racter of Sir Archy had not been attempted in the metropolis since Macklin's death, and it was now revived with all the force and point which its author gave it. Kemble was in possession of all the strong holds of public admiration, and Cooke had now a prize to contend for, which put all his talents to the test. The hour was so important, that Cooke, for the scason, abandoned all his evil habits, and gave to his genius its full and unimpaired exercise. Kemble's formidable rival now appears in all his strength, before whom he is compelled to fly the field, baffled, routed, and disconcerted. In these arduous contests, where shame or glory is the alternative, there was a stimulant such as Cooke required, which has every property of the glass but its intoxication. This was the brightest period in the life of Mr. Cooke, and he closed this season of his glory by playing Richard, for the twenty-third time, as his biographer expresses it, to an astonished and delighted audience. His victory over his illustrious rival, in this character, was complete; the ground was stoutly contested, inch by inch, and at last reluctantly resigned. This hour, so auspicious in the lives of other men, was ominous to Cooke. He had been made now familiar to glory, and those agitations and anxities attendant on the struggle which served to concenter all the powers of his genius, had now subsided for the calm of enjoyment. This was a temptation too powerful to be resisted, and his laurel must be dipped in wine before he deemed it worthy of his brows. On the second season of his appearance at Drury Lane, it was known that his formidable rival meant to contend with him the dying scene in Richard. Public expectation was highly excited, and while the partisans of Cooke and Kemble were impatiently awaiting the issue of this contest, the return of the former to the metropolis was delayed. At length, when the public papers had become clamorous on account of the absence of Cooke, he once more appears, and with an apology satisfies the audience. That Roscius was sick, says Cicero, was always an excuse for Roscius. Cooke is cheered by the congratulations of his friends again, and with what success, the following extract from his journal will evince: "This season," says Mr. Cooke, "I played Richard twelve nights; some times the play was acted on the same night at Drury Lane, but they thought proper to resign the contest." But he did not confine his professional exertions to the character of Richard. He began now to sparkle on the public in a variety of lights, for we find him preeminent in the characters of Iago, Stukely, Falstaff, Sir Pertinax M'Sycophant, and Lear. He closed his engagement this season with honour, and obtained a benefit of four hundred and nine pounds, thirteen shillings and six pence. The remainder of his time was occupied by public congratulations and resentments-at one time he was benumbed and torpid by intemperance; at another, recovering his character by the native elasticity of his mind. He now continued for several years the delight of the London audience, and the successful rival of Kemble, till the latter end of the year 1810, when Mr. Cooper, the manager of the Newyork theatre, was fortunate enough to engage him to visit the United States. The particulars of this transaction are related at great length, and while they fully vindicate the manager from the idle imputation of having inveigled this full grown boy from his friends, exhibits a curious illustration of the riotous intemperance, and the blustering insolence of Cooke. He arrived at Newyork on the 16th of November, 1810. The sensation his first appearance excited in that city is thus noticed: On Mr. Cooke's appearance this evening, the burst of welcome was such as may be imagined to come from two thousand two hundred people, assembled to greet him with the warmest expression of their satisfaction on his arrival. He entered on the right hand of the audience, and with a dignified erect deportment walked to the centre of the stage amidst their plaudits. His appearance was picturesque, and proudly noble. His head elevated, his step firm, his eye beaming fire. I saw no vestige of the venerable gray haired old gentleman I had been introduced to at the coffeehouse; and the utmost effort of imagination could not have reconciled the figure I now saw, with that of imbecility and intemperance. He returned the salutes of the audience, not as a player to the public, on whom he depended, but as a victorious prince, acknowledging the acclamations of the populace on his return from a successful campaign---as Richard Duke of Gloster, the most valiant branch of the triumphant house of York. When he spoke "Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by the sun of York, In the deep bosom of the ocean buried; Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our stern alarums, &c." the high key in which he pitched his voice, and its sharp and rather grating tones, caused a sensation of disappointment in some, and fear in others, that such tones could not be modulated to the various cadences of nature, or such a voice have compass for the varied expression of harmonious diction and distracting passion, which the characters of Shakspeare require; bat disappointment and fear vanished, and conviction and admiration succeeded, and increased to the dropping of the curtain; when reiterated plaudits expressed the fulness with which expectation had been realized, and taste and feeling gratified. Previous to his going on, Mr. Cooke's agitation was extreme. He trembled like an untried candidate who had never faced an audience; and he has afterwards said, feelingly, that the idea of appearing before a new people, and in a new world, at his advanced time of life, agitated him even more than his first appearance