Abstract
A. North American Perspectives on Nineteenth-Century British Theatre
Visitors to Britain in the nineteenth century often recorded their theatre-going experiences. This is true of a number of North American visitors (some of whom became residents) in the early years of the nineteenth century. The artist Robert Charles Leslie, for instance, provides copious insights into British actors and actresses in his Autobiographical Recollections. Arriving in London at the age of sixteen, ‘passionately fond of the theatre’1 as he tells us, he was in time to enjoy the performances of the Kembles, while also attending dinner parties where he made the acquaintance of Charles Kemble and Charles Mathews the elder and later getting to know the dramatist James Kenney. Washington Irving’s journals and letters also provide insights into the theatre of this period. He too became acquainted with Charles Kemble and James Kenney, recording on Thursday 4 December 1823 a breakfast conversation in Paris with Kenney about the state of the London theatres: Much talk about the theatres — incredible the rivalships & feuds between the actors —Whenever he goes to Lond[on] in a day or two he is in the midst of cabals, complaints &c. Young is humbug — Kean is impatient of having any one in same piece that has a good part — asked Elliston last season — How long sir am I to act with that d—d Jesuitical bug — r —Young —2
Years earlier, in 1805, he sent his brother a detailed account of John Philip Kemble, George Frederick Cooke and Sarah Siddons in performance.3 The artist Washington Allston also visited the theatre while resident in London, later recollecting a celebrated actress, whose copies of actual suffering were so painfully accurate, that I was forced to turn away from the scene, unable to endure it; her scream of agony in Belvidera4 seemed to ring in my ears for hours after. Not so was it with the great Mrs. Siddons, who moved not a step but in a poetic atmosphere, through which the fiercest passions seemed rather to loom like distant mountains when first descried at sea, - massive and solid, yet resting on air.5
From John Neal, Wandering Recollections of a Somewhat Busy Life an Autobiography (Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1869), pp. 83–7
John Neal (1793–1876), an American resident in Britain from 1824 to 1827, was determined to bring American literature and a more informed view of American life and customs to his British readers. He was also one of the earliest novelists to introduce dialect into American fiction and while resident in England published his novel Brother Jonathan. Neal claims he was the first American to contribute to monthly and quarterly periodical publications in England and had arrived in that country ‘to take up the gage of battle, offered by the arrogant and supercilious writers of England’.6 He saw this as his ‘mission’ and stated that his ‘chief object from the first was to bring together…two great nations with a common lineage, a common history, a common language, a common literature, a common purpose, and a common interest’.7 Sometimes he masqueraded as an English journalist, sometimes he wrote anonymously, although in certain circumstances he admitted himself to be a Yankee or ‘Native’. His vitriolic attacks on Charles Mathews the elder’s representation of the Yankee character are reprinted in Ann Mathews’s biography of her husband. He met Jeremy Bentham while in London and for a time resided in Bentham’s house, writing his own articles and also assisting Bentham with his work and correspondence.
In this extract from his Autobiography, he provides an account of several pugilistic encounters in the London theatres of the 1820s.
One evening, I was at the theatre with Chester Harding8 and two or three friends, who did not wear hats, to see Miss Foote in Letitia Hardy, after she had been led astray by Colonel Berkley [sic].9 I had been rather unwell for a week or ten days, with a troublesome cold, and a slow fever; and, not knowing what to do with myself, had consented to join the party, though tired of the stage. Feeling dry in the mouth, when the play was about half through, I sent a boy to get me some oranges. He loitered; and, growing impatient, and of course irritable, I went after him. On my return, I found two strangers in possession of our seats; my friend Harding, who had been left in charge, having yielded without remonstrance. He saw what was brewing, I suppose; for he took me aside as I was about entering the box, and, pointing to the two strangers, signified in a way not to be misunderstood, that they had better not be meddled with. But I was in no humour for trifling; and so I touched the nearest on the shoulder, and told him that we had engaged the seats in advance, and that I had left mine for a few moments only. But my gentleman persisted, without turning his head to look at me. Upon this, I gave him an intimation that I had something further to say. He understood me, and started to his feet, followed by his companion. “Will you give up the seats you have taken?” said I. He laughed in my face— being a larger man, almost as large as Harding himself. The next moment, I collared him, and he was under my feet in a twinkling; and his companion so frightened, that all eyes were upon him. Harding did not interfere; and the gentlemen withdrew; and we had no further trouble, though not a blow was interchanged between us, and the affair was ended so quickly, that there was no time for interference outside our box. Not long