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CHAPTER XV

Eating and drinking – Recipe for Punch – The Stage – Baron Geramb – Romeo Coates – Actors and Actresses – Mrs. Jordan

Perhaps they ate more solid food than we do, and it was a point of honour, at a dinner, to provide and display vastly more food than could possibly be eaten. As an example. On Jan. 1, 1811, General Grosvenor, Mayor of Chester, gave a dinner to his friends and two hundred sat down. Here is the bill of fare: "Sixteen tureens of turtle, eight boiled turkeys, three hams, four dishes of à la mode beef, five pigeon pies, three saddles of mutton, thirteen plum puddings, six dishes of murinade pork, eight French pies, four roasted turkeys, eight dishes of rabbits, three legs of mutton, four geese, two fillets of veal, ten dishes of chickens, four dishes of veal surprise, three beef-steak pies, three dishes of sweetbreads, six hares, six venison pasties, eight dishes of ducks, six oyster patties, six dishes of mutton casserole, six dishes of pig, six lemon puddings, eight dishes of haricoed mutton, four neat's tongues, three dishes of collared veal, and a round of beef.

"Removes – Ten haunches of venison, ten necks of venison.

"Sweets – Thirty salvers of whips and jellies, twenty moulds of jelly, forty moulds of blanc mange, tarts, cheese cakes, mince pies, puffs, &c., &c."

The guests must have needed appetites such as were possessed by the gentlemen chronicled in the two following paragraphs. Sept. 9, 1812: "On Wednesday last, two gentlemen, in the neighbourhood of Ratcliffe Highway, had a wager of £5 upon a man named Leurnen, a coal-heaver, that he should devour, in the space of three-quarters of an hour, nine pounds of bullock's heart roasted, three pounds of potatoes, half a quartern loaf, and drink a pot of porter. The parties met at the Queen's Head public-house, Broad Street, Ratcliffe Highway, and the spectators, of whom there were a considerable number, paid sixpence each to be admitted. He completed his task, and drank three or four glasses of rum besides, within the time allowed him, without producing the smallest apparent inconvenience."

Aug. 2, 1816: "Yesterday morning a young man, of the name of Robert Hunt, better known by the name of Rob-the-Grinder, he being a knifegrinder by trade, undertook, for a wager, to eat three quarts of peas, three pounds of fat bacon, half a quartern loaf of bread, and drink two quarts of porter, and a pint of gin in the space of one hour. He sat down to his meal at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and he devoured the whole in fifty-two minutes, with seeming ease saying it was only a good lunch, as his appetite would serve to a good dinner by two o'clock."

But there was luxury in eating, as well as gross feeding. Green peas sometimes fetched several guineas a quart – the following is very mild. May 22, 1811: "This is the earliest season known for many years. In Covent Garden Market, green peas were sold at eight shillings per quart on Saturday last, and moss roses which had blown in the open air at one shilling each."

And, being connoisseurs, those old gentlemen knew good wine, and would pay a long price for it. At the sale of the Duke of Queensberry's effects, in 1811, some Tokay fetched £84 a dozen quarts, or £7 a bottle! The prices fetched at the sale of the Duke of Cumberland's wine pale into insignificance before this, but then he had no Tokay for sale.

A sale is chronicled May 13, 1817: "Friday, the cellars of Alexander Davison, Esq., were emptied to the best bidders. The prices, at which the several lots were knocked down, were unusually high. Three dozen of red Madeira, bottled in 1801, were knocked down at eighteen guineas per dozen, it was supposed, for a distinguished member of the Royal Family. One lot of Hock, a hundred and seventeen years old, sold at ten guineas per dozen, and very little of the Sherry went at less than five and six guineas per dozen."

The middle classes could not, of course, afford these wines, but they drank sound Port, Sherry, and Madeira, brown Brandy and Gin – Whiskey was almost unknown. But for conviviality, Punch, in bowls, was the drink. Green tea was introduced into the manufacture of Rum Punch – and may be now, for aught I know, if there is anybody living who knows how to make it – but here is a metrical recipe for Milk Punch, of the year 1815, which reads remarkably well.

