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 countenanceas 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’sdébutat 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 herdébut, and Sheridan thought it desirable that some time should elapse for her to become acquainted with the size andextent 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. TheTimesof 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 £1,800,000.
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 playingwere 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,aliasthe 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 stageservitor 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 managerwas 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 mybenefit 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 forconcealment, 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 amodern 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), 10½d.; ‘Is he Jealous?’—Belmour, 9½d.; ‘Young Widow’—Splash, 1s.1½d.Tuesday: ‘Englishman in France; or, Why Didn’t I Kill Myself Yesterday?’—James, 9½d.; ‘Mrs. White’—Peter White (with a medley duet, and mock gavotte, that caused a stiffness in the joints for three days), 1s.1½d.; ‘Secret’ (without a panel in the scene)—Thomas, 10½d.Wednesday: ‘Carlitz and Christine’—Carlitz, very cheap, 7½d.; ‘Two Gregories’—Gregory, without goose or ship, 10d.; song, ‘What’s a Woman like?’ 1¾d.; ‘Fortune’s Frolic’—Robin, the talk of the town, 1s.2¼d.Thursday: fully prepared with tools and syllables for three pieces, but the theatre was closed, 2s.9½d.Friday: ‘Review’—Caleb Quotem, with two songs, 10¾d.; ‘Our Mary Ann’—Jonathan Junks, 9½d.; ‘Loan Me a Crown’—Lightfoot, fifteen lengths, 7¼d.; ‘Captain’s not Amiss’—John Stock, with clean shirt, the part requiring the actor to take off coat and waistcoat, 6d.; walking over to next town on managerial business, ½d.Total, 14s.”
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 herentered 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 £20,000, 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 £200. I can only let you have £150. 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, £15 left off the old account.”
“Oh, pray don’t deduct that now.”
“Better, Mr. Mathews, keeps all square. That’s £15, then the interest three months, £17 10s., and £15, £32 10s.Warrant of Attorney £7 10s., that’s £40. Then my nephew’s fee, £1 1s., and my trouble, say £1, £42 10s.Here’s 15s., that’s £42 16s.Dick, have you got 4s.?”
“I’ve got 3s.6d.”
“That will do; I’ve got 6d., that’s £43; and £7 cash makes the £50.”
“Yes; but I only get £7 odd.”
“Never mind, keeps all square. Now the £100. Here is a cheque of Gribble and Co. on Lloyd’s for £25 10s.”
“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 £75 10s., and a ten-pound note makes £85 10s.—stay, it ought to be £95 10s.Here’s another ten pound note. I forgot—there you are, £95 10s.—only wants £4 10s.to make up the £100. You haven’t got £4 10s.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; £4 makes £99 10s.and 10s.—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’sdiaries, dated January 1843, states, “called on Lawrence Levy to pay him £30, but borrowed £20 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 seasonsowing, for the secondhoeing, and for the thirdowing. On his debts being called in, to his dismay he found that including rent the responsibilities amounted to the sum of £30,000. Mathews when he learned the fact was aghast, and his only remedy was theInsolvent 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 £4000, 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.”
“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.
IMPECUNIOSITY OF ARTISTS.
If there be two things on earth that may be said to have a more direct affinity for each other than aught else, those two things are Painting and Poverty. The artistic records of the past literally teem with sorrowful instances of their close relationship; and unfortunately the alliterative connection is by no means unknown in the present day.
