of Charles Kean, F.S.A.; including a Summary of the English Stage for the last Fifty Years, and a detailed Account of the Management of the Princess's Theatre from 1850 to 1859. By John William Cole. Two Volumes. London: Bentley. 1859. can be amid all the overwhelming toils of his artistic career. Mr. Kean's reputation is not to be left for a surviving generation to settle. That might be dangerous; so he prudently determines to be canonized in his own time, and even to deliver his own eulogium at the ceremony. Not content with supplying the miracles (of genius), he pronounces, by anticipation, the verdict of posterity upon them, provides the incense, and arranges the hymns. His hunger for applause transports him beyond the ignorant present,' and having no misgivings himself of his right to an immortality of fame, he'sees the future in the instant,' and tastes the luxury of the panegyrics which, if a future age does not, it at least ought to pronounce over his tomb. The Life and Theatrical Times of Charles Kean, F.S.A., professes to be written by Mr. John William Cole, but no one can proceed far into the two dreary volumes without seeing that Mr. Charles Kean himself is the real author. Mr. Cole, a gentleman, we believe, who under a different name was well known as an actor in Scotland and Ireland, and who was for many years the manager of the Dublin Theatre, states in his preface that he has enjoyed years of uninterrupted private friendship and professional association of the most intimate nature with the leading personage of the work.' In another place he assures us that in speaking freely of Mr. Kean's thoughts and opinions, he begs to have it understood explicitly that he was, and had been for many years, in daily, he may say in hourly communication with him. He knew every turn of his mind, and reflected the impression of his feelings almost as faithfully as he retained them himself.' Orestes and Pylades, Damon and Pythias, and the other model friends of antiquity, could boast no such unity of spirit. A perfect parallel to this mingling of souls is only to be found in the raptures of lovers : Eines ist im andern nur bewusst Į Mr. Charles Kean may not know himself. What wise man does? But this is of no moment, for the faithful Cole knows every turn of his mind, and with mirror-like fidelity reflects all the transitory glories of his great but otherwise imperfect nature. With generous devotion, moreover, he resigns his own will to the master spirit, he writes his very panegyrics upon sufferance, and even while panting to complete a vindication of his friend at a critical point by publishing some private correspondence, he is compelled to forego his intentions because, as he informs us with admirable candour, Mr. Kean has declined admitting its introduction into these volumes!' Mr. Cole, it is plain, may have held the pen, and possibly may have been allowed to wield it freely in stringing together the gossip of dramatic biographies and of green-rooms of a bygone age, which occupies about a third of these volumes. But whereever the leading personage of the work' was in question, the lieutenant has been merely the medium of letting the world know what his commanding officer wished it to be told and to believe about himself. Mr. Cole in his preface condemns autobiography, because, as he says, 'human weakness interferes with a true delineation.' A stranger, or an enemy, he continues, cannot be looked to for a faithful portrait. 'An honest friend is most to be depended on,' that honest friend, in the present case, is of course Mr. John William Cole; but in assuming this character for himself this gentleman forgets, that in addition to the motives, which sometimes mar the delineations of even the most honest friend,' a great disturbing agent exists in his case in the fact that he has for many years been, and still is, a salaried official of Mr. Charles Kean! Mr. Kean may not be exacting, and Mr. Cole may not be servile; but it is not in human nature to think independently or to speak frankly in such a position. Power on the one side, and adulation on the other, will always be suspicious. The praise of an equal or an adversary have some value. The fulsome may homage of a stipendiary is worse than worthless, and provokes contempt alike for him who gives and him who stoops to accept it. Para sites and flatterers have in all ages called themselves 'honest friends;' but the phrase can varnish their degradation only to themselves. If Mr. Cole were merely an 'honest friend' of Mr. Kean, why, it may well be asked, was this book ever written? What was the story to be told? What the outcry for it? Who wanted to be furnished with a chronicle of Mr Kean's engagements, of the newspapers which have written him up, of the good-natured notes of admiring friends, of the sums his engagements netted, of his expenditure on his revivals, of his losses by one and gains by another, of his donations to charities, of his domestic virtues, of the outrageous puffs, all stamped with a most suspicious family likeness, with which his reputation has of late years been bolstered up in the journals? And yet, in so far as Mr. Kean is concerned, these volumes are barren of every other theme. If Mr. Kean be vain enough to think that such matters are of the slightest interest to mankind, an honest friend' would have done his uttermost to undeceive him. But Mr. Cole's mind has apparently become so identified with Mr. Kean's that it is now merely its echo. The absorption of the lesser spirit by the greater is complete. Messrs. Kean and Cole are mental Siamese Twins. The one does the thinking and feeling, the other the writing. Mr. Kean pulls the strings, the puppet Cole obeys their every jerk, and pitiful beyond belief is the exhibition which ensues. Such a display of preposterous egotism and vanity has fortunately hitherto been reserved for the privacy of the social circle or family hearth. In the days when Mr. Dickens was content to gladden and enlarge his readers' hearts by genial humour, when as yet he had no thought of setting up for a great moral teacher, 363 yet was one in the best sense of the word, he penned the admirable sketch of Mr. Vincent Crummles, his family, and company. Who does not remember the Infant Phenomenon, Mr. Lenville, the leading