 
"Take seven large lemons, and pare them as thin
As a wafer, or, what is yet thinner, your skin;
A quart of French Brandy, or Rum is still better,
(For you ne'er, in Receipts, should stick to the letter.)
Six ounces of sugar next take, and pray mind,
The sugar must be the best double refin'd;
Boil the sugar in as near half a pint of spring water,
In the neat silver saucepan you bought for your daughter;
But be sure that the syrup you carefully skim,
When the scum, as 'tis call'd, rises up to the brim.
The fourth part of a pint you next must allow
Of New Milk, made as warm as it comes from the Cow.
Put the rinds of the lemons, the milk, and the syrup,
With the rum in a jar and give them a stir up:
And, if you approve it, you may put some perfume,
Goatstone, or whatever you like in its room.
Let it stand thus three days, but remember to shake it,
And the closer you stop it the richer you make it.
Then, filtered through paper, 'twill sparkle and rise,
Be as soft as your lips, and as bright as your eyes.
Last bottle it up…"
 

It seems wrong to chronicle good living when bread was so dear – especially in the early years of the Regency where receipts for rice bread, and cheap adulterants of wheaten bread, were pressed upon the notice of the middle classes. One article of food they had which we should like at the same price – the very finest Native Oysters at 9s. and 10s. a barrel.

It was a brilliant period for the Stage. Kean was to make his appearance on the boards, but then Mrs. Siddons and Kemble retired. Death, too, was busy with some old dramatic favourites, and people connected with the Stage. In these nine years were called away – R. Cumberland, W. T. Lewis, Malone, G. F. Cooke, Chas. Dibbin, Chas. Burney, Mrs. Abingdon, H. Siddons, Mrs. Jordan, Sheridan, Signora Storace, and Miss Pope.

In 1811 there were but three regular theatres in London – Drury Lane, Covent Garden, and "The Little Theatre" in the Haymarket – and they all did a good business, although the prices charged their audiences were very moderate, so were the salaries of the actors. The pit was all pit, and the pittites were a discriminating audience, who were neither ashamed nor afraid to applaud, or censure, as their judgment led them. The plays were frequently changed. There were no runs of hundreds of nights, and the consequence was that the actor, "playing many parts," could not acquire mannerism, and gained greater experience in his profession.

In 1811 there were two persons, amateurs, who mightily affected theatrical company, namely, the Baron Geramb and Romeo Coates. The Baron was principally known for his enormously long whiskers – so feelingly alluded to by the Regent (vol. ii. p. 85), and there is a very good account of him in The Annual Register, April 6, 1812: —

"The much talked of Baron Geramb, who has, for a year or two past, made so conspicuous a figure in this metropolis, is, at last, ordered out of the country. This singular person ushered himself into public notice by publishing a most inflated and ridiculous letter, which he dedicated to the Earl of Moira; in which he described himself as a Hungarian baron who had headed a corps of volunteers in the cause of Austria against France, and stated that, after the peace, he went to Spain to give the benefit of his courage and profound military experience to the oppressed patriots of the Peninsula. He accompanied this production with every other mode of obtaining notoriety, such as filling print-shop windows with three or four different engravings of his person, which few fools bought, in various costumes; a star, a death's head and cross-bones, and other terrific emblems, adorned the person of the baron. Nobody has walked the public streets for some time past who does not know this redoubtable nobleman.

"Wherever notoriety could be acquired, there was the Baron Geramb. At the funeral of the late Duke of Albuquerque he exhibited himself in all the parade of grief, in a jet black uniform. Where money alone could not gain admittance, the magnificent exterior of this seeming magnate of Hungary was sure of procuring an introduction. At the Opera, at the Theatres, and the Park, his furred mantle and resplendent stars were seldom missed. When that wonderful master of histrionic art, Mr. Coates, played, or rather attempted to play, Lothario, last winter, at the Haymarket, the Hungarian baron sat with indescribable dignity in the stage box, and appeared the patron of the absurdities of the night, consoling the white-plumed Lothario with his nods, and bows, and cheers, for all the coarse and severe, but justly merited, raillery which was unsparingly dealt out to him from the pit and galleries.

"But the baron was formed to embellish a Court as well as to dignify a playhouse. He was frequent in his inquiries after the health of the British Sovereign at St. James's; and appeared with more than usual splendour at the celebrated fête of the Prince Regent at Carlton House. The fascinations of that scene of courtly festivity and princely elegance became the subject of the Baron's pen; and he accordingly published a letter to 'Sophie' describing, in the most romantic language, all the splendid objects of the night… The baron, it is reported, has had uncommon success in certain gaming houses. He is now at Harwich, on his way to the Continent. He is said to be a German Jew, who, having married the widow of a Hungarian baron, assumed the title by which he passed."

