“Well,” said Beverley, in his peculiar manner, and with a strong word, which need not be repeated, “Why, just now you were a walking gentleman!”
“So I am, sir; but I have had a musical education, and necessity sometimes compels me to turn it to account.”
“Well! what’s your instrument?”
“Violin, tenor, violoncello, double bass, and double drum.”
“Well! by Nero! (he played the fiddle you know) here, Harry (calling his son), bring the double—no, I mean a violin out of the orchestra.”
Harry Beverley appeared with the instrument, and Webster was requested to give a taste of his quality. He began Tartini’s ‘Devil’s Solo,’ and had not gone far when the manager said that the specimen was sufficient, offering the soloist an engagement for the orchestral leadership at a guinea a week. Webster affirms, “That had a storm of gold fallen on him it could not have delighted Semele more than it did himself. He felt himself plucked out of the slough of despond.” Webster had others to support, had to board himself, and in addition he resolved to get out of debt. To successfully carry out such arrangements the young professional had to practise considerable self-denial, walking to Croydon, ten miles every day, for rehearsal, and back to Shoreditch, on twopence—one penny for oatmeal, and the other for milk; and he did it for six weeks, Sundays excepted, when he luxuriated on shin of beef and cheek. While Webster was at Croydon, the gallery used to pelt the gentlemen of the orchestra with mutton pies. Indignation at first was uppermost, but on reflection, the assailed musicians made a virtue of necessity, collecting the fragments of not over-light pastry, ate them under the stage, and whatever might have been their composition, considered them as “ambrosia.”
To be glad to eat the mutton pies with which the gods pelted the orchestra is undoubtedly a realisation of “out of evil cometh good,” and is a curiosity of impecuniosity; but of all the curious curiosities commend me to an arithmetical calculation made by a modern actor, who entered on a five nights’ engagement at Swansea, at the termination of which he had from the treasurer the sum of twenty-five shillings. Mr. Edward Atkins, who had to find his own wardrobe, upon entering into an arithmetical calculation, discovered that after deducting six shillings for coach fares, and five shillings for lodgings, there remained fourteen for professional work, being within a fraction of two shillings and ninepence halfpenny per evening’s labour. The following is the list of parts played by the comedian, and the amount received for each:—
“Monday: ‘Widow of Palermo’—Jeremy (with a handful of snuff and a glass of water thrown in his face), 10½d.; ‘Is he Jealous?’—Belmour, 9½d.; ‘Young Widow’—Splash, 1s. 1½d. Tuesday: ‘Englishman in France; or, Why Didn’t I Kill Myself Yesterday?’—James, 9½d.; ‘Mrs. White’—Peter White (with a medley duet, and mock gavotte, that caused a stiffness in the joints for three days), 1s. 1½d.; ‘Secret’ (without a panel in the scene)—Thomas, 10½d. Wednesday: ‘Carlitz and Christine’—Carlitz, very cheap, 7½d.; ‘Two Gregories’—Gregory, without goose or ship, 10d.; song, ‘What’s a Woman like?’ 1¾d.; ‘Fortune’s Frolic’—Robin, the talk of the town, 1s. 2¼d. Thursday: fully prepared with tools and syllables for three pieces, but the theatre was closed, 2s. 9½d. Friday: ‘Review’—Caleb Quotem, with two songs, 10¾d.; ‘Our Mary Ann’—Jonathan Junks, 9½d.; ‘Loan Me a Crown’—Lightfoot, fifteen lengths, 7¼d.; ‘Captain’s not Amiss’—John Stock, with clean shirt, the part requiring the actor to take off coat and waistcoat, 6d.; walking over to next town on managerial business, ½d. Total, 14s.”
For years the name of Charles Mathews was continually bandied about in connection with the subject of impecuniosity. Yet the harassing and unpleasant circumstances in which the comedian too often found himself through want of money were not produced by causes which in many instances have brought players into straits, insolvency, and sometimes even destitution. The parentage of Mathews was most reputable, his moral and intellectual training was all that could be desired, while his business habits must have been respectable, holding as he did for some time, with credit and capability, an appointment as a district surveyor. His social position too was excellent. But he married a very extravagant lady, and in conjunction with her entered on theatrical speculations, which his tastes and nature ill-fitted him to successfully promote; and not possessing adequate capital to legitimately advance his various theatrical schemes, he became the prey of money-lenders, and bill-discounters. Charles Mathews married Madame Vestris on July 18th, 1838, the lady being at that period the lessee of the Olympic Theatre, where her management had been characterised by exceptional taste and enterprise. But her expenditure, whether in relation to her theatre, or private life, had been lavish even to recklessness. After playing the seasons in the metropolis and making a provincial tour, Mr. and Mrs. Mathews accepted an offer from Stephen Price, manager of the Park Theatre, New York, to perform upon secured engagements of £20,000, with power at option to prolong their stay. However, Price’s speculation proved a failure, Mathews’ scheme of making a speedy fortune “melted into thin air,” and then, affirms the disappointed comedian, “began the series of troubles which were destined to clog a great portion of my life.” During the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Mathews for their American engagement the Olympic was kept open under the direction of a manager appointed by them, and on their return they found the finances in a very crippled state; a large amount of debt having been incurred, despite the large sums of money Mathews had transmitted across the Atlantic. In the hope of extricating himself from his great liabilities he took Covent Garden, never calculating the dangers of the perilous and uncertain sea on which he was about floating the bark of his fortunes. “Money,” he says, “had to be procured at all hazards, and by every means, to prop up the concern till this new mine could be worked; and I was initiated for the first time in my life into all the mysteries of the money-lending art, and the concoction of those fatal instruments of destruction called Bills of Exchange.... Brokers and sheriff’s officers soon entered on the scene, and I, who had never known what pecuniary difficulty meant, and had never had a debt in my life before, was gradually drawn into the inextricable vortex of involvement, a web which once thrown over a man can seldom be thrown off again. The consequence was not conceived at the time. It was a great speculation, and great difficulties appeared the legitimate consequences. Every Saturday was looked forward to with terror, for on every Saturday I had to pay, including the company, authors, band, carpenters, and workmen, employed before and behind the curtain, six hundred and eighty-four souls, with their wives and families all dependent upon my exertions.” His liabilities were so numerous and heavy, that Mathews conceived that the best plan for him to pursue was without delay to wind up the speculation. Pity for him that he did not carry out the resolution. But the great success attending revivals of the ‘Beggar’s Opera,’ the ‘Merry Wives of Windsor,’ and other pieces, added to the subsequent still greater success of Boucicault’s ‘London Assurance,’ induced the lessee to continue the management.
Everything looked brilliant and prosperous, but he found his position more intolerable as the sun of prosperity rose higher over his theatre. He states that when he paid no one, no one seemed to care, but the moment Jenkins got his money Jones became rampant.