tragedian, Mr. Folair, the pantomimist, Miss Snevellici, Miss Ledrook, and though last, not least, Mr. Vincent Crummles himself, and the gifted being who shared his fortunes and his bed? We used to think and hope that the infinitely little vanities, the absurd jealousies, the small dodges of that most amusing dramatic circle were over-coloured. We have read The Life and Times of Charles Kean, F.S.A., and can think so no longer. There we have all the characteristics on which Mr. Dickens based his sketch; but unhappily with the humour left out, which reconciled us to all that was petty and contemptible in those distinguished members of the Portsmouth Circuit. Mr. Kean is simply Mr. Vincent Crummles in a larger arena, and Mr. Cole the faithful Grudden, who lived only to advance the interests of the Crummles race. The eye of the nation, Mr. Crummles thought, was always upon him. So manifestly thinks Mr. Kean. If Crummles managed to secure a puff in a newspaper, he thought it fame. So does Mr. Kean. When we read in Mr. Cole's volumes the newspaper notices of Mr. Kean's acting some twenty years back, full of the fervid incoherence which is apt to distinguish such literary efforts, we are reminded of the volume which was left with such studied carelessness for Nicholas Nickleby's perusal on his visit to the fair Snevellici's lodgings. The most interesting object of all was perhaps the open scrap-book, pasted into which were various critical notices of Miss Snevellici's acting, extracted from different provincial journals, together with one poetic address in her honour, commencing— Say, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye, Besides this effusion there were innumerable complimentary allusions, also extracted from newspapers, such as 'We observe from an advertisement in another part of our paper to-day, that VOL. LX. NO. CCCLVII. the charming and highly-talented Miss Snevellici takes her benefit on Wednesday, for which occasion she has put forth a bill of fare that might kindle exhilaration in the breast of a misan A A thrope. In the confidence that our fellow-townsmen have not lost that high appreciation of public ability and private worth for which they have long been so pre-eminently distinguished, we predict that this charming actress will be greeted with a bumper.' Of precisely the same character, and of just as much value and interest, are the notices hoarded up by Mr. Kean for reproduction through Mr. Cole's volumes. Mr. Vincent Crummles was not above a similar weakness. He was a clever diplomatist. Somehow or other the press were always warm in his praise, and singularly cognisant of his private merits. When Nicholas Nickleby, at their final meeting, asks him where he was going, a simple answer to the question would have been unworthy of the public favourite. 'Haven't you seen it in the papers?' said Crummles with some dignity. 'No,' replied Nicholas. 'I wonder at that,' said the manager. 'It was among the varieties. I had the paragraph here somewhere-but I don't know-oh yes, here it is.' "The talented Vincent Crummles, long favourably known to fame as a country manager and actor of no ordinary pretensions, is about to cross the Atlantic on a histrionic expedition. We know no man superior to Crummles in his particular line of character, or one who, whether as a public or private individual, could carry with him the best wishes of a larger circle of friends. Crummles is certain to succeed." A third of Mr. Cole's book might be condensed into the two last sentences. 'Here's another bit,' said Mr. Crummles, handing over a still smaller scrap. "This is from the notices to correspondents, this one.' Nicholas read it aloud. "Philo-Dramaticus.-Crummles, the country manager and actor, cannot be more than forty-three or forty-four years of age. Crummles is not a Prussian, having been born at Chelsea." 'Humph!' said Nicholas, that's an odd paragraph." 'Very!' returned Crummles, scratching the side of his nose, and looking at Nicholas, with an assumption of great unconcern. 'I can't think who puts those things in. I didn't!' Many paragraphs just as odd does Mr. Cole reproduce. How they ever happened to appear we are quite as much at a loss to conjecture as Nicholas Nickleby was in the instance in question-and no more. To secure the press has obviously been one great aim of Mr. Kean throughout his career. What his or Mr. Cole's private opinion of that mysterious body may be, it is rather hard to determine. At one time it is ignorant, incapable, mercenary. Then it is blind to Mr. Kean's merits. At another time it is enlightened and independent. Then its eyes have been opened to his genius. It is the instrument of a cabal in the one case; the uncontrollable voice of public admiration in the other. Never, apparently, did the peace of mind of any man 80 hang upon what might be said of him by the fourth estate. It was his first thought after making his début at Drury Lane on the Ist October, 1827. On the following morning he rushed with feverish anxiety to the papers, and, without pausing, read them to his mother. His fate and hers 'depended on the dictum of the all-powerful press!' It was unanimous in condemnation. Not simple disapproval or qualified censure, but sentence of utter incapacity -stern, bitter, crushing, and conclusive. There was no modified phrase, no exceptional encouragement, no admiration of undeveloped faculties, no allowance for youth and inexperience. The crude efforts of a schoolboy were dealt with as the matured study of a practised man. Mr. Cole of course thinks the press acted very improperly, while in the same breath he urges the importance of its acting on all occasions with strict impartiality. Even he does not, however, venture to say that Mr. Kean was not then a very bad actor; and if so, what could the press honestly do but warn him off the metropolitan boards? It would be well for actors and playgoers if these gentlemen exercised their functions as inspectors of dramatic nuisances as sternly in our own days as they did twenty years ago. In Mr. Kean's case, they did him inestimable service by telling him he had everything to learn, and sending him to the provinces to learn it. But even at this early stage, Mr. Kean seems to have come to the conclusion, not that he was unfit for the place of a |