Part 29

Mr. Browne, one of Nollekens's old friends, after having received repeated invitations to "step in and take pot-luck with him," one day took him at his word. The sculptor apologized for his entertainment, by saying that as it was Friday, Mrs. Nollekens had proposed to take fish with him, so that they had bought _a few sprats_, of which he was wiping some in a dish, whilst she was turning others on the gridiron.

When Mr. Jackson was once making a drawing of a monument at the Sculptor's house, Nollekens came into the room and said, "I'm afraid you're cold here." "I am, indeed," said Jackson. "Ay," answered the Sculptor, "I don't wonder at it: why, do you know, there has not been a fire in this room for these forty years."

Miss Gerrard, daughter of the auctioneer, frequently called to know how Nollekens did; and once the Sculptor prevailed upon her to dine. "Well, then," said he to his pupil, Joseph Bonomi, "go and order a mackerel; stay, one won't be enough, you had better get two, and you shall dine with us."

A candle with Nollekens was a serious article of consumption: indeed, so much so, that he would frequently put it out, and merely to save an inch or two, sit entirely in the dark, and at times, too, when he was not in the least inclined to sleep. If Bronze ventured into the yard with a light, he always scolded her for so shamefully flaring the candle. One evening, his man, who then slept in the house, came home rather late, but quite sober enough to attempt to go upstairs unheard without his shoes, but as he was passing Nollekens's door, the immensely increased shape of the keyhole shone upon the side of the room so brilliantly that Nollekens cried out, "Who's there?"--"It's only me," answered the man; "I am going to bed."--"Going to bed, you extravagant rascal!--why don't you go to bed in the dark, you scoundrel."--"It's my own candle," replied the man. "Your own candle! well then, mind you don't set fire to yourself."

Nollekens frequently spoke of a man that he met in the fields, who would now and then, with all the gravity of an apothecary, inquire after the state of his bowels. At last the sculptor found out that he wanted to borrow money of him.

Whenever Mr. and Mrs. Nollekens had a present of a leveret, which they always called a hare, they contrived, by splitting it, to make it last for two dinners for four persons; the one half was roasted, and the other jugged.

It was highly amusing to witness the great variety of trifling presents and frivolous messages which Nollekens received late in life. One person was particularly desirous to be informed where he liked his cheese-cakes purchased; another, who ventured to buy stale tarts from a shop in his neighbourhood, sent his livery servant in the evening to inquire whether his cook had made them to his taste; whilst a third continued constantly to ply him with the very best pigtail tobacco, which he had most carefully cut into very small pieces for him. A fourth truly kind friend, who was not inclined to spend money upon such speculations himself, endeavoured once more to persuade Nollekens to take a cockney ride in a hackney-coach to Kensington, to view the pretty almond-tree in perfect blossom, and to accept of a few gooseberries to carry home with him to make a tartlet for himself. A fifth sent him jellies, or sometimes a chicken with gravy ready made, in a silver butter-boat; and a sixth regularly presented him with a change of large showy plants, to stand on the mahogany table, especially in his latter years, when he was a valetudinarian, that he might see them from his bed; yet the scent mattered not, a carrion flower or a marigold being equally refreshing to him as jessamine or mignonette.

One rainy morning, Nollekens, after confession, invited his holy father to stay till the weather cleared up. The wet, however, continued till dinner was ready; and Nollekens felt obliged to ask the priest to partake of a bird, one of the four of a present from the Duke of Newcastle. Down they sat: the reverend man helped his host to a wing, and then carved for himself, assuring Nollekens that he never indulged in much food, though he soon picked the rest of the bones. "I have no pudding," said Nollekens, "but won't you have a glass of wine? Oh! you've got some ale." However, Bronze brought in a bottle of wine; and on the remove, Nollekens, after taking a glass, went, as usual, to sleep. The priest, after enjoying himself, was desired by Nollekens, while removing the handkerchief from his head, to take another glass. "Tank you, Sare, I have a finish de bottel."--"The devil you have!" muttered Nollekens. "Now, sare," continued his reverence, "ass de rain be ovare, I will take my leaf."--"Well, do so," said Nollekens, who was not only determined to let him go without his coffee, but gave strict orders to Bronze not to let the old rascal in again. "Why, do you know," continued he, "that he ate up all that large bird, for he only gave me one wing; and he swallowed all the ale; and out of a whole bottle of wine, I had only one glass."

