the Theatre Royal, Dublin, which could boast of a company including
the names of Miss O'Neil, afterwards Lady Beecher, then in her teens;
Miss Walstein, Messrs. Conway, Farren, and others of histrionic fame.
Sir Walter Scott's _Lady of the Lake_ had been published on the 10th
of May, 1810, and the critics of the day had pronounced it to be "the
most interesting, romantic, picturesque, and graceful" of the author's
poems. Managers were anxious to produce a version of the _Lady of
the Lake_ upon the stage, and no one was more prompt in bringing one
forward than the lessee of the Theatre Royal, Dublin. The cast was
powerful. Misses O'Neil and Walstein were the representatives of the
chieftain's daughter, Ellen Douglas, and the crazed and captive lowland
maid, Blanche of Devon; Malcolm Græme was well acted; Conway looked
the Knight of Snowdon, James Fitzjames, to the life; and T. P. Cooke
appeared to the greatest advantage as Roderick Vick Alpine Roderick
Dhu. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the scenery; and the drama
created a furore among the warm-hearted Emeralders. As the manager
acted upon the principle of not "keeping more cats than could kill
mice," the services of some of his dramatic performers were pressed
into afterpieces; and, as the pantomime of _Harlequin and Mother
Goose_ had made a great sensation in London, it was brought out in
the capital of the sister isle--T. P. Cooke doffing his picturesque
Highland costume for that of Squire Bugle, afterwards Clown. No one
that had seen the noble bearing of Vick Alpine in the mountain pass,
exclaiming:--
"These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;
And, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu,"
would have recognized the same being when equipped in the loose
hunting-dress of the Squire or the grotesque garb of the Clown. The
pantomime went off well, and, although T. P. Cooke wanted the fun of
Grimaldi, he, by the aid of youth and great agility, bustled through
the part most satisfactorily.
At the termination of the performance, which had been honoured by the
presence of the Lord-Lieutenant, Charles, fourth Duke of Richmond,
the Duchess, and her then young and numerous family, the Duke was
persuaded by two of his sons, Lords William and Frederick--then
Westminster boys--to go behind the scenes to look at the wonderful
goose. The manager, wax-candles in hand, after the most approved
manner of receiving illustrious guests, conducted the Duke, his two
sons, and a young daughter to the stage and green-room, and the
pantomimic tricks were duly displayed by the attentive property-man,
who explained to the young noblemen the mysteries of the world behind
the curtain: how the transformation-scene was managed; how the
sprites descended and ascended through the "traps;" how the nimble
Harlequin, the active Clown, and the "slippered Pantaloon" were
caught in blankets after their wonderful leaps through clock-dials,
shop-windows, picture-frames, and looking-glasses; how the smallest
of boys was introduced into a sham goose's skin; how a few daubs of
paint, some gold and silver leaf, and green tinsel, produced the
splendid fairy scene; how some spangles sewn on a coarse parti-coloured
suit made Harlequin appear glittering like gold; how a white calico
garb, with a few quaint red and blue devices, some chalk and red
paint, could change the "human face divine" to that of a mask. After
inspecting everything worthy of note behind the scenes, the Duke and
his family proceeded to their carriage, when, at the entrance to the
green-room, they met the Clown, who had remained behind to arrange some
stage-business with the Harlequin. "I forget his name," said the Duke,
who, although he patronized the drama, did not take especial interest
in the performance. "Cooke," responded the manager. "I congratulate
you, Mr. Cooke," said his Grace. "I've seen Grimaldi in the part, and
am delighted with your performance." Cooke bowed his acknowledgments.
"Pray," continued the Lord-Lieutenant, "is Mr. T. P. Cooke, who looked
so well and acted Roderick Vick Alpine with such spirit, any relation
of yours?"--"A very near one," responded the actor. "He stands before
you; for, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu!" The Duke smiled, shook hands with
him, declaring he had never witnessed such a wonderful metamorphose.
"Romeo and Juliet" in America.