Ruskin, who upholds contempt for poverty as a characteristic of our age which is both “just and wholesome,” complains that we starve our great men for the first half of their lives by way of revenge, because they quarrel with us, and adds,—
“Precisely in the degree in which any painter possesses original genius, is at present the increase of moral certainty that during his early years he will have a hard battle to fight: and that just at the time when his conceptions ought to be full and happy, his temper gentle, and his hopes enthusiastic—just at that most critical period, his heart is full of anxieties and household cares: he is chilled by disappointments, and vexed by injustice, he becomes obstinate in his errors, no less than in his virtues, and the arrows of his aim are blunted, as the reeds of his trust are broken.... You may be fed with the fruit and fulness of his old age, but you were as the nipping blight in his blossoming, and your praise is only as the warm winds of autumn to the dying branches.... You feed him in his tender youth with ashes and dishonour: and then you come to him, obsequious but too late, with your sharp laurel crown, the dew all dried from off its leaves: and you thrust it into his languid hand, and he looks at you wistfully. What shall he do with it? What can he do, but go and lay it on his mother’s grave.”
“Precisely in the degree in which any painter possesses original genius, is at present the increase of moral certainty that during his early years he will have a hard battle to fight: and that just at the time when his conceptions ought to be full and happy, his temper gentle, and his hopes enthusiastic—just at that most critical period, his heart is full of anxieties and household cares: he is chilled by disappointments, and vexed by injustice, he becomes obstinate in his errors, no less than in his virtues, and the arrows of his aim are blunted, as the reeds of his trust are broken.... You may be fed with the fruit and fulness of his old age, but you were as the nipping blight in his blossoming, and your praise is only as the warm winds of autumn to the dying branches.... You feed him in his tender youth with ashes and dishonour: and then you come to him, obsequious but too late, with your sharp laurel crown, the dew all dried from off its leaves: and you thrust it into his languid hand, and he looks at you wistfully. What shall he do with it? What can he do, but go and lay it on his mother’s grave.”
In another part of the same work from which I have quoted, he says, with exquisite pathos,—
“You cannot consider, for you cannot conceive, the sickness of heart with which a young painter of deep feeling toils through his first obscurity—hissense of the strong voice within him which you will not hear, his vain, fond, wondering witness to the things you will not see—his far-away perception of things that he could accomplish if he had but peace and time, all unapproachable and vanishing from him, because no one will leave him peace or grant him time: all his friends falling back from him: those whom he would most reverently obey rebuking and paralyzing him: and last and worst of all, those who believe in him most faithfully, suffering by him the most bitterly. The wife’s eyes, in their sweet ambition, shining brighter as the cheek wastes away: and the little lips at his side parched and pale, which one day, he knows, although he may never see it, will quiver so proudly when they name his name, calling him ‘Our father.’”
“You cannot consider, for you cannot conceive, the sickness of heart with which a young painter of deep feeling toils through his first obscurity—hissense of the strong voice within him which you will not hear, his vain, fond, wondering witness to the things you will not see—his far-away perception of things that he could accomplish if he had but peace and time, all unapproachable and vanishing from him, because no one will leave him peace or grant him time: all his friends falling back from him: those whom he would most reverently obey rebuking and paralyzing him: and last and worst of all, those who believe in him most faithfully, suffering by him the most bitterly. The wife’s eyes, in their sweet ambition, shining brighter as the cheek wastes away: and the little lips at his side parched and pale, which one day, he knows, although he may never see it, will quiver so proudly when they name his name, calling him ‘Our father.’”
But if these pictures are now drawn from artist life, what must that life have been fifty or a hundred years ago? Art was always a plant of slow growth in England, and the great masters who were cherished in the Old World trade guilds, and flourished so grandly in Italy, Flanders, and Holland, had not a single native representative in this country. And when at last the land that had so long since produced a Shakespeare, could boast its Hogarth, native artists were still few and far between, and their chief means of living was found in painting signs. Neglected and scornfully humiliated by all classes, isolated from refined society—such as it was—they suffered the extremes of poverty, with cheerful bravery, endured with a light heart, paid back scorn with scorn, and were linked together by sympathy and pity in such a bond of brotherly fellowship as is now utterly unknown. The taverns were their clubs, bread and cheese their fare: and if the rent of their garret homes were not forthcoming, they slept in the streets, and, careless Bohemians that they were, laughed together over the strangeness, or the dangers, of their nocturnal exposures. That their lives often found tragic endings may readily be known. Many a terrible story is extant of their heart-sickness and despair, of last awful struggles silently, heroically continued against overwhelming odds, and of lingering sufferings endured with martyr-like patience.
