Short pipes came into vogue, and many young swells provided themselves with fan-tailed hats. The ladies, too, it is said, wore ribbons à la Dusty Bob, and flounces à la Sara noire. Master Walbourn profited by this epidemic; he quickly emerged from the nothingness of a comic dancer in the Ballet, took a house in Euston Crescent, opened a dancing academy, kept his horse and chaise, had a large brass plate upon his door, became a "professor of dancing," and lived for a while like a gentleman. W. H. Payne, the pantomime actor, was his apprentice-his fag. Many, from motives of pure curiosity, came to take lessons in dancing. When, as mostly happened, Walbourn, was not at home, Payne received the company. They were disappointed. Disappointment led to failing patronage, and this naturally to diminished means. Fortune-that slippery jadewas in our hero's hands; he let her slip, and never recovered her favour. He afterwards became landlord of the hostelry above-named at Battle-bridge, but "The Mermaid" proved as slippery in his hands as dame Fortune; and now Walbourn, a man more sinned against than sinning, is in his old age, without employment, and a prey to the usual troubles which assail those who have disregarded the warning voice of prudence in the heyday of success.

POWER. I first became acquainted with that lamented actor, Power, at the Adelphi. Our intimacy commenced in the strangest manner possible. During my absence through illness, he had been engaged, and when I returned he was superintending the rehearsal of a drama called "Valmondi." He did not play Irishmen then; he was engaged for the juvenile tragedy and light comedy. When I came upon the stage, he, in a very supercilious manner, handed me the manuscript to hold, as prompter. I was tardy in taking it, and he, looking daggers of contempt at me, let it fall on the stage. My conduct upon this occasion, whether right or wrong, decided the matter for the future; I would not stoop to pick it up. He then called to a boy, who gave it to him. In a few minutes afterwards Mr Rodwell came on the stage. Power spoke to him: what passed I know not, but he came over to me immediately, and holding out his hand, said "What! are you Mr. Campbell of the Wells?' Upon my soul I am very glad to make your acquaintance." We shook hands, and remained the best friends in the world until his last ill-fated departure for America.

JOHN REEVE-in whom the vis comica preponderated in a great degree, was not a funny man off the stage. Likė Grimaldi, he was rather of a serious turn of mind. I have heard of the same unaccountable contrariety in many eminent actors, both French and English. I knew John well from his early days. He was a man of exquisite sensibility, and until he sacrificed himself at the shrine of Bacchus, possessed some of the finest feelings that ever adorned humanity.

I think the death of his wife first caused that alteration which was by his friends and well-wishers so much regretted. He was dotingly fond of her. Soon after her decease he sent for me. He knew that I respected her; and he perhaps thought that an interview with me, in which he could impart the outpourings of his grief to one who could feel for his loss, would relieve his heart. I think I never beheld such a prostration of strength and mind. He wept

aloud, and his tears no doubt relieved him. I fancy the flood-gates of his grief had been pent up, through some cause or other; and he felt a load taken off his heart, when, in the presence of a true friend, he could revel in a sorrow, which was as pure as it was profound. I saw but little of poor John afterwards. His pursuits and mine were totally different, and, although a kindly feeling mutually existed between us for many years, we met no more.

I one night offended John by a strict performance of my duty. It was during the run of "Tom and Jerry." My duty, as prompter, was to see that every one was in readiness to begin, before I rang the bell for the curtain to rise. Master Jack, who was fond of a bit of chat, always remained in his dressing-room to the last, and often kept the audience waiting. I several times threatened to begin without him. He dared me to it. I did so, however. It was his duty to be on the stage in the first scene-Hawthorn Hall. On drawing the curtain his chair was unoccupied; disapprobation ensued. Reeve came up in a towering rage. He swore and stormed, and vowed that he would not go on at all. That," said I, "is a matter which lies between you and the audience. Do as you like." At last, like a good general who thinks, with Falstaff, that "discretion is the better part of valour," he went upon the stage, and sat quietly down to go through his part. He was never late afterwards.

John, in the earlier part of his career at the Adelphi, was never too perfect in his parts. I recollect a circumstance, which, however ludicrous in itself, was wormwood to the author. A piece was produced, the name of which I forget, in which Reeve's dialogue in the first scene, with Wrench, contained the explanation of the whole drama. Without this, it was scarcely intelligible. On came the immortal John, spoke his soliloquy pretty correctly. Wrench joined him. "Tell me," Wrench had to say, "how this occurred."—" I will," said John-but John didn't. He could not remember a single word. He stumbled and stammered; in vain I gave him the word, I might as well have given it to his wig. At length he caught Wrench's arm in a very friendly way, and exclaimed, "Hold! there are listeners! Walk through the garden, and I will explain all," and he forced Wrench off, to his utter surprise, and the author's indignation. The scene was changed, the piece proceeded, and terminated, without " further let or hindrance," but what it was about, or what it tended to, I defy the most sagacious audience in the world to have discovered.

