begin. First take a general glance, and then individualise. There are printed catalogues to assist you, originally drawn up by the present Charles Mathews with much skill and discrimination, when the gallery was exhibited.

Let us look first at the old actors of the Restoration. Here is Nell Gwynne, by Sir Peter Lely; there is another by the same master, in Windsor Castle, and half a dozen more in as many dif ferent places. These great painters were very industrious, and dealt in duplicates as freely as pawnbrokers. Nelly had small sparkling eyes, quick and kind looking; a little figure, hair inclining to red, but very handsome features. She was espiegle rather than pretty, piquante more than beautiful. Not many years ago there was a bust of her in Bagnigge Wells (it may be there still), where she had a country-house, which represents her plump and round, as we can readily fancy. While we look on the portrait before us, and think over her mad pranks and escapades, it is easy to believe that she gave more point to a prologue or epilogue than any speaker in either theatre, and was in great request with authors for that especial duty. But our ancestors were more susceptible of mirth than we are in this dull, matter-of-fact age; and we doubt if the appearance of any undersized, popular actress, in a hat of the circumference of a large coach-wheel, would now be considered an unparalleled flight of humour, and suffice of itself to throw the house into convulsions. When Nelly's pretty face, peeping out from under the broad-brimmed hat, won the heart of Charles II., she was the only one of his legion of mistresses who remained faithful without fleecing him. In her advancement, she discovered neither pride, avarice, nor ostentation; remembered all her theatrical friends, and did them serviceincluding Dryden, to whom she owed much; and Otway, and Lee, both of whom she warmly patronised, although she could not save them from starving. Once, as she was driving up Ludgatehill, some bailiffs were hurrying a clergyman to prison. She stopped; and, finding him a worthy object for pity, paid his debt on the spot, liberated, and procured him preferment. persuaded the King to build Chelsea hospital with money which would other

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wise have been wasted on frivolous pleasures, and at all times urged him to attend to public business. One of her

expedients for this purpose, at a time when the royal presence at an important council was highly necessary, is well known. She instructed Killigrew to break in on their téte-a-tête whip in hand, booted, spurred, and equipped for a long journey. "How now, Killigrew!" exclaimed the astonished monarch, "Why are you thus accoutred? and where are you going in such a hurry?" "To h—," bluntly replied the wag, "and I am come to ask if your Majesty has any commands." "None," replied the King; "but what can your errand be to that place?" "To fetch back Oliver Cromwell," rejoined Killigrew, "to see to the affairs of England, which are all going to ruin for want of some one to look after them." The King felt the rebuke, smiled, took his hat, and forthwith proceeded to join his impatient and offended ministers.

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When King Charles was on his death-bed, almost his last words to his brother were, "Do not let poor Nelly starve." She purchased a house in Pall-Mall, where she lived several years in general estimation, and died in 1691, being buried with considerable pomp in St. Martin's Church; to the ringers of which she left money to supply them with a weekly entertainment, which they still enjoy. also bequeathed a large sum to furnish the poor debtors of Newgate with a certain quantity of bread per day. This gift they yet possess the benefit of, and the philanthropic bequest is (or was very lately) stuck up in the courtyard of the prison. Dr. Tennyson, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, preached her funeral sermon, in which he eulogised her charitable disposition, and sincere penitence. Some spiteful persons distorted this into a fulsome panegyric upon her and her profession, and urged it as a bar to his promotion; but Queen Mary defended him, saying, "she was convinced Nell Gwynne made a truly pious and Christian end, or so good a man as Dr. Tennyson would never have been induced to speak favourably of her." Funeral sermons were much more the fashion in those days than they are now, and were looked upon as a necessary portion of the closing ceremony. Few persons possessed of means died without assigning a special legacy for the purpose. A curious collection might be formed of these mortuary compliments. The notorious Mother Creswell left fifty pounds for a sermon, sti

pulating only that the preacher should speak well of her. Many declined, but at last a young curate accepted the conditions, and delivered a tolerably eloquent oration on mortality and fu turity. In conclusion, he reminded his auditors of the deceased, whose death had led to the discourse. "I am instructed," said he, to speak well of her, and I am happy that I can comply, without departing from the truth. She was born at Cres-well, she lived in Clerken-well, and she died in Bride-well."

