IV.OLD M.P.S AND SOME OF THEIR SAYINGS.Somebody has said that, on making inquiry after a man you have not seen for a number of years, you may find him either in the hulks or in Parliament. This somebody evidently was a bit of a philosopher, who knew how to put the possibilities of human life in a nutshell. He understood that the same cause may have totally different effects: the same heat which softens lead hardens clay, the same abilities which may send a man to penal servitude may elevate him to the dignity of an M.P. And thus it happened that some queer people got into Parliament, which, no doubt, was the fact which gave rise to somebody's wise saw, and which was not to be wondered at in the good old days, before Reform and Corrupt Practices Prevention Acts, and similar humbugging interferences with the liberty of the subject, were dreamt of. In those good old days of rotten and pocket boroughs men had Parliamentary honours thrust upon themnolentes volentes. Thus, a noble lord, who owned several such boroughs, was asked by the returning officer whom he meant to nominate. Having no eligible candidate at hand, he named a waiter at White's Club, one Robert Mackreth; but, as he did not happen to be sure of the Christian name of his nominee, the election was declared to be void. Nothing daunted, his lordship persisted in his nomination. A fresh election was therefore held, when, the name of the waiter having been ascertained, he was returned as a matter of course, and Robert Mackreth, Esq., took his seat in St. Stephen's. This was possible in the days of Eldon and Perceval; in fact, in the early part of this century, 306 members, more than half of the House of Commons, were returned by 160 persons, and in 1830 it was admitted that, though there were men of ability in the Cabinet, such as Brougham, Lansdowne, Melbourne, Palmerston, the members of the House were 'persons of very narrow capacities, of small reputation for talent, and without influence with the people.'However, the Reform Bill was passed in 1832, and pocket boroughs were abolished. There had been thirty-seven places returning members with constituencies not exceeding fifty electors, and fourteen of those places had not more than twenty electors. There were three boroughs each containing only one £10 householder. One of the boroughs only paid in assessed taxes £3 9s., another £16 8s. 9d., a third £40 17s. 1d. But, luckily for the public, the Reform Bill did not abolish the fun of the flags, music, beer, and jokes of elections. The delicate attentions which could still be paid to candidates remained in full swing. Thus, we remember an election in the Isle of Wight: The father of one of the candidates for Parliamentary distinction, in the Conservative interest, had, in his youthful days, married a lady who, in a peripatetic manner, dealt in oysters. His rival, a Radical, paid him the compliment of sending him daily barrows and truck-loads of oyster-shells, which were, with his kind regards, discharged in front of the hotel where his committee was established, and from whose windows he addressed the electors. It was splendid fun, and calculated to impress the intelligent foreigner. It showed how highly the British public appreciated their elective franchise. Pleasantries had, indeed, always been the rule at election-time. When Fox, in 1802, canvassed Westminster, he asked a shopkeeper on the opposite side for his vote and interest, when the latter produced a halter, and said that was all he could give him. Fox thanked him, but said he could not think of depriving him of it, as no doubt it was a family relic. At an election at Norwich in 1875 the committee-room of the Conservative candidate was attacked, but the agent kept up the fire and had red-hot pokers ready, which, standing at the top of the stairs, he offered to his assailants, but they would not take them! In the same town the Liberals held a prayer-meeting, at which the Conservatives presented each man with one of Moody and Sankey's hymn-books, with something between the leaves. In fact, the Reform Bill had not made elections pure. William Roupell obtained his seat for Lambeth by the expenditure of £10,000, 'and,' said a man well able to judge of the truth of his assertion, 'if he were released from prison (to which he was sent for life for his forgeries) and would spend another £10,000, he would be re-elected, in spite of his having proved a criminal.'Money carried the day at elections. According to a speech made by Mr. Bright at Glasgow in 1866, a member had told him that his election had cost him £9,000 already, and that he had £3,000 more to pay. At a contest in North Shropshire in 1876, the expenses of the successful candidate, Mr. Stanley Leighton, amounted to £11,727, and of the defeated candidate, Mr. Mainwaring, to £10,688. At the General Election of 1880, in the county of Middlesex, the expenses of the successful candidates, Lord George Hamilton and Mr. Octavius Coope, were £11,506. The cost of the Gravesend election, and the petition which followed and unseated the candidate returned, was estimated at £20,000. But the most expensive contest ever known in electioneering was that for the representation of Yorkshire. The candidates were Viscount Milton, son of Earl Fitzwilliam, a Whig; the Hon. Henry Lascelles, son of Lord Harewood, a Tory; and William Wilberforce, in the Dissenting and Independent interest. The election was carried on for fifteen days, Mr. Wilberforce being at the head of the poll all the time. It terminated in his favour and in that of Lord Milton. The contest is said to have cost the parties near half a million pounds. The expenses of Wilberforce were defrayed by public subscription, more than double the sum being raised within a few days, and one moiety was afterwards returned to the subscribers. When Whitbread, the brewer, first opposed the Duke of Bedford's interest at Bedford, the Duke informed him that he would spend £50,000 rather than that he should come in. Whitbread replied that was nothing, the sale of his grains would pay for that. Now, John Elwes, the miser, knew better than that. Though worth half a million of money, he entered Parliament, by the interest of Lord Craven, at the expense of 1s. 6d., for which he had a dinner at Abingdon. From 1774 he sat for the next twelve years for Berkshire, his conduct being perfectly independent, and in his case there had been no bribery that could be brought home to him. He was a great gambler, and, after staking large sums all night, he would, in the morning, go to Smithfield to await the arrival of his cattle from his farms in Essex, and, if not arrived, would walk on to meet them. He wore a wig; if he found one thrown away into the gutter, he would appropriate and wear it. In those days members occasionally wore dress-swords at the House. One day a gentleman seated next to Elwes was rising to leave his place, and just at that moment Elwes bent forward, so that the point of the sword the gentleman wore came in contact with Elwes's wig, which it whisked off and carried away. The House was instantly in a roar of laughter, whilst the gentleman, unconscious of what he had done, calmly walked away, and Elwes after him to recover his wig, which looked as if it was one of those he had picked up in the gutter.Bribes were expected and given, as we have seen. Of course, the thing was not done openly. Tricks were practised, understood by all parties. The agent would sit in a room in an out-of-the-way place. A voter would come in; the agent would say, 'How are you to-day?' and hold up three fingers. 'I am not very well,' the answer would be, when the agent would accidentally hold up his hand, upon which the voter would say that he thought fresh air would do him good, and look out of the window as if examining the sky. In the meantime the agent would place five sovereigns on the table, and also go to look at the weather. His back being turned to the table, the voter would quietly slip the cash into his pocket, and, saying 'Good-morning,' take his departure. And how could any bribery be proved? But occasionally the people expecting bribes were nicely taken in. Lord Cochrane, when he first stood for Honiton, refused to give bribes, and the seat was secured by his opponent, who gave £5 for every vote. On this Cochrane sent the bellman round to announce that he would give to every one of the minority who had voted for him 10 guineas. At the next election no questions were asked, and Cochrane was returned by an overwhelming majority. Those who had voted for him then intimated that they expected some acknowledgment for their support. He declined to give a penny, and when he was reminded that, after the former election, he had given 10 guineas to every one of the minority, he coolly replied that this was for their disinterestedness in refusing his opponent's £5, and that to pay them now would be acting in violation of his principle not to bribe. And the disinterested voters marched off with faces as long as those of horses.The Reform Bill of 1832, which was highly objectionable to old-fashioned Conservatives, was accused by them of having introduced some very queer and curious members into the House. Through this Bill the bone-grubber, as Raike calls him, W. Cobbett, was returned for Oldham, and Brighton, under the very nose of the Court, returned two rampant Radicals, who openly talked of reducing the allowance made to the King and Queen. Nay, John Gully, a prize-fighter, was returned to the House for Pontefract, and was re-elected at the next election. He at one time kept the Plough Inn in Carey Street, which was pulled down just before the erection of the new Law Courts. Eventually he resigned his seat on account of ill-health, as he averred; but as he became a great patron of racing, and was a constant attendant at the various race-courses, his ill-health was probably only a pretence for quitting a sphere for which he felt himself unfit. On his first election the following epigram appeared against him:'If anyone ask why should Pontefract sullyIts name by returning to Parliament Gully,The etymological cause, I suppose, isHe's broken the bridges of so many noses.'Another member who may be reckoned among the curiosities who have sat in the House was William Roupell. He was the illegitimate son of Richard Palmer Roupell, a wealthy lead merchant, who invested a large sum in the purchase of land, to which he gave the name of the Roupell Park Estate. William was his favourite son, though he had other legitimate children; and it was not till a few days before his father's death that he learnt the secret of his own birth. The former had made a will, by which he left this property to William, on condition of his making annual payments to his brothers and sisters; but as this would have brought to light the forgeries he had already committed during his father's lifetime, to the amount of about £150,000, he, on his father's death, managed to get hold of the will, which eventually he destroyed, substituting a forged one, leaving all to his wife and William; and the latter quickly persuaded his mother to confer the greater part of the estates on him by deed of gift. He soon obtained the social position the great wealth he now possessed usually commands; he stood for Lambeth, and by the expenditure of £10,000, as already mentioned, he obtained the seat. But Roupell was not only a rogue, but a fool. By gambling and extravagance he soon ran through the fortune he had obtained by crooked means. Finding the detection of his crimes inevitable, he fled to Spain, but eventually returned, and gave himself up to justice, confessing the forgeries he had committed. Of course, the persons who had purchased property then became aware that the deeds by which they held it were worthless. The court considered his offences so serious that in 1862 it condemned him to penal servitude for life; but he was released after an imprisonment of fourteen years. In 1876 he left Portland a free man again. But it is with Roupell as a member of Parliament we are chiefly concerned. In that capacity he did not shine. He remained in the House long enough to prove that he was disqualified to represent a large borough like Lambeth. He took no part in the debates, nor did he appear to be able to grapple with and master any question connected with politics. Being asked one evening at the Horns, when meeting his constituents, why he did not speak in the House of Commons, he replied: 'Because I do not want to make a fool of myself.' Next morning theTimesmade merry with this confession. He was consequently regarded as a cipher, but he was supported by his supposed wealth. But soon suspicious murmurs began to be heard, and he prepared for his flight to Spain; and he decamped without making any application for the Chiltern Hundreds, so that for a considerable time his place in Parliament could not be filled up. Advertisements in Galignani apprised him of the omission, and at length the application was made. He did not meet with much pity, either from the public or the press; squibs without end appeared against him in the papers. We append a specimen of a short one:'Now, the Lambeth folks this wealthy gentAs their member did decide on,But little they knew he'd happened to doSome things he didn't oughter;For he'd forged a will and several deeds....'And the public said: "Well, this here RoupellHas got no more than he oughter."So there was an end of the wealthy gentAs was member from over the water.'Lambeth appears to have been unfortunate in the selection of its Parliamentary candidates. In 1852 the parochial party, wishing for a local man, formed themselves into a committee to secure the election of Mr. Joseph Harvey, of Lambeth House, a drapery establishment in the Westminster Bridge Road. Mr. Harvey had never taken an active part in public matters; his tastes lay not that way. He shrank from public