CHAPTER VI.

THE IMPECUNIOSITY OF ACTORS.

There is a letter extant, written to Sir Francis Walsingham in 1586, in

which the writer speaks "with pious indignation of overcrowded playhouses

and deserted churches;" and says "it was a wofull sight to see two hundred

proude players jett in their silks where fyve hundred pore people sterve

in the streetes." From this and many similar allusions we glean that

actors were not in the infancy of our English dramatic art the shabby

impecunious class they afterwards became. They were on the whole well to

do, and highly respectable men of college education, who were in most

cases poets as well as players, patronised and encouraged by all classes,

except those who were so bitterly jealous of their extraordinary

influence--the clergy. A special Act of Parliament was passed in the reign

of Queen Elizabeth for their encouragement and protection, and they had

that which many of the well-born and wealthy envied them--the right of

wearing the badges of royal and noble families, ensuring them respect,

hospitality, and protection, wherever they went. The profession of the

player was not then open to all comers, and those who dared to adopt it

without licence from "any baron, or person of high rank, or two justices

of the peace," were "deemed and treated as rogues and vagabonds;" prison

and the whipping-post, or cart-tail, stocks, and the pillory, being but

the milder forms of that treatment promised them in the often quoted,

commonly misrepresented, Act of "good Queen Bess."

Some of the dramatic poets and players, plunging headlong into dissipation

and debauchery, were at length abandoned by their fellows, and sank into

the depths of misery and extreme poverty; but the majority prospered, and

went about in their silks and velvets, with roses in their shoes, and

swords by their sides, no longer the poor scholars they had been in their

college days--the licensed beggars, who, when they came into a town, set

all the dogs barking--but prosperous gentlemen of fair repute, such as

were Shakespeare, and Edward Alleyn, the founder of the Hospital and

College at Dulwich.

But a great change was at hand when the rebellion broke out, and civil war

gave the Puritans dominant power. Their stage-plays and interludes were

abolished, and the players' occupation was gone. Worse still, the very Act

of Parliament which had been created for their protection was turned

against them, and they were classed with the rogues and vagabonds against

whom it had formerly protected them. Then the whipping and imprisonment,

and even selling into slavery, became the poor players' miserable

ill-fortune, and the reign of impecuniosity began in all its rigorous

severity and terror. The London playhouses, which, between the years 1570

and 1629, had grown from one (the Theatre in Shoreditch) to seventeen,

were shut up, and had all their stages, chambers (boxes, we call them),

and galleries pulled down. Small wonder was it, therefore, that the

players, almost to a man, drew their swords for the King, and fought

stoutly under the royal banner. In the 'Historia Histrionica,' printed in

1699, we read the following dialogue:

"Lovewit. 'Prythee, Trueman, what became of these players when the stage

was put down, and the rebellion raised?'

"Trueman. 'Most of 'em, except Lown, Taylor, and Pollard, who were

superannuated, went into the King's army, and, like good men and true,

served their old master, though in a different, yet more honourable,

capacity. Robinson was killed at the taking of a place (I think Basing

House) by Harrison (he that was after hanged at Charing Cross), who

refused him quarter, and shot him in the head after he had laid down his

arms, abusing Scripture at the same time in saying, "Cursed is he that

doeth the work of the Lord negligently." Mohun was a captain (and after

the wars were ended here served in Flanders, where he received pay as a

major); Hart was a lieutenant of horse under Sir Thomas Dathson, in Prince

Rupert's regiment; Burt was cornet in the same troop, and Shatterd,

quarter-master. Allen, of the Cockpit, was a major, and

quarter-master-general at Oxford. I have not heard of one of these players

of note who sided with the other party, but only Swanston, and he

professed himself a Presbyterian, took up the trade of a jeweller, and

lived in Aldermanbury, within the territory of Father Calamy: the rest

either lost, or exposed, their lives for their King. When the wars were

over, and the Royalists wholly subdued, most of 'em who were left alive

gathered to London, and for a subsistence endeavoured to revive their old

trade privately. They made up one company out of all the scattered members

of several; and in the winter before the King's murder, 1648, they

ventured to act some plays, with as much caution and privity as could be,

at the Cockpit (now Drury Lane Theatre). They continued undisturbed for

three or four days; but at last, as they were representing the tragedy of

'The Bloody Brother' (in which Lowin acted Aubrey; Taylor, Rolla; Pollard,

the cook; Burt, Latorch; and, I think, Hart, Otto), a party of

foot-soldiers beset the house, surprised 'em about the middle of the play,

and carried them away in their habits, not permitting them to shift, to

Hatton House, then a prison, where, having detained them some time, they

plundered them of their clothes and let 'em loose again. Afterwards, in

Oliver's time, they used to act privately, three or four miles, or more,

out of town, now here, now there, sometimes in noblemen's houses, in

particular Holland House, at Kensington, where the nobility and gentry who

met--but in no great numbers--used to make up a sum for them--each giving

a broad piece, or the like--and Alexander Goffe (the woman-actor at

Blackfriars) used to be jackall, and give notice of the time and place. At

Christmas and Bartholomew Fair they used to bribe the officer who

commanded at Whitehall, and were thereupon connived at, to act, for a few

days, at the "Red Bull," but were sometimes, notwithstanding, disturbed by

soldiers. Some picked up a little money by publishing the copies of plays

never before printed, but kept up in MS.; for instance, in the year 1652,

Beaumont and Fletcher's 'Wild Goose Chase' was printed in folio, for the

public use of all the ingenious, as the title-page says, and the private

benefit of Jown Lowin and Joseph Taylor, servants to his late Majesty; and

by them dedicated to the honoured few lovers of dramatic poetry: wherein

they modestly intimate their wants, and with sufficient cause; whatever

they were before the wars, they were afterwards reduced to a necessitous

condition.'"

Hard times these for the poor wandering players.

It is curious to note that a reputed natural son of Oliver Cromwell

became an actor. This was Joe Trefusis, nicknamed "Honest Joe," described

as a person of "infinite humour and shrewd conceits." On one occasion,

driven, we presume, by impecuniosity, Joe volunteered as a seaman, and

served under the Duke of York. This was just before the memorable

sea-fight between the duke and the Dutch admiral, Van Tromp, in which Joe

took part, as he confessed, with great fear, which was not, you may be

sure, decreased when one of the sailors, grimly preparing for the strife,

said to him "Now, master play-actor, you're a-going to take part in one of

the deepest and bloodiest tragedies you ever heard of."

Another player of Puritan descent was the famous American actress,

Charlotte Cushman, the name of her ancestor, Robert Cushman, being one

that figures honourably and prominently as a leader amongst the Pilgrim

Fathers. She tells us many anecdotes of the impecuniosity which afflicted

her in the early days of her career. It was decided that she should

abandon singing, and commence acting, and her first essay was to be in--of

all parts--"Lady Macbeth"! She was then a tall, thin, fair-skinned,

country girl, and being unable to procure a suitable costume, Madame

Closel, a short, fat, dark-complexioned French woman, was applied to, and

laughed heartily at the ludicrous idea of her clothes being worn by Miss

Cushman, who says,--

"By dint of piecing out the skirt of one dress it was made to answer for

an under-skirt, and then another dress was taken in in every direction to

do duty as an over-dress, and so make up the costume. And thus I essayed

for the first time the part of Lady Macbeth."

At that time her only place for study was an empty garret in the house in

which she lodged, and her practice was to shut herself up in it alone, and

sitting on the floor commit her "lines" to memory.

Miss Cushman was not the only actress whom impecuniosity and consequent

vocal efforts led to the stage. The famous Kitty Clive, whose maiden name

was Rafter, was originally maid-of-all-work to Miss Knowles, who lodged at

Mrs. Snells, a well-known fan-painter, in Church Row, Hounsditch. The Bell

Tavern immediately opposite this house, was kept by a Drury Lane

box-keeper, named Watson, at which house an actor's beef-steak club was

held. One morning, when Harry Woodward, Dunstall, and other well-known

London actors were in their club-room, they heard a girl singing very

sweetly and prettily in the street outside, and going to the window found

that the cheerful notes emanated from the throat of a charming little

maid-servant, who was scrubbing the street-door step at Mrs. Snell's

house. The actors looked at each other and smiled, as they crowded the

open window to listen, and the final result was, in 1728, the introduction

of the poor singer to the stage. She afterwards married Counsellor Clive,

and being not a little of the shrew, it is said, quarrelled with him so

seriously, that before the honeymoon was fairly out, the "happy pair"

agreed to separate. It must not, however, be supposed that Kitty Clive was

born to a menial position: she was the daughter of an Irish gentleman,

ruined, as so many Irish gentlemen were, by their adherence to the cause

of James II.

Amongst those so ruined was the father of the illustrious actor and

dramatic author, Charles Macklin, who on one occasion, when about to

insure some property, was asked, "How the clerk should designate him?"

"Call me," replied the actor, "Charles Macklin, a vagabond by Act of

Parliament"--the old law of Queen Elizabeth, which the Puritans had

extended to all players, being then unrepealed.

There was doubtless a tinge of bitterness in the joke; for Macklin's early

experience had been a severe and trying one, in the gaunt school of

poverty and hardship.

When in his twenty-sixth year, being ashamed of depending upon his poor

old mother for his living, he left home, and travelling as a steerage

passenger from Dublin to Bristol, arrived in that opulent city when a

third-class company of players were performing there. He took lodgings

over a mean little snuff and tobacco shop, next door but one to the

theatre, and there became acquainted with a couple of the players, a man

and a woman, who introduced him behind the scenes. To this he owed his

introduction to the stage; for the manager detecting signs of histrionic

taste and ambition in the young Irishman, engaged him, despite his

strongly pronounced brogue, to play Richmond in Shakespeare's 'Richard

III.'

James Kirkman, said to have been a natural son of Macklin's, writing of

his _debut_, said, "Considering the strong vernacular accent with which

Mr. Macklin (then MacLaughlin) spoke, the reader would be at a loss to

account for the applause which he met with on his first appearance, if he

was not told that Bristol has always been so much inhabited by the Irish

that their tones in speaking have become familiar there."

The young Irish enthusiast afterwards travelled with this little company,

making himself generally useful, by writing the playbills and distributing

them--printing was too costly for poor strollers in those days--by

carpentery when the stage had to be set up in some barn or inn-yard, by

writing on occasions prologue or epilogue, without which no play was then

considered complete, by composing and singing topical songs,

"complimentary and adulatory to the village in which they happen to play,"

to use his fist, which he did with great skill and strength, when the

vulgar rustic audiences were disturbed by the quarrelsome, or were rude

and coarsely offensive to his professional sisters and brethren. Kirkman

says, "His circle of acting was more enlarged than Garrick's; for in one

night he played Antonia, and Belvidera in 'Venice Preserved,' harlequin in

the interlude, or entertainment, sang three comic songs between the acts,

and between the play and the entertainment indulged the audience with an

Irish jig"; often doing this when his share of the profits (for the

original sharing system of Shakespeare's day then prevailed among

strollers) was not more than four or five pence per night, to which was

usually added a share of the candle-ends, candles being in use for

lighting the stage, affixed round hoops to form chandeliers for the

auditorium, in the making of which Macklin displayed peculiar skill.

There is a good story told by Kirkman of a time when Macklin was with a

company of strollers in Wales. One night they had the misfortune to arrive

in Llangadoc, a little place in Carmarthenshire, so late that neither

shelter, beds, nor food enough for all could be obtained, and Macklin,

who, "from the high rank he held in the company was entitled to the first

choice," resigned his claim in favour of a member of the corps who was too

sick and weak to pass the night in the open air.