after this, a young Virginian arrived, who wanted to see all that was worth seeing, in the shortest possible time. Young Sully, Robert M.,10 the painter, a nephew of Thomas Sully,11 had known this young man, I believe, in Philadelphia, and wanted to do the honours. I had given up my drawing room to Sully and obtained a few fine subjects for his pencil; and, among others, Northcote the painter,12 whose portrait by him is now—or was, not long ago—in the Philadelphia Academy. After consulting with me, Sully undertook to show his friends the lions; and soon after begged me to get them both into the little Haymarket-theatre, where Liston was then playing Paul Pry,13 night after night, to crowded houses ——to houses so crowded, indeed, that, unless we would consent to try the shilling gallery, there seemed to be no chance for us, and the young Virginian couldn’t wait. I succeeded in securing seats for all three, just under the eaves, on a sweltering close night, when, if everything had gone on smoothly, it would have been somewhat difficult for any reasonable man to keep his temper. When the play was about half through, I heard a bustle at the door, just beyond the Virginian; and a big burly fellow appeared, with a drab overcoat on, such as served to distinguish the “Fancy”14 and, with his castor15 tilted over one ear, trying to force himself into our seat, and swearing he would come in, whether or no. Not much liking the fellow’s behaviour, I stepped forward, and took my station where he would have to encounter me first. He had begun flourishing his fists about, and everybody had given way to him, until he saw me, planted before him, and standing up with my feet on two benches, fronting the passageway. Whether he did not much like my attitude and bearing, or happened not to take a fancy to the expression of my countenance–for I have reason to believe that I was deadly pale —I do not know; but his long arms dropped gradually lower-and-lower, and he sheered off out of my way, and took a seat in front of us. The people about me hissed him; and so he set his castor in such a way as to intercept our view. I remonstrated; but he paid no attention to me. I then reached over and touching him on the shoulder, begged him to take off his hat. He would see me d—d first. “Then”, said I, “I shall have to take it off for you”. He would like to see me do it. No sooner said than done: I reached over, and, snatching the hat from his head, was just on the point of shying it into the pit, when it occurred to me that I might “bring down the house”, without intending it; and I forebore. Upon this, my gentleman swore a monstrous oath; and I caught him by the collar, and being above him, a whole bench higher, with all the purchase I needed, I drew him up with one hand, and set him on his feet by main force, and then planted myself right in his way. Such a shout, and such a volume of hissing and half-smothered laughter, followed, that all eyes from below were turned up to the gallery. But, as he made no further demonstrations, I turned round to give a hint to my friends; and, when I looked again, my formidable antagonist was nowhere to be seen. He had slipped away and was probably waiting for me in the narrow passage behind. This I did not half like; and so, begging Sully to take my watch, and both to see fair play, I waited the issue. But, lo! when I went out, nothing was to be seen of the foolish blusterer; and I escaped with a whole skin, greatly to my satisfaction, I promise you. And then followed a transaction, which grew out of another visit to the theatre, to oblige a friend. Kean was playing Richard.16 Webster, a Scotch barrister, with whom I had become acquainted at Angelo’s fencing-rooms,17 where we used to try our hands on each other, with the Scotch broad-sword, cut and thrust, and small sword, weapons he handled like a master, had never seen the great tragedian in this character, though I had, more than once. The house was crowded, crammed; and, soon after we had taken possession of our places, Webster sitting with me and two other friends, who were of the party — George Bentham18 the nephew, and Richard Doane the private secretary, of Jeremy Bentham, taking seats in the rear a little way off—at a very interesting passage of the play, I happened to look down, and saw a young handsome woman trying to get a glimpse of the stage from her standing-place in the alley on my left. Pitying her from my soul, for I saw by the expression of her countenance that she was no theatre-goer, and that she was unable to see or hear, I stooped over, and told her if she would step up on the floor of the seat I occupied, I would make all the room I could for her. She was very thankful; and, after consultation with a friend at her elbow, she consented, and took her place by my side. But, after a few minutes, I found her in danger of falling, and proposed putting my left arm round her waist, and taking hold of the next seat with my left hand. Soon after this, I heard some growling on my right, from a party of roughs, next beyond Webster, with their doxies; and then I heard him say, “You’d better be quiet, my mon, or ye may find yoursel’ in the wrong box. If you want a quarrel though, you can be accommodated.” — “I don’t want a quarrel with you, nor with your puppy neither”, said the fellow, glancing at me, as he spoke. Whereupon, though Webster tried to dissuade me, and was for taking the business into his own hands, I begged the young woman to let me off, my left arm being nearly paralyzed; and