Charles Reade as I knew him

Front matter

CHAHLKS KKADE ^TAT 45

AS I KNEW HIM

By JOHN COLEMAN

Book the First A Retrospect of Half-a-Century

CHAPTER

introduction

I. BIRTH, PARENTAGE, AND EDUCATION II. CAREER AT COLLEGE

III. LONDON AND EDINBURGH .

IV. THE DEAN OF ARTS, OXON V. AT HOME AND ABROAD

VI. VICE-PRESIDENT OF MAGDALEN VII. GENESIS OF " MASKS AND FACES " VIII. ANONYMS ....

IX. ASPASIA

X. THE TRINITY ....

XI. THE DUCHESS MAKES A DEMAND

XII. THE GENESIS OF " IT IS NEVER TOO TO mend" .... ix

LATE

PAGE

CONTENTS

Book the Second It IS Never too Late to Mend

I. THE PLAY THE PLAY's THE THING ! .169

II. DEFEAT CHANGED TO VICTORY . .183

III. TRANSFERRED TO TOWN .... 201

Book the Third Random Recollections I. naboth's vineyard . . . 223

ii. life at albert gate .... 246

iii. the mystery of the new cut . . 282 iv. "griffith gaunt," "foul play," and

" put yourself in his place " . 301

v. two metropolitan managers . . 323

vi. an object-lesson for managers . . 335

Book the Fourth Egeria

i. two orphans 349

ii. end of the journey .... 385

Book the Fifth The White Pilgrim I. 'twixt earth and heaven . . . 395 II. coming home 409 POST scriptum 420

index 425

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHARLES READE, ^TAT 45 . . .

DION BOUCICAULT AND AGNES BOUCICAULT

PACING PAGE

IPSDEN MANOR-HOUSE WHERE CHARLES READE

WAS BORN ....

CHARLES READe's FATHER AND MOTHER

"jemmy" ROGERS, MRS STIRLING, AND LEIGH MURRAY ....

TOM TAYLOR AND BEN WEBSTER

MASKS AND FACES

THE SUPPER IN TRIPLET'S GARRET

SIR SQUIRE BANCROFT AS TRIPLET

LADY BANCROFT AS PEG .

CHARLES KEAN AND MRS KEAN

JOHN COLEMAN

MISS GRACE LEIGH .

EDWARD COLEMAN .

EDWARD SOTHERN AND KATE BATEMAN

xi

23 26

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE

stanislaus calhaem, and george vining as tom robinson and '* le malaide im-

aginaire," 201

" the benevolent imbecile ! " . . . 223

charles mathews, patty oliver, and

alfred wigan 242

wilkie collins and palgrave simpson . 250

phelps as wolsey, fechter as hamlet . 274

mrs john wood and ada cavendish . . 316

egeria as juliet 349

john hollingshead 386

reade's grave 418

Xll

Prologue

PROLOGUE

BEARDING THE LION IN HIS DEN

The Lion's Lair in Mayfair — A Mad Sailor amidst the Edinburgh Comedians — Christie Johnstone Days — Tom Robertson loquitur — An Angel in Dove-coloured Satin, and an Airy Youth in Black Velvet — Boucicault's pessimistic Verdict on " Never too Late to Mend " — A delightful Dinner-party at Bolton Row — Dion and the Duchess — Doctor Sampson ("Hard Cash") and the Colleen Bawn — Leo and his Egeria — Brains and Beauty — Mirth and Music — Boucicault as Jack Sheppard and Sir Giles Overreach — "The Wearing of the Green" — Commencement of a life-long Intimacy between the Chronicler and the Author

" So ! You've come to beard the Lion in his den ? " growled the giant, advancing aggressively and presenting his Gillett's Magnum Bonum like a bayonet in full charge at my breast.

The sight of this portentous figure evoked such a vivid impression of my boyhood that I involuntarily exclaimed, " The mad sailor, by Jove ! "

" Mad sailor ! What do you mean, sir ? I may say, what the devil do you mean ? "

*' Well, I beg your pardon, but — were you ever in Edinburgh?"

" Ever in Edinburgh ! Ever ! Scores of times in the Christie Johnstone days."

" Christie Johnstone ! "

" Ha ! you knew her then ? "

•' I know the story, and a delightful story it is."

