I have never been much of a play-goer, but have occasionally visited the theatres when remarkable performers have appeared. I recollect many of the leading actors and actresses of the close of the last century, while all the great ones of this I have seen from time to time. Joe Munden, Incledon, Braham, Fawcett, Michael Kelly, Mrs. Crouch, Mrs. Siddons, Madame Catalani Booth, and Cooke, and all the bright stars who have been ennobled—Miss Farrell (Lady Derby), Miss Bolton (Lady Thurlow), Miss Stephens (Countess of Essex), Miss Love (Lady Harboro), Miss Foote (Marchioness Harrington), Miss Mellon (Duchess of St. Alban’s), Miss O’Neil (Lady Beecher)—but I must say the old and the new style of acting, appear to be very different. Mrs. Siddons exhibited the highest perfection of acting. I cannot conceive anything that can go beyond it in dramatic art.

I was present when John Kemble bade farewell to the Liverpool audiences. It took place in the summer of 1813. The play was “Coriolanus.” The house was crowded to excess, and the utmost enthusiasm was exhibited in favour of the great tragedian; who, although not a townsman, was at any rate a county man, he having been born at Prescot.

Mr. Kemble, when addressing the audience on that occasion, made a very remarkable declaration. He said that “it was on the Liverpool stage he first adapted the play of ‘Coriolanus,’ and produced it, as they had just seen it performed, and that it was the earnest encouragement he then received that proved a great stimulus to him in after life.”

A statement of the sums of money received at benefits amongst the “old stagers” may perhaps interest some of my readers. I am going back a long way, but I do so that those who know or who guess at the receipts of the “moderns” may compare them with those of the “ancients.” In 1795 Mrs. Maddocks, a most delightful actress, and an immense favourite in Liverpool, drew £213; Mrs. Powell, £207; Mr Banks, £183; Mr. Whitfield, £135. Mr. Kelly, the Irish singer, and Mrs. Crouch, a most charming and fascinating woman, with a lovely voice, realised together £136; Mr. Hollinsworth, £124; and Mr. Ward £119. In modern days the Clarkes (the manager and his wife) have received as much as £300 at their benefits. One of the best speculations Mr. Lewis ever made was the engagement of Paganini, shortly after his first appearance in the metropolis, in, I think, 1829 or 1830. This wonderful genius had taken the musical world of London by storm, and struck terror and despair into the hearts of the violinists of his day; one and all of whom declaring, as a friend of mine said of his own playing—although eminent in his profession—“that they were only fiddlers.” Paganini’s playing was most unearthly and inhuman. I never heard anything like the tones he produced from his violin—the sounds now crashing as if a demoniac was tearing and straining at the strings, now melting away with the softest and tenderest harmonies. He kept his hearers enthralled by his magical music, and astonished by his wonderful execution. I shall never forget hearing him play the “Walpurgis Nacht,” when he appeared at the Amphitheatre in 1835 or 1836. It was painting a picture by means of sounds. His descriptive powers were wonderful. Anybody with the least touch of imagination could bring before “his mind’s eye” the infernal revel that the artist was depicting. The enchantments of the witches were visible. You could hear their diabolical songs, you could fancy their mad and wild dances; while, when the cock crew (imitated by the way in a most astonishing manner), you would feel that there was a rushing of bodies through the air, which were scattering in all directions. Then the lovely melody succeeding—descriptive of the calm dawn of summer morning—came soothingly on the senses after the strain of excitement that the mind had experienced. In that delicious melody you could fancy you saw the rosy colours of the breaking day and gradually the rising of the sun, giving light and beauty to the world. That performance was the most wonderful I ever listened to, and I feel confident no one but those who did hear this strange man can ever entertain any notion of his style or performance. His first engagement in Liverpool was at the Theatre Royal, and a characteristic anecdote is related of the Signor in this transaction. At the Amphitheatre, Signor De Begnis, the great harp player—the husband of the fascinating Ronzi de Begnis, and who ran away with Lady Bishop, (he was the ugliest man for a Cavaliero I ever saw, being deeply pitted with the smallpox)—had been giving some concerts which were exceedingly unsuccessful. The people engaged got no money, De. Begnis having completely failed in the speculation. The news of this having reached London, Paganini heard of it, and when Mr. Lewis proposed to engage him, he jumped at the conclusion that this was the same as De Begnis’s speculation and that there could be only one theatre in Liverpool. He accordingly declined to come to Liverpool, unless the money to be paid to him was first lodged at his bankers (Messrs. Coutts) in London. Mr. Lewis saw through the Signor’s error at once, and immediately remitted £1000 to ratify the engagement for ten nights. Paganini played his ten nights and drew on each of them from £280 to £300, so that, great as the risk was, the speculation was a most advantageous one to the lessee. When Paganini came to the Amphitheatre in 1835 or ’36 (I think) with Watson as his manager, and Miss Watson as his Cantatrice, he did not draw as on his first appearance, although the houses were very good. I recollect talking to Mr. Watson on the stage between the parts, when the gods, growing impatient, whistled loudly for a re-commencement of the performance. Paganini, who happened to be near us, seemed rather surprised at the noise, and turning to Watson he inquired qu’est que c’est ces tapageurs ces siffleurs? and on being told, he grinned horribly, and said in a low voice—Bah! betes!