Robert Coates, generally known as Romeo, was the son of a merchant and sugar planter at Antigua; he was educated in England, and then returned to his father. At his death, in 1807, young Coates came back to England not only very wealthy, but with a large collection of splendid diamonds. He settled at Bath, which town he soon made lively by his vagaries. He drove about, drawn by white horses, his curricle being shaped like a kettledrum, in front of which was a large gilt cock, and its motto was, "While I live I'll crow." He developed a curious craze for theatricals, and on the 9th of February, 1810, he appeared at the Bath Theatre as Romeo. Let Capt. Gronow tell the story of that night: —

"His dress was outré in the extreme; whether Spanish, Italian, or English, no one could say; it was like nothing ever worn. In a cloak of sky blue silk, profusely spangled, red pantaloons, a vest of white muslin, surmounted by an enormously thick cravat, and a wig à la Charles II., capped by an Opera hat, he presented one of the most grotesque spectacles ever witnessed upon the stage. The whole of his garments were evidently too tight for him; and his movements appeared so incongruous that every time he raised his arm, or moved a limb, it was impossible to refrain from laughter.

"But what chiefly convulsed the audience, was the bursting of a seam in an inexpressible part of his dress, and the sudden extrusion through the red rents, of a quantity of white linen, sufficient to make a Bourbon flag, which was visible whenever he turned round. This was at first supposed to be a wilful offence against common decency, and some disapprobation was evinced; but the utter unconsciousness of the odd creature was soon apparent, and then unrestrained mirth reigned throughout the boxes, pit, and gallery…

"In the midst of one of Juliet's impassioned exclamations, Romeo quietly took out his snuff-box, and applied a pinch to his nose; on this a wag in the gallery bawled out, 'I say, Romeo, give us a pinch,' when the impassioned lover, in the most affected manner, walked to the side boxes, and offered the contents of his box, first to the gentleman, and then, with great gallantry, to the ladies…

"But how shall I describe his death? Out came a dirty silk handkerchief from his pocket, with which he carefully swept the ground; then his Opera hat was carefully placed for a pillow, and down he laid himself. After various tossings about, he seemed reconciled to the position; but the house vociferously bawled out, 'Die again, Romeo!' and, obedient to the command, he rose up, and went through the ceremony again. Scarcely had he lain quietly down when the call was again heard, and the well-pleased amateur was evidently prepared to enact a third death; but Juliet now rose from her tomb, and gracefully put an end to this ludicrous scene by advancing to the front of the stage and aptly applying a quotation from Shakespeare —

 
'Dying is such sweet sorrow,
That he will die again to-morrow.'"
 

He came before a London audience, and played Lothario at the Haymarket on the 9th of December, 1811, and I give an illustration of him in that character. He ran through all his money, and had to go to Boulogne: there he married, came over to England, and lived in Montague Square. He met with an accident, and died, aged seventy-six, in 1848.

On the 29th of June, 1812, Mrs. Siddons took her leave of the public. The scene was Covent Garden Theatre, and the play "Macbeth," in which, of course, she played Lady Macbeth. After the sleep scene, she came forward and recited a farewell address written for her by Horace Twiss. She then retired amid a storm of applause. Kemble afterwards came forward to ask the sense of the house whether they would hear the remainder of the play, but the universal consensus was that they could not, and the audience retired.

On the 30th of September the new Drury Lane Theatre was ready for opening. The building cost £112,000; the fittings, £13,000; wardrobes, scenery, &c., £25,000; in all, £150,000. It was honoured next day with a visit from the Queen, the Princesses Augusta and Mary, the Princess Charlotte of Wales, the Prince Regent, and the Dukes of Sussex, Kent, and Clarence. On this occasion the theatre was darkened, and the interior brilliantly lit up, in order to show it at its best to its distinguished visitors. Elliston opened it on the 10th of October with "Hamlet."

In November Betty, better known as the "young Roscius," reappeared on the Stage at Covent Garden. But his boyhood's charm was broken, and, as a man (he was 22) he was a failure as an actor.

In 1813 Miss Stevens made her début, and so did Kean, at Drury Lane on January 26, 1814, and by his acting Shylock took the town by storm. "For voice, eye, action, and expression, no actor has come out at all equal to him. The applause, from the first scene to the last, was general, loud, and uninterrupted." Next month he appeared as Richard III., and, if possible, his acting was more belauded. People, including Coutts the banker, sent him cheques, one for £50, and the Managers of Drury Lane increased his salary.

The first mention I can find of Miss O'Neil, is March 24, 1812: "A Miss O'Neille, of whom report speaks very highly, at the Dublin Theatre, is engaged for Covent Garden Theatre the next season. She is said to be a good actress, a very great beauty, and a Roman Catholic, so there is something for all tastes."

August 18, 1815: "Among the improvements making at Covent Garden Theatre, preparatory to opening for the ensuing season, backs are fixing to the seats in the pit, so that each person will sit at ease as in a chair."

