Some who saw ‘Manfred,’ when revived at Drury Lane by Mr. Chatterton, with Phelps as the hero of Byron’s sombre, but impressive, dramatic poem, may possibly, when leaving the house between the acts, have noticed one of the checktakers, an old gentleman of stagy deportment, enveloped in an old, faded cloak. That individual was no other than the once famous tragedian, Mr. Denvil, who was the original Manfred when Bunn produced the tragedy at Covent Garden, long ere Mr. Phelps made his début at the Haymarket. In the character of Manfred, Denvil made an intense and abiding impression, became lessee of theatres in town and country, but from want of nous, and from want of prudence, dwindled in the social scale, and sank to the menial capacity in which he was to be seen at Drury Lane.
Another specimen of an unsuccessful manager was Huntley May, who had been lessee of nearly all the small provincial theatres in the kingdom. This man had but a very imperfect sense of honour, part of his business being to issue as large bills as he could possibly get printed, announcing the most splendid dramatic productions, which, when the evening arrived, were never presented. Often his audience grew riotous and pugnacious. One night, an assemblage threatened to pull up his benches; but Mr. May, not unaccustomed to such scenes, appeared before the footlights and exclaimed,—
“Money, money. It’s a swindle!”
“Hark at ’em now. Murder and Moses! there’s broths of boys for yer. Money’s just what I want myself. Think of your Cathedral ground; who lies in it? My sainted wife, Norah; poor soul! she loved Exeter so that she would come here to be buried among ye. We all love ye! myself and little Pat. Aisy now, I’ll give you a thrate. To-morrow night’s my benefit, make me a thumping house; Norah won’t forget you in heaven. Behave like gentlemen, come early to-morrow night. Good luck to ye!” which audacious address seems by all accounts to have satisfied his easily satisfied audience.
But even when the old country managers, and there were many, got their living honestly, and by fair means, the profession frequently had the hardest of lots. The strolling players were a merry-headed and easily contented race; but it would be difficult to name any class of people that have known greater oppression. Regarded by a large section of English people as rogues and vagabonds, they were often at the mercy of common informers and petty-minded magistrates.
A circumstance in the career of Moss, a clever actor, and respectable manager, well illustrates such petty persecution. He opened the Whitehaven Theatre for a night or two with some success, but in less than a week the manager and his troupe were put in “durance vile.” Arrested on a Saturday night, they had to remain in the “lock-up” throughout Sunday. On Monday morning they were taken up before the magistrates, and arraigned upon a somewhat extraordinary charge. An inhabitant of Whitehaven, a person to whom credit was given by his acquaintances for sanity and truthfulness, appeared in open court to denounce the strollers, not only as a curse to society generally, but to his town in particular. It was declared by this individual that “before the theatre opened there was an immense haul of herrings; but since the players had entered the place, the fish had all fled, and that in consequence the fishermen were suffering. Misfortune always followed the wake of actors; wherever they appeared, they carried a curse.” In spite of reference to sundry tomes of jurisprudence, and notwithstanding consultation with the town-clerk, the magistrates could not pronounce a verdict. However they prohibited the reopening of the theatre, and the sons of the “wicked one” had to pack about their business in the best way they could.
Edward Stirling applying to a local magistrate at Romford in Essex, for permission to perform for a few nights in the Town Hall, received but sorry treatment from the bigoted official.
“What, sir! Bring your beggarly actors into this town to demoralize the people? No, sir. I’ll have no such profligacy in Romford; poor people shall not be wheedled out of their money by your tomfooleries. The first player that comes here I’ll clap in the stocks as a rogue and a vagabond. Good morning, sir.”
Even in fair seasons the pay of the strollers was wretched in the extreme. In 1826, Mrs. John Noel, desirous of getting her two daughters into practical training for the stage, applied to a wandering manager—Black Beverley—as to whether he could find room for the young ladies in his company. Mrs. Noel was informed that his troupe was about visiting Highgate, and that her daughters could join, on condition that they would put up with the sharing system, and find their own costumes. The engagement was accepted, the elder of the two girls (afterwards Mrs. George Hodson) being cast for Juliana, and the younger (afterwards Mrs. Henry Marston) for Volante in Tobin’s comedy of ‘The Honeymoon.’ Black Beverley was to be the Duke Aranza, and the performance was to take place at the White Lion Tavern. The young ladies débuted, and their remuneration was one shilling and sixpence each. The men and women were homely, respectable people, and the leading actors eagerly accepted Mrs. John Noel’s invitation to a substantial supper she had packed in a hamper, and of which the poor players gratefully partook, eating as if they had been without food for days.