patiently, the great man. "I am admiring you," stammered out the awestruck little one, in trepidation.

The season in which Wilks appeared was the last of William Mountfort, an actor of great fashion and popularity, who excelled in tragic lovers, beaux, and high-bred rakes of comedy. Wilks was supposed to have taken him as his model, and to aspire to the list of characters he filled with so much eclût. Both were remarkably handsome men, gifted with inborn ease, elegant manners, and melodious voices-a brace of nature's gentlemen, of which, in more recent days, Holman and Charles Kemble furnished also distinguished types.* Mountfort was foully murdered in Howard-street, Strand, on the night of the 9th of December, 1692, in the thirty-third year of his age, by a soi-disant Captain Hill, a professional bravo, assisted by Lord Mohun, a young scamp who disgraced his order by dissolute habits and low companions. Hill, seconded by his aristocratic friend, had failed on that evening to abduct forcibly the celebrated actress Anne Bracegirdle, of whom he was enamoured, and suspected Mountfort to be a favoured rival. Accordingly they waylaid him in the street, as he was going home, about midnight, and while Lord Mohun saluted him in a friendly manner, and pretended to hold him in conversation, Hill, being at his back, first gave him a desperate blow on the head with his left hand, and before Mountfort had time to draw and stand on his defence, he, with the sword which he held ready in the right, ran him through the body. These details Mountfort declared as a dying man to his friend Bancroft, the surgeon who attended him. He lingered until the next day, December the 10th, when he died, and was interred in the churchyard of St. Clement, Danes. Hill immediately made his escape beyond seas, but Lord Mohun was seized and brought to trial before the House of Peers, on the 31st of January, 1693. No direct evidence appeared that he had actually aided Hill in perpetrating the capital

crime. He had joined him in his threats of vengeance, yet the positive intention of murder on his part could not be proved. The august tribunal took the more lenient view. A majority of sixty-four to fourteen pronounced him not guilty. One noble lord called the whole matter only the death of a player in a street brawl under suspicious circumstances. His notions of histrionic respectability resembled those of the operative coalheavers of Leeds-an enlightened class to whom Mr. Bright and his disciples would extend the privilege of suffrage. They were, and probably are still, in the habit of congregating on the bridge at the foot of the Briggate, when daily toil had ceased, to relax themselves by jeering at and passing comments on the casual passers by. One evening Pope, of Drurylane, who was engaged as a star, happened to make the perilous transit, on his way to the theatre, enclosed in a curtained sedan-chair, dressed in embroidered court-suit, with star and ribbon, puffed, powdered, and painted, for Lord Townly. The idlers insisted on the secluded inmate showing himself, deeming him a duke going to a dinner party, or a lord mayor at the least; but when they discovered the truth, they exclaimed in savage disappointment, "Pike un ower't brig! It be nowt but a Leaker!" Which being rendered from vernacular Yorkshire into current English, means, Toss him over the bridge! He's only a playactor!" Pope was glad to emerge, and run for his life, to the stage-door, with a yelling mob at his heels. His assailants were of the same section of dramatic commentators who, when John Kemble, in the zenith of his fame, appeared amongst them as Hamlet, hissed him vehemently. "This Lunnun chap," they said, "bean't worth a brass farden. He canna shout like 't'owld Cummins!" The preferred Cummins was a local favourite, with prodigious lungs, which he strained unmercifully in the service of the galleries. Davies relates ("Dramatic Miscellanies"), that a country squire was so tired of Mills

66

in Macbeth, that when his old pot companion, Powell, appeared at last as Macduff, in the fourth act, he roared out, "For heaven's sake, George, give us a speech and let me go home." An incident of the same kind occurred once at Bristol, when a prosy actor declaimed so long and ineffectually that an honest farmer who sat in the pit started up, with evident signs of exhausted patience, and waving his hand to motion the speaker off, cried aloud, "He be main bad; tak'un away, tak'un away, and put up another."