I once was told, by one of the actors employed at the Theatre Royal, a curious anecdote of a remarkable and distinguished lady. I don’t recollect the year it happened, but I think it must have been about 1829. In that year a carriage drove up to the Theatre Royal, containing two ladies, attended by a man-servant in green and gold livery. The servant went into the theatre to inquire if Mr. Clarke, the stage-manager, was in. On being answered in the affirmative, the stoutest of the two ladies—for the other lady was quite young—stepped out of the carriage, and without ceremony walked through the lobby straight upon the stage, to the utter surprise of the hall-keeper who, like a masonic tyler, allows no one to pass without a word or sign of recognition that they are of the privileged. The man followed the lady, who, stepping to the footlights, gazed around on that most desolate of all desolate, dreary, dingy places, the inside of a theatre by daylight. On her still handsome countenance alternated emotions of pride, regretful feeling, as well as of deep interest. After looking across the pit for a few moments, she turned to the hall-porter and requested him to announce to Mr. Clarke that a lady wished to see him for a few minutes. The man quickly returned, requesting the lady to follow him, but she, passing him, made her way to the treasury with the air and mien of one who well knew the way to that place of torture when a “ghost does not walk.” The lady accosted Mr. Clarke with a winning air, and seeing that she was not recognised, said, “So you don’t recollect me?” “No, indeed, I do not.” “Well, that is strange, considering the money you have paid me. Why,” she continued, “do you not recollect who played Little Pickle at Swansea and Bristol in 18--?” “Bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Clarke. “Ah! I see you know me now,” said the lady laughing. “And many a week’s salary I have had there,” continued the buxom visitor, pointing to the pay-place, “and now just let me have something paid to me to remind me of old times.” Whereupon she went to the pay-place, when the gallant stage-manager put down a week’s salary as of old, which the lady took up, returning it however, and placing at the same time in Mr. Clarke’s hand, a note for £20, which she desired him to distribute amongst the most needy of the company. The lady was the Duchess of St. Alban’s. When Miss Mellon, she had been engaged at the Theatre Royal, and the first benefit she had was in Liverpool. I knew a gentleman who exerted himself greatly on her behalf on that occasion, and the success of it was mainly attributable to his efforts. This she always gratefully acknowledged, and I recollect his telling me that once, being in London, this admirable and kind-hearted lady—who so worthily used the wealth at her command, after she was ennobled—recognised him while passing down Pall Mall and beckoned him to the side of her magnificent equipage, and there recalled the old time to his recollection acknowledging the old obligation, assuring him that if she could in any way serve him she would be delighted to do so.

