MEN OF MARK.-No. IV. JOHN BALDWIN BUCKSTONE. THE position of a man who knows that some two thousand persons are continually assembling together to see him and do him honour-who feels certain that the instant he is perceived by these two thousand persons, each individual among them will cast away his secret Ego, forget his own private troubles and miseries, give himself up entirely to the pleasures of the moment, and join with voice and hands in giving him a hearty welcome-who is invariably applauded by the public press, and is the object of much affectionate regard in private society-the position of this man must surely be a most enviable and agreeable one. That there are very few men occupying this situation I grant; when, Sempronius, we have deserved success, and gained it, then is the time that our friends come out with their pleasant little remarks. If Lord Palmerston had been a simple country gentleman, or a mere London Lounger, the mighty thunderbolts of the Morning Madvertiser would never have been hurled at his devoted head; had Mr. Dickens never written anything but a dull Puseyite novel, or had Mr. W. H. Russell confined his descriptive talent to the penning of "red rain" and enormous gooseberry" paragraphs, they would have escaped the bile and verjuice of the Saturday Reviewers; had Shakespeare's dramas died with him, they would have been saved from the illustrations and annotations of many talented persons. To be popular and successful is the greatest crime that a man can commit against society; and no sooner does his name obtain laudatory mention, than the people who " go about talking" select him for their victim, and are down upon him at once. If he is a politician, he intrigues, he is in the pay of Russia, he is narrow-minded, his speeches are written by some one else, &c.; but if he is a literary man, an artist, or an actor, then the abuse is most full-flavoured-he drinks generally, he likes low society always, he beats his wife, lives beyond his income, steals from other men's brains, and fuddles away his own-he is repulsive in the most opposite ways at the same time, being simultaneously a moody, cynical misanthrope, and a tavern-frequenting, midnight roysterer-a fawning parasite to the rich and wealthy, and an inciter of discontent and chartism among the poor. There are, then, very few successful men, in whatever walk of life they may tread, who have not many bitter enemies; but among these few I think Mr. Buckstone stands preeminent. His popularity is something wonderful: from the stalls and boxes of his own theatre the greatest "swells" in the land smile at and applaud him he has a most excellent status among literary men, the late Mr. Douglas Jerrold and Mr. Laman Blanchard having been his most intimate friends—and as for the thousands, known under that noun of multitude, the "general public," they appear literally to idolise him. You are sitting in the London Tavern, at the anniversary dinner of the General Theatrical Fund; you are a long way off from the chair, and cannot well see what is going on; but about the time when it is customary for the Treasurer to report progress you hear, above the noise of clattering plates, waiters' feet, and the general hum of conversation, a quick-drawn breath, and the utterance of the word, "Gen-le-men." There is no resisting that voice; a shout of laughter and applause greets the popular favourite, and for the rest of the evening law and order are at a discount. You are in the Haymarket Theatre; you have been sitting out-well, I won't blink the matteran intolerably dull old comedy, in which all the people were in love and wigs, and where every other sentence spoken by the young "blood" to his friend was 66 Fore 'Gad, Charles." You have not been violently excited, perhaps your most prevalent sensation is drowsiness, the orchestra has played the usual waltzes, and the curtain has risen for the farce. You are looking lazily at the stage, when there enters upon the scene a little gentleman, most probably dressed in an extraordinary caricature of the present fashion, who (as you perceive, when he removes his hat, in answer to the thunders of applause which greet him on every side) wears a light-coloured wig, brushed up into a fluffy tuft in front, and the delightfully comical expression of whose face sets you in a roar of laughter at once. Probably a stranger in London, you inquire of your neighbour, the young man in the wide peg-top trousers, turn-over collar, and generally prononcé garb, the name of this exciter of mirth; he replies to your question, first by a look of blank astonishment at your ignorance, then by explaining, in a compassionate voice, "Don't know? why, that's little Bucky, of course!"