and when Mr. Lewis proposed to engage him, he jumped at the conclusion that this was the same as De Begnis’s speculation and that there could be only one theatre in Liverpool. He accordingly declined to come to Liverpool, unless the money to be paid to him was first lodged at his bankers (Messrs. Coutts) in London. Mr. Lewis saw through the Signor’s error at once, and immediately remitted £1000 to ratify the engagement for ten nights. Paganini played his ten nights and drew on each of them from £280 to £300, so that, great as the risk was, the speculation was a most advantageous one to the lessee. When Paganini came to the Amphitheatre in 1835 or ’36 (I think) with Watson as his manager, and Miss Watson as his Cantatrice, he did not draw as on his first appearance, although the houses were very good. I recollect talking to Mr. Watson on the stage between the parts, when the gods, growing impatient, whistled loudly for a re-commencement of the performance. Paganini, who happened to be near us, seemed rather surprised at the noise, and turning to Watson he inquired qu’est que c’est ces tapageurs ces siffleurs? and on being told, he grinned horribly, and said in a low voice—Bah! betes!
I once was told, by one of the actors employed at the Theatre Royal, a curious anecdote of a remarkable and distinguished lady. I don’t recollect the year it happened, but I think it
must have been about 1829. In that year a carriage drove up to the Theatre Royal, containing two ladies, attended by a man-servant in green and gold livery. The servant went into the theatre to inquire if Mr. Clarke, the stage-manager, was in. On being answered in the affirmative, the stoutest of the two ladies—for the other lady was quite young—stepped out of the carriage, and without ceremony walked through the lobby straight upon the stage, to the utter surprise of the hall-keeper who, like a masonic tyler, allows no one to pass without a word or sign of recognition that they are of the privileged. The man followed the lady, who, stepping to the footlights, gazed around on that most desolate of all desolate, dreary, dingy places, the inside of a theatre by daylight. On her still handsome countenance alternated emotions of pride, regretful feeling, as well as of deep interest. After looking across the pit for a few moments, she turned to the hall-porter and requested him to announce to Mr. Clarke that a lady wished to see him for a few minutes. The man quickly returned, requesting the lady to follow him, but she, passing him, made her way to the treasury with the air and mien of one who well knew the way to that place of torture when a “ghost does not walk.” The lady accosted Mr. Clarke with a winning air, and seeing that she was not recognised, said, “So you don’t recollect me?” “No, indeed, I do not.” “Well,
that is strange, considering the money you have paid me. Why,” she continued, “do you not recollect who played Little Pickle at Swansea and Bristol in 18--?” “Bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Clarke. “Ah! I see you know me now,” said the lady laughing. “And many a week’s salary I have had there,” continued the buxom visitor, pointing to the pay-place, “and now just let me have something paid to me to remind me of old times.” Whereupon she went to the pay-place, when the gallant stage-manager put down a week’s salary as of old, which the lady took up, returning it however, and placing at the same time in Mr. Clarke’s hand, a note for £20, which she desired him to distribute amongst the most needy of the company. The lady was the Duchess of St. Alban’s. When Miss Mellon, she had been engaged at the Theatre Royal, and the first benefit she had was in Liverpool. I knew a gentleman who exerted himself greatly on her behalf on that occasion, and the success of it was mainly attributable to his efforts. This she always gratefully acknowledged, and I recollect his telling me that once, being in London, this admirable and kind-hearted lady—who so worthily used the wealth at her command, after she was ennobled—recognised him while passing down Pall Mall and beckoned him to the side of her magnificent equipage, and there recalled the old time to his recollection acknowledging the old obligation, assuring him
that if she could in any way serve him she would be delighted to do so.
The Theatre Royal, about forty odd years ago was under the lesseeship of Messrs. Lewis and Banks. Mr. Banks was extremely fond of a good and well-dressed dish; he had a person as cook who had been with him some years, and who suited his taste in his most choice dishes. The two had a serious quarrel, which ended in cooky giving her master notice of leaving his service. Mr. Banks took this somewhat to heart as he thought if he parted with his cook—and such a cook as she was—he might not be able to replace her. To put it out of her power to give him notice again, he offered her marriage, and was accepted. Mrs. Banks sometimes used to visit the theatre, and generally took her seat at the wing by the prompter’s table, where she could see tolerably well what was going forward on the stage. On one occasion the tragedy of “Venice Preserved” was being performed. Edmund Kean was Jaffier and Miss O’Neil Belvidera. They were playing to a greatly excited house, as may well be supposed when two such artists were upon the stage. Mr. St. A---, who was then ballet-master at the theatre, and who, by the way, was a most graceful dancer, seeing Mrs. Banks, went up to her to exchange compliments. Having done so, Mr. St. A--- remarked how
seldom they had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Banks. “Oh,” replied she, “I never come to the theatre—not I. There’s no good actors now-a-days—there ain’t anybody worth seeing.” “Dear me, Mrs, B., how can you say so? Who have we on the stage now? There’s Mr. Kean”—“Mr. Kean, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. B., “I can’t abide him; he’s my abortion.” “Well, then, what do you think of Miss O’Neil?” “Miss O’Neil!—Miss O’Neil, indeed; do you call her a hactress?—I can’t abide her. There she is—see how she lolls and lollups on the fellows—it’s quite disgusting!” Now the fact was that Miss O’Neil who was chastity itself off the stage, and who lead a most blameless life, showed, when performing, such abandon and impressment in her actions as to be quite remarkable, especially in parts where the intensity of passion had to be displayed, and this Mrs. Banks “couldn’t abide.” “Well, then,” continued Mr. St. A---, “who do you call a good actor?” “Who do I call a good actor! you wait till my dear John Emery comes down, and then you’ll see a good actor; and if I live as long, I’ll make him such a pudding, please God, as he hasn’t had this many a day!” Old Mrs. Banks was about right as to John Emery; he was an actor of the first-class, and has never been replaced in his peculiar line. I have seen Emery play Tyke in the
“School of Reform.” It was a wonderful impersonation. I have seen nothing like it since.
It has always appeared to me to be a remarkable circumstance that many actors and actresses who have been great favourites in the metropolis, have not stood in the same light with the Liverpool audiences. I have seen, occasionally, some remarkable instances of this. Dowton, a great actor, never drew; James Wallack never attracted large audiences. I have seen the whole Adelphi company—including Frederick Yates, his charming wife, Paul Bedford, John Reeve, O. Smith, and others—fail to draw; in fact at one engagement they played night after night to almost empty benches. This was, I think, in 1838. I recollect, on one occasion, Yates seeing a band-box on the stage, went up to it and gave it a kick, and looking significantly at the state of the house, exclaimed, “Get out of my sight—I hate empty boxes!”
Vandenhoff was always a great favourite with the Liverpool audiences. There was a tremendous row once got up at the Theatre Royal, in which he was concerned. About 1825, I think, Vandenhoff went to try his fortune on the London stage, and there, if he did not altogether fail, he did not succeed commensurate with his great expectations; and after knocking about at several theatres, playing, I believe, at some of the minors—the Surrey, Coburg, and Sadler’s Wells—he came back to Liverpool,