and you want me to larn you how to act. Did you ever act Richard, Muster Frogsmire?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why, then, you shall see me act," says Rich, and, strutting about like a turkey-cock, and making the most hideous grimaces and contortions, he began to spout,

"Now is the winter of our discontent."

A little of this went

a very long way with Frodsham, who cut his would-be tutor short with," Sir, my name is not Frogsmire; I don't want an engagement; and I don't want to be taught to act; but I do want to wish you and your cats a very good morning."

So saying, he stalked out of the room, leaving the despot of Covent Garden purple with rage.

Whatever may have been Frodsham's aspirations, it is quite clear that his arrogance and presumption had effectually closed the doors of Drury Lane and Covent Garden against him. 'Tis an ill wind, however, that blows no one any good, so there were great rejoicings in the North Countrie when he returned, especially when it was found that neither Garrick nor Rich had chained and secured the York Roscius.

When he afterwards discussed his visit to the London managers with his friend Tate Wilkinson, he could not be persuaded that he had requited Garrick's courtesy with impertinence, or that he had been impatient and insolent to Rich. On the contrary, he always maintained that "David knew he was speaking to as good a gentleman as himself, and an actor of equal ability. While as for Spangleback" (so he called Rich)-" Sir," said he, "he's a boor, and isn't fit to carry guts to a bear. He's an ignoramus, who not only knows nothing of Greek or Latin, but who knows nothing of his own language; in fact, he knows nothing of anything except his infernal cats, and his beastly pantomimes!

In

Whether the manager (Baker), in honour of his return, increased Frodsham's salary, there are now no means of ascertaining, though surely in the fulness of time he must have got beyond that munificent stipend of a guinea a week. In each town he certainly had a benefit, which was, at that time, a delightful and dignified institution. It is bad enough now, but then it involved eating innumerable and periodical pecks of dirt, and enduring an amount of personal degradation which appears absolutely incredible. York, Norwich, Hull and other important cities, "it was at that time the custom" (and a beastly custom it certainly was!), says Wilkinson, "for the performer, whether man or woman, to attend the play-bill man round the town, knock humbly at every door, honoured with or without a rapper, and supinely and obediently leave a play-bill at every shop and stall, and request the favour of Mr. and Mrs. Griskin's company at the benefit."

"Good God!" exclaims Tate, in a burst of honest indignation. "What a sight to actually behold Mr. Frodsham, a gentleman,

with fine natural talents, and esteemed in York as a Garrick, the Hamlet of the age, running after or stopping a gentleman on horseback, to deliver his benefit bill, and beg half-a-crown (then the price of the boxes.)"

Nor was this the climax of degradation. After the play, on the benefit night, the beneficiare had to "return thanks," and if married, both husband and wife had to appear.

It is alleged by Wilkinson, that upon the occasion of one of Frodsham's benefits (doubtless towards the end of his career, when he was entering on the downward path) he spoke a comic epilogue, and actually carried his wife on and off the stage on his back.

A pleasant situation this, for the wretched wife; a refined exhibition for an intelligent audience; above all, what a proud position for the "Hamlet of the age " to occupy!

Of course we know but too well that despite the great social distinction of Quin, Garrick, Sheridan, Foote, Mossop, etc., they were not infrequently exposed to indignities from the fashionable ruffians, and rakehelly Dundrearys of the period; but these players, as Garrick once said boldly, in the teeth of a howling mob, who sought to intimidate him, were "above want, and superior to insult." Besides, they did not wear their swords for nothing; they not only knew how to use them, but were quick to resent outrage, and to punish impertinence. Yet here was a man of their own order, young, ardent, and ambitious, who by his own act and deed brought this shameful discredit on the whole fraternity. One is tempted to ask, Was the wife a cripple? Were the audience demented? Or was the man himself mad or drunk? It is only charitable to assume that he was both! Amongst other charming customs of the period, we are told "admittance behind the scenes was allowed, not only at benefits, but in general to the gentlemen (?) who frequented the boxes "-hence I shrewdly suspect that this disreputable exploit arose from a scandalous wager, or something of the kind, between the mad actor and his drunken friends behind the scenes.

The "too susceptible fair ones" must surely have felt deeply mortified and insulted by this escapade. If they were so, they were generous, for they soon forgave their favourite, and remained faithful to their Frodsham to the last.

It redounds to the credit of honest Tate Wilkinson, that the very moment he became manager of the great Northern Circuit in 1763 he abolished all these degrading customs. They died hard enough though, elsewhere, for seventeen years later we find no less a person than Mrs. Siddons, on the occasion of her farewell to Bath (to which fashionable city she had retired after her failure in London), producing "five reasons" for again tempting Fortune in town, in the shape of five bouncing bairns, whose "shining morning faces" appear to have proved a potent attraction on the

occasion.