Here is a very wild-looking portrait of poor Nat. Lee, painted during his confinement in Bedlam, but surely not by Dobson, as the catalogue tells us. Lee was shut up in November, 1684, and Dobson died in 1646-7. It would have been difficult for him to paint anything thirty-seven years after. Lee came out in King Duncan, and failed completely as an actor, although the most pathetic reader of his own scenes that was ever listened to. Mohun threw down his part at a rehearsal, and exclaimed to Lee, in the warmth of his admiration, "To what purpose should I undertake this character, unless I were able to play it as well as you read?" While in Bedlam, Lee wrote Alexander the Great, which is certainly well sprinkled with mad fustian, although not half so extravagant as Brutus, Cæsar Borgia, or the Massacre of Paris. But his worst plays are full of tenderness, and have many passages of true poetic enthusiasm. While in Bedlam, a cox combical scribbler had the cruelty to jeer him with his misfortune, by observing that it was an easy thing to write like a madman. "No," said Lee, it is not an easy thing to write like a madman; but it is very easy to write like a fool." He recovered his reason, and was released after four years' confinement, but died soon, in 1691 or 1692. Oldys, in his "MS. Notes," mentions his death as follows: Returning one night from the Bear and Harrow, in Butcherrow, through Clare-market, to his lodgings, in Duke-street, overladen with wine, he fell down on the ground, as some say; according to others, on a bulk, and was killed, or stifled in the snow." He was buried in the parish church of St. Clement Danes, aged about thirty-five years.

Who are these two quaint-looking gentlemen? Cave Underhill, as Obadiah, in the Committee, and Anthony Leigh, as Dominic, in the Spanish

Friar the last by Sir Godfrey Kneller. These two were the Mathews and Munden of their day, each inimitable in his respective line. They had a Liston too, to complete the triumvi rate,- Nokes; but of him there is no portrait in this collection. Underhill was a patriarch in the drama, and remained on the stage until his age exceeded eighty. Leigh was a special favourite with King Charles the Second, who used to call him his own actor. He was light and mercurial—and with a superabundance of humour, knew when to stop, when he had tickled his audience, without offending them by "o'erstepping the modesty of nature." Here is another celebrated comedian of that day, John Lacy, in three characters, a copy, by Michael Wright, from his original picture in Windsor Castle, painted by royal order. That he was a leading performer in his line, we may gather from the following passage in Durfey's prologue to Sir Hercules Buffoon, a comedy, written by Lacy, and produced three years after his death :

"Know that fam'd Lacy, ornament o' the stage,
That standard of true comedy in our age,
Wrote this new play;

And if it takes not, all that we can say on't,
Is, we've his fiddle, not his hands to play on't."

True comedy must have sunk to a very low ebb indeed in that licentious age, when such feeble attempts as Lacy's are quoted by a brother scribe as their standard. His plays are long forgotten, and may be forgiven, except the horrible mutilation of Shakspeare's Taming of the Shrew, entitled Sawney the Scot.

That large painting before us, represents Betterton and Mrs. Barry, in the closet scene of Hamlet. The costume, so different from what we of the present generation have been long accustomed to, gives a formality and unpoetical look to the figures, but may be studied with curiosity as memorials of a style of dress not likely ever to be revived.

You are now looking on the two greatest performers the British stage could boast, and who stood unrivalled in the highest walks of tragedy, until Garrick and Mrs. Siddons rose, and eclipsed the fame of both. Colley Cibber, in his delicious volume of reminiscences, brings up Betterton before us in living reality; and many other writers have warmly seconded his panegyric. "He was an actor," says Cibber, "as Shakspeare was an author,

both without competitors; formed for the mutual assistance and illustration of each others' genius. How Shakspeare wrote, all men who have a taste for nature may read and know; but with what higher rapture would he still be read, could they conceive how Betterton played him! Then might they know that one was born alone to speak what the other only knew to write." Betterton's father was undercook to Charles I. He gave his son a good education, and intended him for one of the learned professions; but the civil wars interfering, necessity or the confusion of the times compelled his parents to apprentice him to a bookseller. His master, Mr. Rhodes, obtained from the Government, in 1659, a license to open a theatre at the cock-pit in Drury-lane, into which company young Betterton, being then scarcely more than twenty, entered, and soon gave proof of extraordinary genius. Notwithstanding his success and high position, he does not appear to have amassed a fortune, as he continued to perform up to seventy-two, when we are assured his physical and mental powers were still sufficiently vigorous; but his death was hastened by acting Melantius in Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid's Tragedy, when suffering under an attack of gout, which he sought to reduce by outward applications. Betterton married Mrs. Saunderson, an actress of equal merit with himself, and of unblemished character, with whom he lived most happily, and who survived him many years. He was greatly esteemed in private life, and his society courted by noble lords and learned prelates. His wife was honoured with the tutorage of the two princesses, Mary and Anne, daughters of the Duke of York, when they performed in a court pastoral, called, Calisto, or the Chaste Nymph, written expressly for the occasion by Cronne, at the desire of Queen Catharine of Braganza, consort of Charles II. In grateful remembrance of this, Anne, when Queen, settled a pension of £100 per annum on her old instructress, which, however, she did not enjoy long. Old age, bad health, and the loss of her husband, soon deprived her of her reason, and in a few months, of her life also. Dr. Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury, in 1675, on an occasion when Betterton was dining with him, said—

"Pray, Mr. Betterton, inform me

what is the reason you actors on the stage can affect your audiences with speaking of things imaginary as if they were real, while we in the church speak of things real, which our congregations only receive as if they were imaginary."

