RATHER TOO MUCH OF A BENEFIT.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume IV, Issue 299, 10 June 1848, Page 3

RATHER TOO MUCH OF A BENEFIT.

[From Douglas Jerrold't Shilling Magazine.] Actors' benefits are proverbially no benefits. There is generally more money lost than gained by them. Criardi, a tenor of some repute in 1819 at her Majesty's Theatre, was asked what sort of a benefit he had had ? "Oh! capital. I only lose dirty pound dis year. I lose vorty de last, so I gain den pound dis benefit. Non chemafe!" Bat of all the benefits none ever surpassed the one which Williams, of Edinburgh, was advised to take. He is known to this day as Benefit Williams. The poor fellow, like most actors, was, full of ambition. He was confident he only wanted a chance to be a second Kerable. He had long been performing the subordinate characters in genteel comedy. His greatest partshad rarely exceeded three or four lines. He was the " Charles" in all the farces, or the " Frederick, his friend," who has to stand with his hat under his arm, and laugh at the facetious jokes of Scarapington, or Alfred Melville, or Sir Lavender Dashwell, or whoever the rattling young fellow of the piece may be ; who has to run up ladders and jump through windows, and hide in cupboards, and make such an amusing blackguard of himself before he can press to his fond bosom the " girl of his heart," or succeed in answering that very funny question " Did you ever send your wife to Camberwell?" Williams was tired of continually saying " Yes" and " No'" to the rattle of " his friend," and though he had often tried to make a point of the simple words " You don't say so," which was the longest line he ever had to deliver, still, let him make that reply facetious, or sceptical,, or humorous, despairing, wild, playful, or indignant, or even, by dint of long study, succeed in conveying a little of all those emotions in the same tone; be never could get the smallest applause, and had never been called before the curtain once since his name had been Winkins, though in the playbills it was always printed Williams. At last he earned, or begged, or burrowed, as much as £30. It would be sufficient to pay for the expenses of the house for one night, so he would have a. benefit. He would play Charles Surface"by express desire," of course. He wts confident, if he played it only once, that he should make such a sensation that he would have to t ,play it through the season, and that managers would be rushing from London purposely to see him in " the same ' scene. 1 * However he had made up his mind to give the preference to Macready, if he liked to give him £20 a week. Everything was arranged, and the walls were blushing everywhere with the mighty name of" WillUms !" He was pleased, aa he strolled about and saw so many reminis-

cences in red and blue ink of himself, and stopped every moment to admire the huge advertising carts which were airing his name up and down High-street, though he was rather mortified to hear certain high-bred people inquire, now and then, " "Who is this Williams ?" and his proud lip would curl in the most kingly derision, as he overheard some finedressed gentleman display his ignorance by asking, in the most contemptuous manner, " What is he?" "Williams's heart was swelling with the proud consciousness of genius, and he took no notice of these oft repeated insults, further than to answer them to himself with the following consoling causticism-: — " Wait, my fine fellows, till to-morrow morning's papers and you shall soon know who is this Williams ?" The poor actor was big with the tiemendous ascent he intended •that night to make in his career, and his heart was so inflated with hope, vanity, and fear, that it kept rising and falling in his breast like a Nassau balloon, panting to rise and carry its owner to a greater height than had ■ever been attained by an actro before. He was doubtful, however, about his dress. His blue coat, revived for this occasion, was -all right, and he had not the smallest fear about the brass buttons, for they had been 'brightened by himself with soap and water to -a state of the most dazzling brilliancy. He was perfectly easy too about his waistcoat, which had been sent home that very morning from the wash, as white as Richardson's ghost. His hat, also, was a bran new one ; -and his trousers, a light canary kerseymere, fitted tighter than Charles Matthews'. Everything, so far, was perfect ; and he was confident of their joint effect when he should suddenly appear at the footlights, after the regular, old established, hop-skip-a-jump-and-a-»run entrance, with which all walking gentlemen burst upon the audience, as if they intended to leap over the orchestra into the pit. But he experienced a shooting pain when he came to his boots. He did not feel as strong in them as he could wish. They were at least eighteen months old ; they had been patched more than once ; the left boot was ventilated at the side, and moreover, the pair were odd ■ones, — particularly so, for one had a very narrow toe, and the other was as broad in proportion as the boot of a stage-coach. Where could he get a new pair ? He had ! spent all his money in bills, a pair of white kid gloves, advertisements, and bouquets to be thrown to him after the performance, — and who, in cautious Edinburgh, would be foolish enough to give credit to an actor? Ah! he recollected that in the next street there lived a scene-painter of the name of Gordon — a fine, liberal, good-hearted fellow, who had borrowed five shillings of him only the last " Treasury Day." He would be sure to oblige him, and he could not well say he had not a pair, for Williams recollected he had admired a beautiful pair of polished leather boots that Gordon had worn for the first time, when they dined together two Sundays ago. The favour was first tried on, and then the boots ; and they both went on so easily — with such little pulling — that Williams could not thank his friend sufficiently. He walked off with the boots, in order to stretch them for the evening, Gordon accompanying him. Williams was quite proud of his new chaussure, and kept bitting his heels upon the pavement, ■and began dilating with himself whether it would be etiquette to perform Charles Surface an spurs ! — Egad ! it would be a new reading, and would attract attention to his beautiful boots. Blinded with the glare of this question, he put his foot into a large puddle. " Oh, my dear fellow, take care," cried Gordon, " you'll be spoiling my boots !" ■" Well, you needn't tell everybody," remonstrated Williams, "that they are your boots !" " Yes, that's very well ; but I don't exactly like seeing my boots spoilt." "There again, you need not bawl out *my Loots' in that public manner. I don't want every one to know I'm wearing another person's boots." " Still, my dear fellow, I wish you would recollect they are my boots, and would take a little more care with them." Here the conversation stopped, when, after a few more steps, Gordon cried out to his companion, '* I say, Williams, don't tread so much upon the side — you will certainly split both of my boots." " I wisb, as a favour, you would not say my boots ; you don't know how that lady stared, when she heard you !" " But come, I ask you, Williams, if, after lending you my boots, as I have done, it's pleasant to see them, rained under my very nose, as you are doing ?" " There, that's enough," exclaimed the poor actor, who seemed to be walking in great agony : and the subject dropped again. They had been calculating how much the house would hold, when a watering-cart came near the pavement, and took all the>polish off Williams's left boot.