Kirkman, telling the story, says: "After supping with 'Lady Hawley,'

Macklin made his bow and retired to the room where the luggage was stored.

Here he undressed himself and adopted the following humorous expedient: He

instantly arrayed himself in the dress of Emilia in the 'Moor of Venice'

(a part he occasionally played), tied up a small bundle in a handkerchief

and slipped out of the house unperceived. In about a quarter of an hour he

returned, apparently much fatigued, and addressing the landlady in the

most piteous terms, recounted a variety of misfortunes that had befallen

'her,' and concluded the speech with a heart-moving request that 'she'

might have shelter for the night, as 'she' was a total stranger in that

part of the country. The supposed young woman was informed by the

unsuspecting landlady that all her beds were full, but that in pity for

her distressed condition some contrivance would be made to let her have

part of a bed. Charles now hugged himself at the success of his scheme,

and, after he had partaken of some refreshment, was, to his great

astonishment, conducted by the servant to the bedroom of the landlady

herself, where he was left alone to undress. In this dilemma he scarcely

knew how to act. To retreat he knew not how without risking discovery.

However, into bed he went, convulsed with silent laughter. He had not been

in bed many minutes before Mrs. 'Boniface,' who was upwards of sixty

years, but completely the character in size and shape, made her

appearance. Charles struggled hard with himself for some moments, but the

comic scene had such an effect on him at last that he could contain

himself no longer, and at the instant the old lady got into bed burst into

a fit of laughter."

Mrs. Boniface, believing "the poor young girl was in a fit," got up as

fast as she could, and roared out so loudly and effectually for help that

everybody in the house was alarmed, and the itinerant actresses coming

into the chamber discovered, to their intense astonishment, who it was

that the landlady had given half of her bed to. The laughter spread, was

taken up on the stairs, and echoed from room to room, until the whole

house rang with it. The anger of the landlady was appeased. This occurred

in 1730 or 1731.

An old friend of mine, who in his time has been actor, artist, journalist,

dramatist, and novelist, and is now a well-known London editor, once told

me the following story of his first connection with the stage.

He was a feeble, consumptive lad of sixteen, when the drunkenness and

cruelty of a worthless step-father drove him penniless from home. All

through one long, wretched, and utterly hopeless day he had been wandering

through the streets of London seeking employment. Naturally shy,

reserved, and timid, his awkward mode of addressing a stranger while

perplexed what account to give of himself, together with the hesitation,

stammering, and blushing which accompanied it, had brought upon him

nothing but scornful treatment, insulting suspicions, and failure after

failure. He found himself at the close of a long, hot day, with burning

feet and aching limbs, hungry, faint, and plunged into the very lowest

depths of despair, on the banks of the New River, where he had often been

before to fish. His desire was to escape observation, and he dragged

himself along, passed fishermen and boys, until, finding their line

stretched out from one to another still far ahead, he sat down in the long

grass completely exhausted, and turning on his face, wept silently.

Now it so happened that a tall, lank, sallow-faced young fisherman, with a

beard of a fortnight's growth, and clothes of a once fashionable cut, but

then threadbare, discoloured, ill-fitting, and very greasy at the cuffs

and collar, particularly noted the tall, thin boy, and presently strolled

up to, and sat down beside him.

"Hallo, guv'nor," said he; "what's up?"

The poor boy had no voice and no heart to reply, so he pretended to be

asleep.

"Wat's yer been a doin' on? Run away from home?"

After a pause, and without moving, the poor lad said,--

"I've got no home now."

"Where do you come from?"

"Not very far."

"Where are you going to?"

"Don't know."

"Have you got any money?"

"None."

"Where's your father and mother?"

"Father's dead."

"And yer mother? Can't she keep yer? Ain't she got no home neither?"

The boy felt that any attempt to reply would betray his violent emotion.

He got up silently and walked away.

The stranger followed, overtook him, and walked beside him.

"You've come from a long way off, young un--ain't yer?"

The runaway nodded, although he was really within about a mile and a half

of his starting-point.

"Yer seems awfully tired. Why I do b'lieve as yer a crying. Wot's the

matter?"

There was an expression of sincere sympathy in the man's face, and my

young friend answered in a low faint voice, broken with sobs,--

"I've no home, and no relatives or friends to go to; and I don't know what

to do."

The man eyed him very curiously before he replied,--

"My lodgin's in Clerkenwell, not so very far from here; the bed 'ull 'old

two. Come home and sleep with me; and we'll take in a couple of black

puddin's, or a faggot, or something nice an' 'ot for supper. Come along."

The stranger was a poor mender of shoes, who lived in a squalid garret, at

the top of an old house, overcrowded with lodgers; a foolish lazy fellow

enough, without a principle of honesty, or a care for respectability or

cleanliness in his entire composition, but withal a kindly one. Necessity

drives sternly. The boy looked at his companion's dirty linen and unwashed

face and neck, and with a glance at the river, a longing, despairing look,

which did not escape the stranger's quick observation, turned and

reluctantly went with him.

When they were in bed he began to tell his mournful story, and fell asleep

at the beginning of it. In the morning the dirty son of St. Crispin

explained that he was a supernumerary at the theatres, as well as a snob,

and that he was engaged for the Princess's Theatre, where Macready was

then playing.

"If you like," said he, "I'll take you to the super-master; he lives close

by in Hatton Garden, all amongst the Italians on the Hill."

He did so, and an engagement followed. This piece of luck filled the

unfortunate lad's heart with delight. The pay was only a shilling a night,

but he could live on it; and it was the first step in a profession of

which he had dreamed as the summit of human ambition and felicity ever

since he first saw a play performed "with real water" on the boards of old

Sadler's Wells. With what tremulous eagerness and delight he went to

rehearsal with his dirty friend and benefactor! With what wonder and

curiosity he inspected the stage-door, the wings and the dressing-room

under the stage, and with what awe he eyed the mighty magician who lorded

it above his fellows with such undemonstratively quiet and yet most

impressive dignity!

The play was Shakespeare's 'King Lear,' and in the combat scene the lists

were formed on the stage by short battle-axes and long spears, the former

being stuck upright in holes arranged for their reception, two of the

latter placed crossways, and one on the top of them horizontally between

each axe. Macready was particularly anxious that this should be done

rapidly, and without hesitation; and the efforts of the supers to carry

out his instructions were simply ludicrous. The men with the battle-axes

couldn't hit upon the holes, and some absolutely went down upon their

knees to feel for them, while the spearmen either were awfully slow and

nervously careful, or they missed the supports and created a clatter and

confusion, which appeared to plunge Macready into a furious state of anger

and disgust. The new super, all eyes and ears, shared the great

tragedian's feelings; he saw at once that the entire effect depended upon

the dash and spirit of the soldier's action in eagerly and readily

extemporising these warlike barriers; and he devised a plan by which his

axe was thrust as it were at once into the earth, with scarcely a downward

glance. He was pointing out how readily this was done, to his neighbours

on either side, and telling them to pass the hint along, when he was

startled by the deep strong voice of the tragedian, who had come up to

him, and said abruptly, "What's your name, my man?"

"My friend did, what I am not going to do (not having his permission), he

told Macready his name, and he, after a grunt, and a quick, keen glance

from under his knitted brows, repeated it aloud, saying,--

"I shall not forget it. It's the name of the first super I ever saw with

brains."

On the night of the first performance some few days after, my friend was

taken out of his ordinary soldier costume, and arrayed more carefully and

picturesquely in a more costly fashion to play the part of a knight in

special attendance upon the king, from whom he had the honour of receiving

a message. Alas! that honour cost him a friend--the jealousy of the

shoemaker broke out in spite and bitterness which accumulated and

intensified to such an extent that at the end of the week he was caught in

the act of hiding in the dark behind one of the beams of wood supporting

the stage, for the purpose of throwing a big stone at the poor fellow with

whom, under the influence of pity, he had shared his food and lodging. It

was impossible to conceive a more cowardly or malignant rascal than this

fellow had become under the influence of envy and jealousy.

The class of theatrical people employed as supernumeraries (commonly

called "supers") form the background figures of stage pictures, soldiers,

sailors, peasants, citizens, mobs, &c., playing the dumb accessory parts;

and they are as a rule neither too respectable nor too intelligent. To

train and teach them is a task which sorely tries the patience of the

super-master, and their lazy, poverty-stricken, and generally not too

cleanly aspect is provocative of contempt and dislike amongst the actors.

Their pay is not extravagant, being usually a shilling a night, but their

histrionic pride is great, and their reverence for the actors profound,

while for one to stand a little closer to the footlights than his fellows

do, and consequently nearer the audience, or to be selected to go on alone

to deliver a letter or receive a message, is the very summit of his

ambition; a dangerous elevation, too, for from the time that he is so

gloriously distinguished he is regarded with envy, spite, and malice, by

his fellows, who try their best to oust him and take his place. This, my

friend, above mentioned, soon experienced, for his life became a

succession of bitter annoyances and coarse insults, varied when necessity

compelled with an occasional fight, in which, despite his feeble health he

generally contrived to give a fair account of his adversary, inheriting

some of his father's skill as a boxer, and having been a constant student

of that art when at school. At the termination of the Macready

performances he was engaged at one of the old tavern theatres of those

days, now known as the Britannia Theatre, then as the Britannia Saloon,

where the stage-manager, a gentle and kindly old man (Mr. Wilton) was

particularly good to him, and at last, after hearing him read a

Shakespearian speech, entrusted him with small parts, contrary to the

conviction of Mrs. Lane, the clever wife of the then proprietor, in whose

place she now reigns. She, finding that the boy blushed and stammered when

she spoke to him, pronounced him unfit for the experiment.

"He has an impediment in his speech," said she.

Some years after, my friend having in the meantime abandoned the stage for

art (of which he was for years an ardent, indefatigable student), under

the pressure of severe impecuniosity, became a country scene-painter and

afterwards an actor, playing in the course of his theatrical career a wide

range of second and third-rate parts, sometimes doubling as many as three

or four in a single piece, and often both playing and painting scenery.

Once, while Miss Mary Glover was manageress of the Cheltenham and Bath

theatres, in consequence of the non-arrival of about half the expected

company, he doubled tremendously, playing four characters in the burlesque

and two in the farce, with the most rapid changes of "make up" and

costume, one being a comic nigger with songs. Miss Glover had taken the

theatre under the pressure of impecuniosity, trusting to the chance of

success for the payment of her company. At the end of the first week she

paid half salaries, at the end of the second and third weeks no salaries,

or, in the parlance of the initiated, "the ghost did not walk," and great

doubtless was the trouble and suffering consequently endured. My friend

was reduced to bread and butter for meals, and found even those materials

none too plentiful, when one evening he was summoned into the

dressing-room of Miss Glover. The lady was in tears, but they were tears

of indignant rage.

"Sir!" said she, "I was never so insulted in all my life!"

"What's wrong, madam? Who has insulted you?"

"Who has insulted me, sir! Why you have!" cried she, with a look of

astonishment.

"I, madam! How?" he exclaimed with a similar expression.

"Look at your gloves, sir!"

"Well, madam, they are clean, I washed them myself."

"But, sir! Berlin gloves! It's monstrous! I was never so treated before in

all my life! Paltry cotton. You ought to be ashamed of yourself--a leading

character too. I never played with a gentleman before in your part who did

not wear new white kids!"