Frodsham's conduct to Garrick shows that he could be as arrogant as he was eccentric and egotistical. "There can be no doubt that the applause he commanded and received intoxicated his brain, as much as the plentiful potations of Burgundy with which, and with other pleasant spirited draughts, he too soon finished his early days of life and fame."

It was the fashion of the day for men of the first quality to drop down dead drunk under the table after their fourth or fifth bottle. We have it on record that even "the heaven-born minister," that model of continence, William Pitt, before he commenced to demolish a political opponent, was not infrequently accustomed to retire behind the Speaker's chair to "clear himself" of his superfluous port, after the "high old Roman fashion." What marvel that this ill-advised and weak-minded young actor went headlong to the devil, in such goodly company? When once he commenced his downward career he went at a galloping pace, and, alas! he soon reached the end of his journey.

Exactly ten years after his return from London he made his last appearance in his beloved York.

On the evening of October 19th, 1768, he played "Lord Townley" in Vanburgh's comedy of "The Provoked Husband."

It is said that he appeared in high spirits, and it was remarked

that he had never acted better.

At that time it was the duty of the principal actor to "give out," at the end of the first piece, the performance for the following night. On this occasion Frodsham came forward and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, on Monday evening will be presented the tragedy of Coriolanus,' to which will be added" (looking seriously around, and placing his hand upon his heart) "What we must all come to.'

Those were the last words he ever spoke upon the stage.
Three days afterwards he was dead!

Twenty years later, Tate Wilkinson, who survived his unfortunate friend exactly thirty-five years, chronicles his premature death in these quaint, yet touching terms: "His mind, his superabundant good qualities, were all warped and undermined by nocturnal habits. In the morning he had to take to the brandy bottle, to patch himself up for the day. In the afternoon he had recourse to the same stimulant to pull himself together for the night, and the end was that he died enfeebled, disordered, dropsical, and mad at the age of thirty-five."

Verily, "The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to scourge us.

Here was a youth of brilliant parts, of exceptional and extraordinary endowments, a scholar, a gentleman, the idol of the hour, admired by the men, adored by the women, an actor capable of holding his own beside "the choice and master spirits of the age, lost, utterly lost by his own folly.

Garrick, who also survived Frodsham eleven years, frequently stated to his friends that he had " never met so strange a mixture of eccentricity and genius as in that mad actor from York."

The whole history of the English stage presents no more remarkable illustration of the ephemeral and evanescent character of an actor's fame than the shadowy outline I have here attempted to limn of the wasted and inglorious life of this unfortunate young man.

One is almost tempted to imagine that Roscius had his provincial rival in his eye when he penned these touching lines:

"For he who struts his hour upon the stage,
Can scarce extend his fame for half an age;
Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save—

The art, and artist, share one common grave!"

Had it not been for his brief accidental acquaintance with Garrick and Tate Wilkinson, the very existence of poor Frodsham would by this time have been forgotten.

In the "Thespian Dictionary," published two years after the death of the famous northern manager, the name of the York Roscius is conspicuous by its absence; and in the very city where once it was "familiar in men's mouths as household words," it was only through the casual recognition of Charles Reade that I discovered that my "mysterious man in black" was the once famous

"GARRICK OF THE NORTH."

JOHN COLEMAN.

STYLE IN LITERATURE.

BY J. DENNIS.

LITERATURE depends for its success upon a variety of intellectual forces-breadth and accuracy of knowledge, largeness of view, the sense of proportion, the imagination which elevates, the fancy which charms, the emotion which creates sympathy, the logic that appeals to and satisfies the reason. Literature of the highest order is not the work of a carefully-constructed machine, but the utterance of a life. And this is why we are able to draw inspiration from it, and by its help to rise, as it were, above ourselves, conscious of added power and of fuller joy. This is no illusion. Susceptible and cultivated minds draw their daily sustenance from books, as naturally as the infant turns for food to its mother's breast. The man who has once learnt the secret of literature, the delights it has to offer, the spiritual rest it can supply, would find the loss of it irreparable. The gifts it brings to him resemble those of Nature herself, and are not to be weighed in any scale.

It is not always possible to say what books have done for us, but the man who finds in them his best companions knows that their influence over thought and character is immeasurable. And this influence is largely dependent upon style. Men are apt to regard style as though it were a science, or a language which can be acquired by the exercise of intelligence and painstaking. Dr. Johnson falls into this error when he recommends whoever wishes to attain a familiar and elegant English style to give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison. Such advice is superficial and impracticable. Man no doubt is an imitative animal, and it would be folly to deny that he can to some extent copy an author's style, just as he can copy the painting of a great master. In each case, however, a semblance is produced instead of a reality, the work is done by a dead hand, and the result is comparatively of little value.

Style must not be confounded with composition. It is possible to write faultless English without having a style, and possible, too, for a great author to play daring and even unjustifiable tricks with language, without wholly losing his claim to the possession of this great literary gift. No doubt he cannot play such tricks with impunity. They injure his fame and his position, but they do not always and necessarily degrade him to the rank of a second-class writer.