himself a poet, as Don Quixote fancied himself a heroic knight, thought that his imaginary talents and inflated presumption, should have given him a passport to Cooke's acquaintance, and sanctioned between them the familiarity of kindred spirits; but the eagle despised the society of the daw, and the Boston poe taster, whose vanity and ignorance transgressed every principle of politeness, and militated against every idea of decorum, was thrust out of the door by Cooke's black servant.

Notwithstanding Cooke's failings in the tavern, and his association there often with low company, yet in the drawing or dining room, he evinced the fashionable etiquette of the perfect gentleman. His notions were aristocratic in the extreme; and he reverenced kings with the servile devotion of one of the zealous devotees of ultra legitimacy in France. "He was certainly by nature," observes a writer in the New Monthly Magazine, "arbitrary and overbearing; and when filled with the god,' gave vent to his feelings fearlessly and decidedly. Even amongst the tyrant-hating Republicans of America, he rode the high horse, and was allowed to ride it; and he was just as spirited and uncompromising with a Yankee audience, as if he had been calling on Blanchard for his twentieth glass of brandy and water at Wrekin."

After performing fourteen nights at Boston, he returned to this city on the 26th of January; and on Friday, the 1st of February, he played Shylock to a very small audience, which irritated him very much. His second, third, and fourth performances were equally neglected; though they were as brilliant with the light of the load-star of genius as ever. But the novelty of curiosity was satiated; the New-Yorkers saw the wonder once or twice, which they considered sufficient; the feats of a Jack Pudding would, for them, have more interest and attraction, than the personification of Shakspeare's heroes, or the expression of dramatic poetry and eloquence. While this inglorious neglect convinced Cooke of the barbarous taste of the citizens, it at the same time wounded his spirit, humbled his pride, and made him curse the inauspicious hour that he had embarked for America. Bitter were the anathemas he fulminated, deep and loud were the imprecations he thundered against Mr. Cooper. About this time, for some real or imaginary offence given him in Mr. Price's house, where he had for some time lodged, he quitted his residence in the middle of an inclement night, in the month of February, when the atmosphere was chilled by frost and snow, to the severe intensity of the Lapland blasts; and on that dismal night, were it not for the humanity of a watchman, whose name should be recorded in the brightest page of biography, our hapless countryman would have been entombed in the snow. He was conducted by the humane" guardian of the night" to the house of a poor woman, in Reed-street, near the hospital, where he stopped until morning, sitting at her faint fire. Here Cooke displayed another instance of his benevolent and philanthropic spirit, which ever prompted his charitable hand to relieve indigence and administer pecuniary comfort to the distressed. The furniture of the helpless and sick widow, in whose house Cooke had taken shelter from the "pitiless peltings of the storm," were then distrained for rent, by some griping compassionless Shylock of the name of ISAAC HALSEY, whose ruthless avarice has insured him a niche in the temple of infamous celebrity; and the constables set on by this heartless wretch, were in the act of carrying off tables, chairs, and every other article in the house, when Cooke arrested the despoiling arm of Halsey's cupidity, by paying the rent and fees, which amounted to thirty-five dollars. We have inquired, but have not learned the name of the woman who was thus rescued by the generosity of Cooke, from the griping grasp of the vile inexorable Halsey. This adventure, so honourable to the feelings of Cooke, would make a figure in Romance, and would have immortalized a pious moralist like Dr. Spring, if it were known that he gave thirty-five dollars to a distressed widow. Before Cooke left the house he gave more money and presents to the persecuted woman. After this noble affair, he played Sir Pertinax Penruddock, Sir Archy, VOL. I.-42.

and Sir John Falstaff, at this theatre, and then repaired to Philadelphia, where he commenced his engagement in Richard.

Here, as in New-York, the theatre could not admit the tithe of the applicants who were impatient to see Cooke. He played twenty nights in Philadelphia, with unceasing interest and attraction. Subsequently he performed nine nights in Baltimore, where he won golden opinions."

