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 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE LIFE AND ADVENTUEES 
 
 OF 
 
 EDMUND KEAN 
 
 TRAGEDIAN. 
 1787—1833. 
 
 J. FITZGERALD MOLLOY, 
 
 AUTHOB OF 
 "the life and adventures of peo woffington"; 
 
 'court life below stairs, or LONDON UNDER THE GEORGES' 
 
 " ROYALTY RESTORED, OR LONDON UNDER CHARLES II. " ; 
 
 "FAMOUS PLAYS," &C. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 WARD AND DOWNEY, 
 12, YOKK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 
 
 1888. 
 
 * [All righii reierved.\
 
 BiCHARD Clay <fc Sons, Limited, 
 London akd Bungay.
 
 4W. 
 
 KWAl 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 In the following pages an attempt is made to present 
 Edmund Kean as the central figure of a picture, 
 surrounded by a group of players familiar to the town 
 in the early decades of this century. The story of his 
 strange and changeful career must alike interest lovers 
 of the drama and students of humanity. Neither does 
 comedy contain circumstances more varied, nor tragedy 
 present incidents more pathetic, than those he experi- 
 enced in his brief life and untimely death. His vivid 
 imagination, clear perception, and uncommon sensibility 
 endowed him with extraordinary powers, and at the 
 same time subjected him to baleful influences from 
 which his less gifted and more happy fellows were free ; 
 so that he was not less remarkable for his success than 
 notable for his misfortune. 
 
 In writing these volumes, on which neither time nor 
 trouble has been spared, I have been greatly helped 
 by notes found amongst papers of the late Mr. John 
 Forster, who, as Charles Lamb states, was at Avork upon 
 
 nrAno
 
 VI PKEFACE. 
 
 the tragedian's life. Likewise am I indebted to Mr. 
 Henry Irving, who has kindly placed at my disposal a 
 most rare and valuable collection of Kean's portraits, 
 play-bills in which his name appears, newspaper cuttings 
 relating to his public and private career, criticisms on 
 his performances, together with some original letters. 
 Mr. Morrison's courtesy has also enabled me to print 
 for the first time some interesting letters of this actor ; 
 whilst some valuable information from the rich re- 
 sources of biographical lore stored in the library of the 
 British Museum has been brought to light. 
 
 Contemporary players, a goodly group in all, whose 
 achievements or failures form chapters in the annals 
 of the Stage, have been introduced as standards whereby 
 Edmund Kean's mental and moral height and bearing 
 may be measured and contrasted. That the history 
 of these also as set down here may afford attraction and 
 diversion is the earnest hope of the Author.
 
 CONTENTS OP VOLUME I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Birth of Edmund Kean — A remarkable pedigree — The facetious 
 Mr. Carey — Moses Kean the mimic — Edmund Kean the 
 elder — His unhappy fate — A strange ordeal — A tragic inci- 
 dent — The opening of Drury Lane Theatre — John Kemble 
 and Mrs. Siddons — Young Kean's engagements — His first 
 appearance in tragedy — Runs away to sea — A clever per- 
 formance — Charles Young's remembrance of Kean — Kindly 
 Mrs. Clarke — A youthful player — Acting Richard III. — 
 A new life and its ending — Departure and return — His bed 
 of roses ... ... ... ... ... p.l — 31 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Edmund Kean goes to Windsor — Appears before George III. 
 at Oxford — With Richardson's show — Delights of the fair 
 — With Saunders' circus — Reciting in public — Joins a 
 strolling company — Varied fortunes of a Commonwealth — 
 Hardships and hunger — Studying dictionaries — A born 
 Bohemian — Plays small parts at the Haymarket Theatre — 
 Master Betty, the infant Roscius — He would be a player —
 
 VIU CONTENTS. 
 
 Sensation in the provinces — Enthusiastic audiences — Excite- 
 ment of the town — Mobbed at Covent Garden — First 
 appearance in London — Compliments paid him — Making 
 his fortune — Kean's disappointment — Playing in Belfast — 
 On the stage with Mrs. Siddons ... ...p. 32 — 76 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Miss Mary Chambers — Kean's marriage — Walking to Swansea 
 — Playing in Andrew Cherry's company — An unrehearsed 
 action — What the strollers made of it — Teaching fencing — 
 Tragedian and tight-rope dancer — Kean's benefit — Penni- 
 less and homeless — Applying for engagements — Letter to 
 Hughes — Engagement at the Weymouth and Exeter theatres 
 — One Mr, Nation — Kean and Mr. Betty — Irregular habits 
 begin — At Guernsey — Expectation of better days — Letters 
 from Elliston — A miserable tramp — The manager of Drury 
 Lane — Hopes and fears — Departure for London p. 77 — 115 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Edmund Kean arrives in London — Interview with Arnold — 
 Disappointment and fear — Robert William Elliston — Kean's 
 letters to the " Napoleon of the Stage " — Ridicule and scorn — 
 His situation seems hopeless — A miserable Christmas Eve — 
 Without money, without friends — Date fixed for his first 
 appearance at Drury Lane — Rehearsing Shylock — Ridiculed 
 by his fellow-players — Kean makes his bow to a London 
 audience — Criticisms on the Jew — His representation of 
 Richard III. — What the press said — Jack Bannister's wit 
 — A piece of noble poetry — The world brightens around 
 him ... ... ... ... ... p.llQ — 156
 
 CONTENTS. IX 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 John Philip Kemble's position on the stage — His first appear- 
 ance on the boards — His sister Sarah — Love and marriage — 
 Mrs. Siddons and David Garrick — John Kemble begins life 
 as a player — A Liverpool audience in the last century — 
 Mrs. Siddons becomes the wonder and delight of the town 
 — Kemble in London — His manner of acting — His attempt 
 at comedy and its results — His opinion of Kean — The 
 new actor's Hamlet — Joe Cowen and Bob Keeley visit 
 Drury Lane — Charles Young as an actor — Kean and Mrs. 
 Garrick ... ... ... ... p. 157—194 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Change in Kean's circumstances — Prepares to play Othello — The 
 finest piece of acting in the world — The glorious triumph of 
 exceeding love — Mrs. Garrick's advice regarding criticisms 
 — Playing lago — Presentation from the shareholders — 
 Byron's acquaintance with Kean — The tragedian's society 
 courted — The story of a legal luminary — At Offey's tavern 
 — Kean's first London benefit — Close of the first season at 
 Drury Lane ... ... ... ... p. 195— 210 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Drury Lane opens for the autumn season 1814 — Kean plays 
 Macbeth — The early days of Miss O'Neill — Her first appear- 
 ance at Covent Garden — The new Juliet delights the town — 
 Her performance of Belvidera — The Drury Lane Committee 
 — Lord Byron's letter — William Macready sups with Kean — 
 Visit to Dublin — The tragedian's eccentricities — A visit to 
 the Wolves' Club — Kean as a social lion — Lord Byron's 
 dinner-party — At Sergeant Rough's party — A little supper 
 with Andrew Ducrow ... ... ...p. 211 — 246
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Kean appears as Sir Giles Overreach — Anticipation rises — EflFects 
 of his acting — " Great 1 great ! '' said the poet — Financial 
 results of his performance — A dinner at Deptford and its 
 results — The story of an accident — An excited house — Pre- 
 sentation by the committee and company of Drury Lane — 
 After the play — In Higman's tavern — The Screaming Luna- 
 tics — Remembrance of old friends — At the Turk's Head 
 Inn — Letter to Tom Conningham — What happened at 
 Taunton — An adventure at Portsmouth — Remembrance and 
 generosity ... ... ... ...p. 247 — 274 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 William Macready resolves to become a player — In charge of his 
 father's company — A suspicious inn-keeper — The pantomime 
 of Macbeth — A blood-stained garment — Playing Romeo for 
 the first time — Working hard at his calling — Acting with 
 Mrs. Siddons — In the ancient city of Bath — Frightened at a 
 play-bill — Playing in Dublin — Negotiations with Covent 
 Garden — Hibernian humour — Mr. Plunket and his audience 
 — Macready's first appearance on the London stage — Con- 
 gratulations of the manager — Remarks of the critics — His 
 personal appearance described ... ... p. 275 — 298
 
 EDMUND KEAN.
 
 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Birth of Edmund Kean — A remarkable pedigree — The facetious 
 Mr. Carey — Moses Kean the mimic — Edmund Kean the 
 elder — His unhappy fate — A strange ordeal — A tragic inci- 
 dent — The opening of Drury Lane Theatre — John Kemble 
 and Mrs. Siddons — Young Kean's engagements — His first 
 appearance in tragedy — Runs away to sea — A clever per- 
 formance — Charles Young's remembrance of Kean — Kindly 
 Mrs. Clarke — A youthful player — Acting Richard III. — 
 A new life and its ending — Departure and return — His bed 
 of roses. 
 
 Towards four o'clock one bleak and bitter morning 
 
 in the month of March, 1787, Miss Tidswell, a player 
 
 engaged at Drury Lane, was wakened by the sound of 
 
 loud rapping at the street door of the house in which 
 
 she dwelt. Rising hurriedly, and opening the window 
 
 of her bedroom to inquire the cause of this disturbance, 
 
 she was greeted by^ a voice she recognized as that of 
 
 Edmund Kean. Lifting his head, he spoke to her in a 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 EDMUKD KEAN. 
 
 tone at once of confidence and entreaty, saying, " Nance 
 Carey is with child, and begs you will go to her at 
 her lodgings in Chancery Lane." 
 
 Soon Miss Tidswell and her aunt Mrs. Byrne, 
 muffled against the chill atmosphere, were, accompanied 
 by Kean, treading their way through streets silent 
 save for the echo of their footsteps, the watchman's 
 drowsy cry, or the sound of belfry clocks chiming the 
 passing quarters above the sleeping world ; and dark 
 but for the yellow flames of oil lamps burning dimly at 
 odd comers, or suspended above the arched entrances 
 of courts and alleys. Arriving at the poor and wretched 
 apartment where the suffering woman lay, her friends 
 asked if she had made the necessary preparations for 
 the child who was about to be born. With an air of 
 indifference, she replied she had not. Therefore Mrs. 
 Byrne, a good-natured Irish woman, florid* of face and 
 rotund of person, given to many words and charitable 
 deeds, expressed surprise, and presently went to bor- 
 row some baby clothes from friendly neighbours. And 
 Nance Carey's room being comfortless, chill, and dreary, 
 she was moved to her father's chambers close by in 
 Gray's Inn, where soon after a male child was born, 
 who was called Edmund Kean, and subsequently known 
 as England's greatest tragic actor.
 
 A REMARKABLE PEDIGREE. 3 
 
 The infant's pedigree on both sides was somewhat 
 remarkable. Nance Carey had come of a family well 
 known in the world of art. Her grandfather, Henry 
 Carey, was a natural son of George Saville, Marquis 
 of Halifax, a patron of genius, one likewise who laid 
 claim to literary honours. Henry Carey was famous 
 as a composer of songs, a musician of some merit, a 
 writer for the stage, and the supposed author of the 
 National Anthem. As the composer of Sally in our 
 Alley, which Addison praised for its words, and Gemin- 
 iani lauded for its harmony, his memory abides with 
 us. Moreover has his name been blessed by many 
 as the original projector of the fund for decayed 
 musicians. His songs were sung by high and low ; 
 his farces gained considerable success ; and his humour 
 was well appreciated, inasmuch as his generation styled 
 him " the facetious Mr. Carey." One of his dramatic 
 pieces, produced in the year 1715, bore the remarkable 
 title. Marriage and Hanging. Strange to narrate, he 
 experienced both ordeals. He married, and became 
 the father of a son named after the Marquis, George 
 Saville. In the course of time, years weighed heavily 
 on Henry Carey. Misfortune had quenched his 
 humour, poverty had killed his wit, hunger gnawed his 
 vitals, the world became black to his sight. So it 
 
 B 2
 
 4 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 happened one gray October afternoon that his wife, 
 entering the chill and cheerless garret of a house in 
 Wai-wick Street, Coldbath Fields, where they lodged, 
 beheld her husband's body suspended from the rafters 
 by a rope round his neck, his gray head sunk upon his 
 breast, his eyes wide open and aglare, his nerveless 
 limbs hanging motionless from their trunk. 
 
 George Saville Carey, the father of Nance, and 
 grandfather of Edmund Kean, had been bred a printer, 
 but became a player. His histrionic talents were not 
 considerable, and at the end of his first season at 
 Covent Garden Theatre he was not re-engaged. How- 
 ever, he was a man of various talents and divers 
 resources, destined to play many parts in his brief day. 
 That he might earn bread, he delivered lectures in the 
 principal towns of England on mimicry, a talent for 
 which he was remarkable. Subsequently he wrote a 
 ballad opera, an interlude, a burlesque, a burletta, a 
 masque, a comedy, and several songs, some of which 
 are now attributed to Dibdin. But all his efforts to 
 court the smiles of Fortune were vain ; success escaped 
 him, pursue her as he would. From youth to age his 
 life was one of continued hardship and bitter struggle ; 
 nor did the conduct of his daughter help to lighten his 
 burden.
 
 MOSES KEAN THE MIMIC. 5 
 
 At the age of fifteen, she left his home to join a 
 company of players, who sought favour in the provinces. 
 As an actress she showed slight talent, and her services 
 were not in constant demand. Her brother played the 
 guitar, sang, and recited, and with her aid gave enter- 
 tainments in the suburbs. In person she was not 
 unattractive ; her eyes were large and dark, her features 
 comely, her figure shapely. In the course of time she 
 engaged the attention of Edmund Kean, the youngest 
 of a family of three brothers of Irish descent, who lived 
 at No. 9 St. Martin's Lane, where a widowed sister, Mrs. 
 Price, kept house for them. 
 
 The elder brothers were named Aaron and Moses. 
 The first was remarkable for nothing in particular, save 
 his love for drink ; Moses, on the contrary, was a notable 
 character, who earned his bread as a tailor and a mimic. 
 According to his advertisements, "he delineated with 
 perspicuity the voices, gestures, and manners of the 
 most conspicuous characters of the Senate and the 
 Stage." He was at once realistic and comical ; no 
 mimicry so excellent had been witnessed since the 
 days of Samuel Foote ; like him, Moses also possessed a 
 vein of satire and a wooden leg. For years he had a 
 regular summer engagement at the Haymarket Theatre, 
 where in days of yore Foote had drawn goodly crowds
 
 6 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 to behold their neighbours' weaknesses held up to merry 
 sport and diverting ridicule. The spirit of brotherly 
 love and Christian charity which animated the public 
 in the days of Samuel Foote was not less strong in 
 those of Moses Kean. He became a favourite with 
 the town, and such was his popularity, that his audi- 
 ences invariably began to applaud when they heard 
 the stumping of his wooden leg behind the scenes. 
 Their faithfulness to him was proved on one occasion, 
 when a rival mimic named Rees undertook to bur- 
 lesque Moses in an interlude, called TltimUes fiight 
 from the Shopboard. This piece was intended to be 
 produced between two plays at the Haymarket Theatre ; 
 but when Rees came upon the stage, the whole house 
 rose and hissed him off the boards. 
 
 Moses was not only popular inside the theatre, but 
 well liked throughout the town. His appearance and 
 dress rendered him readily distinguishable. A stout- 
 built man with black bushy hair, he dressed in a scarlet 
 coat, white satin waistcoat, black satin breeches, and 
 bright blue stockings; a long-quartered shoe with a 
 great buckle covered his foot, and a cocked hat adorned 
 his head. His humour was well appreciated by his 
 companions, and he possessed the reputation of being a 
 wag. Once while under examination in the Court of
 
 EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER. . 7 
 
 King's Bench, Garrow the soUcitor said in solemn 
 tones, " You are, I believe, an imitator, are you not ? " 
 " So they tell me," replied Moses, in tones of comic 
 pathos. " Tell you," said the solicitor sturdily ; " you 
 know it. Are you not in the habit of taking people 
 off? " "Oh, yes," he replied, "and I shall take myself 
 off the moment you have done with me." 
 
 Edmund Kean was unlike his brothers in appear- 
 ance, being remarkably handsome in face and graceful 
 in figure. Quite early in life his abilities as an orator 
 were recognized, and he was known as a fluent speaker 
 at the debating societies at that time in vogue, from 
 those at the Lyceum and Coachmakers' Hall, to the 
 free-and-easy clubs held at taverns. Moreover, he 
 occasionally assisted his brother Moses in his enter- 
 tainments. At the date when his acquaintance with 
 Nance Carey began he was clerk to an architect named 
 Wilmot, who was then building the Royalty Theatre. 
 His intimacy with her brought him no good, for the 
 evil fortune which had attended her family seemed to 
 attach itself to him. From being a youth of promise, 
 he fell into evil ways, drank heavily, and lost his clerk- 
 ship. Gradually he grew reduced in circumstances, 
 but was at length received in the office of Mr. Lush of 
 Charles Square as a copying clerk. The habit he had
 
 8 EDMUND KEAN 
 
 contracted unfortunately continued ; he still drank, 
 became impoverished, gloomy, and despondent, and 
 finally went mad. 
 
 The history of his remaining days is pathetic and 
 tragic. His madness was of that order which did not 
 require restraint, nor yet give ground for hope. His 
 life was passed in melancholy and silence ; the world 
 had become for him blank as an ocean on which 
 darkness has fallen ; existence was a vast waste where 
 day and night were one, and time was all unknown. 
 With the passage of months a change came over the 
 saddened household in St. Martin's Lane, for the rough 
 cheery voice of Moses was no longer heard ringing 
 through its familiar rooms ; no more did the well- 
 known stumping of his wooden leg sound upon the 
 stair. He who had brought bread to the household 
 was taken, and he was left who was its care. And as 
 Moses, no longer clad in those garments of glowing 
 colours which had been his pride, but decently wrapped 
 in shroud cloths, lay white-faced and fixed in his coffin, 
 it was hoped that if his insane brother was brought to 
 his side, some memory within him might move the 
 frozen current of his mind, and reason, lonfj concealed, 
 mayhap return once more. The experiment was weird, 
 ghastly, and solemn.
 
 A TRAGIC INCIDENT. 9 
 
 Accordingly, he from whom reason had fled whilst 
 yet his years were young, sad -eyed, pale, and speechless, 
 was brought into the room chilled and darkened by 
 death; and led to where the yellow light of candles fell 
 upon the closed eyelids and sunken features of the 
 dead, and on the form rigid beneath its folded drapery. 
 At first the hushed and sombre apartment and its silent 
 tenant had no perceptible effect upon this witless visitor ; 
 but gradually his vacant eyes fastened upon the features 
 of his brother, a new light crept into them, a troubled 
 expression flashed across his face, tears slowly fell upon 
 his cheeks, and when his glance met the anxious gaze 
 of those beside him, they saw with infinite relief and 
 heartfelt gratitude that reason had returned. 
 
 This change did not, however, continue long; for 
 again his mind lost its balance, and he became more 
 restless and excited than before. And it happened one 
 day that, getting on the roof of the house, he walked 
 along the parapet, when either accidentally losing his 
 footing, or purposely jumping from the height, he fell 
 into the street beneath. When those nearest approached 
 him he was dead. 
 
 Meanwhile his child, born into poverty, met with 
 neglect. Nance Carey, who never betrayed either care 
 or affection for her son, nursed him for three months.
 
 10 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 and then declining to be furthermore troubled with 
 him, she left him in the care of his father, and set out 
 to join a company of strolling players. Edmund Kean, 
 at this time in his right mind, placed the child in charge 
 of a nurse, who, probably not being paid for her services, 
 neglected the infant, so that his legs became almost 
 deformed, and were subsequently only brought to their 
 proper shape by the use of irons. When he was about 
 four years old his mother returned to town from her 
 wanderings and claimed the lad, believing she could 
 reap some paltry profit from his appearance on the 
 stage. Accordingly, when Nouverre's ballet-opera of 
 Cymon was about to be produced at Dniry Lane 
 Theatre, little Edmund Carey, as he was then called, 
 was, amongst other children, a candidate for the part of 
 Cupid. His fine dark eyes, his " little gestures," and his 
 anxiety to be chosen, recommended him to the stage 
 manager, who selected him to represent the god of love 
 destined to sit at the feet of Sylvia and Cymon in an 
 enchanted car. His representation was a success, and 
 by way of reward, he was presently engaged to repre- 
 sent demons, apes, and fairies in pantomimes. At the 
 age of six he made a memorable appearance on the stage. 
 The occasion was one of unusual importance. On 
 the 4th of June, 1791, Drury Lane Theatre, sacred to
 
 OPENING OF DRURY LANE THEATRE. 11 
 
 the shades of Wilkes, Booth, and Gibber ; Bracegirdle, 
 Woffington, and Clive ; Quin, Macklin, and Gariick, 
 was closed for rebuilding. It had been erected one 
 hundred and seventeen years, been several times 
 altered and repaired, and now required thorough re- 
 construction. Two years later a new house had risen 
 on its site, enlarged in size, commodious in its resources, 
 handsome in its ornamentation. The accommodations 
 for the stage were on a more extensive scale than those 
 of any other house in Europe at that date, A large 
 ventilator admitted fresh air ; four great reservoirs, from 
 which water could be conveyed to any part of the house 
 in case of fire, were built above the roof; a fire-proof 
 iron curtain was constructed, which in case of need was 
 supposed to prevent flames breaking out on the stage 
 from reaching the auditorium. Moreover the ceiling 
 was handsomely painted, and the fronts of the boxes 
 decorated by Italian artists ; chandeliers of cr^^stal and 
 silver lighted the house, and the pillars supporting the 
 stage were inlaid with mirrors. 
 
 On the 13th of March, 1793, an audience assembled 
 for the first time in the new theatre to hear a concert of 
 sacred music ; and eight days later the first dramatic 
 performance was given here. The play selected for 
 the occasion was Macbeth, which John Philip Kemble
 
 12 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 undertook to produce with unusual care and splendour, 
 and such novelty as might consist in some departures 
 from the customary manner of presenting the tragedy. 
 The scenery was new, handsome, and appropriate ; the 
 witches no longer wore mittens, plaited caps, laced 
 aprons, red stomachers, and ruffs such as they had 
 adorned themselves withal when Garrick played Mac- 
 beth in a modem court suit and a bag wig. They now 
 were habited in robes appropriate to their state and 
 circumstance; glittering serpents coiled themselves 
 round their bodies; black spirits and white, blue 
 spirits and gray, attended them ; the visible presence of 
 Banquo was omitted from the banquet scene. 
 
 John Philip Kemble played the murderous Thane ; 
 his sister, Mrs. Siddons, Lady Macbeth; whilst their 
 brother, Charles Kemble, made his first appearance in 
 London as Malcolm, and was audibly derided during 
 his performance. A prologue was spoken by the 
 manager, and an epilogue by Miss Farren, in which she 
 assured her hearers they need have no fear of fire, as 
 there was water enough at hand to drown them all — 
 at which words the curtain rose, and a river was seen 
 in which a waterman in his boat rowed himself to 
 and fro; likewise she referred to the iron curtain, 
 which would prevent all from being burned save the
 
 KEANS FIRST APPEAUANCE IN TRAGEDY. 13 
 
 scenes and the actors. At the conclusion a view of 
 Shakespeare's monument, under a mulberry tree, was 
 exhibited, and The Mulberry Tree, and Where the bee 
 SucJcs, were sung, much to the satisfaction of all. 
 
 Now little Edmund Carey, amongst a crowd of other 
 lads, represented an attendant spirit on the sisters three. 
 His personation was, however, limited to a single night, 
 for whilst he and his fellow-demons stood in a row one 
 before the other at the mouth of a cave, preparatory to 
 scampering round the cauldron, he either accidentally 
 or intentionally made a forward step which he was 
 unable to recover. He therefore fell against the demon 
 in front of him, who in turn knocked down his next 
 neighbour, and he doing likewise, they tumbled one 
 upon the other until the whole wicked company lay 
 prostrate. Confusion followed this unrehearsed action ; 
 the audience tittered, and the scene was spoiled. 
 Hippen, who narrates the anecdote, says Kemble re- 
 garded the occurrence as a breach of discipline. At the 
 conclusion of the act the chief offender was brought 
 before him, and little Carey answered his reproaches by 
 merely remarking, " This was the first time he had 
 performed in tragedy." 
 
 Henceforth Macbeth was played without the repre- 
 sentatives of the powers of darkness; but this mis-
 
 14 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 adventure did not prevent Edmund Carey from being 
 engaged to play imps and apes as before during the 
 pantomime season. His connection with the theatre 
 was chiefly owing to Miss Tidswell, a tall, handsome 
 woman, who had been introduced by the Duke of 
 Norfolk to David Garrick, who secured for her an 
 engagement to play petty parts in Drury Lane Theatre, 
 a position she still maintained. His Grace is remem- 
 bered in history for having at the Whig Club drank a 
 toast, " To the majesty of the people," hearing of which 
 action poor George III., at this time supposed by 
 courtesy to be in the enjoyment of sanity, with his 
 own right royal hand erased the duke's name from the 
 Privy Council list. Because of the Duke of Norfolk's 
 interest in Miss Tidswell, Kean when he grew up felt 
 inclined to believe they were his parents ; but of this 
 supposition he was eventually thoroughly dissuaded. 
 
 Miss Tidswell behaved to the lad with a kindness 
 his mother never extended towards him. She it was 
 who took him with her to the theatre, where he stood 
 during the performances at the wings, his dark eyes 
 full of wonderment and admiration, his ears drinkioof 
 in speeches which he would presently delight the super- 
 numeraries by repeating in the same tone and with 
 the same gestures as he had heard and seen. She it
 
 HE RUNS AWAY TO SEA. 15 
 
 was who in her own rooms taught him to recite, and 
 through her interference was he sent to school. But 
 the school-room was, alas ! a place he abhorred ; con- 
 straint was irksome to his nature ; his tasks were 
 ignored, and he rebelled against punishment. Finally 
 he determined to escape from thraldom. Possibly he 
 had read of the sea, and heroes that sail thereon, 
 until his vivid imagination pictured the wonderful 
 adventures that might take him from his abominated 
 surroundings and place him in a world brightened by 
 the splendour of romance. So it happened one day 
 he announced to his mother that he wished to be a 
 sailor, whereon she thrashed him soundly by way of 
 banishing such nonsense from his brain. 
 
 His punishment had not the desired effect. A self- 
 contained lad of ten years, accustomed to think and 
 act for himself at a time when other boys merely obey 
 the wishes of their elders, he hastened to put his 
 resolution into action; and early one morning, before 
 the house was astir, he crept from his mother's lodg- 
 ings, taking with him his scanty belongings, and made 
 his slow way to Portsmouth. If any efforts were 
 exerted to capture him, they were not successful, for 
 he soon shipped as a cabin-boy on board a vessel bound 
 for Madeira. The voyage by no means realized his
 
 16 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 expectations; no pirate brig with sails full set, port 
 holes bristHng with cannon, and death's head flying 
 at the mast, bore down upon them; nor were they 
 stranded on coral reefs stretching from unknown islands, 
 inhabited by a wild but friendly race. All was sordid 
 drudgery and black misery, hunger, curses, and the 
 rope's end, and he resolved to escape this bitter fate. 
 The means by which he sought to avoid work were 
 highly ingenious in one of his age, and the manner 
 in which they were carried out gave proof of his pos- 
 sessing in youth the great powers which rendered his 
 manhood distinguished. 
 
 From exposure and wetting on the outward voyage 
 he caught cold, which he avowed on reaching port 
 resulted in total deafness. To the shouts of the captain 
 or the oaths of the sailors he was apparently insensible ; 
 neither expression nor movement betrayed the slightest 
 consciousness of the commands addressed to him, or the 
 imprecations hurled at him. But fearing this assump- 
 tion of infirmity was insufficient to gain the ends 
 desired, he likewise feigned lameness, and declaring 
 he had lost the use of his limbs remained in his bunk. 
 Being no longer of service, he was carried to an hospital, 
 where he remained a puzzle to the medical faculty, who 
 vainly sought to discover the cause of his malady. As
 
 A CLEVER PERFORMANCE. 17 
 
 a last efifort to restore him, they recommended he 
 should be moved to his native country, and as his 
 vessel was then departing he was shipped in her once 
 more. And now was his courage and consistency 
 severely tested ; for scarce had the vessel left the 
 port when a storm, black, fierce, and sudden, arose, 
 threatening destruction and death. All hands on board 
 save the invalid were at work ; men who had battled 
 through a hundred gales believed their last hour had 
 come ; but the lad, never stirring, continued to play his 
 part bravely to the last act, which ended, not in dark- 
 ness and tragedy, but in safety and gladness. And 
 being landed at Southampton, he quickly regained the 
 use of his limbs, and tramped to London. 
 
 Returning to his mother s lodgings in Ewer Street, 
 South wark, he was told she had joined Richardson's 
 show and gone into the country; he therefore turned 
 his face towards the residence of " Aunt Tid," as he 
 had learned to call Miss Tidswell. She welcomed her 
 old favourite with gladness, received him into her home, 
 and seeing the direction in which his talents lay, read 
 Shakespeare with him, and taught him to recite. Nay 
 she occasionally acted scenes with him, and, as he 
 remembered afterwards, taught him to say " Alas, poor 
 Uncle ! " instead of " Alas, poor Yorick ! " when repeating 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Hamlet's speech to Horatio above the new-made grave 
 of Opheha, training him in this manner to throw feehng 
 into his voice. Occasionally his detestation even of 
 such mild restraint, his love for excitement and desire 
 for novelty, — attributes all of the genius within him, — 
 caused him to leave her house and wander for days 
 in distant suburbs, where at various taverns he re- 
 cited and sang, tumbled and danced, imitated monkeys 
 and devils, and enjoyed brief independence ; then would 
 he return to Aunt Tid, rich with coins awarded him 
 by admiring audiences. 
 
 This pleasant period of his life was interrupted by 
 the return of his mother, who, foreseeing the use he 
 might be, claimed him once more. The next glimpse 
 is given of young Edmund Kean by Charles Young, 
 whom some in years after raised to the distinction of 
 Kean's rival. Charles Young's father, Thomas Young, 
 was an eminent physician, and an hospitable host. On 
 one occasion, towards Christmas, when Charles was back 
 from Eton for the holidays, he remembered a dinner 
 being given at his father's house to which some people 
 of distinction were bidden. He was allowed to join the 
 company when dessert was served, and as he descended 
 the stairs and passed on his way to the dining-room 
 through the hall, he saw seated there a slatternly
 
 CHARLES young's REMEMBEANCE OF KEAN. 19 
 
 woman with a boy standing beside her, dressed in a 
 somewhat fantastic garb, and "with the blackest and 
 most penetrating eyes he had ever beheld in human 
 head." He believed they were strolling gipsies from 
 Bartholomew Fair, who had come to seek medical advice, 
 and passed them by; but presently, when one of the 
 servants whispered his master, the latter bade him 
 "bring in the boy." Little Edmund Kean, for he it 
 proved, was led in, taken by the hand, patted on the 
 head, and requested to favour the company with a 
 specimen of his recitations. With great self-possession 
 he stood apart, knit his dark brows, thrust up one 
 shoulder, and began the opening soliloquy of Bicliard 
 III. His delivery was marked by such feeling and 
 expression that he was greeted by warm applause; 
 when he gave further proof of his abilities as an 
 actor ; nay, he sang songs, merry and pathetic, danced 
 a hornpipe, and for an hour kept the company amused. 
 Then a napkin was spread upon the floor, into which 
 a shower of silver was flung, which was afterwards 
 conveyed to the pockets of the lad, who, smiling and 
 bowing gracefully, retired. 
 
 It happened one day some months later, that Mrs. 
 Clarke of Guildford Street called on Surgeon Young's 
 wife. Her visit having ended, she was about to leave 
 
 C 2
 
 20 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 the house, when as she passed through the hall Thomas 
 Young opened the door of his study and said, " Pray 
 come in, my dear lady. I have," he added, " a charm- 
 ing woman to introduce to you, and I know your heart 
 will warm towards her, for she is the daughter of your 
 favourite George Saville Carey." 
 
 As Mrs. Clarke entered the room. Young led towards 
 her a woman whose graceful figure was clad in shabby 
 garments set off with faded finery, and whose cheeks 
 were coloured with rouge. Though her appearance did 
 not at first recommend her to Mrs. Clarke, yet her 
 respectful bearing and air of refinement appealed to 
 her better nature. 
 
 " She is in very reduced circumstances," Young said 
 in an explanatory tone, " and hopes you will help her." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke asked in what manner she could be of 
 assistance ; to which Young, acting as spokesman, 
 replied, " She is obliged to sell perfumes and the like. 
 Here, my dear," he said, addressing Nance Carey, 
 " where is your basket ? Ah, here it is — Marechale 
 powder, Jaj)anese pomatum, millefleurs, Hungary 
 water, genuine eau de Cologne — everything a woman 
 wants." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke bought some lavender water and de- 
 parted, having first given Nance Carey permission to
 
 KINDLY MRS. CLARKE. 21 
 
 call occasionally at her house. Of this the seller of 
 toilet requisites soon availed herself, and during one of 
 her visits made mention of her wonderful little boy, 
 who had an astonishing genius for acting. He was 
 now being brought up very genteelly by a Roman 
 Catholic lady ; he sang in her chapel, served the altar, 
 and " threw the incense about." Mrs. Clarke hoped he 
 would be left under her protection, and no further 
 remarks were made concerning him. As for herself, 
 she acted whenever she could get engagements, and 
 when disengaged sold her wares to earn a livelihood, 
 ^ilrs. Clarke was not only a constant purchaser, but 
 occasionally gave her cast-off articles of wearing 
 apparel, amongst which was a "' tiffany painted skirt, 
 spangled too," with which Nance Carey was much 
 delighted. 
 
 It came to pass that one morning in June, when Mrs. 
 Clarke was sitting in her back drawing-room, an irregu- 
 lar, tremulous knock at the street door fell upon her ear, 
 and presently Charles, an old and faithful servant, slow 
 in pace and deliberate in words, whose hair had grown 
 gray in the service of his mistress, appeared before her. 
 A smile brightened his face as if his fancy were tickled. 
 
 " Master Carey, ma'am, is below," he said, " and 
 wishes to see you."
 
 22 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 " Master Carey ! " she repeated, for the moment 
 forgetful of his individuaUty. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; he belongs to Miss Carey who brings 
 perfumes." 
 
 " Tell him to send up his message." 
 
 " I did, ma'am ; but he says he must speak to you." 
 
 "Then show him up," she said. 
 
 Charles slowly departed, but soon the drawing-room 
 door was again thrown open, and a slender, pale-faced 
 boy, diminutive in size, with large dark eyes and 
 curling auburn hair, entered, and bowed with the air 
 of a prince. His jacket and trousers were shabby 
 almost to raggedness, his whole appearance indicated 
 poverty and neglect. An expression of sensibility, an 
 air of refinement, and a look of delicacy in his bearing 
 appealed to her and touched her heart with pity. 
 Before she could speak, he said in a self-possessed, 
 graceful, and courteous manner — 
 
 " My mother, madam, desires her humble duty, and 
 requests you will be so good as to advance her the 
 loan of a shilling to take the spangled petticoat you 
 kindly gave her out of the pawn. She would not have 
 troubled you, but we are going to play at Islington 
 to-night, and she has all but one shilling." 
 
 His message conveyed a history.
 
 A YOUTHFUL PLAYER. 23 
 
 " Do you play also ? " Mrs. Clarke asked. 
 
 "Oh yes," he replied, with the ready egotism of 
 youth; "I can act a good many things." 
 
 " What are they ? " she asked, already interested in 
 this clever lad. 
 
 " Scenes from Richard III., Hamlet, and Macbeth. 
 Then I can play harlequin and the clown too, and 
 sing and dance." 
 
 " I should like to see you act," she remarked. 
 
 "And I should be very happy if I might act to 
 you," he replied. 
 
 "Then will you come to me to-morrow evening?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " Oh yes," he answered eagerly. *' What shall I do, 
 madam ? " 
 
 "What you like best." 
 
 "Then that will be Richard III. I must have a 
 tent," he continued, growing excited at the prospect. 
 "I begin with the tent scene," and he cast his eyes 
 round the room searchingly. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke stood up, opened the folding doors, and 
 entered the front drawing-room, in which was a bow 
 window. 
 
 " You shall act here," she said to him. 
 
 The dark eyes blazed with delight, the poor pinched
 
 24 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 face lighted "witli enthusiasm. "This bow window," 
 he said, "is the very thing. I can pin the curtains 
 together and make a tent, and this little sofa will be 
 the couch. Have you a bell for me to ring, and may 
 I have some music before I begin ? " 
 
 Mrs. Clarke said she knew a young lady who could 
 play the Baltic of Prague, and she would invite her 
 to be present. 
 
 It was then arranged he was to come next evening 
 at half-past six o'clock, and having received the shilling 
 for his mother, he departed full of gladness. In the 
 course of the afternoon Mrs. Clarke called on a few 
 friends and neighbours, and invited them to come and 
 witness the performance of this marvellous boy. Next 
 evening they assembled in her drawing-room, and 
 shortly before the appointed time, the same timid, 
 nervous knock which she heard yesterday sounded at 
 the street door. Good-hearted Mrs. Clarke hastened 
 down to meet her little 'proUg^, and survey his attire 
 before presenting him to her guests. He was dressed 
 in the same threadbare jacket and trousers, his face 
 had been newly washed, and a white muslin frilled 
 handkerchief of his mother's was tied round his neck 
 by way of collar. 
 
 His hostess, taking him by the hand, hastily led
 
 YOUNG RICHARD III. 25 
 
 him towards her dressing-room, and there took the 
 pack-thread out of his shoes and tied them with black 
 silk ribbons. Whilst she was engaged in this manner 
 his quick eye, travelling round the room, caught sight of 
 a great riding-hat with feathers, and he instantly said, 
 " That would exactly suit Kichard." Then noticing a 
 belt and sword which had belonged to Mrs. Clarke's 
 brother in his childhood, he cried out with boyish 
 delight, " A real sword ! Oh, dear madam, may I have 
 a real sword?" 
 
 She replied it was intended for him, and having made 
 some additions to his toilet, and given him the hat, sword, 
 and belt, hand-in-hand she descended with him to the 
 drawing-room. Then he flung himself on the sofa 
 under the pinned curtains ; the ghosts of those he had 
 murdered were haunting Richard's dreams. The Battle 
 of Prague began with many a bang ; cannons roared, 
 victims shrieked, armies advanced and retreated over 
 the vibrating notes of the piano, and when at last peace 
 was restored, up roused Richard, pale and scared by 
 the sights he had seen, and spoke his speech. Before 
 he concluded women wept. His audience had not 
 been prepared for the energy and feeling which ani- 
 mated the feeble frame, and lighted the pallid face of 
 this boy. He was greeted with loud applause, and
 
 26 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 gracious words were spoken to him. He had tasted the 
 joys of success. The hostess then proposed that tea 
 should be served, but he begged that he might " act the 
 fight with Richmond." 
 
 " By yourself ? " it was asked. 
 
 " Yes, you will see ; I can do it very well. It was for 
 that," he added, " I wanted the sword." 
 
 His fight created still greater astonishment, and he 
 died with a skill and grace wonderful in one of his age. 
 
 An old gentleman present, gifted with more good 
 nature than tact, flung a half-crown upon the mimic 
 stage. Richard, however, did not deign to notice the 
 act; but the example of the donor being quickly 
 followed, a handsome sum was presented to the lad. 
 He refused to accept it, saying the lady of the house was 
 his mother's best friend, and he could take no money. 
 At the request of his hostess he eventually accepted it, 
 and having eaten cake, drank tea, and answered the 
 questions of his admirers, he was sent home, with 
 instructions to call next day. 
 
 His budding talents and inbred gentleness won the 
 heart of Mrs. Clarke, a childless wife, and becoming 
 daily more interested in this waif, she resolved to take 
 him into her home. Cleanliness, sufficient food, and 
 generous care created a new life for him, but nothing
 
 A NEW LIFE. 27 
 
 seemed to give him such delight as his little bed ; the 
 white cotton curtains of the crib were printed with 
 crimson roses such as never bloomed in earthly gardens, 
 from which fact he was wont to speak of this nest 
 as his bed of roses. His existence was now one of 
 perfect happiness, and no boy could behave better. The 
 affection of his friend increased hourly. Every morning 
 he went to school, and occasionally in the evenings he 
 recited at the homes of Mrs. Clarke's friends, she 
 stipulating he should be called for and sent baek. 
 For his performances he invariably received money, the 
 greater part of which was sent to his mother, the 
 remainder being kept for his private use. 
 
 That she might add to his greater delight, his friend 
 frequently sent him in charge of Charles to the theatre 
 when the Kembles acted ; and on his return, Charles, 
 who was fond of the boy, used to narrate with great 
 glee, whilst he rubbed his hands and nodded his head, 
 that it was better than the play to watch master 
 Carey's face. " All the play was to be seen there." He 
 clapped his hands louder than any one else, and was 
 ever ready to hiss at the slightest disturbance which 
 interfered with the performance. When in the autumn 
 Mrs. Clarke left town, she placed little Edmund Kean 
 in charge of a motherly old woman who lived near the
 
 28 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 school which he attended ; and on her return she 
 considered it better he should remain where he was, 
 with the understanding that he was to see her daily, 
 and lunch and dine with her frequently. Now a short 
 time after her return to town she received a visit from 
 some friends in the country. These consisted of an old- 
 fashioned Tory gentleman, rotund in person, pompous 
 in manner, and somewhat foolish in speech, together 
 with his mild-mannered wife and two daughters, 
 children of ten and twelve years. 
 
 One day during their stay little Edmund Kean had 
 a holiday, that he might come and play with them ; 
 they were delighted with their bright-wicted companion, 
 who sang, tumbled, and acted for them. And so well 
 did he please them, that next day he was invited to 
 dinner, after which a visit to the play-house was con- 
 templated. Accordingly he came, dressed in his best 
 suit, his spirits rising high in anticipation of the 
 pleasure before him ; and as he sat at table between 
 his two new friends, he chatted with them gaily, and 
 spoke much of the theatre. 
 
 Once when one of them questioned him regarding 
 Macbetli, which they were about to see, he gave such 
 a clear description of the plot and situations of the 
 tragedy, that though he spoke in an undertone, those
 
 WOUNDED PRIDE. 29 
 
 near paused to listen, until suddenly becoming aware of 
 the attention paid him, he stopped, blushed, and caught 
 the eyes of the country gentleman, from whose con- 
 versation he had momentarily diverted the interest, 
 fixed upon him with disapproving gaze. 
 
 The cloth being removed, some friendly discussion 
 was held as to the disposal of the party in two caiTiages, 
 and Edmund Kean's name being mentioned, the burly 
 gentleman said, in accents of astonishment and indig- 
 nation, " What ! does lie come with us ? " Mrs. Clarke 
 was momentarily silent from surprise, and her glance 
 fell upon \Q,r 'proUge. With his face flushing from anger, 
 and his eyes sparkling with indignation, he rose from 
 the table, and slowly walked towards the door. In his 
 passage he passed the backs of the chairs, and as he 
 came near his hostess she caught hold of his band, 
 which trembled in hers, and pressing it, whispered him 
 to ask Charles for three-and-sixpence, and go into the 
 pit ; but he merely shook his head in answer, and next 
 instant had gone. As the hall door slammed Mrs. 
 Clarke, with some foreboding of pain, went to the 
 window and saw her favourite going down the street at 
 a rapid pace, without his hat, his head erect, his whole 
 bearing indicating wounded pride. 
 
 For her the tragedy of Macbeth had not much interest
 
 30 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 that night. Instead of watching the movements of 
 John Philip Kemble or Mrs. Siddons, she leaned from 
 her box, looking in the pit for the familiar figure or 
 the upturned face of her little friend ; but her search 
 was vain. Next day her guests departed, and Mrs. 
 Clarke immediately sent her maid to the boy's lodgings, 
 but she returned with the information that he was not 
 there ; the previous evening he had rushed to his room, 
 changed his new clothes for his old, and hurried out 
 again without answering a question or speaking a word. 
 It was then surmised that he must have gone to his 
 mother's, but days passed, and he failed to make his 
 appearance. Mrs, Clarke, now thoroughly uneasy, sent 
 Charles to inquire for him, but he brought word that 
 Miss Carey had not seen her son for over a week. Mrs. 
 Clarke was therefore seized by a fear that he had in a 
 moment of anger thrown himself into the Thames, or 
 got crushed under the wheels of carriages at the doors 
 of the theatre. Search was made for him far and near, 
 but no trace could be found of him ; he had completely 
 vanished. 
 
 But it happened early in the morning of the seventh 
 day after his disappearance, a good-natured ostler from 
 the adjoining mews, who knew the lad, and liked him 
 well, carried his insensible form to the door of Mrs.
 
 HIS BED OF ROSES. 
 
 33 
 
 Clarke's house. He had found him near the door ,, 
 his stable; fast asleep as he thought at first, and strove 
 to wake him ; but when the boy opened his eyes he 
 was unconscious of where he was, and being placed 
 on his legs he fell down again from weakness. In 
 appearance he was travel-stained, dirty, miserable, and 
 starved. With mingled pain and joy Mrs. Clarke be- 
 held him once more, kissed him whilst tears blinded 
 her eyes, and carried him to the bed in which she had 
 often watched him peacefully sleep. There he was 
 tended with great care and anxiousV love, until at last 
 he opened his dark eyes, and his lips were seen to 
 move. Putting her ear close above them she heard 
 him ask, " Am I in heaven in my bed of roses ? "
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Edmund Kean goes to Windsor — Appears before George III. 
 at Oxford — With Richardson's show — Delights of the fair 
 — With Saunders' circus — Reciting in public — Joins a 
 strolling company— Varied fortunes of a Commonwealth — 
 Hardships and hunger — Studying dictionaries — A born 
 Bohemian — Plays small parts at the Haymarket Theatre — 
 Master Betty, the infant Roscius — He would be a player — 
 Sensation in the provinces — Enthusiastic audiences — Excite- 
 ment of the town — Mobbed at Covent Garden — First 
 appearance in Loudon — Compliments paid him — Making his 
 fortune — Kean's disappointment — Playing in Belfast — On 
 the stage with Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 When the lad recovered he told his kind friend the 
 simple story of his flight, blushing with shame that he 
 had caused her so much anxiety. Full of anger and 
 indignation at the slight which the country gentleman 
 had put upon him, he resolved to leave town, and never 
 return until he was a great man. He had walked to 
 Bristol, and again offered himself as a sailor, but he 
 was so pale and thin no captain would hire him. So 
 tired and hungry was he that he could neither recite 
 nor sing, and ask for bread he would not. He therefore
 
 HE MIMICKED KEMBLE. 33 
 
 came back to town, resolved to die near the house of 
 the friend who loved him. It was night when he 
 arrived, and the stables were the best shelter he could 
 find. He remembered no more. 
 
