Morning Herald

Players are always a conspicuous portion of the community which takes an interest in their appearance, manners, and life, and looks upon them in a certain degree as its property, and as enfans gâtés to be amused by and to laugh at. Some of the people mentioned in the following extract, are well known to the New York public.

Sketches About London: The Players, &c.-

That lady, in a black silk cloak, with a beautiful complexion and exquisite profile, but who looks as if sorrow, rather than time, had marked her brow; is Mrs. W. West. That fine boy is her son. They are met by a lady, tall, and of a certain age, yet with fair hair and a smiling brow—Mrs. Orger for a thousand. They talk a moment over the then and now state of the drama, and part. That showily dressed person with a strange expression of eye, and a hirsute countenance, is Pritchard. He rolls a la brigand. He is stopped by a rather stout man, in a green Mackintosh. Who can the old fellow be? He walks like a pantaloon. Old!—why he is but little over thirty: 'tis Mr. Dennett Tilbury.

On the crown of the road is a chestnut horse, nearly seventeen hands high; and on the summit of the quadruped's back sits a little, plump, rosy, red-haired individual; if you can see at such a height, you will perceive the marks of gunpowder in his face—it is little Keeley. That young man, in the very short surtout, who nods to him, is William Wood, (not the singer) late of Drury Lane, who by accident shot himself whilst acting in a farce at the Victoria. In a long haired, olive-colored, ear-naught, coat, comes briskly forward a very pale-faced, dark-eyed. and remarkably short necked man; his limbs bear little proportion to his square and massive shoulders. How nervously he jerks his way forward, saluted on all sides! Hail to the Manager of the Adelphi! for 'tis Yates.

A lady, rather en bon point, remains in a carriage: she is attired in rose colored silk, wears a white satin hat and dove-colored boots; the door of the carriage is open, and you see her entire figure: she is delicately fair, with indifferent features, and a strange expression of eye; but the ensemble is that of a fine woman : that is the best ballad singer of the day, Mrs. Waylett.

A dark, flat-faced man stops at the carriage door ; he has a blue surtout, buttoned to the neck, and very much padded over the breast, (a la cavalry undress;) he carries an ashen stick, and walks rapidly : his face is half Jewish, and he is always alone; it is Harry Phillips. As you get nearer to him, you observe his complexion, though dark, is like enamel, and every particular hair of his beard and moustache stands out in relief. as in wax work figure. He is joined by a taller and thinner man, whose nasal organ is largely developed. They leave the carriage door. Mrs. W. kisses the tips of her gloves, and Messrs. Phillips and Seguin, wend towards the Haymarket. In dark garments, and with a sort of stealthy pace, goes a middle sized, bilious-looking gentleman, whose face appears as if it had been tanned first and freckled afterwards. He turns into Broad. court, and from thence to the Wrekin: it is Warde.

In light trousers, shoes, an ill made brown surtout, and with an eye glass swinging loosely from his neck, comes a man evidently bowed by years. and stooping so much as to appear shorter than he really is. His shoulders are expansive; his face is large, uncommonly so; and his features massive. He drops forward upon his feet as he goes. Can that be the gay, chivalrous, Charles Kemble? Even so. To this complexion has he come at last.