President! I'll not play before him. It is degradation enough to play before rebels, but I'll not go on for the amusement of a king of rebels, the contemptible king of Yankee-doodles." He asserted that when a youth he had been in the army during the American rebellion. "The Yankee-doodles were certainly a milder race then than now, or George Frederick's career would have been speedily cut short by bullet or bowie-knife. But rash valor was not among his failings. Indeed, he was always ready to retreat before the consequences of his insolence. One day he had a hot dispute with a bullying fellow in company with some others, and assailed him with the most abusive language. The fellow showed fight: Cooke cooled down. Then one of his companions took up the quarrel, and ejected his opponent. There was a row and a scuffle on the stairs. Cooke retired to "Sam, it's very

his bedroom, and called his servant. late; help me off with my clothes; I'll go to bed." Just then one of the party from below came running up, and, finding the tragedian already half undressed, exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Cooke! why are you here, while Price is fighting that rascal for you?" "Where is the scoundrel?" cried Cooke, fiercely. "Sam, why are you so slow? Give me my boots. Where is the scoundrel? My coat, Sam. Where is the blackguard?" But the scrimmage was over long before Cooke was ready to take part in it. Some of his American friends generously entered into the humor of his Pistol-like bravery, and challenged him. "You must apologize or fight,” said one of these, after the actor had been as usual railing against the country. "I will not apologize, young gentleman," he answered, loftily; "I will fight you. But if I fight you I shall shoot you. I am the best shot in Europe. If you

insist upon it I will shoot you. I would not willingly shed blood." But it may be doubted whether Cooke did not see through the quiz, for the whole routine of the duel was carried through; the pistols, loaded only with powder, were discharged; the antagonist, pretending to be shot, fell, and the actor, cutting the sleeve of his coat, made believe he was wounded in the shoulder.

At Philadelphia his success almost equaled that of New York. In sixteen nights the receipts were seventeen thousand three hundred and sixty dollars. Upon his return to Boston

"Such was the rage," says Dunlap, "for seeing Cooke that, though it was the depth of winter, and excessively cold, the box-office has been surrounded from three o'clock in the morning until the time of opening, which was ten."

From the time of his landing in America his health began to fail, and on several occasions he was incapacitated from appearing through real indisposition. A constitution of iron alone could have withstood such years of debauchery, but it gave way at last. On the 31st of July, 1812, while playing Sir Giles Overreach at Boston, he was taken for death, but lingered till the following September, when he died. He was preparing at the time to return to England, Harris having written to him to come back to Covent Garden. "John Bull," says the letter, is as fond of you as ever, and would be most happy to see his favorite again." We could have no better proof of Cooke's great abilities than such an offer after all his disgraceful escapades. There is not in the whole history of the stage a career more pitiable than this, not one for the errors of which we can plead so few

excuses.

But not even after the grave closed over him had George Frederick, at least in body, ended his eccentric career. We will add here an extraordinary anecdote of the post mortem period, given on the authority of Dr. Doran.

After his death, the doctors not only opened his body to discover the cause, but Dr. Francis took possession of his head for phrenological purposes, and kept the skull in his surgery. One night "Hamlet" was performed at the "Park; " at the last moment the property man found he had no skull, and hastened to the doctor's to borrow one. The one lent was Cooke's. It was returned that night, but next evening, at a meeting of the Cooper Club, the circumstance being known to several there, a desire was expressed to examine the head of the great tragedian, which was again produced for the investigation of Daniel Webster, Henry Wheaton, and other celebrities.

Kean was a great admirer of Cooke, and when he was in New York visited his grave, which is in St. Paul's churchyard. Finding it without a memorial stone, he had the body taken up, removed to another place, and a handsome monument placed over it. In the transition from one grave to another he contrived to abstract one of the toe-bones, and this he brought back with him to London as a precious relic. Upon his arrival in England Elliston and several of the Drury Lane company went as far as Barnet to meet him. When he arrived at the hotel where they were to breakfast, he stopped all their greetings with: "Before you say a word, behold! Fall down and kiss this relic! This is the toe-bone of the greatest creature that ever walked the earth- of George Frederick Cooke. Come, down with you all and kiss the bone!"

Elliston, to humor him, dropped upon his knees and kissed the relic, and the others followed his example. Arriving home, Kean's first words to his wife were: "I have brought Charles a fortune. I have something that the directors of the British Museum would give ten thousand pounds for; but they sha'n't have it. Here it is, the toe-bone of the greatest man that ever lived-George Frederick Cooke. Now, observe: I put this on the mantel-piece; but let no one dare to touch it. You may all look at it-at a distance, but be sure no one presumes to handle it." Here it lay for months, an object of pride to the possessor, who never failed to point it out to his visitors. But Mrs. Kean, far from sharing her husband's satisfaction, held the relic in disgust. One day, resolved to no longer endure its sight, she caught hold of it with a piece of paper and threw it over the wall into the next garden. That night Kean returned, as was his wont, very inebriated. He missed the bone. He stormed, raved, summoned the servants out of their beds, and searched every likely and unlikely spot. At last the conviction was forced upon him that it was gone. Sinking into a chair, he exclaimed, with drunken lachrymoseness: "Mary, your son has lost a fortune. He was worth ten thousand pounds; now he is a beggar!"

CHAPTER VIII.

EDMUND KEAN.

The Misery and Suffering of his Childhood.-Vicissitudes as a Strolling Player.-Makes his Debut in London as Shylock.-Instant Recognition by the Town.-His Career in England and America -Kean as an Actor and a Man.-Last Appearance in Conjunction with his Son.

Bотн the parentage and date of the birth of Edmund Kean are doubtful. There is not only an uncertainty about the father, a by no means uncommon circumstance in this world, but, what is much more rare, there is a suspicion concerning the mother. A Miss Tidswell, an actress, of whom we shall have occasion to speak immediately, has been accredited with bringing him into the world, and even Kean himself seems to have entertained this belief"for why," he says, "did she take so much trouble over me?"—while to no less a personage than a Duke of Norfolk has been given the honor of his paternity. One day in the lobby of Drury Lane Theatre, Lord Essex openly accused his grace of the fact, and asked him why he did not acknowledge his son. The duke protested his friend was mistaken, and added that if it were so he should be proud to own him. Edmund's reputed mother, however, was a strolling actress named Nance Carey. Her father was a strolling player; her grandfather, Henry Carey, dramatist and song writer, and author of the sweet old lyric, "Sally in our Alley," was the natural son of the great Lord Halifax. Edmund's reputed father was one Kean, who is variously represented as a tailor or a builder. Some say the child was born in Castle Street, Leicester Square, others in a miserable garret in Ewer Street,