life, and had no training or aptitude for addressing large meetings. However, he was forced forward; but when he spoke at the Horns—the speech was written for him by someone else—his total incapacity for the position thrust on him became so apparent that he gave up the contest, but not before he had afforded plenty of food to the squib-writers.Parliament is not above the use of nicknames, either by way of praise or in scorn. Cobbett's talent for fastening such names on anyone he disliked was very great. He invented 'Prosperity Robinson,' 'Æolus Canning,' 'Pink-nosed Liverpool,' 'unbaptized, buttonless blackguards,' or Quakers. Lord Yarmouth, from the colour of his whiskers, and from the place which gave him his title, was known as 'Red Herrings.' Lord Durham so often opposed his colleagues in the Cabinet that he was called the 'Dissenting Minister.' Thomas Duncombe was so popular that he was always spoken of as 'Honest' or 'Poor' Tom; his French friends called him 'Cher Tomie.' John Arthur Roebuck had a habit of bringing forward, in a startling way, facts he had got hold of, and thus raising opposition; and from a passage in a speech he made at the Cutlers' Feast, at Sheffield, in 1858, obtained the nickname of 'Tear 'em.' He had just paid a visit to Cherbourg, and returned home with feelings very unfriendly to the then ruler of France, to which he gave expression at the feast, excusing himself at the same time for using such language towards a neighbour by saying: 'The farmer who goes to sleep, having placed the watch-dog, Tear 'em, over his rick-yard, hears that dog bark. He bawls out of the window: "Down, Tear 'em, down!" And Tear 'em does not again disturb his sleep, till he is woke up by the strong blaze of his corn and hay ricks. I am Tear 'em. Beware! Cherbourg is a standing menace to England.' Michael Angelo Taylor was known by the sobriquet of 'Chicken' Taylor. On some points of law he had answered the great lawyer Bearcroft, but not without apologizing for his venturing, he being but a chicken in the law, on a fight with the cock of Westminster Hall. Charles Wynn was brother to Sir Watkin Wynn, and from a peculiarity in the utterances of the latter, and the shrillness of Charles's voice, the two went by the nicknames of 'Bubble and Squeak.' Sir Watkin was also known as 'Small Journal' Wynn, from his extensive knowledge of Parliamentary rule. William Cowper, falsely accused of having married a second wife whilst his first was still alive, was known as 'Will Bigamy.'Strangers formerly were not allowed to be present at the deliberations of the House; now they are admitted to the Strangers' Gallery, but never to the floor of the House. Yet sometimes there will be an intruder. Once Lord North, when speaking, was interrupted by the barking of a dog which had crept in. He turned round, and said: 'Mr. Speaker, I am interrupted by a new member.' The dog was driven out, but got in again, and recommenced barking, when Lord North, in his dry way, said: 'Spoke once.'We are near the limits of our space. Let us conclude with recording a few of the strange designations given to Parliaments. The Parliament de la Bonde was a Parliament in the reign of Edward II., to which the Barons came armed against the Spencers, with coloured bands, or 'bonds,' upon their sleeves, by way of distinction. The Diabolical Parliament was one held at Coventry in the thirty-eighth year of Henry VI.'s reign, and in which Edward, Earl of March, afterwards King, and several of the nobility, were attainted. The Unlearned Parliament, held at Coventry in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV., was so called by way of derision, because, by a special precept to the sheriffs in their several counties, no lawyers were to be admitted thereto. The Insane Parliament, which was held at Oxford in the forty-first year of the reign of Henry III., obtained this name from the extraordinary proceedings of the Lords, who came with great retinues of armed men, 'when contention grew very high, and many things were enacted contrary to the King's prerogative.' We might add to the list, but the gas is being turned off; sovale!V.FAMOUS OLD ACTORS.There is a boom just now in the theatrical world. New theatres are springing up, not only in London proper, but in all its suburbs, yet it is only history repeating itself. From 1570 to 1629 no less than seventeen playhouses had been built in London, and London then extended only from the Tower to Westminster, and from Oxford Street to Blackman Street in the Borough. The first London theatre was the Fortune,[#] opened about the year 1600, a large round, brick building between Whitecross Street and Golding—now Golden—Lane, which was burnt down on December 9, 1621. The town was then full of actors, for besides those playing at the various theatres, there were royal comedians. Many noblemen kept companies of players, nay, the lawyers acted in the Inns of Court, and there were actors of note among them. But the inevitable reaction ensued. Amidst the storms of the Revolution the stage was neglected. Even Shakespeare had to take a back-seat till Garrick brought him into fashion again, though it is chiefly to the learned and enthusiastic criticism and appreciation of German students of Shakespeare that the revival of his plays on the stage is due. His reputation was 'made in Germany,' and the Germans we have to thank for a Shakespeare who is presentable to a modern audience, which the original writer was not; his plays were only fit to be acted before the savages who delighted in bull and bear baiting. This estimate of the Shakespearian drama is not in accordance with the prevailing sentiment, but we have a right to our opinions and the courage to express them. However, this is only incidental to our theme, which deals more with actors and acting than with the plays they took parts in.[#] The Curtain is said to have been erected in 1570, on the site of the present Curtain Road, but the date is doubtful, and it was more of an inn than a playhouse.There is a general opinion abroad that the realistic play is of quite modern date, probably brought on the stage in 'L'Assommoir.' In a publication of July, 1797, I find it stated that 'our managers some time ago conceived it would be proper to introduce realities instead of fictions. Hence we have seen real horses and real bulls on the stage, gracing the triumphal entry of some hero. Hence, too, real water has been supplied in such quantities that Harlequin's leap into the sea would now really be no joke.... The introduction of water will, no doubt, facilitate the introduction of real sea-fights, provided we can get real admirals and seamen.' But the writer seems to have been oblivious of the fact that, in the middle of the last century, already the water of the New River had been carried under the flooring of Sadler's Wells Theatre, the boards being removed, for the exhibition of aquatic performances. And as to this century, long before the more recent realistic plays, we have seen in the sixties a real cab with a real horse brought on to the stage to give the heroine, who is about to elope, the opportunity of uttering the pun: 'Now, four-wheeler, wo!' (for weal or woe!). And a very good pun it is.The formation of the English drama is chiefly due to the 'Children of Paul,' or pupils of St. Paul's School, in those days nicknamed the 'Pigeons of St. Paul.' The dramatic celebrity of these juvenile performers goes back as far as the year 1378. Originally they confined themselves to 'moralities,' but in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, before whom they acted on various occasions, they appeared in the regular drama with considerable applause. They exhibited burlesque interludes and farcical comedies. Their schoolroom, which stood behind the Convocation House near St. Paul's, was their stage; but about the year 1580 the citizens, bent on driving all players out of the city, caused it to be removed. The plague had, as usual, caused great ravages in London, and it was thought that the actors were great means of spreading it, wherefore their performances were altogether prohibited. When the 'Children of Paul' performed out of their own premises, it was generally the Blackfriars Theatre they resorted to. When they performed in the school-house the admission was 2d. This charge was made to keep the company select, and according to a passage in 'Jacke Drum's Entertainment,' first printed in 1601, itwasselect:'SIR EDWARD: I saw the "Children of Paul's" last night, and troth, they pleased me prettie, prettie well. The apes in time will do it handsomely.'PLANET: I like the audience that frequenteth there with much applause. A man shall not be choked with the stench of garlick, nor be passed to the barmy jacket of a beer brewer.'The stage did not attain a dignified position till the time of Shakespeare. He and his fellow-actors—Burbage, Heminge, Condell, Taylor, Kemp, Sly—ennobled it, and since then the roll of English actors who have gained distinction on the boards is very long, and our limited space allows us to refer to but a few of them, and then only to some characteristic traits.Let us commence with a defence of Garrick's conduct towards Johnson. When the latter was preparing his edition of 'Shakespeare,' Garrick offered him the use of his choice library. But, entering the room, he found Johnson, according to his usual habit, pulling the books off the shelves, breaking their backs, more easily to read them, and throwing them carelessly on the floor. Garrick naturally grew very angry, for which he has been much abused, charged with 'having acted in abominably bad taste ... without any true gentlemanly feeling ... that knowing his friend's character ... Garrick ought to have been prepared for any slight unfavourable consequences. He ought to have known that much might be excused in so great a man,' etc. Now, this is most undeserved censure on a man of greater parts than Johnson ever could boast of. The only thing he ever wrote which will live is his Dictionary. As to his greatness, if unabashed bounce and a dictatorial jaw constitute greatness, he certainly, judging him by Bozzy's account, could lay claim to such. Garrick's generosity induced him to offer a bear the use of his books. Still, he had a right to expect that even a bear, who professed to admire and practise literature, would know how to treat books. But the bear remained a bear everywhere. He treated Mr. Thrale's books no better. But Garrick was generous in other ways. He was often visited at his villa, near Sunbury, by a gentleman with whom he used to have long and violent arguments on various matters, the visitor generally differing from, and contradicting, his host. One day Garrick, at the gentleman's request, readily lent him £100. Their discussions continued, but the visitor was no longer so violent in his arguments, nor did he contradict Garrick as he had done formerly. On one occasion, when Garrick had reintroduced an argument his friend had always violently combated, but now mildly conceded, Garrick, who liked a lively discussion, jumped up and exclaimed: 'Pay me my hundred pounds, or contradict me!' Garrick's generous nature broke forth in that exclamation, and he did not wish his friend to feel under an obligation. That his character was gentle and chivalrous is proved by the fact that his wife and he were considered the fondest pair ever known, though the lady was a woman with plenty of spirit. Her letter of remonstrance against Kean's Abel Drugger was brief: 'DEAR SIR,—You don't know how to play Abel Drugger.' To which Kean courteously, yet wittily, replied: 'DEAR MADAM,—I know it.' She must have been very sprightly, too, for when at the age of ninety-eight, and about two months before her death (November, 1822), she visited Westminster Abbey, she asked the clergyman who attended her if there would be room for her by the side of her David—'not,' she said, 'that I think I am likely soon to require it, for I am yet a mere girl!' She was a Viennese danseuse, Madame Violette, when Garrick married her, and Horace Walpole reports that it was whispered at the time that she had been sent over to England by no less a person than the Empress-Queen, Maria Theresa, to be out of the way of that somewhat jealous lady's husband. Apprehensive that he might be ridiculed for marrying a dancer, Garrick got some friend to satirize him publicly beforehand. But we have seen that the marriage turned out a very happy one. Garrick had been the pupil of Johnson, when the latter kept, or attempted to keep, a school near Lichfield, and he and his two fellow-pupils (he never had more than two) used to peep through the keyhole of his bedroom that they might turn into ridicule the doctor's awkward fondness for Mrs. Johnson, who was by many years her husband's senior, and elephantine in her figure, with swollen cheeks and a red complexion, produced by paint and the liberal use of cordials. In after-years Garrick used to exhibit her, by his exquisite talent of mimicry, so as to excite the heartiest bursts of laughter. This may seem ungenerous, but Johnson paid Garrick back in the same coin. Vexed at Garrick's great success in his profession, he made it his business always to express the greatest contempt for actors.Quin, the contemporary of Garrick, and his rival, was employed by Prince Frederick to instruct the Royal children in elocution, and when he was informed of the graceful manner in which George III. had delivered his first speech from the throne, he proudly said: 'Aye, it was I who taught the boy to speak.' Quin could be witty. Disputing concerning the execution of Charles I., and his opponent asking, 'But by what laws was he put to death?' Quin replied: 'By all the laws he had left them.' When playing at Bath, he was at an evening party, where the transmigration of souls was being discussed. A lady, remarkable for the