Retribution in rather a singular way fell on Lord Mohun at last. A narrator of his life says that imperfect education, as he had lost both his parents, led him into many unlucky follies and some criminal excesses. It might, however, have been reasonably expected that, upon his release from the imputation of Mountfort's murder, he would have abandoned his loose courses and associates. But seven years after this serious warning he was again tried, with Lords Warwick and Holland, upon a charge of murder, from which, it is true, he was unanimously freed by the verdict of his noble judges. This event, at length, made a proper impression on his mind, and in a very feeling address at the bar of the house, he proclaimed his determination of so regulating his life for the future as to avoid the disgraceful circumstances in which he had been repeatedly involved. From that time forward he applied himself sedulously to mental culture, and became an ornament to the peerage upon which he had so long been a stigma. He obtained more than one public office, and discharged his several trusts with such talent and fidelity as to secure the thanks of his countrymen, and the affection of his relatives. In consequence of succeeding to a handsome property, left to him by the will of his uncle, the Earl of Macclesfield, he became involved in a lawsuit with James, fourth Duke of Hamilton, which ended, after a lapse of eleven years, in a duel, which proved fatal to both. They fought in Hyde Park, with small swords, on Sunday morning, the 15th of November, 1712. Lord Mohun was killed on the spot, and the Duke expired of his wounds as he was being carried to his carriage.

VOL. LXII.-NO. CCCLXXI.

But Mohun's memory did not escape the accusation by which his life had twice before been tarnished. It was sworn by a person present that one Macartney, a friend of Lord Mohun's, stabbed the Duke of Hamilton;-but there, for want of corroborative testimony, the accusation ended. The title of Mohun, which dated back to 1349, became extinct. An only daughter of his, the last lord, married Arthur, Viscount Doneraile.

Wilks's early career in London was much encouraged by the opinions of Dryden, Sir George Etheridge, Wycherly, Congreve, and all the wits of the day, who declared that he would, in a few years, become the best comedian that had ever graced the English stage. But his progress in obtaining characters was slow. The best parts were in possession. Service was inheritance in those days, and so the old young lady thought who complained bitterly of being dispossessed of Juliet, after playing that charming heroine for forty years. When at the close of the season Wilks ventured to apply for a small increase of salary, he was met by a peremptory refusal. Ashbury at this time had come over to London in search of recruits, and hearing of Wilks's disappointment, tempted him to return to Ireland by an offer of £60 a-year and a clear benefit. In those days, this was more than any performer had received in Dublin. Betterton strongly urged him to close with this proposal; and when Wilks went to take leave of him, Rich happened to be present. "I am sorry we are to lose you," said the veteran, "and I fancy that gentleman," pointing to the manager, "unless he has too much obstinacy to own it, will be the first that repents your parting; for, if I foresee aright, you will be greatly wanted here before long."

The success of Wilks, upon his return to Dublin, was extremely brilliant, and his progress rapid. He was impeded by no competitor in possession of the ground, and Ashbury took particular pains to instruct him in every part he played. With difficulty he persuaded him to attempt "Alexander the Great," to which Wilks consented with much reluctance, declaring that his taste and powers rendered him unfit for the ranting heroes of tragedy. His per

40

formance obtained universal applause; but his exertions in the dying scene were so vehement that they threw him into a fever, which put a stop to the run of the tragedy, as it had very nearly done to his life. During this interval, the friendship of Ashbury was unceasing. He procured for him the best medical attendance, and defrayed the expenses from his own purse. Wilks had not been a year in Dublin when the loss of Mountfort, imperfectly supplied by George Powell, whose irregular habits negatived his admitted ability, induced Rich to offer him a salary more than double that which he had asked and been refused. But his engagements and obligations to Ashbury compelled him to forego this temptation. Chetwood tells a wild story of Wilks's secret flight from Dublin, in face of a warrant issued by Lord Sydney, then Lord Lieutenant, for his detention, obtained at the application and through the influence of the Irish manager. This statement breaks down on internal evidence. No viceroy could issue a ne exeat regno against a favourite actor, merely because his employer and the public wished to retain him. The fact is further contradicted by dates. Cibber, quoting from memory, more than forty years after the event, says that Wilks returned to London in 1696. But even this much later period is too early. Chetwood and Hitchcock give the Dublin casts of Sir George Etheridge's three comedies of "The Comical Revenge," "She would if she could," and "The Man of Mode," as performed in 1698, in all of which Wilks sustained, respectively, the leading parts of Sir Frederic Frolic, Courtail, and Dorimant.

