neck, inscribed with the words "Theatre Royal, Drury Lane." of Edmund Kean. His reputed mother, | had a brass dog's-collar fastened on his however, was a disreputable strolling actress named Nance Carey, his reputed father one Kean, supposed to have been a tailor. At three years of age Kean was chosen for his fine black eyes and his animated gestures from among a lot of children to personate Cupid upon the stage. He was also one of the imps that danced around the caldron in John Kemble's Macbeth, and by the stately John he was By far the most powerful picture drawn by Mr. Baker in his voluminous records of these extinct lives is that of this erratic genius. At one moment he is found at an inn, tarred and feathered, singing low songs to amuse a drunken company; at another he is caught wandering in the fields, where he has subsisted on uncooked turnips and cabbages for days. Proud, im- Then rivals began to spring up. The petuous, hot-headed, of intemperate hab- most prominent of these was Junius Bruits and an ungovernable temper, his life tus Booth, the father of Edwin Booth, who for years was one series of untold priva- had appeared at Covent Garden as Richard tions, in which, in course of time, a wife | III., which, it was said, was an imitation and children shared. How they trudged of Kean's own, save that it was superior. from town to town on foot, stopped in To decide the question the Drury Lane barns, and played for sixpences to such management engaged Booth to make a yokels as cared to listen to them, is a story contest. The trial play was to be Othello which wrings the heart to read. Years -Kean the Moor, Booth the Iago. The passed thus; and that under such circum- house was crowded, the excitement prostances Kean could have perfected him- digious. We have the testimony of Barself to the marvellous extent he did in ry Cornwall and other disinterested and the art of acting is something that exceeds competent critics that Booth's defeat was comprehension. But the turning-point overwhelming and complete. Kean, no was at hand. One night he noticed an doubt maddened by wine as well as exintelligent face among a sparse and stu- citement, was wrought up to such a fury pid set of boobies who had gathered to see of passion that it seemed dangerous to him at Doncaster. After the perform- cross his path, death to assault him. ance the owner of the intelligent face went to him and said, "Come and breakfast with me to-morrow. I have something to say to you. I am the manager of Drury Lane Theatre." Kean staggered backward as if he had been shot. An engagement was effected the next day for three years, at £8, £9, and £10 per week. In 1820 Kean went to America, reaping a golden harvest by his tour. Returning to England, he was received again with rapture. In thirteen years Edmund Kean earned over a million dollars; yet he squandered it all as fast as he got it, lived extravagantly, died poor. His last appearance was tragic. He and his son Charles were playing Othello and Iago together. The house was crammed. Kean was almost helpless before the play began, but when he came to the words, "Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone," he fell upon his son's shoulder, moaning, "I am dying." An hour before he died he sprang out of bed, exclaiming, “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" His last utterances were the dying words of Octavian: "Farewell, Floranthe!" But, oh, how dark was the hour before the dawn! A beloved child who had long been ailing died; he fell ill himself; he had a dispute with the manager about his opening part when he recovered; the company at rehearsal jeered at his small figure, his worn shoes, his shabby rough coat. Meantime he was half starved. "I must dine to-day," he said to his wife on the day of his appearance, and for the first time in many days he tasted meat. The night of his first appearance in London was cold and foggy. There had been a heavy snow, and now the streets were al-ster to allow the body of Edmund Kean most impassable with slush, which pene- to repose beside that of his only peer, Datrated his worn boots and chilled him to vid Garrick, was refused. the bone. Taking a bundle in his hand containing shoes, stockings, wig, and other trifles, he bade adieu to his wife, telling her that he wished he was going to be shot. "If I succeed, I shall go mad," he said. But what a fairy tale was his success! How instant, how overwhelming! In seventy nights the receipts were £20,000. His manager tore up the original agreement, and gave him a fair profit. He was now the lion of the day; poets, nobles, statesmen, crowded his dressingroom, eager to secure him as a guest. His son Charles is seen playing with heaps of guineas, and bank-notes litter the draw ing-room like waste paper. Application to the Dean of Westmin A genial, pleasant face is that of Elliston, and a very amusing creature he must have been. "Magnificent were thy capriccios on this globe of earth, Robert William Elliston!" apostrophizes Charles Lamb. For the most part these capriccios took the shape of extraordinary hoaxes of the