which "showed honesty on one side and respect for it on the other." Their benefit nights, in general, yielded them but little profit, and their last benefit provel anything but a benefit; therefore they were in a sad condition to undertake a long journey, though the poor old man was willing to walk it, a task which his aged partner could not perform. They had no kith or kin to whom they could apply for assistance. He said they had outlived every relation they had in the world; their old friends were dropping off daily; "and," added he, "at our time of life we must not expect to make new ones. There was a time when I used to set the table in a roar, but now my thrice-told tale falls dull upon the ear, my voice is going, my eyesight failing,—and without these what is a prompter ?"

Before he made his distresses known to the manager and the company, who subsequently assisted him, Mrs. Powell suspected the true state of his finances, and, unsolicited, aided him, greatly enhancing her charity by giving him half the money she herself possessed at the time, although the aforesaid long journey stared her in the face also; to accomplish which she was compelled to request an advance upon her engagement, from the manager. Here was charity "twice blessed."

This lady soon after became a member of the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, and, for a considerable time prior to her death, being unable to act, she was in a great degree, if not entirely, supported by Mr. W. Murray, the manager of that theatre. Unfortunately, Mrs. Powell never availed herself of the opportunity of becoming a subscriber to the Theatrical Fund of Covent Garden or Drury Lane.

Mrs. Powell made her first appearance in London, at the Haymarket, in 1787, in Alicia, in "Jane Shore," under the assumed name of Mrs. Farmer: she died in Edinburgh, in 1832. The first time this lady ever spoke in public, as she herself told me, was at a sort of forum, or debating society, in the Haymarket, on the subject of the slave trade, having been inoculated, as she said, by the eloquence of a negro, whom she heard speak there one evening when by chance she walked into the room. This lady experienced much distress in the early part of her life, and was persuaded by her friends to attempt the stage, a friend having interest sufficient to obtain for her an appearance at the Haymarket.

In the summer of 1816 I acted in Tunbridge Wells, Mr. Dowton, the Dowton, being then the manager. During the season he acted Shylock, in which, if I mistake not, he subsequently appeared at Drury Lane, somewhat to the annoyance of Edmund Kean, who declared, if he persisted in it, he himself would act Doctor Cantwell. I do not remember Dowton's Shylock sufficiently to say whether I thought it good or bad, but why he should not play it I cannot understand: he was in the habit of acting serious characters, was the original Hassan, in the "Castle Spectre," and, I think, Orozembo, in "Pizarro."

In August, 1824, during my engagement at the Theatre Royal, Liverpool, Mr. Dowton's "annual engagement" took place, during which he generally performed a round of his favourite characters,-Sir Anthony Absolute, Falstaff, Doctor Cantwell, Sir Robert Bramble, Restive, &c. &c.; but although he was a very great favourite in Liverpool, his benefits were not generally good, merely respectable; and on the present occasion he was advised and (over) persuaded to undertake a very extraordinary character, no less than Mrs. Malaprop, in the "Rivals," depriving

himself of one of his most celebrated performances, in which, at this time, he was unrivalled. It was thought his performing the lady who so "ingeniously misapplied her words without mispronouncing them," would attract a crowded audience, but, though the house was good, it was not great.

I dressed in the same room at the theatre with Mr. Dowton, and witnessed his repentance before he committed his "disgusting act,” as he termed it.

Renounce me," said he. 'How could I be such a fool as to consent to make such an ass of myself! I-I-I deserve to be pelted! Why did I say yes? I-I-I ought to be ashamed of myself-ought! -I am. I never felt so contemptible in my life. I shall disgust the people, I shall; I hope they will hiss me. I-I-I don't know which will go home most disgusted, myself or the audience. Renounce me! I-I-I must have been mad to think of such a piece of stupidity. Here, Marshall, (the dresser), give me the petticoat. Why-why-why -am I to put that padding round me?-that's what they call a bustle, I suppose, eh? Well, put it on. I suppose I may wear my breeches for the farce, underneath my petticoats, eh? Blanchard (the Sir Anthony of the evening), I-I-I wish you'd be taken ill; can't you to oblige me? then we'd make an apology for you, and I could play Sir Anthony, and let Mrs. Taylor, the proper person, do this d—nable creature, eh? What-what-what do you say, eh?"

"With all my heart, my dear Dow," said Blanchard, "if you can manage it; but, thank heaven, I'm perfectly well; and the manager, my boy, wouldn't stand any excuse, you may depend. Besides, I have been dining with some friends at my inn, and have promised to return to supper with them, so I can't be ill, you know, my boy; don't bother about the part; the folks will laugh heartily, depend upon it; what a precious figure you'll look, Dow, my boy!"

