pictures Virgil and Horace as supporting Augustus, or Grimaldi between "Lord Byron and another lord," but, as Lord Chesterfield has it, "entirely for himself," as it should be, for his accomplishments as a gentleman and his worth as a man. Indeed, we have seen recently, in some old papers, an illustration of this, in a letter addressed to Johnson by Farquhar, equerry to George IV., then Prince of Wales, which, as a trait of the time, is interesting:
Carlton House, Wednesday.
Dear Johnson: The Prince wishes you to come to Carlton House to-night. Moore and Sheridan will be there. If you have to play, you must sham sick. Yours ever,
Farquhar.
Looking at his portrait as we do now, in the ornate dress of the day, blue coat, buff vest, and top boots, with his bright, intelligent face, and gay, gallant bearing, he seems the beau ideal of the Irish gentleman of that period—when found in the pure ore, the most exquisite ingot in the mine of humanity. His knowledge of the Irish character was keen, and he was delicately alive to all its beauties and weaknesses. As the Irishman—especially then—was, so he pictured him—loving truth in the abstract, fond of lying in the concrete, tender in sentiment, awkward in action, generous and treacherous, shrewd and lewd, passionately attached to home and kindred, his vices the forced spawn of centuries of wrong, his virtues the natural bloom of a most lovely nature.
In the company with Johnson was one who, though but young, wore even then the blossom of that genius which ripened subsequently into so rich a fruit, James W. Wallack, a name in this land held in much and well deserved love and honor. To all who even affect the drama in this country, his face is familiar, and though of late years physical suffering had struck the sinews of his vigor and time had touched him with her grey wing as she passed, you were never with him, as with so many who have lingered long on the stage, confined to applauding escapes from failure or cherishing the sparks that glimmer in the embers of enfeebled powers. His form and port retained to the last much of the manly grace and freedom of his prime, nor, owing to his gallant pluck, did his spirits lose one jot of their elasticity.
Nor gout nor toil his freshness can destroy,
But time still leaves all Eton in the boy.
The only traces that could be recognized of infirmity were in the precautionary care with which he handled his resources and the elaboration which sometimes took the place of spontaneous vivacity and ease. His performances had, to the last, all the graces of youth, and what they lost in vigor they made up in massiveness. Years, too, which bring the philosophic mind, brought greater subtlety of thought and finer poetic appreciation.
To the last his face, when lit up, was singularly handsome and touched with the charm of a smile, playful, yet saddened, sweet and tender even to weakness. Still quite sufficient of his vigor and manly beauty was left to make it easily understood that he divided, at the period of which we speak, with Lord Byron, the distinction of being the handsomest man of the day. Indeed, to the influence of Byron, who was specially fond of Wallack ("I boxed," he writes to Moore, "with Wallack to-day") and who was the first to predict his after success, he owed his rapid advancement.
On a night in the autumn of 1818, Drury Lane was full of crowd and light and loveliness. The play was "The Rivals," by the command of the Prince of Wales, who was present. In the manager's box were Sheridan, Byron, Lord