whiteness of her neck and bust, asked him what animal he would wish to be transformed into. Quin, looking sharply at a fly then travelling over her white neck, with an arch glance at her, said: 'A fly!' On another occasion to Lady Berkeley, a celebrated beauty, he said: 'Why, your ladyship is looking as charming as the spring.' The season was spring, but the day was raw and cold, and Quin, seeing he had paid the lady but a poor compliment, corrected himself by adding: 'Or, rather, I wish the spring would look a little more like your ladyship.'In Clare Street, Clare Market, there is a public-house called the Sun. John Rich, the harlequin and lessee of the Duke's Theatre in Portugal Street (long since taken down), returning from the theatre in a hackney-coach, ordered to be driven to the Sun. On arriving there, he jumped out of the coach, and through the window into the public-house. The coachman thought his fare was a 'bilk'; but whilst he was still looking up and down the street, Rich again jumped into the coach, and told the driver to take him to another public-house. On reaching it, Rich offered to pay the coachman, but the latter refused the money, saying: 'No, none of your money, Mr. Devil; though you wear shoes, I can see your hoofs'; and he drove off as quickly as possible. The theatre called the Duke's Theatre, in Portugal Street, was rebuilt by Christopher Rich, the father of the above-mentioned John, but he died before the building was quite finished, and it was opened by John; and it is in this theatre that the modern stage took its rise, and here the earliest Shakespearian revivals took place. Quin was one of the performers there; and there the 'Beggar's Opera' was first produced, and acted on sixty-two nights in one season, causing the saying that it made Gay rich and Rich gay. The opera was written under the auspices of the Duchess of Queensberry, who agreed to indemnify Rich in all expenses if the daring speculation should fail.Rich, in 1731, built himself a new theatre—the Covent Garden Theatre—on a site granted by the Duke of Bedford, at a ground-rent of £100 per annum. When a new lease was granted, in 1792, the ground-rent was raised to £940 per annum. When Thomas Killigrew was manager of the theatre in Bear Yard, Clare Market, he was a great favourite with Charles II. This King at times showed great indifference to the business of the State, and refused to attend the Council. One day, when he had been long expected, Lord Lauderdale went to his apartments, but was refused admission. His lordship complained to Nell Gwynne, upon which she wagered him £100 that the King would that evening attend the Council. Then she sent for Killigrew, and asked him to dress as if for a journey, and to enter the King's rooms without ceremony, with further instructions what he was to do then. As soon as the King saw him, he said:'What, Killigrew! Where are you going? Did I not give orders that I was not to be disturbed?''I don't mind your orders, and I am going as fast as I can.''Why, where are you going?''To hell,' replied the jester in a sepulchral tone.'What are you going to do there?' asked the King, laughing.'To fetch back Oliver Cromwell, to take some care of the national affairs, for I am sure your Majesty takes none.'And the King went to the Council.Another famous comedian of that day was Joe Haines, who was an Oxford M.A., but a scamp of the first order, who managed to cheat even the rector of the Jesuit College in Paris out of £40 by a pretended note from the Duke of Monmouth. Not long after, meeting with a simple-minded clergyman, he told him that he was one of the patentees of Drury Lane, and appointed him his chaplain, instructing him at the same time to go to the theatre with a large bell, to ring it, and call out: 'Players, come to prayers!' Which the clergyman did, till he found he had been hoaxed. In the reign of James II., this Haines turned Roman Catholic, and told Sunderland that the Virgin Mary had appeared, and said to him: 'Joe, arise!' To this Sunderland dryly replied that she should have said 'Joseph,' if only out of respect for her husband.The greatest actor at the time of Charles II. was undoubtedly Thomas Betterton. He joined the company of Sir William Davenant in 1662. Pepys frequently went to see him. In those days the pay of actors was not what it is now; Betterton, in spite of the position he held in public estimation, never had more than £5 a week, including £1, by way of pension, to his wife, who retired in 1694. In 1709 he took a benefit, at which the money taken at the doors was £75, but he received also more than £450 in complimentary guineas; and in the following year he had another benefit, by which he netted about £1,000. Of course, according to modern notions, these are but small receipts; but they are better than what seems to have been the standard of theatrical payments in 1511—judging from a bill of that year, without name of place where the acting took place, but which states that it was performed on the feast of St. Margaret (July 20). According to legend, the devil, in the shape of a dragon, swallowed St. Margaret, but she speedily made her escape, and was thus considered to possess great powers of assisting women in childbirth. The bill runs thus:'To musicians, for three nights, £0 5s. 6d.; for players in bread and ale, £0 3s. 1d.; for decorations, dresses, and play-books, £1 0s. 0d.; to John Hobbard, priest, and author of the piece, £0 2s. 8d.; for the place in which the presentation was held, £0 1s. 0d.; for furniture, £0 1s. 4d.; for fish and bread, £0 0s. 4d.; for painting three phantoms and devils, £0 0s. 6d.; and for four chickens for the hero, £0 0s. 4d.' We see here the author received only 2s. 8d. for writing the play. Matters have improved since then; Sheridan realized £3,000 by the sale of his altered play of 'Pizarro.' In the early part of this century authors of successful pieces received from the theatre from £250 to £500, and from the purchaser of the copyright for publication from £100 to £400. Then actors received £80 a week; favourite performers—stars, as we should now call them—were paid £50 a night. Actors have at times found very generous friends. When, in 1808, Covent Garden Theatre, then under the management of John P. Kemble, was burnt down, the loss was immense, and the insurances did not exceed £50,000. The then Duke of Northumberland offered Kemble the sum of £10,000 as a loan on his simple bond. The offer was accepted, and the bond given. On the day appointed for laying the first stone, the bond was returned cancelled!Italian opera-singers have made large fortunes in England. When Owen McSwiney was lessee of the Haymarket, circa 1708, he engaged one Nicolini, a Neapolitan, who really was a splendid actor and a magnificent-looking man, with a voice which won universal admiration, at a salary of eight hundred guineas for the season—at that time an enormous sum. Nicolini left the stage in 1712, and returned to Italy, where he built himself a fine villa, which, as a testimony of his gratitude to the nation which enriched him, he called the English Folly. In 1721 a company of French comedians occupied the Haymarket, to the disgust of native actors. Aaron Hill, the dramatic author and opera-manager, consequently had occasion to write to John Rich: 'I suppose you know that the Duke of Montague and I have agreed that I am to have that house half the week, and the "French vermin" the other half.' International courtesies were at some discount at the time!A few theatrical anecdotes may close these lucubrations. Actors sometimes are strangely affected by their own parts. Betterton, although his countenance was ruddy, when he performed Hamlet, through the violent and sudden emotion of horror at the presence of his father's spectre, instantly turned as white as his collar, whilst his whole body was affected by a strong tremor. When Booth the first time attempted the ghost, when Betterton acted Hamlet, that actor's look at him struck him with such horror that he became disconcerted to such a degree that he could not speak his part. Of Mrs. Siddons, it was said that by the force of fancy and reflection, she used to be so wrought up in preparing to play Lady Constance in 'King John,' that, when she set out from her own house to the theatre, she was already Constance herself.Smith—better known as 'Gentleman Smith'—married a sister of Lord Sandwich. For some time the union was kept concealed, but an apt quotation of Charles Bannister elicited the truth:'"Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague!"' said Bannister, when Foote bantered Smith on the subject. The latter was not proof against the sally, and acknowledged the marriage. 'Well,' said Bannister, 'I rejoice that you have got a Sandwich from the family; but if ever you get a dinner from them, I'll be hanged.' The prophecy proved true.Michael Kelly was an English opera-singer, a musical composer, and at one time Sheridan's manager at Drury Lane. He then went into the wine trade, when Sheridan advised him to put over his door: 'Michael Kelly, composer of wine, and importer of music.'VI.OLD JUDGES AND SOME OF THEIR SAYINGS.When I was a little boy I drew most of my notions of life and mankind from the picture-books for my use and instruction. I thought that Kings and Queens wore their crowns and sceptres all day long, and took them to bed with them, for I had thus seen them in the pictures in the books. One engraving, I remember, I saw of a severe-looking gentleman, who had thrown a gray doormat over his head, and sat behind a little desk everlastingly writing away with an enormous quill pen. It was this quill pen which specially riveted my attention. I was always given a steel pen in my writing-lessons. Why not a quill? I asked my mother who the man was, and was told he was a judge, and that what I took for a door-mat was a wig which he wore to look dignified, and the great weight of which was, moreover, intended to prevent his great legal learning from evaporating through the pores of his skull, which was bald, but compelled it to come out through his mouth only.He used a quill pen to take notes of what was said by the parties contending before him, because that, being a natural production, could not possibly tell lies, whereas a steel pen, as an artificial contrivance, could not be depended on for veracity; wherefore, in all law proceedings, even at the lowest police court, quill pens only could be used, for the law on morality and public policy grounds strongly objects to lies; it is itself so truthful! Of course, I believed all my mother told me; children are so easy of belief if you only look serious when you tell them crammers. But I know better now, and crowns no longer represent to me sovereignty, nor wigs wisdom. Of another delusion, too, I have been cured. When I was a young man I was told that English law was the perfection of human wisdom. I believed this then, for I was only a bigger child without experience. But when I arrived at years of discretion—that is, when I began to observe and reflect—I could come to no other conclusion than that the axiom of the law's wisdom was a delusion. There are many ways of proving this, but one argument presents itself, which renders all further proofs unnecessary. Can a code which comprises a number of laws, the interpretation of whose import is liable to be declared by one judge to mean 'Yes,' whilst another as positively maintains it means 'No,' be called the perfection of human wisdom? The ever-growing frequency of appeals alone is sufficient to show that the existing laws are ambiguous in expression, and lend themselves to the idiosyncrasies of every individual judge, which is very far from perfection. Laws should be as precise in their definitions as mathematical formulæ. To substantiate my reasoning, let me quote an actual case: Some twelve or thirteen years ago, the captain of a cargo steamer belonging to a London firm, while loading maize at Odessa, signed bills of lading which were ante-dated. Between the false date and the real one, a few days after, of loading, there was a considerable fall in the price of maize, and the consignees, who were the sufferers by it, brought an action against the owners of the steamer, they—the consignees—having discovered the ante-dating, and recovered £437 damages, which the shipowners paid. On the captain's return to England, he made a claim of £190 for wages, which claim was admitted by the firm, but they set up a counter-claim for the damages they had had to pay to the consignees, through the captain's negligence and breach of duty in signing the ante-dated bills. The case went to trial before Mr. Justice Field and a jury, and was decided in the captain's favour, both as to his wages and the counter-claim. The owners appealed, and the Divisional Court, consisting of Grove, Denman, and Wills, ordered the judgment to be set aside, and a new trial granted. The Appeal Court ordered the original judgment in favour of the captain to be restored. The owners then took the cause into the House of Lords, where Lords Watson, Blackburn, and Fitzgerald restored the order of the Divisional Court in favour of the owners, with all the costs they had incurred. Now, here was a case of breach of duty as plain as it could be, yet it took four trials, the costs amounting to about £4,000, to decide the question. This is but one of a hundred similar cases which might be cited. With what wisdom can laws be framed which can give rise to so many judicial contradictory decisions? And the fault of this lies not with the judges, but with the legislators, whose only wisdom seems to consist in surrounding plain matter-of-fact with a network of sophistry, chicanery, and hair-splitting subtleties—a system which is constantly regretted by the judges themselves, who are ever ready to warn the public against indulgence in litigation, for English judges, as a rule, are straightforward, honourable men, who are inclined to take common-sense and impartial views, except when a political or theological bias gives a twist to their judgment. Nor can it be left out of our consideration that men educated in the legal schools of the Inns of Court, and by teachers strongly impressed with the dignity and importance of their pursuit, should adhere to it with cast-iron rigidity, thus opposing, as much as possible, the introduction of new, and in their estimation, revolutionary and destructive opinions. It is due to this adherence to, and maintenance of, the principles of a barbarous and an arbitrary regime that the judges still possess the tremendous power of committing for contempt of court any person who may make a remark displeasing to them, however innocently that remark may have been made. Years ago I defended an action brought against me by a tradesman for certain goods he alleged he had supplied me with. The action was tried in a County Court. The plaintiff made his statement, which introduced several particulars which were as new to me as they were false. But my solicitor whom I had brought with me could not know they were so. I turned towards the judge, and stated that I could prove in two minutes that there was not a word of truth in the plaintiff's statements. But the judge turned quite savagely towards me, saying:'You must not speak to me. You have your solicitor here.''But,' I replied, 'my solicitor cannot know that these assertions are false!''Be silent!' thundered the judge. 