Volume 1 — BIOGRAPHY—FOR THE MIRROR.
Reading edition
SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.
(Continued from page 212.)
It has been found impossible to ascertain, with any degree of precision, the year of Mr. Hodgkinson's birth. At the time of his death, which happened in 1805, he was stated to be thirty-six years of age; but there are many reasons for believing that he was older. There are few ways in which human folly and vanity so often display themselves, as in the concealment of age. The celebrated Charles Macklin clipped from his term of existence not less than ten years, the obscurity of his early life inducing him to fancy he could make his age whatever he pleased without detection. Extremely attached to the sex, he wished to appear youthful in their eyes as long as possible, and fixed his birth at the year 1700; but it has, since his death, been ascertained, upon authority which cannot be controverted, that he was, for safety, carried away from the field, on the day of the battle of the Boyne, in 1690. Indeed there exist letters of his to his daughter, dated so far back as 1750, stating his incapacity to chew solid food, and deploring the necessity of living upon spoon-meat, on account of the loss of his teeth. From circumstances which the writer of this remembers to have heard from Mr. Hodgkinson, he suspected that the age of that gentleman was underrated; and therefore took some pains to collect the best information respecting it. The result of his inquiry has justified his suspicion. There are in America several persons who remember Hodgkinson at different periods of his theatrical life, from whose united opinions it appears most likely that he was born in 1765. If this estimate be correct (it cannot be far from it) it must have been early in the year 1781 when he took his flight from Manchester, and reached the city of Bristol.
He stopped at a wagon-house in Broad-mead, and was, by the wagoner, introduced to the landlord, who soon showed, by the conduct of himself and his family, that he was taught to consider our hero as a curiosity. They treated him with exemplary kindness, however. The landlord, though a rough homespun man, bred up in low life, manifested, not only tenderness and humanity, but a degree of delicacy that could not have been expected. A grown up young man, a son of his, the very evening he arrived, took the liberty, upon the wagoner's report, of asking our adventurer to sing him a song, for which the father reprimanded him, and turning to John, said "Doant thee, doant thee sing for noabody, unless thee likest it. If dost, thee'll have enow to do, I can tell thee." This was one of the little incidents of his life upon which he was accustomed to advert with pleasure; and often has he, with much good humour, contrasted it with the rude and indelicate conduct of persons of great pride and importance. No man that ever lived required less entreaty to oblige his convivial friends with his charming singing. Of the families where he was treated with friendship and free hospitality he delighted to promote the happiness, and to them his song flowed cheerfully: but he clearly distinguished from those, and has more than once, in the confidence of friendship, spoken with feeling and considerable asperity, of the indelicate conduct of some who, aspiring higher, ought to have known better. "It is indeed," said he to the writer of this, "a trial which few tempers could stand, but which I have often been obliged to undergo. A person whom I have met, perhaps at the table of a real friend, asks me to dine with him: I find a large company assembled upon the occasion, and hardly is the cloth taken away, when mine host, with all the freedom of an established acquaintance, without the least delicacy, or even common feeling, often without the softening circumstance of asking some other person to begin, or even of beginning himself, calls upon Mr. Hodgkinson for a song."—"Then why do you comply? why dont you refuse the invitation? or, if you cannot, why dont you pretend to be hoarse?" "I will tell you why: because, in a place of such limited population as this, the hostility of a few would spread through the whole; and not only mine host, but all those whom he had invited to Hodgkinson's song, would fret at their disappointment, and their fret would turn to an enmity which I should feel severely in empty benches at my benefit." "It is not that, Hodge," said this writer; "but, as Yorick said to corporal Trim, because thou art the very best natured fellow in the world." It was upon an occasion of this kind Hodgkinson related to the writer the incident with his Bristol landlord, observing upon it, that there were many who washed down turtle dinners with champaigne and burgundy that might derive profit and honour from imitating the natural politeness and delicacy of that man whom, if they had seen, they would have called a low fellow or a boor.
