ceived sentence of death at the Old Bailey, on the 18th of April, 1787. However, on the 15th of May following, he found means again to make his escape; his irons, which he had sawed off in the night, being found in his cell, and his prison dress in a private part of the building, where he had, in all probability, been furnished with a change of apparel. He was subsequently again taken, and then underwent the sentence of the law.

In coming now to certain of the "Sketches," we have merely to observe, that Sir Astley has displayed closeness of observation in noting the peculiarities of the persons with whom he came in contact, and also that he expressed himself with considerable terseness. Begin with notices and opinions of Lord Liverpool.

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Lord

Lord Liverpool was an amiable and truly honest man; a man of business, but not a man of the world. He would not flatter or cringe, even to his monarch; but confident in honest designs, and anxious for the welfare of his country, he always carried his point. He was a high tory,- he feared God, -he honoured his king, and he upheld the laws of his country fearlessly and firmly. He had no sinister designs; he understood the business of government, from having served an apprenticeship to it; and not being an intriguer himself, he did not suspect it in others. Liverpool was taciturn, and little conversation passed between us; but one morning he said to me, "Pegge, the Professor of Anatomy is dead, and have many applications-who ought to succeed him?" and I said, “Kidd, my Lord." On that very evening Kidd was appointed at Oxford. Upon my professional visits, when my name was announced, before I could well enter the room, he had bared his leg to show me its inflamed veins; I then looked at them, prescribed, and said, "Good morning, my lord," and left the room. Such meetings happened very often, for I did not attempt to gossip with a man who, like Atlas, had the world upon his shoulders. One morning he said, "I am going to bring in a bill upon the regulation of prisons,have you anything to suggest professionally?" "Why, my lord, I have received a letter, which you shall read." It was a letter from a surgeon, who had seen a broken fore-arm badly treated at a government prison; and he said to the doctor of the establishment, "Both bones are distorted." The reply was, "Both bones, why there is only one bone in that part of the arm." Indignant at this ignorance, he wrote to me, and I requested his lordship to have a clause introduced into the bill, that no one should be allowed to act as a surgeon to a prison, who was not a member of the Royal College of Surgeons. To this he consented, and it was done, and, I believe, has ever since been adhered to.

But what of the King?

The abilities of George the Fourth were of the first order. He would have made the first physician or surgeon of his time, the first lawyer, the first speaker in the House of Commons or Lords, though perhaps not the best divine. As a king he was prosperous, for he had the good sense to be led by good ministers, although, however, he did not like them all.-The

king was indolent, and therefore disposed to yield, to avoid trouble; nervous, and therefore anxious to throw every onus from his own shoulders. He was the most perfect gentleman in his manners and address-possessing the finest person, with the most dignified and gracious condescension, yet excessively proud; familiar himself, but shocked at it in others; violent in his temper, yet naturally kind in his disposition. I have seen him spurn from him, yet, in ten minutes, say that he liked nobody so much about him, and that no one but he should do anything for him.-George the Fourth had an extraordinary memory, he recollected all that he had read or seen,—and had the faculty of quickly comprehending everything. If he saw a steamengine, he would describe not only its principles of action, but enter minutely into its construction. He could recount anecdotes of everybody, and could quote the beauties of almost all the works, in prose or verse, in English literature. He also prided himself on his knowledge of Latin, being, in fact, an excellent classic, and frequently quoted Horace. He was a good historian, being fully conversant with the history, not only of his own country, but of all Europe. I once said, "Sire, are you familiar with the fate of Henrietta Maria, after the death of Charles the First? It is to be found, I believe, in Pennant." "Oh," he said, "read De Grammont; there you will find all about her, together with the history of those times, well described and minutely given." Dates, also, in history, he could well recollect, and it was dangerous to differ with him concerning them, as he was sure to be right. The connexions and families of the nobility he was quite familiar with. He spoke German and French as well as his own language, and knew a little of others. With respect to Greek, his father, he said, would not let him go on with it, and so accounted for his deficiency in that language.He spoke remarkably well, but did not write so well, because he would not give himself the trouble, and therefore always sought assistance from others. His life had been, since the age of sixteen, conversational, from which time he had given very little attention to writing or composition.-He told me, that from the time he was sixteen, he knew everything, bad and good, and that he had entered into every amusement that a gentleman could engage in. George the Fourth thought Lady Melbourne the most delightful person he had ever known, and used to describe her person, her appearance, her manners, her temper, her gracefulness, as divine. He said his sister Mary was, however, the most of an angel he ever knew, and asked me if I had ever seen her. I said that I had had the honour of attending her, and had seen her at Lord Verulam's. "Well," said he, "is she not delightful?" &c.George the Fourth's judgment was good as regarded others, and as respected his country. If I had wanted to decide upon what I ought to do, nobody would have given me better advice: but he very likely would have practised just the contrary himself, for with respect to himself he was too often guided by prejudice.• His hatred of being observed made him dislike to show himself, and instead of regarding the hissing of a mob as the hissing of geese, he always feared it. The king would sometimes be coarse in his conversation and anecdotes, but again nobody could be more refined and polished when he chose. Every story of a character about town, every humorous anecdote he was perfectly acquainted with, and was constantly seeking means of adding to his stock, and then took the greatest pleasure in relating

