THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY Presented in 1923 By Professor Evarts Boutell Greene K232W 1897 Cm. 7 Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. A charge is made on all overdue books. U. of I. Library APR 6’38 Mil J'3n hul' M:iy j !S5i t <$ m hU _ n npp O i J -J u • J/il y ( ( • tDr'.-L • t \ H 11148-S EDMUND KEAN THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES EDMUND KEAN TRAGEDIAN s 1787—1833 BT J. FITZGERALD MOLLOY WITH A PORTRAIT DOWNEY & CO. Limited 12 YORK STREET, CO VENT GARDEN, LONDON 1897 LONDON ; PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED, 8T. john’b house, clebkbnwell, e.c. r I ,VS N CONTENTS. x CHAPTER I. Birth of Edmund Kean—A remarkable pedigree—The facetious Mr. Carey—Moses Kean the mimic—Edmund Kean the elder—His unhappy fate—A strange ordeal—A tragic inci¬ dent—The opening of Drury Lane Theatre—John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons—Young Kean’s engagements—His first appearance in tragedy—Runs away to sea—A clever per¬ formance—Charles Young’s remembrance of Kean—Kindly Mrs. Clarke—A youthful player—Acting Richard III.— A new life and its ending—Departure and return—His bed of roses _ . p. 1—24 CHAPTER II. Edmund Kean goes to Windsor—Appears before George III. at Oxford—-With Richardson’s show—Delights of the fair —With Saunders’ circus—Reciting in public—Joins a strolling company—Varied fortunes of a Commonwealth— Hardships and hunger—Studying dictionaries—A born Bohemian—Plays small parts at the Haymarket Theatre— Master Betty, the infant Roscius—He would be a player— Sensation in the provinces—Enthusiastic audiences—Ex¬ citement of the town—Mobbed at Covent Garden—First appearance in London—Compliments paid him—Making his fortune—Kean’s disappointment—Playing in Belfast— On the stage with Mrs. Siddons . p. 24—57 CHAPTER III. Miss Mary Chambers—Kean’s marriage—Walking to Swansea —Playing in Andrew Cherry’s company—An unrehearsed action—What the strollers made of it—Teaching fencing— Tragedian and tight-rope dancer—Kean’s benefit—Penni¬ less and homeless—Applying for engagements—Letter to Hughes—Engagement at the Weymouth and Exeter 596358 IV CONTENTS. theatres—One Mr. Nation — Kean and Mr. Betty—Irregular habits begin — At Guernsey — Expectation of better days— Letters from Elliston—A miserable tramp—The manager . of Drury Lane — Hopes and fears—Departure for London p. 57—86 CHAPTER IV. Edmund Kean arrives in London—Interview with Arnold— Disappointment and fear—Robert William Elliston—Kean’s letters to the “ Napoleon of the Stage ”—Ridicule and scorn —His situation seems hopeless—A miserable Christmas Eve—Without money, without friends—Date fixed for his first appearance at Drury Lane—Rehearsing Shylock— Ridiculed by his fellow-players—Kean makes his bow to a London audience—Criticisms on the Jew—His representa¬ tion of Richard III.—What the press said—Jack Bannister’s wit—A piece of noble poetry—The world brightens around him. p . 86—116 CHAPTER V. John Philip Kemble’s position on the stage—His first appear¬ ance on the boards—His sister Sarah—Love and marriage— Mrs. Siddons and David Garrick—John Kemble begins life as a player—A Liverpool audience in the last century— Mrs. Siddons becomes the wonder and delight of the town —Kemble in London—His manner of acting—His attempt at comedy and its results—His opinion of Kean—The new actor’s Hamlet—Joe Cowen and Bob Keeley visit Drury Lane—Charles Young as an actor—Kean and Mrs. Garrick. p. 116—144 CHAPTER VI. Change in Kean’s circumstances—Prepares to play Othello—The finest piece of acting in the world—The glorious triumph of exceeding love—Mrs. Garrick's advice regarding criticisms —Playing Iago—Presentation from the shareholders— Byron’s acquaintance with Kean—The tragedian’s society courted—The story of a legal luminary—At Offey’s tavern —Kean’s first London benefit—Close of the first season at Drury Lane ... ... ... . p. 144—156 CHAPTER VII. Drury Lane opens for the autumn season 1814—Kean plays Macbeth—The early days of Miss O'Neill—Her first appear- CONTENTS. Y mice at Covent Garden—The new Juliet delights the town— Her performance of Belvidera—The Drury Lane Committee —Lord Byron’s letter—William Macready sups with Kean— Visit to Dublin—The tragedian’s eccentricities—A visit to the Wolves’ Club—Kean as a social lion—Lord Byron’s dinner party—At Sergeant Rough’s party—A little supper with Andrew Ducrovv. p. 156—183 CHAPTER VIII. Kean appears as Sir Giles Overreach—Anticipation rises— Effects of his acting—“ Great! great! ” said the poet— Financial results of his performance—A dinner at Deptford and its results—The story of an accident—An excited house—Presentation by the committee and company of Drury Lane—After the play—In Higman’s tavern—The Screaming Lunatics—Remembrance of old friends—At the Turk's Head Inn—Letter to Tom Conningham—What happened at Taunton—An adventure at Portsmouth—Re¬ membrance and generosity ... ... ... ^7.183—203 CHAPTER IX. 0 William Macready resolves to become a player—In charge of his father’s company—A suspicious inn-keeper—The panto¬ mime of Macbeth —A blood-stained garment—Playing Romeo for the first time—Working hard at his calling— Acting with Mrs. Siddons—In the ancient city of Bath— Frightened at a play-bill—Playing in Dublin—Negotiations with Covent Garden—Hibernian humour—Mr. Plunket and his audience—Macready’s first appearance on the London stage—Congratulations of the manager—Remarks of the critics—His personal appearance described p. 204—221 ' > * CHAPTER X. Junius Brutus Booth—Extraordinary resemblance to Kean—A youth of many parts—Engaged for Covent Garden—Amaze¬ ment and enthusiasm of the audience—Is visited by Edmund Kean—Plays Iago to Kean’s Othello—Disappoints an audience—Back at Covent Garden—Refused a hearing— Excitement of the town—Edmund Kean’s letter—Booth plays Sir Giles Overreach—Kean’s fresh triumphs—Kemble’s retirement—His last performances—Macready's dissatisfac- VI CONTENTS. tion—Success achieved by Rob Roy—A new departure from an old custom—Miss O’Neill’s marriage p. 221—251 CHAPTER XI. Kean goes abroad—His admiration for Talma—Stephen Kemble becomes manager of Drury Lane—His great bulk—Dis¬ astrous results of his management—John Howard Payne and his tragedy of Brutus —Douglas Kinnaird’s suggestion to Kean—Drury Lane in debt—Kean offers to become lessee—Elliston becomes manager—Kean’s letter to the lessee—Presentation of a sword to Kean by his admirers in Edinburgh—Preparing for the tragedy of Lear —Kean and Buckstone—Compassion for distressed players—The noblest execution of lofty genius—Preparing to visit America—Farewell performance ... ... p. 251—273 CHAPTER XII. Kean’s first appearance in New York—Encountering prejudice —Sought after in social circles—Dr. Francis gives his opinion—Acting in Philadelphia—Lion-hunters—Performs at Boston—Unpleasant occurrence—Letters to the papers —Erecting a monument to G. F. Cooke—Back in England —Entrance into London—Reconstruction of Drury Lane— An assemblage in mid-air—Engagement of Charles Young —Kean’s letter to Elliston—Kean and Young play Othello and Iago—A little cloud . ... p. 273—296 CHAPTER XIII. Edmund Kean and his son—A night drive—A day at Boulogne —A drama in real life—Alderman Cox and his wife—Joe Cowell’s story—Evidence given at the trial—Kean’s letters —Result of the action—Kean determines to face the public —A visit from Elliston—Storms at Drury Lane—Behaviour of the press and the public—Kean resolves to visit America— Eccentricity of his conduct—His condition at this period— Meeting with J. B. Booth—Booth’s eccentricities—His adventures in America—Life at the farm... p. 296—333 CHAPTER XIV. An eventful year for Edmund Kean—Before a New York audience—Behaviour of the house—An appeal to the public —Excitement at Boston—Riot in the theatre—A stormy night—Kean makes his escape—Conduct of the mob—Back CONTENTS. Vll in New York—Phases of insanity—Playing at Philadelphia —Visit to Charleston—A wreck of his former self—At Quebec—Amongst the Indians—Made an Indian chief— Alanienouidet on his throne—Reception of Dr. Francis— Farewell to America ... ... ... ... p. 333—351 CHAPTER XV. Changes at Drury Lane—The new manager—Kean’s reception by the public—Indications of ill-health—Grattan’s tragedy of Ben Nazir —A morning visit to the tragedian—Studying his part—A painful performance—A shadowed life—Young Charles Kean—His engagement at Drury Lane—First appearance—Severity of the critics—Acting in Dublin— three cheers for a speech—Edmund Kean in Paris—Re¬ conciled to his son—Charles Kean plays Romeo—The elder Kean at Covent Garden—The cry of a despairing soul— At Bute—A pitiful letter—Quarrels with the management of Covent Garden ... ... ... ... p. 351—371 CHAPTER XVI. A new sensation in the theatrical world—The fate of Covent Garden—Fanny Kemble studies Juliet—In an empty theatre —Preparing for a first appearance—A memorable cast— Feelings of the new Juliet—Facing a crowded house—A blissful girl—Wonderful success and its results—An un¬ comely Romeo—In the provinces—Kean prepares to act Henry V.—Illness and postponement of the play—A pitiful sight—A melancholy letter—Fight for me—At the Victoria Theatre—A remarkable speech—Preparing to visit America once more—A memorable performance ... p. 372—396 CHAPTER XVII. Robert William Elliston becomes lessee of the Surrey Theatre— Whimsical speeches to his audiences—Douglas Jerrold and his plays—Little Shakespeare in a camlet cloak—First pro¬ duction of Black-Eyed Susan —Elliston’s last days—Charles Young says farewell to the public—Fanny Kemble bids good-bye to England—Charles Kean’s struggles—Visit to America—Junius Brutus Booth at Orleans—Playing at Boston—Strange incident—His exit from life’s stage— Edmund Kean at Richmond—Failing health—Helen Faucit’s Recollections of him—His last performance— Reconciliation with his wife—His last days and his death p. 397—430 EDMUND KEAN. CHAPTER I. Towards four o’clock one bleak and bitter morning o in the month of March, 1787, Miss Tidswell, a player engaged at Drury Lane, was wakened by the sound of loud rapping at the street door of the house in which she dwelt. Rising hurriedly, and opening the window of her bedroom to inquire the cause of this disturbance, she was greeted by a voice she recognized as that of Edmund Kean. Lifting his head, he spoke to her in a tone at once of confidence and entreaty, saying, “ Nance Carey is with child, and begs you will go to her at her lodgings in Chancery Lane.” Soon Miss Tidswell and her aunt Mrs. Byrne, muffled against the chill atmosphere, were, accompanied by Kean, treading their way through streets silent save for the echo of their footsteps, the watchman’s drowsy cry, or the sound of belfry clocks chiming the passing quarters above the sleeping world; and dark but for the yellow flames of oil lamps burning dimly at odd corners, or suspended above the arched entrances b 2 EDMUND KEAN. of courts and alleys. Arriving at the poor and wretched apartment where the suffering woman lay, her friends asked if she had made the necessary preparations for the child who was about to be born. With an air of indifference, she replied she had not. Therefore Mrs. Byrne, a good-natured Irish woman, florid of face and rotund of person, given to many words and charitable deeds, expressed surprise, and presently went to bor¬ row some baby clothes from friendly neighbours. And Nance Carey’s room being comfortless, chill, and dreary, she was moved to her father’s chambers close by in Gray’s Inn, where soon after a male child was born, who was called Edmund Kean, and subsequently known as England’s greatest tragic actor. The infant’s pedigree on both sides was somewhat remarkable. Nance Carey had come of a family well known in the world of art. Her grandfather, Henry Carey, was a natural son of George Saville, Marquis of Halifax, a patron of genius, one likewise who laid claim to literary honours. Henry Carey was famous as a composer of songs, a musician of some merit, a writer for the stage, and the supposed author of the National Anthem. As the composer of Sally in our Alley , which Addison praised for its words, and Gemin- iani lauded for its harmony, his memory abides with us. Moreover has his name been blessed by many as the original projector of the fund for decayed musicians. His songs were sung by high and low; his farces gained considerable success; and his humour was well appreciated, inasmuch as his generation styled him “ the facetious Mr. Carey.” One of his dramatic pieces, produced in the year 1715, bore the remarkable title, Marriage and Hanging. Strange to narrate, he GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY. 3 experienced both ordeals. He married, and became the father of a son named after the Marquis, George Saville. In the course of time, years weighed heavily on Henry Carey. Misfortune had quenched his humour, poverty had killed his wit, hunger gnawed his vitals, the world became black to his sight. So it happened one gray October afternoon that his wife, entering the chill and cheerless garret of a house in Warwick Street, Coldbath Fields, where they lodged, beheld her husband’s body suspended from the rafters by a rope round his neck, his gray head sunk upon his breast, his eyes wide open and aglare, his nerveless limbs hanging motionless from their trunk. George Saville Carey, the father of Nance, and grandfather of Edmund Kean, had been bred a printer, but became a player. His histrionic talents were not considerable, and at the end of his first season at Covent Garden Theatre he was not re-engaged. How¬ ever, he was a man of various talents and divers resources, destined to play many parts in his brief day. That he might earn bread, he delivered lectures in the principal towns of England on mimicry, a talent for which he was remarkable. Subsequently he wrote a ballad opera, an interlude, a burlesque, a burletta, a masque, a comedy, and several songs, some of which are now attributed to Dibdin. But all his efforts to court the smiles of Fortune were vain; success escaped him, pursue her as he would. From youth to age his life was one of continued hardship and bitter struggle ; nor did the conduct of his daughter help to lighten his burden. At the age of fifteen, she left his home to join a company of players, who sought favour in the provinces. 4 EDMUND KEAN. As an actress she showed slight talent, and her services were not in constant demand. Her brother played the guitar, sang, and recited, and with her aid gave enter¬ tainments in the suburbs. In person she was not unattractive; her eyes were large and dark, her features comely, her figure shapely. In the course of time she engaged the attention of Edmund Kean, the youngest of a family of three brothers of Irish descent, who lived at No. 9 St. Martins Lane, where a widowed sister, Mrs. Price, kept house for them. The elder brothers were named Aaron and Moses. The first was remarkable for nothing in particular, save his love for drink ; Moses, on the contrary, was a notable character, who earned his bread as a tailor and a mimic. According to his advertisements, “he delineated with perspicuity the voices, gestures, and manners of the most conspicuous characters of the Senate and the Stage/’ He was at once realistic and comical; no mimicry so excellent had been witnessed since the days of Samuel Foote; like him, Moses also possessed a vein of satire and a wooden leg. For years he had a regular summer engagement at the Haymarket Theatre, where in days of yore Foote had drawn goodly crowds to behold their neighbours’ weaknesses held up to merry sport and diverting ridicule. The spirit of brotherly love and Christian charity which animated the public in the days of Samuel Foote was not less strong in those of Moses Kean. He became a favourite with the town, and such was his popularity, that his audi¬ ences invariably began to applaud when they heard the stumping of his wooden leg behind the scenes. Their faithfulness to him was proved on one occasion, when a rival mimic named Rees undertook to bur- MOSES KEAN THE MIMIC. 5 lesque Moses in an interlude, called Thimbles flight from the Shopboard . This piece was intended to be produced between two plays at the Haymarket Theatre; but when Rees came upon the stage, the whole house rose and hissed him off the boards. Moses was not only popular inside the theatre, but well liked throughout the town. His appearance and dress rendered him readily distinguishable. A stout- built man with black bushy hair, he dressed in a scarlet coat, white satin waistcoat, black satin breeches, and bright blue stockings; a long-quartered shoe with a oreat buckle covered his foot, and a cocked hat adorned his head. His humour was well appreciated by his companions, and he possessed the reputation of being a wag. Once while under examination in the Court of King’s Bench, Garrow the solicitor said in solemn, tones, “You are, I believe, an imitator, are you not?” “ So they tell me,” replied Moses, in tones of comic pathos. “ Tell you,” said the solicitor sturdily ; “ you know it. Are you not in the habit of taking people off ? ” “ Oh, yes,” he replied, “ and I shall take myself off the moment you have done with me,” Edmund Kean was unlike his brothers in appear¬ ance, being remarkably handsome in face and graceful in figure. Quite early in life his abilities as an orator were recognized, and he was known as a fluent speaker at the debating societies at that time in vogue, from those at the Lyceum and Coachmakers Hall, to the free-and-easy clubs held at taverns. Moreover, he occasionally assisted his brother Moses in his enter¬ tainments. At the date when his acquaintance with Nance Carey began he was clerk to an architect named Wilmot, who was then building the Royalty Theatre. 6 EDMUND KEAN. His intimacy with her brought him no good, for the evil fortune which had attended her family seemed to attach itself to him. From being a youth of promise, he fell into evil ways, drank heavily, and lost his clerk¬ ship. Gradually he grew reduced in circumstances, but was at length received in the office of Mr. Lush of Charles Square as a copying clerk. The habit he had contracted unfortunately continued; he still drank, became impoverished, gloomy, and despondent, and finally went mad. The history of his remaining days is pathetic and tragic. His madness was of that order which did not require restraint, nor yet give ground for hope. His life was passed in melancholy and silence; the world had become for him blank as an ocean on which darkness has fallen; existence was a vast waste where day and night were one, and time was all unknown. With the passage of months a change came over the saddened household in St. Martin’s Lane, for the rough cheery voice of Moses was no longer heard ringing through its familiar rooms; no more did the well- known stumping of his wooden leg sound upon the stair. He who had brought bread to the household was taken, and he w r as left who was its care. And as Moses, no longer clad in those garments of glowing colours which had been his pride, but decently wrapped in shroud cloths, lay white-faced and fixed in his coffin, it was hoped that if his insane brother was brought to his side, some memory within him might move the frozen current of his mind, and reason, long congealed, mayhap return once more. The experiment was weird, ghastly, and solemn. Accordingly, he from whom reason had fled whilst A TRAGIC INCIDENT 7 yet his years were young, sad-eyed, pale, and speechless, was brought into the room chilled and darkened by death, and led to where the yellow light of candles fell upon the closed eyelids and sunken features of the dead, and on the form rigid beneath its folded drapery. At first the hushed and sombre apartment and its silent tenant had no perceptible effect upon this witless visitor; but gradually his vacant eyes fastened upon the features of his brother, a new light crept into them, a troubled expression flashed across his face, tears slowly fell upon his cheeks, and when his glance met the anxious gaze of those beside him, they saw with infinite relief and heartfelt gratitude that reason had returned. This change did not, however, continue long; for again his mind lost its balance, and he became more restless and excited than before. And it happened one day that, getting on the roof of the house, he walked along the parapet, when either accidentally losing his footing, or purposely jumping from the height, he fell into the street beneath. When those nearest approached him he was dead. Meanwhile his child, born into poverty, met with neglect. Nance Carey, who never betrayed either care or affection for her son, nursed him for three months, and then declining to be furthermore troubled with him, she left him in the care of his father, and set out to join a company of strolling players. Edmund Kean, at this time in his right mind, placed the child in charge of a nurse, who, probably not being paid for her services, neglected the infant, so that his legs became almost deformed, and were subsequently only brought to their proper shape by the use of irons. When he was about four vears old his mother returned to town from her V 8 EDMUND KEAN. wanderings and claimed the lad, believing she could reap some paltry profit from his appearance on the stage. Accordingly, when Nouverre’s ballet-opera of Cymon was about to be produced at Drury Lane Theatre, little Edmund Carey, as he was then called, was, amongst other children, a candidate for the part of Cupid. His fine dark eyes, his “ little gestures,” and hn anxiety to be chosen, recommended him to the stage manager, who selected him to represent the god of love destined to sit at the feet of Sylvia and Cymon in an enchanted car. His representation was a success, and by way of reward, he was presently engaged to repre¬ sent demons, apes, and fairies in pantomimes. At the age of six he made a memorable appearance on the stage. The occasion was one of unusual importance. On the 4th of June, 1791, Drury Lane Theatre, sacred to the shades of Wilkes, Booth, and Cibber; Bracegirdle, Woffington, and Clive ; Quin, Macklin, and Garrick, was closed for rebuilding. It had been erected one hundred and seventeen years, been several times altered and repaired, and now required thorough re¬ construction. Two years later a new house had risen on its site, enlarged in size, commodious in its resources, handsome in its ornamentation. The accommodations for the stage were on a more extensive scale than those of any other house in Europe at that date. A large ventilator admitted fresh air; four great reservoirs, from which water could be conveyed to any part of the house in case of fire, were built above the roof; a fire-proof iron curtain was constructed, which in case of need was supposed to prevent flames breaking out on the stage from reaching the auditorium. Moreover the ceiling was handsomely painted and the fronts of the boxes OPENING OF DRURY LANE THEATRE. 9 decorated by Italian artists; chandeliers of crystal and silver lighted the house, and the pillars supporting the stage were inlaid with mirrors. On the 13th of March, 1793, an audience assembled for the first time in the new theatre to hear a concert of sacred music; and eight days later the first dramatic performance was given here. The play selected for the occasion was Macbeth, which John Philip Kemble undertook to produce with unusual care and splendour, and such novelty as might consist in some departures from the customary manner of presenting the tragedy. The scenery was new, handsome, and appropriate; the witches no longer wore mittens, plaited caps, laced aprons, red stomachers, and ruffs such as they had adorned themselves withal when Garrick played Mac¬ beth in a modern court suit and a bag wig. They now were habited in robes appropriate to their state and circumstance; glittering serpents coiled themselves round their bodies; black spirits and white, blue spirits and gray, attended them; the visible presence of anquo was omitted from the banquet scene. John Philip Kemble played the murderous Thane; his sister, Mrs. Siddons, Lady Macbeth; whilst their brother, Charles Kemble, made his first appearance in London as Malcolm, and was audibly derided during his performance. A prologue was spoken by the manager, and an epilogue by Miss Farren, in which she assured her hearers they need have no fear of lire, as there was water enough at hand to drown them all— at which words the curtain rose, and a river was seen in which a waterman in his boat rowed himself to and fro; likewise she referred to the iron curtain, which would prevent all from being burned save the 10 EDMUND KEAN. scenes and the actors. At the conclusion a view of Shakespeare's monument, under a mulberry tree, was exhibited, and The Mulberry Tree , and Where the bee Sucks , were sung, much to the satisfaction of all. Now little Edmund Carey, amongst a crowd of other lads, represented an attendant spirit on the sisters three. His personation was, however, limited to a single night, for whilst he and his fellow-demons stood in a row one before the other at the mouth of a cave, preparatory to scampering round the cauldron, he either accidentally or intentionally made a forward step which he was unable to recover. He therefore fell against the demon in front of him, who in turn knocked down his next neighbour, and he doing likewise, they tumbled one upon the other until the whole wicked company lay prostrate. Confusion followed this unrehearsed action ; the audience tittered, and the scene was spoiled. Hippen, who narrates the anecdote, says Kemble re¬ garded the occurrence as a breach of discipline. At the conclusion of the act the chief offender was brought before him, and little Carey answered his reproaches by merely remarking, “ This was the first time he had performed in tragedy." Henceforth Macbeth was played without the repre¬ sentatives of the powers of darkness; but this mis¬ adventure did not prevent Edmund Carey from being engaged to play imps and apes as before during the pantomime season. His connection with the theatre was chiefly owing to Miss Tidswell, a tall, handsome woman, who had been introduced by the Duke of Norfolk to David Garrick, who secured for her an engagement to play petty parts in Drury Lane Theatre, a position she still maintained. His Grace is remem- KEAN RUNS AWAY TO SEA. 11 bered in history for having at the Whig Club drank a toast, “To the majesty of the people,” hearing of which action poor George III., at this time supposed by courtesy to be in the enjoyment of sanity, with his own right royal hand erased the duke’s name from the Privy Council list. Because of the Duke of Norfolk’s interest in Miss Tidswell, Kean when he grew up felt inclined to believe they were his parents; but of this supposition he was eventually thoroughly dissuaded. Miss Tidswell behaved to the lad with a kindness his mother never extended towards him. She it was who took him with her to the theatre, where he stood during the performances at the wings, his dark eyes full of wonderment and admiration, his ears drinking in speeches which he would presently delight the super¬ numeraries by repeating in the same tone and with the same gestures as he had heard and seen. She it was who in her own rooms taught him to recite, and through her interference was he sent to school. But the school-room was, alas! a place he abhorred; con¬ straint was irksome to his nature; his tasks were ignored, and he rebelled against punishment. Finally he determined to escape from thraldom. Possibly he had read of the sea, and heroes that sail thereon, until his vivid imagination pictured the wonderful adventures that might take him from his abominated surroundings and place him in a world brightened by the splendour of romance. So it happened one day he announced to his mother that he wished to be a sailor, whereon she thrashed him soundly by way of banishing such nonsense from his brain. His punishment had not the desired effect. A self- contained lad of ten years, accustomed to think and 12 EDMUND KEAN. act for himself at a time when other boys merely obey the wishes of their elders, he hastened to put his resolution into action; and early one morning, before the house was astir, he crept from his mother’s lodg¬ ings, taking with him his scanty belongings, and made his slow way to Portsmouth. If any efforts were exerted to capture him, they were not successful, for he soon shipped as a cabin-boy on board a vessel bound for Madeira. The voyage by no means realized his expectations; no pirate brig with sails full set, port holes bristling with cannon, and death’s head flying at the mast, bore down upon them; nor were they stranded on coral reefs stretching from unknowm islands, inhabited by a wild but friendly race. All was sordid drudgery and black misery, hunger, curses, and the rope’s end, and he resolved to escape this bitter fate. The means by which he sought to avoid work w T ere highly ingenious in one of his age, and the manner in which they were carried out gave proof of his pos¬ sessing in youth the great powers which rendered his manhood distinguished. From exposure and w r etting on the outward voyage he caught cold, which he avowed on reaching port resulted in total deafness. To the shouts of the captain or the oaths of the sailors he was apparently insensible; neither expression nor movement betrayed the slightest consciousness of the commands addressed to him, or the imprecations hurled at him. But fearing this assump¬ tion of infirmity was insufficient to gain the ends desired, he likewise feigned lameness, and declaring he had lost the use of his limbs remained in his bunk. Being no longer of service, he was carried to an hospital, where he remained a puzzle to the medical faculty, w T ko A CLEVER PERFORMANCE. 13 vainly sought to discover the cause of his malady. As a last effort to restore him, they recommended he should be moved to his native country, and as his vessel was then departing he was shipped in her once more. And now was his courage and consistency severely tested; for scarce had the vessel left the port when a storm, black, fierce, and sudden, arose, threatening destruction and death. All hands on board save the invalid were at work; men who had battled through a hundred gales believed their last hour had come; but the lad, never stirring, continued to play his part bravely to the last act, which ended, not in dark¬ ness and tragedy, but in safety and gladness. And being landed at Southampton, he quickly regained the use of his limbs, and tramped to London. Returning to his mothers lodgings in Ewer Street, Southwark, he was told she had joined Richardson’s show and gone into the country; he therefore turned his face towards the residence of “ Aunt Tid,” as he had learned to call Miss Tidswell. She welcomed her old favourite with gladness, received him into her home, and seeing the direction in which his talents lay, read Shakespeare with him, and taught him to recite. Nay she occasionally acted scenes with him, and, as he remembered afterwards, taught him to say “ Alas, poor Uncle ! ” instead of “ Alas, poor Yorick ! ” when repeating Hamlet’s speech to Horatio above the new-made grave of Ophelia, training him in this manner to throw feeling into his voice. Occasionally his detestation even of such mild restraint, his love for excitement and desire for novelty,—attributes all of the genius within him,— caused him to leave her house and wander for days in distant suburbs, where at various taverns he recited 14 EDMUND KEAN. and sang, tumbled and danced, imitated monkeys and devils, and enjoyed brief independence; then would he return to Aunt Tid, rich with coins awarded him by admiring audiences. This pleasant period of his life was interrupted by the return of his mother, who, foreseeing the use he might be, claimed him once more. The next glimpse is given of young Edmund Kean by Charles Young, whom some in years after raised to the distinction of Kean’s rival. Charles Young’s father, Thomas Young was an eminent physician, and an hospitable host. On one occasion, towards Christmas, when Charles was back from Eton for the holidays, he remembered a dinner being given at his father’s house to which some people of distinction were bidden. He was allowed to join the company when dessert was served, and as he descended the stairs and passed on his way to the dining-room through the hall, he saw seated there a slatternly woman with a boy standing beside her, dressed in a somewhat fantastic garb, and “ with the blackest and most penetrating eyes he had ever beheld in human head.” He believed they were strolling gipsies from Bartholomew Fair, who had come to seek medical advice, and passed them by; but presently, when one of the servants whispered his master, the latter bade him “ bring in the boy.” Little Edmund Kean, for he it proved, was led in, taken by the hand, patted on the head, and requested to favour the company with a specimen of his recitations. With great self-possession he stood apart, knit his dark brows, thrust up one shoulder, and began the opening soliloquy of Richard III . His delivery was marked by such feeling and i expression that he was greeted by warm applause; MRS. CLARKE AND NANCE CAREY. 15 when be gave farther proof of his abilities as an actor; nay, he sang songs, merry and pathetic, danced a hornpipe, and for an hour kept the company amused. Then a napkin was spread upon the floor, into which a shower of silver was flung, which was afterwards conveyed to the pockets of the lad, who, smiling and bowing gracefully, retired. It happened one day some months later, that Mrs. Clarke of Guildford Street called on Surgeon Young’s wife. Her visit having ended, she was about to leave the house, when as she passed through the hall Thomas Young opened the door of his study and said, “Pray come in, my dear lady. I have,” he added, “ a charm¬ ing woman to introduce to you, and I know your heart will warm towards her, for she is the daughter of your favourite George Saville Carey.” As Mrs. Clarke entered the room, Young led towards her a woman whose graceful figure was clad in shabby garments set off with faded finerv, and whose cheeks were coloured with rouge. Though her appearance did not at first recommend her to Mrs. Clarke, yet her respectful bearing and air of refinement appealed to her better nature. “ She is in very reduced circumstances,” Young said in an explanatory tone, “ and hopes you will help her.” Mrs. Clarke asked in what manner she could be of assistance; to which Young, acting as spokesman, replied, “ She is obliged to sell perfumes and the like. Here, my dear,” he said, addressing Nance Carey, “ where is your basket ? Ah, here it is—Marechale powder, Japanese pomatum, millefleurs, Hungary water, genuine cau de Cologne —everything a woman 16 EDMUND KEAN. Mrs. Clarke bought some lavender water and de¬ parted, having first given Nance Carey permission to call occasionally at her house. Of this the seller of toilet requisites soon availed herself, and during one of her visits made mention of her wonderful little boy, who had an astonishing genius for acting. He was now being brought up very genteelly by a Roman Catholic lady; he sang in her chapel, served the altar, and “ threw the incense about.” Mrs. Clarke hoped he would be left under her protection, and no further remarks were made concerning him. As for herself, she acted whenever she could get engagements, and when disengaged sold her wares to earn a livelihood. Mrs. Clarke was not only a constant purchaser, but occasionally gave her cast-off articles of wearing apparel, amongst which was a “ tiffany painted skirt, spangled too,” with which Nance Carey was much delighted. It came to pass that one morning in June, when Mrs. Clarke was sitting in her back drawing-room, an irregu¬ lar, tremulous knock at the street door fell upon her ear, and presently Charles, an old and faithful servant, slow in pace and deliberate in words, whose hair had grown gray in the service of his mistress, appeared before her. A smile brightened his face as if his fancy were tickled. “ Master Carey, ma’am, is below,’ 5 he said, “ and wishes to see you.” “ Master Carey! ” she repeated, for the moment, forgetful of his individuality. “ Yes, ma’am ; he belongs to Miss Carey who brings perfumes.” “ Tell him to send up his message.” 17 A YOUTHFUL PLAYER. “ I did, ma’am ; but he says he must speak to you.” “ Then show him up,” she said. Charles slowly departed, but soon the drawing-room door was again thrown open, and a slender, pale-faced boy, diminutive in size, with large dark eyes and curling auburn hair, entered, and bowed with the air of a prince. His jacket and trousers were shabby almost to raggedness, his whole appearance indicated poverty and neglect. An expression of sensibility, an air of refinement, and a look of delicacy in his bearing appealed to her and touched her heart with pity. Before she could speak, he said in a self-possessed, graceful, and courteous manner— “ My mother, madam, desires her humble duty, and requests you will be so good as to advance her the loan of a shilling to take the spangled petticoat you kindly gave her out of the pawn. She would not have troubled you, but we are going to play at Islington to-night, and she has all but one shilling.” His message conveyed a history. “ Do you play also ? ” Mrs. Clarke asked. “Oh yes,” he replied, with the ready egotism of youth; “ I can act a good many things.” “ What are they ? ” she asked, already interested in this clever lad. “ Scenes from Richard III., Hamid , and Macbeth. Then I can play harlequin and the clown too, and sing and dance.” “ I should like to see you act,” she remarked. “ And I should be very happy if I might act to you,” he replied. “ Then will you come to me to-morrow evening ? ” she asked. c 18 EDMUND KEAN. “ Oh yes,” he answered eagerly. “ What shall I do, madam ? ” “ What you like best.” “Then that will be Richard III ’. I must have a tent,” he continued, growing excited at the prospect. “ I begin with the tent scene,” and he cast his eyes round the room searchingly. Mrs. Clarke stood up, opened the folding doors, and entered the front drawing-room, in which was a bow window. “ You shall act here,” she said to him. The dark eyes blazed with delight, the poor pinched face lighted with enthusiasm. “ This bow window,” he said, “ is the very thing. I can pin the curtains together and make a tent, and this little sofa will be the couch. Have you a bell for me to ring, and may I have some music before I begin ? ” Mrs. Clarke said she knew a young lady who could play the Battle of Prague , and she would invite her to be present. It was then arranged he was to come next evening o o at half-past six o’clock, and having received the shilling for his mother, he departed full of gladness. In the course of the afternoon Mrs. Clarke called on a few friends and neighbours, and invited them to come and wdtness the performance of this marvellous boy. Next evening they assembled in her drawing-room, and shortly before the appointed time, the same timid, nervous knock which she heard yesterday sounded at the street door. Good-hearted Mrs. Clarke hastened clown to meet her little proUge , and survey his attire before presenting him to her guests. He was dressed in the same threadbare jacket and trousers, his face YOUNG RICHARD III. 19 had been newly washed, and a white muslin frilled handkerchief of his mother’s was tied round his neck ty way of collar. His hostess, taking him by the hand, hastily led him towards her dressing-room, and there took the pack-thread out of his shoes and tied them with black silk ribbons. Whilst she was engaged in this manner O O his quick eye, travelling round the room, caught sight of a great riding-hat with feathers, and he instantly said, '"That would exactly suit Richard.” Then noticing a belt and sword which had belonged to Mrs. Clarke’s brother in his childhood, he cried out with boyish delight, “ A real sword ! Oh, dear madam, may I have a real sword ? ” She replied it was intended for him, and having made some additions to his toilet, and given him the hat, sword, and belt, hand-in-hand she descended with him to the drawing-room. Then he flung himself on the sofa under the pinned curtains ; the ghosts of those he had murdered were haunting Richard’s dreams. The Battle of Prague began with 1 many a bang ; cannons roared, victims shrieked, armies advanced and retreated over the vibrating notes of the piano, and when at last peace was restored, up roused Richard, pale and scared by the sights he had seen, and spoke his speech. Before he concluded women wept. His audience had not been prepared for the energy and feeling which ani¬ mated the feeble frame, and lighted the pallid face of this boy. He was greeted with loud applause, and gracious words were spoken to him. He had tasted the joys of success. The hostess then proposed that tea should be served,but he begged that he might “act the fight with Richmond.” 20 EDMOND KEAN. “By yourself?” it was asked. “ Yes, you will see; I can do it very well. It was for * that,” he added, “ I wanted the sword.” His fight created still greater astonishment, and he died with a skill and grace wonderful in one of his age. An old gentleman present, gifted with more good nature than tact, flung a half-crown upon the mimic stage. Richard, however, did not deign to notice the act; but the example of the donor being quickly followed, a handsome sum was presented to the lad. He refused to accept it, saying the lady of the house was his mother’s best friend, and he could take no money. At the request of his hostess he eventually accepted it, and having eaten cake, drank tea, and answered the questions cf his admirers, he was sent home, with instructions to call next day. His budding talents and inbred gentleness won the heart of Mrs. Clarke, a childless wife, and becoming daily more interested in this waif, she resolved to take him into her home. Cleanliness, sufficient food, and generous care created a new life for him, but nothing seemed to give him such delight as his little bed ; the white cotton curtains of the crib were printed with crimson roses such as never bloomed in earthly gardens, from which fact he was wont to speak of this nest as his bed of roses. His existence was now one of perfect happiness, and no boy could behave better. The affection of his friend increased hourly. Every morning he went to school, and occasionally in the evenings he recited at the homes of Mrs. Clarke’s friends, she stipulating he should be called for and sent baek. For his performances he invariably received money, the A NEW LIFE. 21 greater part of which was sent to his mother, the remainder being kept for his private use. That she might add to his greater delight, his friend frequently sent him in charge of Charles to the theatre when the Kembles acted; and on his return, Charles, who was fond of the boy, used to narrate with great glee, whilst he rubbed his hands and nodded his head, that it was better than the play to watch master Carey’s face. “ All the play was to be seen there.” He clapped his hands louder than any one else, and was ever ready to hiss at the slightest disturbance which interfered with the performance. When in the autumn Mrs. Clarke left town, she placed little Edmund Kean in charge of a motherly old woman who lived near the school which he attended; and on her return she considered it better he should remain where he was, with the understanding that he was to see her daily, and lunch and dine with her frequently. Now a short time after her return to town she received a visit from some friends in the country. These consisted of an old- fashioned Tory gentleman, rotund in person, pompous in manner, and somewhat foolish in speech, together with his mild-mannered wife and two daughters, children of ten and twelve years. One day during their stay little Edmund Kean had a holiday, that he might come and play with them ; they were delighted with their bright-witted companion, who sang, tumbled, and acted for them. And so well did he please them, that next day he was invited to dinner, after which a visit to the play-house was con¬ templated. Accordingly he came, dressed in his best suit, his spirits rising high in anticipation of the pleasure before him; and as he sat at table between 22 EDMUND KEAN. his two new friends, he chatted with them gaily, and spoke much of the theatre. Once when one of them questioned him regarding Macbeth , which they were about to see, he gave such a clear description of the plot and situations of the tragedy, that though he spoke in an undertone, those near paused to listen, until suddenly becoming aware of the attention paid him, he stopped, blushed, and caught the eyes of the country gentleman, from whose con¬ versation he had momentarily diverted the interest.^ fixed upon him with disapproving gaze. The cloth being removed, some friendly discussion was held as to the disposal of the party in two carriages, and Edmund Kean’s name being mentioned, the burly gentleman said, in accents of astonishment and indig¬ nation, “ What! does he come with us ? ” Mrs. Clarke was momentarily silent from surprise, and her glance fell upon her prottge. With his face flushing from anger, and his eyes sparkling with indignation, he rose from the table, and slowly walked towards the door. In hi& passage he passed the backs of the chairs, and as he came near his hostess she caught hold of his hand, which trembled in hers, and pressing it, whispered him to ask Charles for three-and-sixpence, and go into the pit; but he merely shook his head in answer, and next instant had gone. As the hall door slammed Mrs. Clarke, with some foreboding of pain, went to the window and saw her favourite going down the street at a rapid pace, without his hat, his head erect, his whole bearing indicating wounded pride. For her the tragedy of Macbeth had not much interest that night. Instead of watching the movements of John Philip Kemble or Mrs. Siddons, she leaned from DEPARTURE and return. 23 her box, looking in the pit for the familiar figure or the upturned face of her little friend ; but her search was vain. Next day her guests departed, and Mrs. Clarke immediately sent her maid to the boy’s lodgings, but she returned with the information that he was not there; the previous evening he had rushed to his room, changed his new clothes for his old, and hurried out again without answering a question or speaking a word. It was then surmised that he must have gone to his mother’s, but days passed, and he failed to make his appearance. Mrs. Clarke, now thoroughly uneasy, sent Charles to inquire for him, but he brought word that Miss Carey had not seen her son for over a week. Mrs. Clarke was therefore seized by a fear that he had in a moment of anger thrown himself into the Thames, or sot crushed under the wheels of carriages at the doors of the theatre. Search was made for him far and near, but no trace could be found of him; he had completely vanished. But it happened early in the morning of the seventh day after his disappearance, a good-natured ostler from the adjoining mews, who knew the lad, and liked him well, carried his insensible form to the door of Mrs. Clarke’s house. He had found him near the door of liis stable, fast asleep as he thought at first, and strove to wake him ; but when the boy opened his eyes he was unconscious of where he was, and being placed on his legs he fell down again from weakness. In appearance he was travel-stained, dirty, miserable, and starved. With mingled pain and joy Mrs. Clarke be¬ held him once more, kissed him whilst tears blinded her eyes, and carried him to the bed in which she had often watched him peacefully sleep. There he was 24 EDMUND KEAN. tended with great care and anxious love, until at last he opened his dark eyes, and his lips were seen to move. Putting her ear close above them she heard him ask, “ Am I in heaven in my bed of roses ? ” CHAPTER II. When the lad recovered he told his kind friend the simple story of his flight, blushing with shame that he had caused her so much anxiety. Full of anger and indignation at the slight which the country gentleman had put upon him, he resolved to leave town, and never return until he was a great man. He had w r alked to Bristol, and again offered himself as a sailor, but he was so pale and thin no captain would hire him. So tired and hungry was he that he could neither recite nor sing, and ask for bread he would not. He therefore came back to town, resolved to die near the house of the friend who loved him. It was night when he arrived, and the stables were the best shelter he could find. He remembered no more. After some days spent in consideration and con¬ sultation with her friends, Mrs. Clarke came to the conclusion he had better be placed under the care of some one able to exercise more control over him than she possessed; and believing he would never follow any other calling than that of an actor, she waited on Miss de Champ, a clever actress, who subsequently became Mrs. Charles Kemble, to have her opinion regarding him. Miss de Champ remembered him well, and narrated, that one morning before rehearsal began at the theatre, she was crossing the stage, when sounds ' O O' THE MIMICKED KEMBLE. 25 of loud applause arrested her attention. Inquiring its cause, she was told it was only little Kean acting Richard III. “ I went into the green-room,” she said, “and saw the little fellow facing an admiring group, and reciting lustily, and in my opinion he was very clever.” She was afraid, however, no opening could be found for him at Drury Lane Theatre, for he had drawn upon himself the anger of John Philip Kemble, who on another occasion during rehearsal caught the lad mimicking him, to the great amusement of the underlings of the theatre. Kemble had surprised him, and being angry, pushed him aside so roughly that he fell through a trap-door, and was lamed for some time. Another man of wider mind and more generous instincts than Kemble, seeing the lad’s genius, would have trained and educated him for the stage, but he never extended a helping hand to the boy who was destined to cast him from the position of first English tragedian, which he had held so long. A few days after her conversation with Miss de Champ, Mrs. Clarke received a visit from Captain Miller of the Staffordshire Militia, then on duty at Windsor Castle. To him she confided her perplexity, and asked his advice regarding Kean, who was now in his twelfth year. After some conversation, Captain Miller offered to take the lad with him to Windsor, a proposition to which Mrs. Clarke assented. It was arranged that before his departure he should give an evening’s entertainment in public, that he might raise funds sufficient to start him in the world. A room was accordingly taken in Chancery Lane, a programme arranged, and tickets printed. The performance was to be given solely by himself, an undertaking from 26 EDMUND KEAN. which a man of experience might have shrank; but his courage and exertions were amply rewarded, as his receipts amounted to between forty and fifty pounds. Captain Miller lodged him at the barracks, where he speedily drew attention by his mimicry, acting, tumbling, and singing. So bright and clever a boy had never been seen, and the officers found in him a source of infinite entertainment. Presently his fame spread to Eton, where he was introduced to some of the elder boys, and to the royal household, when George III. expressed himself anxious to see this phenomenon. This was an honour he had not hoped to receive. Twice he recited before the king, queen, and princess, for which His Majesty, who was not remarkable for his liberality, gave him a guinea. Having stayed some time at Windsor, he went to Oxford, bearing with him a letter of introduction from an Eton boy to his elder brother then at the university; and here his success was equally satisfactory. He w r as feted and applauded by the undergraduates, one of whom, named Conybeare, gave him the first copy of Shakespeare’s plays he ever possessed. Leaving Oxford, he returned once more to town. His mother had again joined a strolling company, and he took refuge with Aunt Tid, who resumed her in¬ structions, and read Shakespeare with him from his own copy. By her advice he now studied, not only certain speeches and scenes, but the wdiole parts set down to Borneo, Hamlet, and Bichard III.; and once, by her entreaties, John Kemble so far forgot the lad’s offence as to let him act Arthur in King John, Kemble play¬ ing the King, and Mrs. Siddons Constance on this with Richardson’s show. 27 memorable occasion. Acting became more than ever the delight of his life ; now we find him in the garret of a bookseller named Roach, who dwelt in a court close by Brydges Street, playing Richard III. to the Lady Anne of a Scotch lassie, who afterwards, as Mrs. Robert¬ son, gained credit in the provinces as an actress. Her strong accent was a source of grievance to Kean, who taught her English, and in return learned from her the dialect of Sir Pertinax Macsycophant, a character he played at Drury Lane after many years had passed. Again, in the back parlour of his aunt, Mrs. Price, a dressmaker, he enacted Richard to the Richmond of Master Rae, a companion he was destined to meet with years later. But his love of admiration and longing for excitement again seizing him, he left Miss Tidswell’s home, and hired himself to Richardson, the famous showman. Richardson’s show was seen at every fair within a hundred miles radius of the capital. Outside its highly coloured “wooden walls,” on a platform gained by a rickety flight of steps, drums beat, fiddles squeaked, and horns sounded, keeping silence only whilst some stentorian voice shouted alluring descriptions of the wonders to be witnessed within, and heartily invited all lovers of the marvellous to step inside and secure their places. The manager was a tall man with a red face, dressed in high boots, crimson vest, and a many but¬ toned green coat. The fair members of his company, whose smiles sought to hide their lassitude, were decked with glazed calico, muslin flowers, tarnished tinsel, spangles and tinfoil, stockings with clocks, and shoes that had lost all shape from long service. Their cheeks were rouged, their necks adorned with mock jewellery. 28 EDMUND KEAN. feathers once gay were stuck in their tousled hair. The gentlemen of the troop, fellows of infinite experience, good at turning a somersault, enacting a tragedy, crack¬ ing a whip, or beating a drum, were clad in tights and vests. The manager’s receipts generally averaged forty pounds a day during the three days which a fair usually lasted; so that he was enabled to pay his first- rate tragic actors and actresses ten and sixpence a day; to “ paraders or pluck in men/’ or ladies who were styled “ aggravators,” he gave seven and sixpence a day ; good- looking automatons of either sex had six shillings, whilst “ underlings that neither look nor speak” received four shillings. Wherever the show went, bustle, noise, and merriment travelled in its wake. On the village green, the fair, or beside the racecourse, it was surrounded by rival booths, the habitations of dwarfs, mermaids, and pigs showing complete knowledge of the alphabet, of speaking fish, two-headed boys, fat women, and strong men. In its atmosphere dwelt confusion begotten of the mingled strains of bag-pipes and French horns, trumpets and fifes, the voices of fruit vendors, the report of musketry from shooting-galleries, shrill cries of Punch, cheers from merry-go-rounds and ups-and- downs, roars from performing bears, choruses from the tap-houses, shouts from the ballad-mongers, and cries from struggling crowds. Life in a show-box to a lad of young Kean’s tempera¬ ment had for a time a vast attraction. Here his songs and recitations, his acting and tumbling, were received v\ ith rapturous applause by ever-varying audiences. After a while he transferred his services from Richard¬ son’s show to Saunders’s circus, where he learned to with saunders's circus. 29 ride with great skill and grace. Here horsemanship, tightrope-walking, and acrobatic feats were the ordei of the day. A writer who contributed an article to the New Monthly Magazine on the early days of Edmund Kean, remembered hearing Davies, once manager of Astley’s amphitheatre, describe the occasion in which he first saw him. Considering the circum¬ stances could not be more vividly described than in Davies’s language, the author jotted down the ex¬ manager’s phrases in his note-book. “I was passing,” he said, “down Great Surrey Street one morning, when just as I had corned to the place where the Riding House now stands at the comer of the ’Syleum, or Mag-dallen, as they calls it, I seed Master Saunders a-packing up his traps. His booth, you see, had been there standing for three or four days, or thereabouts; and on the boards in front of the paint¬ ing—the prossenium, as the painter says—I seed a slim young chap with marks of paint—and bad paint it was, for all the world like ruddle on the jaw of a sheep— on his face, a-tying up some of the canwass wot the wonderfullest carakters and curosties of that ’ere exhi¬ bition was painted upon. And so when I had shook hands with Master Saunders, and all that ’ere, he turns him right round to the young chap wot had just throwd a summerset behind his back, and says, ‘ I say you, Master King Dick, if you don’t mind what you’re arter, and pack up that ’ere wan pretty tight and nimble, we shan’t be off before to-morrow, that we shan’t; and so you mind your eye, my lad.’ ” During his engagement with Saunders the courage he showed whilst riding “ fiery untamed steeds ” and the daring he evinced in tumbling were notable; but 30 EDMUND KEAN. once it happened that whilst attempting some unusual feat, he fell from a great height and broke his legs. As a result of this accident he suffered through life from a swelling of his instep-bones. When able he returned to Miss Tidswell, and resolved to abandon all acrobatic performances in favour of the drama. He was yet over-young and inexperienced to gain an engagement in one of the few London theatres—a consummation seldom attained save by those selected from provincial companies because of their marked abilities. His talents as a public reciter gained him prominence at the Crown and Anchor in Leicester Square, and at the Rolls Rooms in Chancery Lane, places of entertainment which were the forerunners of our modern music-halls. On the stage of the Rolls Rooms he on one occasion read the whole of the Merchant of Venice. Likewise, to his great delight, he played the principal parts in tragedies and comedies, acted in a private theatre in Lamb’s Conduit Street. Cobham, a well-known actor in his day, who was present at some of these performances, says Kean “ was the best amateur then extant. 55 His connection with Drury Lane playhouse, behind the scenes of which he went when he pleased, together with his familiarity with other places of entertainment, threw him continually into the company of actors, singers, and composers, who delighted in the lad’s quickness and ability. From his association with Charles Incledon, who described himself as “ England’s greatest singer,” he picked up some knowledge of music, and learned to sing correctly; D’Egville, the dancing- master, gave him at odd times lessons in his art; and from watching the fencing-master Angelo and his ASSOCIATING WITH PLAYERS. 31 pupils he could soon handle the foils with dexterity. Of these men Kean in after years was wont to narrate many anecdotes. He remembered walking early one morning in the suburbs at the Surrey side of the water, when he saw Denham, a skilled musician and charming composer, whose dissipation frequently reduced him to want, stretched upon a form outside a tavern. On this hard bed the unfortunate man had lain all night, being expelled from the tap-room. Kean approached and roused him, when Denham, not yet recovered from the effect of his carousal, sat up and began strumming his fingers upon his knees. Suddenly he asked his young friend if he had got any money about him. and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, requested him to buy a sheet of paper, and bring him a ruler, together with a pen and ink. When these were set before him he quickly began to work, using the form as a desk, and soon produced a composition which seemed to have occupied his mind, set to a paraphrase of the Lord’s Prayer. Handing Kean the smeared manuscripts, written with a trembling hand, he begged he would take them to some music publisher, and get what he could in exchange. Without hope of being able to dispose of them, the lad carried the sheets away, and going to Williams’s of Paternoster Row, offered them to the manager. The latter at first regarded the scroll with indifference, but on a closer examination consented to try it over, and eventually handing Kean a guinea, bade him take it to the composer. The applause which Kean received from the audiences of the Lamb’s Conduit Street Theatre and the Rolls Rooms made him anxious to begin life as a player— a career which he had earnest desires and strong hopes 32 EDMUND KEAN. would speedily lead him to fame and fortune. Accord¬ ingly, with the consent and by the advice of Aunt Tid, he joined the travelling company of a provincial manager; the country being the school then, as now, in which all who covet permanent distinction and not ephemeral notoriety must graduate; for labour strengthens genius as a crucible purifies gold. The company he joined was in those days known as a commonwealth. The varied fortunes of the troop rendering stipulated salaries impossible, the receipts taken at the doors were at the end of every week divided amongst the members, according to the respective parts they played, the manager appropriating additional shares in consideration of his defraying the expenses of rent, rushlights, wardrobes, and incidental charges. Frequently the poor strollers played to empty benches, and the pittance received for their labours being small, hunger and cold afflicted them sorely. Kean, in the days when all men lauded him, and fortune’s gifts were his, looking back half sadly, half wistfully on the times of bitter hardship and pitiless privation, used to narrate his experiences of a Passion week he had spent at Croydon. The theatre was closed until Easter Monday, when additional attractions were temptingly offered to the public; but meanwhile the poor players were expected to live on air, and survive, that they might fulfil the promises which the bills set forth. Neither Kean nor the comrade who shared the expenses of his lodgings possessed a penny, the remainder of the company were well-nigh equally im¬ poverished, and credit was not to be expected by needy strollers. For two days Kean, like many another genius whom the world has known starved; the while he i HARDSHIPS AND HUNGER. 33 sought to strangle pangs of hunger by tightening his waistband, and to defy depression by assuming mirth. But the third day bringing no relief, he sought to obtain food by strategy. Frequently had he noticed with longing eyes a butcher’s shop well-stocked and prosperous, over which usually presided a damsel whose buxom figure and blooming face were fair to see. To her he resolved on addressing himself, trusting he might obtain for love that which he had no means to buy. Accordingly he sallied forth, and passed the shop of which the butcher’s lovely daughter was then in charge. Her elbow rested on a round of beef, tender as the cheek which her right hand supported; and the attitude being one generally accepted as indicative of senti¬ mentality, he hoped the hour was propitious. He therefore advanced, but as he was about to address her, the burly butcher came in sight, and the young trage¬ dian passed the shop, converting the sigh which rose for his disappointment into a whistle he trusted would seem expressive of indifference. But presently returning, he found the maiden all alone, when he expressed his admiration for her charms, and gradually made known his hunger. From the round of beef which yet bore the impression of her shapely elbow she cut some solid steaks, and putting them on a skewer gave them to him. He thrust them into the tail pocket of a skirted coat, and bidding her a hasty adieu, strode homewards, re¬ joicing that want was at an end. But his hopes were destined to meet disappointment; for the butcher’s dog, that had followed him unseen, suddenly snapped at the coat-tails, displaced the steaks, and ran off with them before Kean could recover his surprise. Surely his darkest hour had come, but dawn was at hand; for 34 EDMUND KEAN. on reaching his lodging he found the London coach had brought a parcel of clothes from Aunt Tid, and as he required food rather than raiment, he hastily transferred them to the charge of his uncle, and so averted threatened starvation. The while he struggled in the provinces he did not neglect his education; his constant practice with the foils rendered him an accomplished fencer; he read and studied Shakespeare continually, and when playing at Hodderdan in Hertfordshire, borrowed Latin and Greek dictionaries from Miss Sands, then proprietress of a public library. It was probably in this manner he gained the smattering of these languages which in after days he was so fond of quoting. It has been stated with much plausibility, but without a shadow of founda¬ tion, that Dr. Drury, the head master of Harrow, aware of his talents, was instrumental in sending him to Eton for two years. Nay, the studies he pursued, his devotion to Cicero, the Latin ode he composed and recited whilst at Eton, have been mentioned by one who has written his biography. These statements, however, are purely imaginary. A few months after his death a controversy was carried on in the pages of Frazer's Magazine as to whether he had or had not been an Eton scholar, the question being finally settled by Dr. Keate, who stated that the records of admission to the school had been regularly kept since 1792 ; and on examination of these, Kean’s name had not been found. He adds, he “did not believe Mr. Kean was ever a member of that school, and he has never heard a dif¬ ferent opinion maintained by any one connected with the school who was likely to have accurate inform¬ ation.” Not these statements alone, but Kean’s letters. A BORN BOHEMIAN. 35 abounding as they do in bad grammar, would be suffi¬ cient to indicate his lack of education. He had passed his sixteenth year when he joined a regular theatrical company, and he remained in the provinces for four years. Sense of freedom, hope of adventure, good comradeship, continual excitement, to a temperament like his compensated for a life full of uncertainty and hardship. A born Bohemian, hope lit the darkness of his path, ambition beckoned him forward, love of art atoned for privations, so that he was far from being unhappy. Nay, he was wont to declare that in those days, when he received ten shillings a week as a reward for his performances in tragedy, comedy, and pantomime, he was far more content than when his salary was fifty pounds a night, and his name was praised by all men. Wise indeed are they who recognize the hour of their felicity and enjoy its pleasures; only when they have travelled up the rugged hill of life, and paused to look backward on the pathway they have trod, do men behold with regretful sight the green places they have passed and left behind for ever. It is notable, that throughout his varied career Kean seemed conscious of the power within him, which one day would force recognition from the world. This | belief helped him to labour in the hard school of experience, which was alone capable of training his talents. An anecdote which is related of him shows the estimate in which he held himself. One nmht O as he, whilst representing Alexander the Great, was being drawn in a triumphal car before the footlights, a young fop in a stage box exclaimed, in tones loud enough to be heard by the audience, “ Alexander the EDMUND KEAN. Great indeed ! it should be Alexander the Little.” The laugh into which the house would probably have broken was checked by a look which Kean deliberately and scornfully fixed upon the speaker as he rose and said, “Yes, Alexander the Little, but with a great soul; ” on which all present broke into a storm of applause by way of protest against the fop’s insolence and approbation of the player’s spirit. At the end of bis fourth year in the provinces he applied for an engagement to Colman, Winston, and Morris, managers of the Haymarket, and his services were accepted to play small parts at a salary of two pounds a week. To London he therefore came in July, 1806. The earlier months of this year had witnessed an event unprecedented before or after in the history of the drama, and as such must be mentioned here. This was the appearance on the London stage of Master Betty, sometimes called the infant Roscius. His brief bright career was indeed most notable. This lad, who was born in 1791, was the son of a Belfast gentleman of property, and of a Shropshire heiress. Passionately fond of witnessing plays and reciting poems, this lady imparted to her son the talents which subsequently rendered him remarkable. Before he was able to read he had learned to recite, committed Shakespearian speeches to memory, and accompanied their delivery with appropriate action. For the benefit and amusement of friends, the infant prodigy was frequently lifted on a sidebeard, and there declaimed to his own satisfaction ana his parents’ delight. As lie - grew up no pains were spared to train the gifts he possessed; his mother taught him elocution, his MASTER BETTY, THE INFANT ROSCIUS. 37 father instructed him in fencing. Recitation became a passion with him, until at last his parents, fearing it would lead him to think of a theatrical career, suddenly discountenanced what they had previously encouraged. Play-books and poems were banished, declamations interdicted, elocution lessons discontinued, and finally he was sent to school. Here, however, Master Betty’s inclinations were wakened to fresh activity by the appreciation his talents received from bis companions. Towards mid¬ night, whilst professors and teachers were enjoying the sleep of the just, the pupils’ dormitory was in a state of activity and commotion. Candles smuggled into the establishment by cunning contrivances were taken from their hiding-places and lighted; beds placed side by side formed a stage; sheets were converted into classic garments, and counterpanes into curtains. Then did the hero of the night enact scenes from tragedies, recite pathetic tales and stirring ballads to an audience attired in night-shirts, who overwhelmed him with the choicest gifts in their possession—apples, peg-tops, and cakes. It happened during his summer vacation in the year 1802, the great Mrs. Siddons visited the Belfast Theatre. Her name was a power in the land, her fame at its highest pitch. Accompanied by their son, Mr. and Mrs. Betty witnessed her performance as Elvira in Pizctrro. The effect on the boy was greater than they had anticipated. His face pallid from excitement, his eyes sparkling with delight, he followed the tragedy, real to him because of the genius which gave it life, force, colour. It was the first play lie Bad seen, and the fascination which great action* O o 38 EDMUND KEAN. exercises over the imagination, the power with which it sways the feelings, dawned on him with wonder and joy. To him the world was never the same again. After a sleepless night he rose hastily, and going out, bought a copy of Pizarro. Before evening he had committed Elviras speeches to memory, and recited them after the manner of Mrs. Siddons. His usual occupations and amusements were neglected in the passion which absorbed him; by day and by night he spoke of nothing but the stage, and finally he assured his parents he should die if they would not permit him to become a player. Though grieved by his infatuation, they were reluct¬ ant to thwart their only child, fearing their opposition to his desire might injure his health. To humour him, therefore, his father, that he might have the opinion of a competent judge, took him to Atkins, manager of the Belfast Theatre. Before him Master Betty, then in his eleventh year, recited some speeches with such effect that the manager declared “he had never indulged in the hope of seeing another Garrick, but that he had beheld an infant Garrick in Master Betty/’ This opinion raised the boy’s hopes to a high pitch, for surely his father would not now oppose his wish to become an actor. Soon after this consultation Ireland was again steeped in political trouble. The rebellion four years previously had drenched the land in blood, and its disastrous effects were still felt. Another rise was anticipated; clouds of fear, gloom, and grief darkened the country; martial law was proclaimed, and the theatres closed. But during the succeeding year the political atmosphere cleared, and playhouses were once more permitted to master betty’s first appearance. 39 open their doors. Now Atkins, knowing that in a period of general depression some extraordinary novelty was necessary to crowd his house, bethought of engag¬ ing Master Betty, and offered him half the receipts after he had deducted the modest sum of twelve pounds for expenses. The boy was delighted at the proposition made him, and his parents consented to his appearance. He was therefore announced to play Osman, in the tragedy of Zara , on the 19th of August, 1803. Curiosity drew a crowded audience, who expected to see a precocious boy trained to recite set speeches, and taught to assume a few stage attitudes. But their surprise was only equalled by their delight when they recognized in him a power capable of exciting their interests and swaying their feelings. A few nights after he played Douglas, and later on Rolla. The last character he attempted to represent at this theatre was Romeo. The fame of “ little Betty,” as he was generally called, spread far and near. Praise of his genius and predictions of his future were in all men’s mouths; he was hailed as the wonder of his age. And his reputa¬ tion reaching Dublin, Frederick Jones, manager of the Crow Street Theatre, offered him an engagement for nine nights, which was readily accepted. It was accord¬ ingly advertised in the Dublin journals that “on Monday the 28th of November, 1803, the character of Douglas will be performed by a young gentleman only twelve years of age, whose admirable talents have procured him the deserved appellation of the Infant Roscius.” Age and youth, rank and fashion rushed to witness his performances and applaud his efforts. In the 40 EDMUND KEAN. theatre he was greeted with enthusiasm; in private he was feted . The nightly receipts of the playhouse amounted to four hundred pounds, an unusual sum. So successful was he, that the manager offered him an engagement for three years at an increasing salary, which the boy’s father wisely refused. From Dublin he proceeded to Cork, where he received as salary a fourth part of the house, including a clear benefit; and from Cork he journeyed to Waterford, playing here in farce as well as in tragedy. Glasgow and Edinburgh were next visited by the Infant Roscius, who con¬ tinued to draw crowded houses wherever and whenever he played. On his first appearance in the former city he was, says Jackson, the manager of the Edinburgh and Glasgow theatres, greeted “ with the greatest bursts of applause I ever witnessed to have been given by an audience.” He watched little Betty with a critic’s eye, in order to notice his defects, and point them out if necessary; “ but his correctness and grace¬ ful mode of deportment throughout the whole of the performance, and the astonishing exertions which his powers enabled him to exhibit, rendered useless my intention, and taught me to know that ‘ Nature’s above art in that respect.’ In the whole series of my acquaintance with the stage,” he adds, “ I have never beheld the same range of characters filled by the principal theatrical adults with a smaller number of admissible faults! ” In Edinburgh his reception was wildly enthusiastic. On the night he was announced to represent Douglas, Home, the author of the tragedy, came to the theatre, and sat at the first wing. Throughout the performance he showed strong signs of emotion,—the character which PLAYS AT BIRMINGHAM 41 sprung from his imagination was visibly realized,—his words were hearkened to with breathless interest, his sentiments applauded by thousands, and when the curtain fell he was so carried away by his satisfaction and gratitude, that he rushed forward on the stage and bowed repeatedly, appropriating the enthusiasm to him¬ self. His admiration for Master Betty knew no bounds; embracing the lad, he declared him a “ wonderful being, great beyond conception, one of the first actors on the British stage/’ The Infant Roscius was now beset by offers of engagements on the most liberal terms from almost every manager of importance in Great Britain. He had already played in Ireland and Scotland, and, desirous of performing in England, decided on appearing at the Birmingham Theatre, of which Macready, father of the lad who afterwards became a notable actor, was then manager. His arrival here caused unusual sen- sation. Gentry from the surrounding districts poured into the town and crowded the hotels; his passage through the streets was attended by numbers who followed to catch sight of him ; crowds thronged the doors of the theatre for hours before they were opened ; portraits of him were exhibited in the windows of the print shops ; and laudatory notices of him appeared in the press. Now it happened that whilst he played at Birming¬ ham, Mr. Justice Graham, one of the board of manage¬ ment which then ruled Drury Lane Theatre, passed through the town, and witnessing Master Betty’s per¬ formance, was much struck by his talents. Reporting his impressions to the managers, they entered into negotiations with Betty senior, offering him half a clear 42 EDMUND KEAN. benefit if his son would perform in their theatre for seven nights. This was indignantly rejected ; and after some correspondence Macready’s opinion was solicited regarding the salary young Roscius should receive. He declared the boy would be entitled to fifty guineas a night and a clear benefit; but these terms being con¬ sidered excessive, the treaty was allowed to drop. Meanwhile Harris, manager of Covent Garden Theatre, entering into communication with Mr. Betty, engaged his son on the terms proposed. Hearing this, the managers of Drury Lane Theatre were wrathful, and immediately sent a trusty messenger to outbid their rival, and remind Mr. Betty they had made the first proposal. He replied Mr. Harris had made the first engagement, and he was in honour bound to him ; how¬ ever, as his agreement did not forbid young Roscius per¬ forming elsewhere in London on the intervening nights or weeks of his performances at Covent Garden, he was ready to enter into a compact with them by which the lad might appear at Drury Lane. His terms were now higher than those asked from Harris, the salary de¬ manded being fifty pounds each for the first three nights performances, and one hundred pounds for each succeeding night he played, with a clear benefit if the engagement was but for a fortnight, and two clear benefits if it lasted a month. The engagement was signed and sealed, binding him to appear in London in December; meanwhile he continued to play in the provinces. The enthusiasm Master Betty created steadily in¬ creased. At Sheffield the prices of admission to the theatre were doubled, poems were addressed to him, people travelled from London to see him ; and at Don¬ caster races scores of vehicles were labelled “ Theatrical ENTHUSIASTIC AUDIENCES. 43 coaches to carry six insides to see the young Roscius.” At Liverpool, where lie acted fourteen nights, the rush to the box-office was so great in the morning, that men and women were bruised and crushed, hats and shoes were lost, and clothes were torn to pieces. For his services here he received fifteen hundred and twenty pounds, and the managers of the theatre offered him a like sum if he would play for an additional fourteen nights, but engagements already made prevented him accepting the offers. Before his departure they pre¬ sented him with silver cups bearing inscriptions re¬ garding their “ profound respect for the most exalted talents of Master Betty.” At Manchester, in conse¬ quence of the great confusion that had taken place, “ whereby the lives of many people have been en¬ dangered,” all application for tickets had to be made by letter; “ all the letters,” the manager advertised, “ will be put into a bag, and, to secure the most perfect impartiality, two gentlemen will attend the drawing at eleven o’clock and see the places booked in the order they are drawn.” Being prevented from playing dur¬ ing Passion week at Coventry, by the Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, he stayed a day at Dunchurch. A lady, a member of one of the county families, who was on her way to Coventry to see the performance, was stopped at Dunchurch by news of his lordship’s prohibition. Hearing that young Roscius was staying at the hotel where she rested, she immediately sent for the landlord, and begged of him to obtain her a sight of the lad, whom she would “ give anything ” to see. He assured her there was but one way by which her curiosity could be gratified, and that was by carrying in one of the dishes to table when Master Betty dined. The lady 44 EDMUND KEAN. thanked him, and willingly agreed to wait upon the hero. Rumours of his success and the sensation he caused reaching London, he was there anxiously awaited. Whilst at Leicester his father, who invariably accom¬ panied him, received a letter from John Philip Kemble, then one of the proprietors and managers of Covent Garden Theatre, whose salary, it may be here remarked, of thirty-seven pounds sixteen shillings a week was less than Master Betty received for one night. “ I cannot/' he says, “ hear of you being on your journey without doing myself the pleasure of expressing the satisfaction I feel in knowing that I shall soon have the happiness of welcoming you and Master Betty to Covent Garden Theatre ; and give me leave to say how heartily I congratulate the stage on the ornament and support it is, by the judgment of all the world, to receive from Master Betty’s extraordinary talents and exertions. You will be much concerned to know that Mr. Harris has been for some time confined to his bed; and indeed, it has not been the least of his pains that his illness has prevented his gratifying himself, as he intended, by writing to you. If there is anything I can possibly do for you and Master Betty’s accommodation against you come to town, pray command my best services.” His advent was now at hand, and London was in commotion. One evening, whilst Frederick Reynolds the dramatist was sitting in a box in the first circle of Covent Garden Theatre, a gentleman, accompanied by a very pretty boy, entered towards the beginning of the second act of the play, and sat beside him. The former asked which of the actors then on the stage was Kemble and which was Lewis, but the lad merely AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 45 devoured oranges, and took no interest in the scene. Presently a fruit-woman entering, whispered to the dramatist that he was verily in the presence of Mr. Betty and his son; and on being asked how she knew, replied the superintendent of the free list, to whom they gave their names, had told her. She had scarcely communicated her news when the door was suddenly burst open, and hundreds of well-dressed persons, who had deserted their seats, sought to gain admission. News of Master Betty’s presence in the house spread rapidly, and the crowd and excitement in and around the box became so great, that Mr. Betty in alarm called aloud for the box-keeper, but this individual not being able to approach because of the formidable numbers, Reynolds proposed to guide them into safety. As they with difficulty moved from the box, the crowd, imagining they were about to leave the house, rushed to the lobby, where a better view of the prodigy might be had; on which Reynolds delivered young Roscius to the box-keeper, who quickly opened a private door leading to the green-room, where he and his father found refuge. Saturday, the 1st of December, 1804, was fixed for his first appearance at Covent Garden Theatre. On the previous Friday night several persons had sought to conceal themselves in the house, in hope of being able to find a good position for witnessing his perform¬ ance. About ten o’clock on the morning of the day he was announced to appear, men were seen to parade the piazza of the theatre, and collect in groups in various parts of Bow Street, that they might be near the doors when the crowd began to gather. All seats possible to book had been taken for the first six nights of O 46 EDMUND KEAN. Betty’s performances. Soon after mid-day the principal entrances of the house were surrounded, and fresh batches continually arriving, quite early in the after¬ noon the piazza was not only full, but a mass of people* compact and impenetrable stretched across the street Danger was apprehended, and policemen were placed inside the building, whilst a detachment of the Guards was stationed outside. Before evening came the great heat and close pressure of the crowd became intoler¬ able, and many persons fainted. The Guards now scattered those collected in the street, and stationing themselves at the entrance to the piazza, allowed none to add to the numbers already collected there. The doors were opened at half-past four o’clock, when a terrific rush like that of a released torrent, poured into the house. Indescribable confusion followed. Before five minutes had elapsed the galleries were crowded to their uttermost limit. The pit was crammed, and many of those who held pit tickets climbed into the front boxes, and refused to move from their position; the passages and lobbies were likewise filled by those who, unable to obtain places, were satis¬ fied to remain in the building, though they could neither see nor hear young Roscius. The din resound- ing through the house was deafening; cries and re¬ monstrances, laughter and gossip filled the air. Pre¬ sently the heat became unendurable, and long before the play began, and continually during the performance, men and women fainted. The Prince of Wales, after¬ wards George the Fourth, fat and florid in a tight coat, red-brown wig, and many-folded neckcloth, sat in Lady Melbourne’s box; crowds of fair women and not¬ able men gathered in the surrounding circle, a blaze of FIRST APPEARANCE IN LONDON. 47 diamonds and decorations in all; whilst behind the scenes, actors, dramatists, and critics assembled in numbers, satisfied to witness the performance from the wings. After patient waiting and strong endurance, the audience saw the curtain rise. Then the play, Barbarossa , began, but Achmet, the character Master Betty represented, not appearing in the first act, no heed was paid to the players, whose voices were drowned in the continued murmuring and general excitement. At the beginning of the second act silence settled over the house, and when at last the boy made his appearance whom they had suffered so much to see, thunders of applause echoed and re-echoed through the theatre. With admirable self-possession and ap¬ parent calmness he bowed repeatedly, undismayed by the vast mass of faces rising tier above tier before him. Then turning to the stage he began his part, seeming to lose all knowledge of his audience in the identity of his representation. In appearance he was slight and feminine, his features clear cut and intelligent in expression, his eyes small, his bright brown hair fall¬ ing, after the fashion of the day, in ringlets on his shoulders. His voice was rather monotonous, and in the higher notes decidedly shrill. He was continually interrupted by the plaudits of his audience, and when the act concluded deafening cheers rang through the house. Throughout the tragedy the enthusiasm in¬ creased, and at its conclusion the audience, by way of compliment to Master Betty, refused to permit the usual farce to be played. Having acted six nights at Covent Garden, he began his performances at Drury Lane. Here the scene which had taken place at the rival house on his first 48 EDMUND KEAN. appearance was repeated with additional violence; for the crowd outside the theatre, impatient of the long delay which ensued before the doors were opened, smashed all the windows within reach; whilst on gaining admission it destroyed the balustrades leading to the boxes and galleries, and forced the bars at the pay-doors. Honours now poured thick upon Master Betty. By their request he was presented to George III. and Queen Charlotte; the Prince of Wales entertained him at Carlton House; he was proposed as a fitting subject for the Cambridge prize medal poem; invitations from the highest women in the land were showered upon him; ducal carriages were placed at his disposal, and carried him to and from the theatres; Opie painted him as Norval on the Grampian hills; Northcote represented him in full length with Shakespeare standing at a respectful distance; busts of him were exhibited at the exhibitions; whilst prints displayed in the shop-windows portrayed John Philip Kemble and himself riding on one horse, Master Betty in front, remarking, “ I don’t mean to affront you, but when two persons ride on a horse one must be behind.” But what was perhaps the most flattering compli¬ ment of all awaited him. One night, when he was playing Achmet at Drury Lane, it was whispered that Gentleman Smith, the original Charles Surface, who had retired some sixteen years previously, was now in the house. And the tragedy being ended, this excellent actor went behind the scenes, and requested he might be introduced to the boy. This being accomplished, they fell into discourse, when Gentleman Smith said, “ During Garrick’s last illness he gave me COMPLIMENTS PAID HIM. 49 a seal, his own likeness cut whilst in Italy, with this commission, that should I in after years meet with a player who acted from nature and from feeling, and whom I considered worthy of the gift, I should present him with that token. I have travelled from Bury St. Edmunds to be present at your performance, and I consider you worthy of the valued relic.” A few days later the seal reached Master Betty with the following letter— “Young Gentleman, “ The fame of your talents has drawn an old fellow-labourer in the theatric vineyard from his retirement in a very advanced age, and he feels well rewarded for his trouble. Let me recommend to you strict attention to the arts and lelles lettres. May your success continue, and may you live to be an ornament to the stage and to your country. Accept from me the seal of our great predecessor—a strong ■ likeness of Mr. Garrick. “ Couldst thou in this engraved pebble trace The living likeness of his plastic face, Whilst thy congenial soul partook its fire, His magic eye thy spirit would inspire. “ I am your admirer, friend, and well-wisher, “ Feb. 15, 1805.” “W. Smith.” His London engagements brought great profit to himself and to the theatres at which he played. The receipts of Drury Lane for the twenty-eight nights during which he performed amounted to seventeen thousand two hundred and ten pounds, being an average sum of six hundred and fourteen pounds nightly; his own salary for these evenings being two E 50 EDMUND KEAN. thousand seven hundred and eighty-two pounds, inde¬ pendent of his benefits, which realized about two thousand guineas. Having gained unexpected wealth and renown in London, he returned to the provinces, but in the following winter he was again announced to appear at both theatres during the months of December, 1805, and January, 1806. Meanwhile curiosity concerning him had considerably abated, and though the House of Commons on one occasion, at the desire of his friend Mr. Pitt, adjourned to witness his performance of Hamlet , yet his audiences were by no means so large as during his first visit. Indeed, the receipts taken on the evenings he played at Drury Lane Theatre were little more than half the sums received the previous year, and averaged but two hundred and twenty-seven pounds some odd shillings nightly. A month before his second visit a lady of the mature age of eight years, whose acting had created a sensation in the provinces, was, whilst playing Miss Peggy in the Country Girl at Drury Lane Theatre, hissed off the stage, and not permitted to finish her part, though she made a pert speech in her own defence. This was a sign to Master Betty, whose career as a phenomenon was almost at an end. Actors deserving well of the town, whose positions had been hardly won, were from the first indignant at the foolish enthusiasm that the immature acting of a clever boy had caused. Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble had withheld from appearing in the same cast with Betty, and it was with reluctance the members of the company at either house performed with him. Above all others Kean, who possessed a full sense of his own worth, was wrath that this lad’s mechanical performances should AT THE HAYMARKET. 51 produce wealth and fame, whilst he, who was gifted with fire, imagination, passion, and capacity, almost starved; and this feeling within him presently resolved itself into action. Meantime Master Betty, whom we shall meet again, returned once more to the provinces, where he continued to reap golden harvests. It was the custom for Drury Lane and Covent Garden Theatres to close from the end of June to early in September, during which time a summer season of performances was held at the Haymarket Theatre, the players chiefly consisting of minor lights from the great houses, with an occasional star from some provincial theatre introduced by way of novelty and attraction. The luminary whom it was hoped would shine this season w 7 as Alexander Rae, wdio had formerly played Richmond to Kean’s Richard in the back parlour of Mrs. Price’s house. He was five years older than the friend of his boyhood, and had begun life as clerk to an army agent, but having a passion for the stage he became an actor. His presence was handsome and attractive, his playing brisk and noisy. In tragedy and comedy he showed an equal talent, which never rose above the dull level of mediocrity. Mrs. Siddons, who had acted with him in Liverpool, had said that, “out of London there was nothing to equal this young fellow;” and though her judgment was found wanting, yet when spoken by her it was heard as the utterance of an oracle, and he had been engaged forthwith for the Haymarket. On this opening night of the season, June 9th, 180G, Rae played Octavian, a favourite character of Kean’s, who had acted it in the provinces with great success. But no chance was afforded him of appeal jay in a 52 EDMUND KEAN. prominent part, though, according to one who knew him well, he was now “ a better actor than he could have been in 1830, when sickness had enervated his frame, and when his defects had become habits by the flattery of ill-judging friends and the applause of name-lauding auditors.” But those surrounding him were blind to his merits, and had he laid bare his pretentions they would have laughed him to scorn. To them this slight-figured, shabbily-dressed youth, with eager dark eyes and reticent manners, was but a member of impoverished strolling companies, who had fared over-well in receiving an engagement in London. Though the parts he played were insignificant, the manner in which he acted them was excellent, but his fellow-labourers were the last to admit his ability. When in a drama of Colman’s, called Means ancl Ways , he acted the part of Carney, a slight outline which he developed into a character, those watching him at the wings whispered to each other, “ He’s trying to act; the little fellow’s making a part of Carney; ” to which remark came the reply* “ He wants fun, and is too real.” The public were more kind, and occasional appro¬ bation rewarded his endeavours. He was proud to recall that once he received three rounds of applause for delivering a few words; and again, when Five Miles Off\ or the Finger Post , was produced, its author, Thomas Dibdin, publicly commended his acting of a very trivial part. His feelings of mortification at the estimate in which he was held behind the curtain, and at the opportunities denied him of appearing in prominent parts, were heightened by Rae’s forgetfulness of their boyish friendship; one was seemingly at the head of his profession, playing lead in a London house / the other was EJIS DISAPPOINTMENT. 53 at the lowest rung of the ladder, and the distance lying between was great. One day whilst rehearsing the Iron Chest, in which Rae was cast for Sir Edward Mortimer and Kean for a nameless servant, the former, in changing the business of the last act, gave some directions to the latter which he did not immediately understand, and the passage was therefore repeated three times, when at last Rae exclaimed, “ Never mind, sir, we’ll try it at night.” One who was present says he believes Rae unintentionally spoke the words in that hopeless tone men use when despairing of making others understand their meaning. “ Kean’s brow changed,” says this observer, “ a look which I have since marked often came over his pale face, and a peculiar motion of his lips as if he were chewing or swallowing, which in Kean was a certain sign of hurt feeling or supposed rage. I do not believe that Kean ever forgot that circumstance.” To drown his sense of disappointment he too often frequented the Antelope tavern, then kept by one Clarke, who had been kind to him in Sheerness during days of weariness and weeks of hardship. Shy, silent, and perhaps scornful, he avoided Finche’s, to which the better class of players resorted to recount their late success or predict their future triumphs—lan¬ guage which, to one holding within him the elements of greatness fate denied him the opportunity of testing, might well goad him to madness. The season at the Haymarket ended on the 12th of September. Before that date Kean, carrying with him a letter of intro¬ duction to John Philip Kemble, waited on him at Covent Garden Theatre that lie might request an en¬ gagement. Kemble’s manner, perhaps charged with the 54 EDMUND KEAN. remembrance of his mimicry in the past, was cold and severe ; Kean left his presence chilled and depressed, and stated he would rather never play in London than act under Kemble. Soon he received an engagement, at a salary of eighteen shillings a week, from Mrs. Baker, a manageress well-known in the provinces, and played at Tunbridge Wells on the 22nd of the month. It is worthy of note, that Kean, Mrs. Siddons, and George Frederick Cooke had failed to attract attention on their first appearances in London. Each had then gone back to the country, where Mrs. Siddons remained seven years, Cooke two-and-twenty, and Kean eight years, before returning to the capital and securing success. Mr. Kean “ of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket,” as he was now styled in the playbills, frequently figured as first tragedian, occasionally as light comedian, and generally as a singer of comic songs between the acts. He then began a career heavily chequered by success and failure, by light and shadow, which eventually ended in renown. Determined to gain fame, he con¬ tinually studied, and whilst at Birmingham resolved on representing Hamlet. Parts of the play he had recited in days of yore to Miss Tidswell, or enacted for the benefit of Mrs. Clarke’s guests, but he now for the first time represented the grief-stricken prince as a complete figure in the tragic picture Shakespeare has painted for all time. His study was slow and careful, and those who were stirred by his outbursts seldom considered the labour they cost him; what they deemed the result of inspiration had been carefully rehearsed; for even crenius must labour to excel. Mrs. Kean was wont in after years to narrate that he “ used to mope about for hours, walking miles and miles alone with his hands in PLAYING AT BELFAST. 55 his pockets, thinking intensely on his characters. IN o one,” she added, “ could get a word from him. He studied and slaved beyond any actor I ever knew.” His appearance as Hamlet received the success it merited, and was repeated several times during the company’s stay in that town; he had now made a step forward towards the goal he desired. Soon after, he travelled into Scotland, and from there passed over to Belfast, where Atkins engaged him to play leading parts, Arriving here, he was told that two nights later Mrs. Siddons would give a few performances at the theatre, beginning with the Mourning Bride , in which he was cast for Osmyn, a part with which he was wholly un¬ familiar. He immediately assured Atkins it would be impossible for him to attempt the character, but the manager answered he had engaged himself to play principal parts, and must fulfil his contract. The young actor confessed his memory was slow to grasp or retain, and that it would be an act of injustice to himself, and likewise to Mrs. Siddons, to force this representation upon him; but Atkins would hear of no refusal. Accordingly he prepared to face the situation. He had previously accepted an invitation from a friend on board a sloop of war lying in Carrickfergus Bay to dine with him on Sunday. On Friday evening he betook himself to this friend, that he might study in greater peace and seclusion, and returned on Monday believing his efforts had been successful. A densely- packed audience awaited the great actress, who was received with enthusiasm ; then silence fell upon the house. Kean began his part, spoke the first few lines, hesitated, and paused ; the impressive bearing of Mrs. Siddons, the breathless attention of the crowd made 56 EDMUND KEAN. him forget his lines. Approaching the wings, he sought to catch the prompter’s words, but in striving to repeat them spoke nonsense, and ended in failure. Nothing but the presence of Mrs. Siddons suppressed the gradually increasing anger of the assemblage, and to appease its fury he came forward and explained the circumstances under which he was obliged to act. Venice; Preserved was the next play in which Mrs. Siddons was to appear, a rehearsal for which was called next morning. Before it began, she asked who was to represent Jaffier? Kean’s name was mentioned. “ What ! ” said she, indignantly, “ surely not that horrid little man who destroyed the tragedy last night! ” The manager assured her he was perfect in bis part, and would play it extremely well. His judgment proved correct; for not only did Kean please the audience, but likewise the queen of tragedy, who com¬ plimented him on his performance, and foretold his success. The words of encouragement he had pre¬ viously received had been few, and those of so famous a woman were welcome as gifts; they served as oil to light the flame of hope. At the conclusion of his engagement at Belfast he joined Watson’s company, which made periodical circuits of the chief towns of Gloucester, Warwick, Worcester, and Hertfordshire, playing tragedy, comedy, farce, and pantomime. One evening whilst he was acting at Birmingham in a pantomime, founded on the story of Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene, a scliool-boy aged sixteen named William Charles Macready, then home from Rugby for the holidays, sat in a box with his sister to witness the performance. The principal characters were represented by Richer, a baron all MISS MARY CHAMBERS. 57 covered with jewels and gold; by Mrs. Watson, a female porpoise, ungainly and gaudy, who played the beauteous Imogene; and Kean, clad in green satin as became Alonzo the Brave. “It was so ridiculous /” says Mac- ready, “ that the only impression I carried away was that the hero and heroine were the worst in the piece. How little did I know, or could guess, that under that shabby green satin dress was hidden one of the most extraordinary theatrical geniuses that have ever illus¬ trated the dramatic poetry of England. When some years afterwards public enthusiasm was excited to the highest pitch by the appearance at Drury Lane of an actor of the name of Kean, my astonishment may easily be concerned in discovering that the little insignificant Alonzo the Brave was the grandly impassioned personater of Othello, Richard, and Shylock.” CHAPTER III. And now was an important event in his life's history at hand. Whilst at Cheltenham an Irish girl named Mary Chambers joined the company. She was a native of Waterford, and in the capacity of governess had travelled with a family named Congreve, of Mount Congreve, county Waterford, to Cheltenham, where they repaired to drink the waters. Weary of the drudgery of a school-room, and believing she possessed dramatic talent, she determined to become an actress, and selected Cheltenham as the scene of her dibut. She danced gracefully, sang prettily, but acted indiffer¬ ently. Her manners were kindly and gentle, her voice soft and sweet, and her appearance refined if not 58 EDMUND KEAN. handsome. From the tasteful manner in which she in¬ variably dressed, as well as from her general appearance, Kean, without any false representation of hers, came to believe she possessed some money, and, anxious to better his condition, proposed marriage to her, he being at this time in his twenty-first year, while she was nine years older. He was immediately accepted, and one bright morn¬ ing, on the 17th of July, 1808, this marriage, loveless at least on his side, was celebrated in the parish church of Stroud, in the county of Gloucester, by the Rev. Mr. Adams, whose fee Kean paid out of half-a-sovereign lent him by Miss Harriet Thornton, who figured on this occasion as a bridesmaid. Returning to Chelten¬ ham, the wedding party hastened to the Dog Tavern, where its worthy hostess, Mrs. Hyell, furnished the poor players with a wedding breakfast at her own expense. Kean’s salary at the time when he became a husband was a guinea a week. Some months after his marriage he left Watsons company to join the troop of another manager named Cherry, who gave him twenty-five shillings a week c Andrew Cherry was a clever dramatist, an excellent comedian, and an able manager. Moreover was he a man of wit. It is recorded of him, that before taking a company into the country he was offered a remunerative engagement by the proprietor of a theatre who on a former occasion had cheated him. Therefore his brief answer was, that he “ had bit him once, and was now resolved he would not have two bites of A. Cherry.” When Kean and his wife joined him he was travelling with a fairly good company through South Wales and the south-west of Ireland. Kean’s engagement had WALKING TO SWANSEA. 59 been made by letter, and there now arose a difficulty regarding his joining Cherry at Swansea. Neither he nor his wife, soon to become a mother, had money to defray their travelling expenses, and it but remained for them to make the journey on foot. Accordingly these poor strollers, ill-clad, badly fed, and lacking strength, trudged wearily along the high roads for many days, now reciting and singing with what spirits they could summon at some village inn, that they might secure a night’s shelter; again playing in a barn, that they might earn a meal from the pittance wrung from over¬ fed, gaping, witless rustics. Their fatigue and hard¬ ships were great, and their exhaustion complete, when they reached their destination, and received some funds in advance from the manager to supply their wants. When Kean was sufficiently recovered to join the company, he was somewhat disappointed at finding the principal parts were generally allotted to a tragedian named Smith ; but his spirits rose on seeing this actor’s deficiency, for he chiefly depended for his effects on rant, and tore his passions to tatters. Strength of lung in shouting, and force of limb in gesticulating, stood in place of facial expression or intellectual interpretation. Kean endured him with such patience as kindly heaven granted him, until one night, when Smith was playing Hamlet, and Kean representing the venerable Polonius. Then did his endurance gradually vanish, until at the conclusion of the play scene, where the king calls for lights, Kean, overcome by the ridiculous bearing of Hamlet, and the idiotic behaviour of the whole court of Denmark, suddenly threw a double somersault, which by its daring novelty electrified not only the noble 60 EDMUND KEAN. company upon the stage, but the admiring audience likewise. An explanation with the manager followed this unrehearsed action, the result being, that Kean was allowed to play the heroes of tragedy henceforth. Now the sometime Hamlet accepted his fate with philosophy, but felt inclined to take his revenge when opportunity offered. This came to him in due course. One night when Kean played Richard III., and the tragedy had arrived at the scene where the body of Henry VI. is being carried past Richard, one of the supers, who, to make the scene more realistic, was dressed as a parson, coughed violently, whereon Smith, once a Danish prince, but now a corpse-bearer, instead of saying, “ My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass,” cried out in impressive accents, “ My lord, stand back, and let the parson cough,” which so tickled the fancy of Henry’s disconsolate widow, that she burst into loud laughter, and the whole scene was spoilt. Kean now played a round of characters in which he subsequently won fame, and was regarded by many as a player whose future promised fair success. Whilst at Swansea Mrs. Kean gave birth to their first child, named Howard, to whom Kean became* passionately devoted. From this town the company travelled to Carmarthen and Haverfordwest, playing a season in each place, and then crossed the Channel to Waterford. Whilst in this city the troop was joined by an Irishman named Sheridan Knowles, who, like many another ambitious youth, without possessing ability as an actor, believed himself destined for the stage. Having given up his appointment in a London hospital, he had made his ddbut as Hamlet KEAN AND SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 61 before a Dublin audience; but such talent as he betrayed was insufficient to impress his manager with ardent desires to secure his services. Therefore he had gone into the provinces as a strolling player, married Maria Charteris, and eventually joined Cherry’s company at Waterford. With Kean this round-faced, genial-tem- pered, bustling little man soon became fast friends; and his admiration for the young tragedian begot the desire to write him a play. Accordingly, Sheridan Knowles laboured and brought forth his first drama, entitled Leo , or the Gipsy, in which Kean played the hero with credit to himself and profit to the author, for whose benefit it was produced. It was not merely the principal characters in tragedy and comedy Kean was engaged to perform; occasion¬ ally he was expected to use *his energies as a ballet- master, and show his agility as a harlequin; and on more than one occasion he acted the latter on the same evening that he played Richard III. But, not¬ withstanding his excellent performances, and the various attractions held forth by the theatre, audiences were scant in number; and Kean was wont to relate that scarce ever had he felt hunger so acutely as one night, when playing King Lear to the dull and honest burghers of this goodly city; the pangs of his empty stomach gave a wildness to his eye which no effort of imagination could produce. It happened during the course of Cherry’s stay in this city, a young subaltern named Grattan, and his friend a little lieutenant of artillery, were stationed at the barracks. Now as both these youths were strolling one summer evening along the Mall, where the theatre was situated, they paused to read a glaring play-bill, 62 EDMUND KEAN. announcing the tragedy of Hamlet would be acted by the full strength of the company on that date. Kean was set down to represent the Prince, Cherry for Polonius, and Sheridan Knowles for Rosencrantz, a fact which held out no attraction for them. However, as they prided themselves on their skill in using the foils, they mutually expressed a desire to witness the fencing scene between Hamlet and Laertes. To their mental capaci¬ ties the first four acts of the great tragedy was con¬ sidered a trial beyond endurance, but they resolved to see the fifth, and judge “ what sort of affair the strollers would make of it.” Having signified their gracious intentions to the door¬ keeper that he might call them when the time arrived, they meanwhile betook themselves to a neighbouring billiard-room in pursuit of an amusement that might not overtax their intellects. In the course of the evening the door-keeper came to announce that the fifth act was about to begin, and with a correct absence of excite¬ ment, they leisurely strolled towards the play-house, and took possession of a stage box. They were in time to hear Osric’s invitation to Hamlet “ lisped out with the usual vulgar caricature of court foppery regularly exhibited by theatre royal comedians, as well as by our Waterford candle-snuffer,” writes the magnificent Grat¬ tan. When the fencing began poor Osric’s desperate efforts had merely the effect of amusing them, and they turned their kind attention to the chief actors in the scene. He who played Laertes being tall of stature made Hamlet’s representation appear more diminutive than he really was. The fight between them began, when so poor was their skill in the eyes of the lieutenant, himself a practised swordsman, as he would GIVES FENCING LESSONS. 63 have the world know, that he laughed aloud in his scorn, and crying out theatrically “ Hold, enough,” re¬ quested his companion to leave the house. Grattan would have gone with him, had he not noticed the extreme skill and grace with which Kean parried the cut-and-thrust attacks of his adversary, and saw, more¬ over, the look of haughty resentment he turned upon the swaggering lieutenant on hearing him laugh. As the duel continued, Grattan’s admiration of Kean’s carriage and action increased, and when the curtain fell his curiosity concerning him was roused. Therefore in passing out he made inquiries regarding Kean from the money-taker, a garrulous dame, well versed in the private histories of the company indi¬ vidually and collectively. From her he learned that Kean was an actor of talent, the first tragedian of the company, likewise its principal singer, stage manager, inventor of pantomimes and ballets of action, and the best harlequin in Ireland, Wales, or the West of England. Moreover, it was added he gave lessons in fencing and boxing, for his skill with both foils and gloves was known to many. Hearing these things the young men sought his acquaintance, and engaged that he should give them lessons in fencing, though, adds Grattan, “ his visits were not made in the capacity of master, for we were either of us quite a match for him.” Whilst giving instructions in the rooms of his pupils, he made acquaintance with the officers of the garrison, all of whom admired his dexterity in fencing; and they, falling at odd times into conversation with him, and witnessing his various talents, became interested in his fortunes, and resolved on securing him a well-filled house on the night of his benefit. 64 EDMUND KEAN. The play Kean selected for this occasion was Hannah More’s tragedy of Percy , in which he represented the hero and Mrs. Kean the heroine. Whilst the company stayed at Waterford her name had not appeared on the play-bills, for before arriving in her native city Kean had requested the manager to waive her engage¬ ment ; for, insomuch as the heroines were represented by other ladies of the company, she could only appear in inferior characters, a fact that might prejudice her in the opinion of her connections and friends. This sacrifice of her salary for the benefit of his pride was made at a time when he could ill-afford the loss of even such a trifling sum. Mrs. Kean’s appearance on the occasion of her husband’s benefit was described in the bills as “her first upon any stage;” probably a precaution taken to insure the needed mercy of her audience. The house was crowded by those whom either curiosity or friendship drew to witness her efforts, as well as by the military element attracted by Kean. On this night he displayed various talents, in all of which he excelled; for having roused the sympathies of his audience by his tragic power, he gave a specimen of his skill as a tight-rope dancer, an art he had learned in Saunders’ circus, then sparred with a professional pugilist, took the leading part in a musical interlude, and finally performed Chimpanzee the monkey in the melodramatic pantomime of La Pcrouse , and in the death scene exhibited a pathos and feeling that made his audience weep. This benefit brought him the welcome sum of forty pounds. His visit to Waterford was made memorable not only by this unusual windfall of fortune, but likewise because of the birth of his second son Charles. ANNE OF SWANSEA. 65 From Waterford the company proceeded to Clonmel, where Kean’s excellent acting created attention, and where likewise he was, as in Waterford, enabled to add to his income by teaching fencing. And having tarried some months in this town they crossed over to Swansea, where the youngest sister of the great Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Hutton, then lived. This offspring of a clever family had no dramatic talent, but was well-known as the author of several tales written under the nom de f plume of Anne of Swansea. She was struck by Kean’s various powers, and to better his fortune, and perhaps gratify her vanity, wrote a play for him, in which he performed for his benefit. He had now been over two years in Cherry’s company, and had steadily gained in reputation; and knowing he had benefited his manager, he asked an increase of five shillings a week in his salary; but this Cherry refused, and they parted. Once more Kean had the world before him. Hearing a vacancy had occurred in the Bath Theatre, he offered his services, but preference was given to another applicant; he then wrote to the manager of a Liverpool theatre, who replied that his company was full. Once more taking heart, he communicated with Frederick Jones of the Crow Street Theatre, Dublin, stating he would act tragedy and comedy, and serve as master of the ballet, for three pounds a week, but his proposal was declined. He then travelled to town, hoping to find an engage¬ ment there, no matter how humble, which might save him from the drudgery of a strolling player’s life. Penniless as he was, he and his family endured much. “ At Richmond in Yorkshire,” Mrs. Kean wrote, “ we suffered more than common privations. My husband F 66 EDMUND KEAN. took a room in the principal inns, and gave recitations, singing, &c. A gentleman who kept a large establish¬ ment for the education of young gentlemen was very kind, and the young gentlemen called next day with their pocket-money, and left it with the landlady directed for Mr. Kean, the sum amounting, I think, to eleven shillings and sixpence. There is something in the generosity of youth/’ Arriving footsore and weary in town, disappointment awaited him, but still he struggled. At length he heard that Hughes, then manager of the Weymouth, Plymouth, and Exeter theatres, was in want of a clever actor, and applying to him, Kean was engaged to play tragedy and comedy, farce and pantomime, at a salary of two guineas a week. But now having spent his money by his journey to town and his residence there, he knew not how he might reach Weymouth, until at last coming to hear that his new manager’s father held an engagement at Sadlers Wells Theatre, he addressed him the following letter, in which he refers with some exaggeration to his large family and most expensive baggage, and shows a cer¬ tain amount of affectation in the use of Latin and Greek. “ Tavistock JRow , Covent Garden , 1812. “ To — Hughes, Esq., Sadlers Wells Theatre . “ Dear Sir, “ Having travelled lately some hundred Miles with a large family and most expensive baggage, I am left in London in a situation (which many of our brother professionals are acquainted with) Non est mihi argentum. It is My wish therefore to depart by to¬ morrow’s coach for Weymouth, but I frankly confess I at present have not the means; if, sir, you would kean’s letter to hughes. 67 oblige me with the sum of ten pounds, Mr. Finch or Miss Tidswell will become Answerable for my immedi¬ ate appearance at Weymouth, and Mr. Hughes might proceed to the reduction of ten shillings per week till the debt is discharged. As I am fully sensible this is a great obligation from a stranger, it is my wish to pay any interest on the money you may please to demand, and as Mr. Hughes, Junr. will have the means in his own hands, there can be no doubt of the payment, and I shall bear the recollection of your kindness nap o\ov tov fiiov. I should not ask so great a favour, but My Aunt, whose purse was ever open to my necessities, is at this moment as bare in pocket as Myself, and another Relation from whom I have been in the habit of receiv¬ ing Supplies is not in London. I can only say, sir, however exorbitant the request may appear to a stranger, there is no Manager who knows me would refuse it; it is My intention, should fortune favour my designs, to make the Situation you have offered me a permanency, and as I have ever shown unremitting attention to my professional duties, I despair not of joining your approbation to the public’s, and of making it pleasant to all parties. The money I write for is for immediate service, and if you would commit it to the charge of the bearer—My Servant—it would be brought very safe to Me, and to-morrow we would depart for Weymouth. “ I am, Sir, “ With the greatest Respect, Yours, “E. Kean. “P.S.—If it is your wish to see me on the business, and you will appoint the hour, I’ll wait upon you, but 68 EDMUND KEAN. I shall be greatly distressed if I cannot procure the money to-day.” A sum sufficient for his travelling expenses was lent him, and he joined the company at Weymouth, from whence it moved to Exeter. Here he and his family occupied rooms in Goldsmith Street, situated behind All Hallows Church. The audiences of this quiet cathedral town prided themselves on their critical judgment. They knew a good play when they saw it, and had beheld great tragedians in their day, so that when they pronounced Kean to be fairly excellent, he was certainly gratified. To them he played Hamlet, Richard III., Othello, and Shylock, representing the latter as an injured and pathetic figure instead of presenting him as an object for the scoffs and scorn of the gallery, as most actors did at this time. This change caused considerable debate amongst the lovers of Shakspeare; essays and pamphlets were written on the subject, and debates held concerning the great dramatist’s idea of the Jew. Kean had the good fortune whilst here to attract the notice and gain the friendship of a worthy resident, one Mr. Nation, an old gentleman famous for his knowledge of Shakspeare and his love of the stage. Appreciating Kean’s genius, he had become interested in his fate, and striven to forward his fortunes. Inviting him to his house, he entertained him, read plays with him, and debated regarding the meaning of various passages and the delivery of certain parts. To these convers¬ ations the young tragedian attributed many of the excellences which subsequently marked his represent¬ ations. Nor did the offices of friendship end here. In REAPPEARANCE OF MR. BETTY. G9 order to draw the attention of London managers to Kean’s performances, this ingenious man would write criticisms on them, dwell on their various merits, refer to the crowded audiences who witnessed them, and the applause that greeted them, both these latter details being purely imaginary. These critiques he handed to one Marjerum, a correspondent for the metropolitan papers, who forwarded them to town; and they appear¬ ing in due time, the good people of Exeter wondered exceedingly at the false rumours spread abroad concern¬ ing themselves and their theatre, whilst Kean and his patron enjoyed them as capital jokes. But Mr. Nation’s efforts on Kean’s behalf did not end here. Being personally acquainted with Dr. Drury, head-master of Harrow, and knowing him to be a lover of good acting, and moreover a man of influence, he begged him to come and stay a night at Exeter, that he might witness Kean’s playing. With this request the doctor complied, and accompanying his friend to the theatre, was so forcibly struck by Kean’s representation of Cato, that he promised to use what interest he had with the managers of Drury Lane in urging them to give this actor a trial; and as he promised so did he perform, but no immediate result followed his exertions on the actor’s behalf. Whilst Kean was playing at Exeter, William Henry Betty, now arrived at the age of manhood, came to the theatre as a star. He had retired from the stao*e for O upwards of six years, four of which he had spent as a student at Cambridge; but anxious to trade upon his former reputation and accumulate more wealth, he once more trod the boards. He is described at this period as being “ a great lubberly, overgrown, fat-voiced, 70 EDMUND KEAN. good-tempered fellow, with very little talent, and just tolerated as a man by those who were ashamed to con¬ fess they were deceived in thinking him a divinity when a boy.” His figure indeed was much too large and heavy for the stage, his actions overstrained, exuberant, unnatural, and though not wholly destitute of grace, yet generally laboured. His tread on the boards “ more resembled the awkward stride of a caricature performer in pantomime than the graceful walk of a tragic hero, whilst his voice was coarse and provincial.” His fame had not wholly died during his retirement, and his name was yet sufficient to ensure full houses whenever he performed. Now Kean, hearing he was coming to Exeter, became exceedingly uneasy, and when Betty arrived his wrath overflowed; for the appreciation and reward denied to merit were freely given to one who lived on his reputation as a clever boy; and when presently asked to play Laertes to Betty’s Hamlet, he flatly refused. A writer who con¬ tributed some memoranda to the Literary Gazette says, that on returning from the theatre one night in a drizzling rain he encountered Kean. “ He had been wandering about the whole night, unable to endure the mortification he experienced. I reasoned with him,” continues this individual, “ but it was in vain. ‘ I must feel deeply/ he replied; ‘ he commands over¬ flowing houses, I play to empty benches, and I know my powers are superior to his.’ ” His belief in his own talents, notwithstanding the slights he received and the appreciation he lacked, was firm; and frequently he predicted his future greatness, for he was still young, and hope dwells with youth. Probably his manager shared Kean’s opinion of FIGARO MORALIZES. 71 himself, for he was not dismissed because of his refusal to support Mr. Betty, and on the departure of that actor continued to play leading parts. His marriage had not made him a man of more sober habits, and occasionally he and his family felt the misery of want. Not that he was ever unwilling to spare his labours; that he might add to his salary, he taught elocution, dancing, and fencing, but he spent his money as freely as he had earned it hardly. The straits to which his extravagance reduced him were sometimes cruel. One day the barber who was nightly engaged at the theatre, and every morning assisted Mr. Nation in his toilet, a verbose, kindly gossip, made complaint to the latter. “ Is it not a scandal, sir,” quoth Figaro, sadly, “ that such a man as Mr. Kean should be so badly treated ? Yesterday evening he wanted a pint of porter to enable him to continue his part, and he hadn’t twopence, nor would the publican give him credit; but I,” continued the barber proudly, “ I lent him the money.” Desiring greatly to gain a footing in one of the London theatres, he wrote from time to time offering his services to their managers, giving references to Andrew Cherry, Anne of Swansea, and Dr. Drury, but in most cases no answer was vouchsafed to the poor stroller. Still with eager eyes he looked down the road of time to sight his coming fame, and saw behind every cloud the herald of good tidings. One day, when it was told him Lord and Lady Cork had bespoken Othello for that evening, he thought his fortune was now surely made, for his lordship, who had gained some reputation for judgment as a theatrical critic, must necessarily be impressed with his merits, and would no doubt use his influence towards directing the world s O 72 EDMUND KEAN. attention to his playing. Accordingly he exerted his abilities to their utmost, but neither the sweetness of his voice nor the force of his acting had power to win the attention of his lordship, who amused himself by watching his children playing at hot cockles in front of the box, whilst Kean spoke the finest speeches of Othello. That night his spirits were heavily depressed; his evil planet was still in the ascendant. At the suggestion of one of his friends, he studied the part of Zanga for his benefit. But the wardrobe of the theatre not being rich in its resources, and contain¬ ing for the most part doublets of rusty velvet and suits of faded satin adorned with tarnished tinsel, Kean was at a loss how to dress a character whose sole costume should properly consist of a tiger or leopard skin. But necessity urging invention, he secured from a mahogany table a brass claw, to which he fastened a calemanco robe, and thus adorned he appeared before a wondering audience. His performance in the tragedy was noble and impressive, but many of those who filled the theatre that evening preferred him as harlequin in the pantomime of The Judgment of Paris which followed. As a harlequin he frequently appeared, yet he could not endure the character, which the commands of his manager alone compelled him to play. “ I never feel degraded/' he was wont to say, “ but when I have the motley jacket on my back.” For all that the motley jacket was continually on his back, and there were many amongst the Exeter audiences who thought his harlequinade superior to his tragedy. On the close of the winter season 1813, he placed his benefit under the patronage of Mrs. Buller of Downes, selecting Cato as the play for the evening. UNDER PLAYING PATRONAGE. 73 The play-bill, a copy of which is given here, is still extant. MR. KEAN'S NIGHT. Under the Immediate Patronage of Mrs. Buller of Downes. On Friday Evening , March 26 th, 1813, Will be presented (not acted here these 20 years) Addison’s celebrated Play of CATO. “ Cuncta terrarum subseta Prseter atrocem animum Catonis.” M. P. Cato (the Roman Quaestor) Portius ... Mr. Hamilton. Sempronius ) Roman Senators _ Lucius ) Syphax (the Numidian General) Decius (Ambassador from Caesar) Juba (the Prince of Zama) Marcia ... Miss Rivers. . Mr. Kean Marcus ... Mr. Tokeley Mr. Perkins Mr. Worsdale . Mr. Mason . Mr. Congdon . Mr. Loveday Lucia ... Miss Quantrell After which, by particular desire, the Popular Burlesque Tragic Opera called BOMBASTES FURIOSO. As performed upwards of 100 nights at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. 4 Artaxominous (King of Utopia) . Mr. Tokeley i Fusbos (Minister of State) . Mr. Perkins First Courtier... Mr. Eswood. Second Courtier...Mr. Congdon General Bombastus ... ... ... ... Mr. Bennett Distassma . Mrs. M. Hughes To conclude with an Entire New Pantomime (with original music, &c.), called 74 EDMUND KEAN. THE SAVAGES. Got up under the immediate direction of Mr. Kean. Korah (Husband to Ilia) . Mr. Kean Kojah (Confederate of Yassedo) . Mr. Congdon Powtanowski ... Mr. Worsdale. Zenoni ... Mr. Eswood Swampum . Mr. Gregory Yalfedo (secretly in Love with Ilia). Mr. Tokeley Ilia .Miss Quantrell Beni ... Master Hughes. Hugo ... Master Kean (Children of Kojah and Ilia.) (His first appearance) Female Savages ... . Mesdms. Worsdale, &c., &c. Tickets to be had of Mr. Kean, at Miss Hake’s, feather-maker, No. 211 High Street; of Messrs. Trewman’s and Son; and of Mr. Dryer, where places for the boxes may be taken. Mrs. Buller was in her time and place an illustrious personage, though now her name holds no record in the world’s memory. In those days, when a lady favoured a performance with her patronage, it was considered the duty of all friends who wished to stand well in her esteem, of the tradespeople with whom she dealt, and of other vassals to crowd the theatre on the occasion. Kean was therefore to profit by this benefit, for Mrs. Buller’s importance was felt by all whose lot it was to live within her sphere. Now her butler, a personage of worth and consideration, one stout and scant of breath, met the poor player one day shortly before the night fixed for his benefit, and heartily congratulated him; “for,” said this man of powder and calves, “you will be sure to have a good house, as my mistress patronizes the play;” whereon Kean vowed he would not trouble himself to sell a single ticket, for if the people didn’t come to see his acting, “it shan’t be said they come by Mrs. Buller’s kean’s irregularities. 75 desire.” And this tone was the keynote of his conduct. The hard labour of his professional existence found no relief in domestic happiness. His home life had little attraction for him, and his irregularities were many. Frequently when he was wanted at the theatre he was found in the tavern, and occasionally it was necessary he should be taken to the nearest pump, and have his head douched until, his brains being clear, he was enabled to play his part; and this being finished,he betook himself to some orgie where he passed the night. Habits of' dissipation, which eventually ruined his genius and sent him to a premature grave, now began. For two years he remained a member of Hughes’s company, at the end of which time he was dismissed. For it happened one night when he was required, he was found in a condition from which all contrivances were impossible to immediately restore him. Hughes was therefore obliged to read his part; but before the performance concluded Kean made his way into a private box, and in an idiotic state of merriment continually called out at times, when the per¬ formance did not warrant such remarks, “ Bravo, Hughes, bravo,” “ Well done, my boy, well done.” The play was interrupted, the audience disturbed, and the manager outraged. At the end of the week he was dismissed. Accompanied by his wife and children he travelled to Portsmouth, and there joined a company crossing to Guernsey; but his career in this island Avas by no means prosperous. At quite an early period of this engage¬ ment he failed to appear on a certain evening when he was announced to play. That a strolling player should dare to disappoint his patrons was a crime the worthy inhabitants could not forgive, and he became 76 EDMUND KEAN. unpopular in their eyes. A little weekly publication dignified by the name of a journal makes mention of his acting in phrases amusing to read. “ Last night,” it stated, “a young man whose name the bills said was Kean made his first appearance as Hamlet, and truly his performance of the character made us wish that we had been indulged with the country system of excluding it, and playing all the other characters. This person has, we understand,” continues the critic in a lofty strain, “ a high character in several parts of England, and his vanity has repeatedly prompted him to endeavour to procure an engagement at one of the theatres in the metropolis; the difficulties he has met with have, however, proved insurmountable, and the managers of Drury Lane and Covent Garden have saved themselves the disgrace to which they would be subject by coun¬ tenancing such impudence and incompetency. Even his performance of the inferior characters of the drama would be objectionable, if there was nothing to render him ridiculous but one of the vilest figures that has been seen either on or off the stage; and if his mind was half so qualified for the representation of Richard III., which he is shortly to appear in, as his person is suited to the deformities with which the tyrant is supposed to have been distinguished from his fellows, his success would be most unequivocal. As to his Hamlet, it is one of the most terrible misrepresentations to which Shakespeare has ever been subjected. Without grace or dignity he comes forward; he shows an uncon¬ sciousness that anybody is before him, and is often so forgetful of the respect due to an audience that he turns his back upon them in some of these scenes in which contemplation is to be indulged, as if for the STARVATION FACES HIM. 77 purpose of showing his abstractedness from all ordinary subjects. His voice is harsh and monotonous, but as it is deep, answers well enough the idea he entertains of impressing terror by a tone which seems to proceed from a charnel house/’ These false and venomous assertions were sufficient £ to depress the poor player, but other causes for distress remained behind. His salary was a miserable pittance, insufficient to support his family and lodge them, and he relied on his benefit to discharge his debts; but when his benefit night arrived he played to a sparse audience. A day or two later the company departed, but he was unable to leave the island until certain bills were settled. He therefore devised an entertainment, in which he with his wife and eldest boy sang, played, danced, and recited. The Governor of the island, General Sir John Doyle, lent his patronage, and a sufficient sum was realized for Kean to pay his debts and enable him to depart. He and his family soon started for Teignmouth, where they arrived penniless, poorly clad, and downcast. Here starvation faced them, the darkest hour of many bitter years had arrived ; but his spirit was yet unbroken, and again he had recourse to his talents. Therefore he gave another entertainment in the little sanded floored parlour of a poor inn, charging the modest sum of sixpence admission, and realizing a few shillings, was next morning trudging his weary way towards Exeter. He had friends here who sheltered him until such time t as he got an engagement for himself and his wife from Henry Lee, then at Barnstaple, at a joint salary of thirty shillings a week. But now a new grief befel him, for his eldest son, a bright-eyed, golden-haired lad, with 78 EDMUND KEAN. winning ways and promising talents, sickened. Lack of food and exposure to cold had told on the delicate constitution of the boy, of whom his father was excess¬ ively fond, and he was unable to travel. Under the circumstances necessity compelled the parents to leave Exeter, and Howard was placed for the present in charge of a kindly dressmaker who loved him well. And now with the autumn of this year, 1813, the turning-point of Kean's fortune was at hand. Whilst at Barnstaple he received a letter from Miss Tidswell, who never forgot his interests, stating she had secured an engagement for him at the Wych Street Theatre, sometimes called Little Drury, and now known as the Olympic, which would soon be opened under the management of Robert William Elliston. Delighted o o by this news, which came at a time when hope of better days had almost vanished, he wrote the following note to Elliston— “ Barnstaple , Oct. 2, 1813. “ Sir, “ I have this moment received your proposals for the Wych Street Theatre —id est —Little Drury. The terms Miss Tidswell, by your authority, mentioned to me are the superintending of the stage, the whole of the principal line of business under all denominations of acting, and an equal division of the house on the night of my benefit, with three guineas a week for salary. “ I place so firm a reliance on your reputed liberality, that on the proof of my humble abilities and assiduity towards the promotion of your interests, you will not be unmindful of mine. I accept, sir, your present proposal, simply requesting you will name what time you expect me in London. “ E. Kean.’’ A MISERABLE TRAMP. 79 To this came a reply which somewhat damped his 1 lopes. Elliston agreed to engage him for general business, not principal characters; was uncertain when the Wych Street Theatre would open, but bade Kean write to him again a month from the date of his letter, October the 8th, and hoped his engagement would be for their mutual benefit. The dubious tone of this epistle made one over-used to disappointments fear the engagement would never take place, and before the month ended he wrote to Dr. Drury, asking him to exert his influence with the management of Drury Lane towards finding him a place in the company. Meanwhile the good people of Barnstaple took little interest in the drama, and Manager Lee’s company continually played to empty houses. A fresh move was therefore made to Taunton, and after a fortnight spent here, the troop set their faces towards Dorchester. The manager and most of his players set out in advance, and Kean having made a bargain with the owner of a chaise who was returning to a town some thirty miles removed, on the route towards Dorchester, soon followed, accompanied by his wife and child. But they had not travelled far when the conveyance broke down, and its passengers found themselves on the highroad, far removed from any town or hamlet. Upwards of seventy miles lay between them and Dorchester, a distance that now seemed interminable. Kean had just sufficient money in his pocket to buy bread and pay for shelter at night during the days of their journey, and with an unflagging spirit and such cheer as he could assume, he took his boy Charlie upon his back, and set forward on his weary way. Mile after mile of the dreary road was traversed, and 80 EDMUND KEAN. yet it seemed but little advance had been made, because of the distance which lay ahead. The courage which sustained them at morning flagged before night had come, the hours passing silently, their misery being sore. Four brief and bitter winter days came, and they were yet on the road, the young tragedian footsore, cold, hungry, and despairing, his child upon his back ; his wife worn from fatigue, pinched from want, and badly clad, dragging tediously behind, carrying their few belongings wrapped in a bundle, light in itself, but over heavy for her strength. On the evening of this fourth day some faint hope cheered them, for surely theii journey must soon be ended. And so they tramped, night falling dark and cheerless over the boundless downs, across which the frosty air swept sadly, pene¬ trating their thin clothes, and chilling their blood, until at last, with straining eyes the miserable out¬ casts caught sight of faint lights shining here and there, brightening the comfortable hearths and homes of sturdy burghers, and knew they had reached their goal. Entering the High Street, Kean speedily sought his manager, and drawing upon his slender salary in - advance, obtained food and refuge for his family. The theatre opened its doors to the public, bills were posted on dead walls and freely distributed in shops, but the inhabitants of Dorchester were slow to avail them¬ selves of the treat the player-folk offered. Kean, heartily weary of a stroller’s life, and terribly anxious to secure Elliston’s engagement, wrote again to the manager, stating that in the event of his services being required before December, he should be ready to make his appearance in Wych Street. The while he acted as tragedian, comedian, and THE MANAGER OF DRURY LANE. 81 pantomimist at Dorchester. On the 14th of November, 1813, he, according to previous announcements, played Alexander the Great. The evening was damp and cold. An audience of about twenty persons shivered in the dreary house; oil lamps hung here and there, specks of orange light in general gloom; the footsteps of each new arrival sounded through the theatre. Conversa¬ tion behind the scenes was audible to those in front. The fiddles in the orchestra squeaked their merriest airs, making believe they were wholly ignorant, or frivolously careless, of the condition of the house, and the consequent suspension of salaries due to their masters. Presently the curtain rose with many a creak, and the tragedy began. The actors, depressed by the sight of unoccupied benches and vacant boxes, care¬ lessly hurried through their parts, their voices sounding unnaturally loud, and awaking echoes in the empty gallery. The tragedy was succeeded by a pantomime farce, for those who paid their money must have its worth; and Kean, who a few minutes before represented a hero of noble sentiments and mighty deeds, now bounded on to the boards in the motley garb of a harlequin. The shivering few in front laughed at his pranks and made merry over his deeds, the while he reviled a fate which caused him to enact the buffoon. That night whilst washing the paint off his face he was told a gentleman waited to see him; and hurrying on to the stage, he encountered a stranger, who announced himself as Mr. Samuel Arnold, acting manager of Drury Lane Theatre. He stated he had been present during the performance that evening, and requested Kean would come and breakfast with him next morning. n G 82 EDMUND KEAN. Kean was overwhelmed with surprise and apprehension; for remembering the manner in which he had shuffled through his part, he feared all chances of an engage¬ ment from Arnold had gone by. Therefore, weighted by gloom, he returned to his wife, saying, “ I have ruined myself for ever. Arnold of Drury Lane has been in the house, and I have been gagging and playing carelessly, for who could act to such an audience ? ” His faithful, much-enduring wife gave him some hope by replying, “ It is fortunate you were ignorant of his presence, or you would have over-acted yourself.’’ Dr. Drury had on receiving Kean’s letter written to Pascoe Grenfell, M.P., one of the committee of manage¬ ment of Drury Lane, and after some consultation by the board, it was decided that Arnold, who was regarded as an excellent critic, should be sent to witness Keau» performances, and engage him if he proved an actor of merit. Backed by suspense, alternately elated by hope and shaken by fear, Kean passed a restless night, and next morning anxiously waited on the man in whose power it rested to decide his fate; for now had the great moment of his life arrived when perchance the strong desires which had made existence endurable were about to be realized. The result of his interview exceeded his expectations. Arnold complimented him on his acting, and expressed an opinion that he must succeed upon the London boards. Yet having experi¬ ence of the unaccountable caprices of the jmblic, he could not offer him an engagement at a large salary, but would make him two proposals, either of which he might accept. Pie would engage him now, be be successful or unsuccessful, for three seasons, at eight guineas a week the first season, nine the second, and ten the third; or HOPES AND FEARS. 83 he would pay his expenses to and in London until he made his first appearance, and then if he succeeded, let him make whatever terms he could with the committee ; or if not successful, he would defray his expenses back to Dorchester. The character in which he desired to make his first appearance would be left to his own choice, and that he might have a fair struggle for approbation, he would be allowed to play six different parts before a verdict would be pronounced on his merits. The poor player could scarce believe what he heard was true. An offer of eight guineas a week meant not merely rescue from starvation, but positive wealth, and he eagerly accepted the first proposal. But fearing he had not made a sufficiently strong impression on the manager, Kean begged he would wait and see him play Octavian in The Mountaineers that evening; and Arnold complying, his favourable opinion of the actor was confirmed. No mention was made of Elliston. Surely the hour of the tragedian’s triumph was at hand. No more should his family experience the pangs of privations, the humiliations of poverty; no longer need he play harlequin, and laugh and dance whilst his heart ached with pain, and his cheeks flamed with shame; no longer should he strut before sparse audi¬ ences of ignorant rustics, to whose mercy he felt indebted for applause; no longer tramp from town to town, a homeless stranger seeking the suffrage of boors. Darkness was about to vanish from his life; he scarce dared look upon the brilliant future which the tardy and longed-for light might reveal. Immedi¬ ately he expressed his thanks to his kind friend, 84 EDMUND KEAN. Dr. Drury, who had written to him and given him advice. “ I have again and again,” said Kean in answering, “ read your instructive letter, and have each time received additional pleasure from the perusal. Be assured, sir, I shall treasure the admonition it contains memoria in ceternum . The interview between Mr. Arnold and myself has already passed; that gentleman has honoured me with a visit in Dorchester, the result of which I feel will be as satisfactory to you as liberal and exalted to me. I have competence for three years as a certainty. ... I certainly, sir, with submission to your judgment, should be proud to avail myself of the opportunity of paying my devoirs to Mr. Grenfell. Such services I think should be paid by every mark of attention and respect. You have, sir, opened a path of happiness to me so sudden, so unexpected, that I can scarcely think it but a dream. Ita ad hoc aetatis a pueritia fui, ut omnes labores periculo consueta habeam. You have dispelled those clouds and diffi¬ culties, and the event, I trust, shall render me deserving of such exalted friendship. In the name of my family, once more I beg you to receive our heartfelt thanks, and believe me, sir, with every deference to your opinions, strict observation to your precepts and example, and continued feelings of gratitude, “ Yours sincerely, “ E. Kean.” It seemed indeed as if Fate, repentant of the mis¬ fortunes long dealt him, had now resolved to repay him, for scarce had Arnold left when Kean received a letter from Elliston, stating that the Wych Street 85 DEATH OF KEAN’S SON. Theatre opened during Christmas week, and he should be glad to see him. To this Kean replied— “ Sir, “ Since I last wrote to you, I have received a very liberal offer from the proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre. It gives me unspeakable regret that the pro¬ posals did not reach me before I had commenced negotiating with you; but I hope, sir, you will take a high and liberal view of the question, when I beg to decline the engagement for Little Drury. Another time I shall be happy to treat with you. “ I am, sir, “ Your obedient servant, “Edmund Kean.” Elliston, who was by no means ready to adopt the conduct Kean suggested, called him a deserter, and declared he would “ claim his man.” With grave mis¬ givings Kean prepared for his journey to London, but before leaving Dorchester news reached him that his eldest son was dead. This was a blow for which he was unprepared, and coming on the eve of his triumph, thrust him back into depression and grief. “The joy I felt three days since at my flattering prospects of future prosperity,” he writes to Dr. Drury, “is now obliterated by the unexpected loss of my child. Howard, sir, died on Monday morning last. You may conceive my feelings.” But even in the midst of his sorrow he was obliged to continue his performances at the Dorchester Theatre, that he might support himself, and secure his right to a benefit, the proceeds of which he trusted would defray his expenses to town. He now played in tragedies 86 EDMUND KEAN. with no need to simulate grief, and acted in comedies with a merry face and a sad heart; but when his benefit night came the house was almost empty, and the necessary funds not forthcoming from the treasury, he borrowed five pounds from manager Lee, and leaving his wife and son at Dorchester until he should be able to send for them, he, with mingled feelings of hope and fear, regret and rejoicement, set out for the capital. CHAPTER IV. Arriving in London towards the close of dull November, Kean sought lodgings at 21 Cecil Street, Strand, and in due time presented himself to Arnold, who received him with signs of hearty pleasure and words of kindly welcome. From that hour he told Kean his engagement began, and a date would speedily be fixed for his first appearance. His fears were now at rest, the more so because he heard an acting manager for the Wych Street Theatre had been engaged by Elliston, and he therefore trusted no further trouble would be given him. On the following Saturday he presented himself at the treasury office of Drury Lane Theatre, and received his first week’s salary; the greater part of this he sent to his wife, that she and Charles might join him, which was accordingly done. He was now in buoyant spirits, believing the hardships of life to rest far behind him, and with bright dreams of success in the future, looking ardently forward to the first night when he should tread the boards of the national theatre. At the close of the second week he again CHARACTER OF ELLISTON. 87 claimed his salary, but to his great astonishment and bitter disappointment, it was boldly refused him. Hoping, nay, believing some mistake had been made, he sought the manager, but his unfriendly looks and cold glances filled Kean with apprehension; he in¬ dignantly stated Elliston had assured him Kean was engaged for the Wych Street Theatre, and therefore the matter must be settled with him before Kead could consider himself a member of the Drury Lane company. Robert William Elliston, the son of a watchmaker, had been intended for the Church. But falling in with a school-boy named Charles Mathews, the son of a bookseller, a lively lad given to reciting and acting, he and Elliston became friends, and together joined an amateur company. The stage exercised such an attraction for young Elliston, that when only sixteen he ran away to Bath, at the theatre of which city he obtained an engagement; and now at the age of forty he was one of the most notable men in the theatrical profession. An actor no less off than on the stage, his manner was bland and winning towards those he wished to attract or conciliate, but brusque and harsh to all he desired to punish or subdue. Active, bustling, and loquacious, his wit was the theme of green-rooms, whilst his conduct frequently outstepped eccentricity. He was at once a fine comedian and a delightful companion, altogether, as Charles Lamb styled him, “ a pleasant creature/’ At this period he was lessee and manager of the Surrey and Olympic Theatres, on the stages of which, as well as that of Drury Lane, he continually played, having from the latter house a salary of thirty pounds a week for three nights’ performances weekly. As a 88 EDMUND KEAN. manager he was an excellent business man, and from his love of governing many theatres at once, was styled “the Napoleon of the stage” The actors he engaged for his town houses were generally made to divide their labour between each every evening. The Surrey and the Olympic lie far apart, the Thames running between; and frequently when some poor player with a salary of fifteen shillings a week had caused roars of laughter at one theatre, he hastened to repeat his per¬ formance at the other; so that for those crossing Blackfriars Bridge at night, it was no uncommon sight to see a brace of half-clad players, with painted faces and shivering limbs, trot in the splashing mud behind some galloping coach, which they, fresh from a warm atmosphere, used as a shelter from cold winds or pelting rain; anxiety strong within them that they were not behind time for their parts. An incident which justly illustrates Elliston’s cha¬ racter happened shortly after Kean’s arrival in town. The manager had dismissed from the Olympic company one Carles, an excellent actor, a great favourite with his audiences, whose only fault was that of “ taking a drop too much.” Learning of his dismissal, his patrons, who knew nothing of him save that he was a clever player, rallied round him, and in powerful numbers sallied into the Olympic pit, determined on having their hero reinstated. Carles sat in their midst awaiting the proceedings which were soon to begin; for no sooner was the curtain raised than loud cries rang through the house for the manager. On Elliston’s appearance he was greeted with universal shouts of “ Carles, Carles ! eno'a^e Carles ! let’s have Carles! Carles or no play ! ” ELLISTON FACES THE STORM. 89 Elliston, perfectly cool, faced the storm, with his hand upon his heart and a smile on his lips, and when silence was granted him, began with a touch of pathos in his voice, “ My best, my warmest friends, this ebullition of feeling in behalf of one you suppose to have been wronged shows the nobleness of your nature, and I adore you for it. The man who would hesitate to stretch forth his utmost might to rescue from the bitter fangs of oppression the object of tyranny and persecution, is unworthy to enjoy the blessings of that liberty for which our forefathers fought and bled.” Loud applause from all parts of the house. “ I loved that man,” continued this diverting humbug, pointing to Carles in the pit, “ oh, I loved him ; I idolized his transcendent talent, and took him to my heart like a brother. To my poor thinking he appeared the moving picture of all that could adorn humanity ; he would, to be sure, get a little tipsy sometimes, but I always looked upon it as an amiable weakness. We all get tipsy sometimes ; I do.” Here a general titter rippled through the audience at this candid con¬ fession of a well-known fact. Elliston had his hearers with him, and he now came to the pith of his discourse. “But for the last week,” he said, glancing again at Carles, “he has been in a continued state of intoxi¬ cation, and has never been near the theatre.” Carles rose from his seat to protest, but was greeted with shouts, “ Down in front! hats off! down in front! ” The tide had turned, and poor Carles sat down, whilst Elliston continued hurriedly—“ And on going to his lodgings this morning, that I might coax him to return, as I have often done before, judge of my horror and astonishment, when I found his wife and children 90 EDMUND KEAN. starving for the want of common necessaries of life! ” Here a voice in the gallery shouted, “ Carles hasn’t got no wife ; ” to which a universal cry went up, “ Pitch him over.” Then Elliston proceeded—“ His lawfully-wedded wife, the loveliest, thin young creature I ever beheld, whom this villain had torn from her fond, gray-haired father s arms to bring her to misery and leave her to perish for want; the infant at her breast screaming for the nourishment the starving mother couldn’t give; the little ones, four lovely boys, clasping my knees and shrieking for bread; and in the corner of the room lay his infant daughter, the most lovely angel from heaven I ever beheld, a frightful distorted corpse, too horrible to look upon, who the day before had died for want of food.” A general murmur of indignation swept through the house, but Elliston went on—“ I instantly sent for food for the little ones, and with the sum this villain could easily have earned, I provided a coffin for the little cherub, and only half an hour ago I returned from the funeral. Now I appeal to you as men, as husbands, and as fathers, should I engage this inhuman monster ? if so, he shall instantly be reinstated.” Poor Carles, bewildered by the tissue of lies he had just heard, rose to say he had neither wife nor child, but the infuriated audience cried, “Out with him!” ‘ Knock him over!” “Monster!” and those nearest laying vengeful hands upon him, he, not without some injuries, escaped from their anger, whilst Elliston was loudly applauded and heartily praised. From a man of this complexion Kean could expect little mercy, and when Arnold assured him he must set himself right with him, the poor player left Drury kean’s letter to elliston. 91 Lane with a heavy heart. The remainder of the day was spent by him in seeking Elliston at his theatres, at his home, at his various haunts, but his search was vain; and weary, dispirited, and penniless he returned at night to his family. After some consideration he wrote Elliston the following note, which he hoped might move him to his desires— O “ Sir, “ The fate of my family is in your hands. Are you determined to crush the object that never injured you ? In one word, are you to receive our imprecations or our blessings ? “ Through your means I am deprived of my situation in Drury Lane Theatre, unless I produce a document from you that I am not a member of the new Olympic. How can you reconcile this more than Turkish bar¬ barity ? If you must display your power, direct it against one more fortunate than myself. You have become a thorn in the side of my young fortune. I shall conclude by simply requesting you to inform me whether I am to become a member of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, or again, penniless, hopeless, and despised, am I to be cast on the provinces, the rejected of this great city, which should afford a home to industry of every kind ? With my family at my back will I return, for the walls of Wych Street I will never enter. In this strong determination, but with weakened respect for you, sir, I am, ‘E. Kean.” In answer to this letter Elliston said— “ To any man with the smallest gift of intellect and the dimmest sense of honour, it must appear that on 92 EDMUND KEAN. the 11th of November, and previous to that time, you deemed yourself engaged to me, and that subsequently a more attractive offer having been made, you held it convenient to consider a pledge as idle words muttered in a dream. All my engagements are made and ful¬ filled with honour on my part, and I expect an equal punctuality from others. “R. W. Elusion” This note brought no hope, but Kean was determined he would never submit to Elliston. Meanwhile he daily waited at Drury Lane Theatre, loitering about the doors, or sitting in the porter’s room, seeking an oppor¬ tunity of seeing Arnold, to whom he wished to explain his position more fully; but if by accident he en¬ countered that personage, he merely frowned upon him and refused to give him an audience. It seemed as if he were now as far removed from his anticipated triumph as he had been months ago; but hardships and poverty had not broken his spirit in the past, neither should disappointment nor neglect overwhelm him in the present. The courage insepar¬ able from genius supported him. Much need had he for endurance, for he was sorely tried. The players passing to morning rehearsals or evening performances looked askance at the dark-complexioned, bright-eyed little man, clad in a rough gray coat with large capes; and aware of his purpose, regarded him as one who presumed to usurp their rights. The slights and insults he received from many of them were bitter. Rae, now playing tragedy in this house, passed him in the hall without demningr to notice him. Munden recommended him to “ Spend his evenings in front, RIDICULED AND SCORNED. 93 trying to improve himself by witnessing the perform¬ ances of good actors; ” a lady of some merit wondered “ where the little wretch had been picked up/ 5 and eventually advised him to “ return to the country, for amongst such actors as surrounded him in London, he could have no chance ; ” whilst the company generally spoke of him as “ Arnold’s hard bargain.” Sensitive and proud, he shrank from them, but though mortified and humiliated, he was not yet subdued. “ Let me once set my foot before the floats, and I’ll let them see what I am,” he said to his wife; and she, poor soul, believing in him with firm faith, and loving him with strong affection, was heavily weighted by anxiety and suspense she strove to conceal, lest it might add to his burden. “ Ah, sir,” she said subsequently to a friend, “ the Drury Lane folks only looked at his little body, they did not know what he could do with his eye.” His position seemed hopeless. “ My dear Lee,” he wrote to his late manager,“ I am in a damned situation, or rather, in no situation at all. Elliston has claimed my services, but I will never join him. The Drury Lane committee have decided against me, and have actually withdrawn my salary. Not all the world or the world’s ills shall force me into Wych Street. So here am I in London, without friends, without money, and a brand upon me by which I can acquire neither.” Days came and went, and yet Kean’s prospects re¬ mained in the same position. After some further corre¬ spondence with Elliston, he had a personal interview with him in the presence of Arnold. The latter was still wrathful with him for not having mentioned during o o 94 EDMUND KEAN. their interview at Dorchester that he had entered into negotiations with the manager of Wych Street, and now assured him he stood most unfavourably in his estiraa- V tion. Kean would have explained, but Elliston, loud- voiced and demonstrative, by his extreme volubility overwhelmed him, and beat down his words, so that Kean was obliged to listen submissively. The meeting ended without any decision having been arrived at; but before they parted, Arnold told Kean if he acted at any other theatre than that of Drury Lane he could enter an action against him. A month had now almost passed since the poor player had arrived in town, and with the exception of the eight pounds he received from the Drury Lane treasury, which had gone to defray his wife’s expenses to town, he had received no money. For days they starved, and would have needed shelter, but for the charity of their landlady, Miss Williams, who in return for apologies for non-payment gave words of hope. “ There is some¬ thing about Mr. Kean,” she told his wife, “ which tells me he will be a great man.” At last Kean’s private circumstances becoming known to Miss Mellon, through Oxberry, an actor with whom he had of yore shared a stroller’s privations, this good-hearted woman resolved to help him. Therefore it happened that one day whilst Mrs. Kean, distressed by hunger and harassed by fears, sat with her boy in the garret she dared not call her own, Miss Mellon’s companion called and placed a packet in her hands, which she said came from an anonymous donor. On opening it the distressed wife found it contained a sum sufficient to keep starvation at bay some time longer. The bleak and bitter days of December wore slowly A MISERABLE CHRISTMAS EVE. 95 by, bringing no change to Kean in their passage. About a week from his last interview with Elliston he waited on him, and, to his great surprise, found him in a conciliatory humour. The manager declared he had resolved to relinquish all claim to his services, but would ask him in return to play at his theatre in Birmingham during the summer vacation. Poor Kean regarded this as a compliment, and promising to comply with his desires hastened to seek Arnold. After some delay he was admitted to the presence of the great man, who stated that an actor from Drury Lane had been sent to take his place at the Wych Street Theatre, and in consequence he must pay his salary of two pounds a week. Anxious to have his engagement settled at any cost, Kean made no objection, and asked if he might apply again at the treasury for his week's salary; but Arnold informed him he must first obtain from Elliston a written statement that he held him no longer engaged. The day following was Friday, Christmas Eve, and Kean, doubtful of the humour in which he might find Elliston, and fearful lest he might not accede to his request, set out in search for him. From ten o’clock in the morning until three in the afternoon he continued his quest, and only at the last-mentioned hour was the busy, bustling manager found at the Surrey Theatre, where he wrote the acknowledgment required. With this in his hand Kean, already footsore and weary, hastened across Blackfriars Bridge, and arriving at Drury Lane asked to see the manager, but was informed Mr. Arnold could not see him then; he therefore sent in his name. “ For nearly one hour,” Kean wrote to Dr. Drury, describing the events of this 96 EDMUND KEAN. day, “ I waited in the passage with the rest of the menials of the theatre, had the mortification of seeing them all conducted to his presence before myself, and when summoned at last to appear, was, with the continued brow of severity, informed that I had no claim upon the treasurers. My engagement had all to begin again. I shall not forget the day of the month. I returned to my family penniless. At a period when everybody appeared happy at the cele¬ bration of the time, our fates appeared clouded and miserable. Your letter of the 23rd reached me on Monday; and I forgot my cares in the hopes of seeing you, and perhaps forgetting my disagreeables by the public favour—the balmy cordial that heals all actors’ sorrows. Judge if possible my disappointed hopes on seeing another person advertised for the very character on which I built my fame. Was this fair dealing ? I cannot define justice if it was. Necessity again draws me to the treasury to-day; and I doubt not but I shall return with some additional mortification.” The other person to whom he referred was an actor named Huddart from Dublin, who now made his first appearance at Drury Lane as Shylock, the character in which Kean intended to make his dibut. Fortunately for the latter, Huddart was a signal failure, and the Othello of Sowerby, seen five nights later, shared the same fate. Yet no effort was made to bring Kean forward. Dr. Drury besought him to “ bear all; bear all, only come out;” whilst Whitbread, the chair¬ man of the Drury Lane committee, to whom Kean addressed himself, replied with solid wisdom, that if he had talent he would be able to show it on his appearance, if not he must return to the country; BEFORE THE COMMITTEE. 97 but concerning his misunderstanding with the manager, he knew nothing. The affairs of Drury Lane Theatre were at this period managed, or rather mismanaged, by a committee of shareholders; from which was formed a sub-com¬ mittee of management, numbering Lord Essex, Lord Byron, the Hon. George Lamb, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, and Mr. Peter Moore. Under their direction the national theatre had fallen into disrepute. The pieces selected for production, and the actors engaged to perform, had failed to attract; the coffers were empty, and the gloomiest fears regarding the future were generally entertained. Huddart and Sowerby having failed, it was decided to give the little man from Dorchester a chance. Therefore towards the end of January he had the honour of being summoned before the council assembled, and entered their presence calm, self-contained, resolute, prepared for any decision at which the committee might arrive. His stature— five feet five inches—and his general appearance led them to doubt his possessing the attractions for which Arnold had formerly vouched, and it was therefore proposed he should test public appreciation by appearing in a character of secondary importance. This suggestion he heard in silence, and then fixing his eyes steadily on the chairman, said he would play lead or nothing. He reminded his hearers that a choice of characters had been guaranteed him on his engage¬ ment, and he claimed the fulfilment of this promise. His earnestness and determination conquered; it was agreed that he should act Shylock on the 26th of the month. Though he had triumphed over the diffi¬ culties which beset him, his trials had not yet ended. H 98 EDMUND KEAN. The solitary advertisement in the Times , that on Wednesday Mr. Kean of the Theatre Royal, Exeter, would make his first appearance at Drury Lane in the character of Shylock, in the Merchant of Venice , caused little interest and less excitement, his name being unknown. At the first rehearsal few of the cast were present, excuses being sent for those absent. One lady wrote to deplore her inability to leave home because, as she elegantly explained, she had “ got such a headache as never was.” In some scenes only Kean and Thomas Dibdin, who then acted as prompter at the theatre, were on the stage. “ I apologized to Mr. Kean,” says Dibdin, “for this seeming neglect, which he appeared quite indifferent about.” At later re¬ hearsals, when the company attended, their presence was not more satisfactory than their absence to the new actor. Scene after scene was gone through in a desultory and spiritless manner, the men sulky and stern, the fairer members saucy and flippant. Once when Kean accompanied a speech by some uncon¬ ventional act, George Raymond, the stage manager, stopped him. “ That will never do,” he said. “ It is an innovation, sir, and totally different from anything that has been done on these boards.” Kean regarded him calmly before replying— “ Sir, I wish it to be so.” “ But,” said Bustling Raymond, as he was generally called, “ it will not do, be assured of that.” “Well, sir,” answered Kean, “perhaps I may be wrong, but if so the public will set me right.” When not required upon the stage he stood apart silent arid observing. At such times remarks were made by RIDICULED BY HIS FELLOW-PLAYERS. 99 those around, doubtless with a design that he should hear them, but to outward seeming he paid no heed. One wondered how Arnold could have engaged him; another asked when would 1 the committee cease to trifle with the public; a third felt certain the little man must soon return to the obscurity from which he sprang; a fourth mimicked the peculiarities of his voice midst roars of laughter. On Kean, who, as he said of himself, could see a sneer across Salisbury Plain, these remarks were not lost; but he who had borne much had strength to endure more. Long years after he told Joe Cowen the comedian, that one day Miss Tidswell was so provoked by the general ridicule flung upon him, that in the middle of a scene she came forward and poked him in the back with her umbrella, and beckoning him to one of the wings, urged him not to persevere in his intentions of acting, for the players, all of whom were good judges and experienced men, were laughing at him ; and she begged him to consider how horrible the disgrace of his being “ pelted from the stage would be to her.” When the rehearsal was finished that day he left the theatre weighed down by depression, for even his own friend had no faith in him. But he had not gone many steps when he encountered an old comrade who had starved and strolled with him in the provinces. To him Kean unburdened his heart, with its load of hopes and fears, and in return received encouragement to face the dreadful odds that seemed to overwhelm him. And this friend having five shillings, the sole sum he possessed, and both being hungry, they repaired to a neighbouring tavern, enjoyed a dinner, and drank a pot of porter. Then by degrees Kean’s dreams of success and scorn of 100 EDMUND KEAN. / those who mocked him returned fourfold. For ob¬ servation of the world had shown him that were he “uccessful the manner of all men would change towards him; that they who sneered at him now would fawn upon him then; that those who ignored him to-day would boast him their friend to-morrow. Therefore the pettiness and malice of his fellow-players was lost sight of in the strong hope of triumph, dimly foreseen through years of darkness, and awaited with eagerness unabated by distress. At last the day dawned on which he was to make his appearance at Drury Lane, Friday the 26th of January, 1814. The memorable frost of this year had set in with the first days of the month. Snow lay thick upon the streets, and was shovelled into huge white banks at the corners. Traffic on foot through pathways of trampled black slush was dangerous, and by vehicle almost impossible. In many parts the Thames was completely frozen over; between Blackfriars Bridge and London Bridge a fair was held upon the ice, on which booths were erected, bands played, printing presses worked, and the people eat, drank, and made merry. On the 26th of January a sheep was roasted whole on the frozen river between the bridges of Hammersmith and Putney, and then divided amongst the poor of the parish. The weather was such as to incline mankind to remain within their warm homes at night, rather than seek the usually cheerless aspect of bare benches and empty boxes at Drury Lane Theatre. The short afternoon hours of the bitter winter day wore to gloomy eve, and every moment carried Kean nearer to the hour of his trial, ardently longed-for in the past, nervously dreaded in the present. He had THE MEMORABLE DAY ARRIVES, 101 dined that day, for he needed strength, and then impatiently waited the time when he should start. Occasionally his hopes surmounted his fears, and think¬ ing of all that had been in the past, with what might be in the future, he muttered, “ If I succeed I shall go mad/’ Towards six o’clock he wrapped himself in his rough coat of many capes, and with Shylock’s costume in a bundle under his arm, left his garret, his wife’s tremulous words of encouragement and hope ringing in his ears as he took his slow way through the silent, snow-covered streets to Drury Lane. Arriving at the theatre, he was conducted to the place allotted him as a dressing-room, but this being unsuitable to his require¬ ments, he went to the supernumeraries’ apartment, and there donned the Jewish gaberdine. A thin, scattered audience in the pit betrayed neither excitement nor impatience; an array of empty boxes faced the stage; the noise of a half-filled gallery and the music of the orchestra sounded with a distinctness betraying a cheerless house. One of the players loo 1 ing through a rent in the curtain, announced to his fellow^, with an air not wholly devoid of satisfaction, “ there was a shy domus,” to which another replied, “ What do you expect ? there’ll be nothing until half-price ; ’’ indicating that the attraction of the evening would be the afterpiece, a farce called The Ajpyr entice, in which Jack Bannister played. Presently the curtain rose, and the play began. Rae, dogged and indifferent, entered as Bassanio and spoke his speeches; and soon the prompter gave the call-boy notice to summon Shylock. The lad hastened to the apartment which had been allotted to Kean, but not finding him, rushed to the green-room; he was not 102 EDMUND KEAN. there. Alarmed at this, the boy was hurrying back to report the fact, when he saw Kean waiting at the wing where he was to make his entrance. “ You’re called, sir,” he said, breathless from excite¬ ment. “ Thank you,” replied Kean; and these were the only words, save those of Shakespeare, which he spoke whilst he remained in the theatre that night. The hour destined to decide his fate had come, and by the power he wielded must his future be bright or black. As he entered on the scene with Bassanio he was received with applause, which was rather cordial than enthusiastic, to which he bowed slightly, and then began his part. His line, intellectual face, the brilliancy of his eyes, and the resonant tones of his voice im¬ pressed the house favourably; but silence was main¬ tained until, on the exit of Bassanio, he spoke the lines— u If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him,” when he was warmly applauded. Then by the mag¬ netic feeling which passes from audience to actor, he felt he had gained a hold upon his hearers; knew, as he long afterwards expressed himself, he had them with him. Encouragement aided him ; his enthusiasm kindled, his efforts increased, his power strengthened. The taunting speeches of Shylock were spoken with delicacy and poignancy, his pauses were just and effective, the dexterity with which he modulated his voice excellent; and when the curtain fell on the first act, welcome applause sounded in his ears. The company when not engaged with him in the scenes had stood at the wings to watch him, and now on returning to the green-room the chief comment made SHYLOCK IS APPLAUDED. 103 was, “ I say, he has got a black wig and beard; did you ever see Shy lock in a black wig?” Still Kean'kept apart from them, avoiding the green-room, wandering up and down at the back of the stage whilst the orchestra played, and the scenes of the second act, in which Shylock does not appear, were performed. The house was now fairly filled, for a new comic opera, entitled A Farmers Wife , being advertised for a first performance at Co vent Garden, and withdrawn at the last moment, many of those disappointed by the change in the bill crossed over to see the new tragedian at Drury Lane. Again he was ready in his place when the call-boy would have summoned him, and the breathless silence with which his words were listened to assured him of the growing influence he gained over his audience; nor did it decrease whilst he played. Now and then the heartily-expressed approbation he received gave fresh energy to his tones, new fire to his eyes, increased expression to his gestures; and such was the force and intelligence of the latter, that one might say, as the Examiner remarked, “ his body thought.” At the beginning of the third act the players seated in the green-room were startled by the sounds of stormy applause, and asking each other what it could be, they hastened to the wings, and saw Shylock raging like a lion in the scene with Tubal; his voice, eyes, actions, and expressions were pregnant with meaning. The house was now fairly roused to excitement, and again and again its appreciation was so forcibly expressed, that Oxberry said, “ How the devil so few of them kicked up such a row was marvellous.” Especially in the trial scene was he warmly applauded, and then, his part being ended, he quickly changed his clothes and 104 EDMUND KEAN. quietly left the theatre before the play had concluded. One who witnessed his playing that night, and regarded it as a revelation, beheld in it “ the first gleam of genius breaking athwart the gloom of the stage.” This was William Hazlitt, the dramatic critic of the Morning Chronicle . In this paper he published the first words which heralded Kean’s greatness. “ In giving effect to the conflict of passions arising out of the contrast of situation,” he wrote of Kean, “ in varied vehemence of declamation, in keenness of sarcasm, in the rapidity of his transitions from one tone or feeling to another, in propriety and novelty of action, present¬ ing a succession of striking pictures, and giving perpetually fresh shocks of delight and surprise, it would be difficult to single out a competitor. The fault of his acting was (if we may hazard an objection) an over display of the resources of his art, which gave too much relief to the hard, impenetrable, dark ground¬ work of Shylock. It would be needless to point out individual beauties, when almost every passage was received with equal and deserved applause. His style of acting is, if we may use the expression, more significant, more pregnant with meaning, more varied and alive in every part, than any we have almost ever witnessed. The character never stands still; there is no vacant pause in the action ; the eye is never silent. It is not saying too much of Mr. Kean, though it is saying a great deal, that he is all that Mr. Kemble wants of perfection.” The Morning Post briefly commented on his marked and expressive countenance, his deep, sonorous voice, his mastery of his art; but neither the eulogies of these CRITICISMS ON THE JEW. 105 papers, nor the applause of those who witnessed his acting, convinced those in connection with the theatre that he possessed unusual talent, not to mention genius. One of the company said that to compare him with Charles Young (a poor, mechanical actor) was ridiculous; whilst a player who was deputed by the Covent Garden management to report on the merits “ of the new man at the Lane,” declared “ the play had gone well enough, but he couldn’t do,”—this gentleman’s judgment being fully on a level with his power of expression. Had the managers known the ability Kean possessed, and would shortly exercise to fill their coffers, they would not, now the theatre was on the verge of bankruptcy, have allowed almost a week to pass between his first and second performances. His second appearance, after an interval of five days, was brought about by accident, as Thomas Dibdin records. Although, he says, the judicious few approved Kean’s acting, “ but little notice was taken of it either in or out of the theatre; and for a few days scarcely anything was said respecting him. A necessary but unexpected change of play on some occasion caused the usual question, What shall we act ? from the stage manager; I immediately advised a second appearance of 4 the new gentleman.’ Mr. Raymond said that was also Mr. Arnold’s wish, and Mr. Kean played Shylock again on the first, third, and fifth of February.” On each of his succeeding performances the house became more and more crowded ; his power seemed likewise to increase. Douglas Jerrold used to say that from the moment Kean entered as Shylock and leaned upon his stick, listening gravely to the request made him for monies, he impressed his audience “ like a 106 EDMUND KEAN. chapter of Genesis.” On the first night he had played, the sum taken at the doors merely amounted to one hundred and sixty-four pounds; on the evening of his second appearance the treasury held more than double that sum, and for the fourteen nights during which he represented Shylock this season, the receipts reached four thousand nine hundred and twenty-one pounds three shillings. Every time his performance was repeated, his originality, study, and ability were more perceptible ; flashes of genius lighted passages rendered obscure by other actors; touches of nature made him akin with his hearers; his power swayed his audiences at will. To one who had stood on the brink of hope, and been swept back into the blackness of despair, triumph was at last assured. And yet those who acted with him were slow to admit his genius, though glad for sake of their salaries he was able to crowd the house whenever he played. This fact was, however, set down by them as a craze from which the town suffered—a whim that would pass in a day or a week. Master Betty had created a greater sensation in his time, and John Kemble was for a while overlooked; this provincial stroller, with his new-fangled ways, would doubtless in a little while share Master Betty’s ultimate fate, and sink into obscurity, when the John Kembles of Drury Lane would shine in their proper spheres. “ God renounce me,” said old Dowton gruffly, as he sat in the green-room whilst Kean was playing Shylock for the fifth time, “ ’tis only necessary now-a-days to be under four feet high, have bandy legs and a hoarseness, and mince my liver, but you’ll be thought a great tragedian.” “Nay,” said Munden, a fellow player, knowing to UNAPPRECIATED BY THE COMPANY. 107 whom Dowton referred; “ no doubt the little man has great powers of entertainment, for I hear lie’s a wonderful tumbler.” “ Of that,” replied Jack Bannister, “ there can be no doubt, for he has jumped over the heads of us all.” Miss Mellon differed in her opinion from those around her, for she believed in his future greatness. On the morning of his first performance Oxberry, Kean’s friend, had, at her request, introduced him to her. Kean’s manner on that occasion being shy and reserved, made her fear he would resent her friendliness as intrusion; but on meeting him at the conclusion of his third performance she congratulated him on his success, and predicted his brilliant future. At the same time, she inquired if he had signed his agree¬ ment with the managers, and on his replying he had not, she begged he would defer doing so until his position was more secure, when he would be certain to receive much better terms. On this subject, how¬ ever, Kean had his ideas of honour, and when summoned before the committee soon after, and handed for signa¬ ture a contract of an engagement for three years, at an increasing salary of eight, nine, and ten pounds weekly, he affixed his name to it without hesitation. The chairman then taking it from him tore it, and presented a second form, guaranteeing him twenty pounds a week, which he requested him to sign. Moreover, the management gave him fifty guineas, probably hoping this gift would induce Kean to overlook the humili¬ ations and vexations to which he had recently been subjected. And having played Shylock for six nights to large 108 EDMUND KEAN. and enthusiastic audiences, the committee were anxious he should represent another character. Dibdin sug¬ gested Richard III., but many voices were raised against his wish. Kean was desirous of acting this his favourite character, and eventually the committee consented that he should appear as the crook-backed king. It was felt that this character, so widely different from that of Shylock, would greatly test his powers, and the town was on the tip-toe of expectation. The management took unusual interest in the revival; rehearsals were frequent; new scenery, archaeologically and historically correct, was painted for the occasion. The while Keans manner was as reserved and un¬ obtrusive as when he had first appeared on the stage of Drury Lane; nay, he was even willing to accept suggestions from those he fancied might be able to guide him aright. During the rehearsals he gave no indications of how he really meant to play when before the public; but hearing him mutter certain passages, Dibdin con¬ sidered they were not in accordance with his own ideas as to the manner in which they should be uttered ; and as Miss Tidswell had requested him to be free and candid in his opinions of Kean’s representation, the prompter when alone with the new actor spoke his mind. Kean, who had previously declined to follow the stage-manager’s suggestion roughly given before the company, now listened to the man he believed to be his friend. He therefore asked Dibdin, as a favour, to take his copy of Richard III ’ home, and write his comments on the speeches to which he referred. When the prompter complied with his request he received them, writes Dibdin, “ with every appearance of pleasure, EXCITEMENT OF THE TOWN. 109 and at the next rehearsal paid me the compliment of apparently adopting every suggestion; though I am now convinced that the errors I had ventured to correct had been merely the effect of a careless indifference with which he almost unconsciously rehearsed.” The date of the performance was fixed for Saturday the 12th of February (1814). For more than a week previously every box in the theatre was engaged, and on the afternoon of this day the pit and gallery doors were besieged by eager throngs. Before six o’clock Drury Lane was blocked by the carriages of the most famous men and women of the age. Excitement and expectation reigned within the theatre; the new tragedian was the theme of every tongue; gossip false and true regarding his early life, speculation concerning his future career, echoes of the green-room anent his personality, were freely exchanged and repeated. Be¬ hind the scenes the same atmosphere of feverish anticipation prevailed. Members of the committee, the stage and acting managers, passed and repassed behind the curtain, where the great murmur of the crowded audience was audible; the prompter, impressed by the importance of the occasion, gave orders in a nervous voice ; supernumeraries stood in groups; scene- shifters were yet at work, and a crowd of distinguished visitors went to and from Kean’s dressing-room, now a handsome apartment lined with mirrors. Here, whilst Lord Essex, Douglas Kinnaird, Whitbread, and Raymond, stood watching him as he attired himself in the gorgeous costume of the Duke of Gloucester, and practised gestures before the glass, Frederick Reynolds the dramatist, with solemn face and uplifted finger, cried, “ Hush, do not disturb him.” 110 EDMUND KEAN. The orchestra finished the overture, but the curtain did not rise; instead, Wroughton, one of the actors, came forward, and for a second fear held all breathless, and the question rose in each mind, had Kean been taken suddenly ill; but they were soon set at rest. Wroughton merely expressed a hope all present would excuse tjre hoarseness from which Mr. Kean suffered; his reluctance to disappoint his patrons alone induced him to appear before them that evening. Another second, and the curtain rose; all eyes were fixed on the stage to behold Kean enter. His dark-complexioned face was pale from excitement, his eyes were lustrous with anticipated triumph. His appearance was the signal for a great outburst of welcome; then in a moment the house was hushed, and the play began. The low tones of his voice fell like music on the ears of his hearers as he spoke the opening soliloquy, the mere action of pointing with his finger at himself when complaining of being “ Scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,” caused a round of applause that interrupted his speech, and by the time he had finished it was agreed by all present a great actor stood before them. In the scene with the Lady Anne, “ an enchanting smile played upon his lips, while a courteous humility bowed his head. His voice, though hoarse from cold, was yet modulated to a tone which no common female mind ever did or could resist. Gentle yet self-respecting, insinuating yet determined, humble yet over-awing, he presented an object by which the mere human senses must from their very constitution be subjected and entranced.” His REPRESENTING RICHARD III. Ill attitude in leaning against the side of the stage in this scene was so graceful and striking, that Hazlitt con¬ sidered him a subject worthy of Titian’s brush. It would be impossible to enumerate the countless beauties of his performance, but all present carried away remembrances of the manner in which he, when taunted by the little Duke of York, conveyed the idea of rage stifled beneath a calm exterior ; as well as his air whilst listening to the entreaties of the Lord Mayor that he would be kinsr. When Buckingham demands what shall be done if Hastings prove cold to their design, the prompt decision of a mind which never hesitated con¬ cerning the removal of those who obstructed his purpose, was admirably conveyed in the quick, abrupt manner of his reply, “ Chop off his head.” The activity of his mind, visible in his expressive face, held his audience spell-bound. He had set aside the stale traditions of the stage, ignored the methods of other players past and present, and marked his performance with the stamp of originality. As the play continued his power increased. When on bidding his friends good night, whilst he drew the point of his sword backwards and forwards slowly and meditatively, his action seemed so just, graceful, and natural that the whole house loudly expressed its admiration. His exit when retiring to his tent was declared by the critic of the Morning Post “ one of the finest pieces of acting we have ever beheld, or perhaps that the stage has ever known.” But the concluding scene was the most brilliant of all, producing an effect of unequalled power and grandeur. Here his skill as a fencer served him well ; before allowing himself to be killed upon Bos worth battle-field, he chased Rae, 112 EDMUND KEAN. who played Richmond, round and round the stage, whilst steel clashed, and the excitement to which he had gradually worked his audience rose to a climax; then stumbling, he recovered himself quickly, still fighting “ like one drunk with wounds,” continuing even after he had lost his sword and received his death¬ blow to thrust at his adversary with his empty hand, as if his indomitable spirit would be overcome by death alone. His death scene, the Examiner remarked, “ was a piece of noble poetry, expressed by action instead of language” As the curtain fell the audience rose as one man, cheered lustily, applauded wildly, declaring by word and action this new actor was great indeed. For the first time he now felt assured of success above and beyond all doubt and disappointment, and returning to his home in Cecil Street that night, he told his wife of the crowds that had gathered to see him, the applause which greeted him, the fervour that pos¬ sessed him. “ I could not,” he said, “ feel the stage under me.” Then he dwelt on the coming time. “ Our fortune is made, and you shall ride in your carriage, and my boy shall go to Eton.” For a second came a shadow from the past, and he paused. “ If only Howard had lived,” he said sadly, but quickly added, “yet he is better where he is.” And in present triumph past pain was forgotten. Verily his fame was now established, nor were signs wanting of his success. Men of fashion and distinction, peers and poets, artists and dramatists, were anxious to congratulate him ; the committee became solicitous regarding his cold; the papers were full of his praise. “ We cannot imagine,” says the Morning Chronicle , “any character represented with greater distinctness HIS FAME ESTABLISHED 113 and precision, more perfectly articulated in every part. Perhaps, indeed, there is too much of this, for we sometimes thought he failed even from an exuberance of talent, and dissipated the impressions of the cha¬ racter by the variety of his resources; but in one who dares so much there is little indeed to blame/' The Examiner could not recollect any performance, the very finest exhibition of Mrs. Siddons not excepted, which was so calculated to delight an audience, and impress it with veneration for the talents of an actor. Even the Times , which had spoken of his Shylock in phrases of petty patronage intermingled with mild censure, now commended him in a genteel and paltry manner. That he possessed powers of mind was obvious in the judg¬ ment with which he marked and discriminated many difficult passages. He gave several parts with propriety, but was not equally fortunate “ in the loftier doings of the heroic,” whatever they may be. He disappointed no reasonable expectation; he was a young man, and considering he had not a very great experience of the stage, his ease and self-possession were commendable. This journal finally admitted, that scarcely ever was heard “greater applause than this young man received during the play, and especially at its conclusion.” The committee of Drury Lane marked their admir¬ ation by presenting him with one hundred guineas; Lord Essex gave him a handsome sword; and Mr. Whitbread, calling one day on Mrs. Kean, took her boy Charles on his knee, and put a fifty-pound note into the lad’s hands. The cold Kean had contracted increased during the days succeeding his exertion, and haemorrhage ensued, followed by feverish symptoms. The committee, now 114 EDMUND KEAN. careful of a life that had become important to their fortunes, sent Dr. Parson, one of the most famous medical men of the day, to attend him; and under his care Kean became sufficiently well to enable him to act on the Saturday following that of his first per¬ formance of Richard III. Meanwhile Cecil Street was blocked from mid-day till noon with the coaches of those anxious to learn the condition of his health; whilst messages of inquiry and congratulation were hourly received by him from friends and strangers. On the evening when he played Richard for the second time at Drury Lane the house was crowded from floor to ceiling, and amongst the brilliant audience sat Lord Byron, then in the twenty-sixth year of his age, and in the bright dawn of that fame soon to rise to its dazzling meridian. Endowed with physical beauty most rare in man, gifted with a genius of magnificent promise, fated with a temperament little understood by his kind, a halo of romance and flavour of mystery surrounded him which lent singular attraction to his name. Already had he published his Hours of Idle¬ ness , satirized his critics in stanzas over which mankind still smiles, taken his seat in the House of Lords, travelled in the East, swam from Sestos to Abvdos, loved the Maid of Athens, given to the world some cantos of Childe Harold, and having returned to England, became the observed of all observers. He had been absent from town for some weeks, and therefore had not seen Kean act, but hearing much of the tragedian, now hastened to be present. Readily swayed by all that was finest in nature and art, and easily roused to enthusiastic admiration, Byron beheld Kean’s representation with wonder and delight, and KEAN EXONERATES THE MANAGER. 115 henceforth the new actor had no more ardent partisan than the poet. His impressions are best conveyed in the words which, soon after leaving the theatre that night, he wrote in his diary—“Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By Jove ! he is a soul. Life, nature, truth, without exaggeration or diminution. Richard is a man, and Kean is Richard.” The poet’s admiration was unchecked by the fact of the tragedian’s cold, traces of which were readily per¬ ceptible. But though it interfered with the sweetness of his voice, he was listened to with the uttermost attention, and rewarded with the heartiest applause; and when at the end of the play it was announced he would repeat his performance on Monday, the audience, believing the committee enforced his appearance, re¬ ceived the statement with violent disapprobation. Cries of “ Shame! shame ! ” and “ No ! no ! ” accompanied by hisses, rang through the house. The Times of Monday trusted the managers would not think of “ doing him, and eventually themselves, so great an injury,” as to bring him forward again till his recovery was completed, or at least much further advanced. “ One feels quite sorry,” adds this journal, “to find him straining himself as he is compelled to do.” His health had become not only a subject of interest, but a matter of importance to the public; and on the surmise gaining ground that he was being forced to play more frequently than was good for his condition, the managers sought to free themselves from an imputation of injustice. Therefore Arnold begged Kean would allow him to contradict the report. Accordingly the tragedian wrote him the following letter, which appeared in the papers— 116 EDMUND KEAN. "Dear Sir, “ I have great pleasure in authorizing you to contradict, in the most unequivocal terms, the report to which you allude. You have never pressed me to appear on the stage one day earlier than was perfectly agreeable to my own feelings, and you are aware that I have wanted no other spur to exertion than the grati¬ fication of appearing before a public who have conferred on my humble efforts the distinction of so much flatter¬ ing applause. I am happy to say I am in perfect health, and at the service of the theatre whenever and as often as you think proper to call on me. “ I am, dear sir, “ Yours sincerely, “Edmund Kean* His performances were therefore continued, and future prospects being now bright with promise, Nance Carey once more appeared upon the scene to claim the assist¬ ance of her son ; not now her only child, for she had, whilst Edmund Kean struggled in the provinces, given birth to two children—a girl named Phoebe Carey, and a boy called Henry Darnley, both of whom eventually became players. Edmund Kean allowed her a pension of fifty pounds a year from this time until the year of his death. CHAPTER Y. When Edmund Kean arrived in London in the month of November, 1813, John Philip Kemble was regarded ag the greatest actor on the English stage. A native of Preston in Lancashire, he was born in the year 1757. JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE. 117 Kemble was therefore Kean's senior by thirty years. His father, Roger Kemble, had in his day been well known as the manager of a strolling company which periodically visited the northern counties, and was held in fair repute by the rustics whose patronage he sought. In the tenth year of his age John Kemble made his first appearance on the stage. His father’s company of comedians, whilst at the famous town of Worcester, performed “a celebrated historical play” called Charles the .First, the dramatis personae of which, as it was announced, would be “ dressed in ancient habits accord¬ ing to the fashion of those times.” On this occasion James Duke of York was represented by Master John Kemble, the Duke of Richmond by Mr. Siddons, and the Princess Elizabeth by Sarah Kemble, who after¬ wards became his wife. This child, who twelve years previously had been born in a low public-house called the Shoulder of Mutton, in High Street, Brecknock, was destined to become England’s greatest tragic actress. Now Roger Kemble being well-to-do, decided that his eldest son, John Philip, should become a priest, for the family were Roman Catholics, and had given to the Church at least one member, who had been martyred in days of persecution. The lad was therefore sent to a seminary at Sedley Park in Staffordshire, and subse¬ quently to the university of Douay in France, where he was chiefly remarkable amongst his fellows for his powers of declamation. Returning to England at the age of eighteen, he declared his intention of becoming a player, much to the regret of his father, who, in order that his son might have personal experience of the hardships of an actor’s life, and therefore see the errors 118 EDMUND KEAN. of his way, refused him a place in Ins company, and sent him forth to battle with the world unaided. Whilst he had been at Douay his sister Sally had played a leading part in a romantic comedy in real life. Siddons, who for some years had been a member of her father’s troop, a versatile actor and a comely fellow, fell in love with her, and finding favour in her eyes, desired to marry her. This wish met with opposition from her parents; their daughter, being but in her sixteenth year, was considered over young to marry yet, and he, who depended on his salary foi subsistence, was not such a husband as they would choose for her. Therefore, to remove her from her lover, whom they trusted she would speedily forget, they placed her in a situation as maid and companion to Lady Mary Great- head, of Guy’s Cliff, in Warwickshire. This position was uncongenial to Sarah Kemble, parting her as it did from the calling in which she delighted, and from the man whom she loved ; but she endured it for upwards of two years, towards the end of which time her constancy to Siddons gained her parents’ consent to her marriage. The young couple then joined a company of players whose varying successes they shared, until, being at Cheltenham, Mrs. Siddons attracted the attention of my Lord and Lady Bruce, afterwards Earl and Countess of Avlesbury, who were drinking the waters at this fashion¬ able resort. My lord was a man of influence, a patron of the arts, an admirer of genius, and possessing a critical faculty, saw and acknowledged Mrs. Siddons’ powers. Therefore, on returning to town he com¬ mended her to David Garrick, and requested he would eno-a^e l er for his theatre. Garrick, then in the last o o months of his management at Drury Lane, commissioned MRS. SIDDONS AT DRURY LANE. 119 a friend to attend her performances, and give his opinion of her merits; and eventually, on the strength of this critic’s praise, she was engaged for Drury Lane Theatre. It seemed to her the goal was now won, and that she at the age of twenty had reached a position which most members of the calling she followed had failed to attain. Her hopes were short-lived. Her first appearance before a London audience was made on the 29th of December, 1775, in the character of Portia, but attracted little attention. A second chance of playing an important part was not given her for some time, for Mrs. Yates, Mrs. Abington, and Miss Young reigned queens of the Drury Lane stage, and it was indeed perilous to the manager’s peace and health to introduce a rival to their high claims. Presently Mrs. Siddons was cast for a part in a farce called Love s Metamorphoses , than which nothing more unsuited to her talents could be found. But Garrick, now giving his series of farewell performances, having some perception of the merit underlying the quiet surface of this young actress’s manner, cast her for the character of Mrs. Strickland in the Suspicious Husband , he playing Banger ; and subsequently she acted Lady Anne to his Richard III. But her performances gave little promise of the wondrous powers that were a few years later to rouse the public to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, and at the close of the season she was not re-engaged for Drury Lane. She therefore returned to the provinces in 1776, and played at Birmingham. It was at this time her brother John Kemble be^an life as a player; and aware that she was held in fair esteem at this theatre, he offered his services to its manager, but no vacancy could be found for him. 120 EDMUND KEAN. Mrs. Siddons, who was ever remarkable for the interest ' x she took in the fortunes of her family, recommended him to a manager named Chamberlain, then at Wolver¬ hampton, whose company he joined. Then began his experiences of the brief triumphs and certain dis¬ appointments of a stroller’s life; hard work taught him many a useful lesson ; privations begot gratitude for small mercies. The means he used to gain popularity were many; occasionally he recited odes between the acts, read scenes from Shakespeare, and whilst at Cheltenham introduced a novel entertainment in two parts, the first consisting of a lecture upon eloquence by himself, the second of conjuring tricks by an actor named Carlton. Times indeed were hard upon him now and then; and it is recorded that being on one occasion locked in his bedroom, a prisoner for debt due to a landlady whose husband lay ill in the chamber beneath Kemble’s temporary prison, he conceived the idea of spinning a top on the floor, until the good woman thought well of sacrificing her rent to her peace, and bade him depart. Meanwhile Mrs. Siddons was working hard, playing comedy and tragedy by night, washing and ironing her husband’s and her children’s clothes by day; keeping cheerful withal, having: no vindictive feeling: for the verdict of London playgoers, but bearing her fate with cheerfulness. The following year, 1777, room was found in the company for John Kemble, and he joined his sister; but how strange is it, in the light of modern times, to narrate, that on their return visit to Birmingham the poor players “ were informed against ” as rogues and vagabonds, and obliged by their worships the magistrates to get them gone with good speed. A LIVERPOOL AUDIENCE. 121 Their luck in Liverpool was scarce better; but an account of what there befell them is best related in a letter heretofore not printed, written by John Kemble to Mrs. Inchbald the dramatist. “ Our affairs here are dreadful/' he writes. “ On Monday night we opened our theatre. Before the play began Mr. Younger advanced before the curtain, if possible to prevent any riot with which he had publicly been threatened for presuming to bring any company to Liverpool who had not played before the king. In vain did he attempt to oratorize, the remorseless villains threw up their hats, hissed, kicked, stamped, bawled, did everything to prevent his being heard. After two or three fruitless entreaties, and being saluted with volleys of potatoes and broken bottles, he thought proper to depute Siddons as his advocate, who entered bearing a board large enough to secure his person, inscribed with Mr. Youngers petition to be heard. The rogues would hear nothing, and Siddons may thank his wooden protector that his bones are whole. Mrs. Siddons entered next P. S., and Mrs. Knieveton O. P., mais ausi infortunee. Mrs. Knieveton had the misfortune to tumble dowm in convulsions on the boards; the wretches laughed, and would willingly have sent a peal of shouts after her into the next world loud enough to have burst the gates of destruction. They next extinguished all the lights round the house, then jumped upon the stage, brushed every lamp out with their hats, took back their money, left the theatre, and determined themselves to repeat this till they had another company. Well, madam, I was going to ask you what you think of all this, but I can see you laughing. I had almost forgot to tell you every wall in the city is covered 122 EDMUND KEAN. with verse and prose expressive of the contempt they hold us in.” Having spent about two years in this company, John Kemble applied for and obtained an engagement from the famous Tate Wilkinson, manager of the York circuit. Kemble had now more opportunity for the display of his increasing talents. One night during the month of October, 1778, he played Macbeth at Hull with such success, that henceforth he was entrusted with leading parts. He was now anxious to represent a character suitable to his own powers, and therefore wrote a tragedy called Belisarius, full of long speeches and dreadful deeds, the whole plentifully besmeared with blood, which was put on the boards for a single night. He subsequently sent the play to Harris of Covent Garden, but it was returned to him unopened, as Kemble declared, with the usual expression of regret that it was unsuitable to his stage. This grieved its author sorely, as such disappointments will in youth, and he wrote despairingly to his friend Mrs. Inchbald, “ My health declines every day. I have neither spirits, in which I never abounded, nor genius, of which inclination perhaps wholly sujDplied the place, to attempt anything for my improvement in polite letters. You know me, I believe, well enough to feel for me when I say, that with all my ambition I am afraid I shall live and die a common fellow.” Such fears as this, expressed in a moment of des¬ pondency, were futile, for he was destined to rise in the estimation of men. Having played with success at Hull, York, and Leeds for a couple of seasons, he, on being: offered an engagement in Ireland, crossed the Channel to act in the Smock Alley Theatre, at MRS. SIDDONS AT DRURY LANE. 123 what was then considered an excellent salary of five pounds a week. Here his Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard III., and Alexander the Great were lauded. His elocution was distinct if monotonous, his manner dignified if formal, his appearance picturesque though inanimate. Whilst he played in Ireland, Mrs. Siddons had been acting at Bath to audiences described as “the most elegant in Great Britain,” and her fame reaching the capital, offers of an engagement were made her by the managers of Drury Lane Theatre, and accepted by her. Accordingly she appeared in that house on the 20th of October, 1782, seven years later than the date on which she had first played on that stage. Her performance created the wildest sensation amongst all lovers of the drama; in a single night her fame was established, henceforth she was recognized as the queen of tragedy. Hazlitt narrates, that the enthusiasm she excited “ had something idolatrous about it; she was regarded less with admiration than wonder, as if a being of a superior order had dropped from another sphere to awe the world with the majesty of her appearance. She raised tragedy to the skies or brought it down from thence. It was somethin^ above nature. We can conceive of nothing grander. She embodied to our imagination the fables of mythology, or the heroic and deified mortals of elder time. She was not less than a goddess, or than a prophetess inspired by the gods. Power was seated on her brow, passion emanated from her breast as from a shrine. She was Tragedy personified. She was the stateliest ornament of the public mind. She was not only the idol of the i^eople, s he not only hushed 124 EDMUND KEAN. the tumultuous shouts of the pit iu breathless expect¬ ation, and quenched the blaze of surrounding beauty in silent tears, but to the retired and lonely student through long years of solitude her face has shone as if an eye had appeared from heaven; her name has been as if a voice had opened the chambers of the human heart, or as if a trumpet had awakened the sleeping and the dead. To have seen Mrs. Siddons was an event in every one’s life.” She now experienced the pleasures and penalties of fame: crowds followed her through the streets; the drawing-rooms of the great were thrown open to her, and when she appeared there, guests mounted upon chairs and sofas to observe her movements; statesmen sought conversation with her, and her merest remarks were listened to with bated breath. But in the midst of this enthusiasm she remained calm and dignified. “ Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all worshipping,” quoth lively Mrs. Thrale, “ but we will soon gild her.” To cover her with the tarnished metal of conventional mannerism was not, however, within the power of this vivacious dame. But bearing in mind her grandeur and sublimity, it is hard to reconcile her brother’s idea of her being “ one of the best comic singers of the day.” Certain it is that before she attained great¬ ness she had, in order to attract country audiences, to appear not only in farce, but in ballad operas, and sing blithesome songs; and assuredly she did all things well upon the stage. At the close of the season the members of the Bar presented her with a hundred guineas, “ as an acknow¬ ledgment of the pleasure and instruction her talents had given them.” She then went to Edinburgh, where kemble’s marriage. 125 she received a thousand pounds for ten nights perform¬ ance, together with several presents. Later on she visited Ireland, where the enthusiasm she created if anything exceeded that she already caused in London. Whilst she was here negotiations were made for the engagement of John Kemble as a member of the Drury Lane company; and accordingly he made his appear¬ ance as Hamlet at the national theatre on the 30th of September, 1783. The relationship he bore to the great actress, then the theme of every tongue, drew a crowded audience to witness his first performance. He was received with applause, and a long period of prosperity set in for him. His face was well cut and handsome, his figure tall and portly, his presence graceful and commanding, and seeing him night after night as the representation of noble heroes, a daughter of Lord North fell violently in love with him, a fact she made manifest in letters she addressed to him. Her father, becoming aware of her infatuation, remonstrated with her, but in vain ; and his subsequent threats were answered by the avowal that John Kemble was the only one she would ever wed. Lord North being a shrewd man, believed he —-Tf could avert an event he dreaded as a calamity. Therefore he waited on Kemble, plainly stated that if he married his daughter she should never receive a penny from him, but if within a fortnight he wed any other lady, he, Lord North, would give him four thousand pounds in return for his compliance. Kemble, who valued money greatly, accepted his offer, proposed to and was accepted as her husband by Mrs. Brierton, an actress, and speedily married. And having fulfilled Lord North’s desire, he waited 126 EDMUND KEAN. upon him for his reward ; but his lordship, being wily, professed total forgetfulness of his bargain. He coldly inquired on what ground Mr. Kemble imagined he had any interest in his domestic concerns, and ended by stating, that although, in common with all men of taste, he admired him as an actor, yet he wished his perform¬ ances confined to the theatre. Kemble left his presence a sadder man. The story, which by no means reflected credit on Lord North, was not kept secret by him, and the kind friends, ever ready to ridicule a successful man, made merry over the tale, which was widely repeated, and at length found place in Oxberry’s bio¬ graphy of Kemble. In 1788, whilst Edmund Kean was an infant of twelve months, John Kemble became sta^e manager of Drury Lane Theatre, where he laboured zealously for the advancement of dramatic art by restoring the original text of Shakespeare’s plays, and insisting on proper regard being paid to accuracy of costume and architecture. Three years later he resigned this office, that he might travel through France and Spain. Having spent about two years abroad, he returned to England, and purchased a sixth share in Covent Garden Theatre, of which he became part manager. Mrs. Siddons had up to this time played at Drury Lane, but on her brother becoming part proprietor of the rival house she joined its forces, and now in the fulness of her fame drew crowded audiences in her track. Custom had not staled her infinite variety. “ In bursts of indig¬ nation or grief,” we are told, “ in apostrophes and inarticulate sounds, she raised the soul of passion to its height or sunk it in despair.” Her acting had long ago attracted the admiration even FANNY BURNEY AND MRS. SIDDONS. 127 of Queen Charlotte, whose knowledge of the language spoken by her subjects was limited, and Her Majesty was wont to command Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble to read in her royal presence. Fanny Burney, who was dresser to the queen, on one occasion received the great actress when she was commanded to appear at Windsor, and de¬ scribes her as '‘the queen of tragedy, sublime, elevated, and solemn. In face and person truly noble and commanding ; in manners quiet and stiff; in voice deep and dragging; and in conversation formal, sententious, calm, and dry. I expected her to have been all that is interesting; the delicacy and sweetness with which she seizes every opportunity to strike and to captivate upon the stage had persuaded me that her mind was formed with that peculiar susceptibility which in dif¬ ferent modes must give equal powers to attract and to delight in commom life. But I was very much mis¬ taken. As a stranger, I must have admired her noble appearance and beautiful countenance, and have re¬ gretted that nothing in her conversation kept pace with their promise; and as a celebrated actress I had still only to do the same.’ 5 The honour of reading in the presence of royalty was the sole reward she received for her labours so lonsr as they continued, for their Majesties were notable for an economy which has been called by harsh names.- Nor were her duties rendered lighter by kindness, the lack of which eventually ended them; for one day when Mrs. Siddons, then soon to become a mother, had been standing some two hours, it being forbidden by court etiquette to sit in the presence of Majesty, she fainted, and would have fallen, but that John Kemble rushed for¬ ward and caught her, whereon the queen, grasping her 128 EDMUND KEAN. snuff-box, hastily rose, and, followed by the princesses, quitted the apartment, “ that the actress might sit down.” To the credit of John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons be it stated, that henceforth when commanded to appear before royalty they invariably found them¬ selves suddenly indisposed. In 1812, two years before Kean’s appearance at Drury Lane, Mrs. Siddons took leave of the stage, and her retirement was followed by the sincere regret of the public. At the close of the same season John Kemble withdrew from Covent Garden for the purpose of mak¬ ing a prolonged tour through the provinces. He re¬ turned, however, on the 11th of January, 1814, just fifteen days previous to the night on which Kean first played Shylock at Drury Lane. All it was possible to acquire by severe study, careful methods, and active intelligence were Kemble’s; but he needed that subtle power called genius, for lack of which nought else can compensate. He had long enjoyed popularity, but al¬ ready a player was at hand who was destined to fling him from the pedestal he had occupied for many years. Mrs. Siddons had certainly prepared his way with the public, and but for her it is certain he would never have attained the position as England’s greatest actor, for the genius she undoubtedly possessed flung its glory upon him. ■ He had re-introduced to the stage the cold, passion¬ less style of acting which Garrick had banished, and which Kean was destined to drive a^ain from the boards. His elocution, when not marred by asthma, was faultless in its pronunciation, but measured, hard, and monotonous; his face, finely moulded and massive, lacked animation and expression; his gestures, graceful 129 kemble’s acting. and appropriate, were carefully studied and mechanical. John Howard Payne the dramatist said, “ He enlarged his legs and arms by pads, and consulted pictures and artists to produce personal effects ”; whilst Mrs. Siddons complained, “My brother John in his most impetuous outbursts is always careful to avoid any discomposure of his dress or deportment, but in the whirlpool of passion I lose all thought of such matters ” ; and Haydon the painter added, “Kemble came into a part with a stately dignity, as if he disdained to listen to nature, however she might whisper, until he had examined and weighed the value of her counsel.” Assuredly he lacked the great and necessary art of concealing art. Grand and impressive he could be in such parts as Cato, Coriolanus, and Brutus, but from beginning to end of his performances no touch of nature was present, and the heroes he represented were respected but not loved. There lay the perceptible blemish. In the earlier part of his career he had striven, to play comedy, in which, Jack Bannister used to say, “ he was as merry as a funeral and as light as an elephant.” However, he desired to prove he was all he believed himself to be; and was anxious the press should share in the opinions he held of his own acting. Therefore when he was about to act the part of Charles Surface, he wrote to Major Topham, who was not only a biographer and dramatist, but the proprietor and conductor of a journal called The World , informing him he had placed three of his friends on the free list of the theatre, and hoping “he would have the goodness to give orders to his people to speak favour¬ ably of Charles, as more depends on that than he could possibly be aware of.” Not satisfied with this, Kemble 130 EDMUND KEAN. also wrote to Mrs. Wells, an eccentric woman and “a bold player/’ whose influence over Major Topliam was notorious, requesting she would ask the Major to commend his performance in The World . And she, complying, received the following from Topham, which, together with Kemble’s note, she published in her memoirs—“I received your letter where you mention Kemble’s wish to be puffed. You may inform Mr. Este (the editor) from me, I will not sacrifice the credit of my paper for all the admissions in Europe, to puff either the Siddons or the Kembles in comedy.” In the course of time, and with the aid of public opinion, John Kemble came to the conclusion his cold and stately manner was unsuited to comedy, and there¬ fore abandoned it wholly. A flattering host with whom he was dining one day, regretted this resolve, for he considered Charles Surface had been lost to the stage since the days of Gentleman Smith, and added, that Kemble’s representation should have been considered as Charles’s restoration; whereon another guest whispered, it should rather be termed Charles’s martyrdom. Kemble heard this witty remark, and received it with good humour; nay, he even ventured to tell a story against himself concerning the playing of the part. “Well, now,” he said, “that gentleman is not altogether singular in his opinion, as, if you will give me leave, I will prove to you. A few months ago, having unfortunately taken what is usually called a glass too much, on my return, late at night, I inadvertently quarrelled with a gentleman in the street. This gentleman very properly called on me next morning for an explanation of what was certainly more accidental than intentional. ‘ Sir,’ said I, * when kemble’s critics. 131 I commit an error I am always ready to atone for it; and if you will only name any reasonable reparation in my power, I- 5 ‘Sir/ interrupted the gentle¬ man, ‘ at once I meet your proposal, and name one. Solemnly promise, in the presence of this my friend, that you will never play Charles Surface again, and I am perfectly satisfied/ Well, I did promise,’ 5 continued Kemble, “not from nervousness, as you may suppose, gentlemen, but because, though Sheridan was pleased to say that he liked me in the part, I certainly did not like myself in it, no more than that gentleman who has just done me the favour to call it Charles’s martyrdom/* Another worthy critic, it must be remembered, com¬ mended John Kembles playing of the part; Charles Lamb considered “the weighty sense of Kemble made up for more personal incapacity than he had to answer for. His harshest tones in this part came steeped and dulcified in good-humour. He made his defects a grace. His exact declamatory manner, as he managed it, only served to convey the points of his dialogue with more precision. It seemed to head the shafts to carry them deeper.” But all the while, it must be remem¬ bered, Charles Lamb had never seen Gentleman Smith represent Charles Surface. The opinion John Kemble held of himself was one most gratifying to his vanity. Frederick Reynolds narrates, that on one occasion at a dinner, when the tragedian had drank deeply, after the fashion of the day, and boasted freely of his great abilities and wondrous success, a merry neighbour whispered audibly, “I would go barefooted to Holyhead and back only to see a fellow one half so clever as he thinks himself.” His manner was cold and reserved with his associates 132 EDMUND KEAN. at the theatre, and he was therefore generally un¬ popular with them. Because of his complexion, they usually called him Black Jack; and by this term he was invariably spoken of by George Frederick Cooke, a really fine actor, whose brief and reckless career ended before Kean’s advent in London. Between Cooke and Kemble no love existed, for Cooke openly derided Kemble’s pompous acting, and Kemble plainly despised Cooke for his dissipated habits. When drunk, as was too frequently the case, poor Cooke was wont to com¬ plain that “with the voice of an emasculated French horn, and the face of an itinerant Israelite, Black Jack would compete with me, sir—with me, George Frederick Cooke; wanted me to play Horatio to his Hamlet, sir. Let him play Sir Pertinax, sir (a favour¬ ite character of Cooke’s), that’s all. I should like to hear him attempt the accent! ” When Cooke went to America some idea of his approaching fate possibly crossed his mind, for he said he “didn’t want to die in this country; John Kemble would laugh.” But Cooke returned to England never again; and if Kemble did not mourn the unfortunate actor’s untimely end, he certainly profited by it, for Cooke was the only player at that time greatly his superior, there being no othei tragedian worthy of the name upon the stage. For years John Kemble had suffered from asthma, so that it became painful to hear him gasp and cough during his performances. One night when, as Macbeth, he lay dead upon the stage, he felt almost suffocated, and at length was obliged to sit up and cough, to the great amusement of the house; hearing of which, witty Jack Bannister said, “ Ah, poor fellow, it must have been a churchyard cough.” KEMBLE COMPARED WITH KEAN. 133 John Kemble, being the best tragic actor the stage had up to this time possessed, was admired and lauded by a large section of playgoers; but now the force and fervour, earnestness and passion of the Drury Lane tragedian brought his cold and pompous, stiff and ponderous manner into sharp contrast; a new light was cast upon his playing, revealing an unlikeness to nature before scarce heeded. But the force of habit is strong within all men, and those who had long given him their full allegiance were loath to turn from him in favour of a competitor. And now could comparisons between them be more fitly made, for Kean, it was stated, was to play Hamlet, a character Kemble had long since made his own—one in which it was considered he was seen to greatest advantage. Neither did Kean spare thought nor care in the study of this part. Years ago, whilst tramping along lonely highways, he had meditated upon the effects he might, as the Prince of Denmark, produce upon provincial audiences; but now when the most enlightened people in the kingdom crowded to witness his efforts, his whole mind was set upon achieving a signal success. Words and sentences were pronounced and spoken repeatedly in various tones, until his ear caught the most effective key; expressions and gestures were practised persistently before mirrors, until his sense of fitness was satisfied ; actions that subsequently seemed the inspiration of a moment were deliberately conceived and practised; nay, he counted the very steps he was to take upon the stage before reaching a certain spot or uttering a certain phrase. Genius lie undoubtedly possessed, but he was wise enough to know labour was necessary to its perfection. 134 EDMUND KEAN. The announcement of his performance caused general excitement, and on the evening of Saturday the 12th of March, 1814, the struggle at the doors of Drury Lane Theatre hours before the play began threatened to prove disastrous. Not merely women, but men, overcome by heat and long fasting, fainted; cries for help rose from those who, no longer able to endure, sought escape from the dense, closely-packed mass of humanity by which they were surrounded. Shortly after the doors opened the theatre was filled to the utmost limits, from floor to ceiling. Then arose a din from a multitude of voices as friend shouted to friend, or details were recounted of the fight for place, and inquiries made for the articles of dress lost in the fray. Amidst this continued confusion the music of the orchestra was inaudible, nay, even when the curtain rose on the first scene the excitement was unsubdued, and the voice of the ghost was unheard in the house. But presently, as the royal court of Denmark as¬ sembled, silence fell upon all. Then entered Hamlet, slow-paced, his air full of grief, his countenance ex¬ pressive of sorrow over-deep for words. That first impression, on which an actor most depends, was all he could desire. Later the pathos of his tones, the languor of his gait, the deep meaning of his looks, fascinated his audience, and in his interests and concerns bound him to their hearts. One and all felt a new interpret¬ ation of a character, the most strange and subtle the master has drawn, was about to be given them. Nor were they mistaken. His surprise on beholding his fathers ghost, his confidence in following its steps, the sorrow and rever¬ ence mingling in his voice when he addressed it, were kean’s representation of hamlet. 135 full of poetry and power. In the scene where he broke from his friends to follow this distressed shade, he kept his sword pointing behind him to prevent them follow¬ ing him, instead of holding it before him to protect himself from the spirit, as had formerly been done. The manner of his taking Guildenstern and Rosencrantz underneath each arm with pretence of communicating his secret, whilst really trifling with them, produced a fine effect; so likewise did his acting in the closet scene with his mother. Here, as the Examiner remarked, “ his tones, as usual, told that his heart, not his memory, was speaking; but he did not display any of the thea¬ trical tricks which the audience had been used to ex¬ pect. He did not shake his mother out of her chair, nor wave his handkerchief with a dignified whirl, nor spread his arms like a heron crucified on a barn door.’' His scene with Ophelia was most full of passion and pathos; especially did it stir the house when, after commanding her to go to a nunnery, he hurried from her presence, and then, as if overcome by tenderness and regret, hastened back, and taking her right hand, kissed it fervidly. This action, Hazlitt relates, had an electric effect upon the house. “ It was the finest commentary that was ever made on Shakespeare. It explained the character at once (as he meant it), as one of disappointed hope, of bitter regret, of affection suspended, not obliterated by the distractions of the scene around him.” An anonymous correspondent writing to the Examiner says, “ Two simple actions, occupying as many minutes, those noble illustrations of Shakespeare's writings,—the dying scene in Richard the Third , and the parting with Ophelia—are worth all the notes critical and historical, emendatory and 136 EDMUND KEAN. commendatory, declamatory and defamatory, that were ever written.” The whole performance was full of beauty, origin¬ ality, and poetry, which his audience recognized and applauded warmly. Again and again during the play he was greeted with ringing cheers; and for some moments after the fall of the curtain the house was in a state of wild enthusiasm. The criticisms of his acting, with the exception of that of the Times , were laudatory; but the dramatic censor of that journal had never been satisfied with the new actor, nor was he now. He first displayed his lack of knowledge by complaining that Kean, “ who was far from well- dressed,” actually came to the court without ornament or insignia, being ignorant that the Danish Order of the Elephant was not instituted until about the year 1448, whilst Hamlet is supposed to have lived before the Norman Conquest, at the time when England was connected with Denmark. This ornament John Kemble had always worn in personating the prince, and the writer doubtless considered that it was an error not to follow his example. But more remained to be said. Mr. Kean was clearly “a person of excellent good sense, and of a powerful discrimination,” but he had certainly pronounced contumely in four syllables. His figure and gait were not sufficiently graceful and dignified, he “ fell off” in the last two acts; but great allowance should be made for his youth, doubtless he would im¬ prove. Beading such comments one is forcibly struck by a remark made in the Examiner , that Kean’s style in Hamlet, “ was too good for the public, whose taste has been vitiated by the long-established affectations of the school of Kemble.” The Ophelia of this occasion COWEN AND KEELEY VISIT DEUKY LANE. 137 was highly commended—Miss Smith, a lady of Hiber¬ nian extraction, whose real name was O’Shaughnessy. Endowed with a beautiful and expressive face, a clear and melodious voice, a well-formed and graceful figure, she had readily become a favourite with the town. Her style and manner were said closely to resemble those of Mrs. Siddons, whose merits no other actress had up to this time so nearly approached; and in her performances Kean found valuable support. Again and again Hamlet was repeated to audiences whose enthusiasm remained unabated. Joe Cowen, at this time playing at Woolwich, in a company of which Robert Keeley was likewise a member, had not yet seen Kean; but being anxious to witness the perform¬ ance of one concerning whom he heard much, he and Keeley walked to town one day, “and at about four o’clock in the afternoon,” he writes, “ we joined a crowd already assembled at the pit entrance of Drury Lane Theatre, which continued to increase by thousands before the doors were opened. Half crushed to death,” he continues, for his experience were better narrated in his own words, “ we found ourselves, after a desperate effort, at the back of the passage which surrounds the pit, from whence I could, by straining to my utmost height, catch a glimpse of the corner of the green curtain nearest to the top, but little Bob hadn't even that satisfaction. There, at any rate, we could not see Kean, nor live to see anything else at the end of a few hours squeeze such as we were then enduring, and we agreed to pay the extra three-and-sixpence and go into the boxes; but as to obtaining a pass check, it was impossible. We had nearly as much trouble to get out as we had to set in. and were content to lose our 138 EDMUND KEAN. three-and-sixpence apiece, and pay fourteen shillings more for the privilege of standing on a back seat of the upper tier of boxes at the corner next the stage, an excellent point of sight for a perspective view of the crown of a man’s hat, or a bald spot on the head of a lady who, seated in the pit, had been obliged to take off her bonnet whether she liked it or not. “ Bruised in body, and sorely afflicted in spirit and pocket, we were just in the mood not to be easily pleased with anything or anybody. When Kean came on I was astonished. I was prepared to see a small man; but, diminished by the unusual distance and his black dress, and a mental comparison with Kemble’s princely person, he appeared a perfect pigmy; his voice, unlike any I had ever heard before, perhaps from its very strangeness, was most objectionable, and I turned to Keeley, and at once pronounced him a most decided humbug; and if I could have got out then, I should have said so to everybody, because I honestly thought so; and if afterwards I had been convinced of his enormous genius, I might, like Taylor, the oculist and editor of the Sun newspaper, have persisted in my denunciation, rather than confess my incapacity at the first glance to comprehend the sublimity of Shake¬ speare and Nature being upon such familiar terms. But I was obliged to remain, and compelled to be silent; so invoking patience, and placing my hand on a young lady’s shoulder for support, I quietly gazed on through three tedious scenes—for all the actors seemed worse than usual—till it came to the dialogue with the ghost, and at the line 1 I’ll call thee Hamlet — king — father/ I was converted. I resigned the support of the lady, Charles young as richard hi. 139 and employed both hands in paying the usual tribute to godlike talent. Father is not a pretty word to look at, but it is beautiful to hear when lisped by little children, or spoken by Edmund Kean in Hamlet” Whenever Kean played the theatre was crowded to excess, and the treasury received sums averaging six hundred pounds on the nights of his performances. This continued, notwithstanding the attractions held forth by the rival house; for not only did John Kemble play Brutus in Julius Ccesar . Wolsey in Henry VIII., Coriolanus, Hamlet, and Cato, characters in which of yore his “ proud peculiarity, melancholy composure, and magnificent deportment” had been lauded; but Mrs. Jordan, now at Covent Garden, was giving what were destined to be her last performances before being driven penniless and friendless into exile, through the conduct of the Duke of Clarence. And here, likewise, was Charles Young, a player belonging to the Kemble school, who a few weeks after Kean's first appearance as Richard III. sought to show the town how the wicked king might be represented with the propriety and gentility of a marionette, and so afford the public an opportunity of exercising its judgment before pledg¬ ing itself an adherent of the new actor. Charles Mayne Young, as already narrated, was the son of a famous London physician. Being born in 1777, he was ten years older than Kean. Twelve months of his early life had been spent at the Court of Denmark, where his uncle was physician, and for three years was he an Eton boy. His home life was far from happy, owing to the behaviour of his father, who was not only a profligate husband, but a tyrannical parent. So in¬ famous was his conduct, that his wife and three sons 140 EDMUND KEAN. were obliged to quit bis roof, though possessing neither the means of support nor the certainty of shelter at the time. A kindly relative succoured the mother and her lads, one of whom became a surgeon, one a clerk in the East Indian Service, and one a player. This latter was Charles, who began life in a city office; but becoming fascinated by the stage, desired to be an actor. Therefore, without leaving his situation, the salary of which helped to support his mother, he joined an amateur theatrical club, and there, after the fashion of many others, learned the rudiments of an art in which he desired to excel. At the age of one-and-twenty he made his first appearance at Liverpool, and such progress did he achieve, that the following year he was engaged to play lead at Manchester. After spending an ap¬ prenticeship in the provinces, he appeared at the Haymarket in the character of Hamlet. He was greeted kindly and applauded heartily, but in the midst of this encouragement his quick ear detected a solitary hiss, and turning his eyes towards the direc¬ tion whence it came, he saw the malignant face of his father. His acting was cold, declamatory, and dignified, knowing nothing of nature and little of passion. He acknowledged himself “a devout disciple of the Kemble school/' and a portion of the public regarded him as a servile imitator. The resemblance of his style to John Kemble's was so striking, his tone and emphasis so similar, that when both actors were on the stage at the same time, it was difficult for the audience to discover which had spoken. His voice was sonorous, his at¬ titudes graceful, his gestures proper; he pleased, but CHARLES YOUNG'S ACTING. 141 never excited; he charmed the fancy, but never touched the heart; he plunged a dagger in his breast with the same elegance, precision, and lack of emotion as he handed a chair to a lady. He had never been moved by a breath of passion, and never rose to originality; his head, not his heart, was his guide. It was said that in committing new parts to memory, he recited his speeches to a pianoforte accompaniment, by which he learned to modulate his tones; and no doubt this practice helped to give the impression of art rather than the touch of nature to his delivery. Six years before Kean flashed upon the town Charles Young had been engaged for the Covent Garden company, and from that time his life had passed uneventfully. He indeed was wholly powerless to stem the current of popularity which had now set in Kean’s favour. John Kemble had at first heard of the young actor’s attraction with the calm indifference of assured superiority, believed this departure from allegiance due to him was but a momentary freak, a passing eccentricity on the part of public judgment, such as had once hailed Master Betty as a wonder, and subsequently ignored him as a failure. But the criticisms which continually reached him from reliable sources, together with the increasing admiration of the tow T n, caused him to seriously believe a rival had verily entered the field. Accordingly he became anxious to see Kean, and one evening, from behind the curtains of a box at Drury Lane, watched him with eagerness and surprise as he played Richard III. Leaving the house impressed by the grandeur and force of the death scene, Kemble was accosted by a friend, who asked 142 EDMUND KEAN. him what he thought of the new actor. “I did not see Mr. Kean at all/’ he replied, “I only saw Richard.” And speaking presently to James Boaden of the new favourite, he said, “ Our styles of acting are so totally different, that you must not expect me to like Mr. Kean; but one thing I must say in his favour—he is at all times terribly in earnest.” Mrs. Siddons was also eager to see Kean, whom she remembered having acted with years ago in Belfast, and returning from witnessing one of his performances remarked, “ His eyes are marvellous, having a sort of fascination, like that attributed to the snake.” Another woman, who had enjoyed some fame in her day, was more enthusiastic concerning Kean than the retired queen of tragedy. This was Mrs. David Garrick, who had passed her eightieth year, and was now a hale, sprightly little old lady, whose dark eyes, silver hair, and calm expression gave a beauty to her age her youth had never known. An artiste, a foreigner, the widow of a great actor, her interest in all things theatrical was yet vigorous, and her chief delight consisted in visits to the playhouses. On the night of Kean’s first appearance as Hamlet she had occupied her box at Drury Lane Theatre; and on his entrance, his size and appearance at once riveted her attention; then the light and expression of his eyes as he turned them on the king, and the sound of his voice as he spoke the soliloquy, completed the charm he exercised over her. That evening she who was usually garrulous remained silent and abstracted; thoughts of the past abided with her in the present, and the tears she quietly shed were alike a tribute to the powers of the living and to the memory of the dead. KEAN INTRODUCED TO MRS. GARRICK. 143 Some days later she wrote a note to Thomas Dibdin, asking him to come and see her relative to a sum of money she wished to give a musician in distress. On calling at her residence in the Adelphi, Dibdin was shown into the library, a long narrow room, whose walls were lined with books. As he entered, Mrs. Garrick, dressed in black, came tripping from the far end of the apartment with all the lightness and grace of a girl of eighteen, and greeted her visitor. Having asked him to undertake the commission relative to her charity, she continued, in a voice still retaining some traces of foreign accent— “ Mr. Dipdin, I look upon you as a twick of the old school; your father was a great friend of my husband’s, and I am glad you are in Drury Lane. I go now and then to my box there, and am much pleased with your new actor, Mr. Kean.” Dibdin assured her he would be proud to learn her opinion. “ But Mr. Kean/’ she continued, “ is like Mr. Garrick himself. Mr. Kean could never have seen Mr. Garrick, who was dead before your new actor was born; yet he not only speaks some speeches in the style of that good actor” (marking the adjective with impressive accents, and looking reverentially at the picture of Garrick over the fireplace), “ but he seems to me to choose the very same board to speak them on; and this, Mr. Dipdin, is no small compliment when the worth of my husband is still twinkling in my ears.” This led to an introduction of Kean, whom Mrs. Garrick received with a mixture of the courtesy be¬ coming a hostess and the patronage pardonable in age. Taking him by one hand she led him to a chair, 144 EDMUND KEAN. leather-seated and high-backed,—“ it was my husband’s favourite/’ she explained,—and then they fell into dis¬ course. What scenes and memories, vivid with the figures of men and women now no more, rose to the surface of her mind; voices long unheard spoke again, the dead lived; years fell from her life as sand through the fingers of a child, and she was young once more. Stories were told more strange than fiction; comments made, traditions bequeathed. She assured her visitoi he was the only actor worthy of succeeding her hus¬ band ; and then came comparisons, when, assuming the privilege of a critic, she praised and chided, and ended by making him rehearse the closet scene in Hamlet , and assured him he must in future play it with more vigour, after the manner of dear David. Kean secured not only her admiration, but her friendship, and one day whilst he was with her she unlocked an escritoire, and took a parcel from a private drawer. This she handled with reverence, and sighed over as she untied the string. Then she showed him a pair of gloves of quaint fashion and great age, which had belonged to Shakespeare, and which she intended leaving to Mrs. Siddons; and unwrapping them from many folds of paper, she displayed the stage jewels worn by Garrick. “ No one,” she said, “ has been found worthy of them until now. Take them—they are yours.” CHAPTER VI. Meanwhile Kean was carefully studying the part of Othello, the character he next meant to personate. His determination drew forth various comments, and PREPARES TO PLAY OTHELLO. 145 for days discussions raged in club and coffee-houses, in drawing-room and green-room, as to whether his figure and manner were suitable to the representation of the Moor of Venice. Those who remembered Garrick narrated their impressions of his Othello, and laughingly quoted Colley Cibbers statement that he thought David was the black boy who carried Desdemonas kettle, and Kemble’s partisans felt certain stage history would repeat itself. Details whispered by those who took part in or witnessed the rehearsals were eagerly sought and proudly retailed; expectation rose to a high pitch. The date of the performance was fixed for the fifth of May (1814). Although little more than three months had elapsed since Kean first played at Drury Lane, a change had taken place in his fate and fortune, such as years could not accomplish in the lives of other men. He who had been treated with general contempt was now regarded with universal admiration; his poverty had given place to affluence, his struggles with obscurity ended in certain victory. He had said if he should succeed he must go mad, but as yet the erratic tend¬ encies of his nature were subdued, and the world went well with him. On the evening of the fifth of May the most famous men and women of the day gathered to see his per¬ formance of Othello. In the green-room groups of those proud to call themselves his friends waited until opportunity allowed them to express their hopes for his success, whilst his dressing-room was crowded by more privileged admirers. And when he made his appearance, the wild tumult of applause which greeted him, the sight of the brilliant circle of fair women in the boxes, L 146 EDMUND KEAN. the sea of human faces in pit and gallery, might well warm the heart and string the nerves to highest tension of an actor less sensitive than he. The highest expectations formed of him were not disappointed ; from the first act to the last his audience were dazzled by the wild glare of his brilliancy, spell¬ bound by the force of his power; throughout all, repeated outbursts of passion swayed them as boughs tossed in a tempest. The third act was especially remarkable as a masterpiece of exquisite conception and profound pathos. Never had the great dramatist been so interpreted before; his spirit had entered into the heart of this actor, and expressed itself by word, look, and motion. “ The tone of his voice,” says the Morning Chronicle , “ when he delivered the apostrophe, 4 0 now for ever farewell the tranquil mind/ struck the heart and the imagination like some divine music. The look, the action, the expression of voice with which he ac¬ companied the exclamation, ‘Not a jot; not a jot/ the reflection, 4 1 felt not Cassio’s kisses on her lips/ his vow of revenge against Cassio, and abandonment of his love for Desdemona, laid open the very tumult and agony of the soul.” Hazlitt supposed his Othello the finest piece of acting in the world. 44 In one part,” he says, 44 where he listens in dumb despair to the fiend¬ like insinuations of Iago, he presented the very face, i the marble aspect of Dante’s Count Ugolino. On his fixed eyelids 'horror sat plumed/ In another part, where a gleam of hope or of tenderness returns to subdue the tumult of his passion, his voice broke in faltering accents from his over-charged breast. His lips might be said less to utter words than to distil drops of blood gushing from his heart. His exclamation mrs. garrick’s advice as to criticism. 147 on seeing his wife, ‘I cannot think but Desdemona’s honest/ was ‘ the glorious triumph of exceeding love *— a thought flashing conviction on his mind, and irradiat¬ ing his countenance with joy like sudden sunshine. In fact, almost every scene or sentence of this extraordinary exhibition is a masterpiece of natural passion. The convulsed motion of the hands, and the involuntary swelling of the veins in the forehead, in some of the most painful situations, should not only suggest topics of critical panegyric, but might furnish studies to the painter or the sculptor.” But all the criticisms on his acting were not so eloquent or so favourable as this; and an amusing story is recorded by the biographer of Charles Kean concern¬ ing the tragedian and Mrs. Garrick. The latter, on calling one morning in May, found him in a state of unusual excitement. He received her abruptly, and retired quickly, conduct which much astonished the old lady, who, turning to Mrs. Kean, inquired what was the matter with her husband. “Oh,” replied Mrs. Kean, “you mustn’t mind him he has just read a spiteful notice of his Othello in one of the newspapers which has terribly vexed him.” “ But why should he mind that ? ” asked Mrs. Garrick; “ he is above the papers, and can afford to be abused.” “Yes,” replied Mrs. Kean, “but he says the article is well written; but for that he wouldn’t care for its comments.” “ Then, my dear,” said Mrs. Garrick, soothingly, “ he should do as David did, and he would be spared this annoyance.” 148 EDMUND KEAN. “ What’s that ? ” said the anxious wife, hoping her husband might follow the great mans example. “ Write the articles himself; David always did.” But the vexation arising from this criticism was soon forgotten in a compliment paid him by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the day of whose brilliant life was now drawing towards its night. Hearing much of Kean’s Othello, he was anxious to see his performance, but would not visit Drury Lane; for, owing to some offence received from the managing committee, he had vowed never to set his foot within the theatre. By a mutual friend his desire was conveyed to Kean, with a request that the tragedian would favour him by reading some passages from the play. To this sug¬ gestion Kean assented with pleasure, and calling upon him, he found the author of the School for Scandal , the companion of Burke, Johnson, Goldsmith, and Reynolds, the accuser of Warren Hastings, lying on a sofa in a room sadly despoiled of its furniture by the brokers. His once bright and handsome face was sickly and sad, his figure worn by illness and dissipation. Kean read him the chief scenes from Othello , at which those wonderful gray eyes that had once sparkled with wit grew bright once more, and anon were dimmed with tears; for i since Garrick left the sta^e no one had heard the divine words of this play spoken with such pathos and passion. At the conclusion Sheridan thanked the tragedian heartily—he was poor in all save thanks,—and hoped they might meet frequently in the future. But this was not to be, for two months later Richard Brinsley Sheridan lay sleeping in Westminster Abbey. Before the surprise and excitement caused by his KEAN REPRESENTS IAGO. 149 playing of Othello had ceased, it was announced that Kean would represent lago. Nor had he cause to fear the comparison of his acting in this character with his masterly representation of the Moor. The one in every way contrasted the other, yet each possessed almost equal merit. Iago in his hands became a gay, light-hearted monster, a . careless, cordial, comfortable villain, ready to ruin a woman’s reputation with a merry jest, or willing to murder a friendly life with a graceful sword-thrust. The easy familiarity and natural tone with which he delivered the text was delightful; the complete preservation of character, care¬ fully conceived and excellently executed, was admirable. A specimen of his by-play mentioned in the pages of the Examiner is worth recording as an example of his care in trifling incidents as in great scenes. He kills Roderigo, thinking by his death to make all compact and secure; his whole fortune hinges on the event; it is, as he says, the thing which is to make or to mar him quite. The actors of this part generally seemed to be of a different opinion; they stabbed Roderigo, and then walked away with perfect ease and satisfaction. But Kean knew better; he repeated the atrocious thrust till he supposed no life remained in his victim. Yet, aware Roderigo’s existence was a matter much too serious to be left in doubt, he even, when presently conversing with those around him, continually cast his eyes towards the body of his victim with an intensity that would fain convince itself of the surety of his death; nay, occasionally he walked by it seemingly with carelessness, certainly with purpose, glancing at the motionless limbs as if he expected yet feared to notice them quivering with life, his manner 150 EDMUND KEAN. ) cool, his anxiety perceptible only by his furtive glances. Iago was pronounced by the Morning Chronicle “ the most faultless of his performances, the most consistent and entire; the least overdone of all his parts, though full of point, spirit, and brilliancy.” Mindful of their obligations to him, the shareholders of the theatre presented him with five hundred pounds, and four of the committee each gave him a hundred pound share in the theatre. Lord Essex made him a present of a handsome sword; W.roughton of a point lace collar Garrick had invariably worn when he played Richard III.; and Lord Byron of a gold snuff-box, having a boar hunt wrought in mosaic on the lid; and henceforth Kean adopted a boar as his crest, as had King Richard III. Long since the poet had been asked to meet Kean at a dinner to be given at Holland House; for the tragedian’s company was now sought by the most distinguished men and women of the day, and my Lady Holland would fain include him in the brilliant circle, which numbered amongst others such distinguished guests as Tom Moore, Lady Blessing- ton, Count D’Orsay, Ugo Foscolo, Samuel Rogers, and Sir Thomas Lawrence. On being bidden by Lady Holland to her dinner-party, Lord Byron made the following entry in his diary—“ An invitation to dine at Holland House to meet Kean. He is worth meeting, and I hope, by getting into good society, he will be prevented from falling like Cooke. He is greater now on the stage, and off he should never be less. There is a stupid and underrating criticism upon him in one of the newspapers. I thought that last night, though great, he rather underacted more than the first time. BYRON'S ACQUAINTANCE WITH KEAN. 151 This may be the effect of these cavils, but I hope that he has more sense than to mind them. He cannot expect to maintain his present eminence, or to advance still higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, or the quibbling of their admirers. But if he don’t beat them all, why then—merit hath no purchase in ‘ these costermonger days.’ ” Byron’s acquaintance with Kean soon ripened into intimacy; the tragedian dined with the poet, was in¬ troduced to his friends, and on nights when he did not play accompanied him to his private box at the theatre, where Mrs. Inchbald was asked by Rogers to meet these famous men. Lord Essex likewise entertained Kean, and was desirous of breaking him from his habit of drinking to excess, which sometimes was sadly visible. The number of those who asserted they had known Kean for years, had from the first foreseen his success, nay, helped him to achieve it, was marvel¬ lous. The world would be friendly with him, for he was a man destined to advance. Amusing mistakes were, however, occasionally made by those who would laud him, or boast the possession of his friendship. Once when he was dining at the house of a noble lord, a famous barrister who was present assured Kean he had never seen acting until the previous evening, when he had been present at his representation of Richard III. “Indeed,” replied Kean quietly; “but surely you must have seen other actors.” “ Yes,” answered the legal luminary, “ I have seen both Cooke and Kemble, but they must excuse me, Mr. Kean, if I should turn from them, and frankly sav to you with Hamlet, ‘ Here’s metal more attractive.’ ” 152 EDMUND KEAN. Kean, highly flattered, smiled pleasantly, and begged to have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with this discriminating gentleman. The discourse soon after turned on a curious law-suit that had been decided during a recent circuit, on which the barrister had been engaged, when Kean, after some consideration, inquired if he had ever visited the Exeter Theatre. “ Very rarely indeed/’ was the answer, “ though, by the bye, now I recollect, during the last assizes I dropped in towards the conclusion of Richard III. Richmond was played by a very promising young actor, but such a Richard! such a harsh, croaking, barn-brawler ! I forget his name, but—” “Ill tell it you/’ said the little man, rising and tapping the speaker on the shoulder, “ Ill tell it you— his name was Kean.” In the laugh which followed Kean heartily joined, and laughed all the louder when the critic said, “ How much and how rapidly you have improved.” On another occasion the tragedian had likewise the benefit of hearing himself described in a manner even less flattering. It happened one afternoon he and his friend Jack Hughes, to whom, by the way, he presented a ring value one hundred pounds as a memento of their friendship, dropped into Offey’s tavern in Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, to enjoy a good glass and a quiet chat. Seated in a snug box in one corner of the apartment, they soon became aware of a loud-voiced, swaggering, garrulous, red-headed fellow who was enter¬ taining a circle of admirers. This was one Woolson, a wholesale tobacconist, who delighted in narrating gossip, and figuring as the hero of his own tales. Kean, whose appearance at this time was not generally 153 AT OFFER’S TAVERN. known off the stage, heard his name mentioned by Woolson, and listened to his conversation. “ It is true enough,” lie said, nodding his head, “ Dr. Drury brought him to town; he talked with me on the subject, in fact, we went together in Dorsetshire to see him act. I shall never forget Kean’s gratitude when we proposed his appearance at Drury Lane.” Kean, thrusting himself forward, gazed in amazement at the speaker, but did not interrupt him. More was to follow. “ I saw him to-day in Cecil Street,” continued Woolson; “he is in the very ecstasy of triumph. But I’m afraid my friend has something yet to learn,” he added mysteriously. “ How; what is that ? ” demanded the listening group. “Why, he neglects his wife, a most kind and amiable woman, and, as the poet declares— 1 That one error Fills him with faults.’ ” A murmur of applause followed this quotation, and each man looked wise. Kean, boiling with passion, would have leapt forward, but Hughes held him back, and Woolson, unconscious of his danger, leisurely continued, as he pulled a little snuff-box from his pocket— “This was his—a slight token of his obligation to me, as he was pleased to say. I carry it for his sake.” “ Do you, by the gods,” cried Kean, frantic with rage, as he sprang from his corner, snatched the snuff-box, and flung it through a pane of glass into the street. Sudden consternation fell upon Woolson and his admirers, who, when they had somewhat recovered, rose to avenge their friend; but Kean with a dramatic 154 EDMUND KEAN. gesture waved them back, and then, folding his arms on his breast, said, “ Behold ! I am Edmund Kean.” Then turning his flashing eyes on Woolson he hissed out one word, “ Slanderer ! ” Believing him a rank impostor, they rushed upon the little tragedian, beat him with violence, and turned him from the house; Hughes likewise shared his fate, and moreover lost a shoe in the fray. The season at Drury Lane wore on. Towards the end of May Kean took his first London benefit, playing for the occasion the character of Luke in Riches , or the Wife and Brother , an alteration of Massinger’s City Madam . On the evening of this performance his friends and admirers filled the house, and vast numbers were turned from the doors. A brace of poets, Lord Byron and Thomas Moore, occupied a box, whilst every other in the house was crowded to suffocation; but Byron vowed he would enjoy Kean’s acting uninterrupted, and had unceremoniously left a party made up for the occasion. This benefit, including monetary gifts presented him, after the fashion of the times, brought Kean the sum of eleven hundred and fifty pounds. The world went well with him now. A friend who had known him in the days of his adversity, calling on him soon after his benefit had been announced, was struck by the change in his circumstances. “ I do not exaggerate,” he writes, “ when I say that money was lying about the room in all directions; the present Mr. Charles Kean, then a fine little boy with rich curling hair, was playing with some score of guineas (then a rare coin) on the floor; bank-notes were in heaps on the mantel-piece, table, and sofa; and poor RESULT OF KEAN’S ACTING. 155 Mrs. Kean was quite bewildered with plans of the house and applications. I remember three ladies being intro¬ duced, who approached Mrs. Kean as if she were a divinity. Little Charles had deserted his guineas, and mounted himself on a wooden horse with stirrups. ‘ What a sweet child ! ’ they whispered, and eyed him as if he had been a young prince.” Drury Lane Theatre closed for the summer season on the 16th of July, 1814, when Kean played Richard III. The wild enthusiasm displayed by the audience remained long in the memory of those present. In the course of six months he had acted sixty-eight times, and represented six different characters. The profits he had gained were great, but those he had brought to the shareholders of the theatre were greater yet. On the evenings he played, thirty-two thousand nine hundred and forty-two pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence had been taken at the doors—almost five hundred pounds nightly at an average. Presently at a meeting of shareholders, the chairman, Mr. Whitbread, spoke of “ the incomparable performer Mr. Kean, by whose deserved attraction, after one hundred and thirty-five nights of continued loss, their interests had been retrieved.” Mr. Whitbread’s oratory savoured of the eloquence of an after dinner speech. The extra¬ ordinary powers of this eminent actor, he said, had, as might well be imagined, drawn forth the criticisms of all theatrical amateurs and judges; and though there might be some few who did not agree with him in regarding Mr. Kean as the most shining actor that had appeared in the theatrical world for many years, yet he was happy to find that the general opinion concurred with his own in this respect. Reference was made by 156 EDMUND KEAN. the chairman to the wonderful force, energy, and truth of the tragedian’s representations, of the emotions he excited, the sympathy he gained, the power he dis¬ played, to which the town fully, if not universally, assented. He had verily become the fashion. His portrait was painted by Halls, prints of him were exhibited in shop windows, poems lauding him appeared in the papers; and Hazlitt tells us, “ If you had not been to see the little man twenty times in Richard, and did not deny his being hoarse in the last act, or admire him for being so, you were looked on as a lukewarm devotee, or half an infidel! CHAPTER VII. During the summer months Edmund Kean played at Bristol, Gloucester, Birmingham, and Dublin. His fame travelling before him gained him enthusiastic receptions. Jones, the manager of the Dublin Theatre, who two years previously had refused him an engage¬ ment at three pounds a week, was now glad to share the receipts of the house with him after deducting eighty pounds for expenses. At Birmingham he was * _ _ hailed with great delight. The exchequer of Elliston’s Theatre was, as he wittily said, “ becoming shaky, and presenting a drunken account, which could hardly keep a balance.” The melodramas and tragedies which had recently been presented on his boards had met with such sad fate at the hands of his actors, that a wag had written in large letters on the stage door “ Mangling done here.” Furthermore, Elliston and his theatre had HE-OPENING OF DRURY LANE. 157 been dealt severe blows from the pulpit of a Presby¬ terian minister, a man this merry manager called John Knocks. But on Kean’s arrival no fear was entertained that tragedy would be barbarously murdered; and the wrathful preacher was forsaken in favour of the popular actor. Drury Lane Theatre opened on the 20th of Septem¬ ber, 1814, with the comedy of The Rivals. The interior had been reconstructed and redecorated with classic figures, golden scrolls, and brilliant foliage, the whole surmounted by a ceiling representing “ blue skies fading into distance.” The audience filling the house on the night when such splendour was first revealed to public eyes, was so greatly impressed by the effect when the lights were raised, and the glory of their surroundings became plain to their sight, that they testified their delight by four rounds of applause ; and yet another round followed when the green curtain drew up and revealed a new drop-scene, representing the ruins of a classic temple, whose reflection was mir¬ rored in an azure lake, whilst a milk-white goat grazed upon verdant pasture in the distance. Then the orchestra struck up God Save the King , which was interrupted by cries of “ Song, song,” in answer to which the drop-scene rose, and the whole company came forward to sing the National Anthem. And a sense of loyalty—which now seems antiquated—being satisfied, the comedy began. Not until the 3rd of October did Kean appear for the first time this season, when he played Richard III. in a manner that made Coleridge say, “ Seeing him act was like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning.” The public whilst witnessing his performances with 158 EDMUND KEAN. unabated interest, yet looked forward eagerly to his representation of a new character. Accordingly it was announced that on the 5th of November (1814) he would appear as Macbeth. It was asserted by the adherents of the Kemble school, that as the Thane Kean must assuredly fail. He wanted height and dignity of presence, two prominent advantages that Kemble had; but what the elder tragedian lacked, Kean possessed. The play was mounted with an ac¬ curacy to detail and liberal expenditure seldom wit¬ nessed at this period on any stage. Locke’s music was introduced, a new overture and symphonies composed, and fresh scenery painted. On the evening of the performance not merely the boxes, circles, pit, and gallery were full, but the lobbies and passages were crowded by those satisfied merely to hear Kean’s voice. He was, Bell's Weekly Messenger states, “ greeted with rapture, and attention seemed to wait upon him with breathless expectation.” The small stature and slight build of the man were lost sight of and forgotten in the display of power, horror, and ambition he presented. In the murder scene he exerted the full force of his genius in representing the workings of Macbeth’s mind. One who was present wrote, that “as a lesson of common humanity it was heart-rending. The hesitation, the bewildered look, the coming to himself when he sees his hands bloody, the manner in which his voice clung to his throat and choked his utterance, his agony and tears, the force of nature overcome by passion, beggared description. It was a scene which no one who saw it can ever efface from his recollection.” The Covent Garden company had during the early EARLY DAYS OF MISS O’NEILL. 