Miss Fanny Kemble, in her clever record of her experiences in the
United States, relates the following, which occurred in one of her
provincial engagements. The play was _Romeo and Juliet_. "My Romeo,"
says Miss Kemble, "had gotten on a pair of trunk-breeches, which
looked as if he had borrowed them of some worthy Dutchman a hundred
years ago. Had he worn them in New York, I could have understood it
as a compliment to the ancestry of that good city; but here to adopt
such a costume in _Romeo_ was perfectly unaccountable. They were of a
most unhappy choice of colour, too--dull, heavy-looking blue cloth,
and offensive crimson satin, all bepuckered, and beplaited, and
bepuffed, till the young man looked like a magical figure growing out
of a monstrous, strange-coloured melon, beneath which descended his
unfortunate legs, thrust into a pair of red slippers, for all the world
like Grimaldi's legs en costume for _Clown_. The play went off pretty
smoothly, except that they broke one man's collar-bone and nearly
dislocated a woman's shoulder, by flinging the scenery about. My bed
was not made in time, and when the scene drew, half-a-dozen carpenters,
in patched trousers and tattered shirt-sleeves, were discovered
smoothing down my pillows and adjusting my draperies. The last scene is
too good not to be given verbatim:--
"_Romeo._ Rise, rise, my Juliet,
And from this cave of death, this house of horror,
Quick let me snatch thee to thy Romeo's arms."
Here he pounced upon me, plucked me up in his arms like an
uncomfortable bundle, and staggered down the stage with me.
"_Juliet_ (_aside_). Oh! you've got me up horribly! That'll never do.
Do let me down, pray let me down.
_Romeo._ There, breathe a vital spirit on thy lips,
And call thee back, my soul, to life and love.
_Juliet_ (_aside_). Pray put me down; you'll certainly throw me down,
if you don't set me on the ground directly."
In the midst of "Cruel, cursed fate," his dagger fell out of his dress;
I, embracing him tenderly, crammed it back again, because I knew I
should want it again in the end.
"_Romeo._ Tear not our heart-strings thus!
They crack! they break! Juliet! Juliet!
[_Dies._]
_Juliet_ (to _Corpse_). Am I smothering you?
_Corpse_ (to _Juliet_). Not at all. Could you be so kind, do you
think, as to put my wig on again for me? It has fallen off.
_Juliet_ (to _Corpse_). I'm afraid I can't; but I'll throw my muslin
veil over it. You've broken the phial, haven't you?
[CORPSE _nodded_.]
_Juliet_ (to _Corpse_). Where's your dagger?
_Corpse_ (to _Juliet_). 'Pon my soul, I don't know."
The Mulberries, a Shakspearian Club.
At the thirty-fourth Anniversary of the Shakspeare Club, at
Stratford-on-Avon, on April 23rd, 1858, the President, Mr. Buckstone,
of the Haymarket Theatre, related, with much humour, the following
interesting account of the above Shakspearian Club:--
"On emerging from boyhood, and while yet a young actor, I was one of
the first members of a Shakspearian club, called _The Mulberries_.
It was not then a very prominent one, as its meetings were held at a
certain house of entertainment in Vinegar Yard, Drury Lane. The club
assembled there once a week; they dined together on Shakespeare's
birthday; and in the mulberry season there was another dinner and a
mulberry feast, at which the chairman sat enthroned under a canopy
of mulberry branches, with the fruit on them; Shakspearian songs
were sung; members read original papers or poems relating only to
Shakspeare; and as many artists belonged to this club, they exhibited
sketches of some event connected with our poet's life; and some had
the honour of submitting a paper to be read, called 'Shakespeare's
Drinking-bout,' an imaginary story, illustrating the traditionary
event, when the chivalry of Stratford went forth to carouse with
"Piping Pebworth, dancing Marston,
Haunted Hilborough, hungry Grafton,
Dudging Exhall, papist Wicksford,
Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bidford."
All these papers and pictures were collected together in a book, called
_Mulberry Leaves_; and you will believe me, that in spite of our lowly
place of meeting, the club was not intellectually insignificant, when
amongst its members, then in their youth, were Douglas Jerrold, Laman
Blanchard, the Landseers (Charles and Thomas), Frank Stone, Cattermole,
Robert Keeley, Kenny Meadows, and subsequently, though at another
and more important place of meeting, Macready, Talfourd (the judge),
Charles Dickens, John Forster, and many other celebrities. You will
very naturally wish to know what became of this club. Death thinned the
number of its members; important pursuits in life took some one way
and some another; and, after twenty years of much enjoyment, the club
ceased to exist, and the _Mulberry Leaves_ disappeared, no one ever
knew whither.
