to acknowledge. When the vase was presented to that great actor, he
refused to subscribe, saying, "You may cup Mr. Kean, if you please, but
you sha'n't bleed me." He said, too, the cup should be given to Joe
Munden for his performance of Marall. Amongst other eccentricities,
Dowton fancied (a delusion common to comedians) that he could play
tragedy, and never rested until he obtained an opportunity of showing
the town that Edmund Kean knew nothing of Shylock. But the experiment
was, as might have been expected, a total failure. The great point of
novelty consisted in having a number of Jews in court, to represent
his friends and partisans, during the trial scene; and in their arms
he fainted, when told he was, per force, to become a Christian. The
audience laughed outright, as a commentary on the actor's conception.
Once he exhibited, privately, to Mr. J. W. Cole, the last scene of Sir
Giles Overreach, according to his idea of the author's meaning, and a
very mirthful tragedy it proved. He had a strange inverted idea that
Massinger intended Sir Giles for a comic character. He also fancied
that he could play Lord Ogleby, when nature, with her own hand, had
daguerreotyped him for Mr. Sterling. Such are the vagaries of genius,
which are equally mournful and unaccountable.
[Illustration: Liston as "Paul Pry."]
Liston in Tragedy.
Play-goers of the present century narrate the early seriousness of
Liston, the comedian, and his subsequent turn for tragedy; which may
have suggested the apocryphal biography of the actor stated to be by
Charles Lamb,[41] whence the following is abridged:--
Liston was lineally descended from Johan de L'Estonne, who came over
with the Norman William, and had lands awarded him at Lupton Magna, in
Kent. The more immediate ancestors of Mr. Liston were Puritans, and his
father, Habakkuk, was an Anabaptist minister. At the age of nine, young
Liston was placed under the tuition of the Rev. Mr. Goodenough, whose
decease was attended with these awful circumstances. It seems that the
old gentleman and his pupil had been walking out together, in a fine
sunset, to the distance of three-quarters of a mile west of Lupton,
when a sudden curiosity took Mr. Goodenough to look down upon a chasm,
where a mining shaft had been lately sunk, but soon after abandoned.
The old clergyman, leaning over, either with incaution or sudden
giddiness (probably a mixture of both), instantly lost his footing,
and, to use Mr. Liston's phrase, disappeared, and was doubtless broken
into a thousand pieces. The sound of his head &c., dashing successively
upon the projecting masses of the chasm had such an effect upon the
youth Liston, that a serious sickness ensued, and even for many years
after his recovery, he was not once seen so much as to smile.
[41] This paper appeared in the "London Magazine," January, 1825, _not_
1824, as stated at page 121.
The joint death of both his parents, which happened not many months
after this disastrous accident, and were probably (one or both of them)
accelerated by it, threw our youth upon the protection of his maternal
great-aunt, Mrs. Sittingbourn, whom he loved almost to reverence. To
the influence of her early counsels and manners he always attributed
the firmness with which, in maturer years, thrown upon a way of
life commonly not the best adapted to gravity and self-retirement,
he was able to maintain a serious character, untinctured with the
levities incident to his profession. Ann Sittingbourn (her portrait
was painted by Hudson) was stately, stiff, and tall, with a cast of
features strikingly resembling those of Liston. Her estate in Kent
was spacious and well-wooded; and here, in the venerable solitudes
of Charnwood, amid thick shades of the oak and beech (the last his
favourite tree), Liston cultivated those contemplative habits which
never entirely deserted him in after-years. Here he was commonly in
summer months to be met, book in hand--not a play book--meditating.
Boyle's _Reflections_ was at one time his darling volume; this, in
its turn, was superseded by Young's _Night Thoughts_, which continued
its hold upon him throughout life. He carried it always about him;
and it was no uncommon thing for him to be seen, in the refreshing
intervals of his occupation, leaning against a side-scene, in a sort
of Herbert-of-Cherbury posture, turning over a pocket edition of his
favourite author.
The premature death of Mrs. Sittingbourn, occasioned by incautiously
burning a pot of charcoal in her sleeping-chamber, left Liston, in
his nineteenth year, nearly without resources. That the stage at all
should have presented itself as an eligible scope for his talents, and
in particular, that he should have chosen a line so foreign to what
appears to have been his turn of mind, admits of explanation.