" H'm ! You think so ? "

" Think ! I know."

"So do II But that doesn't bring us a bit nearer the point. What did you mean by dubbing me 'the mad sailor'?"

" I didn't ! "

" Then who the deuce did ? "

" First let me ask — Do you remember the first row in the pit of the Edinburgh Theatre ? "

" I ought to, for ' many a time and oft ' in the dog days I've monopohsed it till second price."

" And ' many a time and oft ' I've seen you in your flannels and your straw hat, with your feet sprawling at full length on the benches, while your head lolled against the front of the boxes, and when the second price came tumbling in you didn't seem to hke it."

" I didn't. Like the mad King of Bavaria, I wanted to keep the show all to myself."

" But you couldn't. And when the pitites routed you out we used to peep through the hole in the curtain and enjoy the fun."

" And who, pray, had the infernal impudence to christen me ' The mad sailor ' ? "

*' Bob Wyndham."

" What ! handsome Bob ? Like his cheek ! And so you were one of the Edinburgh boys ? "

" Yes."

" You must have been a youngster — I was young myself then. ' Oh the days and nights in Egjrpt ' — I mean in Athens ! Breakfasted ? "

" Hours ago."

" The day's hot ! You look tired. Sit down, and excuse me while I finish this letter."

With that, he rolled over like an old salt and came to anchor at the writing-desk ; and while he wrote I took stock of him and his surroundings. As nearly as I could judge, he appeared to be about fifty or fifty-five years of age. He stood over six feet high, a massive chest, Herculean limbs, a bearded and leonine face, giving traces of a manly beauty which ripened into majesty as he grew older. Large brown eyes, which could at times become exceedingly fierce, a fine head, quite bald at top, but covered at the sides with soft brown hair, a head so strangely disproportioned to the bulk of his body that I never could understand how so large a brain could be confined in so small a cranium.

TOM ROBERTSON'S WARNING

His attire, as eccentric as himself, consisted principally of a pair of huge sailor bags, braced up nearly to the arm-pits above, and broadening out below to almost elephantine proportions, over a pair of dandyfied cloth boots with patent leather tips.

He was coatless, and his shirt-sleeves were turned up almost to his elbows.

In strange contrast to this ancient mariner figure, exactly opposite to him stood a fine replica of the Venus of Milo. Half-a-dozen paintings of considerable value hung on the walls, and various articles of b?ic-a-b?ric were scattered about in every hole and corner.

Though 'twas near mid-day, the breakfast things were still on the table. Crumpled newspapers, from the Tiuies to the Police News, from Galignani's to the New York Clipper were strewn about the floor ; a couple of huge clothes-baskets (not ordinary waste-paper baskets) were crammed to overflowing with all kinds of rubbish, and a bundle of books and magazines lay in a heap on the table under the window. Three or four agendas and scrap-books were at his feet, while half-a-dozen folio sheets of drab-coloured JNIS. bespattered with ink, bescrawled with hieroglyphics, " deleted " here and "stetted" there, and interlined everywhere, were scattered about in slatternly confusion.

After all these years I recall quite clearly this first impression of Charles Reade and his "lion's den" (which was also his dining-room) in Bolton Row, JNIayfair.

The night before I had met Tom Robertson at the Arundel. A short time previous he had been Reade's prompter (long before the " Caste " days), and the irate author had trod on the corns of the ambitious and irascible aide-de-camp : hence there was little love lost between them.

" Going to see Reade, are you ? About that rotten ' Never too late to mend,' too ! Yet you turned up your nose at ' Shadow Tree Shaft,' which is worth six of it. Well, mind what you are about !

You are a warm ' member,' but he's warmer. Mad I mad as a March hare ! You'll be punching each other's heads in ten minutes."

While dubitating as to whether Robertson was right, the lion rose, rang the bell, motioned the maid to clear away the breakfast things, and gave her the letter to post.

" Now then, young man, let us come to cues. What have you to say for yourself ? "

" Nothing about myself. But a gi-eat deal about ' Never too late to mend.' "

"Well, fire away!"

" I had never read it until Tuesday. I began after breakfast, and never left until I had finished it."