'If you say another word I shall commit you for contempt.'Of course I said no more, but, like the parrot, thought a lot. I knew that a judge, a mere County Court judge, who passes his life amidst the most sordid and depressing scenes of wretchedness, had the power of sending me to prison, and to keep me there till I made the most abject apology for a speech which was never intended to be offensive. Persons have been kept in prison for twenty years by the mere order of a judge, who was plaintiff, jury, and judge in every such case. This is scarcely in accordance with our ideas of justice. But this relic of a barbarous age will be abolished in time, as the Courts of Doctors' Commons, or the Palace Court, where a number of sleepy old gentlemen'Were sittin' at their ease,A-sendin' of their writs about,And drorin' in their fees,'have been abolished. And there is no doubt that our modern judges are superior in talent, adroitness, and acuteness to those of former days. They are men of high-breeding, combining in their characteristics those of the courtier and of the lawyer. Judges of the past were different; in fact, some of the old judges were noted for their eccentricities. Lord Thurlow was one of them. When he was still an aspirant for forensic fame, he was one evening at Nando's Coffee-house—now a hairdresser's shop, opposite Chancery Lane, falsely called the palace of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. Arguing keenly about a celebrated case then before the courts, he was heard by some lawyers, who were so pleased with his handling of the matter that next day they appointed him junior counsel, and the cause won him a silk gown. This was in 1754. It is asserted that he was singularly ugly, and that when his portrait was shown to Lavater, the physiognomist said: 'Whether that man is on earth or in another place, which shall be nameless, I know not; but wherever he is, he is a born tyrant, and will rule if he can.' And the opinion thus formed was a correct one, for Lord Thurlow was fierce and overbearing as a statesman, and was more feared than any other member of the Cabinet. In 1778 he had become Lord Chancellor, and been raised to the Peerage. His ugliness must have been a fact, for the Duke of Norfolk, who had at Arundel Castle a fine breed of owls, named one of them, on account of its ugliness, Lord Thurlow. Great fun was caused by a messenger coming to the Duke in the Lobby of the House of Peers with the news that Lord Thurlow had laid an egg.In 1785 Lord Thurlow purchased Brockwell Green Farm, and other lands in the neighbourhood of Dulwich and Norwood, and chose Knight's Hill as a suitable site for a house. The house was finished, but Lord Thurlow considered it too dear—it is said to have cost £30,000—and would never live in it, but remained in a smaller house, called Knight's Hill Farm. As he was coming from the Queen's Drawing-room, a lady asked him when he was going into his new house. 'Madam,' he replied, 'the Queen has just asked me that impudent question, and, as I would not tell her, I will not tell you.' Both the mansion and the farmhouse disappeared long ago.The romantic marriage of Lord Eldon, then plain Mr. John Scott, of the Northern Circuit, forms a pleasant episode in legal history. Bessie Surtees was the daughter of Aubone Surtees, a banker and gentleman of honourable descent at Newcastle. Scott had met and danced with her at the assemblies in that town, and his pretensions were at first favoured by her family; but Sir William Blackett, a patrician but aged suitor, presenting himself, Bessie was urged to throw over Scott and become Lady Blackett. But Bessie was faithful, and one night descended from a window into her lover's arms, and they were married at Blackshiels, North Britain. The future Lord Eldon came to London with his young and pretty wife, and settled in a humble, small house in Cursitor Street. Their housekeeping at first must have been on a somewhat restricted scale, for Lord Eldon, in after-life, used to relate that, in those days, he frequently ran into Clare Market for sixpennyworth of sprats. It was probably owing to these privations in the early days of their married life that her husband had afterwards to complain of her stinginess and her repugnance to society. In fact, she seems to have ruled him rather sternly, for we read of his often stealing into the George Coffee House, at the top of the Haymarket, to get a pint of wine, as Lady Eldon did not permit him to enjoy it in peace at home. Cyrus Redding, who tells us this, did not like Eldon either as a Tory or as a man. 'His words,' he writes, 'were no index to his real feelings. He had a sterile soul for all things earthly, except money, doubts, and the art of drawing briefs.'Cyrus Joy, who was present at the funeral of Lord Gifford, who was buried in the Rolls Chapel, relates that Lord Eldon and Lord Chief Justice Abbott were placed in a pew by themselves, and that he saw Lord Eldon, who was very shaky during the most solemn part of the service, touch the Chief Justice, evidently for his snuff-box, for the box was produced, and he took a large pinch of snuff, but the moment he had taken it he threw it away. 'I was astonished,' says Joy, 'at the deception practised by so great a man, with the grave yawning before him.' Whilst Lord Eldon held the Great Seal, in 1812, a fire occurred at Encombe, his country seat in Dorsetshire. As soon as it broke out, Lord Eldon buried the Seal in the garden whilst the engine played on the burning house. All the men-servants were helping to supply it with water. 'It was,' wrote Lord Eldon, 'a very pretty sight, for all the maids turned out of their beds, and formed a line from the water to the fire-engine, handing the buckets. They looked very pretty, all in their shifts.' When the fire was subdued, Lord Eldon had forgotten where he had buried the Seal, and all the gardeners and maids who had looked so pretty by firelight were set to work to dig up the garden till the Seal was found. Lord Eldon could be very rude at times. He and the Archbishop dined with George III., when he said: 'It is a curious fact that your Majesty's Archbishop and your Lord Chancellor married clandestinely. I had some excuse, certainly, for Bessie Surtees was the prettiest girl in all Newcastle; but Mrs. Sutton was always the same pumpkin-faced thing that she is at present.' The King was much amused, as we are told.Lord Eldon's brother, Sir William Scott, had a strange matrimonial experience. His brother eloped with a man's daughter, and thus entered the wedded state somewhat illegally. Sir William may be said to have entered it, in the true sense of the word, legally—that is, as a result of his legal status. He and Lord Ellenborough presided at the Old Bailey at the trial of the young Marquis of Sligo for having, while in the Mediterranean, lured into his yacht two of the King's sailors, for which offence he was fined £5,000, and sentenced to four months' imprisonment in Newgate. Throughout the trial his mother sat in the court, hoping that her presence would rouse in the bench or the jury feelings favourable to her son. When the above sentence was pronounced, Sir William accompanied it by a long moral jobation on the duties of a citizen. The Marchioness sent a paper full of satirical thanks to Sir William for his good advice to her son. Sir William read it as he sat on the bench, and, having looked towards the lady, received from her a glance and a smile which sealed his fate. Within four months he was tied fast (on April 10, 1813) to a voluble, shrill termagant, who rendered him miserable and contemptible. He removed to his wife's house in Grafton Street, and, ever economical in his domestic expenses, brought with him his own door-plate from Doctor's Commons, and placed it under the pre-existing plate of Lady Sligo. Jekyll, the punster of the day, condoled with Sir William at having to 'knock under.' Sir William had the plates transposed.'You see, I don't knock under now,' he said to Jekyll.'Not now,' replied the punster; 'now you knock up.'This was said with reference to his advanced age.Lord Erskine, another famous judge, when dining one day at the house of Sir Ralph Payne, afterwards Lord Lavington, found himself so indisposed as to be obliged to retire after dinner to another room. When he returned to the company, Lady Payne asked how he found himself. Erskine took out a piece of paper and wrote on it:''Tis true I am ill, but I cannot complain,For he never knew pleasure who never knew Payne.'After he had ceased to hold the Seals as Lord Chancellor—and the time he held the office was one year only—he met Captain Parry at dinner, and asked him what he and his crew lived on in the Frozen Sea. Parry replied that they lived on seals. 'And capital things too, seals are, if you only keep them long enough,' was Erskine's reply. Being invited to attend the Ministerial fish dinner at Greenwich when he was Chancellor, 'To be sure,' he answered; 'what would your dinner be without the Great Seal?' When Erskine lived at Hampstead he was asked at a dinner-party he attended, 'The soil is not the best in that part of Hampstead where your seat is?' 'No,' he answered, 'very bad; for though my grandfather was buried there as an Earl near a hundred years ago, what has sprouted from it since but a mere Baron?' Erskine married when very young, and had four sons and four daughters. When a widower and getting old he married a second time, and his latter days were passed in a state bordering on indigence. He died in 1823, in poverty. On July 17, 1826, a woman, poorly dressed, was brought before the Lord Mayor by a chimney-sweep as a person deserving assistance. The woman, being interrogated, declared herself to be Lady Erskine. The Lord Mayor conducted her into his private room, where he heard her sad story. She had lived with Lord Erskine several years before he married her, which he did in Scotland, whereby their children (four) were legitimatized. His death left her destitute, though she had been promised a pension from Government of twelve shillings a week, which had been paid very irregularly, and finally withdrawn altogether, because she would not be parted from her youngest child. The others had been taken care of by Government. She had for years endeavoured to maintain herself by female labour, but now she was totally destitute and actually starving. The Lord Mayor liberally supplied her present wants, and promised to intercede for her with Government, with what result we have been unable to ascertain. It was Mr. H. Erskine, brother of Lord Erskine, who, after being presented to Dr. Johnson by Boswell, slipped a shilling into the latter's hand, whispering that it was for showing him his bear. Erskine could mould a jury at his pleasure, yet in Parliament he was not successful as an orator. But when pleading he was always ready with repartee. Once, when insisting on the validity of an argument before Lord Mansfield, the latter said: 'I disproved it before you were born!' 'Yes, my Lord,' replied Erskine, 'because I was not born.' Lord Erskine owned that the most discreditable passage in his life was his becoming Lord Chancellor. Some other judges seem to have had no faith in their own works. Lord Campbell was seated one day next to Chief Baron Pollock, when they were both Members of the House of Commons, and said: 'Pollock, we lawyers receive the highest wages of an infamous profession.'Sir Nicholas Bacon was so learned in the law that he was appointed attorney in the Court of Wards, and made a Privy Councillor and Keeper of the Great Seal under Elizabeth. When the Queen visited him at Redgrave, she observed, alluding to his corpulence, that he had built the house too little for himself. 'Not so, madam,' he answered; 'but your Majesty has made me too big for my house.' A man was brought before Sir Nicholas accused of a crime which, under the Draconian laws then in force, involved the penalty of death. He was found guilty, and, asked whether he had anything to say for himself, appealed to the judge's compassion, seeing that he was a kind of relation to him, his name being Hogg. 'True,' replied Bacon; 'but Hog is not Bacon till it's hung.' And hung, or hanged, to speak correctly, he was, and thus did not save his bacon. But the jest was a cruel one.
IV.
OLD M.P.S AND SOME OF THEIR SAYINGS.
