'He was quietly seated in his arm-chair, at his lodgings in Beaufort-square, after his return from the theatre; his wife had retired to her bed-chamber, adjoining their drawing-room; while he remained, for the purpose of reading over a character for the ensuing evening. His mother resided a short distance from London, and so far as he knew, was at the time in perfect health. His mind was not preöccupied with the thoughts of home, and an unusual calmness pervaded his spirit. After reading a passage, and trying to see if he had mastered it, he raised his eyes, and on a chair opposite sat his mother, smiling benignantly upon him. His agitation was extreme. He hastily turned round, and saw that the door was closed. He struggled to speak, but his lips were sealed; and with a beating heart and hair erect, he rushed to the bed-side of his wife, and in broken sentences, and with thick-starting perspiration rolling down his face, he detailed what he had seen. His wife endeavored to persuade him that it was all a dream; and to convince him, quietly walked into the drawing-room, and found the apartment precisely as she had left it, the fire burning and the candles lighted; but nothing could do away the illusion; and in two days afterward poor Sidly received the intelligence of his mother's death at the very hour of the occurrence here narrated. He seldom referred to the circumstance, and never without deep and melancholy emotion.'
Liston, the great comedian, as most readers are aware, was an inveterate wag. He was never more happy than when successful in making a fellow-actor lose his 'power of face' upon the stage. Mr. Abbott relates a pleasant anecdote of one of his efforts in this kind:
'In Newcastle, under the management of Stephen Kemble, (who played the part of Falstaff without stuffing,) Liston on one occasion took the character of Pizarro. When he is lying on the couch, Rolla enters, apostrophizes his defenceless situation, and then rouses and drags him in front of the stage. Judge of the surprise of the actor, at finding one half of Liston's face painted in imitation of a clown! This portion of his features was of course studiously turned from the audience, who were indulged only with the simple profile. Rolla burst into a fit of laughter, and rushed instantly from the stage, to the great scandal of the audience, who had not the slightest suspicion of the cause of such ridiculous conduct.'
Our excellent friend John Wilson, that most mellow of vocalists, once gave us a similar anecdote of Liston. In the play of 'Guy Mannering,' he is deputed to relieve the suffering Lucy Bertram. He places a well-filled purse in her hand, which he clasps cordially in his own, while she looks up in his face, her eyes brimming with tears of gratitude at relief so unexpected. On the occasion alluded to, a remarkable change was observed in Miss Bertram's face, when the purse was handed to her. She shrank back, and struggled, as if to liberate her hand from his grasp: and after looking imploringly at his imperturbable face for a moment, she found relief in a sort of hysterical laughter, which was very far from bespeaking the emotion of the character she represented. Instead of a purse, Liston had placed in her hand a large raw oyster, as cold as ice, and pressed her acceptance of it in a way that was irresistible! There ensues a comparison between those different but equally matchless artistes, Mesdames Siddons and O'Neil, which we have reason to believe expresses the general verdict of the time:
'From all my recollections of Mrs. Siddons, it would be absurd to attempt to draw a parallel between her performances and those of Miss O'Neil; the unapproachable grandeur and dignity of the one and the feminine tenderness and endearment of the other exhibiting widely different expressions, not formed by the same code. You approached Mrs. Siddons with a feeling of awe, bordering on reverence. With Miss O'Neil, all your hopes and fears were excited, and certain to meet with a response. Her bursts of agony and distress agitated every nerve, and would plunge her audience in tears; while the power of Siddons would choke your very utterance, and deny you all relief. What Miss O'Neil required in strong expression, she made up in exaggeration. Every nerve was strained, and her whole frame convulsed; in short, her great fault was exuberance; yet nothing could be more quietly (though distressingly) beautiful, than her performance of 'Mrs. Haller.'
The reader should have heard Mr. Abbott present the subjoined 'limning from life,' and seen him imitate the snuff-taking of the noble tragedian. The story loses much of its force in being transferred to paper. The anecdote is of Harlowe, who painted the celebrated trial-scene of 'Henry the Eighth,' in which the Kemble family figured so conspicuously:
'He had, by his ill conduct, lost the esteem of his great master, Sir Thomas Lawrence, who was the intimate friend of John Kemble; and the latter had in consequence resolutely refused to sit to him for his portrait as 'Cardinal Wolsey' in the picture alluded to. 'Mrs. Siddons and Charles and Stephen Kemble had sat to the artist, but the great tragedian was immovable. At length a friend of the painter (Mr. Thomas Welsh, the celebrated singing-master,) who had received many marks of attention and kindness from Mr. Kemble, and who had great confidence in the force of his influence with him, waited upon Mr. Kemble at his residence in Great Russel-street. He was shown into the library, and was most cordially received: 'My dear Tom, to what am I indebted for the favor of this visit?' 'My dear Sir, I come a humble suppliant to you, and I really don't know how to commence.' 'Well, well; make excuses for your modesty: and then, my good friend, come to the point.' The commencement was auspicious; but the first plunge in a cold-bath is always hard to take. 'I assure you, Mr. Kemble, I feel most grateful for your kind reception; and if I could only hope the favor I am going to ask——' 'Pooh! pooh! you know, Tom, I always told you, from a boy, there was nothing you could ask of me that I would refuse you. Now say what it is you wish; consider it as done; and I really am very much occupied; so, to the point, to the point, Tom.' 'Oh, Sir, you have made me the happiest person in the world. Will you be kind enough to sit to Mr. Harlowe for your portrait?' In an instant a deep cloud passed over the noble countenance of the great actor; and deliberately taking up his snuff-box, he applied a large pinch to his nose, and quickly replied: 'My dear Tom I'll see you d—d first!' Notwithstanding his denial, however, the Cardinal is one of the best portraits, and was caught only by occasional glances from the orchestra, during Mr. Kemble's performance.'
At Edinburgh, Mr. Abbott would seem to have attained great popularity. He mingled in the best circles of the Northern metropolis, and was for some days a guest of Sir Walter Scott. He narrates many pleasant anecdotes connected with his engagements in 'Auld Reekie;' and among them is the following, which is capital:
'I had no personal knowledge of Stephen Kemble, but I cannot refrain from mentioning a circumstance which happened when he was manager of the Edinburgh Theatre. The exiled family of the Bourbons were residing at the Palace of Holyrood, and great respect and attention were shown by the nobility in the neighborhood to the unfortunate descendants of a long line of kings. Mr. Kemble thought the patronage of the Comte D'Artois, afterward Charles the Tenth, would be a source of great attraction. Application was made at the palace, and with success. His Royal Highness left the selection of the play to the manager, who fixed upon 'Henry the Fourth,' for the purpose of exhibiting himself in his own popular character of Sir John Falstaff. One can scarcely conceive a duller play for a Frenchman, almost ignorant of the English language, and wholly unable to enter into the subtilties of such a being as the Fat Knight. The great desideratum, however, was obtained. The house was crowded, and the manager was satisfied. His Royal Highness bore the infliction in a most exemplary manner, and retired amidst the respectful greetings of the audience. A week had hardly elapsed, when Kemble (probably not from any selfish motive, but with the laudable view of affording some amusement to the illustrious exile,) again presented himself at Holyrood, and suggested another visit to his theatre. The Comte D'Artois received him most graciously; indeed, it was not in his nature to do otherwise, for he was one of the most accomplished gentlemen in Europe. He declined the invitation, however, in nearly the following words: 'I am vara mosh oblige, Monsieur Kemble; it was vara nice, indeed; I laugh mosh; bot von sosh fun, it ees enoff!'