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them to others. He was himself witty, but the points of his conversation consisted principally in anecdote and the relation of jokes. He often awoke early, and read from five or six o'clock in the morning, until nine or ten, and thus he became acquainted with all the new books, which he read, of every description-novels, pamphlets, voyages, travels, plays-and he liked to talk of them.

Sir Astley says that George the Fourth did not like Lord Liverpool, "because he felt a fear of him, from his firmness; for he would never yield any important point to the king, nor suffer him to interfere in his particular province." Will it add to the reader's estimate of his Majesty's gentlemanly manners, when told that he (the King) "used to say, as soon as he (Lord Liverpool) went out of the room,' What an awkward creature that is!' and then he mimicked all his peculiarities, so as to produce a laugh against Lord Liverpool?"

We cite a few more anecdotes, given on the authority of some noblemen, relative to the king.

I then talked with Lord of George the Fourth; he agreed that he was a clever creature. I told him that when the Duke of Wellington was ill, George the Fourth shed tears, and said, "If I were to lose him, I should lose the honestest man I have about me." I related that the king asked if the duke could go out that day, and that Knighton said, "I ordered him not." The king said, smiling, "You ordered him not! Could you not have thought of a better word ?" "No, Sire," said Knighton, "I ordered him not. If a man does not attend to his friend and physician, he had better have neither." As we went out of the room I said, "You are a pretty fellow!" and he said, "Oh! that was intended for him." "Yes," said Lord "he was a great friend to George the Fourth, for he brought his pecuniary affairs into an excellent state; the king had ten thousand pounds about him when he died, although he had been in debt." "The king was a very clever man," said Lord " he saw everything at an instant; and what an excellent mimic he was.' "True," I replied. Lord said that George the Fourth and the Duke of York, although generally lavish, were fond of having money in their bureau, which they did not like to expend, and related the following anecdote in illustration. Mrs. Fitzherbert told the king, that one of his horses was likely to win at Newmarket, but the stakes were not paid. George Lee came and told him the same thing. "Yes," said the king, "I told Lake to pay them." "But," replied Lee," he has no money.' "Do you pay them, then, my dear fellow. Oh! yes, you pay them." He could not pay them either, and half an hour only remained; when he was told that his horse could not run, as the stakes were not paid. "Yes; but I have told Lake to pay them, and I told Lee to pay them." "But they have no money, your majesty." And then very unwillingly he went to his drawer to take out the sum. Duke of York was just the same; they would, either of them, draw a cheque upon their bankers, but would not part with their money

The

Our last extract of all belongs to a period when George the Fourth was subjected to a very serious operation for tumour in the

head.

The king bore the operation well, requested that there might be no hurry, and when it was finished, said, "What do you call the tumour ?" I said, "A steatome, Sire." "Then," said he, "I hope it will stay at home, and not

annoy me any more.