—and you vainly hunt your playbill for the remainder of the evening, to see what character Mr. Bucky may be playing. I do not know any other actor who has such a hold over the risible faculties of his audience, or who uses his influence in a more legitimate manner. Acting in a part well-suited to him, and being "i' the vein," he literally convulses the house with his drollery, the boxes and stalls break from aristocratic smiles into vulgar laughter, while in the pit strong men heave up and down in a manner dangerous to behold, and women hide their faces in their handkerchiefs, and often cry with delight. "Lend Him Five Shillings!" Is there a man in the house who would not advance five pounds on the security cf a wink from him? MR. JOHN BALDWIN BUCKSTONE was born not very far from the city of London in the September of 1802, and having received a liberal education, was placed in the legal profession, which, not possessing many charms for a young and romantic mind, disposed rather to the elegancies of literature than to the stern and laborious studies of the law, he at the age of nineteen abandoned all hope of the woolsack, and, embracing the stage, made his first appearance as an actor at the little town of Oakingham, in Berkshire. Like most of our distinguished comedians, he first paid his addresses to the tragic muse, and was engaged for the juvenile tragedy and walking gentlemen; but the comic performer of the company being one night absent, Mr. Buckstone was requested by the management of this Theatre Rural to play the part of the drunken servant Gabriel, in "The Children of the Wood," at half-an-hour's notice; in which performance, we presume, he was so far successful, notwithstanding the extreme brevity of the time allowed him for preparation, as to give decisive indications that his histrionic talent lay in the delineation of low comedy characters, for he retained that line of business to the conclusion of his stay in this humble temple of the drama. Previously to his forsaking the desk he had written two five-act tragedies, and a comedy, also in five acts, and in blank verse, which, boyish productions as they were, were so far meritorious, that the late Mr. Elliston, then manager of Drury-lane Theatre, expressed a very high opinion of the latter, and greatly gratified the author, then but eighteen years of age, by sending for him to his room in the theatre, and reading selections from the manuscript; and although the comedy was not represented, it was returned to the young author with expressions of encouragement, and a desire that he should continue his efforts as a writer of legitimate comedy. At the close of his Oakingham attempt he returned home, being earnestly persuaded by his friends to abandon all idea of the stage, and resume the study of the profession for which he was originally intended; this he admitted himself willing to do if they would at once enter him in one of the inns of court; but fortunately for the lovers of true comedy and hearty mirth, they delayed doing so from time to time until an incident occurred which at once revived the dying embers of his histrionic ambition. The mother of a stage-struck acquaintance having left a small fortune to her son, the latter became the lessee of the Faversham, Hastings, and Folkstone theatres, previously the property of Mr. Dowton; for these theatres Mr. Buckstone was engaged by his friend: he re-entered the profession, and for three years experienced all the vicissitudes, hopes and fears, trials and triumphs of a country actor's life. Having while at home become acquainted with Mr. Watkins Burroughs, that gentleman, when he succeeded Mr. T. Dibdin in the management of the Surrey Theatre, entered into an engagement with Mr. Buckstone, who accordingly made his first bow to a metropolitan audience at that house, in the character of Peter Smink, in a little piece called "The Armistice," written by Mr. Howard Payne. His unequivocal success procured him several other engagements at the transpontine theatres, during which time he wrote his early but very touching and beautiful drama of "Luke the Labourer," which will doubtless continue to be a stock piece at our minor theatres as long as earnest and truthful pictures of the wrongs and vices of poverty awaken the sympathy of the kindly bosom. Having attracted the notice of the late Mr. Daniel Terry, then one of the managers of the Adelphi Theatre, he made his first appearance at that house in his own character of Bobby Trot, in the piece just mentioned, and soon became the intimate associate both of Mr. Terry and of his co-manager Mr. Frederick Yates, and by the former of these gentlemen he was introduced to Sir Walter Scott on the occasion of the great novelist visiting the home of melodrama, a circumstance which is indicative of the estimation in which his talents as a comedian, even at this early period, were held both by the management and the public, and an event which no doubt had a favourable influence in fostering that untiring love of literature which has ever characterised him; for he always allu les, in a tone of enthusiasm, and with a warmth of pleasurable excitement, to his association at various periods of his professional life with