During his stay in Dublin, Wilks lost his first wife and the eldest of his two children, a son, called after himself, Robert, who had been left in London, at nurse, and committed to the guardianship of William Bowen, a brother actor and fellow countryman, who had been several years on the Irish stage. The child died an infant. Bowen and Wilks continued their intimacy until the death of the former, which he owed to his own violence. Quin, at a rehearsal, happened to say that Johnson acted Jacomo, in the "Libertine," betterthan Bowen did, and the whole company

echoed the opinion. Upon this, Bowen, foaming with rage, left the theatre, and shortly afterwards sent for Quin to a tavern, and when he entered the room, clapped his back against the door and drew his sword, threatening to pin Quin to the wainscot if he did not draw that instant. Quin, having mildly remonstrated to no purpose, drew in his own defence, and endeavoured to disarm Bowen, who pressed so furiously upon him, that he received a mortal wound, of which he died in three days. When the loss of blood had weakened his rage, he took the whole blame on himself, acknowledged his folly and madness, and Quin, on his trial, was honourably acquitted.

A man of Wilks's personal attraction and agreeable manners was sure to excite the admiration of the fair sex. Gossiping biographers insinuate that his affairs of gallantry were nearly as numerous as his successes on the boards. The age was dissolute in the extreme. Unmarried ladies sat through Mrs. Aphra Behn's comedies, in all their prurient integrity, without masks to hide their blushes; and Mrs. Manley's "Atalantis," compared to which "Candide" is a homily, was as indispensable on the toilet table of the fair as the mirror, the rouge, or the pomatum. Morals had not mended much since Lee wrote thus, twenty years before, in his dedication of the "Rival Queens," to the Earl of Mulgrave-"Ours is an age whose business is senseless riot, Neronian gambols, and ridiculous debauchery-an age which can produce few persons like your lordship, who dare be alone. All our hot hours are burnt in night revels, or drowned by day in dead sleep." The superior classes set bad examples, and when lords and ladies of high degree were ordinarily debauchees and demireps, it could hardly be expected that a young and handsome actor should be an anchorite. Wilks's imputed liaison with Mrs. Ashbury, the manager's wife, has been positively maintained by his enemies, and as stoutly denied by his friends. We range with the latter, because the evidence weighs strongly on the favourable side, and the conclusion is more in keeping with the generous, manly, straightforward character which Wilks exhibited in every action of his life. His constitutional gaiety was unasso

ciated with the heartlessness which too often accompanies it. He was incapable of the treachery which this charge involves. He had his weak points when female witchery was practised on him; but he was no sentimental monopolist in libertinism, like Joseph Surface, who has a widow on his regular staff, attempts the wife of his friend, and aims to carry off an heiress, all at the same time.

Mrs. Ashbury was much younger than her husband, an accomplished and beautiful woman. She played the corresponding characters in elegant comedy with Wilks, and a report soon gained ground that the ardour of their private rehearsals exceeded the bounds of professional decorum. But Ashbury had such esteem for his friend and so much confidence in his wife, that he laughed at the rumour. It was, however, repeated so often, that, in spite of himself, his changed manner indicated that it had, at last, made an impression on him. Wilks no sooner perceived this than, with characteristic frankness, he asked Ashbury if he had ever given him, by word or action, any cause to think he could be guilty of such base ingratitude to one who had laid him under so many obligations of honour and friendship? To this appeal the jealous husband answered sternly, "I hope you have not been so perfidious." Sir," returned the other, as you have known the world so many years longer than I have, I was in great hope that you would have been so far your own friend as not to give credit to groundless reports. Rumour is a common liar, and if the tittle-tattle of the idle and malicious is to be admitted as a sufficient proof of any charge, whose reputation is safe? I declare myself innocent, am willing to give you the most convincing satisfaction, and shall esteem myself happy if I can restore your peace of mind." "That is not in your power," retorted Ashbury. "I wish it could be done; but the arrow is too deeply lodged to be drawn out." 66 Then, Sir," replied Wilks, in a very little time I shall put it out of the power of malice to induce you to disquiet yourself for the future on my account." He meant that he would quit the company and seek an engagement in London, which he forthwith did.