" Sir, you're a man of taste. Not many of 'em knocking about. You seem — fatigued. So am I. Suppose we broach a bottle — only a small bottle of sparkling ! "

" No, thanks ! not before dinner."

"Right, sir, right. I never take anything before dinner myself, but the circumstances are exceptional,

and I thought perhaps that you What ! you won't ?

Very well. Of course, you know I've been robbed and plundered and murdered by those paste-andscissors pirates and their accomplices — those infernal thieves of managers. But, thank God ! I've Ucked 'em at last."

" Glad to hear it."

" Glad ! you — a manager ? I thought you were all leagued together."

" Not all. Besides, you forget — / am an actor ! "

"So are the others ! At least, they think they are ! But never mind them. You know the genesis of the story ? "

" Certainly. Your play of ' Gold.' "

" You know ' Gold ' then ? "

" Rather ! Smith offered me George Fielding."

" Why didn't you take it ? "

" Nothing less than Hamlet would have suited my fireplace then."

« GOLD " AT DRURY LANE, BRISTOL, ETC.

" That's the reason you shunted my poor George Fielding. Ever see my play acted ? "

" Yes, at Drury Lane, Bristol, and Glasgow."

" Was it well done in the country ? "

" Capitally. In some respects better than in town."

" The deuce ! How was that ? "

" Because Chute and Glover had brains."

" A manager with brains I Well, I should like to see one."

" Then, sir, I hope you see one now ! "

" Of course, of course — present company always excepted. But how about Chute and Glover ? "

" Well, to begin with, they hit upon an original idea."

" Indeed ! "

" Yes I they had a panoramic act drop, which led the spectator from England to the Antipodes."

" Splendid I Why the deuce didn't it draw ? "

*' Perhaps because it was in advance of the time, and you know it's as bad to be in advance of the time as behind it."

" Worse — worse ! So you think that was the reason of the ' frost ' ? "

" Not the only one. The ' Uncle Tom ' fever had set in, and 'Beecher Stowe on the brain' had something to do with it. Anyhow, where they took £10 to * Gold ' they took £100 to ' Uncle Tom.' "

" An unanswerable argument ! Wooden-headed, beastly British public ! Yet, despite this abject, miserable failure, you are disposed to put your money on ' Never too late to mend ' ? "

"Yes."

" Well, what do you propose ? "

" To dramatise it."

" You are an author, then ? "

" I don't presume to call myself an author, but I have vamped up a dozen plays or more, of the common market-garden order."

" From the French ? "

" Yes, from the French, and from other sources."

" Oh ! then you're one of the pirates yourself? "

" No. I obtained permission from Alexandre Dumas, INIacquet, and Paul Feval to dramatise ' INIonte Cristo,' ' Katharine Howard,' and ' Le Fils du Diable,' and now "

" You want mine to dramatise — ' It's never too late to mend ' ? "

" Precisely."

" Suppose I've dramatised it already myself — suppose I've had it printed — sent round to every manager in central London, and suppose not one of the blockheads has ever taken the trouble to read it ! "

"Just hke 'em — just like 'em I Well, let me read it."

" So you shall."

Then, throwing the door open, he roared, " Laura — Laura ! bring me a book of ' Never too late to mend.' The play, mind ! not the novel ! "

The next minute the patter of light feet, the frou-frou of a woman's dress was heard in the hall, and in fluttered a gorgeous little creature as beautiful as a butterfly.

" Here you are, Charles," she said, holding forth a book with a yellow cover ; then, seeing the litter all over the place, she exclaimed, " Good gracious I you are incorrigible. What is to be done with you, you great baby ! "

At this moment the lady and I caught sight of each other. She dropped the book — I picked it up.

" Allow me, Mrs Seymour," said I.

" Hey-day, good people I You appear to know each other," said he.

" Yes — no ! " I replied. '* Let me see if I'm right. Eight years ago ! The Haymarket people at the Sheffield Theatre. ' The Serious Family.' A woman — woman, did I say ? — an angel ! in dove-coloured satin, rushing off" in a huff" at the prompt entrance, landed in the arms of "

" A free-and-easy youth in a black velvet coat, a moustache, and a mop of hair."