To please the honest wagoner, and one or two fellow-travellers, however, H. did sing several songs in the evening, and as at that time he had not learned to drink, they thought themselves the more indebted to him, and the landlord and his wife put him to sleep with their son, who kept him awake the greater part of the night, asking him the most ridiculous questions respecting his parentage, where he came from, whither he was going, &c. and concluded with expressing his firm belief, because Sally, the housemaid, had told him so, that he, Hodgkinson, was some great man's son, who had run away from school, for fear of a flogging: "for you know," said he, "that none but the great volks can afford to be great singers and musicianers."
Resolved to take leave of his kind friend the wagoner, who was to set off on his return early in the morning, our young adventurer was up betimes, and went to the stable to look for him. As he stood at the door, a tall young stripling, dressed in what they call a smock frock, with a pitchfork in his hand, came up and, taking his station a little on one side, began to view him from head to foot, scratching his head and grinning. Our youth was startled and blushed, but said nothing, and affected firmness; yet he imagined he had seen the man's face before. The arrival of the wagoner afforded him a seasonable relief, and he returned with him into the inn kitchen, where breakfast was got ready and John was invited to sit down and eat. He had hardly swallowed two mouthfuls when he of the pitchfork, having left his hat and his instrument aside, entered, and, taking his station at the dresser, continued to gaze upon him, still scratching his pate and looking significantly. Our adventurer was sadly disconcerted, but concealed his emotions so that they were not observed, till breakfast was over, when the rustic took an opportunity to beckon to him with an intimation to follow him. They proceeded to the stable, where after carefully looking out of the back door to see that nobody was near them, the rustic without any preface said, "I'll tell thee what—thee art Jacky Meadowcroft!—I know thee as well as I do that horse that stonds there before my eyes; so don't you go vor to tell loies about it, or to deny it." Hodgkinson who, though he might be startled, was not to be intimidated, asked the fellow sturdily, and with a dash of stage loftiness, what it was to him who he was, or what his name; upon which the other rather abashed said, "No harm I assure thee Jack, nor hurt would I do thee for ever so much: but I fear thee be'est upon no good: now don't think hard of me, but do thee tell me, what prank art thee upon here?—where dids't thee get those foin clothes?"—To this our adventurer gave no answer but a look of haughty resentment, putting his arms akimbo, elevating his head and neck, and finishing with a contemptuous sneer of the right barn-buskin kind. "Nay, now," said the other, "I am sure of it. Yes, Jack Meadowcroft thee hast left thy honest parents, and mixed with the strolling fellers—the play actors,—a pize upon them, with their tricks, making honest folks laugh to pick their pockets."
Our youth now saw that it would be useless to persevere in concealment, and said to the other with a good-humoured cheerful air, "Who are you who know me so well, and seem so much concerned about me?" "My name be Jack as well as thine," replied the honest-hearted bumpkin. Hodgkinson then discovered that the young man had been for sometime a stable-boy at Manchester, and was in the habit of going to his mother's house with the gentlemen of the long whip; but being elder than John had not been much noticed by him. H. understood from him that his singing at night was the first thing that raised his suspicions, and that he determined to know all about it in the morning. "I was pretty sure at the first sight, said he, that thee wert Jack Meadowcroft; but still I was not quite certain till I heard thee chattering with the folks at breakfast: so being ostler, I called thee out to the stable to speak to thee in private: for I'll tell thee what Jack, I will not betray thee." Hodgkinson then told him that though he loved music and acting, and should be glad to be a good player (at which the fellow shook his head) he had not yet mixed with any strollers, nor did he believe any strollers would let him mix with them; as he was too young and had not a figure or person fit for their purpose; but his object was to go to sea to escape from tyranny, hard fare, and oppression.
