At the trial Mr. Statham, the Town Clerk, gave also evidence for the prosecution. After the court had been occupied some time, and many witnesses had been examined, an attempt was made on the part of the judge to effect a compromise, His Lordship remarking that he thought the ends of justice had been served in the public exposure and annoyance which the defendants had been put to, and that as the temper of the people had subsided, and even a better understanding existed between the public and the lessees than before, he thought it was of no use to carry the case any further. The council for the prosecution, however, would not consent to this; at the same time they assured the judge and the court, that the prosecution was not carried on by the lessees, but by the magistrates of the
borough, who were determined to put a stop, by all means in their power, to a recurrence of such disgraceful proceedings, and attempts on the part of an unthinking public to force gentlemen to do what they did not consider right or equitable. The verdict returned was “guilty of riot, but not of conspiracy.”
CHAPTER XV.
I have never been much of a play-goer, but have occasionally visited the theatres when remarkable performers have appeared. I recollect many of the leading actors and actresses of the close of the last century, while all the great ones of this I have seen from time to time. Joe Munden, Incledon, Braham, Fawcett, Michael Kelly, Mrs. Crouch, Mrs. Siddons, Madame Catalani Booth, and Cooke, and all the bright stars who have been ennobled—Miss Farrell (Lady Derby), Miss Bolton (Lady Thurlow), Miss Stephens (Countess of Essex), Miss Love (Lady Harboro), Miss Foote (Marchioness Harrington), Miss Mellon (Duchess of St. Alban’s), Miss O’Neil (Lady Beecher)—but I must say the old and the new style of acting, appear to be very different. Mrs. Siddons exhibited the highest perfection
of acting. I cannot conceive anything that can go beyond it in dramatic art.
I was present when John Kemble bade farewell to the Liverpool audiences. It took place in the summer of 1813. The play was “Coriolanus.” The house was crowded to excess, and the utmost enthusiasm was exhibited in favour of the great tragedian; who, although not a townsman, was at any rate a county man, he having been born at Prescot.
Mr. Kemble, when addressing the audience on that occasion, made a very remarkable declaration. He said that “it was on the Liverpool stage he first adapted the play of ‘Coriolanus,’ and produced it, as they had just seen it performed, and that it was the earnest encouragement he then received that proved a great stimulus to him in after life.”
A statement of the sums of money received at benefits amongst the “old stagers” may perhaps interest some of my readers. I am going back a long way, but I do so that those who know or who guess at the receipts of the “moderns” may compare them with those of the “ancients.” In 1795 Mrs. Maddocks, a most delightful actress, and an immense favourite in Liverpool, drew £213; Mrs. Powell, £207; Mr Banks, £183; Mr. Whitfield, £135. Mr. Kelly, the Irish singer, and Mrs. Crouch, a most charming and fascinating
woman, with a lovely voice, realised together £136; Mr. Hollinsworth, £124; and Mr. Ward £119. In modern days the Clarkes (the manager and his wife) have received as much as £300 at their benefits. One of the best speculations Mr. Lewis ever made was the engagement of Paganini, shortly after his first appearance in the metropolis, in, I think, 1829 or 1830. This wonderful genius had taken the musical world of London by storm, and struck terror and despair into the hearts of the violinists of his day; one and all of whom declaring, as a friend of mine said of his own playing—although eminent in his profession—“that they were only fiddlers.” Paganini’s playing was most unearthly and inhuman. I never heard anything like the tones he produced from his violin—the sounds now crashing as if a demoniac was tearing and straining at the strings, now melting away with the softest and tenderest harmonies. He kept his hearers enthralled by his magical music, and astonished by his wonderful execution. I shall never forget hearing him play the “Walpurgis Nacht,” when he appeared at the Amphitheatre in 1835 or 1836. It was painting a picture by means of sounds. His descriptive powers were wonderful. Anybody with the least touch of imagination could bring before “his mind’s eye” the infernal revel that the artist was depicting. The enchantments of the witches were visible.
You could hear their diabolical songs, you could fancy their mad and wild dances; while, when the cock crew (imitated by the way in a most astonishing manner), you would feel that there was a rushing of bodies through the air, which were scattering in all directions. Then the lovely melody succeeding—descriptive of the calm dawn of summer morning—came soothingly on the senses after the strain of excitement that the mind had experienced. In that delicious melody you could fancy you saw the rosy colours of the breaking day and gradually the rising of the sun, giving light and beauty to the world. That performance was the most wonderful I ever listened to, and I feel confident no one but those who did hear this strange man can ever entertain any notion of his style or performance. His first engagement in Liverpool was at the Theatre Royal, and a characteristic anecdote is related of the Signor in this transaction. At the Amphitheatre, Signor De Begnis, the great harp player—the husband of the fascinating Ronzi de Begnis, and who ran away with Lady Bishop, (he was the ugliest man for a Cavaliero I ever saw, being deeply pitted with the smallpox)—had been giving some concerts which were exceedingly unsuccessful. The people engaged got no money, De. Begnis having completely failed in the speculation. The news of this having reached London, Paganini heard of it,