A DIVINITY IN DOVE-COLOURED SATIN

" / was the youth. I confess the cape and the black velvet coat and the rest of it, but I wasrit free-and-easy. Quite the contrary. I apologised — you must remember I apologised."

" You did, you young villain, but you squeezed the life out of me first ! Only think ! that was actually eight years ago, and we've never met since. But, you see, I've not forgotten you."

" Nor 1 you ! There are some people one never forgets."

" Ahem ! What were you doing in the prompt entrance that night ? "

" Making my first plunge into management. We commenced the season at Sheffield with a flying visit from the Haymarket people, and I popped over from Liverpool to see how you were getting on. Crowded out in front, I came round to have a peep behind. The scene was enclosed — I happened to be at the door when you threw it open, bounced off, and knocked me all of a heap."

" Knocked, sir ! you knocked me — knocked the breath out of my body."

" Awfully sorry ! "

" Belay there ! " interposed the author. " You player folk are all alike, once set your tongues going, and the deuce himself can't stop your jawing tackle, but as I've another thousand words to get off my chest before dinner, I must put a stop to your philandering. Pause, reflect, young man ! Remember, your brother-managers one and all have refused to even look at this play, and the only man who has looked at it is dead against it."

" Who is he ?

"Dion Boucicault."

" Well, he ought to know."

" You're off, then ? "

" No ! I'm on. He may be wrong. I will read it and judge for myself."

" Better let me read you Boucy's letter first. Ah ! Here it is ! " and he read aloud

" Dublin, Srd December.

" My dear Reade, — I have read your drama, N. T. L. T. INI.' There is in it a very effective piece, but, like the nut within both husk and shell, it wants freedom.

" 1st. It will act five hours as it stands.

" 2nd. There are scenes which injure dramatically others which follow.

" Srd. There are two characters you are fond of (I suppose), but can never be played. I mean Jacky and the Jew.

** 4th. The dialogue wants weeding. It is more in weight than actors — as they breed them now — can carry.

"Total. If you want to make a success with this drama, you must consent to a depleting process, to which Shylock's single pound of flesh must be a mild transaction.

" Have you the courage to undergo the operation ? I am afraid you have not. — Ever yours,

" Dion Boucicault."

" Now look at the endorsement."

I did, and read as follows : —

" ' Boucy advises me to cut out the Jew and Jacky. Aha ! old Fox, they will outlive thee and me ! ' "

" Will ? They shall ! Give me the book."

" You're bent on it, then ? "

" Unless you've made the drama a deuced sight worse than the novel, I'll do it ! "

" Then you shall, by God ! Off you go ! Read it — put your heart in it — come to breakfast to-morrow, and tell nie what you think of it."

" I will."

" Remember, ten sharp ! "

Off I went to the Tavistock, denied myself to everybody, and devoted the entire evening to the play.

When I turned up next morning Leo was all impatient to know what I thought about it.

" The first difficulty is the fact that it's three big

THREE PLAYS ROLLED INTO ONE

plays rolled into one, and the strongest act of all is the very one which could most easily be eliminated."

'* You mean the prison ? "

" Yes. The play would be complete without it."

" You would knife it, then ? "

" God forbid ! It will be the act of the play."

" Good lad, good lad ! I see we shall get on together."

" We shall, if you'll only give me a free hand with the blue pencil."

" What ! cut ! — cut my composition ? "

" Remember what Scribe said to the comedian who requested permission to cut a long speech. ' Cut, by all means,' said Scribe. ' The line that is never acted is — never hissed.' "

*' That's true ; but, recollect, every line you cut out cuts into my flesh and blood ; so do your slashing gently ! "

" Nothing of the kind," interposed Mrs Seymour. " Cut an hour out of it — cut and come again ! It wants knifing awfully ! JNIeanwhile, my good friends, you appear to forget breakfast is waiting."

We were both valiant trenchermen, and did ample justice to the substantial repast. After breakfast he resumed :

" Of course you'll give me entirely new scenery ? "

" Certainly ! I've designed the scenes abeady," and I showed him some rough sketches I had made.

" The farm's all right, and so is the Australian act," said he, " but the prison's not a bit like it ! I've been over lots of 'em — Durham, Oxford, Reading, Birmingham, the very place where Austin — no, Hawes, I mean ! — did that poor boy to death — murdered him — murdered him, and got off with three months. Three months ! If I had had the handling of the beast, he'd have been hung, drawn, and quartered ! "

" Charles, Charles, do be moderate."