then, drawing off my gloves, and taking a seat beyond Webster, I leaned over, and asked the fellow if that was meant for me. He made some insolent reply, and I struck him a heavy blow on the mouth, with the back of my hand; but, most unfortunately, the woman at his side, sitting between him and me, thought proper to interfere, at a most unseasonable moment, by thrusting her head forward, and received my arm athwart her mouth; and both began bleeding profusely. I was horror-struck; and though I apologized on the spot, endeavouring to soothe her, and telling her how sorry I was, and that she ought to have interfered before, or not at all, I expected nothing less than a battle royal, there being three of them, and all clad in fighting gear, and two of us, with reinforcements behind. But probably, as the police did not show themselves, and I stood up, and there was no row, the whole was taken for a misunderstanding, or an accident. But my man, who was evidently in earnest, leaned over, and in a low voice, boding mischief, said he should be ready for me after the play. I assented, and, after the play was through, touched his arm, and signified that I was entirely at his service; and then, taking Webster with me, who appeared to enjoy the prospect amazingly, made my way to the door, expecting to be followed by the insolent blackguard and his two drab-coated companions. But no: they had other fish to fry; and I saw no more of them.
From Chester Harding, My Egotistigraphy (Cambridge, (Mass): John Wilson & Son, 1866)
Chester Harding (1792–1866) was an American portrait painter. As well as North American subjects such as Daniel Boone, he also painted some portraits of members of the British nobility and of the dramatist James Sheridan Knowles, who became a friend (see Figure 1). He first visited Britain from 1823 to 1825, during which time he kept a diary. After his death, his son published excerpts from this diary, together with excerpts from a diary kept during a later visit to Britain in 1846 and 1847, and various autobiographical fragments. The incident recorded by Neal in the previous section, at which Harding was present, does not appear in any of Harding’s published diary entries. The first, undated excerpt printed below is Harding’s account of his first ever visit to a theatre when he was an impecunious, newly married sign painter living in Pittsburgh. The way in which the dates of the subsequent diary entries are set out varies throughout the book. For the sake of clarity these have been made as consistent as possible below.
Richard John Lane after Chester Harding, James Sheridan Knowles, 1826, lithograph, National Portrait Gallery.
America
pp. 28–9
I was strictly temperate in my habits, and seldom spent a sixpence for anything that we did not actually need; but I remember one occasion when my love of music and excitement got the better of my prudence. I had gone out one evening to borrow a dollar to go to market with the next morning, when, as I was sauntering about, I heard music, which attracted me to the spot. It was the performance of the orchestra of the theatre. It was a temporary building, loosely boarded; and as I looked through the cracks of the covering, I saw such a sight as I had never dreamed of. I went instantly to the door, got a ticket, and crowded my way in. By degrees, I managed to get into a box which was full. I stood for the first hour in perfect amazement at the lords and ladies and was overwhelmed by the brilliant lights and heavenly music. At the end of one of the acts, one of the gentlemen left his seat, and went out; and I took it. He came back and claimed his seat. I was not inclined to admit his claim. I had paid my dollar, and told him I thought I had as good a right to a seat as he had; and that he could as well stand an hour as I. He prepared to eject me by force; but, as I unfolded my dimensions, he relinquished his purpose, and bore the loss of his seat as well as he could. I did not leave the theatre until the last lamp was extinguished. The play which had so enchanted me was Scott's “Lady of the Lake”. This was my first acquaintance with the stage. I do not remember how we faired the next day in our marketing; but I presume I borrowed another dollar in the morning.
Britain
pp. 53–4
Monday, 8 September 1823. Went to Vauxhall Gardens. I had never seen anything before resembling these gardens and had no idea of the amusements they afford. Barnaby19 and I went about ten o'clock; and, in entering, took a long alley that was intentionally left very dark, and which opened directly into the quietest part of the garden. My astonishment upon leaving this dark alley was indeed beyond conception. There were, I suppose, ten thousand lamps, of various colours, most tastefully arranged, whose dazzling light bewildered and, for a few moments, nearly blinded me, as they burst upon me in contrast to the darkness I had left. In the centre of the principal part of the garden is an orchestra prettily fitted up with lamps, and with fifty or more performers; there are also beautiful rotundas and long promenades. At every other place of amusement, such as the theatre, balls, &c., you see some thoughtful faces; but here every countenance is lit up with smiles, which give unequivocal evidence of participation in the enjoyment and magic influences of the scene. Splendid fire and water works were playing all the time. It was to me a scene of such perfect enchantment, that I took no note of time; and it was near three o'clock before we left the gardens.