How often are the intentions of the best heart frustrated by the blunders of an uninformed head. Who can, without respect and admiration, contemplate the sturdy integrity, and simple zeal with which this rustic moralist enforced his laudable though mistaken notions? who can help reflecting with some surprise upon the fact, that before he ceased to apothegmatise and advise his young friend against having anything to do with the actors he was actually the first who put him seriously in the notion of going directly upon the stage as a public actor? It was a curious process, and we will endeavour to relate it as nearly as possible in the way Hodgkinson related it to us:
"A plague upon going to sea," said the honest fellow, "I can't abide it, thoff it be a hard, honest way of getting one's bread, and for that reason ought to wear well—but some how or other I never seed a sailor having anything to the fore; but always poor and dirty, except now and then for a spurt. There's my two brothers went to sea, and it makes my hair stand on end to hear what they go through; I would not lead such a life—no, not for fifty pound a year; evermore some danger or some trouble. One time a storm, expecting to be drowned—another a battle with cannon, expecting to be murdered—one time pressed—another time chased like a hare, that I wonder how they live. No, Jack, doan't thee go to sea; but stay at home and die on dry land. Why see how happy I am! and I'll be hong'd if measter within would'nt take thee with all love, to tend customers and draw the beer: ay, and 'twould be worth his while too, for thy song would bring custom, let me tell thee. As to being a play-actor, confound it, I hate the very word; you need not think anything about your size. Thou'rt very tall and hast a better face to look at than any on 'un I see; and though thou be'est knock-kneed a bit, its the way with all growing boys. Lord love thee, Jack, if wert to see some of them fellows, for all they look so on the stage with paint and tinsel and silk, when they stop to take a pint of beer, I think they be the ugliest, conceitedest, foolishest talken fellows I ever ze'ed. Why there's one feller was here for three days all time quite drunk—went yesterday to Bath to get place there among them. He's a player, and as ugly as an old mangy carthorse. But he's an Irishman to be sure, and they say he won't do at Bath because he wants an eye."
"You have players here at times then," said H. interrogatively.
"Yes! sometimes they comes for their baggage, that is, their trunks and boxes and women and children. Sometimes the poor souls on 'un come in the wagon themselves. Sometimes when it's a holliday we 'un, they walk out to Stapleton and other parts to kill time, being very idle people; then they stop to take beer here, and they talk such nonsense that I can't abide the tuoads. Lauk! thee why Jack, thee know'st I would not flatter thee now—thee art a king to some on 'un that talks ten times as big as king George could for the life o' him."
This intelligence given by the honest simpleton, in all likelihood for the purpose of disgusting our adventurer with the stage, communicated to him the first proud presentiment he felt of what afterwards occurred. The thought instantly struck him, "If performers, so very despicable as this man describes, are endured upon a public stage, thought he, why may not I?—cannot I be as useful as them? besides I can—but these men sing, I suppose—do not they sing John, much better than me?" "Noa, I tell thee they doan't: sing better than thee! they can't sing at all. A tinker's jackass is as good at it as any of them I see here. When they are on the stage (I went three or four times with our Sall to the play) od rot 'un—they make a noise by way of a song, and the musicianers sing for them on their fiddles." The man to whom honest John alluded, arrived from Bath that very day, execrating the injustice of the Bath and Bristol managers, who though they could not but be convinced of his talents, refused to give him even a trial. Our adventurer surveyed him from head to foot, and from the information of the man's face, voice, deportment, language, and person, concluded with himself that he had little to fear; "If, said he, this man has ever been received as an actor by any audience in this world, I'll offer myself to the first company I meet." He was precisely such as the ostler had described him—he wanted an eye, and was frightfully seamed by the small-pox, which not only had deprived him of that organ, but given him a snuffling stoppage of the nose. Such as this, was the whole man in every point, who actually boasted that he was allowed by all judges to play Jaffier better than any man that ever lived, but Barry, and who, disgusted with the British managers for their want of taste, took shipping that very evening for Cork.[A]
Without imparting a hint of his intention to the ostler who vowed, "as he hoped to be saved" that he would never betray him (a vow which he religiously fulfilled) Hodgkinson resolved to introduce himself in some shape or other, to the company of the theatre as soon as they should return from Bath to Bristol; an event which was to take place according to the course of their custom, in two days. Meantime he walked frequently to the theatre, in order to indulge himself with looking at the outside of it; and he made the fine square before it, his promenade, where he gave a loose to his imagination, and anticipating his future success, built castles in the air from morning till night.