 After some days spent in consideration and con- 
 sultation with her friends, Mrs. Clarke came to the 
 conclusion he had better be placed under the care of 
 some one able to exercise more control over him than 
 she possessed ; and believing he would never follow 
 any other calling than that of an actor, she waited on 
 Miss de Champ, a clever actress, who subsequently 
 became Mrs. Charles Kemble, to have her opinion 
 regarding him. Miss de Champ remembered him well, 
 and narrated, that one morning before rehearsal began 
 at the theatre, she was crossing the stage, when sounds 
 of loud applause arrested her attention. Inquiring its 
 cause, she was told it was only little Kean acting 
 Richard III. " I went into the green-room," she said, 
 " and saw the little fellow facing an admiring group, 
 and reciting lustily, and in my opinion he was very 
 clever." She was afraid, however, no opening could 
 be found for him at Drury Lane Theatre, for he had 
 drawn upon himself the anger of John Philip Kemble, 
 who on another occasion during rehearsal caught the 
 lad mimicking him, to the great amusement of the 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 underlings of the theatre. Kemble had surprised him, 
 and being angry, pushed him aside so roughly that 
 he fell through a trap-door, and was lamed for some 
 time. Another man of wider mind and more generous 
 instincts than Kemble, seeing the lad's genius, would 
 have trained and educated him for the staofe, but he 
 never extended a helping hand to the boy who was 
 destined to cast him from the position of first English 
 traofedian, which he had held so long. 
 
 A few days after her conversation with Miss de 
 Champ, Mrs. Clarke received a visit from Captain 
 Miller of the Staflfordshire Militia, then on duty at 
 Windsor Castle. To him she confided her perplexity, 
 and asked his advice regarding Kean, who was now in 
 his twelfth year. After some conversation, Captain 
 Miller offered to take the lad with him to Windsor, a 
 proposition to which Mrs. Clarke assented. It was 
 arranged that before his departure he should give an 
 evening's entertainment in public, that he might raise 
 funds sufficient to start him in the world. A room was 
 accordingly taken in Chancery Lane, a programme 
 arranged, and tickets printed. The performance was 
 to be given solely by himself, an undertaking from 
 which a man of experience might have shrank ; but 
 his courage and exertions were amply rewarded, as
 
 RECITING BEFORE GEORGE III. 35 
 
 his receipts amounted to between forty and fifty 
 pounds. 
 
 Captain Miller lodged him at the barracks, where 
 he speedily drew attention by his mimicry, acting, 
 tumbling, and singing. So bright and clever a boy had 
 never been seen, and the officers found in him a source 
 of infinite entertainment. Presently his fame spread 
 to Eton, where he was introduced to some of the elder 
 boys, and to the royal household, when George III, 
 expressed himself anxious to see this phenomenon. 
 This was an honour he had not hoped to receive. 
 Twice he recited before the king, queen, and princess, 
 for which His Majesty, who was not remarkable for 
 his liberality, gave him a guinea. Having stayed some 
 time at Windsor, he went to Oxford, bearing with 
 him a letter of introduction from an Eton boy to his 
 elder brother then at the university ; and here his 
 success was equally satisfactory. He was ptcd and 
 applauded by the undergraduates, one of whom, named 
 Conybeare, gave him the first copy of Shakespeare's 
 plays he ever possessed. 
 
 Leaving Oxford, he returned once more to town. 
 His mother had again joined a strolling company, and 
 he took refuge with Aunt Tid, who resumed her in- 
 structions, and read Shakespeare with him from his own 
 
 D 2
 
 36 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 copy. By lier advice he now studied, not only certain 
 speeches and scenes, but the whole parts set down to 
 Romeo, Hamlet, and Richard III. ; and once, by her 
 entreaties, John Kemble so far forgot the lad's offence 
 as to let him act Arthur in King John, Kemble play- 
 ing the King, and Mrs. Siddons Constance on this 
 memorable occasion. Acting became more than ever 
 the delight of his life ; now we find him in the garret of 
 a bookseller named Roach, who dwelt in a court close 
 by Brydges Street, playing Richard III. to the Lady 
 Anne of a Scotch lassie, who afterwards, as Mrs. Robert- 
 son, gained credit in the provinces as an actress. Her 
 strong accent was a source of grievance to Kean, who 
 taught her English, and in return learned from her the 
 dialect of Sir Pertinax Macsycophant, a character he 
 played at Drury Lane after many years had passed. 
 Again, in the back parlour of his aunt, Mrs. Price, 
 a dressmaker, he enacted Richard to the Richmond of 
 Master Rae, a companion he was destined to meet with 
 years later. 
 
 But his love of admiration and longing for excitement 
 again seizing him, he left Miss Tidswell's home, and 
 hired himself to Richardson, the famous showman. 
 Richardson's show was seen at every fair within a 
 hundred miles radius of the capital. Outside its highly
 
 WITH RICHAEDSON's SHOW. 37 
 
 coloured "wooden walls," on a platform gained by a 
 rickety flight of steps, drums beat, fiddles squeaked, 
 and horns sounded, keeping silence only whilst some 
 stentorian voice shouted alluring descriptions of the 
 wonders to be witnessed within, and heartily invited all 
 lovers of the marvellous to step inside and secure their 
 places. The manager was a tall man with a red face, 
 dressed in high boots, crimson vest, and a many but- 
 toned green coat. The fair members of his company, 
 whose smiles sought to hide their lassitude, were decked 
 with glazed calico, muslin flowers, tarnished tinsel, 
 spangles and tinfoil, stockings with clocks, and shoes 
 that had lost all shape from long service. Their cheeks 
 were rouged, their necks adorned with mock jewellery, 
 feathers once gay were stuck in their tousled hair. The 
 gentlemen of the troop, fellows of infinite experience, 
 good at turning a somersault, enacting a tragedy, crack- 
 ing a whip, or beating a drum, were clad in tights 
 and vests. The manager's receipts generally averaged 
 forty pounds a day during the three days which a fair 
 usually lasted ; so that he was enabled to pay his first- 
 rate tragic actors and actresses ten and sixpence a day ; 
 to " paraders or pluck in men," or ladies who were styled 
 " aggravators," he gave seven and sixpence a day ; good- 
 looking automatons of either sex had six shillings. 
 
 j 97 < n* >
 
 38 EDMUND KEAX. 
 
 whilst "underlings that neither look nor speak" 
 received four shillings. 
 
 Wherever the show went, bustle, noise, and merriment 
 travelled in its wake. On the village green, the fair, 
 or beside the racecourse, it was surrounded by rival 
 booths, the habitations of dwarfs, mermaids, and pigs 
 showing complete knowledge of the alphabet, of 
 speaking fish, two-headed boys, fat women, and strong 
 men. In its atmosphere dwelt confusion begotten of 
 the mingled strains of bag-pipes and French horns, 
 trumpets and fifes, the voices of fruit vendors, the 
 report of musketry from shooting-galleries, shrill cries 
 of Punch, cheers from merry-go-rounds and ups-and- 
 downs, roars from performing bears, choruses from the 
 tap-houses, shouts from the ballad-mongers, and cries 
 from struggling crowds. 
 
 Life in a show-box to a lad of young Kean's tempera- 
 ment had for a time a vast attraction. Here his songs 
 and recitations, his actinrj and tumbling:, were received 
 with rapturous applause by ever-varying audiences. 
 After a while he transferred his services from Richard- 
 son's show to Saunders's circus, where he learned to 
 ride with great skill and grace. Here horsemanship, 
 tightrope-walking, and acrobatic feats were the order 
 of the day. A writer who contributed an article to
 
 WITH SAUNDERS S CIRCUS. 39 
 
 the New Monthly Magazine on the early days of 
 Edmund Kean, remembered hearing Davies, once 
 manager of Astley's amphitheatre, describe the occasion 
 in which he first saw him. Considering the circum- 
 stances could not be more vividly described than 
 in Daviess language, the author jotted down the ex- 
 manager's phrases in his note-book. 
 
 " I was passing," he said, " down Great Surrey Street 
 one morning, when just as I had comed to the place 
 where the Riding House now stands at the corner of the 
 'Syleum, or Mag-dallen, as they calls it, I seed Master 
 Saunders a-packing up his traps. His booth, you see, 
 had been there standing for three or four days, or 
 thereabouts ; and on the boards in front of the paint- 
 ing — the prossenium, as the painter says — I seed a slim 
 young chap with marks of paint — and bad paint it was, 
 for all the world like ruddle on the jaw of a sheep — 
 on his face, a-tying up some of the canwass wot the 
 wonderfullest carakters and curosties of that 'ere exhi- 
 bition was painted upon. And so when I had shook 
 hands with Master Saunders, and all that 'ere, he turns 
 him right round to the young chap wot had just throwd 
 a summerset behind his back, and says, ' I say you. 
 Master King Dick, if you don't mind what you're arter, 
 and pack up that 'ere wan pretty tight and nimble, we
 
 40 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 shan't be off before to-morrow, that we shan't ; and so 
 you mind your eye, my lad.' " 
 
 During his engagement with Saunders the courage 
 he showed whilst riding "fiery untamed steeds" and 
 the daring he evinced in tumbling were notable ; but 
 once it happened that whilst attempting some unusual 
 feat, he fell from a great height and broke his legs. 
 As a result of this accident he suffered through life 
 from a swelling of his instep-bones. When able he 
 returned to Miss Tidswell, and resolved to abandon 
 all acrobatic performances in favour of the drama. 
 He was yet over-young and inexperienced to gain an 
 engagement in one of the few London theatres — a 
 consummation seldom attained save by those selected 
 from provincial companies because of their marked 
 abilities. His talents as a public reciter gained him 
 prominence at the Crown and Anchor in Leicester 
 Square, and at the Rolls Rooms in Chancery Lane, 
 places of entertainment which were the forerunners 
 of our modern music-halls. On the stage of the Rolls 
 Rooms he on one occasion read the whole of the 
 Merchant of Venice. Likewise, to his great delight, 
 he played the principal parts in tragedies and comedies, 
 acted in a private theatre in Lamb's Conduit Street. 
 Cobham, a well-known actor in his day, who was
 
 ASSOCIATING WITH PLAYERS. 41 
 
 present at some of these performances, says Kean " was 
 the best, amateur then extant." 
 
 His connection with Drury Lane playhouse, behind 
 the scenes of which he went when he pleased, together 
 with his familiarity with other places of entertainment, 
 threw him continually into the company of actors, 
 singers, and composers, who delighted in the lad's 
 quickness and ability. From his association with 
 Charles Incledon, who described himself as " England's 
 greatest singer," he picked up some knowledge of music, 
 and learned to sing correctly ; D'Egville, the dancing- 
 master, gave him at odd times lessons in his art ; and 
 from watching the fencing-master Angelo and his 
 pupils he could soon handle the foils with dexterity, 
 Of these men Kean in after years was wont to narrate 
 many anecdotes. He remembered walking early one 
 morning in the suburbs at the Surrey side of the water, 
 when he saw Denham, a skilled musician and charming 
 composer, whose dissipation frequently reduced him to 
 want, stretched upon a form outside a tavern. On this 
 hard bed the unfortunate man had lain all night, being 
 expelled from the tap-room. Kean approached and 
 roused him, when Denham, not yet recovered from the 
 effect of his carousal, sat up and began strumming his 
 fingers upon his knees. Suddenly he asked his young
 
 42 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 friend if he had got any money about him, and on 
 receiving a reply in the affirmative, requested him to 
 buy a sheet of paper, and bring him a ruler, together 
 with a pen and ink. When these were set before him 
 he quickly began to work, using the form as a desk, 
 and soon produced a composition which seemed to have 
 occupied his mind, set to a paraphrase of the Lord's 
 Prayer, Handing Kean the smeared manuscripts, 
 written with a trembling hand, he begged he would 
 take them to some music publisher, and get what 
 he could in exchange. Without hope of being able 
 to dispose of them, the lad carried the sheets away, 
 and going to Williams's of Paternoster Row, offered 
 them to the manager. The latter at first regarded the 
 scroll with indifference, but on a closer examination 
 consented to try it over, and eventually handing Kean 
 a guinea, bade him take it to the composer. 
 
 The applause which Kean received from the audiences 
 of the Lamb's Conduit Street Theatre and the Rolls 
 Rooms made him anxious to begin life as a player — 
 a career which he had earnest desires and strong hopes 
 would speedily lead him to fame and fortune. Accord- 
 ingly, with the consent and by the advice of Aunt Tid, 
 he joined the travelling company of a provincial 
 manager; the country being the school then, as now.
 
 VARIED FORTUNES OF A COMMONWEALTH. 43 
 
 in which all who covet permanent distinction and 
 not ephemeral notoriety must graduate; for labour 
 strengthens genius as a crucible purifies gold. 
 
 The company he joined was in those days known 
 as a commonwealth. The varied fortunes of the troop 
 rendering stipulated salaries impossible, the receipts 
 taken at the doors were at the end of every week divided 
 amongst the members, according to the respective parts 
 they played, the manager appropriating additional 
 shares in consideration of his defraying the expenses 
 of rent, rushlights, wardrobes, and incidental charges. 
 Frequently the poor strollers played to empty benches, 
 and the pittance received for their labours being small, 
 hunger and cold afflicted them sorely. Kean, in the 
 days when all men lauded him, and fortune's gifts 
 were his, looking back half sadly, half wistfully on the 
 times of bitter hardship and pitiless privation, used to 
 naiTate his experiences of a Passion week he had spent 
 at Croydon. The theatre was closed until Easter 
 Monday, when additional attractions were temptingly 
 offered to the public ; but meanwhile the poor players 
 were expected to live on air, and survive, that they 
 might fulfil the promises which the bills set forth. 
 
 Neither Kean nor the comrade who shared the 
 expenses of his lodgings possessed a penny, the
 
 44 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 remainder of the company were well-nigh equally im- 
 poverished, and credit was not to be expected by needy 
 strollers. For two days Kean, like many another genius 
 whom the world has known, starved; the while he 
 sought to strangle pangs of hunger by tightening his 
 waistband, and to defy depression by assuming mirth. 
 But the third day bringing no relief, he sought to 
 obtain food by strategy. Frequently had he noticed 
 with longing eyes a butcher's shop well-stocked and 
 prosperous, over which usually presided a damsel whose 
 buxom figure and blooming face were fair to see. To 
 her he resolved on addressing himself, trusting he might 
 obtain for love that which he had no means to buy. 
 Accordingly he sallied forth, and passed the shop of 
 which the butcher's lovely daughter was then in charge. 
 Her elbow rested on a round of beef, tender as the 
 cheek which her right hand supported ; and the attitude 
 being one generally accepted as indicative of senti- 
 mentality, he hoped the hour was propitious. He 
 therefore advanced, but as he was about to address her, 
 the burly butcher came in sight, and the young trage- 
 dian passed the shop, converting the sigh which rose 
 for his disappointment into a whistle he trusted would 
 seem expressive of indifference. But presently returning, 
 he found the maiden all alone, when he expressed his
 
 HARDSHIPS AND HUNGER. 45 
 
 admiration for her charms, and gradually made known 
 his hunger. From the round of beef which yet bore 
 the impression of her shapely elbow she cut some solid 
 steaks, and putting them on a skewer gave them to him. 
 He thrust them into the tail pocket of a skirted coat, 
 and bidding her a hasty adieu, strode homewards, re- 
 joicing that want was at an end. But his hopes were 
 destined to meet disappointment; for the butcher's dog, 
 that had followed him unseen, suddenly snapped at the 
 coat-tails, displaced the steaks, and ran off with them 
 before Kean could recover his surprise. Surely his 
 darkest hour had come, but dawn was at hand; for 
 on reaching his lodging he found the London coach 
 had brought a parcel of clothes from Aunt Tid, and 
 as he required food rather than raiment, he hastily 
 transferred them to the charge of his uncle, and so 
 averted threatened starvation. 
 
 The while he struggled in the provinces he did not 
 neglect his education; his constant practice with the 
 foils rendered him an accomplished fencer ; he read and 
 studied Shakespeare continually, and when playing 
 at Hodderdan in Hertfordshire, borrowed Latin and 
 Greek dictionaries from Miss Sands, then proprietress 
 of a public library. It was probably in this manner he 
 gained the smattering of these languages which in after
 
 46 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 days he was so fond of quoting. It has been stated 
 with much plausibility, but without a shadow of founda- 
 tion, that Dr. Drury, the head master of Harrow, aware 
 of his talents, was instrumental m sending him to Eton 
 for two years. Nay, the studies he pursued, his devotion 
 to Cicero, the Latin ode he composed and recited 
 whilst at Eton, have been mentioned by one who has 
 written his biography. These statements, however, are 
 purely imaginary. A few months after his death a 
 controversy was carried on in the pages of Frazer's 
 Magazine as to whether he had or had not been an 
 Eton scholar, the question being finally settled by Dr. 
 Keate, who stated that the records of admission to the 
 school had been regularly kept since 1792 ; and on 
 examination of these, Kean's name had not been found. 
 He adds, he "did not believe Mr. Kean was ever a 
 member of that school, and he has never heard a dif- 
 ferent opinion maintained by any one connected with 
 the school who was likely to have accurate inform- 
 ation." Not these statements alone, but Kean's letters, 
 abounding as they do in bad grammar, would be suffi- 
 cient to indicate his lack of education. 
 
 He had passed his sixteenth year when he joined 
 a regular theatrical company, and he remained in the 
 provinces for four years. Sense of freedom, hope of
 
 A BORN BOHEMIAN. 47 
 
 adventure, good comradeship, continual excitement, to 
 a temperament like his compensated for a life full 
 of uncertainty and hardship. A born Bohemian, hope 
 lit the darkness of his path, ambition beckoned him 
 forward, love of art atoned for privations, so that he 
 was far from being unhappy. Nay, he was wont to 
 declare that in those days, when he received ten 
 shillings a week as a reward for his performances in 
 tragedy, comedy, and pantomime, he was far more 
 content than when his salary was fifty pounds a night, 
 and his name was praised by all men. Wise indeed 
 are they who recognize the hour of their felicity and 
 enjoy its pleasures; only when they have travelled 
 up the rugged hill of life, and paused to look backward 
 on the pathway they have trod, do men behold with 
 regretful sight the green places they have passed and 
 left behind for ever. 
 
 It is notable, that throughout his varied career Kean 
 seemed conscious of the power within him, which one 
 day would force recognition from the world. This 
 belief helped him to labour in the hard school of 
 experience, which was alone capable of training his 
 talents. An anecdote which is related of him shows 
 the estimate in which he lield himself. Oae night 
 as he, whilst representing Alexander the Great, was
 
 48 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 being drawn in a triumphal car before the footlights, 
 a young fop in a stage box exclaimed, in tones loud 
 enough to be heard by the audience, "Alexander the 
 Great indeed ! it should be Alexander the Little." The 
 laugh into which the house would probably have 
 broken was checked by a look which Kean deliberately 
 and scornfully fixed upon the speaker as he rose and 
 said, "Yes, Alexander the Little, but with a great 
 soul ; " on which all present broke into a storm of 
 applause by way of protest against the fop's insolence 
 and approbation of the player's spirit. 
 
 At the end of his fourth year in the provinces he 
 applied for an engagement to Colman, Winston, and 
 Morris, managers of the Haymarket, and his services 
 were accepted to play small parts at a salary of two 
 pounds a week. To London he therefore came in 
 July, 1806. 
 
 The earlier months of this year had witnessed an 
 event unprecedented before or after in the history 
 of the drama, and as such must be mentioned here. 
 This was the appearance on the London stage of 
 Master Betty, sometimes called the infant Roscius. 
 His brief bright career was indeed most notable. 
 This lad, who was born in 1791, was the son of a Belfast 
 gentleman of property, and of a Shropshire heiress.
 
 MASTER BETTY, THE INFANT ROSCIUS. 49 
 
 Passionately fond of witnessing plays and reciting 
 poems, this lady imparted to her son the talents which 
 subsequently rendered him remarkable. Before he 
 was able to read he had learned to recite, committed 
 Shakespearian speeches to memory, and accompanied 
 their delivery with appropriate action. For the benefit 
 and amusement of friends, the infant prodigy was 
 frequently lifted on a sideboard, and there declaimed 
 to his own satisfaction and his parents' delight. As 
 he grew up no pains were spared to train the gifts 
 he possessed ; his mother taught him elocution, his 
 father instructed him in fencing. Recitation became 
 a passion with him, until at last his parents, fearing 
 it would lead him to think of a theatrical career, 
 suddenly discountenanced what they had previously 
 encouraged. Play-books and poems were banished, 
 declamations interdicted, elocution lessons discontinued, 
 and finally he was sent to school. 
 
 Here, however. Master Betty's inclinations were 
 wakened to fresh activity by the appreciation his 
 talents received from his companions. Towards mid- 
 night, whilst professors and teachers were enjoying the 
 sleep of the just, the pupils' dormitory was in a state 
 of activity and commotion. Candles smuggled into 
 
 the establishment by cunning contrivances were taken 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 from their hiding-places and lighted ; beds placed side 
 by side formed a stage ; sheets were converted into 
 classic garments, and counterpanes into curtains. Then 
 did the hero of the night enact scenes from tragedies, 
 recite pathetic tales and stirring ballads to an audience 
 attired in night-shirts, who overwhelmed him with 
 the choicest gifts in their possession — apples, peg-tops, 
 and cakes. 
 
 It happened during his summer vacation in the 
 year 1802, the great Mrs. Siddons visited the Belfast 
 Theatre. Her name was a power in the land, her 
 fame at its highest pitch. Accompanied by their son, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Betty witnessed her performance as 
 Elvira in Pizarro. The effect on the boy was greater 
 than they had anticipated. His face pallid from 
 excitement, his eyes sparkling with delight, he followed 
 the tragedy, real to him because of the genius which 
 gave it life, force, colour. It was the first play he 
 had seen, and the fascination which great acting ex- 
 ercises over the imagination, the power with which it 
 sways the feelings, dawned on him with wonder and 
 joy. To him the world was never the same again. 
 After a sleepless night he rose hastily, and going out, 
 bought a copy of Pizarro. Before evening he had 
 committed Elvira's speeches to memory, and recited
 
 HE WOULD BE A PLAYER. 51 
 
 them after the manner of Mrs. Siddons. His usual 
 occupations and amusements were neglected in the 
 passion which absorbed him ; by day and by night he 
 spoke of nothing but the stage, and finally he assured 
 his parents he should die if they would not permit 
 him to become a player. 
 
 Though grieved by his infatuation, they were reluct- 
 ant to thwart their only child, fearing their opposition 
 to his desire might injure his health. To humour 
 him, therefore, his father, that he might have the 
 opinion of a competent judge, took him to Atkins, 
 manager of the Belfast Theatre. Before him Master 
 Betty, then in his eleventh year, recited some speeches 
 with such effect that the manager declared "he had 
 never indulged in the hope of seeing another Garrick, 
 but that he had beheld an infant Garrick in Master 
 Betty." This opinion raised the boy's hopes to a high 
 pitch, for surely his father would not now oppose his 
 wish to become an actor. 
 
 Soon after this consultation Ireland was again steeped 
 
 in political trouble. The rebellion four years previously 
 
 had drenched the land in blood, and its disastrous effects 
 
 were still felt. Another rise was anticipated ; clouds 
 
 of fear, gloom, and grief darkened the country ; martial 
 
 law was proclaimed, and the theatres closed. But 
 
 E 2
 
 52 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 during the succeeding year the political atmosphere 
 cleared, and playhouses were once more permitted to 
 open their doors. Now Atkins, knowing that in a 
 period of general depression some extraordinary novelty 
 was necessary to crowd his house, bethought of engag- 
 ing Master Betty, and offered him half the receipts 
 after he had deducted the modest sum of twelve 
 pounds for expenses. The boy was delighted at the 
 proposition made him, and his parents consented to his 
 appearance. He was therefore announced to play 
 Osman, in the tragedy of Zara, on the 19th of August, 
 1803. 
 
 Curiosity drew a crowded audience, who expected to 
 see a precocious boy trained to recite set speeches, and 
 taught to assume a few stage attitudes. But their 
 surprise was only equalled by their delight when they 
 recognized in him a power capable of exciting their 
 interests and swaying their feelings. A few nights 
 after he played Douglas, and later on Rolla. The last 
 character he attempted to represent at this theatre was 
 Romeo. The fame of " little Betty," as he was generally 
 called, spread far and near. Praise of his genius and 
 predictions of his future were in all men's mouths ; he 
 was hailed as the wonder of his age. And his reputa- 
 tion reaching Dublin, Frederick Jones, manager of the
 
 SENSATION IN THE PROVINCES. 53 
 
 Crow Street Theatre, oflfered him an engagement for 
 nine nights, which was readily accepted. It was accord- 
 ingly advertised in the Dublin journals that "on 
 Monday the 28th of November, 1803, the character 
 of Douglas will be performed by a young gentleman 
 only twelve years of age, whose admirable talents have 
 procured him the deserved appellation of the Infant 
 Roscius." 
 
 Age and youth, rank and fashion rushed to witness 
 his performances and applaud his efforts. In the 
 theatre he was greeted with enthusiasm ; in private 
 he was feted. The nightly receipts of the playhouse 
 amounted to four hundred pounds, an unusual sum. 
 So successful was he, that the manager offered him 
 an engagement for three years at an increasing salary, 
 which the boy's father wisely refused. From Dublin 
 he proceeded to Cork, where he received as salary a 
 fourth part of the house, including a clear benefit ; and 
 from Cork he journeyed to Waterford, playing here 
 in farce as well as in tragedy. Glasgow and Edinburgh 
 were next visited by the Infant Roscius, who con- 
 tinued to draw crowded houses wherever and whenever 
 he played. On his first appearance in the former city 
 he was, says Jackson, the manager of the Edinburgh 
 and Glasgow theatres, greeted "with the greatest
 
 54 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 bursts of applause I ever witnessed to have been given 
 by an audience." He watched little Betty with a 
 critic's eye, in order to notice his defects, and point 
 them out if necessary ; " but his correctness and grace- 
 ftil mode of deportment throughout the whole of the 
 performance, and the astonishing exertions which his 
 powers enabled him to exhibit, rendered useless my 
 intention, and taught me to know that ' Nature's above 
 art in that respect.' In the whole series of my 
 acquaintance with the stage," he adds, " I have never 
 beheld the same range of characters filled by the 
 principal theatrical adults with a smaller number of 
 admissible faults ! " 
 
 In Edinburgh his reception was wildly enthusiastic. 
 On the night he was announced to represent Douglas, 
 Home, the author of the tragedy, came to the theatre, 
 and sat at the first wing. Throughout the performance 
 he showed strong signs of emotion, — the character which 
 sprung from his imagination was visibly realized, — his 
 words were hearkened to with breathless interest, his 
 sentiments applauded by thousands, and when the 
 curtain fell he was so carried away by his satisfaction 
 and gratitude, that he rushed forward on the stage and 
 bowed repeatedly, appropriating the enthusiasm to him- 
 self. His admiration for Master Betty knew no bounds ;
 
 PLAYS AT BIRMINGHAM. 55 
 
 embracing the lad, he declared him a " wonderful being, 
 great beyond conception, one of the first actors on the 
 British stage." 
 
 The Infant Roscius was now beset by offers of 
 engagements on the most liberal terms from almost 
 every manager of importance in Great Britain. He 
 had already played in Ireland and Scotland, and, 
 desirous of performing in England, decided on appearing 
 at the Birmingham Theatre, of which Macready, father 
 of the lad who afterwards became a notable actor, was 
 then manager. His arrival here caused unusual sen- 
 sation. Gentry from the surrounding districts poured 
 into the town and crowded the hotels ; his passage 
 through the streets was attended by numbers who 
 followed to catch sight of him ; crowds thronged the 
 doors of the theatre for hours before they were opened ; 
 portraits of him were exhibited in the windows of the 
 print shops ; and laudatory notices of him appeared in 
 the press. 
 
 Now it happened that whilst he played at Birming- 
 ham, Mr. Justice Graham, one of the board of manage- 
 ment which then ruled Drury Lane Theatre, passed 
 through the town, and witnessing Master Betty's per- 
 formance, was much struck by his talents. Reporting 
 his impressions to the managers, they entered into
 
 56 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 negotiations with Betty senior, offering him half a clear 
 benefit if his son would perform in their theatre for 
 seven nights. This was indignantly rejected ; and after 
 some correspondence Macready's opinion was solicited 
 regarding the salary young Roscius should receive. He 
 declared the boy would be entitled to fifty guineas 
 a night and a clear benefit ; but these terms being con- 
 sidered excessive, the treaty was allowed to drop. 
 Meanwhile Harris, manager of Covent Garden Theatre, 
 entering into communication with Mr. Betty, engaged 
 his son on the terms proposed. Hearing this, the 
 managers of Drury Lane Theatre were wrathful, and 
 immediately sent a trusty messenger to outbid their 
 rival, and remind Mr. Betty they had made the first 
 proposal. He replied Mr. Harris had made the first 
 engagement, and he was in honour bound to him ; how- 
 ever, as his agreement did not forbid young Roscius per- 
 forming elsewhere in London on the intervening nights 
 or weeks of his performances at Covent Garden, he was 
 ready to enter into a compact with them by which the 
 lad might appear at Drury Lane. His terms were now 
 higher than those asked from Harris, the salary de- 
 manded being fifty pounds each for the first three 
 nights' performances, and one hundred pounds for each 
 succeeding night he played, with a clear benefit if the
 
 ENTHUSIASTIC AUDIENCES. 57 
 
 engagement was but for a fortnight, and two clear benefits 
 if it lasted a month. The engagement was signed and 
 sealed, binding him to appear in London in December ; 
 meanwhile he continued to play in the provinces. 
 
 The enthusiasm Master Betty created steadily in- 
 creased. At Sheffield the prices of admission to the 
 theatre were doubled, poems were addressed to him, 
 people travelled from London to see him ; and at Don- 
 caster races scores of vehicles were labelled " Theatrical 
 coaches to carry six insides to see the young Roscius." 
 At Liverpool, where he acted fourteen nights, the rush 
 to the box-office was so great in the morning, that men 
 and women were bruised and crushed, hats and shoes 
 were lost, and clothes were torn to pieces. For his 
 services here he received fifteen hundred and twenty 
 pounds, and the managers of the theatre offered him 
 a like sum if he would play for an additional fourteen 
 nights, but engagements already made prevented him 
 accepting the offers. Before his departure they pre- 
 sented him with silver cups bearing inscriptions re- 
 garding their "profound respect for the most exalted 
 talents of Master Betty." At Manchester, in conse- 
 quence of the great confusion that had taken place, 
 "whereby the lives of many people have been en- 
 dangered," all application for tickets had to be made
 
 58 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 by letter ; " all the letters," the manager advertised, *' 
 " will be put into a bag, and, to secure the most perfect 
 impartiality, two gentlemen will attend the drawing at 
 eleven o'clock and see the places booked in the order 
 they are drawn." Being prevented from playing dur- 
 ing Passion week at Coventry, by the Bishop of Lichfield 
 and Coventry, he stayed a day at Dunchurch. A lady, 
 a member of one of the county families, who was on her 
 way to Coventry to see the performance, was stopped 
 at Dunchurch by news of his lordship's prohibition. 
 Hearing that young Roscius was staying at the hotel 
 where she rested, she immediately sent for the landlord, 
 and begged of him to obtain her a sight of the lad, 
 whom she would " give anything " to see. He assured 
 her there was but one way by which her curiosity could 
 be gratified, and that was by carrying in one of the 
 dishes to table when Master Betty dined. The lady 
 thanked him, and willingly agreed to wait upon the hero. 
 Rumours of his success and the sensation he caused 
 reaching London, he was there anxiously awaited. 
 Whilst at Leicester his father, who invariably accom- 
 panied him, received a letter from John Philip Kemble, 
 then one of the proprietors and managers of Covent 
 Garden Theatre, whose salary, it may be here remarked, 
 of thirty-seven pounds sixteen shillings a week was
 
 EXCITEMENT OF THE TOWN. 59 
 
 less than Master Betty received for one night. "I 
 cannot," he says, " hear of you being on your journey 
 without doing myself the pleasure of expressing the 
 satisfaction I feel in knowing that I shall soon have the 
 happiness of welcoming you and Master Betty to Covent 
 Garden Theatre ; and give me leave to say how heartily 
 I congratulate the stage on the ornament and support 
 it is, by the judgment of all the world, to receive from 
 Master Betty's extraordinary talents and exertions. 
 You will be much concerned to know that Mr. Harris 
 has been for some time confined to his bed ; and, 
 indeed, it has not been the least of his pains that his 
 illness has prevented his gratifying himself, as he 
 intended, by writing to you. If there is anything I can 
 possibly do for you and Master Betty's accommodation 
 against you come to town, pray command my best 
 services." 
 
 His advent was now at hand, and London was in 
 commotion. One evening, whilst Frederick Reynolds 
 the dramatist was sitting in a box in the first circle of 
 Covent Garden Theatre, a gentleman, accompanied by 
 a very pretty boy, entered towards the beginning of 
 the second act of the play, and sat beside him. The 
 former asked which of the actors then on the stage was 
 Kemble and which was Lewis, but the lad merely
 
 60 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 devoured oranges, and took no interest in the scene. 
 Presently a fruit-woman entering, whispered to the 
 dramatist that he was verily in the presence of Mr, 
 Betty and his son ; and on being asked how she knew, 
 replied the superintendent of the free list, to whom 
 they gave their names, had told her. She had scarcely 
 communicated her news when the door was suddenly 
 burst open, and hundreds of well-dressed persons, who 
 had deserted their seats, sought to gain admission. 
 News of Master Betty's presence in the house spread 
 rapidly, and the crowd and excitement in and around 
 the box became so great, that Mr. Betty in alarm 
 called aloud for the box-keeper, but this individual not 
 being able to approach because of the formidable 
 numbers, Reynolds proposed to guide them into safety. 
 As they with difficulty moved from the box, the crowd 
 imagining they were about to leave the house, rushed 
 to the lobby, where a better view of the prodigy might 
 be had ; on which Reynolds delivered young Roscius 
 to the box-keeper, who quickly opened a private door 
 leading to the green-room, where he and his father 
 found refuge. 
 
 Saturday, the 1st of December, 1804, was fixed for 
 his first appearance at Covent Garden Theatre. On 
 the previous Friday night several persons had sought
 
 CO VENT GARDEN THEATRE BESIEGED. 61 
 
 to conceal themselves in the house, in hope of being 
 able to find a good position for witnessing his perform- 
 ance. About ten o'clock on the morning of the day he 
 was announced to appear, men were seen to parade the 
 piazza of the theatre, and collect in groups in various 
 parts of Bow Street, that they might be near the doors 
 when the crowd began to gather. All seats possible 
 to book had been taken for the first six nights of 
 Betty's performances. Soon after mid-day the principal 
 entrances of the house were surrounded, and fresh 
 batches continually arriving, quite early in the after- 
 noon the piazza was not only full, but a mass of people 
 compact and impenetrable stretched across the street. 
 Danger was apprehended, and policemen were placed 
 inside the building, whilst a detachment of the Guards 
 was stationed outside. Before evening came the great 
 heat and close pressure of the crowd became intoler- 
 able, and many persons fainted. The Guards now 
 scattered those collected in the street, and stationing 
 themselves at the entrance to the piazza, allowed none 
 to add to the numbers already collected there. 
 
 The doors were opened at half-past four o'clock, 
 when a terrific rush like that of a released torrent 
 poured into the house. Indescribable confusion followed. 
 Before five minutes had elapsed the galleries were
 
 62 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 crowded to their uttermost limit. The pit was 
 crammed, and many of those who held pit tickets 
 climbed into the front boxes, and refused to move from 
 their position ; the passages and lobbies were likewise 
 filled by those who, unable to obtain places, were satis- 
 fied to remain in the building, though they could 
 neither see nor hear young Roscius. The din resound- 
 ing through the house was deafening; cries and re- 
 monstrances, laughter and gossip filled the air. Pre- 
 sently the heat became unendurable, and long before 
 the play began, and continually during the performance, 
 men and women fainted. The Prince of Wales, after- 
 wards George the Fourth, fat and florid in a tight 
 coat, red-brown wig, and many-folded neckcloth, sat in 
 Lady Melbourne's box ; crowds of fair women and not- 
 able men gathered in the suiTounding circle, a blaze of 
 diamonds and decorations in all ; whilst behind the 
 scenes, actors, dramatists, and critics assembled in 
 numbers, satisfied to witness the performance from the 
 wings. After patient waiting and strong endurance, 
 the audience saw the curtain rise. Then the play, 
 Barharossa, began, but Achmet, the character Master 
 Betty represented, not appearing in the first act, no 
 heed was pj\id to the players, whose voices were drowned 
 in the continued murmuring and general excitement.
 
 FIRST APPEARANCE IN LONDON. 63 
 
 At the beginning of the second act silence settled 
 over the house, and when at last the boy made his 
 appearance whom they had sufifered so much to see, 
 thunders of applause echoed and re-echoed through 
 the theatre. With admirable self-possession and ap- 
 parent calmness he bowed repeatedly, undismayed by 
 the vast mass of faces rising tier above tier before him. 
 Then turning to the stage he began his part, seeming 
 to lose all knowledge of his audience in the identity 
 of his representation. In appearance he was slight 
 and feminine, his features clear cut and intelligent in 
 expression, his eyes small, his bright brown hair fall- 
 ing, after the fashion of the day, in ringlets on his 
 shoulders. His voice was rather monotonous, and in 
 the higher notes decidedly shrill. He was continually 
 interrupted by the plaudits of his audience, and when 
 the act concluded deafening cheers rang through the 
 house. Throughout the tragedy the enthusiasm in- 
 creased, and at its conclusion the audience, by way of 
 compliment to Master Betty, refused to permit the 
 usual farce to be played. 
 
 Having acted six nights at Covent Garden, he began 
 his performances at Drury Lane. Here the scene 
 which had taken place at the rival house on his first 
 appearance was repeated with additional violence ;
 
 64 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 for the crowd outside the theatre, impatient of the 
 long delay which ensued before the doors were opened, 
 smashed all the windows within reach ; whilst on 
 gaining admission it destroyed the balustrades leading 
 to the boxes and galleries, and forced the bars at the 
 pay-doors. 
 
 Honours now poured thick upon Master Betty. By 
 their request he was presented to George III. and 
 Queen Charlotte ; the Prince of Wales entertained him 
 at Carlton House ; he was proposed as a fitting subject 
 for the Cambridge prize medal poem ; invitations from 
 the highest women in the land were showered upon 
 him; ducal carriages were placed at his disposal, and 
 carried him to and from the theatres ; Opie painted 
 him as Nerval on the Grampian hills; Northcote 
 represented him in full length with Shakespeare 
 standing at a respectful distance ; busts of him were 
 exhibited at the exhibitions; whilst prints displayed 
 in the shop-windows portrayed John Philip Kemble 
 and himself riding on one horse, Master Betty in front, 
 remarking, " I don't mean to affront you, but when two 
 persons ride on a horse one must be behind." 
 
 But what was perhaps the most flattering compli- 
 ment of all awaited him. One night, when he was 
 playing Achmet at Drury Lane, it was whispered that
 
 COMPLIMENTS PAID HIM. 65 
 
 Gentleman Smith, the original Charles Surface, who 
 had retired some sixteen years previously, was now 
 in the house. And the tragedy being ended, this 
 excellent actor went behind the scenes, and requested 
 he might be introduced to the boy. This being 
 accomplished, they fell into discourse, when Gentleman 
 Smith said, " During Garrick's last illness he gave me 
 a seal, his own likeness cut whilst in Italy, with this 
 commission, that should I in after years meet with 
 a player who acted from nature and from feeling, 
 and whom I considered worthy of the gift, I should 
 present him with that token. I have travelled from 
 Bury St. Edmunds to be present at your performance, 
 and I consider you worthy of the valued relic." A 
 few days later the seal reached Master Betty with the 
 following letter — 
 
 "Young Gentleman, 
 
 " The fame of your talents has drawn an old 
 fellow-labourer in the theatric vineyard from his 
 retirement in a very advanced age, and he feels well 
 rewarded for his trouble. Let me recommend to you 
 strict attention to the arts and Idles Icttres. May 
 your success continue, and may you live to be an 
 ornament to the stage and to your country. Accept 
 
 VOL. L F
 
 66 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 from me the seal of our great predecessor — a strong 
 likeness of Mr. Garrick. 
 
 " Couldst thou in this engraved pebble trace 
 The living likeness of his plastic face, 
 Whilst thy congenial soul partook its fire, 
 His magic eye thy spirit would inspire. 
 
 " I am your admirer, friend, and well-wisher, 
 
 "W. Smith." 
 "Feb. 15, 1805." 
 
 His London engagements brought great profit to 
 himself and to the theatres at which he played. The 
 receipts of Drury Lane for the twenty-eight nights 
 during which he performed amounted to seventeen 
 thousand two hundred and ten pounds, being an 
 average sum of six hundred and fourteen pounds 
 nightly; his own salary for these evenings being two 
 thousand seven hundred and eighty-two pounds, inde- 
 pendent of his benefits, which realized about two 
 thousand guineas. Having gained unexpected wealth 
 and renown in London, he returned to the provinces, 
 but in the followin<x winter he was asrain announced 
 to appear at both theatres during the months of 
 December, 1805, and January, 1806. Meanwhile 
 curiosity concerning him had considerably abated, and
 
 CURIOSITY ABATES. 67 
 
 though the House of Commons on one occasion, at 
 the desire of his friend Mr. Pitt, adjourned to witness 
 his performance of Hamlet, yet his audiences were by 
 no means so large as during his first visit. Indeed, the 
 receipts taken on the evenings he played at Drury 
 Lane Theatre were little more than half the sums 
 received the previous year, and averaged but two 
 hundred and twenty-seven pounds some odd shillings 
 nightly. A month before his second visit a lady 
 of the mature age of eight years, whose acting had 
 created a sensation in the provinces, was, whilst 
 playing Aliss Peggy in the Cmmtry Girl at Dniry 
 Lane Theatre, hissed off the stage, and not permitted 
 to finish her part, though she made a pert speech 
 in her own defence. This was a sign to Master Betty, 
 whose career as a phenomenon was almost at an end. 
 
 Actors deserving well of the town, whose positions had 
 been hardly won, were from the first indignant at the 
 foolish enthusiasm that the immature acting of a clever 
 boy had caused. Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble had 
 withheld from appearing in the same cast with Betty, 
 and it was with reluctance the members of the company 
 at either house performed with him. Above all others 
 Kean, who possessed a full sense of his own worth, was 
 wrath that this lad's mechanical performances should 
 
 F 2
 
 68 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 produce wealth and fame, whilst he, who was gifted 
 with fire, imagination, passion, and capacity, almost 
 starved ; and this feeling within him presently resolved 
 itself into action. Meantime Master Betty, whom we 
 shall meet again, returned once more to the provinces, 
 where he continued to reap golden harvests. 
 
 It was the custom for Drury Lane and Covent 
 Garden Theatres to close from the end of June to 
 early in September, during which time a summer 
 season of performances was held at the Haymarket 
 Theatre, the players chiefly consisting of minor lights 
 from the great houses, with an occasional star from 
 some provincial theatre introduced by way of novelty 
 and attraction. The luminary whom it was hoped 
 would shine this season was Alexander Eae, who had 
 formerly played Richmond to Kean's Richard in the 
 back parlour of Mrs. Price's house. He was five years 
 older than the friend of his boyhood, and had begun 
 life as clerk to an army agent, but having a passion 
 for the stage he became an actor. His presence was 
 handsome and attractive, his playing brisk and noisy. 
 In tragedy and comedy he showed an equal talent, 
 which never rose above the dull level of mediocrity. 
 Mrs. Siddons, who had acted with him in Liverpool, 
 had said that, "out of London there was nothing to
 
 AT THE HAYMAHKET. 69 
 
 equal this young fellow;" and though her judgment 
 was found wanting, yet when spoken by her it was 
 heard as the utterance of an oracle, and he had been 
 engaged forthwith for the Haymarket. 
 
 On this opening night of the season, June 9th, 1806, 
 Rae played Octavian, a favourite character of Kean's, 
 who had acted it in the provinces with great success. 
 But no chance was afforded him of appearing in a promi- 
 nent part, though, according to one who knew him well, 
 he was now " a better actor than he could have been in 
 1830, when sickness had enervated his frame, and when 
 his defects had become habits by the flattery of ill- 
 judging friends and the applause of name-lauding 
 auditors." But those surrounding him were blind to his 
 merits, and had he laid bare his pretentions they would 
 have laughed him to scorn. To them this slight-figured, 
 shabbily-dressed youth, with eager dark eyes and reticent 
 manners, was but a member of impoverished strolling 
 companies, who had fai'ed over-well in receiving an 
 engagement in London. Though the parts he played 
 were insignificant, the manner in which he acted them 
 was excellent, but his fellow-labourers were the last to 
 admit his ability. When in a drama of Colman's, 
 called Means and Ways, he acted the part of Carney, 
 a slight outline which he developed into a character,
 
 70 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 those watching him at the wings whispered to each 
 other, " He's trying to act ; the little fellow's making 
 a part of Carney ; " to which remark came the reply, 
 " He wants fun, and is too real." 
 
 The public were more kind, and occasional appro- 
 bation rewarded his endeavours. He was proud to 
 recall that once he received three rounds of applause 
 for delivering a few words ; and again, when Five, Miles 
 Off, or the Finger Post, was produced, its author, Thomas 
 Dibdin, publicly commended his acting of a very trivial 
 part. His feelings of mortification at the estimate in 
 which he was held behind the curtain, and at the 
 opportunities denied him of appearing in prominent 
 parts, were heightened by Rae's forgetfulness of their 
 boyish friendship ; one was seemingly at the head of his 
 profession, playing lead in a London house, the other was 
 at the lowest rung of the ladder, and the distance lying 
 between was great. One day whilst rehearsing the 
 Ir&n Chest, in which Rae was cast for Sir Edward 
 Mortimer and Kean for a nameless servant, the former, 
 in changing the business of the last act, gave some 
 directions to the latter which he did not immediately 
 understand, and the passage was therefore repeated 
 three times, when at last Rae exclaimed, " Never mind, 
 sir, we'll try it at night." One who was present says he
 
 BIS DISAPPOINTMENT. 71 
 
 believes Rae unintentionally spoke the words in that 
 hopeless tone men use when despairing of making 
 others understand their meaning. " Kean's brow 
 changed," says this observer, "a look which I have 
 since marked often came over his pale face, and a 
 pecaliar motion of his lips as if he were chewing or 
 swallowing, which in Kean was a certain sign of hurt 
 feeling or supposed rage. I do not believe that Kean 
 ever forgot that circumstance." 
 
 To drown his sense of disappointment he too often 
 frequented the Antelope tavern, then kept by one 
 Clarke, who had been kind to him in Sheerness 
 during days of weariness and weeks of hardship. Shy, 
 silent, and perhaps scornful, he avoided Finche's, to 
 which the better class of players resorted to recount 
 their late success or predict their future triumphs — lan- 
 guage which, to one holding within him the elements of 
 greatness fate denied him the opportunity of testing, 
 might well goad him to madness. Tlie season at the 
 Haymarket ended on the 12th of September. Before 
 that date Kean, carrying with him a letter of introduc- 
 tion to John Philip Kemble, waited on him at Co vent 
 Garden Theatre that he might request an engagement. 
 Kemble's manner, perhaps charged with the remem- 
 brance of his mimicry in the past, was cold and
 
 72 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 severe ; Kean left his presence chilled and depressed, 
 and stated he would rather never play in London than 
 act under Kemble. Soon he received an engagement, 
 at a salary of eighteen shillings a week, from Mrs, Baker, 
 a manageress well-known in the provinces, and played 
 at Tunbridge Wells on the 22nd of the month. It 
 is worthy of note, that Kean, Mrs. Siddons, and George 
 Frederick Cooke had failed to attract attention on 
 their first appearances in London. Each had then gone 
 back to the country, where Mrs. Siddons remained seven 
 years, Cooke two-and-twenty, and Kean eight years, 
 before returning to the capital and securing success. 
 