Mrs. Ashbury, amongst other ex

alted qualities, was practically and sincerely religious. She was punctual in her attendance at public worship, and usually received the sacrament every month. A few days after the above conversation between Wilks and her husband, she delivered a paper into the hands of the minister at the communion table, in which she solemnly asserted her innocence, and declared the contents to be true. The clergyman showed the paper to Ashbury, who read it with visible emotion, but still it failed to produce the desired effect. His wife, perceiving his jealousy unappeased, requested permission to retire from the theatre, but this he refused to comply with, well knowing that her loss would be irreparable. Soon after, Wilks gave up all his parts, and informed Ashbury that in the course of a week he intended to set out for England. The manager was overwhelmed with the news, used every argument in his power to dissuade him from his purpose, and even called in the influence of his wife to prevail on him to continue with them. Wilks produced his letter of engagement from Betterton, now at the head of the Drurylane management, and convinced them that his determination was irrevocable. However, at the intercession of Mrs. Ashbury, he stayed in Dublin until some of the other actors had got themselves up in his leading parts, and a benefit was over, which Ashbury, notwithstanding what had taken place between them, obliged him to accept. Hitchcock says, positively, that Ashbury and Wilks parted friends; and if any further evidence were necessary, it may be found in the fact that Wilks revisited Dublin in 1711, for three months, as a leading star, when his performances filled Ashbury's treasury to overflowing. His great character of Sir Harry Wildair he repeated for nineteen nights in succession. And in 1714 he wrote thus to his old manager-“I am proud to own that all the success I have met with, both in England and Ireland, on the stage, has been entirely owing to the early impressions I received from you. When Wilks first played Hamlet in London, in 1707, Ashbury, who had come to England to obtain a renewal of his Dublin patent, went privately to see him, and when the play was over,

stepped behind the scenes to compliment him on his success and evident improvement. Wilks was delighted to see his old master, as he always called him, and engaged him to dinner for the next day. When the cloth was removed, Ashbury desired Wilks to bring the part of Hamlet and read it to him, which he accordingly did; and the old gentleman convinced him

of no less than fifteen errors in one act. Wilks received the lesson with thankfulness, and endeavoured to correct his readings according to the hints he then received.

But here we must for the present stop, reserving his career of success, after his return to London in 1698, for the conclusion of this memoir.

THE higher interest exhibited in Irish statistics, affecting religion, education, emigration, and agriculture, since the abstracts of the late Census were laid before the public, is proof that the social changes in rapid progress in this part of the kingdom are engaging an attention in some degree commensurate with their vast importance. As was shown in a former number of this Magazine,* that transition-stage which Ireland has now almost passed through, began so far back as 1842-43, before the Famine had occurred to aggravate an Exodus that previously existed. Since then a depletion has been proceeding more or less quickly, as adverse seasons or agitations making the agricultural community discontented, have stimulated the outflow. Had no famine, no epidemics among cattle, no popular convulsions, no disappointment from the indulgence of vain chimeras, driven the people forth, the attractions of the Californian Pactolus and the Australian diggings, and the success of the earlier emigrants to the United States, attested by the funds sent to their relatives left behind, would have produced a large departure of the population of Ireland during the same interval.

When to these external temptations was added the operation of internal influences, a movement outwards resulted which has not exhausted itself yet, although, since 1841, it has drawn off twenty-nine per cent. of the people, and deprived the Irish soil of not less, in all, than 2,376,157 souls. Even between 1851 and 1861, the decline in the population, entirely the fruit of emigration, was as much as three-quarters of a

million. Notwithstanding this enormous efflux, the drain continued in 1862; and has received a fresh stimulus from the demands of the American war, in 1863, there having been, during the seven months of the present year, ending with July, an emigration of 80,506 persons, as against 45,899 in the same months of 1862. Ireland must henceforth be subject to these losses by emigration, whenever foreign countries easily accessible present special inducements to the adventurous, and so long as the people are induced to consider their native land a less promising field for industry, and less happy place of residence, by an active propagandism of sentimental grievances. A country entirely dependent upon agriculture will ever contain a larger class in a condition rendering emigration more likely than a country whose manufactures afford steady support and good wages to vast numbers. A succession of bad harvests left a great number of the smaller farmers of Ireland, and a considerable proportion of the labouring class, no refuge save in emigration; whereas, if the eye be cast across the Channel, there is found an entire collapse of the staple manufacture, with, as yet, a comparatively slight consequent emigration, many of the Lancashire workmen having obtained employment in other departments of trade, and the rest having been supported largely by the resources of the manufacturing interest. It is proper to bear these facts in mind, as political doctrines of a false and injurious character have been founded on the assumption that the Irish emigration springs from legislative