He was at this work when the players returned from Bath. He saw the gates laid open, and having taken his post at the passage to the stage-door, resolved first to reconnoitre those who entered, and collect from circumstances as they might occur, some clue to guide him in his projected enterprise. As this was one of the eras in his life on which he loved to ruminate and converse, he was more than commonly circumstantial in his account of it. "There is a long passage," said he, "that goes up to the stage-door at Bristol. For the first two days I stood at the outside, but becoming more impatient, and impatience making me bold, I took my station in the passage, with my hat under my left arm stood up with my back to the wall, and as the actors and people of the theatre passed by to rehearsal, I made a bow of my head to those whose countenances and manners seemed most promising. For several days not one of them took the least notice of me. There was one of them who looked so unpromising that I should hardly have given him the honour of my bow, if it were not for his superior age and venerable aspect; and I believe when I did give it to him, it was but a mutilated affair. There was a starched pompous man, too, whose aspect was, to my mind, so forbidding and repulsive that I never condescended to take much notice of him. From a loquacious, good-natured and communicative old Irish woman who sold fruit at the door I gained the intelligence that the former of these was Mr. Keasberry the manager—the other Mr. Dimond. That Mr. D. said I to her, seems to be a proud man. "Och, God help your poor head!" said my informant; "it's little you know about them; by Christ, my dear, there's more pride in one of these make-games that live by the shilling of you and me, and the likes of us, than in all the lords in the parliament house of Dublin, aye and the lord-lieutenant along with them, though he is an Englishman, and of course you know as proud as the devil can make him:—not but the old fellow is good enough, and can be very agreeable to poor people," My first act of extravagance in Bristol was giving this poor woman three half-pence for an orange, and making her eat a piece of it; a favour which many years after she had not forgotten."
"I believe it was on the fourth day of my standing sentinel," continued H. "that the old gentleman passing by me, I made him a bow of more than ordinary reverence. The Irishwoman's character of him had great weight with me, and my opinions and feelings were transferred to my salute. He walked on a few steps, halted, looked back, muttered something to himself and went on. I thought he was going to speak, and was so dashed, I wished myself away; yet when he did not speak, I was more than ever unhappy. He returned again with two or three people about him in conversation; his eye glanced upon me, but he went on without speaking to me, and I left the place—for, said I to myself, if this man does not notice me, none of them will. Discouraged and chop fallen I returned to Broad-mead, and on my way began, for the first time, to reflect with uneasiness upon my situation.
"Next day, however, I returned to the charge, and assumed my wonted post in the way to the stage-door of the theatre. Instinctively I took my stand further up the passage, and just at the spot where the old gentleman had the day before stopped and turned to look at me—after some minutes I saw him coming—I was ashamed to look towards him as he advanced, but I scanned his looks through the corner of my eye—my mind misgiving me at the moment, that I had a mean and guilty look, so that when he came up, I made my reverence with a very grave, I believe indeed, a very sad face. The old gentleman stopped, and my heart beat so with shame and trepidation that I thought I should have sunk. He saw my confusion, yet addressed me in a manner which, though not unkind nor positively harsh, was rather abrupt. "I have observed you, boy, for several days," said he, "standing in this passage, and bow to me as I go by; do you wish to say anything to me? or do you want anything?" I hesitated, and was more confused than I remember to have ever been before or since:—"Speak out, my boy, said he, do not be afraid!" These words which he uttered in a softened, kinder tone, he accompanied with an action which gave the most horrible alarm to my pride, and suggested to my imagination a new and frightful idea. He passed his hand into his pocket as if feeling for cash. Great God! said I to myself, have I incurred the suspicion of beggary! the thought roused all of the man that was within me, and I replied, "No, sir, I am not afraid; nor do I want anything." He afterwards owned that the words, and still more the delivery of them, made a strong impression upon him. Well then, my good boy, what is it you wish for? coming here successively for so many days, and addressing yourself to me by a salute, you must surely either want or wish for something. "Sir," replied I, "I wish to go upon the stage." "Upon the stage," said he emphatically, "how do you mean? oh to look at the scenery I suppose"—"No, sir—I wish to be an actor.""
Thus far the words of Hodgkinson himself are given. The name of the old gentleman had entirely escaped the writer of this, who, when he heard the relation from Hodgkinson, little thought that it would ever devolve upon him to pay this posthumous tribute to his memory. Upon the facts being since related, and the description of the person being given to some gentlemen long and well acquainted with the affairs of the Bath and Bristol theatres, they have cleared up the point to the writer, whose recollection, though faint, perfectly coincides with their assurance that it must have been Mr. Keasberry, who was at that time manager, and with whose character this account is said to agree accurately.
