Only upon one occasion did Cooke deviate from his resolution of not
apologizing to a provincial assembly, and that was at Liverpool. A
previous breach of decorum was visited one night by the fury of an
offended audience; confusion was at its height; the people were the
actors, and Cooke the audience: yet the sturdy tragedian remained
callous to the bursts of indignation which were heard around him, until
destruction became the order of the day; lamps _lighted_ on the stage;
benches betokened _mobility_; _pedal_ applications were made _forté_ to
the _piano_; _basely violated_ was the repository of the _base viol_;
and the property of poor Knight the manager gave every sign of that
being its last appearance. What popular rage had failed to produce,
consideration for the fortunes of his friend effected. At his
entreaties, the Caledonian was induced to advance to the front of the
stage (never was there a more _moving_ scene than that before it);
silence was obtained, and he condescended to express his sorrow for the
state in which some nights previously he had presented himself: adding,
"that _he_ never _before_ felt so keenly the _degradation_ of _his_
situation." Equivocal as was the mode of extenuation, the audience
allied to _Mersey_ accorded the _mercy_ it possessed, and was or
appeared to be, satisfied; but not so the actor, and he as fully as
instantly avenged what he deemed his misplaced submission. As he
concluded his address, he turned to the gratified but yet trembling
manager, and (in allusion to the large share in the slave-trade then
imputed to Liverpool) with that peculiarity of undertone he possessed,
which could be distinctly heard throughout the largest theatre although
pronounced as a whisper, exclaimed, "There's not a stone in the walls of
Liverpool which has not been cemented by the _bluid_ of Africans." Then,
casting one of his Shylock glances of hatred and contempt on the mute
and astounded audience, majestically left the stage.
On the first night of his performance at the Boston theatre, Richard was
the part he had adopted; and so strongly had he fortified himself for
the kingly task, that he deemed himself the very monarch he was destined
to enact. The theatre was crowded in every part: expectation was on
tiptoe: anticipation as to his person, voice, and manner, was announced
by the sibilating "I guess" heard around, and "pretty considerable"
agitation prevailed. The orchestra had begun and ceased, unheeded or
unheard; nor could one of Sir Thomas Lethbridge's best cut and dried
have produced less effect amongst the "irreclaimables." The curtain
rose, and amidst thundering plaudits the welcome stranger advanced, in
angles, to the front of the stage, and, as Sir Pertinax has it, "booed
and booed and booed;" but greeting could not endure for ever: well
justified curiosity assumed its station, and at length silence, almost
breathless silence, reigned around, such as attended Irving in his
Zoar, or Canning when he lately produced his budget. The hospitable
clamour was over; but instead of "Now is the winter of our discontent
made glorious summer by this sun of York" being given, Cooke, in a
respectful but decided tone, requested that "God save the King" might be
played by the orchestra prior to the commencement of the play. The
proposal at first but excited mockery and laughter, which, however, gave
way to far different feelings, on Cooke firmly and composedly declaring,
that, until his request was complied with, he was determined not to
proceed; and, should it be absolutely refused, he was resolved to
retire. The fury of the Bostonians was at its height: menace,
accompanied by every vituperative epithet rage could suggest, was
lavished on the actor; but he kept his station, calm and secure as his
own native island set in the stormy seas, until anger gradually subsided
through very weariness; and every effort having been ineffectually used
to wean "_the tyrant_" from his purpose, the political antipathies of
the audience began to yield to their theatrical taste; and, after much
argument and delay, the unpalatable demand was reluctantly assented to.
Cooke, however, whose nature it was, when opposed, only to become more
exigent, was not himself appeased; for, as the notes "unpleasing to a
_Yankee_ ear" were sounded, with a majestic wave of his hand he silenced
the unwilling music, and, "Standing, if you please," was as
dictatorially as fearlessly pronounced, to the consternation of the
audience. So much had, however, already been accorded, that it was not
deemed matter of much moment to concede the rest: and however
ungracefully the attitude of respect was assumed, the national hymn was
performed amidst grimace and muttering; Cooke beating time with his
foot,--nodding significantly and satisfactorily at "Confound their
politics;" and occasionally taking a pinch of snuff, as, in his royal
robes, he triumphantly contemplated the astonished and indignant
audience. It ended:--"Richard was himself again," and "_Now_ is the
winter of our _discontent_ made glorious summer" was given with equal
emphasis, feeling, and effect.
At the time that _greater_ performer, the elephant, made his appearance
on the boards, his own _board_ became a subject of no trifling
consideration with the managers, particularly as the African had taken a
predilection for _rum_, which the new actor used to quaff with
extraordinary zest. On one occasion Cooke was missing from a morning
rehearsal, and all had been some time in waiting for the tragedian,
when the messenger whom Kerable despatched in search of him, returned
grinning to the green-room. "Where is Mr. Cooke, sir?" demanded Kemble.
"He is below _breakfasting_ with the _elephant_, sir!" was the reply.
It was too much for Cooke, after having so frequently disappointed full
houses, to be obliged to play to an empty theatre. It was like playing
whist with _dummy_. However, towards the close of the O. P. war, (which,
by the way, excited more the attention of the Parisians than the
national contest in which we were engaged,) the public had adopted the
plan of never commencing operations until half-price, to the injury of
the manager's purse. It was during the earlier acts of "The Man of the
World," that Cooke, in performing to "a beggarly account of empty
boxes," was addressed by one of the actors, in accordance with the
scene, in a whisper; when the _elevated_ comedian, casting a glance
around, bitterly observed, "Speak out: there need be no secret. _No one
hears us._" Poor Cooke could not plead in excuse what an actor did on
being hissed for too _sober_ a representation of a _drunken_ part,
"Ladies and gentlemen, I beg your pardon: but it is really the _first
time_ I ever was _intoxicated_."
His death was in singular accordance with his _taste_ through life. He
sought the banks of the _Brandywine_, and whether it were that the
composition of its stream so little responded to its title as to prey
upon his _spirits_, or from some other cause, there he "_drank_ his
last."