At Charnwood, then, we behold him thoughtful, grave, ascetic. From his
cradle averse to flesh-meats and strong drink; abstemious even beyond
the genius of the place; and almost in spite of the remonstrances
of his great-aunt, who, though strict, was not rigid, water was his
habitual drink, and his food little beyond the mast and beech-nuts
of his favourite groves. It is a medical fact, that this kind of
diet, however favourable to the contemplative powers of the primitive
hermits, &c., is but ill adapted to the less robust minds and bodies of
a later generation. Hypochondria almost constantly ensues, and young
Liston was subject to sights and had visions. Those arid beech-nuts,
distilled by a complexion naturally adust, mounted into a brain,
already prepared to kindle by long seclusion and the fervour of strict
Calvinistic notions. In the glooms of Charnwood he was assailed by
illusions, similar in kind to those which are related of the famous
Anthony of Padua. Wild antic faces would ever and anon protrude
themselves upon his _sensorium_. Whether he shut his eyes or kept them
open, the same illusion operated. The darker and more profound were his
cogitations, the droller and more whimsical became the apparitions.
They buzzed about him, thick as flies, flapping at him, floating at
him, hooting in his ear; yet with such comic appendages, that what at
first was his bane, became at length his solace; and he desired no
better society than that of his merry phantasmata. We shall presently
find in what way this remarkable phenomenon influenced his future
destiny.
On the death of Mrs. Sittingbourn, Liston was received into the family
of Mr. Willoughby, an eminent Turkey merchant, in Birchin Lane. He
was treated more like a son than a clerk, though he was nominally but
the latter. Different avocations, change of scene, with alternation
of business and recreation, appear to have weaned him in a short time
from the hypochondriacal affections which had beset him at Charnwood.
Within the next three years we find him making more than one voyage to
the Levant, as chief factor for Mr. Willoughby at the Porte: he used
to relate pleasant passages of his having been taken up on a suspicion
of a design of penetrating the seraglio, &c.; but some of these are
whimsical, and others of a romantic nature.
We will now bring him over the seas again, and suppose him in the
counting-house in Birchin Lane, his factorage satisfactory, and all
going on so smoothly that we may expect to find Mr. Liston at last
an opulent merchant upon 'Change. But see the turns of destiny. Upon
a summer's excursion into Norfolk, in the year 1801, the accidental
sight of pretty Sally Parker, as she was then called (then in the
Norwich company), diverted his inclinations at once from commerce,
and he became stage-struck. Happily for the lovers of mirth was it
that he took this turn. Shortly after, he made his _début_ on the
Norwich boards, in his twenty-second year. Having a natural bent to
tragedy, he chose the part of Pyrrhus in the _Distressed Mother_, to
Sally Parker's Hermione. We find him afterwards as George Barnwell,
Altamont, Chamont, &c.; but, as if nature had destined him to the sock,
an unavoidable infirmity absolutely incapacitated him for tragedy.
His person at this latter period was graceful and even commanding,
his countenance set to gravity; he had the power of arresting the
attention of an audience at first sight almost beyond any other tragic
actor. But he could not hold it. To understand this obstacle, we must
go back a few years to those appalling reveries at Charnwood. Those
illusions, which had vanished before the dissipation of a less recluse
life and more free society, now in his solitary tragic studies, and
amid the intense call upon feeling incident to tragic acting, came
back upon him with tenfold vividness. In the midst of some most
pathetic passages--the parting of Jaffier with his dying friend,
for instance--he would suddenly be surprised with a fit of violent
horse-laughter. While the spectators were all sobbing before him with
emotion, suddenly one of those grotesque faces would peep out upon
him, and he could not resist the impulse. A timely excuse once or
twice served his purpose, but no audience could be expected to bear
repeatedly this violation of the continuity of feeling. He describes
them (the illusions) as so many demons haunting him, and paralyzing
every effort: it is said that he could not recite the famous soliloquy
in _Hamlet_, even in private, without immoderate fits of laughter.