159 part of the year seen with certain dismay Kean’s assured success. Kemble, Young, and Mrs. Jordan had put forth their strength in vain, for the popularity of the new tragedian more than counterbalanced the merits of old favourites; and whilst Drury Lane Theatre had been crowded to its uttermost limits, the rival house was but thinly peopled. It therefore became the policy of the managers to remedy this condition of affairs, but the means were difficult to obtain. To search through the provinces for a pro¬ mising young tragedian, and produce him as a rival to Kean, would have been an indignity intolerable to Kemble; it was therefore resolved to seek an actress who, by force of her talents, might divide public attrac¬ tion with Kean. Fortunately for the manager, the search was of short duration, for at this time the fame of a young actress named O’Neill, then playing in Dublin, crossed the Channel. Elizabeth O’Neill was the daughter of a poor Irish player, who, marrying early in life, had become the father of a numerous family. For years he had strolled from town to town in his native country, meeting various degrees of hardship, and battling hourly with unkindly fortune. For a time he had managed a company, poor as himself in pocket, yet rich in hopes as he, and played with them in barns and out-houses, in town-halls and country mansions, sharing such gains as fell to his lot amongst his threadbare troop. Life’s shifting scenes brought them light and shadow, joy and pain. Eventually better luck befell him, and he was engaged as acting manager to the Drogheda Theatre. At this town his little blue-eyed daughter Betty, then about twelve years of age, was for the first time sent to 160 EDMUND KEAN. school; and here, when she was in the zenith of her fame, were many who remembered “ the purty little crayther runnin' barefoot about the streets/' Even then her beauty was remarkable, a subtle grace and natural refinement marked her movements, her fair face was bright with intelligence. Whenever juvenile characters were required in the pieces performed at the Drogheda Theatre, little Betty was trained to fill them, and played with so much sense and sympathy, that she won unusual applause from her kindly audiences. As she grew in years she acted more important parts with equal success, so that it happened when Talbot, then manager of the Belfast Theatre, saw her performing, he immediately engaged her to play heroines at his house. With the constant practise and wider opportunities this stage gave her, progress became rapid, and her popularity grew apace. At this period Miss Walstein, a clever and experi¬ enced player, known as the Hibernian Siddons, was the leading actress of Crow Street Theatre, Dublin. Her admirers were many and her attractions great, aware of which, and fancying her services could not be dispensed with, she wrote to the manager shortly before the beginning of a certain season, that unless she received an increase of salary and other privileges she would no longer consent to remain a member of his company. And his finances not warranting him to comply with her demands, he feared his theatre must remain closed. MacNally the box-keeper, hearing this, said it would be a pity to shut the doors when he had a remedy at hand, if he chose to avail himself of it; and on being asked what he meant, MacNally replied— MISS o’NEILL AT DUBLIN. 161 “ The girl who has been so strongly recommended to you as a promising actress is now in Dublin with her father, on their way to liis- theatre in Drog¬ heda. I have heard it said by those who have seen her that she plays Juliet well, and is very young and pretty. I’m sure she would be delighted to have the opportunity of appearing before a Dublin audience, and, if you please, I will make her the proposal.” Delighted by the prospect of securing her, the manager bade him immediately seek her, and MacNally started at once for her lodgings, where he found the lovely Juliet frying herrings for her father’s dinner. To her MacNally, a little round-faced, stout-legged gentleman dressed in black, with silk stockings, pumps, and powdered hair, was a veritable angel of light bearing a message of gladness. She eagerly accepted the offer made her, appeared the following Saturday evening at Crow Street, captivated the town, and took the first decisive step towards fame and fortune. Presentlv Miss Walstein returned to Crow Street, but «/ ' her young rival divided popularity with her. A friend of Elliston’s, writing to him in 1813, when he was about to open the Olympic, speaks of Miss O’Neill as an actress of great promise. “ She is most deservedly a high favourite with the Dublin audience. Her line is tragedy and leading comedy. Her performance the other night of Mrs. Oakley was quite first- rate. In sensibility she is indeed ‘ for tenderness formed.’ In the affair of the heart she touches nearer than Mrs. Siddons. I now believe in Thespis and his adventures, for this lady first acted in a stable.” M 162 EDMUND KEAN. On the first occasion of her playing Juliet in the Irish capital, the balcony scene, in which she most excelled, lost much of its romance in consequence of a remark hurled from the gods. Owing to the limited size of the stage, the balcony was unusually low, whilst Conway, who played Romeo, was six feet two inches in height. In delivering the lines— X “ Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek,” he laid his elbow on the balcony, whereon a fellow in the gallery, despising the lover’s timidity, cried out, “ Get out wid your blarney now, why don’t ye touch her then, and don’t be praching,” a remark that convulsed the house with laughter. Such had been the early career of the young actress to whom Harris now offered an engagement at Covent Garden Theatre, at an increasing salary of fifteen, six¬ teen, and eighteen pounds a week. This proposal was joyfully and gratefully accepted, and her first appearance in London was fixed for the 6th of October, 1814, when it was announced she was to play Juliet. For weeks previous rumours of her beauty and genius were spread through the town; the press hinted of the treat in store for the public; those who had seen her acting in Ireland predicted her triumph in England. Another Siddons, it was said, had risen to delight her generation; expectation rose ; enthusiasm spread. Early in the afternoon of the 6th of October, the various entrances to Covent Garden Theatre were sur¬ rounded by crowds determined to obtain admission; and the doors being opened at half-past five, an immense throng poured into the house, and rushed into the pit and galleries. Soon after the boxes and circles were THE NEW JULIET. 163 filled, and a brilliant audience impatiently waited for the curtain to rise. Amongst those present on this evening was William Macready, a young actor, who at the same theatre was soon to cause an excitement little less than that he now witnessed. Presently the play began, and the audience eagerly waited the entrance of the new Juliet, who in due time rushed upon the stage in obedience to her nurse’s call, when, such was the impression her youthful charm and exceeding beauty made, that the whole house rose to greet her. Never, perhaps, had an actress so lovely and graceful been seen. Slightly above the middle height, her figure was perfectly moulded, lithe, and sinuous; her blue eyes were gentle and tender in expression; her features, though not regular, reflected every emotion; her forehead was crowned by masses of auburn hair. “The charming picture she presented/’ says Macready, “ was one that time could not fade from my memory. It was not altogether the matchless beauty of form and face, but the spirit of perfect innocence and purity that seemed to glisten in her speaking eyes, and breathe from her chiselled lips.” Then in her twenty-third year, she looked scarce more than fifteen, and was an ideal Juliet. Her joyous laugh came straight from her heart, her voice sounded with delicious music that might have rang through the green glades of Arcadia, her step was buoyant, her every movement picturesque. In the early scenes of the play her acting was considered by one critic as too light and playful; but the outburst of girlish spirit betrayed was doubtless intended to con¬ trast the thoughtfulness and fervour which succeeded her meeting with Romeo. From that moment a new principle, too deep for words, over subtle for thought, 164 EDMUND KEAN. became part of her life ; her love, the mere growth of an hour, coloured existence, and the old careless mirth of the past departed from her ways. • Perhaps the greatest fascination she exercised lay in the naturalness of her acting. Passages and scenes were given with a beauty and simplicity that depended on the feelings of the moment for effect, and which study alone could never produce. A sense of innate delicacy, of rare sensibility glowing through the fervour of her words, and the presence of passion subdued by modesty, rendered her performance a delight to behold. One of the critics present wrote, that “ In the silent expression of feeling we have seldom witnessed any¬ thing finer than her acting, when she is told of Romeo’s death, her listening to the friar’s story of the poison, and her change of manner towards the nurse when she advises her to marry Paris. Her delivery of the speeches in the scenes where she laments Romeo’s banishment, and anticipates his waking in the tomb, marked the fine play and undulation of natural sensibility rising and falling with the gusts of passion, and at last worked up into an agony of despair, in which imagination approaches the brink of frenzy.” No such Juliet had ever been seen upon the English stage, and her audience, dazzled by such loveliness and grace, moved by such tenderness and force, burst into a wild tumult of applause when the curtain fell. And when this enthusiasm had after, many minutes subsided, and another play was announced for the following evening, Romeo and Juliet was demanded by hundreds of voices, to which command the manager yielded. Crowds were nightly turned from the doors when she played; her original agreement was can- KEAN APPEARS AS ROMEO. 165 celled, a salary of thirty pounds a week given her, and her name was lauded by the town. More touching and powerful was her performance of Belvidera in Venice Preserved , which character she acted on the 13th of the month. Her sorrow and despair wrung tears from her audiences, even critics wept, and at the close of the last act women fainted, and were carried to their carriages in hysterics. Her success now equalled that which had attended Mrs. Siddons in her palmy days, and it was said in her scenes of tenderness and grief she excelled that great actress. But her Juliet, which she repeated again and again, remained a favourite, and shared popularity with Kean’s Othello, Richard, and Macbeth. It therefore occurred to the Drury Lane management, that it would be well to produce Borneo and Juliet , with Kean as the lover. To this proposal he was averse, knowing his power lay in portraying hate, ambition, remorse, or revenge rather than the gentler passion. However, he allowed himself to be persuaded into playing Romeo, Mrs. Bartley being the Juliet, and the tragedy being carefully rehearsed, was produced on the 2nd of January, 1815. The result could not, in comparison with his other characters, be considered a success. His performance was certainly unequal, in the passages requiring tenderness—espe¬ cially in the balcony scene he was considered cold and unimpressive; but in his fight with Tybalt, his inter¬ view with Friar Laurence, and his death, he showed a true conception of the part, and a perfect mastery of his art. Hazlitt found words of praise for him. “ In the midst of the extravagant and irresistible expression of Romeo’s grief at being banished from this object of his love,” says this critic, “his voice suddenly stops 166 EDMUND KEAN. and falters, and is choked with sobs of tenderness when he comes to Juliet’s name. Those persons must be made of stronger stuff than ourselves who are proof against Mr. Kean’s acting, both in this scene and the dying convulsions at the close. His repetition of the word banished is one of the finest pieces of acting the modern stage can boast.” He appeared as Romeo but twelve times, and then came a fresh desire on the part of the public to see him in some new part. With the committee of manage¬ ment lay the selection of pieces to be produced, and the various tastes of these gentlemen, together with the character of the manuscripts submitted to them, rendered a decision difficult. An amusing account of the troubles they encountered is given in a letter written by Lord Byron to his friend Tom Moore. “When I belonged to the Drury Lane Committee,” he says, “ and was one of the Sub-Committee of Management, the number of plays upon the shelves was about five hundred. Conceiving that amongst these there must be some of merit, in person and by proxy I caused an investigation. I do not think that of those which I saw there was one which could be conscientiously tolerated. There never were such things as most of them. Maturin was very kindly recom¬ mended to me by Walter Scott, to whom I had recourse —firstly, in the hope that he would do something for us himself; secondly, in despair, that he would point out to us any young (or old) writer of promise. Maturin sent his Bertram , and a letter without his address, so that at first I could give him no answer. When I at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable answer, and something more substantial. His play LORD BYRON’S LETTER. 167 succeeded; but I was at that time absent from England. “I tried Coleridge too, but he had nothing feasible in hand at the time. Mr. Southeby obligingly offered all his tragedies, and I pledged myself; and, notwithstand¬ ing many squabbles with my committee brethren, did get Ivan accepted, read, and the parts distributed. But lo! in the very heart of the matter, upon some tepidness on the part of Kean, or warmth on that of the author, Scutheby withdrew his play. Sir James Bland Burgess did also present four tragedies and a farce, and I moved green-room and Sub-Committee, but they would not. “ Then the scenes I had to go through—the authors and the authoresses, and the milliners, and the wild Irishmen—the people from Brighton, from Blackwall, from Chatham, from Cheltenham, from Dublin, from Dundee—who came in upon me, to all of whom it was proper to give a civil answer, and a hearing, and a reading. Mrs. Glovers father, an Irish dancing-master of sixty years, calling upon me to request to play Archer, dressed in silk stockings on a frosty morning to show his legs (which were certainly good and Irish for his age, and had been still better). Miss Emma Somebody, with a play entitled The Bandit of Bohemia , or some such title or production. Mr. O’Higgins, then resident at Richmond, Avith an Irish tragedy, in which the unities could not fail to be observed, for the pro¬ tagonist was chained by the leg to a pillar during the chief part of the performance. lie was a wild man of a salvage appearance, and the difficulty of not laughing at him was only to be got over by reflecting upon the probable consequences of such cachinnation. . . . 168 EDMUND KEAN. “ Then the Committee ! then the Sub-Committee—we were but few, but never agreed. There was Peter Moore who contradicted Kinnaird, and Kinnaird who contradicted everybody; then our two managers and our secretary, and yet we were all very zealous, and in earnest to do good, and so forth. George Lamb furnished us with prologues to our revived old English plays, but was not pleased with me for complimenting him as ‘the Upton’ of our theatre (Mr. Upton is or was the poet who writes the songs for Astley’s), and almost gave up prologuing in consequence.” After much deliberation, it was ultimately agreed that Marlow’s comedy of Town and Country should be put on the boards, Kean personating Ruben Glenroy. During this season he likewise represented Richard II. —a play which had lain unacted • since the days of Shakespeare, until young Macready had two years previously produced it at the Newcastle Theatre,— Penruddock in the Wheel of Fortune , a comedy by Cumberland, Zanga in Dr. Young’s tragedy of the Revenge , Abel Drugger in the Alchemist , and Octavian in the Mountaineer . In each of these characters he was fairly successful, especially in those dealing with tragedy. In comedy he was well appreciated, and his acting of Abel Drugger was declared by the press “ an exquisite piece of ludicrous naivete.” Kean had a more severe critic in Mrs. Garrick, who saw him act Abel Drugger on the 24th of May, when he took his benefit. On the following morning he received a note containing these words— “Dear Sir, “ You can’t play Abel Drugger. “ Yours, E. Garrick.” WILLIAM MACREADY AT DRURY LANE. 169 To which he promptly replied— * “Dear Madam, “ I know it. “Yours, E. Kean.” During a visit he subsequently paid her, Mrs. Garrick enlarged on the opinion she had already written to him, and dwelt on the merits of David in this character—his quaint voice, his comic expression, his droll gestures. Kean, feeling impatient at this eulogy, at length inter¬ rupted her by asking, “ Could he sing ? ” to which, after a brief reflection, she answered, “No.” “Well,” said Kean, rising to depart, “ I can.” This season he occasionally repeated his representa¬ tions of the characters by which he had made his fame the previous year.. One night whilst he played Richard III., William Macready, who had first seen him as Alonzo the Brave at the Birmingham Theatre, occupied a box at Drury Lane. Accompanied by his father, who had journeyed to town that he might secure the services of Kean and Miss O’Neill for a few nights during the vacation, young Macready, anxious to see the great tragedian in Richard III., took his place before the curtain rose. When presently “ a little keenly visaged man rapidly bustled across the stage,” Macready writes, “ I felt there was meaning in the alertness of his manner and the quickness of his step. As the play proceeded, I became more and more satisfied that there was a mind of no common order. In his angry complaining of nature’s injustice to his bodily imperfections, as he uttered the line, ‘ To shrink my arm up like a withered shrub,’ he remained looking on the limb for some moments with a sort of bitter discontent, and then 170 EDMUND KEAN. struck it back in angry disgust. My .father, who sat behind me, touched me and whispered, ‘ It’s very poor.’ ‘ Oh, no/ I replied, ‘it is no common thing,’ for I found myself stretching over the box to observe him. The scene with Lady Anne was entered on with evident confidence, and was well sustained, in the affected earnestness of penitence to its successful close. In tempting Buckingham to the murder of the children he did not impress me as Cooke was wont to do, on whom the sense of the crime was apparent in the gloomy hesitation with which he gave reluctant utterance to the deed of blood. Kean’s manner was consistent with his conception, proposing their death as a political necessity, and sharply requiring it as a business to be done. In the bearing of the man throughout as the intriguer, the tyrant, and the warrior, he seemed never to relax the ardour of his pursuit, presenting the life of the usurper as one unbroken whole, and closing it with a death picturesquely and poetically grand. Many of the Kemble school resisted conviction in his merits, but the fact that he had made me feel was an argument to enroll me with the majority on the indisputable genius he displayed.” Kean w r as engaged to sup with Macready and his son, then in his twenty-first year, at the York Hotel; and when the curtain fell on the death of Richard, the pro¬ vincial manager hastened to his inn, that he m’ght be there to receive his distinguished guest. Kean, at¬ tended by Pope, then a member of the Drury Lane company, soon followed. “I need not say,” writes Macready the younger, “ with what intense scrutiny I regarded him as we shook hands on our mutual intro- o duction. The mild and modest expression of his MACREADY SUPS WITH KEAN. 171 Italian features, and his unassuming manner, which I might perhaps justly describe as partaking in some degree of shyness, took me by surprise, and I remarked with special interest the indifference with which he endured the fulsome flatteries of Pope. He was very sparing of words during, and for some time after, supper; but about one o’clock, when the glass had cir¬ culated pretty freely, he became animated, fluent, and communicative. His anecdotes were communicated with a lively sense of the ridiculous; in the melodies he sang there was a touching grace, and his powers of mimicry were most humorously or happily exerted in an admirable imitation of Braliam; and in a story of Incledon acting Steady the Quaker at Rochester without any rehearsal—where, in singing the favourite air, ‘ When the lads of the village so memly, O,’ he heard himself, to his dismay and consternation, accom¬ panied by a single bassoon,—the music of his voice, his perplexity at each recurring sound of the bassoon, his undertone maledictions on the self-satisfied musician, the peculiarity of his habits, all were hit off with a humour and an exactness that equalled the best display Mathews ever made, and almost convulsed us with laughter. It was a memorable evening, the first and last I ever spent in private with this extraordinary man.” Throughout the season Miss O’Neill shared the enthusiasm of the town with Kean, and both houses entered on a seemingly prosperous career. When they closed in summer Miss O’Neill went to the Edinburgh Theatre, of which Henry Siddons, son of the great tragic actress, was manager. On the night previous to her first performance the portico of the house was crowded by porters hired to secure places when the 172 EDMUND KEAN. box-office opened next morning. Henry Siddons was to have sustained the leading characters, but an illness, which eventually proved fatal, prevented his design. Meanwhile Kean crossed over to Dublin, and was there received by a stormy ovation. Night after night the theatre was crowded to excess. On taking his benefit in this city during his first visit an unpleasant occurrence had taken place. Numerous and early applications for seats had been made to the box-keeper, but that individual declared Mr. Kean had kept to him¬ self the privilege of letting all the boxes, that he might oblige his particular friends; and presently, when Kean desired to have some boxes, he was assured they had all been taken. The sole reason for such conduct on the box-keepers part was to secure bribes from those willing to pay any price for places; but these not being generally offered, the theatre on the occasion of Kean’s benefit was scarcely filled. An explanation followed, and the motive being discovered, the under-graduates of Trinity College, who were amongst Kean’s warmest admirers, waited on him to know if he would wish the theatre to be pulled down. This he declined. But now when the time came for his second benefit, the students undertook its management, let the boxes and dress circles, and on the eventful evening stood at the doors to receive tickets. The result was a triumph for Kean, for the house, as a young under-graduate boasted, “ was fuller than it could hold.” Returning to town in the autumn, Kean took Lady Rycroft’s furnished house at 12 Clarges Street, Piccadilly, where much good company flocked. Mrs. Kean, who was proud of her husband’s fame, delighted in assem¬ bling people of title, fashion, and distinction round her THE WOLVES CLUB. 173 board ; but Kean, who was a born Bohemian, had no regard for rank or position, and rather endured than enjoyed the society of those who would have posed as his patrons. Such were not congenial to his tempera¬ ment, and frequently when a brilliant party at his house had ended, he betook himself to a tavern, where with some old friends or kindred spirits he spent the night in drinking and smoking, listening to anecdote and song. One of the favourite places of resort for himself and his friends was a public-house called the Coal-hole, situ¬ ated in Fountain Court, off the Strand. This was the meeting-place of a club known as The Wolves, founded for the enjoyment of “good fellowship and harmony” Here all men, whosoever they were, met on terms of equality. Kean, speaking as chairman, hoped no one would enter “this circle of good fellows without a pride that ranks him with the courtier, or philosophy that levels him with the peasant.” He hoped that every Wolf oppressed with worldly grievance, unmerited con¬ tumely, or unjust persecutions, would, with a heart glowing with defiance, exclaim, “ Fll to my brothers; there I shall find ears attention to my tale of sorrow, hands open to relieve, and close for my defence.” The Wolves, as the members of this club were called, consisted of actors and those connected with theatres, ' t together with such merry souls as loved a strong glass and a witty tale. The attraction the Coal-hole pos¬ sessed for Kean was fraught with evil. Having reached a height in his profession, which even in his most sanguine hours he had not dreamt of attaining, lauded by the public, appreciated by his friends, he no longer practised the restraints which alone enabled him to 174 EDMUND KEAN. surmount his difficulties. His success had not made him mad, as he had predicted, but in his eyes it served as a license for eccentric conduct, concerning which various stories were afloat. During the season he not only set up a carriage, but purchased several valuable horses. On one of these, which he named Shylock, he would occasionally mount on leaving the theatre or tavern, and ride reck¬ lessly through the night, he knew not where, tearing through streets, rushing along country roads, a modern Herne the hunter, jumping toll-gates, flying past frightened peasants, outriding footpads in search of prey. Not until daybreak did horse and horseman return home, exhausted, and covered with mud or dust. Not satisfied with a fame such as few had enjoyed so early in life, he condescended to court notoriety, and in this was not a little aided by a tame American lion, given him by Sir Edward Tucker. Visitors at his house found him engaged in his drawing-room in educating this animal, and timidly shrank from making the acquaintance of the colossal pet, who might also be seen seated in the stern of a wherry which his master rowed up and down the Thames, to the admiration of many. Again the little tragedian was the observed of all observers as he rolled through the streets in his carriage drawn by four bays, wrapped in a great Spanish cloak, which Sir George Beaumont had brought from Seville, and presented to him. And to quell the constant craving for excitement, begotten of his artistic temperament, he frequented prize rings, and associated with boxers on most friendly terms. Grattan, the officer to whom he had once taught fenc¬ ing in Waterford, called on him in the spring of 1816, GRATTAN VISITS KEAN. 175 and no sooner had Kean learned his visitor’s name, than he sprang down-stairs to greet him heartily, and honestly welcome him. “ Had he received the visit of a power¬ ful patron or generous benefactor,” Grattan writes, “ he could not, or at least need not, have shown more grati¬ tude than he evinced at the recollection of my slight services in passing some tickets for his Chimpanzee benefit so long before. I consider,” he adds, “ this trait in Kean’s conduct a fair test of his character. It was thoroughly disinterested, and was not a mere burst of good feeling, nor a display of • ostentation—for these would have been sufficiently satisfied with a momen¬ tary expression. But his whole behaviour during a couple of months that I remained in London at that time was a continuance of friendly attentions. I dined with him frequently, and met at his house much good company. Persons of very high respectability, and many of them of rank, were amongst his constant guests. His dinners were excellent, but his style of home living did not appear extravagant; and the evening parties were extremely pleasant, with a great deal of good music. Nothing could be more friendly or hospitable than the conduct of the worthy hostess, whom I had never formerly seen but in her solitary exhibition at Waterford. She was in her own house, and surrounded by everything that might dazzle the mind’s eye and dizzy the brain of almost any one, a fair specimen of natural character. Her head was evidently turned by all her husband’s fame and her own finery, and their combined consequences were visibly portrayed in her looks, and bodied forth with exquisite naivete. But there was withal a shrewdness, an off-handedness, and tact quite Irish; and what was 176 EDMUND KEAN. still more so, a warm-hearted and overflowing recog¬ nizance of ever so trivial a kindness or tribute of admiration offered to Edmund before he became a great man.” One evening when Kean was not performing, Grattan invited him to dinner at the Sabloniere Hotel in Leicester Square, to meet a couple of friends. At six o’clock Kean’s carriage came rattling up to the door, and the tragedian descended, dressed in a silk-lined coat, white breeches, and buckled shoes. Before sitting down to table, he informed his host that he had an engagement at nine to attend a party where he was particularly expected. The dinner was choice, the company witty, the wine excellent, and Kean, still enjoying himself when the hour mentioned arrived, tarried awhile. Presently word was brought the horses were waiting, but he did not stir; later, messengers arrived from those who were expecting him, but they had no power to move him. Decanters passed freely round, stories were told, songs sung, imitations of famous actors given, and it was not until the clock struck midnight he rose to depart. Expressing his unwillingness that they should separate, he invited the party to accompany him, without mentioning the destination to which he was bound. Unhesitatingly they assented, for at this period of the entertainment they would readily have followed him to the end of the world. Accordingly these four got into Kean’s carriage, which had been waiting over three hours, and drove rapidly until the horses stopped at the head of a narrow passage leading from the Strand. Down this they tottered, bumping now and then against the walls, until they arrived at the open VISIT TO THE WOLVES* CL(JB. 177 doors of a tavern, from which lights flashed and noises sounded. A score of waiters and women struggled forward to see the great actor as he took his unsteady way up-stairs, followed by his friends. Reaching large folding doors at the end of a corridor on the first floor, he dashed at them violently, and flinging them wide, entered the room amidst roars of applause. Here, seated at a long supper-table, were about sixty men; beyond that fact all was a blaze of lights, a con¬ fusion of mirrors and decanters, a kaleidoscope of human faces, and a Babel of numerous voices to the visitors. No sooner, however, were they noticed by the company, than a loud murmur of disapprobation arose, expostu¬ lations and explanations ensued, which ended in Kean and his three friends being hurriedly led to an ad¬ joining room, where it was stated a violent outrage on the society of the Wolves had been committed by the grand master and founder in admitting strangers without a formal introduction, and the only means of repairing this breach of the laws was to make the visitors members. Accordingly they were obliged to take an oath, the object of which they scarce knew, sign their names as well as they were able in a register, and pay fees of a few guineas. Then being announced members of the club, they returned to the large room, when Kean took the chair reserved for him at the head of the table, and his health being drank he made a florid speech. Bottles were passed round, voices grew more confused, the lights more dazzling, until at last all ended in oblivion to the new-made Wolves, and henceforth the night became to them as the memory of a dream. Amongst those who visited Kean at this time were N 178 EDMUND KEAN. two pugilists, known as Mendoza and Richmond the Black, with whom he was wont to try his skill as a boxer in his dining-room. To witness a match between two champions named Curtis and West-country Dick, soon to lose his life in a prize-fight, he on one occasion took his friend Grattan. The spot selected for this so- called sport was situated some ten miles outside town, and was crowded by men of position and rank, young bloods, university men, and sporting characters of all degrees in the social circle. Kean on his arrival was received with the honours due to a liberal patron and a distinguished amateur, and ushered into a space close beside the combatants, where he introduced such lights of the ring as Scroggings, Crib, and Oliver to his companion. The air was rife with excitement; wagers were laid; deeds of prowess in the past recounted; victory and defeat freely predicted for this hero or that favourite. Then the ring was cleared, the fight began; skill was cheered, falls were received with groans, blood freely spouted, and the fighters pounded each others faces out of all semblance to humanity, whilst their admirers looked on in high glee. Kean was now a social lion, and as such many a noble dame sought to lure him to her drawing-room menagerie. But he, gauging the value of such honours, boasted that he refused their invitations and despised their patronage. The only man of title in whose society he found pleasure was Lord Byron; and he not only admired, but it was said, in despising public opinion, accentuating his eccentricities, and occasionally allowing himself to be weighed down by melancholy moods, imitated the poet. Both had something more than genius in common; both flashed through their KEAN DISLIKES SOCIETY. 179 spheres like brilliant meteors; both ended their careers in the prime of an existence whose last days were clouded with sorrow. Byron not merely admired the tragedian, but, con¬ scious of the many good traits underlying his character, esteemed him as a man. He had previously hoped that by getting him into good society he would be prevented from falling like George Frederick Cooke, whose intem¬ perance caused his ruin; and accordingly the poet sought to attach Kean to his own circle. In this he was not successful. The great actor was shy and uneasy in the company of men of position or intellect, and felt far more at home in a tavern with his brethren of the sock and buskin. Again and again the poet, whose circle was composed of those whose talents recommended themselves to him, endeavoured to include Kean amongst his associates, but in vain. A short time before Byron left his native land for ever, he invited the tragedian to dinner, that he might meet Lord Kinnaird, just returned from Greece. A few men distinguished in various ways were to complete the party. It so happened that on the evening fixed for this feast of reason and flow of wine, Kean had already accepted an invitation from Charles Incledon to join some friends at supper at Cribb’s tavern in Panton Street, Haymarket, and had promised to take the chair on the occasion. Incledon, it will be remembered, had acted kindly by Kean when he was a friendless lad, and the tragedian never forgot a friend or a foe. Therefore when Byron requested he would dine with him, Kean excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement, but Byron insisted he must come and meet his friends. Accordingly Kean promised he should be present, and 180 EDMUND KEAN. on the appointed evening sat down at the poet’s pleasant board. But neither the company nor the conversation had much attraction for him, he remained silent and restrained, and soon after dessert had been served, slipped quietly out of the room. For a while he was not missed, but presently Byron, noting an empty chair, inquired where his friend had gone; to which the ser¬ vants replied, Mr. Kean had kept his carriage waiting from the time he entered the house, and had now driven away. On another occasion, at a dinner given by Lord Hert¬ ford, Kean was asked to meet the Duke of Beaufort, Lord Glengall, Sir George Warrender, Douglas Kinnaird, Francis Russell, and some others. In order to make the great actor more at his ease, his friend and fellow- player Oxberry was likewise invited, and with him Kean duly arrived. The tragedian was the hero of the hour; wine was drank with him, compliments paid him, his conversation was courted. And it being known that he could be entertaining and witty when he pleased, a pleasant evening was expected; but so far as Kean was concerned, their hopes were doomed to dis¬ appointment, for whilst the servants were removing the cloth he nodded to Oxberry, who approached him. “A couple of years ago,” he said, “not one of these lords would have noticed the poor stroller, now their admiration is unbounded. Pshaw ! I prefer a quiet glass with a friend like you to all their champagne, effer¬ vescent like themselves—let us go.” And, unobserved by their host, they quietly left the room, and were soon on their way to a tavern. Henry Crabb Robinson remembered meeting him at a gathering at Sergeant Rough’s, a legal light who had AT SERGEANT ROUGHS TARTY. 181 married a daughter of the famous John Wilkes. This worthy man and his spouse delighted in entertaining literary and artistic society, and in their drawing-room might be met Flaxman the sculptor, a grotesque, hump-backed little man; Mrs. Abingdon, a con¬ temporary of Garrick and Reynolds, now in the autumn of her days, but in the full enjoyment of life; gentle Charles Lamb and his sister Mary; William Godwin, author of Caleb Williams, on which the play of the Iron Chest was founded; Samuel Coleridge, William Words¬ worth, Horne Tooke, Northcote the painter, Hazlitt the critic, and others of like distinction. Henry Crabb Robinson says the tragedian scarcely spoke; he was not at home in such company. “ He has certainly a fine eye,” he writes, “ but his features were relaxed as if he had undergone great fatigue. When he smiles his look is rather constrained than natural. He is but a small man, and from the gentleness of his manners no one would anticipate the actor who excels in bursts of passion.” Lord William Lennox narrates a story in which Kean appears to better advantage. One : summer month Earl Fitzhardinge proposed to give a dinner at the Old Ship Hotel, Greenwich, to Kean and a few of the tragedians ardent admirers ; and Kean having accepted the proposal, it was decided the guests should arrive at four o’clock at Berkeley House, Spring Gardens, Lord Fitzhardinge’s residence, and drive from there to Green¬ wich in carriages. At the hour mentioned all those invited arrived save Kean, from whom a note was brought, regretting that sudden indisposition prevented his attending. Lord William Lennox, believing Kean’s absence was caused rather by his will than by his 182 EDMUND KEAN. health, drove at once to his house, and found hfm perfectly well. He then urged him to join the party, which was arranged for him, stating that those invited were his friends, and that the disappointment his absence would cause his host would be great. Eventually persuaded into compliance, Kean got into the Victoria waiting him at the door, drove to Berkeley House, and from there to Greenwich. Having visited the fine picture-gallery of the Hospital, the company sat down to a dinner which proved very merry to all. When the cloth had been removed, and the wine had circulated freely, Kean began to talk. Those around him were sympathetic and laudatory, and he spoke freely, describing his early career, when he had been set down as a mere ranter, the hardships he suffered in strolling, the fatigue he had endured in playing Shy- lock and harlequin, Macbeth and Tom Tug, on the same evening to a gallery of twenty and a pit number¬ ing half a score of rustics. Then pressed by those around him, he recited some of the speeches from the Merchant of Venice , spoke soliloquies from Macbeth and Othello , his dark eyes flashing, his breast heaving, then sang a song with sweetness and expression, gave imi¬ tations of some of the London actors, narrated green¬ room anecdotes that set the table in a roar, and finally turned somersaults as a harlequin. And so the hours wore away amidst merriment and laughter, song and story, until it was close upon midnight, when host and guests returned to their carriages, and drove home in the peaceful moonlight of a summer night. Paul Bedford, the veteran actor, gives us a picture of Kean enjoying a little supper at the home of Andrew Ducrow, whose marvellous acts of horseman- KEAN AS SIR GILES OVERREACH. 183 ship and elegant tight-rope dancing drew crowds from all parts of the town to Astley’s. Ducrow was not only a great artist, but a hospitable host, and loved to gather round his board men of parts and wit. To meet Kean one night he had bidden Count D’Orsay, Nathan the composer, Sir George Womb well, and Lord Adolphus FitzClarence, son of Mrs. Jordan and the Duke of Clarence. In such society Kean enjoyed him¬ self, listening to the Count’s bon mots , to Nathan’s sing¬ ing, to his host’s narratives of his hair-breadth escapes on horse and rope; in return for which he sang and recited, to the delight of his hearers. CHAPTER VIII. Whilst Kean’s private life gave great pleasure and some regret to his friends, his public career continued to afford infinite satisfaction to the public. During his third season he played Bajazet in Tamerlane , Aranza in the Honeymoon , Sir Giles Overreach in A New Way to Pay Old Debts , Sforza in the Duke of Milan , Bertram in the Tragedy of Bertram , and Kitely in Every Man in his Humour. The most successful of all these representations was his Sir Giles Overreach. This drama of Massinger’s was revived on the 12th of January, 1816, and great were the results expected from Kean’s performance. Antici¬ pation did not exceed them; no finer conception of villainy, no more forcible portrayal of passions, no greater acting had been seen upon the English stage. His performance of Sir Giles long remained a theme for praise and wonder. The last scene, for which the 184 EDMUND KEAN. actor had reserved his strength, “ was indeed,” said the Morning Chronicle , “ a climax of terrible destruction and awful desolation of a mind buoyed up by false hopes, the failure of which overwhelms it in blank desperation and universal wretchedness.” The effect of this powerful playing was such, that one of the actresses on the stage, Mrs. Glover, overcome with fright at the horror depicted on his countenance, fainted; Byron at the same time was seized in his box by a convulsive fit; whilst women went into hysterics, and the whole house burst into a wild clamour of applause. As Kean, breathless with fatigue and excitement, was passing to his dressing-room, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and turning round, saw Byron, yet pale from the effect of his fit. “ Great! great! '' said the poet; “ that was acting ! But hang it, you should not have treated me so scurvily by running from my dinner- table to Cribb's.” Kean in a few words apologized and explained, and after some months of coolness they were friends once more. That evening's performance added a fresh leaf to his laurels. Not since he had played Bichard III. had he achieved such a triumph. Beturn- ing home, he told his wife the scene he had witnessed— the sea of eager faces, the storm of excitement, the out¬ burst of approbation. “ And what did Lord Essex say ? ” she interrupted him to ask. “ Damn Lord Essex ; the pit rose at me,'' he replied. This representation, which was “ without doubt the most terrific exhibition of human passion that has been witnessed upon the modern stage,'' became the talk of al classes. The few who had before considered the want of tragic strut and measured declamation in O FINANCIAL RESULTS. 185 Kean’s acting as absence of dignity and propriety, were now overwhelmed by the touches of nature and force of passion he displayed. His praise was in all men’s mouths. “Mr. Kean,” said the play-bill announcing his second representation of Sir Giles, “ was honoured with the most enthusiastic applause, and the play having been received throughout with distinguished approbation, and announced for repetition with unani¬ mous approval, will be acted again on Monday and Friday.” On Monday over three hundred persons were refused admission, so crowded was the house. The re¬ ceipts of the night were five hundred and forty-seven pounds ; on the third evening’s performance of the play, five hundred and eighty pounds were taken at the doors; on the fourth night these receipts were increased by ten pounds; whilst on the fifth and sixth they amounted to six hundred and nine pounds, the largest sum taken during the season. Indeed, the play brought such profit to the treasury, and such honour to Kean, that the committee decided on producing another of Massinger’s plays, and the Duke of Milan was accordingly announced for represent¬ ation on the 9th of March. Kean spent much time in studying his part, but though he played it well, the drama had not sufficient interest to ensure its success. On the night of its first performance, Lord William Lennox narrates that, having dined with a couple of friends, they proceeded to Drury Lane Theatre. As they entered a narrow passage leading to the private boxes, he heard a voice calling to the box-keeper that sounded familiar, and saw a figure muffled in a great cloak; recognizing Lord Byron, to whom he had previ¬ ously been introduced, he bowed to the poet, who slightly 186 EDMUND KEAN. acknowledged his salute, and immediately disappeared in the crowd. Setting down the poet as a capricious mortal, Lord William and his friends entered their box> . and watched the play with interest. As the curtain fell upon the second act, the box-keeper handed Lord William a note containing these words—“ The bearer will bring you to my den; till we meet breathe not the name of B.” Leaving his friends, he followed his guide to the entrance of a little box close to the orches¬ tra, upon entering which he was warmly greeted by Byron, who said—• “ I have a thousand apologies to make for the cut direct I was obliged to give you. The fact is, I am here incog .; a relative died last week, and I ought to be at home, ‘ in sullen black and sackcloth/ My father-in- law would be shocked if he heard that I did not stay at home for Bell’s, I mean Lady Birron’s (so he pronounced it), uncle. You know that I am now Benedick the married man. But sit down in front, and hear Kean’s impassioned tones. I must remain in my nook, or to-morrow we shall read in some of the morning papers of ‘ heartless conduct/ and ‘ atrocious outrage upon decency/ Lord William was about to rise at the end of the third act, when the box-door opened, and Douglas Kinnaird entered. After an introduction had taken place, the latter said, “ What a glorious house to-night! What will Whit¬ bread say ? He and Cavendish Bradshaw were quite in despair on looking over the receipts of the off nights/’ Presently Byron stated that his friend would like to see the green-room; “and as we gave out a particular KEAN FAILS TO APPEAR. 187 order,” he continued, “ that no stranger should be admitted, perhaps you will take him round.” “ What a law-maker—a law-breaker,” Kinnaird re¬ sponded; "but if Lord William wishes to go I shall have great pleasure in escorting him.” And away they went; but the great actor was not in the green-room, and they soon returned. Kean had occasion to remember this play, from an unpleasant incident with which it was connected. It happened on the 26 th of March, when the drama was announced for performance that evening, he with some pleasant friends and boon companions left town in the morning for Deptford, intending to dine there, and get back in time for his representation. The dinner was a success, and the day passed merrily enough; healths were proposed, toasts were drank, and the hour at which Kean should have started for town slipped by unnoticed. When at last it was remembered by one of his companions, he was neither able nor willing to leave the table. Those around him capable of thinking coherently, became fearful of the results of his indiscretion, and concocting a story, sent Kean’s carriage in full haste to the theatre, bidding the servants say their master had been on his way to town, when the horses took fright at some geese by the roadside, near the inn at which he dined, ran away, upset the carriage, and flung the occupant out with such force as to dislocate his shoulder. Meanwhile, a great audience had gathered at Drury Lane Theatre to see Kean. And as he did not appear in his dressing-room at his usual time, the manager became uneasy, and despatched messengers to his home and to the various haunts where it was hoped he might 188 EDMUND KEAN. be discovered. As the minutes passed, and the hour arrived for the curtain to rise, the house grew impatient, and hisses and hootings became general. At seven o'clock Rae came forward, seemingly in great distress, and stated Kean was nowhere to be found. He begged the indulgence of all present, and proposed to substitute another play for the Duke of Milan. This suggestion meeting with opposition, he retired, but soon after reap¬ peared, and begged to know what was the pleasure of the house, when he was answered by a universal cry of “ Wait, wait." The orchestra then played God save the King , and some other airs, until Rae once more stood before the curtain. No tidings, he stated, had arrived of Mr. Kean; and at the same time he requested them to remember this waft the first time that actor had ever kept them waiting a moment. He then asked if they would accept What Next , and Ways and Means, and Fortunes Frolic , instead of the play announced, and the audience agreeing, the first piece was begun with¬ out further delay. When the curtain fell upon the last act of Ways and Means, a player named Barnard came forward, and announced that A New Way to Pay Old Debts would be performed on Thursday. The name of the play bring¬ ing the tragedian to mind, several voices cried out angrily, “ Kean! where's Kean ? ” and this cry being taken up, the house was stirred to a state of excite¬ ment. When the storm had sufficiently abated to allow him being heard, Barnard stated no intelligence of Mr. Kean had been yet received, and then withdrew. Fortunes Frolic was played, and the evening's pro¬ gramme concluded. Fear and anxiety now beset Kean's friends and STORY OF AN ACCIDENT. 189 admirers, but their suspense was somewhat relieved late at night, when messengers arrived with the story of the dislocated shoulder. Next morning the papers regretted the serious accident which had befallen the tragedian, and feared he would be prevented from fulfilling his professional duties for some time. The Morning Post set forward the following tale, which, as may be seen, greatly improved upon the original version. “ He dined with a few friends at Woolwich on Tuesday/' it stated, “from whence he set out at due time to be at the theatre by five o'clock. He reached Deptford about four, and here he experienced the same untoward kind of accident to which his brethren of the sock and buskin appear so long to have been unfor¬ tunately fated. Driving at a very \piick pace, he was suddenly overturned, and falling with great violence upon the pavement, he had the misfortune to break his arm. His head also struck with such violence that he was completely stunned, and in this state was he conveyed to a neighbouring house; nor had he become sufficiently sensible of his situation to send off the necessary intimation of his accident to the theatre until a late hour yesterday morning. We are happy to be informed that he was last night considerably recovered, though in a state of most excruciating pain from the fracture of his arm. About a fortnight a^o he had a very unpleasant dream, from which, weakly enough, he indulged in the gloomy augury that he should die on St. Patrick's day; nor was he satisfied of the error of this strange presentiment even when the date had passed over; but thought that the awful visitation, as it did not take place on the day of the new style, must be intended for that of the old style. 190 EDMUND KEAN. We regret that any such notion as this should have been entertained in a mind otherwise so fine and' superior, as we understand it even now continues to press heavily upon him, the time of dreadful foreboding not being yet arrived. To-morrow is the fearfully awaited day; and however ridiculous his apprehension, Mr. Kean’s friends will do well to use every means of eradicating from his mind so strange and injurious an impression. In this event Richard will soon be himself again; and his faithful representation may for half a century to come enjoy the annual festivities of St. Patrick, to the happiness of his friends and the delight of the public.” The tidings of the accident having been delivered at the theatre, found their way to Mrs. Kean, who, in the fulness of her credulity, prepared to set out for Deptford in the morning. Accompanied by a surgeon and a couple of the Drury Lane actors, she reached her destination before midday; where soon after Mr. Whitbread, Sir Francis Burdett, and others of Kean’s friends, anxious for his condition, arrived. In the morning the tragedian had recovered his senses, and felt shocked and shamed at discovering his situation. Those with whom he had made merry the previous day told him of the excuse they had sent to town, and assured him, as he valued public favour, he must act according to the story they had framed. Therefore the village apothecary was summoned, who for a certain consideration lent himself to the deception, and bound Kean’s shoulder and arm with linen cloths. His face was then whitened, the blinds of his bed-room windows drawn, and on his visitors being permitted to see him they beheld him lying in bed, PLAYING A NEW PART. 191 seemingly in a state of suffering and exhaustion, though the apothecary had forbidden any excitement, Kean, when his visitors had returned to town, assured his wife he would follow their example. Fearing the shaking and fatigue might exhaust him, she protested against this design, but he persisted, and eventually he was assisted to his carriage, propped up with pillows, and driven slowly to Clarges Street. Arriving there, he was carefully lifted out and carried to his bed-room. When left alone with his wife, he suddenly jumped up, and flung his bandaged arm about his head. Bewildered and frightened, she stared at him, half fearing he had gone mad, until he laugh¬ ingly declared all was well, and confessed the hoax which his folly had obliged him to support. Appear¬ ances, however, had to be maintained, and he therefore remained within doors a few days. The accident was supposed to have taken place on the 26th of March, but five days later he announced his intention of playing at the theatre. However, lest the public might grow suspicious at his sudden recovery, it was prepared for his reappearance by the follow¬ ing letter written to the manager of the theatre, and published in the papers with a few prefatory remarks. “ The public will be glad to hear,” said the Morning Post , “that Mr. Kean was yesterday so far recovered from the painful effects of his late accident, as to induce a hope that that justly distinguished and most favourite actor will be able to resume his professional duties on Monday next; at least, such is the anxious wish expressed by himself in the following letter of yesterday's date to the managers of the theatre; and 192 EDMUND KEAN. we were further informed last night, that he felt increased confidence in his ability to undertake the# task. “ c Clarges Street. “ ‘ To the Managers of Drury Lane Theatre . “ ‘ Gentlemen, “ ‘ I beg you to accept, and convey to the Sub- Committee, my sincere thanks for the interest so kindly expressed for my recovery, and for the liberality with which I am desired not to hasten the resumption of my duties before my health is perfectly re-established. I am authorized by my surgeon to entertain hopes of being able to appear before the public on Monday, if it be not in a character requiring too great bodily exer¬ tion. With that view I take the liberty of suggesting that of Shylock. “ ‘ I beg to assure you that I feel convinced that anxiety and impatience of confinement will tend more to delay my perfect recovery from my accident than any ill that may result from too early exertion. “ ‘ I am, sirs, “ i Your obedient servant, “ ‘ E. Kean.’ ” It was probable the public heard rumours of the real cause of his absence, and suspected the statements made regarding his illness. On the night of his re¬ appearance the theatre was crowded to excess; for some reason the rising of the curtain was delayed, and the audience, already in a state of excitement, became impatient. When at last the play began, a general cry arose of “Off, off, Kean, Kean, apology.” After speaking some of his lines, not one word of which was AN EXCITED AUDIENCE. 193 heard, Rae, who represented Bassanio, bowed and quitted the stage, followed by Antonio. At that moment a dis¬ traction was caused by the entrance of the Duke of Gloucester and the Princess Sophia, when God save the King was demanded by the gallery, and responded to by the orchestra. Some of the performers coming forward were soundly hissed, until it was discovered their intention was to sing a the loyal hymn,” when they were listened to with approval. Having finished, they retired, and for some seconds the audience waited in complete silence, expecting Kean to appear and apologize; but in this they were disappointed, for Bassanio and Antonio came on, and again began their parts. Dire confusion followed. Shouts of “ Off, off,” were mingled with cries of “ Go on,” “ Apology,” and “ No apology.” In the midst of this excitement the attention of the house was directed to a box in which the occupants were engaged in active dispute, pre¬ sumably with reference to Kean. Threats and words of anger were interchanged, and this diverting the audience from its own grievance, the play was allowed to proceed uninterruptedly until Kean entered as Shylock. Then arose cries for an apology, and counter cries of “ No apology! ” and the air was noisy with hisses and cheers. Cool and collected, Kean began his part in the midst of this violent uproar, no one word he spoke being heard, until, after the elapse of some minutes, during which the storm seemed to increase, he removed his hat, and advanced to the front of the stage. Then silence falling upon all, he spoke as follows— “ It is the first time in my life that I have been the unwilling cause of disappointment. That in this • o 194 EDMUND KEAN. theatre it is the first instance out of the hundred and sixty-nine performances, I appeal to your own recollec¬ tion and to the testimony of the managers. It is to your favour I owe whatever reputation I enjoy. It is upon your candour I throw myself when prejudice would deprive me of what you have bestowed.” This speech, which contained no word of excuse, was interrupted by bursts of applause, and received with ringing cheers. He then continued his represent¬ ation, and never did he play Shylock better than on this evening, nor did he ever receive warmer appreciation. At the close of the season 1816 Kean was presented with a silver cup, modelled after the well-known Warwick vase. For this three hundred guineas had been subscribed by the committee and the company, both men and women, with the exception of Munden and Dowton—the former being remarkable for his penurious spirit, the latter equally notable for his jealousy of Kean. When Munden was asked for his contribution, he replied, “You may cup Mr. Kean if you like, but you don’t bleed Joe Munden.’’ The cup, which was adorned with the heads of Shakespeare and Massinger, and with masks of tragedy and comedy, bore the following words— “ To Edmund Kean this vase was presented on the 25th day of June, 1816, by Robert Palmer, father of the Drury Lane company, in the names of Right Hon. Lord Byron, Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, Right Hon. George Lamb, Chandos Leigh, Esq., S. Davies, Esq. (then fol¬ lowed the names of the company, fifty-two in number), in testimony of their admiration of his transcendent talents, and more especially to commemorate his first in higman’s tavern. 195 representation of the character of Sir Giles Overreach on the 12th of January, 1816, when, in common with an astonished public, overcome with the irresistible power of his genius, they received a lasting impression of excellence, which twenty-six successive representations have served but to confirm/’ The suicide of Mr. Whitbread in July, 1815, and the departure of Lord Byron from England early in the following year, removed from Kean two friends who had sought to win him from habits which eventually ruined his life. His fondness for drink became stronger with time, and already gave him warning of its effect upon his health; for Grattan narrates, that in the year 1817, seeking him one night when he had played Othello, he found the tragedian in his dressing-room “ as usual, after the performance of any of his parts* stretched on a sofa, vomiting violently and throwing up quantities of blood. His face was half-washed, one side deadly pale, the other deep copper colour. He was a very appalling object certainly, even to those who were accustomed to see him.” One of the taverns to which he frequently resorted was kept by Higman, a bass singer, who, in the sere and yellow leaf of his days, had abandoned his calling to become the proprietor of a public-house in Villiers Street, the sign of which he changed to that of Richard III. Higman’s friends—fiddlers and actors, singers and musicians—came here at night when the play-houses and the concert-halls closed ; and many a pleasant story of famous comedians and tragedians dead and gone, and many a merry anecdote of comrades yet alive and strolling, was told. It happened one night that Kean entered the tavern, when a ventriloquist and 196 EDMUND KEAN. mimic named Fuller had begun a series of imitations of famous actors, which a programme announced included Bannister, Young, Kemble, and Kean. Fuller had frequently mimicked other actors in Kean’s presence, but had never ventured to imitate the great tragedian to his face. Kean quietly seated himself, listened with amusement, and occasionally tapped the table by way of approbation. Then came the moment for the imitation of Kean. Fuller paused and looked at him, but apparently he assented to the performance, and the mimic began a speech of Richard III. in his manner. But scarce had he repeated five lines when Kean flung a glass of wine in his face. Instantly a scuffle followed, the would-be combatants were separated, and Kean, with eyes flaming, swore, if he thought he was such a wretch as Fuller represented he would hang himself. Like all distinguished men, he was plagued with a host of human gnats styling themselves imitators —men who produced some poor semblance to his man¬ nerisms without being able to give any idea of his powers, and of such was Fuller. With a country actor named Anderton he was more tolerant. Whilst Kean was spending an evening at the Harp tavern, Anderton, accompanied by some provincial players, entered. Having acted with Kean in by-gone days he now addressed him, but the tragedian either did not hear or remember him. The frequenters of the Harp were generally known as the Screaming Lunatics, and in order to make good their claim to this title, all new comers were expected to sing or recite. When Anderton’s turn came to pay his footing, he gave imitations of well-known actors. He had gained considerable reputation by recitations after THE SCREAMING LUNATICS. 197 the manner of Kean, but withheld them on the present occasion. His friends, however, were not satisfied by the omission, and cried out, “ Give us Kean ; let us have Kean; ” and Anderton rose, and complied with the request. There were those present who remembered the scene with Fuller, and now expected a repetition of the occurrence, and one of Kean’s friends rose up, declaring he would not sit by and hear the greatest living genius mimicked by a mountebank. Kean’s reply was a glance of contempt, then turning to his imitator, said, “ Anderton, I didn’t know you,” on which they shook hands heartily, and spent the night in each other’s company. Kean was one of the last men to forget the friends and acquaintance he had met in the days of poverty and distress, as many instances show. Here also is a letter written in May, 1817, which speaks for him on this point— '"Dear Bridge, * “ I did not see you yesterday in New Street, or should immediately have spoken. You know little of me if you think it necessary to apologize for breach of ceremony—all the fashionable parade of ‘ card leaving/ ‘ at home/ ‘ the honour of your company/ &c., I have long since, with the rubbish appertaining to it, kicked out of my doors. The friends with whom I wish to associate are such as will come uninvited, go unretarded, share the family meal, drink half-a-dozen bottles if he can, a pint if it better suits his inclinations, laugh at the follies of the world, pity those poor devils in the shackles of refinement, chatter philosophy, and sing a good song—if these are the ingredients that form a 198 EDMUND KEAN. man worthy of J. B. Bridge’s consideration, there is none will be more happy to take him by the hand than his “ Very sincere friend, “Edmund Kean. “ P.S.—When I am not at home I am at the theatre, and theatre or home, drop in when you please.” When he had played at Exeter, it had been his habit to meet some boon companions in a certain room in the Turk’s Head tavern almost every evening. He had left that town depressed by poverty and misery, and had not visited it until the summer of 1816, when he went to perforin for a few nights at the theatre. As his carriage and four entered Exeter, he ordered it should be driven straight to the Turk’s Head, and as it arrived at the inn the great actor quietly de¬ scended, ran along a familiar passage, opened the door of a well-known room, and with a spring, jumped on a table surrounded by his old companions, crying, “Richard’s himself again.” His remembrance of good fellowship is proved by another story which Tom Conningham was proud to tell. Kean and he had been strollers poor in one company, and had shared together the trials and privations common to their state. But whilst Kean had risen in the world, Conningham remained in distress. Soon after Kean’s fame had been established, Tom was playing at Brighton, and on the occasion of his benefit a fellow-player suggested he should ask his old friend to act for him, when a full house would certainly be secured, and Tom’s debts swept into oblivion. REMEMBRANCE OF PAST KINDNESS. 199 “ My good fellow,” quoth honest Tom, “ I should be afraid to make so bold a request. It is true we were at one time acting together, and he was then a good- natured man ; but Ned Kean the stroller and Edmund Kean the prop of Drury Lane are different persons.” His adviser argued that change of fortune need not o o necessarily rob a man of his better nature, and even¬ tually persuaded him to write to the tragedian. In reply he received the following letter— “ Dear Tom, “ I am sorry you are not so comfortable in life as you could wish. Put me up for any of my plays next Thursday, and I shall be happy to act for your benefit. In the mean time, accept the enclosed trifle to make the pot boil. “ Yours truly, " Edmund Kean. • The enclosure was a ten-pound note. On the day named he arrived at Brighton, and played to a great house, the receipts of which enabled Conningham to begin life as a free man. A few years later he paid a visit to Northallerton for three nights. The terms of agreement were that he was to have half the receipts. The prices of admission were doubled, but for all that the theatre was crowded to excess. The morning after the first performance, the proprietor, Samuel Butler, called on Kean to give him forty pounds, his share of the profits. “ Put it in your pocket,” said Kean briefly; and then, as the manager looked at him wonderingly, continued, “When I was a stripling in this town your father assisted me to travel to London. At parting I told 200 EDMUND KEAN. him, if ever fortune smiled on me I would not forget him. Fortune has smiled on me, and I am proud of paying to the son the debt so many years due to the father. Put up your money, and then we shall proceed according to the terms of our engagement.’’ On another occasion he played for the benefit of manager Moss, in whose company he had served when Moss was a prosperous man, but whom he now found in sickness and poverty. And again, when he had played for three nights at Totnes, he came forward at the conclusion of his performance and said—“ Ladies and Gentlemen, My engagement is over, but I stay one night more to act gratis for the manager’s benefit; for when I was only a stroller he helped me in my distress, and now that I can perhaps help him, I will willingly do so.” Numerous appeals were made to him for help by those he had formerly known, nor was application ever made in vain ; for his purse was ever open to relieve distress. Having once given a suit of clothes and money to a young actor, and subsequently obtained for him a three years’ engagement at a London theatre, he gave his reasons for his deeds. “ He was at Richmond,” he said, “ when I walked down to play there for one night. I was to have ten shillings for acting, and the rehearsal was to begin at ten. I sat up all night at the Harp, for I had no lodgings, and started at six in the morning. About nine o’clock I was crossing Rich¬ mond Green, when he saw and invited me to breakfast. I was terribly hungry, and hadn’t a halfpenny about me. I breakfasted and dined with him, acted like a Trojan, and then walked back to London with my earnings, minus a parting glass. I shall never forget the invitation or the inviter.” WHAT HAPPENED AT TAUNTON. 201 But if lie recollected favours done him in his youth, he likewise remembered insults offered him. Whenever in the course of the summer months he visited Taunton to appear as a star at its theatre, nothing could induce him to behave with friendliness towards the manager, who every night duly brought him half the receipts of the house as the salary he had agreed to pay him; but no sooner did Kean hear his well-known knock at tho dressing-room door, than he invariably called aloud to his dresser, “ See what that man wants.” In the course of a few years, Kean, in visiting Taunton, found this individual stricken by losses; the theatre had passed from his possession, his services as an actor had been rejected, and he was steeped in poverty. In this state he called upon Kean, and begged he would play one nigdit for his benefit; and to this the tragedian assented. That evening, as Kean and some actors sat in the public room of a tavern, telling anecdotes concerning their fellows, and drinking convivial glasses, they were joined by the ex-manager, who, believing Kean’s dislike for him had vanished, presently rose and made a speech, in which he stated, that the great actor having known and served under him in the period of his prosperity, had generously consented to play for him now in the days of his adversity. In the midst of loud acclamations which followed Kean stood up, and the light in his eyes and pallor of his face caused sudden silence. ' Turning to the speaker, he said in cold and measured tones, “ Don’t let us misunderstand one another. I am bound to you by no ties from my former acquaintance. I don’t play for you because you were once my manager, or a manager, for if ever a man deserved his fate it is 202 EDMUND KEAN. you ; if ever there was a family of tyrants it is yours. I don’t play for you from former friendship, but I play because you are a fallen man.” The effect of this speech was electrical; but he to whom it was addressed overlooked the affront in consideration of the promised help, and soon after left the room. Then Kean, from whom all anger had departed, said to those present, “ I am sorry I forgot myself, but when I and my family were starving, that fellow refused to let a subscription for me be entertained in his theatre.” Another anecdote illustrating his remembrance of injuries is stated in the Theatrical Magazine . Having one morning, whilst visiting Portsmouth, finished a rehearsal at the theatre, the manager asked him to come and drink a bottle of Madeira at a neigh¬ bouring inn. Nothing loath, the tragedian went, and the proprietor learning the name of his distinguished customer, attended him personally, ushered him into his best room, and thanked him for the honour of his visit, with many gracious words and formal bows. Kean without replying fixed his eyes on him, knit his brows, and after some time said, “ I came into your house at the request of this gentleman to have some refresh¬ ments, not to be pestered with your civilities, which to me are so many insults Look at me well, sir; you don’t recollect me, I see, but I am the same Edmund Kean I was fifteen years ago, when you kept a small tavern in this town. At that time I was a strolling player, and came with my company to a fair here. I remember well that I went one day into the bar of your house, and called for a half-pint of porter, which, after I had waited your pleasure patiently, was held out to me by you with one hand, whilst the other was ADVENTURE AT PORTSMOUTH. 203 extended to receive the money. Never shall I forget your insolent demeanour, or the bitterness of my feelings. What alteration beyond that of dress do you find in me ? Am I a better man than I was then ? What is there in me now that should cause you to over¬ whelm me with compliments ? Go, keep your wine in your cellar, Til have none of it,” and so saying, he turned his back upon the landlord and left his house, followed by the manager. But the adventures of the day were not yet ended. No sooner had they left the inn than Kean, addressing his friend, said, “ Now I will take you to an honest fellow who was kind to me in the days of my mis¬ fortune, and walking down the street, they entered a dark-looking little tavern, where they seated themselves at a side-table, called for some wine, and at the same time expressed a desire to see the landlord. He came, and bowed; but he was not the host of the tragedian’s recollections, for he had departed with past years. There happened, however, to be a waiter in the house who had served the strolling player, and with him Kean talked, making inquiries of his late master’s family, and of old frequenters of the tavern, known to both. After some time Kean said he must go, and asked the man what was the time. “ I’ll see, sir,” he replied, running to the stairs, at the head of which stood an old case clock. On his return, Kean asked him if he had not got a watch. He replied he had not. “ Then take this,” said Kean, “ and buy one; and whenever you look at it, think of your late master.” He handed him a five-pound note, which the man received without a word, surprise and gratitude render¬ ing him mute. 204 EDMUND KEAN. CHAPTER IX t In the winter season of 1816, a new sensation was caused in the theatrical world by the first appearance of William Macready at Covent Garden Theatre. This famous actor was born in Tottenham Court Road, London, in March, 1793, and was therefore six years younger than Edmund Kean. His father had begun life in Dublin as an upholsterer, but had eventually become a player, and finally manager of the Man¬ chester, Birmingham, Sheffield, and Newcastle theatres. Macready the elder was a bustling, sharp-tempered, sanguine-spirited little man, whose ambition it was to have one of his sons at the Bar, and one in the army. William Charles, his eldest born, was destined for the law, and at an early age was sent to Rugby school, where he remained three years. At the end of that period the elder Macready fell into difficulties, and eventually his affairs became desperate. His son, who had not yet reached his sixteenth birthday, was at this time home in Manchester for the holidays, and seeing the condition of his father’s prospects, resolved to help him so far as in him lay. Therefore he one day told his father he would not return to Rugby, as he wished to become a player. The manager replied, it had been the desire of his life to see his boy a barrister, but if he wished to go on the stage, he would not oppose his desires. Accordingly young Macready promptly and steadily prepared him¬ self for his calling—learning to fence, studying parts suited to his powers, and watching the effects produced by various actors. A YOUTHFUL MANAGER. 205 As time passed the manager’s troubles increased until, living in great fear of being arrested for debt, he was obliged to hide from the bailiffs, and leave his son to represent him at the theatre. Eventually he sur¬ rendered himself to the sheriff’s officer, and was lodged in Lancaster Castle. When his son found him really a prisoner, his fortitude gave way, and he burst into tears, on which his father grimly said, “ There is nothing I cannot bear but compassion; if you cannot command yourself, go away.” He was then sent to take charge of a company of players in his father’s service at Chester; reaching which town, the lad found them in a state of mutiny, because their salaries were in arrears, and indifferent as to how they acted. This the manager of sixteen summers undertook to rectify, by insisting on careful rehearsals, and the repetition of the proper text. Moreover, he introduced a new play, exerted himself to obtain “ bespeaks ” from rival political candidates, and, succeeded in drawing full houses nightly. Working in this manner, he was enabled to pay most of the debts connected with the theatre, and was gradually prosper¬ ing, when the landlord of the house put in an execution for rent due. Sadly perplexed, he wrote to some friends, requesting they would lend him what money they could spare, and they complying, he was enabled to defray all debts and pay all salaries. And having closed the theatre at Chester, he, with three of the best actors of his company, set out for Newcastle-on-Tyne, having barely sufficient money in his pocket to pay travelling expenses. It was Christmas Eve when they started in a chaise, and journeying all through a bitterly cold night, reached Brough, a small town on the borders of Westmoreland, about noon on 206 EDMUND KEAN. Christmas Day. Here they stayed to have lunch, having eaten which Macready tendered a five-pound note to the waiter, but was soon amazed to find his host come bustling into the room, declaring he did not like the look of this piece of paper, and would have nought to do with it. Knowing that tinless the note was changed he could not pay the post-boy who had driven him, or get fresh horses to take him on his way, Macready was sorely perplexed. Moreover, his hopes of being able to return the money he had recently borrowed, and of open¬ ing the Christmas season well at the Newcastle Theatre, of which his father was still lessee, depended on his reaching that town by Boxing Day. This consummation the landlord's suspicions threatened to prevent. The young manager had already left his watch at Chester, that he might raise funds to defray the expenses of his journey, and had no other money save the note. After a whispered consultation with his three companions, they offered their watches to the landlord, on condition that he would advance three pounds on them, and give change for the note; to which, after some hesitation, he consented, but stipulated, as the roads were bad, they should have four horses to carry them forward. Glad of escape from threatened captivity, even on these con¬ ditions, they agreed to his wishes, and presently gallop¬ ing away from the crowd which had gathered round the inn to witness their departure, they gave three ringing cheers by way of venting their feelings and raising their spirits. Arrived at Newcastle, Macready produced a panto¬ mime founded on the tragedy of Macbeth , which met with success. During the first representation of this piece an unrehearsed incident took place. At the end HIS GORY FINGERS. 207 of the first scene, when Macbeth and his lady had dyed their hands in innocent blood, they were supposed to make their exits, wash their hands, and reappear stain¬ less three minutes later in the next scene. But it happened when Macbeth left the stage, the dresser, who should have attended with water, soap, and towel, was conspicuous by his absence, being indeed waiting at the opposite wings, where he was not wanted. Poor Mac¬ beth stamped with rage, and swore round oaths, on which Macready rushed to his aid, and dragging him to the nearest dressing-room, offered him a jug of water, in which the murderer dipped his hands, and then catching something which bore semblance to a cloth, presented it as a towel. Having left the impressions of his gory fingers on this article, Macbeth rushed back to the boards. The manager, yet with the jug of water and improvised towel in his hands, was crossing the back of the stage, when he encountered Lady Macbeth in search of her dresser, and to her he likewise offered the aid of that which had already served her spouse; and she having washed herself clean, Macready left the cloth and jug in his own room. The pantomime caused great laughter and gained much applause, so that Macready, going home that night in a shower of blinding snow, felt gratified for his success. But next morning the acting manager © © © met him with a very grave face, and stated he was sorry to tell him there were thieves in the theatre. “ Good heavens ! is it possible ? ” asked Macready. “ What has been stolen ? ” “Well, Mr. Simkins’s breeches are missing,” the other replied. “ When at the end of the evening lie 208 EDMUND KEAN. went to dress they were gone, and he was obliged to walk home through the snow in a kilt.” Macready gave directions that strict search and inquiry should be made, and no pains spared to detect the offender; but scarce had he uttered these words, when it occurred to him that the improvised towel must have been the missing garment, and hastening to his room, he there found the breeches streaked with crimson dye. Under his direction the theatre prospered, so that he was enabled to send his father three pounds weekly for his support until his release from prison. At the close of the season the company went to Birmingham, where the elder Macready resumed his occupation as manager. And now the project of his son’s appearance on the stage, deferred in consequence of his labours, was resumed. The character of Romeo was selected for his ) debut , and the lad, now in his seventeenth year, began to study the part with great earnestness. His hopes of success were not raised by the occasional remarks of his father, who declared his attempts “ would never do; ” though they were upheld by the stout matron who was to be his Juliet. On Thursday, June 7th, 1810, the play-bills announced that “the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet , written by Shakespeare,” would be performed, “ the part of Romeo by a young gentleman, being his first appearance upon any stage.” The house was crowded, the curtain rose, and presently the new Romeo appeared. Of his sensations he wrote, “ The emotions I experienced on first crossing the stage, and coming forward in face of the lights and the applauding audience, were almost overpowering. There was a mist before my eyes. I seemed to see nothing of the FIRST APPEARANCE OF WILLIAM MACREADY. 209 dazzling scene before me, and for some time I was like an automaton, moving on certain defined limits. I went mechanically through the variations in which I had drilled myself, and it was not until the plaudits of the audience woke me from the kind of waking dream in which I seemed to be moving, that I gained my self- possession, and really entered into the spirit of the character, and, I may say, felt the passion I was to represent. Every round of applause acted like inspira¬ tion on me; I 4 trod on air/ became another being, or a happier self; and when the curtain fell at the con¬ clusion of the play, and the intimate friends and per¬ formers crowded on the stage to raise up the Juliet and myself, shaking my hands with fervent congratulations, a lady asked me, 'Well, sir; how do you feel now?’ my boyish answer was, without disguise, 4 1 feel as if I should like to act it all over again/ ” The sense and judgment he had already proved him¬ self to possess, showed him, that instead of placing faith in the impartial criticisms and favourable opinions of his friends, and of his father s company, he must work hard if he would finally triumph. Therefore he studied new parts, thought over the possible effects they ad¬ mitted, sought to correct such defects as he was con¬ scious of, and on Sundays, when the theatre was free from the presence of all employees, he was wont to lock himself in, pace the stage to give himself ease, and make himself familiar with the entrances and exits, and recite his speeches, until, weary and exhausted, he was glad to breathe fresh air again. This practice he continued for years. Gradually he came to represent leading parts in the plays produced at his father’s theatre, and whilst at p EDMUND KEAN. 210 Newcastle had the' honour of acting with the great Mrs. Siddons, who played here for two nights, whilst on her way to give a series of farewell performances at Edinburgh. When he learned that he was to appear with her in the same cast, his fears were great; and the hour when he was to rehearse with her at the Queen’s Head Hotel, was one filled with dread for him. Coming for the first time into the command¬ ing presence of the queen of tragedy, her stateliness and gravity filled him with awe; indeed, his nervous¬ ness was so considerable, that she smilingly remarked, “ I hope, Mr. Macready, you have brought some harts¬ horn and water with you, as I am told you are terribly frightened at me.” This remark did not aid him in gaining his self- possession, and his terror increased as the time approached for him to play the part of her husband in the tragedy of The Gamester. At last the curtain rose, and his worst anticipations seemed about to be fulfilled; fear seized him, presence of mind forsook him, memory vanished, and he stood motionless on the stage, until she approached and whispered the words of his part; then the scene proceeded. By degrees he recovered, until in the last act he had the gratification of hearing her say, as she stood at the wings, “ Bravo, sir, bravo ! ” and her praise was echoed by the audience. On the second night he played young Norval to her Lady Randolph, and succeeded more to his satisfaction. During his brief acquaintance with the great actress he secured her interest, and in parting she gave him advice, which all aspirants for fame might fitly take to heart. “ You are in the right way,” she said kindly; “but remember what I say, IN THE ANCIENT CITY OF BATH. 211 study, study, study, and do not marry till you are thirty. I remember what it was to be obliged to study, at nearly your age, with a young family about me. Beware of that; keep your mind on your art; do not remit your study, and you are certain to succeed. Do not forget my words, study well, and God bless you.” This counsel lived with him, and in those moments of dark despondency to which all sensitive minds are subjected it cheered him on his way. Through unre¬ mitting study and continual practise he strengthened his talents and increased his fame, until at last, in December 1814, he accepted an engagement to play at Bath. On arriving by coach at this ancient city, his heart fluttered on seeing his name announced in big letters on the play-bills; and the same sight awakened a nervous emotion in him so long as he remained a player. “ I have often crossed over to the other side of the street,” he writes, “to avoid passing by a play-bill in which my name might be figuring.” This ancient city was then a place of favourite resort. Women of fashion, men of wealth, soldiers and politi¬ cians, youths from the universities, maidens fresh in the matrimonial market, crowded the hotels and boarding-houses, gathered in the pump-rooms at mid¬ day to drink the waters and talk scandal, thronged Harrison’s Gardens at noon to flirt and enjoy wit, filled the assembly rooms on Wednesday and Friday evenings, patronized concerts on Tuesday evenings, and assembled in brilliant array at the theatre on Saturday nights. The favourable judgment of such audiences was considered a safe passport for actors to the great London playhouses, aware of which, Macready looked 212 EDMUND KEAN. forward with apprehension to his first appearance before them. A great and fashionable crowd gathered to witness his Romeo, and the reception which greeted him strung his efforts to the highest pitch. As he proceeded the applause increased, until in the scene with Tybalt it swelled into prolonged cheering, and the curtain fell upon an assured triumph. Leaving the theatre elated by success, and hopeful of future fame, Macready hastened to his lodgings in Chapel Row, Queen Square, that he might immediately write and post the joyful news of his success to his family. His manager rejoiced exceedingly, the public lauded him, and the press, with a solitary exception, commended him. The dissenting critic regretted that the young man could never be a great actor, because of his want of personal attractions, “by which/’ this individual eloquently expressed himself, “nature had interposed an everlasting barrier to his success/’ Later, the same gifted writer assured his readers, Macready’s personation of Beverley in The Gamesters would have been altogether excellent “ but for the unaccommodating disposition of nature in the formation of his face.” In height Macready was five feet seven inches, his hair was light, his eyes blue, and his face, though flat and heavy in repose, was capable of great expression in moments of feeling and excitement. His performance of Romeo was followed by represent¬ ations of Hamlet, Richard III., Orestes, and Norval, and the sensation he created gradually spreading to London, Fawcett, the stage-manager of Covent Garden Theatre, was sent to see and report on his acting. Favourably impressed, he waited on Macready, and NEGOTIATIONS WITH COVENT GARDEN. 