While the boy was drinking in, with rapture, the applause bestowed upon his musical talents, his master earnestly deprecated, and violently opposed the cultivation of them. In the contentions between this applause and that opposition—between the charming flattery of the one, and the mortifying severity of the other, the boy took that side which it was natural for him to prefer; and genius, the parent of courage and enterprise, suggested to him from time to time a variety of expedients for baffling all his master’s designs, and eluding his sharpest vigilance. He collected around him a number of boys of about his own age, who by a weekly subscription which they contrived to collect, rented a cellar in an obscure retired alley—provided themselves with musical instruments, and, with paper decorations and patchwork, formed a little theatre, whither they resorted, every moment they could snatch by stealth or pretext, from their parents’ and masters’ control, in order privately to practise music and dancing, to spout and to perform (in their way) plays, operas and farces. At this time the whole amount of the schooling which the boy had received, barely enabled him to read a chapter in the testament, to scrawl a very indifferent manuscript, and to form an indistinct notion of the two or three first rules of vulgar arithmetic. Such was the cunning and address with which these youngsters managed their theatre, that they enjoyed it several months without THE OLD ONES being able to discover where they wasted their time. One answer always served John when questioned by his master—“Where have you been miching now, you young rascal?”—“Nowhere sir!” This NOWHERE (so very indefinite) the master construed into anywhere in the streets, playing at marbles, top, or chuck-farthing; but of the true place he had not the most distant conception. After some time they began to apprehend that their retreat would be discovered either by accident or the vigilance of the old folks, and this had the effect of increasing their caution and sharpening their ingenuity and cunning. They affected to loiter and play in distant streets, and courted detection there, in order to elude any suspicions that might lead to a discovery of their playhouse; and as they never ventured to indulge their ambition by figuring away before any but their own little society, and were the only auditors, as well as the actors of their pieces, they calculated upon being able to carry on their scheme till time should set them free from parental control; provided there should be no treachery among themselves. However, their confidence in one another was great. “Of one only,” said Hodgkinson, to this writer, “we entertained the least doubt, and you will smile to hear the cause of it: it was, because he was the son of an attorney—he was bottom however to the last, and is now as worthy a man as any in society.”
Most of what is here related came to the knowledge of the writer in desultory conversations with Hodgkinson, and two other persons now in America. “I have very often,” said John, “reflected on the success of our stratagems, and could not help inferring from it a truth which moral philosophers have long since laid down; that little cunning is most perfect in weakest minds. I am persuaded that our company could not, when grown up to manhood, have acted with half the minute ingenuity which we displayed on that occasion.” “I had one day, continued he, put on my best clothes for the purpose of rehearsing Lionel. I panted for a suit of black for it, but could not obtain one; so I was fain to put up with one of blue. It was almost new to be sure, but was daubed over with brass buttons, and therefore rather unfit for the clerical Lionel. That, however, I dared not alter. Returning home when our play was over, I descried my master coming towards me, and, convinced that he saw me, I turned into a corner, as if to hide myself, knelt down in order to cover the knees of my small clothes with dust, pulled out my bag of marbles and chalk, which I always carried for the purpose of deception, and daubed my thumbs and fingers, and even my sleeves and waistcoat with chalk, as if I had been playing marbles. “Aha, you young villain, he cried, before he got up to me, you have been playing marbles, have you! I’ll marble you, you rascal.” Having accomplished my purpose, I ran away too fast for him to catch me. That night I heard him say, “One would think the fellow was too old to play marbles, by this time!—I dont know what the d—l to do with him.” In fact (continued Hodgkinson) we were, like birds, in the daily habit of playing a thousand tricks to draw away intruders or suspicion from our nest.”
After a concealment protracted to an astonishing length, however, the nest was at last discovered, the poor birds were dispersed, and our hero took his ill-fledged flight to perch upon distant sprays, and to pick his meat from the hand that caters for the sparrow. This was the pivot upon which the whole life of Hodgkinson turned. The irresistible impulse of a vigorous genius would, most probably, under any other circumstances, have sent him ultimately to the goal of his destination; but this event hastened it, most unpropitiously hastened it, and, in an evil hour, cast him forth upon the world, a youth, or rather a boy, ill educated, untutored, unprotected, a precocious adventurer, unprovided with money, and wholly dependant upon God and his own efforts, not only for the food that was to sustain his existence, but for the whole stock of prudence, moral rectitude, and knowledge that were to carry him through life. On this part of the history of Mr. Hodgkinson the candid reader will keep his eye steadily and unalterably fixed. If men who have been brought up with every advantage of excellent education, good breeding, and moral and religious instruction, and who have not been let forth from the hand of guardianship, till their knowledge has been established, and their morals confirmed by habit and good example, are daily seen running headlong into vice, and, with shipwrecked morals, sinking into ruin, can we at all wonder if a poor boy, cast forth into the world in the circumstances of Hodgkinson, and, like a half decked skiff, with lofty rigging and no ballast but its own intrinsic weight, drifted out upon the tempestuous ocean of life, without compass, or chart, or means of keeping reckoning, should have sometimes struck upon those treacherous shelves which lay hidden in the track before him? Is there not rather just cause for wonder that he did not speedily sink to the bottom, but that, on the contrary, he kept afloat, advanced to conspicuity and fame, and would, in all probability, have ultimately come with flying colours to a mooring in the port of honour and happiness, if Death had not unexpectedly arrested him in his progress.
