Volume 1 — SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.

(Continued from page 380.)

We have now brought the extraordinary personage who makes the subject of this memoir to that time of life when his character assumes a high rank, and his conduct an importance, which entitle him to a much more serious consideration from the reader. As a strict regard to truth forbids us to deny that, in common with all his fellow creatures, he deserves censure for some part of his conduct in life, so candour, and indeed common integrity, enjoin it upon us to accompany that acknowledgment with all such circumstances, and the reasonings upon them that occur to us, as may serve to extenuate the criminality of those acts, and to show that his misconduct was the natural, or rather the necessary and inevitable result of the circumstances to which he was exposed, and nothing more than the every-day issues of human infirmity. If in discharging the office of a biographer, and canvassing the character of the dead, we are compelled to utter truths that will be unwelcome to many a heart, and to speak lightly of the bad members of a profession for the good ones of which we have a high respect, let it be remembered that we do it perhaps reluctantly, but certainly in obedience to the imperious commands of a duty paramount to all form and ceremony, which dictates that truth must be investigated, no matter what galled jade may feel its withers wrung by it.

The indiscriminating, unjust, and illiberal spirit of persecution, with which actors have been followed up for ages, has not a greater enemy in any bosom upon earth than in ours; and we should not only libel the opinions we have uniformly avowed, but violate our conscientious persuasion, and suppress truth if we neglected to state that a multitude of the ladies and gentlemen of that profession, justly stand as high in moral character, as any of those who, in the other departments of life, are most conspicuous for virtue and nice honour. The time was, indeed, when instances of the kind were so very rare, that they were scarcely credited, and when the general maxim was, that the public had nothing to do with the private lives of performers. But now, when the spotless purity of successive actresses in England has so far diminished the prejudice entertained against the body, that actresses of irreproachable character are received into good company, and many of them even married into high families, a correspondent ambition on their part fills most ladies of the stage with an honourable spirit of emulation in the race of fame; while, on the other hand, the people exercise a very rigid scrutiny upon the stage, hold the actresses amenable for their private conduct, and declare that they will not suffer one who is notoriously vitious to come forward on the stage and make a mockery of discretion by uttering the precepts of virtue.

Still, however, there hang about the stage in every country too many actresses of abandoned character. As may well be supposed, the private attachments of those are as perfectly feigned, as any of the passions or characters they represent in public, and their allurements are employed chiefly, if not solely, for the gratification of their vanity, or the furtherance of their pecuniary interest. Here and there, may perhaps be found an example of the influence of personal love: but in general they make their charms tributary to their purses, and to their standing in the theatre. To prove this it need only be stated as a general rule, to which there are but very few exceptions, that in England the greatest favourites with that class of females, and those for whose preference they most artfully vie with each other, is some ordinary, or perhaps hoary manager, who, if he be so disposed, is sure to carry away those precious prizes from the finest youths or prime men of the theatre, unless to youth and personal elegance the latter should add great professional merit and the power and influence consequent to it.

A moment's consideration will show that, for the purposes of women of this description, there could not possibly be found a more hopeful object than such a young person as Hodgkinson must necessarily have been at this period of his life. Unassisted by early instruction

Raised by his own talents and industry to great celebrity, and at a time of life, when others have not ventured to cross the threshold of the profession, honoured with the patronage of the first dramatic personage living, it would be a miracle if he had not been rendered giddy by his unexpected height. He had as yet had no experience to make him wise, no sufferings to make him cautious. From his boyish days he was compelled, by the necessity of his situation, to associate with persons of all others the most likely to corrupt his morals, and continually exposed to dangers which he was incapable of suspecting, and therefore could not defeat. On the other hand every circumstance attending his condition had a tendency to intoxicate his brain: the first dawn of manhood broke upon him with the dazzling glare of a full and fervid prosperity, which no modesty could prevent him from knowing to be the fruits of his own extraordinary merit. Along with this, his personal endowments, which were of themselves sufficient in private life to have filled the best regulated young mind with vanity, were the continual subject of public approbation—his face was remarkably handsome, he was tall, well proportioned, and graceful. He had one of the finest voices in England, and played well on several musical instruments. These not only disqualified him for resisting, but increased the amount of the temptations that surrounded him. Thus, while his personal accomplishments fitted him for gaining the affections of the sex, fortune made him a desirable prey for their cupidity. The breath of flattery blew upon him in every direction, and inflamed his vanity and self-love, while all the wiles and allurements which artful wantonness could practise upon unsuspicious youth, were played off against his heart; and thus his passions, which in all probability were complexionally strong, became ungovernable. Coarse undisguised flattery too often makes its way to the hearts of the wisest and the best—How then could a poor youth like Hodgkinson be expected to refuse it, when administered by beauty, and disguised by elegance and refinement.