 Mr. Kean " of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket," as he 
 was now styled in the playbills, frequently figured as 
 first tragedian, occasionally as light comedian, and 
 generally as a singer of comic songs between the acts. 
 He then began a career heavily chequered by success 
 and failure, by light and shadow, which eventually 
 ended in renown. Determined to gain fame, he con- 
 tinually studied, and whilst at Birmingham resolved on 
 representing Hamlet. Parts of the play he had recited 
 in days of yore to Miss Tidswell, or enacted for the 
 benefit of Mrs. Clarke's guests, but he now for the first 
 time represented the grief-stricken prince as a complete 
 figure in the tragic picture Shakespeare has painted for
 
 PLAYING AT BELFAST. 73 
 
 all time. His study was slow and careful, and those 
 who were stirred by his outbursts seldom considered the 
 labour they cost him ; what they deemed the result 
 of inspiration had been carefully rehearsed ; for even 
 genius must labour to excel. Mrs. Kean was wont in 
 after years to narrate that he " used to mope about for 
 hours, walking miles and miles alone with his hands in 
 his pockets, thinking intensely on his characters. No 
 one," she added, "could get a word from him. He 
 studied and slaved beyond any actor I ever knew." 
 
 His appearance as Hamlet received the success it 
 merited, and was repeated several times during the 
 company's stay in that town ; he had now made a step 
 forward towards the goal he desired. Soon after, he 
 travelled into Scotland, and from there passed over to 
 Belfast, where Atkins engaged him to play leading parts. 
 Arriving here, he was told that two nights later Mrs. 
 Siddons would give a few performances at the theatre, 
 beginning with the Mourning Bride, in which he was 
 cast for Osmjm, a part with which he was wholly un- 
 familiar. He immediately assured Atkins it would be 
 impossible for him to attempt the character, but the 
 manager answered he had engaged himself to play 
 principal parts, and must fulfil his contract. The young 
 actor confessed his memory was slow to grasp or retain,
 
 74 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 and that it would be an act of injustice to himself, and 
 likewise to Mrs. Siddons, to force this representation 
 upon him ; but Atkins would hear of no refusal. 
 
 Accordingly he prepared to face the situation. He 
 had previously accepted an invitation from a friend on 
 board a sloop of war lying in Carrickfergus Bay to 
 dine with him on Sunday. On Friday evening he 
 betook himself to this friend, that he might study in 
 greater peace and seclusion, and returned on Monday, 
 believing his efforts had been successful. A densely- 
 packed audience awaited the great actress, who was 
 received with enthusiasm ; then silence fell upon the 
 house. Kean began his part, spoke the first few lines, 
 hesitated, and paused ; the impressive bearing of Mrs. 
 Siddons, the breathless attention of the crowd made 
 him forget his lines. Approaching the wings, he sought 
 to catch the prompter's words, but in striving to repeat 
 them spoke nonsense, and ended in failure. Nothing 
 but the presence of Mrs. Siddons suppressed the 
 gradually increasing anger of the assemblage, and to 
 appease its fury he came forward and explained the 
 circumstances under which he was obliged to act. 
 
 Venice Preserved was the next play in which Mrs. 
 Siddons was to appear, a rehearsal for which was called 
 next morning. Before it began, she asked who was
 
 ACTING WITH MRS. SIDDONS. 75 
 
 to represent Jaffier? Kean's name was mentioned, 
 " What ! " said she, indignantly, " surely not that 
 horrid little man who deistroyed the tragedy last night ! " 
 The manager assured her he was perfect in his part, 
 and would play it extremely well. His judgment 
 proved correct; for not only did Kean please the 
 audience, but likewise the queen of tragedy, who com- 
 plimented him on his performance, and foretold his 
 success. The words of encouragement he had pre- 
 viously received had been few, and those of so famous 
 a woman were welcome as gifts ; they served as oil to 
 light the flame of hope. 
 
 At the conclusion of his engagement at Belfast he 
 joined Watson's company, which made periodical circuits 
 of the chief towns of Gloucester, Warwick, Worcester, 
 and Hertfordshire, playing tragedy, comedy, farce, and 
 pantomime. One evening whilst he was acting at 
 Birmingham in a pantomime, founded on the story of 
 Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene, a school-boy 
 aged sixteen named William Charles Macready, then 
 home from Rugby for the holidays, sat in a box with 
 his sister to witness the performance. The principal 
 characters were represented by Richer, a baron all 
 covered with jewels and gold ; by Mrs. W^atson, a female 
 porpoise, ungainly and gaudy, who played the beauteous
 
 7& EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Imogene; and Kean, clad in green satin as became 
 Alonzo the Brave. "It was so ridiculous," says Mac- 
 ready, " that the only impression I carried away was 
 that the hero and heroine were the worst in the piece. 
 How little did I know, or could guess, that under that 
 shabby green satin dress was hidden one of the most 
 extraordinary theatrical geniuses that have ever illus- 
 trated the dramatic poetry of England. When some 
 years afterwards public enthusiasm was excited to the 
 highest pitch by the appearance at Drury Lane of an 
 actor of the name of Kean, my astonishment may easily 
 be concerned in discovering that the little insignificant 
 Alonzo the Brave was the grandly impassioned personater 
 of Othello, Richard, and Shylock."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Miss Mary Chambers — Kean's marriage — Walking to Swansea 
 — Playing in Andrew Cherry's company — An unrehearsed 
 action — What the strollers made of it — Teaching fencing — 
 Tragedian and tight-rope dancer — Kean's benefit — Penni- 
 less and homeless — Applying for engagements — Letter to 
 Hughes — Engagement at the Weymouth and Exeter theatres 
 — One Mr. Nation — Kean and Mr. Betty — Irregular habits 
 begin — At Guernsey — Expectation of better days — Letters 
 from Elliston — A miserable tramp — The manager of Drury 
 Lane — Hopes and fears — Departure for London. 
 
 And now was an important event in his life's history 
 at hand. Whilst at Cheltenham an Irish girl named 
 Mary Chambers joined the company. She was a native 
 of Waterford, and in the capacity of governess had 
 travelled with a family named Congreve, of Mount 
 Congreve, county Waterford, to Cheltenham, Avhere 
 they repaired to drink the waters. Weary of the 
 drudgery of a school-room, and believing she possessed 
 dramatic talent, she determined to become an actress, 
 and selected Cheltenham as the scene of her tUhut.
 
 78 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 She danced gracefully, sang prettily, but acted indiffer- 
 ently. Her manners were kindly and gentle, her voice 
 soft and sweet, and her appearance refined if not hand- 
 some. From the tasteful manner in which she invari- 
 ably dressed, as well as from her general appearance, 
 Kean, without any false representation of hers, came 
 to believe she possessed some money, and, anxious to 
 better his condition, proposed marriage to her, he being 
 at this time in his twenty-first year, while she was 
 nine years older. 
 
 He was immediately accepted, and one bright morn- 
 ing, on the I7th of July, 1808, this marriage, loveless at 
 least on his side, was celebrated in the parish church 
 of Stroud, in the county of Gloucester, by the Rev. 
 Jklr. Adams, whose fee Kean paid out of half-a- sovereign 
 lent him by Miss Harriet Thornton, who figured on 
 this occasion as a bridesmaid. Returning to Chelten- 
 ham, the wedding party hastened to the Dog Tavern, 
 where its worthy hostess, Mrs. Hyell, furnished the poor 
 players with a wedding breakfast at her own expense. 
 Kean's salary at the time when he became a husband 
 was a guinea a week. Some months after his marriage 
 he left Watson's company to join the troop of another 
 manager named Cherry, who gave him twenty-five 
 shillinfrs a week.
 
 WALKING TO SWANSEA. 79 
 
 Andrew Cherry was a clever dramatist, an excellent 
 comedian, and an able manager. Moreover was he a 
 man of wit. It is recorded of him, that before taking a 
 company into the country he was offered a remunerative 
 engagement by the proprietor of a theatre who on a 
 former occasion had cheated him. Therefore his brief 
 answer was, that he " had bit him once, and was now 
 resolved he would not have two bites of A. Cherry." 
 When Kean and his wife joined him he was travelling 
 with a fairly good company through South Wales and 
 the south-west of Ireland. Kean's engagement had 
 been made by letter, and there now arose a difficulty 
 regarding his joining Cherry at Swansea. Neither he 
 nor his wife, soon to become a mother, had money to 
 defray their travelling expenses, and it but remained for 
 them to make the journey on foot. Accordingly these 
 poor strollers, ill-clad, badly fed, and lacking strength, 
 trudged wearily along the high roads for many days, 
 now reciting and singing with what spirits they could 
 summon at some village inn, that they might secure 
 a night's shelter ; again playing in a barn, that they 
 might earn a meal from the pittance wrung from over- 
 fed, gaping, witless rustics. Their fatigue and hard- 
 ships were great, and their exhaustion complete, when 
 they reached their destination, and received some
 
 80 EDMDND KEAN. 
 
 funds in advance from the manager to supply their 
 wants. 
 
 When Kean was sufficiently recovered to join the 
 company, he was somewhat disappointed at finding the 
 principal parts were generally allotted to a tragedian 
 named Smith ; but his spirits rose on seeing this actor's 
 deficiency, for he chiefly depended for his effects on 
 rant, and tore his passions to tatters. Strength of lung 
 in shouting, and force of limb in gesticulating, stood in 
 place of facial expression or intellectual interpretation, 
 Kean endured him with such patience as kindly heaven 
 granted him, until one night, when Smith was playing 
 Hamlet, and Kean representing the venerable Polonius. 
 Then did his endurance gradually vanish, until at the 
 conclusion of the play scene, where the king calls for 
 lights, Kean, overcome by the ridiculous bearing of 
 Hamlet, and the idiotic behaviour of the whole court of 
 Denmark, suddenly threw a double somersault, which 
 by its daring novelty electrified not only the noble 
 company upon the stage, but the admiring audience 
 likewise. 
 
 An explanation with the manager followed this 
 unrehearsed action, the result being, that Kean was 
 allowed to play the heroes of tragedy henceforth. Now 
 the sometime Hamlet accepted his fate with philosophy,
 
 AN UNREHEARSED ACTION. 81 
 
 but felt inclined to take his revenge when opportunity 
 oflfered. This came to him in due course. One night 
 when Kean played Richard III., and the tragedy had 
 arrived at the scene where the body of Henry VI. is 
 being carried past Richard, one of the supers, who, 
 to make the scene more realistic, was dressed as a 
 parson, coughed violently, whereon Smith, once a Danish 
 prince, but now a corpse-bearer, instead of saying, " My 
 lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass," cried out in 
 impressive accents, " My lord, stand back, and let the 
 parson cough," which so tickled the fancy of Henry's 
 disconsolate widow, that she burst into loud laughter, 
 and the whole scene was spoilt. Kean now played 
 a round of characters in which he subsequently won 
 fame, and was regarded by many as a player whose 
 future promised fair success. 
 
 Whilst at Swansea Mrs, Kean gave birth to their 
 first child, named Howard, to whom Kean became 
 passionately devoted. From this town the company 
 travelled to Carmarthen and Haverfordwest, playing 
 a season in each place, and then crossed the Channel 
 to Waterford. Whilst in this city the troop was 
 joined by an Irishman named Sheridan Knowles, 
 who, like many another ambitious youth, Avithout 
 possessing ability as an actor, believed himself destined 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 for the stage. Having given up his appointment in a 
 London hospital, he had made his d4lut as Hamlet 
 before a Dublin audience ; but such talent as he betrayed 
 was insufficient to impress his manager with ardent 
 desires to secure his services. Therefore he had gone 
 into the provinces as a strolling player, married Maria 
 Charteris, and eventually joined Cherry's company at 
 Waterford. With Kean this round-faced, genial-tem- 
 pered, bustling little man soon became fast friends; 
 and his admiration for the young tragedian begot the 
 desire to write him a play. Accordingly, Sheridan 
 Knowles laboured and brought forth his first drama, 
 entitled Leo, or the Gipsy, in which Kean played the 
 hero with credit to himself and profit to the author, for 
 whose benefit it was produced. 
 
 It was not merely the principal characters in tragedy 
 and comedy Kean was engaged to perform ; occasion- 
 ally he was expected to use -his energies as a ballet- 
 master, and show his agility as a harlequin ; and on 
 more than one occasion he acted the latter on the 
 same evening that he played Richard III. But, not- 
 withstanding his excellent performances, and the 
 various attractions held forth by the theatre, audiences 
 were scant in number ; and Kean was wont to relate 
 that scarce ever had he felt hunger so acutely as one
 
 SEEING THE STROLLERS. 83 
 
 night, when playing King Lear to the dull and honest 
 burghers of this goodly city ; the pangs of his empty 
 stomach gave a wildness to his eye which no effort of 
 imagination could produce. 
 
 It happened during the course of Cherry's stay in this 
 city, a young subaltern named Grattan, and his friend 
 a little lieutenant of artillery, were stationed at the 
 barracks. Now as both these youths were strolling one 
 summer evening along the Mall, where the theatre was 
 situated, they paused to read a glaring play-bill, announc- 
 ing the tragedy of Hamlet would be acted by the full 
 strength of the company on that date. Kean was 
 set down to represent the Prince, Cherry for Polonius, 
 and Sheridan Knowles for Rosencrantz, a fact which 
 held out no attraction for them. However, as they 
 prided themselves on their skill in using the foils, they 
 mutually expressed a desire to witness the fencing scene 
 between Hamlet and Laertes. To their mental capaci- 
 ties the first four acts of the great tragedy was con- 
 sidered a trial beyond endurance, but they resolved to 
 see the fifth, and judge " what sort of affair the strollers 
 would make of it." 
 
 Having signified their gracious intentions to the door- 
 keeper that he might call theui when the time arrived, 
 
 they meanwhile betook themselves to a neighbouring 
 
 G 2
 
 84 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 billiard-room in pursuit of an amusement that might 
 not overtax their intellects. In the course of the evening 
 the door-keeper came to announce that the fifth act was 
 about to begin, and with a correct absence of excite- 
 ment, they leisurely strolled towards the play-house, 
 and took possession of a stage box. They were in time 
 to hear Osric's invitation to Hamlet " lisped out with 
 the usual vulgar caricature of court foppery regularly 
 exhibited by theatre royal comedians, as well as by our 
 Waterford candle-snuffer," writes the magnificent Grat- 
 tan. When the fencing began poor Osric's desperate 
 efforts had merely the effect of amusing them, and they 
 turned their kind attention to the chief actors in the 
 scene. He who played Laertes being tall of stature 
 made Hamlet's representation appear more diminutive 
 than he really was. The fight between them began, 
 when so poor was their skill in the eyes of the 
 lieutenant, himself a practised swordsman, as he would 
 have the world know, that he laughed aloud in his 
 scorn, and crying out theatrically " Hold, enough," re- 
 quested his companion to leave the house. Grattan 
 would have gone with him, had he not noticed the 
 extreme skill and grace with which Kean parried the 
 cut-and-thrust attacks of his adversary, and saw, more- 
 over, the look of haughty resentment he turned upon
 
 GIVES FENCING LESSONS. 85 
 
 the swaggering lieutenant on hearing him laugh. 
 As the duel continued, Grattan's admiration of 
 Kean's carriage and action increased, and when the 
 curtain fell his curiosity concerning him was 
 roused. 
 
 Therefore in passing out he made inquiries regarding 
 Kean from the money-taker, a garrulous dame, well 
 versed in the private histories of the company indi- 
 vidually and collectively. From her he learned that 
 Kean was an actor of talent, the first tragedian of 
 the company, likewise its principal singer, stage 
 manager, inventor of pantomimes and ballets of action, 
 and the best harlequin in Ireland, Wales, or the West 
 of England. Moreover, it was added he- gave lessons 
 in fencing and boxing, for his skill with both foils and 
 gloves was known to many. Hearing these things 
 the young men sought his acquaintance, and engaged 
 that he should give them lessons in fencing, though, 
 adds Grattan, " his visits were not made in the capacity 
 of master, for we were either of us quite a match for 
 him." Whilst giving instructions in the rooms of his 
 pupils, he made acquaintance with the officers of the 
 garrison, all of whom admired his dexterity in fencing ; 
 and they, falling at odd times into conversation with 
 him, and witnessing his various talents, became
 
 86 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 interested in his fortunes, and resolved on securing him 
 a well- filled house on the night of his benefit. 
 
 The play Kean selected for this occasion was Hannah 
 More's tragedy of Percy, in which he represented the 
 hero and Mrs. Kean the heroine. Whilst the company 
 stayed at Waterford her name had not appeared on 
 the play-bills, for before arriving in her native city 
 Kean had requested the manager to waive her engage- 
 ment ; for, insomuch as the heroines were represented 
 by other ladies of the company, she could only appear 
 in inferior characters, a fact that might prejudice her 
 in the opinion of her connections and friends. This 
 sacrifice of her salary for the benefit of his pride was 
 made at a time when he could ill-afford the loss of 
 even such a trifling sum. Mrs. Kean's appearance on 
 the occasion of her husband's benefit was described in 
 the bills as " her first upon any stage ; " probably a 
 precaution taken to insure the needed mercy of her 
 audience. The house was crowded by those whom 
 either curiosity or friendship drew to witness her 
 efforts, as well as by the military element attracted by 
 Kean. 
 
 On this night he displayed various talents, in all 
 of which he excelled ; for having roused the sympathies 
 of his audience by his tragic power, he gave a specimen
 
 ANNE OP SWANSEA. 87 
 
 of his skill as a tight-rope dancer, an art he had learned 
 in Saunders' circus, then sparred with a professional 
 pugilist, took the leading part in a musical interlude, 
 and finally performed Chimpanzee the monkey in the 
 melodramatic pantomime of La Perouse, and in the 
 death scene exhibited a pathos and feeling that made 
 his audience weep. This benefit brought him the 
 welcome sum of forty pounds. His visit to Waterford 
 was made memorable not only by this unusual windfall 
 of fortune, but likewise because of the birth of his 
 second son Charles. 
 
 From Waterford the company proceeded to Clonmel, 
 where Kean's excellent acting created attention, and 
 where likewise he was, as in Waterford, enabled to add 
 to his income by teaching fencing. And having tarried 
 some months in this town they crossed over to Swansea, 
 where the youngest sister of the great Mrs. Siddons, 
 Mrs. Hutton, then lived. This offspring of a clever 
 family had no dramatic talent, but was well-known as 
 the author of several tales written under the nom de 
 plume of Anne of Swansea. She was struck by Kean's 
 various powers, and to better his fortune, and perhaps 
 gratify her vanity, wrote a play for him, in which he 
 performed for his benefit. 
 
 He had now been over two years in Cherry's
 
 88 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 company, and had steadily gained in reputation; and 
 knowing he had benefited his manager, he asked an 
 increase of five shillings a week in his salary ; but this 
 Cherry refused, and they parted."* Once more Kean 
 had the world before him. Hearing a vacancy had 
 occurred in the Bath Theatre, he offered his services, 
 but preference was given to another applicant; he 
 then wrote to the manager of a Liverpool theatre, who 
 replied that his company was full. Once more taking 
 heart, he communicated with Frederick Jones of the 
 Crow Street Theatre, Dublin, stating he would act 
 tragedy and comedy, and serve as master of the ballet, 
 for three pounds a week, but his proposal was declined. 
 He then travelled to town, hoping to find an engage- 
 ment there, no matter how humble, which might save 
 him from the drudgery of a strolling player's life. 
 Penniless as he was, he and his family endured much. 
 " At Richmond in Yorkshire," Mrs. Kean wrote, " we 
 suffered more than common privations. My husband 
 took a room in the principal inns, and gave recitations, 
 singing, &c. A gentleman who kept a large establish- 
 ment for the education of young gentlemen was very 
 kind, and the young gentlemen called next day with 
 their pocket-money, and left it with the landlady 
 directed for Mr. Kean, the sum amounting, I think,
 
 LETTER TO HUGHES. 89 
 
 to eleven shillings and sixpence. There is something 
 in the generosity of youth." Arriving footsore and 
 weary in town, disappointment awaited him, but still 
 he struggled. At length he heard that Hughes, then 
 manager of the Weymouth, Plymouth, and Exeter 
 theatres, was in want of a clever actor, and applying 
 to him, Kean was engaged to play tragedy and comedy, 
 farce and pantomime, at a salary of two guineas a 
 week. But now having spent his money by his journey 
 to town and his residence there, he knew not how he 
 might reach Weymouth, until at last coming to hear 
 that his new manager's father held an engagement at 
 Sadlers Wells Theatre, he addressed him the following 
 letter, in which he refers with some exaggeration to his 
 large family and most expensive baggage, and shows a 
 certain amount of afifectation in the use of Latin and 
 Greek. 
 
 " Tavistock Bow, Covent Garden, 1812. 
 
 " To — Hughes, Esq., Sadlers Wells Theatre, 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " Having travelled lately some hundred Miles 
 with a large family and most expensive baggage, I am 
 left in London in a situation (which many of our 
 brother professionals are acquainted with) Non est miJii
 
 90 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 argentum. It is My wish therefore to depart by to- 
 morrow's coach for Weymouth, but I frankly confess 
 I at present have not the means; if, sir, you would 
 oblige me with the sum of ten pounds, Mr. Finch or 
 Miss Tidswell will become Answerable for my immedi- 
 ate appearance at Weymouth, and Mr. Hughes might 
 proceed to the reduction of ten shillings per week till 
 the debt is discharged. As I am fully sensible this is 
 a great obligation from a stranger, it is my wish to pay 
 any interest on the money you may please to demand, 
 and as Mr. Hughes, Junr. will have the means in his 
 own hands, there can be no doubt of the payment, and 
 I shall bear the recollection of your kindness "nap 6\ov 
 TOP j3lov. I should not ask so great a favour, but My 
 Aunt, whose purse was ever open to my necessities, is at 
 this moment as bare in pocket as Myself, and another 
 Relation from whom I have been in the habit of receiv- 
 ing Supplies is not in London. I can only say, sir, 
 however exorbitant the request may appear to a 
 stranger, there is no Manager who Jcnoivs me would 
 refuse it ; it is My intention, should fortune favour my 
 designs, to make the Situation you have offered me a 
 permanency, and as I have ever shown unremitting 
 attention to my professional duties, I despair not of 
 joining your approbation to the public's, and of making
 
 JOINS hughes' company. 91 
 
 it pleasant to all parties. The money I write for is for 
 immediate service, and if you would commit it to the 
 charge of the bearer — My Servant — it would be brought 
 very safe to Me, and to-morrow we would depart for 
 Weymouth. 
 
 " I am, Sir, 
 
 " With the greatest Respect, Yours, 
 " E. Kean. 
 
 " P.S. — If it is your wish to see me on the business, 
 and you will appoint the hour, I'll wait upon you, but 
 I shall be greatly distressed if I cannot procure the 
 money to-day." 
 
 A sum sufficient for his travelling expenses was 
 lent him, and he joined the company at Weymouth, 
 from whence it moved to Exeter. Here he and his 
 family occupied rooms in Goldsmith Street, situated 
 behind All Hallows Church. The audiences of this 
 quiet cathedral town prided themselves on their critical 
 judgment. They knew a good play when they saw 
 it, and had beheld great tragedians in their day, so 
 that when they pronounced Kean to be fairly excellent, 
 he was certainly gratified. To them he played Hamlet, 
 Richard III., Othello, and Shylock, representing the 
 latter as an injured and pathetic figure instead of
 
 92 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 presenting him as an object for the scoffs and scorn 
 of the gallery, as most actors did at this time. This 
 change caused considerable debate amongst the lovers 
 of Shakspeare ; essays and pamphlets were written on 
 the subject, and debates held concerning the great 
 dramatist's idea of the Jew. 
 
 Kean had the good fortune whilst here to attract the 
 notice and gain the friendship of a worthy resident, one 
 Mr. Nation, an old gentleman famous for his knowledge 
 of Shakspeare and his love of the stage. Appreciating 
 Kean's genius, he had become interested in his fate, 
 and striven to forward his fortunes. Inviting him to 
 his house, he entertained him, read plays with him, 
 and debated regarding the meaning of various passages 
 and the delivery of certain parts. To these convers- 
 ations the young tragedian attributed many of the 
 excellences which subsequently marked his represent- 
 ations. Nor did the offices of friendship end here. In 
 order to draw the attention of London managers to 
 Kean's performances, this ingenious man would write 
 criticisms on them, dwell on their various merits, refer 
 to the crowded audiences who witnessed them, and the 
 applause that greeted them, both these latter details 
 being purely imaginary. These critiques he handed to 
 one Marjerum, a correspondent for the metrojpolitan
 
 REAPPEARANCE OF MR. BETTY. 93 
 
 papers, who forwarded them to town ; and they appear- 
 ing in due time, the good people of Exeter wondered 
 exceedingly at the false rumours spread abroad concern- 
 ing themselves and their theatre, whilst Kean and his 
 patron enjoyed them as capital jokes. 
 
 But Mr. Nation's efforts on Kean's behalf did not 
 end here. Being personally acquainted with Dr. Drury, 
 head-master of Harrow, and knowing him to be a lover 
 of good acting, and moreover a man of influence, he 
 begged him to come and stay a night at Exeter, that 
 he might witness Kean's playing. With this request 
 the doctor complied, and accompanying his friend to the 
 theatre, was so forcibly struck by Kean's representation 
 of Cato, that he promised to use what interest he had 
 with the managers of Drury Lane in urging them to 
 give this actor a trial ; and as he promised so did he 
 perform, but no immediate result followed his exertions 
 on the actor's behalf. 
 
 Whilst Kean was playing at Exeter, William Henry 
 Betty, now arrived at the age of manhood, came to the 
 theatre as a star. He had retired from the stage for 
 upwards of six years, four of which he had spent as 
 a student at Cambridge ; but anxious to trade upon his 
 former reputation and accumulate more wealth, he 
 once more trod the boards. He is described at this
 
 94 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 period as being " a great lubberly, overgrown, fat- voiced, 
 good-tempered fellow, with very little talent, and just 
 tolerated as a man by those who were ashamed to con- 
 fess they were deceived in thinking him a divinity when 
 a boy." His figure indeed was much too large and 
 heavy for the stage, his actions overstrained, exuberant, 
 unnatural, and though not wholly destitute of grace, 
 yet generally laboured. His tread on the boards " more 
 resembled the awkward stride of a caricature performer 
 in pantomime than the graceful walk of a tragic hero, 
 whilst his voice was coarse and provincial." 
 
 His fame had not wholly died during his retirement, 
 and his name was yet sufficient to ensure full houses 
 whenever he performed. Now Kean, hearing he was 
 coming to Exeter, became exceedingly uneasy, and 
 when Betty arrived his wrath overflowed ; for the 
 appreciation and reward denied to merit were freely 
 given to one who lived on his reputation as a clever 
 boy ; and when presently asked to play Laertes to 
 Betty's Hamlet, he flatly refused. A writer who con- 
 tributed some memoranda to the Literary Gazette says, 
 that on returning from the theatre one night in a 
 drizzling rain he encountered Kean, " He had been 
 wandering about the whole night, unable to endure the 
 mortification he experienced, I reasoned with him,"
 
 riGAEO MORALIZES. 95 
 
 continues this individual, " but it was in vain. ' I 
 must feel deeply/ he replied; 'he commands over- 
 flowing houses, I play to empty benches, and I know my 
 powers are superior to his.' " 
 
 His behef in his own talents, notwithstanding the 
 slights he received and the appreciation he lacked, was 
 firm ; and frequently he predicted his future greatness, 
 for he was still young, and hope dwells with youth. 
 
 Probably his manager shared Kean's opinion of 
 himself, for he was not dismissed because of his refusal 
 to support Mr. Betty, and on the departure of that 
 actor continued to play leading parts. His marriage 
 had not made him a man of more sober habits, and 
 occasionally he and his family felt the misery of want. 
 Not that he was ever unwilling to spare his labours ; 
 that he might add to his salary, he taught elocution, 
 dancing, and fencing, but he spent his money as freely 
 as he had earned it hardly. The straits to which his 
 extravagance reduced him were sometimes cruel. One 
 day the barber who was nightly engaged at the theatre, 
 and every morning assisted Mr, Nation in his toilet, 
 a verbose, kindly gossip, made complaint to the latter. 
 " Is it not a scandal, sir," quoth Figaro, sadly, " that 
 such a man as Mr. Kean should be so badly treated ? 
 Yesterday evening he wanted a pint of porter to enable
 
 96 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 him to continue his part, and he hadn't twopence, nor 
 would the publican give him credit ; but I," continued 
 the barber proudly, " I lent him the money." 
 
 Desiring greatly to gain a footing in one of the 
 London theatres, he wrote from time to time offering 
 his services to their managers, giving references to 
 Andrew Cherry, Anne of Swansea, and Dr. Drury, but 
 in most cases no answer was vouchsafed to the poor 
 stroller. Still with eager eyes he looked down the road 
 of time to sight his coming fame, and saw behind every 
 cloud the herald of good tidings. One day, when it 
 was told him Lord and Lady Cork had bespoken 
 Othello for that evening, he thought his fortune was now 
 surely made, for his lordship, who had gained some 
 reputation for judgment as a theatrical critic, must 
 necessarily be impressed with his merits, and would no 
 doubt use his influence towards directing the world's 
 attention to his playing. Accordingly he exerted his 
 abilities to their utmost, but neither the sweetness of 
 his voice nor the force of his acting had power to win 
 the attention of his lordship, who amused himself by 
 watching his children playing at hot cockles in front of 
 the box, whilst Kean spoke the finest speeches of Othello. 
 That night his spirits were heavily depressed ; his evil 
 planet was still in the ascendant.
 
 THE MOTLEY JACKET. 97 
 
 At the suggestion of one of his friends, he studied 
 the part of Zanga for his benefit. But the wardrobe of 
 the theatre not being rich in its resources, and contain- 
 ing for the most part doublets of rusty velvet and suits 
 of faded satin adorned with tarnished tinsel, Kean was 
 at a loss how to dress a character whose sole costume 
 should properly consist of a tiger or leopard skin. But 
 necessity urging invention, he secured from a mahogany 
 table a brass claw, to which he fastened a calemanco 
 robe, and thus adorned he appeared before a wondering 
 audience. His performance in the tragedy was noble 
 and impressive, but many of those who filled the 
 theatre that evening preferred him as harlequin in the 
 pantomime of The Judgment of Paris which followed. 
 As a harlequin he frequently appeared, yet he could 
 not endure the character, which the commands of his 
 manager alone compelled him to play. " I never feel 
 degraded," he was wont to say, " but when I have the 
 motley jacket on my back." 
 
 For all that the motley jacket was continually on 
 
 his back, and there were many amongst the Exeter 
 
 audiences who thought his harlequinade superior to his 
 
 tragedy. On the close of the winter season 1813, he 
 
 placed his benefit under the patronage of Mrs. Buller 
 
 of Downes, selecting Cato as the play for the evening. 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 
 
 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 The play-bill, a copy of which is given here, is still 
 extant. 
 
 MR KEAN'S NIGHT. 
 
 Under the Immediate Patronage of Mrs. Buller of Downes. 
 On Friday Evening, March 2Qth, 1813, 
 
 Will be presented (not acted here these 20 years) 
 Addismi's celebrated Play of 
 
 CATC. 
 
 " Cuncta terrarum subaeta 
 Praeter atrocem animum Catonis." 
 
 M. P. Cato (the Eoman Quaestor) 
 Portius ... Mr. Hamilton. Marcus 
 
 Ludr'""' I ^^™^^ ^^li^ior^ 
 
 Syphax (the Numidian General) 
 Decius (Ambassador from Caesar) 
 Juba (the Prince of Zama) 
 Marcia ... Miss Eivers. Lucia 
 
 Mr. 
 
 Mr. 
 (Mr. 
 (Mr. 
 
 Mr. 
 
 Mr. 
 
 Mr. 
 Miss 
 
 Kean 
 
 TOKELEY 
 
 Perkins 
 worsdale 
 
 Mason 
 
 CONGDON 
 LOVEDAY 
 
 Quantrell 
 
 After which, by particular desire, the Popular Burle.sque Tragic 
 Opera called 
 
 BOMBASTES FURIOSO. 
 
 As performed upwards of 100 nights at the Theatre Royal, 
 Haymarket. 
 
 Artaxominous (King of Utopia) Mr. Tokeley 
 
 Fu.sbos (Minister of State) Mr. Perkins 
 
 First Courtier... Mr. Eswood. Second Courtier... Mr. Congdon 
 
 General Bombastus Mr. Bennett 
 
 Distassma Mrs. M, Hughes
 
 UNDER PLAYING PATRONAGE. 99 
 
 To conclude with an Entire New Pantomime (with original 
 music, &c.), called 
 
 THE SAVAGES. 
 
 Qot up under the immediate direction of Mr. Kean. 
 
 Korah (Husband to Ilia) Mr. Kean 
 
 Kojah (Confederate of Yassedo) Mr. Congdon 
 
 Powtanowski ... Mr. Worsdale. Zenoni ... Mr. Eswood 
 
 Swampum Mr. Gregory 
 
 Yaffedo (secretly in Love with Ilia) Mr. Tokeley 
 
 Ilia Miss Quantrell 
 
 Beni ... Master Hughes. Hugo ... Master Kean 
 
 (Children of Kojah and Ilia.) (His first appearance) 
 
 Female Savages Mesdms. Worsdale, &c., &c. 
 
 Tickets to be had of Mr. Kean, at Miss Hake's, feather-maker, 
 No. 211 High Street; of Messrs. Trewman's and Son; and of 
 Mr. Dryer, where places for the boxes may be taken. 
 
 Mrs. Buller was in her time and place au illustrious 
 personage, though now her name holds no record in 
 the world's memory. In those days, when a lady 
 favoured a performance with her patronage, it was 
 considered the duty of all friends who wished to stand 
 well in her esteem, of the tradespeople with whom she 
 dealt, and of other vassals to crowd the theatre on 
 the occasion. Kean was therefore to profit by this 
 benefit, for Mrs. Buller's importance was felt by 
 all whose lot it was to live within her sphere. Now 
 her butler, a personage of worth and consideration, one 
 
 H 2
 
 100 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 stout and scant of breath, met the poor player one day 
 shortly before the night fixed for his benefit, and 
 heartily congratulated him ; " for," said this man of 
 powder and calves, "you will be sure to have a good 
 house, as my mistress patronizes the play;" whereon 
 Kean vowed he would not trouble himself to sell a 
 single ticket, for if the people didn't come to see his 
 acting, "it shan't be said they come by Mrs. Buller's 
 desire." And this tone was the keynote of his conduct. 
 The hard labour of his professional existence found 
 no relief in domestic happiness. His home life had little 
 attraction for him, and his irregularities were many. 
 Frequently when he was wanted at the theatre he was 
 found in the tavern, and occasionally it was necessary he 
 should be taken to the nearest pump, and have his head 
 douched until, his brains being clear, he was enabled to 
 play his part ; and this being finished, he betook himself 
 to some orgie where he passed the night. Habits of 
 dissij)ation, which eventually ruined his genius and sent 
 him to a premature grave, now began. For two years he 
 remained a member of Hughes's company, at the end of 
 which time he was dismissed. For it happened one night 
 when he was required, he was found in a condition from 
 which all contrivances were impossible to immediately 
 restore him. Hushes was therefore oblicfed to read his
 
 A WISE CRITIC. 101 
 
 part ; but before the performance concluded Kean made 
 his way into a private box, and in an idiotic state of 
 merriment continually called out at times, when the 
 performance did not warrant such remarks, "Bravo, 
 Hughes, bravo," " Well done, my boy, well done." The 
 play was interrupted, the audience disturbed, and the 
 manager outraged. At the end of the week he was 
 dismissed. 
 
 Accompanied by his wife and children he travelled 
 to Portsmouth, and there joined a company crossing to 
 Guernsey ; but his career in this island was by no means 
 prosperous. At quite an early period of this engage- 
 ment he failed to appear on a certain evening when 
 he was announced to play. That a strolling player 
 should dare to disappoint his patrons was a crime the 
 worthy inhabitants could not forgive, and he became 
 unpopular in their eyes. A little weekly publication 
 dignified by the name of a journal makes mention of 
 his acting in phrases amusing to read. " Last night," 
 it stated, " a young man whose name the bills said was 
 Kean made his first appearance as Hamlet, and truly 
 his performance of the character made us wish that we 
 had been indulged with the country system of excluding 
 it, and playing all the other characters. This person 
 has, we understand," continues the critic in a lofty
 
 102 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 strain, " a high character in several parts of England, 
 and his vanity has repeatedly prompted him to endeavour 
 to procure an engagement at one of the theatres in the 
 metropolis; the difficulties he has met with have, 
 however, proved insurmountable, and the managers of 
 Drury Lane and Covent Garden have saved themselves 
 the disgrace to which they would be subject by coun- 
 tenancing such impudence and incompetency. Even 
 his performance of the inferior characters of the drama 
 would be objectionable, if there was nothing to render 
 him ridiculous but one of the vilest figures that has been 
 seen either on or off the stage ; and if his mind was 
 half so qualified for the representation of Richard III., 
 which he is shortly to appear in, as his person is suited 
 to the deformities with which the tyrant is supposed 
 to have been distinguished from his fellows, his success 
 would be most unequivocal. As to his Hamlet, it is 
 one of the most terrible misrepresentations to which 
 Shakespeare has ever been subjected. "Without grace 
 or dignity he comes forward ; he shows an uncon- 
 sciousness that anybody is before him, and is often so 
 forgetful of the respect due to an audience that he 
 turns his back upon them in some of those scenes in 
 which contemplation is to be indulged, as if for the 
 purpose of showing his abstractedness from all ordinary
 
 STARVATION FACES HIM. 103 
 
 subjects. His voice is harsh and monotonous, but as 
 it is deep, answers well enough the idea he entertains 
 of impressing terror by a tone which seems to proceed 
 from a chamel house." 
 
 These false and venomous assertions were sufficient 
 to depress the poor player, but other causes for distress 
 remained behind. His salary was a miserable pittance, 
 insufficient to support his family and lodge them, and 
 he relied on his benefit to discharge his debts; but 
 when his benefit night arrived he played to a sparse 
 audience. A day or two later the company departed, 
 but he was unable to leave the island until certain bills 
 were settled. He therefore devised an entertainment, 
 in which he with his wife and eldest boy sang, played, 
 danced, and recited. The Governor of the island. 
 General Sir John Doyle, lent his patronage, and a 
 sufficient sum was realized for Kean to pay his debts 
 and enable him to depart. He and his family soon 
 started for Teignmouth, where they arrived penniless, 
 poorly clad, and downcast. 
 
 Here starvation faced them, the darkest hour of many 
 bitter years had arrived ; but his spirit was yet unbroken, 
 and again he had recourse to his talents. Therefore he 
 gave another entertainment in the little sanded floored 
 parlour of a poor inn, charging the modest sum of
 
 104 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 sixpence admission, and realizing a few shillings, was 
 next morning trudging his weary way towards Exeter. 
 He had friends here who sheltered him until such time 
 as he got an engagement for himself and his wife from 
 Henry Lee, then at Barnstaple, at a joint salary of 
 thirty shillings a week. But now a new grief befel him, 
 for his eldest son, a bright-eyed, golden-haired lad, with 
 winning ways and promising talents, sickened. Lack 
 of food and exposure to cold had told on the delicate 
 constitution of the boy, of whom his father was excess- 
 ively fond, and he was unable to travel. Under the 
 circumstances necessity compelled the parents to leave 
 Exeter, and Howard was placed for the present in 
 charge of a kindly dressmaker who loved him well. 
 
 And now with the autumn of this year, 1813, the 
 turning-point of Kean's fortune was at hand. Whilst 
 at Barnstaple he received a letter from Miss Tidswell, 
 who never forgot his interests, stating she had secured 
 an engagement for him at the Wych Street Theatre, 
 sometimes called Little Drury, and now known as the 
 Olympic, which would soon be opened under the 
 manafjement of Robert William Elliston. Delighted 
 by this news, which came at a time when hope of 
 better days had almost vanished, he wrote the following 
 note to Elliston —
 
 LETTER TO ELLISTON. 105 
 
 " Barnstaple, Oct. 2, 1813. 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " I have this moment received your proposals for 
 the Wych Street Theatre — id est — Little Drury. The 
 terms Miss Tidswell, by your authority, mentioned to 
 me are the superintending of the stage, the whole of 
 the principal line of business under all denominations 
 of acting, and an equal division of the house on the 
 night of my benefit, with three guineas a week for 
 salary. 
 
 " I place so firm a reliance on your reputed liberality, 
 that on the proof of my humble abilities and assiduity 
 towards the promotion of your interests, you will not be 
 unmindful of mine. I accept, sir, your present proposal, 
 simply requesting you will name what time you expect 
 me in London, 
 
 "E. Kean." 
 
 To this came a reply which somewhat damped his 
 hopes. Elliston agreed to engage him for general 
 business, not principal characters ; was uncertain when 
 the Wych Street Theatre would open, but bade Kean 
 write to him again a month from the date of his letter, 
 October the 8th, and hoped his engagement would 
 be for their mutual benefit. The dubious tone of
 
 106 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 this epistle made one over-used to disappointments 
 fear the engagement would never take place, and before 
 the month ended he wrote to Dr. Drary, asking him to 
 exert his influence with the management of Drury 
 Lane towards finding him a place in the company. 
 
 Meanwhile the good people of Barnstaple took little 
 interest in the drama, and Manager Lee's company 
 continually played to empty houses. A fresh move 
 was therefore made to Taunton, and after a fortnight 
 spent here, the troop set their faces towards Dorchester. 
 The manager and most of his players set out in advance, 
 and Kean having made a bargain with the owner of 
 a chaise who was returning to a town some thirty 
 miles removed, on the route towards Dorchester, soon 
 followed, accompanied by his wife and child. But they 
 had not travelled far when the conveyance broke down, 
 and its passengers found themselves on the highroad, 
 far removed from any town or hamlet. Upwards of 
 seventy miles lay between them and Dorchester, a 
 distance that now seemed interminable. Kean had just 
 sufficient money in his pocket to buy bread and pay for 
 shelter at night during the days of their journey, and 
 with an unflagging spirit and such cheer as he could 
 assume, he took his boy Charlie upon his back, and set 
 forward on his weary way.
 
 A MISERABLE TRAMP. 107 
 
 Mile after mile of the dreary road was traversed, and 
 yet it seemed but little advance had been made, because 
 of the distance which lay ahead. The courage which 
 sustained them at mornincr flagged before night had 
 come, the hours passing silently, their misery being sore. 
 Four brief and bitter winter days came, and they were 
 yet on the road, the young tragedian footsore, cold, 
 hungry, and despairing, his child upon his back ; his 
 wife worn from fatigue, pinched from want, and badly 
 clad, dragging tediously behind, carrying their few 
 belongings wrapped in a bundle, light in itself, but over 
 heavy for her strength. On the evening of this fourth 
 day some faint hope cheered them, for surely their 
 journey must soon be ended. And so they tramped, 
 night falling dark and cheerless over the boundless 
 downs, across which the frosty air swept sadly, pene- 
 trating their thin clothes, and chilling their blood, 
 until at last, with straining eyes the miserable out- 
 casts caught sight of faint lights shining here and 
 there, brightening the comfortable hearths and homes 
 of sturdy burghers, and knew they had reached their 
 goal. Entering the High Street, Kean speedily sought 
 his manager, and drawing upon his slender salary in 
 advance, obtained food and refuge for his family. 
 
 The theatre opened its doors to the public, bills were
 
 108 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 posted on dead walls and freely distributed in shops, but 
 the inhabitants of Dorchester were slow to avail them- 
 selves of the treat the player-folk offered. Kean, 
 heartily weary of a stroller's life, and terribly anxious 
 to secure Elliston's engagement, wrote again to the 
 manager, stating that in the event of his services being 
 required before December, he should be ready to 
 make his appearance in Wych Street. 
 
 The while he acted as tragedian, comedian, and 
 pantomimist at Dorchester. On the 14th of November, 
 1813, he, according to previous announcements, played 
 Alexander the Great. The evening was damp and cold. 
 An audience of about twenty persons shivered in the 
 dreary house ; oil lamps hung here and there, specks of 
 orange light in general gloom ; the footsteps of each 
 new arrival sounded through the theatre. Conversa- 
 tion behind the scenes was audible to those in front. 
 The fiddles in the orchestra squeaked their merriest 
 airs, making believe they were wholly ignorant, or 
 frivolously careless, of the condition of the house, and 
 the consequent suspension of salaries due to their 
 masters. Presently the curtain rose with many a creak, 
 and the tragedy began. The actors, depressed by the 
 sight of unoccupied benches and vacant boxes, care- 
 lessly hurried through their parts, their voices sounding
 
 THE MANAGER OF DRURY LANE. 109 
 
 unnaturally loud, and awaking echoes in the empty- 
 gallery. The tragedy was succeeded by a pantomime 
 farce, for those who paid their money must have its 
 worth ; and Kean, who a few minutes before represented 
 a hero of noble sentiments and mighty deeds, now 
 bounded on to the boards in the motley garb of a 
 harlequin. The shivering few in front laughed at his 
 pranks and made merry over his deeds, the while he 
 reviled a fate which caused him to enact the 
 buffoon. 
 
 That night whilst washing the paint off his face he was 
 told a gentleman waited to see him ; and hurrying on 
 to the stage, he encountered a stranger, who announced 
 himself as Mr. Samuel Arnold, acting manager of Drury 
 Lane Theatre. He stated he had been present during 
 the performance that evening, and requested Kean 
 would come and breakfast with him next morning. 
 Kean was overwhelmed with surprise and apprehension ; 
 for remembering the manner in which he had shuffled 
 through his part, he feared all chances of an engage- 
 ment from Arnold had gone by. Therefore, weighted 
 by gloom, he returned to his wife, saying, " I have ruined 
 myself for ever. Arnold of Drury Lane has been in the 
 house, and I have been gagging and playing carelessly, 
 for who could act to such an audience ? " His faithful.
 
 110 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 much-enduring wife gave him some hope by replying, 
 " It is fortunate you were ignorant of his presence, or 
 you would have over-acted yourself." 
 
