to stay till the weather cleared up. The wet, however, continued
till dinner was ready; and Nollekens felt obliged to ask the priest
to partake of a bird, one of the four of a present from the Duke of
Newcastle. Down they sat: the reverend man helped his host to a wing,
and then carved for himself, assuring Nollekens that he never indulged
in much food, though he soon picked the rest of the bones. "I have no
pudding," said Nollekens, "but won't you have a glass of wine? Oh!
you've got some ale." However, Bronze brought in a bottle of wine; and
on the remove, Nollekens, after taking a glass, went, as usual, to
sleep. The priest, after enjoying himself, was desired by Nollekens,
while removing the handkerchief from his head, to take another glass.
"Tank you, Sare, I have a finish de bottel."--"The devil you have!"
muttered Nollekens. "Now, sare," continued his reverence, "ass de rain
be ovare, I will take my leaf."--"Well, do so," said Nollekens, who
was not only determined to let him go without his coffee, but gave
strict orders to Bronze not to let the old rascal in again. "Why, do
you know," continued he, "that he ate up all that large bird, for he
only gave me one wing; and he swallowed all the ale; and out of a whole
bottle of wine, I had only one glass."
A broad-necked gooseberry-bottle, leather-bunged, containing coffee,
which had been purchased and ground full forty years, was brought out
when he intended to give a particular friend a treat; but it was so
dried to the sides of the bottle, that it was with difficulty he could
scrape together enough for the purpose; and even when it was made,
time had so altered its properties, from the top having been but half
closed, that it was impossible to tell what it had originally been. He
used to say, however, of this turbid mixture, "Some people fine their
coffee with sole-skin, but for my part, I think this is clear enough
for anybody."
Nollekens's wardrobe was but a sorry stock. He had but one nightcap,
two shirts, and three pairs of stockings; two coats, one pair of
small-clothes, and two waistcoats. His shoes had been repeatedly mended
and nailed; they were two odd ones, and the best of his last two
pairs. When Mary Holt, his housekeeper, came, she declared that she
would not live with him unless he had a new coat and waistcoat. Poor
Bronze, who had to support herself upon what were called board-wages,
had hardly a change, and looked like the wife of a chimney-sweeper.
As for table-linen, two breakfast napkins and a large old table-cloth
was the whole of the stock. Bronze declared that she had never seen a
jack-towel in the house, and she always washed without soap.
The wardrobe, as proved in Nollekens's will, consisted of his
court-coat, in which he was married: his hat, sword, and bag; two
shirts, two pairs of worsted stockings, one table-cloth, three
sheets, and two pillow-cases; but all these, with _other rags_, only
produced one pound five shillings for the person to whom they were
bequeathed.[37]
[37] These characteristics have been selected and abridged from Mr. J.
T. Smith's _Nollekens and his Times_, one of the best books of anecdote
ever published.
Mr. Nollekens died April 23rd, 1823. His long-drawn-out will and its
fourteen codicils afford strange instances of human weakness in many
a phase. In some measure to redeem his memory from obloquy, we had
rather record a few instances of his generosity, than add more of his
parsimony. In his last illness, he asked his housekeeper:--"Is there
anybody that I know that wants a little money to do 'em good?"--"Yes,
sir, there is Mrs. ----." _Nollekens_:--"Well, in the morning, I'll
send her ten pounds."--"That's a good old boy," said she, patting
him on the back; "you'll eat a better dinner for it to-morrow, and
enjoy it." And he was never known to forget his promises. With all
his propensity for saving, he used to make his household domestics a
present of a little sum of money on his birthday; and latterly, upon
this occasion, he became even more generous, by bestowing on them, to
their great astonishment, ten and twenty pounds each.
[Illustration: Master Betty as Norval. The Young Douglas.]
_THEATRICAL FOLKS._
The Young Roscius.
