neous.

her brother; her voice was less sepulchral, her manner more spontaShe had more repose than Garrick, and was more natural than Mrs. Pritchard. She even made old George III. shed tears, and ladies fainted at the agonies of her Jane Shore. Genius paid her homage; Erskine studied her cadences; Dr. Johnson kissed her hand and bowed his learned head to her; Reynolds painted her as the Tragic Muse. Even in private life she moved a queen, and spoke blank verse. She was accused by some of her envious contemporaries of parsimony, and of having allowed an abandoned sister almost to perish of starvation. But there is no proof that she was ever more than justly prudent. She closed her career in 1812 with her great character, Lady Macbeth, and died in 1831.

King, the original Sir Peter Teazle, Lord Ogleby, Puff, and Dr. Cantwell, began his London career at Drury Lane in 1748. He left the stage in 1802. As Touchstone and Ranger he was always arch, rapid, and versatile. Hazlitt describes his old, hard, rough, apple-john face, and praises his neat way of uttering shrewd hints and tart replies.

A favourite low comedian from 1780 to 1805 was Dicky Suett, a tall, thin, ungainly man; very nervous and tipsy in private life, and on the stage addicted to grimacing and "gagging." Lamb describes his catch-words, "O la!" as irresistible. "He drolled upon the stock of those two syllables richer than the cuckoo." His loose shambling gait and slippery tongue reminded Lamb of Shakespeare's jesters; and Hazlitt calls him "the delightful old croaker-the everlasting Dicky Gossip of the stage." Suett was probably more colloquial and vulgar than the low comedians of Garrick's time; and Colman's and Morton's plays left him more room to improvise word and gesture than the severer comedies of earlier days.

But the chosen niche in this chapter, the place of vantage, we must give to that "noblest Roman of them all," John Philip Kemble, who first appeared at Drury Lane in 1783, in the character of Hamlet. In 1788-9 he succeeded King as manager of the theatre, and continued its director till 1801, when he went to Covent Garden. He first delighted Sheridan by the heroic way in which he delivered the rant of Rolla. Boaden says, "The noble portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence of Kemble bearing off the child expresses most accurately the vigour and picturesque beauty of his action. The herculean effort of his strength, his passing the bridge, his preservation of the infant though himself mortally wounded, excited a sensation of alarm and agony beyond anything perhaps that the stage has exhibited. But in truth, from his entrance to his death, the character was sustained with a power of elocution, a firmness of deportment, and an intensity of expression, that he alone could combine together." Pizarro ran thirty-one nights. Addison's Cato at the first was acted only eighteen times. In Coriolanus and Cato Kemble was preeminent; in all statuesque characters he excelled; but that in the violent passion of Richard and Sir Giles, Cooke and

Kean surpassed him, there can be no doubt. Kemble had dry humour, and made occasional essays in comedy. George Colman, who spared nobody, said of Kemble's Don Felix that there was a deuced deal too much of the Don and a ddeal too little of the Felix. Kemble began seriously studying for Falstaff, but his courage failed him after he had already collected the costume. He once played Charles Surface, but the critics pronounced it not Charles's restoration, but Charles's martyrdom. He also attempted a jovial rakish character in one of Mrs. Aphra Behn's licentious comedies, but he was unsuccessful. As Hamlet he was romantic, dignified, and philosophic; though cruel people said his first peering look at his father's ghost gave them rather a notion he was going to use an opera-glass to be sure there was no mistake. In his Rolla he delighted even Pitt. In Octavius he drew tears from all eyes. He excelled in Coeur de Lion, Penruddock, and that lachrymose humbug Kotzebue's Stranger. He could be, however, at times tedious and monotonous. His "ponderous and marble jaws," as Michael Kelly called them, were often moved with dull and wearisome formality. Kemble was a little of a pedant, and had some fantastic caprices about pronunciation which offended the public. Leigh Hunt, who considered his pronunciation peculiarly vicious, has handed down the following list of his attempted reformations in the English language, all of which are wrong, and some of which are preposterous. He called aches aitches,' merchant marchant,' innocent 'innocint,' conscience conschince,' virtue varchue,' fierce furse,' beard bird,' they 'the,' odious 'ojus,' and perfidious 'perfijus.' Kemble's toadies used to cultivate his favour by running-down Garrick. One man told him Garrick had always reminded him of a little butler; and another comforted Garrick's successor by reminding him that in Othello little Davy has been likened to the blackamoor boy with the kettle in Hogarth's picture. Kean, Kemble did not much care for, but he spoke of him generously. "Our styles of acting," he said, "are so totally different, that you must not expect me to like that of Mr. Kean; but one thing I must say in his favour-he is at all times terribly in earnest."