 Dr. Drury had on receiving Kean's letter written to 
 Pascoe Grenfell, M.P., one of the committee of manage- 
 ment of Drury Lane, and after some consultation by 
 the board, it was decided that Arnold, who was regarded 
 as an excellent critic, should be sent to witness Kean's 
 performances, and engage him if he proved an actor 
 of merit. Backed by suspense, alternately elated by 
 hope and shaken by fear, Kean passed a restless night, 
 and next morning anxiously waited on the man in 
 whose power it rested to decide his fate ; for now had 
 the great moment of his life arrived when perchance 
 the strong desires which had made existence endurable 
 were about to be realized. The result of his interview 
 exceeded his expectations. Arnold complimented him 
 on his acting, and expressed an opinion that he must 
 succeed upon the London boards. Yet having experi- 
 ence of the unaccountable caprices of the public, he could 
 not offer him an engagement at a large salary, but 
 would make him two proposals, either of which he might 
 accept. He would engage him now, be he successful or 
 unsuccessful, for three seasons, at eight guineas a week 
 the first season, nine the second, and ten the third ; or
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. Ill 
 
 he would pay his expenses to and in London until he 
 made his first appearance, and then if he succeeded, let 
 him make whatever terms he could with the committee ; 
 or if not successful, he would defray his expenses back 
 to Dorchester. The character in which he desired to 
 make his first appearance would be left to his own 
 choice, and that he might have a fair struggle for 
 approbation, he would be allowed to play six different 
 parts before a verdict would be pronounced on his 
 merits. 
 
 The poor player could scarce believe what he heard 
 was true. An offer of eight guineas a week meant not 
 merely rescue from starvation, but positive wealth, and 
 he eagerly accepted the first proposal. But fearing he 
 had not made a sufficiently strong impression on the 
 manager, Kean begged he would wait and see him 
 play Octavian in The Mmtntaineers that evening ; and 
 Arnold complying, his favourable opinion of the 
 actor was confirmed. No mention was made of 
 EUiston. 
 
 Surely the hour of the tragedian's triumph was at 
 hand. No more should his family experience the pangs 
 of privations, the humiliations of poverty; no longer 
 need he play harlequin, and laugh and dance whilst 
 his heart ached with pain, and his cheeks fiamed with
 
 112 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 shame ; no longer should he strut before sparse audi- 
 ences of ignorant rustics, to whose mercy he felt indebted 
 for applause; no longer tramp from town to town, a 
 homeless stranger seeking the suffrage of boors. 
 Darkness was about to vanish from his life ; he scarce 
 dared look upon the brilliant future which the 
 tardy and longed-for light might reveal. Immedi- 
 ately he expressed his thanks to his kind friend. 
 Dr. Drury, who had written to him and given him 
 advice. 
 
 " I have again and again," said Kean in answering, 
 "read your instructive letter, and have each time 
 received additional pleasure from the perusal. Be 
 assured, sir, I shall treasure the admonition it contains 
 memoria in ceternum. The interview between Mr. 
 Arnold and myself has already passed ; that gentleman 
 has honoured me with a visit in Dorchester, the result 
 of which I feel will be as satisfactory to you as liberal 
 and exalted to me. I have competence for three years 
 as a certainty. ... I certainly, sir, with submission to 
 your judgment, should be proud to avail myself of the 
 opportunity of paying my devoirs to Mr. Grenfell. 
 Such services I think should be paid by every mark 
 of attention and respect. You have, sir, opened a path 
 of happiness to me so sudden, so unexpected, that 1
 
 FATE SMILES UPON HIM. 113 
 
 can scarcely think it but a dream. Ita ad hoc setatis 
 a pueritia fui, ut omnes labores periculo consueta 
 habeam. You have dispelled those clouds and diffi- 
 culties, and the event, I trust, shall render me deserving 
 of such exalted friendship. In the name of my family, 
 once more I beg you to receive our heartfelt thanks, 
 and believe me, sir, with every deference to your 
 opinions, strict observation to your precepts and example, 
 and continued feelings of gratitude, 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 "E. Kean." 
 
 It seemed indeed as if Fate, repentant of the mis- 
 fortunes long dealt him, had now resolved to repay 
 him, for scarce had Arnold left when Kean received 
 a letter from EUiston, stating that the Wych Street 
 Theatre opened during Christmas week, and he should 
 be glad to see him. To this Kean replied — 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 "Since I last wrote to you, I have received a 
 very liberal offer from the proprietors of Drury Lane 
 Theatre. It gives me unspeakable regret that the pro- 
 posals did not reach me bef)re I had commenced 
 negotiating with you ; but I hope, sir, you will take a 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 high and liberal view of the question, when I beg to 
 decline the engagement for Little Drury. Another 
 time I shall be happy to treat with you. 
 " I am, sir, 
 
 " Your obedient servant, 
 "Edmund Kean." 
 
 Elliston, who was by no means ready to adopt the 
 conduct Kean suggested, called him a deserter, and 
 declared he would " claim his man." With grave mis- 
 givings Kean prepared for his journey to London, but 
 before leaving Dorchester news reached him that his 
 eldest son was dead. This was a blow for which he 
 was unprepared, and coming on the eve of his triumph, 
 thrust him back into depression and grief. " The joy 
 I felt three days since at my flattering prospects of 
 future prosj)erity," he writes to Dr. Drury, "is now 
 obliterated by the unexpected loss of my child. Howard, 
 sir, died on Monday morning last. You may conceive 
 my feelings." 
 
 But even in the midst of his sorrow he was obliged 
 to continue his performances at the Dorchester Theatre, 
 that he might support himself, and secure his right to 
 a benefit, the proceeds of which he trusted would defray 
 his expenses to town. He now played in tragedies
 
 A MEERY FACE AND A SAD HEART. 115 
 
 with no need to simulate grief, and acted in comedies 
 with a meiTy face and a sad heart; but when his 
 benefit night came the house was almost empty, and 
 the necessary funds not forthcoming from the treasury, 
 he borrowed five pounds from manager Lee, and leaving 
 his wife and son at Dorchester until he should be able 
 to send for them, he, with mingled feelings of hope and 
 fear, regret and rejoicement, set out for the capital. 
 
 I 2
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Edmund Kean arrives in London — Interview with Arnold — 
 Disappointment and fear — Robert William Elliston — Kean's 
 letters to the " Napoleon of the Stage " — Ridicule and scorn — 
 His situation seems hopeless — A miserable Christmas Eve — 
 Without money, without friends— Date fixed for his first 
 appearance at Drury Lane — Rehearsing Shylock — Ridiculed 
 by his fellow-players — Kean makes his bow to a London 
 audience — Criticisms on the Jew — His representation of 
 Richard III. — What the press said — Jack Bannister's wit — 
 A piece of noble poetry— The world brightens around him. 
 
 Arriving in London towards the close of dull 
 November, Kean sought lodorinffs at 21 Cecil Street, 
 Strand, and in due time presented himself to Arnold, 
 who received him with signs of hearty pleasure and 
 words of kindly welcome. From that hour he told 
 Kean his engagement began, and a date would speedily 
 be fixed for his first appearance. His fears were now 
 at rest, the more so because he heard an acting 
 manager for the Wych Street Theatre had been engaged 
 by Elliston, and he therefore trusted no further trouble 
 would be given him.
 
 INTERVIEW WITH ARNOLD. 117 
 
 On the following Saturday he presented himself at 
 the treasury office of Drury Lane Theatre, and received 
 his first week's salary ; the greater part of this he 
 sent to his wife, that she and Charles might join him, 
 which was accordingly done. He was now in buoyant 
 spirits, believing the hardships of life to rest far 
 behind him, and with bright dreams of success in 
 the future, looking ardently forward to the first night 
 when he should tread the boards of the national 
 theatre. At the close of the second week he again 
 claimed his salary, but to his great astonishment and 
 bitter disappointment, it was boldly refused him. 
 Hoping, nay, believing some mistake had been made, 
 he sought the manager, but his unfriendly looks and 
 cold glances filled Kean with apprehension ; he in- 
 dignantly stated Elliston had assured him Kean was 
 engaged for the Wych Street Theatre, and therefore 
 the matter must be settled with him before Kean 
 could consider himself a member of the Drury Lane 
 company. 
 
 Robert William Elliston, the son of a watchmaker, 
 had been intended for the Church. But falling in 
 with a school-boy named Charles Mathews, the son 
 of a bookseller, a lively lad given to reciting and acting, 
 he and Elliston became friends, and together joined
 
 118 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 an amateur company. The stage exercised such an 
 attraction for young Elliston, that when only sixteen 
 he ran away to Bath, at the theatre of which city he 
 obtained an engagement; and now at the age of forty 
 he was one of the most notable men in the theatrical 
 profession. An actor no less off than on the stage, his 
 manner was bland and winning towards those he wished 
 to attract or conciliate, but brusque and harsh to all 
 he desired to punish or subdue. Active, bustling, and 
 loquacious, his wit was the theme of green-rooms, 
 whilst his conduct frequently outstepped eccentricity. 
 He was at once a fine comedian and a delightful 
 companion, altogether, as Charles Lamb styled him, 
 " a pleasant creature." 
 
 At this period he was lessee and manager of the 
 Surrey and Olympic Theatres, on the stages of which, 
 as well as that of Drury Lane, he continually played, 
 having from the latter house a salary of thirty pounds 
 a week for three nights' performances weekly. As a 
 manager he was an excellent business man, and from 
 his love of governing many theatres at once, was styled 
 " the Napoleon of the stage." The actors he engaged 
 for his town houses were generally made to divide 
 their labour between each every evening. The Surrey 
 and the Olympic lie far apart, the Thames running
 
 THE NAPOLEON OP THE STAGE. 119 
 
 between ; and frequently when some poor player with a 
 salary of fifteen shillings a week had caused roars of 
 laughter at one theatre, he hastened to repeat his per- 
 formance at the other; so that for those crossing 
 Blackfriars Bridge at night, it was no uncommon sight 
 to see a brace of half-clad players, with painted faces 
 and shivering limbs, trot in the splashing mud behind 
 some galloping coach, which they, fresh from a warm 
 atmosphere, used as a shelter from cold winds or pelting 
 rain; anxiety strong within them that they were not 
 behind time for their parts. 
 
 An incident which justly illustrates Elliston's cha- 
 racter happened shortly after Kean's arrival in town. 
 The manager had dismissed from the Olympic company 
 one Carles, an excellent actor, a great favourite with his 
 audiences, whose only fault was that of " taking a drop 
 too much." Learning of his dismissal, his patrons, 
 who knew nothing of him save that he was a clever 
 player, rallied round him, and in powerful numbers 
 sallied into the Olympic pit, determined on having 
 their hero reinstated. Carles sat in their midst 
 awaiting the proceedings which were soon to begin ; 
 for no sooner was the curtain raised than loud cries 
 ranj; through the house for the manairer. On 
 Elliston's appearance he was greeted with universal
 
 120 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 shouts of " Carles, Carles ! engage Carles ! let's have 
 Carles ! Carles or no play ! " 
 
 Elliston, perfectly cool, faced the storm, with his 
 hand upon his heart and a smile on his lips, and when 
 silence was granted him, began with a touch of pathos 
 in his voice, "My best, my warmest friends, this 
 ebullition of feeling in behalf of one you suppose to 
 have been wronged shows the nobleness of your nature, 
 and I adore you for it. The man who would hesitate 
 to stretch forth his utmost might to rescue from the 
 bitter fangs of oppression the object of tyranny and 
 persecution, is unworthy to enjoy the blessings of that 
 liberty for which our forefathers fought and bled." 
 Loud applause from all parts of the house. " I loved 
 that man," continued this diverting humbug, pointing 
 to Carles in the pit, " oh, I loved him ; I idolized 
 his transcendent talent, and took him to my heart like 
 a brother. To my poor thinking he appeared the 
 moving picture of all that could adorn humanity ; he 
 would, to be sure, get a little tipsy sometimes, but 
 I always looked upon it as an amiable weakness. 
 We all get tipsy sometimes ; I do." Here a general 
 titter rippled through the audience at this candid con- 
 fession of a well-known fact. Elliston had his hearers 
 with him, and he now came to the pith of his discourse.
 
 ELLISTON APPEASES THE CROWD. 121 
 
 " But for the last week," he said, glancing again at 
 Carles, "he has been in a continued state of intoxi- 
 cation, and has never been near the theatre." Carles 
 rose from his seat to protest, but was greeted with 
 shouts, " Down in front ! hats off ! down in front ! " 
 The tide had turned, and poor Carles sat down, whilst 
 EUiston continued hurriedly — " And on going to his 
 lodgings this morning, that I might coax him to return 
 as I have often done before, judge of my horror and 
 astonishment, when I found his wife and children 
 starving for the want of common necessaries of life ! " 
 Here a voice in the gallery shouted, " Carles hasn't got 
 no wife ; " to which a universal cry went up, " Pitch him 
 over." Then EUiston proceeded — " His lawfully-wedded 
 wife, the loveliest, thin young creature I ever beheld, 
 whom this villain had torn from her fond, gray-haired 
 father's arms to bring her to misery and leave her to 
 perish for want ; the infant at her breast screaming for 
 the nourishment the starving mother couldn't give ; 
 the little ones, four lovely boys, clasping my knees and 
 shrieking for bread ; and in the corner of the room lay 
 his infant daughter, the most lovely angel from heaven I 
 ever beheld, a frightful distorted corpse, too horrible to 
 look upon, who the day before had died for want of 
 food." A general murmur of indignation swept tlirough
 
 122 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 the house, but Elliston went on — "I instantly sent 
 for food for the little ones, and with the sum this 
 villain could easily have earned, I provided a coffin 
 for the little cherub, and only half an hour ago I 
 returned from the funeral. Now I appeal to you 
 as men, as husbands, and as fathers, should I engage 
 this inhuman monster ? if so, he shall instantly be 
 reinstated." 
 
 Poor Carles, bewildered by the tissue of lies he had 
 just heard, rose to say he had neither wife nor child, 
 but the infuriated audience cried, " Out with him ! " 
 " Knock him over ! " " Monster ! " and those nearest 
 laying vengeful hands upon him, he, not without 
 some injuries, escaped from their anger, whilst Elliston 
 was loudly applauded and heartily praised. 
 
 From a man of this complexion Kean could expect 
 little mercy, and when Arnold assured him he must set 
 himself right with him, the poor player left Drury 
 Lane with a heavy heart. The remainder of the day 
 was spent by him in seeking Elliston at his theatres, at 
 his home, at his various haunts, but his search was 
 vain ; and weary, dispirited, and penniless he returned 
 at night to his family. After some consideration he 
 wrote Elliston the following note, which he hoped 
 might move him to his desires —
 
 keans letter to elliston. 123 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " The fate of my family is in your hands. Are 
 you determined to crush the object that never injured 
 you ? In one word, are you to receive our imprecations 
 or our blessings ? 
 
 " Through your means I am deprived of my situation 
 in Drury Lane Theatre, unless I produce a document 
 from you that I am not a member of the new Olympic. 
 How can you reconcile this more than Turkish bar- 
 barity ? If you must display your power, direct it 
 against one more fortunate than myself. You have 
 become a thorn in the side of my young fortune. I 
 shall conclude by simply requesting you to inform me 
 whether I am to become a member of the Theatre 
 Royal, Drury Lane, or again, penniless, hopeless, and 
 despised, am I to be cast on the provinces, the rejected 
 of this great city, which should afford a home to 
 industry of every kind ? With my family at my back 
 will I return, for the walls of Wych Street I will never 
 enter. In this strong determination, but with weakened 
 respect for you, sir, I am, 
 
 " E. Kean." 
 
 In answer to this letter Elliston said — 
 
 "To any man with the smallest gift of intellect and
 
 124 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 the dimmest sense of honour, it must appear that on 
 the 11th of November, and previous to that time, you 
 deemed yourself engaged to me, and that subsequently 
 a more attractive offer having been made, you held it 
 convenient to consider a pledge as idle words muttered 
 in a dream. All my engagements are made and ful- 
 filled with honour on my part, and I expect an equal 
 punctuality from others. 
 
 " R. W. Elliston." 
 
 This note brought no hope, but Kean was determined 
 he would never submit to Elliston. Meanwhile he 
 daily waited at Drury Lane Theatre, loitering about the 
 doors, or sitting in the porter's room, seeking an oppor- 
 tunity of seeing Arnold, to whom he wished to explain 
 his position more fully ; but if by accident he en- 
 countered that personage, he merely frowned upon him 
 and refused to give him an audience. 
 
 It seemed as if he were now as far removed from 
 his anticipated triumph as he had been months ago; 
 but hardships and poverty had not broken his spirit in 
 the past, neither should disappointment nor neglect 
 overwhelm him in the present. The courage insepar- 
 able from genius supported him. Much need had he 
 for endurance, for he was sorely tried. The players
 
 RIDICULED AND SCORNED. 125 
 
 passing to morning rehearsals or evening performances 
 looked askance at the dark-complexioned, bright-eyed 
 little man, clad in a rough gray coat with large capes ; 
 and aware of his purpose, regarded him as one who 
 presumed to usurp their rights. The slights and 
 insults he received from many of them were bitter. 
 Rae, now playing tragedy in this house, passed him in 
 the hall without deisrning to notice him. Munden 
 recommended him to " Spend his evenings in front, 
 trying to improve himself by witnessing the perform- 
 ances of good actors ; " a lady of some merit wondered 
 " where the little wretch had been picked up," and 
 eventually advised him to " return to the country, for 
 amongst such actors as surrounded him in London, he 
 could have no chance ; " whilst the company generally 
 spoke of him as " Arnold's hard bargain." 
 
 Sensitive and proud, he shrank from them, but 
 though mortified and humiliated, he was not yet 
 subdued. " Let me once set my foot before the jBoats, 
 and I'll let them see what I am," he said to his wife ; 
 and she, poor soul, believing in him with firm faith, 
 and loving him with strong affection, was heavily 
 weighted by anxiety and suspense she strove to conceal, 
 lest it might add to his burden. " Ah, sir," she said 
 subsequently to a friend, " the Drury Lane folks only
 
 126 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 looked at his little body, they did not know what he 
 could do with his eye." 
 
 His position seemed hopeless. "My dear Lee," he 
 wrote to his late manager, " I am in a damned situation, 
 or rather, in no situation at all. Elliston has claimed 
 my services, but I will never join him. The Drury 
 Lane committee have decided against me, and have 
 actually withdrawn my salary. Not all the world 
 or the world's ills shall force me into Wych Street. 
 So here am I in London, without friends, without 
 money, and a brand upon me by which I can acquire 
 neither." 
 
 Days came and went, and yet Kean's prospects re- 
 mained in the same position. After some further corre- 
 spondence with Elliston, he had a personal intervicAv 
 with him in the presence of Arnold. The latter was 
 still wrathful with him for not having mentioned during 
 their interview at Dorchester that he had entered into 
 negotiations with the manager of Wych Street, and now 
 assured him he stood most unfavourably in his estima- 
 tion. Kean would have explained, but Elliston, loud- 
 voiced and demonstrative, by his extreme volubility 
 overwhelmed him, and beat down his words, so that 
 Kean was obliged to listen submissively. The meeting 
 ended without any decision having been arrived at ;
 
 HIS SITUATION SEEMS HOPELESS. 127 
 
 but before they paxted, Arnold told Kean if he acted 
 at any other theatre than that of Drury Lane he could 
 enter an action against him. 
 
 A month had now almost passed since the poor player 
 had arrived in town, and with the exception of the 
 eight pounds he received from the Drury Lane treasury, 
 which had gone to defray his wife's expenses to town, 
 he had received no money. For days they starved, and 
 would have needed shelter, but for the charity of their 
 landlady. Miss Williams, who in return for apologies 
 for non-payment gave words of hope. " There is some- 
 thing about Mr. Kean," she told his wife, " which tells 
 me he will be a great man." At last Kean's private 
 circumstances becoming known to Miss Mellon, through 
 Oxberry, an actor with whom he had of yore shared a 
 stroller's privations, this good-hearted woman resolved 
 to help him. Therefore it happened that one day 
 whilst Mrs. Kean, distressed by hunger and harassed 
 by fears, sat with her boy in the garret she dared not 
 call her own, Miss Mellon' s companion called and 
 placed a packet in her hands, which she said came from 
 an anonymous donor. On opening it the distressed 
 wife found it contained a sum sufficient to keep 
 starvation at bay some time longer. 
 
 The bleak and bitter days of December wore slowly
 
 128 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 by, bringing no change to Kean in their passage. 
 About a week from his last interview with EUiston he 
 waited on him, and, to his great surprise, found him in 
 a conciliatory humour. The manager declared he had 
 resolved to relinquish all claim to his services, but 
 would ask him in return to play at his theatre in 
 Birmingham during the summer vacation. Poor Kean 
 regarded this as a compliment, and promising to comply 
 with his desires hastened to seek Arnold. After some 
 delay he was admitted to the presence of the great 
 man, who stated that an actor from Drury Lane had 
 been sent to take his place at the Wych Street Theatre, 
 and in consequence he must pay his salary of two 
 pounds a week. Anxious to have his engagement 
 settled at any cost, Kean made no objection, and asked 
 if he might apply again at the treasury for his week's 
 salary ; but Arnold informed him he must first obtain 
 from Elliston a written statement that he held him no 
 lonj^er enjraofed. 
 
 The day following was Friday, Christmas Eve, and 
 Kean, doubtful of the humour in which he might find 
 Elliston, and fearful lest he might not accede to his 
 request, set out in search for him. From ten o'clock 
 in the morning until three in the afternoon he 
 continued his quest, and only at the last-mentioned
 
 A MISERABLE CHRISTMAS EVE. 129 
 
 hour was the busy, bustling manager found at the 
 Surrey Theatre, where he wrote the acknowledgment 
 required. With this in his hand Kean, already footsore 
 and weary, hastened across Blackfriars Bridge, and 
 arriving at Drury Lane asked to see the manager, 
 but was informed Mr. Arnold could not see him then ; 
 he therefore sent in his name. " For nearly one hour," 
 Kean wrote to Dr. Drury, describing the events of this 
 day, " I waited in the passage with the rest of the 
 menials of the theatre, had the mortification of seeing 
 them all conducted to his presence before myself, and 
 when summoned at last to appear, was, with the 
 continued brow of severity, informed that I had no 
 claim upon the treasurers. My engagement had all 
 to begin again. I shall not forget the day of the 
 month. I returned to my family penniless. At a 
 period when everybody appeared happy at the cele- 
 bration of the time, our fates appeared clouded and 
 miserable. Your letter of the 23rd reached me on 
 Monday ; and I forgot my cares in the hopes of seeing 
 you, and perhaps forgetting my disagreeables by the 
 public favour — the balmy cordial that heals all actors' 
 sorrows. Judge if possible my disappointed hopes on 
 seeing another person advertised for the very character 
 
 on which I built my fame. Was this fair dealing ? 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 I caunot define justice if it was. Necessity again 
 draws me to the treasury to-day; and I doubt not 
 but I shall return with some additional mortification." 
 
 The other person to whom he referred was an actor 
 named Huddart from Dublin, who now made his 
 first appearance at Drury Lane as Shylock, the 
 character in which Kean intended to make his d^hut. 
 Fortunately for the latter, Huddart was a signal failure, 
 and the Othello of Sowerby, seen five nights later, 
 shared the same fate. Yet no effort was made to bring 
 Kean forward. Dr. Drury besought him to " bear all ; 
 bear all, only come out ; " whilst Whitbread, the chair- 
 man of the Drury Lane committee, to whom Kean 
 addressed himself, replied with solid wisdom, that if 
 he had talent he would be able to show it on his 
 appearance, if not he must return to the country; 
 but concerning his misunderstanding with the manager, 
 he knew nothing. 
 
 The affairs of Drury Lane Theatre were at this 
 period managed, or rather mismanaged, by a committee 
 of shareholders; from which was formed a sub-com- 
 mittee of management, numbering Lord Essex, Lord 
 Byron, the Hon. George Lamb, the Hon. Douglas 
 Kinnaird, and Mr. Peter Moore. Under their direction 
 the national theatre had fallen into disrepute. The
 
 BEFORE THE COMMITTEE. 131 
 
 pieces selected for production, and the actors engaged 
 to perform, had failed to attract; the coffers were 
 empty, and the gloomiest fears regarding the future 
 were generally entertained. Huddart and Sowerby 
 having failed, it was decided to give the little man 
 from Dorchester a chance. Therefore towards the 
 end of January he had the honour of being summoned 
 before the council assembled, and entered their presence 
 calm, self-contained, resolute, prepared for any decision 
 at which the committee might arrive. His stature — 
 five feet five inches — and his general appearance led 
 them to doubt his possessing the attractions for which 
 Arnold had formerly vouched, and it was therefore 
 proposed he should test public appreciation by appearing 
 in a character of secondary importance. 
 
 This sujjgestion he heard in silence, and then fixinj^ 
 his eyes steadily on the chairman, said he would play 
 lead or nothing. He reminded his hearers that a choice 
 of characters had been guaranteed him on his engage- 
 ment, and he claimed the fulfilment of this promise. 
 His earnestness and determination conquered ; it was 
 agreed that he should act Shylock on the 26th of the 
 month. Though he had triumphed over the diffi- 
 culties which beset him, his trials had not yet ended. 
 The solitaiy advertisement in the Times, that on 
 
 K 2
 
 132 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Wednesday Mr. Kean of the Theatre Royal, Exeter, 
 would make his first appearance at Drury Lane in the 
 character of Shylock, in the Merchant of Venice, caused 
 little interest and less excitement, his name heing 
 unknown. At the first rehearsal few of the cast were 
 present, excuses being sent for those absent. One 
 lady wrote to deplore her inability to leave home 
 because, as she elegantly explained, she had " got such 
 a headache as never was." In some scenes only Kean 
 and Thomas Dibdin, who then acted as prompter at 
 the theatre, were on the stage. " I apologized to Mr. 
 Kean," says Dibdin, "for this seeming neglect, which 
 he appeared quite indifferent about." At later re- 
 hearsals, when the company attended, their presence 
 was not more satisfactory than their absence to the 
 new actor. Scene after scene was gone through in 
 a desultory and spiritless manner, the men sulky and 
 stem, the fairer members saucy and flippant. Once 
 when Kean accompanied a speech by some uncon- 
 ventional act, George Raymond, the stnge manager, 
 stopped him. 
 
 " That will never do," he said. " It is an innovation, 
 sir, and totally different from anything that has been 
 done on these boards." 
 
 Kean regarded him calmly before replying —
 
 RIDICULED BY HIS FELLOW-PLAYERS. 133 
 
 " Sir, I wish it to be so." 
 
 " But," said Bustling Raymond, as he was generally 
 called, " it will not do, be assured of that." 
 
 " Well, sir," answered Kean, " perhaps I may be 
 wrong, but if so the public will set me right." 
 
 When not required upon the stage he stood apart silent 
 and observing. At such times remarks were made by 
 those around, doubtless with a design that he should 
 hear them, but to outward seeming he paid no heed. 
 One wondered how Arnold could have engaged him ; 
 another asked when would the committee cease to 
 trifle with the public; a third felt certain the little 
 man must soon return to the obscurity from which 
 he sprang; a fourth mimicked the peculiarities of 
 his voice midst roars of laughter. On Kean, who, as 
 he said of himself, could see a sneer across Salisbury 
 Plain, these remarks were not lost; but he who had 
 borne much had strength to endure more. 
 
 Long years after he told Joe Cowen the comedian, 
 that one day Miss Tidswell was so provoked by the 
 general ridicule flung upon him, that in the middle of 
 a scene she came forward and poked him in the back 
 with her umbrella, and beckoning him to one of the 
 wings, urged him not to persevere in his intentions of 
 acting, for the players, all of whom were good judges
 
 134 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 and experienced men, were laughing at him ; and she 
 begged him to consider how horrible the disgrace of his 
 being "pelted from the stage would be to her," When 
 the rehearsal was finished that day he left the . theatre 
 weighed down by depression, for even his own friend 
 had no faith in him. But he had not gone many steps 
 when he encountered an old comrade who had starved 
 and strolled with him in the provinces. To him Kean 
 unburdened his heart, with its load of hopes and fears, 
 and in return received encouragement to face the 
 dreadful odds that seemed to overwhelm him. And this 
 friend having five shillings, the sole sum he possessed, 
 and both being hungry, they repaired to a neighbouring 
 tavern, enjoyed a dinner, and drank a pot of porter. 
 Then by degrees Kean's dreams of success and scorn of 
 those who mocked him returned fourfold. For ob- 
 servation of the world had shown him that were he 
 successful the manner of all men would change towards 
 him; that they who sneered at him now would fawn 
 upon him then ; that those who ignored him to-day 
 would boast him their friend to-morrow. Therefore the 
 pettiness and malice of his fellow-players was lost sight 
 of in the strong hope of triumpli, dimly foreseen through 
 years of darkness, and awaited with eagerness unabated 
 by distress.
 
 THE MEMORABLE DAY ARRIVES. 135 
 
 At last the day dawned on which he was to make his 
 appearance at Drury Lane, Friday the 26th of January, 
 1814. The memorable frost of this year had set in with 
 the first days of the month. Snow lay thick upon the 
 streets, and was shovelled into huge white banks at the 
 comers. Traffic on foot through pathways of trampled 
 black slush was dangerous, and by vehicle almost 
 impossible. In many parts the Thames was completely 
 frozen over ; between Blackfriars Bridge and London 
 Bridge a fair was held upon the ice, on which booths 
 were erected, bands played, printing presses worked, and 
 the people eat, drank, and made merry. On the 26th of 
 January a sheep was roasted whole on the frozen river 
 between the bridges of Hammersmith and Putney, and 
 then divided amongst the poor of the parish. The 
 weather was such as to incline mankind to remain 
 within their warm homes at night, rather than seek 
 the usually cheerless aspect of bare benches and empty 
 boxes at Drury Lane Theatre. 
 
 The short afternoon hours of the bitter winter day 
 wore to gloomy eve, and every moment carried Kean 
 nearer to the hour of his trial, ardently longed-for in 
 the past, nervously dreaded in the present. He had 
 dined that day, for he needed strength, and then 
 impatiently waited the time when he should start.
 
 136 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Occasionally his hopes surmounted his fears, and think- 
 ing of all that had been in the past, with what might 
 be in the future, he muttered, " If I succeed I shall go 
 mad." Towards six o'clock he wrapped himself in his 
 rough coat of many capes, and with Shylock's costume 
 in a bundle under his arm, left his garret, his wife's 
 tremulous words of encouragement and hope ringing 
 in his ears as he took his slow way through the silent, 
 snow-covered streets to Drury Lane. Arriving at the 
 theatre, he was conducted to the place allotted him as a 
 dressing-room, but this being unsuitable to his require- 
 ments, he went to the supernumeraries' apartment, and 
 there donned the Jewish gaberdine. 
 
 A thin, scattered audience in the pit betrayed neither 
 excitement nor impatience ; an array of empty boxes 
 faced the stage ; the noise of a half-filled gallery and 
 the music of the orchestra sounded with a distinctness 
 betraying a cheerless house. One of the players looking 
 through a rent in the curtain, announced to his fellows, 
 with an air not wholly devoid of satisfaction, " there 
 was a shy domus," to which another replied, " What 
 do you expect ? there'll be nothing until half-price ; " 
 indicating that the attraction of the evening would be 
 the afterpiece, a farce called The A^yprcnticc, in which 
 Jack Bannister played.
 
 FIEST APPEARANCE AT DRURY LANE. 137 
 
 Presently the curtain rose, and the play began. R,ae, 
 dogged and indifferent, entered as Bassanio and spoke 
 his speeches ; and soon the prompter gave the call-boy 
 notice to summon Shylock, The lad hastened to the 
 apartment which had been allotted to Kean, but not 
 finding him, rushed to the green-room ; he was not 
 there. Alarmed at this, the boy was hurrying back 
 to report the fact, when he saw Kean waiting at the 
 wing where he was to make his entrance. 
 
 " You're called, sir," he said, breathless from excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Thank you," replied Kean ; and these were the only 
 words, save those of Shakespeare, which he spoke 
 whilst he remained in the theatre that night. 
 
 The hour destined to decide his fate had come, and 
 by the power he wielded must his future be bright or 
 black. As he entered on the scene with Bassanio he 
 was received with applause, which was rather cordial 
 than enthusiastic, to which he bowed slightly, and then 
 began his part. His fine, intellectual face, the brilliancy 
 of his eyes, and the resonant tones of his voice im- 
 pressed the house favourably; but silence was main- 
 tained until, on the exit of Bassanio, he spoke the lines — 
 
 " If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
 I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him,"
 
 138 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 when he was warmly applauded, j Then by the mag- 
 netic feeling which passes from audience to actor, he 
 felt he had gained a hold upon his hearers ; knew, 
 as he long afterwards expressed himself, he had them 
 with him. Encouragement aided him ; his enthusiasm 
 kindled, his efforts increased, his power strengthened. 
 The taunting speeches of Shylock were spoken with 
 delicacy and poignancy, his pauses were just and 
 effective, the dexterity with which he modulated his 
 voice excellent ; and when the curtain fell on the first 
 act, welcome applause sounded in his ears. \ 
 
 The company when not engaged with him in the 
 scenes had stood at the wings to watch him, and now on 
 returning to the green-room the chief comment made 
 was, " I say, he has got a black wig and beard ; did you 
 ever see Shylock in a black wig ? " Still Kean kept 
 apart from them, avoiding the green-room, wandering 
 up and down at the back of the stage whilst the orchestra 
 played, and the scenes of the second act, in which 
 Shylock does not appear, were performed. The house 
 was now fairly filled, for a new comic opera, entitled A 
 Farmers Wife, being advertised for a first performance 
 at Covent Garden, and withdrawn at the last moment, 
 many of those disappointed by the change in the bill 
 crossed over to see the new tragedian at Drury Lane.
 
 SHYLOCK IS APPLAUDED. 139 
 
 Again he was ready in his place when the call-boy 
 would have summoned him, and the breathless silence 
 with which his words were listened to assured hira of 
 the growing influence he gained over his audience ; 
 nor did it decrease whilst he played. Now and then 
 the heartily-expressed approbation he received gave 
 fresh energy to his tones, new fire to his eyes, increased 
 expression to his gestures ; and such was the force and 
 intelligence of the latter, that one might say, as the 
 Examiner remarked, " his body thought." / 
 
 At the beginning of the third act the players seated 
 in the green-room were startled by the sounds of stormy 
 applause, and asking each other what it could be, they 
 hastened to the wings, and saw Shylock raging like a 
 lion in the scene with Tubal ; his voice, eyes, actions, 
 and expressions were pregnant with meaning. The 
 house was now fairly roused to excitement, and again 
 and again its appreciation was so forcibly expressed, 
 that Oxberry said, "How the devil so few of them 
 kicked up such a row was marvellous," Especially in 
 the trial scene was he warmly applauded, and then, his 
 part being ended, he quickly changed his clothes and 
 quietly left the theatre before the play had 
 concluded. 
 
 One who witnessed his playing that night, and
 
 140 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 regarded it as a revelation, beheld in it " the first gleam 
 of genius breaking athwart the gloom of the stage." 
 This was William Hazlitt, the dramatic critic of the 
 Morning Chronicle. In this paper he published the 
 first words which heralded -Kean's greatness. /"In 
 giving effect to the conflict of passions arising out of 
 the contrast of situation," he wrote of Kean, " in varied 
 vehemence of declamation, in keenness of sarcasm, in 
 the rapidity of his transitions from one tone or feeling 
 to another, in propriety and novelty of action, present- 
 ing a succession of striking pictures, and giving 
 perpetually fresh shocks of delight and surprise, it 
 would be difficult to single out a competitoi^j The fault 
 of his acting was (if we may hazard an objection) an 
 over display of the resources of his art, which gave too 
 much relief to the hard, impenetrable, dark ground- 
 work of Shylock. It would be needless to point out 
 individual beauties, when almost every passage was 
 received with equal and deserved applause/ His style 
 of acting is, if we may use the expression, more 
 significant, more pregnant with meaning, more varied 
 and alive in every part, than any we have almost ever 
 witnessed. The character never stands still; there is 
 no vacant pause in the action ; the eye is never silent^ 
 It is not saying too much of Mr. Kean, though it is
 
 CRITICISMS ON THE JEW. 141 
 
 saying a great deal, that he is all that Mr. Kemble 
 wants of perfection." 
 
 The Morning Post briefly commented on his marked 
 and expressive countenance, his deep, sonorous voice, 
 his mastery of his art ; but neither the eulogies of these 
 papers, nor the applause of those who witnessed his 
 acting, convinced those in connection with the theatre 
 that he possessed unusual talent, not to mention genius. 
 One of the company said that to compare him with 
 Charles Young (a poor, mechanical actor) was ridiculous; 
 whilst a player who was deputed by the Covent Garden 
 management to report on the merits " of the new man 
 at the Lane," declared " the play had gone well enough, 
 but he couldn't do," — this gentleman's judgment being 
 fully on a level with his power of expression. Had the 
 managers known the ability Kean possessed, and would 
 shortly exercise to fill their coffers, they would not, now 
 the theatre was on the verge of bankruptcy, have 
 allowed almost a week to pass between his first and 
 second performances. 
 
 His second appearance, after an interval of five days, 
 was brought about by accident, as Thomas Dibdin 
 records. Although, he says, the judicious few approved 
 Kean's acting, " but little notice was taken of it either 
 in or out of the theatre ; and for a few days scarcely
 
 142 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 anything was said respecting him. A necessary but 
 unexpected change of play on some occasion caused the 
 usual question, What shall we act ? from the stage 
 manager ; I immediately advised a second appearance 
 of ' the new gentleman.' Mr. Raymond said that was 
 also Mr. Arnold's wish, and Mr. Kean played Shylock 
 again on the first, third, and fifth of February," 
 
 On each of his succeeding performances the house 
 became more and more crowded ; his power seemed 
 likewise to increase. Douglas Jerrold used to say that 
 from the moment Kean entered as Shylock and leaned 
 upon his stick, listening gravely to the request made 
 him for monies, he impressed his audience "like a 
 chapter of Genesis." On the first night he had played, 
 the sum taken at the doors merely amounted to one 
 hundred and sixty-four pounds ; on the evening of his 
 second appearance the treasury held more than double 
 that sum, and for the fourteen nights during which he 
 represented Shylock this season, the receipts reached 
 four thousand nine hundred and twenty-one pounds 
 three shillings. Every time his performance was 
 repeated, his originality, study, and ability were more 
 perceptible ; flashes of genius lighted passages rendered 
 obscure by other actors ; touches of nature made him 
 akin with his hearers ; his power swayed his audiences
 
 UNAPPRECIATED BY THE COMPANY. 143 
 
 at will. To one who had stood on the brink of hope, 
 and been swept back into the blackness of despair, 
 triumph was at last assured. 
 
 And yet those who acted with him were slow to 
 admit his genius, though glad for sake of their salaries 
 he was able to crowd the house whenever he played. 
 This fact was, however, set down by them as a craze 
 from which the town suffered — a whim that would pass 
 in a day or a week. Master Betty had created a greater 
 sensation in his time, and John Kemble was for a while 
 overlooked ; this provincial stroller, with his new-fangled 
 ways, would doubtless in a little while share Master 
 Betty's ultimate fate, and sink into obscurity, when 
 the John Kembles of Druiy Lane would shine in their 
 proper spheres. " God renounce me," said old Dowton 
 gruffly, as he sat in the green-room whilst Kean Avas 
 playing Shylock for the fifth time, " 'tis only necessary 
 now-a-days to be under four feet high, have bandy 
 legs and a hoarseness, and mince my liver, but you'll 
 be thought a great tragedian." 
 
 " Nay," said Munden, a fellow player, knowing to 
 whom Dowton referred ; " no doubt the little man has 
 great powers of entertainment, for I hear he's a 
 wonderful tumbler." 
 
 " Of that," replied Jack Bannister, " there can bo
 
 144 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 no doubt, for lie has jumped over the heads of us 
 all." 
 
 Miss Mellon differed in her opinion from those 
 around her, for she believed in his future greatness. 
 On the morning of his first performance Oxberry, 
 Kean's friend, had, at her request, introduced him to her. 
 Kean's manner on that occasion being shy and reserved, 
 made her fear he would resent her friendliness as 
 intrusion ; but on meeting him at the conclusion of 
 his third performance she congratulated him on his 
 success, and predicted his brilliant future. At the 
 same time, she inquired if he had signed his agree- 
 ment with the managers, and on his replying he had 
 not, she begged he would defer doing so until his 
 position was more secure, when he would be certain 
 to receive much better terms. On this subject, how- 
 ever, Kean had his ideas of honour, and when summoned 
 before the committee soon after, and handed for signa- 
 ture a contract of an engagement for three years, at an 
 increasing salary of eight, nine, and ten pounds weekly, 
 he affixed his name to it without hesitation. The 
 chairman then taking it from him tore it, and presented 
 a second form, guaranteeing him twenty pounds a 
 week, which he requested him to sign. Moreover, the 
 management gave him fifty guineas, probably hoping
 
 REHEARSING RICHARD III. 145 
 
 this gift would induce Kean to overlook the humili- 
 ations and vexations to which he had recently been 
 subjected. 
 
 And having played Shylock for six nights to large 
 and enthusiastic audiences, the committee were anxious 
 he should represent another character. Dibdin sug- 
 gested Richard III., but many voices were raised 
 against his wish. Kean was desirous of acting this 
 his favourite character, and eventually the committee 
 consented that he should appear as the crook-backed 
 king. It was felt that this character, so widely different 
 from that of Shylock, would greatly test his powers, 
 and the town was on the tip-toe of expectation. The 
 management took unusual interest in the revival ; 
 rehearsals were frequent ; new scenery, archaeologically 
 and historically correct, was painted for the occasion. 
 The while Kean's manner was as reserved and un- 
 obtrusive as when he had first appeared on the stage 
 of Drury Lane; nay, he was even willing to accept 
 suggestions from those he fancied might be able to 
 guide him aright. 
 
 During the rehearsals he gave no indications of how 
 he really meant to play when before the public ; but 
 hearing him mutter certain passages, Dibdin con- 
 sidered they were not in accordance with his own ideas 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 as to the manner in which they should be uttered ; 
 and as Miss Tidswell had requested him to be free 
 and candid in his opinions of Kean's representation, 
 the prompter when alone with the new actor spoke 
 his mind. Kean, who had previously declined to follow 
 the stage-manager's suggestion roughly given before 
 the company, now listened to the man he believed to 
 be his friend. He therefore asked Dibdin, as a favour, 
 to take his copy of Richard III. home, and write his 
 comments on the speeches to which he referred. When 
 the prompter complied with his request he received 
 them, writes Dibdin, " with every appearance of pleasure, 
 and at the next rehearsal paid me the compliment of 
 apparently adopting every suggestion ; though I am 
 now convinced that the errors I had ventured to correct 
 had been merely the effect of a careless indifference 
 with which he almost unconsciously rehearsed." 
 
 The date of the performance was fixed for Saturday 
 the 12th of February (1814). For more than a week 
 previously every box in the theatre was engaged, and 
 on the afternoon of this day the pit and gallery doors 
 were besieged by eager throngs. Before six o'clock 
 Drury Lane was blocked by the carriages of the most 
 famous men and women of the age. Excitement and 
 expectation reigned within the theatre ; the new
 
 EXCITEMENT OF THE TOWN. 147 
 
 tragedian was the theme of every tongue ; gossip false 
 and true regarding his early life, speculation concerning 
 his future career, echoes of the green-room anent his 
 personality, were freely exchanged and repeated. Be- 
 hind the scenes the same atmosphere of feverish 
 anticipation prevailed. Members of the committee, 
 the stage and acting managers, passed and repassed 
 behind the curtain, where the great murmur of the 
 crowded audience was audible ; the prompter, impressed 
 by the importance of the occasion, gave orders in a 
 nervous voice ; supernumeraries stood in groups ; scene- 
 shifters were yet at work, and a crowd of distinguished 
 visitors went to and from Kean's dressing-room, now 
 a handsome apartment lined with miiTors. Here, 
 whilst Lord Essex, Douglas Kinnaird, Whitbread, and 
 Raymond, stood watching him as he attired himself in 
 the gorgeous costume of the Duke of Gloucester, and 
 practised gestures before the glass, Frederick Reynolds 
 the dramatist, with solemn face and uplifted finger, 
 cried, " Hush, do not disturb him." 
 
 The orchestra finished the overture, but the curtain 
 did not rise ; instead, Wroughton, one of the actors, 
 came forward, and for a second fear held all breathless, 
 and the question rose in each mind, had Kean been 
 taken suddenly ill ; but they were soon sot at rest. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Wroughton merely expressed a hope all present would 
 
 excuse the hoarseness from which Mr. Kean suffered; 
 
 his reluctance to disappoint his patrons alone induced 
 
 him to appear before them that evening. Another 
 
 second, and the curtain rose ; all eyes were fixed on the 
 
 stage to behold Kean enter. His dark-complexioned 
 
 face was pale from excitement, his eyes were lustrous 
 
 with anticipated triumph. His appearance was the 
 
 signal for a great outburst of welcome ; then in a 
 
 moment the house was hushed, and the play began. 
 
 The low tones of his voice fell like music on the ears 
 
 of his hearers as he spoke the opening soliloquy, the 
 
 mere action of pointing with his finger at himself when 
 
 complaining of being 
 
 " Scarce half made up, 
 And that so lamely and unfashionable 
 That dogs bark at me as I halt by them," 
 
 caused a round of applause that interrupted his speech, 
 and by the time he had finished it was agreed by all 
 present a great actor stood before them. In the scene 
 with the Lady Anne, " an enchanting smile played upon 
 his lips, while a courteous humility bowed his head. 
 His voice, though hoarse from cold, was yet modulated 
 to a tone which no common female mind ever did or 
 could resist. ; Gentle yet self-respecting, insinuating yet
 
 REPRESENTING RICHARD III. 149 
 
 determined, humble yet over-awing, he presented an 
 object by which the mere human senses must from their 
 very constitution be subjected and entrance^/j His 
 attitude in leaning against the side of the stage in this 
 scene was so graceful and striking, that Hazlitt con- 
 sidered him a subject worthy of Titian's brush. 
 
 It would be impossible to enumerate the countless 
 beauties of his performance, but all present carried away 
 remembrances of the manner in which he, when taunted 
 by the little Duke of York, conveyed the idea of rage 
 stifled beneath a calm exterior ; as well as his air whilst 
 listening to the entreaties of the Lord Mayor that he 
 would be kincf. When Buckinsfham demands what 
 shall be done if Hastings prove cold to their design, the 
 prompt decision of a mind which never hesitated con- 
 cerning the removal of those who obstructed his purpose, 
 was admirably conveyed in the quick, abrupt manner of 
 his reply, " Chop off his head." , The activity of his 
 mind, visible in his expressive face, held his audience 
 spell-bound. He had set aside the stale traditions of 
 the stage, ignored the methods of other players past and 
 present, and marked his performance with the stamp of 
 originality. I 
 
 As the play continued his power increased. When 
 on bidding his friends good night, whilst he drew the
 
 150 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 point of his sword backwards and forwards slowly and 
 meditatively, his action seemed so just, graceful, and 
 natural that the whole house loudly expressed its 
 admiration. His exit when retiring to his tent was 
 declared by the critic of the Morning Post " one of the 
 finest pieces of acting we have ever beheld, or perhaps 
 that the stage has ever known," But the concluding 
 scene was the most brilliant of all, producing an effect 
 of unequalled power and grandeur. Here his skill as 
 a fencer served him well ; before allowing himself to 
 be killed upon Bosworth battle-field, he chased Rae, 
 who played Richmond, round and round the stage, 
 whilst steel clashed, and the excitement to which he 
 had gradually worked his audience rose to a climax ; 
 then stumbling, he recovered himself quickly, still 
 fighting " like one drunk with -wounds," continuing 
 even after he had lost his sword and received his death- 
 blow to thrust at his adversary with his empty hand, as if 
 his indomitable spirit would be overcome by death alone. 
 His death scene, the Examiner remarked, "was a 
 piece of noble poetry, expressed by action instead of 
 language," As the curtain fell the audience rose as one 
 man, cheered lustily, applauded wildly, declaring by 
 word and action this new actor was great indeed. For 
 the first time he now felt assured of success above and
 
 HIS FAME ESTABLISHED. 151 
 
 beyond all doubt and disappointment,! and returning to 
 his home in Cecil Street that night, he told his wife 
 of the crowds that had gathered to see him, the 
 applause which greeted him, the fervour that pos- 
 sessed him. " I could not," he said, " feel the stage 
 under me." Then he dwelt on the coming time. " Our 
 fortune is made, and you shall ride in your carriage, 
 and my boy shall go to Eton." For a second came 
 a shadow from the past, and he paused. "If only 
 Howard had Hved," he said sadly, but quickly added, 
 " yet he is better where he is." And in present 
 triumph past pain was forgotten. 
 