Early in the present century, there appeared upon our stage a
boy-actor, whose performances excited the special wonder of all
play-goers. William Henry West Betty, the boy in question, was born
near Shrewsbury, in 1791. When almost a child, he evinced a taste for
dramatic recitations, which was encouraged by a strong and retentive
memory. Having been taken to see Mrs. Siddons act, he was so powerfully
affected, that he told his father "he should certainly die if he was
not made a player." He gradually got himself introduced to managers
and actors; and at eleven years of age, he learned by heart the parts
of Rolla, Young Norval, Osman, and other popular characters. On the
16th of August, 1803, when under twelve years of age, he made his first
public appearance at Belfast, in the character of Osman; and went
through the ordeal without mistake or embarrassment. Soon afterwards
he undertook the characters of Young Norval and Romeo. His fame having
rapidly spread through Ireland, he soon received an offer from the
manager of the Dublin theatre. His success there was prodigious, and
the manager endeavoured, but in vain, to secure his services for three
years. He next played nine nights at the small theatre at Cork, whose
receipts, averaging only ten pounds on ordinary nights, amounted to a
hundred on each of Master Betty's performance.
In May, 1804, the canny manager of the Glasgow theatre invited the
youthful genius to Scotland. When, a little after, Betty went to the
sister-city of Edinburgh, one newspaper announced that he "set the town
of Edinburgh in a flame." Mr. Home went to see the character of Young
Norval in his own play of _Douglas_ enacted by the prodigy, and is said
to have declared: "This is the first time I ever saw the part played
according to my ideas of the character. He is a wonderful being!" The
manager of the Birmingham theatre then sent an invitation, and was
rewarded with a succession of thirteen closely-packed audiences. Here
the _Rosciomania_, as Lord Byron afterwards called it, appears to
have broken out very violently: it affected not only the inhabitants
of that town, but all the iron and coal workers of the district
between Birmingham and Wolverhampton. In the _Penny Magazine_, in a
paper descriptive of the South Staffordshire district and its people,
it is said:--"One man, more curious or more idle than his fellows,
determined to leave his work, and see the prodigy with his own eyes.
Having so resolved, he proceeded, although in the middle of the
week, to put on a clean shirt and a clean face, and would even have
anticipated the Saturday's shaving. The unwonted hue of the shirt and
face were portents not to be disregarded, and he had no sooner taken
the road to Birmingham, than he was met by an astonished brother, whose
amazement, when at last it found vent in words, produced the following
dialogue: 'Oi say, sirree, where be'est thee gwain?'--'Oi 'm agwain to
Brummajum.'--'What be'est thee agwain there for?'--'Oi 'm agwain to see
the Young Rocus.'--'What?'--'Oi tell thee oi 'm agwain to see the Young
Rocus.'--'Is it aloive?'" The "Young Rocus," who was certainly "aloive"
to a very practical end, then went to Sheffield, and next to Liverpool.
On Saturday, the 1st of December, 1804, young Betty made his first
appearance in London, at Covent Garden Theatre. The crowd began to
assemble at one o'clock, filling the Piazza on one side of the house,
and Bow Street on the other. The utmost danger was apprehended,
because those who had ascertained that it was quite impossible for
them to _get in_, by the dreadful pressure behind them, could not get
back. At length they themselves called for the soldiers who had been
stationed outside; they soon cleared the fronts of the entrances, and
then posting themselves properly, lined the passages, permitting any
one to return, but none to enter. Although no places were unlet in the
boxes, gentlemen paid box-prices, to have a chance of jumping over the
boxes into the pit; and then others who could not find room for a leap
of this sort, fought for standing-places with those who had taken the
boxes days or weeks before.
The play was Dr. Brown's _Barbarossa_, a good imitation of the
_Mérope_ of Voltaire, in which Garrick had formerly acted Achmet, or
Selim, now given to Master Betty. An occasional address was intended,
and Mr. Charles Kemble attempted to speak it, but in vain. The play
proceeded through the first act, but in dumb show. At length Barbarossa
ordered Achmet to be brought before him; attention held the audience
mute; not even a whisper could be heard, till Selim appeared. By the
thunder of applause which ensued, he was not much moved; he bowed very
respectfully, but with amazing self-possession, and in a few moments
turned to his work with the intelligence of a veteran, and the youthful
passion that alone could have accomplished a task so arduous. As a
slave, he wore white pantaloons, a close and rather short russet jacket
trimmed with sables, and a turban.
