JAMES SHERIDAN
KNOWLES.
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
ILLUSTRATED WITH A SPIRITED AND CORRECT LIKENESS.
James Suermpan Know es, who must now be
about forty-eight or forty-nine years old, was born in
the city of Cork, and is the son of Mr. Knowles, «
teacher of elocution, formerly one of the masters of
the celebrated school at Belfast, and related to a race
whose schoolmasters and elocutionists terminated in
producing another dramatic genius in a different line,
the late eminent Brinsley Sheridan. Mr. Knowles’s
father, and the author of the “School for Scandal,”
were cousins, we believe, in the first degree. Sheri-
dan’s father was an actor and a teacher of elocution;
his grandfather was the celebrated friend of Swift,
Thomas Sheridan, of punning, classical, and careless
memory;—a genius for a rainy day;—always in diffi-
culties, and always merry. Hence came the wits and
beauties who have moved in the polite circles of
modern times, and have restored the line to its family
honors. Mr. Knowles has added a collateral grace,
of a very rare and un-Sheridan-like description,—that
of a genius for the serious drama, full of faith in the
good and beautiful, and good upon that account.
Our author was sent to England at eight years of age, and educated there, which accounts for his be- traying so little of the Irish tongue, considering the time he has spent among his countrymen. The dramatic instinct manifested itself in him at the age of twelve, when, being connected with a juvenile company of private actors, the idea of writing a play for himself first occurred to him. We know not what became of it. This was followed by an opera, found- ed on the history of the Chevalier de Grillon, and given to Richardson, the friend of Sheridan, by whom, or betwixt whom, it was lost. At fourteen, Mr. Knowles was the author of a little song, of which many who know it well will be glad to learn to whom they are indebted for it. It is entitled the “Welsh Harper,” and begins, “Over the sunny hills I stray.” At sixteen, he wrote a tragedy in five acts, called the “Spanish Story,”’ which is still in existence; at twenty-four, “Hersilia,” a play which never ap- peared, and was given to Tom Sheridan; and at twenty-six, another called the “Gipsey,” which was acted at Waterford, Kean playing the hero. Kean told Mr. Knowles afterwards, that “he would have given any thing to know where he was, in order that he might have used it for his first appearance in London.” The “Gipsey” was succeeded by “Brien Boroighme,” an alteration from a piece by a Mr. Mara, which had extraordinary success in Belfast,and brought hundreds to the theatre. The next play in order of composition (for Virginius was not written before it, as report has given out,) was “Caius Gracchus,” per- formed in the same town, and subsequently in London —after Virginius. Beautiful “Virginius” came next, the subject suggested by Mr. Kean, and not, as is commonly supposed, by Mr. Macready. Mr. Macready performed the principal character so well, and has so established his reputation for excellence in domestic tenderness, that the supposition was natural enough, especially as no one knew that Mr. Kean had ever seen the play. Perhaps the report partly originated in the fact, that Mr. Macready did suggest the subject of the play that followed—that of « William Tell.” It is very honorable to those two actors that they thought of subjects so good, and on the side of liberty; especially as this was before the arrival of the Glorious Three Days, which gave such a wonderful turn to things, and made the side of liberty the sunny side of the political world. “William Tell” was followed by the “Beggar's Daughter of Bethnal Green”—ano- ther failure, to which, however, we owe the piece
which is now so triumphant. Then came “Alfred,’”
which succeeded; and then the “Hunchback,” which
is succeeding now, and for ever.
Mr. Knowles was intended for the medical profes- sion, and studied for it; but the instinct of genius drew him more and more towards the stage. He be- came a teacher of elocution: he was an actor for three years in Ireland; and, finally, he has added a name to the list of those extraordinary men, who so remarkably abounded on the stage at one time, as combiners of acting with authorship.
Mr. Knowles is married, and has a family, we be- lieve, of six children. He is somewhat under the middle height, stont, and well built, with a pleasant, ardent, and manly aspect, and a demeanor with a cast of roughness in it, but nothing clownish or ill-bred: it is all cordiality and good-nature, with a relish, as well as a crust upon it, of old port. Mr. Knowles squeezes a hand with right friendly ferocity, and is famous among his friends for the happy buoyancy, as well as the vigor of his feelings. He is not so good an actor as he is an author:—none of his extraordinary class have been; it would have been too much merit for the same man;—but his acting is far from being common-place. So much has been said of his fame as a writer elsewhere, that we shall not add any thing on the subject in this hasty sketch. Suffice it to say, that we have the good fortune to write in his charac- ter the two best praises that can be given to any one: he is an admirable writer, and a good man.
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The following spirited stanzas were written by Mr. Knowles, immediately after his arrival in this country. They are in praise of the ship Columbus, Capt. Cobb, and addressed to Mrs. Cobb.
Ye mariners that boldly ride
The broad Atlantic wave,
I sing of gallant ships the pride,
A vessel staunch as brave!
The darling of her hardy crew,
A sea-gull under sail!
Close-haul'd, or free, or lying-to,
Or flying ‘fore the gale!
- T was on the 6th of August, she
The British channel cleared,
The wind ahead—how readily
She stay’d, how close she steered!
And how, with scarce a breath on deck,
A ripple on the seas,
As goodly way she seemed to make
As others with a breeze!
I watch'd her when the gale was on,
The Heavens with night o’ercast,
Her cross-jack yard—main-top-sail gone,
And fore-top-gallant mast!
A span her bright horizon now,
So huge the billow grew,
Yet how she topp’d the mountain!—how
She rode the tempest through!
I saw her scud—a rattling wind
The more it raged, the more
She flung the following wave behind
And spurn’d the wave before.
Yet smooth as inland barks, that spread
No sail, obey no tide,
Her way the lonely vessel sped
In dark and lonely pride!