"I laughed," said my friend. "It was rude, I know, but for the life of me

I couldn't help it. Here was my employer living in comparative luxury at

first-class lodgings in a fashionable town, abusing a poor devil whom she

had cheated and half-starved, because, in a back-street garret with

scarcely a penny in his pocket, he did not wear nightly, as he otherwise

would have done, a new pair of white kid gloves!"

The late Miss Oliver, who stood by at the time, called the fellow who

dared to laugh at a manageress in such dire distress, "a brute."

On another occasion Mr. Huntley May Macarthy, a once well-known and very

eccentric provincial manager, abruptly closed the theatre at Bury St.

Edmunds, after keeping it open a week or ten days, leaving the unfortunate

company to escape from the dilemma of debt and difficulty into which so

many of them were deeply plunged. Some had drawn a fortnight's salary in

advance, to pay their travelling expenses to Bury St. Edmunds, and they

had all been gathered from far and near by the London agent. In that case

my friend the editor found his ark of safety in falling back upon his old

profession. He painted the portrait of a local celebrity, which, being

exhibited in the town, soon brought him sitters enough to enable him to

help himself and spare something for one or two of his less happily

situated brothers and sisters in misfortune. I remember my friend remarked

as curious on each of these occasions the quietude with which the

histrionics submitted to be so unfairly treated. Neither in the case of

Miss Glover nor that of Mr. Macarthy were there any attacks made upon them

to the face, heartily as they were cursed and abused behind their backs.

In explanation of this I may recall what Mrs. Mathews said of her husband,

the elder Mathews, when he suffered under the same infliction, which in

the old days of "circuits" and "strolling companies" was a very common one

and is still by no means unknown. She said,--

"I have heard Mr. Mathews say that he has gone to the theatre at night

without having tasted anything since a meagre breakfast, determined to

refuse to go on the stage unless some portion of his arrears was first

paid. When, however, he entered the green-room his spirits were so cheered

by the attention of his brethren, and the _eclat_ of his reception that

his fainting resolution was restored, all his discontent utterly banished

for the time, and he was again reconciled to starvation: nay, he even felt

afraid of offending the unfeeling manager, and returned home silent upon

the subject of his claims."

No actor was ever better acquainted with poverty than that extraordinary

man Edmund Kean. Endowed with rare genius, and a potency of will, that

impelled him to surmount any obstacle lying in the pathway leading towards

fame, this player's fate was yet infelicitous. Maternal solicitude, moral

training, and those circumstantial influences which induce regular habits,

were alike denied him. All the regularities, vicissitudes, vexations,

disappointments, sorrows, trials and romance common to the lives of

strolling players, characterized the early career of Edmund Kean. Through

his mother he was related to George Saville, Marquis of Halifax. That

mother was Ann Carey, grand-daughter of Henry Carey, the reputed author of

our National Anthem. The father of Edmund Kean was Aaron Kean, generally

described as an architect, but described by some as a stage carpenter, and

by others as a tailor. In a melancholy and miserable chamber of a house,

situated at no great distance from Holborn, Edmund Kean first saw the

light, on November 4th, 1787. It is stated by Miss Tidswell, the actress,

that "about half-past three in the morning Aaron Kean, the father, came to

me, and said, 'Nance Carey is with child, and begs you to go to her at her

lodgings in Chancery Lane.' Accordingly my aunt and I went with him and

found Nance Carey near her time. We asked her if she had proper

necessaries, and she replied, 'No--nothing'; whereupon Mrs. Byrne begged

the loan of some baby-clothes, and Nance Carey was removed to the chambers

in Gray's Inn, which her father then occupied, and it was there that the

future tragedian was born." Ann Carey had been under the protection of

Aaron Kean, and he afterwards abandoned her. She came of an unfortunate

stock, for Henry Carey, as I have stated, notwithstanding his talents was

always in difficulties, which only forsook him when he committed

self-destruction; and his son, George Saville Carey--printer, mimic,

scientific lecturer, and occasional poetaster and dramatist--would have

been without a decent burial, but for the charity of a few friends. His

daughter when only fifteen years old, quitted her home and became a

strolling actress; but when out of an engagement she would return to

London, and pick up a scanty home in its streets as a hawker. It was in

such occupation that Aaron Kean first saw the woman.

In addition to her irregular habits, Edmund Kean's mother was selfish,

calculating, and cruel. It was not long after his birth that the child,

with his strangely beautiful dark eyes and winning ways, was actually

abandoned by his unnatural parent. Ann Carey quitted the metropolis to

join a wandering troupe of Thespians, and when she next saw her child, he

was three years old, and living under the protection of a poor man and

his wife, in Soho. It is said that these worthy people had found little

Edmund hungry and forlorn, and left in a doorway, one winter's night.

Of the boy's history, after the mother had abandoned him to the period

when he found succour from the kind couple in Soho, nothing is known. Ann

Carey demanded her child, and quickly turned her offspring to profit;

getting him engaged to appear as a reposing Cupid in one of the Opera

House ballets, and subsequently to appear in a Drury Lane pantomime--the

boy was little more than three years old. When in 1794 at Drury Lane, John

Kemble produced 'Macbeth' with exceedingly novel stage business, Edmund

Kean was one of the goblin troupe, introduced for the purpose of giving

additional impressiveness to the incantation scene. It was not long

afterwards that he played the part of a page in the 'Merry Wives of

Windsor.' His education was of the slightest, and intermittent; he was a

pupil at a small school in Orange Court, Leicester Square, and at another

place of instruction in Chapel Street, Soho; and the expenses for such

education were defrayed by a few generously disposed people, who were

impressed by the boy's beauty and intelligence. Ann Carey, almost

destitute, went away from Castle Street, Leicester Fields, and, with her

boy found a lodging in Ewer Street, Southwark. Young Edmund, restive and

adventurous, determined to run away from home, and with a few necessaries

tied up in a bundle slung on a stick, made his way to Portsmouth, and

engaged himself in the capacity of cabin boy for a ship bound to Madeira.

Not sufficiently robust to do some of the work incidental to his duties,

he resolved to be again free; which he accomplished by feigning deafness.

Discharged at the end of the return voyage, he walked from Portsmouth to

London, and hungry, footsore and heart-weary, made his way to the old

lodging in Southwark. He found that his mother had left her shabby

tenement for a place in Richardson's show troupe, then perambulating the

country.

He bethought him that he might find a shelter under the roof of his uncle,

Moses Kean, who lived in Lisle Street, Leicester Square. This uncle, who

was a mimic, ventriloquist, and general entertainer, received young Edmund

Kean kindly, gave him a home, and became his preceptor in many of the

mysteries belonging to the histrionic art. Miss Tidswell, the

acquaintance of his mother, and an actress of respectable position at

Drury Lane, also showed great interest in the welfare of the boy. He made

progress in the arts of dancing, singing, declamation, and fencing, and

even in those days he became familiar with the creations of Shakespeare.

Through the influence of Miss Tidswell, he obtained an engagement for some

parts at Drury Lane, Prince Arthur in 'King John' being one. The boy

excited notice, as the following anecdote related by Mrs. Charles Kemble

shows.

"One morning before the rehearsal commenced, I was crossing the stage,

when my attention was attracted by the sounds of loud applause issuing

from the direction of the green-room. I enquired the cause, and was told

that it was only little Kean reciting 'Richard III.' My informant said

that he was very clever. I went into the green-room and saw the little

fellow facing an admiring group, and reciting lustily."

On the death of Moses Kean, his nephew's only real friend was Miss

Tidswell. Under her he studied Shakespearian characters, and while

residing with her joined the company of Saunders, Bartholomew Fair. There

he gave imitations of the nightingale and monkey, of the form and movement

of the snake; and at Bartholomew Fair he acted the part of Tom Thumb. Soon

afterwards, hearing that his mother was acting at Portsmouth, he set out

from London for the seaport named; but on reaching it discovered that the

information given him concerning Anna Carey was incorrect. His situation

was trying, for he was destitute and friendless. Young Kean, however, had

a bold heart, and a brain full of resources. He hired, on credit, a room

in one of the Portsmouth taverns, and announced an entertainment

consisting of "Selections from 'Hamlet,' 'Richard III.,' and 'Jane Shore,'

with a series of acrobatic performances, and some exquisite singing, and

all by Master Carey, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane." The entertainment

was sufficiently successful for it to be repeated, and having paid all

expenses, the entertainer found himself three pounds in pocket. Edmund

Kean at this time was fourteen years old.

Reciting Rolla's "address to the Peruvians" one evening before an audience

at Sadler's Wells, a country manager, then present, was so much impressed

by the declamation of the lad, that young Kean received an offer to play

leading characters for twenty nights at the York Theatre. The offer was

accepted, he was highly successful, and for many years from the time of

that York engagement, the future tragedian of Drury Lane underwent the

vicissitudes peculiar to the life of the old-fashioned stroller. It was

not long ere he encountered the famous showman, Richardson, who speedily

made terms with the precocious and versatile youth. It turned out that

Anne Carey was in the company. She proposed that her son should join with

her in her labours, and that she should receive his earnings. But they did

not long labour together, and parted, not to meet again till Kean made his

great success in 1814 at Drury Lane. While with a manager named Butler, at

Northampton, Kean played walking gentlemen, Harlequin, and sang comic

songs for a salary of fifteen shillings a week. While attached to Butler's

company, he enacted the character of Octavian, in the 'Mountaineers' with

such ability, that a gentleman connected with the Haymarket, who saw the

performance, undertook to procure the young tragedian an engagement,

provided that he could reach London to appear at a specified time. Kean,

being without money, could only have travelled on foot, and the journey to

London by such means would have taken up so much time, that he

despairingly saw that the engagement must remain unfulfilled. Butler, with

the greatest good nature, said "that he would defray the expenses of a

stage-coach journey." Kean, overcome with emotion, exclaimed, "If ever

fortune smiles upon my efforts, I will not forget you."

The Haymarket engagement proved humiliating, the young actor being cast

for very insignificant parts. However, in one character, Ganem, in the

'Mountaineers,' by the admirable manner in which he spoke certain words,

he drew forth such unmistakable applause, that he availed himself of a

recommendation addressed to John Kemble. In an interview with that

celebrity, Kean found the eminent tragedian so chilling and unsympathetic

in manner, that the poor fellow hurried from the theatre stung to the

quick by his inauspicious reception. He again visited the provinces, and

again experienced many privations, disappointments, humiliations, and

rebuffs. Fate appeared to frown upon him; but it must be remembered that

Kean was young, exceedingly small of stature, unconventional in his style

of acting, and thoroughly original in every assumption that he undertook.

Moreover, his temper was violent, haughty, and sensitive.

It was during those days, when Edmund Kean, as a strolling player, was

learning his art, and was making acquaintance with poverty in its most

bitter forms, that he acquired those habits of intemperance which

afterwards effected his ruin. After the engagement at the Haymarket, he

acted at Tunbridge Wells, Portsmouth, Haddesden, Birmingham, and

Edinburgh. More than once in these journeyings he exhibited at fairs and

public houses; and for a short time he earned a scanty income in the

capacity of usher at a school in Hertfordshire. In 1807 at Belfast, he

played with Mrs. Siddons; and as Jaffier in 'Venice Preserved' made a

strong impression. But the tragedienne's opinion of him was not

flattering; for on first seeing him, she remarked, "he was a horrid little

man," and criticising his enaction in Otway's pathetic drama said, "He

plays the part very, very well, but there is too little of him wherewith

to make a great actor." Notwithstanding taunts, impecuniosity,

heart-burnings, and neglect, the young aspirant studied laboriously, and

allowed no opportunity to slip by which he might gain increased knowledge

of stage art, and of human nature; but during his hard apprenticeship, he

was forced to have recourse to many shifts, and to endure much suffering.