"Why, my lord," replied Betterton, "with submission to your grace, the reason is very plain; all lies in the power of enthusiasm. We actors on the stage speak of things imaginary as if they were real, and you in the pulpit speak coldly of things real as if they were imaginary.”

Betterton was the author of eight plays, including two alterations of Shakspeare's Henry the Fourth, of which the best that can be said is, that (with the exception of the two last named) they are not devoid of merit. But his fame survives in the reputation of his talent as an actor. He was buried with considerable pomp in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, of which ceremonial, as of many of his most celebrated performances, interesting accounts may be perused in various numbers of the Tatler. The Mrs. Barry in this painting must not be confounded with her successor, wife of Spranger Barry, who, although a fine tragic actress, can by no means be compared with this, the first of the name, who died in 1713, aged fiftyfive, and is usually called, Madam, or the famous Mrs. Barry. There is another portrait of this lady in the collection. Dryden says of her, in his preface to Cleomenes" Mrs. Barry, always excellent, has in this tragedy excelled herself, and gained a reputation beyond any woman I have ever seen on the theatre." Cibber confirms the eulogium of Dryden thus—“I will venture to add, that, though Dryden has been dead these thirty-eight years, the same compliment, to this hour, may be done to her excellence."

This next painting is one of the gems of the club, and was presented by R. Willett, Esq. It was long in Horace Walpole's collection at Strawberryhill, and is supposed to be Harris, an actor contemporary with Betterton, in Cardinal Wolsey. The painter's name is not given, which is to be regretted, as the work is highly creditable to him, be he who he may. Downes, in "Roscius Anglicanus," says of Harris, that his Wolsey was little inferior to Betterton's Henry VIII., and that he was an admirable general actor.

Here we have old Colley Cibber himself, as Lord Foppington, painted by Grisoni. He began life with nothing, and received his first salary of ten shillings per week, that he might be forfeited five for incompetence. But he rose to be patentee and poet laureate, and to be most unjustly elevated to the throne of the "Dunciad" by the spite of Pope. Colley Cibber was a most egregious coxcomb, yet as far removed from a brainless dunce as the little wasp of Twickenham himself. We never saw him act (we are not quite old enough for that), we seldom read his plays, and should be truly sorry to dis-inter his birth-day odes. But we rejoice sincerely that he lived, or we should have wanted the "Apology for his Life," the most delightful book of gossip ever written, not even excepting the mugnum opus of James Boswell, the emperor of all familiar biographers. Cibber's Richard the Third is an immortal hodge-podge, not likely to be ever superseded; and his scenes of polite altercation between Lord and Lady Townly, in the Provoked Husband, will be remembered as long as the English language endures. Cibber left the stage at seventy-three, in 1744, and lived up to eighty-six, long enough to abuse Garrick, and the shining lights of the new school, whom he looked upon as Vandalic invaders of the old style, the solemn superiority of which he never ceased to proclaim. Mrs. Bracegirdle (there is her portrait before you) had more candour, and soundly reproved Cibber for saying that his son Theophilus could play Bayes better than Garrick. "Come, come, Colley," said the old lady, "there is too much envy in your character of this young gentleman. The actor who draws all the world after him, and pleases everybody, must be a man of merit.”

"Why, faith, Bracey," replied the ancient cynic, taking a pinch of snuff, and reluctantly admitting the truth, "I believe you are right – fellow is clever."

the young

Anne Bracegirdle, in her youth, was beautiful, clever, and courted by everybody; actors, authors, and amateurs, all made love to her. But she resisted all, and lived in celibacy, with an unblemished reputation.

Gildon and Tom Brown attacked her private character, but apparently with no better foundation than the difficulty of remaining chaste in a

profligate age, and in a profession exposed as it then was to such powerful temptations. Anthony Aston says:

"Mrs. Bracegirdle, that Diana of the stage, had many assailants on her virtue, as Lord Lovelace and Mr. Congreve — the last of which had her company most; but she ever resisted his vicious attacks, and yet was always uneasy at his leaving her. She was very shy of Lord Lovelace's company, as being an engaging man, who dressed well. She was of a lovely height, with dark brown hair and eyebrows, black, sparkling eyes, and a fresh blushy complexion; and whea ever she exerted herself, had an involuntary flushing in her neck and face, having continually a cheerful aspect, and a fine set of even, white teeth. Genteel comedy was ber chief essay, and that too when in men's clothes, in which she far surmounted all the actresses of that and this age; yet she had a defect scarce perceptible — viz., her right shoulder a little protruded, which, when in male attire, was covered by a long peruke. She was finely shaped, and had very handsome legs and feet."

