"Young man, are you at all aware what the qualifications

of an actor should be ?"

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The youth sighed out, "I believe not, sir." Macklin: "No, I am sure you are not. I will tell you, then, sir." (Poor Charles Mathews had never in his life before been called "sir," and it seemed to him an awfully responsible word at that moment.) "I will tell you what he ought to be; what I was, and what no man was ever eminent without being. In the first place an actor ought to possess a fine, an expressive eye-'an eye like Mars, to threaten and command.' His own flatly contradicted his assertion. Sir, he should have a beautiful countenance." Charles looked up at his, but so many lines had crossed what of beauty might have once been written there, that nothing of it was legible. "He should be able to assume a look that might appal the devil!" Here, indeed, he had one requisite in full force. "He should possess a fine, clear, mellifluous voice!" Alas! his own sounded like a cracked trumpet. "A graceful figure, sir." The lean and slippered pantaloon was an Apollo Belvidere to Macklin. "But above all, young man"-(and here the speaker's tone deepened into something like solemnity)— "above all, an-actor-should-possess-that-first-great

—natural—requisite-that-test-of-genius—a good-good -sir," added he, in a loud and angry voice, as if commanding assistance, "I want a word!-he should, I say, possess a good -retentive-"

Here the old man seemed to dwell for awhile pensively upon the attribute just lent to him; then, rousing himself. from his thoughtful posture, he looked up in his visitor's face as if inquiring what he did there.

"Well, sir?-oh! well, well!"-(as if rising from the abyss of forgetfulness)-"as I have said-an actor's requisites are many. Amongst the rest, discrimination. Sir, in the course of my long life I never knew more than three actors who possessed discrimination. David Garrick was one,-I, Charles Macklin, another, and the third was—a—a—a- Here his voice sank, as if step by step, till it reached a landing-place, where it was stationary, and mute for some seconds; he then added, in a sort of mental soliloquy, and with a half sigh, "I forget who was the other!" Then, closing his eyes, he sank back into his chair, as if asleep, and was certainly unconscious

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of the exit of the young Thespian, who, shutting the door quietly after him, flew downstairs like a lapwing, opened the street-door, and ran away, rejoicing in his escape, as if he feared the sour old man who had curdled his blood with his severity, would have shut him up for life in his dreary presence.

Mr. Mathews had not, however, seen him for the last time; for, before he left home for Dublin, he was seated next to Macklin in the pit of one of the theatres, when, totally unmindful that he had ever met the youth before, he addressed him, on the occasion of an actress of a certain age performing a youthful hoyden, and affecting the lightness and agility of girlhood. Macklin ought to have known her-(she was either Miss or Mrs. Pope; both of the old school)—but that he had confessedly lost an actor's great requisite-memory; and he asked his neighbour the name of the lady, who seemed to amuse him, several times in the course of the performance. At last, on her more than ordinary display of agility, Macklin turned round and observed, in a voice that seemed to issue from a cavern, "Sir, that lady jumps very high, but she comes down very heavy."

MATHEWS' THEATRICAL PICTURES.

In May, 1833, the "Collection of Theatrical Pictures" was opened to public view at the Queen's Bazaar, in Oxford Street. Charles Mathews hastily made out a catalogue. The number of pictures amounted to nearly four hundred. Some idea of the quality of this exhibition may be formed by the following notice :

"As a collection of pictures it is not, generally speaking, of the first-of the very first class; but, as an illustration of Britain's histrionic history during, perhaps, one of the brightest periods that ever beamed upon the land, it is unexampled, and utterly impossible to be excelled. 'There hang the players in their single persons,' (we quote an essay, the Old Actors, by the exquisite Elia, prefixed to the catalogue raisonnée of the gallery) 'and, in grouped scenes from the Restoration-Booths, Quins, Garricks, justifying the prejudices which we entertain for them; the Bracegirdles, the Gwynnes, and the Oldfields, fresh as Cibber has described them; Meg Woffington (a true Hogarth), upon a couch, dallying and dangerous. The screen scene in Brinsley's famous comedy, with Smith and Mrs. Abingdon, whom I have not seen and the rest-whom, having seen, I still see there.

There is Henderson, unrivalled in Comus, whom I saw at second hand in Harley; Harley, the rival of Holman in Horatio; Holman, with the bright glittering teeth in Lothario; and the paviour sighs in Romeo, the jolliest person (our son is fat') of any Hamlet I have yet seen, with the most laudable attempts (for a personable man) at looking melancholy; and Pope, the radicated monarch of tragedy and comedy, in Henry the Eighth, and Lord Townley. There hang the two Aickins, brethren in mediocrity. Broughton, who in Kitely seemed to have forgotten that in prouder days he personated Alexander. The specious form of John Palmer, with the especial effrontery of Bobby. Bensley, with the trumpet tongue; and little Quick (the retired Dioclesian of Islington), with his squeak like a Bartlemy fiddle.' The essay continues in this strain of babbling beauty for some sentences; we can, however, only quote the conclusion.

"There are the two Bannisters, and Incledon, and Kelly, and Dignum (Diggy), and the bygone features of Mrs. Ward, matchless in Lady Loverule; and the collective majesty of the whole Kemble family; and (Shakspere's woman) Dora Jordan; and by her two antics, who in former and latter days have chiefly beguiled us from our griefs-Suett and Munden.'