many of the most brilliant and esteemed authors of the age. While enjoying a career of prosperity at the Adelphi, Mr. Buckstone permitted no hour to pass unoccupied, and though actuated by a love for his profession, still found time to write several pieces for the Haymarket, which eventually led to his being engaged by Mr. Morris as principal comedian of that threatre.. Thus for some years he enjoyed a great and increasing reputation, performing at two of the most prosperous of our metropolitan theatres, the Adelphi in the winter, and the Haymarket in the summer. In 1837, on Mr. Benjamin Webster becoming lessee of the last establishment, and extending its season, he devoted himself entirely to that house, where he has ever since remained, with two exceptions, once on the occasion of a visit to the United States, and also when he accepted an engagement at the Lyceum Theatre during the first season of the management of Madame Vestris. He also, during one of the vacations at the Haymarket Theatre, accepted an engagement at Drury-lane, then under the management of Mr. Bunn, where he made a most successful débût in the character of Wormwood, in "The Lottery Ticket," and sustained a round of comedy characters, till the temptation of an increased salary saw him again under the banner of his friend Benjamin Webster. At Drury-lane he produced his pieces of "Popping the Question," "Our Mary Anne," "Snakes in the Grass," "The Ice Witch," and other productions, with his customary great success. Since the earlier days of his theatrical career Mr. Buckstone has not, I believe, attempted any other line of character than that in which we are accustomed to see him-a wise discretion, for his genre is that of a pure comedian. I have seen Mr. Keeley and Mr. Wright play bits of natural pathos so admirably, and with such quiet, touching sorrow, that the audience ought to have been in tears-(it was not because it was a British audience, for whom when a man is once accepted as funny," he must never resign the horse-collar)—but Mr. Buckstone has never attempted, in my recollection at least, to pourtray sentiment. 66 As a dramatic writer the subject of my sketch stands in the first ranks of the profession; indeed, it is not going too far to say, that in the higher class of melo-dramatic writing he seldom has been equalled. To those who recollect the palmy days of the Adelphi, some five-andtwenty years ago, when all the places were booked at the box-office a fortnight before the performances-performances given by a company which has never since been equalled—it will be sufficient to mention the names: "The Wreck Ashore," "Victorine," "King of the Alps," "Isabella, or Woman's Life," "Henriette the Forsaken," "The Dream at Sea," &c. &c. The modern play-goer will endorse my assertion when he recals "The Green Bushes," and "The Flowers of the Forest." As a writer of sparkling comedietta and farce he also has won the greatest renown; of the former class, "Good for Nothing" and "The Rough Diamond" may be cited as specimens, and "The Christening" and "The Irish Lion" of the latter. It may have been that I was very young at the time, it may have been that I was naturally personally interested (for those that I held dearest were engaged in the performance), but the "Wreck Ashore," as acted with the original cast, still strikes me as the most interesting drama I ever witnessed. In later years two theatrical representations have had a great effect upon me, "The Corsican Brothers," and the "Dame aux Camelias." The worthy and moral manager of the Princess's Theatre would be perfectly horrified at my saying that in each of these the sentiment is similar; what I would convey is that the principal interest in both of them, apart from the well-known intricacies of the plot, is that their action lies in modern times, and that most of the spectators present, of the rougher sex I mean, feel that they themselves, by the turn of circumstances, might have been placed. in similar situations to many of the characters in both these dramas. The obscure playwright who so seldom hit the mark happened to speak the truth when he talked about holding the mirror up to nature. Should we have had the same interest in the "Corsican Brothers" if Louis dei Franchi wore a white wig and Chateau-Renaud a cocked hat and plum-coloured smalls? Box and Cox in Louis Quatorze costumes would have been robbed of half their fun. Who, having ever witnessed the "Dame aux Camelias," cared one pin about the action of the "Traviata," though Piccolomini played admirably, and the story, though antedated, was precisely the same? "The Wreck Ashore" loses this advantage, for the characters are those of the last century, but the plot is better and more closely worked out than either of the others. Who does not recollect the piece? Where is he, So blunt in memory, so old at heart, At such a distance from his youth in grief, the farm in the winter morning-the love passages between Alice and |