1812, March 25. Died, George Frederick Cooke, a theatrical performer of the highest merit. He was born at Westminster, April 17, 1756. His father was a subaltern officer in the army, who, dying when young, left his wife in straitened circumstances. She went to reside at Berwick-upon-Tweed, where George Frederick was apprenticed to a printer; but he neglected the labours of the office, and engaged the devils and others of his companions, to assist him in performing plays. In consequence of this conduct, his indentures was cancelled, and he was dismissed. He was then tried in the navy, but his inclination for the stage overcame all restraint, and he at length joined an itinerant company of actors. He soon became the hero of the scene, and was engaged at York, Newcastle, Chester, Manchester, Liverpool, and other places. He acquired so much fame, that in 1794, he was engaged by the Dublin managers, where he performed four years. At length he made his appearance before a London audience, at Covent garden theatre, October 31, 1800, in the character of Richard III. His reputation was at once established as a histrionic performer of the first order. The talents of Cooke were obscured by indulgence in pernicious habits of intemperance, which ultimately destroyed his popularity.—Owing to the irregularity of his conduct, Cooke became the plague and terror of English managers; few, if any, of whom probably regretted his removal to the United States, where he had formed a theatrical engagement. In America he displayed the same powerful abilities, and the same vicious weakness, which had distinguished him in his native country. Death, hastened by intemperance, put an end to his career. He married Miss Alicia Daniels, a lady possessed of considerable talents as a public singer, whom he treated with great cruelty, and from whom he was separated in July, 1811, by a decree of the ecclesiastical court.[1] It ought to be noticed, to the honour of the late Edmund Kean, that, during his visit to New York, in 1821, he erected a monument to the memory of Cooke, in the church of St. Paul, with the following epitaph:
Three kingdoms claim his birth.
Both hemispheres pronounce his worth.
1812. During the months of May, June, and July, the noble collection of books belonging to the late John duke of Roxburghe,[2] was sold by auction, by Mr. Evans, at his grace's late residence, in St. James's-square, London. Few sales, perhaps, ever demanded and occupied so ample a share of public attention, as this of the late duke of Roxburghe, which lasted forty-five days, and called forth a competition of prices hitherto unrivalled in the annals of literary history. It is supposed that this library cost its late owner not more than £5,000, and produced about £23,341. After the auction, a list of the prices was published, both on small and on royal paper, with references to the number of the lots. No. 6292 was the far-famed Il Decamerone di Boccacio, fol. ediz. Venet. Valdarfer. This is certainly one of the scarcest, if not the very scarcest book extant No other perfect copy is known to exist, after all the fruitless researches of more than 300 years. The biddings for this precious morceau were keen indeed: it was finally carried off by the marquis of Blandford, for TWO THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY POUNDS! On the 17th of June, to commemorute this extraordinary sale, the Roxburghe Club was formed in London, consisting of thirty-one of the most eminent book-collectors in the kingdom—earl Spencer, president.[3]
Bibliomaniac Ballad.
To the Roxburghe Club, by way of dedication. And all black letter dogs who have passed initiation: These.
MY late good-natur'd Eame oft would preach long & sage,
Censure idling of youth, extol virtues of age;
For he loved his old acres, old woods, and old rooks,
And his old easy chair, with old wine, and old books.
As he's dead, it were well in his library seat,
Conning technical phrases that he'd oft repeat,
And old printer's names from their colophons catch,
To write life, bibl'ographic:—take scrip of the sketch.
Though born Georgii primo he a caxton would prize
'Bove ten full bottom'd Caxons to curl round his eyes;
And the spell of black letter he ne'er thought absurd,
For young bibliomaniacs love wyneyn the worde.
In a rebus no lady was half so deep read,
Or statesman with devices ere cramm'd so his head;
He his creed thought unknown, but for whitechurch would pray,
And in dark winter's morn, cry: "arise, it is day!"
Long a legate he sought, and a hood kept with care,
For saints, julian notary, and crispin were there;
Though proud of an emperowr, he'd an olive display,
But like turk to the poor ne'er gave penny away.
No forest he knew, he would swear by the rood,
Had oak covers to equal his black—or cawood.
That the field the shaw, and the banks near at hand,
Were unrivall'd, except by his way—and copland.
On the ton of dame fashion he laid little stress,
Save nor-ton and single-ton in vellum we guess;
While gray-ton with middle-ton stood cheek by jowl,
Unique mayster folling-ton raptur'd his soul.
Oft with smile showing joy he called england his own;
Boasted barley though short and his corne stain'd and brown,
When lynne's goats were for'd he'd a simile steal,
'Twas in no case to sacrifice abraham's veale.
He as fisher caught faies (Walton tells no such thing)
While the barb of his hooks held the bate for a ling:
- ↑ Memories of the celebrated George Frederick Cooke, esq. late of the theatre royal, Covent-garden, 2 vols. 8vo. published in London, in 1813. By William Dunlap, some time proprietor of the New York theatre, and author of several dramatic pieces, printed in America.
- ↑ John Ker, third duke of Roxburghe, died March 19, 1804, aged sixty-four years.
- ↑ One of the principal founders of the Roxburghe Club, was the late Joseph Haslewood, esq. and who at his death, which took place at London, Sept. 21, 1835, in the sixty-fourth year of his age, left a very curious manuscript volume, tracing the rise of that society, which emanated from the literati who attended the sale of the duke of Roxburghe, under the quaint title of the Roxburghe Revels, and which records the annual festivities of the club from its first meeting, in 1812, to 1835, at the Old St. Alban's tavern, London. Although neither a classical scholar nor an elegant writer, Mr. Haslewood was a laborious and faithful editor of many rare and beautiful reprints of early English poetry and prose, which otherwise might have perished; and assisted several members in correcting and printing the volumes which they occasionally presented to the society.
