In less than a twelvemonth from the time of its destruction the new theatre arose from the ashes of its predecessor. While it was building, Drury Lane, the opposition house, under Sheridan’s management, was also burnt to the ground, bringing down Sheridan with it in its ruin.
The new Covent Garden was a much more magnificent building than its predecessor; but the system of private boxes, which had been introduced first of all in Drury Lane, was now carried to an extreme extent, and the third circle of the theatre was entirely given over to them. This invasion of the privileges of the people by the aristocracy was not to be borne. The “liberty of the subject” had been talked into fashion by Fox and Burke, and the populace were determined to put their doctrines into practice in every department of life. They would not submit, because the new house had the monopoly of catering for their amusement, to be slighted and thrust away in a dark gallery where they could neither see nor hear, while a “bloated aristocracy” lounged in commodious boxes with ante-rooms behind. We who deplore the radicalism of the age, and the licence permitted to free speech, should read the account of the outrageous O. P. (old prices) riots, and congratulate ourselves on the improved decorum that reigns now-a-days.
The New House was opened on the 18th September 1809. Crowded to the roof with a resplendent audience, on whom shone the light shed by thousands of wax candles, with Kemble and Mrs. Siddons to act the parts of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, a brilliant inauguration might have been expected.
The National Anthem was sung, and then Kemble was to speak a poetical address. But the moment he made his appearance, dressed for Macbeth, a yell of defiance greeted him, while the mob in the pit stood up with their hats on and their backs to the stage. Kemble begged a hearing in vain. His sister then appeared, pale but determined, and both of them went through their parts to the end. Whenever for an instant there was a lull in the yelling and hissing, the musical voice of the great actress was heard steadily going through her part.
Two magistrates appeared on the stage and read the Riot Act; soldiers rushed in to capture the rioters, who let themselves down by the pillars into the lower gallery. The sight of the soldiery, indeed, only increased the Babel. “Why were prices raised,” the mob vociferated, “while exorbitant salaries were paid to the actors and actresses? The money received by the Kembles and Madame Catalani amounted for the season to £25,575. There was Mrs. Siddons with £50 a night! The Lord Chief Justice sat every day in Westminster Hall from 9 to 4 for half the sum!” “She and her brother also appeared frequently on the stage with clothes worth £500.[3] All this was to be screwed out of the pockets of the public.”
The whole state of the popular mind at the time was suffering from the reflux of the revolutionary tide that had swept over France some years before. The way, indeed, in which the authorities behaved during the seventy nights the riots lasted, leads us to think that they were aware of the undercurrent of political excitement, and were glad to see it diverted into a channel that did not menace Church and State. In no other country in the world would such a state of things have been allowed to go on night after night. A magistrate now and then feebly appeared on the stage, and read inaudibly the Riot Act. On one occasion the public climbed the stage, and were only deterred from personally attacking the actors by the sudden opening of all the traps. A lady received an ovation for lending a pin to fasten a manifesto to one of the boxes, and the whole house was placarded with offensive mottoes. The proprietors had recourse to giving away orders to admit their own partisans. This led to furious fighting and scuffling. Pigeons were let loose, as symbols that the public were pigeoned; aspersions were cast on the morality of the private boxes; the leaders of the riot incited the crowd to further excesses by inflammatory speeches. On the sixth night Kemble came forward to announce that Catalani’s engagement, one of the great grievances, was cancelled, and that the business books of the proprietors would be examined by competent gentlemen to prove that the theatre was not a paying concern. The report appeared, proving that if any reduction were made in prices, the proprietors would lose three-fourths per cent. on their capital. This statement had no effect on the unreasoning mob. On the reopening of the house on the 4th October, the riot began more furiously than ever. Cooke, unfortunately, in a prologue alluded to the late “hostile rage.” The expression was like throwing a match into gunpowder. The people lashed themselves into a frenzy; they assailed the boxes, and ran up and down the pit benches during the play. Then, too, was introduced, we are told, the famous O. P. war-dance in the pit, which seems to have resembled the French Carmagnole, “with its calm beginning, its swelling into noise and rapidity, and its finale of demoniacal uproar and confusion.” Princes of the Blood visited the boxes, and having beheld the spectacle, and heard the Babel of roaring throats, laughed and went home! Afterwards the crowd marched to Kemble’s house, 89 Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury, and continued the riot there. At last arrests were made of the leaders, but they were acquitted, and Kemble consented to appear at the dinner given in their honour. This was a hauling down of the flag, but in reality the proprietors came off victors. The rate of admission to the pit was reduced by sixpence, but the half-price remained at two shillings. The private boxes were diminished, but the new price of admission was maintained. It must have been a bitter probation for proud tempers like the Kembles to go through.
“My appearance of illness was occasioned entirely,” Mrs. Siddons writes about this time to a friend, “by an agitating visit that morning from poor Mr. John Kemble, on account of the giving up of the private boxes, which, I fear, must be at last complied with. Surely nothing ever equalled the domineering of the mob in these days. It is to me inconceivable how the public at large submits to be thus dictated to, against their better judgment, by a handful of imperious and intoxicated men. In the meantime, what can the poor proprietors do but yield to overwhelming necessity? Could I once feel that my poor brother’s anxiety about the theatre was at an end, I should be, marvellous to say, as well as I ever was in my life. But only conceive what a state he must have been in, however good a face he might put upon the business, for upwards of three months; and think what his poor wife and I must have suffered, when, for weeks together, such were the outrages committed on his house and otherwise, that I trembled for even his personal safety; she, poor soul! living with ladders at her windows in order to make her escape through the garden in case of an attack. Mr. Kemble tells me his nerves are much shaken. What a time it has been with us all—beginning with fire and continued with fury! Yet sweet sometimes are the uses of adversity. They not only strengthen family affection, but teach us all to walk humbly with our God,
“Yours,
“S. S.”
The fury of the rioters was principally directed against John Kemble, “Black Jack,” as he was called. They never lost a certain respect for the great actress who had served them so long and so faithfully. We know the story of her appealing through the windows of her sedan-chair to the riotous crowds assembled round the theatre, “Good people, let me pass; I am Sarah Siddons,” and of the mob immediately falling back to make way for the dignified Queen of Tragedy. The whole business disheartened and saddened her, however. “I have not always met gratitude in a play-house,” Garrick said, and she but repeated his words with a sigh. She wrote to her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Henry Siddons:—