A broad-necked gooseberry-bottle, leather-bunged, containing coffee, which had been purchased and ground full forty years, was brought out when he intended to give a particular friend a treat; but it was so dried to the sides of the bottle, that it was with difficulty he could scrape together enough for the purpose; and even when it was made, time had so altered its properties, from the top having been but half closed, that it was impossible to tell what it had originally been. He used to say, however, of this turbid mixture, "Some people fine their coffee with sole-skin, but for my part, I think this is clear enough for anybody."

Nollekens's wardrobe was but a sorry stock. He had but one nightcap, two shirts, and three pairs of stockings; two coats, one pair of small-clothes, and two waistcoats. His shoes had been repeatedly mended and nailed; they were two odd ones, and the best of his last two pairs. When Mary Holt, his housekeeper, came, she declared that she would not live with him unless he had a new coat and waistcoat. Poor Bronze, who had to support herself upon what were called board-wages, had hardly a change, and looked like the wife of a chimney-sweeper. As for table-linen, two breakfast napkins and a large old table-cloth was the whole of the stock. Bronze declared that she had never seen a jack-towel in the house, and she always washed without soap.

The wardrobe, as proved in Nollekens's will, consisted of his court-coat, in which he was married: his hat, sword, and bag; two shirts, two pairs of worsted stockings, one table-cloth, three sheets, and two pillow-cases; but all these, with _other rags_, only produced one pound five shillings for the person to whom they were bequeathed.[37]

[37] These characteristics have been selected and abridged from Mr. J. T. Smith's _Nollekens and his Times_, one of the best books of anecdote ever published.

Mr. Nollekens died April 23rd, 1823. His long-drawn-out will and its fourteen codicils afford strange instances of human weakness in many a phase. In some measure to redeem his memory from obloquy, we had rather record a few instances of his generosity, than add more of his parsimony. In his last illness, he asked his housekeeper:--"Is there anybody that I know that wants a little money to do 'em good?"--"Yes, sir, there is Mrs. ----." _Nollekens_:--"Well, in the morning, I'll send her ten pounds."--"That's a good old boy," said she, patting him on the back; "you'll eat a better dinner for it to-morrow, and enjoy it." And he was never known to forget his promises. With all his propensity for saving, he used to make his household domestics a present of a little sum of money on his birthday; and latterly, upon this occasion, he became even more generous, by bestowing on them, to their great astonishment, ten and twenty pounds each.

_THEATRICAL FOLKS._

The Young Roscius.

Early in the present century, there appeared upon our stage a boy-actor, whose performances excited the special wonder of all play-goers. William Henry West Betty, the boy in question, was born near Shrewsbury, in 1791. When almost a child, he evinced a taste for dramatic recitations, which was encouraged by a strong and retentive memory. Having been taken to see Mrs. Siddons act, he was so powerfully affected, that he told his father "he should certainly die if he was not made a player." He gradually got himself introduced to managers and actors; and at eleven years of age, he learned by heart the parts of Rolla, Young Norval, Osman, and other popular characters. On the 16th of August, 1803, when under twelve years of age, he made his first public appearance at Belfast, in the character of Osman; and went through the ordeal without mistake or embarrassment. Soon afterwards he undertook the characters of Young Norval and Romeo. His fame having rapidly spread through Ireland, he soon received an offer from the manager of the Dublin theatre. His success there was prodigious, and the manager endeavoured, but in vain, to secure his services for three years. He next played nine nights at the small theatre at Cork, whose receipts, averaging only ten pounds on ordinary nights, amounted to a hundred on each of Master Betty's performance.