213 inquired of him what were his views regarding a London engagement; to which the latter replied, he would not hazard an appearance in the capital except upon a high salary, and for a term of years; as, if he were not successful in winning public favour at first, he would have a chance of gaining it later; and if he were not able to secure it eventually, he should be indemnified for the loss of the estimation he at present enjoyed in the provinces. The stage manager’s return to London was followed by the offer of an engagement for three years at Covent Garden, but the salary was not agreed upon. Mean¬ while, Macready’s season at Bath having concluded, he acted for a couple of nights at Bristol, and then accepted a proposition from the Dublin Theatre to play there for seven weeks, at a salary of fifty pounds per week. The elder Macready, who was naturally anxious for his son’s appearance in town, proposed to Harris, then part proprietor and acting manager of Covent Garden^ that the young actor should be engaged for six or eight nights at twenty pounds a night; his permanent stay at the theatre to be determined by the impression he made. Harris readily accepted the suggestion, but on its being laid before him whom it most concerned, he rejected it decisively. He now resolved to spend another year in the provinces before trying his strength in town. Having played at Glasgow, he crossed over to Dublin, where he acted his principal characters to appreciative houses. Whilst here he was much struck by the atten¬ tion, sensitiveness, and sympathy of his audiences, and greatly diverted by their humour. Of this last trait he had heard many anecdotes, especially one, which amused 214 EDMUND KEAN. him greatly, concerning a tragedian name! Laurence Clinch, an old favourite of the citizens. It happened one night when Clinch acted Othello by command of the Lord-Lieutenant, a brilliant house assembled to witness his performance. In due time Clinch made his first entry, when, on turning his back, it was evident the tragedian had not noticed some slight disarrangement in his dress, which caused a general titter that soon developed into a roar of laughter, when one of his admirers, in a state of great excitement, leaned over the gallery, and putting his hand to his mouth, as if he would whisper his remarks to the actor’s ear, called out, “ Larry, honey, there’s the smallest taste in life of your shirt got out behind you.” Macready was fortunate enough to hear for himself a specimen of Hibernian humour. During a perform¬ ance of Venice, Preserved one evening, the actor who represented Jaffier drawled his speeches to uncommon length. In the last act, where he struck himself with a dagger, he droned out a soliloquy which was heard with evident impatience, until at last an impetuous god cried out, “ Arrah, die at once; ” to which one of his fellows from the opposite side responded, “Be quiet, you blackguard; ” and then turning to the expiring Jaffier, said in a patronizing tone, “ Sure, take your time,” remarks which spoiled the fine effects of the tragedian. Whilst in Dublin negotiations were again made for Macready’s appearance at Covent Garden and at Drury Lane, but the committee of the latter theatre, thinking: his terms extravagant, abandoned the idea of eng:ag'm«* him; whilst Fawcett wrote, “Kean seems likely to be more in your way at Drury Lane than Young would be at Covent Garden. All your best parts you might act AN AMATEUll RICHARD III. 215 with us, and not trespass upon anybody Come to us next year—for one year, two years, three years, or for life. The article shall be made as you please, only don’t be exorbitant.” Macready felt that a London engage¬ ment, the zenith of every actor’s ambition, would be to him a hazardous step; for already he was held in repute in the provinces, and drew good salaries, advan¬ tages he would certainly lose if he failed to gain the favour of London audiences. However, after much consideration, he required and received a contract from the lessee of Covent Garden, whereby he was engaged to become a member of the company of that theatre for five years, at the rate of sixteen pounds a week for two years, seventeen pounds a week for the following two years, and eighteen pounds a week for the last year. Before leaving Dublin he witnessed the remarkable performance of an amateur named Plunkett, in the character of Richard III. Mr. Plunkett was a barrister unknown to briefs, and was closely related to Lord Fingall; his harmless eccentricities, amongst which was strong faith in his dramatic abilities, rendered him dear to the Dublin public, who mercifully regarded his inordinate vanity as mental weakness. On this occasion he, as the bills stated, “ appeared before the public for the purpose of giving him a claim at a future period for a benefit in order to relieve the distressed port of Dublin and its vicinity.” Great were the expectations of merriment which his performance promised, and the evening on which he trod the boards saw the theatre crowded to excess. Applause and laughter greeted him, and as he proceeded the wits in the pit and gallery joined in the dialogue, to the vast delight of the house. When he declared “ I can smile, and murder while I 216 EDMUND KEAN. smile/' a voice quickly responded, “ Oh, be the powers you can ; ” and to his question, “ Am I then a man to be beloved ? ” a chorus answered, “ Indeed then, you’re not.” His manner of delivering the phrase, “ Off with his head,” was ironically encored, and at his death the theatre was in a general uproar of mock approbation, derisive cheering, and hearty laughter. But Plunkett took the storm to indicate applause, and next morning called on Lord Chief Justice Bushe to hear his opinion of the performance; and on his lordship expressing his regret that he had been unable to visit the theatre, the distinguished amateur insisted on reciting some of Richard’s speeches, notwithstanding the protest of the Chief Justice, who feared the gathering of a mob about his windows. When he had finished he pressed for an opinion from his lordship, who declared, “ He had never seen anything like it in all the performances he had ever witnessed,” a sentence which Plunkett had inserted in all the papers next day as the veritable judgment pronounced on his acting by the Chief Justice. Macready’s self-confidence had never been great, and as the time approached for him to make his appearance before a London audience, his nervousness increased. Shrinking from the ordeal, he would willingly have deferred it until his talents were more matured, his experiences wider; but this being impossible, he, with fear and hope contending for supremacy, prepared for the trial on which his future career must depend. Arriving in London in September, 1816, he put up at the old Slaughter Coffee House, and duly presented himself to Harris of Covent Garden Theatre, who, with Fawcett and Fred Reynolds, sat in council to determine in which character he should first appear. “A club MACREADY AT COVENT GARDEN. 217 much talked of at that time,” says Macready, “ that bore the name of the Wolves, was said to be banded together to put down any one appearing in Kean’s characters. I believe the report not to be founded on strict fact; but it was currently received, and had its influence on the Covent Garden deliberations.” It was finally decided he should appear as Orestes in the Distressed Mother , on Monday the 16th instant. The long-expected day at length arrived, and after an early dinner, Macready lay down to rest and com¬ pose himself until the hour came for his departure to the theatre. Then he entered a hackney coach, which to his excited imagination seemed as a hurdle conveying him to execution. Reaching the play-house, he dressed in silence, only interrupted by the dread voice of the call-boy announcing “ Overture on, sir,” and presently summoning him, when, with a firm step, he went forward to his trial. “ The appearance of resolute composure assumed by the player at this turning-point of his life belies the internal struggles he endures,” writes Macready, describing this hour. “ These event¬ ful trials, in respect to the state of mind and body in which they are encountered, so resemble each other, that one described describes all. The same agitation, and effort to master it, the dazzled vision, the short, quick breath, the dry palate, the throbbing of the heart —all, however painfully felt, must be effectually dis¬ guised in the character the actor strives to place before his audience.” Abbott, who was to play Pylades, waited for him at the wings, and when the curtain had risen Macready grasped his hand, and dashing on the stage, exclaiming as in a transport of joy, “ Oh, Pylades, what’s life without 218 EDMUND KEAN. a friend ? ” A loud burst of applause from a crowded house, which numbered many distinguished men, amongst whom was Edmund Kean, greeted his appear¬ ance; but it was not until the loud plaudits which followed his passionate utterance of the line, “ Oh, ye gods, give me Hermione, or let me die,” that he recovered his self-possession. As the play proceeded he became more and more animated under the conflict¬ ing emotions of the distracted lover, and at its close the prolonged cheers of his audience assured him of success. Congratulations were heartily offered him by the company as he passed, panting with excitement, to his dressing-room; the play was given out for repetition on the following Friday and Monday; and Harris, having summoned him to his presence, exclaimed, “ Well, my boy, you have done capitally, and if you could carry a play along with such a cast, I don’t know what you cannot do.” Macready returned to his lodgings “ in a state of mind like one not fully awake from a disturbing dream, grateful for my escape, yet almost questioning the reality of what had passed.” That night sleep deserted his excited mind, and he anxiously waited the hour when he might read the criticisms on his per¬ formance in the morning papers. Taken generally, they were laudatory. The Times was kind enough to allow him “a certain amount of ability,” but not sufficient to shake Young, or intimidate Charles Kemble ; the Globe was certain he was “ a man of mind,” and noticed that the sparks of his genius frequently kindled to a blaze; whilst Hazlitt in the Examiner had not the slightest hesitation in saying Macready was “ by far the best tragic actor that had come out in his remembrance THE PLAINEST MAN. 219 with the exception of Mr. Kean.” Unfavourable comments on his personal appearance were freely made. ' He is not handsome in face or person,” said the Times ; the Globe considered tragedy required “ features of a more prominent and strongly-marked description than those which he possesses.” His eyes were admitted by that organ to be full of fire, “and when in the paroxysm we mark their wild transitions, our attention is entirely withdrawn from the flatness of the features they irradiate; ” but the News honestly declared he was “ the plainest and most awkwardly made man that ever trod the stage.” It was sufficiently unpleasant for Macready to read such descriptions of his person, but perhaps it was yet more irritating for him to overhear the remarks of his neighbours regarding himself, as he sat one evening in the second tier of boxes at the theatre. “ Have you seen the new actor ? ” asked a lady of her companion. “ What, Macready,” he replied, unconscious that the subject of their conversation was at hand. “ No, I’ve not seen him yet; I’m told he is a capital actor, but a devilish ugly fellow.” To crown all, he heard that Charles Kemble said to his brother John, he was sure Macready would gain the highest rank in his profession, to which John Kemble, who owed so much of his success to his personal appearance, replied, “ Oh, Charles, with that face ! ” Macready, unfortunately, could not boast of advan¬ tages such as generally help to establish other actors in public favour. He is minutely described by James Henry Hackett, as being “ above the middle height, 220 EDMUND KEAN. his port rather stiffly erect, his figure not stout, but very straight, and at the hips quite the reverse of embonpoint . His ordinary or natural gait is not digni¬ fied, he steps short and quick, with a springy action of the knee-joints, which, sometimes trundling his stiff bust—as in a rush from the centre to the corner of the stage—reminds one of the recoil of a cannon upon its carriage. In his slow and measured tread of the stage he seems somewhat affected; he sways his body alternately on either leg, whilst his head waves from side to side to balance it.” The second play in which he appeared was a dull tragedy called The Italian Lover , in which, though he was recognized as “ a various and skilful painter of the human passions,” he created little attention. As this representation brought no profit to the treasury, the manager, in a moment of impatience, decided that he should appear as Othello and Iago alternately with Charles Young. This was a movement Macready felt to be injudicious. Kean’s Othello was yet fresh in the public mind, and all comparisons with such a perform¬ ance as his must prove unfavourable; moreover, Othello was a character he had seldom played, whilst he had never either studied or acted Iago. Remon¬ strance with Harris proved useless, and Macready appeared as the Moor and his Ancient without success. Hazlitt described Young in Othello as being like a great humming-top, and Macready as Iago, like a mischievous boy whipping him. In October Miss O’Neill returned to Covent Garden from the provinces, and before her all other attractions paled. About the same time John Philip Kemble caused great interest amongst his admirers, by an- BOOTH AT CO VENT GARDEN THEATRE. 221 nouncing his last season, before taking his farewell of the stage. Macready now regretted he had not delayed making appearance in town for another year. To Young was given the leading tragic parts, whilst the heroes of comedy were allotted to Charles Kemble. Little scope was therefore given him for the display of talents which it was admitted he possessed, and he greatly feared he might dwindle down to the dread level of mediocrity, known to the profession as respect¬ able. An event soon occurred which increased his fears. CHAPTER X. ' / • Soon tidings reached the manager of Covent Garden, that a young actor named Booth, who in size, face, voice, and manner so strongly resembled Kean that he might be taken for his twin brother, was playing Richard III. at Brighton and Worthing with great success. Immediately it occurred to Harris that Booth might be produced as a counter-attraction to the Drury Lane tragedian, and he was therefore sought for and found, when an offer of appearing at Covent Garden was immediately made him, with a promise that if he were successful, an engagement should follow. And these terms being gladly accepted by him, arrange¬ ments were made for his ddbut. In order to render this more attractive, rumours were spread concerning his extraordinary resemblance to Kean, which heightened the curiosity of the town to see him. Junius Brutus Booth was born in Queen Street, Bloomsbury, on the first of May, 1796, and was therefore 222 EDMUND KEAN. nine years younger than Edmund Kean. His father, who was a man of law, was likewise an admirer of literary genius in general, and of the scathing satirist who concealed his identity under the name of Junius in particular. And as Junius was likewise supposed to write under the name of Brutus, Mr. Booth, on becom¬ ing the father of a son, called him Junius Brutus, in memory of one he so much revered. On growing up, the lad, who was gifted with great versatility, desired to be a painter, and for some time studied art; he then entered the Navy, which he quitted to turn printer; later, he devoted himself to reading law, which he abandoned to become a sculptor; and finally he went on the stage. His first appearance is said to have been made in a play called John Bull , produced in a temporary theatre in a loft above a cow-house, situated in Pancras Street, Tottenham Court Road. He then joined Penley’s company at Peckenham, and subsequently travelled with this manager to Ostend, Amsterdam, Antwerp, Ghent, and Brussels. Privations awaited the company in a foreign land, and after a year’s absence Junius Brutus Booth returned to his native country a more experienced youth. He then played at Worthing and Brighton, where his remark¬ able likeness to Kean in person and manner created a sensation, and finally procured him an invitation to play in London. At this time he had not reached his twenty-first year. On the 12th of February, 1817, he was announced to appear at Covent Garden Theatre in the character of Richard III. A vast crowd, drawn by curiosity to see his performance, filled the house; and as he entered, dressed after the manner of Kean in the BOOTH AS RICHARD III. 223 same part, the audience was struck with astonishment at the strong resemblance he bore in complexion, stature, figure, and face to the Drury Lane actor. The surprise was increased by the similarity of the tones and sudden changes of his voice; his gestures, gait, and rapid movements; the methods of his entrances and exits, and management of his business, to those of Kean. The whole performance was indeed the most extraordinary imitation that could be con¬ ceived, and only lacked the genius of the original to render it equal to his. The audience, at first amazed by this daring copy of their favourite, was gradually won to applaud this ingenious youth, and frequently interrupted him to vent its admiration; and as the curtain fell the cheers which filled the theatre indicated the favourable impression he had made. On Mr. Abbott coming forward to announce the performance of the Midsummer Night's Dream for the following evening, he was interrupted by a universal shout of “ Richard! Richard! ” He then withdrew for a few minutes, and returned to state, the wishes of the house would be complied with, and Mr. Booth would repeat his repre¬ sentation of Richard the ensuing evening. An assembly yet more dense and eager gathered to see him the following night; his reception was en¬ thusiastic, his playing was heartily applauded, and the tragedy was announced for the following Monday, four evenings later, amidst signs of the liveliest satisfaction. Meanwhile, the question of salary arose. Booth de¬ manded an engagement for three years, at fifteen pounds a week—a remuneration his success seemed to warrant, but which the manager, fearing the town would quickly weary of this novelty, refused to give, 224 « EDMUND KEAN. offering him instead eight pounds a week. This he in¬ dignantly declined, and refused to play on the evening for which he had been announced. Therefore, on that day no mention was made of him on the bills, and Pizctrro was substituted for Richard III . Wrathful that no apology was offered for the change, and no ex¬ planation offered, the audience, before Pizarro began, called for the manager, who, on his appearance, stated that Booth had desired his salary should be fixed before he acted again, on which Harris told him it would neither be for his advantage nor the interest of the theatre the question should be then settled, and sug¬ gested it were better to wait until his success were more assured. The statement was interrupted with cries of, “You’ve driven him to the country again; you’ve driven him to Drury Lane,” to which Harris responded, it was far from his wish that Booth should return to the provinces; he hoped the door of reconciliation was still open, and that all would be amicably arranged. News of this rupture speedily reaching the ears of the Drury Lane committee, they rejoiced exceedingly; and immediately resolved to offer Booth an engagement in their company. Kean was requested to carry this project into effect, and accordingly drove to Booth’s lodgings, and in a friendly manner assured his imitator the Drury Lane committee were willing to secure his services, as he would see if he entered the carriage, then waiting, and drove with him to the theatre. Delighted by the proposal, Booth expressed his gratitude for this friendly behaviour, accompanied him to the playhouse, and there signed an agreement to act such characters as were allotted him for three KEAN AND BOOTH. 225 years, at an increasing salary of eight, nine, and ten pounds a week. The same evening it was announced at Drury Lane that Booth would play Iago to Kean’s Othello on the 20th of February, 1817. The excitement caused by this statement rose to fever pitch, and little else was talked of throughout the town save the coming contest, as it was considered, between these actors. One of the morning papers, which published a statement of his engagement, remarked, “ It was somewhat singular that Mr. Booth’s professional promotion is owing to the interference of Mr. Kean, whose uncommon liberality on this occasion is doubly gratifying, when it is recollected that some persons have elected Mr. Booth into the rival of our modern Garrick.” On the evening of the 20th Drury Lane Theatre was crowded to its utmost limits; expectation shone on every face; excitement rose to its zenith. Dramatists and critics, actors and managers, crowded the side scenes; men of taste and women of fashion filled the boxes; old playgoers thronged the pit; the gallery overflowed with Keans fervid admirers, all alike awaiting the result of what was now regarded as a trial of strength. Such a circumstance as this had not happened in theatrical history since David Garrick and James Quin—the founder of a new school of acting, and the monarch of the old—fought for victory in this same house. When the curtain rose the universal excitement was intense; all eyes were fixed upon the stage; and en¬ thusiastic greetings having been given to the heroes of the night, silence settled over the house. Booth at first seemed nervously to shrink from the contest. 226 EDMUND KEAN. but overcoming his dread, went through his part with courage, and was ever and anon warmly applauded. Kean’s self-possession was, as usual, undisturbed. It was noticed there was greater firmness than usual in his tread, that his voice was more clear, rapid, and decisive, but only the light flashing in his eyes indicated the emotions passing in his soul. His peculiar habit of walking diagonally from the middle of the stage into a corner, and then going half-way across the footlights, was adopted by Booth, and two persons moving in this way in the course of a scene had a somewhat ludicrous effect. As the tragedy advanced Kean’s power was gradually felt, -whilst Booth’s declined in proportion; when the latter ceased to speak he was lost amongst the subordinate characters, and it required an effort of attention to recognize him as one of the chief attractions of the night. Yet when he delivered his speeches he regained his position, and was warmly applauded. Kean apparently reserved much of his strength during the first two acts; but no sooner, says Barry Cornwall, who was present, “ did the interest of the story begin, and the passion of his part justify his fervour, than he seemed to expand from the small, quick, resolute figure which had previously been moving about the stage, and to assume the vigour and dimensions of a giant. He glared down upon the now diminutive Iago; he seized and tossed him aside, with frightful and irresistible vehemence. Till then we had seen Othello and Iago, as it were, together; now the Moor seemed to occupy the stage alone. Up and down, to and fro, he went, pacing about like the chafed lion who has received his fatal BOTH ACTORS BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 227 hurt, but whose strength is still undiminished. The fury and whirlwind of the passions seemed to have endowed him with supernatural strength. His eyes were glittering and bloodshot, his veins were swollen, and his whole figure restless and violent. It seemed dangerous to cross his path, and death to assault him. There is no doubt but that Kean was excited on this occasion in a most extraordinary degree; as much as though he had been maddened by wine. The impression which he made upon the audience has, perhaps, never been equalled in theatrical annals. Even the actors, hardened in their art, were moved. One comedian, a veteran of forty years standing, told us that when Kean rushed off the stage in the third act, he (our narrator) felt all his face deluged with tears—‘a thing, I give you my word, sir, has never happened to me since I was a crack—thus high.' ” At the conclusion of the play, both actors seemed exhausted from the extraordinary efforts they had made. Being called before the curtain, Kean led Booth forward. John Howard Payne, the author of Home, Sweet Home , who was in the theatre, says, “ Kean seemed to enjoy Booth’s success just as much as the audience did, and as he brought him through the proscenium door, you could see by the intelligent glitter of his piercing eyes, and the smile through the copper colour of the Moor’s face, a sort of fatherly feeling, as if dragging an over- modest son to receive the honours of his success. The whole house seemed to feel it in this spirit, and when Kean conducted Booth back to the door, and then made one step forward to acknowledge the compliment offered to himself, I thought the applause would never stop.” It was certainly a night to be remembered, as William 228 EDMUND KEAN. Godwin “ rapturously exclaimed ” to Mr. and Mrs Cowden Clarke on quitting the house. Because of the extraordinary sensation the perform¬ ance had created, it was announced for repetition on Saturday the 22nd, two evenings later. The struggle to secure places for this date was great, and in some cases a guinea was given for a single seat, an unusual circumstance in those days. The committee, eager to profit by this excitement, sought to increase the ac¬ commodation in the boxes and circle, and carpenters were employed to carry out the arrangements. The house was filled at an early hour on Saturday evening; the excitement was not less than it had been two nights before, and display of power such as had been witnessed on that evening was again ardently expected. But the time having passed for the play to begin, and the curtain not having yet risen, the audience became im¬ patient, and shouts from the gallery and cries from the pit grew momentarily louder. At last a fear fell upon the house that something had gone wrong, and this impres¬ sion was seemingly verified by the appearance of Rae, who was now stage manager. Advancing to the front of the stage, he begged leave to read a letter received from Booth; this ran as follows—“ Mr. Booth presents his compliments to Mr. Rae, and begs to inform him that, from the excessive anxiety of mind which he has experienced during the past week, he finds himself so extremely unwell, that he shall not be able to perform this evening, and he has gone out of town to recruit himself.’' Rae added, that he had not received this note until between three and four o’clock that afternoon, when he at once went to Mr. Booth’s house, that he might learn more particulars concerning him. On his BOOTH DISAPPOINTS AN AUDIENCE. 229 way he had met a friend, who said he had left Booth at one o’clock perfectly well; and on reaching his house, Mrs. Booth stated her husband had complained of being unwell, and had gone out, but if he had left town she was not aware of the fact. A sense of disappointment fell upon the audience, to relieve which, Rae stated that Kean had agreed to play Iago to his (Rae’s) Othello; but to this arrangement general opposition arose, and calls were made for Kean to play Othello. This wish being acceded to, the play began, Kean being vigorously applauded throughout. Before it concluded the following letter from Booth was received by the committee— “ Gentlemen, “ In an unguarded moment I quitted Covent Garden Theatre (where the most eligible situation for the exertion of my professional talents was open to me) to go over to Drury Lane, where I have since found, and felt to my cost, that every character which I was either desirous or capable of playing was already in possession, and that there was no chance of my appearing in the same. What occasion, therefore, could you have for me, unless to crush any talent I may possess in its infancy ? I have now seen through my error, and have therefore renewed the negotiation which was so un¬ fortunately interrupted with the proprietors of Covent Garden Theatre, and have just signed a regular article with them for three years; consequently, I have no longer the power of appearing again at Drury Lane Theatre, and you will have the goodness to take my name entirely out of your bills. “I have heard, Gentlemen, that your treasury has 230 EDMUND KEAN. benefited considerably from my appearance on Thursday last; I ask no pecuniary recompense for it. I only request that you will not seek to persecute or molest a young man just entering into life, and who cannot afford either to be shelved (according to the theatrical phrase) at Drury Lane Theatre, or to be put into such characters as must infallibly mar all his future prospects. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, “ Your very obedient, humble servant, “ J. Booth” Next day, Sunday, bills were posted all over the town, stating that Booth had entered into a new engagement with the proprietors of Covent Garden Theatre, where he would appear on the evening of Tuesday the 25th, in the character of Richard III. Astounded by this intelligence, the committee of Drury Lane issued circulars, in which the management declared it owing to the public to state, that on Monday the 17th instant Booth had signed an agreement, declaring he had no engagement with the Covent Garden proprietors, that all treaties with that theatre were at an end, and that he had requested his name to be taken out of the bills, which was accordingly done. In answer to this, notices w r ere circulated by the authorities at Covent Garden, setting forth that Booth, having played for two nights at their house, and being then in treaty for an engagement with them, the Drury Lane committee were bound to inquire if all agreements with Booth had really ceased before making him a member of their company. Believing they had a lawful claim on his services, the proprietors were about to take an action against him, when, through EDMUND KEAN’S LETTER. 231 the medium of a friend who witnessed Booth’s distress, the negotiation was renewed and terminated. Finally, the proprietors of Covent Garden entreated that Booth would not be made the victim of disputes between the two theatres, “ his youth and inexperience alone having placed him in a dilemma, from which it is hoped the candour and liberality of an English public will rescue him.” To this statement, which appeared in the Morning Post , the following paragraph was appended—“The proprietors of Covent Garden Theatre have received a notification from a person who states that he was at a place called the Coal-Hole on Sunday last, where a club called the Wolves are accustomed to assemble, and that he heard the whole party pledge themselves to drive Mr. Booth from the stage. If such conspiracy really exists, it is severely punishable by law.” This assertion, which was intended to attract sympathy towards Booth, and turn away the wrath which it was feared the public would visit on his head, was speedily contradicted by the landlord of the Coal-Hole, who declared the club mentioned as being in the habit of meeting at his house, had for many months ceased to exist. More¬ over, Edmund Kean, indignant that such an insinua¬ tion should be cast upon the Wolves, addressed the following letter to the editors of the principal journals— “ Sir, “I think it my duty, in justice to a society of which I once had the honour of being a member, to refute a most malicious piece of calumny. The Wolf Club seems to have been the foil with which the 232 EDMUND KEAN. friends of the rival theatre have for the last two years parried the public censure against their unsuccessful candidates. I wish, therefore, through the medium of the public prints, to inform their fears , that such a society is no longer in existence, has not been for the last nine months, and when it was, the principals of the institution were founded in integrity and universal philanthropy. The misrepresentations with regard to this society laid before the public, rendered it unjustly an object of reprobation, and in acknowledgment of my duty to that public, I resigned it. “ With regard to Mr. Booth, that I have the highest opinions of his talents I gave proof when I recommended his engagement to the Drury Lane committee. If any one shall assert that I would, individually or accessorily, do anything detrimental to the interests of Mr. Booth, or any brother professional, I should be happy in person to tell the propagator of such a report that it is a falsehood. “ I remain, sir, with the greatest respect, “ Your obedient humble servant, “ Edmund Kean.” Public excitement concerning this affair was further¬ more kept alive by a bill being filed in Chancery on Monday, the 24th of February, by the committee of Drury Lane Theatre, against Junius Brutus Booth and the proprietors of Covent Garden Theatre, for an injunction to restrain Booth from acting at any other play-house save Drury Lane ; but next day, upon the petition of the plaintiffs, their bill was dismissed out of the court, upon their paying the whole of the costs. BOOTH REFUSED A HEARING. 233 The town awaited Booth’s next appearance at Co vent Garden Theatre with eagerness, and an immense throng crowded the house soon after the doors were opened. From the appearance of the audience, it was gathered an exciting evening had set in. At half-past six o’clock the curtain rose, and Booth appeared dressed for the part of Richard III., on which a violent storm of mingled applause and resentment burst from every part of the house. The confusion was deafening; whistles were blown, sticks rapped on the ground, hats were waved encouragingly, fists raised threateningly, whilst opponents and supporters shouted at the pitch of their voices. The while Booth stood patiently on the stage, waiting until an opportunity was given him to apologize for the recent disappointment he had caused the public; but those who considered them¬ selves affronted by his conduct were resolved he should not be heard. Having waited for some time, he bowed and withdrew. Fawcett, the manager, then came for¬ ward, but the uproar continued as before; he likewise waited until a hearing might be given him, but waited in vain. As he stood gazing at the storm a note was flung on the stage, which he knelt down to read by the light of the lamps; and presently a shower of missives was thrown on the boards, when he made a mute appeal regarding the impossibility of reading and answering so many communications. And as the tumult continued to rage with unabated force, he bowed and withdrew, without being able to address the audience. The play now began, the actors going through the scene in pantomime, their voices being drowned by the clamour, which rose to fury on the entrance of Booth. 234 EDMUND KEAN. After a few moments he came forward to address the house, but being again refused a hearing, he made his exit amidst a burst of groans and cheers. Soon he returned, attended by' a standard-bearer exhibiting a pla¬ card, on which were the words, “Grant silence to explain/' But this not having the desired effect, Fawcett came on, and ordering the standard-bearer to retire, took Booth by the hand, and by gestures implored the house to hear him. His efforts having no avail they then with¬ drew, Booth looking pained, fatigued, and depressed. Again the tragedy began, but not a sound of the actors' voices was heard; and meanwhile several fights between Booth's supporters and his opponents took place in the pit, the house looking on with interest. In the middle of the second act, a player entered on the scene with a placard, stating, “ Mr. Booth wishes to apologize," to which came a response, “ No more lies, no more lies;" then Fawcett led Booth forward once more, but their appearance seemed to increase the confusion. Another placard was then exhibited, bearing the words, “ Can Englishmen condemn unheard ?" but it seemed as if nothing could now quell the storm. The play was then continued, and ended in dumb show to an accompaniment of howls, groans, and cheers. When the curtain fell it was hoped a hearing might be obtained for the unfortunate victim of general dis¬ pleasure, and again Fawcett led Booth forward; they were, however, received not only by frantic yells, but by showers of oranges and orange-peel, before which they retreated. At this demonstration Booth seemed quite overcome by grief. When the farce began, a man in one of the boxes addressed the house, and his words DISTURBANCE IN THE THEATRE. 235 seemingly giving offence to his neighbours, a fight ensued. Then arose a general cry for the manager, who, on appearing, was asked to have the originator of the quarrel taken into custody; but Fawcett replied, “ This whilst I am manager of the theatre I cannot do; if the person has offended you, it is in your own power to turn him out/’ The farce was then continued, but at its conclusion the audience showed no inclination to depart. By degrees the lights were extinguished, but the excite¬ ment and noise were as vigorous as at the beginning of the evening. Finally, a general demand was made for the manager, and after considerable delay Fawcett again came forward, and was now allowed to speak. Despairing, he said, of prevailing on the audience to hear him, he had retired to his home, from which he had just been summoned. It was his duty, as well as his desire, to comply with any wish expressed by the house. He believed it was Mr. Booth they really wished to see. He had remained at the theatre until a very late hour, hoping they would be pleased to hear his explanation, but being disappointed had at length retired, “ overwhelmed with affliction at having incurred their displeasure.” “ Bring him forward ! ” shouted several voices, to which Fawcett answered, “ It would be an act of cruelty to call him at this hour from his bed where he sought peace and rest after the excitement and worry of the evening.” So far as respected himself, he added, he felt called upon merely to explain the conduct of the pro¬ prietors, which he was ready to do; the question between them and the managers of Drury Lane was now reduced to a point of law, and would be decided 236 EDMUND KEAN. before the proper tribunal. For that decision he trusted the public would be content to wait; by it the managers must abide. His address was frequently interrupted by shouts of “ Booth for ever ! no shelving! no Wolves !” It was almost midnight when he con¬ cluded and the audience dispersed. Four nights later, Booth was again advertised to play "Richard III. at Covent Garden, and at an early hour that afternoon the streets leading to the theatre were blocked by excited crowds; on the doors of the play¬ house being opened a desperate struggle ensued for admission. A printed address from Booth was placed in every box, and liberally scattered over the pit. No sooner had the throng taken possession of the theatre than a repetition of the former night’s conduct began. In the midst of cries of “ No Booth ! ” and “ Booth for ever ! ” a man in the pit hoisted a banner bearing the words, “ He has been punished enough—let us forgive him,” when an immediate rush was made at this man of peace, and his banner torn to pieces. Thereon other flags were raised with the inscriptions, “The pit forgives him; Hear Booth of old Drury Lane in his proper place ; No persecution; We pardon him; Booth has done enough to appease John Bull; Contrition purchases forgiveness even from heaven; Beware of the artillery of Drury Lane; ” and these expressions being irritating to Booth’s enemies, free fights ensued, and kept the excitement at its zenith until the curtain rose. No attempt was made to address the house, and the actors, as before, went through their parts unheard. When Booth entered a laurel crown was flung upon the stage, followed by oranges liberally and forcibly contributed by the pit. Confusion and riot continued, BOOTH AS SIR GILES OVERREACH. 237 no one present paying attention to the tragedy, until a standard-bearer came forward with a placard stating, “ I have done wrong; I have made sufficient apology, and throw myself on the candour of Englishmen.” This, together with the indications of Booth’s distress, helped to disarm the malicious feelings of his opponents, and from that moment the opposition became gradually less violent. The tragedy being ended, the manager came forward in obedience to a general summons, and said, “ May I not interpret the call on me as a request on your part to know what the play will be on Monday ? ” to which came a chorus of replies, “ Yes, yes; give us Booth.” “ Then,” he answered, “ submitting to your commands, as I always do, I beg to announce that on Monday the play of this evening will be repeated.” This statement was received with applause, mingled with a few hisses, and Booth’s friends felt they had won his battle. The disturbance at the theatre had become so serious that the Lord Chamberlain intimated to both houses, if the present disorder continued, he would consider it his duty to prevent Mr. Booth appearing on either stage; fortunately no necessity arose for putting his threat into execution, as Booth was allowed to act Richard III. in peace on Monday night. When the novelty of his personation of the crook- backed king had begun to wane, he was announced to play Sir Giles Overreach, the part in which Kean had created so powerful a sensation. His appearance in this character was awaited with interest, and on his coming forward as Sir Giles, the audience was again amazed by the startling likeness he bore to Kean. “ His resemblance to the Sir Giles of the other house,” 238 EDMUND KEAN. says the Morning Post , “ was most striking. Less marked when in close and direct comparison, at a distance from each other they seemed cast by nature in the same mould. This similarity extended to their minds, and consequently to their general style of action, and therefore few who, beholding Mr. Booth, could not have fancied that Ke?/xx stood in all his excellency before them.” The sensation his action created throughout was wrought to its highest pitch in the last scene by an effort at realism that produced a startling effect. One of the attendants who supported him concealed a small piece of sponge dipped in rose pink, which Booth at the proper moment secretly slipping into his mouth pressed with his teeth, whereon the semblance of blood oozed from his lips, conveying the idea that he had burst a blood-vessel. The controversy which arose regarding the justification of this action helped to keep his name prominent before the public. But gradually all interest in him waned, and his imitations of Kean in the great tragedian's characters became wearisome when their novelty ended. And ceasing to draw houses, his name was but seldom seen in the play-bills, so that towards the end of the season he was almost forgotten, and his benefit merely brought him the sum of sixty-seven pounds ten shillings. The while Kean was winning fresh triumphs at Drury Lane by his representations of Timon of Athens, Sir Edward Mortimer, and Oroonoko. The success which had first awaited him steadily continued; for the versatility of his powers, beauty of his conceptions, and force of his realizations crowded the theatre and delighted the town. KEMBLE PLAYS SIR GILES OVERREACH. 239 Soon after Kean had electrified the public by his representation of Sir Giles Overreach, John Philip Kemble, in an ill-advised hour, attempted to play the same character. The result was not less disastrous to the part than to the actor’s reputation. Requiring, as it did, varied display of passion, great facial ex¬ pression, and subtle nervous force, the part was unsuited to the “ exhibition of elegantly disposed drapery/' which was the great characteristic of Kemble’s acting. “We never saw,” says Hazlitt, “greater im¬ becility and decrepitude in Mr. Kemble, or in any other actor; it was Sir Giles in his dotage. He is the very still-life and statuary of the stage ; a perfect figure of a man; a petrifaction of sentiment that heaves no sigh; an icicle upon the bust of tragedy.” The audience, struck by the vast difference between the styles of the two prominent actors, hissed Kemble. He had been thirty-three years before the London public, and had thought of retiring; but this reception determined his course, and he resolved to give his farewell perform¬ ances. His resolution caused little regret, save amongst the now limited circle of his admirers. Macready felt anxious to see him in the round of characters in which he had once been considered great, to convince himself, by careful and patient observation, how far this actor’s title to praise might be exaggerated by his followers, or his demerits magnified by his detractors. Accordingly, every night Kemble per¬ formed, the young player might be seen in the dress circle, whence an excellent view of the stage was afforded. On the night when Kemble played Cato, a favourite character of his, which had of yore drawn crowded houses, the theatre was but moderately full, % 240 EDMUND KEAN. and little enthusiasm prevailed. “ But there was Kemble !” writes Macready, “as he sat majestically in his curule chair, imagination could not supply a grander or more noble presence. In face and form he realized the most perfect ideal that ever enriched the sculptors or the painters fancy,and his deportment was in accord with all of outward dignity and grace that history attributes to th epatres conscripti. . . The tragedy, five acts of declamatory, unimpassioned verse, the monotony of which, correct as his emphasis and reading were, Kemble’s husky voice and laboured articulation did not tend to dissipate or enliven, was a tax upon the patience of the hearers. The frequently recurring sentiments on patriotism and liberty, awakening no response, were listened to with respectful, almost drowsy attention. But, like an eruptive volcano from some level expanse, there was one burst that electrified the house. This was his great effort, indeed his single effort; and great and refreshing as it was, it was not enough so to compensate for a whole evening of merely sensible cold declamation. I watched him intently throughout,—not a look or a tone was lost by me ; his attitudes were stately and picturesque, but evidently prepared; even the care he took in the disposition of his mantle was distinctly observable.” Very different was the exhibition which Macready witnessed a few nights later, when Kean played Sir Edward Mortimer in the Iron Chest . He felt that Kean had grasped a complete conception of the charac¬ ter, and was consistently faithful to it in every varying phase of passion. “ Throughout the play the actor held absolute sway over his hearers,” says Macready. “ Alike when nearly maddened by the remembrance of kean's fresh triumphs. 241 his wrong, and the crime it had provoked, in his touching reflections on the present and future recom¬ pense of a well-regulated life, in pronouncing the appalling curse on Wilford’s head; or when, looking into his face, and in the desolateness of his spirit, with a smile more moving than tears, he faintly uttered, ‘ None knew my tortures/ His terrible avowal of the guilt that had embittered existence to him brought, as it were, the actual perpetration of the deed before us; the frenzy of his vengeance seemed rekindled in all its desperation as he uttered the words, ‘ I stabbed him to the heart/ He paused, as if in horror of the sight still present to him, and following with his dilated eye the dreadful vision, he slowly continued, ‘ And my oppressor rolled lifeless at my foot/ The last scene was a working climax to a performance replete with beauties, that in its wildest burst of passion never ‘ over¬ stepped the modesty of nature/ 99 John Philip Kemble, continuing the representation of his famous parts, played King John, and Hazlitt records, he became the part so well in costume, look, and gesture, “ that if left to ourselves, we could have gone to sleep over it, and dreamt that it was fine, ‘ and when we waked have cried to dream again/ In that prodigious prosing paper the Times 99 continues the critic, “ which seems to be written as well as printed by a steam machine, Mr. Kemble is compared to the ruin of a magnificent temple in which the divinity still resides. The temple is unimpaired, but the divinity is sometimes from home.” On the occasion of his brother Charles’s benefit, John Kemble, who was even yet called “ the pride of the British stage,” played Macbeth. To render the R 242 EDMUND KEAN. representation more remarkable, Mrs. Siddons left her retirement to act Constance, a part in which she had once thrilled the town by the force of her genius. But since those days time had in part robbed her of the powers which had helped to build her fame. The old fire and fervour had departed for ever, the once melodious voice had lost the fulness of its tone, the grandeur of gesture and grace of gait were missing ; the poet’s words were repeated with mere mechanical precision, and the tragedy dragged its slow way before a wearied audience. On the 23rd of June, 1817, John Kemble made his last appearance. The house was crowded by those who for long had considered him a great actor, and were now anxious to testify their regret at his departure from the stage. The character he selected to represent on this occasion was Coriolanus, and his playing received the warmest applause. “ The audience,” says an elegant critic, “ were obliged to chasten their exuberant delight by the recollection that the mental treat they were then enjoying was to be a last repast.” When the curtain fell, loud cheers rang through the house, and in a few minutes Kemble came forward, seeming evidently moved by the enthusiasm he witnessed, and the ordeal he must endure in bidding the public adieu. “ Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in a husky voice ? “ I have now appeared before you for the last time ; this night closes my professional life.” Here he was interrupted by cries of “No, no,” and after a slight pause he continued, with evident difficulty, “ I am so much agitated that I cannot express with tolerable propriety what I wish to say. I feared, indeed, that I kemble's farewell speech. 243 should not be able to take my leave of you with sufficient fortitude,—composure, I mean,—and had intended to withdraw myself from before you in silence; but I suffered myself to be persuaded that, if it were only from old custom, some little parting word would be expected from me on this occasion. Ladies and gentlemen, I entreat you to believe, that whatever abilities I have possessed,—either as an actor in the performance of the characters allotted to me, or as a manager in endeavouring at a union of propriety and splendour in the representation of our best plays, and particularly of those of the divine Shakespeare,—I entreat you to believe that all my labours, all my studies, whatever they have been, have been made delightful to me by the approbation with which you were pleased constantly to reward them. I beg you, ladies and gentlemen, to accept my thanks for the great kindness you have invariably shown me, from the first night I became a candidate for public favour, down to this painful moment of my parting with you. Ladies and gentlemen, I most respectfully bid you a long and an unwilling farewell/ 5 Having bowed again and again in acknowledgment of the enthusiasm which followed, he retired; but was immediately surrounded by his intimates and the members of his company, who awaited him at the wings. He then retired to his dressing-room, and dis¬ tributed his costume amongst his brethren; to the facetious Mathews he gave his sandals, upon which that merry soul exclaimed, “ I’m glad I got his sandals, for I’m sure I could never tread in his shoes/ 5 A number of his followers, “ humble votaries of an art he had so long ornamented, and enthusiastic 244 EDMUND KEAN. admirers of the drama/ 5 resolved to mark his retirement by a farewell dinner, and the presentation of a piece of plate. Circulars were accordingly distributed, stating that tickets would be issued at two guineas each, which sum would include the expenses of the dinner and subscription to the testimonial; for these eager application was made. It was decided the testimonial should take the shape of a vase, for which Flaxman furnished a handsome design; commemoration medals were also struck for the occasion, and worn by the committee, bearing on one side a medallion of Kemble, and on the other the quotation, “ Thou last of all the Romans, fare thee well. 5 ' Thomas Campbell volunteered to write a valedictory ode, which T. Cooke set to music. This dinner was given on the 27th of June. On the morning of that day Kemble received a deputation from the Drury Lane company, represented by Rae, Dowton, Johnson, and Holland. The former, on behalf of his fellows, read an address, in which Kemble was styled the pride and ornament of the British stage; and reference was made to the dignity he had added to the profession by his genius, and the force of his example in private life. The dinner was given at the Freemason’s Tavern, Lord Holland presiding. Kemble, in returning thanks for the honour those present had done him, spoke of the distinction they had conferred upon him, “ such as had never been shown to any of his predecessors,” and proposed the health of “ the noble chairman. 55 An address was read, toasts were drunk, speeches made, an ode sung, and then John Kemble’s dinner was amongst the records of the past. Meanwhile, Macready occasionally appeared at Covent Garden, but was wholly dissatisfied with the characters maoready’s dissatisfaction. 245 the management obliged him to represent. In a new play, called The Conquest of Taranto , he had been forced to accept the part of Yalentio, “ one of the meanest, most despicable villains that a romancist’s invention ever teemed with.” Willingly would he have paid the usual forfeit of thirty pounds as a consequence of rejecting a part given an actor by the manager, but the choice was not allowed him, and he regarded him¬ self as “ inevitably ruined by the exposure to such a degradation.” During rehearsals he could not restrain his feelings, and when one day Booth, who was playing in the piece, told him he thought the part fully as good as his, Macready eagerly asked him to change with him, but Booth smiled and turned away. But on the night of the first performance of this play, Macready acted so conscientiously, that the interest of the principal scene shifted from Booth and centred in him; this being the reverse of what the author intended, and the manager expected, so that, instead of humiliation, * Macready gained credit in the character. “ This unlooked-for result,” he writes, “ ought perhaps to have acted as a lesson, teaching me for the future con¬ fidence in the ultimate triumph of careful and honest study.” In a play of Richard Lalor Sheil’s, called The Apostate , he won another triumph, his representation of Pescara being so vehement, powerful, and truthful as to recall ' to Ludwig Tieck, for the first time since his arrival in England, “ the best days of German acting.” But notwithstanding this success, he was soon after compelled to appear in a melodramatic afterpiece. Such occurrences hindering his ambition, and hurting his vanity, Macready began seriously to contemplate 246 EDMUND KEAN. “ some mode of escape from this distasteful and unpromising pursuit, and exchange it for one of greater utility.” The only means of reconciling him to the calling he followed was the certainty of his gaining a place in its highest rank, and that seemed denied him. At this time, as in later life, he seems to have had little love for his art, and frequently appeared humiliated by what should have been his pride. There was, he records, small sympathy of taste or sentiment between himself and the frequenters of the green-room, “ the conversation there being generally of a puerile and uninteresting character, and not unfrequently objectionable on other grounds.” He therefore thought of abandoning the stage, taking his degrees at Oxford, and entering the Church; but the money necessary for this step he generously devoted to purchasing a commission in the army for his brother, and the meditated change was never made. The opportunity for which he waited, though tardy in approach, was certain to arrive. In 1818 Pocock’s musical drama, Bob Boy Macgregor , founded on Sir Walter Scott’s novel of that name, was performed for the first time, when Macready as the Scottish outlaw won great applause. But it was not until the beginning of the season 1819 that the chance came which raised him to the position long desired. At this time Miss O’Neill was absent on leave until winter; Charles Young had quarrelled with the management, and gone over to Drury Lane; the only attractions remaining at this theatre were Charles Kemble, who in tragedy “ spoiled a good face,” and Macready. The season opened with Macbeth , Charles Kemble as the Thane HE WINS REPUTATION. 247 of Fife proving a disastrous failure, to remedy which Macready was set forward in a round of characters that had won him good repute in the provinces. But he could not play nightly, and when absent the house was well-nigh empty. Ruin seemed inevitable to the managers, the actors were refused their salaries, and Harris told Sheil, “he did not know in the morning when he rose, whether he should not shoot himself before the night.” At this crisis Harris suggested that Macready should play Richard III., a proposal from which he naturally shrank, for Kean continually represented the part, and the younger actor, fearing comparisons, was reluctant to make the venture. Days passed, and the fate of Covent Garden Theatre grew darker still, when the manager told Macready the desperate condition of the house would “ no longer admit of vacillation or coy timidity,” and that he must appear as Richard III. He pleaded for time to read the part, but next day, in passing a Covent Garden play-bill, was amazed to find himself announced to personate the crook-backed king. With a sinking heart he went straight to his lodgings, knowing there was no escape, and prepared for the ordeal. He now devoted all his energies to the task before him; rehearsals were gone through with alternate feelings of fear and hope; old costumes were given him to dress the character, and for the alterations they required he was obliged to pay. The 25th of October, 1819, was fixed as the date of the performance, and on the evening of that day a crowded house gave testimony of the interest with which the event was regarded. Then came the dreaded moment. The applause with which his appearance was 248 EDMUND KEAN. greeted served to increase his nervousness; it seemed as if he were having a life and death struggle to save himself from ruin. The audience followed the first scene in silence; a whisper from a fellow actor, “it’s going well,” sounded as heavenly music in the tra¬ gedian’s ear; then suddenly came a burst of hearty applause. When Buckingham entered, Macready says, “ I rushed at him, inquiring of him, in short, broken sentences, the children’s fate; with rapid decision on the mode of disposing of them, hastily gave him his orders, and hurrying him away, exclaimed, with triumphant exult¬ ation, ‘ Why then, my loudest fears are hushed; ’ the pit rose to a man, and continued waving hats and handkerchiefs in a perfect tempest of applause for • some minutes. The battle was won.” The excitement he succeeded in creating was maintained throughout, and when the curtain fell, cheers filled the house. On Richard III. being announced for the following evening by one of the actors, the audience would not hear him, but cried out for Macready, when the stage manager desired him to go forward; and this, it is noticeable, was the first time on which an actor came before the curtain at the conclusion of a play. From that evening the custom was adopted. Next day the press teemed with favourable notices of the performance; Covent Garden Theatre was once more crowded, and the actors received their salaries. Kean at Drury Lane likewise appeared in this tragedy, and the rival Richards became the talk of the town. Finally Mr. Harris senior, the patentee and chief proprietor of the theatre, made a journey to town from his residence at Belmont near Uxbridge, that RETIREMENT OF MISS O’NEILL. 249 he might personally thank Macready for the services he had rendered in rescuing his theatre from distress. In the following month he achieved another triumph by his representation of Coriolanus, and his fame was finally secured by his personation of Yirginius, a tragedy by Sheridan Knowles, of which a lengthy account is given in the pages of Famous Plays. He was now an established favourite with the town; the only tragedian of which Covent Garden could boast; the sole rival, Charles Young being set aside, of Edmund Kean. For his benefit at the close of the season Macready played Macbeth to a densely-crowded house. On this occasion he departed from a practice which had obtained for centuries; for up to this period it had been the custom for an actor on the occurrence of his benefit to receive monetary presents from his admirers; but to this habit, which seemed to com¬ promise his independence, Macready objected, and he decided on not accepting a penny above the value of the tickets bought. He therefore returned various sums to the would-be donors, explaining to them his feelings on the subject, for “ I could not/' he says, “consider myself sitting down to table on terms of equality with a man to whom I had been obliged for the gift of five, ten, or twenty pounds.” Before this season ended, Miss O’Neill had ceased to delight the town by her graceful, sympathetic, and charming performances. During the five years that had elapsed since she made her first entrance on the London stage, she had accumulated the sum of thirty thousand pounds. On the 13th of July, 1819, she played Mrs. Haller in The Stranger , the occasion being announced as her last appearance before Christmas; it proved, 250 EDMUND KEAN. however, her final performance to a London audience, for the year had not ended ere she retired from the stage, having married Mr. Wrixton Beecher, M.P. for Mallow, Co. Cork, who some years later inherited his uncle’s baronetcy and estates. Before accepting Mr. Wrixton Beecher as her husband, Miss O’Neill had outlived the romance of her life. Soon after she became known to the London public, she was surrounded by numbers of young men, the scions of nobility, whom her grace and her beauty attracted. Aware of the dangers that beset many members of her calling, she was guarded against their admiration, and was invariably accompanied to and from the theatre by her father or her brother. Her whole life was blameless, and so great was her delicacy, that she refused the manager’s entreaties and com¬ mands to appear as Imogene, because the representation would involve the necessity of her appearing in boy’s clothes. However, amongst those fascinated by her charms was a young man who quickly won her heart. Gaining assurance of his good fortune, he proposed to make her his wife, and he being the heir to an earldom, she might have been a countess; but before complying with his wishes, she insisted on having his father’s consent to the marriage. The earl, though dissatisfied with his son’s choice, had nought to say against the actress, but requested that a year’s engagement should precede their union, during which time his son should travel abroad, and hold no communication with the lady he intended to make his wife. And being deep in love and strong in faith, they consented to the trial, believing time would be power¬ less to change them. They parted with promises of ROMANCE OF HER LIFE ENDED. 251 eternal constancy; but before many months had passed rumours came concerning the unworthy life led by the lover; to these Miss O’Neill, still firm in her belief, would not listen, though they were repeated again and again. Still she hoped, even while she feared; and at length, to satisfy herself of the truth or falsehood of the assertions made, she obtained leave of absence from the theatre, and, accompanied by her brother and sister, travelled to Paris, where the man she was pledged to marry then resided. Here she ascertained for herself beyond all doubt that the tales she had heard were facts, when she broke her engagement, and returned to England. Overwhelmed with grief, she fell ill, and so serious was her ailment, that for days she lay in the shadow of death; but eventually she recovered to battle again with life, to live for the future, and to forget the past. CHAPTER XI. Whilst these events took place Edmund Kean still played at Drury Lane, now repeating his famous char¬ acters, again appearing in some dramas, which, from their unsuitableness to the stage, were signal failures. Amongst these were Manuel , a tragedy by Maturin; a dramatic version of Lord Byron’s Bride of Abydos ; and a tragedy named The Duke of York , compiled from Shakespeare’s Henry VI. Kean also acted Achmet in Barbarossa , and Barabbas in The Jew of Malta , neither of which representations added to his reputation. At the close of the Drury Lane summer season, 1818, he and his wife went abroad. In Paris he met Talma, 252 EDMUND KEAN. who during a recent visit he had made to London, proved one of Kean’s most ardent admirers. “ He is a magnificent uncut gem,” the French actor had said; “ polish and round him off, and he will be a perfect trage¬ dian.” To celebrate Kean’s arrival in Paris, Talma gave a banquet to which the most prominent members of the Theatre Fran£aise were invited, when Kean was pre¬ sented with a gold snuff-box. His enthusiasm regarding Talma’s acting was great; he had seen nothing, he declared, to equal his representation of Orestes, and he resolved to play the part on his return to England. Leaving Paris, he travelled to Geneva, ascended Mont Blanc, and spent a night in the Hospice of St. Bernard. Here the calm and secluded lives of the monks, far removed from excitement and strife, forcibly impressed his sensitive nature; and making friends with them, he sang to them, accompanying himself on a spinet, told them anecdotes of his life, described to them the world of which they knew nought, and finally took his leave with regret. In September he was back in London, and on the 28th of that month appeared as Richard III. With the opening of this season Stephen Kemble, brother of John Philip and of Mrs. Siddons, became manager of Drury Lane Theatre under the direction of the com¬ mittee. Time was when Stephen, a mild-mannered, merry-hearted man, had played leading parts at Covent Garden. True, his engagement was made in error, he having been mistaken for his brother John,—then unknown to fame,—but his chance was given him, and availed him little, for Stephen was not an actor of merit. Having left Covent Garden, he returned to the pro¬ vinces, and became manager of the theatre at Newcastle, STEPHEN KEMBLE BECOMES MANAGER. 253 where he married and settled. As years passed, he increased in size to such extent, that he weighed over eighteen stone, and when seated occupied three chairs at once. His bulk made him the butt of the theatre, and Oxberry used to narrate that one day when Stephen was passing through the meat-market he was beset by the butchers asking him, “ What d’ye buy ? what d’ye buy ? ” foreseeing in him, as they imagined, a profit¬ able customer. But Stephen mildly replied he wanted nothing, and waddled peaceably onward until one man, more enterprising than his fellows, rushed from behind his stall, and eyeing Stephen’s enormous person, said, “ Well, sir, though you say you don’t want nothing, only say you buy your meat of me, and you’ll make my fortune.” Being appointed to his post at Drury Lane, for which he was by no means suitable, he brought with him his son Henry, whom he introduced as a new Romeo, much to the amusement of the town and the injury of the theatre. His management being influenced by econ¬ omy, he gathered round him a company whose salaries were not calculated to press heavily on the treasury. The result proved disastrous. Rae, who was still at the theatre, was kept in the background, to make place for Henry Kemble, so that on nights when Kean rested, no attraction was held out to the public. In vain Stephen sought to fill the empty pit and boxes by producing a new piece every fortnight, one of them being written by himself, but all of them failed to attract. The manager now resolved to see if an ex¬ hibition of himself would draw the town, and accordingly advertised Henry IV., in which he was to play Falstaff, “without stuffing,” said the bills; but as his representation 254 EDMUND KEAN. was devoid of humour, he was not a success. Failing to be a host in himself, he introduced a stripling to play lead, his sole recommendation being that he was a friend of Henry Kemble’s. This youth, Hamblin by name, was a failure; and notwithstanding that the prices of admission to the house were reduced, the theatre was, save when Kean played, almost empty; nay, even many who had orders given them could not be induced to attend the dull performances provided. Naturally the committee was disheartened; new stars were sought and found in the persons of Cleary, Williams, and Sampson, who made first appearances in tragedy and comedy, and were scarce heard of more. A fairly good audience could be secured whenever Kean acted, but by constant repetition of his old characters, the interest in his playing had greatly decreased, and the houses he attracted were by no means comparable to those he had drawn a couple of years previously. The town, ever fond of variety, desired to see him in new parts, and on his return from Paris he had played Orestes in The Distressed Mother , but the result proved disappointing to himself and to his warmest admirers. The affairs of the theatre became depressing, and ultimately the treasury was unable to pay the actors’ salaries. As a last resource, the manuscript of an historical play called Brutus , or the Fcdl of Tarquin , by John Howard Payne, which had lain neglected and unread, was taken from a shelf in the manager’s room, dusted, cast, and put in rehearsal, Kean having been persuaded to play the leading part. The author of this tragedy was, as in those times became one of his craft, a prisoner in the Fleet; but by the grace of “ a day- JOHN HOWARD PAYNE’S TRAGEDY. 255 rule,” was enabled to attend the theatre, and com¬ municate his ideas regarding the characters to the performers, and especially to Kean ; though it often happened, when he had walked to Drury Lane to meet the tragedian by appointment, the latter was not to be found, or, pitiful to narrate, was not in a condition to be seen. At last Brutus was announced for performance, and on the first night of its production was almost damned; for Henry Kemble, weak and incompetent as a Tarquin, was hissed off the stage, and the play was only saved by Kean’s outbursts of pathos and passion. The tragedy was repeated several times throughout the season, and so gratified was Kean by this result, that he presented a gold snuff-box, bearing on its lid the last scene from Brutus —not to the author, but to Stephen Kemble. Poor Payne received one hundred and eighty-three pounds for his tragedy, which brought the theatre ten thousand pounds. But this one success could not save the house from impending ruin. The committee were still seeking for some novel attraction, when Mr. Douglas Kinnaird proposed Kean should play Joseph Surface. The part was accordingly forwarded to the tragedian, then ful¬ filling a brief engagement at Edinburgh, with a request that he would study it immediately. Kean’s indigna¬ tion at being asked to represent a part of secondary importance in The School for Scandal was such that he at once replied— “ Mr. Kean returns to the committee the character of Joseph Surface, which he has with surprise and mortification received this day. Mr. Kean wishes submissively to bring to the recollection of these gentle¬ men, that the material service which he has rendered 256 EDMUND KEAN. to the establishment over which they preside has been by peculiar success in the first walk of the drama; and he will never insult the judgment of a British public by appearing before them in any other station but the important one to which they have raised him. It will likewise be impossible that he can reach London by the 4th, unless by breaking engagements and losing hundreds. But however arbitrary and unjustifiable the summons, he knows his engagement, and must submit. But he wishes them perfectly to understand, that, whatever is the consequence, he will not submit to any sacrifice of his talent.” To Douglas Kinnaird his letter was even more severe. “ Do you think, Mr. Kinnaird,” he writes, “ that ratified engagements are to be broken on a word ? According to such principles I might say, I will not come to town for these two months, but knowing these affairs a little better than you do, I say I shall im¬ mediately come to London on the expiration of my Plymouth engagement, the 31st of August. Then I shall be compelled to give up situations that would have procured me hundreds. I have, with the just indignation of insulted talent, returned Joseph Surface to the committee. I cannot conceive their intentions towards me, unless it is to destroy my reputation as ar actor, and interest as a man. But without disguise oi subterfuge, I tell them—I’ll be damned if they do either.” Some months later, through the failure of several pieces, and general mismanagement, the theatre was heavily in debt, and the committee were obliged to close its doors three weeks before the time when the season usually ended. It was now wisely resolved by DRURY LANE THEATRE IN DEBT. 257 them to withdraw from further interference with theatrical affairs, and let the house. Notices of their design, together with rules under which they were prepared to give up the theatre, were printed and circulated; and these reaching Kean, then on a pro¬ fessional tour, he felt anxious to become lessee, and from Harwich wrote the following letter to the secretary of the committee— “ Put down my name for a hundred pounds in the Drury Lane Theatre subscription list. I have received the conditions of the sub-committee, which nothing but madness could have dictated, or folly induce a man to read a second time. These are my proposals. I offer eight thousand pounds per annum for the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, and its appurtenances, scenery, dresses, chandeliers, books, &c. &c. In a word, I shut my doors against all committees, expecting an immediate surrender of their keys and all privileges in possession. I select my own officers, my own performers, —‘ My reasons in my will/—and can only be accountable to the proprietors for payment of the rent, and to the public for their amusements. This is my offer—if they like it, so; if not, farewell. Read this aloud to the proprietors, and as much in earnest as I write it.” Not satisfied with this epistle, he presently wrote • another from Leeds. v « “ Sir, it was a saying of Aristippus, that it is a foolish thing to eat more than we can digest, the truth of which I am now proving; for really the printed articles of the agreement between the lessee and the proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre appear to be so indigestible, that the more I read the more I am constipated. They present a chaos from which my shallow brain, talpd s 258 EDMUND KEAN. ccccior , perhaps, can extract nothing. To re-open Drury Lane Theatre under an experiment so obliga¬ tory would only plunge it into deeper involvements and more absolute contempt. “ The public has witnessed the mismanagement that has brought this magnificent theatre to ruin; its restora¬ tion can only be achieved by a popular professional man. I now stand forward to devote my property, reputation, and experience to this great cause—to cleanse the Augean stable, and 4 raise a new Palmyra/ “I cross the Atlantic should the proprietors reject my proposals, which are these—rent and taxes ten thousand pounds a year. The committee may pay my watchmen and firemen (persons in whom they place so deep a trust) if they please; but no servant except my own shall have ingress on my property. I shall propose such securities as the committee cannot think objectionable. Now, sir, everything else I reject in toto. Read this to the committee with emphasis and discretion. I have seen and known their errors; the world has seen and known them too. Et vitio alterius, sapiens emendat suum . Let me hear from you immedi¬ ately, that in the one case I may be making my arrangements for the restoration of Drury’s monarchy, or be preparing for crossing the Atlantic.” In his anxiety to become lessee he likewise wrote to Stephen Kemble. Between them a friendly spirit had ever existed, and Kean on one occasion, in comparing the manager to his brother, said, “ Stephen has a soul under that load of fat which will ooze out; but Johns is barred up by his ribs—a prisoner to his prudence.” He instructed Stephen to state on his behalf, that if he obtained a lease of the theatre for ten years, at eight THE PUBLIC INVITED TO CONTRIBUTE. 259 thousand a year, he would narrow the stage, which he then considered too wide, bring forward the boxes, and generally reduce the interior of the house, which was over large for sight or sound. Stephen added that the fact of Kean becoming proprietor would be hailed by the public with pleasure, whilst the performers believed him the most eligible person to manage the establishment. Before the theatre could be let twenty-five thousand pound must be obtained to clear its present incum¬ brances, and it was therefore resolved, a voluntary sub¬ scription to raise the required sum should be opened amongst the shareholders, but they not giving so freely as was expected, the public were invited to contribute likewise. This drew down the wrath of the British Stage . “ The impudence of these sturdy beggars is most surprising,” says that publication. “ What claim they can have upon the generosity of the public beyond any other set of bankrupts we arc quite unable to dis¬ cover. Tis true, that grievous forebodings have been heard of the sad injury which the drama will sustain, unless these silly speculators are helped out of the scrape into which they have plunged themselves; but though this may serve to gull a few simpletons, no man of common-sense will be deceived by it. The drama is indeed in a sad condition if its existence is inseparably connected with that of Drury Lane Theatre. These gentlemen thought fit to embark their money in a hazardous speculation; year after year they entrusted the conduct of it to men whose incapacity for the occupation had become woefully apparent; and now they are utterly ruined, they appeal to the generosity of the town. Fudge ! ” Eventually the sum required was obtained, and 2G0 EDMUND KEAN. advertisements were issued, inviting tenders from those willing to rent the theatre. Amongst those who were desirous of becoming lessees were Thomas Dibdin, Samuel Arnold, Edmund Kean, and Robert William Elliston. The proposal of the latter to take the theatre for fourteen years, to expend seven thousand pounds on the building during that time, to pay eight thousand pounds rent for the first year, nine thousand for the second year, and ten thousand for the remainder of his term, was accepted. For security he gave certain free¬ hold, copyhold, and leasehold estates, valued at twenty- five thousand pounds, and on the 7th of August, 1819, he was declared the accepted candidate. The theatre was to re-open in September, and mean¬ while, the new lessee was overwhelmed by applications for engagements. Recognizing Kean’s worth, Elliston wrote hoping he would co-operate with the new management; but the tragedian, feeling disappointed at being outbid by Elliston, whose former treatment lie 'had never forgotten, declared he would never act under his authority in any establishment whatsoever; and as regards Drury Lane Theatre, he would rather pay the forfeit of his bond—a thousand pounds—than enter the house under the present lessee. Elliston begged his reconsideration of the statement, probably made in a moment of excitement, offered him such con¬ cessions as he desired, and added, “ I shall think it no degradation to play Cassio to your Othello.” Kean, in reply, indulged in a somewhat satirical strain— “ Sir, “ I congratulate yourself and the public on your accession to the diadem of Drury Lane, wearied anu kean's letter to elliston. 2G1 disgusted as all sensible people must have been with the stultified dynasty of the last two seasons. The lovers of the drama will hail with rapture a minister to their amusements so transcendent in his art and so mature in experience as Robert William Elliston. With regard to myself, I expressed my determination at the close of the last season to leave England. My arrange¬ ments are made. Cras ingens iterabimus cequor —I quit the kingdom! This has not been kept a secret. On my return I may treat with you ; but it will not be con¬ sonant with my feelings to act in any theatre where I have not the full appropriation of my own talents. But I shall allow the field open to my compeers, and heartily wish success to all aspirants—this for the sake of the drama, which should be immortal. I have prepared Mrs. Kean to answer any inquiries that may be necessary in my absence. Richards and Hamlets grow on every hedge. Grant you may have a good crop. Yours, "E. Kean. “ P.S. If I should go by water to the nether world, I shall certainly relate to our great master, you thought it no degradation to act his Cassio.” Whilst Elliston was in a state of uncertainty regarding Kean, he received a note from Mrs. Kean, saying a letter had arrived that morning from her husband addressed to his solicitor, requesting the latter would tender the penalty of one thousand pounds, and receive his client’s articles. She, however, took the liberty of stating that Mr. Kean’s friends had prevailed on him to continue his engagement at Drury Lane, and begged 262 EDMUND KEAN. * Mr. Elliston would write her a few lines mentioning what time he wished to meet her husband. Whilst Drury Lane play-house remained closed Elliston had the interior handsomely decorated, and to inaugurate the new management, invited two hundred guests to a ball held in the theatre, when the stage was devoted to dancers, and the salon converted to a supper-room. Elliston having secured a competent company of tragedians, comedians, and singers of ballad operas, opened on the 4th of October, 1819, with Wild Oats, and an after-piece called Loch and Key. Whilst in Edinburgh in October, Kean had amongst o ’ O other characters represented Macbeth in a manner greatly delightful to his audiences; so gratified indeed by his performance were they, that several of these worthy citizens resolved on giving him a pledge of their appreciation, and selected as the most appropriate a sword of antique fashion and Highland make, orna¬ mented with some of the most valuable precious stones which Scotland produces. On one side the blade was engraved the words, “ To Edmund Kean, Esq., as a tribute of admiration of his splendid talents from his friends at Edinburgh ; ” and on the other side, “ This sword was presented to Edmund Kean, Esq., to be worn by him when he appears on the stage as Macbeth, King of Scotland, November, 1819.” This was forwarded him on behalf of the subscribers by Sir John Sinclair, who in the accompanying letter said, the tragedy of Macbeth was the greatest effort of dramatic genius the world had yet produced, “ and none have hitherto attempted to represent the Scottish tyrant who has done, that could possibly do, more justice to the character than the gentleman to whom PRESENTATION OF A SWORD TO KEAN. 2G3 I have now the honour of addressing myself.” He added to the interest of the letter by stating, there was reason to believe Shakespeare collected materials for the tragedy of Macbeth on the spot where many of the incidents took place. “ It is recorded,” he states, “ in Guthrie’s History of Scotland , that Queen Elizabeth sent some English actors to the court of her successor James, which was then held at Perth, and it is supposed that Shakespeare was one of the number. The idea receives strong confirmation from the following striking circumstance. The castle of Dunsinane is situated about seven or eight miles from Perth. When I examined some years ago the remains of that castle, and the scenes in its neighbourhood, I found that the traditions of the country people were identically the same as the story represented by Shakespeare ; that there was but one exception. The tradition is, that Macbeth endeavoured to escape when he found the castle no longer tenable. Being pursued by Macduff, he ran up an adjoining hill, but instead of being slain in single combat by the Thane of Fife (which Shakespeare preferred, as being a more interesting dramatic incident), the country people said that in despair he threw him¬ self over a precipice, at the bottom of which there still remains the Giant’s grave, where it is supposed Macbeth was buried.” Kean received the gift with great delight, and thanked his friends in grateful terms. On his return to London he made his appearance on the Drury Lane stage as Coriolanus, but the character being wholly unsuited to him, his performance was far removed from a success. This unsatisfactory result of great pains and careful study irritated him somewhat unreasonably 264 EDMUND KEAN. against the new management; and a few nights later, an oversight on the part of a printer gave him an opportunity of threatening to free himself from a con¬ tract which he deemed a bondage. He had long since made it a point that his name should appear on the play-bills in letters larger than those of any other actor; and on renewing his engagement to the committee in January, 1818, a special clause guaranteed that his name “ should be continued in the bills of performance in the same manner as it is at present/' Now it was known Elliston wished to have the names of all the company printed in the same size, but was obliged to grant Kean’s desire on this point. One evening, how¬ ever, the tragedian’s name appeared in the same type as that of the other performers, and next morning a note from his solicitor informed Elliston the contract between actor and manager had been cancelled by this breach of agreement. Elliston hastened to explain the compositor was alone responsible for the error, which he hoped would never occur again, expressed his regret, and finally succeeded in convincing Kean this departure from the usual custom was not intended as an affront. Thereon peace was made, and the tragedian prepared for his first representation in London of King Lear. ^ In consequence of the madness of George III., the performance of this great tragedy concerning a dis¬ traught monarch had for long been prohibited to the stage; but the record of His Majesty’s miserable life ending after a seclusion of many years, on the 20th of January, 1820, the interdict was removed, and the play announced for representation at Drury Lane. Great were the expectations with which the public looked forward to the occasion, and many were the 265 PREPARING FOR KING LEAR. preparations made for the event by the management. Kean had long desired to act the part, in which he felt his great powers would find a fitting task. He now carefully studied the character of the grief-stricken Lear, and frequented St. Luke’s and Bethlehem lunatic asylums, that he might observe the effects of madness before simulating it on the stage. In these days it had been the custom to present this fine tragedy as mangled and destroyed by Nahum Tate. Betterton, Garrick, and Kemble had acted this version, in which Edgar is made the lover of Cordelia, on whose union the king, recovering his wits and his kingdom in the last act, bestows a nuptial blessing. Unfortunately, Kean followed the example of his predecessors in playing this travestie, which Elliston must furthermore alter so as to make Shakespeare presentable to the public. Accordingly, the manager might be found daily in his private room at the theatre, his coat exchanged for a dressing-gown, his hair thrust up from his forehead, and standing out from his head after the manner of a tragic poet in a moment of inspiration, a pen behind his ear, another in his mouth, and on the desk before him a quire of paper, beside an open folio of Shakespeare. King Lear was subse¬ quently published, and sold by the fruit-women of the theatre, as “ adapted to the stage by Robert William Elliston, Esq.” Being accustomed to cater for the taste of the Surrey and the Olympic audiences, Elliston resolved to bring out Lear , with all the melodramatic display the tragedy would by the fullest licence admit. To the production of the storm scene his ingenuity was particularly directed. Some time before he had seen a mechanical exhibition, EDMUND KEAN. 2G6 in Spring Gardens, by means of which striking scenic effects were imitated, which he believed would prove successful at Drury Lane; but on trial the machinery was found worthless on account of the great size of the stage. However, a hurricane he must have, and eventually he succeeded in obtaining a scene described in the bills as, after the celebrated picture by Loutherburg of a storm on land.” For this he had monstrous billows painted, and trees erected which swayed backwards and forwards with a creak¬ ing sound, the boughs of each having separate leaves that rustled in the wind. Every machine in the theatre capable of spitting fire, spouting rain, or bellowing thunder was pressed into service, whilst overhead were revolving prismatic coloured trans¬ parencies that cast continually changing supernatural tints, supposed to contribute to the weird character of the situation. The result on the first night was not all the judicious could desire, for King Lear for one instant was seen in a pea-green light, in the next in pale blue, and occasionally, in the event of a momentary cessation of the rotatory motion of the lantern, his head was bathed in purple, whilst the lower part of his body was suffused in crimson. More¬ over, the noise of this stage storm was overwhelming— for the carpenters and scene-shifters, each working his sheet of thunder or his rain-box, together with the creaking boughs and rustling leaves, caused such confusion that no word the dethroned monarch spoke could be heard, and the tempest was subdued on the following night by general request. Before the tragedy was produced, Kean requested a short leave of absence, that he might retire into KEAN AND BUCKSTONE. 2 67 the country, and make himself perfect in his part. He therefore went to Hastings, and every day strode backwards and forwards upon a lonely part of the beach reciting his lines. On more than one occasion he was irritated to find his words were not merely addressed to empty air, for his solitude was shared by a companion, a lad who attentively read a book, from which he continually looked up to repeat its contents. At last, overcome by curiosity, Kean ap¬ proached liis companion, and addressing him, said— “ My young friend, I see you are much interested by what you read; may I ask the name of your book ? ” The lad handed it to him, and Kean, to his surprise, saw it was a melodrama then being played at the Surrey Theatre. “I see you have a taste for dramatic literature/’ said the great man; in reply to which the youth informed him his name was John Buckstone, and that he was a member of a theatrical company then staying at Hastings. Kean remarked he was fond of the stage himself, and liked Shakespearean tragedies. “ William Shakespeare,” answered Buckstone, “ is not a gentleman of my acquaintance, but I hope in time to be on speaking terms with him.” “May I inquire,” said Kean, “what parts you act?” On which Buckstone told him he had been engaged o o for general utility, that his company had been doing fairly well in this town until the arrival of Wombwell’s Menagerie, when the good people of Hastings had given their patronage to the wild beasts instead of to the poor players, a change which had caused great distress to the manager and his troop; for, playing to empty houses, they had received no salaries, and their 268 EDMUND KEAN. only hope of being able to pay their debts and leave the town with their honour preserved lay in the benefit season, which was soon to begin. Kean ex¬ pressed much sympathy, and stated his desire to see the theatre, which Buckstone readily offered to show him, and back they walked to the town, the lad hoping he had secured a patron. But as they entered the street a post-chaise drove hastily by, in which Elliston was seated, and no sooner had the manager seen Kean than he stopped the horses and jumped out. “My dear Kean,” he said, “you must return with me to town; business has been ruinous this last week. I must announce you in one of your old characters. 