It was a little after the time when Hodgkinson had entered his fifteenth year, that the retreating place of our little company of players and musicians was discovered. They were all lads not only of lively genius but of high mettle, and of vigorous animal spirits. Like master Dick, in Murphy’s farce of the Apprentice, they had their heads stuffed with scraps of plays, with which they interlarded their discourse, cracked their jests, praised their favourites, and satirized their enemies, among which last the very worst, in their opinions, were their parents, guardians, and masters. “The character of Dick,” said Hodgkinson more than once to this writer, “is not overcharged.” Our youngsters were quite pat at stage gabble, and
Fathers have flinty hearts, no tears can move them,
with effusions of a similar tendency, every day resounded from their theatrical cellar, followed by bursts of thoughtless merriment and laughter.
One day our little cellar company were engaged in rehearsing Dibdin’s comic opera of the Padlock. Being the best singer, Hodgkinson had the part of Leander allotted to him, sore against his will, Mungo being at that time his favourite character. As he played the first fiddle he was employed in scratching away an accompaniment to the Mungo of the day, in the song of
Dear heart, dear heart, what a terrible life am I led,
when a noise was heard at the door of a passage that led to the cellar, as if it were a person pushing against it. Interrupted thus unseasonably, master Mungo, in apparent panic, suddenly ceased to sing. “What do you stop for?” said John. “Didst thou not hear a noise?” said the other, assuming the tone, and perhaps feeling the alarm too, of Macbeth, in the dagger-scene. “Bravo, bravo!” cried Hodgkinson, “excellent! You can’t do Mungo half so well. It is I, sir, I that can do Mungo to the very life. Now I say, boys, with what feeling could I pour out from my heart and soul,“Oh cussa heart of my old massa—him damn impudence and his cuss assurance.” This he followed with a spirited twang of “Dear heart” on the violin, accompanying it with the words. Again a noise was heard. “What can it be?” said one. “What can it be?” said another. There was a push at the door. “Oh!” cried Hodgkinson, “it’s only one of the hogs that roam about the alley, who, having more taste than the old ones, is come to hear our mirth and music.” At this moment the door was burst open, and John’s master entered. Before the latter had time to speak, or John to reflect, the boy’s wit got the better of his prudence, and he roared out, in the words of Hamlet, “Oh my prophetic spirit! did I not tell you that it was a hog?” Hitherto the master had never gone so far as to strike him; but now, enraged beyond all control at what he saw and heard, he struck the boy with his fist in the face, wrung the fiddle out of his hand, and smashed it to pieces on his head. John, who could run like a greyhound, and well knew how far he could trust to his heels, no sooner got out of the cellar than he let loose the floodgates of his wrath, and poured forth upon his astonished master a torrent of invective, partly the slang of the mob, and partly supplied from plays and farces by his memory; then assuring “the ugly illnatured hunks” that he never should see him again till he was able to make his thick scull ring with a drubbing, he disappeared, and prepared to leave Manchester.
A few months antecedent to this event, a circumstance occurred to Hodgkinson the relation of which properly comes in here. Two persons, genteelly dressed, coming to his mother’s house, called for a room and some beer, and asked if they could get dinner. It was Sunday, and John, as usual, spent the day at home. He was busily employed in the entry making a bridge for a fiddle, and, as he cut away, accompanied his labour with a song, upon which a person belonging to the house[3] chid him angrily or rather very severely for singing on the sabbath. He made no other reply than that of changing from a soft song, which he barely hummed, to the laughing song of Linco in Cymon, which he roared out obstreperously, by way of asserting his independence. A verbal scuffle ensued, which he still interlarded with bursts of song and laughter; the door of the room opened; the two gentlemen interfered, and calling him into the parlour, requested him to sing Linco’s song through for them. He complied; they lavished encomiums on his performance; and one of them said to the other “I’ll be hanged if he does not sing it much better than Wilder,”[4] These words John never forgot; and he owned to this writer, about six years ago, that they still tingled in his ear, though, at the time they were uttered, he did not know who was meant by Wilder. The person who said this patted him on the head, stroked down his hair, affectionately, and added “You are a dear boy. May God Almighty bless and prosper you!” The other gave him a crownpiece, and desired him to keep it for his sake. Had he given him a hundred crowns they would have been nothing to the honied words of the former. In truth, the leading foible of Hodgkinson through life, was vanity—the great taproot of all his irregularities and errors. He was quite agog to learn who those two men might be: he asked, but no one knew them—they were strangers. In the afternoon, however, they were joined by some players who were performing in the town; and from one of those he learned that the two strangers were from Ireland—He who gave him the crownpiece being a gentleman of the name of Comerford, a merchant—he who gave him his blessing, a Mr. Dawson, a player of Dublin, who was an acting assistant, and a kind of purveyor for the manager of the theatre in that city, and stepfather to the celebrated William Lewis. The Mr. Wilder alluded to was many years an actor and singer in Dublin and the original Linco and colonel Oldboy of that city.