Somebody has said that, on making inquiry after a man you have not seen for a number of years, you may find him either in the hulks or in Parliament. This somebody evidently was a bit of a philosopher, who knew how to put the possibilities of human life in a nutshell. He understood that the same cause may have totally different effects: the same heat which softens lead hardens clay, the same abilities which may send a man to penal servitude may elevate him to the dignity of an M.P. And thus it happened that some queer people got into Parliament, which, no doubt, was the fact which gave rise to somebody's wise saw, and which was not to be wondered at in the good old days, before Reform and Corrupt Practices Prevention Acts, and similar humbugging interferences with the liberty of the subject, were dreamt of. In those good old days of rotten and pocket boroughs men had Parliamentary honours thrust upon themnolentes volentes. Thus, a noble lord, who owned several such boroughs, was asked by the returning officer whom he meant to nominate. Having no eligible candidate at hand, he named a waiter at White's Club, one Robert Mackreth; but, as he did not happen to be sure of the Christian name of his nominee, the election was declared to be void. Nothing daunted, his lordship persisted in his nomination. A fresh election was therefore held, when, the name of the waiter having been ascertained, he was returned as a matter of course, and Robert Mackreth, Esq., took his seat in St. Stephen's. This was possible in the days of Eldon and Perceval; in fact, in the early part of this century, 306 members, more than half of the House of Commons, were returned by 160 persons, and in 1830 it was admitted that, though there were men of ability in the Cabinet, such as Brougham, Lansdowne, Melbourne, Palmerston, the members of the House were 'persons of very narrow capacities, of small reputation for talent, and without influence with the people.'
However, the Reform Bill was passed in 1832, and pocket boroughs were abolished. There had been thirty-seven places returning members with constituencies not exceeding fifty electors, and fourteen of those places had not more than twenty electors. There were three boroughs each containing only one £10 householder. One of the boroughs only paid in assessed taxes £3 9s., another £16 8s. 9d., a third £40 17s. 1d. But, luckily for the public, the Reform Bill did not abolish the fun of the flags, music, beer, and jokes of elections. The delicate attentions which could still be paid to candidates remained in full swing. Thus, we remember an election in the Isle of Wight: The father of one of the candidates for Parliamentary distinction, in the Conservative interest, had, in his youthful days, married a lady who, in a peripatetic manner, dealt in oysters. His rival, a Radical, paid him the compliment of sending him daily barrows and truck-loads of oyster-shells, which were, with his kind regards, discharged in front of the hotel where his committee was established, and from whose windows he addressed the electors. It was splendid fun, and calculated to impress the intelligent foreigner. It showed how highly the British public appreciated their elective franchise. Pleasantries had, indeed, always been the rule at election-time. When Fox, in 1802, canvassed Westminster, he asked a shopkeeper on the opposite side for his vote and interest, when the latter produced a halter, and said that was all he could give him. Fox thanked him, but said he could not think of depriving him of it, as no doubt it was a family relic. At an election at Norwich in 1875 the committee-room of the Conservative candidate was attacked, but the agent kept up the fire and had red-hot pokers ready, which, standing at the top of the stairs, he offered to his assailants, but they would not take them! In the same town the Liberals held a prayer-meeting, at which the Conservatives presented each man with one of Moody and Sankey's hymn-books, with something between the leaves. In fact, the Reform Bill had not made elections pure. William Roupell obtained his seat for Lambeth by the expenditure of £10,000, 'and,' said a man well able to judge of the truth of his assertion, 'if he were released from prison (to which he was sent for life for his forgeries) and would spend another £10,000, he would be re-elected, in spite of his having proved a criminal.'
Money carried the day at elections. According to a speech made by Mr. Bright at Glasgow in 1866, a member had told him that his election had cost him £9,000 already, and that he had £3,000 more to pay. At a contest in North Shropshire in 1876, the expenses of the successful candidate, Mr. Stanley Leighton, amounted to £11,727, and of the defeated candidate, Mr. Mainwaring, to £10,688. At the General Election of 1880, in the county of Middlesex, the expenses of the successful candidates, Lord George Hamilton and Mr. Octavius Coope, were £11,506. The cost of the Gravesend election, and the petition which followed and unseated the candidate returned, was estimated at £20,000. But the most expensive contest ever known in electioneering was that for the representation of Yorkshire. The candidates were Viscount Milton, son of Earl Fitzwilliam, a Whig; the Hon. Henry Lascelles, son of Lord Harewood, a Tory; and William Wilberforce, in the Dissenting and Independent interest. The election was carried on for fifteen days, Mr. Wilberforce being at the head of the poll all the time. It terminated in his favour and in that of Lord Milton. The contest is said to have cost the parties near half a million pounds. The expenses of Wilberforce were defrayed by public subscription, more than double the sum being raised within a few days, and one moiety was afterwards returned to the subscribers. When Whitbread, the brewer, first opposed the Duke of Bedford's interest at Bedford, the Duke informed him that he would spend £50,000 rather than that he should come in. Whitbread replied that was nothing, the sale of his grains would pay for that. Now, John Elwes, the miser, knew better than that. Though worth half a million of money, he entered Parliament, by the interest of Lord Craven, at the expense of 1s. 6d., for which he had a dinner at Abingdon. From 1774 he sat for the next twelve years for Berkshire, his conduct being perfectly independent, and in his case there had been no bribery that could be brought home to him. He was a great gambler, and, after staking large sums all night, he would, in the morning, go to Smithfield to await the arrival of his cattle from his farms in Essex, and, if not arrived, would walk on to meet them. He wore a wig; if he found one thrown away into the gutter, he would appropriate and wear it. In those days members occasionally wore dress-swords at the House. One day a gentleman seated next to Elwes was rising to leave his place, and just at that moment Elwes bent forward, so that the point of the sword the gentleman wore came in contact with Elwes's wig, which it whisked off and carried away. The House was instantly in a roar of laughter, whilst the gentleman, unconscious of what he had done, calmly walked away, and Elwes after him to recover his wig, which looked as if it was one of those he had picked up in the gutter.
Bribes were expected and given, as we have seen. Of course, the thing was not done openly. Tricks were practised, understood by all parties. The agent would sit in a room in an out-of-the-way place. A voter would come in; the agent would say, 'How are you to-day?' and hold up three fingers. 'I am not very well,' the answer would be, when the agent would accidentally hold up his hand, upon which the voter would say that he thought fresh air would do him good, and look out of the window as if examining the sky. In the meantime the agent would place five sovereigns on the table, and also go to look at the weather. His back being turned to the table, the voter would quietly slip the cash into his pocket, and, saying 'Good-morning,' take his departure. And how could any bribery be proved? But occasionally the people expecting bribes were nicely taken in. Lord Cochrane, when he first stood for Honiton, refused to give bribes, and the seat was secured by his opponent, who gave £5 for every vote. On this Cochrane sent the bellman round to announce that he would give to every one of the minority who had voted for him 10 guineas. At the next election no questions were asked, and Cochrane was returned by an overwhelming majority. Those who had voted for him then intimated that they expected some acknowledgment for their support. He declined to give a penny, and when he was reminded that, after the former election, he had given 10 guineas to every one of the minority, he coolly replied that this was for their disinterestedness in refusing his opponent's £5, and that to pay them now would be acting in violation of his principle not to bribe. And the disinterested voters marched off with faces as long as those of horses.
The Reform Bill of 1832, which was highly objectionable to old-fashioned Conservatives, was accused by them of having introduced some very queer and curious members into the House. Through this Bill the bone-grubber, as Raike calls him, W. Cobbett, was returned for Oldham, and Brighton, under the very nose of the Court, returned two rampant Radicals, who openly talked of reducing the allowance made to the King and Queen. Nay, John Gully, a prize-fighter, was returned to the House for Pontefract, and was re-elected at the next election. He at one time kept the Plough Inn in Carey Street, which was pulled down just before the erection of the new Law Courts. Eventually he resigned his seat on account of ill-health, as he averred; but as he became a great patron of racing, and was a constant attendant at the various race-courses, his ill-health was probably only a pretence for quitting a sphere for which he felt himself unfit. On his first election the following epigram appeared against him:
'If anyone ask why should Pontefract sullyIts name by returning to Parliament Gully,The etymological cause, I suppose, isHe's broken the bridges of so many noses.'
'If anyone ask why should Pontefract sullyIts name by returning to Parliament Gully,The etymological cause, I suppose, isHe's broken the bridges of so many noses.'
'If anyone ask why should Pontefract sully
Its name by returning to Parliament Gully,
The etymological cause, I suppose, is
He's broken the bridges of so many noses.'
Another member who may be reckoned among the curiosities who have sat in the House was William Roupell. He was the illegitimate son of Richard Palmer Roupell, a wealthy lead merchant, who invested a large sum in the purchase of land, to which he gave the name of the Roupell Park Estate. William was his favourite son, though he had other legitimate children; and it was not till a few days before his father's death that he learnt the secret of his own birth. The former had made a will, by which he left this property to William, on condition of his making annual payments to his brothers and sisters; but as this would have brought to light the forgeries he had already committed during his father's lifetime, to the amount of about £150,000, he, on his father's death, managed to get hold of the will, which eventually he destroyed, substituting a forged one, leaving all to his wife and William; and the latter quickly persuaded his mother to confer the greater part of the estates on him by deed of gift. He soon obtained the social position the great wealth he now possessed usually commands; he stood for Lambeth, and by the expenditure of £10,000, as already mentioned, he obtained the seat. But Roupell was not only a rogue, but a fool. By gambling and extravagance he soon ran through the fortune he had obtained by crooked means. Finding the detection of his crimes inevitable, he fled to Spain, but eventually returned, and gave himself up to justice, confessing the forgeries he had committed. Of course, the persons who had purchased property then became aware that the deeds by which they held it were worthless. The court considered his offences so serious that in 1862 it condemned him to penal servitude for life; but he was released after an imprisonment of fourteen years. In 1876 he left Portland a free man again. But it is with Roupell as a member of Parliament we are chiefly concerned. In that capacity he did not shine. He remained in the House long enough to prove that he was disqualified to represent a large borough like Lambeth. He took no part in the debates, nor did he appear to be able to grapple with and master any question connected with politics. Being asked one evening at the Horns, when meeting his constituents, why he did not speak in the House of Commons, he replied: 'Because I do not want to make a fool of myself.' Next morning theTimesmade merry with this confession. He was consequently regarded as a cipher, but he was supported by his supposed wealth. But soon suspicious murmurs began to be heard, and he prepared for his flight to Spain; and he decamped without making any application for the Chiltern Hundreds, so that for a considerable time his place in Parliament could not be filled up. Advertisements in Galignani apprised him of the omission, and at length the application was made. He did not meet with much pity, either from the public or the press; squibs without end appeared against him in the papers. We append a specimen of a short one:
'Now, the Lambeth folks this wealthy gentAs their member did decide on,But little they knew he'd happened to doSome things he didn't oughter;For he'd forged a will and several deeds....'And the public said: "Well, this here RoupellHas got no more than he oughter."So there was an end of the wealthy gentAs was member from over the water.'
'Now, the Lambeth folks this wealthy gentAs their member did decide on,But little they knew he'd happened to doSome things he didn't oughter;For he'd forged a will and several deeds....
'Now, the Lambeth folks this wealthy gent
As their member did decide on,
As their member did decide on,
But little they knew he'd happened to do
Some things he didn't oughter;
Some things he didn't oughter;
For he'd forged a will and several deeds....
'And the public said: "Well, this here RoupellHas got no more than he oughter."So there was an end of the wealthy gentAs was member from over the water.'
'And the public said: "Well, this here Roupell
Has got no more than he oughter."
Has got no more than he oughter."
So there was an end of the wealthy gent
As was member from over the water.'
As was member from over the water.'
Lambeth appears to have been unfortunate in the selection of its Parliamentary candidates. In 1852 the parochial party, wishing for a local man, formed themselves into a committee to secure the election of Mr. Joseph Harvey, of Lambeth House, a drapery establishment in the Westminster Bridge Road. Mr. Harvey had never taken an active part in public matters; his tastes lay not that way. He shrank from public life, and had no training or aptitude for addressing large meetings. However, he was forced forward; but when he spoke at the Horns—the speech was written for him by someone else—his total incapacity for the position thrust on him became so apparent that he gave up the contest, but not before he had afforded plenty of food to the squib-writers.