 Verily his fame was now established, nor were signs 
 wanting of his success. Men of fashion and distinction, 
 peers and poets, artists and dramatists, were anxious to 
 congratulate him ; the committee became solicitous 
 regarding his cold ; the papers were full of his praise. 
 " We cannot imagine," says the Morning Chronicle, 
 "any character represented with greater distinctness 
 and precision, more perfectly articulated in every part. 
 Perhaps, indeed, there is too much of this, for we 
 sometimes thought he failed even from an exuberance 
 of talent, and dissipated the impressions of the cha- 
 racter by the variety of his resources; but in one who 
 dares so much there is little indeed to blame." The
 
 152 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Examiner could not recollect any performance, the very 
 finest exhibition of Mrs. Siddons not excepted, which 
 was so calculated to delight an audience, and impress 
 it with veneration for the talents of an actor. Even 
 the Times, which had spoken of his Shylock in phrases 
 of petty patronage intermingled with mild censure, now 
 commended him in a genteel and paltry manner. That 
 he possessed powers of mind was obvious in the judg- 
 ment with which he marked and discriminated many 
 difficult passages. He gave several parts with propriety, 
 but was not equally fortunate " in the loftier doings of 
 the heroic," whatever they may be. He disappointed 
 no reasonable expectation; he was a young man, and 
 considering he had not a very great experience of the 
 stage, his ease and self-possession were commendable. 
 This journal finally admitted, that scarcely ever was 
 heard " greater applause than this young man received 
 during the play, and especially at its conclusion." 
 
 The committee of Drury Lane marked their admir- 
 ation by presenting him with one hundred guineas ; 
 Lord Essex gave him a handsome sword ; and Mr. 
 Whitbread, calling one day on Mrs. Kean, took her 
 boy Charles on his knee, and put a fifty-pound note 
 into the lad's hands. 
 
 The cold Kean had contracted increased durincf the
 
 LORD BYRON SEES RICHARD III. 153 
 
 days succeeding his exertion, and haemorrhage ensued, 
 followed by feverish symptoms. The committee, now 
 careful of a life that had become important to their 
 fortunes, sent Dr. Parson, one of the most famous 
 medical men of the day, to attend him ; and under 
 his care Kean became sufficiently well to enable him 
 to act on the Saturday following that of his first per- 
 formance of Richard III. Meanwhile Cecil Street was 
 blocked from mid-day till noon with the coaches of 
 those anxious to learn the condition of his health ; 
 whilst messages of inquiry and congratulation were 
 hourly received by him from friends and strangers. 
 
 On the evening when he played Richard for the 
 second time at Drury Lane the house was crowded 
 from floor to ceiling, and amongst the brilliant audience 
 sat Lord Byron, then in the twenty-sixth year of his 
 age, and in the bright dawn of that fame soon to rise to 
 its dazzling meridian. Endowed with physical beauty 
 most rare in man, gifted with a genius of magnificent 
 promise, fated with a temperament little understood 
 by his kind, a halo of romance and flavour of mystery 
 surrounded him which lent singular attraction to his 
 name. Already had he published his Hours of Idle- 
 ness, satirized his critics in stanzas over which mankind 
 still smiles, taken his seat in the House of Lords,
 
 154 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 travelled in the East, swam from Sestos to Abydos, 
 
 loved the Maid of Athens, given to the world some 
 
 cantos of Ghilde Harold, and having returned to 
 
 England, became the observed of all observers. 
 
 He had been absent from town for some weeks, and 
 
 therefore had not seen Kean act, but hearing much of 
 
 the tragedian, now hastened to be present. Readily 
 
 swayed by all that was finest in nature and art, and 
 
 easily roused to enthusiastic admiration, Byron beheld 
 
 Kean's representation with wonder and delight, and 
 
 henceforth the new actor had no more ardent partisan 
 
 than the poet. His impressions are best conveyed in 
 
 the words which, soon after leaving the theatre that 
 
 night, he wrote in his diary — "Just returned from 
 
 seeing Kean in Richard. By Jove ! he is a soul. 
 
 (Life, nature, truth, without exaggeration or diminution. 
 
 Richard is a man, and Kean is Richard." j 
 
 • — ^ 
 The poet's admiration was unchecked by the fact of 
 
 the tragedian's cold, traces of which were readily per- 
 ceptible. But though it interfered with the sweetness 
 of his voice, he was listened to with the uttermost 
 attention, and rewarded with the heartiest applause ; 
 and when at the end of the play it was announced he 
 would repeat his performance on Monday, the audience, 
 believing the committee enforced his appearance, re-
 
 KEAN EXONEEATES THE MANAGERS. 155 
 
 ceived the statement with violent disapprobation. 
 Cries of " Shame ! shame ! " and " No ! no ! " accompanied 
 by hisses, rang through the house. The Times of 
 Monday trusted the managers would not think of 
 " doing him, and eventually themselves, so great an 
 injury," as to bring him forward again till his recovery 
 was completed, or at least much further advanced. 
 " One feels quite sorry," adds this journal, " to find him 
 straining himself as he is compelled to do." His health 
 had become not only a subject of interest, but a matter 
 of importance to the public ; and on the surmise gaining 
 ground that he was being forced to play more frequently 
 than was good for his condition, the managers sought 
 to free themselves from an imputation of injustice. 
 Therefore Arnold begged Kean would allow him to 
 contradict the report. Accordingly the tragedian 
 wrote him the following letter, which appeared in 
 the papers — 
 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " I have great pleasure in authorizing you to 
 contradict, in the most unequivocal terms, the report to 
 which you allude. You have never pressed me to 
 appear on the stage one day earlier than was perfectly 
 agreeable to my own feelings, and you are aware that I
 
 156 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 have wanted no other spur to exertion than the grati- 
 fication of appearing before a public who have conferred 
 on my humble efforts the distinction of so much flatter- 
 ing applause. I am happy to say I am in 'perfect 
 health, and at the service of the theatre whenever and 
 as often as you think proper to call on me. 
 " I am, dear sir, 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 "Edmund Kean." 
 
 His performances were therefore continued, and future 
 prospects being now bright with promise, Nance Carey 
 once more appeared upon the scene to claim the assist- 
 ance of her son ; not now her only child, for she had, 
 whilst Edmund Kean struggled in the provinces, given 
 birth to two children — a girl named Phoebe Carey, and 
 a boy called Henry Darnley, both of whom eventually 
 became players. Edmund Kean allowed her a pension 
 of fifty pounds a year from this time until the year of 
 his death.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 John Philip Kemble's position on the stage — His first appearance 
 on the boards — His sister Sarah — Love and marriage — Mrs. 
 Siddons and David Garrick — John Kemble begins life as a 
 player — a Liverpool audience in the last century — Mrs. 
 Siddons becomes the wonder and delight of the town — 
 Kemble in London — His manner of acting — His attempt at 
 comedy and its results — His opinion of Kean — The new 
 actor's Hamlet — Joe Cowen and Bob Keeley visit Drury 
 Lane — Charles Young as an actor — Kean and Mrs. Garrick. 
 
 When Edmund Kean arrived in London in the month 
 of November, 1813, John Philip Kemble was regarded 
 as the greatest actor on the English stage. A native of 
 Preston in Lancashire, he was born in the year 1757. 
 Kemble was therefore Kean's senior by thirty years. 
 His father, Roger Kemble, had in his day been well 
 known as the manager of a strolling company which 
 periodically visited the northern counties, and was held 
 in fair repute by the rustics whose patronage he sought. 
 In the tenth year of his age John Kemble made his 
 first appearance on the stage. His father's company of
 
 158 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 comedians, whilst at tlie famous town of Worcester, 
 performed " a celebrated historical play " called Charles 
 the First, the dramatis jpersonce of which, as it was 
 announced, would be " dressed in ancient habits accord- 
 ins: to the fashion of those times." On this occasion 
 James Duke of York was represented by Master John 
 Kemble, the Duke of Richmond by Mr, Siddons, and 
 the Princess Elizabeth by Sarah Kemble, who after- 
 wards became his wife. This child, who twelve years 
 previously had been born in a low public-house called 
 the Shoulder of Mutton, in High Street, Brecknock, 
 was destined to become England's greatest tragic actress. 
 Now Roger Kemble being well-to-do, decided that his 
 eldest son, John Philip, should become a priest, for 
 the family were Roman Catholics, and had given to the 
 Church at least one member, who had been martyred in 
 days of persecution. The lad was therefore sent to a 
 seminary at Sedley Park in Staffordshire, and subse- 
 quently to the university of Douay in France, where he 
 was chiefly remarkable amongst his fellows for his 
 powers of declamation. Returning to England at the 
 age of eighteen, he declared his intention of becoming 
 a player, much to the regret of his father, who, in order 
 that his son might have personal experience of the 
 hardships of an actor's life, and therefore see the errors
 
 SARAH KEMBLES ROMANCE. 159 
 
 of his way, refused him a place in his company, and 
 sent him forth to battle with the world unaided. 
 
 Whilst he had been at Douay his sister Sally had 
 played a leading part in a romantic comedy in real life. 
 Siddons, who for some years had been a member of her 
 father's troop, a versatile actor and a comely fellow, fell 
 in love with her, and finding favour in her eyes, desired 
 to marry her. This wish met with opposition from her 
 parents ; their daughter, being but in her sixteenth 
 year, was considered over young to marry yet, and 
 he, who depended on his salary for subsistence, was 
 not such a husband as they would choose for her. 
 Therefore, to remove her from her lover, whom they 
 trusted she would speedily forget, they placed her in a 
 situation as maid and companion to Lady Mary Great- 
 head, of Guy's Cliff, in Warwickshire. This position was 
 uncongenial to Sarah Kemble, parting her as it did from 
 the callinor in which she delisfhted, and from the man 
 whom she loved ; but she endured it for upwards of two 
 years, towards the end of which time her constancy to 
 Siddons gained her parents' consent to her marriage. 
 
 The young couple then joined a company of players 
 whose varying successes they shared, until, being at 
 Cheltenham, Mrs. Siddons attracted the attention of my 
 Lord and Lady Bruce, afterwards Earl and Countess of
 
 160 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Aylesbury, wlio were drinking the waters at this fashion- 
 able resort. My lord was a man of influence, a patron 
 of the arts, an admirer of genius, and possessing a 
 critical faculty, saw and acknowledged Mrs. Siddons' 
 powers. Therefore, on returning to town he com- 
 mended her to David Garrick, and requested he would 
 engage her for his theatre. Garrick, then in the last 
 months of his management at Drury Lane, commissioned 
 a friend to attend her performances, and give his opinion 
 of her merits ; and eventually, on the strength of this 
 critic's praise, she was engaged for Drury Lane Theatre. 
 It seemed to her the goal was now won, and that 
 she at the age of twenty had reached a position which 
 most members of the calling she followed had failed 
 to attain. Her hopes were short-lived. Her first 
 appearance before a London audience was made on the 
 29th of December, 1775, in the character of Portia, but 
 attracted little attention. A second chance of playing 
 an important part was not given her for some time, for 
 Mrs. Yates, Mrs. Abington, and Miss Young reigned 
 queens of the Drury Lane stage, and it was indeed 
 perilous to the manager's peace and health to introduce 
 a rival to their high claims. Presently Mrs. Siddons 
 was cast for a part in a farce called Loves Iletamorphoses, 
 than which nothinj; more unsuited to her talents could
 
 KEMBLE BEGINS LIFE AS A PLAYER. 161 
 
 be found. But Gaxrick, now giving his series of 
 farewell performances, having some perception of the 
 merit underlying the quiet surface of this young 
 actress's manner, cast her for the character of Mrs. 
 Strickland in the Suspicious Husband, he playing 
 Ranger ; and subsequently she acted Lady Anne to his 
 Richard III. But her performances gave little promise 
 of the wondrous powers that were a few years later to 
 rouse the public to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, and 
 at the close of the season she was not re-engaged for 
 Drury Lane. She therefore returned to the provinces 
 in 1776, and played at Birmingham. 
 
 It was at this time her brother John Kemble began 
 life as a player ; and aware that she was held in fair 
 esteem at this theatre, he offered his services to its 
 manager, but no vacancy could be found for him. 
 Mrs. Siddons, who was ever remarkable for the interest 
 she took in the fortunes of her family, recommended 
 him to a manager named Chamberlain, then at Wolver- 
 hampton, whose company he joined. Then began his 
 experiences of the brief triumphs and certain dis- 
 appointments of a stroller's life ; hard work taught him 
 many a useful lesson ; privations begot gratitude for 
 small mercies. The means he used to gain popularity 
 were many; occasionally lie recited odes between the 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 acts, read scenes from Shakespeare, and whilst at 
 Cheltenham introduced a novel entertainment in two 
 parts, the first consisting of a lecture upon eloquence 
 by himself, the second of conjuring tricks by an actor 
 named Carlton. Times indeed were hard upon him 
 now and then ; and it is recorded that being on one 
 occasion locked in his bedroom, a prisoner for debt due 
 to a landlady whose husband lay ill in ths chamber 
 beneath Kemble's temporary prison, he conceived the 
 idea of spinning a top on the floor, until the good 
 woman thought well of sacrificing her rent to her peace, 
 and bade him depart. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Siddons was working hard, playing 
 comedy and tragedy by night, washing and ironing her 
 husband's and her children's clothes by day; keeping 
 cheerful withal, having no vindictive feeling for the 
 verdict of London playgoers, but bearing her fate with 
 cheerfulness. The following year, 1777, room was 
 found in the company for John Kemble, and he joined 
 his sister ; but how strange is it, in the light of modern 
 times, to narrate, that on their return vioit to 
 Birmingham the poor players " were informed against " 
 as rogues and vagabonds, and obliged by their worships 
 the magistrates to get them gone with good speed. 
 Their luck in Liverpool was scarce better; but an
 
 A LIVERPOOL AUDIENCE. 163 
 
 account of what there befell them is best related in a 
 letter heretofore not printed, written by John Kemble 
 to Mrs. Inchbald the dramatist. " Our affairs here are 
 dreadful," he writes. " On Monday night we opened 
 our theatre. Before the play began Mr. Younger 
 advanced before the curtain, if possible to prevent any 
 riot with which he had publicly been threatened 
 for presuming to bring any company to Liverpool who 
 had not played before the king. In vain did he attempt 
 to oratorize, the remorseless villains threw up their 
 hats, hissed, kicked, stamped, bawled, did everything to 
 prevent his being heard. After two or three fruitless 
 entreaties, and being saluted with volleys of potatoes 
 and broken bottles, he thought proper to depute Siddons 
 as his advocate, who entered bearing a board large 
 enough to secure his person, inscribed with Mr. 
 Younger's petition to be heard. The rogues would 
 hear nothing, and Siddons may thank his wooden 
 protector that his bones are whole. Mrs. Siddons 
 entered next P. S., and Mrs. Knieveton O. P., mais ausi 
 infortunee. Mrs. Knieveton had the misfortune to 
 tumble down in convulsions on the boards; the wretches 
 laughed, and would willingly have sent a peal of shouts 
 after her into the next worl 1 loud enouj^h to have 
 burst the gates of destruction. They next extinguished 
 
 .M 2
 
 1G4 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 all the lights round the house, then jumped upon the 
 stage, brushed every lamp out with their hats, took 
 back their money, left the theatre, and determined 
 themselves to repeat this till they had another company. 
 Well, madam, I was going to ask you what you think 
 of all this, but I can see you laughing. I had almost 
 forgot to tell you every wall in the city is covered 
 with verse and prose expressive of the contempt they 
 hold us in." 
 
 Having spent about two years in this company, John 
 Kemble applied for and obtained an engagement from 
 the famous Tate Wilkinson, manager of the York 
 circuit. Kemble had now more opportunity for the 
 display of his increasing talents. One night during 
 the month of October, 1778, he played Macbeth at 
 Hull with such success, that henceforth he was 
 entrusted with leading parts. He was now anxious 
 to represent a character suitable to his own powers, 
 and therefore wrote a tragedy called Belisarius, 
 full of long speeches and dreadful deeds, the whole 
 plentifully besmeared with blood, which was put on the 
 boards for a single night. He subsequently sent the 
 play to Harris of Covent Garden, but it was returned 
 to him unopened, as Kemble declared, with the usual 
 expression of regret that it was unsuitable to his stage.
 
 KEMBLE IN IKELAXD. 165 
 
 This grieved its author sorely, as such disappointments 
 will in youth, and he wrote despairingly to his friend 
 Mrs. Inchbald, " My health declines every day. I have 
 neither spirits, in which I never abounded, nor genius, 
 of which inclination perhaps wholly supplied the place, 
 to attempt anything for my improvement in polite 
 letters. You know me, I believe, well enough to feel 
 for me when I say, that with all my ambition I am 
 afraid I shall live and die a common fellow." 
 
 Such fears as this, expressed in a moment of des- 
 pondency, were futile, for he was destined to rise in 
 the estimation of men. Having played with success 
 at Hull, York, and Leeds for a couple of seasons, he, 
 on beincr offered an enjjagfement in Ireland, crossed 
 the Channel to act in the Smock Alley theatre, at 
 what was then considered an excellent salary of five 
 pounds a week. Here his Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard 
 III., and Alexander the Great were lauded. His 
 elocution was distinct if monotonous, his manner 
 dignified if formal, his appearance picturesque though 
 inanimate. Whilst he played in Ireland, Mrs. Siddons 
 had been acting at Bath to audiences described as 
 "the most elegant in Great Britain," and her fame 
 reaching the capital, offers of an engagement were 
 made her by the managers of Drury Lane Theatre,
 
 166 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 and accepted by her. Accordingly she appeared in 
 that house on the 20th of October, 1782, seven years 
 later than the date on which she had first played on 
 that stage. 
 
 Her performance created the wildest sensation 
 amongst all lovers of the drama: in a single night 
 her fame was established, henceforth she was recognized 
 as the queen of tragedy. Hazlitt narrates, that the 
 enthusiasm she excited " had something idolatrous 
 about it; she was regarded less with admiration than 
 wonder, as if a being of a superior order had dropped 
 from another sphere to awe the world with the majesty 
 of her appearance. She raised tragedy to the skies 
 or brought it down from thence. It was something 
 above nature. We can conceive of nothing grander. 
 She embodied to our imagination the fables of 
 mythology, or the heroic and deified mortals of elder 
 time. She was not less than a goddess, or than a 
 prophetess inspired by the gods. Power was seated 
 on her brow, passion emanated from her breast as 
 from a shrine. She was Tragedy personified. She was 
 the stateliest ornament of the public mind. She was 
 not only the idol of the people, she not only hushed 
 the tumultuous shouts of the pit in breathless expect- 
 ation, and quenched the blaze of surrounding beauty
 
 MKS. SIDDONS LIONIZED. 167 
 
 in silent tears, but to the retired and lonely student 
 through long years of solitude her face has shone 
 as if an eye had appeared from heaven ; her name has 
 been as if a voice had opened the chambers of the 
 human heart, or as if a trumpet had awakened the 
 sleeping and the dead. To have seen Mrs. Siddons was 
 an event in every one's life." 
 
 She now experienced the pleasures and penalties 
 of fame : crowds followed her through the streets ; the 
 drawing-rooms of the great were thrown open to her, 
 and when she appeared there, guests mounted upon 
 chairs and sofas to observe her movements ; statesmen 
 sought conversation with her, and her merest remarks 
 were listened to with bated breath. But in the midst 
 of this enthusiasm she remained calm and dignified. 
 " Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all worshipping," 
 quoth lively Mrs. Thrale, " but we will soon gild her." 
 To cover her with the tarnished metal of conventional 
 mannerism was not, however, within the power of this 
 vivacious dame. But bearing in mind her grandeur 
 and sublimity, it is hard to reconcile her brother's 
 idea of her beinjj ''one of the best comic singers of 
 the day." Certain it is that before she attained great- 
 ness she had, in order to attract country audiences, to 
 appear not only in farce, but in ballad operas, and sing
 
 168 EDMUND KEAK 
 
 blithesome songs ; and assuredly she did all things well 
 upon the stage. 
 
 At the close of the season the members of the Bar 
 presented her with a hundred guineas, "as an acknow- 
 ledgment of the pleasure and instruction her talents 
 had given them." She then went to Edinburgh, where 
 she received a thousand pounds for ten nights' perform- 
 ance, together with several presents. Later on she 
 visited Ireland, where the enthusiasm she created if 
 anything exceeded that she already caused in London. 
 
 Whilst she was here negotiations were made for the 
 engagement of John Kemble as a member of the Drury 
 Lane company ; and accordingly he made his appear- 
 ance as Hamlet at the national theatre on the 30th 
 of September, 1783. The relationship he bore to the 
 great actress, then the theme of every tongue, drew 
 a crowded audience to witness his first performance. 
 He was received with applause, and a long period of 
 prosperity set in for him. 
 
 His face was well cut and handsome, his figure tall 
 and portly, his presence graceful and commanding, and 
 seeing him night after night as the representation of 
 noble heroes, a daughter of Lord North fell violently 
 in love with him, a fact she made manifest in letters 
 she addressed to him. Her father, becoming aware of
 
 kemble's marriage. 169 
 
 her infatuation, remonstrated with her, but in vain ; and 
 his subsequent threats were answered by the avowal 
 that John Kemble was the only one she would ever 
 wed. Lord North being a shrewd man, believed he 
 could avert an event he dreaded as a calamity. 
 Therefore he waited on Kemble, plainly stated that 
 if he married his daughter she should never receive 
 a penny from him, but if within a fortnight he 
 wed any other lady, he. Lord North, would give him 
 four thousand pounds in return for his comjiliance, 
 Kemble, who valued money greatly, accepted his offer, 
 proposed to and was accepted as her husband by Mrs. 
 Brierton, an actress, and speedily married. 
 
 And having fulfilled Lord North's desire, he waited 
 upon him for his reward ; but his lordship, being wily, 
 professed total forgetfulness of his bargain. He coldly 
 inquired on what ground Mr. Kemble imagined he had 
 any interest in his domestic concerns, and ended by 
 stating, that although, in common with all men of taste, 
 he admired him as an actor, yet he wished his perform- 
 ances confined to the theatre. Kemble left his presence 
 a sadder man. The story, which by no means reflected 
 credit on Lord North, was not kept secret by him, and 
 the kind friends, ever ready to ridicule a successful 
 man, made merry over the tale, wliicli was widely
 
 170 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 repeated, and at length found place in Oxberry's bio- 
 graphy of Kemble. 
 
 In 1788, whilst Edmund Kean was an infant of 
 twelve months, John Kemble became stage manager of 
 Drury Lane Theatre, where he laboured zealously for 
 the advancement of dramatic art by restoring the 
 original text of Shakespeare's plays, and insisting on 
 proper regard being paid to accuracy of costume and 
 architecture. Three years later he resigned this oflBce, 
 that he might travel through France and Spain. 
 Having spent about two years abroad, he returned to 
 England, and purchased a sixth share in Covent Garden 
 Theatre, of which he became part manager. Mrs. 
 Siddons had up to this time played at Drury Lane, but on 
 her brother becoming part proprietor of the rival house 
 she joined its forces, and now in the fulness of her fame 
 drew crowded audiences in her track. Custom had 
 not staled her infinite variety. "In bursts of indig- 
 nation or grief," we are told, " in apostrophes and 
 inarticulate sounds, she raised the soul of passion to its 
 height or sunk it in despair." 
 
 Her acting had long ago attracted the admiration even 
 of Queen Charlotte, whose knowledge of the language 
 spoken by her subjects was limited, and Her Majesty was 
 wont to command Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble to read
 
 FANNY BURNEY AND MRS. SIDDONS. 171 
 
 in her royal presence. Fanny Burney, who was dresser 
 to the queen, on one occasion received the great actress 
 when she was commanded to appear at Windsor, and de- 
 scribes her as " the queen of tragedy, sublime, elevated, 
 and solemn. In face and person truly noble and 
 commanding ; in manners quiet and stiff; in voice deep 
 and dragging ; and in conversation formal, sententious, 
 calm, and dry, I expected her to have been all that is 
 interesting ; the delicacy and sweetness with which she 
 seizes every opportunity to strike and to captivate 
 upon the stage had persuaded me that her mind was 
 formed with that peculiar susceptibility which in dif- 
 ferent modes must give equal powers to attract and to 
 delight in commom life. But I was very much mis- 
 taken. As a stranger, I must have admired her noble 
 appearance and beautiful countenance, and have re- 
 gretted that nothing in her conversation kept pace 
 with their promise ; and as a celebrated actress I 
 had still only to do the same." 
 
 The honour of reading in the presence of royalty was 
 the sole reward she received for her labours so long as 
 they continued, for their Majesties were notable for an 
 economy which has been called by harsh names. Nor 
 were her duties rendered lighter by kindness, the lack 
 of which eventually ended them; for one day when
 
 172 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Mrs. Siddons, then soon to become a mother, had been 
 standing some two hours, it being forbidden by court 
 etiquette to sit in the presence of Majesty, she fainted, 
 and would have fallen, but that John Kemble rushed for- 
 ward and caught her, whereon the queen, grasping her 
 snuff-box, hastily rose, and, followed by the princesses, 
 quitted the apartment, "that the actress might sit 
 down." To the credit of John Kemble and Mrs. 
 Siddons be it stated, that henceforth when commanded 
 to appear before royalty they invariably found them- 
 selves suddenly indisposed. 
 
 In 1812, two years before Kean's appearance at 
 Drury Lane, Mrs. Siddons took leave of the stage, and 
 her retirement was followed by the sincere regret of the 
 public. At the close of the same season John Kemble 
 withdrew from Covent Garden for the purpose of mak- 
 ing a prolonged tour through the provinces. He re- 
 turned, however, on the 11th of January, 1814, just 
 fifteen days previous to the night on which Kean first 
 played Shylock at Drury Lane, All it was possible 
 to acquire by severe study, careful methods, and active 
 intelligence were Kemble's ; but he needed that subtle 
 power called genius, for lack of which nought else can 
 compensate. He had long enjoyed popularity, but al- 
 ready a player was at hand who was destined to fling
 
 kemble's acting. 173 
 
 him from the pedestal he had occupied for many years. 
 Mrs. Siddons had certainly prepared his way with the 
 public, and but for her it is certain he would never have 
 attained the position as England's greatest actor, for the 
 genius she undoubtedly possessed flung its gloiy upon 
 him. 
 
 He had re-introduced to the stage the cold, passion- 
 less style of acting which Garrick had banished, and 
 which Kean was destined to drive again from the 
 boards. His elocution, when not marred by asthma, 
 was faultless in its pronunciation, but measured, hard, 
 and monotonous ; his face, finely moulded and massive, 
 lacked animation and expression ; his gestures, graceful 
 and appropriate, were carefully studied and mechanical. 
 John Howard Payne the dramatist said, " He enlarged 
 his legs and arms by pads, and consulted pictures 
 and artists to produce personal effects " ; whilst Mrs. 
 Siddons complained, "My brother John in bis most 
 impetuous outbursts is always careful to avoid any 
 discomposure of his dress or deportment, but in the 
 whirlpool of passion I lose all thought of such matters " ; 
 and Haydon the painter added, "Kemble came into 
 a part with a stately dignity, as if he disdained to 
 listen to nature, however she might whisper, until lie 
 had examined and weighed the value of her counsel."
 
 174 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Assuredly he lacked the great and necessary art of 
 concealing art. Grand and impressive he could be in 
 such parts as Cato, Coriolanus, and Brutus, but from 
 beginning to end of his performances no touch of 
 nature was present, and the heroes he represented were 
 respected but not loved. There lay the perceptible 
 blemish. In the earlier part of his career he had striven 
 to play comedy, in which, Jack Bannister used to say, 
 " he was as merry as a funeral and as light as an 
 elephant." However, he desired to prove he was all 
 he believed himself to be ; and was anxious the press 
 should share in the opinions he held of his own acting. 
 Therefore when he was about to act the part of Charles 
 Surface, he wrote to Major Topham, who was not only 
 a biographer and dramatist, but the proprietor and 
 conductor of a journal called The World, informing 
 him he had placed three of his friends on the free 
 list of the theatre, and hoping "he would have the 
 goodness to give orders to his people to speak favour- 
 ably of Charles, as more depends on that than he could 
 possibly be aware of." Not satisfied with this, Kemble 
 also wrote to Mrs. Wells, an eccentric woman and "a 
 bold player," whose influence over Major Topham was 
 notorious, requesting she would ask the Major to 
 commend his performance in The World. And she,
 
 KEMBLE ABANDONS COMEDY. 175 
 
 complying, received the following from Topham, which, 
 together with Kerable's note, she published in her 
 memoirs — "I received your letter where you mention 
 Kemble's wish to be puffed. You may inform Mr. 
 Este (the editor) from me, I will not sacrifice the credit 
 of my paper for all the admissions in Europe, to puff 
 either the Siddons or the Kembles in comedy." 
 
 In the course of time, and with the aid of public 
 opinion, John Kemble came to the conclusion his cold 
 and stately manner was unsuited to comedy, and there- 
 fore abandoned it wholly. A flattering host with whom 
 he was dining one day, regretted this resolve, for he 
 considered Charles Surface had been lost to the stage 
 since the days of Gentleman Smith, and added, that 
 Kemble's representation should have been considered as 
 Charles's restoration ; whereon another guest whispered, 
 it should rather be termed Charles's martyrdom. 
 Kemble heard this witty remark, and received it with 
 good humour; nay, he even ventured to tell a story 
 against himself concerning the playing of the part. 
 
 " Well, now," he said, " that gentleman is not 
 altogether singular in his opinion, as, if you will give 
 me leave, I will prove to you. A few months ago, 
 having unfortunately taken what is usually called 
 a glass too much, on my return, late at night, I
 
 17 G EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 inadvertently quarrelled with a gentleman in the 
 street. This gentleman very properly called on me 
 next morning for an explanation of what was certainly 
 more accidental than intentional. ' Sir,' said I, ' when 
 I commit an error I am always ready to atone for it ; 
 and if you will only name any reasonable reparation 
 in my power, I ' ' Sir,' interrupted the gentle- 
 man, 'at once I meet your proposal, and name one. 
 Solemnly promise, in the presence of this my friend, 
 that you will never play Charles Surface again, and I 
 am perfectly satisfied.' Well, I did promise," continued 
 Kemble, "not from nervousness, as you may suppose, 
 gentlemen, but because, though Sheridan was pleased 
 to say that he liked me in the part, I certainly did not 
 like myself in it, no more than that gentleman who has 
 just done me the favour to call it Charles's martyrdom." 
 Another worth}'- critic, it must be remembered, com- 
 mended John Kemble's playing of the part ; Charles 
 Lamb considered "the weighty sense of Kemble made 
 up for more personal incapacity than he had to answer 
 for. His harshest tones in this part came steeped and 
 dulcified in good-humour. He made his defects a 
 grace. His exact declamatory raauner, as he managed 
 it, only served to convey the points of his dialogue with 
 more precision. It seemed to head the shafts to carry
 
 cooke's opinion of kemble. 177 
 
 them deeper." But all the while, it must be remem- 
 bered, Charles Lamb had never seen Gentleman Smith 
 represent Charles Surface. 
 
 The opinion John Kemble held of himself was one 
 most gratifying to his vanity. Frederick Reynolds 
 narrates, that on one occasion at a dinaer, when the 
 tragedian had drank deeply, after the fashion of the 
 day, and boasted freely of his great abilities and 
 wondrous success, a merry neighbour whispered audibly, 
 " I would go barefooted to Holyhead and back only 
 to see a fellow one half so clever as he thinks himself." 
 
 His manner was cold and reserved with his asso- 
 ciates at the theatre, and he was therefore generally 
 unpopular with them. Because of his complexion, they 
 usually called him Black Jack ; and by this term he 
 was invariably spoken of by George Frederick Cooke, a 
 really fine actor, whose brief and reckless career ended 
 before Kean's advent in London. Between Cooke and 
 Kemble no love existed, for Cooke openly derided 
 Kemble's pompous acting, and Kemble plainly despised 
 Cooke for his dissipated habits. When drunk, as was 
 too frequently the case, poor Cooke was wont to com- 
 plain that "with the voice of an emasculated French 
 horn, and the face of an itinerant Israelite, Black 
 Jack would compete with me, sir — with me, George 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Frederick Cooke ; wanted me to play Horatio to his 
 Hamlet, sir. Let him play Sir Pertinax, sir (a favour- 
 ite character of Cooke's), that's all. I should like to 
 hear him attempt the accent ! " When Cooke went to 
 America some idea of his approaching fate possibly 
 crossed his mind, for he said he "didn't want to die 
 in this country; John Kemble would laugh." But 
 Cooke returned to England never again ; and if Kemble 
 did not mourn the unfortunate actor's untimely end, he 
 certainly profited by it, for Cooke was the only player 
 at that time greatly his superior, there being no other 
 tragedian worthy of the name upon the stage. 
 
 For years John Kemble had suffered from asthma, 
 so that it became painful to hear him gasp and cough 
 during his performances. One night when, as Macbeth, 
 he lay dead upon the stage, he felt almost suffocated, 
 and at length was obliged to sit up and cough, to the 
 great amusement of the house ; hearing of which, witty 
 Jack Bannister said, " Ah, poor fellow, it must have 
 been a churchyard cough." 
 
 John Kemble, being the best tragic actor the stage 
 had up to this time possessed, was admired and lauded 
 by a large section of playgoers ; but now the force and 
 fervour, earnestness and passion of the Drury Lane 
 tragedian brought his cold and pompous, stiff and
 
 KEMBLE COMPARED WITH KEAN. 179 
 
 ponderous manner into sharp contrast; a new light 
 was cast upon his playing, revealing an unlikeness to 
 nature before scarce heeded. But the force of habit 
 is strong within all men, and those who had long given 
 him their full allegiance were loath to turn from him 
 in favour of a competitor. 
 
 And now could comparisons between them be more 
 fitly made, for Kean, it was stated, was to play Hamlet, 
 a character Kemble had long since made his own — one 
 in which it was considered he was seen to greatest 
 advantage. Neither did Kean spare thought nor care 
 in the study of this part. Years ago, whilst tramping 
 along lonely highways, he had meditated upon the 
 effects he might, as the Prince of Denmark, produce 
 upon provincial audiences ; but now when the most 
 enlightened people in the kingdom crowded to witness 
 his efforts, his whole mind was set upon achieving a 
 signal success. Words and sentences were pronounced 
 and spoken repeatedly in various tones, until his ear 
 caught the most effective key ; expressions and gestures 
 were practised persistently before mirrors, until his 
 sense of fitness was satisfied ; actions that subsequently 
 seemed the inspiration of a moment were deliberately 
 conceived and practised ; nay, he counted the very 
 steps he was to take upon the stage before reaching a 
 
 N 2
 
 180 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 certain spot or uttering a certain phrase. Genius he 
 undoubtedly possessed, but he was wise enough to know 
 labour was necessary to its perfection. 
 
 The announcement of his performance caused 
 general excitement, and on the evening of Saturday 
 the 12th of March, 1814, the struggle at the doors of 
 Drury Lane Theatre hours before the play began 
 threatened to prove disastrous. Not merely women, 
 but men, overcome by heat and long fasting, fainted ; 
 cries for help rose from those who, no longer able to 
 endure, sought escape from the dense, closely-packed 
 mass of humanity by which they were surrounded. 
 Shortly after the doors opened the theatre was filled 
 to the utmost limits, from floor to ceiling. Then arose 
 a din from a multitude of voices as friend shouted to 
 friend, or details were recounted of the fight for place, 
 and inquiries made for the articles of dress lost in the 
 fray. Amidst this continued confusion the music of 
 the orchestra was inaudible, nay, even when the curtain 
 rose on the first scene the excitement was unsubdued, 
 and the voice of the ghost was unheard in the house. 
 But presently, as the royal court of Denmark as- 
 sembled, silence fell upon all, | Then entered Hamlet, 
 slow-paced, his air full of grief, his countenance ex- 
 pressive of sorrow over-deep for words. That first
 
 KEAN S EEPRESENTATION OF HAMLET. 181 
 
 impression, on which an actor most depends, was all he 
 could desire. Later the pathos of his tones, the languor 
 of his gait, the deep meaning of his looks, fascinated 
 his audience, and in his interests and concerns bound 
 him to their hearts. One and all felt a new interpret- 
 ation of a character, the most strange and subtle the 
 master has drawn, was about to be given them. Nor 
 were they mistaken. 
 
 His surprise on beholding his father's ghost, his 
 confidence in following its steps, the sorrow and rever- 
 ence mingling in his voice when he addressed it, were 
 full of poetry and power. In the scene where he broke 
 from his friends to follow this distressed shade, he kept 
 his sword pointing behind him to prevent them follow- 
 ing him, instead of holding it before him to protect 
 himself from the spirit, as had formerly been done. 
 The manner of his taking Guildenstern and Rosencrantz 
 underneath each arm with pretence of communicating 
 his secret, whilst really trifling with them, produced a 
 fine efiect ; so likewise did his acting in the closet scene 
 with his mother. Here, as the Examiner remarked, 
 " his tones, as usual, told that his heart, not his memory, 
 was speaking ; but he did not display any of the thea- 
 trical tricks which the audience had been used to ex- 
 pect. He did not shake his mother out of her chair,
 
 182 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 nor wave his handkerchief with a dignified whirl, nor 
 spread his arms like a heron crucified on a barn door." 
 
 His scene with Ophelia was most fall of passion 
 arid pathos ; especially did it stir the house when, after 
 commanding her to go to a nunnery, he hurried from 
 her presence, and then, as if overcome by tenderness 
 and regret, hastened back, and taking her right hand, 
 kissed it fervidly. This action, Hazlitt relates, had an 
 electric effect upon the house. " It was the finest 
 commentary that was ever made on Shakespeare. It 
 explained the character at once (as he meant it), as 
 one of disappointed hope, of bitter regret, of affection 
 suspended, not obliterated by the distractions of the 
 scene around him." An anonymous correspondent 
 writing to the ExamiTier says, " Two simple actions, 
 occupying as many minutes, those noble illustrations 
 of Shakespeare's writings, — the dying scene in Richard 
 the Third, and the parting with Ophelia — are worth all 
 the notes critical and historical, emendatory and com- 
 mendatory, declamatory and defamatory, that were ever 
 written." 
 
 The whole performance was full of beauty, origin- 
 ality, and poetry, which his audience recognized and 
 applauded warmly. Again and again during the play 
 he was greeted with ringing cheers ; and fqj some
 
 CRITICISMS ON HIS ACTING. 183 
 
 moments after the fall of the curtain the house was 
 in a state of wild enthusiasm. The criticisms of his 
 acting, with the exception of that of the Times, were 
 laudatory ; but the dramatic censor of that journal had 
 never been satisfied with the new actor, nor was he 
 now. He first displayed his lack of knowledge by 
 complaining that Kean, "who was far from well- 
 dressed," actually came to the court without ornament 
 or insignia, being ignorant that the Danish Order of 
 the Elephant was not instituted until about the year 
 1448, whilst Hamlet is supposed to have lived before 
 the Norman Conquest, at the time when England was 
 connected with Denmark. This ornament John Kemble 
 had always worn in personating the prince, and the 
 writer doubtless considered that it was an error not 
 to follow his example. But more remained to be said. 
 Mr. Kean was clearly " a person of excellent good sense, 
 and of a powerful discrimination," but he had certainly 
 pronounced contumely in four syllables. His figure 
 and gait were not sufficiently graceful and dignified, 
 he " fell off" in the last two acts; but great allowance 
 should be made for his youth, doubtless he would im- 
 prove. Reading sucli^ comments one is forcibly struck 
 by a remark made in the Examiner, that Kean's style 
 in Hamlet, " was too good for the public, whose taste
 
 184 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 has been vitiated by the long-established affectations of 
 the school of Kemble." The Ophelia of this occasion 
 was highly commended — Miss Smith, a lady of Hiber- 
 nian extraction, whose real name was O'Shaughnessy. 
 Endowed with a beautiful and expressive face, a clear 
 and melodious voice, a well-formed and graceful figure, 
 she had readily become a favourite with the town. 
 Her style and manner were said closely to resemble 
 those of Mrs. Siddons, whose merits no other actress 
 had up to this time so nearly approached ; and in her 
 performances Kean found valuable support. 
 
 Again and again Hamlet was repeated to audiences 
 whose enthusiasm remained unabated. Joe Cowen, at 
 this time playing at Woolwich, in a company of which 
 Robert Keeley was likewise a member, had not yet 
 seen Kean ; but being anxious to witness the perform- 
 ance of one concerning whom he heard much, he and 
 Keeley walked to town one day, "and at about four 
 o'clock in the afternoon," he writes, " we joined a crowd 
 already assembled at the pit entrance of Drury Lane 
 Theatre, which continued to increase by thousands 
 before the doors were opened. Half crushed to death," 
 he continues, for his experience were better narrated 
 in his own words, " we found ourselves, after a desperate 
 effort, at the back of the passage which surrounds the
 
 COWEN AND KEELEY VISIT DRURY LANE. 185 
 
 pit, from whence I could, by straining to my utmost 
 height, catch a glimpse of the corner of the green 
 curtain nearest to the top, but little Bob hadn't even 
 that satisfaction. There, at any rate, we could not see 
 Kean, nor live to see anything else at the end of a few 
 hours' squeeze such as we were then enduring, and we 
 agreed to pay the extra three-and-sixpence and go into 
 the boxes; but as to obtaining a pass check, it was 
 impossible. We had nearly as much trouble to get out 
 as we had to get in, and were content to lose our three- 
 and-sixpence apiece, and pay fourteen shillings more 
 for the privilege of standing on a back seat of the 
 upper tier of boxes at the corner next the stage, an 
 excellent point of sight for a perspective view of the 
 crown of a man's hat, or a bald spot on the head of a 
 lady who, seated in the pit, had been obliged to take 
 off her bonnet whether she liked it or not. 
 
 " Bruised in body, and sorely afflicted in spirit and 
 pocket, we were just in the mood not to be easily 
 pleased with anything or anybody. When Kean came 
 on I was astonished. I was prepared to see a small 
 man ; but, diminished by the unusual distance and his 
 black dress, and a mental comparison with Kemble's 
 princely person, he appeared a perfect pigmy; his 
 voice, unlike any I had ever heard before, perhaps from
 
 186 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 its very strangeness, was most objectionable, and I 
 turned to Keeley, and at once pronounced him a most 
 decided huiribug ; and if I could have got out then, I 
 should have said so to everybody, because I honestly 
 thought so ; and if afterwards I had been convinced of 
 his enormous genius, I might, like Taylor, the oculist 
 and editor of the Sun newspaper, have persisted in my 
 denunciation, rather than confess my incapacity at 
 the first glance to comprehend the sublimity of Shake- 
 speare and Nature being upon such familiar terms. But 
 I was obliged to remain, and compelled to be silent ; so 
 invoking patience, and placing my hand on a young 
 lady's shoulder for support, I quietly gazed on through 
 three tedious scenes — for all the actors seemed worse 
 than usual — till it came to the dialogue with the ghost, 
 and at the line 
 
 ' I'll call thee Hamlet — king — father,' 
 
 I was converted. I resigned the support of the lady, 
 and employed both hands in paying the usual tribute to 
 godlike talent. Father is not a pretty word to look at, 
 but it is beautiful to hear when lisped by little children, 
 or spoken by Edmund Kean in Ilamlet." 
 
 "Whenever Kean played the theatre was crowded to 
 excess, and the treasury received sums averaging six
 
 CHARLES YOUNG AS RICHARD III. 187 
 
 hundred pounds on the nights of his performances. 
 This continued, notwithstanding the attractions held 
 forth by the rival house ; for not only did John Kemble 
 play Brutus in Julius Gcesar, Wolsey in Henry VIII., 
 Coriolanus, Hamlet, and Cato, characters in which of 
 yore his "proud peculiarity^ melancholy composure, 
 and magnificent deportment " had been lauded ; but 
 Mrs. Jordan, now at Coyent Garden, was giving what 
 were destined to be her last performances before being 
 driven penniless and friendless into exile, through the 
 conduct of the Duke of Clarence. And here, likewise, 
 was Charles Young, a player belonging to the Kemble 
 school, who a few weeks after Kean's first appearance 
 as Richard III. sought to show the town how the 
 wicked king might be represented with the propriety 
 and gentility of a marionette, and so afford the public 
 an opportunity of exercising its judgment before pledg- 
 ing itself an adherent of the new actor. 
 
 Charles Mayne Young, as already narrated, was the 
 son of a famous London physician. Being born in 1777, 
 he was ten years older than Kean. Twelve months of 
 his early life had been spent at the Court of Denmark, 
 where his uncle was physician, and for three years was 
 he an Eton boy. His home life was far from happy, 
 owing to the behaviour of his father, who was not only
 
 188 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 a profligate husband, but a tyrannical parent. So in- 
 famous was his conduct, that his wife and three sons 
 were obhged to quit his roof, though possessing neither 
 the means of support nor the certainty of shelter at the 
 time. A kindly relative succoured the mother and 
 her lads, one of whom became a surgeon, one a clerk 
 in the East Indian Service, and one a player. This 
 latter was Charles, who began life in a city office ; but 
 becoming fascinated by the stage, desired to be an 
 actor. Therefore, without leaving his situation, the 
 salary of which helped to support his mother, he joined 
 an amateur theatrical club, and there, after the fashion 
 of many others, learned the rudiments of an art in 
 which he desired to excel. 
 
 At the age of one-and-twenty he made his first 
 appearance at Liverpool, and such progress did he 
 achieve, that the following year he was engaged to 
 play lead at Manchester. After spending an ap- 
 prenticeship in the provinces, he appeared at the 
 Haymarket in the character of Hamlet. He was 
 greeted kindly and applauded heartily, but iu the 
 midst of this encouragement his quick ear detected 
 a solitary hiss, and turning his eyes towards the direc- 
 tion whence it came, he saw the malignant face of 
 his father.
 