Nothing can be more arbitrary than notions of beauty, which has been ingeniously described as "an assemblage of graces that pleases the eye;" a definition perfectly applicable to every taste. Slight physical peculiarities are sometimes additional attractions. An approximation to a squint, or a nez retroussé, have found admirers, and a limp has been considered interesting. The gentle La Vallière laboured under the last defect, and the fascinating Princess Eboli had but one eye. Aston concludes his panegyric on Mrs. Bracegirdle by saying

"She was, when on the stage, diurnally charitable, going often into Clare Market and giving money to the poor unemployed basket-women, insomuch that she could not pass that neighbourhood without the thankful acclamations of people of all degrees; so that, if any person affronted her, they would have been in danger of being killed directly— and yet this good woman was an actress."

Here are two charming portraits of one of the most fascinating actresses you have ever read of Anne Oldfield. She excelled principally in arch, animated comedy, but her powers were various, and she appeared in tragic characters with great success, although much to her own discontent. often used to say, "I hate to have a page dragging my tail about." Her Estifania was considered perfect, and she was the original performer of Lady

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Townly in the Provoked Husband, as also of Mrs. Sullen in the Beaux' Stratagem. Wilkes told Farquhar, the author of the latter play, when dying, that Mrs. Oldfield thought he had dealt too freely with the character of Mrs. Sullen in giving her to Archer without such a proper divorce as might save her honour. "To salve that," replied Farquhar, "I'll get a real divorce, marry her myself, and give her my bond she shall be a real widow in less than a fortnight."

Mrs. Oldfield's lively spirit scorned the fetters of the tie matrimonial. She lived first with Arthur Maynwaring, Esq., and after his death with Brigadier-General Churchill; but these irregularities were tolerated, and by no means excluded her from good society. Queen Caroline once asked her, rather abruptly, if she and the General were married. "Yes, your Majesty," she replied, "only we don't mean to make it public yet." When the late Mrs. Powell was privately united to Renaud, she at first retained her former name, and said nothing about the change. Mrs. E-, a lady in the same theatre, who was suspected to have no claim to the matronly title she assumed, addressed her sister actress before the whole company in the green-room thus, "Do you know, my dear, they say you are married?" Upon which the other, not in the least discomposed, retorted instantly" And do you know, my dear, they say you are not?" Mrs. Oldfield died in 1730, aged 47, leaving liberal legacies to her relations and friends, and very handsome fortunes to her two natural sons, Mr. Maynwaring and Mr. Churchill, the latter of whom afterwards married Lady Anna Maria Walpole the natural daughter of Sir Robert Walpole, Earl of Orford. She was generous and benevolent. The unfortunate Richard Savage received from her a pension of fifty pounds a-year as long as she lived. The corpse of Mrs. Oldfield lay in state at the Jerusalem Chamber, and was interred with great funeral solemnity in Westminster Abbey, at the west end of the south aisle, near the monuments of Secretary Craggs and Congreve, close

to the Consistorial Court. In allusion to these three eminent persons never having been married, a gentleman threw into Mrs. Oldfield's grave the following verse, written with a pencil :— "If penance in the bishop's court be fear'd, Congreve, and Craggs, and Oldfield will be scar'd, To find that at the resurrection day They 've all so near the consistory lay."

Personal vanity, not extinguished by death, was the ruling passion of Anne Oldfield. At her own particular request, when consigned to the coffin, she was adorned with a head-dress of Brussels lace, a Holland shift, with tucker and double ruffles of the same costly material, and a pair of new kid gloves. Alas! for the weakness of poor human nature! Pope satirises this folly in the often quoted lines:"Odious! In woollen 'twould a saint provoke ! Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke. No; let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs and shade my lifeless face; One would not sure be frightful when one's deadAnd, Betty, give this cheek a little red."

On examining the portraits of celebrated old performers in this fine collection, there are several whose features we should like to have looked upon, and which are still wanting to make it complete. Amongst the ladies, we miss Mesdames Leigh, Butler, Mountford, Porter,* Marshall and Saunderson-all famous in their day, and warmly commended by Cibber, and others. Amongst the male celebrities, we have no vera effigies of Hart, the original Alexander in Lee's tragedy, whose delivery of the glowing rant on the passage of the Granicus produced such a tumult of applause in the pit, that the inhabitants of the neighbouring alleys rushed out in terror, thinking there was an earthquake. Michael Mohun, too, is absent, of whom Lee said in a preface-" Mohun, thou little man of metal, if I were to write a hundred plays, I would write a part for thee." Neither are there here Johnson and Griffin, so celebrated as Ananias and Tribulation, in the Alchemist, in which characters they were painted by Van Bluck; nor Mountford, so treacherously murdered by Lord Mohun, at the early age of thirtytwo; nor Kynaston, so renowned for

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