After playing an engagement in Kent, he accepted another for a single

night at Braintree, in Essex.

On the day that the performance was to take place at Braintree, the actor

stood, without a farthing in his pocket, on the Kent bank of the Thames.

Bound to fulfil his engagement, it was necessary for him to cross the

river; and his impecunious condition precluded all possibility of hiring a

boat. The strong-willed stroller was not to be daunted. He threw off his

clothes, tied them into a bundle, which he held in his teeth, plunged into

the river, and speedily reached the shore. With his clothes saturated with

water, half-famished, and tired in every limb, he yet went on for "Rolla,"

before the Braintree audience. While performing he fainted, and an illness

of fever and ague was the consequence of his swimming expedition. On

recovering he tramped all the way to Swansea, and played in that town. He

was then in his twentieth year. Proceeding to Gloucester, he became a

member of Beverley's company, and was advertised to play Young Rapid. The

usual means had been taken to attract an audience, but at the time for

the rising of the curtain there were only two persons in the auditorium;

so the eighteenpence taken at the doors were returned to the couple of

playgoers, and the theatre lights extinguished. A few nights Kean

performed with a lady who had left the scholastic profession for that of

the stage, and this lady, Miss Chambers, afterwards became Mrs. Kean. When

at Stroud, Master Betty was announced to perform Hamlet and Norval; Kean

found himself cast for Laertes and Glenalvon. The actor could not brook

what he deemed an indignity,--that of playing secondary characters to a

mere boy; and for three days and three nights, he was away from the

theatre, every individual connected with it being ignorant of his

whereabouts. On reappearing he said, "I have been in the fields, in the

woods, I am starved; I have eaten nothing but turnips and cabbages since

I've been out; but I'll go again, and as often as I see myself put in such

characters. I won't play second to any man living, except to John Kemble."

In the summer of 1808, Kean married Mary Chambers, the wife being nine

years older than the husband. Soon after the marriage, Beverley told them

that he intended dispensing with their services, and they soon had to

drain the cup of poverty to its dregs. To the honour of the woman he had

taken to his heart, she cheered and soothed him in his tremendous

struggle. He suffered not only the pangs of poverty, but too often the

stings of hostile criticisms from provincial scribes, utterly unable to

appreciate his passionate and original renderings of dramatic

characterization. At Birmingham he thought himself and his wife well paid,

when during an engagement they each received a pound for their weekly

services. So ably did he act that Stephen Kemble made proposals to

negotiate a London engagement; but Kean deemed that further experience was

necessary before he should attempt a metropolitan appearance in leading

characters. Terrible toil and terrible suffering had to be undergone ere

he was to reach the pinnacle of success.

Closing his performances at Birmingham, he made terms with Andrew Cherry

to appear at Swansea. So indigent was the actor, that he was necessitated

to undertake the journey on foot, a journey of 200 miles; and his wife,

who accompanied him, was likely soon to become a mother. Mr. and Mrs. Kean

owed money in Birmingham, or possibly the wife might have remained in the

town; and from it--early one summer morning--they departed on their long

and wearisome way, adding to their miserable store of money some additions

as they proceeded, by giving recitations at the residences of the gentry.

In a fortnight they reached Bristol, were ferried over to Newport, and at

last reached Swansea, where they obtained lodgings. Kean's acting was not

warmly received; and referring to one of his impersonations in the town,

he remarked, "I played the part finely, and yet they would not applaud

me!" The actor grew moody, splenetic, and gave way to insobriety. A son

born to him at this period he named Howard; and it was soon after the

birth of the child that the Keans left Swansea, with Cherry, for other

towns in the principality, and subsequently they crossed over to Ireland.

At Waterford, Kean played tragedy, and in addition for his benefit, gave

an exhibition of pugilism, tight-rope dancing, singing, and wound up by

playing the Chimpanzee in the piece called 'La Perouse.' It was at

Waterford that Edmund Kean's second son, Charles, was born. Beaching

Scotland, so exhausted were the funds of the actor, that at Dumfries he

got up an entertainment at a tavern, and the only patron was a shoe-maker,

who paid sixpence for admission. At Carlisle Kean appealed to the

barristers on Assize, asking for their presence, when he would deliver a

series of recitations, his reward to be at their discretion; but the

appeal was made in vain. In the autumn of 1811, the family in the most

miserable condition arrived in York, and from the ball-room, Minster Yard,

Kean issued a circular announcing, "for one night only," an entertainment

comprising recitals, dramatic selections, imitations of actors, and

singing by himself, assisted by his wife; but the scheme ended with

anything but a prosperous result. Under their struggles, husband and wife

broke into a wail of grief, as they contemplated their innocent and

unfortunate babes. The mother on her knees, supplicated for spiritual

influence to annihilate their sufferings by death, but the fiery-willed

player still kept courage, "I will go on, I will hope against hope!!" They

got to London, where, at Sadler's Wells, Kean had a short engagement at

two pounds a week, and then he had engagements at Weymouth and Exeter; in

which latter place he played for a salary of one pound a week. Through the

influence of an old friend, Dr. Drury, Kean at length obtained an

engagement at Drury Lane. But ere his triumph on the London boards was

effected, the child, Howard, died, an event to which the actor never

alluded without feelings of grief. While Kean was concluding his Exeter

performances, his wife and child were desolate in the garret of a house in

Cecil Street, Strand; and they would have starved, but that the liberality

of Dr. Drury succoured them. Even on the eve of his Drury Lane success,

Kean underwent many trials and sufferings. Save Dr. Drury he was without a

friend. On his _debut_, that memorable evening at Drury Lane, 26th

January, 1814, the directors of the establishment denied him everything

calculated to awaken hope and courage. Kean went to the dressing-room, and

from the dressing-room to the stage, conscious that he had been treated

with superciliousness, apathy, and injustice. Under such treatment, and

with all his previous trials, it was only a perfect knowledge of his own

transcendent powers, that carried him through the ordeal. The effect of

his triumph in Shylock, may best be described in the words of his late

biographer. "In an almost phrenzied ecstasy he rushed through the wet to

his humble lodging, sprang up the stairs, and threw open the door. His

wife ran to meet him; no words were required, his radiant countenance told

all--and they mingled together the first tears of true happiness they had

as yet experienced. He told her of his proud achievement, and in a burst

of exultation exclaimed, 'Mary, you shall ride in your carriage, and,

Charley my boy,' taking the child from the cradle and kissing him, 'you

shall go to Eton, and'--a sad reminiscence crossed his mind, his joy was

overshadowed, and he murmured in broken accents, 'Oh that Howard had lived

to see it! But he is better where he is.'" Pity that so fine a nature as

Edmund Kean's, with his genius, and generous sympathies, should have

struck on the rock of self-indulgence. But in any estimate of his moral

shortcomings, the evil influence around his early life, and the effect of

his early privation, should be steadfastly, and charitably, borne in mind.

When we remember the conditions under which the actor pursues his calling,

it is scarcely surprising that the term "poor players," should have become

proverbial. The victims of a social ban, originating in the bigotry of

church and conventicle; following a profession, perhaps of all professions

the most scouted by smooth, smug respectability, and certainly of all

professions the most liable to fluctuations of success from the caprices,

whims and "breeches-pocket" condition of its patrons; it seems but

natural that the history of the stage should yield numerous illustrations

of man impecunious.

Then, too, it must be borne in mind, that the greater number of men and

women who have recruited the ranks of the histrionics have been people of

romantic and "happy-go-lucky" temperament; light-hearted, generous to a

fault, unworldly in the money-making sense, and frequently of the most

irregular and unbusiness-like habits. Such characteristics had Theophilus

Cibber, Shuter, George Frederick Cooke, Edmund Kean, Ward, and John Reeve;

and though the precarious nature of the profession, the necessarily

unsettled habits of its followers, and the unreality of the life, may be

conducive in a degree to impecuniosity, it seems to me--and I have

strutted several fretful hours--the only real cause of players being

poorer than other people is due to extravagance and irregularity. Frugal,

steady, trustworthy habits invariably increase a man's well-being, in any

calling; and the theatrical profession is no exception to the rule.

Richardson, the showman, was born in a workhouse, and was in his early

years a mere little social arab, cast upon the world without friends or

education; and he began his social career by exhibiting a little child

with spotted skin, calling him the "spotted boy." The first venture was

profitable, and the showman went on making money, and saved it. He then

set up a show theatre, succeeded so well that year after year he had to

enlarge it, and at last it became the largest in the kingdom. Richardson

likewise established a character for honesty, and all that is summed up in

the words "manly conduct."

John Quick--George the Third's favourite comedian--had, too, in his time

been poor enough. He was the son of a Whitechapel brewer, and when only

fourteen years old ran away from home, with the idea of taking to the

stage for a profession. Without any money in his pocket he started on his

romantic journey, and managed to find a booth company at Fulham, where he

was allowed to enact Altamont in the 'Fair Penitent.'

Having played to the satisfaction of the manager, that worthy commanded

his wife to set the _debutant_ down for a whole share of the night's

receipts, which at the close of the last piece amounted to three

shillings. Quick rose in his profession, and by forethought and prudence

amassed a fortune of L10,000.

Braham's boyhood was surrounded with hardships and privations. Early left

an orphan, he was obliged to walk the streets of London as a vendor of

pencils. In that situation he was befriended by Leoni, a vocalist at the

synagogue in Duke's Place, Covent Garden, who trained the lad's voice, so

remarkable for its peculiar sweetness of tone and expression. For Leoni's

benefit, in 1787, at the Royalty Theatre, Wellclose Square, young Braham

made his _debut_. His genius, of its kind, was unsurpassable; but it was

the prudence added to it which laid the foundation of his fortune, which

would have remained in the possessor's hands but that the vocalist entered

unwittingly on theatrical management.

Even in the more humble departments of theatrical life may be found

thrifty examples of people, who, versed in the somewhat difficult part of

making both ends meet, at length found themselves in a reputable and

flourishing position. Such an instance is that of Bennett, a theatrical

manager once well known in the Midlands. Bennett possessed a gift for

doing things himself--his only assistant being an old lady, one Mrs.

Gamage. He began his career with a puppet-show, was thrifty on its poor

proceeds, and eventually became proprietor of a theatre. Bennett was

successful as an actor at Worcester, Coventry, Shrewsbury, and towns

adjacent. His travelling-cases, boxes, and chests, had their surfaces

touched up by the scenic artist, and in the theatre did duty for castle

walls, palace terraces, and palatial furniture; his helmets, and other

stage properties, were of canvas, easy to fold up for packing, and many of

his properties combined several utilities. He would arrange with his

friends to take money at the doors, and Mrs. Gamage combined the offices

of candle-snuffer and constable, and during the day she cooked and cleaned

up at home. Bennett has been known to seek out musical young men in a

town, and allow them the privilege of singing on his stage; or, if they

were at all proficient on an instrument, allow them to play in his

orchestra. He dressed as a fine gentleman by day, and like a mechanic in

the evening. He died prosperous, and, above all, a churchwarden.