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On his return to this city, on the 20th of June, he married a Mrs. Behn, some faded widowed sibyl, the venerable daughter of the Boniface of the Tontine Coffee House," who," says Mr. Dunlap, "proved to him a faithful help-mate and affectionate nurse to the day of his death." At this juncture, he performed three nights at the Park theatre, to respectable houses. To recreate his health, and revive his spirits, he passed a great part of the summer in agreeable excursions through the state of New-York, accompanied by his matronly Minerva.

His description of the scenery of the Hudson river, as given by Mr. Dunlap, and of the towns which he visited, in the course of his peregrination, is a bold and spirited topographical sketch. While he was a temporary sojourner at Greenbush, in the latter end of July, 1811, his characteristic goodness of heart, and liberality of beneficence were again laudably manifested to a Mr. Doige, an English actor, whom sickness had reduced to extreme indigence in Albany. He not only alleviated, as far as attention and money could, the sufferings of Doige during his illness, but after his death generously defrayed the expenses of his funeral. In September, 1811, Mr. Cooke returned to this city full of health and spirits, having derived salutary benefit from his excursive rovings. He performed at this time, Glenalvan, Richard, Iago, King John, Clytus, Sir Archy, Kitely, Othello, and Stukely.

On the 8th of November, he re-appeared on the Philadelphia boards, in the character of Richard, and afterwards during his engagement he personated several of his tragic and comic heroes. While playing in that city, he had a most liberal offer from Messrs. Green, Twaits, and Placide, the Managers of the Charleston theatre, but as he was determined to return to London, he did not accept it. He came back to New-York, on the 6th of December, 1811, and subsequently performed six nights here, whence he went to Boston, where his performance for seventeen nights, attracted unusually crowded audiences. So anxious was he to return to London, that he engaged, in Boston, his passage in a ship which was to sail thence in the middle of February: but a superior power decreed that he should never see the green fields of Erin, or the white cliffs of Albion.

He now remained in New-York for several months, during which period, he only played six nights.

The last night of the glorious performance of George Frederick Cooke, in this 'London of America,' was on the occasion of the benefit of a Mr. Darley, a very meritorious actor, we understand, on the 22d of June, 1812, when, though very much indisposed, he represented Sir P. M'Sycophant.

On the 13th of July, 1812, in conformity with his engagement with the Managers of the Providence theatre, he performed the part of Shylock in that city. During this engagement, he played nine nights, on the last of which he personated Sir Giles Overreach, which, alas! was the last theatrical effort of a man whose genius and whose powers were only excelled by Garrick, and equalled by EDMUND KEAN, on whom the mantle of Cooke has fallen, and into whose soul his histronic talents and munificent generosity, seem to have been transmigrated. In the beginning of September, Mr. Cooke received a letter from Mr. Harris, the Manager of the Covent Garden theatre, soliciting him in the most urgent manner, to return to London, where John Bull "would be most happy to see him again." This letter gave him great pleasure and tended to form his determined resolution of going home without delay. The absence of Cooke had made a chasm at Covent Garden, in the representation of the most interesting heroes of the English Drama. But fate ordained that his genius should never again

fill up the void or gratify and delight an English audience. Cooke's constitution was now broken down, and an irremediable category of maladies paralyzed his frame and weighed, with the benumbing and chilling pressure of an incubus, on his mental energies. The curtain was about to drop, the last scene of the drama of life was hastening to a close. The destructive diseases, generated by years of dissipation and Bacchanalian revelry had now reached an acme of malignancy that proved too formidable for that medical skill, which a Hosack, a Francis, and a M‘Lean, exerted with such zeal and ability to preserve an invaluable life, in which two hemispheres took such an intense interest; but, alas! in vain. George Frederick Cooke made his exit from this scene of mortal existence, on the 26th of September, 1812, in the 57th year of his age. In his dissolution, vile INTEMPERANCE might boast of the greatest triumph it perhaps ever achieved over the majesty of genius; and record in the dismal calendar of its martyrology, his name as the most illustrious victim that was ever sacrificed on that demoniac altar, whose torches are lit in death, and before which hellish fiends offer as incense the tears of late repentance, and the sighs of broken hearts. We do not find that his obsequies were honoured with that pomp of funeral procession, which ought to have attended the bier of a man whose sublime genius will live in the indestructible records of POETRY, PAINTING, and ELOQUENCE, as long as the inspirations of Shakspeare's muse shall delight the votaries of the English Drama. The remains of the favourite child of Melpomene were consigned to an obscure unhonoured grave in the cemetry of St. Paul's church, in this city, and the hallowed spot to which future Poets and Tragedians will make many a devout pilgrimage, remained unmarked by a single stone, until EDMUND KEAN, the legitimate successor of the IRISH ROSCIUS, with a spirit of munificent liberality that will ever endear his name to the admirers of genius, caused architecture and sculpture to rear a sepulchral monument over that sacred dust which was once animated by the etherial fire of poetry, eloquence, and wit. The pedestal of this monument, is a square marble pillar, rising from a base to the elevation of seven feet, and capped with an Ionic entablature, tastefully sculptured: the summit of this pedestal forms a platform, whence springs a Roman urn of Italian marble, which sculpture has beautified with Grecian lilies, in bass-relief, and adorned with wreaths of olive and acanthus leaves. The inscription, which is very badly engraven, is on the western pannel of the pedestal, in the following tenor :