"What first struck me," says Mr. Boaden, a trustworthy critic, "was
that his voice had considerable power, and a depth of tone beyond his
apparent age; at the same time it appeared heavy and unvaried. His
great fault grew from want of careful tuition in the outset. In the
provincial way, he dismissed the aspirate; and in closing syllables,
ending in _m_ or _n_, he converted the vowel _i_ frequently into _e_,
and sometimes more barbarously still into _u_. Whether he obtained
this from careless speakers in Ireland or England, I cannot be sure;
but this inaccuracy I remember to have sometimes heard even from Miss
O'Neil. He was sometimes too rapid to be distinct, and at others too
noisy for anything but rant. I found no peculiarities that denoted
minute and happy studies. He spoke the speeches as I had always heard
them spoken, and was therefore, only wrong where he laid vehement
emphasis. The wonder was how any boy, who had just completed his
_thirteenth year_, could catch passion, meaning, cadence, action,
expression, and the discipline of the stage, in ten very different
and arduous characters, so as to give the kind of pleasure in them
that needed no indulgence, and which, from that very circumstance,
heightened satisfaction into enthusiasm. Such were his performances
of Tancred, Romeo, Frederick, Octavian, Hamlet, Osman, Achmet, Young
Norval, &c."
An arrangement was made that young Betty's talents should be made
available for both Covent Garden and Drury Lane theatres, at which he
played on alternate nights. Covent Garden was not quite so large as the
Drury Lane of that date; at the latter, twenty-eight nights of Betty's
first town season, brought 17,210_l._ 11_s._; nightly average, 614_l._
13_s._ 3_d._ For his services, Roscius received 2,782_l._ 10_s._, being
three nights at fifty guineas, and twenty-five nights at 100 guineas;
besides four free benefits, which with the presents, were worth 1,000
guineas each. It is supposed that the receipts at Covent Garden were
nearly as much as at Drury Lane; and that thus 30,000_l._ was earned by
the boy-actor for the managers in fifty-six performances.
In the meantime, all the favouritism, and more than the innocence of
former patronesses was lavished upon him. He might have chosen among
our titled dames the carriage he would honour with his person. He was
presented to the King, and noticed by the rest of the Royal family and
the nobility, as a prodigy. Prose and poetry celebrated his praise.
Even the University of Cambridge was so carried away by the tide of
the moment as to make the subject of Sir William Brown's prize medal,
"_Quid noster Roscius eget?_" Opie painted him on the Grampian Hills,
as the shepherd Norval; Northcote exhibited him in a Vandyke costume,
retiring from the altar of Shakespeare, as having borne thence, not
stolen, "Jove's authentic fire." Heath engraved the latter picture.
"Amidst all this adulation, all this desperate folly," says Boaden, "be
it one consolation to his mature self, that he never lost the genuine
modesty of his carriage, and that his temper at least was as steady as
his diligence."
Fortunately for young Betty, his friends took care of his large
earnings for him, and made a provision for his future support. He soon
retired from the stage, and then became a person of no particular note
in the world, displaying no more genius or talent than the average of
those about him. When he became a man, he appeared on the stage again,
but _utterly failed_. We can add our own testimony that the good people
of Shrewsbury were ever proud of the precocious boy-actor.
Hardham's "No 37."
This renowned snuff was first made by John Hardham, of Fleet Street,
whose history is certainly worth reading. He was born in the good city
of Chichester, in the year 1712, and bred up to the occupation of a
working lapidary, or diamond-cutter; but he afterwards found his way
to the metropolis, and sought confidential or domestic employment,
and was in the establishment of Viscount Townshend, some time Lord
Lieutenant of Ireland, who ever entertained for him great regard.
Hardham, early in his career of London life, acquired a fondness for
the stage; and thus early wrote a comedy, called _The Fortune Tellers_,
which, although not intended for representation, nevertheless was
printed. This, probably, led to his subsequent introduction to David
Garrick, with whom he became connected at Drury Lane Theatre, in the
responsible post of his principal, "numberer"--that is, discharging
a duty in the house of counting the audience assembled, as a check
upon the check-takers and receivers of money at the doors. In this
duty he became so expert, that Garrick was heard to say, Hardham, by a
comparative glance round the theatre, could inform his master of the
receipts to a nicety, and he was never found incorrect in his report.
Hardham established himself at the Red Lion, in Fleet Street, now
No. 106, where he flourished, by a course of patient industry, and
intelligent application to the business of tobacconist and snuff-maker.