From Mr. Blanchard Jerrold's Life of his Father we learn that William
Elton, the Shakspearian actor, was a member of the Mulberries, as were
also William Godwin, and Edward Chatfield the artist. The contributions
fell into Mr. Elton's hands, and are now in the possession of his
family. The _leaves_ were to have been published; but the club dead,
it was nobody's business to see them through the press, and to this
hour they remain in manuscript. Of the club itself it is said:
"Respectability killed it. Sumptuous quarters were sought; Shakspeare
was to be admired in a most elegant manner--to be edited specially
for the club by the author of _The Book of Etiquette_. But the new
atmosphere had not the vigour of the old, and so, after a long
struggle, all the Mulberries fell from the old tree, and now it is a
green memory only to a few old members. Douglas Jerrold always turned
fondly to these Shakspearian days, and he loved to sing the old song
he wrote for the Mulberries, in that soft, sweet voice which all his
friends remember:
"And thus our moral food
Doth Shakspeare leaven still,
Enriching all the good.
And less'ning all the ill;--
Thus, by his bounty, shed
Like balm from angel's wing,
Though winter scathe our head,
Our spirits dance with spring."
Colley Cibber's Daughter.
This unfortunate person was the youngest child of Colley Cibber, and
married a singer named Charke: there seems to have been a touch of
insanity, certainly there was no power of self-control, in this poor
woman. From her childhood she had been wild, wayward, and rebellious;
self-taught, as a boy might be, and with nothing feminine in her
character or pursuits. With self-assertion, too, she was weak enough
to be won by a knave with a sweet voice, whose cruel treatment drove
his intractable wife to the stage, where she failed to profit by her
fine opportunities. Mrs. Charke loved to play male characters; and of
the many, that of Plume was her favourite. At the Haymarket Theatre, in
1745, she played Captain Macheath, and other masculine parts, before
she attempted to pass herself off upon the world, or hide herself from
it, as a man.
Dr. Doran, in his amusing book, _Their Majesties' Servants_, writing
of the year 1757, that of Colley Cibber's death says: "While the body
of the poet Laureate was being carried to Westminster Abbey, there was
up away in a hut in then desolate Clerkenwell, and starving, Colley's
only daughter, Charlotte Charke. Seven-and-twenty years before, she
had just come upon the stage, after a stormy girlhood; and she had a
mania for appearing in male characters on, and in male attire off, the
stage. By some terrible offence she forfeited the recognition of her
father, who was otherwise of a benevolent disposition; and friendless,
she fought a series of battles with the world, and came off in all
more and more damaged. She starved with strollers, failed as a grocer
in Long Acre, became bankrupt as a puppet-show proprietor in James
Street, Haymarket; re-married, became a widow a second time, was
plunged into deeper ruin, thrown into prison for debt, and released
only by the subscriptions of the lowest, but not least charitable,
sisterhood of Drury Lane. Assuming male attire, she hung about the
theatres for casual hire, went on tramp with itinerants, hungered
daily, and was weekly cheated, but yet kept up such an appearance that
an heiress fell in love with her, who was reduced to despair when
Charlotte Charke revealed her story and abandoned the place. Her next
post was that of a valet to an Irish Lord; forfeiting which she and
her child became sausage-makers, but could not obtain a living; and
then Charlotte Charke cried, 'Coming, coming, sir,' as a waiter at
the King's Head Tavern, Marylebone. Thence she was drawn by an offer
to make her manager of a company of strolling players, with whom she
enjoyed more appetite than means to appease it. She endured sharp
distress again and again; but was relieved by an uncle, who furnished
her with funds, with which she opened a tavern in Drury Lane, where,
after a brief career of success, she again became bankrupt. To the
regular stage she once more returned, under her brother, Theophilus, at
the Haymarket: but the Lord Chamberlain closed the house, and Charlotte
Charke took to working the wires of Russell's famous puppets in the
Great Room, still existing in Brewer Street. There was a gleam of good
fortune for her, but it soon faded away; and then for nine wretched
years this clever but most wretched of women struggled frantically
for bare existence, amongst the most wretched of strollers, with whom
she endured unmitigated misery. And yet, Cibber's erring and hapless
daughter contrived to reach London, where, in 1755, she published her
remarkable autobiography, the details of which make the heart ache, in
spite of the small sympathy of the reader for this half-mad creature.