"On ray word, it is too bad !" ejaculated Gordon, loud enough for persons on the Calton Hill to hear him, " there's another of my boots gone — my right boot is all covered with mud, and now the left one is wet through — and it's sure to crack. I'm sure, if the boots were your own you would not use them so carelessly." " But, my dear fellow, did you imagine, when you lent them, that I was going to wear them on my hands, like a pair of gloves ?" " I didn't imagine any such d d ridiculous thing !" answered Gordon, getting quite angry, " and allow me to say, sir, I thiuk a gentleman need not be so very sensitive when he is wearing another person's boois." " Come, Gordon, why will you be so provoking ? I'm half afraid you do it on purpose. Why will you keep screaming out ■* my boots !my boots !' at every corner? Do you want all Edinburgh to know you have lent me a pair?" " I shall scream out 'my boots, 1 sir, as much as I please, for the boots are mine, and if I lent them to you, I didn't lend them to be wilfully spoilt. I know what it will be ; when you return me my boots, I shan't be able to wear them." Poor Williams was in a terrible passion, for a small crowd had collected round them, and he was afiaid when became on as Charles Surface, that some juvenile God in the Gallery might ask him, " Who stretched another man's boots ?" He listened composedly to his friend's grumbling, till at last he broke out : — " Here, Gordon, I have had enough of your boots. I would sooner walk bare-footed than allow the best man in the world to throw his boots in my face as you have been doing for the last half-hour. You may have your boots back again*:., I'm very sorry I ever put my feet into thefii ;" and he walked back to Gordon's rooms,* being reminded at every inch of the way, "that he needn't stamp so much," or " forget, as a gentleman, what was due to a pair of boots which were not his own." The boots and the friend had been thrown off together, very warmly, and Williams was coming out with his feet reinstated in their own rights, (his boots, I have said, were odd ones) when he met Green, a fellow-member of a Theatrical Club, where Kings, and Lords, i and Julius Cassars, and First and Second j Robbers retire, after the performances, to smoke their pipes, and compliment, or abuse, one another upon their respective talents. Williams was writhing under the pressure of Gordon's boots, and told Green that " he had j never been so trodden upon before in all his life." " I would much sooner perform," he exclaimed, theatrically, " with nothing on my bare feet than the original sock and buskin which were worn in the earliest steps of the Drama, than allow a heavy-built fellow like Gordon to walk over me again, as publicly as he has done to-day." Green was the most good-natured fellow in the world ; he was proud of associating with actors, and was only too happy to render them any little service he could. He had " lots of boots" at home, and begged Williams would come and choose a pair for himself. " You may walk in them where and how you please," he said, in the kindest manner, to Williams, who was busy pulling on a new pair ; " you won't hear me complaining like that surly fellow, Gordon." The two friends sauntered gaily through the town, Williams bounding so lightly that he seemed to be walking on India-rubber, and Green laughing more than all Scotland laughs on the most festive occasion, quite happy in the luxurious feeling which good natured people enjoy in conferring a favour. Williams was full of thanks. " I cannot tell you how much I am indebted to you, Green ; you are a real fiiend — you can do a kindness, I see, without reminding the person of it every minute in the most humiliating manner." "What, I? Oh, I'm much happier in conferring a favour," stammered Green, "than in receiving one. You can walk as you like, Williams ; don't be afraid of the puddles. Don't you be alarmed because they are my boots. Come, let me see you walk across the street ; go where the mud is the thickest ; I shan't mind it a bit — not I ! But I can tell you, my dear fellow, you look uncommonly well in my boots." " For pity's sake, my dear Green, don't say ' my boots.' " " Don't you be frightened — leave me alone — I only mentioned that to convince you that I am not like that stingy fellow, Gordon. Oh, you can do as you like in my boots ; walk over flint, if you prefer them. When I lend a pair of boots, I lend them for good — unconditionally." " I'm aware of that," interposed Williams, trembling from head to foot each time the simple-minded Green touched upon "my boots," " but as a kindness — " " I tell you it's no kindness," interrupted his ingenuous companion ; " I can assure you.