p. 56
Monday, 15 September 1823. Went with Mr and Miss Leslie,20 and a party of ladies and gentlemen, to see the Dulwich Gallery. This is a splendid collection…The portrait of Mrs Siddons as the Tragic Muse, by Sir Joshua, is a fine picture; very yellow, perhaps too much so.
p. 60
Friday, 16 October 1823. Went to Drury Lane Theatre. In going into the pit in a tremendous crowd, had my pockets picked of five pounds: whoever took it must have been a finished master in the “art and mystery of pocket-picking”. My purse was in my pantaloons' pocket, and it was with great difficulty that I could get my own hand into it; but I suppose it was fished out with hooks that are prepared purposely. Saw Macready in “Hamlet”; very great acting.
pp. 65–6
7 January 1824. Went last night to the theatre; saw Madame Vestris in “The Beggar's Opera.”21 She is one of the most angelic singers on the English stage; but she is one of the most abandoned of the female race, given up to every vice that can tarnish the female character: the bare mention of her name ought to bring a blush upon the cheek of modesty. To see such a woman cheered and applauded by a Christian audience is to me an unaccountable incongruity.
pp. 74–5
28 February 1824. Went to the Italian Opera House to witness the performance of a grand oratorio. Madame Catalani was the principal attraction: the power of her voice far surpasses that of any singer I ever heard before. Besides sacred pieces, which she gave to admiration, she sang “God save the King” and “Rule Britannia”; and she so riveted my attention that I knew not what I did. I shouted “Rule Britannia” &c., as loud and as loyally as the best Englishman present. There were one hundred and forty performers, vocal and instrumental. The house is magnificent; there are four rows of boxes, all hung with red curtains, and splendidly upholstered.
pp. 81–2
Monday, 17 May 1824. In the evening, went to the opera; saw a part of an Italian opera, and an English after-piece. In the course of the evening Madame Catalani sung three songs, which were delightful, and of course were encored. The entrance to the house is in the Haymarket; and, an hour before the doors opened, the rush was so great that I really thought my life in danger, women screaming, men swearing and fighting. My friend Barnaby and I took our seats in the pit; and, as we were waiting for the performance to begin, we were standing upon the benches, when an insolent fellow crowded between us, or rather crowded the captain out of his seat. As the captain was a small man, I took the liberty of hoisting the intruder out pretty roughly. Nothing but my size saved me from a row.
p. 106
Friday, 29 October 1824. Friday night, all hands went to the theatre at Bury. The duke22 had “ordered a play”: so, after dinner, which was early, we set off in two carriages. The theatre was very much crowded; and, when we entered the box that was appropriated to the duke, all eyes were turned upon us. Probably, for this once at any rate, I was taken for one of the great ones.
pp. 165–6
14 May 1847. I went last night to see Jenny Lind. I saw her in my favourite opera of “La Sonnambula”.23 She entirely came up to my youthful imagination. I had no conception before of perfect music and acting combined, as one sees them in this Swedish Nightingale. She acted the part of Amina so perfectly, that it became reality. It is impossible that she did not feel the sentiments she uttered, so completely would her countenance and complexion change with the passions of grief or joy or rage; at times being as pale as a ghost, and then fresh as a rose. Her voice and execution are wonderful. I never saw an audience, not even at the Tremont Theatre when Mrs. Wood24 was carrying everybody away, half so much excited. Bouquets of flowers were showered down on the stage, with shouts and waving of handkerchiefs. When she addressed herself to the flowers, –
“Not thee, - of dear affection
Are the sweet pledges,” &c.,
I thought we should all have gone mad. The Queen and Prince Albert were there; but they attracted no attention.
B. British Artists and Audience Behaviour
In documents reprinted in Section A, several account by American artists highlight the behaviour of contemporary British audiences. Audience behaviour is also referenced in the memoirs of several British artists.