In May, 1804, the canny manager of the Glasgow theatre invited the youthful genius to Scotland. When, a little after, Betty went to the sister-city of Edinburgh, one newspaper announced that he "set the town of Edinburgh in a flame." Mr. Home went to see the character of Young Norval in his own play of _Douglas_ enacted by the prodigy, and is said to have declared: "This is the first time I ever saw the part played according to my ideas of the character. He is a wonderful being!" The manager of the Birmingham theatre then sent an invitation, and was rewarded with a succession of thirteen closely-packed audiences. Here the _Rosciomania_, as Lord Byron afterwards called it, appears to have broken out very violently: it affected not only the inhabitants of that town, but all the iron and coal workers of the district between Birmingham and Wolverhampton. In the _Penny Magazine_, in a paper descriptive of the South Staffordshire district and its people, it is said:--"One man, more curious or more idle than his fellows, determined to leave his work, and see the prodigy with his own eyes. Having so resolved, he proceeded, although in the middle of the week, to put on a clean shirt and a clean face, and would even have anticipated the Saturday's shaving. The unwonted hue of the shirt and face were portents not to be disregarded, and he had no sooner taken the road to Birmingham, than he was met by an astonished brother, whose amazement, when at last it found vent in words, produced the following dialogue: 'Oi say, sirree, where be'est thee gwain?'--'Oi 'm agwain to Brummajum.'--'What be'est thee agwain there for?'--'Oi 'm agwain to see the Young Rocus.'--'What?'--'Oi tell thee oi 'm agwain to see the Young Rocus.'--'Is it aloive?'" The "Young Rocus," who was certainly "aloive" to a very practical end, then went to Sheffield, and next to Liverpool.

On Saturday, the 1st of December, 1804, young Betty made his first appearance in London, at Covent Garden Theatre. The crowd began to assemble at one o'clock, filling the Piazza on one side of the house, and Bow Street on the other. The utmost danger was apprehended, because those who had ascertained that it was quite impossible for them to _get in_, by the dreadful pressure behind them, could not get back. At length they themselves called for the soldiers who had been stationed outside; they soon cleared the fronts of the entrances, and then posting themselves properly, lined the passages, permitting any one to return, but none to enter. Although no places were unlet in the boxes, gentlemen paid box-prices, to have a chance of jumping over the boxes into the pit; and then others who could not find room for a leap of this sort, fought for standing-places with those who had taken the boxes days or weeks before.

The play was Dr. Brown's _Barbarossa_, a good imitation of the _Mérope_ of Voltaire, in which Garrick had formerly acted Achmet, or Selim, now given to Master Betty. An occasional address was intended, and Mr. Charles Kemble attempted to speak it, but in vain. The play proceeded through the first act, but in dumb show. At length Barbarossa ordered Achmet to be brought before him; attention held the audience mute; not even a whisper could be heard, till Selim appeared. By the thunder of applause which ensued, he was not much moved; he bowed very respectfully, but with amazing self-possession, and in a few moments turned to his work with the intelligence of a veteran, and the youthful passion that alone could have accomplished a task so arduous. As a slave, he wore white pantaloons, a close and rather short russet jacket trimmed with sables, and a turban.

"What first struck me," says Mr. Boaden, a trustworthy critic, "was that his voice had considerable power, and a depth of tone beyond his apparent age; at the same time it appeared heavy and unvaried. His great fault grew from want of careful tuition in the outset. In the provincial way, he dismissed the aspirate; and in closing syllables, ending in _m_ or _n_, he converted the vowel _i_ frequently into _e_, and sometimes more barbarously still into _u_. Whether he obtained this from careless speakers in Ireland or England, I cannot be sure; but this inaccuracy I remember to have sometimes heard even from Miss O'Neil. He was sometimes too rapid to be distinct, and at others too noisy for anything but rant. I found no peculiarities that denoted minute and happy studies. He spoke the speeches as I had always heard them spoken, and was therefore, only wrong where he laid vehement emphasis. The wonder was how any boy, who had just completed his _thirteenth year_, could catch passion, meaning, cadence, action, expression, and the discipline of the stage, in ten very different and arduous characters, so as to give the kind of pleasure in them that needed no indulgence, and which, from that very circumstance, heightened satisfaction into enthusiasm. Such were his performances of Tancred, Romeo, Frederick, Octavian, Hamlet, Osman, Achmet, Young Norval, &c."