my dear Williams, I lend them to you with the greatest pleasure in the world — never mind that gutter — and though they are my boots, I beg you will consider, as long as they are on your feet, that they are yours, and not mine." " But, Green, my boy, don't say my boots' every second. There's no necessity to say 'my boots' at all. You don't know how it hurts me !" "Well, there, that's enough ; I'm sure I did not mean to hurt you, and won't say ( my boots' again." "But you are saying it again — " "Well, I don't mean it, and I apologise most sincerely if I have ever said 'my boots.'" " There you are, cryiDg it out once more ; pray scream it out at the top of your voice." Williams was red in the face, and his right leg made a convulsive movement upwards as if his boot was searching for some particular spot on which to rest its agitated point. "Are you determined, Green, to insult me, by letting every passer-by know the secret of our respective footing?" "No, my dear Williams, nothing can be further from my thoughts. I only wish that you should feel I am not like that Gordon, who kept alluding to his boots, as if you were honoured in wearing them;" (the indignant leg rose a degree higher.) " Now, I'm sure I've lent you my boots with the best impulse in the world — " Never did words suit the action better, for William's leg rose till it bad attained a certain altitude level with Green's coat tail pockets, and the poor unconscious fellow was helped forward by the " very best impulse in the world " that one man ever received from the aggressive toe of another. " It's a hard thing," a sage philosopher has remarked, "to be kicked at any time;" how much harder then must it be when the kick is inflicted with your own hoot ? Good-natured Green felt the severity of the blow ; the heavy ingratitude of it completely prostrated him, for he fell back upon the pavement as though the iron of the heel had entered his very soul. [ As soon as he had recovered his equilibrium, he appealed to the circle which had described itself round them to witness Williams's astounding feat of strength, and asked them, as men, most pathetically, " Whether it was manly, or generous — was it the act of a gentleman — to borrow a pair of boots and then kick with them the very person who had lent them? Such a return, in his opinion, left all other acts of ingratitude far behind it." This was enough for Williams, who returned. to the "impulsive" charge more furious than ever, until Green forgot his good nature in the pain he was enduring, and gave him into custody. The offence was considered to be so savage, that the constable would not take bail. The consequence was, that Williams was locked up all night, and there was no Charles Surface in the evening. All the money which was taken at the doors had to be returned, and poor Williams not only lost the £30 he had paid for the use of the house, but had to refund, besides, all the money he had received (mostly from creditors who had taken out their bills in pits and boxes) for the tickets he had previously disposed of. He was fined into the bargain for the assault ; was the laughing-stock of the gallery for weeks afterwards ; and has never risen higher in his profession than a " Genius of Discord " in a pantomime, or a Third Conspirator in an opera. He consoles himself, however, with the pleasant conviction, which his friends rather encourage than disturb, that he is the best " Charles, his friend," on the British Stage. Never since benefits were first established for the gain of managers and the loss of actors, was there known to be such an awful benefit as that of poor Benefit Williams! Horace Mayhew.