 CHARLES YOUNGS ACTING. 189 
 
 His acting was cold, declamatory, and dignified, 
 knowing nothing of nature and little of passion. He 
 acknowledged himself "a devout disciple of the Kemble 
 school," and a portion of the public regarded him as a 
 servile imitator. The resemblance of his style to John 
 Kemble's was so striking, his tone and emphasis so 
 similar, that when both actors were on the stage at the 
 same time, it was difficult for the audience to discover 
 which had spoken. His voice was sonorous, his at- 
 titudes graceful, his gestures proper; he pleased, but 
 never excited ; he charmed the fancy, but never 
 touched the heart ; he plunged a dagger in his breast 
 with the same elegance, precision, and lack of emotion 
 as he handed a chair to a lady. He had never been 
 moved by a breath of passion, and never rose to 
 originality; his head, not his heart, was his guide. 
 It was said that in committing new parts to memory, 
 he recited his speeches to a pianoforte accompaniment, 
 by which he learned to modulate his tones ; and no 
 doubt this practice helped to give the impression of 
 art rather than the touch of nature to his delivery. 
 Six years before Kean flashed upon the town Charles 
 Young had been engaged for the Covent Garden 
 company, and from that time his life had passed 
 uneventfully.
 
 190 EDMUND KEAX. 
 
 He indeed was wholly powerless to stem the current 
 of popularity which had now set in Kean's favour. 
 John Kemble had at first heard of the young actor's 
 attraction with the calm indifference of assured 
 superiority, believed this departure from allegiance 
 due to him was but a momentary freak, a passing 
 eccentricity on the part of public judgment, such 
 as had once hailed Master Betty as a wonder, and 
 subsequently ignored him as a failure. But the 
 criticisms which continually reached him from reliable 
 sources, together with the increasing admiration of the 
 town, caused him to seriously believe a rival had 
 verily entered the field. Accordingly he became anxious 
 to see Kean, and one evening, from behind the curtains 
 of a box at Drury Lane, watched him with eagerness 
 and surprise as he played Richard III. Leaving the 
 house impressed by the grandeur and force of the death 
 scene, Kemble was accosted by a friend, who asked 
 him what he thought of the new actor. " I did not 
 see Mr. Kean at all," he replied, " I only saw Richard." 
 And speaking presently to James BoaJen of the new 
 favourite, he said, " Our styles of acting are so totally 
 different, that you must not expect me to like Mr. 
 Kean; but one thing I must say in his favour — he 
 is at all times terribly in earnest."
 
 MRS. GARRICK AND KEAN. 191 
 
 Mrs. Siddons was also eager to see Kean, whom she 
 remembered having acted with years ago in Belfast, 
 and returning from witnessing one of his performances 
 remarked, " His eyes are marvellous, having a sort of 
 fascination, like that attributed to the snake." Another 
 woman, who had enjoyed some fame in her day, was 
 more enthusiastic concerning Kean than the retired 
 queen of tragedy. This was Mrs. David Garrick, who 
 had passed her eightieth year, and was now a hale, 
 sprightly little old lady, whose dark eyes, silver hair, 
 and calm expression gave a beauty to her age her 
 youth had never known. An artiste, a foreigner, the 
 widow of a great actor, her interest in all things 
 theatrical was yet vigorous, and her chief delight 
 consisted in visits to the playhouses. On the night 
 of Kean's first appearance as Hamlet she had occupied 
 her box at Drury Lane Theatre ; and on his entrance, 
 his size and appearance at once riveted her attention ; 
 then the light and expression of his eyes as he turned 
 them on the king, and the sound of his voice as he 
 spoke the soliloquy, completed the charm he exercised 
 over her. That evening she who was usually 
 garrulous remained silent and abstracted ; thoughts 
 of the past abided with her in the present, and 
 the tears she quietly shed were alike a tributu to
 
 192 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 the powers of the living and to the memory of the 
 dead. 
 
 Some days later she wrote a note to Thomas Dibdin, 
 asking him to come and see her relative to a sum of 
 money she wished to give a musician in distress. On 
 calling at her residence in the Adelphi, Dibdin was 
 shown into the library, a long narrow room, whose walls 
 were lined with books. As he entered, Mrs. Garrick, 
 dressed in black, came tripping from the far end of the 
 apartment with all the lightness and grace of a girl of 
 eighteen, and greeted her visitor. Having asked him 
 to undertake the commission relative to her charity, 
 she continued, in a voice still retaining some traces of 
 foreign accent — 
 
 " Mr. Dipdin, I look upon you as a twick of the old 
 school ; your father was a great friend of my husband's, 
 and I am glad you are in Drury Lane. I go now and 
 then to my box there, and am much pleased with your 
 new actor, Mr. Kean." 
 
 Dibdin assured her he would be proud to learn her 
 opinion. 
 
 " But Mr. Kean," she continued, " is like Mr. Garrick 
 himself. Mr. Kean could never have seen Mr. Garrick, 
 who was dead before your new actor was born ; yet he 
 not only speaks some speeches in the style of that good
 
 MRS. GARRICK DISCOURSES. 193 
 
 actor " (marking the adjective with impressive accents, 
 and looking reverentially at the picture of Garrick over 
 the fireplace), " but he seems to me to choose the very 
 same board to speak them on ; and this, Mr. Dipdin, is 
 no small compliment when the worth of my husband 
 is still twinkling in my ears." 
 
 This led to an introduction of Kean, whom Mrs. 
 Garrick received with a mixture of the courtesy be- 
 coming a hostess and the patronage pardonable in 
 age. Taking him by one hand she led him to a chair, 
 leather-seated and high-backed, — " it was my husband's 
 favourite," she explained, — and then they fell into dis- 
 course. What scenes and memories, vivid with the 
 figures of men and women now no more, rose to the 
 surface of her mind ; voices long unheard spoke again, 
 the dead lived ; years fell from her life as sand through 
 the fingers of a child, and she was young once more. 
 Stories were told more strange than fiction ; comments 
 made, traditions bequeathed. She assured her visitor 
 he was the only actor worthy of succeeding her hus- 
 band ; and then came comparisons, when, assuming the 
 privilege of a critic, she praised and chided, and ended 
 by making him rehearse the closet scene in Ilamlct, 
 and assured him he must in future play it with more 
 vigour, after the manner of dear David. 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Kean secured not only her admiration, but her 
 friendsliip, and one day whilst he was with her she 
 unlocked an escritoire, and took a parcel from a private 
 drawer. This she handled with^ reverence, and sighed 
 over as she untied the string. ' Then she showed him a 
 pair of gloves of quaint fashion and great age, which 
 had belonged to Shakespeare, and which she intended 
 leaving to Mrs. Siddons; and unwrapping them from 
 many folds of paper, she displayed the stage jewels worn 
 by Garrick. " No one," she said, " has been found worthy 
 of them until now. Take them — they are yours."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Change in Kean's circumstances — Prepares to play Othello — The 
 finest piece of acting in the world — The glorious triumph of 
 exceeding love — Mrs. Garrick's advice regarding criticisms — 
 Playing lago — Presentation from the shareholders — Byron's 
 acquaintance with Kean — The tragedian's society courted — 
 The story of a legal luminary — At OfFey's tavern — Kean's 
 first London benefit— Close of the first season at Drury 
 Lane. 
 
 Meanwhile Kean was carefully studying the part of 
 
 Othello, the character he next meant to personate. 
 
 His determination drew forth various comments, and 
 
 for days discussions raged in ckib and coffee-houses, in 
 
 drawing-room and green-room, as to whether his figure 
 
 and manner were suitable to the representation of 
 
 the Moor of Venice. Those who remembered Garrick 
 
 narrated their impressions of his Othello, and laughingly 
 
 quoted Colley Gibber's statement that he thought 
 
 David was the black boy who carried Desdemona's 
 
 kettle, and Kemble's partisans felt certain stage history 
 
 would repeat itself. Details whispered by those who 
 
 o 2
 
 196 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 took part in or witnessed the rehearsals were eagerly 
 sought and proudly retailed ; expectation rose to a high 
 pitch. The date of the performance was fixed for the 
 fifth of May (1814). 
 
 Although little more than three months had elapsed 
 since Kean first played at Drury Lane, a change had 
 taken place in his fate and fortune, such as years 
 could not accomplish in the lives of other men. He 
 who had been treated with general contempt was now 
 regarded with universal admiration; his poverty had 
 given place to afiluence, his struggles with obscurity 
 ended in certain victory. He had said if he should 
 succeed he must go mad, but as yet the erratic tend- 
 encies of his nature were subdued, and the world went 
 well with him. 
 
 On the evening of the fifth of May the most famous 
 men and women of the day gathered to see his per- 
 formance of Othello. In the green-room groups of 
 those proud to call themselves his friends waited until 
 opportunity allowed them to express their hopes for his 
 success, whilst his dressing-room was crowded by more 
 privileged admirers. And when he made his appearance, 
 the wild tumult of applause which greeted him, the 
 sight of the brilliant circle of fair women in the boxes, 
 the sea of human faces in pit and gallery, might well
 
 KEAN REPRESENTS OTHELLO. 197 
 
 warm the heart and string the nerves to highest tension 
 of an actor less sensitive than he. 
 
 / The highest expectations formed of him were not 
 disappointed ; from the first act to the last his audience 
 were dazzled by the wild glare of his brilliancy, spell- 
 bound by the force of his power; throughout all, 
 repeated outbursts of passion swayed them as boughs 
 tossed in a tempest. The third act was especially 
 remarkable as a masterpiece of exquisite conception and 
 profound pathos. Never had the great dramatist been 
 so interpreted before; his spirit had entered into the 
 heart of this actor, and expressed itself by word, look, 
 and motion. *| The tone of his voice," says the Morning 
 Chronicle, " when he delivered the apostrophe, ' O now 
 for ever farewell the tranquil mind,' struck the heart 
 and the imagination like some divine music. The look, 
 the action, the expression of voice with which he ac- 
 companied the exclamation, 'Not a jot; not a jot,' the 
 reflection, ' I felt not Cassio's kisses on her lips,' his 
 vow of revenge against Cassio, and abandonment of his 
 love for Desdemona, laid open the very tumult and 
 agony of the soul." Hazlitt supposed his Othello the 
 finest piece of acting in the world. " In one part," he 
 says, " where he listens in dumb despair to the fiend- 
 like insinuations of lago, he presented the very face,
 
 198 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 the marble aspect of Dante's Count Ugolino. On his 
 fixed eyelids 'horror sat plumed.' In another part, 
 where a gleam of hope or of tenderness returns to 
 subdue the tumult of his passion, his voice broke in 
 faltering accents from his over-charged breast. His 
 lips might be said less to utter words than to distil 
 drops of blood gushing from his heart. His exclamation 
 on seeing his wife, 'I cannot think but Desdemona's 
 honest,' was ' the glorious triumph of exceeding love ' — 
 a thought flashing conviction on his mind, and irradiat- 
 ing his countenance with joy like sudden sunshine. In 
 fact, almost every scene or sentence of this extraordinary 
 exhibition is a masterpiece of natural passion. The 
 convulsed motion of the hands, and the involuntary 
 swelling of the veins in the forehead, in some of the 
 most painful situations, should not only suggest topics 
 of critical panegyric, but might furnish studies to the 
 painter or the sculptor." 
 
 But all the criticisms on his acting were not so 
 eloquent or so favourable as this ; and an amusing story 
 is recorded by the biographer of Charles Kean concern- 
 ing the tragedian and Mrs. Garrick. The latter, on 
 calling one morning in May, found him in a state of 
 unusual excitement. He received her abruptly, and 
 retired quickly, conduct which much astonished the old
 
 MRS. GARRICK'S advice AS TO CRITICISM. 199 
 
 lady, who, turning to Mrs, Kean, inquired what was 
 the matter with her husband. 
 
 " Oh," replied Mrs. Kean, " you mustn't mind him ; 
 he has just read a spiteful notice of his Othello in one 
 of the newspapers which has terribly vexed him." 
 
 " But why should he mind that ? " asked Mrs. 
 Garrick ; " he is above the papers, and can afiford to 
 be abused." 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Kean, " but he says the article 
 is well written; but for that he wouldn't care for its 
 comments." 
 
 " Then, my dear," said Mrs. Garrick, soothingly, " he 
 should do as David did, and he would be spared this 
 annoyance." 
 
 "What's that?" said the anxious wife, hoping her 
 husband might follow the great man's example. 
 
 " Write the articles himself; David always did." 
 
 But the vexation arising from this criticism was 
 soon forgotten in a compliment paid him by Richard 
 Brinsley Sheridan, the day of whose brilliant life was 
 now drawing towards its night. Hearing much of 
 Kean's Othello, he was anxious to see his performance, 
 but would not visit Drury Lane ; for, owing to some 
 offence received from the managing committee, he had 
 vowed never to set his foot within the theatre. By a
 
 200 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 mutual friend his desire was conveyed to Kean, with 
 a request that the tragedian would favour him by 
 reading some passages from the play. To this sug- 
 gestion Kean assented with pleasure, and calling upon 
 him, he found the author of the School for Scandal, 
 the companion of Burke, Johnson, Goldsmith, and 
 Reynolds, the accuser of Warren Hastings, lying on a 
 sofa in a room sadly despoiled of its furniture by the 
 brokers. His once bright and handsome face was sickly 
 and sad, his figure worn by illness and dissipation. Kean 
 read him the chief scenes from Othello, at which those 
 wonderful gray eyes that had once sparkled with wit 
 crrew bricrht once more, and anon were dimmed with 
 tears; for since Garrick left the stacje no one had 
 heard the divine words of this play spoken with such 
 pathos and passion. At the conclusion Sheridan 
 thanked the tragedian heartily — he was poor in all 
 save thanks, — and hoped they might meet frequently 
 in the future. But this was not to be, for two 
 months later Richard Brinsley Sheridan lay sleeping 
 in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Before the surprise and excitement caused by his 
 playing of Othello had ceased, it was announced that 
 Kean would represent lago. Nor had he cause to fear 
 the comparison of his acting in this character with his
 
 KEAX PLAYS lAGO. 201 
 
 masterly representation of the Moor. The one in 
 every way contrasted the other, yet each possessed 
 almost equal merit. lago in his hands became a gay, 
 light-hearted monster, a careless, cordial, comfortable 
 villain, ready to ruin a woman's reputation with a 
 merry jest, or willing to murder a friendly life with 
 a graceful sword-thrust. The easy familiarity and 
 natural tone with which he delivered the text was 
 delightful ; the complete preservation of character, care- 
 fully conceived and excellently executed, was admirable. 
 A specimen of his by-play mentioned in the pages of 
 the Uxaminer is worth recording as an example of his 
 care in trifling incidents as in g^reat scenes. He kills 
 Boderigo, thinking by his death to make all compact 
 and secure ; his whole fortune hinges on the event ; it 
 is, as he says, the thing which is to make or to mar him 
 quite. The actors of this part generally seemed to be 
 of a different opinion ; they stabbed Roderigo, and then 
 walked away with perfect ease and satisfaction. But 
 Kean knew better; he repeated the atrocious thrust 
 till he supposed no life remained in his victim. Yet, 
 aware Roderigo's existence was a matter much too 
 serious to be left in doubt, he even, when presently 
 conversing with those around him, continually cast his 
 eyes towards the body of his victim with an intensity
 
 202 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 that would fain convince itself of the surety of his 
 death; nay, occasionally he walked by it seemingly 
 with carelessness, certainly with purpose, glancing at 
 the motionless limbs as if he expected yet feared to 
 notice them quivering with life, his manner cool, his 
 anxiety perceptible only by his furtive glances. 
 
 lago was pronounced by the Morning Chronicle 
 " the most faultless of his performances, the most 
 consistent and entire; the least overdone of all his 
 parts, though full of point, spirit, and brilliancy." 
 
 Mindful of their obligations to him, the shareholders 
 of the theatre presented him with five hundred pounds, 
 and four of the committee each gave him a hundred 
 pound share in the theatre. Lord Essex made him a 
 present of a handsome sword ; Wroughton of a point 
 lace collar Garrick had invariably worn when he played 
 Richard III. ; and Lord Byron of a gold snuff-box, 
 having a boar hunt wrought in mosaic on the lid ; 
 and henceforth Kean adopted a boar as his crest, as 
 had King Richard III. Long since the poet had been 
 asked to meet Kean at a dinner to be given at Holland 
 House ; for the tragedian's company was now sought 
 by the most distinguished men and women of the 
 day, and my Lady Holland would fain include him in 
 the brilliant circle, wliich numbered amongst others
 
 byeon's acquaintance with kean. 203 
 
 such distinguished guests as Tom Moore, Lady Blessing- 
 ton, Count D'Orsay, Ugo Foscolo, Samuel Rogers, and 
 Sir Thomas Lawrence. On being bidden by Lady 
 Holland to her dinner-party. Lord Byron made the 
 following entry in his diary — " An invitation to dine at 
 Holland House to meet Kean. He is worth meeting, 
 and I hope, by getting into good society, he will be 
 prevented from falling like Cooke. He is greater now 
 on the stage, and off he should never be less. There 
 is a stupid and underrating criticism upon him in one 
 of the newspapers. I thought that last night, though 
 great, he rather underacted more than the first time. 
 This may be the effect of these cavils, but I hope that 
 he has more sense than to mind them. He cannot 
 expect to maintain his present eminence, or to advance 
 still higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, 
 or the quibbling of their admirers. But if he don't 
 beat them all, why then — merit hath no purchase in 
 ' these costermonger days.' " 
 
 Byron's acquaintance with Kean soon ripened into 
 intimacy ; the tragedian dined with the poet, was in- 
 troduced to his friends, and on nights when he did not 
 play accompanied him to his private box at the theatre, 
 where Mrs. Inchbald was asked by Rogers to meet 
 these famous men. Lord Essex likewise entertained
 
 204 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Kean, and was desirous of breaking him from his 
 habit of drinking to excess, which sometimes was sadly 
 visible. The number of those who asserted they had 
 known Kean for years, had from the first foreseen 
 his success, nay, helped him to achieve it, was marvel- 
 lous. The world would be friendly with him, for he 
 was a man destined to advance. 
 
 Amusing mistakes were, however, occasionally made 
 by those who would laud him, or boast the possession 
 of his friendship. Once when he was dining at the 
 house of a noble lord, a famous barrister who was 
 present assured Kean he had never seen acting until 
 the previous evening, when he had been present at 
 his representation of Richard III. 
 
 "Indeed," replied Kean quietly; "but surely you 
 must have seen other actors." 
 
 " Yes," answered the legal luminary, " I have seen 
 both Cooke and Kemble, but they must excuse me, 
 Mr. Kean, if I should turn from them, and frankly say 
 to you with Hamlet, ' Here's metal more attractive.' " 
 
 Kean, highly flattered, smiled pleasantly, and begged 
 to have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with 
 this discriminating gentleman. The discourse soon 
 after turned on a curious law-suit that had been 
 decided during a recent circuit, on which the barrister
 
 AT offey's tavern. 205 
 
 had been engaged, when Kean, after some consideration, 
 inquired if he had ever visited the Exeter Theatre. 
 
 " Very rarely indeed," was the answer, " though, by 
 the bye, now I recollect, during the last assizes I 
 dropped in towards the conclusion of Richard III. 
 Richmond was played by a very promising young 
 actor, but such a Richard ! such a harsh, croaking, 
 barn-brawler ! I forget his name, but — " 
 
 "I'll tell it you," said the little man, rising and 
 tapping the speaker on the shoulder, " I'll tell it you — 
 his name was Kean." 
 
 In the laugh Avhich followed Kean heartily joined, 
 and laughed all the louder when the critic said, " How 
 much and how rapidly you have improved," 
 
 On another occasion the tragedian had likewise the 
 benefit of hearing himself described in a manner even 
 less flattering. It happened one afternoon he and his 
 friend Jack Hughes, to whom, by the way, he presented 
 a ring value one hundred pounds as a memento of their 
 friendship, dropped into Offey's tavern in Henrietta 
 Street, Covent Garden, to enjoy a good glass and a 
 quiet chat. Seated in a snug box in one corner of the 
 apartment, they soon became aware of a loud-voiced, 
 swaggering, garrulous, red-headed fellow who was enter- 
 taining a circle of admirers. This was one Woolson,
 
 206 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 a wholesale tobacconist, who delighted in narrating 
 gossip, and figuring as the hero of his own tales. 
 Kean, whose appearance at this time Avas not generally- 
 known off the stage, heard his name mentioned by 
 Woolson, and listened to his conversation. 
 
 " It is true enough," he said, nodding his head, " Dr. 
 Drury brought him to town; he talked with me« on 
 the subject, in fact, we went together in Dorsetshire 
 to see him act. I shall never forget Kean's gratitude 
 when we proposed his appearance at Drury Lane." 
 
 Kean, thrusting himself forward, gazed in amazement 
 at the speaker, but did not interrupt him. More was 
 to follow. 
 
 " I saw him to-day in Cecil Street," continued 
 Woolson; "he is in the very ecstasy of triumph. 
 But I'm afraid my friend has something yet to learn," 
 he added mysteriously. 
 
 " How ; what is that ? " demanded the listening group. 
 
 "Why, he neglects his wife, a most kind and amiable 
 woman, and, as the poet declares — 
 
 ' That one error 
 Fills him with faults.' " 
 
 A murmur of applause followed this quotation, and 
 each man looked wise. Kean, boiling with passion.
 
 KEAN's FIEST LONDON BENEFIT. 207 
 
 would have leapt forward, but Hughes held him back, 
 and Woolson, unconscious of his danger, leisurely 
 continued, as he pulled a little snuff-box from his 
 pocket — 
 
 "This was his — a slight token of his oblisfation to 
 me, as he was pleased to say. I carry it for his sake." 
 
 "Do you, by the gods," cried Kean, frantic with rage, 
 as he sprang from his corner, snatched the snuff-box, 
 and flung it through a pane of glass into the street. 
 
 Sudden consternation fell upon Woolson and his 
 admirers, who, when they had somewhat recovered, 
 rose to avenge their friend ; but Kean with a dramatic 
 gesture waved them back, and then, folding his arms 
 on his breast, said, " Behold ! I am Edmund Kean." 
 Then turning his flashing eyes on Woolson he hissed 
 out one word, " Slanderer ! " 
 
 Believing him a rank impostor, they rushed upon 
 the little tragedian, beat him with violence, and turned 
 him from the house; Hughes likewise shared his fate, 
 and moreover lost a shoe in the fray. 
 
 The season at Drury Lane wore on. Towards the 
 end of May Kean took his first London benefit, 
 playing for the occasion the character of Luke in 
 liiches, or the Wife and Brother, an alteration of 
 Massinger's City Madam. On the evening of this
 
 208 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 performance his friends and admirers filled the house, 
 and vast numbers were turned from the doors. A 
 brace of poets, Lord Byron and Thomas Moore, occupied 
 a box, whilst every other in the house was crowded 
 to suffocation; but Byron vowed he would enjoy 
 Kean's acting uninterrupted, and had unceremoniously 
 left a party made up for the occasion. This benefit, 
 including monetary gifts presented him, after the fashion 
 of the times, brought Kean the sum of eleven hundred 
 and fifty pounds. The world went well with him 
 now. A friend who had known him in the days of 
 his adversity, calling on him soon after his benefit 
 had been announced, was struck by the change in his 
 circumstances, 
 
 " I do not exaggerate," he writes, " when I say that 
 money was lying about the room in all directions ; the 
 present Mr. Charles Kean, then a fine little boy with 
 rich curling hair, was playing with some score of guineas 
 (then a rare coin) on the floor; bank-notes were in 
 heaps on the mantel-piece, table, and sofa ; and poor 
 Mrs. Kean was quite bewildered with plans of the house 
 and applications. I remember three ladies being intro- 
 duced, who approached Mrs. Kean as if she were a 
 divinity. Little Charles had deserted his guineas, and 
 mounted himself on a wooden horse with stirrups.
 
 RESULT OF KEAN's ACTING. 209 
 
 ' What a sweet child ! ' they whispered, and eyed him as 
 if he had been a young prince." 
 
 Drury Lane Theatre closed for the summer season on 
 the 16th of July, 1814, when Keau played Richard 
 III. The wild enthusiasm displayed by the audience 
 remained long in the memory of those present. In the 
 course of six months he had acted sixty-eight times, and 
 represented six diflferent characters. The profits he 
 had gained were great, but those he had brought to 
 the shareholders of the theatre were greater yet. On 
 the evenings he played, thirty-two thousand nine 
 hundred and forty-two pounds, twelve shillings and 
 sixpence had been taken at the doors — almost five 
 hundred pounds nightly at an average. Presently at 
 a meeting of shareholders, the chairman, Mr. Whitbread, 
 spoke of " the incomparable performer Mr. Kean, by 
 whose deserved attraction, after one hundred and 
 thirty-five nights of continued loss, their interests had 
 been retrieved." Mr. Whitbread's oratory savoured of 
 the eloquence of an after dinner speech. The extra- 
 ordinary powers of this eminent actor, he said, had, as 
 might well be imagined, drawn forth the criticisms of 
 all theatrical amateurs and judges ; and though there 
 might be some few who did not afjree with him in 
 regarding Mr. Kean as the most shining actor that had 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 appeared in the theatrical world for many years, yet he 
 was happy to find that the general opinion concurred 
 with his own in this respect. Reference was made by 
 the chairman to the wonderful force, energy, and truth 
 of the tragedian's representations, of the emotions he 
 excited, the sympathy he gained, the power he dis- 
 played, to which the town fully, if not universally, 
 assented. 
 
 He had verily become the fashion. His portrait was 
 painted by Halls, prints of him were exhibited in shop 
 windows, poems lauding him appeared in the papers ; 
 and Hazlitt tells us, " If you had not been to see the 
 little man twenty times in Richard, and did not deny 
 his being hoarse in the last act, or admire him for 
 being so, you were looked on as a lukewarm devotee, 
 or half an infidel !
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Drury Lane opens for the autumn season 1814 — Kean plays Mac- 
 beth — The early days of Miss O'Neill — Her first appearance 
 at Covent Garden — The new Juliet delights the town — Her 
 performance of Belvidera — The Drury Lane Committee — 
 Lord Byron's letter — William Macready sups with Kean — 
 Visit to Dublin — The tragedian's eccentricities — A visit to 
 the Wolves Club — Kean as a social lion — Lord Byron's 
 dinner-party — At Sergeant Rough's party — A little supper 
 with Andrew Ducrow. 
 
 During the summer months Edmund Kean played at 
 Bristol, Gloucester, Birmingham, and Dublin, His 
 fame travelling before him gained him enthusiastic 
 receptions. Jones, the manager of the Dublin Theatre, 
 who two years previously had refused him an engage- 
 ment at three pounds a week, was now glad to share 
 the receipts of the house with him after deducting 
 eighty pounds for expenses. At Birmingham he was 
 hailed with great delight. The exchequer of EUiston's 
 Theatre was, as he wittily said, " becoming shaky, and 
 presenting a drunken account, which could hardly keep 
 a balance." The melodramas and tragedies which had 
 
 p 2
 
 212 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 recently been presented on his boards had met with 
 such sad fate at the hands of his actors, that a wag 
 had written in large letters on the stage door " Mangling 
 done here." Furthermore, EUiston and his theatre had 
 been dealt severe blows from the pulpit of a Presby- 
 terian minister, a man this merry manager called John 
 Knocks. But on Kean's arrival no fear was entertained 
 that tragedy would be barbarously murdered ; and the 
 wrathful preacher was forsaken in favour of the popular 
 actor. 
 
 Drury Lane Theatre opened on the 20th of Septem- 
 ber, 1814, with the comedy of The Rivals. The interior 
 had been reconstructed and redecorated with classic 
 figures, golden scrolls, and brilliant foliage, the whole 
 surmounted by a ceiling representing " blue skies 
 fading into distance." The audience filling the house 
 on the night when such splendour was first revealed 
 to public eyes, was so greatly impressed by the effect 
 when the lights were raised, and the glory of their 
 surroundings became plain to their sight, that they 
 testified their delight by four rounds of applause ; and 
 yet another round followed when the green curtain 
 drew up and revealed a new drop-scene, representing 
 the ruins of a classic temple, whose reflection was mir- 
 rored in an azure lake, whilst a milk-white goat grazed
 
 KEAN AS MACBETH. 213 
 
 upon verdant pasture in the distance. Then the 
 orchestra struck up God Save the King, which was 
 interrupted by cries of " Song, song," in answer to 
 which the drop-scene rose, and the whole company 
 came forward to sing the National Anthem. And a 
 sense of loyalty — which now seems antiquated — being 
 satisfied, the comedy began. 
 
 Not until the 3rd of October did Kean appear for 
 the first time this season, when he played Richard III. 
 in a manner that made Coleridge say, " Seeing him act 
 was like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightnicg." 
 The public whilst witnessing his performances with 
 unabated interest, yet looked forward eagerly to his 
 representation of a new character. Accordingly it was 
 announced that on the 5th of November (1814) he 
 would appear as Macbeth. It was asserted by the 
 adherents of the Kemble school, that as the Thane 
 Kean must assuredly fail. He wanted height and 
 dignity of presence, two prominent advantages that 
 Kemble had ; but what the elder tragedian lacked, 
 Kean possessed. The play was mounted with an ac- 
 curacy to detail and liberal expenditure seldom wit- 
 nessed at this period on any stage. Locke's music was 
 introduced, a new overture and symphonies composed, 
 and fresh scenery painted. On the evening of the
 
 214 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 performance not merely the boxes, circles, pit, and 
 gallery were full, but the lobbies and passages were 
 crowded by those satisfied merely to hear Kean's voice. 
 He was. Bell's Weekly Messenger states, "greeted with 
 rapture, and attention seemed to wait upon him with 
 breathless expectation." 
 
 r 
 
 j The small stature and slight build of the man were 
 lost sight of and forgotten in the display of power, horror, 
 and ambition he presented. In the murder scene he 
 exerted the full force of his genius in representing the 
 workings of Macbeth's mind. One who was present 
 wrote, that "as a lesson of common humanity it was 
 heart-rending. The hesitation, the bewildered look, 
 the coming to himself when he sees his hands bloody, 
 the manner in which his voice clung to his throat and 
 choked his utterance, his agony and tears, the force of 
 nature overcome by passion, beggared description. It 
 
 was a scene which no one who saw it can ever efface 
 
 < 
 
 from his recollection."^' 
 
 The Covent Garden company had during the early 
 part of the year seen with certain dismay Kean's 
 assured success. Kemble, Young, and Mrs. Jordan had 
 put forth their strength in vain, for the popularity of 
 the new trajjedian more than counterbalanced the 
 merits of old favourites; and whilst Drury Lane
 
 EARLY DAYS OF MISS o'nEILL. 215 
 
 Theatre had been crowded to its uttermost limits, 
 the rival house was but thinly peopled. It therefore 
 became the policy of the managers to remedy this 
 condition of aflfairs, but the means were difficult to 
 obtain. To search through the provinces for a pro- 
 mising young tragedian, and produce him as a rival to 
 Kean, would have been an indignity intolerable to 
 Kemble ; it was therefore resolved to seek an actress 
 who, by force of her talents, might divide public attrac- 
 tion with Kean. Fortunately for the manager, the 
 search was of short duration, for at this time the fame 
 of a young actress named O'Neill, then playing in 
 Dublin, crossed the Channel. 
 
 Elizabeth O'Neill was the daughter of a poor Irish 
 player, who, marrying early in life, had become the 
 father of a numerous family. For years he had strolled 
 from town to town in his native country, meeting 
 various degrees of hardship, and battling hourly with 
 unkindly fortune. For a time he had managed a 
 company, poor as himself in pocket, yet rich in hopes 
 as he, and played with them in barns and out-houses, 
 in town-halls and country mansions, sharing such gains 
 as fell to his lot amongst his threadbare troop. Life's 
 shifting scenes brought them light and shadow, joy and 
 pain. Eventually better luck befell him, and he was
 
 216 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 engaged as acting manager to the Drogheda Theatre. 
 At this town his little blue-eyed daughter Betty, then 
 about twelve years of age, was for the first time sent to 
 school ; and here, when she was in the zenith of her 
 fame, were many who remembered " the purty little 
 crayther runnin' barefoot about the streets." Even 
 then her beauty was remarkable, a subtle grace and 
 natural refinement marked her movements, her fair 
 face was bright with intelligence. 
 
 Whenever juvenile characters were required in the 
 pieces performed at the Drogheda Theatre, little Betty 
 was trained to fill them, and played with so much 
 sense and sympathy, that she won unusual applause 
 from her kindly audiences. As she grew in years she 
 acted more important parts with equal success, so that 
 it happened when Talbot, then manager of the Belfast 
 Theatre, saw her performing, he immediately engaged 
 her to play heroines at his house. With the constant 
 practise and wider opportunities this stage gave her, 
 progress became rapid, and her popularity grew apace. 
 
 At this period Miss Walstein, a clever and experi- 
 enced player, known as the Hibernian Siddons, was 
 the leading actress of Crow Street Theatre, Dublin. 
 Her admirers were many and her attractions great, 
 aware of which, and fancying her services could not
 
 MISS ONEILL AT DUBLIN. 217 
 
 be dispensed with, she wrote to the manager shortly 
 before the beginning of a certain season, that unless 
 she received an increase of salary and other privileges 
 she would no longer consent to remain a member of 
 his company. And his finances not warranting him to 
 comply with her demands, he feared his theatre must 
 remain closed. MacNally the box-keeper, hearing 
 this, said it would be a pity to shut the doors when 
 he had a remedy at hand, if he chose to avail himself 
 of it ; and on being asked what he meant, MacNally 
 replied — 
 
 " The girl who has been so strongly recommended 
 to you as a promising actress is now in Dublin with 
 her father, on their way to his theatre in Drog- 
 heda. I have heard it said by those who have seen 
 her that she plays Juliet well, and is very young 
 and pretty. I'm sure she would be delighted to 
 have the opportunity of appearing before a Dublin 
 audience, and, if you please, I will make her the 
 proposal." 
 
 Delighted by the prospect of securing her, the 
 manager bade him immediately seek her, and MacNally 
 started at once for her lodginofs, where he found the 
 lovely Juliet frying herrings for her father's dinner. 
 To her MacNally, a little round-faced, stout-legged
 
 218 EDMUND KEAX. 
 
 gentleman dressed in black, with silk stockings, pumps, 
 and powdered hair, was a veritable angel of light 
 bearing a message of gladness. She eagerly accepted 
 the offer made her, appeared the following Saturday 
 evening at Crow Street, captivated the town, and 
 took the first decisive step towards fame and 
 fortune. 
 
 Presently Miss Walstein returned to Crow Street, but 
 her young rival divided popularity with her. A friend 
 of EUistou's, writing to him in 1813, when he was about 
 to open the Olympic, speaks of Miss O'Neill as an 
 actress of great promise. " She is most deservedly a 
 high favourite with the Dublin audience. Her line 
 is tragedy and leading comedy. Her performance 
 the other night of Mrs. Oakley was quite first- 
 rate. In sensibility she is indeed ' for tenderness 
 formed.' In the affair of the heart she touches 
 nearer than Mrs. Siddons. I now believe in Thespis 
 and his adventures, for this lady first acted in a 
 stable." 
 
 On the first occasion of her playing Juliet in the 
 Irish capital, the balcony scene, in which she most 
 excelled, lost much of its romance in consequence of a 
 remark hurled from the gods. Owing to the limited 
 size of the stage, the balcony was unusually low, whilst
 
 FIRST APPEARAIfCE AT COVENT GAEDEN. 219 
 
 Conway, who played Romeo, was six feet two inches in 
 height. In deliverinor the lines — 
 
 " Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
 That I might touch that cheek," 
 
 he laid his elbow on the balcony, whereon a fellow in 
 the gallery, despising the lover's timidity, cried out, 
 " Get out wid your blarney now, why don't ye touch her 
 then, and don't be praching," a remark that convulsed 
 the house with laughter. 
 
 Such had been the early career of the young actress 
 to whom Harris now offered an engagement at Covent 
 Garden Theatre, at an increasing salary of fifteen, six- 
 teen, and eighteen pounds a week. This proposal was 
 joyfully and gratefully accepted, and her first appearance 
 in London was fixed for the 6th of October, 1814, when 
 it was announced she was to play Juliet. For weeks 
 previous rumours of her beauty and genius were spread 
 through the town ; the press hinted of the treat in 
 store for the public ; those who had seen her acting in 
 Ireland predicted her triumph in England. Another 
 Siddons, it was said, had risen to delight her generation ; 
 expectation rose ; enthusiasm spread. 
 
 Early in the afternoon of the 6tli of October, the 
 various entrances to Covent Garden Theatre were sur- 
 rounded by crowds determined to obtain admission ;
 
 220 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 and the doors being opened at half-past five, an immense 
 throng poured into the house, and rushed into the pit 
 and galleries. Soon after the boxes and circles were 
 filled, and a brilliant audience impatiently waited for 
 the curtain to rise. Amongst those present on this 
 evening was William Macready, a young actor, who at 
 the same theatre was soon to cause an excitement little 
 less than that he now witnessed. 
 
 Presently the play began, and the audience eagerly 
 waited the entrance of the new Juliet, who in due time 
 rushed upon the stage in obedience to her nurse's call, 
 when, such was the impression her youthful charm and 
 exceeding beauty made, that the whole house rose to 
 greet her. Never, perhaps, had an actress so lovely and 
 graceful been seen. Slightly above the middle height, 
 her figure was perfectly moulded, lithe, and sinuous ; 
 her blue eyes were gentle and tender in expression ; her 
 features, though not regular, reflected every emotion; 
 her forehead was crowned by masses of auburn hair. 
 " The charming picture she presented," says Macready, 
 " was one that time could not fade from my memory. 
 It was not altogether the matchless beauty of form and 
 face, but the spirit of perfect innocence and purity that 
 seemed to glisten in her speaking eyes, and breathe from 
 her chiselled lips." Then in her twenty-third year, she
 
 THE NEW JULIET. 221 
 
 looked scarce more than fifteen, and was an ideal Juliet, 
 Her joyous laugh came straight from her heart, her 
 voice sounded with delicious music that might have 
 rang through the green glades of Arcadia, her step was 
 buoyant, her every movement picturesque. In the early 
 scenes of the play her acting was considered by one 
 critic as too light and playful ; but the outburst of 
 girlish spirit betrayed was doubtless intended to con- 
 trast the thoughtfulness and fervour which succeeded 
 her meeting with Romeo. From that moment a new 
 principle, too deep for words, over subtle for thought, 
 became part of her life ; her love, the mere growth of 
 an hour, coloured existence, and the old careless mirth 
 of the past departed from her ways. 
 
 Perhaps the greatest fascination she exercised lay in 
 the naturalness of her acting. Passages and scenes 
 were given with a beauty and simplicity that depended 
 on the feelings of the moment for effect, and which 
 study alone could never produce. A sense of innate 
 delicacy, of rare sensibility glowing through the fervour 
 of her words, and the presence of passion subdued by 
 modesty, rendered her performance a delight to behold. 
 One of the critics present wrote, that " In the silent 
 expression of feeling we have seldom witnessed any- 
 thing finer than her acting, when she is told of Romeo's
 
 222 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 death, her listening to the friar's story of the poison, and 
 her change of manner towards the nurse when she 
 advises her to marry Paris. Her delivery of the speeches 
 in the scenes where she laments Romeo's banishment, 
 and anticipates his waking in the tomb, marked the fine 
 play and undulation of natural sensibility rising and 
 falling with the gusts of passion, and at last worked 
 up into an agony of despair, in which imagination 
 approaches the brink of frenzy." 
 
 No such Juliet had ever been seen upon the English 
 stage, and her audience, dazzled by such loveliness 
 and grace, moved by such tenderness and force, burst 
 into a wild tumult of applause when the curtain fell. 
 And when this enthusiasm had after many minutes 
 subsided, and another play was announced for the 
 folio winof evening, Borneo and Juliet was demanded 
 by hundreds of voices, to which command the manager 
 yielded. Crowds were nightly turned from the doors 
 when she played ; her original agreement was can- 
 celled, a salary of thirty pounds a week given her, and 
 her name was lauded by the town. 
 
 More touching and powerful was her performance 
 of Belvidera in Venice Preserved, which character she 
 acted on the 13th of the month. Her sorrow and 
 despair wrung tears from her audiences, even critics
 
 KEAN APPEAES AS EOMEO. 223 
 
 wept, and at the close of the last act women fainted, 
 and were carried to their carriages in hysterics. Her 
 success now equalled that which had attended Mrs. 
 Siddons in her palmy days, and it was said in her scenes 
 of tenderness and grief she excelled that great actress. 
 
 But her Juliet, which she repeated again and again, 
 remained a favourite, and shared popularity with Kean's 
 Othello, Richard, and Macbeth. It therefore occurred 
 to the Drury Lane management, that it would be well 
 to produce Romeo arid Juliet, with Kean as the lover. 
 To this proposal lie was averse, knowing his power lay 
 in portraying hate, ambition, remorse, or revenge rather 
 than the gentler passion. However, he allowed himself 
 to be persuaded into playing Romeo, Mrs. Bartley being 
 the Juliet, and the tragedy being carefully rehearsed, 
 was produced on the 2nd of Jaimary, 1815. The result 
 could not, in comparison with his other characters, be 
 considered a success. His performance was certainly 
 unequal, in the passages requiring tenderness — espe- 
 cially in the balcony scene he was considered cold and 
 unimpressive; but in his fight with Tybalt, his inter- 
 view with Friar Laurence, and his death, he showed 
 a true conception of the part, and a perfect mastery of 
 his art. Hazlitt found words of praise for him. " In 
 the midst of the extravagant and irresistible expression
 
 224 EDMUND KEAK 
 
 of Romeo's grief at being banished from this object 
 of his love," says this critic, " his voice suddenly stops 
 and falters, and is choked with sobs of tenderness when 
 he comes to Juliet's name. Those persons must be 
 made of stronger stuff than ourselves who are proof 
 against Mr. Kean's acting, both in this scene and the 
 dying convulsions at the close. His repetition of the 
 word hanished is one of the finest pieces of acting the 
 modern stage can boast." 
 
 He appeared as Romeo but twelve times, and then 
 came a fresh desire on the part of the public to see him 
 in some new part. With the committee of manage- 
 ment lay the selection of pieces to be produced, and 
 the various tastes of these gentlemen, together with 
 the character of the manuscripts submitted to them, 
 rendered a decision difficult. An amusing account of 
 the troubles they encountered is given in a letter 
 written by Lord Byron to his friend Tom Moore. 
 "When I belonged to the Drury Lane Committee," 
 he says, " and was one of the Sub-Committee of 
 Management, the number of plays upon the shelves 
 was about five hundred. Conceiving that amongst 
 these there must be some of merit, in person and by 
 proxy I caused an investigation. I do not think that 
 of those which I saw there was one which could be
 
 LORD BYRON S LETTER. 225 
 
 conscientiously tolerated. There never were such things 
 as most of them. Maturin was very kindly recom- 
 mended to me by Walter Scott, to whom I had recourse 
 — firstly, in the hope that he would do something for us 
 himself; secondly, in despair, that he would point out 
 to us any young (or old) writer of promise. Maturin 
 sent his Bertram, and a letter without his address, so 
 that at first I could give him no answer. When I 
 at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable 
 answer, and something more substantial. His play suc- 
 ceeded ; but I was at that time absent from England. 
 
 " I tried Coleridge too, but he had nothing feasible in 
 hand at the time. Mr. Southeby obligingly offered all 
 his tragedies, and I pledged myself; and, notwithstand- 
 ing many squabbles with my committee brethren, did 
 get Ivan accepted, read, and the parts distributed. 
 But lo ! in the very heart of the matter, upon some 
 tepidness on the part of Kean, or warmth on that of 
 the author, Southeby withdrew his play. Sir James 
 Bland Burgess did also present four tragedies and a 
 farce, and I moved green-room and Sub-Committee, 
 but they would not. 
 
 " Then the scenes I had to go through — the authors 
 and the authoresses, and the milliners, and the wild 
 Irishmen — the people from Brighton, from Blackwall, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 from Chatham, from Cheltenham, from Dublin, from 
 Dundee — who came in upon me, to all of whom it was 
 proper to give a civil answer, and a hearing, and a 
 reading. Mrs. Glover's father, an Irish dancing-master 
 of sixty years, calling upon me to request to play 
 Archer, dressed in silk stockings on a frosty morning 
 to show his legs (which were certainly good and Irish 
 for his age, and had been still better). Miss Emma 
 Somebody, with a play entitled The Bandit of Bohemia, 
 or some such title or production. Mr. O'Higgins, then 
 resident at Richmond, with an Irish tragedy, in which 
 the unities could not fail to be observed, for the pro- 
 tagonist was chained by the leg to a pillar during the 
 chief part of the performance. He was a wild man of 
 a salvage appearance, and the difficulty of not laughing 
 at him was only to be got over by reflecting upon the 
 probable consequences of such cachinnation. . . . 
 
 " Then the Committee ! then the Sub-Committee — we 
 were but few, but never agreed. There was Peter 
 Moore who contradicted Kinnaird, and Kinnaird who 
 contradicted everybody ; then our two managers and 
 our secretary, and yet we were all very zealous, and in 
 earnest to do good, and so forth. George Lamb furnished 
 us with prologues to our revived old English plays, but 
 was not pleased with me for complimenting him as
 
 MRS. GARRICK AS CRITIC. 227 
 
 ' the Upton ' of our theatre (Mr. Upton is or was the 
 poet who writes the songs for Astley's), and almost gave 
 up prologuing in consequence." 
 
 After much deliberation, it was ultimately agreed that 
 Marlow's comedy of Town and Country should be put 
 on the boards, Kean personating Ruben Glenroy. 
 During this season he likewise represented Richard II. 
 — a play which had lain unacted since the days of 
 Shakespeare, until young Macready had two years 
 previously produced it at the Newcastle Theatre, — 
 Penruddock in the Whed of Fortune, a comedy by 
 Cumberland, Zanga in Dr. Young's tragedy of the 
 Revenge, Abel Drugger in the Alchemist, and Octavian 
 in the Mountaineer. In each of these characters he was 
 fairly successful, especially in those dealing with 
 tragedy. In comedy he was well appreciated, and his 
 acting of Abel Drugger was declared by the press " an 
 exquisite piece of ludicrous naivete." 
 
 Kean had a more severe critic in Mrs. Garrick, who 
 saw him act Abel Drugger on the 24th of May, when 
 he took his benefit. On the following morning he 
 received a note containing these words — 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " You can't play Abel Drugger. 
 
 " Yours, E. Garrick." 
 Q 2
 
 228 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 To which he promptly replied — 
 
 "Dear Madam, 
 
 "I know it. 
 
 " Yours, E. Kean." 
 
 During a visit he subsequently paid her, Mrs. Garrick 
 enlarged on the opinion she had already written to him, 
 and dwelt on the merits of David in this character — his 
 quaint voice, his comic expression, his droll gestures. 
 Kean, feeling impatient at this eulogy, at length inter- 
 rupted her by asking, " Could he sing ? " to which, after 
 a brief reflection, she answered, " No." " Well," said 
 Kean, rising to depart, " I can." 
 