On the profits of this book, she was enabled to open, as _landlord_,
a tavern at Islington; but of course, ruin ensued; and in a hut, amid
the cinder-heaps and worse refuse, in the desolate fields, she found a
refuge, and even wrote a novel on a pair of bellows in her lap, by way
of desk. Here she lived with a squalid hand-maiden, a cat, dog, magpie,
and monkey. Humbled, disconsolate, abandoned, she readily accepted from
a publisher who visited her 10_l._ for her manuscript. This was at the
close of the year 1755, and I do not meet with her again till 1759, two
years after her father's death, when she played Marplot in _The Busy
Body_, for her own benefit at the Haymarket, with this advertisement:
'As I am entirely dependent on chance for a subsistence, and desirous
of getting into business, I humbly hope the town will favour me on the
occasion, which, added to the rest of their indulgences, will be ever
gratefully acknowledged by their truly obliged and obedient servant,
Charlotte Charke.' She died on the 6th of April, 1760."
[Illustration: Charlotte Charke. After Boitard.]
She "is said to have once given imitations of her father on the stage;
to have presented a pistol at, and robbed him on the highway, and to
have smeared his face with a pair of soles out of her own basket."
An Eccentric Love-Passage.
Captain Gronow relates that Mr. Bradshaw, M.P. for Canterbury, "fell
in love" with Maria Tree: hearing that the lady had taken a place in
the Birmingham mail, he booked the rest for himself in the name of
Tomkins, and resolved to make the most of the opportunity afforded
him. Unfortunately, his luggage and Miss Tree went by one mail, while
Mr. Bradshaw through a mistake travelled by another. On arriving at
Birmingham early in the morning, he left the coach and stepped into
the hotel, determined to remain there, and go to the theatre on the
following evening. He went to bed and slept late the following day;
and on waking he remembered that his trunk with all his money had
gone on to Manchester, and that he was without the means of paying
his way. Seeing the Bank of Birmingham opposite the hotel, he went
over and explained his position to one of the partners, giving his own
banker's address in London, and showing letters addressed to him as Mr.
Bradshaw. Upon this he was told that with such credentials he might
have a loan; and the banker said he would write the necessary letter
and cheque, and send the money over to him at the hotel. Mr. Bradshaw,
pleased with this kind attention, sat himself down comfortably to
breakfast in the coffee-room. According to promise, the cashier made
his appearance at the hotel, and asked the waiter for Mr. Bradshaw.
"No such gentleman here," was the reply.--"Oh, yes, he came by the
London mail."--"No, sir; no one came but Mr. Tomkins, who was booked as
inside passenger to Manchester." The cashier was dissatisfied; but the
waiter added, "Sir, you can look through the window of the coffee-room
door, and see the gentleman yourself." On doing so he beheld the Mr.
Tomkins, _alias_ Mr. Bradshaw, and immediately returned to the Bank,
telling what he himself had heard and seen. The banker went over to the
hotel, had a consultation with the landlord, and it was determined that
a watch should be placed upon the suspicious person who had two names
and no luggage, and who was booked to Manchester but had stopped at
Birmingham. The landlord summoned boots--a little lame fellow of most
ludicrous appearance--and pointing to the gentleman in the coffee-room,
told him his duty for the day was to follow him wherever he went,
and never to lose sight of him; but above all to take care that he
did not get away. Boots nodded assent, and immediately mounted guard.
Mr. Bradshaw having taken his breakfast and read the papers, looked
at his watch and sallied forth to see something of the goodly town of
Birmingham. He was much surprised at observing a little odd-looking
man surveying him most attentively, and watching his every movement;
stopping whenever he stopped, and evidently taking a deep interest in
all he did. At last, observing that he was the object of this incessant
_espionnage_, and finding that he had a shilling left in his pocket, he
hailed one of the coaches that ran short distances in those days when
omnibuses were not. This, however, did not suit little Boots, who went
up to him and insisted that he must not leave the town. Mr. Bradshaw's
indignation was naturally excessive, and he immediately returned to the
hotel, where he found a constable ready to take him before the mayor
as an impostor and swindler. He was compelled to appear before his
worship and had the mortification of being told that unless he could
give some explanation he must be content with a night's lodging in a
house of detention. Mr. Bradshaw had no alternative but to send to the
fair charmer of his heart to identify him; which she most readily did
as soon as rehearsal was over. Explanations were then entered into; but
he was forced to give the reason of his being in Birmingham, which of
course made a due impression on the lady's heart, and led to that happy
result of their interviews--a marriage which resulted in the enjoyment
of mutual happiness for many years.
True to the Text.