Although in this new vocation he had fewer opportunities of intimately
identifying himself with the stage, he nevertheless remained as ardent
an admirer of it as ever. This he exemplified by associating around
him in Fleet Street, among whom were many literary personages, the
dramatists and wits of the theatre, and his friend David Garrick
did not here desert him. So much, in fact, did the dramatic element
prevail at the Red Lion in Fleet Street, under his fostering care,
that novices for the stage, almost invariably sought his advice, and,
indeed, his tuition. His little back-parlour, characteristically
enough, was hung around with portraits of eminent performers, to whose
styles of dramatic action and manner he would frequently refer in the
course of his instructions. Such recreations, however, did not for a
moment induce Hardham to relax his best energies in the conduct of the
snuff-business, which was daily enlarging the sphere of its operations,
and also its renown; which latter was much raised by the successful
completion of his experiments in the compounding of the renowned snuff,
"No. 37," which was speedily launched upon the tide of public opinion;
a tide which "led on to fortune."
Hardham died in the house wherein he had earned his name for business
success, for good fellowship, and for "melting charity," in Fleet
Street, in the parish of St. Bride, on the 29th of September, 1772,
in his sixty-first year. His wife had preceded him by some years, and
leaving no child, in his last will, he says, "In all my former wills,
I gave my estate to my brother-in-law, Thomas Ludgater, but as he is
now growing old (about seventy-four), and as he has no child, and a
plenty of fortune, I thought it best to leave it as I have done, for
now it will be a benefit to the said city of Chichester for ever." This
fortune he left to the easing of the poor rates of his native city,
that is, the interest thereof for ever, amounting, after realizing
his estate, to the very considerable sum of 22,289_l._ 15_s._ 9_d._,
which was placed by his direction in the Three Per Cents., "feeling
confident that stock," as he quaintly expresses it, "will never
be lower than three per cent., as it now is." In the collecting of
the outstanding debts to his estate, there is also this emphatic
injunction, to "oppress not the poor." Legacies to several of his
Chichester friends show that Hardham kept up in life an active sympathy
with his native place, which was to be so largely benefited on his
death. One bequest there is, too, of ten guineas, "to his friend David
Garrick, Esq., the famous actor," who survived him seven years; and
there is besides recorded, as sufficiently indicative of the simplicity
of his character, a sum of "ten pounds for his funeral expenses, for
none but vain fools spend more," which injunction we doubt not, was
religiously observed, when he was buried in the centre aisle of St.
Bride's church.--_Abridged from a contribution to the City Press._
Rare Criticism.
Mrs. Siddons is known to have described to Campbell the scene of her
probation on the Edinburgh boards with no small humour: the grave
attention of the Scotsmen, and their canny reservation of praise till
sure it is deserved, she said, had well nigh worn out her patience.
She had been used to speak to animated clay, but she now felt as if
she had been speaking to stone. Successive flashes of her elocution
that had always been sure to electrify the south, fell in vain on those
northern flints. At last she said that she coiled up her powers to the
most emphatic possible utterance of one passage, having previously
vowed in her heart that if _this_ could not touch the Scotch, she would
never again cross the Tweed. When it was finished, she paused, and
looked to the audience. The deep silence was broken only by a single
voice, exclaiming, "_That's no bad!_" This ludicrous parsimony of
praise convulsed the Edinburgh audience with laughter. But the laugh
was followed by such thunders of applause, that amidst her stunned and
nervous agitation, she was not without fears of the galleries coming
down.
Another instance of encouraging criticism occurs in _The Memoirs of
Charles Mathews_. Early in 1794, he played Richmond to his friend
Lichfield's Richard III.; and both being good fencers, they fought
the fight at the end with uncommon vigour, and prolonged it to an
unreasonable length. After the performances, the two stars lighted each
other to their inn, in hope of liberal applause from their landlord,
whom they had gratified with a ticket. But though thus treated, and
invited to take a pipe and a glass with the two performers after
supper, he was provokingly silent on the great subject; till at
length, finding every circuitous approach ineffectual, they attacked
him with the direct question, "Pray tell us really what you thought
of our acting." This question was not to be evaded: the landlord
looked perplexed, his eyes still fixed on the ground; he took at
length the tube slowly from his mouth, raised his glass, and drank off
the remainder of his brandy-and-water, went to the fire-place, and
deliberately knocked out the ashes from his pipe; then, looking at
the expectants for a minute, exclaimed in a deep though hasty tone of
voice, "Darned good fight!"--and left the room.
