I have never been much of a play-goer, but have occasionally visited the
theatres when remarkable performers have appeared. I recollect many of
the leading actors and actresses of the close of the last century, while
all the great ones of this I have seen from time to time. Joe Munden,
Incledon, Braham, Fawcett, Michael Kelly, Mrs. Crouch, Mrs. Siddons,
Madame Catalani Booth, and Cooke, and all the bright stars who have been
ennobled--Miss Farrell (Lady Derby), Miss Bolton (Lady Thurlow), Miss
Stephens (Countess of Essex), Miss Love (Lady Harboro), Miss Foote
(Marchioness Harrington), Miss Mellon (Duchess of St. Alban's), Miss
O'Neil (Lady Beecher)--but I must say the old and the new style of
acting, appear to be very different. Mrs. Siddons exhibited the highest
perfection of acting. I cannot conceive anything that can go beyond it
in dramatic art.
I was present when John Kemble bade farewell to the Liverpool audiences.
It took place in the summer of 1813. The play was "Coriolanus." The
house was crowded to excess, and the utmost enthusiasm was exhibited in
favour of the great tragedian; who, although not a townsman, was at any
rate a county man, he having been born at Prescot.
Mr. Kemble, when addressing the audience on that occasion, made a very
remarkable declaration. He said that "it was on the Liverpool stage he
first adapted the play of 'Coriolanus,' and produced it, as they had just
seen it performed, and that it was the earnest encouragement he then
received that proved a great stimulus to him in after life."
A statement of the sums of money received at benefits amongst the "old
stagers" may perhaps interest some of my readers. I am going back a long
way, but I do so that those who know or who guess at the receipts of the
"moderns" may compare them with those of the "ancients." In 1795 Mrs.
Maddocks, a most delightful actress, and an immense favourite in
Liverpool, drew 213 pounds; Mrs. Powell, 207 pounds; Mr Banks, 183
pounds; Mr. Whitfield, 135 pounds. Mr. Kelly, the Irish singer, and Mrs.
Crouch, a most charming and fascinating woman, with a lovely voice,
realised together 136 pounds; Mr. Hollinsworth, 124 pounds; and Mr. Ward
119 pounds. In modern days the Clarkes (the manager and his wife) have
received as much as 300 pounds at their benefits. One of the best
speculations Mr. Lewis ever made was the engagement of Paganini, shortly
after his first appearance in the metropolis, in, I think, 1829 or 1830.
This wonderful genius had taken the musical world of London by storm, and
struck terror and despair into the hearts of the violinists of his day;
one and all of whom declaring, as a friend of mine said of his own
playing--although eminent in his profession--"that they were only
fiddlers." Paganini's playing was most unearthly and inhuman. I never
heard anything like the tones he produced from his violin--the sounds now
crashing as if a demoniac was tearing and straining at the strings, now
melting away with the softest and tenderest harmonies. He kept his
hearers enthralled by his magical music, and astonished by his wonderful
execution. I shall never forget hearing him play the "Walpurgis Nacht,"
when he appeared at the Amphitheatre in 1835 or 1836. It was painting a
picture by means of sounds. His descriptive powers were wonderful.
Anybody with the least touch of imagination could bring before "his
mind's eye" the infernal revel that the artist was depicting. The
enchantments of the witches were visible. You could hear their
diabolical songs, you could fancy their mad and wild dances; while, when
the cock crew (imitated by the way in a most astonishing manner), you
would feel that there was a rushing of bodies through the air, which were
scattering in all directions. Then the lovely melody
succeeding--descriptive of the calm dawn of summer morning--came
soothingly on the senses after the strain of excitement that the mind had
experienced. In that delicious melody you could fancy you saw the rosy
colours of the breaking day and gradually the rising of the sun, giving
light and beauty to the world. That performance was the most wonderful I
ever listened to, and I feel confident no one but those who did hear this
strange man can ever entertain any notion of his style or performance.
His first engagement in Liverpool was at the Theatre Royal, and a
characteristic anecdote is related of the Signor in this transaction. At
the Amphitheatre, Signor De Begnis, the great harp player--the husband of
the fascinating Ronzi de Begnis, and who ran away with Lady Bishop, (he
was the ugliest man for a Cavaliero I ever saw, being deeply pitted with
the smallpox)--had been giving some concerts which were exceedingly
unsuccessful. The people engaged got no money, De. Begnis having
completely failed in the speculation. The news of this having reached
London, Paganini heard of it, and when Mr. Lewis proposed to engage him,
he jumped at the conclusion that this was the same as De Begnis's
speculation and that there could be only one theatre in Liverpool. He
accordingly declined to come to Liverpool, unless the money to be paid to
him was first lodged at his bankers (Messrs. Coutts) in London. Mr.