Old Philip Astley, Davidge, John Douglas, and Samuel Phelps, all poor men

at the outset of life, entered on theatrical management, carried it on

with care, tact and probity, and all of them died reputable, and in

comfort. Garrick, the Kembles, Charles Mayne Young, Munden, Richard

Jones, William Farren, Liston, Macready, and a host of other gifted

actors, died rich, having lived amidst the respect of the highest social

circles; but it will be found in each particular case, that they were men

of high character, and prudent habits.

In some other instances the impecuniosity of actors has resulted from

short-sightedness to their own interests, imprudence, and utter

incompetence in business matters, but unfortunately extravagance, and

other irregular habits of life, have been the frequent cause of poverty.

Nicholson, once lessee of the Newcastle Theatre, by want of business

habits gradually became a poor man, so poor that he became money-taker at

Drury Lane, and subsequently died in the workhouse of the town where he

had been theatrical manager; and Faucit-Saville, formerly lessee and

manager at Gravesend, Margate, Deal and other theatres, died while engaged

as money-taker at the City of London Theatre.

Some who saw 'Manfred,' when revived at Drury Lane by Mr. Chatterton, with

Phelps as the hero of Byron's sombre, but impressive, dramatic poem, may

possibly, when leaving the house between the acts, have noticed one of the

checktakers, an old gentleman of stagy deportment, enveloped in an old,

faded cloak. That individual was no other than the once famous tragedian,

Mr. Denvil, who was the original Manfred when Bunn produced the tragedy at

Covent Garden, long ere Mr. Phelps made his _debut_ at the Haymarket. In

the character of Manfred, Denvil made an intense and abiding impression,

became lessee of theatres in town and country, but from want of _nous_,

and from want of prudence, dwindled in the social scale, and sank to the

menial capacity in which he was to be seen at Drury Lane.

Another specimen of an unsuccessful manager was Huntley May, who had been

lessee of nearly all the small provincial theatres in the kingdom. This

man had but a very imperfect sense of honour, part of his business being

to issue as large bills as he could possibly get printed, announcing the

most splendid dramatic productions, which, when the evening arrived, were

never presented. Often his audience grew riotous and pugnacious. One

night, an assemblage threatened to pull up his benches; but Mr. May, not

unaccustomed to such scenes, appeared before the footlights and

exclaimed,--

"What's up now, boys?"

"Money, money. It's a swindle!"

"Hark at 'em now. Murder and Moses! there's broths of boys for yer.

Money's just what I want myself. Think of your Cathedral ground; who lies

in it? My sainted wife, Norah; poor soul! she loved Exeter so that she

would come here to be buried among ye. We all love ye! myself and little

Pat. Aisy now, I'll give you a thrate. To-morrow night's my benefit, make

me a thumping house; Norah won't forget you in heaven. Behave like

gentlemen, come early to-morrow night. Good luck to ye!" which audacious

address seems by all accounts to have satisfied his easily satisfied

audience.

But even when the old country managers, and there were many, got their

living honestly, and by fair means, the profession frequently had the

hardest of lots. The strolling players were a merry-headed and easily

contented race; but it would be difficult to name any class of people that

have known greater oppression. Regarded by a large section of English

people as rogues and vagabonds, they were often at the mercy of common

informers and petty-minded magistrates.

A circumstance in the career of Moss, a clever actor, and respectable

manager, well illustrates such petty persecution. He opened the Whitehaven

Theatre for a night or two with some success, but in less than a week the

manager and his troupe were put in "durance vile." Arrested on a Saturday

night, they had to remain in the "lock-up" throughout Sunday. On Monday

morning they were taken up before the magistrates, and arraigned upon a

somewhat extraordinary charge. An inhabitant of Whitehaven, a person to

whom credit was given by his acquaintances for sanity and truthfulness,

appeared in open court to denounce the strollers, not only as a curse to

society generally, but to his town in particular. It was declared by this

individual that "before the theatre opened there was an immense haul of

herrings; but since the players had entered the place, the fish had all

fled, and that in consequence the fishermen were suffering. Misfortune

always followed the wake of actors; wherever they appeared, they carried a

curse." In spite of reference to sundry tomes of jurisprudence, and

notwithstanding consultation with the town-clerk, the magistrates could

not pronounce a verdict. However they prohibited the reopening of the

theatre, and the sons of the "wicked one" had to pack about their

business in the best way they could.

Edward Stirling applying to a local magistrate at Romford in Essex, for

permission to perform for a few nights in the Town Hall, received but

sorry treatment from the bigoted official.

"What, sir! Bring your beggarly actors into this town to demoralize the

people? No, sir. I'll have no such profligacy in Romford; poor people

shall not be wheedled out of their money by your tomfooleries. The first

player that comes here I'll clap in the stocks as a rogue and a vagabond.

Good morning, sir."

Even in fair seasons the pay of the strollers was wretched in the extreme.

In 1826, Mrs. John Noel, desirous of getting her two daughters into

practical training for the stage, applied to a wandering manager--Black

Beverley--as to whether he could find room for the young ladies in his

company. Mrs. Noel was informed that his troupe was about visiting

Highgate, and that her daughters could join, on condition that they would

put up with the sharing system, and find their own costumes. The

engagement was accepted, the elder of the two girls (afterwards Mrs.

George Hodson) being cast for Juliana, and the younger (afterwards Mrs.

Henry Marston) for Volante in Tobin's comedy of 'The Honeymoon.' Black

Beverley was to be the Duke Aranza, and the performance was to take place

at the White Lion Tavern. The young ladies _debuted_, and their

remuneration was one shilling and sixpence each. The men and women were

homely, respectable people, and the leading actors eagerly accepted Mrs.

John Noel's invitation to a substantial supper she had packed in a hamper,

and of which the poor players gratefully partook, eating as if they had

been without food for days.

A well-known actor remembers playing the Stranger, Philip, in 'Luke the

Labourer,' and a farce character at a small theatre in Chelsea, and

receiving twopence for his services, and then having to walk to the Mile

End Road!

Phelps, when attached to Huggins' company, has tramped with his bag on his

shoulders, more than once a distance of five-and-twenty miles, being

without coach-money; and his wife and child at Preston had, in the early

time of Phelps' career, for nearly a week to subsist on a rather small

meat-pie. It was a terrible thing some fifty years ago, for some

stage-stricken swain, or maiden, to depart hundreds of miles, perchance so

far as Scotland, and find themselves in some poorly-paid company. Twenty

shillings a week would be considered a fair salary. There would be scores

of miles to travel, certain dresses to find, and upon the residue of the

scant income the player had to live. When things failed it was sometimes

literally tragic; for the tyros had little chance of escape, railways and

cheap steamers being unknown.

What a _bizarre_ picture is that drawn by Edmund Stirling of Ben

Smithson's Agency for Actors, at the "White Hart" in Drury Lane!

"Kind-hearted considerate Ben," writes his remembrancer, "a real

Samaritan, ever ready with food and kindly words to cheer and encourage

the poor stroller. Ben, strongly impregnated with the 'Mysteries of

Udolpho' school, was wont to use grandiloquent words for every day

purposes. His hostel became a 'castle'; back parlours, smelling strongly

of 'baccy,' tapestry chambers; dilapidated staircases, lumber closets, and

dark landings, 'galleries, crow's-nests, and eagle towers;' his

beer-cellars were known as 'dungeon keeps;' 'Barclay's entire' at

fourpence per pot became 'nectar,' like Mr. Dick Swiveller's 'rosy wine;'

and his two serving-men, plain Bob and Dick, were transformed into

'Robarto' and 'Ricardo.' Every poor player that arrived, footsore and

hungered, was styled according to his robe, Kemble, Kean, Munden, or

Siddons; Smithson knowing full well how pleasantly a little flattery would

tickle the palate. There was always a bed, supper, and breakfast, money or

not, in that Mecca for wanderers. Such liberality brought failure in its

train, and the 'White Hart's' doors speedily closed on Ben and his 'good

intentions.'"

Not less amusing, too, is Mr. Stirling's description of the Brothers

Strickland and their lesseeship of the Oddfellows' lodge-room, at the

Chiswick "Red Cow," where they announced "A London company for two nights,

with 'Pizarro,' as played at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane; elaborate

scenery and heart-rending effects. Pit, one shilling; boxes, two; and

standing room, sixpence. Seats booked at the 'Red Cow' daily from 10 till

4. Schools and children half-price."

Stirling tried to get employment under the Stricklands, and having wended

his way to the tavern, was shown into the kitchen, and there found the

company dressed for the evening's performance of 'Pizarro.' At a table,

superintending the tea, Elvira sat in faded black robes, wielding a

tea-pot, and ever and anon scowling at her base destroyer, Pizarro. He sat

aloof, encased in rusty tin armour, a ferocious wig and locks to match, in

his hand a long pipe, and by his side an empty glass. Cora, the lovely

Peruvian maid, employed her soft hands in toasting muffins, assisted by

her husband, the Spanish Alonzo. Such was the heat of the climate,

combined with the effects of something short, that Peruvians and Spaniards

sat socially together, doing their pipes and beer. Strickland engaged

Stirling to play Richmond on the following Monday, but he wasn't to have

anything for it.

Perhaps there is no more pertinent illustration of a chequered career--a

career with indigence at one end and splendid wealth at the other--than

that furnished by the life of Harriet Mellon, afterwards Mrs. Coutts, and

subsequently Duchess of St. Alban's. She was not the only actress who made

a fortunate marriage. Anastasia Robinson married the Earl of Peterborough;

Lavinia Fenton, the original Polly Peachem, in the 'Beggar's Opera,' gave

her hand to the Duke of Bolton; Louisa Brunton became Countess of Craven,

and Elizabeth Farren exchanged her name for that of Countess of Derby. But

not one of those enumerated had known the privations and hardships

suffered by Harriet Mellon. When raised to affluence as Mrs. Coutts, and

when coroneted as a duchess, she sometimes with mirth and sometimes with

pathos referred to those old days of her life, when she was downcast by

harsh treatment and impecuniosity, and was never ashamed of the time when

she was nothing more than a poor strolling actress.

In 1789 Harriet Mellon, with her mother and Entwisle, her step-father,

joined the theatrical company of Stanton. In the city of Lichfield the

tenement is still pointed out where the Entwisles lodged in a couple of

rooms, each ten feet by four and three-quarters across, with windows two

feet square; the rent for the lodgings being two shillings a week. Stanton

on one occasion obtained a bespeak from a squire, who requested a

performance of the 'Country Girl.' The manager was only too glad to play

anything, so low had been the ebb of his fortunes. No copy of the comedy

being in the manager's possession, an actor was despatched to a town not

many miles distant for the necessary volume. Extra delay took place, the

needy _commissionnaire_ having gone on foot, putting the coach-money in

his pocket. When he returned the play-book was cut up leaf by leaf and

distributed to the company to transcribe; at least to those acquainted

with the art of penmanship. It is stated that the copyists were few.

Harriet Mellon, though of junior rank in the company, was cast for Peggy.

She had the part given her in virtue of her ready and trustworthy memory.

The girl's heart filled with enthusiasm when she learned that she was to

perform the title _role_. But her heart filled with sorrow an hour or two

afterwards when she inspected the square-cut and dingy, snuff-coloured

coat, held aloft by the manager, as the garment in which Peggy should

appear as the boy, the character assumed in the park scene by the country

girl. Being made acquainted with Harriet's disgust at the costume

furnished by the manager, Mrs. Entwisle bethought her of acquaintances who

might help her daughter out of the trouble. A lady housekeeper to whom the

mother applied, suggested the loan of a fashionable suit from one of her

young masters. The proposition was declined. The housekeeper then stated

that an idea crossed her: she might be enabled to procure a small and

well-cut suit of clothes elsewhere.