ERECTED to the Memory

of

GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE,

By EDMUND KEAN, of the

Theatre Royal, Drury-Lane.

1821.

"Three kingdoms claimed his birth,

Both hemispheres pronounced his worth."

Some vile Vandals, who would commit sacrilege in the temple of the Deity, and despoil of their trophies the shrines of Homer, Shakspeare, and Byron, have, in the true spirit of the ravaging Goths, broken part of the mouldings, mutilated the basso-relievos, and disfigured and defaced the sides and inscription of a monument that protects consecrated dust, which, like that of Pompey in Egypt, will confer immortality on the place of its sepulture.

Such is the biographical sketch we have given of our celebrated countryman, who, with all his faults and failings, had still a redeeming benevolence of heart, and a mind susceptible to the finest sensibilities of virtue, which, like splendid gems set in base metal, shed a lustre over the moral defects of his character.

In the social circles of genteel life, he shone with urbane and affable brilliancy; for the native cheerfulness of his mind always sparkled with the liveliness of playful pleasantry and colloquial gayety, which give zest to social intercourse, so that his society was sought by every one who wished to be delighted by its attractive pleasures, and meliorating virtues.

THE REMINISCENT TRIBUTE OF FRIENDSHIP.

TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOVED SCHOOLFellow.

Early in the summer of 1818, I accompanied my friend HENRY to the top of the Belfast mountains, where we sat down to enjoy the last dear moment in conversation, previous to his departure for America. We had been companions and School-fellows from our earliest years, we had walked hand in hand, with the friendship of a Scipio and a Laelius, through the verdant fields of Classic lore; alternately chanting the heroic and energetic tale of Homer, or the melting and pathetic strains of Euripides, and now to us, the thought of separation had become in the highest degree painful.

From the spot where we were seated, we could easily see, on one side, the heaving billows of the Atlantic, and on the other the smooth and peaceful waters of Loughneagh. "Bless me! said Henry, how much like the storms of life are those troubled surges that dash against the rocky cliffs, while the stillness of my own dear lake resembles that peace, and gentle quiet, which only border the shores of eternal happiness." I was about to answer in the affirmative, when poor Henry, with a broken sigh, pointing his finger in a direction to his father's cottage, which was handsomely situated on the green skirt of the beautiful Slievegallin, sofily uttered, "yonder! yonder! is the home of my mother, and the dear scene of my childhood!"

The thoughts of his aged father, his fond mother, and an only sister, together with all the endearments that bind the tender heart to kindred, home and friendship, rushed so powerfully upon his imagination, that a tear began to steal down his cheek, which by long study and disappointment, had partly lost its bloom. Henry had been educated with a design of entering into Holy orders, for which he was well qualified, both by disposition and ability;-but seeing the unhappy fate of many other talented young men, who had sought the same profession, he at last resolved to try his fortune in America, well knowing that in Ireland a native genius can never rise, unless he barters that genius and becomes the enemy of his country. He had learned a wholesome lesson in the shameful neglect of the immortal KIRWAN. But as this is not a proper place to touch on the Ecclesiastical polity of Ireland, I shall, with humble forbearance, overstep the subject till a "more convenient season," with merely observing, that if a young man possessed the powers of a Tully, the purity of a Joseph, and the piety of a Simon, he can never rise to church preferment, unless he has some Cræsus with a bag of gold at his back; for this requisite recommendation, if wanting all pious and intellectual qualities, will plume his pinions and enable him to wing his way to the highest pinnacle of Ecclesiastical dignity.