Lewis saw through the Signor's error at once, and immediately remitted
1000 pounds to ratify the engagement for ten nights. Paganini played his
ten nights and drew on each of them from 280 pounds to 300 pounds, so
that, great as the risk was, the speculation was a most advantageous one
to the lessee. When Paganini came to the Amphitheatre in 1835 or '36 (I
think) with Watson as his manager, and Miss Watson as his _Cantatrice_,
he did not draw as on his first appearance, although the houses were very
good. I recollect talking to Mr. Watson on the stage between the parts,
when the gods, growing impatient, whistled loudly for a re-commencement
of the performance. Paganini, who happened to be near us, seemed rather
surprised at the noise, and turning to Watson he inquired _qu'est que
c'est ces tapageurs ces siffleurs_? and on being told, he grinned
horribly, and said in a low voice--_Bah_! _betes_!
I once was told, by one of the actors employed at the Theatre Royal, a
curious anecdote of a remarkable and distinguished lady. I don't
recollect the year it happened, but I think it must have been about 1829.
In that year a carriage drove up to the Theatre Royal, containing two
ladies, attended by a man-servant in green and gold livery. The servant
went into the theatre to inquire if Mr. Clarke, the stage-manager, was
in. On being answered in the affirmative, the stoutest of the two
ladies--for the other lady was quite young--stepped out of the carriage,
and without ceremony walked through the lobby straight upon the stage, to
the utter surprise of the hall-keeper who, like a masonic tyler, allows
no one to pass without a word or sign of recognition that they are of the
privileged. The man followed the lady, who, stepping to the footlights,
gazed around on that most desolate of all desolate, dreary, dingy places,
the inside of a theatre by daylight. On her still handsome countenance
alternated emotions of pride, regretful feeling, as well as of deep
interest. After looking across the pit for a few moments, she turned to
the hall-porter and requested him to announce to Mr. Clarke that a lady
wished to see him for a few minutes. The man quickly returned,
requesting the lady to follow him, but she, passing him, made her way to
the treasury with the air and mien of one who well knew the way to that
place of torture when a "ghost does not walk." The lady accosted Mr.
Clarke with a winning air, and seeing that she was not recognised, said,
"So you don't recollect me?" "No, indeed, I do not." "Well, that is
strange, considering the money you have paid me. Why," she continued,
"do you not recollect who played _Little Pickle_ at Swansea and Bristol
in 18--?" "Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Clarke. "Ah! I see you know me
now," said the lady laughing. "And many a week's salary I have had
there," continued the buxom visitor, pointing to the pay-place, "and now
just let me have something paid to me to remind me of old times."
Whereupon she went to the pay-place, when the gallant stage-manager put
down a week's salary as of old, which the lady took up, returning it
however, and placing at the same time in Mr. Clarke's hand, a note for 20
pounds, which she desired him to distribute amongst the most needy of the
company. The lady was the Duchess of St. Alban's. When Miss Mellon, she
had been engaged at the Theatre Royal, and the first benefit she had was
in Liverpool. I knew a gentleman who exerted himself greatly on her
behalf on that occasion, and the success of it was mainly attributable to
his efforts. This she always gratefully acknowledged, and I recollect
his telling me that once, being in London, this admirable and
kind-hearted lady--who so worthily used the wealth at her command, after
she was ennobled--recognised him while passing down Pall Mall and
beckoned him to the side of her magnificent equipage, and there recalled
the old time to his recollection acknowledging the old obligation,
assuring him that if she could in any way serve him she would be
delighted to do so.
The Theatre Royal, about forty odd years ago was under the lesseeship of
Messrs. Lewis and Banks. Mr. Banks was extremely fond of a good and
well-dressed dish; he had a person as cook who had been with him some
years, and who suited his taste in his most choice dishes. The two had a
serious quarrel, which ended in cooky giving her master notice of leaving
his service. Mr. Banks took this somewhat to heart as he thought if he
parted with his cook--and such a cook as she was--he might not be able to
replace her. To put it out of her power to give him notice again, he
offered her marriage, and was accepted. Mrs. Banks sometimes used to
visit the theatre, and generally took her seat at the wing by the
prompter's table, where she could see tolerably well what was going
forward on the stage. On one occasion the tragedy of "Venice Preserved"
was being performed. Edmund Kean was _Jaffier_ and Miss O'Neil
_Belvidera_. They were playing to a greatly excited house, as may well
be supposed when two such artists were upon the stage. Mr. St. A---, who
was then ballet-master at the theatre, and who, by the way, was a most
graceful dancer, seeing Mrs. Banks, went up to her to exchange
compliments. Having done so, Mr. St. A--- remarked how seldom they had
the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Banks. "Oh," replied she, "I never come to
the theatre--not I. There's no good actors now-a-days--there ain't
anybody worth seeing." "Dear me, Mrs, B., how can you say so? Who have
we on the stage now? There's Mr. Kean"--"Mr. Kean, indeed," exclaimed
Mrs. B., "I can't abide him; he's my abortion." "Well, then, what do you
think of Miss O'Neil?" "Miss O'Neil!--Miss O'Neil, indeed; do you call
her a hactress?--I can't abide her. There she is--see how she lolls and
lollups on the fellows--it's quite disgusting!" Now the fact was that
Miss O'Neil who was chastity itself off the stage, and who lead a most
blameless life, showed, when performing, such _abandon_ and _impressment_
in her actions as to be quite remarkable, especially in parts where the
intensity of passion had to be displayed, and this Mrs. Banks "couldn't
abide." "Well, then," continued Mr. St. A---, "who do you call a good
actor?" "Who do I call a good actor! you wait till my dear John Emery
comes down, and then you'll see a good actor; and if I live as long, I'll
make him such a pudding, please God, as he hasn't had this many a day!"