before that London audience which was to decide his fate. There were received, on this occasion, eighteen hundred and twenty dollars. The amount would have been more, but for the confusion which took place. There were thirteen hundred and fifty-eight persons accounted for in the boxes. On the 23d of November, notwithstanding there was a violent snow storm, he played to a house, the receipts whereof were 1424 dollars. Thus were the beams of genius flashing through the clouds of intemperance, and dissipating the gloom. How transitory is the splendour! The reader, no doubt, now understands the cause of Mr. Cooke's hoarseness. Night came he began his voice broke short and sudden-the high notes failed, and of low notes there were nose-the audience encouraged— every remedy he could devise, was tried behind the scenes-In vain—he could only whisper-he apologized to the audience, who generally supposed the hoarseness proceeded from a cold, and he was encouraged to continue his whispering. In the meantime, some of the remedies applied, having been stimulants, the latter part of Richard, though only pantomimic, became very spirited, and to those who knew the cause, approached very near the comic. The public, however, did not suspect, and gave him credit for the zeal with which he exerted himself for their amusement, under the pressure of indisposition. Though a Saturday night, the receipts were eleven hundred and fiftyfive dollars. Sir Pertinax was acted to a house of 1180 dollars. The sixth night, in the character of Sir Archy M'Sarcasm, the re ceipts of the house amounted to 1287 dollars. In the character of Zanga, the profits amounted to 1367 dollars. The next night, in the characters of Shylock, and Sir Archy, the receipts were 1270 dollars. The ninth night was Macbeth, and the profits were 1605 dollars. The next performance was A New Way to Pay Old Debts, a play which, notwithstanding Mr. Cooke's wonderful performance in Sir Giles Over-reach, did not please in Newyork. The character of Sir Giles shocks by his atrocity, and even his punishment, though we rejoice in it, strikes us with horror. The acting of Mr. Cooke at this terrible point, can never be forgotten. His attempt to draw his sword, and the sudden arrest of his arm, palsied and stiff. ened, and rendered powerless, as if by the stroke of Heaven's avenging thunder-the expression of his countenance at this moment, and his sinking con. vulsed, and then lifeless, into the arms of his servants, were so frightfully impressive, and true to nature, as to leave an image never to be erased. One night, in this situation, by some accident, the attendants were not ready to receive him, when he fell back, expecting to be caught in their arms as usual; but instead of losing, the effect was heightened by the omission; for he fell so perfectly dead to appearance, and was carried off so much like a corpse, as only to increase the horror of the scene. The receipts were this night, nine hundred and sixty-three dollars. He made his first appearance in the best of the Falstaffs, on Friday, December 14th. This play, "the first part of Henry Fourth," is rich in interest, character, and dialogue. The Prince of Wales and Harry Percy, so finely contrasted, and so consonant to history—the comic part so replete with situation and wit-Falstaff and his companions, new from the mint of the poet's brain, with all their "gloss upon them," and with an unmixed purity of sterling worth-make this with the exception of Richard III., the finest of Shakspeare's historic plays. In Falstaff the profits were 1444 dollars. On his benefit the sum was 1878 dollars. Here he was unable to act the part of the Roman Cato in any other way than in his inebriety. Of this the following anecdote is related: After the play I walked into the green-room. He was dressed for Sir Archy M'Sarcasm. As soon as he saw me, he came up to meet me, and exclaimed, "Ah, its all over now, we are reconciled-but I was very wild in the play-quite bewildered-do you know that I could not remember one line after having recited the other-I caught my self once or twice giving Shakspeare for Addison;" and then with his chuckle and his eyes turned away, Heaven forgive me!-If you have ever heard any thing of me you must have heard that I always have a frolic on my benefit day--If a man cannot take a liberty with his friends, who the devil can he take a liberty with?” In short, during the seventeen nights in which he acted in Newyork, the receipts amounted to twenty-one thousand five hundred and seventy-eight dollars. In Boston, the receipts, during the pights of his acting, in his first engagement, stood thus, and it ought to be known, to account for the disparity, that the theatre is not so capacious as that of Newyork. Mr. Cooke's first engagement in Boston. Jan. 3d, 1811. Thursday—Richard, 881 50 739 87 1-2 887 75 979 37 12 extract describes, in part only, the height to which public expectation had been raised, as the hour of his first appearance drew near. His biographer says, About five o'clock, I walked with him up Chesnut-street to the theatre, and he was pleased and surprised to see that at this early hour, (and we were told that it had been so for hours before,) the street in front of the theatre, and above and below, was completely thronged with people, waiting for the doors to be opened. But our surprise increased, when, on turning the corner, we found the back door of the theatre equally beset, and those who had taken boxes crowding in by that passage, the usual entrance being completely blocked up by the throng. Why this beats Sarah," says he, as we walked up to endeavour to find a passage into the house. Our attempt was in vain-we could not approach the door; and the young men finding that the object of their curiosity was in the crowd, surrounded |