From F. M. Redgrave, Robert Redgrave a Memoir Compiled from His Diary (London, Paris and Melbourne: Cassell & Co Ltd, 1891)25
In 1809, the artists Benjamin Robert Haydon and Charles Eastlake fully immersed themselves in the Old Prices Riots at Covent Garden Theatre.
pp. 254–5
April 12th. – Today, at dinner, the President26 told us some stories of Haydon.27 It seems that Eastlake, as a young student, was recommended to the care of his countryman when he came up from Devonshire to study at the Royal Academy. We were talking of theatrical recollections, and Eastlake say he remembered the “O.P.” riots, and was present on the first night when they broke out.28 Haydon had said, “My boy we will go to the theatre”. And to the theatre they accordingly went; to the boxes of course, because Haydon loved everything of the best. When they came to the door, Haydon said, “You’ll pay for me, my boy, and we’ll settle it when we settle the other little matters.” When they got into the box, they found the place in an uproar, and both of them entered fully into the spirit of it. On coming away, Haydon said, “My boy, we must see this out. This is glorious!” So they went the next night, when there was the same demand, “Now, my boy, you’ll pay.” And thirteen nights did this continue, “much to my horror”, said Eastlake, “as I was but a student with a very limited allowance, and this made a great hole in it. It was a strange way of taking care of me and, after all the ‘O.P.’ tired us out.”29
From W. P. Frith, My Autobiography and Reminiscences (London: Richard Bentley and Son, 1887)
William Powell Frith (1819–1909) was a British artist particularly noted for his panoramic paintings of Victorian life such as Ramsgate Sands (1852–54), The Derby Day (1856–58) and The Railway Station (1862). He numbered many actors and dramatists among his acquaintances including Charles Fechter, John Parry, Henry Compton, Joseph Jefferson, E. A. Sothern, Henry Irving and Tom Robertson. A keen theatregoer, who confessed to his youthful ‘passion’ for the theatre in his autobiography, he recalled visits to the Olympic Theatre and his admiration for Eliza Vestris, and later visits to the Prince of Wales Theatre. He admired Dickens’s skills as an amateur actor, also noting Dickens’s distinction between Charles Kean and his father Edmund, when asked about the resemblance between the two: ‘Physically yes, mentally no’, said Dickens. ‘If you can have port wine without its flavour, you have a fair comparison between the elder Kean and his son’.30
I. 27–8
And then the theatre. The first play I saw was Shakespeare’s “King John”. Macready was the King; Charles Kemble, Faulconbridge; Mrs Warner, I think, Constance. Can I ever forget it, or my delight in it? My father quarrelled with a man who sat next us in the pit because he chose the moment when Constance moved the house to tears, to disturb the silence—only broken by half-stifled sobs—by sucking an orange in a loud slobbery fashion. When the queen retired, and the house was gradually resuming its equanimity, my father turned to his neighbour, and wiping his own eyes, said:
“Well, you didn’t seem to be affected by the acting of that scene like the rest of us.”
Why should I?” replied the man. “It isn’t true; and if it was, it’s nothing to me.”
“You are a nice man to come to the play and disturb other people. Why can’t you suck your oranges at home? You’d find it cheaper.”
“Look here,” said the man, opening a handkerchief and showing a nest of oranges, “I shall put away all those before I go; and if you object, you had better move into a private box.”
My father’s temper was short, like himself, and the argument grew till the audience interfered, and the call to both to “shut up” was obeyed.
II. 50–1
I am ignorant of the precise time at which stalls were first established in theatres. In my early days the pit extended from the dress-circle to the orchestra, and it was to that part of the house, impelled by the harmony that existed between the pit and the purse, that I always took my way – but what a way! I have heard thrilling stories of escapes from suffocation or broken ribs in the surging crowds that beset the Lyceum on opening nights, but the dangers of those crushes could not exceed that attending some of my juvenile experiences. To reach the pit during the last appearances of Macready31 was almost as perilous as an ascent of the Matterhorn. From several of these I escaped with blackened arms; but it was a determined and successful attempt to hear Malibran32 in “Fidelio” that I really felt I should be crushed to death. After many hours of weary waiting at the pit-door in a dense crowd that extended from the pit entrance of Drury Lane across Russell Street, a swaying, struggling motion showed that the doors were at last open; then the fight began, and breathing became almost impossible. Many a time during the long passage towards the paying-place did I give myself up for lost. My feet were off the ground; to raise an arm was impossible; and thus, amid cries and groans, we were borne along. When at last the blessed haven of the pit was reached, there did not appear to be half a dozen vacant places in it; I secured one, and I can even now, after a lapse of more than fifty years, vividly recall the delight I felt in listening to the incomparable singer. I think the appearance I speak of was the last Malibran made in London.