As Dowton advanced in dressing his horror increased. "There, make haste, Marshall, make me up, I shall be an elegant figure. Renounce me! I-I-I am beginning to look like Mother Cheshire, and not much better than Moll Flaggon. Well, well, go on, finish me. What, what, what, am I to have more padding? Damme, don't stick the pins into me so; can't you get on without that? There, now give me the wig. Stop, let me paint my face. I-I-I suppose I mustn't paint my nose. I'm glad I'm to leave Liverpool to-morrow, for I should be ashamed to look anybody in the face. I-I-I shall be pelted. Wha-wha-what's that, a turban? Renounce me! She's not a Turk!-oh, head-dress, eh! There, that'll do; damme, I've a great mind to paint the old wretch a beard. Where's the fan, Marshall? if I haven't a fan, what the devil shall I do with my hands ?— I-I-I shall be sticking them in my breeches pockets. There, now I'm ready for the sacrifice, like a lamb for the slaughter: here goes, like a precious fool as I am!"

Thus he went on until the time arrived for making "his first appearance in that character." He was very warmly received. Certainly he looked as little like Mrs. Malaprop as any one I ever saw dressed for the part, his face, in particular, being very unfeminine. At first he kept very quiet, and was content to merely speak the words, not attempting anything more. The first scene passed off dully enough, which appeared to annoy him.

"There, you-you-you see how quiet they are; they are disgusted already; they treat me with silent contempt. I-I-I shall never get through the part. Serve me right--I wish they'd hiss."

So he went on. His second scene was with Captain Absolute, in which he was more spirited than at first. I fancied he would do something strange, and stood in the wings to observe him. During the scene Mrs. Malaprop informs Captain A. of her having detected her niece in a correspondence with Ensign Beverley, and says, in continuation, "I thought she had persisted from corresponding with him; but, behold, this very day I have interceded another letter from the fellow; I believe I have it in my pocket."

As Dowton uttered this he fidgetted in his chair, fumbled about his dress for the aperture usually placed in ladies' gowns when pockets were in fashion, but not finding it, being unaccustomed to such garments, he used no hesitation, but placed his hand immediately under his petticoats, and drew from the pocket of his inexpressibles the letter alluded to, exhibiting, of course, the lower portion of his dress in which he was to appear as Restive in the farce. This drew forth loud and continued laughter from the audience, who appeared to consider the deed as a mistake of Dowton's, as he was unaccustomed to female attire.

Whether the good humour evinced by his friends encouraged him, I cannot say, but certainly his spirits improved; and, instead of concluding the scene by almost forcing Lydia Languish off the stage, saying "Hussy, hussy, I'll choke the words in your throat! come along, come along," he seized the young lady in his arms, and forcibly carried her from the stage; nor did he release her until he placed her on a sofa in the green-room. The same night he acted Restive in the farce of "Turn Out," and certainly never with greater effect; but I believe he never repeated Mrs. Malaprop.

Mr. Dowton having been in the profession upwards of fifty years, retired from the stage, June 8th, 1840, when he played Sir Robert Bramble in the "Poor Gentleman," which was thus cast:-Lieutenant Worthington, Mr. Cooper; Frederick, Mr. F. Vining; Ollapod, Mr. Harley; Humphrey Dobbins, Mr. Bartley; Corporal Fop, Mr. W. Farren; Farmer Harrowby, Mr. Webster; Stephen Harrowby, Mr. Meadows; Sir Charles Cropland, Mr. T. Green; Warner, Mr. Granby; Valet, Mr. Fitzjames.-Emily Worthington, Miss E. Tree; Miss Mac Tab, Mrs. Glover; Dame Harrowby, Mrs. Tayleure; Mary Harrowby, Mrs. Humby. Madame Grisi, Madame Dorus Gras, Miss Delcy, Miss Rainforth, and Mr. Braham sang during the evening. The entertainments concluded with the farce of "Gretna Green :" Lord Lovel, Mr. Fitzjames; Mr. Tomkins, Mr. W. Bennett; Larden, Mr. Oxberry; Jenkins, Mr. Wrench.-Betty Finnikin, Miss Kelly; Emily, Miss Lee. Mr. Sheridan Knowles delivered an address on the occasion, written by himself. The performances took place at Her Majesty's Theatre, which was crowded to excess, and, as the performers granted their gratuitous services, a handsome sum was realised, and an annuity for life purchased for "The Veteran Dowton."

156

THE ORDER OF TRUTH.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

MANY are the orders that have risen among the nations, from British Arthur's knights of the round table to the no less chivalrous sisterhood of Hungary, arrayed against the mighty march of fashion, in what old divines would call " the wicked wastefulness of our costly apparel.” There have been the Brothers of St. John, the Knights of the Temple, and the Teutonic Order, all famous in their day, but now left far away among the things that were. Faith, Mercy, and Charity, too, have had their orders, and still, we trust, they have amongst us many a true knight, or it may be, dame companion, who walks without either badge or device. Yet among the old world's nobler institutions, there was one, which though unchronicled by herald or historian, numbered amongst its members some of the most blameless and distinguished characters of their land and age; the order accumulated no wealth, committed no crime, and yet was the shortest lived of all the knightly brotherhoods of the period, and neither prince nor people have ever since attempted to revive it.