Mother and daughter spent an anxious afternoon, and about four o'clock, at

their lodgings, a lad made his appearance with a parcel, and not long

afterwards the friendly housekeeper appeared too. The old lady said she

had called on another old lady in a similar capacity to herself, and by

her kind offices had procured not the clothes of any young gentleman, but

the wedding-dress of her old master, and as he was only a "dwarfy" when

young, probably the clothes would fit Harriet. A pang smote the breast of

Miss Mellon as she thought the garments must be at least thirty years old;

but the parcel was unfastened, and it was found to contain a light

amber-coloured silk coat, silver trimmed white satin waistcoat and smalls;

pale blue silk stockings, shoes laced, stock buckles, and ruffles.

Harriet Mellon was in raptures. Half-past six o'clock came, the barn was

crowded, and the one musician, Entwisle, led off with 'Rule Britannia,'

'Britons, strike Home,' and 'The Bonny Pitman.' Up went the curtain, and

the comedy began. The family whose bespeak proved so attractive were

delighted with the performance, and especially with the acting of Miss

Harriet. In the park scene the baronet and lady grew particularly grave of

countenance as they surveyed Peggy in the boy's clothes, which gravity

continued during the remaining part of the entertainment.

Next morning as Harriet was at breakfast, a groom rode up to the door of

the house where she lodged, and a letter was left for Miss Mellon, which

proved a formal and frigid communication, requesting information

respecting the means by which she had acquired the male attire worn by her

on the previous evening.

The truth soon afterwards came out. The housekeeper to whom Mrs. Entwisle

applied, not knowing when or for what the dress was wanted, went to the

housekeeper of the very gentleman who bespoke the play; and his servant

lent his wedding-dress that had been stowed away since the occasion of his

nuptials. The young actress was cleared of all imputation, and on leaving

the neighbourhood received from the baronet's lady a present in the shape

of a handsome frock. Before that time, Harriet's mother would not allow,

on account of shabby attire, the girl's attendance at Stafford church, but

used to send her to Ingestre for Sunday morning worship, because at that

place she was unknown.

Harriet's salary for some years was only fifteen shillings a week.

Sheridan and the Hon. Mr. Monckton were appointed stewards of the Stafford

races in 1794, and at the theatre in the town those gentlemen witnessed

the acting of Miss Mellon as Letitia Hardy and Priscilla Tomboy. On

Sheridan, the arbiter of London theatricals, affording hope to her that

she might obtain an engagement at Drury Lane, the Entwisles with their

daughter left for the metropolis. At a humble lodging in Walworth the

family subsisted by means of a small sum of money, the proceeds from

Harriet's farewell benefit in the country. Sheridan, a careless and

procrastinating man, kept Mrs. Entwisle in cruel suspense concerning her

daughter's _debut_ at Drury Lane, mother and daughter being continually

put off by the manager with excuses; but at last the opportunity came.

Drury Lane opened for the season 1795-1796 on the evening of September

16th, and on that occasion Miss Mellon went on as one of the vocalists, to

join in the National Anthem. On September 17th the bill of the night

announced a performance of 'The Rivals,' "Lydia Languish by a young lady,

her first appearance." The young lady was the daughter of Mrs. Entwisle.

She was very nervous at her _debut_, and Sheridan thought it desirable

that some time should elapse for her to become acquainted with the size

and extent of the house, by joining in choruses before she again tried a

prominent character. She remained in the background till October. The

Michaelmas day before the family were exceedingly depressed, the girl's

prospects being uncertain, and her salary only thirty shillings a week.

Old-fashioned people, and exceedingly superstitious, the Entwisles and

Harriet bewailed the absence of the luck-bringing goose on the 29th

September. Through a gift, or by pinching, when strollers, they had

usually managed to get Christmas mince pies, Shrove Tuesday pancakes,

Easter tansy pudding, and the Michaelmas goose. It was a matter of sorrow

to poor Harriet, that her finances would not allow her to purchase a

goose, for the sake of tasting a bit for good-luck. When informed that she

could at a Drury Lane cook-shop buy a quarter of the much-honoured bird

the girl's delight knew no bounds. The purchase was made, and she was

happy.

It came to pass that her fortunes brightened at Drury Lane, where she

remained twenty years. When Tobin's comedy of 'The Honeymoon' was

produced, Harriet Mellon made a great hit in the character of Volante.

Through drawing a prize in the Lottery she was enabled to purchase Holly

Lodge, Highgate. The _Times_ of March the 2nd announced the marriage of

"Thomas Coutts, Esq., to Miss Harriet Mellon, of Holly Lodge, Highgate."

Her husband was a man of enormous wealth. Mrs. Coutts subsequently married

the Duke of St. Albans, and at her death, in addition to other magnificent

bequests, left to the lady now known as the Baroness Burdett Coutts, a

fortune of L1,800,000.

One of the most gifted men that ever trod the stage was George Frederick

Cooke. Indeed the splendour of his genius is said to have been almost as

exceptional as the fierceness of his passions, and the recklessness of his

habits. Drink, gambling, licentiousness, and prodigality, ruined his

fortunes, and cut short his life. It may be urged in mitigation of his

excesses, that like Kean he had indifferent home training, and that at a

very early age he was left to the exercise of his own wilful and sensual

nature. His father had been a soldier who left his widow in unprosperous

circumstances. She quitted London, and settled at Berwick-upon-Tweed,

where her son received an indifferent education, and where on several

occasions he saw part of the Edinburgh Company perform. Cooke states,

"that from that time plays and playing were never absent from his

thoughts, that he pinched his belly to procure play-books, and actually

studied one particular character,--Horatio, in the 'Fair Penitent.'" His

mania to get into the play-house has amusing proof in a story, which, in

after years, Cooke used to relate with gusto, and comicality. He much

wished to see 'Douglas,' as did some companions, but all of them were

without a farthing. They contrived to get into the theatre by a private

entrance, and secreted themselves under the stage. Hope told them the

flattering tale that they might steal out during the performance, and join

the audience, by means of an aperture they had discovered in a passage

leading to the pit. In carrying out the enterprise they were discovered by

one of the company, and after a trying interrogatory shamefully turned out

at the stage-door. Young Cooke, reckless, and persistent, urged his

companions to go in and conquer notwithstanding an ignominious defeat; so

they were constantly on the alert, and found by observation that a back

door was left unguarded, which one evening they entered unperceived.

Fairly in, the next consideration was, how they could conceal themselves

until the rising of the curtain; their hope being that amidst the

confusion and preparation behind the scenes, they might escape notice, and

enjoy the magic show. Cooke saw a barrel, took advantage of the safe and

snug retreat, creeping in like the hero of the famous melodrama

'Tekeli,'--in those days the admiration of the polished playgoing populace

of the British metropolis. Unfortunately however there was danger in the

lurking place; he had for companions two large cannon-balls, but the youth

not being initiated into the mysteries of the scene, did not suspect that

cannon-balls helped to make thunder in a barrel as well as in a

twenty-four pounder, and little did poor George Frederick imagine where he

was. The play was 'Macbeth,' and in the first scene the thunder was

required to give due effect to the situation of the crouching witches, as

the ascending baize revealed those beldames about to depart on their

mission to meet Macbeth.

It was not long ere the Jupiter Tonans of the theatre, _alias_ the

property-man, approached and seized the barrel, and the horror of the

concealed boy may be imagined as the man proceeded to cover the open end

with a piece of old carpet, and tie it carefully, to prevent the thunder

from being spilt. Cooke was profoundly and heroically silent. The machine

was lifted by the brawny stage servitor and carried carefully to the

side-scene, lest in rolling, the thunder should rumble before its cue. All

was made ready, the witches took their places amidst flames of resin, the

thunder-bell rang, the barrel received its impetus with young Cooke and

the cannon-balls,--the stage-stricken lad roaring lustily to the amazement

of the thunderer, who neglected to stop the rolling machine, which entered

on the stage, and Cooke, bursting off the carpet head of the barrel,

appeared before the audience to the horror of the weird sisters, and to

the hilarity of the spectators.

In Stukely, Sir Pertinax, Kitely, Iago, and Richard III., George Frederick

Cooke was allowed to be unrivalled. But his social position was lowered

and his fine talents deteriorated by intemperance and debauchery. He was

in constant debt and difficulties, in spite of excellent emoluments. After

much trouble, he on one occasion obtained a suit of clothes from a tailor

indisposed to give credit. Cooke explained to him that there would be no

doubt about the price being ready on his benefit, which was at hand. The

tailor, a stage-struck swain, said that if he were allowed to appear on

the benefit night, in addition to stage tuition from Cooke, the garments

should be forthcoming. The tragedian agreed to give the instruction, and

cast him for the post of Catesby, Cooke of course playing Richard. The

night came, and the "snip" ranted and strutted, and in the tent scene,

after, "Richard's himself again," on the entrance of Catesby, the tailor

in answer to Richard's "Who's there?" halted, and stuttered "'Tis I, my

lord, the early village cock." The audience roared; but after silence

came, the tailor merely repeated the words just as before; upon which

Cooke unable to keep his gravity or restrain his temper, roared out, "Then

why the devil don't you crow?"

Another good story in connection with impecuniosity and a stage

performance, is that told of Mossop, who, when at the Smock Alley Theatre,

Dublin, found himself in a peculiar predicament (the result of irregular

payments) one night when he was playing Lear. His Kent was a creditor,

who, as he personated the faithful nobleman supporting his aged master,

whispered, "If you don't give me your honour, sir, that you'll pay me the

arrears this night before I go home, I'll let you drop about the boards."

Mossop alarmed said, "Don't talk to me now." "I will," said Kent, "I

will;" adding, "Down you go." The manager was obliged to give the

promise, and the actor before leaving the theatre received his wages.

John O'Keefe the author of 'Wild Oats,' relates a similar curious, and

humorous anecdote concerning the "silver tongued" Spranger Barry. "The

first character I saw Barry in was Jaffier, Mossop Pierre, and Mrs. Dancer

the Belvidera. According to the usual compliment of assisting a dead

tragic hero to get upon his legs, after the dropping of the curtain, two

very curt persons walked on the stage to where Barry (the Jaffier) lay

dead, and, stooping over him with great politeness and attention, helped

him to rise. All three thus standing one of them said: 'I have an action,

sir, against you,' and touched him on the shoulder. 'Indeed' replied

Barry. 'This is rather a piece of treachery; at whose suit?' The plaintiff

was named and Barry had no alternative but to walk off the stage, and was

going out of the theatre in their custody. At that moment some

scene-shifters and carpenters who had been observing the proceedings, and

knew the situation of Barry, went off and returned almost immediately,

dragging with them a huge piece of wood, in the rear of which was a bold

and ferocious looking property-man who grasped a hatchet. Barry said,

'What are you about?' 'Sir,' said one, 'we are only preparing the altar of

Merope, for we are going to make a sacrifice.' The speaker having

concluded, grasped his hatchet and sternly eyed the bailiffs. 'Be quiet,

you foolish fellows,' remonstrated the tragedian, who began to think the

business serious. The minions of the law also grew apprehensive as the

sacrificators looked on with fixed and stony eyes. Barry noticing the

bailiffs beckon, went to them, and drawing him aside they said they would

quit him if he would give his word of honour that the debt should be

settled next day." The actor was gratefully complimentary to his

supporters, not forgetting the altar of Merope. The circumstance occurred

at the Dublin Theatre in 1778.