Kemble was a chivalrous man, and fought two duels-one with Mr. Daly, a Dublin manager, and another with Mr. James Aikin, an irritable actor of Drury Lane. The Hon. Mr. St. John, being angry about the delay in producing his poor tragedy of Mary Queen of Scots, grew one night very indignant in the greenroom, and told Mr. Kemble with aristocratic insolence that "he was a man whom he could not call out." Mr. Kemble answered with perfect coolness, "But you are a man whom I can turn out, and therefore you will leave this place, sir, immediately." Mr. St. John prudently retired, and afterwards apologised as a gentleman ought to have done. It is also well known that the lady Kemble afterwards married having been threatened with insult by some officers on leaving the theatre, the great tragedian drew his sword and escorted her home.

Kemble was rather addicted to wine. Cook, whom he detested, and of whom he was jealous, was never sober. Nine glasses of brandyand-water Cook swallowed at one rehearsal of Shylock; that is on indisputable record. Kemble had to reprove him on one occasion. "Cook," he said, "you were very drunk last night. If I was you, I would avoid it when going on the stage. You should time it-you should time it, as I do." Two or three nights after (it was during the O. P. riots), Kemble, who had been absorbing port-wine to drown his troubles, staggered on the stage, and no one listening, staggered off again. Cook the next morning came to him in the greenroom, and said with all the malice of Zanga, "Kemble, you were very drunk last night. If I was you, I would avoid it when going on the stage. You should time it you should time it, as I do."

Kemble in private life was courteous and hospitable, and his conversation was enriched by a wide range of classical and general knowledge. The following two stories present him to us in a very amiable light. One day walking down Park-lane with his friend Boaden, they came upon some chimney-sweep boys playing at marbles. (The sweeps had just lost Mrs. Montagu, their great patroness.) "Do you know, Boaden," said he, "that I think taw the best thing I play?" Boaden laughed; but Kemble, instantly taking up a marble the farthest from the ring, called out "Fain dribbling," and knuckling down, struck out sharply a distant marble at which he aimed. He rose in great glee at finding his skill still surviving, and dropping a shilling into the ring in memory of Mrs. Montagu, passed grandly on.

The second story paints still more pleasantly his grave Cervantic humour. Kemble and a friend, having dined together, went to Drury Lane, the manager wishing to give his ultimate instructions for the night. As they entered the hall of the theatre, some grenadiers standing by the fireplace, seeing the manager, respectfully took off their hats. Kemble instantly borrowed a guinea of his friend, and with a wink gravely advanced and addressed the soldiers.

"Soldiers," he said in his grand declamatory manner, "when Cato led his army across the burning deserts of Libya he found himself quite parched up with the intense drought-in plainer words, he was very dry. One of the soldiers, seeing this, stepped unperceived out of the ranks and brought him presently some water in a steel cap. What do you think Cato said to the soldier? I'll tell you. 'Comrade,' said he, 'drink first yourself. Now I daresay Cato never in his life led braver men than I at present see before me; therefore, to follow so great an example, do you drink that for me." So saying he put the guinea into the hands of the sergeant; the soldiers shouting, "God bless your honour" as Kemble and his friend walked off to the dressing-room.