Old Mrs. Banks was about right as to John Emery; he was an actor of the
first-class, and has never been replaced in his peculiar line. I have
seen Emery play _Tyke_ in the "School of Reform." It was a wonderful
impersonation. I have seen nothing like it since.
It has always appeared to me to be a remarkable circumstance that many
actors and actresses who have been great favourites in the metropolis,
have not stood in the same light with the Liverpool audiences. I have
seen, occasionally, some remarkable instances of this. Dowton, a great
actor, never drew; James Wallack never attracted large audiences. I have
seen the whole Adelphi company--including Frederick Yates, his charming
wife, Paul Bedford, John Reeve, O. Smith, and others--fail to draw; in
fact at one engagement they played night after night to almost empty
benches. This was, I think, in 1838. I recollect, on one occasion,
Yates seeing a band-box on the stage, went up to it and gave it a kick,
and looking significantly at the state of the house, exclaimed, "Get out
of my sight--I hate empty boxes!"
Vandenhoff was always a great favourite with the Liverpool audiences.
There was a tremendous row once got up at the Theatre Royal, in which he
was concerned. About 1825, I think, Vandenhoff went to try his fortune
on the London stage, and there, if he did not altogether fail, he did not
succeed commensurate with his great expectations; and after knocking
about at several theatres, playing, I believe, at some of the minors--the
Surrey, Coburg, and Sadler's Wells--he came back to Liverpool, where a
Mr. Salter had taken up the position he had vacated. A strong move by
Mr. Vandenhoff's friends was made to reinstate him on the Liverpool
Tragic Throne. This Mr. Salter's friends would not allow. The
consequence was that several noisy demonstrations took place on both
sides, and considerable confusion was created during the time the row was
kept up. To show to what length things went, I may just mention that
placards were freely exhibited in the theatre bearing the sentiments on
them of the particular side which exhibited them. I recollect one caused
great fun and laughter. It was headed "Vandenhoff" and "Salter-off."
Kean thought highly of Vandenhoff. I have seen a letter of his in which
he highly extols him, considering his style to be the purest acting since
the retirement of John Kemble.
In the autumn of 1824, there was a great row at the Theatre Royal, which
was excited in favour of Miss Cramer, a most popular and able vocalist.
At that time the Music Hall in Bold-street had just been opened, and
concerts were being given under the management of Mr. Wilson, the dancing
master, whose niece by the way (Miss Bolton) was married to John Braham,
_il primo tenore d'Europa_, as the Italians termed him. Braham has often
said that this Music Hall was a finer room for sound than any that ever
he was in; and at these morning concerts he frequently sang. It was the
custom to enlist the aid of the vocalists, if there were any, at the
Theatre Royal, to add to the attractions of these concerts. The manager
was always willing to allow his singers to avail themselves of the
occasion. However, on Miss Cramer being offered an engagement, the
manager refused to allow her to appear. Miss Cramer, feeling the
injustice of the case, nevertheless sang at one of the morning concerts,
and was consequently dismissed from the Theatre Royal. The young lady
instantly issued a handbill stating her case, and the consequence was
that the theatre was crowded at night, and calls for "Miss Cramer" were
incessant. Mr. Banks came forward to justify himself, hoping that both
sides might be heard, but he could not obtain a hearing. At length the
audience grew so excited that they tore up the seats, smashed a splendid
chandelier that had only just been purchased at a cost of 500 pounds,
broke all the windows in the house, and did a great deal of damage. The
row was continued on the night but one following, when other damage was
effected, and it was only by closing the theatre for a few days that
peace could be restored. Some of the rioters were afterwards tried at
Lancaster, and, I think, heavily fined.