 This season he occasionally repeated his representa- 
 tions of the characters by which he had made his 
 fame the previous year. One night whilst he played 
 Richard III., William Macready, who had first seen 
 him as Alonzo the Brave at the Birmingham Theatre, 
 occupied a box at Drury Lane. Accompanied by his 
 father, who had journeyed to town that he might secure 
 the services of Kean and Miss O'Neill for a few nighty 
 during the vacation, young Macready, anxious to see the 
 great tragedian in Richard III., took his place before the 
 curtain rose. When presently " a little keenly visaged 
 man rapidly bustled across the stage," Macready writes,
 
 WILLIAM MACREADY AT DRURY LANE. 229 
 
 " I felt there was meaning in the alertness of his manner 
 and the quickness of his step. As the play proceeded, 
 I became more and more satisfied that there was a mind 
 of no common order. In his angry complaining of 
 nature's injustice to his bodily imperfections, as he 
 uttered the line, ' To shrink my arm up like a withered 
 shrub,' he remained looking on the limb for some 
 moments with a sort of bitter discontent, and then 
 struck it back in angry disgusts My father, who sat 
 behind me, touched me and whispered, ' It's very poor.' 
 'Oh, no,' I replied, 'it is no common thing,' for I 
 found myself stretching over the box to observe him. 
 The scene with Lady Anne was entered on with evident 
 confidence, and was well sustained, in the affected 
 earnestness of penitence to its successful close. In 
 tempting Buckingham to the murder of the children 
 he did not impress me as Cooke was wont to do, on 
 whom the sense of the crime was apparent in the gloomy 
 hesitation with which he gave reluctant utterance to 
 the deed of blood. Kean's manner was consistent with 
 his conception, proposing their death as a political 
 necessity, and sharply requiring it as a business to be 
 done. In the bearing of the man throughout as the 
 intriguer, the tyrant, and the warrior, he seemed never 
 to relax the ardour of his pursuit, presenting the life of
 
 230 EDMUND KEAX. 
 
 the usurper as one unbroken whole, and closing it with 
 a death picturesquely and poetically grand. Many of 
 the Kemble school resisted conviction in his merits, but 
 the fact that he had made me feel was an argument to 
 enroll me with the majority on the indisputable genius 
 he displayed." 
 
 Kean was engaged to sup with Macready and his son, 
 then in his twenty-first year, at the York Hotel ; and 
 when the curtain fell on the death of Richard, the pro- 
 vincial manager hastened to his inn, that he might be 
 there to receive his distinguished guest. Kean, at- 
 tended by Pope, then a member of the Drury Lane 
 company, soon followed. "I need not say," writes 
 Macready the younger, " with what intense scrutiny I 
 regarded him as we shook hands on our mutual intro- 
 duction. The mild and modest expression of his 
 Italian features, and his unassuming manner, which I 
 might perhaps justly describe as partaking in some 
 degree of shyness, took me by surprise, and I remarked 
 with special interest the indifference with which he 
 endured the fulsome flatteries of Pope. He was very 
 sparing of words during, and for some time after, 
 supper; but about one o'clock, when the glass had cir- 
 culated pretty freely, he became animated, fluent, and 
 communicative. His anecdotes were communicated
 
 MACREADY SUPS WITH KEAN. 231 
 
 with a lively sense of the ridiculous ; in the melodies 
 he sang there was a touching grace, and his powers of 
 mimicry were most humorously or happily exerted in 
 an admirable imitation of Braham ; and in a story of 
 Incledon acting Steady the Quaker at Rochester without 
 any rehearsal — where, in singing the favourite air, 
 * When the lads of the village so merrily, O,' he 
 heard himself, to his dismay and consternation, accom- 
 panied by a single bassoon, — the music of his voice, his 
 perplexity at each recurring sound of the bassoon, his 
 undertone maledictions on the self-satisfied musician, 
 the peculiarity of his habits, all were hit off with a 
 humour and an exactness that equalled the best display 
 Mathews ever made, and almost convulsed us with 
 laughter. It was a memorable evening, the first and last 
 I ever spent in private with this extraordinary man." 
 
 Throughout the season Miss O'Neill shared the 
 enthusiasm of the town with Kean, and both houses 
 entered on a seemingly prosperous career. When they 
 closed in summer Miss O'Neill went to the Edinburgh 
 Theatre, of which Henry Siddons, son of the great 
 tragic actress, was manager. On the night previous to 
 her first performance the portico of the house was 
 crowded by porters hired to secure places when the 
 box-office opened next morning. Henry Siddons was to
 
 232 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 have sustained the leading characters, but an illness, 
 which eventually proved fatal, prevented his design. 
 
 Meanwhile Kean crossed over to Dublin, and was 
 there received by a stormy ovation. Night after night 
 the theatre was crowded to excess. On taking his 
 benefit in this city during his first visit an unpleasant 
 occurrence had taken place. Numerous and early 
 applications for seats had been made to the box-keeper, 
 but that individual declared Mr. Kean had kept to him- 
 self the privilege of letting all the boxes, that he might 
 oblige his particular friends ; and presently, when Kean 
 desired to have some boxes, he was assured they had 
 all been taken. The sole reason for such conduct on 
 the box-keeper's part was to secure bribes from those 
 willing to pay any price for places ; but these not being 
 generally offered, the theatre on the occasion of Kean's 
 benefit was scarcely filled. An explanation followed, 
 and the motive being discovered, the under-graduates of 
 Trinity College, who were amongst Kean's warmest 
 admirers, waited on him to know if he would wish the 
 theatre to be pulled down. This he declined. But 
 now when the time came for his second benefit, the 
 students undertook its management, let the boxes and 
 dress circles, and on the eventful evening stood at the 
 doors to receive tickets. The result was a triumph for
 
 THE WOLVES CLUB. 233 
 
 Kean, for the house, as a young under-graduate boasted, 
 " was fuller than it could hold." 
 
 Returning to town in the autumn, Kean took Lady 
 Rycroft's furnished house at 12 Clargeg Street, Piccadilly, 
 where much good company flocked. Mrs. Kean, who 
 was proud of her husband's fame, delighted in assem- 
 bling people of title, fashion, and distinction round her 
 board ; but Kean, who was a bom Bohemian, had no 
 regard for rank or position, and rather endured than 
 enjoyed the society of those who would have posed as 
 his patrons. Such were not congenial to his tempera- 
 ment, and frequently when a brilliant party at his house 
 had ended, he betook himself to a tavern, where with 
 some old friends or kindred spirits he spent the night 
 in drinkinor and smoking, listenin^j to anecdote and 
 song. 
 
 One of the favourite places of resort for himself and 
 his friends was a public-house called the Coal-hole, situ- 
 ated in Fountain Court, off the Strand. This was the 
 meeting-place of a club known as The Wolves, founded 
 for the enjoyment of "good fellowship and harmony." 
 Here all men, whosoever they were, met on terms of 
 equality. Kean, speaking as chairman, hoped no one 
 would enter " this circle of good fellows without a pride 
 that ranks him with the courtier, or philosophy that
 
 234 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 levels him with the peasant." He hoped that e very- 
 Wolf oppressed with worldly grievance, unmerited con- 
 tumely, or unjust persecutions, would, with a heart 
 glowing with defiance, exclaim, " I'll to my brothers ; 
 there I shall find ears attention to my tale of sorrow, 
 hands open to relieve, and close for my defence." 
 
 The Wolves, as the members of this club were called, 
 consisted of actors and those connected with theatres, 
 together with such merry souls as loved a strong glass 
 and a witty tale. The attraction the Coal-hole pos- 
 sessed for Kean was fraught with evil. Having reached 
 a height in his profession, which even in his most 
 sanguine hours he had not dreamt of attaining, lauded 
 by the public, appreciated by his friends, he no longer 
 practised the restraints which alone enabled him to 
 surmount his difficulties. His success had not made 
 him mad, as he had predicted, but in his eyes it served 
 as a license for eccentric conduct, concerning which 
 various stories were afloat. 
 
 During the season he not only set up a carriage, 
 but purchased several valuable horses. On one of 
 these, which he named Shylock, he would occasionally 
 mount on leaving the theatre or tavern, and ride reck- 
 lessly through the night, he knew not where, tearing 
 through streets, rushing along country roads, a modern
 
 kean's eccentricities. 235 
 
 Heme the hunter, jumping toll-gates, flying past 
 frightened peasants, outriding footpads in search of 
 prey. Not until daybreak did horse and horseman 
 return home, exhausted, and covered with mud or dust. 
 Not satisfied with a fame such as few had enjoyed so 
 early in life, he condescended to court notoriety, and 
 in this was not a little aided by a tame American lion, 
 given him by Sir Edward Tucker. Visitors at his 
 house found him engaged in his drawing-room in 
 educating this animal, and timidly shrank from making 
 the acquaintance of the colossal pet, who might also be 
 seen seated in the stern of a wherry which his master 
 rowed up and down the Thames, to the admiration of 
 many. Again the little tragedian was the observed of 
 all observers as he rolled through the streets in his 
 carriage drawn by four bays, wrapped in a great Spanish 
 cloak, which Sir George Beaumont had brought from 
 Seville, and presented to him. And to quell the 
 constant craving for excitement, begotten of his artistic 
 temperament, he frequented prize rings, and associated 
 with boxers on most friendly terms. 
 
 Grattan, the officer to whom he had once tauglit fenc- 
 ing in Waterford, called on him in the spring of 1816, 
 and no sooner had Kean learned his visitor's name, than 
 he sprang down-stairs to greet him heartily, and honestly
 
 236 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 ■welcome him, " Had he received the visit of a power- 
 ful patron or generous benefactor," Grattan writes, " he 
 could not, or at least need not, have shown more grati- 
 tude than he evinced at the recollection of my slight 
 services in passing some tickets for his Chimpanzee 
 benefit so long before. I consider," he adds, " this trait 
 in Kean's conduct a fair test of his character. It was 
 thoroughly disinterested, and was not a mere burst of 
 good feeling, nor a display of ostentation — for these 
 would have been suflficiently satisfied with a momen- 
 tary expression. But his whole behaviour during a 
 couple of months that I remained in London at that 
 time was a continuance of friendly attentions. I dined 
 with him frequently, and met at his house much good 
 company. Persons of very high respectability, and 
 many of them of rank, were amongst his constant 
 guests. His dinners were excellent, but his style of 
 home living did not appear extravagant ; and the 
 evening parties were extremely pleasant, with a great 
 deal of good music. Nothing could be more friendly 
 or hospitable than the conduct of the worthy hostess, 
 whom I had never formerly seen but in her solitary 
 exhibition at Waterford. She was in her own house, 
 and surrounded by everything that might dazzle the 
 mind's eye and dizzy the brain of almost any one.
 
 DINES WITH GEATTAN. 237 
 
 a fair specimen of natural character. Her head was 
 evidently turned by all her husband's fame and her 
 own finery, and their combined consequences were 
 visibly portrayed in her looks, and bodied forth with 
 exquisite naivete. But there was withal a shrewdness, 
 an off-handedness, and tact quite Irish ; and what was 
 still more so, a warm-hearted and overflowing recog- 
 nizance of ever so trivial a kindness or tribute of 
 admiration ofiered to Edmund before he became a 
 great man." 
 
 One evening when Kean was not performing, Grattan 
 invited him to dinner at the Sabloniere Hotel in 
 Leicester Square, to meet a couple of friends. At six 
 o'clock Kean's carriage came rattling up to the door, 
 and the tragedian descended, dressed in a silk-lined 
 coat, white breeches, and buckled shoes. Before sitting 
 down to table, he informed his host that he had an 
 engagement at nine to attend a party where he was 
 particularly expected. The dinner was choice, the 
 company witty, the wine excellent, and Kean, still 
 enjoying himself when the hour mentioned arrived, 
 tarried awhile. Presently word was brought the horses 
 were waiting, but he did not stir ; later, messengers 
 arrived from those who were expecting him, but they 
 had no power to move him. Decanters passed freely
 
 238 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 round, stories were told, songs sung, imitations of 
 famous actors given, and it was not until the clock 
 struck midnight he rose to depart. 
 
 Expressing his unwillingness that they should 
 separate, he invited the party to accompany him, 
 without mentioning the destination to which he was 
 bound. Unhesitatingly they assented, for at this period 
 of the entertainment they would readily have followed 
 him to the end of the world. Accordingly these four 
 got into Kean's carriage, which had been waiting over 
 three hours, and drove rapidly until the horses stopped 
 at the head of a narrow passage leading from the 
 Strand. Down this they tottered, bumping now and 
 then against the walls, until they arrived at the open 
 doors of a tavern, from which lights flashed and noises 
 sounded. A score of waiters and women struggled 
 forward to see the great actor as he took his unsteady 
 way up-stairs, followed by his friends. Reaching large 
 folding doors at the end of a corridor on the first floor, 
 he dashed at them violently, and flinging them wide, 
 entered the room amidst roars of applause. 
 
 Here, seated at a long supper-table, were about sixty 
 men ; beyond that fact all was a blaze of lights, a con- 
 fusion of mirrors and decanters, a kaleidoscope of human 
 faces, and a Babel of numerous voices to the visitors.
 
 VISIT TO THE wolves' CLQB. 239 
 
 No sooner, however, were they noticed by the company, 
 than a loud murmur of disapprobation arose, expostu- 
 lations and explanations ensued, which ended in Kean 
 and his three friends being hurriedly led to an ad- 
 joining room, where it was stated a violent outrage 
 on the society of the Wolves had been committed by 
 the grand master and founder in admitting strangers 
 without a formal introduction, and the only means 
 of repairing this breach of the laws was to make the 
 visitors members. Accordingly they were obliged to 
 take an oath, the object of which they scarce knew, 
 sign their names as well as they were able in a register, 
 and pay fees of a few guineas. Then being announced 
 members of the club, they returned to the large room, 
 when Kean took the chair reserved for him at the head 
 of the table, and his health being drank he made a 
 florid speech. Bottles were passed round, voices grew 
 more confused, the lights more dazzling, until at last 
 all ended in oblivion to the new-made Wolves, and 
 henceforth the night became to them as the memory 
 of a dream. 
 
 Amongst those who visited Kean at this time were 
 two pugilists, known as Mendoza and Richmond the 
 Black, with whom he was wont to try his skill as a 
 boxer in his dining-room. To witness a match between
 
 240 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 two champions named Curtis and West-country Dick, 
 soon to lose his life in a prize-fight, he on one occasion 
 took his friend Grattan. The spot selected for this so- 
 called sport was situated some ten miles outside town, 
 and was crowded by men of position and rank, young 
 bloods, university men, and sporting characters of all 
 degrees in the social circle. Kean on his arrival was 
 received with the honours due to a liberal patron and 
 a distinguished amateur, and ushered into a space 
 close beside the combatants, where he introduced such 
 lights of the ring as Scroggings, Crib, and Oliver to 
 his companion. The air was rife with excitement ; 
 wagers were laid ; deeds of prowess in the past recounted ; 
 victory and defeat freely predicted for this hero or that 
 favourite. Then the ring was cleared, the fight began ; 
 skill was cheered, falls were received with groans, blood 
 freely spouted, and the fighters pounded each other's 
 faces out of all semblance to humanity, whilst their 
 admirers looked on in high glee. 
 
 Kean w^as now a social lion, and as such many a 
 noble dame sought to lure him to her drawing-room 
 menagerie. But he, gauging the value of such honours, 
 boasted that he refused their invitations and despised 
 their patronage. The only man of title in whose 
 society he found pleasure was Lord Byron; and he
 
 KEAN DISLIKES SOCIETY. 241 
 
 not only admired, but it was said, in despising public 
 opinion, accentuating his eccentricities, and occasionally 
 allowing himself to be weighed down by melancholy 
 moods, imitated the poet. Both had something more 
 than genius in common ; both flashed through their 
 spheres like brilliant meteors ; both ended their careers 
 in the prime of an existence whose last days were 
 clouded with sorrow. 
 
 Byron not merely admired the tragedian, but, con- 
 scious of the many good traits underlying his character, 
 esteemed him as a man. He had previously hoped that 
 by getting him into good society he would be prevented 
 from falling like George Frederick Cooke, whose intem- 
 perance caused his ruin; and accordingly the poet 
 sought to attach Kean to his own circle. In this he 
 was not successful. The great actor was shy and uneasy 
 in the company of men of position or intellect, and felt 
 far more at home in a tavern with his brethren of the 
 sock and buskin. Again and again the poet, whose 
 circle was composed of those whose talents recommended 
 themselves to him, endeavoured to include Kean 
 amongst his associates, but in vain. A short time 
 before Byron left his native land for ever, he invited 
 the tragedian to dinner, that he might meet Lord 
 Kinnaird, just returned from Greece. A few men 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 distinguished in various ways were to complete the 
 party. It so happened that on the evening fixed for 
 this feast of reason and flow of wine, Kean had already 
 accepted an invitation from Charles Incledon to join 
 some friends at supper at Cribb's tavern in Panton 
 Street, Haymarket, and had promised to take the chair 
 on the occasion. Incledon, it will be remembered, had 
 acted kindly by Kean when he was a friendless lad, and 
 the tragedian never forgot a friend or a foe. Therefore 
 when Byron requested he would dine with him, Kean 
 excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement, 
 but Byron insisted he must come and meet his friends. 
 Accordingly Kean promised he should be present, and 
 on the appointed evening sat down at the poet's pleasant 
 board. But neither the company nor the conversation 
 had much attraction for him, he remained silent and 
 restrained, and soon after dessert had been served, 
 slipped quietly out of the room. For a while he was 
 not missed, but presently Byron, noting an empty chair, 
 inquired where his friend had gone ; to which the ser- 
 vants replied, Mr. Kean had kept his carriage waiting 
 from the time he entered the house, and had now 
 driven away. 
 
 On another occasion, at a dinner given by Lord Hert- 
 ford, Kean was asked to meet the Duke of Beaufort,
 
 AT SERGEANT EOUGH's PARTY. 243 
 
 Lord Glengall, Sir George Warrender, Douglas Kinnaird, 
 Francis Russell, and some others. In order to make 
 the great actor more at his ease, his friend and fellow- 
 player Oxberry was likewise invited, and with him 
 Kean duly arrived. The tragedian Avas the hero of the 
 hour ; wine was drank with him, compliments paid him, 
 his conversation was courted. And it being known 
 that he could be entertaining and witty when he 
 pleased, a pleasant evening was expected ; but so far as 
 Kean was concerned, their hopes were doomed to dis- 
 appointment, for whilst the servants were removing 
 the cloth he nodded to Oxberry, who approached him. 
 "A couple of years ago," he said, "not one of these 
 lords would have noticed the poor stroller, now their 
 admiration is unbounded. Pshaw ! I prefer a quiet glass 
 with a friend like you to all their champagne, effer- 
 vescent like themselves — let us go." And, unobserved 
 by their host, they quietly left the room, and were soon 
 on their way to a tavern. 
 
 Henry Crabb Robinson remembered meeting him at 
 a gathering at Sergeant Rough's, a legal light who had 
 married a daughter of the famous John Wilkes. This 
 worthy man and his spouse delighted in entertaining 
 literary and artistic society, and in their drawing-room 
 might be met Flaxman the sculptor, a grotesque, 
 
 R 2
 
 244 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 hump-backed little man ; Mrs. Abingdon, a con- 
 temporary of Garrick and Reynolds, now in the autumn 
 of her days, but in the full enjoyment of life ; gentle 
 Charles Lamb and his sister Mary ; William Godwin, 
 author of Caleb Williams, on which the play of the Iron 
 Chest was founded ; Samuel Coleridge, WiUiam Words- 
 worth, Home Tooke, Northcote the painter, Hazlitt the 
 critic, and others of like distinction. Henry Crabb 
 Robinson says the tragedian scarcely spoke ; he was not 
 at home in such company. " He has certainly a fine 
 eye," he writes, " but his features were relaxed as if he 
 had undergone great fatigue. When he smiles his look 
 is rather constrained than natural. He is but a small 
 man, and from the gentleness of his manners no one 
 would anticipate the actor who excels in bursts of 
 passion." 
 
 Lord William Lennox narrates a story in which Kean 
 appears to better advantage. One : summer month 
 Earl Fitzhardinge proposed to give a dinner at the Old 
 Ship Hotel, Greenwich, to Kean and a few of the 
 tragedian's ardent admirers ; and Kean having accepted 
 the proposal, it was decided the guests should arrive at 
 four o'clock at Berkeley House, Spring Gardens, Lord 
 Fitzhardinge's residence, and drive from there to Green- 
 wich in carriages. At the hour mentioned all those
 
 A MERRY DINNER AT GREENWICH. 245 
 
 invited arrived save Kean, from whom a note was 
 brought, regretting that sudden indisposition prevented 
 his attending. Lord William Lennox, believing Kean's 
 absence was caused rather by his will than by his 
 health, drove at once to his house, and found him 
 perfectly well. He then urged him to join the party, 
 which was arranged for him, stating that those invited 
 were his friends, and that the disappointment his absence 
 would cause his host would be great. 
 
 Eventually persuaded into compliance, Kean got into 
 the Victoria waiting him at the door, drove to Berkeley 
 House, and from there to Greenwich. Having visited 
 the fine picture-gallery of the Hospital, the company 
 sat down to a dinner which proved very merry to all. 
 When the cloth had been removed, and the wine had 
 circulated freely, Kean began to talk. Those around 
 him were sympathetic and laudatory, and he spoke 
 freely, describing his early career, when he had been 
 set down as a mere ranter, the hardships he suffered in 
 strolling, the fatigue he had endured in playing Shy- 
 lock and harlequin, Macbeth and Tom Tug, on the 
 same evening to a gallery of twenty and a pit number- 
 ing half a score of rustics. Then pressed by those 
 around him, he recited some of the speeches from the 
 Mcrdiant of Venice, spoke soliloquies from Ilacbdh and
 
 246 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Othello, his dark eyes flashing, his breast heaving, then 
 sang a song with sweetness and expression, gave imi- 
 tations of some of the London actors, narrated green- 
 room anecdotes that set the table in a roar, and finally 
 turned somersaults as a harlequin. And so the hours 
 wore away 'amidst merriment and laughter, song and 
 story, until it was close upon midnight, when host and 
 guests returned to their carriages, and drove home in 
 the peaceful moonlight of a summer night. 
 
 Paul Bedford, the veteran actor, gives us a picture 
 of Kean enjoying a little supper at the home of 
 Andrew Ducrow, whose marvellous acts of horseman- 
 ship and elegant tight-rope dancing drew crowds from 
 all parts of the town to Astley's. Ducrow was not 
 only a great artist, but a hospitable host, and loved 
 to gather round his board men of parts and wit. To 
 meet Kean one night he had bidden Count D'Orsay, 
 Nathan the composer. Sir George Wombwell, and Lord 
 Adolphus FitzClarence, son of Mrs. Jordan and the 
 Duke of Clarence. In such society Kean enjoyed him- 
 self, listening to the Count's hon mots, to Nathan's sing- 
 ing, to his host's narratives of his hair-breadth escapes 
 on horse and rope ; in return for which he sang and 
 recited, to the delight of his hearers.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Kean appears as Sir Giles Overreach — Anticipation rises — Effects 
 of his acting — " Great ! great 1 " said the poet — Financial 
 results of his performance — A dinner at Deptford and its 
 results — The story of an accident — An excited house — Pre- 
 sentation by the committee and company of Drury Lane — 
 After the play — In Higman's tavern — The Screaming Luna- 
 tics — Remembrance of old friends — At the Turk's Head 
 Inn — Letter to Tom Conningham — What happened at 
 Taunton — An adventure at Portsmouth — Remembrance and 
 generosity. 
 
 Whilst Kean's private life gave great pleasure and some 
 regret to his friends, his public career continued to 
 afford infinite satisfaction to the public. During his 
 third season he played Bajazet in Tamerlane, Aranza in 
 the Honeymoon, Sir Giles Overreach in A New Way to 
 Pay Old Debts, Sforza in the Duhe of Milan, Bertram in 
 the Tragedy of Bertram, and Kitely in Every Man in his 
 Humour. 
 
 The most successful of all these representations was 
 his Sir Giles Overreach. This drama of Massinger's was
 
 248 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 revived on the 12tli of January, 1816, and great were 
 the results expected from Kean's performance. Antici- 
 pation did not exceed them; no finer conception of 
 villainy, no more forcible portrayal of passions, no 
 greater acting had been seen upon the English stage. 
 His performance of Sir Giles long remained a theme 
 for praise and wonder. The last scene, for which the 
 actor had reserved his strength, " was indeed," said the 
 Morning Chronicle, " a climax of terrible destruction 
 and awful desolation of a mind buoyed up by false 
 hopes, the failure of which overwhelms it in blank 
 desperation and universal wretchedness." The effect 
 of this powerful playing was such, that one of the 
 actresses on the stage, Mrs. Glover, overcome with fright 
 at the horror depicted on his countenance, fainted ; 
 Byron at the same time was seized in his box by a 
 convulsive fit ; whilst women went into hysterics, 
 and the whole house burst into a wild clamour of 
 applause. 
 
 As Kean, breathless with fatigue and excitement, was 
 passing to his dressing-room, he felt a hand grasp his 
 shoulder, and turning round, saw Byron, yet pale 
 from the effect of his fit. " Great ! great ! " said the 
 poet ; " that was acting ! But hang it, you should not 
 have treated me so scurvily by running from my dinner-
 
 KEAN AS SIR GILES OVERREACH. 249 
 
 table to Cribb's." Kean in a few words apologized and 
 explained, and after some months of coolness they were 
 friends once more. That evening's performance added 
 a fresh leaf to his laurels. Not since he had played 
 Richard III. had he achieved such a triumph. Return- 
 ing home, he told his wife the scene he had witnessed — 
 the sea of eager faces, the storm of excitement, the out- 
 burst of approbation. " And what did Lord Essex 
 say ? " she interrupted him to ask. " Damn Lord Essex ; 
 the pit rose at me," he replied. 
 
 This representation, which was " without doubt the 
 most terrific exhibition of human passion that has been 
 witnessed upon the modern stage," became the talk of 
 all classes. The few who had before considered the 
 want of tragic strut and measured declamation in 
 Kean's acting as absence of dignity and propriety, were 
 now overwhelmed by the touches of nature and force 
 of passion he displayed. His praise was in all men's 
 mouths, " Mr. Kean," said the play-bill announcing 
 his second representation of Sir Giles, " was honoured 
 with the most enthusiastic applause, and the play 
 having been received throughout with distinguished 
 approbation, and announced for repetition with unani- 
 mous approval, will be acted again on Monday and 
 Friday." On Monday over three hundred persons were
 
 250 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 refused admission, so crowded was the house. The re- 
 ceipts of the night were five hundred and forty-seven 
 pounds ; on the third evening's performance of the play, 
 five hundred and eighty pounds were taken at the 
 doors ; on the fourth night these receipts were increased 
 by ten pounds; whilst on the fifth and sixth they 
 amounted to six hundred and nine pounds, the largest 
 sum taken during the season. 
 
 Indeed, the play brought such profit to the treasury, 
 and such honour to Kean, that the committee decided 
 on producing another of Massinger's plays, and the 
 DuTce of Milan was accordingly announced for represent- 
 ation on the 9th of March. Kean spent much time in 
 studying his part, but though he played it well, the 
 drama had not sufficient interest to ensure its success. 
 On the night of its first performance, Lord William 
 Lennox narrates that, having dined with a couple of 
 friends, they proceeded to Drury Lane Theatre. As 
 they entered a narrow passage leading to the private 
 boxes, he heard a voice calling to the box-keeper that 
 sounded familiar, and saw a figure mufiled in a great 
 cloak ; recognizing Lord Byron, to whom he had previ- 
 ously been introduced, he bowed to the poet, who slightly 
 acknowledged his salute, and immediately disappeared 
 in the crowd. Setting down the poet as a ca^Dricious
 
 BYEON AND LORD WILLIAM LENNOX. 251 
 
 mortal, Lord William and his friends entered their box, 
 and watched the play with interest. As the curtain fell 
 upon the second act, the box-keeper handed Lord 
 Wilham a note containing these words — " The bearer 
 will bring you to my den ; till we meet breathe not 
 the name of B." Leaving his friends, he followed his 
 guide to the entrance of a little box close to the orches- 
 tra, upon entering which he was warmly greeted by 
 Byron, who said — 
 
 " I have a thousand apologies to make for the cut 
 direct I was obliged to give you. The fact is, I am here 
 incog. ; a relative died last week, and I ought to be at 
 home, ' in sullen black and sackcloth,' My father-in- 
 law would be shocked if he heard that I did not stay at 
 home for Bell's, I mean Lady Birron's (so he pronounced 
 it), uncle. You know that I am now Benedick the 
 married man. But sit down in front, and hear Kean's 
 impassioned tones. I must remain in my nook, or 
 to-morrow we shall read in some of the morning papers 
 of ' heartless conduct,' and * atrocious outrage upon 
 decency.' 
 
 Lord William was about to rise at the end of the 
 third act, when the box-door opened, and Douglas 
 Kinnaird entered. After an introduction had taken 
 place, the latter said,
 
 252 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 " What a glorious house to-night ! What will Whit- 
 bread say ? He and Cavendish Bradshaw were quite 
 in despair on looking over the receipts of the off 
 nights," 
 
 Presently Byron stated that his friend would like to 
 see the green-room ; " and as we gave out a particular 
 order," he continued, "that no stranger should be 
 admitted, perhaps you will take him round." 
 
 "What a law-maker — a law-breaker," Kinnaird re- 
 sponded; "but if Lord William wishes to go I shall 
 have great pleasure in escorting him," And away they 
 went ; but the great actor was not in the green-room, 
 and they soon returned. 
 
 Kean had occasion to remember this play, from an 
 unpleasant incident with which it was connected. It 
 happened on the 26th of March, when the drama was 
 announced for performance that evening, he with 
 some pleasant friends and boon companions left town 
 in the morning for Deptford, intending to dine there, 
 and get back in time for his representation. The 
 dinner was a success, and the day passed merrily 
 enough ; healths were proposed, toasts were drank, and 
 the hour at which Kean should have started for town 
 slipped by unnoticed. When at last it was remembered 
 by one of his companions, he was neither able nor
 
 KEAN FAILS TO APPEAR. 253 
 
 willing to leave the table. Those around him capable 
 of thinking coherently, became fearful of the results of 
 his indiscretion, and concocting a story, sent Kean's 
 carriage in full haste to the theatre, bidding the 
 servants say their master had been on his way to town, 
 when the horses took fright at some geese by the 
 roadside, near the inn at which he dined, ran away, 
 upset the carriage, and flung the occupant out with 
 such force as to dislocate his shoulder. 
 
 Meanwhile, a great audience had gathered at Drury 
 Lane Theatre to see Kean. And as he did not appear 
 in his dressing-room at his usual time, the managers 
 became uneasy, and despatched messengers to his home, 
 and to the various haunts where it was hoped he might 
 be discovered. As the minutes passed, and the hour 
 arrived for the curtain to rise, the house grew impatient, 
 and hisses and hootings became general. At seven 
 o'clock Rae came forward, seemingly in great distress, 
 and stated Kean was nowhere to be found. He beixsred 
 the indulgence of all present, and proposed to substitute 
 another play for the Duke of Milan. This suggestion 
 meeting with opposition, he retired, but soon after reap- 
 peared, and begged to know what was the pleasure of 
 the house, when he was answered by a universal cry of 
 " Wait, wait." The orchestra then played God save the
 
 254 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 King, and some other airs, until Rae once more stood 
 before the curtain. No tidings, he stated, had arrived 
 of Mr, Kean ; and at the same time he requested them 
 to remember this was the first time that actor had ever 
 kept them waiting a moment. He then asked if they 
 would accept What Next, and Ways and Means, and 
 Fortunes Frolic, instead of the play announced, and 
 the audience agreeing, the first piece was begun with- 
 out further delay. 
 
 When the curtain fell upon the last act of Ways and 
 Means, a player named Barnard came forward, and 
 announced that A New Wo.y to Pay Old Debts would be 
 performed on Thursday. The name of the play bring- 
 ing the tragedian to mind, several voices cried out 
 angTily, " Kean ! where's Kean ? " and this cry being 
 taken up, the house was stirred to a state of excite- 
 ment. When the storm had sufficiently abated, to allow 
 him being heard, Barnard stated no intelligence of Mr. 
 Kean had been yet received, and then withdrew. 
 Fortune's Frolic was played, and the evening's pro- 
 gramme concluded. 
 
 Fear and anxiety now beset Kean's friends and 
 admirers, but their suspense was somewhat relieved 
 late at night, when messengers arrived with the story 
 of the dislocated shoulder. Next morning the papers
 
 STORY OF AN ACCIDENT. 255 
 
 regretted the serious accident which had befallen the 
 tragedian, and feared he would be prevented from 
 fulfilling his professional duties for some time. The 
 Morning Post set forward the following tale, which, 
 as may be seen, greatly improved upon the original 
 version. " He dined with a few friends at Woolwich 
 on Tuesday," it stated, " from whence he set out at due 
 time to be at the theatre by five o'clock. He reached 
 Deptford about four, and here he experienced the same 
 untoward kind of accident to which his brethren of the 
 sock and buskin appear so long to have been unfor- 
 tunately fated. Driving at a very quick pace, he was 
 suddenly overturned, and falling with great violence 
 upon the pavement, he had the misfortune to break 
 his arm. His head also struck with such violence that 
 he was completely stunned, and in this state was he 
 conveyed to a neighbouring house ; nor had he become 
 sufficiently sensible of his situation to send off the 
 necessary intimation of his accident to the theatre 
 until a late hour yesterday morning. We are happy 
 to be informed that he was last night considerably 
 recovered, though in a state of most excruciating pain 
 from the fracture of his arm. About a fortniifht ajjo 
 he had a very unpleasant dream, from which, weakly 
 enough, he indulged in the gloomy augury that he
 
 256 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 should die on St. Patrick's day; nor was he satisfied 
 of the error of this strange presentiment even when 
 the date had passed over ; but thought that the awful 
 visitation, as it did not take place on the day of the 
 new style, must be intended for that of the old style. 
 We regret that any such notion as this should have 
 been entertained in a mind otherwise so fine and 
 superior, as we understand it even now continues to 
 press heavily upon him, the time of dreadful foreboding 
 not being yet arrived. To-morrow is the fearfully 
 awaited day ; and however ridiculous his apprehension, 
 Mr. Kean's friends will do well to use every means 
 of eradicating from his mind so strange and injurious 
 an impression. In this event Richard will soon be 
 himself again; and his faithful representation may 
 for half a century to come enjoy the annual festivities 
 of St. Patrick, to the happiness of his friends and the 
 delight of the public." 
 
 The tidinofs of the accident having been delivered 
 at the theatre, found their way to Mrs. Kean, who, in 
 the fulness of her credulity, prepared to set out for 
 Deptford in the morning. Accompanied by a surgeon 
 and a couple of the Drury Lane actors, she reached 
 her destination before midday ; where soon after Mr. 
 Whitbread, Sir Francis Burdett, and others of Kean's
 
 PLAYING A NEW PART. 257 
 
 friends, anxious for his condition, arrived. In the 
 morning the tragedian had recovered his senses, and 
 felt shocked and shamed at discovering his situation. 
 Those with whom he had made merry the previous 
 day told him of the excuse they had sent to town, 
 and assured him, as he valued public favour, he must 
 act according to the story they had framed. 
 
 Therefore the village apothecary was summoned, who 
 for a certain consideration lent himself to the deception, 
 and bound Kean's shoulder and arm with linen 
 cloths. His face was then whitened, the blinds of his 
 bed- room windows drawn, and on his visitors beins 
 permitted to see him they beheld him lying in bed, 
 seemingly in a state of suffering and exhaustion. 
 Though the apothecary had forbidden any excitement, 
 Kean, when his visitors had returned to town, assured 
 his wife he would follow their example. Fearing 
 the shaking and fatigue might exhaust him, she 
 protested against this design, but he persisted, and 
 eventually he was assisted to his carriage, propped 
 up with pillows, and driven slowly to Clarges Street. 
 Arriving there, he was carefully lifted out and carried 
 to his bed-room. When left alone with his wife, he 
 suddenly jumped up, and flung his bandaged arm 
 about his head. Bewildered and frightened, she stared 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 at him, half fearing he had gone mad, until he laugh- 
 ingly declared all was well, and confessed the hoax 
 which his folly had obliged him to support. Appear- 
 ances, however, had to be maintained, and he therefore 
 remained within doors a few days. 
 
 The accident was supposed to have taken place 
 on the 26th of March, but five days later he announced 
 his intention of playing at the theatre. However, lest 
 the public might grow suspicious at his sudden recovery, 
 it was prepared for his reappearance by the follow- 
 ing letter written to the manager of the theatre, 
 and published in the papers with a few prefatory 
 remarks. 
 
 " The public will be glad to hear," said the Morning 
 Post, "that Mr. Kean was yesterday so far recovered 
 from the painful effects of his late accident, as to 
 induce a hope that that justly distinguished and most 
 favourite actor will be able to resume his professional 
 duties on Monday next; at least, such is the anxious 
 wish expressed by himself in the following letter of 
 yesterday's date to the managers of the theatre; and 
 we were further informed last night, that he felt 
 increased confidence in his ability to undertake the 
 task.
 
 LETTER TO THE MANAGERS. 259 
 
 " * Clarges Street. 
 
 " ' To the Managers of JDrury Lane, Theatre. 
 
 " ' Gentlemen, 
 
 " ' I beg you to accept, and convey to the Sub- 
 Committee, my sincere thanks for the interest so kindly 
 expressed for my recovery, and for the liberality with 
 which I am desired not to hasten the resumption of my 
 duties before my health is perfectly re-established. I 
 am authorized by my surgeon to entertain hopes of 
 being able to appear before the public on Monday, if it 
 be not in a character requiring too great bodily exer- 
 tion. With that view I take the liberty of suggesting 
 that of Shylock. 
 
 " * I beg to assure you that I feel convinced that 
 anxiety and impatience of confinement will tend more 
 to delay my perfect recovery from my accident than 
 any ill that may result from too early exertion. 
 " ' I am, sirs, 
 
 " ' Your obedient servant, 
 " ' E. Kean.' " 
 
 It was probable the public heard rumours of the real 
 cause of his absence, and suspected the statements 
 made regarding his illness. On the night of his re- 
 appearance the theatre was crowded to excess; for 
 
 s 2
 
 260 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 some reason the rising of the curtain was delayed, and 
 the audience, already in a state of excitement, became 
 impatient. When at last the play began, a general 
 cry arose of "Off, off, Kean, Kean, apology." After 
 speaking some of his lines, not one word of which was 
 heard, Rae, who represented Bassanio, bowed and quitted 
 the stage, followed by Antonio. At that moment a dis- 
 traction was caused by the entrance of the Duke of 
 Gloucester and the Princess Sophia, when God save the 
 King was demanded by the gallery, and responded to 
 by the orchestra. Some of the performers coming 
 forward were soundly hissed, until it was discovered 
 their intention was to sing "the loyal hymn," when 
 they were listened to with approval. Having finished, 
 they retired, and for some seconds the audience waited 
 in complete silence, expecting Kean to appear and 
 apologize ; but in this they were disappointed, for 
 Bassanio and Antonio came on, and again began their 
 parts. 
 
 Dire confusion followed. Shouts of "Off, off," 
 were mingled with cries of " Go on," " Apology," and 
 " No apology." In the midst of this excitement the 
 attention of the house was directed to a box in which 
 the occupants were engaged in active dispute, pre- 
 sumably with reference to Kean. Threats and words
 
 AN EXCITED AUDIENCE. 261 
 
 of anger were interchanged," and this diverting the 
 audience from its own grievance, the play was allowed to 
 proceed uninterruptedly until Kean entered as Shylock. 
 Then arose cries for an apology, and counter cries of 
 " No apology ! " and the air was noisy with hisses and 
 cheers. Cool and collected, Kean began his part in 
 the midst of this violent uproar, no one word he spoke 
 being heard, until, after the elapse of some minutes, 
 during which the storm seemed to increase, he removed 
 his hat, and advanced to the front of the stage. Then 
 silence falling upon all, he spoke as follows — 
 
 " It is the first time in my life that I have been 
 the unwilling cause of disappointment. That in this 
 theatre it is the first instance out of the hundred and 
 sixty-nine performances, I appeal to your own recollec- 
 tion and to the testimony of the managers. It is to 
 your favour I owe whatever reputation I enjoy. It is 
 upon your candour I throw myself when prejudice 
 would deprive me of what you have bestowed." 
 
 This speech, which contained no word of excuse, was 
 interrupted by bursts of applause, and received with 
 ringing cheers. He then continued his represent- 
 ation, and never did he play Shylock better than 
 on this evening, nor did he ever receive warmer 
 appreciation.
 
 262 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 At the close of the season 1816 Kean was presented 
 with a silver cup, modelled after the well-known 
 "Warwick vase. For this three hundred guineas had 
 been subscribed by the committee and the company, 
 both men and women, with the exception of Munden 
 and Dowton — the former being remarkable for his 
 penurious spirit, the latter equally notable for his 
 jealousy of Kean. When Munden was asked for his 
 contribution, he replied, "You may cup Mr. Kean if 
 you like, but you don't bleed Joe Munden." The cup, 
 which was adorned with the heads of Shakespeare 
 and Massinger, and with masks of tragedy and comedy, 
 bore the following words — 
 
 " To Edmund Kean this vase was presented on the 
 25th day of June, 1816, by Robert Palmer, father of 
 the Drury Lane company, in the names of Right Hon. 
 Lord Byron, Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, Right Hon. George 
 Lamb, Chandos Leigh, Esq., S. Davies, Esq. (then fol- 
 lowed the names of the company, fifty-two in number), 
 in testimony of their admiration of his transcendent 
 talents, and more especially to commemorate his first 
 representation of the character of Sir Giles Overreach on 
 the 12th of January, 1816, when, in common with an 
 astonished public, overcome with the irresistible power 
 of his genius, they received a lasting impression of
 
 IN higman's tavern. 263 
 
 excellence, which twenty-six successive representations 
 have served but to confirm." 
 
 The suicide of Mr. Whitbread in July, 1815, and the 
 departure of Lord Byron from England early in the 
 following year, removed from Kean two friends who 
 had sought to win him from habits which eventually 
 ruined his Hfe. His fondness for drink became stronger 
 with time, and aheady gave him warning of its effect 
 upon his health ; for Grattan narrates, that in the year 
 1817, seeking him one night when he had played 
 Othello, he found the tragedian in his dressing-room 
 " as usual, after the performance of any of his parts, 
 stretched on a sofa, vomiting violently and throwing up 
 quantities of blood. His face was half- washed, one side 
 deadly pale, the other deep copper colour. He was a 
 very appalling object certainly, even to those who were 
 accustomed to see him." 
 
 One of the taverns to which he frequently resorted 
 was kept by Higman, a bass singer, who, in the sere 
 and yellow leaf of his days, had abandoned his calling 
 to become the proprietor of a public-house in Villiers 
 Street, the sign of which he changed to that of 
 Richard III. Higman's friends — fiddlers and actors, 
 singers and musicians — came here at night when the 
 play-houses and the concert-halls closed ; and many a
 
 264 EDMCND KEAN. 
 
 pleasant story of famous comedians and tragedians dead 
 and gone, and many a merry anecdote of comrades yet 
 alive and strolling, was told. It happened one night 
 that Kean entered the tavern, when a ventriloquist and 
 mimic named Fuller had begun a series of imitations 
 of famous actors, which a programme announced 
 included Bannister, Young, Kemble, and Kean. 
 
 Fuller had frequently mimicked other actors in Kean's 
 presence, but had never ventured to imitate the great 
 tragedian to his face. Kean quietly seated himself, 
 listened with amusement, and occasionally tapped the 
 table by way of approbation. Then came the moment 
 for the imitation of Kean. Fuller paused and looked 
 at him, but apparently he assented to the performance, 
 and the mimic began a speech of Richard III. in his 
 manner. But scarce had he repeated five lines when 
 Kean flung a glass of wine in his face. Instantly a 
 scuffle followed, the would-be combatants were separated, 
 and Kean, with eyes flaming, swore, if he thought he 
 was such a wretch as Fuller represented he would hang 
 himself. Like all distinguished men, he was plagued 
 with a host of human gnats styling themselves imitators 
 — men who produced some poor semblance to his man- 
 nerisms without being able to give any idea of his 
 powers, and of such was Fuller.
 
 THE SCREAMING LUNATICS. 265 
 
 With a country actor named Anderton he was more 
 tolerant. Whilst Kean was spending an evening at 
 the Harp tavern, Anderton, accompanied by some 
 provincial players, entered. Having acted with Kean 
 in by-gone days he now addressed him, but the 
 trasredian either did not hear or remember him. The 
 frequenters of the Harp were generally known as the 
 Screaming Lunatics, and in order to make good their 
 claim to this title, all new comers were expected to sing 
 or recite. When Anderton's turn came to pay his 
 footing, he gave imitations of well-known actors. He 
 had gained considerable reputation by recitations after 
 the manner of Kean, but withheld them on the 
 present occasion. His friends, however, were not 
 satisfied by the omission, and cried out, " Give us Kean ; 
 let us have Kean ; " and Anderton rose, and complied 
 with the request. There were those present who 
 remembered the scene with Fuller, and now expected 
 a repetition of the occurrence, and one of Kean's friends 
 rose up, declaring he would not sit by and hear the 
 greatest living genius mimicked by a mountebank. 
 Kean's reply was a glance of contempt, then turning to 
 his imitator, said, " Anderton, I didn't know you," on 
 which they shook hands heartily, and spent the night 
 in each other's company.
 
 266 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Kean was one of the last men to forget the friends 
 and acquaintance he had met in the days of poverty 
 and distress, as many instances show. Here also is a 
 letter written in May, 1817, which speaks for him on 
 this point — 
 
 "Dear Bridge, 
 
 " I did not see you yesterday in New Street, or 
 should immediately have spoken. You know little of 
 me if you think it necessary to apologize for breach of 
 ceremony — all the fashionable parade of ' card leaving,' 
 * at home,' * the honour of your company,' &c., I have 
 long since, with the rubbish appertaining to it, kicked 
 out of my doors. The friends with whom I wish to 
 associate are such as will come uninvited, go unretarded, 
 share the family meal, drink half-a-dozen bottles if he 
 can, a pint if it better suits his inclinations, laugh at 
 the follies of the world, pity those poor devils in the 
 shackles of refinement, chatter philosophy, and sing a 
 good song — if these are the ingredients that form a 
 man worthy of J. B. Bridge's consideration, there is 
 none will be more happy to take him by the hand 
 than his 
 
 " Very sincere friend, 
 
 "Edmund Kean.
 
 AT THE Turk's head inn. 267 
 
 " P.S. — When I am not at home I am at the theatre, 
 and theatre or home, drop in when you please." 
 
 When he had played at Exeter, it had been his 
 habit to meet some boon companions in a certain room 
 in the Turk's Head tavern almost every evening. He 
 had left that town depressed by poverty and misery, 
 and had not visited it until the summer of 1816, when 
 he went to perform for a few nights at the theatre. 
 As his carriage and four entered Exeter, he ordered it 
 should be driven straight to the Turk's Head, and as 
 it arrived at the inn the great actor quietly de- 
 scended, ran along a familiar passage, opened the door 
 of a well-known room, and with a spring, jumped on 
 a table surrounded by his old companions, crying, 
 "Richard's himself again." 
 