" Moderate, moderate ! Bah ! you're a woman, and can't understand. You don't know ! In less than three years the ruffian drove twelve unhappy wretches to attempt suicide. Three of them actually did the trick, and the assassin got three months. Three months ! It makes one impious to think upon it. What's the good of talking about God's vengeance against murder, I'd like to know? But there, there ! Let's have done with the brute !

" And now, would you mind reading me George Fielding's farewell to the farm ? "

As I read the lines, the tears trembled in my voice, and overflowed from INIrs Seymour's beautiful eyes. Blowing his nose like a foghorn, Leo rose and paced the room in violent agitation, muttering to himself, " Beautiful — beautiful — music — music — isn't it ? " Then, turning upon me abruptly, he desired me to give Tom Robinson's curse in the prison scene. When I had finished he exclaimed, ** Sublime ! terrible ! appalling ! INIy only fear is, if you let him have it like that they'll be sorry for that beast of a Hawes. Now, seriously, on your honour, sir, do you think that Lear's curse is 'in it ' with this ? "

When we laughed at his almost boyish exuberance he was not at all offended, but laughed heartily as he said :

" No, no, it isn't exactly that ; but I can't help

kicking when those d d asses, the critics, try to

hang dead men's bones round living men's necks ! Of course yoiill play Tom Robinson ? "

*' I'd rather do George Fielding."

" What — what ! and leave that splendid piece of vituperation to some emasculated duffer ? No, sir, no — I want a man for that ! You must do the *cuss' yourself — or I'm off!"

On this point he was inexorable, and so it came to pass that I was the original Tom Robinson.

After settling terms and the arrangement of the prison scene, I was about to take my departure, when he said, " Hold hard ! Mrs Seymour has improvised a little dinner-party to-night; she says it is in honour of the advent of It is never too late to

A DELIGHTFUL DINNER-PARTY

mend. I rather think it is in honour of the free-and-easy youth in the black velvet coat who hugged her behind the scenes at Sheffield."

" Charles, how can you ? "

" Well, if he didn't hug you, you hugged him — so it's as broad as it's long ! "

" Don't talk nonsense."

"My dear child, without a Uttle nonsense the world would be very grey and dull. Now look here, youngster. This is not intended to be a formal function. There will be only three or four friends. Two of them you know akeady — Boucicault and his bonnie little wife — Doctor Dickson and two very charming women. Dickey can look after the Colleen Bawn, Mrs E. is accustomed to take charge of me, and you, madam, can look after your friend here I "

What a delightful evening that was !

Our host was the soul of hospitality. Mrs Seymour did the honours with a dainty grace peculiarly her own, and our guests were charming, Boucicault especially. This distinguished actor and author had (so he himself told me) left England under a cloud, but had " cast his nigh ted colour off" in America, and returned to triumph. When we first met he was living en grand seigneur in the famous mansion at Kensington Gore which had formerly been the home of the Countess of Blessington. He was then making a fortune one moment, and spending it the next.

His was a most interesting personality. Stroke him gently he was an angel — ruffle his feathers and he was a devil.

I suppose we are all, more or less, built that way — he rather more so than otherwise. He has often told me that he had encountered every vicissitude of fortune : sometimes without a postage stamp, at other times all over money. A veritable Irish Gascon — with the most delicious taste of the potato on his tongue.

His accomplishments were many and varied. He knew something about everything, and what he didn't know about the popular drama (which to some extent he incarnated in himself) wasn't worth knowing. Although no longer young, his mind was alert as a boy's, and I can well believe what Charles JNIathews, Walter Lacey, and John Brougham often told me — that in his juvenalia he was the most fascinating young scapegrace that ever baffled or bamboozled a bailiff.

He was still handsome. His head, though perfectly bald, was shaped like the dome of a temple, and was superbly, I may say, Shakespeareanly beautiful. His face was a perfect oval, his eyes brilliant, his figure elegant.

Old stagers were wont to say he was a mere replica of Tyrone Power — the famous comedian who perished in the wreck of the ill-fated PresidcJit. But that great actor was before my time, and I can only speak of what I know.