"I wish to be an actor," said our adventurer. The confidence and firmness with which the boy spoke, surprised and greatly diverted the old manager, who after eyeing him attentively a minute or two, exclaimed, "You an actor, you young rascal!" then laughed heartily, and continued, "An actor indeed! and what the devil part would you think of acting?" By this time some of those who attended the theatre, doorkeepers or supernumeraries, came up, and Mr. K. said to them, laughing, "Here's a gentleman proposes to be an actor." And again addressing the boy he said to him with an affected solemnity, "Pray, sir, what character have you yet thought of enacting?" The jibing manner in which this was spoken by the manager, and the sneering, scornful looks of the sycophants about him, who, to curry favour with him, chuckled at his cleverness, had nearly disconcerted the poor boy; however, he was naturally resolute, and replied, "If I can do nothing else I can snuff candles, or deliver a message, or do anything that young lads do." "You can indeed?" "Yes, sir, and I can do more, I can play the fiddle and sing a good song." "A good song! I dare say—but d——d badly I'll answer for it." "Won't you give me a fair trial, sir?" "Fair trial indeed!" repeated the old man laughing, and walking on a step—"fair trial! a pretty trial truly—however," said he, turning round and beckoning to the boy, as he got to the stage-door, "Come this way, and let's hear what further you have to say for yourself!"
Hodgkinson followed the manager, and for the first time in his life set his foot on the stage of a public theatre. The actors were rehearsing; and ensconced behind one of the side scenes he looked on, and "with the very comment of my soul I did observe them," said he, "and not to conceal anything from you, I thought I could have done a great part of it much better myself! oh that I were but a little bigger and had a beard! said I to myself twenty times while the actors were going through the business." Had they thought of infant Rosciuses at the time, his bread had been buttered on both sides, as the saying is. The rehearsal being over, Mr. K. advanced to him and said, "You wish to be an actor, eh!"—then turning to one of the actors, "Here is a person," continued he, "who desires to go upon the stage, and is content by the way of a beginning, to snuff the candles—humble enough you'll say. But he says he can sing;" then ironically to H. "Now, pray sir, do us the favour to say what song you can sing—you perceive the gentlemen of the band are in the orchestra—or perhaps you would rather accompany yourself, as you say you play the fiddle." Then without giving him time to answer he said to one of the band, "hand this gentleman a fiddle, as he calls it." Hodgkinson took the fiddle, and pitching upon the beautiful Finale at the end of the first act of the farce of the Padlock, he played and sung it not only to the astonishment of them all, but so much to their satisfaction and delight, that Mr. K. after asking him whether he thought he could sing accompanied by the band, and being answered in the affirmative, spoke to the orchestra to go over the Finale with him, and desired H. to sing it again. Emboldened by this mark of approbation, John asked permission to sing another song: Mr. K. assented: the boy then stepped forward to the orchestra and asked the leader whether it would suit him to play one of the songs of Lionel? Certainly, he replied, which of them? "Oh dry those Tears," said our juvenile hero: a murmur escaped them all, as if they thought his vanity was carrying him too far. "Try him, by all means try him," said Mr. K.—The boy sung—their surprise was now raised to astonishment—and Mr. K. patting him on the head, emphatically said to him, "My boy, you'll never be a candle snuffer. For the present, however, you may carry a letter—or something more perhaps." He then interrogated him—"have you ever been about a theatre:—perhaps your parents are?"—"No sir, I never had the sole of my foot on a stage till now." "Where then did you first learn to sing?" "In our church sir." "Your church! where is your church?" Here finding that he had got into a dilemma, he hesitated and blushed: "a number of other boys and I practised music together, sir." "But where?"—then perceiving the boy's distress, Mr. K. shifted the question and said, "So much for your singing, but where, in God's name, did you learn to accompany your singing with such action; which I declare, said he, turning to the people on the stage, wants little to be what I should call perfect for a singer?" "We boys, sir, acted plays together." "And you played—" "Several parts, sir." "You surprise me, boy!" "Well," said he, "call upon this gentleman tomorrow morning betimes, and he will converse with you." He then turned to the person who was acting as prompter, and whispered him, when Hodgkinson, after getting the gentleman's direction, made his bow. As he was going down the passage a lad followed him and told him the manager had sent to let him know that if he pleased he might come on the stage that evening during the performance.