September 1, 1815: "The Managers of the Winter Theatres have already, it seems, received no less than Ninety-seven Tragedies, Comedies, Operas, Farces, Melodramas, and Pantomimes, intended by the Authors, for representation, during the ensuing season."

We sometimes see very realistic effects produced on the Stage, but we have not yet arrived at this pitch. August 30, 1815: "A strolling company of Comedians in the County of York, in performing the tragedy of 'George Barnwell,' advertised that 'Milwood would be hanged upon the Stage'; and, in consequence, the curtain dropped on a figure of Milwood suspended from a gibbet, to the great entertainment of the audience assembled." By the way, every theatre at these times, invariably played "George Barnwell" on Boxing Night, a practice which has not so very long been discontinued at some of the minor London Theatres.

Charles Bannister, who had been before the public upwards of thirty years, took his leave of them, June 1, 1815.

On February 17, 1816, the audience at Drury Lane were startled by a pistol shot. A farce called the "Merry Mourners" was being played, a young man in the third row of the pit produced a pistol, and deliberately shot at Miss Kelly – luckily without hurting her. He was, of course, at once captured and locked up. He had been pestering her with his addresses.

Mrs. Jordan, wife of William IV., died July 5, 1816. She had been acting this year, but had grown stout, and had lost much of her vivacity. Here is the last record of her. July 13, 1816: "Our correspondent from Paris informs us that Mrs. Jordan was buried in the cemetery of St. Cloud. She had resided in the village for some time with great privacy, under the name of Mrs. James. She was buried in a thin shell, stained black, but uncovered with cloth or ornament of any kind. Mr. Thomas Greatorex, an hotel-keeper in Paris, and Mr. William Henshall, statuary, of Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square, were by accident passing, and saw her interred. They were the only Englishmen present." This account was afterwards confirmed in the same newspaper, date the 22nd of July. Such was her sad fate, after having borne the Duke of Clarence ten children, of whom those that survived came to great honour on his accession to the throne.

How different was Sheridan's funeral on the 15th of the same month! His mortal remains were interred in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, with all honour, the pall-bearers being the Duke of Bedford, Earls Mulgrave and Lauderdale, Lords Holland and Robert Spencer, and the Bishop of London. The Dukes of York and Sussex, the Duke of Argyle, the Marquess of Anglesea, and many other noblemen, all followed to do honour to his corpse.

The Lyceum Theatre, which had sheltered the Drury Lane Company after that theatre was burnt down, was again opened on the 15th of June for English Opera.

The following anecdote will show how sometimes the audience thoroughly enter into the play. August 13, 1816: "Mrs. Mardyn and Mr. Oxberry have been performing at the Windsor Theatre. Oxberry, as the Jew, instead of taking the pound of flesh from the Merchant, by accident cut off the top of his own finger in placing the knife in his belt. This, however, did not prevent him from finishing the scene, although his blood dyed that part of the stage he occupied. When Portia requests Shylock 'To have some surgeon lest Antonio do bleed to death,' a man in the pit, thinking she alluded to the accident, exclaimed, 'Here, mate, take my handkerchief, and I'll go for the Doctor.'"

Kemble took his farewell of the stage on June 23, 1817, playing Coriolanus at Covent Garden. He spoke a short valedictory address, and of course was rapturously cheered. As he hurried off the stage, a gentleman in the pit handed Talma, the celebrated French actor, who was in the orchestra, a white satin scarf, embroidered with a laurel wreath, begging that he would throw it on the stage, which he did. The manager was called for, and came, went through the farce of asking whether it was intended for Mr. Kemble, and assured the audience that he would give it to the great tragedian "with heartfelt gratification."

Clowns are not responsible beings, at least on the stage, or, according to the following anecdote, off it. July 2, 1818: "Usher, the Clown of the Coburg Theatre (opened on the 9th of May), in consequence of a wager, set off in a machine like a washing-tub, drawn by four geese, at half-past twelve o'clock, from below Southwark Bridge, and passed under four bridges, and arrived at half-past two at Cumberland Gardens. A pole extended from the machine in which he sat, to which the geese were harnessed. For some time they were quite tractable, and he went on swimmingly, but, at times, they were quite restive, and not easily managed. A great number of persons accompanied him in boats, and several viewed the whimsical expedition from the bridges. After completing it he offered, for a wager of one hundred guineas, to return thence through the centre arch of London Bridge; but no person would accept the challenge." A Clown named Barry did the same about thirty-five or forty years ago, I think.

Clowns did not dress then as they do now, as we see in the illustration of a Clown and a Grasshopper in the pantomime of "Jack and Jill," performed at the Lyceum in 1812.