ASTLEY'S AMPHITHEATRE.

DUCROW. This "Napoleon" of the arena, as he has been called, was a singular mixture of conflicting ingredients-a sort of human bowl of punch. Courageous, yet superstitiously timid; bold, yet retiring; harsh and sensitive; bland but more often blunt; civil and at times insulting; by turns selfish and liberal; thoughtful and inconsiderate; unskilled in literature, yet having a good practical knowledge of ancient manners and costume. Unable to write, and limited in powers of speech, yet capable, in a few words, of being eloquent and perspicuous. Possessing a vigorous mind, devoted to his profession, admiring talent wherever, and in whom

VOL. XXVIII.

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soever it might be found, yet looking with supreme contempt upon all attempts to rival his own skill. Irascible, and even brutal, yet possessing the bump of philo-progenitiveness in an extraordinary degree; ambitious and enterprising, yet easily depressed and cowed.

In the summer of 1838, Van Amburgh appeared at the Amphitheatre with his wild animals,-it was their first introduction to an English audience. Ducrow had invented and arranged, as a tribute to Her Majesty, a sort of tableau allégorique. It consisted of a platform raised upon men's shoulders, upon which was a white charger bearing a female, supposed to represent the Queen; at her feet was Britannia, surrounded by a number of appropriate emblems. This exhibition produced a great effect and was rapturously applauded.

Ducrow's benefit was announced: a thought struck him. “Van Amburgh," said he, "how well your largest lion would look on the platform by the side of Britannia." "I calculate he would," replied the American. A rehearsal was called-the lion's rehearsal. All was prepared. Nero, a fine old shaggy veteran, one of the largest ever exhibited, was brought from his cage, and led by Van Amburgh on the platform. "Be careful men how you lift," said he, "be careful! if the lion feels the platform shake or slope, he will perhaps take fright and make a start. Now, lift!" The men did lift, but not all together. As Van Amburgh anticipated so it happened. The lion, who was crouching, rose; the men beneath became alarmed; down went the platform on one side, and off leaped the lion! A simultaneous rush took place, and in one moment the stage was cleared; Ducrow alone remained where he was standing, fixed and immoveable. Van Amburgh pursued the animal, who skulked into the darkest corner he could find, and with the assistance of the keeper restored him to his cage. Ducrow was asked why he had not run: "Because," said he, "it was safer to stand quite still. A lion is like a bully; if you are afraid of him, he will attack you if you boldly face him, he will not molest you.” Ducrow was no doubt right.

Ducrow was driving through a toll-gate; the pike-keeper not knowing him, and that he was free of toll by the favour of the lessees, rudely arrested his progress. "Don't you know me?" said Ducrow. 'Not I." "Then I'll soon let you know who I am." Out of his gig jumped Ducrow, off went his coat, and in a few minutes he polished "pikey" off to his heart's content. “There,” exclaimed he, "that's for you! I can't write, so I've left my mark. Ducrow is my name-you'll know me in future!"

A most strange incident, not generally known, occurred a short time after the erection of the mausoleum in Kensal Green to the memory of his first wife. He drove to the cemetery, desired that the door of the mausoleum might be opened, entered it, and shut himself in. For one hour he remained in the presence of the dead. He was overheard to speak incessantly, as if addressing some one. At length he came forth, haggard and wild. The floor of the mausoleum was found to be strewed with small fragments of paper. He spoke to no one, and departed evidently heart-stricken.

At rehearsal one morning Ducrow listened attentively to a long dialogue, or ". dialect," as he called it, between myself and Gomersal. Stop, gentlemen!" said he, "there seems a great many words to

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"Now,

very little purpose. Hold hard! Wait one minute-' Then he considered for a moment,-"I have it!" he exclaimed. Gomersal, you say so and so- -Campbell says no he won't,-you say, obstinate Englishman, then you die. There! that answers the end of all those long speeches; the audience will understand the matter better, and the poor horses won't catch cold!"