The Theatre Royal, about forty odd years ago was under the lesseeship of Messrs. Lewis and Banks. Mr. Banks was extremely fond of a good and well-dressed dish; he had a person as cook who had been with him some years, and who suited his taste in his most choice dishes. The two had a serious quarrel, which ended in cooky giving her master notice of leaving his service. Mr. Banks took this somewhat to heart as he thought if he parted with his cook—and such a cook as she was—he might not be able to replace her. To put it out of her power to give him notice again, he offered her marriage, and was accepted. Mrs. Banks sometimes used to visit the theatre, and generally took her seat at the wing by the prompter’s table, where she could see tolerably well what was going forward on the stage. On one occasion the tragedy of “Venice Preserved” was being performed. Edmund Kean was Jaffier and Miss O’Neil Belvidera. They were playing to a greatly excited house, as may well be supposed when two such artists were upon the stage. Mr. St. A---, who was then ballet-master at the theatre, and who, by the way, was a most graceful dancer, seeing Mrs. Banks, went up to her to exchange compliments. Having done so, Mr. St. A--- remarked how seldom they had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Banks. “Oh,” replied she, “I never come to the theatre—not I. There’s no good actors now-a-days—there ain’t anybody worth seeing.” “Dear me, Mrs, B., how can you say so? Who have we on the stage now? There’s Mr. Kean”—“Mr. Kean, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. B., “I can’t abide him; he’s my abortion.” “Well, then, what do you think of Miss O’Neil?” “Miss O’Neil!—Miss O’Neil, indeed; do you call her a hactress?—I can’t abide her. There she is—see how she lolls and lollups on the fellows—it’s quite disgusting!” Now the fact was that Miss O’Neil who was chastity itself off the stage, and who lead a most blameless life, showed, when performing, such abandon and impressment in her actions as to be quite remarkable, especially in parts where the intensity of passion had to be displayed, and this Mrs. Banks “couldn’t abide.” “Well, then,” continued Mr. St. A---, “who do you call a good actor?” “Who do I call a good actor! you wait till my dear John Emery comes down, and then you’ll see a good actor; and if I live as long, I’ll make him such a pudding, please God, as he hasn’t had this many a day!” Old Mrs. Banks was about right as to John Emery; he was an actor of the first-class, and has never been replaced in his peculiar line. I have seen Emery play Tyke in the “School of Reform.” It was a wonderful impersonation. I have seen nothing like it since.

It has always appeared to me to be a remarkable circumstance that many actors and actresses who have been great favourites in the metropolis, have not stood in the same light with the Liverpool audiences. I have seen, occasionally, some remarkable instances of this. Dowton, a great actor, never drew; James Wallack never attracted large audiences. I have seen the whole Adelphi company—including Frederick Yates, his charming wife, Paul Bedford, John Reeve, O. Smith, and others—fail to draw; in fact at one engagement they played night after night to almost empty benches. This was, I think, in 1838. I recollect, on one occasion, Yates seeing a band-box on the stage, went up to it and gave it a kick, and looking significantly at the state of the house, exclaimed, “Get out of my sight—I hate empty boxes!”

Vandenhoff was always a great favourite with the Liverpool audiences. There was a tremendous row once got up at the Theatre Royal, in which he was concerned. About 1825, I think, Vandenhoff went to try his fortune on the London stage, and there, if he did not altogether fail, he did not succeed commensurate with his great expectations; and after knocking about at several theatres, playing, I believe, at some of the minors—the Surrey, Coburg, and Sadler’s Wells—he came back to Liverpool, where a Mr. Salter had taken up the position he had vacated. A strong move by Mr. Vandenhoff’s friends was made to reinstate him on the Liverpool Tragic Throne. This Mr. Salter’s friends would not allow. The consequence was that several noisy demonstrations took place on both sides, and considerable confusion was created during the time the row was kept up. To show to what length things went, I may just mention that placards were freely exhibited in the theatre bearing the sentiments on them of the particular side which exhibited them. I recollect one caused great fun and laughter. It was headed “Vandenhoff” and “Salter-off.”

Kean thought highly of Vandenhoff. I have seen a letter of his in which he highly extols him, considering his style to be the purest acting since the retirement of John Kemble.

In the autumn of 1824, there was a great row at the Theatre Royal, which was excited in favour of Miss Cramer, a most popular and able vocalist. At that time the Music Hall in Bold-street had just been opened, and concerts were being given under the management of Mr. Wilson, the dancing master, whose niece by the way (Miss Bolton) was married to John Braham, il primo tenore d’Europa, as the Italians termed him. Braham has often said that this Music Hall was a finer room for sound than any that ever he was in; and at these morning concerts he frequently sang. It was the custom to enlist the aid of the vocalists, if there were any, at the Theatre Royal, to add to the attractions of these concerts. The manager was always willing to allow his singers to avail themselves of the occasion. However, on Miss Cramer being offered an engagement, the manager refused to allow her to appear. Miss Cramer, feeling the injustice of the case, nevertheless sang at one of the morning concerts, and was consequently dismissed from the Theatre Royal. The young lady instantly issued a handbill stating her case, and the consequence was that the theatre was crowded at night, and calls for “Miss Cramer” were incessant. Mr. Banks came forward to justify himself, hoping that both sides might be heard, but he could not obtain a hearing. At length the audience grew so excited that they tore up the seats, smashed a splendid chandelier that had only just been purchased at a cost of £500, broke all the windows in the house, and did a great deal of damage. The row was continued on the night but one following, when other damage was effected, and it was only by closing the theatre for a few days that peace could be restored. Some of the rioters were afterwards tried at Lancaster, and, I think, heavily fined.