A curious instance of this occurred many years ago, at the termination
of the tragedy of _Richard the Third_. Mr. Elliston was enacting
the part of _Richmond_; and having, during the evening, disobeyed
the injunction which the King of Denmark lays down to the Queen,
"Gertrude, do not drink," he accosted Mr. Powell, who was personating
_Lord Stanley_ (for the safety of whose son _Richmond_ is naturally
anxious), THUS, on his entry, after the issue of the battle:--
Elliston (as _Richmond_). Your son, George Stanley, is he dead?
Powell (as _Lord Stanley_). He is, my Lord, and _safe in Leicester
town_!
Elliston (as _Richmond_). I mean--ah!--is he missing?
Powell (as _Lord Stanley_). He is, my Lord, and _safe in Leicester
town_!!
And it is but justice to the memory of this punctilious veteran, to say
that he would have made the same reply to any question which could, at
that particular moment, have been put to him.
[Illustration]
_MEN OF LETTERS._
[Illustration: Monk Lewis.]
Monk Lewis
"Hail! wonder-working Lewis."
This early lover of rhymes and numbers, and "flashes of merriment
that were wont to set the table on a roar," was, in his boyhood, more
remarkable for his love of theatrical exhibitions than for his love
of learning. He read books on Witchcraft when a child, and published
his marvellous story of the _Monk_ when in his twenty-second year;
it contains his best poetry as well as prose. In the midst of this
celebrity, being one autumn on his way to a fashionable watering-place,
he stayed a night in a country-town and witnessed a performance by a
company of strolling players. Among them was a young actress, whose
benefit was on the _tapis_, and who, hearing of the arrival of a person
so talked of as Monk Lewis, waited upon him at the inn to request
the very trifling favour of an original piece from his pen. The lady
pleaded in terms that urged the spirit of benevolence to advocate her
cause in a heart never closed to such an appeal. Lewis had by him at
that time an unpublished trifle, called _The Hindoo Bride_, in which a
widow was immolated on the funeral pile of her husband. The subject was
one well suited to attract a country audience, and he determined thus
to appropriate the drama. The delighted suppliant departed all joy and
gratitude at being requested to call for the manuscript the next day.
Lewis, however, soon discovered that he had been reckoning without his
host, for, on searching his travelling-desk, which contained many of
his papers, the _Bride_ was nowhere to be found, having, in fact, been
left behind in town. Exceedingly annoyed by this circumstance, which
there was no time to remedy, the dramatist took a pondering stroll in
the rural environs, when a sudden shower compelled him to take refuge
in a huckster's shop, where he overheard, in the adjoining apartment,
two voices in earnest conversation, and in one of them recognized that
of his theatrical petitioner of the morning, apparently replying to
the feeble tones of age and infirmity. "There now, mother, always that
old story--when I've brought such good news, too--after I've had the
face to call on Mr. Monk Lewis, and found him so different to what I
expected; so good-humoured, so affable, and willing to assist me. I
did not say a word about you, mother; for though in some respects it
might have done good, I thought it would seem like a begging affair, so
I merely represented my late ill-success, and he promised to give me an
original drama which he had with him for my benefit. I hope he did not
think me too bold." "I hope not, Jane," replied the feeble voice; "only
don't do these things again without consulting me; for you don't know
the world, and it may be thought----" The sun then just gave a broad
hint that the shower had ceased, and the sympathizing author returned
to his inn, and having penned the following letter, ordered post-horses
and despatched a porter to the young actress with this epistle:--
"Madame,--I am truly sorry to acquaint you that my Hindoo Bride has
behaved most improperly--in fact, whether the lady has eloped or
not, it seems she does not choose to make her appearance either for
_your benefit_ or mine; and to say the truth, I don't at this moment
know where to find her. I take the liberty to jest upon the subject,
because I really do not think you will have any cause to regret her
non-appearance; having had an opportunity of witnessing your very
admirable performance of a far superior character, in a style true to
nature, and which reflects upon you the highest credit. I allude to a
most interesting scene in which you lately sustained the character of
'The Daughter.' Brides of all denominations but too often prove their
empire delusive; but the character _you_ have chosen will improve
upon every representation, both in the estimation of the public
and the satisfaction of your own excellent heart. For the infinite
gratification I have received, I must long consider myself in your
debt. Trusting you will permit the enclosed (fifty pounds) in some
measure to discharge the same, I remain, Madame (with sentiments of
respect and admiration), your sincere well-wisher,"
"M. G. LEWIS."