Co-ordinate with the rise of his fame and fortune therefore was the growth of the evils which were fated to endanger the one, and to make shipwreck of the other; and his professional success and his gallantries, running parallel to each other like the two wheels of a gig, left their marks on every road he travelled in the north of England, to the great delight of the major part of his profession, who sickened at his superiority, and exulted in every thing that threatened to injure his reputation and degrade him in the eyes of the public. Nor did their malice want subjects to work upon: The Statiras and the Roxanas by turns got possession of our young Alexander, and the demon of licentiousness seems to have exercised more than his customary dominion over the ladies, for the ruin of the young man. In whatever company Hodgkinson played, he became the object, too often the victim of their arts, and some unfortunate husband or lover had to deplore the unconcealed infidelity of his cara sposa. Nay, in one instance, theatrical sovereignty itself found its rights invaded, and had to lament a treason which it could not punish. In plain English, the wife of one of his managers played "All for love, or the world well lost," and ran away with him. It was on this occasion he left the northern line of theatres, and joined the company of Bath and Bristol, whither his great professional fame had preceded him.

Persons are every day to be found, who having enjoyed the advantages of early instruction, imbibed in childhood the principles of religion, and grown up in the practice of virtue under the control of a well regulated restraint, have not only deviated lamentably from the paths of rectitude, but been willing to call in sophistry to disarm conscience, or as doctor Johnson says, to lull their imaginations with ideal opiates. Can it appear surprising then that a hot-brained giddy youth like Hodgkinson should find it easy to compound that affair, immoral as it was, with his conscience, and to let it pass by, without making any beneficial impression upon his morals. That there was something belonging to it, which, aided with his sophistry, served to diminish the guilt of it in his eyes, is pretty certain. Hodgkinson was naturally benevolent and just, and filled with those sentiments and sympathies which engender pity for the injured and regret for doing wrong; yet of the man whom he had thus injured, he many times spoke with bitterness and reproach. One day this writer questioned him upon the subject in the warmth of friendship: "How comes it to pass, Hodgkinson, that you never hear the name of —— mentioned without treating it with an asperity foreign to your usual way of speaking, and indeed contrary to your natural disposition?" "He wronged me, most wickedly wronged me," was the answer—"He endeavoured to crush me in my youth."—"You were even with him, then, with a vengeance," replied this writer. "You have heard that unfortunate affair then," said he. "Yes, I have."—"It was greatly his own fault, sir—very little mine. I was young, hot-headed, foolish, very foolish; but never meditated the affair you allude to. The woman was a wanton—I never suspected that the kindnesses she showed me were to lead to guilt. His jealousy stimulated her, and his injustice and malice fired me to revenge, and supplied me with specious arguments of justification. I am sorry it so happened on many accounts. I forgive him, but I cannot hear him mentioned without giving vent to my opinion of him, which is, that he is a very bad fellow, with a very rancorous heart."

On his arrival at Bath, Hodgkinson became acquainted with some of the most respectable people, and was elected a member of the Noblemen's Catch-Club, which was composed of some of the first men in that part of England for rank and opulence. This was of itself, a very honourable mark of distinction, and a signal testimony of the respect in which his talents were held by those gentlemen. He continued to be a member of it, and conducted himself in a manner which every day increased their respect for him, till he left England.

While he belonged to the Bath and Bristol theatres he received an invitation to play at Brighton during the summer residence of the Prince of Wales there, with which invitation he complied. He had been advantageously mentioned to the prince, and his royal highness was desirous to see him perform. Upon this visit an incident occurred which we should think it unpardonable to omit mentioning, not only on account of its importance as it relates to our subject, but as it serves to throw a ray of light on the character of one of the most illustrious personages lining.

The day after his arrival at Brighton, Hodgkinson took a walk, by himself, down the Stein side, and was studiously employed in conning over the part of Belcour in the West Indian, in which character he was that night to make his debût, when his attention was called off by loud words of men high in quarrel. He cast his eyes towards the place from which the noise issued, and perceived at a little distance a crowd apparently engaged in a tumultuous scuffle, he ran up, under the impulse of curiosity to see what the matter might be. Upon reaching the place, he found a well-dressed young man surrounded by a number of persons who looked like gentlemen and who struck at him together, while he, having got his back to a tree, gallantly defended himself, and returned their blows with much energy and good will. Foul play of that kind is rarely attempted in England, and when attempted, seldom fails to bring down just chastisement from the standers by. In fact it is a thing never permitted by the people, who make it a universal rule to show fair play in all cases of quarrel, be the parties who they may; so that if a battle takes place between an Englishman, and even a Frenchman, the latter is as secure of justice, and of his second, and of his bottleholder too, if necessary, as if he were a true-born Englishman. "Fair play, fair play! a ring, a ring! d—n my eyes why should not poor frog-eater have as fair play as any other?" The writer has heard this John Bullish effusion before now, and what was better, seen it generously and justly acted upon.