However, what he had not force of reason sufficient to overcome, he
had good sense enough to turn into emolument, and determined to make a
commodity of his distemper. He prudently exchanged the buskin for the
sock, and the illusions instantly ceased, or, if they occurred for a
short season, by this very co-operation added a zest to his comic vein;
some of his most catching faces being (as he expressed it), little more
than transcripts and copies of those extraordinary phantasmata.
We have now drawn Liston to the period when he was about to make his
first appearance in the metropolis, as it is narrated in a clever
paper in the _London Magazine_ January, 1824. This is not referred
to in the sketch of Liston's career, written a few days after his
death, March 22nd, 1846, by his son-in-law, George Herbert Rodwell,
the musical composer, and published in the _Illustrated London News_,
March 28th. There we are told that Liston was born in 1776; that
his father lived in Norris Street, Haymarket, and that young John
was educated at Dr. Barrow's Soho School, and subsequently became
second master in Archbishop Tenison's school. Rodwell relates that
early in his theatrical life, Liston went, for cheapness, by sea to
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and was beaten about by adverse winds for a
fortnight; provisions ran so short that Liston was reduced to his
last inch of dry cheese. At Newcastle, through the above delay, he
was roughly received by Stephen Kemble, the manager, sitting in awful
state in the centre of the stage, directing a rehearsal. Kemble eyed
him several times before he spoke; at last he growled out, "Well, young
man, you are come." Mr. Liston bowed. "Then now you may go back again!
You have broken your engagement by being too late."--"It's very easy to
_say_ go back," replied Liston, with one of his peculiar looks, "but
here I am, and here I must stay, for I have not a farthing left in the
world." Kemble relented, and Liston remained at Newcastle until he came
to London for good.
The first _comic_ part he performed was Diggory, in _She Stoops to
Conquer_. He took a great fancy to the character, and kept secret his
intentions as to the manner he meant to play it in, and the style
of dress he should wear. When he came on, so original was his whole
conception of the thing, that not an actor on the stage could speak
for laughing. When he came off, Mr. Kemble said:--"Young man, it
strikes me you have mistaken your _forte_: there's something comic
about you."--"I've not mistaken my _forte_," replied Liston, "but you
never before allowed me to try; I don't think myself I was made for
the heavy Barons!" He first appeared in London, as Sheepface, in the
_Village Lawyer_, June 10th, 1805. "That Mr. Liston did really imagine
he could be a tragic actor," says Rodwell, "is partly borne out by his
actually having attempted Octavian, in the _Mountaineers_, May 17th,
1809."
When Liston first appeared on the stage is not accurately known. The
following early note from a manager of the time is undated:--"Sir, your
not favouring Me with an answ^r Relative to the I-dea of the Cast, I,
at random (tho' very ill), Scratch'd Out, Makes it Necessary for Me to
have your Opinion, in Order to Prevent Aney Mistake.--I am, Sir, with
every Good Wish, yours, &c.,"
"TATE WILKINSON."
When Liston first came to London, he generally wore a pea-green coat,
and was everywhere accompanied by an ugly little pug-dog. This pug-dog,
like his master, soon made himself a favourite, go where he would, and
seemed exceedingly proud that he could make almost as many laugh as
could his master. The pug-dog acted as Mr. Liston's _avant-courier_,
always trotting on before, to announce his friend and master. The
frequenters of the Orange Coffee-house, Cockspur Street, where Liston
resided, used to say, laughing, "Oh, Liston will be here in a moment,
for here is his beautiful pug."
Latterly he went little into society. His attention to his religious
duties was always marked by devout sincerity; his knowledge of the
Scriptures was very extensive.
[Illustration: Edmund Kean as Richard the Third.]
Boyhood of Edmund Kean.