The narrator of this story has one equally amusing of Mahon and Macklin.

"Bob," on one occasion said Macklin, "I intend to have you arrested for

the debt you owe me, but I am considering whether I shall arrest you

before or after your benefit." "Oh," said Mahon, "don't arrest me at all."

"Yes, yes, Bob, you know I must; to prison you will have to go." "There's

no occasion." "Oh yes, there is." "Well then, sir, if you must, wait till

my benefit is over." "No! Bob, then you take the money and knock it about

no one knows how nor where, and I shall never get a shilling of it; but if

I arrest you before your benefit, some of those lords that you sing for in

clubs and taverns and jovial bouts may come forward and pay this money for

you. No, no, I'll have you touched on the shoulder before your benefit."

King, one of the finest comedians of the eighteenth century, and the

original Sir Peter Teazle, made a large fortune; but lost it at the

gambling-table. On one occasion he borrowed five guineas for a last stake,

and he then won two hundred pounds. Escaping from the chamber, he fell on

his knees, and in answer to a request from a companion, made oath on a

Bible that he would relinquish his gamester's mania. But he became a

member of the Miles Club, in St. James', and at the tables soon lost

everything, and died in extreme poverty.

Bayle Bernard's father--John Bernard, a clever comedian, and, in his after

years, a well-known manager of American theatres, went through many

adventures during the period of his novitiate. After playing at Poole in

Dorsetshire, and having spent the money he had earned, he thought he

should return home, according to a promise made to his mother; but his

success at Poole in playing the character of Major Oakley in the comedy of

'The Jealous Wife,' suppressed the dramatic tyro's notion about duty. A

mania for the stage again seized him, and hearing that his old manager,

Taylor, was playing at Shaftesbury, Bernard actually determined to join

him in defiance of any privations that might arise from his being without

a shilling in his pocket. Having given his mother assurance that he would

not act again upon closing his engagement at Poole, writing home for

supplies was out of the question; and though on paying his bill at an inn,

he discovered that all his coppers at command did not amount to six,

Bernard persisted in going on to Shaftesbury, a distance of thirty-six

miles. Entrusting his trunk to a waggoner, he ate his breakfast, scribbled

a note to his mother, making apology for his delay; tied up his linen in a

bundle, and took a path across the fields to the high road, in order to

escape notice from acquaintances who had known him in seemingly dashing

circumstances. After having proceeded a few miles, he heard the horn of

the guard from the stage-coach, and fearing it might contain some of his

old companions, he jumped over a hedge for concealment, and in so doing

alighted in a ditch, and sank up to his knees. On extricating his legs, a

shoe was left behind, and its loser was compelled to take off his coat,

roll up his shirt sleeves, and thrust his arm down the deep aperture, to

recover what had been lost. But it was necessary to support himself by

planting one foot against the hedge, and by grasping the roots of a holly

bush, and while so doing his hold gave way at the most critical moment,

and he was precipitated headlong into the mire. In consequence of the

disaster he had to delay his journey two hours on the sunny side of a

hayrick, for the purpose of putting his apparel in something like decent

order. Arriving at Blandford, fear, fatigue, and vexation, continued to

exhaust him, and he considered in what way he could most effectually lay

out the threepence in his pocket. He determined on a glass of brandy, and

going into an inn, called for the first that he had ever tasted. About to

depart, having thrown down his coppers, the landlady informed him that two

of them were bad. Bernard states that a feather might have felled him to

the ground, and that he seemed to be without sense or motion, while the

brandy seemed to congeal within him. The landlady looked in his face, and

noticing his agitation, surmised doubtless the cause; for she

good-naturedly told him not to mind it, but that should he ever again get

within easy distance of the place not to forget her. Nearly twenty years

afterwards, Bernard in company with Incledon, the vocalist, put up at the

identical place, and related the adventure. Incledon thought on hearing

the story, that it was Bernard's duty to give the house a good turn, and

so he very generously assisted Bernard to run up a bill in five days to

twenty pounds.

Ben Webster possessed a budget of amusing stories, involving ludicrous and

startling incidents, connected with his ups and downs as a poor player. He

began his professional career as a teacher of music and dancing, and

having a passion for the stage, was undaunted in his fight with fortune,

notwithstanding defeats and even humiliation. Hearing that Beverley, of

the old Tottenham Street theatre, was about opening the Croydon theatre

for a short season, Webster applied to that manager for the situation of

walking gentleman.

"Full," said Beverley.

"Can I get in for 'little business,' and utility?" pleaded Webster.

"Full."

"Is there any chance for harlequin, and dancing?"

"I don't do pantomime or ballets; besides, I don't like male dancers;

their legs are no draw."

"Could you give me a berth in the orchestra?"

"Well," said Beverley, in his peculiar manner, and with a strong word,

which need not be repeated, "Why, just now you were a walking gentleman!"

"So I am, sir; but I have had a musical education, and necessity sometimes

compels me to turn it to account."

"Well! what's your instrument?"

"Violin, tenor, violoncello, double bass, and double drum."

"Well! by Nero! (he played the fiddle you know) here, Harry (calling his

son), bring the double--no, I mean a violin out of the orchestra."

Harry Beverley appeared with the instrument, and Webster was requested to

give a taste of his quality. He began Tartini's 'Devil's Solo,' and had

not gone far when the manager said that the specimen was sufficient,

offering the soloist an engagement for the orchestral leadership at a

guinea a week. Webster affirms, "That had a storm of gold fallen on him it

could not have delighted Semele more than it did himself. He felt himself

plucked out of the slough of despond." Webster had others to support, had

to board himself, and in addition he resolved to get out of debt. To

successfully carry out such arrangements the young professional had to

practise considerable self-denial, walking to Croydon, ten miles every

day, for rehearsal, and back to Shoreditch, on twopence--one penny for

oatmeal, and the other for milk; and he did it for six weeks, Sundays

excepted, when he luxuriated on shin of beef and cheek. While Webster was

at Croydon, the gallery used to pelt the gentlemen of the orchestra with

mutton pies. Indignation at first was uppermost, but on reflection, the

assailed musicians made a virtue of necessity, collecting the fragments of

not over-light pastry, ate them under the stage, and whatever might have

been their composition, considered them as "ambrosia."

To be glad to eat the mutton pies with which the gods pelted the orchestra

is undoubtedly a realisation of "out of evil cometh good," and is a

curiosity of impecuniosity; but of all the curious curiosities commend me

to an arithmetical calculation made by a modern actor, who entered on a

five nights' engagement at Swansea, at the termination of which he had

from the treasurer the sum of twenty-five shillings. Mr. Edward Atkins,

who had to find his own wardrobe, upon entering into an arithmetical

calculation, discovered that after deducting six shillings for coach

fares, and five shillings for lodgings, there remained fourteen for

professional work, being within a fraction of two shillings and ninepence

halfpenny per evening's labour. The following is the list of parts played

by the comedian, and the amount received for each:--

"Monday: 'Widow of Palermo'--Jeremy (with a handful of snuff and a glass

of water thrown in his face), 10-1/2_d._; 'Is he Jealous?'--Belmour,

9-1/2_d._; 'Young Widow'--Splash, 1_s._ 1-1/2_d._ Tuesday: 'Englishman in

France; or, Why Didn't I Kill Myself Yesterday?'--James, 9-1/2_d._; 'Mrs.

White'--Peter White (with a medley duet, and mock gavotte, that caused a

stiffness in the joints for three days), 1_s._ 1-1/2_d._; 'Secret'

(without a panel in the scene)--Thomas, 10-1/2_d._ Wednesday: 'Carlitz and

Christine'--Carlitz, very cheap, 7-1/2_d._; 'Two Gregories'--Gregory,

without goose or ship, 10_d._; song, 'What's a Woman like?' 1-3/4_d._;

'Fortune's Frolic'--Robin, the talk of the town, 1_s._ 2-1/4_d._ Thursday:

fully prepared with tools and syllables for three pieces, but the theatre

was closed, 2_s._ 9-1/2_d._ Friday: 'Review'--Caleb Quotem, with two

songs, 10-3/4_d._; 'Our Mary Ann'--Jonathan Junks, 9-1/2_d._; 'Loan Me a

Crown'--Lightfoot, fifteen lengths, 7-1/4_d._; 'Captain's not Amiss'--John

Stock, with clean shirt, the part requiring the actor to take off coat and

waistcoat, 6_d._; walking over to next town on managerial business,

1/2_d._ Total, 14_s._"

For years the name of Charles Mathews was continually bandied about in

connection with the subject of impecuniosity. Yet the harassing and

unpleasant circumstances in which the comedian too often found himself

through want of money were not produced by causes which in many instances

have brought players into straits, insolvency, and sometimes even

destitution. The parentage of Mathews was most reputable, his moral and

intellectual training was all that could be desired, while his business

habits must have been respectable, holding as he did for some time, with

credit and capability, an appointment as a district surveyor. His social

position too was excellent. But he married a very extravagant lady, and in

conjunction with her entered on theatrical speculations, which his tastes

and nature ill-fitted him to successfully promote; and not possessing

adequate capital to legitimately advance his various theatrical schemes,

he became the prey of money-lenders, and bill-discounters. Charles Mathews

married Madame Vestris on July 18th, 1838, the lady being at that period

the lessee of the Olympic Theatre, where her management had been

characterised by exceptional taste and enterprise. But her expenditure,

whether in relation to her theatre, or private life, had been lavish even

to recklessness. After playing the seasons in the metropolis and making a

provincial tour, Mr. and Mrs. Mathews accepted an offer from Stephen

Price, manager of the Park Theatre, New York, to perform upon secured

engagements of L20,000, with power at option to prolong their stay.

However, Price's speculation proved a failure, Mathews' scheme of making a

speedy fortune "melted into thin air," and then, affirms the disappointed

comedian, "began the series of troubles which were destined to clog a

great portion of my life." During the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Mathews for

their American engagement the Olympic was kept open under the direction of

a manager appointed by them, and on their return they found the finances

in a very crippled state; a large amount of debt having been incurred,

despite the large sums of money Mathews had transmitted across the

Atlantic. In the hope of extricating himself from his great liabilities he

took Covent Garden, never calculating the dangers of the perilous and

uncertain sea on which he was about floating the bark of his fortunes.

"Money," he says, "had to be procured at all hazards, and by every means,

to prop up the concern till this new mine could be worked; and I was

initiated for the first time in my life into all the mysteries of the

money-lending art, and the concoction of those fatal instruments of

destruction called Bills of Exchange.... Brokers and sheriff's officers

soon entered on the scene, and I, who had never known what pecuniary

difficulty meant, and had never had a debt in my life before, was

gradually drawn into the inextricable vortex of involvement, a web which

once thrown over a man can seldom be thrown off again. The consequence was

not conceived at the time. It was a great speculation, and great

difficulties appeared the legitimate consequences. Every Saturday was

looked forward to with terror, for on every Saturday I had to pay,

including the company, authors, band, carpenters, and workmen, employed

before and behind the curtain, six hundred and eighty-four souls, with

their wives and families all dependent upon my exertions." His liabilities

were so numerous and heavy, that Mathews conceived that the best plan for

him to pursue was without delay to wind up the speculation. Pity for him

that he did not carry out the resolution. But the great success attending

revivals of the 'Beggar's Opera,' the 'Merry Wives of Windsor,' and other

pieces, added to the subsequent still greater success of Boucicault's

'London Assurance,' induced the lessee to continue the management.