Hodgkinson was too much a man of that kidney to stand by, a tame spectator of such scandalous foul play, he therefore rushed through the croud, and joining the young man, made the assailants feel the force of his arm, which nature, aided by some skill in the pugilistic art, had in no ordinary degree qualified for that useful purpose. On the present occasion he acted under the impulse of a two-fold duty, first as a generous man bound to sustain the weak and oppressed against injustice and outrage, and secondly, as the person so injuriously attacked, was one who had, on his own private account, a claim to his friendship and assistance. The name of this young man was Fox; he had been a writer for some of the London prints, and having taken to the stage, was stationed with the Brighton company, when Hodgkinson being engaged there for a few nights, was particularly requested by a gentleman who had once been friendly to him, to do any service he could, and to take care of him, as he was very young, wild, and giddy.

The cause of the ungenerous assault upon the young man was this: he had written a very severe philippic on the well known lord Barrymore, and Mr. Barry, the brother of his lordship, having found means to discover it, they both vowed to take personal vengeance for the affront, the first time they could lay hands upon the writer. This day they were in company with a set of gentlemen, some of whom were well suited to their respectable designs. Seeing young Fox in the walk on the Stein, Mr. Barry pointed to him and exclaimed, there, my lord, there is the rascal who libelled you! "Knock him down!" said one, "flog the scoundrel," said another, "break the villain's bones," said a third; and (very magnanimously, no doubt) they endeavoured to do it. But Fox, though young, was not so easy a conquest: To a frame, active, hardy, and muscular, nature had blessed him by bestowing on him a bold, intrepid, independent spirit; and his dauntless heart was no more to be intimidated by the blows and menaces of the MOB about him, than his mind was to be bent to respect for their rank and titles, when their conduct was a disgrace to both. He was, therefore, busily employed returning their favours in kind, when he was joined by Hodgkinson, who did not at the time know the person or name of one single being in the crowd, Fox alone excepted.

As soon as Hodgkinson appeared assisting his young friend "Here is another of the rascally players," exclaimed one of those gentlemen, "knock him down!"—"If you be really gentlemen, as you would be thought," said Hodgkinson, "give us fair play; turn out man to man, or even three of you to us two, and we'll fight you." Then finding that several of them continued to strike while the others urged them on, he exclaimed: "So, you cowardly gang of villains you want to murder us—then by Heavens we'll sell our lives dearer than you think of," and, still supported by Fox, laid about him with desperation. Just at that moment he heard a person on the outside of the mob cry out aloud, "D—n the rascal, knock his brains out—knock his brains out with your stick!" Hodgkinson, blind with rage, exclaimed in reply, "D—n you, you cowardly rascal, and all your d—n'd breed." At this time a crowd of people ran up, and fair play becoming necessary, lord Barrymore and his friends thought proper to decline the battle. Among those who came up and dispersed the combatants, was his royal highness the prince of Wales.

Fox and his friend were severely beaten, and bore the marks of it; but what were the reflections of poor Hodgkinson when he learned that the very person to whom he had said "D—n you, you cowardly rascal, and all your d——d breed," was no other than that very duke who has since cut so conspicuous a figure in the annals of gallantry with Mrs. Clark, of meretricious notoriety, or in other words the duke of York himself. By means which shall hereafter be related, the interest of the royal family had been engaged for Hodgkinson, and even the first personage of it had agreed to do him a signal favour, on his first appearance in London. What then must have been his mortification and regret to think that by one rash expression he had not only lost those bright prospects, but incurred the censure and abhorrence of every thinking man in the kingdom; since, however censurable the duke of York might be, it afforded no pretence for a general expression of disrespect to the whole of his family.

In the desperate state of mind which succeeded these reflections, Hodgkinson saw but one measure that was becoming him, or indeed safe for him to take; and he resolved to adopt it without delay—that was, to leave Brighton and live in retirement till the whole of the affair, with his total ignorance of the identity of the person he had insulted, should be universally understood, and his innocence be made apparent. To this end he directly went to the manager of the playhouse, laid the whole affair before him, and pointed out the absolute necessity there was for changing the play and giving him up his bond of engagement. "The prince of Wales," added he, "is omnipotent in Brighton; he is so beloved and admired here, that his will is the law of every one's conduct, the town will of course enter with violence into the resentment which his highness will justly feel, and therefore for me to appear before them after what has happened, will inevitably produce a riot which will probably end in the destruction of the house. It would be considered by the people, and very properly too, as an insult to them, for me to come forward in such circumstances."

Hodgkinson's remonstrances had no effect upon the manager, who peremptorily insisted upon his appearance in the character of Belcour, be the consequences what they might. This, Hodgkinson always considered as the most trying moment of his existence; and it was not until the manager swore that he would have him arrested before he could leave the county if he did not perform his engagement, that he could be prevailed upon to stand his ground, and face the storm that threatened him. The affair had got abroad, and when evening came, the house was uncommonly full, partly owing to the attractive circumstance of a celebrated actor's appearing among them, for the first time, and partly to the curiosity of individuals to see what would be done to the new performer for the part he had played that morning on the Stein.

(To be continued.)