Many years ago, there appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine_ the
following account of Kean's early days:--"I saw young Edmund Carey
(Kean) first in April, 1796. I am particularly positive both to month
and year, because I met Mrs. Carey and the boys (_Darnley_ was the
other reputed son by another father; this actor was for many years at
Astley's Amphitheatre, and is now living) on the morning of the day
on which Ireland's pretended Shakesperian drama was performed. Edmund
was always little, slight, but not young-looking; I should say he was
then _ten years of age_! The following September he played Tom Thumb at
Bartholomew Fair at a public-house; his mother played Queen Dollalolla;
he had a good voice, and was a pretty boy, but unquestionably more
like a _Jew_ than a Christian _child_. Old Richardson, the showman,
engaged him then and subsequently, and is living to vouch for the
fact, as far as eyesight goes, that in 1796, Kean looked more like a
child of _ten_ or _twelve_ than of _six_ years. This of course puts
an end to the _possibility_ of his having been born in the year 1790.
I cannot vouch as to the truth of the oft-repeated story of the dance
of devils in _Macbeth_, and his rejoinder to John Kemble, who found
fault with him, that 'he (Kean) had never appeared in tragedy before;'
but if it did occur, it must have been in 1794; for Garrick's Drury
was pulled down to be rebuilt in 1791, and the new theatre commenced
dramatic performances with _Macbeth_. Many novelties of arrangement
were attempted, the dance in question among the rest. Charles Kemble
made his first appearance as Malcolm that very night, and the audience
laughed very heartily when he exclaimed, '_Oh! by whom?_' on hearing
the account of his father's murder. Charles Kemble was then said to be
eighteen; I think he was more. If Kean was one of the dancing devils,
he could have been only _three years and five months old_; that is,
taking his own account of being born in November, 1790.
"Kean broke his leg when a boy, riding an act of horsemanship at
Bartholomew Fair; and he was often, towards the years 1802, 3, 4,
and 5, about different parts of the country, spouting, riding, or
rope-dancing. The last time I saw him, previous to his 'great hit,' was
at Sadler's Wells; he was in front to see Belzoni (afterwards known
as the great traveller), who gave a pantomimic performance (such as
Ducrow since attempted) illustrative of the passions of Lebrun; Belzoni
was superior to anything I ever beheld, and I am not solitary in that
opinion. Ella, the harlequin, and Belzoni were together at the old
Royalty Theatre; and Belzoni's brother was also there. The great and
enterprising traveller was retained as a _posturer_ at 2_l._ per week!"
About 1800, at the Rolls Rooms, Chancery Lane, young Kean, then
described as "the infant prodigy, Master Carey," gave readings, and
read the whole of Shakspeare's _Merchant of Venice_. All who knew
Kean intimately as a boy, declared that he was then a splendid actor,
and that many of his effects, at the age of fourteen, were quite as
startling as any of his more mature performances. Byron, who was then
much in theatrical society, says, "Kean began by acting Richard the
Third, when quite a boy, and gave all the promise of what he afterwards
became."
A Mysterious Parcel.
Mr. Bunn, when Lessee of Drury Lane Theatre, experienced the following
odd circumstance, which he describes, as curious as any that has
been or can be recited:--On reaching the theatre on Tuesday evening,
March 12th, 1839, he found on his desk a very small brown paper
parcel, addressed "To A. Bunn, Esq.," looking very dirty, and very
suspicious, and weighing wherewithal sufficiently heavy as to increase
such suspicion. The town had at that moment been partly astonished
and partly amused by "Madame Vestris's Infernal Machine," and the
narrow escape the person had who first opened it. Having no desire
for any similar experiment, Mr. Bunn hesitated in unfolding this
mysterious packet, more particularly when his messenger described the
dingy-looking fellow that left it at the stage-door, with an injunction
that it was "to be delivered into Mr. Bunn's own hands." However,
overcoming any apprehensions of gunpowder, and setting whatever of the
combustible it might contain to the amount of a mere squib, he sent
for his under-treasurer, and in his presence opened some half-dozen
pieces of paper, each tightly bound by some half-dozen pieces of
string, and inside the last he found:--
32 Sovereigns £32 0 0
10 Half-sovereigns 5 0 0
13 Half-crowns 1 12 6
27 Shillings 1 7 0
1 Sixpence 0 0 6
---------
£40 0 0
---------
"I began to think," says Bunn, "that this was the contribution of some
eccentric supporter of Drury Lane, anxious to reward its manager's
exertions, yet, with a rooted modesty, anxious to conceal his name;
but such an occurrence was so totally without precedent, that I gave
up that conjecture in utter hopelessness. Then I bethought me of more
than one performer who had literally robbed me to such an extent; and
pondered over the probability of this being a return thereof, arising
out of a touch of conscience; but as what little consciences most of
them _have_ got are very seldom touched, I abandoned that surmise with
even a greater degree of despair than I first of all entertained it.