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The gallery, as a theatrical collection, is unique, unexampled, and incapable of being excelled. The pictures, as works of art painted by various artists, and at different times, must of necessity be unequal; they are so. But then, it is not as works of art that we go to gloat over them: it is to revive the recollections, mayhap of experience, may hap of reading, and to live in the excellences of the past, unheeding and uncaring for the present. It is right to observe, however, that there are among them also several pictures of first-rate merit. We would especially particularize 'Meg Woffington, lying on a couch, dallying and dangerous,' as the delightful Elia has described her; George Frederick Cooke; Eleanor Gwynne, the 'Mistress Nelly' of the mob in the dissolute days of Charles; Mrs. Abingdon, as Lady Bab Lardoon in the Maid of Oaks; Spranger Barry; David Garrick, ‘Little Davy,' as Dr. Johnson was wont familiarly, more than welcomely, to style him; Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Catherine Clive, Mrs. Robinson-poor Mrs. Robinson! Miss O'Neill, the chaste, the virtuous; Joseph Munden, 'the droll; Michael Kelly - here be his Reminiscences indeed; and, finally, for the present, Charles Mathews, the founder of the feast, 'mine host of Highgate,' with this admirable addenda to the brief notice of his name in the catalogue,

"On their own merits modest men are dumb,'

"The portraits by Zoffany are certainly the best, though there are many by the veteran De Wilde, full of character and identity. It is curious to contrast the peculiarities of the olden actors with the general commonplace air of contemporary players. There is

nothing so sleek, so unctuous as Suett ;-Harley, for instance, has a five per cent. £20,000 look-he might pass for a successful linendraper. He has no touch of the picturesque vagabondism of Weston and the immortal Dicky. Farren, too, who keeps a green carriage and footman, wants the oily coziness of rare old Quick. Then there is Macready; put him beside George Cooke, and, compared to the consumer of brandy, he has the staid, severe air of a rich dissenting preacher. Dowton maintains something of the olden time; he looks and speaks as though he had acted with the Jordans and the Lewises.

"This collection presents a good history of the stage, told alike by beautiful and curious faces. We read the history of the players, of the people who chatted with Dryden, and who took directions from Goldsmith (it may be in his immortal peachcoloured coat); of the fair eyes that captivated kings; of the white brows that gave a lustre to a coronet. There is beauty of every kind, from the quick, kind-hearted eyes of Nell Gwynne, to the soft languishing gaze of Maria Darlington.*

"The catalogue was drawn up by Mr. Mathews, jun., with great skill, care, and judgment. It was copious and well-arranged, which was not the least part of the treat."

A PORTRAIT OF MATHEWS,

From a clever work called Theatrical Portraits, etc., by Harry
Stoe Van Dyk. The lines are eccentric, and very expressive :

"What shall we call thee, thou amusing elf,
Who hast a host of beings in thyself?
Who canst variety in all infuse,

And changest like the expiring dolphin's hues,
Or skies in April? Say, what term would be
Appropriate, thou world's epitome?

Thou ambulating rainbow! Fitful hope!

Thou earthly moon!

Thou twenty voices!

Thou one plurality!

Thou live kaleidoscope!
Antidote to woe!

Thou single Co.!"

* The Life and Correspondence of Charles Mathews, the Elder, Comedian. A New Edition, Abridged and Condensed, by Edmund Yates. (Routledge, Warne, and Routledge. 1860. P. 480.)

"TOM HILL."

A FEW days ere the year 1840 was consigned to the grave of Time, the town lost one of its choicest spirits, and humanity one of her kindest-hearted sons-in the death of Thomas Hill, Esq.; "Tom Hill," as he was called by all who loved and knew him. His life exemplified one venerable proverb, and disproved another: he was born in May, 1760; he was, consequently, in his 81st year, and "as old as the hills;" having led a long life and a merry one. How he attained this longevity is hard to tell; but we are informed that his hospitality was well-regulated; that he did not, like Bannister, sit up at nights to watch his constitution; but that he was a remarkably early riser; "and, perhaps, to this cause may be attributed the cheerful and green old age that he enjoyed." So speculates his biographer in Bentley's Miscellany; but we incline rather to attribute this rare instance of convivial long life to Hill's gaieté de cœur, to his healthy mind, and to the current of benevolence that constituted his life-blood, and the genial warmth of sentiment that shone round his very heart. He enjoyed the appellation of "the Merry Bachelor;" but he was merry and wise. Yet his life was chequered with adversity; it had its cares and crosses; he was for many years extensively engaged in business; but, about the year 1810, having sustained a severe loss by a speculation in indigo, he retired upon the remains of his property to his chambers in the Adelphi, where he died on December 20, it is stated, from a severe cold taken in a damp bed at Rouen, during the autumn, from which he never rallied. "He expired without a struggle, breathing his last as if falling into a tranquil slumber. His death was but the quiet repose of exhausted nature; her works were worn out, and ceased to act. His physician's remark to him was, 'I can do no more for you-I have done all I can. I cannot cure age.'

We need scarcely remind the reader that Mr. Hill was the Hull of his friend, Mr. Theodore Hook's clever novel of