About the time that the never-to-be-forgotten Don Quixote set out on his first expedition, there lived a Spanish prince, known in his country as Don Alphonsa, fifth duke of Alsa; he had large estates, many friends, and an only daughter, Donna Ellenora, accounted by. common consent the fairest, as well as the most prudent, signora in Spain. The duke had early lost his duchess, and mourned for her with an unforgetting and constant love, but time had long ago softened his sorrow, and it was said he could now look on the faces of living ladies with an eye undimmed by the memory of the dead. Many were the sweet smiles that greeted his glance, for Alphonsa had not yet quite passed his prime, and might have formed a second brilliant alliance, but for the bright eyes of a certain signora Catherina, a gay though portionless damsel of the ducal court, too far beneath his noble lineage to wed, and too fair to be easily forgotten.

Never was the valiant Don, whose exploits Cervantes has recorded, a more devoted admirer of chivalry than Don Alphonsa. His court, for he kept the state of a sovereign prince, was the resort of all the troubadours, knights errant, and injured dames in Europe in his own person he was considered the pattern of all knightly merit, having fought against the Turks, defeated two Moorish champions, and maintained the honour of thirteen slandered ladies, on the point of his lance; but the subject on which Don Alphonsa delighted to honour himself was, an unswerving adherence to truth in the smallest matters, which he maintained was the sum of all Christian and heroic virtue, and the distinguishing mark of a true knight and an honourable man. Ellenora was quite as ardent a friend of chivalry as her father. Charming, motherless, and just eighteen, none better loved the martial list or gallant tournament, where she always presided as the acknowledged and unrivalled queen of beauty. No lady in Europe had inspired so many romantic lays or valiant deeds of arms, for Don Alphonsa had no son, and Ellenora was his heiress, and marvellous as it may appear, such things were noted even in the days of chivalry. Noble knights and royal princes strove for

her smiles, nor did they strive in vain, for Ellenora smiled alike on all, and her father had such confidence in the lady's well-known discretion, and was besides so much occupied with the care of signora Catherina, that he left the choice of a husband entirely to herself-a rather extraordinary occurrence for that age-stipulating only that her chosen must be a Christian knight of family equal to her own, and of unblemished honour. These requisites Ellenora believed she had found, combined with a fair young face and a loving heart-matters more sought for by the eye of eighteen-in a knight who had lately come to seek his fortune in the ducal court, named Sir Raymond of Gascony. In the list he overthrew the proudest champions, and in the banquet none could equal him in courtesy; his lands were all on his shield, and his gold was all in his corslet, but the noblest blood of Christendom was in his veins; and by the laws of old Castile he might well expect to wed with a princess.

Don Alphonsa himself commended the youth, and all things might have gone well with Ellenora and the suitor of her choice, but one unlucky day when the whole court, knight and squire, dame and damsel, were engaged in the royal sport of falconry, every hawk played its part well except the donna's, which, either from fear or perverseness, refused to attack the game, and kept fluttering about till the heron was brought down by the holder falcon of her father. The duke loved a jest almost as well as his knighthood, and rallied his daughter on what he called the noble training of her falcon; but young Sir Raymond, as in duty bound by the ancient and still standing code of courtship, gallantly protested that Ellenora's hawk had soared the highest of all, and would have certainly brought down the game, but that his sight was dazzled by the more than sun-like brightness of his lady's eyes.

Don Alphonsa knew the falsehood, and could not forgive it, even though committed in homage to his daughter; he cast one withering look of scorn upon the knight, sternly commanded him to depart from his court and territory, and forbade his daughter ever from that day to speak or think of one who had proved himself a disgrace to the order of knighthood.

Sir Raymond was not so deficient in the proverbial assurance of his country, as to submit silently to this hard sentence; he bowed low to the donna, and then announced his determination to fight to the death any knight who would dare to dispute his statement regarding the donna's falcon, or support the don's declaration touching himself. Whether it was out of deference to the lady's feelings, or to Sir Raymond's prowess, we are not prepared to say, but the challenge remained unanswered, and the knight departed, with one long sad look upon his lady love, to fight for Christian Greece, against the sons of Othman. Whatever Ellenora's grief might be, she gave no sign of it by word or tear, but it seemed of short duration, for scarce was Sir Raymond gone, when she warmly approved of her father's justice in banishing him, and declared her own resolution of never wedding a husband whose words did not reach the highest standard of knightly veracity. Don Alphonsa congratulated himself on having a daughter at once so dutiful and discerning; but his opinion of her wisdom and virtue rose still higher when she proposed that, as a prince and a knight, he should immediately institute an order to restore the primeval purity of the ancient faith, and be known for ever throughout Christendom as "The Sacred