_By_ whom was it sent, or _for_ whom was it sent, I am totally unable
to tell; it was added to the general receipt of the exchequer, for
the benefit of all those having any claim on it, though the chances
are it was forwarded for my own individual advantage. The donor is
hereby thanked, be he or she whoever he or she may; and I can only say,
if many more had made their appearance, the disasters of Drury Lane
Theatre would have been obviated or provided against. Now, is not a
manager's life an odd life, and are not the people he has to deal with
a very odd set of people? and if he should do odd things, can no excuse
be found for him by your pickers and stealers, and evil speakers, and
liars, and slanderers? I can only say, if there is none, there should
be."
Among the droll stories told by Mr. Bunn, in his caustic book, _The
Stage_, is this:--In 1824, when the question of erecting a monument to
Shakespeare, in his native town, was agitated by Mr. Mathews and Mr.
Bunn, the King (George IV.) took a lively interest in the matter, and,
considering that the leading people of both the patent theatres should
be consulted, directed Sir Charles Long, Sir George Beaumont, and Sir
Francis Freeling to ascertain Mr. Elliston's sentiments on the subject.
As soon as these distinguished individuals (who had come direct from,
and were going direct back to the Palace) had delivered themselves
of their mission, Elliston replied, "Very well, gentlemen, leave the
papers with me, and _I will talk over the business with_ HIS MAJESTY."
Masquerade Incident.
When the Rev. Mr. Venables was at St. Petersburg, in 1834, he received
the following narrative of a strange and startling incident at a
masquerade in the above capital:--At Christmas, 1834, a ball was given
at a house at St. Petersburg, and candles were placed in the windows of
the house, as a well-understood signal that masks might enter without
special invitation. Several masks arrived in the course of the evening,
stayed but a short time, as is usual, and departed.
At length a party entered dressed as Chinese, and bearing on a
palanquin a person whom they called their chief, saying that it was
his fête-day. They set him down very respectfully in the middle of
the room, and commenced dancing what they called their national dance
around him. When this was concluded, they separated and mingled with
the general company, speaking French fluently (the universal language
at a Russian masquerade), and making themselves extremely agreeable.
After awhile they began gradually to disappear unnoticed, slipping out
of the room one or two at a time. At last they were all gone, but their
chief still remained sitting motionless in dignified silence in his
palanquin in the middle of the room. The ball began to thin, and the
attention of those who remained was wholly drawn to the silent figure
of the Chinese mask.
The master of the house at length went up to him, and told him that
his companions were all gone; politely begging him at the same time to
take off his mask, that he and his guests might know to whom they were
indebted for all the pleasure which the exhibition had afforded them.
The Chinaman, however, gave no reply by word or sign, and a feeling of
uneasy curiosity gradually drew around him by the guests who remained
in the ball-room. He still took no notice of all that was passing
around him, and the master of the house at length, with his own hand,
took off the mask, and discovered to the horrified by-standers the face
of a corpse.
The police were immediately sent for, and on a surgical examination
of the body, it appeared to be that of a man who had been strangled a
few hours before. Nothing could be discovered, either at the time or
afterwards, which could lead to the identifying of the dead man, or to
the discovery of the actors in this extraordinary scene, and no clue
has ever been obtained. It was found on inquiry that they arrived at
the house where they deposited the dead body in a handsome equipage
with masked servants.
This horrible story was stated to Mr. Venables, by General Bontourlin,
to be a well-known and undoubted fact. The body was never identified,
but was supposed to be that of the victim of a murder arising out of a
gambling transaction. The acuteness of the police would seem to have
been at fault; or, more probably, the proper use of the proper amount
of roubles suppressed inconvenient discoveries.
[Illustration: T. P. Cooke in "Black-Eyed Susan."]
Mr. T. P. Cooke in Melodrama and Pantomime.