5 ’ Buckstone, hearing his companion’s name, fell back with astonishment. “ But I came here,” said the tragedian, “ to study my new part.” “ I know that; but I want you to return at once.” “Well, I will make a bargain with you,” answered Kean. “ If you remain and play with me for the bene¬ fit of the unfortunate company here to-morrow night, I will leave with you next morning.” And Elliston agreeing to this, the Merchant of Venice was acted the following evening to a crowded house, and the players were not only released from pressing diffi¬ culties, but were in possession of a sufficient sum to carry them to Dover. In this manner did Buck¬ stone, who subsequently became a famous comedian, make the acquaintance of Edmund Kean. Before Lear could be produced at Drury Lane, Harris of Covent Garden announced the tragedy for perform¬ ance on his stage. He had requested Macreadv to take KEAN AS KING LEAR. 2G9 the part of the king, but that actor, neither desiring comparison with Kean, nor willing to hurry through the study of a great part, promptly refused, stating at the same time he would appear in any other char¬ acter in the play. Harris therefore engaged Booth, who had recently been performing at the Surrey Theatre, to act Lear, whilst Macready was cast for Edmund, and Charles Kemble for Edgar. It was produced at Covent Garden on the 13th of April, 1820, and proving a failure, was acted but three nights. On the 24th of the same month it was played at Drury Lane. The high anticipations entertained of Kean’s performance were fully realized. In the first act his bearing and manner were majestic, without any approach to mock dignity; the rebuke to Cordelia, and his sudden change of intentions towards her, because of her apparent coldness, seemed the result of wounded pride in a monarch accustomed through life to have his will and wishes prevail in all things. His anger with Goneril was finely shown, and the curse was delivered with the tremendous force of his great powers. Throwing him¬ self on his knees, he lifted up his arms, flung his head back, and breathed forth with awful solemnity and bitter woe this terrible and blasting prayer. The next scene has been described as the most finished of the whole performance, “ and certainly the noblest exe¬ cution of lofty genius that the modern stage has witnessed, always excepting the same actor’s closing scene in the third act of Othello .” In counterfeiting madness his art was displayed in the highest perfection; his hands were as wandering and unsettled as his senses, and as little under the habit of control or will; his eyes in their vacant gaze EDMUND KEAN. 270 or fierce light were terrible to behold. One critic declared Kean’s performance as not unworthy of the character; and adds, “ This is the highest and most comprehensive general praise that need, or perhaps can, be given to it; and nothing but this was want¬ ing to fix and consummate Mr. Kean’s fame. The genius of Shakespeare is the eternal rock on which the temple of this great actor’s reputation must now rest, the 4 obscene birds’ of criticism may try in vain to reach its summit and defile it; and the restless waves of envy and ignorance may beat against its foundations unheeded, for their noise ‘ cannot be heard so high.’ ; ’ As will have been seen by his letter to Elliston, Kean thought of visiting America, an idea that gradu¬ ally resolved itself into a decision. At the end of the summer season, 1820, his engagement at Drury Lane ended, and he was then free to transfer his services where he pleased. For his benefit on the evening of June 12th he was announced to appear for the first time as Jaffier in Venice Preserved , and as the Admirable Crichton in a piece bearing that name, written for him by Dibdin. As Crichton he was to sing, dance, fence, recite, give imitations of other actors, and finally play harlequin. That he who was capable of rousing vast audiences to enthusiasm and moving them to tears should condescend to cut capers as a harlequin, was an eccentricity which as sorely grieved his friends as it certainly delighted his enemies. On the night for which his performance was announced a great throng filled the house; not only was every available seat occupied, but numbers stood in the lobbies, hoping some chance would eventually give them a view of the stage. PREPARES TO VISIT AMERICA. 271 Throughout the tragedy Kean’s acting was powerful and pathetic, affecting and dignified, and the final scene roused the wildest enthusiasm. With mingled feelings the audience then waited for the after-piece. When the curtain rose again Kean was found seated at a piano, singing an original song, which was applauded and encored. He then fenced with his usual ability, and was victorious over his antagonist, a professor of the art named O’Shaugnessy. He next danced a pas de deux with Miss Yalancy in a manner that drew cheers from the beholders ; but suddenly he stood still, drew up one foot, and limped off the stage amidst great applause. This ended the first act. Before the curtain rose on the next scene, Russell the stage manager came forward and stated, that Kean having sprained his ankle in the last pirouette , it would be impossible for him to perform the part of harlequin as he had intended, but he would endeavour to continue the less laborious part of the entertainment. The drop scene being raised, Kean was discovered in a great arm-chair, from which he gave the imitations promised of John Kemble, sang after the manner of Charles Incledon, and caricatured Munden, Harley, and Dowton in a manner that caused universal laughter. The receipts of the house on this evening amounted almost to seven hundred pounds. The season at Drury Lane ended on the 8th of July, but Elliston informed the public his theatre would re-open on the 15th of August, for the purpose of afford¬ ing Kean an opportunity of playing his principal characters before his departure for America. And in order to give additional interest to the tragedian’s fare¬ well, Booth was engaged, and played Richmond, Pierre, and logo to Kean’s Richard III., Jafficr, and Othello. 272 EDMUND KEAN. On the 16th of September Kean played for the last time in London before his departure for America. The character selected by him for the occasion was Richard III., and his acting was marked by its usual brilliancy and effectiveness. At the conclusion of the tragedy he was loudly called for, and came forward, seeming much agitated. The pit rose and cheered lustily, the gallery waved its hats and handkerchiefs, to which expressions of approbation he bowed repeatedly. It was not until several minutes elapsed that silence was obtained, and he was enabled to address the house. He then said— “ Ladies and gentlemen, it is with pain that I announce to you that a long period must elapse before I can again have the honour of appearing before you ; and when I reflect on the uncertainty of life, the sentiment will intrude itself, that this may possibly be my last performance on these boards.” Here he was interrupted by cries of “ No, no, we hope not, Kean.” He then continued, in a voice betraying great agitation —“ I am unable to proceed. I cannot but remember with gratitude that this is the spot where I first enjoyed public favour. I was then a wanderer and unknown, but received here shelter, and, I may add, reputation. If ever I have deviated from that height to which your favour has raised me, it is to you only that I should apologize. During eight years your favour has been my protection and encouragement, my present en¬ joyment, my future hope. It has been to me a shield against the shafts of calumny to which I have been exposed; it is the cargo that freights my venture to another clime. Ladies and gentlemen, my heart is too full to add more. With deep senti- kean's first appearance in new York. 273 merits of esteem and gratitude, I respectfully bid you farewell.” Before quitting London he gave a bust of himself to the theatre, which was placed on a pedestal in the principal green-room, the ceremony of presentation being followed by a supper to the company. From this pleasant gathering one was missing who had acted with Kean full many a time. Alexander Rae had made his exit from life’s stage a little while before. Kean performed some nights in Liverpool, whence, in October, he set sail for America. CHAPTER XII. i On the last day of November, 1820, Edmund Kean made his first appearance in New York. The one theatre of which the city at this time boasted had been burned down the previous year, and the company had taken temporary refuge in a small house in Anthony Street. The excitement caused by his arrival had been great, many people travelling from Philadelphia to see him, and the building was crowded to excess. Accord¬ ing to the National Gazette , no actor had ever appeared in New York with such prepossessions in his favour, or such prejudices to encounter; “ and we candidly con¬ fess,” says the journal, “ we were amongst that number who entertained the latter. We were assured that certain imitations of him were exact likenesses—and that certain actors were good copies; that his excel¬ lences consisted in sudden starts, frequent and unex¬ pected pauses, in short, a complete knowledge of what is termed stage-trick, which we hold in contempt. But T 274 EDMUND KEAN. he had not finished his soliloquy before our prejudices gave way, and we saw the most complete actor, in our judgment, that ever appeared on our boards. The imitations we had seen were indeed likenesses, but it was the resemblance of copper to gold, and the copies no more like Kean ‘ than I to Hercules.’ ” Night after night a rush which well-nigh proved disastrous to many was made to secure places at the theatre, so that a notice was issued by the management, stating that in order “to prevent the riotous scenes which have disturbed the peace of the town in the vicinity of the theatre for several days and nights past, in efforts to forestall tickets, the managers have directed that the box-tickets and the whole lower tier, and fourteen of the second row next to the stage, shall be sold by public auction, the premiums from the choice to be appropriated to the Massachusetts’ General Hos¬ pital/’ But though great audiences flocked to see him, so that the receipts of the theatre, which previously but amounted to a thousand dollars a week, now reached that sum nightly, the critics could not agree concerning the merits of his acting. One writer remarked, amongst other objections, that his “ local pronunciation does him an injury in the country where we have the pure English.” Of the censure or praise of the press Kean took little heed, satisfied that his efforts drew crowded houses, and gained him enthusiastic applause. In social circles his society was courted by the most prominent and cultured citizens, amongst whom was John William Francis, a medical doctor, notable as an ardent admirer of genius, and a hospitable host of cele¬ brities. In his interesting reminiscences, Dr. Francis has left us his impressions of Kean, for whom he enter- dr. Francis's opinion of kean. 275 tained a lively friendship. “ He won my feelings and admiration from the moment of my first interview with him,” says the worthy doctor. “ Association and observ¬ ation convinced me, that he added to a mind of various culture the resources of original intellect; that he was frank and open-hearted, often too much so, to tally with worldly wisdom. I was taught by his expositions in private, as well as by his histrionic displays, that the great secret of the actor's art depends upon a scrutin¬ izing analysis of the mutual play of mind and matter, the reflex power of mental transactions on organic structure. His little but well-wrought strong frame seemed made up of a tissue of nerves. Every sense appeared capable of immediate impression, and such impression having within itself a flexibility truly won¬ drous. The drudgery of his early life had given a pliability to his muscular powers that rendered him the most dexterous harlequin, the most graceful fencer, the most finished gentleman, the most insidious lover, the most terrific tragedian.” Examining his character, which he found to be of unusual versatility, and studying his genius, which lie discovered to possess unsuspected capacities, l)r. Francis was charmed by the tragedian. The manners, habits, and customs of Shakespeare's age were familiar to him ; he had studied phrenology, and was a physiognomist of rare discernment. “His analysis of the characters who visited him, to do homage to his renown, often struck me with astonishment.” Intuitively he gauged the feelings of an audience the moment he appeared before them ; he was curious in searching into causes; he could echo the warblings of birds, imitate the voices of beasts, and the peculiarities of bis fellow 276 EDMUND KEAN. actors; was a ventriloquist, and sang Moore’s melodies with great feeling and much sweetness. He considered Shakespeare the hardest study to grapple with, but when once the poet’s lines were fixed in his memory they remained there, whilst there were parts of modern dramas he could not retain. Though daily in his com¬ pany, Dr. Francis states he never saw him look at the great dramatist’s plays save once, when he was about to act King John; and though he seldom attended rehearsals, yet he never once disappointed the public, even “ when suffering from bodily ills that might have kept a hero on his couch.” He considered the third act of Othello his greatest performance, and he was proud of representing Shakespearean characters; “ but he told me a hundred times,” said his friend, “ that he detested the profession of an actor.” Before leaving New York a public dinner was given him, and his health being drank, he expressed his delight in having such an excellent opportunity of offering, “ in the simple language of the heart, my most grateful acknowledgments to the citizens of New York.” When a professional man was fortunate enough to blend private esteem with public approbation, the speaker said, he might be considered to have attained the very extent of his ambition. The union of these feelings had been so manifest during his short residence in the city, that he would place their records in eternal memory. “ Nor does the influence of your favour,” he continued, “ extend only to the stranger whom you have so generously welcomed. There are hearts con¬ joined to mine by ties of affection and alliance, which are this moment, perhaps, anticipating with joy my professional success in this country, and in which will HE JOURNEYS TO PHILADELPHIA. 277 arise a permanent sentiment of gratitude for the favour I have here experienced. It is there, gentlemen, in my domestic circle, that I shall dwell upon the retro¬ spect of those hours; it is there I shall instruct the being entrusted to my care to respect and love the patrons of his father; and while the pages of your history record achievements that give lustre to the political and warlike character of your country, be assured that the English actor will, to the last hour, extol the merits of your private worth, and gratefully transmit his Columbian laurels to the charge of his posterity/’ Leaving New York he journeyed to Philadelphia; but here, likewise, his reception by the press was not wholly favourable. The Literary Gazette murmured against “the foreign tragedian,” who, “though suffi- ciently distinguished and exalted at home, is to be mag¬ nified and glorified here, for his own satisfaction and other discernible objects.” The same paper, criticizing his Sir Giles Overreach, states he drew a considerable auditory, comprising as large a portion of the cultivated and acute understandings as would be found in any casual assemblage of like number in any other of our cities; and adds, that during the first four acts of the play no indications of strong emotion were given by the house, for “ an uncommon apathy appeared to reign, considering the ordinary proneness to clapping, and the kindly mood which prevail whenever an actor of much celebrity is treading the boards.” But another paper, speaking of the same performance, relates that the audience was roused to the highest pitch of admiration, and cries of “ Bravo ” “ bore testimony to the wondrous powers of this extraordinary man.” 278 EDMUND KEAN. His success will perhaps be better estimated from a statement made in one of his letters. “ Everything/’ he writes, “ both on and off the stage, in this country has exceeded my most sanguine expectations. I am getting a great deal of money, and all is going well. I am living in the best style, travelling magnificently, and transmitting to England a thousand pounds each month/' The manager of the Philadelphia Theatre, William B. Wood, in his Personal Pecollections of the Stage , savs Kean at once satisfied his audiences that his vast fame had been fairly acquired. “ The verdict, however, was not perfectly unanimous; some determined critics, who had persuaded themselves that G. F. Cooke's loss was never to be supplied, were on the first night loud in condemnation of the new actor, whom they honoured with the names of quack, mountebank, and vulgar impostor. Strangely enough, his second appearance at once converted these judges into his most enthusiastic admirers. The little hero acted Richard III. with marvellous spirit, although upon his first entrance his agitation was so strong as to be visible to those near the stage.” Kean’s playing in Philadelphia led to a cus¬ tom heretofore unknown in that city, but subsequently followed. “ I allude,” says Wood, “ to the habit of calling out performers, dead or alive, after the curtain has dropped, to receive a tribute of extra applause. The absurdity of dragging out before the curtain a deceased Hamlet, Macbeth, or Richard in an exhausted state, merely to make a bow, or probably worse, to attempt an asthmatic address in defiance of all good taste, and solely for the gratification of a few unthinking partisans, or a few lovers of noise and tumult, is one MANAGER WOOD’S REMARKS. 279 which we date with us from this time. It has always been a matter of wonder with me, that the better part of the audience should tolerate these fooleries. Can anything be more ridiculous than that an actor, after labouring through an arduous character, a protracted combat, and the whole series of simulated expiring agonies, should instantly revive, and appear panting before the curtain, to look and feel like a fool, and to destroy the little illusion which he has been endeavouring to create.” Behind the curtain, as well as before, Kean created interest and surprise. A hundred stories concerning the Wolves’ Club, his eccentric habits, his tame lion, his midnight rides, his visits to taverns, had preceded him, and the company at the Philadelphia Theatre were prepared to find him cantankerous, arrogant, and offensive; they were therefore happily disappointed at discovering him to be a mild, unassuming man, free from affectation of superiority. His suggestions regard¬ ing stage business were given in a manner that secured their immediate adoption; and the deficiencies of the humbler actors were treated by him with an indulgence that created in the most careless a desire to excel Wood narrates, that Kean’s presence in the green¬ room was ever a source of enjoyment, and adds, “ I speak of him and his deportment throughout a long series of performances. In private society, particularly in the company of ladies, he was distinguished for his modest and unassuming manner as well as conversation. One of his weaknesses, and a cause of his ruin, was the allowing himself to be beset by a crowd of idlers, always found ready to attach themselves to the skirts of each new actor, singer, dancer, or equestrian. These thoughtless 280 EDMUND KEAN. persons were in the constant habit of calling at the stage-door after the play, in order to waylay and carry him off to some late supper or party at the moment of extremest exhaustion from his labours. A protracted sitting and a late banquet were sure to leave him the ensuing morning weak and enfeebled. His strength of o o o constitution, however, would enable him to rally for the night’s exertion, too often to be followed by the same indiscretion. Unlike Cooke, who could bear two or three bottles of port wine, Kean would be overset by as many glasses. He was aware of his folly in sub¬ mitting to these midnight wastes of time and health, but wanted firmness to resist them. I frequently remained with him in his dressing-room after per¬ formance for several hours, in order to tire out these persevering tempters, who would remain in their carriages at the stage-door with the most indelicate pertinacity. On one occasion we stayed inside the build¬ ing until nearly three o’clock before the rumbling of the carriages announced the departure of his persecu¬ tors. It was impossible not to feel a deep interest for a man who, too weak to resist temptation, possessed sensibilities of conscience and character which brought the deepest contrition and shame on every occasion of offence.” From Philadelphia he journeyed to Boston, where he met with an enthusiastic reception, fully equal to that which Jenny Lind had experienced some time before. He was announced to play for nine evenings, and the rush to secure places for his first representation was so great, that the managers of the theatre, Messrs. Powell and Dickson, auctioned the tickets for the remaining performances, the premiums realized being KEAN RE-VISITS BOSTON. 281 given to charitable institutes in the city, every one of which benefited by the universal desire to see the famous actor. On the 12th of February, 1821, he began his engage¬ ment by appearing as Richard III., and won the stormy applause of a large audience. His acting, fresh, vigorous, and natural, became the leading topic of con¬ versation, whilst his society was eagerly sought after. Kean was delighted by the enthusiasm he created, the courtesy he received, and the reward his exertions gained. After the receipt of the first thousand dollars a week, he shared with the management, and had a clear benefit, so that he received for nine nights upwards of six hundred and thirty pounds. So great was his popularity, that he was then re-engaged for six nights at a salary of fifty pounds a night and a full benefit, which added a further sum of about four hundred and forty pounds. This additional stay by no means ex¬ hausted his popularity, for when at the conclusion of his last representation he was called before the curtain, there was a universal cry asking him to prolong his visit. For this he returned the house his hearty thanks, and regretted his engagements in the South prevented him from complying with its wishes, but should any circumstance arise of which he could avail himself to re-visit “ the literary emporium of the new world/’ he would seize it with heartfelt satisfaction. . Three months later—early in May—having concluded his engagements in the South, Kean expressed his intention of again visiting Boston; whereon Dickson immediately wrote that this was the season when the better and wealthier classes were out of town, and begged him to postpone his re-appearance until autumn. 282 EDMUND KEAN. But Kean, feeling fully satisfied he would draw crowded houses at any time, refused to act on the advice given him, and on the 23rd of May appeared upon the Boston stage as King Lear. Two nights later he played Jaffier, and though the receipts of both performances were devoted to charities, the audiences were not large. On the third evening he was announced to play Richard III., but before dressing looked through a slit in the curtain, and saw there were merely about twenty persons present, on which he sought the managers, and told them he would not act to bare walls. Dickson strongly urged him to play that night, and keep his faith with the public, after which he would release him from his engagement; but Kean refused, saying he would leave Boston next morning; and inviting his manager to come out and have a parting drink, he took his departure from the theatre. But scarce had he gone when the boxes began to fill, and presently a fair house had assembled, word of which was sent him, with a request that he would return; but he peremptorily declined to act that night. Meanwhile as the curtain remained down, though the hour for beginning the tragedy had passed,-, the audience became impatient, when the stage manager went forward and said, he felt regret and embarrass¬ ment in informing them that Mr. Kean had refused to perform that evening. He wished to know if those present would desire the play to proceed without Mr. Kean. To this question came an affirmative from all parts of the house; but when the curtain rose a demand was made for the stage manager, who, on appearing, was asked why Kean had refused to play. THE PRESS CENSURES KEAN. 2S3 He replied, because the house was not crowded. The tragedy of Richard III . then began, and was allowed to proceed without further interruption. Kean's refusal to act, being regarded by the Bostonians as an insult, created general indignation; and as he had previously been lauded, so was he now abused. The press taking the popular side, censured him, and incited the public to fresh wrath. The general tone of its remarks may be gathered from the following paragraph published in one of the leading organs—• “ONE CENT REWARD. “ Run away from the ‘ Literary emporium of the New World,’ a stage player calling himself Kean. He may be easily recognized by his misshapen trunk, and his coxcomical Cockney manners. His face is as white as his own froth, and his eyes are as dark as indigo. All persons are cautioned against harbouring the aforesaid vagrant, as the undersigned pays no more debts of his contracting after this date. As lie has violated his pledged faith to me, I deem it my duty thus to put my neighbours on their guard against him. “Peter Public” The New York journals likewise waxing wrathful over an action which they magnified into a grave offence, violently abused him, and so great was the animosity they succeeded in rousing against him, that Kean found it necessary to explain his conduct in a long letter addressed to various journals. He was anxious, he said, to preserve the good opinion of the friends who had generously and nobly manifested their 284 EDMUND KEAN. approbation of his character and talents. He was aware he was amenable to public opinion and censure, and if the public voice declared he was in error, he was ready to apologize with all due submission.. But he thought it extraordinary, that though the offence with which he was charged took place in Boston, with the concurrence of the manager and the approbation of his friends, he should have heard nothing of it until his arrival in New York, where “ murmurs of disapprobation were heard, which appeared to me like an overwhelming avalanche at the termination of a brilliant harvest.” He lived by his professional exer¬ tions ; innumerable family claims were satisfied bv each month’s disbursements, and he could not afford to exert his talents without payment. He had re¬ presented two of his principal characters without hope of remuneration, in a town where three months before his efforts had contributed largely to augment the public charities. Seeing but twenty persons in the house on the night when he was to play Richard III., he had considered it better to husband his resources for a more favourable season, and in this decision no disrespect was contemplated towards the audience. “The managers,” he added, “apparently concurred with me, deplored the unfortunate state of the times, and we parted in perfect harmony and confidence.” The present hostility he would not believe was the voice of the public, but the spirit of detraction ever attendant on little minds—a spirit which watches for its prey, and seizes on transient and accidental occurrences to defame and to destroy. That the press of America should be influenced by such feelings, that they should denounce with such acrimony, was to him extraordinary. VINDICATION OF HIS CONDUCT. 285 It had been his intention to leave America at the close of his southern engagements, but he would certainly return to Boston, and in person vindicate his cause during the season, when those who patronized the drama returned to that city. 4 In reply to this letter the managers of the Boston Theatre published a protest, in which they stated, that having suffered not only severe mortification from the disappointment experienced by the public, but heavy pecuniary loss from Keans non-fulfilment of his engage¬ ment, they indulged a hope they would not in addition be accused of concurring in any offence to the public. Mr. Kean had, however, reduced them to the unpleasant alternative of either by silence admitting the truth of his statement regarding them, or of publicly disavowing it; they therefore stated his refusal to perform the part of Bichard III. was not only without their consent, but met from them all the opposition in their power which they thought decorous and gentlemanly. This declar¬ ation was dictated by a sense of the duty they owed to the patrons of the drama; and when they added that he was not to receive any specific sum for his services, but was to share the receipts, it was evident that interest as well as duty would prevent them from concurring in his decision. To this Kean made no reply. His assailants now attacked him with increased and undeserved bitterness and he abandoned the resolution of a^ain visiting o o Boston. In a letter addressed to the press he says— “As I find it impossible for individual efforts to stem the torrent of opposition with which I have to contend, and as I likewise consider it inconsistent with my feelings and character to make additional 28 G EDMUND KEAN. apologies, I have resolved to return to my native country, and beg leave to offer to the public my thanks for that portion of favour bestowed on me, and respectfully bid them farewell. Had I been aware of the enormity of the offence which has excited so much indignation, I certainly should not have permitted my feelings to interfere with my interest. The ‘ very head and front of my offending > amounts to this—an actor, honoured and patronized in his native country, and enjoying a high rank in the drama, withheld his services under the impression that they were not duly appre¬ ciated ; and so much do I fear the frailty of my nature, that it is not impossible, under the same circumstances, I might be tempted to act in the same manner. I therefore think it proper to leave the theatre open to such compeers whose interest it may be to study the customs, and not offend them by my presence any longer. “ Before I left England I was apprised how powerful an agent the press was in a free country, and I was admonished to be patient under the lashes that awaited me; and at a great sacrifice of feeling I have submitted to their unparalleled severity and injustice. I was too proud to complain, and suffered in silence; but I have no hesitation in saying, that the conduct I pursued was that which every man would pursue under the same circumstances in the country where Shakespeare was born and Garrick acted. “Again I disclaim any intention of offending; and although every natural and domestic tie, as well as the public love, await me on my own shores, it is with reluctance and regret I leave my friends in America.” When off Sandy Hook he addressed a farewell letter ERECTING A MONUMENT TO COOKE. 287 to the editor of the Advocate , begging he would impress upon the public mind the fact that he felt the highest admiration and respect for the American public. “ And though,” he added, *' I have temporarily yielded to the torrent of hostility, which I was too proud to contend against, still on the termination of my Drury Lane engagement, I shall return again to share the favour of those friends, whom I shall ever rank foremost in my affections, in whatever clime fortune may dispose me. Before leaving New York he expressed a wish to raise, at his own expense, a monument to George Frederick Cooke, who died in that city in September, 1812 , and was buried in St. Paul’s Church. Neither tablet nor tomb marked the place of his rest—a neglect Kean sought to remedy. He therefore consulted his friend Dr. Francis regarding his desire, and by his advice they waited on Bishop Hobart for permission to have Cooke’s remains removed from the stranger’s vault where they lay, and placed in some suitable spot in the adjoining burial- ground, over which a monument might be erected. To this the bishop, who was favourably impressed by Kean’s manner,readily gave his consent, and the work was begun. One summer night, when all tumult was hushed and the world was calm, Kean and his friend set out for this city of the dead lying peaceful beneath the pale light of moon and stars. Workmen awaited them, lanterns were lighted, the heavy doors of the dark and humid vault forced open, and Kean, who exhibited a strong and morbid interest in the exhumation, descended to this charnel-house, where strangers in a strange land, home- less or nameless, found rest and peace in darkness and oblivion. The case in which the poor player had lain 238 EDMUND KEAN. lor over eight years was identified, and when, by Kean’s request, the lid was raised, the yellow glare of lanterns fell upon a fleshless, eyeless skull, a few bones, and a hand¬ ful of dust; this being all that was left of one whose soul had moved thousands to fear and pity, to hope and despair. Kean, ever susceptible to impressions, gazed with sadness at this most pitiful sight—the sternest rebuke which human vanity can know; speculated as to when his turn should come to perish in like manner; spoke words of charity towards the dead ; and byway of recalling his memory in the future, as well as in recol¬ lection of this hour and scene, removed and carried away with him the bones of the fore-finger of the skeleton’s right hand. Leaving the vault, a little procession of dark figures carrying a coffin in their midst silently crossed the grass-grown mounds, and lowered their burden in a new-made grave. Above this spot was placed, on the 4th of June, 1821, a pedestal supporting an urn with the following inscription— ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF 6co x gc Jfrtbtrirh Coohc, BY EDMUND KEAN, OF THE THEATRE ROYAL, IRURY LAKE. 1821. “ Three kingdoms claimed his birth ; Both hemispheres pronounce his worth.” The day on which the monument was placed in the graveyard of St. Paul’s Church terminated Kean’s first visit to America. In the afternoon he repaired to this ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND. 289 spot, and, overcome by various feelings, wept freely. “ I gazed upon him,” writes Dr. Francis, “ with more interest than had ever before been awakened by his stage representations. I fancied—and it was not altogether fancy—that I saw a child of genius on whom the world at large bestowed its loftiest praises, while he himself was deprived of that solace which the world cannot give—the sympathies of the heart.” Next day he was on his way to England. On the 19th of July, 1821, the date on which George IV. was crowned, Kean arrived in Liverpool, from where he at once wrote to the manager of Drury Lane— “ My dear Elliston, “ With those feelings which an Englishman can alone understand, I have touched once again my native land. I shall be at the stage-door of Drury at noon on Monday next. Do you think a few nights now would be of advantage to you ? I am full of health and ambition, both of which are at your service, or they will run riot. “ Edmund Kean.” This note was handed to the manager by a friend of the tragedian, who suggested it would doubtless prove gratifying to Kean if his return were marked by some show of attention. Elliston, believing he wished to act on Monday evening, immediately had enor¬ mous play-bills printed and posted all over the town, respectfully informing the public that, in consequence of a letter received on Saturday from Kean, he “had the gratification of announcing that this eminent actor will re-appear as Richard III. on Monday.” u 290 EDMUND KEAN. Arrangements were also made to receive Kean in a manner which would gratify him. Accordingly, towards noon on Monday a procession wound its way through the streets of London, and drew up at the entrance to Drury Lane Theatre. First came six outriders in livery, followed by Elliston in his carriage drawn by four grays; next Kean in a carriage drawn by four black horses; then three members of the company drawn by four piebald ponies; and finally, a troop of horsemen brought up the rear. As the hero of the procession descended, ringing cheers were given by the crowd which had followed in his wake. This reception pleased him, and although he was surprised to find himself advertised to play that evening, and fatigued by his journey, he appeared before a densely-crowded house, that greeted him with shouts of welcome and demonstrations of joy. He had been announced to appear as Brutus on the following evening, but was obliged to request his audience to grant him a day’s rest. On Wednesday he acted Shylock, on Thursday Othello, and on the following Monday Bichard III., which, owing to his ill-health, was his last appearance that season. By November he was quite recovered, and prepared to meet his old friends, the public. During the follow¬ ing season he appeared as Hastings in Jane Shore, 9 Jaffier in Venice Preserved , De Montford in Joanna Baillie’s tragedy of that name, Sir Pertinax Mac- sycophant in the Man of the World , Osmond in the Castle Spectre , and Don Felix in the Wonder , in none of which did he add to his success. In the summer of 1822 he went on a professional tour, and whilst in the Isle of Bute saw a charming cottage built on the banks of Loch Fad, and surrounded by wild and picturesque 291 AN ASSEMBLAGE IN MID-AIR. scenery. Of this building he desired to become the possessor, and entering into communication with its owner, Lord Bute, he immediately purchased the property. Here, with his wife and son, he settled for the autumn, busied himself with improvements he intended to make, planted a mulberry tree, and selected a spot where he declared he would make a vault for the reception of his remains. While Drury Lane Theatre was closed Elliston had the whole interior of the building reconstructed ; the parapet of the boxes being brought forward five feet, the pit made smaller, and the ceiling bodily lowered fourteen feet, whilst the great salon was lined with looking-glasses, and the pilasters painted to represent Sienna marble; the cost of the whole amounting to twenty-two thousand pounds. In September the ceremony of “ striking the scaffold ” took place, when Elliston bethought of giving a little dinner-party on the scaffolding; and accordingly, a dozen of his friends assembled in mid air, about five feet from the ceiling and fifty from the floor of the pit. Here on a platform that vibrated with every movement, a repast, chiefly consisting of beef-steaks, was cooked and served; wine circulated freely, and wit was exchanged. “ It is amazingly cold here,” said Elliston. shivering. “ That is easily accounted for—we are near the poles,” replied Beazley the architect. The heavy tread of waiters set the whole party in motion, and the manager began to feel somewhat uncomfortable, but sought to hide his nervousness under a joke. “ This is at present our board,” he said ; “ I should be very sorrv if it were our lodging.” " It is your proper place,” replied Wallack, one of 292 EDMUND KEAN. his company. “ You hold the highest situation in the theatre.” Elliston just then accidentally dropped his carving- knife, which fell between two boards, and snapping, went below. “There—there’s a blade in the pit!” he exclaimed. “ And Handel in the orchestra,” added Beazley. Elliston’s health was then proposed, “ and success to him in his adventurous undertaking,” in reply to which the manager rose to return thanks; but at that instant a jarring sound falling on their ears, he asked what this meant. The builder replied, it was merely the labourers who were beginning to untie the cross-pole in order to strike the scaffolding. “ In that case,” Elliston hastened to state, “ the sooner I return thanks for the honour you have done me the better, for I now think it high time to descend.” On which the party broke up. In order to commemorate the alterations made, a brass plate was placed in the centre of the pit bearing the following inscription— GEORGE IV. KING. theatre Slcriul, |pntrj) W* xnt - The interior of this National Theatre was entirely pulled down and rebuilt, in the space of fifty-eight days, and reopened on the 12th of October, 1822, BY ROBERT WILLIAM ELLISTON, Esq. On the day of the opening of Drury Lane Theatre this season Mrs . Garrick died. She icas dressed for attending the play on this very evening. 293 Kean’s LETTER TO ELL1STON. Whilst Kean was still enjoying the tranquillity of his new home, he received a letter from the treasurer of Drury Lane Theatre, stating that the manager had engaged Charles Young to act with him (Kean) during the coming season. Being wrathful at this unexpected intelligence, he immediately wrote the following characteristic letter— “ Roth say, Isle of Bute i Oct. 28 . “ Elliston, “I cannot be in London till Monday the 11th of next month. Advertise me for Richard on that ni^ht. You must forgive my being jealous of my hard-earned laurels. Young has many advantages that I have not —a commanding figure, sonorous voice, and, above all, lordly connections. I kick all such pests to the devil, for I hate a lord. I am therefore coming to meet an opposition made up of my own enemies (which, like locusts, almost darken the sun)—Mr. Young’s friends, and his very great abilities—with nothing but humble genius to support me, a mere ephemeron, at the command of caprice ; the same breath that nourishes the flame this day to-morrow puts it out. Aut Cccsar aut nullus is my text. If I become secondary in any point of view, I shrink into absolute insignificance. “ I have taken a house in Scotland for the purpose of retirement with my family at the termination of my engagements, and all I ask of you is, to let me go with my reputation undiminished. As the Covent Garden hero comes upon my ground the challenger, I have doubtless my choice of weapons; he must play Iago before I act Jaffier. I am told he is wonderfully great in Pierre; if so, I am beaten. This must not be; I 294 EDMUND KEAN. cannot bear it. I would rather go in chains to Botany Bay. I am not ashamed to say I am afraid of the contest. Will you take the thousand pounds and dismiss me ? “Elliston, my clear Elliston, I know you. I see the deep, entangled web you have extended for me; but that Providence which has guided me through all the perils of worldly chicanery, fights for me now, and will defeat the plot, though Contis 1 s Bank flowed into the coffers of my enemy, and its suite composed of lords and auctioneers. “ Yours, “ Kean.” On his return to Drury Lane on the 11th of November, 1822, he played Bichard III.; four evenings later he acted Othello to the Iago of “a gentleman from Liverpool,” and twelve nights after he repeated the same character to the Iago of Charles Young. The contest, as it was felt to be, created an excitement almost equal to that which had awaited the per¬ formance of Kean and Booth a few years previously. Kean, it was felt, would exert his strength to destroy Young’s claims to rivalry; whilst the latter, it was known, would use all endeavours to excel in a combat on which so much depended. The press indeed warned Young of what might be in store for him. “ We saw Junius Brutus Booth, another self-opinionated chief tragedian, try a fall (to use a wrestling, term) with Kean,” says the London Magazine . “ Those who were present on that memorable occasion well know Mr. Kean can be irritated into greatness on great occasions; and if Mr. Young contests the ground with KEAN AND YOUNG AS OTHELLO AND 1AGO. 295 that ardent creature, he will learn a lesson which will be useful to him as long as he remains on the stage.” Young was, however, confident in his own powers, and relying on the popularity he had gained, and the support of his influential friends, entered the lists. During the first two acts he was continually applauded by a brilliant house; his precise method of delivery, cold and dignified action, never moved by a breath of passion or a flash of inspiration, being lauded by the admirers of the Kemble school; but in the third act, when Kean had gathered strength, and betrayed his fervid love and terrible fear, his maddening jealousy and black despair, Young, with his measured tones and careful gestures, was swept as it were from the minds of all present by the overwhelming grandeur of Kean’s acting. o “The agony of his heart,” Hazlitt finely said, speaking of this occasion, “ was the fiery Moorish agony, not cramped in within an actor’s or a schoolman’s confines, but fierce, ungovernable, dangerous. You knew not what he would do next in the madness of his spirit—he knew not himself what he should do. Mr. Young wisely kept to his preconcerted rule, and acted * by rule steadily. The fine third act dragged tediously and miserably over his tongue; and in that passage which we have always regarded as the most terrific and intense piece of dramatic writing ever accomplished— c Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed my lady, know of your love ? ’ he was ineffective. One of the finest instantaneous actions of Kean was his clutching his black hand slowly round his head as though his brain were turning, and then writhing O 0 1 o 296 EDMUND KEAN. round and standing in dull agony with his back to the audience. What other performer would have so forgotten himself? We think Mr. Kean played more intensely on Mr. Booth’s benefit , but then he had a motive and a cue for passion with which Mr. Young was wanting. He had to show that Mr. Booth was not of his quality. No one accuses Mr. Young of approaching him.” From that evening all rivalry between Kean and Young was set at rest. In the course of the same season Elliston announced that, “ in obedience to the suggestion of men of literary eminence from the time of Addison, that the original fifth act of King Lear should be restored, the proprietor deems it his duty to pay deference to such opinion, and on the 10th of February Mr. Kean will conclude the character of Lear as originally written by Shake¬ speare.” It had long been the tragedian’s desire to play the part as set down by the great dramatist; for a London audience, he said, could have no notion of his power until they saw him over the dead body of Cordelia. In this estimate of himself he was not mistaken. The tragic intensity of his grief, the weird agony of his despair, the terrible pathos of his death, moved the hearts of all beholders, and dimmed their eyes with tears. Not satisfied with the position he held at Drury Lane, Charles Young returned to Covent Garden, even as Booth had done when overwhelmed by Kean’s greatness; and Macready, having quarrelled with the management of the latter theatre, was engaged by Elliston at a salary of twenty pounds a night. It was the manager’s desire that Kean and Macready should play in the same pieces, but to this Kean REFUSES TO PLAY WITH MACREADY. 297 would not listen. He “ did not mind Young, but would not act with Macready,” he said. What his objections were he did not state, but his reluctance certainly was not based on a fear of measuring his strength with Macready; and persevering in his resolution in spite of Elliston’s entreaties, the two actors were not included in the same cast. His fame remained undiminished, his playing drew crowds to the theatre, his name was lauded; but meanwhile, a little cloud had gathered on the horizon, which was soon to darken and ruin his life. CHAPTER XIII. Though Edmund Kean had now reached the highest point in his profession, and gained more wealth than he had ever dreamt of possessing, the realization of his ambitions by no means rendered him happy. Be¬ coming nervous, he believed his death was at hand, continually dwelt on the instability of his success, grew uncertain in his temper, melancholy in his moods, and to banish depression, drank deeper than was his wont. It was evident some fear weighed him down, some shadow enveloped him from which he could not escape; the world which should have been fair to his eyes grew dark ; oppression freighted him. Whilst suffering from one of his unhappy moods, he returned home from the theatre one night still dressed in the costume of Richard III., the character he had just been playing—the paint still upon his cheeks, mock jewels yet upon his breast. Entering the sitting-room where his wife and son were reading, he 298 EDMUND KEAN. sullenly flung himself upon a sofa, not speaking until he called for brandy. Presently Mrs. Kean, in her endeavour to soothe and interest him, talked of their son, and remarked, “ Do you know he can act ? ” “ Indeed,” he replied briefly. “ He has just been reciting some speeches to me in an excellent manner, as you will say when you’ve heard him.” She then asked Charles to repeat his performance, which he did, glancing apprehensively now and then at the paint-stained face and dark eyes of his father. When the lad had finished a slight pause followed, which Kean at last broke by saying, “ That will do; go to bed. Good night; but remember, we will have no more acting.” Charles left the room chilled and dismayed, and as the door closed behind him Kean turned to his wfife and said, “ The boy might succeed as an actor; but if he tries, I will cut his throat.” And jumping up he paced the room excitedly, muttering in response to Mrs. Kean’s remonstrance, “ I am the first and shall be the last tragedian of my name. The name shall die with me, and be buried in my coffin.” When by slow degrees his anger had subsided, his wife retired to bed, but scarce had she fallen asleep when she was roused by a noise in the adjoining room, and rising hurriedly, she inquired the cause of the dis¬ turbance, when her husband’s dresser told her he was getting ready his master’s clothes, as he w r as going out for a drive. It w T as then three o’clock in the morning. A hackney coach was sent for, in which Kean placed a favourite spaniel named Portia, a case of pistols, two lighted candles, and a bottle of brandy. He then A NIGHT DRIVE, 299 entered, and bade his dresser mount the box beside the driver; when the latter inquired where he was to go, Kean replied, “ To Hell.” Away they drove until, arriving in the vicinity of Waterloo Place, Kean told the coach¬ man to stop, and bidding him await his return, got out and disappeared. Minutes lengthened to hours, and hours brought day, but he failed to make his appear¬ ance, whereon the coachman drove back to the tragedian’s home, from which he was yet absent. Eccentricities such as these were not uncommon occur¬ rences in his life. On one occasion, after he had played Bnitus, he suddenly expressed his desire to drive over to Sireatham on “ an experimental project,” as he stated, to recover the exhaustion caused by his acting. On his way through Brixton he was attracted by a crowd around a public-house, which he immediately joined. It was principally composed of drovers, who had been drinking freely, one of whom was having a dispute with a ratcatcher, in which Kean at once took part, and offered to act as judge ; on this the drover saluted him with some unfriendly words, when the tragedian seizing* a pint mug, flung it in his face. The drover immediately jumped from a barrel of herrings on which he had been sitting, and rushed at his assailant, on which a free fight took place, that ended badly for Kean, who, bruised and bleeding, was put into his coach and driven home. Indeed as time passed his conduct became more reck¬ less, his spirits more depressed, the cause of which soon become apparent to all. In the summer of 1824 he and his wife, whilst at Boulogne on their homeward way, accidentally hearing that Mr. Grattan, the friend of their earlier days, was living with his family in the town, hastened to call on 300 EDMUND KEAN. them. Kean and his wife had just returned from a second visit to Paris and Switzerland, and were now waiting for a boat to carry them to Dover. «. Whilst they were recounting some details of their journey to the host and hostess, an old theatrical manager named Penley, whose troupe, well-known in France and Flan¬ ders, was then playing at Boulogne, desired to see Kean, and being admitted to his presence recounted his many hardships, dwelt on his ill-luck, mentioned the poverty of his company, and finally besought Kean to act for them, offering him half the receipts of the house. The tragedian pleaded the fatigue he had suffered from having travelled the previous night as his excuse for refusing Penley; but the old man pressed him so hard, that he, who was ever easily moved by distress, con¬ sented to stay the night. Bills were immediately printed and issued all over the town announcing the great tragedian’s appearance for one night only in the character of Shylock; the prices of admission were doubled, and the theatre was densely crowded. The receipts of the house compensated Penley for a long run of misfortune, and helped him to defy starva tion for many a day to come; nor were the members of his company less grateful than he to Kean, who divided his share of the profits amongst them. But notwithstanding the distraction caused by this incident, it was noticeable that his spirits were greatly depressed, as if some dreaded catastrophe awaited him ; and when opportunity occurred, he told Grattan a trial was then pending between himself and Alderman Cox, in which the latter sued him for two thousand pounds as compensation for loss of the affection and KEAN AND ALDERMAN COX. 301 company of his wife. On the 17th of the following January, the case was heard before Lord Chief Justice Abbott and a special jury in the Court of King’s Bench. The drama, of which this action was the last scene, had begun eight years previously. At that time, whilst playing Othello at the Taunton Theatre, Kean was attracted by a bright-complexioned, showily-dressed woman in a stage box; it was evident she paid great attention to his performance, for so impressed was she by its force, that towards the close of the fourth act she fainted. Considerable confusion followed, the play was interrupted, and the unconscious lady lifted across the stage, and placed in Kean’s dressing-room. There, when the curtain fell the actor received her apologies for intrusion, listened to her expressions of admiration, and was introduced to her husband, Robert Albert Cox, an alderman of the city of London, twelve years her senior. In 1805 Mr. Cox, then a widower with an only son, had married her, and received as her dowry a handsome fortune. The lady was described by plaintiff’s counsel as possessing “ considerable mental accomplishments, and an admiration for Shakespeare and the drama; ” whilst her husband’s nature was, by the same authority, stated to be “ tender, confiding, fond, and unsuspicious.” Delighted at making the acquaintance of the famous actor, the alderman expressed his hopes he would call upon him on his return to London, a wish seconded by Mrs. Cox, and in due course Mr. and Mrs. Kean visited them, when hospitalities were continually inter¬ changed. t Intimacy between Kean and his new friends rapidly ripened, until it became evident to Mrs. Kean a sentiment warmer than friendship existed between her 302 EDMUND KEAN. husband and Mrs. Cox; when she, in the presence of that lady and her husband, declared it better all ac¬ quaintance between them should cease, after which she refused to visit their house, or receive them in hers. But this rebuff by no means altered the conduct of the confiding alderman or his charming spouse..- They both entertained Kean continually, the latter generally occupying his box when he played, and visiting him in his dressing-room, now accompanied by her husband, again in company with her niece, Miss Wickstead, who was in her confidence, and frequently going there alone. James Newman, Kean’s theatrical dresser, in evidence given at the trial, said he had known Kean refuse Mrs. Cox admission to his dressing-room, and by Kean’s direction he had repeatedly declined to allow her to enter. Moreover, it frequently happened that the tender, fond, and unsuspicious husband, after Kean’s perform¬ ances, brought him back to his home in Wellington Street, and not only entertained him at supper, but persuaded him to remain all night beneath his hospit¬ able roof. Joe Cowell tells a story concerning the alderman which bears upon the case. Years previously, when this excellent comedian was a member of the Drury Lane company, he saw Mr. Cox come into the principal green-room in his riding-coat, wearing very muddy boots. At this period the apartment was regarded as a drawing-room, and a rule obtained that a forfeit of a guinea should be paid by any one entering it in undress, those who were habited for the parts they played being exempt from the fine Now the alder¬ man’s spurs catching in a lady’s train, Oxberry good- humouredly reminded him of the forfeit, which by no 303 THE ALDERMAN’S WIFE. means pleased him, but next day a note was sent by him to the theatre addressed to. the gentlemen of the green-room, begging them to accept a dozen of Madeira. In return they gave him a dinner at the Freemason’s Tavern on one of the days in Lent when the theatre was closed. It was noticed at this festive gathering that Kean, contrary to his usual habit, drank very little wine, and on being pressed to be more free with his glass, Cox replied, “ In my official capacity I have excused Mr. Kean. The fact is, I have made a promise for him that he shall spend the evening with my wife, and if he takes too much wine, I don’t know what may be the consequences.” At which speech the accommo¬ dating alderman laughed right merrily. Kean with¬ drew early in the evening, whilst Cox remained with his hosts until three in the morning. So familiar indeed did Kean become with the alderman and his wife, that he was, whether the former was at home or abroad, in the habit of spending nights at Wellington Street. Meanwhile, a correspondence was carried on between Mrs. Cox and the tragedian, which left no doubt concerning their relations. The lady was poetically addressed as “ my heart-strings,” and assured that the writer and she were created for each other; “the assimilation of disposition in all its character” proclaimed the fact, and he could, if he were not a philosopher, revile most impiously the dark fate which had given her to another. The theatre, he tells her in writing from Lynn, where he was fulfilling an engage¬ ment, “was crowded last night to excess, and the applause was as enthusiastic as it could be for the country, but Charlotte did not hear it; the neighbour¬ hood ie beautiful, the walks enchanting, but Charlotte 304 EDMUND KEAN. does not partake (?) them.” Then he cries out, “ Fly swift, ye hours, until we meet once more.” That he was thoroughly fascinated by this woman there is no doubt, and that she, a heartless coquette, used his blind passion for her own and her husband’s benefit was evident to all. The sums she received from him, whose generosity amounted to extravagance, can only be guessed from the occasional reference to money which their correspondence contained, and from evidence given. James Newman remembered handing an envelope containing notes to Miss Wickstead for Mrs. Cox one evening at the theatre; and Kean writes to her, “ What money you want you shall have at three hours’ notice.” When in Londonderry, he tells her, “ I cannot send you the money, for there are no banks here, or in any other town that I have been acting in, but write to Holton,” and he encloses a note for Holton, saying he was to let her have 4 ‘ whatever money she may ask you for in my name.” Mrs. Cox was indeed described by the defendant’s counsel as “a woman of abandoned character,” who, as he chastely expressed it, “ admitted the embraces of other persons beside Mr. Kean,” a statement which evidence confirmed; for it appeared that one evening, some years before, on the alderman returning home somewhat earlier than was expected, and going straight to his wife’s room, his attention was, by the barking of a lap-dog, attracted to a closet, opening the door of which, Sir Robert Kemyss coolly stepped out, and politely apologized for his intrusion. But this little incident in domestic life failed to have the effect of rousing the animosity of a fond and trusting husband; and it remains to be stated, as an example to his kind, MRS. kean’s distress. 305 it was wholly ineffectual to lessen the affection he felt for his wife. On Kean’s departure for America Mrs. Cox had volunteered to accompany him, a favour he declined. Their correspondence, however, continued, and she, during his tour, betrays an anxiety to know how much money he is making. On his return their intimacy continued, to the great distress of Mrs. Kean, who bore her wrongs with patience, and sought to save him from ruin. Continual mention is made of her from this period in his letters. "I have not heard from her lately,” he writes from Scotland, “ she may be on her way to me; they may follow me. We have had one dreadful instance of that. My dear love, for Heaven’s sake be guarded.” Later, he informs his “ heart-strings ” that Mrs. Kean left him yesterday for London. “ If,” he continues, “ that had not been the case, I could not have written to you now. I am watched more closely than Bonaparte at St. Helena. She gave me a hint about meeting me at Barnet on Monday morning, but if everything should concur smoothly to bring you to St. Albans, I would take another road to London.” Back again in town, the injured wife did not relax her observation. “ Some evil spirit has got into our home,” he states. “ I cannot see what is the matter. I dare not go out alone. She says she has as much right to pay visits as me, and is determined that Charles or herself accompanies me wherever I go until I leave London ; ” and the day following, he informs his beloved Charlotte, “ she has taken it into her head to accompany me wherever I go, and I cannot shake her off. You must guess my mortification; the eyes of Argus may be eluded, but those of a jealous wife—impossible. x 30G EDMUND KEAN. Even now I am on tenter-hooks. I expecj the door forced open, and ‘ What are you writing ? 5 the exclama¬ tion, of Susan to see if everything is comfortable, or Charles with a handful of endearment for his dear papa, all tending to the same thing—‘What is he about ? ’ ” He rejoices to think the boy will soon go to school, and give him more leisure to write love-letters; but later on we find “ Charles and his schoolmaster behind the scenery, and Mrs. Kean, with a large party, in front,” interfering with the visits of the siren. Occasionally the wife’s vigilance was eluded. Whilst playing in Bath, in June, 1822, he writes his “darling love ” a characteristic note. “ I am in such a vortex of perplexities and mortifications,” he says, “that I can scarce collect my thoughts sufficiently to thank you for your letter, and to tell you how much I love you. It is now, my dearest girl, I wish for you, now that I am suffering under the most painful sensations cf wounded pride, my mind boiling with rage and grief; want now my own dear darling, my love, to condone with; my fevered head wants rest in the bosom of my Charlotte. Indignation, resentment, and all the passions of the furies guide my hand, while 1 tell you that in this infernal city, where I was a few years since the idol of the people, my endeavours are totally failing. I have not yet acted one night to the expenses; come to me, my darling, come to me, or I shall go mad. If my provincial career is followed up by this terrible sample, heaven or hell must be opened for me. I bore my elevation with philosophy; I feel I cannot long submit to the opposite. j Meet me as soon as possible at Birmingham, that is, as soon as safety will permit, THE ROMANCE ENDED. 307 and believe me, I love you to distraction, and in heart I am solely yours for ever, ever, ever.” Taking Miss Wickstead with her, Mrs. Cox hastened to Birmingham, where she took up her residence at Kean’s lodgings. She had left word she was going to Brighton to visit her mother, but on its being dis- covered she was not there, her anxious husband sent his son in search of her to Birmingham, where he knew Kean was playing. The young man found his stepmother, and returned to town with tidings of her, but this philosophic husband was not roused to indig¬ nation. “My uncle,” said Miss Wickstead, on being examined in court, “never asked me or my aunt any questions about that journey.” Nay, he consented to accompany his wife and Kean on an excursion taken some months subsequently. Late one January night Kean came to the alderman’s house, and after supper, suddenly proposed they should all start for Croydon, where he was to act the following evening. His carriage, which was waiting at the door, would, he said, convey them. Miss Wickstead, that she might enjoy the drive, was roused out of bed, and Kean’s dresser was sent for that directions might be given him. At three o’clock they were ready to start, and as Cox stepped into the carriage, Kean in an audible voice told Newman to bring him down some money in the morning. This romance in real life ended by Mr3. Cox becoming enamoured with a young man named Watmore, a clerk in her husband’s office, while Kean’s infatuation was still at its height, and he would, as lie wrote, “ banish every pleasure in life, shut himself up in the most dreary cavern, undergo every privation, lose even the 308 EDMUND KEAjS . recollection of language for want of use, if even at tlie end of twenty years he was sure of making her his own.’ The alderman’s business affairs, long in an em¬ barrassed condition, now became desperate, and it was necessary he should have a large sum of money; there¬ fore it happened one morning that his wife and his niece, with his consent, set out for Dover, but scarce had they departed when, on going to an unlocked cabinet in his own bed-room, what should this worthy man and trusting husband discover, but a great bundle of letters addressed by Kean to his wife, which revealed to his shocked senses the terrible injury which had been done him. For him there was but one resource left to avenge his outraged honour, and he at once decided on appealing to the law for satisfaction in the shape of two thousand pounds. In a little while the guilty wife returned to town, but her husband, kind to the last, took lodgings for her in a house in Norfolk Street, where, strange to relate, Watmore soon took tip his residence. Kean’s letters, containing many extravagant expressions of affection, were read aloud at the trial, amidst the laughter of the court, and printed in almost every newspaper in London. Two points, however, in this unfortunate case redounded to his honour — he refused to put forward Mrs. Cox’s letters as part of his defence, and in-his own letters, “ even whilst the world was a vast and gloomy dungeon ” with his wife, he is firm in his determination of not abandoning her. “ After my duty to my family,” he writes to Mrs. Cox, “ I am all in all yours for ever.” The alderman did not seek a divorce or a separation from his wife, but sued for damages for the loss he sustained in her affections. The jury, KEAN DETERMINES TO FACE THE PUBLIC. 309 having deliberated ten minutes, returned a verdict awarding him eight hundred pounds, a decision that was received with signs of surprise and disapprobation by those in court. Seeing himself the dupe of a heartless woman and a mercenary man, the laughing-stock of the town, es¬ tranged from his family, and shunned by many friends, Kean felt the full force of the blow which had fallen on him. His pride, however, forbade him to exhibit his feelings, and in order that he might seem indifferent to the ridicule and abuse rained on him, he resolved to face the public, and by the force of his genius overcome the feelings which threatened his unpopularity. It occurred to Elliston that Kean’s appearance on the stage whilst the town was still excited by the trial was an injudicious movement; but the tragedian had little fear concerning the result, and insisted on being announced to play Richard III. on the 24th of January, 1825, just a week later than the date on which the verdict of his trial had been delivered. Three days previous Sir- Richard Birnie, at the request of Mr. Secretary Peel, called on Elliston, and represented the inadvisability of Kean coming forward so soon; when the manager, somewhat alarmed, immediately sought Kean at Croydon, where he then resided. Kean, he was told, was resting, but would see him, and accordingly he was shown into the presence of the tragedian, whom lie found seated on a couch smoking a cigar, a glass of brandy and water close by him, whilst at the lower end of the room a fantastically-dressed dancing-girl and an acrobat were performing for his amusement. Elliston at once entered on the business of his visit, and strove to persuade him to postpone his intended appearance; 310 EDMUND KEAN. but to this Kean would not listen. He declared himself “ ready for war,” and stated that on the 24th instant he would meet his enemies on that ground which, by the commom assent of all England, was his own. “ In the meantime,” he observed, “ see how quietly I am living here.” Kean’s determination caused great excitement throughout the town. On the afternoon of the 24th immense crowds collected round the doors of the theatre, and by six o’clock the various streets lead¬ ing to Drury Lane were completely blocked. Men and women, overcome by crushing, fainted; children who had been taken by their foolish parents were handed out over the heads of the people. On the doors being opened a tremendous rush was made, and the pit and galleries were immediately crowded; the money-takers then stated all places were filled, but fresh numbers hurrying breathlessly into the house, without hesitation betook themselves to the boxes and first circle, of which they held possession, despite the protests and threats of the door-keepers. A deafening din of voices calling to each other from pit to circle, from boxes to gallery, shouting Kean’s name with comments favourable and unfavourable, quoting notably ridiculous extracts from his letters amidst jeers and laughter, making inquiries for his heart-strings, and his little darling, filled the house. It was evident most of those present were there to enjoy excitement as well as reprove immorality, and there could be no doubt of the storm soon to ensue. The members of the orchestra took their places and began an overture, which none but themselves could hear because of the general confusion; then the curtain STORM AT DRURY LANE. 311 rose and the play began, but the actors’ voices could not reach the audience. Cries of Kean, Kean, now and then rose from his partisans, which called forth a chorus of groans and hisses from his opponents; for it seemed as if the moral reputation of England was at stake, and must be vindicated by the punishment of this black sheep. Soon Kean came forward, and advanced to the centre of the stage, as was his custom on entering as Richard. Then up rose the pit in its strength; yells, hootings, cries mingled with cheers, and the clapping of hands, a wild, mad, deafening tumult in all, swelling every instant, burst upon him, hearing which he stood still, scared and bewildered by the fierceness of the tempest his presence had evoked. Recovering himself quickly he bowed, but if he ex¬ pected his audience would permit him to speak he was grievously disappointed. The fury, if possible, increased, and assured he would not be heard, he began his part, the noise completely drowning his voice, so that the scene was performed in dumb-show. Meanwhile the two factions in the pit came to blows, and the attention of the house was occasionally turned from the stage to watch various combatants; whilst some occupants of the boxes and circle who objected to settle their disputes in a rough and ready manner, presented each other with cards, as polite preliminaries to exchanging shots. To vary the monotony of the proceedings some young men began a chorus from Der Freischutz, which had the effect of adding to the general uproar. In the course of the first act, the din becoming intolerable to Kean, he advanced to the front of the stage, and removed his hat to show he was anxious to address the house, but this action merely 312 EDMUND KEAN. served to heighten the dire confusion. “ Off! off! ” cried his opponents, “a public insult!” To which his partisans replied, “ Kean for ever ! turn out the geese.” Having watched with kindling eyes the crowd, which a little while before had cheered him to the echo, now deride and insult him, he resolutely put on his hat and continued the tragedy. But once again he made a similar appeal to be heard, with no better result. His calmness and firmness exasperated his enemies, and no offensive name, no scandalous epithet, or painful allusion was spared him; nay, oranges and orange-peel were freely flung at him by some violent champions of virtue, and on one occasion whilst continuing his part he quietly unsheathed his sword, and removed from the boards some peel which had alighted near him. To the end he went through his part; “no token,” as the Morning Post remarked with indignation and regret, “ of an abashed spirit being discernible in his looks or gestures throughout.” When the curtain fell Kean and Elliston were loudly called for, but neither appeared, and the audience, being hoarse and weary, quietly witnessed the succeeding farce. Undaunted by this reception Kean again appeared before the public four days later in the character of Othello. On the previous occasion the receipts of the house amounted to seven hundred and twenty pounds; but on this evening the audience was not so great, though the excitement was not less. Before the play began a large placard bearing the words, “ Kean for ever! ” was lowered from the gallery, and proved a signal for an outburst of groans and hisses, taunts and jeers, as likewise for the production of other posters from various parts of the house on which REFUSAL TO HEAR KEAN. 313 were written, “ No cant! ” “ Bravo, Koan ! ” “ Hear his apologies.” Elliston was then called for, but coming forward was not allowed a hearing, on which he retired, and the tragedy began. During the first scene a man in one of the boxes created much attention by his violent abuse of Kean, learning which the tragedian’s friends in the pit singled him out as a fitting object for their wrath, and pelted him with oranges until he made a hasty retreat. As the act continued another individual, mounting on the benches in the pit, shouted out his belief that the audience of a theatre did not constitute a fitting tribunal to decide upon private affairs; and was answered that Kean had shown con¬ tempt for public opinion by appearing so soon after his trial. Three cheers were called for and given for Kean, followed by a storm of hisses, when it was suggested that “ the alderman’s geese ” should be driven home. A general fight then ensued. The while the performance was continued, though not a single speech or line was heard. It was suc¬ ceeded by “an extraordinary popular new pantomime,’’ the first scenes of which were interrupted by calls for Elliston, in response to which he appeared, and, some¬ what to his surprise, silence was granted him. He stated that in July last he had engaged Kean to play for twenty nights, at a salary of fifty pounds a night. At that time there v r as no belief the question which had lately occupied the public mind would be brought before the courts. The engagement v r as to begin on the 16th of January, and end on the 16th of March, and this being announced before the trial took place, Elliston would not have the tragedian’s name taken from the bills. He would not use a harsh word by 314 EDMUND KEAN. stating his theatre had enemies, but he would solemnly declare that neither his own power nor any influence he possessed was used to create an influence in Kean’s favour. He concluded by requesting the house to hear Kean, and retiring for a second, reappeared with him. The great actor was greeted with cheers and hisses, but after a few seconds was permitted to speak. “ If it is supposed,” he said, “by those whom I address, tlat I stand before you for the purpose of explaining or justifying my private conduct, I must beg leave to state that they will be disappointed, for I am quite unable to do so. I stand before you, ladies and gentle¬ men, as the representative of Shakespeare’s heroes, and by the public voice I must stand or fall. My private conduct has been investigated before a legal tribunal, and decency forbade my publishing letters and giving evidence that would inculpate others, though such a course w r ould in a great degree have exculpated me. I will not submit to be trampled upon by a hostile press; but if the public is of opinion that my conduct merits exclusion from the stage, I am ready to bow to its decision, and take my farewell.” His last words were received with shouts of “ No, no; Kean for ever ! ” and the audience, seeming more pacified, left the house soon after. Three nights later he made his appearance as Sir Giles Overreach before a crowded assembly, the greater part of which seemed favourably disposed towards him. Peace was not, how¬ ever, the order of the night, for the same bustle and clamour as reigned on former evenings was con¬ tinued. When the curtain rose Kean was loudly called for, and on his coming forward was received with cheers and groans. A great part of the pit then rose and BEHAVIOUR OF THE PRESS. 315 demanded the expulsion of those who had come there to persecute him, on which a general scrimmage took place, and was continued from time to time throughout the first and second acts; occasionally oranges were flung at Kean, who, it was evident, felt deeply wounded by this treatment, for more than once his countenance changed, and exhibited strong traces of emotion. When the curtain fell he was called forward, and obeying the summons of those who were curious to hear him, said, “ I have made as fair concession to a British audience as a British actor ought. I hope, for the honour of my country, that I shall be permitted to perform for the remainder of twenty nights, after which I shall take my leave for ever. I hope also, for the honour of my country, that news of this persecution will never reach foreign annals.” When, four nights later, he played Macbeth, his assailants were much weaker in force, and the tragedy suffered but few interruptions; and at the conclusion he was called for, but it was stated he had left the house. From this time forward the feeling against him became less and less violent, until it eventually subsided. The feud had been to a great degree ani¬ mated and strengthened by the press; references to his private life had been mixed with criticisms on his acting, and various speeches of the characters he repre¬ sented were turned to personal application. In this way the Morning Post erred daily, but the Times , as a champion of purity, visited him with the blackest vials of its wrath. Kean’s partisans were described by this organ as Jews, prize-fighters, and bullies, and generally referred to as vermin; it doubted if any Englishwoman of character could, “ after the filthy exposure of Mr. 31G EDMUND KEAN. Kean,” be ever brought to visit a theatre in which he played; nay, this most chaste monitor of private morality expressed its wonder as to who the actresses were, or where they came from, whom Elliston “ brought forward on the stage to be fawned upon and caressed by this obscene mimic.” Is it not shocking, asks the virtuous press, “ that women should be forced to undergo this j)rocess with such a wretch for want of bread ? ” In a few months the world had forgotten the venomous imbecility of the Times , but it rankled in Kean’s breast. The faithlessness of the woman for whom he had risked so much, the publicity given to his offence, the acrimony of those who had once been his heartiest admirers, the estrangement of his family, were afflictions that for a while almost disturbed the reason of one who had inherited a taint of madness. In March his engagement at Drury Lane ended, and it being understood that these were his farewell perform¬ ances, crowds flocked to the theatre. On the last night, at the conclusion of the play, he was eagerly called for, and on coming forward, the demonstration in his favour for awhile rendered him unable to speak. He was much affected, and after some time said it might readily be understood how powerful was the gratifica¬ tion which prevented him from expressing his feelings. “I have,” he continued, “been able to overcome one of the most powerful and most malignant attacks to which a professional man has ever been subjected.” (Cries of The rascally Times.”) “Without alluding to past circumstances, I consider it a base plan for my destruction; and under the influence of your displeasure, which my powerful enemies endeavoured to augment, I must have sank, had not the public protected me. RESOLVES 10 Efi-VISIT AMERICA. 317 My gratitude is indelible, and my endeavours to merit your favours shall be unceasing.” Sick at heart from all that had happened, he now decided on making his home in America; and before starting for that country he resolved to give farewell performances in the chief provincial towns of Great Britain ; but almost everywhere he encountered bitter hostility. * On the announcement being made in the Edinburgh theatre of his approaching visit to that city, it was received with groans and hisses, and other “ expressions of disgust and indignation ; ” and on silence being obtained, a red-haired Pharisee in one of the boxes rose up and stated, he would withdraw his patronage from the theatre, that no member of his family should ever a^ain be seen within its walls, and that he should exert whatever influence he possessed in dissuading his friends from supporting a place of amusement where so little regard was paid to morality. Under this continued persecution Kean’s brain seemed to give way; continually he mixed the words of the character he represented with an account of his private affairs; occasionally in playing tragic parts he turned somersaults and threw handsprings, saying by way of explanation, “ I may as well practise, for I suppose I must come back to this ; ” and when he failed to perform such feats to his satisfaction, he would sadly exclaim, “ I could do these things a few years ago, but I am - too old and too fat now.” Whilst playing at Cheltenham the editor of a journal in that town made some severe remarks concerning the late trial, and the night after reading these comments Kean, whilst acting Sylvester Daggerwood, kept a horsewhip in his hand with which he tapped his legs from time to time, and 318 EDMUND KEAN. turning to the audience said, “ I keep this little instru¬ ment to punish cheating aldermen and lying editors.” On another occasion, whilst performing Sir Giles Over¬ reach to a thin house at Birmingham, on an allusion being made to the marriage of his daughter, he suddenly turned to the stage-suitor and said, “ Take her, sir, and the Birmingham audience into the bargain.” Later on at Greenock his reception was so hostile, that before the tragedy of Richard III., in which he was playing, had finished, he suddenly left the theatre, and, dressed as the crook-backed king, went down to the harbour, got on board a yacht, and sailed for Bute, where he remained some days. Manchester, where he next appeared, welcomed him enthusiastically, and Dublin, with whose citizens he had ever been a favourite, received him with the heartiest cordiality, remembering that in the days of his prosperity he had given the re¬ ceipts of a London benefit to relieve the famine-stricken Irish people. In June he was back in town, playing, as he believed, to a London audience for the last time. He was coldly received, but met with no hostility; and the evening of the 20th of July, 1825, when he concluded this series of performances, was not marked by any demonstration. His mental and physical condition at this period is re¬ corded by Grattan, who declares Kean never recovered from the “ tumult of suffering which then assailed him.” A few days before he left town on his way to America this friend called upon him. “ I never saw a man so changed,” he writes, “ he had all the air of desperation about him. He looked bloated with rage and brandy ; his nose was red, his cheeks blotched, his eyes blood¬ shot ; I reallv pitied him. He had lodgings in Begent KEAN MEETS BOOTH AT LIVERPOOL. 319 Street, but I believe very few of his former friends of any respectability now noticed him. The day I saw him he sat down to the piano, notwithstanding the agitated state of his mind, and sang for me Lord Ullins Daughter , with a depth and power and sweet¬ ness that quite electrified me. I had not heard him sing for many years; his improvement was almost in¬ credible ; his accompaniment was also far superior to his former style of playing. I could not repress a deep sentiment of sorrow at the wreck he presented of genius, fame, and wealth. At this period I believe he had not one hundred pounds left of the many thousands he had received. His mind seemed shattered; he was an outcast on the world. He left England a few days afterwards, and I never dreamt of seeing him again.” On leaving London, he proceeded to Liverpool, from where he was to sail for America, and where he met Junius Brutus Booth, who had been in the States for the past four years, and was now paying a visit to England. Booth, in writing to his father, mentions the encounter with his old rival. “ Kean sails the day after to-morrow by the Silas Richards for New York,” he says. “ Strange that he should meet me here—ho ready to embark, and to that very country I have just left. He has been quite ill, and looks wretched. I passed an hour with him last night at His quarters, and reconciled our ancient misunderstanding. The vessel he goes in to New York will most probably be the con¬ veyance for this letter. I really wish he may meet with success. He has been all along a victim to sharpers and flatterers, who buoyed him up with the notion of omnipotence, which now he awakens from, and perceives the hollowness of those on whom he most relied.” 320 EDMUND KEAN. The while Kean had experienced triumphs and humiliations, Booth had passed through many adven¬ tures. Whilst in Liverpool early in the year 1821, the latter actor had, in a violent fit of jealousy, assaulted a tight-rope dancer known as II Diavolo Antonio. To avoid the consequences of his action, he fled from England, accompanied by his wife, and sailed for the West Indies. The vessel in which he embarked stayed at the island of Madeira, and here he changed his mind, for instead of continuing his journey as he had origin¬ ally intended, he took passage in a schooner bound for Norfolk, Virginia, where he arrived in the month of August, 1821. By reason of his sudden departure from England, his intention of visiting the States had not been heralded in the usual manner, and he carried with him no letters of introduction. Accordingly, when a small-sized, pale-faced young man waited on Gilferet. manager of the Richmond Theatre, gave his name as Junius Brutus Booth, and declared his wish to perform, Gilferet felt inclined to believe him an impostor desir¬ ous of humbugging the Yankees. The little man was, however, positive regarding his identity, and the manager enraged him for one night, with a conditional extension of engagement providing he proved success¬ ful. He therefore made his first appearance in the United States in the Richmond Theatre, playing on that occasion Richard III. Gilferet’s doubts were shared by others, for Richard Russell, manager of the Petersburg Theatre, hearing that Junius Brutus Booth was announced to play at Richmond, came at once to the latter city, that he might see who was the trickster assuming the name o o BOOTH REHEARSES. 321 of the tragedian familiar to Drury Lane and Co vent Garden. He remained to witness his performance, when he immediately concluded the little man was veritably Junius Brutus Booth, and asked him to play one night at Petersburg before he began a further engagement now offered him by Gilferet. And Booth consenting, Richard Russell returned to his theatre, and adver¬ tised his appearance. On the morning of the day he was to perform a rehearsal was called, but the English actor was absent; the manager, however, made his company go through their parts, saying that Booth could afterwards rehearse his scenes with them. 44 I think they had reached the fourth act of the tragedy,” says a player who was present, “and I was sauntering near the head of the stairs that led up to the stage, when a small man, that I took to be a well- grown boy of about sixteen years of age, came running up the stairs, wearing a roundabout jacket and a cheap straw hat, both covered with dust, and inquired for the stage manager. I pointed across the stage to Mr. Russell, who at that moment had observed the person with whom I was conversing, and hurried towards us, and cordially grasping the hand of the strange man, said, 4 Ah, Mr. Booth, I am glad you have arrived; we were fearful something serious had happened to you/ I don’t think any man was ever more astonished than I was just then on beholding this meeting. Is it possible this can be the great Mr. Booth, that Mr. Russell says is 4 undoubtedly the best actor living ? ’ and I began to think Russell was trying to put off some joke upon us all. I observed, however, that when the small man came upon the stage to rehearse his scenes he was quite at home, and showed a knowledge of the Y 322 EDMUND KEAN. business of the character that a mere novice or pre¬ tender could not have acquired. He ran through the rehearsal very carelessly, gave very few special or peculiar directions, tried the combat of the last act over twice, and said, ‘ That will do/ and the rehearsal was over. He then told Mr. Russell that he had been a few minutes too late for the stage-coach, that left Richmond early in the morning, and that he soon after started on foot, and had walked all the way, twenty- five miles; that his wardrobe had been sent to the stage-office before he was up, had been taken by the coach, and he supposed was ready in the city for the proper claimant/’ At night the good people of Petersburg assembled in numbers to see him, for “the first appearance of the great tragedian, Junius Brutus Booth, from the London Theatres Covent Garden and Drury Lane,” had been announced in great letters all over the town. The members of the company were likewise anxious to behold one of whom they had heard much, and when not required upon the stage, gathered in groups at the wings to watch him. As the curtain rose he went forward and was warmly greeted. According to his custom, he took no notice of the demonstration, but began his part, and continued it with a placidness and seeming indifference that created general disappoint¬ ment. The second act was gone through in a like, manner, Booth intending in this way to heighten the force and passion he displayed in the following acts. The nouse became cold and careless, the company sceptical of his powers. “ What do you think ^of him ? ” an old actor named Benton asked of a fellow player named Ludlow. “ Why I think, as I thought before, that he BOOTH PLAYS AT RICHMOND. 