public, perpetrated doubtless quite as much in the hope of drawing money as of obtaining a laugh. had a perfect mania for management, and at one time had no less than five provincial theatres on his hands at once. Business was generally bad in all of them, as it is apt to be in provincial theatres in England to this day, and how to "pull a Elliston house" was the problem ever disturbing | fire-works, as advertised, but just before the mind of the jovial manager. Many the rise of the curtain occurred to him for times he succeeded by devices which not the first time the vital question, What of even the inventive genius of contempora- the danger? These lovely maidens, these ry showmen can excel. He startled the noble mothers, these proud fathers and public in one of his tours by announcing hopeful sons, who had gathered in such that on his benefit night he would show | them in the theatre the most splendid pyrotechnic display ever attempted in England. The seats went off like fire-works themselves. Meantime, day by day, Elliston was himself working on the fears of the landlord about the danger of such an exhibition in the theatre-a mere box of a place. Finally the owner forbade it; but never a word of this did Elliston breathe to the public. The expected great house gathered, and between the pieces on walked Elliston, handkerchief in hand, and in one of his speeches-very marvels of verbosity-explained that the most extraordinary expenditure had been lavished on the numbers to do him honor on his benefit night, were their valuable lives to be jeopardized by a dazzling display the cost of which he would himself defray a thousand times over rather than that a hair of one head should be injured? And, indeed, the landlord had forbade it. Here he appealed to the landlord-a bashful man, who hid behind the curtains of his box, ready to die with shame at being thus addressedto publicly confirm his statement that he had forbidden the fire-works on account of the danger. Thankful for having so narrowly escaped "the danger," the relieved audience applauded him to the echo for his thoughtfulness. In 1819 Elliston achieved his highest ous and characteristic. ambition. He became lessee of Drury Lane. Lamb gives a humorous account of Elliston's announcement to him of this new glory on the morning after his accession to that high office. He objected to taking some medicine, and in order to induce him to do so he was promised brandy and water to follow it. A faint smile stole over his face, the old roguish look gleamed for a moment in his fast glazing A A PENINSULAR CANAAN. II.-MARYLAND. TOWN of oysters built on oyster shells. Such is Crisfield. A man buys a building lot at the bottom of the harbor, and then purchases oyster shells enough to raise it above high-water mark. Crisfield stands, as it were, up to its knees in the water of a little harbor that cuts jaw-like into the end of a small peninsula formed by the Annamaessec River on the north and the Pocomoke Sound on the south. Back from Crisfield and surrounding it on this peninsula are thick glades of pine timber, alternated by brilliantly green stretches of flat meadow land covered with rank grass. The region back of the town is very thickly settled by fishermen and oystermen, who choose the neighborhood as of such easy access to the water. The cottages stand every where, fronting in all directions, as though shaken from some enormous pepper caster, some along the hard level roads that intersect this region, some back in the glades, some singly, some collected in a small nucleus around a cross-road store. One evening with a friend we drove through this region. It was late, and the road lay gleaming white between the dark boundaries of pine woods, from out whose gloomy depths the light in an occasional fisherman's cottage gleamed right merrily, speaking of pleasant home comforts after daily toil on the treacherous waters. Whip-poor-wills called with their hurried note, and up from the woods came floating balmily the resinous odor of the pines. Now we would pass a little church nestling silently among the thickets, now a way-side store with ruddy lights within, and a knot of wiry-looking fishermen and oystermen lolling around in desultory conversation. It was a scene at once peaceful and busy, lonely yet inhabited. A general whiteness illumines the streets of Crisfield; a crisp rattle of loose shells sounds under the tread of the pedestrian; a salt breeze blows from the beautiful waters of Tangier Sound, tainted, alas! by a slight odor of defunct oysters. Oysters, oysters, every where, in barrels, in boxes, in cans, in buckets, in the shell and out. But little business is carried on here except oystering; a little fishing and a little crabbing, perhaps, but nothing else. The railroad that runs through the length of the town, terminating at the steamboat wharf at the harbor, rests on a road-bed of oyster shells, as firm and solid as can be desired. Along this and in the side streets collect the houses, all of frame, varying in architecture from the cottage to the negro shanty. Along the water's edge are a |