Parliament is not above the use of nicknames, either by way of praise or in scorn. Cobbett's talent for fastening such names on anyone he disliked was very great. He invented 'Prosperity Robinson,' 'Æolus Canning,' 'Pink-nosed Liverpool,' 'unbaptized, buttonless blackguards,' or Quakers. Lord Yarmouth, from the colour of his whiskers, and from the place which gave him his title, was known as 'Red Herrings.' Lord Durham so often opposed his colleagues in the Cabinet that he was called the 'Dissenting Minister.' Thomas Duncombe was so popular that he was always spoken of as 'Honest' or 'Poor' Tom; his French friends called him 'Cher Tomie.' John Arthur Roebuck had a habit of bringing forward, in a startling way, facts he had got hold of, and thus raising opposition; and from a passage in a speech he made at the Cutlers' Feast, at Sheffield, in 1858, obtained the nickname of 'Tear 'em.' He had just paid a visit to Cherbourg, and returned home with feelings very unfriendly to the then ruler of France, to which he gave expression at the feast, excusing himself at the same time for using such language towards a neighbour by saying: 'The farmer who goes to sleep, having placed the watch-dog, Tear 'em, over his rick-yard, hears that dog bark. He bawls out of the window: "Down, Tear 'em, down!" And Tear 'em does not again disturb his sleep, till he is woke up by the strong blaze of his corn and hay ricks. I am Tear 'em. Beware! Cherbourg is a standing menace to England.' Michael Angelo Taylor was known by the sobriquet of 'Chicken' Taylor. On some points of law he had answered the great lawyer Bearcroft, but not without apologizing for his venturing, he being but a chicken in the law, on a fight with the cock of Westminster Hall. Charles Wynn was brother to Sir Watkin Wynn, and from a peculiarity in the utterances of the latter, and the shrillness of Charles's voice, the two went by the nicknames of 'Bubble and Squeak.' Sir Watkin was also known as 'Small Journal' Wynn, from his extensive knowledge of Parliamentary rule. William Cowper, falsely accused of having married a second wife whilst his first was still alive, was known as 'Will Bigamy.'
Strangers formerly were not allowed to be present at the deliberations of the House; now they are admitted to the Strangers' Gallery, but never to the floor of the House. Yet sometimes there will be an intruder. Once Lord North, when speaking, was interrupted by the barking of a dog which had crept in. He turned round, and said: 'Mr. Speaker, I am interrupted by a new member.' The dog was driven out, but got in again, and recommenced barking, when Lord North, in his dry way, said: 'Spoke once.'
We are near the limits of our space. Let us conclude with recording a few of the strange designations given to Parliaments. The Parliament de la Bonde was a Parliament in the reign of Edward II., to which the Barons came armed against the Spencers, with coloured bands, or 'bonds,' upon their sleeves, by way of distinction. The Diabolical Parliament was one held at Coventry in the thirty-eighth year of Henry VI.'s reign, and in which Edward, Earl of March, afterwards King, and several of the nobility, were attainted. The Unlearned Parliament, held at Coventry in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV., was so called by way of derision, because, by a special precept to the sheriffs in their several counties, no lawyers were to be admitted thereto. The Insane Parliament, which was held at Oxford in the forty-first year of the reign of Henry III., obtained this name from the extraordinary proceedings of the Lords, who came with great retinues of armed men, 'when contention grew very high, and many things were enacted contrary to the King's prerogative.' We might add to the list, but the gas is being turned off; sovale!
V.
FAMOUS OLD ACTORS.
There is a boom just now in the theatrical world. New theatres are springing up, not only in London proper, but in all its suburbs, yet it is only history repeating itself. From 1570 to 1629 no less than seventeen playhouses had been built in London, and London then extended only from the Tower to Westminster, and from Oxford Street to Blackman Street in the Borough. The first London theatre was the Fortune,[#] opened about the year 1600, a large round, brick building between Whitecross Street and Golding—now Golden—Lane, which was burnt down on December 9, 1621. The town was then full of actors, for besides those playing at the various theatres, there were royal comedians. Many noblemen kept companies of players, nay, the lawyers acted in the Inns of Court, and there were actors of note among them. But the inevitable reaction ensued. Amidst the storms of the Revolution the stage was neglected. Even Shakespeare had to take a back-seat till Garrick brought him into fashion again, though it is chiefly to the learned and enthusiastic criticism and appreciation of German students of Shakespeare that the revival of his plays on the stage is due. His reputation was 'made in Germany,' and the Germans we have to thank for a Shakespeare who is presentable to a modern audience, which the original writer was not; his plays were only fit to be acted before the savages who delighted in bull and bear baiting. This estimate of the Shakespearian drama is not in accordance with the prevailing sentiment, but we have a right to our opinions and the courage to express them. However, this is only incidental to our theme, which deals more with actors and acting than with the plays they took parts in.
[#] The Curtain is said to have been erected in 1570, on the site of the present Curtain Road, but the date is doubtful, and it was more of an inn than a playhouse.
There is a general opinion abroad that the realistic play is of quite modern date, probably brought on the stage in 'L'Assommoir.' In a publication of July, 1797, I find it stated that 'our managers some time ago conceived it would be proper to introduce realities instead of fictions. Hence we have seen real horses and real bulls on the stage, gracing the triumphal entry of some hero. Hence, too, real water has been supplied in such quantities that Harlequin's leap into the sea would now really be no joke.... The introduction of water will, no doubt, facilitate the introduction of real sea-fights, provided we can get real admirals and seamen.' But the writer seems to have been oblivious of the fact that, in the middle of the last century, already the water of the New River had been carried under the flooring of Sadler's Wells Theatre, the boards being removed, for the exhibition of aquatic performances. And as to this century, long before the more recent realistic plays, we have seen in the sixties a real cab with a real horse brought on to the stage to give the heroine, who is about to elope, the opportunity of uttering the pun: 'Now, four-wheeler, wo!' (for weal or woe!). And a very good pun it is.
The formation of the English drama is chiefly due to the 'Children of Paul,' or pupils of St. Paul's School, in those days nicknamed the 'Pigeons of St. Paul.' The dramatic celebrity of these juvenile performers goes back as far as the year 1378. Originally they confined themselves to 'moralities,' but in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, before whom they acted on various occasions, they appeared in the regular drama with considerable applause. They exhibited burlesque interludes and farcical comedies. Their schoolroom, which stood behind the Convocation House near St. Paul's, was their stage; but about the year 1580 the citizens, bent on driving all players out of the city, caused it to be removed. The plague had, as usual, caused great ravages in London, and it was thought that the actors were great means of spreading it, wherefore their performances were altogether prohibited. When the 'Children of Paul' performed out of their own premises, it was generally the Blackfriars Theatre they resorted to. When they performed in the school-house the admission was 2d. This charge was made to keep the company select, and according to a passage in 'Jacke Drum's Entertainment,' first printed in 1601, itwasselect:
'SIR EDWARD: I saw the "Children of Paul's" last night, and troth, they pleased me prettie, prettie well. The apes in time will do it handsomely.
'PLANET: I like the audience that frequenteth there with much applause. A man shall not be choked with the stench of garlick, nor be passed to the barmy jacket of a beer brewer.'
The stage did not attain a dignified position till the time of Shakespeare. He and his fellow-actors—Burbage, Heminge, Condell, Taylor, Kemp, Sly—ennobled it, and since then the roll of English actors who have gained distinction on the boards is very long, and our limited space allows us to refer to but a few of them, and then only to some characteristic traits.
Let us commence with a defence of Garrick's conduct towards Johnson. When the latter was preparing his edition of 'Shakespeare,' Garrick offered him the use of his choice library. But, entering the room, he found Johnson, according to his usual habit, pulling the books off the shelves, breaking their backs, more easily to read them, and throwing them carelessly on the floor. Garrick naturally grew very angry, for which he has been much abused, charged with 'having acted in abominably bad taste ... without any true gentlemanly feeling ... that knowing his friend's character ... Garrick ought to have been prepared for any slight unfavourable consequences. He ought to have known that much might be excused in so great a man,' etc. Now, this is most undeserved censure on a man of greater parts than Johnson ever could boast of. The only thing he ever wrote which will live is his Dictionary. As to his greatness, if unabashed bounce and a dictatorial jaw constitute greatness, he certainly, judging him by Bozzy's account, could lay claim to such. Garrick's generosity induced him to offer a bear the use of his books. Still, he had a right to expect that even a bear, who professed to admire and practise literature, would know how to treat books. But the bear remained a bear everywhere. He treated Mr. Thrale's books no better. But Garrick was generous in other ways. He was often visited at his villa, near Sunbury, by a gentleman with whom he used to have long and violent arguments on various matters, the visitor generally differing from, and contradicting, his host. One day Garrick, at the gentleman's request, readily lent him £100. Their discussions continued, but the visitor was no longer so violent in his arguments, nor did he contradict Garrick as he had done formerly. On one occasion, when Garrick had reintroduced an argument his friend had always violently combated, but now mildly conceded, Garrick, who liked a lively discussion, jumped up and exclaimed: 'Pay me my hundred pounds, or contradict me!' Garrick's generous nature broke forth in that exclamation, and he did not wish his friend to feel under an obligation. That his character was gentle and chivalrous is proved by the fact that his wife and he were considered the fondest pair ever known, though the lady was a woman with plenty of spirit. Her letter of remonstrance against Kean's Abel Drugger was brief: 'DEAR SIR,—You don't know how to play Abel Drugger.' To which Kean courteously, yet wittily, replied: 'DEAR MADAM,—I know it.' She must have been very sprightly, too, for when at the age of ninety-eight, and about two months before her death (November, 1822), she visited Westminster Abbey, she asked the clergyman who attended her if there would be room for her by the side of her David—'not,' she said, 'that I think I am likely soon to require it, for I am yet a mere girl!' She was a Viennese danseuse, Madame Violette, when Garrick married her, and Horace Walpole reports that it was whispered at the time that she had been sent over to England by no less a person than the Empress-Queen, Maria Theresa, to be out of the way of that somewhat jealous lady's husband. Apprehensive that he might be ridiculed for marrying a dancer, Garrick got some friend to satirize him publicly beforehand. But we have seen that the marriage turned out a very happy one. Garrick had been the pupil of Johnson, when the latter kept, or attempted to keep, a school near Lichfield, and he and his two fellow-pupils (he never had more than two) used to peep through the keyhole of his bedroom that they might turn into ridicule the doctor's awkward fondness for Mrs. Johnson, who was by many years her husband's senior, and elephantine in her figure, with swollen cheeks and a red complexion, produced by paint and the liberal use of cordials. In after-years Garrick used to exhibit her, by his exquisite talent of mimicry, so as to excite the heartiest bursts of laughter. This may seem ungenerous, but Johnson paid Garrick back in the same coin. Vexed at Garrick's great success in his profession, he made it his business always to express the greatest contempt for actors.
Quin, the contemporary of Garrick, and his rival, was employed by Prince Frederick to instruct the Royal children in elocution, and when he was informed of the graceful manner in which George III. had delivered his first speech from the throne, he proudly said: 'Aye, it was I who taught the boy to speak.' Quin could be witty. Disputing concerning the execution of Charles I., and his opponent asking, 'But by what laws was he put to death?' Quin replied: 'By all the laws he had left them.' When playing at Bath, he was at an evening party, where the transmigration of souls was being discussed. A lady, remarkable for the whiteness of her neck and bust, asked him what animal he would wish to be transformed into. Quin, looking sharply at a fly then travelling over her white neck, with an arch glance at her, said: 'A fly!' On another occasion to Lady Berkeley, a celebrated beauty, he said: 'Why, your ladyship is looking as charming as the spring.' The season was spring, but the day was raw and cold, and Quin, seeing he had paid the lady but a poor compliment, corrected himself by adding: 'Or, rather, I wish the spring would look a little more like your ladyship.'