An arrangement was made that young Betty's talents should be made available for both Covent Garden and Drury Lane theatres, at which he played on alternate nights. Covent Garden was not quite so large as the Drury Lane of that date; at the latter, twenty-eight nights of Betty's first town season, brought 17,210_l._ 11_s._; nightly average, 614_l._ 13_s._ 3_d._ For his services, Roscius received 2,782_l._ 10_s._, being three nights at fifty guineas, and twenty-five nights at 100 guineas; besides four free benefits, which with the presents, were worth 1,000 guineas each. It is supposed that the receipts at Covent Garden were nearly as much as at Drury Lane; and that thus 30,000_l._ was earned by the boy-actor for the managers in fifty-six performances.

In the meantime, all the favouritism, and more than the innocence of former patronesses was lavished upon him. He might have chosen among our titled dames the carriage he would honour with his person. He was presented to the King, and noticed by the rest of the Royal family and the nobility, as a prodigy. Prose and poetry celebrated his praise. Even the University of Cambridge was so carried away by the tide of the moment as to make the subject of Sir William Brown's prize medal, "_Quid noster Roscius eget?_" Opie painted him on the Grampian Hills, as the shepherd Norval; Northcote exhibited him in a Vandyke costume, retiring from the altar of Shakespeare, as having borne thence, not stolen, "Jove's authentic fire." Heath engraved the latter picture. "Amidst all this adulation, all this desperate folly," says Boaden, "be it one consolation to his mature self, that he never lost the genuine modesty of his carriage, and that his temper at least was as steady as his diligence."

Fortunately for young Betty, his friends took care of his large earnings for him, and made a provision for his future support. He soon retired from the stage, and then became a person of no particular note in the world, displaying no more genius or talent than the average of those about him. When he became a man, he appeared on the stage again, but _utterly failed_. We can add our own testimony that the good people of Shrewsbury were ever proud of the precocious boy-actor.

Hardham's "No 37."

This renowned snuff was first made by John Hardham, of Fleet Street, whose history is certainly worth reading. He was born in the good city of Chichester, in the year 1712, and bred up to the occupation of a working lapidary, or diamond-cutter; but he afterwards found his way to the metropolis, and sought confidential or domestic employment, and was in the establishment of Viscount Townshend, some time Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, who ever entertained for him great regard. Hardham, early in his career of London life, acquired a fondness for the stage; and thus early wrote a comedy, called _The Fortune Tellers_, which, although not intended for representation, nevertheless was printed. This, probably, led to his subsequent introduction to David Garrick, with whom he became connected at Drury Lane Theatre, in the responsible post of his principal, "numberer"--that is, discharging a duty in the house of counting the audience assembled, as a check upon the check-takers and receivers of money at the doors. In this duty he became so expert, that Garrick was heard to say, Hardham, by a comparative glance round the theatre, could inform his master of the receipts to a nicety, and he was never found incorrect in his report.