During the performances of the "Battle of Waterloo," in which I personated a corporal of Highlanders, while we were endeavouring to take the enemy's guns, an athletic Scotchman, in the twinkling of an eye, climbed from the pit on to the stage, and flourishing his stick, called loudly to me, "Stan' till it, laddie! Back to back, and Scotland for ever!" Suiting the action to the word, he placed his brawny back against mine, and commenced laying about with his bludgeon most unmercifully. At length he was carried off the stage vi et armis by the cuirassiers; and when last seen, was discussing sundry pots of half and half with them at "The Pheasant,” a neighbouring hostelry.

Van Amburgh was in the habit of causing one of his tigers to run round the ring for exercise, with a long rope attached to his neck. The animal was blown; he lay down, and Van Amburgh by his side. "Bring the beauty some water," said he to the property-man, who happened to be looking on at a distance. "I'd rayther not, please," said he; "I feeds the stage, I don't feed tigers."

I may here narrate a circumstance that occurred many years since at Harrow, which, although somewhat out of place, may not be unacceptable.

A Mrs. Batt (many of the old Harrowians recollect her no doubt) kept a little school for children. Two of the professors of the college, taking their morning walk, called upon the old lady en passant: "Well, Mrs. Batt, there you are, as usual, quite occupied." "Yes, gentlemen, you may say occupied, indeed,-none knows the trouble there is with children except us that teaches."

A certain foreigner, whose name is of little import, and of less consequence, but who assumed a vast quantity of the latter, had engaged to perform upon the tight-rope. An announcement was made that he would ascend from the stage to the gallery. The rope was fixed in the morning for practice. Monsieur le Funambule appeared-felt the rope-tried its tension-found fault with this, altered that one thing was not right, another wrong,-in fact, the gentleman seemed rather disinclined to the task.

Ducrow stood by en robe de chambre and slippers. His patience became exhausted. "I say, mounseer, that appears a very difficult job." "Mais, oui.” "Well! let's see if Andrew can do it." With the word Ducrow was on the rope, and in one minute more in the gallery and back down the rope upon the stage! The Frenchman looked aghast, nor did Ducrow's parting observation tend to relieve his astonishment," There's a good deal of humbug about you, monsieur, that's the way to do it." Mounseer declined the exhibition.

THE QUEENS OF SPAIN.*

MISS STRICKLAND, in her "Lives of the English Queens," has most incontestably proved the influence for good or for evil which a Queen can exercise over the fortunes of a nation; the tone she can give to morals and manners, the political parties she can create and overthrow, the domestic contentions to which she can give rise, and the foreign wars she can stir up from her passions or her piques, from her partialities or

resentments.

In Spain, as elsewhere, Queens have availed themselves of the various chances with which fortune has favoured them to obtain power and to wield influence. Sometimes they openly and daringly usurped authority, at others they intrigued deeply to obtain it, and carried out as they best could their various schemes and measures to advance and secure their own interests.

The volume before us treats of nearly one hundred Queens, who reigned during one thousand years, but little more than a passing notice could be given of a few among them. More, however, is given of the Gothic and the Oviedo Queens than could reasonably have been expected, and it is highly creditable to the diligence and patience and research of the fair authoress that she has found so much to say of persons of whom the world has hitherto known so little. Of some, indeed, of these it was not in the least necessary that we should know much, and of a few we should certainly not wish to know less, since the incidents of their lives form a highly interesting portion of Spanish history, and throw light upon facts which historians have only obscurely alluded to.

But there is so much of information in this volume upon the history and condition of the various kingdoms in Spain, and information so condensed and so difficult to find elsewhere, that we consider it a valuable addition to our general literature, and a work that will be highly acceptable to all who seek to know something of places and of people beyond our own shores. Occasionally the narratives are of the most thrilling interest, indeed they abound chiefly with tragedy and comedy, the tragical portions, however, largely prevailing, and becoming at times appalling from the peculiar atrocity of the deeds they refer to, and the treachery and bloodshed they disclose. We have no space for extracts, and it would not be easy, from any one or two passages, to give an idea of the vast variety of matter which the work contains, nor could we select from the memoirs of any one Queen anecdotes and incidents that might be supposed from their peculiar character to be of greater interest than the rest. The whole work is alike interesting, and whether we read of Blanche of Bourbon, of Catherine of Lancaster, of Elinor of England, or of Juana of Portugal, we are equally entertained. With the life of this last-mentioned Queen this volume concludes, and we can scarcely conceive a stronger contrast than Spain presented during the reign of Juana of Portugal, and the reign of her immediate successor the renowned Isabella, with which the second volume will open.

* Memoirs of the Queens of Spain, from the Period of the Conquest of the Goths to the Accession of her present Majesty, Isabella II. By Anita George. 2 vols. Bentley. London 1850.