323 is an impostor/’ replied the latter. “ And what is your opinion of him?” “Why” answered Benton, “if the remainder of his Richard should prove like the be¬ ginning, I have never yet, I suppose, seen the character played, for it is unlike any I ever saw; it may be very good, but I don’t fancy it.” But the tragedian merely bided his time until opportunity was given him for the display of his powers, and when the curtain fell such applause burst from audience and actors as had never been heard in that theatre before. He returned to Richmond, and there played a round of his favourite characters, amongst them being Sir Edward Mortimer in The Iron Chest , in which he usually won great applause. Booth was particularly careful about the stage business in rehearsing the scene where Wilford, his secretary, one day discovering the key in the iron chest, that is in some way connected with the gloom and mystery surrounding Sir Edward, and allowing his curiosity to overcome his scruples, lifts the lid, when he is surprised by his patron. His in¬ structions to the young actor, James Murdock, who played the part of Wilford, were that he was, on perceiving the key, to deliberately survey the room, and satisfy himself that it was tenantless; then ad¬ vancing to the chest, to go down on one knee before it, placing his left hand on the lid, and gently raising it, hold it back whilst he placed his right hand amongst the papers it contained, turning them as if seeking something hidden beneath. He was to take no heed of Sir Edward’s stealthy advance, no matter how long the suspense might last, until he felt a hand upon his shoulder; then he was to turn abruptly, let the lid fall with a slam, and remain upon his knee, until a pressure 324 EDMUND KEAN. of Sir Edward’s hand summoned him to rise and stand before him. On the evening of the performance young Murdock, knowing himself to be imperfect in his lines, which at a brief notice he had striven to commit to memory, felt extremely nervous. However, he managed to get through the play until the scene he had carefully rehearsed was at hand. “ At length,” he said, “ I found myself in the presence of the mysterious chest. I was almost breath¬ less with excitement and from anxiety, consequent on my strong desire to execute Mr. Booth’s orders to the very letter. I had proceeded so far as to open the chest, and stooping over the papers, awaited trembling on my knee the appointed signal for action. The time seemed an eternity, but it came at last. The heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I turned, and there, with the pistol held to my head, stood Booth, glaring like an infuriated demon. Then for the first time I comprehended the reality of acting. The fury of that passion-flamed face and the magnetism of the rigid clutch upon my arm paralyzed my muscles, while the scintillating gleam of the terrible eyes, like the green and red flashes of an enraged serpent, fascinated and fixed me spell-bound to the spot. A sudden revulsion of feeling caused me to spring from my knees, but bewildered with fright, and a choking sensation of undefined dread, I fell heavily to the stage, tripping Mr. Booth, who still clutched my shoulder. I brought him down with me, and for a moment we lay prostrate. But suddenly recovering himself he sprang to his feet, with almost superhuman strength dragging me up, as I clung to his arm in terror. Shaking himself free of my grasp, I sank down again stunned and helpless. I was aroused THE REALITY OF ACTING. 325 to consciousness, however, by a voice calling on me in suppressed accents to rise, and then became aware that Mr. Booth was kneeling by my side. He helped me to my feet, whispering in my ear a few encouraging words, and then dexterously managed, in spite of the accident, and my total inability to speak, to continue the scene to its close. Thus was I, an unfortunate tyro, saved from disgrace by the coolness and kindness of one who had every reason to be moved by a very different state of mind; for it was evident that, but for the actor’s readiness and skill in improvising the business of the stage, one of the most important and interesting scenes of the play would have proved a mortifying failure. The kindness of the act was its own reward, for the audience never evinced the slightest indication of the presence of a disturbing element, but, on the contrary, gave evidence of their satisfaction by applause at this critical moment to which I have alluded.” Having finished his engagement at Richmond, Booth played at Petersburg, and then went to New Orleans. When he had performed some nights with great success, a deputation of Frenchmen called on the manager of the theatre, and asked to be introduced to Booth, they being anxious to know if he could perform in some play of which they had more knowledge than those in which he had already appeared. Booth, feeling grati¬ fied by their desire, told them he had once played Orestes in an English translation of Racine’s Andro- maque, called Tice Distressed Mother; and if they allowed him a few days to study the part, he would act it for them. On this they expressed their gratitude and with¬ drew. A week later the tragedy was produced, when 326 EDMUND KEAN. the theatre was crowded by French people, who understood little of the English language, but being familiar with Racine, they were enabled to follow the play, and, delighted with Booth’s acting, cried out, “ Talma ! Talma ! Talma ! ” Finally, when at the end of the last act he died in a raving fit of madness, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. He made his first appearance in New York at the Park Theatre on the 5th of October, 1821, and was highly successful; he then played in the principal cities of the United States, and became one of the most popular actors that ever visited that country. By degrees the inconsistencies and eccentricities of his character became developed. Well-educated, deeply read, and refined, he frequently choose as his associates the dissipated, worthless, and ignorant; without pledg¬ ing himself to any belief, he revered faith in others, and in the midst of his revelries would turn to read a chapter from the Bible with a solemnity that never failed to impress his hearers. He delighted indeed in studying religions, frequenting synagogues, and dis¬ coursing with the Rabbis, visited Catholic churches, held theological discussions with priests, and resorted to a sailor’s Bethel, or floating chapel, where he knelt as one amongst the humble congregation. His respect for houses of worship was such that he never passed one without removing his hat. Not only did he read the scriptures, but likewise the Talmud and the Koran; and certain days were religiously observed by him as sacred to colour, ore, metals, &c. One of his children—whom he originally intended to call Ayesha, after Mahomet’s first wife—was finally named, in ac¬ cordance with the instructions he wrote to his wife, A REMARKABLE BEQUEST. 327 “ Asia, in remembrance of that country where God first walked with man, and Frigga, because she came to us on Friday, which day is consecrated to the Northern Venus.” If he were not professedly a Christian, he at least performed actions from which most of those calling themselves Christians would shrink. One day when a miserable-looking sailor came to his door to beg for bread, he not only welcomed him beneath his roof, and set food before him, but finding the man suffered from a wounded leg, Booth went down on his knees, and with great tenderness washed and bandaged the limb. And once, in passing through Louisville jail, a famous horse-stealer named Fontaine, alias Lovett, was pointed out to him. The man’s trial had not yet taken place, and Booth was told he had no counsel; but though assured his case was hopeless, the actor sent him a lawyer, and defrayed the expenses of his defence. In gratitude Fontaine willed him his skull, desiring “that it should be given after his execution to the actor Booth, with the request that he would use it on the stage in Hamlet , and think when he held it in his hands of the gratitude his kindness had awakened.” In due time the skull was sent to Booth’s residence whilst he was absent, but presently Mrs. Booth, regard¬ ing it with nervous horror, sent it back to the medical man who had been instructed to prepare it for the tragedian. The doctor retained the skull, and long years afterwards gave it to Edwin Booth, who used it in the grave-yard scene in Hamlet , but eventually had it buried. At all times Booth strove to identify himself with the characters he was about to represent. If the part he was to play in the evening was Shylock, all that 328 EDMUND KEAN. day he was a Jew, and when it was possible passed hours with the children of Israel, discussing Hebrew history with them, and insisting, as his son narrates, that though he was of Welsh descent, his nation was of Hebraic origin. Again, when about to play Othello, he was wont to wear a crescent pin in his scarf, and “ disregarding the fact that Shakespeare’s Moor was a Christian, would mumble maxims of the Koran.” This trait continued through his life, and towards the close of his career a notable instance of it occurred. When playing Brutus to the Titus of his son in Richmond, he had arrived at the scene where the Roman consul condemns Titus to an ignominious death ; his countenance showed the agony he endured, tears streamed down his cheeks, and the audience felt the spell of his power, when suddenly silence was broken by the remark of a drunken man in the gallery. Booth raised his eyes in the direction of the disturber, and in the same tones as he had last spoken said, “ Beware, I am the headsman; I am the executioner.” The profound stillness of the house marked the force of his words, and added to the solemnity of the scene. Occasionally his eccentricities were heightened by drink, a glass of wine, a little brandy, or a bottle of porter, his favourite drink, being sufficient to excite his sensitive brain. Times there were, however, when he wholly abstained from intoxicating drinks. Though managers had reason to feel grateful to him as an attraction which never failed to fill their theatres, yet his habit of disappearing in the middle of an engagement without word or warning, when not in the o o O' humour to play, sometimes placed them in serious difficulties. Once when advertised to begin a series booth’s eccentricities. 329 of performances on the first of April, it occurred to him it would be excellent fun to make April fools of the audience. Therefore on the evening of that day he went into the country. The crowd which awaited Booth, supposing a trick had been played on them, because the manager was anxious to fill his house, were thoroughly indignant with him; but when he came forward and declared the fault lay with the absent tragedian, and said Booth should never set his foot upon that stage again so long as he had command over it, they hissed the latter statement, and remained away from the theatre until Booth’s return, which was hailed with enthusiasm. On another occasion, when Wemyss the manager asked him to play Richelieu for his benefit, Booth declined, saying, “ No, sir, no, the cardinal was tall and gaunt, I cannot look him. Announce me for Jerry Sneak or John Lump, but not for Richelieu.” Wemyss persisted, and Booth consented to study the part, but on the night of its performance the Cardinal during the first act halted in his lines, hesitated, and paused, when his Eminence lightly tripped over to Father Joseph, and seizing him in his arms, waltzed with him round the stage, to the amazement of the house and the horror of the manager, who had the curtain dropped on this mad prank. Booth then disappeared, and was not seen by his friends for some days. During an engagement at the Providence Theatre, he failed to make his appearance one evening on which he was announced to play. The house was crowded, and the unhappy manager set off in search of the eccentric tragedian. Going first to the hotel, where Booth’s conduct had been a source of wonder and 330 EDMUND KEAN. amusement to the proprietor and his servants, the manager and one of the clerks of the inn went to the actors bed-room, but found the door locked; they then called aloud, but received no answer. Thinking he might have fallen asleep, the clerk climbed upon the roof of an adjacent piazza, and peered through the window, but the room was apparently empty. The corridors and adjoining apartments were searched in vain, and the anxious manager was about to continue his inquiries elsewhere, when the clerk again scaled the piazza, entered the room by the window, and look¬ ing under the bed, met the calm and sober gaze of the missing tragedian. Being discovered, he consented to proceed to the theatre, and relying on his promise, the manager hastened back to announce his coming. Booth followed him leisurely, interrupting every second person he met to inquire his way, though the route was per¬ fectly well known to him. When at last he came upon the stage, he was received with the heartiest greetings by those whose patience he had severely tested. Though he earned both fame and fortune by his talents, he contemplated, and frequently spoke of, “ retiring into private life, and keeping a lighthouse; ” and so much in earnest was he concerning this scheme, that he consulted Mr. Blunt, collector of customs, about a vacancy for the post of keeper which occurred in 1822 at Cape Halteras lighthouse, and entered with him into the question of salary and the circumstances of the office. Fortunately, he did not obtain the keeper- ship ; but in this year he purchased a farm in Harford county, Maryland, lying about twenty-five miles from Baltimore, and at an equal distance of three miles from the hamlets of Belair, Hickory, and Churchville. The booth’s log cabin. 331 farm was a clearing in a dense woodland, merging into a great forest, which on moonlight nights echoed with the ringing cries of hunters, and the deep baying of dogs in chase of opossums. The log-cabin which Booth erected here consisted of four rooms, beside the loft and the kitchen, with its enormous chimney, within whose ample space the actor, his wife, and young children, seated round a wood-fire, spent many a winter’s eve. Without, the building was plastered and whitewashed, its square window-frames and door being painted red, forming a quaint and picturesque habitation, surrounded by oak, walnut, beach, and tulip trees. Not far re¬ moved was a spring bubbling up beneath thick brambles, deliciously cool at all seasons; and pre¬ sently barns, stables, and a dairy were built, an orchard and vineyard planted, and habitations constructed for the negroes who worked in the fields. The rough old coach-road passing the farm was deeply shaded in summer time by massive boughs arching themselves overhead; and along this route the post-boy rode once a week, his horses’ hoofs clattering with pleasant sound, his horn echoing wild notes through* the forest as signal that he had tossed across the wall the welcome letter-bag, bringing news of that world which the great forest trees seemed to shut out from the dwellers in this Arcadian home. The furniture of the cabin was plain and rough. It consisted, as Mrs. Clarke, the tragedian’s daughter, who gives a pleasant picture of her early surroundings, tells us, “ of a comer cupboard filled with quaint china, a narrow looking-glass with the upper half bearing a picture of the sun and moon, human faces representing each; tall brass andirons, a high brass fender, and a 332 EDMUND KEAN. spinning-wheel; for it was the farmer’s pride that all his blankets and woollen goods came from the backs of his own sheep, and were spun at home. An old Herbalist hung by the side of the amusing and in¬ structive almanack on the wall; an ink-horn and a bunch of quills, together with little bags of seed and other necessary small articles, were ranged on little hooks round the looking-glass. The round Dutch oven O O that baked the wholesome bread, and the immense heavy pewter platters from which the simple meals were eaten, and which served in later years as covers to the milk crocks in the dairy; also the wonderful cradle-baskets for the babies, and many smaller wicker baskets of odd shapes, would now be readily secured as curiosities. Basket-weaving in the long winter evenings was the favourite occupation of old Joe— young Joe then, a faithful, trusted slave to an indulgent master.” The use of flesh food was strictly forbidden in the household, and animal life on the farm was held sacred ; even the black snake, the destructive night owls, and the opossums were spared. In one of the letters written home whilst he was absent filling an engagement, Booth writes, “Tell Junius not to go opossum hunting, or setting rabbit-traps, but to let the poor devils live. Cruelty is the offspring of idleness of mind and beastly ignorance, and in children should be repressed and not encouraged, as is too often the case, by unthinking beings who surround them. A thief who takes property from another has it in his power, should he repent, to make a restoration; but the robber of life never can give back what he has wantonly and sacrilegiously taken from beings perhaps innocent, and equally BOOTH RE-VISITS ENGLAND. 333 capable of enjoying pleasure or suffering torture with himself. .. The ideas of Pythagoras I have adopted; and as respects our accountability to animals here¬ after, nothing that man can preach can make me believe to the contrary. ‘ Every death its own avenger breeds.' ” To this home in the woods Booth retreated when not fulfilling engagements at the theatre, obtaining a needed relief in its quiet from the excitement of his life as a player. It was always with reluctance he left the farm for the noise of cities. When about to play at Baltimore, he dressed in the garb of a labourer, and usually brought to market a cart filled with vegetables, or a waggon-load of hay, by which he stood until it was time for him to visit the playhouse, and rehearse the part in which he would delight a great audience that evening. And on market nights he would join the rustics at the villages close to his home, drink with them in the taverns, and presently electrify them with a speech from Othello , or a soliloquy from Hamlet. In the autumn of 1825 he came to England, and returned to America in the spring of 1827. CHAPTER XIV. - On the 14th of November, 1825, a dark and eventful year in his life, Edmund Kean appeared as Richard III. at the Park Theatre, New York. His arrival had created a sensation in the city, and on this evening the theatre was densely thronged. When the curtain rose calls for Kean were general and vigorous, and on his corning forward a storm of groans and cheers 334 EDMUND KEAN. filled the house. Walking to the centre of the stage, be bowed, folded his arms, and waited until opportunity was given him to speak; but the contending shouts of his friends and hootings of his enemies prevented his intention, and after some ten minutes spent in watching the scene he retired. Simpson the manager then appeared, and having obtained silence, requested the house would hear Kean. It was not, he said, the practice of Americans to condemn unheard, and he trusted what Kean had to say would give satisfaction. Once more the tragedian came forward, but the hooting and cheering breaking out with renewed force, hindered him from addressing his audience, and bowing, he began the opening soliloquy of Riclicircl III. The din continuing rendered the actors inaudible. References were shouted regarding Mrs. Cox and the Alderman, not quite in the spirit of decency; Kean was called many opprobrious names, and oranges were freely flung at him, one of which struck him in the breast. At this he paused, picked up the fruit, and displaying it to the audience, flung it behind the scenes with a smile of disdain. At this action the house became indignant, his friends considering it an insult, his enemies roused by his expression of contempt; so that the contention rising to fury, Hilson, a member of the orchestra, being alarmed for the safety of his wife, who played Lady Anne, jumped on the stage and led her away. This interruption of the scene added to the confusion, which was not subdued when the lady was brought back by the manager, and not one word of the tragedy from the first act to the last was heard. Next morning Kean addressed a letter to the New AN APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC. 335 York Advocate , in which he said, it was with feelings such as might prove heart-rending to his friends, and over which his enemies might triumph, that he ap¬ pealed to a country famed for hospitality to the stranger and for mercy to the conquered. Whatever his offences were, he disclaimed any intention of dis¬ respect to the inhabitants of New York. He could not remember an act or thought that did not prompt him to an unfeigned acknowledgment of their favours as a public, and profound admiration of their private worth. “ That I have committed an error/’ he con¬ tinues, referring to the unpleasantness which occurred at Boston during his previous visit, “ appears too evident from the all-decisive voice of the public; but surely it is but justice to the delinquent (whatever may be his enormities), to be allowed to make reparation where the offences were committed. My misunderstandings took place in Boston; to Boston I shall assuredly go to apologize for my indiscretions. I visit this country now under different feelings and auspices than on a former occasion. Then I was an ambitious man, and the proud representative of Shakespeare’s heroes; now the spark of ambition is extinct, and I merely ask a shelter in which to close my professional and mortal career. I give the weapon into the hands of my enemies; if they are brave, they will not turn it against the defenceless.” This abject and pathetic appeal was supplemented by an editorial remark, that offended virtue could best testify its indignation by absenting itself from the theatre, instead of converting a place of amusement to a battle-ground for contending obscenity ami riot. A couple of evenings later he played Othello, when nothing could exceed the excitement of the public. 336 EDMUND KEAN. When, after a considerable delay, the curtain rose, applause and hisses again filled the theatre, but the latter were in the minority. Presently Kean’s sup¬ porters exhibited a poster begging his friends to be silent, when, they complying, the weakness of his enemies was discovered. By degrees signs of ani¬ mosity grew less and less, until in the third act the tragedian’s magnificent playing silenced all opposition, and he was heard with attention and delight. At the fall of the curtain a storm of unanimous applause arose, and he was loudly called for by an audience anxious to make some reparation for its past behaviour. Com¬ ing forward, he returned thanks for the favour granted him that evening; he stated that for his past conduct he could but express bitter regret; he had suffered enough during the last few months to atone for the blackest in the whole catalogue of crimes; and con¬ cluded by hoping Lethe’s stream might be permitted to pass over his faults for ever. “ The pith of the matter,” says the Albion , referring to this speech, “ the pathos and manner of its delivery, and the eloquence of appeal were powerful. The guilty offender stood before us all with the mental endowments which nature had lavished upon him, and which he seemed to deposit at the feet of the audience as a ransom for their lost favour. What a victory did genius gain over prejudice, and what a mass of anger and resentment was sacrificed on its glorious shrine.” From this night forward his performances at New York were interrupted only by applause. Having finished his engagement he went to Albany, where he was received with welcome, and then pro¬ ceeded to Boston, where a far different experience awaited EXCITEMENT AT BOSTON. 337 him. The day before his appearance in that city he addressed a letter to the public, which was inserted in the lea ling journals. In this he begged to inform the citizens of Boston of his arrival, confident that liberality and forbearance would gain the ascendance over pre¬ judice and cruelty. “ That I have erred,” he concluded, “ I acknowledge; that I have suffered for my errors and indiscretion, my loss of fame and fortune is but too melancholy an illustration.” This epistle had the effect of irritating rather than soothing those to whom it was addressed. A hostile O press tortured the fact of his not playing before a scanty audience during his first visit to their city into a gross insult, and called upon the chivalry of the people to avenge the wrongs he had heaped upon their country ; whilst the incidents of his life bearing on his recent trial were repeated and magnified, until he was painted as a monster of iniquity. A general fever of excitement prevailed, and it was generally whispered that Kean would not be allowed to play. His first appearance had been announced for December 21st, 1825. Early in the day a crowd assembled round the theatre, and during the afternoon a scene of confusion and uproar ensued which promised a stormy evening. All tickets had been sold the previous day, so that when at last the doors were opened the rush was terrific, and some of those on the outer edge of the crowd, in their desperate determination to gain admittance, mounted on the shoulders and literally travelled over the heads of the mob. In a space that might be counted by seconds the theatre was densely packed by men—women having wisely absented themselves. Before the curtain drew up an actor came forward and shouted some sentences, 338 EDMUND KEAN. but the uproar being great, it was impossible for him to be heard; it was evident, however, he wished to express Keans desire to address the house, for im¬ mediately after, the tragedian, clad in his ordinary clothes, stepped before the curtain, and in a quiet, patient, and penitent manner intimated his wish to explain himself. A wild howl as from a pack of hungry wolves greeted him, and was followed by a shower of cabbages, oranges, and small brass buttons the size of musket-bullets, some of which struck him; water squirted from syringes, and the contents of bottles containing “ offensive drugs ” were also flung at him. Surprised, indignant, and alarmed, Kean withdrew. A general demand was then made for the manager, when Mr. Kilner appeared, and was heard to say Kean “ wished to make an apology from his heart and soul; ” on which a response was roared by some avenger of out¬ raged virtue, “ Damn his soul/' Kean came forward, but the yells which uprose caused him to retire unheard. Kilner then re-entered with a placard announcing, “ Mr. Kean declines playing; ” and having waited until this was seen by all, turned its reverse side, on which was written, “ Shall the play go on without him ? ” To this no answer was made; the storm, however, continued, even after the curtain drew up and the tragedy of Richard III . began. But seeing a substitute for Kean had been provided, a wild cry went up from the rioters, who feared* their victim had escaped. Again and again he was called for, when one of the actors stated he had left the theatre. The play was now stopped, for a fresh excitement occurred. The hundreds blocking the streets outside being unable to gain admission, determined to force an entrance at all risks. The doors which had been closed RIOT IN THE THEATRE. 339 and barred were violently forced open, and the pit being incapable of holding another individual, the intruders pushed their way up the stairs leading to the boxes. Between the occupants of these and the new-comers skirmishes followed, doors were smashed,windows broken, and escape by the ordinary channel becoming im¬ possible, those who considered their only safety lay in flight jumped from a window in the second story, a distance of ten feet, on to a wooden shed below, and from that into the street. Those who remained to brave the battle were gradually forced into the pit, and those in the pit on to the stage. From there they rushed behind the scenes, with a cry for Kean! Kean ! hungering like wild beasts for their prey. The tragedian had fortunately withdrawn from the house, and taken refuge in the residence of the prompter, George Clarke, which adjoined and communicated with the theatre, and his pursuers, rendered furious by his escape, ran into the dressing-rooms and the wardrobe, where, don¬ ning helmets and arming themselves with halberds, pikes, and swords, they hastened back to the stage. The spirit of warfare now having possession of them, they seized the brackets and branches supporting the chandeliers, wrenched them from their positions, and deliberately broke the lustres with their pikes. Bricks and stones were flung from without through the windows with disastrous effects; benches were tom up, the curtains of boxes rent to shreds, and finally the gas was extinguished. Long before the rioters had proceeded so far the police had sought to interfere with them, but they were powerless against such numbers. The manager then sent for Mayor Quincy, with a request that he would 340 EDMUND KEAN. read the Riot Act, but that worthy individual preferred safety at home to danger abroad ; Mr. Justice Whitman was then urgently requested to come to the rescue, and he, forcing his way to the stage, twice read the Riot Act, when the theatre was saved from utter destruction. Throughout the night the streets were thronged by excited mobs; the ringleaders of which, suspecting Kean was in George Clarke’s house, made several attempts to enter with the intention of dragging him out and inflicting vengeance on him, but Mr. South- worth, a gallant man, stood upon the steps of the dwelling, and when the infuriated rioters presented themselves, assured them Kean was not there. Then appealing to their manhood and gallantry, he told them Mrs. Clarke, who hourly expected to become a mother, was in an extremely critical condition, and begged them to depart. About one o’clock that morn¬ ing Kean, being disguised, made his escape through Theatre Alley, and was conveyed to the Exchange Coffee-House. Here he was placed under the pro¬ tection of two stout fellows named Perkins and Colla- more. His fear was great, for it was rumoured the brutal mob, who intended to tar and feather him, were on his track, and it was with a grateful heart he, with his two companions, set out in the small hours of the morning for Providence. From there he travelled to Worcester, and then went to New York, where he arrived worn by fatigue, and prostrate with grief. The good people of Boston prided themselves on having driven him from their midst, and the Boston Courier flung a last stone after him. “ Two weeks ago,” said this chaste organ, “we did not believe that our managers would have been guilty of so much contempt for public PLAYS AT NEW YORK. 341 opinion, and so much disregard for public decency as to permit Kean to play on their stage, but we find our¬ selves deceived. Four days ago too we did not believe that so worthless a fellow, such a double-faced beggar for ‘an asylum in which to end his professional and mortal career/ would have confidence enough to raise so much feeling on his account/' Keans condition was now most pitiful; at home and abroad, he who by his genius had given the highest intellectual pleasure in the power of no other man to bestow in equal measure, was treated in a cruel and barbarous manner. Home or country he had none : he had been repudiated for a fault until his punishment assumed the shape of persecution. He sufficiently rallied his spirits to play on the 4th of January, 1826, at New York for the benefit of Mrs. Hilson. The house was crowded, and, as if to atone in part for the brutal conduct he had recently experienced, the audience was most enthusiastic. At the end of the performance he was called forward, and in a few words referred with warmth and pain to his reception at Boston. The character he represented on this occasion was that of King Lear, and next day, upon his old friend Dr. Francis congratulating him on his success, Kean said the decrepitude and insanity of Lear rendered it a laborious part, and told him, that in order to study various effects of insanity he had visited some mad¬ houses in London. “ By the way/' he added, “ I under¬ stand you have an asylum for lunatics here, which I should like to visit.” The doctor being willing to gratify him, a few days later they, acompanied by a mutual friend, drove to the Bloomingdale asylum. On their way they passed 342 EDMUND KEAN. some famous public gardens known as Vauxhall, which the tragedian expressed a desire to see. He therefore gravely descended from his carriage, and asked the gate-keeper if he might walk over the grounds, but before a reply could be made Kean had turned a double somersault, to the wonder and consternation of the porter, and in a second stood at a consider¬ able distance. There he quietly waited his friends, admired the grounds, and then continued his drive. Arriving at the asylum, he was introduced to the officials, and with them visited the patients under their care. Before quitting the building, he was told that if he ascended to the roof he would obtain a magnificent view of the surrounding counties. Delighted with the idea, he and his companions went on the roof, and Kean expressed his admiration of the wide prospect of hill and dale, woodland and winding river spreading before him. Suddenly he exclaimed, “ Ill walk to the ridge of the roof and make a leap, it is the best end I can make of my life/' and away he rushed towards the western gable; but his friends hurrying after him, seized him and brought him back, nor did they lose sight of him until they left him, apparently in a calmer mood, at his hotel. It is notable that had he succeeded in his resolution to leap from the roof, he would have died in the same fashion as his father had long ago. “ I have ever been at a loss/ 5 said Dr. Francis, who narrates this incident, a to account for this sudden freak in his feelings; he was buoyant at the outset of the journey, he astonished the Vauxhall gate-keeper by his harlequin trick, and took an interest in the various forms of insanity which came before him. He might have become too sublimated in his feelings, or had his KEAN PLAYS AT PHILADELPHIA. 343 senses unsettled (for he was an electrical apparatus) in contemplating the mysterious influences acting on the minds of the deranged, for there is an attractive principle as well as an adhesive principle in madness ; or a crowd of thoughts might have oppressed him, arising from the disaster which had occurred to him a few days before with the Boston audience, and the irreparable loss he had sustained in the plunder of his trunks and valuable papers while journeying hither and thither on his return to New York/' From this city he resolved to visit Philadelphia, but Wood, the theatrical manager, wrote to him, that whilst the present excitement continued, if he came to Philadelphia he would not be answerable for the consequences; Kean therefore, though advertised to appear, absented himself. On the evening of the 9th of January, when he was to have begun his engagement, Wood, on being called for, stated it was not only his desire but his interest that Kean would act in his theatre, but he was powerless to drag him before an audience. If he declined to perform a manager had no power to compel him. Now an English actor named Francis Courtney Wemyss, who was indebted to Kean for many acts of kindness, happening to know what had passed between Wood and the tragedian, stated to several influential men of the city that Kean would come if assured of his personal safety, but that Wood had written him word his life would be en dangered by his visit, inquiries followed, when the stage-manager was despatched to interview Kean, who came to Philadelphia, and made his appearance at the theatre as Richard III. on the 18th of January, 1826. The scene which followed his entrance on the stage 344 EDMUND KEAN. was disgraceful. Rotten eggs, oranges, buttons, and other missiles were flung at him, in the midst of which he stood calm and sorrowful, so distressed in outward seeming that his worst enemy might have pitied him. Unable to obtain a hearing, he retired amidst a triumph¬ ant yell of hate. The tragedy then began, and was continued in pantomime, the noise drowning all sound of the players’ voices, until at length, wearied by exertion, the tumult became gradually less. Then Kean, seeing his opportunity, stepped from the centre of the stage to the front, and said, “ Friends of the drama, this is your quarrel, not mine.” This statement, together with his admirable playing, had the effect of quieting them, so that the last acts of Eicharcl III. were heard in silence. When the curtain fell an immense crowd gathered round the stage door to see the tragedian leave the theatre; whether their purpose was to cheer or groan it was impossible to say, but as he was about to enter his carriage one of his friends cried out for “ Three cheers for Kean ! ” to which the mob, previously hesitating in its course, immediately responded. From that evening forward, during the fortnight he played in Philadelphia, he was listened to with atten¬ tion and applauded with heartiness; so that on the last night of his engagement he made the following speech when the curtain fell —■“ Ladies and gentlemen, my life has been a chequered one, at one time reaching the pinnacle of ambition, at another sunk to the lowest ebb of misfortune. I appeared before you at the beginning of my present engagement, sick and dejected by the gloom which the malignity of enemies had thrown around me, anxious and willing to resign the contest; but the kindness of a Philadelphian audience RIOTOUS RECEPTION AT BALTIMORE. 345 has dispelled these visions of despair, and I hope I shall have the honour early next season of appearing before this kind auditory.” At Baltimore he was not so fortunate; indeed, the scene of his first night’s appearance in that town was but a repetition of what he had experienced at Boston, for he was neither permitted to play nor to speak; and as it was believed personal violence would be offered him, he was conveyed from the theatre through an adjoining house to his hotel. He then returned to New York, and was next engaged by Simpson and Cowell, managers of the Charleston Theatre, to play in that town. Joe Cowell had some time previously left England, and becoming popular in America, had embarked in management. Admiring Kean as a great tragedian, and sympathizing with him as a persecuted man, he sought by every means in his power to secure him a peaceful if not an enthusiastic reception at Charleston. He had, however, to contend with a hostile press, which declared this unfortunate man should be hounded out of the country. Kean having sailed in the middle of February for Charleston in the ship Othello , Joe Cowell hastened to greet him on his arrival. “ I boarded the vessel before she crossed the bar,” says the manager, “and found this wreck of better days feeble in body, and that brilliant poetic face a Raphael might have envied for a study, 'sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.’ His first inquiry was if the public were hostile to his appearance; and like a child he appealed to me, 'Cowell, for God’s sake, by the ties of old fellowship and country¬ men, I entreat you not to let me play if you think the audience will not receive me. I have not strength 346 EDMUND KEAN. of mind or body—look how I am changed since you saw me last—to endure a continuance of the persecu¬ tions I have already suffered, and I believe a repetition of them would kill me on the spot/ ” Cowell encouraged him to hope all would be well, and he seemed pacified, until on landing from their boat some idlers who had collected there hissed and groaned. “ The well-known hateful sound,” Cowell says, “ seemed to enter his very soul, and looking up in my face, with ‘ God help me/ quivering on his parted lips, he clung to my arm as if for succour, not support. I assured him the disapprobation was meant for an officer of the customs, in whose boat we had landed, who was objectionable to the people, and doubting, yet hoping, it was true, led him to my house.” Throughout the night he never closed his eyes; his anxiety concerning his reception was great, and his rest was such “ As wretches have o’er night Who wait for execution in the morn.” Next day he anxiously questioned all who approached him concerning the possible greeting that awaited him that evening, and his soul hung between hope and fear. Not a seat was booked, but on the doors of the theatre being opened, the house was soon crowded. On his entrance he was received with perfect silence, and throughout the night neither hissing nor clapping was heard. Kean’s delight at this escape from the fate he dreaded was great, and next day every available place in the theatre was booked for his second appear¬ ance. But on this occasion some ill-advised persons vented their admiration in applause, which was instantly overwhelmed by hisses; then a pent-up storm burst A PUBLIC DINNER IN MONTREAL. 347 over the house, yells and groans filled the air, oranges and apples were flung at the tragedian, and the curtain was lowered in the midst of a scene. Cowell then appeared, quietly picked up the missiles thrown on the stage, and with looks of indignation and regret bowed and withdrew. The curtain was again raised, and the scene continued; Kean was suffered to proceed, and before the tragedy of Othello had concluded, the house was unanimous in its stormy applause. He had conquered prejudice. Next day some of the first men in the city left their cards at his hotel; dinner-parties were arranged for him, carriages were placed at his service, fruits and flowers were sent him in abundance, and his share of the receipts of the houses to which he played amounted to two hundred and twenty-two dollars, or upwards of fifty pounds a night. So blessed a change was this to a man who had been hounded from town to town, that he resolved to stay here some time. Accordingly a friend gave him the use of a country house on Sul¬ livan’s Island—a sandbank in the centre of the harbour, uninhabited at this time of year, except by a few soldiers stationed at the fort. Here, with a couple of Newfoundland dogs, a horse, and a pet deer, he remained, striving to recover from the effects of his persecution, until May, when he returned again to New York. Later on he visited Montreal and Quebec, and was favourably received in both towns. Before his departure from the former he was entertained at a public dinner at the Masonic Hall Hotel, and in the course of a speech made in reply to the drinking of his health, spoke of his departure from England in a manner that 348 EDMUND KEAN. serves to throw fresh light upon his many-sided cha¬ racter. “ I was scarcely from the land,” he said, “ when reason told me I had lost a portion of my respectability as a man, and my chief resources depended on my exertions as an actor. I assumed, therefore, a callous indifference, played for a time the character of a mis¬ anthrope, knit my brows, and pretended contempt for the world, but it was merely acting. Deeply I felt the loss of that society I had for years associated with, and every little act of kindness penetrated the brazen armour I had borrowed for the occasion. The search¬ ing eye could soon discern smiles without mirth, and pastime without pleasure.” At Quebec his advent excited unusual interest. He had been announced to perform on Monday, the 8th of September, and expected to arrive on the previous Thursday; but neither did he appear on that day, nor on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, and this disappoint¬ ment increased the sensation already excited. On Monday, however, news was brought that he was posi¬ tively in the tug-boat Hercules , which was towing a vessel into the harbour, when a number of citizens went down to meet and give him a hearty welcome; and the manager, learning that he was willing and able to play that night, sent the public bellman round to announce the fact. The theatre was crowded, the governor, Lady Dalhousie and suite occupied boxes, and Kean was enthusiastically applauded. During his engagement here an incident occurred which greatly delighted him. Becoming aware of the excitement his performances created, a number of Indians attended the theatre; when Kean, gratified by their visit, and pleased by their picturesque appear- KEAN MADE AN INDIAN CHIEF. 349 ance, desired to become better acquainted with them. Introductions therefore followed. He was no less an object of wonder and admiration to them than they were to him. Acquaintanceship soon ripened to in¬ timacy ; he entertained them hospitably, recited for them, sang and played to them, rode with and tumbled for them, and finally expressed his desire to become one of the tribe, and leave the ways of the white man for ever. Impressed by the charm of his manner and his wonderful talents, they made him a chief, and with much ceremony invested him with a costume such as they wore, and gave him the name of Alanienouidet. He then disappeared with them. Subsequently speak¬ ing of this period to his friend Grattan, he declared he had gone mad for several days, and having joined the Indians in their camp, he was pursued by some friends who carried him back, and for a considerable time treated him as a lunatic, before he was allowed to leave for New York. Soon after it happened that Dr. Francis, late one evening, received a message requesting he would call upon the renowned Indian chief, Alanienouidet, then staying at an hotel close at hand. Hastening to obey the summons, the doctor soon arrived at the chiefs temporary residence, and being silently conducted up¬ stairs, was left at the folding-doors of a large apartment, when the servant mysteriously disappeared. He then entered the lofty room, which was but dimly lighted, and looking round, saw at the far end a forest of palms, ferns, and evergreens illuminated by lamps, which, placed upon the floor, threw their rays upon a great throne, on which was the seated figure of a warrior chief. His appearance was strikingly picturesque. 350 EDMUND KEAN. His small, well-shaped head was decked with eagle plumes, from behind which masses of black locks flowed on his shoulders; thick gold rings hung from his nose and ears, his face was streaked with red and yellow paint, a collar of bear-skins clasped his neck, buffalo hides clad his form; his leggings were garnished with porcupine quills, his mocassins decorated with beads, his bare arms adorned with shining bracelets; a toma¬ hawk was suspended from a broad belt round his waist, whilst in his hands he held a bow and arrow. Seeing his visitor enter, he gravely descended from his throne and approached him. “ His eye,” says the doctor, “ was meteoric and fearful, like the furnace of the Cyclops. He vociferously exclaimed Alanienouidet, the vowels strong enough. I was relieved; he betrayed something of his rancous voice in imprecation. It was Kean.” He was as rejoiced as a school-boy at the impression he made, and the effect of his costume; declared he valued the honour the Indians had conferred on him above the highest triumph he had achieved at Drury Lane; and that he was yet undecided whether he would wholly cast his lot with them, or return to London. On Monday the 18th of November, 1826, he played Richard III. at the Park Theatre before a crowded audience, whose enthusiasm showed that all ill-feeling towards him had ended. During the week he played Othello and Shylock, but scarce had he finished the representation of the latter character, when he was taken ill in the green-room with violent spasmodic attacks. That he had suffered deeply, both mentally and physically, was but too apparent; his powers had declined, and by some of his acquaintances it was con- FAREWELL TO AMERICA. 351 sidered he had not long to live. Commenting on these facts, the Albion stated, that nothing but a salutary and persevering reform in his social habits could prolong his existence. “ Possibly/’ it adds, “ the abstinence of a sea voyage, the counsel of his friends, and the sug¬ gestions of his own good sense may work a beneficial change in some of his injurious indulgences.” Early in December it was announced by the press that, in consequence of information recently received from England, Kean was about to return immediately to that country, and had taken his passage on board the ship Silas Richards , which sailed on the 8th of the month. He therefore made his last appearance in America on Tuesday, December 5th, 1826, in the part of Richard III. CHAPTER XV. Whilst Edmund Kean was in America some changes had taken place in Drury Lane. Owing to the ex¬ penditure consequent on the rebuilding, improving, and decorating of the theatre, and the poor receipts of some unprofitable seasons, Elliston had become deeply in¬ volved in debt. Aware of this, the shareholders called a meeting in May, 1826, when a demand was made that the lessee should pay within three days the arrears of rent, amounting to five thousand five hundred pounds. During his term of management Elliston had paid sixty-six thousand pounds for rent; and though, by the conditions of his agreement, he was not compelled to spend more than seven thousand pounds in improving the house, he had already expended almost four times that sum. The portico in Brydges Street, erected from 352 EDMUND KEAN. designs by Sir John Soane, cost over a thousand pounds, and the reconstructing of the interior of the theatre, improvements of the stage, and lining the saloon with looking-glasses, required an outlay of twenty-two thousand pounds. Elliston therefore con¬ sidered this prompt demand for the balance of rent from those whose property he had greatly enhanced, exceedingly harsh; but the shareholders were unflinch¬ ing, and the meeting was adjourned for three days. At the end of that time Elliston submitted proposals from a committee of his creditors, who were ready to give security for the amount he owed ; the shareholders, however, would not listen to this suggestion, and in¬ sisted that Elliston should either pay the money down or resign his lesseeship; therefore the Napoleon of Drury Lane was obliged to enter the Bankruptcy Court, and the national theatre knew him no more. Offers were then invited for the lesseeship, which was finally granted to Stephen Price, an American, known in the theatrical profession as the “ Star provider to the United States,” he having acted as an agent for some American theatres in which he had an interest. Now, whilst Kean was in New York, he received a letter purporting to come from Stephen Price, asking him to return immediately and take possession of the management of Drury Lane Theatre, which was only held in trust for “ its true inheritor.” He had therefore hastened to England, and arriving in January, 1827, learned the communication was merely a hoax. His disappointment was great, but was somewhat alleviated by an offer to play at Drury Lane for twelve nights at fifty pounds a night. It was there- KEAN’S RECEPTION AT DRURY LANE. 353 fore announced that Mr. Kean, having arrived from America to fulfil an engagement for a limited number of nights, would make his first appearance on the 8th of January in the character of Shylock. On this even¬ ing the theatre was crowded to excess; long before the curtain rose cries for “ Kean, Kean/' were heard from every part of the house, and the moment the play began a shout was sent up, says the Morning Chronicle , “ sufficient to fright the realm of chaos and old night, in which every voice joined.” Again and again was Kean called for during the first scene, until at last he came forward, when a deafening roar broke over the house; the pit rose, handkerchiefs and hats were waved from circle and gallery, and cheers literally shook the building. Overcome by emotion caused by the contrast of this reception to that which the same people had given him but a little while before, Kean stood gazing at them calmly, a smile, it might be of disdain or gratification, on his lips. Then, turning to the stage, he began his performance. It was considered he had never acted so ably; the parts in which he was wont to use great physical exertions were now softened and subdued, a change which was regarded as an improvement. He was warmly applauded throughout, and at the fall of the curtain was loudly called for; but he was evidently not willing to comply with the wishes of his audience. One of the actors came forward, as if desirous of apologiz¬ ing for Kean's non-appearance, but vainly solicited a hearing, on which he withdrew. The applause and cries for Kean continuing, the tragedian at last ap¬ peared. He had changed Shylock’s garberdine for his own clothes, and removed the paint from his face, when a a 354 EDMUND KEAN. it was noted for the first time how pale, worn, and haggard he appeared. On a general demand being made for a speech, he merely bowed again and again, and quietly made his exit. Three nights later he acted Othello, when he was as enthusiastically received as on the previous occasion ; but it was noticed he played with languor, and that many of his speeches were delivered mechanically, rather than with his former enthusiasm. Later still, when he personated Richard III., it was painfully evident he was physically a wreck of his former self; the old spirit which had kindled his audience to fervour was often absent, whilst the traces of suffering were but too visible. And being now dependent on his present earnings, which were squandered by his extravagant habits as soon as received, he was obliged to work when rest was necessary to his restoration to health. He there¬ fore accepted an engagement to play in Dublin, but the effects of dissipation were sadly perceptible, and his audiences regarded him with compassion and regret. At this time he suffered, amongst other ailments, from a sore leg, for which he was attended by Surgeon Carpue, who prescribed the strictest regime, and com¬ manded abstinence from all strong liquors, directions his patient strove hard to follow. By nursing himself for two consecutive days, he was able to play three times a week; but even then the exertion of acting caused him great pain and fatigue. To commemorate his return to Dublin, the patentee, committee, and performers of the Theatre Royal com¬ missioned an artist named Feyer to paint a full-length portrait of Kean, representing him, at his own request, as an Indian chief. Of the honour the tribe had con- gkattan’s visits TO KEAN. 355 ferred on him he was yet proud, and when he took his benefit on the 2nd of April, it was announced he would not only play King Lear, but deliver a farewell address in the character and costume of Alanienouidet, chief of the Huron Indians; which name and title, says the playbills, “ were conferred upon him by a full assembly of the tribe at Quebec in 1826.” In May he was back again at Drury Lane, filling a regular engagement. The while his health varied, little progress being made towards recovery, and during the season an event occurred which showed how much his recent troubles had affected his mental and physical condition. When three years previously Kean had met his old friend Grattan at Boulogne, he asked him if he had ever thought of writing for the stage. In reply Grattan stated he had once attempted a tragedy, the hero of which he hoped might be played by him, but he had long ago laid it aside; he would, however, if Kean promised to read the manuscript, re-write it, and send it him. On this the tragedian promised he would use every exertion to have it brought forward with all possible advantage. The trial which soon after followed, together with Kean’s reception by the public, and his subsequent visit to America, caused the tragedy to be laid aside. But Kean having returned to London, and being enthusiastically welcomed, Grattan forwarded his play, Ben Nazir the Saracen y and a few days later called on Kean, who was then living at the Hummums Hotel, Covent Garden. Grattan found him sitting up in bed, a buffalo skin wrapped round him, a huge fur cap decked with many gorgeous feathers on his head, a scalping knife in his 356 EDMUND KEAN. belt, and a tomahawk in his hand. A tumbler of white wine negus was within his reach, two shabby-looking boon companions bore him company, whilst an artist painted his portrait as Alanienouidet. Grattan was an¬ nounced by a negro boy in livery, and on his entrance Kean gave a ferocious roll of his eyes, flourished his tomahawk, threw off his cap, and shook his visitor warmly by the hand. The boon companions now re¬ tired, the painter laid down his brushes, and Kean told his friend he had read Ben Nazir , and from six manu¬ scripts submitted to him by the manager, amongst which was Sheridan Knowless play of Alfred , he had selected it as the piece in which he would make his “ regenerated appearance" before a London public. He then produced from under his pillow the part of Ben Nazir , which he was committing to memory; for it was stipulated in his new engagement at Drury Lane that he should be ready to play in this tragedy early in May, and he trusted this representation would confirm him in the favour lately accorded him by the public. His flow of conversation was interrupted by the en¬ trance of the black boy, who ushered in two ladies heavily veiled; these Kean assured his friend, in a stage whisper, were two lovely creatures, the daughters of a clergyman of high respectability, who, having fallen des¬ perately in love with him, came to London to offer him their affections. Hearing which Grattan took his leave. Later he paid the tragedian several visits, and having many opportunities of observing him, came to the conclusion that “his whole situation, appearance, and conduct at this critical period of his career were very remarkable and characteristic. He presented a mixture of subdued, fierceness, unsatisfied triumph, and sup- REHEARSALS OF GRATTAN’S TRAGEDY. 357 pressed debauchery. He had in a great measure recovered his place before the public, but he had lost all the respectability of private life. His health had been greatly shattered during his American campaign, chiefly, I believe, from his mental sufferings.” Rehearsals of Ben Nazir were now begun, and the players who had been cast for the piece were perfect in their parts with the exception of Kean, who read his speeches w r ith great vigour, and produced a powerful impression on his hearers. From the later rehearsals he absented himself, stating he was unwilling to lose time from the close study he wished to give the minutest details of his representation. There could be no doubt he laboured hard to impress the words upon his memory, for he daily drove to Kensington Gardens, where he studied quietly for a couple of hours* a practice he varied by taking a boat, and whilst being rowed towards Greenwich recited his speeches with dramatic effect. His enthusiasm regarding Ben Nazir w r as great; he was certain he should play it a hundred nights during the season; he laid out fifty guineas over and above the sum allowed him by the manager for his costumes; he declared he would have his portrait painted and engraved as Ben Nazir, a name by which he would call the new boat he was about to present as a prize for the annual wherry race he had instituted. The night for the performance of the tragedy was at. length fixed. Kean stated he was quite prepared, but refused to appear at the last rehearsals, saying it would not only confuse and annoy him, but perhaps destroy the effect he wished to reserve for the public. The town thronged to see the new play, and the author, full of high hopes, sat in a private box at the back of 358 EDMUND KEAN. the dress-circle. The curtain rose, the tragedy began, and the house waited for Kean with breathless anxiety. Meanwhile, as the first scene proceeded the call-boy summoned the tragedian, who failed to make his appearance; again and again the call was given, but with like effect, until seriously alarmed, the manager rushed to Kean’s dressing-room, where he found him “ weeping and in total despair; ” he could not re¬ member his part. It was now too late to postpone the play, and whatever the consequences, he must go on the stage; therefore, when the drop curtain rose on the second scene, he was discovered clad in a magnificent dress, his arms folded on his breast, his attitude one of thoughtful solemnity. Thunders of applause greeted him from all parts of the house. “ Then he spoke,” says Grattan, “but what a speech. The one I wrote consisted of eight or nine lines; his was of two or three sentences, but not six consecutive words of the text. His look, his man¬ ner, his tone were to me quite appalling; to any other observer they must have been incomprehensible. He stood fixed, drawled out his incoherent words, and gave the notion of a man who had been half-hanged, and then dragged through a horsepond. My heart, I con¬ fess it, sank deep in my breast; I was utterly shocked. And as the business of the play went on, and as he stood by with moveless muscle and glazed eye, through¬ out the scene which should have been one of violent exertion, a cold shower of perspiration poured from my forehead, and I endured a revulsion of feeling which I cannot describe, and which I would not for worlds one eye had witnessed. I had all along felt that this scene would be the touchstone of the play. Kean went A FINE PLAY KUINED. 359 through it like a man in the last stage of exhaustion and decay. The act closed, a dead silence followed the fall of the curtain, and I felt, though I could not hear, the voiceless verdict of damnation. ” As the tragedy continued it was evident to all some¬ thing had gone wrong; for Kean was not only defective in the knowledge of the lines he ought to have de¬ livered, but in the utterance of those for which his memory served him. No spark was visible of that genius which had lighted him to fame; no trace was present of that power which had moved thousands. “A contemplation of the wreck of great energies is always mournful,” said a morning paper, speaking of this performance, “ but in the present instance it reached a point which was absolutely afflicting.” At the fall of the curtain there were signs of im¬ patience and disappointment; and on the manager coming forward, he had some difficulty in obtaining silence. When allowed to speak, he said he had been commissioned by Mr. Kean to apologize for his ignor¬ ance of his part; the mental anxiety and bodily illness from which he had suffered had so far impaired his powers of memory as to prevent him doing justice to the author. Grattan, now leaving his box, took his way with a heavy heart behind the scenes, and crossing the stage met Kean supported by two men, who were leading him to his dressing-room. He hung his head, and waving his hand said, “ I have ruined a fine play and myself; I cannot look you in the face.” The poor author strove to say something consolatory, for his sense * of disappointment was lost in compassion for the wreck he beheld. The tragedy met its fate, and was never revived. Mrs. Kean, now separated from her husband, lived in 360 EDMUND KEAN. lodgings in Rider Street, St. James's, on an allowance of two hundred a year, which he, though still profuse in his expenditure, and notable for his generosity, grudg¬ ingly allowed her. The misfortune which had fallen on him shadowed her life, and, broken-spirited and ill, she lived in close retirement Her son was still at Eton, which he had entered in June, 1824, having previously been sent to preparatory schools at Thames Ditton and at Greenford. His parents had intended him for one of two professions—his mother’s inclination being to make him a clergyman, whilst his father desired he should enter the navy. As he was soon, at the end of his three years’ residence there, to leave Eton, Edmund Kean requested Mr. Calcraft, a member of Parliament, and formerly one of the Drury Lane Committee, to procure a cadetship for the lad in the East India Company’s service. Calcraft promised to exert his influence towards obliging his old friend, and Kean resolved his son should obey his wishes, irrespective of his own inclinations. But some months before Charles was to leave Eton, his mother, hearing of her husband’s intentions, sent for the lad, and implored him, as he loved her, not to part from her now she was afflicted by illness and oppressed by grief. This he readily promised, and seeking his father- told him he could not leave his mother sick and helpless, and he must decline accept¬ ance of the cadetship. The tragedian, who listened to him, coldly asked if he were aware that in declining the appointment he gave him up; to which Charles replied, it was impossible to believe his father could be angry with him for acting as he did. “ What will you do when you are thrown entirely on your own resources ? ” Kean asked, to which his son CALCR AFT’S LETTER TO MRS. KEAN. 361 answered, he should be compelled to seek his fortune on the stage, where he could at least obtain a livelihood for himself and his mother without being under an obligation to any one. At this reply Kean became furious, declaring he would be the first and last actor of his name, and would never see his son any more. Under these circumstances they parted, and all intimacy between them ceased. Mrs. Kean then wrote to inform Mr. Calcraft of her sons resolution, and received from him the following reply— / “Hanover Square, Feb. 27 th, 1827. “ Dear Madam, “I confess it was a great disappointment to me that you and your son refused (if it could be obtained) the cadetship to the East Indies, for after what you have said, I did not expect it. Yet, having been much pleased with your son's manner and appear¬ ance, and being thoroughly sensible of his unprotected situation, I shall not withhold from him any services which may be in my power. Always wishing you to keep in mind that I am entirely without official interest. “ I am, dear Madam, “ Your obedient servant, “ J. Calcraft.” The following July Charles left Eton for good, and going to his mothers lodgings, found her not only in illness but in poverty, the annuity her husband had previously allowed her being stopped. Without re¬ sources or expectations, sorrowful and ill, her condition was pitiable; but an occurrence soon happened that filled her with hope. A little while before Edmund Kean had quarrelled with Stephen Price, and had 362 EDMUND KEAN. entered into negotiations with Charles, Kemble, now manager of Covent Garden Theatre. Hearing of Charles Kean’s intention of becoming an actor, and believing the son of the great tragedian would prove attractive to the town, Price made the lad, now in his sixteenth year, an offer of an engagement for three years at a salary of ten pounds a week, with a promise of increasing that sum to eleven and twelve pounds a week during the second and third year in case he proved successful. This was gladly and gratefully accepted, and Charles began to prepare himself for his new duties. Drury Lane Theatre opened for the winter season on Monday the 1st of October, 1827, on which occasion Mr. Kean, junior, as he was termed in the play-bills, made his first .appearance on any stage as Young Norval in the tragedy of Douglas . A brilliant and fashionable house assembled to witness his dtbut. On his entrance he was greeted with a loud burst of applause, which seemed to unnerve him, for he stood motionless, “excepting,” says the Morning Chronicle , “that the timid heavings of his chest could be dis¬ tinctly observed from all parts of the house.” But soon recovering himself, he began his part, and retained his self-possession to the end. In appearance he was merely a stripling of five feet seven inches, slightly built, and strongly resembling his father in the upper part of his face. His voice was yet lacking in fullness and sweetness, his undertones being almost inaudible, and he expressed but little feeling; his actions, however, were in general free, unconstrained, and graceful. There was much indeed in his person and manner to recall the great actor whose name he bore; but the withering glance, the musical tones, and FIRST APPEARANCE OF CHARLES KEAN. 363 the impassioned gesture of the elder Kean were want¬ ing, and all comparison between them was calculated to prove the inferiority of this youth. Though the tragedy wanted novelty and interest, and the hero strength and experience, his delivery of many passages was greeted with applause, and at the fall of the curtain the manager, on coming forward, was not allowed to speak until he retired and led Charles Kean forward to receive the hearty congratulations of his friendly audience. Next day the criticisms of the press, with the excep¬ tion of the Morning Chronicle , were marked by severity; the Times being especially bitter in its remarks, as if determined to continue on his son the malignity with which it had ever treated the elder Kean; and read¬ ing over its remarks, the young actor and his mother cried bitterly. “ We have heard,” says this organ, “and we give credit to the statement, that the elder Kean had provided for his son by procuring him an appoint¬ ment in the East India Company’s Service. If it be not too late, we should advise the young gentleman to push his fortune in the East, and if he needs must be theatrical, he may amuse himself on the Chowringhee stage, and on many other stages in India, where amateur performances are greatly admired. . . . With respect to his voice and his style of declamation, we can say nothing favourable. The former is weak, unmusical, and puerile; the latter better adapted to the con¬ venticle than to the stage. It is tedious, drawling, and monotonous, such as well-whipped boys occasionally at Christmas exhibit before their delighted parents. Had it been any other than the son of one who has so often and so entirely gratified the public by his fine genius, the young gentleman would most assuredly have been 364 EDMUND KEAN. driven from the boards with at least as much precipitancy as that with which the American manager has forced him on them.” The indulgence usually granted to novices was denied him by the press; no hope was held forward that ex¬ perience and study would remedy his faults; the resemblance he bore his father was held up to remind him of his inefficiency; and but for the bitter necessity which existed for means to support himself and lhs mother, he would have retired from the stage, and have fallen a victim to the severity of critics. Stephen Price encouraged him to persevere, and pitying this lad who was friendless, hopeless, and untutored, gave him every assistance in his power. The tragedy of Douglas was repeated on the following Thursday, and later on he appeared as Achmet in Barbarossa ) and Frederick in Lovers Vows; but the audiences to which he played becoming thinner and thinner, the friendly manager advised him to go into the provinces until he gained experience. He therefore crossed over to Ireland, and made his appearance at the Dublin Theatre as Norval; here he was warmly received, and at the fall of the curtain a general demand was made for a speech. Frightened at the prospect of addressing the house, and aware it was impossible to refuse the request without risk of offence, he began, “ Ladies and Gentlemen, I am deeply sensible of your being quite unprepared—no, I mean of my being quite unprepared—ahem, quite incapable of thanks totally unmerited—never to be effaced when time shall be no more—” Having arrived at this climax of incoherence, one of the gods shouted out, “ That’ll do, Charlie, me boy; go home to your mother. EDMOND KEAN AT COVENT GARDEN. 365 As he on this dismissal bowed and took his departure, a call wds made for “Three cheers for Charlie Keans speech,” to which the house thoroughly responded. Meanwhile, Edmund Kean had retired to Wood Cottage, Bute, without coming to conclusive terms with Charles Kemble, to whom he presently wrote, inviting him on a visit. This the latter declined, but sent him proposals for his appearance at Covent Garden Theatre. In answer Kean said— “My dear Sir, “ Your letter confirms my first impression of your character, namely, that you are a good man and a good actor. Your kindness in the first instance of our meeting cannot be erased; and the second is placed on the monument of memory. I regret in your letter telling me you cannot visit Bute. Shakespeare, you, and I, I think, would form most excellent companion¬ ship (Pares cum paribus facillimc congregantur ). But I shall obey your injunctions, and fortify my constitutional batteries against the new campaign. “ My dear Sir, “ With sincere respect, “ Edmund Kean. “ P.S.—I accept the proposals made by the managers of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. I had nearly forgot all this.” Whilst his son was in Dublin, Edmund Kean ap¬ peared on the 15th October, 1827, at Co vent Garden as Shy lock. He was received with enthusiasm, and it seemed as if his audience was resolved to crown his unrivalled talents with new triumph on his displaying 366 EDMUND KEAN. them at this house. Throughout the performance he was interrupted by the warmest applause, and at the conclusion, when Charles Kemble came forward to announce the play for the next evening, he was greeted* with cries for Kean, on which he retired, but presently returned to state that, not feeling well, and being greatly exhausted by his exertions, Kean had quitted the house immediately after his performance; he added, that though it was impossible for Mr. Kean to answer the call made upon him, there could be no doubt he would be highly flattered on learning the desire of his audience. Throughout the winter his appearance at Covent Garden was frequently interrupted by illness; but in the spring of the year 1828 he was sufficiently recovered to give some performances at Paris. As early as 1822 an English company had appeared at the Porte St. Martin Theatre, but on their attempt to perform had been hooted from the stage, on which a tumult arose that almost ended in bloodshed; for the Parisians had borne in mind, that a company of French dancers en¬ gaged by David Garrick to appear in a performance called a Chinese Festival , about the middle of the previous century, had met with most uncivil treatment from the English people. Six years later another attempt to challenge Parisian criticism was made by an English company, which included, amongst others, Macready, Miss Smithson, Abbott, and Webster. Their efforts were well received, but the French public being unused to Shakespearean performances, were not wholly appreciative of the dramatist’s genius, and when Macready acted Macbeth, the witches were received with peals of laughter; more- PLAYING AT PARIS. 367 over, in the cauldron scene, where mention is made of the ingredients thrown into it, a horrified Frenchman shouted out, 0 Mon Dieu, quel melange. On Edmund Kean being announced to play, curiosity to see him was great. His first appearance was made in the character of Richard III., but the Parisians, long used to the cold declamatory style, did not fully ap¬ preciate his stirring acting and passionate outbursts, and a mutual sense of disappointment ensued. For his second appearance he was advertised to play Othello. A crowded audience awaited him, but he was not to be found; the distracted manager sent messengers in search of him, one of whom discovered him contentedly drinking cognac in the Cafe Anglais. On being told a great house expected him, Kean, who had already drank too much brandy, replied, he did not care a fig. “ But/ 5 replied the messenger, “ the Duchess de Berri has arrived.” “ I am not a servant of the Duchess,” he replied. “ More brandy.” After much persuasion he was induced to quit the cafe and go to the theatre, but when he appeared upon the stage his condition became plain to the audience. At the next night of his appearance a poor house assembled to see him, on which he threw up his engagement and went to Bute, which he made his head-quarters during the summer, fulfilling short engagements now and then in London and the pro¬ vinces. Whilst at Bute in the autumn, his son, who had meanwhile been working hard in the country, was announced to play at Glasgow, and being so near his father, Charles was desirous of visiting him, and establishing peace between them. A mutual friend undertook to aid the reconciliation, when Kean not 368 EDMUND KEAN. only received his son, but offered to play for his benefit at the Glasgow Theatre. Accordingly, on the 1st of October, 1828, the anniversary of Charles’s first appear¬ ance, both father and son acted in Howard Payne’s tragedy of Brutus , before a densely-crowded house, the receipts of which amounted to almost three hundred pounds. In the following month Edmund Kean was again performing at Covent Garden, representing his o'd characters, and drawing crowded houses whenever he appeared. But his habits were far from temperate, and his health was most uncertain. Occasionally he played mechanically, omitted many lines of his part, and made but slight impression, but again rallying his spirit, he would show he was still capable of exert¬ ing the charm which had fascinated audiences in happier days. George Vandenhoff, who was a boy at this period, speaks of seeing and remembering Kean. “ His style,” he writes, “ was impulsive, fitful, flashing, abounding in quick transitions; scarcely giving you time to think, but ravishing your wonder, and carrying you along with his impetuous rush and change of expression. But this seeming spontaneity was not chance work; much of it, most of it, was carefully premeditated and prepared. His delivery of Othello’s farewell ran on the same tones and semi-tones, had the same rests and breaks, the same forte and piano, the same crescendo and diminuendo night after night as if he spoke it from a musical score. And what beauti¬ ful, what thrilling music it was—the music of a broken heart, the cry of a despairing soul.” In the December of this year Charles Kean, now in his seventeenth year, returned to Drury Lane, and CHARLES KEAN PLAYS ROMEO. 369 father and son acted at the rival houses. Charles played Romeo to a new Juliet, and subsequently repre¬ sented Frederick in Lover's Voivs to the Amelia of Miss Ellen Tree, the lady who afterwards became his wife. His performances were still immature, and failed to attract audiences, whilst the press yet criticized him with unrelaxed severity. But he was now determined to become an actor, and again returned to the provinces, where he hoped practice would supply much that he required. Early in January, 1829, Edmund Kean was obliged to retire for some time on account of his health, which became gradually worse, and going to his cottage in Bute, he busied himself in adorning his residence and improving its surroundings. But it was not only the condition of his health, but his association with an unprincipled and degraded woman, generally known as Ophelia, that caused grief and anxiety to his few remaining friends. Amongst those who most regretted the connection was his secretary Phillips, who had long striven to rescue Kean from his evil tendencies, and suffered much for sake of friendship. Seeing that the tragedian was not only fleeced of every pound he earned, but was likely to be robbed of the valuable mementoes presented him, he remonstrated with this heartless woman, who insulted him in so gross a manner that it was no longer possible for him to live under one roof with her. Knowing the influence she possessed over Kean, and believing any representations he might make regarding her would have no effect, lie immediately left Bute cottage, and going to a neighbour¬ ing inn, wrote Kean a letter explaining his absence. In return he received the following pitiful reply— 370 EDMUND KEAN. “Dear Phillips, “ I am shocked, but not surprised. In error I was born, in error I have lived, in error I shall die. That a gentleman should be insulted under my roof creates a blush I shall carry with me to my grave; and that you are so in every sense of the word is unques¬ tionable, from education, habits, and manners. It is too true that I have fostered a worm until it has become a viper; but my guilt is on my head. Farewell. “ Yours, “Edmund Kean/' A short time afterwards he wrote to Tom Cunning¬ ham, then engaged at the Theatre Royal, Dublin— “Dear Tom, “ I have read the Dublin Theatre is to be sold, and I suppose the greater part of the company left to starve or rob, according to their inclinations. Off with his head—so much for Berkley Bunn. Phillips has left me, and I feel quite at a loss for a friend and man of business. If you would like to spend the remainder of your days with me, correspond with the damned managers, and take care they don’t swindle, I should be most happy to receive you. I would give you the precise terms I did Phillips—£50 per year, and as much bub and grub as you can stow in you, and the non-play days we will over pipe and glass laugh and defy the villainies and falsehoods of this world. I play next week in Manchester, from that to Edinburgh. “Yours, dear Tom, “ Very sincerely, “ Edmund Kean. KEAN AGAIN AT DRURY LANE. 371 “ Ophelia sends her respects, and, like myself, would be very happy to see you.” Tom Cunningham, however, did not become his secretary, and the post was subsequently filled by Mr. Lee. In May, Edmund Kean had so far recovered as to be able to fulfil engagements in Dublin and Cork, where he again met and played in the same pieces with his son. But whilst in the former city he was so worn out “ from general debility and disarrangement of the system/' that the press declared his life was despaired of. From Ireland he went to Glasgow, where he played a few nights, and then retired to Bute. Here he became so seriously ill, that on one occasion a rumour of his death was spread. However, he rallied once more. In October Charles returned to London, and filled an engagement at the Hay market for six nights, when he played Romeo, Sir Edward Mortimer, and Reuben Glenroy with such success, that he was offered a per¬ manent engagement by the manager, but this he wisely declined, preferring the practice and experience which country theatres afforded him. Two months later, and Edmund Kean, once more reconciled to Stephen Price, was acting at Drury Lane. His contract with the Covent Garden management had not yet ended, and the proprietors of that theatre accordingly made application to the Court of Chancery to prevent his performing at the other house; but the Lord Chancellor declared he could not interfere in the matter, and it was therefore allowed to rest. 372 EDMUND KEAN. CHAPTER XVI. At this time a new sensation occurred in the theatrical world. In the year 1822 Charles Kemble, who had been presented by his brother John with a share in Covent Garden Theatre, became desirous of obtaining sway over the management. Henry Harris, manager, and proprietor of seven-twelfths of the theatre, strongly objected to this design, but after much negotiation, treaty, and discussion, a settlement was eventually arrived at, whereby a lease of the whole concern was granted to a trustee, William Harrison, who underlet the premises to Messrs. Kemble, Willett, and Forbes at a rental of twelve thousand a year; not with the intention of receiving profit, but for the purpose of giving the direction and control of the theatre to Messrs. Kemble, Willett, and Forbes; for a stipulation was added, that they were to pay all charges and expenses of the house, and that such profit as might be received should be paid to the trustee, in order that out of that fund the heavy debts due from the concern might be liquidated. Henry Harris then withdrew, and Messrs.. Kemble, Willett, and Forbes directed the fortunes of the theatre. A system of gross mismanagement then set in, and during the course of six years the house was burdened by a debt amounting to almost twenty-three thousand pounds. Charles Kemble was now sadly convinced of the mistake he had made, * The prospect stretching before him and his family was assuredly dark, and apparently afforded no room for hope. In August, 1829, whilst he was fulfilling provincial engagements, a warrant of distraint was issued for eight hundred and ninety-six FANNY KEMBLE STUDIES JULIET. 373 pounds for parish rates and taxes due by the theatre, which was accordingly seized on and advertised for sale. Returning from a brief walk one day, Mrs. Charles Kemble came into the room where her daughter Fanny, then a girl of nineteen, was sitting, and throwing herself into a chair burst into tears. Startled and grieved at this, Fanny Kemble begged to know what had happened, on which the poor woman answered between her sobs, “ Oh, it has come at last—our property is to be sold. I have seen the building all covered with placards and bills, and I know not how many hundred poor people will be turned adrift without employment.” The girl strove to comfort her mother by expressions of sympathy and affection, the while a resolution was shaping itself in her mind. Soon after she retired to her own room, and then wrote a letter to her father requesting he would allow her to become a governess, and so relieve him of the burden of her maintenance. With this in her hand she sought her mother, and asked permission to forward it, which was granted. Next day Mrs. Kemble, who had been an actress of fair repute, inquired of her daughter if she thought she possessed any real talent for the stage, to which the latter replied she did not know whether she did or not. Her mother then told her to learn a part from one of Shakespeare's plays, and recite it, that she might judge the effects. Accordingly Fanny Kemble committed Portia's lines to memory, and having spoken them, was told there was not sufficient passion in the part to test any tragic power she might possess. To this statement was added a suggestion that she might* learn Juliet’s speeches, a hint with which the girl readily complied. 374 EDMUND KEAN. In the interim several persons of rank and wealth, thinking it a pity the magnificent wardrobe, fine scenery, and costly decorations of Covent Garden Theatre should be dispersed by auction, liberally subscribed towards paying some portion of the debts. In this effort they were aided by the voluntary offerings of several of the performers, who expected to profit by the re-opening of the house. Moreover, the King s Theatre gave a per¬ formance for the benefit of the lessees, which produced seven hundred and fifty pounds; and Miss Foote and Miss Kelly offered to act for ten nights gratuitously, T. P. Cooke for six, and Edmund Kean for three nights, in order to help the lessees. In September Charles Kemble returned home to face the ruin his directorship had helped to cause; he had not answered his daughters letter, and she was sorely wondering what her future fate might be, when one evening she was asked by her mother to recite Juliet’s speeches to them. It therefore happened, that with anxious mind and fluttering heart she stood before these gentle critics in the great drawing-room of their house in St. James’s Street, the blaze of a wood fire and the lustre of wax candles lighting her wistful girlish face and graceful figure, clad in clinging robes of white muslin; they gazing on her with affectionate ej^es, and encouraging her with gentle words. And having gone through the various scenes of this passionate romance, until the maiden is done to death by love, Fanny Kemble was assured her efforts were “ very nice, my dear,” and being kissed and caressed was sent to bed. When half¬ way up the stairs leading to her room, she sat down, and, overcome by the nervous excitement she had long striven co suppress, burst into tears, and with IN AN EMPTY THEATRE. 