Hardham established himself at the Red Lion, in Fleet Street, now No. 106, where he flourished, by a course of patient industry, and intelligent application to the business of tobacconist and snuff-maker. Although in this new vocation he had fewer opportunities of intimately identifying himself with the stage, he nevertheless remained as ardent an admirer of it as ever. This he exemplified by associating around him in Fleet Street, among whom were many literary personages, the dramatists and wits of the theatre, and his friend David Garrick did not here desert him. So much, in fact, did the dramatic element prevail at the Red Lion in Fleet Street, under his fostering care, that novices for the stage, almost invariably sought his advice, and, indeed, his tuition. His little back-parlour, characteristically enough, was hung around with portraits of eminent performers, to whose styles of dramatic action and manner he would frequently refer in the course of his instructions. Such recreations, however, did not for a moment induce Hardham to relax his best energies in the conduct of the snuff-business, which was daily enlarging the sphere of its operations, and also its renown; which latter was much raised by the successful completion of his experiments in the compounding of the renowned snuff, "No. 37," which was speedily launched upon the tide of public opinion; a tide which "led on to fortune."

Hardham died in the house wherein he had earned his name for business success, for good fellowship, and for "melting charity," in Fleet Street, in the parish of St. Bride, on the 29th of September, 1772, in his sixty-first year. His wife had preceded him by some years, and leaving no child, in his last will, he says, "In all my former wills, I gave my estate to my brother-in-law, Thomas Ludgater, but as he is now growing old (about seventy-four), and as he has no child, and a plenty of fortune, I thought it best to leave it as I have done, for now it will be a benefit to the said city of Chichester for ever." This fortune he left to the easing of the poor rates of his native city, that is, the interest thereof for ever, amounting, after realizing his estate, to the very considerable sum of 22,289_l._ 15_s._ 9_d._, which was placed by his direction in the Three Per Cents., "feeling confident that stock," as he quaintly expresses it, "will never be lower than three per cent., as it now is." In the collecting of the outstanding debts to his estate, there is also this emphatic injunction, to "oppress not the poor." Legacies to several of his Chichester friends show that Hardham kept up in life an active sympathy with his native place, which was to be so largely benefited on his death. One bequest there is, too, of ten guineas, "to his friend David Garrick, Esq., the famous actor," who survived him seven years; and there is besides recorded, as sufficiently indicative of the simplicity of his character, a sum of "ten pounds for his funeral expenses, for none but vain fools spend more," which injunction we doubt not, was religiously observed, when he was buried in the centre aisle of St. Bride's church.--_Abridged from a contribution to the City Press._

Rare Criticism.

Mrs. Siddons is known to have described to Campbell the scene of her probation on the Edinburgh boards with no small humour: the grave attention of the Scotsmen, and their canny reservation of praise till sure it is deserved, she said, had well nigh worn out her patience. She had been used to speak to animated clay, but she now felt as if she had been speaking to stone. Successive flashes of her elocution that had always been sure to electrify the south, fell in vain on those northern flints. At last she said that she coiled up her powers to the most emphatic possible utterance of one passage, having previously vowed in her heart that if _this_ could not touch the Scotch, she would never again cross the Tweed. When it was finished, she paused, and looked to the audience. The deep silence was broken only by a single voice, exclaiming, "_That's no bad!_" This ludicrous parsimony of praise convulsed the Edinburgh audience with laughter. But the laugh was followed by such thunders of applause, that amidst her stunned and nervous agitation, she was not without fears of the galleries coming down.

Another instance of encouraging criticism occurs in _The Memoirs of Charles Mathews_. Early in 1794, he played Richmond to his friend Lichfield's Richard III.; and both being good fencers, they fought the fight at the end with uncommon vigour, and prolonged it to an unreasonable length. After the performances, the two stars lighted each other to their inn, in hope of liberal applause from their landlord, whom they had gratified with a ticket. But though thus treated, and invited to take a pipe and a glass with the two performers after supper, he was provokingly silent on the great subject; till at length, finding every circuitous approach ineffectual, they attacked him with the direct question, "Pray tell us really what you thought of our acting." This question was not to be evaded: the landlord looked perplexed, his eyes still fixed on the ground; he took at length the tube slowly from his mouth, raised his glass, and drank off the remainder of his brandy-and-water, went to the fire-place, and deliberately knocked out the ashes from his pipe; then, looking at the expectants for a minute, exclaimed in a deep though hasty tone of voice, "Darned good fight!"--and left the room.

The O. P. Riot.