In Clare Street, Clare Market, there is a public-house called the Sun. John Rich, the harlequin and lessee of the Duke's Theatre in Portugal Street (long since taken down), returning from the theatre in a hackney-coach, ordered to be driven to the Sun. On arriving there, he jumped out of the coach, and through the window into the public-house. The coachman thought his fare was a 'bilk'; but whilst he was still looking up and down the street, Rich again jumped into the coach, and told the driver to take him to another public-house. On reaching it, Rich offered to pay the coachman, but the latter refused the money, saying: 'No, none of your money, Mr. Devil; though you wear shoes, I can see your hoofs'; and he drove off as quickly as possible. The theatre called the Duke's Theatre, in Portugal Street, was rebuilt by Christopher Rich, the father of the above-mentioned John, but he died before the building was quite finished, and it was opened by John; and it is in this theatre that the modern stage took its rise, and here the earliest Shakespearian revivals took place. Quin was one of the performers there; and there the 'Beggar's Opera' was first produced, and acted on sixty-two nights in one season, causing the saying that it made Gay rich and Rich gay. The opera was written under the auspices of the Duchess of Queensberry, who agreed to indemnify Rich in all expenses if the daring speculation should fail.
Rich, in 1731, built himself a new theatre—the Covent Garden Theatre—on a site granted by the Duke of Bedford, at a ground-rent of £100 per annum. When a new lease was granted, in 1792, the ground-rent was raised to £940 per annum. When Thomas Killigrew was manager of the theatre in Bear Yard, Clare Market, he was a great favourite with Charles II. This King at times showed great indifference to the business of the State, and refused to attend the Council. One day, when he had been long expected, Lord Lauderdale went to his apartments, but was refused admission. His lordship complained to Nell Gwynne, upon which she wagered him £100 that the King would that evening attend the Council. Then she sent for Killigrew, and asked him to dress as if for a journey, and to enter the King's rooms without ceremony, with further instructions what he was to do then. As soon as the King saw him, he said:
'What, Killigrew! Where are you going? Did I not give orders that I was not to be disturbed?'
'I don't mind your orders, and I am going as fast as I can.'
'Why, where are you going?'
'To hell,' replied the jester in a sepulchral tone.
'What are you going to do there?' asked the King, laughing.
'To fetch back Oliver Cromwell, to take some care of the national affairs, for I am sure your Majesty takes none.'
And the King went to the Council.
Another famous comedian of that day was Joe Haines, who was an Oxford M.A., but a scamp of the first order, who managed to cheat even the rector of the Jesuit College in Paris out of £40 by a pretended note from the Duke of Monmouth. Not long after, meeting with a simple-minded clergyman, he told him that he was one of the patentees of Drury Lane, and appointed him his chaplain, instructing him at the same time to go to the theatre with a large bell, to ring it, and call out: 'Players, come to prayers!' Which the clergyman did, till he found he had been hoaxed. In the reign of James II., this Haines turned Roman Catholic, and told Sunderland that the Virgin Mary had appeared, and said to him: 'Joe, arise!' To this Sunderland dryly replied that she should have said 'Joseph,' if only out of respect for her husband.
The greatest actor at the time of Charles II. was undoubtedly Thomas Betterton. He joined the company of Sir William Davenant in 1662. Pepys frequently went to see him. In those days the pay of actors was not what it is now; Betterton, in spite of the position he held in public estimation, never had more than £5 a week, including £1, by way of pension, to his wife, who retired in 1694. In 1709 he took a benefit, at which the money taken at the doors was £75, but he received also more than £450 in complimentary guineas; and in the following year he had another benefit, by which he netted about £1,000. Of course, according to modern notions, these are but small receipts; but they are better than what seems to have been the standard of theatrical payments in 1511—judging from a bill of that year, without name of place where the acting took place, but which states that it was performed on the feast of St. Margaret (July 20). According to legend, the devil, in the shape of a dragon, swallowed St. Margaret, but she speedily made her escape, and was thus considered to possess great powers of assisting women in childbirth. The bill runs thus:
'To musicians, for three nights, £0 5s. 6d.; for players in bread and ale, £0 3s. 1d.; for decorations, dresses, and play-books, £1 0s. 0d.; to John Hobbard, priest, and author of the piece, £0 2s. 8d.; for the place in which the presentation was held, £0 1s. 0d.; for furniture, £0 1s. 4d.; for fish and bread, £0 0s. 4d.; for painting three phantoms and devils, £0 0s. 6d.; and for four chickens for the hero, £0 0s. 4d.' We see here the author received only 2s. 8d. for writing the play. Matters have improved since then; Sheridan realized £3,000 by the sale of his altered play of 'Pizarro.' In the early part of this century authors of successful pieces received from the theatre from £250 to £500, and from the purchaser of the copyright for publication from £100 to £400. Then actors received £80 a week; favourite performers—stars, as we should now call them—were paid £50 a night. Actors have at times found very generous friends. When, in 1808, Covent Garden Theatre, then under the management of John P. Kemble, was burnt down, the loss was immense, and the insurances did not exceed £50,000. The then Duke of Northumberland offered Kemble the sum of £10,000 as a loan on his simple bond. The offer was accepted, and the bond given. On the day appointed for laying the first stone, the bond was returned cancelled!
Italian opera-singers have made large fortunes in England. When Owen McSwiney was lessee of the Haymarket, circa 1708, he engaged one Nicolini, a Neapolitan, who really was a splendid actor and a magnificent-looking man, with a voice which won universal admiration, at a salary of eight hundred guineas for the season—at that time an enormous sum. Nicolini left the stage in 1712, and returned to Italy, where he built himself a fine villa, which, as a testimony of his gratitude to the nation which enriched him, he called the English Folly. In 1721 a company of French comedians occupied the Haymarket, to the disgust of native actors. Aaron Hill, the dramatic author and opera-manager, consequently had occasion to write to John Rich: 'I suppose you know that the Duke of Montague and I have agreed that I am to have that house half the week, and the "French vermin" the other half.' International courtesies were at some discount at the time!
A few theatrical anecdotes may close these lucubrations. Actors sometimes are strangely affected by their own parts. Betterton, although his countenance was ruddy, when he performed Hamlet, through the violent and sudden emotion of horror at the presence of his father's spectre, instantly turned as white as his collar, whilst his whole body was affected by a strong tremor. When Booth the first time attempted the ghost, when Betterton acted Hamlet, that actor's look at him struck him with such horror that he became disconcerted to such a degree that he could not speak his part. Of Mrs. Siddons, it was said that by the force of fancy and reflection, she used to be so wrought up in preparing to play Lady Constance in 'King John,' that, when she set out from her own house to the theatre, she was already Constance herself.
Smith—better known as 'Gentleman Smith'—married a sister of Lord Sandwich. For some time the union was kept concealed, but an apt quotation of Charles Bannister elicited the truth:
'"Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague!"' said Bannister, when Foote bantered Smith on the subject. The latter was not proof against the sally, and acknowledged the marriage. 'Well,' said Bannister, 'I rejoice that you have got a Sandwich from the family; but if ever you get a dinner from them, I'll be hanged.' The prophecy proved true.
Michael Kelly was an English opera-singer, a musical composer, and at one time Sheridan's manager at Drury Lane. He then went into the wine trade, when Sheridan advised him to put over his door: 'Michael Kelly, composer of wine, and importer of music.'
VI.
OLD JUDGES AND SOME OF THEIR SAYINGS.
When I was a little boy I drew most of my notions of life and mankind from the picture-books for my use and instruction. I thought that Kings and Queens wore their crowns and sceptres all day long, and took them to bed with them, for I had thus seen them in the pictures in the books. One engraving, I remember, I saw of a severe-looking gentleman, who had thrown a gray doormat over his head, and sat behind a little desk everlastingly writing away with an enormous quill pen. It was this quill pen which specially riveted my attention. I was always given a steel pen in my writing-lessons. Why not a quill? I asked my mother who the man was, and was told he was a judge, and that what I took for a door-mat was a wig which he wore to look dignified, and the great weight of which was, moreover, intended to prevent his great legal learning from evaporating through the pores of his skull, which was bald, but compelled it to come out through his mouth only.
He used a quill pen to take notes of what was said by the parties contending before him, because that, being a natural production, could not possibly tell lies, whereas a steel pen, as an artificial contrivance, could not be depended on for veracity; wherefore, in all law proceedings, even at the lowest police court, quill pens only could be used, for the law on morality and public policy grounds strongly objects to lies; it is itself so truthful! Of course, I believed all my mother told me; children are so easy of belief if you only look serious when you tell them crammers. But I know better now, and crowns no longer represent to me sovereignty, nor wigs wisdom. Of another delusion, too, I have been cured. When I was a young man I was told that English law was the perfection of human wisdom. I believed this then, for I was only a bigger child without experience. But when I arrived at years of discretion—that is, when I began to observe and reflect—I could come to no other conclusion than that the axiom of the law's wisdom was a delusion. There are many ways of proving this, but one argument presents itself, which renders all further proofs unnecessary. Can a code which comprises a number of laws, the interpretation of whose import is liable to be declared by one judge to mean 'Yes,' whilst another as positively maintains it means 'No,' be called the perfection of human wisdom? The ever-growing frequency of appeals alone is sufficient to show that the existing laws are ambiguous in expression, and lend themselves to the idiosyncrasies of every individual judge, which is very far from perfection. Laws should be as precise in their definitions as mathematical formulæ. To substantiate my reasoning, let me quote an actual case: Some twelve or thirteen years ago, the captain of a cargo steamer belonging to a London firm, while loading maize at Odessa, signed bills of lading which were ante-dated. Between the false date and the real one, a few days after, of loading, there was a considerable fall in the price of maize, and the consignees, who were the sufferers by it, brought an action against the owners of the steamer, they—the consignees—having discovered the ante-dating, and recovered £437 damages, which the shipowners paid. On the captain's return to England, he made a claim of £190 for wages, which claim was admitted by the firm, but they set up a counter-claim for the damages they had had to pay to the consignees, through the captain's negligence and breach of duty in signing the ante-dated bills. The case went to trial before Mr. Justice Field and a jury, and was decided in the captain's favour, both as to his wages and the counter-claim. The owners appealed, and the Divisional Court, consisting of Grove, Denman, and Wills, ordered the judgment to be set aside, and a new trial granted. The Appeal Court ordered the original judgment in favour of the captain to be restored. The owners then took the cause into the House of Lords, where Lords Watson, Blackburn, and Fitzgerald restored the order of the Divisional Court in favour of the owners, with all the costs they had incurred. Now, here was a case of breach of duty as plain as it could be, yet it took four trials, the costs amounting to about £4,000, to decide the question. This is but one of a hundred similar cases which might be cited. With what wisdom can laws be framed which can give rise to so many judicial contradictory decisions? And the fault of this lies not with the judges, but with the legislators, whose only wisdom seems to consist in surrounding plain matter-of-fact with a network of sophistry, chicanery, and hair-splitting subtleties—a system which is constantly regretted by the judges themselves, who are ever ready to warn the public against indulgence in litigation, for English judges, as a rule, are straightforward, honourable men, who are inclined to take common-sense and impartial views, except when a political or theological bias gives a twist to their judgment. Nor can it be left out of our consideration that men educated in the legal schools of the Inns of Court, and by teachers strongly impressed with the dignity and importance of their pursuit, should adhere to it with cast-iron rigidity, thus opposing, as much as possible, the introduction of new, and in their estimation, revolutionary and destructive opinions. It is due to this adherence to, and maintenance of, the principles of a barbarous and an arbitrary regime that the judges still possess the tremendous power of committing for contempt of court any person who may make a remark displeasing to them, however innocently that remark may have been made. Years ago I defended an action brought against me by a tradesman for certain goods he alleged he had supplied me with. The action was tried in a County Court. The plaintiff made his statement, which introduced several particulars which were as new to me as they were false. But my solicitor whom I had brought with me could not know they were so. I turned towards the judge, and stated that I could prove in two minutes that there was not a word of truth in the plaintiff's statements. But the judge turned quite savagely towards me, saying:
'You must not speak to me. You have your solicitor here.'