375 swollen eyes laid her head upon her pillow that night. A few days later her father told her he wished to take her to the theatre, which yet remained closed to the public, and accompanying him at midday she stood, a solitary figure, on the wide, dimly-lighted, silent stage of Co vent Garden. Kings, princes, poets, warriors, maidens fair and villains foul that had peopled the boards night after night, were there no more, great roughly-painted scenes of palaces and dungeons, ban¬ queting halls and churches lay one beside the other in strange confusion against the high colourless walls; flights of dark steps, winding passages, and trap-doors showed the exits by which those who had trod their brief hours here had vanished and left no trace ; before her lay the wide amphitheatre, with boxes and chande¬ liers shrouded in holland coverings, and galleries stretching into mysterious space; from the high dust- covered windows came straight shafts of sunshine piercing the pervading gloom, and falling upon the stage in points of yellow light. As she stood in the centre of the boards, surrounded by an impressive atmosphere of mystery, her father’s voice, reaching her from the darkness beyond, bade her recite Juliet’s speeches. She complied, and by degrees the music of the words and the force of their feeling seizing possession of her, she acted with a passion and ardour that promised fair success. Though un¬ aware of the fact, a spectator other than her father heard her, an old friend of the family, a man of the world, an amateur actor and theatrical critic, in whose judgment Charles Kemble placed confidence. Hidden in the recesses of a private box he watched her, and 376 EDMUND KEAN. as she concluded, prophesied her future fame. It was then settled that she should make her first appearance on the stage in the character of Juliet, when the house opened on the 5th of October, 1829, a date within three weeks of the decision. Great were the preparations made meanwhile; morn¬ ing rehearsals were daily gone through; the debutante made the acquaintance of her fellow-players, not one of whom she had ever spoken with or seen off the stage, and learned to make her entrances and exits with propriety; while at home grave consultations were held regarding the colour and shape of her costumes. An artistic friend suggested they should be after the fashion of those worn in Verona in mediaeval days; but Mrs. Kemble, who was conventional and perhaps commonplace, decided in favour of the white satin ball dress, with short sleeves and a long train, which the Juliets of those days invariably wore. Mrs. Siddons had played the Grecian Daughter in an enormous hoop, and piles of powdered curls, from which sprung a forest of feathers, and her niece’s costume for the Veronese maiden could boast of being quite as historically correct. But the question of finding a suitable robe was less trouble than that of seeking a desirable Borneo. Charles Kemble had played that character to the Juliet of Miss O’Neill, but was now much too old for the part. It was therefore thought his son Henry, a slight, well¬ shaped, and handsome youth, would look an ideal Borneo, but grave fears were entertained regarding his acting. Personally he entertained a strong dislike to the stage, was wholly unable to assume the faintest approach to sentiment. However, to please his parents A MEMORABLE CAST. 377 he learned the part of Romeo; but at a private re¬ hearsal of the balcony scene, his whole appearance and manner were so ridiculous that Juliet burst into fits of laughter, and his father, throwing down the book, roared in concert with her until the tears ran down his cheeks; whilst the lad, now seeing the painful task was done, clapped his elbows against his sides, hopped about the room, and crowed like a cock by way of expressing his delight. Romeo was eventually entrusted to a player named Abbott, a man who had formerly been in the army, but was now a respectable though not a brilliant actor. His physique was by no means fascinating, and his age was sufficient for him to have been the new Juliet’s father. The cast of the play was otherwise excellent, Charles Kemble playing Mercutio for the first time; Mrs. Kemble, who had retired from the stage upwards of twenty years, for this occasion only, represented the Lady Capulet; Robert Keeley, Peter; and Mrs. Daven¬ port the Nurse. Whilst the general preparations were being made, Fanny Kemble remained, as she narrates, “ absolutely passive in the hands of others, taking no part and not much interest in the matter.” The fact of her becoming an actress was not, it is regrettable to state, the result of her love of art, but rather from a sense of duty she owed her parents, and in conformity with their will. “ The theatrical profession/' she writes, “was utterly distasteful to me, though acting itself, that is, dramatic personation, was not; and every detail of my future vocation, from the preparations behind the scenes to the representations before the curtain, was more or less repugnant to me.” Later on, when 378 EDMUND KEAN. success crowned her efforts, she wrote to a friend, “My task seems such useless work, that, but for the very useful pecuniary results, I think I would rather make shoes/' No true artist this. As time advanced the town became greatly excited by the assurance that the niece of Mrs. Siddons and of John Kemble was about to make her appearance on the stage. Rumours were afloat regarding her grace and beauty, expectation rose concerning her his¬ trionic power. The date of her appearance was fixed for Monday the 5th of October, 1829. On that day there was no rehearsal, lest the cUbutante should be fatigued. She and her mother drove to the theatre early in the evening, whilst yet the sunshine of an autumn day lingered in the sky; as it shone into the carriage Mrs. Kemble, regarding it as a happy omen, turned to her daughter and said, “ Heaven smiles on you, my dear/' Arriving at Covent Garden Theatre, Fanny Kemble went to the room allotted her, where three women helped her to dress; and her toilet being made she was placed in a chair, over the back of which her white satin train was carefully arranged. “ There I sat," she wrote to a friend, “ ready for execution, with the palms of my hands pressed convulsively together, and the tears I in vain endeavoured to supjDress well¬ ing up into my eyes and brimming slowly over, down my rouged cheeks, upon which my aunt with a smile of pity renewed the colour as often as these heavy drops made unsightly streaks upon it. Once and again my father came to the door, and I heard his anxious, ‘ How is she ?' to which my aunt answered, sending him away with words of comforting cheer." Meanwhile the theatre had become crowded in every FEELINGS OF THE NEW JULIET. 379 part, and an impatient audience waited to welcome the new Juliet. Many were those present who remembered the first appearance on the same stage of Miss O’Neill, and were ready to make comparisons with this new representative of a favourite character. The first scenes of the tragedy had little interest for the house, and a noisy murmur was kept up whilst the actors went through their parts. At last the moment drew near when Juliet must appear, and the call-boy’s brisk rap at her door made her start to her feet. She was then led round to the wings, where she caught sight of her mother going on the stage, and heard the uproar that greeted her appearance. Filled with terror, Fanny Kemble lay in her aunt’s arms, waiting for the moment of her entrance, sur¬ rounded by half the dramatis jpersonce , all of whom were sympathetic with her fears and anxious for her success. “Courage, courage, dear child; poor thing, poor thing,” murmured kindly old Mrs. Davenport, memories of her first appearance coming dimly back through long years. “ Never mind ’em, Miss Kemble,” said Robert Keeley in his comical, nervous, lachrymose voice, “ never mind ’em; don’t think of ’em any more than if they were so many rows of cabbages.” There was no time for more; the Nurse was called, and she in her turn cried out for Juliet. The long- dreaded moment came. “ My aunt,” says Fanny Kemble, “gave me an impulse forward, and I ran straight across the stage, stunned with the tremendous shout that greeted me, my eyes covered with mist, and the green baize flooring of the stage feeling as if 380 EDMUND KEAN. it rose up against my feet; but I got hold of my mother, and stood like a terrified creature at bay, con¬ fronting the huge theatre full of gazing human beings. I do not think a word I uttered during the scene could have been audible." At her entrance the whole house burst into a storm—the pit rose, the boxes applauded, the gallery cheered. For some seconds her confusion and nervousness were so great she could not speak, but stood gazing at the scene before her as if fascinated by its tumult, her dark eyes bright with excitement, her delicately curved face paling beneath its rouge, but presently recovering herself, she was enabled to begin her part. Her meeting with Romeo was treated with delicacy and poetry; in owning her love for him she expressed a charm and innocence surpassingly beauti¬ ful; and as the influence of “the inauspicious stars’' which swayed her destiny was felt, and stronger pas¬ sions were called forth, her acting became powerful, and at points sublime. The expression of her countenance, the inflection of her voice, the grace of her movements occasionally recalled memories of Mrs. Siddons, and frequently she was interrupted by applause which her fine elocution and picturesque attitudes elicited. In the balcony scene all self-consciousness had disappeared, “and for aught I know," she narrates, “I was Juliet; the passion I was uttering sending hot waves of blushes all over my neck and shoulders, while the poetry sounded like music to me as I spoke it, with no consciousness of anything before me, utterly transported into the imagin¬ ary existence of the play." At the fall of the curtain the house rang with cheers, and on Charles Kemble coming forward, he returned thanks to the audience AN UNCOMELY ROMEO. 381 for the reception given his daughter, and stated the tragedy would be performed on the following Wednes¬ day, Friday, and Monday, an announcement that was received with enthusiasm. But though her success was undoubted, it is not certain she was quite happy; for speaking of this evening years later, she says she never presented herself before an audience without a shrinking feeling of reluctance, or withdrawn from their presence without thinking the excitement she had undergone unhealthy, and the personal exhibition odious. “ Nevertheless/’ she adds, “ I sat me down to supper that night with my poor rejoicing parents, well content, God knows, with the issue of my trial; and still better pleased with a lovely little Geneva watch, the first I had ever possessed, all encrusted with gold work and jewels, which my father laid by my plate, and I immediately christened Romeo, and went, a blissful girl, to sleep with it under my pillow” Romeo and Juliet continued to be played three times weekly from October to December, when Fanny Kemble appeared as Belvidira in Venice Preserved . She was universally lauded by the town, but so much could not be said for the elderly Romeo, Abbott. He indeed became an object of special aversion to the youthful and enthusiastic crowd of Juliet’s admirers, who nightly gathered in the pit to worship her and envy him. Nor was poor Abbott left long in ignorance of his utter unfitness for the part he played; for it happened that three of Juliet’s devoted adherents, when walking home towards Cavendish Square one night after the performance, fell to abusing Romeo with great zest, unmercifully dwelling on his uncouth gestures, his 382 EDMUND KEAN. unmusical voice, his vague expression, the fullness of his years, giving moreover burlesque imitations of his acting, much to their own satisfaction.. % The hour being late the streets were deserted and silent, and every word they spoke fell with terrible distinctness on the ears of a solitary figure that preceded them by a few yards. Suddenly this individual halted at a gas-lamp, and turning round, faced the youths, who with horror and remorse recognized the well-known features of Abbott. There they stood, still and wordless from surprise. “Gentlemen/' said the actor calmly, “no one can be better aware than myself of the defects of my performance of Romeo, no one more conscious of its entire unworthiness of Miss Kemble’s Juliet; but all I can say is, that I don’t act the part by my own choice, and shall be delighted to resign it to whichever of you finds himself more capable than I am of doing it justice.” Saying which he bowed, and vanished before they could recover their astonishment or speak a word of apology. Fanny Kemble now became a popular idol. Sir Thomas Laurence a few days before his death had made a sketch of her as Juliet, engravings from which were exhibited in the shop-windows; saucers, plates, and jugs bore her likeness; men of fashion w r ore portraits of her in the characters of Juliet and Belvidira stamped on their neck-handkerchiefs; the press lauded her daily; the theatre was crowded by enthusiastic audiences whenever she played, and her name was on all men’s lips. To her the reward of success was pleasant; instead of having an allowance of twenty pounds from her father, out of which she was obliged FANNY KEMBLE IN THE PROVINCES. 383 to provide herself with many articles necessary to her toilet, she had now a salary of thirty guineas a week from Covent Garden, with prospects of far more remunerative engagements in the provinces; instead of trudging through the muddy London streets when the hire of a hackney coach was a serious consideration, she had a handsome carriage; she took riding lessons, and bought a horse for herself and another for her father; in place of wearing threadbare, faded, or dyed, and turned gowns, she had fashionably-made dresses, in which she looked transfigured. Moreover, her company was eagerly sought by the world of fashion and distinction; visitors came in numbers to her father s door, deep interest was felt in her career, and a brilliant prospect prophesied for her by all who approached her. But perhaps the most gratifying fact in connection with this eventful period was, that through her success the management of the theatre was at the close of the season enabled to pay its creditors thirteen thousand pounds. In the summer she visited Bath, Glasgow, Liverpool, Edinburgh, and Dublin. The playgoers of the first- mentioned town were much less enthusiastic than the Covent Garden audiences; whilst the staid and sober people of Glasgow were absolutely cold, and the dea/th- stillness which succeeded her outbursts chilled the heart of the young actress. Her reception at Edinburgh was not less depressing. Mrs. Siddons had in days gone by regarded her performances before the people of the Scottish capital as dreaded ordeals, and seeing their stolidity after those great efforts, which were wont to rouse audiences in every other town in the kingdom to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, would 384 EDMCJND KEAN. pant out in despair, “ Oh, stupid people; oh, stupid people! ” Stupid they were not, but cold and hard to move; yet the triumph of stirring them was at last given to this gifted woman, for on one occasion when she played Lady Macbeth to them, the sleep¬ walking scene was encored, and had to be repeated before they permitted the tragedy to proceed. At Liverpool Fanny Kemble acted to more appreci¬ ative houses; whilst in Dublin she met the kindliest and warmest greeting. The first night of her appear¬ ance at the Theatre Royal was memorable. The house was crowded by a brilliant audience, which included the most distinguished men and women of the capital; she was greeted with rapture, and applauded with fervour, her youth, grace, and beauty making her an immediate favourite with a highly sensitive people. On leaving the house she was escorted to her hotel by a bodyguard of over two hundred strong, “ shouting and hurraying like mad.” When the carriage arrived at its destination a rush was made to let down the steps, and hand the young actress out. Then the crowd formed a line for her to pass through their ranks, many of them dropping on their knees to look under her bonnet, as she ran laughing with her head down from the carriage to the house; and as she disappeared they gave her three ringing cheers. On the second night of her performance a crowd m again gathered round the stage door; and on her father coming out, cheers were given for “ Mistlier Charles ; ” and he being followed by a lady they mistook for his wife, cheers were also given for “Misthress Charles;” and once again three ringing cheers were given for Miss Fanny. SUCCESS IN DUBLIN: 385 “An’ sure it’s herself looks well by gaslight/’ said one of Ihe bystanders. “Aye, and bedad she looks well by'daylight too/’ adds another; and away the carriage started, with a light-hearted crowd in its wake, Hurraying right merrily; and in this way the Irish capital showed its appreciation for beauty and talent. One day, whilst walking up Sackville Street, Charles Kemble experienced a specimen of Hibernian flattery and subtlety worth recording. Two ancient dames, beggars, whose profession had evidently been brought to highest perfection by constant practice, followed him. “ Och, but he’s an illigant man entirely is Misther Charles Kemble,” said one of the crones in a stage whisper. “ ’Deed, so was his brother, Misther John,” replied her companion, in the same key, “ a mighty fine man; an’ t’ see his demanour puttin’ his hand in his pocket to give me sixpence, bate all the world.” Whilst Fanny Kemble drew crowds to Co vent Garden during her first season, Kean played a round of his old characters at Drury Lane, and presently became de¬ sirous of appearing in some part in which the public had not previously seen him. It was much feared his power of memory had failed because he had been unable to retain the lines of Ben Nazir ; but since then ne had played Virginius for the first time at Covent Garden with success; from which it was argued his mind had recovered its vigour. Accordingly, he now resolved to represent the king in Shakespeare’s play of Henry V, Great preparations were made for the event; Kean studied his part resolutely, the characters were carefully cast, new scenery was painted, and frequent rehearsals took place. At last Henry V. was announced for performance on 386 EDMUND KEAN. the 22nd of February, 1830; but on the evening ot that day, whilst dressing for his part, Kean was seized by an attack that produced great lassitude and complete stupor. His dresser immediately shouted for help, and the manager arriving, found the poor player unable to recognize him; his face haggard and ghastly under the glaring rouge, his limbs clad in regal garments, motionless, as if stretched in death—a pitiful sight of a human life foundered in the zenith of its days. Fortunately the doors of the theatre had not yet been opened, and a notice was immediately posted on them announcing Kean’s illness, and the delay of the representation of Henry V . The prostration from which the tragedian suffered was not unusual, with some care he rallied; therefore on the 8th of March he was again advertised for the part of the king. On this evening a great audience filled the house, and expectation rose. At the usual hour the orchestra began an overture, at the conclusion of which the curtain remained down, and an awkward pause ensued. After a while music was again played, but when it ceased the curtain still remained lowered. The audience now became fearful lest something had gone wrong; and their apprehen¬ sions were much increased by hearing the overture once more. Noise and confusion followed, which was only quelled by the rising of the curtain. Then the play began. In the second scene, Kean as Henry j V. was discovered, splendidly dressed in robes of crimson and purple velvet adorned with gold, seated on a throne, and surrounded by his court. Loud applause greeted him, followed by breathless silence, when he began his part, spoke two or three lines, hesitated, paused, waited for the prompter’s aid, A PITIFUL SIGHT. 387 continued a few words, added, skipped, and mangled the text. The audience looked on with amazement, consternation, and regret. Here was a great actor, such as perhaps the English stage had not seen, one who a few years since had power to raise the emotions of his hearers to the highest pitch, now a miserable wreck in mind and body—an object of pity to the charitable, of scorn to the scoffer, ruined by his own deeds. The curtain fell in silence. Between the first and second acts a long pause en¬ sued, but the house, believing their old favourite was striving to recover himself, bore the delay with patience; they were not, however, rewarded by any improvement in his acting. One fourth of what was set down for him in the second act was not spoken, and the other actors, thrown completely out, were obliged to curtail their speeches in an attempt to make them join in some coherent manner. About the middle of the third act the well-tested forbearance of the audience gave way, and hisses were heard, but no notice was taken of them by Kean. An interval of half an hour followed between the fourth and fifth acts, and this completely destroyed whatever patience the house had heretofore exercised. Hissing, hooting, and cries for the manager followed, and the general clamour by no means ceased when the curtain rose. Not a word spoken in the first scene was heard; in the second Kean made his entrance, but his voice was also drowned by the tumult. For a moment he stood anxious, bewildered, and undecided, then ad¬ vanced to the front of the stage, and baring his head, intimated his desire to address the house. % For several minutes he was unable to obtain silence, 388 EDMUND KEAN. but when this was granted him, he said in a trembling, uncertain voice, “ Ladies and Gentlemen, it is now many years since I have had the honour to enjoy a large share of your approbation. You may conceive, therefore, how deeply I deplore this moment when for the first time I incur your displeasure.” (Cries of “ No, no, not the first time.”) “ If you wish that I should proceed,” he answered* drawing himself up, “I must request your silence. For many years, give me leave to say, I have worked hard for your entertainment.” (“ You have been well paid for it,” interrupted a voice, of which he took no heed.) “ That very labour and the lapse of time and circumstances have no doubt had their effects upon my mind.” (“Why do you drink so hard ? ” a voice of brutal candour in¬ quired.) Poor Kean paused and hesitated; the cup of his humiliation was now full, and it was with a struggle he continued, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I feel that I stand before you in a most degraded situation.” (Shouts of “ No, no,” and “ Why did you put yourself into it ? ”) “You are my countrymen, and I appeal with confid¬ ence to that liberality which has always distinguished Englishmen.” And putting his hand upon his heart he bowed, and retiring to his place amongst the other performers, continued the scene. The few speeches that remained for him to make were again mangled and abbreviated, so that the whole act did not occupy ten minutes, and the play concluded amidst expres¬ sions of disapproval and general tumult. Two days later Kean wrote the following letter, the characters of which are traced with a trembling and uncertain hand. It bears no address, but presumably is written to the manager of Drury Lane Theatre. A MELANCHOLY LETTER. 389 “March 10, 1830. “ I address you, sir, under the most painful feelings that human nature can endure—a loss of that by which I lived, the public favour, and my only hope. My only consolation in this extreme of misery is, that it was neither from want of attention to my duties nor want of recollection of their former kindness. It is that kindness that too much dazzled me. It was that that brought me to superhuman calculations, and favoured by the approbation of the public, I conceived myself invulnerable. Mind cannot be directed, as I have proved in this last most destructive issue. But want of memory is not want of heart, and while a pulsation is left, it beats with gratitude and affection to that public who brought me from obscurity into a light I never dreamt of, and it overpowered me. I find too late tfiat I must rest upon my former favours. My heart is willing, but my memory has flown. All that I have done I can and will; what is to do I leave to a rising generation. Kindness and urbanity will remember how long and zealously I have made my grateful bow to the British public, living on their smiles, destroyed by their censure, both of which I have comparatively deserved. Let me once more have to say, that the old spoiled favourite is forgiven; let me once more pursue that path which led me to your favour, and die in grateful recollection of the debt I owe to a sympathizing though sometimes an unjustly angry public” He also wrote to his friend W. H. Halpin, the editor of the Star newspaper, the following pitiful note— 390 EDMUND KEAN. “Dear Halpin, “ Fight for me, I have no resources in myself; mind is gone, and body is hopeless. God knows my heart. I would do, but cannot. Memory, the first of goddesses, has forsaken me, and I am left without a hope but from those old resources that the public and myself are tired of. Damn, God damn ambition. The soul leaps, the body falls. “ Edmund Kean.” Halpin felt compassion for him, and criticizing his performance of Henry V. says, “ Owing to the indisposi¬ tion of this favourite and popular performer, the attempt proved a decided failure. The want of his usual energy, and his incorrectness in the delivery of the text, excited the disapprobation of the audience, so far as rendered it necessary for him to make an apology.” In a few days Kean is able to inform Halpin that he is “ reinstated in all his dignities and privileges, and can write as usual;” for his engagement at Drury Lane was continued, and on the 15th of the month he played Richard III. with something of his old spirit, and was warmly received and heartily applauded. “ To us,” says a morning paper, “ it is a matter of doubt if he ever played Richard better than on Monday. It does credit to his feelings to record his agitation before he began. He felt that he had offended the public, and the fear of meeting their displeasure almost convulsed his frame. Perspiration rolled down his cheeks, and his nerves would have completely failed him had he not experienced so kind a reception. He recovered his self-possession instantly, and, Antaeus-like, rose unhurt by his fall. His exclamation, ‘Richard’s himself again/ PLAYING AGAIN AT DRURY LANE. 391 was heartily cheered by the audience, a compliment which he seemed to feel deeply. His basilisk glance at the young prince was absolutely withering, and forcibly reminded us of John Kemble’s answer to a friend who asked him what was Kean’s greatest recom¬ mendation— f His eye, look at his eye, sir.’ ” On that day week he played Hamlet, a character he had not represented for upwards of four years. From the vigour with which he went through the first act, it was believed his health was much better than usual; but occasional inaccuracies and transpositions in the delivery of the text, together with omissions, were observable ; and points which had roused enthusiasm before, now missed their mark. The failure of his powers was sad to behold ; but to those behind the curtain it was far more observable than to his audience. During those scenes of the play in which he did not appear on the stage, he sat at the wings, being too fatigued for the passage to his dressing-room, or to the green-room, panting, flushed, and exhausted by the efforts he had just made, his dresser standing beside him with a glass of hot brandy punch, which the tragedian drank to sustain his energies during the next scene. He was now able to play but once a week, and would have wholly rested, but that he depended for support on the fifty pounds a night he invariably received for his representations. The offer of a hundred pounds for two nights’ per¬ formances on one occasion induced him to act at the Victoria Theatre. On the first night of his appearance at this house he acted Richard III. to a large and delighted audience, whose enthusiasm was all he could desire; but on the second evening, when he played 392 EDMUND KEAN. Othello to the Iago of Cobham, an old Victorian favour¬ ite, his reception was not so flattering. The crowd was as great as on the former occasion, but more noisy and less attentive. Kean’s speeches were fre¬ quently interrupted or freely commented on, as was the prevailing fashion of this house; the popping of ginger- beer bottles in the gallery marred his best effects, and, above all, he was continually irritated by cries of “ Bravo, Cobham, bravo ! ” the applause hejreceived being much less than that given to Cobham. At this want of judgment Keans indignation, which had been inflamed by liberal potions of brandy-and-water, overflowed, and when called before the curtain at the close of the tragedy, he hesitated to obey. But the clamour con¬ tinuing, he walked forward to the centre of the stage, his eyes flashing with anger, the paint but half rubbed from his cheeks, a cloak wrapped round him, and abruptly demanded, “ What do you want ? ” This ques¬ tion, so suddenly asked, caused momentary surprise, but soon a volley of voices shouted in reply, “ You, you, you.” “ Well, then, here I am,” answered Kean. “ I have acted in every theatre in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and in all the principal towns throughout the United States of America, but in my life I never acted to such a set of ignorant, un¬ mitigated brutes as I now see before me; ” saying which, he flung a corner of his cloak over one shoulder, and slowly made his exit. The manager and his company, who had crowded to the wings in order to listen to this unrehearsed speech, could scarce believe they heard aright, and now expected the house would be torn down and left a blackened ruin, to mark the indignation of the offended gods. A SPEECH BY COBHAM. 393 frightful silence, such as precedes the roaring of thunder, followed, when suddenly a voice called out, “ Cobham, Cobham,” a cry that was taken up and repeated until the theatre shook; a show of en¬ thusiasm for their old favourite being considered the best way of punishing the great actor. Cobham appeared bowing and smiling, and went through pantomimical expressions of gratitude and emotion, until silence was granted, when he said, “ Ladies and Gentlemen, this is unquestionably the proudest moment of my life. I cannot give utterance to my feelings; but to the latest hour of my existence I shall cherish the remembrance of the honour conferred upon me by one of the most distinguished, liberal, and enlightened audiences I ever had the pleasure of addressing.” The cheers which filled the house at the conclusion of his speech were loud and lusty, and Cobham withdrew, greatly gratified by an ovation which still more mortified Kean. In June and July (1830) the great tragedian played Kichard III., Shylock, Sir Giles Overreach, and King Lear at the Haymarket, the same theatre in which twenty-four years ago he had acted most subordinate parts. Between that time and this his life had been singularly full of events; bitter struggles had been crowned by brilliant victory; the world had smiled and frowned upon him; health, reputation, and wealth had been given him, and he had squandered them wan¬ tonly ; and now it seemed as if his existence must end in darkness and despair. A desire at this time beset him to return once more to America, where his performances had proved so remunerative; and being slow to perceive, or loath 394 EDMUND KEAN. to acknowledge, the great changes which had taken place in him, he believed the same results would follow another visit to the States. Accordingly, it was ad¬ vertised that he would take his farewell benefit pre¬ vious to his departure for New York at the King's Theatre—now known as Her Majesty's—on the 19th of July, when he would perform an act of each of the great plays in which he had made his fame. This announcement caused great excitement, and drew an enormous concourse of people round the doors of the theatre as early as four o'clock in the afternoon. With every minute the crowd increased, and eventu¬ ally overflowed the arcade, and extended far down the street. At half-past five those in the centre of the throng, becoming afraid of being suffocated, called for the opening of the doors, but in vain; escape was found impossible by those immured in the centre of the dense mass, and the pressure became unendur¬ able. Women screamed and fainted; an effort was made to force the entrances; in vexation the people broke the windows, and the glasses of lamps within reach. At last the doors were thrown open, and a terrific rush followed. In a few moments not only every available seat in the immense pit and gallery was taken, but the box tiers, lobbies, and stairs were crowded. To afford greater accommodation, the whole of the space usually occupied by the orchestra was given up to the people, whilst presently the wings of the stage became so overcrowded with spectators, that it was impossible for them to keep out of sight of the body of the house. It was estimated that the receipts amounted to a thousand pounds. Many had come under the belief A MEMORABLE PERFORMANCE. 395 that this was the last time they would ever have an opportunity of seeing Edmund Kean play; and to his numerous admirers the occasion was one in which sad¬ ness was mingled with pleasure. The performance was advertised to consist of the fourth acts of Richard III . and The Merchant of Venice , the fifth act of A New Way to Pay Old Debts , the second act of Macbeth } and the third act of Othello. For an hour the dense mass of closely-packed people waited patiently till the curtain rose. An orchestra arranged upon the stage played the overture, at the conclusion of which the curtain was dropped to pre¬ pare for the performance. When it was again raised, Kean was discovered as Richard III., dressed in royal robes, and seated on a throne. The cheers that rose ✓ were loud and ringing, in the midst of which he, with regal dignity, descended the dais, advanced to the front of the stage, and bowed repeatedly. The act then began, but was frequently interrupted by the disputes and noise caused by the overcrowding, as well as from the angry shouts of those in the gallery to the people forced by pressure on to the stage from the side scenes. Kean, who had evidently reserved his strength for this trying occasion, at first acted with vigour, his step seeming more firm than usual, his voice sounding strong and clear. His representation of Othello recalled pleasant memories of his earlier days, and as Shylock he was excellent; but his playing of Sir Giles Overreach was unimpressive ; whilst as Mac¬ beth his memory failed him on several occasions. At the conclusion, the clamour of an excited audience, suppressed throughout the performance, broke out. Loud applause and cries for Kean sounded from all 896 EDMUND KEAN. parts of the house, in response to which he, dressed in the character of the Moor, was led forward by. one of the players. His appearance increased the enthusiasm; wreaths were flung upon the stage, those who had stood at the wings crowded round him, and it was quite five minutes before silence could be obtained; then he spoke with much feeling, saying— “ Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope that none of you can understand the pain and agitation which fills my heart at this climax of my career, or the acute suffering I endure now that I am about to quit the country that has given me birth, and the people whom I have adored, to visit a land where perhaps nothing but ill- health and sorrow await me. I feel it quite impossible to express my gratitude for the constant ebullitions of your approbation which you have this night and al¬ ways bestowed upon me. For the favour and popularity I have always enjoyed, the fact of performing in one night all my favourite characters was the best, the only return my gratitude could make you. I will not particularly allude to past or to future events, but now that I am about to leave you for ever, most earnestly from my heart I entreat that you will suffer no empirics to usurp the dramatic throne, to the ruin and disgrace of the drama. I must and will venture to assert, that the well-being of the stage is of the utmost consequence to a nations morality. Ladies and gen¬ tlemen, the time has now arrived for me to return you all my most fervent thanks, and to bid you a long, a last farewell.” The applause which followed was loud and fervid, and the audience left the theatre with the impression that they had seen the last of a great and favourite actor. elliston’s whimsical manner. 397 CHAPTER XVII. From 1830 to 1833 some memorable events occurred in theatrical annals. Robert William Elliston on leav¬ ing Drury Lane became for the second time lessee of the Surrey Theatre, having paid eight hundred and seventy pounds before being allowed to take possession of the house. He then refitted the interior, made many im¬ provements in the building, and gathered a competent company under his banner. The house was opened on Whit Monday, 1827, on which occasion the manager made one of his characteristic speeches. All his energies and much of his vivacity were exercised in catering for the Surrey audiences, and occasionally his resources were tasked in striving to soothe and divert them. His tact, however, was unfailing. One evening during the performance of a serious drama, a sailor in the gallery, who was elevated in more senses than one, continually interrupted the progress of the play by sundry remarks, shouted at the pitch of his voice, and various comments addressed to his neigh¬ bours, much to their annoyance. Recriminations and threats followed, and by degrees the audience became much disturbed, when Elliston came forward and said— “ May I know the cause of this unseemly clamour ? ” “ It’s this here sailor what makes the row,” cried a voice from the gallery. “A British sailor/’ said Elliston, “the glory of our country’s annals, the safeguard of our homes and families. What is it he asks ? ” “Rule Britannia ,” shouted the tar. “ You shall have it,” answered the manager decisively. “ Of what ship, comrade ? ” 398 EDMUND KEAN. “ The IIaggermemnon” replied the sailor. “ Ladies and Gentlemen/' said Elliston in a serious tone, as he addressed the house. “ On Monday next a nautical, national, allegorical sketch will be performed in the theatre, entitled The British Flag , in which the whole strength of the company will be employed; the music expressly composed by Mr. Blewitt. Give ’em Buie Britannia ,” he added to the musicians, and raising his head towards the gallery, said to the sailor, “ Bring your companions here on Monday/’ and then made his exit. Buie Britannia was sung by the company, and the play allowed to proceed without further interrup¬ tion. The nautical, national, allegorical sketch he had promised was never performed, it having no existence save in the manager’s eccentric brain. A few weeks later, when another play was rendered inaudible because of the confusion which followed on overcrowding, Elliston again came forward to soothe or to cajole his patrons. “ I take the liberty of addressing you, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in his most solemn manner. “ It is of rare occurrence that I deem it necessary to place myself in juxtaposition with you.” (Noise in the gallery.) “When I said juxtaposition I meant vis-a-vis ” (increased noise in the gallery); “ when I uttered the words vis-a-vis I meant contactability. Now let me tell you that vis-a-vis (it is a French term) and con¬ tactability (which is a truly English term) very nearly assimilate each other.” (Here the disturbance became general.) “ Gentlemen, gentlemen, I am really ashamed of your conduct. It is unlike a Surrey audience. Are you aware that I have in this establishment most efficient peace officers at my immediate disposal ? Peace officers, gentlemen, mean persons necessary in time of ELLISTON AND DOUGLAS JERROLD. 399 war,” (He strode towards the wings, hesitated, and again advanced.) “ One word more,” he continued. “ If that tall gentleman in the carpenter’s cap will sit down” (here he pointed to the pit), “the little girl behind him in red ribbons—you, my love, I mean,” he said, addressing himself to an imaginary child—“ will be able to see the entertainment.” Bowing elaborately he made his exit, and the house, satisfied by his speech, settled into silence. Fortune now smiled on his endeavours, so that in 1830 he was not only able to return money lent him, furnish his house in Great Surrey Street at a cost of five hundred pounds, and live at ease, but likewise place the sum of two thousand pounds in the three per cents. In accumulating this amount he was largely aided by the production of the great nautical drama Black-Eyed Susan , or All in the Downs . It happened one day that Elliston received a visit from Douglas Jerrold, then a young struggling journalist and playwright, entirely depending on his pen, not only for his own support, but for that of those dearer to him than life. Though but in his twenty-sixth year, Douglas Jerrold had written many dramas, brimful of humour, and tender because human, most of which are now forgotten, amongst them being The Living Skeleton , Sally in our Alley , Ambrose Gwinnett , Fifteen Years of a Drunkard 1 s Life , The Flying Dutchman , &c., so that he was known amongst his associates as “ Little Shakespeare % in the camlet cloak.” Previous to his visiting Elliston he had quarrelled with Davidge, once a harlequin, and subsequently man¬ ager of the Coburg or Victoria Theatre, where many of Jerrold’s pieces had been produced. t Davidge was a ruthless, remorseless taskmaster, who ground the 400 EDMUND KEAN. struggling author to the dust, until at last he parted from him in anger. Elliston, therefore, knew the play¬ wright by reputation, and with his usual acuteness foreseeing his worth, was willing to secure it at the lowest price possible. Accordingly, before they parted he engaged Douglas Jerrold as dramatic writer to his establishment at a salary of five pounds a week. - The bargain being completed, Douglas Jerrold took from under his camlet cloak the manuscript of Black-Eyed Susan , and left it with the manager. The drama was read, put in rehearsal, and produced for the first time on Whit-Monday, June 8th, 1829, T. P. Cooke playing the part of William. The audience assembled in the little theatre on this warm evening were noisy, and scarce attentive. Now and then, when they grasped the wit of a sentence, they roared with laughter, though their interest in Susan’s unhappy situation was insufficient to stay their clamour. But presently, just previous to the execution of the gallant tar, when the captain enters and proves William to have been discharged previous to striking his officer, the incident had an electric .effect upon them, so that, understanding the situation, they burst into enthusiastic applause. For the first half-dozen nights, however, the drama, though fairly applauded, gave no promise of the extra¬ ordinary popularity it subsequently attained; but in the second week of its representation it grew rapidly in favour, and not only were the pit and gallery crowded nightly, but the boxes, usually vacant, were now regu¬ larly packed with spectators, who had evidently come from the west. “ All London,” we are told, “ went over the water, and Cooke became a personage in society as Garrick had been in the days of Goodman’s Fields.” ELLISTON AND DOCJGLAS JERROLD. 401 Evening after evening the house was filled ; tears were shed over the woes of Susan, laughter pealed over the sayings of the gardener, and the treasury grew heavy. On the three hundredth night of the representation, Elliston had the exterior of the theatre illuminated; great crowds thronged the street, and it seemed as if a national holiday was being celebrated. But whilst testimonials were raised to mark its success, and pre¬ sented to Elliston and Cooke, the poor author felt little benefit from his popularity, receiving only about seventy pounds as his share of the profits. “My dear boy,” the florid, fluent manager said to him, “why don't you get your friends to present you with a piece of plate ? ” That Elliston himself should give the young author some memento of the occasion never entered his head. “Ah,” said a friend to Douglas Jerrold, “you'll be the Surrey Shakespeare.” “ The sorry Shakespeare, you mean,” replied the dramatist sadly. It is also worthy of remark, that a considerable sum was also brought into Elliston’s treasury by the pro¬ duction of an opera called Sylvanna , which was the first musical composition of Carl Maria von Weber performed in England. _ It was noticeable towards the end of the year 1830, that Elliston, who had by no means led a regular or a temperate life, began to show unmistakable signs of decay. Suddenly it seemed as if the airy lightness of his step had given place to a slower and heavier pace, the fullness of his voice to a thinner treble, and his characteristic vivacity to occasional despondency. Rest from exertion and abstinence from drink partially d d 402 EDMUND KEAN, restored him, but the strength he husbanded in this way was ruthlessly spent in conviviality; and early in 1831, it was plainly perceptible to all that his days in the land would be of short duration. That he was aware of this was probable, for it happened one day a distant connection of his called on him, and having passed an hour in pleasant discourse was about to depart, when Elliston begged he would outstay some other visitors present, as he had some¬ thing in particular to communicate. And presently, those referred to having taken their leave, Elliston, turning to his relative in a serious and emphatic voice, said, that the night before he had a mysterious warn¬ ing, and was quite convinced his last days were at hand. “I am/ 5 he continued, “prepared for the event, and should it come in the immediate way of the strange warning I have received, I shall die contented. 55 But again he rallied, and once more appeared upon the stage on the 24th of June, but to all present his performance was that of a dying man, and it was with evident difficulty he was enabled to finish his part. Before the play concluded he had been announced to act again on the 28th, but when that date arrived it was stated that illness prevented his appearance. On Wednesday, the 6th of July, 1831, he was seized with an apoplectic fit, and lingered till the following Friday, when the curtain fell upon his life, in the fifty- sixth year of his age. His remains were laid in a vault of St. Johns Church, Waterloo Road, and on the south side of the altar a marble tablet bearing a Latin inscription was erected to his memory. In a brief paper Charles Lamb has immortalized the name of the sometime merry player and ambitious manager. His words are fine gold—“ Great wert thou CHARLES YOUNG RETIRES. 403 in thy life, Robert William Elliston; and not lessened in thy death, if report speaks truly, which says that thou didst direct that thy mortal remains should repose under no inscription save that of pure Latinity. For thee the Pauline Muses weep! In elegies that shall silence this rude prose, they shall celebrate thy praise.” In the merry month of May in the following year, Charles Young, whom Byron described as the “ quint¬ essence of mediocrity,” retired from the stage. He selected for his farewell performance the tragedy of Hamlet , the same in which he had made his first bow to a London public at the Haymarket Theatre five-and- twenty years before. Charles Mathews, who had on that occasion played Polonius, likewise represented it now, whilst Macready played the Ghost. When Charles Young was asked why he decided on quitting the stage whilst yet in the vigour of life and strength of his powers, he sagely replied, it was better he retired whilst in the enjoyment of public favour, than wait until in the process of time he lost such esteem as he then possessed. A man of regular habits and temperate life, he had amassed a sufficient sum to live at ease for the remainder of his days, and loving quietude, he sought retirement. On the evening of the 30th of May, 1832, Covent Garden Theatre was crowded to witness his farewell performance; the house was' closely packed, and the audience feeling uncomfortable, great confusion arose, so that during the first scene of the tragedy the players’ voices were completely drowned, and for some time they continued their parts in pantomime. At last Young appeared, when he hoped the audience would become attentive, but in this he was mistaken, for those who suffered from over-crowding were anxious 404 EDMUND KEAN. to vent their wrongs. Young then advanced to the front of the stage, and expressed his regret that more persons had been admitted than the house could accommodate, and promised their money should be returned to all - who would have the kindness to take it and quit the theatre/' None, however, seemed anxious to seize advantage of the offer, and after a while the clamour subsided, and the play was heard without interruption save that of applause. Being called for at the conclusion, he said in his farewell speech he had often stood before them with a fluttering heart and a faltering tongue, but never till then with a sense of pain and a degree of heaviness which almost stilled the beating of the one and impeded the utterance of the other. He would fain have been spared the task, but had he not complied with this long-established usage, he should have laid himself open to the charge of lacking respect for his patrons. He proudly acknowledged the indulgence and kindness they had shown him for five-and-twenty years, and he was cheered to find himself still supported by their approba¬ tion and presence. Although retirement from the stage and from the excitement of his profession had long been his fervent wish, yet there were feelings and associations connected with the theatre, and with the boards on which he stood, that made him despair of finding words to express his gratitude. He surely spoke no more than truth when he stated, that what¬ ever of good name and of fortune he had obtained, or whatever worldly ambition he had gratified, were due to the public. “It has been asked,” he concluded, “why I retire from the stage while still in possession of whatever qualifications I could ever pretend to unimpaired. I YOUNG SAYS FAREWELL. 405 will give you my notions, although I do not know you will accept them as reasons; but reason and feeling are not always cater-cousins. I feel, then, the toil and excitement of my calling weigh more heavily upon me than formerly; and if my qualifications are unimpaired, so would.. I have them remain in your estimate. I know that they were never worthy of the approbation with which you honoured them; but such as they are, I am loath to remain before my patrons until I have nothing better to present to them than tarnished metal. Permit me then to hope, that on quitting this spot I am honourably dismissed into private life, and that I shall carry with me the kind wishes of all to whom I say respectfully and gratefully—Farewell. 5 ' Though Fanny fKembleV.exertions had stayed the ruined fortunes of Covent Garden Theatre for a while, they were unable wholly to redeem them, and it was finally settled in 1832 that the house should be let to Laporte, a French manager and entrepreneur, whilst Charles Kemble with his daughter should visit America for a couple of years, and strive to retrieve his fortunes. Accordingly, on Friday evening, the 22nd of June, 1832, Fanny Kemble made her farewell appearance in Sheridan Knowles’s comedy of The Hunchback. And the play being ended, the audience clamoured loudly until the young actress and her father stood before them, when the excitement became greater still. Then with dim eyes she glanced round the familiar house, and at the excited faces turned towards her own; and in her agitation and grief at parting from kind patrons who had become as old friends, she snatched a little nosegay from her sash and flung it into the pit, with handfuls of kisses as a good-bye token of the affec¬ tion and gratitude she felt towards them, and bowing, 406 EDMUND KEAN. retired from their sight, whilst their cheers rang in her ears. And once behind the curtain she sobbed, and the tears she had with difficulty suppressed rolled down her cheeks, as many of those who had acted w r ith her crowded round and grasped her hands, and spoke her words of sympathy and kindness. It was the last time indeed that she was destined to act upon that stage, for the house was entirely burnt down in 1856. In the course of the day before that on which he left London, two writs of arrest were served on Charles Kemble by the creditors of the theatre, so that he feared it would not be possible to take his intended journey, but after much anxiety and vexation he was allowed to depart in peace. Early in September, after a voyage of over thirty days, he and his daughter arrived in New York, and on making their respective public appearances were warmly received, so that their united efforts helped to restore the drama in America to the popularity it had previously lost from want of efficient players. Whilst these events were taking place Charles Kean still strove to win his way to fame. His struggle was hard, for though his name gained that attention from the public which was denied to men of far greater merit, nature had not endowed him with a high order of talent, and his best efforts caused little admiration. In 1830 he visited Amsterdam and the Hague, as a member of an English company playing under the management of Aubrey. This individual was a penni¬ less adventurer, who tempted his actors abroad with promises of liberal salaries which he never intended paying. Having been unprosperous with his troop at the Haoue, he at the end of three weeks was unman- CHARLES KEAN VISITS AMERICA. 407 nerly enough, to disappear without taking leave of his company, whom he left penniless strangers in a strange land. That they might reach England they gave a performance for their general benefit, and the sum realized from this, together with a present sent them by the King of Holland, enabled them to return home. Charles Kean next resolved to seek his fortune in America, which was even then regarded as an El Dorado by those who had made a name in the mother country. Having no difficulty in obtaining an engagement, he early in September, 1830, made his first appearance in the Park Theatre, New York, in the character of Richard III. The house was crowded by an audience curious to see the son of one who, during his visits to the States, had caused such general attention. His entrance was the signal for a warm welcome, but his acting was weak and unequal; now and then by voice and gesture he recalled his fathers excellence, but the memory merely contrasted his own insufficiency, and all who held high expectations of his performance were bitterly disappointed. Managers, believing his name would attract, had eagerly bid for him, and he had stipulated to receive a clear half of each night’s gross receipts, besides being paid full price for half the share¬ holders free admissions. He therefore benefited financially, but the treasury of the theatres at which he played reaped little advantage from his visits. On making his first appearance in the Adelphi Theatre, Baltimore, as Hamlet, Junius Brutus Booth, then lessee of the house, played the part of second actor, and on the delivery of his speech before the prince, the audience rose and cheered him, not only for the beauty of his elocution, but likewise for the modesty 408 EDMUND KEAN. which prompted him to represent this subordinate character. Soon after his return to America in 1827 Booth had undertaken the stage management of the Camp Street Theatre, New Orleans ; and here he played Richard III. for sixteen consecutive nights to large audiences. Moreover, having studied the parts of some French dramas, and being sufficiently versed in their language, he played the heroes in the original, giving great delight to a large section of the inhabitants of this city. At the close of his engagement he visited Cincinnati and various other towns and in 1831 became lessee of the Baltimore Theatres A short time afterwards, whilst playing at Richmond, news reached him that one of his children was seriously ill, on which, without inform¬ ing the manager of his intention, he quitted the city and hastened home, where he found the little one dying. A few days more, and the child was interred in the graveyard of the farm. He then resolved to return and end his engagement, but on reaching Baltimore, was informed the Richmond Theatre had closed, and the manager had left for New York. Whilst detained by a heavy fall of snow, he received a letter from the farm asking him to return immediately, as another of his daughters was sick unto death, on which he speedily set out for his home, which he reached just in time to see her expire. Passionately devoted as he was to his children, this double grief unsettled his mind, and for a time darkness fell upon his life. After an interval he recovered, but the madness which had all along been closely allied to his genius became henceforth more perceptible. Occasionally he quietly and suddenly disappeared from his home, to return after many days, without giving any reason for booth’s strange conduct. 409 his absence. He still continued to fulfil engagements all over America, sometimes betraying no eccentricity, and again manifesting strong evidence of his mind’s disease. Once when playing a round of characters at the Boston Theatre, he was announced to act Ludovico in Evadene , and a crowded house gathered to see his performance. On his first entrance something unusual was noticed in his voice, manner, and expression. As he proceeded with his part, the audience became aware he was mixing up lines from various plays in a strange and bewildering way. Occasionally he hesitated, ran to the prompters side of the stage, and lent against the scene whilst his speeches were being audibly spoken. In this manner the two first acts of the tragedy were gone through, the house wondering and fearing greatly; but early in the third act, whilst engaged in conversing with the King of Naples, he broke into a laugh, and departing from the blank verse of his part, and the dignity of his stage tone, said in a colloquial, gossiping manner, “ Upon my word, sir; I don’t know, sir.” The audience was not less surprised than His Majesty, and a dead silence followed broken by Booth, who, turning to the spectators, continued, “ Ladies and gentle¬ men, I really don’t know this part. I studied it only once before, much against my inclination. I will read it, and the play shall go on. By your leave the play shall go on, and Mr. Wilson shall read the part for me.” At this point hisses and murmurs rose from the house, at which Booth burst into a ringing laugh. The manager then rushed from behind the scenes and led him off, whilst he shouted out, “ I can’t read—I am a charity boy; I can’t read. Take me to the lunatic asylum.” The curtain then fell, and the manager came 410 EDMUND KEAN. forward to offer some explanation. It was obvious, he said, that Mr. Booth could not again appear that evening, nor the play proceed. He had been ill on Saturday, but on this day, Monday, was to all appearances quite recovered; indeed he would not have been announced to act that evening had not his physicians stated that he had recovered his powers, and was fully competent to perform. A comedy was then substituted, to the satisfaction of the house. Poor Booth was taken to his lodgings and carefully attended; but his disorder increasing, it was thought advisable to have a consultation of medical men as to whether he had better be removed to a lunatic asylum. But when the doctors were summoned, it was found the patient had escaped ; and on search and inquiry being made, the only tidings which could be obtained of him was, that he had gene to the Marlborough Hotel to engage a place in the Providence stage-coach ; but that conveyance having already departed, he disap¬ peared, where none could say. However, on the arrival of a coach from Providence, the driver said he had met Mr. Booth on the road without coat or waistcoat. The following day he arrived at Providence, having neither shoes nor stockings, and at once went to a sailors’ boarding-house. Rumour of the popular actor’s con¬ dition being noised all over the town, his friend Colonel Josiah Jones at once sought him. Booth greeted him kindly, and asked him to take off his boots that he might try them on; and the Colonel, in order to humour him, complying with this request, Booth immediately left the house. Colonel Jones quickly borrowed a pair of shoes, rushed after and overtook him as he hurried alonof the street in an excited state, and succeeded in persuading him to accompany him home. RETIRES TO HIS FARM. 411 Under his watchful care the tragedian in a few days recovered the proper balance of his mind, and was allowed to journey to the farm. But lucid intervals were now succeeded by fits of mental aberration. Soon after he arrived at his home he summoned all his neighbours near and far to attend a funeral, and they, assembling with decent gravity at the appointed day and hour, found it was the carcase of a favourite horse he wished to have buried with solemnity; on which they departed, some in anger, some in sorrow, to their homes. He was soon before the public again; and in 1838, accompanied by Tom Flynn, manager of the National Theatre, left New York on board the steamer Neptune for Charleston. Ten years before, William Conway, who had played Romeo to the Juliet of Miss O’Neill at Covent Garden Theatre, and who subsequently, whilst acting at Bath, became the object of Mrs. Piozzi’s affections, had, whilst on his way to Charleston, flung himself into the sea and been drowned. As the ship Neptune came towards the spot where the un¬ happy actor was last seen, Booth became exceed¬ ingly melancholy, spoke much of Conway, and at last, rushing up on deck, saying that he had a message for him, jumped overboard before it was possible to prevent him. A boat was immediately lowered, and with some danger and difficulty he was rescued. When safe, his first words to Flynn were, “ I say, Tom, look out; you’re a heavy man, be steady, for if the boat upsets we’ll all be drowned.” It was while at Charleston that, in a quarrel with a fellow player, he received a blow from a heavy weapon that broke the bridge of his nose—an incident scarce worth recording, save to note the coincidence that 412 EDMUND KEAN. Kean, whom he so strangely and so stiongly resembled, mentally and physically, likewise in a squabble was dealt a blow with a pewter pot which disfigured his nose. This accident to Booth threatened permanently to injure his voice as well as his personal appearance; but instead of giving way to the infirmity he battled strongly against it, continually speaking with all his strength, until, after a lapse of two years, he fully recovered his resonant tones. And so he continued his life, playing year after year m the principal cities of the States, and then seeking retirement with his family, until 1852, when he spoke of leaving the stage and gave the jewelled crown he had always worn as Richard III. to his son Edwin whilst they were playing at San Francisco. The time was close at hand when he was to make his exit from life’s stage; for a couple of weeks later, whilst on his homeward way, he fell ill of a cold, and died on the 30th of November. After spending two years and a half in America, Charles Kean returned to England in February, 1833. His father had meanwhile been obliged by illness to abandon all idea of again visiting the States. He therefore rested for some time in his cottage at Bute, but was necessitated in January, 1831, to leave this retreat and again seek engagements; he therefore appeared at Drury Lane, and was warmly welcomed by the public. Seemingly he had benefited by his few months of retirement, but his health was far from being restored. That he was mentally active is proved by his desire to become lessee of the Richmond Theatre, then to be let. He therefore addressed the following letter to the owner— EDMUND KEAN AT RICHMOND. 413 To Mr. Budd, Theatre Royal , Richmond , Surrey. “Feb. 10, 1831. “Dear Sir, “ Having heard that the Theatre Royal, Rich¬ mond, is in the market, I should gladly offer myself as a candidate if I could ascertain to whom I should apply. Its proximity to London would answer my interests in every way, and the fact is, I am weary of scampering about His Majesty’s domains, and till I make my final bow to the British Public, I think a good company, well appointed and governed by a man of forty years’ theatrical experience, would fix upon my retreat both pleasure and profit. If you would do me the favour to let me know if my name would not be objectionable to the proprietors, or my industry to the public, the rent, taxes, &c., &c., you will confer an obligation on “ Yours truly, “ Edmund Kean. "P.S.—You will be kind enough to remember that despatch is the soul of business, and many provincial managers are awaiting my decisions. “ Kennington Lane , opposite the Chinese entrance to Vauxhall .” Eventually he became lessee of the Richmond Theatre, and took up his residence in the small house attached to the building. The announcement of the fact caused a pleasant sensation amongst playgoers at Richmond and the surrounding neighbourhood, and on nights when he was announced to perform he was at first greeted by crowded audiences. He therefore braced himself to play three times a week, but the novelty of his appearance here wearing gradually away, 414 EDMUND KEAN. he acted to poor houses, so that on one occasion the treasury received but three pounds sixteen shillings. Few things gave him more pleasure than to receive his old friends and associates. Here in the cottage sitting- room, with its deep embrasured windows shaded with branches of trailing vines, he talked with them of the past—of those whom they had known, pitied, admired, or loved; the living still amongst them, the departed who were in their midst no more ; recalling his victories, forgetting his griefs in the past, welcoming hopes of the future. At times he played to them, or sang Moore’s melodies with much of his old expression, and would at their request repeat the Lord’s Prayer in a manner which drew tears to their eyes. Here it was that the veteran actor Henry Howe when a mere lad called to ask advice concerning his becoming a player, of the great man whose performance of Richard III. had a little before fascinated him. At the moment of his visit Kean with his five dogs was about to have himself rowed upon the pleasant Thames, and invited the aspirant for dramatic honours to accompany him, and he complying, Kean entered into conversation with the youth by asking him if he were prepared to starve; and then assured him he himself had sometimes in the course of his life been eighteen or twenty hours without food. Finally, he strove to dissuade the lad from be¬ coming an actor, but, fortunately for a later generation, his advice was not followed. Occasionally he played at Drury Lane or the Hay- market, receiving fifty pounds a night for each perform¬ ance. And as his strength decayed, one who knew him relates, “ he found it necessary upon nearly every occasion to be supported to the side or wings of the stage, but immediately he was before the public his fanny kemble’s opinion of kean. -415 energy seemed entirely to master all physical weak¬ ness, and he would tread the stage with a firmness which would a few minutes previously have seemed impossible/’ These exertions were followed by prostration. The genius within him occasionally flamed, and reminded many of his former strength, but more often his acting was dull and mechanical. In this year Fanny Kemble, her father, and her cousin fell to talking one night at supper of Kean. Charles Kemble held no love for the tragedian, and his daughter admits he was “ hard upon poor Kean’s defects, because they were espe¬ cially antagonistic to his artistic taste and tendency; but I think too,” she adds, “ there is a slight infusion of the vexation of unappreciated labour in my father’s criticism of Kean.” Hers was far more gentle and just; and, coming from one who understood the diffi¬ culties besetting an actor’s interpretation of his feelings and imagination, are valuable. That he was a man of genius, no matter how he abused his gifts, she was sure ; that he possessed the first element of all greatness— power—she was likewise certain, for instinctively, with a word, a look, a gesture, he “ tore away the veil from the heart of common humanity, and laid it bare as it beat in every human heart, as it throbbed in his own. Let his deficiencies be what they may, his faults how¬ ever obvious, his conceptions however erroneous, and . his characters, each considered as a whole, however imperfect, he has one atoning faculty that compensates for everything else, that seizes, rivets, electrifies all who see and hear him, and stirs down to their very springs the passionate elements of nature. Genius alone can do this.” His failing health rendered his appearance in public 416 EDMUND KEAN. doubtful, even when announced to perform, and he frequently disappointed his audiences; still they crowded the house when he played, knowing their opportunities of seeing him must now be few, ana believing they would never look upon his like again. Dr. Doran, who remembered seeing him play Richard III. at the Hay market in 1832, says the sight was pitiable. “ Genius was not traceable in that bloated face intellect was all but quenched in those once matchless eyes; and the power seemed gone, despite the will that would recall it. I noted in a diary that night the above facts, and in addition, that by bursts he was as grand as he had ever been, that though he looked well as long as he was still, he moved only with difficulty, using his sword as a stick.” Once whilst playing Sir Giles Overreach about this time at Brighton, he fainted in the last act, and was carried off the stage in an in¬ sensible condition, moaning the while as if in great pain. On recovering he asked in what part of the perform¬ ance he had fallen, and being told it was after making a long speech, he whispered, “ Ah, I fear it will be my last dying speech.” In the month of November in this year Edmund Kean for the first time acted with Macready. The latter had returned in 1827 from America, where he had been highly successful, and was engaged to play at Drury Lane. In the spring of the following year he had given a series of performances at the Salle Favre Paris, receiving one hundred pounds a week for three weeks, after which he returned to London. He then made a prolonged tour in the provinces, at the coiv- clusion of which, in 1830, he accepted a tresh engage¬ ment at Drury Lane for three years, at a salary of thirty pounds a week and a clear benefit lor the first KEAN'S FIRST APPEARANCE WITH MACREADY. 417 year, and fifty pounds a week for the succeeding years. During this time it was proposed to Kean that Macready should act with him, and the tragedian now consenting to what he had formerly refused, played Othello to Macready’s Iago. The latter records in his diary that he acted Iago well, “when Kean did not interfere with me;” but Alfred Bunn, who was now stage-manager at this theatre, has more to say con¬ cerning the event. “ I was extremely amused,” he writes, “with a brief specimen of Shakespearean language addressed .to me by both these gentlemen after the curtain fell on their first appearance together in the tragedy of Othello. Kean had a thorough contempt for Macready’s acting; and the latter, affecting to be indignant at the mode in which Kean had conducted himself (in always keeping a step or two behind him, whereby the spectators had a full view of the one performer’s countenance and only a side view of the other), bounced into my room, and at first vowed he would play with him no more. He finally wound up by saying, ‘And pray what is the next p—lay you ex—pect me to appear in—with that low—man.’ I replied that I would send him word. I went up into Kean’s dressing-room, where I found him scraping the colour off his face, and sustaining the operation by copious draughts of cold brandy-and-water. On my asking him what play he would next appear in with Macready, he ejaculated, ‘How the—should I know what the—plays in.’ ” Kean’s condition was such at this time as to excite the compassion of all who beheld him. Regarding his weakness J. B. Johnston narrates that on one occasion, whilst he was playing the part of Tubal to Kean’s Shy lock, the latter was so infirm that grave apprehen- e e 418 EDMUND KEAN. sions were entertained lest lie should be unable to finish his representation. However, he struggled hard with his weakness until arriving at the close of the first scene of the third act, where Shylock is wrought to violent rage by the news received of his daughter from Tubal. And here Kean was so overcome by his simulated passion that he greatly feared he would be unable to leave the stage; therefore, instead of ending the scene with the words, “ Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue/’ he tottered forward, and leaning heavily on Johnston said, “ Lead me to our synagogue,” when the pitying player bore him from the stage. Stooping, dragging his feet after him, gasping for breath, wiping his tears away with a trembling hand, and in his agitation unconsciously twisting his pocket-hand¬ kerchief round his fingers, he waited to make his entrances, but once on the boards, his form became erect, and the words he uttered seemed to bear him mechanically through his part. His appearance at the theatre became less and less frequent, and his time was now chiefly passed at Richmond, where he was carefully tended by his old and faithful friend Miss Tidswell, who, after forty years’ service at Drury Lane, had retired from the theatre. Daily he might be seen, wrapped in furs, driving slowly through the peaceful glades of Richmond Park, a pale-faced, worn man, with bright anxious eyes ; Miss Tidswell, a grave, gray-haired woman, seated beside him. To her, as to all who knew him, it was clear that, though only in his forty-sixth year, his days were numbered. Intoxicated by the victory which" had succeeded struggle, proud of the royal gifts which were his, he had wasted his health and enfeebled his mind, and now drew daily nigh unto death at an age HELEN FAUCIT'S RECOLLECTIONS OF KEAN. 419 when other men rejoice in the fullness of their strength. Twas but as yesterday he had for the first time played Shylock, Richard, and Othello on the Drury Lane stage, whilst all men sounded his praise. Life had then been full of boundless promise; the horizon limiting his hopes had stretched into infinite space, but he had voluntarily squandered his genius and reduced his existence to a span. How foolish now looked his folly ;* how paltry the treasures for which he had sacrificed so much; how false the friendships in which he had placed strong faith. Such thoughts must have visited him again and again during his quiet drives through Richmond Park, or during these peaceful evenings, when, after an early dinner, he sat at the piano, singing in a broken voice the songs he had sung of old, whilst tears welled into his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. The feverish excitement of life had subsided for ever, and the end brought peace and regret. On warm days he would, with slow and languid step, supported by a stick, and accompanied by Miss Tidswell, walk about the green, and here he was met by Helen Faucit, then a little child. The record of her impression presents a picture in itself, and were better read as related in her own choice words. “ One of my earliest and vivid recollections—I was then quite a child—was a meeting with ‘ the great Edmund Kean ’ as my sister called him. He was her pet hero. She had seen him act, and through friends, had a slight acquaintance with him. Wishing her little "birdie/ as she often called me, to share all her pleasures, she often took me with her to the green for the chance of seeing him as he strolled there with his aunt, old Miss Tidswell. The great man had been very ill, so 420 EDMUND KEAN. that all our expectations had been frequently dis¬ appointed. At last about noon one very warm sunny day, my sister’s eager eye saw the two figures in the far distance. It would have been bad manners to appear to be watching, so in a roundabout way our approach was made. As we drew near I would gladly have run away. I was startled, frightened at what I saw—a small pale man with a fur cap, and wrapped in a fur cloak. He looked to me as if come from the grave. A stray lock of very dark hair crossed his forehead, under which shone eyes which looked dark, and yet bright as lamps. So large were they, so piercing, so absorbing, I could see no other features. I shrank from them behind my sister, but she whispered to me that it would be unkind to show any fear, so we approached, and were kindly greeted by the pair. “ Oh, what a voice was that which spoke ! It seemed to come from far away—a long, long way behind him. After the first salutation, it said, ‘ Who is this little one ? ’ When my sister had explained, the face smiled (I was reassured by the smile, and the face looked less terrible), and he asked me where I went to school, and which of my books I liked best. Alas! I could not then remember that I liked any, but my ever good angel-sister said she knew I was fond of poetry, for I had just won a prize for recitation. Upon this the face looked still more kindly on me, and we all moved to¬ gether to a seat under the trees. Then the far-away hollow voice—but it was not harsh—spoke again, as he put his hand in mine, and bade me tell him whether I liked my school walks better than the walks at Richmond. This was too much, and it broke the ice of my silence. No indeed,* Greenwich Park was very pretty—so was Blackheath with its donkeys, when we were, on occa- HELEN FAUCIt's LAST SIGHT OF KEAN. 421 sions much too rare, allowed to ride them. But Richmond! Nothing could be so beautiful! I was asked to name my favourite sports, and whether I had ever been in a punt—which I had; and caught fish— which I had not. My tongue, once untied, ran on and on, and had after a time to be stopped, for my sister and the old lady thought I should fatigue the invalid. But he would not part just yet. He asked my name, and when it was told, exclaimed, ‘ Oh, the old ballad —do you know it ?—which begins—• “ Oh, my Helen, There is no tellin 5 Why love I fell in ; The grave, my dwellin’, Would I were well in 1 ’’ I know now why with my Helen, love I fell in ; it is because she loves poetry, and she loves Richmond. Will my Helen come and repeat her poetry to me some day ? ’ This alarming suggestion at once silenced my prattle, and my sister had to express for me the pleasure and honour I was supposed to feel. Here the inter¬ view ended; the kind hand was withdrawn which had lain in mine so heavily, and yet looked so thin and small. I did not know then how great is the weight of weakness. It was put upon my head, and I was bid God speed ! I was to be sent for some day soon. But the day never came ; the school-days were at hand. Those wondrous eyes I never saw, and that distant voice I never heard again.” To the inhabitants of Richmond he was an object of interest and pride, whilst the poor regarded him with respect and affection; for no case of distress or poverty was made known to him that he did not strive to re¬ lieve. And amongst those to whom his benevolence was extended was his mother’s son, Henry Darnley and 422 EDMUND KEAN. his family, as may be gathered from a letter written to him by Nance Carey on the 7th of September, 1832. “Dear Edmund, “ I wrote to you the first of this month, my quarters money being due the 1st of September. As I have had no answer, I fear you did not get my letter. I am in great anxiety till it comes, and being in ill- health makes me feel more. If you can oblige me with two quarters—one due and one in advance—you will render me a very great service. As I may be com¬ pelled to remove hastily from the lodging I am now in, I beg you will have the kindness to direct to Mr. Cooper, Surgeon, Great Peter Street, for me, to the care of Mr. Cooper. “ I saw Harry yesterday. His looks are mended since last I saw him. I thank God that you have taken him and his poor chickens under your wing, and I hope you will hold it over them during the winter. I think they have merit, which, cheered by your kind¬ ness, will show itself. Mrs. Darnley is clever in Scotch and Irish characters. “ Your affectionate mother, “ M. A. Carey. “P.S.—I am in a strange state of health. Two days before I saw Harry every one thought I could not live the night through. I am sorry that I live to trouble ray dear child, and yet I cannot wish to die. Let me see you.” With this desire he readily complied, and she not only visited him, but took up her abode under his roof, and remained there till he was laid in his grave. At the beginning of the year 1833 Edmund Kean, still feeling the necessity of money, had, though KEAN ACTS WITH HIS SON. 423 struggling with death, entered into an agreement to act a certain number of nights at Drury Lane Theatre of which Captain Polhill was now lessee. Needing funds immediately, Kean asked Bunn to request Captain Polhill to lend him five hundred pounds; but the lessee, knowing Kean’s circumstances, refused to advance the sum unless security was given for its repayment. Kean promised the money would be paid by his subsequent performances; but the condition of his health being most uncertain, Captain Polhill de¬ clined lending him the money. On the 12th of March the tragedian’s medical adviser, Mr. James Smith, presented his compliments to Mr. Bunn, and was sorry to inform him “ that Mr. Kean is confined by so very severe an attack of gout in his right hand and arm, and some threatening also of the same sort in his legs, as to render it quite impossible for him to perform at present.” Mr. Smith added, he would state from day to day how the tragedian progressed ; but at present it would be quite impossible to fix any night for his reappearance. A week later than the date of this note Edmund Kean was advertised to play at Covent Garden Theatre, where Charles Kean was then fulfilling an engagement. It was decided by the management that father and son should play Othello and Iago, and an announce¬ ment of this intention caused wide and general interest. Therefore on Monday evening, March 25th, 1833, a great audience assembled to witness Edmund Kean’s performance, as it proved, for the last time. Late on that afternoon he had driven to the theatre, and being assisted from his carriage, went at once to his dressing- room, leaving word that he desired to see his son immediately he arrived. Here Charles found him 424 EDMUND KEAN. presently, a poor, shrunken figure, with a haggard face and wild eyes, crouching over a fire. He greeted his son affectionately, but said he was very ill, and afraid he should not be able to act. The manager, who was likewise present, cheered him; and having drank some hot brandy and water, he declared he was much better, and allowed himself to be dressed for the part. From time to time he shivered, complained of cold, and to all observers it was evident his vitality was at a low ebb. The sight was pitiful. Presently, the overture being over, the curtain rose, and Charles Kean, entering as Iago, was warmly greeted. But the audience were evidently impatient for a sight of their old favourite; and when in the second scene he and his son came upon the stage, the whole house received them with the warmest acclamations. Ed¬ mund Kean, the tears welling to his eyes, bowed again and again; then suddenly, as if remembering himself, he turned towards Charles, and, taking him by the hand, led him a few steps forward, and, as it were, presented him to the public. At this action the enthusiasm of the house redoubled, hats and hand¬ kerchiefs were waved, cheers rent the air, the while father and son stood hand in hand bowing repeatedly. It was a considerable time before they were allowed to proceed with their parts, and then by degrees the feebleness of the great actors gait and weakness of his voice were noticeable to all; but as it was believed, and hoped, he was reserving his strength for the later acts, no failure was anticipated. As he came off the stage he remarked, “ Charles is getting on well to-night—he’s playing very well; I suppose it’s because he’s acting with me.” Again he drank some hot brandy-and-water by way of sustaining HIS LAST PERFORMANCE. 425 his strength, and continued his part in the second act, though his voice was so weak at times that it sank almost to a whisper, and his pauses were longer than usual. ... It was with a mixture of pain and pleasure the audience followed his acting. Just before the third act began, being fearful his strength would wholly give way, he said to his son, “ Mind, Charles, that you keep before me. Don’t get behind me in this act; I don’t know if I shall be able to kneel, but if I do, be sure that you lift me up.” A foreboding of disaster dwelt with him. With such resolution as he possessed he struggled through the earlier part of the act; but his weakness was greater than his will, and at times he gasped for breath and moved with difficulty, an object of com¬ miseration to all. He continued, however, spoke the lines beginning— o o , 0 now for ever Farewell the tranquil mind: farewell content;” and ending with " Farewell: Othello’s occupation gone,” with all his usual melancholy sweetness, and more than his customary feeling, and so touched and impressed the audience by the sobbing tones of the last line, that they burst into stormy applause that lasted some minutes. Kean stood motionless and fixed, his chin resting on his breast, his eyes riveted upon the ground. A death-like silence, begotten of fear, fell upon the house, feeling which he seemed partially roused to consciousness of the scene, raised his head, and looked round with - dimmed sight, advanced a few steps to Iago, and would fain have continued his part, saying, “Villain, be sure—you—prove-” Then,tottering to his son, he flung himself on his neck, and with a faint and faltering voice cried out, “ Oh, God, I am dying. 426 EDMUND KEAN. Speak to them, Charles.” Then one of the other players advanced, and with Charles Kean’s assistance carried him off the stage. The public saw him no more. For hours he lay insensible on a sofa in his dressing- room, his eyes closed as if in death, his limbs motion¬ less and cold, his pulse languid, an anxious crowd of friends and doctors watching him. But by degrees he rallied, and towards midnight he was sufficiently recovered to permit of his being taken to the Wrekin tavern close by, where he lay for upwards of a week ’twixt life and death. At the end of that time he was removed to his house at Richmond, where his secretary, John Lee, and his friend Miss Tidswell, nursed him with untiring devotion. His son, who was obliged to continue his engagement at Covent Garden, was with him daily; and knowing that his father’s end was nigh, became anxious a reconciliation should take place be¬ tween his parents. He therefore suggested to the dying man that he should make his peace with his wife. Accordingly Kean wrote her this last letter— “ My Dear Mary, “ Let us be no longer fools. Come home; forget and forgive. If I have erred, it was my head, not my heart, and most severely have I suffered for it. My future life shall be employed in contributing to your happiness; and you, I trust, will return that feeling by a total obliteration of the past. “ Your wild but really affectionate husband, “ Edmund Kean. “ Theatre Royal, Richmond .” She to whom it was addressed did not hesitate to obey the request, but immediately drove to Richmond reconciliation with his wife. 427 with her son. Leaving her at the Greyhound Hotel, Charles hastened to prepare his father for her visit. Then they who had been parted for eight years met, and words of penitence and forgiveness were spoken but the shock which his appearance, telling too plainly the certain approach of death, gave Mrs. Kean was great, and after an effort to muster her feelings, she completely broke down, and sobbed piteously. He who heard her knew the cause of her tears, and learned too late the depth of the affection he had discarded. Taking her hand, with a pathetic effort at cheerfulness, he said, “ Come, bear up, bear up; happiness shall yet be ours/’ But though he spoke as if with hope, he knew the sands of his life had almost run. Mrs. Kean, who was now an invalid, returned to town in the even¬ ing, but visited him continually. At times, when he felt better, he still hoped his existence might be prolonged, but more frequently, when overcome by pain and weakness, he feared his end had come. One day early in May, when Douchez, the famous surgeon, drove from town to visit him, he said, “ Now, this is very kind of you, but I feel that the hand of death is upon me,” and he burst into tears. For some time past he had experienced a disinclination to eat solid food, and he now mainly subsisted on arrowroot and jelly, mixed with brandy-and-water. His son was constantly in attendance on him, and he welcomed the visits of his theatrical friends. The talk of the town, which they narrated to him, and the re¬ miniscences they recalled, excited him, and he seemed to regain much of his former buoyancy in their pre¬ sence ; but they being gone, he frequently fell into a lethargy from which it was difficult to rouse him. When his old friend Jack Hughes said to him that 428 EDMUND KEAN. brighter days were in store for him, ne made answer they had passed for ever; and then, his mind wandering, he quoted some lines from a play, and mentioned the names of several singers who had, he stated, promised to come and sing him to sleep, for he was tired. ^ .From that dav he suffered at intervals from aberration of the mind; at such moments he lived his old life once more—now was he a strolling player struggling for bread, acting in barns, painfully toiling along dreary, interminable roads; and again he was on the stage of Drury Lane, before an audience that greeted him with laudations, or howled at him in fury. And the names of Lord Byron, Whitbread, Rae, and others gone before came familiarly to his lips. That dark passage in his life relating to a woman’s infidelity, from which all other evils seemed to follow, were forgotten at such times, and he was back in the morning of his years, when life held fair promises before him. The early days of May waned, and looking 'through his bed-room windows, he rejoiced in the new-born spring, which he was not destined to see deepen to the fullness of summer. Pale-faced and attenuated, the ghost of his former self, he sat in bed propped up by pillows, surrounded by books * and papers, which he opened one by one, and then wearily laid aside. Oc¬ casionally he was strong enough to rise, and was sup¬ ported into his sitting-room, where he lay on a sofa, or seated at the piano, struck a few chords, to which he listened dreamily, as if they recalled dead memories, and then with trembling limbs and tearful eyes turned away. But his last days were not allowed to pass in uninterrupted peace, being intruded on by his creditors; His books showed him to have earned at an average HIS DEATH AND BURIAL. 429 almost ten thousand a year since his first appearance at Drury^Lane—a sum three times greater than that gained by any of his contemporary actors. But of this nothing was left; his reckless extravagance had wasted his wealth, and only a few days before his death he was in danger of being arrested for a sum not exceeding one hundred pounds; and after his demise, his theatrical wardrobe and properties, the valuable presents given him, together with the plate and furniture at his cottages in Bute and Richmond, were seized by his creditors and sold, the whole realizing but six hundred pounds. As May wore on, his weakness increased, and his periods of delirium became longer. Through long silent nights he moaned in pain; he slept through days when sunshine steeped the land. On the evening of Tuesday the 14th he was quite unconscious of those around him. His mind wandering, he held convers¬ ation with persons he believed standing by him, the living and the dead; spoke some lines from the plays in which he had won repute, and towards midnight, before those who watched could hinder him, he sud¬ denly jumped from his bed, and crying out in the words of Richard III.—“ A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse ! ” fell on his knees. Being put to bed, he passed into a lethargic state. It was nine o’clock in the morning when he woke, and turned his eyes wistfully towards the light, then rested them on the faces of his secretary and the surgeon. Recognizing them, he strove to speak, but though they bent over him, no words fell upon their ears; then quickly and fearfully he flung out his arms, caught their hands, sighed, and was dead. . Ten days later his remains were borne to old Rich¬ mond church. His friends had applied to the Dean 430 EDMUND KEAN. and Chapter of Westminster Abbey to forego the cus¬ tomary fees, and allow his ashes to rest beside those of Garrick; but this being refused by these reverend gentlemen, his body was p'aced near the western portal of old Richmond church, close by the bones of Thomp¬ son the poet, and not far removed from those of Shake¬ speare’s friend, Burbage, the original representative of Richard III. Every possible mark of respect was shown him. Members of the theatrical profession, not only from London, but from the provinces, alike famous and obscure, accompanied him on his last brief journey. Crowds of mourners filled the village, shops were shut, the funeral service was impressively read, and with the words, “ His body is buried in peace, but his name shall live for ever,” ringing in their ears, the living parted from the dead. His son erected to his memory a tablet, having a medallion portrait, and bearing these words— (Sfotmmtr fUait, DIED MAY 15, 1833, AGED 4 6 JV JEemcrrial mcteb by his §otx, CHARLES JOHN KEAN, 1839. / GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN’S HOUSE, CLERKEN5VELL, LONDON. / / O