The O. P. Riot.
The history in little of this theatrical tumult is as follows:--The
newly-built Covent Garden Theatre opened on the 18th September,
1809, when a cry of "Old Prices" (afterwards diminished to O. P.)
burst out from every part of the house. This continued and increased
in violence till the 23rd, when rattles, drums, whistles, and
cat-calls having completely drowned the voices of the actors, Mr.
Kemble, the stage-manager, came forward and said that a committee of
gentlemen had undertaken to examine the finances of the concern, and
that until they were prepared with their report the theatre would
continue closed. "Name them!" was shouted from all sides. The names
were declared, _viz._ Sir Charles Price, the Solicitor-General, the
Recorder of London, the Governor of the Bank, and Mr. Angerstein.
"All shareholders!" bawled a wag from the gallery. In a few days the
theatre re-opened; the public paid no attention to the report of the
referees, and the tumult was renewed for several weeks with even
increased violence. The proprietors now sent in hired bruisers, to
_mill_ the refractory into subjection. This irritated most of their
former friends, and, amongst the rest, the annotator, who accordingly
wrote the song of "Heigh-ho, says Kemble," which was caught up by the
ballad-singers, and sung under Mr. Kemble's house-windows in Great
Russell Street. A dinner was given at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, in
the Strand, to celebrate the victory obtained by W. Clifford in his
action against Brandon the box-keeper, for assaulting him for wearing
the letters O. P. in his hat. At this dinner Mr. Kemble attended,
and matters were compromised by allowing the advanced price (seven
shillings) to the boxes. A former riot of a similar sort occurred at
the same theatre (in the year 1792), when the price to the boxes was
raised from five shillings to six. That tumult, however, only lasted
three nights.[38]
[38] Note to _Rejected Addresses_. Edition 1861.
Origin of "Paul Pry."[39]
Mr. Poole, the author of this very successful comedy, tells us that
the idea of the character of Paul Pry was suggested by the following
anecdote, related to him many years before he wrote the piece by a
beloved friend.
[39] See _Liston_, page 391.
An idle old lady, living in a narrow street, had passed so much of her
time in watching the affairs of her neighbours, that she at length
acquired the power of distinguishing the sound of every knocker within
hearing. It happened that she fell ill, and was for several days
confined to her bed. Unable to observe in person what was going on
without, she stationed her maid at the window as a substitute for the
performance of that duty. But Betty soon grew weary of the occupation;
she became careless in her reports--impertinent and tetchy when
reprimanded for her negligence.
"Betty, what _are_ you thinking about? Don't you hear a double knock at
No. 9? Who is it?"
"The first-floor lodger, ma'am."
"Betty! Betty! I declare I must give you warning. Why don't you tell me
what that knock is at No. 54?"
"Why, Lord! ma'am, it is only the baker with pies."
"_Pies_, Betty! what _can_ they want with pies at 54?--they had pies
yesterday!"
"Of this very point," says Mr. Poole, "I have availed myself. Let
me add, that _Paul Pry_ was never intended as the representative of
any one individual, but a class. Like the melancholy of Jaques, he
is 'compounded of many simples,' and I could mention five or six who
were unconscious contributors to the character. Though it should have
been so often, but erroneously, supposed to have been drawn after some
particular person, is, perhaps, complimentary to the general truth of
the delineation.
"With respect to the play generally, I may say that it is original: it
is original in structure, plot, character, and dialogue--such as they
are--the only imitation I am aware of is to be found in part of the
business in which Mrs. Subtle is engaged; whilst writing those scenes
I had strongly in my recollection _Le Vieux Célibataire_. But even
the title I have adopted is considerably altered and modified by the
necessity of adapting it to the exigencies of a different plot."
[Illustration: Mrs. Garrick. From a portrait taken in her youth.]
Mrs. Garrick.
In the autumn of 1822, we well remember the appearance in the
print-shops of a small whole-length etching of Mrs. Garrick, who had
died three or four days previously, having outlived her celebrated
husband three-and-forty years.