'But,' I replied, 'my solicitor cannot know that these assertions are false!'
'Be silent!' thundered the judge. 'If you say another word I shall commit you for contempt.'
Of course I said no more, but, like the parrot, thought a lot. I knew that a judge, a mere County Court judge, who passes his life amidst the most sordid and depressing scenes of wretchedness, had the power of sending me to prison, and to keep me there till I made the most abject apology for a speech which was never intended to be offensive. Persons have been kept in prison for twenty years by the mere order of a judge, who was plaintiff, jury, and judge in every such case. This is scarcely in accordance with our ideas of justice. But this relic of a barbarous age will be abolished in time, as the Courts of Doctors' Commons, or the Palace Court, where a number of sleepy old gentlemen
'Were sittin' at their ease,A-sendin' of their writs about,And drorin' in their fees,'
'Were sittin' at their ease,A-sendin' of their writs about,And drorin' in their fees,'
'Were sittin' at their ease,
A-sendin' of their writs about,
And drorin' in their fees,'
have been abolished. And there is no doubt that our modern judges are superior in talent, adroitness, and acuteness to those of former days. They are men of high-breeding, combining in their characteristics those of the courtier and of the lawyer. Judges of the past were different; in fact, some of the old judges were noted for their eccentricities. Lord Thurlow was one of them. When he was still an aspirant for forensic fame, he was one evening at Nando's Coffee-house—now a hairdresser's shop, opposite Chancery Lane, falsely called the palace of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. Arguing keenly about a celebrated case then before the courts, he was heard by some lawyers, who were so pleased with his handling of the matter that next day they appointed him junior counsel, and the cause won him a silk gown. This was in 1754. It is asserted that he was singularly ugly, and that when his portrait was shown to Lavater, the physiognomist said: 'Whether that man is on earth or in another place, which shall be nameless, I know not; but wherever he is, he is a born tyrant, and will rule if he can.' And the opinion thus formed was a correct one, for Lord Thurlow was fierce and overbearing as a statesman, and was more feared than any other member of the Cabinet. In 1778 he had become Lord Chancellor, and been raised to the Peerage. His ugliness must have been a fact, for the Duke of Norfolk, who had at Arundel Castle a fine breed of owls, named one of them, on account of its ugliness, Lord Thurlow. Great fun was caused by a messenger coming to the Duke in the Lobby of the House of Peers with the news that Lord Thurlow had laid an egg.
In 1785 Lord Thurlow purchased Brockwell Green Farm, and other lands in the neighbourhood of Dulwich and Norwood, and chose Knight's Hill as a suitable site for a house. The house was finished, but Lord Thurlow considered it too dear—it is said to have cost £30,000—and would never live in it, but remained in a smaller house, called Knight's Hill Farm. As he was coming from the Queen's Drawing-room, a lady asked him when he was going into his new house. 'Madam,' he replied, 'the Queen has just asked me that impudent question, and, as I would not tell her, I will not tell you.' Both the mansion and the farmhouse disappeared long ago.
The romantic marriage of Lord Eldon, then plain Mr. John Scott, of the Northern Circuit, forms a pleasant episode in legal history. Bessie Surtees was the daughter of Aubone Surtees, a banker and gentleman of honourable descent at Newcastle. Scott had met and danced with her at the assemblies in that town, and his pretensions were at first favoured by her family; but Sir William Blackett, a patrician but aged suitor, presenting himself, Bessie was urged to throw over Scott and become Lady Blackett. But Bessie was faithful, and one night descended from a window into her lover's arms, and they were married at Blackshiels, North Britain. The future Lord Eldon came to London with his young and pretty wife, and settled in a humble, small house in Cursitor Street. Their housekeeping at first must have been on a somewhat restricted scale, for Lord Eldon, in after-life, used to relate that, in those days, he frequently ran into Clare Market for sixpennyworth of sprats. It was probably owing to these privations in the early days of their married life that her husband had afterwards to complain of her stinginess and her repugnance to society. In fact, she seems to have ruled him rather sternly, for we read of his often stealing into the George Coffee House, at the top of the Haymarket, to get a pint of wine, as Lady Eldon did not permit him to enjoy it in peace at home. Cyrus Redding, who tells us this, did not like Eldon either as a Tory or as a man. 'His words,' he writes, 'were no index to his real feelings. He had a sterile soul for all things earthly, except money, doubts, and the art of drawing briefs.'
Cyrus Joy, who was present at the funeral of Lord Gifford, who was buried in the Rolls Chapel, relates that Lord Eldon and Lord Chief Justice Abbott were placed in a pew by themselves, and that he saw Lord Eldon, who was very shaky during the most solemn part of the service, touch the Chief Justice, evidently for his snuff-box, for the box was produced, and he took a large pinch of snuff, but the moment he had taken it he threw it away. 'I was astonished,' says Joy, 'at the deception practised by so great a man, with the grave yawning before him.' Whilst Lord Eldon held the Great Seal, in 1812, a fire occurred at Encombe, his country seat in Dorsetshire. As soon as it broke out, Lord Eldon buried the Seal in the garden whilst the engine played on the burning house. All the men-servants were helping to supply it with water. 'It was,' wrote Lord Eldon, 'a very pretty sight, for all the maids turned out of their beds, and formed a line from the water to the fire-engine, handing the buckets. They looked very pretty, all in their shifts.' When the fire was subdued, Lord Eldon had forgotten where he had buried the Seal, and all the gardeners and maids who had looked so pretty by firelight were set to work to dig up the garden till the Seal was found. Lord Eldon could be very rude at times. He and the Archbishop dined with George III., when he said: 'It is a curious fact that your Majesty's Archbishop and your Lord Chancellor married clandestinely. I had some excuse, certainly, for Bessie Surtees was the prettiest girl in all Newcastle; but Mrs. Sutton was always the same pumpkin-faced thing that she is at present.' The King was much amused, as we are told.
Lord Eldon's brother, Sir William Scott, had a strange matrimonial experience. His brother eloped with a man's daughter, and thus entered the wedded state somewhat illegally. Sir William may be said to have entered it, in the true sense of the word, legally—that is, as a result of his legal status. He and Lord Ellenborough presided at the Old Bailey at the trial of the young Marquis of Sligo for having, while in the Mediterranean, lured into his yacht two of the King's sailors, for which offence he was fined £5,000, and sentenced to four months' imprisonment in Newgate. Throughout the trial his mother sat in the court, hoping that her presence would rouse in the bench or the jury feelings favourable to her son. When the above sentence was pronounced, Sir William accompanied it by a long moral jobation on the duties of a citizen. The Marchioness sent a paper full of satirical thanks to Sir William for his good advice to her son. Sir William read it as he sat on the bench, and, having looked towards the lady, received from her a glance and a smile which sealed his fate. Within four months he was tied fast (on April 10, 1813) to a voluble, shrill termagant, who rendered him miserable and contemptible. He removed to his wife's house in Grafton Street, and, ever economical in his domestic expenses, brought with him his own door-plate from Doctor's Commons, and placed it under the pre-existing plate of Lady Sligo. Jekyll, the punster of the day, condoled with Sir William at having to 'knock under.' Sir William had the plates transposed.
'You see, I don't knock under now,' he said to Jekyll.
'Not now,' replied the punster; 'now you knock up.'
This was said with reference to his advanced age.
Lord Erskine, another famous judge, when dining one day at the house of Sir Ralph Payne, afterwards Lord Lavington, found himself so indisposed as to be obliged to retire after dinner to another room. When he returned to the company, Lady Payne asked how he found himself. Erskine took out a piece of paper and wrote on it:
''Tis true I am ill, but I cannot complain,For he never knew pleasure who never knew Payne.'
''Tis true I am ill, but I cannot complain,For he never knew pleasure who never knew Payne.'
''Tis true I am ill, but I cannot complain,
For he never knew pleasure who never knew Payne.'
After he had ceased to hold the Seals as Lord Chancellor—and the time he held the office was one year only—he met Captain Parry at dinner, and asked him what he and his crew lived on in the Frozen Sea. Parry replied that they lived on seals. 'And capital things too, seals are, if you only keep them long enough,' was Erskine's reply. Being invited to attend the Ministerial fish dinner at Greenwich when he was Chancellor, 'To be sure,' he answered; 'what would your dinner be without the Great Seal?' When Erskine lived at Hampstead he was asked at a dinner-party he attended, 'The soil is not the best in that part of Hampstead where your seat is?' 'No,' he answered, 'very bad; for though my grandfather was buried there as an Earl near a hundred years ago, what has sprouted from it since but a mere Baron?' Erskine married when very young, and had four sons and four daughters. When a widower and getting old he married a second time, and his latter days were passed in a state bordering on indigence. He died in 1823, in poverty. On July 17, 1826, a woman, poorly dressed, was brought before the Lord Mayor by a chimney-sweep as a person deserving assistance. The woman, being interrogated, declared herself to be Lady Erskine. The Lord Mayor conducted her into his private room, where he heard her sad story. She had lived with Lord Erskine several years before he married her, which he did in Scotland, whereby their children (four) were legitimatized. His death left her destitute, though she had been promised a pension from Government of twelve shillings a week, which had been paid very irregularly, and finally withdrawn altogether, because she would not be parted from her youngest child. The others had been taken care of by Government. She had for years endeavoured to maintain herself by female labour, but now she was totally destitute and actually starving. The Lord Mayor liberally supplied her present wants, and promised to intercede for her with Government, with what result we have been unable to ascertain. It was Mr. H. Erskine, brother of Lord Erskine, who, after being presented to Dr. Johnson by Boswell, slipped a shilling into the latter's hand, whispering that it was for showing him his bear. Erskine could mould a jury at his pleasure, yet in Parliament he was not successful as an orator. But when pleading he was always ready with repartee. Once, when insisting on the validity of an argument before Lord Mansfield, the latter said: 'I disproved it before you were born!' 'Yes, my Lord,' replied Erskine, 'because I was not born.' Lord Erskine owned that the most discreditable passage in his life was his becoming Lord Chancellor. Some other judges seem to have had no faith in their own works. Lord Campbell was seated one day next to Chief Baron Pollock, when they were both Members of the House of Commons, and said: 'Pollock, we lawyers receive the highest wages of an infamous profession.'
Sir Nicholas Bacon was so learned in the law that he was appointed attorney in the Court of Wards, and made a Privy Councillor and Keeper of the Great Seal under Elizabeth. When the Queen visited him at Redgrave, she observed, alluding to his corpulence, that he had built the house too little for himself. 'Not so, madam,' he answered; 'but your Majesty has made me too big for my house.' A man was brought before Sir Nicholas accused of a crime which, under the Draconian laws then in force, involved the penalty of death. He was found guilty, and, asked whether he had anything to say for himself, appealed to the judge's compassion, seeing that he was a kind of relation to him, his name being Hogg. 'True,' replied Bacon; 'but Hog is not Bacon till it's hung.' And hung, or hanged, to speak correctly, he was, and thus did not save his bacon. But the jest was a cruel one.