The king went on well until Saturday; when he came in to us he said, "I have not slept all night, and I am d-d bad this morning; my head is sore all over." I immediately thought erysipelas was coming on, and that we should lose him. I called in the middle of the day at Carlton Palace, and again in the evening, and he was much the same.

The next morning when I went the king was on the sofa,-his great toe was red with gout, and his head had lost its soreness, and all its unpleasant feelings. From this time the wound healed in the most favourable manner.

In a fortnight afterwards he said, "Lord Liverpool has promised to make you a baronet, but I will not suffer it, I shall do it myself." I thanked him, and said, "Since your majesty is so kind, let me say, if it be not entailed upon my nephew, Astley, whom I have adopted and educated, it will lose much of its value." He immediately said, "It shall be made out as you wish." He afterwards, in six months, sent me a beautiful epergne, for which he gave the plan himself, and which cost him five hundred guineas.

In conclusion, we merely observe that, although Sir Astley commenced life with a strong tendency to extreme democratical notions, yet the baronet's opinions not only made a halt, but took such a turn, that he came to cherish a deep veneration for ancient institutions, so as even to be apprehensive that the London University boded danger and was unsound in its principles.

ART. X.-The Patrician's Daughter: A Tragedy in Five Acts. Fourth Edition. By J. W. MARSTON. Mitchell.

HAVING at the time of its publication reviewed the first edition of this tragedy, our present object is not so much to canvass the merits of the work, as to offer some few observations on the controversy which it has excited. The point mooted by Mr. Marston's drama, as our readers are probably aware, is the capacity and suitability of the present for tragic illustration; whether in contemporary life may be found materials of passion and incident, worthy of commemoration in the most stately form of poetry, and calculated, like the lofty themes of old, to solemnize the mind, and to soften the heart. So far as the public is concerned, the proposition was triumphantly affirmed on the first night of representation. It was never our lot to

witness greater enthusiasm, or demonstrations of delight more apparently sincere, than were displayed on this occasion. It is true that the author owes much of his triumph to the representatives of his leading characters. Nothing could be more nobly conceived, or more powerfully delineated, than the part of Mordaunt by Mr. Macready. The subdued earnestness of his love, which works by a fascination so gradual as almost to blind the subject of it to the power of its operation,-a love trembling with its own intensity; the crushing sense of his wrong, when he believes devotion so ardent to have been excited and fostered for the mere gratification of a scornful humour; the almost inspired energy of the revenge which he executes, under the self-deluded conviction that he is the minister of justice; the grandeur of the mournful yet proud lowliness which he exhibits when his purpose is consummated; and the paralysing effects of a too late remorse, were revelations worthy of a genius as profound in its discrimination of human motives and feelings, as impressive in their portraiture. Nor can too much praise be awarded to the Mabel of Miss Helen Faucit. There was a spell, a subtle and spiritual charm in her early scenes, which might well account for the fervour of Mordaunt's passion, and which materially contributed to render an act, the least rapid in dramatic action of the whole play, one of its most interesting features. The sweet and delicate appreciation by which she seized and realised every-even the most minute-poetical sentiment, was received by the audience as a full compensation for the comparatively slow movement of this part of the story. Nor can we omit to record her pure and unstrained pathos in the closing scene, a pathos which stole upon the heart, rather than smote it, and drew forth tears with a witchery so subtle, that few could repress the tribute. We allude more particularly to the excellence of the acting, because, to our mind, it rather confirms than detracts from the principle affirmed in this play-that the present possesses all the elements of tragic interest. If in the more familiar

events and aspects of contemporaneous life, there had been aught inherently opposite to the spirit of tragedy, then we contend that the very excellence with which the design was embodied would only the more prominently have exhibited the disharmony between the tragic principle itself, and the media through which it was attempted to be developed. If, for example, modern costumes were essentially repugnant to intense passion, then, in precise proportion to the power with which the passion was expressed, would be this absurdity of the contrast between it and the incongruous externalities of dress.

The success of this play with the public, was, we have said, decisive. But the opponents of Mr. Marston's theory were not to be daunted by the verdict which the popular feeling returned. Routed on the grounds of results, the hostile critics betook themselves to the