Everything looked brilliant and prosperous, but he found his position more

intolerable as the sun of prosperity rose higher over his theatre. He

states that when he paid no one, no one seemed to care, but the moment

Jenkins got his money Jones became rampant.

"Why pay Jenkins? Why not pay me? You've used me shamefully, and you must

take the consequences."

Writs and executions poured in, and in every direction Mathews beheld the

harpies of the law waiting to spring upon him, and the thousands he paid

were partially swallowed up in legal expenses and interest. The

hydra-headed monster, sixty per cent. was always about his legs. His

shifts and escapades during this period read like passages from one of

those comedies to which he used to impart such amusement by his animal

spirits and humours. Some of the stories told by Mathews of his

impecunious day, smack of a grim humour. Borrowing money at sixty per

cent., he informs us, is not the facile operation some imagine, and, he

adds, is attended by risk and worry even worse than the fearful

percentage. He well remembered, after a fortnight of very hot weather and

thinly attended seats at his theatre, having occasion to borrow two

hundred pounds to patch up the Saturday's treasury, and making application

to a bill-discounter three days before wanting the money.

"Ah, Mr. Mathews! how d'ye do? Glad to see you. Have a glass of sherry."

"No, thank you. I want a couple of hundred pounds to-morrow."

"Certainly, with pleasure. How long do you want it for? Have a glass of

sherry?"

"Say three months."

"What security?"

"None."

"Very good--I must have a warrant of attorney."

"Of course."

"All right, Mr. Mathews; look in at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and I'll

have it ready. Do have a glass of sherry!"

Mathews had no belief that the money would be ready at the time named,

though the impecunious actor kept the appointment. He knew that the

money-lender was gratified by the frequent appearance of a brougham at the

door.

"Well, Mr. Mathews, I find I can't manage the L200. I can only let you

have L150. I had no idea I was so short at my bankers. Amount actually

overdrawn. But I've got a friend to do it for you; it's all the same.

He'll be here directly. Bless me, how long he is. Have a glass of sherry?

Are you going back to the theatre? I'll bring him with me in

half-an-hour."

Neither money-lender nor his friend appeared at the theatre. On Friday

Mathews again made application for the money.

"Didn't come till too late; but all right--you don't want it till

to-morrow, you know. What's your treasury hour?"

"Two."

"Be here at twelve and it shall be ready."

The actor was there, punctual to the moment.

"All right. Have a glass of sherry? My nephew Dick has gone to the city

for the cheque."

"But the time is getting on."

"Never mind. I'll be with you as the clock strikes two."

Four o'clock arrived, and neither usurer nor money was forthcoming, the

salaries of the company of course remaining unpaid. A note forwarded

announced that the money-lender would be with Mathews at six to the

moment. At seven the long-expected gentleman rushed in breathless.

"Such a job Dick's had for you, Mr. Matthews! But here I am with the

money. My friend disappointed me, but I managed without him. My nephew

will read over the warrant of attorney."

"But I'm just going on the stage; there's no time now."

"Won't take five minutes. Dick, read the warrant. Now, here is the money.

Let's see, L15 left off the old account."

"Oh, pray don't deduct that now."

"Better, Mr. Mathews, keeps all square. That's L15, then the interest

three months, L17 10_s._, and L15, L32 10_s._ Warrant of Attorney L7

10_s._, that's L40. Then my nephew's fee, L1 1_s._, and my trouble, say

L1, L42 10_s._ Here's 15_s._, that's L42 16_s._ Dick, have you got 4_s._?"

"I've got 3_s._ 6_d._"

"That will do; I've got 6_d._, that's L43; and L7 cash makes the L50."

"Yes; but I only get L7 odd."

"Never mind, keeps all square. Now the L100. Here is a cheque of Gribble

and Co. on Lloyd's for L25 10_s._"

"What's the use of a cheque at this time of night?"

"Good as the bank, good as the money; you can pay it as money. Fifty

sovereigns makes L75 10_s._, and a ten-pound note makes L85 10_s._--stay,

it ought to be L95 10_s._ Here's another ten pound note. I forgot--there

you are, L95 10_s._--only wants L4 10_s._ to make up the L100. You haven't

got L4 10_s._ about you, have you Mr. Mathews, you could lend me till the

morning, just to get it straight, you know."

"I believe I have; there are four sovereigns and ten shillings in silver."

"That's all right; L4 makes L99 10_s._ and 10_s._--stop, let's count

them--count after your own father, as the saying is--four and five's nine,

and three fourpenny pieces; all right. Stop--one's a threepenny. Got a

penny, or a post-office stamp? Never mind, I won't be hard upon you for

the penny. There you are, all comfortable. Good evening."

Mathews paid away the cheque "as money." Two days afterwards he got an

indignant note, stating that the cheque was dishonoured. Out of temper,

Mathews sent for the discounter, and he appeared with alacrity.

"Not paid! Gribble's cheque not paid--some mistake--it's as good as the

Bank. Here, give it to me, I'll get it for you in five minutes. How long

shall you be here?"

"An hour."

"I'll be back in twenty minutes."

Mathews saw no more of the discounter or the cheque, the scoundrel

entirely disappearing with the only proof in his pocket. But sometimes

biters were bit, for an entry in one of the actor's diaries, dated

January 1843, states, "called on Lawrence Levy to pay him L30, but

borrowed L20 of him instead."

On one occasion a very gentlemanly man waited on Mathews.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," he quietly said, "but I've a duty to perform,

and I am sure you are too much a man of the world to quarrel with me. I

have a writ against you for a hundred pounds, and must request immediate

payment, or the pleasure of your company elsewhere."

"Quite impossible," said Mathews, "at this moment to meet it; but I will

consult with my treasurer, and see what can be done."

"Excuse me," said the sheriff's officer, "but I cannot lose sight of you;

and whatever is to be done, must be done here. Come, pay the money, and

there's an end."

"It can't be done," said Mathews.

"Why didn't you get him to renew the bill?" replied the other.

"He wouldn't renew it; nothing would induce him."

"Nonsense," said he, "accept this bill for the same amount, and put your

own time for payment, and I undertake to get you his receipt."

"Agreed," answered the actor, accepting the bill, which, without another

word the sheriff's officer took up, threw down the receipt, and walked

towards the door.

"Stop," said Mathews, "you said you couldn't leave me without the money.

What does all this mean?"

"It means that I paid your debt as I knew you couldn't, and now you owe it

me instead. Be punctual, and I'll do as much again."

The sheriff's officer just described was not the only one who befriended

the luckless manager. A kindred functionary of the law, having been struck

by the cruel conduct of a vindictive tradesman, actually paying the bill

himself, and receiving the money back from Mathews in instalments of ten

pounds.

Instances grave and gay might be multiplied of the actor's unfortunate

position and the financial entanglements that, like heavy fetters,

constrained him at every step. He said that the results of the Covent

Garden speculation were for the first season _sowing_, for the second

_hoeing_, and for the third _owing_. On his debts being called in, to his

dismay he found that including rent the responsibilities amounted to the

sum of L30,000. Mathews when he learned the fact was aghast, and his only

remedy was the Insolvent Debtors' Court. Things were made easy for him,

and he passed a week in an elegantly fitted chamber above the Porters'

Lodge of the Queen's Bench Prison. He was not unacquainted with that

prison, having had residence there soon after his first notorious American

trip, and during that imprisonment he took advantage of the old rules

pertaining to the liberties of the Bench, and played an engagement at the

Surrey Theatre. The theatre being a few yards beyond the boundaries of the

Queen's Bench liberties, Davidge, the Surrey lessee, and Cross, lessee of

the Surrey Zoological Gardens, gave extra bail to enable Charles Mathews

to have the day rule extended through the evening. A tipstaff was

stationed at his dressing-room door and at each wing of the stage, to

watch the actor, who, though out of the Bench, was in custody. When

absolutely free from his Covent Garden liabilities he with a sense of

honour that did him credit gave securities for what he considered purely

personal debts, making himself still liable to the amount of about L4000,

anticipating that the creditors would treat him with consideration and

thoughtfulness. He was mistaken, and for years he still had the millstone

round his neck. During his lesseeship of the Lyceum he was in the same

straits as he was in the Old Covent Garden days. Accumulated interest, law

expenses for raising money, grew year after year and Mathews was still in

his miserable plight of impecuniosity. At length in July 1856, while about

to play at the Preston Theatre, he was arrested and imprisoned in

Lancaster Gaol. He chafed under the incarceration, and he has left a

touching account of the misery he felt on being separated from his wife,

and of the melancholy influences of his prison-house. His imprisonment

created much gossip, and ere he left "durance vile" a somewhat singular

recognition of his circumstances took place. His fellow-prisoners in

Lancaster Gaol communicated with him as follows:

Letter addressed to Charles J. Mathews, in Lancaster Castle, July 1856:--

"ILLUSTRIOUS SIR,

"Permit us to address you as a brother-debtor surrounded by oppressive

circumstances akin to our own, which are rendered the more striking to

one who like yourself has acquired a world-wide reputation as an

artist and elocutionist; and whose uniform kindness and manly conduct

has excited the admiration of those who now respectfully, through this

medium, tender you what they consider to be a just meed of

approbation.

"With the newspaper gossip relative to your alleged state of affairs,

which has been extensively circulated we have nothing to do and we

know not whether you are fiercely opposed or otherwise; we seek not to

elicit any facts connected with your position, but we beg most

earnestly and respectfully to compassionate you as one of the most

ingenious amongst our common manhood; and having for the most part

felt the pangs attendant upon the day and hour of tribulation, allow

us to express the strength of our sympathetic feeling by stating that

we heartily wish you a signal, complete, and honourable release from

that load of embarrassment which so unhappily depresses us all, but

which, by reason of your refined sensibility must necessarily press

with great force upon your mental organization; and this feeling

compels us to say, 'Go on and conquer.'

"Signed on behalf of the members of the Long Room,

"JOHN HARRIDGE,

"_Chairman_."

Mathews thought that there was an odd flavour of Mr. Micawber about the

foregoing epistle. Subsequently he did what he should have done years

before, sought freedom from his liabilities under legal protection. Many

droll scenes took place when the comedian was under Bankruptcy

examination. On one occasion Mr. Commissioner Law asked him why he had

kept a brougham, instead of taking a cab to and fro between his residence

and the theatre; and the lawyer was told thereupon by the debtor, that the

brougham was hired from the purest motives of economy.

"In a word," said Mathews, "I really could not afford the price of cabs."

"I should have thought that cabs were more economical than a private

carriage," replied Law.

"Not at all," said Mathews. "Cabs take ready money, a precious article, to

be carefully treasured and only parted with under absolute necessity, but

a brougham can always be hired on credit."

Mathews, free of his liabilities, became prosperous, and his latter days

were marked by success and happiness.

Of his attractiveness on the stage it is almost superfluous to speak; it

may be said with truth, "We shall not look upon his like again;" for

though not a great actor, he was unapproachable in those light comedy

parts that require dash and go. I remember seeing him play Dazzle in

'London Assurance,' at Melbourne, exactly thirty years, to the very day,

from the date of its first performance; and though he was the oldest

member of the company on the stage that night, he was in manner and

appearance by far the youngest.