The earliest exhibitions of pictures—they were mainly street signs and portraits—were organized by the artists themselves for charitable purposes, as may be seen by the catalogue of one opened in Spring Gardens, in 1761; which contained a design by Samuel Wale, one of the founders of the Royal Academy, engraved by Charles Grignion, representing “The genius of painting, sculpture,and architecture relieving the distressed;” and these exhibitions were first established in the reign of George II.
The Samuel Wale here mentioned, afterwards R.A., was himself a sign-painter; and for many years a whole-length figure of Shakespeare, painted by him in the zenith of his powers, figured as the sign of a public-house at the north-west corner of Little Russell Street, in Drury Lane: while Charles Grignion, when an old man, suffered the then usual fate of artists old and young; and an appeal made for him by his brethren in 1808, now before me, speaks of him in his ninetieth year in the deepest distress, unable to work, with a wife entirely, and a nearly blind daughter partially, dependent upon him for support, saying, “Behold, reader, the united claims of virtue, old age, and professional merit, and filial and parental suffering.” It also expressed a not unreasonable hope that “the claims of, a man who had done so much, and done so well, would be speedily attended to.” Grignion died four years afterwards, his latest days made smooth by the personal contributions of a few artists and some of their patrons, so that the general appeal quoted from above seems to have fallen flatly; as well it might when the public regarded English artists with contempt, and their brethren were so meanly, miserably poor.
The first native artist whose fame extended beyond his birthplace was William Hogarth; but poverty, the bitter badge of all his tribe, he too wore. His father, a north-country schoolmaster, settled in London as an author and press-reader in the Old Bailey, where on the 10th November, 1697, the great painter to be was born. Everybody knows how the child’s taste for art found its earliest expression in the eagerness with which he watched some poor artist at his work, and not less well known is the fact that he was the apprentice of a “silver plate engraver,” and afterwards devoted himself to engraving on copper coats of arms and ornamental headings for shop bills, creeping upwards from such “small beginnings” to more ambitious efforts, until at last he made a hit by illustrating ‘Hudibras,’ the commission for which, it is said, he owed to that successful caricature of his landlady to which I have previously referred. There were then in all London but two print-shops, and they dealt principally in foreign productions; so that it can be easily understood how, to eke out the shortcomings of his graver, Hogarth taught himself painting. Speaking long afterwards of this portion of his career, he said, “I could do littlemore than maintain myself till I was near thirty;” and added, “I remember the time when I have gone moping into the city with scarce a shilling, but as soon as I had obtained ten guineas there for a plate, I have returned home, put on my sword, and sallied forth again, with all the confidence of a man who had thousands in his pocket.”
At another time he sold to the print-seller, W. Bowles, some plates he had just finished, by weight at half-a-crown a pound avoirdupois; but even when Hogarth was a famous man, and, compared with his former state, a prosperous one, we find such pictures as “The Harlot’s Progress” and “The Rake’s Progress” selling at from fourteen to twenty-two guineas each picture, and “The Strolling Players” bought by Francis Beckford, Esq., for £27 6s.: but as he afterwards complained of that price as much too high, Hogarth took it back, and resold it for the same amount. “Marriage à la Mode,” after the artist had published engravings from the set of six paintings so called, realised £19 6s.In 1797 they were sold for £1381, and now form part of our national collection through the bequest of Mr. Angerstein. Another of his famous works, “March of the Guards to Finchley,” was more satisfactorily disposed of by lottery, and it was this fact that Hogarth referred to when he said, “A lottery is the only chance a living painter has of being paid for his time.” From that lottery sprang our modern art unions. It was of this picture, in a spirit of bitterness provoked by the poverty of his dear friend, its painter, that David Garrick wrote in a letter to Henry Fielding:—