After having run over the many little incidents of our life, and particularly the happy days we had spent in Moneymore, at the school of the good old Lawrence Mc Guckian, my poor disconsolate friend and I parted. It was now drawing towards evening, and I had to retrace my sad and lonely way to the mouldering mansion of Tullinagee, while at every step a thought glanced back, accompanied with a prayer for the safety of Henry. My heart had now been so much overcome with that grief which I endeavoured to conceal in my friend's presence, "premit altum corde dolorum," that I could scarcely proceed on my journey. I continued in this state, till on heedlessly approaching the hoary walls of SHANE'S CASTLE, I was aroused by the continued barking of dogs from

among the ruins. The sighing of the evening air through the extended branches of the aged oaks, together with the plaintive dirge of the ill-omening swan, from a neighbouring pool, all conspired to increase the anguish of my disordered and grief-saddened mind.

In this melancholy mood I had just reached the banks of the Ban, when the shades of evening began thickly to surround me. Then, and then only, have I felt the powerful influence that the twilight hour-or as the Sulmian bard more properly terms it-the dubious confines of the day and night-had upon a mind, alas! but too much the prey of melancholy. Few there are, who have not at times been pressed by the heavy hand of misfortune; and indeed from my boyhood I have felt that

"In all my wand'rings through this world of care,

In all my griefs, that God has given my share."

Moving on in a state not easily described, I at length reached the dark windings of Quilly-glen, rendered still more gloomy, from the confused state of my dejected spirits, and the countless associations which the scene created in my memory. Every hazel or sloethorn bush that brushed my coat, in the narrow path, seemed to detain me as if querulous of Henry, who had often accompanied me there, when in pursuit of the nut, the sloe, or the concealed nest of the timid thrush. The darkness of the night, together with the loneliness of the place, had just called to my recollection that fine passage of Milton, where he pathetically exclaims,

-In solitude,

What happiness, who can enjoy alone?"

When the playful frolics of my little favourite dog, Pinkey, which never failed to welcome me to the straw-roofed cottage of my father, suddenly interrupted the recitation, and put, for a moment, a check to the oppressive working of my imagination.

To be brief, I shall only observe, that having dismissed, like many other of my school-fellows, every hope of obtaining a profession, for which I had long laboured, I remained on our little farm, with my good old father and mother, six years after parting with Henry, till the hopeless, and sinking situation, of then oppressed Ireland, forced me to seek a scanty pittance in a foreign land.

Immediately on my arrival in Canada, I went in pursuit of Henry, and at last, by the kind attention of Mr. W—K—N, I was directed to within a few perches of his habitation. There I made a minute's pause, when thought, on thought, came rushing on, diverting the sombre current of my agitated feelings in different directions. Having composed myself as much as possible, I approached the door, and by two or three light tappings summoned the inmates. Between the moment of knocking, and the opening of the door, every nerve seemed to redouble its anxious movements, while my listening ear, and fixed eye, like faithful sentinels, were all eagerness for the discovery of what might first approach me. No sooner had I inquired for my friend, then I was directed to his apartment. On entering, I found Henry very much indisposed, lying on a couch perusing Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination," He instantly recognised me, and grasping my hand, with his usual fervency of affection, cried, my dear, dear fellow! how are you? I had scarcely answered his hurried interrogations of "how are my father, my dear old mother, my sister, and all our friends and neighbours," when the flow of our conversation was interrupted by the untimely intrusion, for such I then felt it, of a very beautiful looking, and gaily-dressed young woman, to whom I was instantly introduced, as his dear, his sweet, his chosen one. Henry had now been about ten months married, and this was the lady whom he had selected from the bright array of the Canadian fair. I cautiously, but strictly observed during the evening, her every look and motion, and was, for the moment, highly pleased with my friend's choice, as far as appearance could justify

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