Hudson, Leonard, Collins, and Gustavus Brooke were all excellent in the " Irish Attorney," " The Irish Post," " Rory O'More," " White Horse of the Peppers," " His Last Legs," etc., but Boucicault was a model to himself.

Then his dramas ?

The "Colleen Bawn" and "Arrah na Pogue" inaugurated a new era.

Those who were so fortunate as to see these delightful creations in their first blush of popularity can never forget the dawning of " Myles and Eily," of " Shaun the Post," and " Arrah of the Kiss."

At this particular juncture he was getting up " The Poor of London " at the Princess's. Reade had acquired the rights of " Les Pauvres de Paris " from Macquet, and this circumstance, combined with Mrs Seymour's long acquaintance with Dion, led to a friendly intimacy between the two authors.

Both were remarkable men. Reade had gained his fellowhip at Oxford at one-and-twenty, and Boucicault produced " London Assurance " at Covent Garden at two-and-twenty.

On the night of our little party Dion was o <

o —

<1

"THE COLLEEN BAWN"

at his best. The ladies, too, contributed their quota, and Dr Dickson was inimitable. Availing himself every now and then of a pause in the witty warfare between the two authors, he would let out some quaint, pawky saying, which convulsed us with laughter. I had just been reading " Hard Cash," and Dr Dickson's manner struck me so much that 1 couldn't help hazarding the remark : " Pray, pardon me, but you remind me wonderfully of Dr Sampson." At this there was a roar. Dr Sampson was Dr Dickson himself, and his honest face flushed with gratified vanity, as indeed did the author's, at my involuntary compliment to the fidelity of the likeness.

" Ah ! you robber," said Dickson, " see how brutally you've caricatured me, since the boy is enabled to spot me the moment I open my mouth. I'll bring an action for libel against you, Charlie. I will now ; 'pon my soul, I will."

(Some time afterwards, speaking to Leo about his wonderful portraiture of this gentleman, he said : " Come into my workshop, and I'll show you how it is done." We went into his study, where he picked out of a hundred huge sheets of drab millboard, one headed " Dicky birdiana." ("Dicky" was a pet name for Dickson.) The sheet was divided into sectional columns, like a newspaper, and every column was filled with MS. in Reade's writing, containing anecdotes, traits of character, peculiarities of pronunciation, and a perfect analysis of Dr Dickson. It was thus that Leo laboured from first to last in the construction of character, and in the building up of his works.)

After dinner Boucicault sang us " The Wearing o' the Green" (this was before the production of "Arrah na Pogue") with such fervour, that it set every drop of Irish blood in my body boiling, and made me, for the time being, as big a rebel as my grandfather was before me, and he was pitch-capped twice, hung up to a lamp-post once, and once taken out to be shot, yet was at the last moment saved through the intervention of the Duchess of Leinster, and lived to tell the story nearly half-a-century after '98. But I am digressing.

" Boucy, my boy," said Reade, " I've found a manager at last with brains."

" The devil you have ! Kill him, then — stuff him, and put him under a glass case and make a Mascotte of him. Where is he ? "

" Here ! Our young friend has taken a fancy to ' It's never too late to mend,' and is going to do it."

" Where ? " enquired Dion.

" In Leeds," I replied.

" A one-horse shay place. Anyhow, it was so when I was leading actor in the York circuit."

" I didn't know you were ever a leading actor."

" Ever, sir ! I was the original Jack Sheppard in your beastly hole of a theatre."

" Tate Wilkinson thought it charming."

" Ah I that was a hundred years ago, and a good deal of water has flowed under Leeds bridge since then. Well, I hope you'll have better luck with ' It's never too late to mend ' than I had with Jack Sheppard, for I came a cropper of twenty feet from the flies, and nearly broke every bone in my body in the escape from Newgate."

" Indeed I "

" Yes ; I thought I'd got my quietus. They had to drop the curtain, and Leigh Murray took my part, while his (Thames Darrell) was taken by Bob Roxby. That was my last appearance in Leeds."

" And your last as a leading actor, I suppose ? "

*' Oh dear no ! I opened immediately after at Brighton as Sir Giles Overreach."