Never before had our adventurer experienced such transporting sensations. To use his own words, his head whirled and sung again with delight. Instead of going straight back to Broad-mead, he walked about the square plunged in a delicious reverie—perfectly insensible of hunger or fatigue he continued on the stride, up the river side and down, then about the square again—then here, then there, in short he knew not whither nor why, wholly forgetful of home, dinner, and every thing till some time after the playhouse opened, when going to the stage-door he was admitted, and when he got behind the scenes, was kindly accosted by some, questioned very impertinently, and curiously by others, and stared at by all. The after-piece for the night was "the Contrivances," which he had never seen or heard of before. He was vastly taken with the song of "Make haste and away my only dear;" and as he passed down from the stage, hummed it to himself; on which one of the gentlemen of the band who was near him accosted him, "Hah, master Henry, is it you?—you have practised every piece on the stage, one would think—and the Contrivances has not escaped you." "My name is not Henry, sir—my name is John." "Well, Master John then, I beg your pardon, but you have been at Rover I see." "No, sir, I never saw or heard of the Contrivances till this night's performance." "You can't say so," said the other, "you have learned that song before, assuredly!" "Upon my word it is a truth, sir; I never heard it before tonight." "Do me the favour to hum it over again for me," said the musician. Hodgkinson complied. "Why you have the words of the song as well as the air." "Of one verse only, sir: but the next time, I shall catch the whole of it." The musician expressed his astonishment, and asked the boy where he lodged; to which John replied, "Off this way, sir," and ran away as fast as he could to Broad-mead, where he was resolved it should not be known, for sometime, at least, that he had any connexion with the theatre.
When he reached his hospitable landlord and family, he found that they had all been in great consternation at his absence. He had that morning spoken to his friend John the ostler, about selling his silver buckles, in order to pay his bill, and the generous souls were all afraid that he was in distress. "Hast thee eat nothing since breakfast," said the good man; "Lauk! why thee must be famished—what bewitched thee to stay away from thy meals, child," cried the wife, "tis very bad for a young thing like thee to fast," said another: and numberless other kind and tender expostulations were uttered by the good people one and all, while ostler John who was more frightened about him than any of them, and could not get the naughty players out of his head, coming in said with affectionate surliness, "Soh! thee'st come back, be thee?—Ecod thee deservst to ha thee jacket trimmed, so thee dost—a young tuoad like thee to stay out, God knows where, to this time o' night?" "Dont be angry John," replied our adventurer, "dont be angry—and as to trimming, John, it is not in thy jacket, to trim my jacket John—so go to your hayloft and dont make a fool of thyself!" In saying this he mimicked John's clownish lingo so nearly that the family burst out laughing, and John went off, growling out that he believed the devil or his imps the player fellers had got possession of the boy.
"John is thy friend," said the landlord, "he was quite down o' the mouth about thee." "And I love and thank John," said Hodgkinson, "but I could not help making fun of him for his talking of beating me. I accidentally met with a friend who offered to bring me to the play, and I was so glad I never thought of dinner." "Well come now," then said the good man, "pay away upon that beef—lay in dinner and supper at once, my boy, and thee shall have a cann of as good yeal as any in Somersetshire, and moreover than all that it shall cost thee nothing but the trouble of drinking it—so here's to thee, my boy." The worthy man drank, and his wife drank, and son and daughter, and all drank, and H. told them all about the play, and sung, "Make haste and away my only dear," for them, to their great delight. He was then too innocent and too young to direct it to the young lady of the house, or it is more than probable that she would have been more delighted with it, than any of them.
The next morning early he waited on Mr. ——,[B] the prompter, who told him that Mr. K—— desired that he would keep about the theatre, and make himself as useful as he could in anything that might occur, till something could be done for him. He accordingly attended it diligently, examining and watching every thing done and every body that did it, and storing his young mind with useful knowledge of the profession. What his pittance was, he never told this writer, who therefore concludes it must have been very small, particularly as he sold his buckles, and plumed himself upon not parting with the silver seal given him by his old friend at Manchester.