A NEW GAME FOR LADIES

I SUPPOSE there is no one, even in this busy world, who does not know what it is to have a holiday. From the schoolboy who awakes on a fine Saturday morning, and lies a minute or two in bed, letting the full force of the thought gush in upon him-with that strange mysterious power with which a thing strikes us when we first become conscious after sleep-that for this day he has literally nothing to do but to enjoy himself, to the weary old man who recognises that to-day he has not to wend his accustomed steps to the City, all know something of the charm of a holiday. Acceptable at all times in the dreary mist and misery of a wet winter's morning, when, if we cannot do anything else, we can stretch our legs out comfortably before the fire in the breakfast-room, and smoke a cigar, while we deliberately con the morning paper, or cut the leaves of our favourite magazine; on that day on which we have the Christ-child cradled close beside us, or that on which all the world is in some way celebrating the birth of a new year; or in the happy spring-time: it is doubly acceptable in those glorious days of summer, when the skies are clear, the sun is strong, and the wind breathes balmily over hill and dale, and sea and shore. All nature appears lazy; the corn and fruit are ripening slowly; the sun is loitering on his every-day journey; the night has been lingering somewhere, and is long in coming; the wind is half-asleep as it caresses a sea which is too lazy either to smile or pout at its kisses. We feel we must be idle and lazy too. Some such latent thoughts drove Ned Dalton and myself the other day away from the stir and bustle of a great city to the quiet of a seaside town, which one of us, at least, had known long. A certain gray and quaint old city by the sea-a Scottis Brighton and a Scottish Oxford all in one; the only place, it seems to me, where Englishmen escape from old Froissart's accusation that they take their pleasure sadly. A city of bright skies, and glassy sea, and glorious sunsets; of learned men, elegant loafers, and charming girls; which we shall for the present name St. Rule.

We had been there for about a week, and now sat under a pleasant verandu, attached to the comfortable "Lounge," with outstretched feet, victims to the fatigue of a couple of rounds of golf, and the calm of a summer evening. To our right, the tiny wavelets were running up a stretch of golden sand, with many a musical plash and gurgle; from our left, the quiet chattering of knots and groups of "caddies" reached us as they discussed the events of the day, and the results of the several

matches in which they had been engaged. Behind us, from the open windows of the "Lounge," came the talk of veteran players, as they made up their matches for next day; the rustle of newspapers, and the rattle of the billiard-balls. In front lay open the "links," the scene of so many a contest, on which the rays of the setting sun made patterns of light and shade. A late match or two was coming in, stopping a moment to look at the gay scene across the burn to their left, where crowds of ladies and girls were playing at the game of which we propose to give some slight description. It is the evening before the gold medal of the ladies' golf-club is played for, and everyone is very busy practising for the event, giving up, in some cases, for the time, their regular private matches, and intent only on counting the number of strokes in which they can do the round,-for to the lady who accomplishes it in the fewest is the medal assigned.

Golf, or goff, is originally and emphatically a Scotch, and, we may add, in its full and perfect form a gentleman's, game. Some doubts exist as to the exact date at which it was introduced to Scotland (from Germany it is supposed); but during the reign of James I. we find it a favourite with all classes of the community. We have some slight historical association with it when we hear that Charles I. was engaged in playing a round of Leith links in 1641, while on a visit to Scotland, when news was brought to him of the rebellion in Ireland. Keen golfer as he was, the news was too important to brook delay, and throwing up his game, he returned to Holyrood House to take measures for its suppression. A few words on golf as a game for gentlemen will enable our readers to understand the part of it that has now begun to be played by ladies, and which gives fair promise of rivalling in attraction the charms of Aunt Sally and croquet. The one thing indispensable for the game as played by gentlemen is a large roomy stretch of short grass, broad plateaus of which are often found attached to towns, and are suitable for a common recreation-ground, termed in Scotland "links," and in England commons, downs, or heaths. The ground by no means requires to be level, or in any place, with the exception of the few yards of green on which the holes are placed, smooth or flat. The greater the number of hillocks, sandpits (in golfing lingo "bunkers"), gorse- or whin-bushes, longish grass, or water, to serve as hazards in driving from one hole to another, the more exciting the game, and the better room for the display of skill. The number of holes varies with the extent of the links. In St. Andrews, which has long been the metropolis of golf, the number is eighteen, nine out and nine coming back; and the playing of these, though as the case happens little more than a semicircle is described, is invariably and by long usage termed a "round." The holes-in size about five inches in diameter, and of sufficient depth to prevent the ball from jumping out, and shallow enough to be reached easily with the hand-are cut in the turf, generally on some particular spot where the grass happens to be smooth and the ground level, at