 His remembrance of good fellowship is proved by 
 another story which Tom Conningham was proud to 
 tell. Kean and he had been strollers poor in one 
 company, and had shared together the trials and 
 privations common to their state. But whilst Kean 
 had risen in the world, Conningham remained in 
 distress. Soon after Kean's fame had been established, 
 Tom was playing at Brighton, and on the occasion of 
 his benefit a fellow-player suggested he should ask his
 
 268 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 old friend to act for him, when a full house would 
 certainly be secured, and Tom's debts swept into 
 oblivion. 
 
 " My good fellow," quoth honest Tom, " I should be 
 afraid to make so bold a request. It is true we were 
 at one time acting together, and he was then a good- 
 natured man ; but Ned Kean the stroller and Edmund 
 Kean the prop of Drury Lane are different persons." 
 
 His adviser argued that change of fortune need not 
 necessarily rob a man of his better nature, and even- 
 tually persuaded him to write to the tragedian. In 
 reply he received the following letter — 
 
 "Dear Tom, 
 
 " I am sorry you are not so comfortable in life 
 as you could wish. Put me up for any of my plays 
 next Thursday, and I shall be happy to act for your 
 benefit. In the mean time, accept the enclosed trifle to 
 make the pot boil. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "Edmund Kean." 
 
 The enclosure was a ten-pound note. On the day 
 named he arrived at Brighton, and played to a great 
 house, the receipts of Avhich enabled Conningham to 
 beffin life as a free man.
 
 REMEMBRANCE OF PAST KINDNESS. 269 
 
 A few years later he paid a visit to Northallerton 
 for three nights. The terms of agreement were 
 that he was to have half the receipts. The prices of 
 admission were doubled, but for all that the theatre 
 was crowded to excess. The morning after the first 
 performance, the proprietor, Samuel Butler, called on 
 Kean to give him forty pounds, his share of the profits. 
 " Put it in your pocket," said Kean briefly ; and then, as 
 the manager looked at him wonderingly, continued, 
 " When I was a stripling in this town your father 
 assisted me to travel to London. At parting I told 
 him, if ever fortune smiled on me I would not forget 
 him. Fortune has smiled on me, and I am proud of 
 paying to the son the debt so many years due to the 
 father. Put up your money, and then we shall proceed 
 according to the terms of our engagement." 
 
 On another occasion he played for the benefit of 
 manager Moss, in whose company he had served when 
 Moss was a prosperous man, but whom he now found 
 in sickness and poverty. And again, when he had 
 played for three nights at Totnes, he came forward at 
 the conclusion of his performance and said — " Ladies and 
 Gentlemen, My engagement is over, but I stay one 
 niglit more to act gratis for the manager's benefit ; for 
 when I was only a stroller he helped me in my distress.
 
 270 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 and now that I can perhaps help him, I will willingly 
 do so." 
 
 Numerous appeals were made to him for help by 
 those he had formerly known, nor was application ever 
 made in vain ; for his purse was ever open to relieve 
 distress. Having once given a suit of clothes and 
 money to a young actor, and subsequently obtained for 
 him a three years' engagement at a London theatre, he 
 gave his reasons for his deeds. " He was at Richmond," 
 he said, " when I walked down to play there for one 
 night. I was to have ten shillings for acting, and the 
 rehearsal was to begin at ten. I sat up all night at 
 the Harp, for I had no lodgings, and started at six in 
 the morning. About nine o'clock I was crossing Rich- 
 mond Green, when he saw and invited me to breakfast. 
 I was terribly hungry, and hadn't a halfpenny about 
 me. I breakfasted and dined with him, acted like a 
 Trojan, and then walked back to London with my 
 earnings, minus a parting glass. I shall never forget 
 the invitation or the inviter." 
 
 But if he recollected favours done him in his youth, 
 he likewise remembered insults offered him. Wlicnever 
 in the course of the summer months he visited Taunton 
 to appear as a star at its theatre, nothing could induce 
 him to behave with friendliness towards the manager.
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AT TAUNTON. 271 
 
 who every night duly brought him half the receipts of 
 the house as the salary he had agreed to pay him ; but 
 no sooner did Kean hear his well-known knock at the 
 dressing-room door, than he invariably called aloud to 
 his dresser, " See what that man wants." In the course 
 of a few years, Kean, in visiting Taunton, found this 
 individual stricken by losses ; the theatre had passed 
 from his possession, his services as an actor had been 
 rejected, and he was steeped in poverty. In this state 
 he called upon Kean, and begged he would play one 
 night for his benefit ; and to this the tragedian 
 assented. 
 
 That evening, as Kean and some actors sat in the 
 public room of a tavern, telling anecdotes concerning 
 their fellows, and drinking convivial glasses, they were 
 joined by the ex-manager, who, believing Kean's dislike 
 for him had vanished, presently rose and made a speech, 
 in which he stated, that the great actor having known 
 and served under him in the period of his prosperity, had 
 generously consented to play for him now in the days 
 of his adversity. In the midst of loud acclamations 
 which followed Kean stood up, and the light in his 
 eyes and pallor of his face caused sudden silence. 
 Turning to the speaker, he said in cold and measured 
 tones, " Don't let us misunderstand one another. I am
 
 272 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 bound to you by no ties from my former acquaintance. 
 I don't play for you because you were once my manager, 
 or a manager, for if ever a man deserved his fate it is 
 you ; if ever there was a family of tyrants it is yours. 
 I don't play for you from former friendship, but I play 
 because you are a fallen man." The effect of this 
 speech was electrical ; but he to whom it was addressed 
 overlooked the affront in consideration of the promised 
 help, and soon after left the room. Then Kean, from 
 whom all anger had departed, said to those present, 
 " I am sorry I forgot myself, but when I and my family 
 were starving, that fellow refused to let a subscription 
 for me be entertained in his theatre." 
 
 Another anecdote illustrating his remembrance of 
 injuries is stated in the Theatrical Magazine. Having 
 one morning, whilst visiting Portsmouth, 'finished a 
 rehearsal at the theatre, the manager asked him to 
 come and drink a bottle of Madeira at a neigh- 
 bouring inn. Nothing loath, the tragedian went, and 
 the proprietor learning the name of his distinguished 
 customer, attended him personally, ushered him into 
 his best room, and thanked him for the honour of his 
 visit, with many gracious words and formal bows. Kean 
 without replying fixed his eyes on him, knit his brows, 
 and after some time said, " I came into your house at
 
 ADVENTURE AT PORTSMOUTH. 273 
 
 the request of this gentleman to have some refresh- 
 ments, not to be pestered with your civilities, which to 
 me are so many insults. Look at me well, sir; you 
 don't recollect me, I see, but I am the same Edmund 
 Kean I was fifteen years ago, when you kept a small 
 tavern in this town. At that time I was a strolling 
 player, and came with my company to a fair here. I 
 remember well that I went one day into the bar of 
 your house, and called for a half-pint of porter, which, 
 after I had waited your pleasure patiently, was held out 
 to me by you with one hand, whilst the other was 
 extended to receive the money. Never shall I forget 
 your insolent demeanour, or the bitterness of my 
 feelings. What alteration beyond that of dress do 
 you find in me ? Am I a better man than I was then ? 
 What is there in me now that should cause you to over- 
 whelm me with compliments ? Go, keep your wine in 
 your cellar, I'll have none of it," and so saying, he 
 turned his back upon the landlord and left his house, 
 followed by the manager. 
 
 But the adventures of the day were not yet ended. 
 No sooner had they left the inn than Kean, addressing 
 his friend, said, " Now I will take you to an honest 
 fellow who was kind to me in the days of my mis- 
 fortune, and walking down the street, they entered a 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 dark-looking little tavern, where they seated themselves 
 at a side-table, called for some wine, and at the same 
 time expressed a desire to see the landlord. He came, 
 and bowed ; but he was not the host of the tragedian's 
 recollections, for he had departed with past years. 
 There happened, however, to be a waiter in the house 
 who had served the strolling player, and with him 
 Kean talked, making inquiries of his late master's 
 family, and of old frequenters of the tavern, known to 
 both. After some time Kean said he must go, and 
 asked the man what was the time. " I'll see, sir," he 
 replied, running to the stairs, at the head of which 
 stood an old case clock. On his return, Kean asked 
 him if he had not got a watch. He replied he 
 had not. 
 
 " Then take this," said Kean, " and buy one ; and 
 whenever you look at it, think of your late master." 
 
 He handed him a five-pound note, which the man 
 received without a word, surprise and gratitude render- 
 ing him mute.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 William Macready resolves to become a player — In charge of his 
 father's company — A suspicious inn-keeper — The pantomime 
 of Macbeth — A blood-stained garment — Playing Komeo for 
 the first time — Working hard at his calling — Acting with 
 Mrs. Siddons — In the ancient city of Bath — Frightened at a 
 play-bill — Playing in Dublin — Negotiations with Covent 
 Garden — Hibernian humour — Mr. Plunket and his audience — 
 Macready's first appearance on the London stage^Congratu- 
 lations of the manager — Remarks of the critics — His personal 
 appearance described. 
 
 In the winter season of 1816, a new sensation was 
 caused in the theatrical world by the first appearance 
 of William Macready at Covent Garden Theatre. This 
 famous actor was born in Tottenham Court Road, 
 London, in March, 1793, and was therefore six years 
 younger than Edmund Kean. His father had begun 
 life in Dublin as an upholsterer, but had eventually 
 become a player, and finally manager of the Man- 
 chester, Birmingham, Sheffield, and Newcastle theatres. 
 Macready the elder was a bustling, sharp-tempered, 
 
 T 2
 
 276 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 sanguine-spirited little man, whose ambition it was to 
 have one of his sons at the Bar, and one in the army. 
 William Charles, his eldest born, was destined for the 
 law, and at an early age was sent to Rugby school, 
 where he remained three years. 
 
 At the end of that period the elder Macready fell 
 into difficulties, and eventually his affairs became 
 desperate. His son, who had not yet reached his 
 sixteenth birthday, was at this time home in Manchester 
 for the holidays, and seeing the condition of his father's 
 prospects, resolved to help him so far as in him lay. 
 Therefore he one day told his father he would not 
 return to Rugby, as he wished to become a player. 
 The manager replied, it had been the desire of his life 
 to see his boy a barrister, but if he wished to go on the 
 stage, he would not oppose his desires. Accordingly 
 young Macready promptly and steadily prepared him- 
 self for his ; calling — learning to fence, studying parts 
 suited to his powers, and watching the effects produced 
 by various actors. 
 
 As time passed the manager's troubles increased, 
 until, living in great fear of being arrested for debt, he 
 was obliged to hide from the bailiffs, and leave his son 
 to represent him at the theatre. Eventually he sur- 
 rendered himself to the sheriff's officer, and was lodged
 
 A YOUTHFUL MANAGER. 277 
 
 in Lancaster Castle. When his son found him really a 
 prisoner, his fortitude gave way, and he burst into tears, 
 on which his father grimly said, " There is nothing I 
 cannot bear but compassion; if you cannot command 
 yourself, go away." He was then sent to take charge 
 of a company of players in his father's service at 
 Chester ; reaching which town, the lad found them in 
 a state of mutiny, because their salaries were in arrears, 
 and indifferent as to how they acted. This the manager 
 of sixteen summers undertook to rectify, by insisting on 
 careful rehearsals, and the repetition of the proper text. 
 Moreover, he introduced a new play, exerted himself to 
 obtain "bespeaks" from rival political candidates, and 
 succeeded in drawing full houses nightly. Working in 
 this manner, he was enabled to pay most of the debts 
 connected with the theatre, and was gradually prosper- 
 ing, when the landlord of the house put in an execution 
 for rent due. Sadly perplexed, he wrote to some friends, 
 requesting they would lend him what money they could 
 spare, and they complying, he was enabled to defray all 
 debts and pay all salaries. 
 
 And having closed the theatre at Chester, he, with 
 three of the best actors of his company, set out for 
 Newcastle-on-Tyne, having barely sufficient money in 
 his pocket to pay travelling expenses. It was Christmas
 
 278 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Eve when they started in a chaise, and journeying all 
 through a bitterly cold night, reached Brough, a small 
 town on the borders of Westmoreland, about noon on 
 Christmas Day. Here they stayed to have lunch, having 
 eaten which Macready tendered a five-pound note to 
 the waiter, but was soon amazed to find his host come 
 bustling into the room, declaring he did not like the 
 look of this piece of paper, and would have nought to 
 do with it. Knowing that unless the note was changed 
 he could not pay the post-boy who had driven him, or 
 get fresh horses to take him on his way, Macready was 
 sorely perplexed. Moreover, his hopes of being able to 
 return the money he had recently borrowed, and of open- 
 ing the Christmas season well at the Newcastle Theatre, 
 of which his father was still lessee, depended on his 
 reaching that town by Boxing Day. This consummation 
 the landlord's suspicions threatened to prevent. The 
 young manager had already left his watch at Chester, 
 that he might raise funds to defray the expenses of his 
 journey, and had no other money save the note. After 
 a whispered consultation with his three companions, 
 they ofiered their watches to the landlord, on condition 
 that he would advance three pounds on them, and give 
 change for the note ; to which, after some hesitation, he 
 consented, but stipulated, as the roads were bad, they
 
 HIS GOEY FINGERS. 279 
 
 should have four horses to carry them forward. Glad 
 of escape from threatened captivity, even on these con- 
 ditions, they agreed to his wishes, and presently gallop- 
 ing away from the crowd which had gathered round 
 the inn to witness their departure, they gave three 
 ringing cheers by way of venting their feelings and 
 raising their spirits. 
 
 Arrived at Newcastle, Macready produced a panto- 
 mime founded on the tragedy of Macbeth, which met 
 with success. During the first representation of this 
 piece an unrehearsed incident took place. At the end 
 of the first scene, when Macbeth and his lady had dyed 
 their hands in innocent blood, they were supposed to 
 make their exits, wash their hands, and reappear stain- 
 less three minutes later in the next scene. But it 
 happened when Macbeth left the stage, the dresser, who 
 should have attended with water, soap, and towel, was 
 conspicuous by his absence, being indeed waiting at the 
 opposite wings, where he was not wanted. Poor Mac- 
 beth stamped with rage, and swore round oaths, on 
 which Macready rushed to his aid, and dragging him 
 to the nearest dressing-room, offered him a jug of water, 
 in which the murderer dipped his ]3ands, and then 
 catching something which bore semblance to a cloth, 
 presented it as a towel. Having left the impressions
 
 280 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 of his gory fingers on this article, Macbeth rushed back 
 to the boards. The manager, yet with the jug of water 
 and improvised towel in his hands, was crossing the 
 back of the stage, when he encountered Lady Macbeth 
 in search of her dresser, and to her he likewise offered 
 the aid of that which had already served her spouse ; 
 and she having washed herself clean, Macready left the 
 cloth and jug in his own room. 
 
 The pantomime caused great laughter and gained 
 much applause, so that Macready, going home that 
 night in a shower of blinding snow, felt gratified for 
 his success. But next morning the acting manager 
 met him with a very grave face, and stated he was 
 sorry to tell him there were thieves in the theatre. 
 
 *' Good heavens ! is it possible ? " asked Macready. 
 " What has been stolen ? " 
 
 "Well, Mr. Simkins's breeches are missing," the 
 other replied. "When at the end of the evening he 
 went to dress they were gone, and he was obliged to 
 walk home through the snow in a kilt." 
 
 Macready gave directions that strict search and 
 inquiry should be made, and no pains spared to detect 
 the offender; but scarce had he uttered these words, 
 when it occurred to him that the improvised towel 
 must have been the missing garment, and hastening
 
 FIRST APPEARANCE OF MACREADY. 281 
 
 to his room, he there found the breeches streaked 
 with crimson dye. 
 
 Under his direction the theatre prospered, so that 
 he was enabled to send his father three pounds weekly 
 for his support until his release from prison. At the 
 close of the season the company went to Birmingham, 
 where the elder Macready resumed his occupation as 
 manager. And now the project of his son's appearance 
 on the stage, deferred in consequence of his labours, was 
 resumed. The character of Romeo was selected for his 
 debut, and the lad, now in his seventeenth year, began 
 to study the part with great earnestness. His hopes of 
 success were not raised by the occasional remarks of his 
 father, who declared his attempts " would never do ; " 
 though they were upheld by the stout matron who was 
 to be his Juliet. On Thursday, June 7th, 1810, the 
 play -bills announced that "the tragedy of Borneo and 
 Juliet, written by Shakespeare," would be performed, 
 " the part of Romeo by a young gentleman, being his 
 first appearance upon any stage." The house was 
 crowded, the curtain rose, and presently the new Romeo 
 appeared. Of his sensations he wrote, " The emotions 
 I experienced on first crossing the stage, and coining 
 forward in face of the lights and the applauding 
 audience, were almost overpowering. There was a
 
 282 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 mist before my eyes. I seemed to see nothing of the 
 dazzling scene before me, and for some time I was like 
 aa automaton, moving on certain defined limits. I went 
 mechanically through the variations in which I had 
 drilled myself, and it was not until the plaudits of the 
 audience woke me from the kind of waking dream in 
 which I seemed to be moving, that I gained my self- 
 possession, and really entered into the spirit of the 
 character, and, T may say, felt the passion I was to 
 represent. Every round of applause acted like inspira- 
 tion on me ; I ' trod on air,' became another being, or 
 a happier self; and when the curtain fell at the con- 
 clusion of the play, and the intimate friends and per- 
 formers crowded on the stage to raise up the Juliet and 
 myself, shaking my hands with fervent congratulations, 
 a lady asked me, ' Well, sir ; how do you feel now ? ' 
 my boyish answer was, without disguise, ' I feel as if I 
 should like to act it all over again.' " 
 
 The sense and judgment he had already proved him- 
 self to possess, showed him, that instead of placing faith 
 in the impartial criticisms and favourable opinions of 
 his friends, and of his father's company, he must work 
 hard if he would finally triumph. Therefore he studied 
 new parts, thought over the possible effects they ad- 
 mitted, sousht to correct such defects as he was con-
 
 REHEARSING WITH MRS. SIDDONS. 283 
 
 scious of, and on Sundays, when the theatre was free 
 from the presence of all employees, he was wont to lock 
 himself in, pace the stage to give himself ease, and 
 make himself familiar with the entrances and exits, 
 and recite his speeches, until, weary and exhausted, he 
 was glad to breathe fresh air again. This practice he 
 continued for years. 
 
 Gradually he came to represent leading parts in the 
 plays produced at his father's theatre, and whilst at 
 Newcastle had the honour of acting with the great 
 Mrs. Siddons, who played here for two nights, w^hilst on 
 her way to give a series of farewell performances at 
 Edinburgh. When he learned that he was to appear 
 with her in the same cast, his fears were great; and 
 the hour when he was to rehearse with her at the 
 Queen's Head Hotel, was one filled with dread for 
 him. Coming for the first time into the command- 
 ing presence of the queen of tragedy, her stateliness 
 and gravity filled him with awe ; indeed, his nervous- 
 ness was so considerable, that she smilingly remarked, 
 " I hope, Mr. Macready, you have brought some harts- 
 horn and water with you, as I am told you are terribly 
 frightened at me." 
 
 This remark did not aid him in gaining his self- 
 possession, and his terror increased as the time
 
 284 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 approached for him to play the part of her husband 
 in the tragedy of The Gamester. At last the curtain 
 rose, and his worst anticipations seemed about to be 
 fulfilled; fear seized him, presence of mind forsook 
 him, memory vanished, and he stood motionless on 
 the stage, until she approached and whispered the 
 words of his part; then the scene proceeded. By 
 decrees he recovered, until in the last act he had the 
 gratification of hearing her say, as she stood at the 
 wings, " Bravo, sir, bravo ! " and her praise was echoed 
 by the audience. On the second night he played 
 young Norval to her Lady Randolph, and succeeded 
 more to his satisfaction. During his brief acquaintance 
 with the great actress he secured her interest, and in 
 parting she gave him advice, which all aspirants for 
 fame might fitly take to heart. " You are in the right 
 way," she said kindly ; " but remember what I say, 
 study, study, study, and do not marry till you are 
 thirty. I remember what it was to be obliged to study, 
 at nearly your age, with a young family about me. 
 Beware of that ; keep your mind on your art ; do not 
 remit your study, and you are certain to succeed. Do 
 not forget my words, study well, and God bless you." 
 
 This counsel lived with him, and in those moments 
 of dark despondency to which all sensitive minds are
 
 IN THE ANCIENT CITY OF BATH. 285 
 
 subjected it cheered him on his way. Through unre- 
 mitting study and continual practise he strengthened 
 his talents and increased his fame, until at last, in 
 December 1814, he accepted an engagement to play 
 at Bath. On arriving by coach at this ancient city, 
 his heart fluttered on seeing his name announced in 
 big letters on the play-bills; and the same sight 
 awakened a nervous emotion in him so long as he 
 remained a player. " I have often crossed over to the 
 other side of the street," he writes, " to avoid passing 
 by a play-bill in which my name might be figuring." 
 This ancient city was then a place of favourite resort. 
 "Women of fashion, men of wealth, soldiers and politi- 
 cians, youths from the universities, maidens fresh in 
 the matrimonial market, crowded the hotels and 
 boarding-houses, gathered in the pump-rooms at mid- 
 day to drink the waters and talk scandal, thronged 
 Harrison's Gardens at noon to flirt and enjoy wit, 
 filled the assembly rooms on Wednesday and Friday 
 evenings, patronized concerts on Tuesday evenings, and 
 assembled in brilliant array at the theatre on Saturday 
 nights. 
 
 The favourable judgment of such audiences was 
 considered a safe passport for actors to the great 
 London playhouses, aware of which, Macready looked
 
 286 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 forward with apprehension to his first appearance 
 before them. A great and fashionable crowd gathered 
 to witness his Romeo, and the reception which greeted 
 him strung his efforts to the highest pitch. As he 
 proceeded the applause increased, until m the scene 
 with Tybalt it swelled into prolonged cheering, and 
 the curtain fell upon an assured triumph. Leaving 
 the theatre elated by success, and hopeful of future 
 fame, Macready hastened to his lodgings in Chapel 
 Row, Queen Square, that he might immediately write 
 and post the joyful news of his success to his 
 family. 
 
 His manager rejoiced exceedingly, the public lauded 
 him, and the press, with a solitary exception, commended 
 him. The dissenting critic regretted that the young 
 man could never be a great actor, because of his want 
 of personal attractions, "by which," tliis individual 
 eloquently expressed himself, "nature had interposed 
 an everlasting barrier to his success." Later, the same 
 gifted writer assured his readers, Macready's personation 
 of Beverley in The Gamesters would have been 
 altogether excellent " but for the unaccommodating 
 disposition of nature in the formation of his face." 
 In height Macready was five feet seven inches, his 
 hair was light, his eyes blue, and his face, though flat
 
 KEGOTIATIOXS WITH COVENT GARDEN. 287 
 
 and heavy in repose, was capable of great expression 
 in moments of feeling and excitement. 
 
 His performance of Romeo was followed by represent- 
 ations of Hamlet, Richard III., Orestes, and Norval, 
 and the sensation he created gradually spreading to 
 London, Fawcett, the stage-manager of Covent Garden 
 Theatre, was sent to see and report on his acting. 
 Favourably impressed, he waited on Macready, and 
 inquired of him what were his views regarding a 
 London engagement ; to which the latter replied, he 
 would not hazard an appearance in the capital except 
 upon a high salary, and for a term of years ; as, if he 
 were not successful in winning public favour at first, 
 he would have a chance of gaining it later ; and if he 
 were not able to secure it eventually, he should be 
 indemnified for the loss of the estimation he at present 
 enjoyed in the provinces. 
 
 The stage manager's return to London was followed 
 by the offer of an engagement for three years at Covent 
 Garden, but the salary was not agreed upon. Mean- 
 while, Macready 's season at Bath having concluded, 
 he acted for a couple of nights at Bristol, and then 
 accepted a proposition from the Dublin Theatre to play 
 there for seven weeks, at a salary of fifty pounds 
 per week.
 
 288 EDMQND KEAN. 
 
 The elder Macready, who was naturally anxious for 
 his son's appearance in town, proposed to Harris, then 
 part proprietor and acting manager of Covent Garden, 
 that the young actor should be engaged for six or eight 
 nights at twenty pounds a night ; his permanent stay at 
 the theatre to be determined by the impression he 
 made. Harris readily accepted the suggestion, but on 
 its being laid before him whom it most concerned, he 
 rejected it decisively. He now resolved to spend another 
 year in the provinces before trying his strength in town. 
 Having played at Glasgow, he crossed over to Dublin, 
 where he acted his principal characters to appreciative 
 houses. Whilst here he was much struck by the atten- 
 tion, sensitiveness, and sympathy of his audiences, and 
 greatly diverted by their humour. Of this last trait he 
 had heard many anecdotes, especially one, which amused 
 him greatly, concerning a tragedian named Laurence 
 Clinch, an old favourite of the citizens. It happened 
 one night when Clinch acted Othello by command of 
 the Lord-Lieutenant, a brilliant house assembled to 
 witness his performance. In due time Clinch made his 
 first entry, when, on turning his back, it was evident the 
 tragedian had not noticed some slight disarrangement 
 in his dress, which caused a general titter that soon 
 developed into a roar of laughter, when one of his
 
 HIBERNIAN HUMOUR. 289 
 
 admirers, in a state of great excitement, leaned over the 
 gallery, and putting his hand to his mouth, as if he 
 would whisper his remarks to the actor s ear, called out, 
 ." Larry, honey, there's the smallest taste in life of your 
 shirt got out behind you." 
 
 Macready was fortunate enough to hear for himself 
 a specimen of Hibernian humour. During a perform- 
 ance of Venice Preserved one evening, the actor who 
 represented Jaffier drawled his speeches to uncommon 
 length. In the last act, where he struck himself with 
 a dagger, he droned out a soliloquy which was heard 
 with evident impatience, until at last an impetuous god 
 cried out, " Arrah, die at once ; " to which one of his 
 fellows from the opposite side responded, "Be quiet, 
 you blackguard ; " and then turning to the expiring 
 Jaffier, said in a patronizing tone, " Sure, take your time," 
 remarks which spoiled the fine effects of the tragedian. 
 
 Whilst in Dublin negotiations were again made for 
 Macready's appearance at Covent Garden and at Drury 
 Lane, but the committee of the latter theatre, thinking 
 his terms extravagant, abandoned the idea of engaging 
 him ; whilst Fawcett wrote, " Kean seems likoly to be 
 more in your way at Drury Lane than Young would be 
 at Covent Garden. All your best parts you might act 
 with us, and not trespass upon anybody Come to us 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 next year — for one year, two years, three years, or for 
 life. The article shall be made as you please, only don't 
 be exorbitant." Macready felt that a London engage- 
 ment, the zenith of every actor's ambition, would be to 
 him a hazardous step; for already he was held in 
 repute in the provinces, and drew good salaries, advan- 
 tages he would certainly lose if he failed to gain the 
 favour of London audiences. However, after much 
 consideration, he required and received a contract from 
 the lessee of Covent Garden, whereby he was engaged 
 to become a member of the company of that theatre for 
 five years, at the rate of sixteen pounds a week for two 
 years, seventeen pounds a week for the following two 
 years, and eighteen pounds a week for the last year. 
 
 Before leaving Dublin he witnessed the remarkable 
 performance of an amateur named Plunkett, in the 
 character of Richard III. Mr. Plunkett was a barrister 
 unknown to briefs, and was closely related to Lord 
 Fingall ; his harmless eccentricities, amongst which 
 was strong faith in his dramatic abilities, rendered him 
 dear to the Dublin public, who mercifully regarded his 
 inordinate vanity as mental weakness. On this occasion 
 he, as the bills stated, " appeared before the public for 
 the purpose of giving him a claim at a future period for 
 a benefit in order to relieve the distressed port of Dublin
 
 AN AMATEUR KICHARD III. 291 
 
 and its vicinity." Great were the expectations of 
 merriment which his performance promised, and the 
 evening on which he trod the boards saw the theatre 
 crowded to excess. Applause and laughter greeted 
 him, and as he proceeded the wits in the pit and gallery 
 joined in the dialogue, to the vast delight of the house. 
 When he declared " I can smile, and murder while I 
 smile," a voice quickly responded, " Oh, be the powers 
 you can ; " and to his question, " Am I then a man to be 
 beloved ? " a chorus answered, " Indeed then, you're not." 
 His manner of delivering the phrase, " Off with his 
 head," was ironically encored, and at his death the 
 theatre was in a general uproar of mock approbation, 
 derisive cheering, and hearty laughter. But Plunkett 
 took the storm to indicate applause, and next morning 
 called on Lord Chief Justice Bushe to hear his opinion 
 of the performance ; and on his lordship expressing his 
 regret that he had been unable to visit the theatre, 
 the distinguished amateur insisted on reciting some of 
 Richard's speeches, notwithstanding the protest of the 
 Chief Justice, who feared the gathering of a mob about 
 his windows. When he had finished he pressed for an 
 opinion from his lordship, who declared, " He had never 
 seen anything like it in all the performances he had 
 ever witnessed," a sentence which Plunkett had inserted 
 
 U 2
 
 292 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 in all the papers next day as the veritable judgment 
 pronounced on his acting by the Chief Justice. 
 
 Macready's self-confidence had never been great, and 
 as the time approached for him to make his appearance 
 before a London audience, his nervousness increased. 
 Shrinking from the ordeal, he would willingly have 
 deferred it until his talents were more matured, his 
 experiences wider ; but this being impossible, he, with 
 fear and hope contending for supremacy, prepared for 
 the trial on which his future career must depend. 
 Arriving in London in September, 1816, he put up at 
 the old Slaughter Coffee House, and duly presented 
 himself to Harris of Covent Garden Theatre, who, with 
 Fawcett and Fred Reynolds, sat in council to determine 
 in which character he should first appear. "A club 
 much talked of at that time," says Macready, " that 
 bore the name of the Wolves, was said to be banded 
 together to put down any one appearing in Kean's 
 characters. I believe the report not to be founded on 
 strict fact ; but it was currently received, and had its 
 influence on the Covent Garden deliberations." It was 
 finally decided he should appear as Orestes in the 
 Distressed Mother, on Monday the 16th instant. 
 
 The long-expected day at length arrived, and after 
 an early dinner, Macready lay down to rest and com-
 
 MACKEADY AT CO VENT GARDEN. 293 
 
 pose himself until the hour came for his departure 
 to the theatre. Then he entered a hackney coach, 
 which to his excited imagination seemed as a hurdle 
 conveying him to execution. Reaching the play-house, 
 he dressed in silence, only interrupted by the dread 
 voice of the call-boy announcing " Overture on, sir," and 
 presently summoning him, when, with a firm step, he 
 went forward to his trial. " The appearance of resolute 
 composure assumed by the player at this turning-point 
 of his life belies the internal struggles he endures," 
 writes Macready, describing this hour, " These event- 
 ful trials, in respect to the state of mind and body in 
 which they are encountered, so resemble each other, 
 that one described describes all. The same agitation, 
 and effort to master it, the dazzled vision, the short, 
 quick breath, the dry palate, the throbbing of the heart 
 — all, however painfully felt, must be effectually dis- 
 guised in the character the actor strives to place before 
 his audience." 
 
 Abbott, who was to play Pylades, waited for him at 
 the wings, and when the curtain had risen Macready 
 grasped his hand, and dashing on the stage, exclaiming 
 as in a transport of joy, " Oh, Pylades, what's life without 
 a friend ? " A loud burst of applause from a crowded 
 house, which numbered many distinguished men,
 
 294 EDMUND KEAIT. 
 
 amongst wlioin was Edmund Kean, greeted his appear- 
 ance; but it was not until the loud plaudits which 
 followed his passionate utterance of the line, " Oh, ye 
 gods, give me Hermione, or let me die," that he 
 recovered his self-possession. As the play proceeded 
 he became more and more animated under the conflict- 
 ing emotions of the distracted lover, and at its close 
 the prolonged cheers of his audience assured him of 
 success. 
 
 Congratulations were heartily offered him by the 
 company as he passed, panting with excitement, to his 
 dressing-room ; the play was given out for repetition on 
 the following Friday and Monday ; and Harris, having 
 summoned him to his presence, exclaimed, " Well, my 
 boy, you have done capitally, and if you could carry a 
 play along with such a cast, I don't know what you 
 cannot do." Macready returned to his lodgings " in a 
 state of mind like one not fully awake from a disturbing 
 dream, grateful for my escape, yet almost questioning 
 the reahty of what had passed," That night sleep 
 deserted his excited mind, and he anxiously waited the 
 hour when he might read the criticisms on his per- 
 formance in the morning papers. Taken generally, they 
 were laudatory. The Times was kind enough to allow 
 him " a certain amount of ability," but not sufficient to
 
 THE PLAINEST MAN. 295 
 
 shake Young, or intimidate Charles Kemble ; the Globe 
 was certain he was " a man of mind," and noticed that 
 the sparks of his genius frequently kindled to a blaze ; 
 whilst Hazlitt in the Examiner had not the slightest 
 hesitation in saying Macready was "by far the best 
 tragic actor that had come out in his remembrance 
 with the exception of Mr. Kean." Unfavourable 
 comments on his personal appearance were freely made. 
 " He is not handsome in face or person," said the 
 Times ; the Globe considered tragedy required " features 
 of a more prominent and strongly-marked description 
 than those which he possesses." His eyes were admitted 
 by that organ to be full of fire, "and when in the 
 paroxysm we mark their wild transitions, our attention 
 is entu'ely withdrawn from the flatness of the features 
 they irradiate ; " but the News honestly declared he was 
 " the plainest and most awkwardly made man that ever 
 trod the stage." 
 
 It was sufficiently unpleasant for Macready to read 
 such descriptions of his person, but perhaps it was yet 
 more irritating for him to overhear the remarks of his 
 neighbours regarding himself, as he sat one evening in 
 the second tier of boxes at the theatre. 
 
 " Have you seen the new actor ? " asked a lady of her 
 companion.
 
 296 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 " What, Macready," he replied, unconscious that the 
 subject of their conversation was at hand. " No, I've 
 not seen him yet; I'm told he is a capital actor, but a 
 devilish ugly fellow." 
 
 To crown all, he heard that Charles Kemble said 
 to his brother John, he was sure Macready would gain 
 the highest rank in his profession, to which John 
 Kemble, who owed so much of his success to his 
 personal appearance, replied, " Oh, Charles, with that 
 face ! " 
 
 Macready, unfortunately, could not boast of advan- 
 tages such as generally help to establish other actors in 
 public favour. He is minutely described by James 
 Henry Hackett, as being " above the middle height, 
 his port rather stiffly erect, his figure not stout, but 
 very straight, and at the hips quite the reverse of 
 emhcnvpoint. His ordinary or natural gait is not digni- 
 fied, he steps short and quick, with a springy action of 
 the knee-joints, which, sometimes trundling his stiff 
 bust — as in a rush from the centre to the corner of the 
 stage — reminds one of the recoil of a cannon upon its 
 carriage. In his slow and measured tread of the stage 
 he seems somewhat affected ; he sways his body 
 alternately on either leg, whilst his head waves from 
 side to side to balance it."
 
 RETURN OF MISS NEILL. 297 
 
 The second play in which he appeared was a dull 
 tragedy called The Italian Lover, in which, though he 
 was recognized as " a various and skilful painter of the 
 human passions," he created little attention. As this 
 representation brought no profit to the treasury, the 
 manager, in a moment of impatience, decided that he 
 should appear as Othello and lago alternately with 
 Charles Young. This was a movement Macready felt to 
 be injudicious. Kean's Othello was yet fresh in the 
 public mind, and all comparisons with such a perform- 
 ance as his must prove unfavourable ; moreover, 
 Othello was a character he had seldom played, whilst 
 he had never either studied or acted lago. Remon- 
 strance with Harris proved useless, and Macready 
 appeared as the Moor and his Ancient without success. 
 Hazlitt described Young in Othello as being like a 
 great humming-top, and Macready as lago, like a 
 mischievous boy • whipping him. 
 
 In October Miss O'Neill returned to Covent Garden 
 from the provinces, and before her all other attractions 
 paled. About the same time John Philip Kemble 
 caused great interest amongst his admirers, by an- 
 nouncing his last season, before taking his farewell of 
 the stage. Macready now regretted he had not delayed 
 making appearance in town for another year. To
 
 298 EDMUND KEAN. 
 
 Young was given the leading tragic parts, whilst the 
 heroes of comedy were allotted to Charles Kemble. 
 Little scope was therefore given him for the display 
 of talents which it was admitted he possessed, and he 
 greatly feared he might dwindle down to the dread 
 level of mediocrity, known to the profession as respect- 
 able. An event soon occurred which increased liis 
 fears. 
 
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 came here really were Contemporary history of tlie time 
 
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 happily-framed narrative In fine, Mr. Molloy's work as a 
 
 hi.story seems all that it should be." — Daily Teleyrajih. 
 
 WARD & DOWNEY, Publishers, 
 
 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDOX. 
 
 iii
 
 COURT LIFE BELOW STAIES; 
 
 OR, 
 
 LONDON UNDER THE LAST GEORGES. 
 By J. FITZGERALD MOLLOY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "royalty EESTOEED." 
 
 Crown 8ro., 6s. 
 
 "These volumes must be regarded as a valuable contribution to literature ; 
 presenting as they do a series of clever, graplxic and reliable pictures of the 
 court and social life under the last Georges.' f— Sunday Times. 
 
 "Mr. MoUoy's style is crisp, and carries the reader along; his portraits of 
 the famous men and women of the time are etched with care, and his narrative 
 rises to intensity and dramatic impressiveness as he follows the latter days of 
 Queen Caroline." — British Quarterly Reciew. 
 
 "Mr. MoUoy's style is bright and fluent, picturesque and animated, and he 
 tells his story with unquestionable skill and vivacity." — Atkenmum. 
 
 "The narrative is fluent and amusing, and is far more instructive than nine- 
 tenths of the novels published nowadays." — St. Jaines's Gazette. 
 
 " Mr. MoUoy's narrative is concise, and exhibits a wide acquaintance witli the 
 men and manners of the age. The anecdotes of the famous men of fasliion, wits, 
 fools, or knaves introduced are amusing, and several not generally known 
 enliven the pages." — Morning Post. 
 
 "Well written, full of facts bearing on everj-^ subject under consideration, and 
 abounding witUanecdotes of gay and witty debauchees."— Oat^y Telegraph. 
 
 "What Pepys has done for tlie Stuarts, Mr. Molloy has done for their Hano- 
 verian successors. This result of his arduous investigations is one of the most 
 interesting works which lias ever come under our notice. It is impossible to 
 open tlie books at any part without feeling an overpowering desire to continue 
 the i)erusaL" — Newcastle Chronicle. 
 
 FAMOUS PLAYS, 
 
 Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald Molloy is an earnest and indefatigable autlior of books, par- 
 ticularly interesting to students of tlie History of the Drama." — Punch. 
 
 " Apart from the value of a record so full and exliaustive, it is an iuterest"ng 
 study to watch the play of individuality in each of the different authors during 
 the .several stages of liis pieces, and not less entertaining to follow the train of 
 events leading up to tlie actual production in each case. Here of course scojie 
 exists for Mr. >Iolloy to make a very palatable dish of small circumstances, 
 reminisoent of wits and men of parts otlier than those immediately concerned. 
 In a word, ' Famous Plays' is a well written, lively, and thoroughly satisfactory 
 piece of work, which is most wort.hy of Mr. Alolloy's reputation as a stase 
 liistorian of research and erudition, and an elegant and scholarly writer. " — Stage. 
 
 "By such a.s prefer the records of an honourable and artistic past to the 
 reports of a garish and blatant present, this odd rehabilitation of uureuiembcred 
 things will be greatly and carefully treasured." — Vanity Fair. 
 
 " Gives a good idea of the English drama as it existed at certain well-dofned 
 periods of its history. . . . The result is a book of a very interesting character, 
 and one that is likely to be much read." — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 " The story of each of these iiiecos is not merely an account of its literan- 
 genesis, its dramatic x>roduction, and its quality and character from the stand- 
 jioint of the critic or the manager ; it is a delightfully gossipy sketch of life an<l 
 character, manners, fortunes, and adventures. Mr. Molloy lias a wonderful gift 
 of revitalizing the past." — Irish Times. 
 
 WARD & DOWNEY, Publishers, 
 
 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON. 
 
 iv
 
 EOYALTY EESTOEED ; 
 
 OB, 
 
 LONDON UNDER CHARLES IL 
 
 By J. FITZGERALD MOLLOY. 
 Third Edition, 1 vol., Crown &vo. 
 
 " The most important historical work yet achieved by its author It 
 
 has remained for a picturesque historian to achieve such a work in its entirety 
 and to tell a tale as it has never before been told." — Daily Ttltgraph. 
 
 "A series of pictures carefully drawn, well composed, and correct in all 
 details. Mr. Molloy writes pleasantly, and his book is thoroughly entertain- 
 ing." — Graphic. 
 
 " Presents us for the first time with a complete description of the social habits 
 of the period." — Globe. 
 
 " We are quite prepared to recognize in it the brisk and fluent style, the ease 
 of narration, and other qualities of a like nature, which, as was pointed out in 
 this journal, characterized his former books." — Athenceum. 
 
 "The story of Charles's marriage, of the prodigious dowry, of the young 
 Queen's innocence of the ways of his world, her wrongs, her sufferings, her 
 brief resistance, her long, lamentable acquiescence, her unfailing love, is well 
 told in this book. Whenever, in its pages, we catch sight of Catherine, it is a 
 relief from the vile company that crowds them, the shameless women and the 
 contemptible men on whom 'tlie foimtain of honour' lavished distinctions, 
 wKrch ought from thenceforth to have lost all meaning and attraction for honest 
 folk. The author has studied his subjects with care and industry ; he repro- 
 duces them either singly or in gi'oups, with vivid and stirring effect ; the comedy 
 
 and the tragedy of the Court-life move side by side in his chapters A 
 
 chapter on the Plague is admirable, — impressive without any fine writing ; the 
 description of the Fire is better still. To Mr. Molloy's narrative of the Titus 
 Gates episode striking merit must be accorded ; also to the closing chapter of 
 the work with its picture of the hard death of King Charles." — Spectatm: 
 
 "In 'Royalty Restored; or, London under Charles II.' Mr. J. Fitzgerald 
 MoUoy makes a remarkable advance beyond his preceding works in style and 
 literary method. His book, which is the best, may very well be tlie last on the 
 subject. . . . The shrewdness, the cynicism, and the profound egotism of the 
 Merrj' Monarch are dexterously conveyed in this picture of liirn, and the book is 
 variously and vividly interesting." — World. 
 
 " Tlie author of ' Royalty Restored ' has never offered the public so graphic, 
 80 fascinating, so charming an example of faded lives revivified, and dim scenes 
 revitalized by the magic of the picturesque historic sense." — Boston Literary 
 World. 
 
 " Mr. Molloy has not confined himself to an account of the King and his 
 courtiers. He has given us a study of London during his reign, taken, as far as 
 possible, from rare and invariably authentic sources. We can easily see that a 
 work sucli as this, in order to be successful, must be the result of the most 
 careful study and the most untiring diligence in the consultation of diaries, 
 records, memoirs, letters, pamphlets, tracts, and papers left by contemporaries 
 familiar with the Court and the Capital. There can be no doubt tliat Mr. 
 Molloy's book bears evidence on every page of such study and diligence." — 
 Glangoie Eccfing Neia. 
 
 " In his delineation of Charles, Mr. Molloy is very successful. . . He avoids 
 vivid colouring ; yet rouses our interest and symjiathy with a skilful hand." — 
 St. James's Gazette. 
 
 WARD & DOWNEY, Publishers, 
 12, YORK STREET, CO VENT GARDEN, LONDON.
 
 THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES 
 
 OF 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTOK 
 
 Third Edition, Crown 8i)o., 6». 
 
 " The work is a theatrical and literary history of the period, with a most 
 attractive central figure, on whom Mr. Molloy is careful to keep as full and 
 steady a light as possible. Round the heroine are set successions of changing 
 groups, skilfuUy ranged and posed— Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith amongst 
 authors ; Barry, Quin, and Macklin amongst actors ; Rich and Colley Gibber 
 amongst managers ; while the men of the world of that date, dandified and 
 costly and boasting, are well ranged as accessories. Tlie book is like a succession 
 of scenes as were to be witnessed in the olden days, with all the delicacy, brilliancy 
 and dash in the individual figures ; and also with all the suggestions of hollowness 
 and superficiality and sentiment and gallantry that marked the era. The pages 
 sparkle with well-chosen anecdotes, and the reader is carried on from page to 
 page, as in the case of a well-constructed fiction." — British Quarterly. 
 
 " In dealing with the literary and dramatic personages of her time, and with 
 the general society of the period, Mr. Molloy is a faithful chronicler, and 
 faithful not only in spirit, but also as to facts. There is not a prominent per- 
 sonage about whom a number of characteristic anecdotes are not told." — St. 
 Ja'ines's Gazette. 
 
 " This book has the merit of being, from the first chapter to the last, without 
 a single dull page." — Daily News. 
 
 " Mr. Molloy' s book presents the best and most readable life of Peg Woffington 
 that has been produced." — Scotsman. 
 
 " Peg Woffington makes a most interesting central figure, round which Mr. 
 Fitzgerald Molloy has made to revolve a varied and picturesque panorama of 
 London life in the middle of the eighteenth century." — Illustrated London 
 News. 
 
 A MODERN 3IAGICIAK 
 
 In picture boards 2s. {In October . ) 
 
 " We find a very good plot and some clever sketches of tyiJes and individuals 
 belonging to the most modern phase of society. The hero and heroine are 
 interesting, and the inconsistency of each in his and her several ways is true to 
 life : it is, however, a new departure for a novelist to depict tliis moral defect 
 with such startling frankness and results so terrible." — Spectator: 
 
 " Sometimes a portrait is painted in a single sentence, and every character is 
 forcibly drawn. . . . Mr. Molloy is a poet, and some of liis descriptions linger 
 long in tlie reader's memory." — Boston Herald. 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald Molloy takes the reader with him without pause, from first 
 page to last, by virtue of the interest felt in his hero and heroine." — Globe. 
 
 "The entire book shows a series of daring and original scenes which set it 
 quite apart from the ordinary novel. In his quality of a practised novelist, Mr. 
 Molloy has produced a work that will claim the ready adhesion of the believers 
 in mysticism, whilst its forcibly-drawn characters and striking incidents will 
 suit tlie taste of the admirers of realistic fiction. In fact the two absolutely 
 opi)osing elements of occultism and realism are in these pages made to mingle 
 in a fashion that has not previously been attempted." — Morning Post. 
 
 " A striking work of fiction. . . . There is a capital garniture of society life, 
 of good dialogue, of the lives of worthy people. The novel will be found more 
 interesting and far abler tlian most stories of the day." — Scotsman. 
 
 "WARD & DOWNEY, Publishers, 
 
 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON. 
 
 vi 
 
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